Mail call.

The other day I received a box full of goodies from Cleveland- the source of all things cool and interesting.

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.

It's contents were as follows:

• 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.
• cupcake thongs/flip flops - exactly my size too
• wine cooler with a Rabbitoh on it!
  
• Oscar Wilde card *sigh*
• groovy gift box

This is the kind of mail I like to get. Out of the blue, fun and thoughtful.
So thanks Gretchen. xoxx

Naturally I have returned serve and we shall have to wait until next week to see how that goes. ;O)

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!!!

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh those Russians.

For one reason or another, I just had to fossick through our holiday footage.

Mid fossick, I happened upon a clip Jeff had titled "Ruski with 20 kilo camera."

A title like that is always going to interest me more than something like "Historical monument", "Beautiful scenery" or "800 year old painting."

I know I shouldn't be proud of that but I don't know what to do about it.

Please enjoy and bear in mind that our video camera fits in the palm of my hand.

Ohhhhhhhh, those Russians...

Cool hat though.

For anyone who's interested, it's Vienna - prolly out the front of the Kunt Historisch Museum.
But that's a blog for another day, innit.

PS Such a pity Jeff stopped filming when he did because two frames later, James Bond parasailed down and took this guy out.

Correction.

A few months ago when I posted my blog detailing proceedings for my funeral, I told you that I didn't know anyone who shares my spiritual beliefs AND makes money from doing so.

This statement has since become absolute bollocks.

Her name is Eve Adam (yes for real) and her qualifications are as follows:

• she has a bizarre blend of interesting yet reasonable beliefs (except that one about DNA/Palladians and the Middle East)
• she is my friend
• she is a Pisces
• she really doesn't like the name George
• she can belly dance
  
• she is a militant vegan yet is a strong advocate of human organ transplantation
  
• she is now qualified as a civil celebrant
• she has already agreed to do it providing she still has breath in her own lungs

So let it be written, so let it be done.

I'm going.

And I feel sick to my stomach.

My hands are shaking, I've hardly eaten all day and am now off to make a 2L thermos of chamomile tea to calm me down while I'm there. Or at least to throw at Anasta, the dirty Greek prick.

I have a score of beautiful people in similar mindset to meet there, won't be able to eat any of that shit food, am terrified for the boys and want to protect all my red and green friends.

Tell me again how healthy sports are.

But you know what?

I still hate the Roosters.

I really really really do.

Pity I don't drink alcohol.

Yellow circley pricks.

Did another 20 something of those evil little yellow circley bastards.

Did not enjoy my own company during this ordeal.

Am trying to get the pricks finished before I take myself off to Clair's to sew with her, Daniel, Dawn and Charm the Craft Diva next week.

No way I'll be able to hold all my cussing in if I have to work on circles at Clair's.

Bad enough I had to gag myself in the Souths corporate box in front of Dad at the weekend.
Don't get me wrong, I wasn't holding it back for Dad's sake, I'm just saddened he never got to see me at my best.
Nevertheless, I let out plenty of the following:-

Ahh, ya fah!!

That's not a fahh ahh ya dirty fahh!!!

Fahh ya fahh shi awwwgit cocksahhhh, pri.!!!

Cock shhh mahhfahh monkey fahh Jesus wept yaaa dopey son of a farrrrrrkk!

South Sydney - Part Two.

At some point, my excitement for South Sydney stopped being just a moral crusade and became part of my lifestyle.

(NB When I typed the above, it had a typo, so it read Oral crusader - a very fine title for a porno!)

I have always enjoyed surprising people with the maleness of some of my attitudes and interests, and when I fell in love with Souths, I felt as though I'd hit the jackpot.

Conspiracy theories, instant red and green family and sense of community, an enemy or ten, family outings, being able to shame large men with my superior knowledge of next week's team, innumerable opportunities to insert Up the Rabbitohs! into conversations and birthday cards inappropriately, the feeling of contributing to the restoration of something marvellous...

But if I'm 100% truthful, most of what I love about Souths is the fans.
The Cleveland Browns too, but I'll get to them later.

With everything the South Sydney club and it's fans have been through, and I won't go back over it, it's too awful, the people who have stuck with them have just got to be the most amazing folks in the world.
To me anyway.

That personality type is my absolute favourite.
And I'm talking about the ones who are more inclined to turn up when they're dead certain the team is going to get hammered.

The supporters, not the band wagon.

You know that expression - show me your friends and I'll tell you who you are?
When I look at my football friends, I swell with pride and I know that I'm doing something really right.
Actually, when I look at my friends in general, I feel as though I've found that bonus level in Super Mario World and I'm spinning around ecstatically making weird noises.

