Kris Kringle KK

This year at work, they did Kris Kringle with a twist. I have been known to sabotage KK before, hiding random smart arse presents under the tree. Like a bottle of vinegar for one of the female bosses. But this post isn't about that story.

16 people joined in KK this year and we were instructed to put a unisex present under the tree, I put so much thought into mine, grabbed a dusty bottle of red wine from our wine rack, which only has 2 of the 24 holes filled, and a manky old wine bottle gift bag. Each of the 16 people drew a number and then that was the order they could select a present, but the twist was, you could take someone's present when it was your turn. When it was my turn, I was the first to 'take' someone's present, I took the interesting looking gift bag my boss tried to hide behind him. My workmates (I shouldn't call them mates, because they don't really like me, I annoy them too much) all groaned and rolled their eyes saying 'trust you to be the first to steal a present'. Maybe I should call them my work frienemies.

My bottle of wine was popular, and was stolen, reclaimed and stolen repeatedly, I should have been evil and put in non alcoholic wine (another reason for them to hate me!) After what seemed like five hours, (morning tea was waiting) all the presents were distributed and opened. Of course, I didn't like the one that I had stolen from my boss, it was a set of magnetic fridge magnet frames, so I swapped it with Old Vinegar for a book. One of those fluffy, feel good books. It's called Everyday Happy 365 ways to a better you. by Jenny Hare. The frienemies all pissed themselves laughing, they know I don't do happy and that I am a miserable bitch.

I am going to attempt to do one activity a day and then blog about it during 2013. I told the frienemies of my plan, said maybe it could go viral and we could end up famous, with our own reality TV show, about spoons in the sink. They think that is a good plan if it means we become rich and don't have to work.

Guilt post

I haven't posted for awhile and it is making me feel a bit guilty. Although guilt was never an emotion I experienced in the past, if I had anything that should make me feel guilty, the over riding emotion was usually fear, fear that I would get caught, at whatever was making me feel guilty. Now that thought has just caused a continuous loop in my head.  Like when the bank was up for sale in Bonwick Street in Fawkner. I would sit in the pizza shop opposite and imagine borrowing the money from the bank, to buy the bank, to lease the bank back to the bank and then use the rent money from the bank, to pay the bank loan. So maybe they could just give me the building and I would let them use it for free and the problem would have been solved.

We have a new puppy, his name is Kombi, because I have always wanted a Kombi van, and I wanted a puppy too.

 

When I announced his arrival on Facebook, some of my friends were most unkind saying stuff like - 'What is it, a baboon?' or 'Another ugly mutt'. or 'Prince of evil..... the eyes, my god the eyes.....'

Shaggy doesn't like Kombi much, this is as good as it gets, Shaggy will allow him to sleep nearby, but Kombi isn't allowed to touch him, look at him, or touch Shaggy's toys, food, bed, mat etc.

 

 Kombi also loves to eat homework. It's true! The dog ate my homework.

And he enjoyed his first camping weekend at Beltane at Mount Franklin

2012 LaFemme Re-union Rehearsal

Disclaimer: I am a defiant, rabid LaFemme fan, wannabe band mole and this is biased (but honest)

I need to write about Thursday's rehearsal, and it is not often I am stuck for words, but I am. Now I do know not everything is about me, even though I manage to make it so, but it was an emotional experience. Not teary, fluffy emotions, but a reminder. A strong memory. I tried to conjure up the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, Tabu perfume, sour beer and it was like coming home. I had butterflies, I was a tiny bit star struck, I felt like my eardrum ruptured, but I didn't care. I closed my eyes and it was like I only heard them play last week. I remembered giggling with the girls over which band member we liked, and how Caryn used to stand in front of the stage and shout, ‘play Brett’s song’ in her special drunk gravelly voice, as she sneered at any other female that tried to get into ground zero. And how we spent hours planning our outfits and working out how much we had to spend on Orlando’s Sparkling Star Wine.

There was a lot of secret, musician talk that I didn't understand, like the bridge, and the power chord, and then Brett challenging/questioning Chane if he really knew what a crescendo was, but the music was loud, hard and raw, just how it should be. Played by strong men that have survived living the sex, drugs and rock’n’roll lifestyle for decades, and have the inner and outer scars to prove it.

The banter between the guys was the sort that only best friends can get away with, even if you haven't seen each other for thirty years and I remarked that the room wasn't big enough for both Brett and Chane, and I am sure Pete and Graham secretly agreed with me.

After two orgasmic hours, I knew the rehearsal was over - even though one particular song hadn’t yet been played, (don’t want to spoil the set list surprise) when Pete grabbed his drumsticks and said ‘Fuck it, I have had enough’.

While the guys packed up, I sat with Pete, and I could see the pain he was experiencing, as he hasn’t played the drums for 28 years. His muscles were cramping and his limbs stiffening. I thanked him (and then the other guys) for putting the band back together for the coming Banana’s gig. I explained, as best I could, how much it meant to me. When LaFemme were at their peak, we were emerging adults and we planned our social life around them, it kept us connected. We felt young and powerful and it was my last happy period of freedom, before responsibility, before I got old and forgot who I was.

LaFemme Rehearsal Postscript

I didn’t get invited to the rehearsal because I am ‘special’ (in the American Pie sense), I kinda weazled my way in. 

I thought I was going to be in NZ the weekend of the Bananas’ gig, and I started fretting, so I messaged Chane (my inner teenager squeals at the fact I have his phone number) and begged/pleaded/grovelled to be allowed to sneak into rehearsal and I made some vague promise, I was never going to keep, about bringing pizza.

