Why is it that when I explain to my dentist that a recently fixed tooth still really hurts, he has to not only press and poke at it with a finger, but tap it - hard - with a very cold metal rod?

Seriously, I tell him that there’s billions of stars in the sky and he’d believe me but give him a sore tooth and he’ll tap it just to make sure.

I very nearly hit him.

I very nearly hit him a second time when he said “Oh, we’ll fix that right up,” and proceeded to stick me with one of those massive anaesthetic needles without first coating my gum with that stuff that makes the surface a bit numb to stop said massive needle from hurting so much. By the way, why are the ones dentists use always so big? They look like one of those contraptions you stick a Selley’s can in. HUGE! Anyway, not only does he not warn me he’s about to pierce my gum with a massive metal syringe but then he proceeds to rub at the spot he’s just pierced. Like I’m a puppy getting a vaccination or something. Yes, let’s just rub the sore spot, that’ll make it feel much better! NOT! Dude, the anaesthetic doesn’t work immediately! I can feel what you’re doing.

Is it any real wonder I have a pathalogical fear of anyone poking around in my mouth? After seven years of braces, two mouth operations and four extractions all before I turned 18, my dentist is extremely lucky I’m not a raving lunatic like my sister is whenever she has to go to the dentist.

Actually, my sister is perfect payback for all the pain and suffering my dentist has caused me. She’s a monster to deal with in a dentist chair. I could tell you stories…

Anyway, I had planned on getting straight to work after my appointment, however I got sick. Literally. In the middle of the city. On Collins Street. RIGHT OUTSIDE KOKO BLACK. Embarrassment plus. Of course, no one offers to help the poor tottering fat woman who’s hurling up breakfast from as far back as last Wednesday. So I called the manbeast and asked him to call work for me because my phone was just about dead and I didn’t have enough change on me to make all the phone calls myself. That done, I dragged my sorry self back to the train and back home again - where I proceeded to throw up as soon as I got off the train at the other end of the journey. More embarrassment but at least it wasn’t the Paris end of the city again.

Either I was having a bad reaction to something or the stress from the dentist visit caught up with me. No, I am not kidding, I fear dentists that much. It’s all in the build-up though. Once I’m in the chair I take a fatalistic approach (ie, “It’ll hurt, but I’ll live and in an hour I can go get a milkshake to make up for it”). Once I’m out of there, the sudden lack of stress either makes me get really sick, or really happy. This time it chose the former.

I still don’t know why there are always carrots in there. I don’t eat carrots on a regular basis, yet… the carrots always appear.

Anyhoo, time off gave me a chance to work with some more of Michelle’s awesome digi-scrapping kits. I seriously love being on her creative team.

I thought of a really good thing to write about earlier today but alas, the dreariness of work has killed it. Spent this weekend pretty much doing nothing.

Nothing except buying a brand spankin’ new COMPOOTAH! This is seriously quick shit. Professional grade monitah for my artz and super-fast-super-quiet box. Also got me oodlers of space in the form of a couple of internal and external harddrives - like over a terrabyte of space. Good stuff.

And nyah, nyah, Tony, I’m going to be running dual monitors too!

Photo of the new set-up when the manbeast finishes building the PC. Ah, the joys of living with a techie - as opposed to a Trekkie, which is no fun at all but I got both rolled into one along with a generous helping of D&D and WoW fanatic…

I digress.

I’m still waiting (now a little bit desperately) for my gemmies. And things regarding the wedding have hit a bump in the road. Well, not a large bump. More like discomfort stripes in the form of shoes, bridesmaid dresses and invitations…

Anyway, new page for the scrapbook:

(Template by Designs by Sine, and “Softly” digi-kit by Mellowbutterfly.com.)

Oh, I recently added a Spamfree to the blog and I can see that it’s getting a shitload of hits.  Please email me (ren @ getifa, yadda, yadda) if you’re having trouble posting past the spam filter.

Both dreading and looking forward to this movie…

However, we saw this load of tripe last night. Wanted. Oh my god, it was the kind of bad where you really just had to let go of any and all expectation, not to mention completely suspend belief. Only then could you enjoy it. I mean… the rats. I won’t spoil the movie but the rats are bloody funny.

James McAvoy is the films only saving grace, for he is hot, ripped and I luffs him.

Sales at EzyDVD are a bad thing for me… because I tend to buy lots. And lots.

