Game, Set and Frigging Match


There’s this local idiot who seems to think the only way to drive is via burnout. We hear them revving the guts out of the car that mummy and daddy undoubtedly paid for, while they spin their tyres without a thought given to the kids that use the park or the dogs and people that walk the area every day. What shits me is that while this idiot is getting their thrills, they’re creating a really unsafe environment. Let’s face it, if you’re busy trying to make lots of smoke and noise with your car you’re not going to be looking out for people. Or animals. And if you’re spinning mud up through the park as fast as you can, your focus isn’t really on anyone or anything else. Happy as a pig in mud? Yes and quite probably equally as ignorant. Beloved and I are trying to catch them in the act because the police said they can’t do anything without the rego plate, which is fine. We’re stubborn. Beloved and Scouty love gazing out the window, anyway.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It’s funny, the things you see if you keep your eyes open.

For example, last night when we were making dinner, I looked down at the garlic bulb in my hand and realised it looked like a baboon. Then I looked closer and now all I can see is a baboon with a Donald Trump comb-over.

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

Can you see it? It was really off putting at the time because I gave the garlic this deep voice in my head and it kept telling me I was fired and then I finally thought to respond by saying (in my head) that I was not fired, that YOU’RE about to be fired, and sauted and then EATEN.

Screw you, Trump.

Which leads to me to the adventure that was today.

I can only consider it to be revenge from Trump.

Beloved and I had a meeting of some importance today, and the meeting finished up in a small, house-like office. I asked about the loo and hobbled my way there. Sat, tended to business.


Realised that there was little power behind the flush.

Held the button down for as long as was humanly possible with one hand while I desperately tried to open the window with my other hand. It was locked.

There was nothing that could hide the exact nature of my business. Nothing. It’s OK, I reasoned with myself. Everyone does this. This is OK. We’ll just spray some air freshener and hope for the best.

But there was no air freshener, was there, Trump. You’d completely taken a mighty form of revenge, hadn’t you, Trump. There was only a pump soap container, a fake pot plant, and a window that wouldn’t open.

I tried to collect myself while I washed my hands. I let the water run while I thought about options. I couldn’t hurl myself out the window, it was locked. I couldn’t change this. I couldn’t fix it. I certainly couldn’t take it back. There wasn’t anything I could do. Not really. Just admit defeat, return to the meeting, and hope that I never have to see these people ever again. Well, except for my beloved – I would like to see her again.

I sat down, smelling of guilt and poor plumbing decisions.

As I sat, the woman who worked out of this little office said that the office was actually a display home that wasn’t really hooked up to the plumbing properly – she smiled and joked about me waiting for the water to warm up when I washed my hands, and that was when the pieces fell into place. As I made a lame comment about cold hands, the facts aligned and slotted themselves into order amongst the chaos that is my brain.

I’d just toileted in a display toilet.

A display toilet, with minimal plumbing connected.

A display toilet that could manage a number one, but should have been wearing a sign advising against any number higher than one.

Game, set and match, Trump.

Game, set and frigging match.

Poke poke poke


You’d think it would be a pretty easy decision. Someone offers to stab your Achilles with a very pointy injection, you’d straight up say NO FREAKING WAY.

But when it’s suggested in a medical setting, and the theory behind it seems sound, and it’s an option that has minimal recovery time, you’d be more likely to consider it. At least, I was. And while I am currently waiting to see if it was successful, I have to confess that I am left feeling slightly traumatised by the experience.

It hurt. Like a cow. To my credit I only dropped a handful of F-bombs, but if there was any way I could have forced myself through the bed and away from the burning pinch of those fucking injections, I would have.

But really, I know the question that is on your mind: Are those hideous bows visible through the boot?

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

The answer? A little bit. If you know what you’re looking for.

I still feel the pinch of shame when I think of them.

Anyway, this was me when I got home from the procedure. Keep in mind that it HURT. And that I was currently propped up on pain killers alone. The third fur baby was most likely keeping watch over the park, or waiting at the back door to play:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

So the fur babies are helping and the pain killers are helping and the boot is protecting. But as much as I may sound like a bit of a wuss, I have to confess that it was bloody traumatic, just lying there on my tummy while someone inflicted that kind of pain. I got in the car afterwards and had a teary, and it still makes me a bit shaky when I think about it.

I therefore am trying not to think about it.

