Category Archives: domesticity

I find that drinking black tea (or digger tea as it’s known in our house) after lunchtime makes it difficult to sleep at night. Yeah, yeah, call me pussy caffeine intolerance girl, but there you go. I don’t even try to drink coffee any more – it makes me nuts (though not as nuts as gelati made me on the ride into town last night … is it wrong for The Squeeze and I to take such great delight in riding through the crowd of seagulls in the parking lot of the Markets, yelling all the way and praying we won’t hit a bump in the dark and break a leg?).
So there’s some illicit pleasure in sitting down to a cup of tea at 5.53pm. But hell, I say, if you can’ty drink caffeine after 12 on a Friday night, you’re not really living!
Anyhoo, one week later I go in to Uli to have the experimental mass removed from the middle part of my head. We’re not just talking fringe here, we’re talking girly bits… no, wait, the girly bits are mostly there still, but smaller. Tidier. Anyhoo, after a week of deliberation, experimentation and consumerism ($15 for hair product? That’s crazy talk!) I decided a long fringe was not for me. Long as in longer than half a centimeter. I exaggerate not. Both The Squeeze and I had decided we much preferred the ‘pixie fringe’ as he calls it – I discovered it years ago when it was actually fashionable, and now I’m aiming to look like a serious feminist academic til the day I die. No fringe shall be longer than 2cms. No jewellry shall not be silver. No shoes should not be practical/comfortable, unless teamed with a hideously expensive handbag and black-rimmed glasses.
[diversion] Which reminds me. At a very interesting seminar on Thursday, I decided that breaking an icing sugar-coated biscuit with a spoon to make smaller nibbling pieces was a good idea. Of course, both pieces went everywhere, luckily not during the paper itself. Now, I didn’t freak as this shit happens to me all the time (let me repeat – all the time. I don’t fall down all the time any more, but I sure as shit drop stuff, knock things over, etc etc. And please, let’s not talk about the very public too-long-held-down-click-button-on-the-laptop-while-DJing-so-causing-a-song-to-begin-midway-through-another-song-on-multiple-ocassions thing). But the best bit was watching white powder fly out in all directions. Not so great a way to win friends in a room full of cultural studies types.* I apologised, giggled irreverently and perhaps shouldn’t have proferred a used hanky.
*this is a joke utiilising the stereotype that all cultural studies types wear black turtleneck sweaters, black rimmed glasses and black trousers. While they mostly did in the 90s, now most of them seem to have passed into the ‘comfortable’ fashion bracket. At LaTrobe, anyway. Phew – I wasn’t sure I could manage the dress code.[/diversion]
At any rate, I now have awesomely excellent super-short hair. With minor girly bits but major pixie fringe. All free and included in my original haircut price. Phew. And double phew for DJing – I dropped $60 on a fabulous colour – dark marooney red (which will lighten, I was assured, as the colour sets… which is hairdresser word for ‘fade’ I suspect). And boy did I score the gossip. Mostly restaurant related.
Apparently Bali Bagus (said Bar-goo) is ace. La Paelle (Spanish/Moroccan) is great for small groups but crap for large groups. There’s an Ethiopian place in Fitzroy called Lalla/Lulla/Lilla something or other and is amazingly wonderful.
I also met a local artist type person who does interesting ziney stuff (that one’s for you, Skirt).
I popped in to Spotty to get something for a subdued winter jacket/jumper. While I adore my bright pink and red micro-fleece hoody (Hello Kitty hood lining – pics will follow), sometimes it’s not really the go for a more conservative colour scheme. I can’t really wear bright pink with plum cords and a cream blouse. Well, I can, but it’s kind of…. vivid. So I got some blackey/grey stretch denim (no, don’t worry, I’m not tempted to make some low-riding tight, straight legged jeans… I was THERE in the late 80s/early 90s when that shit was cool the first time. And I am NOT going there again) and some black micro fleece to line a very basic jacket. It will have a metallic zip (ie black tape, but silvery teeth), and either a hood or a collar. I like hoods because they’re practical in this godforsaken climate (esp if they’re water resistant), and I’m tempted by the idea of a fleece-lined hood, but it could all go tragically wrong. We’ll see. The whole jacket will probably be like my waterproof, red, quilted one (sort of box-shaped), esp with the layers and all, but I love that red jacket (could be a little longer though – esp on the bike) so who gives a fuck.
Speaking of which, bike jumpers and jackets have a little lowered ‘saddle flap’ (is it just me who thinks of those curves on the bottom of men’s shirts as being like the flaps on a saddle…? Go horsey girl, go) to cover your lower back and crack. Because, of course, you bend over to ride your bike. Those low-riding trousers are awesomely obscene on bike riders (though very entertaining on the novice bike-kid – ha-HA I strike another blow against the horrid teen-groover invasion of B’wick!). The high-waisted trouser is very pleasing, as are stretch fabrics. In fact, the three quarter tracksuit pant is perfect.
…
yes, I think I had mentioned the importance of practical clothing for active lasses before. Whatever.
Back to the endless I-did-this-today story….
I picked up some of those FUCKING AMAZING sausages from Nino and Joe’s for dinner tonight. Is it wrong to drop in to a butcher just to browse? Is it wrong to be delighted by the close proximity of hairdresser to Spotty to butcher?
I declare Friday culinary day. Wait for pics. And will endeavour to start a meme. Can you start a meme if only, like 3 or 4 people read your blog, and only about 2 of them blog themselves? I reckon you can. In fact, I think you’re even cooler if you don’t start memes for other people. I think a meme can be cool with just one person in it….
Anyway: on Gastroporn* Friday (whichever and whenever Friday you choose), you have to write a post about a meal you have recently prepared or consumed. Photos are optional but certainly preferable. It doesn’t have to be great food. I will try to do this later today…btw, ignore the times on this blog as they’re a bit out of wack.
*I really wanted to type ‘gastropod’ there.

