Just like the artists who seemed to skip only my garage door in their artistic expression, I feel like I’ve left you all a little in the dark.

I’m busy, but not a whole lot is happening. Which is the worst kind of busy. I’m currently playing in the band for Blood Brothers which opens far too soon. I’ve got loads of work to do as I’m responsible for the programmes and posters for the theatre group. Now as I’ve started to perform ‘higher duties’ at work, I have to stay back an hour later and that’s a valuable hour of my day gone. At least I get paid extra for it, but how much more I’m not sure.

Since I got this place, the landlord suggested I rent out the garage since I don’t have a car. The location is great for those who want parking to go to their CBD workplaces, and it would help pay the rent. I had not really looked into it until one night someone slipped a bit of paper under my door saying he was keen in renting a garage in this building. I gave him a call, and it turns out he lives in this building but is moving out soon to a garageless apartment and still wants to keep some of his stuff here. After a bit of back and forth we arranged a price and the terrific news is that because he wants it to store stuff, I can still use the spot in front of it as my visitor parking. A perfect arrangement!

I’ve also been doing a lot of cooking as it’s something I enjoy and helps me save money. Lots of curries and a few indian dishes. Over the next few days I’ll be trying out a bombay curry recipe that a workmate gave to me. I will also be making a batch of honey jumbles and more brownies. The cooking has been going well, except for the occasion I gave myself food poisoning by not fully cooking chicken. The story was I was simply cooking these pre-made burritos that I had bought at the supermarket. Firstly, it’s not my style at all, usually I’d make it fresh, but I had picked these up when I first moved in and had frozen them. Well, due to a little oversight in the cooking time, the chicken came out of the oven still not quite cooked (however looked great from the outside), but it took me a little while to realise this fact. About half a burrito in fact. At least I got a day off work for it.

Other cooking adventures have been better. Scones, muffins, a delightful coconut and chocolate cake and of course brownies are all familiar to my workmates (who help me eat everything I make). I think it will be a while before I make the sultana scones again since Woolworths is intent on ripping me off on my dried grape purchases. You see, the 1kg packet I spoke of in the last blog was taken off the market (however you could purchase the Sunbeam packet for three times the price), and now it’s place has been taken by another brand that costs about twice the price of the original homebrand packet. The latest insult came this morning when I had to have someone “approve” my purchase of pink food colouring at the self-serve check out! Look at my basket… do you really think someone who is buying flour, golden syrup, half a dozen different spices and lemon juice is intending to get drunk on 25ml of pink food colouring? Food colouring doesn’t even have alcohol in it!

I still feel like I’m living next to someone who should be on the national heritage conservation list. This morning, as I lied in bed, I could hear big band music coming through the wall, and I later heard her telling another neighbour, “Isn’t this music gorgeous! I dance to it!” It’s probably a scene out of a Marilyn and Royce video over there. Even worse, it might be a little ‘Grey Gardens’. Late one night I found a note slipped under my door and it said “You left your bike outside. I locked it under the building, it will be safer. Irene.” The trouble is - I don’t have a bike. She also looks after packages that come to my door and makes sure I know of changes (like telling me there was a hidden key to the garbage bin room, something which will now help my fridge not smell like I’ve been keeping a bowl of wet scrapings from a homeless man in it.

Or maybe that’s just a curry.

I don’t think I could be more negligent. Actually, I did check the blog comments once, but they were all spam.

I’m back. In fact I have been around for a while, riding the waves of the information highway or something like that, but it has not been until tonight where I’ve found myself indulging in a little blogspedition.

