Dear Internet,

Hey there Internet,

It’s me, Torrygirl.
You and I, we’ve known each other for a while now. You know me pretty well I think. I’ve always been able to turn to you when I’ve had a problem at work or socially, or if I had a question that needed answering. I guess I’d say that you and I are pretty close. You’re someone I can confide in.

Lately, I’ve been pretty busy at work, so I’ve been neglecting you a little, and I’m sorry about that. It’s been tough though, working the long hours and still trying to make time to keep in touch. And I know that’s no excuse, but this written word medium that we use to keep in contact takes a bit of time and effort, and I’ve been a bit short on both lately.

This week, KJ has been pretty sick and I’m sure it’s from the stress of work. I’ve been feeling it myself too, and I guess that’s why I’m writing this.
I’ve done something, Internet. I’ve done something crazy. Something so incredibly outrageous, that I know you won’t believe it when I tell you. And I’m hoping that given our history, you won’t judge me. Even though what I’m about to tell you goes against everything you know about me.

So here it is, Internet. I’m just going to say it.

Last Monday, I did exercise. On purpose! And I know it sounds crazy, and it goes against everything I’ve ever told you about myself, but I did it; and then yesterday, I did it AGAIN.

I feel so ashamed. I’m a fraud! Here I am telling you how much I hate to exercise, and I find myself suddenly giving in and doing it! And Internet, it wasn’t just sneaky, on-my-own exercise. I went to a class. There were other people there and I even knew some of them! I wore runners!

Oh the shame!

Forgive me Internet. Forgive me for changing. Forgive me for going against my beliefs. Forgive me because I’m not going to stop - even though today my body feels like I pulled out all my muscles, stretched them out by hand and popped them back in again. Even though my knees ache like I’m a weather-beaten old man claiming that I can feel a storm a’comin’. Even though I swore I didn’t believe in running unless I was being chased.

Forgive me Internet. I hope we can still be friends.

Yours regretfully,

Torrygirl

Never trust a man pointing scissor at your head

Last night, I got home from work a little after six. No sooner had I walked in the door and made myself a cup of tea than my I got a phone call from my hairdresser saying I had an appointment at six and asking was I still coming? I hate, hate HATE being late (I have issues with time), but he assured me that he could still fit me in if I could get there as quickly as possible, so I hot-footed it out the door leaving my cup of tea to go cold on the bench.

I made it there in record time (while driving responsibly, of course) and arrived breathless; plonked myself into the nearest chair and began the long process of hair beautification. I apologised what felt like a million times for forgetting the appointment, and they waved my apologies off,reassuring me with phrases like ‘these things happen’ and ‘don’t stress about it, it’s no big deal’. And so my hairdressing experience went on as per the norm.


Now, while I was in the chair, and even after I got home, my hair looked fine. In fact, I’ve never had a bad haircut from this place; it’s the reason I keep going back.

But this morning, when I woke up and wandered past the mirror, I did a little bit of a double-take. ‘Bill Ray Cyrus?’ I asked in wonder.

Nope, definitely just me. Me, with a haircut that had a mullet-ish kind of quality about it. But I was in a hurry, so I quickly tied it back as best I could, and headed to work.


Now I’m not sure if it was just crazy morning hair and if it will be better when I get home tonight. And there are no mirrors in the building here so I can’t really check it out until then.

But there is this slight lingering worry niggling at me, telling me that maybe I wasn’t imagining things. And maybe my mullet is no accident. Maybe this haircut is the hairdresser’s way of saying ‘I’ll teach you to keep me waiting!’ Is that possible? Do people do that sort of thing? And if they do, is it on purpose, or by accident? Did he subconsciously mullet-ise me without realising?

And most importantly, what the hell am I going to do if it turns out I really do have a mullet?! I’m not sure I have the voice to be a country singer.

Post Office Lady

Post Office Lady has a stern, disapproving
look brought on by years of thinking people
don't talk clearly enough.

Post offices are notorious for their long lines. If you’ve ever had to post a parcel or buy some stamps during the day, you’re guaranteed to have waited in a line that weaves out of the door of the shop, down the street, through the park around the corner and past the post office in the next suburb.


The wait is long and tedious enough as it is, but at the local post office here at work, you spend your entire half hour wait hoping that you don’t end up being served by one particular woman. Why, you ask? Because she is as deaf as a door nail. As a post. As a stone. She is as deaf as a magician locked in a box, nailed into a crate then wrapped in a bag and buried six feet underground.

What I’m getting at here is – she can’t hear very well.


Something as simple as purchasing a sheet of stamps from her is a major ordeal, because that little interaction usually goes something like this:

Her: YES?

