The Removalist King and I.

*Health and Safety Warning: Post may be rambling, incoherent, and spelling and grammatically challenged. Not unlike this warning.

The desire to purchase and possess a living creature had been strong in me for a while. It culminated, a couple of months ago, in the acquisition of a dog.

Owning a dog, it seems, makes one want to pose idiotically whilst smothering your canine.

I have been renting varied airy apartments for a while now, and whilst very comfortable in a number of ways (e.g. enough hot water, nice cooking smells from multitudinous Indian neighbours), they were beleaguered by their strict ‘No Dogs’ provisos. I had known for a while in my special place, somewhere above my big toe, but below my neck, and possibly in the organ residing in my left chest cavity, that I needed a canine companion – and if the dog ban couldn’t go, then I would have to.

Around a month and a half ago I found it, the answer to all my dreams: a fibro box. I applied for it, annoyed the real estate by ringing them every ten minutes to see if I had it, and then finally, was accepted for tenancy.

Dilapidated, and admittedly mouldy and flooding at its stilts, my fibro shack laughs in the face of modern convenience. Wryly.

With the aim of moving my entire household of bulky and heavy furniture single handedly, I asked my friend if I could borrow his Land Rover Cruiser (no European styling). Not only did he lend me it, but he also offered up his flatmate, ‘Red Shoes’. ‘Red Shoes’ is not, as you might think, a native American name handed down from generation to generation, but rather a pseudonym that I have given to this flatmate individual, because of his penchant for the aforesaid footwear.

A click of his red shod heels will not send him home, but their steady perambulation will usually take him to beer.

That shaggy gentleman, Red Shoes, was to deliver himself in the Four Wheel drive, and then help facilitate my move, mainly, I presumed, through utilizing his muscular mass for the purpose of lifting and shoving things. Whilst I had every confidence in Red Shoes’ strength, I did not have any high hopes when it came to order and organization, so on the day of the move I spent the better half of the morning sweating and groaning as I moved most of my furniture down three flights of stairs in a dangerous and chiropractically risky manner.

An hour after he said he would, Red Shoes roared up in a haze of dust and Aussie hip hop. I gave him a grin, and waved my hands sheepishly at the monumental mass of antiques and mattresses. Looking up, I saw Red Shoes’ eyes flicker, and my heart sank a little as I wondered what the two of us had gotten ourselves into. Just as I was about to excuse him in his hungover state, and perhaps call a professional mover, Red Shoes sprang to life. Apparently the eye flicker indicated careful logistical consideration, rather than post-drunken apathy.

“Fiffles,” he said, “I have a policy when it comes to moving. Everything can be done in one carload.”

With that he jacked up the stereo so that the sub in the back of the Cruiser shook, and began to pack. It became instantly clear that I was not just actively discouraged from placing objects in the back of the car, my aid was prohibited. Instead, my role was to pass him things, bang my head from time to time, and keep his spirits up with the promise of future beer.

Similar to Mary Poppins’ Carpet Bag, the Land Cruiser has a magical capacity for lamps and cushions.

When I was little, my dad had a similar rule. We women and children would pack for holidays, for example, but once the bags were lined on the gravel road, only dad had the necessary know-how to make every little thing fit with room to spare. It was like a Chinese box puzzle or a Rubic’s cube – each little part had to be slipped in in relation to the others, and one wrong move could thwart the whole thing. There was honour in a successful pack, and prestige in the careful slotting of a bag here or an umbrella there.

Red Shoes, who when drunk half closes his eyes and looks a little like a masculine snake or lizard who is stretched out in the sun and almost asleep, was alert beyond compare when piecing together my belongings in the trunk. I watched on amazed as he managed to squeeze in three tables, a number of chairs and a quantity of miscellaneous screens and lamps into one load.

We two steeled our resolve, and carried on this way, managing to complete the business in three short car trips. That was not, however, before the incident I like to call Hell in Harvey Norman.

I was ferried along to that great mecca of mass marketed white goods by Red Shoes, who was so amiable as to offer to swing past there and negotiate fridge and washing machine acquisition. When we arrived he scurried off to alleviate his queasy hung-overedness with KFC chips, whilst I sauntered in to organize financing a white goods salesman that I had already struck up a business relationship.

I should have known, I suppose. We both should have. But Harvey Norman is that perculiar sort of time vortex that makes you forget the many hours of pain and equivocation after you have left it, ensuring that you can never properly learn your lesson.

The only material difference between Harvey Norman and Hell is Signage and Typeface.

By the time 45 minutes had past, Red Shoes had forgotten all about the delicious chips, all about the joy of the move, and all about anything other than the slow revolution of his eyes back into his sockets, as he sat on a massage chair contemplating ways to kill me for holding him up for so long.

Red Shoes tore himself away from the chair eventually, ending an hour of motorized Shiatsu massage to saunter over to me and the salesman.

“Do you know what this lady is?” asked Red Shoes of the salesman. The man shook his head. “She is an idiotarian” stated Red Shoes. “By that I mean that not only does she not eat meat, she also doesn’t eat wheat, sugar or dairy, and for no apparent reason!” The salesman began to smirk, warming to the idea of being one of the boys, and ganging up on me.

One dietry need not being sufficient, my penchent for fussiness makes it difficult to eat at restaurants, and maintain social ties.

“Before I met Fiffles,” Red Shoes elaborated, waving his hand for emphasis, “I loathed and despised vegetarians. But after meeting her, their eating ideology seems completely rational and reasoned by comparison. This woman is in dire need of being taught a lesson, methinks.”

