The Crossroad Inn

Final Chapter

The Roo's Revenge
(Part's 1, 2 and 3 in the week's archives)

Fast forward eleven years to now, I am living in a rural town instead of a farm so I don't rescue native animals and care for them, besides that my own brood needs enough rescuing to keep an army occupied fulltime.

My birth mother live a few hours away on a cotton property and amazingly she rescues Kangaroos and visits us often with her baby Joey. It reminds me of Jessie and each time the Joey comes the bittersweet melancholy of past times comes with it. To watch it feed greedily from it's bottle of Wombaroo, staring into her eyes with love and trust and then to watch her snuggle it own in it's beach bag brings back the memories so sharp, they run like videos through my mind.

Growing Up In An Outhouse




I grew up in a middle class family, in a middle class street in a middle class neighborhood. Most of our neighborhood at the time I was born back in the mid Sixties had had their toilet outside of the house. Australian outhouses were commonly and fashionably called "The Dunny". To get to the dunny in our case we would exit the back of the house, walk along the verandah and into the tiny room, which faced directly over into my next door neighbours backyard. Great for privacy, they knew everytime we went pee pee.


At the time we didn’t speak to our neighbours, our parent’s had falling out in a dispute over a bag of fruit, (pathetic) so my visits to the outhouse often bought ridicule from the three kids next door, who were all older than me. I was so embarrassed to step outside to go to my private business with what I felt was the eyes of the world watching me.


So I would peek out of the kitchen door first and check if the backyard was empty next door. If it was indeed empty, I would do a flying run out to the toilet and slam the door and literally hide in there. Sometimes though, this method didn’t work. My next door neighbor and later my best buddy and cohoot, would often hide down near her fence and as I did my flying run out the backyard she would spring up to the top of the fence like a jack in the box and yell out


Looking back now I can laugh but back then that public outting of my toilet habits was the source of many a night over the years spent begging and pleading with my parents for an upgrade to an "Inhouse".



The worse times growing up with an outhouse, were when the neighbours were having a great big party in their backyard, which they often did. Those times taught me immaculate bladder control. I would be too embarrassed to step outside because to be sure I would be greeted by howls of laughter as I vanished into the little room to do my business. My Overly active imagination would believe they could actually see through that door and actually watch me as well.

The really bad thing about the whole set up and especially when the neighbors were having yard parties was the risk that someone else would try and use the toilet while you were in there which would then expose you sitting on your throne with pants around the ankles, to about 50 Teenagers all drinking and having a merry time next door.
(I swear they used to have the parties just to watch our family travel back and forth to the loo all day)


Then we get to the seat itself. Did we have a simple plastic seat on our toilet? No we had to have one of those super duper heavy ancient Bakelite toilet seats. They were a pretty durable addition to the Australian "Dunny" back in the sixties and yet they didn’t last. They were replaced eventually and I know the only reason why. It was ONLY because those blasted bakelite toilet seats were so freezing cold in winter and I mean freezing. It would be agony to sit down on the seat and I would dream of a plastic seat daily in winter.


As I grew older I developed a knack of putting my hands face down on the cold seat at the front and sitting on my hands instead of the icy seat.



The room itself in the early days was very boring. I would sit there for hours (well it seemed so) and stare at the bland off white colored walls and the baby poop brown colored door. There was one tiny frosted slatted glass window, way up near the roof behind the commode itself and there was one frizzy oid toilet brush in a pale lemon faded bucket. Of course, being a slatted window meant the nice icy breeze blew right down those diagonal vents onto two already freezing cold exposed goosepimpled butt cheeks. The floor was cold cold smooth concrete without even a rug to keep the tootsies warm.


I devised a plan one day when I was around 11 or 12. I decided that it was high time the Dunny had a paint job and makeover. So after getting permission off Dad we went down to the hardware shop and bought some paint to "give it all a new do". The paint I chose was pink, a pale pink for the walls and a deep dark Cerise pink for the doors. It was a full gloss paint to because I hated the feel of flat paint on walls.


That pink would have been wonderful in a large bathroom, but in our tiny outhouse it was a disaster. A technicolor disaster at that. I could promise anyone a headache if they even sat in the room for five minutes after the pain job. As I grew and came home drunk with a hangover the next morning, the toilet color would remind me never to ever drink again. To his credit Dad did wait till I left home to repaint the outhouse back to the dull staid off white it orginally was.



