Test your IQ

I did three IQ tests today at the urging of Facebook. It told me that I had been challenged by my friends. I was curious to say the least. I did a psychometric test and IQ test a few years back (for a job), that involved three hours of testing and over 150 questions covering maths, comprehension and shape recognition. I got a very good score on that one and felt like ringing my teacher (from when I was 8) and telling her to shove her ‘lazy and stupid’ comments up her arse.

The tests today involved five questions (105), ten questions (134) and another ten questions (110). My actual IQ, which I chose not to share, is a bit higher than the middle attempt today.

How can these tests tell you that you are ordinary based on ten questions?
Even worse, how can it text you and say ‘Not too shabby, but your still not a genius’. Did anyone else git their teeth at the missing apostrophe?

Of course, I know this all has nothing to do with telling me I’m smarter than the average, or where I fit into the ranking of my friends intelligence, it’s all about getting $6.60 per text message until I text, ‘STOP’.

Great Lyrics

'I spent ages givin' head'.

and to think they made a fuss about 'relax, when you wanna come'

Gotta love Lily Allen

Carrion

A couple of weeks ago I got a leaflet through the door warning me of the upcoming date for the neighbourhood ‘leave your rubbish for us to pick up’ day.

This is a scheme that local councils have put in place to try and curb dumping; in turn you leave your stuff on the curb. It happens once every three months and mostly, I think it works. A lot of the stuff gets collected by charity organisations who, at other times of the year tell you to get stuffed if you ask them to collect. The recyclables get recycled and the rubbish, well, that goes to landfill. However, much of the stuff left out never get to its intended destination, as there is an element of society that thrives of picking through others refuse and taking it, and no doubt, selling it for their own profit.

I had a few things in mind that really needed to go out. Not rubbish perse, just things I don’t need or want anymore and I was getting fed up with having in the garage. A queen divan bed and mattress (yes, I could have sold it, but it had ten years of marks on it, yuck), an arm chair, a few old Singer sewing machines that used to be used for display when I had the shop (tried museums and second hand store, no one wanted them) and a pile of flat packed cardboard boxes.

I spent yesterday morning making a neat pile on the verge outside my house, then popped out to get a few groceries. The sewing machines were gone when I got back.

Later in the day, I went to the movies. When I got back the mattress was missing.

The amazing disappearing items meant I could put something else out. You’re only supposed to put out 1cubic metre. So I moved a few things around in the lounge and put the sofa out there, don’t panic I have another, better one in storage (remnants of married life).

At 3.30 this morning I was awoken by male voices outside my bedroom window. At least three men were chatting loudly, I couldn’t understand a words, but judging by the laughing and high spirits, no doubt fuelled by a few, they were having fun. Then I heard the clatter of casters as they hit the road. I fingered a gap into the blinds and peered out the window to see the three men pushing the bed base down the road like a toboggan before jumping on it. Despite being unimpressed about being woken up at such an hour, I couldn’t help but smile.

Note to self: if I ever leave a divan bed out again, take the casters OFF!

This morning as I walked to the station, I couldn’t help but notice the previously neat piles outside other house, where no longer in order. Clearly each pile had been the pilfered and ended as a feeding ground for the Council Clean Up Crows.



- Not my pile of leavings, but an example of what it looks like after the good, big stuff has been taken.

Written in the Stars

I read my stars.

I know that they are a bit woolly , but it's a bit of fun for the train ride into and home from work.

Today, the stars in MX (the free communter paper) made me smile. It was pretty accurate.

'Relationship takes its own form. The best you can do right now is not to interfere with what is a natural process. The minute you step in with your ideas about what should be happening, chaos ensures. Relax and harmony comes.'

Smile!

This made me smile this morning. I think the story speaks for itself :-)

Realisation

Just over a year ago I moved house. I moved from a little two bedroom cottage in the inner city to a three bedroom colonial double brick place and reduced my rent in the process. I didn’t really want to move, but after I had the affront to ask the landlord to fix a leaking roof I was asked to leave.

