The Yoga of Pies.

Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, our school had no canteen.
Thinking rationally now, perhaps this was why my parents chose it.

And back then, during winter, we would excitedly expect a visit from the pie man.
Mondays I think.
Yoga Boy believes it was every Monday throughout winter, but I thought it was only once a month.

20 cents? 30 cents? Something like that anyway.

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.
The groans and shufflings form the children who, for one reason or another didn't have the money was awful.

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!

Two?!
Bloody hell, to me that was like some sort of contest that was worthy of prime time television.

Matthew Crawley. 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.
He can't have been the only one, but he's the only one I can remember. Funnily enough, that's the only thing I can remember about him save his name.

I do also remember that you were meant to bring along a bowl and a spoon on pie day.
WTF
We had one teacher who would dogmatically enquire whether you'd brought it all along before asking you to raise your hand, thus briefly (and cruelly) implying that if you did not, that you might be facing disqualification.
Ghastly stuff for nine year olds to deal with.

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.
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.

Bring a bowl indeed.

Now, you may not know this, but there is in fact, more than one way to eat a pie. TWSS
And usually, I would quietly imply that the inclination stemmed from genetics or familial example.
But I can't, it stems directly from peer influence alone, and I have photographic evidence to back me up.

Yoga Boy, my senior by two years, seemed to have learnt all about pie eating on those Mondays at Burnside Primary.
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.

Still.

Last game I took the camera so that I could capture the technique for you.

1) Peel off lid
2) Eat lid
3) Mix tomato sauce into now luke warm filling with bare, unwashed fingers
4) Scoop out filling with first two fingers, straight into mouth, disregarding all hygiene regulations and any sort of manners
5) Repeat
6) Make a big show of "cleaning" fingers with tongue despite the fact that it is in far worse shape
7) Scrunch up empty base into a cylindrical shape and eat
8) Wipe excess spittle and gristle from fingers onto trousers - right thigh area seems to be the best for this
9) Smell fingers whilst pretending to scratch nose - pfnaar pfnaar

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.

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!!!

The fabric of time.

Next on the list is Yoga Boy.
A person who has long displayed little to no interest in my quilts at all.
Damned if I'm gonna let that stop me.
That just makes me want to make it bigger. BIGGER! That's what she said.

I'm making him a quilt of his beloved pond as it appears when you look down on it.

I have decided to enlist Hell Boy's drawing skills to help me capture the look and personality of each and every one of the little scaley dears.

So, yesterday I summoned the courage, ventured forth into the fabric wilderness and purchased 4 m of really cool variegated blue fabric.

Despite my abhorrence of the quilting mafia, I have somehow developed a relationship with the lady at the local discount place.
This began, quite strangely, due to the horror quilt I made for Yasmin a couple of years ago. Of all the stuff I've made, she liked that one. OK...
You never can tell, can you?
I like people like that.

Since then she has always taken the time out to ask after my projects.
She adores my Aboriginal quilt.

I did my best to explain Dad's Schimpf Quilt to her right before I explained what all this blue fabric was for....she grabbed my forearm and laughingly said,

"It's OK, you're family's normal..."

I replied the only way I knew how, with,

"I certainly hope not."

What's so good about normal?
I've never seen the appeal.

Nope. To Hell with that.

While I was there, I grabbed some wadding so that I no longer have an excuse not to complete Poppy's quilt.
Damn me! What was I thinking?!
Due to all the embellishment, I'll have to quilt the bloody thing by hand. Or at least some of it anyway.

Then, I looked around for fabric that was aesthetically close to some of the more difficult fish to cast such as Bandette, Pfuitsch and Dr. Leo Marvin.

Bandette was really worrying me.
She's yellow with black and looks like she's wearing a zoro mask or really bad nerd glasses.
Yoga Boy told me once that she looks like someone dropped a banana peel into the pond.

I cannot argue with that.

Additionally, she is currently loaded with eggs and has a grossly misshapen undercarriage.
I mean, she's completely irregular in shape.
Poor darling looks like a banana peel with a wicked case of cellulite.

By hook or by crook, I will capture her likeness though.
The Universe demands it of me, and I know this because I found a piece of fabric that looks just like her.
I could scarcely believe my eyes!
Stoked.

Next step is for Jeff and I to sit down together and draw up a plan of this virtual pond so that I can figure out roughly what shape/direction the kids will all be heading in.

Then we can draw them precisely and after that all that must be done will be to reverse the images, draw them piece by piece onto Vliesofix, cut them out, iron them onto accurate fish coloured fabric, trim that and iron it onto individual rectangles of blue fabric, sew those all together in the right order, figure out how to make fabric lily pads, pin it, quilt it (or fob it off onto Joanne to do) and bind it.

