Sensitivity Spray

Check this out:

Scientists… bless those quirky labcoats, our world would be a drab and far less amusing place if scientists weren’t constantly conducting stranger-than-fiction research and development… have come up with a nasal spray that makes men more “emotionally empathic”.

What I want to know is – how exactly is this supposed to work? Have a snort in the car on the way to date night, perhaps.

Or – does anyone remember the old Palmolive Gold commercials?:

Bruce “Bloody sheilas and your stupid whining about feelings”

Sheila gives a ‘silly Bruce being a sexist caveman again’ smirk and throws Bruce an oxytocin nasal spray

Theme music blares “Don’t wait ’till you’re gray – you need Sensitivity Spray!”


124 Responses

  1. Bruce, what is that hanging over the lamp shade? And I am appalled! Fancy wearing black shoes with a brown suit. Bring on the smelling salts nasal spray!

  2. Right.
    I’ve had two nasty visual shocks this morning, one was this and the other was the photos of the Logies on the SMH that springs up as default on my safari setting.

    Now that I’ve had time to recover from that and Claudia Karvan’s breast being shoved in my face, I’ve had time to reflect on this bit of science and I am dubious, to say the least.

    Its a compliance issue.
    Sprays are for killing flies and the ozone layer and men know this.
    If you want compliance, you just add the medication to tomato sauce.

    Seriously, you think they’d notice another fifteen numbers/additives on the label down the side?

  3. You make an excellent point, Quokka. But I don’t think adulterating tomato sauce is the answer… what would we already sufficiently sensitive people have to put on our hot pies? (Mmm… hot pie. Damn, shops are shut.)

    We need to target the delivery. I’m thinking – add it to Lynx body spray. And possibly into the glossy pink ink that Ralph and other publications of that ilk use to print centrefolds.

  4. Conspiracy time! Men don’t know this, but brewers have been adding it to their beer for years.

    Don’t believe me? Head to the pub and watch as dozens of strong, macho men become irrationally talkative and emotional. “I love you, man, nah, rooly I do! Carn, givvus a hug. Yeeeaaah! Khe San! Sing with me, bro!”

    This nasal spray is for those men who don’t drink beer. And as half of them are gay anyway, it’s a bit superfluous – nobody does emotional sensitivity like a gay man.

    So I think it’s a con. Offer a man this spray, and he will run the other way. Straight to the pub, where he will display his non-emotive masculinity by downing a dozen middies with rum chasers. Mission accomplished.

    Carn, man, givvus a hug!

  5. Hehehe. But what if you want them touchy-feely and still… erhm… capable as well?

    I’m looking forward to the counterpart, “Harden Up” spray for sooks: Do Kleenex commercials make you weepy? Tired of being walked all over, at home and in the office? Always stuck putting up with idiots, because you’re too soft to stand up for yourself? Then take a quick snort of “Harden Up” and you’ll soon be enjoying life, merciless and unyielding as a lump of granite.

  6. Spine in a Can.
    I thought that’s what wild turkey premixed drinks were for.

  7. Hehehe… That should be their slogan!

    Wild Turkey: Wild. Turkey. You do the maths.

  8. That’s a very disturbing image you’ve got there, MM.
    Where’d you find it?
    Google psychopaths?

  9. It’s fabulous, isn’t it? Quentin Tarantino as a young transvestite. The lacy underwired bra tossed over the light fixture gives it an air of “he’s just strangled a hooker and thought he’d try her shoes on in the afterglow”, I reckon.

    I Googled ‘feminine side’. Still not really sure how Google works, but it’s almost zen at times.

  10. If you really want random, Google CattyV3.

  11. I am really getting to hate this stupid internet thingy. One minute I’m Catty, next I’ve got ConspiracyCat in the name field, then all of a sudden it randomly puts Piratepet in the name field.


    Kick, swear, spit, hiss.

    There. Now I feel better. Except for the mild identity crisis, and a vague sense of bewilderment when I stare at the computer – but that’s nothing a vodka martini won’t fix.

  12. Mmm… vodka.

    Catty V3 rocks! I was just talking to her about Starbucks and Lenin:

    “Catty v3 is an exercise in artificial futility. It is a chatter bot that does not try to understand or simulate human language, cannot learn, does not know meanings, knows no facts. Instead, it interfaces you to the entire web by using Google search engine to look up sentences that may be relevant to what you are saying.”

    I’ve said it before… good one, geeks.

  13. Crap. I’m having trouble on the eportal for college.
    MM, can you remember the Harvard 6 format for referencing medical journals?

    If not I’ll wing it.

    Horrible assignment done, apart from a few holes in the references at the end.

    Took time out today to take Bloke off to Dentist for Root Canal work. I was convinced he’d be dying but being among the Blessed on this earth he just went off to la la land and then insisted on being dropped off at work.

    He’s not human, I tell you.

  14. Er, whoops, sorry…once more with poise, and manners, as opposed to shreik wail and gnashing of teeth…Pretty Please, with Pancakes and maple syrup on top?

    There’s only 7 of the $#@%* things, and I doubt she’ll read that far unless she’s been stockpiling nodoze.

    Catty, if you’re having teething problems, eat chewy caramels. they have protective powers against teeth grinding.

    MM, think you can come down for the Havock Fiasco?

    No blog wants to load for me today, but he’s planning lunch Sat 15th at Fiasco’s Steakhouse, the Morrison Hotel.
    Dunno the suburb but its the one by the freeway entry a block from the mater.

  15. Caramels, you say?

    Yeah! Oh, yeah! *doing my happy dance*

    I got condensed milk in the cupboard, and I got a recipe for Russian caramels, and I got a spare half hour coming up in about half an hour!

    *more happy dancing, yeah, oh yeah*

    Aaaaaaand…. (drum roll please) ….. I mailed my final assignment off today!

    *whole family staring at me like I’ve just dropped in from the planet idiot.*

    Don’t care. I’m gonna dance! Yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah yeah yeah!

  16. Quokka – I think they were using Harvard 1, back last century when I last had to reference anything formally, but if you follow this link this handy little pdf should get you out of trouble:

    I’m glad the Bloke shaped up well – he seems to be a darling. And someone’s got to earn the kitty litter and new shells for the rocket launcher.

    Catty – congratulations! Don’t get me wrong, nobody loves caramels more than me, but isn’t that a whole lotta stirring?

  17. Not sure about Havoc Fiasco… like you, I don’t think I’d do the theatre again… It’s tempting, though – mmm…. red meat!

  18. Thanks MM.
    With typical obnoxiousness, the internet is working again today and the eportal let me download the $&%^@ thing.

    I’m off to class, so will check in later…have fun today girls… oh and Well Done Catty.
    Its a good feeling, isn’t it?

    Except I’ve just realized that I have an exam the Tuesday after the QB weekend. So I’ll have to think hard about whether or not to go to The Dreaming.

    Try for the Havock Fiasco, MM.
    It’ll be fun.

  19. I’m all about fun, Quokka. I’ll see what the babysitter has to say.

    Damn. Exams are the pits. I still – decades after the event – sometimes have Uni exam panic nightmares. You know, you turn up to Great Hall and don’t even know enough to write the course title on the exam book, type of thing. *Shudder*

    The Dreaming would be AWESOME. Maybe you could study between sets…

  20. We went to the Dreaming a couple of years ago, got there early and left about 7pm. Couldn’t stay awake to see Archie Roache and Ruby Hunter and said, in folly, ‘Never mind, they’re a fixture, they’ll be there next time.’

    Odd how you can keep all those figures about indigenous health in your head and fail to apply them to reality.

    Exams don’t bother me too much because they only last 2-3 hours, which goes quickly when you’re panicking, and afterwards I can’t remember a thing.

    Assignments are my big hate because my Inner Pedant has 8 weeks to nitpick and drive me insane. And because I’ve fussed over every paragraph, its burned into my memory. Even after I’d handed the damned thing in today I was still twitching about the wording of various phrases. My internal editor is a vicious little prat.

    Catty, I have no idea how you kept your sanity through four of the damned things.

