Super Update

Good afternoon dear readers (If I have any left).  I am finally in a possition to be back posting with some sort of regularity. Since writing last I have quit, been asked to stay on longer, been told to leave early, bludged at home, and spent too much time with too many relatives.

I have 12 mins left at an internet cafe so I am trying to keep this as short and sweet as possible.

The current plan is a bachelor of Journalist at University next year. Applications close at the end of January so fingers crossed that I am able to get my rear into gear by then, and that I’m accepted. Wish me luck.

I am going to get my internet sorted out in the next few days so hopefully I will be able to start posting properly. Heaven knows that there have been HEAPS of blogworthy things going on in the Land of Clare.

Oops, times just about up so I am going to trot off home and unwind from my Christmas fiasco. More about that to come.

I hope you all had a fabulous Christmas and all the best for the new year. Make it a good one because apparently it’s all over come 2012

This Makes So Much More Sense…

To be a Nerd, or not to be a Nerd, that is the question.

Last night over our splendid roast dinner, Marley and I were discussing the notion of my being a nerd.

I was at band practise on Tuesday night when I whipped out the book that I’ve been reading from my handbag.

The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson

This monstrosity is 400,000 words long and is over 1000 pages thick. So out comes the doorstop sized literary behemoth and several startled gasps come from the row behind me. I turn around and see Bullfrog (yes, I have a friend that I call Bullfrog) staring at me like I’d just sprouted a tuft of orange troll hair. She continues to look at me for a second and then blurts out, “Oh My God!! You’re a Nerd!!!”, like it was something that had never, until then, entered into her wildest imaginings.

Now this is not an occurrence that is completely new to me. With the occasional exception of Mumsy, the rest of my family are generally unread, uncivilised, uncultured buffoons who I love dearly. Sister Dear’s husband and I, who are still locked in epic battle for supremacy, have reached something of an understanding on this particular topic. He thinks I’m a freak of nature who needs to get a life that doesn’t exist inside the pages of a novel, and I think he is a jock with little between his ears but pudding and who couldn’t appreciate creative genius if it hit him over the head with a world atlas. I also believe that he is a closet nerd himself. Anyone who has heard him talking to another member of the ‘alliance’ about Knighthood would totally know what I’m talking about.

According to Wikipedia, Nerd is a term often bearing a derogatory connotation or stereotype, that refers to a person who passionately pursues intellectual activities, esoteric knowledge, or other obscure interests that are age-inappropriate rather than engaging in more social or popular activities. I think this is a pretty accurate description of the intellectual bad asses of our generation.

 

Stereotypical nerd of the female variety

 

 

Now the purpose of this post is not to argue my nerdness. I have come to terms with my secret inner nerd. I have embraced my inner nerd. Heck I’ve even named her. My gripe is not with that. I am just unsure as to why people are so struck when they realise this. Maybe I don’t look like a nerd…

 

ok bad example

ooh... tassels

 

Ok maybe I do look like a nerd, so why is it always a shock to people to discover that I have a dark nerdy side?

WHY?!?!?!

Oh… in other news, I need to dress up as someone from another country tomorrow night (procrastination strikes again) and I need ideas… anyone??

 

Laugh Kookaburra Laugh

I stayed at Mumsy’s house last night, which is always an adventure in itself. Last night I had music practice which is just around the corner from where I used to live with Sister Dear. Since Sister Dear decided to relocate to the beach, I have lost my place to crash and my guaranteed breakfast the next morning. Mumsy, who providentially lives just around the corner from Sister Dear’s old house, has offered me the use of her pull out sofa bed for whenever I have need.

Given how smashingly Mumsy and I get on, you would be surprised to find out that this arrangement, while handy, is rather lacking in certain desirable features.

