Friday night ahead of a 3 day long weekend, just gone 10pm, listening to a new CD put together on iTunes with a couple of classics and some new favourites. In true 'mosexual style have titled it 'MY NAME AND HUBBY'S NAME FAVOURITES' hmmm if you know both our names then that title will make more sense. If you don't know our names, just pick two names at random and fashion them for us, then insert the names you've chosen in the right places, add an apostrophe and an 's' on the end of hubby's name and then it all becomes clear. Geez I think it is safe to say it is a veritable faggot explosion using a name like that on a fucken mix CD, lets get a grip people some sick came up into my mouth as I was writing it. Not because I actually hate the idea, just that it seems soppy and girlie to admit to it on a 20 inch screen, it's kinda screaming at me.
Note to self...think of better titles for all future mixes. So now chatting to hubby on phone and loving this mix which has inspired me into writing them here so you can go online and download them for yourself. Not sure if they are all available through iTunes cos most of them came from my personal collection but give it a try if this stimulates parts of your funk bone.
NINA SIMONE - I PUT A SPELL ON YOU
JEFF BUCKLEY - EVERYBODY HERE WANTS YOU
PETER GABRIEL/KATE BUSH - DON'T GIVE UP
1 GIANT LEAP (ROBBIE WILLIAMS & FAITHLESS) - MY CULTURE
BOMB THE BASS - BUG POWDER DUST (LA FUNK MOB MIX)
GNARLS BARKLEY - CRAZY
GROOVE ARMADA - SUPER STYLIN'
NATALIE IMBRUGLIA - WRONG IMPRESSION
ESKIMO JOE - SMOKE
FAITHLESS - I WANT MORE
BEYONCE - CHECK ON IT (KING KLUB MIX)
RIHANNA - S.O.S.
AMERIE - 1 THING
Do you love it? It slides along really nicely and that remix of Beyonce is fucken awesome, not really a fan of that song but the remix breathes new life into it. Alright need to go back to focusing on my conversation with the hubby.
'Lovinyoufromherecheckyalaterseeyabye'
Friday, April 28
Monday, April 24
THE STORY SO FAR...
Afternoon kids, or evening or morning or geez have you got some drug habit or do you do shift work cos no-one should be up this late...I think that is officially the longest intro to a printed rave ever. So last night was spitting venom and the usual bitchy onslaught at the television because Big Brother is back for a 6th season in Australia (so indulgent thinking someone outside Australia might actually stumble on this blog and read it) but the wheels are in motion again, that was truly a toolish and fucked up statement that one. Last night Gretel passed out her introductions for a cavalcade of Barbies and Kens. It looks like a fashion shoot for steroid munching, self assured energy vampires who kind of remove the air from the room when they are confined in a small space. They're here and they want everyone in the room to know about it...fact is some of them may well be lovely, fun loving people but in the right situation you know you would probably go each one with a Braun Stab Blender given the chance. Just to stop them from crapping all over your aura or whatever the hell you call that funk that makes you...you. Am II making sense? Let me tell you I'm re-reading it over and over again just to make sure this remains slightly funny without skipping with gay abandon into mental case land.
So yeah I could rabbit on for ages about who shits me, who is 'mosexual and who just needs to pull her face out of the 70's sun lamp and try and repair that 19 year old skin that looks like it should be shrink wrapped around an old lady with more cash then sense. It's like she's been smeared with vegemite and melted lolly bananas. No wonder it's a virgin, when you slide into bed with something that glows in the dark like some kind of fractured nuclear power plant you know you ain't interested. So Monday afternoon today and the operator of this keyboard is exhausted and potentially demented from working all weekend and having too little sleep. I sit before you making mouth love to 4 pieces of gum as I try and absorb any sweetness I can from their tired rubbery confines. It is a lost cause, this thing is only good for blowing bubbles with and even that is becoming more difficult. Having no refined sugar in ones diet does things to your cravings. Wish I was chewing cake! In the future I will chew synthetic bubble gum that replicates the exact taste of your favourite foods, not in a
'How the fuck did they honestly believe that this can of pine forest aerosol spray smells like a real pine forest'
way but in a
'Which fucko removed the gum from my mouth and replaced it with real, live fuck off cake flavour"
It probably won't be made available until around the time they replace my pensioner style teeth with steely, white cosmetic teeth designed by a super computer. I think the future will be fun and if it isn't then I'll write a letter to some crappy newspaper complaining of how the future was gonna be better back in my day. Anyway I have had enough of re-reading this all the time and there is a new episode of the Simpsons to watch with my tattoo inspired hero 'Sideshow Bob' in it so it's time too publish and bail on this.