  21. It’s hard to let your babies go, isn’t it? I avoid re-reading stuff, otherwise I could spend all my composition time in eternal editing. Glad you sorted out the stupid references but I bet you’re right – the marker won’t bother to check them out. However, when she runs her eye down the page, the commas and semicolons will appear in the right places and in some dark, obscure recess of her academic’s soul she’ll be appeased.

    Well, Catty is obviously superwoman. And she runs on a high octane fuel of refined sugar and saturated fat.

    Mmm… refined sugar and saturated fat. I wish I was having afternoon tea at Catty’s right now.

  22. I just made a batch of chocolate chip bikkies. Giant ones, about 15 cms diameter. (the whole bowl of dough only made 8 of them, and I wasn’t even taste testing!). And just for fun, I decorated them with smarties on top.

    They’re cooling on the bench right now. I made them for school lunches, but from the way the kidlets are drooling (and the teen, and the Boss), I doubt there will be any left by bedtime. So if you’re coming over, Madam, it had better be soon!

    I’m not sure I did stay sane this last 2 months. My little spak attack over at CBG may be a result of assignment-related insanity. Also, my house is none too clean – it’s been putting up with the proverbial lick-and-a-promise the whole time. I spent today scrubbing and scraping soap residue off the bathroom tiles, and sorting the kids’ toys so that the legos are now all in one box, the polly pockets are all in one box, and the matchbox cars aren’t in the VCR any more.

    Sadly, the itsy bitsy teaset from the Sylvanian Families dollhouse is gone. Bugger. Now how will the Sylvanian Bunnies have tea?

  23. I wouldn’t worry, Catty.
    Lobes, much like scabies mites, has a way of getting under one’s skin.
    Sometimes I just have to ignore CBG for a few days. He deliberately tries to target people and if ignoring him doesn’t work, he tries sucking up by referencing something positive about his latest target to try to draw them back into conversation with him.

    I think he was dropped on his head as an infant.
    Often, and intentionally.

  24. The Spartans used to leave the weak and deformed infants exposed on hillsides until nature took it’s course… someone should have had a quiet word with Lobes’s Mum.

    Yes, he’s vile. And one of the reasons I hardly ever go there any more. Whatever you said to him, Catty, I’m sure it was mild in comparison to what you COULD have said, and well deserved.

    I feel deeply for the Sylvania bunnies, though. Poor thirsty little bunnies. When I was a lass… having read too much Enid Blyton, no doubt… I made my dollies teacups out of acorn caps. Got any acorns lying around? Alternatively, check inside other toys. I found quite a treasure trove inside the gaping maw of a plastic Stegasaurus, just the other day.

  25. Tea, in these times of piracy?
    psht and tosh.
    It is time for your Sylvania bunnies to turn to Rum.
    In tankards.
    I’m sure you could rustle up a few silver thimbles for this purpose.

  26. Ahoy, ye scurvy bunnies. Aargh!

  27. The Boss’s most recent project (not counting hornswaggling me out of cars) has been a still.

    He has a marvellous recipe for Blackbeard’s Rum. I’d leave a few miniature barrels of the stuff on the bunnies’ verandah, but Child Services have already advised me this is on the “Don’t Do” list.

    You’ve given me a marvellous idea for the Corner! I’ll get onto that on the weekend. To be honest, I’m having more fun looking for pictures for blogs as I am thinking up ideas for blogs! Mainly because every time I think of a blog topic, I also think of a publisher who might like it in article form.

    Stupid writing course. It took all the Fun out of Writing For Fun And Profit.

    But your suggestion, MM, was a good one. I’ve had a little hunt, and have found one teacup, a saucer and a rolling pin stuffed inside one of my stereo speakers. So at least the designated driver bunny will be set.

  28. Designated Driver Bunny? Is this some New Millenium PC Playset, Catty?

    He’d be mates with “No means No!” Bunny, a squat militant bunny with unusually hairy legs; “Rainbow Ken” Bunny, a particularly soft pastel bunny who always co-ordinates his outfits with his ears and has a distressing tendency to hop in synch to house music; and “Eco Wabbit”, a bunny so righteous he only grazes on volunteer grass stalks and is off to a demo at Steggles as soon as he can collect enough vegan biodiesel to fill up his little rabbit combi.

  29. Ewwww! Nasty Bunnies!

    Let’s sic Quokka’s Pirate Bunnies on them. Force their sorry cottontails to walk the plank! Yarrrgh!

  30. Quokka vs the Nasty Bunnies… It’d make a pleasant change for her from battling the Irish. Actually, perhaps she could subvert the Nasty Bunnies. Nothing scarier to a hung over backpacker than a gay dancing rabbit.

  31. Except possibly a hairy gay feminist dancing rabbit in a combi.

  32. I reckon if I told the Ady Gil Bunny that they’re eating dolphin contaminated tuna, he’d take ’em out.

  33. Can’t chat, I’m revisiting a childhood crush.
    Avon, from Blake’s Seven.
    The Bloke got me series one and two for my birthday.

  34. It’s your birthday? Happy birthday!

    I will bake a cake in your honour.

    I will even eat the cake in your honour.

    Will a bunny cake be all right?

    Oh, a word of advice. If you’re going to let it all hang out on your birthday, don’t lean too close to the candles.

  35. Happy (belated) birthday, Quokka!

    Still so fresh-faced, and vibrant, despite all those years in captivity in Stalag GT. I suppose an experience like that gives you a strong urge to suck the marrow out of life… that an atavistic shudder every time you see navy blue box pleats.

    Blow Blake a kiss from me.

  36. April, but thanks, ladies – as it always coincides with assessment I tend to ignore it when I’m studying and celebrate in May.

    Stalag GT? That’s one I haven’t heard. But seeing as I still have a few mates from my days in captivity (boarding school, for those that came in late – MM and I, it turns out, went to the same school) its one that I’m keen to share.

    GT. Stalag Gastric Torture?
    Nah, too obvious.

    And its the bloomers that still give me nightmares. I suspect that by the time your generation came along, MM, they’d introduced constricting pre-lycra bike pants as a substitute. I seem to remember some thrush induced consequences after gym class in my senior years.

  37. Catty – speaking of bunny cakes, my spouse is born on the cusp of the year of the rabbit/tiger and tries to insist that he’s a tiger. He’s not.
    One year for his BD I got a professional cake person to make him a BD cake with Peter Rabbit and his friends scampering all over the white icing. Which I then served up to about thirty of his friends, with tea and coffee.

    I served his tea in his Bunnykins mug, which his mother has saved, along with other such treasures as his Noddy Doll.

    Heh heh heh.

  38. Aww… bless his little cotton socks. A Noddy doll? AWSM!! Does the little bell on his hat still ring?

    Hehehe. Bloomers. We were spared the bloomers, but I still remember the gloriously stifling feeling of wearing the equivalent of a blanket’s worth of wool, AKA a blazer, however mild the weather. You couldn’t wear a thin, sensible pullover on the street, oh no. Might as well just break out in napple tassels as be seen on the street in a naked JUMPER. Still, in my mother’s day they had to wear gloves, too.

    (GT could stand for Girls Tormented, or Get Twisted or even Gender, Trapped – but I was going with the obvious, the street address.)

  39. Hey, do you know why elephants have big ears?

    Because Noddy wouldn’t pay the ransom.

    Boom boom!

  40. Hehehe.

    Why don’t sardines swim past Townsville?

    They don’t want to end up in Cairns!

    How was the bunny cake, Catty? I assume the giant choc chip cookies are but a happy memory

  41. Why aren’t elephants welcome at Airlie Beach?

    They can’t keep their trunks up!

    Ba-dum – chh!

    Yes, the bikkies were gone by bedtime. “More, mummy, we want more!” whined my obviously starving children. I had the oven on for the bunny cake, so why not, thinks I.

    I whipped up another batch. They were maaaaarvelous! The cake was pretty good, too, as I threw a big handful of maltezers into the batter. Mmmmmm…. gooey chewy maltezers….

    It didn’t look quite as I envisioned. It was more of a Catty cake than a Bunny cake. Still, it tasted amazing, so I don’t think anyone cared much what animal it resembled. The second batch of giant bikkies went, too. And then, nobody would eat their dinner. How rude! I slaved away for hours* making that dinner!
    (*major exaggeration – I was too busy icing the cat, I mean, bunny cake to manage more than bangers and mash).

