BEING JUDY

Judy left for a month in Ibiza and Europe on Wednesday and as a result I am house-sitting his flat in Potts Point…or the village as Judy likes to call it. He lives in a gorgeous one bedder art deco apartment overlooking Elizabeth Bay. Judy and I have very similar taste when it comes to furniture. We’re both in love with 1920s London and decorate our apartments accordingly; all except that Judy has nicer taste and co-ordinates better than Dorothy Parker. Am continually wandering from room to room perched with a cigarette convinced I am Beatrice from the House of Elliott or after a few cheeky gins, Sebarrrstian Flyte from Brides Head Revisited. I have spent the last few days sat at Judy’s Norfolk island pine desk in his bedroom punching away at his laptop whilst looking out on the goings on of Macleay Street littered with it‘s cafes, shops and homosexuals. This suburb is so gay that even the shrubbery cruise each other. Thursday night at Woolworths is like a visit to your local SOPV; there are so many dirty stares, all they have to do is dim the lights and turn up the disco. Other than those obvious delights, I am looking forward to sleeping in a little more each week day and walking to work; still arriving earlier than I normally do when I catch the train from the Hills of Dulwich and have to leave at the crack of dawn. I plan to do lots of writing when I’m here; that is if I can stop meeting friends for breakfast and lunch and refrain from spending far too much time at Woolworths.

The last couple of weeks at work have been strange to the say the least. The organization I work for is undergoing (and as of tomorrow has undergone) a massive corporate re-structure. This has resulted in my team losing the best boss I’ve ever had and the team being combined with another team. Essentially my role is not affected and I will be carrying on as per usual (although my direct manager will be in Adelaide…I don‘t know how that works). The environment however will be totally different. A, my now former boss nurtured a great team environment whereby we all became like a family. He finished on Friday. With him not there, and management structure that is going to be largely run out of Melbourne, it is going to be starkly different; not to mention most team members are applying for new jobs. So it’s time for me to make a change ….again. I change jobs generally every two years so I shouldn’t be surprised and I am beyond bored with this job; the only reason I have stayed longer than I intended was that it was such a nice place to work. However having said that I have been far too comfortable and hence lazy in this position for too long. So it’s time to pull my finger out. I just have to make up my mind what I want to do next. For the next three weeks though, I am happy just to be Judy.

C

Go Matty!

Yes I'm sorry am probably the upteen billionth gay blogger to mention his name in the last five days but what a sweetheart is Matthew Mitcham???!!!! We all had tears welling in our eyes at Manacle (and no it wasn't from the BO) when he won. It was the highlight of the Beijing Games I must say. He seems like such a gentle kind fella and not half bad on the eye which always helps. It will be interesting to see whether Uncle Toby's or Kelloggs puts him on the back of their cereal packs; only time will tell. It is hoped that his opennesss will lead other gay athletes to be more honest with their sexuality and the sportsworld, in particular sponsors more accepting of gay people. I expect Mardi Gras has their eye on the young diver to lead the parade next year.

And to other more important news to hand. I got a shag on the weekend. Yes quickly someone write a press release. After three months of the "couldn't be bothereds", this bear finally dragged himself out of his cave and scored himself a Scotsman at the disco Saturday night (yes be careful Monty, I'm moving into your territory). And we share the same name can you believe it? For a moment I thought he was saying his name was "June" and whilst I have male friends who go by female names, I generally don't like to shag those who use them. I finally worked out throughout the course of the evening that he was saying "John". He is also a lawyer and a Catholic (my mother would be so happy). So apart from the fact that he was a redhead, 6 ft2 and of a non-portly physique, I was practically taking myself home....which is really no different to any other Saturday night.

C

R.I.P. COLIN

Poor Colin passed away this morning after being given a lethal injection of anaesthetic. The baby humpback whale's condition had apparently worsened last night to the point where he wasn't breathing or sitting in the water properly. Colin hadn't eaten since Sunday when his mother abandoned him. It was expected he wouldn't survive the night but he was found this morning again nuzzling a yacht in Pittwater. It was decided then to put him down. Following the lethal injection, National Park and Wildlife officers apparently dragged the whale kicking and screaming for 300 metres across to the other side of the bay to lay him on the beach where he continued to moan. It all sounded a little undignified but perhaps they were trying to prevent him from sinking to the bottom of the bay and being attacked by sharks when he passed away.

