Office Archery

At work we have developed a new lunchtime sport in keeping with the occupational health and safety workplace exercise program. Our sporting activities do not involve running, aerobics, Tai Chi, martial arts or ninja moves across the ceiling. The rules of our sport are relatively simple: pelt your opponent with rubber bands until they squeal then protect yourself at all costs.

Many would argue that this is not a sport and I can see where they are coming from.  Rubber band pelting will never make it as an Olympic sport, even though it requires dexterity, exceptional hand - eye co-ordination, strength and deadly accuracy. It's a lot like archery without the bow.

The only drawback to this sport is the potential injuries. Weals, welts and the occasional drawing of blood are common, but the one injury that would draw a few raised eyebrows from the Workers Compensation Board is the taking of an eye in the quest for victory. That said, as responsible adults and mindful of the difficulty of the explanation on the claim form we decided that protective clothing was necessary.

A batman style cape with wings of steel is necessary for deflecting those stinging body shots. The manilla folders proved too flimsy to do the job. Headgear is also another important part of the armor. Pictured above is the Ned Kelly styled protective mask, made from a coffee cup holder with a double glazed eye panel made of toughened plastic. This prototype, still in the testing stage, is holding up well. Plans for this feat of engineering are available on request.

The health benefits of the sport are amazing. Ducking, weaving, bending to pick up ammunition. It keeps the mind sharp and the body supple. We have, at this stage, chosen not to have scoring system. Play should be spontaneous and opportunistic, not bogged down with rules and regulations. Exercise should be fun!

We are currently oiling the wheels of the office chairs and collecting the cardboard rolls out of the toilet paper.

Next week we start office jousting.

My Personal Assistant

Our mobile phone contracts were up for renewal and we decided it was time to upgrade the old bricks and come into the 21st century. My partner wasn't all that fussed about what he got, but after using an ipad for the last 12 months I decided that I wanted an iphone. I was happy to upgrade to a basic model, but my partner decided that we needed the latest one with all the bells and whistles.

I was thrilled. Built in internet, apps, a decent camera - maps to make sure I would never get lost again. I was looking forward to Tiny Tower on the go. After setting my new ring and message tones I was ready to tackle the inbuilt personal assistant, Siri.

It can learn, the book told me. Work out who in your address book is who. Make those calls for you, set reminders, tell you what the weather is going to be. It even had a setting for English Australian. Bewdy Mate. Bonza. Life is good.

After a few simple experiments with Siri, I decided to show them at work how capable and impressive my new personal assistant was. I started with a simple command that I didn't think would stretch Siri's capabilities too far.

"Ring Susan"

A simple request I thought. Siri beeped, the little icon spun around and her techno voice came back at me.

"I can't find Season in your address book."

"Soooo-zan"

"I don't understand soo ten. Would you like me to search the web for soo ten?"

It must be the accent. Maybe I'm not being Australian enough. I decided to test out Siri's capabilities on the understanding of the often unique Australian language. If she was going to be my personal assistant, she needed to lift her game. Once she had been through a thoroughly in depth language lesson, it should be a breeze for her. I uttered the most Australian thing I could think of.

"G'day mate."

"Hi there Liz."

"Howzit going?"

"I'm going good, thank you Liz."

"Whatcha doing?"

"What am I doing? I'm waiting for something to do, Liz."

Hmmm. Obviously language is not a barrier and it understands my lingo quite well. Now for the test.

"Call Susan."

"'Season' is not in your address book. Would you like me to add it now?"

Nothing like a personal assistant to make you look like a fool at work. Siri hadn't done herself any favours by botching up this simple task, but all was not lost. I explained to my bemused colleagues that it probably had something to do with my accent and she probably needed some further training in that area. I then asked her to ring one of the other girls just to prove she wasn't a complete loss.

"Call Nat."

"Calling Nat mobile."

Ahh. The sweet smell of success. Siri had finally come through. Everyone was suitably impressed. I decided to push the envelope.

"Send Nat a text message."

"Send Nat a text message. What would you like to say to Nat?"

"Hi Nat."

"Sending text message to Nat - Hi Net."

Net and Season are laughing so hard they're crying. I try again, using a different tack.

"Ring Susan."

"Season is not in your address book."

I think I'll put in a reminder to spend some time each day training Siri how to respond. I think I'll do it manually. Use the keypad like I did on my old phone. It's like that old saying 'If you want it done right, do it yourself.' Maybe I should think of her as a new employee - once she learns the ropes she should be invaluable. The potential is there - I only hope she makes it through the trial period. Technology - where would we be without it.


