Technologically Challenged

I should only ever be allowed to type on computers - never anything else.
All my files should be locked and all my cords duct-taped in place.

In an effort to clear some space on my hard drive (is my lingo wrong, probably) I started killing temporary files, moved up to program files and somehow found myself in the cyber-land of no return where, in a frenzy of deleting I somehow made it impossible for my computer to EVEN RECOGNISE THE EXISTENCE OF A HARD DRIVE.

Yes, problem, especially with a new contract to save a certain Outback community newspaper.
To make it worse, I've discovered that job's not going to be easy while I have to rely on the newspaper's local incumbent...she's not happy about me taking the job and telling her what to do.
She's not happy if I don't do the layout, she's not happy if I do do the layout, she doesn't have story lists or ad lists and she doesn't have time to send me the classifieds because then she'll be up all night...of course, if I don't do the damn page she'll be up all night anyway.
Stupid COW!
How do these women (and I include myself in this one) find their way into newspapers?

So, today, after I got my computer back and actually started yelling at her, sending her story lists and demands and calling in all the local committee members to go around and bang on her door...she went to bed 'sick'.
Now - I know that kind of 'sick', it's deadline sickness, I've had it many a time and sat at a computer board crying that I would NEVER EVER FINISH THIS PAPER!
It's also a self-fulfilling prophecy, because if you don't actually get your arse out of bed you really never do finish the paper.

I'm actually dealing quite well with the 'Dark Side' - SA's country media moguls who print this particular publication and would be relieved to just take the whole thing over.
They've been very helpful and supportive, although we did have a tense moment today when I had to explain that no, my last newspaper project was not a Council-funded organisation and I was never paid a wage by my local Council in my role as Editor and could they please stop spreading that slander around because, after three and a half years (six months of which I worked for free) I still take it quite personally.

So, basically, I had to dob on her to her bosses.
And I was already two computer-less days behind.
I now realise that my main role will be to ride her arse like an three-corner-jack on a whaler...every day.

And what she doesn't realise is I'm copying every email over to her bosses.
They're copying every one to me, as well as all the comments from the 'Dark Side'.
And, no matter how much and who she slags (and that's ALL of us so far, just depending on the audience) we're still going to do it MY WAY!

It's nice to be doing something I'm good at again.
It's nice to be God again.
...and I'm ready to do some SMITING!

What is the World Coming To?

Well, back to politics.
(And personally, I see this as a positive sign, my renewed interest in the world outside my own head).

So, an Indonesian newspaper has published a satirical cartoon depicting John Howard and Alexander Downer as slavering dingoes 'mounting each other'.
Now, to be fair, Mr Howard has basically replied to the media's hysteria with the very Aussie 'get over it'.
Up my way, however, local news stations were appalled at the evil Indonesian media's bad taste and political shortsightedness in depicting our national treasures in such an unflattering light.
Ignoring the entire issue surrounding the cartoon - the Papua New Guineans and their refugee visas, the withdrawal of ambassadors, even the long-running historical issues of 'oh sorry we couldn't help you with that little Indonesian invasion last Century, Mr Hawke was busy, and if you find our missing journalist please send him home'.

According to the ABC online...
"In relation to the cartoons, well I've been in this game a long time, if I got offended about cartoons golly, heavens above, give us a break,"Mr Howard said.
Mr Downer says the cartoon is tasteless.
He says people can choose to publish tasteless and grotesque cartoons in a free society

Now, don't quote me on this, but isn't one of the Western world's biggest complaints about Indonesia the continued evidence of empire building, a trend towards dictatorships and...ohmiGod...even CENSORSHIP!
And here we are condemning a newspaper for printing (gasp gasp) distasteful political commentary in the form of a CARTOON!
What would Larry Flynt say, really.

And let's remember, there are no actual laws to protect free speech in Australia - just conventions, which many heretofore unnamed media barons have done their best to circumvent.
(Long live the Goanna?)