Sweet dreams Colin.

C

Yacht Sucker

Well they've finally done it; they've named a humpback whale after me. Yes Colin, the baby humpback whale has been lost in Sydney waters the last couple of days after somehow losing his mother. He has already been lead out to sea once but keeps coming back into Sydney's Pittwater nuzzling yachts obviously thinking that they are his mother. A yachty was woken up this morning to the sound of what seemed like a giant vacuum sucking on the bottom of his boat. It was Colin.

Colin only has a couple of days to survive without his mother's milk. The NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service are trying to find a way to provide Colin with baby formula milk to keep him alive until they can find a way of returning him successfully to the wild. Meanwhile no yacht's bottom in Pittwater is safe.

C

On this day....

…..in 1935, my grandparents married, in 1958, Madonna was born, in 1969 my mother and father were engaged and of course for all you Catholics out there, lapsed and otherwise, today is the Feast of the Assumption whereby Mary Mother of God, the Madonna , the Virgin Mother, Lady on a Donkey looking for a room landed in heaven to be reunited with her magician son and the husband she'd never met. What a cocktail hour that would have been. Awkward.

My grandparents (my father's parents) were married in the weatherboard bush chapel of St Mary's at Christmas Creek (sth east Queensland); a church which had been built by my great grandfather 40 years earlier when he and his eight brothers arrived from Ireland.

Nana was 29 and in those days was almost considered an old maid when she got married. Mickey wasn't exactly young either at 37. Nana and her bridesmaid, her sister Evelyn were supposed to come to the Church in the local priest's car but it ran out of fuel half way there. So Ev and Nana had to catch a ride on the back of the milk truck; quite ironic considering she was marrying a dairy farmer. Nana always said it could have been worse ….she could have arrived on a cow.

1935 was similar to this year in Australia. The winter was cold and the country was just coming out of the worst drought on record (although Australia is always coming out of the worst drought on record). It was also the middle of the depression and the countryside was awash with the unemployed looking for work. The morning of the wedding there was the biggest frost seen in years. The whole countryside was covered in white turning into a winter wonderland. The wedding had to be held at 9am so that everyone (being dairy-farmers) could get home to milk the cows at 3pm; my mother experienced a similar time constraint with her wedding 36 years later although thankfully she didn't have to rely on a milk truck to get her there. Nana wore a typical 1930s wedding gown full of lace and silk together with a cloche hat…..which always made most women in the 1920s and 30s look like Amelia Earhart flying her plane over the Atlantic. My nana was no different except that she added a lace veil to the cloche hat. There must have been a sale on lace at Enright's (the local department store) that year as all the pics from the wedding have not only the bride but all the female guests covered head to toe in lace. Following the wedding, the veil was converted into a lace tablecloth for the "good room" and consequently adorned the dining room table for many a Christmas dinner, baptism and wedding anniversary for the next 59 years…… as well as myself and my attempts as a 6 year old to impersonate Princess Di at her wedding to Charles.

Mickey passed away just shy of their 60th wedding anniversary. He was 97. Nana lived for another five years. They were very ying and yang. Nana had a big loud voice with an Irish whisper that could travel for miles. On a good day, as kids growing up in Christmas Creek, if the wind was blowing in the right direction we could here Nana talking on the phone at her place 6 kms across the creek from where we lived. Mickey on the other hand, was quiet, read his papers, watched the news and said the Rosary. He was happy as long as he had his rice pudding once a day….his favourite dish. Nana lived on the phone and loved Neighbours and Home and Away. She is still the only 80/90 something year old I know who had albums by Madonna, Abba and Kylie; she wasn't always too sure about Madonna but the Queen of Pop scored extra points for being a mick and being born on the Feast of the Assumption. If Nana didn't have anything nice to say about someone, she used to always say: "Haven't they got lovely teeth?". Madonna's gums were mentioned a lot followed by "I hope she says her prayers".