I’ve settled into the new place now. It’s not entirely finalised in terms of furniture, but I’m getting there. Moving day came as a great shock to me when I discovered just how hard those fellows are who usually move everything for me. When it’s your own muscles doing the lifting, it’s amazing how you are suddenly overcome with the urge to swear and give up. No matter how enthused I may have been about moving, when you’re holding half a couch and the door is in slightly the wrong place and somehow not the right shape, you can loose an ounce of your enthusiasm. I was moved in basically one weekend. The furniture all went day one, along with many boxes, then Brett helped me the following day with the vast majority of the rest of my belongings. Day one involved a lot of me driving the ute, an experience just a little more tense when I had my mattress on the back acting as a rather unforgiving parachute.

The place itself is great fun, and quite retro. The doors are covered in brown padded vinyl and the names of the residents is in the entrance on one of those boards with the stick on letters like the girls used to hold at the front of school photos. My next door neighbour is 80 odd and can’t remember my name 2 seconds after I say it. She likes to come up behind me as I’m leaving and say “boo!” and look at me with an almost manic glare. At times I feel like I’m living next door to Ruth Gordon in Rosemary’s Baby. In fact, I named my new wireless network “TannisRoot”.

I think the mood was set during the first night of my stay when I walked down the hallway and a dark shadow caught my attention. I looked up on the wall and there was one papa-sized huntsmen spider and he was not a happy chappy. Since then I’ve been battling a small army of cockroaches. I have my good days and my bad with these creatures, but they should know by now that as soon as I see a live one, I’m going to go a little bit Rambo on their entrances and exits with the heavy-duty Death To Anything Smaller Than A Handbag bugspray.

I went on a bit of a cooking frenzy the first week or two and cooked almost every night, learning some important lessons very quickly. For example, who knew that overflowing water and an electric stovetop is likely to cause a little bit of steam? In fact, I cooked so much and had so many left overs (even after taking lunch to work each day) that I imposed a cooking ban this week and have eaten purely defrosted meals all week. Hopefully I’ll be breaking the ban later tonight with some late night pancakes and real maple syrup.

The down side to all the cooking is that I have become a middle-aged housewife. I stop in at Woolies on the way home, get home, cook, eat, clean and go to bed. I trade recipes at work (to the point where a colleague has begun a “recipe of the day” email list) and can be heard to say things like “Really? A pinch of brown sugar in pasta sauce to remove the bitterness? I’ll try that tonight!”

Because of my extreme devotion to thriftism, I’ve taken to buying things in bulk in the no name brands. The only problem is I’m limited to what I can carry as I walk to and from the supermarket. This is suddenly important when I buy a 1kg packet of sultanas because it was a dollar more than the 225g you get in those small six-pack of boxes.

I’ve learnt some other important lessons. For example, when moving into a place that someone else has inhabited, replace the toilet seat. The previous seat had a rather unpleasant staining around the rim, so I decided a trip to Bunnings was in order. They had a $7 offering but I’d rather not slice my cheeks open with a bit of stray plastic where the mould hadn’t quite met. Instead I went for a $20 selection with quick release buttons for easy cleaning. I guess in case of a cleaning emergency. The point is, when unscrewed the old one the part that was always hidden by the hinge was a shade of grey that to be honest I wasn’t all that familiar with. I got the heavy disinfectants onto it and soon enough my toilet seat was not only worthy of use, but a conversation piece for my guests.

All in all, I’m still finding my routine in the new place, but I’m thoroughly enjoying the independence of it all, and the convenience of being smack bang in the centre of town is terrific too. My new lifestyle is busy, but certainly not too busy for my heavily ignored child - you all - whom recently I’ve been keeping in the basement and telling my neighbours you left to join a cult. And quite frankly, that story is getting a little thin.

While I still haven’t signed the lease (that’s happening this Saturday morning), I have it confirmed that I will be renting out the new place come this weekend. 