Fair dinkum.

Happy Birthday

It was my partner's birthday not so long ago. A milestone birthday, the big five-o. A special birthday indeed, it's not every day one turns half a century old.

I wanted to get him something really special for this birthday. He's not fussed, he's happy with the socks and jocks year in, year out. The only trouble was, I had no idea what to get the man who is happy with socks and jocks. He doesn't wear jewelery, still hasn't read the last book I gave him 7 years ago. He tells me he has all the tools he needs and doesn't need anything special. Except maybe some socks and jocks.

So what does one get the man who has everything for his 50th birthday? Then I found it - the perfect gift. He used to have one of these until he fell on it and broke it. I caught him eyeing one off at a garage sale the other week. It has a thousand and one uses and multiple attachments for all those tight corners.  The one I got him was easy plug and play, with a 12 month warranty and in his favorite color. And just what is this perfect gift I hear you ask?

Yep, you guessed it. - a steam mop.

New Decorations

After my dismal effort with Christmas decorations this year, I decided to prepare for next year. Out went the old coaster and the green twine. In its place is an "I Love Christmas" expresso cup and shiny, new red twine.

Quite an upgrade from this year. I'll wrap this up and put it somewhere safe until next Christmas.

Hope I can find it again....

The Fishing Files

After sleeping through the last 5 years of New Year's Eve parties, this year we decided to do something a little different. Friends had the use of a houseboat and we decided to join them for an evening of fun, frivolity and fishing. As you can see, I was beside myself with excitement.

My fishing record is not remarkable. In 30 years I have caught 2 puffer fish, one when I was 17 and the other 2 years ago when I trapped it in shallow water and ran it down. If I make it three in a row after this trip I think I'll see about taking fugu lessons. After all, how hard can cooking a puffer fish be?

After a quick course on "how to bait a hook without the prawn flying off ", my line was in the water. And lo behold - a fish jumped onto my hook. My first real fish in 30 years - a mid sized trumpeter which they all said was no good for eating but was an excellent bait fish. That's when I realized I had another problem to deal with.

Getting it off the hook.

I would never make a serial killer. Not if you had to stab someone. Or remove a hook from their mouth.

I think my new career as a fisherman is officially over.

The Grinch

I have been unfairly accused of having no Christmas spirit. I find this hard to understand, after all, I went whole hog with the Chrissy decorations this year.

And here they are. A Christmas coaster that's been out since last Christmas and a sparkly bit of green twine.

Ho Ho Ho....

Farewell, Old Friend

My little old dog was going on 17 and doing really well for her age. Although we had a few dementia and incontinence problems, diminishing eyesight and hearing not as sharp as it used to be she still had a terrific appetite and attitude to match. I envisaged she would make it well into the new year and would peacefully go in her sleep sometime in the future.

But it was not to be. Poor Katie suffered a prolapse. She was still her cheerful little self but there wasn't much the vet could do. At her age she wouldn't have tolerated the anesthetic so it was with a heavy heart we made the decision to put her down.

I've had her since she was 6 weeks old and she's been my constant companion during good times and bad. Loving, loyal and affectionate, she was the dog that comes along once in a lifetime. Irreplaceable.

Goodbye my little friend. I hope they have Schmackos in doggy heaven.

The Shuttle Bus

Today I went to a specialist follow up visit at the local hospital and decided to catch their convenient shuttle bus service from the nearby stadium. This free service saves on a $10 parking fee, $50 in wasted fuel while you search for a non existent park and takes the stress out of the endless car queues and traffic snarls.

Although the service is useful it does have its drawbacks.

You don't get to choose who gets on the bus.

There was only a couple of other people waiting to board when I arrived - nice, normal looking people. I managed to get the seat behind the driver which is close to the door for a quick getaway at the other end. It looked like today was going to be a pleasant little trip.

Then the circus folk started to roll up.

The first one up the steps was an ancient man with wild, white hair, a beard and black leather gloves. He plonked himself down in the seat behind me while his wife slid into the seat on the other side of the aisle and shut her eyes. A rather big lady asked if the seat next to me was free and I reluctantly nodded - there goes the quick exit. As she parked herself in next to me I saw the little black gloved hands of the old man in the seat behind. He was holding on to the back of the seats and had jammed his face in between the gap. He was staring at me. I figured it was because I was turning blue - the lady in the seat next to me had squashed me up against the window and I was finding it hard to breathe.