Me: Can I have a sheet of 20 five cent stamps please.

Her: WHAT?

Me: Errr, a sheet of 20 five cents stamps please?

Her: WHAT ARE YOU AFTER?!

Me: (beginning to draw strange looks from the waiting customers) Some five cent stamps please?

Her: STAMPS?!?

Me: YES! SOME FIVE CENT STAMPS!

Her: Yes, fine, five cents stamps; you should have said so to start with.


As a result, people (me included) can often be seen leaving the post office looking abashed, head hung low, clutching their stamps or whatever random item they’ve been sold in lieu of the item that the deaf post office lady was too hard of hearing to understand.

Super Secret Recipe

This photo dates from almost the
same era as my kitchen.

Last night, my Brother-in-law came over so that I could help him prepare his ‘secret recipe lasagne’. I’m not sure how it came to be a secret recipe, because I can’t imagine anyone ever asks another person for a lasagne recipe; but at some point it became a closely kept secret, and since then it’s been known to all as ‘secret recipe lasagne’.

The reason that I became privy to this super-secret special recipe last night is that I offered to make the lasagne sheets for him. That’s right, you read it correctly – I offered to make the pasta sheets from scratch. To some that might seem crazy, but I find that kind of repetitive cooking task almost soothing, the same way that I find painting walls soothing. It quiets a noisy brain. And I have an incredibly noisy brain.


I guess this kind of quality addition to the secret recipe lasagne obviously ranked me high enough to learn the secret formula. I like to imagine it as like being promoted in the coca cola company and finally learning the secret formula for coke. I now know what few others in the world know.


Luckily, because I have some modicum of anonymity on here, I can share that secret recipe with you without fear of retribution. Are you ready for it? Are you ready to hear what his super-secret ingredient that he refuses to share with anyone is?


Leggo’s Bolognese sauce.


His sauce is made from a jar.

Suddenly the ‘super-secret’ aspect of it all makes a lot more sense.

I think I might have to start claiming the ‘secret recipe’ clause for some of the meals I prepare. Like ‘2 Minute Microwave Super-Secret noodles’ or ‘Subway Secret-Recipe Cookies’.

Dark Day

Today is a dark day. A dark, bleak, soul crushing day.

It started out like any other Tuesday. The uneventful drive to work. The slow grind of the Tuesday work day. The routine of computer, factory, computer.

It happened at 11:23am. I remember the time well, because I had just seen the postman deliver the mail, and I checked the clock to see what time he had arrived. I headed downstairs, and out through the factory to grab the mail.

There was a large parcel, and the return address told me it was from a government agency, so as I wandered back inside, I was looking at the envelope, and not at where I was going, as I should have been.

As I reached the edge of the stairs, I suddenly felt my feet catch on something. It took me half a second to realise I was falling and in that insignificant moment, I thought I could right my balance.
Within the next half second, I knew it. I was going down. Envelopes flew from my hands and rained down around me as my palms and knees slammed into cold, hard concrete. I let loose with a string of obscenities that startled the guys in the factory.

As quickly as the pain could start, the embarrassment overtook it. Five faces peered at me, looking torn between amusement and concern. I thought quickly of my Mum, and her own recent fall. It’s a rare thing, falling down when you’re an adult, yet here I was; face down on the concrete floor of the factory.

I stood up as quickly as I could, and began to brush myself off. And that’s when I saw it. That’s when my heart dropped out of my chest and hit the floor.


I had torn a hole in my favourite pair of jeans.

Oh, my poor jeans! There are no other jeans like these jeans. They’re comfortable and slimming and they make my ass look perfectly rounded. They can be casual, or they can be slightly dressy. But most of all, they’re long enough to drag on the floor, despite my height. And at 5’10, that’s a hard thing for me to find. And now they’re ruined. RUINED!

Oh, my poor poor jeans….


Today is a dark day. A dark, bleak, soul crushing day. For now begins the quest to replace the most perfect pair of jeans that have ever graced this body. Yes, today is a dark, dark day.

Also, my knee hurts.

Old School Rules

When I have some spare time to myself (which isn't often lately) there are two things that i enjoy doing.

I love to read. I'll read just about anything that's put in front of me. I love a good book more than anything else. I can find myself getting completely lost in them, losing track of time and just reading until i reach the last page.

The other thing I do when i'm relaxing on the couch after work is to play on the iPad. I'm completely addicted to it. Mostly it's scrabble or card games (pretty low-tech for such a high-tech device) and also a lot of web browsing and IM-ing.

