Mercury pulled it's finger out.

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.

Seems that today it pulled it's finger out and played catch up for Simone. (TWSS)

Backing out of the driveway this afternoon, I almost ran into the delivery van.
It was close.

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.

As Hell Boy waited for the guy to stop rummaging around in the back of his van (TWSS), he went to the letterbox.

Well, today, instead of bills or bad news, we were besieged with gifts.

From all over the place.

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."
Majestic.

Then Hell Boy threw a parcel through the car window onto my lap from my aunt.
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.
It's exquisite. Tiny, tiny, perfect embroidery stitches. Just amazing.

As I was yet enjoying this feast of crafty loveliness, I heard him say,
"Farken A! It's from Cleveland!"

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 Cleveland clap clap clap Cleveland clap clap clap

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.
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.

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.

I'm guessing the Amish people cookie cutters were for me and not Hell Boy?
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.
Chili Dogs!
WTF are chili dogs, and why haven't I had one yet?
Dammit!

Well anyway, Gretchen, I hope you enjoy the pics of me using my Charlie's Dog House Diner mug for the very first time.
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.

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...

Nice to see me getting a dose of my own medicine though, eh?

Fuck the blue team!

Well if that don't beat all...

Yesterday was Round 1 of the NRL competition, and as always, we play the filthy Roosters at this time.
This was their home game.
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.

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.

It was a hot day and the Burrow sits in Bay 38 which is on the eastern side, this making it in full sun.
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.
How much good luck is that?

We arrived at the ground 20 minutes into the first game - Toyota Cup which is for players aged about 17-19 I think.

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.
I love this about Souths fans. They support the club and not just the first grade team.
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.

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.
I love it.

That moment yesterday was glorious. One of the best.

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.

And hear it he did.

He copped a whole round of "Still hate the Roosters" and "South Sydney clap clap clap" before the noise died down a bit so I could ask him what he was doing.

He was naked in an ashram somewhere in the north of India, he tells me.
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?
No.
He sang along.
Naked by the Ghanges though he may have been.

Hooray for Yoga Boy.

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.
After telling him what I knew, I excused myself by saying, "I gotta go, Dad's here now."

Which he was.

I had invited my 15 yo step-niece, Emily to come along to this game, knowing how good the atmosphere always is.
She had previously told me that she thought she was a Roosters supporter.
I had asked her why this would be, considering she wasn't a cheat herself.
Didn't make sense to me.

After explaining to her that Souths own 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.
How more people haven't seen the similarities yet is beyond me.

So, Dad brought Emily along despite the fact that he is a low-grade Parramatta supporter.
Actually, he arrived in full Arsenal kit and sporadically stood up and bellowed "Arsenal!!!" loud and proud, making me rather suspect I inherited my tribal behaviours from his side of the family after all.

They arrived just as Kieren's gigantic Souths banner was being unravelled and stretched down to cover the entire bay of supporters.
This banner lists all of our premiership wins and has a message on it directed at the Rorters fans, "Forever in our shadow."

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.

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.

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, "Fuck the blue team!!!"

When we left, Souths having destroyed our arch enemy by 52-12, his eyes were spinning in his head.
Much like mine, only his mascara wasn't running.

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.

Well, maybe if we'd held them to nil... ;O)

Any road, FUCK THE BLUE TEAM!!!

For Monica.

I know what kind of old lady I want to be.
God knows I had opportunity enough to study all the various types when I was geriatric nursing.

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.

I like old men like that too.

In fact, I used to swap 2 "nice" old ladies for 1 cranky old man before the shift began.

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.

"But why not?" I asked him, "I'm working at becoming a crotchety old lady."

He believes I'm ahead of schedule.
And why isn't that cause for congratulations? I'm confused.
My list of grievances are simple, reasonable, well thought out, well expressed, humourous and consistent.

Some differences in character surfaced when we had to drop Yoga Boy at the airport yet again.

As is his want, he decided to do something last minute.
Seriously - who phones Optus on their mobile on the way to catch an international flight, just to alter something as trivial as payment details?
Particularly considering he had none of the relevant account information with him...

Exhibit A: the Pisces man.

This call lasted from the M2 and made it to just short of the airport.

Just listening to him trying to get through the voice prompts was hilarious.
Magnificent.
If they were bright, those things would discern the expression, "Fuck off," as belonging to someone well at the end of their tether, and patch you straight through to the suitable person.

But, no.

Yoga Boy's reactions were rather different from my what own might have been.
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.
Which seems a shame because I really enjoyed that one and I suspect it may have done them the world of good.

Upon phoning to number craftily and deliberately hidden on their site, I was treated to the torture that is voice prompting.

I spoke the name of the event I wished to book clearly and without the slightest hint of impediment.
Perhaps this is where I went wrong.

I asked for Rooster vs Rabbitohs, which is what it said on the website.

Somehow that was translated into The Sydney Chamber Orchestra.

