Well last week, I was meant to be in Christchurch for a work conference. Thankfully (for me and my workmates, not for Christchurch), the earthquake happened before we arrived. Around a week before we arrived, actually. And like the ace project managers that we are, my colleague and I put aside everything and re-organised what had taken me more than a month in just a few days. Yes, HIRE ME, I’M ACE. AND I had a nauseating virus that kept me bedridden for the entire week before our departure. Nauseating. Virus.
So off we went. To Auckland. Yes, still New Zealand, but there’s much airspace and some water that separates the two locations. Lookit:
To be honest, the best part of the new arrangements was that we ended up flying Emirate instead of Jetstar and I was able to down a bottle of Moet. Yeeha!
Besides all of the conferency knowledge that filled my brain (like, how to sleep with my eyes wide open, how to make 2 hours feel like 7, sweet is better than savoury at morning tea, etc), I did some walking around the fair city of Auckland and found the Texan Arts School - yes, you heard me - the Texan Arts School. In New Zealand. Specialising in New Zealand artists. Like Lester Hall. Here’s something he prepared earlier.
"Miss Kiwiana Stamp" by Lester Hall
They also had this in Texas, which is now sitting pretty above my pop-art kitchen doorway.
Ironically, JJ and I don’t wear watches and I have a rather aggressive dislike of THE TIME. But it’s not a clock really, is it? It’s a cultural icon (which means nothing to JJ, given that he was born into 24-hour cable TV, hence his less-than-underwhelming reaction – “Oh. Huh. Right.”).
Certainly brings back memories of bedtime, doesn’t it.
I think I’ve broken a few of my toes. My wrist, which I had x-rayed the other day (because of that rollerskating injury, nuff said), was crashed into and my ears are ringing a merry tune. But it’s ok. Sent me back to the pub days, Party to Belfast, garage rock, a whirling dervish on the dancefloor, except not as much space. My advice is, as always, don’t resist the direction of the mosh pit; you’ll just end up with an injury.
I’m babbling. And that’s how I felt at the Children Collide gig at the Corner Hotel.
I made THE most amazing bread yesterday, if I say so myself. This is going to be one of those ones that I’ll want to play around with and perfect.
Recipe for a good sized loaf: 4 cups plain flour 2-3 cups warm water 1 tsp dry yeast 1 tsp salt
Mix the water and yeast in a large bowl. Add the sifted flour and salt to make a thick, but sticky, dough. It shouldn’t be as thick as regular dough but not runny although it’s this stickiness or wetness that creates the telltale chiabatta “holes”. Do not overwork it. Mix until combined and that’s it. Cover with gladwrap and leave for 12 hours. That’s right, 12 hours!
Preheat the oven to around 180c. Turn the dough out onto a floured baking tray (you can use polenta instead of flour). Bake for around 1 hour – the colour should be a really deep golden brown.
You can add anything to the dough before you set it to rise – caraway seeds might be nice.
This is gorgeously chewy and dense chiabatta!
So that was the success story. Now for the disaster. How could the Australian Women’s Weekly let me down??? I followed their recipe for lamingtons and while they look great (in fact, I reckon they look better than the AWW ones), and they tasted great too, the cake was so thick and dense! Lamingtons should be light… (oh, yes, I MIGHT have forgotten that I didn’t use cornflour – didn’t have any – so maybe it wasn’t the recipe’s fault. Whatever.)
I don’t know about you, but sometimes I’ll be watching a film and I’ll be, like, “Man, I wish I had written that screenplay.”
Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Or I’ll be listening to a song and think: “Man, I wish I’d come up with that lyric.”
Like:
“…Meat-eating orchids forgive no one just yet
Cut myself on Angel Hair and babys breath
Broken hymen of your highness I’m left black
Throw down your umbilical noose so I can climb right back” (Nirvana – Heart Shaped Box)
Or I’ll be watching a TV show or film and think: “Man, I wish I’d written thay line.”
Like this classic from Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead:
and: “God! What is your childhood trauma?!” (Cordelia to Buffy in Buffy the Vampire Slayer)
Or I’ll be reading a book and think, “Man, I wish I’d written that book.”
