The eyes have it.

Polly Waffle has spent this year indulging her taste for tragic orphans, vis...
























...and:






















( With continuing sentimental affection for ...


















)





Is it the eyes? I dunno. But I'm beginning to sense a pattern.

Maybe it's the angst. angst. angst.

Flash Garden

So I was trying out my nifty new Kodak Easyshare C763:












and I must say, I don't think it's as good as my trusty old mobile phone camera, which dished up such sentimental delights as this (which I like) and these (which are blurry, but hey, it's a stupid phone camera).

For instance, I can't figure out how to turn off the flash, and, as my Guru-On-All-Things-Arty ( Bronzewing Dove) says, nothing ruins a good photo like flashlight. It even flashes outside, in the broad daylight. Thoroughly indecent.

And such is my laziness, or stubbornness, or both, that I did bother to get the model number right, and upload a picture of the stupid thing, in the hope of eliciting good advice from a passing blog-reader, rather than simply google-up some instructions as to how to switch off the flash.

I believe that a really clever person only reads the instructions when All Else Fails, with All Else including grumbling about the lack-of-right-tools/ dodgy-overseas-workmanship/ poor-eyesight/ other-people-moving-my-things until someone offers up a helpful solution to which the really clever person will appear to already be putting into place, of their own brilliance, before the words have left the helper's mouth, thereby allowing the really clever person to look at the helper distractedly and say "Look, I'm a bit busy here, do you mind just going and putting on the kettle for me?"

Nevertheless, I have been prowling around the backyard, stupid-flash-happy camera in hand, preparing a lovely sample of garden shots. I'm thinking of creating a new category in the Garden of the Year Competition, something to do with Most Artistically Neglected.


This, you see, is a fence. Also a tree stump.

I like to think of my garden as a Secret garden.

Secret Fence.

Secret Tree Stump.







We also have a Secret Patio. It used to be hidden under a passionfruit vine. Now the passionfruit vine crawls the vastly unreachable heights of the neighbour's peppermint tree, and a feral gooseberry bush has assumed responsibility for hiding the patio.










This is the Secret Entrance where the shiteful neighbourhood cat gets in to compensatedly spray anything within range of it's very tiny penis.


















This is where we hide old engine parts and the back fence.




















This is where we hide chairs.


















And so on, and so forth.

Meanwhile...

So YAY ME! I have a camera! So I can write blogs with pictures in them, and wot's more i have a computer now my kid has finished work experience, which required my computer... long story. Never mind.

Meanwhile, read this. It's cute.

First, the bad news.

I have a cold.

But who cares?

Nobody, that's who.










On the other hand... I am pleased with how the baby turned out.


He's small.


He's furry.


I think we'll keep him.

Hay hay haaaaaaaayyyy!

I LOVE MY LIFE !

I've just finished that article - the last draft I really care about, anyway, I've scheduled in all the counselling groups I'll be running over the next 5 terms, the airconditioner is working again, the dishwasher is working again, my linen cupboard looks like it was packed in Stepford, Bill is taking me out for a belated anniversay dinner, Mayday has pretty much finished throwing up, Bill jnr is wriggling appropriately for a kid due to arrive in 7 days and it RAINED today. Am I showing off? Tell me yes. Yes I am. And I'll continue so long as these hormones keep pumping.

I AM SUPERWOMAN !!!!!!!!!

I AM THE LIZARD QUEEN !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Just nobody put on any country music and we'll be fine. Especially this one. I couldn't even talk about this song without sobbing the other night.

Smells like rat

Is it a coincidence that my return to blogging occurs just as i begin working on turning my thesis into a journal article?

I think not.

Or that, simultaneously, I have just consumed the second season of Veronica Mars, and am at a loose end, escapement-wise?

Again, I think not.

(BTW: Do you not love Veronica? Do you not?)

It's either this, or baby-clothes shopping. Which is even more painful than woman-clothes shopping. Because at least i know what size i am.

(Another BTW: I know I'm four months behind the gossip, but did you all catch BEVIS' telling of the Sweetums birth story? My. God. Speechless with horror. Too close to home. Muchos kudos to all three.)

**sigh**

Alright, that's enough effort for one morning. I'll get back to you when I remember what my point was.

