GETTING MY COOK ON

So, I’m starting to get into my course a little now. 

It took a few days for me to find my comfort zone, and understand my place in the world, but I’m starting to get to know my peeps a little better, as you would expect as time rolls by.

As I’ve blogged before, they’re all quite a mixed collection of people.  The Gen Yers are all right.  Apparently, they failed last year (because they didn’t get all of their homework completed), so they’re back for a second round. 

Though, you would expect that they’d know their shit, but some of them seem a little unsure.  Maybe they’re just shy.

That won’t last long with me around. J

One of them I have clicked really well with.  I think that’s because she reminds me so very much of my cousin Kate.  Same build, same hair, same face and similar mannerisms. 

So I have a spot for Candy (that’s the name I’m giving her on here).  Candy’s a nice kid trying to make her way in the world.

For our first in class lesson, I roll up to school, and she’s sitting outside on the bench having a smoke.  So, I wander over and say g’day.  She shows me her flashy set of Global knives, which I know will be worth about a grand in total. 

Now, I don’t give a fuck really, but she was so exited when she showed me, that I could only be encouraging and happy for her.  Good on her!  She loves her knives.

‘Don’t let any mother fucker in the class use them, but you.’ I warned. ‘They won’t respect those knives like you will.’

‘I’d let you use them, Lee, cos I know you like cooking and you would look after them.’

‘That I would darling, but just don’t let any fucker, including me, use them baby.  They’re all yours.’

‘Okay’. She smiled proudly, wrapping them all up again.  Good on ya, love.

So we wander into the change rooms, and change into our fucken Michelin Man outfits.  I feel like a dick, but Candy’s wearing her Michy outfit, so I’m not feeling so bad.

We wander into the kitchen, dump our shit and find a place on a bench, ready to get our learnin’ on.

The rest of the class staggers in, half of them without their fucken uniforms.  Four months we’ve known about this course starting; where the fuck are your uniforms people?  Jebus? 

One of the ladies, we’ll call her M, is already driving me nuts.  She hasn’t a very good grasp of English (neither have I, but I think I can communicate ok), and she’s latched on to me like a fucken leech.

Smart lady has worked out who the switched-on students are, and she follows them around like a fucken puppy. 

I don’t know whether she’s cunning, and is riding on my coat-tails, or if she’s just genuinely desperate.

Either way, it took half a day in our first split class to learn that I need to keep away from this leech, or she’ll suck the fucken life out of me.

Unfortunately for me, she nabbed me straight away.

‘Are these shoes okay?’ she points to a gorgeous pair of Mary-Jane’s that she’s wearing.

‘No champ.  They are not.’

‘Why?’

‘You have to wear boots.’ I lift my trousers (fucken gay check clown pants), and show her my Blunstones.   ‘Those shoes are not safety boots.’ I point at hers.  ‘If you drop a knife or hot liquid on them, it will go straight through to your foot.  You must wear boots to protect your feet.’  Fuck me! Haven’t you done ANY of the homework?  Have you not listened to anything said during the fucken first day of school?  It was all OH&S shit; specifically what we have to wear!

Fuck me, it’s gonna be a long day. *face palm

So the trainer, Big Jase, is showing us how to julienne a carrot.  Simple enough.  Done it a few times; knife skills are okay.  Sweet.

Another chick and I, we’ll call her J, set up and share a chopping board, and start chatting whilst chopping.  Fucken M barges into the middle of us, asks what we are doing, and sticks her fucken face in the way.

I’m like ‘Dude.  Back the fuck up.  Go and get a bit of carrot, a knife and a fucken chopping board, and give it a red hot go somewhere else mate.  There’s plenty of room.’

She laughs it off.  ‘Oh, I don’t understand.’

‘Then go and ask Big Jase.  He’s the teacher. He will help you.’  Fuck this shit, ya rude moll.

‘Can I watch you.’  Fuck me.  So I chop away, and stand back for J to have a turn, and fucken M takes her bit of carrot, and just start making a fucken hash of things.

I give J and eye roll over the top of M’s head, and she’s like ‘dude, I know.’

What the fuck?  I’m going to end up ripping M a new one if she keeps this shit up.

By the end of the day, both J and I have moved places in the kitchen to simply get away from M, and still she’s haunting me like a fucken poltergeist!

‘Is this enough water, Lee?’

‘Go and ask Big Jase love, he’s the trainer.’  Fucked if I’m carrying her all year. 

‘What do I put now?  Do I put sugar?  What else do I put?’

‘Go ask Big Jase, M.  I’m not the teacher.  You must ask him, cos I don’t want to tell you the wrong thing.’  I’m not the fucken teacher; I’m here to learn too!  If I carry her along, Big Jase and Big Jode (the other trainer) aren’t going to see that she’s struggling. 