Given these two uses of my time, one would think that the concept of a book that I can read on the iPad would be ideal! They've been advertising pretty heavily lately the great features of the ipad and how you can buy thousands of books without leaving your house, so it was really only  a matter of time before I would give it a go. I wasn't much interested in the idea at first, because I spend my entire day at work reading things on an LCD screen, so the idea of coming home to do the same thing didn't really thrill me. But the idea of having any book i decided i wanted to read in a matter of seconds was something that did appeal to me. So after failing to find a book that i wanted at the local bookstore, I bit the bullet and bought it as an iBook.

At first, it seemed kinda cool. I mean, reading on a brightly lit screen was a bit odd at first, but that aside, being able to change the font style and size was great. Not having to hold a book open while I lay in bed was also pretty great. I could read without moving a muscle, which is really what you want when you read. There was also the added bonus of being able to read while KJ slept, which is harder with a regular book because you need to have the light on.

But after a little while I began to miss the feel of the paper in my hands, and the satisfying feeling of flipping through the pages, watching the heavy side of the book move from the right to the left as i made my way towards the end.

Then I came across the biggest flaw in the entire ibook concept, something that would put me off iBooks altogether.  Something that no amount of touch screen and processor technology could overcome. It's the reason why ibooks will never replace the trusty old paperback. The reason that the iPad, the Kindle, the Nook will never ever take the place of beautifully bound sheets of paper with plain, black type.

After a particularly long and draining 11 hour work day, I came home and ran myself a nice hot bath. As I was preparing myself to get in, I realized that the ridiculously over-rated iBook had left me in the lurch. When all I wanted to do was relax by soaking in a hot bubble bath and reading a good book, I found myself without anything to read - because you can't take an iPad into the bath with you.
A paper book - yes. Sure, it's not waterproof, but if you drop it in the water, you can still dry it out and use it again. At worst, you've ruined a $10 product. If you take an iPad into the bath with you and drop it in, no amount of drying can repair it. You will have killed a $700 (minimum) product by trying to use it in the way you would a regular book. You can't even really take it into the bathroom with you at all, even if you keep it well clear of the water, because even the steam of a hot bath has the potential to ruin it.


So, Steve Jobs, you may have invented a product that was not so long ago just a thing of science fiction books, but you haven't created the greatest product the world has ever seen, like some Mac-Obsessive fans will claim loudly and regularly to anyone who will listen. Because until you make that sucker waterproof, it's just a toy that will never be as good as a couple hundred sheets of paper bound together.

Old School still rules.

'Yard Work'

This past weekend, KJ and I headed down to his family beach house for a weekend of slave labour (You may know it by its other name – ‘Yard Work’). KJ had managed to borrow a hydraulic wood splitter, so the whole family headed down to try to split about 5 tonnes of wood that has been lying around in the shed forever - because when you're on holiday, you can't be bothered getting out an axe to chop wood.


The wood splitter was borrowed from a guy we work with who happens to live on a large farm property, and it was built as a trailer so that it could be towed wherever it needed to go. And this particular weekend, it needed to go behind the ute so we could tow it to the beach house.


The trailer was this rickety old thing, more rust than paint and with tyres so old that the trailer felt like it was rolling along on two concrete pipes. The tail-lights were mounted on an old wooden plank that was held on to the trailer with a couple of heavy duty cable ties. So as you can imagine, it was a real sturdy vehicle.


When we set off with the wood splitter in tow, i cringed at every bump, every rattle. But after about an hour or so, I began to think that the trailer was actually up to the trip, and began to relax.

Clearly, I relaxed too soon.

Somewhere on a long, empty stretch of highway, I heard a loud metallic clanging. The removable tyre guard had bounced its way off the trailer and disappeared somewhere into the darkness.
This marked the first of several stops we made along the way to traipse through the darkness by the side of the freeway to retrieve errant wheel guards. The last of these stops was about 15 minutes from our final destination. A distant clattering and a quick look in the rear view mirror told us that the guard had once again vacated the trailer. We pulled to the side of the road and onto the grass, and immediately felt the car sink into the mud. The futile spinning of tyres confirmed it - we were bogged.


Stranded by the side of the road, in the pitch black on a quiet highway in the middle of nowhere, without a single bar of phone reception, we could do nothing but wait for someone to stop and offer to pull us out. With no street lights around, we wandered up the road by phone light to find the wheel guard, trying to stay out of the mud.


Thankfully, it wasn’t long before a bloke in a 4WD pulled over and offered to rescue us.
He didn't introduce himself, he just got right into the process of pulling us out of the smelly, muddy ground. He will forever be known to me as 'The Mysterious Stranger’. He knelt on the wet, muddy ground to tie the rope he used to pull us out, as thought this were an every day occurrence for him. In no time at all we were free, and our mysterious stranger disappeared into the night once more.

