Poppalina

Just turn me loose, let me straddle my old saddle underneath the Western skies...

A long day of driving through the western suburban wilderness in search of a factory. A factory that will produce clothes for the yoga studio. Clothes that don't show your cervix when you spread your legs and bend over, clothes that your boosies won't fall out of when you invert, if at all possible. Are such clothes attainable? Dear God, let it be so. I am SO TIRED of having to work with my ass to the wall because my tights are old and sheer and I can't find new ones. Tracky dacks are all very well for the casual Iyengar student, but teacher trainees are expected to provide visual access to as much of their bodies as possible and, like fully-qualified teachers who demonstrate poses all day long, must be above reproach on the Modesty Front. Easier said than done.

The factory was bloody hard to find, but when finally I did, after some amusing, mimed exchanges with roaming Vietnamese factory workers, walking through those doors was worth every hot, dusty, cyclone-fenced dead end I had hitherto encountered. Probably the most to-die-for manufacturing space I've ever seen. High, vaulted ceilings. Natural light as far as the eye can see (which was pretty far, under the circumstances), miles and miles of uncluttered cutting tables and every kind of sewing machine you could ever wish for. All of it so clean and neat it seemed to sparkle. I almost cried.

I expected nothing less because it's owned by my ex-landlady, who is as neat and clean as she is sweet, honest and kind. Best landlords I ever had and the only thing I regretted losing when I left the West. Well....that and the remote access garage - my car will never recover. Oh, and the karaoke nights; the landlords next door with their prodigious extended family, singing their hearts out to one long, interminable Vietnamese ballad - I never tired of it...but I digress. Anyway, I was greeted like the Prodigal Daughter, and it was all very emotional....

A BIG detour on the way home, via the Perfectly Enormous Bunnings in Sunshine (okay, that's 4 things I miss, but that's TOTALLY the last one), saw me stopping at my favourite Indian grocer for essential supplies (alright, alright, 5 things; nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition). Now, my Indian grocery supplies are no joke, it being pointless to cook lemon gnocchi without ghee (go figure, but it's true), I can now see out the global economic crisis without fear of running low on incense, and there is nothing like gulab jamon for the pre-menstrual palate. I also found a bottle of rose syrup, which I have BIG plans for, big plans....

But the best part of all was getting home, putting my feet up, and unwinding with these....

A packet of 50-50 tasty tasty biscuits. That's 50% tasty, and....um....the other 50% tasty also, baba...

and, my personal favourite, a nice cool glass of iced Apple Sidra.

And if you're wondering what Apple Sidra tastes like....well.... 

It tastes a real lot like apple cider,

only funnier.

Undoing

With the benefit of hindsight, and considering my current state(s) of mind, buying Irish whiskey to celebrate 5000 comments may not have been the best idea I've ever had.

Around 2am, after a long drive down the coast and back to deliver the Creative Genius to her school holiday destination, I opened the bottle, intending to knock back a dram and then go to bed.

As you do.

And that's the last thing I remember clearly. I awoke with the sun high in the sky, lying half on the toilet floor and half actually in the toilet itself, stark naked and in a state of unequivocal disrepair. Sparing you the most gruesome details, let me just say that it was not pretty, dudes. How I got there remains a mystery, as do most of the intervening hours, but I can tell you that at some point I appear, interestingly, to have joined the Country Women's Association. However, I have no Actual Memory of doing this; I only know because their confirmation email arrived this afternoon.

I don't seem to have got up to too much mischief, apart from that. The house was more or less in order, and I have never been the kind to place drunken, recriminating ISD phone calls in the middle of the night, thankfully. I think (hope) I just partied alone and, with any luck, got a few things off my chest.

I'm so glad that nobody but the dog was here to witness my descent, though even he was having trouble respecting me, this morning. Pretty hard to take, let me tell you, getting disgusted looks from a guy who's been known to eat his own poo.

So. Welcome to the New Poppalina. Poppalina the Reckless. Poppalina The Reprobate. Poppalina the take your hands high above your head, do the cosmic sign and repeat loudly after me: 'Rocknroll! Hello, Cleveland!'

The New Poppalina, who doubts very much that she will imbibe the firewater again for Quite Awhile. 

But she has nothing to hide, no one to tell her how to be and not a hell of a lot left to lose. And that makes her Considerably More Dangerous

You have been warned.