But the worse memory of the outhouse involves my notorious neighbours and a freezing cold winter on what we used to call in Australia "cracker night". It was held in June each year and this story was set in one of the last years before household fireworks were banned in Australia. I guess this ditty was one of the reasons why. In the big packs of fireworks, would be long thin cardboard tubes labelled "ball shooters". These were the most popular to the "deviants" around the neighborhood, who fired the ball shooters at everything but the sky. The other popular fireworks were throwdowns but that is another story




Well this one year one dark night I checked and the coast appeared to be clear so I raced out to the toilet. Just as I raced along, my neighbor put her head over the fence and aimed something at me. The next moment, zap, zap, zap. Bright colored balls of gunpwder were exploding all around me and on me. I screamed and tried to run faster with my ear and hair on fire. I closed the door once I got inside and cried and cried. My clothes were all burnt and I was terrified but there was still the return journey back to the house to worry about. I waited. I waited in that damned toilet for half an hour hoping my parents would realize I was missing and come and look for me. I waited and waited to no avail.


Finally I was getting colder and colder and my burns seemed to be burning more and more skin off so I decided to make a run for it back to the house. The return journey was even more difficult as I had to open the wire door as well as the wooden door at the back of the house. I sat there gathering courage and hoping that she had gone inside and forgotten that terrorizing me was her favorite passtime.

I peeked through the keyhole into the blackness outside. I don’t know to this day how that could have helped, light looking out a keyhole into darkness is not a successful venture at the best of times. It seemed silent and dark so i decided to "do it". I took a deep breath and threw open the door and started to run. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a shadow move on the other side of the fence and suddenly whack whack whack, Whack Whack ouch ouch, I was being attacked from all directions. I hadn’t realised that while I was safe on my commode, my neighbor had called her older borther and sister outside as reinforcements and they were all lined up along the fence aiming those dreaded ball shooters at their terrified target.. Me.

Of course the door wouldn’t work and I was in such a rush to open it I nearly went straight through it. Finally I was inside safely and my mother was standing there in front of me looking rather quizzically at all the smoke rising from my scorched clothes and sniffing the air which was now thick with the smell of burnt singed hair.


I looked at her and just shrugged, we were used to the neighbors by now and I just said to her .. MUM when I grow up.. I am never ever going to subject my kids to an outhouse.... and do you know something..... I never have......

Rose Garden - The Day my Sister Died.

The 16th of November 1988 dawned a sunny warm spring day and I woke up around 7am feeling fresh for once. Jumping out of bed, I wandered out to the kitchen to make a cuppa of coffee to liven me up. I stood there listening to the birds singing in Dad's aviary out the back as I waited for the jug to boil, little realizing that the day would turn out to be the worse day of my life.

It was five days before my 22nd birthday and the house was empty, mum and dad were in Sydney at dad's heart specialist, as dad had only been released from hospital the week before after having a near fatal series of heart attacks. I sat reading the paper and shortly afterwards there was the sound of a key turning in the front door, my sister Cathy had arrived for her morning cuppa on the way to work.

Cathy lived half an hour south of us in Jamberoo with her husband Trevor and worked about ten kilometres north of us in Fairy Meadow so it was logical for her to leave home earlier of a morning and stop in for a cuppa with mum and dad before work. I was usually fast asleep at this time and missed seeing her. I started work at 10 of a morning and my nights were full of partying so lazy late mornings were the norm for me.

But this morning my body clock decided different for me and my sister sat down and drank her coffee with me and we talked. We really talked, for probably the first time in our lives we talked, as two adults, as sisters. We talked about me starting uni in Wagga in the new year and how excited I was that my life was going where I wanted it to go, that the confusion of my teen years and relationship with Zoran, Krystals father were behind me. We talked of Cathy's inability to conceive and how it had hurt me that nobody had told me about it. My parents and sister were very closed in "private matters" and felt that it was something not to de discussed within the family. So I never had a clue there was a problem and just thought that they hadn't decided to have kids yet. Me being me, was a "stirrer" every time I would see her I would tease her about her extended wait to have children, little realizing the pain and torment I must have visited upon her each and everytime I "stirred it up". Why hadn't mum quietly taken me aside and said hey there is problems. I ended up finding out through one of my sister friends.

My sister and I discussed this for the first time. I told her I was prepared anytime to be a surrogate mother for her and she was over the moon. I told her if she had told me prior it would already be happening, I would have done it anytime. She explained that she had an appointment later that morning with her gyno and she would tell him what I had said and see what we had to do if her current treatment didn't work.

