Wow it’s that time of year again. Time to put up the Christmas tree, hang the lights on the house and get the gift wrap out. Didn’t we just put all that away? There is nothing like Christmas to remind you of the speed of time. Birthday’s although annual just don’t seem to come around as quickly as Christmas does. I think it’s because Christmas probably goes for two – three months if the truth be known. From the first advertisements to the post-Christmas sales, it seriously takes up a quarter of our year.
Today is the last day of November and Christmas has officially commenced in our house. I have started the Christmas shopping and am getting twitchy about the whole gift receiving onslaught. I am all into the giving, but it’s the receiving I have a bit of trouble with. Oh, it’s lovely and I am grateful (and so, hopefully, are the kids) but I feel a little claustrophobic as the house gets crowded and we start to suffocate in stuff. I am doing my best to keep my generation Z kids from tacking onto the instant gratification generation Y by being very mindful of their gifts this year. But gee it is hard. Yet another mid-life-crisis moment is looming as I battle between loving, nurturing and giving Mum and a bah humbug Scrooge.
The first thing I need to do is clean out the cupboards. Out with the old to make way for the new. But what happens with the old? Do we add it to the landfill, set up a garage sale or pass it to charity? We tend to do a combination of all three but yet another mid-life-crisis moment emerges when I think about the waste that our instant gratification mindset is causing. The movie Wall-E emerges in my brain (a true horror flick) as piles of moulded (and probably lead based) plastic piles out of the kids rooms and into the hallway for sorting. What have we done? What are we continuing to do?
The thing I do have in my favour this year is that the kids are getting older and there is less request for toys. Even my five year old has given up on the toy department and asked for cool clothes, art supplies and shoes with wheels (?) instead. But it doesn’t change my anxiety which has changed as I age from “will we have enough money”, “am I giving them enough”, “can I keep the secret stuff secret” to “where am I going to put it all”, “what will happen to it when we’re done with it” and “why are we indulging in such materialism”.
You see, I am getting old! I have a conscience. I am showing my age. All of this comes from the mind of a middle-aged anally retentive worry wart. I need to take off my deep fried fruit hat for a few days and allow the magic of Christmas encapsulate me like it does the children. If I’m not careful I will start dreaming of the ghosts of past, present and future! Oh crap.
I’m already having those dreams. Well this sucks ….
It's all quite fascinating really ...
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Day 56
Today is the day I take battle on frustrations. Yesterday as I verbalised my “frustration” about the publishing journey a dear friend said to me “change the word frustrated into fascinated”. She suggested that whenever you feel frustrated about something – anything – become fascinated by it instead. Hmph. Ok. Let’s give that a try.
I am very FASCINATED by the fact that I am not yet published. I am FASCINATED by the whole publishing process. I am FASCINATED that I get such positive feedback and encouragement but I still don’t make the final print lists.
I am also very FASCINATED that the kids need to go to the toilet just as we are walking out the door to school. I am very FASCINATED how my husband can leave the house with all cupboard doors open, lights on, washing up only half done and butter on the counter top. I am FASCINATED that the car in front of me slows for a green light and then holds up traffic for five minutes as the light proceeds to turn red. I am FASCINATED by the construction that is going on in my neighbourhood creating dust storms at every breeze and leaving films of dirt through my house daily. I am FASCINATED that everyone decides to do their Christmas shopping on the exact day and time that I decide to start mine. And I am absolutely mind bogglingly FASCINATED that to type this in peace I have to be awake at dawn on a Sunday. It is all really very FASCINATING.
I am very FASCINATED by the fact that I am not yet published. I am FASCINATED by the whole publishing process. I am FASCINATED that I get such positive feedback and encouragement but I still don’t make the final print lists.
I am also very FASCINATED that the kids need to go to the toilet just as we are walking out the door to school. I am very FASCINATED how my husband can leave the house with all cupboard doors open, lights on, washing up only half done and butter on the counter top. I am FASCINATED that the car in front of me slows for a green light and then holds up traffic for five minutes as the light proceeds to turn red. I am FASCINATED by the construction that is going on in my neighbourhood creating dust storms at every breeze and leaving films of dirt through my house daily. I am FASCINATED that everyone decides to do their Christmas shopping on the exact day and time that I decide to start mine. And I am absolutely mind bogglingly FASCINATED that to type this in peace I have to be awake at dawn on a Sunday. It is all really very FASCINATING.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Day 55
Have I told you yet that I am a struggling writer? Well I guess I am. The fact that I spend my days peddling my children’s books from one publisher to the next, I spend family vacation time writing new ones, and my nights dreaming about the money I will bring in when I am a famous author, means that instead of being out there in the 9.00-5.00 workforce earning a decent income like everyone else I am practicing patient persistence in the world of the struggling writer.
I have a bit of a dream. My dream is to make as many children in the world as possible believe in themselves and their own power, regardless of the circumstances in which they may have been born. I’d love to help kids with confidence and self esteem, and give them the tools necessary to create the life they dream of. I started a teaching degree last year but quickly realised that one teacher, in one school, in one city, in one country just couldn’t make the changes I wanted to make. I mean, teachers are heroes as far as I am concerned and they do change lives daily, but for me I felt I had to do something a little more universal. So I have started writing a series of positive psychology books for primary aged children. And I have done a reasonable job so far. The publishers are giving me positive feedback, teachers and kids like my stories, and I even have a few Australian “mothers of profile” contributing to my project by writing the forewords. But do you think I can get published?! It’s so bloody frustrating. Then I remember that patient persistence is key.
So every day I keep at it and every day we watch our bank account suffer as I spend more time pursuing my dream and less time on income producing activities. But I am not going to stop until I conquer!! I know it, I can see it, I can feel it, I can taste it. It is going to happen. I just wish it would bloody happen today. I am so frustrated!!!!
That’s it. I am feeling anything but patient. Patient persistence has gone out the window. Who was the idiot who coined that phrase anyway? What a load of bullshit.
Oh, it was me. Well I rest my case.
I have a bit of a dream. My dream is to make as many children in the world as possible believe in themselves and their own power, regardless of the circumstances in which they may have been born. I’d love to help kids with confidence and self esteem, and give them the tools necessary to create the life they dream of. I started a teaching degree last year but quickly realised that one teacher, in one school, in one city, in one country just couldn’t make the changes I wanted to make. I mean, teachers are heroes as far as I am concerned and they do change lives daily, but for me I felt I had to do something a little more universal. So I have started writing a series of positive psychology books for primary aged children. And I have done a reasonable job so far. The publishers are giving me positive feedback, teachers and kids like my stories, and I even have a few Australian “mothers of profile” contributing to my project by writing the forewords. But do you think I can get published?! It’s so bloody frustrating. Then I remember that patient persistence is key.
So every day I keep at it and every day we watch our bank account suffer as I spend more time pursuing my dream and less time on income producing activities. But I am not going to stop until I conquer!! I know it, I can see it, I can feel it, I can taste it. It is going to happen. I just wish it would bloody happen today. I am so frustrated!!!!
That’s it. I am feeling anything but patient. Patient persistence has gone out the window. Who was the idiot who coined that phrase anyway? What a load of bullshit.
Oh, it was me. Well I rest my case.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Day 54
Yes, I have a tattoo. I did however wait until I was 30 to get my tattoo and that is what I tell my children. You can’t have a tattoo until you are 30! Wait until you are old enough to know it is something you want for life. It didn’t help with my step-daughter Chelsea though, she got her first tattoo at 18 and has been getting them ever since (she is now 21). And they’re not ugly. They’ve just taken her purity away I guess. I know I will have my work cut out for me but I hope our other kids will hold off for a little longer …
Anyway, I got my tattoo when I was 30 after careful assessment about the pitfalls of tattoos and body aging. My tattoo therefore is on my foot. I figured my foot wouldn’t sag or stretch or wrinkle too much. I had seen some really bad examples of tattoos gone wrong.
A lady I worked with had a star tattooed on her butt when she was a teenager but a sagging bum made her aging star go elongated and turn into a Christmas tree. And then there was the woman I saw at the coast in a bikini top with a butterfly tattooed across her stomach. It was probably lovely when her tummy was tight and buff, but after kids this woman had a jiggly wiggly paunch that left the butterfly flapping wildly with every step she took. I was mesmerised! It was seriously hideous. And then there is the guy who had tears tattooed below his eye when his girlfriend left him and those tears will be there regardless of how happy he is in later life. Oh and by far the best one is the elephant whose trunk had once been raised at mid level across a woman’s chest only to get brewers droop as the owners breast turned south at middle age. Seriously funny and seriously shocking. Every year when I see my gynaecologist he makes small talk as he prepares for my annual examination by saying “I see you still have that tattoo”. And each year he tells me the story of a patient who had a tattoo written in Hebrew which was supposed to say something positive and uplifting but on travelling to the Middle East discovered it was actually Hebrew for “toilet”.
Tattoos are crazy things and are with you forever. I am pleased to say my tattoo looks just as it did ten years ago and even though I have ugly feet which are starting to look deep fried, my tattoo is surviving the tattoo test.
What is my tattoo? It is a crescent moon with three stars which for me means “reach for the stars and at the very least you will land on the moon”. As long as my stars don’t sag and turn into Christmas trees it should be all good. Hopefully …
Anyway, I got my tattoo when I was 30 after careful assessment about the pitfalls of tattoos and body aging. My tattoo therefore is on my foot. I figured my foot wouldn’t sag or stretch or wrinkle too much. I had seen some really bad examples of tattoos gone wrong.
A lady I worked with had a star tattooed on her butt when she was a teenager but a sagging bum made her aging star go elongated and turn into a Christmas tree. And then there was the woman I saw at the coast in a bikini top with a butterfly tattooed across her stomach. It was probably lovely when her tummy was tight and buff, but after kids this woman had a jiggly wiggly paunch that left the butterfly flapping wildly with every step she took. I was mesmerised! It was seriously hideous. And then there is the guy who had tears tattooed below his eye when his girlfriend left him and those tears will be there regardless of how happy he is in later life. Oh and by far the best one is the elephant whose trunk had once been raised at mid level across a woman’s chest only to get brewers droop as the owners breast turned south at middle age. Seriously funny and seriously shocking. Every year when I see my gynaecologist he makes small talk as he prepares for my annual examination by saying “I see you still have that tattoo”. And each year he tells me the story of a patient who had a tattoo written in Hebrew which was supposed to say something positive and uplifting but on travelling to the Middle East discovered it was actually Hebrew for “toilet”.
Tattoos are crazy things and are with you forever. I am pleased to say my tattoo looks just as it did ten years ago and even though I have ugly feet which are starting to look deep fried, my tattoo is surviving the tattoo test.
What is my tattoo? It is a crescent moon with three stars which for me means “reach for the stars and at the very least you will land on the moon”. As long as my stars don’t sag and turn into Christmas trees it should be all good. Hopefully …
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Day 53
Yesterday I had the WORST migraine I have had in years and I hardly moved from my bed all day. My blog post for yesterday was pre-written for a "just in case I am unable to type" scenario. It was so bad I thought I was having a brain bleed. It also felt like my neck was broken. Now, I'm not sure if it really is the worst migraine I've had in years or whether my resilience is slipping. When I was working for the Government I would go to work rain, hail or migraine. I would pop pain killers all day just to keep the pain at bay and I'd continue through until I was able to collapse into bed at night. There were times back then when I would have migraines that lasted three weeks and I would dull them with drugs just to survive. By the end I would be in such a bad way I'd end up in hospital for morphine injections. But that was then and since then I have managed to get a handle on my headaches and can avoid them for the most part. But it begs the question, now that I don't get so many does that mean when I do get them I am less resilient to the pain?
I started getting migraines when I was a pre-pubescent kid. It is a hereditary thing with my Dad getting migraine and his mother getting migraine. The migraines back then were classic migraine with the beating drum in the brain, the light sensitivity, the visual aura, nausea and vomiting, tingling tongue and although they were extreme they would be over within 24 hours. As I grew into my 20s the headaches started to change to a more chronic pain. One neurologist referred to them as cluster headaches. They displayed constant pain usually behind one eye or the other, with pain also at the base of the skull and into the neck. These were the ones that would last for days or even weeks. These were the ones that I can now identify as food/chemical induced headaches. I discovered I was sensitive to MSG, salicilates and amines. For the most part I have them under control. There is also the stress induced migraine and the hormonal migraine. For the stress headaches I prevent them by trying to stay stress free and by getting massages once a fortnight. There is not much you can do about the hormonal migraine though, other than somehow avoid being hormonal! Yesterday's episode was hormonal and given it was so bad I wonder if I am perhaps peri-menopausal. Menopause! That's a deep fried fruit conversation for another day.
