Just let the writer write

Okay, so you all know you cannot at any time have sex without a condom. There are diseases you can get and there’s the whole pregnancy thing and some would say it’s not ‘nice’ dealing with sticky stuff. What? You've heard all that before?  It’s not what you believe?  Oh, you don’t care for the dictates of others? You’re saying you can do as your conscience sees fit and you are aware of consequences? Wow…well, okay, if you have a mind of your own that’s your choice. 

Here’s the thing, stories are just that – made up fiction. An author has an idea. They write it. It may or may not be based on their beliefs. A reader buys a story and reads it. The reader has a mind of their own. They read and evaluate using their belief system. It’s a no-brainer really. When someone reads a story with vampire sex – chances are pretty slim of sleeping with a vampire  - but if the question came up then the reader would make a decision based on her beliefs and not on what was written in a story. Sex with a condom or without a condom – same thing. A reader isn’t instantly going to change her sexual preferences based on whether a writer has a to semen or not to semen ethic. And writers? Hell, they’re not responsible if you get pregnant by a gargoyle just because the heroine in their story did. Gargoyle sex is a personal preference and not a decree by an author.

No writer is ever going to say in a story have sex or don’t have sex or use a condom or don’t use a condom or don’t ride a cowboy or be sucked by a vampire during sex or have gay sex, lesbian sex, man on the moon sex, clown sex…ok, I am going to draw the line at clown sex because clowns are creepy. It's no ones business what anyone else does - except for the clown thing of course. That'll send you straight to hell.

  

The thing is everyone is accountable for their own lives. No book or story or any piece of romantic or erotic fiction is going to make you do something you know in your heart you’re morally against. I wouldn’t expect that of anyone. I do, however, think some publishers are getting sillier by the second when they assume readers cannot make judgments for themselves and that as publishers, what makes their teeth grit, is not necessarily a moral indicator of what’s good and bad in the world. Sure, sure, they know what the trends are. They don’t want to buck the system. Buck it I say. Let the individual decide for themselves. Trends only come about when someone challenges the norm. 

Years ago, when I was writing for Ellora’s Cave, and every hero had to have condoms on or else you wouldn’t get published -  it’s probably still the same at EC -  I had a reader email me saying she liked one of my stories but she was – SICK OF CONDOMS!!!! I CAN MAKE MY OWN DECISIONS ABOUT SEX!  STOP THE CONDOMS! Yes, it was all in capitals. I’ve never forgotten it. I have it somewhere in my files. And I thought then as I do now, yep the woman is right. Readers are individuals who will read sex on their terms and make decisions based on their beliefs as to whether there is latex snapped on or not. 

Just let the writer write.           

Pretty much a plethora...

I have done it. Sex. I have written a plethora. I’m not sure you can have a plethora of sex. It may be a bunch or a multitude or a butt load…okay, maybe not a butt load but a lot – possibly heaps. So, sex written, done, dusted, in, out, over, under, knit, purl – was it good for you? 

I need coffee...

Left foot yellow...

So, I had four stories half written then stuff happened and I had to put writing on hold. It was a no brainer. Life is more important than writing. Anyway, I finished one story and I’m pretty pleased that I have almost finished another – but for the sex. My standard way to write is to write all around the sex, sort of leaving a marker, highlighted in yellow, where sex is to go, with notes like – left foot on yellow circle, butt in air, in & out, up & down, dick stage left, boobs stage right, under, over, red rover, red rover, come play in the clover, ooh, baby, baby, oww, ooh, yeah, noooo, okay then, ahhhh….whoa…down girl, up boy, was it good for you…yes, no, yes, yes, yes….ahhhh…

Sex, it rarely makes sense. Highlight it in yellow and see where it goes.          

Ah, Frank...

No Skinnie Minnies here...

HILDA Evelyn Kottman is a self-styled bad arse.

She's been inked, she gambles, collects boyfriends and loves whiskey.

Oh, and she's 103 years old.

http://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/real-life/hilda-evelyn-kottman-is-the-worlds-coolest-grandma/story-fnixwvgh-1226789989366

Go Hilda. To thine own self be true.

It all comes down to cake....

It occurred to me today, as I was writing, life all comes down to cake. How so? We like cake. We eat cake. We buy or make cakes for birthdays to make other people feel happy about getting cake. Cake gives pleasure. It unites people at weddings. It inspires people to be creative and something they can look at with pride. People win awards for cakes. Cake can be thrown at people in anger without anyone getting hurt. Cake is guilt free when you’re upset because negative emotions block out fat. Happy emotions also block out fat. Cake pleases and teases. It is gender neutral and colour blind. Cake is the united nations of the food world.   

I wrote cake into a story. How? It’s a long story. Why? See the answer to the first question. Maybe we can talk about it over cake.  

Give me peace on earth....

What a lovely thought. 

Merry Christmas. Happy Holidays. Peace on Earth.

When I was a kid...

