tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81729248196104618822024-03-14T05:23:36.036+08:00The edge of the desertSabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-62507614251748341712012-01-01T13:21:00.000+08:002012-01-01T13:21:22.661+08:00Resolutions.So it's that time of year again. And the morning after the night before... <br />
<br />
New Years Eve 2011 was fairly sedate to be honest. It began in the middle of a raging storm, continued with a few wines with my darling friend Florence, continued into the 'night club district' (ha!) of Kalgoorlie and ended around 1am - very early by our usual standards. Truth be told, I'm feeling better for having an earlier night. I'm definitely getting old and sensible.<br />
<br />
I have made a few resolutions.<br />
<br />
1. Giving up sugar.<br />
<br />
Now, I don't eat badly really. I love good food. Frankly, I'm a bit of a food wanker. I also love bad food, and it's here that I fall down. The worse the food, the higher the carbohydrate content, the more rabid I become during eating. I really don't have a shut off switch when it comes to sugar.<br />
<br />
I've also reached a point in my life where I am 'bigger' (read: fatter) than I have ever been and than I really ought to be at this age. I don't think I've ever been a 'small' girl - maybe in primary school - and I do carry it well (if I say so myself) and most importantly have never had an 'issue' with it. I do now.<br />
<br />
Recently I downloaded <a href="http://www.sarahwilson.com.au/i-quit-sugar-ebook/">Sarah Wilson's<em> I Quit Sugar</em> e-book</a> and I thought Yep, I can do this - and I should do this. That said I defeated my 1 January seediness with a big bowl of rice and peas with chilli and soy sauce... Rome wasn't built in a day...<br />
<br />
2. Read a book a fortnight<br />
<br />
2012 is the <a href="http://www.love2read.org.au/">National Year of Reading</a> and originally I had set the bar at a book a month, but my sister convinced me to aim a little higher. It's not just the act of reading itself, because I do read a lot, but the quality of the text. Of late, I've become a tad too fond of the thrillercrimepolicedrama novels that my Mother borrows from the library and it seems to be all I'm reading.<br />
<br />
My last reading obsession was with Australian History and fiction with a social history bent - I devoured <em>Van Diemen's Land: A History </em>by James Boyce and completely lost my emotional banana over <em>The Harp in the South </em>by Ruth Park. This time around I'm focusing on a genre that I have zero experience with - American Literature. I'm thinking the angst of <em>The Catcher in the Rye </em>and in non-fiction the great migrations and the Frontier. <br />
<br />
Yes, I am a nerd.<br />
<br />
To avoid this becoming a socially isolating resolution, I've roped Florence in to it. We decided last time we had dinner that we needed to make more of an effort to see each other - differing work schedules etc etc - and last night over wine we created our own little book club. Lord knows how functional it will be, but two birds and all that jazz. Because she had just acquired a copy of <em>Grapes of Wrath </em>this will be our first read. <br />
<br />
3. Focus on my professional self<br />
<br />
Nine days before Christmas my workplace closed its doors. I know. Awesome. It wasn't a job I wanted to do for the rest of my life, but - god damn it - it paid the bills. At the moment there isn't a whole lot out there so I'm taking it as an enforced holiday to poverty. <br />
<br />
Losing my job also gave me a glimpse of my future - that of going job to job in administrative and support roles for the rest of my life. I do have a professional qualification - Secondary English Teaching - but I would, quite frankly prefer to pull my fingernails out slowly than practise it. So I need a new one. To this end I am going to do the Certificate IV in Training and Assessment. Completely unglamourous, but functional and portable and something to build on.<br />
<br />
This resolution, to my mind, is also the start of next year's resolution to crack down and focus on saving for my Tasmanian rural dream.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So, here's to 2012. Last year was an odd one - not a bad year, but one that was a little all over the place. 2012 will hopefully be a chance to build on the good that came my way and to move on from - and more importantly learn from - the unpleasantness. Cheers!Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-52990399623029873292011-12-02T08:48:00.000+08:002011-12-02T08:48:01.590+08:00Green.A friend and workmate of mine was regaling people with a story about me yesterday at work. On my first visit to Kalgoorlie in 2008 we went to a pub about 40 minutes out of town and I didn't want to get out of the car. I was 'green' in her opinion, 'very green.' <br />
<br />
(In my defence the previous 5 days of drinking had caught up with me and I was very, very ill.)<br />
<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously, I did leave the vehicle. But really, first impressions, would you?</td></tr>
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<br />
I've been there a couple of times since and I do go inside - I even use the bathrooms! - but it got me thinking about me 'then' vs 'now.' <br />
<br />
I still carry hand sanitiser around in my hand bag, I still think Evian water spray is essential for dealing with the dry desert air, there are still pubs that I really prefer not to enter and some that I just won't and I still think one should always attempt to dress appropriately for the situation. My social politics haven't changed, in fact they've firmed and I still wake in the morning craving Chinese BBQ. I'm actually more 'me' than I ever was and that is just fine.<br />
<br />
<br />