But can we pull it off by March before he goes to India again? That's what she said.

No worries mate!

And hide it all while it's in progress?

Sure, why not?

And then I need to get on with Mr. Daniels' quilt for his first birthday.

I have decided not to go with a dog theme after all, as I know both his parents dislike dogs a great deal.

I think I'll do a big fuck off religious scene instead.

Perhaps I'll even give Hillsong a call and see if they have any nice Jesus fabric. I'm sure they would.
I'm also sure it'll be all razzle dazzle and blonde.

Just the thing, the very thing.
I can see Daniel now, growing up, playing hide and seek under graven images courtesy of Auntie Simone, the red and green heretic.

For those I am about to deceive, Lord make me cynical?

OK, best get on with it, the fabric of time waits for no one.

Shitmas Experiment.

I'm going to conduct an experiment.

Aim:

To assess the accuracy of my paranoia and suspicion.

Method:

By voicing my concerns and fears on my blog, dated 2 full weeks before Shitmas, I will be able to determine the accuracy of my suspicions based on comparison after the event.

That is, I suspect my brother is up to not only no good, but full blown evil and being someone who prides herself on being switched on, suspicious even, I am prepared to stick my neck out and be judged on my cynical prowess.

Yoga Boy of course, got me in the Shitmas draw - (That's what she said.... LOLOLOL)
He has told me he will be making my gift.

Just the other night, he spent a good deal more time than usual online and I could hear stifled giggles and worse.
When asked, "What's so funny?", there was no response.

hmmmmm

Not too long later, I heard Hell Boy go into the study, the scene of the crime while I was showering, and then I heard this alarming comment from him,

"Nahhh, I wouldn't do that."

Now, there's not much Hell Boy wouldn't do if he thought it was funny, so I'm taking this very seriously indeed.

Then I heard the printer.

And no more since.

So, sitting up in bed, I had a little think about it.

And this is what I came up with.

If I was in Yoga Boy's position, and had to make me something truly God awful for Shitmas, these are the options I would consider:

• Photo Shopping a pic of me into a Rorter's jersey
  
• joining me as a Rorter's member

Well, that's about it.
I cannot think of too many other things that would shit me to tears.
Perhaps a Southern Cross decal on the car.

My money's on the first option, and it's a good thing because if I'm right, I'll need these two weeks at least, to mentally adjust sufficiently to be able to accept such an abomination with good grace.

Conclusion:

TBA December 24th, 2008 EST.

Monkey on my back -Take 2

I posted this blog a couple of weeks ago, but have since discovered footage of the very monkey in question, so am re-posting it with the clip.

Isn't he beautiful?

Special thanks to Woody Guthrie for writing the perfect song for my monkey some 50 years ago.

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I'm currently taking Ginkgo. And lots of it.

A common use for Ginkgo is as a memory tonic - I'm taking it for other reasons, so the memory thing is more like a side effect for me.

Oh the things that I'm remembering and the connections I am making!

Jesus wept, it's too much.

But one thing I remembered today while busily preparing a nasty tasting herb mix for someone was a moment of time from last December while we were in dear old Wien.

HellBoy had been outrageously sick - to the point where we had to phone a doctor on Xmas day to do a home visit to our hotel.
The doctor was somewhat of an alarmist and suggested that he needed a spinal tap to rule out viral meningitis.
In return, Jeff suggested that he should GGF.

We were refunded for all those un-Godly expenses just this week, which is probably what has put this period of time into my head.

So, after cancelling the Polish leg of the tour due to whatever it was that wasn't viral meningitis, we holed up in Vienna for 4 extra days - hardly any punishment, I can assure you.

On the third day, he rose again, and we took him only as far as the Museum of Torture, and then, because it was down hill from there, into a 5 story Austrian Aquarium of sorts.

One section of this place is a tropical enclosure (indoors) - anything tropical is a big deal over there.
There was a wooden walkway surrounded by tropical trees and bushes, strange birds flying free, turtles, fish, frogs, lizards and so forth.

But also there were monkeys.
Lots of little fuzzy monkeys.

Having been away from home for 2 weeks by this stage, I was seriously cat deprived and in need of some lovin'.
I was shamelessly gazing at these little critters and imagining how similar they might feel to a kitty cat.
How heavy, how warm, how cuddly.
I think my eyes welled up with tears and rolled back in my head a little bit.
But that's OK, the monkey who was looking back intently at me was down with that.

