Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

As I was fumbling with my keys, trying to get in the front door the other day, laden with all manner of shopping that I was far too stubborn to put down, I grabbed a key (one handed) and barked at myself,

"No, dammit, that's my work key."

My fucking work key.

Work key.

Work.

Key.

B

I

M

B

O

No idea what to call this- bum wad maybe?

*** I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but have given up waiting for Jeff to download the footage from my phone, so I'm posting it without such trimmings.





Hands up who's been to Merrylands.

Goodness, what an interesting place.

I know that I have previously described it as being home to the world's hillbillies.
But I believe that today's display gives me leave to pretty much whatever I please without feeling even slightly remorseful.

So here goes.

Bear in mind that I arrived 20 minutes early to work this morning.

And that I was ushered into the newish car park by 2 security staff.

And that as soon as it was too late to avoid it, I found myself stuck in horrific traffic within the car park itself.

Can't go forwards, can't go backwards.

Gridlock.

Took me 15 minutes to get back out, only to see the same staff still waving people in.

wtf

Then I get back onto the street and stop to let 87 people cross very s-l-o-w-l-y.
Each of them has a shopping trolley containing a minimum of 3 microwaves, each in a pale blue box.
Plus half a dozen packs of 18 rolls of toilet paper.

I have never seen so many microwave ovens. I hope I never do again.

Having worked as a geriatric nurse, seeing masses of toilet paper did not alarm me.

Except for that African family who purchased 180 rolls of the stuff in one go.
Clearly they have a big weekend planned.

After waiting another 10 minutes for the semi-trailer to stop reversing across the main road during peak hour, I eventually made in to work at9:30.

Just then I discovered for the first time in almost 40 years that I had lost a key.

My $300 work key had come off my keyring and was gone.

Gone.

sigh

So I had to find poor, stressed Jim in the other shop and borrow his keys to open, which I finally did at 9:40.

Not bad.

But I'd had to battle I cannot tell you how many trolleys full of...microwaves and toilet paper along the way.

People were fighting in the car park.
It was glorious. A rare display of the best humanity has to offer.

I could have allowed it all to prompt me into having a bad day, but I just smiled to myself and thought,

"...hey, what a great blog!"

Anyway, as I later found out, K-Mart was selling microwaves for $29.
I chose not to enquire as to the price of the bum wad, or anal serviettes, as Jeff calls them.

I did take the time and trouble to film the bum wad/microwave procession though.

I thought no-one would believe me else.

Done and done.

Well we booked our airfares today.

My only request regarding airlines was NOT GARUDA, NOT BRITISH AIRWAYS, NOT QANTAS.

Because I truly believe that Qantas are trading on a very old and very outdated safety reputation.
I understand they now out source a great deal of their mechanical work and I think we can all see that it's really starting to show.

With all their little problems of late, I suspect they're hedging up for something rather spectacular.

I do hope I'm wrong.

Especially since we just booked return flights with them.

Strange, but I heard quite a few people saying they'd prefer not to fly Qantas at the travel expo today.
Even Vivien, my step-mother has decided to dodge Qantas when they travel to Europe.

Just a few short years ago, they were in the position of charging almost what they pleased...

The biggest queue by far today was around the Emirates stall.
Couldn't get near them, which is a pity, because I've heard nothing but good of them.

Anyway, Qantas!

Bloody Hell.

Apart from safety concerns, I would prefer anyone else (not British Airways - too many whingeing Poms) because the last thing I want to do on an international trip is talk to Aussies.

And here's why.

I have included translation for Gretchen's benefit.
Mostly, these are things I have actually heard.

"Yeah Love, give us some more free beers and that, I'm gunna get pissed and stuff on the plane, eh!" = I am so stupid, cultureless and boring that my farts are more interesting than my conversation.

"Errrrrrrrr, brown bread.And what's this green shit? Can I get more mayo?" = I eat like I'm at a 3 year old's birthday party and never try anything new. I'm an idiot.

