Guilty cos’

So I’m feeling a little guilty at deserting you all. (or a y’all for my best friend I never met) I also feel guilty at the way you all want to keep reading the blog. Especially since I haven’t got more for you.

Since setting aside the blog I have, done lots more work. I have completed my second short novel of man lady love. It is in Ms Melinda’s(the comma nazi) inbox at this very moment. And I have done an outline of two others, (I’m a big planner I map it all out before writing) And I have collected books for research on my Young Adults books. Skewing my Amazon and Fishpond Recommended reading list terribly.

My husband sent me a link to an author’s site that described blogging as the ‘pole dancing of writing’ a glitzy distraction with instant gratification. That’s true, while I write amusing little tales for you and await your comments I avoid my real writing. The more I write the more serious I am about getting published. The longer I put off getting my stuff into those slush piles to be ignored for years the longer it will be until I have my own name on a paperback.

The Valerie Parv competition I entered (I won’t link to the site because I know it almost sent some of you into a diabetic coma the last time you looked at it) will not be announced until August. It will be announced at the Romance Writers of Australia Conference in Melbourne. So, no news until then. I can’t submit the work I entered in the competition to any publishers until I get it back. That’s one of the conditions of the competition. So I feel a little like I am on hold. I’m filling the time by writing, writing, writing.

Oh I also feel guilty that today I met someone who recognised me from my blog. She called out Sussanah, I turned and gave her that I don’t think I know you but I’m smiling at you because I just might and I’ve forgotten who the hell you are smile. She went on to tell me that she knew who I was through my blog and that she loved it and so did her sister. I was so shocked that I didn’t even ask her name.

So kiddies, I better stop pole dancing and get back to the task at hand.

Oh, I’m thinking of setting up a Come the Revolution Blog and just keep that going. What do you think?

A Little Less Obvious

Hey kids,

I’ve come to a decision regarding this whole blogging thing. It is two fold really,

a) it is a procrastinator for me. Time I could be putting into serious writing, I am fittering away with amusing anecdotes and rants. I need to write, and I need to do the boring grunt work of editing and sending my work out to be ignored in slush piles.  I’m not doing that while you people stroke my ego blog.

b) I am serious about being published. More so with every passing day. I have the romance books, which I think I will publish under a different name. But I also have tooling around my head a series of books for young adult readers, (Ashy, you will be my first reader) and if I want to get them published under my own name, having an objectionable potty mouth blog is not such a good idea.

So, I’ve decided to go private. I’ll continue bloggin but, not as often, and only for a select audience.  A  you show me yours and I’ll show you mine kind of thing.

If you want to be included in the private blog, you’ll have to be granted  access. Leave me a comment and I’ll let you know how.

I’ll leave it a week or so before all lights are out.

xx

Pimp My Aunt

One of my favourite people in the world is Boori Pryor. About eleven years ago my Mother and I owned a little cafe together in the city. This beautiful charming man would come in every day and chat, he would make us stop working and tell us wonderful stories. He was living in the Iris Clay Hostel across from our cafe. He told us that he was writing a book, at the time I thought sure you are…

And then one day he came over with a picture, it was a proof of the cover of the book he was writing.

He really was writing a book. And it was wonderful. You should read it, it will be in your library. And for you foreigners, I know that Amazon stocks it.

He also has these children’s stories. (also stocked by Amazon)

His day job is to visit schools from kindergarten through to High Schools and teach about Aboriginal culture. He is a gorgeous man, inside and out. He has the most infectious laugh. It is a wicked childlike cackle.

He lives between Melbourne, Rockhampton and Townsville. His family is here so he comes up every couple of months. We met up on Saturday afternoon for a coffee and a chat.

Imogen loves him, see the picture below …

She calls him the Chock-o-layte man. Which is high praise, as chocolate is her one true love.

So we drink coffee, he plays kung fu Barbies with her, and then I suggest that we go and visit my sister, Imogen’s aunt.

Imogen says, ‘Boowi, you know my aunty Schracey?’

He says, ‘Yes.’

Says, ‘You wanna be her boyfriend?’

He says, ‘Aaaah, no.’

Se says. ‘You wanna be my boyfriend?’

He says, ‘Aaaah no thank you sweetie.’

We get to Schracey’s house and Imogen rushes inside and says to her, ‘Boowi’s here, you wanna kiss him?’

Boori says, ‘Welcome to Foxtel’s latest reality show, Pimp My Aunt.’

Hair Despair

I have hair despair.

She said to me, it’s not as bright red in your hair as it is in the sample watch. I believed her, she was wrong. There are red foils that stand out in the North Queensland sun like streaks of electric fire. It isn’t hideous, it would be fine if I were a size six 20 year old working at Supre, (chain store specialising in tiny Lyrcra/Spandex skank clothes) but I’m not, I’m a thirty five year old slightly overweight mother of two with a fairly limited functional Target fashion sense.