At this the salesman giggled, his attention completely diverted from me and our transaction. He enthusiastically picked up a power drill that was lying on his desk, and began to drill through a piece of paper with a sort of false nochalence. This, I presume, was done in an attempt to be reciprocal and show off to Red Shoes. This sort of juvenile and abusive behaviour continued until we left the store.

It was not, in fact, the first time that Red Shoes had called me an idiotarian. It was not, in fact, the last. We eventually escaped from that Harvey Norman hell, not, unfortunately leaving behind a smoking mass of burned rubble, but rather 4000 of my dollars.

From there on in the move progressed smoothly, and was sanded around the edges, metaphorically and at times literally, by the continual aid of Red Shoes, his flatmate (owner of the Land Cruiser, and builder my washing machine), and various others (e.g. carpenters).

Now I am presently sitting at the desk, in my beautiful fibro palace, still enjoying the fruits of Red Shoes’ labour (that is, furniture). A little dog sits quietly in the hall, gnawing on a particularly objectionable and blackened bone. The ambivalence I feel towards Red Shoes has not dulled but rather intensified due to his helping hand, and whilst it was all in all a great experience I am considering offering up a small sacrifice (possibly my new neighbour’s new infant child) to the moving Gods if I can stay put for at least a year or so.

Idiotarian, the term coined by Red Shoes to describe my gustatory persuasion, is also used by militant Right-Wing War Bloggers to describe citizens who object to America’s invasion of Iraq, or support Gay Marriage, Gun regulations, or civil liberties in general. The Anti-Idiotarian Rottweiler, I presume, acts as a Bastian of the political Right by eating any pesky Liberals that attempt to go near a ballot box or a political protest march.

Australian Graffiti.

A public female bathroom is located, fortuitously, just outside my office. This string of communal cubicles is far from being fancy, quite the reverse actually. This bathroom has an unaffectionate reputation as the most airless, constrictive and dirty toilet block in the whole of the social sciences complex, having missed out on the hygienic refurb that most other bathrooms were recently treated to. It has boarded up windows, locks that hang ineffectual and broken, and fluro lights that are stuck in a perpetual state of candlesticky flicker.

 

Although murky, musty and possibly haunted, my bathroom lacks the romance of say, an old English manor, or a moonlit moor.

Proximity is a strong motivator, however, and it is rare that I will put comfort before convenience in the matter of all things bathroom. Furthermore, in the small, dingy bathroom, so close to where I study, I have MY STALL.

 

Unlike the owners of this aquarium toilet, I have not yet customized my cubicle of choice.

It is a funny component of human nature to like consistency. People pick out seats and spots that they favour, and then continue to use them regardless of mitigating or external factors. In these cases, habit will often trump the desire to hunt around for something shinier, more spacious, or even more functional.

When it comes to my bathroom visitations, I too am a woman of routine. When adjourning to that dank and dimly lit set of stalls, I without fail choose the end cubicle to the far left of the bathroom. This stall is my particular favourite, not just because it is familiar, but also because I enjoy the sporadically increasing graffiti statements and conversations that spider up and down its walls.

 

Most people, if you believe the press, view graffiti as vandalism. In a toilet stall, however, I enjoy the varied reading material.

At the top of the door, creating a heading, if you will, the text reads:

VIVA LA RESISTANCE

Underneath this call to arms a feminist sticker with the printed proclamation “Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes” has been scrawled over with the adage,

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

To my right are written the ruder messages of the collection, with a musing student wondering in blue pen,

EVER WONDERED WHAT HAPPENS WHEN SHIT REALLY HITS THE FAN?

A flesh-phobic student has taken the spot next to the previous question to declare the wise and age-old truism:

FAT PUSSY STINKS

Another author has taken it upon herself to draft a response, with her rejoining scribble cramped underneath the declaration,

TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE

My personal favourite occupies the bottom right of the left hand wall,

BE KIND, EVERYONE YOU MEET IS FIGHTING A GREAT BATTLE

Finally, so faint you can barely read it, a girl has written a single, poignant word, in semi-translucent black ink:

ONEDAY

Knights in Shining Car-ma.

I am fully aware that my general political agenda and personal values make me perfectly suited to being a foaming at the mouth feminist.

The modern-day feminist can wear make up.

In my formative years, however, there was a hitch. My mother and father adopted relatively gender stereotypical roles around the house, with my father bringing home the bacon (vegetarian for me, of course), and my mother maintaining a tidy house, hearty table, and strong network of social ties. Further to this, both my father and mother demonstrated daily to me specifically masculine and feminine modes of etiquette.

When going through a door, it became established that the rules were thus: females pass through the portal first, the aged before youth, and at all times, doors should be held by those waiting. Dad, if driving us somewhere, would drop my mother and us kids at the door of our destination, and then scout around for a park, saving us, presumably, the messy and annoying task of walking ten extra steps. If I take my early homelife into account, it is easy for me to conclude that chivalry is not dead, although it may have a cough.

I have always been a bit enchanted by the romance that chivalry entails. The most famous example of masculine sacrifice is, of course, in the interaction between Sir Walter Raleigh, and Queen Elizabeth (I think). They were walking together, when Sir Walter saw a puddle blocking her path. Springing into action, Sir Walter laid down his coat over it to protect her delicate footsies. Sir Walter was also the man who eschewed hygiene, and refused to wash his hand for months after Queen E. touched it, thinking that her delicate power and scent would linger on him and bring him power, and the respect of all other men.

That dashing coat dropper, Sir Walter Raleigh, and the lucky Queen.

