The Dropping Chronicles

You Gotta Draw the Line at Frostbite...

2009-09-27T04:14:00.000-07:00

Dropping a memory...

So I really did not know what to make of things this morning.

I've mentioned my family is a bit nuts, right?

Well, my sister Helena really does contribute more nuts than is her right. I mean, my other sister Sophie is mildly insane, but in a crazy, lovable way. I want to strangle her as often as I want to hug her and you really can't believe 85% of what comes out of her mouth (for example, she told her current boyfriend with utter sincerity that I was a millionaire. I couldn't work out why he kept expecting me to pay for everything in the early days of knowing him...). Helena however, well, I live with her, and I rarely ever want to hug her. Previous posts may give you some insight as to why.

Helena is one of those people who will have a one night stand with a guy and fall IN LOVE. She expects marriage, babies, the whole nine yards and immediately acts as if this is going to happen. I wish I was exaggerating here, I really do, but she is known for sending up to 20+ text messages a day. For calling him over and over if he doesn't answer. For turning up unannounced on his doorstep. I can tell immediately when she has a new man in her life because her mobile phone is suddenly attached to her like an umbilical cord (she keeps it in her cleavage. Yes - her CLEAVAGE). She becomes secretive, she disappears for hours at a time, she checks her phone constantly in case the normally intrusive vibration has somehow been missed. Problem is, she has made a habit of this behaviour to the point where several former flings who happen to be mutual friends of mine have spread the word about her tendency to cling like plastic wrap on honey coated thigh. Unfortunately, in our old apartment she seemed to forget that it was a tiny inner city unit with paper-thin walls so I was treated to several memorable episodes of hardcore phone sex. And this was with a guy who Sophie and I were not meant to know she was involved with. Of course these explicit conversations and the detailed description immediately alerted me to the guy's identity, and now they've broken up he is telling everyone about his experiences with her and I'm finding myself having to close my ears when it comes up. I've become tired of defending her honour over the years, you see.

So, to see Helena out of bed on a "non work" morning before 12.00pm is a rare treat. I've become well accustomed to having the house to myself, and if I want to go spend time with our mutual baseball friends without her tagging along, I can safely schedule my departure for the morning and know the chances of her appearing bleary eyed from the bedroom, asking me to wait while she gets ready, are slim.

Well not this morning!

A bit of background info for you first... It was the first men's summer baseball tournament of the season and the weather was absolutely miserable. Seriously, Summer must have taken some serious drugs, and thinks that it is actually Winter because the wind and the rain was OUT OF CONTROL. It was icy too, the rain was cold enough that it caused physical pain when it hit your skin. The guys had their first game at 9.15am, with another at 11.15 to fill out the morning's festivities. As much as I love them all dearly and want to support them, my affections don't stem far enough for me to venture out into that weather, hungover, to stand in the rain.

So at 8.45am when I emerged from the bedroom to watch some good time Sunday cartoons and recover from my hangover, I was utterly shocked to find the bathroom already occupied. By HELENA! I immediately assumed she was ill, because the only other time she blocks up the bathroom this early on a Sunday is when she is constipated from all the crap she eats (no joke - think KFC several times a week, with maccas and two minute noodles as a highlight in between).

I knocked tentatively and asked if she was alright because the family as a whole are quite worried about her health, and the fact that we believe she is at high risk of diabetes owing to her weight. When she replied in a jaunty voice that she was fine I stumbled, dazed, back into my bedroom to wait out her bathroom stay.

Half an hour later she emerged. Her hair was blow dried and straightened with a hot iron, with a face full of what I call her "stage makeup." She was in a purple woolen mini dress, black stockings and knee high black leather boots. Dressed to the nines, as my mother would say. I would have expected that outfit to make an appearance at a fancy dinner, or a night out on the town, not a freezing cold Sunday morning baseball game where the only shelter from the rain would be trees. Eyebrows raised, I enquired as to where she was going dressed in such a fashion, while already suspecting what the answer would be.

"To watch the boys play."

I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from asking if it was the boys who would be playing, or if it would be her making a play for the boys.

Sound mean spirited? Probably, but I have good reason to be. A few hours later when one of the girls rang me and asked if I wanted to go down for a look at the game, I said yes more to see how much Helena was suffering in the freezing cold, as opposed to how the guys were really going.

When we finally arrived after a calorie laden brunch, decked in jeans, hoodies, jackets, gloves and caps, it was very entertaining to see Helena shivering uncontrollably, clad in a giant pink blanket, hair being hurled in the wind and makeup running in the rain.

Mean spirited? Okay, definitely, but when I have to hear people talking about her sexual antics like she is some kind of joke, I hope maybe one day she'll grow out of this behaviour. This morning's incident does not encourage me, but maybe the fact her appearance attracted laughs from the equally freezing men will have some impact and dissuade her from future idiocies of this kind.

Fingers crossed.

Right, everyone just needs to CALM down!

2009-09-22T02:05:00.000-07:00

Dropping a thought...

I work for a large company, right. 8,000 employees in Australia, not including offshore. So you'd think that in a large company, where so many people are working towards the same goal, things would be easy, right? RIGHT? They've even tried to make it SUPER easy by giving us a common goal... "we will be the best in customer experience by 2010."

Pfft.

Well, all I have to say is that it takes a long time to turn a big ship.

My issue though, is why people take their work and their jobs so personally, that if you provide feedback, criticism or identify an issue, they become defensive and aggressive!

RELAX!

Jesus! I haven't attacked you! Because the computer system failed and 1,000 iPhones orders were lost in transit, have I personally dragged you over the coals for it? NO! I acknowledged it wasn't your fault but that I just need your help to fix it. So WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?

Now, I'm lucky to be high enough in the management food chain that people generally do what I ask of them, but for the few who don't... OMG it is SO counterproductive. I don't ask people to do things for fun, and I don't ask people to do things that are not necessary! But as workers, don't we spend so many minutes of the day when dealing with these people stroking their ego and trying to counteract any potential verbal attack that might come from an innocent question?

Two people in particular at my work who drive everyone crazy are Jill and Damien. Both of them will LIE through their teeth rather than admit there is an issue that needs to be dealt with in their area, because they're terrified of being blamed, or appearing in a bad light (and this is purely because of their egos, their managers certainly don't drive this behavior).

Imagine this (and yes, this happened today - the words in brackets are what I was THINKING at the time):

ME: "Jill, hi, I'm really sorry to bother you. I'm just following up on the $75 customer credits from two months ago, we've got thirty examples where they haven't been applied for some reason, and customers are complaining. Do you mind if I send them through so you can investigate where the process fell over?"