Seriously, Hollywood Ending is like nothing I’ve read of late. It’s set in one of my favourite places in the world, LA, and even though I’m only halfway in, it captures the voices of local and bored kids who have that nuanced way of looking at the world and avoiding themselves thanks to all of the shit they surround themselves with. I love a tale told with sad irony. I love the jaded descriptions of faded Hollywood. Of old folks with long memories and young folks with nothing to do. Of D-listers hanging out in West Hollywood in the hope of being discovered by the paparazzi. It’s spunky writing by Kathy Charles. I wish I’d written it.
But anyway, here’s something I DO wish I’d written, and, um, I actually did.
The topic on Insight this week was Attraction. Lovely subject, attraction. I remember listening to Doctor Karl on Triple J years ago talking about pheromones and how The Pill messes with our sense of smell. This led me to theorise that the reason why most marriages end in divorce is because women are smelling the wrong partner because of The Pill.
Quick, get that Nobel Prize ready.
Anyway, while I don’t like the idea of an arranged marriage, I kinda get it. And this is something that Insight was talking about. Do we become attracted to people over time or are we instantly attracted to them? I think both. I liken mine and JJ’s marriage to an arranged marriage. We were 24, I was at Uni in the States, livin’ large, and so was he (livin’ large, that is). We’d known each other for 3 weeks, had been dating for 2 days, broke up and then got back together. And then the next day:
JJ: “Lookit Betty, this love is pretty awesome.”
Me: “Totally, JJ.”
JJ: “Well what are we going to do?”
Me: “Hmm. Well, you know I have to go back home at the end of the school year. I can’t overstay my visa.”
JJ: “Good God, no. You might end up at Guantanamo.”
Me: “Word.”
We eat another Sandinos soft taco.
Me: “Well you could come back to Oz and we could get married.”
JJ: “Can we have kangaroos at our wedding?”
Me: “Of course. They’ll probably just show up. You know they’re everywhere.”
JJ: “Ok then. And I already have a ring. I found it in the toilets at work. It’s real.”
Me: “Cool, I’m a simple girl.”
And the rest is, well, nearly 17 years is what it is. There have been fabulous ups and terrifying downs but what I think what’s always driven us is this idea that we’ll figure it out together as we go on. There are no rules. There was never any of this “don’t call before Wednesday” bullshit. No games. As my arranged-marriage pal at work said the other day: “You can’t take anything for granted. You’re learning every day.”
Because we’ve lived a great deal of our lives together, JJ and I have this agreement that if we repeat a story more than 10 years after its first telling, we will act surprised, as though it’s the first time we’ve heard it. I mean, we’re going to repeat tonnes of stories. The thing is, even now, when we repeat a story, there’s always something new to discover about it regardless of the amount of time since it’s first telling. There’s always something new to laugh about.
I’m an old-fashioned girl in some ways, so when this couple on Insight told of their 58-year marriage, it occurred to me that there was one thing they did that a lot of today’s couples don’t seem to do.
JENNY BROCKIE (host): And Ross, what about you for Audrey, what was that initial part spark of attraction? ROSS POWER: …I looked at her and I thought well, she’s good looking, she had that radiant smile, nice figure, well dressed and I just had that feeling this is going to be good. And we’d go to work in the tram and after a while you felt comfortable and then we went on that first hike and you can see that we clicked straight away, we felt that we were like two peas in a pod and even today we still feel like we’re two peas in a pod. AUDREY POWER: We’re joined at the hip.
… ROSS POWER: And we like to do everything together, doesn’t matter what it is or where we go or what sport we play it must be together. AUDREY POWER: We’re never apart.
I think that seems like the key – doing everything together. Not taking them for granted. Not over-thinking the relationship. Not analysing it. Just being with it.
An old friend of mine once berated me for not wanting to take a holiday alone, without JJ, because it makes me such a dependent wifey. Well whatever. I like to share things with JJ, ‘kay. And the result? I’ve been married nearly 16 years. And her? Um, twice divorced. Not that I’m counting.
I think we could all take a leaf out of Ross and Audrey’s love book.
Now, I wouldn’t say that JJ and I are the spontaneous sorts. I mean, definitely impulsive, but not too spontaneous.
