Perhaps I should expand upon my history as a serious 'fag hag' (hate that term, but don't have another one readily available). It probably began in my youth where the Parental Body surrounded me with a variety of interesting people who were to me simply "friends of the parents". The fact that "Bob and Cathy" were of different genders and "David and John" were not made absolutely no difference in my world view at that time. Actually, it still doesn't and I have a great deal of difficulty with people who make distinctions on these superficial grounds.
However, I took issue with unkind people at university who said to me "Betty - you have no straight male friends!" "Nonsense" I would reply, and refer them to my dear freind Headbang8 as an example. I should mention here that my definition of "straight male friend" is someone who:
a) is not a partner of an existiing girlfriend: and
b) I haven't slept with/am not planning to sleep with
Fairly simple paramaters I think.
Anyway, I will put here the item written by Headbang8 sometime after the occasion of his coming out. Remember, these are his words ...
Blog Title - High Maintenance Hags
OK, you're a single female. You have a gay male friend, in fact, you have several. Does that make you a fag hag? Almost, according to my Hag Numero Uno, Miss Betty Fjord.
"Well, that does it!" she replied after I came out to her. "Whenever anyone said 'Betty, all your male friend are gay', I could say, 'No, there's Headbang'. She sucked deeply and theatrically on a Marlboro Light, and stared into the middle distance. "I'm officially a fag hag".
I put my arm around her shoulder, conscious that this gesture no longer counted as flirting. "Haven't left you much wriggle room, I guess."
It took only a nanosecond for her to move into action. "You're 35. It's a little late. You want to be gay, sunshine? You'll have to shape up. I got my work cut out for me."
Since she had great experience of quality gay men, I listened. Her insta-Gay program included:
* No beer
* Nightly chardonnay
* shave head ("Only straight guys keep the Einsten wings after they go bald, Headbang. Use my Nair.")
* No watching team sports
* Matching cutlery
* Matching socks
* Tighter underwear ("Only straight guys hide their dicks behind the drapes, Headdy. Go out and bulge!")
* Get rid of the Land Rover
* Move in to her spare room
Over several years, I did all of these, under her close supervision (except the Nair). She particularly loved supervising the chardonnay, which needed to be chilled just so, and could contain no traces of oak, lest it butch up a perfectly poofy drink. She would suffer no butch affectations amongst her fags.
"But Betty," I protested. "I'm doing invert 101 at the Gay Men's Health Centre, and my teacher said there are actually some quite butch homosexuals, you know, with jeans and flannel shirts and stuff. Why can't I be one of those?"
"Of course there are butch homosexuals. They're called lesbians. And sometimes," she said wistfully, "I wish I were one of them."
"As a fag buddy, you realise that it's your duty to comfort me whenever a guy is thoughtless, inattentive, or dumps me for no good reason."
That would turn out to be often, so I felt if better to just move in.
*************
So said Headbang8 some years ago and the situation has hardly improved. I can say, however, that I DO have one straight male friend. It is Steve, the Delightful Accountant who might not qualify for the b) list if it were not for his wife J, who has credibly promised to eviscerate anyone who comes near him with lascivious intent. ANYONE!
The story of Headbang8 and Steve the Delightful Accountant and the Night of the Mistaken Bed Arrangements must be left for another time ...
Saturday, 26 July 2008
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Tips for the observant ...
Well I have been a busy girl, haven't I?
The observant will note that I seem to have written a multitude of blog entries today ... but the even more observant will note that they span a passage of time which is none too recent.
The answer, dear friends, is that I had been blogging some time ago but was rudely interrupted by a pack I shall simply call the Hounds from Hell.
Well, I'm back - and having deleted all "controversial" content have reinstated some of the blog entries from last year.
You can't keep a good woman down ... :-D Stay tuned!
The observant will note that I seem to have written a multitude of blog entries today ... but the even more observant will note that they span a passage of time which is none too recent.
The answer, dear friends, is that I had been blogging some time ago but was rudely interrupted by a pack I shall simply call the Hounds from Hell.
Well, I'm back - and having deleted all "controversial" content have reinstated some of the blog entries from last year.
You can't keep a good woman down ... :-D Stay tuned!
The School Fete
"You're doing what?" shrieked the DIVA over the phone this morning as I advised her of my plans for the day.
"I am going to Tabular Christian College School Fete" I replied, stoicly. This, of course, is the school attended by Baby Angel, and as she had spent the night at my place (see the Bestie's latest blog entry for all the details) and had been telling me all about the hours spent wrapping sweeties in cellophane for her class stall, I couldn't be so churlish as to inform her that I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than attend.
Peals of laughter were the response from the DIVA. "Well make sure you buy something appropriate" she said. "Like a crucifix made of play doh!"
"And baked!" laughed I.
Famous last words ...
Yes, here it is. The "salt dough" crucifix made by some righteous third grader, cunningly festooned with cloves and topped with a ribbon to allow hanging on someone's christmas tree. Possibly not mine.
But wait - there's more! How about these treasures ...
Obviously made by the same artist - I could not resist adding the interesting sculpture (Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It's .... erm...) and the Mick Jagger look-a-like fridge magnet to my stash. 60 cents for the set of three is what I call money well spent!
Hat's off, however, to the innovative pre-school teacher who has found a use for all that finger painting. Roll up several sheets, put a ribbon around it and sell it as Christmas wrapping paper! At three rolls for a dollar, neither the Bestie nor I could resist.
And then there was the sausage sizzle. How could the DIVA think that I would not have a good time?
"I am going to Tabular Christian College School Fete" I replied, stoicly. This, of course, is the school attended by Baby Angel, and as she had spent the night at my place (see the Bestie's latest blog entry for all the details) and had been telling me all about the hours spent wrapping sweeties in cellophane for her class stall, I couldn't be so churlish as to inform her that I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than attend.
Peals of laughter were the response from the DIVA. "Well make sure you buy something appropriate" she said. "Like a crucifix made of play doh!"
"And baked!" laughed I.
Famous last words ...
Yes, here it is. The "salt dough" crucifix made by some righteous third grader, cunningly festooned with cloves and topped with a ribbon to allow hanging on someone's christmas tree. Possibly not mine.
But wait - there's more! How about these treasures ...
Obviously made by the same artist - I could not resist adding the interesting sculpture (Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No! It's .... erm...) and the Mick Jagger look-a-like fridge magnet to my stash. 60 cents for the set of three is what I call money well spent!
Hat's off, however, to the innovative pre-school teacher who has found a use for all that finger painting. Roll up several sheets, put a ribbon around it and sell it as Christmas wrapping paper! At three rolls for a dollar, neither the Bestie nor I could resist.