So today marks 2 weeks until I'm out of a job. The not-for-profit tourist facility that I work at (Reception / Accounts Assistant - terribly exciting job) is closing its doors to the public today. An external board was instituted in the last big round of funding it received and they, in all their wisdom, have decided that it was all too hard and have closed the doors for an expected 3 months. (I've given myself a strategic day off today. Frankly I can't bear the constant talk and rending of garments the closure has induced.)<br />
<br />
Obviously, I'm not impressed. Less than a fortnight before Christmas isn't really an ideal time to be job hunting and based on my previous lack of success I don't have a lot of hope. It's true to form though, I decide I'm going to stay for a bit longer, I meet a lovely man and BAM job lost. In my favour, my unemployment is not my fault and I'm hoping whoever screens my application for the perfect job takes pity and puts me on the top of the pile... <br />
<br />
In the mean time, wish me luck.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-15994167172960262722011-10-21T15:44:00.000+08:002011-10-21T15:44:13.939+08:00Hi there!Been an awfully long time hasn't it? I have been avoiding you, truth be told. I wanted to have something more to say. How fabulous and successful I'd become, might've been nice. Hell, telling you I'd moved out of my Mother's house would have been a major triumph.<br />
<br />
But no. What I can tell you is that I'm doing well. Really well. So well, I've decided to stay on beyond my end of year cut off.<br />
<br />
It's a not so long, but very boring story about having friends. The general trajectory being that I have a lovely group of honest to goodness, all my own, friends. We do silly things like text each other while watching the same TV show in our separate houses or have joint birthday parties and yes, have sleepovers and talk about boys. It is fabulous and it's something I really haven't had in the last seven years. I still have my issues with Kalgoorlie and West Australia in general (to put it mildly) and I still miss Sydney so much I dream about it sometimes... but it's not something I'm willing to let go of just yet.<br />
<br />
I have placed a couple of caveats on my staying - and I'm putting them down here to FORCE me into complying.<br />
<br />
1. I will get my license.<br />
<br />
To be frank, I don't really know how I've managed the past year with no car. The public transport system here is completely laughable, and as my sister will attest, my Mother is not exactly forthcoming with lifts. My past place of employment was exactly 7 minutes - in a straight line - from home and walking was a breeze. Currently I'm working five and a smidge kilometres from home. A distance that I have neither the time nor inclination to walk and am currently paying between one hundred and one hundred and fifty dollars a week in taxi fares. Not ideal, obviously.<br />
<br />
This had been part of my plan from the beginning, I admit. As an example of how blase about the whole thing I am, I still don't know which State department is responsible. Being WA it's probably Liquor and Gaming... Meow.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
2. I WILL MOVE OUT OF MY MOTHERS HOUSE.<br />
<br />
Self explanatory really. Be prepared for a post examining the pros and cons of buying new furniture vs having my belongings taken out of storage and shipped over. Not even prepared to think about that yet.<br />
<br />
The rental market is an odd one here. It's cheaper than Sydney, definitely, but not reeeally that cheap. Particularly if you aren't working in the mining industry. So in the meantime, if anyone knows of anyone lovely looking for a flatmate in Kalgoorlie - close to town, own bathroom would be nice, quiet, enjoys a wine and the ABC on a Friday night - be sure to let me know.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-23539172108721139212011-03-12T16:11:00.000+08:002011-03-12T16:11:47.060+08:00NostosI know it's been a while, I've been alternating between feeling apathetic and being busy for the last month, so please forgive me...<br />
<br />
My last post re my date was intended to be a two parter, let's just say it went well. He's nice, the dinner was nice, it was all very... nice. He confessed when we sat down to eat that it was his first ever date and was really rather nervous. I found this quite sweet and proceeded, with my own limited experience, to set a good example - pouring the wine, continuing conversation etc etc. And aside from the intensely awkward goodnight kiss, I had fun. <br />
<br />
There is only one problem. He is intensely annoying. He talks about money all the time, and he complains. Boy, oh boy, does he complain. About everything. From the weather to the size of my breasts (imagine "they're just so... big." My response "well you don't have to touch them"). He can be fun sometimes, and he does have other attributes (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), so I just think we'll keep it casual for the time being.<br />
<br />
Last month I headed back to the east coast for the wedding of two wonderful wonderful people. I got to stay in the Hunter Valley for a couple of nights and catch up with a whole bunch of people that I hadn't had a chance to speak to since moving over here which was just divine. I did manage to make a new friend too, and am now in the middle of an outrageous cross country text flirtation. I'll admit that I'm rather enjoying it.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hx_EYTOqS2M/TXsetyx4pEI/AAAAAAAAABI/vq5y0A0FOEU/s1600/18022011729.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" q6="true" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-hx_EYTOqS2M/TXsetyx4pEI/AAAAAAAAABI/vq5y0A0FOEU/s320/18022011729.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How's the serentity... <br />
Seriously, you could hear cows mooing</td></tr>
