A Post About Nothing

I Must Confess I have nothing to say. Absolutely nothing. Just so we're clear, I repeat: NOTHING.

Well, nothing interesting, anyway.

But that's never stopped me before.  So, in keeping with the Seinfeldian theme of this blog, I bring to you a rather riveting post about nothing. You're welcome.

I'm sure you're all bursting to know what is going on in the dim, dark recesses of my mind. It is well known that I am extremely deep, enigmatic and introspective. Always brooding, ruminating and contemplating the very important issues in life such as:

Why did Karen Carpenter have to pass at 32?

Why can't I have my cake? And eat it too?

What can I have for dinner? Especially when that pesky old Dinner Fairy refuses to show her luminous face. Hmph.

Why is Gilbert Blythe a fictional character? And why couldn't he love ME not Anne?! I have red hair!

In addition to such pressing issues, I am also constantly wondering why exactly is it SUCH a herculean task to keep a house consisting of approximately 7 rooms anything even remotely resembling clean or tidy? Therein may lay the answer....

If I am really being my usual happy, sunny, perky, cheerful, positive self - and we all know that's always the way I roll - there may be a few other things I would pause to pointlessly ponder over, such as:

Why am I so shy?

Why am I so introverted?

Why do I have Ass Burgers?

Why do I have dizziness/middle ear or some fictional thing I made up according to some specialists?

Why do I keep asking pointless questions?

I have been dutifully trotting off to see my counsellor. She gave me some information regarding an Adult Asperger's Support Group which was not terribly far from Boganville.  Therefore, I did not have an excuse to procrastinate about going to one anymore. But I did anyway. I put off making the call until after the school holidays. Finally, I pressed in the number. A robotic voice informed me: No one is available to take your call! Please leave a message after the tone. So I left one, tripping over my words and feeling foolish as I did so. That was nearly a week ago. Nobody has called back.

Meanwhile, I had an appointment scheduled with  my counsellor which was confirmed with a phone call from the centre. Half an hour later somebody else called back and said my counsellor isn't doing counselling anymore and would I like to make an appointment with somebody else?  This is annoying when you're a shy, introverted Aspie. Having to start over with a  new counsellor. Sighing, I agreed but she said she would have to ring back with an appointment time. That was days ago. Nobody has rang me back.

I suppose that means I have to go to the tremendous effort of ringing them again. If I get the machine again, I should leave a huffy. indignant message. Except I won't. Because I'm too nice. GAH.

Why can't I be a BITCH?  I went for a whole two paragraphs without a pointless question so I had to slide another one in. Shut up.

In other extremely fascinating news, I need to buy a new vacuum cleaner. I am going to get one on Thursday or Friday. This will probably be the most exciting thing I do all week. I was perusing the Bogan Box last night and thinking that it resembled a brothel until I realised that I have no idea what brothels actually look like. They're most likely MUCH cleaner than my house. I mean, just think about it. If you were going to have kinky, illicit sex you'd want to be doing that shit on freshly laundered sheets, right?

In the midst of all this excitement I managed to win Slapdash Mama Sarah's Blogaversary Competition! I've never won anything so this was quite thrilling indeed. She wrote a lovely poem about me or actually about Boganville I think, which was quite charming and you can read it here. Thanks Sarah!

Of course this leads me to another confession. In writing this poem, Slapdash somehow managed to 'out' me and reveal my darkest secret.

You may be shocked to discover that I am not really a bogan despite my Boganville address. GASP.

Oh okay, I outed myself in the comments (and every other week here in my own space, when I bang on about The Carpenters). Minor detail. Anyway, since I've really got nothing else to write about except the same old boring as batshit bogan shtick, I think we can all just overlook that and go with it, right? Besides, whether I'm really a bogan or not is debatable. I live in bogan territory and that alone is enough for some folk. So ner. Added to the fact that I write gibberish with dubious attention to grammar and phrases like so ner. So ner. NER NER NER NER!!

THIS turned up in my Facebook feed the other day.

 To the person who posted it, it worked. I am, quite frankly annoyed that nobody is with me on this cancel Christmas thing. It will be your own fault when you feel like poking your own eyeballs out from hearing Mariah Carey wailing about what she wants for Christmas for the billionth time. You've been warned.

Another thing that has been bothering me of late is the fact that I suddenly  remembered that a few months ago a lovely blogger presented me with one of those Leibster Awards or some such thing. Anyway, because I perpetually have my head lodged firmly up my posterior and I'm SUCH a space cadet I have forgotten who that lovely person was and not responded. So, whoever you were THANKYOU. It's not you, it's me, okay?

And that brings me limping to the end of this pointless post about nothing. Stay tuned for the next post when I'll actually blog about SOMETHING. Or nothing again. You never know. Ahem.

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

'                                      Should  I really ask another pointless question? Oh look, I did!

