Shock the Monkey

I have a smoke detector in my hallway, hard-wired into the ceiling. Yesterday afternoon it began beeping. Being the resourceful and independent single woman that I am, I ascertained that this was because the battery needed replacing, so off I shot to the shops to grab a new battery. I got two because, as Magilla Gorilla taught us all those years ago, "nuthin' like havin' a spare spare". I came home and replaced the battery and had just climbed down off the stepladder when the bloody thing beeped again. And again. Without going into details another hour was spent replacing the battery, double-checking it, checking the indicator lights, pressing buttons, inspecting the meter box, all the while feeling my sanity unravel as the beeping went on and on. Okay that was a bit detailed but you needed some local colour.

Eventually I resigned myself to a night of no sleep. I figured if I shut the hall door and slept on the couch in the lounge the beep would be less intrusive. I also decided to drown out the sound with an episode of Midsomer Murders on iView. I paused the show at some point to get a drink and that's when I noticed: miracle of miracles, the beeping had stopped! I could sleep, un-aurally-molested, in my bed! (Which I did. I'm no fool.)

I ended up spending today at home, doing some work from the comfort of the couch. (The other couch. Not the one I'd planned to sleep on. I have two couches. Just the two. I'm not building a Couch Empire here. I need you to be able to properly see this with your mind's eye.) At about 1pm I thought I heard a noise, but I ignored it. And then there it was again. The sodding beeping. I may have called the detector an unkind name. A phone call to the real estate agent brought an electrician running. He phoned me on his way to my place and I carefully explained to him all that I had done in an attempt to fix the problem, defending my status as a resourceful and independent single woman.

The electrician arrived and took a look at the detector. He was puzzled as everything seemed to be in order. Then it beeped again. There was a hint of defiance in the noise this time - I have a sense for these things. The electrician looked at his sidekick. "Where's that beep coming from?" "Er," I ventured, "from the smoke detector?" I confess I may have had my duh face on at this point. "No it isn't," he said. Then he and the sidekick looked down the hall and pointed at something on the ceiling I had failed to see in all my rampaging about the house the evening before, being resourceful and independent in a womanly and single way: a second smoke detector, purely battery-operated, with a dead battery - and trying to get anyone who would listen to pay attention.

"I feel like such an idiot!" I said. But I'd jumped the gun. The time to really feel like an idiot was when he presented me with the bill.

Of Barriers

A while ago RobertPlant left a message on my phone bemoaning the fact that we had missed The Sonics when they'd recently played in Sydney. He followed this valuable info up with a series of moans which I'm pretty sure were meant to convey existential angst but came off sounding creepy. I did what I do with most phone calls from him: I ignored it. He waited a while for me to ring him up and do the wailing and gnashing of teeth and say, "Listen to this! Listen to this!" and hold my phone out so he could hear me renting my garments, and when I didn't he cracked and called me with just the slightest shred of sulkiness in his voice.

Wasn't I outraged that we had missed this great opportunity? Wasn't I now going to to spend the rest of year in a deep depression, without acknowledging that even if I had known this band were playing in Sydney I wouldn't have jumped on a plane just to go & see them?

No, as it happens, on both counts - because I haven't got the foggiest notion who The Sonics are.

RobertPlant was staggered. "Don't know who they are? You do know who they are! You do! I've played all their music for you."

"Well, I must have zoned out because I don't remember."

"You do remember!"

(At this protestation I had visions of my beloved Bloody Ern, who seemed to share a similar sense of entitlement as to what and wasn't in my memory banks when he was reminiscing on some detail of a fishing or hunting trip that I claimed not to recall. "You do remember!" he'd insist, meaty fists pounding down on some invisible surface hanging in the air. At that point I liked to shrug, just to wind him up a bit more.)

"You don't remember, huh?" said RobertPlant, like he was finally ready to concede. "I don't see why not. I don't think it was 1.30am and I'm almost certain you weren't trying to kick me out of your house so you could go to sleep."

Yes. But what dreams may come.

Impromptu Audit

I'd slipped out of the office and toddled orff to Officeworks to get some photos printed one afternoon and who should I find waiting in line when I got there, but old Bam Bam. I haven't seen him in years but I'd heard bits of gossip here and there about his first marriage breaking up and then him remarrying and all that sort of thing.

Then there he was, in the flesh, looking how he always looks: kind of full of himself and still lacking in any real sense of humour.

We chatted for a bit. He was keen to tell me all about his life. "You know I'm married again?" was the second sentence out of his mouth after the tediously obligatory hello. He told me he had kids. One toddler and one imminent. I think. I'd been bludgeoned into a coma with all the superiority by that point.

His photo order arrived. "Wanna see a pic of my girl?" he asked. "Just the one," I agreed.