And then there was the sausage sizzle. How could the DIVA think that I would not have a good time?
Garden Success!
I am home early today, mainly because half my staff and practically none of my volunteers turned up at the COMPULSORY workshop today. Grrrrmph! I shall have words with several tomorrow ...
Anyway, the up side is that it is a glorious warm day and the garden is looking beautiful! It's only been a year since the delighful landscape people took a very large portion of my bank balance and transformed a hideous, scraggy mess into the delight we see today.
And I am especially impressed with my flowering "bird of paradise". Just look!
Of course, we must all enjoy it while we can as water restrictions are going to play havoc with beautiful gardens over the next several months. However, with drippers now allowed for 3 hours a week (woo hoo!!!) I have some expectation that my plants will survive.
And the lawn? Tough as old nails - it'll be back next year!
Anyway, the up side is that it is a glorious warm day and the garden is looking beautiful! It's only been a year since the delighful landscape people took a very large portion of my bank balance and transformed a hideous, scraggy mess into the delight we see today.
And I am especially impressed with my flowering "bird of paradise". Just look!
Of course, we must all enjoy it while we can as water restrictions are going to play havoc with beautiful gardens over the next several months. However, with drippers now allowed for 3 hours a week (woo hoo!!!) I have some expectation that my plants will survive.
And the lawn? Tough as old nails - it'll be back next year!
Decor ...
Last night, several gay men came to my house and re-arranged my lounge room furniture.
What more can I say?
What more can I say?
The long weekend
What a fabulous weekend it has been! Last week I had blocked out Thursday and Friday to attend a work-related course. On Tuesday, the course was cancelled - but having made no appointments for those days I thought I'd take a some annual leave and have a bit of a mini-break.
On Thursday I met up with my Cousin for a gourmet burger down at the Bay. A couple of years ago, the Adelaide entrant in a reality show called My Restaurant Rules won the series and their restaurant, The Greedy Goose, is still going strong and remains one of my favourite eateries. This year they've opened up a gourmet burger restaurant at Glenelg and so far I've sampled a couple of varieties. The 'beef and brie' was gorgeous, but I think Thursday's Lamb with roasted shallots, salami, slow roasted tomatoes, rocket and goats curd was even better. Add a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and non-stop conversation (this is my family we're talking about) and it's the recipe for a great afternoon.
This was followed on Thursday evening by a wonderful and somewhat drunken evening with the Bestie and The DIVA - in town for a family reunion. The DIVA had escaped husband and children and was in fine form, downing champagne like there was no tomorrow. Although we were denied a lounge-room performance on this occasion (generally possible after the application of a judicious quantity of bubbles and a carefully chosen CD), we did get to practice explosive pelvic floor exercises and generally have a fine old time.
The Bestie - freed from the rigours of parenthood for the week with Baby Angel off in Fiji with her Father - was able to have a sleepover! We were a little bleary eyed the following day, but a breakfast of pancakes soon fixed that and we sallied forth for a long walk by the Torrens River and trip to the Zoo. It was a glorious day, and a number of animals that are generally sleeping in a corner whenever I visit were up and about - most notably the red pandas and the beavers which I have never seen before! We had a lovely day - only managing to see about half the zoo in the time available - and have vowed to return soon... The strategy of parking the car 3 km from the zoo also paid off with no option but to walk off the chips and ice-cream on our way back to the car. All in the interests of developing Buns of Steel! Or at least silly putty...
Saturday was going to be my rest day with nothing particular planned. However, I thought I would go to one of our local electrical retailers and have a look at DVD recorders as I'd promised the parental body I would bequeath them my old DVD/amplifier/surround sound system. Well they didn't have a DVD I liked - but there was this fabulous flat panel LCD TV at an absolute bargain price that it would have been a crime not to buy ...
Of course, then I had to get the wall bracket, a new (and smaller) TV stand, a DVD recorder from another store and the cabling to make it all work ...
"Right" thought I, after managing to unload this booty from the car. "Let's get out the power drill and get the wall mounting unit in place!" Easier said than done as it turned out... First, of course, I had to unplug the old system and get it ready for transport to the Parental's. Then if was a matter of moving the furniture and getting rid of (now) extraneous items. Then vacuum 3 years worth of accumulated dust.
Then find out that the bricks used to build my back room are possibly the hardest and most durable variety in the universe. Instructions said to drill 6 holes to 60mm depth with 12mm masonary drill bit. Fine. Measuring up was fine. Marking the position of 6 holes was fine. Drilling into the wall was not fine - it defeated my cordless drill and almost burnt out the motor of my high speed hammer drill. When this started shooting sparks at my head I decided it was time to quit - with not one of the holes more than 30mm deep.
Time to get a little man in ...
Actually, when I'd set up the TV in its temporary location, it actually looked fine and worked well in the space.
Time to get out the spakfilla...
Sunday morning was spent getting rid of boxes, packing materials, drills bits, screws and other paraphernalia in anticipation of a visit from the Parental Body, The DIVA and her entire brood for a barbeque tea. It was a lovely afternoon with the Parental Body (Dear Old Dad in particular) being most taken with new flat panel LCD TV and re-thinking whether they really needed 45 kilos of old fashioned tele... By the end of the afternoon, we all thought not.
Little Lord Fauntleroy was hugely entertained by "Back to the Future" in the cinema room, Hamster and Little Miss were on their best behaviour (thank goodness for high chairs!) and the whole occasion passed off very enjoyably and without a hissy fit from anyone. Yeah!!!
To round off the weekend, the Bestie and her GG popped in after the SA Grand Final (sadly not winners as I'm sure you will read in her blog) for a couple of quickies between functions and the opportunity to slag off and the Australian Idol contestants.
Do weekends get any better?
On Thursday I met up with my Cousin for a gourmet burger down at the Bay. A couple of years ago, the Adelaide entrant in a reality show called My Restaurant Rules won the series and their restaurant, The Greedy Goose, is still going strong and remains one of my favourite eateries. This year they've opened up a gourmet burger restaurant at Glenelg and so far I've sampled a couple of varieties. The 'beef and brie' was gorgeous, but I think Thursday's Lamb with roasted shallots, salami, slow roasted tomatoes, rocket and goats curd was even better. Add a couple of glasses of Sauvignon Blanc and non-stop conversation (this is my family we're talking about) and it's the recipe for a great afternoon.