....I had real trouble believing in the whole Santa Claus thing. I went along with it because it seemed important to my parents and you know, at 5 years old, you can fake a lot. But, I didn't see the whole visiting every kid on the planet thing in one night as doable. Seriously? Is Santa supposed to fib?  

Now, I'm more inclined to be on board with the idea of Santa Claus. Fibs are okay and I want to see if he really does differentiate between naughty and nice. 


 
 

Seize the Day....

It’s been a hell of a year. It’s reinforced something I always knew and believed in – seize the day. I look at something and more and more I think ‘fuck it - I’m going to do it, be it, take it, live it.’ My theory is I don’t want to look back on my life and think to myself I should have done that one or dozen things that would have made me that little bit happier despite the cost be it financial or emotional.   

Seize it. Own it. Be it. And to hell with anyone who tries to get in your way.  

Where do you want to go?

“Alice came to a fork in the road. 'Which road do I take?' she asked.
'Where do you want to go?' responded the Cheshire Cat.
'I don't know,' Alice answered.
'Then,' said the Cat, 'it doesn't matter.” 

~Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

The Kings of Scotland...

So, I’ve accepted this new job that will be a challenge. The fact that it will be a new challenge doesn’t bother me. I view challenges as a renewal of spirit and I'm one of those weird, confident people who like radical change. I did, however, have one moment when I was reading through the info that was sent to me to sign and I thought ‘Crap, I hope I’m smart enough to pass this medical study’. It was then that I could hear my mother’s voice saying to me, as she did when we were kids, ‘You are descended from the Kings of Scotland. Of course you can do it.’ It was Mum’s rallying cry. I remember Mum always saying this. It instantly made me straighten my spine and forge on ahead regardless of whether I succeeded or fell on my arse.

So, I gird my loins and go forth, with royal Scottish blood in my veins, and I will pass because I am descended from the Kings of Scotland and nothing can stop me.  

The stodger effect...

Okay, I believe I have worked out why Dulcie, the chook, goes into terribly dark, brooding, evil eyed, sinister moods where she refuses to move and looks at me like I’m scum. It’s the stodger effect.

Ipso facto – three eggs. The small white one is Ursula the chook’s egg. She’s what I call beauty challenged and scared of absolutely everything – but she tries hard and one can’t fault the ratbag chortler that.  The middle one is from Laverne, aka Houdini I-can-escape-anything-so-let-me-run-free-or-else the chook. The last one? The big stodger of an egg that barely fits into the palm of my hand?  That’s Dulcie’s. Yeah, I reckon one small bodied chook may just be a tad cranky after laying such a ginormous egg. She can have her dark moments. I get it.

Ok, if I multiply X by 8 hours, 5 days week and take out tax...

Today I started the next temp job which goes for 4 weeks and fills in a gap until I start my new permanent job. Temps – we’re hookers – we’ll do or say or feign fake emotion as long as you pay us…oh baby, oh baby, sure, I’ll type, file, answer the phone, look diligent…just give me the money, honey.  So, this temp job – I walked in. There are three women in the office. They all hate each other. I got that straight away. Frosty air and deadly silent, evil stares tend to be a dead giveaway. No surprise whatsoever because rarely, in my experience, do women like other women in offices. “Whatever,” I said to myself. “Kill each other. Who cares?  Keep me out of it. I’m here to get paid.” It’s the temp’s mantra.  As I sat down and started work – which, there was none - again, not a surprise because I often find with temp jobs the inmates wail about too much work and demand help and when help arrives the help looks around and thinks "there is no work" followed closely by "I hope they have decent internet" and the ever popular "Now, what do I have to print and how much paper do they have?”

So, there was stuff all to do at work. That was okay because I worked out how much pay I should get paid doing stuff all followed by making plans to spend as little time as possible in Brisbane when I’m in that city  during the 7 weeks of training I have to do there and then I came up with a fantastic idea for the backyard patio that required my sketching lots of drawings.

Temping. Use your brain. You’re not there to work for god sake. 

Sex...meh...

The truth is writing sex is hard and no writer, despite what they may want and tell you to believe in their 'about me' section, looks like the woman in this picture. Sex is hard to write and writers are generally people in sweat pants or shorts and t-shirts or pyjamas, their hair screwed up on their head, a pen behind their ear, wearing smudged specs as they try and think hot, dirty thoughts to type frantically before they forget what the hell he did to her with what, all at the same time as drinking too much coffee or coke or chocolate milk while kicking, with their unpolished toenail, the discarded sandwich, on a chipped plate, on the floor, where they put it because the desk is for scraps of paper with half scribbled notes on it all about sex. Just so you know when you read sex again…     

Must stop it...

I keep telling myself 'Don’t do it. It’s madness. Why are you doing this? You can break this cycle.' And yet – I found myself this arvo in front of the television, sewing something – yes, remember when people knew how to sew – and I was yelling at an old episode of The Bachelor when Sean gave that trashy bag Tierra a rose and it made her safe from elimination. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I yelled at him. There was no response because it’s TV. Duh. I don’t know why I get hooked on the Bachelor. It’s reality TV for god sake. Its simulated people in simulated situations that are designed to be mindless viewing for the masses…oh...right. That’s why.

