Peel Me A Grape

Daniel and I have one of the most equal partnerships amongst our friends in terms of balancing family, work, housework and play. We each work roughly the same hours, each care for Eddie one day a week, split housework down the middle (though he admits I do more), each have a set night of the week to go out with friends (separately) and share the load equally on the weekends.

It’s not a tit for tat thing. We each acknowledge that stuff needs to get done and that our working lives are pretty similar. “I’ve had a hard day at work, luv. Can’t you bathe the baby tonight?” gets a smack in the chops round these parts. And if anyone ever refers to certain tasks being “women’s work” Daniel proudly dons the apron saying “Just call me Sadie.” So it’s never really crossed my mind that one thing I do could be letting the sisters down.

For as long as I can remember, every couple of weeks on a Sunday afternoon while Eddie sleeps, Daniel reads the paper while I iron 2 weeks worth of business shirts for him in front of the telly. If it was tit for tat, I might think “Hey! What’s he done for you lately?”

Maybe that Sunday was one of those days...

I calmly asked Daniel over my shoulder, iron in hand, sweat dripping from brow “Can you think of anything you do for me every couple of weeks that takes you maybe an hour? That you do out of the goodness of your heart? Of no benefit to yourself? Or the common good of the family? Just something you do for me and me alone? Regularly???”

Daniel, still reading the paper “…Hmmmm? Ummm….what do you mean? Like the dishes?”

“No. Something I don’t do. Something that isn’t communal or for which you or Eddie derive absolutely no benefit. Purely for my benefit. Something that’s regular. Something I can rely on. Like you know you can rely on pulling an ironed shirt out of your wardrobe every morning.”

Blank stares.

Eyes looking downward.

Then upward.

And to the sides.

Turns to stare at me.

Confused look on his face.

Scrunched nose.

Pursed lips.

Thoughts still with the article he’s reading with fist strategically placed so he doesn’t lose his spot until it dawns on him that I have a valid point to which he has absolutely no comeback.

It’s true that there is great satisfaction that comes from asking questions to which you already know the answer. And very entertaining to see someone’s thoughts unfold before your eyes just the way you assumed they would.

But...

I do like to be proven wrong, so gave him a few days to ponder this quandary in case there is something I’ve forgotten and if not, give him an opportunity to return the favour.

A few months later, I am still waiting. And he still has his finger on the paper.

I’d ask him to give me a pedicure straight after I did his shirts, but I know he’d be lousy with the nail polish and my once elegant and professionally modelled feet would somehow end up looking like Bilbo Baggins’ leathery hooves.

I also suggested I could take in a lover that I saw every couple of weeks for an hour of unbridled passion but he wasn’t too open to that idea. I dunno why. It’s not like he’d have to do anything. I mean he could read the paper to his hearts content.

Any thoughts?

Louboutin Is Next to Godliness

For a heathen I spend an awful lot of time in church. I guess that serves me right for hooking up with a Polak.

The most recent event, as previously mentioned, was a baptism. A none to small Polish-Croatian affair, littered with stunning looking Bosnian brunettes decked out in short figure hugging Prada and Christian Louboutin up to the wazoo. Blondes were knocked back at the door.

I've been to baptisms before but I can't recall them ever asking the parents this highly entertaining question I'll mention in a sec. Maybe I just missed it the other times or was too busy talking or had a screaming baby in my ear. Maybe I never considered it before because I never thought about it in the context of baptising my own daughter which we'll be getting around to at some stage soon to avoid her grandparents both going into major heart failure.

The question he asked my sister-in-law and brother-in-law was "Do you renounce Satan?"

I had to smirk. I couldn't help myself. How could I have not heard that before? My brother-in-law? A great guy, but a guy who would love to party with Satan I imagine. My sister-in-law could drink Satan under the table, given the chance, and make him wish he were never born. Created? Excuse my ignorance. I'm a heathen.

Also difficult for her to be convincing standing at the altar, in her red soled bright purple Louboutin shoes and her skin tight dress cut just below her derriere, flicking her long raven locks, batting her perfectly curled fake eyelashes and doey dark brown eyes in agreement. Man, she is hawter than the fires of hell.

Bosnian and Dalmation women seem to be the most gobsmackingly stunning looking women in the world. By 25 they're not the tall lanky stick figures they were in their late teens but perfectly trim hourglass brunettes - 6 weeks after giving birth - to their third or fourth child.

