The Crossroad Inn

06:54 AM - A Throwaway Life (All Comments Answered)
Category: Life

When I was a kid, mum used to make her cups of tea and coffee from an old fashioned ceramic and Bakelite Sunbeam electric jug. Our toast came out of this tiny beaten up toaster that you had to open while cooking to turn the toast over.

We had these two appliance for all of my childhood. Every now and then the element would "blow" on the jug so it was off to the appliance repair shop for a new element and a quick service. Eventually as I got older I learned how to replace the element in the jug myself. I felt it was prudent to learn as I was the one who would always put the jug on then wander off to do something before returning to find the jug boiled dry and the element springing wire out the top.


The toaster would stop working at least once a year so it was the toaster turn to be taken to the appliance shop for repairs and a new element inside that too.


It wasn't until I was a teenager that mum and dad splurged and bought a new "automatic" jug and a new "Automatic" toaster. It was magic to us. A jug that turned itself off and a toaster that popped up when BOTH sides of the toast was completed.







You all know my daughter is visiting the farm at the moment and we are having a grand old time. We have a minor issue though. Krystal took my camera out with her the other night and when it came home it no longer worked. I bought the camera for $100 dollars when we were on the move after leaving our house in Kingaroy to take photos of this new place to show my mum and dad before I moved in. So that was early May that I bought the camera. Three months ago. It was an Olympus 7.1 megapixel cam.


It is still under warranty but will take some months to repair. That is, if the warranty is honored. If they find the camera was dropped or was submerged in water then no warranty.

So Glen got out his camera. His camera was on my desk a couple of weeks before we moved while I was downloading photos. The phone rang and Glen rushed in to answer it, knocking his camera off my desk... Deader than my great great grandmother it was.

So Glen, knowing of my need for a camera, got his broken out this week and rang his insurance company where he pays extra for his camera insurance. He bought the camera just over twelve months ago for 299.00 on special. So he insured it for it's value of $350.00. His camera was a pentax 6.0  megapixel.




When he rang the insurance company he was told there is a 200 dollar excess on his claim and this is where we have the problem. He had already rang the repairer and was quoted 270.00 dollars for the repair. So in other words, if we do claim and wreck our no claim bonus we pay out 200 dollars of a 270 dollar repair.

The problem is simple. I bought my camera for 100 dollars three months ago. It is bigger and better than Glen's pentax camera by far.

So where is the sense in paying out 200 dollars and losing our no claim bonus with our insurance company or even paying the full 270.00 dollars for repair of the camera when we can replace the camera for 100 dollars?

Now I can see the sense that if my toaster breaks, it is much more economical to go and buy a new toaster for 20 dollars down at the supermarket. But for the life of me I can't see any sense in the whole camera issue. Why should we have to throw away a perfectly good camera instead of having it repaired.


How have we become such a throwaway society. A camera is a precious possession. it is something one would expect to last a quite lengthy time over years, not months.

How has it become more practical economically if I throw the camera away and buy a new one.

How much money am I putting into the Chinese central bank everytime I replace an appliance that has lasted me a period of months instead of years.

As a footnote to this.. Glen took his camera apart yesterday to see if he could fix it. He soon found the problem with a round plastic part of the lens which had a tiny tiny plastic cog broken. That tiny PLASTIC bit would cost us 270.00 to replace. *Shakes head in disgust*


What do you think? What effect does this "throwaway society" have on our incomes and lives?


So yeah there will be no hysterical pictures or vids of little Shayla riding the quad around with her big sister Krystal hanging precariously off the back end.


But it was very funny to watch.. damn I wished I had a camera....

01:38 PM - I Made Him Join The Priesthood
Category: Writing and Poetry

 

In my second year of high school I had a maths teacher, who was the endless source of amusement for me. I was a terror back then with a strong sense of social justice which made for some rebellious acts against the "system" even then.

 
To describe Mr. Gaunt to you is a tad difficult. My only description of him gets rather confused because every time I think of Mr. Gaunt, Mr. Bean pops into my head and I crack up laughing. To this day I can not differentiate between the two. I am telling you now, Rowan Atkinson modeled Mr. Bean from My Mr. Gaunt.

 

 

I had always been put in the top class but I hated it. My friends were in the lower graded classes and the other kids in my class were stuck up snobs. So I made it my mission to be put in the lower classes with my friends. Hence not long after the start of my mission I was moved down into Mr. Gaunts lower math class with all the cool people and all my friends.

 
There was only one problem with that.

Mr. Gaunt was stuck teaching the lower classes because he was well, Mr. Beanlike dumb.

 

 

He wore long socks, long shorts with a short sleeved shirt and tie and I really think his face was more Mr. Beanlike than Mr. Bean. He was a confirmed bachelor who lived in a tiny flat and the thought of him with a woman was the source of many laughter outburst by my friends and myself in class. Mind you he didn't rate as high on the idiot scale as  Mr. Freame, the Latin master but Mr. Freame and my detention stories are still to come.

 

Mr. Gaunt had no control over the class. He would turn to us and ask us if we thought we should have a math's test the next week. Well hey, back then everything had been sorted into lots of life already. He was asking every potential deviant over the years to come in our home if we WANTED a math test? Somehow we managed to persuade him every week that we were not quite ready.

