All class

Regular readers will be aware of my husband's huntin', shootin', bush-goin' ways. But he's also talented and creative. Where these characteristics intersect is with his part-time hobby/home business of making custom knives. And, if I may say so, he's pretty damn good at it. His knives are top notch. And they are beautiful.
Here is one of his latest masterpieces, almost at completion:

Paul's talents also extend to making high-quality sheaths for the knives. Customers have these personalized with, say, their initials or a particular pattern stamped on them. Or they can have a picture carving. One guy provided a photo of his beloved great dane and had Paul carve it onto the pouch.
Now, most customers are hunters too and so go with a hunting-themed image. But what do you think the guy having the above-pictured knife made wants? In his own words: 'a massive pair of tits'.
Charming.
Bags not doing the Google search to find a photo for Paul to copy from for that one. My own assets are far from fitting the brief ('massive', remember), so I thankfully won't have to pose, either.

The heterosexual male's fascination with boobs still takes me by surprise sometimes. What well-documented male traits amaze you?

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Too busy to read. Too lazy to shave my legs. And other random bits of news

What my stack of neglected books would currently look
like. If I hadn't got with the times and
started reading with an e-reader.
Image source: www.artjunction.org

There's been a spike of activity in my corner of desert land lately. Nothing super exciting (well, apart from us buying a house. WE'RE BUYING A HOUSE!) so I'm afraid I'm a little low on things of note to report.
But the blogosphere likes to be fed. Often. So what to do but do a busy-but-boring post? Ergo, what exactly has been going down in desert town:
Work has been busy - though thankfully the run of 14-hour shifts appears to be over for now. Home has been busy - as it generally is around tax time, winter (extra washing, running about after firewood seemingly every second day and so on) and sifting through the waffle generated by a house purchase.
Even my near comatose social life has drawn a few fresh, shuddering gasps and got a little colour back in its cheeks.
In a bid to get done the things I currently need done, I decided prior to my last lot of days off that I wouldn't start reading another book until this lot of days off. Reading is my main form of distraction, so I hoped abstaining would free up a lot of hours. I initially floated the idea of giving up cooking and sex for the same period. Let's just say that was not well received. So, it was my reading habit that had to go. Temporarily, anyway. We are still busy and, with great effort, I've extended the ban.
So much for life in a sleepy little country town. I guess, compared to the hectic pace of a city, it is sleepy here. The traffic certainly is. One thing is quick though - word. Word gets around FAST.
I should be used to it by now, but it's still a little bit scary. Probably because everyone knows everyone and we all live virtually within shouting distance of each other.
For example, I'll replay a conversation we had with a nice young couple we'd just met while attending a BBQ the other night. The couple had mentioned they lived just around the corner from the host's place.
Me: Oh right, so where are you guys?

New guy: We're in X street, number YY.
Me: We're in X street! You must be in the block just down from us.
Paul: But we just bought a house and are about to move to Z street, up the end, in the house next to Old Mate's* son.
New guy: Ah, me old man's up there. You'll be two down from 'im, then.

See? There's about 0.0006 degrees of separation between everyone.
This was the second BBQ we'd been to in as many weeks. For a homebody like me, that is enough to constitute a spike in social activity. A welcome spike, however.
We were lucky to make it to this one, because just before we left for it, I was pulling on my favorite boots and took the opportunity to show Paul the carpet-like state of my winter legs. He almost had a heart attack.
I tend to think that if your legs see the light of day so rarely even your husband doesn't notice the forest, you shouldn't need to bother with deforestation. In the interests of maintaining his cardiac health, however, I'm rethinking that theory.

* It had previously been established that both Paul and New Guy knew Old Mate. And his son. Not that it had really needed to be established. You can almost always assume that, like I said, everyone knows everyone. Or, at least, knows of them.

What do you give up when you need to dedicate time to more pressing, if mundane, matters? And can anyone tell me who's fool idea it was to decree leg hair on women shocking and undesirable?

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Blast from the past

A little patch of my current home town.