With this hair I feel like mutton. Like one of those women who wear clothes that are way too young for them, those women who retry to wear fashion the second time around. Or one of those women who put crazy skunk stripe streaks in their hair to hide the fact that they are ageing and overweight.

It is ok pulled back tight, the red does not glow through, but in the sun (oh yeah, who lives in a country ten metres from the sun?) or under bright fluruo lights it is very bright.

I have good hair. I have excellent hair. It’s one thing that I feel confident about. It styles well, straight or wavy, takes colour really well, is strong, healthy and grows fast. On those days we women have where self esteem is threatened, I can always depend on my hair. If I take the time, it will be good. When it is not, I fall into a dangerous spiral of self loathing and despair.

Hair despair.

I have had all types of hair, red, brown, blonde, curly, long, short, medium, bobbed, fringed, and even at one point bald.

My hair grows fast. In the shot where my hair is being shorn I am three months pregnant, in the next one along, the black and white, Declan is about 6 weeks old.

While compiling these photos I realised how many shots I have snuggled next to Jen. In about three other of these pictures, you can’t see her, but she is in the full shot. She is the one who always says, ‘let’s get a photo.’. Thanks, honey without you I’d have about five pictures of myself.

I have not taken a photo of the hair because I have despair.

I can’t photograph while in despair.

Inspirational Lies

My husband lies. It’s a hobby of his, he does it so well that it’s almost an art. It’s not just ordinary lying, that would be far too mundane for him, he likes to attribute false quotes to people. He seamlessly integrates them into everyday conversation. One of my favourites is the classic, ‘As Mother Theresa said, it’s not a hate crime if you love doing it.’

I decided yesterday that I should stop being so grumpy. I vowed that today, I would remain in good spirits all day. All frickin’ day. And I have, I think mainly to spite myself, but that doesn’t matter.

I told Andrew this last night, I said that I needed a more positive attitude with the children. He agrees, he nods and sage like says ‘It’s just like Maya Angelou says.’

‘What?’

‘If you can’t change your attitude, change your knickers.’

‘Maya Angelou, the poet said that?’

‘Oh no, no, not the poet. Maya Angelou the transvestite hooker from Taiwan.’

I got nuthin

My husband rang me today to complain that I hadn’t blogged. Which I find odd, we live in the same house, he lives the stuff that gets blogged. It’s no surprise. He can’t wonder what’s happening around here, surely.

He said, ‘Why haven’t you blogged?’ and I said, ‘I got nuthin.’

I do. I got nuthin. I got no spirit, no stories.

Nuthin.

Big fat nuthin.

Other than a bit of surly, I got that, oh and some aggressive, a wee bit of sook.

A shopping trip with the children that ended with me grinding away a(nother) layer of enamel. We get in the car, the bickering is constant, like fingernails down a blackboard. I’m looking for the peace, I’m seeking the calm, I’m wondering how much those perspex shields they have in taxis that protect the driver cost.

I hear from the backseat, ‘What a great morning. We had a great morning, hey Imjin?’ and the enthusiastic response, ‘Yeah!’

I got nuthin.

I’ll leave you with this delicious slice of happy forwarded to me by the lovely Ms Kinshanda…

if that doesn’t rock your socks,  don’t come back.

If it is work, it just won’t work

Come the Revolution anyone who buys a present for their mother that requires them to make anything will be booked into forced labour camps for Christmas. Merry Christmas! Santa will bring you a grey uniform, lice, gruel and rocks to break up.

A present does not make popcorn, fairy floss (cotton candy for you foreigners), crush ice, fry, sizzle, bake, freeze or steam.

Those sort of things are not presents they are potential work.

Choose wisely, do not believe the salesperson in the white goods aisle, unless you have a yearning for Club Med Solzhentitsyn.

.

Whoring My Husband to Save Us From Video Prison

I’ve recently been in one of those spirals where I start to stress that I am not a very good adult. The Boy made friends with a kid at school who he went to visit. Andrew dropped him off to his house and came home saying, ‘Thank fuck he didn’t come to our shack to play, their house is huge and really clean.’

People like that always seem so much more adult. Organised people with big clean houses and neat kids. Not us, we’re ramshackle, disorganised and loud. Every now and then I get into these fits that ‘everything’s gotta change NOW’. We need to do stuff, stuff like not store the folding on the dining table but actually eat at it, like adults do. Adults sit around the dining table, they put away their folding, they have plans and then they stick to them.

We sit around the table for one night, it is much to the delight of Andrew, an unmitigated disaster. He loves to watch my schemes fail. As I do his. It is I think what marriage is all about.

