"How To Get That Man Of Your Dreams Despite Being Niki"
Or:
"The Halloween Party As A Tool Of Seduction"

Preparation
1. Go out until 5am the night before.
2. Get four hours' sleep, drag self out of bed and, because it's the day you move into your new flat and therefore imperative that you get your priorities right, don't bother to start packing but go straight to the hairdresser's instead.
3. Accept three Vitamin B capsules from hairdresser, who is concerned about how grotesque you look.
4. Arrive home to note from embittered ex-flatmate who has decided he won't help you shift after all.
5. Ring the only other friends you have, drag them hung-over out of bed and beg them to help with the move.
6. Load worldly possessions onto truck in torrential rain.
7. Unpack at the other end.
8. Address one of your new flatmates thusly: "I don't think I'm up to tonight's flat-warming/Halloween party. I'll probably only join in for half an hour or so and then go upstairs to finish unpacking and get some sleep."
9. Run down to alcohol vending establishment and buy a couple of bottles of wine 'just in case'.
10. Don't eat a thing all day.

First Meeting - That 'Some Enchanted Evening' Moment
1. Sit around at party trying to think of something mildly intelligent to say. Note that five out of the seven people in the room are female. Feel empowered and vaguely relieved by this.
2. Drink wine.
3. When two well-dressed, good-looking guys in their 30s walk in, assume the obvious - they're gay.
4. Drink wine. Talk to each of the guys. Discover that as well as being attractive, they have travelled extensively and are intelligent, witty, urbane and genuinely nice. They can also dance. Verdict: definitely gay.
5. Drink more wine.
6. When the musical accompaniment shifts to techno, dance like a spastic hummingbird on amphetamines.
7. Start drinking water (enlivened by the teeniest slurp of Jack Daniels). Get into convoluted discussion with the darker-haired guy of the pair.
8. Nope, he's not gay.
9. Other details of the night's proceedings need not concern the gentle reader at this time.

Aftermath
1. Get surprise of life when dark-haired guy starts emailing.
2. Write witty, articulate responses designed to inform and entertain.
3. Fall off chair at work when he suggests meeting up.

First Date
1. Spend last hour at work painting toenails.
2. Upon arriving home, obsess over what to wear. Try on every item of clothing you possess. Shake with nerves. Generally act like an idiot.
3. Show up at local watering-hole, praying he will already be there and hoping you remember what he looks like.
4. Yes and yes.
5. After standard kiss-on-cheek greeting and procurement of liquid refreshments, find somewhere to sit, mentally rehearse all the clever conversational openings you've prepared, smile at him and then freeze in horrified disbelief as your mouth opens and blurts out the following: "So... what's your favourite colour, then?"

Three Years Later
1. Still cringe every time you remember that line.

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Love's Young Dream:


"And for my next trick, I'll demonstrate how I can make a drunken one-night stand drag on for three years."

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Happy Three-Year-Anniversary-Of-The-Day-We-Met, Mr Dreamboat.

I got in first. Ha!

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What a bizarre day.

Everything was fine until I went to the weekly Writers' Group meeting. We participated in an exercise where we had to clear our minds and then start scribbling about the first thing that entered our heads. I'm not sure why, but I ended up writing something about my father's death 18 years ago, getting all sorts of amazing and encouraging feedback and then bawling my eyes out. (One of the dangers of trying to give up smoking: rampant emotionalism). Then one of my fellow writers revealed to me that she was a Christian and spent an hour after the meeting talking to me about such interesting and spiritual concepts as 'forgiveness'. She also told me how much she loved me, what a bright spirit I had and how brave I was. She has a big heart and she meant well, but her request for me to email the piece I wrote today to her daughter (presumably estranged) was a wee bit too much to deal with at the time.

Later on, the Dreamboat and I watched The Elephant Man for the first time. I cried all the way through it. This movie contains what I think is one of the most moving pieces of music ever written - Barber's 'Adagio For Strings'. (Download for Real Player here - at 7.5Mb.)

All in all, it's rainy season in North-West Melbourne at the moment.

P.S. And while I don't think it's fair to complain about the quality of services that are generously provided to me free of charge, I don't know what the hell is going on with Blogger (October archives to the power of three) and Enetation (comments out for over 24 hours), but I'll swig some more Cointreau, hug a tree and meditate in the hope that everything improves real soon.

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David Letterman's 'Late Show' saved my brother's life five years ago.

Hard to believe, isn't it? Personally, I've always thought the sickeningly smug repartee between Dave 'n' Paul would be more than enough to coax some poor wavering soul out of this life rather than keep them in it, but there you are. True story:

My brother Steve and his partner Jane rented a flat in a part of Christchurch that was known for its 'restless' populace. Think 'mobile' sans the adjective 'upwardly' and you've pretty much got it. A few months after they moved in, some new neighbours rented a flat a couple of doors down in the same block. S & J didn't think much of it until they were treated to frequent banging on their back door at ungodly hours of the morning from individuals in varying degrees of intoxication begging them for a 'tinnie'. (In NZ, a 'tinnie' equals a 'foil', equals around $20-$30 worth of dope... I think. I'm a little out of touch these days.) Yep, the new neighbours were entrepreneurs in the Recreational Chemical industry.

Steve is very much a 'live and let live' sort of guy, so he obligingly put a sign on his back door saying, 'Sorry, no drugs here. Try Flat 4'. He even drew an arrow indicating the direction of Flat 4 so the confused nocturnal clientele would know which door to hammer down next.

Unfortunately, gangs were involved. The purveyors of the illicit substances were affiliated with a gang that had decided to expand its business into the suburb, ignorning the fact that a rival gang already considered the area to be its turf. Someone decided retribution was called for.

Which is why a car-load of gang 'prospects' were instructed to drive up to the offending dwelling at midnight and lob a couple of molotov cocktails through the bedroom window. As a 'warning', you understand.

The trouble was, they got the wrong flat. They fire-bombed my brother's bedroom by mistake. One of the molotovs landed on the bed. The other burst against the wall next to it. The only reason Steve and Jane weren't in bed was that The Late Show was screening an hour later than usual and they'd stayed up to watch it.

The bedroom and everything in it was totally destroyed. One of the detectives told me later that if anyone had been in bed at the time they wouldn't have stood a chance.

So whenever I see The Late Show coming on and am tempted to retch violently, I choke back the bile and remind myself just how much my family and I owe Dave, Paul and their smug repartee.

They still annoy the hell out of me, however. And I still hate the show.

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You just know you're going to have a week of high achievement when you kick off your Monday morning by sending an email to the multi-national corporation that manufactured your vacuum cleaner, requesting contact details for the nearest Melbourne stockist of Dust Bag Type C-13, Part No. AMC-S2EN.

Being a domestic goddess isn't all about running around in a dressing gown until 3.30pm, you know. I've got responsibilities.

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On Friday night we went over to our friends Lucy and Paul's place for dinner.

This is why I didn't post yesterday.

This is why, after getting home at 1pm, I didn't do anything at all yesterday except lie in bed and not move a muscle.

This is why the Dreamboat did the same (although he got a lot more sleep than I did by virtue of simply passing out on Lucy's couch around 2am).

I remember Lucy and I singing Dragon's 'April Sun in Cuba' at the top of our lungs around 5am.

I remember Paul getting out of bed at 5.30am and rebuking us for dancing to Jamiroquai with the volume turned up as high as it would go.

I don't remember anything else.

So now it's Sunday, the seediness has gone and I haven't had a cigarette in over 24 hours. I thought I'd left the packet at L's & P's place, but I've just discovered that it was sitting in my jacket pocket all this time...

... empty.

The Dreamboat is hopeful that I'm finally quitting.

I'm absolutely climbing the fucking walls.

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Today's Nong of the Week Award goes to my bank. I discovered on Friday that they sent my replacement credit card not to my Melbourne address where their statements arrive as regularly as a naturopath's bowel movements, but to their Whyalla branch in South Australia, where it has been languishing unclaimed for the last few weeks. And yeah, although most of the year 2001 and the first couple of months of 2002 have taken on something of a dream-like quality in my mind, I do vaguely recall living in Whyalla. That was back in the days when the bank sent my replacement card to Brisbane.

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Have you ever noticed how many words in the English language describing ill-humour of varying degrees are related to the digestive system? Of course you haven't. You're too busy worrying about the frightening state of the world at the moment. Not to mention your jobs, your kids and your bank balance. Fortunately for you, I am unfettered by any of those latter considerations, which leaves me free to ponder important subjects like language and its relationship to the digestive system, and enlighten you accordingly.