 

Mr. Gaunt had many peculiarities other than having his shorts hitched up to his ribcage and a way of walking that at best could be described as Emu Like. He had a weird habit of waiting until we were all seated quietly in the class before making his entrance and he would EMU into the room and up to his desk, pulling his chair out and turning it to face the class. Then he would stand behind it and swing a leg over it, placing his foot on the seating part and begin rocking it back and forward leaning on his knee as he talked. He would proceed to waffle on for forty minutes about nothing. Or preach sermons on the greatness of math. Coming from a class where we actually did math, this was all new to me but got boring real quick. It seemed to drone on worse than the minister on Sundays, day after day, week after week.

 

One day it got too much for the imp in me. I waited until everyone was in class and watched Mr. Gaunt EMU his way up the corridor and then I made my entrance. I EMUED, myself along the corridor past the tiny glass windows and into the classroom and the rest of the class burst out laughing at me as soon as they saw me. They were used to my imitations and I had my Mr. Gaunt act down pat by this stage. Before I even got to my desk he called to me so I got to my seat and pulled it out as I threw my bag down and swung my leg over the back of it in an exact imitation of his own daily morning ritualistic actions.

 

"Yes Mr. Gaunt, present and accounted for Sir." I said with a cheeky grin on my face as the rest of the class sat in silent anticipation of what was to come.

 

"You are late young lady" He said pointing his finger at me and puffing his chest out.

 

I pointed my finger right back. "So I am sir" I took at deep breath and stood there grinning with my own puny chest puffed out too.

 

He started rocking his chair back and forth as he did when he got nervous.

"If everyone was late we wouldn't have a class" He said, his hand still pointing at me.

 My hand still pointed at him and my own chair started rocking in time with his. "It's not like I missed anything important sir".

 At that point he dropped his arm across his knee and kept rocking, just staring at me. I had shocked him. He was speechless. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

 

 

I stood there silent too, my own hand now dropped into position to match his and I watched him as I rocked in time to him.

 "That is beside the point." he exploded. "You are supposed to be here present in the class to get an education"

 One of the other kids spoke up at that point. He was one of the sporty kids that I didn't have much to do with.

 
"Well Mr. Gaunt, it is the point really. You never teach us anything. You just stand there preaching all lesson".

A voice from the back of the class piped up with "and swings on his chair all day doing it". That set everyone off. The whole class started laughing out loud, letting go of all the tension build up from the confrontation.

 

Mr. Gaunt started shaking as his face turned bright purple. I was still rocking in time with his motions and he turned to me, pointed and said

"YOU!!! outside in the corridor now, everyone else silence" He stepped off his char and went and stood uncomfortably behind his desk.

 
I pointed back again and stepped off my chair in time with him. "Yes sir, at your command". The hum started around me as I stepped into the aisle and EMUED my way to the front of the class. It got louder as all the class took it up and I stepped out into the corridor where the door was ajar and I could see in.

 

The moment I stepped out the hum stopped. It was our thing, our little call of unity when one of us got into trouble to let them know it was ok and everyone was behind them.

 

I stood against the wall for a minute cursing myself for not grabbing my bag with my cigarettes in it. As I debated walking back in and grabbing my bag I pulled out a lump from my pocket. It was my little round grey plastecine ball (like play dough) . I always had it in my pocket to keep my self busy while Mr. Gaunt droned on day after day. I stated modeling shapes and then sticking them on the door where the rest of the kids could see them but Mr. Gaunt couldn't. Each new creation bought a fit of stifled giggles as they tried to keep straight faces and pretend they were absorbed in his speech.

 

By now he was lecturing again on how if we all learned our math we could become rocket scientists and accountants. I, being me, of course began to model the obvious shape. A penis and balls. I carefully arranged them into a shape that looked a bit like a face and then revealed to the class what I had created on the door.

 

They erupted into a fit of laughter again. All of them were in hysterics, not so much by the "penis and balls" concept, but at the positioning because they could see what was going to happen next…. And it did……. Classically…..

 

By this time I was innocently standing on the other side of the corridor minding my own business. When the class erupted into giggles, Mr. Gaunt EMUED his way over to the door and threw it open yelling as he did so, "What is going on out here".

 

The class lost it at this point and absolutely squealed with laughter because what Mr. Gaunt didn't realize was, that as he opened the door my new molded shape was dangling right in front of his mouth.

 

Suddenly he looked down and saw it in horror. He froze and then screamed himself and went running off down the corridor which made everyone crack up even more. Just then the bell rang for end of class. Everyone was still laughing as they made their way out. We didn't see Mr. Gaunt around the school for a week or so after that and things were never the same but that was a good thing.

 

We got a new maths teacher who actually taught Math. A few weeks later, Mr. Gaunt left teaching and joined the priesthood. No I am not joking he seriously did join the priethood and that made perfect sense to me because he didn't cut it as a teacher…. And as for me.. I am always in trouble… just the depth varies

In my second year of high school I had a maths teacher, who was the endless source of amusement for me. I was a terror back then with a strong sense of social justice which made for some rebellious acts against the "system" even then.

 
To describe Mr. Gaunt to you is a tad difficult. My only description of him gets rather confused because every time I think of Mr. Gaunt, Mr. Bean pops into my head and I crack up laughing. To this day I can not differentiate between the two. I am telling you now, Rowan Atkinson modeled Mr. Bean from My Mr. Gaunt.

 

 

I had always been put in the top class but I hated it. My friends were in the lower graded classes and the other kids in my class were stuck up snobs. So I made it my mission to be put in the lower classes with my friends. Hence not long after the start of my mission I was moved down into Mr. Gaunts lower math class with all the cool people and all my friends.

