🖕

My writing might (might) often become a pale pastiche of something funnier, edgier and more articulate, including this week when I felt it would be useful/constructive to have a ranty tanty and to imitate that most fabulous of bloggers, farkew, and say a big fucking finger to everything that has fucked me off over the last week.

To whit:

– fuck you, sales assistant at Spencer St outlet, who  upon seeing me in shoulderless top, suggested it might be better as a ‘gift for your niece or daughter’

– fuck you, milk choc Lindt bunnies for being so awesomely smooth, creamy and gorgeous and forcing me to gorge on them

– fuck you, adult acne. Who agrees with me? I have fucking wrinkles and fucking pimples!

– fuck you (and a big fuck off) to Monash IVF, who clutter my facebook and google ads (see also Clearblue, fucking elevit, et al, all of you)

– fuck you, to cafes who don’t accept eftpos under $10 and then have something of $9.90 on the fucking menu. Daft Morons.

– fuck you, pain and suffering occurring on the earth right now, and lastly!

– fuck you hair for not looking as nice as Julia Zemiros

That’s better. Thanks readers, may all your fuck yous come true. Feeling better already. 

PS: spoke too soon. A very sincere fuck you you to the Belgrave line. Wahhhh 

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Hashtag lovely

Last night I found myself at Ringwood station, normally the sort of place you can’t walk 5 steps without being asked if you can spare a cigarette, but yesterday the scene of something rather special and lovely. There was a poster up at the entrance point, and a box of texters, and members of the public were encouraged to write up what they were grateful for on the poster. Lots of heartwarming contributions – ‘my family’ ‘my boyfriend’ ‘having a caring family and a roof over my head’ ‘my family and sport,’ ‘my awesome school ‘ this beautiful life’. I wrote up my own contribution of course, and then instagrammed it attempting to stay uncynical. All the feels.

Yeah, hokey as fuck, but quite nice. ringwood-stationI then headed back to Baysie, where the entire suburb is a mass of orange shirts, as we prepare for the bloody level crossings to be removed.

Usually at this time of year people start to get tired. And by people I mean me. I am really tired. My eyes look like puffy pastries. I’m too tired to blowdry my hair so it stays in perpetual topknotdryshampoo combo/mess. I’m so tired that trying to muster up some sort of energy or inspiration to write is a huge effort.

It’s been a busy year. Lots of good stuff of course, but a few challenges professionally and personally. Also the world has gone a bit mad. Which is a bit terrifying. The presidency anyone? What the fucking fuck…

Anyway, I have begged a day to work from home today so that I may have a bit of extra sleep and a bit of extra headspace. And it seems to be working as I feel more human today than I have all week. Tomorrow I shall dive head first into a bucket of wine (first lot of xmas celebrations with the girls) but for today I shall take some well earned respite from the world. Not putting makeup on or contacts in #bliss

My Day in Pics #nofilter

Fossicking around for some #inspo some months ago and came across this. And then did precisely nothing about it and got writing about other shit I was cross about. Until now, where we (I) bring you my day in photos. Yay, #phonesoncameras!

6.30am shine and rise, home

First thing I see in the morning are our dogs, Bob and George, who prefer to stay in bed as long as possible. Similar to LAH, who prefers not to have his picture taken. This was taken on my way out the door.

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7am: Heatherdale train station. Coolish morning, in a coat, wondering why I don’t do the sensible thing and drive to H.dale every morning, where I have the choice of many more trains and don’t have to take the dumb replacement buses. Train deserted, so I get seat. Good start to morning.

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7.40am coffee, Little Bourke St. Skinny latte from Higher ground. Very nice people here, and hipster AF, but the reason I go is their coffee is strong and delic. That’s better!

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8.30 now in office, CBD. This is what I look at most of the day. Living the dream….

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10am boss puts up today’s The Age word scramble. It took me many hours to get today’s puzzle.