Here's a sampling:

Liverish (adj) - peevish, glum
Spleen (n) - lowness of spirit, moroseness, ill-temper, spite
Gall (v) - vex, annoy, harass, humiliate
Bile (n) - peevishness
Bilious (adj) - peevishness
Choler (n) - anger, irascibility

The Dreamboat has become very well acquainted with all of these states over the last couple of weeks because he's been able to witness them first hand from Yours Truly. I don't know why stomach problems are so particularly effective at provoking bad moods (as opposed to rickets, for instance), but they are. I'd even put them up there on a par with female hormones, and that's saying something.

On the one occasion when I saw the Dreamboat sick enough to spend a couple of days in bed, I was able to ascertain that he deals with illness in the traditional masculine fashion, which I like to term the 'Serengeti Syndrome'.

Serengeti Syndrome manifests in three stages:

Stage One
I am a majestic, virile king of beasts. I prowl around the Serengeti Plains, oozing testosterone and cowing lesser life-forms with my mighty roar. Females fight with each other for high status in my pride.

Stage Two
What's this? The flu? This can't happen to me! I don't get sick. I don't wanna stay in bed. I've got too many important things to do. I need to strut around shaking my mane a lot. I have to yawn every five minutes. How can I take the choicest cuts from the hunt if my throat's too sore to swallow? This is unbelievable!

Stage Three
I am cub, hear me squeak.

My own method of dealing with illness is more along the lines of the two-stage 'Silent Sociopath':

Stage One
I want to be left alone. Don't fuss. Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Don't bring me anything. Don't expect conversation. Don't ask me anything that involves making a decision because my suffering is so great that my mental processes have shut down. Just get on with what you're doing and leave me to my anguish. With any luck I'll find the strength to convalesce and in a few days life might be almost back to normal.

Stage Two
Yeah, that's right. Go ahead and ignore me. You really don't give a damn that I'm sick, do you?

Ahhh...that wonderful capacity for drama that we humans possess. Ain't it grand?!

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I wanna be a famous blogger like the gentleman over at Hot Buttered Death so that I can get 'occult spam' too.

Do you hear that, you Orders, you Cabals, you psychotic world-domination-with-a-twist-of-good-ole-esoteric-bollocksy-rhetoric Juntas? *adopts a pugilistic stance* Bring it on!

But be warned - I do a mean palm reading when I'm drunk.

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At the risk of sounding tacky, (What?? Again??) I have to confess that the greatest joy of my childhood was learning to read.

I remember the first time I went to the Christchurch Public Library. I must have been seven or eight. Once I got accustomed to the weird smell, I stared at all the stacks containing thousands of books and thought, 'Now I can learn everything there is to know. All of it's right here for anyone who wants it. And it's free.'

Well it was, until I got my first overdue fine.

I was born to be a nerd. I was one of those kids who always have their heads buried in a book. Every year at Christmas when we visited our cousins, my aunt would ban me from the bedrooms where the books lived and insist I 'go outside and play'. Playing with my cousins was:
a) boring, and
b) guaranteed to result in severe sprains at best and broken bones at worst,
so my aunt's annual decree never failed to strike horror into my nerdy wee soul. I'll always be grateful to my parents for not making similar demands at home.

Needless to say, I read everything I could get my hands on. My folks never thought to put any of the stuff they considered 'unsuitable' out of reach because in the beginning they didn't realise how voracious this appetite I'd developed for reading actually was. When they forked out a lot of money to some itinerant religious peddlers (Jehovah's Witnesses or Seventh Day Adventists, I think) for a bunch of health books, I had an absolute field day and subjected the Dowager Empress to conversations like the following:

Eight year old nerd: Hey Mum, I've worked out why my teeth are so bad and why I get so many fillings every time I go to the dentist.
Dowager Empress: (absently, while peeling potatoes) Why's that, love?
Eight year old nerd: I've got rickets.

Or:

Eight year old nerd: Mum, what's mucus? (Pronounced to rhyme with 'ruckus')
Dowager Empress: (suspiciously) Why?
Eight year old nerd: It's in this book I'm reading.
Dowager Empress: Let me see.
Eight year old nerd: (hands her a novel about a student nurse working on a terminal ward)
Dowager Empress: (reading aloud) "...and often, when they're dying, the mucus gathers in their throats and it rattles..." (hastily shuts book) You shouldn't be reading this.
Eight year old nerd: (grabs a dictionary, learns what mucus is and spends the next few days trying to produce some in order to practise making it rattle)

When my Dad heard about this, he was immensely proud and became convinced I was destined to end up a doctor. I don't think the Dowager Empress had been banking on this reaction when she told him.

A couple of years later I found two books that they had managed to hide, issued by the same religious crowd who'd produced the health tomes. One was entitled 'On Becoming a Woman'. The other was called 'On Becoming a Man'. They featured lots of pictures of American teenagers in the 1950s, toting school books secured by what looked like leather belts they'd pinched off their fathers' pants. It was obvious from the dazzling perfection of their dental work that they didn't have rickets.

I read both of these books, although I was more interested in the girly one. Each of them contained a chapter called 'The Dangers Of Self Abuse'. I kid you not. These chapters were my all-time, Number One favourites. But that's another story.

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Hello to Billy Muggins of the Cafe Latte site, and thanks for the link. I hereby bestow on thee some virtual Royal Superior Dark from that wonderful purveyor of coffee in the Queen Vic Market for those intimate, caffeine-enriched baths with the Ms Muggins of your choice.

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"Comfort Food" - what the hell's that?

I've been ruminating on this subject lately because for two weeks I've had a nagging ache in my stomach and nothing that I've so far shoved into my mouth to 'comfort' it has met with any degree of success. I mean, I find things like chicken breasts stuffed with goat's cheese and green onions accompanied by a nice chardonnay to be extremely comforting, so I don't see why my stomach shouldn't as well, the contrary little bastard.

And yeah, OK, I know I'm not being very fair. I know I can't moan with any degree of credibility, having been stupid enough to rave on in a global forum about how much I drink and smoke, but that little acid bath in my abdomen and I have been at loggerheads almost since Day One. It gave me an ulcer when I was fourteen and I hardly drank or smoked anything back then. The doctor said it was stress-induced, and if you're wondering what a fourteen year old has to be stressed about, just cast your mind back to your own teenage angst and multiply it by ten to allow for the highly-strung nature that characterises the Youthful Prodigy. (And in the unlikely event that any fourteen year old prodigies are reading this, I wouldn't recommend a stress-induced ulcer as an effective tool for winning respect and/or sympathy from your family or peers. I didn't get any time off school. It didn't make the guy I was besotted with any more interested in me. It didn't improve my already bad reputation. And I still had to sit my exams.)

A few years later, when I was a professional ballroom dancer, I started to get all sorts of bizarre food cravings. I remember one six-month period where my diet primarily consisted of corn kernels, cheese-and-onion flavoured potato chips and coffee. I'm not kidding. Every morning I'd have a huge bowl of corn smothered in butter for breakfast. A year or so after that it was mushrooms. I was powering through a kilo and a half per week on my own. Again, not recommended. Apart from anything else, it's expensive. And stomachs don't react too well to this monotony of fare either.

Which leads me back to the present, with its Crotchety Stomach Of The New Millenium and the concept of "comfort food". My earliest definition of the latter was: anything cooked by someone else, but after watching a couple of Nigella Lawson's shows, I learned that soup, mashed potatoes, eggs, pies/quiches and chocolate fudge cake all qualify as foods of the comforting variety, even if you have to prepare them yourself. I've tried a few of these recently, but none of them has managed to quell that annoying sensation one gets when gallons of hydrochloric acid insist on eating away at one's tender stomach lining.

So this morning I took action. I went to the doctor. And she gave me the most effective comfort food of all - a box full of little white pills, to be taken twice daily.

I feel better already.

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On Sunday night I made resolve to have an alcohol-free week (despite the prospect of getting a call tomorrow from a wild Irish lass.) And on Monday morning I decided to give up smoking. By 3.30pm I'd had five cigarettes but was increasingly comfortable with the concept of chucking in the habit. And then the Dreamboat called to say our friend M was down from Sydney and how did I feel about the three of us going out for dinner that night? At which point my already pathetic levels of self-control vaporised entirely.

