Archive for November, 2009


November 24, 2009 3 comments

I just typed in “adopted” in the WordPress dot com Blogs search.  When it wasn’t a political buzzword being used to introduce new legislature in some province I care nothing about, then it was about adopted pets.  When it wasn’t about adopted pets, it was about being adopted by God. 

Blow me. 

I did find one, though, where (I think) a Mexican boy was adopted from a foster system in the US.  I was empathetic at the mention of being rehomed constantly.  I was reflective at the mention of his interpretation of being a “gangsta” – I think he was going for “streetwise” or something like it.  I felt like I was reading a very private diary on the upswing post about knowledge and going from a D Felony record at 13 years of age to a part-time job and study.  Then, the God drivel.

You could hear the crickets chirruping in the recesses of my mind.


Is there any subject that anyone can talk about without religious fervour coming into it?  I was looking to see if there was anybody worth reading who’d been adopted like myself, now I’m just thankful I grew into adulthood a common-sensical agnostic.  I’m also feeling a very strong urge to scour myself with steel wool under a scalding hot shower, but that could well be due to all the Dr Phil philosophical whiparound posts I’ve been seeing tonight, completely unrelated to any adoption blog search.

Categories: Rant

Sculpture by the Sea

November 21, 2009 3 comments

Here are a couple favourites from this year’s Sculpture by the Sea at Bondi. 

The first is the view we had as we arrived at Bondi Beach at 5:45am.

The second is a piece called “Morpheus” – my favourite ever. 

The third is a piece called “Waiting”.


The 3:45am wake-up call was worth it.

Categories: Fun


November 21, 2009 2 comments

Vaguely, he said.

I remember vaguely, he said. 

When you get to meeting someone fantastic who makes your head spin and challenges you to reconsider all that you know, it’s exhilerating.  Of course, me being me, I chew on that feeling.  I hold it and whisper to it and I have a hundred drafts but I can’t tear myself away from me and, all of a sudden, I’m stuck. 

Someone is watching NCIS at 8am in the morning and it’s irritating because I know they wouldn’t if they knew someone as rad as you. 

Then again, what am I doing?

I think of you often.  Daily.  I wonder if you are as sad as you seem, but I don’t quite know how to ask because really, what can I do about it? 

He was a bit surreal, he said. 

Yes.  Yes he was.  Is.

Categories: Personal

Friday on my mind…

November 19, 2009 Leave a comment

… and by Friday, I absolutely mean Morgan Freeman.

I’m not even what you’d call a fan.  Yes, I have enjoyed the movies I’ve seen him in, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to buy a movie ticket or DVD just because Morgan Freeman was in it.  I would, however, most sincerely and genuinely feel sad when he eventually dies. *

But however I feel about him is moot at this point because I’ve been thinking about him on and off for the last few months.  A lot.  A whole lot.  Bunches.  Pallets.  Hammocks worth of thought.

To be more specific, I’ve been wondering how much he’d charge if I asked him to record himself saying “Morgan Freeman OUT!” so I can put that on my phone for whatever notification sound needed it to perk me up. 

This sort of stuff pops into my head for no reason and sticks.  It spills into whatever conversation I’m having with whoever whenever I have the thought, and there’s no real segue to warrant it.  Family, friends, employers, patients, strangers whilst waiting in line to pay for something, the lot.  I have a few thoughts that roll around like this, so I think I will make it a regular Thursday BourbonBird Redux thing.  Where I can, I will update on my progress.

Come on.  Think about it.  I don’t care how respectable he is, he must have a price. 

And when I find out what that is, I will meet it. 







If he is non-compliant, so help me, I will poop on his car.**

*I would feel the same about David Attenborough, too.

**Maybe. Unless, at some point, I get in touch with his agent and am taken seriously. Then I totally wouldn’t. 

Categories: Goal


November 19, 2009 Leave a comment

I was promoted yesterday.  Finally.

I feel like I should be happier about this, but it’s actually a bit of an anti-climax. 

I was given my pay raise last year, tacked onto the echo of the door swinging behind two very lovely but disgruntled-at-the-time-but-now-ex-employees who raged and ranted about how we were being seriously underpaid for the work we do.  I was given the raise with everybody else, and wasn’t aware up until now that my pay rise was significantly higher than some of my colleagues.  It almost felt like I was paid more for doing nothing, but it’s a weird story.

