File Under 'Miscellaneous'

File Under 'World Wide What?'

2012-01-20T15:16:00.000+11:00

"Sure, I'll make you a website," she said with all the confidence of someone who's never done it before and therefore thinks it's easy.

You'd think I would have learned by now that nothing is ever simple when it comes to working with computers. I blame Blogger: type a few words, add a picture or two and BAM! ... you've got yourself a website. It makes me think I'm good at computers in the same way that Instagram users think they're good at photography.

Well, the learning curve has been steep, but after months of work I've finally finished it.

It looks like this:

Except when I upload it to the Internet. Then it looks like this:

I've spent hours, days, trying to work out what I've done wrong, but so far any online knowledge base assumes that if I've gotten as far as trying to upload a website then I'm not going to be asking stupid questions like, "Um ... what's a server?"

Yep. I asked that.

So, when searching the FAQ for "Why aren't my images showing?" the response is: "If your images are in the right folder and you've referenced them correctly, then the problem might be ..."

OK, back up a bit. Which one's the right folder? How do you reference them correctly? Anyone? No?

I called Technical Support and their advice was to learn web design.

Yeah. Thanks for that.

Although, to be fair, it's very hard to help someone who has no clue what they're asking. I imagine the scene from their side went something like this:

Melody: OK, I'll try those things and see what happens. Thank you.

Technical Adviser: You're welcome, ma'am. Have a nice day. (Hangs up phone). Idiot.

So it looks like I've still got a lot of learning to do. The Internet is not a place where you can just hit 'Publish' then relax with a cup of tea.

Except if you're using Blogger.

I'm off to put the kettle on.

* * *

UPDATE!

It's amazing how obvious something becomes when someone points directly at it and says "there it is."

It's a bit like those 'When You See It ...' photos you can stare at for ages knowing something is going to be weird, but you just can't seem to find it:

And then you see it.

I mean, how could you not see it? It's staring right at you! Now it's the only thing you can see!

After gazing incomprehensibly for far too long at the inner happenings of the website I was working on, I finally enlisted the help of a friend/genius. It took him less than three minutes to find the problem and start fixing it. And it took me about two days to stop saying, "Argh! Of course! I should have known that!"

But, considering my lack of web savviness, there's a good chance I never would have found it without being shown. Now, thanks to my genius friend, the website is doing all the things I designed it to do.

So if you'd like to see some incredible images, all of which are now visible, you can check out the website here.

File Under 'Cat Shaped Hole'

2012-01-03T17:12:00.000+11:00

I has a sad.

Not because I've lost my sense of grammar, no, I'm merely employing a cat-related meme to express my cat-related sadness.

Y'see, this ...

Bendy Sleeping Cat

Has become this ...

Sad Empty Couch

I don't know where my cat is. She's been missing for about a week now and her new-found habit of not coming home appears to be unshakable. I keep expecting to see her walking past the window, or hear her meowing in the front yard. Then when I go for a walk I imagine how awesome it would be if I spotted her in the heathland along the cliffs. And then I get all macabre and imagine how horrible it would be if I spotted her remains in the heathland along the cliffs. Or on the side of the road. Or in a cupboard.

She's not in a cupboard. I've checked them all. Several times.

I think she may be Gone.

I miss her. I miss her perching herself on my lap and digging her claws into my knees so she doesn't fall off. I miss her sleeping on my head at night. I miss watching her eat with her 'fingers' (I don't know what that's all about, but it sure is funny). And I miss watching her play and curl up with our other cat, which she gave birth to 8 years ago after her water broke while she was sleeping on my head. I think we were both a bit surprised by that.

After years of encouraging bad, yet adorable, habits,
Indie perfected the art of Pillow Hogging

I imagine I'll be looking out for her for years to come. I've already told my husband that we're not allowed to move, ever, because sometimes cats who mysteriously disappear also mysteriously come back again. And my parents will be moving into my old house later this month, which is fortunate because sometimes cats mysteriously reappear at places where they used to live. And then they become a feel-good news story that makes everyone melt just a little bit.

I uploaded this to the site Cute Boys With Cats. One year ago to the day, as it happens.
Not only did the ladies like it, but it was also popular with gay men,
pleather lovers and beard fanciers.

So, my sweet Indie 500 Rae (the lads helped me name her - they were four at the time), if ever you want to bring your little kitten face home again I'll be waiting with an armful of love and a bowlful of kangaroo. I won't even laugh if you eat it with your fingers.

AN UPDATE OF THE MOST DELIGHTFUL KIND!

She totally came back!

At around midnight last night, after a two-week absence, she meowed at the front door and my husband brought her inside while I said 'Oh my god!' a lot. She wasn't really looking any thinner than usual, but she practically inhaled the kangaroo meat we gave her. Then she had a bit of crazy play with the other cat, and then they both curled up on the end of our bed.

Now, I have very vivid, very realistic dreams, and having her come home is something I'm likely to dream about, so I said to my husband, "I'm not dreaming this, am I?" and then immediately thought, Hmm, that's just the kind of thing I'd say in my dreams. But my husband said, "No" and it turns out he was right.

Because of her unscathed condition my best guess is that she was getting love and attention from some holiday makers and came back home when they left.

The little floozy.

But, unless she one day publishes her memoirs, which is not that likely - although she does like pens quite a bit, we will never know where she's been and what she's been up to.

But that's OK. I'm just so glad she's back.

This is pretty much all we're doing today.

Possibly Maybe Melody

2011-10-31T15:53:00.000+11:00

I have always maintained that I can't sew. I once got an "F" for a pillowcase I made in year seven. A pillowcase for goodness sake! All I had to do was sew three straight lines!

Over the years I have continued to try and continued to fail, so my belief in my ineptitude with a needle and thread is fairly solid.

And yet, I was recently invited to a costume party and for reasons that still baffle me, it never actually occurred to me not to make the costume myself.

It was a "B" themed party and I had originally planned to go as Bender from Futurama, but while I could fairly easily visualise the costume itself, I had a lot of trouble visualising sitting down in it. So I did some more thinking and eventually decided to go as Bjork from the 2001 Academy Awards.

Amazingly, the costume worked. It didn't even come apart or fall off or anything!

No, Mr Doorman, I have not come dressed as Ozzy Ostrich.

Anyway, I thought I'd share with you how it all came together, just in case you want to a) make one yourself, or b) laugh at my technique.

Names of fabric and phrases like "cutting along the bias" are meaningless to me. I just bought a bunch of cheap white stuff, put it on the floor and folded it over to the length I wanted it. (I measured this by lying on top of it, getting up, folding it again then lying down again until it was about right.) It was then that I realised I didn't have any proper pins. Well, why would I? But I did have a box of safety pins so I used them to hold it in place while I measured and sewed the waist.

I measured the waistband with a ruler and a pencil, then hand sewed along the line using some kind of stitch that probably doesn't have a name.

I threaded the elastic through, folded the soon-to-be skirt in half, pinned the ends and sewed it together.

Once it was sewed I cut the bottom off to make it more even which, as you can see, didn't really work, and then I unpicked the last seam because I'd stupidly sewn both layers of the skirt together.

I hemmed the ends using bonding tape because I really couldn't be bothered sewing it. Besides, no one was going to see it. Then I rejoined the inner and outer skirt. Separately this time. Then came the netting. I pinned it to the outside of the inner skirt using precision-like guesswork, and sewed it down in almost even-ish ripples.

It wasn't perfect, but I was quite impressed with the finished skirt. And Kitty was quite impressed with the leftover pile of netting.

He was even more impressed with the pile of feathers, but I don't think they tasted as good as he was hoping. This was 3.2 metres of feather boa. I attached it at fairly even points around the outer skirt, then went back over it and stitched any droopy bits that were creating featherless bald patches.

Then I got distracted by how pretty the feathers looked in the sunlight so I spent a few minutes just taking photos.

With the skirt complete I started on the neck, which was one leg of a pair of white stockings stuffed with, well, stuffing. I put the other stocking leg over the top to better hide the insides.

Then came the face, made from felt and the eyes I used back when I crocheted that unusual cat thing. I thought I'd just use glue for this bit.

I put the skirt on, held a piece of baking paper to my belly, and drew a couple of wonky lines on it to mark the piece that would join the skirt to the swan's neck. Very professional, I know. To make it even more professional I used glue to hem the edges. I was a bit over it by this stage. Plus I had a cold and I wanted to go have a bit of a lie down.

I sewed the neck shut then attached it to the fabric I'd just glued. No, I didn't wait for the glue to dry.

Then I sewed the bottom of the neck to the waist of the skirt and the rest of the neck fabric to a singlet. I attached a small leftover strip of feather boa to the base of the neck, then covered any gaps around the neck base and waist by globbing on some glue and pressing a few feathers into it.

The finishing touch to the costume was adding sparkles to the legs:

Oh, and a camel-coloured cardigan because it was freezing, but I didn't get a photo of that.

All in all it was something of a success. At least, enough of a success for me to really want a sewing machine now. I'd like to have a go at making something I can wear more than once. Something without feathers, perhaps.

Which one's Bjork? Which one's Melody?
Oh, it's just too hard to tell the difference.

File Under 'Salty Goodness'

2011-10-23T15:03:00.001+11:00

I'm bored with the Internet.

I'm unenthused by Facebook and Pinterest and I couldn't be bothered blogging.

Nevertheless, I did something cool last week so I might as well tell you about it.

Y'see, I live a nine-minute walk away from this:

Image by deloceano photography

Actually, I'm only about two minutes away but, due to the nature of the landscape, the last few seconds of the direct route would involve much less walking and far more plummeting so I'm happy to embrace those seven extra minutes in order to take the stairs.

Deloceano and I have lived here for over two years now, but it wasn't until about a year ago that I finally bought myself some swimwear. And it wasn't until last week that I finally used it.

Twice!

In fact, every day last week while walking the dogs I stopped for a few moments to throw myself into the ocean.

On Monday I had misjudged the weather and worn too many layers. It was warm, the beach was secluded, apart from a few surfers on distant waves, and the water looked incredibly inviting, so I took off my outer layers and dived in. It was so gloriously invigorating! I can't believe it took me this long! I mean, I've splashed about and waded a lot, but this was the first time since we moved here that I've had salt water dripping from my hair. It was beautiful.

I put my dry layers back on and carried my wet layers home, being extra careful not to drop my underwear because that's not the kind of thing I want people to find floating in the moat of their sandcastle.

I hadn't planned to do it again, but on Tuesday the combination of sun, water and empty beach was too much to resist, so once again I found myself walking home with a small bundle of dripping clothes.

On Wednesday my husband was home so we both donned our swimwear and frolicked in the sea for half an hour or so.

On Thursday the swimwear was on again so I could fall into the ocean's sparkling blue loveliness.

On Friday, however, it was too cold for swimming. The sky was grey and threatening to rain and I didn't particularly want to get wet. But when I got to my swimming spot the water appeared to be no less tempting than it had been all week. But I didn't have my swimmers. But it was still tempting. But I didn't want to carry my wet clothes home. But it was still tempting.

Like, really tempting.

And there was no one around ...

And if I did it quickly ...

...

I whipped off my clothes, sprinted across the sand and dived into the chilly waves. As I emerged a voice in my head was excitedly chanting, "Again! Again!" But a more sensible voice was calmly saying, "It's cold and you're naked."

But what a rush!

I really must spend more time in the ocean, although I should probably aim to be more appropriately attired while I'm there. Still, if there was ever a time to be inappropriately unattired, that was probably it.

You've Got Nail

2011-10-10T21:19:00.000+11:00

You know what the Internet could use? Another nail polish water marbling tutorial.

And it just so happens that I made one for a friend last year and I still have the photos.

It's the Internet's lucky day.

So, if you have too much time and nail polish on your hands, here's a way you can combine those two things and end up with something pretty.

Start with this stuff:

Nail polish in various colours (and a top coat)
Nail polish remover
Hand lotion or olive oil
Plastic cup or container
Pin or toothpick
Cotton buds and pads
Paper towel

Step One:

Paint yourself a base coat.

Step Two:

Smother your skin (but not your nails) with something oily.
This makes cleaning the nail polish off your fingers easier.
That being said, it probably takes just as long to put on the cream as it does to remove the polish.
Plus it's hard to do stuff with slippery fingers, so you can skip this bit if you like.

Step Three:

Drip your colours onto the surface of room-temperature water, one after the other, right on top of each other.
It will spread out like a bullseye.

See?

Step Four:

Swirl the polish around with a pin or toothpick.
The best designs are created if you hum a happy tune while you do this.

Step Five:

Find a bit in your pattern that's totally awesome and carefully dip your fingernail in it.

Step Six:

While your finger is still in the water, use a cotton bud to gather up all the excess polish.
Also be amazed that I managed to take a photo while doing this.

Step Seven:

Pull your finger out.
And I mean that in the nicest possible way.

Step Eight:

Do it all over again to however many fingernails you happen to have.
Then clean the rest of the polish off your fingers with a cotton bud dipped in nail polish remover.

Step Nine:

Whack on a clear top coat and go show your friends.

Life Is Precious. So Is Footy.

2011-09-28T15:57:00.000+10:00

Does anyone else think this is a bit unusual?

The Challenge Challenge (Part B)

2011-09-24T18:05:00.000+10:00

After last week's effort I was somewhat relieved that I didn't have to do another Challenge Challenge for a while. I was so unenthused by the experience that it took me almost a week to finally get around to blogging it.

I was thinking that the next one would be something simple and indulgent, like trying a new place for coffee every day, but I'd leave it for late October because I was done with challenging myself for now.

Thing is, while I thinking the aforementioned thoughts I was also in the process of making a few small changes to the way I do things. Maybe forcing myself to do yoga every day flipped the "be good to yourself" switch to the ON position, even though I wasn't enjoying the yoga itself.

One of the small changes I made was to eat stuff. I totally suck at food. I'll get to 4:00 pm and think, I feel a bit sick, what have I eaten? Oh crap, I haven't eaten anything. No, wait ... I had that piece of toast.

It's not really something most people can relate to, but I just don't like eating. And the bombardment of information about what to eat, what not to eat, when to eat and how to eat makes healthy eating an overwhelming and complicated chore too difficult to maintain.

"But darling, the talking snake said they were good for us. Isn't that right, Mr Whiskers?"

If you don't eat enough your body goes into panic mode and says, "I need energy, NOW!" so you reach for the sugar to get a quick fix. Then the sugar shuts down the hunger signals until the body needs more urgent energy. (I was excited to see over at Kymmie's blog that, quite by coincidence, she discovered similar things this week.)

I decided this week that I didn't have to have the perfect diet, just a better one. And in order for it to work it had to be very, very simple.

Very simple.

So I adapted the 5-a-day plan into a program I couldn't possibly get confused about. Rather than trying to get my five fruit and vegetables each day through careful meal planning, I just go to the supermarket, buy five things from the fresh food section, then eat them.

The ripple effect has been extraordinary.

This week I got hungry. Like, proper, healthy hungry. I'd wake up wanting breakfast. In between my five fruit and veg I'd whip up a plate of scrambled eggs. And when my foodie husband put dinner on the table I devoured it. (The meal, not the table.) I bought myself some chocolate out of habit, got half way through, then threw the rest away.

The only food rule I have at the moment is "eat five things." The rest is taking care of itself.

It wasn't until Wednesday night that I realised I'd challenged myself more this week than I had for the Challenge Challenge. I guess I didn't notice because I was thinking about long-term change and not aiming for a short-term experience. These little improvements will need developing and modifying over time, but for now I'm just going to keep it simple and constant until it sticks.

Oh, and I also rediscovered an awesome way to get fit, and it's not yoga. More on that later. There will be videos.

For more Kymmie, check out her excellent blog, and also marvel at how awesome I am for finally figuring out how to link my post to it and add her button:

The Challenge Challenge (Part A)

2011-09-22T18:50:00.000+10:00

I've been thinking for a while now that I should probably do another Challenge Challenge.

Thing is, I don't actually announce that I'm doing it until I've already done it, which means I can keep putting it off again and again without having to feel the burrowing guilt of unmet accountability.

Clearly I have some cognitive dissonance regarding what it means to challenging myself.

Anyway, last week I finally got around to setting myself a task. I considered several different options before deciding I really needed to do something that was good for me.

About five years ago I was doing a fair bit of yoga. I loved it. It was like the first morning stretch on a lazy Sunday, except it lasted for over half an hour. I felt stronger. I sang better. I walked taller. I've been telling myself for ages that I'll get back into it one day ... and last week was that day.

Er, week.

The Yoga Challenge

Man practicing the ancient art of Metrosexual Yoga
(Photo by Afalkear via Wikimedia Commons)

Monday

Back when I first started doing yoga I was going through a hippie/witchy phase, so phrases like "energy flow," "heart chakra," and "come to your centre" were appealing. They stopped being appealing when I let go of all that, but I still enjoyed the physicality of yoga, I just didn't like the wafty language and even waftier music. So I would roll out my mat, put on some Tex Perkins or Nick Cave and start saluting the sun.

Because it's been so long I've forgotten the pose sequence I used to do. I've also loaned my favourite DVD to someone, so I had to dig around for my copy of Antonia Kidman's Ashtanga DVD, which for some reason I don't think I'd ever finished before.

I rolled out my mat, hit "play," waited for Antonia to stop talking, hit "fast forward," pressed "play" again, started yelling, "Shut up already!" and eventually the poses began. So did the music. God I hate pan flutes.

As I was trying to keep up in Surya Namaskara B I remembered why I never finished this video. It seems frantic. Awkward. It just doesn't have the flow you find in other videos (like the one in the link). Plus, I don't like Antonia's haircut.

But because it was Challenge Challenge week I persisted. I figured I'd get better at it as the week progressed and maybe the DVD would become more enjoyable.

Tuesday

Why is it that on day one I discovered I could still do a shoulder stand and a back bend, but on day two I couldn't even touch my toes? For some reason it took me a lot longer to get bendy on Tuesday. I was also impatient with transitions: "No, I'm not going to step to the front of the mat and come to prayer if I'm only going to step back into the position I'm already in!" And I found myself holding the longer poses and thinking, This is boring.

I started to get discouraged. I used to love this, but it appeared the love had gone. Still, it was only early days. It would get better.

Wednesday

I really didn't want to do yoga on Wednesday. I thought that maybe I could combine it with walking the dogs so I could get it out of the way, but I don't have those kind of dogs. You know, the kind that would quietly sniff rocks and eat seaweed while you embark on a quest for inner peace. No, they're these kind of dogs:

I decided to walk the dogs early, which just so happened to coincide with the time one of our neighbours bent over and wiggled his naked bum a bit. Now, we live in a surf town, so I assume he was in the process of peeling off his wetsuit, but all those vital visual clues to his actual activity were happening behind the fence. I just saw the bum.

When I got home I dragged out the yoga mat but I really couldn't get excited about it. Maybe the bum sighting used up my quota of interesting things for the day.

Thursday

I must have slept funny because I woke up with a bit of a sore neck. My yoga practice for the day had to be a little more ~~half-arsed~~ gentle. It was still an effort, but mostly because I couldn't be bothered. I just wasn't feeling it.

Fortunately my "interesting" quota was met later in the day when my friend and I walked past two stocky gentlemen having a bit of biffo in the middle of Little Malop Street. There were a few swings, a couple of grabs, a hit or two, a "come on then," and a "is that all you got?" and then a group of parking inspectors moved them along.

Friday

I had to get my yoga in early on Friday because I was meeting my parents in Ballarat. I'd taken the lads out of school for the day and ended up "quieting the mind and centring myself" to the sound of children crunching cereal and slurping milk. And the utterance of "holy crap!" when I got to the back bend.

Rather than follow along with the DVD I put on some Sophie Madeleine and stretched to that instead. It made it better, but I was still glad when it was all over.

Oh, and Ballarat was fun. I got to see the first house I ever lived in.

And now you've seen it too.

We also went to the skate park.

Grandpa was awesome!

I'm disappointed in last week's Challenge Challenge. I really wanted yoga to be the pleasure it used to be for me, but it was just ... dull. Part of that was probably due to not connecting with the style in the DVD. Part of it was also my increasing intolerance for silly phrases, like, "understand the importance of breathing" and "lubricate the knees." But there is something in it that still attracts me. Something that makes me want to give it another go. Maybe that thing is nothing more than nostalgia, but I reckon I'll try it again, without the DVD, and see if the love is reignited.

By The Time You Get To Phoenix I'll Still Be Uploading

2011-09-09T10:56:00.000+10:00

Have you tried turning it off and on again?

I have a love-hate relationship with modern technology.

On the one hand I love that I can sit at my desk with a cup of tea, casually blogging about nothing in particular, then some stranger in a distant land can stumble across it and think, Ah, this Melody person sure is funny and insightful.

Or, more likely, What is this? This isn't what I Googled! I don't read English!

Except they'd think it in Portuguese, or something.

On the other hand, when things go wrong with technology it leaves us all screaming at our computers and tearing our hair out.

And things do go wrong. All. The. Time.

Right now, for example, the "Preview" button on Blogger isn't working. Why? I don't know. It usually works. Is it me? Is it them? It's not a terribly important issue, but I'm going to want to have a look at this before I hit "Publish." And, if I want our hypothetical Portuguese friend to look at this post and think his Portuguese thoughts about it, I need the "Preview" button to do what it's supposed to do.

One thing that blows my mind about modern technology is how easy it is to make and share your own music. My first demo was made using a cassette recorder and nervously hand-delivered to a musician who had his own studio. Eventually I recorded an EP at said studio and, several thousand dollars later, had a product I could share with people, provided I actively pushed it or they actively sought it out.

These days I can turn on my computer in the morning, plug in my microphone, and by the afternoon I've got a demo uploaded to SoundCloud for all the world to hear.

Amazing.

But with "Amazing" also comes the aforementioned computer-screaming.

I make videos for some of my songs and put them on YouTube. They're nothing special, just something to keep your eyes busy while you're listening to it. But every single time I've tried to upload a video, something has gone wrong. The infuriating thing is ... it's something different every time. One day I might upload a large file in 20 minutes, then on another day a small file will continually abort itself after an hour. One day I might upload something in a particular format, then on another day I try to upload a similar size file in the same format and it doesn't work.

What's with that? How can something specifically programmed to specifically perform a specific function be inconsistent? It drives me insane!

I recently gathered footage for a video over three days. Then I spent an afternoon putting it together. Then I spent four days trying to upload it to YouTube. Then I abandoned the footage and made a video using only a photograph and scrolling words. It was a tiny file. It was less than three minutes long. And yet, I still got this message:

Two hours? You're having a laugh!

All I want to do is put a video online. That's it. Why does it have to be so hard to do something so simple?

It's around about this time, when I'm entertaining thoughts of brutally bludgeoning my computer into tiny fragments, that it occurs to me just how incredible the task I'm trying to perform actually is. Even more incredible is the impatience I experience when my expectations of modern technology aren't met. When I can't do something that wasn't even possible 10 years ago. I wonder what kind of mind-blowing wonders I'll be getting impatient with a decade from now?

Still, I would like to upload my video, preferably before the decade is over.

You Can Leave Your Hat On

2011-08-31T15:31:00.000+10:00

See? I told you I was going to make a hat.

I'm glad I knew a few crochet basics before I attempted this. The pattern was less "this is exactly how you make it", and more, "just stop when it's big enough." I also knew enough to realise I'd made a mistake somewhere, but since there was no stitch count on offer I just kept going and hoped for the best.

A hat seemed like a natural choice for a beginner project, but as I was nearing the end a thought suddenly occurred. I didn't actually wear the kind of hat I was making. Ever. It just doesn't suit me.