Chane suggested I do an interview and I thought ‘Yessss!’ and then had these rock and roll fantasies about being someone cool, like Maryanne Faithful, or Gerlinda Chane, but at the same time suffering from ‘I am not worthy' impostor syndrome.

                                                                 

Gerlinda Chane 1970s

The first time I saw Chane after 30ish years at a Sharpie re-union at Young and Jacksons in 2009, I snatched him away from Sam Biondo and said, ‘Chane come with me’, and dragged him over to where my friends Linda and Caryn were standing and bragged ‘Loooook, I’ve got Chane Chane and I am going to root him first’. The girls ignored me as best they could, and to shut me up Caz said ‘I didn’t like Chane, I loved Brett!’ Well fine by me. Later I staked my claim by dry humping his leg in front of Caryn and Linda.

                                     

        Caryn             Julie Mac                    Chane                        Linda

Sam Biondo and Chane Chane 2009

There are different kinds of fans, there are the ones like Peter Heywood, who can tell you every David Bowie statistic, then there are the ones like eminem’s murder/suicide ‘Stan’, and then, there are the ones like me, who no nothing else other than the fact that I lurve, lurve, lurve them, that I know nearly all the words to their songs and I don’t know why. I think it is some kind of punk psychosis, that hasn’t been medically diagnosed yet.

So all these years later, a dream has come true, and I am thinking to myself (smugly/gratefully) ‘I’m with the band’, as I stand out the front, watching Graham get his bass guitar out of the truck, (which I think is some sort of space shuttle class of bass, that I am too stupid to identify, but would make others in the know ooohh and ahhh) and Brett give ‘eye of the tiger’ warm up exercises to Pete, while rolling his eyes at CC, (as he calls him) for forgetting the code to the studio.

Chane returned to his inner city punk rock star pad (I had a guided tour earlier) for the code and I stayed behind, I didn’t mind, I got to be a wannabe for a bit longer.

.

Early Punk in Melbourne

Academics are always trying to understand juvenile delinquents, gangs and rebellious teenagers. Their theories are dry and sometimes stereotypical. Once I asked an old friend 'why did we do it?' and she gave me the simple answer, (as if I was a complete idiot for asking) 'Because it was FUN!'

Society prefers conformists, and non-conformists, independent thinkers or people that don't suffer fools gladly are branded trouble makers, or as a "ne-er do well". (Which wikipedia tells me is a term is used to describe a person with perceived negative aspects)

Most Sharpies were in this miss-fit category and when punk rock music exploded in the 1970s, for some Sharpies, it was a natural progression to morph into punks. My theory is it was about the girls. If a young man wanted a rebellious girl then punk was an option

or if he wanted a dolly bird, he cut off his tails, grew his hair and started practicing his moves, ready to dance under the mirror ball. The photo below is a good example of the morph. Left to right Stef and Tony, Sharpies turned punk. Don in the middle, Sharpie spunk turned international man of mystery, and Brenda and Caz, Sharpie or punk, depending on the occasion.

There were two/three types of punks in Melbourne -

1. The arty and upper middle class kids/weekend punks
2. The 'Dogs in Space' type punks
3. The cigarette butt flicking, vomit while you pogo, crush kill destroy punk, usually ex sharpies.

Steve and RedRat full time punks living the reality

One of Melbourne's first punks was Eric. Eric was like Evil Knieval, a true thrill seeker. He became a legend in Sharpie history after being hit by a train and loosing his legs at the age of 13. He made the most of this situation by freaking out the unsuspecting, doing things like letting his mates throw darts into his legs on peak hour trains, throwing a leg at people, sitting in a chair on top of a bonfire of furniture a group of them bought in a share house, they burnt it so they didn't have to divide it up between them when they got evicted and one of the funniest, at a party a friend came screaming into the room with a meat cleaver and axed it into Eric's leg, slashing his jeans. A few of the young punk chicks nearly fainted with fright.

Sharpie Eric - Twinkly blue eyes, blue bird earring and sharpie star on the lobe

Eric the punk lead singer

Unsuspecting girls, just before the meat cleaver attack

Later I will post about our favorite Punk venue, The Crystal Ballroom and LaFemme our favorite punk band.

Bowen Street Complaint/Eviction notice

Bowen Street was our party house during Melbourne's punk era. The boys only had it for three months, but it seemed like an eternity.

A relaxing Saturday afternoon at Bowen Street

Re: Bowen Street Oakleigh

Although you cannot be entirely unaware of the unfortunate circumstances associated with the above property, which comes under your management, I feel as a property owner, that you should know more about the present dreadful conditions.

Accustomed to property with carefully vetted tenants in the outer suburbs, I am absolutely appalled at the state of affairs due to the present tenants.

Investigations before letting the property would have told you that these people are associated with a football team and others who have previously been guilty of noisy behaviour bringing in the police. This has been repeated in Bowen Street.

From various resources, I gather that some of the incredible things which have arisen include:

- Mobs of forty or so persons have shouted and screamed at all hours, with loutish acts and obscene language from both teenage youths and girls. Resulting from rowdy parties, the front fence of the property has been damaged and needs repair.

- An overloud hi-fi has been playing continuously for days on end disturbing neighbours. Police have been called at the house on several occasions to stop this, but it recurs.

- Urinating in the front garden and nature strips and on people’s cars has been a common sight. Vomiting over neighbour’s fences has occurred during heavy drinking sessions.

- Football is played not only in the street and on nature strips, the ball hitting cars and fences, but also within the house, judging by the loud bangs and shouting that ensue.

- At times, groups screaming like madmen have chased around through the house and over the roof. Aerosol cans have been ignited in the garden.

- The whole front and back areas are a disgrace, with uncut grass and a clutter of drink cans and rubbish. The front door’s letterbox is painted with an expression containing a four-letter word.

