Long Lost Letters And Other Lame Stuff

There was a time, approximately a billion years ago, (or you know, at least twenty, which often feels like the same thing) when I used to write SO MANY letters. Not surprisingly, I had dozens of admirers and received truck loads of love letters each week. It was hard to have to break so many hearts with polite and poetic little epistles detailing why we couldn't be together, but I had to do it.

I loved  making up stuff, you see. Like most of the above paragraph. Ahem. No, sadly, there were no admirers. Not one. Hmph. I still don't get it. I mean, I was clearly such a fetching teenager. Observe.

How did all the boys resist
such mulleted loveliness?

 Needless to say, I then blossomed into a smoking hawt twenty something. My hawtness was just totally OFF THE SCALE. No wonder the boys stayed away in droves. It was just too overwhelming. Clearly. Behold the photographic evidence:

Hawt, Hawt HAWT. Erm..NOT.

So, in order to keep myself busy while hordes of males secretly lusted after me, but were too intimidated to approach me, I had to have a hobby. Naturally, I chose an exceptionally cool one. Pen-pals. I've always been cutting edge.

Remember those days? Snail mail. Now the only snail mail I receive is bills and junk mail. Which I find considerably rude. However, if I wish for any alternative correspondence I shall have to think about how I operated in the past. Scribbling away with an actual pen on paper and putting it in an envelope and posting it. Except I won't. Because I've become shockingly lazy. I'll just blog about it instead. Because it's fascinating, obviously, like everything about me.

Last week my parents called in and my Mum had brought with her a bag full to the brim of old letters, cards and an old school report that had belonged to me.  I was able to spend the afternoon having a lovely little trip down memory lane sorting through it all.  After this heart warming foray into the past, I came to following conclusions:

Some things change. Such as, 'friends' who promised to be so FOREVER. Turns out they weren't even a friend's arsehole. Just the arsehole bit. Period. Good riddance.

Some things NEVER change. This was confirmed by a comment on the old school report which said:

Vanessa displays no interest in craft.

At least I am consistent in some things. I have consistently  maintained a stunning lack of interest in craft for the past 30 years. Which is, quite clearly, something to be proud of.

I also had at least three international  pen-pals. Two from Germany and one from Italy. I wrote to these girls for quite a number of years because they were NICE. Unlike that horrible bitch I wrote to once out of the pen-pals section of Smash Hits magazine, who, for some inexplicable reason, must not have been impressed with my heartfelt confession that in addition to Madonna and INXS I also loved The Carpenters and Barbra Streisand. What is wrong with these people who can't handle my hawtness and exquisite taste?

Anyway, I wrote to my German pen-pals, Steffi and Gudrun, and my Italian one Anna Maria for years. One by one, we all eventually got married and slowly stopped writing to each other. In short, I became a slack arsed bitch and lost contact with them. Oops.

In addition to my pen-pals, I also wrote to a couple of the above arseholian 'friends' and several relatives. I loved writing letters.  Eventually I met Micky Blue Eyes and I may have even written him a soppy letter or two. He never replied. But he didn't run away shrieking either, which, when I think about it now, could have been a distinct possibility.

He did, however, manage to bestow upon me the odd post card or jokey card, with a 'Take it easy, Love Mick' scrawled on the bottom of it. No wonder I was swept away with such romantic gestures. Makes you all warm and fuzzy, doesn't it? Or nauseous and queasy? Or something.

I also finally discovered where I get my genius for poetry from, after coming across a corny charming poem my Mum had written for me in an old birthday card. Thanks, Mum! For writing that poem and also passing on your GENIUS. People will understand our greatness one of these days. Maybe. It could happen. Shut up.

Among the cards was this one, pictured below,  for my 21st birthday, from some old colleagues I worked with at the time. It cracked me up. I do love a good lobster meal.

Incidentally, I also came across an old pay slip from those heady old days when I was temping for Library Locums. Apparently I was earning an astronomical $12.98 per hour! This kind of explains why I am now living a life of luxury in Boganville. I was always destined for great things.

Here I am living it up in luxury with a
lovely lobster dinner. And a
bad bowel hair cut...

Fast forward to today and here I am still being AWESOME. I now don't write any letters. I write this brilliant boring as batshit blog instead, for which I earn - absolutely nothing! So ner.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

Did you ever have any pen-pals? Do you ever use snail mail these days?

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War! What Is It Good For?

