More Tales from Public Transport

As I cosy in with the community at large in crowded omnibus after crowded omnibus, I find myself doubting my desire to breed.  And it's not the beleagured young working mother struggling with stroller, walking child and held child that serves as the cautionary tale (because I am pretty sure I will only be catching buses with future children for the novelty of it, and not necessity... famous last words!).  It's today's teenagers of the Inner West that give me pause.

Funnily enough, i think that the type of teenager that I find most cringeworthy is the one most like myself at that age (possibly), and therefore, likely the kind of child I would raise.  They are clever, they speak well, they are funny... but they are so TEENAGED. 

For example, there was the short girl with unkempt mousey hair and bleeding thick black eyeliner, flirting outrageously with the tall good looking gent ('Santi') in blue v-neck school jumper (on a day with temperatures in the high twenties!).  And then her sidekick.  Gay.  If not gay now, gay in the future.  Beautiful boy with blond hair and sparkly blue eyes, but again... that too perfect accent, with everything clipped and clever, if not sardonic.  He wasn't wearing shoes ('I never wear shoes'), and the trio just made me ... ewwww.  From the conversation about the party in two weeks that 'Santi' should really give her the details about because she 'might' go, to the one about not knowing which bus route they were on and how they really should pay more attention to that sort of thing before they catch buses (insert pout here).  All quirk quirk, sarky sarky, with thinly veiled ulterior motives (she wanted to stay on the bus longer because she knew 'Santi' was going beyond Newtown Station, and was attempting to justify it).  It was all just 'seems' and not 'is', and it just looked so tiresome... and I just don't ever want to be the parent of one of them.

Dear Blog,

I am sorry. 

I made a commitment to you that I have failed to keep.

Between anti-social (networking) work hours, baking 275+ brownies for a wedding in Mudgee, forty degree heat and the worst cold slash flu of my life, I have not made time to spend with you.  This is unforgiveable.

Unfortunately, the hours are still anti-social and the cold slash flu is still present, so this note is a promise rather than a fulfillment.

Forgive me,

Blogger

(cough)

So Many People In Your Neighbourhood

There's a guy who lives down the road who I hate.  His name is John.  He used to wear a faded green 'Jag Men' t-shirt every day, but I think his mum must have wrecked it doing the laundry.

At first, I didn't hate him because I thought he was retarded, and you aren't allowed to hate retarded people.  Then, one day, I heard him talking to another neighbour like he thought HE was retarded (an almost exact replica of this Little Britain sketch).  That's when I realised John wasn't retarded - he was just a socially inept dickhead... and a nosey one at that.

Since that realisation, when I've seen him walking down our street, I've scurried inside.  When I've seen him up at the shops, I've pretended to send a text message or be deep in conversation (which may seem like overkill, but once when I acknowledged him in 'the village' with a greeting, he said 'hello' back, and then asked how I knew him...grrrr).  When he watches my car as it drives up the street, as he does every car that drives up the street, I play the focussed driver, eyes fixated on the road.

Today, as I turned into the street and found myself again the subject of his watchful gaze, I brought back an old rebellious friend: the 'sneaky stinkefinger'.  As I fixed my gaze determinedly upon the road ahead, I extended my middle finger in John's direction, hovering safely below the car window where he could not see... but where I knew I was doing it.

Cop that, John, you dickhead!

Working During Playtime Hours

Today is a work day.  It doesn't start until 3.30pm, but I will work a full and proper day and finish at 11.30pm and get paid for my troubles.

But here's the thing: despite the fact that it IS genuine work and WILL occupy me for eight hours, i can't help but feel like it's just a bit of fun... like a pleasant afternoon activity I have planned... like a game of badminton.  I find this happens to me when I work on Saturday's too. 

I know it's work, and I am not playing, but somewhere, deep down inside, my heart and soul are at leisure.

I suspect this is not a sentiment shift workers share.

Have You No Shame, Stranger?

Picture a wide, tree-lined street... and that is the street I live in/on.

Now picture a lady in a fitted knee length shirt and a figure hugging blouse, and that is the stranger that I 'met' yesterday.

One of the unexpected perks of spending a couple of hours in the front yard with a novelty painting glove is that it gives you the opportunity to get that little bit closer to the passing parade of Marrickville, mostly as an observer.  Angry conversations are there for the overhearing, the drivers of antisocially noisy cars can be shot deserved greasy looks and the mischevious local teenagers' comings and goings can be monitored from a respectful distance.  And there are also opportunities to be of use to the community - an elderly european neighbour asked what I was doing with my fluffy glove because she had one at home and didn't know what to do with it... and she thanked me when i told her and said the she would do the same.