M and his wife K are two of the nicest people I've ever met. My introduction to them occurred one Saturday around midday nearly three years ago. The Dreamboat was staying with them at the time. He'd met me after work the night before, we'd subsequently made a colossal dent in Sydney's alcohol reserves and so there I was - desperate to scuttle out the door before they witnessed my Walk Of Shame, and totally convinced I was about to expire from pure embarrassment.

(If you're not familiar with the Walk of Shame, it basically involves going home in the same clothes you wore to work the previous day - but sans make-up, looking very much the worse for wear and emitting alcoholic fumes from every pore.)

They reacted very calmly to this horrific apparition and chatted to me kindly while I waited for the taxi to take me home. To this day, I can't remember anything they said. I was too busy repeating to myself, "You are the most ridiculous creature on god's green earth. How the hell do you get yourself into these situations? You're supposed to be a grown-up. Shit, my head hurts. I need water. Gallons of it. And junk food. Now."

When the cab arrived, I bolted inside and spent the journey enduring a virtual cascade of not-particularly-subtle innuendoes from the smirking driver.

So on the all-too-few occasions when I've seen M and K since, I've always wanted to over-write that awful first impression I gave them. Unfortunately, as our trips to Sydney are rare, brief and always involve a massive day-long reunion at The Oaks with all our friends, I've never succeeded to the degree I would have liked.

Things looked promising last night when M arrived at our place, though, because at least I was sober to begin with. The three of us chatted about this and that, looked at some photos, drank a leisurely couple of beers and then headed out for a gorgeous meal at ezard at Adelphi. I guzzled copious amounts of water along with the wine in the hope that I'd retain at least a semblance of lucidity for the duration of the dinner. It worked, but I was too busy running backwards and forwards to the toilet to contribute anything very meaningful to the conversation. Hence, lucidity wasted.

We then went to the Kitten Club for a nightcap. It was the first time we'd ever managed to get a seat there, so bear that in mind if you're ever stuck for anything to do in Melbourne at 11 o'clock on a Monday night. Just be wary of the cocktails.

All in all, it was a great night and in the post mortem with the Dreamboat it was agreed that I managed not to do or say anything that was memorably awful. M seemed to enjoy himself and it was terrific to see him again. And the added bonus from starting off the week in such a way was that today I managed to limit my cigarette intake to three and finally gave my poor liver the rest it so desperately needs.

I am optimistic that this total reformation of my character will continue until at least the weekend.

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Saturday afternoon started off innocently enough. The Dreamboat and I wandered across the road to the market to look for some nice coffee mugs. His parents will arrive from Scotland in two and a half weeks and, while our collection of wine glasses is more than adequate, we don't have much in the way of sexy drinking vessels for liquid of a non-alcoholic nature.

It took all of fifteen minutes to achieve this objective, and after the Dreamboat's patient reassurances concerning the strange but not unpleasant sensation of warmth I was experiencing ("That's called sunlight") and the fact that my hair sometimes moved seemingly of its own accord ("That's known as a breeze and it's fashioned out of what we like to term fresh air"), we decided to wander around for a while.

Which is how we ended up in an Irish pub called Pug Mahones, debating whether or not to order that dangerous third Kilkenny (we did). If the Dreamboat hadn't come up with a plan for stopping home to unload our purchases, getting changed and continuing on to another watering hole that served food, I'd probably still be there.

So it was on to the Town Hall Hotel in North Melbourne. I love this pub. It's very small and poky, they have live music, the food's great and it has the most eclectic bunch of patrons I've ever seen - all ages, proclivities and dress styles. The place also has Kilkenny on tap.

We must've arrived somewhere around 7pm. By 11pm, when we were told that the outside beer garden where we'd been decamped was closing for the night, the Dreamboat and I had grown bored with the list we'd been compiling of The Very Best Party Songs Ever (I've still got five ATM receipts and a ripped-up cigarette packet covered in writing to attest to our diligence up to that point) and we headed back inside. We decided not to linger in the bistro hosting the all-girl punk band because it seemed cruel to take up room that would've been used more appreciatively by all those young farm-boys staring in fascination at the lead singer's large breasts, so we shuffled into the front bar. I'm not sure if the look on the Dreamboat's face was one of mild regret or not.

Over the next couple of hours we quaffed more Kilkenny, chatted briefly with a nice lesbian who'd been ostracised by one of her group for being a smoker and had fled to our corner where the overflowing ashtray told her she'd be treated with understanding, and generally soaked up the ambience. Once or twice my attention was caught by a couple seated nearby. They were smooching and whispering sweet nothings and I'm a sucker for Young Love.

At one point I went off to the loo and came back to find the Dreamboat chatting to the Young Love girl. Her boyfriend had also left on a mission to relieve his bladder and she'd turned to the Dreamboat and said in a very strong Irish accent, "Hi. My name is C and I like to talk a lot." We moved over to sit with them and I spent the rest of the night in hysterics.

The girl was an absolute hoot - "D'ye see those lesbians over there? Well, I was havin' a great chat with 'em because I wanted to know about those attachments they use. You know - those strap-on things. Coz, ye know, what's the point of bein' into women when you're likin' the sex with men's things? Anyway, two of them said they don't use them and I thought that was very interestin'." - but her boyfriend was even funnier in his own way. He was so drunk his eyes were rolling in his head. He couldn't control his own facial expressions, let alone his legs. It was like his face had a life all of its own. He was friendly and chatty once he got going, but he kept grimacing and pulling all sorts of weird expressions and obviously didn't have a clue he was doing it. His girlfriend bought him a pint of Guinness and every now and then she'd pat him on the shoulder with a motherly air and encourage him to "have a wee drink now, darlin'".

Somewhere along the line, Cocksucking Cowboys became involved. Don't blame me - I didn't christen them. That's their name, although more polite individuals refer to them just as 'Cowboys'. If you're not familiar with these, they're truly evil concoctions containing Butterscotch Schnapps, Bailey's Irish Cream and god knows what else. You get them in shot glasses. We had two each. Plus more Kilkenny.

When everyone was thrown out at 1am, we pledged drunken friendship, swapped phone numbers and went our separate ways. I was told to expect a phone call on Wednesday - it's the young lady's day off, and she and I made tentative arrangements to meet up and spend the day drinking. I didn't take it too seriously, but the Dreamboat said, "No, she meant it alright. You two really hit it off. Can't wait to see what state you're in when I get home from work on Wednesday."

So if I don't post on Wednesday, you'll know why.

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Well, it's happened. I had wondered if it would, but ended up dismissing the thought as something way too improbable. I know better now. One should never underestimate that wonderful ability of people to misspell even the simplest and most familiar words.

On the weekend, two particularly impressive units found themselves in here after searching for "sex + panis". Just beautiful. At least they spelt 'sex' correctly - we assume.

I must concede the possibility that these people are not actually totally illiterate but were merely exercising their Saturday right to jump online after consuming 10 pints of Kilkenny. I can see how that would happen - I've done it myself. But at least I could still spell.

So, you "sex + panis" people: congratulations! Kick back, take something for the hangover and spend a relaxing hour or so on the couch, idly leafing through the dictionary of your choice. And when you get bored with all that, there's always the option of fondling that prestigious Nong of the Week Award lying on the couch next to you - more fun than a whole sackful of panises!

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Here in Australia, today was an official day of mourning for the victims of the Bali bombing. It was also a day to think about those still missing, their families, and the many injured who have a very long and difficult recovery process ahead of them.

Tomorrow, it will be back to business as usual on this blog (god knows I've accrued plenty of ridiculous material over the weekend), but for now my thoughts are with these people and with those who gave so much of themselves to help when and where they could.

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Oopsie...domestic duties, hairdressing appointments and the compulsory 10 pints of Kilkenny on a Saturday have somewhat inhibited my ability to post over the last couple of days. But fear not, my morsels... there shall be more to say shortly.

Thanks for hanging in there.

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In Which Our Heroine Continues to Discourse on the Subject of Her First Wedding and Skilfully Introduces the Concept of 'The Seven Different Types of Sex':

When you're a wilful 18 year old who has got it into her head that she wants to marry, the road to the actual nuptial ceremony is long and torturous.

For a start, I was under-age and needed permission from my parents - neither of whom was willing to give it. In his heart of hearts my Dad never really did, but the Dowager Empress my mother finally caved in on the conditions that we:
a) acquired a Papal Blessing (I understand the words but still don't know what the hell that is), and
b) played a dirgey old piece of music called "Panis Angelicus" during the ceremony. (You have no idea how difficult it was for me to resist playing around with the spelling of that just now.)

