Turtle paradise

With winter being over, there is one member of our family who gets more excited than anyone else. More excited, and much more active.. Mate, the turtle has been making his presence felt – she is up every morning to greet K and I as we sluggishly make out way to the coffee, she is awake at night to come and sniff our feet (that cold little nose can give you the shock of your life when you’re not expecting it!) and she is hungry, hungry, hungry. Like ALL the time.

This morning, we were woken by a loud banging sound, and K, bless him, jumped out of bed, knowing exactly what the problem was. He had seen it/heard it before – Mate was trying to get out from under the TV cabinet and had got a cord caught on her shell. Unable to move forward, she was banging on the bottom of the cabinet until K went to the rescue!

After being pulled to safety, Mate strolled up the passageway (probably to catch a glimpse of my lover in the shower – it is a girl turtle after all – who can blame her!) and wandered around our bedroom. I came out to the loungeroom to start working, and when I went up to see what she was up to, I found her in the shower… And then the idea for turtle paradise struck.

I filled our big bath with lots of lots of water… making it twice as deep as Mate’s tank.. And in she went.. Turtle heaven. Mate could hardly contain her enthusiasm as she did some deep dives, swam a few laps underwater, blew some bubbles up (a sure sign of turtle happiness), and finally came up for air. It made my cold heart sing with joy to see her so happy!

My friend came over to visit and I wanted to show my newly emerged from hibernation, happy turtle off. Azza took one look at the bath and said to me, in a very disgusted tone, “No matter how much disinfectant or cleaner you use, I would never bath in that bath again.”

But what about the happy turtle? “Who cares?” said Azza, “it’s gross.”

Note to self: some people love the turtle. Other’s, not so much.

OUCH!!

I have been wondering about what to blog about all day. And then it hit me. Or rather I hit it. I was out running some menial errand, and on my way home thought I would go a different way into my building. Sounds simple enough and I am sure people a lot less intelligent than I have managed to get to their apartment without the physical damage my body incurred.

I entered via a different entry than normal and made my way to my life shaft… all sounds simple. Then I went to walk into my lift shaft. Through the glass window, that was obviously so clean that I didn’t notice it was there.

Now, being the callous bitch that I am, I have laughed at other’s misfortune many, many times. And I probably will again. But JESUS H CHRIST!! it hurts when you walk into a window. And having the big nose I regrettably inherited from my mother, it was the main point of impact. Blood was gushing everywhere and I was trying to catch as much of as I couldd, until I realised that I was better (and cleaner) just standing over a bin while the blood flowed from my nose, straight into it.

I’m sure I’ll be laughing about this when the pain goes away, and I’m sure I’ll get the expected “why not just pay for the nose job you always wanted, you tightarse” from all and sundry. But in the meantime, fark it hurts!! Watch out for clean windows!

Taking the plunge..

K and his brother-in-law did a sky dive over the weekend. (And as an aside, what a glorious weekend it was here in Sydney town – 27 degrees, perfect weather – and we are still in winter!) I have to admit to being a little bit anxious. Ok, I was fretting. After all, my dearest loved one was taking it upon himself to step out of a plane at 15,000 feet connected by two little straps to some crazy nutbag who chooses to do it for a living – death is only a strong wind and a tail spin away.

You’ve probably realised by the tone of this blog entry that K didn’t actually die on Saturday afternoon as he fell from the sky, but I was pretty nervous about it. My main reason being that things have been going so well for us and you always read about couples who are just so in love, and so ridiculously happy, and so about to start the glorious rest of their lives together, that these tragic accidents happen to.. you know?

I made sure my hair and make-up were looking ok before we drove down to the ‘gong for K’s jump – after all, if K was going to die suddenly, I figured that I had better capitalise on it by launching my international journalism career by appearing on National 9 news speaking eloquently and articulately about the tragic event. He would want that.

K’s sister and I were both worried about our men taking the plunge (me more so than she, I think) so we anxiously watched them get into their jump suits and receive some brief instruction. We waited with them in the waiting room until the person in charge asked them to move outside. We both stood, expecting a reassuring hug, a tender kiss, or maybe a (tentatively last ever) “I love you” from the loves of our lives before they jumped out of a moving plane. But what did we get? That’s right. A big fat nada. K and his bro-in-law turned on their heels and walked away without even a cursory glance in our direction. Cheers dudes.

So K’s sister (who in future entries, I’ll refer to as SIL – for she’ll be my sister-in-law one day) and I took our place on a blanket in the sun and waited for the parachutes to open in the sky above. We gorged on cheese, and would have guzzled wine had I been drinking, until our men landed about 10 metres away from us. Safely, soundly. Thankfully.