View ya
So yeah I could rabbit on for ages about who shits me, who is 'mosexual and who just needs to pull her face out of the 70's sun lamp and try and repair that 19 year old skin that looks like it should be shrink wrapped around an old lady with more cash then sense. It's like she's been smeared with vegemite and melted lolly bananas. No wonder it's a virgin, when you slide into bed with something that glows in the dark like some kind of fractured nuclear power plant you know you ain't interested. So Monday afternoon today and the operator of this keyboard is exhausted and potentially demented from working all weekend and having too little sleep. I sit before you making mouth love to 4 pieces of gum as I try and absorb any sweetness I can from their tired rubbery confines. It is a lost cause, this thing is only good for blowing bubbles with and even that is becoming more difficult. Having no refined sugar in ones diet does things to your cravings. Wish I was chewing cake! In the future I will chew synthetic bubble gum that replicates the exact taste of your favourite foods, not in a
'How the fuck did they honestly believe that this can of pine forest aerosol spray smells like a real pine forest'
way but in a
'Which fucko removed the gum from my mouth and replaced it with real, live fuck off cake flavour"
It probably won't be made available until around the time they replace my pensioner style teeth with steely, white cosmetic teeth designed by a super computer. I think the future will be fun and if it isn't then I'll write a letter to some crappy newspaper complaining of how the future was gonna be better back in my day. Anyway I have had enough of re-reading this all the time and there is a new episode of the Simpsons to watch with my tattoo inspired hero 'Sideshow Bob' in it so it's time too publish and bail on this.
View ya
Wednesday, April 12
NOW I HAVE VERBAL DIARRHEA...OF THE ONLINE KIND
Yo Mands, thanks for the comment, much as I am shocked that someone actually comes to this blog to see if I've got anything to say, I am also floored that someone is so dedicated that they check this palaver every now and then just to see if I am keeping up my end of the type and enter bargain. Apparently one person reads this blog with some sort of regularity, Mands I think I love you more than I already do.
So now I feel obliged to add something more entertaining than just a random thankyou...So what is news? Well I will be without the iMac for a few hours tomorrow as my disc drive collapsed and died a hideous death in the midst of me adding Nina Simone onto iTunes...the very idea. Why it decided to throw itself off the edge of some techno cliff is beyond me but even more head fuck worthy is the fact that it did it within 3 weeks of me purchasing the thing.. According to Apple Care I am a one in a million customer as it hasn't happened to them in years. One in a million huh, so do I get anything for my unique status? But of course not, just the inconvenience of having to take this thing to work with me tomorrow so some guy can pick it up and fix it for me.
Anyway now that I have wasted a paragraph on that info allow me to reveal something much more entertaining that actually alludes to the title of this entry. So it was hubbys birthday last month and we decided to celebrate with drinks at our place. Now drinks with hubby usually start early so we decided to get stuck into the action around 11am on a Saturday morning. Being the big 'mosexual that I am I decided to whip up a tres sheikh mixer, write this down cos it fucken rocks as a vodka mixer...
FUCKO INC 'MOSEXUAL MIXER
1 cup of white sugar
2 cups of water
1 organic vanilla pod split in half lengthways, seeds scraped out
lemon zest from 1 lemon
lemon juice from half a lemon
1 saucepan
1 wooden spoon
a source of heat (we're talking a hotplate not your pants area)
Place the vanilla pod and scraped out vanilla seeds in the water and the sugar in a saucepan and place on a low heat, stir with the wooden spoon until the sugar has dissolved into the water, the best way to check this is to check the back of the wooden spoon, if you can see grains of sugar on it still then it aint dissolved, just keep the temperature low and keep stirring, it shouldn't take too long. Once all dissolved add the lemon juice and zest (you can other flavours if you prefer something other than lemon or vanilla like orange zest or cinnamon or fucken cumquat if it takes your fancy...the flavouring is your choice) Once it is cool pour a splash into your vodka add some lemonade or soda water and enjoy.
My big problem was that I decided a nice treat for hubby and myself would be to grab one blender, tip a huge splash of vodka in, a sprinkle of 'mosexual mixer and a few handfuls of ice and blend to make one big fuck off slushie. The problem with this idea is that it was so yummy that we were hoovering them like they were going out of fashion. So after 2 hours of up ending my head and pouring them down my throat like here was a fire in my belly and that was the only way to extinguish it a few guests arrived. I kept mixing and pouring and head tilting and chatting and then someone handed me a sweet baby J and it was laced with tobacco which kicked in my head spins and sent me running for the toilet bowl.