Both of these were canned by the priest, who commented as follows:
a) "You can buy a Papal Blessing for $5 on every street corner in Rome. Don't bother." and
b) "Panis Angelicus? For a wedding? No way."

He was an enlightened man despite, as I've already mentioned, his subsequent refusal to play the David Bowie song we wanted. However, he laid down a couple of conditions of his own.

The first was that prospective hubby and I attend a series of lectures outlining the procedures and benefits of Natural Family Planning. To our great sorrow, we somehow found ourselves way too busy to get around to complying.

The second was that we attend a pre-nuptial course run by the Marriage Guidance Council. This came out of the same principle that gave rise to Preventative Medicine and Defensive Driving Courses: "Educate 'em in advance so that it won't go pear-shaped and you don't then have to waste your time picking up the pieces. However, if it does go pear-shaped, you can have lots of fun lecturing them about how they obviously didn't pay enough attention at the time and it's all their fault and they probably deserved it anyway."

So the following week we found ourselves in a room with 14 other engaged couples, all due to marry within the same four week period. And from the little I can recall, it was good stuff too. I don't know how many of those couples are still together - the odd's aren't in their favour - but at least we couldn't say we weren't warned.

On the second-to-last session, we were introduced to the idea of the Seven Different Types of Sex. I can only remember six of them, but here they are:

1. Propagation Sex
Engaged in for the sole purpose of getting pregnant. Any enjoyment you get out of it means you must be doing it wrong.

2. Celestial Sex
Choirs of angels, thunder and lightning, mighty organ blasts... you get the picture.

3. Martyrdom Sex
"Never let it be said that I didn't let him have his way when he wanted, even though I usually had a headache and there was a stack of dirty dishes in the sink."

4. Orange Juice Sex
What better pick-me-up could there be, first thing in the morning?

5. Pie À La Mode
Anything goes, provided no-one else gets hurt. The course didn't cover what to do if 'hurting' was specifically requested.

6. Comfy Shoes Sex
There's nothing better after a hard day in the salt mines than slipping into something a bit old, worn and familiar.

7. ????

I have a theory about the seventh one. I think it's called 'I Must Be Getting Old Sex'. This can be seen at play when your Loved One wanders into the bathroom while you're having a shower, chats in a casual fashion about his day, ignores your leers and suggestive soapy gyrations, and wanders out again. Or when said Loved One looks as if he's about to divest himself of his tweeds and join you any second now and you find yourself screeching, "Noooo! I don't wanna get my hair wet!"

I'd invite people to share their own theories about the missing seventh type of sex, but having looked at some of the search engine phrases that have led individuals to this site recently, I'm just too damn scared.

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You've gotta hand it to that funny-looking little dog with the mixed pedigree and a moderately serious threadworm infestation called Life:

One minute you're a total nonentity, puddling through your existence and knowing that, with a couple of notable exceptions, no-one else is particularly interested. The next, you're displaying work in art galleries, going to exhibition launches, drinking glasses of cheap wine poured from a cardboard box, graciously accepting praise for your work... and still a total nonentity. The difference, though, is that suddenly you're a nonentity with potential value. Once you were a nobody in the high-powered world of community-run art galleries. Now you're an exploitable commodity.

In other words, you get asked to mind the gallery for a few hours because everyone is sick of the sight of it and they can't find anyone willing to sit behind the desk.

So that's what I did for four hours today. I was in charge. They made me responsible for the gallery keys and everything. I mean, I could've closed the whole show down and gone next door for a beer if I'd felt like it! They charged me with answering the phone and penning succinct, efficient little messages in my graceful hand. I even got to give a guy directions to the internet cafe down the road and engage in meaningful discussions with awe-struck gallery visitors:

Little Old Lady: My, there's a lot of work in here, isn't there?

Me: Yes. Each exhibit demonstrates the processes that the artists went through in order to produce the works they're currently displaying in some of the local shops. The theme is 'belonging' and here we're seeing the various roads they had to travel along on their personal journey to discover what the concept of 'belonging' actually means to them.

Little Old Lady: Yeah. (wanders out)

It felt good. Untrammelled power obviously sits well on my spongy shoulders.

The highlight was the point where there were four of us congregated together - one of the gallery's owners, the display Co-ordinator, a member of the local Community centre and Yours Truly. I felt a huge surge of pride. There we were, sisters united, fused into a powerful fellowship by our commitment to the community, our passion for the arts, the lankness of our hair...

It was a powerful moment, I can tell you.

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At 7.15 this morning, there was a knock on the door for the Dreamboat. The caller was a woman. She'd come to give the Dreamboat a blood test. He's recently applied for some new insurance, so has to be tested for every disease known to man, beast and single-celled organism, and more than a few known to the Splat Creatures of the Pleiades.

When the Dreamboat informed me that this would take place, my mind was boggling so much I didn't know where to start. For instance, since when did nurses start making house visits for blood tests? Or is it that insurance companies always do it this way? (You can tell by my lack of knowledge in this respect that I don't boast much in the way of insurance coverage, so if anyone has been harbouring thoughts about marrying me for the huge claim they'd make after bumping me off, forget it.)

My experience of blood tests generally involves waiting in a doctor's surgery or hospital for three quarters of an hour after my appointment time has elapsed. Then a jolly woman will call me into some cubicle, all the time chatting and being so sweet that I can barely resist getting down on my knees and begging her to be my big sister. She always seems so efficient, so confident, that when she starts poking the needle in and out of my inner elbow and muttering a lot, I just assume she's warming up. When she then switches to the other arm, I give her the benefit of the doubt and theorise that she merely likes thing to be symmetrical. Finally, when she starts poking the needle into the back of my hand while swearing under her breath on the subject of 'bloody collapsing veins' I start to think that maybe all is not well. The session is usually terminated when she sends me home with instructions to 'come back tomorrow when the other woman is here' and begs me not to show 'the other woman' what she's done to my right arm. I stoically ignore the trembling and dizziness, try to gloss over the fact that my face has turned the colour of vanilla ice-cream and conclude that it just wasn't her day.

All this was going through my mind yesterday, while I was stacking up a month's worth of newspapers and two weeks' worth of empty bottles for safe disposal in honour of the Mobile Blood Test Woman's impending visit. I wasn't exactly labouring under a sense of injustice, but I did feel sorry that the Dreamboat was going to miss out on an experience which I've always found to be immensely character-building.

Then I got to wondering about what sort of person could wake up at 6.00am and spring enthusiastically out of bed thinking, 'Yeeha! In just over an hour I'll be sticking a needle into someone's vein and withdrawing a substantial quantity of blood! Can't wait!" At that hour of the day, just the thought of my own bodily functions makes me feel nauseous. And although I don't have a problem with blood or needles, they're not the sort of concepts I want to get intimate with at 7.15 on a Tuesday morning. So I was curious to know what the Mobile Blood Test Woman was like.

When it was all over, the Dreamboat came into the bedroom and woke me up. In view of the circumstances, I'd decided against hovering around to mop his brow and thought it best to just carry on with my normal activities in case he needed the reassurance of the familiar.

"All done," he announced.

Even while still shrugging off the misty veils of sleep, my mind was as penetrating as a laser.

"So... was she a ghoul?"

"A what?"

"A ghoul."

"I don't understand what you're talking about."

At which point he exited. So I'm none the wiser about the Mobile Blood Test Woman. I'm still totally in the dark about what motivates her and others of her kind. And until such time as I'm back to generating an income and therefore qualified to apply for insurance to protect it, I guess I will be forced to continue languishing in ignorance for quite a while yet.

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Nothing funny from me today, I'm afraid. After what has happened in Bali, and after having heard that a friend of a friend died on Friday from a disease that no-one could diagnose, leaving 20 month old twins without a mother, I'm not in the mood.

Maybe tomorrow.

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This week's Nong Of The Week Award is a double whammy. The first recipient is Yours Truly who, in an act of colossal stupidity, offered to take on that project for the local art gallery and then left it until the day of the deadline to begin. It's finished now, and the Dreamboat deserves an extra-special back-scrub for downloading a 5 Mb file of Chinese characters so I could print out one of the stories.

The second recipient is World Vision (yep, she's picking on the poor charities again). Of all the countless organisations that get to figuratively fondle and squeeze my viscera via regular credit-card payments, World Vision was the only one to send me a letter informing me that my card expires at the end of the month. A bit presumptuous and cheeky of them, I thought, considering that the payment for my sponsorship renewal isn't due until March 2003.