- A pet Alsatian puppy was recently badly injured by one of the cars being driven at speed through the gate and is in a sorry condition. This merits the attention of the RSPCA.

- Judging by the incessant hammering that goes on inside the house, some kind of work is going on, or flooring is being repaired and doors re-hung.


Unless something is done about evicting this mob shortly, various authorities will be notified by neighbours: the sanitary inspector, the fire authority because of the overgrown garden, and the noise abatement people. This must reflect on your reputation.

Further, as members of the RESI, presumably your standing would be affected adversely by the matters mentioned above.

I obtained your address from a neighbour, who prefers to see the house wrecked and rebuilt by some respectable, law-abiding people who take a pride in their possessions. To avoid the risk of damage to my own property, I am not supplying my name, but let me assure you that the facts are only too true.

Wishing you all the wisdom in 1980 which you should have exercised a long time ago.

Yours truly,
A VERY CONCERNED LANDLORD

Suburban Sharp CD Review

I just realised I hadn't posted this - it is from 18th November 2010 - it is sort of an intro for the next two posts coming.

www.skinsnsharps.com
Since the skinsnsharps exhibition, I have been busy spreading Sharpie love at Melbourne’s Federation Square book market. I meet interesting people and get to talk about Sharpies, treads, connies, Rose Tattoo and La Femme ALL day!

A fellow bookstall holder was reporter for JUKE music magazine in the 70s and he didn’t look impressed when I told him I didn’t buy or read JUKE, it was too intellectual and didn’t have glossy posters. We got talking about The Models and James Freud and I said I wasn’t a fan – La Femme, with Chane Chane was the only Melbourne punk band for me. He questioned me on what it was I liked about La Femme and I gave him an in-depth answer ‘I dunno, I just loved them’.

La Femme was ‘our’ band and the remnants of the 70s Sharpies would meet up at gigs around Melbourne where we drank, danced and rumbled through our last years of teenage freedom.

Early this year Sam played a demo cd for me of Chane Chane singing with their band City Sharps. The punk beat played with vintage instruments got me in and when I heard Chane’s voice, using my teenage Phd in music, I said to Sam in awe ‘He’s still got it’.

At the moment the City Sharps CD is on continuous play in ‘Barney’, my XF station wagon. I am learning all the words, so I can sing loudly and badly at the gigs, where I shut my eyes and pretend to be seventeen again, and no one can hear me over the beat.

Fifteen minutes of fame

Middle of last year, Careless Navigator contacted me to call Tony Robinsons’ production team, they were looking for 1960s sharpies that had knowledge of a fight outside the Mad Hatter night club in Little Lonsdale street with the tow truck drivers from Kernow Motors across the street. I left messages on skinsnsharps and on Facebook but wasn’t able to find anyone, so I forgot about it.

Later on I hear from Christo, one of the 1970 Camberwell boys, he had located two 1960s sharpies that knew about the fight and he invited me and another mutual friend, Cliffy to come along and observe the filming in November 2011. The production team had also found an original sharp with the fabulous name of The Williamstown City Stomper.

Cliffy arrived with armfuls of conny cardigans and before we knew it, we were both included in the segment. Luckily I had dressed in sharpie style clothes, just in case. Not authentic, just close enough for an old fat lady, I had a black t shirt, a black A line skirt and my black treads (which Dad found in the back shed)

Peter  Cliffy   Julie Mac  Tony Robinson  The Willy Stomper   Larry   Christo 

We filmed for nearly three hours, and each section was filmed three times, first part was Tony coming across us taking photos against the wall and we discussed the sharpie subculture. Next part was talking about the nightclub, then we all did the sharpie strut in pairs up the hill to the pub. At the pub, the boys started sculling, which was hilarious and the in-famous ‘Williamstown City Stomper’ gave us a demonstration/lesson for the dance, the Sharpie Break. As I have two left feet, (I can’t do the Nutbush or drive a manual car) I was kinda happy that they didn’t show that part.

The episode went to air early September, I didn’t really tell anyone, but of course, Bev and Dad sniffed it out. Bev rings me and says ‘Are you going to be on telly? Rosco at the pub told us his brother Larry is going to be on telly and that you are on there with him’. Talk about six degrees of separation! Bev has always had this uncanny knack of finding out what I am up to. Like the time she said to me, ‘I know your boyfriend Tom is in jail’. She wouldn’t tell me how she knew, I thought she was magic. But maybe it was common sense, why else would a young man write and post letters. Plus in the 70s, stamps from any of the jails had the letters VG (Victorian Government) perforated through them, so they stood out like dogs balls.

After we finished filming we had lunch with Tony and the crew, the boys had a ‘Beer sandwich, hold the bread’.

I didn’t watch the episode the night it went to air and only a couple of people mentioned it. When I saw it the next day, I was happy the bits that I knew were going to make us look like dicks (nearly all of it!) had been cut. Although I didn’t mind too much about looking like a dick, it is worth it to have our sub-culture recognised and remembered.

Footnote: Cliffy’s connies were in the back of my car and I told him I was going to drive off - He does not have a sense of humor!

Testing a post from my ipad

If I can manage to master blogging from my iPad, I may be able to blog more often.  Now to load a photo

11.15 It is demanding software now

11.25 software loaded

Now will try to load the pic

11.27 pm about to press publish post complete with photo of the Kyneton fairy lady I saw at the farmers market. Isn't she spectacular

www.melbournesharps.com.au

Have a new website under construction

A journalist said to me recently 'Given the violence, should the sharpie subculture be celebrated'. I answered that celebration isn't a word I would chose (although our re-unions and get togethers are like a celebration), I would prefer to use the word 'acknowledge'.

