But who the fuck cares about muffin tops, and also, what the fuck IS a muffin top?
This is the sort of fucked up shit I hate about the internet, women’s magazines and what I remember of high school (I’m trying to contract pattern-amnesia). JESUS CHRIST, sisters, just put on your goddamn clothes and get on your goddamn bike and FEEL THE ENDORPHINES! Then you don’t give one motherfucking shit about whether you’re… what? Alive? Having flesh upon your bones? Bringin’ the bounty, as what badass feministahs do?
The more time you spend worrying about whether or not you’re looking just some imaginary man would like you to look (or, more likely, looking the way some other woman with Issues is telling you you should look), the less time you can spend planning your next bike ride/website redesign/photography outing/sewing binge/crocheting craze/cooking fest/jazz routine/DJ set! I mean, come on – there aren’t really that many hours in the day – prioritise, people!
I can’t believe I followed that link. I can’t believe I read it! It’s a good thing there’re lolcats in the world.
Shoulda posted this earlier, I guess.
Category Archives: dogpossum
redesign!
I’d really like to redesign this site. It’s been ages since I gave it a new style sheet – years. I have no idea what’s cool in the css world these days, so I guess I’d better have a look.
I actually use my ‘blogroll’ all the time, so that should probably be further up. I could ditch a lot of that other stuff in the side bar, though. Maybe drop menus for the categories – or is that _so_ four years ago? Are we all into clouds? I’m not sure I like the messiness of clouds.
I think I want the sidebar on the right. That’s where everyone else has it these days.
I might make it so that more entries are displayed on the first page, and then do the ‘older’ link at the bottom, so people can navigate backwards through time, a chunk of entries at a time. That’s how I like to navigate people’s blogs.
There are quite a few spacing issues that need fixing – some proportions need tidying up. I think I’m ready to go border free. Completely border free. Kind of a big step for someone as ob-con as myself; I like the order of boxes.
Most of all, I need to remember to do all this styling on the laptop, not on the imac. The imac has a fully sick screen, and the laptop is smaller and squashier. Using winblows? Well, I won’t be taking your needs into account. This will be firefox/safari friendly only.
and…
We have comments! Hurrah for The Squeeze and his cleverness.
bikes, cockatoos, plants and the freakin’ humidity
I can’t figure out what I’ve done with the comments. They’re busted. I think this blog needs an overhaul, anyway – it’s been ages since I did the templates. Probably also need to update to new MT. Or new blogging tool.
News:
– We are biking tourista grande! We are riding our bikes everywhere. I am trying to find a nice way of putting them on a map. Bikely isn’t very helpful (it has a craptastic site). Am considering special cycling blog. Nerdy enough? NO! But we have discovered some lovely river-side bike paths (Cooks River) and some sneaky off-road shady tree lined bike paths (somewhere in… Petersham? Parallel to… Hewson Canal ?). We have also decided we don’t like riding through stupid Darling Harbour (well, across that bridge – the Piermont? – it sucks) because not only are pedestrians dumb, but tourist pedestrians are stupidly dumb. I am also having brought home to me just how un-bike-aware Sydney drivers are. It’s like they freak out when they see a cyclist – they swing out really wiiiiide to get around us. Or they crawl along behind us. Melbourne motorists have mad cyclist-aware-skills. Also, Sydney drivers pull up at traffic lights at the very last minute. This is terrifying if you’re just in front of them, pulled up with one leg down, waiting for the lights to change (but also makes the point: do NOT hug the curb at lights – TAKE THE ENTIRE LANE).
If you’d like to come bike riding with us, drop me a line. I am very unfit atm, so we go slow. Especially on hills. We have taken many friends for their first-in-10-years bike rides. They’ve liked it. We’re kind and are quite happy just to poodle along, chatting and sticky beaking.
We also avoid busy roads and we like to explore and ‘just have a look’. We like a combination of urban streets (lots of windows to look in) and leafy bits. We’ve been surprised by how leafy Sydney is, and how many nice, quiet streets there are right here in the inner suburbs. There are also some really great bike paths. Even the city (on a Sunday) isn’t so scary. Though I don’t ride on the actual road.
We also like to stop regularly for cake.
– It was recently very hot here in Sydney. But now it is only quite warm and incredibly humid. It’s been drizzling all afternoon. That’s good, because we rode to Bunnings in Ashfield today (via Harbourfield) and bought plants. When we got to Bunnings we were (once again) shitted off by its shitfulness: no bike loops (well, duh – it’s like _the_ most car-centric place ever… after Ikea), inept staff, etc etc. But we bought plants. A grevillea and some sort of native climber (whose name I can’t remember). I wanted Telopea and Protea, but they are fuck-off expensive (as in $50 for small pots). So we said “fuck off!” and got the common-as-muck moonlight grevillea and cheapy native climber. Then we rode home. It was so hot. It was overcast, but I got burnt badly. Because I am a dickwit.