I finished it off, looked at it proudly, put it on my head, ran to the mirror ... and took it off again because I didn't like it.

This morning, however, after doing a bit of Googling, I picked up my hook and stuck a peak on my hat.

And now I am in love with it.

I'm going to make a million of them.

Approximately.

File Under 'Enforcing The Stereotype'

2011-08-26T18:05:00.000+10:00

I have been very busy procrastinating lately. My voice disappeared a few weeks ago during the poorly timed Challenge Challenge and it has not yet completely returned.

Which makes singing difficult.

Which makes songwriting frustrating.

Which makes cracks appear in my belief that I can write songs.

Which makes for the beginnings of an existential crisis.

Which is easily averted by doing something, anything, other than attempting to make music.

It got so bad at one stage that, rather than trying to write, I shut down Pro Tools and did my tax instead.

That's right. My tax.

I also fixed the shower, which was an experience that really deserves its own blog post.

And then I taught myself how to crochet.

It's a cat, silly.

I never would have been able to make that three days ago. Some might say I was all the better for it, but if I keep practising I'll stop making toys that frighten small children, and start making things that actually look good.

Regardless of what I make, there is one thing about working with wool that remains constant. As soon as I started to crochet, my cat (the actual one, not that weird thing in the picture) became incredibly stereotypical. How adorable is the cat/wool combo?

It's not just when it takes the form of an enticing wiggly strand, though. I think wool in general must be some kind of cat narcotic because even when it's in the form of a stationery object, both my cats go mental over it.

Which makes photographing the finished product a bit of a challenge:

I have just found a pattern for very cool hat, and I have a new cousin on the way so I might make a blanket, or at least something without eyes so he or she isn't left traumatised by my creation.

But I can't spend too much time on it. Yesterday I decided enough was enough with the whole 'I can't sing' nonsense, so I forced myself to go back to basics and work on breathing techniques.

Which makes the right muscles move.

Which makes the note more controlled.

Which makes the note sound much better.

Which restores my faith in my ability to make music.

So ... I have some songs to write.

File Under 'Instruments Much?'

2011-08-22T13:35:00.000+10:00

So ...

at what point do you cross the line between

"interest" and "problem"?

File Under 'Grey Matter'

2011-08-17T14:34:00.000+10:00

My husband and I were both raised in strong Christian families and we were both heavily involved in our respective churches.

When we first met (at a conservative denominational private school) we were very, very Christian.

Nineteen years later, when we caught up for a casual coffee, we were very, very atheist.

Somewhere along the way we both concluded that our deeply entrenched core beliefs were wrong.

As an incurable over-analyser I find it fascinating to observe the different ways this conclusion has affected us and how it has shaped our interests.

While we both tend to ask similar questions and gravitate toward similar reading material (and it's not uncommon for one book to need two bookmarks because we're trying to read it at the same time), for him it has been more about learning the historical facts. What really happened? How was the Bible actually compiled? What events caused the religion to develop the way it did? How does it compare to other myths and religions?

For me, however, it has been more about learning the mental processes behind belief. How do our minds interpret our surroundings? What subtle (or not so subtle) influences shape our thoughts? How can a person hold two conflicting beliefs at once? In what ways does our brain deceive us?

A small selection of books from my shelf.
See if you can detect a theme.

One of the simplest ways to demonstrate why we can't always rely on our brains to tell us the truth is through illusion. And one of the more confounding illusions involves a shaded checkerboard. I first saw this in Kathryn Schulz's book, Being Wrong, but this morning Sam Harris linked to an excellent recreation of it on YouTube:

How cool is that?

The mind is an incredible thing, and at times it can be incredibly wrong. Fallibility isn't curable, but learning the facts and understanding the process certainly makes it intriguing.

The Challenge Challenge

2011-08-06T18:32:00.001+10:00

Ever noticed how you can be frantically busy cramming stuff into your day and still remain completely and utterly mind blowingly unfulfilled?

I have.

Which is why I decided, firstly to be a bit more selective with what gets added to my 'To Do' list, and secondly, that I needed a challenge. Something engaging and out of the ordinary. Something to stimulate the mind and give me a sense of achievement.

Not something big though—I've still got work to do and kids to raise—just something small, but satisfying.

So I created The Challenge Challenge.

Once a month, or thereabouts, I set my self a task and spend the week completing it. I have a whole bunch of ideas for future tasks, and I'm open to suggestions, but last week I chose:

The Recognisable Landmark Challenge

There are so many instantly recognisable landmarks near my house, so I decided to play the tourist and photograph one every day. I kind of felt it was a bit too easy to be considered a 'challenge', but it turned out to be a whole lot more challenging than I had anticipated.

Monday: The Waterfront Bollards

Sculpted and painted by local artist, Jan Mitchell (1940-2008).
The bollards feature famous characters from the area's history along with swimmers, sailors and a floozy or two.

I drop in to my old work in Geelong, then decide it might be nice to spend half an hour or so wandering along the waterfront photographing the bollards. I park the car near Cunningham Pier and have to fight the howling wind to get my door open. It's cold. Is that rain? I quickly walk up to the nearest bollard and snap a few shots. God it's freezing. I think I'm getting sick. There's a sea captain bollard to the right of the pier. I run over and point the camera at him. The light's bad. The angle's wrong. My eyes are watering. Screw this, I'm going home. I take a quick pic of the pier just in case the bollard photos are rubbish, jump into my car and drive home for a cup of tea.

Tuesday: Split Point Lighthouse

Split Point Lighthouse, Aireys Inlet. Built in 1891. While researching information for this post I discovered that lighthouses are not that interesting. This one is pretty though, and has been used as a setting for a few books and the kids' TV show, Round The Twist. But you probably knew that already.

I have a shocking cold. So does my husband. He's taken the day off work and I figure some fresh air and sunshine will do him good so I ask him to come with me. We stop at the only shop in Aireys that's both open and likely to sell coffee, but the abrupt and dismissive attitude of the guy behind the counter assures us that his coffee is going to be crap, so we hastily move on. There's a teahouse next to the lighthouse but we prejudge it to be typical of tourist teahouses—bad and expensive. We try it anyway and our judgements are shattered. The food is good, the people are friendly, and the price is non-extortionary. Today feels like spring. We sit in the sun with our morning tea, both groaning occasionally under the weight of our congested heads. From our table I take a photo of what we can see of the lighthouse and say, "That'll do. We can go home now." But we walk the few extra metres to get a better shot, then follow the path along the cliff to get one from the front. Someone says there's supposed to be whales approaching, but we've been vertical for long enough so we don't wait around. We get home, find the nearest soft, flat surface and collapse.

Wednesday: Lorne Pier

It's the first bit of Lorne you see as you're winding along the Great Ocean Road.
Excellent for leisurely strolling and posing for photographs on.
A popular fishing spot and the all-important "Pier" element of Lorne's famous Pier to Pub race

My face is about to explode. I ache all over. Why am I doing this? I should be in bed. But I've started it now so I'm going to have to finish it. I drag myself to the car clutching a snack of dried pears and mixed nuts. It's a glorious day so I'm hoping the coastal drive will be a healing experience. Who knew dried pears made you so thirsty? Purely out of habit I start singing along to the CD. If I was aiming for 'distressed goose' I would have nailed it. I shut up. It hurts too much anyway. But this landscape is astonishingly beautiful and I'm glad I decided to do this. I reach the pier and just sit by the water for a while. God, could this weather be any more perfect? I'm actually basking. I take a few photos then walk along the pier to take a few more. A woman and her elderly father see me with my camera and ask me to take a photo of them with theirs. I croak at them to smile on three, then being the perfectionist I am, croak something about stepping forward a bit to get better light and smile on three again. I'm exhausted. I drive home behind tourists who refuse to use the slow vehicle turnout, but with the windows down and such incredible scenery around me, I don't mind so much.

Thursday: Torquay Pelicans

These guys are fairly new so not as instantly recognisable as the other landmarks, but they were the inspiration behind this week's challenge. When I was very young my family would drive from Broken Hill to Port Wakefield to visit relatives. On the way we crossed a bridge with a statue of a frog sitting near it. Every time we passed it we'd say, "Hey! There's the frog!" If my brother and I were sleeping our parents would wake us up so we could say, "Hey! There's the frog!" (We were an exciting family.) I think this is going to be one of those landmarks. For years people are going to be driving to their holiday destination and they'll see these guys and exclaim, "Hey! There's the pelicans!"

I saved this landmark for today because I have a meeting in Geelong with my musical co-conspirators. I had planned to photograph it this morning but I've just discovered leisure diving and now I can't stop looking at the pictures. I've run out of time. I drive straight past the pelicans on my way to Geelong. The meeting ends up going for three hours. We discuss songwriting. We discuss recording. We discuss making videos. All this discussing has drained me of any vocal ability I had left. They have to lean in to hear me. I call an end, well, whisper an end to the meeting and head home. It's cold and overcast now, and as I make a u-turn and pull over at the pelicans it begins to rain. The side of the road is squelchy with mud. It's hard to get a good angle. The clouds are forming distinct lines in just the wrong spot. I don't think I've got any good photos, but I don't think I can do any better today. I'm going home.

Friday: The Pole House

Known as the most photographed house on the Great Ocean Road.
I wondered if it actually had a name so I asked Google what the house on the pole was called. Turns out it's called The Pole House. Go figure. You can stay there if you're the money owning type.

God, how is it possible to be this sick for this long. I'm glad I went to Lorne on Wednesday because I certainly couldn't be bothered making that trip today. I drive to Fairhaven and attempt to get a photo of this place from its street address. Apparently the same thing has been tried by enough people to warrant this sign:

The first two points are accurate.
The last one only applies to those with ridiculous cars
and people who can't drive.

I drive back down and park on the side of Great Ocean Road. It's raining. The wind is cold. My sensitive, flu-affected eyes are streaming with tears and I wonder how I must look to passersby. Then I stop wondering because who really cares? I just want to get my shot and go home. I drive further up the road for a different angle. It's a hard place to photograph. I take what I can then fall back into my car and head home.

The Recognisable Landmark Challenge is finally complete.

I'm thinking that my next challenge will be the See How Long You Can Stay In Bed For Challenge.

File Under 'Multi-Media-Tasking'

2011-07-22T11:59:00.000+10:00

Despite its reputation for being a valuable asset, multi-tasking is actually bad for you.

And I'm not just saying that because I'm not very good at it.

Studies have been done and the results are in. Multi-tasking weakens your ability to focus, shortens your attention span and, while you may get more stuff done, the quality of said stuff generally suffers.

I am trying to teach myself to "Just Say No" to multi-tasking, but it can't always be done. Sometimes there are just too many things to do and not enough time. When this happens all you can do is hurriedly juggle the important things and let the non-essentials slip away.

I recently decided that music could no longer be considered a non-essential. I've had a tumultuous relationship with it for many years; I've loved it, I've hated it, I've tried to nurture it and I've tried to kill it. The one thing I haven't done in the past is just accept that it's important to me and treat it as such, regardless of whether I'm in the mood or not.

The choice to elevate music to "important" was an excellent one, if I do say so myself. In two months I've written more songs than I normally would in four years. I'm meeting and sharing ideas with other musicians and we're even talking of recording again.

But on those multi-tasking days I can't just sit down for hours and write, and I can't let it slip into the realm of "non-essential", so the music gets thrown into the multi-tasking mix: Keep a pen and notebook handy while folding the washing. Hum melody ideas while cleaning the turtle tank. Take the ukulele to work to play on my lunch break. Whatever it takes, just keep the songs coming.

I couple of weeks ago I took my multi-tasking even further and managed to record a demo and make a video clip. Sure, the vocals sound different in the second verse, but that's because I had to do the dishes after recording the first verse. And sure, when I was walking the dogs I may have been half way up the beach before I noticed they weren't actually following me, but I did get some footage (no pun intended - although you'll have to watch the clip to work out why it could be a pun, and why it would be such a bad pun that I felt the need to clarify that it wasn't intended) for my video.

It's not going to win any awards in the state it's in, but for something put together between domestic duties, I'm pretty happy with it:

Just Keep Swimming

2011-06-26T18:57:00.000+10:00

I am pleased to announce the arrival of our newest family member ...

His name is Lunch.

He's lived with us for over a week now, which is a bit surprising considering his tank mate is a bloodthirsty monster that lurks in the depths of his home.

And also because he was specifically purchased as a meal for said bloodthirsty monster.

I'm not really sure what I was thinking when I walked into the pet shop and asked for live food for my turtle. Sure, I wanted to vary his diet, and yes, it would be good for him to have to catch his food like he would in the wild rather than just have it handed to him.

But the thing about live food is ... well ... it's alive.

The guy in the shop led me over to a tank of pretty yellow fish and said, "These will be good for him. Plus there's plenty of calcium in the bones."

"Wow, they're quite big," I said, beginning to suspect I was making a mistake. "My turtle's only a little guy. They're going to stay alive long enough for me to fall in love with them and then I'll be really upset when he eats them."

"Nah," he said, "He'll take 'em down. You won't have time to love 'em."

"But I've only been watching them for 30 seconds and I already love them a little bit."

I ended up buying three fish. Or rather, I bought two and got the third for free because it was already dead.

It was almost humorous watching him try to "hunt" the dead one. It would get swept up in the currents caused by the filter and he'd chase it up and down the length of the tank. And being that he's still so little, he would also get tumbled about when he got too close to the water jets.

Watching him devour the live one a day later, however, involved no humour whatsoever. It was brutal. His attacks were vicious and the death was horrifically slow.

Now, I'm a delicate lass with an overactive sense of empathy. I could anthropomorphise a stapler. Watching my turtle do things the way he'd have to do them in the wild was a traumatic experience, and not one I wish to witness again. From now on, as far as my turtle is concerned, food is something that comes in pellet form or little frozen blocks.

With any luck he'll be satisfied enough chasing frozen bloodworms through the filter currents to skip Lunch altogether.

The Bloodthirsty Monster of the Deep
questions my use of the G minor chord

5 Things I Loved About You

2011-06-17T15:40:00.000+10:00

In my first "5 Things" list I mentioned that James Blunt's Back To Bedlam had been a very sentimental album, but I wasn't going to go into detail as to why.

Well, today I'd like to go into detail.

You see, the girl who made it so sentimental to me passed away last week.

I am broken.

As a completely inadequate and horribly formulaic tribute, I am dedicating my second list to her.

5 Things I Loved About You:

1. You cared so deeply and loved so passionately. Watching the news would move you to tears. You once even wrote a letter to a complete stranger who had lost her little boy, because the news story haunted you and it hurt you so much to see her suffering. You gave so much of your heart, but you never expected anything in return. In fact, when someone did something nice for you, you were almost embarrassed by it. I remember learning how to make little origami shirts and thinking they were cute, so I gave you a couple. You loved them so much you kept them on your little keepsake shelf by the window in the kitchen. Every tiny gesture was special to you. And you were so grateful for the bigger gestures that you would thank me and thank me until I told you to shut up already. You had the most beautiful soul.

2. You lived for your children. I honestly don't know how you did it, but even at times when you were falling apart you were gentle and patient with the kids and always put their needs first. You might be crying on the phone to me and I'd hear a muffled knock on your sliding door. You'd say, "Sorry, hang on a sec ..." and then with absolute composure tell your son he could have another drink of cordial, or tell your daughter that she'd drawn a lovely picture. Everything you did was for them, and you loved doing it. They were your whole world and I admired so much the mother you were.

3. You had a killer sense of humour. You opened up for me a whole new world of things to laugh about. And no matter how many times we talked you would always come out with something surprising, sometimes shocking, but always hilarious. Sometimes I'd come home from dropping the boys off at their dad's, absolutely fuming from the stupidity I'd encountered there. I'd call you in my rage and vent my frustration and you'd listen. And you'd sympathise. And then you'd say something outrageously inappropriate and I'd be in stitches. You could always make me see that it really was stupid and not worth getting upset about. You had a way of always finding the funny thing hidden underneath the turmoil.

4. You were my confidant. You knew all my dirty little secrets and I could trust you with anything. You were not judgemental when I told you the darker of my deeds, and you listened patiently to my crazier inner thoughts, only occasionally interjecting with a kind, "Oh, honey, I don't think that's such a good idea." We could talk in ways I'd never talked to friends before. There were things I could never tell anyone because it wasn't appropriate, wasn't understood or I was too ashamed to say it, but you and I could happily chat about those things over a cup of coffee and a biscuit. When we talked, the difficult seemed easier, inappropriate was acceptable and mental was normal.

5. Your enthusiasm for the things you loved was so complete and so contagious. I couldn't help but get caught up in all your excitement. James Blunt is just one of many things I loved because of you. I remember telling you I'd finally seen the video clip you'd been going on and on about and you asked me what I thought. I said, "Yeah, he's alright." You gasped. "Alright?! Oh, wash your mouth out!" Another night we were on the computer with the radio on in the background. Goodbye My Lover came on and you squealed and ran to turn it up. We kept browsing (now for James Blunt photos) until you said, "Wait! Shh! Shh!" and James sang, "I'd be the father of your child," and we both sighed. I bought two copies of the album, one for me and one for you, and we played it over and over. You made it special. You made so many things special. I feel so honoured to have known you and to have been a part of your life. You were beautiful all the way to the core.

I love you.

Hello Possum!

2011-06-06T14:56:00.000+10:00

photo: gundy

I've been having trouble sleeping lately. It's nothing serious, just a bit of mild insomnia, but it does mean I'm prone to a little fatigue-induced vagueness and I spend a significant amount of my day longing for it to be over so I can crawl back into bed and give the whole sleeping thing another shot.

After several restless nights the exhaustion eventually wins and I finally drift off into the wonderful realm of unconsciousness.

Guaranteed, that will be the night patrons from the nearby pub will stumble past singing a loud, merry tune. Or visiting folk will leave a neighbour's house and have a happy little horn-beeping competition as they drive away. Or all the dogs in the street will get worked up about something and want to tell each other about it.

Then I'm wide awake all over again and another restless night ensues.

The other night, around 1:30 am, it was our dogs, Goofhead and Noisyface (I rename them occasionally, according to what they're doing) that started kicking up a fuss. It was the kind of excited whimpering that suggested that maybe our cat was doing something unthinkable, like, you know, walking past, but a quick survey of the room revealed a strong feline presence, proving this couldn't be the case. So, with much grumbling and muttering, I dragged myself downstairs to tell the puppies to shut the hell up.

Both dogs were up on hind legs at the gate, stepping frantically from back foot to back foot and nearly weeing themselves with excitement. When I turned on the downstairs light, Jumpy McDoofus (aka Noisyface) got such a fright she tripped over herself and crashed into the laundry door. I told them to settle down and surprisingly they did, but they were both still staring eagerly into the front yard.

I figured I'd better check if there was anything out there, so I opened the front door and leaned out, straining to spot anything that might be wandering around in the darkness.

Nothing.

I leaned back in and was about to shut the screen door when something caught my attention. About 30 centimetres from my head, clinging to the door frame, was a small possum. When I'd opened the door his little back foot must have slipped inside which meant I would have crushed it if I hadn't seen him. It also meant I now couldn't close the door.

I stood there for a moment wondering what to do. I also asked him if he had any ideas and if he really thought this was the best place for him to hang out, but he seemed to have other things on his mind and didn't respond.

So I gently tapped his foot with the door to see if he would scurry away, but he didn't seem to notice. Then, not wanting to be ripped to shreds by a startled marsupial, I covered my hand with my sleeve and gave him a bit of a prod. He swayed a bit, but it just looked like he was trying to get more comfortable.

Hmm.

I poked him a bit more, which only resulted in him turning to look at me. It was then I could tell, from the sad look in his eyes, that the reason he wasn't moving was because he was stuck. (OK, so I worked that out for myself and just anthropomorphised the sad look.) He couldn't go up because there was nothing for him to hold on to, and he couldn't go down because that's where the whiny, bouncy fluffballs of death were.

So I wrapped both my hands in my sleeves, reached up, grabbed his little body, and pulled.

Those little critters really know how to cling.

Eventually, after much scrabbling and prying and trying not to squeeze him too hard, I managed to detach him from the door frame. And if things had gone the way I wanted them to he would have snuggled into the safety of my arms while I gently stroked his soft, furry head and took him to a tree that he would gratefully climb, then look back over his shoulder as if to say, "Thank you," and we would both know that something special had happened there that night.

Instead, after taking about four steps, he wriggled frantically out of my hands and ran under my car.

Oh well.

I went back upstairs, snuggled into the warmth of my doona and knew that something, maybe not special, but certainly pretty cute, had happened that night.

File Under '5 Things'

2011-05-26T15:33:00.000+10:00

Recently I have been making lists of things.

Shut up. I have my reasons.

I started dabbling in list-making several years ago in an attempt to become more organised and it very quickly turned into a rather healthy habit.

OK, so the fact that my lists had to be written in a Marbig ColourHide® Chunky Notebook with the day underlined and a little shaded square drawn next to each activity, may have indicated that I was also entertaining a slightly less than healthy habit.

But writing things down, then ticking them off, did indeed make me more organised.

Lately I have been expanding my lists to incorporate bigger things. My Marbig ColourHide® Chunky Notebooks are still reserved for mundane daily tasks, but my new Typo A5 Lined Journal (Nerd Cat) includes things like "5 Things I Love About Living By The Sea" and "5 Things I Want To Accomplish This Year".

There's a phrase that has become quite popular in recent times, and that phrase is "Gratitude Journal". I can't possibly even begin to tell you just how much I hate that phrase and others like it. It's not that I'm against being grateful for things, I just think that trying to see the positive side of everything can stop you from saying things like, "Actually, this situation is pretty crap and I can do better." But that's a subject for another time.

So, even though my Typo A5 Lined Journal (Nerd Cat) has several lists of things I'm grateful for, it is not in any way a Gratitude Journal. It is merely my Book of Lists of 5 Things.

And as one of the things on one of those lists is to blog more, I thought I'd start sharing some of my lists with you. Even the silly ones.

Especially the silly ones.

Speaking of silly, here's 5 Things I Think I Like But It Actually Turns Out That I Don't:

1. James Blunt. For reasons I won't go into, Back To Bedlam was a very sentimental album and I ended up with quite a crush on Mr Blunt. Now, whenever I hear or see anything new from him I think, "Oo! James!" but then I immediately get bored.

2. Sia. Another artist I adored. I played her album Colour The Small One over and over and over. It's still one of my favourites. My love for her had me rushing out to buy her earlier album, which turned out to be nothing like Colour The Small One and a lot like something I couldn't be bothered listening to. But then she released another album so I raced to JB Hi-Fi to make it mine. I think I listened to it twice. Now, as with James, whenever I hear her I think, "Oo! Sia!" but then I change the station because her mumbling pop annoys me. Still, I highly recommend Colour The Small One. You can hear Breathe Me from the album here or, for some reason, you can hear Don't Bring Me Down on the telly whenever a news show does a story about eating disorders.

3. iPads. Sure, they have their benefits, but how many times have I followed a link I didn't want to because the page shifted a split second before my finger hit the screen? I once accidentally "Liked" someone's facebook status when she announced that her son had been injured. And I've spent a fair amount of time and money looking for the right songwriting apps when my favourite way of writing songs is on a piece of paper. Technology is really starting to annoy me. But that could be because I'm getting old.

4. Glee. I think it was the "Movie-Length Lady Gaga Special" that finally killed it for me. It wasn't Movie Length. It was an episode and a half filled out with extra ad breaks. And it wasn't a Lady Gaga Special. It was one Lady Gaga song right at the end, which meant I had to sit through a bunch of show tunes and advertisements to get to it. I haven't bothered with it since.