Instead I am thinking about some different crochet projects I have in mind. And giggling because I often refer to crocheting as hooking, and when I had to fill out some paperwork for Scouts a couple of weeks ago I had to list my interests, and top of the list was HOOKING.

Fuck em.

How’s your world shaping up this week?

A cute new design


So earlier this year, I had an operation to help my Achilles tendon move around easier. It worked but my Achilles remained screwed. Tomorrow morning I am going for a platelet injection into my Achilles (yes I am squealing like a stuck pig even thinking about this). The aim is to create inflammation so that the Achilles can start rebuilding itself.

I thought I better go and visit the nail ladies and have a pedicure, given my left foot is about to be shoved into a boot for a fortnight. Take the old polish off, bit of a buff and tickle, and off we go again.

I’ve been doing the pedi thing every month since Mrs Cuppy gave me a voucher for one for my birthday last year. Not being an overly ladylike beast, it was given a bit tongue-in-cheek. I bit back by getting hot pink nail varnish. But the thing is, since that first pedi, I realised I actually like not having to bite cut my own toenails. And I like the massage chair. And I like the spa. So now I do it every month.

Last month, I went for a very fungal green, and in a moment of strangeness, I elected to have a panda painted onto my big toenails. It’s winter, I reasoned. Nobody would notice. I kinda liked them. Yes, when I was barefoot, it did look like I had kicked a pile of birdshit. But they were pandas. On my toes.

I guess it was the nail art that gave today’s nail lady the idea that I had a “thing” for pictures on my big toes.

Because I sat down, and she had a look, and told me she had a really cute new design for me.

I told her I wanted to just keep them plain this time, but she assured me it was very nice and I would love it. So I yielded. Told her to go for it.

At first, it looked like the Mardi Gras symbol:

And I thought to myself, wow, she must be able to tell that I’m gay! Was it the jeans? The Pink Floyd shirt? Gaydar? I mean, I am pretty obviously not a girly girl.


I mean seriously.

She carried on, filling in the two sideways hearts with red. Then outlined them with black. Maybe a butterfly? God, I don’t know. I kept watching.

And then physically recoiled when I realised what she was doing.

You know when you can’t laugh, but you want to? And the laughing gets bigger and bigger because it cannot be released? And your body starts doing involuntary shakes and squeaks?

That was me.


Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner


Big red bows with white polka dots.

I look like I’ve kicked Minnie Mouse in the head.

Nobody looks at me and assumes there are going to be frigging bows!

And I had to sit there and let them dry and lots of people walked past and did double takes when they saw my double bows. One person even suggested I could change them to butterflies if I wanted to. Because the idea of me in bows is totally bloody ridiculous!!! 

This might be a cute new design. But it is most definitely on the wrong feet.

And now I have to find a way to remove them before tomorrow. Because I cannot spend two weeks with a bow peeking out from my big black post-Achilles-injection boot!!!

Or can I?

What do you think?

In the Jar


Well hello! It has been AGES since I wrote a post on the blog. I could regale you with the list of reasons justifying my absence, but the quick version is that things went shitty, then started to get better. My head went along for the ride and thankfully things are looking good – or at least, I am dealing with them better.

While I was away, different bits and pieces happened. Scouty scored a spider bite to the bum, and beloved had her first ever showcase with her designs. I’m not sure why those two things are paired in my mind. But let us just enjoy the strange side by side resting of those events for a moment.


Anyway anyway, I was visiting my sister and my furry nephew, and I came home with this:

Image by The Naughty Corner

Image by The Naughty Corner

It used to be my Nan’s, this sunflower jar. My nan was and is one of my best people, so I love that this jar is residing in my home. I popped it on my bedside table, promising that I would find a place for it later.

And to be honest, I am not really sure what came over me.

But a few days later, when beloved still hadn’t noticed it, I picked it up and showed her.

She asked what it is.

And for some reason, my brain said to itself, “Let’s just leave one little letter off the answer, ok?” and I agreed.

I replied with, “It’s Nan!”

Beloved (freezes): What did you say?

Me: It’s Nan.

Beloved: Um, you’re going to need to find a new place for your Nan’s ashes to go. Not in the bedroom.

Me (picking up the jar and popping it open): Why? It’s not like they’re going to spill or leap out at you.


Me (Laughing hysterically. Segues into a pretend coughing fit. The jar, which is open, is fumbled, fumbled, fumbled…)

Beloved: FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

Me: It’s empty darling.

