Steeped in Sentiment

Last year Bezley and Cinderella both made sure they called me on the anniversary of Bloody Ern's demise (today). Neither of them mentioned it directly and I didn't even remember so I thought it was just one of those lovely things, that I'd got a phone call from not-quite-mother and not-quite-sister on the same day. It dawned on me about a week later.

This year I decided for Bezley's sake to make a special effort to remember and I gave her a quick call before I came into work. We had a bit of a chat and Ern's name didn't come up so I decided not to mention it.

"You know, I don't think Bezley remembered this year," I told QEII this morning.

QEII then went on to wax lyrical about how she always remembers because Ern died on Mother's Day, so each year she quickly checks the date around Mother's Day to remind herself.

"Also," she said after a bit, "My Foxtel bill is always due on the 14th so that makes it easier."

Or IN context, for that matter.

I was on the phone to QEII, and in the middle of a compelling anecdote in which I said, "As I'm doubled over, getting on with business...", when it suddenly occurred to me that there are some phrases you just don't want overheard out of context when in the office.

Cringe Factor

I’d been to see my doctor about a couple of things and was filling QEII in on the deets.

“He sounds like a great doctor,” she said.

“He is. He’s a lovely man.”

“How old is he?”

“I dunno. Early-forties I suppose.”

“Oooh, is he single?”

“Ew, no! He’s married and he’s got kids. Although he did mention that his wife has a ‘serious illness’.”

“There you go - you go to the funeral, you pick up!”

“No way! Don’t forget, this is the guy who asked me to strip down to my bra and…”

(Together, screaming) “Panties!!!”

If only they'd love me for who I am...

Scarab, before telling me something harmless: "And this discussion is not for your blog!"

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k., while telling me something hilarious: "I'm telling you this in the strictest confidence and I don't expect to see it end up on your blog."

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QEII, after telling me something quite fruity: "Go on - put that on your blog!"

You see how it all fits together?

Ellen had a few people round for a barbecue on Friday night and invited QEII and I along. So we had a lovely evening (thanks, Ellen!) and then on the way home QEII was talking about her plans to get a dog. I pointed out that owning a dog entailed walking a dog which would lead, inevitably, to the horror of picking up dog poo. To my consternation, QEII plans to shirk her obligations and claims that she won't be doing any picking up. We got into a rather vigorous debate which morphed into a debate about what music we'd listen to as we drove along and ended only when I nearly drove into someone stopped at some lights. QEII looked a little stunned.

"Did I give you a fright? Are you okay?"

"Oh I'm fine. My undies aren't so crash hot though."

"Sliding around in them a bit, are you?"

"Yeah - wanna pick it up?"

"Soooo...you're saying you're my dog?"

"Yep, I'm your bitch."

It was a very kind offer. But I'm just not in the market. I'm looking for a bastard.

Round and Round

QEII came over last night for some nibblies and champagne. We nibbled on the nibblies but we forgot about the champagne. Instead QEII assembled my Ikea bookshelves while I swept and mopped and moved things to and fro, and we passed the time in not-so-idle gossip.

It had been a while since my friend had applied herself to furniture construction with only an Allen key and a screwdriver to aid her. The first set of shelves got put together slightly back to front and had to be taken apart. After that, knowing what she was doing, she entered her self-described "smug" stage and the next two came together quick smart. Some harsh language might have been used on the final set of shelves. I'm not sure. I try not to listen to these things. Apparently she'd made a mistake because she had moved from "smug" to "cocky".

I like it when progression is a circle.

A friend of a friend of a friend told me...

Last night QEII and I trooped off to The Court Hotel to meet up with my friend Ellen, who will probably make a few more appearances here so needs a name. It was a toss-up between Ellen and Portia de Rossi. Ellen won the day.

"The Court is a gay and lesbian venue but ALL are welcome."

I think I can safely say I was the only ALL there last night. Yessiree, just me.

Ellen's friend, Happy Monday, joined us. He was full of stacks of entertaining stories. Under the influence of bubbles, good company and giddiness I thought they were all blogworthy*. In the cold, slightly hungover light of day, I realise that perhaps they were not in the best of taste. A line has to be drawn somewhere and I'm drawing it right here:

_______________________________________

See?

But I tell you what, it's very nice to be served by gay barmen.

"Are you right there, sweetie?"

"What can I do for you, darling?"

And they checked whether the glasses were clean before pouring our drinks!

Siiiigh. If only they liked chicks. Or broads. And therein lies the inherent irony. If irony is, indeed, what it is. I dunno. It's not like I'm an English teacher or anything.



*Which would have made for a long blog entry. Consider yourselves lucky.

She ordered a cab sav but I think they gave her goon.

Last night QEII and I went out for dinner to celebrate her birthday. The restaurant was completely empty except for us. It unnerved me.

When we got home I went to get changed into a dress that I'm not too sure about, to get QEII's opinion. While I was in another room wrestling with buttons and belts, she busied herself with a piece of chalk and my kitchen blackboard.

Firstly, I had the beginnings of a shopping list on there -

light globes
wipes

- which she decided to deface:

Now that's just common, that sort of carry on.

And then she had the nerve to try to redeem herself with this blatant bit of crawling:

She insisted on having a giant serve of ice cream for dessert. I hope it gave her a bellyache.

Inspiration - The Second

At work:


QEII's niece gave me this kayaking Lego man for Christmas, so I've blue-tacked him to the top of my computer to keep me company and inspire me. Working for the weekend and all that.


He's such a spunky action man! But he could lose the facial hair.

The Vision Thing

QEII has a magnificent-looking set of choppers, but it seems that looks can be deceiving. She rang me to report on her visit to the dentist.

