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Gisele last won the day on January 28

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About Gisele

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  • Birthday September 14

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    Melbourne, AUS

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  1. Gisele

    Ask a Man

    I work with five women. One is sharp witted old crone but I'll leave her out of it. The crone thing is part obligation, part artifice and I get the feeling she hides behind it because she may very well have things worth hiding. And I like her. The other four, bless their hearts, are young and varying degrees of callow. Each of them is an administrative assistant. One of them is my administrative assistant; that is, if I can ever find her. She is usually off doing things for other staff despite being counselled about this (see crone above) but it isn’t that I mind terribly much. Not usually, at least. What she writes is very good and very useful. What she says is another matter, mostly because it is in the realm of shit I don’t want to know about. It is also suffused with all the worldliness of a bright kid that has seen very little of anything off the ribbon that wends its way from work to the family home. The other three are the same and what provokes them is frighteningly ordinary and conflated and just a little cringeworthy. Perhaps I can even be grateful for been thrown into a wide-eyed wilderness when still a teenager. It spared me the drowning these kids do despite never getting wet. No, not many problems are only problems. So, the proto-feminist problem on an otherwise level-playing field is I’m the only other chick there. So I get to hear it and hear it and hear it all again, And I tell them. When it comes to their crises, real and imagined, they are weekend cyclists and I am a car door. My friends count on this. Stangers and workmates (and fellow blogkeepers, for that matter) don’t need to be wandering aimlessly into the world of what I really think. But if I may be so bold, if it is about a man, why not ask a different man. I don’t mean directly, because that would be futile. I mean indirectly. Carefully. Purposefully. Men, bless this gorgeous species, are at their giving best when they think the drawbridge is up. Ask one properly and they will never remember the question. It’s not even science. Speaking of men, my own is now home. Flew in on Sunday quite a bit worse for wear and its odd how he can look five years older and ten years younger all in the same glance. All he has really done since is sleep. And sleep. I don’t mind. He can sleep until Christmas if that’s what he needs. But if he wants to be the lion of the house, he can wake up and have sex, then go back to sleep.
  2. Gisele

    Sweat and Sublimation

    So after god only knows how many days (alright, exactly 17), I finally got to speak to my beloved. Now you would think a highly intelligent man who, when pressed about his precise whereabouts by a reasonably anxious wife, would know much, much better than to say "Not sure, somewhere in Mongolia." No, not the best start I wouldn't have thought. That alone warrants marital punishment. And I'm sad to say or I'm not that I am not above committing this to long and patient memory. Fortunately though they were a day's ride from the capital it made for a nice week knowing his is soon to be coming home. The kids are getting a bit frayed also, so not a minute too soon. Am worried though I haven't heard anything since. He did warn me but I took that to just be polite understatement really said only to modulate a headcase. He could have ****ing told me he meant it . I mean, MEANT it instead of just meaning it. Rude by him. The upside is I can remember what works for me: sweat and sublimation. I swim and ride and workout and remind myself that I can't be a headcase because I am a mother and cannot be both. And I don't give a **** what anyone say, these two things work better than anything else. Then I forget. Those two things do really work and have for a long time. So how is it I keep forgetting. It's embarrassing. I thought I might take up kendo. Might be wrong,of course but I suddenly find the idea of getting bashed around with a big stick very appealing. Will see.
  3. Gisele

    Why do I even try?