"I'm not eating none of this wog shit!" = May I have a dish with a little less flavour please? I'm afraid my First Fleet ancestors have eaten nought but damper, beer and swill for 200 years and this has caused DNA damage and resultant brain shrinkage, yet an increased sperm count.

"I hope the pilot's not Asian." = I'm a cunt.

When I go away, I like to go away.
And I like the adventure and change of culture to start immediately.

I adored being the minority and immersing myself in another culture.
There's nothing like it.
You can just feel it doing you good.

So, on this flight, my MP3 player will be turned UP (to 11), and for the second leg, I will be swallowing enough Temaze to deaden the pain caused by the proximity of the damper sodden twits who will also be representing our magnificent country.

If white Australian culture were a biscuit, it would be a Milk Arrowroot...extra plain. Unremarkable.
And it would stay in it's own packet, criticising the other chocolate coated, caramel, nutty biscuits for not being as plain as themselves, and for encroaching on their shelf of the pantry which they stole from all the other more interesting biscuits in the first place.

And if we fall from the sky during this flight, rest assured that bits of white bread and processed cheese will be washing up on foreign shores, wreaking havoc on flora and fauna alike.

Aussie Aussie Aussie!

Oi Oi Oi!

By the way, did you know that that chant was originally derived from a racist skinhead chant?
They don't eat brown bread either.

South Sydney - Part One.

Before writing this, I've had to centre myself, align my chakras with the almighty red and green energy in the sky (not Santa), regulate my breathing and chant quietly to myself for 21 minutes.

21!

A few of you will understand it's significance.

A few of you will sit there, smugly believing that it's simply half of 42 and that that's what I meant.

You're both kinda right.
You're both nerds too, but that's OK.

If neither number excites you at all, you've clearly stumbled into my blog by accident and will be leaving again just as soon as you finish scratching your head.

Good. They're gone. And we're alone with my stupidity once again.
How nice.

So, I promised faithfully that one day I would try to explain my love of sport to you.
Initially my plan was to explain it to myself first, but who can be bothered waiting?

Better to stick to my overall approach to life - just make a start and figure it out as I go, making sure to keep the glass half full, my mind open, my heart full and my hands busy.

Can do.
Wow!Look at me go.

Right.

I must start by saying that I always detested sport.
I grew up in a half Slovenian household, meaning that weekends = soccer.
Except that in the 1970's, in lovely culturally tolerant Australia, it was better known as wogball.

So, I grew up in a wogball family.

My father played.
My father coached.
My father refereed.
My brother played.
My mother watched.
I complained, ate lollies, climbed monkey bars with other traumatised little girls and read a book, all the time secretly wishing shocking injuries on anyone with shin guards on.

I never watched a single second of that vilest of vile sports.

And when my father offered (insisted) to let me play netball, I told him outright that I would not be disposed of in that way, that only bitches played netball and that such a thing would occur over my dead body.

Very soon after that, I was allowed to stay home alone and do as I pleased.
He never mentioned netball again.

Two World Cups ago, Jeff timed me to see how long I could make it watching a wogball game without making a sarcastic remark.

15 seconds.

And I was trying! I really was.

So, with all these emotional land mines in my background, imagine my joy when I met and partnered my very favourite man in the world, only to discover that he would like to watch every single game of rugby league, every single week for 30 plus weeks a year for the rest of our lives.

Every one.

Hilarity ensued...

On our second date, he said to me,

"You're the one. All you have to say are two words and I'll know for sure...South Sydney!"

Naturally I refused.

C'mon! Sport!? What would you have done?
FFS

And rugby league at that!
Wogball's stupid, toasted cheese on damper plain Australian cousin.

"This isn't going to work", I thought.

And it wouldn't have either, had somebody not budged.

It was pretty much the only thing that we ever really argued about. It was awful.
I wanted him to enjoy the sport, but for me, having already lost every Saturday of my childhood to wogball, the prospect of losing chunks of my weekends as an adult to rugby league was devastating.