My hair and make-up had all been for nothing.

Reactivating my genes?

I accompanied K to his favourite chemist over the weekend. I say it’s his favourite chemist, but in reality, I think he loves that he is their favourite customer… the women there fawn all over him – probably because he spends an exorbinant amount of money on their tier 1 product lines for men. But, hey, I’m not complaining. If my man needs product to maintain his youthful good looks and creaseless brow, so be it. It just that I am a bit of a cynic when it comes to $300 face creams. Don’t get my wrong, I’m not using the cheapest products on the market, and I definitely think moisturisers are important for everyone – especially those of us down under who spend a lot of time in the sun.. but, I’m not prepared to give more to a cosmetic company that I give to World Vision each month for my sponsor kids survival.

And those chemist girls see me coming a mile off… On Saturday, I got the standard discouraging look with a slight grimace, as the lady asked me what I was presently using on my skin. I laughed nervously, as K handed his $300 across the counter, and said, “oh, I don’t spend that much on my skin products.”

“I can tell,” came the terse response.

Right. So, I let her do a quick skin assessment (I didn’t really have a choice) and watched as she rifled around in a cupboard for hoardes and hoardes of samples. No problemo, I thought to myself as she squeezed 6 little boxes into my palm. It was when she pulled out the first sample and tried to tell me that by using it, I was going to “reactivate my genes”, that my disbelief crept in. Reactivate my genes? Can I reactivate them so that they I am now blue-eyed, instead of brown? Or maybe waif-like, rather than the German stocky genes I’ve been blessed with.

I questioned her on it (“sorry?”) and she told me ephatically again, that this moisturiser was going to re-activate my genes to make me look younger. If she had said that the moisturiser was going to plump the cells under my eyes with calf fat, I would have believed her more. But reactivating the genes, or the double helix they sit on, or even the chromosomes doesn’t sit well with me. I think the lady in the chemist, even if she was 38 with the skin of a 16 year old, was telling me porkie pies!

Let’s start at the very beginning..

I’ve been home for two weeks now and have been so frickin’ busy with work it’s not funny. Holiday? What holiday? Something like that anyway. But have been tossing and turning at nights churning blog entries over in my brain and will start to get some of them down.. I want to bore you all with a few tales from my trip (and no, none of this “we went here, and saw this cathedral, then we went here, and saw this cathedral, then we went here and saw this cathedral”.. oh no, no, no.. except for my Westminster Abbey story.. coming soon!)

So will start with the beginning.. my flight over. I got to the airport (yes, I am going THAT far back) and unloaded myself from the car (thanks cuz and flatmate-that-I-love-even-though-you’re-not-my-flatmate-anymore) and proceeded to strut, like the world weary traveller I am to the check-in desk. I think it was a group of about 30, no, let’s say 40 people, that my cheap ass carry bag decided to break, spilling it’s contents across the space of about ten metres. I was on the phone at the time (big surprise there!) and bent (forgetting I had a 24 kg rucksack on my back) and tried to pick up my crap. Much to the humour of the onlookers. Who tittered and chuckled, giggled and POINTED… and didn’t help me.

By the time I got to the checkin desk the dude behind it, who was witness to the whole spectacle and was trying hard to contain his laughter. I managed to smile (through gritted teeth) and luckily he took pity on me and gave me rows to myself all the way to London. Snooze-fest guaranteed. So, the lesson for the day is… to get a good seat on a plane, make a right dick of yourself where the dude checking you in can see. Yes, something to remember for all of us, I think.

Facebook follies

My oft-mentioned friend asked me to check her facebook profile the other day, so I did. And noticed her status said “D* is thanking her lucky stars she has such an awsome boyfriend! If he was half as good as he is she would still be getting spoilt!” (* Not her real name!). Two things struck me. Firstly, that it looked like something her boyfriend would write, and secondly, that if it was, he can’t spell awEsome. But I digress.

D and I had a giggle and then she asked me to check it again.. which I did. And this time it read “D suggests her boyfriend consider investigating precisely what an ‘awsome boyfriend’ may constitute, prior to next updating her profile status for her!!!!” Which I thought was humourous, succinct and to the point.

Later, she made a further update: “D thinks her boyfriend’s definitions may well be turbid – there’s nothing in the dictionary under awesome relating to he, and she knows not of being spoilt!”. Again, I was laughing.. until she removed it completely. When I questioned her on it, she said, she had had a few messages asking somethig along the lines of “trouble in paradise?”

