Archive for the ‘Real Conversations’ Category

Pillow Talk

September 21, 2010

The other night the boyfriend shook me awake to tell me something important.Th conversation must have gone on for about 10 minutes. Here’s a summary of how it went.

BF: We do slapperdicktomies now!

Me: Wha?? what?

BF: Slapperdicktomies!

Me: What’s a slapperdicktomy?

BF: A penis transplant, silly! We can put one wherever guys want an extra one. Or if girls want to try it!

Me: *uncontrollable laughter*

BF: What?

Me: So how did this come about?

BF: Someone left one behind! How cool is that!

Cool’s not exactly the word I would have picked. He clearly belongs with me.


Food by the Sea

July 23, 2010

When I wake up, and am still in that dreamy half sleep state, I often have marvellous conversations with The Boyfriend. Mostly about what I was just dreaming. I am assuming this is true, because of course I hardly remember any of these conversations. I only go by what I am told.

There are 2 specific things that I apparently talk about the most frequently when referring to my dreams. The first is the holiday house where I spent all my school holidays as a child, and still try to get to a couple of times a year even if just for a long weekend. Well of course I can understand I would dream about that place – it’s a magical, wonderful place. I plan to have my ashes scattered on the water there when the time for that little ceremony rolls around, it’s the most special place I have ever been. Speaking of scattering ashes on the water, I apparently dream of swimming all the time as well, but I kind of link that in with the holiday house – they are one and the same, in my mind. Not swimming in ashy water, to be clear, just swimming.

The second thing is food. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me really either, I am greedy and love to eat. Luckily, I love to cook as well, although I don’t do as much of it as I really should as work really cuts into my leisure time. But hey, when that Lotto win comes through I will be happy to hang around the house and cook up a storm. (I could then pay someone to diet for me – that should work, right?) I didn’t realise I dream about food so much – although I suppose, the one dream I do recall from the past fortnight is the one where I was for some unknown reason carefully dipping sliced cucumber into melted chocolate. I guess that clears up the worry that I’m forgetting fantastic recipes that I dreamt up, eh.

I was surprised these were the dreams I ramble about the most. The dreams that I do remember are usually rather vivid and frightening, and involve mazes and races and running away from something/someone. The Boyfriend looked at me rather dryly and said that when I am not dreaming about cooking, and not dreaming about the holiday house, I apparently dream I am in a cooking contest at the holiday house, so I managed to get the “competition/race” part of that involved in there too. For a while I got a bit excited and thought I surely would be a natural shoe-in for next season of MasterChef. Then I realised that cucumber dipped in melted chocolate was probably not a MasterChef winnng combo.

*Edited to Add:

That’s a lie – I just realised there IS one other dream I remember from last week. It has nothing whatsoever to do with food or the holiday house, either. It does tell me that work is stressing me out JUST a tad though. I dreamt I was at a book launch, for a book I had written. It was a children’s book, and was beautifully illustrated much in the style of Beatrix Potter. I couldn’t quite remember what I had written in the book, so was flicking through it. It was a story about a little bunny rabbit who was having issues with her computer. Etc. Till the last page, when it ended with “Peter the rabbit smiled to himself, feeling pleased, for he didn’t have any issues with his computer – he used a PC, not a Mac.” I’m now convinced that I have either totally lost the plot, or thought up the idea that is going to make me my fortune.

Things that go Poke in the Night

July 20, 2010

The other night as we lay in bed, I said to The Boyfriend “You know, sometimes I’m not sure if you’re still breathing at night. It’s normally reasonably easy to tell if you’re alive – the snorty noises give it away. Sometimes though, I wake up and you’re all quiet. So I poke you to see if you’ll make a noise, just to check if you’re still alive.”

The Boyfriend looked at me with absolute shock on his face. I thought he was horrified that I would be poking him in the ribs every other night. Gee, and I didn’t even tell him how HARD I do it sometimes, especially if he’s annoyed me that day! Nope, that was not the case. He replied with “That’s so weird, I do that to you too!”

I didn’t really believe him. Until last night, when I was sleeping lighter than usual all night as The Boyfriend had  very selfishly been coughing all night. Hey, I’d offered cough mixture, he wouldn’t take it because it was 9 years out of date. Bah. I was lying in a half sleep state, when I felt a very sharp finger in the rib cage. I leapt up, thinking he was sicker than I’d thought, and somewhat regretting my growl of an hour or two earlier that if he didn’t shut up I’d poison him. He said “Don’t worry honey, I was just checking you were still breathing”.

