Just Get In And Drive

How complicated is it now? Remember when you used to just throw your keys at someone and not think any more about it? I leant a buddy of mine my car. He was down from interstate. He has one of those classic Range Rovers. It's nice too, champagne with black leather trim, which smells like an old world luxo limo, but it is 20 years old.

I handed him the key to my car. I was just about to ask him if he needed directions.

“What’s this?”

“The key. The key to the car.”

“But it’s a square box.” He was turning it around in his hand.

“That’s because it’s keyless.”

He looked at me with enquiring eyes. “So how do I open it?”

“Just walk up to the car and the door will open.”

“By itself?”

“When you pull on the handle.”

“Just pull on the handle?”

“Yes.”

“And it will open?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

He didn’t sound like he was convinced.

“How do I start it?”

“There’s a button.”

“A button?”

“On the dash.”

“How do I know which it is?”

“It’s says start.”

“A button that says start?”

“Yes.”

"Push that?"

"Yes."

“Okay.”

He looked at the square plastic box in his hand.

“How do I lock it.

“There is a black button on the outside of the door, push it twice.

“Push the black button on the outside?"

"Yes, on the door handle."

"Push the button twice?”

“Yes.”

“How will I know it's locked?”

“When the mirrors retract the car is locked.”

“The mirrors retract?”

“Yes.”

"Fold in."

"Yes, they'll make a kind of buzz sound."

"Mirrors that buzz?"

"Yes, mirror that buzz."

He calls me a bit later. “So, I tried that…”

“What?”

“The button to lock the car.”

“And the mirrors retracted?”

“Yes, the mirrors retracted.” He laughed. “But when I tested the door to see if it was locked, the door just opened again.”

“That’s because it’s keyless.”

“Keyless?”

“Yes, you’ve got the key in your pocket.”

“How do I check if its lock?” he said. He puts on a funny accent. “It’s me OCD you know.”

He doesn’t have OCD. “If you want to test it, try the back door.”

“Test to see if the car is locked by pulling on the back door handle?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

When he got back I asked home how it went.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Goodo,” I said.

“The biggest problem I had was finding the damn petrol cap release.”

“In the…”

“Door frame." We both said in unison.

I smiled.

"Yes, I found it... eventually.”

"Eventually?"

"Cars were banking up."

"In the servo?"

"Out to the street."

"Out to the street?"

"I know, hard to believe."

I laughed.

"Everyone was good natured about it."

I wanted to ask him if he put 98 octane in it, but I didn’t.

"The lovely inner suburbs of Melbourne," I said.

"I was waiting for someone to crack it."

"But they didn't?"

"No, they didn't."

"See, Melbourne people are cool."

He laughed. "The three drivers behind me couldn't find the petrol release either."

"That sounds like quite a gathering."

"At the servo."

"If you'd known, you could have taken snacks."

“And I still found it myself.”

“Not dead yet.”

"Not dead yet!”

How Much Do I Like You?

There is a very good method of deciding if you are really into someone, or not. I thought of an easy way of working it out. 

Oh, I don’t know when it came to me? 

Was it when I was following that tradie, in old black jeans and a tool belt, with the thick band of underwear elastic protruding above his waist, out to his ute as I was heading over to the bakery. He winked at me and said, “G’day.” Was it that?

Was it, the 20 something guy who lives down the road who jogs in those tiny black shorts. Um? He was jogging on the spot on the corner of my street seemingly taking his pulse, or he was counting something, as he was, and most things about him were, bouncing up and down, as I was trying to manoeuvre Buddy around him. “Come on Bud.”

We it that delivery guy in hi viz who dropped a parcel right in front of me? Who I very nearly walk right up the rear of when he bent over to pick up the parcel. I hope there was nothing breakable in it?

“Oh!” I said, as I pulled up suddenly. I wasn’t expecting that. I had headphones on and wasn’t really paying much attention.

“That was nearly a disaster,” said the delivery guy. He had a huge grin across his face. I wondered if we were thinking the same thing? Probably not, even if the grin was giving it a yes.