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An Open Letter To 2013

Dear 2013,

First of all, four words.

SLOW THE FUCK DOWN ALREADY!!

Okay, that was five words. I have more.

It seems like only yesterday that I welcomed you whole heartedly with my usual quiet night in wild, crazy party, eagerly anticipating everything that you would bring. As fireworks exploded in a frenzy outside (nothing to do with NYE, just a typical night in Boganville) I mapped out an exciting year filled with amazing experiences, opportunities and achievements.

There I was, picturing myself six months down the track, slim, sleek and superior having succeeded in sticking to that major health kick/diet/fitness extravaganza we all aspire to on January 1st. This was the year. It was all happening. No excuses. After all, I was turning 42 and I would finally know the answer to The Meaning Of Life. It's 42, right?

Therefore, I was poised to possess all the wisdom of the ages come January 15, 2013 when my 42nd birthday rolled around. Wrong.

Instead, I remained as clueless as ever. By August I all I had achieved was high cholesterol and blood sugar levels. Classy.

Additionally I was certain that 2013 would see us finally living in that McMansion in Boganville Heights but we remain firmly ensconced in the Bogan Box like happy little sardines. Or not so little sardines in my case. Ahem.

Apparently it already October. That cannot be right. That means that Christmas is around the corner despite my frantic efforts to officially cancel it for this year. Nobody seems to be taking any notice and I'm afraid that the next time I venture to the shops there will be tinsel everywhere and Mariah Carey warbling about all she wants for Christmas. MAKE IT STOP!

I mean, for goodness sake, 2013, couldn't you have just let the Autumn months linger for a bit longer this year? The leaves are all pretty, it's sunny through the day and cool enough at night to sleep which is a win/win situation for everyone. But now we're heading into Summer which means not only will it be Christmas but also frightfully hot and we can't have that or I'll whinge just like I whinge when it's too cold. At least I'm a consistent whinger. That's something.

I simply can't understand why, when there is so much technology these days that nobody has found a way to stop time. Seriously, 2013 you are just moving along frightfully, awfully, alarmingly, shockingly, astonishingly, amazingly and any other word you can bung 'ly' on the end of, fast.

Yes, I am well aware that an abundance of adverbs is the sure sign of a lazy, novice writer but I've never pretended to be anything else, have I? So ner. I'm going with it.

Furthermore, I had envisioned 2013 as the year when I would finally be able to write one of those smug, posturing end of year Christmas type posts/letters bragging about how completely fabulous, marvellous, stupendous, momentous and any other word you can bung 'ous' on the end of, the year had been for us.

Instead you will be stuck with my usual self-deprecating drivel. You're welcome.

Frankly it's all your fault, 2013. You have left me NO TIME to achieve anything. Okay, so I've had a whole ten months. Or nine months and 3 days. Minor detail. Ahem.

There is only approximately 80 something days until Christmas and in that time I have SO MUCH happening. Mr 4 becomes Mr 5 in a month's time and begins Kindergarten orientation. Right after he 'graduates' from pre-school. When did that start happening? Four and five year olds graduating complete with cap and gown?

I could have sworn he was only a baby five minutes ago. In addition to this, Mr 12 will be heading off to High School in 2014. While my heart will burst with pride, at the same time it's all a bit disconcerting that they are growing up so quickly and I just need to hit the pause button for a while. It's making my head spin.

At this rate they will all be grown up and become young men and I'm not ready. What on Earth will I blog or tweet about without my little men? I might have to actually get a life! Scary.

When I was a little girl 2013 seemed so far away and futuristic, now it's nearly over. I was certain somebody would have invented a time machine by now. Sigh.

I know you won't listen, 2013. You will be done and dusted practically before I finish typing. My head will spin right off my shoulders and I will spend months trying to catch up, still writing 2013 when it's 2014 just so you can continue to mock me. You win.

I'm off to try to frantically do ALL THE THINGS in less than three months. You have forced me to think about Christmas shopping in October. Who does that? Intelligent, organised people, you say? See? You're already mocking me. It's Mocktober. In fact, I've decided I'm over you, 2013. Bring on 2014.

2014 will be sensible and crawl along at a snails pace, right? Or I'll just start the whole mess over again...*sobs*

 Yours Regretfully,

Ness


Linking up with Robo for The Lounge.

                    
                                 Are you getting into the Christmas spirit? Or is 2013 spinning out of
                                                                 control for you?

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Are You Being Served (By A Freakazoid)?

Customer service is certainly not my 'thing'. In fact people are not even my thing, period. Which is odd considering that I'm supposed to be one. Debatable. I may look like something resembling a person, albeit a rather unattractive one but I'm quite positive that I'm not one. Unsure what weird kind of alien species I am, really but my friend Randa came up with the word Freakazoid and I like it so I'll pinch that.