So un-spontaneous are we that a few years ago we went through this lovely (tedious for JJ) exercise of writing down things we would like to do and put them in a box for use on a boring day. Have we used any of them? That would be admitting defeat, right.
Impulsive, for sure. For example, two weeks ago JJ and I were coming home from the Little Chalet when we stopped in at the Salvos. We went our separate ways to make the most of our visit:
JJ: ”Hey Betty, there’s a piano over there.
Me: ”Yeah, I know, I looked at it before. Wonder how much it is.”
JJ: “It’s eight fitty.”
Me (shock and awe): “Eight fitty for a piano at the Salvos?! Surely you can buy a new one for a grand or something. That’s a rort.”
JJ: “Yeah.”
JJ walks away and I keep looking through dodgy 80s fair isle jumpers that I want to felt.
A few moments, and 1 jumper, later.
JJ: “Betty! Betty!”
Me (I’m excited because JJ’s excited. We’re like emotional mirrors): “What it is JJ? What is it?”
JJ: “That piano. It’s not eight fitty. It’s three fitty.”
Me: “Three fitty?”
JJ: “Yeah, but one of the pedals is loose or something.”
Me: “Pedals? Who the fuck uses pedals? It’s not an organ. BUY IT.”
So we did.
A few minutes later.
JJ: “It’s done. But they can’t deliver it today. The driver’s nearly ready to leave.”
Me: “Hm. I want it today, JJ.”
JJ: “Well maybe if you talk to him. Offer him more money.”
Et voila! There were a few scratches and bruises but I got all DIY and found some wood stain in the garage and gave the wood an all-over wipe and it looks as good as new.
We had hard rubbish collection a week ago and Jeff and I gladly shed a few hundred kilos of crap from the garage.
BUT…
Along the way (thanks to a dog walk I just HAD TO HAVE around the hood), I picked up a couple of “new items” that need some upcycling, like this pouf.
I picked it up from the pile next door and it’s around 50 years old. My neighbour got it for her 7th birthday.
I also picked up some outdoor furniture that needs a good clean and paint before I take any photos.
But today I found the motherload! Jeff and I pulled into the parking lot at the train station this morning and there they were, sitting all pretty on the top of a heap, and here they are now… the shoes I’ve searched for, ebayed for, begged for, since I was a kid. I just picked them up, not even looking at the size, and just whacked them in the car hoping against hope that they’d fit. And you know what? THEY DO!!!
I have a LOVE HATE relationship with the lady. So much that I want to do that I feel paralysed by it all and end up doing so much less than I really want to. Here’s the thing:
Does Martha REALLY only sleep 4 hours a night?
If yes, how, goddammit?!
Is she bipolar too? That would explain A LOT – the energy, the minimal sleep, the criminal nature.
Totally unrelated to my paralysis, of course. But just like the Real Housewives of OC use the TV broads as their inspiration, I use Martha, Martha, freaking Martha.
To add, well, injury to injury, I now get her daily newsletters to remind me of how little I actually get done. Crap!
I feel like work is getting in the way of life. Again. And that I need a big long break of, oh, forever, to get going on all of this.
But instead, this weekend, I intend to:
Use the crates we found during the renovations to make some succulent gardens;
Stick some happy wanderer in the ground so I don’t have to stare at ugly fencing when I do the laundry;
Make tins into containers – oh for fuck’s sake…
Move the geraniums from the front yard into pots for the back garden;
Make a mint chandelier – why have I never thought of this before?
Sometimes, things move me to the point of tears. Come on, I know you’ve been there - an old European man limps down your street and your heart skips a beat, or your puppy yelps dejectedly from the other room because she can’t jump up onto the bed. A few years ago, I saw a wonderful documentary about Mark Rothko that made me feel that same sadness with the grandness and scale of his work, the moodiness… And then I saw the real thing at the MOMA and all I could do was sit and stare and feel as though I was watching an old European man as he limped down the street.
Lonely.
Wintry.
Empty.
My heart skips a beat.
And then this week JJ and I attended the opening of Julia DeVille’s new exhibition (alongside William Griffiths) at the Sophie Gannon Gallery in Richmond – “Night’s Plutonian Shore”. Inspired by Poe’s “The Raven” it’s a voyage into the artist’s inspirational world of life and death.