Maybe I'm supposed to be impressed with their efficiency or something, and in my more anally-retentive moments I honestly am. But all things natural in this world include a tiny piece of chaos and sometimes I wonder if these super-efficient charities are merely fronts for something a bit more sinister... like the Borg. And maybe all forms of resistance, even when expressed in something as insignificant as a Nong Of The Week Award, really are futile - as long as they have your up-to-date credit card details.

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There are 114 bollards on the Geelong waterfront. A taxi driver told us this last night, while driving us to the restaurant very slowly in order to push the fare up over $5.00.

After comparing memory losses and degrees of illness this morning, it's pretty much agreed that the Dreamboat was the drunkest person in Australia last night. I was only the second-drunkest.

And half an hour ago, when we arrived home, there was a phone message waiting for me from the Co-ordinator of the art gallery display: "I just wanted to see how you're getting on with the book." Which is some relief. She's obviously realised she won't be getting anything more artistic than a booklet of some description.

On the other hand, I haven't even started it and it's due tomorrow at the very latest. So I don't think I'll be calling her back just yet.

I need to lie down for a little while first.

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I've put aside all thoughts of desecrated literary displays and exhausting art gallery projects because something far more important has cropped up: tonight we're driving down to Geelong to have dinner with some of the Dreamboat's colleagues.

I don't know much about Geelong. We drove through it back in February on our way to beginning our Exciting New Life Full Of Promise in Melbourne and the only thing I recall is a massive traffic jam heading out of town. However, I've since discovered that the city boasts waterfront bollards painted to resemble lifeguards, so it is obviously the hub of a thriving artistic and cultural scene.

I've met only one of the dinner guests previously. The Dreamboat assured me last night that I will 'really like everyone'. This isn't the issue. Of course I'll like them. I gambol like a labrador puppy on Ecstasy at the feet of anyone who is prepared to say more than three words to me and/or pat me on the head. I'll love 'em all. Whether they'll like me is another matter altogether.

So I've been devising a plan to make myself more appealing for tonight. Firstly, I'll jump on my exercise bike and pedal like a demented rodent for half an hour, thereby ensuring I lose five kilos and can find an ensemble in my out-moded wardrobe that doesn't resemble gardening garb for the criminally insane. Next, I'll spend three hours messing around with my hair until I find a simple yet elegant style that effectively hides my dark, grey-streaked roots. At dinner, I'll ask the Dreamboat to position me in a corner with particularly subdued lighting so that no-one at the table will have to watch me dropping my food everywhere (unless they really want to). Lastly, and most importantly, I'll drink a lot of wine because it's necessary to just relax and be oneself on social occasions. Plus it will guarantee that I become extremely witty and chatty and have lots of enchanting stories about my childhood to relate.

Yep. I think this plan has merit.

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The damn thing's been ripped as well. So not only does my story have to suffer the indignity of being displayed in a library window (and let's face it - who ever reads any of the crap displayed on library windows?) on charcoal-grey paper in 12 pt font, but some villain, some enemy of light comedic fiction, some literary terrorist, has ripped the page a wee bit. Twice. My work has been violated. My child has been interfered with. This is an outrage.

I discovered this... this... abomination after the gym last night, when I dragged the Dreamboat over the road to have a look. It took him a few minutes to register the carnage because the library window isn't illuminated at night - unlike the local pharmacy which has spared no expense in the halogen department to display two written works plus a quilt, plus a bunch of dumb ceramic tiles with stupid stuff engraved on them that isn't anywhere near as important or interesting as my stuff.

After peering for a while in the weak light flashing from outside the video store down the road, the Dreamboat sighed and quietly said:

"Well, at least yours is the only one that has disco lights."

He ruminated on profound matters for a moment while I struggled privately to staunch the bleeding of my wounded psyche. Then he said:

"It's not fax paper. It's tracing paper. You know... like kitchen paper. That's why it's that grey colour. So... are we buying baked spuds for dinner or what?"

Yes, he put on a brave masculine face to mask his inner trauma, and I had to love him for his all-too-human frailty. But while he fights to maintain a semblance of normality in our lives, I just know that deep down he is weeping... weeping.

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I know I said I'd babble on a bit about Tuesday's Writing Group meeting, but I'm not feeling particulary co-operative. That bloody group has got me into enough trouble as it is.

To begin with, I discovered that the pieces on 'belonging' that we'd been asked to produce for the local community festival were now up on display in shop windows, along with some commissioned artwork. After the meeting, a fellow group-member and I wandered over for a look. We did this on the pretext that we found all the work incredibly fascinating when, in truth, we didn't give a shit about anyone else's and were only interested in finding our own. (At least, I was. My companion deserves the benefit of the doubt.)

I saw mine in the window of the library. It was positioned next to another story, whose author is mercifully (for her) overseas at present. You know the rolls of thermal paper that used to go into fax machines before plain paper was an option? Well, it looks as if that was the stuff they printed everything on. Remember how it used to turn charcoal-grey when exposed to heat, light and the atmosphere generally? How it would sulkily morph into a palette of thundery hues if you even looked at it the wrong way? Well, that's the colour of the paper in the library window. Oh, and just in case anyone was still stupid enough to consider trying to read it, all the contents are in 12 pt type.

Yep, that's guaranteed to bring the crowds running. I didn't exactly see dozens of people jostling each other in front of the window, but maybe they hung back out of awe and respect. Maybe they didn't think they were worthy. Maybe they'd prefer to slip away from their slumbering partners at 4am and have a quasi-mystical experience squinting at my 800 word story in 12 pt type on its charcoal-grey fax paper. Or maybe they're too busy running across the road to the wine shop to even notice it. That's what I'd be doing.

And it doesn't end there. Oh no. The local art gallery is holding its own display for the festival and wants the Writing Group pieces included as well. No prizes for guessing who somehow found themselves in charge of achieving this.

A booklet, I was told. That's what they want - a booklet. Ok, I thought. I've got parchment paper, a colour printer, MS Publisher and a bit of time. How hard can it be? Then I met up with the Co-ordinator yesterday. She was talking big, colourful cubes with an assorted jumble of unrelated paragraphs stuck to their sides. She was talking about folding everything up into microscopic pieces and placing them inside the little boxes you get when you buy earrings. She was talking about Art and Symbolism and other incomprehensible stuff. And I was nodding, smiling and thinking, 'Ohhh fuuuck'.

The deadline is Friday - tomorrow - but it can be extended to Sunday if necessary. Like that's going to help.

As three of the pieces contain references to food, I thought I could just melt some butter and spatter globules of it over the paper. Or maybe whip up a raspberry jus and dribble it around the borders before dusting everything with icing sugar. Or perhaps buy a calligraphy pen and copy everything out in beef consommé italics.

Whatever I do, someone, somewhere, is going to hate my guts when they see the finished result. It isn't wise to offend 'creative' people. No matter how many drugs they might have taken in their earlier years, they tend to have very long memories when it comes to Their Work. So if you don't mind, I'll have to leave it here. I've got a lot of panicking to do between now and tomorrow afternoon.

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I once signed up for an Experimental Drama course, but left after Session Three because the instructor said I was 'too bizarre'.

She dropped this bombshell on me shortly after she'd made everyone in the class spend half an hour walking around rubbing various parts of their anatomy against one other. I didn't have a problem with the elbows and shoulders, but I balked a bit when it came to bums. Unfortunately, the instructor seemed to sense this and made a determined charge in my direction. I was forced to endure a lengthy period of serious cheek-action, while she gyrated around making some rather disturbing noises.

We then moved on to Group Improvisation. My experience of the two previous classes had made it known unto me that although I hated pretty much everything we were made to do, I particularly hated Group Improvisation. But on the day in question something changed. I had an epiphany of sorts. (Or mabe my bum had the epiphany because, as we all know, bums have a life of their own.) I realised I'd never get anything out of this course unless I shed all my inhibitions and shyness and threw myself into the spirit of the exercise. Which is exactly what I proceeded to do.

When I finished I looked at the instructor, hoping for even a molecule of encouraging feedback. But the only thing my powerful and unsettling portrayal of a psychotic lumberjack stirred in her was the 'bizarre' comment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of my class-mates - a lesbian pagan by the name of Morag, who spun her own wool and was under the impression that reeking of lanolin and patchouli was somehow pleasing to the Goddess - nodding emphatically in agreement. And that pretty much nipped my Experimental Drama aspirations in the bud.

I mention all this because I'd love to know what that instructor would've made of yesterday's Writing Group meeting where, to quote a fellow member, 'the crazies were out in full force'.

But more on that later.

