You will find an outlet for your creative genius and accomplish a great deal.

As it so happens, I am a creative genius. I’m so clever that I created a personal museum in our second bedroom. I think it’s fantastic that I can display my history of uncontrolled spending and past fancies in a stationary pile of shoes, handbags and clothes.

My partner on the other hand, doesn’t think this is so special. The kibosh was laid down on any new additions to my collection and I’m forced to either salvage or sell what lies behind the ever closed door of the first room on the right. So, since much of the anthology is displayed still with descriptive labelling (yea that’s right, price tags) to eBay I shall go!

I got myself all sorted, created a new file folder on the pc to house my e-commerce venture, learned about postage costs and how to exclude types of buyers (ie, how to be overtly discriminatory in my selling a la Pretty Woman) and got cracking.

I set up a mini photo studio in the kitchen consisting of some old sheet I found and a chair and completely ignored everything my partner said to me for about 24 hours straight while I became absolutely obsessed with writing the lengthiest, possibly most inconsequential descriptions for each item. Then I told him I was going to sell his car and his wallet.

The most fun is in writing verbose descriptions. Without being false, I can title a fake crocodile skin handbag,  faux dinosaur. And I can describe an external pocket as handy for blackmail opportunities because its so easy to access without being obvious. Or that in inside pocket has unsurpassed loyalty, the zip is so good it will never kiss and tell.

Furthermore I can bring personality to inanimate objects by telling potential buyers that a clutch purse is really keen on spending a night or two with the buyer and that it won’t hesitate to take her out for breakfast in the morning. That a particular handbag is ideal for the girl who likes to carry a voodoo doll with her, because this one is big enough to also hold a spare.

Considering the popularity of this blog, I’m sure my eBay descriptions will do little to bring me extra pocket money. At least I’ve discovered a new outlet for my heralded creative genius (yes italicised, the cookie said it was so). At the very least if none of it sells, the local Salvos store gets dibs on it and the spare room gets emptied for what ever diabolical plans my partner has for it.

Lucky Numbers:
2, 11, 32, 35, 36, 40

2 – rooms in our house

11 – nice gams, dollface

32 – times I’ve been asked to sort out my accumulation

Don’t race to your destination – appreciate the scenery.

As a fairly relaxed sort of person, I’d normally champion this  cookie fortune. However, and there’s always a however, today was Oz Comic Con day and I’ve never been in a bigger rush to leave a place like I experienced today. Well maybe once when I was at the destitute Olympic village in Heidelberg here in Melbourne. Ever been there? Depressing isn’t it?

Arrived at about 9.45am ticket in hand ready for a day of hugging people in costumes and spending more money than I should on comics. I saw lots of people lining up and thought these must be the ill prepared, lucky I bought ahead! Wrong, so wrong it was three different kinds of wrong.

The line for ticket holders stretched from outside the convention centre at around the marker for door three, snaked toward the Yarra (yup, the opposite direction of the entrance), wound back around along Clarendon St, up the only visible ramp to the entrance of the centre (not Comic Con) and then continued inside.

As with most of these kinds of events, you line up to get in and that’s part of the fun. That’s where I start picking out who gets hugged first, what’s going to feel better to squeeze (didn’t see any wookies so it wasn’t looking promising). The line is the scenery on the way to my destination. I don’t like to rush it, but I like for it to at least move. And movement didn’t figure in this line.

At 10.10am after finally getting inside the centre and feeling like we might be getting somewhere, I glanced to my left and realised that it was not longer straight to the gate. We had a quadruple bended zigzag to pass though before the final straight. My glance turned to a stare because, well, I had enough time. No one was moving. And it was at this point when I realised three things, three kinds of wrong;

1. the map for the event listed only a few comic stands,

2. they’d filled the venue to capacity and weren’t letting anyone else in until people left, and

3. I’m going to need a toilet, a coffee, and a cigarette in that order over the next half hour.

Assessing the situation I estimated at least a further one and half hours before we got a look in so I turned to my ever patient partner, shook my head and said the most honest words to pass my lips since saying ‘I hope I can find issue one of Scratch 9 inside, I lost my last one.‘ Those words were “I’d gladly see this $20 ticket as my paying to not stand in this line another minute.” And with that, we left. And I cried from my left eye a little.

You know what pisses me off the most about it? No, I don’t either there’s too much to pick out just one thing.

Essentially my destination probably wouldn’t have been worth racing for given the lack of comic stands at a comic convention. With that in mind, I couldn’t even make the most of the scenery. It was saddening to me knowing I wasn’t alone in my growing ire at the queue.