Hello there. Anzac Day is upon us. While I've never actually attended a dawn service, I do have some very deep thoughts regarding war, and have had ever since I was a little girl. In fact, I wrote a poem about it, when I was a mere ten years old. It is truly heartfelt. That, or just a woeful example of exactly how much Enid Blyton I was reading at the time.  I'm sure if it had been about a cheery subject I would have managed to put in the phrases 'smashing' and 'jolly good' somewhere. Here it is, complete with my spelling mistakes:

DISASTEROUS WAR:

War is a disastrous sight,
War is a beastly fight,
You can hear the blasting,
Oh war is so everlasting,
War is gloom, its such a doom,
I hope it stops very soon.

War is death, it takes away your breath.
War is blood running in a stream,
War is being strictly mean,
If you think war is not a fight,
It's a awful,disatrous, terrible sight,
War is blood pouring, guns roaring.
War is hand grenades flying,
People crying, also dying,
You work all day, in a blood-thirsty way,
War is madness, but if you think
deep down, it's only sadness

Now the war is gone, I hope it's gone
for good because I don't want it back so soon after
all this awful gloom. People
die, cry, fight. Oh I don't want
that destructive sight!
Guns roar, blood pours,
You can't think how people cry,
because their beloved friends did die
Oh I hope the war doesn't
come again
For I really must think of the
lives of those men.

My year 5 poem, dated 28th April, 1981. At the bottom
the teacher wrote: 'Some deep thoughts, try not to
repeat yourself.'  Hmph. Didn't she recognise
my brilliance?

Yep, such brilliance. I'm not sure why I didn't become the next Sylvia Plath after that effort. It's hard to pick out which is my favourite line, with such stunning observations as: War is death, it takes away your breath. Yeah, that is kind of what happens when you die, dear.

War! What is it good for? Absolutely NUTHIN'!! According to Bruce Springsteen and myself, at the mature age of ten.  Genius. I mean, just check out that rhyming: War is gloom, it's such a doom, I hope it stops very soon. Why did I stop when I was on such a roll? I could have went on:

Those guns keep going
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,
I'd rather hear a happy tune,
Before I am a total loon!

OH MY GOD! *gasp* I've still got it! I'm a poet and I didn't know it!! I need to get back to it immediately. Otherwise I am completely wasting my genius. And what does a ten year old, budding,  tragic bogan, genius poet look like? I'm glad you asked. Observe.

My Year 5 school photo, when I was still cute. Sigh.

Thank God my Mum had the foresight to keep my old school books. She must have know I was going to be broke and aimless rich and famous one day. She always said I was special. Now I see why. There is nothing more to add after the blinding brilliance of that poem. I've already left you stunned.

Linking up an oldie but goodie for Life This Week.


What do you think about war? Have you written any awful brilliant poetry?

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Sundays With Laurie

Linking up this oldie but goodie with Denyse for Life This Week. 

Almost every weekend of my childhood, we all piled into the old Datsun 1200 and drove to the Inner West suburb of Leichhardt, and Leichhardt Oval, to watch the then Balmain Tigers play rugby league. We were 'Westies' from the outer western suburbs of Sydney. Logically my parents should have followed the Parramatta Eels or Penrith Panthers. But for some inexplicable reason they loved the Tigers and supported them passionately. 

Mum always packed our food, often including the classy old hot dogs. The frankfurts were kept in a thermos flask to keep them hot, and placed onto the accompanying rolls once we got there.This saved spending a small fortune at the kiosk.We sat in one of the old grandstands. Once the game started my parents were on the edge of their seats. I tuned out. As I've mentioned before, sport bores me. 

Luckily, I could bring a book. I was even able to read amongst all the shouting and commotion. But my brother and I never really sat still long. We were off playing. Climbing trees or sliding down the hill, behind the bigger grandstand on sheets of cardboard. We loved it and would return to the grandstand, happily exhausted and putrid. Once I ruined a whole new outfit that Mum had sewn for me. I can't remember the finer details as I was quite young, but Mum still remembers it.

Me with my brother in his full Tigers get up.  I'm
pretty sure I did have a jersey, but couldn't find a
photo of me wearing it. But my pink number
with the skivvy is quite cute anyway. This was
September 1979 according to the writing on the back.
 I was 8 and my brother had just turned 11. We were
SO CUTE! Awwwww!

Another time, I remember being at a game of the Tigers against The Rabbitohs. An obnoxious bunnies supporter was sitting behind us. Every second she'd screech "COME ON BUNNIES!!" her shrill voice piercing our eardrums. She'd barely pause to take a breath before she was screeching again. 