It made me feel quite good about the state of the world. That there are still people who will stop and help a stranger who is broken down (or bogged) by the side of the road - i honestly felt up until last weekend that this sort of basic decency was gone from the world.
We need more mysterious strangers in the world, but i'm glad to know that there are still at least one or two out there.



When we finally arrived at the beach house and got down to the process of splitting the wood, there was a kind of evil serial killer-ness about it all. As we split some of the freshly cut wood, it began to leak sap - sap that was so intensely, vividly red that it looked exactly like blood. As the splitter pushed in to the soft flesh of the logs, the sap would begin to ooze, and then suddenly squirt out and all over everyone, like some kind of body-chopping scene from Dexter.

And as if being bogged, forced to do slave labour and murdering trees wasn't enough to kill any tiny shred of joy the weekend may have held - someone dropped a huge log on my foot, causing me to swear so loudly that it could be heard above the sound of both the chainsaw and the petrol motor of the wood splitter. I've been hobbling around all week with a giant black bruise on my foot.


I think we can safely surmise from this experience that Slave Labour (or Yard Work, if you prefer) is really an evil, injurious and murderous pursuit that should be avoided at all costs.

Jibber-Jabber-itis

Over the last week or so, i've been battling a cold. I had Friday off work, and during a trip to the pharmacy for some cold and flu tablets, I made a few observations that I thought were worth sharing.

• While pharmacies are mildly suspicious of you for wanting to purchase Cold & Flu tablets containing Pseudo-ephedrine as a general rule, asking for these tablets in a slummy area like where I work means they are VERY suspicious of you. Suspicious enough to make you talk to three separate employees about why you want the pills. I think they were hoping I would slip and say "I want them for my drug-la...ahhh...no, that's not it, I mean for my cold. Yes, I have a cold and/or the Flu."
  
  
• Asking for "Cold and Flu tablets with Pseudo-ephedrine instead of that other crap" apparently makes you seem even more suspect. I have discovered, however, that requesting 'old formula' cold and flu tablets makes you seem clueless about drugs, and therefore obviously less likely to be purchasing the tablets to take home to your secret drug lab in order to cook up a bunch of Speed. Because apparently people who make drugs are better educated than any law abiding citizen.
  
  
• Pharmacies are the epicentre of that world-wide phenomenon known as old-man-illness-jibber-jabber-itis. You may also know this as 'Sick-old-man-talk-itis' or 'Old-fart-talking-pus-itis'. Visit a pharmacy on a weekday during working hours and you will find a wide variety of elderly people telling anyone who will listen about their boils, blisters, constipation, growths and rashes. And that's just for starters. If you hang around for long enough you'll hear about the REAL problems - You don't even have to be the one having the conversation, they'll talk loud enough so everyone can hear. They're thoughtful like that.
  
  
• Elderly people in pharmacies are just as suspicious of you as the pharmacists, only their suspicion seems to stem more from their feelings about your age/apparent lack of employment/refusal to hear about their pus-filled sores.

The benefit of all of these suspicions and medical jibber-jabber is that what you thought was a day that would be dull and spent wasted eating chicken noodle soup and watching trashy tv actually becomes quite entertaining. And it gives me new respect for pharmacists and pharmacy employees who have to deal with this stuff every single day.

Size Matters

In a conversation with my best friend this past weekend, we came across a topic that I felt warranted sharing with the World Wide Web.

It’s some free advice for men who are purchasing an engagement ring for their girlfriend/future wife without any input from the fiancé-to-be.

Once you’ve chosen a ring that you think is perfect, get the jeweller to up the diamond size by at least a quarter of a carat. That’s minimum. Because in my experience, men always overestimate size.

The Bones of Wisdom: A Cautionary Tale for Mother's Day

Motherly advice is always
just a phone call away

The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed, to protect the innocent.

It was a Wednesday night like any other. Outside under a vast and solitary sky, the rural suburb of Torrytown* was bathed in the soothing, cool glow of a full moon. Amidst the wash of pale blue, a single ray of yellow light peeked out from behind the curtains of a cosy little house nestled into a quiet Torrytown valley.

Behind those curtains sat a young woman of extraordinary beauty, intelligence and Scrabble playing skill**. Encased in the warmth of her home, she sat quietly; tapping away on her keyboard, chatting online to a friend in a strange and distant land.

As she worked away on the keyboard with one hand, the other speared tiny pieces of salmon onto a fork from the plate beside her. She ate absently, her mind on the conversation and not really on her dinner.

