Tuesday, May 29, 2007
My mum tells the story of when I was little, and my parents were still together (so pre-4 years old) when I was playing in the red-dirt backyard of our Port Headland home. Mum and Dad were in the kitchen and they looked outside through the window to see me singing earnestly into the electrics plug of our trailer, putting on my own 'concert' to an imaginary audience. For the record, it was Stevie Wonder's "I just called to say to I love you". I don't recall this specifically, but as I have dramatic tendencies and love an audience in my adult life, I don't find it hard to believe.
I am technically an only child and had to find ways to entertain myself throughout my early childhood, until the first of the plethora of half-siblings were born, when I was nine years old. I do recall putting on a lot of 'cooking shows' to my audience of one (a black Labrador called Zoe, who would sit patiently and watch as I 'created' dishes comprising of grass, sticks and mud) and I always dreamed of having loads of tiny glass bowls when I was grown up and cooking real things. You know how on real cooking shows all of the ingredients are lined up in little glass bowls just ready to be added to the mix? In truth, I would still like a set of little glass bowls, and I vow to purchase them one day. Also, embarrassingly, sometimes when I am cooking (by myself) I will still commentate as though I have my own show, explaining to the audience about the importance of creaming butter and sugar properly. I'm sure Lucy finds it informative….
So there's my revelation for the day. Was anyone else particularly weird as a child?
Agnes has stopped doing The Trick.
I am quite disappointed, naturally, however I can sort of understand why. She is not one to want to please me, being a cat, she just wants to please herself. And me being so pleased with her, this is motivation enough for her to stop doing The Trick. She knows she can do it, I know she can do it, and now she doesn't have to prove herself so she won't do it. No matter how much I follow her around, tapping my collarbone and whining "Come on Ag, hop up! Hop up Ag! AGGGG HOP THE FUCK UP". She just lifts her tail in the air in recognition that I am speaking to her, then sits down and cleans her bottom in that special way that only cats do, with a leg flung carelessly in the air. I'm sure she is trying to give me a message.
In other news, my nose has stopped behaving like a Mount Vesuvius of mucus, which is nice.
Saturday, May 26, 2007
It's balancing out
Bad News - I have a cold of epic snot-filled proportions.
Good news - I have taught Agnes to jump into my arms! I have always wanted to have a cat who can do things, a bit like a dog but without the demandingness. And now I have one. So not only can she catch huge rats and open all internal doors, she can now jump into my arms on command. And I am tall, so this feat is even more impressive*
As you were.
*to me
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Yesterday....
After a long, long, frustrating day being an observer/quasi instructor in Court I saw my first ever client being handcuffed and led away to the Big House by Police. In my time, only 2 clients have ever 'gone down', which, out of hundreds of matters, is a pretty good record, really. And both those times each client was 98% certain that they should pack a toothbrush. Both those times I was safely sat at my desk and my boss came back and reported the result and we made jokes of wrongness about Vaseline*. But yesterday, when the Magistrate handed down the sentence and the Police swiftly moved over to my client, who was standing in front of me, and he reached into his pocket and handed me his squashed packet of cigarettes before resigning to putting his hands behind his back and allowing the copper to click on those cuffs, his girlfriend behind me crying in loud, gulping sobs, I didn't feel very good about it at all.
The wheels of justice keep on turning. Or something. It was fucked.
And it was my birthday.
So the girls at work took me out to the pub and bought me champagne and I drank a bit and then when I got home I poured myself a glass of red wine and smoked cigarettes in my lounge-room. I never smoke in my house, but I thought fuck it. And I took calls from the small number of friends and family who remembered it was my birthday and I appreciated every minute of talking to them and their warm wishes and that they cared enough to pick up the phone. I talked to my Gran for a long time and cried to her for the first time ever and then felt awful for making her upset too. And I put a blanket down on the couch and let Lucy curl up with me and I drank my wine and smoked my cigarettes and felt sad for feeling so hopeless.
Another year gone. Ugghhh.
So, I have resolved, at some stage in the very very near future, to pull my head out of my arse and do my utmost to make good things happen in my life so I never again have to sit on my own, on my birthday, and feel so shit.
*don't judge us, it's a coping mechanism.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
'Cos she is Esme-zing....
Say Whiskas Minced Chicken in Gravy...
Doesn't she just look so.....happy? My animals are so used to my paparazzi-type antics that usually as soon as I get my camera out of the case they shut their eyes against the impending flash, so this photo is special, if only because Esme is so obviously cross about being manhandled again.
