Motor Vehicle Mama

Since being awarded my provisional driving licence and becoming a motor vehicle owner, I have completed my rites of passage and been beetling about NSW roads big time.

Props to me.

While beetling about i've been attempting to avoid all manner of road ragers (in the 80's we like raged (good times) and in the noughties we road raged (rude times ) like go figure. What has happened to common courtesy?! - SMH bloggers your time begins now!) and let me tell you the worst offenders are the pig dog bald and buff male variety (no doubt celebrity chefs - I did toot one of ‘em once but NSRs, just imagine how much toot/steroids those mothertruckers have done to behave as they do!! Oh I just shudder at the D R U G S ! These rd ragists are one fang away from serial killer or Lindsay Buckingham psychosis), stocking up on Coles brand soda water, practising my manoeuvres, and spending lots of time on the telephone line to the NRMA: sorting out insurance, slips and having the occasional workshop (when you say I have to pay $600 excess you make me feel poor and inexperienced).

I am the bomb (whatever that means. I heard Idol Stan and Big Brother contestants say it so it must be very deep and another way of saying awesome).

I am overwhelmed by a feeling of self-importance, enormous responsibility, misplaced civic pride and matoority. Consequently I cannot stop flicking my sheet of glossy hair over my right shoulder, tilting my chin to the left, and allowing a disgusting look of utter smugness to suffuse the oil painting of a face that the Creator bestowed upon me. (At this rapid rate of achievement, by next week i will be living in my father's den come funky pad, i don't know where my 52 year old brother will reside but eviction like shit happenz. Sorry NSRs, for the crudite and fibbing, i plainly still have one more rite of passage to go... )

Yeah so that’s me, and i really, really don't want to know about you because that's all we ever talk about, but the point of this post is to table the issewe that is the voice on the NRMA help line.

The kindly but correct tones of James Dibble /Bruce Menzies or Lozza Bailey/Lucy Bell have been usurped by those of a rockin’ kind of laid back Video Hits host full of uhs, pauses and up-endy inflections:

"Cars are cool but they can also be like a reeeeal hassle. Not a problem. I’m kinda here to help and uh, like unstress you. Press one if you’ve stacked. Press two if you’ve got an um existing policy. Press three if you want just chat …"

Pollie as pin up

Kate Ellis, my inner soothsayer has three words for you:

Natasha Stott Despoja

and just ornry old me wants to know what's all this arm wrestling with the Hulk business? Didn't Bill Bixby die?

Darling delicious black jelly bean of a car

Skinnamarink a dink a dink,
Skinnamarink a doo,
I love you.

I love you in the morning.
And in the afternoon.
I love you in the evening.
And underneath the moon.

Skinnamarink a dink a dink,
Skinnamarink a doo,
I love you!

Darling delicious black jelly bean of a motor vehicle you have transformed my world!!( you are my rock - oops sorry NSRs I thought i was accepting a Miss Lovely Motherhood award or parading down the Dalley M thong throng.)

Just hope that I don't get an attack akin to Bets Draper with that washing machine . . .

Blame it on Gothstock

Sunday morning at 12.52ish around my neck of the woods was

M E N T A L.

The police had got the word to G O. Sirens shrieked and what sounded like a fleet of the bleedin’ Sweeney screeched down my street stirring me from my dreams, which fortunately did not feature lame arse genwhinedoesgothandzombie and fleshy middle aged goth llladies commemorating All Hallows' Eve by the sportage of vavavavoom neckline ensembles and shadin’ theirselves and their treasure chests from the sun with lacey black parasols. Alas, I had truly ( sorry, verily) witnessed this gothicke grotesquerie 10 hours earlier when strolling down the main drag - 'keep yer mammaries to yerselves', i had hectored, in vain.

I was then well and truly woken by several reassuring bump, bump, bumps and a terrifying THUMP.

Adrenalin prickling and pumping, I scrambled out of my tangled bedclothes to race to the sitting room and stick my head out the window.

What a sight!!

Sweet NSRs by the look of these coppers they could never have passed for the Sweeney as they’d clearly never gone without dinner (let alone elevenses, and their trou pockets were no doubt crammed with snack packs and jam rolypolies). Bargearse/Bluey, more like. The great galoots had been in portly, sweaty pursuit of that object of the utmost importance, a stolen vehicle.

Oh the gaspillage of law'n'order funds (Surely the Cruel Sea wrote/sold a song about it?)

Sickmaking. Pass me that cream bun N O W!

Bargearse One not content with her car mounting the street's footpath had smashed its bonnet into the mansions' surrounding fence!! Bargearse Two tried to miss Bargey One and rammed his car's bonnet up the back of my neighbours’ motor.

Sirens continued to wail, porky pigs sweated and aimlessly waddled across the street, their guns in holsters jiggling against their jubblies, as they wondered “which way did he go?” and surveyed with surprise the enormous dish of crash, bang, smash ‘em up they’d served the residents of the mansions.

Goosey Goosey Gander

3 sniffer dogs, 2 smashed fuzz cars, 3 smashed civilian cars and 12 portly coppers later - ‘hot’ rod was smashed and abandoned and not one 'villain' nicked. Fortunately no one was injured in the debacle.

SISTERS!!!!!

If I hear one more woman qualify a statement with:

“NOT as a Feminist" or "I'm not a Feminist" (oooh heaven forbid)

I’ll, I’ll do my goddamn BLOCK.

Vagabond tongue - dicky word twist alert

Must work until Idol for I have been too idle at work.

Always ahead of the pack

With the demise of several 'legendary' 'good time' 'rocknroll' venues, Sydney's leading 'quality' broadsheet has replaced its Where's our summer gorne lament with Where's Sydney's live music scene? Even rockin' mamma here knows it's been dead for at least a decade. Clunkarama.