When we got home we rested. Then we cleaned our house. Then we planted the plants. I actually supervised (because I am still injured – and will be for at least another couple of months, if not forever (the future isn’t looking too good for my poor foot injury, but I don’t want to talk about that because it makes me cry. A future without dancing will do that.) The Squeeze dug. In the light rain. He was sweating more than it was raining because it’s so warm. The holes are great, though. And the dirt drains nicely. Anyways, we planted those suckers.
Now we need another grevillea. I did see something I liked: some sort of grevillea (or was it a narrow-leafed banksia?) which had dark purpley/marooney leaves. It was neat. I was thinking a couple of those with a bunch of knee-high purple grasses (which were just near by) would be wonderful. But I can never go past the grevillea. And I wasn’t sure the purple one flowered – it didn’t have a very useful tag. I did want to get something indigenous to this area, but, frankly, we’re a bit short of accessible nurseries here. You have to have a car to really get sweet lowdown. I am going to check out the Marrickville markets some weekend soon – I need a cheaper source of plants. And I also want to stay away from the Bunnings type plants. I want something that’s not force-grown in big green houses or big plantings. I want tough plants grown in some poppa’s back yard in cheap pots. Something street-wise and rough.
Anyways, I’m going to get those natives happening down the front, in front of the main bedroom windows. The climber will climb up the railing on the front steps (but I’ll clip it to stop it getting onto the top rail). I’d really like to plant up the grass down there with some taller native grasses, but I don’t think our land lord would like that. I’m also thinking about veggies and herbs again. I just can’t live without my herb garden any longer. And this weather is so plant-perfect. We’ll see.
– Today we saw something awesome. As we were digging in the garden (well, The Squeeze was the one actually digging – I was standing under an umbrella in his crocs supervising and carrying the watering can) a bunch of rowdy cockatoos landed on the facade of the olden days flats on the opposite corner. There were about six or eight of them and they were obviously feeling their oats. Feeling all charged up by the cool and wet (after a little research, I’ve discovered they like to flap about in the rain to bathe themselves). They clambered about on the front of the building shouting for a while. Then they flew over to the olden days garage on the other corner. That’s when things got good. They’re such big, flamboyant birds. All yellow combs and huge white wings. They were very loud and social and clambered about all over the place, using their beaks and claws to get about. They were also digging about in the cracks of the buildings and the power pole. They spent some time pulling the power pole to bits (literally – they pulled great chunks off the top and threw them on the road) and shouting. Then they started pulling bits off the garage’s facade.
They started just digging in the cracks and pulling off bits of plaster. Then they started pulling bricks out of the facade. Real bricks. The big chunks of masonry and plaster and brick fell down with big crashes and the cockatoos shouted and laughed and called across to each other. They were spread out all over the facade and the power lines and power poles, upside down, ride side up, combs up, wings out. It was awesome. Eventually the guy in the flat above the garage stuck his head out the window to see what was going on. The cockatoos kind of sneered and shouted at him and carried on. Until one pulled a massive brick out of the wall and nearly dropped it on another who was trying to pull the window awning off. Then they got a scare and had a shout at each other, then flapped up to the power pole. And then down the street. It was like a rowdy bunch of… large, rowdy birds… were moving their way down the street, shouting and talking and pulling shit to bits. It was fully sick. I didn’t think to take a photo til far too late. So just take my word for it, ok?
It’s nice to live in a city with lots of native trees and plants, and, consequently, lots of native birds. Unlike noxious-weed-Melbourne, which is chock full of stupid introduced plants.
– Today we rode up the bike route to a little cafe in Dulwich Hill. It was full of skanky yuppies. The food was ok. Then we decided to ride on to the Bunnings in Ashfield via Harbourfield. I got burnt. We both got freakin’ hot. We rode back from Ashfied. We are badarse.
Yesterday we went in on the train to Town Hall station to collect The Squeeze’s bike from his office. Then we rode across Piermont Bridge, down the side of Darling Harbour. We spent some time looking at a ship. That was neat, but not as neat as the books in Piratica. They’re the best because they’re pirate ships. Captained by women.
Then we rode along the beach, looking at yuppy warehouses flats. They were boring. We rode past the park where they were having Jazz On The River. The grass was all brown, crackly sticks.