Actually, this was the promotion I was given two years ago but was suddenly taken away when the ZX10R fell on my ankle.  It happened again after my boss shattered her leg in a freak skiing accident.  Argh… it actually happened last week but then the promotion was reneged while they decided whether it was worth filling the position at all… then they had a meeting about whether they could afford to lose me from Medical, as I’m too effective (read = neurotic and a stickler for setting and following through with my own procedure / hilariously bizarre and a welcome laugh for the patients) as 3IC there.  

Don’t get me wrong, it’s the kick up the butt I’ve been needing for the last 6 months or so – I’m adaptable in Medical Reception, but it’s not enough for me.  The inner-feminist in me has conniptions at the thought of calling myself a Receptionist about as much as it does with the thought of ever being an At-Home-Mum-And-That’s-IT.   

I mean, it’s what I signed up for at the time of employment – I wanted something menial and monotonous, but with a bit of heart.  Unfortunately now, my employers’ focus is staying afloat during the GFC  and the heart has lessened to make way for an avalanche of work and chronically ill patients who lack any patience at all.  So the work has been good but I could use some serious time away to work on troubleshooting, Medico-Legal and triage, and I’ve been given the opportunity. 

Come to think of it, this promotion in a practical sense has been very elusive.  I won’t and can’t lay blame on anything except unfortunate circumstance.  Or my frequent and very clear (vocal, written, illustrated, or otherwise) threats at random moments to poop on people’s cars for their ineptitude over minor triggers. Hey, at least I got the money.  Now, who do I speak about for a celebratory hammock of ganache and pallet of whiskey?


In other news, I watched a high school boy pick up a discarded and half-eaten Happy Meal from the ground at my local train station, in 30+ Degree (Celsius) heat, pull out a fistful of chips, and shove them in his mouth.  Who knows how long it was sitting there before he picked them up and, just as importantly, who was eating them before they were left lying about.  What the shit.

Categories: Work

Holidays and Murder

November 17, 2009 3 comments

Every year at the end of November or the beginning of December, Chuck T goes down to South Durras with Gangy and Grumble Bum Kav, her maternal grandparents.  Four hours drive down to Batemans Bay, it’s been a yearly holiday that everyone looks forward to, including myself.  In previous years, I’ve done nothing different but worked hard and ignored all standard motherly duties for one blissful week.  Jerkface, Goose, and their sister, Revolto, often go down for the weekend and spend some time jetskiing and having general fun in the sun.  I can’t swim and my hair burns in the sun, so it hasn’t ever been a point of envy for me. 

This year, Gangy asked if we could (The Cub and I, but mostly The Cub, seeing as I can’t) drive her and Chuck T back on the Sunday so Chuck T could attend her last week of school for the year.  While I’m loath to offer any sort of opportunity for Gangy and The Cub to spend any prolonged period of time in a very small space together, it’s given us an opportunity to hire a cottage nearby to get away and still fulfill an obligation that is no doubt expected by Gangy, as part of the Eternal Damnation Clause of once being (and still legally) her Daughter-In-Law.  There has never been any animosity between them and she has been more than welcoming, but the awkward and hilarious story pretty much writes itself here.

So, I’m actually getting away and I am so looking forward to it.  Everything adventurous and outdoorsy I’ve done has been within an hour’s drive within the city of Sydney, and has never been a proper holiday, and more than a small patch of my brain is always wired to maternal and work obligations that are always there.  The last time I did something like this, I was 18 and Jerkface surprised me with a weekend down in Thredbo, where I discovered that newly pregnant women’s lifestyles are incredibly boring, and I hate both the snow and the cold before the snow.  It was a great time, but my head and my wallet were in a different place back then… and I was told I was going on a fishing trip, which I was thoroughly looking forward to.  Um… so yes, I’m getting away with my head intact (barely!) and the ability to go and max out my physical limitations.  Which means, despite the opportunity to max, relax, kayak, canoe, bushwalk, or indulge in all sorts of watersports (heh), I am planning on spending the bulk of my time rock fishing. 

My parents used to go fishing off Redcliffe’s Hornibrook Bridge, up in Queensland.  We used to get the wake-up call at 2am to get up and beat the people and the sun while we caught bream and whiting amidst a mosquito and jellyfish-ridden high tide.  The smell of fish would permeate through the car and into the upholstery for the weekend, and my sister and I were used to negotiating our seating according to the eskies, crab pots and rods that wouldn’t fit in the boot of the car.  It would end with fish and chips nearby, and a sleepy drive home at around midday.  It happened so frequently that it became a chore.  It was also the setting for the beginning of the Last Fight with my mother, before I ran away from home. 

