Just a Formal-Ity

I got through it. I didn't cry. I really surprised myself. I thought I'd be a sobbing mess last Friday night at my son's Year 12 Formal - especially after shedding a few tears at the assembly - but I was okay. Of course, my breath caught when I beheld him in his suit, tie, and dress shoes. I had to drive him to the venue early for pictures with the classmates, and on the way, I repeated how great he looked, and how much he looked like his dad in a photograph from years ago, also wearing a suit. As he walked to the RSL, I saw his classmates milling around the entrance. The girls were in their long gowns and looking just stunning. I actually did tear up a bit then, and thought I was going to be a wailing wreck later, but - and I reiterate my surprise - I managed to keep it together. They looked so elegant, which is the result you want when you've bought-borrowed-hired a formal gown, and had professional hair and makeup done. It took me back to the day of my own Year 12 Formal, when my self-titivations and preparation comprised washing my hair, and running outside to rinse with the tap at the tank because the water was soft. I wore a nice dress purchased from David Jones during previous school holidays. It wasn't quite what I had in mind; my original thoughts was a dress I'd seen on Krystle Carrington in Dynasty, complete with shoulder pads that could have doubled as helipads.

Mr Bingells and I arrived an hour later (after having a few quick snorts, along with other parents, in the bar downstairs). My speech appeared to be on a loop: 'Wow, you look amazing!'. I repeated it over and over, every time I encountered on of the students. Some of the more creative boys had put their own personality into their choice of attire, like fancy waistcoats, and in one case, a rich red jacket in a shiny fabric - a personal favourite of mine, maybe because I've know the lad in question since he was a toddler. Anyway, I'm going to share a picture of the three of us inside the venue. I don't know if Mr Bingells and Mr Eighteen want to be shared in my blog, so I've done a line over their eyes to give them some privacy.

And aren't we all looking faaaaaaabulous!

I'm still to organise some publicity for my latest book; all the rushing around on Friday and getting ready - I didn't ring libraries etc. If any of you readers are in a book club, what about having a read of my latest, Howling on a Concrete Moon? Here's a link to the first chapter here.

I cannot leave without making some snarky comment about the dumbest thing I've read today. Some people think Jenny Morrison, wife of our Prime Minister, is doing the White Power symbol in photographs. Her thumb and forefinger are often curled in a circle. Look, people, do you seriously think the woman would be that stupid? Some people have pointed out she has irritated fingers, so she's possibly a nail-biter, and this could be a ploy to hide the bitten keratin. It could be an idiosyncratic quirk. Whatever it is, it's highly unlikely that she would be a big enough jackass to do an offensive symbol in photographs, okay? Fer chrissakes, peeps, she's married to the frigging Prime Minister, so do some sensible thinking, okay?

Graduation Day

It's been something of a day. I am still to ring some local libraries to organise author appearances. I also have to ring another radio station to organise an author interview. I also have to think about writing another book. Also on my to-do list is make some notes for tutoring, and write reports on students.

Today I completed an online module for working with clients who have disability, and understanding obligations under the NDIS. I've completed it. It's off my shoulders. I'm happy.

But although I am indeed happy about getting that training module out of the way, and although I am happy to be feeling my muse nudging me in the ribs and saying, 'Hey, Bailey - got some ideas for another book here!', I am actually feeling drained. It has been an emotional day. My eldest son graduated high school today. Back in 2007, I watched him - a sweet-natured little boy - wander into a kindergarten classroom and sit down at the toy box with some other children; today I watched a pleasant, intelligent young man walk out of the school assembly hall for the very last time. I thought I was going to be bawling, but managed to keep it in. I actually teared up when the Year 12s entered the hall; the Year 10 music class was performing We Are The Champions, and it was very stirring and solemn to see them filing in, and taking their seats. After the official assembly, they exited to Life is a Highway, and the audience stood, clapping in time with Tom Cochrane's upbeat tune. I caught the glistening eye of another mum (my eyes were shining like crazy diamonds), and we smiled at each other in a mum-type solidarity. I must mention there was a funny section where younger siblings spoke. My 15yo stood up, and in his own quirky style, said he was going to miss his brother when he went off to college or university, but he was not going to miss watching him eat on the couch, nor would he miss the teasing in the playground from him and his friends, teasing that entails telling my youngest to get to class, notwithstanding it's recess. And yes, when it was time to go to the library to view the cutting of the cake, my graduate and his friends told my youngest, 'Get to class!'