From this moment on the story gets less than pretty and completely shameful, but what the fuck do I care, nothing better than using your humiliation to entertain others I say. So using the time honoured skills of friends who remember everything and my own limited memories here is what happened. Yes I impersonated a dinosaur over the toilet bowl, yes I howled like a t-rex on heat and yes I coughed up everything in my stomach. What I don't remember is passing out on the floor for a few hours and treating my boxer shorts like a toddler that hasn't been toilet trained. When I finally struggled to my feet my pants had a little extra hmmmm lets just say it was carry on baggage of the sort no one wants to clean up. My friends apparently left about an hour after I locked myself in the bathroom and of course hubby was making regular visits to make sure I didn't need an ambulance, thankfully he didn't notice anything thick in the air. Although that didn't stop me from telling him all about it when I finally opened the door.
So if you've read the archives you will know that the idea of me drinking usually ends in disaster and even at the ripe old age of 36...37 in July, I still can't seem to sort my shit out...scuse the pun. On that note it's time to bail, come back for more soon, if you dare.
So now I feel obliged to add something more entertaining than just a random thankyou...So what is news? Well I will be without the iMac for a few hours tomorrow as my disc drive collapsed and died a hideous death in the midst of me adding Nina Simone onto iTunes...the very idea. Why it decided to throw itself off the edge of some techno cliff is beyond me but even more head fuck worthy is the fact that it did it within 3 weeks of me purchasing the thing.. According to Apple Care I am a one in a million customer as it hasn't happened to them in years. One in a million huh, so do I get anything for my unique status? But of course not, just the inconvenience of having to take this thing to work with me tomorrow so some guy can pick it up and fix it for me.
Anyway now that I have wasted a paragraph on that info allow me to reveal something much more entertaining that actually alludes to the title of this entry. So it was hubbys birthday last month and we decided to celebrate with drinks at our place. Now drinks with hubby usually start early so we decided to get stuck into the action around 11am on a Saturday morning. Being the big 'mosexual that I am I decided to whip up a tres sheikh mixer, write this down cos it fucken rocks as a vodka mixer...
FUCKO INC 'MOSEXUAL MIXER
1 cup of white sugar
2 cups of water
1 organic vanilla pod split in half lengthways, seeds scraped out
lemon zest from 1 lemon
lemon juice from half a lemon
1 saucepan
1 wooden spoon
a source of heat (we're talking a hotplate not your pants area)
Place the vanilla pod and scraped out vanilla seeds in the water and the sugar in a saucepan and place on a low heat, stir with the wooden spoon until the sugar has dissolved into the water, the best way to check this is to check the back of the wooden spoon, if you can see grains of sugar on it still then it aint dissolved, just keep the temperature low and keep stirring, it shouldn't take too long. Once all dissolved add the lemon juice and zest (you can other flavours if you prefer something other than lemon or vanilla like orange zest or cinnamon or fucken cumquat if it takes your fancy...the flavouring is your choice) Once it is cool pour a splash into your vodka add some lemonade or soda water and enjoy.
My big problem was that I decided a nice treat for hubby and myself would be to grab one blender, tip a huge splash of vodka in, a sprinkle of 'mosexual mixer and a few handfuls of ice and blend to make one big fuck off slushie. The problem with this idea is that it was so yummy that we were hoovering them like they were going out of fashion. So after 2 hours of up ending my head and pouring them down my throat like here was a fire in my belly and that was the only way to extinguish it a few guests arrived. I kept mixing and pouring and head tilting and chatting and then someone handed me a sweet baby J and it was laced with tobacco which kicked in my head spins and sent me running for the toilet bowl.
From this moment on the story gets less than pretty and completely shameful, but what the fuck do I care, nothing better than using your humiliation to entertain others I say. So using the time honoured skills of friends who remember everything and my own limited memories here is what happened. Yes I impersonated a dinosaur over the toilet bowl, yes I howled like a t-rex on heat and yes I coughed up everything in my stomach. What I don't remember is passing out on the floor for a few hours and treating my boxer shorts like a toddler that hasn't been toilet trained. When I finally struggled to my feet my pants had a little extra hmmmm lets just say it was carry on baggage of the sort no one wants to clean up. My friends apparently left about an hour after I locked myself in the bathroom and of course hubby was making regular visits to make sure I didn't need an ambulance, thankfully he didn't notice anything thick in the air. Although that didn't stop me from telling him all about it when I finally opened the door.