Oh. Also. I have a new phone-with-camera, and a new laptop. Neither likes the other. They aren't even on speaking terms. I'm planning to sulk until they start behaving themselves, and then I'll pretty this place up a bit.

hello? testing... testing... one tttwwwoo... ttwwwooo

OKAY

before i expose myself and assorted others to further wanton ... exposure

could someone please tell me if they (or you) can see my unadulterated email address at the top of this page?

i mean, i think only i can see it.

and normally, that would be a thing i wouldn't want to happen, you know, becasue of all the psycho-baggage that sort of thing normally carries, but just for now i want to be the only person who can see what i see.

and then i'll get around to sharing amongst all three of us how this whole pregnancy gig is going. tell me you've been dying to hear.

this offer expires in 2.5 weeks

Quirk.

could you find a better photo for the milk carton backs?

Dear occasional-hitter-of-the-bookmarks-button/ random drive-by webster/ ami devoue,

I am so sorry I have not been here. Actually, I have been here, but you were not to know it, because I was on the other side of the screen studying, rather than blogging.

My reasons for this abberation are manifold and complex. Yet I shall attempt a reduction:

• The first draft of my thesis is due in five-and-a-half-weeks (yes the one I haven't written a single word of yet, yes that one).
• I have had morning sickness (but I'm better now) (oh, and they should just call it "round-the-clock-crappiness-without-the-actual-sympathy-inducing-vomitting" sickness).
• Actually, that about sums it up.

So, until the 20th of September, I plan on not doing anything other than sitting here, transcribing, typing, thinking, and being as briliant as one possibly can be when one has set oneself up to appear more brilliant than one actually is by attempting to produce a thesis of substantial quality and sufficient length within an utterly impossible time frame.

Also, I shall attempt to nominally feed and clothe the offspring, and provide a passable amount of wifely comfort to Bill.

I shall, as you imagine, have no social life.

But then, who needs a social life? All that frivilous lunching, coffeeing, talking, smiling. God. How did I ever bear it.





So the kids took the news of the new baby predictably.

Polly looked politely interested for 0.75 seconds before turning back to The Simpsons. Perhaps she's heard it all before, and is completely unimpressed. Perhaps the thought that her parents still have sex caused a temporary blank out. Who knows? Teenagers are odd.

Mayday looked at us in horror, and shouted "NOOOOOOOOOOO!". She then curled up into the foetal position and went to sleep. We didn't see her until the next day. This is not a quaint literary embellishment. She did exactly that.

Noisie pulled her top lip up - Billy Ray Cyrus style - (or is it Elvis?), raised her eyebrows, looked at my belly, and said "True?..... Freeeeeaky."

Bill, himself, is still adapting. The news was a little... unexpected.

We shall call it Bump.

Alteregos allegros

• Exams sat?

CHECK

• Bianual post-exam spousal-shellacking-ceremony concluded?

CHECK

• Post-shellacking-ceremony atonement effected?

CHECK

• Pacified spouse and offspring dispatched?

CHECK

• Blogging backlog adressed?

Ah. Yes.


Well, to ease myself back into the old blogging whatnot, I thought I'd pinch this meme from HB. Then I might be in the right frame of mind to do BEVIS's. And also BEVIS's.


1. YOUR MOVIE STAR NAME (grandfather/grandmother on your father's side, your favorite sweet/lolly):

Ella Ferrero

Or, equally, Ella Rocher. Ella Ferrero-Rocher is a bit of a mouthful, n'est pas?


2. YOUR FLY GIRL/GUY NAME (first initial of first name followed by "izzle", first two or three letters of your last name followed by "dizzle"):

Quizzle Sadizzle

Although this seems more like the stage name of a stand-up comedienne in leather.


3. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME (favorite color, favorite animal):

Plum Grimalkin by day
Magenta Lynx after eight


4. YOUR STAR WARS NAME (first 3 letters of your name- last 3 letters of mother's maiden name, first 3 letters of your pet's name repeated twice):

Qui-ith Mit Mit

We are a peace-loving band of intergalactic stammerers.


5. SUPERHERO NAME ("The", your favorite color, the automobile you drive):

The Purple Jackaroo

Oh. Come. On! Do we really *need* an Australian version?

Morning tea #7

Why, after a reasonable length of time away from the 'sphere, would I drop back in just to let you know what I'm eating for morning tea?

Why, when I have only one day left to research, plan, begin, middle and end a 2500 word essay on the For-God's-Sake-Can-We-Get-Over-It-Already-Psychology's-Take-On-The-Nature-Vs-Nurture-Debate?