5. Geelong. I sometimes have my lunch break by the waterfront, or in the Botanic Gardens. It's peaceful and pretty. And I really like Cafe Go and some of the art supplies shops, and the places filled with handmade goodies, like frank & dolly's. Sometimes the accumulation of these lovely things leaves me with a sense of fondness for this quaint seaside city. But then I'll make a phone call at work and say, "Hi, it's Melody from Geelong ..." and the horror of that phrase will haunt me until I can get back to my little beach shack on the cliffs in the beautiful town I call home.

File Under 'Mount Sentimental'

2011-02-05T22:01:00.000+11:00

Recently, Deloceano and I celebrated our first wedding anniversary.

Well, on the actual day we moped around the lounge room, occasionally muttering things like, "Stupid heat," and, "I've got a cold," but fortunately we had done our celebrating a few nights earlier.

The in-laws live in the beautiful Yarra Valley, so we decided to find a nice place to stay in that general area. That way we wouldn't have far to drive after we'd ~~dumped the kids~~ tearfully said goodbye to the children and told them how much we'd miss them.

The problem is we both grew up near that general area, in the somewhat less beautiful outer-eastern suburbs, so we needed to find a nice, romantic hideaway that didn't remind us of the depressing places we were more than happy to leave behind.

And we found one in the Dandenongs. Or, more precisely, Deloceano found one in the Dandenongs. (But as his wife I feel that credit should be one of those "what's mine is yours" things.)

Non-depressing romantic hideaway

Despite the fact that I've attended several cringe-worthy functions on Mount Dandenong in the past, for some reason it still appealed to me. And for some other reason it didn't occur to me why I found it so appealing. Was it because I'd actually enjoyed watching the entertainer endure the worst gig of his life, playing for a bunch of highly repressed teenagers who weren't allowed to dance at my year 12 formal? Was it because I thought having the wait staff also perform Christmas carols at my office party was actually a nice touch?

God no. That couldn't be it.

But then I said, "You know what we should do? We should go have a coffee at the place where we had our first date."

And then Deloceano said, "There's the place we went to celebrate our engagement."

And then I said, "And there's the place we went to decide if our dog was the right puppy for us."

And then we drove past the place where we had our year 12 formal and laughed a lot.

Strange how I'd remembered those significant moments so clearly, but not linked them all together to make one big mountain of sentimentality. But I'm aware of it now, and I'm sure I'll still be aware of it when we go back again next year for our second anniversary.

The same table, at the same cafe where we had our first date.
We told that to the wait staff, but they still made us pay full price for our drinks

You have no idea how much I want
an indoor garden now

There was art in the bathroom
and a weird perverted gnome looking through the window

Nothing says 'romance' like a banjo

File Under 'Regret'

2010-07-13T14:43:00.000+10:00

Making a life-changing decision can be excruciatingly difficult. You know there are going to be consequences either way, but you have to weigh up the good and the bad. Will my choice lead to bigger and better things, or will it be my downfall? You agonise. You lose sleep. You make your decision. And, sometimes ... you regret it forever.

But then there are those times when you're faced with an average decision. You think about it for a bit, maybe it's good, maybe it's not, whatever. It's no big deal, really. Whatever decision I make is hardly going to make an impact on the greater scheme of things. So you make your decision.

And then ... you regret it forever.

What's more, you look back on it and see that it was really one of those life-changing decisions and you just brushed it off as though you were deciding what to have for lunch.

Although, I guess if you choked and died on what you chose to have for lunch you could regretfully look back on that as a life-changing decision. You know, if you weren't dead.

Sorry. Where were we? Oh yes. Regret.

When I was about 20 I went for a job interview. For me it was just another job and I needed the money. Granted, the company was a bit more interesting than the others I'd worked for, but still, admin is admin wherever you go.

I am usually quite impressive during interviews and the interviewer was suitably impressed. It was only supposed to go for 20 minutes, but I was there for an hour. He even took me on a tour of the building. The job was definitely mine. But protocol needs to be adhered to, and there were still others to be interviewed, so he said he'd call me the next day.

But during the interview he'd said he was looking for a long-term commitment, someone who would be dedicated to the company. He said there may be overtime required, possibly even on weekends. I had very specific plans for my life and just wanted a job I didn't have to think about while I worked on bigger and better things. So I called him that night and told him I didn't want the job. Just like that. Admin is admin. Whatever.

A few years after the interview, every time I drove past the company's building I'd kick myself. I continued to kick myself while driving past that building even after they'd moved to a different location. Fifteen years later I am still kicking myself. In fact, as the years go by I kick myself even harder. In the last few weeks I have added head-banging-on-desk-repeatedly and mournful sighs of woe.

You see, for the first time in years I have some direction in my life. I floundered, lost and hopeless, for over a decade, but now I can finally feel something solid under my feet. I know what I want to do. Thing is, if I'd said yes to that job 15 years ago, I'd already be doing it.

The other thing is, I've noticed that regret often comes with a consolation. Sometimes it acts as a mild tonic that takes the edge off slightly, but other times it's strong enough neutralise that regret, or maybe even make it disappear into the forgotten parts of your history forever.

Regret: I said no to the job.
Consolation (tonic): I got a mindless job in a factory instead so I could focus on music and save up to record an album.
Regret: In a deep depression I made unhealthy choices and got pregnant to a guy at the factory I didn't much care for.
Consolation (neutralise): The lads. Those beautiful lads.
Regret: When the album came out I was not in a position to promote it.
Consolation (tonic): At least I had an album.
Regret: I spent nine years alone even though I was already friends with the man I ended up marrying.
Consolation (neutralise): I ended up marrying him.
Regret: I said no to the job.
Consolation (tonic): At least I know what I want now.

Besides, if I'd said yes to the job there'd be no lads (neutralise). Deloceano might have stayed just a friend (neutralise). I might have continued to live in the suburbs where people throw eggs at you (true story) (neutralise).

Still, as I look for a job to fund my direction, my heart sinks a little at the amount of admin on my resume. Admin is admin, but that's pretty much all it is. You can twist it and turn it as much as you like to try to get your foot in a different door, but, as impressive as I can be in interviews, there's always someone else whose foot has been in that door before.

Consolation ... At least I know what I want now.

File Under 'Fluffy Puppy Waffle'

2010-04-08T21:20:00.000+10:00

I drifted away from my usual waffle last month so in order to restore the balance, this month I thought I'd write something extra light and fluffy and include lots of pictures. I also thought I'd write things like 'last month' and 'this month' to make it sound like my absence from blogging was intentional and not the result of pure laziness.

Given my track record, I doubt it fooled anyone.

Just over a year ago, despite my strong allegiance to all things feline, Deloceano and I got a dog. It was a tough decision for me to make, but when I finally agreed and we started looking we found the cutest little fluffy white critter and I could not help but fall in love.

Melt

The thing about cute little fluffy white critters, however, is that they have a tendency to turn into this:

Exhibit 'A' in favour of cats

So what does a cat lover do when she has to face the reality that she now has a giant, filthy, bear-sized beast on her hands?

The solution is simple. She gets another one.

And then she throws them in the ocean to get all the dirt off.

There is no mistaking it. I am now, much to my own amazement and my friends' amusement, officially a dog lover. In fact, our second dog was my idea. Who would have thought? I like watching our dogs bounce around on the beach. I like meeting other people's dogs. I say, 'Aww, how gorgeous," when I see them on TV. I've become the sort of person who will strike up a conversation with a dog tied to a pole out the front of the milk bar:

Melody: Hello puppy!

Dog: !

Melody: You're lovely, aren't you? Yes you are!

Dog: (wags tail)

Melody: Good puppy.

Dog: (wags tail some more)

Of course, I still have equally meaningful conversations with cats as well. It's not that I've switched sides, I've simply found more things to love.

File Under 'The "F" Word'

2010-03-12T15:01:00.001+11:00

My husband is the kind of guy who is not afraid to speak his mind. He is not unique in this regard, plenty of people do it, it's just that some people would do better to leave their minds unspoken. Fortunately, his is well worth hearing.

Y'see, when he speaks his mind he's protesting against injustice, he's fighting for the rights of humanity, he's standing up for those who can't stand up for themselves and generally trying to stop people from being jerks. His passionate character has led him into social work where he has provided resources and support to addicts, mentally ill children, troubled youth, AIDS sufferers and more, all the while fighting the bureaucracy that stands in the way of these people getting the help they truly need.

It is one of the innumerable reasons why I love him, and something that earns him a lot of respect from a lot of people.

However, when that same passion to make the world a better place crosses over religious boundaries it is no longer admired. At least, not by the religious. Then it becomes hardheadedness, arrogance and obstinance. On many occasions he has been accused of being a "fundamental" atheist. Normally, I wouldn't spend too much time discussing what a fundamentalist is and why he isn't one, I'd just get back to the point of discussion.

But recently, someone I have a lot of admiration and respect for used the 'f' word (you know which one I mean) to describe my husband's arguments against religion. I reassured him that I wasn't offended, because, well, he gets called that a lot, but it really made me stop and think. What is it exactly that people mean when they call someone a fundamentalist? And why do I think it's a false accusation?

Firstly, I think a lot of misunderstanding in religious debates comes from using 'loaded' words – words that carry a lot of meaning for one particular group, but mean something different to another. For example, the word 'faith'. A common Christian argument to an atheist is, "When you're waiting at a bus stop you have 'faith' that the bus will arrive." Faith in God and faith in a bus that you have a reliable timetable for and that you have caught every day for the last three years without a second thought because it arrives consistently around the same time each morning without fail, are two very different things. One is an unfounded leap in logic, the other is expecting a public transport company do its job.

The word 'fundamental' is similarly loaded. To an atheist, a fundamental is an ignorant nutjob who believes ridiculous and harmful things and wouldn't know common sense if it slapped them in the face. To a Christian, a fundamental is an arrogant loud-mouth who thinks they're better than everyone and won't shut up until everybody agrees with them because they're right about everything.

I am, of course, making a generalisation, but you get the point.

I'm not going to go into the Christian fundamentalist's reputation, that's not the reason for this post. But why is it that vocal atheists come across as unyielding know-it-alls?

I think it's because, a lot of times, they have to be.

I believe it comes down to their hunger for equality. Their disgust at the violation of human rights. Their drive to stop bullies getting away with things. People who care passionately for other people will not stand for oppression or discrimination.

We all know that telling someone she can't run a company because she's a woman is sexist nonsense. It makes a lot of people angry, and we all know the right thing to do is try to put a stop to it. Telling someone she can't run a church because she's a woman is exactly the same amount of sexist nonsense. It makes atheists angry that more people aren't angry about that. In fact, a lot of women even buy into it. It leaves an atheist dumbfounded! Everyone agreed you were right the first time, but this time you're forced to try to convince people you're right – it is discrimination. But no, now you're being arrogant and attacking people's beliefs.

An atheist is constantly trying to convince people of things they should already know: that fires and floods are naturally occurring phenomena; that inciting fear and hatred toward minority groups is evil; that sick people require medical attention; and that mountains have a tendency to stay right where they are. There is no arguing these statements – they are absolutely true, and yet, somehow, atheists are still having to defend them.

Is it any wonder they get accused of being angry and out-spoken? It's outrageous to have to fight belief-based justifications for bigotry, oppression and negligent actions.

Now, these are some pretty extreme cases, but a similar thing goes for the 'harmless' beliefs atheists are accused of getting their knickers in a twist over. I think the main problem there is not that they feel like they're right about everything, but that they're really big on logic and reason. If you say the theological equivalent of two plus two equals yellow, they're going to want to know how you came up with that. And if you can't come up with a reason, they're going to want to know why on earth you believe it in the first place. And if you can only come up with, "Well, I just feel that it's true," I think it's very fair to expect your atheist friend's knickers to be getting a little bit twisty. Eventually, even the most diplomatic rationalist is likely to crack. My favourite example of this kind of mounting frustration comes from the genius that is Tim Minchin. His beat poem, Storm, is the most brilliant thing I've heard on the topic of skeptical debate.

Atheists get frustrated when people don't think about their beliefs, because an unchecked belief can hurt people. I think the right thing for everyone to do is to not shut up until everybody agrees that the unreasonable is unreasonable. I don't think that's being a fundamentalist. I think that's just expecting the best out of everyone.

The. Best. Dress. Ever.

2010-02-17T14:00:00.001+11:00

Early last year Deloceano was working part time as a landscaper: pruning hedges, renovating gardens, constructing stone walls, and doing various other manly things that a girl with a camera could get rather excited about.

Mmmm ... Gardening

One Saturday he was building a deck for some friends in the Yarra Valley while I was at a nearby archery range with another friend and his kids. My archery companions and I decided to meet Deloceano for lunch and, as luck would have it, my friend had recently been on a date in the area so he could confidently recommend a good place to eat.

We got there, sat down and pondered over the menu, and was then waited upon by one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She looked like this:

No, really. That's actually her.

This vision of loveliness also happened to be wearing one of the most beautiful skirts I'd ever seen, so as we were leaving I told her, in a non-sleazy way, that I'd been admiring her skirt all afternoon and I'd love to know where she got it from.

The first part of her sentence has since left my memory, so I can't tell you where she bought it, but the second and most important part went something like: "... I'm a dressmaker, here, let me write down my web address for you."

I left the restaurant with a smile on my face, her address in my hand, and yes, I'll admit it ... a bit of a crush.

The crush was unavoidable

Had I been single and slightly less heterosexual I'm sure my girl-crush would have exploded into full-blown love when I checked out her website later that afternoon. Y'see, it just so happens that she's a genius. Her label, Vanyanis, is advertised as "Custom Corsetry and Extravagant Attire" and it really, really is extravagant. The first thing I uttered as I gazed upon her exquisite designs was, "I am so getting her to make my wedding dress!"

Deloceano had not yet proposed, but I was confidently smug about our relationship, and it certainly doesn't hurt to plan ahead. A few months later my smugness was justified and I sent an email to Vanyanis.

Not long after that, Deloceano and I went to live by the sea. While this move turned one of our dreams into a reality, it also turned dress fittings into a 6-hour round trip. But seriously, it was worth it. The dress is incredible. We have yet to get our "official" photos, but here's a few snaps of what I can only describe as The. Best. Dress. Ever.

Thank you so much to Lowana.

For more extravagant attire, check out all the gallery goodness.

File Under 'Construction'

2009-12-16T14:11:00.022+11:00

I love cats.

I love almost everything about them. I love their slinky walk and the way they wiggle before they pounce. I love the way they purr and give you a massage before curling up on your lap. I love the way they wash behind their ears, and if there's two of them, the way they wash behind each other's ears. I love watching them play together, especially when they're in a particularly mental mood. And I love the way they stretch themselves out for a snooze in the sunshine.

One of the things I hate about cats, however, is poo.

Three months after we moved to the sea, Deloceano and I were well and truly over the whole kitty litter thing. It probably wouldn't have been so bad if we'd been able to put it out of the way in the laundry, but our laundry has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over an enormous white dog. I imagine that would create a fair amount of performance anxiety in anybody. Our only option was to put the kitty litter in our bathroom and it was ever so unpleasant.

Kitty adds to the unpleasantness

Living in a two-storey beach shack didn't help matters either. There was no point letting the cats out upstairs because there was nowhere for them to go and no way to get down. And if they went downstairs to the front door there wasn't any guarantee we'd hear them. They needed a way to come and go as necessary without having to rely on us marching up and down the stairs all day.

So I got to thinking.

And I thought to myself, they can't access the balcony, so what we need is some kind of ladder, but for cats. You know ... a cat ladder!

Even I had to admit, the idea was pure genius.

I went outside and studied the house, trying to find the best place to construct my cat ladder. It had to be sturdy enough for cats, but not sturdy enough for burglars. I thought about different structures, various designs and possible materials.

Then I thought about my capabilities as a handyman and went back inside, telling myself that perhaps kitty litter wasn't so bad after all.

But it really is, isn't it?

Like on so many other occasions, I turned to the Internet for advice. Even though I knew my idea was ridiculously clever and 100 per cent, completely original, I Googled "cat ladder" just to see what came up.

Turns out there are entire books dedicated wholly and solely to cat ladders from around the world. Blogs too. One in particular is called "Cat Ladders". It's at www.catladder.blogspot.com. I'm beginning to think that my 100 per cent, completely original cat ladder idea may not be so original after all.

Undeterred by having my sense of cleverness completely shattered, I set out to steal other people's designs and make a ladder of my own. Eventually, with the quality materials I had at hand, combined with my extensive woodworking skills, I carefully constructed this:

OK, so it's not going to win any awards or appear on Better Backyards Than Yours, but the cats are very happy with it, our neighbour is impressed, and our bathroom is now completely free of cat poo.

Maybe one day I'll make something a little more elaborate and try to get some photos published in Cat Ladder Weekly, but for now I need to direct my carpentry expertise to our lattice fence and find a way to stop Puppy doing this:

Whip It. Whip It Good.

2009-10-22T11:45:00.017+11:00

When I was a young lass my parents gave me a pair of roller skates. They were white, with two red stripes on the boots and glittery red wheels, and from what I can recall, they were permanently attached to my feet.

I don't actually remember learning how to skate, but clearly I must have gone through the process because I do remember being very good at it. I could skate forwards and backwards, do crossovers around tight corners, fly down ramps, jump over steps, and zoom around the rink with all the cool people during the speed skate (because in the 80s you could do that kind of thing and still be cool).

I owed part of my talent to the teachers at my primary school, who let my best friend and I bring our skates to school and roll around the yard during recess and lunch. But most of my skating ability came from living next door to a church hall and knowing where the keys were kept.

Roller skating remained a part of my life well into my teenage years. Probably a little too far in, actually. For my 16th birthday, when most kids are sneaking alcohol and trying to cop a feel of each other, I took my friends to a skating rink that played predominantly Christian music. While the details of the event are a bit hazy (despite the total lack of alcohol), I imagine I requested some songs. I imagine I then sang along. I also imagine I couple-skated to Michael W Smith's Friends are Friends Forever. Because those are the kind of things I did when I was 16.

Over time my trips to the skating rink became less frequent. I flirted with the idea of Rollerblades when I was 19, but I was wobbly from a lack of practice and the "in-line" thing was a whole new skill to learn and I'd just left home so I had better things to do with my time than learn it.

Years have passed, and apart from crashing the occasional skate party my children go to, skating, for me, is over.

At least. I thought it was over.

Until, about a month ago, I discovered this:

Coincidentally, it was also at this time

that I discovered my camera

did not have a 'high-speed' function.

One of our newspapers ran an article on the local Roller Derby League and I was instantly besotted. I showed the article to Deloceano, we checked out their websites, befriended them on Facebook, and marked the next bout on our calendar.

As luck would have it, a week or so after the article appeared I saw an ad for Whip It. It looked very much like the kind of movie I would normally have waited to rent on DVD, but since Roller Derby had been my all-time favourite sport for at least seven days, I had to go see it straight away–which was good because it explained the rules so I could actually understand what I was getting so excited about.

After the bout Deloceano and I did some discussing.

We discussed the idea of me joining the League.

We discussed the idea of me being crushed to death by the League.

We put that thought to one side, and I emailed the League.

It is suddenly rather important for skating to be a regular part of my life again. I'm going to need to be good at it if I want to make it into the League in January.

File Under 'True Blood'

2009-10-12T16:22:00.006+11:00

I'm tired.

Not in a "I was up partying all night" or a "I've just run four laps of the beach" kind of way, but in a "I slept for nine hours straight, I'm on my fifth cup of coffee and I still can't muster the energy to do the dishes" kind of way.

Although, that probably has more to do with my aversion to housework than fatigue.*

I've never been good with food, I wouldn't eat if I didn't have to, but living with a foodie means there's a well-balanced meal on the table every night and cooked breakfasts on the weekends, so I'm eating better than I have in years. But I'm still so tired.

I thought walking the dog along the beach every day would elevate my fitness levels and bring with it a sense of well-being, but after two months one long walk can still wipe me out for the rest of the afternoon.

Why am I so tired? How can such a small amount of exertion knock me out like that? What's with this constant brain-fog?

These are the questions I took to my doctor a couple of weeks ago and we had a chat about various things, like anxiety, Buddhism, spiders and Johnny Depp. You know you've found a good doctor when your appointment includes a conversation about Johnny Depp.

He sent me off to pathology for some blood tests and I went in again last week for the results.

He said this: "Your blood count is fine, your kidneys are fine, your liver is functioning well and your B12 is normal. Your iron levels, however, are ... interesting."

Here we go, I thought. Another conversation about red meat. I've been through this a million times. He'll say, "Eat it." I'll say, "I'm vegetarian." He'll say, "Eat it anyway." I'll say, "But it's really, really gross ... you do realise it's dead flesh, don't you? Eewww." He'll say, "Don't think about it, just do it." I'll say, "I can't help it, it's a very disturbing thought for me. Can we talk about Johnny Depp again?"

But we didn't go down that path. Instead, he said, "Your iron levels are way too high."

"Um ... what?" I said.

Turns out I have something called Haemochromatosis.

I Googled it when I got home and came across a Haemochromatosis Society website. The home page offered a little bit of basic information "to help you understand the condition and put your mind at ease".

It said, "Haemochromatosis is a disease that causes iron to gather in your liver, heart and pancreas, causing serious damage."

Oh my god.

It said, "It is a genetic disorder that leads to premature death."

OH MY GOD.

It said, "For more information, read 'Haemochromatosis: The Bronze Killer'."

OH! MY! GOD!

So much for putting my mind at ease.

Fortunately there are a lot of other websites on the topic, so I did a bit more research. The non-dramatic explanation is that normally, the body absorbs whatever iron it needs from food and then gets rid of the rest. With Haemochromatosis, it absorbs what it needs and then just goes right on absorbing. Once it's absorbed, the body has no way of getting rid of it, so it sticks it in body tissues and various organs to get it out of the way. If it is diagnosed early you can begin treatment and avoid organ damage. If it is diagnosed a bit later you can begin treatment, and in some cases, reverse organ damage.

So, no iron-related premature death for me.

Dietary information is a funny thing. And iron is the biggest point of attack on vegetarians. All my life I've heard that you can't get enough iron without meat. If you're not going to eat red meat at least three times a week then you'd better take a supplement because you'll never meet your body's needs otherwise. You have to eat a tonne of spinach because you won't find iron elsewhere, etc.

Based on this 'information', I asked the doctor if decreasing my iron intake further would help. He said, "No. If you ate meat I'd say cut back a bit, but there's not much you can do with diet. Iron's everywhere. It's in everything. Whatever you eat, your body's going to absorb iron from it."

Only a week ago I thought iron was a precious rarity and I had to scrounge to get it. Now I find it's impossible to avoid and I'm drenched in the stuff.

Fortunately, treatment is available.

It's also totally cool.

It's vampires.

Or at least, vampiresque ... I need someone to drain my blood.

My preferred method would be to become a regular at Fangtasia, but the problem with that is it's all the way over in Louisiana. Also, it's made up.

I'm ready for my treatment

Dr Pam and Dr Eric

Due to the fictional nature of vampires it is best to rely on another form of treatment. All you need to do is donate blood on a regular basis. "Regular" can mean once or twice a week for a while, until the iron levels in the blood are within the normal range, then three or four times a year to maintain it. It's the only known disease that actually benefits the whole community.

Without all that iron in my system my energy will return, the brain-fog will dissipate, and other symptoms I thought were anxiety-related will ease. Plus, now whenever someone discovers I'm a vegetarian and tells me to eat some meat I can say, "Get stuffed."