So if you've read the archives you will know that the idea of me drinking usually ends in disaster and even at the ripe old age of 36...37 in July, I still can't seem to sort my shit out...scuse the pun. On that note it's time to bail, come back for more soon, if you dare.
Tuesday, April 11
I GOT SOMETHING TO SAY...AGAIN
I know, I know, I could once again waste time doing the big explain but the truth of the matter is, I've been fucken busy. New job, new city, new life, its all fucken new kids. I'm as shiny and fresh as a botoxed butt on some try hard celeb and I'm loving it. At least when I sit down I can feel my arse and even though I haven't checked, I'm sure it is wrinkled in some way shape or form and at the very least it's more expressive and can show bucketloads more emotion than Nicole Kidman can. I so can't be bothered filling you in on all the nitty gritty and of course one must retain ones secret identity, so it is safe to say I've left Melbourne (boo hoo) and taken up residency in Bris-Vegas (friggen hot).
Things are getting better weather wise thank fuck...oh God I am officially a nanna. Into my second paragraph and already I am crapping on about the weather, hang on gotta go get my travel rug. Phew now it's fucken hot again, anyhow I will persist with my temperature ramble as it finally seems like it is getting bearable around here. It has taken me ages to get used to the steamy, crotch rotting stench of top end weather, what is with mother nature anyway? Silly bitch making it too hot even for soft, doughy white ladies like me. Thank God for air conditioning, now I can spend my days going from frigid, arctic like temperatures to tropical heat, then back into the chill, then out into the heat again. It is so good for one's immune system I think.
Finally threw the money down on a dishy new Apple iMac, the big arse 20 inch screen edition, which I am staring into now like some kind of wanton whore, drives me crazy. It is so hot right now and if it wasn't so dangerous I am sure I would give it regular licks. As it is, I just snuggle up to it and throw it loving glances whenever I have to wander away from its never ending glow. Whilst I indulge this weird, slightly sick affair with an inanimate object, I am occasionally reminded of the card I slid it on to purchase it, which always turns up once a month to remind me of my tawdry affair and rub my face in it, she is a hateful ex mistress. Righto, now I feel like I'm some kind of talk to myself tragic. Like that was a revelation.
So I guess what I am trying to say is that with my in house connection I will hopefully be spending more time writing little anecdotes from my life and boring you senseless with my thoughts, stories and ideas. You're excited already aren't you? Thought so, watch this space kids...I promise.
Things are getting better weather wise thank fuck...oh God I am officially a nanna. Into my second paragraph and already I am crapping on about the weather, hang on gotta go get my travel rug. Phew now it's fucken hot again, anyhow I will persist with my temperature ramble as it finally seems like it is getting bearable around here. It has taken me ages to get used to the steamy, crotch rotting stench of top end weather, what is with mother nature anyway? Silly bitch making it too hot even for soft, doughy white ladies like me. Thank God for air conditioning, now I can spend my days going from frigid, arctic like temperatures to tropical heat, then back into the chill, then out into the heat again. It is so good for one's immune system I think.
Finally threw the money down on a dishy new Apple iMac, the big arse 20 inch screen edition, which I am staring into now like some kind of wanton whore, drives me crazy. It is so hot right now and if it wasn't so dangerous I am sure I would give it regular licks. As it is, I just snuggle up to it and throw it loving glances whenever I have to wander away from its never ending glow. Whilst I indulge this weird, slightly sick affair with an inanimate object, I am occasionally reminded of the card I slid it on to purchase it, which always turns up once a month to remind me of my tawdry affair and rub my face in it, she is a hateful ex mistress. Righto, now I feel like I'm some kind of talk to myself tragic. Like that was a revelation.
So I guess what I am trying to say is that with my in house connection I will hopefully be spending more time writing little anecdotes from my life and boring you senseless with my thoughts, stories and ideas. You're excited already aren't you? Thought so, watch this space kids...I promise.
Friday, November 18
YOU LOVE ME, YOU REALLY LOVE ME
Hello kids, or adults, or senior citizens, or drooling vegetables who surf the internet using an intricate set of pulleys, some strategically placed pencils and one of those wicked dogs that can pick up remote controls, cross streets, hand over your wallet, open doors and wipe your arse for you. Actually they probably don't do the wiping for you, but they pretty much do everything else. In fact you need one of those little spider monkeys rescued from a laboratory somewhere for the intricate butt work. Now I'm laughing to myself about the image of a helper monkey that wipes your retarded arse for you. How fucken funny would that be, I can see the monkey doing that screaming thing they do when you dress them in dolls clothes and make them ride a tiny bike for the benefit of a bunch of snotty nosed kids. They'd be doing that scream while they shook the piece of loo paper free from their wee little hands, panic struck that you are gonna fall back on top of them with a half wiped ring piece that smothers the last bit of breath from their little lungs. Life must be shit for little monkeys, I hope people are nice to them.
