Would you like to look in my book? My hands turn green in the rain.

Currently reading: Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry
Current obsession: peanut butter-flavoured chocolate snacks
All-time favourite movie line: “You wear too much eye makeup. My sister wears too much. People think she’s a whore.” -Charlie Sheen, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off

I have a notebook. It’s just a small, spiral-bound notebook with hard covers, separated into three sections. In this notebook I list all the books I wish to read, record all the books I have read, and the dates when started and finished, and also write down favourite quotes and passages. I call it, with an uncharacteristic lack of imagination, my Book Book. Just recently I reached the end of my Book Book, which was a rather bittersweet occasion. This notebook represents my life- My life in books. I can’t think of a better way of recording my life than through books. I can flip through the Book Book and recall where I was, what I was doing and how I felt at the time of reading almost every entry.

It starts in January of 2004 with The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, which was read over a scorching fortnight (28.01.04 – 17.02.04) spent mostly on the beach. It was a big hardcover library book, and I remember the sand getting caught in the spine and between the pages.  Reading books on the beach is one of life’s truly underrated pleasures. I have a love/hate relationship with the beach. As a child I could rarely be dragged away from the beach. I was a golden brown colour and would stay in the water until my skin turned pruney, and clamber barefooted across the rockpools collecting starfish and prodding anemones. However, with the onset of puberty and a burgeoning sense of self-consciousness, I began avoiding the beach like… a thing… that avoids…. things worth avoiding (insert your own witty joke here. Almost 2 weeks I’ve been searching for an appropriate joke to go here. Bollocks) With time, I have gradually made my peace, even if I am still not entirely comfortable revealing so much of my skin in broad daylight, in the company of other human beings. To distract myself from the paranoia of being scrutinized in my teeny-weeny bikini, I take a book along with me, which in itself is not unusual, because I take a book with me everywhere I go. So Kavalier and Clay will forever be associated in my mind - along with other beach-books No Logo by Naomi Klein (15.01.05 – 26.01.05), Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin (07.01.08 – 10.01.08) and A Long Long Way by Sebastian Barry (30.01.09 – 03.02.09) - regardless of their setting or subject matter, with the heat of summer, the sound of surf and seagulls, with sea salt and sweat and towels that stay damp despite the heat, sticky 30+ sunscreen that smells like zinc and coconut, and the soft crunching sound that sand makes underneath your head.

When I made my solo trip to New York and California at the age of 20, it was Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children (01.03.04 – ????) that I took along with me. All alone in the world’s most famously impersonal city, Salman kept me company as I dined solo in tacky themed restaurants in Time’s Square. From icy, windblown, desolate, wonderful New York to humid, overcast Anaheim, where Midnight’s Children provided a welcome distraction from the tourist hokum and interminable lines for Space Mountain. I would brandish it proudly, my Booker-of-Bookers. “I’m not a tourist, I’m a traveller. See, look, I’m reading LITERATURE.”

In Hawaii my reading material was The Mambo Kings Play Songs of Love by Oscar Hijuelos (30.12.05 – 06.01.06). Set in steamy New York and sultry Cuba, the warm, lively atmosphere of Hawaii provided the perfect accompaniment. I had decided that year to do something truly spectacular for my mother for Christmas. She asked for a car radio. I bought her 5 nights in Hawaii. With an ingenious creative flair, I hid the tickets for Hawaii inside an empty car radio box, and then filled it with pebbles wrapped in bubble-wrap to provide an authentic sense of weightiness. It was a lovely holiday, and even now, four years later, I’m still reaping the benefits of such an extravagant gift, but I had just wanted to show my mother how much she meant to me, and means to me still, after my selfishly disaffected teen years. My mother still doesn’t own a car radio.

I was reading Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison (16.09.06 – 03.10.06) when I arrived in the UK, and The Yacoubian Building by Alaa Al Aswany (29.09.07 – 05.10.07) when I left a year later. After a month in Manchester, and a truly spectacular falling-out with my so-called “friends”, I found myself in London with no connections, no friends, no job, no direction and a palpable sense of absolute loneliness. I fumbled my way numbly through first a dilapidated horror hostel, and then an even more horrific sharehouse in Ealing with 15 residents, 5 bedrooms, 1 bathroom, sticky floors, a fungus in the shower recess named Shroomie which was roughly the size of my fist, and a fortnightly drug run like other people order pizzas. I slept in the kitchen on a tiny filthy couch regurgitating stuffing and loose threads and fabric gone gray and congealed from sweaty hands. I had, by this stage, found two jobs- one at The Body Shop in London Bridge, one of an evening at Schmicked. I would wake at 4:30am to be at London Bridge by 7, then work until 4:30pm, walk from London Bridge to Victoria Station, start at Schmicked at 6, finish at 11:30, get to Ealing at 12;30, asleep at 1am. Then wake again at 4:30 and do it all again. It was gruelling, it was devastating, but it was somehow preferable to having to spend time with my detestable flatmates, or to having to stop and consider the awful situation I had found myself in. For the whole of my first dreadful weeks in London, I was reading A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth (18.10.06 – 10.12.06). The size and shape of a housebrick, I carted it around dutifully as I stumbled bleary-eyed along the gray streets of London, perhaps the physical manifestation of the load I was bearing. It certainly was the book that took me the longest time to read in all of the recorded novels in the Book Book. Rather than the spice and heat of India, I can’t help but associate reading A Suitable Boy with desolation, wet, gray Fleet Street, and numb fatigue.