 
There was only one problem with that.

Mr. Gaunt was stuck teaching the lower classes because he was well, Mr. Beanlike dumb.

 

 

He wore long socks, long shorts with a short sleeved shirt and tie and I really think his face was more Mr. Beanlike than Mr. Bean. He was a confirmed bachelor who lived in a tiny flat and the thought of him with a woman was the source of many laughter outburst by my friends and myself in class. Mind you he didn't rate as high on the idiot scale as  Mr. Freame, the Latin master but Mr. Freame and my detention stories are still to come.

 

Mr. Gaunt had no control over the class. He would turn to us and ask us if we thought we should have a math's test the next week. Well hey, back then everything had been sorted into lots of life already. He was asking every potential deviant over the years to come in our home if we WANTED a math test? Somehow we managed to persuade him every week that we were not quite ready.

 

Mr. Gaunt had many peculiarities other than having his shorts hitched up to his ribcage and a way of walking that at best could be described as Emu Like. He had a weird habit of waiting until we were all seated quietly in the class before making his entrance and he would EMU into the room and up to his desk, pulling his chair out and turning it to face the class. Then he would stand behind it and swing a leg over it, placing his foot on the seating part and begin rocking it back and forward leaning on his knee as he talked. He would proceed to waffle on for forty minutes about nothing. Or preach sermons on the greatness of math. Coming from a class where we actually did math, this was all new to me but got boring real quick. It seemed to drone on worse than the minister on Sundays, day after day, week after week.

 

One day it got too much for the imp in me. I waited until everyone was in class and watched Mr. G EMU his way up the corridor and then I made my entrance. I EMUED, myself along the corridor past the tiny glass windows and into the classroom and the rest of the class burst out laughing at me as soon as they saw me. They were used to my imitations and I had my Mr. G act down pat by this stage. Before I even got to my desk he called to me so I got to my seat and pulled it out as I threw my bag down and swung my leg over the back of it in an exact imitation of his own daily morning ritualistic actions.

 

"Yes Mr. G, present and accounted for Sir." I said with a cheeky grin on my face as the rest of the class sat in silent anticipation of what was to come.

 

"You are late young lady" He said pointing his finger at me and puffing his chest out.

 

I pointed my finger right back. "So I am sir" I took at deep breath and stood there grinning with my own puny chest puffed out too.

 

He started rocking his chair back and forth as he did when he got nervous.

"If everyone was late we wouldn't have a class" He said, his hand still pointing at me.

 My hand still pointed at him and my own chair started rocking in time with his. "It's not like I missed anything important sir".

 At that point he dropped his arm across his knee and kept rocking, just staring at me. I had shocked him. He was speechless. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

 

 

I stood there silent too, my own hand now dropped into position to match his and I watched him as I rocked in time to him.

 "That is beside the point." he exploded. "You are supposed to be here present in the class to get an education"

 One of the other kids spoke up at that point. He was one of the sporty kids that I didn't have much to do with.

 
"Well Mr. G, it is the point really. You never teach us anything. You just stand there preaching all lesson".

A voice from the back of the class piped up with "and swings on his chair all day doing it". That set everyone off. The whole class started laughing out loud, letting go of all the tension build up from the confrontation.

 

Mr. G started shaking as his face turned bright purple. I was still rocking in time with his motions and he turned to me, pointed and said

"YOU!!! outside in the corridor now, everyone else silence" He stepped off his char and went and stood uncomfortably behind his desk.

 
I pointed back again and stepped off my chair in time with him. "Yes sir, at your command". The hum started around me as I stepped into the aisle and EMUED my way to the front of the class. It got louder as all the class took it up and I stepped out into the corridor where the door was ajar and I could see in.

 

The moment I stepped out the hum stopped. It was our thing, our little call of unity when one of us got into trouble to let them know it was ok and everyone was behind them.

 

I stood against the wall for a minute cursing myself for not grabbing my bag with my cigarettes in it. As I debated walking back in and grabbing my bag I pulled out a lump from my pocket. It was my little round grey plastecine ball (like play dough) . I always had it in my pocket to keep my self busy while Mr. Gaunt droned on day after day. I stated modeling shapes and then sticking them on the door where the rest of the kids could see them but Mr. Gaunt couldn't. Each new creation bought a fit of stifled giggles as they tried to keep straight faces and pretend they were absorbed in his speech.

 

By now he was lecturing again on how if we all learned our math we could become rocket scientists and accountants. I, being me, of course began to model the obvious shape. A penis and balls. I carefully arranged them into a shape that looked a bit like a face and then revealed to the class what I had created on the door.

 

They erupted into a fit of laughter again. All of them were in hysterics, not so much by the "penis and balls" concept, but at the positioning because they could see what was going to happen next…. And it did……. Classically…..

 

By this time I was innocently standing on the other side of the corridor minding my own business. When the class erupted into giggles, Mr. Gaunt EMUED his way over to the door and threw it open yelling as he did so, "What is going on out here".

 

The class lost it at this point and absolutely squealed with laughter because what Mr. Gaunt didn't realize was, that as he opened the door my new molded shape was dangling right in front of his mouth.

 

Suddenly he looked down and saw it in horror. He froze and then screamed himself and went running off down the corridor which made everyone crack up even more. Just then the bell rang for end of class. Everyone was still laughing as they made their way out. We didn't see Mr. Gaunt around the school for a week or so after that and things were never the same but that was a good thing.

