I know, my posts have been so cryptic lately, why’s that? There has just been so much happening and going on, it’s hard to keep things simple. Remember, simple can be boring.
I purchased some Billy’s at the Swedish Warehouse to store my DVDs in my new home. Billy’s, a type of slim shelving units purpose built for CD’s or DVD’s, conveniently. Swedish Warehouse? IKEA. You are welcome.
Even getting a project like this to completion is a multi-faceted project. Who has the muscle, who has the appropriate method of transport? Also, who can put it together?
Eventually, it came together and a few extra hours over a few weeks for the right carer to unpack boxes and build. Four Billie’s leaning against my bookcases in my study. Looking weirdly like coffins in an old blacksmiths business. I will hope the Meme Queen can bring the image to us here.
One of my older carers, I explained my intention for storing two pieces of carpet off cuts so I could store them elsewhere, and she opened the last box, everyone pitching in to the best of their abilities and physical capacities. Sometimes, I explain my plan for world domination and over time they see said “Plan” coming together they understand how I work and if they can do anything to get the plan to come together, they will help. I came from my bathroom after my shower to see this.
Bloody nearly died. I hadn’t expected her to make it happen, I only told her what I planned to try and achieve, so she just pitched in and got it done. I told her it looked like a Dead Body. She didn’t disagree. I should totally put it in my storage cage in the undercover car park and if anyone wants to imagine it’s a D.B. and it sends the message not to mess with me. This could work to my advantage. Maybe this post should have been called “D.B.?”
So, people are getting the understanding, I’m now a homeowner. A rate payer. Seemingly, when some acknowledge as a fifty-two-year-old single barren spinster, I’m a respectful member of society.
It’s a weird space to be in, because I always hoped and imagined owning my home one day just assumed I’d have a husband that would pay the mortgage and my income would go towards the beautiful tiles to renovate a bathroom.
When my father died, I was able to contemplate having a forever home and weirdly conversations with friends about buying started to feel weird but normal. The basic understanding was shock, because I didn’t work and who was going to give me a mortgage. Trust me, I did all the research and was in all the groups and organisations that build AFFORDABLE AND SUSTAINABLE HOMES FOR LOW INCOME, etc.
I even had to fight to have myself put back on the public house in lists. That right there is a Bag of Farts. You don’t want it. But maybe not in a bag, but you need it and if you get offered it you definitely don’t want it. See the bag of fart analogy works out in the end.
After reaching out to both Local MP’s and Local Federal Members, the first time not much help, the second time never even replied to my call. I changed tactics and just got to house hunting. To be clear I didn’t have house money. I had Apartment Money, I’ve just wanted to make my dad proud.
The research I did leading up to buying, I learnt what you can get for how much. I saved fifty K, okay not having a second bathroom, but also spend an extra fifty K on not having a building with a car stacker. I’m still serious car stackers are a travesty. I hear nothing but horror stories.
Admittedly, the buildings that had those, the apartments felt much more like student digs. International students with lots of food deliveries. I really wanted a much more owner/occupier vibe with friendly neighbours who cook and give a crap about the environment and not having food arrive that they leave at the entrance to only get refunded and they do it all again.
Shit toilet experiences at the Melbourne International Comedy Festival
In general, this topic would live outside that of the festival, but it could definitely be its own blog. Frustratingly, these experiences are far from rare. I’m part way through my festival events for this year despite my lack of time to write and post about it but at times you have to, live when the opportunities exist, write, recuperate and replenish spoons over the hibernation of winter months to come.
Last night I saw two comedy shows very carefully booked, curated and logistically arranged by my event booking genius carer who is one of my heavy hitter admin chicks.
My first show was at the Arts Centre to see Danny Bhoy. I saw him the last time he was here as after my father’s passing back in late 2022, I decided the comedians I always wanted to see I would just start doing it.
Since making that decision, I’ve prioritised not only Danny Buoy, but Kitty Flanagan. Nath Valvo and Ivan Aristeguieta. To name a few and my accessible toileting experiences are always super not fun.
The Arts Centre despite the beautiful venue, the helpful staff, the frosted glass doors to the accessible toilet on the third floor closest to the ticket booking office, I locked the door, checked it. Locked it again, checked it, again. Ah, success.
Removed my cuff and collar, my bag, walking stick, and hoodi top. I know, over sharing and obviously my pants, to use the facilities, to do what I was there to for. I heard an older lady’s voice! “Here! Come in here!” and the door opened. Like I had not locked it. Now, I had hung my bag on the door handle which would not interfere with the lock, I might have thought could be seen through the frosting. Should someone bother to look. At least I was not mid-poo or mid-wipe. I had just managed to get a few single ply tissue squares from the selfish T.P. Dispenser. More importantly, the door remained open in this awkward unnecessary social INTERACTION.