Now, if only the release of season two of True Blood on DVD would hurry up. I reckon I'm medically required to watch it.

*Apparently my aversion is completely justified. During a recent visit to the pathology clinic I was informed by the nurse that housework makes you ugly. She's a nurse ... it must be true!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2009-09-02T10:09:00.009+10:00

An entire decade of staring at the walls has done little to prepare me for the ridiculous amount of life I've been living lately.

Not so long ago, if I had a phone call to make on Tuesday and a dinner to go to on Saturday I'd be saying, "It's such a crazy week! There's just so much to do!"

Yes, two things used to be my definition of "crazy".

And then everything happened at once.

I met a man. I got a dog. I got engaged. I left my job. Then I packed up everything I owned, except for the things I no longer wanted, and moved to a beautiful town by the sea. Now there's a new school for the boys, new people to meet, new surroundings to discover, new work to find, and a new house to make our home.

I guess I'm not going through any more change than the average person, it's just that, usually, the average person experiences it at a relatively constant rate. I was beginning to think I'd never experience it again, but it turns out that during my wall-staring years change was lurking in the distance, building, moving, gathering speed, and suddenly ten years worth of the stuff has

come screaming over the horizon, smashing into my life and shattering the walls of my comfort zones.

Which is exactly what I was hoping it would do.

My children and my love have taken to our sea change as though it's something we do every second weekend. One of our cats, on the other hand, is completely traumatised. He spends most of his day hiding in a bookcase and refuses to even sit near a window, let alone venture outside.

I think I might be somewhere in between. Sometimes I venture outside and I'm blown away by the scenery. I can't believe how lucky I am to be with such an incredible man in such an incredible place.

Other times I drive around saying, "How can the pet shop not be there? I was sure it was on this street. There's not that many streets in this town! How is it possible that I'm lost?! I don't know this place! I don't have any friends here yet! Oh my god, I'm unemployed!"

And then I come home to hide in a bookcase.

It can get a bit overwhelming trying to deal with so much change all at once, but I am adjusting. And adjusting doesn't seem so hard when you're only a few minutes' walk away from this:

File Under 'Point And Shoot'

2009-06-14T13:37:00.005+10:00

I have a new camera.

I also have an old camera that works perfectly, takes good pictures, and because it's shaped like a fancy SLR it makes me look like I know what I'm doing.

Unfortunately it's also quite big, so more often than not I would look like someone without a camera because I couldn't be bothered carrying it.

Then I discovered that my friend Della had a near-microscopic camera that she carried around in her bag at all times. And not only did she manage to turn every moment into a photographic opportunity, she also took incredible photos.

So I did some extensive research (read: asked Della what kind of camera she had), hunted around for the best deal (read: went to the local camera shop to see if they had one), and skilfully negotiated the price with the salesperson (read: pointed to the camera and said, "I want that one, here's my money").

It immediately became my favourite thing ever and slotted itself seamlessly into my walking-out-the-door checklist:

Purse. Yep.
Phone. Yep.
Keys. Here.
Camera. Got it.

And because I now photograph almost everything I see, I thought I'd share some of it with you in blog format. I will continue to write, ramble and haphazardly post here at File Under 'Miscellaneous', but I will also be posting photos on my new blog, The Illustrated Melody.

Feel free to wander over, look around, and tell me what you think.

File Under 'Early'

2009-05-21T16:44:00.006+10:00

My son qualified for the cross country run this year, which is all very exciting.

Except on Thursday mornings when we have to get to the local lake by 7:45 for training.

Today was the first time we managed to get him there on time. There was no yelling at him to hurry up, there was no cursing of slow cars and red lights, and there was no racing to catch up to everyone else.

Unfortunately, there was also no training today.

Never mind. It was a nice morning for photographs.

And it was good to get a little leash practice in with Puppy.

Clearly it went well.

We didn't spent a lot of time at the lake which meant I was running early for work. On the rare occasion that this happens I sometimes find myself stuck behind a truck that puzzles me. The photo is a little blurry because as I was taking it I was also trying not to crash and die, but you can still read the words of warning.

But I thought vegetables were good for you.

File Under "Secretarial Thrills"

2009-05-19T19:08:00.004+10:00

I did a bit of photocopying today.

But only for about, say, FOUR HOURS!

I had every intention of starting and finishing it yesterday. Considering the size of the task I estimated it would probably take me about an hour, plus an extra half an hour to collate the bundles, stick them in envelopes and send them on their way.

But I'd forgotten that the auto-feed was out of order. That was annoying. Over 100 pages and I was going to have to copy them individually. Never mind. It should only take another half an hour or so.

In order to be as environmentally friendly as this kind of paper-hungry job can be, I needed to make double-sided copies of everything. That's fine. I can scan them in one at a time, then press 'store' and the machine prints them out for me, collated and separated, ready to go. Easy.

Except the photocopier was somewhat less cooperative than it has been in the past. Maybe it was grumpy that nobody had bothered to fix its auto-feed. It copied about eight pages before giving me the message: Mishandled paper. Remove cover 9. Lift levers 2 & 4. Release latch 5. Remove paper.

I figured out what 'cover 9', 'levers 2 & 4' and 'latch 5' were and did as I was told. There was a clanking and a whirring and a flashing Copier warming up, and then a Press 'start' to resume copying.

I pressed start. I got three more copies. Then I got: Mishandled paper. Remove cover 9. Lift levers 2 & 4. Release latch 5. Remove paper.

This pattern continued for quite some time. And every single time it jammed I had to remove origami fans of destroyed document from three different places. Sometimes four. Instead of being environmentally friendly I was making whole rain forests cry.

That was yesterday.

Today I dumped the photocopier and turned to the fax machine for comfort. It didn't let me down. Much. It did take its own sweet time however, and left me standing by the stationery cupboard watching my copies ooze slowly, p-a-i-n-f-u-l-l-y s-l-o-w-l-y, onto the out-tray. I then had to collate everything myself. Lazy fax machine.

One of those companies that leaves a box of books for people to browse through and hopefully purchase had just made a delivery. While I was waiting for 26 copies of pages 18-24 I read the first chapter of the Michael J Fox autobiography. Later, in another book, I found a nice recipe for a mushroom and zucchini loaf. Then I kept collating.

The stationery cupboard just so happens to be right next to the snack cupboard. I don't usually visit the snack cupboard, but with all that standing around next to it I ended up buying a packet of Cheezels and a Boost Bar. Both were disappointing.

I finished photocopying just before home-time, which was a shame because it meant I didn't have time to have a cup of tea before coming home to have a cup of tea. Plus, less importantly, I didn't have time to divide the tower of paper and put it all in envelopes. I will have to face it tomorrow.

After a cup of tea.

How Much Is That Doggy In The Window?

2009-04-14T17:33:00.011+10:00

I have a dog.

This is an extremely unusual thing for me to have. I've never had one before, I've never wanted one before (except perhaps for a week when I was twelve), and I hadn't planned to have one in the future.

Y'see, usually when I think of cats, I think of this:

And when I think of dogs, I think of this:

I'm just not a dog person.

And yet...

I now have a dog.

The people who know me best have responded to my new state of dog ownership with both surprise and concern.

My best friend said, "I was thinking only yesterday that I wanted a friend who had a dog I could play with and take for walks. I just never thought it would be you!"

Another friend said, "Now, about the dog. I mean, he's the most adorable little thing and all, but ... are you OK?"

As it happens, I am OK.

The handsome and clearly very persuasive Mr Melody loves dogs, and over time he managed to convince me that a dog needn't be something that only happens to other people. It was just a matter of finding the right one.

So we looked online and went to shelters and pet shops. This one was too big for me, that one was too small for him. This one wasn't good with children, that one liked to eat cats. We gave each other the power of veto and I quickly became known as the Veto Queen.

Then one Friday afternoon, with very low expectations, we walked into a pet shop.

Just for a look.

And looking back at us was a gorgeous blue-eyed Samoyed.

He's been with us for two weeks now and he can already come, sit, drop and wee on the carpet–although, we're trying to get him to stop that last one. As a cat person I was scared we weren't going to bond, but I actually really like the little guy. I like coming home to him. I like watching him play. I like being a part of that whole strike-up-a-conversation-with-strangers thing that seems to be unique to dog owners.

I must be becoming a dog person.

Now when I think of cats, I still think of this:

But it's hard not to melt a bit with this around the house:

File Under 'Dendrology' (Part II)

2009-01-21T18:03:00.004+11:00

For the last six years I have been wanting to know what kind of tree this is.

I have asked my friends and I have asked my relatives. I asked the guy who fixed my fence and I asked the guy who mowed my lawn. I have asked people who Know Things about gardening and people who Clearly Don't, but I thought I'd ask anyway.

And then I asked all of you a few posts ago.

You didn't know either.

About a month ago, I was sitting in my back yard on a blanket with my new man, gazing into his eyes and grinning stupidly, when my father, who was visiting at the time, sat down next to us and asked if my man would be happy to do some landscaping.

There's a story in the Bible of a man named Jacob who fell in love with a woman named Rachel, but Rachel's father wouldn't let him marry her until he had worked on his property for seven years. As a minister, my father knows this story very well, but I'm assuming that wasn't what he had in mind.

At least, I'm hoping that wasn't what he had in mind.

Last Friday my man's friend and landscaping partner came over to have a look around and give us a quote. We wandered into the back yard where the following scene took place:

Friend (casually): Oh, you have a Paulownia tree.
Melody: OH MY GOD! YOU'RE A GENIUS!

He then, just as casually, said the tree was native to China, and that it was once customary to plant one when a baby girl was born, then when she got married, it was cut down and made into a dowry chest.

I Googled it.

He's right.

I am most impressed.

I also discovered that Paulownia wood is good for making surfboards and guitars, and its strength makes it an ideal timber for exposed joinery and exterior cladding. I don't actually know what that means, but merely knowing the sentence makes me very happy.

If anyone would like to know more about the Paulownia tree, feel free to ask.

I Know Things.

Est. 1989

2009-01-14T17:57:00.003+11:00

I met a man.

Like, a real, live, actual man.

I was in the process of composing my next self-pitying rant about bad dates, boys who don't call, boys who can't spell, nice boys who live too far away and unpleasant boys who don't live far away enough, but before I committed it to cyberspace, I arranged to catch up with a boy from high school.

My old high school, that is. Not the local one.

I mentioned the arrangement on the phone to my friend Perseus.

Perseus: A date! Well done!
Melody: No, it's not like that, he's an old school friend.

The night before the arrangement I was out getting my hair cut with my friend Kymmie.

Kymmie: You're going to look so gorgeous for your date tomorrow!
Melody: Well, it's not a date, really. It's just a catch-up with an old school friend. But yes, I will.

The next day, after driving up and down the main street of a small town in the mountains several times, looking for a restaurant with no identifying features, I finally arrived at my old-school-friend-catch-up-arrangement-non-date.

Now, if I hadn't already given away the punchline in the opening sentence, and if the unfolding events weren't so hopelessly clichéd, what I'm about to say might almost surprise you as much as it surprised me ...

Turns out my old school friend is A Man.

A really hot one.

What are the odds?

And the best bit is, he likes me. He calls me when he says he will. He uses big words in ordinary conversation. He says things like, "Get out of the kitchen so I can cook dinner while you relax." I sent him a text once to find out what he was doing and he replied: I'm sitting on the front porch reading Nietzsche. He is all the good things.

And he has taken away my reasons to complain.

So now what am I supposed to blog about?

File Under 'Impractical'

2008-11-20T16:57:00.003+11:00

I recently came across several blogs of a similar nature that left me somewhat perplexed.

Obviously, everyone has their own interests and genre, and everyone's blog serves its own purpose, but I really couldn't work out the point of these particular offerings.

They went like this:

This is what I wore today...

And I thought, "Really? That's your blog? Daily posts of 'this is what I wore today'?"

I quite like posts that start off with This is what I made today... and This is what I read today... and to a lesser degree, This is what I cooked today... but they all imply that something creative has taken place, neurons have been firing, and a unique thought or thing has been delivered.

But "this is what I wore today"? It's just so ... vacuous.

That being said, this is what I wore today:

My best friend gave me this shirt over a year ago and I had so far been unable to find a place to exhibit it. This morning while I was searching for something to wear, I looked at it and decided that, while it didn't exactly fit with my normal work attire, it was indeed 'something to wear'.

I quickly discovered that, although it's fun to wear, and it hugs the figure nicely, this is not the shirt for a woman who needs to get things done. There is far too much sleeve going on for it to serve any practical purpose.

You can't make your children's lunches in this shirt. You can't eat breakfast in this shirt. I tried to do my hair in this shirt and ended up having to take it off (the shirt, not the hair) so I wouldn't keep wrecking it (the hair, not the shirt).

Once at work the 'taking it off' option was no longer available, or at least, appropriate, and I was constantly knocking papers off my desk. I had to wrap the excess sleeve around my arm so I could type properly.

But I felt very pretty when I walked.

I think this must be its sole purpose. This is a shirt to walk in. I imagine you could probably wear it to a party, as it could quite possibly be a shirt you could hold a drink in, provided you didn't actually have to get it yourself.

I know I won't be wearing this shirt to work again, but if I ever get the opportunity to walk into some place and hold a drink, I've got the perfect thing.

File Under 'Decade'

2008-11-11T22:43:00.006+11:00

Once upon a time, this happened...

Not long after that I spent most of my time not sleeping, so everything around that era is a bit of a blur. But, according to my photo album, this happened...

Then, right before my eyes, they transformed into this...

My boys turned 10 today.

More Than Words

2008-11-10T07:00:00.004+11:00

I'm not sure if anyone else has noticed this or not, but life doesn't seem to turn out the way you think it will. Sometimes this can be a good thing, but I find that most of the time it's a bit of a letdown. (She says as she takes a sip from her half-empty cup).

The sentences we form are quite often the best indication that we've gone off track. Somewhere along the way we've misplaced the script we were reading from and we find ourselves frantically ad-libbing. Every now and then we strike impromptu gold, but it seems more often we're left standing there thinking, "OK ... never thought I'd hear myself say that."

The following are examples of what happened when I lost the script to the Maybe Melody story:

Something I always assumed I'd say: Yes, I have children.

Something I didn't expect to say: They're twins.

Something I always assumed I'd say, but really shouldn't have: I do.

Something I always wanted to say, but probably won't: Thank you! You're a wonderful audience! Now here's the latest single from my seventh album.

Something I say over and over that never seems to be heard: Why is there an empty chip packet on the floor? ... I don't care who put it there, I just want to know why it's there ... And where should it be? ... Right, can you go and put it there, please?

Something I say over and over that never seems to be understood: It should be so easy. Why can't I fix this?

Something I've come to accept that I will never say: And I love you too, Johnny Depp.

Something I never would have guessed I'd say, but am oh so glad I did: I don't believe you.

Something I occasionally say at work that is an outright lie: I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may cause.

Something I never thought I'd say that I thoroughly enjoyed saying: Good one Deledio! To Tambling! TAMBLING! BAAALLLLL! Nice work Joel! Kick it! KICK IT! YES! YES! RICHO!!

Something I say to myself often, but probably shouldn't admit to: Just log off, Melody. You know you're not going to find a boyfriend on RSVP.

I'm so far off the storyline now that finding the script wouldn't do me any good. Perhaps I should write another one.

No. I'd only lose it again.

I should work on my ad-libbing instead.

File Under 'Dendrology'

2008-10-23T17:42:00.011+11:00

Does anyone know what kind of tree this is?

File Under 'The Sins Of The Mother'

2008-09-23T17:54:00.003+10:00

Wouldn't it be nice if kids only ever inherited all the good things about you? Or if you could choose the characteristics you'd like to pass on to them?

My boys could have, say, my love of music and their dad's good looks; my gentle nature and their dad's ... um ... looks.

Although these things are beyond our choosing, we can do our best to teach them to be kind and honest, to marvel at the natural world, to appreciate diversity and art and knowledge. And the best way to teach them these things is to lead by example–and they will learn.

It's a truly delightful thing when your child cries out, "MUM! COME! LOOK AT THIS! QUICK!" and you drop what you're doing and sprint to see if everything's OK, and he points out the window and says, "Look how beautiful the sunset is!"

But just when you're feeling ever so proud of yourself for raising them so perfectly, they'll turn around and do something completely incomprehensible. You might yell, "What did you do that for?" or put on your mum-voice and say, "Now, darling, do you really think that was a good idea?"

Then a couple of days later you'll do the exact same thing.

You've been leading by example–and they have learned.

I realised the other day that I have taught my children, extremely well, how to procrastinate.

I have always been a last-minute girl. If there is something I'm not too keen on doing I will put it off and put it off until it absolutely, definitely must be done right now. Then, in a stress-crazed frenzy, I'll fly through the task in record time and scrape through mere seconds before the deadline.

It's not very good for my stress levels, but the thing is ... it works.

In high school I'd be given a fortnight to do an assignment, but I wouldn't even look at it until the day before it was due. I'd then stay up until 4 in the morning, frantically trying to get it done, and upon handing it in the teacher would say, "Excellent work, Melody. Ten out of ten."

If I know friends are coming over and I need to tidy up, I won't be calmly domestic the day before, instead I'll tear around the house an hour before they're due to arrive, then when they knock I'll take a few deep breaths & open the door. They wander in and say, "Why Melody, what a lovely home."

I know I'd be more relaxed if I got things done well in advance, but I've noticed that the earlier I start something, the longer it takes to finish. If I delegate two hours to clean the house, it will take two hours. But if I've only got 45 minutes–that's how long it will take. And the sense of satisfaction once it's done is enhanced by the amazement that you actually finished in time, so why would I waste that extra 75 minutes on housework when I could be wasting it in more enjoyable ways?

Unfortunately, the lads have been taking notes, and they too have been receiving plenty of positive reinforcement to ensure the habit sets in firmly.

The most recent example is a flight project they were given at school. They knew about it for ages and mentioned it every now and then, but there's a billion things more fun than homework, so they played computer, or went for a run, or kicked the footy, or watched TV.

The afternoon before it was due we threw together an idea, bought some stuff from the Reject Shop, spread everything out around the living room, and cut and pasted and coloured and glued until we had something that roughly met the project's requirements. The next morning we whipped up a written report of what we'd done and raced off to school.

When I picked them up after school they met me with huge grins. "Ours was the best, Mum! We got top marks!"

Poor kids. They've got no chance.

But they like sunsets, at least.

File Under 'Sacrificial Parenting'

2008-08-16T20:30:00.003+10:00

I took the lads to the snow today.

It was one of those things I'd been meaning to do for years, but always managed to find reasons not to. Like, "Your dad's taking you this year." Or, "But it's so cold at the snow."

But this winter it's been hard to avoid. Every morning as I drive to work I can see the snow on top of the mountain. And I keep hearing that it's the best it's been in years. Plus, I know that if I don't take them, their dad will, and when he does I usually sit at home sulking and saying things like, "Mumble mumble dad mumble all the fun mumble mumble."

So we decided to go.

I sent a message to a fellow single parent a few days beforehand saying, "I know you don't have the kids this weekend, but we're going to the snow. Would you like to come?"

He replied, "Actually, it just so happens that the ex has asked me to take them this weekend."

What are the odds?

A day at the snow had turned into a day with our friends at the snow, which we all know is a whole lot more fun.

Our friends arrived at our house this afternoon and we headed off to the town at the bottom of the mountain for some lunch. There was much excitement, numerous renditions of the happy dance, and a fair bit of milkshake spillage.

Just as we got to the top of the mountain it started to snow. And isn't that the most beautiful thing? I've decided I'm going to take my next date to the snow because you can't help feeling pretty when it's snowing. He'll have no choice but to fall head over heels–and not just because it's slippery.

Anyway, the snowballs started flying immediately. We ducked and dodged and threw and got hit. We walked where the snow was deep and laughed when we sank in up to our knees. We hired toboggans and dragged them up to the toboggan run, then the kids climbed on them and shot off down the hill.

Occasionally, one of my offspring would say, "Now you have a go, mum!" and I'd say, "OK!" and then he'd say, "Oh, wait. I'll just have one more turn."

Then the other boy would walk towards me, hand me the toboggan and say, "Here you go, mum." I'd say, "Thanks honey." And he'd say, "Hold this while I get on it."

And I'd say, "Mumble mumble kids mumble all the fun mumble mumble."

Finally I got to have a go.

I sat on the toboggan, slid 5 metres, then fell off.

I got back on the toboggan, slid 5 metres, hit an embankment, then fell off.

I decided to take it back to the top of the run to try again, but as soon as I got there, there was a chorus of, "My turn!" so I handed it over to the nearest child.

All this happened in the space of about 20 minutes.

Then my firstborn said his toes were cold. I said everybody's toes were cold. He said but his hurt. I said would he like to have another go on the toboggan. He said he was too cold. I said everybody's cold. He said he felt sick. He said he just wanted to get warm. He said his fingers hurt. He started crying.

I asked my friend if he was happy to stay with the other three kids while I took my firstborn back to the car to warm up. He kindly gave me the keys to his car because he knew the heater in mine wasn't up to the task. I took off my child's wet gloves, then took off my own so he could wear them and we trudged back to the car.

As we sat there warming up there were many more tears. "I'm so sorry, mum. I just wanted to have fun in the snow and I've wrecked it."

I hugged him, calmed him and reassured him it was OK. I took off his wet shoes and socks and wrapped his feet up in my scarf. I gave him a hot water bottle that I had prepared earlier and had brought with me in a thermal bag (yes, others laughed at me too, but look how useful it turned out to be).

We sat there for over half an hour while our friends and my other son frolicked in a winter wonderland. Eventually I convinced him to give the snow another try, but not before I had taken off the plastic bags I had put in between my two pairs of socks, and wrapped them around his feet, making sure not to say, "See? I'm not as stupid as you thought I was when I put these on this morning!"

And off we went, back up the mountain.

As we neared the top we met our friends coming the other way. My second born was leading the way, clearly distressed.

He's cold. His hands are hurting. He just wants to get warm. He's close to tears.

I take off his gloves and give him mine. I give him my scarf. I ask my friend if he minds. My firstborn grabs a toboggan and bounces off to the toboggan run. It's snowing again. It's still so beautiful. I take my second born and go sit in the car.

Half an hour later the others join us, all breathless from the fun they've had. They found a better run, they say. They made a really cool snowman, they say. Can I have one of your hot water bottles, they say. You're so cool to have thought of that and not stupid at all, they imply.

So my day at the snow turned into a day in a car park. But the 20 minutes at the start were excellent.

Actually, the time in the car was pretty good too. It's not very often I get to spend some individual quality time with my boys, and once I'd wrapped them up and soothed their woes it was nice just to chat one on one.

That being said, I'm not going to let it happen again. I want to enjoy the snow too. I thought I had gone a bit overboard with all the layers I made them wear, but clearly it wasn't overboard enough. The next time we go to the snow they'll be so fat with clothing that they won't be able to move.

It might save on toboggan hire too ... just give them a push at the top of the hill and watch them roll.

File Under 'Implying The Absurd'

2008-08-02T16:52:00.005+10:00

I have been dyeing my hair since I was in high school, which was approximately ... some time ago.

Back then I wanted to be somebody different, but as I was stuck with being me I had to settle for being somebody with different hair. Perhaps if my hair was light brown instead of dark brown people would look beyond my shy exterior and see the mega-famous rock star within.

Several years later, after realising with bitter disappointment that the mega-famous rock star was going to stay within, I found myself craving change. I'd accidentally gotten married and life was miserable. But, while I couldn't change my husband, I could change my hair.