    Honestly, sometimes I think the only way to get them to eat dinner is to serve up cake and bikkies.

  42. I’m down with cake and bikkies for tea. You can vary the menu seasonally, too.

    Winter calls for something hearty, perhaps a macadamia anzac followed by warm baked cheesecake. For summer, biscotti then a passionfruit sponge. You can go regional, as well: shortbread and Dundee cake; lebkuchen and Black Forest Torte.

    I could go on, but I have to go and bake something sweet. NOW!

    Happy Mother’s Day, Catty. I hope any toast dropped in your bed lands marmalade side up!

  43. Ps… Malteasers in a cake? You’re a freaking genius!!!

  44. Yum.

  45. Biscotti – THAT is genius. I’m going to whip up some tonight. Maybe a choc almond one with cinnamon, and a walnut choc chip vanilla one. That way I can do a pretty two-tone plate of biscotti for the MIL’s present tomorrow, and I can taste test the rest. Yay! Thanks for the flash of inspiration, Madam!

    Happy Mothers Day to y’all as well:

    Madam Morgana, if Magic Man gives you a present, poke it first. If it tries to run away, DON’T OPEN IT!

    Quokka, if the cats bring you a dead mouse, I hope you’re planning on sharing it with them. But I’m sure they’ll let you keep the hairballs all to yourself.

    Me? I told the Boss “I’m not your mother, you don’t need to buy me anything”. Bless his heart, he took the hint and bought me a whole bag full of stuff. It’s going to be a good day!

  46. Happy mother’s day, you mob.
    We went out doing the usual last minute shopping for MIL.
    I tagged along for the trip to the city and ate a bacon mcmuffin, a donut, a selection of chocolates, and procured take home curry for us both.

    While we were in Darrell Lea buying the obligatory Soft Centres for the MIL (I think she likes them because it makes up for a lack of such structures in her own anatomical make up) the girl was walking around ‘pushing’ various new products.

    Darrell Lea have a new product called Strawberry Balls.
    Packed to the hilt with 220, so I’m suffering now, but they are truly, truly marvelous. Round chocolate thing that looks like a malteser but not crunchy.

    I’m thinking they’d go nicely in a batch of muffins, Catty.
    You’ll have to experiment and let me know, so I can take some sort of vicarious pleasure in your experiments.

    The Bloke gets to brave the Gold Coast Highway tomorrow and once there, he gets to take his parents to lunch at the Bowls Club.

    I get to stay here and send him texts along the lines of ‘So, are we having fun yet?’

    Which reminds me.
    I was cleaning the front windows yesterday – can someone please tell me what is all this black powdery shit that gets onto fly screens? The Bloke thinks its black shit from the lining of break pads, us being close to the city and therefore sucking in the air of Brisbane’s daily traffic congestion – and I noticed that no less than 3 residents of the flats next door seem to be engaged in efforts to move OUT. And no, they are not the Irish, it is the quiet nerdy uni boys from the flats up the back. I suspect they’ve realized that if they want to pass exams they will need their beauty sleep, which Paddy, Seamus and DJ Bob downstairs are unlikely to provide for them, all three of them having that Chip On The Shoulder (about Edjumacated People) which no quantity of seagulls will ever remove.

    Sucked in Team Landlord.

    The Bloke tells me not to look too pleased, lest the 3 empty flats be leased out to even more Feral Irish types.

  47. I don’t know about the black stuff, although I suspect it’s the great green greasy ash from your nearby hospital’s incinerators. Nothing like the ashed remains of an incinerated gangrenous limb to lift the ambiance in a neighbourhood.

    My big brother had a flat once; it was so feral that he lost his pet rat for two weeks, and when he finally found her, she had put on weight.

    He used to drop his rubbish in a pile between his favourite armchair and the front door. On rubbish day, he would lie the bin on its side outside the front door, and kick the rubbish into it.

    He had a similar process with his clothes. He had a kick pile on his bedroom floor. When he came out of the shower, he would kick the pile. Anything that didn’t run away, he wore.

    He had a theory that if they wanted to be washed, they’d go and get in the washing machine – this also applied to sheets and towels.

    My theory about his black spotted fly screens was that the flies were shitting themselves with terror, trying to get OUT.

  48. LMAO. I think you’ve got the basis for an article there, Catty. “Is you Boyfriend a Secret Pile Kicker? Find out the shocking truth BEFORE you move in together.”

    Quokka, you don’t have to have lunch with your Outlaws? The Bloke is pretty well damn perfect, isn’t he? Bless his little bunny socks.

    You need to discount any inner urban theories to explain your black powder manifestation, because we’ve got it here in Sleepy Seasideville. In fact, I’ve never had it worse than here, perhaps the salty sea breeze acts like aerosol glue or something. Indeed, a friend recently decided the next house she built would have black windowsills to alleviate the dusting. Here’s my housemagic tip: If you let enough spiders build their webs in your windows, they’ll trap the majority of the dust. When they move on, the dusty webs are easy to wipe up with a paper towel.

    Good luck, Team Landlord. Can’t wait to find out who the hell is crazy or desperate enough to want to live in The Bog. My money’s on a terrorist cell.

  49. I think Catty’s got it with the cremation ashes.

    MM, I told the bloke what you said about mother’s day duty and he snorted and replied ‘Why would I make you do that? Do they think I don’t love you?’

  50. Cremation ashes?! Then Arachne and her sisters at my place are busily collecting assorted dear departed in every nook and cranny… nice. It’s very Addams family.

    Tell the Bloke he’s perfectly adorable, and of course we know he loves you. He’s just exceptionally thoughtful for a sufferer of ‘Weak X’ syndrome.

  51. A spider ate my comment.

    I’ll wait and see if it turns up.

  52. Spider webs? We call them ‘Italian Decorator Lace’ and leave them. Who needs interior designers? We even encourage the dust bunnies, as they are perfect pets – they don’t bite and they’re cheap to feed.

    I have a theory that dusting is called dusting because that’s what ends up on your furniture when you do it. Those microfibre cloths and feather dusters cause static electricity when swiped over hard surfaces. Static electricity attracts dust. Voila! More dust than you started with. So the less you dust, the less dust you will have.

    That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

    I’m keen to hear what story my mate at Darrell Lea comes up with, to explain why she never told me about strawberry balls. It had better be a damned good explanation, or I will NOT be putting cashews in her next batch of caramel fudge. Unless she asks really nicely…..

  53. There’s raspberry balls too but the checkout chick told me they’re not as nice.

    Now I can’t remember what I said in the Vanished Comment.
    Oh well, moving on.

    Being asthmatic I have to be a bit anal about dust, otherwise my lungs tend to collapse under the general strain of living in Pollution Central.

    How did you all fare on Mother’s Day?
    The Bloke returned around 5pm, just as I was getting in from doggie walkies, and has been bitching at great length about the horrors of his day. His father is planning a holiday for his sister’s funeral and plans to leave his mother in the nursing home across the road. His mother doesn’t like this plan and proposes that Her Boy take a week off work and go wait on her hand and foot. She coughed up her honey pork balls into her soup during that conversation which reinforced his response of ‘No Freaking Way.’

    Sure. He’s only building a hospital.
    I’m sure they can let that go another week while he goes

  54. Crap. How’d that happen?

    The cybergoblins are busy here tonite.

    Anyway, I digress.
    Now, let’s see, before I was so rudely interrupted by the gremlins, I believe I was fuming.

    His mother is convinced that only her boy can give her the Tender Loving Care she requires.
    There was some grumble about how she doesn’t like staying in the nursing home/aged care hospital because they get her medication wrong.
    Those nurses don’t know what they’re doing.
    No. Not a clue.
    She knows how much she needs.

    I’m guessing those quantities of meds would look remarkably similar to the readout on Heath Ledger’s death certificate, meaning that no nurse in her right mind would sign off on it – but for some reason she seems to think that we will wait on her while she ODs.

    Fume. Steam.