He took the photo packet and showed me one snap, which I clucked over, perhaps a little too convincingly because he then proceeded to shake out a fat wad of pictures, clearly ready to take me through them all.

"What are you doing?" 

"I'm showing you these photos."

"Are they all of your kid?"

"Yeah!"

"Um, no, I said just one. Cute little girl and everything, but one picture's enough."

He laughed that uneasy laugh of his: like he's never sure if the joke's on him and, anyway, what is this 'joke' thing?

I didn't want him to walk away all hurt so I asked, "Hey, you haven't told me your daughter's name - what is it?"

He perked up. "Amberley."

"Amberley?"

"Yes. What?"

"You mean like the wine?"

He laughed. "Haha! Yes!" Then he stopped and gurgled a bit. Then he looked blank. "I gotta go," he said.

I looked at my watch but he was already out the door so I couldn't tell him that Births, Deaths and Marriages would already be shut.

Small Comforts

Scarab and I trundled along to the cinemaaah to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. My friend was feeling a bit blue and needed a little cheering up. It was a lovely, entertaining movie and although it lifted her spirits - helped, no doubt, by the bottle of wine and nachos we consumed - I could see she was still in the grip of some emotional malady as we drifted along. Scarab hooked her arm through mine and asked, "haze, do you think when we're old we'll still have each other to rely on?" "I have no doubt of that, my dear friend." "When we were kids, did you know that we'd be friends forever?" "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Given her fragile state of mind that evening, what I omitted to tell her was that when we were 12, I thought 'forever' pretty much took you through to about 30.

Meta Meta

The Wee Morning Hours

I'm no different from anyone else, I'm sure, but when I was a kid wetting the bed was generally...er...precipitated by dreams where I was busting for a wee and would be rushing around trying to find a toilet, my relief at finally getting to one to be only short-lived as I woke in my bed, in the dark, swimming in a puddle of my own piddle.

(Hey, come on, I could have thrown paddle in there too.)

I will never ever forget the night I woke from one such dream before I got to the toilet scene and was able to get up, like a big girl, and go to the toilet. It was a revelation. It smelled of victory, and maybe napalm. But that could have just been the lingering mothball odour from the sheets.

Although from that point on I marched proudly forth into a non-bed wetting future, I must admit that what stays with me is the dreams and a lingering fear of wetting the bed. Many are the nights I've woken anxiously from such a nightmare, pawing at the bed checking for dryness or, horrors, wetness.

While living with Grumpy he made a significant dip on his side of the bed so I would often carefully pat around him to check he was not snoring blissfully in a warm bath courtesy of moi.

I know I'm not going to wet the bed. I'm 41 years old. I haven't went the bed for 35 years - give or take 15 years. And if it did happen, so what? It's only wee. But still. I have to go to Spotlight next week. Maybe I should check if they do waterproof sheets for queen size beds.

Bad Hobbit to Break

Stepbro #2 swept into the family festivities today like a gust of...wait...not fresh air. Like a gust. Let's just leave it at that and leave the rest to your imagination.

Cinderella and I were sitting peacefully at one end of the patio when he swaggered over to us. He took a seat between we two, and in a move which put me in mind of The Rooster, proceeded to swig away at a giant bottle of Coke. I was astounded and moved to ask, "Are you being good?"

He looked at me, shoved the bottle under my nose hard enough to distend one nostril and ordered me to smell. I was nearly wiped out by the bourbon fumes. Admittedly, it has been a while since I've seen him: absence makes me sentimental enough to believe he's capable of any kind of responsible behaviour.

Then he proceeded to show me and Cinderella his latest tattoos. I didn't mind seeing the ribbony scroll up his side with little banners for the names of the kids he has already and a space for the one on the way, but his girlfriend's name elegantly arched over a brand new nipple ring?

Sometimes, the harder he runs towards us, the harder we run away.

A friend of mine took a fighting muffin in the chest.

"You problem is that you're a perfectionist."

I was explaining to New Girl how I thought her problem was that she was a perfectionist. She was on the phone to me, feeling slightly under pressure at work and, when I suggested that what she really needed was a significant amount of time off, she said that taking holidays only stressed her more because she came back to nothing having been done in her absence, or not being done properly. That's when I told her she might have a little problem with her exacting standards.

"Take a leaf out of my book," I said. "You don't see me getting all hung up about finishing stuff, or making sure it's all just so. I pick two or three things I know absolutely must happen and the rest can wait. It'll either not need to be done after all or it'll become a crisis and get done then."

There was a pause while I thought about that.

"Wait. Maybe you shouldn't take a leaf out of my book."

"No, I think I definitely should. You've landed That Pretty Good Job; you're obviously doing something right."