Then we rode on to the Fish Market. The market was hot and crowded and The Squeeze didn’t like it. So I foraged some sushimi, prawns and octopus. Then we rode on.
We were pretty freakin’ hot by then, and I was feeling weak, so we caught the light rail (which is just like a kind of piss-weak tram, but with REAL conductors (so you have to buy tickets) and which you can TAKE YOUR BIKES ON !!1!). That was a nice, short trip to Lillyfield.
From Lilyfield station we rode up the hill across Paramatta Road, then up a little hill and taking a right turn at a little cafe (which was called something like Lily and Somebody or something. It had its name written in white in ‘American Typewriter’ font on the window and was closed). Then we rode along the bike lanes to an old building which looked a bit like an old train station or some sort of feed station (a sort of Victorian loading or despatch dock).
Then we kept on riding along the ridge til we got to… um… a park.
Then we turned left on a road which had no cars at all.
Then we… rode a bit. Then we went down the Hewson Canal bike path, which is very nice and shady, but made me think ‘don’t ride here by yourself ever, ladies.’ We saw no one on that very nice bike path but three tiny little girls with bright white hair and one giant, bald dad.
Then we rode on and up til we got to the road that goes under a bridge – the end of Marion Street (which I think of as the road near the corner where I nearly stacked it on our first Big Ride).
Then we continued on and got onto another bike path past a giant dog park with about a squillion dogs roaming about.
Then we rode on to the bike path that runs along the canal that goes into the ocean.
Then we rode on. I can’t remember what happened there, but we ended up coming out on Old Canterbury Road at that weird stop sign. Then up Old Canterbury Road to Dulwich Hill. I was especially badarse on that last bit.
Basically, I am badarse because I’m not scared of hills any more. The Squeeze is badarse because he rides his one-gear bike very slowly, just behind me (but not too close or he gets yelled at). Going slow is harder than going fast.
it’s nice to know that your cervix is lovely
Yesterday, as we prepared for my pap smear (yes, I am blogging about this – brace yourselves, boys), the doctor asked about my aunt who had cervical cancer: “Did she survive?” I had to think a minute. Yes, she is alive. Survive? Hm. I think that she’s a different person, now, and that having cancer (cervical cancer) is something that changes you. So no, I don’t think she’s the same person she was, so perhaps she didn’t survive if by survive you mean ‘stayed the same’ or ‘continued as she was’.
I’m always surprised by how unwilling the women I know are to talk about pap smears. They’ll talk about it together, in groups, but with men… not so much. Are men so delicate that they need protecting from the idea that they are not the only ones with access to a woman’s cervix? It’s not even a particularly urky process. From my end, it’s all ‘knees up’ and then some business at the nerve-ending free part of my insides. I don’t see anything (though I guess I could – should I have asked for a mirror?), it’s painless (though kind of unusual-feeling), it’s quick. Frankly, the syringing of my ears is far more disturbing, what with the rushing of water in my ears, the giant inserting-injecting thing, the dislodged wax, the discoloured water… And we go about with our ears just sitting there on our heads, open and exposed.
I’m also surprised when women haven’t heard of the ‘fists under hips’ technique which helps make the whole process a lot less uncomfortable. A friend told me a few years ago, and it’s changed my pap smearing life. Basically, if you tilt your pelvis up (by propping it up, either with your fists under your buttocks, or with a pillow), it’s much easier for the doctor to see your cervix. Because, basically, a pap smear involves the doctor having a look deep, deep inside you at your cervix (mine is quite lovely, apparently. I felt a moment of pride for my perfect cervix, there with my fists under my bum, my undies on a chair beside me and a strange woman with a cue-tip saying hello to my ovaries). And when you’re that deep inside someone, you need some light so you can see what you’re doing, and you really like a nice, clear path to your destination. You want to be able to look the cervix right in the eye before you brush it or swab it or whatever it is you’re planning on doing in there.
At any rate, tilting your pelvis up with fists or cushions makes this whole process easier. I was surprised my doctor didn’t know the trick, or own one of those special pelvis-tipping cushions. [Speaking (in a brief side point) of pelvis-tipping cushions, did anyone else notice George Clooney’s purple velour one in Burn After Reading? Magic. That’s a man not only with an eye for ambitious machinery, but also the finer details.] But I made sure she knew just how useful the technique is.