    On the plus side they complained endlessly because they had to WAIT for their meal to arrive at the Bowls Club – normally they insist on going to a buffet so they can avoid the ‘we will die without instant gratification’ problem – so I pointed out to The Bloke that they just handed him a Get Out Of Jail/Mother’s Day/Father’s Day FREE card, which should last for the rest of eternity.

    ie. due to all the horror queues for meals on mother’s day etc, he can cleverly avert this by visiting them the day BEFORE whichever Hellmark Holiday they plain to torture him with.

    He just looked at me, blinked, and said ‘You’re a genius. Why didn’t I think of that?’

    One day he will learn.
    It’s very simple. Every time they whine, bitch, moan and grumble, make it work for YOU. Not them.

    What that woman needs is the fracking VET.
    Like I’m going to have that evil old geriatric junkie here.

  55. Quokka, perhaps this could work in your favour another way. If the Bloke is inveigled into babysitting duty, he can slip a couple of lithium tablets into the cocktail.

    Mmmmm. Lobotomy in a bottle…..

    Yes, I am joking. She’d notice. Still, it’s nice to fantasise. I made it through several Mothers Days with just that fantasy – lithium in the homeopathic vitamin enriched mineral supplements – until I realised it was easier to move a few thousand kilometres away.

    So now Mothers Day is all about me, me, me. And the MIL. She’s easily tamed with a bottle or six of bubbles, and I was easily satisfied with the chocolate cake my teen baked me for breakfast in bed. I got a stack of gifts and handmade cards, and the kidlets refrained from trying to kill each other ALL DAY. It was lovely!

    *Sigh* Why can’t it be Mothers Day every day?

    I’d start a petition, but your Bloke would probably hit me over the head with something lumpy. Possibly his mother.

  56. Hehehe. No husband = no mother-in-law. It completely makes up for having to put the bins out myself.

    Quokka, Christmas will be here before you know it. Why not buy your darling Mum-in-law a gift hamper from those Mexican chemists that keep offering me vicodin and penile supplements? Then she can jingle all the way to a long dirt nap. Alternatively, perhaps she’d like to support the hospital the bloke is building…third pylon on the right, I’m thinking.

    Catty, your kids didn’t fight ALL DAY?! Mine only held off for about half an hour, then fought, then apologised for fighting on Mother’s Day… then fought some more.*Sigh* Two boys. It’s some karmic debt thing, isn’t it? I wish I could remember the hijinks I obviously got up to in a past life.

  57. We couldn’t do that to society, she’d haunt the hospital wards until she achieved poltergeist status and she’d make all the good stuff in the drug cabinets disappear.

    MM, the only thing that stops boys from fighting is duct tape and tranquilizers. You tell them you’re all playing pirates and they’re hostages, tie them up under the stairs and then go take a handful of valium and have a nice tranquil nap.

    Seeing as Mayhem has failed to report in, Catty seems to be leading in the Mother’s Day Fun awards.

  58. Quiet one for me. The Brat was hungover and sheepish about being out all night after promising to be home. Rang his Uncle to collect him from where he landed.

    Laid back lunch at Mum’s, then a Nanna nap followed by lunch leftovers and an evening of mindless TV. No fights, no dramas, just the way I like it!

  59. Sounds lovely, Mayhem. You were so sensible to have an only child. If the Brat wants to fight and you’re not in the mood, he has to go out! Hope you’re feeling better, BTW.

    It’s a great plan, Quokka. I’ve got plenty of duct tape, I’ll get onto the Mexican chemists for the benzos. Sure I can’t get you anything while I’m ordering? We could combine postage…

  60. I might need some duct tape too. I’m making myself some slippers.

    Why? All is explained over in the Conspiracy Corner. Bloody CIA.

  61. Why didn’t you announce you were up and running! I’ll see you over there.

  62. Ah, Mayhem, you’re lurking.

    I wonder how many stamps I’d have to stick on my MIL to send her to Mexico?
    She is looking for an alternative to two weeks in the nursing home across the road. A Mexican holiday does have potential, I think.

    Catty I will check in at the Conspiracy Corner in a day or so.
    Its suddenly occured to me that I have an exam in 6 weeks and I need to do some study.

    In the interests of staying focused I’ve been keeping the internet computer switched OFF all day until I’ve had dinner, and then I can fartarse about, or else I can watch telly. We’re onto series 3 of Blake’s 7 so I’m afraid none of you can compete with the enigmatic Paul Darrow.

    I did that responsible thing, when we were renovating, by creating the internet nook in the centre of the house, where you have to walk past it to do anything, even scratch your arse, and its a real trap. I listened to Susan Maushart last week on Life Matters/Radio National, talking about how she conducted an experiment on her family by nixing all of their technology for 6 months.

    She said it was a life altering experience for all of them and I’m inspired to think ‘Hmm…limiting access to my favorite addiction to the evening hours when I’ve done all I meant to do during the day might just mean that I get all those things done, for a change.

  63. Got to agree, Quokka. My self imposed exile got me through four assignments in 8 weeks – previously I was managing one assignment every 3 months. Admittedly, I did cheat a bit near the end – but it was legitimate research for the ‘what men shouldn’t say to a woman’ article.

    At first, anyway. Then the faff trap got me. I’m a sucker for faffing. (bet NONE of you knew that! he he he). But the assignments were done on schedule, so I guess I didn’t overdo the cheating.

    And now I’ve rewarded myself with a blog. It’s weird, having your own blog – you should start one after your exams, Quokka.

    And you should post more often, Mayhem. Yes, we all saw you lurking up there.

    Madam, have you seen all that stuff in the paper about the endangered frog plague? (Nowra, I think). Question time: First – how on earth can you have a plague of an endangered animal? Second – is this Apocalyptic, or just Bob Brown’s uni student worshipers going a bit overboard? Third – do horizontal stripes on socks make your feet look bigger? No, it has nothing to do with frogs, I’m just feeling subconscious about my Womble feet.

    Oh, bugger my feet. I’m going to find some cheesecake. Then I’m going to eat it.

  64. Maybe that should have read ‘self conscious about my Womble Feet’. But then, the thought was probably fed directly into my subconscious by the CIA, so I was right the first time.

    (It couldn’t be helped. I had to use the colander to steam vegies for dinner, and it hasn’t been washed up yet.)

  65. Good luck in the exams, Quokka. The internet is terrible time sucker – it’s probably a Government conspiracy, actually, to keep us disengaged from the atrocities they’re committing ITRW… we should get Catty onto it. I spend about five times more hours “research” than I do in writing. I think you’re onto something. I should unplug the modem.

    Catty, I reckon you need a spare colander… the CIA would be on to when you’re likely to be cooking tea, and target their mind control rays accordingly. Either that, or steam your veggies in the microwave.

    Feet always look sylph like and seductive in fishnets. However, this is not a very cosy fashion statement. I suggest you try Explorer socks, covered with fishnets in a contrasting tone. There – now you feel better about your feet, don’t you?

    “Underground, overground, Wombling free
    The Wombles of Wimbledon Common are we.
    Making good use of the things that we find,
    Things that the everyday folk leave behind”

    Come on everybody! Lala along…

  66. Catty – my advice is Be Loud and Proud.

    Now, I hope you South East Qld gals are thinking of coming to either the Havock Fiasco for lunch on Saturday, Sunday, or both.

    I’ve decided to just dictate Havock’s itinerary on Sunday as the Bloke assures me he will be in no state to make decisions for himself by then.

    Details at CBG, but I will repost them here if anyone is allergic to the stench of troll that lingers about the place.

    Now, back to what I’m meant to be doing, i.e. emailing my lecturer.

  67. Two colanders? How ostentatious! But a good idea nonetheless. I’d be able to cook linguini without any government agencies stealing the sauce recipe straight out of my brain. Hmmmm. Could that be what they’ve been after all this time? Maybe the poor dears are just hungry. If the TV shows are anything to go by, they only ever eat bagels and black coffee. With a diet like that, I’d be craving a little linguini too.

    The teen wears toe socks. They look dreadfully uncomfortable, but she assures me that sacrificing comfort for style is the done thing. Silly me, I’d never considered toe socks to be high fashion.

    Honestly, if I didn’t have a teen, I wouldn’t know anything at all.