It wasn't long in my supporting history before I was pressuring Hell Boy to go to every home game, despite that ghastly hour getting out of the "car park", the incredibly long trip home with that empty, gutted feeling and the whole week following, having no possible way to excuse such a display, before starting the mental preparation necessary to back up the next week.

It wasn't long after that that I met a Souths legend through work. A man who had played in a three winning Souths Sydney grand finals!
The first player ever to win two Rothman's (now Dally M) medals!

This guy is not only a Souths legend, but he is a monstrous smart arse as well. Sag too from memory. Cat lover. Recently rifled through his shed trying to find me a pair of his grand final socks so I could frame them... I was planning on giving one to Jo...kinda like a demented friendship locket.

One day he dropped into work to get something for his dog's sex drive... and I bailed the poor guy up and talked Souths at him with such violence, that he actually had tears in his eyes from boredom.

At this very moment, I realised that I needed to find other Souths people to talk at, and not just pest the people around me.

And so I had a look at the Souths forum that both Hell Boy and Yoga Boy had been using.

I had never used a forum and I found it incredibly confusing for a time.
But I soon discovered that I could pick a pleasant personality out of the mix with very impressive accuracy.

Upon organising myself a Burrow jersey, I met Jo /Jobear. I had liked her from the very first time I heard her voice.
She is now technically my sista and has agreed to sing Glory Glory at my funeral.

We became friends so quickly and with such ease that my brother cautioned me...sleazy internet relationships and all that.

Well really, that depends on where you meet, doesn't it?
I suspect you're likely to experience shorter odds if you meet someone on a site where you're deliberately looking to sell yourself in order to find a relationship.
Everyone has a few hilarious RSVP stories they can tell at their friend's expense, but I've now heard a few good ones too.

Anyway, suffice it to say that Jo and I will never run off together.
Unless it's to a Tupperware party, a Souths fan day or some sort of baking expo.

Jo organised for our season tickets (I finally insisted we get them) to be with hers. Best seats in the house...right behind the bench.

When Game One rolled around and I was shyly passing around home made muffins from my Tupperware container with the green lid, Yoga Boy looked up, saw Jo passing around her home made rabbit shaped cookies from her matching red lidded Tupperware container, shook his head and said something to the effect of,

"Oh, I see."

Many, many times since then, I have dragged myself and my beloved boys to the game just to support Jo and the host of other beautiful friends we have made through this club.

Last Sunday was just such a day.
The team we were playing (smelly old Manly) had declared that they were just going to be using the game to improve their for and against.
We believed them.
We showed up anyway.

I like being one of those people and I adore having friends who are just the same.

We were rewarded by seeing Souths pulling the bastard's pants down and spanking them in front of all of their little friends, possibly costing them the minor premiership.

No muffins though. I'm off sugar.

On the very same forum that I met Jo, I stumbled into the social section one day, only to discover someone purporting to know more about tragic 80's music than I did.

The effrontery!

Three years on, we're still locked in a stalemate. Or at least I allow him to think so.

We even did a recent "resource swap", which in truth was just a nerdy showing off competition.
I won.

A few months ago, as I opened the cupboard that is home to our Souths gear (and the vacuum cleaner), one of my signed jerseys popped out.
And the first few names on it chilled my blood.

Adam MacDougall - let go by the club for being a dick head, went on to make fun of us and Rusty
Shannon Hegarty - aged me 1o years last season alone
Paul Mellor - played for us as a junior, left to play all his good footy elsewhere, returned to play in his dotage with us.

No no no no no NO!

Not good enough.

When I sacrifice a jersey, I want to be able to look at the signatures in years to come with absolute confidence that the people who signed it are going to make me feel proud.

So I changed my tack.
Screw the players, I'm only asking fans to sign it.
They're the real heroes.

The first signature I collected was Bob Log III from Tuscon Arizona... a one man band who gets women to stir his scotch with their boobies. OK, he'd never heard of Souths, but I think he's great. Even drew an arse hole on the bunny for us.

Next up was Hell Boy, a disgruntled Yoga Boy and then Jo.
I passed it around Bay 131 and all my bruddas signed it too. Plus a couple of forum people I like as well.
It's looking pretty good now, but there are at least a dozen more peeps who need to be on there, so it now lives in my bag every game day with a laundry marker - like I'm some 12 year old kid.
It's coming to Cleveland too.

Probably that will be what I'm wearing when they finally torch me.

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...)

Sewing updates.

I have been behaving.
Unless you count that little visit to Spotlight's sale last week. But I'll tell you about that later.

But, in terms of focus and completion, I'm doing very well.