It’s odd that the elderly love to imagine the accessible toilets are their domain and only theirs. I think they see me on their throne as a young person. Thank you! And not in need to use these toilets. I actually had to ask her to close the door with a polite “Do you mind?” It was more than she deserved considering the length of time she stood staring at me unsure how to solve this social quagmire.
I guess I should follow up this incident with an email to the venue, or just forward them this post when it goes live.
After this show, a short walk, a tram for two stops and another short walk to our next destination a toilet stop, this toilet had an ambulance toilet although I didn’t realise until I was ready to depart. I had used the lady’s facilities this time as I can often do and will. If that porcelain had been any lower to the floor, I might not have made it up again.
The second comedy show this time at the Melbourne Town Hall. To see our very own Ivan Aristeguieta. OK, He isn’t originally ours but, he’s seriously Australian now. He migrated from Venezuela thirteen years ago and originally settled in Adelaide. He divorced and had in the last year married one of ours. So, he’s ours now. It’s hilarious to see our culture through the eyes of a new Aussie.
This is my fourth time seeing his show in the ten years he’s performed here. Wish I’d been able to meet him at the meet and greet he announced he was doing. My friend sadly departed after my last bathroom experience as he had a train to get to home.
My second bathroom experience, younger people more prominent in the audience but not completely I chose to check out the accessible bathroom. Lock. Tick. Hook on wall, tick and toilet not close to the floor. Tick! However, things fell apart a little when I encountered the again “selfish” paper dispenser. Or it could have just been the previous occupant as I could not for the life of me find the end of the roll. I hate those big commercial toilet roll dispensers that have the ability to not be so big they either hold two rolls with the plastic sliding thing to allow access to the other roll or there is a big roll that allows them to not replace it for days. I don’t know, it’s nice that they think it’s not important to check. I checked my boob-pocket for a tissue and would have made do. But alas, I had neglected to stash one for such emergencies and I was forced to frustratingly continue with the roll. Eventually, leaving a shredded confetti protest on the floor after managing the squares I’d required.
At least on this occasion I’d not had an audience. I can’t decide which was the better experience.
Bring on winter so I can make like a bear and hibernate.
So, 2024 was weird also cause money became a huge topic and while I’ve always had an income from somewhere and five cents to my name it’s a weird space to find yourself in to have some actual money and options.
I wanted to blog about it last year but was up to my eyeballs in all the things, so had to let things play out and play catch up. This ergo-case-in-point is the catch up.
I guess, women of my generation, didn’t get educated about how to manage money. I’m Gen X remember. I did grow up with coins and handling money. My first paid job I picked up a yellow envelope with cash and coins in it. I had a paid job from around fifteen years old.
As an adult when you have household expenses you learn you need to have more coming in than going out. Sure, but on bigger expenses women my age was taught that we would marry and our husband would take care of it. Do you see me writing about a Husband? I have an Italian surname so it was largely assumed I would get a husband. Not bitter. Just making a point.
Some of the groups I’m in, some women will see and ask a friend who seems to manage her finances well and when asked she will be told “Oh, my husband does all of that!” So, it is to say I did consult a financial advisor. He’s in his late thirty’s, lovely man who I have not made proud. Yet. He wanted me to continue renting forever.
But as my next post will context women like myself when I reach sixty, are more than likely find themselves homeless. I’ve had to educate younger men on this topic.
Dear Neighbours, just asking if my music is too loud? I’m in the West Building on the 2nd floor overlooking the street. If you did wonder when I bought the home theatre system? A young Asian guy from Marketplace at the start of the Covid Pandemic.
It did create the perfect opportunity to get the amp I needed to allow me to play my CD’s. It was the only component I needed to complete my home tech set-up.
The Asian students that live in Melbourne for study making a mass exodus because the Aussies don’t know how to wear masks, cos we really don’t.
The young guy upon my query of the home theatre would be too loud for my apartment and would peel the paint off the walls? It’s the rule of thumb I have for volume. He told me it would be, but I could just not play everything loud. As if.
One good thing for the pandemic? It created a false economy where I could get the things I couldn’t afford at any other time. Oh, wait, my bad.
Meanwhile, I digress, pre-the Plague I started a group on Facebook for the building. I had wanted to create community because living in an apartment is easy to never see your neighbours and if you are isolated it’s impossible to know who are your good neighbours.
So, my CD Player holds five and it’s just hit the pre-2000’s N.I.N.’s part of the current selection. It’s great in headphones at the gym. But my neighbours probably won’t like it any more than my mum did when I lived with her around 2000.
I guess, the neighbours can message me their complaints. Wingdings will be the only font I will accept.
Hell onWheels/Life One Handed 