Oh dear

I think I sent an email to Rupert but I can't remember now. Sorry bout that.

3:05am

Baaah! Ha ha ha. Lovely boys. Just lovely. There is one called Lexi that is interesting. There is one called Tom that is practicing aloofness and of course Mr SeeSee himself, their brave leader. There are others, a swarthy one, a short one and more. They are young and beautiful and not afraid to think. The Spatula and I went to the party with the intention of observing the younger generation and chuckling quietly at their youthful enthusiasm, which we did, but we also ended up squarely in the middle of it all. Look how good I spelling whilst drunk. Admirable!

We could walk there, so we did. We drank beer on the way, once there I opened and admittedly drank a bottle of red wine, something or other from SA left over from my fucking awful 30th birthday party which I viewed as though looking through a telescope the wrong way round, such is the power of a broken heart. I happily puffed away on joints offered by random strangers, stole yellow clothes pegs from their tweedy jackets, experimented freely with cherry advocaat in the kitchen and made off with seven water crackers from a packet I found on top of the microwave. At one point I was dancing by myself in the loungeroom by the light of a disco ball but I was soon joined by several Degrassi High type young things that bounced far too enthusiastically for me and if you are going to do the Molly Ringwald Breakfast Club dance you should at least do it accurately.

One of the lovely boys said that I summed his friend precisely in two words, better than he thought anyone ever could, which was nice. Looks like I should definitely go ahead with the Black Flamingo Productions idea. Gemma, we're on, let's be weird business partners in the world's craziest business, at least as an experiment. But oh dear look at the time. I've just had some chocolate and also ryvitas with vegemite on.

I stole a slice of The Spatula's plastic cheese. It comes in individually wrapped slices and is made of some sort of cheese-based plastic. Not undelicious when taken drunk on a ryvita with vegemite. Let's hope there was no actual milk in it or its instant death in my pants in the morning for me. My left foot is itchy now. I might try and have a glass of water.

The importance of loveliness

It can be important to be appropriately dressed for different activities around the home. Today I am wearing my CIA housework outfit which is more fun then you'd expect.

Simply wear black beret, black stretchy trousers, black singlet and thongs with cherries printed on them then go about your business washing things, having cups of tea and having little sit downs between tidying things. This is an easy way to add value to your day and more fetching than wearing jeans and a big white cotton shirt with the bandanna of activity (royal blue paisley) which is a more usual housework outfit.

The Spatula has just given me a lovely little round flat blue container. It opens out and there is a mirror on one side and some powder stuff on the other side. Apparently the powder is the wrong colour for The Spatula but the right colour for me. I've never had one of these before and I am quite taken with opening it then snapping it shut to hear the lovely little clicky sound that it makes. There is a round spongey sort of thing that lives in the container and is used to apply the powder to your face. I might have a go at putting some on in a minute. The Spatula says that you can use it over the top of foundation (I don't have any!) or just on your face by itself. I am not sure of the purpose of it yet but am willing to have a go none the less.

So far since moving into this house, which I have taken to calling The Peach, I have been coerced into buying red lip stain (which is red for your lips but doesn't wear off like lipstick, good for a spaz like me), straightening my hair, buying eyeshadow and now I have a clicky little container thing which is a lovely object.

The good effect of loveliness is not to be underestimated. I am sitting on my bed on top of my lovely doona cover with cushions and pillows to lean on. My ashtray is a nifty green glass vintage one, the cat is purring at the end of the bed and all around me are my lovely objects and things. Grizelda calls my bedroom an explosion of Daleness. There are piles and piles of books, but they are in neat piles, glass objects, paintings, prints, flowers and the odd crystal vase. I am drinking elderflower water out of a well balanced glass and my laptop is quite the thing. There is sunshine in the window and teacups ready and waiting in the kitchen.

Today The Peach feels like an oasis. The Spatula is singing and ferreting around in her pottering way that she loves. Grizelda has just gone off on a jaunt to see some friends. I have washed the dishes, taken out the rubbish and hung out my clean clothes. No effort is required. I am an island in my CIA outfit alternately reading a book, pondering, drinking tea and staring about at my lovely things. I have even eaten two meals today. A muffin with vegemite for breakfast and for lunch I had another muffin, half with pesto on, the other half with an egg and pesto served with baby spinach leaves, grape tomatoes, olives and a big pot of Lady Grey tea on the deck.

This evening I will eat yet another meal (that's three, woo hoo! ) then I will watch Dr Who before dressing for a party. I might even dab on some powder before I go. Lovely.