JILL: "Is this even your Marketing campaign?" (oh yes, that's right, Jill only likes to deal with Hugh because she thinks he is hot)

ME: "No, it's not, it is Hugh's, but Hugh is away and I don't want customers to suffer because of that."

JILL: "Can't you just get Hugh to follow up when he gets back?" (Oh, I don't think so)

ME: "Like I said, I don't want customers to have their credits delayed because of this. Do you have any idea what may have happened here?"

JILL: "No, they've all been applied, they just haven't shown up on the bill yet." (Here we go...)

ME: "Well, actually they haven't. Our Quality Assurance team has investigated the examples and there is no pending batch order for them."

JILL: "They've got it wrong." (**sigh**)

ME: "I thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of collating all the examples, and screen shots of their accounts where you can clearly see that it hasn't happened, and you'll also see there is nothing pending." (HA! HAHAHA!)

JILL: "Oh, well, I don't remember agreeing to do it in the first place."

ME: "But you just said you were sure they'd been applied." (you moron)

JILL: "I was confused, I didn't realise what we were talking about. I know nothing about this." (here we go again)

ME: "Hugh and you spoke about it in July."

JILL: "I don't remember that conversation." (here is something I prepared earlier, wench!)

ME: "I thought you might say that, so if you check your inbox you'll see the follow up email Hugh sent you at the time, and your acknowledgement of it. I was copied on the communications and filed it." (HA... HA! HA! HA!)

JILL: ..............

ME: "So would it be possible to just double check if there was a systems issue or something that stopped the batch flowing through? I'm sure its an issue like that." (well, actually, I'm sure you just forgot, not that you'd ever admit it)

JILL: "It was probably Sid you know, he's always making mistakes like this, I'm sick of him." (ahhh, blame-storming, the last bastion of a desperate woman)

ME: "Well these credits are for DSLD customers. Sid deals with Telephony so he wouldn't have had anything to do with it. I've personally never had any issues with Sid, though." (you nasty bitch, Sid is a sweetheart)

JILL: "I'd say that Hugh hasn't sent me through the template then." (here is something else I prepared earlier, wench!)

ME: "He has, I was copied on it as well, so I checked it and it's complete. Do you need me to send it through to you again?"

JILL: "No, I have it." (really? Two seconds ago you claimed no knowledge of this issue at all!)

ME: "Excellent." (SUCK! ON! THAT!)

JILL: ..............

ME: "So would you mind chasing it up?"

JILL:......... "Alright.

ME: "Thanks, I'll send a confirmation email through shortly." (so you can't deny having THIS conversation when I have to follow this up again next week)

NOW - how much easier would it have been if the conversation had have gone like this?

JILL: "Really? I thought they'd been applied. Shoot them through and I'll investigate."

Wouldn't have that been just wonderful? And would it have been lovely to have avoided the twenty minutes of preparation I had to do proceeding that call, because I knew she'd try and deny knowledge, or that anything could have gone wrong with the process?

So what should we do with these people? Summarily execute them? Institutionalise them? Send them to a convention for Narcissists and watch the bloodshed unfold?

I don't know, but I'm definitely open to suggestions.

Corporate Chaos, Boudoir Bonkers

2009-09-21T03:49:00.000-07:00

Dropping a thought...

So I wandering around the office today trying to look busy, and I couldn't help but wonder if a phenomenon that has struck me recently affects others as well...

I've noticed that the state of my bedroom has a direct correlation to the state of my mind.

If I'm calm, collected, organised in my personal/work life, then my bedroom is reflective of that: neat, tidy, wooden floor boards shining, linen clean, clothes ordered according to type and length, shoes separated by formal and casual, sports gear clean and stored, curtain up, windows open and sun shining in. A perfect place to spend Sunday afternoon reading at leisure in my wicker arm chair, the birds chirping and my bed made all proper like.

If I'm upset, distracted, under stress, then so is the bedroom. Right now there is barely a metre of flooring not marred by the sight of discarded clothing. There is unopened mail on the shelf, shoes are scattered with reckless abandon and I don't even have a bookmark in my book. Yep, you heard me correctly! NO BOOKMARK! The curtain isn't open and jewelry is scattered across several surfaces. I'm currently in the middle of a lawsuit against a negligent doctor, which is actually causing me extreme distress. There is a slight chance said lawsuit may settle this week in my favour, but until then I'm barely keeping it together, and so is my bedroom.

The opposite behavior exists at work.

If my desk is clean, neat, orderly then clearly I am booooooooored or procrastinating on a massive level. Either way I am at my least productive. My boss even knows this to be true! If she walks in and there is nary a paper out of place on my desk, if there is no dust in site and stationary is sectioned accordingly, she looks at me and says "is everything okay?" I usually tell her I'm bored and trying to think of something to do, to which she shrugs and leaves me to my own devices (we've been working together a long time, we understand each other).

If my desk looks like a bomb hit it, paper piled up, marketing material pinned everywhere covered in Post It notes, three different note books covered in information about different products and my laptop crashing under the weight of multiple 50mb Excel files... then I am my most productive, and it is then she doesn't say a word except to suggest we go shoe shopping when she hears me whimpering expletives under my breath. Like I said... we understand each other.

Am I the only one?

Love overwhelms Loathing.

2009-09-18T04:56:00.000-07:00

Dropping a memory...

I hate broken bones. No, I loath broken bones. It could almost be said I have a phobia to them. Any television footage where there is a sportsman getting his leg broken, or ankle snapped brings on dry retching and a sick feeling in my stomach. I've seen friends break limbs on the sporting field and I've had to walk away and let everyone else assist, lest I faint in the face of the injury. My saving grace is that the most major break I've ever had was a hairline fracture along the side of my right ring finger. A splint for four weeks was all I needed. Anything more serious than that and sedation would have been required. For the whole healing process.

So now I've explained that, I'll tell you about my brother Jacob.

Jacob is twelve years younger than me, and when I was nearly 15, he was in the far end of his "terrible twos." I loved him so much, he was like my little doll, and to this day my feelings for him are extremely maternal. He was beautiful, sorry, he still is, but back then he stopped old ladies in their step as mum passed with him in the street. We were so proud of our little Jacob. Beautiful blond ringlets, true ringlets, old hollywood style, I loved to brush them (and yes, put them in little piggy tails complete with bows much to my father's horror). He had big sky blue eyes with lashes girls dream of, peaches and cream complexion and a cherubic pink mouth, and mischievous - you had to watch him like a hawk. I begged mum to let me enter him into a baby show, and was vindicated when he won a truckload of prizes.