The next ones on were by far the largest couple on the planet. The axles groaned and we listed to one side like the Titanic taking its last breath. I think as a safety measure the driver should have put them over the back axle to spread the load. Then I heard a strange noise and it takes me a moment to realize the old lady in the seat across the aisle is snoring. I thank a higher power that it's only a ten minute trip.

The driver is a no nonsense, 'I'll make my timetable no matter what' kind of guy. As soon as the clock ticks over to departure time, he folds his paper, slams his window shut and pulls the lever to close the door. Ready or not we're on our way. As he swung out onto the road the extra weight in the back had the front end of the bus rearing up like some demented pony performing an intricate dressage move. I'm lucky I'm sandwiched in, otherwise I'd be splayed on the snoring lady's lap.

 The bus driver seemed oblivious to our lopsided load and hurled down the main street and flew around the corner. The woman next to me leaned into every twist and turn as if she was riding a roller coaster.  She's bug wide-eyed, her hand is shaking and I swear she is passing wind in fright.The only one not bothered by the driving is the bus driver. Or the old man. He's still staring at me.

We finally arrive at the hospital and the woman next to me is too slow getting out of the seat and the circus parade beats her to the door. That is, all except the old man and his wife. She would have waited for them too, but it was the words of the wife that made me urge the woman to get moving before we got caught in the vortex.

"Oh my goodness .......you've wet yourself again."

And I have to catch the bus back......

The Bucket List Take 2 - Sam Neill

Okay. After much thought, I have revised my albeit non existent bucket list. To start with, here is number one:

1.  Arrange a sitting and paint a portrait of New Zealand actor Sam Neill.

I was recently asked if there is anyone I would really like to paint and Sam is the man. You will remember him from films like Jurassic Park, Dead Calm, The Horse Whisperer, The Piano and more recently, as the face behind the 'eat more red meat' advertisements gracing our television sets here in Oz. You can't miss these memorable ads- Sam is the tall one, not the orangutan. You can check his and the orangutan's dancing skills here http://youtu.be/gOeApUseYnE

He has a face full of character and a subtle wit. Now soaking up the vines at his Two Paddocks winery in New Zealand, he recently, in conjunction with a few friends, opened a wine bar in the heart of Sydney. Probably an unobtainable No 1 on my bucket list, but I'll never know if I don't ask. I have sent out the appropriate pinot soaked request messages and now all I have to do is wait.

And wait...

The Bucket List

One thing I have never really had is a bucket list. I've had all the usual wish lists over the years like everyone does and probably the most common items are on it, like winning the lottery, being successful, being happy etc. etc. But I haven't had the list of things I want to do before I die, never written down those special things that are at the core of my heart, dreams and aspirations. After all the health dramas of the last 12 months, I thought it appropriate to start one.

So here is - my bucket list.

1. Ummmmm.......

How hard can it be?

I need to give this more thought....

The Ultimate Devil Cat

Well, here it is. The Grand Poo Bar of Devil Cats. The be all and end all. A bit like salmon really - they change color as they reach the pinnacle of power. I'll never look at my ginger cat the same again....

The Trash Pit

Our other dog is a tiny Chihuaha called Holly. While she lacks size she makes up for it in attitude and heart. She is a good natured, non yappy, affectionate, child proof, spoilt rotten member of our family.

She is also a connoisseur of fine foods. No burritos for her. Her day usually starts with a cup of tea and her toast and Vegemite. She also has a penchant for pasta and baked beans. If it's on our plates, she thinks it's good dog tucker.  

Her basket is known as the Trash Pit. She puts everything she finds around the house in there - shoes, dog treats, rubber bands, pens, coins and any other shiny or desirable object. If there is food or treats around she turns into a squirrel, hiding bits in shoes, under cushions, anywhere she thinks the old dog or the cats won't find it. Usually these morsels end up in the tried and tested Trash Pit as well. She will stand guard for hours and woe be to any animal who goes near.

The other night the grandchildren were around, and after some excited play she sat down with them to enjoy the pats and endless attention. Then, after dinner, Holly disappeared. We called, checked she hadn't been locked outside by accident but she was nowhere to be found. Then one of the kids spotted her behaving strangely in the Trash Pit. I thought she may have hurt herself while she was playing. She was reluctant to leave her bed and it took a moment to realize what the problem was.

See for yourself.

 

There it was - the prize of the night - stolen from some unsuspecting child's plate. Her very own hot dog.

I'm glad this didn't end up in my shoe.....

Turning Up The Heat

The bane of my life is the air conditioning control in our office. There never seems to be that happy medium within a group of people when it comes to temperature - there is always someone complaining it is too hot or too cold.