The blessing in disguise has worked out quite nicely really. Puss has a garden to roam around in. I rattle around a night and weekends deciding whether I should sit in the office, the lounge, the bedroom or out in the deckchair on the patio. It’s quiet (except when the mad Polish woman over the back fence is telling her tenant to f*ck off) and I only have a three or four minute walk to the railway station, better still, a six minute walk to the best kebab in the world. I like my house, it feels like home and I’ve just signed another two year lease on the place.

Last night however, there was a drive by shooting.

This latest act of violence is just one of the many law breaking events from the past twelve months that have rocked Merrylands, a multi cultural community just south of Parramatta, west of Sydney.

There has been drive-bys, robberies, a machete attack in a school and even a lady so drunk she drove her car into a Starbucks.

The thing that concerns me most about all this, is that I’ve come to realise, I’m on the road to becoming a Westie!

Listing Update

I got rid of a couple of local blogs in my list today. Not because I don't like the people they belong to, but because they haven't updated their blogs for more than three months ;-)

Ignorance or Disinterest?

On Wednesday I brought a punnet of fresh figs. I love them; they are soft and tender, and ever so sensual to eat. Plus they keep you regular.

My first encounter with a fig was at Christmas many moons ago, when they appeared as in a plastic tub, dried and gritty. Muv encouraged me to try the fresh variety one day when in Sainsbury’s (UK supermarket) whilst doing the weekly shop. I think I was about eight years old.

After that tasting, I was hooked.

It didn’t stop at figs though, this random testing and tasting of fruits or veg that we hadn’t seen before continued. We tried kumquats, dragon fruit, lycees, passion fruit, celeriac, fennel and pomegranate. I’m sure there are more; I just can’t remember them all, right now.

Anyway, back to this weeks punnet of figs. Four different people in my office, people I consider to be well educated, have visited my desk, pointed at the succulent purple fruit and asked, ‘What’s that?’

Now, I would think that in a country that has tree, vine or bush ripened fruit year round, they would know what a fig is, tasted it and decided they either like it or not. But complete ignorance of the humble fig, I find that confusing and it distresses me somewhat.



picture from - Herbal Extracts Plus

Home from Home

I’ve just eaten my lunch of salad, potato salad, prawns and salmon. I brought it into work, from home, left overs from last night. It sounds simple, but it’s a minor production every time I have lunch in the office. Plate, knives, fork, teatowel, tupperware tubs...

I have a draw in my desk dedicated to the provision of sustenance. Of course a few things don’t fit in, such as the box of cornflakes, bottle of milk, block of cheese (milk and cheese in fridge) and various types of tea. Today, I also have a box of fresh figs, a peach and an apple.

I spend quite a bit of time at my desk, so why shouldn’t I have a few items of personal interest?


- Ariel picture of 'the drawer'

Personal Effects

My Muv’s stuff arrived from Spain the other day. It was delivered late in the afternoon but a man that was none to gentle with the boxes. After I’d signed and closed the door, I stood next to the two boxes for about twenty minutes, just looking at them. I knew I was supposed to open them, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.

Eventually I did open them.

There was a jacket. Not the jacket I had asked for. I had never seen this jacket before, so now I have a strange funky smelling blue and red jacket hanging in the spare room door. The blue and black tartan jacket I requested has either been given to someone or thrown out. Don’t even get me started!

There was a pair of yellow quilts that I made in 2001. They smelled of stale smoke. The two matching cushion covers were nowhere to be seen.

There was a lamp base that was always around when I was a child. It currently has no wire, so it can’t be used and it’s missing a lampshade. A classic crème silk shade will restore it to the lamp I remember from day of old.

A 1923 copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. It had been packed in such a way that the back cover had been pushed up. This meant that as soon as I took it from the box, the back cover detached itself from the rest of the book. I took a deep breath and placed it to the side with a mental note to try and find someone who could fix it later. I couldn’t resist having a little trip down memory lane when I flicked it open the butchering of a mutton and thinking about Dad bring home a dead deer, and Muv using her Mrs. Beeton’s as a guide before placing the pieces in the freezer.