After annoying us with the come on bunnies chant for the duration of the game, she then commented: "Some people even dye their hair the same colour as their team." A snide reference to my brother and I's red hair. See above. 

In those days there were always people smoking in the stands too, which I loathed. There was no choice but to breath in the vile stench of clouds upon clouds of thick cigarette smoke. The smell clung to you and your clothes and hair, even after you'd left the premises.

Dad took the Tigers performance on the field rather seriously. If they weren't playing very well and it looked as if they might lose, he'd start glowering. Then pacing. Then he would decide to leave abruptly before the end of the second half, interrupting our tree climbing, hill sliding fun. We'd be whisked off, sulking, back to the car.

The long drive home would be made in tense silence. Nobody dared to speak or turn the radio on in case he heard the dreaded results. Of course, it often turned out that the Tigers managed to come back during the second half and even win the game after we'd left. If they did actually lose, Dad's grumpy mood continued for several days.

"I'm not buying the paper anymore," he'd announce, not wishing to read the sport reports.

This would then escalate to saying he wasn't going to anymore games or, in fact, supporting them at all anymore. However, the weekend would roll around and we'd inevitably pile into the car and head back down to Leichhardt.

It seems like if footy is in your blood, it's in your blood and can't be helped. Footy fever never really caught on for me. I've tried over the years to go with the old 'if you can't beat em, join em' mentality. This seemed to work out well for my Mum. But I couldn't seem to drum up any interest.

I briefly had a crush on Tigers player Wayne Pearce, but even this devotion couldn't hold my attention for a full game. I did meet him, however, at a function for Dad's work. He shook my hand and I blushed as red as my hair. I was only twelve at the time.

One of the most vivid memories of those weekends, is seeing the Tigers most legendary fan Laurie Nichols in the crowd. He'd be wearing his infamous singlets, his passion and intense love for the team emanating from every pore.

Nobody would dare to say a bad word against the Tigers to this dude. If you did, you would fear for your life. He once allegedly wanted to fight an individual who criticised the team, according to this article. Despite being advised that he should not fight him as the person had a plate in their head, Nichols apparently shot back: "I don't care if he has a full dinner set."

Laurie Nichols: The Tigers most intense fan.

Even though his intensity bewildered me, even scared me a little, I certainly remember him all these later. His presence was all a part of the experience of following the Tigers in those times. By the time the Tigers reached the Grand Final in 1988, I was a teenager, so I stayed home.

My parents sadly witnessed their two consecutive Grand Final losses, that year and the following year in 1989. They reported back to me that there were grown men sobbing, something I've never really understood. Proving I'll never be a real footy fan. Supposedly my father wasn't one of them. If he was, he's not admitting it, anyway.

Today, my parents still follow the now Wests Tigers, but don't attend games. Mick and the boys follow the St. George Dragons. I don't follow footy at all. But I do remember those days at Leichhardt Oval.

When the game was over, all the kids were allowed to run onto the field. That part was fun and exhilarating. Of course it's a shame that the enthusiasm I had for such a thing is completely non-existent today. I could certainly benefit from a spot of running!

Whether I like it or loathe it, there is no doubt that all things footy and soccer have certainly been a presence in my life. And so it continues, as I now have three sons. I can never get away from balls.

That last line was so juvenile mature. You're welcome.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

Also linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Do you get footy fever? What are your sporting memories?

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2000- A Bogan Odyssey

Before we get to the year 2000,let me take you back even further. Far back, to a time and place where men were real men, women were real women and clueless, tragic bogans from Boganville were real clueless, tragic bogans from Boganville. The early 1990's. 1993 to be exact. The announcement was about to be made about which city would be hosting the 2000 Olympics as I headed out to a bush dance, where I actually sat in the corner and didn't dance at all, being the wild and crazy party animal that I am. But clearly I looked stunning, sporting a poodle perm, way too much make-up and wearing a gorgeous combo of dark purple jeans and floral body suit. Yep, stunning. I'm absolutely postitive that look stunned people.

1993 Ness

Later that night, the announcement that (almost) everyone had been waiting for came.

The winner is - Sydeney!!

I recall my friends being gleeful at the news, excited that the Olympics would be in their city in seven years time. Meanwhile, I stifled a yawn. You see. sport bores the bejesus out of me. The Olympics = Yawnfest. I honestly couldn't have cared less. In fact the most exciting event of 1993 for me wasn't the announcement of the Olympics coming in 2000, at all,  but the release of a biography about the Carpenters entitled The Carpenters: The Untold Story. I still remember my trembling fingers reaching for it from the shelf at Dymocks and triumphantly purchasing it. I was temping at the Taxation Office in the city. Rushing back from my lunch hour I breathlessly lifted my book out to show several bewildered colleagues.

