On Saturday afternoons it is fun to get all dressed up and pretend you're looking to buy an investment property. We hide Golden Boy down the street so they can't see what a heap of shit he is, then sashay over to some exhibition apartments and townhouses and look like two chicks with Serious Money.

It is actually a dream of ours to invest together. Our plan is always make sure we look after each other so we don't end up destitute like our parents. Also, as we get older, we can keep our money together so some bastard husband can't get his grubby paws on it. So when one of us gets divorced, we can hide their moula in the other sister's account.

Yes, we're just a tad cynical.

Anyway, we would get something happening now except we don't have any money for a deposit. We've gone looking through the family tree and there's noone worth anything to us if they cark it. Basically we're on our own. So for now we have to play Fantasy Investors.

Rhiannon does the talking and I do the pacing around, peering at walls and windows as if I am doing some important mental calculations. Planting hands on hips adds to that pensive look.

They ask us how much are we looking to spend, we say 350K or so, we're first time buyers, but we're all about location, baby. We tell them we're already renting in the neighbourhood and they start salivating and handing out business cards.

We're all so very convincing until one of us accidentally blurts out, "Holy fucking SHIT look at the size of that master bedroom!"

Thank Christ for our four day Easter weekend!

A contingent of Canberra bloggers gathered tonight to meet the lovely Mel.

Update: Some people have commented that all those cigarette butts were revolting, and Brad complained that his thumb wasn't in the picture. So here's another pic when we're all present.

L to R: The Shauny, Monkey, Mattay, Brad, Row, Jem, Mel.
Still absent: Dean.

I think I may have got some of the hands mixed up. So if I have not identified yours correctly, let me know.

We go down to the greasy little shop behind our building to catch some lunchtime sun, maybe catch a little drug deal going down. The shop attracts a strange mix of customers. Suits sitting at the tables with jam donuts and Important Documents; unsavory types pacing barefoot along the side of the road.

The phone booth is where it all happens. It's the busiest phone booth in town. You can hear them shouting down the line, "Yeah I'm at the phone booth! Five minutes? Okay! Hurry!"

I have a greasy chicken wrap that I regret before even the first bite, she has a salad roll.

"So have you heard any more news?"

"Bloody hell, I said no onions. Now my breath will be feral all afternoon."

"Bugger."

"Anyway, nothing concrete yet. But I think it's safe to say that our jobs are unsafe."

A car pulls up and a girl with long spaghetti limbs jumps out, runs over to the phone booth and starts tapping on the door.

"But you know that neither of us belong here, we don't want to be here. Maybe it'll be the kick in the butt we both need."

"True."

"Don't worry, honest. You don't have to look so bloody scared."

A car comes rattling down the street, thick smoke pouring out the back, every door a different colour of blistered paint. It lurches to a stop opposite the phone booth. Steam starts spewing out from under the bonnet.

A tiny barefoot woman gets out with a big bottle of water. There's sizzle and spit as she pours it in. Spaghetti girl runs across the street and pokes her head inside the car, chatting to someone inside. We try to be subtle about watching as the water starts dripping straight back out under the car all over the road.

Suddenly the back window winds down and yet another chick sticks her head out, fixing her big wild eyes on us.

"HEY! AM I FUCKIN' STARIN' AT YOUSE AS MUCH AS YOUSE ARE FUCKIN' STARIN' AT ME?!"

"We're not staring, honest, it's just the water is coming straight back out..."

"RIGHT!"

She gets out, starts walking slowly and deliberately across the street.

"Umm. Is it okay for me to look bloody scared now?"

We scoop up our purses and the remains of lunches and try to look casual about fleeing back to the office. Now, back to fuckin' starin' at nothin' til 5 o'clock.

I get a few emails each week saying, "You don't update enough" or "Stop editing and deleting posts" or "I want to hear about your underpants", so it's your own fault you're getting a post full of tedious What I Did On My Weekend crud. Thankfully it's only Saturday night so you won't have to hear too much. If you don't like that kind of post get thee to the archives.

Friday night Rhi and I had Thai somewhere in Kingston. Whoever came up with putting spicy peanutty sauce over a pile of meat is a fucking genius. I wanted to pick up the plate and lick up the last dregs of the sauce but if I'd made a move for it I'm sure Rhi would have jumped in ahead of me.