Anyway let's talk about me. It's my topic of choice at all the quiz shows I'm invited onto, as fucken if. Though if I was invited on one, all the black holes within my memory would mean I'd fail and get kicked off the show with sweet fuck all but a copy of the show converted into some lame arse version of a board game. The sort of game you wouldn't play even if it was snowing outside, the log cabin was sealed in and all forms of entertainment were gone but that game. In fact it wouldn't even be useful as fire wood, because it would be filled with toxic game pieces and all that shit. So lets get back on track shall we? Here I am talking to myself via keyboard and being rather pleased that some strangers have been reading this blog and actually enjoying it. Interesting for me, mainly because some of my close friends and the occasional work colleague who has taken the time to visit this place have been so close to accepting a couch in a therapy session somewhere that it is starting to worry me. I mean I know I go off on tangents and ramble on about all sorts of shit but hey that is what this is meant to be about. Also as my readership is close to nil I feel pretty free to write whatever the fuck I like without repercussions or objections. So clearly if someone reads this and goes
"Yo fucko, your blog rocks"
It only encourages me. So to all of you who have sent me positive mentions, what am I up to now, three? I think you fucken rock my jocks and stuff, even though I wear boxers and that. But you get the idea. Jesus, clearly when I'm flattered I start to type like a fucken moron. Oh and what is the fucken story with the cock smacks that send me positive comments about my site only to tag it with links to buying Xmas trees. What kind of fuck knuckle is searching for Xmas trees online and happens to stumble on my blog. Please don't treat me like a fucken dead shit and think I'm stupid enough to believe that you like my site and just wanted to point me in the direction of a great website for buying Xmas trees. I don't think I have ever referenced trees of the Christmas variety EVER, well until now. Clearly if you have to spend your days posting shit like that on blogs like mine you are working in a niche industry that no one gives a fat rats arse about and you should maybe investigate a sideline of selling parts of your body and brain for research projects. Why I would be keen to purchase a tree from the UK makes no sense either. If you have read this blog and enjoyed it by all means leave a comment as it encourages me to write more frequently and tell your friends. I would link to other blogs I read but unfortunately I am a techno wronger when it comes to this thing and no matter how many times I have tried to add links and make this more pretty it doesn't work. Aint it funny how most help sections on these things do little to help and more to confuse, is that just me? Probably, anyway moving on, thanks for reading and I promise more soon.
Anyway let's talk about me. It's my topic of choice at all the quiz shows I'm invited onto, as fucken if. Though if I was invited on one, all the black holes within my memory would mean I'd fail and get kicked off the show with sweet fuck all but a copy of the show converted into some lame arse version of a board game. The sort of game you wouldn't play even if it was snowing outside, the log cabin was sealed in and all forms of entertainment were gone but that game. In fact it wouldn't even be useful as fire wood, because it would be filled with toxic game pieces and all that shit. So lets get back on track shall we? Here I am talking to myself via keyboard and being rather pleased that some strangers have been reading this blog and actually enjoying it. Interesting for me, mainly because some of my close friends and the occasional work colleague who has taken the time to visit this place have been so close to accepting a couch in a therapy session somewhere that it is starting to worry me. I mean I know I go off on tangents and ramble on about all sorts of shit but hey that is what this is meant to be about. Also as my readership is close to nil I feel pretty free to write whatever the fuck I like without repercussions or objections. So clearly if someone reads this and goes
"Yo fucko, your blog rocks"
It only encourages me. So to all of you who have sent me positive mentions, what am I up to now, three? I think you fucken rock my jocks and stuff, even though I wear boxers and that. But you get the idea. Jesus, clearly when I'm flattered I start to type like a fucken moron. Oh and what is the fucken story with the cock smacks that send me positive comments about my site only to tag it with links to buying Xmas trees. What kind of fuck knuckle is searching for Xmas trees online and happens to stumble on my blog. Please don't treat me like a fucken dead shit and think I'm stupid enough to believe that you like my site and just wanted to point me in the direction of a great website for buying Xmas trees. I don't think I have ever referenced trees of the Christmas variety EVER, well until now. Clearly if you have to spend your days posting shit like that on blogs like mine you are working in a niche industry that no one gives a fat rats arse about and you should maybe investigate a sideline of selling parts of your body and brain for research projects. Why I would be keen to purchase a tree from the UK makes no sense either. If you have read this blog and enjoyed it by all means leave a comment as it encourages me to write more frequently and tell your friends. I would link to other blogs I read but unfortunately I am a techno wronger when it comes to this thing and no matter how many times I have tried to add links and make this more pretty it doesn't work. Aint it funny how most help sections on these things do little to help and more to confuse, is that just me? Probably, anyway moving on, thanks for reading and I promise more soon.
