The Deficit

k. rang me to congratulate me on this photo I'd posted on Twitter.

"You look great! You know, even though it's obvious you haven't slept in about three weeks."

"Thanks! That means I'm way ahead - I haven't slept in about eight weeks!"

Bibliophile

Like many normal people if, for some reason, I have strangers coming to my haus, and particularly if I'm not going to be at home, I like to whiz around and spruce the place up a bit - you know, to give the impression that, oh yes, I live like this all the time. [Often, a large part of this involves hiding all the Nutella jars I've yet to recycle.]

But I know you're with me. On the spruce up situ, if not the Nutella. Some of you are, like, sooo judgemental?



Wait. You are with me, aren't you?



Anyway. So today was one of those days when strange men would be trawling through my abode while I was being industrious at work. Or at the very least was occupying a seat in the office. Sheesh. Sticklers for detail. I was dashing from room to room making everything look mildly inhabitable when I realised that one thing I'd left out were some, well, look, motivational placards that Scarab had sweetly made for me. Like some of my friends, Scarab knows that I've been finding the going a bit tough of late and she took the time to take some pretty pink card and write inspirational buck-up messages on them to remind me while she was away on holiday that life is, indeed, good.

I thought about putting the placards away and then I decided against it because, bugger it, it's my haus and my life and who's going to notice anyway? Not the bunch of strangers walking around, kicking up dust, battling rapid-onset silicosis. Thus, the placards stayed up.

I got home tonight, chucked my bag on the dining table and wandered off in the general direction of a wine bottle. When I came back to grab my phone from my bag, this is what I noticed sitting next to it:


The Bible. Open at the 23rd Psalm. The Lord is my shepherd, etc. Which simultaneously reminds me of droning along with this at school assemblies with The Burp, Robert Plant, Scarab, Dr Zhivago, et al and of this song.

Someone has been in my haus and, upon seeing my motivational posters and recognising a troubled soul in crisis, fossicked in my bookshelf for the Bible and left it open for me. To comfort and soothe.

And, let's face it, shudder.

On the one hand this seems like a nice, decent thing to do. On the other hand, I'm waiting to hear the opening strains of 'Misty' waft down the corridor at any moment. I'm wavering at feeling touched by the concern shown for me by a faceless fellow human being, and the thought that right now that secret camera they've installed to monitor my progress is trained on me.

Note to self: to pick or not to pick?

I think I'm coming down on the side of the shudder. To the point of violent spasming. Huh. At least that'll give my secret watcher a decent floor show.

The Queen of LIES

So when Inge de Bruin talked me into this whole running the City to Surf malarkey, her big selling point was that though we would have to run the whole way it wouldn't matter how fast we went. The point was to finish, times didn't matter. The other night up in King's Park at one of our training sessions she casually mentioned that, "And we just need to make sure we run at a reasonable pace."

A reasonable pace? What does that mean? (She asked in a high and slightly hysterical voice.) I'll tell you what it means: it means a betrayal of the original we-just-want-to-finish spiel, that's what. I told Inge, in a calm voice filled with reason and logic, that if she tried to force the hurry up on me, that it would kill me. That I expected just shuffling along for twelve kilometres would kill me anyway.

"Nonsense," she said. "You'll be on an adrenaline high."

"Only if I take an epipen with me."

There was a bit more back and forth about the original premise of our entry into the race versus this latest push for speed.

The sun was setting by now, and the vast and quiet bushland spread out on each side of us. Inge de Bruin merely smiled beatifically at me and said, "You know, hazelblackberry, it's not too late for you to end up in that shallow bush grave."

What do I care? Now, or in the run in September: the point is, my time is limited.

And Fast

RobertPlant rang me yesterday while I was cheering myself up, browsing the shelves at Officeworks.

"Not at work?" he asked.

"Nah, I chucked a sad and decided to come home."

"I'd say to come round here but [Tam O'Shanter's ex-stepmother] is coming over, and I wouldn't put you through that."

"It's okay. I just want to go home, get into my pyjamas and, you know [adopts poxy voice] be with myself for a while."

"I dread to think where that might be heading."

He needn't have worried, it would've only been the same place everything else in my life is apparently going: nowhere.

Apres

So you're all wondering, all two of you, if I made it. Well, I'm here so apparently I did.