This was followed on Thursday evening by a wonderful and somewhat drunken evening with the Bestie and The DIVA - in town for a family reunion. The DIVA had escaped husband and children and was in fine form, downing champagne like there was no tomorrow. Although we were denied a lounge-room performance on this occasion (generally possible after the application of a judicious quantity of bubbles and a carefully chosen CD), we did get to practice explosive pelvic floor exercises and generally have a fine old time.
The Bestie - freed from the rigours of parenthood for the week with Baby Angel off in Fiji with her Father - was able to have a sleepover! We were a little bleary eyed the following day, but a breakfast of pancakes soon fixed that and we sallied forth for a long walk by the Torrens River and trip to the Zoo. It was a glorious day, and a number of animals that are generally sleeping in a corner whenever I visit were up and about - most notably the red pandas and the beavers which I have never seen before! We had a lovely day - only managing to see about half the zoo in the time available - and have vowed to return soon... The strategy of parking the car 3 km from the zoo also paid off with no option but to walk off the chips and ice-cream on our way back to the car. All in the interests of developing Buns of Steel! Or at least silly putty...
Saturday was going to be my rest day with nothing particular planned. However, I thought I would go to one of our local electrical retailers and have a look at DVD recorders as I'd promised the parental body I would bequeath them my old DVD/amplifier/surround sound system. Well they didn't have a DVD I liked - but there was this fabulous flat panel LCD TV at an absolute bargain price that it would have been a crime not to buy ...
Of course, then I had to get the wall bracket, a new (and smaller) TV stand, a DVD recorder from another store and the cabling to make it all work ...
"Right" thought I, after managing to unload this booty from the car. "Let's get out the power drill and get the wall mounting unit in place!" Easier said than done as it turned out... First, of course, I had to unplug the old system and get it ready for transport to the Parental's. Then if was a matter of moving the furniture and getting rid of (now) extraneous items. Then vacuum 3 years worth of accumulated dust.
Then find out that the bricks used to build my back room are possibly the hardest and most durable variety in the universe. Instructions said to drill 6 holes to 60mm depth with 12mm masonary drill bit. Fine. Measuring up was fine. Marking the position of 6 holes was fine. Drilling into the wall was not fine - it defeated my cordless drill and almost burnt out the motor of my high speed hammer drill. When this started shooting sparks at my head I decided it was time to quit - with not one of the holes more than 30mm deep.
Time to get a little man in ...
Actually, when I'd set up the TV in its temporary location, it actually looked fine and worked well in the space.
Time to get out the spakfilla...
Sunday morning was spent getting rid of boxes, packing materials, drills bits, screws and other paraphernalia in anticipation of a visit from the Parental Body, The DIVA and her entire brood for a barbeque tea. It was a lovely afternoon with the Parental Body (Dear Old Dad in particular) being most taken with new flat panel LCD TV and re-thinking whether they really needed 45 kilos of old fashioned tele... By the end of the afternoon, we all thought not.
Little Lord Fauntleroy was hugely entertained by "Back to the Future" in the cinema room, Hamster and Little Miss were on their best behaviour (thank goodness for high chairs!) and the whole occasion passed off very enjoyably and without a hissy fit from anyone. Yeah!!!
To round off the weekend, the Bestie and her GG popped in after the SA Grand Final (sadly not winners as I'm sure you will read in her blog) for a couple of quickies between functions and the opportunity to slag off and the Australian Idol contestants.
Do weekends get any better?
The School Musical
Any of you who have had occasion to visit the Bestie's blog cannot fail to have noticed that she has been extremely busy doing costumes and stage management for her school play. My dear Arizaphale is never backwards about taking on extra-curricula activities and I know she enjoys the theatre, so it has been good to see her so enthused about this production.
The only problem with the whole process is that - eventually - the time comes when rehearsals are over and the production is ready to go. For which an audience is required. Which means me.
One thing that friends do is support each other by attending significant events in each other's lives. Even when those events include theatrical productions of ... erm ... dubious quality.
Over the years I have attended not one, but two, end of year concerts by the KL (or was it JL?) Dance Academy where the Bestie was doing jazz and tap. Every class (and there were many of them) had at least one number they had painstakingly prepared for our enjoyment. The problem was that there was only one choreographer and so after a few numbers, one noticed a certain 'sameness' creeping into the routines. After the first 20 it became painful. After 30 or so the audience had slipped into a glassy eyed stupor. And then there was interval...
A description of the wondrous occasion on which the Bestie and I travelled south to witness an amateur production of "Amahl and the Night Visitors" I shall leave for another occasion.
In her teaching capacity, the Bestie has treated me to two theatrical productions being "Reigning Cats and Dogs" for her first School and the latest offering "Pilgrim - the Musical" for this one. Both stunning original pieces penned (and scored) by ecstatic 'Happy Clappy's - possibly on crack.
Most of you would be aware that the Bestie and I have vastly different views on religion. She has it and I don't. So the very Christian subject matter of these musicals was always going to be somewhat of a problem for me - but I was prepared to put this prejudice aside and enjoy them on the basis of their merits. Erm...
Sadly, "merit" is not the word that comes to mind.
Despite the Bestie's sterling efforts (the costumes were excellent and I have rarely seen such magnificent stage management) the latest offering, "Pilgrim", was not exactly a wonder of modern theatre. Based (loosely) on John Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress" the show lurched from musical number to musical number - the sameness of which made the KL Dance experience seem like a variety show in comparison.
To begin with, I thought the young cast had been caught in religious fervour and were speaking in tongues - but then I realised it was just that they were mumbling so much it was impossible to make out what they were saying. The lead singer/actor had quite a nice voice - and all the personality and charisma on stage of a limp dish-rag. And where on earth did a good Christian boy get that incredibly semitic nose?
All the other singer/actors should go to singing lessons, go directly to singing lessons and, for goodness sake, NEVER go on stage again until they've learned to hold a note.
At times the monotony of the musical numbers was somewhat relieved by the inexplicable presence on stage of a very fine rhythmic gymnast complete with ribbon. Lovely, but pointless. One girl woke the audience up from time to time with a couple of spirited cameos - and even managed to elicit a laugh! - but such flashes of talent from the young cast were sadly few and far between. And what was with the cotton wool angel wings?
To add insult to injury, the show lasted a good 2 1/2 hours which had Baby Angel and I whispering "are we there yet?" on several occasions as the Pilgrim appeared to be Progressing not at all.
Bit of a shame we were sitting in front of the Director. Whoops!