Suddenly, a sharp pain jabbed at her throat! Her hands flew to her neck. The fork clattered to the table. Her typing stilled. She gasped!
Looking down at her dinner, the cause of her pain became apparent.

With shaking hands, she reached for the keyboard and typed a desperate message that crossed thousands of miles to tell her friend the cause of her agony.


'I'm choking on a fishbone!' She wrote. 'In my (allegedly) de-boned fish!'

She clutched at her throat, clawing at it as though she could remove the bone from the outside. Her mind flew to the advice that she had received about these kinds of things; tid-bits of advice from mothers, uncles, grandmothers, fathers.
She sifted through these kernels of wisdom, searching for something she knew she'd heard about fish bones.
'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush' - No.
'Always wear clean underwear,' - No.
'Don't pick your nose' - NO!
'Be careful of bones in fish or they'll get stuck in your throat.'; YES! That's it! Her mothers voice rang though her mind, telling her over and over again to be careful.

Backwards and forwards she played this information in her head, as the fish bone jabbed painfully at her throat. But try as she might, she could not find a single piece of advice in that vast catalogue of wisdom to tell her what to do if that initial pearl of wisdom should fall through!

From the other side of the world advice was coming in thick and fast from her friend (the guy who sometimes kicks her ass at Scrabble, and who has this awesome website, and he's really funny and handsome, and writes great)***.
'Are you dying? Should I long distance call you an ambulance'? he typed. 'Can't you just pull it out? Mash the keyboard if you're turning blue!'

She tried to reach in and grab the bone, but alas, her hand was too big (or her mouth too small) and her gag reflex much too strong.


'Blergh, cough, splutter' she typed back; then realising that her fingers still worked - 'No, I can't.'

'You should have listened to your mother' he typed back. 'Mothers always know best.'


Inspiration!

Gasping for what could be her last breaths she grappled for the phone and hit speed-dial. Her mother answered after what seemed an agonisingly long time.


She croaked out her dilemma through stilted breath, feeling the fish bone jabbing into the soft flesh of her throat with every word.

'Mum! you never told me what to do when your advice failed!' She cried out.

'Bread.' Her mother told her calmly and knowingly. 'Eat a large piece of dry bread and it will dislodge the bone.'

With this simple advice, and another firm 'Mothers know best' from the Las Vegas Larrikin, she picked up a slice of bread and began to chew.

She could feel the fish bone moving a little as she swallowed the great wodge of bread, then a little more when she swallowed another. But four slices of bread later, while her breathing had eased, the little fish bone was still sharp against her throat.

'Mothers know best' she said to herself, 'until they don't! And then what?'

So what does one do when all the advice a mother can give you fails dismally?! She was stumped. Short of a trip to the ER, she had no idea how to remove the fish bone. If only her gag reflex wasn't so strong and her hands too big (or her mouth too small), then she could remove it easily enough.

The answer, then, was simple. What do you do when all roads lead nowhere? You have a drink.

There was some element of logic in this, although the specifics eluded her. Something about the medicinal, sterilising properties of alcohol and the muscle relaxant type of effect that it would have on her body.

So she poured herself a Bourbon and drank it down fast. Then she had another. And another. She could feel the tension in her muscles melting away, could feel her senses dulling. After four bourbons in as many minutes, she began to feel that she had underestimated her ability to extract the fish bone manually.
Suddenly, her hand seemed smaller (or her mouth larger) and her gag reflex dulled. With the kind of swift (and thoughtless) decisiveness characteristic of a drunk, she contorted her hand and somehow, she reached into her mouth and down her throat to pluck out the sharp little bone.

Later, she would look back on this moment and be unable to explain how she had managed it. Sober attempts to replicate the fitting of her hand into her mouth proved impossible. It was as though some law of physics had been broken - or perhaps just stretched momentarily to allow her to do things that she couldn't normally. It wasn't the first time that Bourbon had this effect on her, and she was sure it wouldn't be the last.


She called her mother in relief, telling the tale of how bourbon had worked more effectively than bread, believing wholly that things had come full circle and she was now the one handing advice to her mother.

'Have another bourbon' her mother told her knowingly, with the tone of one passing on an important token of wisdom. 'The alcohol will do your throat good, you know.'


This brings us to the moral of this tale, which is threefold:

1. If you're a mother, give advice to your children that is not just cautionary, but which is also problem solving. There will always be those rare times when caution isn't enough.

2. When advice fails you, you can always fall back on alcohol and its ability to help you defy the laws of physics.

And finally (and most importantly):
3. No matter what you think, Mothers always know best.


*names have been changed to protect those suburbs involved.
**My story, so I'll look however I want!
***Individual results may vary