C

From Russia.......with Structure.

Lately I've been receiving quite a number of messages on manhunt (gay date
(i use the term loosely) website) from Russian guys looking for love and visas
from Australia. Most of the messages make no sense but this one I received
today has been by far the most entertaining.

Hello!!!!!!!!!!!!

My name  Aleksandr!!!!!!! You know, what at you very remarkable structure? 
Yes it is valid so. I have read your structure. And you have seemed to me very
good and remarkable the man. I would like to get acquainted with you. I would 
be very happy to our acquaintance. If you also want to get acquainted with me.
I shall be very glad. Write to me on mine mail

Packing my structure and flying to Russia as we speak.

C

Quote of the Week

Judy at the Colombian at 4.15 Sunday morning:

Something will happen, I just have to stay awake for it.

Hooraah!

C

PROJECT RUNWAY AUSTRALIA: Episode Five

The challenge for this Episode was a group challenge whereby all the contestants had to work as a team to put together a collection. The theme for the collection was 1960s European Spring The colours chosen were from a colourboard of light pastels…variations of blues and pinks. Only three people were allowed to go and chose the material. The two bossiest ones, Helen and Mark of course pushed their way in and Petrova was the third.

There was scandal when the material arrived back and Juli didn’t get the material she requested. In fact she got the opposite of what she wanted…..cheap bright pink material. There was a classic scene where Mark pulls out this beautiful soft pink silk material and Juli is saying how gorgeous it is thinking it is hers. Mark then informs her it is his and pulls out her hideous material. Juli understandably was quite upset. The sooner Mark goes the better!

There was also one other challenge during the episode and that was a social one. The contestants were guests at a party attended by the host Kirstie Hinze and social commentator and host of the Foxtel gossip show, Confidendital, Sophie Faulkner. Whomever impressed Sophie the most with their social graces won the challenge and received immunity for the current runway challenge. Brent won the challenge. Considering Brent is pretty much the nearest thing PRA has to an alfpha male and he ain’t bad to look at, there is no doubting how Soph reached her decision….and it has nothing do with social grace.

This collection like the last episode, was a little hit and miss. Lui again was the outstanding designer followed closely by Brent. These two will be the ones to beat in the competition.

The guest judge for this challenge was Melbourne Fashion Festival, Karen Webster who looks like and dresses like Marge Simpson’s long lost sister.

Rundown:

Winner: Lui Hon: I can’t even begin to describe Lui’s dress. It was so amazing simple and complex all at the same time. All in all it was beautiful. He’s got the whole Akira Isogawa thing going on.

Helen Manuell: Ah the contestant we love to hate but would strangely miss if she was eliminated. Helen’s design was fit for a Pan Am air hostess for the 60s but not so much a European Spring. Still it was well made and she got through to the next round easily.

Leigh Buchanan: He is without a doubt the wittiest and most enjoyable contestant. Every time he opens his mouth, it’s hysterical. He is Will, Grace, Jack and Karen wrapped into one. His contestant had a Pan Am feel as well until she took off the heavy coat and revealed a beautiful light pink mini dress. It was very 60s.

Juli Grbac: Poor Juli. Mark had pretty much jeopardised her challenge by getting entirely inappropriate pretty in pink material. To make matters worse, her model as she went down the runway decided that the shoes were uncomfortable and kicked them off! I didn’t think the outfit was too bad. It was a little confused but she did the best she could with material that belonged on Nana at her 50^th wedding anniversary and not her honeymoon in Italy in the 60s.

Brent Zaicek: Well because he had flirted his way into immunity, Brentski didn’t have to worry about this challenge. He did however do a superb job being only second to Lui’s design. Very Grace Kelly in Italy which actually probably would suggest that his design was more 50s then 60s. Still it was beautiful: nice blue slacks and a cream top with a cream scarf head wrap….very la dolce vita.

Mark Antonio: He is over-rated and over-spoken. He is the least enjoyable contestant. His model was basically wearing a mini nightie and looked like she was about to go to bed.