How does this Freakazoid know that Customer Service isn't her thing? Because she is a Freakazoid, that's how. The fact that she talks about herself in the third person just adds to the whole Freakazoid phenomenon.  Additionally, she also worked in a Customer Service type job for 3 years back in the 1990's. It wasn't much fun. I guess that might be why it's called work. Ahem. More specifically it was a call centre for N R No Way, a rather well known insurance and motor side assistance concern.

The point of this post is that I am not going to complain about any poor Customer Service that I've received. Instead I am going to take the opportunity to say this:

If you ever called N R No Way between the years 1994 to 1997 and dealt with a whispery voiced, ineffectual eejit who didn't know the answers to any of your questions then put you on hold a rather annoying amount of times in order to go and find out before eventually cutting you off, it was probably me and I am deeply and sincerely sorry. Terribly, terribly, frightfully sorry. And no, I can't get through a post without channelling Enid Blyton. You'll just have to deal with it. Smashing.

Furthermore, if you received a quotation from said ineffectual eejit ie. me and then barked into the phone "What was your name? Melissa, was it?" intending to ring back later, only to ring back and have difficulty locating the 'Melissa' you spoke to, that was because my name is actually Vanessa but I didn't correct you because obviously I wanted to dodge your return call.

Again, ever so sorry. Sort of. Kind of. Okay, not really. Bloody people!  Just because I was getting paid to provide service to you didn't mean I liked it! Seriously. What exactly do want from me? I was trying to be nice here and apologise but I can feel the judgement. How DARE you judge me?!

I do not deserve such judgement. I'm a nice person! All those cranky people wanting cheap insurance and ringing me were mean and nasty and annoying! Honestly, how RUDE is it to expect the sales assistant on the other end of the phone to know what they were talking about and pitch their voice above a whisper? Hmph.

I couldn't seriously be expected to deal with such trivial matters as Customer Service when I was clearly a writerly genius waiting to happen. Shut up. I could write the great Australian novel if I wanted to instead of a boring as batshit bogan blog. I just can't be arsed don't think the World is ready for that much of my sheer brilliance yet. Ahem.

While we are on the subject of my abysmal Customer Service ability I will also say that if you were an insufferably arrogant car dealer salesman type person who rang me and bellowed some sort of nonsensical code like thing at me such as "ALPHA, FOXTROT, ROMEO, BRAVO, 8900767198!!" and expected me to know what the actual fuck you were talking about and to be able to type all this information quicker than the speed of light and then became all belligerent and shouty when I couldn't keep up and demanded to speak to my supervisor, then I have two words for you:

FUCK YOU.

On second thought, no. Not those two words. I do not wish to fuck you. I wouldn't touch you with a barge pole. Partly because I have no idea what a barge pole is exactly but it sounds heavy. So yeah, no barge poles for me. Also, you are probably a hideous, balding gargoyle in an ill fitting suit with gold chains. Ew. Instead try this:

I think I feel better now. You will be happy to know that I resigned from the job and never tortured anyone with my dubious Customer Service skills ever again. And I never will. I've found an easier way to torture people. This blog. So ner.

A final thought on Customer Service. Well, not really a thought, more like an anecdote. I don't really remember any stories of horrifying Customer Service (besides my own woeful attempts) but rather an establishment not actually providing the product they were renowned for.

This happened once when we drove through  the drive through of a popular fast food chain. As you do, because this is why they are called drive throughs because you drive through them, you don't walk. That would be silly. Plus it would totally defeat the purpose, which is to be as bone lazy as possible while purchasing junk food. It just makes the path to obesity that much smoother, which I think we'll all find is quite handy. Or is that just me?

Anyway, I'll get to the point. Eventually. Soon. Alright, now.

This particular fast food concern is known for serving chicken as their main type of food. Let's just call them Red Rooter. Again, I must thank my esteemed friend Randa for this excellent turn of phrase. The following happened.

We cruised to a halt at the ordery thingy ( I have no idea what you call them) to hear the usual monotone "What would you like?"

To which Micky Blue Eyes replied "One whole chicken please."

Pause.

Then the monotone voice came again. "Sorry, we have no chicken."

Excuse me?

No chicken? At a chicken shop. Red Rooter no less.

 I just wanted to say Red Rooter again. I'm really mature. Shut up.

Becoming rather annoyed at this news, Micky Blue Eyes exclaimed "Is this a fucking chicken shop, or what?"

They ignored this, instead asking "Is there anything else you'd like?"

We really just wanted the chicken and figured Red Rooter was a sure thing for it. Apparently not.

"No thanks. " Mick growled and we sped off feeling rather annoyed and still hungry for chicken.

How rude of them not to have any chicken when they were a chicken establishment who at the time were known for proudly proclaiming:

 Australia, your chicken is ready! Hmph.

Imagine going to the bank to withdraw money and they say "I'm sorry. We have no money."

Imagine going to a florist for flowers and being told "I'm sorry. We have no flowers."

