Remember the lounges that noone would buy at our garage sale? Well today we left them out for St Vincent de Paul to collect and felt quite charitable for doing so. But when I got home just now, they were still here! We got REJECTED by Vinnies!

They claim it is stained! And torn! Gasp! Those words are knives through my good catholic heart. So there is one teeny tear on a cushion and barely there chocolate icecream stain the size of your thumbnail. My sister and I can't help feeling rejected. It was bad enough when noone would buy it at the garage sale. But they're very comfy lounges! Many a sleepy friend have crashed on them and waxed lyrical about their cosiness.

They say that "in this state these items are not suitable to give to the needy". Since when does Vinnies have such lofty standards? And I ask you, just how bloody needy are the needy? Choosy bastards! And don't you love their smug tone, they hope "that you may be in a position to help it with acceptable donations in the future".

Hmmmmph!

Portia de Rossi has released a Woman's Weekly cookbook, according to a bizarre dream of mine last night. It was called Get Skinny With Portia and the cover featured her naked except for the lettuce leaves covering her naughty bits. She was signing copies of the book outside this church near my house. Inside were recipes like Carrot Surprise and Roast Alfalfa with Water. I saw the blurb inside the book as clear as day:

Hello. I'm Portia de Rossi. It has always been my aim in life to weigh as little as humanly possible. Let this be your mission too. Put down your chocolate bars and get cooking with me.

Crikey!

I just took this photo of the light fitting here in our living room with my teeny tiny camera. It's a tacky as hell psuedo-chandelier thingy, but wow, it makes the most amazing patterns on the ceiling. And the centre of it looks like some sort of freaky luminous nipple! It glows! It shines! It's Radioactive Nipple! (click pic for bigger version)

Message from the always bemusing Mother left on the answering machine today: "This is ET... Ring home!"

So I was rambling on, as is my fashion, to a poor friend, about Holly Hunter in The Piano, and pondered how she would express her needs in bed, being bereft of speech and all.

At first I reckoned she would write it all down in her little notepad. You know, that locket thingy that she used to attack with short, angry little scribbles throughout the film. Now it would be *scribble scribble* harder! harder *scribble* not like that, you clod! or *scribble scribble* have you got a cigar? or whatever. Clear, to the point, and necessary, because let's face it, there's only so much you can communicate non-verbally. And how easily is non-verbal misinterpreted?

But then, I thought, would the Harvey Keitel character have been literate? I am not sure if the average hill-dwelling savage yet sensitive 19th century kiwi bloke spent much time with the books. So would Holly's desperate scribbles be for naught?

She has two alternatives, as far as I can see. She could just poke him in the eye with that shoddy prosthetic tin finger of hers. That would have to get his attention. Or she could do the old furious sign language gesticulations that she employed in the film, and have her trusty sidekick daughter Anna Paquin to translate in that smug, too-loud little voice of hers. "SHE SAYS TO GET OFF HER! SHE'S GOT A HEADACHE!"

So The Mothership has landed. I managed to worm out of going to the Antique Fair, so I have the place to myself for awhiles. My sister is hunting for an antique ring or something for her 21st birthday. She is such a refined person. She likes jewellery and expensive perfume and fancy clothes. I do too, but I don't bother with them. Mainly because I am completely devoid of grace and elegance. I lose things, I spill stuff on my clothes, I knock into things and break them. I can spend 2 hours getting glammed up to go somewhere but I look messy 10 minutes later. So I spend all my money on books and CDs and silly stuff. When it was my 21st, I wanted a stereo, despite people asking did I want some nice, classic, long lasting heirloom, like a watch or bracelet? Nooo! Stereo!

My dad shopped for it. Felt so warm and mushy, my dad shopping for me. He travelled all over the Central West to find the best one, and of course it had to have the best bass. And he didn't disappoint. The first time we hooked it up I stuck in Massive Attack's Mezzanine and the opening bit of Angel made the floor of my little flat vibrate. My flatmates and I stood around it going "faaaaaaaaaaaark!". It was an amazing experience. We had to re-listen to every CD we had, because on this machine it was like hearing it all for the first time. The sub-woofers would woof so powerfully that if standing in front of them, my hair would blow around. For the first week I would fall asleep by the stereo at night, the remote still in my hand, with a blissful smile. We named the stereo Happy, coz goddamn we WERE happy. Hehehe. You can't get that kinda kicks out some mouldy old jewels, I tells ya.