 

We got a new maths teacher who actually taught Math. A few weeks later, Mr. Gaunt left teaching and joined the priesthood. No I am not joking he seriously did join the priethood and that made perfect sense to me because he didn't cut it as a teacher…. And as for me.. I am always in trouble… just the depth varies

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......

I walk out the back in the dead of the night
To the little dark room with a dim overhead light
I hurry inside and then shut the door
and pick up my book that sits on the floor

I pull down my pants and with a great sigh
And a rip and a tear I then let it fly
I stare at my book but find I can't see
I feel my insides are being stung by a bee

I moan and I groan and I fart and I roar
I'm sure they can hear me right over next door
As I sit on my throne I look all around
And snort a bit more as I add to my mound

I never knew really I had eaten that much
I swear to god on the food I'll not touch
I beg and I plead as I pass out my inside
As waves of great pain take me on a rough ride

I then look around as I finish my job
And in high distress I let out a great sob
I peer at the wall to the hang of a nail
Where sits the bum roll I bought at a sale

My face falls as fast as my poop on the mound
Suddenly I yell out in a deafening sound
Oh no please not me and not at this time
I've run out of paper with my butt full of grime

I look madly around while I squeal out loud
As gas from my pile rises in an odorous cloud
I look at the floor and I see that its clean
Oh when will I awaken from this very bad dream

My head goes all foggy and it shakes in a daze
I glance down at my book in a jack daniels haze
It was an old classic a leather bound Peter Pan
But it wasn't much help right here in the can

I yell out for someone for anyone to help
But no one answers not even my dog's yelp
With a great sigh I grimace and hug my book tight
Bye bye my baby but I need help with my plight

I close my eyes tight and grab hold of the book
And tear out the pages right through captain Hook
I pucker my bum and give one last push
And screw up my face as I rub at my tush

waves of pain wash over and tears fall from my eyes
it's shredding the skin off from my delicate thighs
I cry and I moan and sweat runs from my brow
I honestly feel I have given birth to a cow

It's time to stand up and go face the world
With a look on my face like it's dinner I hurled
I zip myself up and push down the pain
I think it's enough to drive me insane

 I start to exit with a much smaller stride
my cheeks squeeze together in agony to hide
With all of that gone I don't feel such a blimp
I start to walk out with a bandy legged limp

 

 

 

 

Some of you may know that my first husband, Kiralea and Kaelan’s father died last year of liver disease.

He was my soulmate. There was 17 years between the two of us but we were like yin and yang together.

I left my husband in January 1999. I swore I would never do that. I swore we would be together until death us did part. I still to this day find it hard to reconcile in my mind that I lied.

I miss him. It is that simple.

He lives on through his children though, especially through Kaelan who looks exactly like his father. One day soon I may feel strong enough to write of our time together in detail but at the moment it is still to raw for me to breach that fence.

I have sitting in front of me at the moment, six journals, full of our life together. My husband was an avid "Logger" right down to drawing a symbol in the days journal entry when we had sex. That went down like a ton of bricks when I was showing Kiralea and Kaelan the entries from the days around when they were born and Kae pointed to the little hand drawn head with a big grin on it’s dial up the top of the page.

Kaelan"Whats that little head mean mum"
Me "Umm it’s a little head hun"
Kaelan "Yeah but what does the head mean mum"
Me "Oh I don’t know your father did lots of weird things"
Kaelan "Hey look mum it’s on this page and this page to and here is one with a body on it. I like the smile on his face mum. What did it mean"
Me" Oh I don’t know really, Kiralea do you want to see when you were tiny"
Kaelan " I want to know what these heads are though mum"
Me (getting exasperated) Don’ worry about it Kaelan.
Kiralea (starts laughing at me) "I know I know I know what it is".
She grabs her brother by the arm and starts dancing around giggling behind her hand".
Me "Oh yes missy and what would that be".
Kiralea grabs Kaelan tighter and whispers loudly in his ear "ITS WHEN THEY HAD S-E-X" - she spelt the sex part out.
Me is now bright red
Kaelan (Pores over the journal again very quizically). But how come there’s heads on most the pages but there is bodies on a few too.
Me" Umm didn’t you want to look at your first few weeks of life Kiralea
Kaelan "I still don’t get the head bit"
Me "oh Look Kiralea you were a month old here"

and he can just keep on not getting that bit for a few years yet :)

Over the past few days with having Kiralea’s poetry up on my blog and now on my poetry profile http://www.myspace.com/kaospoetry I have noticed a statement crop up quite often. "You get your talent off your mother"

That is not strictly true. Kiralea actually gets many of her talents from her father and I could argue that Poetry is one of them. So today I thought I would feature my favorite of Keith’s Poetry. It certainly isn’t a mushy mushy poem but I think it was one of his best pieces.





and finally to end my little bitza blog off. Brodie was most upset today when he found out that Unicorns don’t exist anymore. Being Brodie though he has the answer. Click the movie below to see.

 

The months past quickly and soon July turned into August. Finally the phone call came on a Monday morning. Taping was on Wednesday, would I be able to fly down? Umm well I will just take a moment and lock a box down in my mind before I answer that.

 

Oh Is the pope a catholic? Do Kangaroos poop in the bush? Will I fly down to Melbourne, to be chauffeured driven to the TV studios of the Largest TV network in the nation and then be pampered and spoilt in a dressing room with makeup and hair stylists, star spotting and dinner with a free appearance on TV where I could win some prizes thrown into the mix?  You Betcha Ass. Fear of Flying? What Fear?