And then there was the stranger.  The stranger in heels, with perfect hair and too much make-up for the weekend.  She 'double parked' her flash car a few car spaces down the road, which I only noticed because it prompted a toot from the car behind (I suspect she didn't indicate).  She got out of the car, looked around (notably at me, and at another person on the other side of the street), then walked across the road, looking lost.  Eventually, I asked if she needed help.  'Yes... can you park my car for me?'

I guess I was so shocked (yet also pleased for the opportunity to demonstrate my parallel parking prowess) that I didn't hesitate to agree.  I scrubbed my hands (turps was involved) and headed off to complete my good samaritan deeds.  As I got closer to the car, I asked whether I should just guide her in, and she was insistent that I 'just do it'.  Of course, I didn't realise her elderly mother was in the car until I hopped in... and she was very meek and apologetic as I put the chair back into a position I could drive from, and flicked the car into reverse.

The park went off without a hitch, but I am intrigued... how does this woman get through life in her fancy new Mazda 2?  This street is wide, there is only ever one other car to contend with as the spaces are separated by trees... i'd almost recommend that people bring their l-platers to the street to learn how to parallel park.

Does she rely on the kindness of strangers to complete every car expedition she starts?

You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown

N's now recovering at home!  The good man sent through an email tonight and included this photo as an attachment.  Both flattered and embarrassed at the public acknowledgement, but at least I know the t-shirt was the right size!

That's Not My Name

I believe that I may have stumbled across a sociological phenomenon yesterday while filming some spots for a new ABC pre-school show.  It was a pretty physical gig, seeing me coerce four year olds to perform actions and smile at the same time, by example as much as instruction, but it was not from my eleven parentally permissed subjects that I observed this phenomenon - those kids i was contractually obliged to engage with, and they with me, so we had no need for chit chat.  Rather, it was from two little kids whose teachers had clearly not put them forward for the opportunity to be on telly, though from what i observed they both posessed the chutzpah to have pulled it off.

(For the record, I have forgotten a word which means 'put forward for'.   In primary school, you were 'somethinged' to be a candidate for the school captaincy (and you missed out because you were in the OC class and the general school population resented you for it... sniff).  I think my missing word starts with a 'p' and for the life of me (and google), I cannot think of it).

Ahem.  Back to the topic at hand...

In these two kids, the ones that I had no relationship with other than being a person welcome in their pre-school's playground, I observed the very beginnings of 'small talk', which is incredibly sweet and endearing when springing from the mouth of a little person.  The question they both asked was in essence the same, and I suspect may have been the same for all of us way back when for it's simplicity and assured result: 'What's your name?'. 

I know this question may be as much about curiousity as small talk, but from what I observed (adjusting imaginary glasses), this was kids wanting to spark up a conversation with an approved stranger, and this was the ONLY weapon in their artillery (unlike the more advanced members of the species who drop 'what have you been up to's like dead skin cells).  The beauty of the 'name' question is that it is almost assured a response... and most likely the same question back and then... *Ping*... it's a conversation.  What's more, once engaged, I felt the burden to continue the conversation using some of those other chit chat lines that I keep stored up there somewhere, such is the strength of the social norms that bind me as a member of society.

Generally, I suspect that names are a bit of an obsession for the very young anyway (I had to promise the neighbour's kid with whom I started the day that I would return at the end to tell her the names of all the other kids I was filming with) but this was small talk at it's most basic.  And amazingly, those of us more developed members of the species wouldn't think to kick off a conversation by simply asking a person's name for fear of being thought rude, but it is a question that I suspect served us well when we were just starting out.

I do declare, Twitter... I think I just found something interesting via you for the first time in four months (aka the length of our acquaintance). 

It's a font... a hirsuite font... and the most recent end of the source line prior to me was Ryan Shelton.

I'm Not Talking To You (or Reasons I Think I Am Great)

Want to know what makes me tick?

Eh... who am I kidding?

Want to pretend for a second that you don't know exactly what makes me tick so that I can tell you a story about something that has brought me immense joy today?

As regular readers (x2) will know, I have found myself, over the last couple of days, stuck on the thought of my dear, kind friend recovering in hospital from brain surgery... unable to speak.  I am still no closer to fathoming how I (or anyone) would deal with being rendered mute after 30 odd years of verbal diarrhea, and as a result I have had increasing determination to find a way to give N a little holiday from her head... somehow.