Actually now that I think about it, I did get some fancy jewellery for my 21st -- a pair of earrings with lil diamonds in them. They made my ears all sore and red so I put them away, and have since lost one of them. I cannot be trusted with the finer things in life!

Harry at the window this morning, whining for food.

Valetines Day Eve. Woohoo. My french class starts up again tonight, so perhaps I can learn the language of love really quickly, just in case the man of my dreams somehow materialises tomorrow.

I was in David Jones today, looking for a replacement for my Palm (the paper diary I got is just not going to be the same *sob*. And they had to be playing the Coldplay CD that I lost, just to rub it in my face!). There were so many blokes at the perfume counters throwing their hands in the air helplessly as those porcelain-skinned sales assistants squirted clouds of Poison and J'adore and Dune in their confused faces. Then there were the cheap bastards buying wilted flowers and Cadbury choccies at Superbarn. But it's the thought that counts. Everyone likes to feels to feel lurrrrrved.

I overheard two fifteen year oldish chicks behind me at the ATM planning to get together tomorrow night and eat icecream and comfort each other when they didn't get any valentines. Awww. As for me, I got one today! In the mail and everything. It wasn't signed, but since I only know one person in New Zealand it wasn't too hard to figure out. Thanks Mary :P

Highlights from the garage sale: sexy lady with deaf/blind poodle who asked me did I have any ALF dolls for sale, and our pathetic attempts to sell our lounge suite. Noone bought it. Bah.

Can't write, which stinks because I really should be writing something write now but brain will not work. Picture instead: CDs found on top of my mum's stereo today: Bon Jovi, Backstreet Boys and Black Sabbath. Crazy old dame.

So, I'm a bit sad right now. The garage sale went well, pictorial to come. After it was over we piled all the leftovers and our rubbish into the car (we've been doing major cleanup around here) and headed off to the local rubbish tip. What a putrid place. When we got back home I felt like listening to a spot of PJ Harvey for some reason and went to get the CD out of this bag I'd brought home from work yesterday. We'd sat the bag in a safe spot since people would be coming into our living room to check out the lounges for sale (which noone bloody bought, incidentally). But guess what? No bag!

We spent the next half hour going through every bloody room in the entire house, looking for this bag. I even emptied the contents of our chockers garbage bin, which reeked from half a can of coconut milk that I dumped in there after a failed attempt at green curry. No bag. So we drove half an hour out to that goddamn stinky tip again, and went looking for the bag amongst the car load of rubbish we'd dumped there two hours before. But of course, about 100 people had also dumped their rubbish, and those nasty bulldozer looking things had pushed the rubbish back further leaving us no hope of locating this bag whatsoever, despite a gallant garbage guy offering to wade a few metres deep and have a closer look for me.

So we don't know if someone accidentally added this bag to the pile of rubbish, or if some sneaky person stole it while we were showing people the couches. Either way, I am fucking upset. It basically contained all the things I cleared out of my desk at work yesterday. Some novels to read for my holidays, some work papers to look over, my brand new swanky 2001 diary with scores of notes taken for various projects, 4 CDs - my precious Gomez Liquid Skin, the PJ Harvey, Coldplay and John Coltrane A Love Supreme... AND the killer... MY PALM!

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaah my little baby palm! You may remember months and months ago I was obsessed with having one, and finally scraped up the money, became very broke for a long while, and subsequently transferred every fucking vital piece of information imaginable into it. Addresses, numbers, passwords, notes, funny pictures, story ideas, and not to mention my Space Invaders!

So I am sad. I am grumpy. I know it's just stuff but it's MY stuff! And stuff that I could not even begin to afford to replace right now. And there is SO much in that little Palm. Creepy to think of someone looking at that. Pah. My only relief is that I am so obsessed with taking pictures that I had my camera in my pocket and not in that bag. But still, I feel kinda sick inside though. If someone stole it, how could I be so stupid? And if it's rotting away at the tip with dirty nappies and grass clippings, how could I be so stupid?

It's in there somewhere! :(

Poooooor Richard Marx! He swears he left her by the river! He swears he left her safe and sound! But I swear I saw a little dog running down the banks with her in his mouth! So that blow up doll will be worthless to ya now, Richy boy!