Finally the sun has come back, after far too long of dreary, overcast greyness and cold.
And of course, with the drear goes my recent – and somewhat startling – spate of super-productivity. In a week I edited two chapters quite aggressively and wrote two articles.
And now, of course, I’m left wondering whether or not I should go to the cinema. I think perhaps I shall, as the Nova, our local cinema has something wordy and all about human relationships on this afternoon that I’d like to see. Don’t much care what, so long as it’s got some nice cinematography. No, no, I’ve already seen Water (and yes, it was wonderful – I liked Fire and Earth, but this was probably the best). Something else, thanks.
On a side point, yesterday was ANZAC day, not something I care much about, but my attention was briefly caught by a little story on the news about how the RSL had ‘forbidden’ family members to march with photos of servicemen in the parade. Which I thought was strange – it seemed appropriate to me, and perhaps emphasised the fact that the march should perhaps be about memorialising loss as well as ‘appreciating’ soldiers… but then, I don’t know much about the issue, so…
…and I have nothing more to write. Seems I’ve used up all my words for the week. Oh well. Will go sew something in hot pink cordurouy instead (!!).

I’ve just suddenly been caught by a strange [insert smartypants theory word here like ‘existential’ or ‘postmodern’ or whatever here] moment:
How does the touch pad on my laptop work? No, I mean really, how does it work? How does it know that I’m touching it?*
Meanwhile, back in the concrete, undertheorised, Pragmatic Feminist world:
today I had chuckguts. It started at 6.30am (which is more considerate than starting at, say 10pm and continuing on for 12 or so hours, a la Taswegia (do NOT eat at a restaurant called ‘Blue Skies’ in Hobart. It will make you vomit until you bust eyeball blood vessels)). It meant that I couldn’t go to my first yoga private today, which I was quite looking forward to. It meant that today I couldn’t eat the chochy we made last night (that’s chocolate brownies to you – last night The Squeeze brought me a mug of milk and the hot chocolate powder in a moment of confusion. I guess it’s kind of the same as a chocolate brownie and a glass of milk. There was also some comment about our old couch, but I forgot what exactly). I guess I could have eaten it, but I kind of like to keep my saturated fats/gross sugars in my body for more than, say… 3 minutes.
But I’m pretty much ok now, thanks. Not sure I want to go rollarskating, but you know.
*I want to make a joke about playing “I’m not touching you”, but I can’t. I can, however, make a mental note to make Clever and Witty Joke Entry about Dave’s Riki massage joke some day soon. It makes us both laugh and laugh. Which is perhaps more an indication of how much time we’ve spent at home over the past couple of months, but I like to think it’s because we’re witty and also carefree and lighthearted.