This time the list is as follows:

1. The Fountain - Hugh Jackman yumminess.
2. The Marilyn Munroe Collection - Gentlemen, Hot and Millionaire.
3. Breakfast at Tiffany’s - Classeh Hepburn movie.
4. Roman Holiday - Gregory Peck, need I say more?
5. One Million Years BC - Yes, the one with Raquel Welsh.
6. Team America - FUCK YEAH! (’Coz only a dick can fuck an asshole!)
7. Her Magesty, Mrs Brown - The Big Yin. In a kilt. ‘Nuff said.
8. Cry Baby, Special Ed. - Just to plump up my Depp collection, savvy?

Oh, this weekend we went to Chocolate Rush which, for some unknown reason, was held at Abbotsford Convent. Now, the Convent is a lovely place to visit, but the organisers of this event need a good slapping. Firstly, they didn’t cancel the farmers market so anyone who paid their $25 to enter said farmers market (RIP OFF!) could get in on the chocolatey goodness too. Annoyed. Secondly, wanky dogs abound. You can tell when you’re in the wannabe-toff part of Melbourne (which Collingwood and Abbotsford and Kew is) when the wanky, poodly dogs are brought out. More annoyed. Thirdly, the parking in Collingwood is shocking and we ended up getting a spot out in the boonies on Jonston Street. Ugh. Having said that, the chocolate (once we got there) was tres yummy.

Though I will admit that good chocolate is wasted on me. I’m more of a quantity over quality, though I draw the line at Easter egg chocolates. They’re just yuck. Compound chocolate isn’t real chocolate.

We did a sort-of chocolate appreciation class as well with a well-known foodie and in all seriousness, chocolate is almost like wine. There’s so many different varieties and even vintages, some good, some bad, some absolutely vomitous. It was still fun though.

What else did I do this weekend… Oh yeah, signed up with Five Minute Photographer, very cool and very brief photography tutorials there. If I’m going to be getting my beloved D300 I may as well learn to use a camera properly - again.

“OHAI! Iz Luke Skywalker! Iz here tu rescuez joo!”

“SRSLY! Luke Skywalker! Seez?” *zwoom-zwoof*

“But wayt! Whoo dat?”

“Luke, I am your father!”

“No… No… Noooooooozzzz!”

Iz contemplaytin Dark Sidez. Likz.

“Iz Dark Jedi. You diez now. Nanny help. KTHNXBI!”

(I am sick. Very, very sick.)

I seriously get a kick out of watching Taylor on YouTube. She makes some seriously cool videos with great soundtracks. Oh the inanity of being a highschool/college girl - makes it all the more amusing.

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IT’S TIGER’S BIRTHDAY TODAY!!!!

Happy Birthday, Tiger!

And no, 34 is not old. *poke*

So my mum turned 55 this weekend. (Happy birthday, Mum!) and I took her to see Mama Mia.

Lots of fun, with more actors tripping out on speed than you can throw an ABBA album at.

Colin Firth, dearheart, light of my life, please… don’t ever sing again. You’re cute and you have a fantastic “wet shirt” moment and you look great in a pair of shorts (no chicken legs for you, petal, nooooo) but singing is not your forte. Stick to narky, bumbling and entirely lovable Englishmen please.

Pierce Brosnan, same for you. Do not EVER sing again. Not even for a joke. And for the sake of all that is holy and good, wax your belly. And lose a couple pounds too because it was just a bit disturbing seeing this furry and somewhat wobbly hairy thing that’s 10 feet tall on a cinema screen.

Meryl Streep… My only thought during the film “HOLY FUCK, MERYL CAN SING!” Why didn’t anyone tell me she could sing? Same goes for Julie Walters - and I loved her bit at the end.

All in all, even though I don’t really like ABBA, Mama Mia! is for all intents and purposes, rather fun. Completely ridiculous but fun. I’m almost sorry I missed seeing the actual musical now.

And new artings… Just a bit of practice with light. I’ve been doing so many scrapbook layouts I’ve sort of forgotten the more intricate part of manipping.

You STILL can’t pick your family. I wish that was something that I could fix sometimes.

Just one day, one day in my ENTIRE LIFE, I would really like everything to be about me. I’m not asking for much. Just one single, solitary day where I want things to go my way and for people to do what I want. I don’t even ask that much on my birthdays or engagement anniversaries (all fucking THREE of those).

The one day I want to be perfect is November 29 this year. My wedding day. I’m not a bridezilla or an attention whore but there’s just one day I would like to go well where I can relax and just enjoy it.

My sister is determined to stamp her attitude all over it and fuck it over for me in a way only she can.