 
Mikes Photography

"Oh Yes of course I will be there, what time does the flight leave"

 

Tuesday night I couldn't sleep a wink and I was very tired when I dragged my bones out of bed before dawn to travel up to Sydney Airport. I was terrified, I really hate flying. Oh it's not the flying itself I am scared of, give me wings any day and I will soar, a little lower than Icarus though. It is just that I don't know who is flying the plane and what he did last night. That goes for the mechanics too. Were they hungover and missed an all important bolt that holds the tail rudder in place? Besides I am a writer, the planes I think about crash. What sort of story begins and ends safely at an airport with no drama in between? Even Mine here doesn't.

 

 

My ticket was business class, to this day I don't know the difference between the "classes" and I guess that is why I wasn't so successful at school. All I know was that being seated squashed in the window seat, next to a fat fat man in way way too tight business suit was not the optimum way to travel. What is it with airlines, do they see I am so tiny and figure I can give three quarters of my seat up for Mr. 400 Pounds?

 

He was quite nice though and kept talking to me while the engines revved up and sweat began pouring out the palms of my hands. Maybe he sensed I was nervous, although that was not too difficult to guess with the stiff as a board, startled as a rabbit in the headlights stance I was taking myself as the plane itself was taking off. Of course he regaled me with stories of how he flies between the two cities every few days. He went on to explain in great detail to me all about the common woes of turbulence as I was watching the big monitor out of the corner of my eye flash through thousands of feet a second, climbing in altitude. "Most of the time you get some turbulence," he said, "Oh, it is not often that the plane actually drops a hundred or so feet but it does happen.

 Gulp!!

 By this time I had turned grey and I looked out my tiny window over the wing just outside to get away from the claustrophobic atmosphere of the plane. Uh Oh bigger mistake, the wing was shaking, I could see it vibrating and wobbling out there. My writer's imagination started to get away from me and I pictured the pop rivets working loose from the vibration, with the wing horrifically and catastrophically tearing away from the wind forces outside the plane. I never knew hands could sweat so much. I think at that point I turned green, I know I turned violently ill.

 I stood, turned to my overly friendly companion and looked at him regretfully, "Sorry, bathroom" I explained with a little shy smile.

 

Of course it took me five minutes to get passed him into the aisle. I should have just said Stay there! and then done a rabbit spring bolt into the aisle over his head but I managed to hold onto some sense of decorum in my mounting panic. I almost ran to the toilet and sat down, panting, trying to get my breath back and calm down the fear.

 Hey this was alright.

 I told myself that it could be a toilet anywhere that I was now seated in with a puddle of sweat pooling at my soggy feet. I looked around and nodded to myself, "Yes, this in fact, could be a train toilet and I am not really on a plane, I am on a train or a bus even and this is the tiny bus toilet". The sweat subsided and my breathing returned to normal slowly. I started to wonder just how long they gave you to go to the toilet in these things. I figured I had about fifteen minutes before anyone started to raise alarms so I set about getting myself quite acquainted with the tiny silver cubicle. I marveled at the curve and drop of the toilet bowl itself and how everything was designed for you to even have a shave in there if required. Finally I figured it was time to face the world again, or in this particular instance, the air outside my safe little haven. I sat on the seat for another minute or so composing myself and preparing myself. By now my hands had almost dried. I had never seen anything like it and I was amazed that stress and fear could do that to a person. I know now why they say never to trust a person with sweaty palms. I looked at my hands and imagined devious business dealings and sweaty palmed handshakes over transactions with millions of dollars of black market money. Ah it was all good, sometimes my writers imagination could completely get my mind off something else. What was I stressed about again? I stood up and walked out, confident I had overcome my fears as walked along the aisle towards my seat.

 
Uh Oh, I am in a plane.

 I cannot get away from it, there they are, those seats lined up exactly like in every writers nightmare novel and every disaster movie known to man. The double rows of seats at the side and the row of seats down the middle with a nice smiling cabin crew member standing at the other end, part way through the usual demonstration of what to do in an emergency or crash. She looked and smiled at me as I was walking towards her, in one hand she held the oxygen mask aloft and in the other she held a lifejacket as the video screen behind her demonstrated the flashing lights in the aisles. I went white, there was no other color left to go. My legs shook under me and my hands started pouring sweat faster than Niagara Falls pours water.

 

I wobbled to my row of seats and my overly friendly fat fat man with my eyes fixed on the life jacket waving around down the front in some kind of morbid fascination. Wasn't this a "Glass half empty," kinda thing. Why even mention crashing if this umm .. vehicle is as safe you proclaim. Sure enough the crew member was in fact now promoting the perfect historical safety record of the airline with an animated look of sheer bliss on her over painted face. By now my head was spinning and my face was changing colors faster than Michael Schumacher changes gears.

 

I began to squeeze past Mr. 400 pounds when I was silly enough to look up, straight out the little tiny window and straight onto a very wobbly vibrating plane wing. Uh Oh, Panic stations again. Too much, I really really want out of here. I turned and made a beeline back to the toilet. I somehow managed to compose my face as I tried to look like I had forgotten something in the tiny little silver cubicle.

 

After shutting myself inside and sitting once again on my tiny silver throne controlling my breathing and wiping my hands for a few minutes, I looked at my watch. Half an hour had gone past since we had taken off in Sydney. I quickly calculated the times and realized that there was only 35 minutes to go. If I spent another five minutes in the toilet, then went and sat down and focused on my book and book only, I might be able to do this.

.. 

