tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82799075934735303162024-03-14T02:11:37.633-07:00Don't step on the Mome Raths.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-61235998590444966262010-02-19T13:28:00.000-08:002010-02-19T15:11:52.798-08:00Hexagons.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aG_SQOUI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/4iAsXSOYyws/s1600-h/sims+pics+607.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aG_SQOUI/AAAAAAAAAmQ/4iAsXSOYyws/s320/sims+pics+607.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440095582256380226" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aGLVR6cI/AAAAAAAAAmI/JseaRUJnarI/s1600-h/SANY0211.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aGLVR6cI/AAAAAAAAAmI/JseaRUJnarI/s320/SANY0211.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440095568310430146" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aFsQpFLI/AAAAAAAAAmA/JAzLRaZScwk/s1600-h/P6230456.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aFsQpFLI/AAAAAAAAAmA/JAzLRaZScwk/s320/P6230456.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440095559969477810" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aE9sSkdI/AAAAAAAAAl4/QLQV0NC2nZo/s1600-h/P1030620.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aE9sSkdI/AAAAAAAAAl4/QLQV0NC2nZo/s320/P1030620.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440095547468976594" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aEWkiwoI/AAAAAAAAAlw/XePRw1xph2s/s1600-h/P2180654.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/S38aEWkiwoI/AAAAAAAAAlw/XePRw1xph2s/s320/P2180654.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5440095536967500418" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Almost 2 years ago I learnt to hand sew hexagons at Bronnie's.<br /><br />The pattern that you usually use to interlock hexagons is called "Grandma's Flower Garden" which for most people is meant to denote something sweet and old fashioned.<br />Sadly to me, it was more aligned in my head to the naughty concept of the "dried flower arrangement" often sported by older women. ;O)<br /><br />So I knew I had to use hexagons for good instead of evil and having already taken 5 years to choose the fabric I thought I'd sew them into diamonds instead, thus avoiding any further smutty references.<br /><br />Finding Australian Aboriginal fabric that is actually designed by indigenous artists has not been easy. And even when I did find some, my concern about who was actually profiting from it was large enough to prevent purchase.<br /><br />But find it I did. And it seems genuine, to the point where I can now tell you the names of the individual artists and have access to the meaning of their stories depicted on the fabric design.<br /><br />Choosing colour ranges with this type of design was really difficult, due to both their and my inclination to get excited and stuff in plenty of colour all over the place. So I simply chose the ones I liked and worried about how they'd look combined later.<br /><br />Sometimes I like to make it up as I go. Free balling is my thang.<br />That will possibly not surprise anyone who's seen me sew.<br /><br />I even thought about turning this one into the shape of Australia and then doing blue marbles around the outside for ocean...just another 3 years work, no problem.<br /><br />At that point though, my neck and shoulder became so bad from scrunching up as a I sewed that my osteopath asked my what the hell I was doing to aggravate my condition.<br />I had so much trouble explaining that I gave up and took the quilt in to show him what he was up against.<br />His response was, <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Oh, gee..."</span><br /><br />Apart from one side of a hexagon that Bron did for me as she taught me, every stitch was done by me, and very few were sewn with any impatience or frustration.<br />I really enjoyed the mobility of this kind of sewing. I love being able to watch TV with the boys but still do something with my hands. TWSS<br />I miss it.<br /><br />I cannot imagine how many football games were stitched into that quilt. Even more than actual hours of 19th century BBC literature programmes though.<br /><br />Sometime s when I look back at my sewing, I can recall any strong thought patterns I had while working on particular sections. Running my eye over this quilt brings up thoughts and feelings related to:<br /><br /><ul><li>Souths</li><li>Jane Austen</li><li>wanting to quit a job I was very unhappy in</li><li>thyroiditis</li><li>starting a new business</li><li>the History Channel</li><li>sewing on the beach/s</li><li>sitting on the couch at my in-laws, my Dad's and Yoga Boy's and later, in the car, at Souths games<br /></li></ul>Anyway, Bron is coming over next week to have a look at it and to show me how to finish it so I can hand it on to be professionally quilted.<br />The lady who will quilt it may even be able to quilt Aboriginal motifs onto it. I'm thinking a big dreamtime snake (TWSS) or kangaroo prints.<br /><br />So, it's not even been 2 days and I feel at a loss of what to do next.<br />I only have 3-4 quilts to finish, but they're not TV watching quilts, so I really think that even before the day is done, that I will start another hexagon quilt.<br /><br />I'm going to use the fruit and vege fabric that I bought maybe 6 years ago. I'm just busting to sew mushrooms up against raspberries up against rockmelon and then broccoli - if only to see if it can be done.<br />Maybe I'll make it look like the inside of the fridge or the displays at the green grocers.<br /><br />And this is how it starts...Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-48617558869027914282010-01-09T23:34:00.000-08:002010-01-10T00:19:28.128-08:00Good luck with your vagina , my dear.That's probably what I would title my autobiography if I ever wrote one.<br />And one's all I'd need to write, because with such a title, one's all that would sell.<br /><br />Do you play that game? Name your autobiography?<br />My title can vary from day to day depending on what's happening within and without me.<br /><br />Hell Boy once told me that his might be, <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Happy landings, cunt."</span> but never went on to elaborate as to how he arrived at that mantra.<br /><br />Now, I've never considered that I need luck with any part of my body, oh, okay, my feet, but one day when I was working in retail, a lady took her leave of me by saying, <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Good luck with your vagina, my dear."</span><br /><br />After saying,<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well thank you very much,"</span> I hastened out the back to make a soothing cup of tea just to give myself those precious couple of moments to figure out how a stranger could feel comfortable enough within 10 minutes of meeting me to say that, and how I could think that that was not only reasonable, but polite.<br />Is that normal?<br /><br />I've really given this some serious thought. Like maybe 3-5 years of serious thought, and so far, all I can put it down to is being Australian.<br /><br />I have noticed that Australians, by and large, are chatters.<br />Travelling showed me absolutely that this is not the case globally.<br /><br />I suppose that even in the crowded cities, Aussies are more open than most.<br />Curious too.<br />And willing to share personal information and intimate details with total strangers with precious little encouragement.<br /><br />So, when I met this lovely lady, I think the conversation went something like,<br /><br />Me:<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Cool earrings."</span><br /><br />Her: <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Thanks, I made them myself. I couldn't find anything to match these shoes."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I hate that, but it should never stop you buying interesting shoes."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"No. I'd rather be dead than boring."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Check."</span><br /><br />Then suddenly she went straight into a detailed and terrifying tale about her reproductive health, which worried me not, as I honestly believe I've heard it all. And what I haven't heard, I've seen.<br />I empathised with her, gave her all the necessary sensible and effective suggestions for a total recovery and told her I hoped it would be up and running soon. wink wink<br /><br />Transaction complete.<br /><br />Then as she left, she turned just outside the very crowded store, which was blessed with excellent acoustics, and bellowed, <span style="font-weight: bold;">"Good luck with your vagina, my dear!"</span><br /><br />Good luck indeed.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-61028079228197957482009-11-02T13:53:00.001-08:002009-12-12T03:35:17.527-08:00Pot and kettle.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ebiZVNII/AAAAAAAAAlQ/1_iyLbV4fFw/s1600-h/PA270397.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ebiZVNII/AAAAAAAAAlQ/1_iyLbV4fFw/s320/PA270397.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399638305423045762" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ebRT9d8I/AAAAAAAAAlI/2QByCX9I2iY/s1600-h/PA270389.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ebRT9d8I/AAAAAAAAAlI/2QByCX9I2iY/s320/PA270389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399638300837115842" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ea7WqxkI/AAAAAAAAAlA/jfz052qG-ns/s1600-h/PA270384.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9ea7WqxkI/AAAAAAAAAlA/jfz052qG-ns/s320/PA270384.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399638294942893634" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9eaQQA6WI/AAAAAAAAAk4/uIww19WOolw/s1600-h/PA270382.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9eaQQA6WI/AAAAAAAAAk4/uIww19WOolw/s320/PA270382.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399638283372259682" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9eaPYlFVI/AAAAAAAAAkw/olyPqL-oBcc/s1600-h/PA270381.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Su9eaPYlFVI/AAAAAAAAAkw/olyPqL-oBcc/s320/PA270381.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399638283139749202" border="0" /></a><br />Yes, I am aware of my tardiness in blogging throughout that trip.<br />No, I am not going to apologise for it.<br />Better idea just to pull my finger out now and fix it.<br /><br />But I'll be obeying the principle of reverse chronology, simply because that's the order in which my photos are going to be downloaded, and also a little bit because I'm a Pisces, I want to, and you can't stop me.<br /><br />OK, so one thing that sat badly with me was that "convict" reputation the Brits still endow Aussies with.<br />Lame jokes are not in short supply, but ignorance of Australia's current cultural make-up certainly is. Just haven't kept their finger on the pulse, have they? <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Australasia, mate.<br /><br /></span>For example, the group of 6 we were travelling in boasted only one member who might have held any sort of convict past in his ancestry.<br /><br />1= German/Slovene<br />2= Lebanese<br />1= Northern Italian<br />1= Lebanese/Northern Italian<br />1= Patrick....<br /><br />Therefore, 5/6 or 83.3% of our sample group hold no ties with the convict history, thus making English witticisms lame enough to make even Mrs Slocombe and The Two Ronnies blush.<br /><br />The UK still has some wicked issues to deal with regarding racism and just cultural intolerance generally.<br />While we were there, the BBC let some horrific racist on TV prior to their elections and he's polling incredibly well.<br /><br />In the cab from Manchester to Liverpool, I actually heard the driver ranting about <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"all the foreigners and illegals"</span> in Liverpool distorting the true population figures.<br />When he was asked where these foreigners were from, he replied in all seriousness with, "Ireland."<br /><br />Ummmm...what?<br />That's a little like Sydney-siders complaining about foreigners from Gosford, isn't it?<br />Admittedly I have done that many times, so I'll shut up now.<br /><br />After weathering Aussie convict jokes and the <span style="font-style: italic;">morally superior</span> English looking down their noses at us with our customary good natured Australian humour, we took ourselves off to the British Museum for the morning...<br /><br />...have you heard of that one? The <span style="font-weight: bold;">British</span> Museum.<br /><br />Hands up who was hoping for tea pots, Beatles and clotted cream?<br /><br />Nope. It is a collection of priceless, ancient artifacts <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">stolen by the English</span> from all around the globe.<br />The only thing in there that was British was the food, and that was a damned shame.<br /><br />And when I say artifacts, I'm talking about things like.... <span style="font-weight: bold;">the Rosetta Stone </span>and<span style="font-weight: bold;"> Amenhotep III</span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;">'s</span> </span><span><span style="font-weight: bold;">busts</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">,</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>rather than just the loaves of bread stolen by starving people that they're still giving the Aussies shit about.<br />The <span style="font-weight: bold;">British</span> Museum boasts over 110,000 artifacts from Egypt alone.