I am in control of the temperature - not through any sort of democratic vote but essentially because the box is conveniently placed on the wall behind my desk. It's an odd sense of power - having control over the comfort levels of my colleagues. I can tip it up or down, depending on my mood or my own comfort levels. Personally I like it more on the cool side - there is nothing more invigorating than working hard to keep the blood flow going to the fingertips. However, the rest of the office seem to be in conflict with my comfort levels and have banned me from making any minor adjustments to the scale.

So leave it alone I have. And now they're squawking again.

The last couple of days have seen a cool change hit and the temperature outside has dropped. This in turn has impacted on the inside temperature and what was comfortable before is now a little on the cold side. There has been a chorus of coughing, a reinfection of man flu and a call for everything from jackets and mittens to blankets.

I feel like I'm trapped in a bizarre air conditioning version of Goldilocks and the three bears. After today, I really have sympathy for the bears.

I finally gave in and turned it up. They're still not happy. Now they're too hot so I turned it down. Now there's a discussion on how to booby trap the control - putting a big spider in there to jump out at me when I touch it etc. etc. Now they're moaning about the temperature before it even gets there - "it's gonna be too cold soon", "I think I'm starting to sweat"....."At least the sauna at work is free"..."It's freezing!

Such babies.

The gauge is sitting at 22 and it should be at 21, which is what they originally all agreed was the perfect temperature. A hot flush is creeping up my neck and my fingers are sliding off my perspiration-soaked keyboard. I can feel a dry cough coming on. I sacrificed my comfort to please others and what thanks did I get?

None. Nada. Zilch.

So now I have worked out the perfect solution - all it takes is a little adjustment, a small tweak to our errant control. Everyone can whinge and whine until their heart's content. The temperature is going to be perfect. A small, well placed dab of superglue should do the trick.

By the way, is it hot in here?

In Control

It's been a while since I put up a proper post - life is steadily getting back to normal after my heart attack. I regularly attend cardiac rehab classes at the hospital where they put you through a rigorous exercise regime that leaves an army boot camp for dead. I guess if they overdo it and push you too hard, you're in the right place.

I'm back into my painting full swing as well, which is wonderful. For a while I lost interest in going out to the studio and really didn't have the energy or the motivation to do much in the way of art. But all that has changed. I am nearly finished a major work and catching up on works that have been on the backburner for a while.

Also, in cahoots with a good friend of mine, we opened a working artist/gallery studio. Opening night was packed, paintings sold and a great time was had by all. Especially my partner. His celebration of a successful opening with nearly 3 bottles of red during the evening ended badly when he was left driving the porcelain bus at 3.00am.

On the home front there have been a couple of incidents worthy of mention. They are as follows:

1.   My partner finally got his drivers license on attempt number 2. 
We won't mention the dramas of attempt number one and the speed limits of school zones and how you need to look when changing lanes. He has now been let loose on society to wreak havoc on unsuspecting motorists.

2.   We no longer sniff when meeting other walkers.
Sniffing has been replaced by a loud chorus of "Bananas in Pyjamas". Most walkers turn the other way and run.

3.   My old dog's last hurrah
My old dog Katie, a small maltese cross, is turning 17 next year. She has decided to come on heat, just to show us she still has a little spark of something left in her.

4.   Rodney has laid another egg.
I don't know what to say about this. Rodney just laughs.

My other life

In my other life I am an artist. Helps keep me sane.

The Changing Devil Cat

It would seem that the Devil Cats are changing - this one has a bushy tail. I asked her what it meant and she answered it just has a bushy tail. So it's no deeper than that - guess it's just a mutation of sorts.....

Molly

I drive an old Commodore station wagon which has proved itself time and time again to be very reliable. Not the prettiest ride on the street but it is exceptional when it comes to carrying large canvases and art gear around. Affectionately known as "Molly", this faithful old bus gets me to work and back day after day. But Molly has one problem.

The fuel gauge.

The station wagon I had before this one, "Dolly", could be driven on the red line for at least another 30 kilometres before it started coughing and spitting. Many a time I came home in this car on no more than the smell of an oily rag. But not Molly. She still happily shows a quarter of a tank of fuel left, well above the dreaded red line before she drops her bundle.

So far, Molly has run out of fuel on me 4 times. But never out on the road, or in the middle of nowhere. Never has she coughed and spluttered or lurched, giving you a tiny hint that she needs a feed. Oh no, Molly very conveniently decides to run out out fuel the moment I pull up at the front door. So reliable she is. She gets me home every time before pulling the plug.