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<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I also got to experience the true horror of having both my parents in the same place at the same time after, at least, 15 years of non communication. The bride in her magnanimity invited them both, and at least one of them behaved like a mature adult. As a trial run for future family scenarios, while it could have gone better, it wasn't all bad. I had been imagining a myriad nightmarish situations - running from screaming arguments to a passionate rekindling of a long dead flame - so Mother's out and out rejection of his existence coloured with more than a hint of disdain was a happy medium I could live with.</div><br />
Following the wedding, I spent a delightful yet exhausting five days with my Grandma in the Southern Highlands. Her 87 years have, unfortunately, caught up with her. The once feisty and whip-sharp woman has become forgetful, frustrated and frustrating. My Dad is living with her at the moment and, in an attempt to find some way through what he and his sister are feeling, is attempting to quantify the change in her behaviour. Something I have a (currently) mild distaste for. Unfortunately for the siblings the only diagnosis they have received is that of 'Mild Cognitive Disorder' i.e. she is an 87 year old woman. Equally unfortunately, I have a very strong feeling that this is only the beginning of something that most families will go through, something that we are going to have to navigate with sensitivity and a level head. <br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">In my head I had marked this trip as the point were I decided whether to buy a one way ticket home or continue on my Kalgoorlie journey. Obviously, I went for the return option, but it has thrown up a whirl of thoughts about home and connection and priorities. When the dust settles I'm sure I'll know what to do. If I don't already.</div>Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-77883069700341094352011-02-03T13:32:00.001+08:002011-02-03T13:32:23.900+08:00Dinner and a movie.I have a date tomorrow night. A good old fashioned, taking me out for dinner, date. My first in a very long time. <br />
<br />
We met last weekend. I was out with my new dear best friend Florence and two boys started talking to her inviting us to sit with them. I assumed she knew them so followed along. Turns out she didn't - her being Irish she chats to anyone and everyone with a friendly face. His flatmate was taking him for a night out because his long term girlfriend back home in New Zealand had broken up with him the day before. It was all very pleasant - there was talk of tractors, the Baltic region <span style="background-color: white;">of Europe and our various journeys to Kalgoorlie, including a very interesting tale of working life on a fishing boat - and after</span> a while we went our separate ways.<br />
<br />
Later that evening we bumped into them again, the chat resumed, his flatmate wandered off and Florence absented herself from the group whispering to me 'he really likes you - I'm off to mingle.' We had another drink, there was a brawl (not unusual for a Kalgoorlie night spot after one in the morning) and I decided it was time to head home. He very politely asked for my number, saying he would like to see me again and could he walk me home. We went via his house were he made me a cup of tea and we chatted for about an hour. He gave me a kiss on the cheek outside my gate and that was that. <br />
<br />
He texted me the next day (before midday! Bless him) to say that he had a nice time, and on Tuesday he asked me out for dinner. <br />
<br />
So yeah, a good old fashioned dinner date. I haven't slept with him, I haven't even kissed him and he is taking me out. He's nice, if a little timid and certainly a touch damaged at the moment so I'm taking all this very cautiously. <br />
<br />
I'll be sure to tell you how it goes...Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-19902798676490154322011-01-09T14:23:00.000+08:002011-01-09T14:23:24.201+08:00The Christmas tradition.My first Kalgoorlie Christmas and new year is over. It wasn't so bad - apart from the heat... The town being what it is, it was an eerily quiet period. It seems all the workers return to their various homes and the families jet out to visit relatives in capital cities or escape the heat on the coast. Into the second week of January and the town is still rather deserted; restaurants and some pubs are still closed, shops are still operating on reduced hours.<br />
<br />
Mama and I spent Christmas with some mutual friends. It was quite nice really - all seafood and Pimms and dips in the pool. And new years was spent in the usual Kalgoorlie way, drinks at a bbq before heading into town and making the rounds of the nightspots. <br />
<br />
Despite the fact that I was here with Mum, I still felt a strange disconnect from the 'traditions' of Christmas past. For as long as I can remember Christmas has carried along the same lines. It's either Newcastle with Mum's family or Goulburn with Dad's family. Both involve an irritating Christmas eve pilgrimage and an over night stay in a spare room at an Aunty or Grandma's house. Both involve a Christmas morning watching the various cousins, and cousins of cousins, opening massive amounts of presents, a (usually late) lunch, an afternoon of drunk parents and naps in the spare room and an evening in the back yard on folding chairs. The next day, a train trip or drive back home. While similar in outline, the various Christmas experiences are a world apart (and never the twain shall meet).<br />
<br />
I can only remember one Christmas with both parents together in the same place. We were on the farm, so it must have been '85 or '86 and it would probably have been the first Christmas post parental marriage breakdown. Dad turned up on his motor bike while my sister and I were still in our pyjamas, presents were exchanged and some photos taken. I just remember this awful sadness from Dad and my own mixture of excitement and confusion. It being a 'Mum' Christmas we probably then headed off to Newcastle.<br />