The strangest part of a pap smear is always the thought that there’s someone right inside your body. I always think of that when they’re examining my ovaries from the inside. It’s strange to think that someone’s hand is so deep inside you. This is serious business. Part of me always wonders what my ovaries feel like. I mean, I feel them inside me, sometimes, but we’re not on a first name basis. And it’s not as though I feel I have a gaping hole or emptiness inside me. But suddenly, there’s room inside me for someone’s hand.
And then, of course, five minutes later you’re back in your clothes, on the bus and on your way to the fabric shop. And no one knows from looking at you.
Anyways, I guess the point of this post is to encourage women to get pap smears. And to encourage men not to be afraid of the topic. It’s a bit weird and it can be uncomfortable, but it’s better than the anxiety of wondering if you have cancer. It’s better than not knowing that you’re capable of dealing with your body and knowing your body from the inside out (if only via a doctor’s flashlight and observation). And there are tricks for making it more comfortable. Not just the pelvis tilting thing.
There are doctors who have mad skills – I always pay them a visit for something minor before I invest in a pap smear with a new doctor. I like to see how they look at me. I choose something that requires physical contact. My ears always need looking in. Sometimes I need my glands checked or my throat peered into. Whatever it is, I pay attention to the way they touch me and the way they talk to me. I like a doctor who’s reassuring, who listens, but who’s not alarmist and isn’t prepared to let me push them around. I like them to take time and to explain things and to make me laugh sometimes.
Not that I need to laugh when I’m having a pap smear, but it’s nice to know that someone’s paying attention and is gentle and is confident when they’re elbow deep in you.
And it’s nice to know that your cervix is lovely.
(I think this post was inspired by Stephanie’s, mostly because I think her writing about breast cancer is important. I’ve been thinking about these things lately (because it was this time a few years ago my mother was very, very ill in hospital) and I’ve been wondering why I can talk about my stupid ears but not my lovely cervix).
comments?
I have had some serious problems with spamming lately, so disabled the comments functions on this blog. But I’ve just changed this so people can comment, they just have to wait til I approve the comment.
I’d have a look for an alternative method, but I don’t have time, sorry. :D
i have nothing to do
and no energy even for made up jobs. It’s 11.13 and I’ve been up for hours already. The less I have to do, the earlier I get up so the more time I can spend sitting (or wandering) about, staring aimlessly into space or blindly tapping my way through the internet. I keep thinking ‘it’s cooler – go out and take advantage of it’ but I have no motivation.
I really don’t have anything to do. Well, I have a book review to do – but it’s not due til March. I haven’t read the book, but I’ve begun it and pretty much know how it’ll turn out. I have thought about making a conference paper into a journal article, but I lack inspiration. Or motivation. The thesis needs to become a book, quite soon, but you know what? I just can’t be arsed. Sewing? Hm, whatever. Fiddling with my music? Nah. The garden is weeded and mulched and happy on its own. The house isn’t too dirty.
Smells like post-holiday dumps.
We had a very nice time in Hobart. Nice weather (mostly), nice visit, nice festivus. We have to go up to Brisvegas for a funeral this week, which won’t be nice, but hopefully it’ll be ok. I haven’t been back in seven years. I’m not really looking forward to it. As The Squeeze says, We Don’t Go Back.
I have no plans for this year. I do have some sessional teaching lined up, possibly some lecturing, but I lack enthusiasm.
I have been doing some serious long stitching lately. Is that what it’s called? Where you do looong stitches across the canvas. Feels like cheating to me. I’m a tapestry person (when I can be arsed with canvas work), and all those long stitches feel like cheating. There are a couple of fancier knots and things, but still. We’ve been watching Hornblower DVDs compulsively since christmas. Dad, The Squeeze and I would take over the lounge room and giant telly and watch them in Hobart. We brought them home with us and lay on the couch watching a welshy annunciate his way through the Napoleonic wars through that latest hot spell. We have a bunch of Sharpes to get us through this weekend’s heat.
I’ve also been watching some other DVDs. Got Shameless season 1 from The Squeeze, and it’s great. All watched, though. Good thing there are four seasons (I think). Have also made my way through three Spike Lee films lately – Clockers, Do The Right Thing and Jungle Fever. Clockers was the only one I hadn’t seen, and it was ok. Bit preachy, really. I know that’s Lee’s thing, but I prefer the sermon cloaked with a little story telling. There were some nice wanky narrative tipups in there, but not all that amazing, really. But I do like Lee’s fillums. Crooklyn is my favourite, though. Of course. Though I quite liked Summer of Sam.