    I can only say do your very best to not make comparisons with anyone that was never asked to make the same difficult decision. It's not fair on either of you, especially you.
  4. Gisele

    Frocking in the Free World

    So I thought if I cannot make myself happy, despite half-hearted recent attempts at exactly this, then why not make others happy. And why not do this with American money. So I hatched a bold and brilliantly simple plan to relieve, I dunno, Whomever Inc. of their zillion, billion, squllion dollar lottery and donate .... let's see.... absolutely all of it to the People's Revolutionary Army of Puerto Rico. It's a glitch that such an organisation doesn't quite yet exist but one never knows. They might want fun things like ballot boxes or at least the imprimatur of their own sovereignty to confirm or deny and respond to natural disasters. Now this will disappoint subscribers to the theory that happiness is strictly the purview of cheap, Canadian meds but Hope is only hopeful. Empathy, however, leaves no stone unturned, The other glitch is that I didn't buy a ticket. This could be my fault. I think I'm a bit squeamish about gambling when it doesn't involve a. thoroughbreds and b. large chunks of my absent husband's money. Not everything is unrestrained, you know. Speaking of both those things, the mightiest and supreme-est and bestest ever thoroughbred in all the universes will win her 4th straight Cox Plate on Saturday. It was very kind of Alex to present me with a shimmering cherry red frock to celebrate this awesome occasion. Must acquaint him with the true extent of his largesse when he finally, ****ing gets home. Oh well, it was better than listing his most beloved and highly prized car on Ebay just for a laugh. That would not be leaving him alone to do what he needs to do and come home and etc.
  5. Gisele


    In the 21st century, it's hard to believe we still have coffins. They're not very sustainable and they look ridiculously unfair on the already mournful people that have to lug them around. And the final rinse of the religious centrifuge seems like yesterday's pomp. What was ever the point anyway? Preservation? Then why not vacuum-sealed like the meat thrifty people throw into the back of their freezer? Or be cast in a big slab of epoxy? And be like a coffee table down there in the underworld. The Egyptians did set the bar very high and who knows how standards slipped so far. I should make it clear I'm not plotting my own funeral. Nope, I wasn't ...aren't...in the tidiest of emotional spaces so I disappeared into the rose garden to give them some love and attention. I did none of that because they were in stunning, spring bloom and look absolutely gorgeous. So i just breathed it in. I thought, when I die, no wooden box for me. I think I would like to be wrapped in silk, be otherwise naked, and cocooned in a tightly bound wicker of climbing roses. The pall bearers might need really thick gloves. Or draw straws. Nevermind, the dead don't care.
  6. Gisele

    Last Post & Thank You

    Help when you can. You will hear those drums. I used to feel the void of being probably of zero help to anyone here. Ever. But then it dawned I just can't do it remotely so now I have work for that. No tightrope there between harm and no harm, (which itself can be harmful). See problem. Fix problem. Others are much more gifted. There's a precious handful here that have done for me what I could never manage. Which brings me back to the start. Help where you can.
  7. Gisele

    Kublai Khan

    Can't quite tell, really. I tell myself more than ever I am the sweet ripple of concentric circles. Not true. Just swimming in the same circle. I think I wandered off ... mentally ....somewhere amid the all the renewal and now I feel utterly lost without him. He defuses and disarms me. With wit and wisdom. Terrible isn't it, how much I need it? In a warmer vein, he is going to have his hands full with Lucy when he gets home. She wanders, viscerally and spiritually and actually, enough and now she is absolutely enchanted with the pictures they have so far sent back. If he leaves her behind again, then very best of luck honey. If he doesn't, then a very different kind of best of luck. Oh well, I am evil. Very good of you to ask. As ever, you're a peach! In the spirit of self-awareness, I'm going to not read anything for a while. Getting irritated in this condition almost makes me almost wish but not really that places elsewhere had a car park ') XO
  8. Gisele