At first, I thought I would enlist the help of my virtual friends to seek out the things that have made them smile in recent memory, thinking that i could compile these in some sort of scrapbook of silliness that might send a little flicker of a smile across N's face... even if just for a moment.  I wanted to give her something tangible that was outside the realms of chocolate, flowers and cards, but I also wanted to solve the communication problem.  I wanted to try and help give her words back, because I really strongly feel that the world is worse off without her voice.

At the risk of sounding gloaty, I am so pleased with what I came up with.  Several hours of photoshop later (results pictured above), and a coupla bucks dropped at the t-shirt printing place in Bondi, earlier tonight, his and hers t-shirts were delivered.  Left them hanging from the doorknob of their empty house, awaiting the occupant's return late in the evening when visiting hours at the hospital are over.

So here's where you find out what makes me tick (oh, the suspense must be killing you!).  A couple of hours ago I received a text message from her good man which is remarkable given the radio silence he has opted for lately.  'Brilliant!  I will wear it tomorrow.  She'll love it'. 

That means I made him smile, just for a minute, and tomorrow... she might smile too... and that is everything i live for.  Everything.

Monster

I've just watched a doco on Ailene Wuornos and think that her girlfriend Tyria Moore must have been very flattered to have been played by Christina Ricci in the feature film Monster.  The similarities are few, but most notably to me... Ricci still has all her own teeth.

Lost For Words: Bad Things Happen To Good People

A friend of mine is sick.  Very sick.

N is possibly the most genuinely kind person i have ever met and, as cliched as it sounds, I suspect she has never said or even thought a bad thing about anybody in her whole life (which to me is what distinguishes her from all the other lovely people I know, or am related to, with whom i enjoy a good acerbic vent occasionally).  She's all those things but not insufferably smug or addicted to her own virtue like those perfect people that you come across; the ones that, try as you might, you can't identify a single good reason to justify why you just don't like them.  She is incredible.  She's witty, funny and unassuming.  She's relatively quiet, but when she does speak, it is often an observation that is as likely to warm your heart as to send you into fits of giggles.  I admire her and I envy her unforced goodness.

This good woman has a good man, and it is this good man who keeps a little energy in reserve through what must be a terribly, horribly, painfully difficult time to put a positive spin on what they living, all for the recipients of an occasional email bulletin.  I hang on every word in these emails, and I feel the absence of information for the days between, but at the same time I feel so honoured to be on the list and so in awe of his ability to write - you would certainly excuse him opting not to. The bulletin two weeks ago, which was the first of it's kind in around three years, announced the end of remission and the beginning of the exile they impose on themselves when N is undergoing treatment (which she has been doing for about 9/10ths of the time that I have known her).  He described a couple of treatment options that they were discussing and invited cards and letters over flowers and phone calls. 

The next edition, a couple of days later, explained that N would be undergoing surgery and that they were both feeling buoyed by the support of their friends and family.

That email was a week ago, and this last week has been a long one waiting for news via an email that I don't even feel I deserve.  Today it came.  With all the optimism I have come to expect from this good, good man, he rejoiced that N was finally out of intensive care, casually dropped the 'c' word and added that she was 'ecstatic' to be back on the ward.  One has to look long and intensely at his words to find the casual mention of this surgery being the hardest experience they have had in however many years of treatment as patient and carer.

But also hidden in there were four words that have completely hooked into my psyche... and finally I arrive at the entire point of this post. 'Still no speech yet'.  Still. No. Speech. Yet. 

My poor, darling friend can't speak, and to me that represents such a horror that I can't get it out of my head.  I'd like to be able to replicate the good man's optimistic tone in my own bulletin, but can you imagine recovering from brain surgery, which is an experience worse than anything you've been through before, and not being able to communicate.  Not being able to ask for 'brazil nuts' (to go with the example given in today's email), or for your hand to be held, or for somebody to please change the subject to something lovely and distracting.  I think of being trapped in my own head, with my own thoughts, and I can only hope that the thoughts that N is trapped with are typical to her wonderfully kind personality, and and bear no resemblance to the hateful thoughts too often found in mine.  Mostly unjustifiably.

I hope that tomorrow N wakes up with her full vocabulary returned and can make some delightfully quirky observation to her good man that makes him smile.  I get the sense, for all his optimistic missives, that he could really use a smile from his lovely good lady.

Daylight Saving Has Been Fading My Curtains

Much to my disappointment, I have never been good with change.

