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Showing posts with label exhuuurcise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exhuuurcise. Show all posts

Monday, May 21, 2012

My goodness

Forgive me lovelies, it's been far too long since my last confession post. I do think about posting, but then I get back to whatever I was doing and vow to catch up later. The last few weeks have been so busy. And then yesterday the whole 'busy' excuse got ramped up to 'emergency panic' status as a number of projects that had been ticking along in the 'one day I'll get it to you' category all landed on my doorstep to be done ASAP. So here I am, writing to you while my Book class do their own projects, between helping them with their problems, because once I get home there will be NO time to blog.

In the meantime, I've had a few little adventures, like the day my iPhone fell out of my bag while cycling in a tipsy manner and I found it a few hours later by retracing my route, only to discover that it had fallen on the road and had been repeatedly run over by cars. It was lying in a little pool of glass, as sprayed as blood, and would quite obviously never work again. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO was my first reaction, and panic as I thought of how much information was on it, and how I hadn't backed up for (thankfully only) a day or so.

But then I went to my phone provider and did a new contract that involved slightly more money and a much newer iPhone, and now I'm all 'that old thing, tuh'. No grief, just wonder at how much technology has improved since the iPhone 3. Yay!

Bumblebee found a beautiful flower to hang around with, and they are now like Siamese twins, connected at the hip when in each other's presence, and by non-stop telephonery when not. He's discovering what it's like when someone REALLY digs you, rather than just merely likes you, and he's totally hooked.

I have been busy in my studio, printing and planning and making, plus teaching at Megalo. This weekend I'll be taking the final week of the class promoted in my last post, showing the children how to sew their books together and make covers.

I think I've finally shaken the cold that has been bugging me since Easter, although it's still lingering a little bit. I'm seeing the doctor this week, just to make sure everything is hunky-dory.

Gym and I broke up, which is probably why I keep getting snotty, but he just put too much pressure on me, and he had weird friends that stared at inappropriate bits of my body. Now I go for hour-long fast morning walks around the border of our suburb, which takes me up around the base of Mt Majura, complete with rabbits, kangaroos and lots of birds. If I miss my walk, I don't think 'damn, I'm wasting money', which is much nicer than when I skipped gym. The walk makes me very happy, and my brain gets all juicy and creative, so that when I get back I'm raring to get into the studio.

I've seen a few movies, one of which was 'Iron Sky', a film so silly it's genuinely hilarious, about Nazis living on the dark side of the moon and trying to re-invade the Earth. It was made on a very low budget, and has to be seen with absolutely no expectations of quality. The piss-take of Sarah Palin is worth the price of admission alone. Bumblebee just didn't get it; I think you have to be an adult to understand the humour. I think it will be a cult movie eventually, it'll grow on people.

What else has been happening? My mind is a blank. All I can see is the print I'm working on at the moment back at my house, awaiting me. It's for a little show coming up in the Photospace Gallery at the ANU Art School to mark the Transit of Venus happening on 6 June. I had a simple idea, but it's turned into a complex process that's taken a lot more time than it should... and will look like a simple print. *sigh*

OK, I'll leave it there, but I will return soon, I hope. If not, imagine me buried under a pile of marked-up pages as I lay out the definitive scholarly edition of Henry Lawson's 'While the Billy Boils', which is what landed on my desk yesterday...

Friday, February 04, 2011

Dear Mister Man at my gym class

Dear Mister Man at my gym class who stares at all the women's breasts as if we were there for your exercising entertainment:

We're not. We're exercising too.

Just a few pointers:

That ponytail doesn't make you look virile. It makes you look virulent, and does nothing to hide the fact that the front of your head is bald.

The tan makes you look like an old piece of leather. Or a tortoise. You take your pick.

The t-shirt saying 'If I'm right 98% of the time, who cares about the rest' says it all. You're right about that.

I wasn't staring at you in admiration, I was staring at you to see if I could shame you into looking away. Yay! It worked, but you just shifted your gaze to the next female across.

If I never look at you again, it's not because I fear Your Awsumness, it's because from now on, you don't exist. No biggie.

Have a nice day.

funny pictures - Peter Pan Kitteh

(Oh my, this was the first LOLcat I found this morning. How apt.)

Friday, June 04, 2010

gymini cricket!

I've stopped wearing my ipod shuffle to the gym. The wiring annoys me, and it struck me one day that having a (semi)random shuffle of daggy music available to me is fine, because that's what I try to set up for myself anyway. People say hello more if you're not wired up, and I can still vague off and think about something else if something really awful comes on.

Today something awful came on.



This, I realised today, is not only an awful earworm, but most of the reason I loath it is visual: Tony Basil herself, and her gruesomely open-eyed mutton-dressed-up-as-hoggett face is what floats in front of me whenever I hear the song, which makes my stomach churn without fail.