    Kublai Khan

    I think me, myself and I need to spend some quality time locked together in grim reflection. Oh well, it's been a few days. If nothing else and if history is a guide that also makes us a few days overdue. Seated together at the dresser, we can do some really fun shit like looking into the Mirror of Madness and peer, plaintively, once again at the yawning, foggy chasm the divides what we want to say from what we do say. Oh, us. Maybe it was just growing anxiety. Maybe I could have just said that. Instead, I told him that if he dies I am going to come over there and revive him for just long enough to do it myself. And that is the (only) forum-friendly bit. Holy hell, I even asked Ruby, out loud, if pandas could eat people. Not his fault. I encouraged him to go because I saw how willing he was and how much it took to re-organise his ... interests, let's say ... so I could live my vocational dream. I saw with rare clarity that he needed to get a century or two away from the phone and the very demanding world he lived in and everything else and just clear his head. And come home cleansed. Because that is what he does for me. Everyday. So when he and his ________, ________, _______ mates decided to spend seven weeks on a slighly skewed, reverse Mongol horde type tour from Moscow to Cambodia or Burma or some ****ing where I was genuinely all in. He can't comprehend half of what I love either so why should I complain. I even wriggled the promise of a jade bracelet out of him if he promised to not go stepping on any landmines. Just as an aside, his uber-ethical, paleolithic mate with the beard to prove it questioned my willingness to exploit cheap overseas labour and I told him not to judge me in his cheap Chinese t-shirt. Thus, they were all satisfied I was cool with it. Until they left. Now I ain't. I want him to come home. "My name is Ted and one day I'll dead dead. Yo, Yo" he sang down the phone. That would ordinarily put me in a good place, not least because I love-love-love that song. And he knows it. Not today. And I can't call him back
  9. Gisele

    On Street Adventure

    The real worry, albeit from abroad, is having to wonder if the guy was carrying. That's just appalling. I dunno, if the country you live in loves its first amendment so much, are you able to think in kind and drive a tank? Wouldn't mind seeing an angry motorist side swipe that
  10. Gisele


    M, There''s never much of a gap between new shoes and any excuse will do ; ) The poor, over-officious cop won't ever make detective. No-one heading west out of Melbourne could possibly be shoe shopping, not for anything worth owning at the very least Most importantly, all this sagely listening has got me excited. Fraudulently perhaps but excited. Didn't realise how long ago the last was. How have you been? XO
  11. Gisele