So people were checking her profile, or seeing her status updates, and thinking the worst? That was even funnier. It was tongue-in-cheek people! I found it all mildly amusing. But mainly because of my own experiences on facebook (mentioned in previous emails – when my loser ex decided to tell all of our mutual friends (and in doing so, me at the same time) that he was now single – when he begged me back as his friend, I politely declined).

I think there is a lesson in this for all of us, don’t you? Facebook is like a washing line, where all of your neighbours, and the world, can see.  Dirty laundry, humourous or not, get seen by all!

Red on school nights

I’m 31 years old. 31. Not old, by any standards. But too old to be drinking on a school night. And yet. Somehow. I manage to do it. Time and time again. Ti-ime and ti-ime again (a la Kings of Tomorrow)!

Lately, I’ve been showing a bit of restraint and only having a few jars of vino collapso. Actually showing even more restraint by not always making sure there are cold casks of whoite woine in the fridge. But herein lies the problem. The weather is getting colder. And day light savings has now ended (so that Queensland is now only 10 years behind us, rather than 10 years and 1 hour). And I have a large selection of lovely reds sitting in my loungeroom waiting to be drunked. My lovely brother works for a winery and brings boxes and boxes of wines over for my drinking pleasure. And don’t think I don’t love him for it. Except the morning after when my hangovers are bad. And red wine tends to be worse than white. And school nights are always worse than weekends.

So it is going to be a long, long winter. And soon I’ll be another year older. And no wiser. Cheers to that!

Dodginess

It is damn hot in Melbourne town at the moment and what is there to do in such weather but drink, drink, drink. Drink to quench the thirst, drink to cool you down, and then drink to forget the heat and the smell of everyone else’s sweatiness. A lot of drinking to be done. And flatmate-that-I-love and I did it. We drank like there was no tomorrow all weekend, with the piece de resistance being Sunday evening. I had been sitting around all day on my own, imbibing in a refreshing gin and tonic or three, when my flattie waltzed in to the house. Waltzed/staggered, whatevs.

She waltzed on in with her (married) work colleague who was equally as plastered and the pair of them proceeded to slur, slump and sloth around the back yard and lounge room. It was when the married colleague started busting the moves that I rapidly found the sobreity I had been trying to escape and decided to try and get him out of our house. The turtle didn’t like him and I tended to agree…

Luckily I got the dude out of the house just in time as the flattie’s new squeeze (who we LOVE!) walked in the door shortly after his departure. I wasn’t too drunk to know that timing was imperitive, but wasn’t too sobre to know what exactly he had/hadn’t seen. Let’s err on the side of “he ain’t seen much”.

So the dodgy flatmate proceeded to slur at her new squeeze, while I passed out on the couch in the 40 degree heat. New squeeze was none the wiser (we hope) and flatmate-that-I-love took the day off today (sick=beach and (more) beers). Love it!

Get over it

I’m no sure if what I’m about to do is very PC, or even particularly nice.. but I feel it needs to be done. So, late last year I was “seeing” a guy. I say it in the loosest possibly way, as our relationship wasn’t physical (if you get my meaning… ), and I really wasn’t all that into it. That’s not to say he wasn’t a lovely guy – because to be honest, he was a really lovely guy, but the ex had put me into a wierd head space and I really just wanted to have some fun, rather than be moving into quiet dinner-and-a-movie nights so quickly.. It was all about the three “S”s for me back then – shitty champagne, sleazy clubs and sore heads the next morning. Sweetness!

So, we hung out for a while and then being the chicken/biyaitch that I am, I emailed him one day (I can’t believe I’m admitting this) and advised that the relationship was no longer (and that it wasn’t him, it was me (truth) and that I just wanted to have some fun (another truth) and that maybe, who knew what would happen in the future…(and two out of three ain’t bad). And we moved on.

Or one of us moved on. I checked his blog today (he stupidly admitted he had a myspace page when we were hanging out, I checked it like all smart girls would (due diligence) and surprise, surprise, I found his blog!! And I read the whole thing. And checked back often. But hadn’t checked back since the unceremonious email circa two and a half months ago. Until today. When I did, I was sightly surprised to see blog entries about me. And quite a few of them. About how “to think three months ago I was enjoying the company of a sophisticated, smart, sexy girl” (and yes, for those of you who were wondering, he DID see me drunk thanks).

Not sure if it’s wierd or quite sweet, but hey, at least he’s not abusing me like my other ex did for months (during and after), so I’m gonna say this to the lovely dude I was seeing last year. Number one – you are lovely and a true gentleman. You will meet someone who isn’t so self-absorbed and will appreciate your genuine loveliness. And number two – get over it darls and move on, I’m really not actually that nice.

