and i think to myself what a disappointing world

Fuck I hate mobile phone companies. This is why:

A few months ago my 2 yr old phone was dying a slow and horrible death. What had been a great phone (functionality wise) was rapidly losing the ability to stay on, battery dropping out every few hours.

As if by magic, a lady from 3mobile called and told me I could get a new phone if I renewed my contract. Please note: I knew this was not magic. I knew she had called at that time because:
a) my phone had been built to break after approx. 2 years, in line with contract length; and
b) by calling me a few months before my contract was due to end I would be pleasantly suprised and not question why I was getting a new phone earlier than expected

I was clever though and I refused to choose a phone right there and then. She'll rip me off, I thought. I'll go into the shop and pick one myself. The nice man assured me my sensible, sturdy, economic, simple phone was going to be a good one (of course the LG phone I loved had been discontinued as everyone wants freakin' touchscreens now not flip phones).

I secured new phone and new plan only to since discover the following:
1. new phone is shit. it takes an age to start up again after being placed on the charger. it takes an age to perform any simple task. nothing is straightforward. i can't do the simplest of things. it is shit.
2. if i had waited mere weeks i could have gotten an iphone on my plan.

That's right folks. bitch at 3 was palming off the old phones so that less people would get iphones.

I have been mad about this for some time, but, as I have an aversion to touchscreens and fads I thought I'd just plod along with my shitty nokia. Until I got a bill in which I had gone $100 over my plan.

SHE SIGNED ME UP TO A NEW PLAN WITH HIGHER RATES. WITHOUT TELLING ME.
FUCKER.

Ever the optimist, I trotted along to the 3 shop today. Am old fashioned. Believe in customer service. You know, the man actually smirked at me, almost laughed out loud, when I told him what had happened. I asked - if I upgrade to a higher rate plan, can I have an iphone?

Oh no, that'll be $35 a month extra thankyouverymuch. On top of the new, higher cost plan.

How can they? How can they build these things to break and manipulate us so severely? Why don't people want to create quality merchandise and develop quality relationships with customers? As the world dies under a heap of rubbish and the bigwigs trip over themselves to claim they are green, no one is pointing out (or dare I say it legislating against) this absolute waste of resources, time and money.

YOU DO NOT NEED A NEW PHONE EVERY 2 YEARS. THEY JUST MAKE YOU GET ONE BY SELLING YOU SHITTY PRODUCTS.

When I actually think about this rip off and about how helpless I am to do anything about it, I feel like crying. Clothes, computers, appliances: all built to break. Why is no one (well no one prominent and powerful) saying that this fundamental principal is killing the earth and causing mental breakdowns in young and normally happy-go-lucky public servants like myself?

I left the shop not knowing how to solve the problem. I need a good phone. I am an obsessive communicator and, in today's society, the phone is an essential tool. But I don't want to pay them an extra $50 a month. And I don't want an iphone that will just break in two years. I want to leave 3 but I'd have to pay out my contract and all the other companies are the same anyway.

Why hasn't a phone company stood up and offered something different? Phones that don't break? Personalised service? An honest approach?

I left the shop and went off to iku in search of a soul reparing vegan lunch. Mmmm mushroom, thyme and leek pie I thought and purchased happily.

STUPID PIE WAS FULL OF LIMA BEANS.
So many lima beans I could barely taste the mushroom. I saw no leek. I tasted no thyme. It was fucking lima bean pie. Do you know what I don't like?

LIMA BEANS.

LIMA BEANS AND MOBILE PHONES: YOU'RE ON MY LIST.

Also on my list this week:
- 90 page strategy documents
- backing tracks that do not match the original
- people that think they know better than I do about my personal life
- rooms that do not tidy themselves

...

housework.

I really hate housework. Today I have considered all of the following as methods for avoiding putting clean sheets* onto bed.