<br /><br />Dirty thieving bastards!<br /><br />It was standing thus, under some 4,000 year old Assyrian something-or-other in the very heart of London, that the true meaning of the word <span style="font-style: italic;">Common<span style="font-weight: bold;">wealth</span></span> finally dawned on me. derrrr<br /><br />Apparently, the museum's official stance on their ill-gotten gains is,<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"restitutionist premise, that whatever was made in a country must return to an original geographical site, would empty both the British Museum and the other great museums of the world"</span>,<br /><br />And translates to <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">finders keepers</span>, or even <span style="font-weight: bold;">GGF</span> in my book.</span><br /><br />And I'm proud to say that one country that fought the pricks and won so far, has been....<span style="font-style: italic;"> Australia</span>, but that's possibly because it was "only" human remains they'd taken from the indigenous population they wiped out in Tasmania, and not something they considered truly valuable.<br /><br />Anyway, next time you hear a dig from the Brits about the Australian convict history, be sure to remind them of their own light fingers and heavy pockets.<br />I find it useful to mention that the convicts were indeed British at the time of their offense - a much forgotten fact.<br /><br />Pot and kettle.<br /><br />And now that I think about it, if Patrick's family had stolen something, my guess is that it was a priceless statue of a demon rather than a loaf of bread, and that doesn't count anyway, does it?Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-42377420848808973332009-10-08T08:38:00.000-07:002009-10-08T08:53:17.551-07:00Lake Bled<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KsQ5CzKI/AAAAAAAAAkY/FDF0xOHxyTI/s1600-h/bled+3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KsQ5CzKI/AAAAAAAAAkY/FDF0xOHxyTI/s320/bled+3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390257559573810338" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4Kr3wGo-I/AAAAAAAAAkQ/f3ZWynAE_C0/s1600-h/bled1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4Kr3wGo-I/AAAAAAAAAkQ/f3ZWynAE_C0/s320/bled1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390257552825426914" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KrfGpezI/AAAAAAAAAkI/NoFuZOUVE7g/s1600-h/bled2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KrfGpezI/AAAAAAAAAkI/NoFuZOUVE7g/s320/bled2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390257546209098546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4Kq9EeX_I/AAAAAAAAAkA/pmOLCbeQMtc/s1600-h/bled1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4Kq9EeX_I/AAAAAAAAAkA/pmOLCbeQMtc/s320/bled1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390257537073176562" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KqbuBqyI/AAAAAAAAAj4/sleXA5LSDhM/s1600-h/bled5.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Ss4KqbuBqyI/AAAAAAAAAj4/sleXA5LSDhM/s320/bled5.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390257528120650530" border="0" /></a><br />Surely this place cannot be for real.<br /><br />Every way you look it seems more beautiful than the last glance. The colours of the alps and the water are indescribable and the overall effect is as close to having a religious experience as I think I'll ever get.<br /><br />There certainly is some magic there.<br /><br />I won't bother to continue, other than with a few pictures.<br /><br />We're in Celje now, the town where my father was born. Tomorrow we'll head up to their castle and we'll meet Mateja, dad's cousin's daughter and then we'll go out to vitenje, the town where he actually grew up on Saturday.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-49254587346618129282009-10-07T12:21:00.000-07:002009-10-07T12:29:20.541-07:00Bled time machine?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sszrzi5E4JI/AAAAAAAAAjw/e9rh50DqWxE/s1600-h/time+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sszrzi5E4JI/AAAAAAAAAjw/e9rh50DqWxE/s320/time+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389942124827697298" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SszrzDhtLCI/AAAAAAAAAjo/-v77Z7TYiZU/s1600-h/time2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SszrzDhtLCI/AAAAAAAAAjo/-v77Z7TYiZU/s320/time2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5389942116408175650" border="0" /></a><br />Umm, okay, so just quickly, our hotel in Bled, Slovenia, which, incidentally is the best place I've ever been or stayed, has a hairdryer that looks (and sounds) like a vacuum cleaner hose.<br /><br />At least I thought it was a hairdryer.<br /><br />But since having used it, I'm now wondering whether it's not in fact, a time machine.<br /><br />And I say this in all seriousness, because when I went in there it was 2009, and when I came out just a few minutes later, it was clearly 1993.<br /><br />Anyway, decide for yourselves, and next time you watch Eurovision, don't be so amazed.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-60860147899521074922009-10-06T00:05:00.000-07:002009-10-06T00:34:01.489-07:00Holy crap!Orright, shit, where do I start?<br /><br />The answer does not lie on a German keyboard. Everything is on different keys, the shift , alt functions are like special moves you sometimes accidentally pull off on Street Fighter.<br /><br />So, we're well- after Jeff's protracted bout of flu and my 3 days of it. Mercifully we were with Tone during the worst of it rather than on the road.<br /><br />Vienna we had internet access but not a second to scratch ourselves, so I'll catch that up later, then we separated from the others and we pressed on to Leipzig for tax purposes.<br />We saw a hundred year old tube of haemorrhoid cream (half used) almost as scary as a few of the tubes in our medicine cabinet.<br />Loved Leipzig, saw Bach's grave and then ran out to Dresden the next morning.<br /><br />Almost pissed my pants with confusion trying to decide which incredible building to photograph first. Gretchen, you and I need to go there together. i shudder to think of the poics you would take there-lots of wire/construction up against those beautiful, grand churches and such.<br /><br />We finally made it onto the Kurt Vonnegut Slaughter House 5 tour and now have a piece of one of it's tile in my pocket (Jeff did it)<br /><br />I just posted this and lost half, so bear with me, I don't write well when I'm cranky.<br /><br /><br />We made it to berlin just in time for the anniversary of the wall which was chaotic for time poor tourists.<br /><br />Am off to slovenia now, and hope to have internet in the room for a week or so, hopefully I can stuff some pics on here and write properly.<br /><br />My English is now backwards becoming,a nd I hope that will correct itself once the others join us in salzburg.<br /><br />I will not be reading this back or correcting it, so GGF.<br /><br />Or FGG auf deutsch.<br /><br />can someone please feed Adrian? That'd be tops.<br /><br />Hugs to you all,<br /><br />simxoAuntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-58454373337678688652009-09-09T23:29:00.001-07:002009-09-10T00:02:01.620-07:00Republic of Kugelmugel | Vienna, Austria | Atlas Obscura<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SqijvR7BAsI/AAAAAAAAAjg/QzlS2ioUaqw/s1600-h/kugle2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SqijvR7BAsI/AAAAAAAAAjg/QzlS2ioUaqw/s320/kugle2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379729787554169538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sqiju6qC_UI/AAAAAAAAAjY/OF1U7CphTg0/s1600-h/kugel+1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sqiju6qC_UI/AAAAAAAAAjY/OF1U7CphTg0/s320/kugel+1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379729781308980546" border="0" /></a><br />As we are travelling once again to dear old Vienna, home to countless generations of Tischlers (or so I'm told), for what feels like the fourth time, I have actually taken pains this time to research the city and see what's there that we may have missed.<br /><br />The Austrians don't disappoint.<br /><br />Firstly, in the medieval church, St Stefan's Dom, they have 11,000 plague victims in the basement, the bones of whom it was the job of criminals to clean of rotting flesh.<br />As an added bonus, they have the royal Hapsburg (the ruling royal family including Marie-Antoinette's family) crypts and various jars of their organs - some of which recently leaked and created such a stench that no-one would consider going downstairs to deal with the situation for days.<br />Cripes, what a bunch of babies. It's only 300 year old bowel juice!<br />Truly...some people.<br /><br /><br />And to think that the last 6 times I've entered that magnificent building, I've walked straight over all these gems.<br /><br />But also, I discovered am amusement park that boasts 4-5 ghost trains and a rotor!Put that on the list.<br /><br />And then I found out that there is a Viennese guy who built himself a sphere for a house, got in a monster fight with the government about it (buildings are very much either square or rectangular in Vienna), declared his sphere a republic in, no less, in 1984, and then refused to pay tax, printed his own stamps and narrowly avoided going to a rectangular prison by allowing the to move his spherical micro-nation to Prater which is the park that contains the amusement park.<br /><br />Outside his sphere he has a "scheisse list" (shit list) of people who thwarted his attempts to declare independence and who tried to send him to prison. You can imagine this type of unreasonable fascist I'm sure. If you cannot, simply get up and have a quick peep in the mirror.<br /><br />I've never seen a barbed wire protected sphere dwelling in the shadow of a roller coaster before, so I'm pencilling in Monday 28th September to round off (get it?) my education.<br /><br />Stay tuned, I shall be blogging my new and improved arse off throughout Europe and I ain't gonna be polite, nuther.<br /><br />Oh, and if you're wondering, his republic is called <span style="font-weight: bold;">KugelMugel</span>, so, it will probably come as no surprise to you that his address is listed as:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Number 2 Antifaschismusplatz, Prater</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Vienna</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Austria</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://atlasobscura.com/places/republic-kugelmugel">Republic of Kugelmugel | Vienna, Austria | Atlas Obscura</a><br /><br />Shared via <a href="http://addthis.com/">AddThis</a>Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-8361244857297101622009-08-03T16:29:00.000-07:002009-08-03T17:04:36.657-07:00Mail call.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Snd6vjK7CHI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/qLvCv2EDbpM/s1600-h/Picture+1095.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Snd6vjK7CHI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/qLvCv2EDbpM/s320/Picture+1095.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365892438348728434" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Snd6va0VUrI/AAAAAAAAAjI/V5B51kZbR0U/s1600-h/Picture+1094.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Snd6va0VUrI/AAAAAAAAAjI/V5B51kZbR0U/s320/Picture+1094.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365892436106498738" border="0" /></a><br />The other day I received a box full of goodies from Cleveland- the source of all things cool and interesting.<br /><br />I almost tripped over it as I left the house in a hurry, and opened it using my very girlie lime green flowery Swiss army knife as I sat in the car waiting for Hell Boy.<br /><br />It's contents were as follows:<br /><br /><ul><li>Barack Obama quilting fabric LOL - 2 kinds - my mind is now fully taken over with thoughts of WTF can I make out of that!? I do have a few ideas, but they're a bit further out there than usual, so I think I should just go ahead and do it.</li><li>cupcake thongs/flip flops - exactly my size too</li><li>wine cooler with a Rabbitoh on it!<br /></li><li>Oscar Wilde card *sigh*</li><li>groovy gift box</li></ul>This is the kind of mail I like to get. Out of the blue, fun and thoughtful.<br />So thanks Gretchen. xoxx<br /><br />Naturally I have returned serve and we shall have to wait until next week to see how that goes. ;O)Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-74021447744966747662009-07-27T17:08:00.000-07:002009-07-28T18:53:19.330-07:00The Yoga of Pies.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-ph-cniYI/AAAAAAAAAjA/VFaoxnXkJLA/s1600-h/Picture+1046.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-ph-cniYI/AAAAAAAAAjA/VFaoxnXkJLA/s320/Picture+1046.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363692082385357186" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-phQrR4fI/AAAAAAAAAi4/wKUVyr0LTUo/s1600-h/Picture+1047.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-phQrR4fI/AAAAAAAAAi4/wKUVyr0LTUo/s320/Picture+1047.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363692070098821618" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-phDsn2HI/AAAAAAAAAiw/K6T_PdUbheE/s1600-h/Picture+1048.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-phDsn2HI/AAAAAAAAAiw/K6T_PdUbheE/s320/Picture+1048.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363692066614794354" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-pg5Q_67I/AAAAAAAAAio/nxaI4cWm_II/s1600-h/Picture+1049.