I had two jobs at the time, one at the fraternity club as a cashier and bar wench and during the day I worked at the TAFE food school which was also at Fairy Meadow as a chef's assistant. Mostly I worked with the pastry chef and at the end of the day I would take home delicious cakes that had been baked, chocolate cakes, tea cakes, butter cakes, birthday cakes, Christmas cakes, cupcakes, cream sponge cakes, buns and slices, biscuits and cookies every single goodie and sweet imaginable.


So before Cathy left that fateful morning I handed her two giant cakes for her workplace's morning tea. I walked her down to the car, still chatting a way, a pleasant relaxed feeling inside and a hope that our relationship would be little easier from now on. I watched as she placed the cakes on the floor of the car then she climbed into the drivers side and drove off. I stayed standing there long after her car had disappeared around the corner in Gundarun street.

It was 8.35 am.

A little while later when I had gotten out of the shower there was another knock at the door. It was Lisa one of my friends who had come to say hi on her way into town to do some shopping. We chatted while I continued to get ready and then she said "Oh by the way, don't go your usual way to work today. There has been an accident on the F6 and someone died."

I froze, my blood froze, I knew at that point, I just knew I didn't know how I knew I just did. I looked at Lisa and said "where". She explained it was about 200 metres south of the Gipps road overpass, a silver car had gone under a truck.

The blood drained from my face as I pictured myself not 40 minutes earlier waving to the back of a silver sedan as it cruised down my street. I shook my head and sensibility set in. "No, thousands of cars travel along the expressway each day, hundreds of those cars are silver". The thoughts raced around in my head, a million scenarios.
I explained to Lisa my fears and we both found a hundred reasons for our imagination getting away from us. Lisa left soon after and I fnished getting ready and jumped in my car for the journey to work.

I just had a "bad feeling" I couldn't explain the pit in my stomach or why I felt the way I did. It felt like the sunny day was overcast by a grey shadow. I drove off and as I turned into Robsons road down towards the expressway onramps, I could see to the north the flash of red and blue lights. The traffic was banked up on the southern side traveling north only, way back as far as I could see past Figtree, the next suburb to the south.

I went straight ahead instead of attempting the onramp and drove along the parallel side road amongst the housing estates. When I got to Gipps Road, the fear and curiosity got the better of me, instead of keeping on going the direction I was going, I detoured again, driving along the road that would take me over the overpass. I got to the bridge and slowed to a crawl, many other drivers were stopped and there was a crowd on the bridge looking towards the accident. I craned my neck to see amongst the people towards the accident which I could see about 150 metres to the south of me. Then I saw it. A silver sedan that looked so familiar.
"I had to keep driving, there was cars behind me and I had to get to work. Once again the sensible fairy sat on my shoulder chattering away. Don't be silly, there is hundreds of silver cars, many many silver cars, beside you are as blind as a bat, you haven't got your contacts in so you couldn't see what it was, It could be a Ford or Toyota and even if it was a Holden, it could have been a commodore".
I reasoned with myself the rest of the way to work but always at the back of my reasoning was this awful pit of fear and knowing.

I walked into the food school in zombie mode, I don't remember arriving in the staffroom but when I arrived I found I couldn't bear it anymore. The bells were chiming loudly and I ran upstairs to the Head Teachers office to ask If I could use his phone. I dialed the number to Cathy's workplace and shook as it connected, expecting to hear Cathy's voice and then having the sensible fairy slap my face and tell me to go lie on a couch somewhere and talk about my Histronic personality disorder. But no, one of the other girls answered "oh no Cathy's not in yet".

Thud, my heart hit my feet as I replaced the receiver. I looked at my bosses secretary who I knew lived at Figtree to the south of the accident. I asked what time she had left for work and she answered "oh about 8.40".

I asked her if she had been held up and driven passed the accident and she nodded and said she had been held up about 20 mins but still got to work only a little late. By this time the alarm bells were deafening but the sensible fairy kept running around with cottonwool and silencing the sound.

While this was going on some my fellow staff not working in classes, had gathered and two of them asked me what vehicle she was driving and then left to drive back passed the accident to check it all out. My boss rang the police and hospital only to be told there was no details. I dialed my brother in laws number and was relieved when he answered the phone. I asked him if Cathy was going anywhere else before work that morning. He said no and told me about the appointment later that morning that he was meeting her for.