I've posted before, here, about my thoughts on this place - Coolgardie, by which I really mean the general area and surrounding countryside - and its appeal. Which, to be fair, may be rather limited in some people's eyes, given it's a tiny little place on the edge of the desert.
But I love it here. Positively love it.
Despite having no history here, and it being on the opposite side of the country to my original home, I feel a connection to the place. And I'm pretty sure it's, in part, because it reminds me of my childhood. Visually and socially.
For example, the other day Paul and I went to pull down a shed. (No, I did not pull down a lot of sheds as a child, but bear with me).
We were doing the shed pulling-down thing because we are in the process of buying a house. A little house that sits on a huge block - they are all huge here - but which lacks the requisite man-cave. Fortunately, it does have an existing concrete slab of substantial dimensions - sorry, adequate dimensions, according to the man requiring the cave - on which to place a shed. Also fortunate was the fact our real estate agent needed to remove a hay shed from a horse block her hubby had been leasing and offered the iron and framework to us for a very reasonable price, providing we removed it.
This suited us, so on one of our recent work-free days we gathered our shed-dismantling gear and got to it.
And, to get to the point of the story, it was on the drive out when I felt a piece of my childhood return.
To clarify, I grew up in a pocket of western NSW where the ground is a rich red, the trees low and scrubby, the sky wide and bright and winter mornings crisp and sparkling. Unless they're foggy and damp, which is also somewhat romantic, provided they're experienced from a fire-side or within a deep, insulating coat.
I saw all this again that morning. Once more, I was driving down a country road of red dirt and pot holes, past stretches of grey-green shrubs huddling among the mist (as it was a foggy affair, rather than a sparkling one, that particular day), stopping to open a gate and breathing chill, fresh morning air.
There was even a piece of Tupperware containing a home-made cake on the back seat. Just like there always was when our family was out for the day.

The Tupperware in question. Who doesn't have a
childhood memory featuring Tupperware, really?

I had a very happy childhood out in 'the sticks'. And I have a very happy life here, out in the sticks. Which is occasionally made all the sweeter by these little blasts from the past. I may not have ever set foot in the place until about nine months ago, but I feel like I belong.

Would you believe I took this photo at the local tip one afternoon last week?
Does your tip look this pretty in the afternoon light?

Do you have a connection to a certain place? What aspects of your current home do you love? More importantly, do you have fond memories of Tupperware?

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I'm not a female version of my husband. I am myself

My husband is a very interesting man.
Except when he's boring me to death.
Image source: www.zazzle.com

A few weeks ago I was delighted to wave my husband away on a weekend camping/prospecting trip. Delighted because I was staying at home, and it was the first time in months I had more than a couple of hours to myself.
(As it turned out I had a lot longer than a few hours because the weather turned wet and nasty but the group of hopeful prospectors decided to risk it. And got stranded. In a place adequately referred to as woop woop. For a week. But that is not the point of this post.)

Today I'm talking about the number of times fool old men people asked me why I didn't go with him. They were genuinely surprised I preferred a weekend of solitude (boring and lonely, and a bit aloof of me, according to them. Blissful, according to me) to traipsing athrough the never never in the cold with my husband and a metal detector. My very credentials as a wife seemed in question.
So, can I ask what is with this assumption wives are to toss away their own interests and trot around professing a fascination with anything their husbands deem halfway entertaining?
It certainly doesn't seem to work the other way. They wouldn't be surprised to hear Paul has no intention of accompanying me to the musical Wicked next month. And he won't be considered neglectful and a little too independent/selfish for his own good for not doing so. More eyebrows would be raised if he was actually coming.
(Come to think of it, these particular fellows would probably be surprised to hear even I'm going. 'Whadya doin' that shit on yer holidays for? Why don't you just go the beach and get pissed?' would more likely be their response.)
I've come up against this attitude this ever since we've been together. No matter his hobby, there's always someone - or several someones - who think I too should immediately take it up. But no such expectation is placed on him to, in return, share in my trips to art galleries, stage shows or concerts.
And while it shouldn't bug me - they're presumptuous old farts, after all - it does.

Have you experienced similar expectations? Can anyone tell me why on earth a couple would want to do every single thing together?

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Wordless Wednesday - Beautiful bows

I have wished, on many, many, occasions, that this was a wordless topic. But sadly it's not. My husband talks about it endlessly. Over and over again. The topic is bowhunting. 

Anyway, he had a fellow bowhunter visiting on the weekend and while it's really not my thing, it reminded me how beautiful and well crafted these bows are. Both of Paul's were handmade by Queensland bowyers.

I'm playing Wordless Wednesday with Trish from My Little Drummer Boys. Head on over and join in. 