I never thought I'd encounter a situation where I could overcome my repulsion of broken bones. In fact at the time, I knew I couldn't.

One day I was in the kitchen making a sandwich, Dad was in his Study, talking on the phone in a haze of cigarette smoke, my sister Helena was watching TV, and Jacob was, I believed, playing on the lounge room floor. The front door was open to let the cool summer breeze in the warm house, and nobody had noticed the baby gate was open. In fact, nobody noticed that it was Jacob who had opened it and escaped outside to roam our 1 acre property unfettered by fussy carers.

I was slicing up my sandwich when I heard crying. Now Jacob had several different cries that mum, dad and I were all very familiar with. My sisters knew them too, but were not as attuned as we were. Some were not in use as much as they used to be due to his ability to communicate now he was getting older. There was the tired cry, the hungry cry, the generally grumpy cry, the "I want" cry, the "temper tantrum" (which we all dutifully ignored until he cried himself out and realised the display wasn't working), and then there was the "variations of pain" cry. The pain cry had several different octaves. There was the "that scared me more than it hurt me" cry, the "ooooh that hurt" cry, then there was the "oh my god that HURTS please help me" cry. We'd only heard that on a few occasions, usually involving fingers stuck where they shouldn't be.

This cry was the worst one.

I dropped my knife, turned and hurried down the hall past the study to the entryway, where Jake was toddling through the front door, looking up at me, reaching out. His face, from the eyes down, was caked in bright red blood, pulsing horribly from a slash between his eyes. Through that slash I could see the bright white of broken bone.

I turned, bile rising in my throat, and did the most horrible thing I'd ever done to my baby brother. I walked away. I got three steps when I realised what I was doing. He was there, reaching out for me, and I had walked away. Without pausing I overcame my phobia, ran back to him and scooped him into my arms. He hugged me, sobbing and getting blood all over my top and neck.

'Dad, we need to go to the hospital," I shouted. I hurried to the entrance of the study, turned Jacob so Dad could see the blood, and hurried onto the kitchen to get a damp tea towel to stem the flow and clean his face and eyes. By the time I'd done this Dad had ended his phone call, grabbed his car keys and was heading out to the car. Helena, who'd only just keyed onto the fact something was wrong, followed us blithely.

These were the days before mobile phones, and mum was down at the shops, so we left Sophie behind to tell Mum where we were. Dad drove and I carried Jacob on my lap. By halfway to the hospital I had most of the blood cleaned up, and could see bruises blooming around his eyes. We passed Mum on the way, waived her down, and she came up to the car to see what was wrong. Nothing can get between a mother and an injured child. She snatched Jacob from my arms, ran to her car and took off, driving with him in her lap! I never said my mother was intelligent.

I won't bore you with the details of the next few hours, it ended up being a very minor break, with a few tiny stitches that didn't even leave him with a scar.

When we got home, we set Jacob on his feet and asked how he got the injury. Jacob tottered forward, simulated a trip and while I'm sure he didn't mean to fall face first into the edge of the stone step, he did. Again. Breaking open the freshly stitched wound.

Back to the emergency room we go.

In the meantime, as soon as the saga was over and he was stitched up again, my phobia returned. So it seems short bursts are all I can handle.

The Misfortune of Frugal Friends.

2009-09-16T04:58:00.000-07:00

Dropping a thought...

So, I have a friend who is a MASSIVE tightass, right. For those of you not in the know, the term "tightass" is, as far as I am aware, a colloquial Australian term used to describe someone who is very frugal, very money conscious, to the point that they try and squeeze value out of every penny.

This tendency to be a tightass is selective though, it doesn't apply to every situation. I love her to pieces, we've been friends since high school, and I accept this trait as part of who she is. That being said it doesn't stop it being a running joke in our friendship group.

The most famous incident, one that is still mentioned, was a time we went out for dinner. Jane* extracted some money from the Automatic Teller Machine (ATM), and over her shoulder we saw that she had several thousand dollars in her bank account. Nobody commented on this fact, how much money we all have is nobodies business, and nobody cares. What made it relevant was an event that occurred fifteen minutes later when we settled down to dinner in a mildly priced restaurant.

"Oh my god, I'm so broke, I really can't afford this," moaned Jane.

Now it is important to note at this point that Jane was gainfully employed in full time work, living with her parents rent free and was cruising around in a car purchased for her by her father. The rest of us were full time uni students, lucky to clock up twenty hours a week in poorly paid casual jobs, driving old bombs and had scrimped for this particular outing.

"Why?" asked Katie**

"Oh well I have got all these expenses, I need to get my car serviced, we're saving for a house. I wish I was at uni and had it easy."

This was another point I forgot to mention. Apparently uni students had life very simple and carefree, and couldn't possible empathise at all with the beleaguered, real world dwelling worker lifestyle. I'll admit, while I did spend my fair share of time enjoying myself, I studied hard, and also had constant money issues as I attempted to clock up enough hours at work to keep my putting little car in petrol.

At this point we were interrupted by the waitress, and we were ready to order, having been to this restaurant before and knowing the menu well. We all ordered promptly, entree's and a main each. Until it was Jane's turn to order. She sighed heavily, put down the menu and grimaced.

"I'll have Bruschetta and a glass of water, please."

For those not familiar with Italian cuisine, Bruschetta is a piece of thick dough bread, lightly toasted, dressed with diced tomato, onion, a little bit of basil and drizzled with olive oil and melted cheese. It is not even an entree, it is an appetizer, normally served alongside garlic bread and clocked up an amazing $4.95 on the menu. Compared with our fair which was equalling about $25 per dish, it caused a raised eyebrow and a smirk from the waitress.

"Bottled water or tap?" she asked sarcastically, Jane looked shocked,

"Oh, definitely tap, please."

So with thousands of dollars in her bank account, she feasted on one slice of bruschetta, and complained about it the entire meal. When it came to pay for it, however, she came up short.

"Sorry, I only have $3.00 in coins on me," she simpered apologetically. But Lana was on the front foot,

"That's okay, you can give us the fifty dollar note you have in your purse, we've got enough notes here to give you change."

Now, the reason why I mentioned this story is because I can fully understand people who watch what they spend. I have no issue with budgets, with people who think long and hard before making financial decisions. I fully respect that. What I don't respect is people who will rip off their own friends, to save a dollar.

Jane, god love her, is like that.