The sharpies were Melbourne's last true homegrown subculture. A movement created by the teenagers, without mainstream or commercial influence. It was unique and it was ours.

They networked in days when some families didn't even have a home phone, and created a life style of music, distinctive dance moves, language, hair style, fashion and accessories. 

They bought made-to-order, custom tailor made trousers, Staggers Jeans from Melbourne designer Joseph Saba, custom cardigans from the Italian family shopfronts of Sam's Knitwear in Coburg and Conte in Northcote. Shoes were handmade by Venus, Cusmano's or other talented shoemakers/cobblers.

The hairstyle

THE HAIRSTYLE.....

This was the most defining feature of the Sharpie. At the height of the Sharpie era, 1972 - 1977, the haircut was at its most extreme and unique - being cut really short (crew cut) top and sides with length remaining at the nape of the neck (tails) giving a noticeable distinction between the top and tails. A fully committed Sharp would embrace this hairstyle and take on the responsibility and attention that came with it, a lot of that attention being unwanted - from the Police, other Sharp gangs, bikies, rockers, long hairs and the public in general. Any Sharp with this distinctive look was recognized as a Sharpie no matter what they were wearing or where they were, so the attention was always present. There were many 'weekend Sharpies' who would dress the part to hang out with the Sharps but would not cut their hair in the true Sharpie fashion, due to family, school, work, or they were just not willing to take on the stigma and attention that it drew. Come sunday night, and out would come the earrings, off with the platform shoes and connie (Sharpie cardigan) and transform back into a mainstream youth, acceptable to society. (Peter Brookes)

Attack of the killer birds

The kid rings me at TAFE last week freaking out because there are two pigeons in the house, apparently it's the dog's fault, because we leave the back sliding door open for him.

"MUUUM!!!! There's a pigeon trapped in my bathroom, Shaggy chased it in there. I have locked the door, but I want it out because it is touching all my things. It's smashing my Britney Spears Perfume (and wearing my makeup and using my hairbrush). There was one in the kitchen too, but I got that out, but now there are feathers everywhere." She interrupts this verbal vomitus by shrieking at the dog 'Shaggy, Shaggy, stop it' because Shaggy is throwing himself at the bathroom door because there is a yummy play thing in there.

Everything I suggested to do, she said 'No, I have tried that'. So I suggested putting a doonah around her with just her eyes exposed (like a Ninja) walking slowly into the bathroom, standing in the bath (to open the window) and then when the window was open, duck down and hide under the doonah until the bird flew out.

No-o-o-o, she can't do that, apparently the bird has red laser eyes and razor blade feathers. And Shaggy and the bird have ruined her day, she is now 45 minutes behind schedule. Schedule? What schedule? She sleeps all day. My daughter, the vampire, only goes out at night. The kid has that special quality that runs in my family of blaming external influences for any problems.

I rang a friend at work and left a message for him to drop in on the way home, but Claire had deserted ship, with the bird still locked in the bathroom, so my friend couldn't get in the house. Poor Mr Birdy was stuck in the bathroom for about 4 hours until Mark came home and let it out. I got stuck with cleaning up the bird poo.

The Evil Bird Kicker

Another bird story.

I love feeding the wild birds, at home or at our caravan. It sends Mark mental. He hates it. (He hated my pet wasp nest as well)

When we are at the van, all my little birdie friends come to visit. I am like Mary Poppins. They tweet at me and I get food for them, some of them even eat from my hand or they sit on the back of my outside recliner rocker and I freeze like a statue so they won't fly away.

Mark and Claire hate the birds. They shout at me when I feed them. I think it is partly because the birds swoop them and partly because they take gleeful delight in messing up anything that makes me happy. They even give each other high fives when they make me lose it and shriek at them.

A tiny fairy wren came to visit one day while I was standing with Mark and our brother in law. The sweet birdie hopped and walked about between our still feet and I held my breath as I watched. Until Mark decides it would be funny to scare it by lifting his great stormtrooper-clodhopper-big fat booted hoof and the birdie flew away. It looked suspiciously like Mark kicked the bird to me, he denies it, but my brother in law reminds me often, to get Mark, the bird kicker in trouble.

Fancy kicking this little sweetie!

My step-mother Bev has been feeding the wild birds for years, her front garden is like a squishy carpet of seed husks. One day I decided to wash my car in the driveway when I came to visit (must have had a blood rush to the head or something), and then I moved the car to the nature strip. After enjoying a nice cuppa, it was time to go home, and as I walk out, I see 387 pink and grey cockatoos sitting on the overhead electricity wires, and they have shit all over my clean car. Bev thought it was hilarious, but I failed to see the funny side.

The magpies start knocking on her door around 6 am and she gets up and talks to the cat while she gets the seed ready for them. Recently a killjoy neighbor complained to the council and Bev had a visit from the ranger, telling her not to feed the birds, the neighbors didn't like being swooped as they drove or walked past. Bev ignored the council, so they sent her a cease and desist court order, but the council fuckers got her name wrong, so she still didn't stop, she started feeding them in the back yard instead. The back yard is like a jungle, so no one can see in from the road. Bev 1 Council 0

The Bad Boy

The Argus 1946

THE BAD BOY is made, not born. He is nurtured in the slums, in the dirty, narrow streets that are often his only playground, in squalor and unhappiness of the hovel that passes for home.

THE BAD BOY is not a static entity with characteristics that sharply distinguish him from his blameless brothers. There is some unanimity of opinion among investigators of child crime, however, that shows most of the following characteristics :

1. "Muscle-worship" of strong men and adventurers.

