KerrieJean.com

The fear that I’m right out of my league has always marked my chaotic inner life……

….Throwing myself at an HSC Maths Level 3 paper in a stinking hot cell at Leeton High, withdrawing as a candidate for local Showgirl in 1976 [citing cold sore pressures], grappling with crippling blood phobia as a crime scene reporter in the early eighties……

But miraculously, the patron of out of leaguers everywhere, St Try Too Bloody Hard, has always been at my side….and I thank Him for that.

……Now - as everybody knows – Mr Bob Dylan is about to tour Australia.

I don’t care….

Why should I?

Afterall,  Mr Dylan was the springboard for perhaps my most alarming episode of  ‘out of leaguedness’.

Dylan concert: the old Sydney Showground, April, 1977.

My Hipster boyfriend [who'd spent the previous six months telling his daggy though 'cute on a good day' girlfriend] who exactly Bob Dylan was took me there.

For a gal whose biggest arts ticket thus far had been for the Leeton Musical & Dramatic Society’s ground breaking interpretation of Gilbert & Sullivan’s ‘Yeoman Of The Guard’ in 1969, this was huge.

I was desperate to please The Hipster.

So I opted for a long billowing cheese cloth dress with striking [handprinted] flowers of the field dotting the hem..

……Topped off by one of those Himalayan embroidered suede coats with that trademark moose hair lining hanging out just about everywhere…….

…..And my freshly permed locks stuck out straight from my forehead, providing a patio for my simmering kohled eyes.

The Hipster appeared surprised but stoked.

At the Showground, with Bob Dylan belting out a couple of songs which The Hipster had based his tutorials on, a hard rain was falling……and falling and falling…….

['Peace Brother'. Cr erjkprunczyk: flickr]

I was was increasingly concerned about my moose hair coat because it was starting to smell very bad.

The Hipster seemed not to care at all.

Instead, he was sharing reefers with folk obviously out of their leagues but by choice - and ignoring Moose Babe.

…Then The Hipster et al were throwing themselves in the mud, rolling around with the same look on their faces I get when I have a Splice…….

And Moose Babe found it – to say the least - disconcerting.

While Bob sang on….. good heavens, ’she makes love just like a woman’……….the Showground was rendered one big  seething mudbath.

The Hipster suddenly appeared: ‘Come on babe, come on babe…..’

So the Moose Babe, used to playing outside of her league, did.

At night’s end, two double dipped choc-coated cookies boarded the kombi for the journey back to the prestigious tertiary education centre of Bathurst, NSW.

But when the cookies got half way, The Hipster [always responsible] reported to his mud-encrusted cookie cum smelly Moose Babe:

‘Babe, I can’t drive any more. Nooooo can do. I’m too hyped up…..’

In the back of the Kombi on the side of the highway, The Hipster and his Moose Babe fell into fitful sleep.

At sunrise, Moose Babe kicked The Hipster awake with terrible news:

 ‘My mud’s set ……I’ve turned into a human tandoori oven…..’

‘Chill Babe….just chill……’

And I knew that - once again - I was definitely playing outside of my league……..

Gee, the Moose Babe is gettin’ old – it’s terrible but you’ll be pleased to know that I’m still playing outside of my league……..

What about you…?

I suspect there’s millions of real Hipster readers to kerriejean.com - and I’d love to know whether you think you were born with The Hipster gene or it’s a case of nature and Hipster Nurture……

Anything else…?

Keep cool  – and do report in by:

Just by clicking on the ‘comment’ TINGo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

A long time ago I was starving in London.

Other young Australians, high on Earls Court High Street, were enjoying their deprivation.

I was not.

While life with Hec and Gwennie and my four sisters in the fibro palace - Leeton NSW - was nowhere near glittering there had been food, adequate electricity supplies - and Hec always found sufficient funds to fulfil his duties as community raconteur at the Leeton Hotel.

In London, I was stuck in a miserable one up/all down with the detrius of a rupturing relationship.

One day, I decided to get a good job.

And to show my increasingly insignificant obnoxious other that I was serious about restoring mutual dignity, I’d throw the spoils of my labour at a Top Deck tour for two to the Black Forest. 

There, mutual toleration would be restored - and I might just be able to stay a little longer OS. 

Pride would not, could not allow me to return home two years before my scheduled re-entry.

I got a job as a room maid at a big hotel owned by Ireland’s national carrier, Aer Lingus…

It was called the Aer Lingus Hotel.

 [I must also tell you I did have employ for a short time as a scampi snack bar assistant at the Ye Olde Cock pub in Fleet Street but it wasn't to my liking]

Anyway, things at the Aer Lingus Hotel got off to a good start.

A nice little uniform with an apron.

And a badge which said something like:  ‘Hello I’m Kerrie Jean. And I work for Aer Lingus. And I am pleased to serve you.’