It has been a very emotional time. I launched my book last week, and although it's not up there with the unveiling of the Sistine Chapel, it is a personally stressful time, and I was so grateful for the help I received. Today, I saw my kid finish school. I still have to get through the Year 12 Formal tomorrow night, which will involve seeing him in a suit-and-tie combo (I will need tissues). We still have the HSC to battle through, so it's not over yet.

But my son, if you read this, and I KNOW I have already told you, just know that your dad and I are ever so proud of the terrific young man you have become. I've been blinking back tears most of the day, but they are tears of pride and joy. Even if you DID polish off Dad's beer nuts, much to his annoyance!

Like Tom Cochrane said: life is a highway, and we are going to ride it, and see what the future brings.

It is Launched!

I have not been on the blog all that often of late because I have been organising my book launch for Howling on a Concrete Moon. The launch was last night at the local art gallery, and it went off quite well. Being an anxious nerve-ball, I was very tense and uptight in the leadup, but on the day adopted a kind of que sera sera  attitude. I had some help for the night: the woman who applied the war paint for my author photo did a makeup for the night, and she also helped us load the car with scoffages prepared for the guests to, er, scoff. An early comer helped me unload my car, and we got the repast spread out over two tables, and the bevvies set up at the bar, which had signage appropriate enough to have the Liquor & Gaming authorities jizzing themselves. I make this reference because the said authority told me I had to go to the local police and inform the Council. I found myself getting dreadfully irritated with the blue tape, when all I want to do is get my freaking book sold. Shortly before opening time, my husband and two sons arrived, and I was faffing about saying, 'There-are-people-outside-we-have-to-unlock-the-doors-I-need-the-toilet-can-someone-get-me-a-glass-of-wine.' We unlocked the doors, the crowd (well, people I'd invited) made their way in, and I - thinking I was dead cool - said, 'Good evening. I'm Simone Bailey, and I'll be your author tonight. There are refreshments this way.'

The official launch was done by another local author - she did an awesome job - her name is Leonie Rogers, and she rights delightful speculative fiction - so check her out.

Upshot is, I got all my stock sold - yee-hah! - so I now have to order more stock for future library talks etc.

So, I had a bit of a look to see what has been happening in the world today, and not much has changed: people are still immensely stupid. I'm not talking about the brownface scandal enveloping Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau, but I will say his makeup and costume were applied at a time when people weren't quite aware of the offensive connotations surrounding making up in this manner. Do we ALL have to apologise for innocent dumbarsery eighteen years ago? I'm aware this comment is likely to draw the ire of people who think I am bathing like a sybarite in my white privilege, but all I really want is for people to contextualise. That word is Con-Text-U-Al-Ise.  It's great. Apply it before you start losing your shit.

Speaking of people losing their shit, I kind of lost mine today when I saw a petition that is circulating online. I have long maintained these things are started by pussy-arses with too much time on their hands, and my opinion has not changed. It would appear the generatrix of this mewling bullshit is offended at some of the terms used by the Oxford University Press, terms she discovered during a search with the word 'woman'.  The terms included words like 'bitch' or 'wench'.  She wants to OUP to revise their dictionary. Listen, lady: this is not how dictionaries work. They give word definitions, etymology, synonyms, and will say whether the word is colloquial, jargon, and yes: derogatory. What a dictionary does not do is tell you whether or not you HAVE to say it. Seeking to see words banned is eerily Orwellian, and Heavens to Murgatroid, you must be aware 1984 is a work of FICTION, not a manifesto by which we all must live, aren't you? What is the point of posting dumb photographs of yourself whilst you are holding signs that read: I Am Not A #Bitch, or I Am Not A #Wench. Maybe you are NOT a #Bitch or #Wench, but you might consider a sign: I Am A #FuckingIdiot. So, too, might the thirty thousand people who have signed this asinine petition. People are getting sillier every day. Yes, some terms are obnoxious, but seeking to have a dictionary not use them is not the way to go about things. Pick another hill to die on.