The decision is final

I have been trying to decide for quite a few years now whether I am completely repulsed by Tim Rogers [he's in a band called You Am I for those of you not in the Oz rock loop] or if in fact I am dying and I mean dying to climb him like a tree.

Jury's in. I want to climb that man like a tree. I think.

Fuck! Am idiot! Spencer's band has played support for You Am I several times, his band is signed to the same label. Why oh why have I not done something about this conundrum sooner? I'm on a mission. Is it too late to phone Spencer?

I knew I'd come in handy one day

I have had an idea. Cath left this comment on my post On her first birthday I slipped back in time:
That really was beautiful stuff Dale. If only every family had you to chronicle the arrival of their little ones!

Ding! I have an idea. Did I really just say ding? Yes, appears that I did.

Writer for hire:

Buy yourself and your loved ones a unique gift. Have a writer record in elegant (cough) prose your poignant moments. First kiss, first fuck, break ups, divorce, births, deaths and marriages. No event too weird or small. Simply pop me in a corner with a nice cup of tea and a pink cupcake and off I go with my pen and notepad turning your transitory moment into something lasting and special.

Don't have any loved ones? Well how about I turn your pain into gain? Crucial moments with an ex, encounters with personal enemies, getting fired, waking up in the gutter, finding out the person you love hates your guts? No moment too sordid, desperate or weird.

Call D is for Dale to have your personal writer shadow you today.

Did you ever want to be a collective?

There is someone that reads my blog but not very often. The spy detection thing says that they are in Mooney Mooney but that doesn't mean a thing, it also says that Rupert is in Sydney. The Mooney Mooney person only ever clicks on the Elliot label and never reads comments. I am imagining that it is Elliot himself. I am wondering if it is Elliot then what is he thinking? I am wondering what I would think if I read these snippets about myself. I am wondering if he would somehow know that what I am really thinking is that I am trying very hard not to love him because it is the right thing to do.

I don't suppose it is Elliot, surely he would tell me if he was reading my blog?

Helter skelter.

Black blogdom

I was happily a checking out the blogs when....

"Some of the writers seem like nice people - but there a 2 who I really dislike. They constantly bitch and moan about their lives and analyse the fuck outta everything. I like to refer to their blogs as "Black Blogs".

These writers of Black Blogs, the ones who spew all this self-analytical, self indulgent dribble somehow manage to remind me how lucky I am - and how good things are for me."

and then

"I am constantly amazed at how the Black Blog writers manage to suck the positive out of everything and regurgitate it, in the form of negative, toxic rants." (clickity click to zoom there to the one I have started thinking of as Iago to read the whole post, if I haven't ruined your eternal soul already and left without the energy to click the mouse).

Bloody hell! I thought, bloody hell. Who's poor blogs is she talking about and then I saw her links, its not very long and I'm on it. Oh dear. I don't know why I am giving a shit, should only be worthy of my casual disinterest. Maybe because I am stupidly childless and single (ooops forgot to get married and have a family how did I let that happen?) and I have all sorts of luxury time during which I can drain the souls of hapless others with my toxic ranting. Bubble bubble toil and trouble, fire burn in the blogdom bubble.

In honour of being dubbed a black blog I will be temporarily happy pink! HAPPY PINK.

I wish I was a pastry chef with chocolate in my hair

Let's hope that something interesting starts to happen soon. There is a danger that this blog is moving from normal blog boring into 'my left sock seems slightly looser than my right sock' territory. The most interesting thing that has happened today is that I discovered that if you put chocolate eclair style lollies on top of the heater for two minutes they lose that unnatural winter brittleness and regain the almost soft chewy texture they are meant to have. Oh and in case my boss is reading this I am waiting for a big thing to print, you know the thing that is printing the one that I need to courier to the other thing. Waiting. Waiting.

oh no

blah blah blah blah I mean come on now Slamma. Blah boring boring. Am I well enough to go to work? I don't know. I feel fairly terrible and I'm sitting in bed still, its raining and cold but if I stay home I could somehow be encouraging the sickness to hang around but on the other hand if I go to work and still feel sick and terrible than I have to trudge home again. Blog! Why won't you answer me? Useless blog.

Water once again missing

This time from my battery. My personal onboard human battery. I am some kind of ill, I don't know what. Something to do with digesting or not digesting things and then there is the cold that climbs from bone to bone. I left the office early because I could not be there and feel so ill. Incompatible. I came home and sat nicely in my lovely bed in my white undies and white singlet thinking that the niceness of the sheets and the sunlight in the window would somehow help. It didn't and I ended up sleeping fitfully until almost 8pm.