Comic expos are really exciting to line up for, there’s a shared buzz and a real sense of community and belonging. But today Oz Comic Con destroyed it by being as well organised as a nappyless six month old with gastroenteritis.

Well done you idiotic wankers. I’m sure the guy outside in the wheelchair was really heartened by the fact that you chose to clog the ramp with disgruntled ticket holders when there are plentiful other entrances to the centre. And Melbourne Convention Centre, you’re a pack of fools for giving these kids the keys to the car.

Sometimes racing to your destination (ie, the car upon leaving) yields the sweetest scenery – Oz Comic Con disappearing into the background.

Lucky Numbers: 1, 6, 33, 34, 38, 45

1;  finger up to you Oz Comic Con

Say nothing until you confirm your suspicions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lucky Numbers:  32, 25, 11, 9, 6, 26

No wind, no waves.

I might care more about this if I knowingly relied on wave powered turbines. But I don’t, or am at least unaware of it if I do. I hate the wind, it rarely brings anything good to a day. The wind does very strange things to people and their brains. Also animals.

I live in Melbourne, a hugely populated city and generally rather windy. This of course means that I’m faced with the prospect of sudden onset of craziness in my fellow citizens at any given moment of the day or night. You might say I’m faced with waves of odd stirrings, frankly I could live without it. No, shut up, I don’t dislike it so much that I want to move away from Melbourne.

Bursts of chaos in busy streets. Pedestrians losing directional and spatial awareness, being assaulted by falling autumn leaves, or the occasional loose rubbish. Being unable to remain calmly upright in the big gusts. And knowing that, depending on the direction of the wind, it could take a lot longer or no time at all to get where you need to be. This is human life quite literally at the mercy of an element. And it drives people a little insane! It’s actually a pretty interesting thing to observe.

We have no control over the wind. It’s driving for us, and it can be fierce in a tense situation. That’s road rage no one wants to witness. The wind distracts our senses. Drives us to thirst. Deafens us with howls and window shaking. Spits dust in our eyes. Attacks olfaction with any number of environmental sources. Cold wind hurts and hot wind sticks.

It decides how we look, it changes our hair and ruffles our clothes. It decides how we feel, stifled by heat, or frozen stiff. It dries us out and it chases us around corners, down alleys and up stairs. And we can’t escape it, we can’t bargain with it, we can do nothing to stop the wind achieving it’s will.

I try to avoid crowds in windy weather because I’m not the greatest at dealing with masses of people who subconsciously know the only steady thing happening to them is a heartbeat and even that’s out of their control. However, this coming weekend brings the first ever Oz Comic Con in Melbourne.

As a regular to Supanova events, saddened by the fact I get a feast of comic book shop love under one roof only once a year, I’m really excited to get a second hit this Saturday! And the weather is going to be crap-tacular! Luckily no gale is on the forecast, but 20-35 km/hr winds are enough to get a crowd half way to loony. That’s a glass half empty true, but it the full half that worries me.

Hey, come on now it’s not so bad. It’s entirely indoors, even the line up to get in will be behind the floor to ceiling windows of Jeff’s Shed. And besides, I like … nay,love … the patrons of such events. This is a wave of potential wind driven madness I’m looking forward to!

Wind, I can’t stop you creating all the waves of merciless torment you want – but I’m buying comics this weekend and you can’t stop me!

Lucky Numbers: 9, 16, 21, 26, 30, 33

16: dollars (each, give or take) for another couple of Unwritten or Transmetropolitan TPB’s

21: one dollar more that the Oz Comic Con ticket price

33: other dollars I’ll spend on stuff no one needs, but damn it’s cool how could I not need that!

 

 

 

Versatility is one of your outstanding traits.

Mike D said it first “Maybe it’s because I’m so versatile” and I said it second as “I’m the Meena, so versatile.” It’ll make more sense when I tell you that Meena is one of my various monikers. So yes, this cookie fortune might be right on the money.

That is if you’re money is hedged on versatility in re-writing, possibly butchering, song lyrics.

It started at a young age with my older sister and I singing Groovy pair of gloves by Phil Collins, and Do the booger motion by Kylie Minogue. And it continued on throughout my life now to the point where some of my only input in conversation with peers is to liken their contributing story to a song lyric, then slightly changing those lyrics to better suit the situation. However, I’m not really conversing right now, this is rhetoric so I can’t just lay it down right here. It weakens the post I know, but I’m ok with that.

Versatility. Really the word makes me think of some kind of unit more than a human quality. Which leads me to thinking, given the above example is it me who is versatile, or is it the lyrics and tunes of those songs I’m altering?