Further proof of our failure to be appropriate adults is the letter we receive from a Melbourne Legal Firm regarding the $171.95 fine we have for the DVDs Open Season and Poohs Heffalump Movie. I hired them out last school holidays. Andrew rings me when he gets the letter, quite cranky. He then rings me back a little later and says he’s sorry he got so cranky. I think oooh how sweet, I say he is justified, and then he slips in that he forgot to put the bin out again, so the stinky garbage will have to sit out for another whole week in the North Queensland sun. The bin at least has not incurred legal fines, so he is still one up on me. I say again’ We suck at being adults, adults put out the bin and they take back their DVDs!’

Andrew very nicely and says that he’ll handle it, I think he can hear the despair in my tone and wants to avoid the ramifications of a full melt down. He rings me later to tell me that he doesn’t have to whore himself to save us from video prison, we only have to pay $75. I say thank goodness because you have such a bad gag reflex. He gets defensive, saying I do not!. I tell him that he’s taking his competitive nature just a little too far, that there is no shame in not being able to suck cock to save us from video prison. I said it was lucky anyway, because apart from his dodgy gag reflex he’s far too pretty for prison. He got further defensive saying that should he end up in prison he was certain he would not be the bitch. I say oh honey look at you, they’d snap you like a twig. He would, he’d be made Delilah the man slut before he’d even donned the prison orange.

Then I say, ‘Adults wouldn’t have this conversation. They don’t talk about whoring, man sluts, video prison and gag reflexes. They talk about investments, house prices and stuff like that. We suck at being adults.’

I also suspect that real adults also wouldn’t say things like suck. I have since exited the spiral. My closest friends, after enduring my rants at my lack of adulthood, have assured me they’re not really adults either. They just pretend to be, in front of strangers.

In Spazzytown there is a suburb called Sussanah

On Friday, before six am the phone at the cafe rings. It only ever rings at this time if it is the 7am staff member ringing in sick. My heart plummets, I curse and head hanging low, envisioning the awful day to be, I shuffle over to the phone.

I pick it up and I say hello. I hear an echo of hello. I say hello again, and again the echo. I am about to hang up and chalk it all up to the mysteries of telecommunication when I realise the echoing hello sounds an awful lot like me. I look in my apron pocket and find that I have indeed called myself on my mobile phone.

On Saturday, I sit at the couch, surfing the web on my laptop. MSN chatting to my sister and Jen. Needing to go the loo, I get up, standing up on my right foot, taking a step with my left and then realising that it doesn’t work. My left foot has gone to sleep. It crumples underneath me, and fool that I am I do not tuck and roll. I fall to the floor with my foot twisted underneath me. Somehow I have managed to scrape skin of the tops of both my feet and a good five centimetres of my right knee (think wood floor burn, like a carpet burn) and I have swollen my left foot into a club like lump.

I had to thump on the floor in a spazzy kind of morse code to get Andrew to come upstairs and help me. In caring mode he is a cross between Florence Nightingale and Gordon Ramsey. The caring is there, but it is liberally peppered with swearing. ‘Get your fucking foot up. Keep it up, do you want it to swell the fuck up? Is that want you want, bloody fool.’

If I were able to get down the stairs to the computer with photoshop, I would show you the photos. As it is as soon as I can safely navigate the stairs I will add them to this post.

So I have been stuck in my pjs with my foot iced and in the air. Before you think to yourself, this sounds like her dream (cos it does) know this, I have no new books. That’s right, if I had planned a bed ridden injury I would have ordered some new books before hand.

I have however been forced to occupy myself, so I have written an absolute crapload. (which is slighty less than a shitload and of course nowhere near a fuckload) As soon as I finish this post I’ll be back in bed, writing some more. I won’t be back at work until Thursday (sorry Peta).

It’s Weezer and I’m in love

One of my favourite things?

Hearing a new song that I love so much I want to marry it.

Weezer’s Pork and Beans is that song. I love it and I want to marry it. My children will be forced to learn the words. It will be on repeat until I can hear it in my sleep.

Hear it here.

Man, I love Weezer!

If you don’t immediately love this song we can no longer speak. Go now, those of you who do not love Weezer and leave my sight forever.

I’mma do the things that I wanna do
I ain’t got a thing to prove to you
I’ll eat my candy with the pork and beans
Excuse my manners if I make a scene
I ain’t gonna wear the clothes that you like
I’m finally dandy with the me inside
One look in the mirror and I’m tickled pink
I don’t give a hoot about what you think

on a side note I don’t know how these ‘related posts’ come up. They have nothing to do with me, they’re some kind of wordpress automatically generated thing. They make me cross, I don’t want to link to stuff that I don’t know about.