We saw Darjeeling Limited at the Kino this week. It was neat. I love that man’s fillums. I love them very much. We also saw The Golden Compass in Hobart. It was neat. We have plans to see I Am Legend, but I am suspecting some serious crap. That actor sucks bums and I bet there are some failures to explain basic historical and practical points. Electricity? Rotting bodies? A man who has to explore and hunt through a city using a treadmill to keep fit? Excuse me, mate, but subsistence living will strip the pounds from you to the point where you’ll be too busy for moping about on a treadmill. Is anyone else thinking Z For Zacharia here?
Speaking of which, what was it with all those fucking horrible post-apocalyptic, WWII, holocaust books we read at school? As a keen reader I was either thoroughly bored or thoroughly traumatised by the crap we read at school. Why not a nice, encouraging book about happy things? Maybe they figured all we northern suburb, working class public school types needed a bit of buck-up-man-ship.
Ok, so back to me and my malaise. Is malaise the right word? I feel slothful. Lazy. Unproductive. Apathetic. Guilty for having nothing to do. No serious work on the horizon. And any way, what should I research now? What should I write about? I really can’t think of anything. It’s like I’ve used up all my creativity with that PhD. I guess I’m looking forward to teaching – I always learn a lot and get all inspired and creative with my teaching. Pity it doesn’t leave me enough time to write anything. Guess I’d better get over that quick smart, though.
I am a miserable old poo. Guess I should get out and get some exercise. Give myself a bit of a happy endorphine injection. Bah humbug.
prepare to be boarded
I’ve noticed that I’m not the only one who’s been MIA from blogdom of late. I blame faceplant. Oh, faceplant, how I thought you’d be really neat. Then I realised there was nowhere for long, detailed explanations of sewing projects or theses or DJing and decided that faceplant really was just one big multi-levelled marketing campaign and got bored.
So I’ve noticed that all the other blogs I like to read have been a bit quiet lately. I know it’s a nasty time of semester (week 8 for us, mid-semester next week, a bit later for everyone else) but, you know. So I was thinking: imagine if I could could pyrateize all those fallow blogs – just pop in board them and write what I like, then move on. That would be so cool. I would really, really enjoy that. Mostly because it would mean that I wasn’t marking.
Marking sucks. Think writing essays sucks? Marking them is so much worse. And you know what? No one uses capitals or commas any more. It’s just one, long crap text message or myspace post. But at least first year essays are quick to mark – I’ve been getting through about 4 an hour (yes, that’s about 15 minutes each – only 1500 words long. I could be neglecting something, but I don’t care). But I’ve only marked 7 in two days. But this isn’t really my fault. I am also sailing the red seas and trying to ignore a bullshit headache. I feel that blogging is the only solution. And, as every seadog’s polly knows, the only real cure is a whole bunch of pieces of cake.*
*parts of this post were brought to you in the spirit of international talk like a pirate day. The Crink would just like to remind everyone that she is a pyrate. Rlly!!1! kthxbi.
i still think i rock
for this punnilicious friday cat bloggage. Props to me.
fuck off barbie and hello real ladies
I only wear clothes that I’ve made or bought of the internet. Except for underwear. The Squeeze says it’s time to stop when I’m making my own knickers. And dancing requires hardcore support, so no home-made bra action either. And socks – I buy those too.
But besides those things, I make everything else.
Except for tshirts.
I really like threadless tshirts. In fact, they’re the only ones I buy. I’d like to say it’s because I’m really loyal or cool, but it’s actually because I can never find cool tshirts on the internet. I like the nerdy ones (I especially want the ‘homie don’t right click’ T – it’s a reference to mac users – from some silly nerd site), but they only come in giant nerd man sizes. The girl nerd tshirts from those sites are designed for nerd boys’ imaginary girlfriends.
But with the buying lady tshirts on the internet? Once you find a size/brand you like – buy em. I like XXL American Apparel lady tshirts. Or XL. I am not a tiny little woman – I am a giant, ravening academic beast. I constitute my own public sphere. So no bullshit half-size belly-revealing rubbish for me.
I don’t mind buying Tshirts online, really. But when I check out tshirt sizing and see this, I’m not happy. Because, like I said, I’m packing some serious curvage here, baby. Mostly round my belly and, increasingly, around my armies. And boobage? Yes please.
so that little barbie there, she’s not helping me pick my size.
1. Where are her hips?
2. Where are her boobies?
3. How does she pick things up with those puny little armies? Can she lead? Could she be base in an aerial? No? Then she’s not helping me.
4. Does she eat? Would she embarass herself at yum cha?
No. So why would you possibly assume that she could help me out with choosing a tshirt size?
I say fuck off barbie to those online tshirt size guides. And hello real ladies.