Baggage

At my age, one must expect that any new relationship is going to arrive with baggage.

That might be a hostile previous partner, mad children, deep seated emotional problems or any number of things that are bound to intrude on one’s formerly tranquil existence and create challenges for a fledgling couple.

In my case that baggage has arrived, literally, in a small backpack.

With a creamy body, big brown eyes and adorable expression, the Love Interest has come with another woman in tow ... his small jack russell, Q.

Now I have never been a dog person. I think the problem started when, as a child, a dog ate my pet rabbit Peter (my goodness, what imagination there!). Then there were the two standard poodles with halitosis breath that I had to endure frequently as a friend of my mother's drove us up to our country ranch. And, of course, there was the incident of the unfriendly rottweiler and my left buttock just last year ...

So I have always had cats, and have lived happily with Butch and Fang for the last 9 years. Q has seriously upset this arrangement.

Q is one of those rare dogs that you simply cannot fail to fall in love with. She has completely won my heart and has free range of the house whenever she visits. Much to the cats' disgust.

A typical visit, from the animal's perspective must go something like this ...


Q: Oh Goody! Going to Aunty Betty's house! That's the place where I get spoiled with chicken wings and steak and pate and can run around the garden with interesting smells! Oh look! There are the cats! Maybe if I run up and say hello they'll be my friends!

B & F: Oh %*&@#!!! Incoming! Incoming! It's that yappy thing again. We're outta here ...

Actually, the cats have developed a sort of sixth sense and now vacate the premises before Q even arrives. Quite handy really, as I have realised that the mad rush for the cat door generally means that the Love Interest is about to pull up and Q is going to come bounding in with the eternal optimism of a small canine that this time the large hissy things might want to play ...

Of course the cats also know the instant that Q has left the building and return with yowls of reproach and expressions that say "how could you, mother" before reclaiming their rightful place on the bed and going to sleep.

I wonder what will happen if Q stays for a sleepover ...

A very queer week ...

The other week was a big one for the Queer community in Adelaide with not one, but two, star studded and glittering events making their way onto the social calendar.

Well, when I say glittering, I am perhaps stretching a point. In contrast to what one may expect of the queer scene in our fair city there was nary a false eyelash to be seen and a decided lack of sequins. Perhaps due to the fact that every drag queen in Adelaide had tottered off to Sydney for the DIVA awards (no relation to my DIVA) and were doubtless getting wasted at the Taxi Club or other like venue.

Not to be deterred, however, the Love Interest and I were invited to the launch of the Adelaide Queer Film Festival, an event to take place in September and featuring the best of queer film making that money didn't have to buy. Brought to you by Shoestrings-R-Us.

Actually that is being very unfair. A dear friend has worked tirelessly to bring this collection of films to Adelaide, joined by a number of enthusiasts in the hopes that this Festival will be the first of many and lead to great things. I sincerely hope it succeeds spectacularly ...

Considering the tight budget, the collection of films on offer seems impressive. We were treated to teaser clips from several offerings and were particularly impressed by a documentary the Middle East about living gay in an Islamic regime. There's been a lot of publicity about the lot of women under sha'aira law but this film gives another perspective and was, aparantly, made at considerable risk to the film-makers. Can't wait to see it.

There was also a romantic musical that appeared, to my untrained eye, to involve any number of excuses for boys who spend far to much time at the gym to take most of their clothes off, and what may become a cult classic featuring the ever glamorous RuPaul.

I was particularly interested, however, in the sneak peak of a film which featured a number of gay zombies munching their way through the masses. Probably fabulous - a sort of Hom-Zom-Rom-Com. I'm sure it will do famously.

Later in the week was a fundraiser for FEAST - a night of fabulous cabaret to mark the launch of the FEAST poster for 2008. At least that's what we were told ...

Now I will be the first to admit that one of the acts for the evening was worth the price of admission. The sensational Miaow Miaow was a knock out and had the crowd (what crowd?) on their feet immediately. Also moving the furniture to cater to the delightful Miss Miaow to the great consternation of the Norwood Concert Hall custodians who were almost beside themselves with anxiety lest some avid table mover scratch the floor ...