Anyway, yesterday I was laid up and that has put me behind. We all feel like there are times where we take one step forward and two steps back. Today I know I have taken 3 steps back with absolutely no forward movement at all. I awoke this morning with my post-migraine hangover and the lethargy of drug residue to a house that has been hit by the kid bomb and my in-box that exceeds the storage capacity of my computer. I look like I have done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. My eyes are so puffy they are hardly open with the lids folding over my lashes like a canopy. To Derek's credit the kids have been fed and the kitchen is spotless. Good husband. I am sluggishly cleaning up the house so that I can feel comfortable enough to work in my home office. I have publishers to contact, a speech outline to prepare, references to track down, cheerleading to prepare for and laundry to wash.
My gratitude for today is that I only had one day of this. I don't have cancer or limbs missing or seizures or disability or third degree burns or a degenerative disease. I had one day of migraine. One day of pain. One day of pause. I can make measurable progress in reasonable time any day I choose. And I choose today ...
I started getting migraines when I was a pre-pubescent kid. It is a hereditary thing with my Dad getting migraine and his mother getting migraine. The migraines back then were classic migraine with the beating drum in the brain, the light sensitivity, the visual aura, nausea and vomiting, tingling tongue and although they were extreme they would be over within 24 hours. As I grew into my 20s the headaches started to change to a more chronic pain. One neurologist referred to them as cluster headaches. They displayed constant pain usually behind one eye or the other, with pain also at the base of the skull and into the neck. These were the ones that would last for days or even weeks. These were the ones that I can now identify as food/chemical induced headaches. I discovered I was sensitive to MSG, salicilates and amines. For the most part I have them under control. There is also the stress induced migraine and the hormonal migraine. For the stress headaches I prevent them by trying to stay stress free and by getting massages once a fortnight. There is not much you can do about the hormonal migraine though, other than somehow avoid being hormonal! Yesterday's episode was hormonal and given it was so bad I wonder if I am perhaps peri-menopausal. Menopause! That's a deep fried fruit conversation for another day.
Anyway, yesterday I was laid up and that has put me behind. We all feel like there are times where we take one step forward and two steps back. Today I know I have taken 3 steps back with absolutely no forward movement at all. I awoke this morning with my post-migraine hangover and the lethargy of drug residue to a house that has been hit by the kid bomb and my in-box that exceeds the storage capacity of my computer. I look like I have done ten rounds with Mike Tyson. My eyes are so puffy they are hardly open with the lids folding over my lashes like a canopy. To Derek's credit the kids have been fed and the kitchen is spotless. Good husband. I am sluggishly cleaning up the house so that I can feel comfortable enough to work in my home office. I have publishers to contact, a speech outline to prepare, references to track down, cheerleading to prepare for and laundry to wash.
My gratitude for today is that I only had one day of this. I don't have cancer or limbs missing or seizures or disability or third degree burns or a degenerative disease. I had one day of migraine. One day of pain. One day of pause. I can make measurable progress in reasonable time any day I choose. And I choose today ...
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Day 52
I can’t avoid it anymore. It is time to talk about feet. Deep fried feet to be precise. And I am sorry Mum, but now is the time to talk about your feet. What the hell kind of God allowed you to grow those flippers?
It appears I may have inherited my Mum’s feet. The only thing I have in my favour is that I didn’t spend years squeezing my ridiculously wide feet into narrow pointy shoes like Mum did, so I am not quite as deformed. Mum deserves a disabled sticker for her car with the pain she experiences with her feet. She did go to a surgeon a year ago to have the “extra large knuckles” shaved so that she could wear a normal shoe and get around without so much agony, but after only getting one foot done she has declared the operation a disaster and now has one deformed foot and one foot that has actually doubled in size post op. As you can imagine it is a bit of a problem when you have a shoe fetish (something I also inherited from Mum) with one foot no longer fitting into anything but a Berkanstock or mountain boot. Luckily Mum has use for such shoes during her trekking adventures, but the other side of Mum is a well dressed and very feminine lady. They say Berkanstocks make your feet smile. Mum’s feet may be smiling but her mouth is pursed into a sour lemon grimace suggesting that Berkanstock’s are not the shoe of a fabulously stylish successful woman.
So I examine my feet fairly regularly to check them against the ugly meter and although they rate fairly high, they haven’t hit the red zone. Seriously though, all feet are ugly. I am not a foot person. They are by far the ugliest part of the body. But recently as I walked with my family on one of our coastal retreats I saw my feet in a new light. The sunlight to be precise. We were walking along in the heat of the day and I of course was wearing regulation thongs (flip flops for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere). As my family skipped across an intersection I was momentarily distracted by my toes. They were all piggy, stumpy and wrinkly looking and didn’t look like my toes at all. It took a few moments to realise I was in fact staring at my own feet – the tattoo on my right foot helped clarify that – and that even toes get weathered and aged and deep fried. What a shock! Deep fried toes on deep fried feet on a deep fried forty year old. I can’t escape it.
Poor Mum can’t escape it either. She was born into it. Derek jokes that it wasn’t the head crowning that caused Nanna birthing pain when Mum was born, it was her feet! Lukily Mum's positive physical qualities far outweigh the negative. She may have bad feet but she looks fabulous.
Sorry Mum. I Hope I haven’t put my foot in it …
It appears I may have inherited my Mum’s feet. The only thing I have in my favour is that I didn’t spend years squeezing my ridiculously wide feet into narrow pointy shoes like Mum did, so I am not quite as deformed. Mum deserves a disabled sticker for her car with the pain she experiences with her feet. She did go to a surgeon a year ago to have the “extra large knuckles” shaved so that she could wear a normal shoe and get around without so much agony, but after only getting one foot done she has declared the operation a disaster and now has one deformed foot and one foot that has actually doubled in size post op. As you can imagine it is a bit of a problem when you have a shoe fetish (something I also inherited from Mum) with one foot no longer fitting into anything but a Berkanstock or mountain boot. Luckily Mum has use for such shoes during her trekking adventures, but the other side of Mum is a well dressed and very feminine lady. They say Berkanstocks make your feet smile. Mum’s feet may be smiling but her mouth is pursed into a sour lemon grimace suggesting that Berkanstock’s are not the shoe of a fabulously stylish successful woman.
So I examine my feet fairly regularly to check them against the ugly meter and although they rate fairly high, they haven’t hit the red zone. Seriously though, all feet are ugly. I am not a foot person. They are by far the ugliest part of the body. But recently as I walked with my family on one of our coastal retreats I saw my feet in a new light. The sunlight to be precise. We were walking along in the heat of the day and I of course was wearing regulation thongs (flip flops for those of you in the Northern Hemisphere). As my family skipped across an intersection I was momentarily distracted by my toes. They were all piggy, stumpy and wrinkly looking and didn’t look like my toes at all. It took a few moments to realise I was in fact staring at my own feet – the tattoo on my right foot helped clarify that – and that even toes get weathered and aged and deep fried. What a shock! Deep fried toes on deep fried feet on a deep fried forty year old. I can’t escape it.
Poor Mum can’t escape it either. She was born into it. Derek jokes that it wasn’t the head crowning that caused Nanna birthing pain when Mum was born, it was her feet! Lukily Mum's positive physical qualities far outweigh the negative. She may have bad feet but she looks fabulous.
Sorry Mum. I Hope I haven’t put my foot in it …
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Day 51
There are monsters in the night. Scary ones. I will never again question my son’s over-active imagination when he runs down the hall screaming to our bedroom for a cuddle, because I know for a fact that there are monsters in the night. They may not be physical monsters but there are metaphoric monsters that invade my midnight mind.
For me the middle of the night magnifies normal thought. To think about financial issues mid-afternoon can cause me some mild anxiety but to have the same thought at 2.00am can have me bankrupt and living on the streets. To think about health issues during morning tea can prompt me to think about getting a blood test, but to have the same thought in the middle of the night can have me producing my farewell video for the kids so they don’t forget me when I’m gone. Why does the night bring with it thought demons?
When I left my Government career three years ago it was based on Derek’s wage and his ongoing contractual commissions. He hasn’t been paid commission now for 9 months which means our cost of living and income are not quite in alignment right now. The lack of commission is not due to lack of performance on his part, he is performing as well as he ever did and still ranks high on the list of most productive sales reps. The lack of the commission is due to the current economic climate which seems to be magnified for Derek because he works for a US company. I think they must have been attacked by the middle-of-the-night monsters because without any middle-of-the-day structured and reasoned thought they pulled everyone’s commissions, turfed people onto the streets and spread cancer through the company globally. Or maybe it is because their middle-of-the-night is our day and it is all because of the time difference! Whatever the reason they have passed on their monsters causing me to get monsters of gigantic proportions invading my normally reasonable brain.
So last night as I woke to Darby and his middle-of-the-night monsters, I lay awake for the remainder of the dark hours thinking about how on Earth Derek and I were going to survive. I hardly have any clients anymore because when people tighten their belts they turf the extras like success trainers. And while my books are being considered by publishers they have their own challenges and book lists are being slashed meaning yet-to-be-published authors are the first to go. So there is no money coming in from me. By the time I eventually got up at 4.00am (not about to stand the anxieties any further) I had us selling the family home and living in a shed on the corner of Mum and Dad’s farm, eating nothing but home grown beans, tomatoes and capsicum (that is all we can seem to grow), me being on life support due to a hardened heart, the dogs eating road kill to survive and the kids getting nothing but coal and homemade bookmarks for Christmas. I have to say though, my nails were still perfectly manicured. At least the monsters understand me.
For me the middle of the night magnifies normal thought. To think about financial issues mid-afternoon can cause me some mild anxiety but to have the same thought at 2.00am can have me bankrupt and living on the streets. To think about health issues during morning tea can prompt me to think about getting a blood test, but to have the same thought in the middle of the night can have me producing my farewell video for the kids so they don’t forget me when I’m gone. Why does the night bring with it thought demons?
When I left my Government career three years ago it was based on Derek’s wage and his ongoing contractual commissions. He hasn’t been paid commission now for 9 months which means our cost of living and income are not quite in alignment right now. The lack of commission is not due to lack of performance on his part, he is performing as well as he ever did and still ranks high on the list of most productive sales reps. The lack of the commission is due to the current economic climate which seems to be magnified for Derek because he works for a US company. I think they must have been attacked by the middle-of-the-night monsters because without any middle-of-the-day structured and reasoned thought they pulled everyone’s commissions, turfed people onto the streets and spread cancer through the company globally. Or maybe it is because their middle-of-the-night is our day and it is all because of the time difference! Whatever the reason they have passed on their monsters causing me to get monsters of gigantic proportions invading my normally reasonable brain.
So last night as I woke to Darby and his middle-of-the-night monsters, I lay awake for the remainder of the dark hours thinking about how on Earth Derek and I were going to survive. I hardly have any clients anymore because when people tighten their belts they turf the extras like success trainers. And while my books are being considered by publishers they have their own challenges and book lists are being slashed meaning yet-to-be-published authors are the first to go. So there is no money coming in from me. By the time I eventually got up at 4.00am (not about to stand the anxieties any further) I had us selling the family home and living in a shed on the corner of Mum and Dad’s farm, eating nothing but home grown beans, tomatoes and capsicum (that is all we can seem to grow), me being on life support due to a hardened heart, the dogs eating road kill to survive and the kids getting nothing but coal and homemade bookmarks for Christmas. I have to say though, my nails were still perfectly manicured. At least the monsters understand me.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Day 50
Our car has a USB port so before we head off on a trip Derek loads up a memory stick with a variety of songs to keep us entertained along the way. He puts a few of his old fart tracks on there, some ACDC, INXS and Prince for me (nothing old fart about that), and of course the popular music for the kids (and me). That means that our kids are getting to appreciate a variety of music. Darby in particular likes his Dad’s choices which makes Derek believe (quite incorrectly of course) that his music isn’t quite so old fart after all …
Last week as we drove to school, Darby asked me to hook up the memory stick and put on the song about parrots. Hmm. I don’t know the song about parrots mate. He advised me that it was on the memory stick. There is definitely no song about parrots on the memory stick. He suggested it was actually about Rosellas. I was impressed that he knew a Rosella was a parrot! But no, no songs about Rosellas either. After scanning the USB and listening to Darby sing the words to “Rosella” I discovered he was in fact wanting to hear Rosanna by Toto. One of his Dad’s songs of course.