When we catch a taxi together, she'll always sit in the backseat, next to a door. When it comes time to pay, one of two things will happen:

1) She will sincerely apologise that the $15 fare, to be split between three of us, could not possibly be paid for by the $50 note in her purse, it wouldn't be fair to the taxi driver to expect him to provide so much change. So can we please pay, and she'll fix us up when we get inside the building? - please note, this then never happens.

2) She will claim that she doesn't have any money on her, and could we please pay, and she'll fix us up when we get inside the building and she finds an ATM? - please note, this also then never happens.

It seriously got to the point that it happened so often, that we would strategically position her so she was forced to get into the taxi before someone else. Before she was able to shuffle to the other side, another member of our party would dart around the car and dive in, trapping her in the middle. When it came time to pay, we sat there, looking at her until she became physically uncomfortable and retrieved her purse from her handbag. Sometimes it'd work, sometimes it wouldn't, but our return on investment was at least 50% which in our books was as good as breaking even.

She also bought a brand new car in the year 2000. Sorry, correction - her father bought it for her and she was meant to eventually pay him back. Anyway, it rarely left the driveway. Any group function was no doubt accompanied by a request to be picked up. We had a running joke that the reason she didn't drive it is because she didn't know where the lever to open the petrol tank was, and therefore couldn't drive it at risk of running out. Think I'm exaggerating? In 2007 she announced that she'd finally cracked 10,000 kilometers. Good on you, Jane, good on you. I cracked 10,000 when my car was 18 months old, and I don't even drive to work! When she made this announcement we then began trying to work out how many kilometers she'd avoided clocking up by making us all chauffer her around.

One memorable occasion when we did coerce her into driving, was to the city for a day at the cricket. It was going to be a scorcher, 38 degrees (Celsius) and there were four of us in her car for the hour and a half long sojourn. Despite the fact that we were leaking buckets of sweat into her seats, she absolutely refused to turn on the air conditioner despite our requests. REFUSED. We made a pact after that never to make her drive anywhere in Summer.

Recently, when a friend's car was in for repairs, Jane generously offered to sell her car to her for $8,000. A year 2000 Holden Barina is NOT worth anywhere near that. And Jane knows it. Like I said - will rip off a friend to save a buck.

Does anyone else have friends like that? Am I going mad? Is this normal behaviour? We're talking about someone, who, when she owes someone money, will round the amount DOWN to the nearest ten dollar point. She owes $104? You get $100. She owes $59? You can bet on getting $50.

We've become very adept over the years at combatting this personality trait.

Instead of asking for cash back payments (like when we book tickets to a concert on behalf of the group), we'll instead ask her to transfer the exact amount straight into our bank accounts. This worked for a while until she insisted her account processing fees were too exorbitant to permit her to adhere to such outrageous behaviour anymore.

Hmmm.. we're always trying to stay two steps ahead, but she is clearly a financial genius.

I must mention though that this attitude only extends to those in her inner friendship circle.

Not long ago she shouted her boyfriend's entire Cricket club to an impromptu McDonalds feast, and not only that, she apparently paid - with EFTPOS!

Imagine the transaction fees on that! Mwahahahaha...

*Names have been changed to protect the frugal.

**Names have been changed to protect those who laugh at the frugal.

All Hail Zonatron!

2009-09-14T04:51:00.000-07:00

Dropping a thought...

So I have two sisters and a brother. My sisters are 18 months and 3.5 years younger than me respectively. My brother is 12 years younger, lets not get me started on him.

My youngest sister, Sophie, is completely deranged and has no sense of decorum what-so-ever. Just two days ago we were watching a baseball game, and I commented that the left fieldsman was particularly good looking. Next thing I know, she's leaning over the fence, introducing herself and successfully negotiating the retrieval of his phone number for my benefit. I should admit at this point I'd just finished a two hour training session, and was wearing an oversized baseball hoody, "Skins" (which for people not in the know, are second-skin like leggings that leave NOTHING to the imagination), a baggy pair of shorts over the Skins and hair allllll over the place. Not any man's idea of a good time, I'm sure. Anyway, while that gives you a brief insight into her personality, it's not Sophie that prompted the picture of the alien above. No, that's my first sister, Helena, who I also have the **cough-misfortune-cough** pleasure of living with.

A typical "middle child," as a youngling, Helena had a predisposition to wandering around in her own little world. You would talk to her and eventually notice that she wasn't hearing a word of it. Or worse, you'd ask her a question, and she'd stare at you with a gormless expression on her face. At night she would climb into the pantry, steal biscuits, eat some and hide the rest under his pillow. When mum would come to wake her in the morning, despite the crumbs on her face and in her bed she would swear black and blue that she did not do it, even with mum waving the pillow crushed biscuits in her face.

This day dreaming disposition became so obvious at one point that my father announced that she must be an alien child, and we embroidered the story to eventually decide that she hailed from the Planet Zonatron. From that point onwards, when Helena did something in character, we'd look at each other and mutter the words "All Hail Zonatron!" After years of this it shortened, in true Aussie style, to just the word "Zonatron," but the meaning was the same. It made for a bit of explaining when this happened in public, but to this day the joke continues, 25 years later.

One of my favorite "All Hail Zonatron" moments was one Wednesday night when we were participating in a Twilight Softball match. I was playing Catcher, and Haley was planted out in Right Field. Twilight Softball was a mixed tournament, designed to allow parents and children to play together, so my father was also on the field. When it was our turn to field, the pitcher prepared to throw the ball in to the batter and the rest of the fielders leant forward in readiness. Our job was to react immediately, and from the looks of it from my position, everyone was paying absolute attention.

The pitcher pitched the ball and the batter smashed it, straight over Helena's head in Right Field. Helena however did not move a muscle. She remained hunched forward, glove poised, staring avidly at the exact spot where the batter had been standing not a moment sooner. It wasn't until someone shouted "HELENA!" that she flinched, exclaimed,"OH!" turned and sprinted after the ball, which by this point had actually hit the ground and was racing away from her.

Everyone was in hysterics, opposition included, to the point where the batter managed a home run because Helena had nobody to throw the ball to. We were all too busy laughing. At that point my father turned to me and shrugged...

"Zonatron," he said.

Losing Linda

2009-09-12T04:33:00.000-07:00

Dropping a memory...

I don't suppose you've ever had a defining moment in your life, when you've actually made a conscious decision to end a friendship? I'm not talking about spending time with someone for a short spell and then saying "nope, they're [insert reason here], I don't want to be friends." Or when a friendship petters out and you eventually stop talking, texting, catching up.