However, the rest of the line-up was less than impressive. There was a reasonably good belter to open the show, but she was unfortunately followed by an overly earnest girl group who sang a capella - a tuneful but overly long song about their mothers. Followed by another almost indistiguishable piece about their neices. Then grandmothers. Then the Great Aunt of the lady who used to live down the street. Followed by an encore ...

However, this was as nothing to the treat in store after interval! Bouncing (and I MEAN bouncing) on to stage was a leather queen with hairy chest, chaps and some flimsy lycra codpiece that left us in no doubt as to the nature of his three piece set. FAR more information than anyone at our table was really comfortable with. To make matters worse, he was accompanied by a group of middle aged lady line dancers who I'm sure had no idea what they were getting themselves into. Possibly he had a sister or cousin (or great aunt of a lady who used to live down the street) that had consented to this travesty and brought along her friends?

By this stage the cigarette breaks were coming at a frequency that suggested chain smoking, simply to escape from the horror. However we were not lucky enough to miss the speeches and the 'launch' of the fabulous FEAST poster.

WHAT WERE THEY THINKING!!!!!!!!!

Apologies to anyone who has a better eye for allusion and design, but to me it looks like an angel taking a crap!

And to make it worse, the words "Gay and Lesbian" (or indeed, "Lesbian and Gay") do not seem to appear. Anywhere.

Now it's all very well for various persons to bleat that everyone who SHOULD know, DOES know what FEAST is, but to my mind it seems just a tad less 'out and proud' than one might expect. Perhaps the sponsors didn't like it?

Anyway, by the time the final act pranced onto stage, our group had decided to high tail it out of there and go get shit-faced at the local pub instead.

Can't wait to see the program!

Going to a ball, Cinders?

The primary fundraiser in our annual calendar of events is the Glittering Charity Ball which was held last week. It's a large affair with over 500 people in attendance, 80 auction items, a 'wall of wine' kindly donated and sold off in mystery lots to the punters, raffles, prizes and much more.

Takes a little organising, of course, which is why my blogging has suffered over the last couple of weeks (mea culpa, dear readers). Amongst all the running around and endless preparation, there comes a moment when the single most burning question just cannot be put off any longer - what the hell am I going to wear?

I had not really put my mind to the question at all, thinking vaguely that I could pull out the standard red satin jacket and put it over something or another when it was brought gently, but firmly to my attention that THIS WOULD NOT DO! While not said in so many words, the Love Interest made it perfectly clear that if he was to attend as my escort I would need to smarten up my act and not even consider any of the crap currently adorning my wardrobe.

Fair enough - one does have an image to maintain after all. But where to find a suitable ball dress in 4 days?

Naturally, I asked the DIVA whose knowledge and ingenuity in such things in legendary. "I may have something for you" she said, after some consideration. "I'll pop it in a bag and post it over." The 'something' turned out to be a hand-me-down from one of the DIVA's internationally successful opera buddies, purchased in London for an extraordinary sum and currently in service as the DIVA's standard function frock. I should note here that the DIVA and I are very used to borrowing from each other's wardrobes and have an almost annual ritual of handing clothes over (or back) depending on the current fluctuations of our waist lines.

"Fabulous" thought I and waited in eager anticipation for the parcel to arrive the following day. It was not an inspiring sight - the mind fairly boggling at how any sort of ball dress could possibly be shoved into a medium sized post pack. The contents, once revealed, were even more unprepossessing. A two piece creation in some sort of weird knitted fabric that looked, frankly, more like an Osti Frock than haute couture. Perhaps the DIVA had run mad?

No time to speculate with auction booklets to finish, seating plans to arrange and only two shopping days remaining before the BIG NIGHT. But it was with a sense of impending doom that I donned the outfit for inspection by Arizaphale and Baby Angel, in the certain knowledge that there would be no quarter given in terms of an honest appraisal.

The funny thing was that as soon as I put the damn thing on it felt fabulous. Somehow the strange fabric seemed to mould itself into a shape that accentuated the good curves and hid the bad while making legs suddenly appear about 6 inches longer. Could be why it had a 2,000 pound price tag in the first place ...

Having gained the seal of approval from Arizaphale, it was simply a matter of finding some bling, painting both sets of nails (not without some difficulty and, in the end, assistance) and heading off for the event, accompanied by a most debonnaire Love Interest and feeling, if not the belle of the ball, at least not one of the ugly sisters ...