2. Ambition for material wealth.

3. Contempt for authority, especially the law.

4. Depraved taste in films, books, and magazines, usually preferring adventure and crime stories.

5. Love for gambling and generally "taking chances."

6. Smoking and drinking from early age.

7. Intelligence level about normal.

8. Intense dislike for school.

9. Bravado usually concealing acute inferiority complex.

10. "Low cunning" rather than native shrewdness.

11. Intense loyalty, particularly to "gang" and "push" leaders.

12. Intensely materialistic out-look.

13. Abnormally healthy, but not addicted to vigorous organised sport.

14. Intolerant of supervision or advice.

15. Belongs to "gangs" or "pushes" - seldom to organised boys' groups, such as Boy Scouts.

16. Tough, domineering exterior usually hides highly emotional temperament seen in preference for maudlin hillbilly songs, "B" films, cheap novels.

Sexual harrasment

Working in a male dominated environment, you have to be a bit of a ball breaker with sexual harassment etc. (Being a old sharpie chick helped). One of the printers at work was a young blonde bowie look alike and at one of the Christmas work functions, I was selling raffle tickets in amongst the printers, including some big Maoris, bikies, thugs etc and he comes up behind me while I am leaning on a table and makes humping motions. Without missing a beat, I said to him 'you know I'd root you, but I heard you were a shit root'. All the printers pissed themselves laughing and he went bright red, he wasn't expecting the old fat woman to get the better of him. He answered 'you have been talking to the wrong girls'. and I looked him in the eye, and his mate (that I knew was gay and hung around the steam rooms, but he didn't know I knew) and said 'No, it was the boys that told me'. The printers were still pissing themselves laughing into the new year about it. We are best buddies now and he treats me with complete respect.

One other bloke from the same period, male model looks (but dumb as dog shit) long blonde hair, tightjeans cowboy boots etc, another one of those 'no fat chicks allowed' type guys, made some kind of smart comment to me and I said to him,'Watch out at the next function, I am going to get you pissed and root you and then I am going to tell everyone whether or not you were any good'. He avoided me after that. One night I saw him at the pub at Friday night drinks and someone told me he wouldn't go near my table. He left work and a few years later I saw him at Kmart with one of his mates. When I got back to work I said to one of his mates in the smokers shed 'I saw blah blah up at Kmart today, he must have been with his boyfriend cos they were holding hands'.

So the point of these stupid stories is it amuses me to rattle them, or set them against each other. Even at work now, recently I was working in a dept. with 11 men, all university educated and older and I could have them bitching and fighting in two seconds flat, all I would do was single one of them out and be nice to him. Then the others would sook and say, 'why are you being nice to him, you are never nice to us' and I would say, 'cos I fucken hate you, ya soft cocks'. Then they would complain to my boss and I would dare them to dob me in to HR, 'Yeah, that would make you look like a big man wouldn't it, poor me, the only girl in the department.' It's boys against girls, and girls are winning!

The Monster Mash

There is a riot in my house tonight. I served mashed purple congo potatoes, which look like the purple mash in this shot. Claire refused to believe they were potatoes, thinks I was trying to poison her, Mark came out with carrots and silverside only on his plate. I said 'Where are your potatoes'. He said, 'I am not eating purple fucken potatoes'. Then said 'Did Claire eat them?' The two of them ganged up on me. Just cos they don't like my monster mash. Bastards.

 

Inanimate objects

I love giving inanimate objects names, and shouting at them. Shouting at inanimate objects shows them who is the boss.

My ipod, which got stolen out of my car was named Iggy Ipod, after an old boyfriend. My ipad is named Paddy. My navman was also stolen out of my car. It was called Navi, which isn't short for navman, it is named after a friend's little brother, we called him Navi which was Ivan spelt backwards. It was not long after that that I realised that my navman was possessed by Ivan Milat. It was always trying to send me into desolate state forests on unmarked roads and through other dodgy places as it tried to murder me. That will fix the thief!

My last car was called Barney, because he was the colour of a Barney banana ice cream. I haven't named my new car yet, not sure why, but my Kia Rio was called Arty, because his number plate started with RT.

My red esky is called Frosty and our toolbox that we used when we were selling jewelry at markets was called Stanley, partly because of the brand, and also because of Stanley Yelnats from the film Holes.

The best of of all is our kettle. It's name is motherfucker. It is one of those kettles that instantly delivers hot water when you press the red button. It makes an er er er er droning noise as it steams up and dispenses, very similar to the beat of the song Motherfucker by Obie Trice on eminem's Eight Mile CD. When Claire was a teenager, we went through an eminem phase and Mark used to question my parenting skills when he would hear some of the lyrics and say stuff like 'Nice stuff you are listening to here, imagine if one of the grandmothers gets in the car'.

The phantom spoon pig

One day I will post some of my whacky conspiracy theories, but for the moment, I have been blocked from accessing my blog from work, which I feel is part of an illuminati plot to silence me - how rude!

Here is a copy of a Facebook update about my hobby of leaving dirty dishes in the work sink.

Today's complaint about me received by work email.....

Congratulations Guys,
We are now down to 1 teaspoon left in the kitchen.
Today, I have already plucked it out of the sink twice!!
Remember, if it is in the sink, the boss will throw it out.
It seems that some people just don't care, but it will be the same people that will complain when we have nothing left in the kitchen.
We are all adults, so please do the right thing, wash the bloody thing and put it away!!.
PS: yes, I am a bit annoyed!!
Regards, disgruntled workmate

 It was sent as a result of this one...