As my girth steadily decreases, it occurs to me that increasing my weekly exercise would make it possible for me to eat more.
I can think of nothing more perfect.
At the moment I do dancey practice at home twice a week for an hour. Step-step-triple-step, step-triple-step and very little else – so dull it’s almost frightening. The dullness has not deterred Crinks from declaring – regularly – that she’d like to join me. I’d like to think that it’s my scintillating personality that attracts her, but I’m actually sure that it’s more a combination of extreme dance nerdery and a lack of daytime occupation. I say no to her pleas because I’m not sure I want anyone else to see me jiggling up and down like a fool, determined to keep my hips parallel and ankles strong. It’s not even something I can share with The Squeeze.
Beyond that, I also go to yoga twice a week for an hour and a half, onesies and bubs. I love it dearly, have a smarting crush on my teacher (it’s an alignment thing), and have discovered that my Ankles Are Weak. I dread the thought of being thought weak ankled, or having anyone notice my less-than-stable ankles, so I am working on them. Both my Down Dog and my 20s Charleston basic have improved imeasurably since making the ankle discovery.
I also social dance three times a fortnight, from 8.30 til 11.00 and 9.30 – 11.30 or thereabouts. I ride to dancing on Thursday nights (half an hour each way) and ride my bike everywhere. The new bike is truly Built for Speed. And I am increasingly looking as if I too were designed in a wind tunnel. So to speak.
On other fronts (no, that wasn’t a clever way of moving on to further discussion of my physique), I DJed for the first time to a Melbourne audience. It seems I’ve completely reneged on my previous decision to abstain from DJing, and have suddenly decided I like it Very Much. The $25 for a 1.5 hour slot has in no way influenced my thinking, nor has the contribution it will make to my private yoga class next week.
And I am sure that my new interest in entertaining the swing dancing masses has absolutely not a thing to do with my new found love of the stage. New found in that the stifling stage fright of my teens has been replaced by a definite interest in standing in front of a large group of people and doing exactly as I like, sure that it is all about Me for anywhere between 5 and 95 minutes.
If I do seem in danger of becoming a crazed megolamaniac, limelight-grabbing glory hound, be sure to step in, will you?
To round off this week, it seems the Ps have discovered the previous post about their house and the included accusations of mental instability. I have not denied it. In response to my father’s comment that “all our friends have said they like it” I could only respond: “all your friends are polite.”
I’m sure he’s now sure that I am the most conservative member of the family.
This does not mean that I am ashamed of my parents. It’s far too late for that – I would never have survived adolescence if I was that delicate.
On the topic of familial decoration, my brother has acquired his first ink.
While he is 29 this year (4 years younger) I don’t doubt that my father is still imagining he’s 14 and somewhat in shock. I’m sure my mother, however, is secretly terribly excited and has already broadcast full details to all of Hobart, Brisvegas and now Melbourne. My father did concede that though he wasn’t comfortable with the thought of the pain involved, he did think that it was a very nice piece of art. I will post photos as soon as they come to hand.
I, however, remain undecorated, and offer only this post as my contribution to the family’s Experiments with Style.

