ouch

I dug out tonnnes of yarrow, dismantled a lavender bush and some other herbaceous monster, pruned back all the sage, cut back the ginger liles, thrived the veges, planted spinach and attacked the passionfruit vine. I am zonked.
Tomorrow I have to clean up the mess I made today (another 4 hours work). I made a lovely McDougall meal for dinner and then wrecked it by eating two handfuls of salted peanuts. Salt is so very very good.
Tomorrow we'll have good-girl burritos (made without an inch of fat). Mr will accidentally eat raw veges and I will be smug.
I haved chucked ACNT in favour of Charles Sturt University and am anxiously awaiting my acceptance (or not) letter. Another 2 years, but with the glorious HECS in place, I can actually afford to study.
Oh, and I suck at poker,-truly.

Because it's sunday

A day that begins with 'chicken-noodle soup is sure to be a good one. I slurped in soup and the Herald and giggled lustily at Micallef's comments on manhood. I raked the front yard, side yard and front strip because it occurred to me my my noisy late-night crunching might annoy the neighbour. I made a large batch of chilli-rice which I will have for breakfast every freaking day and not be bored. I hopped in the car with Mr and went to see Indiana Jones. Awesomely average film but something about that John Williams theme always makes me grin and clap my hands in front of me like a 5-year old. I am the kind of person that would go to see 'Indiana Jones and the difficult laundromat'.
I planted Jerusalem artichokes by the dozen under the back porch. According to gardening lore, this means I will have hundreds of the things by next autumn. 's OK, I like prolific things in my garden. Apparently if you microwave them before you roast them the inulin breaks down and you don't fart as much. I will try this. I will also have celery-seed tea with my roasted Jerusalem artichokes just in case,-maybe throw in a few fennel seeds for good measure.
I wrote an article for the Vegan Voice and submitted it on a whim. In it I was lyrical about rainbow chard and reduced carbon footprints. Heady stuff.
I am trying not to be angry at my brother, and it is working intermittently. He is a very charming bastard. I could have done the gig standing on my head,-no, in my sleep,-no dead, but No. It is an unforgiveable sin to hire ones family members for anything. People will know. Not only that, but legend has it that immediately contracts are signed you will automatically lose all of your own talents, grow three horns and purple nose hair and develop a penchant for wearing uncured animal skins. This is only the beginning of the horror that awaits when you hire a family member for a professional engagement.
Of course, it is probable that I just don't understand and that the professional music industry is a mystical place that only the chosen can negotiate. It is also probable that I'm just over-reacting like a typical female. Three words; Shoe, Foot, Other...?

Lord, has it been that long?....

In response to many enquiries; No, I am not dead nor in significant physical or mental distress. No-one in my family has dropped off the perch; I am not in mourning; I am not particularly pissed off at anyone; I have not been offered the Artistic Directorship of the Actor's Centre in New York and I have been keeping myself occupied....without a computer for THREE WEEKS!!.

I have been neatly filling in time with books, friends and (gasp) longhand notes on various matters. Totally odd, I assure you. I felt 16 again. I started using the telephone regularly. I actually pulled out reference books that had been usurped by google for many years. I had to just deal with not being able to look up everything (including train timetables and growing habits of Jerusalem Artichokes). I was quite pleased at finding a 1800 number for Cityrail and called Chalkgirl for the chokes info.

More importantly, I realised how long a day can be without innane games and odd Fspazbook applications.

Having said that, I am heartily glad to be back in cyberworld and have been making something of a glutton of myself this evening as a result. Like all diets (enforced or not), net-deprivation is followed by a frantic gulping of information and search engines. Unlike diets, it shouldn't make me fat...I think....Poor Lydgate left about an hour ago and I muttered something distracted,-eyes glued to the screen. I didn't even get up for a cuddle and that's reasonably odd.

Important events since the compulsory 'blackout' have been Mr's 31st birthday party at the Green Gourmet, Newtown followed by drinks at the den of the Cybervixen on Denison

Gorgeous evening, gorgeous food, gorgeous people and gorgeous newtown humming and buzzing it's 'Welcome back!' in my countrified ears. We arrived home at about 4am, so the next day was written off as befits such things.

More recently, we met up with Cyberfox's mum at Glenbrook to do a couple of play-readings (possibly one of the absolute BEST ways to spend an evening). French champagne, log fire, very unfairly wonderful and talented people all around and the chance to relive one of my earliest parts. 'Time to Remember' won 2nd prize in the Sydney theatre Critics Young Playwright's awards some years back and I had the honour of premiering the role of 'smith'. Mr played opposite me with suitable panache. We also read the Morrigan's 'Mrs Bond and her Ducks-a fertility play' -v.v.clever and v.v.funny,-keep an eye out for it in local theatres soon.

Guitars were sourced and comforting renditions of 'St.James Infirmary' and 'Bitch in a Manger' were performed with tipsy aplomb. Aaaaah. Good times.

Note to all: Computers do not want a drink. No matter how fine the chardonnay they do not appreciate it being tipped all over them...not at all. Annoyingly, I wasn't drunk at the time,-just excited about a scrabble in a game I had been losing....

Artfest

Wow. Mr and I decided to go and support my little brother who had been awarded the honour of opening the Winmalee Autumn Artfest. Partly because he is my brother and one does this kind of thing, and partly because I too attended the dreaded WHS. We pay $15 and stroll about. In the manner of small towns we know at least 50% of the people there. We are served cask wine in plastic glasses, approximately 1/3 full. Fabulous. We enthuse to people about the wedding (again) and stroll about looking at landscapes, still-life, craft stalls and miscellaneous. Little brother sings with the WHS choir to back him up. It is nice apart from his bizarre bullfrog impersonation between verse 2 and the mighty finale. I have a moment of weirdness when he's referred to as 'Mr Lockley'...that's my dad.
My mother sings the soprano descant loudly from the middle of the hall. I disppear behind an arras and try to look unrelated.
We listen to the local Real Estate honcho describe a woman's work as 'The sensual mysticism of vegetables', Mr nearly wets himself.
Mr and I run off to find the sensually mystical vegetables. They aren't particularly, although you have to admire a woman who looks at Bok Choy and wishes to spend hours turning this into a creative statement about..erm...something.
We run into my old art teacher (now v.important person in DET Arts programming) who greets Mr as 'the Drama-teacher extraordinaire'. She has his full portfolio on her desk apparently. Mr glows alot and is v.v.nice.
The local publican tries to book my brother for a pub gig. Brother mentions that Olivia Newton John told him that he should do local pub gigs recently. I make jokes about being an alcoholic.
What is amazing is that no one remembers that I am a performer too. No One. Nothing like your local community to make you feel imvisible.