Friday, February 01, 2008
Friday, November 09, 2007
Dear Reader
I recently made the decision to host my blog elsewhere and wish to most cordially invite you to continue reading over at my new crib. However, rather than providing a convenient link to my new place, I...um...would like you to find me. Yes, I would like you to hunt me down using all your cunning and best google searching skills (the use of comedy style detective props such as pipe, raincoat and monocle are obviously optional).
Of course, I understand if you can't be arsed and would prefer to email me instead and I will provide you with the link. And I won't mind if you just can't be arsed. If I already have your email address from the last time I fecked up, I will try and send you the url.
My new place isn't as fancy shmancy as I would like it to be but apparently if I become a bleeping computer bleeping genius then I will be able to do more with it.
Hope to see you there,
Px
p.s. If you arrived here from a search engine after trying to find the answer to one of the most important questions in life: do pineapples grow on trees? They don't.
p.p.s. If you arrived here after searching for 'the difference between sodomy and buggery' - I'm as baffled as you are.
p.p.p.s. I think we all know that I'm not at pomgirl.com.
Of course, I understand if you can't be arsed and would prefer to email me instead and I will provide you with the link. And I won't mind if you just can't be arsed. If I already have your email address from the last time I fecked up, I will try and send you the url.
My new place isn't as fancy shmancy as I would like it to be but apparently if I become a bleeping computer bleeping genius then I will be able to do more with it.
Hope to see you there,
Px
p.s. If you arrived here from a search engine after trying to find the answer to one of the most important questions in life: do pineapples grow on trees? They don't.
p.p.s. If you arrived here after searching for 'the difference between sodomy and buggery' - I'm as baffled as you are.
p.p.p.s. I think we all know that I'm not at pomgirl.com.
Monday, October 22, 2007
House Breaking
Before leaving for our friends' wedding on Friday afternoon, while packing my tiny, but very lovely handbag and deciding between packing it with 'sensible stuff' i.e. keys, money and credit cards or 'insensible stuff' like makeup, perfume and a hairbrush, I did wonder if this was the type of decision which I would regret later. However, I told myself it would be very unlikely The Boy and I would be separated at any point so I left the 'sensible stuff' at home.
Fast forward six hours and muchos alcohol later and The Boy is in a taxi with a group of other boys planning to buy more alcohol before heading back to our house. My friend and I have already arrived at the house, which is when I begin to regret not having a set of keys. How much room would keys have taken up in my bag? Hardly any! Of course, there was the option of simply waiting until The Boy returned to be let in, but I like to think of myself as a resourceful kind of gal (I love to think of myself like this but actually know I'm nothing of the sort) so it took hardly any encouragement for me to decide to break into my own house.
The biggest problem was scaling the eight-foot high gate to get into the back garden - climbing up wasn't so much a problem as climbing over, one leg on either side of the gate and trying to protect my ladybits as I scrambled to the other side. My ladybits went unscathed; scraping knees and elbows instead.
All this climbing would, obviously, be in vain if I hadn't left a door or window unlocked. Usually, I'm very security conscious so I was shocked/delighted to be able to climb through the living room window; except I had not heard The Boy and his friends enter the house by the more traditional method of using the front door. They walked into the room as I am halfway through the window, struggling to get the rest of me through. For a split second I wondered if this was how Mr Oscar felt when forced to use one of those catflaps he despises so much, but at least he is never wearing a low-cut frock at the time.
I distinctly remember the flash of a camera as a photo was taken but never discovered who took it.
I've got to get me that photograph.
Fast forward six hours and muchos alcohol later and The Boy is in a taxi with a group of other boys planning to buy more alcohol before heading back to our house. My friend and I have already arrived at the house, which is when I begin to regret not having a set of keys. How much room would keys have taken up in my bag? Hardly any! Of course, there was the option of simply waiting until The Boy returned to be let in, but I like to think of myself as a resourceful kind of gal (I love to think of myself like this but actually know I'm nothing of the sort) so it took hardly any encouragement for me to decide to break into my own house.
The biggest problem was scaling the eight-foot high gate to get into the back garden - climbing up wasn't so much a problem as climbing over, one leg on either side of the gate and trying to protect my ladybits as I scrambled to the other side. My ladybits went unscathed; scraping knees and elbows instead.
All this climbing would, obviously, be in vain if I hadn't left a door or window unlocked. Usually, I'm very security conscious so I was shocked/delighted to be able to climb through the living room window; except I had not heard The Boy and his friends enter the house by the more traditional method of using the front door. They walked into the room as I am halfway through the window, struggling to get the rest of me through. For a split second I wondered if this was how Mr Oscar felt when forced to use one of those catflaps he despises so much, but at least he is never wearing a low-cut frock at the time.