Eliminated: Petrova Hammond: Unfortunately Petrova’s outfit was well made but it did not meet the brief at all. Strangely Petrova was the one who chose the colours off the colourboard but then didn’t actually use them. Her outfit was mainly grey with a strip of pink across the bust. It looked more communist autumn then European summer.

PROJECT RUNWAY AUSTRALIA FOXTEL ARENA MONDAYS 8.30pm

http://www.myspace.com/projectrunwayau

C

Pull My Finger

Last week I attempted to find my inner Olympian forcing myself to Fatness First and working out every day. On the Thursday at lunch I decided to do a boxercise class. I've done boxercise plenty of times through my outdoor exercise group so I was pretty confident about completing the class. I always get a little nervous though about doing group classes at gyms like Fitness First because all the participants usually look like they've walked off the set of Baywatch. They're chiselled jawed and MacLean's teeth shining with their designer butts and protein enriched water. These are people who actually love to exercise. They do marathons for fun and cycle interstate for the scenery. These people weren't born; they sprinted out of their mothers' wombs instead. Me on the other hand arrived two weeks late. I sat in my mother's womb refusing to budge. No way Jose was I coming out of my own accord. I was quite comfortable where I was; all creature comforts and room service to boot. Why would I move? 27 hours it took to coax me into the world. Once I did get out, I just sat there…..for a long time. I didn't walk til I was 3. Mum always says that I was the sweetest baby; I never cried. She fails to mention that I never talked either. I would give children Omen like stares who attempted to interact with me in the sandpit. That or I would try to eat them. I was continually in trouble for biting everyone. But I still never uttered a word or cried a tear. When I turned 4 and continued to maintain my vow of silence, Mum and Dad thought I might be deaf and had my ears checked. I could hear perfectly. I was labelled "shy" and put back in the sandpit. I didn't really start talking until school when I realised that if I was to eat, I'd have to ask for food. Even still my use of the spoken word was quite rare. Usually I resorted to plain old-fashioned violence like the time I jumped on and broke Andrew Brior's arm when he took my muesli bar…funnily enough in the sandpit. No one ever took my food again. I did get used to the sound of my voice over time, but still resorted to the label "shy" when it was convenient such as requests by mother to join the church choir or my father to play rugby. All up I was lazy and have continued to embrace this attribute well into adulthood. I will subconsciously avoid any type of exertion whether it be social, physical or emotional. I'm like a walking piece of kryptonite…. that is if I can be bothered walking. So going to do boxercise with a class of supermen and superwomen was quite daunting.

The class was being run by Frederick, a German instructor, who looked quite like his Van Trapp namesake in the Sound of Music. All he required was a pork pie hate and some lederhosen made out of curtains.

Frederick: Find a partner now! Hurry up!

The edelweiss burst into flames as soon as Frederick opened his mouth. He instructed like he was declaring war. I kept expecting schnells and whistles to come marching out of his mouth. I needed to find someone feeble. I searched the room. A lanky grey haired chap approached. He would have been in his late 50s and didn't look as if he'd just finished climbing Mt Everest for something to do over the weekend. He seemed perfect.

"G'day mate….u got a partner?" He had one of those nasal Australian accents, which resembled that of a cockatoo and belonged in 1955. A bygone era where men were cobbers and women were sheilas and everyone was Caucasian; a time when all things were "you beaut" and "too right" and "don't spare the horses Charlie". His name was Bob and he handed me the boxing gloves. I was first up. Great.


Frederick: Right: 100 high punches! Go!

100? I'd never done more than 50 and usually we worked our way up to 50 after a few sets; never straight into it.

Bob: Lets Go Mate.

Everyone was a pro, punching like they were lightweight champions. I thought I was doing reasonably well until…..

Frederick: Who taught you to punch like that? You look like a chicken trying to fly.

I think I was up to punch number 57 somewhere between perspiration and exhaustion when Frederick introduced instruction by humiliation.

Frederick: Stop flapping your vings and punch from zee shoulder.

I thought I was punching from the shoulder. I kept going hoping Frederick would move onto his next victim. He did not.

Frederick: No you are still doing it vong. Let me show you.