This morning I woke at 8.30 and thought Hurrah I Shall Sleep Til Noon but then I rolled over and thought, what is that lumpy thing beneath me? Oh it's my fat arse. So I went to the gym instead. First an hour of glorious kicking and punching, made particularly glorious by one of the tracks being Destiny's Child. Hehe. Then we stayed another hour for Pump in which I nearly killed myself as I started sneezing in the middle of the squat track. If you start twitching in anticipation of a sneeze with a big loaded bar across your shoulders, the rear end starts to sway dangerously. It's quite disconcerting. Especially if your sister is laughing at you.

After the class we were knackered. Limped home and crawled up the stairs. Ate the food, fell asleep.

Later on this arvo I went to meet Amy, Goulburn blogger extraordinaire, who was in town for the day. As I was walking down to Civic I got a message from young Monkey who believed I was ignoring her and thought her a Stupid Jerk™. But I called her back and said, "No you are not a Stupid Jerk. How bout you and Mattay come meet some strangers from the internet with me?"

Safety in numbers, that's what they taught me in kindergarten.

So I met Amy and her sidekick Andy by the merry-go-round. Don't you love alliterative couples? Andy and Amy, meet Monkey and Mattay. And Shauny. Shauny and... Single. Mwahaha.

Amy and Andy were both bloody great people, nice and funny and easy to talk to. Luckily Amy was nervous too so she could ramble instead of me. Hehe. I didn't spill my drink or destroy anything. When I met the other guys for the first time I nervously shredded two beer coasters. I was really enjoying it. But all the while I am having a concurrent conversation with my brain:

– Hey brain, why is it that you only have like four topics of conversation? Dodgy Real Estate Agents, the gym, Crazy Shit Your Mother's Done...
– That's only three topics. And don't look at me. You're the body. You need to transport yourself towards something resembling an interesting life.

But it turns out the others were having similiar conversations with their brain. It's always a little weird at first, you get all paranoid about what kind of impression you're making and wonder if they think you're a Stupid Jerk. But then you just realise, these are nice people, not axe murderers, and if they think you're a Stupid Jerk they'll talk about you on the drive home and wouldn't tell you directly. So let's just drink our lattes or chocolate milkshakes and enjoy it, woohoo!

Does anyone else feel weird talking about online things offline? I always want to start giggling. We were briefly talking about Movable Type vs Greymatter and it felt so weird, it's like this whole thing exists entirely in my head and I forget that there's real people connected to it. Then Amy said the word "Bloggie" and I cracked up because it's just such a funny word out loud.

Anyway, I had a really good time! Thanks kiddies. Then I walked home. BECAUSE I CAN. Ahh, I love living so close to everything. I feel so urban and hip, until I remember it's Canberra. Mwahaha.

I want an About page. Any ideas? Whaddya want to know?

Yesterday was a public holiday. Canberra Day, in which we give thanks for being Canberran. Apparently.

THINGS TO LIKE ABOUT CANBERRA: Good restaurants. Easy public service jobs with stationary ripe for stealin'. Suburbs named after dead politicians. The Museum of Erotica (still haven't been, dammit). Nights so quiet you can always get a good 8 hours after a nice day in what is really a nice and highly livable town.

THINGS TO DISLIKE ABOUT CANBERRA Crappy FM radio stations. The overly perky Channel Ten weathergirl. Lack of rental properties. Lack of personality. Nights so quiet that you can't sleep for your ticking brain, feeling restless and lost and cranky.

After a haircut, you can enjoy approximately 2.5 days of groovy hair until you finally have to admit that it's shampoo time. During those 2.5 days you study your haircut with great intensity, trying to imprint on your brain the precise location of the part, the way she swept it in that direction just so, how high the spiky bits go, so you can recreate this masterpiece on your own. You take photos, draw diagrams, write down measurements. After waking up a ball of grease and Product, you hit the shower and then the hairdryer. And it ends up looking shithouse.

The Mothership visits our new abode:

MOTHERSHIP: Three flights of stairs? How do you do it? I don't think I can do this very often.
SHAUNA: That's the idea.
M: Don't you go insane from everyone else's noise?
S: I heard people having sex this morning.
M: Don't you worry about being trapped on the third floor?
S: No.
M: I see you have a balcony. Has anyone tried to break in yet?
S: No.
M: You'll be burgled if you don't burn to death. How much rent are you paying for this hazard?