Maybe neither. Perhaps my outstanding trait of versatility is merely identifying a situation and applying a suitable soundtrack to match. But we all do that, surely? I can’t be so self indulgent as to believe that I am one of a few who holds this (let’s face it, pretty useless) gift.

No I think the versatility is being able to source and apply fun in different situations. Evidently that fun is in the form of reducing a situation to re-worded  rhyme. So I’m a crap conversationalist, but I’m happy to be there all the same! At any rate, I’m really just quite happy to think it’s possible I have an outstanding trait! Who doesn’t want to feel that kind of happy?

Lucky Numbers: 8, 13, 23, 28, 39, 45

8 ; is what it is

13;  1+3 = 4, half of 8

A bit of fragrance clings to the hand that gives flowers.

I have had an extraordinary headache since waking this morning. It shifted from an all over assault, to a pain that felt like I’d been boxed in my right temple. I had to imagine what that pain might be as I’ve never actually been boxed at all, let alone to the temple.

The headache was an interesting thing to track as about two hours after I got to work and took more panadol, I grew unusually tired. Then just a little queasy. More interesting still is the way my olfactory system seemed to overreact and possibly exacerbate the devilish situation.

First was a woman who attempted to jump on an upward bound lift half way on my journey from G to 7. A fellow passenger disembarked the lift on 4 where the woman in question, deep in conversation with a rectangle she had pressed to her face, put no more than her hand through the shutting doors.

Because she was speaking to someone I couldn’t see, I felt it rude for me to actually vocalise that the lift was on the up. So with excessive gesturing I waved in a ‘no no’ kind of way, pointed with my thumb to the wall of the lift, and then pointed up. All the while I was mouthing the words to match, ie, Hi there, I believe that the right side cable of this lift is faulty. I’m probably going to die in here. And unless you too are willing to risk it, you might want to wait for the next one.

It took a lot less time to communicate the lift’s direction as it happened than it took to type all of that out. And as I said, no more than her hand entered the lift, but as the doors shut and I continued my journey I was hit with the most overwhelming scent of vanilla perfume. It almost floored me (‘G’d’ me?). I got out from the elevator at 7 and stood perfectly still waiting for the sickly sweet to move on.It’s the kind of smell that you feel tickling in an unpleasant way, right between your eyes.

It was after this that the queasies started.

Worse is what I sat next to on the tram home. A teenager who had the distinct odour of Clag Glue emanating from every pore. And Clag Glue smell gets you in a similar fashion to vanilla in a disturbing tickle sensation, but at that bit of skin between your nose and the U shape at the top of your lip.

I get tram sick every so often, usually in the afternoon and only if I’m facing forward. I put it down to car fumes keeping at a similar speed with my tram-mobile head. But car fumes and Clag Glue is just not fair.

Needless to say I’m not feeling too wonderful at the present. I’ve been punched in the head by fist, by cheap false bean, by exhaust, and by useless glue. My fear is that those fragrances will cling.

Lucky Numbers: 2, 3, 5, 16, 25, 27

2: nostrils

Wherever there is profit, virtue is taken lightly.

You know what would have been more succinct? If my cookie fortune had have just said Capitalism. But maybe that’s not the message I was destined to take from the scroll.

I can’t argue the point, it’s quite often true that people will abandon good intention when the numbers increase on a bank statement. So I have to think about some way in which this has affected me.

Got it, Futurama. What the hell happened there? The first three seasons were gold then we got treated to the fourth and final, for a time at least,  season punctuated with some of the most depressing cartoons of this young century.

Jurassic Bark – Fry and his dog and I can’t even think about this episode without tearing up,

Leela’s Homeworld – where she finds out what happened to her parents (oh, especially that bit where she doesn’t see them but they’re leaving presents and doing things for her), and

The Sting – with all the honey, and the death.

Three episodes that tell me the creators lost their humour and got all serious with it because, well, they could. They had a captive audience and they took advantage. They capitalised on my willingness to watch faithfully, my want for nothing more than cartoons on telly.

But did it work out for them? Well you could argue that yes indeed it did. I’m still thinking about those episodes now, even typing openly about them. You might even search those listed titles or feel intrigued to watch them. Alternatively, you might want to rinse the images with earlier, funnier episodes.

As for the cookie fortune though I’m of the opinion that the creators sold their virtue up the river (of tears) because they were on a good tip. For what its worth, I haven’t watched much of the new stuff for fear of being burned again. I have cartoon options, I’m not exposing myself to possible harm for the sake of nostalgia.

Lucky Numbers: 8, 13, 15, 19, 24, 27

8: is quite a lovely looking number

13: everyone thinks it’s cool, so there’s probably someone making money out of it

You can be a winner if you try.