Careless Drivers ...

Bowled into the office yesterday after a very successful Sunday spruiking at the footy (selling Crows flags for charity - will it ever end?) to find something different about my workplace ...

Suddenly there seemed to be more light, more movement, more junk and NO FENCE!!! It appears that in the early hours of Monday morning some idiot had come tearing around the corner, fishtailed out of control and driven through our fence.

In the process he managed to:

1. Knock down the corner post holding the verandah up
2. Knock over the gas metre and associated pipes
3. Flatten the drain pipe from the roof
4. Leave an 8 foot gap in our fence, allowing access to the unprotected rear of the building for one and all.

Just what I wanted to deal with on a Monday morning!

First things first - get the emergency gas people around to avoid asphyxiation of the local community and unintential immolation of the first smoker to wander past. Of course, the emergency gas people can only stop the leak. You need to get a PLUMBER to actually put it all back together again. No worries - the emergency gas guy has a friend...

Friend plumber arrives to assess the mayhem. "No problems, luv. Can fix everything for the very reasonable price of $(insert your own outrageous amount)."

"But not until tomorrow."

In the meantime, he courteously removed all exposed copper piping to avoid it being ripped off by the unwashed masses that inhabit our neck of the woods. Obviously copper can be sold for it's weight in smack these days ...

Now on to the fence itself. Surely there would be some keen handyperson ready to leap to the rescue of a Charity in Distress? Maybe not. After trawling through the yellow pages and contacting several contractors who sell, but do not install, fencing and would certainly not be interested in something so banal as a repair job I lighted upon Jim's Fencing.

Now hat's off to Jim! It started as Jim's Mowing and progressed to Jim's Antennas, Jim's Handymen, Jim's Cleaning, Jim's Bin Cleaning, Jim's Bookkeeping, Jim's Building Maintenance, Jim's Carpet Cleaning, Jim's Car Cleaning, Jim's Computer Services, Jim's Dogwash, Jim's Finance Professionals, Jim's Floors, Jim's Graffiti Solutions, Jim's Painting, Jim's Paving, Jim's Pergolas, Jim's Plumbing, Jim's Pool Care, Jim's Roofing, Jim's Skip Bins, Jim's Test and Tag, Jim's Trees, Jim's Window Cleaning and Jim's Windscreens.

Is there anything that Jim can't do?

I can't wait for Jim's Sperm Donation and Jim's Feminine Hygiene Products to come on line ...

But I digress.

The delightful man at Jim's Fencing told me that OF COURSE he could help with our little problem. But not until tomorrow.

Which left me with no option but to engage a security guard to stay on premises for the night (you will note that there is no Jim's Security in their suite of products. Probably an oversight.)

The security person was supposed to arrive at 7.00pm at the conclusion of one of my interminable Monday meetings, but no sign of him. A call at 7.10 suggested that he was having a little difficulty finding the address. I gave him careful instructions. Still no sign.

A further call at 7.25 elicited the following probable cause for the problem ...

Me: "It's on the western side of W Square and on the southern side of the cross street."

Him: "Well that's where I am and I can't find you."

Me: "The lights are on and there are a number of people waving from the front door."

Him: "No, you're not there."

Me: "Er, we are here. Perhaps you're not?"

Him: "I'm a professional, Ma'am (at least it wasn't Luv!) I know my way around this city and you are not on the street that goes through W Square."

Me: "There is no street going through W Square - you have to go around it."

Him: "Oh ..."

Having established that he was, in fact, at another location entirely it was then only a matter of minutes before he made his belated appearance and settled in for the night. Time to go home ...

I am pleased to report that today the plumbers came and finished their connection, Jim's Fencing came and repaired the fence and all bills are going to the landlord. Oh, and according to the neighbouring coffee shop, the driver of the offending vehicle was taken off in an ambulance.

Nothing too serious, I hope :-)

Buns of Steel ... Not!

The trouble with working for Charity is that you spend half your life asking people for things.

"Hey Buddy! Congratulations on winning that great raffle prize! Can I have it?"

Now normally I am not one for making requests - the Parental Body drilled the old maxim of "it's rude to ask, wait until it's offered" into my fundamental psyche at an early age (with not universally positive results, I must say!).