Which I did. Often.

I remember meeting up with my best friend and her new boyfriend at a nearby park. They'd had trouble finding me and when they finally did he turned to her and said, "You said she had red hair!"

These days I have stopped trying to change the colour of my hair. Unfortunately, my hair has taken to changing colour of its own accord, so now I dye it to keep it the same.

And I've always dyed it myself, using supermarket quality self-colouring kits, and bending awkwardly over the bathroom sink with the window open (because you never forget to open it twice) and trying not to drip dye on the tiles or permanently stain the towels.

Because I'm worth it.

I've always thought they should change their motto to 'Because you're not important enough to get it done professionally'.

Anyway, about a month ago I was going through the whole routine again. It's such a familiar process that the steps have become automatic: Open bottle. Squeeze tube. Shake to combine. Gloves on. Snap applicator tip off. Start in the middle. Down to the sides, etc.

But somehow, for the first time ever in all my years of hair-colouring, somewhere between 'start in the middle' and 'down to the sides', a single drop of dye fell from the bottle and landed right in my eye.

The pain was immediate and oh so very intense.

Now, if I stub my toe on the toy box, or slice my finger in the kitchen, I have learnt to keep my mouth shut and roll around on the floor in quiet agony so as to not bring the children running and put them in a panic. But the burning in my eye was so great that I cried out involuntarily.

In a flash I ripped off the plastic gloves, rushed to the sink and started frantically drowning my eye in the gushing cold water.

Funny thing, though. I wasn't thinking, "Oh the pain!" or "Get it out! Get it out!" or "Oh god! I'm going to go blind!"

The only thing I could think of was the warning message on the box, and if anyone in my current situation actually needed to be told to 'rinse immediately'. I can hardly imagine someone with dye in their eye screaming and screaming and screaming and then wandering off to make some lunch. It is not an option. You don't think. You don't check the instruction leaflet for advice. You instinctively do the only thing guaranteed to stop the pain.

You rinse immediately.

The problem with stating the obvious is that it implies the absurd. (Although I'm willing to admit that this may only be a problem for me.) Saying you must rinse implies that there are people who wouldn't think to do that.

You can find absurd implications everywhere. One of the most puzzling road signs reads 'No Lines. Do not overtake unless safe'.

I would have thought that last bit applies to all overtaking, not just the no-line variety. What this sign is really saying is 'When the lines come back, feel free to overtake into oncoming traffic'.

And I saw a sign recently that said the police and the local community were 'working together to fight crime and win'.

Why 'and win'? Were the two groups sitting in a brainstorming session on how to improve their crime-fighting techniques when someone suggested they should try winning? Suddenly I don't feel quite as safe as I used to.

But I suppose stating the obvious has its benefits. If the warning label had said 'seek medical advice' or 'inform next of kin' then I would have known it was appropriate to start panicking. 'Rinse immediately' implies that when you're done you can put your gloves back on and finish the job.

Which is what I did.

And I'm fine now.

Obviously.

Things That Make You Go 'Hmm'

2008-06-15T21:33:00.002+10:00

There was water on my tiles. For some reason I have it in my head that the water was there because I'd been mopping. But that really doesn't sound like something I'd do, so let's just say I'd spilt something.

Usually I delegate floor-drying to nature, but on this particular occasion I gave nature the afternoon off and tried something a little more aerobic.

I dropped a towel onto the puddle, stood on it and started drying the floor using a star-jump style manoeuvre–minus the actual jumping. (Yes, of course I was alone at the time).

It only took a few minutes, but when I woke up the next morning, not only was my floor sparkly-clean, but my thigh muscles were quite sore too.

"What a great exercise!" said I. "If only there was some sort of exercise machine that employed a similar towel-and-wet-floor technique for toning leg muscles."

Later that very week the Synchronicity Fairy waved her magic wand over my television and there on the screen was exactly the exercise machine I had wished for.

What are the odds? thought I.

So, last week I bought the As Seen On TV Leg Magic™ "Short Skirt" and "Sexy Shorts" Fitness Solution!

Yes. That's what it says on the box.

After I had assembled it, found three screws left over, read the instructions and put said screws where they belonged, I stood on the Leg Magic™ to begin my journey toward Thigh Perfection.

A few repetitions later I started questioning the accuracy of the 'Target Area' diagrams I had seen on the infomercial. Inner thigh? Oh my. I'm certainly not arguing with that one. Outer thigh? Yeah, I can feel that working. Buttocks? Um, maybe. I guess. Abdomen? Uh, not really.

For some reason, this machine, which is only designed to perform a single action, came with a Leg Magic™ Lower Body Workout DVD. Although I really couldn't see how you could possibly be confused about what to do when you were standing on the sliders, I thought that perhaps this DVD would provide answers as to why my buttocks and abdomen did not appear to be getting the workout I had expected.

And I was not disappointed.

But I was quite amused.

Turns out the Leg Magic™ is excellent for the stomach muscles. All you have to do is get off it and do some sit-ups. And the best way to shape and tone your butt is to stand next to the Leg Magic™ and hold the handle for balance while you do some squats and lunges.

Now, the whole workout only goes for 13 minutes, which fits in well with my 'less is enough' philosophy, but nine of those minutes are done on the floor.

I really don't think that exercising near a $130 piece of equipment is going to benefit your buttocks any more than exercising near a $25 beanbag will.

So, I think we can safely say that the Leg Magic™ is not the Fitness Solution it claims to be, and is only good for one thing.

But I have to say, it is extremely good at that one thing.

Just like my towel-and-wet-floor experience, you really don't need to do it very long to ensure there's plenty of pain in the morning.

A few more weeks of this and my legs will be so strong that if I happen to be attacked in a dark alley, I'll be able to do one of those cartwheel things in my black leather catsuit and crack the guy's neck with my thighs and still have enough leg-power to be chased by his fellow goons through Chinatown during New Year's celebrations.

But I'll most likely just buy some breezy short-shorts for the summer.

I Surrender All

2008-05-16T09:58:00.004+10:00

2001

Family Assistance Office (FAO) to Melody: In order to claim benefits as a single mother, you must first tell us your care arrangements for your children.

Melody to Melody: Um, OK ... let me see ... (gets out calendar) ... If it's his weekend then, and mine then ... and he had them then ... no, wait ... (gets out diary) ... no, I had them then ... OK ... plus that week away ... (gets out calculator) ...

Some time later...

Melody to FAO: According to my calculations, I have the children 80 percent of the time and the Other Party has them 20 percent of the time.

2006

FAO to Melody: The Other Party has provided new information about your care arrangements. Please tell us what your care arrangements are.

Melody to FAO: Why would the Other Party do that? There's been no change. It's 80:20. Just like always.

FAO to Melody: The Other Party agrees with your 80:20 estimation. However, our records show you as having 100 percent care. In light of this new information we see you have been overpaid. You owe us $4000.

Melody to FAO: What?

Melody to Melody: What?!

Melody to Universe in general: WHAT?!

2007

FAO to Melody: In order to receive the correct payment, please tell us what your current care arrangements are. Our records show you have 100 percent care.

Melody to FAO: What? No! NOT 100 percent. We've been through this already. It's 80:20. Got that? E-i-g-h-t-y:T-w-e-n-t-y

FAO to Melody: You owe us $200.

Melody to Universe: Aaarrrgghhh!

2008

FAO to Melody: I'd like to run through your care arrangements with you. I currently have you down at 100 percent.

Melody to FAO: Why? Why? WHY? (Bangs head against wall).

Melody explains the back-story to FAO. FAO is sympathetic, but not enough to give Melody her money back. Melody gathers all her patience.

Melody to FAO: OK. This is how it is: It's his weekend then, and mine then, and then there's the holidays, plus a few weeks at Christmas. Now that I'm working he has them more often.

FAO to Melody: That puts you down at 76 percent and the Other Party at 24 percent.

Melody to FAO: And that's in your computer now? It's officially in the system that I have them 76 percent of the time? You've pressed 'save'?

FAO to Melody: It's in the system as 76 percent.

One Week Later

FAO to Melody: I'd like to run through your care arrangements with you. I currently have you down at 80 percent.

Melody lets FAO know what she thinks of FAO.

Apparently, Other Party to FAO: No, Other Party has the children 31 percent of the time.

Melody counts to 10.

Melody to FAO: Let's try this again shall we. It's his weekend then, and mine then... etc.

FAO to Melody: Well, that puts him down at 22 percent. I'll put that to the Other Party to see if he agrees and if he doesn't I'll call you back and we'll go through it again together.

Melody pauses.

Melody sighs.

Melody to FAO: You know what? I don't care. If he says 31, just go with 31. Seriously, the few extra dollars are just not worth the effort and I'm so very over this.

FAO to Melody: I do this kind of thing a lot and I know I can get him to agree to 22 percent.

Melody: Whatever.

FAO: I'll get it for you.

Melody: If you want to.

FAO: I will.

Melody: OK, fine.

FAO: Fine.

Melody hangs up the phone and discovers that sometimes giving up can feel pretty good.

The Kids Are Alright

2008-04-26T16:12:00.004+10:00

I know I complain a lot about, well, everything, but this week I'd like to do something different ... I'll only complain a little bit.

It's this parenting thing, y'see. While I've mentioned on numerous occasions that it's tiring, frustrating and isolating, I've so far failed to mention just how much I love it.

Which is quite a lot. In case you were wondering.

And while I'd be quite happy if a handsome and intelligent man wanted to become a part of our family (applications to be sent by email to Maybe Melody. Flattery and bribes accepted), I sometimes wonder if being single for so long has forced us into the kind of close relationship we have with each other.

If there had been an adult to talk to, would I have spent less time talking to my kids? Maybe we have gotten to know each other in a way that wouldn't be possible if someone else was around.

Without wanting to sound in any way biased, it's an absolute fact that my kids are the coolest people ever. They are clever, insightful and funny and genuinely good company. I have had some of the best laughs of my life with them: on the hammock eating ice cream, in the lounge room playing balloon volleyball, at a café having milkshakes–and you know how messy things can get when someone says something hilarious and you've got a mouthful of milkshake. Between the three of us there's plenty of "Oh, I'm crying!", "Ow! My sides!", "I can't breathe!" and "Honey, can you pass another napkin, please?"

The other week I bought some scented bubble mix and we went outside, blew bubbles and then ran around trying to smell whose was whose.

These guys are a whole lot of fun and I am absolutely besotted.

But it's not just my own kids. I definitely have a general, across-the-board love for children.

And it is this love that brings me to my complaint for the week.

It all started late one Saturday morning. The boys were playing and I had just decided that I'd been lazy enough for one day and was heading to my room to change out of my pyjamas.

There was a knock at the door.

"Oh no!" thought I. "That'll be Christians!"

I once successfully dealt with Jehovah's Witnesses by saying, "Yes, thanks, I've read the Bible. Love that verse in Corinthians. Isn't it hot out? Would you like a glass of water before you leave?"

And they left.

This time I was annoyed at the intrusion and didn't feel like humouring them, so I thought, "I'll just tell them 'thanks but no thanks' and send them away. Whatever happens, I definitely won't open the screen door."

"Hello, I'm John," said the first Witness through the screen.

"And this is Simon," he said, pointing to the second Witness.

I stood firm, ready to tell them I wasn't interested.

"And this is Simon's two year old daughter, Sarah."

I flung the screen door wide open, and with a huge smile said, "Hi Sarah!"

There was no thought involved–it was a completely compulsive reaction. When I finally realised what I'd done I thought, "Blast. The Jehovah's Witnesses have discovered my weakness."

It took me ages to get rid of them. They kept wanting to talk Armageddon, but I was much more interested in playing with the ornamental rocks on my porch with Sarah.

Yes, I know a lot of people would choose rocks over evangelists, but that's not the point. The point is that I think kids are great. They are fascinating bundles of creative energy and I happen to be lucky enough to live with two of them.

So I may go on about how hard parenting is, but actually, I've never had more fun. And I may grumble about being single, but really, I've never been more in love.

This parenting thing is enlightening and profound, and if these boys weren't around I'd really have something to complain about.

File Under 'Protest'

2008-04-19T10:19:00.004+10:00

You know what's funny? And by 'funny' I don't mean the kind of thing everybody can laugh at, I mean the kind of thing everybody it's not happening to can laugh at.

It's when you take a stand against something and it doesn't quite work.

It has already been established that I won't be paying $8 a pair for my children's school socks. I voiced my objections, encouraged others to do so, and sent my boys to school in normal socks.

While I haven't heard anything official from the school, they are sending me hidden messages through their newsletter. Here are the most recent examples:

But it doesn't stop at socks. My objections extend to every shelf in the uniform shop. Their prices are extortionary and I am not going to stand for it.

At the uniform shop grey pants are $34 (they jump to $45 once you hit a size 12). At KMart: $21. Uniform shop track pants: $27.50. KMart: $9. Uniform shop windcheater: $43.50. KMart: $12.

It's crazy. I'm pretty sure that spending more money on the same thing is not going to put anyone's children at an educational advantage, so I'm taking A Stand.

And here is where it goes a bit wrong.

I get worked up about the cost and I say, "Your prices are stupid!You're stupid! There's no way I'll put up with this nonsense! I'm off to KMart. I'm sticking it to the man! Just you wait and see who has the last laugh."

So the rest of the school goes to the uniform shop, parts with their money, and gets it over and done with in less than an hour.

Meanwhile, I go off, all smug and self-righteous, to my local KMart.

Oh. There's no blue shirts left. The only track pants on the shelf are black and the grey pants only come in a size 16.

Never mind, there's a Target around the corner.

Same thing. All the right stuff is out of stock.

So the next day I travel further to a different shopping centre.

Nothing.

What about Big W?

All out.

OK then. Let's try another suburb.

"Sorry, can't help you."

How am I supposed to stick it to the man under these circumstances? Perhaps I can't? Perhaps I'm beaten?

The next day I reluctantly walk into the uniform shop. But, after five minutes I'm angry with them all over again and I renew my vow to prove that they're all idiots.

Well, I'll definitely prove that someone's an idiot.

Another weekend, another four shops spanning three suburbs. Did you know KMart won't order things in for you?

I now have two days left before the boys need their winter uniform. The amount of time and money spent on this little protest of mine is far greater than if I had just shut up and bought the darned things from the school in the first place.

But it's the principle, isn't it?

I know KMart sells what I want at a better price. It just so happens that every store across the nation is out of stock at the moment.

And despite my experience, when I finally come home exhausted and stumble through my door with bags full of uniform, I know I'll flop my aching body down on the couch and with the last of my strength whisper, "See? I told you so."

File Under 'OH&S'

2008-04-05T13:25:00.006+11:00

For those of you who know me well, be prepared to raise one eyebrow in mild interest at this week's topic.

Or just say, "Huh?" if you can't do the eyebrow thing. I can't do it, despite the long hours practising in front of the mirror. It's just not going to happen, but I think I have finally accepted the disappointing fact that my eyebrows have no talent.

This week I am dedicating an entire entry to shoes. Yes. Shoes.

Now, when it comes to shoes I am usually indifferent–no need to get excited, just put them on your feet and get on with your life. This attitude has not been challenged (so you can lower your eyebrow now) and I'm not about to swoon over footwear, so please stay with me.

There will be photographs.

I am a big believer in companies providing a safe working environment for their employees. Unstable bookshelves, faulty wiring, temperamental machinery–these are all accidents waiting to happen and the company should be held responsible if those accidents stop waiting and start participating.

But companies also have to protect themselves from idiots who will sue them for things they couldn't possibly control. The idea is, if it happens at work, it's the company's fault. A shelf collapses because someone was climbing it to reach something at the top ... company's fault. Someone slices a finger off with a Stanley knife while trying to make a cubby house out of a cardboard box ... company's fault. Someone chokes on a paperclip ... company's fault.

Because of this OH&S has gone a bit mental.

There is an OH&S policy at work that, while still being fairly sensible, has caused me more grief than I would ever face if it didn't exist.

It's a shoe policy.

The publishing company I work for is one of the last of its kind. Everything takes place in the same building–writing, editing, design, prepress, printing, distribution, accounts–everything.

I work upstairs with the editors, but the mail room is downstairs on the other side of the factory floor. Because I have to make this little trip once a day I also have to follow the guidelines for footwear in the factory. No open toes, no stiletto heels. (The people upstairs were discussing a policy where no one from the factory could visit us unless they were wearing open-toed stilettos, but somehow I don't think it will make it past the board.)

I had the perfect pair of work shoes. They were comfortable, not too high, they went with everything and I wore them everywhere. But because they were inappropriate for an unavoidable two minutes of my working day, I had to buy a new pair.

The first pair I bought were like funky school shoes with a buckle and a chunky heel. But the heel quickly developed a squeak and the long walk down the quiet hallway in the editorial department became rather embarrassing.

The second pair were similar, but the chunky heel was much higher. Unfortunately they were so ergonomically unfriendly that after a few months I was slowly dragging myself up and down the stairs, leaning heavily on the rail, because of the pain in my knees. Pain that could have been avoided if I was allowed to wear my original shoes.

The third pair I bought were flat. I have never found flat shoes particularly attractive. They're perfectly fine if you're walking down the main street of a small coastal town, or if you're having a picnic in a grassy field on a warm spring day, but it doesn't matter how much they cost or who designed them, flat shoes always dress an outfit down.

I think these flat shoes have picked up on my attitude towards them and are now actively out to hurt me. They have caused me to slide involuntarily down a ramp, almost had me plummeting down a flight of stairs and actually had me falling up the stairs on two separate occasions (obviously not all the way from the bottom to the top ... that would just be silly).

I swear, this OH&S policy is going to kill me.

Yesterday I went out to try to end the madness once and for all. I bought two pairs of quality shoes that will hopefully last me a very, very long time. If all goes well, I won't have to buy any new shoes until at least 2011.

Oh, and I won't die at work. That would be nice too.

The killer flats. I should have known from the buckle that these were evil shoes. You can see evidence of one of my 'accidents' on the tip of the left shoe. I have now put them in a safe place where they can't hurt me anymore.

The new work shoes. Practical, yet versatile. The shoe for all occasions.

Buy one pair, get the second pair (of equal or lesser value) for half price. Technically they are not stilettos and, while the company has an 'anti-open' policy, it only specifically mentions the front bit. Therefore, I think I'll get away with it.

This is typical of my attitude towards shoes. You buy them, you wear them until they look like this, then you wear them some more. These are my runners. As far as I'm concerned, they're still good.

A pair of flats to be proud of. These were a gift and I'm quite happy to wear them in coastal towns, on picnics in the springtime, and during acts of piracy.

These shoes are insane. A friend passed them on to me because she didn't think they suited her. I think they suit me just fine–except that once they're on there's not a chance I'm even going to attempt to walk in them. That can't be healthy. Pretty, though.

File Under 'Going Out'

2008-03-29T13:18:00.002+11:00

I don't get out much. It's a single parent thing.

The problem with not getting out much is that when you finally get an opportunity to go somewhere it can be quite an ordeal.

The frequently social tend to approach these opportunities with a casual, "Oh, there's a band playing at the pub tonight? I'll just grab my coat."

For people like me, whose last outing was around three months ago, the process is a little more complicated: "Oh, there's a band playing at the pub next weekend? Should I go? I think I will. I want to, but I don't want to go on my own. I can, I've done it before, so I'll plan to go. Perhaps. I might ask a friend to come. No, I won't. Yes, I will. No. I can do this. Maybe."

Last night at around 6 o'clock I was sitting at my computer trying to find the details of the band I wanted to see. I thought, "But they're playing tonight and it's already 6, clearly I have subconsciously decided not to go."

I found the pub's number and gave them a call anyway.

The band started at 9.

Still time.

Losing confidence.

Call best friend.

BF: I've had a huge week and I'm exhausted. Sorry. Not tonight.

OK. I won't go. But it will mean a lonely night in. But if I went it could be a lonely night out. Yes, but I think the key word there is 'out'. Even if it's a disaster, at least I'll be out.

Sigh. It's all too hard.

OK. I'll go.

So at 6:30, with the decision firmly-possibly-I-don't-know-sort-of made, I started getting ready.

The first thing I did?

I dyed my hair.

Because this is the sort of thing people who don't get out much do.

Two hours later I was a picture of loveliness.

Hair: Darkest Brown by L'Oreal
Nails: Midnight Affair from Revlon's Blacker Lacquer range.
Foundation: Revlon Colorstay in Buff Chamois
Eyes: Avon's Precision Glimmer in Chocolate
Cheeks: Face of Australia Blusher in Outback Terra
Lips: Revlon Super Lustrous in Plumalicious

Maybe Melody is dressed in a combination of Kmart, Best & Less and Speeds Shoes.
Ring by Michael Hill.
Necklace by Some Shop in an Obscure Suburb.

Snack: Carrot and Coriander Cup Soup by Ainsley Harriott. Yes, I know if I keep eating this sort of stuff I only have myself to blame for disliking food.

Girly Pain by Fallopian Tubes. Ow! Hurting! Perhaps I'll stay home and watch terrible television or play SIMS instead.

Pain Relief by Panadol. You will be mad at yourself if you stay home.

Soup Stain on Jacket, also by Ainsley Harriott. Looks like I'm not wearing that then.

Road Works by VicRoads. That'd be right. I'm going to be late now.

Detour, also by VicRoads. What do you mean I can't get back on the freeway? What if I try this road? Now where the hell am I? Oh what's the point? I shouldn't have bothered. Wait! What's this? The freeway! Hooray!

Easy Parking Space by Oh My, How Often Does That Happen.

Deep Breath by I Don't Want To Do This - Yes I Do - No I Don't - Just Shut Up And Get Out Of The Car.

Confident Walk by At Least I Look Like I Do This Kind Of Thing All The Time.

Highly Enjoyable Evening courtesy of the band, the guitarist and the very, very drunk guy who kept making pouty faces at me.

VVDG: Hey.
Melody: (Looks at VVDG).
VVDG: (Pulls pouty face).
Melody: (Looks away).
VVDG: Hey.
Melody: (Looks at VVDG).
VVDG: (Pulls pouty face).
Melody: No, you can't just say 'hey' and then pull a pouty face, you have to follow it up with a sentence.
VVDG: I really want to but I'm very drunk.
Melody: Yes. Yes you are.
VVDG: Hey.
Melody: (Looks at VVDG).
VVDG: (Pulls pouty face).

Now I'm sure the evening would have gone exactly the same way had I just said, "Oh, there's a band playing at the pub tonight? I'll just grab my coat." But being out of practise means that so much more effort has to go into it.

But at the same time, perhaps I got so much more out of it. I thought the band was excellent and, in my opinion, the crowd was highly unappreciative of their talents. (Clap people! Weren't you listening?)

Maybe if I did it all the time I might think, "So he has a shiny, shiny guitar and his fingers blur as he plays. I saw that kind of thing last week."

And instead of being entertained by the very, very drunk guy I might have thought, "This idiot has forgotten that he already tried to pick me up on the other side of the room. Go sway unsteadily next to someone else, loser."

Really, it was just an ordinary night at the pub, but I enjoyed it like it was something special. I'm sure next time I go the whole process will be easier.

But I might bring a friend just in case.

Or not. No, I will. Maybe.

Um.

They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab

2008-03-22T15:20:00.004+11:00

I recently came across a very disturbing article in a religious magazine.

Yes, I know if I want to be disturbed by something then religion is an excellent place to start, but this particular magazine is usually a fairly inoffensive, let's-work-together-to-make-the-world-a-better-place kind of read.