Was it the supermarket guy who works in Coles in Collingwood who wears those really tight black jeans and polo shirt, just recently when I was looking for corn flour to stiffen my noodles? He went right up on his tiptoes as I walked behind him.

Oh, I can’t remember?

But it is, would you lick that person’s arse? I think it could be a definitive measure.

Walking the dogs down by the Yarra in the morning. The sun shone. I call this the Lochness Monster Tree.

It was pretty wet from all the recent rain.

Friday

The sun is shining.

The promised smoked salmon and eggs on toast for breakfast never materialise and then was cancelled abruptly mid morning. Sam’s not really a breakfast guy, and I am, so it is less important for him than it is for me.

“What?” I say sounding alarmed, even I could hear it. Well, Sam stopped me from making toast at 8.30am with the promise of a cooked breakfast and now he was reneging just as I am getting really hungry.

“Yeah, sorry.” Not sorry, I could tell. “We’ll have it tomorrow.” I’m pretty sure it is because Charlie had already made himself breakfast. “When I can cook for everyone.”

Grrrr! Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. You must understand, Sam wants to make a good impression for his family. I understand that.

“Good thing you are easy going,” Sam says pointedly.

Oh yes, very funny, I think.

I make vegemite toast for both Sam and I and a second coffee for both of us.

I have been sitting on the couch for 2 days doing sweet FA, so I can hardly complain. Well, they are my days off. The sun is shining and the day looks glorious outside. I should get out in it. I should.

I think I have finally completed my “That’s Life” poem, it has taken a while. Just recollections of my life strung together in a loose way. I am pleased. Well, it can’t just be YouTube all the time? (Well, it can be, ask Charlie) I still have some hopes and dreams.

Sam wants to go and buy a new game in Richmond, so he has been spruiking the idea of heading down there to get pork rolls for lunch.

“Really? Lunch.”

“Yes.”

“That’s the reason for going to Richmond?”

He laughs his cute laugh. He’s not hiding the real reason, even if he is making a joke about it. Sam doesn’t drive, of course.

“If you got your licence…” He has already stopped listening.

We should have showers and get ready, but Charlie is in the middle of his hour in the bathroom routine.

“What does he do in there?” I ask.

Sam makes a motion with his hand. “He is 19.”

What's Charlie Like?

Charlie would seem to be a sullen and withdrawn young man, but is he really? I don’t know. He is, literally, permanently attached to his headphones and YouTube. I’m not exaggerating. I have never seen him smile, unless, of course, he is staring at his phone’s screen. Sam is always yelling at him. “Charlie!” just to get his attention. Apparently, this is true of his generation. 

Boris tells me her 18 year old son is exactly the same. 

So, are they all going to be deaf in 20 years? Isn’t that what the medical experts say? 

So sullen? The jury is still out. Withdrawn? Indeed. Withdrawn from the world. Let’s hope he doesn’t get angry listening to the wrong people on YouTube so that Sam and I end up as a headline for all the wrong reasons.

And really, who can blame them. Their future looks anything but rosy, that’s an understatement, looks anything but certain. The universal human greed has stopped anyone making meaningful changes to our pollution and now the current generation looks like the latter part of their lives are going to be miserable. The outlook is not looking good for the second half of this century.

Who can blame them for tuning out.

Sexy Travis next door made some half joking comment over the back fence about my open fire when I was chopping wood to light it. 

“You guys have screwed up the future and still you are burning wood to heat your house.” Sexy snarl smile.

And I looked him in the eye and I said, “You are right, you guys are screwed.”

I’m wondering if he was used to getting excuses from the generations who came before his, and that no one had ever put it that bluntly to him before, as he stopped talking, gazed at me momentarily, kind of stammered, and headed back inside his house.

And I think they are screwed, because even if there was the political will, or the business will, to act now – it is weird that there’s not, as we are all going down the same shit shoot together, rich or poor – there is something like a 10 year lag period between the implementing of policies and the effect those polices might have. And we are suffering from climatic weather changes now.

And even if the current generation survives the effects of climate change, they are probably not going to survive the draconian changes that will be needed, that will restrict their lives unbearably, for them to survive the effects of climate change.