I am as yet undecided whether "Pilgrim" rates above or below "Reigning Cats and Dogs" on the nightmare-o-metre. Certainly the production values for "Pilgrim" were better (as were the stage management and costumes - did I mention that?) and we were at least spared being led in prayer by the school principal before the show. On the other hand, "Cats and Dogs" was shorter.
Ah well, at least the Bestie enjoyed it and got to spend time in one of our old haunts (the Scott Theatre) again. The kids obviously had a good time also and will inevitably have profited from the experience.
And I have completed my penance for this year. Mea Culpa ...
The only problem with the whole process is that - eventually - the time comes when rehearsals are over and the production is ready to go. For which an audience is required. Which means me.
One thing that friends do is support each other by attending significant events in each other's lives. Even when those events include theatrical productions of ... erm ... dubious quality.
Over the years I have attended not one, but two, end of year concerts by the KL (or was it JL?) Dance Academy where the Bestie was doing jazz and tap. Every class (and there were many of them) had at least one number they had painstakingly prepared for our enjoyment. The problem was that there was only one choreographer and so after a few numbers, one noticed a certain 'sameness' creeping into the routines. After the first 20 it became painful. After 30 or so the audience had slipped into a glassy eyed stupor. And then there was interval...
A description of the wondrous occasion on which the Bestie and I travelled south to witness an amateur production of "Amahl and the Night Visitors" I shall leave for another occasion.
In her teaching capacity, the Bestie has treated me to two theatrical productions being "Reigning Cats and Dogs" for her first School and the latest offering "Pilgrim - the Musical" for this one. Both stunning original pieces penned (and scored) by ecstatic 'Happy Clappy's - possibly on crack.
Most of you would be aware that the Bestie and I have vastly different views on religion. She has it and I don't. So the very Christian subject matter of these musicals was always going to be somewhat of a problem for me - but I was prepared to put this prejudice aside and enjoy them on the basis of their merits. Erm...
Sadly, "merit" is not the word that comes to mind.
Despite the Bestie's sterling efforts (the costumes were excellent and I have rarely seen such magnificent stage management) the latest offering, "Pilgrim", was not exactly a wonder of modern theatre. Based (loosely) on John Bunyan's "The Pilgrim's Progress" the show lurched from musical number to musical number - the sameness of which made the KL Dance experience seem like a variety show in comparison.
To begin with, I thought the young cast had been caught in religious fervour and were speaking in tongues - but then I realised it was just that they were mumbling so much it was impossible to make out what they were saying. The lead singer/actor had quite a nice voice - and all the personality and charisma on stage of a limp dish-rag. And where on earth did a good Christian boy get that incredibly semitic nose?
All the other singer/actors should go to singing lessons, go directly to singing lessons and, for goodness sake, NEVER go on stage again until they've learned to hold a note.
At times the monotony of the musical numbers was somewhat relieved by the inexplicable presence on stage of a very fine rhythmic gymnast complete with ribbon. Lovely, but pointless. One girl woke the audience up from time to time with a couple of spirited cameos - and even managed to elicit a laugh! - but such flashes of talent from the young cast were sadly few and far between. And what was with the cotton wool angel wings?
To add insult to injury, the show lasted a good 2 1/2 hours which had Baby Angel and I whispering "are we there yet?" on several occasions as the Pilgrim appeared to be Progressing not at all.
Bit of a shame we were sitting in front of the Director. Whoops!
I am as yet undecided whether "Pilgrim" rates above or below "Reigning Cats and Dogs" on the nightmare-o-metre. Certainly the production values for "Pilgrim" were better (as were the stage management and costumes - did I mention that?) and we were at least spared being led in prayer by the school principal before the show. On the other hand, "Cats and Dogs" was shorter.
Ah well, at least the Bestie enjoyed it and got to spend time in one of our old haunts (the Scott Theatre) again. The kids obviously had a good time also and will inevitably have profited from the experience.
And I have completed my penance for this year. Mea Culpa ...
Fat, fat, fat ...
I'm sure there are people in the world who never fall on their faces at sporting events; who don't drop their glass just as silence is called for a speech; who never get bitten on the arse by large dogs; and who have clothes in their wardrobes that are all the one size and have been reliably worn for years.
I am not one of them.
The depressing truth of the day is that the large majority of my wardrobe no longer fits me and I'm wondering why I gave away all my fat clothes when the swinging pendulum that is my weight last trended towards 'ACCEPTABLE'. Again.
Yes, dear reader, this is not the first time that I have been faced with this particular conundrum. Having accepted the fact that my last pair of reasonably sized jeans are simply too uncomfortable to wear any more - do I bite the bullet and go on a rigorous diet to lose 10 kilos (25 pounds), or do I go to the fat shop and buy a summer wardrobe?
Now I am under no illusions as to why I gain weight. I do not have a slow metabolism. I do not have a thyroid problem. I do not have "big bones". Simply put, I eat too much, drink too much and don't do enough exercise. Case closed.
The problem is that I like eating and drinking. Doing these things - especially in convivial company - is my favourite passtime. Would that I approached exercise with similar enthusiasm. *sigh*
The other problem is that I do know how to diet successfully, having done it on at least two previous occasions in the last 8 years. The DIVA, the Banker and I have all been successful WeightWatchers, and there is nothing about low fat cooking that The DIVA and I do not know and have not tried. It can be done. It's not that hard.
BUT I DON'T WANT TO DO IT!!!!!!!
The whole thought is incredibly depressing - but then so is the thought of going to the fat shop.
There are those, of course, who ask the question "Well, if it's easy to lose a couple of pounds, why not just do that when there are only a couple of pounds to lose?". Very valid question. Logical. Insightful.
Let's just not go there.
It's actually the type of question that I can see ticking over behind the sympathetic facade of the Bestie. Much as I love her, and much as she tries to understand, she just doesn't get it. She is one of those admirable people who have been wearing the same size for 20 years (was it a picture I saw of her wearing a high school creation on her website recently?). She has lately complained of putting on weight and in evidence of this has pinched, from over her ludicrously flat stomach, about a centimetre of skin between thumb and forefinger - wondering all the while why the knuckles of my right hand (the one holding the kitchen knife) have gone white ... Bless.
Anyway - here's a picture of me looking acceptable two years ago:
And here's one of me and the Bestie about a year before that with me looking like the goodyear blimp:
At the moment I'm about half way between. Which way is it going to go?
I am not one of them.
The depressing truth of the day is that the large majority of my wardrobe no longer fits me and I'm wondering why I gave away all my fat clothes when the swinging pendulum that is my weight last trended towards 'ACCEPTABLE'. Again.