I seem to have a history of taking an unrelated novel to a distant location. A Suitable Boy doesn’t quite match up with London, nor does Wild Swans by Jung Chang relate to Egypt, which is perhaps why I chose to take it. An autobiographical recounting of China’s Cultural Revolution, I unfortunately can’t help but associate it with unbearable heat and a concentrated sense of discomfort, loneliness and confusion. I have never been so sick, or so miserable, and my ankles have never been so swollen with fluid than during those two weeks. Ever had an intestinal bug? Ever had an intestinal bug whilst spending 8 hours climbing Mount Sinai overnight with no available toilets or medical assistance? A phrase like “the worst night of my life” is one that gets bandied about rather liberally these days, but for me, that really was the most appalling and difficult evenings I have ever endured. I doubt many people could have gotten through such an awful experience intact, as I did. I can still smell the cloying ubiquitous dust, primarily consisting of camel dung, that coated the nostrils, eyes, mouth, and clothes, I can still feel the sickening cramps and wrenches in my gut, the pain and discomfort was intense. I was dreadfully ill, I was aching and tired and frustrated, my body was yearning to lie down, and no-one was willing to help me. Every aching step was an internal struggle of mind and body. All I concentrate on was making it off the mountain with my dignity intact, with my guts threatening to explode at any moment. Thankfully, (and forgive me for being so graphic) I managed not to shit myself. Hurrah! A victory for Sarah’s already damaged self-esteem. The return to the hotel was pure relief. I’ve never greeted a flushing toilet with such unadulterated joy and enthusiasm. The next 3 days are murky- I first washed myself clean of the solid coating of camel dung-dust, sitting on the floor of the shower because I was too weak to stand, and then got into my nice crisp, clean hotel bed, and proceeded to sleep for 26 solid hours. My roommate apparently came to check on me every few hours to make sure I was still breathing, but for over a day I remained unconscious. Egypt is an incredible, astounding, amazing country, and it saddens me to think that the predominant memories I’ve taken from my time there is a horrific mountain trek, and spending a 5-hour return trip to Cairo laying on the floor of a mini-van with nausea so severe I was considering death as a viable option. I did take some truly fantastic, professional-quality photographs, but somehow, during the course of my Mount Sinai trek, I must have sacrificed it to Amun-Ra in exchange for the gift of keeping my pants poo-free.

 

I took an ambitious stab at Tolstoy’s War and Peace (16.04.07 – 09.05.07 [unfinished]) when I went on my European Topdeck tour, but it’s one of the few “unfinished” entries in the Book Book that haunt and nag me. I hope to return to it one day. I very rarely abandon books halfway through, and they pull at my conscience like a toddler you accidentally left at the liquor shop for four hours. Once I’ve committed something to the pages of the Book Book, it basically stands as a written contract. The book must be finished. Unless the novel is so impenetrable for me (The Clearing, Tim Gautreaux; City of God, E.L. Doctorow; anything by Jane “The Pain” Austen) that I feel I’m wasting my time, I will most likely persevere. I hope to return to War and Peace some day.

 

Ooh, here’s a good one- Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (21.07.07 – 23.07.07). The majority of the text was read in one sitting, but not because of a desire to finish the exciting final installment. Oh no, the truth is I was suffering from the very worst hangover I’d ever experienced and I was unable to move from my bed except to occasionally crawl- on my hands and knees, no less- to the bathroom. Now, many of you may already be familiar with the story of how I came to be in that predicament. It involves a Mexican restaraunt (named Loco-Mexicano, I think, although that may just be wishful thinking, help me out here Noel Barrot? Jon Wong? Guys, what’s it called?), a Sex on the Beach cocktail, 2 strawberry daquiries, and three, count ‘em, THREE, Long Island Ice Teas on an empty stomach, and a fair amount of ineffectual, amateur pole-dancing. I was under the impression that my pole skills were quite impressive, but the enormous bruises on my legs, arms and torso the following day suggest that this may in fact not have been the case. It’s worth mentioning that the writing of this entry is particularly shaky.

Not all of the books conjure up incredible memories of dramatic holidays or hangovers, and some I remember only the stories, and not the details of where they were read. Hemingway’s The Old Man And The Sea (07.06.05) I read while eating a big bowl of seafood noodle soup in Broadway shopping center. The irony of eating fish whilst old Santiago struggled with his is not lost on me. The Pleasure of My Company by Steve Martin- yes, THAT Steve Martin- (26.07.05 – 28.07.05) was so sweet and lovely it made me cry. Timbuktu by Paul Auster (05.07.06 – 07.07.06) also made me cry, but because it was so sad and touching. I was reading Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernieres when I camped out overnight outside Ticketek for a U2 concert that I ended up never getting to see. Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak (29.01.08 – 09.01.08) and The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende (23.06.08 – 03.07.08) both just make me think of working on the mall site for the bookshop.

This notebook represents 5 years, 8 jobs, 5 houses, 4 continents (5 if you count the 2-hour stopover I had in Singapore), and roughly 420 books. So what do I do now that it’s full? Ah, well obviously I anticipated this eventuality and bought another identical notebook quite some time ago. The pages are a great deal whiter and crisper, and not smeared liberally with chocolate and biscuit crumbs. I don’t know what I’ll do after this one’s full up, but I’ve got another 5 years to think about it.

For Scully

My beloved little babydog, my Scully, passed away and was laid to rest today. She was beautiful and sweet and placid, and she’s been a part of my life for 12 years. She was 13, and had lived a good long life with people who adored her. She had been robust and healthy up until just a few short weeks ago when she was diagnosed with a liver tumour, the symptoms of which she had been suffering from, unbeknownst to us, for quite some time. She took a turn for the worst this week, not eating, not drinking, unable to stand and generally lethargic. She was in pain, and it was painful to watch. Mum and I couldn’t bear to have her suffer, so we took her to the vet, and she was put to sleep as I cradled her head in my hands. My Pa, a carpenter and former undertaker, made a little painted wooden box for her, and dug a hole in the backyard of my Nan & Pa’s garden, in a corner of the yard that Scully especially enjoyed rummaging in.