I am fascinated by chivalry, but it is not to say that I expect doors held or cars chauffeured for me… but oh how I love it. I watch for it, carefully waiting in an elevator to see which boys push out before me, and which men, with mannish and directive hand waves, wait patiently until I have trod lightly through the exit. “He’s a nice boy,” I inevitably think when this happens, “Oh yes, he’s well bred”. Well bred!? What am I thinking? Do I wish to replace my seemingly AWOL feminism with classist snobbery?

An artist’s impression of me, thrilling in my slippers as I look doe-eyed up at a gentleman who holds the door for me and/or protects me from the harsh realities of life.

Door-holding, seat giving and arm pressing are often thought to be acts of ‘benevolent sexism’. ‘Benevolent sexists’ kill with kindness. These bigots believe that women are somehow less than human than men, even disabled in comparison to them, and thus ladies need extra help and care when going about their daily business. In this mindset, women are on one hand lauded, respected, and held up as angels in need of assistance, and are on the other hand degraded as dirty temptresses, wanton sluts and unfeminine bulldogs, should they contradict the stringent, chaste, and delicate feminine norms that these benevolent sexists hold for them.

 

Is the wheelchair redundant, is womanhood itself a disability?

And yet… and yet… chivalry makes me so happy and warm on the inside when I come breast to fist with it. Two acts of such gallantry spring vividly to mind, and when I remember them they always make me smile.

One day, having driven myself to uni in the great white horse (again read Volvo), and parked on the road by the river, I was walking distractedly across the sporting fields up to my building. A large and hairy man, who resembled a member of that crazy 1% of the biking contingent, the Hell’s Angels, was sitting pretty atop a ride-on mower. The bikie look-alike was roaring around at a great rate, grass flying in his wake. Upon seeing me, however, he shut the motor off immediately. I looked him in the eye, and he smiled a big, toothless grin at me, which I returned, with interest. He waited until my delicate ears were safely out of range before starting his motor again, mowing with courtesy and grace, and making my day at the same time.

Add one mower and one Hell’s Angel and you have a recipe for chivalry* (*results may vary).

Another day, after a long and arduous slog at uni, I was driving home. Too late, I realized that I was driving on empty, and in the wrong lane to get to the petrol station. Furthermore, I was pulled up at a set of lights, and the line of angry drivers behind me looked like they would not be impressed at waiting immobile until I could safely merge. I looked over my shoulder in distress, and flicked on my indicator. I was well and truly stuck, banked in by a macho-looking Commodore, which was idling in the other lane. The driver of the said Commodore, suitably macho himself, seemed to note my distress. He looked in his own rear view mirror, and, seeing there were no cars behind him, began to reverse at a mad and dangerous pace. He waved me in, and in I slipped. I made it to the petrol station, and he made it away unharmed. It was so manly, so masculine, so new-age chivalrous of him to maneuver his car at personal risk to make sure that I had a gentle path to my destination… I was charmed.

Letting a woman in in traffic is the modern day equivalent to jousting for her honour.

But then, maybe there is just something about man and machine. I have a friend who considers a successful reverse park as equivalent to foreplay. One time, whilst she was in England, a fellow famously got her into bed by executing a perfect ‘one reverse’ park into a narrow space.

There is a right way, and a wrong way to park when attempting to bed a woman.

I had always thought that this was a bit mad until the other night. Having picked up a movie with a friend of mine, he drove us back to my house. Unfortunately, the guest parking lot where I live is a tight squeeze at the best of times, and his is not a small car. He took one look at the space, and revved the motor. He then glanced casually at me, and thwacked a strong hand behind my headrest. My heart was in my mouth. In one smooth movement he reversed the car in, shutting off the motor as if it were nothing. I felt a a flush blushing my cheeks, my pulse speed up, and my libido rise. I don’t know whether it was the skillful insertion of a large vehicle into a tight space, or the sense of mastery the whole process awarded him. Whilst not having quite the effect on me that it had on my friend, I began to understand, just a little, of what she felt.

Was it me, the night, or the seamless reverse park?

All this leads me to wonder whether chivalry is chivalrous at all, and what percentage of chivalry is just a continuation of the age old mating game. Having said that, I always feel respected, and respectful when a door is held for me. An empathetic thrill of appreciation also runs through me when I see a man giving up a seat for an old lady, helping her with her shopping, or opening the door for her.

I am sure all this means, without a doubt, that I am a bad, bad feminist. But nonetheless, really, I wish my lawn-mowing man and the Commodore driver a little good karma. In fact, I send them my most adulating, simpering, and adoring thanks (wide eyes and trembling lashes included) for lifting my spirits, and making me feel like a girl.

MAIDEN is an anagram of DAMIEN.

*WARNING: Post is long.

If you distort Rupert Everett into awkward angularity, then skew and stretch him into lanky proportions, then you have an idea of what my friend Danny looks like.

Squint whilst looking at this picture for a visual approximation of Danny.

I first met Danny when I was doing honours at uni. We were all stressed out of our minds when I spied him, with his brown hair pointing directly up like some sort of wild flame. We struck up a friendship over statistics and essays, meeting up almost every night to prowl aimlessly around Indooroopilly, walking and talking as we went. Most nights we would end up at the St Lucia golf links. It is a beautiful and strange place at night, with groves of trees and a perpetual abundance of misty allies through them. As we tramped past ponds, rushes, and putting green we used to talk about life, death, and love, in fact anything but our tortured uni lives.