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-pg5Q_67I/AAAAAAAAAio/nxaI4cWm_II/s320/Picture+1049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363692063814577074" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-pga9IIkI/AAAAAAAAAig/Jjx605vRT-I/s1600-h/Picture+1052.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-pga9IIkI/AAAAAAAAAig/Jjx605vRT-I/s320/Picture+1052.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363692055678165570" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nDRDfLxI/AAAAAAAAAiY/Tsl4G5kHHeY/s1600-h/Picture+1053.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nDRDfLxI/AAAAAAAAAiY/Tsl4G5kHHeY/s320/Picture+1053.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363689355781025554" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCwih99I/AAAAAAAAAiQ/KLFOyaqj4as/s1600-h/Picture+1054.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCwih99I/AAAAAAAAAiQ/KLFOyaqj4as/s320/Picture+1054.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363689347052861394" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCnOQiZI/AAAAAAAAAiI/LI02aCG8_Vo/s1600-h/Picture+1055.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCnOQiZI/AAAAAAAAAiI/LI02aCG8_Vo/s320/Picture+1055.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363689344551913874" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCN6li8I/AAAAAAAAAiA/QeTMoQP5q4A/s1600-h/Picture+1058.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nCN6li8I/AAAAAAAAAiA/QeTMoQP5q4A/s320/Picture+1058.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363689337758518210" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nBlzjRCI/AAAAAAAAAh4/TXA9MiFkQL4/s1600-h/Picture+1059.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/Sm-nBlzjRCI/AAAAAAAAAh4/TXA9MiFkQL4/s320/Picture+1059.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363689326991590434" border="0" /></a><br />Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, our school had no canteen.<br />Thinking rationally now, perhaps this was why my parents chose it.<br /><br />And back then, during winter, we would excitedly expect a visit from the pie man.<br />Mondays I think.<br />Yoga Boy believes it was every Monday throughout winter, but I thought it was only once a month.<br /><br />20 cents? 30 cents? Something like that anyway.<br /><br />First thing in the morning, before class had started, the teacher would grab the list and ask you to raise your hand if you wanted to order a pie for lunch.<br />The groans and shufflings form the children who, for one reason or another didn't have the money was awful.<br /><br />But it never fascinated me me as much as the kids who would raise both hands straight up in the air, declaring that they could eat two pies!<br /><br />Two?!<br />Bloody hell, to me that was like some sort of contest that was worthy of prime time television.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Matthew Crawley</span>. I can still see him with his arms right up over his head like he was about to dive into a pool. His were the first up and the last down- just in case the teacher missed his order.<br />He can't have been the only one, but he's the only one I can remember. Funnily enough, that's the <span style="font-style: italic;">only </span>thing I can remember about him save his name.<br /><br />I do also remember that you were meant to bring along a bowl and a spoon on pie day.<br />WTF<br />We had one teacher who would dogmatically enquire whether you'd brought it all along <span style="font-style: italic;">before </span>asking you to raise your hand, thus briefly (and cruelly) implying that if you did not, that you might be facing disqualification.<br />Ghastly stuff for nine year olds to deal with.<br /><br />Just last year when Hell Boy and I visited Henry VIII's Hampton Court in London, we checked out the kitchens and learned that pies were invented to save money on buying expensive crockery.<br />The pastry itself, which was discarded, served only as a case or bowl for the pie's contents, and also made for the very first "fast" food in that it could be easily transported and eaten on the road.<br /><br />Bring a bowl indeed.<br /><br />Now, you may not know this, but there is in fact, more than one way to eat a pie. TWSS<br />And usually, I would quietly imply that the inclination stemmed from genetics or familial example.<br />But I can't, it stems directly from peer influence alone, and I have photographic evidence to back me up.<br /><br />Yoga Boy, my senior by two years, seemed to have learnt all about pie eating on those Mondays at Burnside Primary.<br />I'm glad I missed it back then, but some thirty something years later I must now watch it each time we go to the football.<br /><br />Still.<br /><br />Last game I took the camera so that I could capture the technique for you.<br /><br />1) Peel off lid<br />2) Eat lid<br />3) Mix tomato sauce into now luke warm filling with bare, unwashed fingers<br />4) Scoop out filling with first two fingers, straight into mouth, disregarding all hygiene regulations and any sort of manners<br />5) Repeat<br />6) Make a big show of "cleaning" fingers with tongue despite the fact that it is in far worse shape<br />7) Scrunch up empty base into a cylindrical shape and eat<br />8) Wipe excess spittle and gristle from fingers onto trousers - right thigh area seems to be the best for this<br />9) Smell fingers whilst pretending to scratch nose - pfnaar pfnaar<br /><br />So, if you're feeling up to it next time you're in public, give it a go and let me know how you get on.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-80541811580742389332009-07-13T02:47:00.000-07:002009-07-13T04:41:12.392-07:00Not welcome.I am not welcome in the ocean.<br /><br />I've known it since I was quite young, maybe 4 or 5 years old.<br /><br />Actually, now that I think of it, I'm not really welcome in most bodies of water, be they salt or otherwise.<br />There's almost always a drama, and the few normal saturated experiences I've had were due to me being under Hell Boy's protection for a brief period. Like having an maritime bouncer or like in Pac Man when you eat the ghost and are briefly invincible. Heady stuff.<br /><br />Hell Boy is descended from many many generations of seafarers, and I know this to be true because his mother once gave me instructions as to how to beat an octopus to death on the rocks.<br /><br />Having grown up on Maroubra beach, and having spent time as a surf lifesaver, he feels very connected to the ocean and very comfortable in it.<br />He says he can feel it doing him good and washing away the negative residues of life. When he's in the ocean's embrace, he is completely happy and his soul is at peace.<br /><br />I'm not like that.<br /><br />When I'm in the ocean, I'm looking around, frantic, trying to determine from which direction the next onslaught will come.<br />As soon as I make contact with that salty water, it does all it can to eject me.<br /><br />And if you don't believe me, I once got dumped in ankle deep water.<br />OK so it was at Maroubra, which is<span style="font-style: italic;"> not</span> the indigenous word for <span style="font-style: italic;">calm water</span>, but still, 3 year old kiddies were pointing and laughing at me.<br /><br />So, for one reason or another, I simply do not equate the beach with relaxation.<br />Except for the times I've been with immersed with Hell Boy, I have felt harrassed out there.<br /><br />Harrassed by bubbles, even the fluffiest of which have the ability to knock me over if I lose my concentration.<br />Harrassed by every piece of seaweed in the vicinity.<br />Harrassed by small curious fish who scare the shit out of me with their goggly eyes and scaly slimes.<br />Harrassed by phantom shark sightings.<br />Unnaturally terrified of electric eels, pirhanas, moray eels and quicksand, all of which are looking out for me even as we speak.<br />Harrassed by blue bottles, for whom I appear to have a magnetic attraction. My guess is they're seeking the refuge of camouflage on my skin.<br />Harrassed by the agonising sensations of cold water that only someone with a light frame can ever understand.<br />Harrassed by the excrutiating pain of old middle ear infection scars due to wicked coastal winds.<br /><br />And then there's the rips, the freak waves, that pointy scratchy sand, the cement...<br /><br />Yep, the cement.<br /><br />I was with Hell Boy at Avalon beach, hoping that the elements might be kind and give me a break so that I could share his joy in the beach experience...<br /><br />And because he'd noted that the surf was too rough for me (it was barely moving), we went to swim in the tidal pool at the south end just to be sure.<br /><br />I hate deep pool water, it makes me panic. But I decided to grin and bear it for at least 5 minutes.<br />I was cold too, so I hopped out and was sitting on a nearby ledge trying to warm up in the sun, thinking that it might take another 20 minutes or so before my poor skin began to change from frost bitten blue to sunburnt red.<br />Joy.<br /><br />And then, even though I was nowhere near the water itself at the time, I got dumped.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dumped.</span><br /><br />How the hell is that even possible?<br /><br />Well, the scar running down my left elbow and both my thighs confirm that you can in fact be dumped whilst not actually being in the ocean.<br />But only if you're me, so don't worry.<br />I slid a good 10 metres across a cement landing before coming to an abrupt halt up against some rocks, nails ground down to tatty splinters, dignity non-existent, a bleeding, pulpy mess.<br /><br />Not welcome.<br /><br />Poor Hell Boy.<br />At least I try to enjoy his passion though. TWSS<br /><br />After this happened and the general amazement died down, it occurred to me that the situation felt somewhat familiar.<br /><br />My mother lived for the sun (clearly not a genetically dominant trait) and as small children, Yoga Boy and I spent many an afternoon either at Mona Vale beach or at Parramatta Pool doing the whole 1970's bronzed Aussie thang.<br /><br />Except me.<br /><br />I was doing the <span style="font-style: italic;">"that dead blue bottle just stung me</span>" or the <span style="font-style: italic;">"almost drown while both your parents are holding your hand" </span><span>thang</span><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br />My parents had taken me for a little splash into the babies pool (ewwwwwwwwwww) which was perhaps 1-2 inches deep in the shallow end. I was maybe 18 months old.<br />They were having a little chat, each holding one of my hands and eventually looked down to discover that I was way ahead of any schedule and was already floating and on the way to becoming blue.<br /><br />At the time I'm sure they felt a little negligent and very confused by it all.<br />My father being an engineer, never quite saw how it was even physically possible.<br />And lets' face it, it isn't.<br /><br />Years later, after realising my God given gift for defying the aquatic odds, they just scratched their heads and hoped that I'd have the good sense to steer clear of the water.<br /><br />And so I did until 20 years ago when *enter Hell Boy stage left*Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-88653115436677632392009-06-19T17:39:00.000-07:002009-06-24T20:23:22.272-07:002012<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SkLtU_w2KHI/AAAAAAAAAhw/UIE59vG4N8E/s1600-h/mayan-calendar.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SkLtU_w2KHI/AAAAAAAAAhw/UIE59vG4N8E/s320/mayan-calendar.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351100252239046770" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SkLq662EseI/AAAAAAAAAho/myANKDoa23s/s1600-h/buk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SkLq662EseI/AAAAAAAAAho/myANKDoa23s/s320/buk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351097605218939362" border="0" /></a><br />Far be it from me to thumb my nose at ancient beliefs...<br /><br />I am prepared to make an exception for the ancient Mayans because they were savvy enough to use astronomy whilst also believing in the power of goats and such.<br />Mainly, however, I choose to embrace the prediction of the Mayan calendar, that the earth will encounter it's end, catastrophe, or simply a major change in spiritual dynamics on 21-12-2012.<br /><br />Indeed, I hope it's so.<br /><br />Being on board the day the world ends would be almost as exciting as being swept up in the mosh pit at a Ramones gig, and I've already done that, so I'm up for something bigger this time.<br /><br />As such, I issue ample notice that on 2oth December, 2012, we will be hosting a party, just in case.<br /><br />Fancy dress no less, and the theme...<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">...Let's confuse future intergalactic archaeologists!</span><br /><br />Imagine for an insane moment that the prediction is correct and the world really does end that day.<br /><br />Wouldn't it be nice to leave a confusing legacy so that in years to come, alien investigators will discover beautifully preserved pirates, milk maids, zombies and 7 foot chickens all happily spending time together?<br />Universal recorded history as we know it will change for the better.<br /><br />Earth's reputation as a planet will change from "narky, stupid and violent bipedal life form who polluted their own planet" to " we don't know what they were exactly, but they looked to be having a good time!"