 

Scully came to us, or rather, we came for Scully, when I was 14 years old. My yearning to have a dog of my own finally came to fruition after years of escalating insistence. Mum and I together decided that we wanted a Maltese terrier, and that we would name her Scully. On the day we found her, we had driven for 1 1/2 hours to reach a “breeder” in the outer suburbs of Sydney. I had been expecting a fluffy bundle of white cottonwool, but was instead presented with what appeared to be a quivering spindly rat-creature, all jutting bones, matted fur and enormous terrified eyes. And this was certainly not a puppy, as we had been led to believe- this was clearly, albeit tiny, fully grown. I didn’t want this thing, it was a mess, a bag of bones. It could barely stand up unattended. As I sat in this stranger’s kitchen staring uncertainly at the shaking animal before me, I started getting that familiar sickening ache in my gut, like slowly and excruciatingly being harpooned in the abdomen, that heralded the beginning of my period. My mum was clearly not keen on this so-called “dog” and was dropping subtle hints that I should make up my mind, but I was sick and in pain and I just wanted to leave and go home and lay down, and if the fastest way to do that was to fork over a few hundred dollars for this pathetic looking wretch, then so be it. We took her home and called her Scully so she’d get used to the name, and when she began to panic in her new surroundings we called her Tasha, the name on her pedigree certificate, but she didn’t respond to that either. She freaked out, racing around disorientedly and jumping off our back porch to hide in the backyard undergrowth. I spent the first day nursing her in my arms and crooning comforting words, and that evening I put her in a basket next to my bed and spent the entire night with one arm dangling over the bed to stroke her fur. And that was it. That’s all it took. Suddenly, she was my shadow. I became her whole world, and she became mine. We became a complete family unit- Mother, Daughter, Dog. She followed me everywhere. She would stand outside the toilet door and whine until I was once again within her eyesight. My every movement was carefully observed. She would greet me after school with yelps and cries and occasional incontinence. Somehow it was the greatest display of love to have a little being that was SO excited to see me she lost control of her bladder. If a human greeted me in this way it would just be weird, but from a dog it’s sweet. Slowly her matted clumps of fur grew out, and she put on weight so that her ribs and hipbones didn’t jut out so far that it was painful to look at. But we noticed that she would flinch at every sudden movement, especially hands or feet, as if she was accustomed to kicks and slaps. She was terrified of water, and the hose, of men and strangers and other dogs.

But a more beloved dog there has never been. She was perfect to me. We doted on her. She seemed to have been especially made to fit me- she enfolded perfectly in my arms, and on my lap. The palm of my hand was an exact fit of her round little belly, her tiny curved cranium, her barrel chest and her little doggy rump. Everything she did was a miracle- the prancing way she walked, the way she would stretch and yawn with her bum in the air, and how she would preen herself with her front paws like a cat. I was filled with a sense of overwhelming pride and wondered if this was how parents felt about their children. But surely not, because no stupid child could be as wonderful and perfect as my dog.

I knew every part of her, every whorl and cowlick of hair, the curl of her tail, how much softer her ears were than the rest of her. She used to love eating carrots and lettuce, the latter of which she would tear apart in an adorable display of faux-viciousness, the closest she ever came to being nasty, except for when she would occasionally attack my socks. I adored above all else when she would fall asleep beside me, the feeling of her warm little body pressed against my leg, trusting in me and the small world to which she belonged to watch over her as she slept. I loved her tiny delicate paws and her slightly lopsided mouth that was missing more and more teeth as time went on. I loved her eyes. Such enormous eyes, clearly the epitome of the description of “limpid”. We would joke that with such big big brown eyes there was not much room for a brain, but with a cute face like that, who needs to be smart? She had such an expressive face, and the saddest eyes, I wanted to make her happy, and erase her abused past she spent as Tasha, but I don’t know how much she remembers. Most likely nothing.

There’s such a profound sense of comfort that comes from having a little being that trusts you complicitly to ensure food and love and protection, a little person who loves you unconditionally and is prepared to show it. Dogs don’t care about who you are or what you’ve done, or what kind of person you are- so long as you’re there for them, they will love you. It’s the purest, simplest form of love.I can find solace in the fact that we provided her with a longer, happier and more comfortable life than if we had left her that day. She was perfect. She was my baby. She was mine, all mine, and I was hers.

Nudist Fun Noodle Zone

Currently reading: Time’s Arrow by Martin Amis
Currently watching: Hilarious new episodes of Goodnight Burbank! WATCH THEM HERE!!  (Don’t say I never did nothin for ya, Hayden Black) http://www.babelgum.com/goodnightburbank
Current greatest fear: getting blown away with a bedsheet in high winds

Hearty thanks to my friend Noel Barrot (That’s @noelbarrot, for those in the know) for suggesting Nudist Fun Noodle Zone as the title of this blog. If left to my own devices, the title of this post would have been “Flowers that look like vaginas”, seeing as that is what some anonymous person out there apparently typed into google to be delivered to my blog. Isn’t that just the greatest phrase EVER?! So, naturally, I googled it myself… just out of curiosity, mind. I was disproportionately outraged to discover that most of the images the search delivered were merely pictures of flowers with actual vaginas just photoshopped on. It’s not FUNNY if it’s an actual vagina!

Bloody hell, it just looks like a fucking flower to me.

In my previous two blogs I implored my Dear Readers to suggest topics for me to write about here in Flossblog. I may have bitten off more than I could chew. I’ll possibly have to do it in two lots. Or just do one lot and then promptly forget about the rest.

Rupert Grint: Goodness, hasn’t Rupert blossomed? Seems like only yesterday he was a gawky awkward prepubescent geek, and now he’s a stunning ginger stallion of a man. Now, my penchant for ginger men has been widely publicised, and it pleases me to know that young Rupert will be championing the Ranga Torch for the next generation of redheaded men. Too long have Gingers been relegated to the shadows by a narrow-minded populace who seem to equate lack of melanin with monstrous tendencies. Redheads are beautiful.

Socks: More commonly known as ”foot-gloves”.

Pieces of rainbow- this one's for Tina x

Wine gums: This is a medical term referring to the speech impediment experienced by plonk-drinking winos. The poor-quality and high alcoholic content of the wine causes a numbing of the mouth and tongue, causing what is known as “wine gums”. The condition often renders the sufferer difficult to understand and his speech unintelligible. Hence, a fairly simple enquiry such as “I do beg pardon, but would you please be so kind as to direct me to the nearest purveyors of fine liquors?” is, with the onset of wine gums, more likely to sound like “RRrrrarrgghhh! H’rm’n fruggin GAH Daddy? Fucken shmehmeneh potato rraargghh garggh *gurgle* FUCK!”