HellBoy was still in the octopus section down the hall and YogaBoy and I were leaning over the wooden railing, watching 2 monkeys groom each other.
Yoga Boy was comparing them to Indian monkeys that lived outside his ashram in Rishikesh.

As he did so, I felt a little kerrrrplop on my back.

I knew instantly what it was -it felt just like my cat Cec used to feel when she would jump onto my shoulders uninvited.

But Cec never picked through my hair looking for fleas...while I was awake anyway.
God knows what goes on when I'm asleep. TWSS
I rarely have fleas - maybe that's why.

As it was winter in Vienna, and owing to the fact that they exasperatingly had no coat room facilities, I was wearing my bulky, hooded, fur lined jacket- thus shielding my delightful parasitic friend from my brother.

I straightened up a little, looked YogaBoy appealingly in the eyes and said,

"Adrian, if I asked you to, would you help me get a monkey off my back?"

He looked at me intently, a flicker of concern passing across his otherwise happy brow.

"Yes, of course."

His response didn't surprise me at all.
Adrian's good like that. Whatever he has, even if it's only honesty, he'll give it to you.

So, I turned 45 degrees to my right, thus revealing my adorable yet preoccupied passenger who was still assisting me by picking through my hair lovingly.

He stayed still for the exclamations, but disembarked once the laughter began in earnest.

Even though I'd so completely enjoyed the encounter and the warm tactile moment we'd shared, my arms ached to hold him and cuddle him like I do Alice or Poppy when I change the linen each week.

I think back to that and genuinely believe that he felt my longing for a cat-like cuddle and extended to me what he thought was a viable option.

A split second after he'd left, HellBoy arrived, and quickly became devastated to discover that he'd missed the whole thing.
And that's a pity, because Jeff's a big fan of the monkey in general.

Never mind.

Anyway, hooray for Viennese monkeys and hooray for Ginkgo.

Oh dear.

The tone of our trip took quite a turn once YogaBoy arrived for Xmas.

Completely shameless, he is fully capable of impersonating The Masturbating Bear from the Conan O'Brien Show in the streets of Vienna.
And he does it well too.

Compare these.

http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=4FU2l-XU5cg&feature=related

My fucking ripper of a funeral.

Jeff's suggested title for this blog was THIS IS NOT A DRILL. LOL @Jeff.

Just to let you know, my funeral will be very long.
So wear comfortable shoes.
Or no shoes at all, what do I care?

Don't panic, I'll not be taking up your time with religious nonsense, but with music, tea, laughs and a couple of live acts.

I have some very specific wishes, so I'd like to outline this all here and now, entrusting these plans to Clair and perhaps Yoga Boy.

Should both of them predecease me, instructions may be handed over to Taryn (who will hate them all, but carry them exactly), and maybe chkn and Monica.

I would like some Buddhist monks there to chant and do whatever it is that they do. It's not my belief as such, I just like the robes.

Because I don't actually know anyone who shares my spiritual beliefs, let alone anyone who makes a living from them, I think it's just simpler to ask people to write a few lines of what they thought of me (like a report card) and have someone read them out. That way no-one feels pressured to speak.

No priests. Don't trust 'em.
In fact, if one even happens to be walking by, I'd like the Benny Hill music to start up and everyone to pile out and chase the bastard down.
Yes. I'd like that.

No Jesus, no Christian prayers, no hymns.
At no point do I want the word amen uttered.
Should anyone feel the need to do so, they may replace it with glory glory instead.

Plainest coffin possible, red and green flower arrangement.
No carnations, babies breath or gladiolas - puke.
Souths flag on the coffin please.
No photos.

And please, no White Lady funerals. Those women look so stupid in those hats that the sound of my corpse spinning nearby may detract from the overall ambiance and tone of the proceedings. Probably not though. ;O)

You're welcome to wear black (I do so love black), but the request for people to also wear something red or green must be taken seriously. Souths jerseys considered appropriate.

Any Roosters supporters in attendance must stand together in one corner, facing the wall in a state of contrition.
They know why.

Tea and coffee is to be available all throughout the service. Good stuff too. Can you hire a couple of carts? Not Gloria Jeans, they support Hillsong.

OK, so to the entertainment... I cannot think of a time or place where you need entertaining more than at a funeral, so honestly, I don't know why it is so commonly overlooked.
Well, not on my watch.

• at the beginning - 2 bellydancers - 1 dressed in red, 1 dressed in green, but NO audience participation to be requested...it's a funeral FFS ;O). No, that just really annoys me...seriously, do your own job - I never ask people to join in while I'm doing mine.
  
