Superchurch Dot Org

My 100 churches experiment hasn’t really gotten underway yet, due to my aforementioned obligatory piano playing. However, I’ve managed to tick another church off my list, without even having to get off my vast acreage and go anywhere. “How could this be possible?” I hear you gasp in awe. Quite simple, really. I remembered another one I’ve already attended. Superchurch Dot Org.

I went there with a friend a few weeks ago, but not for the first time. After the last time, I didn’t think I’d be going again. I kind of likened it to one of those Chickenfeed Christmas crackers you get. They look pretty spiffy, all wrapped up in pretty paper with gold dangly bits on them. But then you pull on them, and they don’t go “bang”. So you have to get the strip of “bang” paper out, and practically burn your fingers off trying to get it to go. Then you look inside and realise there’s no toy. Or if there is a toy, it’s one of those little hoppy frogs, or a keyring token, or something just as gay. You put the hat on (if there is a hat), and it falls down around your neck. And the jokes (if there are any jokes) are the lamest dad-jokes you’ve ever heard. But that’s all Christmas crackers, really. Where the hell was I going with this analogy? Oh yeah. It had all the appearances of something really great, but when it came down to it, there wasn’t really much substance. Unfortunately, this time was no different.

• The service reminded me of television. Before you had time to get bored with one thing, something else was dancing in front of you, commanding your attention. First, there’s an upbeat song to get us all in the mood. Next, a multimedia presentation. Then another song. Then the announcements. Then a drama. Then another song. All in quick succession. I mean, we’d hate for people to actually have five seconds worth of headspace to themselves to contemplate any of the things they’re seeing or hearing. Perhaps they’re catering for the growing population of people who’ve “got that ADHD”. Who knows. What I ‘got out of it’ (it’s about getting, after all) were two distinct impressions: this church values excellence, and they value prosperity. Everything that was done was done to a very professional standard, with little expense spared.
• Of course there was the ubiquitous ‘connection time’ – five painful minutes of either awkward shuffling and forced small talk, or sitting and watching members of the various cliques eagerly catching up with each other. If you were new, you could draw further attention to yourself and wave your arms around to get a voucher for a free coffee at the café after the service. Up until this point, I had ignorantly held the misconception that all coffee was free at church. Boy, was I stupid.
• The sermon was given by a slightly panic-stricken church leader, and the gist of it was something like, “Don’t leave! We’re losing numbers! It’s God’s will for you to keep coming here! Please don’t go!” Of course, those actual words weren’t uttered, but they may as well have been. The guy brought out three chairs – one office chair, one dining room chair, and one that was a smaller version of the ones the audience… err… sorry, congregation were sitting on. The office chair was to represent work, the dining chair home, and the church chair, well, church. A parallel was then drawn between the amount of time the average Christian spent sitting on each chair. Cue forty five minute guilt trip. For fuxake, you think I want to spend the majority of my waking hours at work? Besides being annoyed about that, it was strongly insinuated that the only one of these chairs that would enable you to be with God was the church chair. That really pissed me off, because that’s pretty much the opposite of how I’ve found it to be. Then he said that even being five or ten minutes late for church would make God angry. Damn. I’m totally screwed.
• I was ever so slightly cheered by the announcement that we’d be hearing not one, but three testimonies tonight. I love testimonies. Most likely it’s due to my secret voyeuristic tendencies, but I like to think it’s because they’re real. A well articulated, honest testimony is worth a thousand sermons. So I listened to the testimonies, and they were pretty real at first. But they all ended as soon as the conversion experience was described. “I had this shit life, and all this stuff happened [insert watered-down version of stuff]. Then I came to know God, and I lived happily ever after”. So… that’s it? That’s the sum total of life? And you’re happy with that? What are you going to do with yourself now that your life has reached its zenith at the ripe old age of thirty two? Sit around and wait to be taken up to glory? Meh. I guess I’m the only one who still has shit stuff happen, who still gets depressed, who still wonders what the point of it all is.

What is the point of it all, anyway?

Actually, come to think of it, I quite like the hoppy frogs in Christmas crackers. They’re kind of cool in an unpredictable sort of way. If I can land a hoppy frog into the drink of an annoying relative next Christmas, it’ll make the whole damn thing worthwhile.

Christmas Day

Venue 1

Me: Hi Dad
Dad: Hello! Good to see you. Would you like a drink? What do you fancy? Gee, your hair looks nice that colour. And I like your shirt. What have you guys been up to this morning? Have a seat! Lunch won’t be far away.

Venue 2

Me: Hi Mum
Mum: Hello! Mwah! I came to the carols the other night. I heard that little glitch in your voice during your solo… hahaha! You must have been SO embarrassed! I certainly would have been, if it had happened to me. But you kept going, even under the circumstances. Oh how horrible! I’ve got the whole thing recorded on my mobile phone! Hahahaha! (walks off laughing.)