The Pantry at Chattel de la Mumsy is a sad excuse for a celestial larder. Mumsy is convinced that she is lactose intolerant, and gluten intolerant which means her victual stores look a whole lot like some sick and twisted health food shop wherein people force feed you lentils, polenta and freaky things floating in  purple coloured goop. After numerous raids into the depths of her freezer I finally returned with a packet of frozen veggies and some meat I hope came from a cow. Huzzah!

Secondly, Conversation isn’t exactly one of my strong points. I can Facebook chat with the best of them and MSN until the cows come home. However the bitter truth of the matter is that I prefer my own company and with the exception of a few people, I find it a tad onerous to carry on a fully fledged conversation for any length of time. Sister Dear and I had a fabulous arrangement. If we wanted to spend some quality time together, we would put on a movie and watch it together. We talked if we wanted to and when we didn’t want to, we didn’t. Mumsy does not understand this. In a bid to force us into conversation she sold the television so we have no choice but to sit there and exchange niceties about the weather. Gah

Thirdly, I am all for getting out of bed nice and early but Mumsy is taking early bird to a whole new level. I was camping out on her couch, blissfully unaware that anything existed outside of the land of sweet dreams and cotton candy. I was in that limbo, post sleep / pre wake place where you’re sort of aware of what’s going on but still semi sleeping, when into the living room shuffles Mumsy in her noisy slippers. I squidge open one eye and look at my watch. 4:30am?! I close my eye hoping Mumsy will see her sleeping daughter and, having pity on her, will shuffle right back into her room, shut the door and stay there until a more reasonable hour. No. The shuffling continues into the bathroom, followed by the sounds of showering.

By this time I have the blanket pulled up over my head and am trying to burrow my way into the couch. Devil Birds who live in a cage on the patio wake up and start squawking away. Mumsy emerges from the bathroom and shuffles into the kitchen where she turns on the noisiest kettle in the history of kitchen appliances. Cups rattle, every piece of cutlery is emptied onto the bench, tossed around the room and then one spoon is selected to clatter against the side of the mug a few times. The patio door is opened and Devil Birds are let out, the door closes and Mumsy shuffles back in. By this time I am wide awake and glaring at a spot on the ceiling waiting for Mumsy to come around the corner before I let lose the full force of my crippling gaze.

“Morning Sweetie”, she says all cheerily
*Growl*
“Did you sleep well?”
*Another Growl*
“Would you like some breakfast?”

At this point I sit up, hair looking like I’ve stabbed a paper clip into the power socket and pillow imprints all over my face and say rather forcefully, “It’s not even 5 o’clock in the morning! I should be sleeping! And for the love of God could you please shuffle softly!”
*Stunned Silence* From Mumsy

After this I flop back down onto the couch and pull the blankets up over my head. I peak out and see Mumsy trying her hardest to shuffle quietly back into her bedroom, tea in hand.

Last but not least we come to Little Brother. The greasy haired cretin inhabits the back bedroom. Seeing as Monday night was his Formal and after formal party, I suspect that the boy was suffering from something akin to a hangover. *Rubs hands together gleefully*
Mumsy shuffled into his bedroom at 6am and calls out all sweet like that the time has come for him to get out of bed. There is nothing but silence and boy smell coming from the depths of his bedroom. Since I had been awake since 4:30am and was in something of an unpleasant mood I took it upon myself to extract said person from his bed. Anyone who hasn’t tried getting a seventeen year old boy out of bed when he is inclined to sleep until noon has no idea of the epic effort that this was.

On a brighter note, I was walking across the car park toward the office this morning when I saw a Kookaburra sitting on a lamp post teaching its baby how to laugh. It kind of made my morning.

Another one bites the dust

And so we come as we inevitably must to Little Brother’s graduation. Last night, Little Big Sister, Big Brother, Mumsy and I all got our formal freak on and journeyed down to the Gold Coast to watch the kick off of our youngest’s Grade 12 Formal.