The rest of the evening I have been sitting in various places around the house looking for somewhere to feel better. When I feel sick the only thing I can think of is that there is no one to look after me. No one to put me to bed and rest a hand on my forehead. I almost hate myself for this lonely pining feeling I get when I am sick. I phoned Elliot despite saying to myself all day that I wouldn't. When he answered I lay down and couldn't think of anything to say. I just wanted to hear his voice. I told him about the wedding I have been invited to but I did not tell him he was invited too. I don't know if I want him to come. I don't know if I could stop myself looking at him and leaning on him and imagining forever as they say their vows. I don't think I should do that to myself. I can deal with the pain in my head and my stomach, I can deal with the unnatural feeling of ice in my bones, I can deal with the low energy but I want more than anything to say Scalpel and have someone pass me the instrument to amputate my heart.

I am hacking into this post to say- what the fuck! I am an unbelievable sap. Buck up there Slamma, you girl's blouse. I can not believe that people who read this did not leave a comment saying- this made me vomit it was so stupid, I am never coming here again. Oh blah I am possibly maybe might going to feel sad if I take a lovely friend to a lovely wedding. Good grief. Oh no I feel sick. Boo fucking hoo. They really shouldn't let me have a blog, it's like giving me a microphone only much worse. For lunch I might like a watercress sandwich, some crisps and a nice cup of tea. Jolly good, carry on.

On her first birthday I slipped back in time

For the smallest person I know, on your first birthday I slipped back in time, back to a year ago when I walked differently, back to when I was the most important person in someone's life, back to a place where love was tangible and I wandered through the aquarium arm in arm.

In thinking of all the things I could possibly write to you they all meant essentially the same thing. Welcome to this world, we are all so very pleased that you arrived safely, nothing new, nothing new. Fond as I have always been of your parents something unexpected happened to push this into perspective. I'll explain in a slow way the small thing that happened.

Yesterday was a long warm day and by the time I caught the train at Redfern station I was exhausted. At first a sense of friendship and duty propelled me towards Penrith instead of Windsor and home. Artboy met me at Blacktown station where I had been waiting for twenty minutes stamping my feet, spilling my coffee and silently cursing as all the commuters streamed down the stairs and past me into waiting cars and buses.

By the time I was in the car and headed up the M4 I'd smoked way too many cigarettes, spilled half a soy latte down my jacket and generally smelled so bad that I felt worried. This was the first indication that something different was at hand. You see I regularly rock up to anywhere stinking like an ashtray with hair on end and half a muesli bar in my pocket. At the hospital I paid five dollars to park the car.

I walked into the room and positioned like sentries were Ron, my brother and Rhett. Artboy walked over to meet them and there you were in a plastic crate like nuts or taps at a hardware shop, you could have been wheeled in from anywhere.

Rita sat calmly and talked me through the birth. Spinal blocks, septic shock, a violent slashing through of muscles right into the core. How brave, how radiant and strong your beautiful mother. Ron held you easy as a tennis ball like heartache never existed. He said it was frightening when he came upstairs with just you, Rita pinned down by doctors and septic shock. He said frightening in a small flat voice with wide eyes, a half second where even the echo of his fear was unbearable to witness.

My brother sat ensconced in the corner, he is almost incapable of uttering an appropriate emotional response, it was his presence, his very presence, he came straight from work and stayed til visiting hours were over.

Ray came in, sandy-haired boy of a man. All of these men have sat in my house and let off firecrackers and drunk and smoked until dawn. Girlfriends come and hearts break even their friendships have hung by a thread but here they all are. We gather tonight like a pride. You have opened in us all the tribal urge to circle and protect. We stand in the spaces between ritual, searching each other, longing for the collective memory of arms and legs and hearts singing in age old celebration but we have none so we sit and stand and talk about anything but the beating of your heart.

I sit in the corner nearest the door slowing down my breathing, sitting in silent wonder at the fierceness welling in me. Ron passed you gently to Rita and a ripple went round the room, every muscle in every body flexed, all eyes on you, no thought but to ensure your safety in this one small movement. This is when we were more human, passionate, articulate, united than we have ever been. One moment, one movement, one gap between breaths. That was the small thing that happened.

Gold leader we have a problem, there are two Dale For A Days, I repeat two Dales today.

Dale For A Day by Gempires.

Since Dale Slamma has been a guest blogger on Gempires it is only fitting that Gempires shall now be guest blogger on Dale Slamma. And since Dale is The Captain, the theme of this post shall be Dale.