Heed His Call

Here is something I read in a newsletter at church recently that made me chuckle to myself:

“It is the intention of [this church] to make an advance group booking for next year’s Hillsong Conference. Please pray for the Lord’s leading in your lives, and that He may call upon you to attend the conference in 2009, and that you will heed His call and make this important commitment to the Lord.”

Now, it’s not the conference itself that I’m laughing at – I’m sure they’re just swell. It’s the fact that there’s obviously no doubt in the author’s mind that it is indeed God’s will for, well, pretty much everyone to go to the next conference. It’s just a matter of whether you are in communion with Him enough to recognise this. It’s like one of those questionnaires that asks a yes/no question, then assumes that you’ve answered a particular way by the way it asks the next question:

Q1. Do you like turnips? Yes/No
Q2. Why don’t you like turnips?

I mean, why pray for the Lord’s leading in your lives about the conference when the very next prayer is going to be to ask him that he may call upon you to attend it? And to cap it all off, then you’re going to pray that you will ‘heed his call’? Why not just ‘heed his call’ to begin with, and save the effort of praying about it, if you’re so sure that’s what he’d want? Fer cryin out loud!

Hehe. “Heed His call”. I mean, who talks like that any more? Hehehe.

Firefox Rox

For some reason, up until yesterday, this blog was only working in Firefox. No doubt it was because of my inferior HTML skills, but I preferred to think that it was because Internet Explorer is shit. That was my reason and I was sticking to it. Besides having a blog that only worked in Firefox was like writing it in invisible ink. Only cool people who used the same browser as me would be able to read it. It was like so Famous Five.

Anyway, it started to irritate me that I couldn’t fix whatever the problem was, and I threw a mini tantrum and cried to K, and he spent hours looking at my el-crappo code, and he found the problem and fixed it!

That’s why I love him. Not just because he fixed it, but because he fixed it even though I sooked about it. What a guy.

Gardening

Since uni has finished for the year, I’ve been spending quite a bit of my spare time gardening. I’ve finally gotten around to planting a veggie garden. I’m so proud of myself. The only spot that seemed suitable was right next to the house in the backyard. It looked like it had been used as a veggie plot before, because when we moved in it was just a patch of dirt that had been enclosed with rocks. Then some weeds grew. Then they grew even bigger. So when I finally got around to doing something about it, it took ages. Plus, there were all these rocks and half bricks and busted bottles etc in the dirt. It was like landfill. Then I had to possum-proof it. That took ages too, but planting the garden would have been pointless otherwise. I hate possums, and they’re everywhere around here. I planted snow peas, tomatoes, zucchinis, cucumbers, capsicums, spinach, lettuces and parsley. Oh, and I put some mushroom compost in crates.

That was a couple of weeks ago now, and I just went up to have a look at how things were going. Much to my surprise, my plants are growing! They aren’t dead! I really think I was expecting them to be, which disturbs me a bit. But they aren’t! I tried something, and it worked! I’m glad it worked, because if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered trying again.

If I were reading this on someone else’s blog, I would have stopped reading by now. I’d have scanned through the entry, thought, “bah! Gardening! Booo-riiing!” and clicked the next link by now. But I don’t care. Gardening is boring, and reading about someone else gardening – even more so. But when I think of anything else that people my age do, I realise that I’m not interested in any of it. I don’t have an all-consuming career. I don’t want kids. I don’t go out partying. But I don’t have any other pursuit that defines me either – I know what I don’t like, but I’m not really sure what I do.

But I do like gardening. Gardening is normal.

I like something that is normal. A part of me is normal. I am normal.

Worker

I consider myself a somewhat creative person. Probably not as creative as some might think I am, seeing as I rarely have ideas of my own. Most of the artistic stuff I’ve done over the years has been a copy of something I’ve already seen or heard someone else do. But I guess I do have some level of artistic ability, as the ‘copies’ I have attempted have ranged from “not bad” to “pretty darned accurate”. I remember when I was growing up hardly a day would pass when I wasn’t making some crafty thing, drawing a picture, designing, building, envisioning. I’d wake up on a weekend with an idea burning inside that I would just have to try out.

Occasionally I still get split second glimpses of that creative desire. But only glimpses. Enough to remember what it used to be like. And I know why it’s gone. I’m a worker now.

Working (almost) full time requires a great percentage of my waking hours, a lot of my attention, thoughts and energy. Monday and Tuesday I work. Usually Wednesdays are reserved for studying. Thursday and Friday I work. Weekends are for winding down, or housework, or social occasions, or obligatory activities. Then the cycle starts all over again.