No, I'm talking about the kind of intense friendship that generally starts as children. Its a friendship with someone that you grow to love, that you're so close to you that you can finish each others sentences, someone you spend so much time with that you think of them as a sister and what's more, people think that you're actually sisters. THAT kind of friendship. Its the kind of friendship that defines you.

That is what happened to me after a tumultuous twelve year relationship with my best friend, Linda (and no, Linda is not her real name).

Linda was what I like to call a "strange cat," and despite her violent and irrational tendencies and narcissism, I always loved her. I could write for days on the wonderful memories I have with Linda, of the funny times and the sad times which we got through together. Linda is the reason I play the flute, because she was too shy to do lessons on her own when we were twelve. I showed Linda how to shave her legs for the first time when we were thirteen. I was the only one who could make Linda laugh so hard she'd cry, and vice versa.

I won't go on about the details, but I will tell you that once every twelve to twenty-four months, we would have a "fight." A fight where she decided she was angry at me for some strange reason, and she would go out of her way to make my life a living hell. It was like having a loyal dog turn and bite you savagely, only to have it sidle up to you minutes later and try to lick the wound clean. Only once in all the year of "fights" could I objectively look back and say she genuinely had a reason to be angry at me. The other times, it was jealousy, plain and simple.

I'll describe the first time this happened. From ten years old we'd been inseparable, both in class at school, but also in our home lives. We'd take turns staying at each other's houses, and our parents always knew to be prepared for a second giggling girl at the dinner table. This changed however in our second year of high school, when our classes were determined based on the foreign language we chose to specialise in.

Linda chose Japanese, and I chose French.

With that in mind, we were put into separate classes for the first time in three years. I thought nothing of it, Linda was remaining with all our mutual high school friends from the year before, while I was going off on my own in a class of completely new classmates. As far as I was concerned, I was the one at a disadvantage. For the first few weeks, I dutifully left my new classmates at break time and returned to Linda and Co, offering stories of the new people and what they were like. On week three, however, I was asked to spend time with a group of new girlfriends from class, several of who were mutual friends of Linda and mine from primary school. I agreed, as I was getting along with these new girls extremely well, and I didn't want to alienate them. I explained this to Linda, said that it was only a temporary arrangement, and that I hoped we could all be friends. These girls went on to become the best friends I've ever had, and we're close to this very day. Linda's response to my choice however, was nothing short of hostile.

Linda, upon deciding I was a "b*tch," proceeded to make nasty comments to me in the hallways, and tried to trip me whenever the opportunity arose. She spread nasty rumors about me and my family, and put word out that I was "hated" by all the members of my former class. In short, she was a bully of the utmost skill.

Of particular hilarity were her claims of being stalked by my parents. It had gotten to the stage, after two weeks of hostility, that I did not want to go to school anymore. I wasn't sleeping, I dreaded going to class, and even softball was awful because we were still playing together. My father, driving to the grocery store, saw Linda walking, pulled over and offered her a lift. She declined and he went on to ask her why she was being so nasty to me. Linda's response to my father was "Krystal knows why," and then she walked away. My father continued upon his way to the store, where he saw Linda's sister Nicola who'd obviously left school not long before Linda. He got out to walk into the store, but paused to say hello to Nicola before proceeding. When he got home later, he was greeted with a hostile phone call from Linda's father, who said Linda had stormed home and made two claims of my father.

1. That he had chased her up the street in his car, screaming obscenities at her.

2. That he had tried to run down Nicola with his car in the car park at the store!

Naturally, my father said that he found these claims laughable, explained what really happened and demanded that Linda's parents deal with the bullying behavior. He had now personally had a taste of what Linda was like, and he demanded it cease before he went to the school principal about it.

Anyway, this continued for several months before her behavior petered out and she finally apologised for her behavior. I took her back with open arms.

Throughout high school there were several more incidents of that nature, none as hostile as the first one and all resulting in her apologising in the end. Eventually, she had a massive falling out with her friendship group, for two reasons. One reason was because they were all tired of her bullying a lovely girl called Amy, who Linda had decided was "boring" and because of this antagonised Amy to the point she was terrified to go to class, and would instead spend time in the supervisor's office. The second reason was because one of the girls had gone on a date with a guy Linda had previously had a crush on. The episode backfired though, because none of the girls would take Linda's side, so she'd decided they could all go to hell and instead chose to spend break time's on her own. To be fair, the girls she'd decided to alienate couldn't have been happier about Linda's choice, finally having had enough of her anyway, something they were happy to tell me about, being I was also friends with them. Feeling sorry for Linda, I asked her, after consulting my friends, to hang around with us instead. She took up the offer gratefully, and soon became a permanent member of our group.

One thing you need to understand about Linda which I haven't articulated as well I should have: She was violent. Nasty. Petty. She would fight dirty, and it was the same with her sisters as well. They would regularly get into arguments, one of which resulted in Nicola burning Linda with a hot iron. Their parents apparently were okay with this, because Linda "deserved" the searing scar up her arm. Their view was that she shouldn't have aggravated her sister.

When Linda's older sister Melinda had an abortion, Linda called us from a phone box, frantic. During an argument she had labeled Melinda and her boyfriend "baby killers," and in response they had proceeded to beat the living daylights out of her. The bruises were unbelievable. My mum rang Linda's mother, who was still at work, advised her of the incident and that Linda would be staying with us for a few nights. Linda's mother agreed, but also said she thought Linda shouldn't have antagonised Melinda.

Finally, when I'd done something to upset her three years out of high school, Linda responded by pinching my cheek. Now this would seem inconsequential, however I happened to have a severe wisdom tooth infection at the time, and my cheek was swollen with blood and puss. It took about ten minutes for the bleeding to stop, and by then my desire to beat the bejesus out of her had faded somewhat (but to this day I regret not responding with violence, giving that I was extremely strong in comparison to Linda and capable of doing her extreme harm).

The final straw, however, came at our mutual friend Jo's 21st birthday party. It was an occasion we'd all been looking forward to. We'd written the speech, which we naturally thought was hilarious and we were looking forward to a good night. The only bone of potential contention was that Linda's recent ex boyfriend Roy would also be in attendance.

Three quarters of the way into the night, Linda sat down at an outside table with a group of us, Roy included. Linda was irritated with Roy, as she wrongfully believed that Roy had been hitting on another woman. When the conversation took a turn that she didn't approve of, out of the blue, she slapped Roy. Everyone at the table was in shock, aside from the few of us who'd witnessed another occasion where she'd been violent towards him. She then hit Roy a second time. Flabbergasted, a guy called Steve interjected.