<br /><br />And that sounds a little better, doesn't it?<br />Almost like partially writing your own eulogy. Hey that's an idea... hmmm<br /><br />But not as entertaining as Bukowski's epitaph which reads, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Don't try"</span> or Spike Milligan's which was meant to read,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"I told you I was ill..."</span><br />Such a pity that his stupid, boring family dropped the ball and denied him that final laugh, a bigger pity too that the bastards refused to allow him to be buried in a washing machine, which would surely have been a fitting acknowledgement of his genius.<br /><br />Anyhoo, pencil it in.<br /><br />TWSS<br /><br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2012_Doomsday_prediction<br /><br />About 7:30 will be fine.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-8447515827147265552009-05-22T00:34:00.000-07:002009-05-22T22:20:27.929-07:00Our garden.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHWCd8ITI/AAAAAAAAAhg/4_iiLCFb7sY/s1600-h/Picture+764.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHWCd8ITI/AAAAAAAAAhg/4_iiLCFb7sY/s320/Picture+764.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338884695960330546" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHBQbd-aI/AAAAAAAAAhY/unYYFdJPM9M/s1600-h/Picture+748.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHBQbd-aI/AAAAAAAAAhY/unYYFdJPM9M/s320/Picture+748.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338884338930809250" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHBAw56wI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/7T4Gas0deMw/s1600-h/Picture+766.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHBAw56wI/AAAAAAAAAhQ/7T4Gas0deMw/s320/Picture+766.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338884334725753602" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHAw__0II/AAAAAAAAAhI/JuvCdFGtgR8/s1600-h/Picture+756.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHAw__0II/AAAAAAAAAhI/JuvCdFGtgR8/s320/Picture+756.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338884330494087298" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHAR5mRUI/AAAAAAAAAhA/ZlonaoKx3XU/s1600-h/Picture+747.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SheHAR5mRUI/AAAAAAAAAhA/ZlonaoKx3XU/s320/Picture+747.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338884322145748290" border="0" /></a><br />Our house is kind of on a battle axe block, meaning that it's really deliciously private.<br />Like retire and run a nudist colony out there private.<br /><br />A weird, half-arsed tropical oasis complete with banana tree, mango tree, koi pond and conceptual art, courtesy of the area's friendly, if incontinent fruit bats.<br />Absolutely nothing gets that stuff off, so we choose to regard it as beautiful.<br /><br />The cats adore this garden, enjoying a variety of hidey-holes from which to spring at one another with no warning.<br /><br />We also share land with a family of blue tongued lizards who appear to be evolving specifically to be better equipped at frightening the pants off me at regular intervals.<br />Bastards.<br /><br />This block came to us, equipped with an intricate cat alarm system, maintained by those shitty little grey minor birds that some idiot brought over from India.<br /><br />And you know what I like best about these birds?<br /><br />They're blatantly rascist.<br /><br />Seriously. They have major issues with black cats.<br />Brown's OK though.<br /><br />These intolerant, noisy "junkie" birds as Hell Boy calls them , squawk mercilessly in groups of up to 20, as soon as they see one of our black 2 cats enter the garden.<br />I've had to turn the hose on them to be able to hear myself think.<br /><br />Poor Poppy, she's never known anything different. She just thinks that's what the great outdoors sound like.<br />In one way it's quite good, in that we always know where the girls are.<br /><br />Honourable mention to that community of hand sized spiders who string their webby business up from October-April each year.<br />Why they choose to live at 5m intervals in a direct line between our front door and our garage door is known only to them.<br />Sometimes it looks like an Indiana Jones movie out there.<br /><br />What I do appreciate about them though, is that each year, they actually learn the measurements of our tallest regular visitor, and they then make the necessary adjustments to their nightly engineering, so that after about a month of mutual disaster, all webs are precisely 1 inch higher than their heads.<br /><br />Nifty.<br /><br />So, the garden renovations are about half done, with no immediate plans to advance that.<br />We can see that as being slack, or we can see it as leaving nature alone for a change and enjoying some level of domestic wilderness.<br /><br />Anyhoo, for now, the frogs, ants, bugs, fish, cats, rats, white peacocks, possums and whatever the hell else is out there are all happy, healthy and noisy.<br />So all is well in our little piece of 'straylia.<br /><br />Welcome any time.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-34487837325749496432009-05-18T14:59:00.000-07:002009-05-18T15:12:14.297-07:00New lifeWhat a year of change 2009 has been.<br /><br />I felt it arriving, ready or not, and so followed my intuition and went with the flow.<br /><br />And what difference.<br /><br />My health has improved, I feel happier, more enthusiastic towards all areas of life, and I wake early each day, barely able to make it to 7am before getting up and starting my day.<br /><br />My life is filled now with only positive people, and I believe all aspects will continue to grow and increase with joy and fulfillment.<br /><br />I have found the perfect clinic space, and in so doing, I suspect I have discovered a bunch of new friends who will go on to become very important to me in the years to come.<br /><br />All of my life experience and professional experience will now be able to emerge, uninterrupted and complete.<br /><br />The support and encouragement I have given so freely to others during the course of my life is now returning to me ten-fold.<br /><br />I accept that there will be bumps on the path, but from now on, <span style="font-style: italic;">it's my path.</span><br /><br />Yay.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-43324742872790469942009-05-06T04:28:00.000-07:002009-05-08T22:45:43.528-07:00Maturing nicely.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYEipZ6HI/AAAAAAAAAg4/ZaTGvXLf2Ko/s1600-h/Picture+784.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYEipZ6HI/AAAAAAAAAg4/ZaTGvXLf2Ko/s320/Picture+784.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333695799989233778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYEcB4ylI/AAAAAAAAAgw/_iJfBJbSGe4/s1600-h/Picture+783.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYEcB4ylI/AAAAAAAAAgw/_iJfBJbSGe4/s320/Picture+783.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333695798212872786" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYECLjF1I/AAAAAAAAAgo/-KUoPFQeTQA/s1600-h/Picture+777.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYECLjF1I/AAAAAAAAAgo/-KUoPFQeTQA/s320/Picture+777.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333695791274071890" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYD5a73kI/AAAAAAAAAgg/Smj04ofH7YY/s1600-h/Picture+775.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYD5a73kI/AAAAAAAAAgg/Smj04ofH7YY/s320/Picture+775.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333695788922691138" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYDpJFIyI/AAAAAAAAAgY/BfJEqwbZ4u8/s1600-h/Picture+774.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SgUYDpJFIyI/AAAAAAAAAgY/BfJEqwbZ4u8/s320/Picture+774.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333695784552833826" border="0" /></a><br />By and large, 40th birthday presents should be elegant, boring or appallingly tokenistic. Perhaps all three.<br />That is, if the person celebrating the milestone is generally regarded as an adult.<br /><br />Apparently, I am not generally regarded in such light.<br /><br />But that's good, right?<br />Right?<br /><br />What am I talking about?<br /><br />I'm referring to the list of gifts I received for my 40th birthday. I think you'll agree that either, this is:<br /><br />a) pretty damning evidence<br />or<br />b) worthy of inclusion<span style="font-weight: bold;"> in bold</span> on the cover sheet of my CV.<br /><br />In random order, because that's the way my brain works, I recently received the following:<br /><br /><ul><li>1000 worms (incl vegetable scraps and a clump of pubic hair for them to eat)</li><li>compost bin 1</li><li>compost bin 2</li><li>floor cleaning slippers</li><li>hand sewn "Still hate the Roosters" block by Clair<br /></li><li>pirate bandaids</li><li>giant eraser</li><li>home made doll of Lila by Lila</li><li>home made earrings from cat bells</li><li>home made Beatles reiki pack by Cath D.</li><li>Glo-Stix earrings</li><li>The Atheist Manifesto</li><li>Edelweiss handbag<br /></li><li>Pandora turtle</li><li>Pandora bunny</li><li>Pandora football</li><li>comical underpants</li><li>slipper socks with pig pompoms</li><li>brass flying pig watering can which is not water tight and looks a lot like Phoebe<br /></li></ul><br />Please be advised that all of the above mentioned gifts are cherished.<br /><br />Okay, okay,so that's not all I got, I did in fact receive some lovely, sensible gifts, but I'm not proud of that, and I'm not inclined to mention them.<br />Of course, amongst everything else, I did get the gift of freedom when I quit my job, but that's not silly, so I'm not counting it.<br /><br />Hooray for life, luv sim xoxoAuntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-15860478844121407662009-04-24T20:16:00.000-07:002009-04-24T20:52:38.323-07:00Thanks a lot, Michael...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHlC5VmDI/AAAAAAAAAgM/07fnLSPR8vs/s1600-h/Picture+905.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHlC5VmDI/AAAAAAAAAgM/07fnLSPR8vs/s320/Picture+905.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328470379634989106" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHk1mGRYI/AAAAAAAAAgE/B8AcLSYGIxE/s1600-h/Picture+897.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHk1mGRYI/AAAAAAAAAgE/B8AcLSYGIxE/s320/Picture+897.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328470376064632194" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHkuaEuXI/AAAAAAAAAf8/Vrv8PLm35-g/s1600-h/Picture+850.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SfKHkuaEuXI/AAAAAAAAAf8/Vrv8PLm35-g/s320/Picture+850.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5328470374135150962" border="0" /></a><br />I'd like to take the time out of my busy schedule to thank someone for reacquainting me with my dark side.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The OCD- I cannot leave it alone once I start it jigsaw puzzle gene </span>I inherited from Dad<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br />Staying at Clair and Michael's (and Dawn and Daniel's) as I was last month,Michael popped out his Australian map jigsaw puzzle...which I tried to resist, briefly, and later had to drag myself away from as I feared I'd complete it before he returned home from work the next day, thus ruining the experience for him.<br /><br />Hooray for my self discipline.<br /><br />A week or 2 later, I made Hell Boy take me jigsaw shopping, both of us knowing full well that this was going to be bad for everyone, except maybe the cats.<br /><br />K-Mart obliged us with a selection of ghastly $4 jigsaws, which sadly meant that between the 2 of us, we came to the conclusion that we should purchase all of them.<br /><br />I've done an average of 1 per week (1000 pieces) and the last one was virtually within 2 days...and we went out for Yum Cha into the city, so...<br /><br />In other news, my neck and shoulders seem to be quite painful.<br />I was even so brazen as to confess to Ed, my osteopath, that I had indeed injured myself doing a jigsaw, perhaps the nerdiest thing I've ever said.<br />I didn't help that he was genuinely impressed.<br /><br />The last puzzle, I even had the help of Igor's 5 year old boy, Lennon. He actually found 2 pieces of the sky which was all the same shade of blue.<br /><br />Lennon declared to me,<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">" not everybody can do this...you have to be smart."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"And patient,"</span> I added.<br /><br />The second puzzle I did - the one with the missing piece - I'll blame the cats, but honestly I believe I vacuumed several pieces up, I got Dad to help me with.<br /><br />He was over at Easter and I brought the board out. He went through his usual routine of, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"Shit, Simone, what are you doing to me? No, Jesus, that's terrible!"</span><br /><br />And then kept Viv waiting for 2 hours while he refused to budge until he'd found <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> piece with the stripe and the crooked leg.<br /><br />Glorious.<br /><br />So, after doing 3 1000 piece puzzles of images I really didn't like at all, I decided that I wanted to do a puzzle of Schloss Neuschwanstein - my favourite building in the world, and a place we're going back to in October.<br />We trekked into nerd headquarters, HobbyCo in QVB, but they only had a 1500 piece one, so now our house has a permanent source of frustration, triumph, musculoskeletal disorders and profanity right in our dining room.