At first, when one of those split second glimpses of creativity would flash into my mind, I would do my utmost to grab a hold of it. I’d summon up any leftover dregs of energy and force myself to focus on one of the many activities I used to love – playing music, drawing, writing, sewing, etc. But as the glimpse faded, so did my motivation. I’d end up hating the project I’d begun, struggling through to the end. Or worse, not finishing it at all.

I’ve come to realise that in order for the creativity of yesteryear to dwell in me again, I need time. I need more than a day, or two days rest from work. By the end of the two weeks of holidays that I had recently, I was motivated. Raring to go. Lots of projects were flying through my mind. Where to start? Nowhere, that’s where. It was time to go back to work. Batteries recharged, I had to spend my renewed energy, concentration and motivation on my job. Going back to work, where bit by bit the life gets sapped out of me again, while I look forward to my next lot of holidays to recover from it.

Is it worth it? I have a lovely place to live, nice possessions, and we never go without. I am sacrificing my time and energy, and that small creative part of me along with it, for financial comfort. For possessions that I never have the time to enjoy. Our house is lovely and sunny, but I’m never home during the day to enjoy it. We have a deck, a hammock and outdoor areas, but lack the leisure time that the enjoyment of these things requires. When I do have a Wednesday off, or a weekend, I spend it staring vacantly into space, zombified by work, trying to get work out of my head so that I can concentrate on something worthwhile. I can’t decide what to focus my precious spare time on. I wander here and there, not really satisfactorily finishing any one thing. All I can think about is how little time I have before I have to go back to work. I no longer have the mental clarity I used to. My mind is a fog. I forget things. I have no concentration span. I don’t care about anything.

I know, boo hoo. Everyone else has the same dilemma. And it’s not that there’s anything wrong with my job. I get paid a pretty reasonable wage for doing things that require not much effort on my part. The work isn’t hard. It isn’t strenuous, and it’s not really boring. It’s just constant. It’s like a dripping tap. One drip isn’t really a lot of water, but if you put a bucket under it, then by the end of the day that bucket would hold more than you realise. That’s what it feels like to me – I look at that bucket of water and think, “did all that come out of me? I didn’t realise I had that much water to give. Imagine all the other things I could have used that for”. Instead, I used it explaining people’s accounts to them, and taking their credit card numbers.

I don’t think I can take much more before I completely lose the person I am. But I’m trapped. I can quit work and have nowhere to live and no means to be creative even if I wanted to be. Or I can keep working for another twenty years until the mortgage is paid off, by which time I’ll be fifty and my young adulthood will be behind me.

Some fucking choice.

Dear Blog

Dear Blog

I just wanted to drop you a line, seeing as it's been a while. I'm really sorry that we haven't been keeping in touch much lately. It's not you, it's me. I still love you. I've just had so much on lately, and I know that' s no excuse, but I keep thinking I'll find the time and then it never happens. I'm sorry. I promise - once I've finished uni for the year, been a bridesmaid, scaled the mountain of paperwork, had the in-laws over to visit from SA, and played piano in church for two hundred consecutive weeks, I am so like totally gonna hang out with you.

Yours at the end of October,


Rebecca

Famous

Gus and I are famous!

I searched for my address on Google Maps, clicked on 'street view', and there I was, riding down my driveway:








































What are the odds...

Holidays

I’m on two weeks holiday, starting today! YAAAY! I feel so… temporarily free. I’ve been engaging in all manner of uncharacteristic behaviour, like laughing spontaneously, smiling for no reason… just feeling happy in general really. I hardly recognise myself. K keeps looking at me with a quizzical expression, as though my personality is splitting right in front of his eyes. Never fear – I’ve got no doubt that my soul will be back to its regular shrivelled-prune state in a fortnight’s time.

Not that work has been that bad lately. We have a new staff member in the complaints… err… I mean accounts department. She’s not exactly Speedy Gonzales yet, but any work she does get done is work I don’t have to do myself. So I’ve been spending the last week at work doing those not-that-important-so-it’s-gonna-have-to-wait jobs. Like deleting old accounts. I printed out a giant list of businesses that have a thirty day account but haven’t used it for three years or more, and sat there methodically exterminating them, blasting their outdated zeroes and ones into oblivion. Bam! Pow! Like Space Invaders. But the Amstrad version, where you have to wait half an hour for the tape to load. Freakin archaic accounting system.