  68. Quokka, flattered though I am that you dropped in to chat with us instead of emailing your lecturer, I regret to inform you that my babysitter is callously holidaying in the Blue Mountains this weekend. I did contemplate bringing them with me, but Havoc is likely to consider them muppets in need of fkn capping. Particularly Elf Boy, with his pointy little ears and all. You’ll just have to show the General such a good time that he is compelled to return later in the year.

    Catty, toe socks just don’t add up. You’d have to sit down… ‘kay, or balance on one leg… and work every single little piggy into his burrow. You’ve got 10 or so digits on a pair of feet, yeah? Who’s got the time??

  69. Too true, Madam Morgana. Getting the kids to school sucks up all my morning as it is. The only reason I make time for pants is because it’s 15 degrees outside.

    Roll on Summer….

  70. Elf Boy said to me on Monday “I don’t like school. Why did you sign me up for school?”

    I couldn’t think of a good answer for him.

  71. So that he has something other than you to blame in twenty years when he needs therapy.

  72. Of course! I’ll just kiss him and say, “Sweetheart, so it can all be someone else’s fault.”

  73. I think the government can jail you for not educating a child but this isn’t a good road to go down if he’s inclined to request Home Schooling.

  74. Hehehe. It would be “Survivor: Home School”. I’m backing Elf Boy – he has much more stamina and determination than I.

  75. Tell him that you signed him up because people who don’t go to school don’t get rich.

    I’m feeling a little flush at the moment, as APRA have just sent me my quarterly royalties. After tax, I might have enough left over to buy myself some of them thar strawberry balls.

    You can hold up the strawberry balls (and possibly Playstations) as a, well, a carrot for Elf Boy. Mentioning solid gold pushbikes, ice cream for breakfast, b-doubles full of lego, real-life pet dinosaurs and giant beds shaped like racing cars wouldn’t hurt, either.

    Then hold up the stick. Tell him kids who don’t go to school can only get jobs cleaning public toilets, (take him in to a few, just to reinforce the message), and then tell him his pay will be printed on perforated tissue rolls, and he’ll never be able to afford MacDonalds, and he’ll have to live in your closet at the retirement home, where he will have to trim your horny toenails for you, and hold your colostomy bag while you play bingo and talk about arthritis, viagara, pureé sprouts, viagara, and haemorrhoid surgery. And viagara.

    If he cries, console him with the fact that he might be able to earn the occasional weak pot of tea and rubbery biscuit by doing the odd drug run to Mexico – for the viagara.

  76. Hehehe. Enjoy your strawberry balls, Catty.

    A well-rounded, well-reasoned argument. I think he’ll really go for the real life pet dinosaur.

    But do I HAVE to have a colostomy bag? I eat plenty of fibre, I swear.

  77. If you are looking for inspiration, I suggest you start with a trip to the public toilets at Sandgate.

    The ones outside the pool and those up at the far end of the esplanade closest to the shorncliffe jetty should offer the motivation required for nothing short of fanatical ambition.

  78. Oh, all right. Elf Boy can hold your dentures.

  79. Hehehe. Thanks for the tip, Quokka. Day trip, children! We’re off to see the famous Sandgate Motivational Restrooms. No… Mumma didn’t pack a picnic lunch. You’ll see why when we get there.

    Catty, I flashed on an image of a denture Elf… as wrinkly as his sagging striped stockings, rusty little bell on the end of his cap donking a sad flat little note.

    If you think we’re beset by evil faeries now, just wait till old age. They’ll make the one’s that wee on your Grandma’s hanky look like amateurs:

    Varicose Vein Faery, who makes your legs ache and throb if you so much as stand up to put the kettle on.

    Tinkle Faery, who makes you wet yourself if you so much as raise your eyebrows. Forget laughing – not that there’ll be anything to laugh about, of course. And I won’t even tell you what Tinkle Faery’s sister does…

  80. Oh, I know what Tinkle Faerie’s sister does. Why do you think I mentioned the colostomy bag?

    The wardrobe faerie comes into her own when old age pounces. She stops stealing buttons and peeing on grandma’s hanky, and starts stretching your g-strings until they are the size of a pillowcase. Big undies are NEVER deliberate, no matter what Bridget Jones tells you.

  81. If you see Hit Man Faery, tell him I need him.
    Both our families are acting up with games that the very Devil must have thought up, this week.

    Silly me, I’ve just realized that Havock will be in town this weekend and all I have to do is point and shout ‘MUPPETS!’

  82. G-strings, Catty? Can’t say I dabble in bum floss, myself. Give me a lovely comfy pair of Cottontails, anyday. They come out of the packet big!

    All that studying is going to your head, Quokka.

    Mental note: Whilst unleashing Havock, remember not to refer to him as a faery of any sort.

    Is it the MIL again? It’s not too late to order the Mexican Endless Siesta Sampler… why don’t I put you down for two or three? It’ll be Christmas before you know it.

  83. Send Elf Boy to pick up that sampler, Madam. You’ll have him screaming for school before he clears customs.

    Quokka, you know what they say:
    You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.
    However, you can choose the asylum you have them committed to.

    A comforting thought from It’s Happy Bunny. Funny, that – I never thought of Havsy as a faerie, but after I met him I could see a lot of resemblance to It’s Happy Bunny. It’s Havsy Bunny, perhaps?

  84. I refer to highly manipulative family members who draw in others to do their dirty work. Remember the Flying Monkeys from the Wizard of Oz?

    Catty those are comforting words and The Bloke and I both have reason to feel inspired by them. He’ll be picking out a nursing home that does kerosene baths and mouse plagues and I’ll be looking for a padded cell, in which to lock myself until it’s safe to come out. I always quite liked Daria’s bedroom, really.

    You’re right, this study gig is getting to me.
    Must be time to watch TV.
    The Blake’s seven crew had a terrible time with a giant 70s BBC production grasshopper last night. There’s nothing like special effects from 1979 to get me smiling again.

    Nighty night, ladies. I’ll leave you to your underwear discussions and hope it doesn’t get to the edible variety.
    In which case I’d expect Bangar and Nbob to appear, very quickly.

  85. My father once bought grandma a chair for Christmas. She refused to sit in it – probably because she saw him plugging it in.

    I’m sure he’d sell it cheap if the Bloke wants to buy it for your MIL. As new, never used. More’s the pity. (Grandma taught Mother everything she knows).

    You know, the more I think about it, the more I think we may be related Quokka.


    Speaking of spooky, we just had a haunting. The locked front door flew open and a couple of lights turned themselves on. We were all sitting down to dinner at the time, so I had a charming view of five partially masticated meals as their collective jaws dropped. It was not pleasant – not least because the spirit had very bad breath. And do you think I could find my emergency Holy Water? Not a hope! Eventually, I located the bottle on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, hidden behind the Boss’s aquarium PH testing strips.


    It occurs to me that I may have baptised the wanderer with a fishtank water sample.

  86. Catty, the same thought has occurred to me.
    RE: your poltergeist, it’s probably my mother in laws batty sister, practicing her telekinesis. She’ll be looking for her youngest, they keep moving to get away from her, and she’s getting thoroughly confused.

    BTW, Holy water is good but I’ve found that with really obnoxious evil spirits, small vials of cat’s urine are far more effective.

  87. Cat’s Urine? Really?

    I’d better email my mother and ask her if she can spare me a bottle of her perfume.

  88. If you’re out, the Bloke bought his mother a vat of it for Xmas – Elizabeth Taylor’s White Diamonds.
    He has to air out the car for 48 hours every time she’s been a passenger in it so that I don’t choke and gag on the fumes.

  89. Quokka (my sweet, my pretty pretty)… awesome graphic, thanks. I’m going to get some sticker paper and affix them to my windows and doors.

    Tell the Bloke to just pick the cheapest, most convenient nursing home – they ALL do kero baths and mouse plagues. He can also be assured of a prevailing stench of human waste with a top note of boiled cabbage. If he’s lucky (and he’s likely to be) he’ll get one of the ones where they don’t really bother about food and drink. Oh, yeah, they serve it up (in some form) on the little wheely trays, but there isn’t enough staff to help the inmates ingest it.