Skywalker: George Lucas’s original name for his Star Wars hero was Starwanker.

Asterisk: Look, I googled it, I checked Wikipedia, and it’s official- the asterisk is the most useless symbol in all of general typography. It doesn’t do anything, it doesn’t mean anything, it may as well just go crawl into a hole somewhere and die quietly of shame.

Staphylococcus: This is a type of dinosaur that lived in the Crapaceous Period in what was formerly known as Bwanaland. It’s brain was situated in it’s posterior and it lived on a diet of prehistoric bananas and gummi bears. The species died out due to passive smoking. 

Vinegar: If stung by the occasionally fatal box-jellyfish and don’t have any urine handy, this is what you should pour on the wound. But, let’s face it, urine is much more fun for all involved.

llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch: Oh, come ON, Wales, what the fuck is going on here?

Pasty: Can refer either to a savoury pocket-like pastry generally containing animal viscera, gristle and dehydrated peas, OR decorational nipple-tassels.

Onomatopoeia: In Doctor Who comic strips, the sound the Tardis makes when taking off is represented as vworp! vworp!

Onomatopoeia: For Mark

I’d be dead in 4 years, if this were Logan’s Run

Currently reading: The Strange Case of Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson
Current obsession: David Bowie’s legs and Bob Hoskin’s eyebrows
Current greatest fear: that no-one will ever love me and I will die alone. Oh, and cockroaches. Cockroaches are gross.

I turned 26 this past sunday. It’s a fairly nondescript age, marking the transition between “mid-twenties” and “mid-to-late-twenties”. Wow, congratulations to me- I’ve moved up an age bracket on surveys. I no longer represent the youth demographic, that crucially important 18-25 consumer market. Thing is, I still look like I’m 16 and act like I’m 9, so age is truly a relative concept. I’ve had a problem for most of my (albeit short) adult life with being emotionally stunted and incredibly immature. I’m trapped in an internal timewarp. I have become a little obsessed with my age of late, and what it represents, so please excuse me for the self-indulgence that is to follow.

See, 26, to my mind, seems like the kind of age where a person should have at least a semblance of an idea of who they are and where their life is headed. If they are not exactly “there” yet, they at least seem to be well on their way to wherever “there” is. Except for me. Where do I belong? Where do I fit in? I’m so bloody sick of hearing myself whinge about not knowing what I want or what I’m doing. I’m sick of being wracked with indecision and uncertainty. It’s become tiresome. And each year my birthday just seems to highlight my aimlessness and disconnection from the world. My birthday is a time of depressing introspection for me, where I take stock of how little I’ve achieved. This year hasn’t been quite as terrible as the previous 2, which still stand at the top of my Worst Birthdays Ever list (along with my 8th birthday at McDonalds when only three other children from my class showed up, and Rosalba ate all my icecream cake and Lily pushed me off the Hamburgler). At least this year I managed to move out of home and get to Sydney, which has finally made me feel more like an actual adult. And much to my amazement, it has become apparent that I can in fact take care of myself without blowing up the kitchen or getting my foot stuck in the toilet bowl. Perhaps I have made the first few steps towards proper adulthood and self-awareness. Perhaps not.

So what am I to do? What am I good for? What’s my Purpose? Suggestions or job offers would be greatly appreciated. Preferably something entry-level, but highly creative. I could be a runner for a film crew, maybe? I could be a painter, or the world’s greatest wit, I could be a sailor (but the hat wouldn’t fit). I read a magazine article a few years ago about a group of ridiculously high-paid young people with a smug, wanky job title like “Trend Marketeers” or “Obscure Researchers of Cool” or “Uber-hip Smug Wanksters” or something. Their job was basically to predict the upcoming fads in clothes, toys, fashion, technology and general market trends and pass their precious opinions on to brands and companies willing to pay through the teeth for such valuable information. These self-obsessive narcissistic Nathan Barley-types had no other qualifications than stupid geometric haircuts and $500 skinny-jeans. Do you see where I’m going with this? Do you see my point?….YES! I could totally DO that! There’s none more narcissistic and ridiculously dressed than me! Forget this current 80s resurgence, my predictions for the coming season’s fashion include a return to Elizabethan-era court dress. Another 18 months from now, men will be wearing codpieces and peasecod bellies, and the women’s skirts will measure three feet perpendicular to each hip. Any person not of the royal family or gentry caught wearing purple or gold will do so at risk of beheading. I also forsee trends in television resulting in even more elaborate reality shows, and I’d suggest an extreme makeover show that requires that any part of the body shaved off, sucked out or removed during the course of the show, the contestant has to eat it.

I always wanted to be an actor, for as long as I can remember. I had dreams of being a performer since I was dribbling down my front and wearing diapers (and that was only last week, ohohoho!). Now, I’m typically very disparaging of my own efforts at just about everything, but I will admit that I have a certain amount of talent with acting. Not much, mind you, but better than my skills at quilling or macrame. But it’s not necessarily about talent when it comes to acting. It’s about motivation, perserverance and connections. I lack all of those. And I doubt I have the skills to acquire them. So there goes that dream. Whatever fantastic, amazing thing I feel I’m destined for, I don’t want to have to work for it, I want it NOW. And until it happens, I’ll just idly sit around counting birthdays and missed opportunities, and having my arse grow wider.

So anyway, back to my birthday. I took a couple of days off work at Schmicked so I could come stay at my mum’s house and look after my dog. Mum has gone to Brisbane because of her job for a week, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to spend some quality time with Scully, my Maltese terrier. Anyone not a long-time dog-owner probably won’t understand the connection I have with my dog. She’s very much my “baby”. It was devastating not to be able to take her with me to Sydney. I found out a week ago that Scully, who is now 13 years old, has a liver tumour, and most likely doesn’t have much time left. It causes her to become hungry, but she’s lost a lot of weight, and her hip-bones and ribs are visible. She sleeps most of the time now, and sometimes loses her balance. I don’t like to think about it, but this little being, who has been a part of my life, and a part of me, since I was 14, won’t be around for much longer. My Pa has also had some health problems of late, and has ended up in hospital 3 times in the past month or so. The doctors don’t seem to know what the problem is. Pa has been a constant strong presence throughout my life, and to see him weak and ailing is an uncomfortable experience. My Nan, too, is gradually declining. I only mention these things not only because they weigh heavily on my mind, but because it’s an oft-neglected fact of growing older that while you age, the people you love the most are aging, too.