My least-favourite lecturer at Uni taught me, what I now believe is, the most valuable lesson I ever learned.
Free speech means even the wankers get a say...and let's face it, they're always the first ones to pull up the soapbox.
(And yes, I am not unaware of the irony of me writing this - but, please, let's move on)

So, what's the world coming to if Aussies are upset at someone taking a poke at the pollies?
The Indonesians aren't saying anything we haven't said a million times, about our own politicians - not to mention theirs, and the rulers of every other nation on Earth - so, this is really a wonderful step towards multicultural understanding.
(Ask ME about Indonesia's role as the world's last empire-builders and you'll hear much worse language than dingo-rooter).

The upside of this whole issue is that Australia and Indonesia now, agree on something.
The avenues of communication are now, finally, open...
Let's reopen trade, we can bitch about the Yanks together, it's all good.

And what I REALLY want is to find a site with this damn cartoon on it.
Someone send me a link!
And where are the Chinese cartoons, the Bosnian commentaries, the Haiti satires?
What's the big fucking deal?
In what may be, to date, Mr Howard's most profound public statement to date - golly, heavens above, give us a break!

Winged Ones

Some days I look at my children and I feel all heavenly and divine, like the Madonna (the Christian maternal icon, not the pointy-boobed popster).
On those days my children are angels.

Today, in the car to my parent's home I felt like the Wicked Witch of the West (Coast) and they were my little flying monkeys.
And now, I have unleashed them on Nanna and Grumpy - "fly my pretties, fly!"

Recounting this observation to my friend Vanity, she decided that she was WitchiePoo...I'm still not sure whether that makes her husband Puff 'n' Stuff or the Magic Flute...and I'm not asking.

Fishing Expedition

So, tomorrow I'm off on another 'fishing expedition' for my NEW new future.
I am going to the West Coast to look at the business my parents want to buy.
It comes with a house, a beach, and built-in babysitters at the end of the road.
The wage is still being negotiated...LOL.
So, I'm going to go with my notepad and my business ideas and my keen and enquiring mind and basically scare the shit out of these people so they drop the price by $40,000.
Cross your fingers & wish me luck...

The Lure of News

God I still love newspapers.
Part of my masochistic 'love what you shouldn't have' personality I think.

I'm consulting for a tiny little community newspaper up further in SA's desert than my own paper, and it's in DEEP SHIT!
And I just LOVE the idea of making it work.
I've got two months to do a comprehensive breakdown and offer them some solutions or it's going to be sold, basically, or more like absorbed into a big corporation.
Which would be a shame because it's the ONLY committee-owned newspaper in SA and only one of three that isn't owned by Rural Press or the Murray Press group.

Well - better find myself a SWOT model because my report is all to men and we know how they love those pretty charts and pie-graphs.
Time to get started while the kids are having afternoon iceblocks and cartoon wind-downs with their 'babies'.

LiarsCheats&Bastards.com

When my husband cheated on me with one of our oldest friends, I wallowed in a little fantasy of setting up a website where you could post people who had shitted you off.
It would be set up like a geneaology site, so you'd post a photo, a full name and an 'anecdote'.
Then, when people googled that person's name for things like, oh, I don't know, reference checks - they'd discover that that person on LiarsCheats&Bastards.com.
I'm thinking, that kind of thing would speed up regulation of the internet pretty damn quickly, but in the meantime you could post your bastard boss, your lying husband or your nagging neighbour.
There'd be so many less porsches trashed, speedboats spraypainted, left shoes destroyed...just harmless words on a page.

The advertising potential is incredible too.
All those 'is your partner cheating on you' sperm detection kits, DNA determination companies, private investigators, 'decoy' girls...
If I get real low on cash, I think I'll have to keep this one in mind.

Privacy

I have recently been discovering just how easy it is to find someone in this age of technology.
Working at my local Federal Electorate Office I recently found out that one of the biggest issues to come through the office is unsolicited phone calls.
There is currently a bill being drafted whereby people will be able to be on a 'don't contact' register.