Friday, October 14
EXCUSES, EXCUSES AND YOU KIDS ARE LITTLE FUCKOS
I could dribble out some of those stock standard excuses as to why it has been ages since I dropped words into the blog sphere. You know the ones...I was abducted by aliens and probed so deeply my brain was compacted into the top of my skull, or the one that goes...I sneezed so hard part of my brain dislodged and flew out of my nose taking the head off a passing cat, or who could forget the old...listen fucko I'll update this blog whenever I fucken well feel like and if you've got an issue with that then perhaps you should pay me for my time and then maybe, just maybe I would be a bit more committed to saying things on a more regular basis. Perhaps if I wasn't so busy, pretending to be busy then I would have done something about it.
Anyway today I thought I would write something about being a kid and the horrid things you do to one another as a child. I grew up with two younger brothers and I am quite surprised my parents had the patience and dedication not to smother us in our sleeps and get rid of us years ago. Shocking? Yes of course it is, but when I think back to the things my brothers and I got up to I am inspired to thank the Gods for making me 'mosexual so that the only children I have to worry over are the puppy and kitty kind. Seriously how the hell do parents do it? I've heard all the stories about the bond a mother develops for her child and all that but I'm lost as to how that works. Understandably the only thing I've given birth to comes from a session of serious face stuffing and it ends up sitting at the bottom of a bowl of water and let me tell you even that old saying 'it's got a face only a mother could love' certainly doesn't apply to that.
Anyway enough about my attempts to adopt my own arse art, lets relive the memories shall we. I remember little things like licking my food to prevent having to share it with either of my brothers, this of course progressed into spitting on each others food in order to steal it off them, oh yeah the extent of our creativity knew no bounds. Then there were the times my middle brother and I would torment our younger brother. As we fought he would become more distressed which meant he would freak out and try and make us stop, which usually worked, however it also meant we would then become a dedicated team set on attacking him for stopping us from fighting. As both our parents worked in the family business it meant that we would spend large amounts of time by ourselves. It also meant that our elderly neighbour had my parents on direct dial so she could call them whenever she heard lots of screaming or crying.
This then meant my mother would climb into the car, drive home at break neck speed, using the traffic jams and the embarrassment of having a neighbour say things like 'your children are at each others throats again' to build on her anger so that by the time the wheels of the family car screamed into the driveway she would be so angry that her voice could be heard by dogs 5 neighbourghoods away. As we scattered she would be scoping the scene for implements of punishment, picking up the nearest branch, wooden spoon, fly swat or as a last resort her own hand to beat the living crap out of our arses. Naturally we developed a skill of fighting quietly so the neighbours wouldn't hear us. I vividly remember cornering my littlest brother out the front of our house cos he had climbed a tree, tears streaming down his face, cos we were fighting and my middle brother and I telling him to come inside so the neighbours wouldn't spring us and make the call.
If my middle brother were still a child now he would be classified hyperactive and pumped full of drugs to calm him down but back in the 70's we just knew not to give him red cordial or sweets of any kind. This was of course completely un-avoidable at Easter, which meant my middle brother would devour all his sweet treats in record time and then use the rest of the day to climb the walls like a cat trapped in a box of water. His anger was the sort that entire hospital wings could be devoted to studying. I remember one time when it was possible he may have to wear glasses and my torments of four eyes and other witty asides made him so angry that my Dad had to hold him back as he lurched at me. Hearing my father yell 'RUN!' with a bit of terror and panic in his voice was enough for me to run so fast I could have been an Olympic contender. Just writing this makes me realise something, perhaps the reason my parents didn't smother us was because each day they knew our lives were on the edge anyway because we were more than likely to kill each other without there help. Also with most of our street wishing our parents would eradicate us I'm sure if one or all of us had died they would come out to greet the TV crews with comments that included words like 'devils spawn' and 'pre-pubescent terrorists'.
Thankfully we are much more adult and loving to one another now. Full credit to my beautiful parents for putting up with all our shit and for beating some sense into us. How they coped I will never know but I love them endlessly for everything they did on our behalf.