He asked why I wanted to know and once again the fairies came out arguing but I felt I should say something.
"I don't want to scare you or alarm you Trevor but there has been an accident on the F6. It's a silver car and Cathy's not at work yet".

Silence and then Trevor said "Hang on a minute, it's 10 am the news will be on"> He dropped the phone and I could hear the radio faintly in the background reporting the accident as the top headlines.
"The sole famle occupant of a silvr grey Camira has been fatally injured in a head on collsion on the F6 this morning at Gynneville".
All of a sudden I could hear Trevor keening in the background, "noooooooooooooooooooo"

He came back on the phone after a minute and I told him to calm down and that we didn't know for sure. I relayed the hundred sensible points I had argued with myself over all morning to him and told him I was ringing the hospital again. He said he would get ready and come up to Wollongong immediately, earlier than he was going to.

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I didn't want to hear her, I just wanted to do what I had to do and be out of there, I wanted it all not to be real, I wanted to get a hug off my mum and her tell me it would be ok.
The curtain slid back and my eyes lifted to slowly take in what I was seeing. It was my sister but it wasn't. She was lifeless, purple, swollen and bruised. Her eyes were closed and there was dried blood around her mouth. A sheet covered her up to her chest but I could see the massive bruising on her chest. She didn't look asleep, she looked dead, white gray swollen dead.

I turned away and walked out of the room, saying yes that's my sister as I left. As I walked out I asked the officers if they had managed to get my parents at the roadblocks up the mountains and they shook their heads.

I turned to Vivian and asked her if she could drive me to Gran B's. Mum and dad would go straight there for lunch on their arrival back from Sydney and pick my daughter Krystal up to take her home. We pulled into the street and I gave a sigh of relief to see my parent's car out the front. All emotion was locked down, there were things to be done. I got out and went up to the wire security door. I looked down the hallway to my father sitting there in puzzlement at my arrival in my pink work uniform.

Grandma came and answered the door and took one look at my white face, asking me what was wrong. I floated past her into the dining room where my parents were sitting, obliviously enjoying a salad lunch.

The radio was on in the background, the strains of the 12 oclock NEWS broadcast runin music  already blasting into the room.

Dad stood up. "whats wrong".

"Cathy's been in an accident I said, without a flicker of emotion in my voice and on my face."
Mum jumped up. "Is she ok".

"No she's dead," I answered and sat on the sofa staring straight ahead. "she was in an accident on the f6 and she was killed instantly. Oh mum I am so sorry".

This has been the hardest Blog I have ever written. I promised all year I would write this event today on the anniversary of my sisters death, the 16th of November. Today the emotion has run free and I have relived those events as if they were only yesterday. The pain is as strong as it was then. The tearing apart.  The never getting to say goodbye. But I like to think I did say goodbye that morning. I had told her my hope and dreams and plans of the future, we had talked, we had said sorry, we had reconciled our childhood, we were adults. One with a path that's was tragically cut short in her prime, and one whose live was about to change forever that day.

Tomorrow I will complete this episode.. for now I have to go outside and smell the roses… and remember my butterfly.. my sister.. the golden pure one…

R.I.P. Cathy 16.11.88
The lion sleeps tonight

       

I wrote a point of view piece last month on Australians eating feral cats. It was an unusual choice of topic and something I felt I could really get my teeth into. After researching the subject and much deliberation and pondering in my "ready room", the place of all my inspiration and philosophizing, the shower (I ran out of hot water grrr), I began writing about the pros and cons of eating feral cats. No pros many cons, I carried on to the subject of Australians eating our national emblem, the Kangaroo and Emu and the benefits of eating 'roo. I effused the good healthy qualities and wonderful taste and cheap price of the meat and gushed at just how lip smacking good it was. I sort of ignored the eating of the Emu as I have not partaken of the flesh, as yet.

 

I received a bulletin this morning on myspace from one of my anti Iraq war friends. I opened the bulletin cautiously because i am used to his 9/11 video links and Anti Bush stuff but I nearly cried when I saw it say this.

To quote

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It's a sad day for KISS fans…
Late last night early on November 16th famous KISS frontman Gene Simmons was found dead in his house. "He was found late in the night by his daughter Sophie." said reporter Russ Burnside.