Having my scholarship extension approved has resulted in an immediate downing of tools. Don’t tell the Supes. No, I’m not telling off chauvinists in the shopping centre, though I did almost get into a fight with a guy in a big red car who nearly killed the cyclist in front on me on Sydney Rd last weekend.
Though I’ve exchanged keyboard for sewing machine.
I scampered out to Brotherhood* earlier this week to find a new couch to replace horrible old Brownie. Last time I was at Brotherhood I picked up Reddy (formerly a Brownie, as all good rental/sharehouse couches are) for about $20. Prior to that I picked up a nice three piece (also a Brownie), covered the cushions and all for $90 including nice fabric. This week they had nothing under $100 and I was a bit shocked. Goddamn teenage hipsters moving in the ‘Wick and pushing up prices. Go back to Brunswick Street.
Yesterday, prompted by a late night drive-by on Sydney Rd near Bismi, I drop in to the Salvos and find us a new couch. $65 seems a bit much, but heck. It’s a score. Only parts of it are brown. It is (was), for the most part, mushroom pink and a lovely velour (and a 3 seater). I then scooted down to Fabric Central further south on Sydney Rd and bought 8m of nice fabric which looked burgendy with goldy stripes. Got it home and The Squeeze decided it was a ghastly shade of brown. He is colour blind, so I ignored him. This morning, checking out the three cushions I covered last night (I am a couch cushion covering DEMON), I decided he might be right. Oh well. I’m hoping a couple of red and gold cushions (made from fabric from the sari fabric shop) will make it look like a hippy couch rather than a brown sharehouse couch. There are some bits upholstered in pink, but I’m considering covering them (either with a cover or getting jiggy with a staple gun). Either way, the pink matches the fabric so it’s ok.
But the new couch is very nice. It’s actually quite well made, and is comfortable. It feels soft, but has structure. The Squeeze declared that he liked the way his feet didn’t touch the ground when he sat in it. A definite improvement on Brownie, where your knees were at chin height owing to the fucked up base.** I’m fairly sure he also liked the feel of the pink velour against his bare skin, but didn’t mention it, seeing as how I’d probably be a bit short, considering the whole covering-cushions project.
I go back to the fabric shop to get the rest of the fabric today (which, by the way, was a great upholstery fabric for only $10 a metre – 140cm wide).
Right now the potato lady is driving past in her truck. She calls out “Potatoes, potatoes. Fresh and new”. They come in from the farm and drive around Brunswick selling potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, grapes, melon, etc. All of the locals who’d troop out to haggle (this is the ‘Wick – this is what we do. There’s not much else for us stay-home-types*** to do otherwise) thought it was a bit pricey.
It was only a month or so ago I discovered they sold organic stuff. And today was the first time I’d heard them advertise that fact. Their sales have improved, but people still try to haggle.
*the charity shop on Brunswick Rd – Brotherhood of St Laurence
**Brownie now lives in the shed. Soon I will have to buy a couple of Bob Marley ‘fabric posters’, a couple of bottles of Orchy juice and take a bucket out there. Then, when I’ve lured in a few of those goddamn teenagers, I can start culling.
***mostly Greek widows, Italian poppas and phd students who’re kind of cabin feverish and delight in long, complicated discussions with strangers. And haggling.
fyi: there is a Brunswick Street (in Fitzroy/Nth Fitzroy), a Brunswick Road (running perpendicular to Sydney Road, and pretty much the point at which Carlton Nth turns into Brunswick) and the suburb Brunswick (and Brunswick East, Brunswick North, Brunswick East). They’re all in the same general part of Melbourne, just not in the same suburb. Think that’s tricky? I catch a bus on Victoria St that runs east til it hits Victoria St which runs Nth/Sth. That’s where I get off. It then crosses another Victoria St further Nth. None of these are the Victoria Pde or Victoria St which runs East/West across the top of the CBD from Nth Melbourne to Collingwood.

In our house there are complicated rules about when to speak and when not to speak in the morning.
Most of these rules are not written down, or even vocalised. They also tend to vary, according to the day, the night before, the temperature, the amount of thesis conducted, the scholarship extension progress and so on.
A generally good, all-rounder type of rule:
do not speak unless spoken to
Which is partnered by the rule:
do not touch unless touched first
And just when it seems like these rules are completely crazy and really just a masque for a completely crazy person, who almost seems like they are always in that week before the red zone on the pill packet – the week that should actually be coloured red, The Squeeze decided, because that’s the really dangerous part of the month. And red is a good colour for danger. Or warning.
… and wait, what was I saying? Yeah, so ok, so just when you think that all these Alice in Wonderland rules are really just signs that the other person you live with is, actually, wishing they could fit into a teapot, they wake up at just the right temperature after a full 9hours and grab you and kiss you and kiss you.
I know I’d like to think that those are the moments you wait for – the kissing-and-kissing. But do they really make up for the crazed ranting and furious yanking-out of clock radio cords, just as you’ve slowly woken up out of the deepest sleep, at just the right temperature, and are really quite enjoying that lovely string concerto? Particularly when you flash the little scared wide-eyes response to the insane declaration: “It/you woke me up again! I was asleep! I need to be asleep!”
… it seems like that little rant can happen at any time, regardless of whether or not you’ve made any noise at all.
I guess some people are just nuts. And don’t wake up well.
Those kisses-and-kisses had better be good.