    

I wrote stuff today...

I haven't written in ages due to various things, situations and life stuff. But, I picked up one of 4 half finished stories and banged out a bunch of words. I'm happy with that. 

Life - don't it just get in the way of stuff?  

Me, the Hulk and Susie...

Apparently I have really strong arms. My boxing instructor told me that not many people, let alone women, can keep solidly boxing for 30 minutes without stopping or dying. Many a time I want to stop or fall on the floor in a sweaty heap and scream ‘Uncle!’ Or ‘Aunt!’ Or ‘Leave me the hell alone!’ But I don’t. I’m not sure why. Possibly it’s sheer stamina or bloody minded determination or maybe its like one of those nonsensical tests at school where Billy is travelling on one train wearing a red sweater, Freddie is travelling in a car eating an ice-cream and Harry is riding a bike wearing a baseball cap – which one will get to point A to B fastest and claim the prize? None of them because Susie thought ‘Stuff the lot of them, I’ll switch the signs around so they all go in different directions and get lost and I’ll win.’

Susie probably had strong arms too.         

Sweat it...

So, after my 5km walk – I’m not running again yet, I’m trying to be a good, obedient girl due to my pulled muscle – it completely sucks of course – and after an hour of RPM (Raw power in motion on spin bikes aka really painful muscles on bikes with tweeny weeny seats), I did aqua aerobics. I’m a great believer in trying everything at least once. Would I do the mermaidian aqua thing again? Er, no. It’s a little tame for me. I’m one of those people who likes to sweat profusely while doing things hard and fast and painfully because in my mind all that torture means serious kill-you-or-cure-you-fitness. I like to limp away exhausted. I want my muscles with a side order of oh-my-god-why-did-I-do-that-pain and knowing that the litres of toxins sweated out means I can go put more evil, naughty, lovely things in and sweat them all out again. 

Nobody ever drowned in his own sweat ~Ann Landers 

Both tears and sweat are salty, but they render a different result. Tears will get you sympathy; sweat will get you change ~Jesse Jackson 

Surrender? Don't be bloody silly, we're Australian…

The other day I received conduct records regarding my father’s service in the Australian Army. He was a career soldier – starting as a Nasho (National Serviceman) and then going through peace keeping in Korea, the Malay Emergency and later in Vietnam working with US Special Forces and then with the Army on home soil. He would always tell of the time a US Colonel came up to him after a particularly hard battle in Vietnam and declared that my father would be awarded a US medal for his part in it. My father told the Colonel to piss off. Like most Aussie soldiers they didn’t do the job for medals and they sure as hell didn’t care for clean skinned, never-out-in-the-field officers pouncing about. Nah, he didn’t get the medal and he never regretted his words

Anyway, I requested the records from the Army due to accusations I consider slander. As expected the records didn’t indicate much at all in his 30 year history. In fact it was only between 1954 and 1957 that any charges were filed against him. Not so bad for a kid from the slums who had been smacked around by the local cops who told him to go into the Army or else. He went – naturally. What were the charges for? Things like not wearing the right hat or uniform or turning up late. I think of the man he would have been back then – 21 years of age, fresh from the slums of Sydney, a fighter, a survivor and someone who would turn out better than anyone expected.

As for the slander? Greed, jealousy based and un-Australian and I will not countenance it.       

Surrender? Don't be bloody silly, we're Australian…

I cannot surrender. I am in command of Australians who would cut my throat if I did.

http://www.diggerhistory.info/pages-asstd/quote.htm

Not lip service, nor obsequious homage to superiors, nor servile observance of forms and customs...the Australian army is proof that individualism is the best and not the worst foundation upon which to build up collective discipline - General Monash.

**Photo is my father outside the Nee Soon Barracks in Singapore 1958 (serving with 3RAR) 

Not Ms 98% of the population…

So, I attended part two of this psyche test for this job I applied for. It’s been a bloody long process. Part 2 was about going over some questions I answered in part one. Two of my responses to questions confused them. There were questions (330 in all) that you have to answer false, partly truly, slightly true, true. You know the drill. Those two questions were -  

Question one – Do you often get unwanted advertising (junk mail).

I answered false. This confused them because the standard response was true.  Why did I not fall in line with 98% of the population? Because, I told them, I have a ‘no junk mail’ sticker on my mailbox. Ipso facto I get no junk mail. This surprised them as they had not thought of this variable. I would have thought they had and I also wondered why a question on junk mail is so important anyway. It doesn’t tell you anything on life or people.  Good to know I’m not like 98% of people.