Inge took my news with good grace. I decided to get it all out as we drove up to Kings Park. I figured she'd keep control behind the wheel of a car: she may want to kill me but is a cool enough customer not to take herself out in the process. She listened to me and remained calm and even agreed that it was probably a good idea, especially as it gives her dad extra time to build us a boat. I should have known to be wary of such cheery acquiescence.

There was a sting. As always.

After we'd done our run, Inge hoisted my barely breathing body into her car and we went out for some revitalising Vietnamese food. They were happy enough at the restaurant to let Inge in but when it came to my entry, it seems they would prefer customers who don't come in on all fours, sobbing and dripping sweat. As I sat slumped over the life-giving force that is stir-fried snow peas and steamed rice, Inge put to me her three year plan: we'll run the City to Surf in 2010, do the Avon Descent in 2011 and then, my friends, what I have apparently agreed to is walking the Kokoda trail with her in 2012.

But I was clinically dead at the time. My head was only nodding because rigor mortis hadn't yet set in.

Commoner Among Cooks

Tonight I die.

Last year Inge de Bruin came up with the idea that this year we would run* the City to Surf and that we would enter the Avon Descent. If anything was ever an advertisement for abstaining from the demon drink, it's the fact that I'd downed quite a number of champagnes when she pushed this idea on me and I was most enthusiastic. I've sobered up since then. That happened at about 2pm yesterday when she sent me her preliminary thoughts on our training schedule. In essence**, what her email said was this:

I will begrudgingly allow you time to go to work, eat the occasional meal and, from time to time, sleep. Other than that, you will spend every available spare minute of your life this year with me training for these two events. Then, about two months beforehand, we'll really ramp things up.

My response is this: Inge de Bruin can suck it!

Whatever happened to going for a lazy kayak out to Seal Island, or a dive, or breakfast, or heaven forbid, spending some time doing nothing?? She's a motivated young lass is our Inge, and I don't think 'doing nothing' has ever been high on her list of priorities.

So I've decided this evening, after our run*, I'm going to calmly explain to her that I can't commit that much time. That I need some space. It's not her, it's me.

I'm being sensible, I've chosen neutral territory: the Queen's, to which we shall repair for a meal post-torture session. Hopefully that will keep the shrieking and the tears to a minimum, and whatever reaction Inge might have. The only problem is she always orders some kind of prime rib meat for dinner, and I generally get seafood.

If things gets nasty we're talking about a beating with a cow bone versus a lashing with a piece of squid. I'm so going down.



*Open to interpretation.
**Summary may not stand up in a court of law.

I know what I like so you can all go ride a bike.

Boot camp started up again this morning. It was hell. I notice no one makes a fuss of the fact that I've been going for nearly a WHOLE YEAR. I am possibly not the best example of what can be achieved in nearly a WHOLE YEAR. But for once in my life, my whole entire life, I've stuck at something. [Not counting that 14 years of marriage. I gave that my best shot but, you know, some things just don't stick.]

So where was I?

Anyway, we show up at boot camp and that's when the young Fraulein who takes us on Tuesday mornings says that there's been a change to the schedule. This year, she informs us, instead of each class being a mix of different stuff, we'll be doing all lower body work on Tuesdays, all upper body work on Thursdays and all cardio on Saturdays.

"So you know exactly what you've got in store each day when you show up," she said.

"We know what days to come," said someone else.

"No, we know what days to avoid," was the rejoinder to that.

"Well, that'd be all of them." I'll give you three guesses who said that.

Iron in her soul; jelly in mine.

Inge de Bruin is determined that this year...next year...2010 we are running the City to Surf. I am being dragged along with her plans, kicking and screaming. I don't like it and, frankly, I'm frightened.

Last night we began our running training. I won't go into details except to say that it was horrifying. Afterwards we went to the pub. By 'went' I mean that Inge strolled in as though nothing was amiss with the world and I crawled in after her, sobbing, gasping for a glass of champers. Over dinner all my so-called friend wanted to do was discuss strategy. I was starting to feel hassled and a trifle sulky.

Because she's got dodgy knees, Inge can't do a lot of road running. She suggested that we train in King's Park, running on the stretch of grass leading up to the DNA tower.