Yes, dear reader, this is not the first time that I have been faced with this particular conundrum. Having accepted the fact that my last pair of reasonably sized jeans are simply too uncomfortable to wear any more - do I bite the bullet and go on a rigorous diet to lose 10 kilos (25 pounds), or do I go to the fat shop and buy a summer wardrobe?
Now I am under no illusions as to why I gain weight. I do not have a slow metabolism. I do not have a thyroid problem. I do not have "big bones". Simply put, I eat too much, drink too much and don't do enough exercise. Case closed.
The problem is that I like eating and drinking. Doing these things - especially in convivial company - is my favourite passtime. Would that I approached exercise with similar enthusiasm. *sigh*
The other problem is that I do know how to diet successfully, having done it on at least two previous occasions in the last 8 years. The DIVA, the Banker and I have all been successful WeightWatchers, and there is nothing about low fat cooking that The DIVA and I do not know and have not tried. It can be done. It's not that hard.
BUT I DON'T WANT TO DO IT!!!!!!!
The whole thought is incredibly depressing - but then so is the thought of going to the fat shop.
There are those, of course, who ask the question "Well, if it's easy to lose a couple of pounds, why not just do that when there are only a couple of pounds to lose?". Very valid question. Logical. Insightful.
Let's just not go there.
It's actually the type of question that I can see ticking over behind the sympathetic facade of the Bestie. Much as I love her, and much as she tries to understand, she just doesn't get it. She is one of those admirable people who have been wearing the same size for 20 years (was it a picture I saw of her wearing a high school creation on her website recently?). She has lately complained of putting on weight and in evidence of this has pinched, from over her ludicrously flat stomach, about a centimetre of skin between thumb and forefinger - wondering all the while why the knuckles of my right hand (the one holding the kitchen knife) have gone white ... Bless.
Anyway - here's a picture of me looking acceptable two years ago:
And here's one of me and the Bestie about a year before that with me looking like the goodyear blimp:
At the moment I'm about half way between. Which way is it going to go?
Bottom's Up
Well, it may not be pretty (in fact I know it's not!) but this is what a left buttock looks like 3 days after being bitten by a very large dog. Note the sensational purple colour (tending towards a sickly greenish yellow over the next week I would imagine) surrounding four puncture wounds made by exceptionally large teeth.
I have spent the last couple of days impersonating the Tower of Pisa whilst attempting to sit down and occasioning serious gales of mirth from various work colleagues when explaining why it is that I seem to be listing a little to the right ...
Visiting and the dangers thereof ...
It was a glorious and sunny day today, just right for donning the walking shoes and heading off to see my gorgeous cousins Cherie and Ian to while away the afternoon and check out all the work they've been doing in their front yard.
The plan was to walk from my front door to the tram stop (about 15 minutes), catch the tram to Jetty Road and then walk from there to Cherie's place (another 15 minutes). However, the day was so lovely and the iPod was shuffling my favourite walking songs so I decided that I could walk a little further than previously planned.
The problem with this is that having passed the local tram stop, the next time the walking track and the tram-line go anywhere within coo-ee of each other is several stops down the line. So I made it to Morphett Street (which for those of you who know Adelaide is at the race-track) which was only 3 stops from where I was going anyway so I thought I'd just keep on walking.
Perhas some training before attempting a 90 minute walk would have been appropriate? Hmmmm....
Anyway, I made it. Hot, red-faced and aching for the very nice Sav Blanc waiting in my backpack, I let myself in the gate and greeted Cherie with heartfelt releif.
Unfortunately there was another body in the front yard - Cherie's old and considerably senile rottweiler, Rocky. Rocky took one look at me and decided (despite the fact that we have been acquainted for years) that he didn't like me one little bit. And so came up from behind and bit me on the arse.
I have not been bitten by any dog before, and certainly not by a very large Rottweiler. For those who have been similarly blessed I would suggest you never try the experience. It hurts! A lot!
I now have an extremely large bruise and 4 distinct puncture marks on my left buttock. The lump is the size of a small ostrich egg and (on advice) I am going off to have a tetanus shot tomorrow. You wouldn't read about it!!!
I also feel a little guilty because I think Rocky is on a one way trip to the vet come Monday morning. This is not completely because of his lapse today, but because it has become a bit of a habit with him. I believe I am in the latest in a list that now includes the neighbour, my aunt and at least two small children. My bottom is not an item of particular interest to anyone (*sigh*) but it is at about the level of a 5 year old's face so I guess something has to be done.
Now, I have always liked little dogs ...
The plan was to walk from my front door to the tram stop (about 15 minutes), catch the tram to Jetty Road and then walk from there to Cherie's place (another 15 minutes). However, the day was so lovely and the iPod was shuffling my favourite walking songs so I decided that I could walk a little further than previously planned.
The problem with this is that having passed the local tram stop, the next time the walking track and the tram-line go anywhere within coo-ee of each other is several stops down the line. So I made it to Morphett Street (which for those of you who know Adelaide is at the race-track) which was only 3 stops from where I was going anyway so I thought I'd just keep on walking.
Perhas some training before attempting a 90 minute walk would have been appropriate? Hmmmm....
Anyway, I made it. Hot, red-faced and aching for the very nice Sav Blanc waiting in my backpack, I let myself in the gate and greeted Cherie with heartfelt releif.
Unfortunately there was another body in the front yard - Cherie's old and considerably senile rottweiler, Rocky. Rocky took one look at me and decided (despite the fact that we have been acquainted for years) that he didn't like me one little bit. And so came up from behind and bit me on the arse.
I have not been bitten by any dog before, and certainly not by a very large Rottweiler. For those who have been similarly blessed I would suggest you never try the experience. It hurts! A lot!
I now have an extremely large bruise and 4 distinct puncture marks on my left buttock. The lump is the size of a small ostrich egg and (on advice) I am going off to have a tetanus shot tomorrow. You wouldn't read about it!!!
I also feel a little guilty because I think Rocky is on a one way trip to the vet come Monday morning. This is not completely because of his lapse today, but because it has become a bit of a habit with him. I believe I am in the latest in a list that now includes the neighbour, my aunt and at least two small children. My bottom is not an item of particular interest to anyone (*sigh*) but it is at about the level of a 5 year old's face so I guess something has to be done.
Now, I have always liked little dogs ...
iPods and Visitors
Well I have finally relented and bought myself an iPod. When visiting with the Banker in Sydney a couple of weeks ago he demonstrated his system and I must admit to being impressed that such a tiny little box, when combined with tiny little speakers, could create such a big, big sound.
