So I was walking along Royal Parade this morning, stomping on piles of autumn leaves and contemplating (a) a recent Judy Blume-esque embarrassment and (b) the therapeutic effect of stomping on piles of autumn leaves, when I noticed a man walking towards me. He was older, balding, dressed in black and without a coat. There was something in his coatlessness, the expression in his eyes and his proximity to Royal Melbourne Hospital, aka that place where the crazy go to be crazy and the old and sick go to die, that told me he was perhaps not right in the head. When our paths crossed, where the wall around Melbourne Uni is no more than ankle height, he looked me in the eye, said 'hello,' and body checked me violently. I spilled into that patch of lawn next to the medical building, where the nurses take their cigarette breaks.

It's funny the things you think sometimes. Rather than feel hurt, or bewildered, or confused, I immediately felt deeply insulted. I've mentioned before that, often, it's the little, daily indignities that pile up day by day and drag you down, make you feel sad and tired. I feebly called out 'hey!' at the man's retreating back. A cyclist at the lights asked me if I was okay and I said, indeed, I was. I felt a wave of sorrow descend, the kind of sorrow you feel when you're five and the big kid has just pushed you over and everyone saw and you look stupid.

Needless to say I got up and walked home, ears burning with embarrassment. Sometimes I think the universe doesn't have much time for personal dignity.

No longer will I have to wonder what my ass looks like* in high waisted navy blue formal shorts, as I now own some. High waisted. Navy blue. Formal shorts.

In my wardrobe.

Bought... by me... to wear.

High.

Waisted.

Formal.

Shorts...


I think I just became fashion's bitch.



* quite nice, if you were wondering.

Yesterday morning I took delivery of my new bed, but before the truck arrived I had to take apart the old one. I showered and puzzled over how to get the old mattress downstairs. I'd awoken with a crick in my neck, as though my old bed was hurt by the rejection and wanted revenge, but it's time for it to go. It was a hand-me-down bed, too small, and the bedframe was wobbly. It was a big day; I had to get rid of the carcass of the old bed, vacuum the floor, put together the new one, finish off two sections of my draft to send to my supervisor before my meeting, and see the dentist. I most especially had to see the dentist. My teeth had been aching for weeks and there was a persistent taste of copper in my mouth; nothing a clean and scale wouldnt fix, but I'd been putting it off.

The bed took longer to put together than I expected. Ikea instructions have no words, and they don't tell you you're expected to force most of the pieces together, rather than screw them down neatly with an allen key. My neck ached. My supervisor cancelled our Thursday meeting, so I could leave my draft for another day. I listened to Gang of Four and David Sedaris and forced wood together. My hands were slick with pine resin. I got so distracted I didn't get time to shower before the dentist, or brush my teeth again, so I went as-is with greasy hair and a sweaty shirt.

'Are you stressed?' The dentist asked as soon as he looked in my mouth. 'Also, you ticked 'pregnant' on the form.'

'What?! No, I'm not pregnant.' I spun around fast and knocked a stack of paper cups off one of the chair's many Shiva arms.

'I'll take that as a yes to the stress, then.' He went on to detail what was wrong with my mouth. It was gross, and, he emphasised, entirely stress related. 'You need to learn to relax. I play solitaire. You might like to take a walk each day.' He prescribed antibiotics that would, he promised, make me violently ill if I had any alcohol, and told me to come back next week.

I was bummed. I am the queen of the psychosomatic. If these were different times my hands would be paralysed, I'd develop involuntary tics, start speaking German, and they'd send me off for a month of total bed rest and water cures in some Swiss sanatorium. As it is I'm a modern girl, so I grind my teeth and get stomach aches, complain of big, aching knots in my neck and, apparently, develop totally gross dental problems. When am I not stressed, I thought? If it's not one thing it's another, and I function, hare-like, on hypervigilance and hair-trigger reflexes. Not for the first time I wished we still used a Galenic medical system; then I could reassure myself that my constant nervous energy was merely constitutional, an excess of yellow bile, too little blood.

Later that night I called my sister and sobbed that even the dentist could see I'm a nutcase, and detailed everything my choleric personality was just ruining: my embryonic thesis, the dented wood of my new bed frame, cakes, my stalled romantic life, the good-will of my beloved ladyfriends. Blockhead is a phlegmatic person. She explained slowly that stress makes everyone sick, not just hysterical old me. She added that smoking probably wasn't making things any better. I asked what she was doing. She was painting her new bedroom, a smaller, darker room in our mother's sprawling house. She was painting it a soothing, dark blue, the kind of colour to promote sleep. She said she planned on only having her bed in that room, and perhaps an oil burner for lavender oil. Last night she'd taken two valium and still couldn't fall asleep.

I'd like to meet a relaxed person and find out how they do it. I bet they use leeches, or regular bleedings at the barber-surgeon.

