August 14. Day 227. Bringing home the bacon

 Pigs. I love them. I feel an incredible affinity with them. I mean, they are exceptionally cute for starters. But you know that song Swing on a Star? It wouldn't scan but if you changed the word pig and substituted Susan it would be pretty close to the truth:
A pig is an animal with dirt on his face
His shoes are a terrible disgrace
He's got no manners when he eats his food
He's fat and lazy and extremely rude
But if you don't care a feather or a fig
You may grow up to be a pig...
 So I spent rather a lot of time at the Ekka today admiring the pigs. I stayed right up until some hilarious person came up beside me and started calling them bacon. Yes, I eat pork and ham and bacon but I prefer not to be reminded of it when admiring the little porkers. So I left and headed to the fine arts to check out the photography. The winners were announced ages ago so I knew there would be no ribbons on my entries but I wanted to see if my entries were considered worthy of hanging. It's a mini competition within the competition because space restrictions mean not all entries are displayed. Last year, all eight I entered were displayed. This year, six of the eight. If I'm honest, the two I least liked were the two they didn't hang but I was a little disappointed. There were many, many incredible photos on display. Some I could never take in a million years but they don't seem to be the ones the judges select. It perplexes me greatly. And then I noticed something. Lots of people were stopping to look at the close up of Winkle and the crab. I heard one group say it was their favourite. Yeah, it was the favourite of the photos I entered too and the fact that others who have never met Winkle or me liked it was reward enough. I walked away happy. I resisted the temptation to celebrate with a bacon burger ...

August 13. Day 226. Love changes everything

 Like so, so many Australians I am still recovering from the whole census debacle of 2016. In my case, however, it is not the cyber security (Woolworths has more details about me than the census) or even the census night system crash. My problem is that when I finally get to fill in the form my family has on paper (or on screen depending on how I decide to fill it in) the same make up as it did four years ago. This is because the census people have dropped the question about pets. Shame on you ABS. Pets are people. Pets are family. Our family is forever changed for the better because of the fur people. So I got huffy and filled in the Bondi Vet Dr Chris Brown's Pet Census. Which is all well and dandy but there is a question I stumbled over: What stops you from getting another pet? The options were such things as cost, emotional commitment, and work (such as walking them). I hesitated. Well, the council lets me have only two dogs, I thought. But that's not it either. If the census asked me what stopped me from having another child the answer would not be cost, emotional commitment or work. Like the dogs, it would in Facebook relationship terms, it's complicated. The family is complete as it is. That's it. I also hesitated over the vet question which asked how far away is your nearest vet. Seems simple enough. But is it asking about the closest vet or the vet I go to? Because it is quite different. The nearest vet is less than five minutes away. The vet we go to, like the doctor we go to, is more than 30 minutes away. Relationships with our health professionals is far more important than convenience. So today the fur friends and I visited Dr Megan at Northgate and then walked along the Kedron Brook off leash area before picking up the human child. Without asking the right questions or indeed any questions these things aren't counted. My dogs are factored into almost all decisions about my family because they are family. It matters because pets determine where people live, how they go on holidays, their choice of vehicle, whether they use public transport, whether they will go into an evacuation centre in a crisis, choices of aged care facilities and so on. This information helps facilitate proper planning and that's what the census is supposed to be about.
So let's have the pet question back. Those without pets just need to tick one more box so it's not actually demanding. Those with pets will happily give over additional time to allow the powers that be to know what our family really looks like.

August 12. Day 225. Duck for cover

 You know how there are some people who just rub you the wrong way. Often there's a history which means that even saying hello sounds like a declaration of war that brings out the claws or has you ducking for cover. And there are others that just manage to raise your tolerance threshold. Those for whom you have infinite patience and forgiveness. Those who can do no wrong. I call those individuals dogs. This morning my pillow was soaked. Thoughts went through my mind. Had I developed a wicked fever? Had I knocked over a drink from the bedside table? Had the water bed leaked? It was 5am. My brain was not quite engaged but I saw these "innocent" eyes watching me. I went in for the sniff. Yep, urine. Now in normal circumstances someone peeing on your pillow would be a declaration of war. There would be all guns blazing, perhaps a fatwa. But in the dark all I said was "seriously Winkle?" and stripped the bed. That's it. Winkle is a princess. She gets the toileting thing sorted and then in rains as it did yesterday and the little miss decides she doesn't want to get wet. There are accidents but even for her a pillow pee is hard core. But I forgave her because, well, what's the alternative?  She knows she has me wrapped around her little paw. Both the fur friends do. But they bring me such joy. I suppose I could have grounded her like a naughty teenager but it's not as though she would understand why and in any event I would only be punishing myself and Rumple which is hardly fair. We both did our wees in the right place. The walk to the duck pond is a highlight of our day and you can't let a little bit of puppy pee spoil that can you?