All,
Anyone think the dishes they leave on the Kitchen bench will wash themselves???????
If they are there in 1 hour I will bin them.
It is pretty simple - if you use a cup or a spoon - wash it.
If you make a mess - Clean it up.
Do not leave anything in the sink for someone else - It is rude and Lazy!!!!
Regards, The Boss

A glass coffee cup , A Coffee Mug and 2 spoons are now in the bin.
IF YOU USE IT WASH IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

and this one...

After running well for a couple of weeks we have had another mug and three spoons heading to the great dumping ground in the sky. We will run out of spoons.

Yesterday after leaving the spoon in the sink a couple of times for entertainment (I sit behind a partition next to the kitchen and can hear everyone whinging about the phantom spoon pig), I went in to make a coffee and as I rugby tackled a workmate that was in my way, I accidentally flicked a spoon out of the dish rack and it flipped over and landed in the sink with a TING like a tuning fork. Immediately, I started shouting 'teaspoon in the sink, teaspoon in the sink, sound the warning sirens'. And then I cackled for the rest of the day. I do have a list of potential activities, super gluing a spoon to the sink, drilling a small hole and attaching some fishing line and giving it a good tug over the partition as soon as I hear someone at the sink, going to the op shop and getting random items and leaving them in the sink, or the best one suggested by another anti social friend was to leave a dirty spoon out until it was green and caked with mold and put that in there. 

Special delivery

Every day in winter, the canteen at work delivers home made soup to my desk.

The man that brings the trolley around is Indian and his name is Govinda.  As he walks up the stairs to put fresh milk in our fridge and my soup on my desk, the little bell that he carries tinkles (you can see it in his right hand below) and I hear it so I start shouting out "Yay it's Govinda, Govinda is here everybody".  The men I work with get cross because my lunch is hand delivered and they have to walk downstairs and choose theirs from the trolley.  They say it's discrimination.  I tell them its because no one likes them.

I needed breakfast one morning and I rang the chef to see what was on the menu, but he said I can make you whatever you like. I said I would like a surprise for breakfast and he said he would get Govinda to deliver it. When Govinda arrived I made my usual fuss over him and my special delivery, he even wrapped it up for me. His 'bon bon' contained a ham, pineapple and egg muffin.

Missed reflection

I can't believe I forgot to post about the video we watched of Kevin Rudd's apology to indigenous Australia

My daughter is a direct descendant to the first half caste child born in Tasmania, Dolly Dalrymple. "Dolly is a Tasmanian icon who fought off marauding natives and for six hours her fighting spirit never flagged, not even when they tried to burn her out of her shack."

Mannalargenna Chief of the Ben Lomond tribe (1770)

His daughter Woretermoeteyenner (Bung) lived with a sealer George Briggs and was banished from her tribe

Her daughter Dolly (1808) was 'stolen' and taken to live with Dr Dalrymple

Dolly married Thomas Johnson

and their son, Alfred Johnson (1847) married Amelia Wells

Their daughter Florence (1875) married Herbert Rogers

and their daughter Lilian (1906) married Arthur Scurry

Their daughter Patricia  is my mother in law, I married her son Anthony and we have a daughter Claire 

So Claire is 8th Generation, that is seven generations of the Government policy of "'breeding out the colour' of Indigenous Australians to 'improve' the population."

Dr Cecil Evelyn Cook, dazzlingly qualified as an anthropologist, biologist, bacteriologist, chief medical officer and "chief protector" of Aborigines in North Australia, who pronounced there was no "throwback" to the black once enough white blood was bred in. "Generally by the fifth and invariably by the sixth generation, all native characteristics of the Australian Aborigine are eradicated. The problem of our half-castes will be quickly eliminated by the complete disappearance of the black race, and the swift submergence of their progeny in the white," he said.

The main thing I took from the Sorry video were the words of Nanna Fejo a great-grandmother that was stolen as a four year old in 1932 from Tennant Creek.  Kevin Rudd said, 'I asked Nanna Fejo what she would have me say today about her story. She thought for a few moments then said that what I should say today was that all mothers are important. And she added: ‘Families—keeping them together is very important. It’s a good thing that you are surrounded by love and that love is passed down the generations. That’s what gives you happiness.’

White families also had their children stolen, they call those children The Forgotten Generation, but that is another story.

Reflection - Week 3 4 5 & 6

14/3 Week 3 - I did my class presentation on an online website. I chose the Quakers in Australia, mainly because I had no idea they were active in Australia. It went well, the purpose of the activity is to show that you can use websites to source information and resources. I also like the Quakers philosophy especially this bit "Quakers believe that there is 'that of God' in everyone and that all people have the same privileges and responsibilities regardless of race, age, creed, general or sexual orientation. We value all people and affirm the power and joy of all truly loving relationships."

In our first assignment, we had to choose a federal issue and I chose Detention of Refugees. I am in a group with five other ladies, one is from Ethiopia and another from Iraq. I chose that topic as when I was working at Orica, my team 'buddy' was one of the 1970s Vietnamese Boat people and his story was sad, but inspiring.

These ladies are go-getters and by the end of the class, we had already contacted an organisation, Refugee Action Victoria and organised to join them on their rally on Easter Monday, leaving from Hungry Jacks Campbellfield and walking to the detention center at the old army camp in Broadmeadows.

We did workbook activities on the constitution and the structure of Government in Australia and electoral systems and the homework was the voting system in Australia.

One of our classmates did his individual assessment on Sri Lanka, he is active in the Sri Lankan community, the video he presented made me want to go to the travel agent and book a trip there.

21/3 Week 4 -We went over voting homework from last week, I did ok with the questions I answered, I got three wrong and left one blank. I prefer to do it that way, to see how much I really do know, rather than look up the answers and fill them in.