    Catty, you know those dangling bead curtains some people hang in doorways? Just make your own, alternating garlic cloves and iron nails. A fragment of the true cross makes a lovely centrepiece, too. That should keep the ghoulies at bay.

    Meanwhile, some idiot in my street complained to the Council about my chooks. I had a surprise inspection from the Chook Inspectors yesterday – who were a lovely pair of young men. They were quite happy about the chooks, except that the yard is about 30cm too close to the back fence. Sure, it’s only star pickets driven into sand but geez! What gets me is that some small minded poultry dobber thought they’d call the Council, rather than just maybe…ooh, I dunno… knocking on my door and saying “Hey, I’ve got a bit of an issue with the chooks.” Tell you what, I’ve only got four at the moment. According to the Council’s leaflet I’m allowed 12. After I move the fence, should I go out and get eight more? Hehehe.

  90. You could give the whiney neighbour some eggs, as a peace offering. As they didn’t knock on your door, you’d better not knock on theirs. Just stand on the kerb and toss the eggs towards their door. One at a time.

    You do want to be neighbourley, don’t you?

  91. How about I kidnap the ROOSTER that someone in my neighbourhood keeps as a friggin pet and we install it in your backyard so that they really do have something to complain about?

  92. Fabulous plans, ladies. Let’s action them immediately. Funny thing, Catty – as I was relating the saga of the Chook Inspectors for the umpteenth time, nearly the same thought occurred to me… only I had a hankering to egg his damn caravan.

  93. I hear that road kill tossed over the fence into the swimming pool sends the message that You Care.

    Naturally I would NEVER do this, but I often pass on the suggestion and I hear it works wonders.

    I’ll have to pass on this bit of wisdom to Havock.
    I’ve heard results from Birds and Possums – things that might just fall off their perch and go Soup Like in the filter box by accident – but I’ve never yet had anyone try Feral Pig or Battered Roo.

    MM, the challenge is yours.

  94. My philosophy is, If children MUST scream in the pool at dawn on a Sunday, then for God’s sake give them a reason to do so.

  95. We used to get those little tubs of chocolate mousse from KFC. We’d remove the lids, then throw the tubs of mousse over the security fence, straight into the local pool. By sunrise, the whole pool would be covered in nice, brown scum.

    Don’t judge me harshly. This was Townsville. There was nothing else to do.

  96. I spent a year in Townsville and you’re right, there is nothing else to do.
    I’m confident you weren’t responsible for the brown slick on the uni pool.
    There was no fence.
    Just miles and miles of Nothing between it and any potential drowning victims.

  97. We tended to stay away from JCU. Nothing we could think up was half as bad as the stuff those Uni students got up to. (I’m confident the brown slick on the Uni pool was NOT mousse.)

    Although, we did occasionally drive rally cars along that lovely long stretch of bike track. Shhhhh. Don’t tell – the police kept blaming the AJ’s down the road at Lavarack. He he he he he.

  98. Happy days.

    Well, I think I can get my hands on a splattered possum, but I’ve got to agree that a great big squealer would make a clear statement. I can barely lift a 20kg bag of chook feed though, so I’d need a block and tackle or winch to flick Razorback over the fence. I’ll see what I can do.

    Now, the chocolate mousse seems very do-able. However, we don’t have a KFC anywhere close. I’m loathe to waste homemade mousse on a chook dobber… do you think those strange long-life pudding cups from the supermarket would do the trick?

  99. Not as well as Rottweiler doodie.

  100. BTW, the flats next door seem to have emptied out this week, the only remaining tenants seem to be the Irish.

    I suspect that the students all got sick of complaining to the landlords about the Green Menace and decided to take their own revenge by all leaving at once. Nothing else explains the synchronicity of 6 empty flats.

    I will have to duck over to see if they’ve been posted on yet.

    If so, perhaps I should place a link at the Al Quaida website.

    This idea of having a terrorist cell next door is growing on me.
    Think of it. Six to twelve months of utter peace and quiet and at the end of it, there will be baffled photos of me in
    UnFairfacts Inc saying ‘But they were such nice boys. So quiet, and always so polite. I never saw them, and I never heard them, and the only time I noticed them was when they brought the wheelie bins in for me and helped me when I dropped my tins of cat food. I can’t believe it, they were such good neighbours.’

  101. Oh yes, Quokka. Terrorists are much more neighbourly than, for example, crystal methamphetamine manufacturing bikies. No strippers, no death metal, no 3 a.m. rumble of wide gauge exhausts. And it would be fairly easy, I suspect, to convince them that infidel cleansing should start at home – surely the bog dwellers are a-grade infidels.

    I look forward to seeing your upcoming media appearances. Don’t wear stripes, will you? Apparently the cameras hate stripes.

    Oh, and have a fabulous Havsy-filled weekend. Say hi to everyone for me.

  102. Yes, Quokka, have a good one – considering the company, it’s a given.

    Say Hi to all for me, and big hugs for Mayhem. Not so big hugs for Havsy – we don’t know where he’s been. And take notes. We want to hear ALL about it! Photos, too? Not meaning to sound pushy or anything, I’m just insanely jealous and want to at least enjoy the vicarious pleasures of the retelling.

    And now I’m going to sit in the corner and sulk, because I’m not there with you all. Or I might go and do that article I promised me I’d write this weekend. More productive. But not nearly as satisfying as sulking.

  103. Hmm. Would that be stars and stripes, or just stars?

    I’ve been looking at the Havock Faffage and I’m at a bit of a loss as to WTF they are all up to.

    Mayhem, if you’re lurking, can you please confirm General Havock’s lunch plans for tomorrow?

    From what I can make out, someone said they would be at the Mana Bar in Paddington all afternoon and the Herd has cried ‘Yea!’ and followed. Which is all very well and good, but if that’s where everyone is then there is really no sense in turning up at Fiasco’s on my lonesome tomorrow.

    Am beastly careless what the venue is but must admit, after the week that I’ve just had with both our respective families, I’m thinking that tomorrow I may need to go hide and stick my head in the sand. If its going to turn into a Big Boy Paddington pissup then jolly good, and I hope everyone has lots of fun, but my nerves are still jangling even here in the safety of my valium padded cell, and if so, I might pass.

    Sorry, can’t share. Sensitive family stuff that’s just not suited to the internet.
    Now, JB was talking Scotch.
    I hate the stuff but slow poison does seem like a good idea today…I might go get some vicarious pleasure from imagining the horror of drinking the stuff. Argh. I’d rather gargle drain cleaner.

  104. Quokka, I’m still hoping for Morrison’s, at least that is my understanding. I will confirm tonight and let you know here.

    Ysambart Courtin is apparently stating at Mana Bar at around 2:30, but to be honest, it doesn’t really appeal. As it is, I’ll probably stop somewhere for a good honest hamburger (or Macca’s) before, during or after tonight’s festivities, as the menu at Claret House doesn’t really do it for me either

  105. Thanks, Mayhem.
    Yes, I looked at the menu at Claret house and it made gargling drain cleaner sound good.
    Once I see duck on a menu my brain fogs over and that’s the end of it. Ducks belong on ponds, with their cute little ducklings paddling along behind them. Once I see duck on the menu, that’s the end of my appetite. It all looked kind of gluggy, to me.

    I’m not going to Paddington on a football afternoon for love nor money.

    It is starting to look a bit like one long knees up for the boys, from tonight until whatever they do after the play.
    Tell Havsy I don’t mind what he does for lunch, as I’ll see him Sunday for a quieter day (I’m thinking he’ll be quite sensitive to loud noises by then) so if it turns into Boys Club, that is fine by me, I’ll sit this dance out.

  106. Definitely on for lunch at Morrison’s Quokka. Not sure who’ll be there, apart from Havsy. I think Bedes is keen. I will hopefully not be late, have a mammogram at 11:15, which last time took a fair while, ‘cos they found something and decided to follow up with ultrasound and needle biopsy. Gah! Bad timing, but given I should have done this a year ago, I couldn’t refuse the appointment.