"I like that idea," I said. "Particularly when the evenings get darker. No danger of being run over by a car. The worst that could happen to us is we'll be murdered!"

Inge smiled. "hazelblackberry, I couldn't think of anyone I'd rather be buried next to in a shallow grave."

Given what's been getting dished out lately, I'll take that as a compliment to treasure.

Flesh Wound

I am offended.


No one will admit I look bad.


After shivering and shaking through the night, feeling achy and just a teensy bit sorry for myself, I staggered out of bed this morning and into the shower. When I got out of the shower I reeled a little - okay, a lot - at the splotchy, pale haggard face staring back at me from the mirror. Bathroom lighting can be so unforgiving. In an attempt to make myself feel a little sprightlier for the working day ahead I paid careful attention to the way I was drying my hair, instead of just blowing it all up into a bird's nest, and I even applied a small amount of foundation to the epidermis just to smooth out the rough edges.


And that was my mistake. Because now as I've spent the day whinging about how bad I feel and how sick I am, what I get back is, "Really? Are you sure? Because you look great!"


This all coincides with me being in the sixth week of my haircut cycle. At the end of the sixth week, I get my hair chopped. But in the week beforehand my hair achieves a state of critical mess, causing people to say, "Have you done something with your hair? You look different." Then a few short days later when it all gets hacked off and a bunch of chemicals get dumped into it, no one says a word.


So today was the perfect combo. I tried to tell someone how cripplingly ill I am and all they could say was, "But you look so well. Must be that haircut you've just had."

...it does mean there will be dribbling. Actual dribbling. Not the metaphoric kind that occurs on this blog.

(and while there's nothing wrong with being a mouth breather in the privacy of your own home)

...and that means sleeping with your mouth open...

Here's the problem: you go to bed with a stuffed up nose...

Enough

I'm sick so that's all you're getting.

I still have to iron my clothes for tomorrow, make the bed and then perform my final, heroic act of the evening: crawl into bed.

A Tissue

Here's something you might be surprised to hear can become tiresome very quickly: sneezing.

However, getting the washing done and dried on the first (warm & sunny) day of winter is something one could never tire of. I would say 'not to be sneezed at' but, you know, I did.

I can't live, if living is without you.

k. rang me today to say I was banned from the house on the basis of a suspected outbreak of gastro on their property. She also mentioned she had an itchy eye - gungy eye - and occasionally there'd be odd breaks in the conversation at her end; short silences from which she'd return to announce, "Sorry, I was just rubbing my balls."

Really, how am I going to live without that quality sense of humour while she disappears up north for a few months?

And people think I don't care!

8:16am - hb to k.: Will I see you at ceramics tonight? Call me if you have time.

3:47pm - hb to k: Been trying to get hold of you. Everything okay?

3.50pm - k. to hb: Sorry, sick as, keep meaning to call. Won't make it tonight.

3.52pm - hb to k.: Bummer. Want me to make you some chicken soup? I'm handy with a can opener and a tin of Heinz.

Momentary Heart Attack; Or, Guilty Conscience

"hazelblackberry, what's New Girl's name?"

[Oh noooo! They know about the blog! They know about the blog and they're all talking about it! But how, with a worldwide readership of only five? Hooooooow???]

"P-pardon?"

"What's the new girl's name? You know, the one who starts on Monday."

I Am Not Australia's Stimulus Package*

I've always known Scarab was good at spending her own money. Turns out she's fairly talented at spending other people's money too.

"I think you should try this on, haze. It couldn't hurt to try.....Oh it looks great. You should definitely buy it."

But that is it. That is definitely it. I am now going to enter a long and dark period of fiscal restraint. It's a good thing I bought 24 bottles of wine when the Antiquer and I went to Harvey. I'm going to need all the sustenance I can get.



* And for the record, I ain't Spartacus either.

Fire in the...well, you get the picture

I stopped at The Antiquer's on the way home. He'd just got back from the shops with a yummy looking salad roll and some pastries. I tried to get him to give me a bite of his roll but he refused firstly on the grounds that he had a cold and secondly on the excuse that he had the runs yesterday. Anything to avoid sharing. So I eventually managed to sneak a bit of cheese out from the innards and now my tummy is making gurgling noises and I'm inclined to think he wasn't being miserly after all.