Wednesday, 17 July 2013
So it's footy season in Australia, and this thuggish game of kick the egg-shaped ball around the paddock in teeny tiny shorts has overcome the nation. In lounge rooms everywhere televisions are boasting AFL and NRL in wide screen and high definition. Teenage boys are slapping their mates on the asses and girls are swearing like troopers. Families are gathered to fist the coffee table in support and the die-hards are wearing nothing but striped t-shirts and stubbies (otherwise known as the teeny-tiny shorts).
Meanwhile, people like me try to commandeer the remote or simply turn the television off. But what do you do on State of Origin night when the entire neighbourhood is screaming 'go you stupid, f@cking idiot, kick the ball!' in super high volume? Do you play ABBA? Do you slam windows and doors closed in the hopes they get the message?
I suppose you could pull a Julie Andrews and belt out 'The Sound of Music' from your balcony or driveway, tap on the front door with a loaded shotgun and then cock it when their over-cheery face greets you with surprise.
No. You simply suck it up, cringe through every outburst and then write a scathing post about it.
I suspect that's someone at the door now, coming to offer rebuttal.
Have a good one, even if it's the football,
Is it possible to run away from yourself? No. Skyla Jane Judge should know.
Fresh on the heels of a breakup and college graduation, Skyla Jane Judge feels an inexplicable urge to accompany an attractive stranger on a road trip from New York to New Orleans. Maybe it has something to do with what a psychic has told her about a past life. Maybe some old friends stuck between lives are waiting for her there.
Whatever the case, she gives in to the lure of Louisiana’s voodoo country and doesn’t look back. Longing for change, she uncovers a “den” beneath the haunted cobblestone streets of the French Quarter and, in the company of vampires, begins to discover her true self.
Skyla embarks on a journey to self-awareness that ultimately uncovers a secret ceremonial path to love and eternal enlightenment. Though change is what she wanted, is she ready for the irrevocable change her “new” friends offer her?
Sunday, 14 July 2013
I'm starting to get back into the swing of things, though, organising my paperwork, re-shuffling priorities, saving orphans and ... cleaning my car.
Apparently this is something you need to do regularly. Who knew?
On the stern advice of my father, I have spent at least twelve hours getting my four year old Mazda 3 up to scratch. Things were living in the carpets, the windows wouldn't go down because of the grit in the rubber seals, and I have so many paint chips on the bonnet that it looks like a pimply teenager's face.
Needless to say I have hoovered, washed, scrubbed, polished and ruined my God damn fingernails in an effort to make my car look brand new again. With success now a story I'm blogging about, I have to wonder when my laziness will once again reign supreme and my poor little Mazda will inherit take away rubbish, muddy mats, and a drunken bum living in the backseat.
My blue bucket of steel is the second home I can't live without, now possibly cleaner than than a hospital ward. So will I nurse it to continuing health, or will it fall victim to those little bastards who write 'wash me' on the dusty paintwork?
Time will tell.
Meanwhile, I'll be enjoying the shiny new polish, clean upholstery and ridiculously loud music pumping through my sound system. Yes, I'm that girl singing with reckless abandon at the traffic lights.
Have a good one,