What I also noticed in the Polish church in Essendon, which I'd not noticed before, were the massive ornate stained glass windows behind the altar with peaceful visions of Christ I'd previously seen but realised the detail below contained swords and soldiers and flags and guns. Guns? Yes. Guns and images of war. I guess it kinda makes sense. So many wars occur in the name of religion, but jaysus...

I may not believe in God but I do find churches to be great places for contemplation and reflection. I often go to this church here which is in Bendigo, whenever I'm up that way. I find it a nice to just sit and be quiet. And there are no images of war or bloodshed in the windows. And no family members to interrupt my thoughts. And no Louboutin to remind me of Satan.

Meltdown

I'm currently buckling under the growing pressure of obligations that seem to be multiplying at the rate of Steve Hofstetter's "friends" on Facebook. That dude has thousands. I'm having a tough time handling 8.

These obligations come in the form of engagements, weddings, anniversaries, baby showers, births, baptisms, get well cards for various forty somethings having difficulties with a first birth, housewarmings, deaths/funerals, memorials, new business partnerships, f-buds of many years standing now announcing what everyone always knew anyway, ie. that they're in a relationship. Do Hallmark do a card for that? And why should they get a damn present anyway just cos they're shagging - but now with cuddles and calling each other "Schmoopy"?

All these things require a gift of some sort and a gift that needs to be wrapped in addition to providing an accompanying card and I'm completely over it all.

I'm so tired of wading through greeting cards and coming up with creative solutions for gifts. I'm so tired of wasting time wondering if silver or gold wrapping paper would be more appropriate. I'm so tired of shelling out all this money for all this stupid stuff that no-one really wants anyway and I aint got the time or inclination to make my own.

I just wanna be Ms Moneybags. "You're engaged? Here's 50 bucks and some condoms. Have a drink on me." "Oh - so you're officially shagging now? A present? Ummm...a word of advice. Stay safe. And you weren't fooling anyone..." "You're getting married? Here's a bottle of tequila and a pack of condoms. Knock yourselves out. And be safe - cos there's no more where that came from!" "A gay wedding? Here's a lifetime supply of shiraz...hopefully you'll be too drunk to fill out the adoption forms...cos there'll be no Esprit kiddie trackie dacks for you!"

Anyway, I gots a baptism to get ready for. A little tacker named Niko. Daniel just escaped being made Godfather, making me an escapee de facto Godmother. Small mercies, hey?

Panties

So Daniel and I went and saw the Magpies be annihilated by the Hawks at the MCG with a couple of friends yesterday. The only saving grace for me being we had lunch in the Collingwood members room before the game, right next to some top 40 American band I can't recall the name of but who had a cool drummer named "Chewie".

Plus we were right behind the goal posts (albeit right next to the Hawthorn cheer squad - a mighty unattractive bunch if I may say). And we were also close enough to lick the sweat off of Buddy Franklin's thigh. Every time he took a fall the girls in the crowd would scream and shout "Oh no! Buddy! Are you ok??? Oh thank god he's alright!"

That man is very attractive and does he know it? He certainly does, which makes him all the more edible. Anyway, I need a segue, so do those Hawks love to wear panties or what?

The word in the English language I hate most of all and have always hated with a vengeance is "panties". It's something I've been hearing more and more lately and it drives me crazy. What possesses anyone to say "panties"?

The only time in my life I've used this word is recently when my daughter started potty training. She refers to them as "panties" because her mind equates them with being the small version of her big pants that she wears over the top. Completely logical and completely appropriate - for little girls.

I'm probably about to out myself as a freak when I say there is nothing sweeter in the world than a little girls pair of panties - on a little girl. It can't be denied. They're sweet. They're pretty. They're cute. They're innocent and pure. And the look of wonder on her face when she first started wearing them was just adorable and will be a memory I will cherish forever.

Anyway. I can understand why little girls call them "panties". I cannot understand why men choose to use the term in reference to fully grown women's underwear except for obvious reasons that are listed above. Sweetness. Prettiness. Cutesy. Innocence. Purity.

Perverts.

All I can say to those men is I bet John Deaves says "panties". Nuff said.

But most of all I cannot fathom why a grown woman would use this term in reference to her underwear. Women don't wear panties. I'm sure Sophia here never said it. You would not see this on a 3 year old. And if women do make reference to them as "panties" like Jessica Alba and Kylie Minogue probably do, then I guess they say it for the same reason that I presume Jenny Deaves would say "panties".