Beloved (continues panicking).

Me (changes jarmie pants and tries to stop laughing).

Admit it. You’ve missed the blog.

I’ll try to blog more regularly, now that the sun is shining again.

When was the last time you wet yourself laughing?

The Granite Block


This post is the result of much thought. And I know this could be a risky post. Not because of the content, but because I know I am writing to some people who might read it and decide I am having a go at them. I assure you, I am not. I’m really not.

I also want to say that I have friends who are Christians, whom I love. The very vast majority of them have continued to treat me exactly the same way as they did before I came out. And even though there are disagreements regarding marriage equality, we are adult enough to accept that people have different viewpoints. We remember in our hearts that we are human and that our history and the value we see in each other is reason enough to continue our friendship, regardless of differences.

And it’s because I know that you love me, that I want to bring this up:

Those posts you share, full of “buts” – they are doing a huge amount of damage.

I imagine that we all have this big block of granite, which represents our faith – in ourselves, in the god of our understanding, in people, in faith itself. When I was gathering up the courage to come out, I looked at my block of granite. I considered the people who I knew could be offended by what I had been puzzling about for years. I considered my understanding of the Bible, of the god I believed in. And in confidence in these things, I spoke those words: “I think I might be a little bit gay”.

For the most part, there was unending support. And when the US announced marriage equality this week, I loved the surprise of seeing Christian allies with their rainbow-tinted profile pictures. I was so proud of them, knowing all too well what they were risking in doing so.

Image by The Naughty Corner, and by that app thing that put a rainbow over your profile picture.

Image by The Naughty Corner, and by that app thing that put a rainbow over your profile picture.

But this announcement from the USA also saw an increase in those “but” posts.

Posts that share content that compares marriage equality to paedophilia, followed with a “but I am not judging you”. Posts that are prefaced with a “This is what I believe but I love everyone”.

That word.


Now, back to that block of granite. I want you to consider what it is like, from this side of things. Having questioned your sexuality for most of your life. Knowing that being true to yourself risked rejection. Violence. Threats. Hatred. Having to consider and double consider what you say and where you say it and who you say it to. Usually, mental health issues, including anxiety, suicidal ideation, depression, self harm and so on. I’m not saying these are unique to the gay community – in fact, most Christians I know experience exactly the same thing with their faith.

This if nothing else should unite us.

When I first came out, trusting in my granite block, that first rejection was like a chisel rested on the granite and was hit by a mallet. And just like that, a chip was knocked away. I’ve been out for almost 5 years now. And that block of granite has changed shape significantly. In this last week, it has taken some almighty blows. But, but, but. Chip, chip, chip.

I could talk to the people who have shared this stuff individually. But I know that I can’t be the only one experiencing this. And also, perhaps stupidly, I don’t want to hurt them.

I could try to glue those chips back onto my granite block, and not let their well meaning daggers stab me too deeply. But I bet you’d still see the cracks on my granite block, wouldn’t you.



I expect that what is left is to either give up on my granite block, or write something that tries to explain what it is like, in the hopes that these words offer comfort to other people going through the same thing.

So here goes:

I love the Christian authors who publish articles, but I don’t love that you are flat out mean. I love the Christian artists that create pictures depicting their beliefs, but I don’t love that you are ignorant and cruel in your captions and assumptions. I love the Christian bloggers who are safe to share their faith without fear of persecution, but I really dislike being persecuted.

I love my Christian friends who share their “but” posts, but I wish you could understand the hurt it creates. Just like, I am sure, my rainbow picture hurts you. Just like my orientation hurts your faith. I get it. I really do. But please, before you hit “share”, consider the impact those words are going to have on all people.

Because really, what we are disagreeing on, is love.

And in the world we have in 2015, to disagree on love is a tragedy.

Colour Me Rainbow


Like the rest of Australia I awoke to the beautiful news that the United States Supreme Court has ruled in favour of marriage equality throughout all of America. And I’ve opened up WordPress on my computer to blog about this, and there’s a rainbow banner. And I’ve had rainbow profile pictures beaming out at me all day on Facebook, and post after post on Instagram celebrating and tears and smiles and laughter and beaming and finally finally being able to say I do and 54 years of waiting, for these two:

Congratulations, Jack and George. Source:

Congratulations, Jack and George. Source:

And I’ve watched as one by one, my friends have tinted their profile pictures with rainbows. I’ve grinned stupidly at the joy and the tears on faces captured by media.