Once I had confirmed that, I started organising electricity and telephone, both of which were incredibly simple over the internet considering I had never had an account before. When I woke up this morning I had two emails, one saying my power would be on in a couple of days, the other just wanting to confirm my full name (for the phone). Then I get a few more messages, something about a $300 “technicians fee” on top of the connection fee for Telstra. Considering I’m only getting it connected so I can get Naked DSL (at which point it will be disconnected), it seemed unusual. I was sure there was already a line there, so I gave Telstra a call. After guessing what they wanted to hear on those automated voice menus where you have to speak what you want (they are the bane of my life), I ended up speaking with someone who was very helpful and said it wouldn’t cost the $300, and that it would be connected tomorrow.

Things still to do… order internet, order insurance, call the lounge place to make sure they have found the extra leg for my new ottoman and something else… oh yes… pack.

I’ve been a very lazy blogger, but certainly a very busy blogger. You really learn who reads your blog when you don’t write anything for a while… Perhaps I should first tie up some loose ends.The following week after I went woozy at the eye doctor, I returned for another appointment. The female optometrist had returned and we both agreed that I would put the contacts in myself. It took a while to get it to stick, but eventually I had the first one in. As soon as I did, I started to go a bit topsy-turvy again. When I looked back in the mirror, I noticed I was covered in sweat again. I persevered and it took me quite a while to get it back out again. Eventually it was out and I could start to relax, but I didn’t feel any better. I had the same symptoms as the previous week; blotchy vision, a pressure inside my ears that felt like I was underwater. I needed water again, but this time it didn’t last as long. The optometrist suggested it was just something that my body doesn’t react well to, but recommended I take them home and keep trying. They are still sitting on my bathroom vanity, along with my own.Fast forward a few weeks and last night want was closing night of South Pacific which was, naturally, playing to sold out houses. Although it was fun to play in a twenty-piece orchestra, it was a fairly substantial effort running at 3 hours, and as I’m supplementing the strings on keyboard there wasn’t much of the music that I didn’t play. For the few scenes that I was not playing I tried reading a book, but the breaks just weren’t long enough to pick up the story again. I starting reading magazines I had lying around, however I’ve now finished those, and there is only so much relevant information you can glean from a 1997 issue of Film Score Monthly. After being inspired by the 2nd Clarinet, I’ve taken up knitting again. It’s the perfect thing to do because you can do it for a few seconds or 15 minutes. I was surprised at how quickly I picked it up again after having a knitting hiatus for a few years. I’m starting to pick up speed, but after 3 or so shows, I had about 20-25cms of knitting completed.All this is small news in comparison to our feature. Due to some quick acting people and truckload of luck, it’s a possibility that in a few weeks time I’ll be moving out into my own place. It’s not certain yet - no lease has been signed - but as the landlord is family it should be smooth sailing, though each day makes me more nervous about it. This came about when Brett O. heard of my mother’s cousin’s (my second aunty or something?) CBD flat had become vacant. A few phone calls later and the very next day (last week), I was looking through the place and it was ideal. It’s literally a 2 minute walk from the mall, very close to my high school, and just a short walk from Greg’s house (though he suggests it’s an even shorter drive). The place itself is not huge (though not tiny either), and features two balconies: one small and another very cool larger one looking over the streets. It also includes a fridge, washing machine and built-in robes. If there is one thing I simply can’t handle it’s a bath-shower. I don’t like standing in them, with their slopey sides and hollow floors. If I wanted to feel like I was in a water slide, I’d go to Jamberoo. Thankfully, this place has a flat-floored shower. Amen.As a result I’ve been running around buying things like a microwave, toaster etc, and today I put a deposit on a couch. The smarmy salesman had an act going, but it wasn’t entirely convincing. Firstly, another female saleswoman said “You’ll have to speak to (Mr. Smarmy) about price, he’s the big boss,” and then a few moments later Mr. S was saying “I’m only a casual here for the day,” yet somehow he knew everything about each of the lounges and was the one everyone consulted. I ended up with a nice black leather couch set marked down pretty heavily as it was floor stock. I look forward to getting it into the new place, but even moreso I look forward to clearing my room of the bags and boxes of packed things I have sitting here that I have to climb over just to get a piece of paper. I just hope I haven’t jumped the gun a little here (or jumped the shark) and the place falls through. If that’s the case, you might need to coax me out of a corner in order to blog again.

