More Fiction

Finally my muse decided to co-operate.

You know, I kind of envy those writers who get an idea, flesh it out, work with it, plan out a story, and write it. All sequential-like. Me? I get an idea, write a bit of it, get another idea, write a bit of that, get yet another idea and write a bit of it, then go back to the second and write a bit more, then get another idea, and – GAHHHH! Mind you, I can see that this might be a little frustrating for my readers, too. Because my readers get the stories in the same order I do – chaotic. They’re waiting to hear what the hell happened to Pete, and I’m offering them a story about completely different people in a totally different place and time. That’s gotta be irritating.

So if I’ve been irritating the hell out of you with my fiction, I apologise profusely. It’s just that my muse dislikes being pushed along any particular path – she’s a stubborn wench (like me) and utterly capricious.

On the bright side, I’ve had some luck cajoling her, in the last week or two. LO! and BEHOLD! – two stories on the same topic. Pete and Wendy are back – Pete’s stuck in hospital with a gorgeous police officer making him drown in his own drool, and Wendy’s trying to find out what the hell happened to him.

Check them out –

Hospital
Streets of a Dirty City

By the way – if anyone can tell me where on earth I lifted that last story title from, I’d really appreciate it. Because it’s bugging me. I know I’ve nicked it from somewhere – maybe modified it a little – because my brain itches whenever I read the title. But my luverly brain won’t tell me where it’s from. I’d google it, but I’m not in the mood for porn galore. Little help?

Musical Monday

I know I’ve been promising, for months, to give you something a little more ermmm… modern.

Because I do, actually, like some music created in the last 20 years. Believe it or not.

So here’s one that I heard recently on Triple J’s Unearthed Jukebox and enjoyed. And, umm, related to. Cos I have been feeling old occasionally. 😛

Check out The Stoics’ Too Old Too Fast.

If you really like it, you might want to check out their Unearthed profile or their MySpace site.

How Do We Manage to Breed?

Every now and then, I’m gobsmacked by something that I know I shouldn’t be.

Today’s effort is a classic example. A woman who’s married, pregnant, and horrified at the thought of massaging her perineum (a strategy to help avoid tearing during the birth, for the blissfully unaware), because – she doesn’t like to touch herself ‘down there’.

For crying out loud!

Genitalia really isn’t that scary. I mean, men’s genitalia can be, but that’s because it can resemble an angry deformed rabbit jumping out of a thick bush of smelly hair. Umm, eurgh. Anyway, back to the point. Women’s genitalia? Sure, it can smell a bit funny (WASH, dammit!), and it’s a little mysterious, and secretes stuff – but so does your nose, and I don’t see women running around yelling, “Get it off me!” at their noses. Let’s not get into nose jobs.

Australia doesn’t have a high active-christian population. And that’s what gets me. Most of the women who’re scared of ‘down there’ (and you thought ‘vajayjay’ was a scary term – at least it’s a name of sorts) aren’t brought up that way out of any religious belief that thinking about one’s vagina will lead one into nasty little sins. They’re brought up that way… WHY? Abuse? Sometimes, I’m sure. And, well, it’s understandable then. I might be scared of my vagina if it had gotten me far too much male attention at a far too young age. But what about when it’s not abuse? What about when parents discourage touching and talking about ‘down there’ and fill their daughters’ heads with vague fears and shame when they look disgusted at the thought of answering a sensible question? What the HELL are these parents thinking? I suspect they’re not. I suspect they’re simply uncomfortable with such topics thanks to their own upbringing, and not prepared to make the effort to get over it for the sake of their kids. Well, damn. Talk about ruining your kids’ sex lives forevermore.

If you’re one of the many people in this world who’re scared to touch their on genitalia – can I suggest that you make a conscious effort to work through your fear/disgust/shame? Those bits of us that lie ‘down there’ are capable of bringing us and our partners great pleasure – but they need to be acknowledged and appreciated before they will work with us fully. Have a look. Wash your hands, have a feel around, then wash your hands again. You might need a mirror or two, unless you’re nice and flexible. But try it. Your genitalia isn’t disgusting, dammit.

Dang, Streusel is Popular!

I just noticed that I’m getting 2-4 visitors every single day, searching for German Streusel Cake recipes. Well there ya go! I never realised it was so popular. Although it should be… cos mmmmmm-mmm that stuff is good.

Self-Absorption

I’ve been fairly self-absorbed lately. And finally, I’ve gotten the chance to set down exactly why.

Warning: Possible triggers

First – I was getting tired ridiculously easily for weeks. Couldn’t pinpoint anything I was doing or not doing to cause it. Then, suddenly, it went away. Which almost worried me more than the tiredness itself.

Second – about 10 days ago, I peed on a pregnancy test. The pee moved right up that stick and flashed an immediate dark positive. HOLY CRAP! Just to recap for newcomers and those whose lives don’t revolve around me – I have a heart condition that causes me to get more tired, more easily, than most. I know 80 year olds with more energy than me. Add to the heart condition the fact that one of my lungs isn’t connected to my heart (no oxygenated blood delivered from it). And we re-discovered all that when I was pregnant with Bubba Boy. I had been told about existing and possible issues by my parents, but a stupid and idiotic doctor told me it was all crap, and I was daft enough to believe him (if you’ve noticed I have a slight anti-believe-the-GP bias, now you have an idea why). So anyway, during the pregnancy with Bubba Boy I damn near carked it from sheer exhaustion. Then I had heart surgery. So maybe you can see why I said ‘Holy crap!’ upon finding out I was pregnant instead of ‘Wow, how fantastic!’ Well, that and the fact that I’ve NEVER before gotten a dark, immediate positive on a pregnancy test. The things hate me. I worked out that I was probably around 10 weeks pg.

Third – spent some time talking to hubby, and thinking about how to shuffle our lives around to work in another bubba. Called parents to talk it over a bit.

Fourth – got sick. Nasty. Fever, blocked sinuses, sore throat, painful kidneys and back.

Fifth – which sparked off a miscarriage. Or was caused by it. I don’t know, and I’m not sure that I care which way round it was.

Sixth – spent a few days in bed shaking with fever, bleeding like a stuck pig, wracked with cramps and feeling very, very sorry for myself.

I think that counts as a pretty shit week.

On the bright side (yes, there is one!), I’m feeling a lot better. Cramps are gone, fever’s gone, sinuses are still here and actually draining properly, and I can hear properly again. I was even feeling mildly bouncy this afternoon. Emotional trauma – so far – fairly mild. And no, I don’t think I’m in denial. But I’ve learnt to just let go and feel whatever I feel without the ‘shoulds’ interfering, when it comes to miscarriages – each one is hugely different in the emotional shockwave which hits. And that’s OK, dammit.

What Does a Punk Wear in Summer?

I’ve been looking around the shops, pondering my summer wardrobe.

GAH.

While I’m not overly fashion-conscious, I’m CLOTHES-conscious. In other words – I like to look good, in my own idiosyncratic way. Which is kinda hippy-punk, if you can imagine it.

This season, though, I’m in desperate need of cool clothes (Queensland gets stinking hot, folks). Why? Because I stretched everything while I was pregnant, and last summer I just had to cope with looking crap. But stuff that for a joke this time round. I do NOT like fitting in perfectly, looks-wise, in Ipswich. It’s embarrassing.

So anyway… looking in the shops, and boho is back in a big way. Dunno if they’re calling it boho this time around, but it’s lots of flowy cottony stuff with lacy bits here n there.

Hrmmmm.

Me and ‘feminine’ have never gotten along too well. And this stuff just screams ‘feminine’. All of it. It does, at least, kinda shout ‘hippy’ as well, I guess. But definitely not ‘punk’. And I’m not sure it’s even whispering ‘Naomi’, unless it’s also whispering, ‘come over to the dark side… we have make-up!’

Bleurghhhhh.

Classic punk tartan miniskirt?

Nope. HUGE nope. Too cliched and, well, not a good look on anyone past a size 10 – in my humble opinion. Although I’m tempted to go try one on and take pics, and post them here. Just for the fun of making other people cry 😉

Where the Hell IS She?

My attendance here and round your blogs has been a little bit patchy lately.

I do have a damn good reason. A couple of them, actually. But I need a couple of hours to sit down with my computer and type up a proper explanation.

In the meantime – here’s a post I wrote ages ago, which might give you a laugh…

Aussie Translations – on the Aussie Bloggers blog.

It’s something I knocked together in about half an hour because my deadline was looming and the post I had planned required a few hours of solid work to put together all the research I’d done. And no, I still haven’t collated that research. Umm, whoops? Anyway, the quick put-together kinda shows, I think, but it’s still got the capacity to amuse. I hope! 😀