Either way they are fucked.

And to think, if politicians and the greedy, selfish bastards that run the business world today, had tackled the problem 20 years ago, we’d probably have had a smooth transition and would be through it now. 

Of course, it hasn’t even been 4 weeks yet for Charlie. We’ll see. Keeping an open mind. Trying to, but I am not getting much from him. You know. It is hard to get close to someone if they are always effectively tuned out. He doesn’t talk, so I don’t know how he is feeling. I know, I’m the adult, and I should try harder. Should, could? He’ll answer one question, but if I ask a second question he just doesn’t answer.

Coles 28/07/2022

 Good legs, Nice arse, Handsome face and quite a bit of heft to the bulge in his shorts

I Must Enjoy Having My Jugular Ripped Out, It Is All Part Of The Game

My jugular was torn out for my efforts, but I have got to give them props, they kill with efficiency that has to be admired. 

I am reminded, yet again, what masochistic pain feels like, the story of dealing with HR.

I could imagine the humourless ThePonytail swinging the whip, with those substantial hips and large arse of hers gyrating, as I watch her ponytail whirl into ever grander circles as she really gets into it, showing her true sadistic nature. Of course, she leaves in a few days to have her litter of puppies, so I’m guessing the sight of an eight months pregnant giant ponytail got up in leather gyrating and hooking and doing the hoedown throwdown may be too much for many punters.

And no one wants to see TheMiserableBlonde in anything less than a full body suit, you know, every inch of her miserable self should be covered at all times. (or come with a trigger warning)

Same goes for the effortlessly vague, eternally lazy, I’ll get back to you and then never does, Nick Watson, who, I am sure, could make a Hugo Boss suit look like something from a thrift shop such is his, shall we say, out of shape physique and slovenly dress sense. He’s the chubby guy who has always had his shirt tail hanging out, dirty hands and a snotty nose. He was born with a double chin which he has never lost. He can’t be relied upon.

There’s BigGirlsBlouse who we might refer to as the husky in the mini dress. Oh, those inappropriate shirt dresses that she wears, that finish just below where the water breaks, that do nothing to hide her big, flat arse. She looks almost physically handicapped her arse is so flat, like something took a bite out of her as a kid. I could see her in leather cap and knee-high boots oddly leading from the hips.

There is the rat-faced, bleach blonde, TheBiggestProblem, who is dishonest and I can’t trust her. Everything has to be in writing from the old Problem. Contact needs to be by email because she lies as easily as she breathes, apparently there is no moral compass with that one.

There is ThePlainOne who has a penchant for skin tight clothes and claims to live a triathlon life style, and while you wouldn’t call her fat, she is big. Oh, those skin tight clothes over that big frame, you can almost hear the garments calling out to be rescued with every step that she takes.

You could argue ThePonytail is beautiful, (I wouldn't, but some would) and BigGirlsBlouse has a certain ravishing, gypsy like allure, TheMiserableBlonde’s pitbull eyes stop her from ever really being called an attractive blonde, even TheBiggestProblem, if you toned down the brassy bleached hair, and wiped away 50 years of too thick makeup and fake tan, and got the teeth straightened, (reduced Pinocchio’s nose, ha ha) then maybe, but ThePlainOne no ‘certain light’ would improve that face. Pastie dough.

There is Chip who runs the band of liars and thieves. He has beautiful blue eyes. He is lied to by TheBiggestProblem and he accepts every lie she tells him with a kind of corn fed, dumb country boy charm. Has a penchant for cliched expressions.

And there is BrightEyes. He’s handsome and has big dick attitude.

So back to the leather party…

And while the hags recreate the Island of Lesbos in a horror show of Welcome to My Nightmare proportions, dancing around the boys in a sadomasochistic frenzy, (if I imagined them doing anything at all) it would definitely be Chip on his stomach taking it up the patootie from BrightEyes slapping the floor with the palm of his hand calling out repeatedly, “That’s What I Am Talking About, That’s What I Am Talking About,” in a dumb country boy, corn fed, hick tone.

