Photo Friday "Still Life"

Yay! Have reached milestone of 150,000 hits. Yay. Yay me. Yay you. Thanks everyone.

Melbourne Spring Racing Carnival

....oooooh, I can't wait! Tomorrow we're skipping off to Derby Day with the throbbing throngs. Think it's going to be a bit of a Hanami Party deal with some of our team getting there muchos early to secure a picnic/boozery spot.

The weather had bloody well better be fine, 'cos there is much hat and strappy sandal action to be had. Of course, with all the rain we've been having (good for the farmers, good for the farmers) the track is bound to be muddy as all hell. And with all that champers thrown up before the end of the day.... ah, fun in spades.

Life's all just a long mud wrestle, innit?

Warfare

My Mind and Body are constantly at war. Mind thinks I am a physical virtuoso with the strength and dering-do of a cavalier stunt-goddess. Body laughs derisively at Mind, sniggering "Face it, you're a 30-something middleweight with two bung knees, a bung back, a temper on you the size of Lake Superior, and while we're at it - a nail-biter, an asthmatic, and if Australian Idol's on the Box, I aint goin' anywhere"

As if Mind needed reminding.

Take yesterday as a case in point. Husband and I took the bikes on the train out to Lilydale with a bunch of crazy canucks, with the goal of riding the Warburton Trail 20 kms out to the Woori Yallock Pub (yes... the pub) then 20 kms back. "Fine!" Cried Mind, "20 kms is nothing! A piss in the ocean!"

It was a beautiful day on a beautiful stretch of Australia but 25 kms later, we still hadn't found the pub, Kevin had lost his mobile somewhere on the trail, the sun beat down relentlessly, I had to pee real bad and then out of nowhere, just as we located the pub perched high on the hill overlooking idyllic countryside, my back decides to go "Ping!!! No more riding for you!"

A beer and a muscle relaxant later, Mind slurred, "I'll give it a go. It's only 25 kms back. Uphill. On gravel. If Back goes, I'm up shit creek without a paddle, but hell, it only took us three hours to get here (OK, we did stop for a spot of sightseeing)"....

But Body took the easy way out and had the pub ring the cab company. Bloody luck to even get a cab - apparently there are only two that service the Warburton highway in a 40 km radius on a Sunday. So I lugged my bike into the boot and made the 30 minute drive back to Lilydale Station. I felt like the biggest piker ever, my pride torn to shreds. G.o.d.d.a.m.n Body!

I can still hold my alkihol though (more a sign of a chronically resigned liver than any sign of good health) - made a good showing at Cookie on Saturday night, a most excellent bar/thai restaurant on Swanston Street, dining with a bunch of poms...

Which reminds me, did you know that Western Australia has gone and taken "wog" (for non-Australian readers, a slang term for character of mediterranean descent) and "pom" (character of English accent and persuasion) out of the Racial villification charter and made it an acceptable part of the Australian vernacular? Apparently it's the expletory adjectives that offend aforementioned poms and wogs, such as "bleeding pom", "pom bastard", "wog... i don't know, what goes with wog?" rather than the actual "pom" or "wog". Wonder how many people they asked before they went and passed that law?

Ah, we skips do love to stereotype. We would stop at nothing to put down our fellow Aussies simply because they weren't born here, aren't of Anglo origin, can sing better than us or look good in hotpants. Now, I'm no saint and I'm as guilty of the next skip of using the term "pom" and "wog" if I'm joking and/or drunk but certainly not to someone's face and I'd never say it if there's the least chance of someone being offended by it. Next thing you know, "Chink", "Freeballer" and "Speedo Queen" will be deemed socially acceptable.

Where will it end?

More pics from the Yarra Valley area

Scenes from an Urban beach

Elwood Beach last Sunday

I really shouldn't complain about Cold Sore. I promised God/Satan/whoever is responsible for the Scourge that I would not bitch and moan about Cold Sore ever again if I was passed over for my wedding day.