The top pic is of my hexagons. I have all but finished the blocks and now have only (hahaha, did you get that?), only to sew a billion mud coloured hexagons, stitch them all painstakingly to the rest and then attach all the finished blocks.
Simple really.
But then, I've discovered that hexagon quilts don't finish with a straight edge, and therefore I must find a way to deal with this...
This is what comes from just jumping in and learning as you go.

But the biggest problem I have is that I must decide whether or not to log on and purchase more indigenous fabric and make the quilt huge. Then I won't have to worry about finishing it off until a lot later.

My extravagant creative instinct says go.
My even more extravagant creative instinct says, well, if you do that, then you won't be able to start on the multi coloured one, or the vegetable one one have planned...
Dilemma.

Oh well, so in the mean time, I'm doing Dad's jigsaw quilt and I avoided facing hexagon reality yesterday by pulling out all the friendship blocks I have received so far and sewing them together instead.

Since October 2006, I have been in a block swap with 3 other girlies and just a few months later, it became 4 other girlies.
The basic idea is that each month you make a block for someone and post it to them, and of course, each month, you receive one yourself.
There is a roster so that you know who you're sewing for, and have a basic idea of their fabric tastes etc.

I don't believe that I have consulted this list even once.
No, that's not entirely true.
I did notice that Clair doesn't like brown just before I chose to sew her a block with chicken drumsticks and eggs, which is all brown.
Pfffffft to Clair, I say.

Well, the first pic is a block I received from Vicki...apparently she thinks I like Souths...no idea what could have put that in her mind.

The WANKE hand cream block is from Clair (in advance) and refers to my first ever blog where I confessed to have 9 types of hand cream in my bedside drawer. Still do.
Make of that what you will.

The next pic is the whole lot so far.
Not one stitch done by me - except that border of Vicki's I had to fix up, and the seams of course.

It's amazing to see so many different ideas and styles side by side, and even more incredible that they look good together.

Down the bottom left there is a section that my Aunty Kitty contributed to.
I can pick her work a mile away. Technically perfect - strangely elegant yet naive cottagey stuff. She loved the idea of the swap and sent me a few for Xmas last year.

The centre piece is what started it all. Pretty good likeness of me too.
Originally, I had the idea to do a banner with all of us on it, that we could hang out the front of Bron's place, warning passers by that our group was in session.
But legally I think that puts us in a difficult position, like warning people of a vicious dog...

The last pic, is one that I received recently, from Vicki I believe (hooray for leopard skin), and it has all of our names on it.

I have no idea at all what I will ever use this thing for. Too big for a wall hanging, too encrusted with beads and buttons for a table cloth, too out there not to be displayed.

Maybe I'll use it on my sewing table.

How sweet the sound.

NOVA be damned!
I'm upgrading to the Inner Self publication.

Seems to me that the editors of this gem had a wee peek at Nova and more or less republished with a little more glitter and a lot less substance.

I could only bring myself to flick through this thing, so I'm just going to present you with a garbled mash of the nonsense that struck me.

Firstly, to Umesh...

Mate, either get rid of that fearsome mullet or stop claiming to be "blessed with visions, psychic experiences, esoteric metaphysical knowledge and guidance from both physical and non-physical Heavenly Masters."
No-one's buying that shit. Not even blissed out hippies or new age f(l)akes. They're just not.
Honestly, would you wear socks and sandals to a job interview?
OK, so that was a poor choice of question.
Why can't I believe that you have glimpsed the divine but you've never spotted the wretched mullet in the mirror.

Everyone knows that the correct hair-do for someone with divine access is grey, balding, slicked back and pony tail. More commonly known as "the wanker" or the "how was your trip to Thailand?"

How was your trip to Thailand, by the way?

Anyhow, I'm following his advice, radiating my inner calm and transforming into a being of power by awakening my personal power source while experiencing a quantum shift in awareness.

Is it OK to do that in public?

Oh, here's something.
Same page even, how convenient.

An advertisement for a vintage New Age shop.
I'm sorry, a what?

Their store motto?

"We know what we're talking about."

Next up, the Sassy Vibes vibrator range.
To re-awaken your sexual self. No chemical smells.

They all seem to be a in all the typically spiritually acceptable colours such as purple and aqua blue.
The Snugglepuss looks kinda like an old school telephone handset while the Rabbit Habit, well let's just say it doesn't look particularly ladylike.

I wonder why, with all the imagination these people so obviously have, not one of them has invented a dildo that looks like a dolphin. You'd sell a million. Bit of glitter, couple of feathers... easy.
Upon my just relaying this information to dear old Yoga Boy in the lounge room, he suggested that it be known as The Porpussy.

What else?

Aah, yes indeed.
An article entitled The Healing Power of Sex, which offers us the following information...