Contented catMonday, May 14, 2007
An update on my downward spiral to a living in a cardboard box
I got a call last week from the property manager at the estate agents saying that the landlord (agent) had reconsidered and decided that I could stay, given that I am (usually) such a good tenant. I declined, explaining that I felt very uncomfortable about the fact that he had come into my house without telling me. I confirmed with her that my reference would be fine, and said I would be in touch when I found a new property. She was very good about it. I felt quite strong after that, but wondered if I'd made the right decision. I think I have. I think if I stay here I would feel like I was being monitored, or feeling as though I owed him for his 'reconsideration'. I mean, what if I had a stray weed in the garden bed, would that be enough for the next time he wanted to crack the shits and tell me I have to leave?
So, the next weird thing I did was wait until after work and then went and had a talk to the partner. I actually tried to resign, explaining what was happening and that the only funds available to me at the moment is the ludicrous amount of annual leave I have banked up. He refused to accept my resignation and promised he would 'sort it out' for me. He offered to deal with the agent if I wanted him to, to which I said that I appreciated the sentiment but that I was a big girl and could fight my own battles. He went on a lot about how they think I'm a star and how much they value me which I said was nice but praise doesn't pay my bills. He indicated a salary review. I think it's all a load of shit.
I'm now in the process of trying to find somewhere to live which a. isn't in the ghetto, b. will allow me to keep my 'girls' and c. won't send me broke. Talk about a challenge. At least, hopefully, I will soon have a functioning heater, as my house is nine parts fucking freezing at the moment due to my heater not working/landlord not caring about fixing it.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Everything is completely cocked
The Friday before last, I called my real estate agent about a couple of issues with my house. The heater isn't working at all, and it's getting cold of an evening now. Also, the back door had shifted, as with pretty much every other door in the house, as the house is old and moves with changes in temperature. Door wedges are my friend. The back door wasn't closing properly and I couldn't lock it.
I get along well with the staff at the estate agents, I am always friendly and pleasant, as I see no point in being any other way for no reason. The agent is actually the owner of my house, so they like me a bit better than most tenants, I thought. The receptionist asked me to put my request in an e-mail, which I did straight away. I put my mobile number in the e-mail, even though it is already on their file, for their convenience to contact me to tell me when the fixing man would come to my house.
On Monday I got a reply saying that the agent would 'look into it'. I replied back thanking her.
Monday - no call, no door fixing.
Tuesday - no call, no door fixing.
Wednesday - no call, no door fixing.
Thursday - no call, but door fixing. I got home and the door now closes, but still doesn't lock. Heater not fixed.
Also on Thursday there were storms predicted so I had gone home at lunchtime and secured the girls in the sunroom, particularly so that Lucy wouldn't run away (as she tends to do when there are loud noises). The sunroom runs for most of the width of the house, along the back. It has a concrete floor, and louvre windows, the toilet and laundry run off it, it leads to the kitchen and to outside.
I got a call on Friday, at lunchtime, not from the agent but from his rent manager. I am being kicked out of my house, for having the pets in the sunroom. I tried to explain that it was because there was storms forecast and that they were only in the sunroom, which isn't carpeted, but she was having none of it. Apparently it was the agent/owner who came to my house, to fix the door himself. And he is pissed off.
Now, I don't deny that having the girls inside the house isn't the done thing. However, they weren't in a carpeted area, there were storms brewing. I was just looking after my pets.
I pay my rent on time every fortnight and have not once been late. My house is very clean, bordering on anally so in recent times due to my lack of social life. I don't have a crack lab set up in the kitchen. I have kept the extensive lawns looking beautiful through careful watering in accordance with the restrictions, and through setting up a grey water pipe system. I have the greenest lawns in my street. I don't play loud music in the early hours of the morning, or at all. I have had one wild party in the 18 months I have lived there, and that was during the day. I never complained that the 'third bedroom' has no power points and thus can't actually be used as a bedroom. I have never complained that there is a maximum of one power point in every other room, so my life is connected by a series of extension leads and power boards, which I purchased. I never complained about there being barely any lightglobes in the light fittings when we moved in. I never complained about the undocumented rent rise. I did complain about there being no air-conditioner when one was advertised with the property, but didn't make a fuss when they told me it was a 'mistake'. I didn't complain when the walls 'shift' again and plaster rains down in my kitchen.
On Friday I was pretty much in shock. I received the call at lunchtime, went back to work and tried to process it all in my head, very quietly. I didn't quite trust myself to speak. When I got home I called my mum and bawled down the phone, "Mum, I've just tried to do the right thing, I don't understand". My mum is angry. She told me to get a lawyer mate on the case, that I had made a small transgression, but that he had broken the rules as well.