Drugged up and a wee bit flu fuzzy. It's so tempting to just sit and watch the neighbours. I've never lived in a big apartment complex before. Everyone seems to be oblivious to all the windows. Maybe I need a big telephoto lens like Jimmy Stewart. There's some people laying on a bed drinking something. Into Temptation playing too loud on a stereo two doors down. If I just wait long enough for them to drink enough maybe they'll shag? WOO! Or maybe a screaming brawl with hurling of potted plants? Or maybe I need Grace Kelly swatting me with a Hermes handbag and that creamy voice of hers, come away from that window!

It was his New Special Friend #456 or so, we'd lost count. We'd just roll our eyes and prepare to be fake-nice. She was pretty in that seventeen layers of make-up way. Her glossy red fingernails looked like claws.

It amused and disturbed me how they'd prattle on thoughtlessly, not knowing how kids soak up your every word, not knowing your kids laugh and think you're a dick, not knowing that kids see what's really going on.

(Actually there was a time when I didn't know what was going on, I was six years old and I thought that guy next door was in the process of murdering his wife, her screams were so long and loud. I ran in to wake up my mother, all hysterical. Then later on I got older and found out how you scream coz it feels so bloody awesome...)

Anyway, she's bitching about Kids These Days, which was funny because she was only a few years older than me. My little sister Hollie is sitting on the other side of the room, reading TV Week and shooting withering looks.

"Kids these days are so useless. Greedy. Lazy! They sit around all day watching television, playing all those computer games, obsessed with the latest things, always disrespectful. What possible good are kids these days?"

Hollie pipes up from the corner.

"They know how to fix your computer."

I'm always saying to my sister, "Come and look at this funny thing I found on the internet." She usually responds with "Mmmfgh", or smiles and pats me on the head. But finally last night I showed her something and she was doubled over on the couch, tears of laughter in her eyes.

It was Oliver. Oliver banished outside, Oliver pouting over his lack of bacon. And then the Oliver blooper reel featuring the most hysterical display of flying flesh you'll ever see.

So it goes to show, that's what the people want. No fancy Flash or sparkling prose, just cute doggie pics.

There's this thing called Apartment Amnesia, I don't know if anyone else gets it. My sister stupidly entrusted me to go check out this apartment that I'd found in the paper and fill out the application, entirely on my own. Miracle of miracles we actually got the place, so she asked me to describe it to her and draw a rough floor plan.

Somehow I got it into my head that there was a normal bathroom plus an ensuite. I saw things that were not there. This kind of thing happens to me in department stores. Depending on which entrance I come in by, a door or a lift or an escalator, it looks like a completely different floor and I get disoriented and bewildered.

So I think I got loopy from pacing the circuit between the bathroom, the master bedroom and the laundry, all those interconnecting doors, the whole time chanting "Fuck we can't afford this, anyway he'll give it to that lovely rich looking couple, coz we are just kids and I don't even have Rhiannon here to look glamorous ooh look a dishwasher."

"So does it have a dishwasher?" Rhi asked me three days later.

"No it doesn't, sorry."

"What about a clothes dryer?"

"Nope."

"Are you sure? Those apartments usually have a wall-mounted one."

"No, no dryer. But there was definitely two bathrooms! Woohoo!"

So when we picked up the keys yesterday morning, my sister saw the place for the first time.

"Well whaddya know, there's a dishwasher and a dryer."

"Oh, so there is."

"And how do we get to the second bathroom? Is there a secret entrance inside the wardrobe?"

"I guess I must have dreamed up the second bathroom."

"You dickhead!" She didn't stop cackling for a full ten minutes.

Rhi also entrusted me to arrange a removalist to do the Heavy Stuff. We're lugging all the little things ourselves. Anyway, I went through the Yellow Pages and this company because they looked affordable. However, most people would never choose any company that had a U in their company name instead of You. We Move U. Oh U really do, baby.

