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.

Like Flaky Patsry

I arrived at work the other day to be accosted by the very nice but somewhat odd gentleman who sits at the desk opposite mine. (A man, it's important to note, who has informed me he has degrees in two scientific disciplines.)

"It's a worry, isn't it?" he said, waving a tissue in the air.

"What is?"

"Just before I went home last night I spilled a whole lot of water over my desk. I used this tissue to mop it up. It was sodden. I come in the this morning and it's bone dry. Makes you wonder what this place is doing to us - sucking all the moisture out of our organs and our blood. Not good. Not good at all."

He made it sound like walking through the doors at work was like being struck by the Five Point Palm Exploding Heart Technique - five steps and suddenly you transform into a desiccated pile of ash, there on the floor of the foyer. (I can tell you, it gets the cleaners quite vexed, and it keeps HR busy with recruitment - they work in a separate building, obviously.)

"Well," I said, "the thing is, tissues dont have skin."

He looked blank.

"Skin?" I continued on, more in hope than anger. "That's what our skin does: it kind of protects everything and prevents total annihilation via dehydration while we're here."

I wanted to add: but don't worry, the work place still manages to suck us dry each and every day! I put my headphones on instead.

At First Blush

When I was in the US earlier this year, staying with Dr and Mrs Seegud in the bucolic surrounds of Three Rivers, it came to pass that one day Mrs Seegud dragged me off to the local nursery for a browse and possibly even a fossick.

The nursery stocks many Australian plants because they're hardy and water wise, which is exactly the sort of flora required where they live. Mrs Seegud had her mind set on a bottlebrush. To our delight, we not only found many bottlebrushes, but one that is specific to here: a Perth Pink! We snatched it up (and paid for it, naturally) and took it home for planting.

When she'd found the ideal spot for the sapling, Mrs S looked at me and the good Dr with great satisfaction and announced, "I'm going to name this the 'hazelblackberry Memorial Bottlebrush'!"

Dr Seegud gave me a look.

"Er," I said, "memorial? Just exactly what do you think is going to happen to me?"

The Bare Facts

New Girl, Man Hands and I are not overly pro-child. We're not anti-child either. Well, with the exception of a few of them. It's more that we're anti I-have-a-child-and-therefore-the-world-should-bend-over-backwards-for-me-type parents. You know the sort. None of you are like that, of course.

Of course.

Man Hands was reading an article about outraged parents who choose to have 30 children and then complain that they can't afford to fly the whole family first class to EuroDisney. Or something like that. I'm sorry to have to inform you that the three of us got into a bit of a rant about entitled parents. Actually, I'm not sorry at all. We really enjoyed it.

"If you choose to have kids, then maybe you have to cut back in some other areas of your life," said Man Hands.

"Exactly," I said. "We all make choices that restrict what we can do. Even us not having kids is a limitation in some respects."

"Yeah," said Man Hands. "like, I can't even go to the playground anymore."

"And certainly not naked."

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.

Quick on the Uptake

Sometimes I can be a little sensitive about RobertPlant's friendship with Initials in the Tree.

We were browsing the shelves of a bookshop, in the same aisle as a couple of very blonde and shapely young chicky babes, when I picked up a new book about The Clash. Initials is, apparently, a big fan.

There was a touch of the snide in my voice when I waggled the volume in front of RobertPlant's face and said, "Here, why don't you get this for your boyfriend?"

"No point. I think he's lost interest."

At this the two chicky babes glanced around.

"In The Clash, not me," RobertPlant hastily amended, glancing right back at them.

"Not that he was ever interested in me," he corrected, digging himself in a little deeper.

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," I declared before braying with laughter. The chicky babes looked blank and turned away to resume perusing the bookshelves.

I think the subject area on their side of the aisle was Remedial Reading.

Indeed

From: hazelblackberry@
Sent: 07 October 2009 3:13 PM
To: Jessie Mo@
Subject: RE: XX strikes again

.....I was thinking that if I ever went on RSVP, my profile would start like this: I plan to make some lucky man very unhappy one day. New Girl suggests I add: Don’t squirm so, Little Man, it could be you!

From: Jessie Mo@
Sent: Thursday, 8 October 2009 6:23 AM
To: hazelblackberry@
Subject: RE: XX strikes again

I like your clarity around what the man will get out of a relationship with you.

Not for cocaine, then.

I bought a packet of straws on the weekend.

I got them out at work today ready to violently rip open the bag and use the first one.

I noticed that someone, in the shop presumably, had made a very helpful notation on the label holding the pack together.

It said: DRINKS.

Warning! Spoiler Alert!

I completely forgot that I'd made plans to catch up with k. this morning and trooped off to have breakfast with New Girl instead. k. rang me while I was out.

"All I have to say to you is: number two," she said by way of her opening gambit.

"Oh hello - what?"

"Number two."

"I don't understand."

"Don't worry, I'm talking about your list, not telling you you're in the shit."

"Ohhh. So you figured it out. Well done."