Maybe I am. And if I'm doing something right, we can all be doing something right. It's time to down that diligence instinct and get lazy. You should know, though, laziness isn't just a skill you can expect to pick up and use when you need it. You have to work it, like a muscle. It won't hurt, you won't even have to sweat, but the weaker ones amongst you will spend many nights tossing and turning, maybe even fretting, thinking about that to do list with countless items not yet crossed off. If you're willing to break that responsibility barrier, I can show you the way, but you have to want it enough to make the journey. Ask yourselves if you want to join me. But even more importantly, ask yourselves if you have what it takes.

She Had to Say It Was a Good Day

The Small Thing refers to the next-door neighbours as 'the neighbourhoods'. After she'd ripped open and discarded the birthday present I'd given her she informed me the neighbourhoods would be over shortly to cough up with more birthday goodies.

The thing is, these so-called neighbourhoods are just a couple of sweet old ladies who've only ever drunk iced tea and have no idea what moves can be busted to his music. Unless, of course, in the ways typical of the very young, Small Thing sees their inner gangsta.

Or else she's confusing them with that other, genuinely terrifying old lady: Don Mary.

A 90-year-old in black, wrap-around shades is a force to be reckoned with. She has a ready supply of horses at her disposal.

No, my first name *ain't* 'Baby".

RobertPlant was anxious. He was looking for my blessing.

For some time, we've been habitues, devotees if you will, of a rather excellent little secondhand book shop at the Stock Road Markets. RobertPlant heard the markets were closing down, though who knows if that's true, and has had ants in his pants to get back there and do his customary raid on the precious books.

This morning he decided he couldn't wait any longer and would go today. He rang me to confess: was that okay with me? Or would I despise him forever? I told him that in matters of the heart, he must do what is best for him.

Besides, as I so often remind him, he may be the one with the vast library, but I'm the one actually getting down to the business of reading the books. Yeah, he always hates that.

Hands On

I mentioned to someone how much I preferred driving a manual.

"But your car isn't a manual," said RobertPlant, who was also there, thus explaining his ability to comment.

"Yes it is! How often have you been in my car? You've driven my car! Did you happen to notice the gear stick?"

"Oh. I was wondering why the engine was making that high-pitched noise on the freeway."

Conjunctions

I was having dinner with Lost in Translation on Saturday night. Sometimes she really lives up to her name. I asked how her sweet friend, Ms Mailer, was going. I'd met Ms Mailer briefly last year and thought she was lovely.

"So how's Ms Mailer going?" I asked. To set the scene.

"Well, she's thirty now," replied my friend, as if that covered all physical and emotional possibilities.

I just nodded my head knowingly. I don't know what I was nodding my head at. I suppose I'll find out later.

Slow As

Scarab insisted to the surly waitress that the coffee waiting at the bar, and no doubt going cold, was her flat white. The waitress condescendingly agreed to check, and then came over with it.

"Great!" said Scarab, beaming insincerely, "That is my drink."

Then, because she'd ordered two sugars and got only one, she waved the solitary sachet back and forth, still smiling, still insincere, and asked, "And could I trouble you for another of these?"

She raised her coffee to her lips. "If this is cold, it's going straight back." A sip, then, "Dammit, it's still hot."

We agreed that given we didn't have a spare week to sit around waiting for a replacement drink, the appropriate temperature was probably a satisfactory replacement for the pleasure of complaining.

Couples Therapy

Hong Kong Fooey arranged for RobertPlant and I to head along to a quiz night with him. [And who should I spy there, but Cellobella (to her frustration, I did not introduce myself: occasionally I can be overcome with galloping shyness)]. As usual, we did pretty badly. Not helped by me changing a couple of answers. I don't normally do things like that, and now I see why.

Hong Kong Fooey was being most gentlemanly to me all evening, commenting on how great my hair looked.

He said it for about the fifth time: "Your hair looks great, haze: in fact, you look great!"

"Why thank you, Honkers," I said. Then I turned to RobertPlant and hissed, "Why can't you ever say things like that?"

He looked unmoved. "Because I couldn't give a maldicion."

Then a girl on our table piped up, "Wait a minute: are you two together?"

"Noooo!" we shrieked in unison.

"Well, I didn't think so but just then you had me wondering."

I can understand her confusion. Our friendship has lasted longer than many marriages (not looking anywhere), and will probably continue to stagger along. I like to think it's the constant bickering that keeps it fresh.

100% Goose Down

New Girl and I were in Ikea - where else - and we'd made it down to the big hall where you drag things off shelves and onto your trolley for the purposes of going home and nervously breaking down thanks to the modern miracle that is an Allen key. We passed a girl wearing skin tight leather - or, hideous thought, leather look - leggings. We exchanged a slightly judgemental glance.

"Well," I said, "let's face it, if I had legs that skinny, I'd be wearing 'em too."

New Girl said, "Oh I'd wear them all right. And I'd hang a big sign around my neck that said, 'Look at my legs. Yes! I'm hungry!!'"