"Jesus, you nut job, don't hit him, why don't you hit me?" He was trying to make light of the situation, and nobody actually expected Linda to respond. But that she did. She slapped Steve once, and shockingly reached back to do it again. Defending himself, Steve reached up and caught Linda by the wrist as it sailed through the air towards his face. Linda called out in supposed pain, wrenched her wrist out of his grip, picked up her camera and used it to smash Steve in the face as hard as she could. The camera went off, flashing as it struck him. To this day I've wanted to see that photo.

Everyone paused in absolute horror. I was the only one who responded.

"Linda, you psycho, what the hell is wrong with you? When are you going to learn you can't do stuff like that to people!"

Linda glared at me, stormed off and grabbed our friend Kell by the hand. Kell had not witnessed the incident, and therefore went with Linda without question. I saw red, and followed Linda, finally deciding that she had gone too far.

What resulted was one of the most offensive experiences of my life. What had started with me confronting Linda about what she thought was acceptable about her behaviour, resulted in Linda pouring out a stream of insults the likes of which I've never imagined. I did say that she fought dirty.

According to Linda:

- My parents were poor scum and I was going to turn out just like them.

- She was embarrassed to be friends with me in high school because my parents couldn't afford to buy me clothes.

- Her parents always hated my parents because my mother and father were using them to get them to pay for things for me because they couldn't afford it.

- I was only with my current boyfriend for "the money" (even though at present said boyfriend was unemployed and I was paying our bills).

- I was pathetic, and ugly and she thought my siblings were disgusting.

It went on and on. Wave after wave of insult until a friend's parent intervened and told us that it was Speech time.

Pulling ourselves together, we went out and delivered the speech without a hitch. The audience loved it, and Jo was suitably embarrassed. I got through it and then retired to a section behind the building and cried, and cried, and cried, while explaining to our mutual friend Tan everything that Linda had said. I've never seen Tan so angry before in my life. By the time I'd recovered enough to return, the party had finished, Linda had left and we went home. Thankfully, Jo was unaware of any incident until the next day.

It was that night that I decided I no longer wanted to be friends with Linda.

I could write a novel about the "Linda incidents" from the years and it wasn't until I'd decided to end the friendship that I discovered an article on borderline personality disorder and narcissism. Linda matched the descriptions and it enabled me to understand that she would never change and never see her behavior as unacceptable. Could I put up with her the way she was? I decided I couldn't, and the rest of my friendship group made that decision as well. Tan even had a conversation with Linda, where she made it known that she thought Linda's treatment of me was disgusting. Tan has never spoken to Linda again after that phone conversation.

Six months later, when I decided to go live overseas, Linda made her version of an attempt at reconciliation. She arranged for me to be driven to her house by Roy, who apologised to me profusely but still did it anyway (he was meant to be driving me to my Going Away party). She then presented me with a letter, which said that she did not think apologies were required, but that she hoped we could forget what happened and be friends. Apologies were not required? I found that to be an interesting concept.

Needless to say, I wasn't able to be friends with her. Enough was finally enough. It wasn't until she was no longer in our lives that we'd all realised how much of a destructive influence she was and how much better off we were without her, and we weren't the only ones.

After returning from overseas, I ran into Caroline, the very girl she'd alienated in high school because she'd chosen to go on a date with Linda's former crush.

"Do you still see Linda?" asked Caroline, I shook my head.

"No, none of us do, she attacked someone at Jo's 21st birthday party and we decided that we didn't want to be friends with her anymore." I left it at that, no need to go on. Caroline nodded in understanding.

"I don't blame you. Honestly, if there was one person on this entire planet that I could legally kill, it would be Linda."

Ouch.

It pains me that this story is true, and that the longest defining friendship of my young adult life was marred by the fact that one half of the couple was a psycho, but its a fact. Its also been the only time I've actively sought to end a friendship.

We've had a few catchups since that time, and yeah, we're friends on Facebook, but every now and again, in the brief conversations I have with her, I see flashes of her personality that reminds me why we're no longer friends. She's getting married soon, and despite everything I wish her well, and hope she is happy.

But it also makes me sad, because in my heart of hearts I know that I should be there, and I won't be.

Do I regret it though? No. Not at all.

But it still makes me sad.

xoxo

Twilight, teaching teenagers how NOT to write

2009-09-11T06:10:00.001-07:00

Dropping a thought...

Okay, I'll admit it. I've been sucked into Twilight, despite my misgivings surrounding the poor quality of its construction. When someone asks me about Twilight, and what it is like, I tell them that it is "McDonalds for the brain." - No nutritional value, and you're hungry again in an hour. And it is, seriously!

It is pure brain candy.

Not brain food, which actually contributes something to your way of thinking. It is brain caaaaaandy. Geddit? The Intelligentsia get what I'm trying to say, I'm sure of it. Either that or they're just shaking their heads at me. Either way, it's still brain candy.

I started reading it because I wanted to find out what the fuss was about. I was smart about it too. I borrowed a copy, at first. I've learnt my lesson about spending money on bestsellers that have way too much hype to truly be as incredible as their publicity says (I'm thinking about Christopher Paolini's piece of tripe, the Alagaesia series here. Especially his last offering Brisingr, which ended up being hurled across my bedroom after I couldn't take its poorly edited, wordy ridiculousness any longer. A reaction I know was mirrored by other friends/readers and I don't blame them because the whole series is a joke and plagiarises so many other brilliant...) okay... breath... sorry, I try not to get started on Paolini because once I'm on that train it takes a long time to derail it.

Anyway, back to Twilight. If you haven't read it, in a nutshell it's about a shy, awkward, borderline depressed teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire. A vampire who probably only fell for her because he couldn't read her mind like he could everyone else, and enjoyed the peace and quiet for a change... or not... maybe I've oversimplified that a bit. Anyway, if you want teen angst in all its glory, constant description of heart-aching need and prose so overly descriptive it makes you want to hurl... then Twilight is for you. Personally, I am an obsessed, completely crazy Harry Potter fan myself. Now THERE is someone who knows how to write a decent story, good on you JKR for setting a good example, good on you.

As for Twilight, Stephen King, the greatest horror writer of all time in my opinion (who is also responsible for more than a few duds in the last decade, and it hurts me to admit that because "It" was the first adult book I ever read, at the tender age of 8 and I still have that copy, even though it lost its cover over fifteen years ago) chose to comment on Stephenie Meyer's writing and said that "she can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good." And I agree, completely.