It’s like a parent doing the homework for their kids.  The kids are getting any smarter, and the teacher doesn’t realise that the kids actually a dumbarse.  They get through on a false representation of themselves, and when it comes to the crunch, they fail and the teacher never sees it coming.

I’m not M’s parent, and I’m not doing the work for her.  She needs to sort this shit out for herself, and if she’s not up to it, fucken move on.

Harsh, but fair.

No one’s cutting me any slack for anything; I have to pull my own weight, she can too.

I know that it’s all about teamwork, and it’s all about getting along in a close environment and working with a different mix of people when you get out into the workforce.  I’ve been working in it for 25 years, and putting up with all variety of dickhead.  I get it.

However, in a commercial kitchen, I would not be expected to assist someone that knows jack shit, whilst trying to learn myself.  Different situation.

I can’t handle all the shit I have to do, whilst learning and pumping Big Jase and Jode for everything they’ve got, with M clinging to me, too.

*big sigh again

So, although I am happy to assist anyone, I can’t do everything for her, and she needs CONSTANT supervision.  Fuck me!  She nearly lost her fucken fingers half a dozen times, and that’s whilst J and I were trying to teach her how to chop shit! 

I’ll have to nip this in the bud.  Soon.

Aside from that, I’m getting along really well with everyone else in the class.  I should say, I am getting along very well with M, she just shits me.

Now there’s J, who’s 26 and a mother of three; the oldest being 10.  You do the math.  She wants to punch the 10 year old him the head, cos he’s a smart arse little fucker.  I said ‘I hear ya.  He’ll be like that until late teens.  Fuckers.’  J and I get along like a house on fire.  She’s a nice chick.

Then there’s young D, who’s 16 and never really cooked much before, but has a shit load more of an idea that M.  She’s the 16 year old that latched on to me because I’m like her late mum; also called Lee (must have been an awesome chic). J

There’s another chick called L, who clearly can’t be fucked, and has some serious issues, because I don’t think she wants to be there.  However, in saying that, at least she’s there (for the second time), and trying.  She and I get along well.

She near broke a rib when we were talking about cocktail frankfurts, and Candy and I call them ‘little boys.’  I explained that when you over cook little boys, they split, and become ‘little girls’.  They lost their shit at that one.

I realised then that I have a whole new audience, and a new generation, to dump my stupid jokes on.  Yeah. 

So, after about two weeks now, we’re all getting along really well, even M and I.  I must say, she’s a nice chick, but I think she’s seriously gunna to struggle.

I can’t wait to get to know these peeps better, and work with them more.  Everyone has their stories, and I can’t wait to learn more about them.  They’ll be my school buddies, and a very important part of this adventure for me.

I just hope I don’t throttle them in the mean time! LOL!

Wish me luck!

Peace out.

AND SO IT BEGINS...

So, school has begun.

I’m officially ‘a student’.  Even got a card to prove it.

If I digress for just a moment: does anyone out there ever take a decent photo for their licence or ID card?  Fucken I don’t.  A supermodel I am not.  In fact, I’d like to see the photo on a supermodels licence…

Anyway, aside from the exciting realisation that I can now purchase discounted movie tickets, I’m really quite terrified.

Firstly, I spend two weeks stressing over a fucken uniform.  In my mind, I’m thinking like ‘if I don’t cry with excitement when I put this uniform on, I’ll be astounded.  It’s totally like my dream coming true.’

However, when I finally figured out what size I could possibly be (try being a fat chick purchasing clothes online – without trying anything on), I finally order these fucken things, only to receive them, and realise that they are made for fucken giants.

Not short-arse fat chicks.  Giants.

The chef pants and jacket fit me, but fuck me!  They’re literally a foot too long in the sleeve and leg!  So I’ve spent more money having them altered than they fucken cost.  AND, I’m still a harry-high-pants.  I can see that they’re going to have to go back for further alterations.

Then there is the realisation that I, who cooks in my non-air-conditioned kitchen at home, in shorts, a singlet top and sneakers, will suddenly have to get accustomed to fucken overalls.  That’s what this uniform is like: overalls.

Great.

But it’s okay.  The lame little hat, neckerchief and safety boots will make it all okay. *rolls eyes*

But I won’t complain, because this is what I asked for.  I’ll just cook myself a mug of concrete, and harden the fuck up.  I’ll cook myself a mug of concrete in my fucken ‘overalls’ that make me look like the Michelin Man.  Yep.

So I bundle along to school (minus the fucken uniform, thank fuck, cos I don’t need that for the first few days), and find myself sitting in a room with about twenty other hopefuls. 

And what a mixture we have.

From a sixteen year old kid who’s looking to start a career (but has NEVER cooked before), to a woman in her fifty’s that’s refreshing her qualifications.

It doesn’t take long to realise that the majority of the people in this room are there through Centrelink, employment agencies or for employment based training.

Myself and one other person are the only one’s physically paying for this course.

How fucken stupid am I?

I should have quit my job, gone on the dole, and Centrelink would have paid for my course! All I needed was a fucken Health Care Card.  A Health Care Card! 

Here I am, all excited about discounted movie tickets, when what I should have been aiming for was a fucken Health Care Card! 

Two grand it would have saved me! TWO GRAND!  That’s why I have to pay in fees! Most everyone else in the class room is cruisin’!! FUCK!

Dumbarse.

Michelin Man dumbarse.

So, after my first day of OH&S training, the purpose of which was to not only to induct us into the safety procedures of the school and industry, but to point out with screaming clarity for all of us, who the fucken idiots are that we need to stay away from.

Common sense is not so common after all, it would appear.

So after this OH&S crap, several ‘team building’ exercises (imagine my fingers doing the inverted comma thing), which saw me get way to close to too many strangers, and a heart attack at the volume of theory I will have to somehow do (didn’t know about that one – thanks TAFE), I drove home in hysterical tears wondering what the fuck I was thinking.

I can’t do this! I can’t work part time, study full time, run a business, a blog, a recipe website, secretarial work for the CWA, wear a fucken Michelin Man uniform AND find nearly a full extra day to do online-based study.

What the fuck was I thinking…

Charlie said it’s going to take me a few weeks to get used to it and get into a routine.

Charlie knows everything.  He is my Yoda.

I don’t have a few weeks to get into a routine, though.  I’ve got to hit the ground running, and it’s going to be hard.

So, I’ve decided that my mantra will be ‘it’s only for a year’.  I figure if I repeat this to myself long enough, I’ll fucken be able to cope.  Either that, or I’ll turn into a rambling, blithering mess, that’ll simply stumble around a commercial kitchen in the Michelan Man outfit, attempting to throw together something edible.

*sigh

Anyway, the second day of school saw us splitting into our specific training groups.  So I’m with nine other girls who want to be cooks, like me.

I’m the oldest in the group; no surprise there.  Another is a sixteen year old poppit that connect with me instantly, because I remind her of her late mother (who was also named Lee: go figure).  She reminds me of Jade, so I don’t know whether to hug her or punch her in the head.

Then I find myself sitting at the table between a woman that cannot speak English very well, and another that has a poor grasp of it, and here I am, a little slow to pick up on things sometimes, desperately needing to pay 100% attention to the trainer, but have these two birds chirping into both of my ears, cos they fucken need help.

Mental note: site in a different place next week.  Fuck.

Then we have two girls that rocked up to class hung over, and complained about being tired all day.  They’re half my age, and fucken soft, and I’m wondering how long it will take before I smack one of them.  Fucken winging Gen Y’ers.

Their performance affects my grade to a point, so my patience will go flying out the window very quickly.

Plus, I’m a grumpy, old moll that has zero tolerance for ‘young people bullshit’.

The rest of the girls are a mixture of ages, abilities and backgrounds, and looking at the collective, I know I’m going to be in store for an interesting six months. 

I’m just hoping that some of them don’t go on to the certificate III with me.  Fuck that.

However, it’s all about team work and dealing with different personalities in the kitchen.  It’s not all about me.

And it’s only for a year.

The second week will see me wearing the Michelin Man outfit for my first formal day in a commercial kitchen.  It’s not air-conditioned.  Now I would complain about this, but I’m kinda rolling with the ‘it’s good it’s not air-conditioned, because it will condition us to non AC kitchens in the future’.  Yep.  If I say it often enough, I’ll believe it.  *rolls eyes*

So, I must away now, because I have to do some online shit that will teach me how to use a knife; something I’ve only been doing for the last three-hundred years.

Wish me luck.

Peace out.

SEE YA LATER, MUTHA F**KA!!

What a contradictory species humans are.

A little while ago, I was shopping at Airport West, and whilst pushing my trolley around Coles, I can hear the rain and thunder outside.  Great. 

Yes: rain and thunder.  What a surprise…

Anyway, I push the heavy trolley up the ramp to the carpark, and yep: bucketing down. 

Haven’t seen decent rain at Tooborac for like three fucken months and here it is, pouring down in the burbs.  WTF?  Send some our way! I have an acre of garden and fucken paddocks that need watering! C’mon!!

Anyway, I’m standing under the shelter, waiting for the rain to ease a bit, and split my time between checking the Bureau of Meteorology’s website for rain patterns to see how long this shit will last, and stuffing my pie-hole with salt and pepper squid sushi (fucken divine!).

The rain eases somewhat, so I dash across the car park – well, as much as I can cos I’m limping (cos my knee is still fucked), whilst trying desperately to control my footsteps so I don’t fucken slip over;  I fling the hatch open, and unload in about two seconds.

I close the hatch, turn to take the trolley back, and hear ‘I’ll take it for you love.’

I look up, and a gentleman in his sixties perhaps, is coming toward me with his trolley.  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

‘Absolutely.’ He smiled as we pushed the trolleys together to make it easier.  ‘No point us both getting any wetter.  Jump in your car and go home, love.’ He smiled kindly, and headed toward the trolley bay.

‘Thank you so much, sir!’ I called after him, and smiled as I climbed into the car.

How sweet was that?

I send out positive blessing to the universe, to shower down happiness on this nice man, whilst I’m heading out of the car park, and toward the Ring Road.

So, my plan was to head in the opposite direction of the traffic, go around one round-a-bout, along a bridge over the Ring Road, around another round-a-bout, and then down onto the Ring Road.  Basically, I’m doing a big ‘u’, and that misses a lot of the traffic congestion on Mickleham Road (which is a head fuck at that time of night).

So I stop at the first round-a-bout, and some cockhead in a hotted up skyline that’s so old it’s an embarrassment, pulls up behind me.  Well, sort of.  He comes up behind me, tooting his horn and waving his fucken arms around, whilst fishtailing and spinning the wheels of his car.

How the fuck he manages to do this without hitting me or anyone else, is beyond me.

I’m looking at him in the rear-view, and wondering what the fuck he’s doing, and why the fuck he doesn’t go around me, because it’s two fucken lanes around the round-a-bout.

Dumbarse.

So I move off, because the traffic to the right of me has cleared, and make my way slowly around the round-a-bout, and head toward the bridge.

Fucken numbnut behind me comes around the round-a-bout like he’s in XXX: Tokyo Drift!  I can see him in my side mirror now, his piece-of-shit-car fishtailing all over the fucken road, and all I can think, is ‘I need to get out of this dickheads way, before he cleans me up.’

So I touch on the breaks, which forces Fangio to go flying past me, all the while screaming abuse out the window at me.

I will point out right now, that I have absolutely no fucken idea what he was going on about.  There was no one behind me or near me at the first round-a-bout.  I wasn’t holding any one up and I didn’t cut anyone off.  I’ve no fucken idea what he was screaming at.

All I can guess is I stopped him from impersonating Paul Walker (XXX).  Fuckwit.

Anyway, Fangio in his piece-of-shit-car goes flying past me, and heading toward the round-a-bout ahead of us at break-neck speed, skidding and fishtailing all over the road like a dick, and I can’t help but think ‘you’re gonna lose it mate.  You’re gonna fucken lose it.’

Sure enough, Fangio loses control of his piece-of-shit-car.

Have you ever had one of those moments where you actually gasp and slap your hand over your mouth in fright?

Well, I had one of those moments.

Keep in mind that it’s raining, although lightly; the roads are really wet from the downpour we had not fifteen minutes ago.  It’s been as dry as a nuns clacka for months, so the roads are a little muddy and slick.

Fucken Fangio did a complete 360 in the middle of the road.  If I’d been beside him, he would have completely cleaned me up. 

How there wasn’t someone in the round-a-bout, was a sheer miracle, because he did a complete arc across my lane and through the two lanes of the round about, flinging his car backward up the embankment, and coming to a halt facing the direction he was heading AND, only about a foot away from a sign post.

Fucken arsehat.

Naturally, being the compassionate human being I am, as I drove past, I caught his eye (he was okay), and gave him a resounding round of applause.

‘Well done champ! You’re a fucken winner!’ I cried as I slowed down to pass him.

If looks could kill... he’s giving me the death stare as I drive past pointing going ‘Ha! Ha! HA!’

I drive carefully around the round-a-bout, and head for the onramp to the Ring Road.  As I’m going around, I catch him in my mirrors as he climbs out of the car and attempts to push it off the embankment. 

It takes me seconds to realise that, because of all the rain, the embankment may be soft, and his car has sunk into the turf.

Ha! Ha! HA!

Now, I’ve already demonstrated my compassion to you, so you should know, that as I headed toward the on ramp, I wound my window down (I didn’t mind a little rain at that point), tooted my horn to get his attention.

As he looked up, I gave him a friendly wave, and yelled ‘See ya later, mutha fucka!!!’

And, as I drove along the onramp and merged with the Ring Road peak hour traffic, I laughed.

I laughed and laughed.

In fact, I laughed so hard, I had pee leakage.

And I laughed all. The. Way. Home.

You see, it’s not often you get to witness instant karma, but to have the opportunity to rub in, is a gift from above.

Peace out mutha fuckas!!!

THE PEOPLE YOU MEET...

I’m a firm believer that people come into your life for a reason.

They have a ‘gift’ for you; a life lesson, if you will, and you obtain this gift through your relationship with them.  Negative or positive; you get something out of everyone you meet.

Like, I have friends that you would think unlikely for me, but they have given me the gift of confidence within myself.

I also have friends that constantly test that confidence, and rattle my foundations.  This succeeds in only making me stronger.  I hope J

Sometimes though, you meet someone that just smacks you in the face with reality, and makes you realise that life ain’t as bad as you think.  There’s always someone out there to unintentionally pull your head out of your arse and make you harden the fuck up.

Such is the case of a lady that I’ve come to know over the past few months.  I won’t mention her name, or how I’ve come to know her, because I don’t want to embarrass her.  She doesn’t carry her life story like a placard above her head.  In fact, if you were to meet her, you would just think she’s the loveliest, happiest person around. 

That is the gift she got from one of her life lessons.

You see, we had occasion to really chat the other day, and me being the person I am, like to learn the stories of the people around me.  I think people’s histories are interesting; it’s their making.  Good or bad, it’s what’s moulded them into the people we know today.

So, my new friend has started a relationship with a new fella.  I had the chance to meet him, and he seemed like a nice bloke.

Anyway, she was telling me that she was taking it really slowly with this bloke, because several years ago, she’d come out of a very bad relationship.

‘What happened in that relationship that was so bad, if you don’t mind me asking?’ I enquired. 

‘Well,’ she sighed heavily.  ‘My partner was an abusive drunk.’

‘Oh no…’

‘Lee… he used to beat me on a regular basis.’

‘You’re fucken joking?’ 

I still don’t understand how men can beat women. And I shouoldn’t be sexist, because not all abusers are men. 

I just, honestly, don’t understand how anyone can hurt another person like that.  I can’t get my head around the notion that someone would have such a gross lack of respect for another human being, and that violence toward them is justified in their minds.  I just don’t get it.

‘No…’ she smiled.  ‘I wish I was.’

‘Were you with him for a long time?’

‘A very, very long time.’

‘Why?  Why did you stay?’

‘Well… I suppose it’s the old adage that I had nowhere else to go, and stupidly, I loved him.’

‘Fuck me, mate…’

She laughed.  ‘I know.  It was stupid…’

‘No… stupid’s not the right word.  I believe we attract what we need at that certain point in time, you know?  Maybe you attracted someone like this for a reason?  As air-fairy as it sounds, I believe we choose a path to travel, and attract people to travel with us, to help our soul grow.’

‘I understand what you’re saying.’

‘Maybe that was a part of your life lesson?  To learn that’s not how you want to be treated, and that you’re better than that?’

‘I would agree with that, because when I look back, I know that I’m better than that.  I’m a better person that he could ever be, and I didn’t deserve what he did to me, and he’s nothing but a dog.  I know now, that I deserve better.’

I smiled.  ‘What did he do to you?’

‘Well, he used to beat me.’ She explained.  ‘I’ve had eight broken ribs in total; a couple of the same ones twice; a fractured eye socket… a broken bone in my hand…bruises all over me where he  grabbed me…’

‘Holy shit mate…’ my heart just clenched for my new friend.  I couldn’t believe she was sitting there calmly telling me this… any physical evidence of her suffering long gone…

‘But that’s not the worst of it…’

‘It get’s worse?’ how could it possibly?

‘He pushed me down a flight of stairs once…’

‘Oh my God…’

‘When I was eight months pregnant… with twin boys…’

Oh my fucking God no.  No… surely not… surely not… my eyes started to well with tears…

‘It’s funny…’ she mused quietly… ‘That day, when he pushed me, there were two young men at the bottom of the stairs… I actually landed on one of them.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.  He saw it happen.  He stepped up to grab me, and he caught me from behind, wrapped his arms around me, and fell backward with me, and I landed on top of him.  He cushioned my fall… he didn’t want me to hit the concrete…’

‘Oh my God…’  please don’t say what I think you’re going to say.

‘I knew I was in trouble.’ She shrugged.  ‘I… I started bleeding.  And you know what?  That young man never let me go… he just held on to me, his hands on my tummy like he could stop it all… and his friend called an ambulance and just held my hand.’

I was stupefied… and it took me a moment to realise that tears were rolling down my cheeks. 

She just smiled at me.  ‘Don’t cry love… I’ve dealt with it…’

‘It’s just horrible… horrible…’ I shook my head, holding her hand.

‘It was, I’ll admit, and awful, awful time in my life.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, the two young men rode in the ambulance with me to the hospital.  My fucken dog of a partner just took off, like the coward he is.  He knew he’d gone too far this time, and took off.’

‘Fucken coward.’ I said through gritted teeth.

She nodded.  ‘Indeed he was.’

‘And your babies?’ please don’t…. please don’t…. but I’ve got to know, because I’ve never heard mention of any children…

She smiled proudly.  ‘I gave birth to my beautiful boys… I hugged and kissed them… then I buried them.’

I lost my shit.  Oh darlin…no…

‘The nurses let me hold them for a while, but I had to let them go.’

‘What were their names?’

‘Matthew and Nicolas.’  She smiled proudly.  ‘My beautiful boys.’ 

I lost my shit again.  Fuck me, why?  Why would someone do that to another human being? WHY?

I sat there with her, sooking like the bitch I am, and she just smiled at me.  ‘You know… that day changed my life…’

‘It fucken would…’

‘And you know, to this day, those two young men ring me on the 17^th of April every year.  Every year, to see how I’m going.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Nope.’  She smiled proudly again.  ‘Every year, and you know what?  Those two young men became coppers because of it.  It completely changed their lives too, and they’re now police officers.’

‘Oh wow… how long has it been?’

‘My boys would have been eighteen this year.’

FUCK! Eighteen!  They would have been men now!

‘I often think about it, and as funny as it sounds, I think that I’m glad they didn’t come into this world.’

‘Really?  Why?’

‘Well, what type of life would they have had with a father like that?  What would they have become seeing their only male influence treating women the way he did?  What would he have done to them?’

‘True.’ I mused.  She had a point.  ‘

‘I could have had eighteen years of having to deal with him.  Even if I plucked up the courage to leave, he would have still had a hold of my boys.’

‘That’s true.’

‘And because they’ve gone, I don’t have to.  I was able to walk away, and never see him again.  My children gave me that gift.’

And there it was.  The gift.  The gift of freedom; given to her by a couple of stillborn babies.  How tragic.

‘So, after that, you left him?’

‘Would you believe I took him back?’

‘What the fuck?’ I cried.

‘I know! I know!’ she laughed, holding up her hands in surrender.  ‘Everyone thought I was mad, and they were right.  I remember the local copper saying to me at the time, that when I was ready, come and see him.  Only when I was ready though.  He told me I was mad too.’

‘You were!’ I smiled.

She just laughed.  ‘I know, I remember walking into the Kilmore Police Station when I’d had enough, and I walked up to the counter, and said to the copper on duty that ‘I’m here to see-‘ and that’s as far as I got.  The side door behind the counter opened, and the copper I knew from years ago said ‘well it’s about time! Come through love, and let’s get this monster out of your life forever.’

‘Wow…’

‘So now I’m free.  I started my life again, and I’m happy.  I think of my boys all the time, and I enjoy my job and my friends.’

‘And you now know that you can never go back to that shit again.’

‘Indeed.  Now I know I’m better than that, and deserve much more.  It’s up to me to make myself happy now.  I can’t rely on anyone else to do it.  It’s all about me.’

After hearing my friend’s story, and as I said before; sometimes things just happen to slap you back to reality. 

We whinge and bitch about the most trivial of things at times, but there are people out there that are suffering much more than we are.

My heart broke for my friend, but she doesn’t need my sympathy.  She said ‘don’t shed any tears for me.  It’s in the past, and I’ve grown from it.’

However, as a person that can’t have children, my heart breaks because that was possibly her only chance to have babies, and she lost it because of the actions of a selfish, cruel man.

I asked her ‘was he ever charged for it, because to me, it’s fucken murder.’ But we were interrupted, and I never got the answer.  Considering she took him back. I’d say that he wasn’t.

The things we tolerate for love.

I tell you; after reading this blog, I want you to sit back and have a look at you life, and the partner you have in it.  If you partner is nothing like this arsehat, then you’re doin’ okay I reckon.

I know I am one lucky woman.

Peace out.

SWING, BATTA BATTA BATTA! SA-WING BATTA!!

Three strikes and you’re out!

That’s how it’s supposed to roll, isn’t it?

But how many of you knew about this little ‘escape clause’?  The loophole that allows our elite AFL footballers to get away with drug use?

I didn’t, and I’m really pissed about it.

Nothing infuriates me more than this stupid three strikes policy.

The AFL will explain that three ‘three strikes’ give players an opportunity to seek help, counselling or rehabilitation.  A change to clean up and start again.  It’s so the players know that their lives won’t be ruined, that their careers won’t be over; that they have a chance at redemption. 

After all, everyone fucks up once in a while, don’t they?

It also gives the players a chance to get away with it.  To abuse the system.  Isn’t that the Aussie way?  Test the boundaries and see what we can get away with?  Rort the system?  Take advantage?

So basically, this is how the loophole works.  If you, as a player, advise the AFL or the medical staff that you have used drugs at a point in time where you’ve been tested (basically, telling them when they test you that they will find drugs in your system), then no ‘strikes’ will be recorded against you.

No strikes.

So, instead of being firm and saying ‘three strikes and it’s over, baby’, the AFL are saying ‘do what the fuck you like, as long as you tell us.’

Fuck me.

I will be the first person to say that I really know fuck all about AFL footy.  I don’t understand the game anymore; there are too many rules now.  Players are pulled up for I don’t fucken know what, and the flow of the game seems lost to me.  The days of long bombs, speckies, biffo, quick conversions and flowing games are gone.  I watch footy now, and I seriously don’t know what the fuck is going on.

Charlie hates watching the footy with me, because I’m forever ‘What happened?’ ‘What was that for?’ ‘What did he do wrong there?’ ‘WTF?’  I’d be shitty at me too.

It’s all just about money, muscles, sponsorship, television rights, tattoos, WAG’s and players fucking up their knees all the time.

Now, the real beast, who’s been quietly working in the shadows, manipulating, controlling, destroying, is starting to come into the light, and he’s casting a mighty big shadow across the game.

After all of this Lance Armstrong drug confession bullshit of late, I wouldn’t at all be surprised to learn that some players are using performance enhancing drugs.  Some have suffered great injuries, and may turn to it to improve their fitness.  Some aren’t strong enough or fast enough, so they’re turning to some pharmaceutical assistance.

I understand that.  I don’t accept it; but I get it. 

What I don’t get, is their need to take illicit, recreational drugs.  This is a completely different evil.

I could bang on here about Ben Cousins, and how drugs hooked him in and fucked up his life, but it would appear that, so far, his life is going just fine.  He fucked himself up, cleaned himself up (apparently), got back in the game and finished his career.

He basically got away with it. 

The irony here, is not once did the AFL produce a positive drug test for him.  Not once.  He bought the game into disrepute.  That was his only crime, and he was demonised for it.

Ironic that a lot of players who fuck up behind the wheel of a car, or get into fights and brawls, or glass and bash their partners, or assault women, or try to murder people still seem to be running around the paddock…

The AFL has explained that the life of a player is a difficult one.  There are immense pressures on their shoulders, and sometimes life can be incredibly stressful for them.

So? 

That’s part of the deal, isn’t it?  If you reckon you can perform at that level, then you better deliver.  It’s not all glory and fame my friends; the weight of expectation is upon you.  That’s life in the spotlight, I’m afraid.

I can appreciate that sometimes these young kids’ sign up for deals, and no one knows if they can handle it until the ball starts bouncing (pardon the pun).  For some of them, the pressure gets to them, and they seek comfort in whatever way they can.

Their young, fit, good looking, famous, and playing in a glamorous game.  They’d be like a beacon to the underworld; the dirty dogs that peddle their wares to the unprepared.  The innocent.  The weak.

That’s what it is.  The stress of the game can produce a mental weakness that needs comforting.  Peer pressure, performance pressure, public pressure; it will all contribute to the decision that kid makes when he accepts that ‘little something’ to take the edge off.

That little something that hooks him in, and ruins his life.

This is where things can become quite tragic.  These are the kids I feel sorry for.  They get swallowed up and spat out by the AFL mill.  Just another name in The Record that eventually, we will forget.

However, it could also be a case of simply seeking a good time.  Young bucks on the prowl, wanting to max their fun, and getting on the gear without thinking they’d ever get caught.

The fame swells them; they start believing and living the hype, and they feel ten foot tall and bulletproof.  Invincible.  Untouchable.

But they’re not. 

A fox can only run for so long before the dogs catch him.  Though, if those dogs are the AFL, when they do catch you, they’ll give you a second chance at life.

So, the foxes are safe.  And always will be, because they can confess their sins and be cleansed.

Only to do it all over again.

So the AFL is having a massive Drug Summit this week to discuss these very loopholes in the policy; the loopholes that are letting these cunning foxes slip through.

Here’s a suggestion: zero tolerance.  No ‘confessions’ to cleanse the soul.  Two strikes; you’re gone.

After the first strike, get counselling, rehabilitation, and guidance; whatever the fuck you need to get clean and get off the gear.  Stop socializing with the people that bring you down.  Change your life, clean yourself up, and take seriously the gift that you’ve been given, and the opportunity granted.

If there’s a second strike, see ya later.  No more changes.  Gone.

Harsh?  Yep.  It is, and it needs to be. 

If players understood the severity of the punishment, maybe they would think twice before fucking up, because clearly, the policy in place is not working properly.  Not if players can confess and clear the slate.  Not if players think they can get away with it.  Not if the foxes can escape through the loophole.

Now, I’m not making light of a drug addiction here.  It’s serious, and I completely understand that.  It’s an all-consuming, soul destroying disease that takes you over.  Drugs are a numbing agent, designed to take you away from the life you have, and help you forget.

Issues around severe drug use can run very, very deep, and I sympathise with people that are lost to it.  I really do.

However, these boys are playing with fire, and they won’t win.  It’ll take them, which is why they need to be careful.  Which is why they need to see and understand, the consequences of their choices.

What may just start as a good time, just partying and living life, can turn into something much more sinister.  This is where the first strike comes in.  Sorts the players from the addicts.  Helps the AFL and the club involved determine which direction needs to be taken.

It’s the fork in the road; one way is a slap on the hand with a simple ‘pull your head in’; another is rehab, counselling, etc.; and another one just leads to darkness.

The first strike is a chance to start again.

Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I’m coming at it from a completely incorrect angle?  By my own confessions, I’m pretty ignorant about the game.  However, one must wonder what needs to be done to clean up the sport.  Maybe it’s too complex?  Maybe it all just needs to be simple.

And clean.

I will be watching the results of this Drug Summit very, very closely, as I, like quite a few other supporters, want to see some serious action toward change.

Peace out.

TWO WHITE LINES

How fucken hard is it to park in between two white fucken lines?

Seriously?

The number of times I go to a friggin supermarket or shopping centre car park, and some numb-nut has parked either right on one of the white lines or over it, and you can’t get your car in there, I’ve lost count of!

Am I alone here?  How fucken hard can it be?

I can do it.

Charlie, who parks like a retard, can do it.

Iris can do it, and she’s old and has a disability sticker.  Wtf?

Why can’t everyone?  Jebus really!

The other evening, I was driving through the very cramped car park in front of the Romsey IGA, and every time I think ‘ooohhh… there’s one!’ I realise that some dick has parked over the line!

And you know what else I noticed?  They were all friggin 4wd’s. 

You know how much I dislike non-country people and their 4wd’s.  Half of Romsey are try-hard wankers that live there because they like to say ‘I live in the country’, and drive brand new, shiny 4wd’s that never see any off-road action.

Spankers.

Spankers that clearly can’t park their shiny, un-dirty 4wd’s.

Four car parks the other day!  Four!  That’s how many spankers had fucked up one of the most basic of driving skills.  Four!

I drive an i30, for fucks sake!  I couldn’t squeeze her into those spaces even if I tried! I mean, I have to allow about twenty foot on the drivers side so I can squeeze my fat arse out of the car as it is, but really!

I would so love to scrape the sides of their car with mine, just to piss them off, but apart from the fact that it would fuck my insurance up, recent events have shown that the poor old i30 cannot take a punch (the flying rubber incident).

So why risk it.

I don’t know how pissed off you get with dumbarse parking, but I get really, really pissy about it.

My fave piss off, apart from those fucken parents-with-prams spaces (don’t get me going on that), is when an able-bodied person takes a disabled space.  Fuck that shits me.

Years ago, I nearly had a punch on with a dude at a shopping centre in Tarneit, because he pulled his shiny, flashy, hotted up ute into a disabled space right near the door, climbed out and strutted into the centre.  Big wanker he was.

I naturally pointed out the error of his ways, but he didn’t care.  However, he did care when I told security, and he was very impolitely told to move his fucken car.

How selfish do you have to be to do that?

And how selfish do you have to be to take up two fucken car spaces in a car park?  I mean… there’s nothing wrong with having a second bite if you pull in crooked or too far over, is there?  Just fucken get it right and think of everyone else, you selfish pricks.

I wish I had a series of big stickers that I could stick on these wankers cars, right on their windscreen, in the middle of the line of vision, that said ‘I’m a dickhead who can’t park properly’, or ‘I’m a selfish twat that takes the car spaces of disabled people’, or ‘I’m a wanker that thinks that because I live in the country, I must have this ridiculously shiny 4wd that will never see a shred of dirty in it’s entire life in my possession’.

Fuckers.

Learn to park!

Peace out.