"Well, I knew about your grandmother, the John McEnroe one was too specific, and I think too highly of you to believe that you'd be stupid enough to risk life and limb leaping off a bridge with only a lacky band to protect you."

"Actually, I did line up to go bungee jumping but I couldn't be bothered waiting - the line was too long."

"I underestimated you. It wasn't brains that saved your life, it was impatience."

Well, what could she expect? I started out my educational life in a cave!

My Four

(1) I went to kindergarten in a cave.
(2) I bungee jumped in New Zealand.
(3) I ran over my grandmother (with a car).
(4) I was once knocked over by John McEnroe.

When She Used to Rock and Roll

k. - yes, she's back, d.'s back, even little t.'s back.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, k. was unable to hide her disgust at my confession that I got a little teary when my stepbrother's bride-to-be walked into their wedding to Jennifer Rush's 'Power of Love'. I acknowledged my shame and self-loathing and then we talked about what songs make good wedding tunes.

I told k, "I think at my next wedding I'll walk down the aisle to 'Urgent' by Foreigner!"

We agreed this would be the height of class and good taste.

"Did I tell you I've already picked out a song for my funeral?" asked k. "It's kind of daggy, because, you know, it's Simply Red. But I like it. [singing] If you don't know me by now..."

In case you were wondering where it was?

A Man After Midnight

Even though I've long known that RobertPlant has an aversion to celebrating any kind of milestones or socially-sanctioned events, like Christmas, I was foolish enough to ask him the other day if he planned to do anything to mark his rapidly-approaching 40th birthday.

"I don't have to conform to society's expectations of me!" he ranted down the phone.

Well, he's right. But a simple 'no' would have sufficed.

"I've got a great idea for something to get you! Is it okay if I get you something?"

"Oh, yeah. Presents are good."

His heart's in the right place, then.

No More Mushrooms for Lunch for Her

"Small Thing, where's your hat?" RobertPlant asked.

"Well, Dad, I was walking along and it just blew off into mystery."

Down at the Wharf

Mutual Understanding

I ran into, but regrettably not over, Grumpy out on the street. He was looking very pleased with himself. Turns out he's got a date on Thursday night. The young lady is an award-winner in her chosen field.

"Trading up!" he said to me as we parted ways.

Then he yelled out my name and trotted over to where I was. "Sorry, I didn't mean trading up from you; I was talking about me."

"Don't worry. That was exactly what I'd assumed."

Pacifier is as pacifier does.

We have an online system thingy for checking our payslips and other stuff. I haven't been able to get on it since I started here, but I finally decided I'd better do something about it. I wrote to our personnel people a couple of times trying to get it fixed until finally the woman I'd been dealing with sent me an email saying:

"...your user ID is your system user login and your password is your date of birth ddmmyy."

Except when I first read it I thought it said, "and your password is your date of birth, dummy."

And the thing is, with everything I've been messing up lately, I couldn't really take umbrage at it.

Cooking for One

On the phone to me this morning, Inge de Bruin was very doubtful of my claim that I still love cooking despite the fact that I don't do much of it anymore.

"You don't have to be doing something all the time to love it!" I said. "There's one thing I don't get to do anymore that I know I would still like very much to do, given the opportunity."

Anyway, I don't need to tell you any more of that conversation except to assure you that none of it was edifying.

What it did remind me of was the fact that I'd been round at k.'s and d.'s a few days ago, enjoying a few drinks with them on their front verandah - as per. And, you know, what with the in vino veritas blah blah (and how) the conversation had drifted into some rather...ahem...frank territory. However, before things got too uncomfortable, d. had hit upon the perfect metaphor:

"The thing about chocolate," he said, "is that when you can't have any, all you really, really want is chocolate."

And how right he was. Of course, the usual hilarity ensued involving unnecessary references to Mars Bars and the like. d. having initiated the whole train of thought had drifted off into his own little reverie while k. and I plundered on, mining this little seam of gold for all it was worth.

Suddenly d. jumped back into the fray with this comment: "But I never did like Snack. What put me off Snack was always having to share it with my sister."

This had a pretty much instantly sobering effect on k. and I.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute." k said. "You are actually talking about chocolate now, aren't you?"

A while later I decided it was time to take my leave. k. and d. were both yawning as I staggered off to my car. k. mentioned she was keen to get into bed and get some sleep.

"Well, rug up tight - I think d. plans to force feed you a Turkish Delight!"

*Shrug*

The ankle biters across the road are out in their front yard, screeching and groaning in a rather disturbing fashion. Maybe they've had limbs severed sans anaesthetic, maybe they're pretending to be monsters* - I wouldn't know, it all sounds the same to me.

This is why I have cats and not children. Pounce may scream a bit close to dinner time but a can of Fancy Feast generally shuts her up. I think the authorities frown on dishing up Fancy Feast to kids - even if you do give it to them on a proper plate with a knife and fork.



*But who am I trying to fool? Children never pretend to be monsters.

She's heard of him. Fact.

Overheard a girl at work today: "Colin Barnett - he's a politician or something, isn't he?"