• at the end - if Jo's still kicking, I'd like her to sing Glory Glory, as she has an excellent voice and no-one means it more than her. A song sheet (designed by Clair, with loads of stickers) will have been distributed so that everyone may join in. If Jo's feeling frisky, a round of "Still hate the Roosters" is definitely in order.
  
• finally, a group of bagpipes is to join in and the event is to conclude with them walking out playing Glory Glory.
• at this point, anyone with the balls to start the South Sydney chant, is be remembered in my Will (well, not really, but it sounded very Agatha Christie to say so, didn't it?)
• bonus points to anyone prepared to start the "bullshit!" chant randomly during the service. My money's on my brother-in-law, Greg, as he's successfully started it at every Souths game we've ever been to together during the last 20 years. He started it at the Cannes Film Festival too, when his Z-grade horror film was playing there, but he changed "bullshit!" to the film's title, which was, "Bloodspit!"
  

The music for the service and the wake is with Clair and Adrian, although I do need to update the listing.
Punctuate proceedings with tunes as you please.

I have yet to decide the venue for either the service or the wake, but neither will be anywhere churchy or deathy.
I'll let you know, otherwise, Clair would best decide on the service (outside is OK by me so long as the sound is good), Taryn would be the right person to decide about the wake.

Well, there you have it.
I've related most of these requests to people bit by bit over the last few years, but I thought it was best to cough it all up at once, firstly so that you can sort it out, and secondly, so that you may look forward to it. LOL

No burial. Yuk, I have no wish to be landfill.

I'd like my ashes to be, well actually, I don't really care where most of them go, but I would like some of them to be scattered around under that tree in the Domain where we sit for Opera in the Park each year. That way, I will be there nice and early for each performance and I can mind the spot. Shit, I just realised, that means I will also have to sit through Carols by Candlelight- eeewwww.

Just stuff the rest somewhere sunny.

I feel rather good now that that's sorted out.

So, my friends, when I stop seeing you tomorrow, I'll see you on the other side.


Up the Rabbitohs!

luv sim xo

PS I'm serious.

Sugar never tasted so good.

Please note that this is a follow up to an earlier post entitled IT'S A CRUST.

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We had plenty of left overs on Wednesday night. I'd made Chicken Cacciatore in the crock pot.
God bless the crock pot. My hero.

Left overs are not uncommon in our house. Not at all.

I believe that both sides of my family have donated to me what I like to think of as "the catering gene".
Both sides, mind you.
There are only 3 of us here, but there's always plenty for 6 should the need arise.

Perhaps this familial inclination to over cater has come about owing to larger families, or maybe on Dad's side because they ran a butcher's shop and restaurant in Slovenia at some stage.

But somewhere, sometime, a portion of a DNA strand mutated within one of my female ancestors whilst she was innocently crumbing only 10 kgs of schnitzel for 3 people and bingo, Simone was condemned to a fridge full of Tupperware for all eternity.

But who knows?
Apparently not Charles Darwin.
I stood on his grave at Westminster Abbey recently and I'm none the wiser for it.

Leaving DNA out of the equation, perhaps we're just a generous, extravagant people who can't measure properly.

So, as the boys were clearing up after dinner, I was filling lunch boxes for the next day.
I asked Yoga Boy if he would like one.

"No," was his flat response.

After a few seconds (I had my back to him), I had to reply with, "What do you eat for lunch?"
I wasn't having a go, I just had never taken the time to imagine what he would choose for lunch and considering the rest of his diet, I was a little scared.

To my utter amazement, his reply was, "A salad sandwich."

A salad fucking sandwich!?

"BULLSHIT!", I shrieked at the top of my voice, quite reasonably.

Now, Yoga Boy hasn't ever read my blog, so he had no idea why I would be so interested or shocked by his lunch order.
In fact, he must have been thrilled to finally be able answer me without mentioning Tim Tams when I asked him about his diet.

Jeff on the other hand, knew precisely why I was all atwitter and had a good chuckle at both of us, as he often does.

Imagine discovering that these things actually exist!
And worse still, that the yoga doing, chocolate eating demon from downstairs is the one ordering them.
It's just too much for me.

I told Adrian that next time he ordered this nutritional holy grail that he had to phone me so that I could be absolutely certain that this event was taking place and that there truly is such irony and evil in the world.

And there is.
And it's readily available from The Industrial Takeaway from 5am, 6 days.

In the end, we went one better than the phone call. ;O)

Sugar never tasted so good.