    It hasn't been the best few days. Was less than my best self all of Saturday night and into the early hours of Monday morning fretting about my best friend. I wish I could talk about it. Alas, I can not. It's one of those over-my-dead-body things but that doesn't mean I wouldn't cheerfully bend over for some seriously good perspective and wisdom. Not just about it but how I deal with it, She is the smarter and cleverer and betterer of us and has been since we met. All the way back to school. Now the rescuer's shoe is on the other foot, I just feel utterly bereft and the most piss-poor friend in the entire world. I perhaps should have sensed what was coming sooner but we were at the Grand Final and I was focused entirely on basking in the inexorability of a stunning runaway romp by my beloved Collingwood. And this is exactly how it unfolded right up until they … well, um… lost. By a kick. Oh well. My fault really. I think I celebrated just a moment … or a half of football … too soon. Nevermind. I’m here for my litany of actual rather than imagined failure and that makes me very optimistic when my team is leading. At any time. Returning to my seat with a plastic flute charged with the very finest of French fizzy stuff, I noticed our brand new Prime Minister was at the game. Maybe the sack of shit was around 50 metres away and enough down grandstand that I seriously thought of becoming the world’s very first bubbly, Bubbly terrorist. If only I could throw that far. Please forgive me but no amount of reason or luck or psychotropic medication could cure me of an on-sight hatred of any and all happy-clapping conservatives that see no place in their God’s kingdom for either corporate governance or minorities resourceful enough but plainly not white enough for political asylum. Makes me ashamed to be Australian. Leaving that aside, we trudged out in half a daze whereupon I chanced once again upon my happy self and keenly plotted getting the children home and fed and tucked in and looked after under the careful watch of the sitter before getting … let’s not pretend … royally sh*t-faced. The latter I was only part-way into when it unravelled. Or, more exactly, my most treasured and oldest friend unravelled and that is catching. So there were tears and anger and lots of unedifying things. And they weren’t all mine. Which is weird. When you’re me, you just know if would be great if someone else got a turn at all the emotional shit. Until they do. Then you know it’s so much worse. And you also know it’s mostly you that causes other people to feel that way. And so it goes. So then it’s “Focus, you dumb ___, this isn’t about you”. Etc. ****. So, on Monday morning I took my bereft and under-slept and quite possibly moody-self off to work. Where nothing else could possibly go wrong. And it nearly didn't. I bluffed my way through one meeting and then another and headed into a third chuffed with the very real prospect I could pull off a fakey three-peat. Sadly, "John" was actually Adam and in worse trouble than the equally real and very absent John. I had to apologise, quietly retreat and slap myself in the face. It hurt more than I imagined and less than it should of. Surrendering, I closed my door and sank into my chair for a good half an hour of serious and lonely pouting. I couldn’t even manage a minute before deciding to call it a day and head home. I thought great, I can pick the kids up from school because I really do miss doing that. Yes, that’s settled. Except it is the middle of school holidays and I had managed to overlook that small detail until I pulled up in the driveway and heard them through the front door. On a hair trigger now, I almost teared-up up that. So I listened to them excitedly relating something I can’t even remember now and went to lie down for a precious twenty minutes or so. Two hours later, I woke with Lucy curled up besides me, wide awake and immediately wondering if I was ok. Which only means I failed again. It’s my responsibility to make sure they never ask with worry in their hearts. For a seven year-old, she is so emotionally aware it’s frightening. She doesn’t say much, especially compared to her sister, but what she does say has a way of torching anyone’s best defenses. Just like her grandmother. I already feel deeply, deeply sorry for her future boyfriends. So I braided her hair because it is wordless and nice and so much less sincere than re-assuring her with the only words I can find that tend to be impossible for even me to believe. Done with her hair, I decided that we would spend the night at the farm. The girls were very excited so we packed up and got going. In the car is where the difference in my babies becomes glaringly apparent. Ruby is brutally and pitilessly scientific. It’s all why, what, when, how, who, who’s that and why, why, why, why, but why mum. I wished her dad was there to indulge her because does and I find it beautiful to watch and listen to. Except he wasn’t. But the police were and they decided that 84kph in an 80 zone was far too hot for the law-abiding community to handle. I mean, honestly. I couldn’t object because I was, umm… technically speeding, despite all the overtaking undertaken by the same law-abiding community helping me think I may not have been. Oh well. But perhaps not. I can’t say I was that enamoured when he leant into the driver’s side window, peered tellingly at the children for longer than was decent only to look once more upon me all stony-faced like I was the devil. The latent judgement that their lives are worth more than my own was at least accurate. Everything else about it irritated me both enormously. And instantaneously. “Is there a reason why you are speeding, madam?” he asked, pointlessly. Why they do that god only knows. In nonetheless demanded some sort of answer.,“There’s a shoe sale I’m desperate to get to before all the good stuff goes,” He was plainly not amused. So I got a micro-lecture on public safety and, if I’m honest, this is what I was hoping for. Because I gave one back about the virtues or otherwise of directing drivers onto a median strip ridiculously close to passing traffic to pontificate about terminal speed when the real issue in our present circumstance might be relative speed and how he might want to spend some quality time thinking about that tomorrow morning before he decides where to set up shop. I was suddenly glad my husband wasn’t there. And almost wished he was. But all good. Just a ticket and free to go. So I did. And we had fun and I talked to my friend that night for, I dunno, hours and helped hatch a plan and etc. etc. and took the day off and …. other stuff.
  12. Gisele