Now I'm fucking angry. The agent didn't tell me when he was coming to the house. If he'd told me he was coming I would have somehow boarded up the missing windows in the garage and put the girls in there, to keep them safe. I have been a fucking excellent tenant, and this arsehole is kicking me out! I don't have a rainy day fund for when I unexpectedly have to move house. I don't have a rainy day fund at all. I don't have parents or relatives whom I can turn to for help in a situation like this. I live in a country town and now if I try and find a new house to live in I'm going to get a shitty reference and most likely be turned down.
I'm pissed off that I'm the only one getting punished in this. I'm pissed off that I'm a young woman living by myself and someone feels that it is their right to enter my home without my informed consent. And I'm panicking about what I am going to do, where I am going to live, how many organs I'm going to have to sell to raise the cash for a new bond and new rent and removalists and utility connections and the myriad of other costs that arise when one moves. I am pissed off because I believe that I have for the most part done the right thing, and my reputation is going to be fucked up, a black mark on my record.
I don't know what to do.
Everything is cocked.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Alright kids, I'm not going to do a series of increasingly spaced posts all 'oooooh sorry I haven't updated for so long, I'm so shit, etc etc' as that is boring and egocentric. The truth of the matter is that I have very little material to blog about unless you would like a daily recount of last night's dinner or the funny thing that the dog did this morning. And no-one wants that shit.
In life, as in blog, I am searching for inspiration.
In life, as in blog, I am searching for inspiration.
A positive element in my world, I suppose, is that I'm not smoking pot anymore. It's been about 2 weeks now. To clarify, this wasn't a decision I made specifically, more that I have completely smoked my stash and don't know how to procure more. The only people I know who have access are clients and I'm not convinced that it's a good idea to go down that path, no matter how chummy I am with shady characters with drug convictions (or no convictions, if we did a particularly good job). As much as I am struggling with spending my evenings in a lucid state I'm sure my brain will benefit in the long term. Although it is apparent that The Family Guy isn't quite as genius as I originally thought. Devastating.
I have also been having increasing difficulty with my work, drafting submissions for my victims of crime in particular has become laborious and I struggle to find the right turn of phrase, the perfect sequencing, the exact words to evoke the appropriate sympathies without revealing desperation. I have always felt it is imperative that the client retains some dignity in these cases, and not presented to the Court as helpless and ruined unless they are, of course, completely fucked up by the crime. However, I have been engaging in terrible avoidance of these matters and have instead been focusing on punchy, aggressive and arrogant correspondence in my family law files. It is perhaps indicative of my current frame of mind that I am obtaining satisfaction in writing letters which could almost all be summarised simply by saying "No, fuck YOU".
On another work point, I am ostensibly sans-boss at present. And not in a 'I don't really have a boss because my boss doesn't have a clue' sort of way, in an actual 'My boss didn't have a clue so she got the arse' way. I initially felt quite bad that she didn't work out, and I know that I was partly responsible for her departure due to the amount of times I stormed into the Managing Partner's office demanding to know how I was supposed to work with a lawyer who was incapable of writing a coherent file note let alone adequately run a case. However, in the week since she left the office I have encountered scary and poorly concealed examples of what can only be described as gross incompetence, each and every day. To construct a lame analogy, if this practice was a vehicle, we found the handbrake about 5 seconds before crashing into a brick wall doing 100km/h. Not bad for 10 weeks 'work'. So now I have someone coming from another office two days each week to assist/direct/answer my questions, and thank the sweet Lord he knows what he's on about. The remaining days of the working week it is assumed that I will just 'run things' and naturally I am quite delighted that I get extra work and responsibilities not at all commensurate with my qualifications, and best of all - for no extra remuneration! That's right kids, more work, more difficult work and longer hours for no recompense whatsoever! Right on! Luckily, performance reviews aren't all that far away and I will be doing my darnedest to inflict some scrotal trauma by squeezing at that time.
Enough of the whinge. For the sake of balance, I will also say that I am thoroughly enjoying my Monday Night Mixed Netball Comp Season 2007 (Of Hopeful Victory)* of which we have now played four games. At first we had been promoted two entire divisions and consequently got flogged**. Then the organisers realised that although we may sometimes look the part (i.e. wear proper trainers, turn up, etc) we are a tad bit shit and relegated us to a lower division where we have enjoyed two convincing wins and last week I got to play against an extremely attractive man which, pitifully, made my night. Still, I take my joy in whatever form it presents to me these days, ain't nothing gonna break-a my stride.
Also, am going to see Ross Noble rock Shepparton to it's very foundations (comedically) on the weekend which I am very much looking forward to. He and I could have been hair twins if I had never discovered product/straighteners. Plus, he's as random as hell and I love him for this also.
*Unofficial title, obvs
**Technical sporting term
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