I was pleasantly amused again by MC Hammer:



If you have a good look, this is the way poo-catcher pants and women's bicycle shorts are meant to be worn: not under large baggy t-shirts, but with nipped-in waists and wide shoulders to provide a crisp hourglass figure, male or female. And good, chunky thighs and bulging muscles, male or female.

I keep being surprised at how smartly dressed singers were in the late eighties. I'm not talking about the outrageous fashions (even they're pretty tame by today's standards), but when I see clips of 1980s middle-of-the-road black singers, they're not dressed in g-strings and gyrating around poles, or exposing their freshly-waxed midriffs (male or female)... they're dressed in flash suits, with hats and other accessories. The women are covered up, with maybe a touch of cleavage, but the overall impression is funky, flash and dignified.

Where has all the dignity gone?

Also, someone (probably not Robbie) has been reading their A.D. Hope*:



I love this video, if only for the utter disdain shown by the women at his constant posturing. And the implication that modern fans don't seem to ever be satisfied...



*The Return from the Freudian Isles

Saturday, February 06, 2010

Swash capital

I can hear a river, running hard behind me. There are urgent voices discussing something in a language I can't understand. I seem to have a fur hat on. The river is loud, and getting louder. The voices just don't stop. My hat is hot. I put my hand up to adjust it, maybe take it off, and it uncurls and stomps on my face.

I wake. The cat jumps off the bed. It's dark, but the sound of the river persists. I'm not sure if it's really heavy rain, the sort that I'd driven through very slowly the day before, or if it's actually a river. But I'm at home, of course it couldn't be a river.

The voices are still urgent, and I still can't understand them. I sit up in bed and look out the window at the street. I can hear the water, but until I reach for my glasses, I can't quite make out what is happening. Has the street flooded again?

Sort of. Once I got up, and staggered down to the other end of the house, I pieced together the weird scraps of information. The water main on one side of the corner on which our house sits had exploded, or at least burst, and was gushing enormous quantities of water out onto the road, which was then rushing past our window into the nearest stormwater drain. Our verge is awash, muddy water swashing all over the road. Some Asian neighbours, out for a midnight stroll, as they often do (thankfully!), have rung ACTEW, the local water people, and are standing on our corner, watching the amazingly shameful waste of water and chatting urgently to each other. It is about 1:30am.

Best Beloved, always aware of our culinary needs, checks our tap water and finds it sluggish, so fills a number of plastic bottles in case we're cut off for a long time. I could never have thought of that; I'm sitting in my undies & singlet, watching through the loungeroom window in the dark, fascinated by the sound of the water.

Suddenly a couple of monster trucks roar up and mount the kerb and our driveway. Flashing lights, beeping noises, men huddled in groups: everything activates and gains urgency. BB dons a dressing gown and goes out to see if there's anything we have to do. We're told to go back to sleep if we can, but there'll be a bit of noise throughout the night, and they start ripping up the footpath near the gushing.

We do our best to sleep, despite the truck noises, the water rumble and the seemingly persistent voices of our neighbours, who seem to want to stay and witness the event all night.

The next morning I am woken by the sound of the truck driving off; the silence is deafening. I go outside, and all I can see is mud, and tire-tracks. It wasn't a dream.

mud tracks

corner mud

The gum tree on our corner has had the watering of its life, and will probably double in size this year!




The Gym

To my surprise, I'm managing to get to the gym twice a week, but it's still early days yet because uni hasn't gone back. I'm hoping not only to maintain a biweekly visit, but add some sort of class to get my aerobic fitness up. I'm happy with my progress so far; I realize that I'm never going to be willowy slim, and my upper arms are never going to whittle down from their slab-like peasant appearance so they might as well be firmer, and I can see the improvement already. Plus my neck and back are feeling stronger, which is very important for my pain management, especially if I want to keep using heavy drawers of type in my art practice.

The thing that keeps me amused at the gym -- a very important component to keep me going -- is watching all the 'gym faces': the wild grimaces that people make as they lift something heavy. I can't decide if they're doing it to be seen (many strut around to make sure you can see them before they start) or they think that no-one is watching. Either way, it's hell-a-fun, to quote Cartman.



Starting School

I'm really proud of Bumblebee, he weathered the first week of high school very well, coping with the complete paradigm shift like a trooper.

first day

He's trying to look confident here, on the morning of his first day, but he still looks a bit nervous. Check out the size of his feet, ay ay ay...

He's got a teacher he adores (o wot joy, it's a science teacher!), a teacher he can't stand, which is always a great foil and takes the heat off the other teachers; he loves the fact that they have a dedicated year 7 quadrangle, and he finds the varied classrooms and period times makes it easier to focus his mind on the relevant classes.