Questions two – “You answered that it is slightly true that you will do what people require of you.” Apparently this is a true or false answer only. I pointed out to them in personal life I do whatever I want and rarely do what anyone tells me to unless it makes sense. I added, that in a work situation following a justifiable protocol I will follow it. Now, this surprised them as you are either one or the other. Again, I explained I was not part of any 98% and probably will never be.

After writing copious notes on what I said and I was ‘not to worry about them’- I wasn’t - they asked what questions did I find odd in the 330 question test. I said the one about jumping out of an airplane while doing archery. How so they asked? How so I wondered?  I pointed out as far as I know it’s not the norm to shoot an arrow while free falling. I added this question could only make you look odd if you answered yes because then please explain how often you do the plane and arrow thing or is it only while on drugs? And, if you had never done it then does this mean you’re not prepared to face challenges and danger in life indicating you’re a wuss.  Many, many notes were written down then.

In the end, I explained, quoting Popeye, ‘I am who I am’ and essentially I’m a take or leave me proposition.  I am feel I left the psychologist a little wiser, possibly needing to have an aspirin and lie down. I do what I can in life…

Sweaty thighs...

So, I saw this picture of some really nifty socks. I like socks, particularly ankle socks. I wear them with my Mary Janes. No, I’ll probably never grow up but that’s okay with me. Anyway, I liked the socks and clicked on a tab that said ‘see other suggestions’. I will. I did. A bunch of other socks came up and then what the? How did we go from ankle socks to looking like a hooker in latex tights? They would look terrible with Mary Janes. And who the hell wears latex anyway? And in the tropics? Massive thigh sweat. In the cold? I could see that latex adhering to frozen thighs and having to be blow torched off. Uses for rubberized leggings? Other than maybe if your tyre blows and you have no spare and you rip a legging off and wrap it around the tyre. Other than that, I can’t see them as useful at all. Is this some weird arsed male fantasy ‘cause I seriously cannot see any sane woman wearing them. It just ruined my sock watching…    

Despite the odds, we still believe...

I was doing my normal Sunday morning swim, at the lagoon on the Cairns Esplanade, when this Chinese bridal couple and their photographer came along. It was early morning and they would have been getting some photos done before the general wedding chaos of the day began. I tread water, not wanting to photo bomb the all important pictures, and watched the couple. He was in this silver grey 19^th century type frock coat and he had such a proud, happy look on his face when he looked at his bride. She, in turn, looked quite lovely yet nervous in a strapless gown with a long train that she and the photographer worried a great deal about. When the bride and groom looked at each other with such blatant love in their eyes I thought to myself, yeah, this is what people want to believe in and why despite every setback, failure and facing the odds and still daring to try, that as humans we still believe in love and soul mates and not giving up on finding ‘the one.’ That's nice.

"He’s not perfect. You aren’t either, and the two of you will never be perfect. But if he can make you laugh at least once, causes you to think twice, and if he admits to being human and making mistakes, hold onto him and give him the most you can. He isn’t going to quote poetry, he’s not thinking about you every moment, but he will give you a part of him that he knows you could break. Don’t hurt him, don’t change him, and don’t expect for more than he can give. Don’t analyze. Smile when he makes you happy, yell when he makes you mad, and miss him when he’s not there. Love hard when there is love to be had. Because perfect guys don’t exist, but there’s always one guy that is perfect for you" ~ Bob Marley

Where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods.....

So, at work, a mechanic type person got a metal splinter in his hand. It was all very dramatic and apparently intensely painful and I expect if Steven Spielberg had been there he would have been caught up in the drama and optioned the film rights – that is if the splinter was an actual splinter and not a teeny weeny speck that I could barely see. The bloke in question was apparently in ‘massive pain’ – uh huh – and had to get it out or he was in danger of dying – so he told me. The thing is he couldn’t shove the sharp, splinter get-er-out-er-rer probe into his own hand because he knew it would hurt ‘terribly.’ I did what any woman worth her salt would have done when faced by a whiner, I took the sharp probe, grabbed his hand, plunged it in and flipped the life threatening splinter from his flesh in a matter of seconds. He howled. He pointed to the speck of blood this major surgery involved. Sigh…where have all the good men gone and where are all the gods?  

Gap money...

So, one temp job finishes tomorrow. I got rung up by another company to come in for a look see for another temp job – you know they want to have a quick look at you to see you don’t have two heads. I went, sat, chatted and had only one horrible moment as to which resume they were reading from and what constructive and descriptive info I had given. I have my real resume that lists every job I have ever done and it makes me on one hand, look flighty and on the other ‘very experienced.’ Resume two is a combo of experience and serious commitment. Resume version 3 is the dedicated individual committed to working hard - ydah, ydah, ydah. It depends on the company who I send what to or who has referred me on to them and which version they are holding onto and what I will say. Thank god I’m a great tap dancer when it comes to truth and fiction and can cover my arse at any given moment.

This new temp job is for a short contract. That suits me because essentially I’m going to use them to get paid money and then leave them, of course very upset that I have to - look sincere as I say it – because I'm 95% certain I have this other full time job done and dusted and I need what I call gap money in the interim.