Because its Look Choob.














(And how long did I find it necessary to spend on finding out what number Morning Tea I was up to?

I think we all know why.)

Trailers for sale or rent...

The last time I was home, it was to attend my grandfather's funeral. My little urine-soaked third-cousin stood up on her toothless father's lap and squawked, "Is 'e in thaire? Is 'e in that box? ...Are they gunna burn 'im yairt?"

I don't know when I've ever been prouder.

We drove up for Dad's birthday on the weekend. It's possibly the first time I've driven home and felt like an adult for almost the whole journey there. It was a wierd, dissociated feeling, like I was a stranger intruding on my own memories. Whether I've actually changed, or just become more at peace with being me on the outside, I don't know. But I know that I still love rust-coloured sand,














and rust-coloured trucks,














and rust-coloured dust,














and I don't think I'll be changing that.

I love sheds,














and what's inside them.














I love my auntie's front garden,














I love treasure hunts,














and no matter how feral they get, or how many teeth they lose in the process, I'll always love my cousins.

In every generation, there is a frozen one

Hi folks,
Thanks for the tag(s), BEVIS, I'll check 'em out soon.
Drowning, currently, in uni assignments, school holidays and popcorn.
Can't think. Too scared to go out.
Vampires.

Happy Easter :`(

The sun's just coming up over the neighbour's fence here, but the easter eggs are already found and the video player is surrounded by contented faces and slightly sore bellies.

I don't know why Easter makes me smile and worry and cry so much. I could spiritualise it and say the seaon is so imbuded with meaning that it works mysteries in my soul. But I find the same overwhelmed emotion at the most innocuous times. Maybe I'm just sentimental.

This morning Bill put these on the playlist:

O Happy Day (from Sister Act 2)
Hallelujah (Rufus Wainwright)
Monday Morning Church (Alan Jackson)
People Get Ready (Rod Stewart/ Jeff Beck)

I can't ever, in any context, listen to the kid from Sister Act 2 hit that high note without choking up and getting embarrassed and having to excuse myself so no-one sees me cry. Every time. I don't know if that's the message of hope, or if I just am so ga-ga impressed by musical talent, or if I identify with him and his fears and I want to know that I can overcome them as well, or maybe there's merely magic in it.

The lyrics in Hallelujah do it too. Maybe I'm just pleased with myself that I understand them, and I'm always relieved to find something I understand. But it's so raw.

Then Monday Morning Church. I don't know, but I love country music, and by now I'm feeeling so maudlin that anything makes me cry.

Then bloody stupid Rod Stewart starts singing People Get Ready, and he doesn't even nearly have me. Then when he laughs in the middle of singing "Prai(hay) se the Lord!" I want to throw a screwdriver through the stupid computer screen. Stupid man.

Now, if he stuck to "You're in my heart, you're in my soul", I'd listen to him forever. That's a hymn.

Nearly home

You see, I haven't been feeling very creative, or even at all interesting lately. But I've missed you. And then I remembered these photos I took the other week, while I was thinking of you. Thinking of my faceless friends who know a lot more about a side of me than my faced friends do, and a lot less also.

So this is my drive to work:
















I wish you could see it when the sun is out, like I did on my way to work.

(I took this picture on the way home. I got out of the car and stood in the middle of the road, and no-one minded.)

In the distance, just before the ocean, is a steeple and a white dome that glows like an easter egg in the morning. That sight makes me want to jump out of the car and stop all the traffic and shout STOP! LOOK! ISN'T IT MAGNIFICENT?! It makes me want to run around naked, dragging paper streamers behind me, and dance around a fire in the daylight.

When did this scrappy scene of telephone wires, potholes and traffic hum become home for me? When did it replace the smell of gravel dust and deisel and the strange noisiness of miles and miles of wheat, the buzz of a westerly through fencing wire?

I felt small, on the farm, and a little afraid. I was a foreigner there: the only human in a world full of noises that were more at home than I was. And I'm foreign here too, but it's becoming more familiar. I'm enjoying the sense of knowing my way around this strange country. I feel like an experienced tourist.

This reminds me of home (or of my grandmother. I get the two confused.) One day I want a house like this, with a Norfolk Island pine in the front yard, and a big, dark verandah. I want crumbly walls and worn-down floorboards.
