<br /><br />So, once again, hats off and a very big thank you to young Michael for setting me off and a bender.<br />Where was Beagle Bay btw?Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-811023421136766292009-04-01T01:43:00.000-07:002009-04-24T20:16:29.700-07:00New placesApart from being a year crammed full of huge changes for me, this year I will be visiting a few new places.<br /><br />I like to visit new places.<br /><br />Additionally, I will be re-tracing footsteps in places that will look totally different due to seasonal changes. eg Vienna, Budapest and Salzburg sans black ice!!! woot woot<br /><br />This trip , we will be seeing the following new cities:<br /><br />Melk - to the Abbey of Melk, where I will hopefully be finding a wicked souvenir or two for Monica<br /><br />Berlin -cripes, where do I start? Hitler's bunker, Unter den Linden, Checkpoint Charlie, Brandenburg Gate, Nazi walks, Reichstag... better bone up on the WWII history. TWSS<br /><br />Sans Souci/Potsdam -Charlottenburg Castle<br /><br />Dresden -to visit the scene of Slaughterhouse 5, and to dash though the medical museum so that I may claim my trip on tax.... oooh, and to see the most heavily bombed city of WWII <br /><br />Leipzig - to visit Samuel Hahnemann's statue - he founded homoeopathy, thus another tax dodge, God love him<br /><br />Bled -the most beautiful place on earth<br /><br />Celje -Dad's birthplace<br /><br />Vitenje -Tischler town - meeting my Slovenian relatives<br /><br />Ljubljana -including day trips to the coast line and to wicked castles<br /><br />Potoroz<br /><br />Piran -Jeff would like to retire here<br /><br />Predjama<br /><br />Harburg<br /><br />Liverpool - BEATLES pilgrimage<br /><br />But what I'm really excited about is meeting some of my Slovenian relatives. Just yesterday I received an answer from Matja, who is married to my Oma's brother's grandson...what's that, second cousin?<br /><br />Anyway, I have discovered that she is a teacher and he is a scuba diver....WTF. They both trundle around the world scuba diving.<br /><br />Don't you just love having cool relos?<br /><br />Her manner of speaking is kinda familiar to me in that she was very friendly and offered me plenty of virtual hugs already. LOL Even I kept it reasonably unemotional for the first email, so I think from now on, anything goes. And most of you reading this will know how bad that might prove to be.<br /><br />So, I have booked and paid for all the flights, and a couple of the tours. I'm fine tuning the Berlin leg and then I can book all that, although most of it will be independent anyway.<br /><br />Then all I need to do is compile a list of the stuff we're planning to do as a group and cough up the cash.<br /><br />Luggage is bought, got the North Face jacket this week, still have thermals and could pack the rest tomorrow if I had to.<br />Only thing I need is a new pair of boots, but as I want exactly the ones I already have, I'm resigned to giving in to the Gods of shoes, who hate me so very much. <br /><br />Next week, I'll dump thew entire itinerary on here, more for my peace of mind than yours.<br /><br />I'm writing this on my new laptop, which I bought for my new clinic, but it'll be coming along on the trip do that I don't have to be arsed finding God awful, smokey internet cafes all over Europe.<br /><br />So, strap in for long winded blogs this time rather than 2 paragraphs of garbled nonsense on Facebook.<br /><br />woot wootAuntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-75910253737220695112009-03-26T22:50:00.000-07:002009-03-27T02:01:09.345-07:00Mercury pulled it's finger out.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyVLZJRbdI/AAAAAAAAAf0/AljjF6nZyK8/s1600-h/Picture+796.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyVLZJRbdI/AAAAAAAAAf0/AljjF6nZyK8/s320/Picture+796.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317789282978590162" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUvGgTjoI/AAAAAAAAAfs/H76FNbqCVs4/s1600-h/Picture+798.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUvGgTjoI/AAAAAAAAAfs/H76FNbqCVs4/s320/Picture+798.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317788796938587778" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUvJr-16I/AAAAAAAAAfk/7tx51Y7Vtls/s1600-h/Picture+799.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUvJr-16I/AAAAAAAAAfk/7tx51Y7Vtls/s320/Picture+799.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317788797792868258" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUutcdlwI/AAAAAAAAAfc/6brR8fXNueA/s1600-h/Picture+813.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUutcdlwI/AAAAAAAAAfc/6brR8fXNueA/s320/Picture+813.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317788790211581698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUuVGfLGI/AAAAAAAAAfM/S9BrAfRSYq0/s1600-h/Picture+818.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyUuVGfLGI/AAAAAAAAAfM/S9BrAfRSYq0/s320/Picture+818.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317788783676959842" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyS3mqqjXI/AAAAAAAAAfE/gTY9lM_CTww/s1600-h/Picture+812.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyS3mqqjXI/AAAAAAAAAfE/gTY9lM_CTww/s320/Picture+812.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317786743987670386" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyS3Bd5VhI/AAAAAAAAAe8/Jz7s8t0_A_A/s1600-h/Picture+811.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyS3Bd5VhI/AAAAAAAAAe8/Jz7s8t0_A_A/s320/Picture+811.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317786734002001426" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScySAaW96_I/AAAAAAAAAe0/D5Dxt9Hs1YI/s1600-h/Picture+820.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScySAaW96_I/AAAAAAAAAe0/D5Dxt9Hs1YI/s320/Picture+820.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317785795791023090" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR__jqMRI/AAAAAAAAAes/XbQao14qtJw/s1600-h/Picture+801.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR__jqMRI/AAAAAAAAAes/XbQao14qtJw/s320/Picture+801.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317785788596498706" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_oz_orI/AAAAAAAAAek/0iMt_hvCEpY/s1600-h/Picture+806.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_oz_orI/AAAAAAAAAek/0iMt_hvCEpY/s320/Picture+806.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317785782490997426" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_gxYFyI/AAAAAAAAAec/AJZslhuWX5w/s1600-h/Picture+805.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_gxYFyI/AAAAAAAAAec/AJZslhuWX5w/s320/Picture+805.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317785780332533538" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_Qr623I/AAAAAAAAAeU/Ic7SiLH00Ik/s1600-h/Picture+807.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/ScyR_Qr623I/AAAAAAAAAeU/Ic7SiLH00Ik/s320/Picture+807.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317785776014678898" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />By astrological terms, Mercury has been retrograde since at least January sometime, bringing all sorts of hitches to communication, transport, basically smooth progress of anything.<br /><br />Seems that today it pulled it's finger out and played catch up for Simone. (TWSS)<br /><br />Backing out of the driveway this afternoon, I almost ran into the delivery van.<br />It was close.<br /><br />So, Hell Boy got out to see what he had - neither of us could remember visiting Ebay or Amazon, so we had no idea what he was going to present us with.<br /><br />As Hell Boy waited for the guy to stop rummaging around in the back of his van (TWSS), he went to the letterbox.<br /><br />Well, today, instead of bills or bad news, we were besieged with gifts.<br /><br />From all over the place.<br /><br />In the mail from Clair, I received a block (early WTF) made from killer red and green fabric. It came in an envelope with a Russell Crowe stamp, lovingly defaced by Clair with a talk bubble saying, "Go the Bunnies."<br />Majestic.<br /><br />Then Hell Boy threw a parcel through the car window onto my lap from my aunt.<br />A belated hand made 40th gift, held up because it was entered in a competition somewhere and had been busy winning the GRAND CHAMPION award.<br />It's exquisite. Tiny, tiny, perfect embroidery stitches. Just amazing.<br /><br />As I was yet enjoying this feast of crafty loveliness, I heard him say,<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> "Farken A! It's from Cleveland!"</span><br /><br />Another much larger parcel, containing the North Face jackets he's been in love with these 6 months at least, sent on to us by Gretchen all the way from <span style="font-style: italic;">Cleveland clap clap clap Cleveland clap clap clap</span><br /><br />Far better travelled than either the sender or the recipient, these magnificent items, even with postage costs, still were significantly less than store price in Australia had we bought them here.<br />And this tells me that either the good people at North Face don't believe Aussies get cold, or that they simply don't care.<br /><br />Anyway, many, many thanks to the lovely Gretchen for the time and trouble of getting them here and making Hell Boy's day/year and for filling the box (TWSS) with all manner of goodies for me.<br /><br />I'm guessing the Amish people cookie cutters were for me and not Hell Boy?<br />Fabric, cookie cutters, a Statue of Liberty building book (LOL) and my new favourite mug from Charlie's Dog House Diner....cripes, what a jackpot.<br />Chili Dogs!<br />WTF are chili dogs, and why haven't I had one yet?<br />Dammit!<br /><br />Well anyway, Gretchen, I hope you enjoy the pics of me using my Charlie's Dog House Diner mug for the very first time.<br />Sadly, I feel as though I'm getting a cold, so I used it to take some of the worst tasting herbs in recorded history, and I've made up some shit, I mean,seriously, but the good news is that I was able to use that yellow cloth you included to stop myself from vomitting afterwards, so nothing went to waste.<br /><br />Monica and Clair, you'll appreciate this ... Andrographis, Olive leaf, Golden Seal, Elder and Echinacea (all triple dosed)...not even a jot of Licorice to bust up the taste... gyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarhhhhhhhhhhhhk, dirty son of a...<br /><br />Nice to see me getting a dose of my own medicine though, eh?Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-90341646979281160162009-03-15T20:26:00.000-07:002009-03-27T02:10:48.101-07:00Fuck the blue team!Well if that don't beat all...<br /><br />Yesterday was Round 1 of the NRL competition, and as always, we play the filthy Roosters at this time.<br />This was their home game.<br />I hate giving the pricks my money, but I love being part of a non-fragmented Souths crowd who sits together, sings together and completely invades their ground and dominates the crowd numbers.<br /><br />I knew it was on when we got to Fox Studios for lunch at the German Bier Hall, 3 hours before the game, and saw 4:1 Souths to Rorters fans stalking around.<br /><br />It was a hot day and the Burrow sits in Bay 38 which is on the eastern side, this making it in full sun.<br />We managed to get under cover and happily managed to dodge the sun until the final minutes of the game when I felt it hit my legs.<br />How much good luck is that?<br /><br />We arrived at the ground 20 minutes into the first game - Toyota Cup which is for players aged about 17-19 I think.<br /><br />The noise coming from the half-full Burrow even for this early game felt like a first grade grand final atmosphere might for most other clubs.<br />I love this about Souths fans. They support the club and not just the first grade team.<br />OK, so this young side was smashing the junior Roosters (is there such a thing?) and went on to hammer them by around 40 points, but still...big effort from the crowd. Full credit even.<br /><br />My favourite moment of a football game is, and always will be, that very first cohesive moment the crowd experiences when they all look up in unison and cheer some unexpecting young player, half scaring him to death with their sudden attention.<br />I love it.<br /><br />That moment yesterday was glorious. One of the best.<br /><br />It sparked a burst of singing and chanting from The Burrow so loud and so passionate that I did the only thing a girl can do at such a time, I rang my brother in India so that he might hear it too.<br /><br />And hear it he did.<br /><br />He copped a whole round of <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Still hate the Roosters"</span> and <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"South Sydney </span><span style="font-style: italic;">clap clap clap"</span> before the noise died down a bit so I could ask him what he was doing.<br /><br />He was naked in an ashram somewhere in the north of India, he tells me.<br />Did he find it strange that I would place an international call on my mobile and hold my phone up so that strangers might sing into it?<br />No.<br />He sang along.<br />Naked by the Ghanges though he may have been.<br /><br />Hooray for Yoga Boy.<br /><br />And as if this call wasn't costing me enough, he went on to ask me about the rest of the round's results and demanded statistics so he could get an idea as to how his fantasy team were doing.<br />After telling him what I knew, I excused myself by saying, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"I gotta go, Dad's here now."</span><br /><br />Which he was.