At the same time, we were writing an article about NetAlert and I was saying how you can find anyone on the net eventually - with all the school newsletters and business websites floating around cyberspace.
I got on a bit of a roll and started looking up old friends, people I'd known at uni, ex-boyfriends, and even some people that I'd secretly been hoping had died and I'd see their name next to an obituary - no such luck, sadly.
Now, when I see a name that looks familiar, I tend to look for more info on them.
I even emailed one person who emailed me back from Canada - which was pretty cool.

A friend of mine - someone I rediscovered by searching ICQ and cross-referencing it with the White Pages, in fact (see, I told you only people with no life and no real live friends live this much on the net) - got an eyeopener when he dropped into an electoral office in Canberra for me.
He discovered just how easy it is to find someone.
He also discovered a man sitting on the computer next to him with a big list and a laptop, ticking off names and typing in addresses.
I suggested debt collector - we're also working on the theory that the bloke was a fanatic terrorist making his own 'black list' of dissenting political figures.

The only person I'm having trouble finding is in her 80s and, last thing I heard from her, bed-ridden - she doesn't seem to be surfing the net at all, partly a generational thing (which, to be honest, wouldn't really apply to Dixie as she's the most amazing person in the world and a total information junkie) and, I'm thinking, probably a capability thing.
I hate to think that when I find her finally it'll be next to an obituary notice.
But, ironically, she's been a journo for so many years that she was the one person who had her details supressed on the electoral roll.
(Kisses to D for making the effort to go into the office and look up her name for me!)

And yet, last night I had a phone call from someone who told me they'd got my phone number from a 'public database' and wanted to know if there was anyone living at the next house over?
They did not tell me where they were from, but I thought I recognised the name from a conversation I'd had with my electricity provider earlier in the day, and then asked me if I knew any members of my neighbour's family.
That kind of thing shits me!

Of course, that's exactly how I tracked down my own half-sister, and I've been known to ring local pubs to get in contact with someone for a news story - so I'm not exactly talking from any high moral ground here.
But nonetheless...privacy is an illusion.
You don't even have to buy into the big conspiracy Big Brother eye-in-the-sky theories, you just have to drop into your local electoral office with a laptop and a list.

When my family started tracing their geneaology we even found an Uncle from a second family my Grandfather had on the go in Germany, in addition to his 11 kids in Wales.
There are no skeletons in closests any more - they're all flying around in cyberspace.

So...unless you ARE hoping someone from your past will find you.
You CAN get your name & number left out of the White Pages without being unlisted.
You CAN suppress your electoral roll details.
Soon, you CAN stop service providers calling you at home (keep an eye on that bill).
And you should definitely Google your own name - it's very revealing.
One day, there will be NO secrets...keep that in mind if you have children of your own.

Talent? Or Good Old Depression?

A friend just commented to me that some of my best writing happens when I'm 'down'.
It's the 'tortured artist' complex I guess. Think Sylvia Plath and Toulouse Lautrec.
And it must have some validity because those mates I have that I correspond mostly with by email or on-line tend to disappear when their lives are going well.
Better things to do, I guess.
Good on 'em too.

What a Woman Wants

I am supposed to be catching up on the latest household disaster that built around me during my most recent 'down' phase so that the real estate agents can come around and tell me that I'll never cover my loan the way this place is now

I so don't want to give up on this place, I don't want to lose on it, I'm crying all the damn time, I don't want to move again, I am SO TIRED! So broke and so DAMN OLD!

I wish I could just sleep the next 12 months away and wake up to a Prince Charming who knows how to pack a fucking box.

Of course...then I'd just be older.

And another one...

Racism...forgot that one.
It's been a long time since I pulled out my soapbox.

The BHV sister-in-law is my favourite target. The woman who wanted to know how a bunch of 'slopes' could run a French Bread Shop. Totally ignoring the fact that the incredibly lovely and hard-working family were Vietnamese and their anscestors had lived under French colonialism for centuries.
In fact, totally ignoring the fact that her own, very white brother cooked in a Chinese Restaurant for two years.
The woman who referred to her own Aunty as a 'coon' and resented her cousins receiving Austudy, but is now collecting a pension, working under the counter and collecting maintenance from three guys.
This is the woman whose daughter I bought a black babydoll for.
She's got another daughter these days, and another child on the way - time to buy a 'Hambel' doll I think. Then the girls can learn ALL the good words, really early on.
Hopefully the next baby's a boy - I'll send him a tutu and a fairywings and we can get started on gay rights really early.