    The worm hasn't just turned. It wriggled and writhed and wrapped itself around a velvet-lined gift box and whipped itself with furious flourish into a pretty silver bow. This should be a bit exciting. But worms prefer damp, fetid, even blood-soaked soil. And this one is no different. "What the **** do you know?" she asked. About trauma and mental wellbeing. She wouldn't be the first. She is, however, the first to ask despite knowing better. This isn't overtly provable, I just know that she knew. And have come to know that she knows that I know. That's where the frisson ends. Hers is a horrible story and she is young, frightened, unvarnished but has an insouciance that just needs capping with gritted teeth. I felt like I was looking at me a the same age. I knew this was my calling. Now I truly know. And I feel lucky to feel so miserable for someone that has only ever been exploited.
  13. Gisele

    Story Time

    The young Martian felt in the mood to blow off some steam. It had been a difficult week a the death-ray-gun factory. So he grabbed his keys and a jacket, chucked his ciggies on the dashboard and headed out for a much needed road trip. Comfortably in his rocket, he lit it up and headed turned towards Venus. For a bit of circle work and a lot of a perve at the most awesome goddess in the universe. This would be the equivalent of pretending your older brother's GT is your own and rumbling up and down Chapel St. , here on Earth, for a similarity unrequited perve-athon. Shocking we know but "Show us ya ****!" might just be a universe-wide turn off? Less than 10 minutes in, the young Martian swore at himself for forgetting to grab a couple of travellers out of the fridge on the way out. Oh well he thought, he would just have to get rolled at the bottle-o. Being a male Martian, or a male of any description to be frank, he lacked the wisdom to realise 10 minutes of turning back out of a trip that would take 2-and-a-half days would be a reasonably good outcome. Now reconciled to paying twice as much for half as many he gunned it towards the nearest ATM. - And the rest will have to wait...
  14. Gisele

    Fairy Conclave

    So I slid carefully into bed like a bit of a ninja because there were spreadsheety looking pages spread inconveniently on my side. I didn't want to disturb them or him. Actually, I did want to disturb both them and him but chose to be something of an adult about it instead. "What's all this then?" I asked, immediately breaking my vow to not show any interest in exactly why my husband was sitting up in bed peering at his laptop when this is a thing he never does. Not even once. "Numbers" he said less than helpfully. So I picked up a page and immediately agreed that they were indeed numbers. Lots of numbers. "What numbers are these?", I asked thinking, a little intuitively perhaps, that numbers only make sense when there is a thing at the top of a column saying what they mean. "Good numbers" he murmured with all the excitement of someone critiquing his own obituary. None the wiser, I changed the subject. "How much is the Tooth Fairy paying these days?" He just looked at me like we have played this game before. And we have. And his second look asked silently if we need to be playing this game again. And my second look said yes, yes, we do need to be playing it again. Because I can't help it. They love the Tooth Fairy. And I never want the Tooth Fairy to get a reputation as a bit of a tightarse. So, despite being able to remember every baby tooth they have lost and despite being totally across what this has been worth every single time, something about it makes me seek re-assurance. Every. Single. Time. Maybe all of this because my own Tooth Fairy didn't always visit. Which I suppose ought to be understandable now. When my own mother was in the thrall of the V*dka Fairy, there wouldn't have been much awareness of the other Fairies. No, I don't know either why such small sh*t comes with such long shadows. Probably seeing my eyes narrow, he said assuredly, "Same as always, honey." "Ok then," I said brightly enough but feeling really ****ing dim for this still being a thing. He then showed me what was on his screen. Admittedly, he had to walk my tiny mind through it but I now have a new favourite Fairy.
  15. Gisele


    I was driving home this evening and heard something over the radio about Google removing things no-one wants to see, or something. I dunno. I wasn't really listening but heard enough to wish I was. Happens often. But that is the perfect way to listen to news: hear half of it, let my imagination fill in the blanks, squint hopefully and wait for the fairy godmother's own godmother make it all blissfully true. This doesn't work of course but I'm nothing if not committed. Anyway, Google want to remove stuff. Apparently. Excellent news. I have prepared a modest list of things featuring me that I would like so removed, post haste. Things I didn't put there but are there nonetheless. At once, thanks Google!