<br /><br />I had invited my 15 yo step-niece, Emily to come along to this game, knowing how good the atmosphere always is.<br />She had previously told me that she thought she was a Roosters supporter.<br />I had asked her why this would be, considering she wasn't a cheat herself.<br />Didn't make sense to me.<br /><br />After explaining to her that Souths <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> Xmas (red and green) as well as Easter (bunnies) she decided that she would like to support Souths with me and that the Rorters could go to hell... And they will too - but I think on an earthly plane it's called the Central Coast.<br />How more people haven't seen the similarities yet is beyond me.<br /><br />So, Dad brought Emily along despite the fact that he is a low-grade Parramatta supporter.<br />Actually, he arrived in full Arsenal kit and sporadically stood up and bellowed <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Arsenal!!!"</span> loud and proud, making me rather suspect I inherited my tribal behaviours from his side of the family after all.<br /><br />They arrived just as Kieren's gigantic Souths banner was being unravelled and stretched down to cover the entire bay of supporters.<br />This banner lists all of our premiership wins and has a message on it directed at the Rorters fans, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Forever in our shadow."</span><br /><br />Being under that massive banner reminded me of being in primary school when you'd play under a parachute, except that it was stinking hot, red and green and much more wonderful.<br /><br />Dad was enchanted with the atmosphere from the start, and I sat him between Greg and Jeff in order that he might enjoy the experience to it's fullest.<br /><br />He had a ball. Each time I looked over, he was either standing and shouting his own words to songs that were happening or yelling out, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Fuck the blue team!!!"</span><br /><br />When we left, Souths having destroyed our arch enemy by 52-12, his eyes were spinning in his head.<br />Much like mine, only his mascara wasn't running.<br /><br />My voice is shot - my thyroid and the nodules near my voice box are now doing God knows what in there, my forearms are sore from all the clapping and I have small bluish areas appearing on my hands... and I couldn't be happier.<br /><br />Well, maybe if we'd held them to nil... ;O)<br /><br />Any road, <span style="font-weight: bold;">FUCK THE BLUE TEAM!!!</span>Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-78297696436657450052009-03-11T19:15:00.000-07:002009-03-27T02:08:34.601-07:00For Monica.I know what kind of old lady I want to be.<br />God knows I had opportunity enough to study all the various types when I was geriatric nursing.<br /><br />I liked the semi-cranky ones, whose memory was still in tact and who made you really work to gain their interest, harder still to gain their affection and quietly demanded that you almost kill yourself in order to gain their respect.<br /><br />I like old men like that too.<br /><br />In fact, I used to swap 2 "nice" old ladies for 1 cranky old man before the shift began.<br /><br />I was told this week, by none other than Yoga Boy himself that I needed to calm down and not take so much to heart.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"But why not?"</span> I asked him, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"I'm working at becoming a crotchety old lady."</span><br /><br />He believes I'm ahead of schedule.<br />And why isn't that cause for congratulations? I'm confused.<br />My list of grievances are simple, reasonable, well thought out, well expressed, humourous and consistent.<br /><br />Some differences in character surfaced when we had to drop Yoga Boy at the airport yet again.<br /><br />As is his want, he decided to do something last minute.<br />Seriously - who phones Optus on their mobile on the way to catch an international flight, just to alter something as trivial as payment details?<br />Particularly considering he had none of the relevant account information with him...<br /><br />Exhibit A: the Pisces man.<br /><br />This call lasted from the M2 and made it to just short of the airport.<br /><br />Just listening to him trying to get through the voice prompts was hilarious.<br />Magnificent.<br />If they were bright, those things would discern<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> </span><span>the expression</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">, "Fuck off,"</span> as belonging to someone well at the end of their tether, and patch you straight through to the suitable person.<br /><br />But, no.<br /><br />Yoga Boy's reactions were rather different from my what own might have been.<br />As a consequence of this, I'm guessing that he might have handled the phone call I endured with Ticketek later that day, quite differently too.<br />Which seems a shame because I really enjoyed that one and I suspect it may have done them the world of good.<br /><br />Upon phoning to number craftily and deliberately hidden on their site, I was treated to the torture that is <span style="font-style: italic;">voice prompting.</span><br /><br />I spoke the name of the event I wished to book clearly and without the slightest hint of impediment.<br />Perhaps this is where I went wrong.<br /><br />I asked for Rooster vs Rabbitohs, which is what it said on the website.<br /><br />Somehow that was translated into The Sydney Chamber Orchestra.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Is this correct?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"NO!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Which location would you like to see The Sydney Chamber Orchestra?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Fuck off!"</span><br /><br />.... At this point, it really should have gone to<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> "I'll put you through, sorry for being so terribly incompetent."</span><br /><br />...But no, instead it went to, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Did you wish to see this event in Newcastle or Canberra?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Over my dead body, you fucking moron!"</span><br /><br />So, by the time the operator picked up, I was good and mad.<br />Having dealt with the public for many years, I am perfecty aware that this is not his fault.<br /><br />He did however make the error of picking up the call with, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"So you want to book tickets for The Sydney Chamber Orchestra."</span><br /><br />I explained in fairly straight terms that this was not the case and that the prompts had wasted my time and could not tell the difference between a football game and an orchestra performance, then it was probably just being used as a method of stalling customers rather than benefiting them.<br /><br />At this point, the hilarity began in earnest.<br /><br />I asked whether Bay 38 would still be GA for this match.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"There is no Bay 38 at this ground."</span><br /><br />Knowing this to be an untruth, I asked him to check his facts.<br /><br />Yes, eventually he found Bay 38. Miracle!<br /><br />Are we still entitled to the SSFC member discount for this bay?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"There is no such thing as an SSFC member discount available."</span><br /><br />I asked him to check his facts.<br /><br />He returned and unhappily agreed that there were discounted tickets available, but then went on to tell me that all GA seating to this event had been sold out.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Sold OUT!? Umm, I don't think so, they've had finals games there that haven't been sold out. Could you check that as well please?"</span><br /><br />Now, as it happened, they were not sold out at all.<br />Surprise, surprise.<br /><br />At this point, I stopped asking questions and just told him what he needed to do.<br />And then he charged me $6 for his help and I used my own ink and paper to print our tickets.<br /><br />Hands up who believes they'll actually get us in on the day?<br /><br />I'm still stumped by a differential diagnosis of this person: plain moron or a Roosters supporter?<br /><br />And that a ticketing salesperson may deliberately fuck with your head is not such a strange suggestion either.<br />A few years ago, I saw two St George supporters seated bang in the middle of The Burrow.<br />Why?<br />Because the Ticketek person was a forward thinking Souths supporter and had booked them there to shit them. LOL<br /><br />Up the Rabbitohs.<br />Still hate the Roosters.<br />Go Browns.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-35300205108599874252009-03-01T13:40:00.000-08:002009-05-06T04:26:44.679-07:00Maturing nicely.By and large, 40th birthday presents should be elegant, boring or appallingly tokenistic. Perhaps all three.<br />That is, if the person celebrating the milestone is generally regarded as an adult.<br /><br />Apparently, I am not generally regarded in such light.<br /><br />But that's good, right?<br />Right?<br /><br />What am I talking about?<br /><br />I'm referring to the list of gifts I received for my 40th birthday. I think you'll agree that either, this is:<br /><br />a) pretty damning evidence<br />or<br />b) worthy of inclusion<span style="font-weight: bold;"> in bold</span> on the cover sheet of my CV.<br /><br />In random order, because that's the way my brain works:<br /><br />1000 worms (incl vegetable scraps and a clump of pubic hair for them to eat)<br />compost bin 1<br />compost bin 2<br />floor cleaning slippers<br />pirate bandaids<br />giant eraser<br />home made doll of Lila by Lila<br />home made earrings from cat bells<br />home made Beatles Reiki pack by Cath D.<br />Glo-Stix earrings<br />The Atheist Manifesto<br />Pandora turtle<br />Pandora bunny<br />Pandora football<br />comical underpants<br />slipper socks with pig pompoms<br /><br /><br />Okay, okay,so that's not all I got, I did in fact receive some lovely, sensible gifts, but I'm not proud of that, and I'm not inclined to mention them.<br />Of course, amongst everything else, I did get the gift of freedom, but that's not silly, so I'm not counting it.<br /><br />Will post pics tomorrow.<br /><br />Hooray for life, luv sim xoxoAuntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-62017993696938503402009-02-21T02:28:00.000-08:002009-02-26T01:12:50.662-08:00Reading me to sleep.Almost every night, I ask/hassle/manipulate Hell Boy into reading to me as I fall asleep.<br /><br />And I'm wicked enough to expect him to read to me from books of my choosing rather than his.<br />Not that I don't like his material, but my final thought at night is better off <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> being Charles Bukowski practising to be a bum.<br />That's a day time thought.<br /><br />I suspect that I fall asleep during the 2nd or 3rd paragraph, but he tells me that he reads 2 pages, no matter what.<br />I have woken up and roused on him before for not reading to me, just as he's turning his light out after completing the task. TWSS<br /><br />In just the last few months, poor ole Hell Boy has read to me from the following texts:<br /><br /><ul><li>20,000Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne ( he liked that)<br /></li><li>Mary Poppins - P.L. Travers (he hated it)<br /></li><li>Secret Lives of Great Authors - Robert Schnakenberg<br /></li><li>Around the World in Eighty days - Jules Verne<br /></li><li>Howl's Moving Castle -Dianna Wynne Jones ( he liked that)<br /></li><li>The Lucy Family Alphabet - Judith Lucy (he liked that but won't admit it - he read more than 2 pages and I suspect he finished the chapter silently)<br /></li><li>In His Own Write - John Lennon (he liked that)<br /></li><li>The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett</li><li>The Wise Woman - Phillippa Gregory</li><li>What Katy Did - Susan Coolidge ( he hated it)<br /></li><li>Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier</li><li>A Life - Woody Guthrie - Jow Klein</li><li>Slaughter-House Five - Kurt Vonnegut ( one of his faves - no problem there)<br /></li><li>Rosemary's Baby - Ira Levin ( he liked that)<br /></li><li>Romulus My Father - Raimond Gaiter</li><li>When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit - Judith Kerr<br /></li><li>any number of John Marsden books (hated them)<br /></li><li>and most recently, Snugglepot and Cuddlepie - May Gibbs (he's really hating it)<br /></li></ul>Additionally, we listened to 6 CD's of Jane Austen novels whilst driving down and then up the south coast on our holiday recently.<br />His idea.<br />Sense and Sensibilty and then Persuasion.<br /><br />Poor, poor man.<br /><br />For someone who hates anything without the gritty immediacy of Bukowski or the quirkiness of Vonnegut, I have really been punishing him.<br /><br />This is made far worse when you consider that he reads aloud to classes during the day - usually having to project his voice to kids who haven't read anything since Little Golden books and who never have any intention of doing so.<br />Having spent the last 13 years of my own work constantly speaking, I know that there are some days you just don't want to utter another syllable.<br /><br />The other night as I plonked my book on his chest, he groaned and told me that he didn't think he <span style="font-style: italic;">could </span>because that Year 10 class had taken it out of him - he'd read aloud to them for 2 sessions.