The whole class had now stopped and was looking at me. As Frederick demonstrated how not to have wings, I could feel their discombobulating gaze of pity strip away my dignity garment by garment. Like a schizophrenic off his medication, I could hear all their thoughts. Get out! Leave! Why are you wasting our time? You can't box! What on earth are you wearing? It reminded me of the time in Grade 3 when I was put into Mrs Sainsbury's class for those who were mathematically gifted. I was surprised as anyone else to find myself in this class and soon proved my unworthiness by completing a long division, whereby I concluded that 45 divided by 3 equalled 12. Like Frederick, Mrs Sainsbury employed similar skills of humiliation. She made me stand in front of the class and do the long division on the blackboard in front of the class where I continued to get it wrong and she continued to apply humiliation. The class burst out into laughter and I burst into tears running out of the room. To this day I can't do long division.

I thought of employing a similar reaction to Frederick but I couldn't really apply a 6 year old's solution to a 33 year old's problem. I grinned. I bore. My second round of 100 was far more wingless. Apart from the odd flutter, I managed to strike my way through the first session with Rocky precision. Then it was Bob's turn. Holding onto the pads and blocking the punches of your partner is usually the easier part of the session. Blocking Bob's punches was like trying to stop the Titanic sinking….impossible. Bob may have looked feeble but his punch was nuclear.

He kept going and going lunging into me. I kept falling backwards in horror with the pads protecting my face hoping to avoid a lifetime of reconstructive surgery. Anything but my face….or my shoulder…or my arms. Did Bob think I was his ex-wife perhaps? Bang, bang, bang, bang! Was Bob an axe murderer? Bang bang bang bang! Was Bob one of my ex's in disguise? All these thoughts were running through my mind when my left wedding finger slipped out of the pad and connected with Bob's that there right fist….going at say….5000 k's an hour.

My finger flung backwards as if it was competing in the flip diving division of the Beijing Olympics. Yes it hurt but I was determined not to draw any further attention to myself.


Bob: You right mate?

Putting on my Doris Days, I smiled and said: " No I'm fine." I picked up my gloves and finished the session. My eyes were watering so much from the pain by the end that I'm sure I looked like someone who had just attended a funeral. It didn't help that Bob shook the injured hand after class. Thanks Bob. Perhaps I was his ex-wife in a former life.

I left the class examining my finger, which now resembled my big toe.

Frederick: Vat have you done now?

Frederick grabbed my hand and started examining my finger. In fact he pulled my finger. Who was this guy? Old Mother Hubbard?

Me: Awe that hurts.

Frederick: It is not broken. Just badly sprained.

Me: Thanks

Frederick: You need to ice it.

Me: Ok

Frederick: Do not put any pressure on it for a week.

Me: I'll drink to that.

Frederick: And please come back to my class. You are a good boxer.

I smiled and he walked off. No Floreine Frederick I thought, I'm never stepping back into your class again mate. In an hour I'd been humiliated and abused, beaten up and finally had my finger snapped in front of my eyes by a demented digger who thought I was his ex-Mrs. And all in the name of exercise. Pull the other one…it plays Buy Another Reebok. Broken finger, broken foot….it's all the same as far I'm concerned and as a result I'm heading back to that sandpit and sitting on my arse biting anyone who takes my food.


Happy Olympics Everyone!

C

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner ?

I was thinking tonight as I was fussing over my dinner for one plowing through my bottle of merlit, if I could invite anyone in the world right now to a dinner party for twelve who would it be? I allowed two further positions for myself and a friend. After finishing the bottle of merlit, this is the list of people I came up with:

1. David Sedaris : American humorist.
2. Condoleezza Rice: US Secretary of State
3. Kathy Griffin: American Comedian
4. Maggie Tabbera: Australian Fashion Icon
5. Emma Thompson: UK actress
6. Jana Wendt: Australian Journalist
7. Oprah Winfrey: do I have to explain this?
8. Richard E. Grant: UK actor, writer, director
9. Barry Humphries: Australian Comedian/humorist (Dame Edna)
10. Paul Keating: Former Aussie PM
11. Madonna: you may have heard of her
12. Justice Michael Kirby: Openly gay member of Australia’s High Court Bench
13. Judy (best friend): he’s great at parties

Then as I commenced my bottle of shyriz, I thought of all the people who are no longer alive who I would like to invite to a dinner party of twelve. Yet again I allowed two further places for myself (not dead last I looked…touch wood) and someone who I knew but has now passed away.