"Look what I got!" I exclaimed, eyes shining. They looked up, surprised to remember that I was even there, as I rarely spoke. Spotting the book, their surprised looks turned to ones of dumbfounded incredulity. "Oh, isn't that nice?" mumbled one person in the same insincere and dubious tone one would reserve for a lunatic as they slowly backed away and out the door, before fleeing for their life. My excitement dissipated. I sheepishly shoved the book back into the bag. You can imagine the joy it is to be me and feel so well liked and have so much in common with other people. NOT.

Fast forward 7 years and I was now a sophisticated and mature married woman, having swapped the poodle perm for an elegant, short bowl hair cut. Style icon extraordinaire. That's me. Don't even try to emulate me. You'll never pull it off. I'm unique.

It was New Year's Eve 1999. So naturally, Micky Blue Eyes and I were about to party like it was 1999. Because it was 1999. Until midnight. When it would become the year 2000. The 21st century. So futuristic. I expected we would all be wearing those jump suits they wear on Star Trek before the year was out. Such a shame that didn't happen, isn't it? Just like that Y2K virus thingy that everyone was freaking out about. It was reported on 60 Minutes after all, so how could it not be true? *gasp*

Bogans partying like it's 1999,
until midnight..when it was 2000

The count down to the Olympics began. Not that I cared. At all. While the city buzzed with Olympic fever, I remained as impervious as ever. Micky Blue Eyes wanted to attend some events. I didn't. So he got tickets. I stayed home.

Then we also heard that the Olympic torch would be coming through Boganville at Stupid O' Clock in the morning. People actually planned to get up at such a time to see it. Meanwhile, the only way I would have woken up for it is if they had literally jogged into my bedroom and set my arse on fire with it. No thanks.

Micky Blue Eyes attended several events and took some photos.

I think it's soccer. Is soccer even in the Olympics? Meh, who knows. Or cares. Okay, millions of people do. Clearly I'm not human. Who knows what species I am. Some sort of curious Carpenters loving,bogan creature from the planet Zorg. Or something.

We also possess some 2000 Olympics memorabilia, including cans of beer that are still in the cupboard unopened. Yummo, 13 year old beer. As if it isn't disgusting enough, when it's fresh. Then we also have an alcohol flask, a commemorative plate and mug, in addition to wine glasses. All unused and proudly on display in a cupboard. Micky Blue Eyes out did himself. He is still unnerved by my alarming lack of interest in all things Olympic and sporty.

 That is just the way I roll. I'm apathetic and disinterested cutting edge and different. Deal with it.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

Do you get Olympic fever? Or is all sport a cure for insomnia for you? Ahem.

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Bogans Do It Better

Before Micky Blue Eyes and I had the boys we were, of course, seasoned travellers of the most classy kind. Yep, we were jet setting bogans visiting every glamorous destination in the land of Oz.

We have been to every far corner of this vast land, including the delightful Dubbo, Denman (don't ask) and of course, Canberra SO many times because the War Memorial and Parliament House just never get old do they? And if they do there is always porn or explosives at hand as a back up plan. Apparently. I wouldn't know.

We survived the searing heat of Broken Hill in January and visited far away exotic places such as Tasmania. So, without further ado, I present to you the very best bogan holiday snaps, because, truly, bogans do it better.

Bogans doing it better
on Fraser Island

There was our memorable trip to Fraser Island, where we went on a four wheel drive expedition. Micky Blue Eyes was quite keen on the idea, and I was keen on the idea of lazing about the motel reading a book. But he dragged me along. Ironically, I seemed to withstand the rather bumpy ride quite well, while Mick was a tad shaken by the experience. This is the man who considers himself on a par with Bear Gryls. I expect he shouldn't have a problem with drinking his own wee then, should the situation ever arise. I would, however, so I would prefer it if he left me out of his outback treks. I drink enough cask wine that tastes like piss, thanks very much.

Outback Bogan Woman: I scared the dingoes away.

At least all the dingoes roaming about the island did not mess with me. No way. I looked scary.

Then, there was also our memorable trip to Western Australia. While there, we visited Wave Rock and Fremantle. At least, I think it's wave rock. Well, actually, I have no idea. In typical lazy bogan fashion, I've justed shoved the photos in an album and hoped I'd remember where they were taken. Might be, might not be. Who cares? I look like a dick head anyway. which is the real point of publishing these photos.


A bogan at Wave Rock. I think.