Hee hee. Methinks I should go back to bed now.

woofwoofwoooooooooofwoofowooowofoofofofowooooooooof he says. btw way darlings, we here at chez shauny are having a garage sale today! 8am - 11am woohoo. we don't have a garage so we're throwing our worldy goods in the front yard, including a lounge, table and chairs, a dodgy printer, lots of teddy bears, kitchenware, and about 30 dodgy as fuck CDs. Only 3 of them are mine, mind you, and they were presents. What kind of friend would think I'd want Meredith Brooks? I'm a bitch, I'm a lover, I'm a twat with no taste in music? Sorry Chris if you're reading this but it had to go. There were some really crackers from my sisters collection like Richard Marx and Tina Arena and Gloria Estefan, bwahahaha! She says her ex-boyfriend gave them to her! Suuuure! Anyway people, I know you're all wet at the thought of Bryan Adams' Greatest Hits so come on over to my garage sale today and give me your petty cash. Purr.

This test thingo that pops out a poem in accordance with your mood. While the brooding Lukester, from whom I pilfered the link, was dished up Shelley's Bereavement, I got e.e. cummings' when God lets my body be. Ooh la!

"...their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be
with the bulge and nuzzle of the sea"

But if they were really in touch with my current frame of mind, they would have surely suggested I Went Nuts At Work Today And Stapled My Boss To The Photocopier And Drew A Swastika On Her Forehead With A Whiteboard Marker by little known boutique poet Miss Shauna, but anyway.

Hurrah! Is there no end to Australia's sporting prowess? There's cricket, hockey, swimming, rugby and now DEBATING! Yes darlings, Australia has just taken out the World Schools Debating Championship! We defeated 32 nations then Scotland in the final to snatch the title! Hurrah!

One of the talented kiddies is a Tristian from Canberra. Tristian! Now there's a good poncy debating name! But I tell you, when he gets back to Canberra there'll be a tickertape parade down Northbourne Avenue and he will suddenly find himself very popular with the ladies. And I will be there amongst the screaming hoardes of hormones, begging him to sign my copy of the Macquarie Dictionary and inviting him back to my place for some hot rebuttal.

I was a debater in high school. I was absolutely shite at it. I had only been bullied into it by mother and teachers who thought I needed some Self Confidence™. For me it was pure torture. I like activties where I can plan for weeks in advance in order to minimise all chance of me making a fool out of myself. But having an hour to prepare a 10 minute speech was hell. Then there were my trademark killer nerves. My first speech was 2 minutes 45 seconds of me tripping over my tongue, much aheming, trembling hands and speech cards falling all over the floor. Needless to say we were slaughtered.

As for rebuttal, I couldn't argue my way out of anything. In everyday life, I am prone to taking everything personally and running off and hiding under my bed at the first sign of conflict. So when some strapping lad from a neighbouring school would point his finger at me and tear my argument to shreds in his booming yet hilariously sqwarky voice, I would slump back into my chair so low that my nose was resting on the desktop.

In Year 11 I went on the annual inter-school sports trip to a Sydney school. They'd tossed debating into the schedule along with chess as the Token Geek Events. The first speaker came down with laryngitis so I had to go along as the last minute replacement. I was terrified. So what did I do? Early on the four hour bus trip I cleverly established a "sore throat" with much wheezy coughing and watery eyes. By the time we hit Sydney I could barely speak, and for the next few days I was completely mute.

When Debating Day rolled around I was communicating in hoarse whispers and elaborate hand signals, and my teammates clucked sympathetically. Luckily we had a very dynamic third speaker who suggested that she do both first and third speaker, and she was just fabulous at it. I was happily demoted to 4th Speaker, aka The Thinker, who is supposed to help write the speeches and the rebuttals but in my case, stared into space and wrote nasty comments on the speech cards during the debate to pass to my teammates, "The adjudicator lady has a moustache" and "Their third speaker has a fat arse" etc etc.

So we lost, but did infinitely better than if I had spoke. The next day my voice was magically restored, and my debating career was magically over!

"By the way, if any of you are wondering what happens if you try to scan your private areas...it works really well. You get these cool German Expressionistic oblique angles of your nether regions. The effect is more Citizen Kane than Larry Flint."

You can't beat Diaryland for finding great writing. Everyday I seem to stumble across another brilliant read, whether it be sweet or serious or sexy or silly. This one's a little bit of everything!