Yes, the machinations of my mind often exhaust me…

Pistols at dawn....

So, at the temp job, which finishes Friday and I’m not at all upset as it’s the most anal place on the planet with the laziest people AKA public service, I have to input these invoices into the computer. Yeah. It’s a no brainer and boring as all get out but being a temp means you’re like a hooker. Pay me for that and I’ll do it. I may not do it well or find it interesting but I’m just doing it for the dosh so don't expect any great emotion, buddy.

Anyway, with the invoices you sit and type in all this crap into the boxes on screen that has to have crap typed into them. I had done a bazillion of these, and was going brain dead, when it occurred to me that in a batch that I had done and just come back from the accounts payable people – I have never met an interesting accounts payable person - they’re a dreary lot whose worlds are ruled by anal rules and the words ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’. I counter this with ‘why not?’ which drives them insane, which I admit I enjoy doing. Where was I? Oh yeah,  so in the batch that came back – picture me typing them in, sending to accounts payable. They type something on the invoices and send then back to me where I’m supposed to receipt them and send them back to them where they probably stamp them 7 times and then file them and someone in 30 years will say ‘what a load of bollocks’ and chuck them out. Ah, public service. So I pointed out in an email a double up of a certain invoice - my error, which they should have picked up - and I said it needed to be cancelled. This caused, let’s call him – Miron – from accounts to have a conniption fit.

We can’t just cancel things

What? You don’t know how?

(insert horrified gasp) That’s not the point. We don’t ever do it.

Why not? It’s a mistake. I made it.

You shouldn’t have made it

Well, you didn’t pick it up in the back and forward crap between us you lot do.

(sucking in of air through clenched teeth). Were you paying attention to what you were doing?

(Me contemplating personal emails, phone calls and personal internet done during work time)  Sure. Absolutely. More than likely. Probably. The thing is Miron it needs to be fixed.

This is so troublesome.

(Troublesome?) Yes, I’m sure it is. If you want to meet me for pistols at dawn and we duel it out then fine but accounts wise you should cancel a double up as you will pay twice and that seems more troublesome.

Oh dear, oh dear…

Miron, get a grip man. Tell me how to cancel it. My ID will be against it and everyone can blame me and I won’t give a crap.

Oh dear, oh dear…

Yeah. Whatever. How do I cancel it?

I’m not sure.

(I knew it) Okay, well there’s this big red X up in the toolbar. I’m gonna click on that. Either it will cancel it or we all die.

Don’t!!!!

Too late. Oh, lookie, the invoice is gone. Do you now get a notification that it's deleted and do you send it to me and I send it back to you with a stamp on it? Then you stamp it and.... 

When do you leave?

Come on Miron, you’ll miss me. You know you will.

So, I had to have sex to save the world…

So, I’ve been reading this series about a female vampire hunter who hangs out with vampires, werewolves, wereleopeards, wererats – you name it and there’s a human who turns into some sort of animal at the full moon – and she knows them all. Anyway, the heroine, who started off all business with guns blazing and with I’ll-kill-you-if-you-look-at-me-sideways-attitude and was pretty much celibate in book one, but now? She is pretty much screwing everyone. Her reasoning, and I believe it’s one we can all use, is that she had to have sex with someone because she is basically trying to save the world and make sure all her friends, who are pretty much male, are safe due to her ability to have sex ad hoc. Yeah, I do understand that. I’m not a slut, I’m a peacemaker, a saviour, a visionary and someone who should be considered for the Nobel Peace Prize purely due to having my body be made available to all and sundry to thrust out their demons or whatever. Yes. It makes perfect sense.

Yeah, the series is starting to annoy me. This woman started out as a tough, no nonsense heroine who was credible in my eyes. I’m not saying don’t have sex to save the world because we’ve all, I’m sure, done that at some time. Sex. Orgasm. World saved. It’s a no-brainer. All I’m saying is get off her and let her go back to being tough and no nonsense. The confused, ‘oh my god why did I have sex with X, Y and Z not to mention L, M, N and O?’ is wearing thin with the heroine.  Yeah, the author is successful and good luck to her. I’m just disappointed she corrupted the character due to her sex.  It makes the character look weak. Give her back her metaphorical balls. 

Ready to amaze...

So, at boxing lessons today, I had to walk back and forward with a 7 kilo (15 pound) medicine ball over my head. At each place I stopped I had to lift this freaking heavy arsed thing up and down over my head ten times. I then did that 14 times back and forward. It was hard. I panted. I sweated. I swore under my breath. But I did it. Why? Because I wanted to prove I could. I showed my bicep to a friend at lunch. He nodded his head and indicated how amazed he was at it. He wasn't. He was just being nice to his demented friend. But, I know that bicep is there just waiting to bulge out and dazzle people with it's magnificence. I hope I’m awake when it does.   