I've had girlfriends in the past who did use this term and unsurprisingly we never became terribly close or remained friends, largely because I think the psychology behind why women use this term shapes the type of person they are generally. And I do not dig those chicks one bit.

To these women, including Jenny Deaves, I say "C'mon! Grow up! You're a grown WOMAN! Get a period! Get a bush! Stop laughing at that dickhead's dumb jokes! Have a real fucking orgasm!"

Did I say how much I hate the word "panties"? Oh I did? OK.

Hate it.

Skip To My Loo My Darlin'

I've been skipping rope recently; for the purpose of fitness as opposed to just general cock-eyed optimism. It's amazing how much you can sweat and how fit I feel from just skipping. No expensive gym fees or gym wear. But there's one thing that prevents me from skipping like Mohammed Ali in this clip here. I mean look at the man ripple and sweat. From skipping!

I became a Kegel nazi post baby. I do them watching telly, at the supermarket, on the phone, in the shower, on the train, at the doctors surgery, during meetings, on the job - anywhere as long as I hit upwards of 500 reps a day. And I never once had a problem or the need for Teena.

I can run long distance or sprint easily. I can jump on a trampoline. I can run around after mischievous 2 year olds. I can wrestle and laugh til my gut muscles burn and ache and I cry. But I can't skip without needing to pee. I can skip for 30 minutes as long as I run to the toilet every 4 or so minutes. Is this something that plagues all women post baby? Are we all doomed to never double dutch again? Am I going to be Mrs Emery?

Edwina Leibowitz

Here's my daughter's first photograph of her parents. Her first photo ever actually.

I don't think anyone's ever taken such a natural photo of us before. Whatever happens to our little unit, she can always look back at this photo knowing she captured it and captured a truly happy moment. This kid's got talent. But I just may be biased.

Yesterday Don't Matter If It's Gone

Why is it that everyone blogs on a Tuesday?

I don't for one second believe that inspiration strikes every dreaming brain round the world on a Monday night and that come Tuesday morning people just have to get it out. And I don't believe that it's the common block of time that everyone has available to fritter away doing frivolous activities like blogging.

Is this when the most traffic happens? And is it a conscious decision on everyone's part to ensure that if they pull their finger out only once a week it's gotta be Tuesday?

I have 65 feeds on Bloglines and most posted today. Granted some post regularly, but most post once or twice a week. And always, but always, on Tuesdays. I bet Slyde even posted, though who would know? He still can't get his RSS off the ground.

Well, that's my bullshit post for the week. On a Tuesday...

Jack

Congrats to Jack! (12 o'clock on the right)

Yep, I'm a 'So You Think You Can Dance' tragic. I adored all four finalists for different reasons. Kate for being such a versatile, beautiful, classy dancer. Demi for being such a delightful, zesty, funky dancer. Jack cos he's just a joy to watch and Rhys because I have loved him ever since my daughter started watching him as 'Elf' in the Fairies.
Was so inspired, I'm taking up what I started back when I was 21. Bellydancing! First lesson soon. Wonder if the body remembers how to belly roll and shimmy the way it once did?

Laptop Dancing

So my darling partner bought me this terribly lovely new laptop. A widescreen HP Pavilion dv6000. Very pretty and shiny and delicious to touch. He bought it out of the blue partly because he likes to make me happy but mostly because he wanted me off of his computer and most definitely because he just likes buying gadgets.

Last night I'm downloading music in bed whilst vaguely watching Medium on the telly, until I get the "Can we please go to sleep now..." whinge, moan, carry on, pilaver. "Sorry did you say can we get it on?" "Nope. I'm sick. Sleeptime."

So sleep time.

I awake to find my laptop on the other side of the room where I hadn't left it. "Ah, Big Bear's been playing with my computer..."

Open her up out of curiosity to see what he's been looking at in the wee small hours of the morning. Gotta be a lot of titty action that I'm certain he's tainted my brand spanking new widescreen with. Men are just so filthy...

Let me see...

Tropic of Thunder
Meet the Browns
The Bank Job
Band of Brothers Characters
Battle of Ian Drang
Joseph Lesniewski
Silver Star military
Defense Distinguished Service Medal
George Patton IV
Richard Winters
Legion of Merit
Brecourt Manor Assault
ABC Kids TV Guide

amongst many, many others.

