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.

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.

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.

Last sunday I attended a Christening/Baptism for a dear friend’s first child and gladly blew off my other plans to turn up early with Brett. My only expectation was that there was some magic trick with water to be carried out. Little did I know I was actually attending a regular church service and was going to spend the next almost-2 hours watching a parade of improvised performances including one from an old man who asked us to pray for “the mourning dead families.” I almost put up my hand to point out the inherent problems with that statement when I realised there was only one exit (intention?) and I wasn’t well placed to make a quick exit should things turn less than Christian. During the bible reading I discovered that apparently it was all about expositional writing in those days. Perhaps the desire to provide a paint a picture with words was considered unholy when the only writing implement was two rocks and a plate of stone. It wasn’t until we cracked through a few of Hillsong’s greatest hits and looked around to see a lot of mouths that at least pretended to know the words that I realised I was not amongst my usual folk.

The Christening/Baptism/Wet Baby process was nice, but I wouldn’t have been too thrilled that the whole thing was billed as “an illustration of God’s ways”. My friend’s weren’t even listed under “Also Starring”, though I’d hesitantly suggest they had more to do with their own little production than the starring attraction.

At the end of the session, by which point I was finding the phrase “Let’s Pray” significantly less humorous than at the beginning, the collection plate was passed around. While it moved past me faster than Judas’ betrayal, Brett was swept up in the emotion of singing “Jesus Is A Really Good Name” enough to empty his wallet onto the tray (an act for which it took him several hours to repent).

As I noted later on during the catered lunch, if there is one thing religion has given this world, it’s really great moustaches. If there are two things, the second is a catered lunch.

Spiders and I have never gotten along. I remember one incident of being in the car with my parents when I was younger and having a large spider crawl onto the outside of my window. I took this as my cue to start screaming like someone was being axe murdered in front of me, cowering as far away as possible until we stopped the car and got rid of it. In fact, it was almost identical to the time my parents decided to try out the drive through car wash machine, in response to which I excavated long-buried fears of drowning into a dazzlingly outward display of utter terror. My displays of fear might now be more inhibited, but rest assured I am still no fan of the friendly neighbourhood spider. I even took my year 6 teacher, Mrs. Karas’ advice to study and learn about my fear to overcome it but alas, the blown-up, colour illustrations of the hairy underbellies of spiders only worsened the situation.

Back in the present, if I was left to my own devices, I probably would have cleared the bathroom of anything which might serve as a hiding ground for Harry (or Harriet), had a few stern words with it along the lines of “I’m going to bed now, and I don’t want to see you here in the morning”, turned off the light, closed the door, stuffed towels in the gaps and foregone a shower for the night. Instead I fetched the assistance of my mother who went and got the bug spray. Instantly I realised I really didn’t mean to put a hit out on this spider. I would have been much happier if ‘H’ had got one whiff of the spray and quickly retreated into the roof through his entry point: the exhaust fan. Once my mum say it she too didn’t want to kill it and decided to start chasing it around the wall with a plastic tupperware bowl.

It was clearly petrified with its fast movements and possibly injured with it’s one droopy leg. I suggested we open the window and get it between the glass and the flyscreen. By “we”, I mean “she”. I even suggested “we” put “our” hand on the bit of metal one inch from the spider in order to pull down the window pane. Eventually ‘H’ got the message and climbed out, but much to my sadness it is quite possibly the only flyscreen on the many many windows of this house that doesn’t have puppy-sized gaps in it.

I went back to my shower but couldn’t stop thinking of poor ‘H’ with his droopy leg and (not so friendly) smile trapped between cold, oddly-lit glass and the taut black webbing teasing him with freedom.

In an ideal world, I would have opened the window, ‘H’ would have made a fast but cautious walk directly for the exhaust vent in the roof and I would have my shower knowing ‘H’ had told his friends, “Nothing to see here.” Instead, our fear of one another stripped me of my humanity and designated him a shortened life of torture and all I got was this tawdry metaphor.

I’ve programmed the music for the radio programme this weekend, so I’m off to bed for a spot of Murder, She Wrote (which will be the first time I’ve watched in quite a while), and a reasonably early night. Bring on the weekend, even if it is mostly booked up with non-social events already.