  107. OK, thanks Mayhem
    1pm, see you there. Assuming that one of these goose boys has booked it.

    I get my mammograms done at Coorpooroo Breast screen now instead of at the Wesley. I’m in and out in 15 minutes tops as opposed to the 3 hours of horror in a pink coat at the W.

    I had to have an ultrasound a few months ago and went out to the hospital near QUT, which again, was far less painful than the Wesley. (unless you count the trash magazines)

    God help you if you have to get the thin needle biopsy, I’ve been warned that I have the kind of breast tissue they like to stick needles in because they cannot make out a GD thing to see what’s going on. A friend who has my build and the same sort of ropey breast tissue assures me that it’s horrible. I’ll be thinking of you.

    I had something yukky cut off my chest by the skin doc the other day, for bonus points though I seem to have lost at least a kilo thanks to the combined forces of Darkness that have been at work in my life this week.

    FK only knows how as much of what I’ve consumed has come from either burger bars or the Cheesecake shop.
    Meh. It will be good to see you all.

    See you at the Mozza.

  108. Poor Quokka and poor Mayhem. I hope you have a lovely lunch to make up for your respective hard times. Quokka, have dessert, won’t you? Or stock up on strawberry balls while you’re out. Mayhem, you should have chocolate too. Mammogram… just typing it makes me shudder.

    Catty, I’m just up the road and I’m not going, either. I’ll be relocating the chookyard. Bloody poultry dobbers! I hope you have plenty of chocolate and or cheesecake in whatever corner you’re sulking in. What’s the article about?

  109. It’s a very silly article about cutting the costs of raising children. Stuff like: When the kids bring their vegemite sandwich home from school uneaten, leave it in their lunch box. Chances are they’re not going to eat it tomorrow, either, so it doesn’t matter if it gets stale or soggy. Or green. You’ll save approximately $76 a year in bread.

    I do have chocolate. I bought a family sized bag of peanut m&m’s. No, not for the family. For me. For the family, I’ve just made smartie bikkies. The imported lolly shop sells giant smarties, so I made little bikkies like jam drops, except with a giant smartie instead of jam. My kids won’t eat jam. (I don’t blame them, after the reaction their dad had to the stuff I bought from the deli.)

    And for dinner, you’re having roast chook, right?

    Doesn’t sound half as interesting as the liquid lunch/dinner/breakfast/lunch combo Havock et al will be having. Huh. I’m going back to my sulky corner. And I’m taking the m&m’s with me.

  110. I’ll be interested to hear your theories on squashed bananas in the school bags, Catty.

    Apologies for not visiting Catty World more often. After mid June I should have more time to be sociable.

    Lunch was fun and Havsy and Bedes were both disappointed that you were stuck on Chook Pen duty. Bedes was quite eloquent re: your neighbours issues and hoped you were plotting retribution. I told him we were way ahead of him if he wants to visit and give his own gold standard offerings in evil.

    He took over Havock’s i-phone for about five minutes and apparently found Hav lots of new friends on gay masochism sites, from what I can make out.

    I think I caught a trace of 220 so I’m off to quarantine with the DVD while I am a football widow for the evening. The Bloke just found some half naked girl passed out on the footpath but thankfully others had found her first and apparently they called an ambulance. He said that a bystander said they found another girl in the same spot last week.
    Its making me wonder if the Green Menace have stocked up on Rohypnol given their lack of success on the dating scene.

    I think I need to take courses for teenage girls on How To Spot A Fuckwit at 200paces. And then know how to shoot them down before they get close enough to speak to you.

    anyway, lunch was good and it blew out the cobwebs and the spider shit from my week of horrors. Lovely to meet Hav and see Bedes BEFORE he’s actually shitfaced. Mayhem, if she survives the evening, is off on the Redcliffe adventure with us tomorrow.
    Looking forward to it.
    Suck down those painkillers, Mayhem, you don’t want a migraine tomorrow. Just check in with us between 7-10am Sunday am to confirm plans.

    MM, how’d it all go?
    Catty, wherever I just was you’ve got me fantasizing about biscuits and cheesecake. Meh. Will have to settle for jatz and cheese and a cup of hot chocolate.

    Over for now.

  111. Half naked girl and ambulance gone, and now there is an unmarked police car at the Irish Village up the road. All is quiet and dark next door at Green Menace central so unless there’s more bodies and an axe murderer lurking within, all is back to normal.

    I’ve gotta get out of the city.
    I just don’t understand how or why these young girls let themselves be so bloody vulnerable.
    By the looks of this one, she’d just spent an unpleasant half an hour with someone just like Lobes.

  112. I kinda overdid it with the m&m’s, and found myself with a nasty sugar rush. So I started speed-crocheting a beanie. I was halfway through when the ball of wool ran out. It was the only ball of that brand I had. So I now have a multicoloured, chunky yarmulke. Pity I’m not Jewish. Or male. Actually, I’m not too unhappy about that.

    It sucks that you’re going through family crap, Quokka. It can eat at you, that sort of stuff. I went through it with my nutcase family, now my teen is going through it with hers.

    The poor girl is trying desperately to assert her independence – and I’m trying desperately to prevent her ending up half naked on your footpath. It doesn’t help that she and I are both drama queens, so our arguments are somewhat like an episode of Days Of Our Lives.

    Teenagers. Just like real people, except devoid of Clue. Also like Days Of Our Lives.

    If she can keep out of trouble for another 6 or 7 years, the teen will grow into a bloody good person. I’m thinking cryogenics might help me get through those years.

    Meanwhile, I have to go check on eBay for some chunky wool. Or a cold Jew.

  113. Forget Ebay, Catty – I think you’ve just created a porridge cosy! Ideal for keeping your brekkie oats piping hot, these cold winter mornings. Take a snap and list it on Etsy.

    It’s interesting that you should mention teen cryogenics. My Mum always says that teenagers should be locked up until they’re 23 or so. Mind you, you should vary their restraints more often than Mum did. I’ve still got a nasty case of manacle burn.

    Sounds like fun, Quokka. And a big mwah to Havsy and Bedes. Chook pen has been duly re-located an additional 10cm away from the fence. The fun part was wrangling the chooks – then for added spice Dad dropped one trying to corral it in the garage and we had to chase it around the garden until I managed to hypnotise it into submission.

    Re dazed, half-naked girls: OMG, what’s next from Ireland’s finest? However, I reckon your female empowerment seminars are a FABULOUS idea. Make sure you conduct them in the back yard. I’m thinking some loud chanting, as early in the morning as you can, followed by some practical exercises. Perhaps how to castrate a would-be assailant using only a nail file? Tie a pair of apricots in the foot of an old stocking, affix to a mannequin and let them go for their lives. When your strike force is fully trained, unleash them next door.

    Did you have any swarthy, secretive looking types checking out the empty flats? Fingers crossed.

    Have a marvellous trip to Redcliffistan – the weather should be lovely.

  114. Thank you, Ladies.

    Oh, God. The girl on the footpath.
    The Bloke overheard a conversation by passers by saying ‘That’s odd, I found a girl passed out in this same spot last Saturday night, too.’ There must be a sign on our fence that only the drug fucked can see which says ‘Safety Zone, fall over here.’

    This is one of the reasons why I refuse to have one of those bloody ‘neighbourhood watch’ plaques on the letter box.
    Around here, I’d much prefer to look the other way.

    We have a very …er…’enthusiastic’, shall we say, German man who tries to recruit one and all into his neighbourhood watch plaque enthusiasm.

    I like him, he writes the most entertaining newsletters in which he froths and steams about the inefficiency of his recruits, complains at length about how nobody else seems to share his zeal for the cause, and better, makes some wonderfully Freudian typos.

    I still remember his complaints about his Plaque Pushing Program.’
    ‘There are still not enough PLAGUES in the neighbourhood.’

    True, so true.
    I’ve often thought the same thing myself.

    Mayhem, wear something warm today.

    I’ve looked at the weather report and it says overcast but fine, maximum of 23 bayside. I think I’ll wear layers.
    The Bloke is still unconscious and for some strange reason his mobile missed two text messages from me while he was at the Footy last night. Well…actually, some of you have seen my mobile and as you’re aware it’s main function in life is Cat Toy.