The only difference between this glasses-wearing turd and me is that I was shit scared, it is only shit.

Yesterday after work I eagerly raced to the optometrist for my appointment to have and introductory session with contact lenses. At my last appointment I had expressed interest in getting contacts, and my optometrist ordered some trials for me.

I was beckoned into the small, dark and surprisingly hot room almost instantly. The first thing I noticed when I entered was that my usual female optometrist was replaced with a different male optometrist. He (who we shall call Mr. O, simply because I never asked his name), run through a few things and suggested that he pop them in and let me walk around the shopping mall for half an hour or so and if I liked it, we’d go from there. If we had any problems, he said, we’d sort it out. I thought this was a little strange considering I was just popping something onto my eye and walking around. I’m fairly comfortable with my eyes - I can touch the eyeball with my finger if I have to. How could there be any problems?

Mr O washes his hands, unfoiled the lenses and poised over me with instructions like “look down, now up, now left”. It took two or three attempts to get the first one in as my eyes blinked whenever he got near them. I made a very conscious effort to keep my eyelid wide open and eventually he got it in. This is when I started to feel a little funny. “How does that feel?” he asked. My brain was starting to go a bit crazy at this point, but I remember saying “It’s strange because half of my vision is clear and half isn’t”.

By the time he was poised over me with the second contact I knew things were turning bad. I started sweating as I forced my eyes wide open and looked as low as I could. It took even more attempts to get this one in as it kept falling back out. I wasn’t very aware of what was going on, I just knew that every time it feel out, this was going to go on longer. Eventually he got them both in and stepped away. He asked me to blink a few times and said they looked fine and suggested I sit there a few moments.

I had hoped once that was over I would settle down again, but I started to get more anxious and the sweating was getting worse. My ears got blocked and I asked for a glass of water. This is my danger meter. Whenever I ask for water in a semi-conscious state I know it’s all over for me. He left and I gripped my face. I was completely wet with sweat. By the time he returned with the water my vision was blotchy and I couldn’t see very much. I gulped down some of the water and lowered the mug back onto the desk with my shaking hands. I knew at any moment I was about to pass out because I see anymore and I certainly couldn’t process any of what was going on around me.

Mr O put the fan on me and spoke calmly as if nothing was wrong. Thinking I was about to hit the floor I asked him to take them out. With lightning speed he grabbed my head and took them out. I remember not feeling that at all. I wasn’t feeling any better and I had to leave the tiny room.

I walked out of the optometrists room and into the main glasses shop where my mum was waiting. She later told me I was as white as paper. I fell into a seat and asked for more water, gulping down two more cups. I put my head into my hands and saw my shirt had turned transparent with sweat. I don’t remember much of this clearly, only that occasionally I was asked if I was okay and I said ‘No’. After some ten or so minutes my vision started to come back and I could see Mr O talking to me suggesting I try again. I felt so ill I couldn’t bear to have anyone near my face again.

Eventually I regained colour and strength again and approached Mr O. He looked shattered. He kept saying “I really think you should try again, they’d be perfect for you” and “Don’t let this put you off - well, it may a little - but it shouldn’t”. I could tell from his face he was horrified that he might have given me a bad experience, even if it was not his fault at all. He told me he’s used to patients fainting, including the obligatory (and likely fictional) story of a “big hulky cricket player” who fainted when he put in his first contacts.

I promised I’d return next week and give it another go knowing that I could well subject myself to the same horror again. I felt so awful, not for having freaked out, but for having planted the seed in Mr O’s mind that perhaps he was at fault.

In the car on the way home I started to feel back to normal and wished I was still there so I could give it another go straight away, but remained resolute that when I return I’ll ask for Mr O again and hopefully put both our minds at ease.