As he sang his version of Rosella I reflected on the music of the generations (much like I have recently reflected on the dance styles of the generations … deep fried fruit brings with it a lot of reflection.) My first record was an ABBA album. I had a cool aunty who was only a teenager when I was born so by the age of five I was already getting records from her. I think the next album I received was the Grease soundtrack. By the time I was a tweenie I was into the compilation albums such as Full Boar featuring the songs “Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Monday’s” and “Space Invaders” in 1980 I think and then 1982 Out Of the Blue (?) with Joan Jett and the Blackhearts singing “I Love Rock and Roll” and Split Enz with “Six Months on a Leaky Boat”. It was that music that my neighbour and I would perform concerts for my Mum in the lounge room using a sheet on a string as our stage curtain. It wasn’t until around 1985/1986 when I was 15/16/17 that music really took over my body and became the source of the greatest adrenalin energy. Do you remember what it felt like? I would watch Video Hits every Saturday morning and if I couldn’t be home I would video it (there was no satellite television or dedicated music channels in Australia back then). Music would just take over my soul and I would get so pumped and high it felt like a drug. That was when I discovered Prince, Michael Jackson, INXS, Culture Club, Wham and U2. Oh, and then there was Run DMC, Tone Loc, and Bon Jovi. Ahhh, those were the days ….
Music just doesn’t have the same impact on this deep fried fruit anymore. We did have an almighty disco for my 40th birthday bash where I got to dress up as Joan Jett and play air guitar on the dance floor (but everyone thought I was dressed as Tina Turner. She’s a grandmother! I’m only 40. How offensive …) But alas, the music drug just doesn’t course through my veins quite the same way anymore.
It is nice to see the kids enjoying it so much though. Especially Darby with his rendition of “Rosella”.
“I can’t hear when you fly away, Rosella yeah; The parrot’s gone and I have to stay; Meet you another day, meet you another day, Rosella yeah; Meet you another day, meet you another day, Rosella yeah"
Last week as we drove to school, Darby asked me to hook up the memory stick and put on the song about parrots. Hmm. I don’t know the song about parrots mate. He advised me that it was on the memory stick. There is definitely no song about parrots on the memory stick. He suggested it was actually about Rosellas. I was impressed that he knew a Rosella was a parrot! But no, no songs about Rosellas either. After scanning the USB and listening to Darby sing the words to “Rosella” I discovered he was in fact wanting to hear Rosanna by Toto. One of his Dad’s songs of course.
As he sang his version of Rosella I reflected on the music of the generations (much like I have recently reflected on the dance styles of the generations … deep fried fruit brings with it a lot of reflection.) My first record was an ABBA album. I had a cool aunty who was only a teenager when I was born so by the age of five I was already getting records from her. I think the next album I received was the Grease soundtrack. By the time I was a tweenie I was into the compilation albums such as Full Boar featuring the songs “Tell Me Why I Don’t Like Monday’s” and “Space Invaders” in 1980 I think and then 1982 Out Of the Blue (?) with Joan Jett and the Blackhearts singing “I Love Rock and Roll” and Split Enz with “Six Months on a Leaky Boat”. It was that music that my neighbour and I would perform concerts for my Mum in the lounge room using a sheet on a string as our stage curtain. It wasn’t until around 1985/1986 when I was 15/16/17 that music really took over my body and became the source of the greatest adrenalin energy. Do you remember what it felt like? I would watch Video Hits every Saturday morning and if I couldn’t be home I would video it (there was no satellite television or dedicated music channels in Australia back then). Music would just take over my soul and I would get so pumped and high it felt like a drug. That was when I discovered Prince, Michael Jackson, INXS, Culture Club, Wham and U2. Oh, and then there was Run DMC, Tone Loc, and Bon Jovi. Ahhh, those were the days ….
Music just doesn’t have the same impact on this deep fried fruit anymore. We did have an almighty disco for my 40th birthday bash where I got to dress up as Joan Jett and play air guitar on the dance floor (but everyone thought I was dressed as Tina Turner. She’s a grandmother! I’m only 40. How offensive …) But alas, the music drug just doesn’t course through my veins quite the same way anymore.
It is nice to see the kids enjoying it so much though. Especially Darby with his rendition of “Rosella”.
“I can’t hear when you fly away, Rosella yeah; The parrot’s gone and I have to stay; Meet you another day, meet you another day, Rosella yeah; Meet you another day, meet you another day, Rosella yeah"
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Day 49
There is nothing for you here. No point hanging around. What happens on a girls weekend, stays on a girls weekend. And that's all I've got to say about that! Besides, it bloody rained all weekend.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Day 48
I am away!! I am away!! I am away!! This is Leanne and I am away!! This is not Mummy or Wife or Coach or Daughter or Grand Daughter, this is Leanne. I am 100% LEANNE!!
Ok, I sound a little too gleeful. But come on, I don’t do this very often. Just me, being away, with other female deep fried fruit, and limited responsibility. This feels good. Oh sure, I miss my kids and husband, but not enough to give up being nothing but Leanne for two whole days! Woo Hoo.
This is what 40 does for you. Well, this is what 40 has done for me. It has made me realise I don’t have to be Mum and Wife and Coach and Friend all day every day. I can actually be plain old (I mean young) Leanne sometimes and that is ok. I miss Leanne. Don’t get me wrong, Leanne is very happy and far more fulfilled and complete as a mum, wife and everything in between. But I miss being at one with Leanne. Spending time with the original Leanne on a one-on-one basis. The Leanne I grew to rely upon as an only child. I much prefer to be the Leanne of today than the Leanne pre-marriage and pre-children, it’s just nice to spend time with original Leanne occasionally so I can nurture that friendship with self.
This weekend I am spending time with Leanne! And you know something? She’s not a bad chick. Oh, ok there are other people here with me too. I guess I need to play with them as well or they will get jealous that I am spending all my time with Leanne. Sorry ladies. You’re not bad chicks either.
Ok, I sound a little too gleeful. But come on, I don’t do this very often. Just me, being away, with other female deep fried fruit, and limited responsibility. This feels good. Oh sure, I miss my kids and husband, but not enough to give up being nothing but Leanne for two whole days! Woo Hoo.
This is what 40 does for you. Well, this is what 40 has done for me. It has made me realise I don’t have to be Mum and Wife and Coach and Friend all day every day. I can actually be plain old (I mean young) Leanne sometimes and that is ok. I miss Leanne. Don’t get me wrong, Leanne is very happy and far more fulfilled and complete as a mum, wife and everything in between. But I miss being at one with Leanne. Spending time with the original Leanne on a one-on-one basis. The Leanne I grew to rely upon as an only child. I much prefer to be the Leanne of today than the Leanne pre-marriage and pre-children, it’s just nice to spend time with original Leanne occasionally so I can nurture that friendship with self.
This weekend I am spending time with Leanne! And you know something? She’s not a bad chick. Oh, ok there are other people here with me too. I guess I need to play with them as well or they will get jealous that I am spending all my time with Leanne. Sorry ladies. You’re not bad chicks either.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Day 47
Sun, sun, glorious sun ... and not a family member in sight. Well soon. Right now there is family all around me, but by the end of the day I will be enjoying the pleasures of a girls weekend.
I had my first girls weekend (since marriage) last year. Yep, the first girly weekend away for over ten years. I flew to Brisbane to hang with a couple of my uni mates. We drank champagne, watched the “Sex and the City” and “Mamma Mia” movies, ate bickies and dip by the pool and had brunch at trendy cafes in the arty areas of town. Nobody to think about but me. It took a bit of work to get there, but the being there was worth it.
This weekend sees my second girl’s weekend away in 11 years with a different bunch of girls. Why does it take so long for a group of girls to get together? Why does it seem harder for a mother to escape than it is for a father? Is it pressure from others or pressure from self that keeps us part of the family unit for anything other than emergencies, work commitments or travelling for kids sporting events? Hmm. This is a question I actually can’t answer. I am not sure it is self imposed incarceration or imprisonment judged by a jury of peers (ie husband and kids).
Derek has his boys weekend away every year. They play golf, drink bourbon, play cards, smoke cigars and eat enormous steaks without a backward glance. Before I head off I have to get the kids ready for all their weekend activities, get food in the house, get the school uniforms washed and a list of “things to do” marked up before I can leave, and then I leave with a sense of worry that no one will ever be able to care for my kids as well as I do. What if they don’t brush their teeth? What if they eat nothing but ice cream for three days? What if they take the dog for a walk and Derek doesn’t know their missing until it is too late? Hmm again. My panic is setting in. Derek is not a useless father. He’s just not overly attentive either. Like many dads he is somewhere in between. But I am the mum. The mum! A dad is not a mum. And Mummy is leaving for a girls weekend away …
Ok, so this arvo I head off for my girl’s weekend away. I need to let the rest go. My kids are safe. I can drink champagne, lie on the beach, read my book, I don’t have to cook, I get to eat nothing but nibbles all weekend, sleep in, giggle, eat at trendy cafes and unless one of the women get horribly drunk I won’t have to cut up anyone else’s food, wipe anyone else’s bum, wash anyone else’s hair, clean up anyone else’s clothes or share my bed. Why on Earth would I think twice?! Forget self imposed incarceration, this weekend I choose exile.
I had my first girls weekend (since marriage) last year. Yep, the first girly weekend away for over ten years. I flew to Brisbane to hang with a couple of my uni mates. We drank champagne, watched the “Sex and the City” and “Mamma Mia” movies, ate bickies and dip by the pool and had brunch at trendy cafes in the arty areas of town. Nobody to think about but me. It took a bit of work to get there, but the being there was worth it.
This weekend sees my second girl’s weekend away in 11 years with a different bunch of girls. Why does it take so long for a group of girls to get together? Why does it seem harder for a mother to escape than it is for a father? Is it pressure from others or pressure from self that keeps us part of the family unit for anything other than emergencies, work commitments or travelling for kids sporting events? Hmm. This is a question I actually can’t answer. I am not sure it is self imposed incarceration or imprisonment judged by a jury of peers (ie husband and kids).
Derek has his boys weekend away every year. They play golf, drink bourbon, play cards, smoke cigars and eat enormous steaks without a backward glance. Before I head off I have to get the kids ready for all their weekend activities, get food in the house, get the school uniforms washed and a list of “things to do” marked up before I can leave, and then I leave with a sense of worry that no one will ever be able to care for my kids as well as I do. What if they don’t brush their teeth? What if they eat nothing but ice cream for three days? What if they take the dog for a walk and Derek doesn’t know their missing until it is too late? Hmm again. My panic is setting in. Derek is not a useless father. He’s just not overly attentive either. Like many dads he is somewhere in between. But I am the mum. The mum! A dad is not a mum. And Mummy is leaving for a girls weekend away …
Ok, so this arvo I head off for my girl’s weekend away. I need to let the rest go. My kids are safe. I can drink champagne, lie on the beach, read my book, I don’t have to cook, I get to eat nothing but nibbles all weekend, sleep in, giggle, eat at trendy cafes and unless one of the women get horribly drunk I won’t have to cut up anyone else’s food, wipe anyone else’s bum, wash anyone else’s hair, clean up anyone else’s clothes or share my bed. Why on Earth would I think twice?! Forget self imposed incarceration, this weekend I choose exile.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Day 46
Oh man it’s hot. It is so freakin’ hot. Seriously hot. According to my trusty Nokia Nseries the temperature outside is currently 36 degrees. Which of course must be correct since the phone knows exactly where I am standing on this planet at any given time. In case of course, I get lost and don’t know where I am. It will be handy when dementia sets in I suppose. Anyway, it’s hot. Just walked in house and it is an oven. Must put air on. Despite my minimal attire of capris and a singlet top, there is sweat dribbling down my cleavage and it’s getting caught in the folds under my deep fried breasts. I can also feel it running down the backs of my legs. It’s too damn hot. It’s time to strategically place some ice cubes. Just tuck them into any piece of clothing that has enough elasticity to hold them (ie undies and bra). Ahh, that’s better.