28/3 Week 5 - We visited Parliament House. I think I sat in the same position in the 'Strangers Gallery' that I sat in when we went there on an excursion in Primary school. The gold leaf and decorations were as beautiful as I remembered and I saw the mace that replaced the one that went  missing in 1891, which was alleged to have been used in a mock Parliamentary session at Boccaccio House a rival to the famous Madame Brussell's brothel. It is thought that it was melted down by 'persons unknown' for the value of the silver.

The two politicians we spoke to were easy going and naturally confident. They were passionate about their job, I couldn't imagine having that much responsibility.

18/4 Week 6 - We reviewed the visit to Parliament house and then had a mini open book test. I read through the questions and panicked, I couldn't answer any of them. Then I took a deep breath and went back over my first assignment and some book work and managed to answer most of them and only got a couple wrong.

Then we had a few more individual presentations - one young woman works with a group that rescues child sex slaves from the Philippines and places them in safe houses, a very dangerous and risky activity.

Another one was on the Footscray Refugee Resource Center, it was originally started by Diploma students in the West. It is a flat level organisation and funded by donations and philanthropists and works out of a shop front in Footscray.
http://www.asrc.org.au/the-centre/about-centre

We talked about ANZAC day, wars and the Government. Our teacher talked about his experience during the Vietnam War conscription (The Vietnamese call it The American War) and I remembered a story about one of my workmates. I was looking at the announcement of his 20 years of service and saw a notation that it was 'broken service', I asked if he had left the company and then returned. Someone answered, 'well not exactly' and then explained that he was a Conscientious Objector and had 'disappeared' during the ballot. I didn't ask if they meant jail, which was the penalty for resisting the draft.

High Tea at the Windsor

 Andrea the birthday girl with Mark

 Me and Jacques, we have been friends with Andrea since 1976

High tea at the Windsor was fun, I was expecting a dainty amount of afternoon tea, but it was laid on till we were groaning like this poor possum that broke into a bakery.

Week 2 Reflective Piece

My positive thoughts about Politics as a subject disappeared this week. I can remember when it was first suggested I transfer from Cert IV to the Diploma I said 'Do I have to do politics and all that crap, I am too lazy'. The teacher said, 'it's not that you are lazy, it is more that it doesn't interest you'. True. Most of the time I don't even know which party is the current government. When it comes to voting time, I vote for which ever party is in at the time, so they don't spend shitloads of money reprinting letterheads and scraping gold letters off glass doors to mark their territory in their new office. A few people have commented that it is a bit negligent of me, not considering the various policies before voting, but most of the time the politicians are baffling us with bullshit rather than dazzling us with brilliance, so I don't think it makes a difference. Actually, this time I did take into consideration the size of one of the contender's ears before voting.

So today, we are given a newspaper article to read on means testing the private health insurance rebate. I am not sure if I was supposed to be outraged or interested. I have got used to not expecting benefits from the government. In 1988, when my ex-husband (truck driver) and I (secretary) bought our first house, we were not eligible for the first home buyers grant, apparently we earned too much. There was no baby bonus, we were not eligible for the old 'Child Endowment' payment, there was no paid maternity leave, paternity leave was unheard of and when I did return to work, we were not eligible for child care rebate. And when we sold the house during our divorce, house prices had dropped over those 8 years and we owed more than the house was worth. 

I am boring myself typing this - I remarked to one of my classmates that I would rather be at the dentist. Luckily we moved onto other more interesting things and my head stopped hurting, worrying about flat rates versus increasing rates etc.

So what did I learn today - I am not excited or passionate about politics - but if I really felt strongly about an issue, I could attempt to do something about it.

Compared to the end of last year, the class is double the size, the room has around 22 students and it's hard to hear sometimes. I remember that is how Joan Kirner got her start in politics, by challenging the practice of  overcrowded classrooms when she was in a school Mothers' Club and her kids were in classes of up to 40 students.

It is nice to know that we have the processes to oppose issues, but I see it as in my circle of concern, rather than my circle of influence.

A reflective piece Week 1

I started back at TAFE today, I have transferred from Cert IV in Youth Work to a Diploma in Community Services. When one of the teachers suggested the transfer last year, I was reluctant, especially when I found I had to do politics, legal studies and other boring stuff like that. Oh well, at least it's not Accounting or Economics.

Tonight I turned up for politics, they were tricky and tried to stooge me by calling it Democracy. I was on a post chocolate muffin sugar low when the class started and after doing the thrilling 'getting to know you' class activity, we went straight into a role playing example of Democracy in action. The subject my team had was the building of a youth hostel for young men released from the justice system, I got to play an outraged local resident, of the 'Not In My Backyard' variety that had to attend a community meeting with the local council, a couple of youth workers and an officer from the ministry of housing. I took my part very seriously and played the crazy cat lady, but with grandchildren instead of cats. Putting on my best screechy bogan voice, I said my precious grandchildren, little Harley-levi and Jade-Whitney-Britney went to the local creche and that these horrible criminals were going to throw syringes and used condoms into the tan bark of the playground and there was going to be an aids epidemic through the creche. I had a few other whacko complaints too and a paranoid streak. It was so much fun, every meeting needs a nutter. My class mates all debated very professionally and I actually enjoyed myself, (my teenage self would be so embarrassed, what a loser, enjoying politics).

Anyway the best thing is, one of the assignments is to do a 'Reflective Diary' on what we learn over the 16 weeks. If I do a blog post every week, I get to do my homework, and keep my blog updated at the same time.

I can't believe how easy night school has been so far, for most of my assignments, I relate a personal experience to the topic and I got credits for selling raffle tickets at the pub for this piece of art work from Project Dreaming Tracks, an outreach service for Indigenous Australians in the justice system.