* Note that I have managed to take dirty sheets off bed and put in washing machine. I don't hate laundry so much, as a machine has kindly been invented to do all the work. And I have now bought one of these machines. Joy.

Avoidance options include:

1. Sleep on couch

2. Pay a friend $20 to do it for me (any takers?)

3. Go out every night and find a random to take me home so I don't have to sleep in own bed (unfortunately this clashes with my new celibacy resolution...but that's a different story)

4. Proposition someone flirtatiously in the hopes that they'll help me

5. Move in with a girlfriend (after having asked someone to be my girlfriend) so that she has to do it (girlfriends who live together don't have sex anyway, so this one is in line with celibacy resolution)

6. Sleep on bed without sheets

7. Use a sleeping bag

8. Rent a hotel room

9. Break my own arm so friend / parent / sibling / nurse has to come and do it for me

10. Go on internet dating site and find someone who gets off on doing chores for other people

...

blog. i does one.

I was asked this evening when I would blog again and I realised I haven't written here in a while (for facebook people: what you read is from my actual blog on bloggy website...which is of course the same as what you see on facebook except with colours and fonts I choose...but I digress).


I go through phases of having enough of the following to rant in written form:
1. confidence
2. time
3. presence of significant irritation in life to complain about
4. solitude
5. energy


Lately I have not really had the above in remotely generous enough servings, thus silence. I have started blogs but had neither time, confidence or inclination to complete them.


Topics have included:
- a list of criteria for my ideal wife
- musings about women, drawing on references to the West Wing. This blog was a little self-indulgent and wanky so is languishing in drafts
- a musing about the advantages of bus travel over train. now out of date as was staying in clovelly at the time
- recount of dream in which i had a seizure on a staircase at an Indian cooking school and Anna had to hold my head so it didn't smash
- spiel about my relationship to food and its social / creative / sensual / artistic / scientific joys


Oh world, see what fascinating and essential insights you have missed due to my:
a) disinterest and disbelief in own writing capabilities
b) business
c) contentment
d) constant company
e) exhaustion


I like lists.

...

today: the good, the bad and the ugly. not in that order.

the bad:
- Lateness. I am once more becoming incapable of getting to work on time. This must be rectified. These basic human tasks - falling asleep / waking up - have for so long now alluded me. I have so many random skills (e.g. remembering numbers, walking on stilts, carrying humans bigger than me, singing very loudly...). Why can't I get sleep right?

- Seeing a man in a fitness first uniform doing push-ups at a cafe on my (late) way to work. Fitness first has no place in my suburb with its uniformed athletes putting protein powder in my milkshake; a milkshake which will NOT bring the girls to the town if the (new)town becomes this crappy, increasingly homophobic, gentrified craphole I see it becoming more and more with every fake-tanned himbo that treks in to suck face at the Marly.

the good:
- Wonderful photoshoot for the front cover of Made You Look. If we don't speak, MYL is the magazine I am editing. I am not a journalist, let alone an editor. This amazing gift landed in my lap earlier this year and I really don't want to fuck it up. It's been touch and go, but on a sunny day like today I thank the heavens when the subject turns out to be hot, hot, hot and I catch the ball he throws at me instead of letting it smash a window. Plus, a bunnyrabbit ran out into the laneway where we were shooting. A bunnyrabbit! Who doesn't love a bunnyrabbit?

- Friendship: new + old.
1. Tomorrow night is my-favourite-person-in-the-world's little sister's birthday party. I had forgotten about it til an email reminder let me know and I felt so thrilled and relieved and joyous at the prospect of drinking bar tab with her and her family away from web-of-death mania.
2. I awoke to a message from Cameron, manlove of my life, to let me know he shall soon be visiting.
3. I am engaging in all sorts of written sassy banter with new potential gin-pals and playmates and it is super fun. I do love the written word. It's harder for me to interrupt people so I hear so much more of what they have to say. I am a firm believer that it will be a perfectly composed text message that will one day win my heart.

the ugly:
- My hair. Seriously. I don't know if I miss-aimed the hair spray or if the growing length and weight means a product change is in order, but things are NOT looking good today. I am yearning to get home to fix it. It disturbs me how much of my confidence lives in my hair.

