modern problems aren't that bad

Oh dear; my interwebs have been shaped.

What's interesting about having your internet shaped (because there needs to be some silver lining; no matter how tarnished) is that it points out exactly how impotent your spanky new laptop is.

It has lots of bells and whistles but, without online connectivity, there really isn't much to be done with it.

Hmmm...

I never said it wouldn't be an 'experience'

FebFast is going well, so far. This is the big test, though - a weekend without wine!

Part of me is a little sad; and the other part is ashamed.

I've had One Of Those Weeks, and I truly believe I've earned a nice glass of wine; but that's just faulty thinking, isn't it?

The lesson here is: 'Thou shalt not use alcohol as a reward system.'

Add that to yesterday's lesson; 'Thou shalt not use alcohol as a social crutch' and the general rule that 'alcohol is not a form of medication' - and what have you got?

The total revocation of any semblance of propriety from the past five years of my life.

it begins

Tomorrow is the first day of FebFast. I'm feeling virtuously ahead of the curve because I have not sipped a drip of tipple since about 3am Saturday morning.

That's about 43 hours.

... and only 674 to go; assuming I deliberately stay up past midnight on a Sunday just to get a class of wine in.*

* I am tragic, but not that tragic. I will not be doing that.

It will be interesting to be forced to come to terms with the precise nature of "support" I think I get from alcohol.

Those of you who know me will know that this is going to be a Big Fat Lesson. Please make it a profitable one by donating generously. FebFast raises funds for youth drug and alcohol outreach programs.

You can sponsor me by clicking the big, shiny widget on the right.

How to know you're currently single:

Tonight my dinner consisted of camembert, brown onion soup and rye bread.

Now I am drinking sauvignon blanc while I watch a "delightful" movie starring Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman.

...please, kill me now.

Dear God, why must my organisational skillz be cactus?

It was mother's day here in AU today.

To mark the occasion, and my mother's birthday last week, we all were invited to lunch at my mum's sister's house.

Let's see... Given the epic dysfunction already inherent in my life at present; what could go wrong?

On Friday night I managed to leave her gift on the train after work. In an ideal world this might not have been such a problem. Since the train terminated at my station and was duly shunted into the yards for the night one may have dared to assume that a phone call might be all that was needed to locate the errant parcel (as it was quite obviously gift-wrapped).

No. Such. Luck.

...and here I was feeling all pleased with my mad organisational skillz.

Never mind, I thought, I'll just have to order another - bring on Sunday lunch!

Luck and I are not speaking of late; so rather than turn up for lunch at my Aunt's house 15 minutes up the road from my house, I ended up at her other house. The one that's 15 minutes up the road from mum's place. The one that is 90 minutes FROM MY HOUSE.

For fuck's sake.

I give up.

Email to my peeps; 14 April 2009

Hi All,

I am going to be back in the office tomorrow, so I figured I should fill you all in on where and what I've been up to since the ambos took me away on 2 April.

I spent 6 nights in the neurology ward of Box Hill Hospital where an MRI revealed that I had experienced a stroke caused by a blood clot at the base of my skull.

The stroke affected the left side of my body, which is not good since I am left-handed! As a result, my handwriting, dexterity, balance and strength were all reduced on that side but slowly came back over the course of a week.

I am now fully recovered as far as I can tell, except that I am experiencing some tiredness.

Also, I am now on anti-clotting medication; so if we could keep the bumper-car riding and chainsaw juggling to a minimum in the office that would be most helpful.

Cheers, Cass.

always in threes

There are times when being married is the most comforting thing in the world because of the safety that comes in numbers.

If you've ever had a spider in your car, been invited to a friend's wedding or needed a light at the bus stop, you'll appreciate that other people aren't always hell. Sometimes other people are an absolute necessity. Other people kill spiders, fill empty chairs and light cigarettes.

Ah, but husbands... Husbands are more than mere other people. Husbands are super heroes.