August 11. Day 224. Because there's just a bit of diva in all of us

When I first met Libby Scales it was in more Tragic circumstances. No don't think funeral, think Greek gods very, very unhappy that their relevance was being undermined by the shallow gods we now worship such as iPhones and now Pokemon. That was all the way back in May. I noted a couple of things: her prowess as a performer and her stunning singing voice. She is the triple threat. But I did say Tragedy was on its first outing and needed a little refining. Becoming Bette is the refined work I was hoping to see. This production was first performed in the Brisbane and Mackay seasons of the Anywhere Festival and has just been picked up by Butterfly Club in Melbourne where it will be performed next month. Becoming Bette is a personal journey from Elizabeth's childhood with stars in her eyes, through the Teenage "Pugsley" years to London and the London  International  School  of  Performing, Rio for he  official  FIFA  World  Cup  cultural  program and back to Brisbane. It's a personal story told through photos from the family album, video and song. It's very, very funny and a bit sad in places too. But it also a story about the diva within everyone who has a dream, a desire to be noticed and ambition.
 It's one Brisbane Catholic schoolgirl’s quest to take inspiration from the great Hollywood Bettes to become the next great diva and the one and only Brisvegas Bette but along the way it is also about what it is to be woman and the judgments we make. Becoming Bette is at the Room to Play Independent Theatre in the Paddington Substation 150 Enoggera Terrace until Saturday. Tickets are $20

August 10. Day 223. Show time!

I actually considered being one of the people at the Ekka on the People's Day public holiday. But then I realised a couple of key things. Firstly, I hate crowds with a burning passion. And then there's the second thing - a bucket load of work which one way or another had to be done today.  I had also promised Drama Teen that today was the day we would record our first podcast. I never go back on my word, well not if it is in my power to keep it. So I negotiated with myself and the dogs and we came up with a cunning plan. We would park the car near work and walk down and stand on the footpath outside the showgrounds. Lurking outside the gates and not going in sounds a little tragic but that exact spot is a magnet for photographers and I will go in - just not on the busiest day of the show. The dogs got their walks (and an awful lot of attention) and I got to go along for the ride without emptying my wallet, not one little bit. I have also bought myself a couple more days to recover from the last illness before subjecting my body to the germ fest that is the Ekka. I consider that to be a great use of a public holiday.

August 9. Day 222. Barking mad

I give them credit for the fact that they hide it well, but I'm pretty sure the people at the grooming parlour frequented by Rumple and Winkle think I'm barking mad. It is only fair that I add that this is a me problem rather than a customer service fail on their behalf. It goes like this. Margaret, my neighbour, obviously overcome with Olympic spirit thought it would be rather nice for the dogs to sport green and gold bows after their haircuts today. I duly sent my husband off with the dogs with instructions for green and gold bows. It's a credit to their professionalism that when I collected the fur friends they each had one green and one gold bow in their ears. Sweet. So I paid and was asked if I would like to rebook. I confirmed that I had made their appointments all the way through until Christmas. And bless her little cotton socks the groomer said "we'll have to make sure we have the stock of Christmas bows in early for your Christmas dog photo". She knows me too well. Oh come on. I know I'm a crazy dog lady but I'm okay with that. There are worse things, right? RIGHT?

August 8. Day 221. I beat my own drum

When you are young you know everything. And then you age and learn more things which only makes you less certain that you know anything at all. So at my most advanced age I will rarely say it's a sure-fire bet. Still, despite the knowledge of my own ignorance there are some things I am prepared to attest. So today at South Bank. I'm relatively sure that the wooden plinths at Picnic Island Green were not specifically designed for nor regularly used for Latin Dance practise. Still, that doesn't mean they couldn't or shouldn't be does it? Also, I am also pretty sure the gents playing on the play equipment just near by were slightly older than the recommended maximum age of 12. Every single time I'm there that age limit is smashed. Age is but a number. Anyway I am also sure that the number in my age is well beyond that where the lizard fascination normally stops. While it would be wrong to ever say never, my guess is that the lizard loving might be a permanent fixture. There are worse things .... of that I am sure.