"He said I've got cavities," she said in the same world-weary tone a 12-year-old might use to report on a parental telling-off. "Apparently I have to stop eating lollies in bed."

Never mind the dental work. I've long been amazed at her ability to get up in the middle of the night and locate a packet of Sherbies without so much as the help of a candle. She must eat a lot of carrots. It's just a pity they're all chocolate-dipped.

Good Risibility

QEII and I had an event to attend yesterday arvo - a happening, if you will - and we met for lunch beforehand. She wanted to pick my brains about her finances. I was pretty sure she'd lost her mind: I brought along my latest bank statement to make sure she was fully informed about my complete lack of qualifications for the job. After a little while the hysterical gales of laughter had subsided and we could wipe the tears from our eyes. Turns out she still wanted my advice, despite the evidence to the contrary. I'm going to keep the spare room free so when she ends up destitute she can stay with me. I feel I'll owe her that much.

Later on New Girl popped down for a walk on the beach and a game of Trivial Pursuit. We're so into good, clean fun. You know, except for all the swearing.

The beating of reindeer hoofs in our heads.

QEII came over last night for a roast. She drank a bottle of red wine and I drank a bottle of champagne. There was a slightly cranky exchange of presents this morning.

I managed to get off the couch to make my friend a cup of coffee, like a good hostess would. She was a little impatient for it.

"Quickly!" she shrieked as I fossicked in the cupboard for the sugar.

Phew. I'm kind of glad I have to be over at The Antiquer's cousin's place for an early brekky. I really need an excuse to get away from her.

Merry Christmas, Mr Lawrence and, you know, Merry Christmas to you too.

They'll never let me live this down.

QEII, indicating her and JAG: "Well, we think you're gorgeous."

Me, wailing: "But that doesn't count - you're gaaaaay!"

Turn Turn Turn

Since QEII told her parents she was gay, Ibu has been somewhat focussed on the idea that me, her beloved hazelblackberry, might also be gay and that QEII and I could live in lesbian bliss for the rest of our lives.

Ibu has already shown unexpected open-mindedness in accepting QEII's 'lifestyle choice'. But since she refers to me as her "other daughter" I really don't like to consider just how far she's willing to let her moral standards slip.

"Don't speak; don't spoil it."

Anyway, she only has herself to blame that the whole evening degenerated into a shambles and insults flew: when she said we'd be drinking our wine out of tumblers, she didn't mention that we'd be drinking it by the tumblerful.

Not by the hair on her chinny-chin-chin.

QEII objected last night when I said that she looked like her dad. Then her girlfriend, JAG, agreed with me and the outrage meter went through the roof.

"How?! How do I look like him?"

"Well, you're bald and you've got a beard."

It's funny now. But check back when she's 75.

Mr State Trooper

QEII was escorting me off the premises after a particularly raucous and thoroughly unbloggable evening at her place. I hunted in my bag for my keys.

"Should I be driving? That's a question for the ages."

"No, lovey, that's a question for the police."

We're younger than that now.

Emails have been flying back and forth across the Nullarbor between Jessie Mo and me on various delightful and, at times, rather juvenile subjects. Well, the subjects themselves aren't juvenile, but the approach we like to take to them certainly is. We agree that 40 is not the new 30. It's the new 21. Which is fine by me. I'd like a giant cake in the shape of a key. And lots of presents.

And it was the juvenile approach that QEII and I were taking to our interrupted discussion on the, ahem, congress of the bee. We were thinking about a girl about town, out with a rakish gentleman, enjoying a light and breezy time together, sparkling with conversation. They find themselves retiring to the home of one or the other. How does a young lady, keen to show she's a good sport, keep the mood easy going and carefree? Particularly afterwards, when things can be a bit tricky, perhaps even awkward. After much careful consideration we came up with our top three insouciant lines that a fair young maid might use to kick start the free-flowing banter once more:

- "You must really love me!"
- "I can't wait to tell my mum we're getting married!"
- "You're going to make a great daddy!"

New Girl, when I told her, heartily approved of all of these approaches. (She, too, had had a couple of glasses of wine.) Not only did my stylish and flair-some friend applaud these suggestions, she threw in one brilliant one of her own: "Can I blog that?"

Girls, feel free to use any of these should the situation, and the need, arise. Fellas, if you find yourself in the intimate company of a sweet lass and she murmurs one of these lines to you, try to control the spasm of horror and simply enquire of her, "Perchance, do you read 'A Bex and a Good Lie Down'?"

Talkus Interruptus

When QEII walks in the door, good taste tends to walk out. Especially if she, QEII, comes accompanied by a bottle of wine. We were in the middle of a not-terribly-highbrow conversation, marked by much guffawing and shrieking, when the phone rang: we had to make a mercy dash into the city to rescue Mona Lisa from the Sheraton. It wasn't until we were half way up the freeway that I realised I was in tracky daks and bare feet - again. Luckily, I had also forgotten my glasses so as I sashayed through the Sheraton's foyer, bumping through an endless stream of wedding parties, I was aware of various faces turned towards me, and moving up and down to give me the once over, but I was mercifully oblivious to the details of the thin-lipped expressions.

I don't think there were any Vietnam Veterans there. I didn't notice any camouflage gear. But then I wouldn't, would I?

Mona Lisa was very brave about being seen with me. She said people were probably just jealous I was dressed so comfortably. I'd like to believe her.

As for the not-so-highbrow conversation? Well, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear about that.

A Bottle of Red, a Bottle of White

"Do you think Bezley will end up with another man?" asked QEII.

"Dunno. I'd like to think she would but she reckons not. She says, and I quote, 'Your father ruined me for any other man.'"

"That is not a nice mental image."

"I know what she meant; it just came out wrong. Still, it is horrific. Try not to think about it."

"Too late. I think I'll pass on dinner."