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I was looking through some old photos the other night. There's nothing wrong with doing this if you are a 'glass half full' kind of person, but it's an exercise fraught with peril when you're a 'glass half empty, bottle completely empty, secret wine stash in the wardrobe now strictly off-limits' person like me.

My old photos are dangerous and subversive. They de-bunk my theory that I should occasionally be taken seriously. They are pictorial proof that, more often than not, my life and I are totally bloody ridiculous. Old photos can be meanies like that.

Take my first wedding, for example. At the time, I guess you could say it was a fairly significant event: til-death-do-us-part, joined-in-the-eyes-of-God-and-man, get-to-dress-up-and-be-the-centre-of-attention-all-day sort of stuff. But when I think back on it, the only things that stand out in sharp relief are the disasters. And over time the disasters have somehow whipped off their false beards, removed the horn-rimmed glasses and unpinned their hair, leaving me to gasp, "Wait a minute. You're not Disasters at all. You're... Highlights."

So here are a few of them - Highlights From My First Wedding:

1. The groom is so broke he can't afford new shoes. So he sprays his old ones with black motorcycle engine paint.

2. Our friend Harry offers to be the Usher at the church. His ushering style is as follows:
Harry: Are you friends of the bride or the groom?
Guest: (replies)
Harry: Sit where you like.

(One of the groom's old aunts sees the peacock feather dangling from Harry's pierced ear and, having heard that he is of Indian/Greek extraction, spends the rest of the day telling anyone who will listen, "How wonderful of that nice boy to bring his culture to the wedding!" She was a bit confused about the 'Indian' bit.)

3. A month before the wedding, my Matron Of Honour discovers she is ten weeks pregnant. Her midriff immediately starts ballooning out at the speed of light. She lets out the seams of her bridesmaid's dress twice before running out of material. She ends up having to sew special inserts into the dress. It looks hideous. Three days before the wedding, she is walking bare-foot in her living room and steps on a sewing needle. By the time the X-ray results are in, the needle has reached the vicinity of her ankle. The operation is a fairly simple one, but her foot is swathed in bandages and she can barely walk. On the day of the wedding, the Best Man puts one arm around her waist while she puts one arm over his shoulders, and in this manner he drags her up and down aisles, to and from photo sessions and up to the main table at the reception.

4. One of the groom's sisters is the proud mother of a one year-old son. She spends most of the church service wrestling with him while he whoops and shrieks in childish high spirits. Eventually he grabs her dress at the neck, puts all his weight on it and pulls. The dress rips down to the waist. Its Rubenesque owner isn't wearing a bra. This is a somewhat disconcerting sight.

5.The priest refuses to play the David Bowie song we requested. To the groom and I (aged 21 and 19 respectively), this is a tragedy of epic proportions. No-one else seems to mind.

6. The groom signs the register on the dotted line marked 'witness'. The Best Man signs where the groom's name is meant to be. If it wasn't for the sharp-eyed priest, the bride would legally be married to the Best Man. Which might not have been a bad thing.

7. The bride and groom wait for the organ to play so they can trot triumphantly back down the aisle. Nothing happens. The mystery is solved when the organist walks up to the happy couple in front of everyone and demands his payment. His words: "Experience has taught me that if I don't get to them before they walk out of the church, I never see my money."

8. The groom takes an instant dislike to the photographer, a tired man who keeps saying in a thick Dutch accent, "Come on now. Give me some sparkle. I need a bit of sparkle." After quarter of an hour of this mantra, the groom is heard to declare in a very loud voice, "If he says that one more time, I'm going to punch his fucking lights out."

9. The driver of our mighty celestial wedding chariot gets lost on the way to the reception. The bride and groom don't notice until they have travelled nearly half an hour in the wrong direction.

10. The bride's 17 year old brother has a few too many beers at the reception and staggers around announcing, "The bride's a dog. The bride's a dog."

11. The bride is caught smoking in the toilets by two of the groom's more sanctimonious sisters and his mother. The latter, who hates the bride anyway because the groom is the youngest of ten children and was ear-marked at birth by his mother for the priesthood, is particularly disgusted. The bride gets such a fright she drops her cigarette and manages to burn a sizeable portion of her veil.

12. The bride spends her wedding night crying because she misses her family. Two days into the honeymoon, when she's still crying, the groom packs up the car and offers to take her back into the familial bosom. She decides against it. But it's a near thing.

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With deep and sincere apologies to Led Zeppelin:



There's a lady who's sure that she fancies some red
So she's buying a bottle of merlot
When she gets there she knows if the stores are all closed
She will throw what is known as a 'wobbly'
Oooooh oooh oooh ooh ooh
And she's buying a bottle of merlot

There's a sign on the wall but she wants to be sure
Cos you know sometimes words go all blurry
In the tree by the brook there's a songbird who sings
Although right now that line is irrelevant

Oooooh Time for karaoke
Oooooh Time for karaoke

There's a feeling I get when I wake up in bed
And my liver is crying for water
In my thoughts I have seen drinking nights that have been
And the bruises on folk who fell over

Oooooh Time for karaoke
Oooooh It's time for karaoke

And it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune
Then the bouncer will shortly eject us
And a new day will dawn for those who drink long
And the taxis will echo with snoring

If there's a cocktail by your elbow
Don't be alarmed now
It's just a present from the Dreamboat
Yes there are two paths you can go by
But in the long run
There's still time to switch to chardonnay

Your head is humming and it won't go
In case you don't know
The Dreamboat's calling you to join him
Dear lady can't you hear the crowd groan
And did you know
Your merlot lies on the bottom shelf

And as we wind on down the street
Our thoughts as muddled as our feet
There weaves a lady we all know
Who's had a few and wants to show
She isn't ready yet to go
And if you listen very hard
The tune will come to you at last
Cos someone's singing it real flat
Wait on, it's you, you drunken prat!

(power chords, wailing etc)

...And she's buying a bottle of merlot.

My writing group resumes tomorrow for a new semester. I'm thinking of submitting this. Not.

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Tony Blair, like Messrs Hussein and Hitler, is a Taurus. However, he has taken the unusual step of eschewing the obligatory stupid moustache. Emasculating though this decision may appear, Tones is still capable of demonstrating his power and authority. He simply prefers to use subtle methods like interior design, cuisine and 4WDs to get the message across:

The Taurus office is likely to be a comfy, cozy den, a place where guests will feel welcome and the Bull can hold court. Driving around between appointments is likely to be done in a sport utility vehicle, with ski racks on top as a sign of practicality and success. If it's a lunch date you crave, the Bull can just as easily take you for a BLT or filet mignon -- it all depends on your value to this discerning member of the Zodiac.

No wonder John Howard was pissed off about that microwaved popcorn lunch he was served during his recent visit.

Incidentally, my source has this to say about Taurean Tony's kissing style:

Your kisses linger; they are deliberate, heartfelt and they can go on and on and on…

Which is handy to remember if you ever find yourself sitting next to him in a fall-out shelter and you're overcome by the need for a good pash.

Now on to a totally different kettle of fish:

Osama Bin Laden is a Pisces, symbolised by two fish swimming in opposite directions - which is a pretty good way of depicting how he's managed to polarise the world with his actions.

I don't really have the heart to try and make something funny out of this man, so I'll just wind up with a Piscean fashion tip for him:

Moonstones are a good bet to adorn your body in strange places. Belly chains, anklets and, especially, toe rings cast a fantastical glimmer over whatever it is you're wearing. Hair that is long and tangled quickly becomes hair that is long and braided when the Fish needs a quick fix.

I guess a turban would probably do the trick too.

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No question who the Nong Of The Week Award should go to this time around - it's fundamentalist Evangelical figurehead Jerry Falwell for this piece of shit.

Mr Falwell is a Leo, like John Howard.

But that's no excuse.

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Because it's Sunday and I am overflowing with both Christian benevolence and the brunch that was adoringly prepared for me by the Dreamboat, I thought it was about time I rolled up my sleeves and did my bit for the Lord. I strongly suggest all you heathens take time out of your sinful Sunday pursuits and increase your piety rating by checking out the following:

Jesus of the Week 2002 - accept what's on offer or select the Son of God of your choice. Hundreds of Jesii to choose from!

Betty Bowers is a Better Christian Than You - and she's lookin' good in that funky pink Jackie O ensemble.

Of course, you could always pop in to the official website of Sr. Ann Regina and support her work to Stop Satan. The unflagging courage and faith she demonstrated while preaching to the lost souls on the Marilyn Manson message board are an inspiration to us all.