Let's get ridiculous...

Zumba…what can I say about Zumba? I think someone should know the instructor is on drugs. No, really. She was disgustingly, over the top even for a Friday happy and I knew she was on some sort of illicit happy juice that made her smile so wide I was worried she’d swallow her head. How does one deal with that emergency?

Operator?

Yes, what is your emergency?

We have someone here who has lost their head.
Is she a Zumba instructor?

Yes.

Is her body writing our of control in wild, sinuous spasms?

Yeah, it’s not normal.

Is she calling out ‘whop, whop’ continuously and jumping into the crowd, thrusting her pelvis at everyone? Is her stomach on display and abnormally muscular looking?

Yes, operator. What do I do?

Do you have the abnormal need to bump and grind amongst strangers?

No.

How far to the local liquor store?

Not far.

Okay, you sound like a sensible woman. Shimmy away for the mob, don’t make eye contact and get the hell out of there.

What about the others?

Are they all ‘whop-whoppíng?

Yes, it’s horrible.

Don’t be a hero. You can only save yourself. Get out now.  If you show signs of whop-whopping, go immediately to the hospital.

Not fat, just swollen...

So, I went to the physio this arvo due to a pain near my knee. It has been hurting like hell when I slow down. If I keep moving I’m fine. Anyway I stripped down to my undies – always a delightful sight – and she turned my legs this way and that, remarked on my stunning flat feet, with me all the time thinking I probably should have shaved my legs but I’m a slack arse, and only swearing once when she twisted my left leg in a certain way and said ‘Did that hurt?’ Well yes - yes, I believe it did hence the reason I spoke in tongues to express my discomfort and sorry about the hands around your neck. Her thoughts? It appears that this is most likely due to a hard fall I had 5 months ago. I ignored the pain then because it happened in a crap period of my life when I was busy, busy, busy and stopping to acknowledge the pain wasn’t on the agenda because I was busy, busy, busy. She said ‘your knee’s swollen.’ I responded it was just fat. But no, it’s swollen. So, I’m thinking, ipso facto, any other body part of mine that’s fat is really swollen. It makes perfect sense to me. Please feel free to use that excuse too.

Upshot is I am not to run for two weeks. I can walk and box etc but not run. And she wants me to wear this tube thing on my knee when exercising to remind myself I’m not as invincible as I believe. I am actually invincible but I’ll humour her.

The effects of caffeine dependency....

So, I was asked by - let’s call her Penny - at the local coffee shop that I frequent, what I thought about Zumba. I said “Bunch of white women without any rhythm whatsoever.” Penny said she wanted to go Friday arvo after work but she was scared to go alone because she ‘might look silly’ and would I go with her? Hmmm,  me, a white woman without rhythm? Check. Scared? Me? Never. Looking silly? Me? More than likely but my care factor was negative 12 on that. Helping someone who needed help with fitness but was scared to venture out in lycra and made my coffee every morning? I could do that. Besides, she caught me at a weak point - over coffee.  So, Friday, we Zumba. Just another experience in life.     

And he shall be named Gland...

So, there’s this dude at the temp job who keeps calling me 'Amanda.' I either pretend I can’t hear him when he does or I call him 'Gland.' His name is Glen. It annoys him when I call him Gland...really? Boo hoo. Today he called me Amarinda. Correct. Lesson learned, Gland.    

Ooh, fluffy rolled up eggs....

I walked back to the office, through the mechanics workshop – it’s hot, sweaty, grease filled with loud noises abounding and a myriad of obstacles to avoid falling over and down. I pushed open the door into the office and four of the mechanics – big, bouffy blokes – were oohing and ahhing over some sort of machine on the internet that makes eggs in a rolled up tube and getting all giddy as to what sort of fillings they would put inside the rolled up egg thingy. Now hey, I’m all for equality and for men cooking but it was kinda funny to see them all engrossed in fluffy eggs, swapping recipies and wondering how well the machine would wash up – and ‘oh, ooh! Do you think it would make a rolled up crepe that could be filled with cream?’ That had them all excited. I stepped inside, banged the door behind me, smiled and said ‘Hello boys.’ They scarpered from the office fast. Men. Funny, scared creatures. No wonder women are the stronger sex.

Whiskey over the rocks...

I chatted, on the phone, to mate and US based author Anny Cook today.  Whenever I speak to the husky, smooth whiskey-over-the-rocks sounding Ms Cook, I see in my mind’s eye a sultry Ava Gardner who knows what’s what. We spoke about everything from conspiracies to politics, chooks to the weather, books to badgers…okay, maybe not badgers but I expect she would have an opinion on them. I like that. I like people who think outside the square and the conversation is not all about their books. Writers who talk only about writing does my head in. But, not so with the articulate Anny. Good convo mate. We’ll do it again.

Never heard of Anny Cook? Seriously? Well you should. Go immediately to www.annycook.com and buy a Cook book. 

Just because...

Pink bits...