Nails

I am a vain creature. I have never denied it. But lately, my vanity has reached new heights. A little over a month ago, I decided to make like Reece Witherspoon in Legally Blonde and go and get my nails done. So, into the nail parlour I strode. And 45 minutes and 45 dollars later, I strode out again, nails looking (and me feeling) strong, smooth and fabulous. Every photo since has some how shown my nails proudly (it’s amazing how I now hold a champagne glass to show those suckers off!!)

Anyway, the point of my blog… So, I went in for my first refill and was sitting next to a rather large lady. A rather large, and, to be brutally honest (knowing I am no oil painting) a rather large and unattractive lady. And a thought flashed into my mind: “Honey, it’s gonna take a whole lot more than some fake nails…” Then, my gaze fell downwards to my own beer belly, and I thought, “come to think of it, why am I spending this money…”

I related the story to a friend on the phone a bit later on that day, and I even mentioned the self-gut-gazing… She explained the larger lady’s desires for nails, and it all made perfect sense. “They may not do much for her look, but she can make sure she can scratch the eyes out of anyone who says anything!”

Got it.

Lesson of the day

Just wanted to pass on a bit of wisdom that was passed onto me just the other day. As I mentioned, I had a good friend down visiting me on the weekend. As also mentioned, my flattie and I were out meeting (dodgy) guys on Saturday night. What I didn’t mention was that the dodgy guys ended up back at our place (with my big, burly mate there to protect us from untoward behaviour!) to watch the rugby. England won (whatever!).

My flatmate and I were being the hostesses with the mostesses with chips and dips, beer, wine and soft drinks.. All was good. We were happy. We were content. And we wanted to share the happiness and contentment with the other member of our household. We didn’t want our little pet to feel left out. So, I got down on my hands and knees (not a pretty sight – my big backside flashing the world!) and fished the turtle out from under the couch.  And my flatmate and I proceeded to fawn over our little guy, while he tried desperately to open his eyes in a bid to have a clue about what was going on (it takes him/her/it a while to wake up after sub-couch-hibernation).

Our new best friends were not impressed. In fact I would go so far as to say that they were quite disgusted. Which could explain why they beat a hasty retreat without even asking for our phone numbers.

My bestie then handed over this little pearl of wisdom: “Girls. When you meet guys, and bring them back to your house. Maybe it’s not a good idea to get the turtle out. People might think you’re a bit strange.”

But, believe it or not people, this isn’t the lesson of the day. The lesson of the day is this: “If the dude’s not down with the turtle. He’s not down with me.”

 Viva la mate forever!

Chardolates

So I decided that as well as the fad diet and less than intermittent exercise I’m doing, an $8 second-hand Pilates woud make a fine addition to my workout regime. I even convinced my flatmate that is was worth having a go and after she stopped laughing, she rolled her beach towel out alongside mine on the loungeroom floor and got down to engage her core!

And all was going well (well, after we stopped laughing at ourselves and the people on the screen) except that we both got dizzy after only a few minutes of hefty pilates breathing. And the exercises were hard – like, really hard. And that’s when I realised. * Note to self: It’s NOT a good idea to drink wine before doing exercise.

An awkward morning is better than a boring night

Just thought I would share this with everyone – saw it on a T-shirt and it made me smile! What made me smile even more is that I know the guy who is wearing it (he’s actually showing off his beer injuries) and I know he’s had his fair share of awkward mornings!!

My lesson for the day – to avoid awkward mornings, get rid of them before dawn!

Bitter? Moi?

So my friend rings and tells me that the boy she has been seeing has left her – the one she has been putting up in her house AND had recently paid for an interstate trip for.. (can you already see where this is going?). He had left her the way they leave in a movie – with a tearful note (while she was at work) with all the usual (BS) cliches – “it’s not you, it’s me” (he was right there), “you’re a beautiful person” (yes, she is!), “I’m just not sure what I’m doing right now” (um.. being an idiot?).

My friend is a tough cookie and is determined not to show her disappointment but it got me thinking to my own nightmare of a breakup.. and the boyfriend that was involved. And at the end of the day, no amount of blind-love can cover up some home truths and they always come out in the end… the home truths are thus: once a self-absorbed asshole, always a self-absorbed asshole. And once a weak, chicken-shit, easy-way-out kinda guy, always a weak, chicken-shit, easy-way-out kinda guy.

So Y – you know who you are, angel - a guy who writes you his farewell as he skulks away to his other chick’s house is not worth the paper his note is written on. And you, my dear, are worth WAY more than that!

Why?