I’m still looking for inspiration for future blog posts, so give me Serafinowicz-esque word-kernels or topics. So far suggestions have included pirates and zombies, Star Wars, socks, wine gums, pieces of rainbows, and my personal favourite, pineapples in space. More, please.

I am Chiquita Banana and I’m here to say…

Currently reading: Dan Leno and the Limehouse Golem by Peter Ackroyd.
Currently eating: dolly mix sent to me by Kirsten Innes, The Funniest Girl In Aberdeen
Currently listening to: the planes from Sydney Airport fly directly overhead.

Current obsession: Dusty Springfield
Currently reading: Nervous Conditions by Tsitsi Dangarembga
Current biggest fear: Developing varicose veins

Currently listening to: Florence and the Machine
Currently reading: Hunger by Knut Hamsun
Current biggest fear: developing morbid obesity

The triumphal return of the Prodigal Child (that’s me!) to this blog has had a number of false starts, as evidenced by the “Current” lists featured above. So why the long pause, quoth the barman to the bear? Surely having moved into a new flat in the city and the start of a new job should provide me with a wealth of material for bloggage? Well… you would think. My neglect of my blog has been partly due to my having been busy setting up house and playing Suzy Homemaker, partly due to lack of inspiration, and partly due to being a lazy sea-cow.

Suzy Homemaker

So, here’s an update on nearly everything that has happened since I last posted, in a neatly chronological fashion and with minor embellishment for the sake of comic effect. Let’s start with the move itself, shall we? perhaps the reason I’ve been having so much trouble writing this blog is because it pains me to have to relive that very difficult time. It’s like having ‘Nam flashbacks. My family, bless ‘em, wanted to help out, but with typical Hill Clan clamour, simply managed to tread on everyone else’s toes, both literally and figuratively. My wonderful mother decided to drive us herself in a big big truck filled with all my worldy possessions (which generally consist of 10,000 books, 10,000 clothes and absolutely nothing of real value). We almost got stuck under an overpass at one stage, and then in a scene right out of National Lampoon’s Stupid-Ass Vacation, we got caught turning endless concentric circuits along one-way streets and getting further and further away from our intended destination. Loop a soundtrack of “Holiday Road” on endless repetition and we’ve got ourselves the comedy hit of the summer.

Lyndal & Sarah! new to your Friday Night schedule, right between Two & A Half Dicks and How I Met Yo Babymama

The following week or so was spent unpacking the aforementioned 10,000 books and 10,000 clothes and arranging all into the categories I deemed most appropriate. No mere boring “alphabetising” for me. Oh no! You should expect something far more infuriatingly pointless from THIS little black duck. Books are are arranged according to size and when last read. Clothes are arranged by pattern (floral, stars, stripes, spots, leopardprint, checks, blacks, miscellaneous). CDs are organised by colour, obviously (duh). And DVDs are sorted, like John Cusack’s record collection in High Fidelity, autobiographically.

Next on the agenda was housekeeping. I’ve been fairly vocal in the past about my avoidance of general cleaning duties. “Dresses like a 50s Housewife, but doesn’t do housework” is a favourite phrase of mine. However, once finding myself in a flat of my VERY own, and with no-one to rely upon for my general upkeep but myself, suddenly everything developed a delightful novelty value. Washing the dishes was exciting because they were MY dirty plates in MY sink, soaking in MY filthy frothy washing liquid. Windexing the windows and mirrors provided a marvellous sense of streak-free accomplishment. Sweeping and mopping was a fantastic foray into the functional and durable beauty of varnished hardwood flooring. I even scrubbed out the oven, which had apparently gone without cleaning since the flat was built in the mid-1930s. I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed until that bloody oven sparkled. I wore Hawaiian-print pyjama-bottoms with the legs rolled up to the knee, lime green bedsocks and an oversized Schmicked hoodie to complete the task, but for the sake of keeping this blog interesting, readers, let’s just pretend I was instead wearing a halter-neck apron, red stilleto heels and a big smile. I really became quite attached to my Suzy Homemaker role in the beginning, especially since Lyndal was out at work every day and I hadn’t started working yet. So like the perfect, stereotypical housewife, I would spend my day cleaning, reading and generally waiting with martyr-like patience for my “husband” to arrive home. I would greet Lyndal with “Oh, honey, you’re home! Let me fetch your pipe and slippers and you can tell me all about your day at the office!” It was all rather jolly and amusing, oh! how we laughed! But I may have taken the joke a little too far when I started berating Lyndal in public about how she never brings me flowers any more and there are TWO people in this marriage and I can’t raise little Timmy all by myself!

The initial novelty has since worn off the housekeeping duties, and we’ve reached a point where the washing up sometimes sits for 2 days before being done. But we’re okay with that. Until we run out of clean drinking glasses. But that’s what empty jam jars are for, right?! Lyndal and I have become quite proud of ourself and our industrious feminine wiles. We assembled a range of IKEA furniture, a bed, even pots and pans (YES, even pots and pans from IKEA require assembly. Damn Swedes.) I managed to hook up the tv and DVD player all by myself, and even singlehandedly tuned into the terrestrial tv channels (although there is so little of note on regular channels I should have just left it altogether. But woe betide us if we missed an episode of Neighbours! WOE, I say!)

SMILE while you work, girls, or you won't find a husband and you'll die alone.