Anyway they showed up in the filthiest old truck you've ever seen; peeling paint, balding tyres and a yapping fox terrier in the front. The removalists looked like they'd been plucked from the crowd at Summernats, dressed in short shorts and thongs (as in the SHOES, you foreigners) and grotty singlets with that long Rapunzelesque armpit hair that only guys in grotty singlets seem to cultivate. But they were friendly and very efficient, hurling our crappy furniture into the back of their truck in a very short time.

When we arrived at the apartment building, it was clear there was nowhere for them to park. So they ever so casually threw the truck into reverse and barelled over the nature strip, grazing the gardens and stopping just inches short of the mailboxes.

What they lacked in class they made up for in strength and speed. It was nice to let someone else do the grunty part of the move. But now we're on to the little shitty things, clothes and books and kitchen crap. If anyone gets bored and feels like walking up three flights of stairs repeatedly, give me a yell!

There are few things worse than that My Car's In The Garage Today And I Have To Sit Around At Work Waiting To See What's Wrong And How Bloody Much It's Gonna Cost Me feeling.

When the gurgling from Golden Boy's rear got worse over the weekend, I booked him in yet again. I was assured I'd be called once they knew what was happened. When I'd heard nothing by 4.30, I called up. I got the Smug Bitch in reception, the one who always gives me a patronising stare every time I walk in.

"Oh, you're the one with the brown Magna?"

"It's not brown. It's GOLD."

"Yeah. Anyway, we can't hear any noise."

"What?"

"We've had two different mechanics look at it, and they can't hear any noise. Not a peep. Therefore you have totally wasted our time and you are a stupid fuckwit."

That last bit was not her exact words, but the sentiment was there.

"I'm telling you, there's a noise. I always think I'm being chased by motorbikes, but no, it's the car!"

"Well why don't you come up and we'll take you for a drive and we'll see if we hear anything, okay?"

It's amazing how many patronising tones you can pack into that one word. Oh-kaaaay?

"Fine."

On the way to the garage I ranted and raved about those bastards and how there was a noise and I Know My Car Goddammit, and I would show THEM. That's bluster of Cranky Shauny talking. But at the same time Wimpy Shauny is gnawing away in my brain, spineless, passive. Wimpy Shauny's policy is: you are to blame for everything and you have somehow brought this whole mess on yourself due to your general incompetence.

When these Shauny's combine you get someone who thinks she is wrong but damn if she's right for once, she'll stomp all over you whooping for joy.

Then there's Vicious Shauny, who is willing to lie her arse off in order to avoid looking stupid and/or taking the blame for any situation. If I'd done something stupid to the car, I had to think of some reason why it was in no way my fault. I came up with a few excuses on the fly:

1. Oh! That pesky sister of mine drives my car allll the time and she really drives like a maniac, you know.

2. This one time, the car was kidnapped by a pack of smelly teenagers, they drove it around at high speeds for weeks and weeks, and not once did they check the oil and water.

But as soon as I saw that Smug Bitch sneering and the mechanics smirking at me like I was the villiage idiot, I crumbled.

"I'm probably stupid, there's nothing wrong!" said Wimpy Shauny.

"But I'm sure I heard a noise!" said Cranky Shauny.

"We'll see," said the Smug Bitch.

The big boss mechanic drove and I sat in the passenger seat. And wouldn't you know it. Golden Boy purred along the road in silence.

"I don't hear anything."

"Well. Listen harder."

We trundled along the streets and I strained my ears, hoping for a little mutter, a tiny fart, anything to prove that I hadn't made this whole thing up. When I realised that Golden Boy wasn't going to deliver, I launched into apologetic babble and general bullshit.

"I did hear a noise, and so did my sister. I'm probably being paranoid, but I thought I should get it checked out, just in case..."

He gave me a withering look and I felt my temper flare. But Wimpy Shauny was stronger, and Vicious Shauny was determined to shift the blame elsewhere.

I paused and took a deep breath. "My father was a mechanic and he used to tell me never to ignore these things. Unfortunately he's not around anymore to give me car advice..."

I trailled off sadly, as if though my old man had perished in a terrible silo accident. I fumbled in my bag for tissues. The mechanic gave a non-committal grunt.

Just as I thought all was lost, that familiar sickly gurgle started again, moments before we arrived back at the garage.

"THERE! There it is!" I crowed.

"Where?"