It seems that the author has, "...come to understand that to feel sexually aroused is a common reaction to the death of a loved one."

Bags not consoling her at a funeral.

Also, girls, she suggests setting time aside to have an orgasm whenever you have period pain.

Comments anyone?
I mean from anyone with a uterus, of course.

Now, I've never really been plagued with period pain, but the few times I was, I just don't remember wanting a good shellacking.
I do remember wanting tea, chocolate, cats, slippers and a book.

Is there something wrong with me?

Furthermore, I have lost many beloved friends and family and experienced plenty of grief during my 39 years.
At not one of these funerals or wakes did it ever cross my mind to get it on to the overtly sexual tones of Amazing Grace.
I wonder if that's why they always refer to it as the stirring sounds of Amazing Grace?
Christians, huh. You can't take them anywhere.

You'll be glad to know that I've chosen Glory Glory to South Sydney as my funeral anthem.
You may all do as you please when that comes on, I don't mind.
Actually, I insist.
Clair, you're in charge, OK?

You're now doomed to think of this next time you hear that song. That's my gift to you.

And just in case any of you feel like getting in the mood right now, I'll leave you with this.

How sweet the sound. ;O)


Amazing Grace

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.

Please pimp my plain pov bag.

Sometimes at work we receive weird promotional items.
It is not only my pleasure, but also part of my belief system to "fix" these items.

Last Friday I was one of the lucky few who suddenly owned one of the most boring and easily the plainest bag I have ever laid eyes on.

And I'm talking the kind of plain that is passive aggressive. Extra, extra, extra plain. Like stale Milk Arrowroot biscuit plain.
This bag may have been occupying space, but space was in no way happy about it.

The only evidence of a design idea to be seen on this thing was a little bit of plain gold writing on the plain white lining inside the plain white bag.

But I fixed it and I fixed it good.
And space itself must now be forever grateful to me.

I arrived home at 6 o'clock as usual, broke with domestic tradition by landing on the lounge by 6:05 and then I set about relieving this bag of it's mediocrity. Poor thing.

I'm quite happy with the result. I not only pimped it, I whored it.

Yoga Boy sauntered by and informed me that it looked, "really pov" in a tone that confused me as it suggested that pov wasn't a desired outcome.
Can anyone help me with this?

Well, perhaps he meant that the good people at Imedeen didn't intend for it to look silly and crass. And maybe they're not South Sydney fans.

Pffffffffffffft to them.
When they stop selling 60 tablets of fish powder for $150, I'll stop pimping their merchandise.

Or not. ;O)

The None's Story.

As a child, there were a few things that could frighten the pants off me.

Moths, crickets, the sight of my brother with a lizard or a bug in his hands...
Not much has changed.

Except for one fear.
I look back at this one and hope against hope that it will come to pass so that I will have an opportunity to speak my truth.
And perhaps some obscenities also.

Now, I've only ever divulged this carefully guarded information to one person before today.
And how he has managed to listen to almost every scrap of my nonsense all these years without flinching is beyond me. But he has, Jeebus love him. He's a brave soul.

I'm not too sure how this started, but I suspect that watching The Sound of Music, The Flying Nun, The Trouble with Angels and/or The Nun's story with Audrey Hepburn may have all contributed to the problem.
Call it a hunch.
Where were the censors on all on that?

By the time I was 8 years old, I lived with the constant apprehension that despite my early inclination towards atheism, or maybe due to it, that I would be caught alone and off guard, hear the voice of God calling me and then have to become a nun.

Noooo! No no no no no no no. NO!

I cannot tell you what misery and terror this fear caused me.
And rightly so.
I would have made a far better moth and lizard catcher than a nun. *shudder*

Nevertheless, I waited for God himself to give me the worst possible vocational guidance in living history.

Anyway, should this God person still wish to communicate with me, I would now be very glad to organise a sit down.
Indeed, I have several bones to pick with him. He'll need to clear his schedule through October at least.
And I don't mean 2008 either.
He's so going to get it.
Reality television? Rupert Murdoch?
Seriously.

But what am I saying?
He knows better than to turn up to something like that.
He's the world's worst no-show.

Besides, the sort of person who thought it was OK to create moths, crickets and Brendan Nelson, plus allowing clubs like the Roosters to exist and prosper, would probably not be interested in asking someone like me to join him anymore.

If he had anything to say to me at all, I now suspect it would be closer to this, "Siiiim! Look what I've done to South Sydney.... hahahaha, sucko and get that up ya!"

And so now you see why, all those years ago, an 8 year old girl took such pains to dodge that bullet.
Smart.

Still, should you not wish to stand near me during an electrical storm I'll understand. ;O)