I'm not one of those readily adaptable people that waltzed through the major upheavals of high school and university without excess vomiting and quivering lip. And the upheavals to which i refer were not insignificant... like the Pan Pacific Music Camp at the beginning of year 8 (misery, misery, misery and an Andrew Lloyd Webber medley), the Duke of Edinburgh Silver expedition in year 10 (weakness, misery and an inability to digest a freshly stewed billy-full of chicken two minute noodles) and perhaps most upheavey, being left for an only child when my two sisters went away to university (heartache, loneliness and a hallmark moment of motivation that my mother recounts so well i am drawn to tears). Had i not had the presence of mind to give myself a very good talking to on day one of college, I would probably still be sitting on that brittle mattress with a chequered history (the mattress, not me) in a 2m x 2m institutional box, listening obsessively to 'Pick You Up' by Powderfinger and wishing myself back into the family home. As it was, I only did that for an hour... and a half... on the first day.

I like to think i've made great leaps forwards since those days, but I still have a tendency towards maintaining the status quo and i still resist change (except from a vending machine, ba-dum ching!). Never has this been more apparent than in my attitude to daylight saving this year, and it's a hobby i would still be pursuing if i didn't have some monkey paying me to get out of bed.

The fight against adjusting to daylight saving is a lonely one - the world moves forward without you.... quite literally. You can't fight that in most forums, i.e. socially, but I had managed to maintain a foot in the ye olde world by neglecting to change all of the clocks in the house... specifically the bedroom. Nothing says 'hey, you're not so out of whack with the way of the people' like waking up an hour earlier than the truth and going to bed at a more decent hour by one. I've been keeping abnormal hours... but not by Queensland standards, and the drapes are the better for it!

Late last night, i conceded. For the first time in weeks, I had someplace i needed to be this morning and it suddenly became worth my while to have a reliable timepiece in the bedroom. While my little friend slept, I impatiently trialled button after incongruous button on the newfangled stereo until i found a way to add the hour that had been missing, and just like that, I was rocketed into November the 3rd.

In the wee hours of this morning, as i roused just enough to hear my little friend leaving the house at sub 5am temperatures, I wondered whether my self serving leap into the present had perhaps made me the perpetrator of an accidental practical joke, and how long it would be before he discovered what the time really was...

A Day Full Of Potential...

This is it. This has to be one of those days that for the next two weeks i look back on as being a template for how i want all days to be. It's warmer than i'd like it to be, but it does make for a nice scene outside my window.

But how would you spend this day of all days? Would you lock yourself away to watch hour upon hour of daytime television and (sigh) perhaps a midday movie starring Meredith Baxter Birney or (dare i even hope) Elizabeth Montgomery? Would you catch a train to the city and watch the people going about their business... the business that you are not going about? Would you go to the cinema and see a movie (and eat the requisite tub of popcorn the size of your head) by yourself, or would you go to a pretty place to go for a long walk listening to a lecture on Sociology?

Oh the possibility. Oh the delight!

It's my last day off, and I want to do it right!

That's a poem i like to call 'A Day Full Of Potential'.

Suspense Killing You?

... Trixie broke into the red trailer and found a pistol licence in Uncle Monty's coat pocket. The photo on the licence was of Uncle Monty, but the name was Tillney Britten! You'd think that would be enough, but they had a tough job convincing the police... until Mart played back a confession he had recorded on a 'spool' with a borrowed 'recording machine'.

As Uncle Monty aka Tillney Britten said, Trixie is too smart for her own good.

Money Money Money

***NB: THIS POST IS DULL DULL DULL - IF YOU ARE LOOKING TO KILL TIME BY DOING SOMETHING INTERESTING, I RECOMMEND YOU GO SOMEWHERE ELSE. IN HOMAGE TO MY OWN DULLNESS, THE REMAINING MESSAGE WILL TRANSMITTED IN MONOCHROME ***

I have a lot on my mind and none of it gives me any pleasure at all.

It defies logic that a girl not currently in the employ of 'the man' can be so consumed by any form of preoccupation (other than anxiety about her lack of job/fluidity, perhaps), let alone by several things that hold no interest for her. But here I am, concerned about a new mortgage that I do not have, anxious about a new business venture that I have not launched, and puzzled by a tax system that as yet has nothing to do with me. As for the hours sleep I am losing over a job I haven't started yet... it is beyond belief.

Surely all i should be concerned about is personal hygiene so that nobody notices me slowly rotting away in a semi-detached in Marrickville like mouse in an oven's electrics!

Screw it... i'm off to find out how the gang reveal Di's Uncle Monty to be an imposter in the second-hand Trixie Belden book I bought last week. Someone bring me some chips.

*** YOU WERE WARNED - I WAS JUST BORING MYSELF WITH MY MIDDLE CLASS PROBLEMS SO MUCH THAT I NEEDED AN OUTLET ***