"If you wound down the bloody window you might hear it."

"Oh. Ohhh. Now I hear it."

It was spluttering like a herd of tractors when we pulled back into the drive. The other mechanics and the Smug Bitch came out to oggle. I got out of the car and slammed the door with a flourish. "Hear it now? Huh? HUH?"

The triumphant triumvirate of Shauny's did a victory lap while the mechanics poked and prodded Golden Boy's ass. They declared that he was okay, there was no leaks or anything major. "Yeah, you've got a vibrating muffler. If you don't want the noise you'll have to get a new one."

Oh it's just such a glorious feeling proving someone right, that they were the fuckwits and you were not. But that all wears off so quickly when you realise the price of victory is another expensive trip to the garage.

My little sister Rhiannon is 22 today! Happy birthday to my best mate.

In this pic, Rhi was one and I was three. I was in the middle of my Rosy Cheeks phase. Actually, still think I'm in it. I was blushing right from the moment I came out of the womb. But this particular pic shows Super Red cheeks. Perhaps I'd just been out skiing in the Alps or raiding the liquor cabinet.

Some people asked so I should explain, I don't get Harry back. We couldn't find anywhere to live with a yard. So it's a bittersweet kind of victory. I went over to visit yesterday and he basically ignored me, and wouldn't stop jumping all over his new mum. It's been two weeks now and his memory is bloody short. I admit to getting slightly cut up about that. Bah. That's the male species for ya. Outta sight, outta mind!

I always thought Judge Judy couldn't be for real. I didn't think there could possibly be such a collection of deranged people all in the one place. That was before last Monday, when Operation Nail Those Bitches™ went to the courts.

Our hearing was scheduled for 10 o'clock, but we didn't realise that half a dozen other cases were also scheduled for 10 o'clock. Our nerves grew worse when we discovered were second last on the list. But we got to witness the very entertaining craziness of others. The first two cases hadn't been paying the rent and came up with all manner of excuses.

Then it was time for the main attraction, a guy who I'll refer to only as Mr. Crazy Bastard. His case was called, case number xx of 1999. Which meant he'd been in and out of the Tribunal for three years on the same matter. He was wearing a red baseball cap and clutched his car keys in one hand, and a bunch of papers and a bottle of orange juice in the other. He stood menacingly over the table, hands on hips.

"Sit down please, Mr. Crazy Bastard," the Tribunal Judge chick said.

"Do you have to sit down? Why do I have to sit down? I don't want to sit down."

"Sit down please!"

"FINE! Fiiiine." He yanked a chair out from under the table, plonking his keys and other paraphenalia down.

Over the next 45 minutes he attempted to explain why he hadn't been able to pay his rent. Quite simply, he just made no bloody sense at all. He didn't have any of the documents that proved his so-called case, firstly because his son or the dog had hidden it, and then because Those Bastards At Centrelink refused to give him another copy of it. Then he said his brother had borrowed his keycard so he couldn't withdraw the money to pay the rent. Then he told us about a conspiracy between ACT Housing and Centerlink to get him evicted.

"You're just not making any sense," the judge said, trying to hide her impatience and bewilderment.

"AND YOU ARE SMIRKING AT ME!" Mr. Crazy Bastard starting screaming at the ACT Housing lawyer across the room. "You give me no respect!"

"Be QUIET Mr. Crazy Bastard!"

"No! I will not be quiet! I have my right to be heard!"

"You only speak when I say you can speak."

"I want to speak NOW! I've got a VIDEO CAMERA! And PHOTOS! I have EVIDENCE! Don't think I won't call A Current Affair!"

During all this, he'd get up every five minutes or so, kicking the chair and cursing, saying "This is riduculous! You give me no respect!", picking up his keys and orange juice and papers with a great clatter, and heading for the door, before the Judge chick reminded him that if he left his eviction would still stand.

After his sixth aborted exit, Rhiannon nudged me wrote on her notepad, I think we're going to be juuuust fine.

Scenes from a garage:

"So we replaced the front brake pads as requested."
"What about the noise and smoke coming from Golden Boy's ass?"
"We did blah blah blah but the real problem is your engine. Worn rings."
"Oh!"
"It will need to be rebuilt in the next six months."
"Hahaha! Haaaaaaaa! HA HA HA! Haaa!"
"What's so funny? The engine will have to be REBUILT! It will cost you a LOT OF MONEY!"
"Because it's just so hilarious when everything in your life goes arse up, all at once. Isn't it? ISN'T IT!?"
"Paying by cash or Visa today?"