Disturbing? Sometimes.
But also poignant, whimsical and, surprisingly, optimistic.
We can only HOPE that we, too, will end our days here with jewels in our eyes.
The weekends have been cool but sunny, so Jeff and I have been out in the garden getting the veggie patch ready for the first planting. And Dad’s been lending his farming expertise and his 72-year-old muscle, which is quite remarkable. The front garden’s also a work in progress after we ripped out the “lawn” a few months ago. I use the term “lawn” loosely because the draught over the past decade or so has turned the grass in most neighbourhood lawns into dust bowls. We’ve ripped out the grass, put down a layer of weed mat and the new soil is arriving this weekend. We have 20 or so succulents waiting to go in as well as a tonne of potted plants and succulents that have been waiting for a permanent home for years.
We built the raised beds in the backyard a few weeks ago out of untreated hard wood. HEAVY WOOD. But well worth it. The herbs have been transplanted into other parts of the garden for now. Check out my collage of events.
I replanted some of the herbs, lettuce and silverbeet and we’ve been eating a lot of green over the past week.
This last weekend we lugged 3 square meters of soil down to the back yard for the veggie patch – in a 700 square meter block, that’s a mighty long way. Dad and Jeff did the wheeling while I mostly filled the two barrows we borrowed from neighbours.
We discovered beautifully composted soil in our two bins and had a few bags of horse poo that we picked up near Daylesford. The prep work is done for the veggies.
Look at that compost! I’m going to put a little container in the kitchen and everything is going to be saved. Although I do want to make a couple of bigger bins.
I’ve ordered a bunch of heirloom seeds that should arrive in the next week so it’s not quite over. I’m so excited about the seeds! I picked some crazy tomato varieties.
So we’ll see what happens. I must keep up the momentum. After all, even David Hicks is a horticulturalist now.
Recently Jeff and I went to the Lindt shop on Collins Street and had their macaroons, that they like to call Delice. Call em what you like, they’re delicious! So yesterday, Jeff and I decided to venture into the newly renovated kitchen determined to make French Almond Macaroons. I found a recipe on taste.com for macaroons with orange blossom and mandarin rind buttercream and another with rose and berry buttercream fillings. It all seemed easy enough, but, visually, the result wasn’t exactly what I’d hoped for. Here’s what they’re supposed to look like.
So what went wrong? The piping of the biscuits, for sure – note to self, try not to make biscuits look like dog turds. They were slightly overcooked, looking at the colour. The taste, however, was perfect and the texture was nice and crunchy on the outside and wonderfully squidgy and chewy towards the centre.
This past weekend, JJ and I went up to the Country – hitherto known as the Little Chalet (which is neither little nor a chalet but there are lots of gnomes in the garden and it doesn’t look like a cottage so it makes perfect sense…)
We went for a walk with the puppies.
JJ: Hey Betty, let’s turn left here.
Me: Sure
After a little while.
Me: Oh, I don’t think we’ve come this far before. How fun.
JJ: Let’s go this way.
Me (seeing a sign to the Blowhole): The Blowhole. We’ve never been there. How fun.
After a little while.
Me: So, do you think it’s much further?
JJ: I shouldn’t think so. Oh look, a sign.
So we walked on. And so did the girls, whose wee legs are only a couple of inches long and even taking into account that their have four of them, it’s still a lot of work. And have I mentioned the mountains?
Me: JJ, you didn’t say there would be mountains to climb.
JJ: It’s not Mount Sinai.
See, I’ve climbed Mount Sinai so that exempts me from every climbing anything again – hills, stairs, a ladder.
We arrived at the Blowhole and it was lovely. A big hole, in amongst some old mine shafts, that gushes water when there’s been rain. And there’s been a lot of rain.
When it was time to head back, I said: “JJ, we can’t possibly go back the way we came. You know how I hate that.”
JJ ( a little weary): Yes, Betty. I know how you hate that.
Me: And there must be a short cut. I mean, we turned left, then left, which is virtually heading back home, right?
Cut to a dramatic reenactment on A Current Affair:
The trekkers didn’t tell anyone that they were heading out to the state forest, nor did they bring any water or food. They could have died from dehydration but we lucky enough to be caught in a minor hail storm and they were able to collect some water. They did, however, refrain from eating any of the local fungi, which is known for its hallucinogenic and deadly properties.