<br />
The Newcastle Christmas has it's own particular groove. You can be guaranteed to receive a mug filled with chocolates or a bottle of shower gel or bar of soap with a face washer/tea towel/hand towel or something from the Christmas Avon catalogue as a gift. There will be a bowl of tinned pineapple on the table during lunch that noone will touch and later in the day the Aunties will get a bit tipsy and start teasing each other. The next morning will always be a bacon and egg breakfast cooked on the bbq by favourite Uncle Neville.<br />
<br />
The Goulburn Christmas seems a world away. Grandma will put the vegetables on to boil at 10 in the morning and around 12 we will be roped in to setting the table. There will be an argument about this time too - Grandma will make a characteristic comment about how Australians don't know the 'proper' way to celebrate Christmas and Dad will characteristically rise to the bait. Grandma will wander back into the kitchen pretending not to hear him and Dad will storm into the sanctuary of the back yard to vent on favourite Uncle Anthony who will, in his gentle way, listen and nod. We will then all sit down to sweat over a full hot Christmas dinner (lunch).<br />
<br />
The traditions are changing now. They have too, I suppose. Most of the 'children' are in their late twenties or early thirties some with children of their own. We now sit in the folding chairs or on the grass drinking with the adults. Uncle Neville passed away a few years ago so the bbq breakfast is cooked by someone else, next year Uncle Anthony will probably be spending his Christmas in his retirement in England and Grandma is 87 now and doesn't generally cook a full dinner (much to my dismay she hasn't done her bread sauce or onion sauce for some years now). My sister and I don't adhere as firmly to the turn taking model anymore - I spent a few Christmases with the Dutch Boy's family when we were together and hell, I even hosted lunch at my place once - and I now take the train on Christmas morning to avoid the orgy of present opening.<br />
<br />
We're developing our own traditions. My sister and I make sure we always have a new Christmas day frock to wear and I'll make a chocolate pavlova or arrive with a big bag of clinking wine bottles. One day, I assume, we will have our own kids and partners and the guidelines for the festive season will shift even further. A few constants remain though, Christmas is Christmas and family is family. And ever shall it be.<br />
<br />
So a belated merry Christmas to you all, and all the best for 2011! And if you're so inclined tell me your defining Christmas moment - I'd love to hear it...Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-80563185216347149482010-12-22T17:32:00.000+08:002010-12-22T17:32:36.546+08:00Old enough to know better.Disclaimer: I did not commit this act of senseless vandalism. I did however laugh uproariously and take a photo.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p_1YvW75U5U/TRHEx9uHoDI/AAAAAAAAAAU/Wjy0MzqgB8w/s1600/19122010710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" n4="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p_1YvW75U5U/TRHEx9uHoDI/AAAAAAAAAAU/Wjy0MzqgB8w/s320/19122010710.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ladies toilet, Palace Hotel, Kalgoorlie. <br />
19 Dec 2010, 2.24am.</td></tr>
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I feel better now. You may consider the subject closed.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-19456829143817613942010-12-13T07:34:00.001+08:002010-12-13T07:35:03.748+08:00Making the most of it?So I'm still here.<br />
<br />
Settling in to a routine has been fairly easy, truth be told. I go to work five days a week, I buy my groceries and pay my Mama rent (when I remember). I hit the town on the weekends with my small but developing group of friends and stay out way too late (seriously, last weekend we only left the club when we saw that the sun was coming up). I have discovered the local library which has been fun in an essentially nerdy way.<br />
<br />
Marshall and I resumed our 'thing' a month ago. He had been struggling with being in Kalgoorlie, away from his close knit family and had been preparing to toss the whole thing in and go home to Perth. Suffice to say, he decided to stay and subsequently decided that he wanted me to be a part of his life. Unfortunately he then decided, without letting me on in the decision, that he no longer wanted me to be a part of his life and all communication has since ceased. Tiresome in the extreme. <br />
<br />
I haven't had a great deal of luck improving my job prospects. Jobs come up, I apply for them and that's where it ends. Frankly, I'm getting sick of seeing jobs I've applied for and could do really rather well being re advertised. <br />
<br />
And that's it. <br />
<br />
Something tells me I'm not making the most of being here.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-25100955479053398902010-11-15T12:27:00.000+08:002010-11-15T12:27:26.186+08:00Sons and Daughters.Following the disappointment of my first paycheck, I'm going to be staying with my darling mother a little longer. Truth be told, it hasn't been that bad really. We barely see each other (I work nights, she starts early), a factor always conducive to a good relationship with your parents, I find... She is still a massive nag, and can't really navigate that fine line between child and flatmate, but it's ok.<br />
<br />
I am glad that I've been here recently. A few weeks ago now we got the news that her Sister had died. Tragic enough in its self, but for the fact that it had happened months before and no one had told the rest of the family. I'm not going to go into all the details, but it was a sad end to what was ultimately a sad and wasted life. Estrangement is never easy to justify, but it happened here. And it's sad. Very very sad.<br />
