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...

   

Think again...

The person who is the plainest to look at is not stupid. To think so is your undoing.   

The girl you physically abused and verbally tormented growing up is stronger then you can ever imagine.

Greed will eventually turn its ugly arse back on you.

Honouring the words and reputation of another is right and just and if you can’t see that then I feel sorry for you.

Strength cannot be bought. It’s inherent. Courage has no price. It is what it is.

Defeat me? Only if I let you.

Chance of that happening? None.

      

Peace and mung beans...

So, I’m at work, bored as hell and rooting around in my handbag for my lipstick. Yes, there was work to do but this was a lordy-when-will-the-day-end moment. I’m a temp. We’re like hookers. You pay us but we don’t necessarily do everything you want. Anyway I pulled out my lippy and the compact mirror. I flicked open the mirror and looked at myself…actually, my upper lip. Mien Gott! When did a forest of hair suddenly sprout above my lip? It wasn’t there yesterday. I contemplated global warming, the testosterone in the air, man’s inhumanity to man and stuff like that. In the end it came down to the hair was there and it was 10am and I had no wax strips. I can tell you, from previous experience that sticky tape doesn’t work on your upper lip. Oh sure, stick it on and yank it off fast. The result? Zip. I looked at the scissors. No, not enough foliage for that. Jeez Louise. Could I go home sick? Possibly. My time-sheet is signed by someone else in another office that has no idea what I do and I like that...

In the end, as I cleared up half a dozen pieces of used sticky tape sans hair, I decided to treat the whole thing Zen-like….the hair is not there. The universe sees nothing. Love is all around. Bunny rabbits play with kitty-cats and the sun shines down on you in benevolence. Peace and mung beans to you…

The second I got home? Wax. Rip. Ahhh....

Honour beats greed...

“Know yourself and you will win all battles”
― Sun Tzu

So, I’ve been placed in a fight not of my choosing. But I will fight it because the words and the reputation of a good man demand it. I will fight to the end. I expect nothing to be left. That’s okay with me. I don’t do this for me. I do it because honour beats greed any day.

"Victory is always possible for the person who refuses to stop fighting."- Napoleon Hill 

New plan...

....learn how to juggle. One of the mechanics at work told me it took him 5 days to master it and he was pretty pleased with that. "It's all about cognitive skills, Amarinda," he said. 

I can cognitive the hell out of anything.    

The key to World Peace by Amarinda Jones...

So, I've been watching a bit of basketball of late. No, I have no idea what's going on 75% of the time but I'm an observer of life and the thing I've taken from basketball is this - the referees hold the key to world peace in their hands. How so? Well, they do this thing when one player fouls another player and the ref get his fists and pound the tops of his thighs twice. There's probably a highly thought out athletic reason behind it but I like to think of it as 'I'm a tad peeved. Please stop pushing and shoving. There's a good boy.'  I like that move. I've incorporated it into my life. And yes, it has confused a couple of people but think about it - angry at someone? Want to avoid a war? Simply face your enemy and pound the tops of your thighs twice. First up, it will confuse your enemy and put them off wanting to beat the shite out of you for a couple of beats due to said confusion and possible laughter. With concerted global effort if we all face an enemy and do the thigh pound thing to get out our discontent then I feel we can avert war - and possibly tone up our thighs. It's a win-win situation.       

Where is the poxy R?"

So, Out of Africa was on TV. I saw this once many moons ago and I thought it was the most boring movie. Anyway, today, I was trying to put this thing together – slot A into F – "why F for god sake? Where did B go?" Twirl C around E, put the space expanders on R – “R? Frigging R? Where is R on this pigeon English diagram?” Toggle D into E and drink 2 glasses of wine and swear a lot …and it was about then I decided to turn the TV on and work on the piece of mechanical shite with something in the background to take my mind of slotting, space expanders and where R was lurking. I turned on the TV and there is Meryl Steep and Robert Redford falling in love in Africa. I stared at the screen for a while and thought "huh, romance" and then turned it off. I’m really over romance at the moment. I think it's called "romantically drain syndrome" or maybe I made that up - but it fits the feeling. I think that, along with other stuff, has got me stopped dead with 4 half written stories. The characters are good – I like them. The plots are good – I’m pleased with them but then I stop when it comes to the romance. I’ve written all around it, sideways, upside down and then nothing. Dead stop. The characters in all 4 stories are fidgeting and staring at each other waiting for me to continue. I think they’re going to be stuck for a little bit longer. Unlike Meryl and Robert, romance is off the agenda. Oh, and the piece of mechanic shite with the poxy hidden R? It’s on the floor in pieces. One day it and romance will get their collective acts together.         

Twiddle norps…

 I got up this morning, Saturday, with one thought on my mind. I had to fix something.  I said to myself ‘A twiddle norp will fix that.’ I went straight to the twiddle norp drawer in my kitchen and rummaged around until I found the exact twiddle norp to complete the doover-lackey I was trying to correct. I found, as expected, the exact twiddle norp in the rusk tin. The rusk tin is an ancient Jones family heirloom akin to  the Ark Indiana Jones sought out. Great wonders lie inside it. Everything can be found in that tin. It has never let me down. Harry Potter magic lies within it. I expect one day I will save the world with the wonders of twiddle norpery within that tin. Until then, I am the keeper of the twiddle norp tin. 

Pookie face...

There’s this chick I occasionally have to ring in line with the current job I’m working at. I ring her to say this car or that is ready for pick up. Her response? Thanks sweetie, possum, gorgeous girl, princess lovely. Nah, she’s never met me. She’s one of those gaggable women. Patronizing with a capital P for prissy and perfect and ponce-head. I’ve sussed her out. My normal response would be to advise her to stop the sweetie-baby-doll-pookie-face-language. Stop it now. With her? No point. She sees herself as a cute kewpie doll everyone loves. The shut-the-fuck-up strategy would just bounce off the aura of fakeness she hides behind. She sees people as things and not individuals and in many ways it’s pretty sad. Telling her she’s a patronizing sod is a waste of my time and I feel sorry for her as she’ll never get to know anyone for who they really are. So, my plan is to pookie-face-baby-doll-gorgeous-sweetie-darling her back until she vomits. It's only fair.