"Is this correct?"

"NO!"

"Which location would you like to see The Sydney Chamber Orchestra?"

"Fuck off!"

.... At this point, it really should have gone to "I'll put you through, sorry for being so terribly incompetent."

...But no, instead it went to, "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. Did you wish to see this event in Newcastle or Canberra?"

"Over my dead body, you fucking moron!"

So, by the time the operator picked up, I was good and mad.
Having dealt with the public for many years, I am perfecty aware that this is not his fault.

He did however make the error of picking up the call with, "So you want to book tickets for The Sydney Chamber Orchestra."

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.

At this point, the hilarity began in earnest.

I asked whether Bay 38 would still be GA for this match.

"There is no Bay 38 at this ground."

Knowing this to be an untruth, I asked him to check his facts.

Yes, eventually he found Bay 38. Miracle!

Are we still entitled to the SSFC member discount for this bay?

"There is no such thing as an SSFC member discount available."

I asked him to check his facts.

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.

"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?"

Now, as it happened, they were not sold out at all.
Surprise, surprise.

At this point, I stopped asking questions and just told him what he needed to do.
And then he charged me $6 for his help and I used my own ink and paper to print our tickets.

Hands up who believes they'll actually get us in on the day?

I'm still stumped by a differential diagnosis of this person: plain moron or a Roosters supporter?

And that a ticketing salesperson may deliberately fuck with your head is not such a strange suggestion either.
A few years ago, I saw two St George supporters seated bang in the middle of The Burrow.
Why?
Because the Ticketek person was a forward thinking Souths supporter and had booked them there to shit them. LOL

Up the Rabbitohs.
Still hate the Roosters.
Go Browns.

Maturing nicely.

By and large, 40th birthday presents should be elegant, boring or appallingly tokenistic. Perhaps all three.
That is, if the person celebrating the milestone is generally regarded as an adult.

Apparently, I am not generally regarded in such light.

But that's good, right?
Right?

What am I talking about?

I'm referring to the list of gifts I received for my 40th birthday. I think you'll agree that either, this is:

a) pretty damning evidence
or
b) worthy of inclusion in bold on the cover sheet of my CV.

In random order, because that's the way my brain works:

1000 worms (incl vegetable scraps and a clump of pubic hair for them to eat)
compost bin 1
compost bin 2
floor cleaning slippers
pirate bandaids
giant eraser
home made doll of Lila by Lila
home made earrings from cat bells
home made Beatles Reiki pack by Cath D.
Glo-Stix earrings
The Atheist Manifesto
Pandora turtle
Pandora bunny
Pandora football
comical underpants
slipper socks with pig pompoms


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.
Of course, amongst everything else, I did get the gift of freedom, but that's not silly, so I'm not counting it.

Will post pics tomorrow.

Hooray for life, luv sim xoxo

Reading me to sleep.

Almost every night, I ask/hassle/manipulate Hell Boy into reading to me as I fall asleep.

And I'm wicked enough to expect him to read to me from books of my choosing rather than his.
Not that I don't like his material, but my final thought at night is better off not being Charles Bukowski practising to be a bum.
That's a day time thought.

I suspect that I fall asleep during the 2nd or 3rd paragraph, but he tells me that he reads 2 pages, no matter what.
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

In just the last few months, poor ole Hell Boy has read to me from the following texts:

• 20,000Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne ( he liked that)
  
• Mary Poppins - P.L. Travers (he hated it)
  
• Secret Lives of Great Authors - Robert Schnakenberg
  
• Around the World in Eighty days - Jules Verne
  
• Howl's Moving Castle -Dianna Wynne Jones ( he liked that)
  
• 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)
  
• In His Own Write - John Lennon (he liked that)
  
• The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
• The Wise Woman - Phillippa Gregory
• What Katy Did - Susan Coolidge ( he hated it)
  
• Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
• A Life - Woody Guthrie - Jow Klein
• Slaughter-House Five - Kurt Vonnegut ( one of his faves - no problem there)
  
• Rosemary's Baby - Ira Levin ( he liked that)
  
• Romulus My Father - Raimond Gaiter
• When Hitler Stole Pink Rabbit - Judith Kerr
  
• any number of John Marsden books (hated them)
  
• and most recently, Snugglepot and Cuddlepie - May Gibbs (he's really hating it)
  

Additionally, we listened to 6 CD's of Jane Austen novels whilst driving down and then up the south coast on our holiday recently.
His idea.
Sense and Sensibilty and then Persuasion.

Poor, poor man.

For someone who hates anything without the gritty immediacy of Bukowski or the quirkiness of Vonnegut, I have really been punishing him.

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.
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.

The other night as I plonked my book on his chest, he groaned and told me that he didn't think he could because that Year 10 class had taken it out of him - he'd read aloud to them for 2 sessions.
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

I will be doing a nice afternoon tea for them at the end of the term if they comply with my wishes....

