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Tuesday, May 31, 2011
More on being a bit weird
Almost a year ago I wrote a post about what an odd person I am and it turned out that I wasn't really so odd after all. We all do weird things.
Like, I've come to terms with the fact that every time I wash the dishes I get an excruciatingly itchy nose but I can't scratch it because my hands are wet because I'm washing the dishes. A little bit of torture each and every day.
And I'm okay that the few times I've managed to get my act together to go on twitter, my conversations are remarkably brief for a talker like me because every single time I'm suddenly busting for the loo. Once I've been, I forget I was ever twittering in the first place.
The other day I nearly gagged when I realised that I'd started to eat my steak before I'd finished all my vegetables.
There is no way I could fall asleep in a room with a cupboard door open.
If I kill an ant, I worry for days that millions of ants are coming to get me. This actually happened to me just this week as my pantry is full of ants and I'm pretty sure I stepped on one last Monday. I can hardly sleep because they've infiltrated the house and they are obviously coming to get me.
Before the ants can get me, I will probably get myself. I can't drink more than three glasses of alcohol without fretting that I'm going to wake up in the morning and wonder what happened the night before. This comes from experience, sadly, but at the age of almost forty and after a mere three glasses over an entire evening, you think I would have gotten over my paranoia. But I am coming to get me.
Finally, I will leave you with this random oddity. I can't sit with my back to the door. What am I, Vito Corleone? The Feds are after me? It's particularly embarrassing at work because they just move you anywhere they want you and I fret that my new desk will be the one where my back is to the door. I made my colleague swap once (thank you, Johnny), but so far no one else has noticed this odd little habit of mine. If anyone caught on, it may go some way to explaining my amazing punctuality at meetings. Every meeting you go to, there I am, the chirpy early bird facing the door ready to brightly welcome you to the room.
Like I said, I'm odd. But we all do weird things, right? Right?
[For my image we've been paid a long overdue visit by the lovely Suse Bauer from Revoluzza]
Monday, May 30, 2011
Not visiting, drowning
I'm writing, I'm posting (always writing, always posting), but I'm just not getting around to visit many blogs right now. I hope you will accept this lovely picture I've found as my apology. It depicts myself as I perform graceful acrobatics whilst slowly drowning under my work load.
As soon as I can find a spare second in my crammed life, I will be over to catch up with yours'.
x
[Image found here. Please let me know if this is your image so I can credit your loveliness.]
Vintage houses
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| Daceyville, garden suburb, from Randwick Road, August 1915 |
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| Edgewater flats, Elizabeth Bay, 1937 |
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| Brick house, ca. 1940 |
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| "Queenslander" house and car, ca. 1930 |
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| Pechey family, Craigend, Darlinghurst, ca. 1882-1885 |
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| Edmund Webb, his wife and two daughter and their home, Hathrop, Bathurst, ca. 1875 |
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| Pearce family, Blenheim House, Randwick, Sydney, N.S.W., ca. 1885 |
Plague in Sydney 1900
When bubonic plague struck Sydney in 1900, George McCredie was appointed by the Government to take charge of all quarantine activities in the Sydney area, beginning work on March 23, 1900. At the time of his appointment, McCredie was an architect and consulting engineer with offices in the Mutual Life of New York Building in Martin Place. McCredie's appointment was much criticised in Parliament, though it was agreed later that his work was successful.
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| Kent-street from Views taken during Cleansing Operations, Quarantine Area, Sydney, 1900 |
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| Cleansing the streets from Views taken during Cleansing Operations, Quarantine Area, Sydney, 1900 |
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| Lane at side of 72 Sussex-street from Views taken during Cleansing Operations, Quarantine Area, Sydney, 1900 |
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| Batson's Lane, off Sussex-street from Views taken during Cleansing Operations, Quarantine Area, Sydney, 1900 |
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| No. 7 West-street, off Oxford-street (rear) from Views taken during Cleansing Operations, Quarantine Area, Sydney, 1900 |
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Bunny Yeager Beach Babes
Three recently-acquired vintage postcards from Bunny Yeager's 1950s and 60s heyday as a cheesecake photo pinup photographer.
The trampolining nudist
A little while ago the Tsunamis and I went for one of our 'little walks' where we just head off for a wander and talk around the neighbourhood. We were passing by one of Maxi's classmate's house and they all begged to go in for a visit. I had reservations because as much as I love a 'pop in' (I'm a country girl after all), I wasn't close to the mum and didn't know if it was appropriate. I figured we could just knock on the door and I could say 'we were just passing by and if it's not convenient we'll head straight out'.
Which is exactly what we did. But the minute she opened the door, I knew it was a mistake, she looked frazzled and caught out and not at all impressed to find us on the doorstep. I made to leave but she insisted that we come in and wouldn't hear of us going. I felt trapped by her politeness and annoyed that I hadn't thought the scenario through properly. This is the city, people, and city people just don't do the pop!