Why bother with racism?
There's enough wankers in the world to denigrate - who needs to categorise them by colour-of-skin or place-of-birth?
Again, it's probably just like sport - it's easier to pick 'the enemy' if you give them their own uniform.

Subjects to avoid...

You know, I've discussed politics. Mine & other people's...and of course, The Lorax's.
We've looked at Infidelity.
Sexuality.
Divorce and Single Motherdom.
We've slagged off public figures, slagged off not-so-public-until-now figures.
About time we got around to religion don't you think?

I'll work on that one...I'm surprised I haven't got there yet.
Oh yes, there was the time I made my school pastor cry.
I have that effect on lots of people though, so we'll skip over that one.
Poor man has more souls than just mine to despair over these days - I went to my 10-year-school reunion, I know.

And the time we made The Girl cry because we wouldn't let her do her 'homework' provided by a visiting Bishop who wanted her to do a fun word puzzle that required her to change 'sad' to 'fun' in five easy steps, by changing a letter each time.
You should have heard the volcano in the kitchen when The Man realised the middle word was 'sin' - "my five-year-old does not need to know the word SIN!"
More interesting was the lecture he gave the local chaplain when she introduced herself at Sports Day - and then the two other mums on either side who piped up when they heard the conversation to discuss how insistent their own kids had been about the 'homework'.

Then there was the little talk I had with the Reception teacher about, yes, of course we should learn the historical origin of Easter and Christmas.
But when was someone going to teach my kids about the Festival of Lights or Chinese New Year?
And if I really wanted a Christian education for my children, wouldn't I have sent them across the road to the Catholic School?

I have terrible trouble answering my children's questions.
The Man had some pretty extreme beliefs about cloning and ancient Sumerian legends (pretty big leap for a guy who studied for the Seminary) and while I believe in moral action and the laws of social cohesion, I don't really need a religious structure or deity to legitimise those convictions for myself.
I believe that life goes on, no matter what, and that people seek order and build structures, because that's in their nature, and we all want to believe we're important.
I believe Jesus of Nazareth and Mohammed and Buddha and even Confucious were charismatic leaders with many worthy beliefs that I also, collectively, endorse.
But Hitler and Stalin and Martin Luther King and Malcolm X and Ghandi and even Dubya are 'charismatic' leaders - we, living in their times, still mostly undiluted by human censorship, would we call them divine?
Will someone else, one day, do exactly that?

I think of it as 'the Good Old Days' complex.
Everything was better in 'the Good Old Days'.
No, probably not, but if it was a long time ago then it's a lot fuzzier and that's always more attractive - ask Diana Ross and her policy on stockings and vaseline on camera lenses. FUZZY, not fantastic!

I write for a living.
I watch stories I've collected, change and twist and come out of someone else's mouth four people down the line - and that's in a matter of days.
Don't ever hand me a book and tell me it's The Truth.
It's only words - good words, bad words, meaninful words - that bit's up to you decide.

Although, you know, when I meet someone who truly has faith, who has somewhere in side to go to find peace when the world doesn't make sense...it makes me a little jealous.
There's got to be a certain freedom in handing over responsiblity to some greater, grander I AM to sort things out.
Imshallah!

My Dad gave me my understanding of Imshallah when he told about being with the British Army selling planes with new, fantastic weapons systems to Saudis.
After watching the Saudi pilot fly over the target twice without testing the weapon, he quizzed him on the ground why he hadn't fired.
The pilot hadn't known he had to press the little red button.
Imshallah - he proclaimed.
They obviously weren't meant to purchase these weapons.
That moment stuck in my Dad's head, and always stuck in mine - I guess we're too much alike that way.
Too big a bunch of fighters, pushers, questioners...maybe it comes of growing up in a town where recycling isn't throwing your Coke cans in the yellow bin, it's building homes out of mud and straw, where conservation isn't planting trees, it's riding out on surfboards to spraypaint slogans on the side of nuke ships.