And if all that fails and you find yourself floundering around in a crisis of faith, you can always Ask Sister Rossetta.

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Sooner or later I just knew I'd get around to the subject of Astrology. (That's because I'm on the Pisces/Aries cusp and sometimes we Pisces/Aries Cusp People just know stuff.) Why bring up Astrology? you might ask. (Or you might not. You might go and re-arrange your sock-drawer instead. That's your prerogative.) Well - I might reply - it's because Astrology is one of those many things I decided to spend time researching, instead of getting on with more mundane activities like making something useful out of my life.

Let it be said that I am not a New Age devotee. There's too much hidden rage seething around inside this rotund exterior for me to be an exemplar of the Movement. Plus my priorities are all wrong. I'm more concerned with finding my ribs again than connecting in any meaningful way to my Goddess Within.

The Dreamboat, like a lot of men I've known, scoffs at the whole idea of Astrology - unless it's to use it as an excuse for a quirk that he believes I should be more tolerant of:
Me: OK, so what's it gonna be? Missionary, Tantric, That Thing With The Courgette or what?
DB: (helpless little laugh) Oh, you know us Geminis... can't make up our minds.

Anyway, the reason I'm on an Astrology kick at the moment is my conviction that its application into areas like global politics would make the world a much more fun-filled place to scurry around in. If people like Messrs Hussein and Bush (and even strange little sycophantic units à la John Howard) would simply read and take note of what they found here, there'd be no talk of impending war and a lot more connecting-to-the-deity-within action going on.

President Bush, for instance, is a Cancer, symbolised by the Crab. The main concern of Cancers is their family, and the President bore this out recently in that press conference where he touchingly referred to His Daddy.

According to the site referenced above, Cancers excel in pulling people together to form teams for sports and games. You're the cheerleader who shies away from the spotlight in order to root your team on to victory. Awwww. Ain't that sweet.

On the fashion front, the Crustacean influence on President Bush can be expected to demonstrate itself thusly:

You probably don't go much for makeup, unless it is soft and easy to manage. You might not even own a blow dryer, preferring to let your hair dry naturally and hang down over your shoulders. On busy or windy days, you may only pause to pull it back in a loose knot. Cancer prefers to dress for the comforts of home and isn't given to new trends, but you know how to look for the world outside.

Like his brother-in-dictatorship Adolf Hitler, Saddam Hussein is ruled by Taurus, the Bull:

If you want things to get done, call the Bull. You may have to ring them two or three times, though, since they can be a bit lazy to get going, but once they're up and running, look out! There's a focus and single-mindedness of purpose there that can come in plenty handy. Taureans can be notoriously strong-willed, so it's a good idea for colleagues to lay down the law first -- the Bull will follow their lead and work hard. So hard, in fact, that Taureans are often the pillar of a company, the community and certainly their family. Hey, that's what those strong shoulders are for! Organization is also something that is best placed in the Bull's capable hands.

Yep, that sounds just like the sort of person who deserves to be put in their place, alright.

Saddam's inimitable fashion style has obviously been heavily influenced by his Taurean nature:

Bright colors and flashy glamour can be left for the plebeians, you will stick to your browns, beiges and khakis. With your sense of fashion, you will never be underdressed for any occasion, and you will always look good.

However, he should learn to accessorise a bit more:

For Taurus, their best feature is often the neck. Classy chokers and necklaces look marvelous on you, and tying on a scarf appeals to the most classic part of your nature.

But lose that unflattering beret, Saddam! Here's why:

You should wear your hair up and decorate it with emeralds.

Yep, I'm sure he's got a few of those lying around in all those palaces.

Finally, let's gain some insight into Australia's Prime Minister John Howard. He's a Leo, ruled by the Lion - the mighty King of Beasts:

These folks are impossible to miss, since they love being center stage. Making an impression is Job One for Leos, and when you consider their personal magnetism, you see the job is quite easy. Leos are an ambitious lot, and their strength of purpose allows them to accomplish a great deal. The fact that these folks are also creative makes their endeavors fun for them and everyone else.

Yeah, that War Tax is a barrel of laughs, Mr Howard. You wee funster, you!

As for dress style:

You excel at wearing flashy, pricey jewelry. Your Sign rules the back, so going backless or strapless to the right soiree is never out of place. Favorite colors are gold, bronze and orange, whether you choose to wear these as an electric splash or a bold statement is your decision.

Just keep patronising that hair-replacement studio, Johnny, because:

You'll purr over anything that calls attention to the Lion's mane, whether it be handcrafted barrettes, colorful rubber bands or jeweled tiaras.

Works for me. And finally, all those shots of you in your jogging gear as you work out in various famous parks in the world are finally paying off:

One thing is for certain: Leo knows how to dress for success.

Stay tuned for tomorrow, when I bring you the astrological take on Osama Bin Laden and Tony Blair...

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If it wasn't for three kind men at the Queen Vic Market, you'd be yawning your way through a self-pitying rant right now. This would've gone something along the lines of how earlier this week I saw The Perfect Job advertised (a six month writing contract) but couldn't apply for it because we don't know where we'll be living six months from now.

I would probably have drawn your attention to irony of the situation, in that we may even end up staying in Melbourne a bit longer - making the missed opportunity that much more bitter a pill to swallow.

From this point, I would have progressed on to how difficult it is to plan anything when your circumstances dictate that you move around a lot. Various examples of things I'm unable to commit to - such as study at the university of my choice, or dream jobs like the one I've already mentioned - would be inserted into the text in a logical and methodical fashion, leading the reader to the inexorable conclusion that I am fated to spend the next ten years in one or more of the following gainful pursuits:

1. Still trying to write a new template for my blog.
2. Temping for the princely sum of around $16 per hour before tax. (Temping in Oz and NZ is basically indentured slavery. And I should know. I used to be a consultant for a temp agency.)
3. Writing something that someone is prepared to pay for.

Then I probably would have felt a bit guilty for moaning and whining, and would have finished with something a bit more up-beat.

But thanks to the nice guy in the cheese shop who let me taste the goat's cheese to check it wasn't too strong before I bought it AND the smiley lad who sold me the chicken breasts AND the older man with a lecherous twinkle in his eye who teased me about the asparagus I was buying and the 'special night' I must be planning... you've been spared all that.

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Many thanks to Maddy (a fellow kiwi and someone I'm extremely jealous of because her site is one of those sexy Movable Type numbers) and Kelly (who's a blogging newbie like me and deserves a wider readership) for the links - intelligent women with impeccable taste!

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From the 'Kids These Days - *sigh*' Archive:

12 year old niece: Mum... Caitlin (10), Bridie (6) and I have talked about it and we think it would be a good idea to get a Japanese exchange student. A girl.
My sister: (thinking of the benefits of cross-cultural exposure at a young age etc) That's not a bad idea, Jordan. I'll have to think about it and talk to your dad.
12 year old niece: But only if she's into fashion. I don't want one if they're not into fashion.
My sister: (to me, on the phone) I think they're under the impression that Japanese exchange students are the latest fad in exotic pets.

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Hugh Hefner's mother died on my birthday in 1997, aged 101. The Dreamboat informed me of this earlier tonight while he was here. I've never been there. I leave it up to you to decide.

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Things You Just Don't Say:

This is a global community service announcement brought to you by the Society for the Prevention of Grievous Bodily Harm and Social Ostracism. While I have to take credit for some of these, in more than one instance I was the recipient. A couple were simply overheard, and a few of them involve people I know. The point is, all of them are true and their utterance should be avoided at all costs. I don't want anyone saying they weren't warned.

As a 6 year old caught kissing the boy next door in a wardrobe:
Mother: What are you doing?
Daughter: Dusting.

As a 13 year old ballroom dancer:
Boy: I rang to ask if you would be my dancing partner from now on.
Girl: No.
Boy: Why not?
Girl: Because I hate you and I hate your mother.

As a teenager:
Boy: But you don't just break it off without a reason. I want a reason.
Girl: OK, I'll give you three. Number 1: You went through my school bag when I was in the loo that day. Number 2: You don't kiss properly. Number 3: Your coat always smells of what you had for dinner.

In Boy-Meets-Girl situations:
Example A: "You know, in the right light you can look quite attractive."
Example B: "If it wasn't for your thick ankles you'd have perfect legs."
Example C: "Apart from your nose, you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."
Example D: "You look exactly like my girlfriend who died six months ago."