Ding Dong. Someone’s at the door. Oh hello, it’s the telephone company offering to package up my options. Now that’s a come on line if ever I heard one! Sorry kid, I’m married, but thanks for thinking of me! I’m not listening to a word he is saying of course. Too hot. My eyes have glazed over from the spiel he is giving me and besides, my ice is melting. Oh dear, my ice is melting?! He’s seen it too. Quick escape. He no longer wants to package up my options. As far as he’s concerned I have breast feeding leakage and I just piddled my pants. Ice! It’s cooling and it repels! Huh, go figure ….
Doesn’t change the fact that it’s too damn hot. It’s nice that the Nokia can tell me that it’s hot, but what it really needs to do is change the temperature for me. Does the iPhone do that?
Ding Dong. Someone’s at the door. Oh hello, it’s the telephone company offering to package up my options. Now that’s a come on line if ever I heard one! Sorry kid, I’m married, but thanks for thinking of me! I’m not listening to a word he is saying of course. Too hot. My eyes have glazed over from the spiel he is giving me and besides, my ice is melting. Oh dear, my ice is melting?! He’s seen it too. Quick escape. He no longer wants to package up my options. As far as he’s concerned I have breast feeding leakage and I just piddled my pants. Ice! It’s cooling and it repels! Huh, go figure ….
Doesn’t change the fact that it’s too damn hot. It’s nice that the Nokia can tell me that it’s hot, but what it really needs to do is change the temperature for me. Does the iPhone do that?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Day 45
I have dark hair and a white en suite. Anyone with dark hair and a white bathroom would understand the enormity of this, particularly if you are prone to losing a bit of hair during the grooming process. The only word to describe it is filthy. It is downright filthy.
So every day I should sweep up my hair. But I don’t. I don’t leave it to fester and rot, but I don’t dispose of it daily. The family is used to it. It’s amazing what you can get used to. I suppose you’d get used to warts and in-grown toe nails if you had to live with them long enough. That’s what it’s like with my hair. We all get used to it. And when guests are due the en suite is the last room in the house I clean. Well, they aren’t going to see it, are they? The main bathroom is spotless, the family room tidy, the dining room perfect, the kitchen gleaming, the lounge room cosy, the bedrooms neat and the en suite filthy. If it’s a party and I know that more than one toilet will be required, then the hair is gone and the en suite sparkles. But if it’s just a couple of people over then the en suite stays furry, mainly because my husband is still showering and I am still in there brushing my hair within minutes of the door bell sounding.
So you can imagine the anxiety it creates when there is an unexpected need for both bathrooms. The anxiety heightens when it is your mother. I mean, it shouldn’t, but it does because she raised me better than that. But anxieties reach heart attack point when it’s the mother-in-law. That is head-in-the-hand, retreat to a corner and rock obsessively kind of anxiety.
As far as mother-in-laws go I have a good one. A great one in fact. Derek and I get along very well with our respective parents-in-law, but everyone knows that to a son’s mother, the son’s wife will never be able to cook, clean, iron, wash or sew as well as his own mother. She might not come out and say it, but the subtle suggestions about improving recipes, the offering of cleaning products and the advice on washing techniques pretty much means you’re not up to scratch. There are times, many in fact, where I’ve been thrown into a real life episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond”. It’s all good though. I take it all with a grain of salt, as does she. We each know our place and we get along well.
But dark hair and white bathrooms are REALLY not a good combination. I walked into the house one day to find Derek’s folks had arrived earlier than expected and were already inside making themselves at home. It’s nice to have a welcoming comfortable home I thought as I ascended the stairs. It’s so nice to have such peace with the extended family. I will never understand family feuds. And then I saw her as she emerged from my bedroom. “Hello love! Just used your bathroom as Darby’s in the other one”. Oh shit! Oh crap! Oh vomit! She’d seen it. It was too late. Life would never be the same again. Nothing was mentioned, but it wasn’t long afterwards that I was handed a little book called “Speed Cleaning: a spotless house in just 15 minutes a day”.
How to speed clean white en suite: dye dark hair blonde ….
So every day I should sweep up my hair. But I don’t. I don’t leave it to fester and rot, but I don’t dispose of it daily. The family is used to it. It’s amazing what you can get used to. I suppose you’d get used to warts and in-grown toe nails if you had to live with them long enough. That’s what it’s like with my hair. We all get used to it. And when guests are due the en suite is the last room in the house I clean. Well, they aren’t going to see it, are they? The main bathroom is spotless, the family room tidy, the dining room perfect, the kitchen gleaming, the lounge room cosy, the bedrooms neat and the en suite filthy. If it’s a party and I know that more than one toilet will be required, then the hair is gone and the en suite sparkles. But if it’s just a couple of people over then the en suite stays furry, mainly because my husband is still showering and I am still in there brushing my hair within minutes of the door bell sounding.
So you can imagine the anxiety it creates when there is an unexpected need for both bathrooms. The anxiety heightens when it is your mother. I mean, it shouldn’t, but it does because she raised me better than that. But anxieties reach heart attack point when it’s the mother-in-law. That is head-in-the-hand, retreat to a corner and rock obsessively kind of anxiety.
As far as mother-in-laws go I have a good one. A great one in fact. Derek and I get along very well with our respective parents-in-law, but everyone knows that to a son’s mother, the son’s wife will never be able to cook, clean, iron, wash or sew as well as his own mother. She might not come out and say it, but the subtle suggestions about improving recipes, the offering of cleaning products and the advice on washing techniques pretty much means you’re not up to scratch. There are times, many in fact, where I’ve been thrown into a real life episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond”. It’s all good though. I take it all with a grain of salt, as does she. We each know our place and we get along well.
But dark hair and white bathrooms are REALLY not a good combination. I walked into the house one day to find Derek’s folks had arrived earlier than expected and were already inside making themselves at home. It’s nice to have a welcoming comfortable home I thought as I ascended the stairs. It’s so nice to have such peace with the extended family. I will never understand family feuds. And then I saw her as she emerged from my bedroom. “Hello love! Just used your bathroom as Darby’s in the other one”. Oh shit! Oh crap! Oh vomit! She’d seen it. It was too late. Life would never be the same again. Nothing was mentioned, but it wasn’t long afterwards that I was handed a little book called “Speed Cleaning: a spotless house in just 15 minutes a day”.
How to speed clean white en suite: dye dark hair blonde ….
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Day 44
Australian day time television is banned in my house. Not because it’s not good. Kerry-Anne is lovely. It’s the shopping.
For 15 years I worked full time for the Australian Government spending ten hours a day in the office, so I was not privy to day time TV or the home shopping phenomenon. Then one day I was sick, about three months before I “retired” from the Government, and as I lay in my bed I discovered morning television. By the end of the day I had bought two vacuum cleaners (buy one get one free!), a steam cleaner and a diamondesque ring. We almost ended up with one of those belts that supposedly works your abs all day because it zaps you every few seconds causing you to clench, but luckily common sense prevailed. On leaving work to explore life as a stay-at-home mum I bought more wonderful inventions such as the Ab King Pro and the Leg Master. Both are now sitting on the front balcony covered in cob webs. That was when the daytime ban came into place. Home shopping has ceased and the credit card is healthy again.
But recently when I was visiting a new Mum with her 6 month old baby we sat drinking tea and I came face to face with my demon. She had daytime television on in the background. That’s when I saw it. The ShamWow. The ShamWOW!! My adrenalin started to surge. The cellular memory kicked in, the addiction bugs started to gurgle, I was heading for a relapse. According to the guy on TV “you’ll be saying wow every time you use this towel. It’s like a shammy, it’s like a towel, it’s like a sponge …. It holds 12 times its weight in liquid! Made in Germany (you know the German’s always make good stuff).”
It seems every house needs a ShamWow. If you spill a can of Coke on the floor it will soak it all up! Now that’s worth it. And if you buy it in the next ten minutes you not only get a pack of ShamWow’s of varying sizes but you get another entire pack free!! Well that’s it. I have to have one. Where’s my wallet? Has anyone seen my wallet? Bugger, I can’t find my wallet.
Oh, and now look what’s on! A swivel sweeper. Swivel sweeper is a lightweight, cordless, floor and carpet sweeper that lets you clean dirt faster and easier than any other cordless sweeper! Now that sounds like a good gadget to have. Oh wait, I have Roomba, I don’t need swivel sweeper. But I could use some of that tooth whitening stuff, and maybe even a cardio twister, and an inflatable sleeping bag bed, and a hair removal do dad, and an ultrasonic distance measurer .. (what the?!) … and ….
If I could only find my wallet ….
For 15 years I worked full time for the Australian Government spending ten hours a day in the office, so I was not privy to day time TV or the home shopping phenomenon. Then one day I was sick, about three months before I “retired” from the Government, and as I lay in my bed I discovered morning television. By the end of the day I had bought two vacuum cleaners (buy one get one free!), a steam cleaner and a diamondesque ring. We almost ended up with one of those belts that supposedly works your abs all day because it zaps you every few seconds causing you to clench, but luckily common sense prevailed. On leaving work to explore life as a stay-at-home mum I bought more wonderful inventions such as the Ab King Pro and the Leg Master. Both are now sitting on the front balcony covered in cob webs. That was when the daytime ban came into place. Home shopping has ceased and the credit card is healthy again.
But recently when I was visiting a new Mum with her 6 month old baby we sat drinking tea and I came face to face with my demon. She had daytime television on in the background. That’s when I saw it. The ShamWow. The ShamWOW!! My adrenalin started to surge. The cellular memory kicked in, the addiction bugs started to gurgle, I was heading for a relapse. According to the guy on TV “you’ll be saying wow every time you use this towel. It’s like a shammy, it’s like a towel, it’s like a sponge …. It holds 12 times its weight in liquid! Made in Germany (you know the German’s always make good stuff).”
It seems every house needs a ShamWow. If you spill a can of Coke on the floor it will soak it all up! Now that’s worth it. And if you buy it in the next ten minutes you not only get a pack of ShamWow’s of varying sizes but you get another entire pack free!! Well that’s it. I have to have one. Where’s my wallet? Has anyone seen my wallet? Bugger, I can’t find my wallet.
Oh, and now look what’s on! A swivel sweeper. Swivel sweeper is a lightweight, cordless, floor and carpet sweeper that lets you clean dirt faster and easier than any other cordless sweeper! Now that sounds like a good gadget to have. Oh wait, I have Roomba, I don’t need swivel sweeper. But I could use some of that tooth whitening stuff, and maybe even a cardio twister, and an inflatable sleeping bag bed, and a hair removal do dad, and an ultrasonic distance measurer .. (what the?!) … and ….
If I could only find my wallet ….
Monday, November 16, 2009
Day 43
My beard is growing, my moustache is darkening and my eye brows are fading away. Not to mention my foundation is disappearing into my crows feet and my neck is so saggy I could store spare change in the folds. That stupid acid I trialled did diddly squat and the hemroid cream is just so thick and weird that putting it on my face makes me feel like an arse (no pun intended). What is a girl to do? A trip to the beautician will fix the hairy issues but nothing but a peg can pull the skin back into line. A peg! What a good idea. Nuh. The peg doesn’t stay. A bulldog clip is better (if you can stand the pain).
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Day 42
Has anyone ever gotten divorced because of a washing machine?
The reason for divorce is usually unreconcilable differences, but I want to see those “differences” mapped out. I reckon it would be a series of items such as not recapping the toothpaste, empty ice trays, lack of toilet etiquette, talking with your mouth full, and washing golf balls in the washing machine.
You heard me.
I couldn’t believe it! As Derek prepared for his big boys golfing weekend away I came home to a washing machine rattling like machine gun as an entire bucket full of golf balls were getting all shined up for the big testosterone filled event. What the?!?! I opened it up to find what looked like a lotto draw about to take place. Now, the washing machine gets used for some odd things but golf balls?