Should you feel like an adventure of your own, simply pick a slightly mental and unruly friend, and follow the map.

The golf course would usually then take us to the walking path along the river, where we would alternately traipse and subside, sitting on any one of the benches that dot the path. A few times when we walked that way, we saw fireflies come out, and follow us as we went. I had never seen fireflies in Brisbane previous to this, nor after for that matter, but somehow it didn’t surprise me. Danny, you see, is one of those people who fireflies follow.

With their little lanterns, fireflies often guided the way for Danny and I.

“I’m messy at the moment Fiffles.” he used to say to me, and he was. It was the perfect description for the sort of malaise that overtook him at that time, depression mixed with mania. His sadness was always peculiar in that it had an optimistic bent. His speech would speed up and his movements become jerky. I always saw in him this wild, wild spirit, sort of pressing to break free from its mortal prison.

Danny is a talented artist, and specializes in the spray paint variety. One day I went into the computer labs at uni to work on an assignment. I sat down next to him, and started tapping away, but soon had to stop. A strange odour was thick in the air and my head was starting to spin. I turned to Danny and mentioned it to him, but a close examination of his attire made his words redundant. He had spray painted himself a t-shirt, and with the paint not yet dry, the noxious fumes were slowly but surely asphyxiating the entire lab. Danny became so lightheaded he had to take off his shirt, and swelter in his thick jacket all day.

Graffiti on t-shirts, whilst acceptable in theory, can be deadly in practice.

At some time during that honours year Danny was riding the train into the city, when an orange vested locomotive worker came up and sat down next to him.

“You and I are going to have a good old chinwag, sonny.” he said to Danny. “Yes, we are going to have a natter and I am going to tell you your life.”

Prophecy, not being a standard component of train travel, was complimentary in Danny’s case.

In the fifteen minutes that followed the man told Danny such vivid and accurate information as to make Danny both frightened and intrigued. As the train slowed to a stop, the man got up and tipped his cap to Danny. He looked at his watch, and told Danny the exact time and date.

“Remember this,” he said, “because this is when I told you what’s what. You will never see me again. Goodbye.”

Danny, now more freaked out than anything else, embarked on a two week bender as a direct result of this encounter. He never did see the man again, but often thought about what he said, and the surreal nature of their talk.

The friendship between Danny and I was great in so many ways, because it really defied convention – the convention being the whole ‘men and women can’t be friends’ memorandum that we all received at birth. Additionally, no one was quite as good as him when I wanted to talk existential crises and meaning of life bullshit. Sadly, however, there was a hitch. Danny had a girlfriend of three years, who came to object to our nightly meetings and frequent coffees. Eventually she had it out with him, and Danny and I had to sit down and have a talk.

Jealous girlfriends cross here at night.

Even though I was sad in a way with our conclusion – we both decided it was probably better to see less of each other – in a way I respected the right of the girlfriend to protect her relationship. As we sat next to each other in that final talk, Danny had tears in his eyes,

“You know Fiffles,” he said, “I know this will sound odd but I really think that I’ve grown to love you over this last year.”

“Suck it up.” I replied, with feeling. And I meant it too.

We didn’t see each other for a while, probably around a good year at least, before getting back in touch at the start of this year when Danny commenced his PhD and got an office down the hall from mine. I really hadn’t thought about him much, to be honest, my main reminder being the beautiful drawing he did for me that hangs in my bedroom. If I ever did think of him it was with much fondness, and equal amusement.

After he got to uni we met up for coffee a couple of times, and surprisingly the talk between us was as natural and unconstrained as ever. He had bought a boat in the year that had passed, and now sailed as a hobby. He had also assaulted a policeman whilst drunkenly avoiding arrest, and narrowly escaped a permanent record. These incidents concreted my belief that no one part of Danny goes with any other, instead he is a strange jumble of unrelated interests and characteristics.

The arrest, I am informed, looked a little like this, and went down outside the Toowong Coffee Club.

A little over a week ago he came to tell me he was dropping out of uni to become a full time writer. This made complete sense to me, coming from the man who once spent a week painting the walls of an abandoned house with an assorted bunch of hobos.

Two days after his revelation, a friend and I went in to see my sister at the pub where she works. Coincidentally, Danny was there, fresh from 2-months of alcoholic abstinence, downing drink after drink with a couple of strangers he had met there.

I went up and chatted to Danny and his two new friends, one of whom informed me eloquently about 9/11 theories (that I had already heard), and why he thought domestic violence was the fault of women (I had not already heard this argument).

Whilst most of Australia says “no” to domestic violence, Danny’s drinking buddy says, “Bloody asking for it.”

Eventually Danny and I got a moment alone together.

“I’m so sorry Fiffles.” he slurred at me.

“Danny, that’s fine, you haven’t let me down at all dear!” I answered, taking a stab at the wrongdoing he was apparently apologizing for. “I think that you made the right choice quitting your degree!”

“No no no! Not that… I am sorry for all this…” he replied, gesturing vaguely at the beer stained counter.

“Well don’t worry, it’s OK. You can start not drinking again tomorrow!” I comforted.

“I’m going to get all maudlin on you Fiffles,” he interred, “and I don’t mean this.” I cocked an eyebrow in encouragement and he kept on going.

“What you must think of me!!” he moaned, “When we had this beautiful friendship and I let it be ruined by the most banal and base jealousy. I have let you down intolerably.”

“Danny!” I cried, getting into the drama of the moment, “Don’t be ridiculous! Never for a moment have I thought badly of you, you did what needed to be done!” I leaned forward, straining to communicate my thoughts, and make myself heard over the bad cover band.