<br />
Yesterday we got the news that the 22 yr old son of a very close friend of hers had died in what was apparently an accidental drug overdose. <br />
<br />
I am crossing my heart in the hope that the law of threes won't apply here. She isn't dealing with it very well, not that she would ever admit it. So I'm watching her. And if she needs it I'll take her to the pub and ply her with beer, or make her get dressed up and take her out to dinner. <br />
<br />
Go hug your family.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-81382022550612866242010-11-02T02:22:00.000+08:002010-11-02T02:22:18.316+08:00Cup holderI have a theory about my role in relationships that I don't share too often, but I feel like sharing now. I liken myself to a cup holder. They are fantastic in a car, and really very useful - but you won't buy a car just because it has one.<br />
<br />
My conversation with Marshall never eventuated. Following my last post we caught up and he offered one of his spare rooms for me to move in to. That's right, he suggested I move in to his house. His justification was that we got on and we would be good company for one another. At the time I hinted at the potential difficulties we might encounter with being roommates, given that we were sleeping together and all, and that I should take a day or two to think it over. The next morning I reminded him of his offer and, just as enthusiastically he reiterated it. I was sold and decided to go for it. He has nice house, plenty of room, he's good to look at and fun to be around. And I liked him. Not over the top with like -but yeah, let's see what might happen here like. And I kinda figured it could go one of two ways - my constant presence would render him incapable of not falling in love with me and we would live happily ever after (and I could avoid having the talk) OR he would, at some point look around and think how the hell did I become attached to this fat chick and I would move back in with my mother or get my own place. <br />
<br />
These were 50/50 odds and I was prepared to accept them.<br />
<br />
Any hoo. Earlier tonight I sent him a message saying - hey, thinking about moving in next weekend, if the offer is still on the table. His response - I'm sorry, but I can't have you move in, I've got things going on. That is a quote.<br />
<br />
And I'm annoyed. Way annoyed. Fuck you annoyed. Things going on. <br />
<br />
It being my way, I have inferred two meanings from this. One - I have lost my job, and with it this residence and it's subsidised rent. Two - I've been seeing someone (properly), things are getting serious and you would seriously cramp my style, oh and we probably shouldn't sleep together any more. <br />
<br />
Now, I am a sensible person and can accept this. In fact, I accept the whole situation. Really. But it just fucking gets on my nerves that<em> I</em> couldn't be the one that gets picked and that <em>I </em>wasn't worthy of a phone call before now. That <em>I </em>must always be the one that misses out. I'm in this fucking place and it is still the fucking same. This fucking shits me.<br />
<br />
Now. I am posting this without saving it and re reading it because it is late - even by WA standards (In my defence, I didn't get home from work until 10.30) and I have been laying in bed stewing and annoyed at myself for the last hour and I needed to vent. For that, I thank you.<br />
<br />
Goodnight xSabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-43140717683772182932010-10-24T21:46:00.001+08:002010-10-24T21:51:11.474+08:00Doing things differentlyEverything seems to be picking up speed at the moment.<br />
<br />
Last week I picked up some casual work <a href="http://www.mininghall.com/">here</a>. I did one weekend and was offered a full time job elsewhere. Nothing terribly exciting, just reception/office admin at a motel in town and I start Monday. I'm taking a massive pay cut and the work is brain dead stuff, but it's a good opportunity to get some experience with different booking systems and the like. It also brings in enough cash that while I am looking for something more appropriate I can MOVE OUT OF MY MOTHER'S HOUSE!<br />
<br />
We had our first big bust up earlier this week. I was lamenting the absence of a Japanese restaurant in Kalgoorlie* and after a bit of too-ing and fro-ing she told me I needed to stop whingeing about being here and get out there and try things instead of sitting at home all day eating and moping. This is, indeed, a valid point (except for the eating thing. If anything it is my daily cigarette quota that she ought to be worried about). I did not take it as such at the time and informed her in my best shriek-y adolescent voice that I was well within my rights to be miserable and mopey as I had just moved to the other side of Australia and was busy dealing with that, OK. We both retired to our respective bedrooms (cue the obligatory door slamming) with massive glasses of wine and have not spoken about it since. Given that I have been sleeping in her spare room for just over a month and that I have, in fact, been acting the miserable chain-smoking, non dish washing (30 year old) adolescent, I'm surprised this hadn't happened sooner.<br />
<br />
I love my mother intensely and I will defend her to the death but, good lord, she is a trying woman. She nags - my god she nags - and she is judgemental and, to be frank, quite narrow minded some times. A trait that I have only just discovered. She drinks too much and she is always much too loud. And worst, that is what people find endearing about her. She is a 'woman of a certain age' yet she will not let me pay for her to get a style hair cut and she talks way too openly about sex. <br />
<br />