Investigators are not sure of how the fan favorite KISS member and reality TV show star on Gene Simmons Family Jewels died or they are not releasing full details to the public just yet.
Gene's partner; Shannon Tweed's exact words "Gene, was a fun loving man and a great father, it's a real tragedy that such a great mans life could end on such a short note. He will truly be missed."
And if you don't repost this no one will kill you and no one will hurt you and no you won't have bad luck for seven years. You not posting this just shows you have no heart.
So please just repost as "in loving memory of Gene Simmons."
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Shock.. Horror... my mouth dropped open. My fingers, who never believe my eyes, went straight to google news for more info.... nothing.. I type in "Gene Simmons dead"... nothing.. no responses and no articles about the singer dying.

No way, i sit there and think....if Gene Simmons was dead the whole world would be in mourning.. it would b headlines everywhere....

I wandered over to Perezhilton.com...nothing there but thats not surprising, he never gets it right after reporting that Fidel Castro definitely died way back in Auguest.....

So there is no news other than my poxy myspace bulletin which by now my heart had thankfully worked out, is a dud.

You see Kiss mean so much to me. They were my first love, they were my first idols. They were my first heroes.

Way back in 1980 during my second year of high school it was announced that Kiss would tour Australia in the November. My little group of terror teens were over the moon. We were Kiss Freaks. There was a group of five of us, one of those odd numbers in group settings that ensures someone gets left out and our KISS fandom was one of those occassions.

We had a free dress up day that year and my friends of course dressed up as KISS. I myself wore my black jeans and flip flops and went dressed as a "troubled teen".. I can't say dressed up because I always dressed that way.

But the girls had great fun planning their makeup for the big day. Karen came dressed as Paul, Belinda came dressed as Gene, Suzanne came dressed as Peter and Donna dressed as Ace. I didn't mind not having my own KISS character as I was a tad different from the others.. I never had a crush on an individual band members.. I didn't understand this crush thing..


Hey I loved their music, loved the stage show and loved their act but I wasn't caught up in some lost unrequited crush on some guy in a holloween makeup mask. I didn't understand the attraction, how could you have a crush on someone whose face you had never seen......

I mean don't get me wrong, i was a fan just like the rest, I had every single Album they had released, my room looked like something out of a horror movie with the walls covered in KISS posters and pictures...... but I ddin't have the "one" band member that I wanted to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to fariyland with.

Of course I shared my thoughts with my friends, who thought I was quite crazy not to have one of the band members as the great lost love of my life. They even offered me the new drummer but Heck he wasn't anything on Criss. To me KISS was the original lineup...It became quite an issue between us all and of course, being teen girls.. grew into a massive bitchfight.. over KISS and crushes.

Enter the concert in Sydney November 1980. The girls were so excited. Of course they were all going. Once again I was the odd one out. At that point I would rather have gone home, smoked a stick and sat back mellowed out in my room listening to the strains of "I was made for loving you" or "I want to Rock and Roll all night..and party every day".

Soon some of the girls made an issue about me not going, I was the outcast, they had much to talk about and plan in their group of four, to dress like their characters and go to the concert. One of the girls Karen and I had never seen eye to eye, so she was really enjoying this and inciting the others to tease me more. It built up to the point we wern't talking at all, they would be off in their little huddle laughing and planning while I was left sitting sadly on the fence.

So I went home and talked to dad. Dad was a coach captain who sub contracted to the biggest bus company in WOllongong and I knew that they would have the tour bookings and trips. I begged to be let go to the concert, I cried, I cajoled, I screamed, i stamped my foot until finally, of course as I knew he would, Dad caved and told me he would see about getting me a ticket.


The afternoon of the concert I got home, much sadder than usual, dad hadn't been able to get me a ticket as they were sold out and the girls had been gloating that day, so I sort of shuffled in the front door and walked to the kitchen. I opened the door and my mouth fell open in shock. There sitting on the table was one bright ticket with the words KISS stamped across the front of it. I went up closer and picked it up gingerly, it couldn't be, no way but it was. It was a ticket to the concert that night up in Sydney. Mum looked at me with a little smile on her face and said Happy 14th...It was my birthday the next week.

My face broke out into a huge smile I ran up and gave her the biggest hug and raced off to the phone to ring my friends to tell them I was going. No answer, not one of them answered, so i guessed they were somewhere getting ready. I shrugged. There was only a couple of buses going up so I would soon catch up to them. I knew all the drivers so I could easily check their manifests to see what coach they were on.