I’m celebrating the joy that my friends, regardless of orientation, have at this ruling. I’m thankful for each of their little rainbow faces. I’m building hope that one day, this will happen in Australia, too. I’m imagining the parties and the text messages and the hugs that are lasting a little longer, and the tingling of anticipation between couples as they wait to see if a proposal is around the corner for them, now it’s legal.

And this is all just about love. It’s just love.

And we’re celebrating it.

And it’s the best thing in the world.

I love this, by Mary Lambert. You might get a bit of dust in your eye or something.

“I can’t change, even if I try, even if I wanted to… My love, my love, my love… She keeps me warm.”

The Lost Art of Thank You


I’m really aware of the irony of what I am about to write, given that this blog is all about not being too sure about those social niceties that keep society rolling along nicely. But there is one social nicety that I am very good at, and that I think is really important: manners.

Words like thank you and excuse me and sorry. That little wave you give someone when they make room for you to change lanes. Turning your phone off when you’re at the cinema, and having it on silent when you’re in a meeting or having coffee with a friend. Things that, essentially, boil down to one simple thing: respect.

I’ve noticed a real decline in these things, and have been known to call people out on it when required. Beloved and I were at the movies a week or so ago, and there was a teenage boy talking (not texting) on his phone during the film. I leaned over and told him to turn the phone off. He did. Quickly. And shrunk down in his seat. Spotlight (an Australian craft/material/linen/homewares store) is notorious for having extremely rude staff, and also magically morphing their customers into rude and obnoxious people who will stab each other when it comes to the final ball of red wool or the unfair cutting of fabric. It’s really quite bizarre.

Beloved and I had a peculiar experience a couple of weeks ago. We heard the neighbour’s dog barking, quite frantically. Now, we had never heard this dog bark like this before. It was non stop. It went on… and on… and on. The dog’s human has a disability, and when we worked out that this dog had been barking like this for almost three hours non stop, we decided we had to act. Beloved knocked on the door, no answer. She could hear the television, but there were no lights on (by this stage it was night time). She knocked again, and could hear the dog inside, but still, no answer. So we did what seemed appropriate. We called the local police and explained the situation.

They came, knocked, heard what we heard and saw what we saw. They went around the back. The dog would not come out through the dog door. The police called the home, and the phone was answered, but nobody spoke. The police saw appropriate to bang down the back door. Turns out the dog can knock the phone off the hook, and the neighbour was not home. The police left a note, explaining what had happened.

Fast forward a couple of hours and there is a pounding at our door. It’s the neigbour. We explained why we called the police and while he was thankful and understanding, he was annoyed. Then the neighbour’s brother rode up. Threw his bike on the ground. Stormed up our driveway yelling abuse. We were scared. They left. The neighbour returned later and apologised for his brother’s outburst.

We thought that was the end of it, until we had another knock at the door, a few days later, at around 9pm.

It was the neighbour.

In tears.

And if you have seen a grown man cry, you know that something bad has happened.

His little dog had been hit by a car, and can we please help? Of course we could. We made calls, we drove him and his little dog to the after hours vet. We sat with him as his support people. We made cuppas and explained what the vet was saying. We helped out with paperwork. We spoke to the vet about our neighbour and explained that he was currently living on his own because his parents were on holidays, and that he had limited funds til his parents returned. The vets were awesome and worked within that budget. We got them home again. Talked to the neighbour the next day. His brother came over, too, and apologised for his behaviour when he yelled at us and thanked us for helping.

To date? We haven’t heard boo from the parents. Now, these are two pretty significant things to occur when your son is living alone while you are on holidays. At the least we expected another volley of abuse because of the broken back door. At most, a thank you and maybe an update on the dog.

For the brother to come and apologise, and also to thank us – it made us feel good. But manners aren’t about making someone else feel good. I have been thinking about this, and I think manners are more about showing that you know other people matter.

I think that’s what it comes down to.

You know that other people matter. Or, as I said earlier: Respect.

But then in my want for manners, am I not respecting the right of my neighbour’s parents to just want to move on from the incidents? I am not respecting the right for people to “forget” to say thank you, their right to use their phone?

Who knows.

But as fas as I’m concerned? If I let you merge in front of me? I want that wave.