If dad doesn’t walk down me down the aisle, she’s not coming. If she can’t wear what she wants to wear (jeans), she’s not coming. If I don’t invite one of HER friends, she’s not coming.

I would love to say “Guess what, bitch? Our father is NOT walking me anywhere, you are NOT allowed to wear jeans and I am NOT inviting one of YOUR friends to MY $9000 reception, and if you don’t like it then you are quite welcome to stay the fuck away!” That would my ultimate answer. I can say that she doesn’t have to come if what I want bugs her so much but the fact still remains that if she doesn’t turn up it will hurt me possibly more than anything has hurt me since my father sent flowers and a pathetic excuse in a card to my engagement party here in Melbourne seven years ago and the day, while I’m sure just about everything else will go mostly to plan, will be shadowed by the fact that she isn’t there with me.

I’m tired of making excuses and exceptions for her behaviour and there’s just one day that I’d love NOT to have to do that but I know if I don’t I’ll still be fucked over a barrel.

Life ain’t ever easy being Ren.

Pay no attention to that title behind the green curtain.

EDITED SUMMARY: I’m not well.

*sigh*

Anyway, my world is a little bit brighter after today for we ventured into Pahran Market this morning, only to be bitterly disappointed when we realised that it was only selected traders open on Sundays and Monsieur Truffe IS NOT ONE OF THOSE SELECTED TRADERS.

BASTARD!!!

(Continue reading to get your freebie scrapbook page.)

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I’ve been hoarding pictures of Freddles for the past few years now…

And my sister sort of cracked the biggest shitfest ever when she discovered a picture from Fred’s christening (way back when) in the book my aunt put together to celebrate the life of my grandmother. The situation was made even worse when she saw the scrapbooked page of us all that I’d done. Eep.

So now I have to put nearly three years worth of photographs onto CD for her and my dad and my mum and just about everyone else in the family.

Is there a way to batch convert RAW files to jpg?

Anyway, I guess I should also add to my tales of the life of Fred… He loves horses.

No, seriously. He LOVES horses.

It all started with a horse at the local pony club called Boof. Boof as in rhymes with “hoof” of the horsey variety. And then Donkey, from Shrek. A movie I have now watched probably 491 times this year alone.

See, Donkey turns into a HORSEY in Shrek. Which just, you know, makes him the COOLEST DONKEY EVER. And I get a very patient explanation of how Donkey gets turned into a horsey at the precise moment when Donkey… turns into a horsey. Mind you, that’s all still in Fred’s patented Swahili Baby Speech…

My mum’s sisters worship all things equine and while my sister and I liked the occasional pony ride and patting the horses, we were never really adamant that we must own one of those magnificent creatures. Plus we’re both terribly allergic to them which I am sure had something to do with our interest levels. Simple put, the pure and all encompassing love of horses passed us by. It skipped a generation and hit Fred full force in the chest.

So now whenever we see anything horse-shaped there will be much excitement and of course every time we drive past the pony club he calls out for Boof who I am sure would come if he could hear an almost-three-year-old in a moving car with the windows wound up - providing there were carrots involved.

Fred loves horses so much that when Nanny bought him a stuffed toy horse, he decided he would ride it. And ride it he does. With stuffed horse jammed between his legs and little fingers grasping tightly to straining ears, Fred gallops (ok, it’s not so much a gallop as a waddle-hop but it’s incredibly cute) around the house like a maniac, exciting dogs, cats and thoroughly amused aunties alike. The poor horse is a bit thin around the middle from being ridden around so much, and slept on, and cuddled, and chewed on…

And, oh my god, don’t get me started on Xena. He loves Xena too.  Xena as in “Warrior Princess, The”.  We’ve had bike pumps, which make great swords, shoved down the back of jumpers just so they can be yanked out Xena-style to ward off would-be evil doers.  The acrobatics, the swords, the action. He loves it all.  He wants to be Xena.

And XENA ON A HORSE sends him into conniptions.

Ho-hum. It’s after midnight and the depression has kicked in. Worried about a whole lot of things including (and most importantly) the nephew who doesn’t seem to have quite recovered from a nasty bout of pneumonia. His chest sounds so rattly at the moment and he just has that sickly, fragile look about him that’s even more pronounced because of his already-fair hair and so-pale-he’s-transparent skin.

Definitely not his chubby, happy little self though he does try and be normal - as normal as a sick little 2.5 year-old can be.

Anyhoo, I made an oil pastel drawering a few weeks ago and neglected to show off:

Looks almost convincing, eh?