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Monday, November 29, 2004

On Friday, I summoned up all of my pre-christmas Christmas cheer, and took my nephew to see Santa. It was actually part of a big Santa's Kingdom exhibition thing, where alot of overly hyper three to five years olds were just about out hyper'd by overly dressed adults pretending to be elves and toy soldiers and snowmen. I should have known what I was in for when in line to get in, there was a Tin Soldier bellowing "Are you kids excited to see SANTA? Have you all been GOOD? See Soldier twinkletoes? She will collect your ticket and do a DANCE! Dance for us Captain Twinkletoes!" I think that after an hour or two of that, Captain Twinkletoes just may smash tin soldier in his little tin face.

Then we went in to see the big man himself, who was looking pretty good, I think he may have lost some age along the way. They have this bit nicely organised, with sectioned off little rooms each with their own man in red (maybe there was 10 or 20 rooms) so that each kid is led off to their own private room with Santa, hence they are all moved through pretty quickly. It did make me giggle when I kept thinking of all those Santa's on their lunch break, identically dressed, comparing stories of horror children. Nephew requested a big red scooter from Santa, and Santa said he'd see what he could do, whilst looking at me for some sort of confirmation. Having no idea, I just smiled and said that I was sure Santa would do his best. I have passed the wishes on to Santa's elves, so let's hope all is good on Christmas morning.

The rest of the exhibition was pretty good, and my nephew definately enjoyed it, especially the snowslide (real snow!!). I feel for the people that work there however, because by the time Christmas comes they will have probably met every snotty nosed kid in Melbourne and surrounds, and will have heard so many Christmas Carols their ears may bleed. You will feel especially sorry for the poor lady manning the Carol Karaoke stage, who will hear on my calculations, around 4,000 versions of Jingle Bells belted out by budding young Australian Idols. She'e better have good ear plugs. But all this fun and wide eyed excitement came at a whopping $40 per person, including adults, so it was certainly not cheap - just doing my duty as the indulgent Aunt.

The Summer that wasn't has arrived with a vengance these past few days, we had a fabulous family wedding (Mr R's little brother) on Saturday and I nearly melted into a puddle during the outside ceremony. But the bride looked beautiful and nobody fainted so all was good in the end. Little brother is also marrying a Sarah, which had caused much confusion amongst family members, but I think they have it sorted now. Maybe we could get a discount on name labels or something. Why the hell would I want name labels? There is definately something wrong with me. There was definately something wrong with me on Sunday morning when I had to drag myself out of bed early to visit my Dad who lives in the country. I slept upside down in bed on Saturday night, and the morning was not pretty - must have been something I ate, couldn't have been the eleventy glasses of white. Ah well, whats a wedding without the embarrassing drunk relatives?


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Monday, November 22, 2004

Life would be much easier if we didn't have to make any decisions. Granted, it may be rather boring, but not if say you applied a random number generator to your dilemmas against a decision matrix or something. I suppose that is what those people who live by "what the dice says" do. I read a book once about a serial killer that killed by numbers, like roll a six and off with her head, so perhaps this logic can be taken too far.

Anyway, I mention this because I have hit a wall with my house renovation. If I have to look at one more bloody bathroom showroom or carpet sample or paint colour or tile design, I just may slap someone (and lets face it, that is likely to be Mr R). I really have done nothing to the house for about 6 months because I just cannot face any more decisions. I don't know what sort of handle I want on the laundry cupboard! I don't care if the retaining wall in the landscaping is symetrical! I am just over it.
Which leads me to my latest idea that of course requires another decision, engaging an interior designer. The idea of this makes me cringe because I am usually very confident about what I do and don't like. And I like to think that I am not a person with no idea. And I know this makes me sound like the biggest spoilt brat ever. And man, I just used the word 'engaging'. Seriously, someone please put me out of this ridiculous misery. But I am coming up to some big decisions like a new sofa, and a tv unit and fabric choices and the idea of visiting a thousand furniture shops fills me with dread. And I have no idea about decorating! Are feature walls good or bad? What to do, what to do. If I had the time I'd be fine with shopping for this stuff, but my weekends are precious! Bleeegh, its all horrible.
Ok, enough of my whinging, it's time to get some perspective of where my problems fit on the scale of things that are problems, with 'ten' being having no arms or legs or intelligence or house or friends, and 'one' being the problem of what colour to paint my nails. I s'pose it is only a one so I should shut up now.

I played good samaritan on the weekend and told a woman in the shop where I was browsing that she had her top on inside out. On reflection, it would have been much funnier to just leave her be and follow her around the shop pointing and giggling. I am so good it's well, sickening, and this has led to an epiphany of sorts. From now on I have the ultimate answer to all decisions. I choose...trouble. Watch for how this lasts for about 10 seconds or results in the end of my marriage.


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Monday, November 15, 2004

Who Weekly Warning - A Community Service Announcement

Sometimes, you can be quietly sitting at your desk, nibbling on your lunch time foccacia, leafing through your secret (unless you publish it on the internet) trashy "Who Weekly" magazine, catching up on celebrity gossip, finding out what the real story is with Jessica and Nick, laughing at the supposedly party animal ways of Prince Harry, when an idle flick of the page reveals something that should have come with a warning. I speak, with much trepidation, about the publishing of a picture of Tara Reid's left b*r*e*a*s*t. Nobody should have to look at this in their trashy magazine! People are trying to eat their lunch! Ewwwww.