Phew! How happy am I? They've already had their school photo, and they've got vaccinations and camp coming up before the end of Feb. I'm starting back at uni in a couple of weeks, and then we'll all be focused on study, since BB has started a Masters in something governmental. I'm in the early days of considering a PhD, so it may be that next year will be even more intense than this one, but we'll see...


Duckling


Last week I had the first proper studio visit by one of my studio residency winners, Natalie. She came armed with ideas and once we'd discussed some of the practical considerations, she got right down to work:

NA_WIP2

It's early days yet, but here's a sneak peek at her efforts so far:

NA_WIP1

Yee-haw! This is going to be fun.




Watching


BB took advantage of our first child-free weekend today and saw Precious, which was quite an intense experience. BB always gets excited about cats in movies -- we have a family rule that a movie is extra-good if there's a cat in it -- and got grumpy with me when I told him that I thought the cats were there as a metaphor for the selfishness of Precious' mother and to highlight the fact that she could care for cats more than her own flesh and blood.

"But they were such lovely cats," was all he could say.

I'm a bit sad that he didn't come to see Bright Star with Bernice and I, because it has a wonderful cat called Topper who almost steals the show.

Tomorrow I am going to up the intensity by going to see The Road. I love that book so much that I am a bit nervous about the film; will it match my inner vision of it? I'll let you know...

Monday, July 30, 2007

Catching up on stuff

SORE

After an absence of nine months, I decided I should return to fitball. You might know what it's like to lapse from exercise; ever so easy to do, and ever so hard to start again. Fitball is usually a reasonably gentle activity, challenging yet allowing time to feel your muscles work in the correct ways.

The length of absence is ironic, since the reason I gave up fitball is that I was pregnant, and confided this to the teacher, whom I was pretty matey with. In the recovery from my miscarriage, I didn't feel like exercising, and then when I did feel a bit inclined to go back, I didn't feel like explaining to yet another person that the whole thing had gone awry. Going back now wasn't premeditated, I just feel saggy and sloppy and my osteopath recently gave me the hard word about my posture and flexibility (and since he was putting the full weight of his elbow into my back muscles at the time, I made a solemn promise that I would start exercising properly again).

Imagine my dismay when I fronted up to class on Saturday to find not Jordan, the cheery eye-candy that usually takes the Saturday class, but TITANIA, DARK PRINCESS OF PAIN. Who likes to make you jump and bounce to some dreadful Abba cover disco mix (I typed 'dicso', which is probably the best word for bad disco) at three times your comfort level. And then squat and bounce and lunge and bounce and hold it




until your frigging thighs explode.

Today I'm walking like an 80-year old. Yesterday I was over 90, so I guess I'm heading in the right direction. Next time I go I will ring first to check if J is back.

CRANKY

I just finished laying out a very interesting PhD thesis for a colleague at the art school. Unfortunately, I was given the manuscript before it was properly copy-edited, and I'd never been in that situation before. What I now realise is that I should have given it back until it had been thoroughly copy-edited, and then transformed it into a thing of beauty and grace. As it was, I was still receiving long lists of corrections last night (it was due at the printery this morning), and they were corrections that should have been made long before, things like standardising the footnotes.

So all you lovely PhD bloggers -- and I know there are lots of you out there, procrastinating away, or telling yourselves you're 'gathering cultural material', heh -- if you plan on using someone to make your thesis look beautiful, please have it completely and utterly copy-edited to within an inch of its final page before you do anything decorative to it. Remember, if it's laid out in a graphics application, and you make substantive changes, it's going to drastically change the spacing and layout on nearly every page, especially if there are images involved. And there will be curses. Unforgiveable curses. Sparking green off the walls.

MOMEA

In other news, while I was waiting for changes to be emailed and disks to burn, I amused myself by finally getting that 'Man of Middle-Eastern Appearance' t-shirt design on to CafePress. It's not the colour design I came up with last year; I found an almost cooler Christ, and the best thing about him is that he's chuckin' the horns.

I've started playing with some more ideas, including the RANDOM NANNA design, so watch that space.


TYPE n ALL

I had a marvellous Book class today. They all overcame their fear of letterpress and spent four straight hours setting their type, to a theme of MOCK-UP. I had to prod them to take breaks, and most of them didn't stop when the four hours was up, continuing on for another hour or two. I finally just had to say 'right-o, I'm having my lunch' at 2.30! Such keen little bunnies. Next week we'll be printing, and I'll show you some results.

READING AND LISTENING

I really enjoyed Lionel Shriver's We Need to Talk About Kevin and The Female of the Species. But I read The Post-Birthday World last week and hated it. Halfway through the book I couldn't believe there was still half to go. It's one big long slow rationalisation for what seems (from what I've read about her) to be her own relationship decisions, and it probably pressed too many of my own buttons about decisions I've made. But essentially it was dull, and unsurprising, the opposite of the other two books. I'd be interested in anyone else's thoughts on it.