So I let my fingers do the walking, shopped on line for the best price and now have my own marvel of nano-technology. Of course this has also meant that I have spent most of the day shoving my CD's into the computer and converting them to iPod compatible files. 36 down, LOTS more to go ....
So it was sort of nice to have some company late in the afternoon. It having been a glorious day, I'd left the front and back door open to let in a little air and sunshine - and also wildlife as it turns out. I was sitting at the computer when there was a telltale rustling from behind me and little scampering of claws on floorboards ... A large blue-tongue lizard had decided to move in and was thoroughly perusing his new abode.
Thank goodness for George the neighbour, his broom and a box!
So I let my fingers do the walking, shopped on line for the best price and now have my own marvel of nano-technology. Of course this has also meant that I have spent most of the day shoving my CD's into the computer and converting them to iPod compatible files. 36 down, LOTS more to go ....
So it was sort of nice to have some company late in the afternoon. It having been a glorious day, I'd left the front and back door open to let in a little air and sunshine - and also wildlife as it turns out. I was sitting at the computer when there was a telltale rustling from behind me and little scampering of claws on floorboards ... A large blue-tongue lizard had decided to move in and was thoroughly perusing his new abode.
Thank goodness for George the neighbour, his broom and a box!
Snot
What a glorious weekend! After months of gloom and cold, spring is on our doorstep and we have sunny, blue skies and temperatures climbing over the 20 degree mark. A perfect time for long walks by the river, visits to the zoo and generally soaking up the sunshine.
And am I doing any of this?
NO! I am at home dealing with SNOT!
Who would have thought that I could get through the entire winter without so much as a sniffle, fending off the diseased (of whom there have been legion) with no ill effects, just to succumb at the last minute to that scourge of mankind - the cold in the head.
A slight, scratchy 'ahem' thing on Friday had, by Saturday morning, turned into sore throat, swollen glands and hacking cough. So much for plans made with the Bestie and Baby Angel to enjoy the outdoors in the morning before sharing a delicious lunch with the Parental Body in the afternoon. No - it was straight to the couch, do not pass go, do not collect $200 (except for visit to chemist to get cold and flu tablets and visit to shop to get chocolate, they being the necessities of the sick bed).
By this morning, of course, all of the above symptoms had trasmuted into just one thing - snot. Oh, the throat is still a bit sore and the cough continues, but these have paled into insignificance when compared to the snot factory my nose has become. And why is it so? We have all been told that the body is a wondrous and sophisticated thing, capable of all manner of marvels - so why is it that when you're already feeling crook it heaps insult upon injury and decides that breathing through the nose has just become an optional extra?
Of course there are varying degrees of snot. The DIVA has, from time to time, demonstrated 'opera snot' which is of a type and quality to inspire awe amongst us mere mortals. Something to do with nasal resonators ... Kiddies seem to have snotty noses 100% of the time which worries them far less than it worries anyone else (particularly their poor mother's who have to wash their sleeves!). But there's something particularly depressing about 'cold in the head' snot which follows its inevitable path - from slow drip in manner of leaking tap through to something that has the consistency of semi-dried cement and is equally difficult to get rid of.
Oh - and those aloe vera tissues? Well, they are an improvement, but we all know that by day 5 even gossamer would take on the texture of course sand-paper ...
So the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and I'm going back to my couch. Grrrr...
And am I doing any of this?
NO! I am at home dealing with SNOT!
Who would have thought that I could get through the entire winter without so much as a sniffle, fending off the diseased (of whom there have been legion) with no ill effects, just to succumb at the last minute to that scourge of mankind - the cold in the head.
A slight, scratchy 'ahem' thing on Friday had, by Saturday morning, turned into sore throat, swollen glands and hacking cough. So much for plans made with the Bestie and Baby Angel to enjoy the outdoors in the morning before sharing a delicious lunch with the Parental Body in the afternoon. No - it was straight to the couch, do not pass go, do not collect $200 (except for visit to chemist to get cold and flu tablets and visit to shop to get chocolate, they being the necessities of the sick bed).
By this morning, of course, all of the above symptoms had trasmuted into just one thing - snot. Oh, the throat is still a bit sore and the cough continues, but these have paled into insignificance when compared to the snot factory my nose has become. And why is it so? We have all been told that the body is a wondrous and sophisticated thing, capable of all manner of marvels - so why is it that when you're already feeling crook it heaps insult upon injury and decides that breathing through the nose has just become an optional extra?
Of course there are varying degrees of snot. The DIVA has, from time to time, demonstrated 'opera snot' which is of a type and quality to inspire awe amongst us mere mortals. Something to do with nasal resonators ... Kiddies seem to have snotty noses 100% of the time which worries them far less than it worries anyone else (particularly their poor mother's who have to wash their sleeves!). But there's something particularly depressing about 'cold in the head' snot which follows its inevitable path - from slow drip in manner of leaking tap through to something that has the consistency of semi-dried cement and is equally difficult to get rid of.
Oh - and those aloe vera tissues? Well, they are an improvement, but we all know that by day 5 even gossamer would take on the texture of course sand-paper ...
So the birds are singing, the sun is shining, and I'm going back to my couch. Grrrr...
Weekend with the Banker
Well what a delightful few days it has been in the 'big smoke'! Sydney is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. Having spent more than a decade living there I feel very nostalgic when visiting, even with the realisation that I would need to triple my income to afford a shoe-box in the outer suburbs.
After the joys of an all day workshop, it was with considerable relief that I arranged to meet the Banker at a Newtown pub with excellent Thai food last Thursday evening. What a change! On my last visit - which I must admit is around 8 years ago - it was a slightly daggy pub with good food. Now it is an extremely yuppified hostelry, complete with bored wait-staff exhibiting the sneering expression required to put any non-scene, non-young, non-trendy punter severely in their place.
Not to be deterred, we had a few drinks with one of my delightful colleagues and then adjourned to the restaurant for a Thai feast. All fabulous, until I made a very, very, VERY bad mistake. Not wearing my glasses in a fairly dim environment, I did not recognise the tasty looking morsel on my plate for what it was - a fried red chilli.
The problem with chilli is that it doesn't immediately identify itself. No - it hides behind a bland exterior for just enough time to spread all over the inside of your mouth before revealing its true nature and sending you reaching for whatever liquid is within easy reach... I blame my subsequent hangover on the fact that the only liquid within sight was a bucket of Sav Blanc! Well, I guess it could have been worse...
This set the scene for a lovely weekend with wonderful Sydney friends tag-teaming from one meal to the next. The venue was the Banker's converted warehouse in the Inner West which is a marvel of modern, spacious living. Maybe when I win the lottery?