['At Your Service': cr:Sam Hood,State Library, NSW:flickr]

The Aer Lingus people were very professional.

Domestic staff didn’t go anywhere guest rooms until they’d completed one week’s induction [paid].

I enjoyed being inducted.

All day, highly skilled Aer Lingus folk came and out of the induction room  – demonstrating  professional vacuuming, sponging and cleaning product squirter techniques.

And so it was I found myself one Monday in the corridors of the Aer Lingus Hotel with a massive trolley chockablock with guest soaps (Rose of Tralee), air freshener (Rose of Limerick) and toilet rolls (Soft as the Rose of Kerry).

My task? Seven rooms.

My first, room 10 was in quite a state……those Irish honeymooners sure knew how to make up for lost time.

But soon, Kerrie Jean of Aer Lingus was working furiously to erase any sign of them…..

…..Squirting, and vacuuming….and squirting and vacuuming…..and squirting and vacuuming…..and hospital cornering…..and polishing…….and  binning unspeakable items……and de-grouting…..and on and on…….

Time passed.

And the new Aer Lingus domestic goddess realised that if she was to do seven rooms as contracted, she was at the start of a 79 hour shift.

Then the pert Chief Housekeeper appeared……

‘Tings are not right here Kerrie Jean. Tings are not right at all.’

So I squirted and squirted and squirted and squirted until room 10 smelled like all the roses and thistles and  pigs’  faces of Ireland.

But still, tings were not right.

By 5pm, I had done one-and- a- half rooms.

The next morning, I begged my increasingly insignificant obnoxious other to drop my uniform off at the Aer Lingus reception desk.

With a note:

‘God forgive me but family tings have facilitated my early return to Australia.’

Within days, I was on the train to Devon…..

……Having secured a job as a live-in silver service waitress at a very posh manor house.

Happy *St Pats Day!

* I always enjoy it. Tonight, I’m off to see the superb Irish songstress, Mary Black. She’s the Real Ting!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sbRuLOfHYfw

Feel free to tell me anyting:

Just by clicking on the ‘comment’ TINGo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Loyal readers are well aware that my romantic history is best described as a romp through terrain both sublime – and ridiculous.

I’m proud of it……

Over the decades I’ve supped and danced and frolicked and done crosswords…….and fought and had perverse dealings with…..well, quite a few men.

However, there’s one category of Man of which I have little intimate knowledge  -  something I’ve decided to remedy as a matter of urgency in the interests of a well rounded Mid- Romantic-Career.

My next target group?

That of the historically significant but largely forgotton Self Made Men…….

Glory Days: Self Made Men [Cr: Swedish National Heritage Board: flickr]

Decades ago – when my love trajectory was still firmly on the launch pad – Self Made Men were much admired.

It was as if they had not emerged via the time tested means of sexual embrace.

Being Self Made, they just popped on Leeton’s main street…..

But the process of becoming a fully formed Self-Made Man was complex – and not always pretty……

For Self Made Men saw opportunites where mere mortals did not.

Self Made Men made big money in commodities like sewage, gravel and stone fruit stones.

They said they were ‘gunna buy up half of Wagga’ with the profits – and they did.

Self Made Men were often [dare I say it?] on the plain or short side.

But that didn’t matter.

Their wives were always ‘the best sorts’ in town: resplendent in tropical jumpsuits purchased in Sydney enroute to the P &O passenger terminal.

…….Tales circulated about Self-Made Men and their wives and obnoxious offspring sailing to exotic locales in the South Pacific…..

…..Arriving back in Leeton with never before seen five-metre high decorative village totems, glorious muumuus and 25.4 gallon bottles of duty free Tia Maria.

Not that Self-Made Men didn’t have a social conscience.

Quite the opposite.

They sponsored…….

….New goals posts, new goal posts unveiling ceremony barbeques, cardiac arrest gizmos, cardiac arrest gizmo acquisition barbeques……

It was good to know that Self-Made Men never forgot where they came from – themselves.

So…..I’m looking for a Self-Made Man.

A Self-Made Man who’d feel privileged to sponsor me……

HOWEVER, if you’re a Self-Made Man who’s managed to make an unmitigated mess of yourself, please do not apply…..

…………………………….

So, how are we all. Just quietly, my search for a viable Self-Made Man has really put a spring in my step.

Isn’t it always the same?

….You feel a little jaded – and then, zippity do da, a new project emerges!

I’d be very interested to know whether you have experiences of Self-Made Men…….even voting for Mark Latham counts!

…Or – even better – maybe you’re the real deal yourself……oh boy……

As per usual, I’d like [very much] to hear news from your fertile [or hopelessly barren] patch…..

Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Best Ever IWD Tip To Get Ahead As A Woman In A Harsh World…….

Get a wealthy fella.

*Simple and effective……..a new life mercifully free of:

Discrimination. Money Bags picked me, did he not?