I appear to be wearing some sort of ridiculous get up featuring a hat and a shirt that reaches my knees. But then, I have always been a style icon.

Now here I am looking fashionable in Fremantle. So sophisticated. Especially my knee length shirt, which, on closer examination appears to be somewhat see-through. So my knees are chastely covered but you can see my bra and nipples. Classy.

Fashion icon in Fremantle

Whilst in WA we decided to drive way up North to Monkey Mia, where we spent days sitting on a beach waiting for dolphins to arrive. One finally did.

It was worth driving THOUSANDS of kms for
this one shot of a dolphin, right?

So there you have it. I could go on posting photos for days, but I'm sure I've already made you SO jealous. so I had better stop. Bogans just do it better.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths  for I Must Confess.

What exciting adventures have you been on? Bogans do it better, right?

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Frocked Up

It was 1986. I was 15 years old and madly in the throes of an Anne Of Green Gables fixation. I always had been since I'd read the book at age 10, but now there was also a current mini series starring Megan Follows and Colleen Dewhurst. I loved it. So naturally, when my formal came around I wanted a dress with puffed sleeves, just like Anne had always longed for. Marilla wouldn't let her, but Matthew sneakily got her one.

Happily, my mother wasn't like Marilla and obligingly sewed up the puffed sleeve extravaganza in mint green taffeta with white polka dots and a satin bow sash. It looked like a typical 1980's bridesmaid's dress. Ignoring this, I loved it and thought I was quite special in it, which is apparent by my pose. Love the hand on the hip. That was as close to an attitude as I've ever had.

Initially, I wore it to a cousin's wedding. On that occasion, I teamed it with lace pantyhose and fingerless white lace gloves,like the ones Madonna wore. Thus, I cleverly and creatively, in my mind, combined my love of Anne with my love of Madonna.

I honestly don't remember much of the actual formal itself. It was in the school hall, where I probably hovered around awkwardly as usual, not fitting in with the crowd.  But at least I got to wear my puffs. I most certainly did not have a date. There was no Gilbert Blythe for me. Sigh. Not that I was remotely interested in boys anyway. There were so many much more interesting things. Like Anne Of Green Of Gables and Carpenters records.

There may have been a rousing chorus of That's What Friends Are For at the end of the evening.  Several class mates started bawling. I looked on, from my awkward position in the corner, impervious. I didn't know what friends were for, since I didn't have any. Impossible to believe, when I looked like this:

LOOK at the puffs!!

Two years later, in 1988, for my Year 12 Formal, I was so much more mature and sophisticated, going with elegant black. This time I decided to forsake sleeves altogether. However, the bow/sash became larger than ever, attached to a tulle bustle with little colourful diamantes decorating it. I had a lovely 'up' do, instead of the 'big' Eighties perm for a change. I finished the look off with some bling, which is not very visible in this photo. The carpet we used to have was quite eye catching, however. As well as the lovely lace doilies on the lounge chairs.

Incidentally, I actually have one of those chairs in this house. It rocks. Not in the sense of being awesome. In the literal sense of, it is, in fact, a rocking chair.

Which is more dated, the dress, or the carpet?

We set off to the Formal, which was in a function centre this time. I took along a girl friend,who didn't go to my school, oblivious to the thought of this seeming, erm.... odd. (Not that there's anything wrong with that..as they say).

In those days your parents dropped you off in the station wagon and you didn't think anything of it. There were no stretch limos or any of the over the top goings on of today's teens, who think they are all some kind of celebrity strutting down the red carpet. Seriously? 

Another school friend arrived shortly after us, dressed in some sort of weird Cyndi Lauper meets Carmen Miranda get up, featuring every colour of the rainbow, and some I'd never even seen before. She managed this on her face as well, with green mascara clashing with purple eye shadow. It was quite blinding. There was fruit and feathers in her hair. People gushed over my dress, saying how lovely it was then turned to hers and said things like:

 "Erm..it's different."

 Or "It's very..um..colourful."

She pouted at this, looking quite peeved. Long story, but there were times when she'd been a bitch to me (and other times,when she'd been kind and the only friend I had). On that night I seemed to only remember the bitchy moments, so I was not that sympathetic.  I flounced about in my frock, loving the swish of my tulle bustle.  While other girls would have been horrified for their mother to sew them a frock, I thought it was awesome. There was no chance that I was going to experience THE HORROR of another girl turning up in the SAME DRESS. I was unique. I was special.  I was frocked up.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

What did your formal frock look like? Do you like getting frocked up?

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