The article was about a preacher named Kevin and his sister, Dailyn, who travel around America "carrying the message of Jesus' second coming". They say, "We dream of filling up big stadiums and baptising many souls. We want to be modern apostle Pauls - faithful preachers of the Word of God".

While I find this kind of "evangelical crusade" talk disturbing in itself, it's nothing we haven't already heard. We see people like this on our televisions all the time, running their mega-churches, praying that we receive healing through our TV screens, and asking us for money.

But what I found deeply disconcerting was that Preacher Kevin is only seven years old.

That's right.

He's seven.

What's more, he's been preaching for almost half his life. When he was four his parents booked him in to speak at a gathering of 150 people. Kevin's dad (also a pastor - although I probably don't need to mention that - what else would he be?) said, "People expected the children to say some Bible verses and other things by memory. But it wasn't like that. The Holy Spirit was in charge, and when Kevin's 25-minute sermon was over and it was time for the alter call, the entire church stood up and came forward - some crying and some just praising the Lord for what they had just heard."

Dailyn's story is a bit different. She is a year younger and also a girl, and being that God enforces the same gender roles on people as her parents do (what are the odds?), Dailyn has the lesser role of leading the congregation in singing.

She describes her journey into ministry like this:

"When I turned five, I decided that I would also like to preach. I felt it inside and I felt I could do it, and praise God, I am doing it! I know that the Lord called me even though He didn't do it exactly like He did it in Kevin's life. He allowed me to fall in love with this, and today I feel extremely happy to serve our Lord."

I have two words for you ...

Freak Show.

I have another two words ...

Child Abuse.

Seriously, these kids are screwed and it makes me furious.

One day little Kevin is playing dress-ups, pretending to preach just like daddy does, the next day daddy's written a sermon for him to repeat, mummy's drawn pictures on flash-cards to remind him what to say, they've put a microphone in his hand and shoved him on stage. Little Dailyn sees all the fuss they're making over her brother and cries, "NO FAIR!" so they shove her up there too.

Then comes the positive reinforcement. All those adults paying them attention. All that praise. All that love. Mummy and Daddy are so proud.

But how on earth can Kevin and Dailyn possibly have an understanding of what they're saying and doing? How can it be said that this is their choice and their parents are merely being supportive? (And do you think they'd be that "supportive" if Kevin and Dailyn said they wanted to be atheists?)

It isn't until around age 12 when children start to develop abstract and critical thinking skills. Before then, any beliefs, attitudes and faith habits can only be a mimicry of their parents and those around them. Kevin and Dailyn may have a genuine talent for public speaking and performance, but their minds are being seriously messed with.

How are they going to feel when it finally dawns on them how manipulated they've been? After they've spent their entire childhood pleasing their parents and countless others, how are they going to cope with the shame and disappointment they'll face if they want to stop?

How long before Kevin is taking various substances to deal with the pressure to perform, and how long before Dailyn is seeking the approval she so desperately needs through sexual encounters.

It may seem harsh to predict such an outcome, but let's face it ... it's a highly likely outcome. No one who has their minds hijacked and stifled by the ultra-religious turns out well-adjusted.

Kevin and Dailyn have lost their childhood.

I want to give them a hug and tell them to go climb some trees. I want to send them some Spongebob DVDs and a Playstation.

Since I can't do that I will hug my own children and tell them that whoever they are and whatever they become is fine by me.

And when they're giggling about their favourite bodily function I will smile as I leave the room. (Well, I'm certainly not staying in the room while that sort of thing is going on.)

This is normal. This is childhood.

Just let the kids be kids.

All You Need Is Love (Part II)

2008-03-15T15:05:00.002+11:00

I once met a man who said, "Relationships are really hard." He then proved it by showing me just how hard it was to have a relationship with him.

While I agree wholeheartedly that a relationship with a psychopath, an idiot, a cheat or a man-child will provide an endless supply of misery, I'm not convinced that a committed, well-balanced relationship could be anywhere near as difficult as single-parenthood.

As you know from my previous self-pitying rant on solitude, people who live alone are more likely to get sick and go a bit mental. But people who raise children on their own have a somewhat bleaker future.

A 2001 Swedish study found that single mothers are four times more likely to commit suicide than married mothers and 70 percent more likely to suffer premature death.

I'd like to say that's a shocking statistic, but I'm actually not at all surprised.

The government knows that single mothers are one of the most disadvantaged groups in society (she says as she calmly sips tea in front of her computer in a nice, secure house in the suburbs), and I think they should be doing more to help.

Forget the Return to Work scheme because, let's face it, that's not making any single parent's life easier. Just like the government has programs for the long-term unemployed, they should provide programs for parents who are long-term single.

The Mutual Obligation agreement could include:

They give you a dating allowance and you must participate in a minimum of two dates per week.
They provide quality childcare for the duration of each date.
You get a "date assistance" payment to help cover the cost of a new outfit.
Once a fortnight you have to call them up and report how many dates you've been on and if you liked them.
If a date doesn't work out, they have to send you a letter explaining why he was an idiot and how you deserve better.

Of course, being familiar with government initiatives, I'm quite certain that they would make the scheme stupid and stressful. You would probably have to attend seminars explaining the benefits of brushing your hair before going on a date. Or they would punish you financially for missing a date when your kids are sick, giving you no choice but to take them on your date with you. In the end you know they'll simply force everyone into unsatisfying, low-end relationships then praise themselves for making the world a better place.

OK, so getting the government involved would be a bad idea.

It's very difficult to find any positive research on single mothers. The closest I came to was a study comparing the stress response between single and married mothers. A single mother's mental and physical health problems are sometimes thought of as a character flaw - that perhaps the woman is naturally weak and predisposed to depression and anxiety. But the study found that there was little difference between the two groups when it came to their ability to handle stress. Each group was just as capable as the other.

The reason single mothers weren't faring too well wasn't due to an inability to cope with stress, but the fact that they faced a significant amount more of it.

And while it is generally accepted that single mothers are excellent at task-management, conflict resolution, budgeting and creative problem-solving, I'm yet to find any research on the topic. Everyone's too busy telling us how fragile we are.

These things considered, a lonely lass may sometimes feel that having a man would solve all their problems. It's not hard to see where this comes from. You've got the statistics, you got society seeming to favour the coupled, evolutionary biology is urging you to pair off, and if you were raised in a religious environment chances are you were repeatedly told you can't do it alone - you need a Saviour.

But a man is not a saviour, and he certainly won't solve all your problems. He will solve some, but he will make others. I think it's fair to say life would be easier, but foolish to think it would be a breeze. After all, relationships are difficult.

But I'm a single mother.

I'm good a difficult.

Call Upon The Author To Explain

2008-03-08T15:21:00.002+11:00

Once upon a time, when you wanted to assuage your sorrows with a little retail therapy, you had to change out of your pajamas, brush your hair and teeth, and make yourself presentable before heading to the shops.

Merely getting out of the house is in itself a spirit-lifting activity, so by the time you made it to JB Hi-Fi the world was already a better place.

These days the act of uniting your Internet connection with your credit card brings the retail bit right into your home. So now you can part with your money and stay depressed.

The therapy bit comes a week or so later when you open your letterbox and it's filled with wonders and delights guaranteed to make your life better for at least an hour.

I experienced this on Monday when I discovered Nick Cave in my letterbox, sitting there all moody and moustachioed. Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! had arrived so I rushed it inside, put it in my CD player, pressed "go", and suddenly everything was good in my world.

My love for Nick was ignited only last year when I went to see him and Grinderman at The Forum. It was my first live Cave experience, but my concert companions had been to his gigs more times than I've been to, well, every gig I've ever been to, so I was in good hands.

We got there early to claim a spot close enough to the stage to get Nick-sweat on us, and close enough for him to look deep into my eyes when he sang.

Which he did.

No, really. Nick and I had a moment.

OK, so perhaps it was more "at" than "deep into my eyes" and, admittedly, it was during the intro and he turned away before he actually started singing, but the point I'm trying to make is that there was some looking going on between Nick Cave and myself. And since this kind of thing doesn't happen very often, I'm calling it a "moment" and you can't take that away from me. And since we had obviously bonded so deeply that night, I'd been eagerly awaiting the new album.

But then, as is customary, I made myself a cup of tea and sat down by the stereo with the lyrics booklet in my hand. I'm afraid to say, my heart sank a little as I flipped the pages. It sounds like Nick, it reads like Nick, but it's typed like a thirteen-year-old girl's MySpace page.

OK, so I'm exaggerating - he never once says "LOL" - but there's an apostrophe shortage, words are abbreviated, symbols replace letters, and what's with all the exclamation marks? There's 33 of them after the line "O POOR LARRY". At least I think there's 33. My eyes went a bit funny when I tried to count them all.

In Midnight Man he writes, "to serve at his comm& btwn the wars". In Jesus of the Moon: "y/ lying there w/ the light on yr hair". In Night of the Lotus Eaters: "theyve hung seaweed round my hips".

Being fairly new to the Bad Seeds I don't actually know if this is normal or not - there aren't any lyrics printed in the other albums I own. Is this a new direction? Is this something he's always done that I've only just found out about? I'm torn between my love for his music and my hatred for multiple exclamation marks.

But I've given it some thought and I've decided not to let this come between us. After all, love is supposed to be unconditional. It would be foolish of me to say, "I'll only accept you if you do things my way." Besides, there are so many other things to adore, and when I put the lyrics booklet away and turn up the volume ... everything is good in my world.

All You Need Is Love (Part I)

2008-02-29T15:09:00.005+11:00

I'M GETTING MARRIED!

It's all very exciting. I haven't set a date yet, or started looking at wedding gowns, or function centres, or bonbonnieres, but I'll get to that soon. And I haven't told my boys yet - just waiting for the right moment, really. And I haven't asked my best friend to be my matron of honour yet, but I'm sure she'd love to.

OK, to be completely honest, I haven't told my man about it either. And when I say "my" man, I guess what I'm really trying to say is "a" man, since I don't actually have a boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure, I think, that sometime in the near future, or at least somewhere between now and death, I might get a boyfriend perhaps and he could possibly marry me. Maybe.

I'm practically engaged!

I read somewhere that February 29 was once a day when roles could be reversed and the woman was permitted to propose to the man. (What is society coming to? Actually, last night the weatherman mentioned it too so it must be true.)

12 years ago to the day it just so happened that I was deeply in love, so armed with this little piece of "knowledge" I called my heart's desire and asked him to marry me. Well, I actually asked his answering machine, in a light-hearted "this is all in jest, let's have a laugh about it" kind of way, but with the option of later saying, "Of course I was joking! Unless... "

It didn't work out, in case you were wondering.

It may not be the torturous event that Valentine's day is, and thankfully it is less frequent, but for me February 29 still has the ability to remind me that I'm very, very single.

I have always thought that being single is just not healthy for me and a recent article in Time magazine did little to make me feel better about the whole thing. It said, "A 2006 paper that tracked mortality over an eight-year period found that people who never married were 58 percent liklier to die during that time than married folks were." And, "Married people have lower rates of all types of mental illness and suicide." And neuroscientist James Coan was quoted as saying, "If you're chronically releasing stress hormones, your body starts to fall apart. Ultimately, you're going to live less long - and you're going to be miserable." Coan's studies showed that "being married somehow helps the body circumvent this mess, either by hushing the hypothalamus, or reducing cortisol production."

In short, it's either a husband or a hearse.

OK, so perhaps I'm being a tiny bit melodramatic there, (or maybe Melodydramatic? No. Definitely not. It's wordplay like that that's keeping me single).

Those happy little statistics might be true when you compare being single with being happily, or at least comfortably married, but a stifling or unsupportive marriage, or an abusive or unfaithful partner is probably just as likely, or even more likely to send you to an early grave.

I like to keep this in mind when I'm feeling particularly sorry for myself. Rather than wallow in the thought of being seemingly incapable of finding the one man I want to spend my life with, I like to think of all the men I don't want to be with that I've successfully managed not to marry. Like arrogant salesmen, cult leaders, professional footballers and reality TV participants.

See? There's hundreds of men out there making my life better for the simple reason that they're not my husband.

This is my version of positive thinking.

It may be years before I am finally tied down to the bliss of domestic drudgery, and since another February 29 is going to pass by without me proposing to anybody, I thought I'd at least take the opportunity to mention my intention to marry.

Eventually.

Perhaps.

Sigh.

File Under 'Unnecessary'

2008-02-22T11:07:00.005+11:00

I have been spring cleaning. Yes, I know it's still summer, but autumn is only days away and then it will be winter and before you know it ... Spring!

Considering the state of my house this really doesn't leave me with much time.

I recently read that 20 percent of the things you own hold 80 percent of the total value of those things. Being that it's important to believe everything you read, I decided I wanted to only be surrounded by valuable things, and in order to achieve this I was going to throw 80 percent of my house away.

Rationality and considered behaviour are clearly my strong points.

I started in the bathroom cupboard. It's amazing how much stuff you can actually fit in there. I didn't want to just randomly throw things away though, I wanted to be accurate. So I counted everything, multiplied it by 0.8, and discovered I needed to get rid of 57 things.

Living alone for too long can make you do these sorts of things.

I began with what I thought I could do without. By the time I got to 20, it was a real stretch - I might use this one day. I like the smell of this. This one has cute packaging. I still had 37 things to go but I couldn't bear to throw any more away.

So then I changed my approach. Instead of trying to work out what I didn't want, I began to think about what I did want. What was important? What was useful? The result surprised me. I put eight things back in the cupboard before I began having difficulty deciding whether or not a product was valuable enough to keep.

Once I had all the important things on the shelf, deciding what to do with the 29 things on the floor was easy. 20 went straight into the bin without any sense of loss. The other things, while not as important, still had enough value to hang on to. So I ended up only throwing 40 things away. But on the other hand ... I ended up throwing 40 things away!

Throwing things away is a good feeling. It creates a sense of lightness and leaves you with less ways to mess up your house.

Unnecessary things cause unnecessary problems.

I think this is a good philosophy in life too. We do so many unnecessary things that only leave us tired, poor and unhappy. I am making a conscious effort to throw these things away too.

For example, the publishing company I work for subscribes to many magazines. It was my job to cut out a small piece of paper with the editorial team's names on it and staple it to the magazine's cover. Once someone had read it, they'd put a tick next to their name. After a few months of doing this I realised that no one was ticking anything. I went in to see my boss and told him that this system which had been in place for many a year, well, I wasn't going to do it anymore. It's only small, but I'm saving on paper and staples and a little bit of time. What's more, nobody has noticed. That's the thing about unnecessary stuff - you never miss it.

You do miss things that are wasted on the unnecessary though. Like money. If you keep getting late fines for not returning DVDs on time, it's money spent on nothing. If you keep getting speeding fines, slow down.

You can save yourself from fatigue by turning off the TV and going to bed when it's late and there's nothing on.

And save yourself from unnecessary hurt by distancing yourself from the cause. If your wife leaves you, don't keep inviting her parents around for dinner.

So much is lost by holding on to what we don't need, and there is so much to gain by letting it go.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some dead plants on my front porch that I need to get rid of.

Lovely Lady Lumps

2008-02-15T13:47:00.011+11:00

Well, I only have three more kilos to go before I get to my target weight. And as with most things, the last bit is the most difficult. Except for maybe the first bit. And some of the bits in the middle perhaps. But the point is, the last three kilos are playing hard-to-get.

This may be because, while most curves were appearing in the right places, some were beginning to stray. I started exercising more regularly to persuade them to go back to more aesthetically pleasing areas, but some of them didn't take too kindly to that idea and left altogether.

The exercise is staying, but this means I have to spend more time in the kitchen.

I hate the kitchen. But, as that old saying goes: "If you can't take the heat, try turning the fan on because you're the only person around and someone's got to stay in the kitchen."

So, as there is no alternative, I have been trying to make the kitchen a better place to be.

The first thing I did was buy a microwave. I figure if the radiation from it sends me to an early grave, the extra time I would have spent out of the kitchen will ensure I have no microwave-based death-bed regrets.

The second thing was pointed out by a friend who came over for dinner. I'd been complaining about how much of my life was taken up by kitchen activities before I'd started preparing the meal. It was tacos. Nice and easy.

I was slicing and dicing the salad vegetables when I realised I had no cheese. Everyone agreed it just wasn't a taco without cheese, so my friend went and bought some.

I kept chopping.

He came back.

I was still chopping.

He sat down to watch TV with the boys.

I continued to chop.

Eventually he came into the kitchen and said, "You really do take a long time, don't you?" Then he surveyed my handiwork neatly placed in various bowls on the bench and said, "Although, that's the best chopping I've ever seen!"

It was then I realised that my need to be perfect had not only sent me to therapy, it was also stealing my time by making me dice my tomatoes to glossy gourmet food magazine standards.

I am now teaching myself to say, "That'll do," at least a minute before I truly belive it will actually do.

The third thing to make my kitchen time more enjoyable was a Christmas gift from my friend Kymmie. She said, "Now that you're a domestic goddess, you're going to need one of these..." I opened the gift and discovered the cutest apron I've ever seen (pictured). So now, even if I'm burning the onions it doesn't matter, because I feel so pretty!

I may never learn to like the kitchen. If I'm lucky, I'll marry a chef and then I won't have to try. Of course, if I'm even luckier, I'll marry someone with simple tastes who'll polish off the plate and say, "Mmm, that was great, love."

Well, a girl can dream. It passes the time while I'm cooking.

(Della's Banana and Raspberry Bread. I overheard my son at last year's birthday party say to a friend, "You should try this, it's really good." Thank you, Della.)

(Kris's Chocolate Oat Balls. After tasting one of these, my son visibly melted, then ran over and hugged me while crying out, "All those years wasted without that flavour!" Thank you, Kris.)

Knock Your Socks Off

2008-02-10T11:45:00.000+11:00

The people who run the school my children attend have been discussing some big issues. There are problems, they say, and something needs to be done to put an end to them once and for all.

Excellent, I like a school that takes action. But what is the problem? Bullies? Low grades? Inadequate sports equipment?

No.

It's socks.

Yes... socks.

Apparently some kids are coming to school on Fridays (sports day) wearing ankle socks, while others have socks with a stripe on them.

And apparently this is a big problem.

So, in order to rectify this unpardonable crime against the sports uniform, the people in charge came up with a remarkable solution.

"Let's introduce a new sock," they said. "And let's put the school logo on it," they said also. "And then let's charge $8 a pair and make it compulsory to wear them."

"Um... what?" said just about everybody not on the school committee.

I think some kind of crazy-fog must have descended during the meeting to make a room full of normally intelligent people all agree that this was a clever idea.

Compulsory $8 socks? I mean, really!

At least one person resisted the fog enough to suggest that some parents may not take to the idea, so it was agreed that force was necessary, and they would send a pair of socks home with each child and then automatically charge their parents' account.

And this is where I show up and say, "Ah, I don't think so."

Seriously, what's so good about this pair of socks that justifies that kind of price? Do they automatically repel stains? Do they massage your pressure points as you walk? Do they darn themselves at night while you're sleeping?

I'm guessing they're only capable of doing what an ordinary $2 pair of socks can do. Although they do have the power to make your poorer.

I don't want to be poorer, and this is why I am officially protesting against the new sports sock. I am starting a petition and sending my kids to school in regular, plain white socks. This will either encourage people to take a stand and make the world a better place, or it will embarrass my children and make people look at me funny. But the day a pair of socks becomes an important part of a child's education is the day I step in and tell people to stop being so silly.

I don't want to stress about stains if it's muddy outside. I don't want to stress about holes if the boys are sliding up and down the hallway. I don't want to have to ask my ex-husband to post the socks back to me when they've been left behind. I refuse to get precious about a pair of socks. If they're not making my children smarter, happier and at least 5 percent better at sport, then the only concern I want to have about socks is if they've got some on.

$8? Tell 'em they're dreamin'.

File Under 'Catching Up'

2007-11-19T12:35:00.000+11:00

My computer is unwell. It caught something nasty while I was downloading some questionable material.

No, not that kind of questionable material.

It was a free online adventure game with flaming swords and magic balls and not a single euphemism in sight. The lads were having a splendid time accumulating weapons and blowing each other up when the computer decided it had had enough and turned itself off.

All attempts to get it working again have failed.

It’s a strange kind of virus. At least, I think it is, but I know nothing so it’s probably completely normal. You power it up and it goes through all the right motions and makes all the right noises and then sits there angelically humming to itself. It can sit like that for hours. But, as soon as you ask it to do something, it cracks it and shuts down.

Come to think of it, maybe it caught the virus off my children.

I have finally called in the experts to have a look, take it apart, give it a stern talking to—whatever it is that experts do when they do things. Hopefully it will all work out happily in the end… just like in real life.

In the meantime I will only be able to blog sporadically (so, no change there). Unfortunately, due to certain cosmic laws controlling the universe, now that I can’t blog I have a billion (or possibly a bit less) ingenious ideas of what to write about. Seriously. My words would change your life (perhaps). I’m sure that as soon as my computer is fixed my mind will go completely blank and I’ll end up spending my internet time watching video clips on You Tube, but for now I will make the most of what limited technological access I have to catch you all up on the events in my life.

And because it’s been so long since my last entry there have actually been events in my life—so you won’t have to read things like, “I was cleaning my house the other day when suddenly, completely out of the blue… I kept cleaning it.”

Although that has happened quite a bit lately.

Something else that has happened lately is my boys’ 9th birthday.

Yes. Nine.

We were outside playing cricket together when it occurred to me that we were outside playing cricket together. I wasn’t changing nappies and I wasn’t pureeing vegetables and I wasn’t scanning the floor for choking hazards. Instead I was getting bowled out on my first go by a sports fan with a good throwing arm.

I know that’s what’s supposed to happen. You make them, you love them, you feed them and they become nine. But by golly, it’s amazing. You start out with this screaming, selfish thing that for some reason you love so much it takes your breath away, then several years later that thing can be one of the coolest people you’ll ever meet. Providing they don’t make fun of you for being bad at cricket.

We had a party to celebrate and word on the street is that it was the best party ever! One kid said it was the best because he could eat cake in the lounge room. Another one said it was the best because there were cheese sandwiches. My best friend said it was the best because she could sit in the tree in my backyard and shoot children with a water pistol. Everyone wins!

Well there’s a lot more I’d like to share with you, but my computer time is up for now. Hopefully sometime in the near future (ie. before 2009) I will have the means to write again.

File Under 'Word Nerd'

2007-10-10T12:46:00.000+10:00

I like words. I like big ones, little ones, strange and rarely used ones. I even like those ones with an overabundance of consonants. Writing them down is in my Top Five list of Things To Do With Letters.

Yes, it makes me sound like a giant nerd, but according to my dictionary, a nerd is: A person who is single-minded or accomplished in scientific or technical pursuits but is felt to be socially inept.

I may be single-minded and socially inept, but I assure you, I have never accomplished anything scientific or technical. The closest I come to nerddom is probably my belief that the dictionary is the best book ever written. Besides, a true nerd is generally a lot smarter than I am.

And reads better books.

Because of my word-love, I am inclined to laugh more at word-related jokes.

One of my favourite Simpsons lines is when Miss Hoover and Edna Krabappel are discussing the phrase "A noble spirit embiggens the smallest man".

Mrs. Krabappel: Embiggens? I never heard that word before moving to Springfield.
Miss Hoover: I don't know why, it's a perfectly cromulent word.

And I love Kath & Kim’s “It’s not rocket surgery”.

It’s even better when you see or hear these things first-hand. A spelling mistake in a church bulletin several years ago turned a football match into an animal rights issue by saying, “When Tony Lockett kicks a goat, the crowd cheers wildly.”