Cold Sore is on the way out thanks to a coke-load of Lysine and tea tree oil. But now Husband has Cold Sore (I didn't kiss him, I swear I didn't) and he's as grumpy as a Bear with Sore Head and Cold Sore...

...ah me, Oh Life. Nice weather we've been having isn't it?

Even Hell's not hot enough

I have a (frikking) cold sore. I detest cold sores. I'm prone to the little fuckers and am convinced Satan gave us cold sores to stop us eating chocolate, drinking alcohol and generally having a good time.

The one stress I had about my (cough, our) wedding was that I'd get a cold sore on the day. Pure unadulterated Horror, it was. I didn't. In fact, I haven't had a cold sore for almost a year.

But I packed all of Cold Sore's nastly little triggers - sun and wind (c/- 3 hour bike marathon down the Yarra Trail), alkihol (c/- many beers at BBQ Sunday night) and a glut of coffee, nuts and tomatoes - into my simply fabulous weekend. So I've got no-one to blame but myself for this little beauty pulsating on my top lip. No self-pity permitted. That hurts. I am not a happy camper.

A friend of mine has this theory that people who get cold sores generally don't get pimples and vice versa. This friend also said she'd much rather get a Cold Sore than have Pimples. Hello? A big zit on the middle of your forehead vs. a throbbing, irritable nodule of scabby pus that spreads as fast as you can say, "Where's my Aero Bar"? No competition, Friends, n.o c.o.m.p.e.t.i.t.i.o.n.

Fuck up and die, Cold Sore, fuck up and die.

Item 5 on the rumour mill...

...is that Sarah Michelle Gellar discovered she was allergic to Japanese water whilst filming the remake to "The Grudge".

Must have been all those little dead-blue Toshios plugging up the Tokyo sewer system screaming "Nooo - not another classless Americanised remake!!"

The celluloid dead have their own way of making you pay...

Brunswick Yaki

Bought ourselves a little 2001 Daewoo Nubira yesterday. Don't know much about the Korean cars, but they make good kimchi, so they have to make a good car.

On the subject of kimchi, have been craving 2 foods that we used to get in Japan all the time (ironically not even Japanese) - kimchi and gyoza. I had to get some, so dragged a few friends kicking and screaming to Iku, an izakaya in Brunswick.

Verrrrry tasty feed - gyoza (advertised proudly as "vegetable" which pleased George and Zeljko very much, being staunch vegos, until we discovered they actually had pork in them - nothing like the complete Japanese experience, ne?), kimchi, yakitori, eggplant and mushroom kushiyaki, okonomiyaki (with the dreaded bonito topping - ugh), inarizushi, all washed down with Japanese beer and sake (and a touch of umeshu for Kinki).

Ah, fucking natsukashii an' all.

Afterwards we went for a tipple at George and Zel's local, "The Green Room" - very Melbourne, very Brunswick. Brunswick rocks. Anyone want to sell us a house there?

Fitness junkie (?)

No, not me, well not yet.

Husband and I have been giving it a shot though, rising at the ungodly hour of 5.45 a.m since Wednesday to go to the gym or for a jog/ride. Yes, yes, I know a lot of normal people get up at that time for a bit of exercise, but I haven't been one of them. Ever.

I am deadly unfit. I'm getting old and my bits are beginning to droop. Real ladylike. I'm one of those people who wants to do the least amount of physical exercise possible and still live.

But NO MORE!!!! This morning, a Saturday mind, husband and I got up at 5.45 to take the bikes out for a leisurely 6 km jog (husband) /ride (wife). We're so lucky to be a piss-throw away from the Merri Creek trail which links both the Yarra City Trail and the Capital City Trail. Very happy with that. Our morning routine is the circuit that takes you through Fairfield, Clifton Hill and Northcote, along the river, through parks and with a decent kilometre stretch of top-shelf city views. And it's not frequented that heavily (although I did have a near mishap with an elderly Chinese man and his dog this morning, but we won't talk about that...), just the occasional lone jogger or cyclist or yappy mutt + friend. Noice.

I've never been a sweet-tooth, but I do have a problem with food. I fucking love it. I can be disciplined but I'd just rather not be. But all that exercise makes you look twice at deep-fried chippies (my ultimate weakness) and go all "Nooooo, I just can't do it." Damn you to hell, exercise - will you be my best friend???

For the avid cyclist (and while you're there, check out the sensational picture on the front cover of the book - no mean feat, my friends, no indeedy.)

The Smug Wives' Road Trip

Me and Davies (not her real name), took the Toorak Truck into the country for a bit of a girlie respite from married life this weekend.

Quite frankly, I think Davies needed a rest from her Husband (strangely also named Davies) whose idea of a restful weekend is a 2 day bivouac (without tents) high in the alps, hopefully with a bit of snow to keep it "interesting".

Tralala! We love our brighter than bright whites!

But us ladies, ahem, no - we armed ourselves with girlie mags and Tim Tams and headed to Maldon, a town in the Victorian Goldfields which put the "Q" in "Quaint". Our room at the Eaglehawk was a cute, vintagey no-lace zone with a terrace, perfect for a Sunday morning breakfast bask in the sun over the Sunday papers (alas, we had to deal with little Johnny Howard's smug mug gracing the front page, but even the good Lord can't get everything he wants).

Unfortunately (to quell the voyeurs in our respective Husbands), the girls had twin beds - certainly no saucy stories to share on that front. Trouble did brew, however, in the little pre-Davies, who objected to being intravenously fed a whole packet of snakes and promptly beat the drum of protest on mum's tummy. All night...

Struck by the realisation that they really are goldfields!

Maldon is apparently famous for its steam-train [an ancient throwback to Victorian times which thrust me back to my former life as Judy from "Seven Little Australians] and its antique store, "Beehive Old Wares and Collectibles" - a veritable warehouse of knick-knacks, kitsch and genuinely fascinating antiques, including a wall full of old American and Australian posters circa 1930s-1960s.

We also ate. A lot. Damn that pregnant Davies! If it wasn't Tim Tams and those infernal snakes (I demurred) - it was ice cream and BBQ shapes, Chicken Kiev and fries, supermarket tiramisu and devonshire teas in the sun (c/- Macarthurs Bookshop and Cafe, thanks for coming). Davies was quite horrified to discover she was on the verge of buying an entire fruitcake from the Maldon IGA with the intention of polishing off the lot. Some days logic just escapes us chicks. She put it back. I feel seriously disgusting today.

The Ghost of Little Australians past

The Smug Wives headed home on Sunday afternoon, after a tipple at the Basalt Ridge Winery high in the hills. The wives were content after a relaxing time away, but not-so-secretly looking forward to seeing their darling husbands again. Don't vomit. At least not in my direction.

Maldon Road Trip Gallery

Broken promises

I did something yesterday I vowed I would never do. I can't even use alcohol as an excuse. Temporary insanity? Very possibly. I gave $1.10 of my hard-earned cash to the pit of capitalism that is Telstra and voted on Australian Idol. Twice. For the same person. Sorry - idol.

Perhaps I was rendered goony-goo-goo by the sensational restaurant Husband took me to on Saturday night. We were celebrating The Bank making me permanent (happening in 3 weeks so little premature but will be good excuse for another celebration when it actually happens) so got thoroughly noshed up at Langtons Restaurant and Wine Bar in Flinders Lane.

Wife started with a sweet vodka martini, then Husband and Wife shared the entree of goats cheese and Mediterranean vegetable terrine topped with olive tapenade. Wife was seduced by the main course of sirloin with potato gallette whilst Husband chose the Duck and both were washed down with a Burnt Acre 2001 Shiraz.

To add insult to an expanding waistline we shared a divine chocolate coconut tiramisu with raspberry coulis and a liquer tokay, then tucked into the petit fours before stumbling out onto the street. Total indulgence. We ought to be really, really ashamed of ourselves. But oddly, Husband and Wife were not.