What bothers me though is that millions of teenagers world wide are reading this series, and are trying to emulate it. It is hard enough with Facebook, Twitter and text messaging to get them to write properly. I won't allow my 16yo brother to communicate with me in abbreviated "text" style English because I think its a poor habit to form. He just thinks I'm old, but I'm trying to set a good example. Now, JKR, there is a woman who sets a good example, so the thousands of teens out there who have published their own "versions" of Harry Potter online are trying to "ghost write" like JKR. I have no problem with this, she really knows what she is doing and therefore promotes having a decent grip of the English language. Meyer however does not teach this, oh, let me at the Twilight series with my big red Editing pen, oh please! So many inconsistencies, so many issues with timelines and continuity, so many issues with overly descriptive prose. The movie, released recently hasn't helped things much either. Nobody seemed to notice how poorly the movie itself was constructed, and the fact that it completely failed to work to the intensity portrayed in the book. All the main audience saw were the young men playing the two male leads, in all their hotness. A werewolf and a bloodsucker. Who needs a decent plot arc when you've got that locked in? I'd truly love to see a version of the Twilight series with all my editing concerns addressed, I really would, and I think it would be good for the captivated youth of today to see it too. To know how it should have looked if Meyer had an editor worth a damn, and the ability to write at an adult level.

Despite this though I've still read the series five times. Guess I'm a sucker... no pun intended.

xoxo

Experience the Randomness

2009-09-08T02:45:00.000-07:00

Dropping a memory...

So a few weeks ago, two of my wonderful friends and I decided to go and see the Bell Shakespeare Companies' production of Pericles. The main motivation for wanting to go see this play was not a need to indulge ourselves in the cultural experience that is one of Shakespear's lesser known plays... No, it was Marcus Graham, the lead male, and his rippling abdominal muscles (see left). Sigh...

So we turned up to the play, two of us extremely excited by the thought of Marcus Graham, and the third not so excited, given her preference to women, but she was bemused none the less.

The lights dim, and a last minute shuffling to ensure comfort in one's seat is interrupted by the narrator, an elderly man who shuffles onto the stage. I prepare myself to concentrate; it's been a while since I've had to digest Shakespeare. The gentleman is one line into his eloquent prose, and I am one line into a focused frown, when there is an exclamation from the back of the balcony seats.

"HORSE SH*T!"

Those in the balcony seats, close enough to comprehend what was just shouted are suitably put out. Craning of necks and angry stares ensure the culprit is well aware that his exclamation is not appreciated. Much appreciation is given to the actor who does not even flinch, and continues on unassailed for a few more minutes before...

"F*CKING BULLSH*T."

Now, I'm not one to swear in my blogs, but I want you to understand that instant shock I experienced, quickly replaced by rage at the fact that someone could be so awful. After all, what kind of a person would spend so much money on a ticket only to come in and ruin it for all? The injustice of it burned inside of me as his exclamations continued. Now, I do have a temper, and I started silently evaluating if the full water bottle in my hand would ark gracefully across the several rows of chairs and hit the culprit unceremoniously in the face, or not? It didn't take me long to realise that I'd probably end up getting charged with assault by the people directly behind, directly in front or ten metres to the left depending on the range of my miss. Instead I took to staring angrily in his direction, completely unaware of Marcus Graham's open shirted appearance on stage.

The culprit, who I'd given an expletive label by this point, was a large man, about 6ft 5', bald with glasses, and he could not sit still. Literally. Every thirty seconds he would sigh audibly, wriggle uncomfortably in his chair and resettle for a small spell. Every minute the movement was accompanied by an incoherant grumbling and I found myself blaming the four people sitting directly to his left for not making their dissatisfaction known to him. We waited for more outbursts with dread, it was akin to being blindfolded and knowing that at some point in the next minute a pair of symbols will crash directly behind me. Unfortunately, this tension translated to the cast of the play, who's performance was also starting to show strain as they too waited for the next outburst.

This loud, swearing behavior continued throughout the first act, and it was over 20 minutes before the staff finally intervened and escorted him, without any further trouble, from the theatre. A visible ripple of relaxation filtered throughout the theatre, the cast also relaxed and the performance improved dramatically from that point onward.

It was later, while exclaiming loudly about the inappropriateness of it, that we found out he was foreign, and had Tourettes Syndrome. Tourettes Syndrome, an inherited neuropsychiatric disorder, characterized by the presence of multiple physical tics and at least one vocal tic that is occasionally accompanied by the uncontrollable shouting of expletives. What the hell would possess someone like that to go to a play? Excuse my intolerance, please.

Anyway, so how was that for random? How many people can say they went to a Shakespearean play in Melbourne that was interrupted by a non English speaking Tourettes sufferer? Furthermore, how can a guy who can't speak English still know enough English swear words to offend a theatre full of people?

Can anyone beat that randomness? Can you place odds on something like that happening again? I'm not sure, but the play was fantastic. I highly recommend it - on a night when there is no foreign Tourettes sufferer sitting nearby.

xoxo

I Spring You Spring We All Spring for Ice Cream

2009-09-02T17:52:00.001-07:00

Dropping a thought...

So everyone in my office is glad that it is finally Spring. After a miserable winter, we've finally had two days of glorious sunshine accompanied by a cool Spring breeze. There are smiles on faces and the roads are surprisingly uncluttered as people venture onto the now not-so-freezing public transport.

I myself have chosen to wear a summery white satin dress, which drew excalamations and accusations of being too enthusiastic about the weather, and the need to "calm down." After all, it's only meant to be be 20 degrees today... but it's just so sunny!

Anyway, if I thought I was too enthusiastic I was about to be trumped when, at 10.56am one short wearing, tshirt clad colleague walks in sucking on a giant ice cream.

His excuse for eating a sugary ice cream this early in the morning?

"But the sun is out!"

So leave my dress alone, please.

xoxo

K.

You Put Your Right Leg In.

2009-09-02T04:49:00.000-07:00

Dropping a memory...

There are many things I remember about my family growing up. Good and bad, fun and sad, just like everyone else. With two younger sisters and a baby brother, there was never a lack of action but the majority of the truly heinous and wonderful memories involve my extended family. And they are extensive, and have titles depending on their quirks or dominant personality traits. It's the only way I can keep them all straight. For example, is it wrong that to this very day I casually refer to one of my aunts in conversation as "Psycho Aunty" and all of my friends know exactly who I'm talking about? Or is that disturbing? Food for thought... I mean, the woman told the family she had terminal cancer at one point, only to be caught in a lie a few months into her non existent chemo treatment... hmm...

Oh, and I must put here, in writing for all of you, that these posts regarding my family are all completely true and only occasionally embroidered/exaggerated for entertainment value. This particular snippet however, is 100% fact.