“Yes, but there is more…” replied Danny enigmatically, “I really shouldn’t tell you this, but I am so drunk that I will. I need to tell you…”

At that moment we were cut off, as the domestic violence aficionado slammed his beery glass down on the counter next to us.

“Another drink mate?” he asked Danny. At that moment my friend appeared and pulled me to the side, imploring me to leave with him.

“I’ve got to go,” I said to Danny.

“It’s probably for the best.” he answered.

The bar where behind which my sister works. Good for getting beer, not great for sharing secrets.

A few days ago I bumped into him at uni. He was even more skittish than before, eyes darting and sinewy body in a perpetual state of motion. No talk was made about the night at the pub, what he had to tell me or anything else really. Instead, he cut the conversation off and bolted.

In a way I am glad he never told me that which would have probably turned out to be a boring confidence about his work or girlfriend. Instead, the situation is left open and I can embroider it such that it remains full of intrigue and mystery. In that way, it stays just like I imagine Danny, that boy who is inescapably lost, wonderfully weird, and often dogged by fireflies

Fondlin’ ya bitch in the backseat of my car.

“I’m sorry, I’m a student.” is my standard reply to the telemarketing mass that ring me late at night in the hope of interesting me in owning my own home/salt and pepper grinders/timeshare at the Gold Coast. But unfortunately, the other night when the Heart Foundation called me up I became temporarily distracted by the young male voice on the other end of the line, and forgot to hang up.

Ten minutes later he had coerced me into door-knocking for Heart Disease (a cure I presume, rather than a further spread of the disease itself). And so we ended the call, me a little bemused but not too distressed as charitable work well fits with my recent benevolent streak (see previous entry).

My strict ‘no telemarketing’ rule ran scared at the sound of a male voice hawking a worthy cause.

A moment later I heard my phone beep – a message:

“Heyy guess who! Lol I can get in some haa-uge trouble for violating the heart foundation privacy policy so u beta not dob me in for stealing ur numba lol wb x”

Two ‘LOLs’ is two too many in my book. A friend of mine maintains that an LOL is perfectly acceptable, IF, and ONLY IF the perpetrator ACTUALLY is laughing out loud at the time. I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and texted back:

“Sly move, telemarketer.”

This was soon followed by a response:

“Haha yeah I’m a telemarketing pimp lol… na I only started 3 weeks ago… U sound pretty cute u need to send me a photo lol. Fuck being a guys annoying sometimes, I cant do 2 things at once and it takes like 15 minutes to write a msg lol x”

Now two was two too many ‘LOLs’, but five in total!? I decided to cut the texting game short, and return to the serious business of devouring olives.

The Heart Foundation, previously focused on preventing and curing heart disease, will soon open doors to its new project entitled ‘Lonely Hearts’, which aims to prevent feelings of emptiness and promote emotional wellbeing by hooking up the lovelorn.

About 20 minutes later, my phone began to ring. Caller ID informed me that it was the Heart Foundation LOLer, and whilst common sense told me not to pick up, a sense of humour did.

The conversation, paraphrased, ran thus:

LOL: “Hey babe, how’s it going?”

Fiffles: “Um, fine… um… are we a little too early in the relationship to be calling each other ‘babe’?”

LOL: “LOL, don’t be a player hater n*gga!”

Fiffles: “Um, OK.” (NOTE: Dislike of ‘LOL’ dispersers outweighed by dislike of Australians or people of European descent EVER using the word ‘n*gga’)

LOL: “So do you have your license babe?”

Fiffles: “Yep.”

LOL: “Great babe, so you can come down to the Gold Coast to visit me!”

Fiffles: “So I didn’t catch your name.”

LOL: “Well, my name is Michael Patrick, actually, my sister’s name is Michaela, and my other sister is called Patricia, and when my parents finally had me, they decided to put the two names together.”

Fiffles: “Are you serious!? That is hilarious!”

LOL: “LOL… why?”

And so it went on. The end result was that he sent me a picture of himself, and urged me to jump on MSN and reciprocate. His hotmail address for MSN, he informed me, was ‘fondlinyabitchinthebackseatofmycar@hotmail.com’.

The picture he sent, however, revealed that he was not a ‘wigga’ as I had suspected, but rather an African-American hip-hop culture idolizer of possible Filipino heritage.

“What is the word for that?”, I wondered. “Figga”, I suppose, in retrospect.

‘Wiggas’, whilst admittedly misappropriating Black American culture, are pretty fly, for white guys.

*Please note, to protect the privacy of my suitor his names have been changed, and the e-mail address shortened slightly.

Random act of kindness not rebuffed!

This morning, setting out to uni, and being of a jovial frame of mind, I decided to do that which I have long been talking about. That is, make a little contribution towards easing my guilt of solo uni-bound motoring by picking up random bus-hunting strangers. Whizzing past a girl on my street, I screeched to a halt a few steps in front of her and proffered a lift,

“No thanks!” She bellowed, in return to my roaring offer, “I’m not heading in there today.”

 

The beast, in all its glory.

Not to be deterred, I pulled up my great white elephant (read Volvo) at first bustop I came to. This time was more successful, as a red and black head nodded their acceptance and sallied forth into the waiting leather comfort of my ride.

“Can we fit two more in?” I asked the car in general, and was again met with nods, as the next bustop delivered me my next couple of charges.

I chauffeured a greyhound mad vet, fond of the domestic variety, rather than their hard nosed racing brothers, a pretty biomedical student, and two silent and simultaneously alarmed and excited foreign-exchange students. It was a tight fit, but no one was complaining as I pulled up to the main drive of the University.

