Renovation part four - The Kitchen!

The kitchen before:

The kitchen after:

The kitchen before:

The kitchen after:

The kitchen before:

The kitchen after:

Just have to put the tapware back on.
And yes, I am aware the kitchen looked more modern before I renovated it. lol.

Holy Sheet

Thom mentioned yesterday the sales boy at Holy Sheet in Mount Lawley appeared really very cute and was possibly a mincer. I go in there about once a year.
Today was, following that tremendous recommendation, the day I went in there.
Well that little titilation cost me $250.
On one hand I have no idea whether the cute boy at Holy Sheet is a mincer or not.
On the other hand I have a fantastic new bedspread and sheets.
All in all I'm happy with the arrangement.
But if everyone could just refrain from mentioning they've seen cute sales boys in stores where the average price per item is $100+, that would be most helpful.
Send me pictures from your phone instead.

PS, as you can see from the image below, my obsession with all things brown continues... doing nothing to quell Thom's use of my nickname, "brown boy".
Is it because I is black?

I wish every day was Negro Day!

Did someone say... Hipp. Oh. Crit?

Everyone has a price and I learned something today:
I. Can. Be. Bought.
Unexpected pre-emptive strike by the editor this morning. Disarmed me, asked me if the rumours of my departure were true, asked me why. I explained I wanted more money and some work/life balance.
He offered me a pay rise on the spot. And answered some concerns about my workload in a nicely reassuring way.
He filled the whole bizarre experience with platitudes about my ability and potential.
It was flattering. Surprising. Welcome.
It was lovely to feel valued. A rare experience.
So I'm going to stay and see how it goes. There's only a year or so til Thom finishes uni and we can wander off into the world for a bit of an adventure. In the meantime I'll work more effectively and efficiently at the paper, covering my local government stuff. Which is an area I really like.
Sorry for dragging everyone through the wringer this last few weeks. At very least I'm happier now... and that can only be good.

Take a close look in the Mika

Excuse the bad pun, but I have a new theory.
When you die, if you were important enough, you get 30 seconds on the TV news bulletins. It will contain how old you were, the one thing people know you from, what you died from and who you are "survived by". (I have always hated that expression). It will contain whatever two of your former colleagues or close friends thought, possibly a quick quote from the PM or premier if it was a quiet news day and the journos were bored at the doorstop.
Does that really honour your life? Is it representative? I don't think it is. It's a very skewed version of the reality that was your life, usually seen through the prism the public can most identify with. All so some bored housewife with a long memory can pause before shoveling another forkful of potato nuggets into her mouth to say "oh, that's a shame".
Nup. That is not success. I reckon the definition of success is whether a montage of three to five second grabs of footage from your life would look good played under this Mika song, called Lollipop.

Surely that is something we could all aim for?

(Okay, so perhaps that particular song isn't for everyone... so I welcome other suggestions).

It's time to make a change

Just relax, take it easy.
Some of you will know I occasionally suffer from incredible stomach pains. I've had them since I was 13 and the doctors have done lots of tests over the years but have never found a solution.
Sometimes coffees seems to set it off. Sometimes extreme stress.
Whatever the reason, tonight my stomach is in knots.
Tonight I think I know what the reason is though. I'm being sent a contract for a new job. I have to sign it tomorrow and send it back. I might sit down with the bosses at work and ask them what they'll offer me to stay before I go... but I really have to go.
My stomach is in pain too often these days. For all the reasons outlined in my previous post.
The job is fantastic. Awesome pay, flexible hours, city location, overtime, on call allowance, good leave and super arrangements... the usual Government stuff. And its actually a journalist's position within Government... which doesn't come up too often. And it's with a department which does stuff I really believe in. On the front foot rather than the back foot. I like that.
So the idea is I can restore some work/life balance (the cliche of the new millennium).
I'll have time for the gym and the money to pick up some PT.
I'll have time for Russian study and tutelage.
I'll have time to see all my friends and won't have to work my weekends.
Etc etc.
Just a little scared to actually leave news and the industry. I'm sure I'll cope... but it does make me nervous.
*deep sigh*

A thankless task

Someone just sent me an email in which she said "I don't know why anyone would want to become a journalist - such a thankless task".
Nail. Head.
Journalism is a vocational thing. It's like becoming a priest. You have to love it.
Well I've stopped loving it.
I'm sick of avoiding telling people where I work because of their reactions.
I'm sick of defending my work place to opinionated know-it-alls.
I'm sick of know-it-alls ringing or emailing to complain about my stories.
I'm sick of idiots ringing me to complain about the editorials in the paper - I don't even fucking write them.
I'm sick of i'm sick of making stories out of crack pot ideas.
I'm sick of writing angles that are unfair or not quite true.
I'm sick of being made to feel inefficient, ineffectual and incompetent.
I'm sick of taking a big sigh before I answer the phone.
I'm sick of avoiding returning calls from members of the public who want to pick on something I've written.
I'm sick of being asked to cover stupid fucking non-events.
I'm sick of watching legitimate news stories go uncovered while flights of fancy are pursued at a remarkable level of resourcing.
I'm sick of getting paid peanuts for all of this.
I'm sick of not being respected.
I'm sick to fucking death of it all.
I don't love it. I hate it.
I hate waking up in the morning with a feeling of dread about what the day might hold.
I hate sighing with relief if I'm not asked to do something I'm uncomfortable with.
I hate the fact that I no longer smile and laugh. I don't see my friends any more. I'm rude. I'm aggressive. Angry. Where did I go? What happened to me?
I know this is self indulgent, but it's my fucking blog and I'll cry if I want to.
I hate my life at the moment. I hate it.
This shall pass, but right now I just wanted to explain to you all why I may not be around, may not be happy, may not be myself.
I'm trying desperately hard not to string myself up in the shed.

Really not into this

There is a story in today's paper. My name is on it, but I didn't write it. I bears no resemblance to the story I wrote. Seriously. And it pisses me off.
I accept there is an editorial process but when my story is completely re-written to make it more sensational, less balanced and at the expense of accuracy, and to include information to back up the discredited and sensationalist view... then I think I'd prefer my name taken off the piece. I'm really hacked off.

Gay.

Work it!

This is fabulous. It needs sound for you to get it... unless you're a perv like me in which case sound is an optional extra and the boy candy is the main attraction.

But it is still better with music. Seriously.

Renovation part three (or whatever I was up to)

The Stirling St renovation continues. You may recall the kitchen looked like this?:

Well now it looks like this:

Only less sideways. I still have problems with the photo program. I'm so computer illiterate. Nevermind.
Tiling to do still. Parquetry being done on Tuesday. Bit of touch up paint and it should be ready to roll!
Or indeed, rent.

Hoots mon... me scoots, mon!

I had to take further action too. If the guilt over the amount of carbon I am responsible for each year was not enough to do it, the fact it cost me $60 to fuel up last week was. Bugger that. I'm buying a scooter.
The Carbon Neutral website tells me I will emit only about a tonne of carbon a year on it, if I do 20,000km... which I won't. Either way, I'll pay for the nine trees they will plant in my name just to clear my conscience completely.
I wrote a story last week on scooters and learned it costs about $4 or $5 a week in fuel to operate. Another account said about $150 a year. Whatev. Sounds good to me.
I figure a lot of my driving is work and back and just little trips darting around here and there. Thom will be shitting himself at this as I have been his personal taxi for the last 18 months, but I simply cannot afford $60 in petrol a week. I'm not getting rid of the car, for obvious reasons, but it doesn't need to use more than about $10 in fuel a week. The rest of the time I can scoot.
Am I nuts?

Militant Subversive Activism

I had to do something about it. I could not stand the fact that my friend Daniel (Radio Daniel, not Dancing Daniel) was so proud of his petrol guzzling car and so smug about the fact that it used so much fuel. I hated it. I had to do something about it.
So I did.
I offset his emissions for a year over at Carbon Neutral.
Then I told his girlfriend I had done it but made her promise not to raise it with him until they were full on in the middle of an argument.
Hilarity ensues, I hope.
I encourage you all to engage in subversive "fuck you" get-me-backs. It is incredibly satisfying.

Just quietly, very bloody excited

I'm treating myself a bit this year. And I'm being a better friend to some people I don't get to spend much time with.
In June I'm going on holiday for a couple of weeks. I'm flying to Sydney (being sure to see some people I've neglected while I'm briefly there) and Dancing Daniel and I are hiring a Wicked Van... and hitting the road for a week.
Like a plot for an old fashioned road movie... or possibly Priscilla, now I think about it... my bud and I are hitting the highway west and heading for Dubbo.
I haven't been there for more than three years - nearly four, by the time I get there. We're heading to Oxley Downs to stay with the Tourles and revisit the place where I ripped the testicles out of a sheep with my own teeth.
After a day or two in Dubbo we're driving back towards the coast but on a northern trajectory, stopping overnight at Coffs Harbour to break-up the journey to BRISBANE!
I haven't been there since I was a very small child and frankly do not remember a second of it, so I'm dead excited. Not least excited because I get to hang out with the transcendently fantastic Andrew in time to hit BrisVegas on a big gay weekend.
Then Daniel and I will fly home. So awesome. I cannot wait.
Now it's really just a matter of saving... which involves finishing the renovation on this flat and getting someone in there renting it so I'm not paying BOTH my mortgage and my rent. Talk about housing affordability... sheesh!

A further note to my old chums at local papers

Dear friends, I'm not sure I explained myself well. I was having a whinge at my employers lack of interest in local government issues, the coverage of which is my domain.
On reading it back this afternoon I have a couple of concerns with the obvious interpretations.
Firstly, I wasn't remotely suggesting that I get all the news first. I'd have to be Superman (or Clark Kent, at least). There have just been a few instances where I could have beaten another news organisation but we didn't run the story when I had it for one reason or another.
The second point I was clumsily trying to get across was, there are fantastic stories out there that really really need to be out there in the public domain and as deserving of a wider audience as they may be, the only way people will hear about them is if they are printed in the local paper.
It's an important job and one that had a lot more job satisfaction than I get here, at the daily.
I'm not sure if any of you took offence or not... I couldn't quite interpret the two comments left which is why I re-read the post. Anyway, sorry for any confusion, beautiful people.

This has a whiff about it

Is it just me or is this stuff about Wayne Swan smoking marijuana and having pre-marital sex (not to mention a little-known first marriage) just a little sad?
Is this really the best the press can come up with? Is this meant to be some kind of scandal?
Trust me, I know... it is a slow news day today. I'm in the news room watching several political reporters snoring and/or talking about bouts of gastro.
But this is such desperate tripe. Really, really desperate.
He gave the information freely in an interview for a profile piece. The story in News Limited publications this morning (I think it was by Glenn Milne) made it sound like he'd spent his teenage years haunting needle exchanges and knocked up his 16-year-old dealer.
I know you want to dent the Government's ludicrously high approval rating but this isn't a whiff of a scandal... it's just plain whiffy full stop.