I raced in to get dressed. Haha I look back and cringe. I wore black heeled shoes with black tights and like superman black over pants. I had a back singlet (sleeveless undershirt) on and over it I wore one of my dads shirts unbuttoned, which flowed down to my knees. I used a couple of cans of hairspray to make my hair look appealing to any bird wishing to find a nest and streaked my face with black makeup and threw on some cheap gold jewelry. wow a goth before goth...

Excitedly I jumped in the car and we drove off to the station. When I arrived I looked around to see if I could see my friends. No go, there were hundreds of genes, pauls, peters, erics and ace's but none fitted the odd sizings of my friends. Donna was only four feet tall so I was looking for a wee Ace.

I didn't worry too much, I checked the manifests and couldn't see their booking so I thought maybe the parents drove them up. I jumped on the bus and off we went. After an hour or so of driving we arrived at the showground and all made our way in. I was alone, looking aorund still for the others. I got inside and my mouth dropped open, it was indescribable, the set was fantastic, the crowd was so thick already that you couldn't move. I looked to the front and shrugged again and started on my "mission". The font row. This is where my size is a distinct advantage and disadvantage at the same time. I am five foot. That is five foot nothing, zero, zip, ziltch. Not five foot and a half. Just five foot exactly. So I am not into the crowd thing being that I can't see much other than the sweaty stinky armpits of the person in front of me. But being small is great for squeezing though tight spots.. which is what I did.. I wormed and squeezed my way to the front row against the barrier.

I was there. Magic. The show started, I was right in front of Paul Stanley. Caught up in the pure magic of the show, I bopped against the barrier, alone and lost to the music. Incredible, so close, so fantastic. It really was pure magic. The lights, fireworks, stage tricks, the costumes, and colours and music... *sigh

It was over way to soon and I made my way back to the buses. Still no others in sight. I was hoping that they had good spots and had enjoyed the show as much as i did. I was still caught up in the show, still lost in the magic.. it would be many days before I landed back on Earth.

I then started thinking that they may have caught a train up so i went and told the driver i was going to get a train back and I jumped on a bus into the city of Sydney. The bus was jam packed full with Gene Simmons, Paul Stanley, Peter Criss, Eric, the new drummer  and Ace, all screaming merrily, drunk on whatever, alcohol, drugs, the music, the band, the atmosphere. We arrived at Kings Cross, the "red light district" and I made my way along slowly to the train station, dressed as a freak, by myself along with hundreds of other KISS freaks. We wandered seemingly aimlessly along the main street which was lined with all sorts of life's oddities, prostitutes in search of that last hookup that would allow them to finally score their next little baggy slice of heaven, pimps smoking fat joints of wickedly smelling weed, drunks semi conscious in the gutter, bikers on loud harleys mised with addicts nodding off from their last fix and spruikers, who were standing outside the flashing lights of dingy little doorways to sleaziness.

When I got to the train station it was empty, no friends. By then it was 2am, I caught my train home and sleepily rang my parents from the station to come and get me.

The next day I rang my friends to ask what they had thought of the concert and where they had been standing and do you know what... none of them had gone..not one... they hadn't been allowed to.....

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*footnote.. we all made up and fought again..and made up again.. but today I appreciate those four girls more than you can ever imagine. I haven't seen them for years. I talked to Belinda via myspace not long ago.. but they were my buddies, my partners in crimes and kept me sane through an awkward time.

I think what the moral to this story is, if there is a moral is to be yourself.. don't follow the crowd and be in because it is in to be in.

One thing that strikes me as I write this though, is my own children. I was 13, I went to the city alone, I then ventured into the dark dark red light district alone. I walked through quicksand. Yet I am here today? What kept me safe while others around fell prey to deadly dangers?

My own daughter was 15 and I wouldn't let her go driving at night with her mates in our small country town. I drove her to work and back and school and back. I never let her walk streets at night or go out where so would be exposed to danger.

Times have changed. I was safe. Now it is not safe.


and to the bastard that invented that bulletin when Gene Simmons isn't dead.. you suck monkey nuts.......
Which brings me to my final point that Rick ( Click here For Ricks Blog -  A great Netertaining Read) reminded me of... If you get a bulletin, how about you check the facts before you repost it.. and seriously if it threatens death or loss of your fingers or otherwise if you do or don't repost it... then the TRASH BIN is the repost


Hey I just coined a new term.. Netertainment .. sheesh all good things start from a typo.. its sticking