I distinctly remember the flash of a camera as a photo was taken but never discovered who took it.
I've got to get me that photograph.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Eulogy Song
I have never been under the impression there was a universal sense of humour and the tabloid-TV generated furore over the latest episode of The Chaser's War On Everything only seems to prove this.
I thought it was funny. John Howard disagreed, calling it "totally distasteful" and appealing to the team to produce "decent dirt-free humour" which we can all laugh at. Like The Last of the Summer Wine, perhaps? Or Dad's Army? Good, clean gentle humour; the type of humour which makes me want to scream in pain.
It may not be to everyone's taste but I will probably always laugh at a song which includes the lines 'rodent sperm imbibers' and 'anal finger-lickers' and can live with being on the fast-track to Hell.
It's probably a much funnier place.
I thought it was funny. John Howard disagreed, calling it "totally distasteful" and appealing to the team to produce "decent dirt-free humour" which we can all laugh at. Like The Last of the Summer Wine, perhaps? Or Dad's Army? Good, clean gentle humour; the type of humour which makes me want to scream in pain.
It may not be to everyone's taste but I will probably always laugh at a song which includes the lines 'rodent sperm imbibers' and 'anal finger-lickers' and can live with being on the fast-track to Hell.
It's probably a much funnier place.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
An Alcofrolic Mind
Yesterday, I had one of those hangovers which require sitting/laying on the sofa for a very long time, clutching my tummy, groaning, watching bad TV and monitoring the progress of my hangover by the number of promises I made in exchange for being allowed to feel human again. I promised:
1. To never drink alcohol ever again.
2. To not drink alcohol for A Very Long Time.
3. To only drink alcohol at the wedding we are going to on Friday afternoon and then never again.
4. To not drink any alcohol on Thursday (today).
By the evening I was feeling slightly better, the memory of throwing up into one of my bags was beginning to recede, and 48 hours without alcohol seemed a sufficient compromise. Because it would be impossible to attend a wedding and not drink, right? I had moved full circle from complete abstinence forever more to a (very) brief period without alcohol.
I could also monitor my hangover by the level of blame attributed for my condition. At first, it was all my fault. Drinking on an empty stomach? Will I never learn? But slowly, as my head throbbed less and my insides stopped churning, it became clear that the real blame lay not with myself - the innocent alcohol drinker - but with Australia! Yes, it was the fault of this wonderful country, but more specifically it was the fault of The Australian Jug of Beer.
The Australian Jug of Beer makes it very difficult to monitor beer consumption. Another jug? Sure! And another? You bet! How convivial! Let's share more beer! Poor deluded Pom-head; with no way of monitoring beer consumption I had to rely on my natural instinct for knowing when I had drunk too much.
It wasn't pretty.
1. To never drink alcohol ever again.
2. To not drink alcohol for A Very Long Time.
3. To only drink alcohol at the wedding we are going to on Friday afternoon and then never again.
4. To not drink any alcohol on Thursday (today).
By the evening I was feeling slightly better, the memory of throwing up into one of my bags was beginning to recede, and 48 hours without alcohol seemed a sufficient compromise. Because it would be impossible to attend a wedding and not drink, right? I had moved full circle from complete abstinence forever more to a (very) brief period without alcohol.
I could also monitor my hangover by the level of blame attributed for my condition. At first, it was all my fault. Drinking on an empty stomach? Will I never learn? But slowly, as my head throbbed less and my insides stopped churning, it became clear that the real blame lay not with myself - the innocent alcohol drinker - but with Australia! Yes, it was the fault of this wonderful country, but more specifically it was the fault of The Australian Jug of Beer.
The Australian Jug of Beer makes it very difficult to monitor beer consumption. Another jug? Sure! And another? You bet! How convivial! Let's share more beer! Poor deluded Pom-head; with no way of monitoring beer consumption I had to rely on my natural instinct for knowing when I had drunk too much.
It wasn't pretty.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
On Redheads and Ginger Nuts
Pomgirl: I hope if we ever have a ginger child, we have an attractive one.The Boy: So you're hoping for a Nicole Kidman, rather than a Mick Hucknall?
Pomgirl: Exactly!
Does this make me a terribly shallow individual? I suspect it does. I do love the colour of my boy's hair, and it does have the advantage of making him very easy to find in a crowd, that and him being 6"2, but if I'm honest, I had never previously found ginger men attractive. Shocking, I know. I'm fairly certain though, that when we come to have children, I will love them whatever colour hair they have.
According to 'statistics' if one parent has red hair then there is a 50% chance of the gene being passed to the children. However, a recent report by National Geographic claims it is now harder for redheads to meet and spawn redheaded children due to 'global mingling' and they could face extinction by 2060! Oh noes, save the ginger!