And I want a prickly green-grey plant like this:

















I want to show off. And I want my tummy to be flatter when I do.
















I want a gypsy skirt, with lots of colourful pockets. And in my pockets I want useful things, like:

• scissors
• cotton
• lozengers
• a mud map
  
• tiger balm
• crayons
• bandaids
• a harmonica
• a whistle
• and lots of other things

I like to catch the sky pretending to be God.

Some days I'm more homesick than others.

(Insert title here)

Oh CRAP. Smenita is back.

Smenita is as
smenita does. Cement an
unrequited post.


That just really dampens my mood.

No, you go first.

I found this link down at the bottom of Amanda's blog. It looked quite cute, so I followed it. But anything inviting me to enter the 'Woman's Portal'...?

Aaaaaagh!

A little overly Bohemian for me I think.

But where's ya wheelie bin?

So in our neighbourhood, they collect the rubbish once a week. But the recycling bin, that they collect once a fortnight, see? So people around here are pretty busy. They're kinda professional types. Most people don't remember which week it is, right? Nobody knows for sure.

See where I'm going with this?

So what I do, every once in a while, I put out both bins on the night when they're only supposed to collect the one. I make sure I put it out real early, then I go back inside. I smile to myself all night. Who's going to copy me? Then, in the morning, I go and I check it out. I go out, and I see a whole street full of double wheelie bins.

That right there? That's influence, my friend.

I didn't sleep well. That's my excuse.

Noisie fell out of bed last night. Straight from the top-bunk to the floor. Luckily I was not quite in bed yet, just sitting on the edge, in my knickers.

I heard the thump, and while I ran to her room I think it vaguely occurred to me that she was ok because she was crying. It's the thumps that end in silence that you most fear.

But she was crying in that pitiful, not-properly-awake way which is so hard to comfort. I was scared to pick her up, because her arm was twisted out beneath her at an odd angle. Was it broken? I picked her up gently and sat on the bottom bunk, my arms around her, held her chest to my chest, told Mayday to go back to sleep.

Rocking gently (Are there any broken bones?)
Shhhhh shhhhhh (It's ok to cry)
It's ok... it's ok... you're ok now...
It hurts... yeah it hurts (Where? Where does it hurt?)

I put her back to bed, too soon, against my better judgment. (What does concussion look like? Is it dilated pupils? Or pinpoint? Could she die in her sleep? I'd never recover. Never.)

An hour later she was awake, crying. Her stomach hurt. She came to my room. I opened my sheets, tucked her in next to me, enveloping her.

Bill moves out (don't leave me! don't leave me alone with her!)
She's moaning (it's not right. Is she bleeding inside?)
Where does it hurt?
Where does it hurt?
I gently press her tummy.

owwwwwwwwwwwwwww

She pushes my hand away. So pale.
I go to get her a drink of water. She follows me down the hall. Falls down, lying on the floor.

owwwwwwwwwwwwwww she sobs, in that awful not-awake way

She lurches up, pulls a stool to the sink (oh sweet heart) and vomits into the sink, over last night's unwashed dishes.

It doesn't help.

It should help.

I tuck her into my bed again.

I pray. (Should I accept good from the Lord and not bad?)

(If He answers me, then will I not blame Him for all the others He doesn't answer? For all the babies that die in the night? Do I want Him to answer, if it means blaming Him?)

Please, God, I don't understand. Please just heal my baby. Please.

Good grief, I think I look like her as well.

Rita, that is.

Yes! We have no bananas

So anyway, uni has started again, yet again, as it does, endlessly, and endlessly.

Human history is divided by the birth of Christ, and my life is marked by what I did before study, and what I will do after.

Honestly, finishing this degree, or any of them, really, is like waiting for the second coming.

Everything will fall into place. I'll have no stress. No. Stress. I'll be smart (or failing that, knowledgeable). I'll be wanted (or failing that, employable).

But I'm tired, and I'm tired of trying (and failing) to motivate myself. So I thought I'd buy a laptop. That way I could continue the motivation battle somewhere else (out of this little hot-in-summer-cold-in-winter study). Maybe the lounge room. Maybe up at uni, where all the proper students study. (Yeuk. I sound like Rita.)

Maybe the buzz of owning a bit of techno-bling would squirt some novelty back into studying.

Too bad I can't afford one.

Bleuah.