So what else gets washed in there? There is of course the very hairy dog blanket that gets washed leaving a film of blonde Labrador fur in the machine that takes 2 rinses and lots of towelling to remove. And of course the slippers covered in dog crap that he throws in there BEFORE the dog poo is removed. Now that’s disgusting. His argument being that babies nappies are washed in washing machines, why can’t dog faeces be included in that category. Because my dear Husband, the babies nappies are unloaded of their poop and soaked in bleach BEFORE they go in the machine. Let me see, what else? Um, there is the soft sided cooler bags, a beach bag full of sand and sunscreen (what a mess) and a tent. Hmmm. Oh and a pillow which of course came out lumpy and had to be thrown away ...
And he then complains that his clothes are coming out dirtier than they go in because of this strange dusty coating they are getting. Umm, I hate to suggest this, but is it possible this is another example of “the mash potato is making me fat?” Me thinks that if you stopped bringing the great outdoors into the washing machine, the washing machine may stop dusting the great outdoors across your t-shirts.
Forget deep fried fruit, I’m about to deep fry my husband.
The reason for divorce is usually unreconcilable differences, but I want to see those “differences” mapped out. I reckon it would be a series of items such as not recapping the toothpaste, empty ice trays, lack of toilet etiquette, talking with your mouth full, and washing golf balls in the washing machine.
You heard me.
I couldn’t believe it! As Derek prepared for his big boys golfing weekend away I came home to a washing machine rattling like machine gun as an entire bucket full of golf balls were getting all shined up for the big testosterone filled event. What the?!?! I opened it up to find what looked like a lotto draw about to take place. Now, the washing machine gets used for some odd things but golf balls?
So what else gets washed in there? There is of course the very hairy dog blanket that gets washed leaving a film of blonde Labrador fur in the machine that takes 2 rinses and lots of towelling to remove. And of course the slippers covered in dog crap that he throws in there BEFORE the dog poo is removed. Now that’s disgusting. His argument being that babies nappies are washed in washing machines, why can’t dog faeces be included in that category. Because my dear Husband, the babies nappies are unloaded of their poop and soaked in bleach BEFORE they go in the machine. Let me see, what else? Um, there is the soft sided cooler bags, a beach bag full of sand and sunscreen (what a mess) and a tent. Hmmm. Oh and a pillow which of course came out lumpy and had to be thrown away ...
And he then complains that his clothes are coming out dirtier than they go in because of this strange dusty coating they are getting. Umm, I hate to suggest this, but is it possible this is another example of “the mash potato is making me fat?” Me thinks that if you stopped bringing the great outdoors into the washing machine, the washing machine may stop dusting the great outdoors across your t-shirts.
Forget deep fried fruit, I’m about to deep fry my husband.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Day 41
I just got a new mobile phone. I am not much into the latest and greatest. I enjoy a bit of technological growth every now and then, but instant gratification based on fad is not my thing. We bought our first plasma TV this year, and that was under duress. You see our 16 year old tele popped some sort of valve and turned the world green. So most of our technological advances are somewhat forced. MOST of them. My robotic vacuum is another story …
Back to the phone. So as the sales rep was steering me towards the iPhone I was stepping backwards and sidewards to a less “popular” version. A phone is after all just a phone …isn’t it? Do I really have to give into the iPhone phenomenon and become part the craze that is sweeping generation Y? I’d prefer not to. I don’t want my kids to be watching me get on board these pop wagons because that’s when you get into the whole upgrade cycle and need for instant gratification. Nope. I am not having an iPhone based purely on principle! (Gosh, I am sounding like my father.)
I wouldn’t have changed phones at all had it been for the fact my previous phone stopped working. I sign up to these 2 year contracts where the phone is part of the cost of your capped plan and that has always suited me. For the past two contract renewals my previous handset has mysteriously stopped working within weeks of the renewal date forcing me to upgrade.
Did I say mysteriously stopped working? I guess they haven’t been such mysterious episodes. Two years ago as my daughter marvelled at the prospect of inheriting my Motorolla flip phone when my new contract came up (to play games only) she accidentally dropped it into a large glass of bourbon and coke. No, she wasn’t drinking the bourbon. I was. She was just standing next to me practicing her phone flipping technique when it sprung from her hands and drowned in a bottomless cocktail. End of phone. As I use my mobile for business a quick decision had to be made on the new handset as part of my contract renewal. I went for the touch pad Samsung. After six months I finally got used to the new beast and 18months along, just as familiarity had set in and I was in a phone comfort zone, my daughter once again interrupted cocktail hour by knocking my champagne glass over the handset. A quick retrieval meant the phone didn’t die … but the touch pad froze on me rendering the phone useless and yet again I was phone-less. LUCKILY both alcohol phone deaths were within weeks of phone renewal soooooo, I get a new handset at no extra cost. But now I have to relearn how to use the bloody thing.
I successfully steered clear of the iPhone and went for a trusty old Nokia taking me back to my very original mobile phone roots. It is something called an N series and has some nifty little keyboard that pops out when I need to email or SMS. I can email from my phone? Are you serious? And there seems to be a Facebook option there. Hmm. What else? Some sort of GPS or navigational device which can pinpoint exactly where I am in the world (just in case I have no idea of my whereabouts I guess?!) Handy. So I have loaded it all up and I have turned it on, but I’ll be buggered if I can work out how to make a phone call. I am staring at the touch screen hitting things and everything is taking me to an internet option. All I can see are metaphoric $$$$ flashing across the screen as every connection I make rings up some sort of added cost on my account. All I want to do is call someone! I am starting to worry that I haven’t signed up for a phone at all but some sort of NASA communication device that requires a degree. I mentioned this to an acquaintance and she said “it’s not rocket science”. Yes actually, I think it is!
Where the hell is that manual? This is going to take me another six months to work this out. Until I do, you all need to call me, ok? I think the green button will let me answer the phone …
Back to the phone. So as the sales rep was steering me towards the iPhone I was stepping backwards and sidewards to a less “popular” version. A phone is after all just a phone …isn’t it? Do I really have to give into the iPhone phenomenon and become part the craze that is sweeping generation Y? I’d prefer not to. I don’t want my kids to be watching me get on board these pop wagons because that’s when you get into the whole upgrade cycle and need for instant gratification. Nope. I am not having an iPhone based purely on principle! (Gosh, I am sounding like my father.)
I wouldn’t have changed phones at all had it been for the fact my previous phone stopped working. I sign up to these 2 year contracts where the phone is part of the cost of your capped plan and that has always suited me. For the past two contract renewals my previous handset has mysteriously stopped working within weeks of the renewal date forcing me to upgrade.
Did I say mysteriously stopped working? I guess they haven’t been such mysterious episodes. Two years ago as my daughter marvelled at the prospect of inheriting my Motorolla flip phone when my new contract came up (to play games only) she accidentally dropped it into a large glass of bourbon and coke. No, she wasn’t drinking the bourbon. I was. She was just standing next to me practicing her phone flipping technique when it sprung from her hands and drowned in a bottomless cocktail. End of phone. As I use my mobile for business a quick decision had to be made on the new handset as part of my contract renewal. I went for the touch pad Samsung. After six months I finally got used to the new beast and 18months along, just as familiarity had set in and I was in a phone comfort zone, my daughter once again interrupted cocktail hour by knocking my champagne glass over the handset. A quick retrieval meant the phone didn’t die … but the touch pad froze on me rendering the phone useless and yet again I was phone-less. LUCKILY both alcohol phone deaths were within weeks of phone renewal soooooo, I get a new handset at no extra cost. But now I have to relearn how to use the bloody thing.
I successfully steered clear of the iPhone and went for a trusty old Nokia taking me back to my very original mobile phone roots. It is something called an N series and has some nifty little keyboard that pops out when I need to email or SMS. I can email from my phone? Are you serious? And there seems to be a Facebook option there. Hmm. What else? Some sort of GPS or navigational device which can pinpoint exactly where I am in the world (just in case I have no idea of my whereabouts I guess?!) Handy. So I have loaded it all up and I have turned it on, but I’ll be buggered if I can work out how to make a phone call. I am staring at the touch screen hitting things and everything is taking me to an internet option. All I can see are metaphoric $$$$ flashing across the screen as every connection I make rings up some sort of added cost on my account. All I want to do is call someone! I am starting to worry that I haven’t signed up for a phone at all but some sort of NASA communication device that requires a degree. I mentioned this to an acquaintance and she said “it’s not rocket science”. Yes actually, I think it is!
Where the hell is that manual? This is going to take me another six months to work this out. Until I do, you all need to call me, ok? I think the green button will let me answer the phone …
Friday, November 13, 2009
Day 40
Mum and Dad are trekking through Thailand at the moment. No, not trekking around the shops, the beach or Pat Pong Road, they are actually wearing their David Attenborough shorts and hiking boots and trekking about the place visiting Kanchanaburi, River Kwai, farmlands, Ayuthaya, Chiang Mai, Palong Village, and Chiang Dao Mountain. They do this by local train, boat, elephant, and of course walking.
This isn’t their first trekking adventure. For Dad’s 60th birthday they went to Peru for the Machu Picchu adventure. And no, they didn’t catch the train for the bulk of the trip and only walk the end, they trekked the 80 kilometres or so from Cuzco walking the entire way. Wow. Of course they needed months of training for this amazing adventure. They did a practice trip with New Zealand’s Milford Walk to test Dad’s vertigo, their altitude resilience and of course their fitness. They passed with flying colours being the oldest couple there and leading the pack. I guess months of Saturday’s spent climbing up and down Bungonia Gorge with backpacks on their backs would have prepared them. And yes, they are the oldest couple on these expeditions. You see, the tours are designed for 20-40 year olds. Mum and Dad have to show references and other proof that they are able bodied enough to join the youngsters.
See how the trips are designed to finish when you turn 40! How’s that for making you feel your age. Is that true indication that 40 is old? Or are these things just not designed for the middle aged? Well, this little piece of deep fried fruit is not going to stand for that!!! Or am I?
You know what, as much as I admire what Mum and Dad are doing and I love that they are living life to the fullest, what on Earth possesses someone to take a vacation where they come out more physically exhausted than when they went in? And why in your 60s would you want to be fighting off leeches, mosquitoes and fire ants? (Dad was attacked by fire ants in the Amazon jungle – happy birthday Dad!) It really isn’t for me. I have visions of Mum and Dad right now on the back of some rickety old truck in Thailand, surrounded by pigs and chickens as they bounce down some jungle path.
I am going to have to decline on this in my 40s and perhaps rethink it next decade. As adventurous as it all sounds I think I will keep my nails and my stilettos for a little longer. Besides, my legs look like tree trunks in the safari shorts/hiking boots combination.
This isn’t their first trekking adventure. For Dad’s 60th birthday they went to Peru for the Machu Picchu adventure. And no, they didn’t catch the train for the bulk of the trip and only walk the end, they trekked the 80 kilometres or so from Cuzco walking the entire way. Wow. Of course they needed months of training for this amazing adventure. They did a practice trip with New Zealand’s Milford Walk to test Dad’s vertigo, their altitude resilience and of course their fitness. They passed with flying colours being the oldest couple there and leading the pack. I guess months of Saturday’s spent climbing up and down Bungonia Gorge with backpacks on their backs would have prepared them. And yes, they are the oldest couple on these expeditions. You see, the tours are designed for 20-40 year olds. Mum and Dad have to show references and other proof that they are able bodied enough to join the youngsters.
See how the trips are designed to finish when you turn 40! How’s that for making you feel your age. Is that true indication that 40 is old? Or are these things just not designed for the middle aged? Well, this little piece of deep fried fruit is not going to stand for that!!! Or am I?
You know what, as much as I admire what Mum and Dad are doing and I love that they are living life to the fullest, what on Earth possesses someone to take a vacation where they come out more physically exhausted than when they went in? And why in your 60s would you want to be fighting off leeches, mosquitoes and fire ants? (Dad was attacked by fire ants in the Amazon jungle – happy birthday Dad!) It really isn’t for me. I have visions of Mum and Dad right now on the back of some rickety old truck in Thailand, surrounded by pigs and chickens as they bounce down some jungle path.