There is a large, older, moustachioed man sitting diagonally opposite me on the tram. For a moment I think he's looking at me, but conclude he's probably looking out the window behind my head. The man sitting directly opposite me gets off at the next stop, and the large, older man immediately takes his seat. He sits with his legs aggressively spread, the inside of his left ankle resting on the side of my foot. I stiffen and stare pointedly out the window. Out the corner of my eye I see the man's hand move, casually, not too quickly, to his crotch. Oh dear, I think, and zip my coat up to my chin. He can't be. But he is, he truly is, he's sitting here, taking up my space, cupping his cock in his hand through his jeans. Is that really appropriate behaviour in public? I glance at his face. He's not looking at me. It's not personal. This must be how he likes to sit on trams.

For a moment I imagine how it must appear, a big, swarthy, moustache-wearing man in a leather jacket and too-new blue jeans slouched on a tram, his legs penning in a short blonde girl sitting straight, bag on her lap, staring pointedly out the window. What would Judith Halberstam do? A dozen breathless, uniformed teenage girls tumble on at the next stop. I secretly hope for trouble. I feel the man's foot twitch against my ankle. His hand is still on his crotch. The teenagers talk loudly about Chopper Reid, telling each other to harden the fuck up over and over. Perhaps his penis is just really cold, I wonder.

He gets off without comment, and I get to where I'm going, reasonably on time.

For the past few months I've had the same dialogue with myself in the shower. I pick up a razor, lift my arm and think:

'Perhaps this time I won't shave my armpits.'

Then I think

'But the stubble looks all gross and wrong.'

Then I think

'But armpit hair is sexy in a devil-may-care, continental, Simone de Beauvoir kind of way. Also, the only good part of the otherwise God-awful Anatomie de l'enfer was seeing that lady naked, and she had mad pit hair. Actually, her nudity was the second good part, the first was learning that her vagina was apparently without any nerve endings at all.'

Then I think

'Stubble is gross. This will be the last time I shave. Promise.'

Three weeks ago I made good on that promise, but my armpits have failed me. It appears years and years and years of dilligent shaving and waxing have scared my pit hairs into submission. I'm a touch distressed by this. I'm an adult, post-pubescent woman. Surely I should be able to grow this hair out when I decide to. But, no. The regrowth is short, sparse and a bit gross looking, rather like a teenage boy's first go at a moustache.

Which, now that I mention it, might explain my sudden desire for flowing armpit locks. I've long commented that when men of a certain age move to Melbourne they all shave their heads and grow a beard, a trend I heartily endorse. Perhaps this is my way of trying to be in with the in crowd? I don't know.

Sigh. Maybe I'll do as the Chlo suggested and try Rogaine.


[in an entirely unrelated postscript, I would like to say thank you to a person I won't name because everyone I know reads this, the world's most one-sided version of MySpace. The thing is I get hellacious nightmares. I usually deal with these by waking up terrified, pacing the house for hours, and eventually settling on the couch to watch BBC World, bug-eyed and panicked, until the sun comes up. At the beginning of the year this happened every night for about two weeks until I cracked Broadway-style and bundled myself and an eight week old dachsund puppy onto a flight to Canberra, but that's neither here nor there. Anyway. The other night I had another epic nightmare, and soon found myself on the phone to a friend. That friend then came out to my house at a particularly stupid hour to find me puffy-eyed, trembling and swathed in layers of unwashed polar fleece. That alone is admirable, but they also had the good grace to refrain from observing that, as a voting adult I should perhaps be beyond such childish things as nightmares. To that person I am very grateful.]

You know how, on your way to breakfast with a friend, you thought 'fuckit, why not buy the Hun? It'll be a larf. Andrew Bolt's always good value.'?

It will not be a larf. Andrew Bolt is rarely funny.

You are an ivory tower would-be academic and fully fledged member of the Chattering Classes, and don't you forget it, young lady. Ain't no shame.

Don't do it again.

Love,
Rach

Because I'm cool like that. It's called My New Favourite Thing. If you're a Flickr user you should join. It's like online show-and-tell. When you come across a New Favourite Thing you take its picture and show the world. You should also add me as a contact because, while I am crap at the Myspace, I am a Flickr contact whore.

Here's my latest favourite thing:

About a week ago

I want to go to Canberra to buy fireworks.

For reals? That's my hood! I'll go with you and show you why Canberra is awesome.

That sounds good. Road trip!

Woo! Road trip!

Saturday

Hai. I'm here to pick you up for the road trip to Canberra.

Woo! Road trip!

[prescient]
I sure hope the car holds out.
[/prescient]

We are in Canberra, which is a lot like heaven, if you adhere to David Byrne's definition of heaven as a place where nothing, nothing ever happens.

We leave Canberra.

Hey, did someone throw maple syrup at the windshield?