Still, that’s not where my love of fishing started.  It was fishing with my grandfather, on the docks of some industrial fishing bay, and usually off a low raised bridge in a secret fishing place I can’t remember the name of.  He would use one hand reel and one bucket, and bring in the biggest flathead I’d ever seen in my life.  I remember falling asleep in the back seat of his car, with one of my thumbs in my mouth and the other thumb in the mouth of a gigantic fish half-immersed in mucky sea water, gasping for breath, eyes staring blankly at me.  The smell of Peppermint Tic Tacs and the Old Man Car smell soothed me as much as it did to comfort myself and that dying fish.  I would’ve only been about 5 years old then and I barely remember it, but it remains one of the happiest memories of my childhood.


I told The Cub that I was looking forward to the rock fishing, and my mind wandered to those memories.  Then, it settled on the memory of a particularly long morning at Hornibrook.  My sister and I were each given bait rations, and mine was nearly out.  Everyone in the family had caught bream and whiting, and I wasn’t catching anything.  This was unusual, as I was the one who was fidgetty and a bit ADHD and would extend to my fishing… I always figured that I jiggled my bait in the water that tiny bit more realistically than all the other fishermen because I was a little bit of a nutbag.  So after being told that we had about an hour left, I decided to really put everything into it and concentrate on catching fish.  I moved away from the family and sat in my fold-up chair, frowning into water that glistened with a million green diamonds. 

Oh, and how I started to catch the fish.  One after the freaking other, toadfish!  After about four of them in a row, my mother started to mock me.  Teasing me and mocking me, she started throwing my dead toadfish back into the ocean without any acknowledgement of how much I had focused and, believe me, it was an effort.  I took the last lame toadfish and said I’d throw it myself, and she walked away from me.  I took it, cut the line about a hand’s length from the mouth and, mouth gaping and body heaving, I kicked it as hard as I could.  I kicked it back and forth along the bridge, watching it collect gravel and dirt in the cuts in its body.  I kicked it and kicked it and it swelled and swelled and then, when it was ragged and broken to my satisfaction, I picked up the line and dangled its swelling body over a hole in the bridge.  It swelled so much that it jammed itself tight in the hole, unable to fall to a peaceful death in the crashing waves below.  It was pathetic and universally unloved, so I dignified its death by kicking dirt over its face so nobody else had to look at its hideous head.  Covered in that hole, it was gone.  Then I walked away.

I felt nothing then and, on remembering it every so often, I still feel nothing except maybe a twinge of remorse from killing a fish so inhumanely.  Infishly?  Actually, without getting all psychoanalytical about it, I felt more of an affinity with the fish than I did with my own family.  Still do.  Although, I am glad that nobody put me out like I did that poor fish, otherwise I wouldn’t have a chance to go rock fishing in a couple of weeks, where I solemnly promise to love and appreciate my catch.  I hope it’s plentiful and not aware of karma.

PS.  I didn’t go to that housewarming.  What were the odds of that happening?!

Categories: Personal

Housewarming tonight…

November 12, 2009 3 comments

Despite my living almost an hour north of Sydney to avoid the hipster faggotry that exists with inner-city living, the GFC has forced their hand and more of them are moving north.  Closer to me.  Bastards.

The Cub and I have been invited to a housewarming in the same suburb as myself, and I’ve been tossing up whether or not to go but, at this point in time, I figure I should show face.  If only to shut everyone up. 

To be honest with you, I’d rather shove a live turtle up my vag than be social, but one dear friend is attending and is threatening to beat my face in if I don’t attend.  This housewarming is about 2 minutes from my home. 

I tried saying I had a mother’s dinner on [fact], but that’ll wind up at about 10pm at the latest.  Damn it.  I’ve run out of excuses.

Oh – and the residents of this house to which there will be a housewarming have demanded BYO and shoes off inside.  You all know how much I hate feet.  And it’s raining.  And it’s muggy.  And people are gross.  I am officially offended in my olfactories.  Fuckers!  Fuckers!  Cockass!

I hate people.  If they’re expecting a housewarming present, it will be impromptu and in the form of a steaming turd on the bonnet and smooshed in the rims of their cars.

Categories: Rant