I’ve subscribed to public radio stations for a long time but some years ago thought hey, the cats and dogs listen to far much more radio than I do every day — *they* should subscribe! And they did.

Their new membership card for RRR FM arrived today (yep, it’s addressed and delivered to them).

RRR receives a good many animal subscribers during the radiothon so there’s nothing untoward there, but it’s always fun to talk crap with the volunteers who answer the phone:

“So, who’s paying for their subscription?”

“Um, I’ll have to as they’re too young to apply for credit.”

“They don’t have a piggybank?”

“Yes, they do, but they can’t jiggle the rubber seal out of the hole to extract the cash.”

“And which show are they subscribing to?”

“They actually sleep through most of them if truth be told, but this year they really like Systa BB’s show.”

“So a big paws-up to the sister?”

“Ha ha, yeah, I’m supposed to be the funny one.”

All the subscriptions are announced on air, however, in the two hours I hung around the radio waiting, I stepped out for a glass of water in the moment before their names were read out. Spewing. They’ll get their 15 seconds of fame again next year.

Crank-o-meter: rockin’ out

I’m looking over my shoulder, however, thinking about what might go wrong. I’ve minded houses before and nothing untoward has happened to the homes or furry occupants, but something always happens to me.

Years ago I looked after a beautiful home in Brighton for a workmate and his new wife while they were honeymooning. From their house I rode my bicycle to a race one day and was hit by a car and taken to hospital. The being taken to hospital part of the last sentence was the best thing that could have happened, because, when I was curled on the bitumen like a snapped pretzel, the man who hit me said he considered fleeing and leaving me unconscious in the middle of Geelong Road. Thankfully he ended up parking his car behind me as a barrier from passing traffic and gave me a lift to a teammate’s house. His family drove me to hospital as I was unbroken but a bit space-cadety and I spent the day in the children’s ward as there were no beds for banged-up adults. I was ensconsed back in the borrowed house that night, no one was the wiser and I was mobile enough to re-fill the lolly jar before the happy couple’s return.

Another time I minded a house for an in-law in the defence force and his family. I was out of lease and they were going away so I offered to mind their house and Samoyed. All went well (except for the dog eating most of my underwear on the clothes line) until the night before Christmas. I was sleeping when from the foggy recesses of my dreams I could hear a siren of sorts and a tapping sound like a magpie at the window. A few seconds later my brain was spinning enough to realise the siren was a blaring car horn and the tapping was someone bashing on the front door. Snapping into instant panic, I launched out of bed, ran down the hall and threw open the door. A man wearing clothes was standing before me. I realised I was still naked. I also realised it was my car’s horn that had chosen midnight to jam and wake the neighbourhood. After I donned some clothes, he kindly helped me identify and disconnect the wires that had chosen to shortcircuit so theatrically. I couldn’t thank him enough and I bought the gallant man and his family a small gift a few days later when my embarrassment had settled.

I told this story to the person who usually occupied the home and he shuddered with dread. Apparently I was living in the middle of defence force-rented housing near an army base and my saviour was a regimental sergeant major.

“So, what’s that?” I said.

“He’s the most senior non-commissioned officer in the place and marches around kicking everyone’s arses for a living: every soldier should be — and is — terrified of him.”

“Well, how about that then? He invited me in and asked me to stay for dinner with his family.”

I never confessed that I almost piddled my pants (and replacement undies) after that exchange.

Crank-o-meter: all good

I asked what on earth that meant. I didn’t get an answer that made sense in line with my worldview but she has an appointment with her surgeon next month for a follow-up.

I can’t relate rationally with someone close to me who’s had cancer symptoms and been treated for the disease, as my interpretation is something bordering on fury and indignation that her concerns weren’t pounced on immediately. But he’s a good doctor and perhaps my mum was projecting and reading too much into a winter lurgy. We’re so reliant on medical professionals during periods of uncertainty that my sense of logic collapses into self-bargaining and hope.

Or platitudes. No news is good news suits for now.

Crank-o-meter: unsure

We were talking crap and watching something on TV about Jamie Durie and a beer-drinking grizzly bear when mum came in. She asked if we’d overheard the conversation they were having.

“No.” “Nup.”

“I’m having some of the same symptoms as last time. I think the cancer is back.”

My mind filled with thoughts but nothing could find its way out of my mouth.

The waiting game starts again. She hasn’t detected any blood yet so I’m hoping like mad the coldness and abdominal pains are symptoms of a winter virus or an innocuous GI problem. She had her last check-up only two months ago so that’s a good sign, I think. I don’t know.

Crank-o-meter: numb

Take a look.

Crank-o-meter: busy on the hustings

Do I remind him again? Do I wait and refuse to buy work supplies in future? Or do I stuff one of the garbage bags I bought with my money full of the toilet paper rolls I bought with my money and take the lot home ‘cos they’re mine, right?

I don’t care about the money but I’m keen to see the shit grin wiped from his face when he finds there’s nothing left to wipe anything.