I sighed and looked around again. I began talking myself up again. The sensible fairy sat on my shoulder and started chattering away. "Come on, after all you have done and all you have ever faced, you can't even get to Melbourne without a sweat? How many planes fly around every single day without accident. It is safer odds than traveling in a car" She was right but then there was the imp on the other shoulder that was saying something else. "Yes but in a car you can often walk away or avoid the collision but in a plane there is only one way and that is straight down." He was right too. Which part of me to believe?

 

Eventually I decided I more brave than I was scared so I gingerly stepped out again and walked steadily back to my seat, being careful to avoid eye contact with cabin crew, curious passengers and tiny windows.

 

Mr. 400 pounds looked quite contrite as I squeezed myself flatter than a thin based pizza in order to squash past him. "I say, I didn't turn you a bit off with those turbulence stories did I lovey"

 

I turned and looked at him with a grimacy smile, concentrating hard on his chubby red face in order to swallow my mounting fears down. As I answered him I reached behind me and pulled the tiny blind down over the window and my horrifically picturesque view of a wobbling vibrating wing.

 

"Oh no not at all. I think the take off made me a tad queasy."

 

I bent down and picked my book up and immediately glued myself in it. Only I couldn't glue. The plane decided that it was just the perfect time to encounter my morbidly obese friend's "Turbulence."  The plane started bumping up and down and then dropped slightly, leaving my stomach still on the ceiling. It landed back inside me with a thump and I gripped my book tighter than a vice as the pilot's voice came over the speaker system apologizing for the rough ride and explaining it would soon be over.

 

Ooh that sounded too ominous for my imaginative mind. I buried my face in my book and pretended to read as the plane bumped and wobbled along the journey south. It wasn't working, I had to overcome this. With a thud that made my neighbor jump in his seat (if that was possible) I tossed my book back down onto my bag. I sat back, gripping the armrests as I talked myself into overcoming the fear. Slowly I turned and peered out the window.

 

Not good not good it's wobbling out there. I forced myself to keep looking as I reasoned with myself and then I glanced down. I felt my mind drop the thirty or so thousand feet and shatter on the ground. I kept the mental hold and slowly my mind re melded as I took in the sights below. I was still scared but by now logic had beaten panic back into his corner.

I turned and started taking in my surroundings for the first time. As usual the other passengers fascinated me. The expressions on faces were so wooden and unmoving. It was more lack of expression in fact. Suddenly above my head in front the seat belts light flashed and the pilots voice came over the radio system. We will be landing in Melbourne Shortly and hope you had a good flight, yadda yadda, the voice droned on as I watched the altitude screen drop the numbers faster. Closer and closer to freedom I thought as I belted myself in and prepared myself for the landing.

 

I was so brave. As we were coming in to land I actually peeked out the window…….for a whole second until the orange panic button marked "not a good idea" flashed on in my mind. The Pessimistic Imp sat on my shoulder shattering away as he gleefully reminded me that most accidents happen on lift off and touch down but soon enough the sensible fairy came out racing out with gloves on and with a whopper of a right hook, King Hit the Imp and KO'ed him in one. Touchdown. Safety, We had arrived in Melbourne.

 

As we taxied to the terminal I gathered my bag together and started slapping myself and berating myself for being such a fool. I wasn't too pleased with myself as I walked slowly up the tunnel, trying to regain my land legs and sensibilities while thanking my lucky stars that I had made it this far. Walking out into the terminal I was stunned to see a group of men in smart business suits with cards held up in front of them, calling out names. Oh seeing the men didn't stun me, I had seen them before. What stunned me was the second man along who looked very dapper in a funeral like black suit was holding up a card with my very own name on it. Just for me.

 

I walked up to him and pointed at the card. He asked if I was Margaret and I said yes and He asked me to step over behind me to stand with two other people who were sheepishly waiting behind him looking just as lost as I was.

 

Mr. Chauffeur ushered the three of us out of the terminal into the hazy sunlight. In front of us was a huge shining black limousine. He opened the doors and told us to hop in and he explained her would be back shortly when he has picked some bagged up.

 

The three of us looked around at our surroundings and then into each others eyes. We all laughed at the same time.

Wow, star treatment.

 

And so it began but you will have to wait for the third and final Installment of Sale of The Century to find out just what happened at the studios

 

So Tell Me

Do You Like Flying?
What is Your Fear?
Have You Overcome Fears?
What is your worst fear experience?

and remember.. I would love to know and I love long comments.. *grins

 

and a short note. The finalists of the February 2008 Poetry Contest are now up. If ohaven't done so, drop over to Rose's Blog and have your vote on which of the finalists you think is the best poem. Fantastic quality poetry.

 

2008 Poetry Contest - Feb Finals

 

 

It was a turning point as such and very bittersweet.

The audition day was the big day. My ex husband was supposed to go and audition for the show as well but he was way too hungover. Mum and dad were rather snotty about having to babysit while we went to Sydney for "something so frivolous and hopeless". Keith ended up staying home and looking after the kids instead.

No-one wanted me to go. Everyone kept trying to talk me out of it, using statement's such as " You know you won't get through so why bother." Keith was very dark about it. He was controlling at the best of times and for me to go alone was against every rule in his book. In fact for me to do anything for myself was against his rule book. Not one person turned to me and said " Yeah May, Give it a go" Maybe that is what made me more stubborn.