If there is a God? And we're created in his image? Doesn't that mean he's a fighter too?

I just think religion is a little too much like Rugby League teams.
Whichever colour your wearing, it's your job to beat the crap out of the other team in other colours, but, let's face it, when they get back to the hotel rooms and the locker rooms they don't act all that different.

What the Hell are you Doing?

Who are you people?
How did you find this site?
What the hell are you doing in front of a computer screen instead of out having an exciting life?
Worse - what are you doing reading my sad, self-obsessive crap for?
You're all masochists!
PUT...THE MOUSE...DOWN!

I know what I'm doing here, it's bloody scary though to find out so many people are out there watching me do it. (There's so many innuendos that could fit, right here, but apparently my Mum reads this blog too - and my Aunties, and a couple of their neighbours, and someone's sister in Manchester, and some cousins in Wales I never met and who probably think my hair is really that colour and I look that good from any other angle - in fact, it's getting quite bloody busy in my little corner of cyberspace)

I thought I was anonymous, then I saw the temporary counter tick over, and started getting messages from other (perfectly nice, I must say) blog-addicted people.
I didn't blog for a month after that.

You know, one day someone will document these blogs - like they do in Anne McCaffrey's short stories, and psychoanalyse the whole 21st century through our little narcissistic ravings.
I pity the poor bastard who gets my site to sort out - how's about a game of emotional ping pong then?

But, it's a good hobby for me.
I'm too busy obsessing about myself to go around judging anyone else right at this moment.
Of course, that's cut off a lot of the gossip supply to some good friends but, hey, we all make sacrifices eh?

This is my attempt to beat kharma - harmless self-obsession is better than gratuitous obsession with everyone else's life...at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

...so what's your excuse?

Dear Kids

I'm writing my kids a letter.
It has all the wonderful memories of their Dad and me, so they don't ever think it was worth nothing.
So that they'll know we were special once.

It's a nice place to put the good memories when they come.
Leaves me some empty spaces for new good memories.

New Directions...AGAIN

Well, that's it, I'm pointing myself in a new direction again...and God I'm not looking forward to moving all over again, by myself, again.
I'm moving, throwing in the hilltop home dream for a beachside business possibility.
Closer to family, a chance to make new friends, maybe even get a tan and show off this new slightly more svelte figure - but it's so hard to start over AGAIN, even if this time it will be a fresh start with fewer old ties, both financial and emotional.

I'm tired. If only I was rich (or even just not in debt) and could afford a removalist this time around.
The Real Estate agent is going to come tomorrow and tell me I'll be lucky to cover my loan, let alone the money we've put in getting this place back down to bare bones.
And that's the problem, that's all it is now, bare bones and holes - you could call it a blank canvas but they don't usually have so many rocks and old pieces of plumbing to move.

I love this place, I love the trees and the view and the fireplaces and all the dreams and the almond trees which are pink and white like all those Japanese cherry tree paintings I loved to look at, growing up.
I loved the idea of finally, having a home, where I picked paint colours and planted gardens and had daffodils and tulips under my almond trees in spring.

But I can't do it alone, and I want some help - I want to be near my family and know that when I'm feeling like an old harpy the kids have Nanna or Grumpy or their Uncle and Aunty down the road to make them smile.
I don't want them to ever be lonely, and I think if we stay here - too close to The Man's family who, for so many reasons, aren't going to spend time with The Kids, too far from The Man who has a new life to go to where he can forget about me, and too wrapped up around me and my uncertainties - then they will be.
And I won't be enough, because one person just cant' be - not all the time.

I always wanted them to grow up with boats and dolphins and fishing trips and crabbing and digging with their toes for pipis - like I did.
This will be their chance.
I'd go back to NSW or somewhere totally new but I can't afford it and as much as I'd like to ditch any memory of him right now and run I can't take The Kids away from their Dad...and I'd still not have family to support me over there.
Maybe later, when the kids are older I can go back to papers in some pretty little town on the East coast somewhere.
Or WA - I'd love to see Margaret River or Monkey Mia.