Observation 1:
Invitations should not say hors d’oeuvre will be available if there are no hors d’oeuvre to be had. I did my hair and makeup, squished myself into a dress and heels and braved the throngs of glittered seventeen year olds under the impression that I would at least be treated to sub par finger food, and all that was to be had was orange juice with too many pips, apple juice, lemonade and Pepsi. Who even drinks Pepsi anymore?

Observation 2:
High Heels should not be worn if the wearer is unable to walk in them. During the 45 minutes I was there, I witnessed no less than 5 girls who were teetering about precariously in fickle footwear while negotiation the perils of hooped skirts in the confined of a cluttered dining hall. I had to restrain manic laughter every time I saw a girl grab at the nearest chair back/passer-by in an effort to remain upright when her shoes upset her motor skills.

Observation 3:
I don’t care how much Hollywood Tape you’re using. Dresses need more than an Iron Will to stay in place.  To the girl in the silver strap-less dress with the train that stretches a meter behind you. Someone is going to step on your dress and when that happens, I sincerely hope your dress stays where you put it.

Observation 4:
Teenage boys are hilarious. I was standing in line with Little Brother and various family members waiting for our photo to be taken and overheard the boys talking about their suits and exclaiming over the awesomeness of the inside pocket. Obviously for most of these young men, this was their first encounter with ‘The Suit’ and despite their best efforts to appear all nonchalant and sophisticated, they all looked rather a lot like kids playing with their cool new toy.

Observation 5:
Elevators are potential death traps. For some reason unknown to me, this particular formal committee felt the need to have their formal at the top of an 80 story hotel. Which meant that my family and I, along with 5 or 6 other formal going strangers, were stuck in a small box, hurtling up and down an elevator shaft at speeds previously not experienced in elevators during my lifetime. I’ve never been one to be afraid of heights, but it turns out that this particular elevator gives me the heebie jeebies something fierce.

Observation 6:
Strangeness runs in my family. I have realised that I am not the only odd ball in my gene pool.

Behold... Little Brother

Little Brother it appears either has some sort of repressed fetish for Kermit the Frog or he wanted to look like a Leprechaun on Acid. He pulled it off splendidly and turned more than a few heads. No-one even seemed to care that with the exception of one abominable dress, he had the brightest outfit there.

Friday is his official graduation ceremony *I am not crying… I have something in my eye* and then he’s initiated into the real world. He is going to be in for the shock of his life.

Lest We Forget

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them. Lest we forget.

How’s that for Spontaneity?

I am caught somewhere between euphoria and blind panic. Once again Clare has jumped out of the frying pan and straight into the fire. Lets just hope that this time I don’t get burnt.

I resigned yesterday. After working for this company for 28 months, I came back from my lunch break, took a look at my desk and decided that I didn’t want to sit there anymore. So I wrote my resignation letter, sent it to the business owner and went about my business.

I’m a planner by nature. I make lists, I consult these lists. I write out more lists of pros and cons and then ask everyone else what they think I should do. After that I call both my mothers asking them what they would do in my position and then I will make a decision, sweat about it for a month before following through.

Only once in my life have I made a life changing decision on the spur of the moment. June last year, I printed out 4 different hair styles, got the girls in the office to vote on their favorite and ended up with hair like this

oh yes... a bob with bangs...

which was fine until everyone I saw told me that they just mistook me for my mother. I look back on it as a life lesson, and it will live on forever as one of those crazy things I did in my youth. I will store it away with my other life lessons and bring it out only when I need to prove to my children that I was young and reckless once too.

This time thought I decided to take my life into my own hands and do something that I want to do, based solely on the fact that I really want to do it. I’m not going to be a receptionist for the rest of my life. I have no idea what exactly the rest of my life is going to look like, but sitting behind a desk being at the beck and call of every man and his dog is definitely not it.

So my genius plan for the future? Your guess is as good as mine. Something fabulous will come up and I will love it. I will wake up and want to go to work for once. Wouldn’t that be nice?