However "wait until it's offered" just does not cut it in the highly competitive Charity market and while I wouldn't dream of asking for something for myself, when it's for the poor, sick kiddies one learns to be shameless.

Of course asking for things can have unexpected results ...

The other night I was at a networking function and asked the incomparable Simon whether he'd give me a free gym membership to auction off at our Ball.

"Sure" says he. "Glad to help. But speaking of the gym, you look like you could do with a little training yourself - how about it?"

Oh my God! Trapped! Nothing to do but accept gracefully that I've been out-manouvered and sign up for a course of personal training sessions. And, after all, the old gluteus is getting a bit too maximus so it's probably just as well.

So off I tottered at lunchtime today for my first session with Simon. I have to say here that Simon is a SERIOUSLY good looking man. I recall seeing him at a Slime Ball once dressed in nothing but a white hip wrap and body paint and I still haven't quite recovered.

"Miss Betty!" he cried as I staggered in, panting slightly from the 10 minute walk and small flight of stairs negotiated on the way. "Now don't you worry. We're going to take it nice and gently for your first visit - just 6 apparatus and nice low weights. You'll be fine!".

"No sweat" I think as I squeeze myself into the first contraption - the design of which I can only imagine was copied from pictures of the Spanish Inquisition. And he's right! The first couple of leg extensions are remarkably easy. Piece of pie! Easy as cake! And how many, exactly, am I supposed to do?

The answer, apparently, was 12 and by around the number 8 I was fast losing that false sense of security. And then there was the next fiendish machine ...

But I persevered! I made it through all 6 exercises without seriously damaging myself or others and was quietly congratulating myself on a job well done when Simon chirped up with "That was great! Now we're going to do 2 more circuits, but this time with 20 reps each!"

It was then that I realised that while Simon might appear to be a nice boy with a great bod, he was in reality A DEMON FROM THE ABYSS OF HELL!!!!!

30 sweaty and pain filled minutes later, it was time to leave and this time I was not fooled by the wide smile and cheery wave that accompanied the fatal words "See you next week!".

Charity is tough!

Klutz-R-Us

I have said it before - there are some people who glide elegantly through life, perfectly groomed, poised and graceful at all times. They are the type that will emerge from a train wreck with nary a scratch and not a hair out of place. Perhaps some designer smudge to mark the ordeal.

And then there's me.

If there is a stone on the path, a pole on the pavement or a hole in the road I will inevitably trip over it, smack into it or fall down it. This is the evidence of my latest foray into the Land of Klutz:


This is the result of a small altercation with my bedroom door in the wee small hours of Friday morning. I had been out for a delightful but somewhat emotional evening with the recently acquired Love Interest (more of him later, I hope!), had thrown off the clothes (note not folded and hung up - perhaps there is a clue here?) and dived into bed as usual. Sometime later, when nature called, I prepared to make a quick dash to the loo - only to trip of the shoes I'd carelessly left just by the bed and smash head first into the side of the door.

The cut, fortunately, did not need stitches. The delightful people at the RAH simply whacked a bit of glue on it the next morning (I kid you not!). The black eye, which currently is an almost attractive shade of pink, is destined to turn a darker hue sometime before fading to that lovely mottled green/yellow colour - one you may recognise from the picture of my left buttock after it was bitten by a large dog last year.

You see what I mean ...

Just a few highlights of my career as a klutzorama:

Dad teaching me how to ride a horse. Horse startled by traffic. Threw me. Broke wrist.

Riding with Hired Hand on the ranch. He decided to do trick manouvre involving me withouth mentioning it to me first. Fell off horse into patch of star thistle. Tweezers for days.

Was persuaded to participate in a 'friendly' 10 minute soccer match against the Med School girls in my final year at Law School. Fell over, broke (same) wrist.

Having a delightful time at a dinner party at the DIVA's house. Located previously unidentified hole in their back yard. Fell in it. Broke ankle.

Went on holidays to Mykonos with Twinks and Trev. First night slipped on cobblestones. Fell over. Sprained wrist. Had to ask the very nice Canadian couple in the next room to tie shoe laces (him) and do up bra (her).

Arizaphale will say it's god's punishment for being a heathen, but I think maybe it's genetic ... Sigh ...