Not a booby in sight. Even in the cookies.

I knew he had the capacity to bore anyone to death with his encyclopaedic knowledge of any battle you care to name but is it too much to ask for him to check out some porn at 2 o'clock in the morning?

Custard - Apartment

This song recently brought back memories of my days as a Custard Tart back in the "olden days". I think it also qualifies as the cheapest video ever made.

Heal Thyself

Words from a doctor anyone wants to hear:

Me: I’ve been trying to get some energy so I’m taking multivitamins, sleeping better hours, getting exercise etc. And I’ve limited caffeine, alcohol, increased water and veggies and lean meat. Do you think it’s a good idea to look at all the food I eat and get rid of all junk entirely?

Dr: Honestly? (Raised eyebrows, lower lip extended, breathing towards the sky, perusing my results) Your bp, cholesterol, blood sugar levels and heart rate, liver and kidney function… (looking at me earnestly as if to say “I have actual sick people to see”)… are the BEST I’ve seen on ANYONE your age. You’re a healthy weight - distributed in all the perfect places and I know you generally eat well. I think you can pretty much eat whatever you like really… I doubt it will actually make you feel physically better – these are post viral symptoms you’ve just got to ride out – but of course, (pointing to himself as if to say “I’m a dr so I guess I have to give you the responsible answer”) if it makes you feel better to know that you’re being healthy, go ahead. But if I were you I’d take it easy.

Did he just give me carte blanche to drink margaritas for breakfast and lunch and spare ribs with a chocolate side for dinner and coffee flavoured ice cream for dessert and a bottle of Laphroaig before bed?

I’m absolutely positive that would make me feel better.

Joy

Things that have recently brought me joy:

Reginald D. Hunter
I saw the man at the Comedy Festival. And he nearly made me pee.

Ablas
I went to a 30th birthday banquet at the Lebanese restaurant Ablas in Elgin Street, Carlton. She has recipes on her website. The food is sublime. Khoubiz. Khibbeh mishwee. Lahm bi'ajeen. Loubyeh. Falafel. Rockling in tahini sauce. Smoked eggplant dip that was like downing a bottle of Laphroig and toking on a Cuban cigar simultaneously. Mmmm...mmmm...mmm...delightful. Baklava and coffee. Happy ending all round. My god. Yes. I like a long full meal of entrees, mains, dessert and coffee and I'm seriously partial to sharing plates and dishes. In light of previous conversations make of that what you will...

Energy
I am finally feeling better. I can carry on conversations without losing words or my train of thought. I'm so energetic I got trigger happy and clicked "Publish" and posted that empty post just now before I'd even started writing.

Rydz
The prospect of going mushrooming tomorrow amongst the pine plantations near Daylesford or, or, or, damn what was I saying about losing words? I mean that other place north west of Melbourne? Damn... Anyway we're on the hunt for Rydz or Saffron Milk Caps as they're called in English. These funky looking orange mushrooms most people pass up as poisonous but eagerly hunted by Eastern Europeans.

Jeans
I finally made Daniel buy some JAG Jeans as opposed to his regular button up Levis. For the first time in our 7 year relationship I am preferring to walk behind him because they do amazing things for his toosh and his muscley thighs. I did not actually realise that he has a hot pert gay man's arse. Levis are killers of sex appeal methinks. Will now be dragging two male friends in particular by the ear to burn their baggy arse Levis and get them kitted in JAG - even if they think it's "gay" - hell, they might even get lucky for a change.

Laptop
The delivery man right this very moment delivered my laptop. A spanking new HP with all these features I don't undersand. Too scared to open the package.

FIGJAM
And hey! I got an Award for the "Best Question Asked" on the I Am The Diva Blog. Check out the lovely Diva and grill her with a tough question. She's up for it! The woman is preggers with child and deep thought/contemplation. What did I ask you say? Well, I asked what the meaning of life actually IS. Lame I know, but hey I got this prize here. Right here!