Home Alone

February 15, 2010

I’ve had a somewhat unwanted housemate for the last 3 months. A friend, who at the time was desperate, promised it was only for a couple of weeks – you know the drill. 3 months later it was starting to wear a little thin – I’d only been back in my house for a week before Mr Onlyforafeweeks arrived. I hadn’t had time yet to wander around in the nude. As you do. Well, as I do anyway – why would you wear clothes to clean the house, for example, when you’re only going to get all sweaty by the time you’re done.

Mr Onlyforafeweeks got very cheesed off with me last weekend when I had sent him a very blunt message advising how selfish and rude I thought he was to not turn up to a BBQ lunch I had invited him to (an invitation that he had accepted, and that I had catered for when preparing food), preferring instead to go to the local pub for steak-in-a-glass.  It wasn’t the first time, so I called him out on it.

Seems like he’s gotten so enraged by my message that he has not spoken a word to me since. Or a word to The Boyfriend, even though they were supposed to be good mates. I did hear he was planning on moving out this past week – there is nothing kept a secret at The Local, after all. He hasn’t managed to let me know he’s moving, however his clothes were all gone by Thursday, and the house has been peaceful ever since.

Yesterday I was chatting to a friend at The Local about how lovely it was having the house back to ourselves again – and without thinking, I said “Yep, I’ve been wandering around all day in the nude, it’s been just lovely”. He raised his eyebrows and nodded as he replied, “Yep, I heard there’d been a  big car accident on your corner.” I was quick to retort “Oh, not from me wandering around in the nude, I had all the blinds closed. Although I suppose it might have been from when I forgot what I wasn’t wearing and went out to check the mailbox.”

Last Train to Snoozeville

January 21, 2010

I often time my departure from work to coincide with a nice comfy country train. Normal suburban trains are the norm to my local train station, however sometimes (about once an hour) you can catch a country train headed for the mountains that happens to stop at my station. They are faster than the suburban trains – they stop at few stations. The seats are roomier and more comfortable. The air conditioning actually works! They are also quieter, for most of the passengers are traveling further and want to catch up on work, or reading, or sleep.

One of the locals found out a while ago that I often caught a particular country train, and being a creature of habit that I always sat in the same carriage and seat. Since then, he has been catching the same train. I have often wished he wouldn’t – he’s a bit of an annoying character. His heart’s in the right place though so I put up with his nonsense all the way home, on what used to be a peaceful and quiet trip home, away from the rowdy rabble on the suburban trains. When you walk on a country train, the atmosphere is almost hushed, as if you are entering a church. Not this friend – he leaps on board, greets me VERY loudly, and keeps up a long conversation the whole way, no matter how many times I tell him to keep his voice down, the people in the next state can hear him, and no matter how many of the regular country train goers frown at him.

Yesterday for the first time, I was actually pleased he got the same train as me. I must have been exhausted – I’d gotten on the train and gone straight off to sleep, not even waking as the train pulled out of the station. By the time my stop came along, I was well into a very complicated dream about how to make the best scrambled eggs in the world (Damn it, I can’t remember how now!). My loud fellow traveler came to wake me up at my stop – lucky he did or I’d be writing this post from who knows where!

How Fancy

January 18, 2010

On Friday The Boyfriend and I went to a Fancy Dress party. We of course left outfits until the very last minute, then decided to go dressed as the Blues Brothers (simple, right? Just black suits, sunglasses and hats!) When we couldn’t find hats anywhere we started to panic – we had half an hour before it was time to leave and we still had nothing.

Eventually The Boyfriend came up with the brilliant idea of going as Mormons, so we dressed in black pants, white shirts, ties and I made up some nametags (“Elder 12ontheinside”), wrapped a couple of paperbacks in blank paper and labelled them as “The Book Of Mormon” and off we went, with plenty of time to spare.

Throughout the next part of the evening several groups of people who we have known for years said things like “Wow, I didn’t know you guys were Mormons!” Seriously, I am sitting in a pub with a schooner of beer in my hand and a very fake looking nametag on, and you think I am the real thing? The girl dressed as a nun didn’t get the same reaction so I am assuming we obviously come across much more clean living than I thought.

I Never Said I Was a Morning Person!

October 22, 2009

I’m not good in the mornings. I never have been. I’ve always loved to stay up late – I remember sneaking into the TV room, which was on the other side of the house to my parents’ room, to watch movies – or one year (1983), to watch Australia win the America’s Cup yacht race (which must have been late here if it was raced in American daytime – in fact there was much made of the quote by our then Prime Minister who said the following day ‘Any boss who sacks a worker for not turning up today is a bum’.)

I’ve also noticed that I am finding it even harder of late because the house is still in absolute state of chaos, which makes mornings that much harder to deal with. I am just too tired on getting home at 7 or 8pm, then making and eating dinner, to do any little extra jobs that need to be done. That’s why there are boxes spread throughout the dining room and the floor is now an interesting shade of grey even though the tiles are not in fact grey at all.