Have I forgotten anyone? There are a couple more in the shadows of the HR coven, TheGoodOne, yes, there is a good one, who is as wide as she is tall, but lovely, Jessica this-doesn’t-make-sense-to-me Fletcher, who is a little bossy, but really that is the worst I can manage and the MessIntheWest, which I think speaks for itself.

Yeah, okay, I’m being judgy, and I’m really just trying to be funny, make the best of a crappy situation. If you can’t take something shitty, and make it ridiculous to take the sting out of it, then you get depressed, or retain water, or bloat, or bleed from the arse, or something. And if you can't find the ridiculous side of something, make it up, that's what I do. And HR definitely takes themselves and work far too seriously. Depressing, really. Well, it could be. 😀

Fowl Hags

Sometime later, yesterday afternoon and this morning…

Of course, the HR bitches pushed back. (I should known better than to play with poison, but it amuses me so) And as we know, HR are only interested in what makes them look good. So, the Miserable Blonde rather deftly handballed the issue at hand back to me, only investigating it in as much as it affected her. There was no attempt to actually fix the issue, instead she concentrated on polishing her Teflon, as one has come to expect from the Human Remains. (Hiss like a serpent in the dark) And possibly I was the one left looking unhelpful. 

Then The Miserable Blonde called in HR witch backup, Jessica, this-doesn’t-make-sense-to-me Fletcher, and I stood not a chance. The bitches had a trump card, I knew nothing about. And I was done. Set and match to the vile hags. Well played, ladies. (I use the term 'ladies' ironically) 

I couldn’t help but be impressed by their sheer gall and tenacity, when I was just asking them to do what is, actually, their job, and they, if nothing else, managed to make me look bad as they went straight for the kill.

But that is HR to its very core.

Round of applause.

Human Remains

 

Oh yes, I should know better. But, it's Monday, and I am bored, and kind of, you know, blur. (tongue out emoji) I need something to amuse me. (back at work, not retired on a Greek island) And the universally hated HR slags always bite. Oh, I know, I shouldn't poke them with sticks, they are not here for my amusement, but... nose twitch, it's fun.

 

They'll still be complaining about how unfair life is for them when armageddon hits them right in the face.

"Oh, granny won't move out of her big house and into care so I can have her house. Wah! Wah! Wah!"

THWACK!

The Blond

A plane is on its way to Toronto, when a blond guy in economy class gets up and moves to the first class section and sits down.

 The flight attendant watches the muscle bound blond do this and asks to see his ticket.

 The flight attendant then tells the blond guy that he paid for economy class and that he will have to sit in the back.

 The blond guy replies, "I’m blond, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here." He spreads his track pants encased legs seductively.

The flight attendant blushes.

 The flight attendant goes into the cockpit and tells the pilot and the co-pilot that there is a blond himbo sitting in first class, that belongs in economy and won't move back to his seat.

 The co-pilot goes back to the buff blond and tries to explain that because he only paid for economy he will have to leave and return to his seat.

 The handsome blond guy replies, "I’m blond, I’m beautiful, I’m going to Toronto and I’m staying right here." He flexes and winks at the co-pilot seductively.

The co-pilot blushes.

 The co-pilot tells the pilot that he probably should have the police waiting when they land to arrest this blonde tramp who won't listen to reason.

 The pilot says, "You say he is a blonde? I'll handle this, I’m married to a blond lad. I speak blond."

 He goes back to the blond guy and whispers in his ear, and the blond guy says, "Oh, I’m sorry." And he gets up and goes back to his seat in economy.

 The flight attendant and co-pilot are amazed and asked the pilot what he said to make him move without any fuss.

 "I told him, 'first class isn't going to Toronto."

Covid Vaccine

I had my 4th Covid vaccine today, 6 months after my last booster shot, at my GP. Easy peasy. I was pretty keen after surge in infections.

I'm not really sure why anyone wouldn't have the vaccine? It just makes sense.

Breaking News

A man was admitted to hospital today with 25 plastic horses inserted in his arse. 

Doctors have described his condition as stable.