Right now, I just want to know there's a job and a house waiting for me where I can buy curtains to make it pretty - I don't first have to replace the windows and plaster the walls.
That would have been wonderful, to build something with someone working beside me, but we just weren't capable of it.

It's not the easy way out - it's going to be a right pain in the arse.
But it's probably the cleanest way out.
The school we're looking at is bigger with all sorts of music and gifted programs for The Kids, who look like they need it just to not be bored - and it's a huge sporting community.
I won't be surrounded ONLY by retirees (don't get me wrong, there'll be a hell of a lot of them but I'll be close to Port Lincoln and that seems like a cool place) and I might make some new friends - ones I don't have to TYPE TO...

How did I become so plebian?
Since I was seven years old and I read my first National Geographic (which I have an identical copy of, hidden in a box under my bed) about two journalists and their experiences in the Amazon, I have wanted to travel. There was a photo of them sheltering under a giant fern leaf in the rain and their story was more interesting than all the articles put together.

Until The Kids came along, I have moved every time I felt like it, always had a job and a new adventure to go to, never thought twice about starting over again (to be fair, sometimes to the detriment of The Man whose been looking to put down roots all his life)...it's amazing how, as soon as the kids were born I just clicked into being someone else, and I wasn't very good at it.
I always feel like I'm compromising myself by staying put - but this is what I want for my kids, and it's only a little part of my life isn't it? It's not a big part of my life, but it is a hugely important one.
I love them so much it vibrates in my skin and it doesn't matter that I haven't written my books yet, or studied for a long time, or volunteered overseas to get that experience I need to set up third-world communication networks (big plans? oh no, not me).

But I've been asking myself for a while..."When did I ever want just security and sameness?"
And why, when it was on offer, did I not know how to just grab hold of it and build on it?

These are things I will take with me and know better next time...hopefully.
I'm not much of a 'dater' though, and I can't see myself ever being swept off my feet again.
You only get one 'thunderbolt' in your lifetime I think - the danger is there's a lot of lightning when there's thunderbolts.

The odds aren't good you know, they reckon more second marriages fail than first, and more third marriages than seconds.
God knows I'd never get married again. I wasn't that sure the first time although I loved feeling married - and I still think if I'd saved the money on the wedding I was so keen on and got on that plane the week BEFORE Ansett crashed we would have had a great time.

I'm damn sure I don't want someone else in my kids' lives that I don't know - and where's the time to get to know someone when you're raising kids?

Christ - right now I don't even like the idea of getting naked in front of someone who didn't contribute to these stretch marks.
What's the use of being with someone who doesn't at least REMEMBER that your boobs used to point north before they headed south?

It's all crap you know...all this ranting and moaning.
The world's still turning and I go on...I just barrel ahead like I always do, but this time I'll be dragging the cherubs along with me.
Hobby Farm Hopefuls is about to be over.
Time for a sea change.
A fresh start...Again.
How many do you think someone gets in one lifetime?

Green Thumbs

I'm too organised for my own good these days.
I've got the kids so wrapped up in my routines, that when they go away my plants wilt and the chooks and cats get their breakfast late.
I don't know whether I'm teaching them to contribute to their home and household, or just using them as child slave labour.
But then...whatever works eh?

I've lost my green thumb though.
Can't even grow alfalfa sprouts at the moment.
I'm sure Kay Cottee could never have fended off scurvy with this green, algae-looking scum in a jar.

Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson Knew What he Was Talking About

Ever hear that song by Kevin 'Bloody' Wilson - 'stick that fucking phone, up your fucking arse'?
I emphathise so much after this weekend.

Imagine this, how about paying a fortune to log onto ISDN (the only broadband-style service available up here in the hills) and finding out that Telstra will only come one day in 14 to this area, turning down work to be at home, having to talk to 14 (I kid you not) operators to set the system up yourself while the technician stands behind you watching...and then, discover at midnight when you're downloading the 24 newspaper pages you've just been contracted to rescue, that Telstra has a new policy of putting everyone's account on a 12-hour-hold while they check your credit details to avoid fraudulent accounts being set up.