I had brought my Donna Hay mags (a complete necessity) and managed to provide a faaaabulous cider roasted pork extravaganza on Friday night for Steve the Delightful Accountant and his equally delightful wife, Jen. If I say that we started the night with a feisty political discussion and progressed from there, you'll get the idea. At least the Banker and I won at cards...
Saturday brought Cuddlebum and the Gourmet in from the wilds of the western suburbs and set me a gastronomical challenge. The Gourmet is one of those people who appears to go to no effort for a dinner party. From her kitchen position she gets stuck into the wine and the conversation with the best of us, while appearing to cut up an onion here, and perhaps stir a pot there every once in a while. So it is always a complete mystery how, at some appointed hour, we take our seats at the table and have a banquet of at least a dozen sensational dishes set in front of us. I have given up trying to work out how she does it - I'm just suitably amazed and grateful every time I'm on the receiving end.
Of course, this does present a challenge for a less talented cook such as myself but (again with the help of Donna) I think all went well. The chocolate filled crepes crusted in cinamon sugar were a hit...
For Sunday lunch we decided to decamp for the local pub - the thought of (me) cooking another meal and (the banker) having to clean up after - being too much. The M&M's were our company on this occasion and, yet again, the wine and the conversation flowed freely.
So into the cab, on to the airport, and back to good old Adelaide. Nice to be home but - oh - I do love that town and all the gorgeous people in it!
After the joys of an all day workshop, it was with considerable relief that I arranged to meet the Banker at a Newtown pub with excellent Thai food last Thursday evening. What a change! On my last visit - which I must admit is around 8 years ago - it was a slightly daggy pub with good food. Now it is an extremely yuppified hostelry, complete with bored wait-staff exhibiting the sneering expression required to put any non-scene, non-young, non-trendy punter severely in their place.
Not to be deterred, we had a few drinks with one of my delightful colleagues and then adjourned to the restaurant for a Thai feast. All fabulous, until I made a very, very, VERY bad mistake. Not wearing my glasses in a fairly dim environment, I did not recognise the tasty looking morsel on my plate for what it was - a fried red chilli.
The problem with chilli is that it doesn't immediately identify itself. No - it hides behind a bland exterior for just enough time to spread all over the inside of your mouth before revealing its true nature and sending you reaching for whatever liquid is within easy reach... I blame my subsequent hangover on the fact that the only liquid within sight was a bucket of Sav Blanc! Well, I guess it could have been worse...
This set the scene for a lovely weekend with wonderful Sydney friends tag-teaming from one meal to the next. The venue was the Banker's converted warehouse in the Inner West which is a marvel of modern, spacious living. Maybe when I win the lottery?
I had brought my Donna Hay mags (a complete necessity) and managed to provide a faaaabulous cider roasted pork extravaganza on Friday night for Steve the Delightful Accountant and his equally delightful wife, Jen. If I say that we started the night with a feisty political discussion and progressed from there, you'll get the idea. At least the Banker and I won at cards...
Saturday brought Cuddlebum and the Gourmet in from the wilds of the western suburbs and set me a gastronomical challenge. The Gourmet is one of those people who appears to go to no effort for a dinner party. From her kitchen position she gets stuck into the wine and the conversation with the best of us, while appearing to cut up an onion here, and perhaps stir a pot there every once in a while. So it is always a complete mystery how, at some appointed hour, we take our seats at the table and have a banquet of at least a dozen sensational dishes set in front of us. I have given up trying to work out how she does it - I'm just suitably amazed and grateful every time I'm on the receiving end.
Of course, this does present a challenge for a less talented cook such as myself but (again with the help of Donna) I think all went well. The chocolate filled crepes crusted in cinamon sugar were a hit...
For Sunday lunch we decided to decamp for the local pub - the thought of (me) cooking another meal and (the banker) having to clean up after - being too much. The M&M's were our company on this occasion and, yet again, the wine and the conversation flowed freely.
So into the cab, on to the airport, and back to good old Adelaide. Nice to be home but - oh - I do love that town and all the gorgeous people in it!
Making Dough
Sometimes its the simple things in life that charm us.
This morning, for no particular reason, I decided to do something I've never done before and make my own bread. The new edition of Donna Hay's culinary magazine was mostly to blame. Her photographer makes the most basic of meals look fit for a king and soothing recipe titles such as "Simple Flat Bread" inspire us with the confidence that we too can achieve great things in the kitchen.
There were, of course, a few issues with the recipe but nothing I was sure I couldn't handle.
"Place milk and yeast mixture in a warm place ..." What warm place? It's the middle of winter! Perhaps under the heating duct.
"... for five minutes or until bubbles appear." Hmmm, maybe it isn't warm enough. Let's try the oven.
Ten minutes later I figure bubbles or no bubbles it must be ready.
"Knead dough for 5 minutes on lightly floured surface". Quite a relaxing thing to do, actually - kneading dough. Very calming. The recipe warned that the dough might become sticky in which case a further sprinkle of flour would be required. Actually quite a number of further sprinkes were required, leading to what I can only describe as a 'lightly floured kitchen'.
"Transfer dough to a bowl and cover with a teatowel for 30 minutes or until mixture has doubled in size". Now what exactly is doubled? After half an hour the mixture certainly looked bigger than it had been, but double? Well it had been half an hour so near enough.
"Bake for 15 - 20 minutes or until golden." Well which is it? 15 - 20 minutes or golden? It is painfully apparent that you can't have both. After 25 minutes my flat bread was a soft beige colour ... and no longer flat. Perhaps it hadn't quite doubled in the bowl after all.
The upshot of all this is that after half an hour in the oven I had what looked and tasted like a very large scone. Somewhat dissimilar to the photo in the recipe book - but nothing can be that bad if it's hot out of the oven and covered in butter. Breakfast!
This morning, for no particular reason, I decided to do something I've never done before and make my own bread. The new edition of Donna Hay's culinary magazine was mostly to blame. Her photographer makes the most basic of meals look fit for a king and soothing recipe titles such as "Simple Flat Bread" inspire us with the confidence that we too can achieve great things in the kitchen.
There were, of course, a few issues with the recipe but nothing I was sure I couldn't handle.
"Place milk and yeast mixture in a warm place ..." What warm place? It's the middle of winter! Perhaps under the heating duct.
"... for five minutes or until bubbles appear." Hmmm, maybe it isn't warm enough. Let's try the oven.
Ten minutes later I figure bubbles or no bubbles it must be ready.