- My room. Mess: I make it. It was going so well til my Clovelly jaunt, then I came home, didn't unpack and have consequently been frantically hauling clothes out of the suitcase every morning (see above re lateness) leaving room disaster zone once more. Oh well, at least with the mess I might start sleeping more soundly!

...

regrets

Some people regret Big Life Decisions. They fret and analyse and find each time a greater failing falling moment that led to the disappointment of the now.

Perhaps it's that I have not made enough Big Life Decisions, or perhaps it's that I cannot begin to conceive of my life now had I not decided on Bathurst, Croc, that first fated relationship or other great life changes that now have a bittersweet taint of "maybe that wasn't the best idea..."

But I do not go over and over these problematic choices. That said, oh my, how I sweat the little things.

My Great Regrets generally fall into the following categories:

1. Cooking Mistakes

2. Stupid stuff I've said

3. Clumsiness

4. Purchases

And now, for your reading pleasure, I shall elaborate on these points with examples. This will be neither eye-opening nor informative nor witty.

Cooking Mistakes:

In case you hadn't noticed I take great pride in my cooking ability. The only problem is that it is not always consistent. When I am cooking alone, it is nearly always spectacular as I lack outside stimulation. Unfortunately, cooking for others can often go awry as I am easily distracted, leading to burnt or un-taste-tested dishes. One bad dinner party can lead to weeks of disappointment and shame. I go off cooking, start eating toast and repeatedly acknowledge the failure to all who will listen, even though they don't care. Forgetting to put corn in the corn mufflettes I made for the div 9 bbq nearly led to tears. On Saturday night I cooked a tried a tested beetroot dish which FAILED. I have, through careful analysis on the night's events decided that the problems were as follows:

- too many veges in the oven tray stopping them from crisping

- oven too low for beetroot, too high for fennel

- garlic purchased not as strong as normal garlic thus needed double the quantity

- not enough tabasco as was concerned would put too much on and burn guests' mouths

- wine consumption prior to commencement of cooking distracted chef

- good looking dinner guests with witty banter and requests* for dramatic readings distracted chef

* "Requests" may or may not mean me forcing them to listen to dramatic readings

Stupid Stuff I've Said:

Oh the stupid things I say could fill a book. This is due to my lack of tact, inability to comprehend my own privacy (or others') and a general nerves-based tendency to talk more and more in already awkward situations. I can and do relive these moments in my mind's eye, but with the advent of social networking sites (and my subsequent addiction) such mistakes can also be viewed by the world wide web. Well, 532 members of the world wide web should they be stalking my faceborg page. I have been particularly nervous lately after a VERY CLOSE CALL. Using a friend's iphone, I attempted to facestalk someone. Just as I was about to press go, it was pointed out to me that I was typing not in search but in status. IMAGINE. IF. I. HAD. WRITTEN. STALKEE'S. NAME. IN. STATUS. Sheer luck it didn't happen really, as this sort of thing always happens to me (along with talking about people when they are standing behind me, paying someone out behind their back only to discover I am talking to their girlfriend and writing a text message about what a big crush on someone I have only to send it to that very person).

Clumsiness:

Spillages on clothes in front of hot people. Tripping over in front of hot people. Breaking my belongings. Breaking other people's belongings. Spilling coffee on my desk. Getting make up on my clothes. You get the picture.