I could see why a lot of the businesses whose accounts I was disposing of probably didn’t last very long. Not that I know much about running a business, but even a dumbass like myself could tell that their scope was way too narrow. Of course the Cake Decorators Guild of Cressy was sent to the collection agency. I mean, geez. Were they really expecting to do well? Become a franchise, perhaps? Go global? Morons. So, to make the afternoon a little less mind numbing, I started my own Businesses Doomed for Failure list in my head. Like the Mobile Chihuahua Tail Clipping Service. Or the East Launceston Electric Toothbrush Repair Centre. Or the Over 70s Beach Volleyball Club of Liaweenie. Or the Penultimate Tuesday Morning Of The Month Walkie Talkie Association for Men Aged Between Forty Six and Forty Eight Who Also Happen To Really Like Crumpets And Have Problems Expressing Their Feelings And Who Always Wanted A Pet Labrador But Their Wife Wouldn’t Let Them And Their Wife Is Fat And Smells Bad.

I mean, you just never know.

Damn, I'm glad I'm on holidays.

Cold Shoulders

There are many things that I don’t, and will probably never, understand about the “yoof of today”. Most things I don’t really care to know. For instance, the specific yet rather oblique criteria one must meet to be considered ‘emo’. Or why great teenage oafs are riding around on those little clown bikes lately. What’s with that? Don’t they realise they look ridiculous? Anyway, one thing that I have wondered about in my vast amounts of spare time, is why my idea of being sufficiently clothed seems to differ so greatly from the idea of most young girls, particularly when going out for a night on the town.

I was driving through town on my way to pick up K from work the other night. It was bloody cold. The heater in the car was cranked, I had my puffy snowman jacket on, and my teeth were still chattering. So imagine my horror when I turned my head and saw a gaggle of girls on their way to Sporty’s, or Lonnie’s, or Gropey’s, or whatever meat-headed oonce-fest they were heading to, wearing nothing but a few strategically placed hankies. Seriously. One girl was wearing a see-through strapless dress, barely covering her boobs, and finishing up just under her butt cheeks. Another had on what I will tentatively term a ‘mini skirt’ (I’ve seen belts that are wider), a crop top and stilettos. All the girls had more skin showing than was covered. All the girls were shivering. All were struggling to walk in shoes that resembled Paddle Pop sticks with toothpicks glued on for heels.

I mean, I’ve never pretended to be a girly-girl. I’ve never really fit in with groups like that. But most groups that I don’t fit into, I can at least understand somewhat, if not appreciate. I don’t understand what they are hoping to achieve by dressing like that. No doubt they’re trying to attract attention from the opposite sex. But surely it’s possible to look nice and keep warm? And apart from being cold, they weren’t exactly leaving much to the imagination. I mean, I’m not a guy, so I don’t think like one, but surely part of the fun is wondering what someone is like underneath their clothes, rather than have all those interesting bits on display for the world to ogle (or wince) at. Do guys really like girls who dress like that? Are they rewarded for their discomfort? I guess they must be, otherwise they wouldn’t bother. Someone, please enlighten me.

Fuxake. IT'S WINTER, PEOPLE!

Church-A-Palooza

Hmmm. My relationship with church (the institution) has always been one of those love-hate things. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I don’t love it or hate it. I nothing it. Before we moved to Launceston, I hadn’t been to church for ages, maybe a year or two. And that was damn fine with me. No early Sunday mornings, no wasting a quarter of my precious weekend sitting through services that would inevitably bore me to death, no pressure to join the music team, the prayer team, the morning tea roster, the cleaning roster, the missionary prayer group, the community care constituent, the finance committee, the Croquet for Jesus Club, the Ladies Coathanger-Knitting Guild, to lead the youth group (just because I seem to fit that ‘youth leader age group’, or image, or was seen in the hallway talking to a ‘yoof’, or was overheard accidentally saying the words “awesome” or “generation”), or anything else that’s gonna drain me of any life or energy or passion or personality I may have had when I first arrived. But then, we moved to Launceston, and out of nowhere this strange, almost foreign desire came over me – the desire to start attending somewhere again. I know – annoying – but I went with it anyway. I sussed out a few places, before settling on one in particular. Let’s call it, say, “Thump Plate”.

Originally, I went along to Thump Plate because my (then) boss invited me to. Then, I met some really cool people, and through those people became involved in the Group of Indeterminable Cause. It was those people who kept me going along to church. Then, a bunch of people at Thump Plate had a hissy fit about the pastor there – they wanted “good solid Bible teaching”, and he wanted them to get off their spiritually obese arses and actually do something constructive with their faith (I know – the nerve!) In the end, they ‘ran him out of town’ in the form of a pastoral feedback survey. So nearly all of the people that I’d become friends with there stopped attending. The only reason I’m still going at all is because in the midst of all this, I was coerced to play piano for the service occasionally. I enjoy playing piano, so I agreed – on the proviso that I wouldn’t be playing very often, and that there wouldn’t be too many rehearsals taking up my spare time. So now, a few months later, I find myself one of only two piano players in the whole church, rostered on to play at least every second Sunday, and spending most Saturday afternoons rehearsing. Fuxake. The only reason I’m still going to Thump Plate is because I enjoy playing piano. But I don’t have to be a prophet to see that it won’t be long before I’ll be tired of playing so often.