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A little bit smug about my job. Also, a day in the life of me (at work)

I'm feeling pretty smug happy about my job these days. Quite a turnaround - a few years ago my head was not a pretty place when it held thoughts about work.
I'm happy because a) I enjoy what I do and b) what I used to do is getting a bit risky.
I used to be a sub-editor. At a newspaper. And before that, this one. If you were following the news about a month ago you'd have heard how subs are starting to become an endangered species, with Fairfax announcing plans to axe 82 subbing positions from its newsrooms. I hadn't worked for Fairfax, but am still a bit relieved I got out when I did. However if/when the gold market goes belly-up, I will be smiling on the other side of my face. Because I now work at a gold processing plant.
I started as a stickpicker. Boring and pretty well self-explanatory (picking foreign material out of ore as it trundled by on a conveyor). Then I moved to the gold room. Sounds much more glamorous and exciting than it was. More of the boring, as well as lots of nasty chemicals. We were responsible for the pouring of the gold bars, though, so that bit was impressive.
And now I've moved again - into the lab. Which I love.
Granted, it is neither as exciting as it sounds, nor as flashy as it is in TV land. For example, it's nothing like what Abby does on NCIS. There is no death metal music. No goth boots. Not even a white coat. Definitely no storming through the building yelling 'Gibbs! Gibbs! I know who the killer is! It's not the boyfriend - it's the mother-in-law!'.
And sadly no workmates a la Tony DiNozzo:

May I see your, uh, badge, Agent DiNozzo?
Image source: www.ncis4eva.freevar.com

 Though I will say concede of the guys could be worthy candidates for that Australia's Hottest Tradie comp. However, in my experience so far, these have been limited to contractors who come out for a few days and then disappear again, drat it.
Not that a lack of DiNozzo types is altogether regrettable. After all, as uniform and safety rules (among other things, i.e my thighs) decree that I look like this...

The work ute and me (looking slightly possessed
due to my efforts in willing the camera remote to work).

Rather than this...

Agent Ziva David: Smart and smokin'.
Image source: www.israellycool.com

... the presence or otherwise of attractive agent lookalikes is hardly relevant. (Also, my Paul works there too - he's one of the maintenance guys.)

Anyhows, I know all my former news colleagues (well, two of them. Maybe) are hanging out to hear all about my change of career. So here is what I do now.
An average day in the life of a lab tech at a gold mill
5.45am: Arrive at work. Huddle in designated smoking area for change-of-shift meeting. Try not to breathe in too much second-hand smoke (am not a smoker).
6am: Go to oven/dry-sample prep area next to lab and divide up samples of crushed ore collected by mill operators during past 24 hours. Take buckets of resultant ore into lab and divvy up into relevant trays/bags for testing for moisture content and sizing (done by us) and gold content (done by commercial lab in town).
6.10am: Go outside and up to top of leaching and absorption tanks where samples of slurry have been collected during past 24 hours by operators. We put these samples through air presses which separates the solution - the liquid - from the solids. Collect the solution in pre-prepared bottles and solids in prepared bags and oven trays.
Repeat with remaining samples (depending on the client and circumstances, number of samples here can vary from three to about eight. Usually). Also collect extra slurry samples, which I later put through sieves to determine how finely the mills have ground the ore.
Measure 'density' of slurry in stipulated tanks by weighing exactly one litre of slurry from relevant tanks.
7.30: Finish pressing samples and take everything back down to the lab. Put trays of solids in ovens to dry. Do the above-mentioned sieving. Collect a sample of 'process water'.
7.45: Now for the nifty bit! Prep solution samples. This involves drawing out set amounts of solution from the bottles using sciencey things like pipettes and squirting it into test tubes. Mix in chemical that draws out the gold from the solution so it sits, conveniently, on top of the solution. Just like oil sits on top of water.
Some time later (depending on how organised I am and how long everything has taken): The interesting bit! The chemical has done it's gold-collecting thing and the solutions are ready for testing. Boot up assay machine (a very complex bit of equipment that I don't properly understand and so won't even attempt to explain) and attached computer. Use assay machine to test gold content in each of the samples. Print out results. Also, test pH of some of the solutions.
9am or thereabouts: Take dry solids out of oven and weigh so can get data on moisture, sizing etc.
9.15am: Enter results of all the testing and weighing into spreadsheet and email to relevant big wigs. Fill in rest of paperwork required. While sitting at a computer desk for a few minutes take the chance to have a quick bite to eat - it's been a long time since breakfast at 5am.
9.30am: Bag up all the samples designated for testing at the commercial lab in town. Finish up any other jobs.
10am: Find out from office people what jobs I need to do in town.
10.15am or thereabouts: Drive to town - about 30km. Drop samples off at commercial lab. Complete other jobs - eg picking up supplies from various outlets that service the local mining industry.
By the time all that is done it's usually early afternoon. I return to site and get everything ready for the following day. As well as anything else required to keep the lab gear and supplies stocked, clean and in working order. All sciencey-type jobs, which I find myself enjoying. But don't tell anyone or they might decide to stop paying me.
4pm: Go home.