Even more devastating was the confusion and embarrassment of secretly purchasing a rugby league rule book soon after.

And then the frustration and humiliation of Friday night football.
Each Friday night, I would sit, alone, balancing a cat or two on the end of the lounge, desperately flicking through the rule book, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

And then the joy of disguising my increasing knowledge and familiarity with the game from Hell Boy until I was ready to unveil the new and improved me.

From memory I lasted like 3 games before standing bolt upright and screaming,

"Forward! That was a fucking mile forward!"

You see, I corrected my ignorance and I've never looked back.

But having learned football from Friday night matches in the early nineties, I became quite fond of the Canberra Raiders as a team. They were lime green and amazing to watch.

Hell Boy (my new blog name for Young Jeffrey -I mean, have you seen him?...LOL - he's a big red smart arse who loves cats) was constantly at me to support Souths (I'd liked them since childhood anyway) but I was in my early 20's and not inclined to do anything just because a man wanted me to.
I thought that learning rugby league was enough.

But in 1998, when Souths were unfairly kicked out of the competition, I saw the impact it had on him. I started looking into the reasons it had happened, as well as watching and appreciating the phenomenal fight that was put up to keep the club going during legal proceedings which might better be described as rape.

Uh-oh... nothing like injustice to capture my attention...

So, I started getting involved in ways that I understood - buying merchandise for a team who no longer existed, making 3 course red and green meals (kiwi fruit and strawberry shortcake is awesome), learning the club song...

Then they held a rally.
I offered to take Jeff and his brother. At the time they told me they didn't see the point. No-one would beat Rupert Murdoch and they would just get upset if they went.

I was most put out by this.
I still don't understand it all these years later.
You may not think you're going to win, but you must never let that stop you from being heard.

I could complain bound and gagged underwater, so having the opportunity to do it in the streets of Sydney with thousands of other people really appealed to me.

So, as the day of the second march drew near, I informed the boys that I was going if they'd like to come with, and was thrilled to finally be doing something positive for something they loved.

Incidentally, as we marched arm in arm amidst a sea of red and green, we were snapped and the boys (not me -FFS) made it into Who magazine as South Sydney zealots. ;O(

I was a little cranky about that. Still am.

At that rally, I joined the club, despite not being a Souths supporter. I made the boys join. I bought T-shirts, stickers and God knows what else.

I stood and listened to those speeches and songs, teary eyed, not quite understanding why I was so moved.
I'm slow, OK? I still hadn't figured out that I was a fan.

I also remember looking around at the immense crowd behind us and mentioning to Hell Boy that we were the only ones present with front teeth, but that I wasn't frightened.

I bought the Souths protest music CD and started playing it at home.
Jeff didn't like it, so I used to listen to it when I was home alone.
Still didn't know I was a fan though.

The day the final decision was handed down, I was collating the most evil stock take at home.
At 11 o'clock, I was sitting on the coffee table because my legs were shaking almost as much as the phone in my hands.

When the decision was positive for Souths, I sat and cried out loud all by myself.
As they cut to scenes of toothless, jubilant fans at the club, I vividly remember wiping away my snot and tears and saying out loud,

"Oh fuck, I'm one of them!"

Oh fuck indeed...



To be continued...

(Shut up, Happy Days did it...)

My father's daughter.

Just because I'm avoiding Dad's quilt (with pretty reasonable success), doesn't mean I won' get there.

It's not even the excrutiating technical minutia of the current stage that's putting me off, it's the harrowing behavioural comparison that I'm having a hard time dealing with.

I don't know why exactly, but exhibiting such overt Eric-like traits seems to be interrupting my concentration.
Not in a bad way, rather I make myself laugh at critical moments, thus causing me to fuck it all up.

Just consider how many little yellow circles I have to machine sew around (buttonhole/blanket stitch- aaarrrgh) before I can even think about moving on to the next stage....
I have slaved away, and I'm not even half done.

Simone doesn't handle repetition well.
She's OK with routine though.
Go figure.