Of course, one of my IT-savvy friends suggested that maybe they were just sick of me and thought if they could put me off until after the weekend I'd go away and stop harassing their staff.
Quite possible - after all, all those diversions to India must cost them a lot of money!

Melodians - Musical Spit Catchers

I was watching a man on TV playing the melodian the other night, behind a 90s-style folk song.

We had melodians in fourth grade (hello Mrs Jobson, I still remember you if you're out there) - a little keyboard with a squishy pipe tube which you blew into like a bagpipe to power the keys.
I guess it was an attempt to save on batteries and still teach 24 little pre-teens a keyboard.
But tell me, of all the instruments int the world, why would you give primary school students something that is intrinsically designed to collect spit and then shared around to other kids...FOR GENERATIONS.
I bet you they still have those bastard things at Mullumbimby Primary School.

These days, if the asthmatics didn't get them banned then they'd be thrown out as a Hep C risk.
Oh, how the world has changed.

Oedipal Complex

It seems that the 'boob magnet' gene runs in families - families where the girls have boobs, the boys gro up wanting them. Or at least, to touch them...on other people's sisters and daughters of course...let me just make that very clear, it's not THAT kind of blog site thankyou very much.

How many nights did I wake up with The Man's hand on one breast and The Boy's on the other?
Can you get more Oedipal than that...especially now that The Man is actually gone.

Well, it's all Greek to me sometimes.

Sold My Soul

Hello, we're back again!
I'm officially at home on line now.
I wasn't able to access Yahoo while working at the Last Great Bastian of Liberal Policy-Making...for some reason the Australian Government's SOE blocks yahoo sites of all kinds - go figure.

So, you want to hear how desperate I am for work - this weekend I volunteered (yes, you read right) to hand out 'how to vote Liberal' cards at my local polling booth. (If volunteering means glancing around with shifty eyes and sheepishly answering 'sure' when the State campaign manager catches you working in the Federal Liberal Electorate office and asks you in front of your staunchly Liberal co-workers whether you'd mind showing your support for the party at your tiny hamlet's polling booth).

The Kids came down with me.
Of course, the funniest bit is that the whole time I was there The Kids were brawling and covering themselves in Commonwealth Games mascot iceblocks, and I didn't realise but the pair of them were sitting in front of the 'Family First' propaganda - they even left green and gold fingerprints on the signs.
A little bit of hands-on family life might actually make a few naifs think twice about voting for THAT party.

But on the way home, The Kids asked me who I voted for and I told them the Greens, because, like The Lorax, they "speak for the trees".
I don't think I'll have a job at the Bastian next week...LOL.

Of course, if the Greens get in in a landslide, I apologise right now to all my lovely Roxby Downs friends who will be suddenly out of work when the no uranium mining policy comes into place.
Sorry - can't win 'em all!

And in the Upper House - I numbered every one of those 54 boxes and felt so sorry for whichever poor bastard has to check that you've numbered them all correctly.
Wouldn't you feel inclined to just go 'dud vote' every time you saw one of those conscientiously-ticked ballots? "Oops, there's another loser who can't count - file that in the round file'.

And if all my independents get in - No Pokies, No Guns, No Nukes, No Drugs, No Live Exports, No Battery Hens, No Abortion, No Fun at All For Anyone...oh, except for the sheep and hens of course.

Bathroom Basketball

I hung a toy basketball ring in my shower last week.
This is my attempt at improving the kids' coordination.
Of course, I'm not sure how encouraging them to run around chasing a slippery ball in a soapy, tiled room will help them.
After all, repeated concussion - and the resulting brain damage - doesn't necessarily perpetuate good motor skills.

Spideropolis

The Boy was scavenging under his bed to pick up his giant toy tarantula (which I stole for him one halloween from a pub party)...and it moved!

We are living in Spideropolis.