I would hope for a ginger daughter rather than a ginger son. Life has never been easy for redheaded/ginger males. According to a BBC article on gingerphobia:
"the ancient Egyptians would also, it is said, ritually bury redheaded men alive. The ancient Greeks would consider that their characters were unbalanced, with their humours in the wrong proportions."
Oh dear. The same hair colour on a woman is considered desirable - subject to envy and imitation. In my early twenties, I dyed my hair a very vivid shade of red and adored it. A study (by Hamburg Sex Researcher - Professor Dr Werner Habermehl!) claims women with red hair have more sex than blondes and brunettes, and if a woman dyes her hair red then her partner should be concerned, stating:
"women who dyed their hair red from another colour were signalling they were looking for a partner, and added: "Even women in a fixed relationship are letting their partners know they are unhappy if they dye their hair red. They are saying that they are looking for something better."
I reckon this sounds like a right load of bollocks, but highlights a continuing fascination with red hair due to it being so rare. The highest percentage of natural redheads in the world is in Scotland (13%), followed by Ireland with 10%. In the US, about 2% of the population are natural redheads.
What seems strange to me is that one day my boy's hair will no longer be red but a rather lovely white, which is already starting to happen. By the time he is no longer a redhead, I hope to be able to tease our children or grandchildren instead.
A previous version of this post originally appeared here.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Happy Birthday
It is my Aunty Pom's 72nd birthday today. For a considerable chunk of our childhoods, my brother and I spent every second weekend at her house - Friday night to Sunday afternoon - giving our parents 'a break' from us. On Friday nights we would watch Dynasty and eat Feast ice-creams; Saturday we would watch videos - Rocky 2, Raiders of the Lost Arc, The Karate Kid - for the seventy-millionth time but never boring of them, or sometimes we would go blackberry picking so Aunty Pom could make one of her delicious apple and blackberry pies, crusted with burnt sugar.
She has always been an exhausting whirlwind of frenetic activity - for years I suspected she had superpowers, giving her the strength of many men. Discovering she had worked as a bricklayer when much younger, my suspicions seemed confirmed. As a child, I was forced to run to keep up with her, my legs pumping away. We never waited for the appropriate time to cross a road, she simply dragged me across.
Aunty Pom never had children and from an early age it seemed obvious that I was the daughter she had always coveted. She favoured me over my brother, causing problems for both of us. When slipping me £10 notes as a teenager it was always with the instruction to "put flowers on my grave after I'm gone".
Her main interests are smoking and decorating. She still has the energy of a much younger person and takes all her elderly neighbours' bins out on rubbish day. I worry she is still climbing ladders, expecting her body never to let her down.
We are 9 hours ahead of the UK so I will call tonight and have one of our brief conversations. She refuses to talk for long if The Boy and I are paying for the call (no matter how many times I tell her we can afford it), instead talking really fast and then ending the conversation abruptly. Sometimes she calls when I am in one of my 'moods' and I don't want to talk - listening to her sad messages on the answer-machine ("Hello? Hello? Are you there? Anyone?...) and feeling increasingly guilty.
In The Almost Moon, which I finished reading last night, there was the following question, which I carefully copied into one of my notebooks:
"When was it that you realized the thread woven through your DNA carried the relationship deformities of your blood relatives as much as it did their diabetes or bone density?"
I realise, but she will always be in my heart and my thoughts.
She has always been an exhausting whirlwind of frenetic activity - for years I suspected she had superpowers, giving her the strength of many men. Discovering she had worked as a bricklayer when much younger, my suspicions seemed confirmed. As a child, I was forced to run to keep up with her, my legs pumping away. We never waited for the appropriate time to cross a road, she simply dragged me across.
Aunty Pom never had children and from an early age it seemed obvious that I was the daughter she had always coveted. She favoured me over my brother, causing problems for both of us. When slipping me £10 notes as a teenager it was always with the instruction to "put flowers on my grave after I'm gone".
Her main interests are smoking and decorating. She still has the energy of a much younger person and takes all her elderly neighbours' bins out on rubbish day. I worry she is still climbing ladders, expecting her body never to let her down.
We are 9 hours ahead of the UK so I will call tonight and have one of our brief conversations. She refuses to talk for long if The Boy and I are paying for the call (no matter how many times I tell her we can afford it), instead talking really fast and then ending the conversation abruptly. Sometimes she calls when I am in one of my 'moods' and I don't want to talk - listening to her sad messages on the answer-machine ("Hello? Hello? Are you there? Anyone?...) and feeling increasingly guilty.
In The Almost Moon, which I finished reading last night, there was the following question, which I carefully copied into one of my notebooks:
"When was it that you realized the thread woven through your DNA carried the relationship deformities of your blood relatives as much as it did their diabetes or bone density?"