In order to give you a glimpse of my mental disarray and agony, I made a mental note of my thought process during just one circley bit.

"OK, let's get this done.
Right. Fuck. Fucking thread. Shit. OK. I'll start here. Yes.
OK. Fuck, did I change the foot? Where's the foot? Poppy?! You shit little cat, where's the...oh never mind, sorry, here it is. Sorry Pop.
OK. Right.

Well this isn't too bad. Why did I put it off?

Oh fuck. Damn it. Fucking thing, that's so crooked. Maybe no-one will notice if I get an all over quilt design.
Shit,shit, it's August, I'm running out of time.
I need less coffee.

Alright,time to turn the corner. Fuck!
Why did I sew those bits together already? Idiot.
OK, got the hang of it now. Turn, turn, turn, oh fuck, that sucks. Shit. Cunt of a thing.
I hate this.
Yeah, that'll do.
Turn, damn, OK, no, that's OK. Shit.
*giggle*snort*
Nearly done. Cocksucker. You absolute cocksucking son of a monkey whore!
No, no, noooo. Fuck.
Got it.Yay. Bloody hell.
That sucked."

This is followed by a moment of smugness and then all too quickly by deflation once I notice the next 100 circles waiting for me to mentally injure myself on.

Those sneaky little yellow circley pricks.

Well, there you have it, you can see what kind of energy I'm imbuing this thing with.
Hence my general discomfort when people exclaim over the sweetness of my creations when I issue them.
Little do they know.

You can also see that mentally at least, I am certainly my father's daughter.

And fucking proud of it too.

Tischler! Tischler! Tischler!
Fuck! Shit ! Cock!

Progress report - Dad's Schimpf quilt.

What follows is a progress report on the quilt I'm making for Daddy's 70th birthday, which will be on the 31st of December.
So far it's title will either be That Fucking Quilt, Schimpf, or if I'm suddenly feeling horrifically racist by the year's end, The Yellow Peril.

The Yellow Peril was a 1970's quirky jigsaw puzzle that had no map, 1000 pieces which were all the same shade of yellow, was circular and as if all of that were not nasty enough, it was saddled with a rather vile and racist name, the significance of which really only dawned on me as I was sewing today.
Yuk.
The 1970's WTF?

Anyway, so I'm thinking that I won't be calling it that...


The manufacturer all but dared people to finish it and rewarded them with a certificate in exchange for photographic evidence upon completion.

Somewhere, buried beneath a million other ghastly 1970's snaps, we have said photograph. Right next to it is my dad, looking really, really tired.

But as my family has always considered it proof that my father has some sort of jigsaw OCD, we thought it best not to send it to any sort of authorities, even the jigsaw bigots.

And rightly so.

Dad has always enjoyed (and loathed) a good jigsaw.
It's something we were able to share as I was growing up. Just watching how his mind worked was fascinating to me.
Laborious, logical, methodical, compulsive, yet joyous at his task.
And stamina! Fuck me dead this guy's machine.

I used to love it when we'd do a puzzle together during summer. With the cricket day/night match on TV, fresh fruit, leftover Xmas biscuits and a cup of tea, we'd sit hunched up for hours as Dad methodically sorted the pieces according to differences I had never noticed in them. And, he turned them all over before proceeding. Who does that?!

During all of this, he would complain strenuously to me about how much he hated jigsaws, sing the occasional silly song and punctuate any other silence with, "...bowled him!" or "...bullshit!" if he happened to glance up at the cricket.

Eventually, I would pack it in for the night - probably due to a cat who was sleeping in the puzzle box lid that I was using, or worse still, on the sorted pieces themselves.
Dad would exclaim, "...bloody pussing katzens!" and "...shit!" whenever he noticed such feline misdeeds, but I never once recall him actually moving a cat. I do remember him shifting his own seat though. Perhaps this was simply a coincidence though. ;O)

In the wee hours of the morning...you know, the wee hours... when I'd stumble out to pee, there would still be the shape of this diligent creature, moving somewhat slower perhaps, but nevertheless, still absorbed in his work of finding that three legged piece with the crooked leg.