It’s been done a million times but I just don’t understand: why do people give an ultimatum when they are only prepared to hear one answer… eg. they say, “either the dog goes, or I go” and the obvious response could be, “no, honey, I adore you, and couldn’t live without you, the dog’s days are numbered” just as much as it could well be a mumbled “well, I love that damn dog, so I guess I’ll give you a hand packing your bags”.

In my case, I was texted (I’m guessing with a menacing tone, who knows with text messages?). “You either respond, or I’ll pick you up from the airport,” to which I responded (*note – responded) with “please don’t pick me up from the airport.” Isn’t that what the ultimatum was? One or the other? So I gave one… and actually addressed the other in doing so.

I then had the tirade of expected responses (and then some)… but my question is this: why give an ultimatum, with two optional responses, when really you are only going to accept one. It just doesn’t seem right, or real smart for that matter. So - the lesson in this (and I think there’s something in this for all of us, don’t you?) is this: Give an ultimatum if, and only if, you are prepared for either response. And if you’re only going to prepare for one, if I were you, I’d prepare for the one you want least.. 

Have a great day! 

The best way to get over a man..

So, as I’ve mentioned (and will probably continue to do so until the bitterness subsides ), the loved one and I are well and truly over.. I’ve started on the rebuilding and re-fabulousness-ising.. which means, day three of soup diet/detox, a change of the old hair style and colour (which he hasn’t seen and won’t see any time soon), some new clothes, new make-up (ok, so the bag-snatcher helped me with this one since ALL MY MAC MAKE-UP WAS IN THE DAMN HANDBAG!), new look, new attitude, etc, etc.. My only concern with the “new me” is the detox (aka “no drinking”) so I’ve decided it’s a week-day detox – Sunday night til Thursday nights (inclusive). This means I can go out and write myself off each weekend… well, maybe not write myself off (exactly…), but definitely go out (where there are men) and be sociable.. I need to meet someone new to take my mind of the loser/user/abuser. And as a very good friend of mine says, “the best way to get over a man is to get under another one!”

A ploy..

I moved out of my apartment on the weekend and my property agent rang me today to tell me I was being charged the following: $200 to paint the wall because of marks left on it, $100 cleaning fees for the kitchen and potentially $700 for the carpets that apparently need replacing. Sorry? $1000?!?! Naturally, I was slightly surprised. And because of the hassle of moving – packing, removalists, unpacking – I almost said those famous words: Fine, whatever, take it out of the bond.

Luckily, my colleague was there to rescue me. “No!” he cried indignantly, “everyone knows property agents do this. Argue the point. Go and see the place. Make her show you what needs doing.”

So I did. And long story short, I wiped some marks off one of the walls, thereby saving myself $200. I ran a cloth long the tops of the cupboard doors in the kitchen, thereby saving myself $100. And I argued the point about the carpets (wear and tear, not very nice carpets anyway), thereby saving myself $700.. a nice round saving of $1000!

Thanks must go to my colleague and a lesson in this for all of us – they get you when you are worn down and over the whole moving thang - argue the point and save yourself some money!

That’s what friends are for

I’m going to a friend’s birthday celebration in the near future and I asked the birthday girl if she would mind if another friend of mine could tag along. The birthday girl asked, “is that your cute, blonde friend that I’ve met?” and I told her it was. To which my friend replied, “tell her she can come as long as she’s in a tracksuit with no make-up.” My friend then reminded me that I had better not think about looking too good either (she doesn’t realise that I have no intention of looking good - I haven’t showered in weeks, the hair on my legs, eyebrows and underarms are forest-like and my wardrobe consists of two sacks I wear on alternate days!). The birthday girl has a point though, and we all know it: If you want to look cute, hang out with less-attractive types. If you want to look thin, hang out with larger people. If you want to look smart, hang out with idiots. And if you want to look like you can drive, move to Melbourne. Ha, ha, ha..

Simple really

Just finished an MSN conversation with the loved one during which, of course, there was a lot of shortened sentences, which today resulted in a lot of misunderstanding, which resulted in a mini-argument, which resulted in a lot of “what do you mean: …?”s, which resulted in more shortened sentences to sort out the confusion caused by previous shortened sentences, which resulted in “bwahahaha”s, “LOL”s, “d’oh!”s, s, s, and the like. All this in the discussion of whether or not we would be seeing each other tonight.

I’m normally not one to write too much on email, or MSN for that matter, or even really SMS… But the loved one is. And he gets “excited” when I remember previously uttered texted/emailed/MSN’ed statements. What he doesn’t seem to get, is that my memory is actually pretty bad. I just keep everything. Every text, message and email. And my subsequent advice to anyone and everyone is this: if you don’t want it thrown back in your face, don’t communicate it via a recordable medium…