So what did I learn tonight, other than politics might be fun?

• I can ask my local member of Parliament to take me on a guided tour of Parliament house.
• That I should have a social area to be passionate about, that I can be an activist or an advocate for. (I probably haven't worded that properly, so I will continue to reflect on it)
• That I may consider DHS as a career choice and the HeraldSun exaggerates stories about them
• That 97% fat free chocolate muffins taste like crap
• That my sister-in-law hates it when my phone is turned off when I am in class
•  I have a fascinating group of classmates, from exotic places like Iraq and Ethiopia 
• That I can blog as an assignment

I probably have other notes in my book, but can't be bothered getting them now, I can add to this later, or post it next week.


And my friend from last year Tarah, this week her finger nails are painted sparkly silver and pink, sparkles for the sparkling future she has planned. She also invites me over and makes me chocolate pavlova, with chocolate cream and hazelnuts.

Smogs

Over the last couple of weeks instead of posting here, I have found some some blogs to sneer at.  You know the type, their life is perfect. When they do the dishes, classical music plays in the background and little birdies and butterflies help them - their husband is a snag and buys red roses and shit, the kids are gifted or in the accelerated learning program, they only eat organic home grown food, and blah!

A gorgeous flame haired author at a writing course I did last year cleverly named them 'Smogs'. Smug blogs.

I found a blog recently about The Traveling Red Dress and I had a heartbeat of envy thinking about these magical red dresses, then I remembered. Andrea turns 50 in April and we are having high tea at the Windsor. The dress code is as per the poem 'When I am old I shall wear purple'. Andrea AKA Ms I-am-turning-50-and-your-not, is only letting women over 50 dress in red. Us youngsters have to wear lilac, lavender or pink. Really I don't care, but it's fun to kick up a fuss anyway. So in April, I can post photos of us in our red, purple, lavender and pink splendor - so readers can find my blog and think 'Oh, what a wonderful life she leads'. Although, I have a feeling our look will be bag lady chic.

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Living the dream

I often get patches of envy where I begrudge someone their outwardly perfect life, like when I met Gypsy Love the first time. Instead of saying hello, I said 'You have stolen my life, give it back'.

Gypsy Love and Kushti Bok

Message in a bottle

When we first moved to the beach, Claire and I often walked along the beach, sometimes I would take a pair of long tongs and a couple of garbage bags and pick up rubbish as we beach combed. One afternoon, I spotted a screw top peanut butter jar, a Kraft jar with a yellow plastic lid. The label had washed away to show a note inside the jar. I was so excited, finding a message in a bottle is like a never ending packet of Wagon Wheels, or summer school holidays that last forever. Imagining shipwrecked castaways in Tahiti, or a message from Gilligan's Island, I quickly unscrewed the lid, and with Claire beside me watching every move, we unfolded the message written in faded purple pen. So what did this mysterious message say? It said 'Be nice to your mother'. WTF? What kind of message is that? Who wrote it? Why did they throw it into the ocean? Bastards.

I gotta do something...

Sometimes I wish I could just mind my own business.

On Friday evening I came out of a funky bar/cafe in one of the Franco Cozzo suburbs, the suburb that residents proudly defend, but no one else likes (that I have a soft spot for). I sometimes drop in to catch up with some of my clever arty friends, they make me feel 'with it' in a groovy, cool kind of way. And as I approached my car parked near the creepy railway line, I could hear aggressive male voices from the other side of the line.

Yeah?
Yeah!
Come 'ere
Yeah?
Drop the knife,
Drop the knife,
Put the knife down
Come 'ere

I peered through the bushes and saw two young African men walking away from a ranting, swarthy looking young man following them and trying to get them into battle, he had a mate several meters away.

The bushes got in my way and I heard a big CRACK as a wooden stake was broken from the ground and the swarthy man calls the African guys back and is brandishing the stake over his head (the African guys were the ones with the knife) as the distance between them closed to about five paces.

By this time I am thinking, OMG, WTF? I had the car door open by now, so I got in the car, backed out and pulled up parallel to the train line, so I could get a better view. For a nano second I considered calling the cops, but by the time I got through the rigmarole of 'What's your name?', 'What is your date of birth?', 'What is the address', (which I didn't know, I just know where the place is), it would have been too late.

A million things went through my mind, I felt I needed to do something, and after quickly assessing my safety and escape route,I wound down my window and in my most psycho, fishwife, looney bin voice, I shouted out 'FUCK OFF YOU ARSE HOLES, AND GO HOME!' (Home, meaning house, not back to your country of origin, it wasn't about race).

The three of them froze, stunned, and looked around everywhere, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. The knife carrying African dude spots me, almost visibly relaxes as he sees it's some crazy lady, and comes back with 'Suck my dick you fat bitch'. Hilarious! Glad he called me fat and not old! He must have seen my fat arms and double chin or something, ah, but most of the women are probably tall and thin where he comes from.

By this time, a few other people within earshot (probably all the way to the MCG) had stopped their business to see what was going on. I shouted back 'FUCK YOU. GO HOME' and so I could get the last word, I wound up my window and drove off. On the way home I was kicking myself - when he shouted his crappy insult, I should have said 'What?', so he had to repeat it, and then said 'I still can't hear you' that would have taken away more power. Or I could have said 'Give us a look first!'. Not to make light of the situation, but the aim was to put a spanner in the works and distract them from their blood lust.

I do feel a tiny bit traumatized, but that trauma would have been much worse if it had turned into a stabbing or a whack over the head with a long wooden stake. I don't know what happened after that, but I hope they gave each other dirty looks, mouthed off a bit and then melted away from the gathering attention.