Imagine going to a bakery for bread and being told "I'm sorry. We have no bread."

Actually that last one would be okay because they would usually have cakies so who cares about boring old bread when there are CAKIES.

No, I can't get through a whole post without mentioning cakies either. Shut up.

Right, that's it from me then. As you were.

Linking up with The Queen Of Awesome for The Lounge.

Do you love providing Customer Service or are you more of a Freakazoid like me?

                      Any customer service horror stories you can tell me so I can comfort myself
                       that there are worse Freakazoids than me? There is, isn't there??

 

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Escape From Boganville: It's Controversial (Not Really)

The weekend before last I managed to escape from Boganville.  I have barely managed this in 42 years except for the odd holiday here and there. Born and bred bogan. That's me. Classy. Naturally if an opportunity arises to escape from here, I would wish to visit somewhere glamorous and exciting. A faraway place bursting with culture and sophistication. Luckily, this place fitted all the above criteria. Two words.

Wagga Wagga. Or is it one word repeated? Whatever.

This exciting escape presented itself to me when my Mum mentioned she was heading there to surprise my aunt for her 70th birthday. I figured I'd tag along. It was decided that I would go with my parents and Mr 9 and 4. Micky Blue Eyes and Mr 12 already had a Darwin adventure planned for the following week.

The plan was that myself and the boys would sleep over at my parents house on the Thursday so we could leave early on Friday morning, stopping at Maccas for breakfast and returning the following Monday. So it was that I slept in my old bedroom with Mr 9 and 4, which is still painted a delightful  shade of peach However, most of my Queen Anne bedroom ensemble has disappeared with only the beside table remaining. The room now sports two beds, a 'king' single and a single. Therefore I spent a relaxing night in the King single cuddled up to Mr 4.

I woke up early.The boys were still blissfully asleep having been up late the previous night chattering away. Finally I had to wake them.  Pointlessly, I called to them to wake up. Nothing. I tried again.  Still nothing. There was only one thing to do.

"Wake up! It's time to go to Macca's! Do you want to go to Macca's?" I shouted.

Two sets of eyes shot open. "YES!" they chorused.

They were up and dressed in record time. And we were on the road. Which isn't very interesting to write about. We passed the time playing Eye Spy. Mr 4 wanted to control the whole game, which resulted in him and his brother fighting. Quite a relaxing way to spend a car journey. NOT. Eventually they dozed off for a while and we made it to Maccas at Goulburn. I've never seen two boys devour hot cakes and hash browns so fast. Anybody would think I never feed them. I do. Sometimes. I can't help it if that bloody Dinner Fairy never shows up! Shut up.

Hours later we arrived in Wagga and found our motel. Unfortunately our room was upstairs. Unfortunate because LAZY. Once again, shut up.

The plan was to head over to my cousin's house and surprise my aunt which we did. She was surprised but delighted to see us. We spent the rest of the afternoon chatting and drinking endless cups of tea. I worked out that it had been roughly 8 years since I'd seen my cousin and she'd never seen Mr 4 (soon to be 5). The sooner somebody invents one of those beaming up devices the better. Come on inventors it's 2013 already!

I won't bore you with every tiny detail of the weekend because it might sound like all we did is eat, drink and talk. Which we did. Is there a problem with that? Ahem. A wonderful time was had by all and we made it back home on Monday.

At this point you may have noticed that there is nothing remotely controversial about this post at all. And every one of my other posts. I  have to confess, I don't really do controversy. Instead, I do a lot of blahing. It's totally a verb, okay? I should know because it's what I do quite frequently. Feel a bit blah about everything and anything. Spend a minute, hour, day blahing. But I am trying to be a bit less 'blah'. But I have to confess it is most decidedly uphill work. When you have a tendency to 'blah' trying not to is a bit like pushing shit uphill while wading through quicksand. But I digress.

In fact when I saw this on The Lounge's FB wall I figured I should probably quit blogging.

I don't really do any of those things. Other than maybe giving people a bit of chuckle from time to time. And tweeting Can't really say my tweets are Earth shattering, though. Especially after spending a whole day a few days ago tweeting Carpenters lyrics while everyone else was tweeting inspirational #pbevent stuff. Sigh.  But that was one of the reasons I figured I could get away with it. Nobody was paying attention to me because they were all at that ProBlogger thingy. Ahem.

Plus, who says Carpenters songs aren't inspirational? At least one of them encourages the listener to:

"Sing, song a song! Don't worry that it's not good enough for anyone else to hear! Just sing, sing a song!"

So, I may as well apply the same theory to my blog  regardless of the lack of controversy or cutting edge posts. I'm just going to:

Blog! Blog a post! Don't worry that's it's not good enough for anyone else to read! Just blog! Blog a post!

Everybody join in!

LA LA LA LA LA! LA LA LA LA LA LA! LA LA LA LA LA LA  LAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Lazily linking up ridiculously late with Kimbooli for The Lounge.

