The World According To Me

The Bureau of Meteorology are basically going to go ape-shit when they realise they have been investing all of their funds in fancy weather-predicting technology when they just could have been employing my head of hair.

Basically, the closer that rain gets, the further my mop of curly badness stands on end. I have pretty much honed it down to a 'minutes away' system. When my hair is at 45 degree angle, you should start looking for your brolly. However, it should be noted that if I have lovely sleek, straight hair, don't think that you're safe from the storm. This simply means that I have been to the hairdresser and it's definitely going to rain, in accordance with Murphy's Law.

You heard it here first!

Yours looking forward to a cushy government job for the rest of my working life,

Kymmy

xxx

So, if you are in earshot of me and say per-gulla, expect a punch in the nose. You have been warned.

P.S. It's nothing personal.

The trip to Melbourne was, for the most part, crap. Come Saturday afternoon I really couldn't be bothered leaving my house, but I hate pikers and I hate being a piker so I pressed on. I was late for the party because the last 45 minutes of my journey was spent driving around the streets of Southbank trying to find a park. There was seriously NO parking ANYWHERE in that entire bloody suburb. I finally made it to my friend's apartment, to be greeted by a room of people who were for the most part a. not drinking and b. not talking. After my epic drive and associated parking dramas all I wanted to do was to have a vodka so I found someone I knew from years ago, plonked myself down next to him and started yabbering away like a moron. We used to live together during my first stint at uni, he has finally come out (many years after everyone else knew) and hasn't changed an ounce. The conversation was joined by a couple of other people who were lovely and interesting but I still do not know anyone's name. I wanted to have a cigarette very badly so I confirmed it was okay with my host to venture out onto the tiny balcony and light up. I 'excused me' my way around the table in the designated dining area to outside and people stared at me like I was a germy leper. No-one smoked. No-one. Feeling like a complete pariah I resolved that for the next cigarette I would traverse the three flights of stairs down and out the security entrance and make someone let me in via the intercom on my return. I need not have worried as most of the guests left by 10.30pm. 10.30pm! There were just the inhabitants of the apartment remaining as well as myself and two other strays who were planning on taking up couch space not because they were too drunk to drive, rather that they had also travelled to the city from the country to 'do the right thing' . In fact, they weren't drinking at all. We sat around looking at eachother whilst I continued to imbibe by myself. Bed was not long after.

In the morning I awoke and ventured to the toilet. It was so tiny you sort of had to stand right at the side of the bowl before you could close the door behind you. The bathroom is also the laundry. The hallway is so narrow you can't possibly have two people pass eachother at the same time. The kitchen has so little bench-space it made me feel guilty for ever having bad thoughts about the lack of bench space of my own. You have to suck your tummy in to shuffle past the dining room table and out onto the balcony. Once out on the balcony you can see everyone else in the 300 odd neighbouring apartments in the complex. People tending their pot-plants, draping washing over clothes-horses, taking in their morning coffee perched on tiny chairs with tiny tables to match. Someone was conversing through the door to inside their apartment seven balconies away from me and I could hear their every word. I felt unbelievably claustrophobic and desperately needed to get home. I thanked my hosts for their hospitality and walked a million miles to find my car. Once outside the city limits I wound down my window and breathed deep breaths, trying to use as much of my lungs as possible, attempting to fill myself with air which hadn't just been expelled by someone else.

When I finally got home I hugged my dog and chased down my cats to force my affection upon them as they squirmed out of my arms. I walked the perimeter of my lovely big rooms, opened up all of the windows which are never locked and appreciated the worn and fading carpets with new eyes. I did a little skip through my kitchen and then sat outside on my grass and looked all around and was unbelievably relieved to not be facing someone else but pretending they weren't there. I looked up into the trees and wasn't annoyed at the birds that usually shit on my washing. I am thankful that I can hang my washing out in the first place and that there are birds to provide noise that isn't of the industrial variety. I am thankful it doesn't take the best part of my day to shop for groceries. I am thankful that this morning when walking the twelve minutes from home to work that when I stopped to get a coffee my order was placed before I'd even reached the counter.