------------------------

Since Grumpy and I split up, k. has been nagging me to get a new bed. But I like my bed! It's a sleigh bed! Very well then, she conceded, the only thing she would insist upon would be that I get a new mattress. Apparently it's bad feng shui to have the old mattress. Because, you know, the mattress absorbs all the er... er... vibes of the old relationship.





[Now let's take that thought and bury it deep deep away and never ever make any reference to it again.]





It just so happened that on Saturday Grumpy sallied forth and bought himself a heap of new bedroom furniture. Then on Sunday he started fretting about one of the things he'd bought and wanted me to check it out with him. We went to the shop. We made significant, furniture-related decisions. He pointed out the mattress he'd bought. "You should try it out," he said. Always one for a new experience, I flung myself on the bed. It was at once firm, and yet with a cuddly softness. I didn't even feel it when Grumpy lay down on the other side (with a healthy gap between us).

"H-h-how much is this?" I asked the sales lady. She told me. She told me it came with a 15 year guarantee, free delivery and disposal of your old mattress. I told her that I had a credit card just itching for some more use and abuse.

And I got a mattress protector, people, so no more absorption of vibes!





Shudder.





k. will be pleased to know that I've taken on her advice about creating good feng shui. I wonder if she'd be interested in helping me out with all that bad fin shui I've just saddled myself with?

Y'know?

Later on in the arvo one of Boxer Girl's friends and her husband turned up. At some point the friend got it in her head that she needed to set me up with one of her single (male) mates.

"Hey, here's one for you!" she said and proceeded to name a fellow.

You know how sometimes you just know someone isn't right for you? You don't need to meet them, you don't even need to have them described to you. You just know.

Fortunately the friend's husband knew too. He's a sensible, level-headed man and I was so grateful when he stepped in and said, "We are not introducing hb to Dodgy."

On the Cusp

Yesterday my electronic calendar died so I missed a couple of meetings and forgot that I had one in the afternoon. Right on meeting time, I was busy on the phone to New Girl, loudly berating her for confusing me about some stuff, when Canned Ham coughed politely at my office door and indicated the people waiting to see me.

After the meeting I got straight back on the phone to New Girl.

"What a disaster! I mean, the meeting itself was fine but I realised they were sitting at the table facing my desk and just look at it - empty coke bottle fallen over, bits of my lunch everywhere, my handbag tipped over and everything spilling out of it and a site up on the internet that's clearly not work-related."

"And on the upside," she said cheerily, "Not a bra in sight!"

Just Like Fatima Mansions

Another thing about The Perth Guy: he's not afraid of a sideburn. A good sideburn is - deep sigh - an amazing romantic weapon.

And Perth Guys never catch the bus.

One-Eyed; One-Horned

Scarab and I were walking around the bridges yesterday evening when we ran smack into the Breast Cancer Foundation's Purple Twilight Walk. A mass of purple people*, all walking in the opposite direction. And looking at us.

"I won't look at them anymore," I said to Scarab. "Each glance in our direction feels like a reproach."

"Well, they clearly didn't do a good job of advertising this. I'd be walking if I'd known about it."

As we marched on past the swelling wave of purple, I said, "Scabs, just check out how many people there are. I reckon they did a pretty good job."

"Huh. Maybe. But they didn't get my attention, did they?"

And that, my friends, is what Bill Bryson would call an unanswerable reply.



*Not purple people eaters. Come on, be realistic.

Stand Back!

Yesterday New Girl and I met in town for a spot of shopping. We armed ourselves with super-caffeinated drinks and sallied forth. It wasn't long before I was waving my list around and declaring triumphantly, "I have everything on my list - everything!" She seemed impressed, and that, quite frankly, is the way we like it.

"The thing is," I told her on the phone this morning, "I may have got all the things I wrote down on the list, but I've realised now that I didn't write down on the list everything I needed*."

"A rookie mistake," said New Girl, doing a remarkable job of keeping the judgment out of her voice.

She knows how to wield a piece of plastic like a deadly weapon. We'd been standing at one particular counter in one particular department store where the glamorous one was ordering up some rather luxurious emollients.

"How much is that going to cost you?" I asked, out of the side of my mouth.

"I have no idea. But let's just say a lot," she replied, also ootsohm.

When the saleswoman rang the items up and stated the price in the blandest of tones, hand out already awaiting payment, I had to put one foot back a bit just to keep my balance. I reeled, if you see what I mean. New Girl looked composed as she coughed up the readies.

"Did you see," she said as we exited the store, furiously sucking our super-caffeinated drinks,"how I didn't even react when she said the amount."

"I noted it. It was a powerhouse performance." I said.

"You, however, visibly flinched."

Another rookie mistake. I'll never make it in this game. Particularly since I have no idea what the game is.



*Wanted.