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

Have you made any escapes lately? Do you like being controversial?

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The Buried Hopes Of A Bogan (Or Something)

It's hard to believe that I could have any regrets. I mean, just look at my life. I'm a 42 year old unemployable, overweight bogan living in a fibro box in Boganville. It doesn't get any better than that, right? However the truth is, my life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes now. That's a sentence I once read in a book and I say it over to comfort myself in these times that try the soul. Not really. The first part about the buried hopes, anyway. I've just always wanted to use that line out of Anne Of Green Gables. Ahem.

Anyway, onto my regrets. Deep regretful sigh. SIGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Surprisingly I do have  a few. I think it would probably be a good thing to confess to them and let them go. I'll feel so much better and move forward free from regrets, a huge weight finally lifted from my shoulders. That, or I'll just add this post to the list. Who knows? Only one way to find out. In no particular order I present my list of bogan regrets:

• I regret decorating the living room of my parents house with a texta pen when I was around three years old. Sorry Mum!
• I regret kicking that boy in the shins at school when he tried to comfort me because I was peeved about not getting to go home early one day when my brother did. Even though I don't remember exactly who you were. Sorry, dude.
• I regret reading my Enid Blyton books under the desk at school. (Actually, no I don't. Honestly, what 10 year old book worm could put those books down and concentrate on their long division just when George and Timmy the dog were about to catch those nasty smugglers? None, right? The thing was impossible.)
• I regret cutting off my long hair when I was 14.
• I regret then thinking that a mullet perm was a good idea. Or any perm.
• I regret wasting so much energy thinking I was 'fat' when I was younger.
• I regret turning down that lucrative modelling contract when I was younger because I thought I was 'fat'.
• Okay, there was no contract. I just made that last point up to see if you were paying attention. As if you would believe that anyway. Did you? Don't answer that.
• I regret making that up, okay?! (Not really, I have to get your attention somehow. Ahem.)
• I regret saving up a sizeable chunk of money when I was young, ostensibly so I could go overseas and then just getting married and putting it into a mortgage and never going, because now that will never happen. An even deeper regretful sigh. SIGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.
• I regret perceiving being such a quiet person as extremely negative trait and not seeing it as a possible strength in having a library career.
• I regret the consequence of the above perception. This resulted in me 'burning my bridges' in almost every job I had. I ended up leaving because I believed it was only a matter of time before I was fired. I have since learnt that this is common thing that Aspie's do.
• Sometimes I regret not knowing that I am Aspie sooner than age 40. Unsure if it would have made any difference so I don't spend too much time on this regret.
• I regret turning down Brad Pitt's proposal because then he went and married that bloody pouty Angelina Jolie biatch.
• Okay, you caught me making up stuff again. I admit, it was a bit obvious that time. As if anyone would turn me down for Angelina. Unthinkable, right? Pfffffffffffffft.
• I regret replacing my exercise addiction with a cakie one because now I'm struggling to reverse that.
  
• I regret going to Weight Watchers a few years ago and doing so well, losing weight, only to fall off the wagon spectacularly and regain. See above point.
• I really regret that anxiety has become such a presence in my life and is something I struggle with constantly. Enormous regretful sigh containing all the sorrows of the ages. SIGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Having now confessed to such a long list of regrets I must add that I am (slowly) learning to accept myself and the way things are right now, rather than focusing on 'could have beens' and 'shoulds' and 'what ifs' and all that maudlin stuff that can be quite draining and a waste of energy. After all, I haven't listed any murders, have I? Oh wait. I accidentally murdered my dog. Oops. Long story. I do deeply and profoundly regret that. Sorry Betsy!

Right. That's it. Nothing else. I've never been arrested, been caught naked or done drugs or anything illegal. Damn. I'm actually frightfully boring. Maybe I better go and get arrested just so I can add something interesting to my list. I regret being boring. On second thought, being boring is what I do best. Especially with this blog. You're welcome.

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

   What are your regrets? Or do you have more of an Edith Piaf approach to life and have no regrets?

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The Nerdiest Girl In The School

"LONG AGO AND OH SO FAR AWAY..."

TIME: 1983

PLACE: Boganville High School, the main quadrangle.

 

 Picture it.  A time when raging cases of TES were everywhere, (Tragic Eighties Syndrome). Bad perms, bubble skirts and Duran Duran....

  Noise and activity flurried all around me.  Shouts and laughter that didn't include me, pierced their way into my consciousness, as I sat all alone at the edge of the quad. I wasn't part of any of it, but a spectator, silently sitting there, alone, reflecting on my tragic life as a nerd-girl.

A group of girls appeared in front of me, all of them laughing, sharing jokes with the kind of effortless rapport that was alien to me.  I felt them looking my way.  I tried not to notice, tried not to care.  Just then, one of them broke away from the group, approaching me.