To help me unwind tonight, I have been playing silly songs, and sharing them on Facebook. It is my quest to totally daggify (I think I made up a word, and I wonder will there be a petition to have it banned) social media. My cheese includes The Long Ranger by Quantum Jump. This song is seriously awful, and the lead singer looks like a young Dr John Hewson with a mullet. Check it out; you will see I write nothing but the truth.

The Blue (Wren) BIrd of Happiness

What I've been noticing lately;

1. Dickwad politicians posting photographs of themselves brandishing tongue swab drug tests of the ToxWipe brand; we know this because the logo is prominently displayed, as though it's on a sporting field (while I think of it, are ToxWipe LNP donors?), and bragging how they've been tested. We all know it's a snide little dig about the proposed - and monstrously flawed - notion of drug testing welfare recipients. So congratulations, you glib globules of snot from Satan's nostril; you've tested clean. How about you now go and piss in a cup in front of someone, and submit THAT sample for testing?

2. That when you're in a public place with control over the piped music, a shit song will come on.  It happened to me twice the other day. I was at the gym, and whilst I was working my pectoral muscles, I was subjected to Umbrella by Rihanna. Look, I cannot say this enough, but God, that is an irritating song. I don't know if it's the atonal racket, or the lyrically ratshit 'umberella-ella-eh-eh-eh', but that song just makes me stabby. This was on the radio station, so it led me into the two o'clock news bulletin, and I'm not making this up, but the first song after the weather was - are you ready for this? - ANOTHER freaking Rihanna song: Work. Like the aforementioned '...eh-eh-eh...',. there is the repeated bilge of 'work, work, work, work.' Okay, we get it; the song's about working. But what de Sade of a program manager decided two Rihanna songs (broken up by the depressing news of the world) was a good idea?

3. In the aggravating maelstrom of posturing politician sand desperate ditties, there can be the odd pleasant surprise. I had to work late this afternoon, and when I pulled up outside a client's house, a blue wren landed on the bonnet of my car (just near the windscreen), and hopped its way across the wiper blades. It was a cheering moment in what seems to be a constantly busy or stressful time of late.

Saturday Night at the Movies...

As many other parents have no doubt discovered, the opening of a popular film in the local cinema is advantageous for getting stuff done around the house. Don't believe me? My fourteen-year-old wanted to see It (the sequel) on the weekend, and needed money for his ticket. This meant he actually ASKED for chores. In an interesting twist, one of the characters in the book, Richie Tozier, wanted to see a horror movie so pestered  his father for chores (this was in the 1957 setting of the book, and he, along with Beverley and Ben, saw I Was a Teenage Werewolf).  I was pleased to get the dog walked several times, and the floors mopped.

I also wanted to see the movie, as the same sprog and I had viewed the first one upon its release a couple of years ago. I gushed about what a great time we would have going to the cinema together. My son looked at me as though I was leading him on the path to Social Death, and told me he planned to attend with his friend. I pointed out the session he wanted to attend ended after 11.00pm, and no way would they be walking home at that time, so Mum was going. A compromise was reached by me promising to not sit anywhere near them in the cinema.

So I dropped my kid at Maccas, and arranged to meet them at the cinema before session (I had the bright idea of pre-purchasing tickets in case they sold out).  It was an almost surreal experience lining up to go in (I was several patrons ahead of my son and his gang of mates in the queue). I do believe I was the oldest person there; just about everybody attending was in their teens. I guess it was Saturday night out for them, and many of the older ones are children whom I've known since kindergarten, as they were friends with my oldest. I know what an old fart I must sound, but it's weird to see someone you remember as a shy little boy with a piping voice now a developed young man with a beard.

As for the film, well, I didn't mind it TOO much. I think it relied too heavily on sudden scare, and bucket-of-blood tactics. It's a given that the book's better, because it nearly always is. I was given the book as a present when I turned 21. One of my then housemates gave it to me. I was delighted when I unwrapped it, and couldn't wait to start reading. The girlfriend of another housemate said, 'I will have to borrow that book from you, Simone.' I smiled sweetly, and thought: In your dreams, you entitled bong-sucking bitch.