Anyway today I thought I would write something about being a kid and the horrid things you do to one another as a child. I grew up with two younger brothers and I am quite surprised my parents had the patience and dedication not to smother us in our sleeps and get rid of us years ago. Shocking? Yes of course it is, but when I think back to the things my brothers and I got up to I am inspired to thank the Gods for making me 'mosexual so that the only children I have to worry over are the puppy and kitty kind. Seriously how the hell do parents do it? I've heard all the stories about the bond a mother develops for her child and all that but I'm lost as to how that works. Understandably the only thing I've given birth to comes from a session of serious face stuffing and it ends up sitting at the bottom of a bowl of water and let me tell you even that old saying 'it's got a face only a mother could love' certainly doesn't apply to that.
Anyway enough about my attempts to adopt my own arse art, lets relive the memories shall we. I remember little things like licking my food to prevent having to share it with either of my brothers, this of course progressed into spitting on each others food in order to steal it off them, oh yeah the extent of our creativity knew no bounds. Then there were the times my middle brother and I would torment our younger brother. As we fought he would become more distressed which meant he would freak out and try and make us stop, which usually worked, however it also meant we would then become a dedicated team set on attacking him for stopping us from fighting. As both our parents worked in the family business it meant that we would spend large amounts of time by ourselves. It also meant that our elderly neighbour had my parents on direct dial so she could call them whenever she heard lots of screaming or crying.
This then meant my mother would climb into the car, drive home at break neck speed, using the traffic jams and the embarrassment of having a neighbour say things like 'your children are at each others throats again' to build on her anger so that by the time the wheels of the family car screamed into the driveway she would be so angry that her voice could be heard by dogs 5 neighbourghoods away. As we scattered she would be scoping the scene for implements of punishment, picking up the nearest branch, wooden spoon, fly swat or as a last resort her own hand to beat the living crap out of our arses. Naturally we developed a skill of fighting quietly so the neighbours wouldn't hear us. I vividly remember cornering my littlest brother out the front of our house cos he had climbed a tree, tears streaming down his face, cos we were fighting and my middle brother and I telling him to come inside so the neighbours wouldn't spring us and make the call.
If my middle brother were still a child now he would be classified hyperactive and pumped full of drugs to calm him down but back in the 70's we just knew not to give him red cordial or sweets of any kind. This was of course completely un-avoidable at Easter, which meant my middle brother would devour all his sweet treats in record time and then use the rest of the day to climb the walls like a cat trapped in a box of water. His anger was the sort that entire hospital wings could be devoted to studying. I remember one time when it was possible he may have to wear glasses and my torments of four eyes and other witty asides made him so angry that my Dad had to hold him back as he lurched at me. Hearing my father yell 'RUN!' with a bit of terror and panic in his voice was enough for me to run so fast I could have been an Olympic contender. Just writing this makes me realise something, perhaps the reason my parents didn't smother us was because each day they knew our lives were on the edge anyway because we were more than likely to kill each other without there help. Also with most of our street wishing our parents would eradicate us I'm sure if one or all of us had died they would come out to greet the TV crews with comments that included words like 'devils spawn' and 'pre-pubescent terrorists'.
Thankfully we are much more adult and loving to one another now. Full credit to my beautiful parents for putting up with all our shit and for beating some sense into us. How they coped I will never know but I love them endlessly for everything they did on our behalf.
Tuesday, August 30
REMEMBERING STUFF IS FOR FOOLS
So here I am desperately trying to remember what it was that I said in my previous entry that crashed and burned when I tried to post it…Oh the humanity…alright I suppose on a grand scale this occurrence isn’t as bad as the Hindenburg tragedy Nobody died, it won’t signal the end of a mode of transport and it isn’t related to a tyrannical empire, but it fucken means heaps to me. I slaved away and wasted valuable hours which could have been used for more rewarding pursuits (surfing the net for porn, having a crap, foraging for lost treasure in either of my nostrils, calling a friend, adopting a little Ethiopian kiddie, running away from the paparazzi, writing songs for my next album, calling a press conference, admitting to a drug dependence, cleaning my ears, plucking my nostril hairs…lets face it I could fill your screen with a massive list of things I could have been doing). But oh no, I dedicated a couple of minutes to a keyboard assault that was ignored and disposed of with one click of a post button. Still I could have written it in Microsoft Word and done the cut ‘n’ paste thing like I did for this entry. I will attempt to recover the results of my feverish typing from the lower depths of my head for you now…although I know this will blow for sure…read on at your own peril.