One of the boxes was filled with small ornamental shoes.

And finally her jewellery box. Filled with various pieces. Some I recall from my childhood, like the silver locket containing a lock of her hair and on the opposite side a picture and twist of my dad’s hair. Thinking about that item, I remember wearing it on a long silver chain to my first job interview. Also hidden in there was the small plastic hospital band that I would have worn in my first days on this earth.

TAB

In the news yesterday it was announced that the TAB (Ladbrooks, to my English readers) will be allowed to open for the first time, ever, on Good Friday. TAB representatives said they wanted to open after customers had requested the additional entertainment on the public holiday.

The religious groups instantly started banging on about making profit and the destruction of the Christian way of life.

I know I’m not alone in thinking of Easter as an excuse to eat chocolate and have a four day weekend. Clearly I’m not, after all TAB customers want to gamble on overseas gee gee races on the Friday. So, when will the Christian groups get it into their heads that not everyone believes in the reason for this holiday?

After all, approximately 25% of the Australian population is of other or no religion and that means the TAB could have just over 5 million customers on Good Friday, and that would make for a very good Friday indeed.

Pimped Up

Last night I popped to my local Nandos for chicken and chips with a mate. While he was ordering, four dark skinned fellas came in. Their pumped up torsos clad in GStar Raw T-shirts, tight arses in shorts trainers and socks that were pulled up. They also had at least a days worth of beard growth, short cropped black hair with that funky little pubic bit on the back of the head tufting out on the neck.

I pulled a couple of faces at my companion and when he sat down, he asked what I was pulling faces at.

‘They think they are so great, but it’s just nasty. I don’t find it at all attractive.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘they’re probably drug dealers anyway.’

A few moments later their take away was ready and they left the store. Then they climbed into a brand new silver Range Rover.

We had an extra giggle when we heard the broken neon signage of this shop crackling in the rain about an hour later.

Observation and Writing

On Thursday I had to stand for part of my train trip. I picked an interesting spot to stand, purely by accident and the people I saw inspired me to get out my notebook and write. It’s been a while since I wrote anything apart from blog entries and change management plans.

I had my iPod plugged with Rufus Wainwright mumbling his lyrics to his beautiful music when I noticed the man sitting the middle of the three person seat directly in front of me.

He had grey hair and black wire rimmed glasses resting on his nose. In his late 50s he was wearing a white shirt with the long sleeves, rolled/folded up his arms. His nylon tie blared its pattern to the whole train with it yellow background and William Morris dove pattern. The breast pocket held a black pen, a red pen and a frayed edge blue and white hankie. Across his knees he rested his brown briefcase with the scuffed edges hard against the seat back in front of him. Resting on top of the briefcase was a large book, white pages and small text in two columns. The writing on the pages was highlighted in yellow, pink and green. It was notated in the margins inn black, blue and green and he was making more notes with a second red pen he held in his right liver spotted hand. I looked at the header on the top of the page closest to me.

Jeremiah 9.11

How many times had he read this bible? Did he find something new in each reading? Did he have to read it? Was he studying theology? Was he a priest in plain clothes?

Then I noticed the brown marbled rubber band on his wrist. In green it was embossed with 1 Rifle Afghanistan.

It was out of context for me. It raised more questions.

I got out my notebook.

Friday 13th

My Friday 13th started out bit sh*t.

First the 0804 train I was getting arrived and left early. I can see the train station from the front gate and I KNOW I was on time. So I did a little run to try and catch it, ended up on the 0818 which was running four minutes late.

Now I work in North Sydney, I have to change train to get over the water, so I get off at Granville and change onto a North Shore train. Because of the early running of my usual train I wasn’t guaranteed a seat, on the 0826 out of Granville and in fact, because all the trains were running late, the train was packed to the gunnels.

After being thrown around a bit I asked if I could swap places with a young girl who was just standing with no assistance from any handholds, and sat on the downward step.