I have since started working at Schmicked Sydney, and I felt it appropriate, nay, neccessary, to comment on how that’s working out. Some of you may remember from my previous blog post, that I was relating how reluctant I was to return to Schmicked, even going so far as to say it was “beneath me”. Well, friends and complete strangers, I would like to revoke those comments and eat them with a healthy slice of humble pie. Truth is that I’m actually really enjoying myself at Schmicked. To be perfectly fair, it’s possibly the least strenuous job in the world, the pay is quite excellent, there’s a (fairly insignificant but still present) commission based on sales, the people I’m working with are lovely (well…for the most part. I might comment further at a later date, because none of my work colleagues follow this blog, but it may be prudent for me to instead just keep my big mouth shut). I think I explained previously that I didn’t enjoy my time at Schmicked in London because my general sense of loneliness and despair was permeating every aspect of my life. I think I was also, to an extent, exaggerating my sense of disdain for the show in order to fit in with the “cool kids”. How disappointing. In hindsight I was such a selfish brat. I have such pity for Sarah-from-the-Past. Now that I’m in a more secure place both physically and emotionally, I can appreciate the job for it’s good points and try not to allow the negativity to get to me.

There’s plenty more I wanted to blither about. I’ll save it for another post, because this one is so late in coming. I think I’ve left it so long that everyone has forgotten about Flossblog, and this will just end up being a major disappointment. So please let me know what you thought of this blog, and tell me what you’d like me to write about. SERIOUSLY! Tell me what you’d like to hear! It will give me inspiration and incentive to continue writing. And if I continue writing I may eventually get started on my proposed novel, and everyone who comments on my blog will be mentioned in the dedications page. Totes fo shizz.

FlatQuest ‘09!

Current obsession: finding a flat
Currently reading: Nights at the Circus by Angela Carter
Currently eating: a packet of mixed lollies that spilled loose in the bottom of my handbag. It’s like a lucky dip. A sticky, linty lucky dip.

This past Saturday I undertook a quest of heroic proportions, unimaginable in it’s scope and magnitude. An adventure so vast as to rival the classic fantasy journeys- Homer’s The Odyssey, the Quest for the Holy Grail, The Neverending Story…The Dark Crystal…um, Jaws III. My epic travels shall henceforth be known as FlatQuest ‘09.

It was my ambitious intention to visit 5 open inspections in Sydney’s Inner Western suburbs in the space of 2 hours. What’s more, I planned to do it on foot. I have a deep-seated distrust (and borderline phobia of) public transport, so relying on that as a mode of getting from one flat to the next was not an option. My abhorrence of public transport turned out to be warranted, because typically there was trackwork and buses replaced trains aaallll the way to Central. For those who don’t know, this is ordinarily a train journey of between 1 1/2 to 2 hours. On the bus, however, in the best tradition of unpredictability, it may be anywhere between 1 hour and 6 months.

And so, to avoid these hulking mechanical beasts of transportation, it is generally my wont to walk everywhere. My friends have been known to lose me in a crowd because I’ll shoot off ducking and weaving between people because it aggravates me to be stuck walking behind people. Luckily my friends are tall, so despite my short stature they can generally spy my beehive bobbing around like a fishing buoy on a sea of people (I’ll just give you a moment to consider that analogy- it’s really quite good). I’m built very much like a bipedal Jack Russell- stocky, barrel-like torso, and swift, short little legs. To continue with the metaphor, I also eat like a dog- I just don’t know when to stop. I’ll continue to shovel food in my mouth until I am physically ill and mum has to take me to the vet. But, I digress.

I was fairly confident that I would be able to visit all my nominated flat inspections, and thought maybe I could make it a game. You know, like I was on America’s Next Top Model and I was going to go-sees. And if I win, Tyra gives me a flat. And a modelling contract.

Flat #1: This was such a perfect little flat to start off the day with! One of 4 units in an old art deco complex, it was the only place I saw where both bedrooms were the same size. It also had a balcony, where I envisioned warm, languorous summer afternoons drinking Midori and lemonade with the radio buzzing comfortably and spying on the neighbours with binoculars. Bliss! The kitchen & bathroom were tiny, but the current occupants had a truly excellent book collection. I probably spent more time investigating their bookshelf than the apartment. I KNOW it’s somewhat unlikely that they would LEAVE their books for me when they left, but it’s nice to think that the spirit of former occupants, and their books, might linger.

Flat #2: Whoa, man, do these people own a cat, or has somebody pissed themselves? Apparently, the current occupants had been in residence for 17 years, and had obviously not cleaned in all that time. There was even a furry coating of dust embedded in the flyscreen. The pervading colour scheme was rust yellow, dust gray and carcinoma brown. In retrospect, I suspect the current occupants were in fact so old they just kind of disintegrated one day, which explained the coating of dust on everything.

Flat #3: Newtown. The epicenter of Sydney’s alternative scene. My suburb of choice for all shopping, hairdressing and Thai food expeditions. It was also furthest away from all the other flats I was inspecting that day. But, still… Newtown! Exciting! Cosmopolitan! But, as I awaited the arrival of the estate agent, a crowd seemed to be growing. By the time the 12-year-old agent finally turned up there were about 25 people waiting to view the same flat, including
respectable family-types with small children. I saw my chances growing slim on this one. Now, if I’m a Jack Russell, then the estate agent in question would be one of those freaky hairless things. He was wearing blue wooly socks with a gray suit, so I distrusted him immediately. Again, my instinct proved correct, because he had the wrong keys. By this point there were more than 30 people in a conga line behind him as he tried unsuccessfully not to let on that he was panicking. Without even viewing the flat, I left and made my way to…

This is what an estate agent looks like.

Flat #4: By this point my stubby, hardy little legs were growing weary, and the Twix bar and mixed lollies that constituted lunch had not been enough to sustain me. The flat was meh…schmeh… yeah… s’alright, I guess *shrug*. Walls, floors, doors, windows, all the usual. But, uninspiring.

Flat #5: I was due to meet Lyndal, my lovely future flatmate, for this one. She was busy at Schmicked that day, and could only join me for this one flat. After weeks of communicating solely by text and email, as our schedules would allow, it was wonderful to see her face-to-face again. I may be a Jack Russell, but Lyndal wouldn’t be a dog, she’d be a giraffe. A beautiful, elegant giraffe with shiny hair. The first thing I saw in the flat was the kitchen- ooohhh, what a pretty kitchen! So shiny and modern and new, with actual COUNTERS and CUPBOARDS and a CHALKBOARD to draw on. I can only cook pasta, and Lyndal can only cook noodles, but what well-prepared carbs they would be in such a kitchen! Definitely the nicest kitchen so far. The rest of the flat was similarly modern and shiny, despite being in such an old building. The previous occupants clearly spent a lot of time and effort fixing it up. There’s even one of those spangly “feature walls” painted green. One bedroom was typically bigger than the other, but seeing as we’re friends sharing together, we’re free to spread our crap all about the house. Not actual crap, mind you, giraffes and Jack Russells notwithstanding, we know how to use a toilet. Having found the flat much to our liking, we submitted our application forms.