 

Walking the dogs in the afternoon

 

Mark went and visited friends for the weekend.

Sam and I walked the dogs to my favourite Italian cake shop. (It is the only old fashioned cake shop left, but it is still my favourite) Then we came home and drank tea and ate the cakes.

Staying a Week

Maggie’s funeral is next Thursday, so Mark will be staying a week.

David and I have this theory about house guests and that is that, no matter who they are, they should only ever stay 2 days, 3 at a push. So, I text David.

“Mark is staying over a week, he clearly didn’t get the memo.”

“Nooooooo, 2 days, 3 tops.”

“It should be taught in school. It could replace something useless like religious education.”

“Hahahahaha!! Clearly.”

Mark says, “You are coming to the funeral, aren’t you?”

Oh what? Funerals are such a waste of time, especially for someone old and whose been essentially dead for, you know, a couple of years. “Oh, yes, sure.”

Of course, Luke and stepdaughter Jane wanted to come. And Luke booked them exorbitantly priced air tickets. They were the only ones he could get. Leaving the afternoon of the funeral. Both of them just down for the day. It would all become a rush. Mark would have to bolt from the funeral to the airport, I gather, long before he wanted to.

“Why does he do these things without checking with me first?” said Mark.

I’ve never really known why Luke does anything. “He thought he was doing the right thing, I’m sure.”

“Now it is all going to be impossible.”

You’ll have to leave half way through your own mother’s funeral. “It’ll turn out okay, just wait and see.”

“And when I questioned what he’d done,” said Mark. “He got all defensive and said don’t you want me to come to your mother’s funeral.”

What could I say? “I guess it is something he feels he needs to do.”

“They didn’t have to come. It seems stupid to spend all that money.”

Mark has complained about the cold, my ability to build open fires, and the bulldogs snoring, thus far. It's been all drama, but then his mum has just died. Sam and I don't really do drama, it has been interesting.

Ah ex-boyfriends, you can't live with them...

Getting Out Of The House

I’ve been scanning photos all day and I, who is capable of doing nothing over a sustained period of time, began to feel restless from the constant scanning and physical inactivity. So, I decide to go and have a haircut. It was over due and would get me out of the house. It’s a good walk, it should shake the restlessness out of my limbs.

I’m walking down the street, I’m listening to the Patti album, seeing what it is like since I added 2 new live tracks boosting it from 6 tracks back up to 8 tracks, after I deleted the 2 dud tracks some years ago. I love digital albums as they are so easily customised.

The sky is overcast.

I glance sideways at a street intersection to see a girl walking towards me on the intersecting street in a low cut beige satin top, which I think is tacky, but mostly I think wouldn’t that outfit be cold on a cool day like this.

It was sincerely a glance, and I keep walking. I’m not one for looking at women’s breasts, as you’d understand.

Next thing, it is like a banshee had descended from the sky.

“You filthy perve,” says the girl in the low cut top. “Did you have a good look? Did you? Did you?”

This Me-too thing has a lot to answer for, is the first thing that goes through my head. And I nearly smile at the thought, but I stop myself. That is just my sense of humour, and not a genuine belief, you understand. “You are barking up the wrong tree,” I say.

“I know what I saw you filthy animal,” she says.

Seriously, get a grip, I think. “I was more likely judging you for your poor fashion choices than anything your tits are doing. Luv.” (I emphasise ‘luv’ subconsciously hoping it will diffuse the situation, because consciously, I don’t really care, this is bullshit!)

“Oh yes, very funny,” she says.

She says something else, but I continue walking, and my bone conducting head phones block anything else she says.

Maggie Dies

I get up early. There is a missed call on my phone, I see, but I don’t know the number. As I come down the stairs I see the door sausage is moved away from the door as though someone had already left the house. Since it was just before 6am that seemed unlikely.

In the lounge room, I’m still curious about the door sausage being moved in the middle of the night, so I go and have a look to see if the Golf is locked, maybe Mark left something in it and went out to it. (we don’t call him Captain Vague for nothing) The Golf is not there, so I think to myself Maggie must’ve died. I look again at the missed call on my phone and compare it to when (Mark’s sister) Chrissy called me when I was doing laps at the airport and it is the same number. 3.18am was the call.