The Boyfriend really does get the bulk of the angst thrown his way of a morning of late. Really, though, when I am rushing around like a chook with my head cut off, do I want to have a conversation about installing Office on the new computer, or do I need anything from the shops today, or what do you think about the latest boring political news? No, sir, I do not.

Perhaps that is why when They Boyfriend was pushing me to take some fruit to work with my lunch today in the interests of my health, he said “Come on, how about a nice little mandarin? Here’s one just like you, small and cute. We didn’t have any grumpy ones so this one will have to do – just eat it a bit later in the day, not first thing.” Hmph. I resemble that remark.

Updated to Add: The mandarin may not have been grumpy. But it was sort of wrinkly and a bit sour inside. Just like me. Heh.

Awkward Conversations 101

September 17, 2009

I spent the day today with The Boyfriend’s mum and dad because I was home sick from work, and they just look after me the right amount – offer cups of tea and conversation but leave me alone when I go to lie down.I love spending time with them, and in exchange I cooked them a corned beef to have on their sandwiches for lunch with pickles and cheese. Yum.

I was having a conversation with The Boyfriend’s dad, about Beethoven, and how difficult it must have been to hear the music in his head but not be able to actually experience it the way others did after he went deaf in his late 20s.

We then moved on to how many of the old composers were total nut jobs. I supplied the information that many composers had untreated syphilis, and they were all nutjobs because one of the later complications is going quite mad.

The Boyfriend’s dad said to me ” You know, apparently lots of women are carriers of that”.*

What made me reply with a cheery “I’m not, no need to worry about your son on that one, he won’t catch anything from me!”? I then tried to recover with “No, really, I’ve been tested!”

It was only when he started umming and ahhing that I realised that might have been an oversharing moment and decided not to carry on with the fact that it surely is HPV or something like that rather than syphilis that is rife in the community, and that I thought it was men who are unknowing carriers. I think I’d better cook them something else to distract them.

I Picked This One Well

September 10, 2009

Work has been somewhat stressful this past week. It was such a nice surprise to receive a text from The Boyfriend this morning: “Fancy dinner out this evening? My treat! Wherever you want to go, the choice is all yours xoxo”.

I replied immediately with just one word. “Maxim’s.”

I’m so glad he gets my humour. He worked out immediately I meant the famed restaurant in Paris, as he replied with “If you pay for the airfare!” Smart cookie, that one. Also, one of the few people who actually gets my jokes.

I’ve made some poor choices in my life. Not that I’d change anything – my mistakes have helped make me who I am. It’s just so nice to know that The Boyfriend is not one of those mistakes.


August 31, 2009

Ah, Mondays. Don’t you just love them. Mine was even worse given that I had to get up an extra hour early to salt my cheese. That sentence may make sense after the weekend tales are complete.

On Friday night I gathered a group of friends from The Local and off we went to watch our footy team’s last home game for the season. It was great, especially given that we won. On the way home, we stopped in at a bar. I was refused entry. “We can’t let you in ma’am, you are wearing a football jersey”. I might add, this was one of the seedier establishments in the area. I responded “We are in Parramatta, right?” The bouncer agreed. I continued. “Parra just won a home game, in this very suburb, right?” The bouncer agreed again. “And I am not allowed in because I have a Parramatta jersey on?” Yep, that’s right. I obviously looked oh so threatening, I’d have been frightened myself if there had been a mirror nearby.


Once Saturday morning rolled around, I said to The Boyfriend that I was taking him somewhere special. I should possibly have let him know that it would not involve me feeding him, as he got all his nice clothes on and thought we were going out to lunch. I wondered why he got all dressed up. The Boyfriend drove, so I gave just the address. No other clue – a street address. His response? “What, the homebrew shop?” Yes, folks, my boyfriend seems to know the address of the homebrew shop off by heart. I did buy him something special, of course – all the ingredients needed to make a tasty Stella Artois style beer. And let me tell you – hops smell nasty. Very, very nasty. While at the homebrew shop, I bought myself a cheesemaking kit – just a small one that makes brie/camembert style cheese. I started the culture on our return home on Saturday and I’ve been making the bloody stuff ever since. We watched footy at The Local yesterday afternoon – well everyone else did, I was running home every hour to turn the cheese over. Anyway, I have a new appreciation for why nice cheese costs so much. This stuff had better taste good. Little Miss Muffet curds pictured below.


On Saturday night, after deciding to have an early night with a DVD, The Boyfriend arrived in the bedroom with this nice little tray of pickles, cheese, and milk before bed. OK, Kahlua and milk, but close enough. I think I’ll keep him.


I sure hope my cheese turns out as nice.