Squirming uncomfortably on my seat, I looked towards her hopefully.  "Hi, how are you?" she edged nearer, smiling. I mumbled something incoherent.  Staring at me quite innocently she asked: "I was just wondering...do you shave your legs?"

It must be noted that, I did not, in fact, shave my legs.  A situation that, at a mere 12 years of age, did not bother me in the slightest. (Come to think of it, doesn't bother me in the slightest at age 42 either.  In fact, I might have to get Mick to run the lawn mower over them presently, as they are so hairy.) But I digress.

However, since it seemed to bother the other girls at school, I figured I'd ask my mum if I could begin.

Me, with all my friends, aged 12

"No," she replied "you're too young.  Once you start doing all that, you never stop.  You've still got plenty of time."  At this point, I imagine any other girl would have decided to completely ignore their mum, sneak into the bathroom, pinch a razor and do the deed anyway.  Not this tragic nerd-girl and Miss Goody Two Shoes.

I trudged back to school, legs still hairy, book in bag.  Books were my major companion at recess and lunch.  Another example of my tragic nerdiness.  I'd chosen books over flesh and blood friends. Here's how it happened.

I used to have something resembling a friendship with another girl in primary school.  I use the term friendship loosely.  It consisted mainly of her bossing and patronising me, like the time she convinced me to go to Jazz Ballet with her just so that she could then condescendingly tell this uncoordinated klutz that if I tried really hard I might be as good as her next year.  In all fairness to her, no amount of trying or practising would have ever made me good at any form of dancing!

I put up with Miss Patronising, or Pat as I shall call her, the type of person who might patronise God himself, because I simply didn't have any other friends - other than imaginary ones, and I figured being patronised and condescended to was preferable to spending every minute of school life achingly lonely and friendless.

Anyway, during 6th grade, she unceremoniously dumped me as a friend, steadfastly ignoring me and leaving me in the dust for a cooler group.  Consequently, when she rang me during the Christmas holidays, shortly before starting high school, I possibly should have been on guard.  Instead I scurried over like a timid mouse after any crumbs.

I suspect we might have had the Barbies out at one stage.  As we were about to start high school, you might expect Barbies dolls to have been a bit lame at this point, but I continued playing with them unperturbed.  Pat, on the other hand, was clearly worried, as she began to give me disdainful looks as her lecture began. 

 

"You know, you have to act tough in high school," she began, importantly "otherwise you'll have no friends."

 I carried on dressing Barbie, oblivious to the seriousness of her tone. "But don't worry," she added "I'll still hang around with you, as long as you stop reading books."

 

I gaped. Stop reading books? Wouldn't it be easier to just stop breathing?  Did she mean all books, or just Enid Blyton books? I mean, I kind of knew that I was getting to old for my frequent trips up the magic faraway tree.  A place where I seem to have permanently remained.  Off with the pixies. 

There was NO WAY I could stop reading books.  The thing was impossible.  Consequently the 'friendship' was over.  Gloomily, I trudged home, wondering where all the 'kindred spirits' from my beloved 'Anne' books were.

It wasn't long before Pat was surrounded by friends at High School, while I sat there. Alone. Reading a book.  So I guess she was right. Sigh.  Books will always be my best friend.

To make matters worse, just as I was about to start high school, Karen Carpenter died. Right when I was in the throes of becoming a major fan. I was heartbroken. Of course nobody, least of all the other girls at school, understood my sorrow. Liking the Carpenters went hand in had with reading books and not having a boyfriend. At barely 12 years old. Imagine. Spinsterhood here I come.

 I had been dreading starting high school. Boganville High School was considered to be the roughest school for "under privileged" kids in Sydney's western suburbs. For months I had been hearing horror stories about how the older kids grabbed the year seven kids and flushed their heads in the toilet by way of "initiating" them. Naturally, if you happened to be shy, quiet, liked reading and listening to the Carpenters it could make you a prime candidate for such treatment. I crept around the school playground with my head down, terrified that some sinister bunch of hoodlums would attack me at any moment and drag me into the toilets. Nobody even noticed me. After a week had passed I finally relaxed, realising that maybe some of these horror stories had been exaggerated somewhat.

One morning at recess, I proceeded to read my latest book in my usual position, not far from where the canteen was situated, when I happened to hear a conversation taking place only a few yards away.  Pat was leading it, my ex so-called 'best friend' from primary school. They were discussing Karen Carpenters death which was news at the time.  Pat was saying "Yes, its really sad because they were husband and wife (??!!) and they'd only just gotten married (??!!) and they'd just started out in their musical career.

Normally I was the quietest person on earth, but I couldn''t let that pass.

"That's wrong," I said, surprising them. They hadn't even realised I was there. I went on to inform them that Karen and Richard were NOT husband and wife, but brother and sister and not only that, they had been around for some time and had a lot of hits. Of course, I expected them to be interested and grateful that I had volunteered the information but instead Pat just gave me a withering look along with the rest of them and said "Oh really?" just as if she might have said "Big deal".    