So for a while there, much to my disgust, I thought I was starting to turn from my church-whore ways, and settle into a long term monogamous relationship. But not for much longer, I fear. Now don’t get me wrong – when I started out on the seemingly futile venture of finding a church where I felt like I fit in, I was never searching for a place that offered interesting church services. I would have been foolish to set my standards that high. Interesting church services are on par with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, unicorns, and church luncheons without egg sandwiches. Pure myth. Every service I’ve ever attended at any church has culminated in some form of church-coma – the only variation has been the depth. I’ve all but given up hope of ever reconciling the relationship I have with God to the outward appearance of religion that constitutes church as I’ve known it. (I’m totally willing to be proven wrong here. Please… someone? Anyone? I see that hand! Oh, you were just stretching? Okay…sorry). I guess ultimately what I’m searching for, in order of likelihood, is firstly to be able to connect with people, and secondly to be able to connect with God. Both of those things I find much easier to do outside of the church environment. So why go at all? I don’t know. Something just keeps drawing me. Boredom? Martyrdom? Dehydration? One of those giant hooks you get people off stage with? I’m not really sure.

Then, I had an idea. Pastor Beard, the ex-pastor, mentioned one day that there are over one hundred registered churches in Launceston. ONE HUNDRED. That’s a lot. Why would a population of 80,000, with an estimated percentage of church-going Christians of 9%, need ONE HUNDRED churches?! That’s one hundred buildings that are owned, mortgaged or rented. One hundred pastor’s wages. One hundred electricity bills. One hundred photocopiers that are on their last legs. What a waste of money. Surely there’s a better way? I suppose there probably is. But rather than ponder the answer to that, I got to wondering; is there a soul alive who has ever been to all of these churches? I doubt it. I am assuming that all but a handful are of the Christian persuasion, and probably most are of Protestant descent rather than Catholic, which means that the majority of the churches would be pretty similar. How different could they possibly be from each other? How could one small city need so many separate gatherings of believers?

So, I have set myself a challenge. I am going to try and attend one hundred churches in Launceston. No, really – I am. It will take years. But I will run the race. I will not rest until it is done. And I’m really really going to try not to be an utter shit about it. I don’t want to attend them all so that I can bag the crap out of them. I’m genuinely interested in why so damn many are necessary. (Disclaimer: I may at times lapse in this new-found earnestness – I’m not a freaking miracle-worker after all).

To make my goal seem slightly more achievable, here are some I prepared earlier:

• Thump Plate Christian Centre
• The Church Near Our House (aka “Elderly Men Have Wandering Hands”)
• The Church That Starts With Z (aka “Banner Betty and the Hearing Loss Posse meets Mr Shouty”)
• City Life Christian Community Life Family Life Church
• The Church Formerly Known As “Joey Jo Jo Shabadoo's church”
• Nude Erections (does that one count? I only went for five minutes… Please don’t make me go back… curls up in foetal position)

So that's six. Only ninety four to go. Achievable? Unlikely. Impossible? Maybe. Daring? Not really. Cup of tea and a biscuit? There'd better be.

Nanny

At the risk of ruining my carefully cultivated reputation of being a cynical shit who exudes about as much warmth as a brick in a freezer, I love my Nanny. She’s the matriarchal glue that holds the funny looking bits of our family together in all its dysfunctional glory. Without her, I doubt the rest of us would have much to do with each other. At any rate, we’d almost certainly have to give up our lifelong passive smoking habit. Anyway, Nanny’s great. Here are some reasons why:

• Upon taking me in as a wayward 16 year old, the price was set for my lodgement at $30 per week. Apart from the fact that that amount wouldn’t even begin to cover my hot water consumption alone (and I’m proud to say my habit for unbelievably lengthy showers is still alive and well, hallelujah), she would then give three dollars back to me every day for my school lunch. Any effort to deny this generosity was met with her adamant refusal. "What about the lunches? I always cut the lunches."
• Rules of lodgement: "I’ll do your washin’, and you can do the ironin’. I’ve always done the washin’. Matter of fact, I’ve always done everyone’s washin’." Of course, she then proceeds to do the washin’ and the ironin’, much to my chagrin as a 16 year old try-hard grunge wannabe who certainly did NOT want her oversized clothes ironed. Washing them was dorky enough.
• When I think of Nanny, I picture her kicking back in her recliner, engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, in her favourite fuchsia leisure suit with matching fuchsia lipstick, with the fire going in the middle of summer, ranting about the Government, or dole bludgers, or what the Government aren’t doing about dole bludgers, or the price of any of the following: food, petrol, electricity, telephone, rates, water, registration, cat food, cigarettes, Austar, and… well… pretty much everything, really.
• She constantly has "one foot in the grave and one foot on a banana skin" – a precarious position indeed, but one she has claimed to be in for as long as I can remember
• I can hear her now, lamenting the demise of Wheel of Fortune, especially in its glory days. Apparently, Baby John Burgess was irreplaceable. (Personally, I’ve never seen anyone with quite the same inability to separate his head movements from the rest of his body. He reminds me of a paper puppet glued to a Paddle Pop stick). But never fear – whenever she pines for Wheel of Fortune, she can simply whip out one of the many episodes she still has on tape. I doubt that the solutions to the puzzles are all that surprising to her by now, but it’s the memories, gosh darn it.
• If she ever tires of the Wheel of Fortune tapes, there’s always the Deal or No Deal tapes to fall back on
• If you ask her how she is, you’d better make a cup of tea and have a seat – you’re in for a forty five minute health report, complete with gory details about seeping sores and runny eyes. And she’s always got "that damned cough again". It’s the dairy, you know. Nothing to do with the aforementioned cloud of cigarette smoke. No – it’s definitely the dairy. Come to think of it, the wad of butter that tends to accompany pretty much all five food groups would probably affect anyone’s health.
• The runny eye issue eventually led to an appointment at the hospital to have a cataract removed. After a hearty lunch, she turned up at the hospital, only to be told that she wasn’t supposed to have eaten anything. "No", argued Nanny, "They crossed that bit out in the letter – see, look!" She pulled the letter out from her bag. Upon closer inspection, someone pointed out that the part of the letter she was referring to was actually highlighted. Well! Nanny had never heard of a highlighter, had she! Evidently, if it’s not a pencil (for crosswords) or a bingo marker, it doesn’t rate a mention.
• Only Nanny could get lost in Westbury. With Daph and Elaine on the way back from the casino. I mean, Westbury…
• My brother suggested she program Consumer Affairs into the speed dial on her phone, rather than wearing out those particular numbers from repeated use.
• When asked if there are any plans for the next Christmas together, she always cheerfully replies, "Oh, I’ll be dead by then!"
• She refuses to get a CD player. She doesn’t need "one of those new fangled things"
• Anything that takes more than a passing thought is too much effort. She just "can’t be bothered". Yet she’ll be out of the recliner like a rocket if someone’s outside the house doing a U-turn in the cul-de-sac. Old people are so nosy.

Rock on, Nanny!

A Sermon Illustration

New Year's Resolution Haiku

Perhaps at age twelve
Hitchhiker's Guide's a good read
Twenty eight's too old.

Phone

My mobile phone died the other day. My trusty old black-and-white-screened monophonic-ring-toned bare-bones Nokia 1100. That phone was like a phone to me. I'm going to miss it and all its wonderful features, like… um… its ability to make and receive phone calls. Actually, come to think of it, I will miss the built in torch. And my Ernie and Bert phone cover. And Snake II.

So, seeing as I'm such a social butterfly, I needed a new phone quickly. I went to get one in my lunch hour, but ended up getting stuck in line waiting for lunch first, then I ran into someone I knew and yapped to them for a while (social butterfly, remember), so by the time I got into Wills and stood around waiting for a sales assistant to rouse from their slumber and come and serve me, I had precisely ten minutes before I had to be back at work. Luckily, I knew what I wanted and how much I wanted to pay. I wanted: a phone. Just a phone. I didn't want something that would make me a coffee in the morning or keep me constantly entertained. Just a phone. And I wanted one for under a hundred bucks.

Well, you sure do get more bang for your buck these days! (wtf does that mean, anyway?) You can't even GET 'just a phone' any more. My el-crappo Nokia 1100 cost me $89 three years ago. Pfft. PFFT, I say. The phone I hurriedly chose was $99 – one of those Nokia flip phones. It has a colour screen, plays MP3s and videos, has a camera and video function, surfs the internet, has bluetooth, a calendar, a stopwatch, a radio, a sound recorder, a converter, a memory card, a world clock, and Sudoku! SUDOKU! My life is complete. Sayonara, Snake II. You've been superseded.

So now that I've got a phone with a camera in it, I can take photos wherever I go (yes... it is I, Captain Obvious). So here's something I saw in a shop the other day that amused me:

Oh yeah, I bet you just can't shut her up. Life of the party, she is.