The page before this page should have printed a sign "WARNING - THE NEXT PAGE IS NOT SAFE FOR READING WHILST INNOCENTLY EATING YOUR LUNCH, YOU MAY BE PUT OFF AND AS A RESULT BE VERY HUNGRY AT 5PM"

I'm thinking of hundreds of scenarios when innocent people are going to be hurt by this page of Who Weekly. The lady on the train flicks through the mag, gets to this page, falls off her seat in shock at the horribleness of it all and is badly injured. The nice old man in the Doctors waiting room, already unwell and nauseous, gets to this page and throws up everywhere. It is just wrong, wrong, wrong. And she has a very strange looking nipple. All of you are now warned, so don't come crying to me when you turn that page and you just feel all weird and uncomfortable for the next few hours at the sheer horror of it all.



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Thursday, November 11, 2004

Last night my sister tricked me into seeing "The Notebook". I say tricked, because I knew nothing about it, and as a complete sucker for anything remotely sad, it took all of about 1/2 hour before I was crying, no tissues in hand as I was grossly underprepared. I usually try to avoid crying movies at the cinema, I prefer to see them curled up on the couch at home where no one can hear my wailing. This movie is also very quiet. Very very quiet. So my sniffs and sobs were rather obvious, but I did fit right in as just about everyone in the theatre was sniffing away. They really should give all crying movies very loud background soundtracks to drown out all the sobbing. Why are we all such suckers for what was in the end a predictible love story?

This has made me think of the great crying movies over the years. I believe it was ET that started me off, I saw this with my Mum and my sister at a drive-in, where the three of us cried and cried and cried so hard the windows all fogged up. (This is the explanation for why car windows fog up at the drive in). This got me addicted to all tear jerker movies. Love Story. Beaches. The Boy who could fly. My dog Skip. Old Yeller. That one where the little girl dies from bee stings. Now I cry in almost every movie where someone dies. I started crying about 5 minutes into Saving Private Ryan and didn't stop. The movie doesn't have to be good for me to cry, maybe I am also crying about how crap the movie is.

My crying is actually a bit out of control. Now I cry when I watch even slightly sentimental television shows, or even commericials. A couple of weeks ago 60 minutes had a story about a couple that adopted these adorable orphan kids from Africa, and found out at the last minute they also had an older sister who was too old to be adopted. I sobbed so hard I could barley see the television. I even cried on the plane when I flew to Port Douglas and was watching that Jennifer Gardner 'Suddenly 30' movie that was bascially complete crap. The reality is that there may never be an end to this crying fiasco, so the lesson I have learnt is to ALWAYS take tissues to the movies, and to only to see movies with very loud soundtracks. Let this be a lesson to you all.



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Friday, November 05, 2004

This morning I had a blind man come around to give me a quote. Mr R has done all the blind jokes, so don't bother, I'm talking about the blinds you put over windows. Lest you be misled by the fact we are getting blinds, the renovation is far from over, but there is no way we can get through summer with west facing windows, so hence the quotes.

Louie the blind man was probably the biggest name dropper I have ever met.
"These blinds we make - very good - lots of celebrities buy these blinds. You know Dave Hughes? Comedian? We do his blinds. Rex Hunt? Fishing man? Lots of blinds. We do all footballers, you like footballers? Beautiful blinds. We do Nissan. 300 blinds. Very big job. We do great job and for you - special price!"
Perhaps the celebrity endorsement works for some? Anyway, this guy talked alot, but also measured each window no less than 5 times, so I think he got the measurements right. Now to take out a second mortgage to cover the cost.

This meant I came into work late today, which was probably a good move traffic wise, given the hideous weather we are having at the moment. I did make that time honoured mistake of standing too close to a corner as I waited at the lights. The mistake being that when a taxi screamed around the corner through a huge puddle I was drenched from the knees down. So I squelched my way up Collins St and it took all of my strength to actually continue on to work and not just turn around and go home to snuggle under my doona with a good book.

I didn't win any money in my Cup Sweep that I ran at work, despite the accusations of cheating when I drew Elvstroem (one of the favorites). What is it with people that accuse you of cheating when you run sweeps, or footing tipping, or Survivor sweeps or whatever? They should all be grateful that someone is even bothering to run the sweep or competition, and shut the hell up. Besides, if I was cheating, wouldn't I have actually WON SOMETHING? Sheesh.

And finally on to my confession of the week, a potential new feature around here. It's sort of like real confession without the hail Marys and rosary beads or whatever it is you have to do in real confession. Confession without atonement. Feel free to confess all, it helps gets things off your chest. So, here we go.

I think I have a shoe problem. I mean, I know I have a shoe problem, and you might too if you have read an earlier entry about the large specimens my freaky genes have landed me with. The problem is that every visit to my shoe shop results in multiple shoe purchases just in case I ever need shoes like that, because shoes are very hard to get. Last weekend I bought some black shoes with like 10cm heels which is very very high for me. Given I am already tall, if I wear these I'll be like 6 foot 3, so it is possible they very rarely beworn. But yet I still bought them - just in case. (Don't tell Mr R)
Phew, that feels good. Is that why the world is full of Catholics?



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