Getting Better

After the kids, after I went back to work with both of them, I think I got really sick.
My shrink keeps talking about Post-Natal Depression and I get my back up because he doesn't seem to understand that the kids were the one thing that shone a little light in my life.
They were the thing that kept me going, and gave me smiles, and provided me with the affection I needed.
Although, yes, occasionally I wanted to run screaming a million miles away from them just to be able to breathe without little hands on me.

I remember trying to explain to The Man that I'd lost all ability to prioritise.
Everything had become a job, just one more voice demanding something from me, one more job I might fail at because there wasn't enough time in the day.
So while he was falling apart because the woman he loved didn't spend any time with him, didn't want to be with him- the truth is I couldn't manage anything.
Every person, every friend, every event, every job, was just one more loud buzz in my head screaming 'hurry up, look at me, do this NOW'.
I isolated myself, I gave up all sport and the gym, eventually the singing collapsed and the work kept getting bigger and I never went away for a weekend in case the world collapsed while I was sitting on a beach somewhere.

So it's not just The Man's fault that my life fell apart.
And it's hard to say, but I was sick, really sick, and no one could fix it for me - and that killed him too. And me.
So now I'm getting better, and I don't want to work that hard again, ever, I don't want things to get on top of me, I don't want to cry about going to work and stay up nights because I took three hours out of my day to be with my kids before bedtime and now I have to catch up on something else.
I don't want to be looking at a computer screen, crying, because I'm so tired I can't spell and there's no one else to do that job for me.
I want to take my kids to ballet or cricket and just sit, and enjoy them, not try and squeeze two jobs in while they're running around.

In the rest of my life, for the rest of my life, there will be holidays and swimming, dancing and sport, weekends for 'catching up', time to do dishes and go to the movies - not one or the other.
I never want to feel that sick again.
And it's always going to be there, isn't it? It's always going to be in me. So I'm going to have to draw my boundaries every day of my life, for the rest of my life - my new, happier life.

Shake Your Jiggly Bits

Bellydancing was a BALL!
Well not literally - it was a 'Belladee' - which is the same thing but for bellydancers.
Actually a 'Belladee' is a lot like an 80s disco where you all stand in a circle clapping while the popular kids take turns in the middle busting their moves.

Apparently, I am a 'natural'.
I'd be more impressed by that comment if my instructor wasn't a 60-year-old Irish woman who learnt to bellydance in a 40-minute workshop at the same community hall I'm learning in.

Anyway - does a 'natural' just mean I've got a belly? LOL
My Dad could be a 'natural' then.
'Norm' could be a 'natural'.

But it was exercise and music and giggly, girly fun - all of which I needed.
Same time, same place, next Tuesday.

Sick to the Guts

It makes me sick to the guts that I can't offer these kids the family they deserve.
Not that we were a healthy family before, with all our craziness and unhappiness, but that was between me and The Man and we shared our joy in the kids for a long time.
To know they're not going to see their Dad every day, and that I'm not going to grow old with their Dad and watch them be happy, one day, together, with families of their own.
It's just wrong.

We so wanted to give them that family, a real family that got through fights and hard times and still loved each other at the end.

I don't want other people in their lives, although I know The Man and I both deserve someone to love us, for ourselves...and The Kids deserve to see their parents happy.
But it's not right, and it's not enough, and it makes me ill.

I'd be happy to just be content in my own relationship - and maybe just not crazy - if I knew my kids were getting up to cuddles and kisses from both of us every day.
I know it doesn't work that way, I know it's not enough and everyone deserves their own happiness but I'm not happy about this.

No one else will ever love them the way he and I do, and it's just not right.

As I get further away from my own feelings of sadness I discover new sadness for my family.
And I'm lost - I just can't fix this.
No one can.
And it makes me despair.

Open Mouth, Engage Foot

You know how some people have an automatic filter between their mouth and their brain.
I don't have that. I have to concentrate to flick that switch.

I read on a school wall once, sayings by children, 'how can I know what I want to say until I've said it?'.
That's what I'm like.

I missed out on the job I wanted.
Great references, great skills, only criticism (besides we don't want you) was too full-on in the interview.
Fuck, fuck fuckity fuck!