AND THE WINNER IS…. Since I spent so blooming long writing this blog, the element of anticipation and surprise is ruined because I can in fact reveal that we will shortly be moving in to Flat #5! Whoo-hoo! Further details to follow…

Yes, we have no bananas

This is an addendum to my previous “happy” post. Although the thing that makes me most happy is the positive response to my blog. So, thanks everybody!

Julian Barratt doing a striptease to Superfreak-

Robert Webb doing Flashdance in a leotard-

Matt Berry doing anything-

C’mon, get happy!

Current obsession: my blog
Currently eating: marmalade on toast. 3 parts marmalade to 1 part toast- just the way I like it
Currently wearing: mismatched pyjamas

I’ve noticed a disturbing thing lately. I seem to hear my friends, with the best of intentions, saying things to me like “I hope you cheer up soon” or “don’t be so down” or “I hope things get better, because you always seem to be in the shit” or “why so gloomy, Flossy McFloss-Face?” And it upsets me, because I don’t want this to be the image of myself that I present to the world. My friends say these things to me because they’re lovely and they want the best for me, and they care about my well-being, and I love them dearly for it. The truth of the matter is that I AM a sad old miserable bastard. I have the soul of one of those spiteful old dudes from the Muppet Show in a Cabbage Patch Doll’s body.

Happy As: A pig in shit.

How long is it going to take before my friends get sick of my constant defeatist whinging and leave me to stew in my own bile? It’s not that they’d WANT to give up on me by any means, it’s just that my constant miserablism must be such a drain on them. They do all they can for me and still I continue to mope around like Eeyore coming down from a cocaine bender, and nobody likes Eeyore. You know what happened to HIM, don’t you? Eventually the residents of the Hundred Acre Wood got so sick of his depressing complaints that Christopher Robin put him out of his misery once and for all by throwing him in a river with a brick tied to each of his big floppy ears. It’s the dark side of Winnie-the-Pooh. People tend not to talk about it. Manslaughter or euthanasia- you be the judge. I fucking hate Eeyore.

Happy As: A clam. Clams have a reputaion for being happy. I think this is because they look like vaginas.

Constant negativity is unattractive. Why do I go to so much trouble to tease out 3 inches of vertical hair and ensure that I attain the most minute levels of colour-coordination (socks match the headscarf, earrings match the dress, underwear matches the eyeshadow) when it’s the INSIDE that I need to be working on? I’m fairy-floss on the outside, black jacks on the inside. The only person who can get away with making complaining look good is Charlie Brooker. He makes miserablism look HOT. But alas, I lack his intelligence, verbosity and sex appeal.

Happy As: Larry Mullen, Jr, U2 drummer. Not-so-happy Larry.

I think I’ve been playing the pessimist for so long that I don’t know how to be happy any more. And I WANT to be happy! I really do! I see other people making those rictus-faces with their, um, whatchamacallits, “smiles”, and I think “I could do that! It’s just like a frown turned upside-down!” For my friends sakes as well as my own I want to get happy. I want to sing and dance and skip and play. I want to cavort barefoot through a field of flowers wearing gingham and pigtails and daisychains in my hair. I want to laugh without a trace of irony, and do those “smile” things I see on other people (You should see my dimples- I have lovely dimples) I want to eat rainbows and poop butterflies.

Happy As: Larry from the Three Stooges. Pretty Happy Larry.

So how do I do it? How do I GET HAPPY? Clearly with my present circumstances I have a fair amount to be concerned about, and this is certainly affecting my ability to do a “smile”. But I should still be able to find the good and positive in any given situation, just like Pollyanna. Although you know what happened to HER, don’t you? She got burned at the stake for being a witch. Yes, I’m unemployed, but it’s given me a lot of free time, hasn’t it? I’ve had time to read more, and I started a blog! Wow! Sure, I don’t have a flat of my own, but it’s allowed me to enjoy having my wonderful, beautiful and lovely mother do all my cooking, washing and household duties. Bless her!

Happy As: Larry Emdur, game show host (right). REALLY Happy Larry!

Hints, tips and suggestions on happy would be greatly appreciated. In the meantime, here’s a list of things that make me happy: my dog, my friends (this includes those whom I only know through the Internet, and especially those of you who read my blog. Word up, yo), chocolate, leopard-print, beehive hair, Julian Barratt doing a striptease to Superfreak, cupcakes, cookies, The B-52’s, books, letters in the mail, puppies, British comedy, red hair, Robert Webb doing Flashdance in a leotard, things that are things but look like other things, novelty salt & pepper shakers, Cockneys, travelling, clothes, London, Matt Berry doing anything, Bono/ U2 jokes, that time just after it’s rained and everything looks sparkly and fresh and renewed, bookshops and libraries, comments on my blog (hint, hint).

No rest for the Schmicked

Currently reading: Rabbit, Run by John Updike
Currently eating: spaghetti with cheese
Currently watching: my youth slip through my fingers, like sand  through the hourglass…

I’ve done a thing I may come to regret. It’s okay- I’ve not murdered a  man for the $3.45 and half a Twix he had in his pocket, or stolen a ride-on lawnmower and driven it to Port Macquarie (or at least not recently). All I’ve done is compromise a vow I made to myself about never working in retail again, and stooped to accept a position I’m not ashamed to say I’m far too good for.