So I was talking to the girlfriend of my favourite lady ‘mosexual the other night and she was telling me how they had just celebrated their first anniversary of love. Oh yeah ‘mosexuals can hang in for the long haul, hubby and I are into 2 and a half years already so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway we were talking about how quickly time flies and all that spazzy crap you get into when you’re stoned and rambling on the phone. As a side note I would like to point out that the only reason I remember this topic of conversation is because I wrote it down the minute she mentioned it…phew. It was then that she mentioned how difficult it was to learn the phone numbers of your partner and it struck me as one of the most difficult things about a new relationship. Yes, while the average punter is worried about how to put up with that thing that shits them, wether they’ve made the right choice, when is the right time to slip a fart out and learning how to say ours, we and us instead of mine, I and me, I was focussed on remembering a friggen phone number. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times so when hubby and I first hooked up and it got serious I was madly working behind the scenes to memorise not only his mobile but his home number as well.
Do you understand the pressure and expectation that comes with a relationship when you are a living, breathing adult in his 30’s with the memory of a goldfish? I would spend days just staring at the numbers trying to make it second nature. Then because my memory is so short term I’d wonder who the hell this number belonged to and why I was staring at it. KIDDING! Of course, it is with great pride that I mention I have learnt the numbers off by heart, but even now I still have lapses. It is kind of like when you forget how to spell the simplest of words. Someone will be standing over you and you suddenly go blank on how to spell ‘the’ or ‘we’ or ‘kidney’. Everyone has those moments don’t they? As for memorising hubbies birthday don’t even mention it. I vividly remember being in a department store filling out one of those forms that authorises them to send you useless crap and build points to buy more useless crap. Anyway it gets to the point where you have to write your partners birthday down and I had a complete mental blank while he was standing along side of me watching. Talk about freaking out inside my tiny head, which of course uses more mental capacity, which means I drain other resources, which means I was drooling and recreating scenes from Rain Man and Forest Gump. Although without the touching teary parts that could win me an Oscar, it was more of a call security, get a cattle prod and round up some big, no neck security types who are coming down from a steroid cocktail. So yeah, remembering stuff is for fools, live for the moment, write things down and get yourself some serious as shit personal assistant who can whisper in your ear while smiling inanely at anyone approaching you….sorted.
So I was talking to the girlfriend of my favourite lady ‘mosexual the other night and she was telling me how they had just celebrated their first anniversary of love. Oh yeah ‘mosexuals can hang in for the long haul, hubby and I are into 2 and a half years already so stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Anyway we were talking about how quickly time flies and all that spazzy crap you get into when you’re stoned and rambling on the phone. As a side note I would like to point out that the only reason I remember this topic of conversation is because I wrote it down the minute she mentioned it…phew. It was then that she mentioned how difficult it was to learn the phone numbers of your partner and it struck me as one of the most difficult things about a new relationship. Yes, while the average punter is worried about how to put up with that thing that shits them, wether they’ve made the right choice, when is the right time to slip a fart out and learning how to say ours, we and us instead of mine, I and me, I was focussed on remembering a friggen phone number. I don’t have a good memory at the best of times so when hubby and I first hooked up and it got serious I was madly working behind the scenes to memorise not only his mobile but his home number as well.
Do you understand the pressure and expectation that comes with a relationship when you are a living, breathing adult in his 30’s with the memory of a goldfish? I would spend days just staring at the numbers trying to make it second nature. Then because my memory is so short term I’d wonder who the hell this number belonged to and why I was staring at it. KIDDING! Of course, it is with great pride that I mention I have learnt the numbers off by heart, but even now I still have lapses. It is kind of like when you forget how to spell the simplest of words. Someone will be standing over you and you suddenly go blank on how to spell ‘the’ or ‘we’ or ‘kidney’. Everyone has those moments don’t they? As for memorising hubbies birthday don’t even mention it. I vividly remember being in a department store filling out one of those forms that authorises them to send you useless crap and build points to buy more useless crap. Anyway it gets to the point where you have to write your partners birthday down and I had a complete mental blank while he was standing along side of me watching. Talk about freaking out inside my tiny head, which of course uses more mental capacity, which means I drain other resources, which means I was drooling and recreating scenes from Rain Man and Forest Gump. Although without the touching teary parts that could win me an Oscar, it was more of a call security, get a cattle prod and round up some big, no neck security types who are coming down from a steroid cocktail. So yeah, remembering stuff is for fools, live for the moment, write things down and get yourself some serious as shit personal assistant who can whisper in your ear while smiling inanely at anyone approaching you….sorted.
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