Stone fences marking the site of old gold mines
The Blowhole – not very active
On the Tipperary Springs track
Oh yummy! Dinner
Dinner?
Definitely not dinner.
We found a civilised place for JJ to check if his GPS was working
Kangaroos at the Hepburn Springs gold course
What’s up skippy?
Nearly three hours later, drenched and cold, we stumbled back home.
JJ and I are fairly far removed from being le familyJones. We try not to keep up. But there is the Dyson vacuum incident, which I won’t go into.
But when I’m alone, the Jonesing gets a tad loud.
Like the other day, I was rather blue, so I went to that great bastion of fashion in the West, Highpoint Shopping centre. Having skipped breakfast, I hopped into Gloria Jean’s for a coffee and a spinach and ricotta pastry surrounded by the most delightful ladies and their children. As I have mentioned before, I LOVE children. BUT, on this day, what with me being blue and all that, the last thing I needed was a youngster kicking a soccer ball around the cafe.
Sure, World Cup fever is abound and who the hell am I to deter a future David Beckham or Harry Kewell.
David Beckham - Can kick a soccerball around a cafe any time. Can also take off his shirt whenever he likes, thanks.
Harry Kewell - See "David Beckham"
But the kid was neither and, really, it’s a freaking cafe!
The mother did try her best to deter him.
Boy: (sound effect) kick kick kick
Mummy: Darling, I don’t think you should be kicking that around in here.
But anyway, it was the day after the Australian Coup (as I will henceforth refer to the day that Julia Gillard toppled Kevin Rudd). See, I’m supposed to be happy that a childless sister is now our PM. But I LOVED Kev, so it’s bittersweet and it will take some time for me to recover.
So there I was, reading The Age when over at a window seat, I copped an eyeful of a man, a little unwashed and rather creative looking, tapping away silently on a teensy weensy little laptop.
OH! I verily squealed. I wants me one of them – Precious.
Now, I belong to the Faith school of want/get/have. Remember Faith, the dark murdering slayer that came into being after Buffy died.
Faith - the bad slayer who got what she wanted.
Faith taught Buffy that slayers could have whatever they want, whenever they want. Slayers and me!
So off I went to JB, pointed at the prettiest little thing, directed JJ to the payment machine with the plastic payment thing and voila. Want. Get. Have.
My new little Asus EEE
I can slip it into my bag and it weighs less than my wallet
So here’s the thing, right: I don’t (really) want to use this blog as a platform to complain about people and things – despite the fact that I’ve called it Betty on a Box – on a soapbox geddit. BORING. And despite being gainfully employed, I will never change my opinion about people having the right to be on the dole if that’s what they want. I mean, my taxes contribute to far worse things – like private hospitals and the mining industry. And really, given that I spent many a day being paid for to be creative all those years ago, I am the last person to make a statement against those who choose unemployment over a job at Maccas. But I wish that the dole was easier to get because it would give the guy who sits at the bottom of Platform 1 at Sunshine station some money to get lessons. The dude is clearly taking the piss.
I mean, I love a busker. I really do.
Except for the Sonic Manipulator – he’s too loud and he freaks me out.
Melbourne busker - the Sonic Manipulator
And the living statues. Do I need to explain?
Living statue busker in Melbourne
And the freaking bagpipe player on the Swanston Street Bridge. I just want to toss him into the Yarra. Freak.
And I really don’t like the kid on Swanston Street with Down’s Syndrome. Not because he has Down’s Syndrome, clearly. So before I get attacked with the cruelty stick, let me just say that the kid simply CANNOT SING. He’s totally shit. I really want to know what asshole at the council decided it would be a good idea to give him a busker’s licence. I think THAT person is truly taking the piss. Hopefully the kid becomes a great singer – like the blind accordian player outside Myer Lonsdale Street who used to be shit but is now renowned thanks to a few lessons.