In nightclubs:
Boy: It's my birthday. Do you wanna dance?
Girl: No, I can't.
Boy: Why not?
Girl: I can't dance in these clothes. I'd have to go home and change into my jeans.
Boy: Oh.
Girl: Do you have a car?
Boy: No.
Girl: Do you have a full wallet?
Boy: Yes.
Girl: Let's go then.

In nightclub queues:
Example A: "I am an artiste. Artistes don't pay."
Example B: "It's ok, everyone. Don't panic. Stand back, please, I need to get inside. I'm a brick-layer. Gimme some room."

At work on a Monday morning:
"Hey, guess how many people I slept with on the weekend!"

At work generally:
Boss (to middle-aged female colleague): Right. You'll be finishing up on Monday, then.
Colleague: OK.
Boss: (walks off)
New Girl: He just sacked you! You poor thing. I'm really sorry. He's a little bastard, that man. I can't stand him.
Colleague: Actually, he's my husband.

In parent-child situations:
Example A
Daughter: I'm flying up to Brisbane this weekend to see that guy I told you about.
Mother: Tsk, tsk. I hope you're not sleeping with him.
Daughter: Yeah, I am. And it's really good.

Example B
Mother: Why don't you see that nice boy you used to go out with last year? I liked him.
Daughter: Because I don't like boys. I like girls.

Example C
Mother: I just wanted you to know that soon you're going to have a little brother or little sister.
Daughter: Wow. I didn't think Dad had it in him.

In a doctor's surgery:
Doctor: So, on to diet. Are you a vegetarian?
Female Patient: No, but I used to be.
Doctor: So when you were, did your partners have carrots instead of penises?
Female Patient: (aghast)
Doctor: Just a little joke I like to share with my female vegetarian patients.

After a work seminar:
Man: So, what brought you to Australia?
Woman: A broken marriage.
Man: How long were you married?
Woman: Five years.
Man: That's not long. Your first, was it?
Woman: No, it was my second actually.
Man: Jeeze. What's wrong with you?

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The trouble with movies, in my opinion, is that if they're good movies (or even fair-to-middling) they leave you in a 'state' of some sort. They do me, anyway - and sometimes to weird effect. I remember walking out of Saturday Night Fever when I was in my early teens because it was half-time (back in the days when movie theatres had an 'intermission') and the guy I'd gone to see it with hadn't yet made a move on me. I was deeply insulted. We had back-row seats and, apart from the dancing bits, everyone knew Saturday Night Fever wasn't the sort of movie you watched. It was a movie for pashing in.

I'd gone on a triple date. My two girlfriends jumped on the idling bus that I'd boarded for home and persuaded me to disembark with the following assurance: "It's OK. We talked to him and he said he'll try to do better in the second half." He did too. Unfortunately, this is a true story.

A couple of years later, when I saw The Warriors, I remember another timid lad doing his best to dissuade me from throwing a Coke can at a car full of local tough-guys who were in the process of driving away from the cinema. At the time it just seemed to be the sporting thing to do.

But even I managed to grow up a bit. And tonight, after we watched The Matrix for the umpteen-zillionth time, I was all ready to sit down with the Dreamboat and get philosophical. Questions like, "Do you think this sort of film merely serves to fuel paranoia in people, or does it deal with real and relevant issues?" and "Where do you think I could get a full-length leather coat for under $100?" were ready to spill from my profound and intelligent lips. Observations like "Gurdjieff would've loved this movie. Absolutely loved it. To a point, anyway." were just gagging to be voiced. But the Dreamboat, sated from a meal that I actually managed to cook and not stuff up, was more interested in going to bed and getting a good night's sleep before facing another horrible day in the salt-mines, than waxing lyrical on matters of conjecture.

Which is why I'm sitting here at 1.20am and wittering on about it to you lot. Any philosophical theories you have about The Matrix and/or cheap leather coats will be eagerly examined if submitted in the next ten minutes. Any later than that and I will have gone to bed and lost interest.

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To all Netscape users: I'm really sorry. I had no idea how awful this page looks in your browser. I downloaded Netscape last night, checked out the page first thing this morning and am still issuing gusty shrieks of horror.

I'll change the template eventually, but as I have minimal knowledge of HTML and no knowledge at all of CSS, it may take some time. In the meantime, please talk quietly amongst yourselves and try to find it in your hearts to forgive me.

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The Couple That Enters Competitions Together, Stays Together. Or Not.

DB: How would you describe the taste of the 2000 Matua Valley Pinot Noir?
Me: (puddling around in kitchen) Huh? What? Oh, I dunno. 'Eminently Quaffable', or something like that. Why?
DB: It's for a competition. You can win an amazing 10 day trip around different wine regions in NZ.
Me: (reading prize details) Wow.
DB: Yeah, it's worth entering. And you can do it by email.
Me: In that case, how about 'A Bloody Good Drop'?
DB: Oh yeah. Right.
Me: (defensively) What are you asking me for, anyway? I don't know anything about wine. I just drink it.
DB: I thought something along the lines of 'Balanced Fruit Flavours'.
Me: Too boring. What about 'Worth The Hangover'?
DB: (look of slight exasperation)
Me: Or how's this: "Even Better Than A Luxurious 10 Day Holiday Touring Wine Regions In NZ".
DB: A bit too try-hard, I think.
Me: I've got it! "Almost As Seductive And Desirable As My Girlfriend, But Not Quite."
DB: I don't think so.
Me: Or "Like My Girlfriend's Voice - Well-Modulated And Very Sexy'.
DB: I don't really think they're all that interested in knowing anything about my girlfriend.
Me: OK, use 'partner' instead. And how do you know they don't want anything like that? You have to send something that stands out in a competition like this. Be a bit creative, a bit different. OK, here it is: "Piquant, Well-Balanced And Very, VERY Sexy...
DB: (appears interested in this one)
Me: ...Like My Girlfriend."
DB: (mutters) Well, two out of three ain't bad, I suppose.
Me: (brief pause for it to sink in) What??
DB: (enveloping me in one of those annoying, too-hearty hugs that means he knows he's in trouble) I was just joking, baby. (Chuckles weakly)
Me: Right. That's it. I'm going to go and write something mean about you in my blog. (Exits)

What he ended up submitting: 'Piquant, Well-Balanced Fruit Flavours And Very Sexy'.

Epilogue:
Me: (reading competition entry form) Hey, do you realise you were only supposed to describe it in three words? You didn't mention that bit.
DB: I didn't read that bit. Damn. (Exits to bed, a broken man)

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Just when all the nongs in the world thought it was safe to uncover their faces in public, I bring you the Nong Of Last Week Award. (Nope, I hadn't forgotten. I was just too busy being consumed with higher matters involving suicidal camping trips and quiche.) This time it goes to a collective: Marketing Managers In Charitable Organisations Who Write Manipulative Scripts.

So there I am, staggering away from the local supermarket, lugging plastic bags brimming with useful purchases and vaguely concerned that I have lost all feeling in my hands. A rather sulky-looking girl shuffles towards me and mumbles something into the North Melbourne vapour. I'm tempted to just walk past her - she doesn't look like a Hollywood talent scout or a publisher about to offer me vast sums of money to write a book - but I stop anyway, and ask her to repeat what she said. She looks down at her feet and mutters, "S'cuse me. Do you have time for Amnesty International?"

My first reaction was to say yes, because I do have time for Amnesty International and a great deal of respect for what it achieves. I just didn't have any money for them. People lurching out of supermarkets with bags of groceries rarely do. And, in the absence of a clipboard and a few thousand signatures, that's probably where the conversation was going to lead next.

I felt uncomfortable and started scrabbling around in my brain for something apologetic to say when it suddenly occurred to me that this was exactly what that question was designed to achieve. It was deliberately loaded in such a way as to make me feel guilty for saying 'no'. Someone with a basic understanding of human psychology had sent a memo to a bunch of well-intentioned volunteers saying, 'This is exactly how you word it.'

So then I got annoyed. Not with the girl, who, I realised, wasn't sulky at all, but simply awkward and embarrassed. I felt sorry for her. But I got really annoyed with all the assholes who, just because they are affiliated with a Good Cause, think it's ok to manipulate and shame people into supporting that cause. In my experience, most people are basically decent and help when and where they can. They don't need to be made to feel like shits on the occasions when they can't.

"No, not at the moment. Sorry," I said to the girl and tottered away with my bags.

Here endeth the rant.

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Look, Ma! No ads! Now that I have joined the ranks of the Blog*Spot Plus elite, I can stay up late, heal the sick, walk on water and eat pasta with rich sauces whenever I want to without gaining weight.

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