For example: <span style="background-color: white;">there is another person living in this house and he is attempting to set me up with his friend. This is not going to happen. This evening, in a gentle attempt to rebuff his suggestions, I mentioned that there was someone on the scene that I was interested in and that I would like to see what happens there. Mother darling responded to this by bellowing 'HIM, he's just a booty call. (Name) is just a booty call. Booty call, booty call, booty call.' </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I stomped off with my glass of wine. Of course.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Oh, so yeah, something seems to be happening on the boy front. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">A little about him - he is only slightly younger than me (28), lovely and tall (6ft 3") and heavy on the shyness. He is also, quite frankly, gorgeous. He does, unfortunately, have a penchant for what I will call 'rap' music (I am a Nanna and shall be judged accordingly) and, as such, I will refer to him as Marshall**. And I like him.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">As you might have already gathered, I am useless with boys. I have an unfortunate tendancy to not deal with my feelings, leaving the potential relationship to hang in never-never land until it fizzles out or veers into the dreaded 'casual' zone. I will also usually sleep with them too quickly. I am hideously self conscious, and filled with jealousy and I will read too much into text messages or conversations. All this gets dressed neatly, for the fellow, in a veneer of lightness and, potentially, coldness. I don't like to hold hands and I will always find an opportunity to interrupt a nice touchy-feely moment on the lounge with a distraction.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">However, as I said, I like him. And I don't want this to happen here. I did wait until our third 'date' to sleep with him and I have been more open to 'togetherness,' something that he seems very comfortable with.This change of tack does mean that I will have to have a 'conversation' with him sooner rather than later. Something I am dreading more than I can say. I don't even know how to start one of these conversations.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"So, do you like me?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"So, what do you want from this - us?"</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">"So..."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I came here to do something different, but most importantly to do things <em>differently</em>. And I will damn well have this conversation if it kills me. Rest assured, I'll let you know how it goes...</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*I have been having some serious cravings for salmon sashimi. Almost pregnancy-esque cravings. Except, of course, if I was indeed pregnant, I would be unable to partake in said craving due to the whole raw fish yada yada doo-hickey.<br />
<br />
**Yes, as in Marshall Mathers III, aka Eminem. I had the joy of listening to one of his albums the other night - I also listened to Tupac for the first time. I don't think that name quite suits him though.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-75156038439428994652010-10-12T16:23:00.000+08:002010-10-12T16:23:10.681+08:00The small stuff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> </div><div align="justify" class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">The phrase 'don't sweat the small stuff' has always irritated me. I understand it conceptually, I even agree with it to a certain extent, but you know what? I love the small stuff. My three weeks in Kalgoorlie has been all about the small stuff - good and bad. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I adore the fact that everyone here has a Ute, or a Holden or one of those yummy mummy 4 wheel drives. It amuses me no end that there is a house around the corner entirely decked out in Fremantle Docker's colours. And it makes me literally laugh out loud that the same team has recently changed their strip.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> <img border="0" ex="true" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_p_1YvW75U5U/TLQI-h6UQ4I/AAAAAAAAAAQ/13eyZuiA1pk/s320/23092010694.jpg" width="320" /></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I love that it is so quiet here at night and that the birds wake up when it is still dark, 3.30 - 4 in the morning. I am encouraged by the fact that I can afford to purchase real estate - something entirely unobtainable, for me, in Sydney.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My faith in mankind is restored when I receive a hearty farewell when I leave the local pub. And that these same people remember small details of conversations previously had. And it's kinda cool that I get to sit at the bar and the bartender will automatically bring over a refill when I'm close to finishing my glass.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am relieved that the dry climate has cleared up my problem skin and that I haven't had a frizzy bad hair day since I arrived.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">On the other hand.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Every bloody householder owns a dog, generally a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, and it is those same dogs that bark CONSTANTLY. At night, or from behind a tall fence, or the back of one of the aforementioned Utes every time I walk past. Combined with the incessant early morning chirping of the birds, the silence is less and less attractive. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The same Utes and cars may also have a 'Fuck Off We're Full' sticker proudly displayed across the back. The misappropriation of Australian imagery far exceeds that of Cronulla in the wake of the riots some years back. Without putting anyone offside - I'm not terribly fond of Southern Cross tattoos. At one of the other pubs in town, I saw a perfectly lovely, normal looking girl with one ON HER NECK. At another I saw a skimpy (lingerie waitress - in polite terms) with one on the small of her back. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">It is the same sense of community that gives rise to the whole of bar farewell, that works to exclude anyone that operates outside of what is considered the norm. Indigenous patrons are blatantly, and often forcibly, removed from establishments. There is such absolute and open hostility toward the community and quite frankly I find it appalling. I have also learnt that I should keep these opinions to myself.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My frizz free hair comes at a price. The dry desert climate has left my sinuses completely stripped bare - I wake up with a bleeding nose some mornings and I'm prone to spontaneous and simultaneous sneezing and coughing fits. I seriously sound like a cat with a fur ball. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I am having fun though. I have made a new 'friend' and a new friend. The former is a lovely boy - quite gorgeous really - though it is nothing to get too excited about. And the latter is an absolutely fabulous girl - a Sydney girl originally - with a sense of humour entirely too close to mine. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I still have my moments when I think I'm getting back on a plane next week to go back to my little apartment and my lovely pussy cat, only to come crashing back to reality. And I did have a face in my hands 'Mummy, I want to go home' episode not so long ago... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that it really is the 'small stuff' that can make or break me here. It's up to me to decide what to sweat.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-63468304294193181322010-10-05T14:34:00.000+08:002010-10-05T14:34:45.677+08:00In which I reject fatalism.A sensitive soul asked my darling mother the other night why she wasn't a Grandmother yet. Her standard response of 'Well, Lucy is a career girl, and Sabine just hasn't met the right man yet' followed. My rebuttal of 'That's why I came to Kalgoorlie - I heard that the men were easy' was met with much laughter. Truth be told I was only half joking.<br />
<br />
Anecdotaly, the ratio of men to women in this town is 7/1. Taking out the married/attached, the age inappropriate and the down right dodgy, you are still left with pretty good odds. I've always been - shall we say - lucky in my previous visits. <br />
<br />
On my first visit, some 2 years ago now, I became acquainted with a fabulously tall gorgeous man. He challenged me to rock, paper, scissors with the promise that the winner could name their prize and that he always won. He didn't. Needless to say my idea of an appropriate reward wasn't far from his. The next night he cooked me dinner and we shagged like rabbits. We kept in contact for a while, until he resumed his relationship with his long term on again, off again partner. On my second visit we had arranged to catch up for dinner. We didn't and on the night we were to dine, I met The Cowboy instead. The Cowboy was the quintessential country boy, all RM Williams and awkward conversation. Completely irresistible really.<br />
<br />
The Cowboy plays quite a key role in my Kalgoorlie story. On our first night together there was, what I like to call, a contraceptive fail. An inconvenience that I think most of us have experienced. He was very sweet about it, I brushed it off with the intention to pop in to the chemist the next day for the morning after pill. The next morning he wasn't so sweet and couldn't be woken. I stormed out declaring him an arsehole of the first order.<br />
<br />
The visit to the chemist didn't happen that morning - I was late for a day at the races (I'm a classy wench). That night at the pub he came up to me with open arms declaring how sorry he was and that he ran after me when he heard me leave but I was already out of sight. The image of him standing naked at the front door was too much and we left soon after. That night he stated that if I didn't want to take the morning after pill he would be supportive - that he had never met anyone like me before and could really see us together. I cried (I do that a lot), and decided that I wouldn't. That I would take a chance.<br />
<br />
Obviously it wasn't to be and our previously constant communication faded after a few months. I was oddly devastated. it wasn't that I'd lost him, or some hypothetical child, it was that I had lost the opportunity to have my directionless life thrust toward something. It was here that both the Dutch Boy and the anxiety enter the picture. Something was definitely wrong and I didn't know how to fix it.<br />
<br />
I visited Kalgoorlie again. I spent 10 disappointing days trying to reestablish that initial connection with the Cowboy only to return at night to sit on the edge of my darling mother's bed and cry. She correctly identified my crisis as being more than just my inability to speak country boy and the seeds for the move had been sown. She also recommended some medication might be in order - a suggestion I steadfastly refuse to entertain.<br />
<br />
My coming here has been my way of attempting to take the reins, to build a life for myself that for whatever reason has been crumbling slowly. Why or how I've allowed this to happen, I can quite say and I keep reminding myself that where ever I go I will always take me with me, but I'm going to try and make it work.Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-54942458773398330572010-10-04T17:36:00.000+08:002010-10-04T17:38:01.134+08:00The timetableShortly before I turned 25, I imposed a timetable. By 30 I would have a well developed relationship, if not a marriage, with children imminent. Shortly before I turned 25, I met the previously refered to ex. I'll call him the Little Dutch Boy.<br />
<br />