But back to my guy at Sunshine. He’s there most days, which is a bummer because we recently had a duo that was all Simon and Garfunkel meets the Black Keys.
simon and garfunkel - not at Sunshine Station
the black keys - also not at Sunshine Station
I give them money quite happily. But the other dude is mostly always there. I see money on top of his guitar case. I see people dropping money onto his guitar case. I mean, he’s affable enough, wishes everyone a “good morning, brother” or “morning, sister”. But I’ve never actually heard him play or sing. At first I figured I’d just caught him while he was tuning up. He’d strum a few strings. Not a few chords. Oh no. A few very out of tune strings is all. And I realised, the guy doesn’t actually know how to play. It was a total Oprah moment (of the lightbulb variety).
He’s a scammer. Oh I was incensed. I mean, people give him money to PLAY. Right?
Well not me. Nup. I want my jobless to sing for their supper. Like the time JJ and I were in on a train in the New York Subway. It’s like being at the American Idol auditions. And you don’t mind handing over your hard-earned traveller’s cheques. (Also, I’ve seen episodes of NCIS and despite old Mayor Giuliani’s three strikes policy, them Yankees still carry guns.)
I like to be entertained. And like I said, I’m all for the creatives BUT NOT THIS SCAMMER. NO SIR-E, BOB.
When I had the lightbulb moment, I texted JJ, and he said:
“Well why don’t you trick him and ask him to play his favourite tune.”
Yeah, I thought. That’s the ticket.
So yesterday, the moment he offered his “good morning, sister”, I said:
“You should actually play something sometime.” There, that’ll show him.
And I hottailed it up the platform because, ladies and gents, this May not be new York, but it’s still Sunshine and I ain’t taking chances.
I love big cities and, along with JJ, I’ve seen a few and j’adore each of them for different reasons. For example:
New York – Where else can you walk around all day saying “hey, that’s my favourite painting. No, that’s my favourite. hang on, that’s…”?
Cairo – I mean, taking a leisurely stroll in the shadow of a freaking pyramid – THE freaking pyramid!
Rome – Walking past the Colosseum on your way to work and saying ciao to the Pope.
And so on. And then there’s my hometown, Melbourne. I love it for so many reasons. For example:
A few things I’ve seen in and around Melbourne lately.
Here's a novel idea. Great for locals. Great for tourists. Not cheap, mind you. And there are only a few drop off locations at the moment. Great for the environment, too so I don't REALLY want to knock it. But here's the rub. You have to bring your own helmet.
So, Lonely Planet take heed. Remind travellers to pack:
spare socks;
Australian language guide;
plenty of condoms;
a bike helmet.
Who the hell came up with that? Fire him. Yes, it’s got to be a him!
A spot of magic. Ok, so not quite IN Melbourne, but an hour away. There I was on a delightful walk in the forest on the way to Daylesford with Yoyo Betty Jr and Peaches Peakaboo and look at what I saw on the side of the road. No wonder we have so many hippies in the area.
I love the randomness of grafitti. Our artists are very prolific. This caught my eye in Flinder's Lane near Degraves Street. Look closely...
This is real determination! Scoring coins in the National Gallery's fountain early one morning. Smiled for me after this snap. Dude had not shame AT ALL.
And another of the Gallery - I used to hate this building but it's my favourite now. The grey flat expanse is austere and quite melancholy in its bareness. Perfect for art.
As one of the many involuntarily childless in the world, I just want to make it very clear that I am not childless because:
I hate children;
The baby bonus isn’t big enough;
I’m selfish;
I’m single;
JJ and I aren’t in love;
Etc.
In fact, I really like babies. I’m not used to children or teenagers because none of my friends are old enough to have them yet. Although I am thoroughly enjoying T’Red’s kids, even if they make me feel a tad old (see “the mix tape incident“).
But anyway, if I believed in reincarnation and I came back as a parent, I’d be the kind of parent who:
Took their kid to the Big Day Out and not make them wear earplugs in the Boiler Room;
I would ignore film ratings, much like my parents did, all through the horror-70s and teens-go-wild-and-lose-their-shirts-80s
I would insist they start wearing make up at a rather young age, although I’m no Katie Price;
Princess Tiammii launching her mum, Jordan's (Katie Price), new make up range for kids - seariously.
Remember Keanu’s great line in the Parenthood when he says:
“You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car – hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father.”