So, a memory, of Psycho Aunt, who's real name I won't divulge because one must always work to protect children and the mentally deranged, in my opinion anyway.

An occasion for celebration. Christmas Day, always chaotic, and always a chance for me and my cousin Tamara to find mirth in the mundane. I walk into the kitchen, where Psycho Aunt is hurrying from oven to sink to bench unhindered, and in the haste one normally possesses when attempting to cater for 20+ people. After five seconds of bustle she notices my entrance and immediately slopes into a well defined limp in her right leg. Neither of us acknowledge the fact that I've just witnessed her moving around without hinder, and I hurry to assist her with the food service. In terms of making a comment about her crazy limp, well, I can't help myself.

"Why are you limping? Did you hurt yourself?" She looks at me in wide eyed amazement.

"Didn't you hear? I had a massive stroke!" I exclaim with the level of concern appropriate for when you know someone is lying through their teeth but it's not worth the energy to call them out on it.

"A stroke? Oh my god, when? How did I not know about this, you must have been in hospital for a while!"

"It happened a while ago now, on the left side of my brain. It doesn't surprise me you don't know, wouldn't expect something like that to be big news to Brian."

I ignore the snipe at my father, truth be told my parents were probably also unaware of her latest brush with death. I attempt to bite my tongue, but as I'm in my late teens, extremely opinionated and prone to ranting...

"It's strange you're limping on your right leg." She looks at me while stirring some unidentified sauce into a seafood dish that will later give several members of the family mild food poisoning.

"Why?"

"My best friend is a nurse, and she works with stroke victims. She said just the other day that if the stroke is on the right side, it is mostly the left side of the body that gets affected."

Now I have no proof of this, and at the time probably made it up, but the effect was amusing.

"Oh well, my stroke was a bit different, you know, I was lucky they were able to stop it at all. Also, I'm ambidextrous, so both sides of my brain work the same way, that probably had something to do with it." Ambidextrous indeed.

"Yeah, it's pretty complicated brain surgery from what I've heard, if they have to go in and remove the clot where its serious. Do you still have stitches?"

"Oh, it can require surgery, but in my case I was able to get it fixed with medication pretty quickly."

I respond with exclamations of brilliance aimed at her amazing doctor being able to get rid of her deadly blood clot remotely (and no doubt, miraculously), and go about my business of retrieving a drink from the Eski. I think nothing more of it, used to her by now, and seek to enjoy my afternoon.

Three hours later, in the car on the way home, my blue eyed, cherubic, blond baby brother looks at my dad in all his eight year old innocence and asks,

"Daddy, what was wrong with [Psycho Aunty's] left leg?"

Impressed at the eight year olds attempt to know his right from left at all, I seek to immediately correct him, to tell him he had it confused with her right leg, only to have my sixteen year old sister, who definitely knows her right from her left, interrupt.

"Oh yeah, that is why we were laughing this afternoon!" I had wondered from my perch on a deck chair what all the cousins were giggling about as they lounged on the trampoline. She continues,

"Yeah, she was limping on her right leg in the morning, but by the afternoon she'd swapped to her left. We don't know why, but isn't that hilarious!"

And who said family functions aren't fun?

xoxo

Broken ankles, killer heels.

2009-09-02T03:54:00.000-07:00

I suppose one should always think carefully before deciding what to write for their first blog entry. Having never had a blog before, and after never really spending much time reading blogs, I am inexperienced, virginal and unproductively enthusiastic. As a first time blogger, I'd assume one would want it to be inspiring, to be witty and completely compelling so every single blogger on the planet shouts "wow" and signs up to follow one's incredible prose. Truth be told, I'm just in need of somewhere to chronicle thoughts and memories away from the madness of my life. If you'd like to follow me, great, if not, thanks for visiting anyway, next time stay for a cup of tea.

What to know about me? I'm 29 years old, I live in Melbourne, work full time, study part time and despite the challenges and tragedies of my life, I choose to be happy. Some people struggle with the concept of happiness as a choice. I currently play baseball with a beautiful, potty mouthed, misguided young lady who cannot comprehend my opinion that one can choose to be happy. I've seen so many people in my line of work though, who despite their blessings, choose (and I use the term choose deliberately) to be miserable, and worse, choose to do nothing about it. I work with one almost every day. A gentleman in his late 40's, who recently bought a home he claims to love, who has a beautiful young daughter who he definitely loves, who has clothes on his back and food on his plate, and yet every day claims to despise what he does for a living and that his life is well inferior compared to others. He chooses to be miserable and to inflict his misery on others so long as they don't attempt to empathise, because nobody could possibly understand his angst. He chooses not to take action to rectify his position. He claims to be too time poor to look for other work. He is incomplete without a dramatically deep and at times alarming crease that flows from his hairline right down between his eyes to his nose. The only time it leaves his face is when you ask him how his daughter is. Then he smiles, momentarily. So I had this conversation with my beautiful, misguided, potty mouthed 14yo and she promised to try it for a week. To wake up and choose to be happy, no matter what. We'll see how she goes.

More to know? I'm a complete klutz. The term "vertically challenged" does not refer to my height, but my inability to remain upright. An issue further inflated by my love of towering stilettos. At five ft ten inches I don't really have a need for them, but gosh, they're my weakness. Case in point: walking down major city thoroughfare Collins St Melbourne on a hot summer's day, in towering white leather peep toes and a short white and floral dress. I lose concentration for a few seconds (distracted by items in my handbag making noise), and BAM! SHE HITS THE DECK! At lunchtime. On crowded inner city Collins St. Right in front of a group of coworkers who I was actually about to have lunch with. Blood on the dress, blood on the pavement and a sprained wrist from where I tried in vain to stop my collapse. The result? After hobbling back to the office and being sent to the doctor by an amused but concerned manager, I spent the next few days on crutches, and several months in an ankle brace. The main source of my lovely boss's amusement stemmed from a report that I apparently, despite the blood and rapidly swelling ankle, looked immediately to the very shoes that had just attempted homicide, to check that I had not snapped a heel. Like a woman in love with a serial killer, many would question the madness of my reaction. I accept it as part of my many eccentricities. Love me or laugh at me. I'm eternally grateful my friends choose to do both. This example is just skimming the surface of my humiliating "disability" and an unhealthy shoe obsession, but I thought I'd at least give you a taste.

More to come, of course, and I will at least try and make this a bit more interesting for those who care to have a read. In the meantime, I can't actually see my bedroom floor at the moment, and as the long crowned Queen of Procrasti-Nation I really should find something else to do instead of cleaning it.

xoxo