Did you know

Darrell Lea celebrates Choctober.

Marcia Hines has published a book of her platitudes to help one get through life; i think it might be called Go with what you know.

The dream team panel on the Insiders is Annabel Crabb, David Marr and Andrew Bolt. Yesterday's Insiders WAS magnificent and somewhat riotous. 2 minutes into the the introductory discussion Nanny Marr was fanging A. Bolt big time. When A. Bolt began his climate change scepticism rant, D. Marr turned away from AB, crossed his legs and proceeded to lounge while reading a newspaper, announcing " I'm reading the Sunday Telegraph!" Occasionally mid-fang D.M would pause, remove his glasses, suck on the ends of spectacles' arms then launch another attack. It seems that Annabel and David may have been chastised for being out of order during the screening of another segment as when discussion resumed they were less uproarious, less teasing and more patient with A. Bolt - shame. Perhaps Mother Bolt rang in and complained. Andrew Bolt was furious and gave Annabel Crabb dagger looks. It was an entertaining riot of a show.

You should always keep active. Well that's what an 87 year old woman with clear, light blue eyes and straight back advised me as i admired the kiddies' garden in the Albury Botanic Gardens. No, i was not swinging in a hammock and sipping a cocktail from a glass garnished with a minature parasol and slice of lemon, nor was i supine. I was my spritely, erect and approachable (oh me and Joe Hockey!) self. I've said it before and I'll say it again: kiddies and seniors are my most popular demographics. Am an utter right off with the ados and peers.

The Wine Room in Albury is the place to be of a Thursdee evening.

My great-aunt turns 100 this All Hallows' Eve and I will attend a party dressed as a ham (insert one liner about Ugly Dave Gray/Jimmy Saville/Joe Hockey/Wove here).

No need for a title

Fonzie found it difficult to admit that he was w-w-w-wrong; even to Mrs C and shortcake. My companion refused to accompany me into the joint so I , of course, told him to 'sit on it'.

montagna glory

High Society

Last night I was taken to the most divine (say it like Christopher Pahne would) bistro to celebrate my birthday.

My birthday actually falls in August and there is/was nothing august about it. Turning 40 was a breeze but the years that ensue, while a blessing are also a goddamn downer; just too confronting and really who wants a nervy b for her/is b’day. A veritable cherry atop yer middle-age spread.

Nevertheless I was very happy to celebrate my birthday in October because I have always been more comfortable with fiction than fact - some of my dearest friends and memories are phoney.

So the restron was gorgeous, absolutely delicious fare, and not too posh despite its location. Well for the true dwellers of the meretricious east this joint is casuale and akin to dining at your local Thai or Turkish (but not quite Aussie Chinese at the local rissole).

Towards the end of our meal a group of mid 30’s professional types were seated at the table behind us. I was probably digging my spoon into my dessert of white chocolate pannacotta, raspberries and a soupcon of superiority, when some friends of those derriere arrived to dine at another table. Amidst the welcoming cries and merging of tables , I heard the big lug of a rugger player type behind me boom to the female arriviste,

“Oh it's Piggy! Piggy, how are you? Oh you’re not so piggy now. Piggy’s now slim. Slender piggy.”
My delight was to intensify. 20 minutes later, having left the beeestro, we strolled down one of Woollahra’s avenues and as we passed another restaurant I gazed in the window at the diners and locked eyes with Diana 'Bubbles' Fisher.

Dusty, orange Sydney

This morning I woke from a wonderful dream, featuring some galpals and moi and our new super bestie Stevie Nicks, to enter a world where the natural light peeping through my window's venetian blinds was a glaring reddish orange.

I thought that there had been a very bad bushfire or a nuclear attack. It was/is very On the Beach meets the Midwich Cuckoos but like in real life. Eerie.

I then went to the world wide web and cosy old smh, which featured a report, Where's our blue sky gone (or summat), that explained the thick orange haze was caused by a dust storm.

The flat's hardwood floors now have a filmier layer of dust, it feels like talcum powder and my soles are oh so soft but orange. Llladies of Sydney put away your Thin Lizzy/Glo bronzer NOW.

The change of light is extraordinary. The green traffic lights are now a shade of turquoise, it is a turquoise man who indicates when you may cross the road. Most of the car lights are a lovely iceberg blue as are the Tupper streetlights; not quite the heartbreaking beauty that is the rosey hue of the lamps in Venice but still quite lovely.

I caught the bus into work, and all the passengers were very quiet; as hushed as on the Monday after lady di died (must get a burnt orange ribbonini at lunchtime to commemorate today's dust storm.) When the bus got further into the cbd the dust blanket increased.

Despite the wind still being rather forceful I saw shopkeeper on George Street attempting to remove the dust by beating his broom across the shop's entrance, and sending the dust to the next shop entrance. He really needed something practical like a leafblower.

Some people are wearing masks or scarves over their mouths and noses.

Over and out.

Two more for the Canon

The past fortnight or so I have had a hankering for some Dickens and Eliot, so Satdee afternoon I went to my favourite branch of the City of Sydney library. Alas the books I wanted were not there. Waaah.

Fortunately I stumbled upon a series of books based on the magnificent television show Rosemary & Thyme by Eastman. I borrowed two. So engrossing and so Blytonesque but i guess there is more talk of plants than food. Nevertheless they do have some nice cream teas, lots of crime, and glasses of wine when tucked up in their twin beds and googling suspects on Rosemary's laptop.

The Vernal Equinox

Has done in my sinuses. Pass it on.