Year 10 formal, circa 1986. I was
already stunningly gorgeous and
talented. So ner.

However, it was while at High School that I began the transformation from a mega nerd from Hell to the person I am today:  a mega nerd bogan from Hell a talented writer and gorgeous, smokin' hawt fox. Observe. I became a published author. Sort of. Kind of. Not really. Oh okay, it was only in the school magazine, but that counts, right? This is the blinding piece of sheer brilliance I wrote at only age 15. A fictional story that I wrote. Read it and weep:

FACE TO FACE

Out here in the country, where everything is fresh and beautiful, it's difficult to believe that all the violence and crime you read about in the newspapers everyday really happens. The air is crisp and clean and the trees stand tall and majestic against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. Kookaburras laugh loudly from their perches and the smell of eucalyptus is heavy in the air.

We had chosen the perfect spot for our holiday, a quiet little cottage in the midst of the country. The mysterious guy my sister was heartbroken over was sure to be forgotten here. Mum was already looking cheerful - and me? Well, I was just trying to rid myself of this strange eerie feeling. A premonition of something awful about to happen. What could possibly  happen out here where the people are greener than the grass?

I walked slowly, admiring the scenery. My mind was racing. What was this feeling? I tried to ignore it, but something told me I was living each day, waiting. For what, I didn't know. But I was soon to find out.

Jessica flew past me on horseback. Horse riding was  her passion, but I stuck to bikes. Even though we were sisters and looked alike, our personalities were entirely different. Jessica was adventurous, daring and very naive. She had just been hurt recently by some guy my mother and I had never even met. I watched her slowly gallop into the distance and settled down under a tree to enjoy the sunshine.

Glancing around, I searched for someone, but there was nobody. I had the odd feeling that someone was watching me. It had been happening on and off all day and it was beginning to give me the creeps. There's no one here, I told myself, determined to shake off this feeling of gloom. But it was there.

And it was still there moments later when I looked up and saw Jessica's horse galloping towards me, but no sign of Jessica. Panic gripped me, my mind full of horrifying visions of Jessica lying wounded from where she had fallen off the horse. Not thinking of the stupidity of my actions, I hurried in the direction from where the horse had come.

It was only when I was lost in a maze of trees that I berated myself fiercely. "Jessica! Where are you?" I called loudly. No answer. And no wonder. I stopped short in utter disbelief. For there she lay at my feet. Not wounded, but dead! There were no words to describe my emotions at that moment. My common sense told me that she couldn't have been killed just by falling from a horse.

"Jessica! Oh my God!" Tears were streaming down my face as I dropped to my knees beside my sister's still body. There was the unmistakable sign that a knife had been used to slit her throat. Somebody had killed her and that somebody was still lurking around waiting to kill me too.

I heard  the foot steps at that moment and turned rising to my feet. There he was. I was face to face with my sister's killer. He wasn't menacing at all. Just an ordinary looking guy. But he held a knife in his right hand.

"Hello, Anne." He knew my name. "Yes, I know you, your sister's told me all about you." He answered my unasked question.

"But she's dead now and I'm going to kill you, too." He stated it calmly, as if it were something he did everyday.

"No!" I fled past him before he could move. Just a moment ago I had found my sister dead. It was all a dream, it had to be a dream, I thought as I ran and ran. I knew he was right behind me.

It's amazing how fast you can run when you're afraid. I raced into the cottage, yelling to my mother, I rushed to slam the door, but he was stronger than me and pushed his way in, grabbing me.

My mother screamed, spotting the knife. He held me in a vice like grip, moving the knife towards my throat. He was bereft of reason, only wanting to kill, destruct.  He didn't seem to realise that my mother was there, quickly phoning the police. But we had to do something fast before I was dead.

Using all my strength, I kicked him hard in the shins and ran from his arms. He dropped the knife in my escape and I grabbed it quickly. He looked around the room as if he didn't know where he was. Then suddenly he fell to his knees, crying.

He was still there crying when the police arrived. A crazy man, familiar with drugs and the guy my sister had been heartbroken over. He was taken away in the back of a police car. We never saw him again. Never wanted to either.

My mother coped well with the funeral, but we both went to pieces afterwards. My sister was only eighteen and she was dead. Dead through the insanity of a very sick man. I realised that I would never forget what happened, but life had to go on and somehow I would face it.

 

Needless to say, I'm still a painfully woeful highly skillful writer, as this boring as batshit bogan blog proves. It's also comforting to know, that thirty years later, I haven't matured beyond the age of twelve. After all, being a grown up is totally over rated. 

Linking up with Rachel at The Very Inappropriate Blog for The Lounge.

 

                                 What do you remember about your teenage years?

 

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Passions

Those lovely ladies known as the Lounge Lizards apparently want to know what I’m passionate about. Well, duh, as if it isn’t obvious.

CAKIES!

From a young age I was always known for two traits. My unrelenting drive and passion. For cake. Or chocolate. This has propelled me to the dizzying heights (who wouldn’t be dizzy, with all that sugar in your system) I’ve reached today,  as a professional Fatty Boombah Bogan.

This was emphasised to me by an anecdote related to me by my mother of the time when I was around the tender age of three, or perhaps four, who knows. You expect me to remember back that far? I can’t remember five minutes ago!

Anyway, evidently Mum had taken me out shopping and paused to have a coffee. However, I had other ideas.  I kept repeatedly asking for “Something nice,” emphasising the word ‘nice’ with a posh little plum in my mouth.  This refrain went on for several minutes, while Mum attempted to enjoy her coffee.

She tried to ignore my demands. Undaunted, I continued my efforts.

“Mummy, can I please have something nice?”

Finally, after another five minutes or so of my constant nagging heartfelt pleas, Mum eventually threw me a sachet of sugar.

“Here,” she said, exasperated “have this!”

My little three year old eyes fell on it. With a tone dripping in condescension and derision I  scathingly declared:

“BIG DEAL!”

I was cute once. And I wanted something 'nice', not
a sugar sachet! HMPH.

How dare anyone thwart me from having my desired and much sought after slice of cake! CAKE, I say, not a silly old sugar sachet!

In between my frequent cakie consumption, I could be found curled up with a book, my other passion. Sometimes I traded the book for our dachshund dog, Samantha. I tried to smuggle Samantha into bed with me once. When Sammy went to doggy heaven, along came Penny and Skippa.  I was devoted to those dogs. The fact that I never had to actually clean up their crap probably added to their appeal. Penny and Skippa went on to have pups. In an essay written for school about my life, I remarked that I’d never seen anything cuter than those puppies ‘not even a human baby’.  Clearly I needed to get out more. Or all that sugar was affecting my brain. Or both. Regardless, I was besotted with books, dogs and cakies.  Not to mention chocolate.

Me with my mullet perm and Skippa, circa 1985. Classy.

My passion for baked goods and all things chocolatey, continued on in my teens when I proceeded to take the old ‘Mars a day’ slogan quite literally. I devoured a Mars Bar every single day after school, while remaining annoyingly slim. Annoying to others, I’m sure. Annoying to me now, knowing that this phenomenon will remain firmly back in 1985, along with mullet perms and bubble skirts.  The latter two can stay there. However, I want my fourteen year old metabolism back, thank you very much. Hmph.

Perhaps continuing with the syrupy sweet theme, I also developed a deep and abiding love for Carpenters music at around age 11 which has continued onto this day. This is yet another lifelong passion.  Ironically, Karen Carpenter died from an eating disorder shortly after I fell passionately in love with her voice and music. This meant I was now passionate about cakies – and the World’s most famous anorexic, something only I could achieve. So ner. After all, while others worried about trying to save the whales or the ozone layer, SOMEBODY had to focus on the important issues. What could be more important than cake and Carpenters? Don't answer that...

Then, one day, years later, there came an epoch in my life.  A ‘bend in the road’ as ‘Anne’ would say.  I was unable to become pregnant and it appeared that a little bit of weight loss might help the situation. Surprisingly, I was able to develop a new passion, a very unexpected one. Exercise.

It worked, and one by one, babies came along. With each subsequent baby my passion for exercise waxed and waned. Meanwhile, my devotion to cakies and chocolate continued unabated.  After all, I could have given them up, too, but I’m no quitter, as they say. Whoever ‘they’ are.

My singular determination and unremitting pursuit of all things sugary is what has shaped me into the person I am today. An overweight bogan with high cholesterol who knows the words to every Carpenters song. Not many people can boast about that.  Shut up.

Not to be beaten, I am now determined to reclaim my long lost passion for exercise. After all these years it appears that my love affair with cakies and chocolate must now tragically come to an end. It’s not me, it’s them. While I have passionately loved them, it appears that they do not love me. Cue hysterical sobbing.

It turns out that there is one thing that I am truly passionate about.  Yes, even above and beyond cakies and Carpenters. Three things, actually.  Three of the most important people in my life.  My gorgeous boys. I love them passionately. For them, I will give up (or cut back, anyway- ahem) on cakies. I will even move my rather large arse and break a sweat everyday, until it becomes slightly less large.  I will do it because I passionately desire to be around for a hell of a long time, to see them grow up and possibly even be a Grandma one day. 

And if I do live to be 80, then I'm eating cake EVERY SINGLE DAY until I die from a diabetic coma. You can't stop me.  

Linking up with Slapdash Mama Sarah for The Lounge.

 
Also linking with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

                                                           What are YOU passionate about? 

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