But anyway, if JJ and I were to come back as parents, this here video below truly, honestly reveals the kind of ‘rentals we’d hope to be.
So I’m (not) going to be turning 15 tomorrow. Not that you’d know it given my penchant for the fictional undead (seriously, a total obsession for vampires) and the absolute anxiety I feel whenever I have to buy concert tickets.
I’ll let it be known right from the start that, yes, I did manage to buy tickets to see Muse IN DECEMBER. I mean, how the hell do I know KNOW what I’m planning to be doing on December 14? I could be in Las Vegas (in fact, there is such a plan).
So I planned to log in for the fan pre-sale and that’s where the anxiety started. JJ and I were heading up the country estate on Thursday night. Yes, we have this Virgin wireless dongle for the Internet but who knows what can happen? Can the technology be guaranteed? Will the wireless cables freeze over? (I mean, it’s really cold up there in the bush).
I have reason to be anxious, especially after the Jimmy Barnes Ticket Fiasco of 1984. My cousin Nancy and I had saved desperately. I busted open the money box and we got to Myer at Highpoint and queued outside the doors a few hours before opening. Now, I haven’t queued up for tickets for a long time thanks to the Internet so Idon’t know what the deal is these days but there used to be a roller door and you’d be all friendly-like with the others waiting for tickets but as soon as the roller door had lifted just enough, all bets were off and the nails would come out. We’d slide under that door and run up the escalator to be the first at the real ticket queue and I’d almost piss myself waiting for the slow people in front who picked tickets for some freaking Opera or something. They were ANNOYING SLOW PEOLE and in the meantime I was imagining that all of the smart people had just picked up their phones – a spare one in the shape of a hamburger that sat beside their bed – and would call and buy ALL of the tickets and they would just sell out right in front of my face.
But that’s not how it transpired that fateful year.
Nancy and I got to the counter and we counted out our coins – seriously we had busted open the money box and we had just enough money for the tickets. But not the booking fee.
NOT THE BOOKING FEE.
But I’m nothing if not determined and we trammed our asses all the way home to beg my mum for a couple of measly bucks (which is another story).
These days you just have to hit refreshand hope you don’t get kicked off the site. And you’ve always got enough money. Thank you Mr Mastercard.
But the anxiety is still there. It is. I get the sweats, that nauseous feeling that I’m going to miss out. That every single ticket is going to sell out right in front of my face.
“Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got
I’m still, I’m still [Betty on a box]
Used to have a little, now I have a lot
No matter where I go, I know where I came from (from the Bronx!)”
Well, Sunshine via West Footscray, via a tree-free village in Sicily.
Those who know me, know that I’m a simple girl.
I don’t go for the big brands. I don’t wear Chanel cosmetics, I go for Napoleon.
And I’m vitually free ofgourmet bling – there’s some Kenneth Cole bling*, Victoria Mason bling* and that (now broken) necklace I got from the world’s biggest jewellery store when JJ and I got lost near Chiang Mai that time – bling* yes, but alas, no-name bling*.
Geez, I do like a pretty piece of jewellery though.
AND it’s a bouquet of flowers with a teeny lady bug and butterfly (Dior Milly la Floret amethyst ring)
And bunnies (Dior bunny ring)
And Memento Mori (Dior Memento Mori ring)
At around £8000 apiece, they are unlikely additions to the jewellery tree so… here’s something a little loser to home, and priced lower than the kitchen renovation, with thanks to the delightfully gorgeous taxidermist/jeweller, Julia DeVille (yep, that’s a real animal bone).
Last year I joined the Glamourpuss Studios tap dancing academy. For shits and giggles.
This year, I decided that travelling ACROSS THE RIVER just wasn’t on. Now, normally, it’s the folk from the other side of town who don’t like to cross the river but I’m well-and-truly guilty of reverse classism.
But the thing is, I found a tap dance school right up the road. I mean, how could I pass THAT up?
Well let me tell you how. There was a girl in my first (and only) class who was making some cute moves and the teacher said – I shit you not – “Who do you think you are? A showgirl?” Like it was a bad thing?
I mean… YES!
So that, along with this (below) is why I’m heading back to the other side. Technically I travel AROUND the river to St Kilda, not across it.