In other news, I accidentally broke this bangle while I was packing, today.

Poetic.

Twice a Day With Meals, And Please Do Try To Get Yourself Laid

So I go into the hospital totally psyched for radioactive treatment, fortified by weeks of soul-searching, childcare brainstorming, internet research. Hell, I even had someone organised to take the dog who, as long as he lives, will never grasp the idea of not being within patting distance of me, and who I had visions of glowing like Casper the Ghost after an evening by my side.

All this magnificent preparation, and my specialist puts me back on the meds, instead.

Oh man, anything but the pills. I hate the pills. They make me fat. And slow.

They work, however. My heart is no longer attempting to exit my rib cage, which is a Good Thing. Apparently, the radiation may or may not come later, for those of you who've been kind enough to ask.

My endocrinologist also informs me, in an exhaustive consultation, that intimacy is crucial to good health, and that I really should consider dating. I sit there, rather confused, searching frantically in my mind for a causal link between celibacy and thyro-toxicity. I don't find one, probably because it doesn't exist.

So I ask him if he's married, and of course he is and has been, blissfully, for 25 years.

Which confirms what I already know; that the Lovely Paul, with his endearing Einstein hairdo and cool-but-not-cold-hands, knows sweet fuck all about being alone. If he did, he would already understand that the bane of a sole parent's existence occurs when one of their well-meaning-but-bumbleheaded-friends tries to fix them up on a blind date with their accountant/hairdresser/recently-divorced-parent-of-their-6-year-old's-best-friend. Or tells them that they need to get out more and meet men. I swear, it makes me want to join a nunnery. To me, it's as offensive as telling one of my married friends that they really should consider having an affair, lest they expire from smugness.

He meant well enough, and it beats the hell out of a doctor who makes you wait 4 hours for a 5 minute consultation - I had a 5 minute wait, an hour's consultation and, for the most part, a rollicking good time - and, assuming my mojo hasn't completely forsaken me, I s'pose I could walk into a bar, pick up some complete stranger and bring him home to meet my teenage daughter.

But I'm currently sharing my bed with a Major Quilt Operation, and can't possibilty accomodate an extra body until after 2010.

Oh, and here's this week's mosaic, because it is Monday, after all and hey, it's not like I'm busy having sex or anything.

Oy.

1. NH Sheep and Wool, 2. Sweden, 3. 'Hour 2' close, 4. Untitled, 5. Midday Flop, 6. doilies, 7. 2dollar, 8. constant, 9. Untitled, 10. circles, 11. inourparisapartment, 12. Proclaim your love elsewhere...., 13. Untitled, 14. crazy pickets, 15. the weekend, 16. Exit, 17. Closeup, 18. COLLABORATION with Shawna Handke, 19. 365:92 cupcake week, 20. Handhelds: Binky Buddy No.17, 21. eggs, 22. lamby lucha libre, 23. Sheep, 24. Isabel Marant, 25. We Went Whale Watch'n

Eddie. He Makes Me Larf, He Does

But first, Breakfast Sunday.

Breakfast doesn't really make me laugh. Though it does make me unaccountably happy.

Hard to choose which clip to show, there are so many that I love. I had to watch every single Eddie Izzard video on YouTube.....like, twice.....before I could possibly make a decision.

I finally narrowed it down to three:

Death Star Canteen

Mr Dog

and Supermarket Psychology

But I have to tell you, it was REALLY HARD to leave out the other 47.

So.....yeah.

This is what makes me laugh out loud.

Enjoy.

The Great Biscuit Robbery

The Before Shot:

Lovely. About 3 dozen peanut butter biscuits. Enough to feed a small army. Baked by the 13 year old.

However, before they had a chance to cool and be put away, all but three Mysteriously Disappeared.

Closer inspection revealed dna evidence.

The owner of the Incriminating White Hair was discovered directly beneath the Crime Scene; floppy, cross-eyed and sporting a tummy ache that prevented him from moving or looking anything but Completely Tragic for the next 12 hours.

Sympathy was restricted to keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn't require hospitalisation.

The greedy bollocks.

ps. I should probably add, in his defense, that thieving isn't part of his MO. Mym had given him a biscuit when she passed them round, as we usually do. It must have made quite an impression on him.