Work/Life Balance Dilemmas.  Money Bags pays. You sit on your bum and smile.

Odious Career Trajectories. Money Bags invests his vast inheritance wisely. You sit on your bum and smile.

Competition From The Sisterhood. They talk all the time about you ’selling out’. You sit on your bum and smile.

Happy International Women’s Day…….

Read on for the Charlie Mr Sheen missive……….

Well, well, well…….I’m back.

And [just quietly] more unashamedly passionate than ever [if that's humanly possible].

I make no apologies for what’s been goin’ on the last few weeks…….

[Finding Myself Was Fun': KJ. Cr: Cornell University Photostream:flickr]

The truth?

There’s two very special people in this loose configuration of nobodies called the world – Charlie Mr Sheen and MissKerrieJeanatpleasurecentral/too.right.  

So here I am slumped knee deep in the detrius of my StayCation……

……. Just for starters, the hundreds of ‘post it’ notes stuck on my cookie jars have already become reminders of how gloriously selfish the pursuit of pleasure simply for pleasure’s sake is.

For example, don’t forget KJ:  go! [channel 99] 2:00 ‘Dukes Of Hazzard’, 7:30 ‘Total Wipeout’ UK, 1:00 am ‘Hellcats’ PG. *Just like Charlie Mr Sheen I couldn’t give a damm about Leigh Sales and Chris Uhlmann’s premiere menage a deux.

Charlie Mr Sheen and me also have another glorious trait in common – we’re both die-hard sensualists.

I’d like to tell you that during my StayCation, I shared everything with two attractive and personable guys who just happened to come into my life – perhaps a Red Shield collector and a real sweetie who came by to give me a quote for a wind turbine.

But that would be a bald-faced lie.

Instead, I’ve been re-igniting my insatiable appetites….by cooking.

But only with the three most sensuous ingredients – egg yolks [ova of life] condensed milk [check Charlie Mr Sheen's larder) and cream (ditto).

Put 'em together and what have you got?

The start of a *Key Lime Pie, that's what!

It is said that when Charlie Mr Sheen turned up in the Emergency Ward, the doctor said:

'Mr Sheen you gotta stop makin' *Key Lime Pies. They're dangerous for folks like you for whom the words moderation,  family and values have no meaning.'

 To which Charlie replied: 'And when Zombie Nobody Sir was the last time you acquainted yourself with the pleasures of f****** condensed milk?'

I concur.

The truth is:

I have spent my StayCation experimenting with condensed milk: making Key Lime Pies, turning it into caramel for caramel pies, eating it straight out of the tin, making Hedgehog slices.......

And I have no regrets - none at all.

And because - just like Charlie Mr Sheen - I love to share, I'll leave you with this -

My favorite Key Lime Pie recipe....[note: Charlie Sheen uses 'Key' limes because he can get anything he wants. I use limes from Woolies because that's all I can get]

http://www.thenibble.com/reviews/main/cookies/pastry/key-lime-pie-recipe2.asp

…..If you’re worried about getting obscenely fat obscenely quickly on Key Lime Pie, this site is not for you.

Talk soon.

***************************************

So, here we are all again  – and I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to hearing news from your patch.

I guess some people may find the idea of a StayCation odious, to say the least. Why, why, why…..?

I – for one – can’t wait to turn up in the office and tell everyone that I’ve been exploring my inner Charlie Mr Sheen….through the bottom of a Key Lime Pie tin.

Oh boy!

Another thing, if you run into any problems with your Key Lime Pie, don’t hestitate to get in touch by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

I have just emerged from my traditional self-induced Valium Non-Frequent Terrified Flyer Coma……..

With pathetic news…….

During my one-month ‘Summering over’ in the  controversial Murray-Darling Basin community of my hometown, Leeton, NSW, I – for the first time in decades – desperately tried to form a meangingful new relationship.

The target of my affections?

A scungy donkey which – in mysterious circumstances – has come to reside at my oldest sister’s small rural spread.

[When donkeys were fun. cr: National Library, Scotland:flickr]

His name is ‘Hee-Haw’.

Not that he cares. 

‘Hee-Haw’ answers to nobody. Does less than nothing.  Neither loves nor hates. Contributes nowt. Plug ugly…..

 ……Occasionally bares his big choppers to make darn sure the world knows he’s still breathing….

……. Looking exactly like the old sub-editors on my first newspaper who were always coming to terms with ill-fitting dentures.

What did I want from ‘Hee-Haw’?

Not much.

Just what I’d tried to get from other doomed-from-the start relationships……..

Mutuality; companionship; an acknowledgement of what it is to be human and donkey……..a laugh or two.

Every morning, I’d get very close to ‘Hee-Haw’, look him straight in the eye……..and talk and talk and talk.

Asked him what it was like to be the continual butt of crass sexual innuendo in relation to his private parts.