After venturing to the Collectables Fair two years ago, I was pretty sure that we’d find gold at least within the people who frequent these things. Sadly, this time there was no costume donning, but the bootleggers all wore their uniform of all black and a baseball cap. Whilst I was browsing someone’s collection a fellow came up to the stall owner and asked “So what have you got for me?” The seller leapt into action “Fresh, just in from Japan. Haven’t shown it to anyone else,” as he took the CD out of the paper holder with something unreadable scribbled on it. He held it up to the light with both hands as if displaying fine jewelry. “Haven’t seen one like it for a while”. The prospective buyer’s head ducked and weaved as he made sure he saw the light hit it from every angle. “Japan, you say? Hrm, okay then.” “Excellent choice. Three dollars please.” It could only have been more perfect if the seller had a jeweler’s glass and the buyer had a monocle.

One of the drawbacks of these gala events is the air circulation. Put simply, not enough. The smell of one man made my eyes water. It took me back to a day on the bus when a man had secretions that only the devil himself could have concocted and injected into his pores. It was at this point that a terrifying thought struck me: My fingers have been flicking through hundreds of CDs and records that these very same men had been contaminating all day, long before I had arrived to see the worst of it. I was paralyzed by the thought for some considerable time, and it was a while before I had to courage to even flick through the soundtracks sections (which, I figured, would have the least abused fingers scraping DNA across them).

Whilst Greg made shady under the table deals to obtain the latest Beatles bootlegs, I picked up quite a few bargains, including Australian cast recordings of La Cage aux Folles, Annie and They’re Playing Our Song on vinyl.

Afterwards we headed over to Westfield to grab some lunch. We chose a sandwich shop run by an Asian man who was every Asian character ever played by Peter Sellers combined and a Germanic woman who frightened us over and over. I kept getting nervous each time I asked for an ingredient and she would reply in an angry slur, “Of course you do.” When some small children starting making noise she said (or at least we think she said) “If they were mine, I’d take them home, lock them in a cupboard and pour scalding water on them.” Busy day, then? Greg had problems of his own when the man asked him “Father and son?”, referring to us. “Uhhh… not exactly” Greg replied before turning to me and saying “If you blog that I’ll slit your throat.”

It was a fun day, but if you’ll excuse me, I have to create a Facebook group called “If that security alarm goes off when I walk out of here, you’re giving it to me for free.”

After a slight ‘altercation’ on friday night between myself and my parents (I made a joke about how boring cricket was, my father cracked the shits, I told him he was rude (yes, I actually said ‘rude’)), I think my parents were trying to make amends by offering to take me down to Domayne, a furniture and home electricals store to spend a $50 I had. This isn’t the kind of store I’d normally shop at on account of the heavily inflated prices simply because they arrange the stock they have in colour groups so as to appear as if it has been “designed”, but I had the voucher to spend.

After struggling to find a toaster under $70, I decided to find a rice cooker and vegetable steamer and go on our merry ways. I had the option of an older stock model for $43 or the current stock for $55. As the only difference was the colour (white vs stainless steel, which is a real pain to keep clean), I went for the older model and walked up to the counter. While standing in line, my parents held a typically detailed conversation about which model I really should have chosen with insightful comments like, “Wasn’t the top clear on the other one?… No, it was aluminium…. What about the buttons? Were they rounder?”

When we reached the counter after a considerable wait (and don’t worry, there was plenty of loud commentary about that), my mother tried to buy a $5 gift card, but it wouldn’t work in combination with the gift card. The overwhelmed but kind-spirited cashier was trying to get through the line as quickly as possible and my mother was not helping. I was more than happy to forego the $7, but my parents were not. Cue a $7 shopping spree through the electrical department of Domayne as the three of us spread out in different directions to find something under $7. Batteries? $12. Ipod cover? $30. Blank CDs? $18. Finally my parents grabbed a ream of paper ($6.95) and joined the line again. A few moments later, after seemingly handing over all my personal details, we walked back through the shop to the car with a rice cooker and a ream of paper.

I thought the nightmare of shopping with my parents was over. I couldn’t foresee the row of electronic massage chairs lining the path to the exit. Imagine my horror while my parents try out each one multiple times discussing each one like there was a remote chance they put the $6000 on their credit card and walk out with one of those monsters of leather and fake wood-panelling strapped to the roof of the Volvo (also with the leather and fake wood-panelling). At one point, when all the machines were bulging and thrusting, it looked like the scene from Are You Being Served when Mr Humphries puts the chattering teeth down the underpants of one of the mannequins, except as if this was David Jones’ stocktake sale. When my parents, who had no hope of reading the small screens in front of them started pressing buttons making one machine continuously beep, I knew it was all over.

After what I suspect was supposed to be an operation to encourage me to stay home at least until the year is over, all I could think about in the car on the way home is how long it will take me to pack my things. At least I’ll have rice and some paper to write my recipe on.