I don't think that's too likely.

Motherfucker.

Hmm, that maple syrup smells like burning...

Two hours later

Do you think I should tip the RACV guys?

Do what your heart tells you.

I only have fifties, anyway.

I have some change if you like.

Naw, I can just tip them with you.

...



Let us never speak of this again.

I am checking out a three books by prominent HIV/AIDS researcher and cultural critic Cindy Patton. One is called Inventing AIDS. The self-check machine has spacked out so I go to the desk.

'This looks like an interesting book,' says the beardy, older libraryman, looking at Inventing AIDS.

'I hope so,' I reply.

'Is this about the AIDS hypothesis?'

'The what?'

'The AIDS hypothesis by Dr Demento.* You know, about how AIDS doesn't exist.'

'...'

'It makes a lot of sense when you think about it.'

'...'

'I notice you're checking out a lot of books on AIDS. Are you researching the AIDS hypothesis? I'm glad you are, taking down the AIDS industry.'

'Cindy Patton is a really famous cultural critic. I think she believes that AIDS exists.'

'Oh. You know, they haven't acquired anything on the AIDS hypothesis since the 90s. It's such a conspiracy.'

'...'

'These are due back in three weeks.'


*I can't remember the name of the doctor he was talking about. I'm sure a quick Google would rectify that. I also have a vague recollection of Harpers publishing a rather controversial article on the non-existence - HEY I FOUND IT OH, BUT I SPOIL YOU PEOPLE. The article is by Celia Farber and it is called 'Out Of Control: AIDS and the corruption of medical science.' I have not read it because I have work to do, for reals. Still. I would prefer it if the librarymen/women didn't comment on my borrowing record in future. I would also appreciate it if they would keep their creepy conspiracy theories to themselves, kthxbye.

They've uploaded a bunch more plates from Ernst Haeckel's astonishing Kunstformen der Natur to Wikicommons. Have a look and let your afternoon slip away.

On the subject of artful jellyfish, I am all about the turritopsis nutricula, the immortal jellyfish. I am so not kidding; this jellyfish doesn't actually die. It's such a shame it's a rather unattractive jellyfish, though.

Someone has clipped the entirety of the tragic Living Dolls. Watch it all. Especially watch these guys. I kind of want them to be my dads. Then I could be as cool as wee Leslie.


Via Rich,

I am obsessed with My Little Dead Dick (somewhat NSFW). OBSESSED. Girl meets boy via the internet. Boy moves from Taiwan to China to be with girl. Boy and girl document their love photographically. Apparently they've broken up now. I dearly hope things work out for them.

So I'm putting in the effort to buy organic fruit and veg. Not because I think a lack of pesticides is somehow better for me; indeed, I believe a liberal helping of organophosphates in my youth is what made me the robust, rosy-cheeked adult I am now. It's more that organic farming is better for the environment, and conditions for workers are meant to be better on organic farms, and I buy all my fruit and veg from the (frankly, rather skeevy) Vic Markets, so it seems churlish to avoid the organic shed. Also, organic stores tend to have more interesting potatoes. It's a win win situation, you'd think.

There are, of course, a few drawbacks to buying organic. It is very expensive, but that doesn't really phase me as I'm the kind of person who always, always has asparagus and avocado in the fridge, regardless of price, and I frequently drop $7 on a punnet of blueberries just for the walk home. The biggest drawback is sanctimonious fucking hippies. Hippies and I share a deep antipathy. Don't get me wrong, I can be just as self-righteous and moralising as any hippie, but the difference is I'm right and they're deluded pot smokers with ugly shoes. So I don't take it well when the shopkeep serves up my kale and eggplants with a side order of lecture. The other day I made a mild comment about carrying my bags of chemical-free goods home, and the stall holder snitted: 'You know, walking while carrying weight increases your bone density.'

'Oh, I reckon I'll be right,' I replied, jaw tightening. 'I don't have a car and I walk everywhere.'

'Yeah, but you've got to keep it up,' he continued. 'Every day. All your life, otherwise your bones will get brittle. Again.'

I had a brief fantasy of violently sodomising the man with a biodynamic kohlrabi, but thought better of it when I realised it would lead to a lecture on the importance of colon cleansing.

On the way out I stopped by a good, old fashioned chemical-laden market stall for some cheap strawberries to be baked with my organic rhubarb. The man politely asked what I would be using the strawberries for, then offered some helpful advice on how to keep strawberries for longer (you take them out of the punnet and put them on a plate lined with a paper towel). He then wished my forthcoming crumble well and told me to have a good day.

Fucking hippies.

As soon as I sat down in the ERC basement I heard a gush of water behind me. I turned and saw no water. It must be the pipes. I've decided it is my own personal zen water fountain. Thank you, ERC basement, for providing a soothing soundtrack.