I am going to have to decline on this in my 40s and perhaps rethink it next decade. As adventurous as it all sounds I think I will keep my nails and my stilettos for a little longer. Besides, my legs look like tree trunks in the safari shorts/hiking boots combination.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Day 39
Socks! Or should I say sock?!
There is never two of them. What the hell happens to the other sock? As environmentally friendly as I try to be, someone should invent disposable socks. I have a mountain of single socks in my laundry with no sign of their partners ever returning. The divorce rate of socks is too high. They just don’t even try to stick it out anymore as a couple. At the first sign of trouble its splits-ville. The sock God needs to come forward and take charge of the situation. Couples counselling is obviously required. In a game of “animal, vegetable, mineral” socks are obviously animal. People think that sock puppets are the invention of desperate mothers who are trying to entertain attention deficit children. Wrong. Sock puppets are real. They exist. The only thing crafty about a sock puppet is their personality. Get your act together socks!! I beg of you. Your lack of commitment and respect is sending me around the twist.
There is never two of them. What the hell happens to the other sock? As environmentally friendly as I try to be, someone should invent disposable socks. I have a mountain of single socks in my laundry with no sign of their partners ever returning. The divorce rate of socks is too high. They just don’t even try to stick it out anymore as a couple. At the first sign of trouble its splits-ville. The sock God needs to come forward and take charge of the situation. Couples counselling is obviously required. In a game of “animal, vegetable, mineral” socks are obviously animal. People think that sock puppets are the invention of desperate mothers who are trying to entertain attention deficit children. Wrong. Sock puppets are real. They exist. The only thing crafty about a sock puppet is their personality. Get your act together socks!! I beg of you. Your lack of commitment and respect is sending me around the twist.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Day 38
One of the great things about deep fried fruit is that the birthday celebrations go on for ever!
Today I had a surprise. I don’t usually get surprised. My husband tried to surprise me over my 40th birthday weekend by organising for my uni friends to arrive the night before my party. He had hoped they would all go to a restaurant where he would take me for a “date night” and I would have the wonderful surprise of seeing my friends of 20+ years sitting waiting for me. You see, they live far and wide and we only get to see each other once every year or so. So it would have been a very good reunion. But during the coordination process there were too many variables and the surprise party was going to turn into 3 little surprise parties in the one 12 hour period and it caved Derek’s head in. So he withdrew. He came to me a few weeks before my birthday with his hands in the air in surrender position and told me he had failed. He quite simply couldn’t coordinate the reunion. It was all too hard. So I, while appreciating the gesture, ended up organising my own surprise party secretly disappointed that yet again I had never been surprised.
Well, my uni friends had an ace up their sleeve. They all put in for a gift that even I wouldn’t have expected. One of my long time friends drove five hours yesterday to take me to lunch and to stay the night. She then got me up at 5.00am for a dawn outing. What type of outing commences at sunrise? You guessed it - a hot air balloon ride. So this morning I was able to tick an activity off my bucket list! It was spectacular. A truly memorable experience.
Oh, and the balloon basket was full of deep fried fruit. Actually, other than my friend, I was probably the firmest of the bunch! It seems hot air ballooning is a popular item on the old “things to do before I die” list.
Today I had a surprise. I don’t usually get surprised. My husband tried to surprise me over my 40th birthday weekend by organising for my uni friends to arrive the night before my party. He had hoped they would all go to a restaurant where he would take me for a “date night” and I would have the wonderful surprise of seeing my friends of 20+ years sitting waiting for me. You see, they live far and wide and we only get to see each other once every year or so. So it would have been a very good reunion. But during the coordination process there were too many variables and the surprise party was going to turn into 3 little surprise parties in the one 12 hour period and it caved Derek’s head in. So he withdrew. He came to me a few weeks before my birthday with his hands in the air in surrender position and told me he had failed. He quite simply couldn’t coordinate the reunion. It was all too hard. So I, while appreciating the gesture, ended up organising my own surprise party secretly disappointed that yet again I had never been surprised.
Well, my uni friends had an ace up their sleeve. They all put in for a gift that even I wouldn’t have expected. One of my long time friends drove five hours yesterday to take me to lunch and to stay the night. She then got me up at 5.00am for a dawn outing. What type of outing commences at sunrise? You guessed it - a hot air balloon ride. So this morning I was able to tick an activity off my bucket list! It was spectacular. A truly memorable experience.
Oh, and the balloon basket was full of deep fried fruit. Actually, other than my friend, I was probably the firmest of the bunch! It seems hot air ballooning is a popular item on the old “things to do before I die” list.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Day 37
After all that fatigue I have been feeling (and other various health issues which I will talk about another day) I have opted out of boot camp for this month. For the first time since I started back in February I am not doing any “push me till I puke” exercise. The prospect of stopping boot camp has been a big stress for me, because I can still remember all too clearly what it was like when I first commenced. The shock to my body of exercise is something I don’t want to repeat! Will boot camp avoidance send me back to whence I came? Will I lose my muscle tone and my fitness. How long does it actually take to start sliding back into the world of gasping breaths, screaming muscles and near death experiences?
It’s been 3 weeks without boot camp now and I have already put on 2 kgs. I guess the problem is I am eating like a boot camper, without exercising like a boot camper. Oh sure, I am doing my street funk and I am jumping about with my cheerleaders, but it’s not the drive-me-till-I-drop stuff I am used to. Self motivation when it comes to exercise is not my strong suit. I am self motivated in every other aspect of my life, but when it comes to sweat, I prefer to take the path of least resistance.
Today I am changing all of that! Today I am awake at my usual boot camp hour of 5.00am to greet the sunrise with my own little boot camp session. Sure, my health is still an issue, but so is my waistline! It’s time to get back on this horse …
It will be interesting to see if I can whip myself into line. How do I run my own boot camp? Who’s going to be the one to scream and yell and sit on me as I do push ups? This is going to be an interesting little experiment in self talk! If I were to yell “suck it up princess” do you think I will listen? Will I be afraid of my own voice? Hmm
I had some practice at it yesterday. The yelling that is. Yesterday I started a mini-version of boot camp for the cheerleaders. It’s time for them to build some muscle and endurance. There’s no grit in those little bodies! It’s time to make men out of these girls. We are going to add a teaspoon of cement and toughen them up! They are after all ten years old. Shouldn’t they be able to pull a truck by now?
So as I go to my own little boot camp this morning and yell at myself I will think of my little cheer chicks and the paces I put them through yesterday. I will think of the penalty push-ups I gave them for whinging. I will think about the sprinting I had them do with time penalties. I will think about the hand I put on their backs to add pressure in a push up. Oh, my poor little chickadees …
Oh man, it’s still dark outside. I’m tired. And hungry. My back hurts. Can I go back to bed?
“TOUGHEN UP PRINCESSSSSSSSS!!!!! Any more complaints and you’ll get penalties!”
“But ….”
“That’s it! Give me 50 ….”
“But ….”
“You want me to make it 60?”
Oh wow. She’s a tough one. Yep, I’m scared.
It’s been 3 weeks without boot camp now and I have already put on 2 kgs. I guess the problem is I am eating like a boot camper, without exercising like a boot camper. Oh sure, I am doing my street funk and I am jumping about with my cheerleaders, but it’s not the drive-me-till-I-drop stuff I am used to. Self motivation when it comes to exercise is not my strong suit. I am self motivated in every other aspect of my life, but when it comes to sweat, I prefer to take the path of least resistance.
Today I am changing all of that! Today I am awake at my usual boot camp hour of 5.00am to greet the sunrise with my own little boot camp session. Sure, my health is still an issue, but so is my waistline! It’s time to get back on this horse …
It will be interesting to see if I can whip myself into line. How do I run my own boot camp? Who’s going to be the one to scream and yell and sit on me as I do push ups? This is going to be an interesting little experiment in self talk! If I were to yell “suck it up princess” do you think I will listen? Will I be afraid of my own voice? Hmm
I had some practice at it yesterday. The yelling that is. Yesterday I started a mini-version of boot camp for the cheerleaders. It’s time for them to build some muscle and endurance. There’s no grit in those little bodies! It’s time to make men out of these girls. We are going to add a teaspoon of cement and toughen them up! They are after all ten years old. Shouldn’t they be able to pull a truck by now?
So as I go to my own little boot camp this morning and yell at myself I will think of my little cheer chicks and the paces I put them through yesterday. I will think of the penalty push-ups I gave them for whinging. I will think about the sprinting I had them do with time penalties. I will think about the hand I put on their backs to add pressure in a push up. Oh, my poor little chickadees …
Oh man, it’s still dark outside. I’m tired. And hungry. My back hurts. Can I go back to bed?
“TOUGHEN UP PRINCESSSSSSSSS!!!!! Any more complaints and you’ll get penalties!”
“But ….”
“That’s it! Give me 50 ….”
“But ….”
“You want me to make it 60?”
Oh wow. She’s a tough one. Yep, I’m scared.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Day 36
I have one word for you – pasties!
I have a friend who was having body image issues so to combat them she dived in the deep end and took up burlesque dancing. Burlesque dancing! That’s a pretty deep dive. After a few months worth of training it was time for the concert. So in support of my friend I bought a ticket and very tentatively joined the 200 plus audience to watch her take her gear off. What is burlesque anyway? According to Wikipedia burlesque is “is a humorous theatrical entertainment involving parody in which striptease is the chief attraction.” Yep, that pretty much sums it up.
The show was absolutely sensational. There were around 20 performers who ranged in age and size. Every single one of them looked sensational, sexy and completely tasteful in their various state of undress. It was an absolute celebration of the female body. What I most noticed was that these women had the biggest undies in the world covered in feathers and flowers, along with the most wonderful corsets and bras. What really struck me about it all was how nasty modern underwear looks in comparison! What have we done? We have reduced our underpants to the size of a post-it note leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. And the g-string can only look good on buns of steal, on a normal butt it just looks like string cutting through jelly. I have spent the last 10 years avoiding big undies in an effort to stay young, but what is wrong with enormous knickers? These ladies ranged in size from petite and slim to tall and voluptuous and the one constant was that big full briefs looked absolutely fabulous and incredibly sexy on all of them! Deep fried fruit in big girls undies!! That’s the way of the future …
Now, about those pasties. Each time the girls turned their backs to us and unhooked their bras I would take a deep breath and peak through my fingers as they spun back towards us praying their double sided tape was working. I am pleased to say there were no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunctions. Their pasties would be firmly in place despite the rate in which their breasts were bouncing. How they swing those tassels is a mystery to me but it worked every time. So am I going to take up burlesque dancing during my year of deep fried fruit? No. But I did buy some pasties to try at home. I figured if these ladies could do it for 200 spectators surely I could do it for one …
Does it hurt when you rip them off?
I have a friend who was having body image issues so to combat them she dived in the deep end and took up burlesque dancing. Burlesque dancing! That’s a pretty deep dive. After a few months worth of training it was time for the concert. So in support of my friend I bought a ticket and very tentatively joined the 200 plus audience to watch her take her gear off. What is burlesque anyway? According to Wikipedia burlesque is “is a humorous theatrical entertainment involving parody in which striptease is the chief attraction.” Yep, that pretty much sums it up.
The show was absolutely sensational. There were around 20 performers who ranged in age and size. Every single one of them looked sensational, sexy and completely tasteful in their various state of undress. It was an absolute celebration of the female body. What I most noticed was that these women had the biggest undies in the world covered in feathers and flowers, along with the most wonderful corsets and bras. What really struck me about it all was how nasty modern underwear looks in comparison! What have we done? We have reduced our underpants to the size of a post-it note leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. And the g-string can only look good on buns of steal, on a normal butt it just looks like string cutting through jelly. I have spent the last 10 years avoiding big undies in an effort to stay young, but what is wrong with enormous knickers? These ladies ranged in size from petite and slim to tall and voluptuous and the one constant was that big full briefs looked absolutely fabulous and incredibly sexy on all of them! Deep fried fruit in big girls undies!! That’s the way of the future …
Now, about those pasties. Each time the girls turned their backs to us and unhooked their bras I would take a deep breath and peak through my fingers as they spun back towards us praying their double sided tape was working. I am pleased to say there were no Janet Jackson wardrobe malfunctions. Their pasties would be firmly in place despite the rate in which their breasts were bouncing. How they swing those tassels is a mystery to me but it worked every time. So am I going to take up burlesque dancing during my year of deep fried fruit? No. But I did buy some pasties to try at home. I figured if these ladies could do it for 200 spectators surely I could do it for one …
Does it hurt when you rip them off?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Day 35
After 11 years of marriage I have just realised that my husband is a Labrador.