1. Elizabeth 1 HRH: The Tudor Queen
2. Tennessee Williams: US Playwright: A Streetcar Named Desire etc
3. F Scott Fitzgerald: US Author
4. Noel Coward: UK writer, director, singer, actor, everything
5. Graham Kennedy: the Australian King of Television: comedian
6. Oscar Wilde: Irish writer/playwright/humorist
7. Agatha Christie: UK author
8. Bette Davis: US actress
9. Henry Lawson: Australia’s 19^th Century Bush Poet
10. Sir Robert Menzies: Australia’s longest serving PM
11. Sir Samuel Griffith : 1^st Chief Justice of the High Court of Australia and author of the Australian Constitution
12. Neville Bonner: 1^st Aboriginal man elected to the Australian Senate.
13. My grandfather
14. Special Extra: Katherine Hepburn: With a post entitled Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, I couldn’t not mention her. She probably wouldn’t come anyway.

As you can see I am having a slow night and no one has messaged me on manhunt. So to all you readers out there in Blogland, who would you invite?

The Ghost of Relationships Past

I had an email from an old "girlfriend", L, out of the blue today. We have known each other for donkey’s years. We send the odd email a few times a year. She’s a very successful lawyer these days working as a partner in a magic circle firm in London. She married a very sexy Aussie banker last year and is living quite a nice uber life. Her older sister is getting married in September in Brisbane and she has been asked to be her sister’s maiden of honour. And here’s the catch. The best man at the proceedings will be her ex-fiancé, A, whom she left at the alter five years ago. They had been together for 8 years when it happened. It was a huge shock to all of us when L called it off.

Not only will the ex-fiancé be the best man at the wedding but his parents will be there as well. L is not exactly their favourite person. They watched their son have a complete nervous breakdown following the break up and make a very slow recovery. A has only started working full time again in the last year and apparently has just started seeing someone recently. Strangely L’s sister met her future husband (who is obviously one of A’s best mates) quite some time after L broke it off with A.

L reckons she is going to do it. I think she’s mad. Sister or not, there is no way I would do it. I could barely go to the reception let alone be partnered in the wedding party to the person whose life I practically destroyed. Call me weak but I’d rather be thrown off a cliff. There is only so many times a person can ask forgiveness for something that could not be avoided and only so many times the other person can ask why. And at no time can a satisfactory answer be given.

Arena at the moment is screening the Aidan years of Sex and the City. I was watching the episode tonight where Carrie is trying to get back with Aidan after they’ve been apart for some time. They broke up because she cheated on Aidan with Big. She sees him out of the blue and in panicked confusion she thinks she wants to get back with him when in fact she just wants his forgiveness. She pursues him and goes around to his flat and puts it out there:

Carrie: Aidan I want to get back with you. I miss you. I want us to be together.

Aidan looks shocked, stares and shakes his head.

Aidan: I’m sorry Carrie. I didn’t realise you felt this way but it can’t happen.

Carrie then carries on (pardon the pun) saying how great they were together and what a nice guy he is etc etc.

Aidan continues to stare and then screams:

YOU BROKE MY HEART !!!!!

Carrie sprints away running down the street because what can she say? Nothing; she did break his heart and there is not a thing she can do to put it back together.

This is one of the most powerful scenes in the series and still sends a jolt up my spine every time I see it; Aidan’s “in cold blood” accusation and Carrie’s flee of guilt. Case closed. I’ve beat myself up quite a bit over the years about past relationships where my behaviour had been less than stellar. In my late twenties (and early early 30s) I regressed to the personality of a giddy teenage girl. I didn’t know what I wanted. I still don’t but back then, I just kept grabbing people and taking them along for the ride. For a while I attempted to pursue friendships with ex’s which really were nothing but a subconscious selfish bid for forgiveness. These days I keep to myself. Some things, particularly bad break ups and those involved are best left to the confessional that is the past.

C