Molly pulled one of her "out of fuel" tricks on me last night. I arrived safely home, went inside to get changed, pick up my partner and head for a night of wining and dining at my surrogate daughter's house. I assumed I had enough fuel to go out to dinner and stop to fill up on the way home. But when I got back in the car and turned the key, all I got was coughing and spluttering in tune to a protesting fuel pump.

So there we are, soon to be late for dinner, with a car that flatly refuses to leave and the nearest petrol station about 5 kilometres away. She has done her work for the day and nothing is going to budge her tonight. We go back inside, get the fuel can and the keys to our other car.

Our other car is a little green buzz box that we call Harvey. Over the last couple of months we have been having some much needed work done, including repairs to a broken seat. Harvey is usually reliable, but at the moment still needs bypass surgery to fix his sometimes clogged injectors. The mechanic tried to clean them as best he could then shook his head and told us the sad news that he thought the car would need an operation. My partner thinks we should try one of those fuel treatments first and if that doesn't work - then by all means spend the money. So we jump into Harvey armed with our fuel can and a "can do" attitude. Harvey doesn't disappoint. He coughs into life first go and we back out the drive and head up the road.

I know for a fact the fuel treatment is not going to work. Harvey is making a noise akin to a F18 jet fighter, turbo charged with heavy duty extractors and a lumpy cam. The newly fixed seat is like sitting on a concrete block and I wonder if I am going to end up with either a broken back, piles or both. Every rev head on the Peninsula poked their heads outside their door when we went past. I'm sure they heard Harvey up on the Queensland border. Still, undaunted, we kept going until we reached the service station and got that gas can filled.

Feeling game, we decide then to keep going up the road to make our dinner date. We make it, eat, drink and be merry then back in the car to go home. Once we arrive safely back, thanks to Harvey, my partner empties the fuel can into Molly and leaves her for the night.

This morning I came out to go to work and Molly started first go. No coughing or spluttering, just a smooth, effortless kick into life. The fuel gauge is showing half full. My first stop? You guessed it. The petrol station, where I filled her to overflowing.

She's not going to get me a 5th time....

Rodney

Our house is a menagerie, with 2 small dogs who think they are humans, two cats who think they are dogs, a rainbow lorikeet named Rodney who dances and laughs and a cockateil called Bird who swears and has mastered whistling the Addams Family theme song. It makes for an interesting mix.

Rodney likes to lay in his cage on his back, juggling with his toys and crooning to them. He does this for hours on end., laughing away and jabbering in his own lorikeet language. Lorikeets are well known for their clownish antics and Rodney is no exception. My partner has often hinted at getting Rodney a little 'girlfriend' and breeding these wonderful birds.

But today, Rodney laid an egg.

So I guess he's not the handsome bird we thought he was. His athletic dances and showing off were just a sham. Rodney is really a Rodette.

Rodette. Doesn't have quite the same ring to it, does it?

Devil Cat Expert

I am fast becoming a Devil Cat expert.

This is a Devil Cat In Training. Note the absence of teeth or claws, lots of hearts and a happy smile on its face. I particularly like the neat buttons and bows on its shoes.

Can't wait for the next one..

Very Public Breakup

The local town drunk is on a bender.

Not that this is unusual, but this has been the bender to end all benders. Sober, he is the nicest man you would ever meet, but after a few too many he turns into an unreasonable, argumentative and disruptive individual. I guess this is why his live in girlfriend, also an alcoholic, left him following a very public breakup.

Lots of people argue in public but what made their breakup memorable was that it took place in the middle of the main road. Wild slapping, slurring and insults broke the air of our normally quiet hamlet. It drew a great crowd - people are drawn to watching things that aren't quite the norm and this semblance of a wrestling match was definitely not normal. The only thing missing from this fight was the leotards.

A popcorn vendor moved them onto the road verge where the fight continued. Then came the grand finale. One almighty shove and the girlfriend ended up on her back in the mud, skirt above her head, flailing around like an epileptic fish. The drunk had emerged victorious, egged on by the cheers of this carnival crowd.

The girlfriend bolted and we haven't seen her since. The drunk is still in oblivion, only now he isn't ten feet tall and bulletproof. He has become maudlin about the whole affair. His drinking buddy has disappeared, his plans of moving into a new place and starting a new life have gone and it's everyone's fault but his.

We caught a glimpse of him last night - the blind is half open on his front window and he's sitting in there with a bottle for company. I don't know whether he's trying to show everyone he's fine or he's hoping to catch a glimpse of her coming back. Either way, it's a sad state of affairs.

How do you help someone who doesn't want to help himself?