In the end, because it was something I really wanted to do, I just said I was going and went and caught the train up to Sydney by myself. I remember I was reading a Dean Koontz novel but I was more curious about the other commuters around me. Their blank stares as they sat stiff and straight in the train was amazing to me. It felt robotic. They sat still and straight, staring at nothing as they rocked slightly side by side. I wondered what was going through all their heads. I was rather hungover myself, I don't drink now and didn't much then but I'd had a couple of glasses of tawny port the night before and it made me really fuzzy headed and ill.

The lady next to me on the train was a muslim with a tiny baby. She was wrapped in a full gown from the top of her head to her feet. The baby started screaming halfway in the train. She had some friends or assistants with her and they all started chattering away in their own language with the baby held up still screaming. Eventually they must have decided he needed a feed. Dilemna - Public place. So for the next 15 minutes I was subjected to the most bizare sideshow I have ever encountered while these poor women tried to stuff this tiny baby under the hundreds of layers of material to find the boobie he so desperatly required without drawing attention to themselves from the commuters around them. It didn't work, by the time the baby's legs were the only thing visible sticking out the side of the mountains of material, every single passenger in the carriage was watching what was going on with stunned fascination. Ahhhhh finally Silence. My ribs had been poked and prodded as the train had rock through the tunnels while these ladies tried to feed the baby. It wasn't the best time for poor bub to be so damanding and my poor ears and head agreed.

We arrived in the city and I caught another train to Business Disctrict. I was early, I found my way to the international hotel where they were holding the auditions and went and waited outside, still reading my book. I managed to sit in one of the only seats in the corridor so I was happy.

Out of the corner of my eye I was observing everyone as they came, doctors, lawyers, business suits, spectacles, briefcases, mobile phones (new back then). The halls filled with professionals. They all stood against the walls, some chatting, some trying to look busy and important, some were fidgetting and others were sneakily peeking around like I was. Soon after I saw a guy in jeans saunter in. We looked at each other and grinned. We were the only ones in jeans and gym shoes in the whole place.

The doors finally opened and we filed in. We had to complete a test of 50 questions where we would write the answers on a piece of paper. They were hard. At the end of it we were told to swap cards with the person next to us. I looked down at the bespectacled Dr. YinYang's test who was sitting next to me and I choked. My throat siezed up, I was soooo wrong, none of my answers were what I was looking at on his paper.

We started marking with a man up the front calling out the answers, I started crossing out Doc Yin's answers and thinking, "ooh i got that one". I remember one question I got right was "Who was the first Scottish King of England". - King James 1. I loved history and loved reading about the royal lines and wars.

At the end of it it we passed the papers back.

The man up the front called out to everyone when we had our papers back
"ok, who got over 45?"
No hands went up
"Who got over 40"?
No hands went up
"Who got over 35"
1 hand went up
"Who got over 30"
5 hands went up
"Who got over 25"
8 hands went up mine was one of them (i got 29)

"Ok everyone else can go home."

My mouth hit the floor. I watched over 300 pissed off people stand up and file out. I was left seated in a now near empty auditorium with about 14 others. I watched the doctors and lawyers and the beautifully dressed people walk out. Then I turned and looked around, straight into the laughing eyes of the other guy in the jeans, who was still seated in the next aisle.


We filled out paperwork and had pictures taken and then we were told to expect 24 hours notice at anytime in the next 12 months.

I walked out of the hall, still in shock, there was a phone on the wall in the lobby. I rang my parents and dad answered. He had a commiserative voice as he said "How did it go, was it fun".

I answered him "Yeah dad it was ok".

He said, "Never mind, another time, they are doctors and lawyers on that show you know".

I said "Yeah dad", in a flat tone, and then "But there will be me on there too".

He answered "Yes maybe one day"

I giggled and said "No dad. within the next year. I got through".

Dad's voice changed completely to disbelief.

He said "You're kidding". I laughed and said "Nope, out of over 350 people 15 went through and I am one of them".

He goes "I don't believe it".. which I knew, see no one had never believed in me. I was the naughty kid.

No-one realized I was just different and well, really smart... or a smartass *grins

I am going through my true "Mid Life Crisis" at present.

 

It is the time of my life when I am filing away the past and washing it all away so I can step forward into the future into a "new" life without any baggage.

 
So it is a very reflective time as my regular readers may have guessed by the tone of some of my recent "Pieces." So I do apologize if the blogs are a little weird.


The Contessa bought up a point yesterday in my Melancholic 1984 Blog about people standing on their soapboxes complaining about the drugs and youth, not actually looking around and seeing the alcoholism around them.

 
Years ago, I was speaking to a big drug dealer (literally he weighed 400 pounds) <<Obviously didn't partake of his products.

We were talking about people and addictions. In the small fishing village I lived in at the time, I was surrounded by alcohol and drugs. Our little town was a distribution point for the entire corner of the state. And the guy I was talking to was THE distributor.

 
He was a "mate" of my ex, who he met through one of the abalone fisherman and this particular day he "needed" me to help him on a pick up as I was the only one in the group that had a license. So we drove along with me trying to keep the car, which was leaning rather dangerously heavy down on the left hand side, controlled and driving straight on the road.
 

Every now and then in life someone says something to you that makes you sit up and listen. And you carry that conversation through in life. You learn something from it. Scarily as it seems, Bill taught me a lot about people.
 

He turned to me and said "Margaret, everyone has a crutch in life. You find out what it is and that person is yours, they will do anything for that crutch."
 