Doesn't that sound like fun? What's the favourite part of your job? And your least favourite?

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Go(ing) west. This is what we did. Part IV

The Katherine River. Image source: http://www.worldisround.com/

We'd arrived in Katherine in the early afternoon. Quite a famous town, but once you're there kind of wonder why.
Now that I think of it, I hadn't heard a lot about Katherine. I'd just heard it mentioned a lot. This may be because it's an actual town, and you can pretty much count on one hand the number of actual towns in NT.
It was nice enough but there was nothing sensational about it. I suspect it's true attraction lays in the reportedly spectacular gorges, rivers and parks, surrounding it. Attractions we didn't make the time to see. (One day, and all that).
At this point I must tell you about our camping fridge. It was both a curse and a blessing. A deep, cavernous affair, it was designed by Paul and a refrigeration mechanic friend (who also built it) with chilling multiple slabs of beer in mind. It even has a generous freezer section.
All that space was handy. Especially after our possibly excessive first shop in Mareeba. But things that provide a lot of space tend to also take up a lot of space. And space is at a premium when camping.
It also meant it was gut-poppingly heavy. Even Paul struggles with it, and he lifts most items so easily I often wonder if he has a He-Man gene or two.
But once it's in place, and filled with tasty holiday food and drink, I find myself quite impressed with it.
Anyway, by the time we got to Katherine the fan on the fridge compressor which (without going into specifics) keeps the whole show running was well and truly cactus. So it was fortunate we arrived in an actual town, where there was a good chance of buying a replacement, when we did.
However the procuring of a replacement fan that fit and lasted more than six hours was a different story. A rather convoluted one I won't go into here other than to say it did eventually have a happy ending.
We had four days at Katherine and stayed a few minutes from town at a place called Manbulloo Station, right on the Katherine River.
B set up in the camping ground and we booked into a self-contained cabin that had a (functioning) fridge/freezer and - joy! - it's own little bathroom.
As well as fixing the fridge, we (by we, I mean Mr Fix-it/Paul) were also able to address some other mechanical concerns. Eg the slightly essential brakes and tyres.
And we got in some holiday-style relaxing by the river, accompanied by the dogs and a good book or seven.
The final morning was a bit sad as B and baby left for Kununurra.
We went on to Darwin that day and had a trailer tyre destroy itself on the way. It was rather dramatic in its demise and ended up in strips along a section of Stuart Highway. Didn't take Paul long to change it though, him being Mr Fix It and all.

A larger-than-life bronze statue of a drover at the Junction Hotel/Store & the Drovers Memorial, dedicated during the Last Great Cattle Drive in 1988. This is on Newcastle Waters Station, which is actually closer to Tennant Creek than Katherine, but I thought I'd include it here.

Paul replacing the decimated trailer tyre. Apologies for not Photoshopping out the plumber's crack.

We made it to Darwin in one piece otherwise, and were able to stay with an old workmate of Paul's who now lives there.
And I'm not sure I can adequately express just how pleased Paul was to have another bloke to talk to after a fortnight with two women and baby.
The first beer was cracked and it was on - fishing talk this, hunting talk that, fitting talk, blah blah blah (his friend, Ian, is also a fitter-machinist). He even got to go to the tip - the Darwin couple had been doing some yard work - so finally felt like a man again.

Lee Pt, Darwin. The first place we visited upon arrival. Was so nice to see the beach again.

* I think I've overdone it with the talking here (may be turning into my mother) - all these words and I've only taken us from Katherine to Darwin. Will continue later with our time in Darwin, which included Gunn Point. If I had to name one place along the entire journey as the most magical, it would be Gunn Point.