There is a scene in the book, which thankfully was not in either of the films, involving a child orgy. I did not understand, and to this day still do not understand, why Stephen King wrote in in there. It adds simply nothing to the plot, or character development, or anything really. It's plain bloody gross. I am not about to tell another writer what he or she can and cannot have in his or her work, but I read that scene, shuddered, and thought: What the fuck?

But anyway, I have seen the movie, and my kid had maintained a level of credibility among his friends.

Well, I have a lesson to finalise, and a speech for my upcoming book launch to consider. Thank you for reading this post. If you're interested in my latest book, you can read the first chapter by clicking the link on the home page of this blog.

More Crud from the Spud

Spud the Dud Dutton is undoubtedly moving around, and sitting, more comfortably at the moment. He said on morning television today: 'People who are unemployed are three times more likely to use methamphetamine'. I'm pleased for Spud that he is feeling relief and comfort now. I wonder how much fibre and senna he consumed in order to remove that 'fact' from his bum? It must have been a torturous torment whilst it was there. It would have stretched the old piles so they resembled a bunch of mutant toxic grapes, and had him walking like his arse was on sideways.  That is, of course, assuming he walks because he makes me think of some sepulchral spectre gliding about on wheels in a haze of gloom.

He, and no doubt the rest of the government, are using this argument as justification to introduce drug testing for welfare recipients. Duds, this just doesn't work. By the time a recipient was chosen to be tested, it is likely the test would negative because so many substances leave the system relatively quickly. Welfare is to assist people to live, so why should people have to provide a sample of bodily fluid for the government goons in order to buy food? I am well aware that there are people who have to be drug tested in the workplace; hey, I live in a mining town! The reason people get tested in workplaces is because their decision to ingest a substance could possibly impact upon the safety of colleagues. The 'I have to, so you have to' argument is tiresome and compares apples to oranges. It's like me whingeing, 'I don't have a butt like Beyoncé, so she's not allowed to have it, either!'

Also, what forensic organisation is going to have the tender to conduct the testing? Is it going to be a Liberal donor? You know, kind of like Indue, who have the contact for the government's odious cashless welfare card.

It is staggering to consider the government refuses to raise Newstart, yet will happily squander money on the administration of a draconian and flawed cashless welfare card, or on an exercise that is decried by both medical and addiction experts.

Duds, I know removing that lump of fallacy from your clacker would have felt awesome, but I'm afraid you're just going to have to bite the bullet, lard the 'fact' up, and shove it straight back up to the dark recesses from whence you extracted it.

Tiresome People

Does anyone among my readership play Words with Friends online? I do, and quite enjoy it. I also play Boggle and Trivia Crack. One of the features of these games is that you can message your opponents, and when you're playing someone in another country, that's a lot of fun, and it helps make this big old world so much more intimate. But what is it that inspires an American guy in his late twenties to message his opponent, a fifty-something woman in Australia (connect the dots, people), something along these lines: Have you got Snapchat? I wanna see those titties.

I do not have Snapchat, and if I did, I would not be sending an intimate picture to someone so idiotic and infantile. Besides, 'titties' is such a godawful word. I really hate it. I think what I will do regarding this enamoured would-be suitor is finish the game (because I'm kicking his arse), and then block. Or maybe just block straight away.  People can be so tiresome, can't they?

One of the great things about the warmer months here is the concerts that are staged at the vineyards. I'm in the Hunter Valley, and have had the pleasure of travelling to one of the wineries to see Smoky Robinson - problem was, there was a stuff-up and too many tickets were issued, and Mr Bingells and I ended up taking two hours to drive a seven kilometre stretch of road, so hellish was the traffic. Anyway, there is a concert coming up and it features, et al, Killing Heidi, The Living End, The Angels, and Hunters & Collectors. I didn't get to ring up in time to win tickets. Sigh. I'm trying to console myself with the thought that I won't get to hear H & C doing Throw Your Arms Around Me. Am I the only one who feels the enamel peeling from the teeth in strips when it is played? That lyric about 'shed your skin...' makes me think of that creepy dude in The Silence of the Lambs who tucked his junk between his legs, and gyrated about to Goodbye Horses.

Anyway, I've got some tutoring to attend to now, so I will bid you farewell. If you're of a mind, check out my short stories on Amazon, and the links hereon to my novels.

Fare thee well.