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12pm, Latrobe St: daily lunchtime walk around the streets – lovely clear day but cool wind. Here is an old w class tram on the city circle tourist route filled with tourists. Bless.

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1pm sushi for lunch, back at desk: Quite ordinary sushi actually but filled the gap!

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3pm, at desk: check fit bit – 6324– not heaps. Might walk to Richmond

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4.30, Yarra River: walk to Richmond down the Yarra and over the bridge to the MCG. Lovely afternoon…Coat now off.

And some random stuff, near the Princes Bridge:

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6pm get home. Greeted by Bob who is more awake now.

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Check on veggie garden also – Kale going nuts. What to do with it? Am a bit over frittata.

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7pm Dinner served by Chef LAH. He breaks the news he ate my last skinny cow icecream last night! This is his cauliflower and hot smoked salmon one pan wonder (so he’s forgiven now). Bloody yum.

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9pm, couching n chillaxing infront of the ABC… cup of tea and dogs. Bed soon!

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The Big Short

The other night I was crammed on a homebound train. It was already full by the time we reached Richmond, at which time more commuters squeezed on – with bags and phones and bad breath. I was already standing and began to move down the carriage to make room. Unfortunately, the area I found myself standing in had no chair hand grips available, and the only possible way to steady myself was to reach, awkwardly and not effortlessly, for the straphang. It was a bumpy ride, and I am not overly endowed with balance any more than I am height, which resulted in me losing my equilibrium a couple of times. I seethed until Mitcham when the bloody seats started becoming available. Fuck being short. No, I’m not petite, I’m not delicate. Just short.

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It wasn’t until I was eight I realized I was short. It was when we were lining up for the class photo from tallest to shortest, and it emerged that I was the 3rd shortest girl in glass, which meant a guaranteed position in the front row. I don’t remember being bothered by it especially. That came later, when I was 12, and attempting to defend my goal patch from a towering Samoan goal keep. I just couldn’t get around her, and her long long legs and arms. It was then I was at a distinct disadvantage.

Aged 13, I would have done anything to get taller. I had boobs, and hips, but my blazer and pinafore were so big and long it looked like I was playing dress-ups. If only I were taller, it would stretch some of that embarrassing chubbiness out. All the cool girls were tall. I wanted to be cool and tall. I remained short and nerdy.

Two orthodontist appointments, between which I did not grow, were enough to convince me it was unlikely I would have a sudden growth spurt and that five foot three was all I was going to be allocated. Genetics were to blame: my mother is delicate 5 2 and my father a strapping 6 foot. I drew the short straw, it seemed.

So it seemed I would never be terribly far from the earth’s crust. In my 20s I struggled with boots and heels on a daily basis, but this was coupled with my general clumsiness, resulting in many ankle rolls.

So, just to have a whinge – some not so great things about being a short arse include:

– Not being able to get to the overhead locker on airplanes (I usually jump up and stand on a seat while people are filing out)
– Not being able to reach top cupboard, anywhere (step ladders for the win)
– Not bring able to have decent view in concert (Ridik, as I haven’t been to a mosh pit in at least 15 years)
– Having my tallest friend TPD rest his elbow / drinks on my head (quite funny actually)
– Not being able to turn the dryer on (this is annoying)
– Trousers needing to be taken up (Actually, I haven’t worn trousers in years as I look stupid. Jeans have a short length and that’s what I buy)
– Not being able to straphang on crowded trains without looking like I am doing lop sided star jumps (infuriating).

Some good stuff:
– Legroom on planes – never an issue
– Unlikely men are shorter than me (sexist, yes) (I can snuggle quite easily into LAH’s chest)
– Can fit on most couches and children’s beds quite comfortably (I used to sleep in A&Y’s then 6-year-old son’s bed very comfortably)
– Looking younger – perhaps. Was taken for early 30s down at the hairdresser. #winning.

Maybe I should just carry my 6 in heels for the train?