Aged Rage

My new job seems to be working out okay so far. Not that working in accounts is my dream career or anything, but it seems like a pretty cruisey place to work. Apart from the fact that it was like entering some sort of technology time warp. I mean, don't get me wrong – the good old days of CRT monitors, Office 97, dot matrix printers and DOS-based command prompt software were damn fine days indeed, but in this day and age I must admit I've gotten used to the finer things in life, like, oh I dunno, being able to email someone an invoice instead of faxing it. But the atmosphere there is a pretty good one, and that's the main thing. It seems like everyone who works there has been there for about twenty years, which is a good sign I guess. Either that or the place is like the employment equivalent of the Hotel California. Apparently on your 25th anniversary, employees are presented with a silver tray. On your 30th anniversary, you get a matching decanter. When I asked what you were supposed to do with the tray for five years while you waited for the decanter, they just laughed. Whether they were laughing at me, with me or near me, I'm still not sure.

This week, all the subscriber invoices went out with an error on them. Instead of the due amount being in the 'current – please pay in 30 days' box, the amount owing was printed in the 'overdue – please pay immediately' area. So all week I've been answering the phone to every damn Betty Jones in Launceston, demanding to know why their invoice says they are overdue when they know full well they aren't. Sigh. Needless to say, it's been a long week – one endless conversation with an irate elderly person. Elderly people aren't the only ones who subscribe, of course, but they certainly seem to be the only ones who complain. It wouldn't be so bad if they'd just tell me the problem, listen to my explanation and heartfelt apology, accept it, and hang up. But nooooo… First, they have to announce their age, the aeons they've been subscribing for, and make sure you're very clear on the fact that they have always paid on time. Then they have to tell you the whole long-winded story of how they came to discover the error on their invoice:

"Well! I woke up this morning, and after my cup of tea, I heard the mailman. And I thought to myself, 'There's the mailman. I might go and check the mail'. So, I went and checked the mail. I walked back inside with my letters, and I sat down to look at them, and I noticed there was a bill from you! So I opened it, and I had a look. And well! Imagine my shock when I saw that the bill said I was overdue! I have always paid on time, you know. I've never been overdue, and I've been subscribing for fifty years. I'm eighty six years old, you know!"

"Yes, I know Mrs Jones, I'm really very sorry. Our accounts were printed with an error on them. The amount that you owe is not overdue, it's in the wrong section. It should be in the 'current' section. You have until the end of the month to pay. I'm very sorry for the inconvenience. Please accept our apologies."

"Well! Yes! Because I'm not overdue, you know. I knew that was a mistake as soon as I saw it. I couldn't believe it! I mean, after I woke up and had my cup of tea, and heard the mailman, and went to the mail box, and came back inside, and opened the mail, and saw the bill from you, I was most unhappy! I've never been overdue. I have always paid on time, and I've been a subscriber for fifty years. I'm eighty six!"

"I'm really sorry, Mrs Jones. Hopefully the problem will be fixed by next month, so it shouldn't happen again."

"Well, I certainly hope not! I'm eighty six years old, you know! I've been subscribing for fifty years, and I've never been overdue!"

And so on. I finally get Betty off the phone, breathing a sigh of relief as I hang up the receiver. The phone rings again. This time, it's Wilfred Smith. He's ninety three years old. His mailman came before he'd had his morning cup of tea. He's got a good mind to cancel his subscription. He doesn't need this stress. He's ninety three years old. Next time I ring up to complain somewhere, I'm going to announce my age a few hundred thousand times and see if it makes a difference. Unfortunately, "I'm twenty eight! Give me a discount!" doesn't really have the same ring to it.

Work Schmerk

Lately I've been bounding out of bed every Saturday morning and racing down to the corner shop to get the paper to check the positions vacant. Okay, maybe not 'bounding'… probably more like 'ambling arthritically'. And maybe not 'racing' either… perhaps more like 'sauntering slothfully'. Anyway, checking the paper for a new job has become a highlight of my week. There's no need to tell me how sad-arsed this is – I'm fully aware.

A few weeks ago I saw a job that looked okay, as a credit clerk for a local publication. After five minutes and a few copy and pastes later, I had an application letter together. One interview and a medical later, I was offered the job! So, today was my last day at my current workplace, and I start my new job on Monday. I really really really really really really really hope I like it. I've had just about enough of shit work situations. New year, new job, new start, and all that glass-half-full kind of crap.

A few staff gathered around me at work today to say farewell. One of the partners of the firm asked me where my new job was. When I told him, and that it was in the accounts department, he screwed up his nose. "Ohhh… I hope you won't be in the debt collection part, ringing people up chasing payments. That would be awful. I had a friend who worked there and did that, and she lasted a whole three weeks before she quit. Horrible job, it was." He shook his head, evidently trying to clear it of the awful thought of what a horrendous job it would have been. I stared at him, instantly deciding that it would be best not to tell him that that was exactly what I'd be doing in my new job. Then, seeing the gigantic novelty farewell card I was given, he seized it from me, declaring that he'd forgotten to write in it. With tongue protruding from the corner of his mouth in concentration, he penned, "Have fun with Eb Hextall… hope you don't get stuck in the phone debt accounts collection".