The more I look at him the more I believe that is his dog persona. I of course am a poodle, but he is most definitely a Lab. He's just like Max. He may not be a gay hip-gyrating Lab like our beautiful blonde canine, and he may not bury my undies in the back yard (he doesn’t does he?), but he is without a doubt a Labrador. How do I know? Because of the way he eats.
The thing about Labradors is they can’t get enough food into their bodies. They don’t know the concept of saving some for later. They start salivating about an hour before feeding time. Anything that even resembles food will be eaten without so much as a “let me taste this and see”. Oh no. No sampling. Just plain old wolf it in and swallow it down. Max of course has done this on copious occasions. There was the time he broke into the neighbour’s backyard and ate a bag of chicken poo only to fart, poo and vomit for a day afterwards. Oh, and then there was the time he ate a small bag of fertilizer and threw it all back up in the middle of the lounge room. Notice how he doesn’t sample but just eats the entire bag? And we can’t leave out the rotting rabbit carcass he crunched and chewed after his boyfriend Binny had already discarded it. And he is FOREVER getting into strife at our house for breaking through all the barricades and trampling the vege patch to chow down on the compost. And by far the most frustrating incident was when he and Binny were left by themselves for a weekend with double the food needed for two dogs over two nights and Max ate the lot within the first hour. He was like a huge barrel when we got home and obviously very uncomfortable. He is the classic Labrador. And so is Derek.
About an hour before the officially recognised drinking hour of 5.00pm Derek starts to salivate. No seriously, he does. If I am preparing lunches or snacks for the kids and he hears the rustle of a chip bag he is there within a nano second diving in for handfuls of potato chips. He doesn’t place them into his mouth one at a time and chew in a manner befitting a human. He opens his mouth as wide as possible to accommodate an entire fistful (complete with stray chips and crumbs falling from his mouth and over his clothes and the floor). And of course one fistful isn’t enough. If I allowed it the entire bag would disappear much like Max and the chook poo. And you already know about the cheese incident. He even steals food from other people’s plates during dinner. And the kids have all grown up believing McDonalds cheeseburgers come with a bite out of them. Oh, and going on holidays just opens up an entire swag of eating frenzies. It’s like the seal on the compost has been opened and it’s a free for all no matter how many veges he tramples along the way. Derek is a Labrador! Just like Max’s “weekend in an hour” disaster, Derek sees food and has absolutely no control whatsoever. Keep it away from him and he is fine, but start opening containers and packets and something switches on inside him that surpasses manners and decorum diving him into eatingus frenzius. After a particular holiday where he ate bacon and eggs for breakfast, burgers and fries for lunch, nibbles at every opportunity and steaks that would make the Flinstones proud, he had the hide to suggest that my normal home cooking routine would need to be changed on return as I was cooking too much mash potato which was making him fat! It’s not the mash mate. It’s the ten tonne of food and 50 litres of bourbon that has made you fat.
Yep, my husband is a Labrador. It’s lucky they’re good family dogs and you love having them around.
The more I look at him the more I believe that is his dog persona. I of course am a poodle, but he is most definitely a Lab. He's just like Max. He may not be a gay hip-gyrating Lab like our beautiful blonde canine, and he may not bury my undies in the back yard (he doesn’t does he?), but he is without a doubt a Labrador. How do I know? Because of the way he eats.
The thing about Labradors is they can’t get enough food into their bodies. They don’t know the concept of saving some for later. They start salivating about an hour before feeding time. Anything that even resembles food will be eaten without so much as a “let me taste this and see”. Oh no. No sampling. Just plain old wolf it in and swallow it down. Max of course has done this on copious occasions. There was the time he broke into the neighbour’s backyard and ate a bag of chicken poo only to fart, poo and vomit for a day afterwards. Oh, and then there was the time he ate a small bag of fertilizer and threw it all back up in the middle of the lounge room. Notice how he doesn’t sample but just eats the entire bag? And we can’t leave out the rotting rabbit carcass he crunched and chewed after his boyfriend Binny had already discarded it. And he is FOREVER getting into strife at our house for breaking through all the barricades and trampling the vege patch to chow down on the compost. And by far the most frustrating incident was when he and Binny were left by themselves for a weekend with double the food needed for two dogs over two nights and Max ate the lot within the first hour. He was like a huge barrel when we got home and obviously very uncomfortable. He is the classic Labrador. And so is Derek.
About an hour before the officially recognised drinking hour of 5.00pm Derek starts to salivate. No seriously, he does. If I am preparing lunches or snacks for the kids and he hears the rustle of a chip bag he is there within a nano second diving in for handfuls of potato chips. He doesn’t place them into his mouth one at a time and chew in a manner befitting a human. He opens his mouth as wide as possible to accommodate an entire fistful (complete with stray chips and crumbs falling from his mouth and over his clothes and the floor). And of course one fistful isn’t enough. If I allowed it the entire bag would disappear much like Max and the chook poo. And you already know about the cheese incident. He even steals food from other people’s plates during dinner. And the kids have all grown up believing McDonalds cheeseburgers come with a bite out of them. Oh, and going on holidays just opens up an entire swag of eating frenzies. It’s like the seal on the compost has been opened and it’s a free for all no matter how many veges he tramples along the way. Derek is a Labrador! Just like Max’s “weekend in an hour” disaster, Derek sees food and has absolutely no control whatsoever. Keep it away from him and he is fine, but start opening containers and packets and something switches on inside him that surpasses manners and decorum diving him into eatingus frenzius. After a particular holiday where he ate bacon and eggs for breakfast, burgers and fries for lunch, nibbles at every opportunity and steaks that would make the Flinstones proud, he had the hide to suggest that my normal home cooking routine would need to be changed on return as I was cooking too much mash potato which was making him fat! It’s not the mash mate. It’s the ten tonne of food and 50 litres of bourbon that has made you fat.
Yep, my husband is a Labrador. It’s lucky they’re good family dogs and you love having them around.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Day 34
In the words of The Little River Band (now that is showing my age) ... "Happy anniversary baby, got you on my mind".
Today is our 11th wedding anniversary. Yep. 11 years of wedded, um, bliss. 11 whole years. That is 132 months, 572 weeks, 4015 days (give or take a couple of leap years), about 16,060 visits to the toilet, 32,120 glasses of water (if you drink the suggested 8 a day) AND probably about 200 or so hangovers (of varying degrees of severity).
Happy anniversary. As I sit here typing with my "I had a bottle of champagne last night to celebrate" headache, I ponder the whole concept of wedded bliss. What absolute bullshit. Whoever first coined the phrase "wedded bliss" must have only been married a week. Sure, there are moments of bliss, quite a few actually. But it is not blissFUL. Marriage isn't full of bliss. Marriage is downright bloody hard work - all the give and take, ups and downs, swings and round-abouts, love and war, sweet and sour, happy and sad. So many times when the polar opposites are in tug of war to create anything but bliss. But I guess given we are still together after 11 years means that something underneath it all is gluing it all together. That must be love.
Last night as I sipped on my bubbles I watched "How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days". It occurred to me that there were correlations between how to lose a guy in 10 days, and how to keep a guy for 11 years! It's the same formula! Now, I have to tell you, that I did fall asleep before the end of the movie so I don't know how it all finished up, but the first half was definitely the recipe we use here.
The movie started with the classic lines: HIM "Oh you're already falling in love with me" (men are so cocky) and HER "Oh I'm gonna make you wish you were dead" (women are so cunning). They should put them in the marriage vows! One strokes his ego, the other strokes hers. Seriously ...
There were episodes of her sending him on chores in the middle of a basketball game (and not being satisfied with the service); phone calls to him at work interrupting major meetings; gate-crashing his poker nights; making him think he was going to a basketball game only to take him to a Celine Dion concert; and him biting his tongue and doing it all any way because of the promised land at the other end. It sounds like the woman was a bitch (and in some ways she was) but as much as we torture our men to earn their right to the promised land we all know they are only doing it for what they can get out of it. It's not about us at all. Well, maybe a tiny bit? Nah, that's bullshit. It's still about them. So that is our come-uppence! After being everything to everyone else most of the time we get to act like princesses occasionally with a trusty servant to rub our metaphorical feet and feed us proverbial grapes. So you have to put out occasionally. Think of the alternative?!
Forget how to lose a guy in 10 days - this is how you keep a guy for 11 years!
Happy Anniversary Husband. Despite the give and take, ups and downs, love and war ... or maybe because of it (?) ... I love you!
Oh, the rest of that song went: "I'm so happy for you baby, now that you've found somebody new, I see it in your eyes, Lord it's no surprise, what he can do for you". So really it is a break up song. Shit. I better keep my eye on that ....
Today is our 11th wedding anniversary. Yep. 11 years of wedded, um, bliss. 11 whole years. That is 132 months, 572 weeks, 4015 days (give or take a couple of leap years), about 16,060 visits to the toilet, 32,120 glasses of water (if you drink the suggested 8 a day) AND probably about 200 or so hangovers (of varying degrees of severity).
Happy anniversary. As I sit here typing with my "I had a bottle of champagne last night to celebrate" headache, I ponder the whole concept of wedded bliss. What absolute bullshit. Whoever first coined the phrase "wedded bliss" must have only been married a week. Sure, there are moments of bliss, quite a few actually. But it is not blissFUL. Marriage isn't full of bliss. Marriage is downright bloody hard work - all the give and take, ups and downs, swings and round-abouts, love and war, sweet and sour, happy and sad. So many times when the polar opposites are in tug of war to create anything but bliss. But I guess given we are still together after 11 years means that something underneath it all is gluing it all together. That must be love.
Last night as I sipped on my bubbles I watched "How To Lose A Guy in 10 Days". It occurred to me that there were correlations between how to lose a guy in 10 days, and how to keep a guy for 11 years! It's the same formula! Now, I have to tell you, that I did fall asleep before the end of the movie so I don't know how it all finished up, but the first half was definitely the recipe we use here.
The movie started with the classic lines: HIM "Oh you're already falling in love with me" (men are so cocky) and HER "Oh I'm gonna make you wish you were dead" (women are so cunning). They should put them in the marriage vows! One strokes his ego, the other strokes hers. Seriously ...
There were episodes of her sending him on chores in the middle of a basketball game (and not being satisfied with the service); phone calls to him at work interrupting major meetings; gate-crashing his poker nights; making him think he was going to a basketball game only to take him to a Celine Dion concert; and him biting his tongue and doing it all any way because of the promised land at the other end. It sounds like the woman was a bitch (and in some ways she was) but as much as we torture our men to earn their right to the promised land we all know they are only doing it for what they can get out of it. It's not about us at all. Well, maybe a tiny bit? Nah, that's bullshit. It's still about them. So that is our come-uppence! After being everything to everyone else most of the time we get to act like princesses occasionally with a trusty servant to rub our metaphorical feet and feed us proverbial grapes. So you have to put out occasionally. Think of the alternative?!
Forget how to lose a guy in 10 days - this is how you keep a guy for 11 years!
Happy Anniversary Husband. Despite the give and take, ups and downs, love and war ... or maybe because of it (?) ... I love you!
Oh, the rest of that song went: "I'm so happy for you baby, now that you've found somebody new, I see it in your eyes, Lord it's no surprise, what he can do for you". So really it is a break up song. Shit. I better keep my eye on that ....
Friday, November 6, 2009
Day 33
Ahh, street funk. Now that’s something I can learn to love! Even the disaster of pole dancing can’t scare me away from this one.
I signed up a few weeks back so I could modernise my groove and get some handy hints for choreographing our cheerleading routines. It is so much fun! I am there hip hopping my way through class with the rest of them.