Signed
No Idea What’s Normal Any More

Crank-o-meter: busy stashing personal bog roll stores

Finally, the best video ever appeared on the news channels, which happened to teach  me that I can’t embed videos here for love nor money nor swearing a lot. The Flash settings on this new-ish computer don’t allow anything, it seems. Anyway, the premise is that I’ve always wanted to be on the news with a whacky caption below my name. For instance, Kevin Rudd was ‘Ousted Prime Minister’ for a few days but has been demoted to the boring ‘Former Prime Minister’ when he’s on the tele. The lady in the video clip was given this caption:

The news story is so earnest about the Giant Rabbit Owner’s plight of buying a baby bun bun and seeing it turn into a 20-kilogram, gourmet food-scoffing furbag that I can’t stop laughing. The link to the clip is below (I hope, because linking isn’t working either and I’m doing it by hand).

mofo rabbit

Crank-o-meter: craving some Tesco’s water crackers

The day — not that long ago — I learned to use a laminator was one of the happiest of my working life. After the eureka moment of seeing a piece of dull, flimsy paper evolve into a protected, shiny, important-looking display sheet, I ran around my co-workers’ offices looking for messages and flowcharts that absolutely had to be laminated. Then one day I visited my parents and saw that my dad had an A3 laminator IN THE HOUSE. I almost piddled my pants with excitement at the new laminating opportunities. Who’d a thunk even a few years ago that you could laminate your own food with a cryo-vac gizmo and laminate your recipes without leaving the kitchen? (I do neither of these, but at least it’s possible for our generation.)

Mailing labels? Forget it. Never in more than 20 years of working have I printed a sheet of mailing labels that fitted the stupid perforations (except the one-label-to-a-page sheets — I once bought a box of these in a fit of frustration and used scissors to cut out the printed addresses). I danced with joy the day Avery produced document templates but printers grab them at different distances from the cut edge, I insert the sheet the wrong way up, the wrong way down and the wrong way around, some bastard hits the ‘print’ button before I do and takes my label sheet, and I’d really rather learn to write neatly then print another goddamn label in this lifetime.

But put a Dymo label maker between me an electricity source and I own it. Step away from the machine or I’ll label ‘kick me’ on your backside when I’m pushing you out of my way. At the day job recently, the MD asked me to label a three-drawer cabinet so everyone knew its contents. I thought the request strange because a) it’s his cabinet and I’ve got no idea what’s in it, b) I’m the newest staff member and I’m the only one who doesn’t know what’s in it, c) it can’t be that difficult to remember three drawers, surely, and d) I’m no one’s office admin — she walked out months ago and it’s help yourself to a cup of self sufficiency around here.

But the Dymo labeller beckoned and I agreed to label the cabinet.

Crank-o-meter: happy raiding the emergency lemon tea cake cabinet

I started with the clog-style shoes (I never realised my half-Dutch heritage manifested itself by collecting green clogs) but they pressed too firmly on the incision site, the running shoes were too tight and the old pale blue Dunlop Volleys were perfect except for the lack of underfoot sponginess. I was about to have a hissy fit of epic proportions when, lastly, my manky brown and white slip-ons indeed slipped on. I stared at my foot, I stood, I stepped, I marvelled and I left them on in case it didn’t happen again.

I made my deadline with three days to go — bring on the final appointment! (The surgeon is going to have my gizzards for garters as some of his precise cutting split open again and will scar, but I don’t care because I can wear shoes!)

Crank-o-meter: somewhat placated for now

2. I am an unmarried, childless woman without religious affiliation. Oh, hang on, that’s not a reason any more.

3. I wouldn’t be able to stop pissing myself laughing in front of the cameras when delivering reassuring platitudes and slogans. After only a few days of campaigning for the upcoming election, I am already shouting and waving my fist at the television when I hear Julia Gillard saying, “Moo-ving Austrayyy-ya For-warrd.” Even if I ousted Bob Brown and was figurehead of the Greens with a rockin’ campaign of “We Can’t Be Beaten” sung to the Rose Tattoo song, I’d still spontaneously combust after half a dozen renditions.

4. My ego is too fragile to be hated automatically by half the population.

5. I would tell media commentators who criticised my wardrobe and hairstyle to go and get fucked. Apparently this kind of language would lose votes.

6. Some people might still have copies of compromising photos of the non-Woman’s Day cover kind.

7. I wouldn’t allocate my preference votes to any other bastard party. I’d be in my party because it was the best and no one has earned my leftovers. This is apparently referred to as dictatorship in some countries.

8. I don’t like flying and my voter base in WA, NT and Qld would have to come and see me to have their babies lined up and kissed by my minders.

9. I wouldn’t wear dicky floral shirts handed out by tropical countries that host world political summits, and I wouldn’t give Akubra hats to leaders of tropical countries who have no use for them any time of year.

10. I’d channel much of the AIS’s budget into cycling and more obscure sports for fun, such as curling, caber tossing and unicycle racing. I also think I’d make Frankston the ferret-racing capital of the world.

11 (bonus reason as point 2 is void). I’d see the Chaser boys outside making mischief and invite them in. But it probably won’t be to chat to the pollies for their (to-be-resurrected) TV show; there may be compromising photos created. It is my election promise there will be no cigars involved or dresses stained.

I’d be entertaining during question time though.

Crank-o-meter: mooo-ving myself for-warrrd slowwww-ly