Still sick, but definitely improved.
Woke up at 10:30 and went to find The Squeeze. Couldn’t. At first I worried that I’d driven him off with my insane shrieking last night: “Go to bed! Stop making noise! You keep waking me up!” It wasn’t my fault, I swear – it was the antihistamines in my cold and flu tablets making me NUTS. And kind of irrational. Didn’t help that I kept waking up out of a deep sleep, all disoriented and unable to breathe, just because the poor Squeeze had – Goddess help him – opened the bathroom door.
Can I help it if I’m in the grip of a temporary (please, please, let it be temporary), antihistamine-induced insanity?
I’ve kind of got issues with antihistamines – I love them because I have allergies of various sorts most of the year (cats, dust, melaluca*, general seasonal stuff) – but I’m also afraid of my psychotic reactions to them. They make me NUTS. Kind of furiously, irrationally angry. Like a hormone thing, except chemically induced. They also make me dehydrated. But last night they were putting me to sleep, and with the amount of liquid I had in my head and chest (despite the 3thousandpillow tower of prop) I needed that sleep.
But anyway, I get to sleep, I wake up, and I have no clue where The Squeeze has gone. And I’m not sure I blame him. I find out later that he’s off with a nerdmate, doing nerdy things.
Nerd things that The Squeeze does with his nerd mates:
– looking at cameras
– playing with cameras
– eating pide at A1 and drinking tiny cups of turkish coffee that leave them highly, highly strung – like a 4 year old on red cordial
– talking about computers
– looking in camping stores, talking about camera-trips (don’t ask), buying hiking shoes (The Squeeze), buying bags (Yames)
– making up stories about computers/cameras/coffee
I’m sure they’re having a lovely time.
And while I certainly don’t want to be with them (it’d be like a non-dancer hanging with a pack of dancers at an exchange – teeedium), I’m kind of jealous of their mobility. I’d planned to go look at a bike I’m going to buy today – they were going to make it up for me. But I don’t know if I could make it over there. In fact, I’m thinking the couch looks pretty dang good from here…
….and that’s about all. Great post, huh?
*most-used tree for streetplanting in every city I’ve lived in

Yesterday we had many people around for a Mexican Bandidos lunch. We did intend to dress up, but a lack of effort on my part and supreme busyness on the parts of both myself and The Squeeze resulted in a non-effort. Various guests, however, obviously familiar with our high fancy dress standards, did make an effort. We have photographic evidence. There was a little regret on our parts for not putting on the giant mo and firing rifles into the air, but we settled for a pinata and truly awesome food. TRULY awesome food. All Mexican themed (or as Mexican as a couple of gringos in Melbourne – John and I – could manage). I ate so much I thought I’d die. Then we brought out the fruit and brownies.
The meal featured many avocados, mangoes and spanish sausage, a big snapper, pork ribs, an amazing organge and spinach salad, a lovely bean salad, mango salsa, chili con carne, rice, tortillas…. and a million other things.
Then we beat the shit out of the pinata.

You can, of course, check out the photos on flickr in the Bandidos Party set.

when you use the vacuum to clean the garlic clove skins off the kitchen bench.
I bend my head in shame.

ok, so i’d be going nuts if i wasn’t numb. another three years under howard. with free rein in the senate.
oh man.

i guess it’s time to jump ship, really. things will get worse. very doom and gloom, but really. i’m ashamed to be australian at the moment, re everything from refugees to iraq.
on rrr this morning the spin people made the comment that it suggests that we’re living in a more conservative country now. i wonder if this means we’ll start getting more politically active on the left. get into some demonstrating. i’m about ready to get into the rallying thing.

if i finish this thesis (i will, i will) i will quite happily go overseas to work…

i’m working on this lecture for tuesday. still. but it seems under control. now i have to do the powerpoint thing, which will no doubt take heaps of time.

the garden is nice. we have planted a bunch of native shrubs in the front yard, to get a bit more privacy. the squeeze has dug over the back garden patches and planted some seeds (bit late, really). he’s also very proud of having recently ‘plumbed’ his greenhouse. he’s added a line from his irrigation system which he’s run through his greenhouse and is watering the seeds in there with fine drip attachments. it’s all very technical and i know he likes this part far more than the other gardening bits. i gave him the irrigation system and the greenhouse (which is plastic, portable and pretty ace. lotte reckons we should make it into a sauna) as birthday/xmas presents and they were a great success. i’m not sure how i’ll top them, so i’d better get thinking…