At Central, a shuffle of people resulted in several people leaving, but more people wedging themselves in. Then an announcement said, ‘This train will be a City Circle train due to problems on the Bridge. This will NOT be going over the bridge.’

Arghh!

I got off.

I found a RailCorp guy and asked, ‘Are any trains going over the bridge?’

‘Not at the moment love.’

So I set off to find a bus. The next bus didn’t leave until 0928. I was already late for work, so jumped in a cab.

The one system in Sydney can result in some rather interesting rides, but this morning I was grinding my teeth as the taxi drive about four kilometres in the wrong direction before finally getting on track. As we were driving across the Harbour Bridge, a train appeared to my left and over took us.

A few minutes later I climbed out of the passenger seat having paid $28.00 including the $4.00 bridge toll (it’s $3.00 after 0930) and walked into work at 0929.

Feeling much better now…looking forward to playing sideshow freak at a girlfriends dinner party tonight.

Mardi Gras

On Saturday I walked in the Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. I’ve only ever watched from the sidelines before so it was an experience to be on the other side of things.

I arrived in the float marshalling area just after 5pm wearing a red latex dress, a grey overcoat, trainers and the rest of my outfit in a Coles recycled bag. After I found the Hardcore Heaven float I caught with the people who invited me to walk with them. A~ and GC have been around for a while and they are great. GC has her Adams Apple removed on the 17th and A~ worships the ground GC walks on, following her in seven inch heels. I make a great handbag holder when we’re out and about.

A~ painted my eyes with gold and black while wearing black brief and bra and pink feathered headband and just before being wrapped in a purple and black rope corset. My corset went on much easier than hers. Then I went for a walk amongst the other floats.

Photo 75 is where I lost count. I was walking with a new acquaintance, also dressed in red and black latex and every time we stopped to take a picture, we where hauled into several. The crowd screaming at the railing also wanted to take snap shot. It was weird but strangely exhilarating. I hung around the float for what seemed like an age. I chatted with other float folk, but from the float I was on and other floats.

The float that confused me though was Animal Liberation. The people were wearing shorts and had their bodies painted up to look like Friesian cows. The float had signs that said ‘Leather is Cruel’ and Cows are Cool’, and yet they had a sign that said…’We support Gay Pride’. Why did I find this confusing? Well, while I understand not all gay men or women wear leather, quite a few do. For instance, the Dykes on Bikes where predominantly dressed in leather, the Leather Pride group were certainly dressed in leather, as was Mr Leather and so were many other random people throughout the parade participants including quite a few on the Hardcore Heaven float. It just didn’t make any sense. But I didn’t dwell on at the time.

I just got on with looking fabulous and playing up to my adoring crowd.

I changed out of my trainers about ten minutes before our float started to move. I had chosen patent leather booties with a decent heel for the 1.8km walk, knowing I wouldn’t be walking in a straight line, and actually walking twice that. I was now fully dressed, armed with a sjambok (incidentally, I’d love a leather one, one day instead of the plastic one I have) and ready to put on a little show with my new prancing partner.

Shortly after we started moving I realised how completely insane the crowd was. They were screaming at the top of their lungs. If you went anywhere near them you were grabbed, hugged, kissed and deafened by being screamed in the ear as the hugged you. However, this didn’t stop my high-fiving, running the sjambok along the fence line to produce a lovely ringing sound and pretending to hit my latex friend on the arse. At one point to stop on a bottle top and it stuck in the bottom of my shoe. I was very unladylike as I scrapped my foot on the road trying to get rid of it. It hurt a lot.
I think I heard Joan River, or it may have been Pam Ann, say ‘Ohh, look at the girl wield a stick, she can do that to me anytime.’

The end came quickly. Suddenly I found myself in a park with people collapsed on the grass, hyped up and nowhere to go. But first I had to take my gloves off. I had had nothing to eat of drink since 5pm, it was now nearly 11 and yet I still poured a few millilitres of fluid from the each glove and from the neck line of my dress. It’s one of the benefits of latex, you never need to have a seaweed wrap to lose excess water, ever again.