Asked him who he admired most. Simpson or The Donkey?

Wanted to know if it was appropriate for me to ask the council if he could parade up the main street on Christmas Eve - me astride with a blow-up wading pool under flowing garments and my nephew walking alongside with a concerned look on his face.

…….And I begged him to show emotion….joy, hate, anger, conflicted……..ANYTHING.

Nothing.

Eventually, I exploded.

Told sister that I disliked ‘Hee-Haw’ very much. 

More to the point, he repulsed me.

She said I was a hateful person.

……And, unlike me, ‘Hee-Haw’ was harmless.

I said donkeys should be castrated. Assigned to the dustbin of extinction.

She said she was going to make quadruple cream matchsticks [my fave] but had changed her mind.

I said I didn’t want ‘Hee-Haw’ to come between us.

To tell you the truth, it’s going to take a long time for things to get back on track.

Isn’t it pathetic…….isn’t it always the same?

A bad, lazy ‘good for nothin’ guy gets to pull the strings……

***************************************************************

So…..so…..so…….2011 off to a cracking start….

Familial relations strained to beaking point and I’m being reported to the RSPCA for psychological abuse…..

The next thing, you’ll be writing in telling me how you love donkeys – and how they should be called in to help mop up Brisbane…….

Say what you like. I don’t care.

On a happier note, please report in on what’s happening (or not) on your patch.

This is a generalist ‘Living, Loving, Learning’ forum so you can offload your thoughts and fears and observations – and no-one will think any the less of you.

Isn’t that great?

Go ahead. Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.

Quelle horreur……

What to give those pesky loved ones for Chrissy when they [as they keep shouting to the world] apparently have everything’?

And when I say ‘everything’ I mean EVERYTHING…….

……Irritating personalities, nauseating insignificant others, 17 investment properties [18 if you count the paramilitary training camp in Costa Rica] and goddamnit, what appears to be percolating contentment, if not the cheap thrill that masquerades as happiness…….

What to give ‘em?

I know exactly……

I hereby declare Christmas 2010 as:

 ’The Year Of Giving Folks With EVERYTHING A Big Kick Up The Bum’.

[Xmas Shopping: State Library NSW. Cr: flickr]

It’s gunna be fantastic……..

Do start making those [usually tedious] now thrilling phone calls right away…..

Here’s your script. And do not deviate from it for maximum effect.

You: Good tidings! 

……It’s your unacceptable sister/ good time brother/selfish daughter/crazy n’er do well son/creepy cousin 34 times removed/hero who saved you from having a grostesque full head perm in 1982……..

And what, dear one, would you like for Chrissy?

Whoever: Thank you for asking but it just so happens that I have EVERYTHING……….

You: Yes, yes I’ve heard that…….but I’ve really been thinking hard……….

About what to give lucky you, you of the lucky 0.009876 of  lucky people who luckily have EVERYTHING…..

Whoever: What so, what so, what so? [you sweet little bearer of  unbounded joy?]

You: I’m going to give you something you really deserve….and you do deserve much…….

Whoever: What so, what so, what so?

You:  *A Big Chrissy Kick Up The Bum!

* Your conversation should end right here or shortly after.

Finally, fond pre-Chrissy thoughts of the ’seasonal’ ladies at the Leeton Cannery I worked with in the seventies……

These gals?

They were never in line for A Big Chrissy Kick Up The Bum…..

Stinking hot, hard, repetitive work…..

But above the shocking noise?

Always news of the latest Chrissy pressie triumphants…..

‘ The trampoline……T-R-A-M-P-O-L-I-N-E…… comes off lay-by today……

‘Great! I get my hands on Warren’s fishing tackle….T-A-C-K-L-E…..next pay……….

‘Better you than me….I still wanna get THE bikes……B-I-K-E-S……but we’ll just *haveta see, haveta see…….’

*Everyone knew Lorna’s hubby, Wazza, always needed a Good Kick Up The Bum all year round……

 But no need to say it, none at all…….

*************************************

So, who will you be giving A Good Chrissy Kick Up The Bum….?

Perhaps you’re one of those folks who have everything – gee, what’s that like?  

What’s the worst Chrissie pressie that ever came your way? Did it make you feel totally unloved?

While I’ve got your attention, is it at all possible that Santa kicks his reindeers’ bums to make them go faster?

How’s that for a new Christmas story angle?!  

[Bosses take note. Well done KJ, if I don't say so myself.......]

****Before I go, best of luck to everyone in Gumly Gumly (near Wagga Wagga) facing the ire of the great Murrumbidgee. I know we have kerriejean.com community members down that way. Be safe – report in if you’ve got time. I know you’re very busy.

Looking forward to hearing from old and new visitors. It’s very easy to tell us what you’re doing/or thinking/or whose bums you’re kicking….

Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the URL thingo.