Naive Psychologist

I love the internet so much that if I were less monogomous, I would marry it. Look what I found.

I used to stand in the shadows of my bedroom and look across the hall to watch Dallas. My mum never said a word about it, but a lot of the time, the loungeroom door would gently close just to the point where I could no longer see the televison. Then, me and my friends discovered that you could hear our local television station on the radio. I have no idea how or why this happened, but it did, and I would huddle under my quilt with my radio tuned, lusting after Patrick Duffy’s chest and Victoria Principal’s thighs.

My mum was a very intelligent woman, but it’s her we can thank for my love of trashy television.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more West Wing to watch. I’m up to the place of the significant death (I’m sure you all already know who and how, but just in case you don’t, I’ll be coy) so I’m going to skip a few episodes.

Partly because of this:

and partly because of this:

but mostly on account of the daily sight of this

and this

and this

I am increasingly desperate for our bedroom (the master bedroom as it would be labelled if we were to have an open inspection) to be painted. I’m sure you can see the problem. And if you can’t, well, I really don’t mean to be rude, but your taste is in your arse, because that paintjob is shit.

Four years we’ve been living here and facing, as I have, the sight of that faux-Michelangelo, I think we should all be thankful that I have retained my good humour to the extent to that I have.

For a range of reasons, many of which will be obvious to the casual observer of our lives, and some of which will not, neither the mister nor I have got around to painting the room ourselves. Nor are we likely to in the foreseeable future. This is not laziness as other unfinished jobs or the unreplaced blown lightglobes are. We both like painting and have done a great deal of it in our lives. Let’s just label it the vicissitudes of life, shall we?

Anyhoo, I have made a momentous decision, and decided that we shall pay someone to do the painting for us. I have obtained a quote of around $1,600.

I know that I should obtain another quote or two, but between you and me and the internet, I couldn’t be fucked. It’s not obtaining the quote that’s the problem so much as the follow up phone calls and the ducking and weaving out of the way of the person or persons whose quote one has rejected.

So, I thought I’d ask you. Does $1,600 sound like a reasonable figure? It’s a largish room, and the quote includes the paint as well as the time to do some minor repairs to the ceiling. It is about $500 more than I was anticipating (and I thought I was being generous), but then, I still think that you can buy a coffee for $1.50 and a bush biscuit for five cents.

I know you already know this, but the new 90210 is a bit shit.

I was particularly excited about the promised Linda Gray moment, who, I think we can agree, is about the best thing to come out of the eighties. It was a disappointingly fleeting moment though. Available on youtube here, but not worth embedding, even if you do know how to embed which, we all know, I now do.

Still, I think I’ll watch 90210 until it’s cancelled. Which should mean I only waste another one or two hours of my life.

Anyway, what are you doing reading this rubbish? I’m sure you’ve got dishes to finish.

You know, I do wish I had a little something to go with this cup of tea.

So, yeah, trip to the day spa cancelled on account of one (very) sick boy and, therefore, high probability of second sick boy (and won’t that be fun, what with the drama queen tendencies and all), so cancelled while there’s still twenty four hours notice.

This being August, we shouldn’t be surprised.

On the upside, it’s been very lovely late-winter weather. The kind of days where, if you get your washing out early enough, you can bring it back inside dry and smelling of the sun.

So I’ve been out and about a teeny, tiny bit looking at possible venues for a Fringe show. I’m looking at intimate venues. By which, of course, I mean small. The one I like best seats 38 (maximum), but because of the way it’s organised, wouldn’t be too bad if there was only 4 or 5 people in it. They could all sit in row about three rows back and they wouldn’t feel bad and neither would I. Of course if there’s none (people – I refuse to use the word persons) it will be pretty empty. And I could just go home.

It’s down what we now call The West End of town which is a fair way from the action. But I’m not really an action girl anyway. Plus, while it’s not free, it’s not toooooo expensive. I mean, I probably won’t lose too much money (losing money being a given).

I think I’ll book it. Unless you’ve got other advice. Which I’d listen to, because let’s be honest, I know fuck all about putting on a Fringe show. I’m aware I will lose money, but then what’s new?

We went to two excellent birthday parties this weekend (it’s the season for birthday parties to be sure). First one was yesterday at the Aquatic Centre. We were in the carpark when I said, really just as an aside, not expecting that anyone but me would care, ‘it’s Denis’s birthday today’ (everyone calls him Denis). Oh my. Littlest boy burst into gut wrenching tears and said ‘that means we shouldn’t celebrate’ and then ‘imagine if we had the funeral on his birthday, how bad would that be’. Still, in truth, it’s good to see him cry. I worry for him, that little boy. He doesn’t cry enough. And after he had cried for a bit he said ‘I need to stop’.

At today’s brilliant birthday (and how good was that sun – please remind me of these days when we’re back to March and its thirty five degrees every day) the mum had arranged for the woman with the animals to come. You know, where all the kids get to hold a bearded dragon and feed rose petals to the ring-tailed possum. There’s a snake too. A carpet python. Woman says ‘if anyone feels scared, you don’t have to touch them, just let me know’. Quick as anything, Littlest boy pipes up ‘actually, I’m allergic to snakes’. Hair-lairy-arse. Though as it turns out, he can pat them, he’s only allergic if he cuddles snakes. Kind of thing I would’ve rung my Dad about, and we would’ve had a good laugh.

But it’s all, as they somewhat annoyingly say, good. Really. It’s good to remember that I had a Dad I would’ve rung.