<br />Naturally I suggested that he go back and tell this Year 10 that they were to have 2 pages less per session so that he would be OK to deal with me in the evenings. TWSS<br /><br />I will be doing a nice afternoon tea for them at the end of the term if they comply with my wishes....<br /><br />I'm thinking orange poppy seed cake, maybe lemon and sour cream cake and perhaps fairy cakes, just so I can see how many of these tough guys will eat them. That's what...ahh you know.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-59330025604809477702009-02-20T13:16:00.002-08:002009-02-20T15:09:49.525-08:00On turning 40.Bring it on!<br /><br />My God, what a fuss too.<br />Why is that? Simply because a number ends with an O, we're supposed to do all sorts of different things to every other year?<br /><br />Such nonsense.<br /><br />But worst of all seems to be the inclination to make trite, lame, age related jokes in a 10 year cycle. Is that because these people assume we've forgotten their stupidity from last decade so soon?<br />Well I certainly haven't, I have an excellent memory - and I use it.<br />I won't be dispensing any polite laughter at my own party.<br />Be warned.<br />If you forget yourself and come at me with any of this, I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> leave you swinging- that's what she said.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Blah blah blah, it's all down hill from here - blah blah over the hill - blah blah - you're not as young as you used to be..."</span><br /><br />I wonder how many of these twits I've successfully weeded out of my intimate circle -<span style="font-style: italic;">that's what she said- </span>since my last milestone birthday?<br />I'll let you know - unless you're one of them.<br />No, actually, <span style="font-style: italic;">especially if you're one of them</span> - fuck it - I'm 40, I can do and say whatever I want now.<br /><br />Hey, maybe that's what it's all about - a direct measure of how well you've managed your social life during the last 10 years.<br />I'm watching you...<br /><br />How about lashing out with something useful instead like, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"You've come through a lot, you've faced all your life lessons head on, and I admire the person you've become."</span><br />That's what I tell the people close to me when opportunity arises.<br /><br />And then there's my personal fave, the obligatory mention of age but once a decade.<br /><br />Did you take the time to write 39 on my card last year?<br />Will you be bothered to do the arithmetic next year and the year after when it involves just a little more thought and consideration?<br /><br />Does everyone forget your age for 9 years in a row and then suddenly feel bad about this and have to display their involvement by demonstrating that they <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> been paying attention all along?<br /><br />You see, I don't care about such things.<br />In fact, I'd be far more appreciative if you celebrate my 41st with gusto for no reason, or my 49th, being that that would mean I have dodged to breast cancer curse and have outlived my mother.<br />But just don't<span style="font-style: italic;"> surprise</span> me.<br /><br />My original plans for my 40th were just to turn 40 and mind my own business.<br />But it quickly became apparent that there were those who had no intentions of doing the same.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"I don't want a fuss",</span> was somehow translated into ,<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Please ignore my wish and organise a surprise party for me</span>.<span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"</span><br /><br />Now, I hate surprises. I really, really, really do.<br />And let's not suppose that that's simply because I'm an uppity sort of a thing with strong opinions about minutia.<br />There's way more to it than that!<br /><br />I detest surprises<span style="font-style: italic;"> so much,</span> that I will no longer even attend a surprise party even as a guest.<br /><br />Dreadful things.<br />Pure hoax too.<br />Surprise parties <span style="font-style: italic;">have</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">will always</span> be about the people/perpetrators organising the thing rather than the recipient/victim.<br /><br />Anyway, I begged Hell Boy a cool 6 months ago to act as bouncer and to stamp out any such daft pretentions for my birthday.<br />I knew that a birthday ending with O would make me likely to have to endure this from some ninny.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Hey, we think this birthday is so important that we went ahead and organised it without even consulting you!"</span><br />To which the only possible response from me would have been, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Surprise!"</span> and to walk out.<br /><br />I had promised Hell Boy faithfully that this would absolutely have been my course of action should such rubbish come to pass.<br />I believe that he was quite tempted to let it happen just to enjoy the spectacle.<br />Few people enjoy a spectacle more than him.<br />It would have made quite a blog too.<br /><br />But common sense prevailed, and I decided to just do my own thing, my own way. That's what she said.<br /><br />And I'm glad I did, and not just because it rules out any nasty little surprises.<br />I'm glad, not because I'll be 40, but because I have gathered around me so many wonderful people, that I think it will be really cool to collect a bunch of them in the same place and see what they all look like together.<br />Like putting out the good china on the nice tablecloth.<br /><br />As it happens, I now have a duel reason to be glad of this celebration.<br /><br />I'm leaving my job after 10.5 years, so it will function as my farewell also.<br />More on that later, I still don't really know how to compile those 10 years just yet.<br /><br />So, no, I won't be saying whoop-de-doo because my age has an O in it, but I <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> be doing a social stocktake at my party on the 27th.<br />The next morning, I will be standing on the Harbour Bridge, throwing my arms up in the air and celebrating my many triumphs over adversity during first half of my life, congratulating myself on keeping my own counsel and genuinely from my heart of hearts, looking forward to a very powerful, rewarding and peaceful phase of my life.<br /><br />And to a Souths game in the evening, right after a Yum Cha lunch and perhaps a little visit to the cross stitch shop.<br /><br />Nothing surprising about that.<br />No polite laughter.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-41962271351321006672009-02-12T18:12:00.000-08:002009-03-04T15:40:29.366-08:00Bob Log Blog.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SZa0mrj844I/AAAAAAAAAdU/Av0tNTlfmqw/s1600-h/Picture+634.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SZa0mrj844I/AAAAAAAAAdU/Av0tNTlfmqw/s320/Picture+634.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302624187896882050" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SZTfX-1UqLI/AAAAAAAAAdM/6ButfwQQka8/s1600-h/bob.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DfskWkRWvrw/SZTfX-1UqLI/AAAAAAAAAdM/6ButfwQQka8/s320/bob.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302108264418551986" border="0" /></a><br />The Man.<br />Not <span style="font-style: italic;">the Man</span> everyone tried so hard to bring down in the sixties, but the hardest working Man in rock and roll, as Hell Boy accurately observed.<br /><br />My fave.<br />A one man band from Tuscon Arizona, no less.<br />A man who surfs the crowd in a blow up dinghy, wears a jumpsuit, crash helmet and sings into an old school phone that is soldered onto the helmet.<br /><br />Last year, we finally had the opportunity to witness such a spectacle (sans dinghy) and we took along our boys, being at the tender age then of only 22-23.<br /><br />I don't really know what they were expecting, but it certainly wasn't <span style="font-style: italic;">that.</span><br />I think I'd told them that he was a one man band, I guess I had overlooked that fact that not everyone is as impressed by this as I am.<br />I had also mentioned that he played blues.<br /><br />Blues is a huge word though.<br /><br />The boys are well used to bounding up our stairs to the strains of Woody Guthrie's nursery rhymes or to Dylan or even to Pete Seeger's union songs, so they were a little twitchy on the night.<br /><br />However, by the time Bog Log III descended the stairs, already playing a mean guitar, pushed his way through the crowd, and hopped onto the stage without looking even slightly phased, I saw Stan turn to me with his hands on his head, his eyes the size of donuts, his gold tooth glinting, and mouth the words,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"> "No waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!!!!!"</span><br /><br />Yes way.<br /><br />The performance was punctuated by each of the lads telling me,<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> "This is fucking unbelievable</span>," or just hollaring and hooting and laughing the arses off.<br /><br />Afterward, Stan being roughly double this guy's size, just took it upon himself to grab Bob Log III and shake him up a bit like the nerdy, jump suited musical freak that he is.<br />Hell Boy, not to be outdone, told him, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">''Man, you're my Elvis,"</span> which shocked the shit out of the poor thing, he covered his delighted face, blushed and and drawled, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Oh, man!!!"</span><br />I weighed in and asked him to sign my Souths jersey, something I treasure to this day.<br />He not only sign it, he took the time and trouble to draw an arse hole onto the Rabbitoh.<br /><br />Anyway, we're going again, and tonight is the night.<br /><br />After a bungled Xmas Bob Log III web site merchandise order, we are apparently, <span style="font-style: italic;">on the door</span> for this one.<br />What an honour!<br />And odd considering that I'd pay ten times over to see this guy do his thang.<br /><br />You know, after that show last year, it took us until 10 months to get up the nerve to see another live act.<br />The very week after Bob Log III last March, we had the opportunity to see QOTSA and turned our backs on it.<br />At the time, my reasoning was, if you need that many people to make music, something must be really wrong.<br />And they're one of my fave bands.<br /><br />We chose Fantomas to finally break the drought as they were low risk of disappointing us.<br /><br />*sigh*<br /><br />Damn you, Bob Log III, you've wrecked live music for me.<br />Yes sir, I hope he wrecks it again tonight though.<br /><br />---------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />And wreck it he did.<br /><br />He even busted out the dingy for a spot of crowd surfing. He managed to play almost an entire song from within this dingy whilst being tossed around from one end of the packed venue to the other.<br />Genius.<br /><br />He arrived on stage in a dinner suit, which disappointed some folks a little, but promptly ripped it off to reveal a gold spandex jumpsuit all ready to go underneath it.<br />Never has a stripper received a more heartfelt cheer than he did.<br />But then no stripper has probably ever had to rip their gear off over great clomping work boots or a crash helmet before.<br />More's the pity.<br /><br />When it came time for Boob Scotch, all the women in the room were on the verge of standing poor old Bob up - not one boobie on offer.<br />I think that the crowd was young enough that they were unfamiliar with the Boob Scotch protocol and they might have thought they had to go topless or such.<br />Not the case.<br />Anyway, towards the end of the song, I rescued him and with a generosity of spirit rarely witnessed by shy people, I signalled for Hell Boy to pass the scotch, and I dunked my left boobie and stirred it up but good.<br />I may have been the first sober woman in history to have done such a thing and I'm almost certain I was the first woman allergic to scotch to attempt it too.<br />I call the manoevre <span style="font-style: italic;">full throttle nerd</span> and I'm very proud of it.<br /><br />Bump pow bump bump bump bump pow.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-47611396439308960562009-01-31T15:39:00.001-08:002009-02-02T01:58:53.983-08:00Fair weather friends.Quick, I've snuck in here to write this one while Hell Boy is out, because we have a kind of agreement that in the interests of my mental health, I am not to discuss the weather.<br /><br />Hell Boy himself, being descended from a long line of weather enthusiasts, could happily watch the weather channel all day.<br />That is, of course, if it weren't for me, and my horrifying tendency to making scathing, cynical and let's face it, far more accurate predictions that is commonly offered by the likes of a FOX meteorologist.<br /><br />Few things wind me up faster that meteorology.<br />It is a topic that seemingly has some bizarre power over me.<br />The truth is that weather concerns me very little, but that I get upset by the <span style="font-style: italic;">"profession"</span> of meteorology, as they quite obviously just make shit up and get away with it.<br />It's the <span style="font-style: italic;">getting away with</span> that I find inflammatory.