I went straight home afterwards. I was bushed. On the way to my lift I nearly lose the sjambok, but got it back again after a panic, so that was all good. Just after midnight I peeled myself out of the latex and had a shower.

It felt so good to slip between the sheets that night, even if I was floating just ever so slightly above the mattress.

Not Romance

For a while now I have had a Not-Boyfriend. A mate I go to the movies with and occasionally eat out and he keeps me company when I’m doing stoopid things, like moving the alpacas. We do not have a boyfriend/girlfriend relationship with all the perks that come with it. I’m not in a position to get into that and neither, he claims, is he.

He does do things sometime, that really make me think his actions speak louder than words, such as last night at the movies.

I have been waiting for Watchman to come out, for months. Finally it arrived on a Megaplex screen near you, last night. We were seeing each other on a weeknight, because I wanted to be one of the first to see it. While on the train home night I rang him, to confirm plans. I’d pick him and then we’d grab some noodles and see the movie at 8.30. I asked him to book the tickets over the internet when he got home, because I didn’t want to risk losing out to a massive queue. He agreed.

I got home, changed into jeans, fed and hugged Puss and Max, put the wet towels on the line, then jumped in the car and drove over to his place. We drove to the MacQuarie Centre talking about bad driving and bad days before being forced to park in the boondocks because it was late night shopping.

We found our way into the centre, he went to pick up the tickets while I went and ordered dinner. His noodle with chicken had already arrived by the time he appeared.

After dinner we had half an hour to kill so we hung out in Borders, fondling and fingering the books, but not actually buying any. Although I did find one I wanted to get, but as I don’t get paid for a few days, it’ll have to wait.

At about 8.25 I suggested we move to the cinema. On the walk I noticed he was holding his stomach. I asked if his tummy was sore.

‘It is a bit’

‘Did it starting hurting before or after dinner?’

‘A little bit before.’

‘Sounds like you need some nice soothing ice cream,’ I said with a broad grin.

‘Nah, don’t feel like any.’ Now I was a bit worried, he is the movie without ice cream, isn't a movie man.

‘What about a drink?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘You know, if you’re not feeling right I can take you home.’

At this point he stopped walking and produced a Gold Class envelope from under his jacket.

‘I knew you REALLY wanted to see this movie and I thought the no screaming kids option would be good.’

After I had stopped squealing and jumping up and down like an idiot, we walked through the Gold Class doors, I said with a smile and slap on him arm, ‘You know, people looking from the outside, might think that was really romantic.’

His reply, ‘You know me better than that.’

The movie was worth the $80. It was awesome. I stuck so closely to the graphic novel even costumes had been matched. It was amazing and when Silk Spectre got her jiggy-on still wearing her thigh high latex boots I was stunned, but awestruck.

This Womans Work

Had my iPod set to Shuffle today and after about 300 od songs Kate Bush's This Womans Work came on. It's the first time I've listened to it since this. I made it to 'Give me these moments back' before the eyes started to sting and moisture sprung forth.

As luck would have it, Neville appeared to ask me about booking a meeting room in Outlook.

Don't Think, Just Do!

I’ve been thinking.

I know thinking can be dangerous in the wrong hands, but thinking needed to be done. I’ve been putting it off for too long. I’ve been keeping myself busy to avoid the thinking that was required.

On Monday, I was forced to face something while sitting on the train on my way home from Uni. I sat there looking out of the window, watching the Inner West pass me by in a blur when a thought popped into my head.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

To what am I referring to I hear you ask. I know I did. My internal monologue kicked in and found myself going over all the things that I have experienced since this time last year.

It’s been less than idyllic year, I have to say. I know in the grand scheme of things like floods, bush fires and thousands out of work, my issues don’t even register a blip on the global radar, but to me they have been pretty monumental and life changing.

I reasoned with myself that I needed to get my life back on track with my goals in life.
- I need to sort out my revolting financial situation after over six months of unemployment.
- I need to start having some sort of social life, now that I may actually be able to afford to get out of the house on occasion.
- I would like to read some of the books I haven’t read after a couple of years of reading things that Uni has told me I have to read.
- I would like a relationship that involves a little passion and romance.
- I want to be able to spend time developing my skills as a photographer
- I want to get my motorbike licence

The list goes on…

Then I think about how working full time and studying for yet another Masters degree fits in with these desires. They don’t.

So today, I filed for a leave of Absence for my Uni course.

I figure I can start it in one year if I still want to do it. I think I applied to do a Master of Education because I didn’t have anything else to do at the time. Now I do. A leave of Absence means I don’t need to reapply (which is frankly, a pain). Hopefully they say I can, if the Uni denies my request, I’ll just withdraw completely.

Making this decision lifted a weight from my shoulders, and I feel like things are moving ahead for the first time in a very long time.

Poker Face

Trains seem to give me the best material. I can’t say if it funny or terrible material, but it’s fodder that just keeps giving gas.

This morning I rode to work listening to my iPod (The All–American Rejects) and trying to avoid looking at this view (I’d forgotten reading matter).



In the end I just gave up trying and took a picture of the sleeping man for you lot. I knew you’d find it amusing. I was just glad he didn't smell.

Well, Excuse Me! Part two

While waiting for the 1910 to Glenfield at Central I saw this guy, drinking this drink before he dropped the cup at his feet. A gentle,'I think you dropped something' a few minutes later resulted in him saying he would pick it up, but he left it laying were it fell. Nice guy, don't you think? Jodie, Merrylands



I sent this to MX commuter freesheet tonight. Maybe this litterbug gets his 15 minutes of fame for being a complete git.

Well, Excuse Me!

I’m pretty sure I’ve asked this before, but I’m going to ask it again, anyway. Why are people so rude of the train?

For starters, it’s the people just stand and glare at the back of your head when they want to get off the train and you are between them and the exit. Rather than say something, such as, ‘Excuse me’ or even ‘Excuse me, please.’ They just push past you and huff, as if your psychic abilities should have let you know they wanted to get off the train.

Today however, I lost it. I had a very long day yesterday and am exhausted today even after a reason eight hours of sleep. I drove over 400kms to move four alpacas. Left home at 10am, drove to Ourimbah on the central coast, chased the animals into a van, had my bones rattled while I drove to Windsor pulling into a Maccas drive through for lunch. Dropped the small herd off at their new home, then got back into the van and drove back to the Central Coast to pick up the car. I had a friend with me, but it’s still a hard trip. On the way back into to town we stopped for dinner at Taxim in Hornsby. It was at this point that I realised it would have been my 12th wedding anniversary and Hubby and I had our last anniversary dinner at the very same place. I got home at 8pm, had a bath, checked my email then went to bed. Puss curled up with me.

Anyway…back to train rudeness. I was running a tad late this morning, but got to the station with a few minutes to spare, so I was feeling alright. I hadn’t had to run. Got on and stood until the next station where I have to change trains. When the next train pulled into the station I was stood in just the right place for the doors. The train came to a stop and I stood to the side so passengers could get off. Then I went to move forward, a small man pushed between me and the side of the train. He pushed so hard I bumped into the person standing to my right, starting a domino effect. He rushed onto the train, bumping into people getting off and down the stairs. He jumped into the last seat. I wasn’t too far behind him and found myself, really pis8ed off, much more so than normal, because he had been so supremely rude and his actions had affected more than just me. I looked at him as I took up position leaning on the back of a seat, with hand hold digging into my spine, and the following went through my head;

‘You rude fu8ker!’

Apparently, I also said it, quite loudly. A couple of the people who had followed me on, and seen his display smiled and nodded. One said, ‘I couldn’t agree more.’ and glowered at him. He must have had a dozen or so, sets of upset eyes looking at him. But he steadfastly refused to move and got his book out.

I got a seat at Strathfield.


- The herd says goodbye to Wispa, Arabella, Bertie and Eric.