So Nicole'n'Tom are splitsville. For shame. Ray Martin will be devastated. His favourite Top Sort and the topomost of his Top Blokes list are no longer an item. Who gives a rats arse, I say. But I got into work today to find a certain colleague ranting and raving about it. "It's terrible! How can they do that? Don't they even try? What about their children? The children need a stable family! How can they be so selfish? Those kids will be all screwed up now! It's a disgrace!"

I could have quite cheerfully clobbered her with my coffee mug, her attitude makes my blood boil. For one, what do we know about this relationship? We know sweet fuck all, of course, as we do all the goings on in Hollywood. Then again this woman probably keeps copies of New Idea stashed under her bed. And also, do ya think that they wouldn't have tried to work things out? And would the kids turn out any better if their parents stay together being miserable

This woman's mind is as narrow as Calista Flockhart's ankles. And she kept going on and on about how fucked up these kids would be when she knows full well my parents are divorced. Twice. Yeah, they divorced each other, both remarried, both divorced again. They are to the Art of Marriage what Rolf Harris is to the Art of Painting. But that's their problems, not mine. I for one have come out of it smelling like roses, I am stronger and more aware and... well, there's the bad stuff too, but it would have been worse had they stayed together. Either way, I am doing just fine thankyou very much missy, and if you be so spiteful once more you'll find your lunch in the rubbish bin again!

Remember my Erotic Edition Magentic Poetry? Well yesterday I was pawing through the rubble that is my bedroom, attempting to make it look decent, when I tripped on the Yellow Pages and went sprawling, knocking over the container of magnets with my elbow. Hundreds of teeny tiny smutty words flew into the air and scattered themselves all over my huge pile of dirty laundry that I was just about to take downstairs to the washing machine.

So I had to spend the next 15 minutes picking out the little buggers from pockets and seams and frilly things. I found a SHIVER in a shirt and a MAN in my undies (half my luck) and a LICK in a sock (eww). I shook out a pair of pants and was showered with BEHIND LUST FEATHER EASY PRIVATE SWEET and SATISFY. There's a poem in that for sure.

Anyway, I was sure I'd salvaged all the magnets but after I'd done the load of washing there was a stray DRIP and FEVER looking a little worse for wear at the bottom of the machine. And when I got out of the car at work today I felt a little *plink* on my foot as a FONDLE appeared from god knows where. Let this be a warning kiddies, lock up your dirty words before they wander away from you!

School's back and I'm glad. My mother's a teacher and when the kiddies are in the classrooms I can safely assume that she will not be able to do a Surprise Visit™. But the trade-off is that she rings up nearly every night to give us a rundown of the days events in glorious detail. Every snotty-nosed kid, every whinging teacher, every bad egg sandwich from the canteen, we get to hear about it. Every line of dialogue is recounted, and in the same booming teacher voice in which it was originally delivered. Last week we got the story of Jane, who Mum caught graffiting her limbs with red pen.

"Excuse me, Miss Jane, are you a vandal?"

"Umm... what, Mrs Williams?"

"Are you a vandal?"

"Umm... no?"

"Well then why are you defacing your arm?"

Kid still looks baffled but drops the pen all the same.

"You wouldn't go scribbling over your bedroom wall like that, so why deface your own body? Now go over to the sink and wash it off!"

This is of course the adbridged version of what happened. She went into far greater detail on the phone. After the poor kid scrubbed up she subjected the whole class to a lengthy lecture about respecting property and being kind to yourself and other such rot. She's Oprah with a Teacher Voice, folks. Urgh.

My sister joined the ranks of the employed recently, and since she works some nights, I haven't seen her in the past 2 days. Our communication has been reduced to post-it notes. Last night I left one on top of the microwave so she'd know I'd cooked dinner for her. Then I left one inside the microwave. Luckily she checked out the meal before she heated it. Fried post-it, tasty stuff!

Blatant misuse of apostrophes. Peach's! Banana's! You fucking moron's!

Looky here - a big mother ant I saw crawling up a gum tree yesterday. I have a feeling it died shortly afterward when fried by my flash. And in case you're wondering, yes! Yes I am posting pictures in lieu of writing. But I was writing about PET SHEEP for goodness sake. I am sure that was sooo titilating for you all.

On Anzac Parade tonight.