Well, there you go Maggie, there is your date, 14.07.2022. She was a woman who spent her whole life subjugated to a man who wasn’t all that nice to her. She lived her life trying to make an unhappy man happy, in the process letting her own life slip away. She used to scrub her bathroom and kitchen tiles to a mirror finish, always a mirror finish, which always made me wonder what she was really trying to scrub away.

And even in the end, she only found her own peace in the refuge of dementia. She never really lived her life at all.

I always remember, when Lottie was first widowed and was on her first outing to Bolago, after my dad’s death, Rich and Marg/Maggie gave Lottie a ride home to Melbourne, saving me the 2 hours round trip to drop her home. Afterwards, Marg/Maggie said they would never do that again because Lottie talking from the back seat upset Rich. And rightly, Lottie meant nothing to them, but really no compassion for a woman who had been recently widowed. It irked me. It always has. 

I know it shouldn’t, but it always tainted my recollection of Maggie. Stupid, I know, but we all get defensive when someone bad-mouths our mothers, I don’t think we can help it.

I wished I’d driven Lottie myself, 2 hour round trip, or not.

Oh, I shouldn’t mention that. Saint Marg. Not sure I ever picked up on the saintly bit. But, then I don’t have to, now do I. I meant nothing to her, because in the end with Luke around – Mark’s boyfriend after me. And all of us remaining friends – I think Maggie had trouble knowing exactly where I fitted in. She seemed to forget who I was early on, which also irked me – what did she think of me? I think that is when I first saw her dementia. She genuinely looked puzzled as to who I was, right at the end there? You know, before it became an official dementia diagnosis.

Anyway, she has been in care for 5 years and she was pushing 95, so she lived a long and full life, and I am sure they are all grateful for that.

In The Office

It is just getting light as I leave the house. Me and my big mouth saying I’d fill in for Boris, it has just meant days in the office for me when I could have been happily working away at home.

My heel still hurts with every step that I take. Maybe, it has been marginally better lately. I think I have just learnt to live with the pain. It’s a metaphor on life really.

Still, the magpies are calling as I walk up the street in the braking light. I could be in Ukraine, I think, which makes me chuckle. Not because of the plight of the Ukrainians, but because that is what we tell ourselves to make ourselves feel better. I could be dead, so buck up.  The magpies are still calling as I head to the tram stop.

I just miss a tram at St Vincent’s Plaza, I could touch it I was so close. Duh! There is not another tram insight, the tram lines are deserted, so I run and catch the one I just missed at Albert Street, the stops are close. In fact, I’m at the next stop before the tram has passed through the lights, as I j walked and dodged the on coming cars. My glasses fog up as soon as I put my mask on. Grrr!

The majority of people on the tram have masks on. My glasses take an age to unfog, which makes writing this difficult. I wonder if anyone else on the tram is, actually, writing something, which I like to call productive. Most people are just mindlessly surfing on their phones.

There seems to be people getting about in the city, more people than I remember last week.

The tram slides quickly down its steel tracks and is at my stop in no time

I follow a handsome Asian boy with a beefy arse down Collins Street. It’s nice, kind of mesmerising 😀

There is a guy walking a head of him who is wearing, what I would call, cream checked golf pants which are so tight on him you can read the label on his undies.

I briefly picture the two of them… I shake my head. I am at my building.

I’m first in the office, all the lights click on with every step I take towards my office like I am the all powerful. (How we delude ourselves 😬)

4 coffees and I’m ready to face the people.

A bit later I wonder if I feel a bit weird.

A bit later again, I wonder if I was a bit ambitious with the coffees. I’ve cut right back on my coffee in take. It’s the office that does it to me, kind of the muscle memory of coffee drinking. But that’s triathlon style coffee drinking, and I’ve given that up for the most part.  I go and fill up my water bottle and drink water for the rest of the morning.

Suck It

 

Do you think it is a gay tagger?

Or a lollie shop proprietor?

Is there a discernible difference?