"Knead dough for 5 minutes on lightly floured surface". Quite a relaxing thing to do, actually - kneading dough. Very calming. The recipe warned that the dough might become sticky in which case a further sprinkle of flour would be required. Actually quite a number of further sprinkes were required, leading to what I can only describe as a 'lightly floured kitchen'.
"Transfer dough to a bowl and cover with a teatowel for 30 minutes or until mixture has doubled in size". Now what exactly is doubled? After half an hour the mixture certainly looked bigger than it had been, but double? Well it had been half an hour so near enough.
"Bake for 15 - 20 minutes or until golden." Well which is it? 15 - 20 minutes or golden? It is painfully apparent that you can't have both. After 25 minutes my flat bread was a soft beige colour ... and no longer flat. Perhaps it hadn't quite doubled in the bowl after all.
The upshot of all this is that after half an hour in the oven I had what looked and tasted like a very large scone. Somewhat dissimilar to the photo in the recipe book - but nothing can be that bad if it's hot out of the oven and covered in butter. Breakfast!
Dramatis Personae
Well if I'm going to blog, I might as well introduce you to some of the characters who will - no doubt - inhabit it.
Firstly, the parental body. Dear Old Dad (DOD) and Little Mother, now in their mid-70's and still blissfully happy after more than 50 years of marriage. Enough to make a single gal break out in hives ...
Then there are the friends. I've no doubt that most of us have that special person in our lives who accepts us completely as we are, is not afraid of telling us when we are being a dickhead, but will rush to our side when misfortune falls. I am lucky to have several.
First is the Bestie, the little girl who moved in down the street when we were both 4 and has bossed me around ever since. Actually, this is not true. Her bossing days started to wane when I gained about six inches over her in height and nowadays I generally give as good as I get. But as a sparring partner, confidante and constant supporter she has always been there - wielding a flaming sword from time to time, but I have it on the best authority that this is good for the soul. She is the mother of one - Baby Angel, a 12 year old delight - and, due to her recent re-marriage, step-mother of three boys who, for ease of reference, I shall label Satan-Spawn 1, 2 and 3. I love kids ...
Then there's the DIVA (capitals required), a blonde, buxom, dramatic soprano currently suffering the indignity of being a haus-frau with three kiddies under 5. The eldest is a dead ringer for Little Lord Fauntleroy (and so I shall refer to him), while 18 month old twins, Hamster and Little Miss, keep her hands full. However, she is still to be coaxed into an improptu performance of 'Rusulka' when under the influence of buckets of champagne - supplied by moi for just this purpose (how evil!). Sadly, she lives many miles distant, but the joys of modern telecommunications keep us in touch daily.
Also many miles distant - although in a different locale - is the Banker. How many times have I heard friends and family moan "if only he were straight!"? But, of course, the truth is that this would completely stuff up a perfectly fabulous relationship. So we continue - both single, both somewhat obsessed by our work (although his significantly greater obsession is fuelled by his relative youth and vastly superior remuneration) and both happy to slip in to the familiar routines of comfortable intimacy whenever we contrive to spend time with each other.
Then there is the cast of characters that come with having possibly the most interesting job in the world. "Interesting", of course, often in the manner of that old Chinese curse ... but it's certainly never dull! More of this group anon ...
Firstly, the parental body. Dear Old Dad (DOD) and Little Mother, now in their mid-70's and still blissfully happy after more than 50 years of marriage. Enough to make a single gal break out in hives ...
Then there are the friends. I've no doubt that most of us have that special person in our lives who accepts us completely as we are, is not afraid of telling us when we are being a dickhead, but will rush to our side when misfortune falls. I am lucky to have several.
First is the Bestie, the little girl who moved in down the street when we were both 4 and has bossed me around ever since. Actually, this is not true. Her bossing days started to wane when I gained about six inches over her in height and nowadays I generally give as good as I get. But as a sparring partner, confidante and constant supporter she has always been there - wielding a flaming sword from time to time, but I have it on the best authority that this is good for the soul. She is the mother of one - Baby Angel, a 12 year old delight - and, due to her recent re-marriage, step-mother of three boys who, for ease of reference, I shall label Satan-Spawn 1, 2 and 3. I love kids ...
Then there's the DIVA (capitals required), a blonde, buxom, dramatic soprano currently suffering the indignity of being a haus-frau with three kiddies under 5. The eldest is a dead ringer for Little Lord Fauntleroy (and so I shall refer to him), while 18 month old twins, Hamster and Little Miss, keep her hands full. However, she is still to be coaxed into an improptu performance of 'Rusulka' when under the influence of buckets of champagne - supplied by moi for just this purpose (how evil!). Sadly, she lives many miles distant, but the joys of modern telecommunications keep us in touch daily.
Also many miles distant - although in a different locale - is the Banker. How many times have I heard friends and family moan "if only he were straight!"? But, of course, the truth is that this would completely stuff up a perfectly fabulous relationship. So we continue - both single, both somewhat obsessed by our work (although his significantly greater obsession is fuelled by his relative youth and vastly superior remuneration) and both happy to slip in to the familiar routines of comfortable intimacy whenever we contrive to spend time with each other.
Then there is the cast of characters that come with having possibly the most interesting job in the world. "Interesting", of course, often in the manner of that old Chinese curse ... but it's certainly never dull! More of this group anon ...
Beginnings...
"You should write a column" says S, editor of the local Gay Rag after laughing at one of my anecdotes made, I'm sure, vastly more amusing by the several bottles of sauvignon blanc already consumed.
"Wouldn't work" says I. "Too many people know me and I'd be bound to offend someone."
"Shame" says he "but I guess you're right."
"You should write a blog" says my Bestie.
"A what?" says I, as yet uninitiated into the joys of web 2.0. She explains in the manner of someone teaching a slightly backward child (her profession, so one can't blame her). "I'll think about it" says I, and for several weeks observe her expanding circle of 'blog-mates' and increasingly enjoyable ramblings.
So here I am. Starting my blog on no particular theme but the insanity of my life and we'll see where it goes from there...
"Wouldn't work" says I. "Too many people know me and I'd be bound to offend someone."
"Shame" says he "but I guess you're right."
"You should write a blog" says my Bestie.
"A what?" says I, as yet uninitiated into the joys of web 2.0. She explains in the manner of someone teaching a slightly backward child (her profession, so one can't blame her). "I'll think about it" says I, and for several weeks observe her expanding circle of 'blog-mates' and increasingly enjoyable ramblings.
So here I am. Starting my blog on no particular theme but the insanity of my life and we'll see where it goes from there...
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