It was made clear to me that he was never really physically attracted to me. Sure he liked me, and he had a timetable of his own so we stuck with it. A physical attraction certainly developed, but I never really believed it. This knowledge tainted the relationship. I never felt that anything I did was good enough and it was definitely communicated to me when it wasn't. I rested the steaks for too long and they were cold, he didn't like the way I cooked beans, I didn't earn enough money and I didn't dust behind the television. Suffice to say he had some issues. <br />
<br />
We both drank too much, I put on a lot of weight and cried a lot. I started fights practically begging him to <em>show me something</em>. Prove to me that you wanted to be here. The end of the relationship coincided with the end of my last year at Uni. After 3 years I couldn't do it anymore and in the middle of the same fight we always had and over the phone on my lunch break at work I ended it. I moved out and spent 2 weeks on my sister's lounge drinking and crying. <br />
<br />
In the 3 years since, apart from one brief but intense fling, I have been single. I got on with things. I lost some weight, I started earning decent money and I slept around a little. While that makes it sound like an easy time, it wasn't and I probably wasn't until about a year and a half ago that I started to feel 'right.'<br />
<br />
Early this year the Dutch Boy came back into my life. He sought me out after his rebound relationship ended with accusations of infidelity and a miscarriage. He told me how great I looked, how proud of me he was, how much he desired me and how deeply he regretted that our relationship ended. He fought for me. He was giving me everything that I begged for during our 3 years together. I softened, but after a number of heavy duty panic attacks, came to the realisation that I couldn't do it. I love him dearly and always will, but I just couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
So ends a potted version of the most significant relationship in my life thus far. More examination of love and Kalgoorlie next post...Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-20883421316833520882010-09-29T17:32:00.000+08:002010-09-29T17:32:20.113+08:00The job huntMy darling mother has been living here for around 3 years. The majority of which she has spent trying to convince me to move here. She found her way here through a series of work related circumstances and has an ongoing (not terribly amusing) joke that she's the only person who moved here to earn less money. One of the key themes of her nagging was that I could easily find well paying work, really do well for myself etc. I think she forgets that Arts degrees and discarded teaching diplomas aren't of the 'job-getting' variety... <br />
<br />
My search for work is really only in it's infancy. I only officially ceased being employed yesterday and I have a nice little severence packing coming to me, so I've not felt any urgency yet. There have been a few administration jobs advertised and I've dutifully applied for them, of course, and with only one 'thanks but no thanks' email it's still all fairly positive. <br />
<br />
Despite this sensible and reasonable approach, I seem to have shifted all my anxiety about being here onto my employment situation. I mope around the house like any unemployed 30 year old living with her mother, moaning about my dismal job prospects. I fret about the perception of my former employee, I punish myself by blaming any potential rejection on being too fat and not having the right wardrobe, I've fashioned my unemployment into a water tight excuse not to pay rent of any sort (quite handy that one, really).<br />
<br />
Here the employment market operates out of the front bar of any one of the myriad pubs. It really isn't what you know, it's who you know. Last night I ventured out of my misery and went to the pub. On my second beer a woman who works at the local campus of a University sidled up to me and said - 'I'd love to give you a job right now but there will be a restructure and new contracts issued in December if you can wait till then.' <br />
<br />
Thank you very much sister of my mother's ex boyfriend that I've met once...Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8172924819610461882.post-35979115044634098822010-09-28T16:04:00.000+08:002010-09-28T16:04:37.181+08:00KalgoorlieMost sensible people who feel like a change will get a haircut, or look for a new job. You might even move house if you feel like torturing yourself. I decided to move to the other side of the country.<br />
<br />
My life wasn't bad. I had a nice solid job as a staffer to a federal politician, earning enough to rent a one bedroom apartment in a decent part of Sydney's east. My social life was definitely lacking, but I'd get out for breakfast on Saturdays, or dinner in Surry Hills regularly enough that I didn't feel like a shut in. I had a devoted ex boyfriend (a truly lovely man) wanting to marry me and make me the mother of his children.<br />
<br />
But I was stuck. Anxiously, tearfully, hideously stuck. And I didn't want any of it anymore.<br />
<br />
So I moved to Kalgoorlie.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p_1YvW75U5U/TKGgk1PSDqI/AAAAAAAAAAM/_bhKMayLM9I/s1600/04042010595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" px="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_p_1YvW75U5U/TKGgk1PSDqI/AAAAAAAAAAM/_bhKMayLM9I/s320/04042010595.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kalgoorlie, in all her red dirted glory</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">To be honest, I didn't quite know what else to do.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>I'm writing this as an outlet, a way to try and make sense of what I'm doing and where I am and what I'm experiencing. I'm going to need all the help I can get!Sabinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03543633759859248302noreply@blogger.com1