My canine-oriented friend recomended me this noble animal.

“What a great way to start the morning!” expostulated the vet, as he jumped the other passengers in a bid for speedy exit.

“I hope someone returns your random act of kindness for the day!” said the pretty biomedical readhead.

“Thank you sweet girl!” chirped the foreign exchange students, or words to that effect.

I sailed off to my class, the wind in my hair and a smile splitting my cheeks. Now I am a person who is happy in my own company, for the most part. But when it comes to the ‘inbetweens’, you know, the times of travel and movement and space, sandwiched in the middle of one thing and another, I do like a fellow man or two riding high beside me. And as I drove away, I wondered just how far I could push it with the lift-giving before I became known as the crazy car-driving lady who won’t take no for an answer.

Crazy Cat Lady, closest relative of Crazy Lift-Giving Lady.

My one, my true, my own.

When I think about the women that I have loved, frantically, passionately, wonderfully and wholly, one name springs to mind. That name should, of course, not be published here for reasons of protecting the identity of a dear friend. But then this woman adores notoriety and is whatever the reverse of ‘privacy protective’ is, so I will give her real name, which is:

LETTY!

Letty is short for Leticia, which means ‘Joy’ – and whilst Letty is never far from mining the depths of human suffering, when she is not down there she is scaling the heady peaks of rapture, and thus experiencing a lot of it. In her mania, madness, and rare moments of lucidity, she gives me a lot of joy too, hence my ode to her here.

Letty and I met around the time of my conception, I believe. We have, however, maintained from a young age to have shared a couple of lives together, previous to this one. In line with this, a psychic we once went to told us that we had been a mischievous couple of lasses around the time of the Salem witchhunts, and killed a man through our impish experimentation.

The night after we heard this spooky past-life reminiscence, we were hanging out on Letty’s bed. staring at the sheets, oddly silent and serious minded in our reflection. Slowly, slowly our eyes moved up and met. As they did we both experienced a vivid and visceral flash of remembrance – a man, dead at our hands! We both stifled shrieks in unison, noise being unseemly at such a time. We were two young and imaginative girls, thoroughly freaked out by the psychic’s strange vision and a creation of our overactive teenage minds. We didn’t speak for a week – too scared to face our reincarnated selves.

With witch hunts widely discredited, Letty and I live to fight another day.

 

One night, when Letty and I were having a sleep over I was woken by a sort of mad rumbling sound. That sound transpired to be Letitia. I was 13, and whilst not believing in sleep during a sleepover on principle, was happy at that time to be enjoying it. Letty continued to moan and thrash, eventually sitting bolt upright, proceeding to rant at me in a strange, satanic voice.

I was scared… very scared.

Letty, it turned out, was not. She did it for a joke, to give me a little fright.

Did Letty emulate Linda Blair, or vice versa? Debate continues.

Another night, different bed, I sat next to her, trying to talk her down from a precipice of despair and rage. She produced, this time, a knife from behind her back.

I gasped and Letty let loose; not on herself, but on her pillow. She was frenzied, stabbing it and sobbing until the feathers flew.

Letty, you see, has a taste for the dramatic. She later used that same knife to slash to shreds a painting I drew for her, when she became jealous of my friendship with another girl.

When she was 16, Letty was going through a stage where she refused to don any attire that was not black or purple, experiencing coinciding teenage angst and gothic experimentation. I too, turned goth for a day, however with my blonde hair and fondness for maths I was never suited to the role. During this period Letty slept on a futon on the floor, under a giant poster of Robert Smith. I vividly remember my heart straining with love for her as I watched her dance to a cassette of his music, her image muted by the perpetual haze of acrid, nicotiney smoke that encompassed her.

That enigmatic and somewhat gender amorphic lead singer of the Cure.

When dancing, which she does at home, out and at various other intervals, Letty twirls and girates, like some sort of endlessly feminine dervish. She has that innate rhythm that I so sadly lack. Where I can wield a calculator, and navigate a computer, Letty can dance and sing with ease and pleasure.

Letty could shake her hips like she was from Columbia, if she wanted to.

Letty was pregnant at 17, and used to walk around lithely in bikinis, tanning her ever expanding stomach. I sat next to her at the hospital, just before she gave birth. She was sitting naked, crying in the giant hospital shower that they must use exclusively for the very pregnant, or the very fat.

Throughout the years Letty has, at alternate times, sworn off men, and proposed lesbianism as a viable life choice for the two of us. She has been in relationships with a schizophrenic pot dealer, a philandering Fillipino, and is currently romantically entangled with a 19 year old football player who breeds horses in Japan, and sells advertising for a newspaper.

I called her the other night, looking for a bit of support and guidance. She ranted to me for a while about her plan to sell up, and take to the road as a human praying mantis – copulating wildly and leaving her unwitting victims behind.

Now I’ve made her, and our friendship, sound utterly mental. But fortunately, or unfortunately, it is not. There are times of cups of tea, watching of movies, talking about our days at work. But when it comes to Letty, the madness and ferocity is what makes me smile, and I always romanticize her and our friendship.

Like now.

Soccer, shopkeeps, and the sisterhood of men.

Please note: This post was written on the day Australia conquered the world (i.e. tied with Croatia in the world cup).

Tim Cahill, man of the people, hero of all matches.