Go(ing west). This is what we did. Part I
Go(ing west). This is what we did. Part II
Go(ing west). This is what we did. Part III

I'd love to hear your thoughts on this post! You can leave a comment below:

From the archives: Blokes, it's your turn to make a bit of effort

You may have read about the report showing that women are getting better looking.
Now this was not just a bit of speculation - someone actually spent time and money finding proof. By studying families and kids and lots of beautiful women. Bet that was a tough day’s work for the male researchers.
In the end they concluded evolution has meant pretty women have more children than their beauty-challenged sisters, and a higher proportion of those children are girls.
I don’t doubt the results for an instant. I’ve spent time recently in an office dominated by women and EVERY ONE OF THEM IS GORGEOUS. Stunning. The sole man isn’t different simply because of gender - he’s the only one with unfortunate eyebrows and approaching baldness.
It’s enough to give anyone average-looking (ie, me) a complex.
The findings are good news for men who like the pretty ladies. Unfortunately it appears women are unable to enjoy the same phenomena. Because it seems men are actually getting worse looking.
In fact, to generalise just a lot, they’ve really let themselves go. For the same reasons we’ve become so familiar with: smaller demand for physical work, a taste for lard-laden fast food, too much driving/not enough walking, and so on.
I’ve seen plenty of old photos of working guys on the job - building the Sydney Harbour Bridge, ploughing paddocks, driving Chevs or whatever it was they did to ‘make a bob’. The majority of them shirtless or in singlets. And ranging from easy on the eye to oh-my-freaking-god-now-he-is-HOT. Even allowing for the bizarre hairstyles and facial hair obsessions of the day.
Walk past a workshop or building site today and you’re likely to feel inordinately cheated. Firstly, the OH&S-required throat-to-wrist safety wear means there’s nary a bronzed, bare shoulder in sight. But it really doesn’t matter. Because underneath the sea of fluoro you’re more likely to encounter beer guts and manboobs than washboard abs and muscle-bound forearms. It’s no different – possibly worse - in offices where the flab is instead under business shirts and ties.
No wonder older women so often have that sour set to their mouths and call it the ‘good old days’.

This post was originally written in 2009 and is getting some air again for Weekend Rewind at Life In A Pink Fibro.

Selective hearing: a fine art

Image source: http://www.dreamchild.com/

Sometimes there is a fine line between disability and ability. For instance, consider the following commonly agreed-upon definitions:
Hearing loss - a disability, a defect.
Selective hearing loss - a talent.
It is selective hearing loss, also knows as selective deafness, that I want to discuss today.
This trait is reportedly most apparent in teenagers and husbands.
What is interesting however is how this ability evolves post-adolescence.
Because as human teens mature into adults - where maturity is gauged by level of responsibilities, not necessarily age - the sexes develop markedly differently. At about the same time that the adult (heterosexual) human male is honing his ability to spot a female going bra-less at 100 paces, he is also sharpening his selective deafness. To the point where it enables him to hear every syllable of a football or cricket telecast but not repeated instructions from his wife to fetch his own fecking beer or a toddler screeching for an icy pole. Most impressively, the male can hear the former and not the latter EVEN WHEN THEY'RE BEING SPOKEN AT THE SAME TIME.
The truly talented are those who are also deaf to their own utterings. Announcements like "if I just buy this gadget/car/fishing rod/some other boy toy I will not need to spend a dime again for a long, long time". Or "yes I will get the washing in before it rains". Or "yes I'll skip golf this weekend and watch the kids so you can go to the movies with your girlfriends". Declarations that are later dismissed because he claims he didn't hear himself make them.
In the adult human female no such deafness development occurs. Indeed, the selective deafness female teenagers morphs into, or maybe is replaced by (the research remains unclear*) a trait called guilt. By the time the female is at a stage where she can spot a sale** at 100 paces, she will hear everything.
And if she doesn't respond immediately and appropriately, her sense of guilt kicks in. Ergo, screeching toddlers elicit not ignorance but guilt and subsequent attention. The sound of a husband asking if there's any milk left in the house prompts frustration certainly, but also guilt and, most likely, a subsequent trip to the shop (possibly by the husband, who realises there are times when it's wiserto give the selective deafness a rest).

Do you exhibit selective deafness? Or do you live with someone who does?

* where research means my opinion.
** I'm not being stereotypical and limiting women to fashion sales here. We can be equally excited about sales at Bunnings, Dick Smith and Beaurepaires. (At least I think some weird sensible people get excited about Beaurepaires).

Image source: http://www.ihasahotdog.com/

Do the Bonds job cuts mean no more Pat Rafter on tele?

Lord, I hope not