I realise, but she will always be in my heart and my thoughts.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Election
After weeks of campaigning, John Howard has finally announced the date for a federal election.It pains me to live in a country where I despise the current government but have no right to vote.
This is my first experience of an election in Australia and as I had been warned, xenophobia has already raised its ugly head.
My own depressing conclusion is that Howard will be re-elected unless Rudd can offer something more substantial than his wait-and-see election strategy.
Please let me be wrong.
Colour
I talked to my mother, Madame Tarina, for over 2 hours this evening; a great looping conversation which included two disconnections, those awful pauses you get while making long distance phone calls, numerous cigarettes, a glass of wine and a short toilet break. It was a giant conversational hug and I didn't want it to end. Over five hours later and my left ear is still throbbing.
She had sent me a card a couple of days ago - bright pink with a glorious photo of Dolly Parton on the front, resplendent in a pink sequined dress and 1980s teased perm; underneath was the quote "You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap". It was a burst of colour in an otherwise bleak day.
The book I'm reading at the moment, The Almost Moon, details the most toxic mother-daughter relationship and while Madame T and I have never had an easy relationship, I've certainly never imagined cutting her body into small pieces and posting bits to various places around the country. Phew!
I laughed and cried while we talked. She offered to come out here for a couple of weeks and although I want this more than anything, my harsh, judgmental side thinks: I'm nearly 32 years old and should take care of myself. But there will always be a part of me which needs my mum, and wants to feel her cool, soothing hand on my forehead just as I did as a child.
She had sent me a card a couple of days ago - bright pink with a glorious photo of Dolly Parton on the front, resplendent in a pink sequined dress and 1980s teased perm; underneath was the quote "You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap". It was a burst of colour in an otherwise bleak day.
The book I'm reading at the moment, The Almost Moon, details the most toxic mother-daughter relationship and while Madame T and I have never had an easy relationship, I've certainly never imagined cutting her body into small pieces and posting bits to various places around the country. Phew!
I laughed and cried while we talked. She offered to come out here for a couple of weeks and although I want this more than anything, my harsh, judgmental side thinks: I'm nearly 32 years old and should take care of myself. But there will always be a part of me which needs my mum, and wants to feel her cool, soothing hand on my forehead just as I did as a child.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Blogging The Blues
Since resigning from The Job From Hell, my mood has been pretty low, which I expected to some extent. Despite telling myself I did the best I could in difficult circumstances and I should be relieved not to be working there anymore and not to take what happened poysonally - blah blah blah - I'm still on my own again during the day, my thoughts are increasingly unhealthy and I'm finding it difficult to stop crying.
I have lots of lists, though. Beautifully detailed and illustrated, listing all the 'positive' things I could be doing with my time. I look at them and feel nothing. I don't want to do anything but sit and wallow in my misery - boo hoo, poor me... Withdrawing into myself - not answering the phone, not responding to emails, not going out. I don't want to be touched or be near anyone, refusing/unable to take comfort or solace in people.
We are discussing moving back to England. I don't want to make any decisions when I don't want to be anywhere. The Boy has always wanted to move back; it has been me who has been pressing for us to stay - wanting us to make a life here. But it is too hard; I don't think I can do it anymore.
I have a vague idea of blogging my way through the blues, that it could be good to focus my mind on trying to write regularly. For me. Because of this I have decided to disable commenting for the time being - it pains me that I can't respond to comments, I appreciate them so much - the time taken, the concern, the kindness - but I can't and it is very rude of me. I've also been increasingly uncomfortable with the social networking/popularity contest aspect to blogging: I just want to write.
This blog has always been about me having a place to voice my thoughts because I talk to so few people and my head can become very cluttered. I really need it right now.
I have lots of lists, though. Beautifully detailed and illustrated, listing all the 'positive' things I could be doing with my time. I look at them and feel nothing. I don't want to do anything but sit and wallow in my misery - boo hoo, poor me... Withdrawing into myself - not answering the phone, not responding to emails, not going out. I don't want to be touched or be near anyone, refusing/unable to take comfort or solace in people.
We are discussing moving back to England. I don't want to make any decisions when I don't want to be anywhere. The Boy has always wanted to move back; it has been me who has been pressing for us to stay - wanting us to make a life here. But it is too hard; I don't think I can do it anymore.
I have a vague idea of blogging my way through the blues, that it could be good to focus my mind on trying to write regularly. For me. Because of this I have decided to disable commenting for the time being - it pains me that I can't respond to comments, I appreciate them so much - the time taken, the concern, the kindness - but I can't and it is very rude of me. I've also been increasingly uncomfortable with the social networking/popularity contest aspect to blogging: I just want to write.
This blog has always been about me having a place to voice my thoughts because I talk to so few people and my head can become very cluttered. I really need it right now.
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