When something needs fixing, burning, pruning or building; they don't worry themselves about the hows, whys or wheres. They roll up their sleeves and get straight to sorting it out. No time to worry about protecting the hardwood floor or securing the trailer; not when there's work to be done.

Which is why it's so very handy to have the Monkey-husband about the house when I pull one of my rare but spectacular fuck-up stunts.

Today I out did myself:


No, it's not The Blob. That's what happens when you put an everyday plastic chopping board in the oven.

Like a complete idiot.

It happened very simply. Despite my better judgment, I used a plastic board as a trivet while I added dripping to a roasting pan for Yorkshire pudding. Then I picked up the pan and put it back in the oven without realising that the board was stuck to it.

I was momentarily perplexed when I opened the oven 5 minutes later to lift the pan out for the pudding batter and it wouldn't budge.

There are moments in life when you regress to a pre-adolescent state, assume the fetal position and hope that someone else will make the horror stop.

This was one of those; and I've never been so grateful for the can-do attitude of the Monkey. He stepped up and totally sorted that mess o-u-t.

And he did it without a care in the world - even though it topped off a day which has already seen the demise of the Toastamatic and the toasting of his server.

Thank you, Monkey-husband. Today was truly a red letter day for the Dickersby household.

high school is so 1995

So, yes... That high school reunion thingy. Here is what I learned:

1. The reason I don't run into anyone I know from high school at the mall is because I don't actually know anyone from high school
2. Attending a reunion doesn't freak you out as much as you'd think, particularly if you don't actually know anyone
3. You can get the largest glass of white wine In The World for $3 at the local lawn bowls club

More than that, I learned that what happened in high school stays in high school. Sure, I remember a few things about people that I'm sure they'd wish I didn't - but no one wants to hear about it any more than I want to talk about it.

Except to you, dear intraweb.

Here are some of the things I thought but did not say to people at my high school reunion:

"Hey! You're the chick who pashed my boyfriend at the prom!"

"...wasn't your dad a chicken sexer?"

"It's not my fault you kissed like a corpse. I was just telling it like it was."

"Wow, you're skinny now. Do you have an eating disorder?"

Which brings me to the final lesson; which I didn't so much learn has confirm: I am quite the snarky bitch, yes?

Apparently, nostalgia is an acquired smell

While I was walking to work this morning I got an unmistakable whiff of the ocean.

The smell of the ocean means many things to many people. In Australia where many of us spend long childhood summers at the beach it often conjures a happy nostalgia for sandcastles, body-boarding, summer romance and - perhaps not so happily - getting to/past third base in the sand dunes. Chaffing is a bitch, I've heard.

In me it invokes the memory of fearless sun bathing, the carnivorous gaze of young men and long afternoons playing beach cricket with family and friends.

These days I no longer have the patience for organised sports; the majority of the male population prefers their blondes thinner and with fewer opinions; and just 15 minutes in the sun will wilt me faster than a puppy in a parked car.

Despite myself, I still enjoy the nostalgia.

However.

This morning I was struck not by golden memories of happier times. I was struck by the utter wrongness of the constitution of the odour itself.

I was nowhere near the ocean but there it was: seaweed, dead things, salt and soggy sand.

Not so romantic when it's wafting from the other side of a tall brick fence in suburban Melbourne.

A flight of fancy often ends in disappointment

bodacious /b'des/

→ adjective
(N. Amer. informal) excellent, admirable, or attractive: bodacious babes.

• (US) audacious in a way considered admirable.
- ORIGIN mid 19th cent.: perhaps a variant of SW dialect boldacious, blend of boldaudacious.

and The Oxford Dictionary of English (revised edition). Ed. Catherine Soanes and Angus Stevenson. Oxford University Press, 2005. Oxford Reference Online. Oxford University Press. Eastern Regional Libraries. 4 February 2008 http://www.oxfordreference.com/views/ENTRY.html?subview=Main&entry=t140.e8312>

I so wanted the etymology of bodacious to have something to do with Boadicea; but, alas, it seems to be somewhat less ancient and deserving of only as much reverence as it gets.

Ho-hum.