I imagine Dale sometimes. When I am imagining Dale she is almost always in one of two places - in her home, which I have never been to and therefore must invent for my mind; or on King Street, Newtown, which I know very well.

When I imagine Dale at home she is always having a cup of tea and a cigarette. I have almost no doubt that she keeps an ashtray by her laptop in her room, though she has never mentioned this. I sometimes wonder what she means by 'cup of tea.' I know she likes 'a cup of tea and a little sit down' (a favourite saying of hers, and it brings me the comfort of a soft mother in slippers) but we all have our different versions of 'cup of tea.' I mostly assume it is milky black tea with one sugar, but perhaps she is more inclined toward chamomile, or ginger? At any rate I know she uses soy milk because cow boobs have the wrong juice for her constitution, and so they should, as she is not a calf.

When I imagine Dale on King Street she is often standing in the gelato shop looking at the flavours and chatting to the person who spoons her fig sorbet into a cup. We have never clarified which gelato place she goes to, so while I suspect it may be the one opposite the supermarket (which was once a Woolworths, then an IGA, but I believe is now a Franklins) for some reason I always picture her at the one on the corner of Wilson Street. She always chooses a cup over a cone. I do not know why I have decided this.

My favourite place to imagine Dale is in her kitchen. I associate her kitchen with lots of wooden things - I am strangely comforted by wooden things: their look, their feel, their sound, their solidness - and in reveries I watch her eat from small wooden bowls at a dark wood table with walls that are half wood, much like you would find in an alpine cabin. I am not sure why I associate her with wood but I suspect it is because there is something calming about Dale. She seems to keep it together. If you drop something wooden it does not shatter.

I don't often imagine Dale at the stove. I think she is more of a sandwich and toast person. I do picture her at cafes with cake, I think she has mentioned cafes with cake, and since I have known Dale and have been reading her words I find myself thinking about cake much more often. This is a dangerous thing because I live so close to Acland Street in St Kilda which is famous for its proliferation of amazing cake shops with full window displays of tantalising tarts. I decided once that if Dale ever came to visit we would definitely have cake.

I think I knew Dale in a previous life. She seems exactly...something. Exactly right, I think is the best way to put it. Like, if I could have invented a person, I'd have made Dale Rockin' Slamma. For this reason, and she knows this, I feel like I have always known her.

And I hope I get to be guest blogger!


Dale For A Day by Anonymous.

"Look, it's on again!" he exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.

"What?"

"Dale For A Day" Day!

She put down the newspaper and troddled over to the computer screen. "Damn," she thought, not giving voice to the word, lest the Parrot hear it and pick up another curse to add to his ever-growing repertoire.

"You know, the last time she did this, I had a brilliant, and I mean absolutely FUC--" she paused again, thinking of the bird. "I mean it was a bloody BRILLIANT post all ready to go, and some wanker beat me to it. I trashed the thing, you know."

"I know".

Her curiosity got the best of her. Again. "What's the theme this time?"

"Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive."

"Oh hell, that's easy. I can think of several things off the top of my head." She rattled through them silently:

• Dale is hot, but tries to hide it with photos that make her look tired and haggard. Heh, that hits both "berate and praise", doesn't it?
• Dale is a helluva writer
• Dale is brutally honest with her readers and holds nothing back
• Dale is frequently incomprehensible until you've read the post twelve times. Then you realize she's a freaking genius.
• Dale is the object of fantasy for both men and women (that should raise a few eyebrows")!

"Fuck it. I'm not sending it in."

"Why not?"

"I can't take another rejection. Do you realize how hard I worked on the last one? I had a minute-by-minute account of her day all plotted out, and everything had a Beatles reference!"

He sighed and turned away.

"Well, maybe. I'll think about it. Where's that 'send' button?"

Something in the way you move or open slather bring it on fuck yeah

It is time for another Dale For A Day. Being the Special Guest Star on Gempires has reminded me that I started a 'segment' here called Dale For A Day. Anyone can be Dale for a day you just need to email me your post with details of whether or not you wish to remain anonymous. Last time it was first in best dressed but that was declared unfair by a local because they reckon the Americans are awake when they are asleep and got to read the post first.

I am setting a theme because I am The Captain of this blog, the theme is..... um.... shit, should have thought about that before I started typing. Ha! Me, Dale Rockin' Slamma. Write something about me or to me or berating me or praising me or hating me; I don't care which and I will pick the one I react most strongly to, whether that is negative or positive. You've got less than 24 hours, go.

dale.slamma@gmail.com