With seven Socceroos with Croatian heritage and a good few Croats calling Australia home, divided Aussie loyalties when it comes to soccer has been a hot topic of conversation for me, and various other assorted news media and stations, over the last few days. Now I am Australian, and my primary European heritage is Dutch – so with Gus at our helm, and Aussie boys on the oars, I have no desire whatsoever to jump ship and support a more of an overdog Euro team. Not all Aussie ethnic identities meld so perfectly with the Socceroos, however, and the Croat-Australian conflict was only the start. Come Tuesday, those who feel both Italian and Australian make the difficult decision about who to support – and thus begins my narrative:

THE ITALIAN FRUITIER: I rely on the large Italian fruit store that I occasionally frequent for several things. Among their number are pseudo-reasonably priced veggies, firm mushrooms, a fruit-stacking hunchback who scares me, and a friendly wink from the less Quasimodo of the staff. Not so this morning, however, as I entered the shop to high running tensions. Australia had just effectively ruled Croatia out of the cup, and secured a place to play Italy. An older fruitier and his younger counterpart, usually so friendly, were to deep in conversation to acknowledge me as I selected myself a fine head of broccoli.

Young Fruitier: “You know, my head is fully Australian… but my heart, my heart is in Italy.”

Old Fruitier: “Well yes, of course. But I want Australian soccer to progress, I would like to see them do well.”

Young Fruitier: “Well of course you say that, I might say that, but come Tuesday I know that I will be supporting Italy, wanting Italy to win.”

Old Fruitier: “But the boys did so well today, and I would like to see them continue.”

Young Fruitier: “But we are Italian, you know. Surely you want our team to go forwand!!??”

Fiffles picks apples and rosemary and beans out with care. Smiling to self, she is completely ignored by increasingly fiery fruitiers.

Old Fruitier: “Now listen, of course, I was born in Italy, you were not. I know what it is to be Italian.”

 

Young fruitier acknowledges this point with a head bob, and a wave of the palm forward hands.

An artist's rendering of an Italian fruitier, 1580

(likeness to present day Italian fruitiers = medium)

THE IGA WORKER: On the topic of people working in stores… I am brought to the nice connection that exists between people – you know, when kindly strangers hope the best for you and you for them etc.

The other day I was in IGA, purchasing a package of crumpets at the request of assorted people. I couldn’t see these bready treats, so I asked the man stacking the bread shelves where they were. As he was looking I located a small pack of the traditional rounds, so I thanked him, told him I had found some, and started off.

As I was cruising the next isle, I heard the steady pat pat of quick approaching footsteps at my heel. I turned around to see the shelf stacker looming up on me, waving a cellophaned bakery good.

Shelf Stacker: “I have some square ones here, on sale, you might prefer them.”

“Square whats?” I wondered, “Crumpets?”

Fiffles: “Oh no, these are fine thanks.” I smiled at him in appreciation of his giving chase.

Shelf Stacker: “But these are only 85 cents!”

He was speaking somewhat frantically, waving those cubed twist on an old crumpet in my face. Now 89 cents is not to be sneered at, given that the crumpets in my trolley were retailing for a good two dollars fifty or so.

Fiffles: “I’ll take them, thanks very much!”

We grinned at each other, his quest to save me a buck or two accomplished, and my faith in mankind restored. When I returned home, crumpets in hand, to the waiting breakfast throng, everyone was happy with the squares, and impressed with my steal.

To conclude, people are bizarre.

This popular breakfast food has been given a new lease on life! Squint until this picture is blurry to get an idea about what marketing executives are sadly not calling 'Cubepets'.

THE HEALTH FOOD STORE MAN: Back to the present. Having finished with the fruit, I then went to the health food store in search of pure Olive Leaf Extract. I approached the front counter to be greeted by a man who looked like Jesus, but was probably not.

Fiffles: “Do you have any olive leaf extract?”

Health Food Store Worker Resembling Jesus: “Oh do we?”

Now smiling to himself in an odd sort of a giggly way.

Health Food Store Worker Resembling Jesus: “Oh yes we do, and I can give it to you in any number of ways.”

Giggles continue.

Fiffles: “OK… thanks…”

 

 

I could have taken it any number of ways, but I eventually chose orally.

RANDOM NUMBERS: And now, for a final countdown:

3 – The number of different soy based products I brought today in a veggie fuelled, protein supplement mad frenzy.

2 – The number of pink, penis shaped, novelty ‘fluffy dice’ that I have seen hanging from a rear view mirror today.

1 – The number of times that I embarrassingly called Harry Kewell “more Australian than Bradman”, encouraging well deserved scorn and derision from my nearest and dearest.

Harry Kewell, a man who without a shadow of a doubt is less Australian than Bradman, and probably Vegemite.

Really, George Harrison, this is going too far – I have enough prophets.

Due to, I presume, the human drive to explain things, justify existence, and have certainty about life after death, people throughout the ages have turned their sweet little heads to prophets for answers. These prophets are, loosely speaking, men masquerading as gods, and you may recognize some famous faces from a recent (and past) bestseller, The Bible. Examples include Ezekial, Jerimiah, and others.

Biblical prophets formed a line of communication between god and man, and one of their main purposes was to forewarn humans of earth-bound difficulties. In the modern age, jeans, t-shirts and cellular communication not being as romantic as robes and parting of the seas, many people are driven to outsourcing for their prophecies. Not so me, however, as I am the lucky holder of several personal prophets – some visiting me with regularity, others making a one-time appearance. Two visitations spring particularly to mind as examples of each.