Purchases:

Oh, this is a bad one. See, I don't like spending my money too much. I am a saver. I also find clothes shopping oftentimes distressing because, well, I am an eater. Thus, I have, in my time, bought clothes that I have never ever worn. Get over it, one might say, give the clothes away, chuck them in the charity bin. If only it were that simple! Instead, I keep them in my cupboard, mocking me with their ugliness for years on end. Punishing me with memories of poor choices. I once kept a silver velour jacket for 8 years, wearing it once. The counter-point to this is the clothes I HAVE chucked out only to frantically search for them months later and then flog myself silly with regret once I realise they are gone (flog with thoughts not an actual whip). Same purchase theory applies to technological devices which I tend to a) know nothing about and b) impulse buy without proper research. Thus, an ipod without enough memory and a really shitty phone.

Le sigh.

I would like to learn to either not over-think these errors or, better yet, stop repeating the same old mistakes. But I don't see it happening. I am sitting here writing this and, even though I just made a killer stir fry, I am still forlorn about Saturday's fail. I am wishing I hadn't said a few silly things on the phone with a friend. I am mourning the stain on my favourite hoodie. And I was mighty frustrated by both phone and ipod on journey home.

...

he's like the wind

Throughout primary school I spent most weekends in the company of a dear friend named Cleo. Our friendship is defined in my memory by dance classes and two films which we watched incessantly. Shaping the cushions of her brown velour couch around us to make dashboard and roof, we pretended we were at a drive in that played weekly reruns of 'Grease' and 'Dirty Dancing.'

When I logged on to facebook this morning, my feed was filled with messages of woe, commemorating the death of Patrick Swayze. I sat on the train and reminisced in his honour, about two 7 year olds, fascinated by the movement and energy of films that (pre-High School Musical and the like) dealt with real youth themes such as sexuality, parental control, class difference, trust and peer pressure. We may not yet have understood what exactly Rizzo and Kenickie were doing in the car, but we were transfixed.

I have fond and vivid memories of my early years spent at Cleo's Queen St abode. I remember the food her parents cooked; I remember the mosquito net over her bed and how it made me feel regal; my fascination at her asthma apparatus; choreographed dances to Grease songs and Ace of Bass; and the way her older sister pronounced 'Swayze', all fancy and Sean Connery-esque. It made us laugh to try and copy her tone.

Some films stick with you throughout your life and Dirty Dancing was one of them. In later years, new friends feigned irony when we pumped 'Hungry Eyes' out of p-plated car windows on the way to school. When I took up salsa with a friend in 2007, "I carried a watermelon" became a repeated joke, along with "this is my dance space, this is your dance space," when the bachata got a little flirty. Just recently I joined the hordes at Carriageworks for the Dirty Dancing Wrong Prom and we cackled with glee through each hip thrust and spin.

I think sometimes I am still 7 years old and waiting for Patrick Swayze to sweep me off my feet and turn me into a dancer. I want strong arms to lead me and teach me and one day, I'd like to look good in a pink leotard and denim shorts. It's strange reaching this age when the idols of early childhood start to die. I felt sad today, not for the death of a man I never knew, but for the loss of that wide-eyed wonderment I experienced with a friend I no longer know; that sense that a whole life could change in one summer and that someone would one day lift me high into the air.

...

My Giant Friend

I wish I had a Giant friend. She would clamber through the city, punch a whole in my tenth story window and gingerly scoop me up from my desk. Cradled in her palm, all soft and pillowy, we'd amble away, my handbag swinging from her pinky finger. Detour via ocean and she'd dip me in and spin me around, salt cleansing my tired limbs and eyes. Then as we moseyed over to Enmore she'd dry me with warm breath. My Giant friend would lift the roof on my little mansion and push back my bed sheets. Ever so softly, she'd drop me in and cover me up, smiling from above as roof was lowered back into its place. And there she would stay, singing lullabies, watching over me and blocking my windows, making temporary night with her shadow so that I may sleep easy in my bed and dream of peaceful slumber.

Important point to remember if you are fearing for your safety:
- My Giant friend would have tiny feet which she balances on as if by magic. All reasonable scientists would not be able to explain how she balanced on such tiny feet, but she would say she was made that way so as not to crush the little people.

...