    Considering how many times its been pinged off the kitchen counter and had it’s innards chased around the house by the cats, I probably shouldn’t be surprised when the bloody thing doesn’t work.

    Anyway, I can’t see him waking up and being able to turn his phone (one of the mysteries of life I plan not to master) on till 8.30am.

    Whoo hoo.
    Redcliffestan with General Havock.
    I wonder how long it will take the population to recover?

  115. I think your German WatchMeister isn’t paying attention. You have a plague of Irish, a plague of bongo playing firetwirlers, and it appears, a plague of drugged young women sans garments. Now all you need are some locusts, (and possibly a small rain of blood) and voila! The Apocalypse.

    There’s an idea. Get your German neighbour to ban horses on the street, and the Apocalypse will pass you by.

    I hope you all have a memorable day. As long as Mayhem remembers to order extra syrup on her pancakes, (and the General remembers pants), everything will be fine. Don’t forget your camera! Admissible evidence, I think they call it. Enjoy yourselves.

  116. Agreed, Catty. All you really need around there, Quokka, is the Red Death and you’d have a full house of plagues.

    Rohypnol is fairly quick acting… perhaps your place is exactly the same number of stagger steps from some nite spot as the drugs take to really kick in. Or else you’re the unwitting host of a hitherto unknown manifestation, Unconscious Scanty Maiden on the Footpath Faery. Hey, everyone’s specialising these days.

    On a cheery note, it’s not even full moon, yet! Your footpath will probably be so densely scattered with nubile victims by then that you’ll have to shovel a path from your gate if you want to go anywhere. Good excuse to stay in and study.

  117. We just took the kidlets down to the park for a round of kickball. One run, and the Boss had his jumper off. Two runs, I had my jumper off. The kids were shedding socks, scarves, beanies and jackets everywhere. It was a vigorous game, mainly because the Boss kept cheating, and we had to find inventive ways of counteracting his sneaky tactics.

    When it was all over, my poor, exhausted children were draped semiconscious around the park, with half their clothing strewn around them.

    As we didn’t take any roeys, I’m wondering if maybe Quokka’s lawn ornaments are perhaps merely exhausted kickball players?

  118. Anything is possible in Quokka’s street, I suspect.

    Speaking of the Boss – with or without knitwear – Ms Tattooed Goth Lesbian hasn’t come up with any further intelligence on the mystery of the missing workvan, I suppose?

    I just hate to think of your dear old Ford station wagon being used to convey black market transplant organs.

    Hey, maybe that explains Quokka’s Fainting Femmes? Abductees, slated for organ harvest, who only manage to escape AFTER the sedation.

  119. Well, the police parked outside Irish Village 2 five minutes after the ambulance arrived, and the fact that both medics were female and seemed to be taking scrapings from her fingernails when I went past would suggest that they at least had put the pieces together and decided that the Irish were most likely to blame for 1. Her semi-conscious body abandoned on the street 2. Whatever sorry state she had found herself in.

    Then again, as there was a girl in the same spot and in the same state last week, perhaps that one was able to give them a few clues where to go.

    We arrived home this afternoon to the cheering sight of Team Landlord delivering a fresh new plastic wrapped double mattress to the Green Menace next door. Looks like they only last a month before they reach Peak Saturation capacity and they need to replace them.

    I’m starting to worry that when one of these morons does manage to doze off with a cigarette in their hand, their beds will be entirely soaked with urine and unable to generate the destructive sparks of my dreams.

    Then again, perhaps Team Landlord were just busy destroying evidence of last night’s Rohypnol Spree and Wee, and the cops will get the moron owner as an accessory to the crime.

    Onto other things, poor Mayhem. She had a headache and couldn’t make it. Mayhem – you should probably count your blessings.

    To bring you all up to speed, Mayhem was due at my place at 10.45am and unfortunately my cats missed the cancelation, so she in turn missed the efforts of the Feline Welcoming Committee at Casa Quokka.

    One of them dropped a large and smelly turd on the white tiles in the bathroom and then sat down on a stubborn residual dangler and bum danced all the way down the hall to the front door and then down the hatch to their dungeon. From the original pile of shit, I estimate said cat achieved a 12m long skid mark. That’s a new record, in our house.

    I had to message Havock and say ‘Delayed by Cat Turd. See you 11.10am’.

    When we got home at 4pm, I had my arms full of groceries and the first thing I noticed was a pile of cat spew on our bed. I yelled at the bloke to fix it, so he rushed to the scene of the crime, (Mayhem, Morgana, I think you’ve witnessed the rapidity of his responses – and his wits) but the dog got there first and gobbled it all up.

    Cat vomit takes about five hours before it is rejected by the host and turns into Dog Vomit.

    This is why I always look nervous when someone says they’d like to come to my house.

    Somehow, they KNOW.
    I don’t know how, but I tell you…every FKN time.

    I was tempted to explain the Cats’ Intruder Alert system but I was deeply concerned that Bedes would think I was insane.

    He only lives with ONE CAT.
    He has no fucking idea what happens when they combine forces and multiply their evil.


    Had a lovely day.
    And havock thought the cat turd was hilarious.
    Ha, ha, Ha.

    I tell you, I can still smell it.

  120. Oh, my! I just laughed so hard, a little bit of wee came out.

    Serves me right for not doing those pelvic floor exercises.

    My own update is dull by comparison. I’ve signed over the registration on the Ford to Tattoo Man. Funny thing was, he didn’t bring around the paperwork in the Ford, he brought it in a hearse. A real one.

    The story is, he has been dreadfully ill for several weeks, and has had to quit work and go on sickness benefits.

    The reality is, he has been shagging a married woman who works for a funeral parlour. Because her husband doesn’t let her out of his sight at night, she has scored Tattoo Man a job at the funeral parlour. He picks up bodies, drives the hearse to funerals, does pallbearer duty, delivers headstones, and occasionally fills in the graves afterwards. Oh, and has kinky sex in coffins with his married girlfriend. All the while receiving sickness benefits from Centrelink. What a life, hey?

    He still lives at the Van park, but his neighbour doesn’t. Rumour has it the neighbour is a bit of an amateur film maker. His lesbian goth van mate and her tattoo artist girlfriend did a bit of a show, which the neighbour filmed and then posted on the internet. Apparently, the Van park owner ‘just happened to stumble across the video’ while surfing the net. He was pretty upset, as the Van park sign was clearly visible in the background of the film. So he evicted the lot of them. Bad publicity, apparently. I don’t know what he was worried about – the action in the video was apparently sufficient to prevent anyone looking away long enough to see the sign. Except the owner, that is.

    I’ve found some more of the chunky wool at Kmart, so I’m off to finish the beanie. My apologies to any Jews who were hoping for a freebie, or to any bears who didn’t want their porridge toooo cold.

  121. Poor Mayhem… get well soon, pet. Just think what you missed at Quokka’s.

    Quokka… no, words fail me. I’ve had a few cats over the years and they’ve all been lovely clean tidy creatures. Well, the Manx had a few visits from the Tinkle Faery, but she couldn’t help it, lacking a third of her spinal cord and all. Let’s just be grateful that you’ve got tiles! Imagine trying to get THAT out of shag pile. As for the dog… you get that. Mine steals avocados – if you leave them on the bench to ripen, she hoists herself up on her front paws, steals them, delicately nibbles them open and eats every scrap of flesh. The only evidence is a shiny clean seed and a few empty bits of avo skin. Luckily, we don’t get a refund five hours later. Perhaps you should start making social arrangments in code?

    Haven’t the Irish heard of plastic sheets, and/or Depends? You should send an Incontinence Aids representative around. I don’t like to alarm you, but what if it’s not wee? Perhaps they brought bed bugs with them from the Old Country.

    Catty… So glad I asked! My only regret is that now we’ll have no way of knowing what he’s up to – unless we have a funeral to plan. I’m a bit sad about the porridge warmer, but I hope you enjoy your beanie.

  122. Ladies, One very dodgy phot from Saturday night, pics from Friday and a more complete report to follow….

  123. Yay! Can’t wait….

  124. Morgana,

    The Saturday nite pic with a VERY brief post, is already up. The next post is currently under construction….

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: