Archive for February, 2005

The Analogy of the Mouse

Monday, February 14th, 2005

My Valentine’s day was sans Stuart thanks to the fact that he’s currently in Canberra, but the Universe took pity on me and filled my day with boring errands and other people’s badly disciplined fat children. That more than made up for the lack of sex and googly-eyes. Oh yes.

The main thing I achieved today was sending off two writing submissions, an erotic short story and a poem. I’ve kind of been dragging my feet about sending them off, even though they’ve been sitting printed out on my desk for about two weeks. I guess if you never submit anything, you never get rejected, right? And also never published. So today I finally stopped dragging my feet, while biting the bullet. Now at some point in the future, I can expect a nice rejection letter, or nothing at all.

I rang my friend Chris this evening to tell her, because I truth be told I was unduly proud of myself. It wasn’t so much that I wanted to brag – “hey look at me, I’m pretending to be a real writer!” – because truth be told, Chris is a fair way ahead of me on that front, the little digger. No, it was more that I wanted some sort of pat on the head. We conferred, and decided that the attention I sought was really more of the variety shown by the pet cat that likes to bring you presents and leave them shredded on your doorstep.

This analogy took a rather gruesome turn for me when I made the mental leap to thinking about an old family cat, Tabitha. Tabitha had been a young stray we’d gotten from a pound; she was tiny even when fully grown, and never quite lost the sense that food must be consumed surreptitiously, lest it be taken away. We had her when I was a kid, and we lived in the old farmhouse, which had a massive courtyard outside the front door. Tabitha was quite the mighty huntress, often bagging animals much bigger than herself; I wouldn’t have been surprised if, one Winter, she’d dragged home a lamb from the paddock next door. At least that would have been a useful present.

Her prolific killing sprees were apparently all in the name of impressing her adopted family, and she was quite proud of her accomplishments. Many was the morning I would step out the front door en route to school or my trampoline and be confronted with a veritable petting zoo of small dismembered creatures. Often she would leave the heads on the doormat, possibly for identification purposes, and then spread the entrails and limbs across the courtyard, sometimes quite artistically. She was like a cute furry little Jeffrey Dahmer. Of course, despite the good intentions behind the act, it was still traumatic for many reasons. I would throw tantrums and point out that Tabitha wasn’t my cat to avoid cleanup duty, but that didn’t prevent all the nasty outcomes. To this day I still have a phobia about going outside without shoes on.

Happy Valentine’s, all. I hope yours was filled with gestures of love as pure and true as the gutted heart of a small furry mammal. Double points if it’s one that’s ever been animated by Disney.

Fun With Context

Tuesday, February 8th, 2005

A couple of nights ago, after a delicious dinner at Kake di Hatti, Deirdre, Titian and I were wandering down Lygon St, en route to my car. There was a slight lag in conversation, and we were all paying attention to different things. I’m not sure what Titian was looking at, but Deirdre was looking in the window of a Turkish restaurant, and I was looking at Pickwood Lodge, a licensed brothel which surely has some of the classiest and most original adverts in all of Melbourne.

Enraptured as my attention was, you can understand my momentary confusion when Deirdre suddenly exclaimed “hey, that man has a hookah!”

Getting in Touch with my McCarthyist Side

Saturday, February 5th, 2005

Forgive me as I go a little kids-say-the-darnedest-things for a moment here, and recount a recent conversation with my three year old nephew, Myles.
At a family lunch at my mother’s house, Myles realised that something was missing, and that something was Stuart, that weird guy who can usually be sweet-talked into playing “crickbat” for hours on end.

Myles: Where is Stuart today, Aimee?
Me: He’s in Sydney today, Myles. He had to go there for work.
Myles: [frowns] Work is bad.
I laugh. My sister Elise, also known as “Mummy” to a select few, interjects:
Elise: Yes, but people have to go to work so they can earn money.
Myles: Money is bad!
Me: I think you’re raising yourself a little commie there, Elise. [My mum and Elise laugh.] Myles, are you a communist?
Myles: No!
Me: Are you a [pause for effect] Marxist?
Myles: [decides this is a great game] No! [Grins]
Me: Are you a…Trotskyist?
Myles: No! [Vigorously shakes head while grinning]
Me: Are you a…Maoist?
Myles: NO!
Me: Hmm. Are you, perhaps, a…Leninist?
Myles: Noooooooo! [Giggles and pokes his tongue out at me]

Sadly, considering my shoddy performance in first-year politics (half-baked essays and lots of snort-laughing at my political theory lecturer’s technological mishaps and slightly strange sense of humour), this is the deepest political conversation I’ve been able to lead in quite a while.