Okay, just a heads up, at the temp job, if you don’t highlight, with a specific pink highlighter pen, pieces of paperwork in the workshop, the mechanics can’t be expected to identify the vehicle concerned with flimsy bits of information on the vehicle like their name, the customer’s name, the fleet number, registration number, license plate number, car make and model, engine, condition, problem – and really how could you expect a trained professional mechanic to be able to identify what they’re trained in unless it’s in pink? Madness to think otherwise. They’ve been doing it this way since 1970. And having it on the computer? Well that’s just a new fangled idea. Mechanical things only work on paper with pink bits on it. These mechanics swear by it.

No really, wouldn’t you want to marry them all?

Bliss me...

Right at this precise moment, I dunno anything and, all things considered, I can live with that. Ignorance is indeed bliss. 

Come, bliss me out.

Bloody Zorco....

So, I’m on my second last final test or as I’m now thinking of this thing I’m doing – second last challenge of Zorco to grab the golden chalice, run across the burning bridge, as arrows fly by all the time avoiding the dragon trying to fry my arse. 

Second last thing? I had to do a medical test today to prove that I am human, female, healthy and I don’t know what else. To be honest, when I was trying to pee in the tiny cup they give you – which is damn near impossible, in my experience, to not pee on your hand – I thought to myself, thinking about the truly crapacious year I have been experiencing “Jeez, woman if this really worth it? What if you don’t pass these bloody Zorco challenges? What then?” Answer? Well, I’ll get by. Forge ahead. Be all that I can be because it occurred to me that I am pretty much damn near indestructible and if I don’t match up to the Zorco thing – no, I have no idea who Zorco is, it just seemed like a good name - then I will continue on, in my own sweetly determined way and something else will come up. So, I marched, pee container in hand and gave it to the nurse, assured in the knowledge that my hands were washed and I could do just about anything.

One test left. Bring it, Zorco…I'm waiting for ya.

Ponderation...

So, I went to a RPM class today. It’s where you join a class of people all on stationary  bikes, that have gears, and you torture yourself by changing gears to make the ride harder, faster, more painful as you pedal like mad, stand and pedal, sit and pedal and sweat profusely as loud, fast paced music pounds away in a room that is darkened but for those black lights that make your white socks glow and the instructor yells at you to go harder and faster and daring you to give up. As if. Anyway, as I was doing the pedal, stand, sit, sweat, looking at my glowing white socks, it occurred to me that my arse was on fire with pain. Why? Those bike seats are small. Fat arse + small seat = youch and bloody hell.  

This made me ponder the scientifics of arses. Surely a larger arse would make the ride easier?  You know more padding, less bone exposure on a teeny, weeny seat. But it doesn’t and I was thrilled at the standing up and pedalling like mad parts. Sitting? Not so thrilled. So, if a larger arse doesn’t cushion pain, what happens to people with small bums? Is it a case, as I tried to explain my theory to a good friend who always looks at me with that indulgent you’re-mad-look-but-being-a-friend-I-will-listen-to-your-latest-theory, that smaller bottoms some how mystically fit the seat better because there’s no overflow and therefore less pressure on sensitive areas of derriere and lady bits?

It’s a ponderation…bums…always with us…always causing problems.      

Uncle Fester's sister...

There’s this woman, at the temp job I’m working at until December 6^th – I mention that date because it would take a million, bazillion dollars and George Clooney naked begging me to marry him for me to extend that date. Some temps jobs are just like that... “love to stay but I would have to scream a lot, in between bouts of falling asleep, if I did.” Anyway, back to the woman. She is so desperate for a man – any man, any age, any how, any way, any kind. She watches them in a predator kind of way and if one of the penilely endowed ones inadvertently glances at her, she’s on him like a rat up a drainpipe – and she hates the fact that I’m the only other woman there and I’m the chatty sort and I talk to people – the men – in the office. I know she hates it because she does that slitty-eyed look that is as mean as cat piss and you know she’s not my buddy. Did I mention she looks a lot like Uncle Fester? Sort of like his sister? Now, I’m not big into how anyone looks – people are people – but I gotta tell you when Festerette does the slitty-eyed thing it freaks me out somewhat.     

This all begs the question, is it acceptable for a woman to be so creepy when it comes to stalking men? I say not. I say if it was a man doing it women would call him a pig. I’m contemplating an intervention with Festerette. Maybe she’s unaware she’s stalking them, drool at the corner of her mouth and lust in her eyes…yeah, I’ll try and take a picture. 

Got hot?

So, pretty damn much on cue, the minute I turned 50 last week, not only did I become even more lovely, powerful, smart and attractive, but the dreaded hot flushes hit. Jeez frigging, Louise. Don’t we women put up with enough crap? Weight issues, periods, sore boobs, men who don’t realize how amazing we are, Tim Tams not on sale, clothes sizes we know should fit us but clearly the stupid manufacturer has labelled them incorrectly, excess lust, no lust, coffee deemed bad, chocolate not good for you, all this talk of being a goddess and empowerment despite the fact we have been empowered for years but hid it to make men feel better, leg shaving and stray facial hair - when all we really want is a sit down, have a chat and a bitch with our bestie while consuming empty calories - and now this sudden surge of pukeable heat that I’m thinking is the devil inducing me on to evil…not that I can’t find it without his help of course.