Okay, first of all, who the fuck is Eb Hextall? And secondly, not only did he feel the need to verbally cast doubts on my future at a company I haven't even started working for yet, just in case that wasn't enough, he thought he'd do me a favour and put it in writing. In my farewell card. Ha! I suppose if I cared what he thought, I might be offended. Still, I hate to admit it, but I am slightly more worried about my new job than I was before. Damn.

I guess it could be worse. I could be starting a job as an accountant.

Obligatory Reminiscence

Where would any respectable blog be in a brand new year without some sort of half-arsed recap of the year just passed? Nowhere, that's where. I'm not scared to get all retrospective on yo ass. Nostalgia ain't what it used to be, you know.

When I think of how my life was exactly a year ago, I'm surprised at how much has changed. It doesn't really feel like we've done anything worth writing about, but when I think about it, I really am in a totally different place. A year ago, we were living in a flat in Ulverstone, having just bought our house in Launceston. We weren't going to church anywhere (unless you count my occasional sojourn to the Presbyterian down the road. Which I don't). I was working for AM in Devonport. In March we moved to Launceston – new house, new office. I began my career as a church hopper. I joined the Uni of Tas Symphonic Band. I auditioned for a musical. (Incidentally, I don't think I ever wrote about what actually happened there… well, if I may take the opportunity now… a couple of months went by and I didn't hear back from them, so I decided to call the director and ask him if I'd gotten a part or not. Well, he could find no record of me ever auditioning! Then he bluntly told me that it was too late now anyway, they'd started rehearsals. I was a bit disappointed – I was rather looking forward to "every single pastor in town coming along and critiquing my performance with ruthless honesty and bee-in-their-bonnet sensationalism". Oh well, maybe next time. In the meantime, this bracket is still open, and has just a few too many words within its confines to be considered grammatically correct, so I'd better rectify that now).

Where was I… oh yes… AM went belly up in June. K and I had our seven year anniversary in August, and celebrated with a trip to Melbourne. I got fired that same month (and, might I add, at the risk of creating another grammatically questionable diversion, I STILL HAVEN'T BEEN PAID MY STAFF ENTITLEMENTS! RAH!) Then, before you could even say "Job Seeker Diary", I was employed again. The excitement was short lived when I realised that most of my role there would involve finding new and interesting ways to prevent myself from nodding off at my desk. In October I applied for a job at a school that I desperately wanted. In November I got a rejection letter from them in the mail. That letter marked the beginning of a period of utter hopelessness that I'm only just emerging from. So yeah, I guess that's a fair bit of stuff really.

Also, here are some other little memorable things that I think of when I look back over the year just gone (in no particular order, and with no feeling of obligation on my part to explain any of the more ambiguous ones. So suffer in ya jocks.)

• lying in the hammock with K
• going for night walks and looking in people's windows to see what sort of lives they lead (mainly lots of TV watching, and a bit of ironing occasionally. Nice to know that everyone else is just as boring as I am)
• watching Australian Idol (go Carl!) and Fat People ("I know you're hurtin'… feels like you're lurnin…")
• listening to people's stories over a meal at the Group of Indeterminable Cause. Meeting some awesome people there
• Ladies Craft Group (bwahahahahaha!)
• getting braces on (again) and off (again)
• joining the Seedless Grapes Club
• meeting new friends at the pub
• Thursday night Bona Fide Born Again Believers Bible Study Brought to you By Ben and Barney
• playing in Uni of Tas Symphonic Band
• dyeing my hair black
• Hari's Curry, Thai takeaway and baked spuds from the van for lunch
• our sewerage being blocked for several weeks and K digging it up by hand
• taking a pillion passenger for the first time
• cups of tea with Rachel (Planet Organic Chai Spice to be precise)
• finding a new church that I might just possibly perhaps maybe feel like I could one day belong to (perchance)
• Watching The Simpsons movie at the Gold Class cinema at Crown Casino
• planting fruit trees and raspberries
• various creatures in our yard eating the aforementioned fruit trees and raspberries – wallabies, possums, frogs, blue tongue lizards, echidnas, bumblebees, and every freaking cat in Trevallyn
• playing Taboo on Christmas Day and Boxing Day
• Tuesday night production meetings
• reading the final Harry Potter book
• painting the lounge room & hall
• Ezzie's white whisker
• playing music in church again
• breaking into the old LGH (twice)
• Launceston and Burnie Carols by Candlelight

And finally, here are my New Years Resolutions for 2008:

1. Read "Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy"
2. Watch a Star Wars movie

I know. I like to aim high.