I have been thinking lately that I would perhaps like to move back to Melbourne, but after my experience on the weekend I am not so sure. I know there are absolutely advantages to living in the city, and certainly if I want to go out and get wasted on a Tuesday night, it can't be done in the town I live in. Hell, if I want to have proper Chinese food that is cooked by people who possibly aren't white then it can't be done in the town that I live in. But if I was going to live in the city I could not live in an apartment, or a flat, or a unit, or anything other than a house which I could probably not afford. I don't live in a fashionable place and I really don't care. I have been spoiled by space and solitariness and not knowing the sexual habits of my neighbours. The only thing I know about my neighbours' lifestyle is that last Thursday they cooked a barbie and the aroma of their dinner meandered over their fence into my yard and it smelt delicious.

And that's all I need to know.

I'm a bit behind the times I know, but I have got myself a MySpace account.

Now what?

My 'friends' include a cat from Gippsland and a punk band from Oregon, but what is the point exactly? How long do I have to wait to be groomed by a paedophile or stalked by a spurned ex-lover? I'm just a simple girl from the country and this whole shamozzle confuses me. PLEASE SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

Am heading down to the big smoke tomorrow arvo to attend a house-warming of a friend who has broken up with her boyfriend and has moved into a swanky Southbank abode with her sister and someone else. I will only know my friend and her sister, so will have to sort of psych myself up to be in social mode and make an effort to be 'on'. With the assistance of some gin I'm fairly confident I'll be okay. My friend texted me to tell me to bring my togs as they have a pool however I'm not sure that me being in a cossie is any sort of party favour I'd want at my barbie.

I finally feel my boy mojo is returning, after a good number of months of it retracting to the point of non-existence. I'm noticing attractive boys on the street, in the pub, outside the pub on the street… I'm not particularly interested in anything other than looking right now, but it feels nice to be aware again. This is a really weird thing to say, I know, but I have been sort of blank, or numbed if you will, for a long time now. So instead of thinking "There's a bloke. Ugggh", it's "Ooooh, doesn't that boy have lovely eyes" or whatever. I'm rambling.

After 8 days of intensive treatment with the chiro, back braces and mucho painkillers, I'm pretty much back in the clear. I don't wish to ever be immobilised on the chiropractor's table ever again from spasms or whatever it was that rendered me unable to move. Not nice. I have been ordered back to the gym to strengthen everything up again as apparently an entire summer of laying on the couch watching the cricket and eating hummous is not conducive to a healthy spine. Who would have thought?

The animals are doing nicely, thanks for asking. Esme sat on the side of the bath last night whilst I was soaking and appeared unaware that her tail was in the water until it was too late. She does amuse me so. However, it has been previously proven that I am not difficult to amuse. Makes my life quite simple really.

I was at a friends place on Wednesday night for crusted lamb racks and slow roasted vegetables and chocolate pudding made from scratch and we spent a good part of the evening outside under her pergola watching the storm and listening to the sweet, sweet rain pelting on the roof. There is nothing like the acrid smell of nitrogen that lightening brings and that rises up from the parched earth when rain falls for the first time in months. Fucking delightful.

I sent a text to a mate last night not long after partaking in a particularly special smoke:

'Just had fucking excellent movie idea - an action packed, heart-stopping search for missing Russian king - "Dude, where's my Tsar". Whaddya think?'

His reply - 'see you on the big screen'

Thing is, even this morning without the benefit of being bent, I still find this funny. The other thing is now that I'm not sure if I've heard it before and have simply stolen the idea as my own or if it is an original thought. Not sure which is worse.

Yep, saddo = me. There's no denying it.

I love looking at how people came to visit my blog. Recent referrals which have got me wondering how/why/when/for the love of God;

I had a very proud moment last night, and feel that it's a stepping stone in me finally growing the fuck up.

I went round to my besties' place for dinner with a few other people. Four out of the five people there have law degrees - this is not a foreign situation as 95% of my friends are lawyers (occupational hazard) but one of them was also a barrister and as charming and lovely as he is there was a lot of talking shop. Of course, I rarely get to leave my desk and see what actually happens in Court unless there's a matter I feel particularly interested in or attached to and consequently a lot of the conversation went over my head. So I drank to fill in the gaps, did a bit of nodding and when I felt like I had something vaguely intelligent to contribute I piped up. All good. Only the times where I felt like I had something vaguely intelligent to contribute became more sparse with each glass of champagne that slipped down my throat. We ate a beautiful risotto and continued talking and drinking. At about 11pm I realised I had finished the better part of two bottles of champagne and if I was to have one more glass I would descend into messy, messy badness from which I would never recover. So I stood up, thanked my hosts for a lovely evening and announced that it was time for me to be going home. It turned out to be perfect timing as the barrister felt it was bedtime for him also so we shared a cab and I was asleep before midnight.