MY GUEST STARRING PROPHET: In May last year, just after Sir Joh Bjelke Petersen kicked his racist and regal bucket, I happenened to be driving to uni. It is my fashion, as I have mentioned, to Volvo happily to my place of employ. As I was driving thus, whose ghostly visage did I see careening along in a beat up Ford Cortina, but that of Bjelke. It was not the strong and young Petersen of the seventies, however, but rather the old and liver-spotted Joh of the wheelchair.

What does Joh’s presence mean? I pondered to myself, as I Volvoed past him.

Sir Joh, as he appeared to me in late 2005.

A few days after this, Bjelke-Petersen appeared to me again, this time crossing the road at a set of lights. I knew what the stop sign meant, but what did he signal? Was there something he wanted of me?

At uni racism and discrimination are my research focuses, and it is additionally a personal campaign of mine to oppose civil liberty violations. Maybe Joh had repented in his death, and picked a humble Ford as the chariot of his tolerant and inclusive post-mortal message? Conversely maybe he had come to try and stop me from spreading my left-wing hippie bullshit any further?

REGULAR PROPHET: A more regular and consistent prophet of mine is a student that I tutored early last year. He was certainly the oddest boy in any of my classes. He is an exchange student from mainland China, but now lives in Australia – when I taxed the class to write me a research based essay he instead turned in a creative writing piece about love, life and death. I see him around uni, in town, along my street, whilst driving… everywhere! He walks like he is floating, knees bouncing up as his reefer-clad feet seem to avoid ever touching the ground. He wears a light coloured t-shirt tucked into long shorts that he pulls up right to his chest! For me he signals reflection, and the need to look for meaning in things.

The other day I was having coffee with a friend at uni and my prophet floated past.

“Quick!” I bellowed to my companion, “It is the boy who is my… I mean it is the lad who I tutored…. I mean a messiah… Quick!!” But it was too late. The prophet’s black head was bobbing away through the crowd, leaving my fellow coffee drinker staring at me bemusedly.

RECENT VISITATIONS: On Thursday afternoon I was in Cooroy, walking to my car, laden with groceries. As I crossed the road I saw George Harrison, wizened and hairy, whip past my on a bicycle. I think in doing so he may have been sending an environmental message – ride, don’t drive!

George, minus his guitar, and plus a bike, appeared to me on Thursday.

But George Harrison was never the man I expected to see. You know when someone you know sees a demi-celebrity or the likes (perhaps Sandra Sully at the shops, that sort of thing), they bounce up to you excitedly and ask,

“Guess who I just saw!!???”

In cases like this my answer is always the same.

“Alf from Home and Away?” I ask, enthusiasm never dulled by fact that this has never been the case.

I’m not really sure why I want to see Alf from Home and Away, why him and not the publicity mad Harold from Neighbours?

The man I hope will bear my next prophecy.

But I just do.

The end of the World as I know it - it’s the end

The other night, having finished a satisfying dinner, I sat down at my kitchen table to check my e-mails and catch up on a bit of work. My table faces the window into my little townhouse backyard, and I sat there, peering into the blackness trying to think of things I could feasibly look up on the web that would aid and abet me in my procrastination quest.

My trance-like reverie was interrupted by an unusual sight outdoors – two bright little diamonds winking at me through the window. Now before I danced with glee, and collected those jewels from outside (eventually using them, probably, to fund my travels on an archeological dig to the Middle East), I became aware that they were attached to a furry, amorphous shape. In truth, those diamonds were the winking bright eyes of a cat.

I turned back to my computer and bashed out an MSN message on the keyboard, to my cute and curly companion,

 

Fiffles: A cat is outside my sliding door, and it is watching me SO SO SO intently.

Curly: It is probably Satanic.

Fiffles: I suspect as much.

And a moment later:

Fiffles: Or it could be the reincarnation of a dead relative of mine, trying to give me a message from the other side.

Curly: Perhaps.

And a moment later again:

Curly: Either way, the safest bet is to kill it.

 

Naturally I considered his suggestion, but eventually decided to let the feline live.

But it brought to mind thoughts of general supernatural and natural eeriness. Last month there were a couple of prophecies and conspiracy theories out there claiming that the world’s end was nigh. Whether by tsunami, or general fire and brimstone I know not. However, by whatever means, judgment day did not transpire this May.

Yet wait! Let’s not be over hasty. Just because the world did not end LAST month does not in any way mean that it cannot end THIS month. So let’s add up the signs.

Well to start with, we have a demonic (or possibly benevolent) ‘cat’ making dark visitations to me at a late hour. As a result of this we can reasonably assume that I have been chosen as the receptacle of messages from the other side (italics added for ghostly emphasis). Thus it seems sensible to examine MY life (and MY life only for I am the messiah) for small inconsistencies and incongruities that may indicate global chaos.

Things I have recently seen that indicate the world is ending:

- On the way to uni the other day, I drove past a man who was walking like an ape, arms swinging gorilla like as he plowed across his lawn. Now my common sense told me that he was searching the ground for beer bottle caps and cigarette stubs after a party at his on the weekend, but luckily my doomsday paranoia told me otherwise. A MAN WALKING LIKE AN APE, PEOPLE!!

- John Howard being Prime Minister of Australia 12 years running. Has he succeeded in this term unaided by the dark arts? I don’t think so.

- And finally, as a particularly conclusive and irrefutable sign, bananas have achieved an astonishing $10 a kilo price tag. Even at a supermarket! That is a dollar a banana or more, OR MORE!! And remember, this banana extortion outrage is the result of an ominous natural disaster.

Is my argument watertight? Yes, I like to think so.

So without further ado, fear for your life.