On another occasion I had to bury my head in my hymnal to stop myself causing a scene after the preacher said, “Jesus is in every crook and nanny.”

For more laughs along this line (if indeed you are inclined to laugh at such things), visit this page:

http://www.reversespins.com/bulletin.html

The reason it doesn't work as a link is because, as I have already mentioned, I suffer from technical ineptitude.

What's For Dinner?

2007-10-01T12:33:00.000+10:00

If you have read my profile you will know that I am currently sitting in the pottery class of life, staring at the wonky vessel in front of me and wondering what went wrong.

Some of my attempts to fix it have failed miserably, but, more encouragingly, some attempts have only failed impassively.

One thing I know I must do is add more clay. I need to fill it out and create some curves. Turn it into something a little more “potilicious”.

Yes, I’m a skinny lass, and while I've learnt over the years that nobody likes to hear a skinny person complain about their weight, I have also learnt, over the last few months, that this is my blog and I can do what I like.

The difference between skinny jokes and fat jokes is that only the latter have become socially unacceptable. I’ve heard them all: On a windy day you’ll blow away. Don’t turn sideways or we won’t be able to see you. You could hide behind a signpost. You’re a stick insect. A matchstick. A rake. You’re fading away.

My personal favourite was, “My god Melody! You’re so thin! Are you sick?”

All these comments, with the possible exception of that last one, are said in good humour. Unfortunately these people are likely to be offended if I employ that same good humour and say, “Yes. And you’re fat.” (To the last one I wanted to say, “No, I’m not sick. I just look really skinny standing next to your enormous girlfriend.” But I didn’t say it. Mostly because I’m nice, but also because she really was big and I didn’t want her to hurt me).

Most of the time I laugh along as though they’re the first person to ever make such a witty observation, but occasionally I might subtly remind them that it’s quite a personal thing and perhaps they shouldn’t be so rude.

It goes a little something like this:

Complete stranger in supermarket: “Wow! You’re so thin!”
Melody: “I know! Stress, twins, divorce and a non-specified eating disorder have worked wonders for me!”

But the time has come to make an effort and become more shapely. My research into the matter has led me to conclude that the best way to do this is to eat more food.

Who would have thought?

Problem is, I’m really lazy. And this is where you come in.

Y’see, just eating more of the same thing isn’t all that appealing, and wading through recipe books looking for inspiration will only hold my interest for so long (about four minutes and 32 seconds). So I would like to request the guidance of those who are wiser (ie. most people).

If you have any favourite vegetarian recipes that don’t involve standing in a kitchen performing complicated culinary acts for three hours, I would love to try them. The easier the better.

And if you happen to have a delicious recipe for potato and leek soup (you know who you are) I’d like that too.

If I experience a rare moment of enthusiasm I might even take photos of the finished product and post them on the blog to show you what a wonderful dish (read: chaotic mess) I made. And maybe one day, if I’m feeling brave, I’ll share with you some of my own recipes from my vast collection [of two].

I am searching for an extra seven kilos, and while I’d like to thank those who have offered me seven of theirs, I’m not quite sure how a transfer of that kind is going to work, so I think I’ll just go with the whole eating thing.

I’m looking forward to trying your ideas.

Monday I Have Friday On My Mind

2007-07-22T20:06:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, when life was simple, I was a woman In The Know.

People could ask me, "When is school photo day?" And I could say, "Next Tuesday. And they're taking the basketball team's photo as well, so don't forget the uniform. Photos are $12 each."

People could also ask me, "What time is the grade 3 excursion?" And I could say, "The bus leaves at 9.15, but they would like everyone to be at the school by 8.45. Send a packed lunch because they're stopping at the park on the way back."

And people could also ask me, "Where did you get that piece of cake?" And I could reply, "From that table over there. It's fundraising day and I came prepared with a pocket-full of dollar coins."

But the days of being In The Know have come to an end. These days I'm so far Out of The Know it's embarrassing.

A few weeks ago I was talking to another mum about basketball results. We both agreed that all the teams had done really well this year. We both agreed that it was great for the kids' confidence levels. We chatted about skill development and camaraderie.

Then she said, "How come your boys weren't there?"

I looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry, what are you talking about?"

Turns out there had been an all-day competition that day and my boys were the only two players who didn't get to go.

Somewhere at home, under a pile of miscellaneous paperwork I hadn't read, was an information sheet I hadn't noticed, and a permission slip I hadn't signed.

Once upon a time that wouldn't have happened.

I performed another act of ignorance when term 3 started last week.

We were running around in a typical first-day rush, complete with stress-induced yelling and the obligatory "crawling under the bed to look for the left shoe" thing you always end up doing when you're in a hurry.

Surprisingly, we made it to school with five minutes to spare. Also surprisingly, nobody else was there.

Somewhere at home, under a pile of miscellaneous paperwork I hadn't read, was a newsletter with the words "Curriculum Day" written under Monday's date.

Once again I had no option but to drag my kids to work and offer my sincerest apologies to my boss, who was most understanding, and who assured me he was not the kind of person who would burn my house down because of my child-related work issues.

That was comforting to know.

I have come to the conclusion that, as a single parent, you can either be a really good mother, or a really good employee. You can put 100 percent into one or the other, but as soon as you try to do both, the best you can hope for is a top of 85 percent.

Or perhaps it's just me. Maybe I can only reach 85 percent.

There might be single women out there who have a perfect work record and still manage to make lamingtons for the school fete. Although, I'd be inclined to think they probably have some sort of chemical assistance or a secret husband stashed away somewhere.

Maybe I'll get better at this whole work/family thing, but, judging by the last couple of weeks, maybe I'll get worse. At least I'll know I'm on top of things if I can remember what day it is.

Happy Friday, everyone.

File Under 'Groan'

2007-07-13T12:43:00.000+10:00

It's a fact: single parenting, school holidays, work and the flu don't mix.

I had a call from my ex-husband's wife last week and she sounded awful. Yes, I know ex-wives are renowned for thinking the new wife sounds awful, but that's not what I meant.

The poor lass has two kids of her own and another on the way and was wiped out with the flu, so we arranged for my boys to come home.

Unfortunately, the flu came home too. Sleep was lost, work was missed, and grumpiness and guilt were created respectively.

I know I went to work on Wednesday and Thursday, but I'm not really sure what I did there. The whole thing is a bit of a blur and I can only cross my fingers and hope I didn't throw away any important documents, or charge people for ads they didn't place in one of our magazines. I do remember having an email conversation with someone about placing a third ad, but I couldn't actually remember the first two. I'm hoping it will all come back to me when the fever goes away.

Today my boys and I are lying down a lot and groaning occasionally. And since I am writing at the dizzying speed of 100 words per hour, I think I might stop now and make a cup of tea. And groan some more.

File Under 'Commuting'

2007-07-06T12:31:00.000+10:00

Last week's blog entry left a certain song from The Sound of Music stuck in the heads of a number of people. (That number might have only been two, but the fact that it got stuck is the point I would like to draw your attention to).

This is nowhere near as bad as being unable to dislodge DJ BoBo's Eurovision entry, Vampires Are Alive, from your brain, but it can still get a bit annoying around day three.

The song had left me by around day four, but then, on day five, a package arrived at work that got me started all over again...

It was a white paper manuscript tied up with string. I took it in to my boss and told him it was one of my favourite things. He indicated that, due to the size of the manuscript and the large collection of others he had yet to read, it was perhaps not one of his favourite things.

This week, in an attempt to help Julie Andrews emerge victorious from her battle with DJ BoBo, I decided I was going to focus on some of the things that I don't find favourable.

I was going to call it When The Dog Bites, and everyone was going to read it and say, "Oh, I see what she's done. Isn't that clever? What an incredible wit that Melody has."

But, on further consideration, I realised that my readers are actually intelligent and they would see straight through me and the next time they saw me they would say, "So... couldn't think of anything to write last week?"

And I would have nodded my head with shame.

Now that my lack of inspiration is known to you all, I am hoping you will forgive me for doing nothing more than adding an extra "Favourite Thing" to last week's list.

Not many people can say this, and the more environmentally friendly amongst us will not be pleased by this, but I love driving to work.

Instead of the frustrating traffic jams, endless red lights and rows of identical buildings normally associated with the off-to-work ritual, I drive over hills, through valleys, past cows in their paddocks, and farmhouses with smoke curling out of their chimneys.

There hasn't been a single journey where I haven't been moved to say, "Wow. That's so pretty."

Sometimes it's the way the frost has turned an entire field sparkling white. Sometimes it's the way the clouds have been trapped between the mountains. It might be the sunshine streaking through the fog, or the mist hovering above a dam. A village in the distance might look bright, like the kind of oil painting that favours primary colours; or subdued, like a watercolour in pastel shades.

The other day there was one beam of sunlight in an otherwise dark, clouded sky, shining down in a way that would make a movie special-effects guy weep. You just knew that over in the valley there was a kid pulling a sword out of a rock.

After the recent flooding there were cows standing ankle-deep (do cows have ankles?) in water. There were ducks splashing about in front-yard ponds that hadn't been there the day before, and a white swan was swimming around the legs of an old-fashioned swing set.

Then I took my car for a swim along a flooded road. It was a whole lot of fun until I realised how deep it was and that perhaps it was more a four-wheel drive kind of thing. But I made it through without having to get out and push - which is almost a shame because that would have been a good blog entry.

Over all, this whole "driving to work" thing is a pretty good way to start the day.

Whiskers On Kittens, Etc

2007-06-29T14:09:00.000+10:00

I have had it up to here with Centrelink. I know you can't actually see where this particular "here" is, but I assure you, it's about as high as a "here" can get.

I was under the impression that once I started working the government would pat themselves on the back for improving the statistics of the nation and then lose interest in me.

Oh, what I fool I was to think such thoughts.

For the last three months the government has been rummaging through my bank accounts and sending me text messages. They send letters to my home and call my work. If I didn't know better I'd say they were stalking me.

Or perhaps they are. Maybe there's a Centrelink Officer who stands outside my window at night, watching to see if I make any money while I'm sleeping.

I have never felt comfortable being on a pension. It contradicts my belief that I should be able to provide for my family on my own. Whether this belief is erroneous or not is not the point. It just doesn't feel nice to know that if it weren't for the pension my children would go hungry.

But now I'm starting to feel as though the extra money is well-earned.

Keeping up with the government's demands is a bit like having a part-time job. I have spent so much time over the last few months logging on to websites to declare my income, replying to text messages from the employment agency, confirming and re-confirming my work hours, photocopying my payslips to confirm my income declaration, and phoning Customer Service Officers to confirm that I photocopied my payslips, again, as requested. Again.

It has occurred to me that until my children are old enough to take care of themselves (or until I marry a rich man... What? Why are you laughing?), I'm going to be a slave to this irritating system.

And if I were to meditate upon the philosophy of Epicurus I would discover that being tied to the government in this way prevents a person from achieving true happiness.

This must mean, and don't correct me if I'm wrong, that Centrelink is directly responsible for my intermittent bouts of sadness. I wonder if I can sue?

Isn't it amazing how easy it is to take large, illogical leaps and twist something around to suit your own purpose? It is also amazing how many people make money out of doing it.

Not me, of course. I'd only have to declare it to Centrelink.

OK, so Centrelink does not make me sad, but it does create a lot of frustration. Instead of following in the footsteps of Epicurus, by moving to the country and living commune-style with a bunch of intellectuals, I decided to make a list of the things that bring me joy. Then, after I've spent the afternoon on hold, waiting to tell yet another stranger the same information I told someone else last week, I can think about, or do something from, my List of Pleasure; thereby restoring the balance and bringing peace to my soul.

Theoretically.

Turns out I'm fairly easy to please, so I'll only share a few of the things I came up with.

MAYBE MELODY'S LIST OF PLEASURE

(in no particular order)

Music: the listening to, singing with, or writing of.
Books: the purchasing and reading of.
Cats/Kittens: the cuddling of and playing with.
Sleeping: self explanatory.
Coffee: the drinking of. A hindrance to the previous entry, but enjoyable nonetheless.
Children: the talking with and listening to. See also entry under Cats/Kittens.
A Clean House: the being in.
Dancing: like nobody's watching.
Straight Boys With Black-Painted Fingernails: the looking at and dreaming of.
Lists: the making of.

So, next time you're feeling frustrated, why not make a list, check it twice, then partake in something nice?

(Notice how my own poetry isn't on my list? I'm pretty sure it won't be on yours either. I apologise. I'll try not to rhyme like that again).

Dream A Little Dream

2007-06-22T12:31:00.000+10:00

I went to a music festival recently. It must have been poorly advertised because there was only about 300 people there.

At around 2 o'clock my friend and I were standing in the warm afternoon sunshine watching a band play.

The band was Blur.

Then, without saying anything to me, my friend confidently walked to the stage, grabbed a microphone, climbed up next to Blur and started singing.

Damon Albarn didn't seem to be too pleased with this, so he pushed my friend off the stage and into the crowd.

A few songs later Damon Albarn (you always have to use both names when you refer to famous people) noticed me in the audience as I swayed to his music in my pretty blue dress. He held my gaze and sang straight to me and I could tell it was a special moment for the both of us.

Then I was on a bus telling my best friend about it, but she didn't believe me.

But then it turned out that Damon Albarn was on the bus too, and, when he went to get off at his stop, he saw me and smiled. A look of tenderness came to his face and he grabbed my hands and softly said, "Hello."

And my best friend said, "Wow! It's true!"

And then I woke up and said, "I love dreaming."

The new dream dictionary by Tony Crisp states that dreaming of famous people generally represents "one's own potential, often unacknowledged, and projected onto dream character".

I'm not entirely sure, but I think this means that I have the potential to be a rock star; one who will push her friends away and have a bit of a crush on herself.

Either that or it has something to do with the Blur documentary I watched, combined with the friend I was thinking about, and, just for something nice, a bit of the romance that is missing from my waking life.

That's the problem with dream interpretation. Maybe your dream was deep and profound; an insight into your psyche. Or maybe it was just a re-enactment of something you saw on telly.

Or maybe it's a bit of both, or a lot of neither. Who knows? Apart from Tony Crisp, that is.

Regardless of their meaning, I love dreams - even the scary ones. Perhaps I'm so fond of them because I really value my sleep and dreaming is the only activity you can knowingly participate in while you're unconscious. It's a form of multi-tasking that even an incompetent job-juggler like myself can master.

And being that it's a Friday, and I don't have to pick up my children for another three hours, I might go find a beanbag and do a bit of multi-tasking right now.

A Model Secretary

2007-06-15T11:09:00.000+10:00

You hear of supermodels who were discovered by a talent scout at a night club.

You hear of pop stars who were discovered when an A&R rep overheard them singing to themselves in a corridor.

Well, my talent and beauty has finally caught the attention of the publishers of a popular magazine, whose readership spans across the country, spreads throughout New Zealand, and scatters itself around the nearby islands.

I have Made It.

Or, more to the point, a part of me has made it.

My boss walked into my office a few weeks ago and said, "Can I take a photo of your finger?"

"Um," said I. And, "OK," said I also, with more than a little uncertainty.

Being that my boss is a decent kind of bloke, I quickly deduced which finger he didn't want to photograph. Then he told me he wanted a photo of someone dialling 000 to illustrate an article.

It was my time to shine. I put my heart and soul (and finger) into that photo shoot. I drew inspiration from the great actors like Johnny Depp and other, less good-looking people, and absorbed myself in the role of 'Emergency Dialler.'

I dialled like a 'Calm Observer,' I dialled like a 'Panicked Victim.' I dialled like I have never dialled before - which is a rather confusing phrase I've always thought. It sounds as though I might have dialled with my nose or my big toe or that I employed some other unusual dialling method I've never used before. But in this particular instance it just means I dialled with more consideration than usual.

All my hard work paid off and, as you can see from the resulting photograph, my boss was rewarded with a dynamic and moving illustration.

Admittedly, the people in the graphics department had to do a bit of photoshopping because I'd been painting on the weekend and was unable to scratch all the paint off my nail.

But this could be the start of an exciting career in modelling. My finger has been seen by hundreds of thousands of people. One day someone will stop me in the street and ask for directions and I will point the way and they will see my pointing finger and say, "Hey! I know you!"

Today - my finger; tomorrow - my whole arm.

The dream has only just begun.

File Under 'Tardy'

2007-06-05T18:17:00.000+10:00

I was trying to work out why it was taking me so long to write my next blog entry. Sure, I've been busy, but I don't think that's the reason.

It could be because every day at work is pretty much the same, and while it is enjoyable, it's not exactly rife with blog-worthy moments.

Or perhaps the change of focus has left me feeling a little less creative.

But what if it's something deeper than that? What if, on some hidden psychological level, the blog has outlived its usefulness? Maybe it was serving a purpose that is no longer relevant and its lack of necessity is correlating with my lack of inspiration.

It was probably left-over traces of my brief flirtation with the new-age movement that led me to that last thought, but I wanted to be sure I'd considered all the reasons for my persistently unproductive state.

It finally occurred to me late one Sunday morning.

I was curled up on a beanbag, sipping hot, sweet coffee and enjoying the second hour of music videos on television. As I sat there, with every intention to remain there till midday, I thought, "I don't blog because I'm a lazy cow!"

They say that once you've identified the problem you're halfway towards solving it, but laziness is something I couldn't be bothered solving.

I'd like to say I'm back on track now and ready to rant again on a weekly basis, but I don't want to create any false hope. I've made enough New Year's resolutions to know they don't stick and have since made a resolution not to make resolutions.

But I suppose I could be a bit more enthusiastic. I mean, I do like writing, and I love reading your comments, so it's not like it's a thankless chore.

Yeah... I'm going to make an effort. I'm going to decide right here, right now that I will sit down every Friday and write my little heart out. I will become the productive person I wish to be and my discipline to my craft will be an inspiration to all.

I will not be lazy. I will not waste time. I will not not blog.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I'm going to put the kettle on.

Waiting To Exhale. Then Inhale. Then Exhale...

2007-05-08T21:50:00.000+10:00

First of all I would like to offer my sincerest apologies to the hundreds of readers who have been faithfully checking my blog every 25 minutes for a new entry only to be bitterly disappointed. Or, more realistically, to the one person who sent me a text a few days ago that read: "Hey, you didn't blog last week."

I didn't do a lot of things last week. Mostly because I've been doing a whole lot of other things instead.

Once I started working my days just disappeared. I got to the end of the week and thought, "Is it Friday already?" Then I realised, "No. It's next Friday already!"

But work isn't the only culprit. I have Friday's off so, theoretically, all I have to do is save up the bits and pieces I'd normally do during the week and do them on Friday's instead.

Turns out I did quite a lot during the week before I was working, so Friday's are not the casual catch-up days I was hoping for, but at least I have them.

A couple of weeks into work my landlords, who are also my parents, decided to go ahead with bathroom renovations. I've been wanting these since I first moved in over four years ago so it's excellent that it's finally happening. What is also excellent is that because my landlords love me and trust my sense of style, they let me choose everything - colour scheme, tiles, design - everything.

What's perhaps not so excellent is the suddenness of it all. Four years of wanting does not translate into four years of planning, so when I was told, "Let's get it done before the end of the financial year," and then the plumber said, "I'm having a hand operation mid-May, so let's get it done before then," I thought, "I should probably get onto that now then."

So, just after 9.00 on a Friday morning I left the house with no clues as to how I wanted my bathroom. Three hours later I had ordered everything from the tiles to the toilet roll holder.

This is normal practice for me. I hate shopping, so I don't like to do it any longer than is absolutely necessary. It concerns me somewhat, however, that due to time restraints I've chosen my entire bathroom in about a week less than is absolutely necessary. But my landlords believe in me, and when it's all finished we'll see if their beliefs are well-founded.

And there's no turning back now. We have someone here most evenings making a whole lot of noise and causing tile-dust to settle on our dinner. It's quite disruptive, but the guy doing it all is a cousin of mine so I don't mind having him here.

I also didn't mind the electrician who came to put the lights in. I didn't take too much notice when I was told he was coming, but I definitely took notice when he knocked on my door. Then I secretly kept taking notice when I thought he wasn't looking. He was gorgeous. If I hadn't needed to take my boys to a birthday party that day I'm sure I would have put on some high heels and tottered around offering cool glasses of home-made lemonade.

Maybe I should try to convince the landlords to have some electrical rewiring done. Purely for safety's sake, of course.

It's complete chaos in our home at the moment, and finding time to breathe seems only slightly easier than finding time to blog. On top of it all I've been working on various music projects with various friends, I've had a house guest, I've started studying, I've been selling Avon and I've been bringing work home. Then, probably not surprisingly, I got a cold.

My boys have been sick too, but only one was sick enough to be granted a day off. He spent the whole day lying on a beanbag under my desk at work. Once again I felt a bit spoilt having a job where people understand that I am a parent first and an employee second.

With so much going on it feels like the inside of my head looks something like the inside of my bathroom (pictured), but I'm sure, like my bathroom, it will all come together eventually.

It Was The Best Of Games, It Was The Worst Of Games

2007-04-21T17:08:00.000+10:00

My twin boys are on their school's basketball team and at yesterday's match they both had a big moment in the spotlight.

I don't know much about basketball, which can be a bit of a problem if I'm selected to fill out the score-sheet, but my lack of knowledge doesn't stop me getting caught up in the excitement and yelling various encouraging phrases at the players and cheering when someone scores a goal, or a basket, or whatever it is they score.

The scoring thing is exactly what my second-born did for the first time yesterday afternoon and I cheered so hard I hurt myself.

You should have seen the look on his face. He was beaming with pride. He said later, "My heart was pounding - I was so impressed!"

It was a great moment and I was doing a whole lot of beaming myself. His confidence soared and he played the rest of the match with unstoppable energy.

My first-born's big moment came when a foul was called and he ended up being the centre of attention with two free-throws.

He stood on the free-throw line, the ring looking as though it was half a kilometer away. He threw as hard as he could, but the ball fell short both times. You could see the disappointment. From there the game just went downhill for him. He still played with determination and got some good blocks and passes in, but in the quieter moments it was obvious he was frustrated with his performance and it was getting him down.

Then, just before half-time, he got hit in the head with the basketball and it all became too much for him. A "Time Out" was called and he left the court in tears.

This made the post-match conversation extremely challenging.

For one boy it was the best game ever and I wanted to praise and congratulate and celebrate. For the other boy it was the worst game ever and I wanted to hug and console and encourage. Too much praise for one would make the other feel worse and too much consolation for one would make the other feel like his achievements were going unnoticed.

In the end I opted for a general, "I'm so proud of both of you. You're becoming really good players and it's the way you all work as a team that won the game. Well done!"

And since that was clearly inadequate for both of them, I let them smash a large Easter egg on the living room tiles when we got home. The basketball match was instantly forgotten.

Chocolate solves everything.

The Best Things In Life Are Sometimes Affordable

2007-04-13T09:24:00.000+10:00

I had an unpleasant Easter Saturday, which meant that on Easter Sunday the only thing I wanted to do to ease my woes was some Retail Therapy.

I hate shopping in general, but specific shopping can be very healing, and for me, the only thing proven to have excellent woe-easing properties is New Music.

Being a public holiday, I knew it was going to be quite a task to track down an open music store, and being pro-CD cancelled out the much simpler (but far less satisfying) method of downloading something.

But I was determined.

After about an hour I was beginning to think that buying petrol and driving around a bit was the only retail therapy I was going to get. But then, like an oasis in the desert, or a meal for a starving man, or a CD shop for a depressed woman, I discovered a neon sign, an open door and rows and rows of shiny CD's.

