When things come together

Yay! What a fantastic day.

Earlier this week (I left it rather late because I've been busy and not reading my FTI newsletters) I applied to attend a narrative comedy writing workshop taught by Tim Ferguson.

Tim Ferguson, of the Doug Anthony Allstars, whose DAAS Kapital TV show used to warm my face every week with its gentle, silvery glow. TIM FERGUSON. 

Mind you, the only recollection I have of those episodes are a Japanese mermaid in a wading pool and the phrase "Shitsu Tonka". 

Old age is funny like that.

Still, TIM FERGUSON.

Anyway, I got an e-mail back saying they were full, accepted it, and moved on.

Then this morning the organiser called me, saying that someone had cancelled, and he had read my application and was very impressed, and would I still like to attend the course despite the short notice?

Woohoo!

More lovely things happened. I went to my mother's for lunch and she had bought this book for me:

The blurb on the back says, "Inspired by a course run by the National College of Ireland, [this book] comprises 20 letters from Maeve, offering advice, tips and her own wonderfully witty take on the life of a writer, in addition to contributions from top writers, publishers and editors."

This is a very special gift because it means my mother has accepted that I am pursuing this creative dream (and is no longer hoping that I will become a doctor/dentist/accountant/lawyer).

You know, when your mother's behind you, you can pretty much conquer the world.

I suppose the universe agrees, because a catalogue with this message arrived in the mail this afternoon:

Time to get fit

My arm muscles get fatigued when I wash my hair.

I look at photos from four years ago and my face had ANGLES.

And tonight I realised that my virtual pet on Facebook gets more exercise than I do.  Mainly because I keep entering him in races to win money for snappy outfits and garden furniture.

What a sad state of affairs.

MFCs say the darndest things

While having dinner and watching Dollhouse last night ...

MFC: Who's that?

an9ie: Her name's Sierra. She's played by an Australian actress.

MFC: Her face looks like an Easter Island statue.

Before you die, do remember to destroy all private correspondence

I know! Multiple posts! But if the blogging muse is nearby you have to take advantage of her presence. Otherwise she leaves in a huff and you're left postless until December.

A comment that Tokyobling left in August reminded me of how much I like Kate Beaton's "Hark, a vagrant" comics. So I trawled through the archives and got to this one, about James Joyce's dirty, dirty, DIRTY letters to Nora Barnacle, and it made me laugh all over again.

an9ie: Hey, MFC! Come have a look at these filthy letters I was telling you about the other day!

MFC (from the kitchen): No thanks, I'm eating. 

Parenting fail

an9ie: You know, if we ever have a child, your study will have to become the nursery, because there is no freakin' way I'm giving up my room.

MFC: Nooo! Bags not my study! 

MFC: Heh heh, you can't touch it now. It's been bagsied.

MFC: I know! The nursery could be ... your mother's house! 

an9ie: That's an awesome idea!

Now, I shall sit back and wait for anonymous criticism to arrive from people with no sense of humour.

That elusive early bedtime

I knew I shouldn't have introduced MFC to the Rather Good website just before bedtime. Mind you, I have seen the Bagger 288 clip about five times now (people in our animation production team keep showing it to newcomers) and it still puts me in stitches EVERY SINGLE TIME.

On the other hand

It could be worse. At least I'll never have to cook for the next forty years.

In summary, SMASHY-SMASHY-SMASH

What a day. 

This morning a dickhead in a flashy white ute--you know, the male-genital-extending kind that actually aren't used for transporting heavy goods (except inflated bogan egos)-- cut me off at a right-turn area in between a dual carriageway, blocked off my view, and then sped ahead of me, while talking on his mobile phone. I cursed his mother and grandmother, and hoped that his member would shrink and fall off at an inconvenient time in the near future.

Oh, excuse me, my mother just came in to ask me how much funerals cost in Perth and could I please look them up on the Internet. Such a cheery, organised person.

Right, I'm back. The answer? Not as much as you might think.

This afternoon I got rejected from a rental by another property manager. Before I'd even put in an application.

Yesterday, at the home open, I heard the manager telling a lady that rent applications would take a minimum of 48 hours to process.

But when I called today to ask another question about the house, she said it had already gone--to people who had seen it that morning.

"That's quick," I said inanely, thinking, 48 hours my arse, to which that daughter of Beelzebub replied in a subterranean-class drawl, "You can't muck around, luv."

Muck around? I only saw the property yesterday morning, you misbegotten progeny of a diseased camel! I'll show you mucking around. Arrrgh!

Several times today I have entertained the thought of blocking out the car number plates, then asking my little brother to drive while I ride shotgun and do a drive-by egging of the real estate office.

Except of course I can't, now, because I have told the Internets.

My parents are watching Iron Chef on TV and shouting, "That's not how you cut up pineapple! Aiyah! What a waste!"

I am never going to get a (non-scummy) rental property.

This is going to be my life for the next forty years.

Smashy days are here again

MFC and I would like to move in together soon and we have been looking for places to rent. 

I found a place that looked OK; a little old, but within budget, and called the property manager up on Wednesday morning to find out more details.

WHAT A FREAKING MORON. 

We haven't had an an9ie SMASH encounter for a while, so you regular readers will be happy.

The twisty-turvy conversation we had not only made me late for class, but also increased my blood pressure by about seven million units. Let me re-enact the whole hilarious episode for you.

Ring-ring. Preliminary hellos and introductions and then I start to ask questions.

an9ie: I'm just calling about the property at XX Street. Is it still available?

Property manager dingbat (PM): Oh sure, we had a couple come through last night, but you can have a look at it. 

an9ie: O ... K. Can I ask some questions about the property? 

PM: Sure, go ahead.

an9ie: Does it have ADSL?

PM: (Long pause.) Ooh, I've never heard of that before. What is it?

an9ie: (You have got to be freakin' kidding me.) High speed internet.

PM: Wait, I'll just go and ask someone. (Longer pause.) I don't know, but the couple who were in there last were pretty old, so probably not.

an9ie: (Must ... not ... kill.) Well, is there a garden shed out the back for storage?

PM: There's a single lockup garage.

an9ie: (That was NOT an answer to my question.) So is there a garden shed?

PM: I don't know. I don't think so.

an9ie: (This is too hard. We're just going to have to find these things out ourselves.) Well, my partner and I both work full-time, so do you think we could come and see it around 6pm sometime this week?

PM: No, we don't have after-hours inspections.

an9ie: (Right, that's it, lady. I am going to hunt you down and make you into my next winter hat.) But you said you had a couple come through "last night"!

PM: Oh, that was at 4.30.

an9ie: (You think that 4.30pm is night time? Were your parents brother and sister?) What about the weekend?

PM: We don't do weekend inspections.

an9ie: (Is there anything you DO do, apart from waste precious oxygen?) OK, um, let me talk to my  partner and we'll try to arrange a time.

PM: OK.

an9ie: OK. B-

... and the beyatch hangs up on me without waiting for me to finish! GRAAAAAH. an9ie SMASH.

Six reasons to move interstate

We went to the airport last night to pick up my uncle, who was on his way home after visiting his children in Melbourne.

They told us his flight arrived at 11pm.

The arrivals board told us the plane was due at 11.40pm.

There were delays and it landed at 12.05am instead.

Oh, and then they had to wait for the flight to Sydney to leave, so the gate would be clear for the plane to dock. It was 1AM by the time the passengers left the plane. I could hear the airport parking fees ringing up in my head, ka-ching! Ka-ching!

I would have been irate but then my uncle handed me this box: 


and its contents:


My aunt bought Krispy Kreme douhgnuts for us! For some reason Krispy Kreme thinks Perth is unworthy of its fried goods, and there is a growing trade in over-the-border doughnuts as people beg and bribe relatives and friends to bring them back from the eastern states.

We cut each one into eighths, and they tasted as good as they look.

I think I'll go treat myself to another wedge now.