This morning I drove my sister to her Interior Design class and the car sounded like a tractor coughing up a lung.

Just fantastic.

Or as I said to a friend last night, "Fuckety fuck." Who says fuckety fuck? I know I heard that somewhere before. It just slipped out. If anyone knows where it came from please let me know.

What else can I do but laugh? The only other alternative is to fall in a screaming heap and I'm not going to do that! The shit keeps piling up around us and I choose to laugh this deranged eeeeeeeeeeeep kind of laugh and my eyes are all wide wild crazy-like and my jaw is permanently clenched. Or maybe that's just last nights margarita binge still haunting me.

The humble onion, while tasty, really shits me. Once they're all cooked up they're so harmless and delicious. It's the raw form I have problems with. And I'm not talking about the crying, I can handle the crying, in fact I quite enjoy the crying, it makes me feel all melodramatic and fuzzy inside. I just hate how one small touch of an onion and its stinkiness sinks into your fingers. The pores soak it up like red wine to expensive carpet. And no amount of soap and scrubbing seems to get that smell off your skin.

Raw onions also trigger serious flashbacks. One whiff and I'm back at the dinner table and my sister is sitting across from me and we both have tears in our eyes.

— We don't want to eat the icecream, Muuum.
— Eat the bloody icecream! There's nothing wrong with it!
— I'm telling you Mum, it tastes funny.
— I'll give you funny in a minute.
— I will plunge this spoon into my heart if you make us go on.
— EAT!

It all started with the margarine. It had been on special for 99 cents a tub at Woolies, so we had 8 tubs of it in the freezer. One morning I gnashed into my vegemite toast and almost choked in disgust. Vegemite is a pretty domineering kind of flavour, but something about the margarine was purest evil. Margarine isn't supposed to taste like anything, it's just the essential sludge for the vegemite to melt into. But this margarine tasted faintly savory. I whinged to Mum but she commanded me to "EAT!".

Months passed and we slowly made our way through the margarine stockpile. By then we complained bitterly that it tasted like "something had gone feral in the tub".

Then came the chocolate chip cookies. We'd made a double batch yonks ago so we had to put some away in the freezer. When finally ate them, it was like swallowing death. To this day I still go pale at the sight of a cookie. One expects a mouthful of buttery chocolately goodness, but these cookies had surely been marinating in a footballer's armpit. The putrid after taste lingered for days.

You'd think Mum would have believed us after we rolled round the kitchen floor clutching our stomachs for a full hour. The Vile Taste had penetrated almighty TUPPERWARE for heaven's sake. If evil could invade solid, practical yet overpriced plasticware, surely the end of humanity was nigh. But instead we were forced to continute eating weird-tasting peas and pizza and lambchops, fresh from Satan's icebox.

It's been well documented that I come from a family of tight-arsed waste-not-want-not bargain hunters. So it shouldn't come as a surprise that the source of the problem encompassed all these qualities. When even the family dog refused to eat a rather pungently flavoured lamb roast, Mum finally admitted there was something wrong.

I was sent in to investigate. It was one of those massive chest freezers, big enough to fit a whole cow if it so pleased you. I felt like a deep-sea diver, legs flailing as I plunged down, scouring the ocean floor for ancient shipwrecks. The deeper down and closer to the stinky source I got, the more I wish I really did have some sort of oxygen device.

Finally I found it, stuck to the bottom. An innocent looking plastic bag. But stuffed to the hilt with chopped raw onions.

"Oh! I forgot about those!" said Mum sheepishly.

Never one to resist a freebie, Mum had been given the onions at a school fete, leftovers from the sausage sizzle. She'd thrown them into the freezer For Future Use, and hadn't given them another thought until long after their evil scent had invaded every last bit of food in the freezer and bludgeoned our tastebuds.

She was going to make us keep eating the remaining six loaves of bread (on special, $1.20), but we went on a hunger strike until she relented. Let this be a warning to you kiddies, onions are the devil's vegetable.