I purchased some Goldfrapp.

When I got home I stuck it on and danced around the house like a crazy lady. But after a while I began to realise, with much dismay, that the Goldfrapp wasn't working. There was still a significant level of woe in my bloodstream.

I needed something stronger.

"But what," I thought, "could possibly be better than New Music?"

"Ahh," I thought. And, "I know," I thought also.

"Live Music!"

It just so happened that the very good and much admired band, The Audreys, were playing at Ruby's Lounge in Belgrave. What are the odds?

So I dressed up and took myself out. It was the perfect cure. The Audreys were fantastic and the local riff-raff were very friendly. It was the second live show I've seen this year (after the delightful Scissor Sisters in February). This is two more shows than I normally see in a year and I've realised I absolutely must do it more often. By December I'm hoping to have tripled my live show attendance record.

When Monday morning arrived I was still feeling good, so I thought I'd treat myself to a movie. I'd been wanting to see Music and Lyrics since it was first released. That was such a long time ago, so I was pleasantly surprised to find it was still showing - albeit in some distant and foreign suburb - but showing nonetheless.

It was a predictable, paint-by-numbers, piece of girly nonsense, but Music was involved, and Lyrics were involved, and Hugh Grant was involved, so overall it was a pleasurable way to spend an afternoon.

It's strange how it often takes a negative event to motivate you to do something positive for yourself. Instead of waiting for something bad to happen, I challenge you all to go out (or stay in) and do something positive for yourselves. Go on - you'll feel good. And feeling good is... well... it's really good. Let me know how it goes for you.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to check the gig guide.

File Under 'Pre-Prepared Job Applications'

2007-04-06T16:24:00.000+10:00

As I mentioned last week, I have a new job. It's a good job with great hours and friendly people. I work in the editorial department where all the words are kept, and occasionally the smell of warm, freshly-printed magazines wafts up from the printing press downstairs.

I'm not going to go as far a saying it's a 'dream job' however, because this might confuse anyone who's ever had to listen to me describe some of my dreams, (like the one about the rolls of toilet paper with photo-quality pictures of Jessica Simpson printed on each square... There's only so many ways you can interpret that).

But I will say I like it, and I don't want to do anything to jeopardise it.

Like, for example, taking time off to attend a job interview.

I have discovered there is a possibility - if I'm sick, or the kids are sick - that my hours could drop below 15. As you know, from a couple of posts ago, this means I must actively seek employment that week.

In order to meet my obligations without interfering with my current employment, I've decided to plan ahead. The trick is to apply for jobs you know you can't possibly get, but to do it as professionally as you can.

Here's a few cover letters I'm keeping on file for when my hours get low...

Dear Doctor,

I am writing to enquire as to whether there are any positions vacant in your Neurosurgery Department. As you can see from my enclosed resume, I don't have any experience in this field, but I've seen a few medical shows on television and it doesn't look that hard.

Thank you for your consideration,

Melody.

And...

Dear Butcher,

I am writing to enquire as to whether there is any work available in your deli. As you can see from my resume (attached), I don't have any experience in this area, but I am a fast learner. I am also a vegetarian and an animal rights activists, but I trust this will not be a problem.

Looking forward to speaking with you further,

Melody.

And...

Dear Robbie Williams,

I am writing to enquire as to whether you need a new staff person/handmaiden on your team. I do not own any of your CD's, but I think you're very handsome and if I hear your songs on the radio I usually don't change the station. As you can see from my resume (glossy black and white head-shot included), I live in another country. I hope this will not deter you in your decision making process.

Love and Kisses,

Melody.

That should keep me going for a while. Maybe later I'll apply for work as a male model, a puppy juggler or a set of traffic lights. Whatever it takes to appease the lads and lasses at Centrelink.

File Under 'Too Busy To Post'

2007-03-30T20:40:00.000+10:00

Usually I spend my Friday mornings sitting on the couch, drinking coffee and scribbling away in my notebook. This morning however, rather than composing a blog post, I went shopping for pretty clothes to wear to work.

'What? Work?' You might say.

'What? Pretty clothes?' My mother might say.

That's right. I have been hired... and I'll be dressing like a girl.

It was the first job I applied for that I actually wanted and for some strange reason they've gone and given it to me. As of Monday, I will be working for a publishing company. During school hours. And they're going to let me write stuff too. I have found myself sitting back in amazement, thinking, 'Yes, but what's in it for them?'

It hasn't quite sunk in yet, so I don't really have anything coherent to say about it. Unfortunately this incoherency has spread, and now I don't have much to say about anything. This kind of thing hasn't deterred me from writing before, but it's deterring me now.

So instead of attempting to entertain you with words, I'll leave you with one of my favourite photos from last year's trip to Adelaide.

File Under 'Where's Mum?'

2007-03-23T18:10:00.000+11:00

I think it's time to stop taking this whole 'Single Parent's Back to Work' thing so seriously, because clearly the government isn't.

I attended an information seminar yesterday and spent a large portion of the time trying not to laugh. You'd think that would be easy considering there was no actual humour involved, but it was either that, or try not to cry.

Here are just a few of the things I discovered about my impending obligations.

If I were to become a registered foster carer I would not be required to look for work. I could instead choose to focus my attention on caring for my foster children.

If they are my own children however, I'm not allowed to.

If I would like to improve my skills through further study, the government will generously pay for any approved course fees up to $300. Since I've been looking into studying, I know that any course at or below this amount is usually held at a community centre and has a name like Fashion Beading for Fun, or Colour Matching Your Accessories. If you want to learn something useful you're going to need more than $300 worth of education.

If I did manage to find work, but with unpredictable hours, I'd be in a very absurd predicament indeed.

The minimum hours required is 15 per week. If my hours were to go over that amount I'd be fine. If my hours happened to go under that amount I would be obligated to look for a job that week. It doesn't matter if I'm rostered to do 30 hours the week after - I'd still have to apply for another job.

It's no surprise that there were a lot of upset and angry women at that information seminar.

No one said, 'But I don't want to work,' and no one said, 'But what will happen to our welfare payments?'

The phrase repeated over and over again was: 'But what will happen to our children?'

I don't believe the government has really thought this one through and if yesterday is any indication, I'm pretty sure the single parents of Australia are about to tell them so using a whole variety of colourful words and phrases.

There's got to be a more child-friendly solution.

One At A Time, Please

2007-03-16T10:48:00.000+11:00

I am not a multi-tasker. I know that as a woman I should be, but since there's just too much pressure trying to live up to all of life's 'shoulds' I thought I might as well go ahead and admit it...

I am a woman - and I can only do one thing at a time.

Ok, so that's not entirely true. I can eat Maltesers when I watch a movie, talk on the phone while I stir the soup, sing when I'm driving and burn myself when I'm ironing, (although that last one doesn't require any special skill... or intelligence for that matter).

But when it comes to bigger things, things that require a good deal of focus and attention, I have to take them on one at a time. Add a second task and it's confusing and frustrating. Add a third and it's overwhelming and stressful. Add a fourth task and I just give up and go do a jigsaw puzzle.

Despite all this I keep coming to the conclusion that I need to be doing a bunch of small and varied things, rather than focus all my attention on one big goal. Mostly because my one big goal - to live and breathe music - has been rudely interrupted by life in general and now the phrase, 'get a job' pops up in my mind a lot more often and a whole lot more urgently than the phrase, 'write a song'.

So Task One is to focus on getting a job.

Task Two is to focus on study so I can get a better job than the one I'm currently looking for.

Task Three is to focus on coming up with the money to undertake aforementioned study, perhaps through enjoyable activities like writing and submitting articles to various publications or, as is far too often the case, by selling something. (Anybody want a vacuum cleaner?)

Task Four is to focus on keeping my children happy and healthy and be more involved in their school work, their basketball and their soccer and encourage them to broaden their social network by having more friends over.

Task Five is to spend more time doing housework so the boys can have more friends over.

Task Six is to focus on the long term goal and write some more songs, while looking for a job and taking the boys to training and enrolling for a class and signing up for eBay and writing an article and setting up play dates...

Task Seven is to focus on finding the puzzle piece which is mostly sky with a bit of the corner of the roof in it and a tiny patch of green down the side. While I'm doing that I'll just have a sip of my coffee.

Hey look! I'm multi-tasking!

File Under 'How Much?'

2007-03-09T08:46:00.000+11:00

Have you seen those Centrelink ads where people get large fines and/or criminal records for keeping information from the Government?

Personally, I think they're rather pointless. You've generally got two kinds of people on the welfare system. The first - also known as The Majority - are people who have hit a rough patch and are just trying to get through it as best they can. These people are likely to jump through all the required hoops because they know not to complicate an already difficult situation.

The second - also known as The Stereotype - are people who take advantage of they system. They may even claim the system was asking for it. I highly doubt they're going to see the ad on telly and think, 'Hmm, yes. The Government has a good point.'

I fall into the first category. Not necessarily because I want to sit high on top of Moral Mountain, but mostly because I've discovered that the burning heat of a guilty conscience far outweighs any little kick I might get out of doing something wrong.

I tend to be overly cautious when it comes to Centrelink. At the first sign of change to my circumstance, I brave the screamingly frustrating voice-activated answering system, sit on hold for a head-bangingly infuriating 20 minutes listening to classical piano (which is a lot less calming than research would have you believe) and cross my fingers and hope the person on the other end doesn't automatically assume I'm a Category 2 person and speak down to me accordingly.

But even when you're trying to do the right thing it can all go awry. When I called to say I'd done some work and I wanted to report my income they said, 'You have to call next Tuesday and tell us then.' I said, 'But I'm telling you now.' And they said, 'You can't'

Later when I did call to report my income they cut off my pension. I called again and said, 'But I rang on Tuesday and told you my earnings!' And they said, 'You did it wrong.' I fixed the problem, but had to wait a few days for the money to come through. Needless to say we didn't eat much that weekend.

I even report things I know are going to make life harder for me. I called the Child Support Agency and said, 'My ex has had another child who hasn't been accounted for in our assessment.' And they said, 'You can't tell us that.'

So as you can see, I'm always meticulous about getting the right details to the right departments.

This is why it was such a shock on Tuesday when I received three letters from Centrelink saying I owed the Government almost three and a half thousand dollars.

After hyperventilating for some time I called them, and in my best keeping-my-voice-steady-so-you-can't-tell-I'm-crying voice, said, 'What?'

Turns out I was getting 20% more Family Tax Benefit than I should have been.

Turns out information I had given them years ago had been overlooked.

Turns out I had no way of knowing this since the misinformation was never mentioned anywhere in their correspondence for me to pick up on.

Turns out the 'why' and 'how' it happened are irrelevant and the only thing left is 'it happened'.

So now I am one of those people on the Centrelink ads, having to pay a huge debt to the Government while the honest people of the world shout, 'In your face, Welfare Scum!'

That'll teach me for trying to do the right thing.

But I guess these problems happen and there's not much I can do about it. I'll just be glad when it's over.

I'm thinking of having a little get-together to celebrate the final payment...

Are you busy in 2011?

You Can Call Me Anytime... Eventually

2007-03-02T11:04:00.000+11:00

For the last few months my mobile phone has been neglecting it's duties and making communication a troublesome experience.

I called my network provider late last year and said, 'There's something wrong with my phone.'

The man I was speaking to sat at his desk halfway around the world, looked at something on his computer and in a thick Indian accent said, 'No there's not.'

'So the problem must be with the handset,' thought I.

Then I travelled north to visit my family and Lo and Behold my phone worked perfectly.

'Oh good. The problem has resolved itself,' thought I.

When I came home I went to text my family to let them know my plane hadn't crashed - but my phone had stopped working again.

'?' Thought I.

After several weeks and several trips to the phone shop and several calls to India, I have finally sent my mobile away for repair. Now I have a loan phone that actually works, but because I've been without one for so long I keep forgetting to take it with me when I leave the house.

Mobiles have become such a necessity. When mine first started having issues I went into a bit of a panic... 'What if there's an emergency at school? What if the car breaks down? I feel so vulnerable!'

When my friend and I were trying to organise when and where to meet at the Scissor Sisters concert he said, 'How did people ever do this before mobile phones?'

After a while I stopped carrying my phone around and eventually accepted my state of mobilelessness.

There were no emergencies. My car's working fine. Turns out mobiles aren't necessary, just convenient.

But I'm enjoying the convenience again. It's nice to be able to text a quick 'love you' to the parents, or an 'I'll be there in 10' when you're running late. Or, as was the case last night, 'MIGHTY BOOSH! MIGHTY BOOSH! WATCH THE MIGHTY BOOSH! IT'S ON IN 5 MINUTES!'

People need to know these things.

My mobile should be home again in about 3 weeks. If it's still not working I'm going to have to do my best Disgruntled Customer impersonation, but until then my loan phone is working fine, so you can now call me anytime.

But not during The Mighty Boosh.

File Under 'Talentless'

2007-02-23T10:53:00.000+11:00

I have a confession to make...

I am a hopeless musician. I can't play the piano and I can't play the guitar. I don't know my theory and I'm the kind of person who thinks the ease of sight-reading is in direct proportion to how hard you're squinting at the sheet music.

I learnt a song on the piano in the late 1980's and I must have thrashed it to pieces because I can still play it flawlessly. But that's it.

I've taken up the guitar a few times too. If I strum a simple folk song it sounds OK, but if I strum some U2 it sounds like a simple folk song. Crowded House? Folk song. Oasis? Folk song. Kylie Minogue? Folk song.

The reason I feel the need to confess this is because somehow I've managed to convince people I can play. I've never actually said I can play and I haven't played in front of a live audience since I was about 11. And yet when I tell people I can't play they seem to assume I'm being modest.

Trust me. I'm not.

Writing songs under these conditions is an extremely frustrating experience. It can take me over a week to achieve what a talented person could do in an afternoon. I'll be sitting at the keyboard with a melody in my head, trying to systematically pick out the notes...

Is it a C? No, that's not it. C#? No. How about a D? No, that's not it either.

... and so on and so forth until I reach B. Once I've run out of notes I usually conclude that the one I'm after is somewhere between F and F#.

A few months ago I was given some lyrics to work on and put a melody to. A couple of days later I had a great, catchy tune, I'd refined the lyrics to perfection and I was on my way to songwriting stardom. But then I had to get it down on a demo so the original writer could hear it. After hitting notes at random for 20 minutes I discovered, much to my dismay, that I'd written it in Gb. That's the hard one with all the black notes! Who writes pop songs in Gb? I mean, honestly!

I tried, really I did, but until I find a proper musician to collaborate with, the only place you can hear that song (and many others) is inside my head.

I've been wanting to work with a guitarist for years, but for some reason all I can find are drummers. If I ever put a band together it will be very percussion-heavy. Like one of those bands where everyone wants to play lead guitar so they end up with 5 guitarists. I'll have a long row of drum kits across the back of the stage - which might not be ideal for those quiet, lunchtime gigs in a cosy cafe.

For now I guess I'll have to keep slaving over a hot keyboard until a guitarist comes along who can chord up my melodies.

Or maybe I'll just stick to writing folk songs.

The Devil Was In My Yard... Selling Vacuum Cleaners

2007-02-16T10:18:00.000+11:00

You know those people who knock on your door and try to get you to change you electricity provider?

I hate them.

And you know those people who ring you up and tell you how lucky you are because your number has been selected and you'll get free stuff if you use their company's services?

Can't stand them.

And you know those people who stand in the middle of shopping centres and pounce on you if you show even the slightest bit of interest in their product - ie. walk within a 5 metre radius of their stall?

They make me angry.

I have a passionate dislike for telemarketers, door-to-door salespeople and pretty much anyone who is trying to sell me things I hadn't planned on purchasing that day.

I also have the annoying and completely unshakable belief that I have to be nice to them. I mean, nobody likes these people so they've probably been met with slammed doors and swear words all day. It would be nice if someone gave them a smile and let them finish their sentences for a change.

I hate that I think that someone has to be me.

Now, I'm sure they're lovely people and in different circumstances we'd get along famously, but in the role of 'salesperson' I think of them as the Devil's Henchmen, spreading badwill through manipulation and the quest to sucker in as many people as they can.

I do my best to hate the sin, not the sinner, but some of them are just so persistent. It's like talking to a child...

Henchman: 'I can save you money, Ma'am.'

Melody: 'No thanks, I'm happy with my provider.'

H: 'But couldn't you use an extra $30 a month?'

M: 'Sure, but I want to stay with my provider.'

H: 'But think of the benefits, Ma'am.'

M: 'I said no.'

H: 'But...'

M: 'Did you hear what I said?'

H: 'But...'

M: 'What did I say?'

H: 'But...'

M: 'MUMMY SAID NO!'

And I hate the way some of them get aggressive when they realise they're 'losing you'. I've actually had someone call me a Time-Waster before storming off down my driveway. The nerve! If I've got dinner on the stove and children trying to kill each other and someone pops around to talk about telephones - who's infringing on who's time?

This is a subject I could go on and on about. Maybe it could be a new direction for me. I could start a campaign to bring an end to this oppressive marketing regime. I could make little badges with the slogan, 'I SAID "NO"' on them. I'd have to somehow gather funds to get the campaign off the ground. How could I raise awareness and gain sponsorship?

Oh, I know - a door knock!

File Under 'Hooray!'

2007-02-08T18:32:00.000+11:00

Only one more sleep until the event of the year - which you'd think would be depressing since it's only February, but it is going to be so mind-blowingly good that I'm sure I'll be basking in its afterglow for the rest of 2007.

It's the SCISSOR SISTERS CONCERT!

I haven't been to a big, live show since Alanis Morissette was queen. Before Alanis it was New Kids On The Block... but I don't want to talk about that.

Money has been tight, as always, and when the tickets went on sale I had to spend some time deep in thought, carefully calculating whether I could afford to go and what sacrifices I would have to make to get there.

That lasted about half a second and then I jumped up and down, said, 'YAY!' and went and bought the tickets.

I love music. I love the way it affects you. I love how different artists connect with you on different levels...

I love Josh Pyke's stories and his exquisite harmonies. I dissolve in the melancholy of Damien Rice, so bare and so beautifully dark. U2's raw passion seeps into my bones and stirs my soul.

But the Scissor Sisters make me squeal and clap and do a happy dance.

The outfit for the concert has been chosen, the nails are all glammed up (see picture) and the kids are off to their dad's for the weekend. I even took a trip to the hairdresser for a long overdue cut and style. Overall, I've probably planned for this more thoroughly than I planned for my wedding day. (Although to be honest, my wedding was planned in a bit of a hurry due to delicate circumstances, if you know what I mean).

My concert companion seems to be equally as excited. She too has discovered that children and live music don't mix very well. It's been around 9 years since she last saw a band play.

So tomorrow the live music drought will be broken for both of us in a most spectacular way. We'll be donning the Dance Pants and giggling like school girls as we join the Scissor Sisters fans of Melbourne in their high heels and feather boas (but I'm not sure what the girls will be wearing).

I wonder if it's too late to try to track down a tiara?

File Under 'Job Seeker's Remorse'

2007-02-01T22:17:00.000+11:00

I'm currently suffering from a job application hangover. Not that I've been over-indulging - it was only one job - but I got excited about it, quickly reviewed my resume, wrote a cover letter and emailed it to the advertiser with hope in my heart and a vision of me blitzing the interview in my head.

I woke up this morning and thought, 'Oh, lordy... what have I done?'

It seemed like such a great idea. The company was looking for an office admin person - the kind of work that makes up the bulk of my resume - between the hours of 9am and 3pm - the hours my boys are in school. What a fantastic opportunity, right?

I considered my previous experience and I considered my current capabilities. But in the wonderful glow of those glorious working hours I forgot to consider one thing...

How much I hate admin work.

I used to work in a hospital. There were numerous ways to get to the department where I was a secretary, but every day without fail I would choose to take the service lift. This is because the service lift had a habit of breaking down. To me, the idea of spending the day stuck in a lift was a whole lot more appealing than spending the day behind the front desk.

Unfortunately the lift worked flawlessly every time I was in it.

At the moment I find myself crossing my fingers and hoping I get overlooked for the position. My inbox today said I had 1 new message and I let out a big sigh of relief when it turned out to be nothing but spam.

However, as a single mother I'm running out of options. Five months from now a job like this will seem like pure gold. Right now I can't help but feel trapped by my past experience and frustrated that my current circumstances are so restrictive.

I don't feel as lost as I once did though. There are a few plans running around in my mind that could be quite achievable once I work out how to achieve them.

A particular favourite is PLAN B. Mostly it involves me getting a job so I can afford to set up a small home business so I can quit my job. It would be nice to get rid of the first and the last part, but that's probably not possible.

The most obvious is PLAN A in which I become a Mega Famous Pop Star and marry James Blunt, but it's good to have a back up in the unlikely event that this highly plausible plan might fall through.

In the meantime I guess I'll just have to apply for the jobs I can do until I'm in a position to do the work I want to do.

It's not exactly PLAN A, but I'm sure James will wait.

File Under 'Actively Seeking Employment'

2007-01-24T16:08:00.000+11:00

Looking for work when you're depressed is... well... depressing.

One of the many symptoms of depression is a lack of interest in things. Most textbooks will say, 'a lack of interest in activities once considered pleasurable', but in my experience the lack is less specific than that. It's more of a general, overall Care Factor of Zero. At my lowest I may not care if I never sing again, but I also don't care if a different company can provide a better phone plan, or if I grate the top of my finger off with the carrots when I'm preparing the dinner I don't feel like eating.

Trying to muster up an interest in the employment pages under these conditions is no easy task. There's plenty of options, but nothing you actually like and the thought of having to commit yourself to something you don't care about does nothing to lift your morale.

It's a bit like going to the DVD store when you're not in the mood to see anything. There could be thousands of movies right in front of you, but you walk around the shop for half an hour then throw your hands up and say, 'There's nothing here.'

Now the pressure is on with government legislation saying I can't leave the store empty handed. It's time to pick a movie, any movie and stop being a drain on society.

Fair enough. A little pressure never hurt anybody. (Although it did put me in therapy, feeling overwhelmed and desperate, saying, 'I just don't know what to do!' But I don't think having a little mental episode counts as being 'hurt'.)

So I have five months to get my act together. Or, to put it another way, if I don't get my act together in the next five months, the government will do it for me. Anyone who's ever been on the receiving end of a government initiative will know why this is a frightening prospect.

I was involved in one last year where a meeting was set up that would 'help me make the transition into paid work'. I got quite excited about sitting down with someone to discuss my options and concerns and be pointed in the right direction. The meeting turned out to be an impersonal gathering of about ten people being told how to fill out a form. The instructions went as follows:

'Where it says "NAME", just write your name. And where it says "HOBBIES AND INTERESTS", just write down any other interests and hobbies you might have. Are there any questions?'

An appropriate question might have been, 'Do you think we're all idiots?'

I copied out my work experience details from my resume, handed in my forms and went home. Someone from the office typed it up and mailed it to me a couple of weeks later. It was an almost word-for-word copy of the resume I already had, only this one had a decorative squiggly line under my name which I'm sure would discourage any potential employer.

The experience was highly futile and the whole system is not one I choose to put my faith in.

As with most things, if you want something done you're better off doing it yourself. The depression is just a detail I'll have to work around. It could even be a bit of a blessing... If I hate everything, I might as well do anything. See, you can turn anything into a positive if you just apply yourself.

So in the next few months if you know of anyone who knows of anyone who might be looking for someone who's looking for work, perhaps you could mention me? And if it's possible, see if you can find out if they prefer a plain font or decorative squiggly lines.