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.

On turning 40.

Bring it on!

My God, what a fuss too.
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?

Such nonsense.

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?
Well I certainly haven't, I have an excellent memory - and I use it.
I won't be dispensing any polite laughter at my own party.
Be warned.
If you forget yourself and come at me with any of this, I will leave you swinging- that's what she said.

"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..."

I wonder how many of these twits I've successfully weeded out of my intimate circle -that's what she said- since my last milestone birthday?
I'll let you know - unless you're one of them.
No, actually, especially if you're one of them - fuck it - I'm 40, I can do and say whatever I want now.

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.
I'm watching you...

How about lashing out with something useful instead like, "You've come through a lot, you've faced all your life lessons head on, and I admire the person you've become."
That's what I tell the people close to me when opportunity arises.

And then there's my personal fave, the obligatory mention of age but once a decade.

Did you take the time to write 39 on my card last year?
Will you be bothered to do the arithmetic next year and the year after when it involves just a little more thought and consideration?

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 have been paying attention all along?

You see, I don't care about such things.
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.
But just don't surprise me.

My original plans for my 40th were just to turn 40 and mind my own business.
But it quickly became apparent that there were those who had no intentions of doing the same.
"I don't want a fuss", was somehow translated into ,"Please ignore my wish and organise a surprise party for me."

Now, I hate surprises. I really, really, really do.
And let's not suppose that that's simply because I'm an uppity sort of a thing with strong opinions about minutia.
There's way more to it than that!

I detest surprises so much, that I will no longer even attend a surprise party even as a guest.

Dreadful things.
Pure hoax too.
Surprise parties have always and will always be about the people/perpetrators organising the thing rather than the recipient/victim.

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.
I knew that a birthday ending with O would make me likely to have to endure this from some ninny.

"Hey, we think this birthday is so important that we went ahead and organised it without even consulting you!"
To which the only possible response from me would have been, "Surprise!" and to walk out.

I had promised Hell Boy faithfully that this would absolutely have been my course of action should such rubbish come to pass.
I believe that he was quite tempted to let it happen just to enjoy the spectacle.
Few people enjoy a spectacle more than him.
It would have made quite a blog too.

But common sense prevailed, and I decided to just do my own thing, my own way. That's what she said.

And I'm glad I did, and not just because it rules out any nasty little surprises.
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.
Like putting out the good china on the nice tablecloth.

As it happens, I now have a duel reason to be glad of this celebration.

I'm leaving my job after 10.5 years, so it will function as my farewell also.
More on that later, I still don't really know how to compile those 10 years just yet.

So, no, I won't be saying whoop-de-doo because my age has an O in it, but I will be doing a social stocktake at my party on the 27th.
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.

And to a Souths game in the evening, right after a Yum Cha lunch and perhaps a little visit to the cross stitch shop.

Nothing surprising about that.
No polite laughter.

Bob Log Blog.

The Man.
Not the Man everyone tried so hard to bring down in the sixties, but the hardest working Man in rock and roll, as Hell Boy accurately observed.

My fave.
A one man band from Tuscon Arizona, no less.
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.

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.

I don't really know what they were expecting, but it certainly wasn't that.
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.
I had also mentioned that he played blues.

Blues is a huge word though.

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.

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,

"No waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!!!!!!!!!"

Yes way.

The performance was punctuated by each of the lads telling me, "This is fucking unbelievable," or just hollaring and hooting and laughing the arses off.

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.
Hell Boy, not to be outdone, told him, ''Man, you're my Elvis," which shocked the shit out of the poor thing, he covered his delighted face, blushed and and drawled, "Oh, man!!!"
I weighed in and asked him to sign my Souths jersey, something I treasure to this day.
He not only sign it, he took the time and trouble to draw an arse hole onto the Rabbitoh.

Anyway, we're going again, and tonight is the night.

After a bungled Xmas Bob Log III web site merchandise order, we are apparently, on the door for this one.
What an honour!
And odd considering that I'd pay ten times over to see this guy do his thang.

You know, after that show last year, it took us until 10 months to get up the nerve to see another live act.
The very week after Bob Log III last March, we had the opportunity to see QOTSA and turned our backs on it.
At the time, my reasoning was, if you need that many people to make music, something must be really wrong.
And they're one of my fave bands.

We chose Fantomas to finally break the drought as they were low risk of disappointing us.

*sigh*

Damn you, Bob Log III, you've wrecked live music for me.
Yes sir, I hope he wrecks it again tonight though.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

And wreck it he did.

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.
Genius.

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.
Never has a stripper received a more heartfelt cheer than he did.
But then no stripper has probably ever had to rip their gear off over great clomping work boots or a crash helmet before.
More's the pity.

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.
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.
Not the case.
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.
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.
I call the manoevre full throttle nerd and I'm very proud of it.

Bump pow bump bump bump bump pow.