So we sat down for a cup of excruciatingly polite conversation while the children went outside onto the trampoline. Between helium-light exchanges about work and school and babies we could hear the children outside having enormous amounts of fun. Ah well, I thought, it's worth it if the kids are that happy.
Then the cry went up: "Ha, ha! Maxi's got his pants down, Maxi's got his pants down".
Oh dear, I thought. There he goes again.
Maxi-Taxi is a born naturist. Ever since he was a baby he's loved to get his kit off and let it all hang out (so to speak). He is famous for his after bath 'rudey nudey runs', which even at seven he still proudly does for Gran and Pops when they come to visit. They are thrilled, as you can imagine.
My companion looked concerned. "Did they say his pants are down?" she asked. "Underpants?"
"Oh yes, probably Maxi's alwa -" Before I could finish the sentence, she had shot out of her chair like a gun going off, the chair falling backwards and clattering to the floor with an almighty bang. She raced across the room and flung herself onto the balcony that overlooks the backyard, her face as white as a sheet. Oh my god, I thought. Did I miss something? I leapt after her at speed.
The scene below was a nudist carnival. By this stage all six children had their pants down and were jumping up and down, chanting their new favourite song, the "pants down on the trampoline" song. It was a merry sight indeed.
"Oh my god!" my companion screamed over the balcony. "Get your pants on! Get them on! Dear god, put them on!"
"Oh, come on, they're only children," I soothed. "Just having a bit of fun."
"Fun!?" she screeched. "Fun!? My daughter has been exposed to a Penis and you call it fun?"
Uh oh. She used the capital P word. Uh oh.
She turned back to the romping festival and her voice carried across the treetops all the way to China. "GET THOSE PANTS ON NOW YOU FILTHY LITTLE CHILDREN. NOW!"
Well, that was certainly the end of the "pants down on the trampoline" song. All children immediately stopped jumping. Except for the Badoo, who continued on her merry way and started to take her top off for good measure. Bless that Badoo.
"I hardly think they're 'filthy', um, that's a really strong word," I ventured, terrified of the moral indignation that was all white eyes and flaring nostrils beside me. "They're too young to know about such things."
"Not too young, never too young. My daughter needs to be Protected, can you not see that?" She glowered at me, repulsed by my lazy assessment of the situation. Her eyes shot bullets at this loose, moral-desert she found before her. "No wonder your child is Exposing Himself to his school friends!"
Whoa, Miss Nelly, I thought. But, you know, in life there are some battles that you just know will kill you so I elected to bunker down in the trenches. I resisted the urge to flash her my boobs and simply called "Get your pants on, kids. It's getting dark and we have to be getting home."
Amidst the inevitable "Oh mum, we just got heres", I bustled them over to the hedonistic freedom beyond the front door.
"Righto," I said. "We're off. Thanks for the cup of, ah, tea."
"Oh, you're going?" she purred, all traces of righteous anger washed away by the sight of fully-clothed children. "That's such a shame. You know, we hardly ever see you. We really should get together for a family barbecue. Are you free next weekend?"
"Next weekend? Well, we do have that family Nudist Convention on," I said blithely. "But maybe the weekend after?"
Ha! Not true. I mumbled something about checking my calendar and got the hell out of Dodge. Shaken, stirred and downright offended. What the hell happened there?
Do you think children pulling their pants down on the trampoline and singing about it is morally repugnant?
Is it common practice for people to serve up a cup of righteousness along with their tea?
Is it wrong that I still laugh out loud when I recall this Perfectly bizarre moment in my life?
[Image via weheartit]
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Little Lulu Says...
Lookie! Two 1940s Kleenex ads featuring Lulu, who also had a neon billboard in Times Square during this decade.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
They didn't want my Pops
My sister and I have always been suckers for hidden pathos. I've never properly investigated just what makes a moment heartbreaking, but I think it mostly has to do with someone going to a lot of trouble and it just not working out for them. The unacknowledged care is what is so heart wrenching.
The elderly fellow sitting alone on a park bench holding a little sack of seeds he's brought from home but the ducks are off scoffing some kid's Wonder White.
The market stall owner who has lovingly handmade every single item in her shop but has sold almost nothing at the end of a busy day.
Candlelit tables and apron-smocked waiters in an empty restaurant at dinner time.
Every time the tears well up a little. All that effort and no one seems to notice or care.
I had my own mini-moment today. I was asked to make some things for the school fete cake stall and instead of just making a carrot cake / caramel slice / lamos combo, I had to go to that extra bit of trouble, didn't I? I spent ages making chocolate dipped cake pops with little sticks and ribbons. And chocolate wholegrain biscotti lovingly wrapped up with string like a gift.
Well, when I left only one of each had been sold. It was so stressful watching them sit there while boring old glad-wrapped fruit loafs got snapped up smartly. Nobody seemed to want my little creations. I know it's probably because they were all thinking 'what the hell is a cake pop?*', but still.
Still.
I wish I'd just made the cupcakes.
* Not you too? You can find out what a cake pop is here. I think I am an early Aussie adopter of this Bakarella phenomenon and they're just not taking off here in the way I expected...
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