When he realised it was me geistering (ghosting/wandering) around rather than Adrian (no jigsaw puzzle lightweight himself, although not inclined to procure them), he'd yell out, "...shit, Simone, shit, what are you doing to me? Shit! This is awful."

And so it was awful, I guess.
But not to me, I always found it reassuring to recognise so many aspects of my own personality in my father. I childishly hoped I'd be able to keep them as I matured and expand upon them. I like to think I've done just that too.
I recently overheard Dad remarking to a friend that yes, his daughter looks like him, but that more importantly, "...she thinks like me."
Best compliment I've ever received. Certainly the only one I can quote.

So, in addition to the jigsaw component of the quilt, I'm planning on (probably) bordering it with two plain yellow borders that I plan on doing various stitcheries on, plus one with a printed fabric.

The first border will have the prose from a William Wordsworth poem about daffodils that Dad used to read to me at bedtime rather than fairy tales.


I wander'd lonely as a cloud... *sigh *

I love it, but to this very day, it does make me very tired.
Just call me Pavlov's dog.

Then a border of daffodil fabric.
Daffodils have a special significance in our family.
Apart from the nightly poetry readings, my mother adored them. When she died, we chose a headstone with daffodils on it for her.
Also, daffodils represent the fight against breast cancer and are in bloom during August and September the months of Mum's birthday as well as the anniversary of her death.

Finally, I'm doing a larger plain yellow border that will have all of Dad's favourite swear words on it. Well, not just his obscenities, but his silly words as well.
I'm even including the Yugoslav word for c*@&.
A family fave.
Plus his new favourite, which is taken from his second wife, Vivien, a gorgeous Maltese lady...Ma-donna!

So far we have:

• Ma-donna
• schimpf (meaning to go crook on or berate)
• pitchka (C@#& in Yugoslav)
• pfuitsch (Dad/German hybrid for yuk)
• verschlagen (from MAD magazine - I thought for years that it was Yugo)
• schmutz (Dad/German hybrid meaning to make a pig of yourself)
• goodie gums (Eric for lollies and chocolate)
• yebem te sunse (motherfucker - Yugo)
• verflixt noch mal ( Dad/German hybrid meaning damn or for god's sake - sort of)
• umdrehen (German for turn around - what he used to say when we were little kids and he'd towel dry us after a bath)
• compulsories (referring to Vitamin C tablets which he insisted we took...prescribing vitamins is genetic?)
• extra wurst (mostly German - meaning a food bonus or treat)
• hops (a command he developed for our dog, Holly, so she would jump over stuff thus saving him time and trouble)
• a good cleansing panic (Holly was a Doberman cross Rottweiler, but was a sooky nervous Piscean dog who would freak out with monotonous regularity, in fact, she would panic on command too - Dad thought it was good for her)
• sugar, scheissen, shit! (this quintessential Dadism begins with an attempt to be reasonable, but quickly gives way to common sense)
• runter! ( German for get down - often heard and ignored by cats)
• yumich ( NFI from whence this comes) it means something delicious
  
• 14-14 (his favourite football score - who has fave score? FFS what a weirdo)
• and finally, my contribution as a 6 year old...bernarner (I was asked to spell banana, and sounded it out, with what I still maintain was good success...Dad still belly laughs at this regularly, in fact I've never seen him eat a bernarner without giggling)

So, there it is. My masterpiece.
I have no concerns about littering a perfectly good quilt with obscenities because, eventually, I shall inherit it anyhow, and I like it.

When I told Viv of my idea, she pissed herself laughing and then said in all seriousness, ..."but not bright yellow, buttercup yellow."
So I'm guessing that the thought of having Yugoslavian obscenities draped across her lounge is of little concern to her so long as the colour tones in with the curtains.
And with little wonder.
Viv's surely heard it all by now, so I guess nothing I can stitch onto this quilt will come as a surprise to her. :O)
I'll try though.


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz..