Forever Home

Today I officially adopted Cara. I transferred the required sum of cash into the account of lady I was fostering her from and her microchip will be transferred into my name.

She sits under my desk in her travel baggie, as I type, licking her feet. She comes to the office with me two days a week now, Tuesdays and Thursdays. She is well accepted by human and dogs alike and is generally adored due to her amazingly quiet behaviour and her overall cute factor.

The cats ignore her.

In celebration of her new forever home, I’m taking her swimming at Baywater on the Northern Beach after work.

If anyone cares to send her a Congratulations card, please mark them for the attention of:

Miss Cara ‘The Killer’ Sorrell

Big Weekend

I know it’s Wednesday and really I should have done this before, but frankly I’ve been too busy catching up on my sleep. I did so much at the weekend I felt like I didn’t have any.

Saturday went something like this; Up early, walk dog, get waxed, go home for shower and dress before picking up S, drive 80km to wedding, sit through wedding (bride looked spectacular, i was the only guest wearing a hat), vote for someone I didn’t really want to vote for but was the better option in my opinion, drive around the Mountain to the tune of 66kms, take dog for walk, go to reception, play a little bit of ping pong, take some photos, drink the drink of a designated driver, take some more picture, make casual conversation with strangers, eat some food when it appears, help the bride pin up her train, take some more photos, listen to speeches, drive the 80kms home thinking about how hungry you are because the caterers disappointed the bride by going back on their promise to ‘keep the food coming’, get home after 11 and fall into bed.

Sunday went something like this: Up early, pack car with stuff, drive the 285kms to Melba in the Australian Capital Territory for a photographic club meeting, stop midway to buy food supplies, unload the car, settle the dog, take some pictures, set up another photo, take some more picture, be the model for a recreation of the ‘Birth of Venus’ (this will remain in the private collection), put clothes back on, set up another shot, take some pictures, eat some food, have a chat, have a laugh, more pictures, load the car, drive to Goulburn, eat a 6inch Subway, drive the rest of the way home, get home at 10pm.

Don't get me wrong, it was fun, just exhausting.

I need a cream tea to replenish my used up energy stores. Ohh...perfect, an executive morning tea, see ya later!

What are the Odds?

Yesterday the conversation turned to giving blood and how being English the Australians won’t take our precious blood because we’re all mad.

Having lived in the UK at the height of the Mad Cow Scare, it is deemed that the risk of POMs having CJD and passing it on through blood transfusions it far too high a risk for the Australian Red Cross to take, which is a shame, they miss out on so many litres.

I used to give blood every six months in the UK. I’d go along to hall, have my finger pricked with a pin, then I’d be stuck with a needle. The biscuit and cuppa after made up for the temporary discomfort. I’d get a little sticker in my blue book, and off I’d go until; next time.

So the conversation was about the odds of getting CJD via transfusion. The stats we found where from the UK and since 1990 there have been 119 confirmed deaths from CJD. The chances of dying from this disease are something like 1 in 650,000 (based on a population of 60million). Now compare that number with these US figures (I know it’s not really fair to compare UK/US but I couldn’t find any AUS numbers);

Heart Disease : 1-in-5
Cancer : 1-in-7
Stroke : 1-in-23
Accidental Injury : 1-in-36
Motor Vehicle Accident : 1-in-100
Intentional Self-harm (suicide) : 1-in-121
Falling Down : 1-in-246
Assault by Firearm : 1-in-325
Fire or Smoke : 1-in-1,116
Natural Forces (heat,cold,storms,quakes, etc.) : 1-in-3,357
Electrocution : 1-in-5,000
Drowning : 1-in-8,942
Air Travel Accident : 1-in-20,000
Legal Execution : 1-in-58,618
Lightning Strike (included also in Natural Forces above) : 1-in-83,930
Snake, Bee or other Venomous Bite or Sting : 1-in-100,000
Dog Attack : 1-in-147,717
Asteroid Impact : 1-in-200,000**
Fireworks Discharge : 1-in-615,488

It would appear that I have more chance of being taken out by a lump of space rock than getting Mad Cow Disease.

Can I start giving blood again please?

Happy Birthday

Today would have been Muv’s 58th birthday. It would have killed her to be so close to 60, if she wasn’t already dead.

While she loved birthdays, she hated the idea of aging and due to her woeful grasp on mathematics the kids had her convinced for about three years that she was still in her early 20s when she was really creeping rapidly towards 30. She laughed about when she realised, but was secretly devastated.

She always acknowledged she was crap at maths and spelling, but she excelled at anything homely: gardening, cooking, sewing, being a mother, a friend and generally making a house a home. She even took evening classes in upholstery so she could redo the Chesterfield. I remember the horse hair going through the washing machine in pillow cases and stepping on a tack.

Every year she would make us a cake on our birthday. The year H had her appendix out, she got a cake in the shape of a bed with a little marzipan mouse tucked under the blackest. Peeling the icing blanket back revealed a tiny scar on the mouse’s belly. G had cakes made in the shape of a carp. S had ‘Big Sal used to make me coffee cake on my birthday... She knew it was my fav...’ L remembers ‘the clock cakes in yellow and red’.

She’d make the cakes after we’d gone to bed, she’d hide the cake in the high cupboards, which was an achievement because she was only 5’3, she’d design and ice while we were at school. We knew we’d get something special, but we’d never cheat and look. At least I wouldn’t, I can’t speak for the others.

I remember the year of the Rubik’s Cube vividly, Rachel and Laura had come around for dinner, so I was about eight or nine years old, still at St. Thomas’ of Canterbury in Merrow. I had been asking for a Rubik’s Cube for my birthday and I had been slightly disappointed that I didn’t get one. But the cake came out and it was a cube with nine squares on each side, iced in blue, red, green, orange, yellow and white, black liquorice laces divided the coloured squares. I was ecstatic. You can imagine my surprise and delight when the knife wouldn’t cut all the way through, my heart pounded, Laura and Rachel squealed, there was a hard mass in the centre of the cake. I had to cut around the lump. The cake slid apart to reveal at the centre a cube wrapped shiny tin foil. It was a Rubix’s Cube!



Happy Birthday Muv; wherever you may be.

Quiet Mouse

For the last few days I have taken Cara into work. No one is aware she’s even present. She sleeps in her baggie by my feet and doesn’t make a sound. I flip the lid down when I leave my desk. Not a peep.

I know neither of my co-workers are allergic, as C has a German Shepherd and an aging Spaniel and F, while currently dogless, grew up with them and is looking at adding a new family member soon. The passengers on the train though, I cannot say if they are or not. No one around me sneezed this morning, so I’m going to hazard a guess that we were in the clear for today.

Some guy did get on the train wearing a surgical mask though. Mate, if you’re sick enough to think it might be a bad idea to spread your germs, stay at home! Work won’t want you there coughing in your cubicle, your co workers won’t appreciate you trying to be a hero and soldiering on. I’m pretty sure everyone in the train carriage was thinking the same as me. ‘Go home, you idiot!’

Anyway, I digress.

This is Cara’s second trip to the office. She also accompanied me on Tuesday when I had the car serviced. She is more relaxed today.

At lunch time we popped out for a walk to the little park near the Harbour Bridge. While still quite shy, I didn’t have to take her out of the bag, she walked out on her own accord. She followed me for a couple of loops then had a sit down. A couple more loops, at this point I should tell you this park is more a patch of grass no bigger than your average UK back garden, then she went off and sniffed the trees herself. This is a big step forward in her development. Of course, she realised I was more than two feet away and ran after me, but she did venture towards them on her own again.

I do need to get her used to having a wee when we’re out. At the moment she hangs on until we get home. This is unacceptable because it means we can’t go away over night just yet and I’m not sure it’s entirely good for her. At the moment it seems she’s too afraid to wee (or poo) anywhere other than her backyard. Very human behaviour. How do I break her of this?

On that, she won’t eat either when we’re out. Not even the tiny liver treats that she loves so much. She’ll only drink if I pour water into my cupped hand.

I know this is all part of the solicitation that she needs to go through in order to get her living life to the full, so I shall persist.

She’ll continue to have train trips, beach visits (she had her first experience of the surf on Tuesday), trips to the movies (I’m not sure understood the nuances of ‘Rango’) and car trips wherever I go until she pees and poos with abandon and chases a ball like a dog ought too.

Traffic

I had to take Clover in for her first service today. In order to get the best deal I could, I purchased last year’s model from a garage on the Northern Beaches. She’s green.

On a Saturday the trip from my house to the dealership takes 40 minutes. This morning it took over two hours. I left home at seven thirty, arrived at the service centre at nine forty. It was an awful trip. Stop, start, traffic lights and a general feeling that everyone had forgotten to drive because the roads where a bit damp from the overnight rain.

The worst thing is, I have to reverse the process to get home.

Art, Old Stuff and Green

On the 19th March the moon was the closer to earth that it has been for 18 years. Sydney decided this would be an ideal time to start raining and cover the night in thick clouds producing a daft amount of precipitation. No pictures of Mega Moon for this camera nerd.

I did, however, get to go into the city on Sunday to have a look at the Annie Leibovitz exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Bosie Letters at the State Library and the Terracotta Warriors at the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

It was raining and seeing as I believe umbrellas are evil I choose to wear a hat to keep my still fairly fresh bald head warm and dry and a hoodie for my body. My friend A. Had chosen to be all man and just had on jeans and t-shirt. Grr... :-)

Needless to say he got very wet. Me, not so much. I laughed hard when he popped into a tourist shop and came out with one of those plastic poncho thingies. He looked very silly.

Due to a leak in the ceiling of the MCA, part of the Annie Leibovitz thing was closed off to the public. It was OK, missed 15 pictures, saved $10. What we did see was amazing, including the somewhat macabre photos of her expiring father and close friend Susan Sontag. The majority of the pictures where printed in black and white with only a couple of famous faces in colour (Nicole Kidman, Demi Moore).

A cup of tea/coffee in the cafe revived us before we strolled up to the State Library. The weather was being kind and had stop raining for the time being.

I wanted to see the letters that Lord Alfred Douglas, better known as Bosie had written Oscar Wilde. I was a little disappointed; they appeared to be reproductions, rather than the real thing. We were only there for about five minutes. I was interested though that someone who was born and bred in NSW, as A was, had never been in the State Library.

A short stroll across The Domain took us to The Art Gallery of NSW. I love this place. Been here many times, A never had. I approached the lady behind the information desk and asked, ‘could you please tell me where the Terracotta Warriors are?’

‘That exhibition ended on Wednesday’.

Damn, I missed them by four days! We still took a wander around. We looked at the classic from 18th C Europe, the one Pissarro, ‘the bicycle’ by Fernard Leger, the strange little Picasso, the Gauguin and the dull looking peasant Mr. Van Gogh painted in 1884 that is hides in one of the corners, before having some lunch. It was 2.15 and we were both starving. We went into the restaurant.

Pork belly with seasoned cabbage and polenta mash hit the spot nicely, as did the Chocolate parfait that we shared for dessert. Conversation was nice too. We talked about the things we’d seen during the day, and being a tourist in your own town. We decided it was underrated and the opportunity to wander, sit and drink tea while looking out as the ants rushing by present itself, it should never be turned down. Taking time out to just sit and enjoy is often ignored in preference for dash and haste of busy lives.

After lunch had been consumed, we walked across the road and into the Botanic Garden. The weather had cleared up and the sun was poking through, throwing fingers of light onto the trees. The warmth brought out the fragrance of the damp gardens filling the air with scents of late flowering hibiscus and sodden mulch. As we got deeper into the garden, the sound of car disappeared and the squeal of flying foxes became louder. The foxes hung from the trees like Christmas decorations, stretching their wings, but not taking to them. As we approached the water’s edge the sounds of waves against the breakwater and boats took over.

We finished the day with some luxury hydration at the Guylian Cafe on Circular Quay, chocolate milkshake for him, strawberry for me.

The weather held out until I got home. The cloud came over just in time to obscure the moon for the second night.

The Stick

With Muv’s birthday only a few days away I thought I’d tell you a story from my childhood. This may even be one of the reasons why I have been an anti-smoker. I’ll let you decide.

I was maybe six year and it was summer. I know it was summer because I was outside playing in the back garden of Bushy Hill Drive with my hand-me-down pram and doll. I was near the fruit trees and I found a stick. The stick was perhaps a foot long (30cm) and pretty straight, so I decided it would be a perfect cigarette. Being from a family of smokers I’d seen how it was done; hold the cigarette between the index and middle finger and place it between your lips. Remove from between the lips, pucker your lips to release the smoke, and then repeat until the cigarette was gone.
Being a stick, it didn’t burn down.

So, as I walked around the garden I put the stick between my teeth to hold it in place. Muv was in the kitchen doing something. Preparing dinner at a guess, or baking a YumYum Pie.

Anyway, here I was, walking around the garden, pushing a pram and pretending to smoke a stick. Then I tripped.

The stick hit the ground first and slammed into the back of my throat. I screamed.
Muv came running out of the house to find me jumping up and down holding my neck, crying with blood pouring out of my nose.

She asked me what I’d done.

I couldn’t speak. I remember pain burning the insides.

It all turned out well. I don’t really remember much of the aftermath, except being told to sip cool water. I know I didn’t go to the doctors or hospital. I’m pretty sure the pointing at the stick and then my neck and the hand movements of smoking explained what had happened and it was deemed a minor mishap.

I do remember hearing Muv recount the story some years later to a family friend though.

‘I didn’t understand why she was holding her neck when her nose was bleeding. Then I realised what she’d been doing. I told her that bad things happen when you smoke and not to do it again.’
I know I never put a stick in my mouth again.



PS. If you Google images ‘stick’ you get allsorts of stuff except for a stick :-)

Favourite Word

I had to look something up in the dictionary earlier and I happened upon a link to ‘Why is Q always followed by a U’. I read the article which was interesting, but by no means life changing, to the right of the screen under ‘Popular Links’ was a link to ‘The Most Beautiful Sounding English Word’. It’s not something I’ve really given a lot of thought too, but now that I do, I find this subject appealing. Who knew people thought about such things.

I had to see what others thought, after all, there are over 650 comments.

Most contributors stick to topic, but invariably least favourites creep in, favourite sounding names and others just try to corrupt the system with sly suggestions of racism and fornication (one of my favourites).

It would seem supercalafragilisticexpealadosious is a favorite despite not actually being an official word. Edward Lear managed to get runcible into the dictionary, so how come after all these years the Mary Poppins classic still hasn’t made it? It may not be in any official tomes, but it has made it in popular culture along with chim-chiminy-ciroo, well maybe not :-)

Other favourites seem to be words with negative connotations, but sound nice as they roll off the tongue: blarg, gynecological, melancholy, narcissistic, bubonic, jezebel, ennui, and insidious.

The favorites that win though are the nice sounding, happy though provoking classics like; angel, love, soliloquy, cornucopia, gossamer, curvaceous, evanescence, hallelujah, succulent, and serendipity.

The least favourites are headed up by: squelch, crusty, wet, merge, wacky, ooze, crotch, excess, cabbage, fart, tax and cancer. Most of the words in this list had negative meanings, no one voted for desire (for example) as their least favourite.

Moist wins hands down though, with loads of expressions of eww, ugh, revolting and vile used to describe it. It appears that a lot of people associate the word moist with yeast infections and humidity, but Angel counteracts that with ‘Moist isn’t a gross word if you put it before CAKE!’ She has a very good point. Dry cake or dry roast beef stick in the mouth without moisture.

Swift got a vote, but according to Elma, it only works ‘ if it’s whispered’.

Personally I’d have to go with for my current favourites: jezebel, fornication, procrastinate, hippopotamus, and awesome.

The words I avoid would be: c**t (always repugnant even if it wasn’t a swear word), phenomenon, and burp.

The comment from Robbie made me laugh hard though, so I’d thought I share it in full.
“‘The best word to say is botulism. It has awful connotations but it jumps out of the mouth like a prizefighter, ready to strike down anything in its way.
‘You can’t eat that candy in church!
Botulism! Of course I can!”’

What are you favourites and least liked?

I’m going into a tunnel…

And yet the person on the other end keeps talking.

I’m getting into the lift…

And yet the person on the other end of the phone keeps talking. They know and you know the likelihood of being cut off is somewhere in the high 90%, and yet they keep talking.

Why?

I’ve been asking this question a lot lately, of a lot of things. I’ve been trying to figure out why people do the things they do. It’s driven me into the arms of a shrink.

All the things that have happened over the last three years, marriage separation and subsequent divorce, the expiration of Mum and stepdad , moving house and jobs, robberies, money worries and relationships that leaves me questioning my sanity. I’ve come to the conclusion that I need assistance wading through the thigh deep mud that is slowly sucking me down.

I’ve leant one thing already.

You have to stop asking, why. You’ll never know why someone did something. Even if you ask them. They may not know themselves. Few people are self aware enough to say, ‘I did that because…’

So, friends. When I ask, why do you think my Grandmother stopped talking to me after my Mom died?’ Don’t try and give me an answer, just tell me I’ll never know.

When I ask, why did my friend ditch me after I left my husband and then start hanging out with him? Tell me I have to not read too much in to it and they are both out of my life. Move on.

When I ask any questions about things I have no control over, please tell me I’m not a mind reader and I’ll never know, move on.

When I ask, why does someone keep talking even though I’ve told them I’m going into the lift and the doors are closing? Tell me, it’s because they’re an idiot

Oscars 2011

I enjoy watching the Oscars. It’s pretty much the only award show I subject myself too, unless Lady Gaga is on the Grammys.

This year I recorded the Red Carpet and Ceremony so I could watch it when I got home from work cuddled on the couch with my fur family.

To say I was disappointed is an understatement. I think Ricky Gervais’ fabulous performance at the Emmys (I saw clips after the brewhaha in the press) had put everyone in a spin and the Oscars was to be a safe, safe family affair.

Everything was safe. Even Helena Bonham Carter who usually turns up at these things wearing something that looks like she picked it up at Oxfam and then dragged it through a hedge looked demure in all black. Where’s Bjork when you need her?

Dame Helen Mirren looking stunning with short hair and Vivienne Westwood

The Red Carpet show was so boring I got through nearly three hours of telly in 45 minutes. Thank goodness for fast forward. I skimmed across the chitter chatter for the annoying hosts fawning over starlets. I played the moments I wanted to see. Russell Brand with his Mum, Christian Bale sounding all cockney despite being Welsh, Marisa Tomai and that beautiful deep purple number form the 50s.

I had to pause and rewind to see who was wearing the stunning orange number, when I realised it was Jennifer Hudson, I found myself saying ‘what the hell happened to the rest of her?’ While she is stunning now, she was pretty awesome before the pressure of thin Hollywood had got to her too.


Skinny Jennifer Hudson

Jennifer Hudson in 2008, looking buxom and spectacular

Helen Mirren with her super short platinum blonde do was simple breathtaking wearing a Vivienne Westwood gown in pewter. She just seems to get better with age.

But we saw the same people on the carpet. Sandra Bullock, the young lass from the True Grit remake, that woman from The Fighter who ended up winning best Supporting actress, Melissa Leo. Her outfit was white encrusted with mirrors and an Elvis collar. I’d fire my stylist if they even suggested I wear something like that, but then I suppose it could have been a dare.

Robert Downey Junior and Jude Law injected just about the only genuine humour to the evenings events

The Ceremony was interesting from a car crash point of view. Like driving past a car crash, you can’t help looking. It was so dull. For me there were four spots that made me pause and watch. Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law talking about drug addition, Anne Hathaway having a dig a Hugh Jackman in a gag that feel flat, Zachary Levi, known for being bumbling spy by accident Chuck , singing and Kirk Douglas presenting the Best Supporting Actress gong.

Kirk Douglas has still got it at 95 and after recovering from several stroke

It’s great to see that Kirk Douglas of Spartacus fame has managed to overcome that strokes that left him unable to talk or walk to appear on stage again at the age of 95. Most would have disappeared from public life, but not Douglas Sr. He came out on that stage, faltered through a couple of fluffed lines, flirted with the ladies and even did a little physical comedy. Some in the press have derided him for appearing and the Academy for inviting him to present, but I think it’s admirable that he did appear and show the world that you can come back from life threatening illness.

Melissa Leo - really just because it was on the catwalk, doesn'tmean it should been worn out

I didn’t rate James Franco’s outing as a host. He seemed uncomfortable the whole time. Anne Hathaway seemed overly relaxed; she gesticulated a lot, to the point where she nearly obscured Franco’s face. When Billy Crystal came out to talk about hosting in the old days and Bob Hope’s 16 years as Master of Ceremonies, he got a standing ovation. He deserved it. He’d been good, but it seems a younger generation have been invited to host in an attempt to draw in the younger viewers. I may have suggestion to assist with drawing this demographic. Give good comedies a chance.

Zachary Levi and Mandy Moore - Who knew Chuck could sing?

In total, had I have watched all the Red Carpet and Oscars coverage in real time, I would have been glued to the set for over six hours. On fast forward, I knocked it over in two. I really hope next year gives me a show worth taking that day off work for like my friend C does.

St David's Day

Today would have been my 14th wedding anniversary, but seeing as I’m divorced now, it’s just St David’s Day. It’ll still evoke special memories in me, they’ll just be a little more wistful.

Instead of flowers, dinner and an amazing night of snugly ohing and ahing, I went to see the doctors.

I’ve been putting it off, knowing that I was getting worse and knowing that I’d inevitably walk out with a prescription for mind altering drugs and a suggestion to see a counsellor. I was right. But I know I’ve reached a point where I need the help.

These are a few things I know to watch;
Anger. It’s much worse than it’s been in a very long while. Frankly, I want to tell everyone to just f*ck off then go and hide in a hole.
Sleep. I sleep like a cat, but wake up tired after my dreams have been invaded by nastiness. No frolicking in lush green meadows with the man of my dreams at the moment.
Motivation. I’m sorry you want me to do what? I can’t be arsed to get showered or dressed at the weekend let alone leave the house if I don’t HAVE to.
Motorbike. I’m avoiding it. I very nearly sold it at a loss the other day.
Food. I starving all the time, but don’t want to eat. Once I start eating I can’t stop.
Concentration. How many times did I wash my face in the shower this morning because I’d forgotten I just done it?
Writing. I haven't done any for ages unless I'm complaining or griping about something. I'm not really a miserable git, but I'm sure some think I am. Consider this exhibit A.

Of course there are still those that ask me for help, even though I’ve attempted to retreat into the pit of despair that is my life at present. I’ve stopped going out even though I have a couple of fellas trying to court (I use that word because date seems odd). I’m wrong at the moment. I’m up for a bit, then down as low as can be.

Dr Rosemary says I need to be less stoic, ‘it’s a very British mentality’.

I freaking out about how the bills are going to be paid. I need to get a housemate, but despite a lovely spare room and over 100 views on the advert I’ve had no enquiries. My mental health is slipping into disrepair along with my kidneys.

I’ve been here before and I survived. Actually I’ve been here a couple of times in the last few years. I bounce back, but as a friend said the other day, ‘I’m just not sure how many bounces I have left in me’.

I can’t help thinking; while Africa was a great adventure, I would have been better staying at home.

I can’t help thinking; if I’d never have left my husband, I’d be financially OK?

I can’t help thinking; what’s going to happen to me, am I going to die alone, broke and eaten by cats?

I can’t help thinking; would anyone really miss me?