The part I was proud of was not the fact that I had two bottles of champagne on a school night, rather that I actually recognised the point at which I could not carry on in the spirit of the evening without making a complete disgrace of myself. AND I CHOSE TO STOP.

Yep, 25 and all grow'd up.

NB. I am still hungover as fuck this morning and there are some fried dimmies in an unclean bain-marie somewhere close by which are fearing for their very existence as I write this.

I had another dream about Lucy dying last night. This has occurred before and it's horrid. I woke up at some ungodly hour feeling panicked and called for her just to make sure she was actually alive. She was thrilled to be allowed up on the bed to sleep. I kept a hand on her for the rest of the night to make sure she was there and breathing. Reassuring myself and allowing me to sleep.

Lucy turns seven in April. She has grey hairs and a couple of dodgy lumps on her and sometimes she has seizures where I can do nothing but lay down on the floor with her and hold her til it finishes and she regains control over her muscles. I hate these episodes particularly, even though it's only happened a couple of times. She is fully conscious throughout and is utterly terrified. When they do occur she loses the use of her legs and her body rolls in spasms for about 10 minutes. I don't think it is painful for her, she doesn't yelp or cry, her eyes just widen with terror and break my heart. The vet doesn't know what to do.

She hopefully has, I'd say, another five years left in her. She's part Boxer and they don't tend to have a good reputation for a long life, but the other half of her, Labrador, seem to be a bit more resilient, and I pray she takes after that. I get achingly sad at the mere thought of not having her around.

I do try not to think about it.

But the dreams come through without my permission.

Dear man at the pub on Friday night,

Just because I played a game of pool against you and lost doesn't mean I am required to continue conversing with you for the rest of the evening. You could see I was with friends, why did you keep coming up to dribble in my ear (metaphorically)? Eventually, once we'd switched venues and you'd found us and kept on, I had to be rude and physically turn my back on you. I don't like to be rude, but you were seriously annoying.

Love,

Kymmy
xxx

Fridays are so full of hope aren't they? I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to having a big sleep in tomorrow, especially seeing as though I've ostensibly been awake since 3.30am this morning thanks to a little kitten (not the one to the left, the other naughty one) and her new favourite toy. A feather. On my bed. For hours. I tried to hide the feather (behind the bedside table, down the back of the bed) and she repeatedly found it until I had to actually get out of bed and put it in the bin. Yep, just call me the Fun Police - wee aww wee aww (siren o' fun police, geddit?). She then settled down and went to sleep and I just drifted off and my alarm rudely woke me again.

I plan to have some drinks tonight, and some drinks tomorrow night, making the most of my two adored friends who are leaving me for better and brighter things in the big city shortly. I think I'm going to be a little bit lost without them. That is almost certainly an understatement.

Nest week I must must must re-enrol at uni. My subjects this semester will be history and sociology. Mmmm, scintillating. I wish I could take literature for every subject for the rest of my degree.

I have had an offer to share my house. An acquaintance/friend has asked if I am looking for a housemate to move in. I wasn't. But now I think about it, sharing the cost of rent would be some pretty sweet relief on my ever-diminishing purse right now. However, I have also gotten quite used to strolling around my abode in my knickers, which would have to stop if someone moved in. OR WOULD IT.

Also, there is a girl who works in the shop next door to my office who looks quite similar to a girl who works in my office. Lets just say our girl's name is Mary (it's not, protecting the privacy of the innocent etc), we call the girl next door Not-Mary. As in, I can't believe it's not Mary. Because they look similar, you know? *sigh*. It's lame. We don't know her name. But the point of my story is that I see her nearly every single day and I have never, ever seen her wearing the same thing. And I mean nothing is ever the same. I have never seen the same pair of pants twice, the same top, the same chunky-bead necklace, nothing. I have a declining work wardrobe which is on constant high rotation and I'm lucky if I don't wear the same thing two days in a row and I simply cannot understand how this bird (in the times when I see her) hasn't doubled up on clothing. My theories on how this could occur;