When I was in London I worked at a West End musical which for the purposes of this blog and to avoid libel cases I shall call… Schmicked (that’s with a hard “-ed” for those who don’t get the joke). So at this, err, Schmicked, I had the menial and unglamorous position of selling overpriced t-shirts, programs, green toy monkeys and other crap to fat tourists and hoity-toity theatre-goers who complained about the price of a program to me, a person who didn’t even make that much in an hour. Now, being that my time in London was a rather difficult experience for reasons I’ll not get into here, the frustration I felt developed into a chip on my shoulder the size of Ōsanshōuo, the Giant Japanese Salamander.

Ōsanshōuo, the Giant Japanese Salamander. It's, like, a really big salamander, you know?

 The withering scorn, disgust and repugnance I displayed to customers far exceeded the levels one would expect from my baby-faced 5ft 1in frame. The energy derived from my contempt could have been enough to fuel the electrical grid of the Greater London area for at least 12 months, give or take the occasional power blackout to allow for a Ben & Jerry’s binge. I would return to my shoebox-sized abode of an evening with a throat raw from screeching with single-minded disgust at customers, with crescent-shaped divots in my palms from digging in my nails, with my jaw aching from the grinding of my teeth. And so I came to hate my job, and Schmicked, and all that it entailed.

Once I returned to Australia I could not yet escape the evil, grasping clutches of Old Mother Retail (and what a mutha she is, yanowaddamsayin?), but I did manage to get a job in a bookstore, and eventually became assistant manager, which if I may be so bold as to say, is a position much better suited to my level of experience, ability and maturity.(Although, in light of my occasional habit of walking like a penguin, and the fact I find fart noises SO funny, I use the word “maturity” in a very broad sense). After time, though, I discovered that I just couldn’t do customer service any more. I just could. Not. Do it. I don’t feel like justifying myself further, except to say that by the end, the bookshop was making my head feel like it was collapsing in on itself like a rotten canteloupe. So I quit. That brings us to today.

Clown make-up and a Hitler moustache. Yeah, I went there.

Schmicked is now “flying” in to Sydney (ohohoho!! Pun intended! …Laugh. It’s a joke) and a few weeks ago I had an interview for Associate Merchandise Manager, which was pretty much ideally suited to my skills and qualifications. Not only did the role entail all the kinds of responsibilities I did in previous jobs, but I had the benefit of havingworked for Schmicked before! I was a shoe- in! A ruby red shoe-in! (that’s another joke) But, and you can cue the sarcastic tuba noise here, I didn’t get the job.

So finally we get to the stupid thing I’ve done. (Finally, you sigh! Blimey, but she DOES go on a bit!) Ive accepted an offer to work at Schmicked on a casual basis, once again selling overpriced t-shirts, programs, and crap, and basically doing work I kinda feel is a bit beneath me. I keep telling myself that it’s just temporarily until I find something better, but that kind of justification has gotten me into trouble in the past (hi Trent).

I know I shall come to rue this decision, rue like McClanahan! But in my present state of unemployment, beggars can’t be choosers. And at least I’ll have something to put under “employment” on tenant applications.

Books, old and new

Current obsession: Bananas

Currently reading: a letter from Anna

Currently watching: my dog attempting to out-stare a flowerpot

I went secondhand book shopping in Gosford with my Nan today. A more beloved and enjoyable pairing than my Nan and books does not exist, unless someone dipped Matt Berry in chocolate, or if Rhys Darby were stretched out naked on a bed of Cheddar. Gosford, however, is a craggy, moribund hole. If the Central Coast were the flabby arse of New South Wales, then Gosford is surely the anus. Perhaps once this was a thriving community- now, however, it looks like Little Beirut. There are more empty shopfronts than there are open businesses, and the general population appear to be as badly in decline as the town is. No-one in Gosford is under the age of about 80, and they all shuffle around hunched over like the rubbish tip lady in Labyrinth, grumbling to themselves and whacking irately at obstructions (pot plants, benches, me) with their walking sticks. Gosford DOES, however, contain a very most excellent secondhand book store. And it is for this reason Nan and I made the trip.

There is almost nothing in the world I love more than books. I love looking at them, I love reading them, I love possessing them, stacking them, chronicling them, consuming them, flipping through them and smelling the pages. I don’t read books so I can boast about my superior knowledge of literature, I read purely for the pleasure of it. And every so often I am rewarded with a story that changes the way I look at the world, at myself, or life in general.

 

My idea of a wet dream.

Unfortunately for my loins, the store is not run by a beligerent, scruffy, cursing Irishman with a penchant for wine and cigarettes and eyes that sparkle as if lit from within. It is run by a tiny cheerful Asian lady with a massively fat baby. Apparently she goes on regular book-scouting trips to find a superior selection of books, and a wide range of titles. I never leave there empty-handed.

My Nan and I have always had a special relationship. Of all her grandchildren, I was the one who inherited her love of reading and artistic pursuits. I was a weird little child, you know, the dreamy not-all-there kind who danced with trees and talked to insects. I suppose Nan felt that I needed the most help dealing with reality. This is true. I still occasionally talk to insects.

My Nan has taught me many things. She taught me as a child to mummify the seat of a public toilet in toilet paper to protect my delicate bottom from germs, a practise I continue to this day. She has been known to flip the bird to aggressive drivers on the road (never mind that she uses the wrong finger- her thumb. I think the message is clear to offending motorists. Don’t fuck with Ma Hill). My Nan is cool, and we’re very close. It’s nice to be able to spend more time with her and my Pa now that I’m *gulp* unemployed. Once I move to Sydney I won’t be able to see them as often as I’d like to.

Today we ate lunch at the Country Cottage Cafe. They have over 426 teapots (426 teapots?! No WAY!!) and have served such luminary public figures as Kamahl (Kamahl?! The FUCK you say!!). I ate a quiche (A quiche?! You’re off the funkin’ CHAIN!!).

This is an example of a teapot.

For those who may be interested, these are the books I bought today-

The Fountainhead – Ayn Rand

The Wings of the Dove – Henry James

Good Morning, Midnight – Jean Rhys

The Bridge of San Luis Rey – Thornton Wilder

Homage to Catalonia – George Orwell

The Name of the Rose – Umberto Eco

Vanity Fair – William Makepeace Thackeray

Crash – J.G Ballard

Villette – Charlotte Bronte