 
That sentence turned around in my head and around again. I began to open my eyes and really look at what was going on around me. Bill was the "Candyman" and I watched as his pockets seemed always to be filled with everyone's favorite type of candy. I watched as his car boot was laden with boxes of black market abalone, the freshest buckets of silver bream, baskets of still crawling lake prawns and boxes and boxes of fresh garden vegetables and fruit. It was amazing that without word or command, he had an army of troops, running around doing his bidding.

 
I began to watch other people. I watched the group matriarch sit upstairs of an evening with her earplug in her ear, eavesdropping on the conversation at the table in the den below, sipping away at bottle after bottle of white wine. Every now and then she would get up and go to a cupboard and take a pill from a box. (She is a whole story in herself).

 

I would watch the fishermen jump off the boat after a few days at sea, get paid cash off the skipper then literally run to the Bay Hotel. Once they got there, that money would sit on the bar until it was all mostly gone. The landlords and wives would be waiting at the bar when the boats got in, ready to grab their share before that was gone too.

 

I watched as Trevor, the crewman on Ray's trawler, sat at the bar's poker machines for hour upon hour, pushing buttons, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer until his hand was to shaky to find the button and his voice was that of a toddler.

 

I would watch the other crewman spending it all on horses, or the dog races and football.

 

And I would watch Bill at the end of the bar, watching them and watching me watching them, with a glass of lemonade in one hand and a meat pie in the other. This was his busiest time but he did nothing but watch. No one bothered him or came near him, yet every minute his pockets were filling with hundreds of hundreds of dollars. He had "the brothers", who were two of his lapdog junkies, running around the bar doing his dirty work in exchange for a piece of candy at the end of the night.

 

He was right. I have watched the world for the 15 years since he said that to me and he was right.

 Whether it be an addiction crutch or base need.. ....

Everyone has something that they rely on to get through. crWhether it is speaking to their best friend on the phone every day, a dozen cups of coffee, a game on the Wii, a beer at the pub, a gamble, a workout at the gym, sex, love, Coke a cola, sugar, Tv, drugs and the list goes on.

 

If you take that away, the person will wallow to get it back.

Controlled through addictions and base needs.

And it is used by society. Our addictions cost more. The government uses our addiction to gain more tax money through gambling taxes and alcohol and cigarette taxes. Instead of the Government fixing the problem, they actually aid to "water it" or make it grow. These addictions are used to control people.

 
A note to the Government here.

If Cigarettes are as toxic as you make the companies put on their labels then you have a duty of care to your people to ban the sale of this toxic substance to be consumed by the people. After all you banned pot. As cigarettes in "your own words" are HIGHLY ADDICTIVE, you have the responsibility as our chosen leaders to stop producing and making such massive amounts od dollars off this practice of addiction, misery, poison and death.

 

These addictions are fodder for people with bad intent. The teens of today are constantly being targeted through their "crutches" by massive marketing campaigns. The candyman is constantly dangling a bag of goodies in front of society all over.

 

Addictions to technology, keeping up with the Jones's, the latest and greatest in Video Games and weekend play toys, are played on and pushed towards people on a massive degree. It is one big marketing machines targeting your weaknesses.

 

If something proves to be a "must have" addiction, the price goes up. Matters not because people "want it" and they will buy it. They may complain a little but still put their hands in their pockets.

 
Basic needs can be the target...

The price of fuel rises, you need it, you have to have it, so you pay for it but nothing extra is coming into your pocket to cover it. The price of tobacco or wine rises, you pay it. Electricity even, yes can you do without it? The price rises by 17 percent in six months but you don't blink, you pay it.

Imagine if you were told one morning no more phones, no more computer, or no more electricity, no more coffee.. and you were cut off from that one thing.. How would you feel?


People feed off other peoples needs and weaknesses. The companies and drug dealers get richer and richer and the people get more and more reliant on them to dish out the candy.

 

But Candy Costs Dearly

Society decays from candy just as a tooth does….

 

This following Article Highlights the problems I have mentioned above.

Russell Crowe owns one of our football clubs here in Sydney and he is anti gambling so he has proposed to get rid of the gambling machines in the club.

Full Article ABC News Here

I believe the proposal by South Sydney Leagues Club's co-owners to remove its 160 poker machines should be applauded. It is a decision that reportedly will cost the club some $7 million in revenue.

Yet the proposal by Russell Crowe and Peter Holmes a Court reflects a club that is truly prepared to listen to the community in which it operates. Further, it reveals an understanding that although pokies offer a short-term revenue boon, their long term cost to the community is devastating.

Poker machines are not popular in the community. In fact, they are hated. A recent Herald Sun survey revealed 84 per cent support for the removal of poker machines in Victoria.

More personally a hotel manager just last week confided in me that he was forever being asked by patrons to borrow $5 or $10 so they could go home and feed their families after losing all they had to the pokies. He said he hated the pokies and what they did to people.

Yet across Australia, states have been too keen to embrace them with open arms.

State and Territory governments rake in over $4 billion a year in pokies taxes. The only exception is Western Australia, which apart from video poker games in Perth's Burswood Casino, is pokies free.

Last year the gaming industry took more than $10 billion out of Australian wallets. And it is those who are least able to afford it who are most impacted.

The Productivity Commission's landmark 1999 report revealed that 42.3 per cent of pokies losses came from problem gamblers. That compared to 5.7 per cent for lotteries. More recent studies have put this at closer to 50 per cent of losses coming off the backs of the vulnerable and addicted.

 

===========================================
What do you think? Other than I am a nut in odd socks…. we all know that