What I find funny about this is that I tore the paper when prying it out of the cookie. Also a little bit of this …

I agree, cookie fortune. The act of trying is success in it own right, true? But what to try? Why not just try almost everything? I could have the potential to win limitlessly, the only boundary being my own failure to try.

This fortune has reminded me of my favourite parental lesson, taught to me by my step dad – clearly the coolest and smartest man to ever live, he loves my Mum and she is awesome.  When I would ask whether or not he thought I could do something, or whether I’d be any good at any particular thing, he would always question why I doubted myself. He’d counter me by asking me “why not?”

Although I’ve never achieved massively impressive things in my life, at my thirtieth birthday I was congratulated for merely making it to this age, apparently my ability to continue breathing is amazing to some people.

But when I’m in a moment of desperation, of self doubt and borderline self directed bullying, my step dads voice pops in my head asking “why not?” His voice talking me through my first big job interview. And his voice saying “way to go!“ when I told him I landed it.

The sound is coupled with images of photographic quality of he and I building a chicken coup Mum nicknamed Palazzo Verchookie. Another of he and I digging up Mum’s back yard to landscape it the way she wanted it. And another of he and I rebuilding the decking of their house.

If I can be a winner if I try, good, I’ll continue to try. Fact is, with what I have learned from having a step dad like mine, I’m already a winner.

Lucky Numbers: 2, 8, 15, 20, 23, 32

15: the number of boobs Homer saw on the Spring Break episode of the Simpsons

23 & 32: it’s a palindrome

A smile will gain you ten more years of life.

This is excellent news. Immortality is within reach! But if I smile too much, this think could soon get out of hand.There must be a control mechanism to this facial expression life extension.

So a smile will award me ten more years life. I take it that a frown will cost me ten years and a blank face will give me nothing. I might have to keep a log of remarkable interactions throughout each day so that of an evening I can do the maths.

Smiled three times, frowned once, spent the rest of the day in blank stare out window. 30 – 10 = 20 years gained.

There’s the very basic demonstration of what I might have to track, what a depressing day if I only smiled three times. And how unrealistic to only frown once.

But what kind of smile really gains ten years? It is the genuine smiles? Is it a polite, neighbourly type smile which means nothing more than I’m not a threat. And what of laughter? I must also consider that I’m a frowny thinker, I could actually cease to exist on a particularly thoughtful day.

Good grief, is this cookie fortune, this gift of potential everlasting life really a curse?

On the positive side, it affords me many many years to figure out what it is I’d actually like to do. Given my chronic procrastination and fear of commitment I’ll either never decide and the gift of time will be wasted on me, or I’ll try doing anything that spends five minutes in my head as a great idea with a reduced fear of confinement.

Immortality, gift or curse? Both options allow for compelling arguments. Ultimately, I don’t have to live forever, I could chose the life of the curmudgeon once I’d had enough, withdraw all those deposited smiles. But damn it’s nice know I have the entry ticket to a life everlasting!

Lucky (equation) Numbers: 32(s), 25(f), 11(b), 9(s), 6(f), 26(b)

(32 + 9) – (25 + 6) = 10 years gained

You cannot help the poor man by destroying the rich.

I am a consumer of our public health system. I don’t have any private health insurance. What can I say? I’m an optimist. A miserly optimist.

Recently though my optimism has taken a downward turn due to intermittent tooth aches. It’s really quite difficult to sustain a smile when your mouth endures such agony. I know what I must do to rebuild my happiness, I must see a dentist.

However, being seen by a dentist is truly an expensive exercise. I could reduce the expense if I had private health insurance. But is this really fact given the cost of insurance? You see the conundrum.

Am I denying the dentist profound wealth by my non compliance with logic?

Am I defying the common sense of health insurance by keeping my purse sealed?

Am I right now searching for a hammer to fix this sore tooth myself?

No, no, and yes probably.

If it were true that either dentist or insurance really felt some void by my not contributing to their profits, then this cookie fortune would be spot on. As I see it, I’d be destroying the rich dentist and CEO by continuing as I am right now. But I’d be continuing as I am right now, which does not help me (the poor).

I have options (and pain killers), but I think the path here is clear. I may just have to concede defeat, weep for the significant drop in savings and go get this tooth looked at. Then again I may just have to punch it. Neesh.

Lucky Numbers: 8, 14, 16, 23, 25, 40

8: another of my lucky numbers

16: it’s 61 backwards, don’t you know!

25: the age I was when I first damaged the tooth in question, biting into a gigantic lollipop