Random Conversation # 34

Eating in a restaurant

GF: Why are you looking at me?
She: You're a very picky eater.
GF: HA! Yeah. I like what I like. What can I say?
She: Yeah, but it's more than that.
GF: Whadya mean?
She: I mean you're incredibly picky about your food. Very critical. And strategic.
GF: So?
She: Well. It's always been my ... contention, I guess ... that people eat the way they have sex.
GF: OH MOI GAWD! (Yes, this is 'OH MOI GAWD' chick) What do you mean?
She: Exactly that. That there's a direct correlation between the way people eat and feel about food to the way they approach getting down and dirty. Just my opinion.
GF: Yeah? So what? I eat normally! What are you saying?
She: I'm not sayin' nuthin'.
GF: So what's your opinion of me?
She: I don't have one. I'm just saying you're very particular. You survey the surrounds. Everything has to be in place. Knife, fork, glass, etc. You look over the plate with a critical eye. You remove what offends you. You want it out of your sight. You complain if something is not quite right. You often complain that something is "too small."
GF: Ha!
She: You sniff stuff. You check it out before placing it anywhere near your mouth.
GF: (Guffawing)
She: ...(laughing) and when you do take a bite, you chew slowly, just in case you don't like it. You fuss terribly over a mouthful.
GF: (More guffawing) Do I???
She: Yep. You're easily perturbed. I've never seen anyone bitch about KFC the way you do. Most people just don't even bother.
GF: So how do you eat?
She: How the fuck should I know? I don't watch myself eating. How do you think I eat?
GF: I dunno. Never looked. So you watch everyone?
She: Yes. It's a habit.
GF: And you immediately assume that's how they have sex?
She: Ummm...it's not a conscious thing. I'm not a pervert. But yes. Those of consenting age, of course.
GF: And from experience is it accurate?
She: Ummm....well, I can't say I've slept with everyone I've eaten with so it can hardly be accurate.
GF: But there must be a reason why you think this? Have you not slept with someone because of the way they ate?
She: God yes.
GF: Really?
She: Of course.
GF: Like?
She: Jeeeesus. I dunno. As a woman, picky eaters who sniff and disapprove and turn their noses up at stuff are not appealing.
GF: Of course. Ok, ok, ok, ok. So you don't want ME then???
She: Don't take it personally, babe.
GF: So what sort of eater are you into?
She: Well, someone with a love of food. A good appetite.
GF: God yes. So that's number 1. And?
She: Love someone who rolls up their sleeves. Like "It's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it and I'm just the man!'
GF: I see, I see. That's two. 3?
She: Someone who jumps in with aplomb. Love hungry men who are ravenous.
GF: Got it. And?
She: Big mouthfuls. Lots of breathing through the nose. Sighing because something tastes just so damn good. And very cute when they get a bit on their chin.
GF: Okay. Alright. Maybe you're onto something.
She: It's just an attitude. Have knocked back poncey dufii who go on and on about the "harmony of herbs" and the "viscosity of the jus" and "I just don't like this rump at all - it's all just a bit gamey on my palate, I'm afraid." You know those dickheads?
GF: Yep, yep. We've all been there. (Goes back to picking her food)
GF: (Eyes looking skywards and dawning realisation) OH MOI GAWD! Daniel???? Jeeeesus...
She: Exactly.
GF: ....you know I'm never going to be able to eat another meal with someone the same way again?
She: I'm doing you a favour. Let's revisit in a year and tell me if I'm right or if I'm right. Alright?

I Wanna Learn How To Fly, HIGH!

I had a big arse meeting to go to yesterday and as I walked into the foyer of this skyscraper I walked past two familiar looking older gents having a rip roaring conversation like they went way, way back.

They gave me a look like I knew them. I'm still quite unwell and having instances of forgetting names and had a moment of "Shit, should I say 'hi'?" when I realised it was Lindsay Fox, trucking magnate and I think he may even be a billionaire and Bill Kelty, former ACTU Secretary - no idea what he's doing now. Even close up Bill looks like he'd be more at home in a toga, an olive crown and a glass of red in his hand.

Embarrassing scene averted, cos I actually do not know Messrs Fox and Kelty personally, I just gave them a smile and walked over to one of the comfy couches trying to look like i had a reason for being there - devoid of cash as I am. And as I sat down the thought occurred to me "Why do rich men wear shoes that look like they came from Target?"

This is the calibre of my brushes with fame recently. While friends and bloggers alike are telling me about their partying with the likes of Mick Mars, Kate Moss and several footballers all of whom I find terribly unimpressing and last of all Chris in the Morning (flippin' hell! - Chris in da Morning?) which impresses me no end.

Given the chance, who would you share a brew with?