And I'm revisiting my love affair with Ricki Lee Jones, playing my old records (Ricki Lee Jones and Pirates) and looping a couple of more recent cds: It's Like This and The Evening of my Best Day (the former is mostly covers, and the latter is extremely anti-Bush). Fabulous, both for music and lyrics. And Bumblebee approves, loving it all as much as I do. Hooray!

And, oh yeah. Facebook rocks. But geez it's a timewaster.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

Lame Duck

Home! Home alone, in fact, as Best Beloved has kept travelling to the Far South Coast to pick up Bumblebee, and I won't see them until Saturday. I would like to be there too, but I have what is known in polite circles as a shitload of work to tackle.

Soon (next break from catalogue-setting) I will give an illustrated account of the 05/06 Woodford Folk Festival. First, however, I'm going to have a whinge. I'm walking like a 90-year who has just had the shag of her life, but without so nice an excuse. And here is the culprit:
sign

Actually, Best Beloved is the culprit, as I asked him to take me on a nice steady walk in the Blue Mountains, nothing too taxing, just a pleasant day's stroll. Sure, he said, and took me down the Giant Steps on the way to the nice 'flat' stroll. Here he is, disappearing down the steps, wearing a red hat:
redhat

I didn't realise that there were about 900 steps with no respite until I was a third down, and I asked my girlfriend (who was also going a bit slower) if we were there yet. She'd been down them before, and had given me an odd look when I quite happily blindly followed BB downwards. When I realised what I was facing, I tried to save my right knee from collapsing (as it is wont to do) by taking the weight mostly on my left leg. Since then (three days later) I have been staggering with my left leg throwing forward as if it is wooden.

If you've ever been on this climb, you'll know what I'm talking about. For those that don't, it is 900 steps, quite narrow, some carved from the sandstone cliff, and others built from slippery (it had been raining the week before) steel grating. there are no flat bits, just steps, almost vertical, with the occasional gap and a bench to rest. It starts just next to the Three Sisters, and ends a reasonable way below, at the path that leads to the scenic railway.

I finally got to the bottom, swearing that when I next clapped eyes on BB it would be to serve him with a divorce paper. By the time anyone gets to the bottom of these stairs, their legs are wobbling uncontrollably. I got to the last little section and fell down them because they had no handrail! I started laughing because I couldn't believe how out of control my legs were. A shortish rest and some water helped, and the rest of the walk was a breeze, because the 'down' muscles in my legs were reacting in opposition, throwing me forward all the way.

I didn't divorce BB (I try to think of our marriage in the Patrician Roman sense of marriage-for-life), but I'm not a happy girl. I told him quite openly when we married that I'm not a fit, outdoorsy sort of lass. I'm a bike-riding, big-bottomed, book-wormy sort of lass. I do like walks, but I don't like hills. He didn't listen, and now I'm walking like one of the flowerpot men. He thinks I'm trying to guilt him out when I stumble and lurch, but Zoe can testify that I do it even when he is in another town! I can't wait to get back to normal. I rode my bike today, and I think that helped, as did the numerous Radox baths, but sitting at the computer is very bad, and unfortunately I can't escape that at the moment.

OK, that's my whinge. Time to get happy.

BTW: The cats are ever-so-happy to see us. I think they've been spoiled rotten by their house-sitter, a lovely nurse who worked all the holiday shifts and bought them little treats constantly. Mr Padge purred in my ear all night.

Thursday, October 14, 2004

Goin' dahn

Oooh, I'm going to hell for the lies I tell my physiotherapist.
She pokes my back and neck and asks me how they're feeling. Fine, I groan, even though it kills. You see, I'm supposed to be doing exercises daily, to build up my alternate muscle strength, to allow the pressure to come off the bits that creak and groan and ache every day. I want to do the exercises, of course, because it's my only chance to improve a very painful situation. I come away from each session resolved to spent the time every day, to remember and act upon the pain that nags me the way old Mrs Brilliant used to poke me with her finger in 5th grade. I go home, do my exercises for a couple of days, and then somehow they get lost amidst the flotsam and jetsam that is life around my Private Jetty. They sink below the morass, lost among dinners to make, brochures to design, cartoons to draw, clothes to be picked up, loungerooms to be vacuumed, child to be talked to, lover to be loved. The pain also rises and falls, and I'll do bits and pieces of the stretches, just enough to get by (with a bit of help from Nurofen). And then I notice as I turn my diary page that I have a physio appointment late that week. Then the exercises rise and bob persistently at the plimsol line in my brain, and I do them, just so I can recline on that couch with my head stuffed into a hole lined with tissue and lie that I've been a good girl. Well, I try to be.