Women – we’re bloody amazing creatures who put up with a lot.     

Elephants consult me...

I had to, at work, well, not strictly 'had to' at work because in theory I was supposed to be doing work I was getting paid for but that’s a moot point and temps are bad buggers when its comes to following rules because you’re the hired gun for such a short period of time that by the time they work out you did stuff all or this or that is wrong you’ve gone, cash in hand.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so I was doing personal stuff at work. I’m dealing with a legal challenge at the moment and I was writing my responses out to the crapola/fairytales I have to deal with regarding this challenge. As I typed away all this stuff I had locked in my brain – good, detailed, juicy, kick-your-enemy-in-the-arse-at-the-appropriate-time info came back to me. I have a phenomenally long memory. I forget nothing. Ever.  You never know when you’ll need it. My confidence level over this legal crap? You couldn’t jump over it.

Elephants and me? Simpatico baby. We forget nothing.     

From work me…

Hmmm…I’ve sent a message from my work email to my home email. I think its good work email is given to us to do things like that. You know - email friends, sending reminders home to yourself etc. Anyway I’ve just opened my personal, home email and there’s a reminder from work me. ‘SL PL’ is in the subject field. Huh? I opened the email up. There’s nothing else but SL PL. What was work me thinking? It had to be something good and relevant because some of my best thoughts come at work when I’m wasting time. But SL PL? What the?  Home me has no idea what drugs work me was on when I wrote that. Sloppy plankton? Silly pillock? Slam polyester? Shimmering plonk? Skippy planks? I dunno. I’ve sent an email back to work me suggesting, in future, I make sense at work. I know work me will laugh my arse off when I read that.   

Two things...

I was at the gym this morning running 5km. It was either do it at the gym and sweat a lot or do it along the Cairns Esplanade and sweat a lot. I chose door number one due to air con. Anyway, I ramped up the treadie and ran faster than I ever had before – I feel this pain deeply now. But the point of my story is this – there was this woman on the next treadmill who was running fast as well. However, she was making the most interesting sounds. I swear to god it sounded like she was in the throes of the most amazing sex and on the verge of orgasm. I thought two things – 1. How bizarre. 2. I want that treadmill tomorrow.     

Refund please...

"You don't choose your family. They are God's gift to you, as you are to them - Desmond Tutu" 

I’d like to give one of those ‘gifts’ back. 

  

Ah, paperwork...

Every day at the temp job requires a plethora of paperwork –

1. Type all the crap from one piece of paper into a computer program.
2. Click on button that sends info to an official person in another office.
3. Print out all the crap you’ve typed in then staple it to the original bit of paper that you took the info from. Why? I dunno.
4. ‘Get email back from official person indicating you did not scan the original bit of paper.
5. Scan paper.
6. Get another email. You did not tick the box on screen that indicates work all completed. We have rejected your submission.
7. Tick box. Swear under breath. Re-send info to anal twit…I mean colleague
8. Get another email advising the date stamped on the scan is wrong. All info rejected.
9. Play with mobile phone for five minutes while muttering.
10. Stamp the proper date five times and re-scan.
11. Smile when an email comes back rejecting the scan with the five stamps as it’s ‘not policy’. One stamp must be in the left hand corner only.
12. Liquid paper out four stamps and paint two fingernails with the white liquid paper.
13. Email to say scan sent all the time knowing it hasn’t been because you are following a theory that they really don’t want the scan. It’s job justification for them.
14. Email back advising they have no scan.
15. You email back ‘Please see attached’ knowing there’s nothing attached.    
16. They email ‘attachment approved. Please file all paperwork.’
17. Look at bin. Contemplate options. 

I dunno...

So, I was asked for a copy of my Bachelor of Arts University degree for verification of something. Uh-huh. Hmmm….where did I put that? I‘ve seen it somewhere in the last couple of years. I’m almost positive in a kind sorta way. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about hanging up on the wall. I’m not into that. In many ways it’s surprising I even did the degree because I never set out to. I just sort of stumbled into it after returning feral and jobless from having a bloody lovely time living and working overseas, as Aussies do. I returned home at 23 and thought, ‘Well, what now?’ My only answer was ‘I dunno’. Looking back now, a couple of decades on, I realize that I still don’t know what the hell I am doing half the time or what I’m supposed to do with my life. At 23 that was a tad daunting. At 49 and fearless I think ‘same old same old, girl.’

As for the piece of paper that I qualified in something that I’ve never used? I emailed the university and asked for a copy. When I get it I’ll probably put that somewhere logical…probably. I dunno...