<br /><br />Hands up who can afford to be as inaccurate in their job as the good folks at Fox Weather?<br />My hands are down, that's for sure.<br /><br />I get so upset that I get to the point where I can't finish my sentences.<br />I once became so distraught by the nonsense on FOX Weather that I phoned them.<br />More on that later.<br /><br />I have season tickets with South Sydney.<br />Rugby league is a winter sport and our seats are not undercover.<br />The rain won't stop me going to a game. It would make me wear a hat though.<br /><br />What the rain <span style="font-style: italic;">will</span> stop me doing, however, is going to the Opera.<br /><br />Once each year, I like to go to Opera in the Park.<br />It's something I genuinely adore.<br /><br />In fact, we enjoyed the best night ever last Saturday despite the performance being the worst choice of opera of the many years that we've been going.<br /><br />Anyway, we arrive early for this gig.<br />This year it was 5:30 for an 8pm start.<br />The picnic before the performance being the very best part of the outing.<br />Good food, good company, reading, sewing, lying on a blanket under my favourite tree in the world....sigh<br />Incidentally, this is the very tree my ashes will be sprinkled under one day.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My </span>tree.<br />And coincidentally it stands right besides Bonnie's tree. How cool's that?<br /><br />So, 2-3 hours outdoors, and a bunch of picnic gear means that <span style="font-weight: bold;">I want to know whether it is going to rain or not.</span><br />With that in mind, you would expect that switching on the Fox Weather channel just hours before the event, would in some way illuminate us.<br /><br />I really do think that is a reasonable expectation.<br /><br />Imagine my surprise then, to discover that the best they could tell me was that there was a 50% chance of rain.<br /><br />50%<br /><br />This statistic means that<span style="font-style: italic;"> it might rain, or it might not</span>.<br />Strictly speaking, that's true of every day, a five year old could tell you that.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hedging your bets</span>, they call it.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Covering your arse</span> as well.<br /><br />Not being content with that answer from our dear friends at FOX, I checked their online forecast as well, hoping that maybe they had a more thorough answer available for me.<br /><br />And they did.<br /><br />Trouble was that it bore precious little resemblance to the forecast they were showing on the TV at the very same time.<br /><br />And so I placed a call.<br /><br />After more than a minute of questioning, they were so kind as to tell me that, no, realistically they didn't actually have a clue if it would rain in Sydney that night at all.<br />And that's fine, just don't pretend that you do, that's all I'm saying.<br /><br />Neither did they seem to know why they were simultaneously predicting conflicting weather patterns across their two mediums.<br /><br />But what really got me, was that they didn't know the answer my <span style="font-style: italic;">final</span> question, which was,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Are you able to tell me how many billions of dollars of satellite equipment you currently have at your disposal?"</span><br /><br />We drew a blank on that one as well.<br />I took that to mean that they <span style="font-style: italic;">might know how to interpret the information gathered by a satellite, or they might not.</span><br />50% chance.<br /><br />Honestly, these people get away with blue murder, don't they?<br />At the beginning of each month, they stick up a chart with each day listed and either a sun, a cloud or a sun <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> a cloud, to let us dumbies know what's going on out our windows.<br /><br />It is my wish to somehow print one of these gems and to bust out the red pen and correct it as the month progresses.<br />What would their accuracy be, do you think?<br /><br />I know that the one month I really had a good hard look at it and didn't forget all about it, they didn't get 2 days without exposing themselves to be total Charletans.<br />The prediction of 20 days of rain in Sydney during a summer month cannot be dismissed as anything other than a moderately funny practical joke, or mental retardation.<br />And yet, they made that call.<br /><br />Why?<br /><br />Methinks it's because they know no-one pays attention or has the means to compare their calls against fact later, and so they just make the chart look pretty<span style="font-style: italic;"> or</span> they're pushing the envelope amongst themselves to see who dares to make the silliest prediction.<br /><br />And that I might respect. Or I might not.Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8279907593473530316.post-44906683868202770612009-01-29T23:13:00.000-08:002009-02-02T00:03:22.445-08:00Forgive me? Worry about yourself, Sunshine.As I was writing some nonsense on Facebook today, I was reminded that I need to get something off my chest.<br />I have something to confess.<br /><br />For those among us who are religious and easy to offend, get thee to a nunnery, coz you ain't gonna like this one.<br /><br />Even as a child I had bad feelings about organised religion.<br />This was, I suspect, made a good deal worse by the fact I was born into a quasi-Catholic house to Mr. and Mrs. Closet Cynic.<br />Actually, closet isn't right. Intermittent is closer.<br />Mr. and Mrs. Intermittent Cynic.<br /><br />Yep.<br /><br />Most children do their First Confession and First Holy Communion around 7 or 8 I think. Just before they start to be able to think for themselves.<br /><br />I delayed mine until 9, when social pressure caught up to me via my parents.<br /><br />Due to the fact that my father had insisted on a public school education for my brother and myself - he felt that coupling religion and snobbery was ugly, I had to attend "lessons" at nights and on weekends, run especially for the spiritually backwards children of recalcitrant parents.<br /><br />Oh, and what a joy they were too!<br /><br />Sour nuns, and intolerant priests who gave even the stupidest child that distinctly strange, slimey feeling that one looks back on now as the aura of the kiddie-fiddler.<br />A divine halo.<br /><br />I never had any fears for myself, but I certainly do remember being always at my brother's side when we were unhappy enough to find ourselves on that hallowed ground.<br /><br />I don't know what it is that some people give off exactly, at the time I thought perhaps it was authority or unfriendliness, but kids can smell when something's not right, they just don't know to do about it.<br /><br />Regardless, there I was each weekend for what seemed to be an eternity, trying to stuff 9 years of garbage into my head and finding myself, for the very first time (excluding scripture classes at school), mentally disputing what an adult was telling me.<br /><br />I never got over the whole <span style="font-style: italic;">Mary was a virgin</span> thing, and I never saw the value of having <span style="font-style: italic;">Our</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Father</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">Hail Mary</span> prayer races. What has speed to do with holiness?<br />Well, as much as virginity, apparently.<br /><br />I never saw the genius in the statement,<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"God is good,"</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>despite the fact there was only one <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">o</span> </span>difference. I wondered whether the man who presented that to us as proof of God's existence was an idiot, or whether he just hoped we were.<br /><br />And few things had ever struck me as less <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span>sincere than that priest asking, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br />"Are there any questions?" </span><br /><br />I know I squirmed about in my seat and thought the nine year old's version of,<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Well, none that you can answer and fewer still that you won't humiliate me for asking."</span><br /><br />Nope. Not buying it.<br />Not even at nine.<br /><br />But I went through with it because at nine, I had no alternative, my parents had a party planned and I was to have some lame white dress that I really didn't think made up for it at all.<br /><br />I still don't wear white and I never, ever feel comfortable in it.<br />As I write this, I wonder if perhaps that's why.<br />I have never felt like such a fraud as I did on that day.<br /><br />But before the communion, there was the confession.<br /><br />I had to go alone into a barren little cubicle with the very person who made my skin crawl, drop down into a degrading position and beg him for forgiveness.<br /><br />Ummm, no.<br /><br />I felt as judged and frightened as a small child might in such an unpleasant situation.<br />And I felt something else which I now know to be resentment.<br /><br />Who the Hell was this awful, unfriendly man to be judging my sins?<br /><br />My turn came - I went in the first batch. Just like going to the dentist - I'd rather get it over with quickly. <span style="font-style: italic;">That's what she said.</span><br /><br />My knees hit the wooden kneeling bar and due to my size, pained my instantly.<br />My nerves were in disarray as I had to participate in the role playing exercise of,<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. It has been *****days since my last confession and during this time I have ********* </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">"</span><br /><br />Well, with croaky voice and a mounting terror of messing it all up, I got that far due to the gruelling rehearsals of those dreadful weekends.<br />Unfortunately, this was all they had taught us.<br /><br />The rest they left to us....<br /><br />I guess they supposed we'd know what we'd done wrong and that we'd just insert it in neatly after all the rote learning.<br /><br />Nuh-uh.<br /><br />During those few defining seconds, instead of pleading my case, I chose to think about what this all meant.<br /><br />My conclusion was that it all stank.<br /><br />I couldn't think of a single thing I'd done wrong.<br />I hadn't embezzled, committed adultery, killed anyone, raped, pillaged or plundered...I was at a loss.<br />I was only nine years old FFS.<br /><br />Nothing.<br /><br />This moment cemented my stance on religion for all time.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"I haven't done anything wrong, you horrible man, but I'll bet </span><span>you</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> have, " </span><span>I thought.</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span>So, knowing that the robed ogre was waiting expectantly, judging not only me, but my parents by my response<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">, </span>I made something up.<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">I lied.</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><br />Even as it left my lips I knew it felt bad and that I was probably in some very serious bother.<br />The kind of bother you can't tell anyone about, but must sort out all by yourself.<br /><br />And so, when he pronounced his judgement on my soul and told me my penance was two <span style="font-style: italic;">Our Fathers </span>and three<span style="font-style: italic;"> Hail Mary's, </span>I said them<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br />Good and fast too.<br /><br />But I said them in compensation for lying to a priest during my First Holy Confession.<br />I think I even threw in a few extras just to be sure.<br /><br />Now, I carried this stain on my soul around from age 9 until age 38.<br />Well not really.<br />I mean, I never worried about the opinion of any God who would judge a small child, but I never verbalised the event except to Hell Boy, and then only for comic purposes.<br /><br />But, waiting (once again) at Kingsford Smith airport for Yoga Boy to return home from India, I turned to my Dad and suddenly said,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."</span><br /><br />I went on to explain the whole debacle and I really <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> feel relief from offering up such an earnest confession, albeit in such a public place and to someone I respected.<br /><br />Probably it was made easier for me by the sound of his laughter and the strange look of admiration in his eyes as I detailed my queer childish logic.<br />He thought it was great.<br /><br />It was not long after that that I heard him telling a friend that although I look like my mother, <span style="font-style: italic;">I think like him.</span><br /><br />Amen to that.<br /><br />------------------------------------<br /><br /><br />LOL<br /><br />After Hell Boy had read this, I asked him, <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Do you think I'll be going to Hell for that?"</span><br /><br />His reply,<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> "Well I hope so, otherwise I won't be seeing you."</span><br /><br />Check mate.<br /><br /><br />---------------------------------Auntie Simonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08496618083354471210noreply@blogger.com0