We vary in age but looking around I think I may be the oldest. I don’t feel it though! I am tapping, sliding, body rolling, ball point changing (that’s dance lingo you know). It’s fantastic. At our first lesson the instructor told us the song we were warming up to was by Justin Timberlake and then she looked at me and said “does everyone know who Justin Timberlake is?” Yes, I may be 40 but I’m not dead yet! Of course I know who Justin Timberlake is …
Dance is an interesting concept. The evolution of dance through my life time has been pretty extreme! From the hocky pocky as a kid, to hip gyrating in the 80s as a teenager (Max is clearly an 80s incarnate), to the transition from rock and roll to “dance” style music like “groove is in the heart” in the 90s, right through to the hip hop and street funk we are trying to master today where body separation can either make or break you. And don’t forget all the group dances thrown in there like the nut bush, the bus stop and the macarena. All in all recreational dancing is a rather odd phenomenon. When I’m at a wedding, for example, watching the dance styles that span the ages I often wonder what an alien would think if they landed in amongst it. Aliens aren’t my usual choice of random ponderings, but seriously, if you were to take away the music during a dance fest, the way we throw our bodies around would look really bizarre wouldn’t it?
I wonder how dancing all started. Was it back in cave man days with Pappa smacking two rocks together creating a beat so intense that Mamma had to bust a move? Maybe dancing came before music? Perhaps one of the tribes folk stumbled on an ants next causing body jumps, twists and contortions so impressive that the clan started to clap thus providing the music to accompany the rhythm. Apparently it did all start in primitive times with dance moves imitating daily activities such as planting, hunting, fighting, loving. The dancers would provide their own music using vocal sounds, but were later accompanied by other clan members creating music with rocks, sticks and animal hides.
That being the case, our modern day version of original dance would include such dance steps as dust the blinds, sweep the floor, clean the toilet. Yes! I can do those steps. Watch me. For dust the blinds put your left hand your hip, pull your body tall, right hand above your head and forward to around eye level and simply do a “tap, tap” motion with your hand as you move your arm from left to right. And sweep the floor is easy! Stand with your right leg straight and your left leg hanging bent and loose (toe rested on ground), with your left arm by your side bent at a right angle have your right hand bent in a V across your chest at 45 degrees, both hands in a fist, and commence the sweeping motion. Woo hooo! That’s it. And finally, for clean the toilet put your left hand back on your hip, bend your body forward to 90 degrees, nice flat back, and with your right hand in a fist push your arm forwards and back, forwards and back in a toilet brush motion. Yeah baby. You got it!
Right now though street funk is where it’s at. I am trying to master the art of body separation so I can get all the body rolls, the hip swivels, head moves and chest thrusts spot on. I wonder if I were to Google the history of body separation as a dance technique what the answer would be. I know where the hip swivel originated from …. a horny blonde Labrador named Max.
I signed up a few weeks back so I could modernise my groove and get some handy hints for choreographing our cheerleading routines. It is so much fun! I am there hip hopping my way through class with the rest of them.
We vary in age but looking around I think I may be the oldest. I don’t feel it though! I am tapping, sliding, body rolling, ball point changing (that’s dance lingo you know). It’s fantastic. At our first lesson the instructor told us the song we were warming up to was by Justin Timberlake and then she looked at me and said “does everyone know who Justin Timberlake is?” Yes, I may be 40 but I’m not dead yet! Of course I know who Justin Timberlake is …
Dance is an interesting concept. The evolution of dance through my life time has been pretty extreme! From the hocky pocky as a kid, to hip gyrating in the 80s as a teenager (Max is clearly an 80s incarnate), to the transition from rock and roll to “dance” style music like “groove is in the heart” in the 90s, right through to the hip hop and street funk we are trying to master today where body separation can either make or break you. And don’t forget all the group dances thrown in there like the nut bush, the bus stop and the macarena. All in all recreational dancing is a rather odd phenomenon. When I’m at a wedding, for example, watching the dance styles that span the ages I often wonder what an alien would think if they landed in amongst it. Aliens aren’t my usual choice of random ponderings, but seriously, if you were to take away the music during a dance fest, the way we throw our bodies around would look really bizarre wouldn’t it?
I wonder how dancing all started. Was it back in cave man days with Pappa smacking two rocks together creating a beat so intense that Mamma had to bust a move? Maybe dancing came before music? Perhaps one of the tribes folk stumbled on an ants next causing body jumps, twists and contortions so impressive that the clan started to clap thus providing the music to accompany the rhythm. Apparently it did all start in primitive times with dance moves imitating daily activities such as planting, hunting, fighting, loving. The dancers would provide their own music using vocal sounds, but were later accompanied by other clan members creating music with rocks, sticks and animal hides.
That being the case, our modern day version of original dance would include such dance steps as dust the blinds, sweep the floor, clean the toilet. Yes! I can do those steps. Watch me. For dust the blinds put your left hand your hip, pull your body tall, right hand above your head and forward to around eye level and simply do a “tap, tap” motion with your hand as you move your arm from left to right. And sweep the floor is easy! Stand with your right leg straight and your left leg hanging bent and loose (toe rested on ground), with your left arm by your side bent at a right angle have your right hand bent in a V across your chest at 45 degrees, both hands in a fist, and commence the sweeping motion. Woo hooo! That’s it. And finally, for clean the toilet put your left hand back on your hip, bend your body forward to 90 degrees, nice flat back, and with your right hand in a fist push your arm forwards and back, forwards and back in a toilet brush motion. Yeah baby. You got it!
Right now though street funk is where it’s at. I am trying to master the art of body separation so I can get all the body rolls, the hip swivels, head moves and chest thrusts spot on. I wonder if I were to Google the history of body separation as a dance technique what the answer would be. I know where the hip swivel originated from …. a horny blonde Labrador named Max.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Day 32
A blonde and her husband are lying in bed listening to the next door neighbour's dog. It has been in the backyard barking for hours and hours. The blonde jumps up out of bed and says,"I've had enough of this". She goes downstairs.
The blonde finally comes back up to bed and her husband says "the dog is still barking, what have you been doing?"
The blonde says, "I put the dog in our backyard, let's see how THEY like it!
We have an absolutely beautiful blonde lab called Maxwell TP The First – or Max for short. He also gets called Maxibon, Maxamillion, Maximus, Maximum Impact, and my personal favourite, Maxfactor (because he is always showing us his lipstick). Max. Like any lab once he was trained and hit middle age, he became the perfect family pet. He goes on holidays with us whenever possible, attends any outdoor activity, spends time on the farm causing chaos with the cattle and horses, and he just loves the beach. Max.
Max of course wasn’t always so pleasant to have around. For the first three or four years of his life he ripped up the backyard, chewed shoes, ate toys, destroyed the $2000 automated watering system, and continually ripped clothes off the line. My clothes I might add. Oh, and the most interesting little foible he had was to break into the laundry and steal my dirty undies and swimwear, chew them beyond recognition, then bury them in the backyard to save for later. What is that all about?
Now that Max is getting on in years we are continually reminded of his mortality. Watching “Marley and Me” highlighted that fact. The kids have a new appreciation for Max after blubbering themselves stupid over Marley. Darby of course has always loved his dog, what boy doesn’t? He spends many a waking hour running around the back yard with his 9 year old dog in tow. Derek is busy training Darby up to eventually take over poo patrol. (We all know I won’t do it.)
Dogs. Every family should have one. One being the operative word. As of yesterday we now have three!
Millie is Nanna’s baby girl. She is a white fluffy thing that has recently been shaved within an inch of her life and now resembles a ferret. She is the new addition to the family now that Nanna is “trialling” a new life in an aged care facility. Tahlia is ecstatic to have Millie around, because although she adores Max she can’t carry him about in a handbag. Well, you could I suppose, maybe one of those suitcases on wheels? I am not sure if Millie knows what is in store for her but Tahlia’s Santa list includes “matching clothes for me and Millie”. Hmmm. Millie is about to become a living doll.
Then there is Binny. Binny is my Dad’s farm dog. We are looking after him temporarily while my folks traipse around Thailand on a trekking holiday. He is a great cattle dog. Being trapped in a suburban backyard for two weeks isn’t really his style though. But he’ll be ok given Max is with him, and they are after all, lovers.
Ah yes, did I fail to mention that? Our blonde polar bear is gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Perhaps gay isn’t really putting it all in perspective. Um, Max is a raving poof (not that there’s anything wrong with that). He and Binny are very much in love and have no problems with public displays of affection. Who am I kidding? They bonk at every available opportunity. They can’t get enough of each other! It’s seriously off-putting. And Max becomes a horny old toad! Even with Binny metres away Max’s hips start gyrating and he can’t walk straight. It’s a hard one to explain to the kids. We usually explain it away as “dancing”.
So our little suburban backyard is now home to a street funking fag, a dolled up ferret and a canine cowboy of the Brokeback Mountain variety.
Dogs. Every family should have one …
The blonde finally comes back up to bed and her husband says "the dog is still barking, what have you been doing?"
The blonde says, "I put the dog in our backyard, let's see how THEY like it!
We have an absolutely beautiful blonde lab called Maxwell TP The First – or Max for short. He also gets called Maxibon, Maxamillion, Maximus, Maximum Impact, and my personal favourite, Maxfactor (because he is always showing us his lipstick). Max. Like any lab once he was trained and hit middle age, he became the perfect family pet. He goes on holidays with us whenever possible, attends any outdoor activity, spends time on the farm causing chaos with the cattle and horses, and he just loves the beach. Max.
Max of course wasn’t always so pleasant to have around. For the first three or four years of his life he ripped up the backyard, chewed shoes, ate toys, destroyed the $2000 automated watering system, and continually ripped clothes off the line. My clothes I might add. Oh, and the most interesting little foible he had was to break into the laundry and steal my dirty undies and swimwear, chew them beyond recognition, then bury them in the backyard to save for later. What is that all about?
Now that Max is getting on in years we are continually reminded of his mortality. Watching “Marley and Me” highlighted that fact. The kids have a new appreciation for Max after blubbering themselves stupid over Marley. Darby of course has always loved his dog, what boy doesn’t? He spends many a waking hour running around the back yard with his 9 year old dog in tow. Derek is busy training Darby up to eventually take over poo patrol. (We all know I won’t do it.)
Dogs. Every family should have one. One being the operative word. As of yesterday we now have three!
Millie is Nanna’s baby girl. She is a white fluffy thing that has recently been shaved within an inch of her life and now resembles a ferret. She is the new addition to the family now that Nanna is “trialling” a new life in an aged care facility. Tahlia is ecstatic to have Millie around, because although she adores Max she can’t carry him about in a handbag. Well, you could I suppose, maybe one of those suitcases on wheels? I am not sure if Millie knows what is in store for her but Tahlia’s Santa list includes “matching clothes for me and Millie”. Hmmm. Millie is about to become a living doll.
Then there is Binny. Binny is my Dad’s farm dog. We are looking after him temporarily while my folks traipse around Thailand on a trekking holiday. He is a great cattle dog. Being trapped in a suburban backyard for two weeks isn’t really his style though. But he’ll be ok given Max is with him, and they are after all, lovers.
Ah yes, did I fail to mention that? Our blonde polar bear is gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that). Perhaps gay isn’t really putting it all in perspective. Um, Max is a raving poof (not that there’s anything wrong with that). He and Binny are very much in love and have no problems with public displays of affection. Who am I kidding? They bonk at every available opportunity. They can’t get enough of each other! It’s seriously off-putting. And Max becomes a horny old toad! Even with Binny metres away Max’s hips start gyrating and he can’t walk straight. It’s a hard one to explain to the kids. We usually explain it away as “dancing”.
So our little suburban backyard is now home to a street funking fag, a dolled up ferret and a canine cowboy of the Brokeback Mountain variety.
Dogs. Every family should have one …
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Day 31
It’s that time of year again. Time to see the trusty gyno. Hmmm. You have to have a good relationship with your gynaecologist. You can’t hate them or cringe in their presence given they are, you know, going “down there”. But at the same time you can’t find them attractive or be quite fond of them because, you know, they are going “down there”. So the bottom line is you need someone you feel clinical towards but with whom you trust and communicate with. You have to find the balance.
Today was my annual check up. I don’t dread the trip, but I don’t race to it with enthusiasm either. It just is. It’s a “ho hum” kind of visit. My gyno is lovely. He is welcoming and warm, but not too warm. He knows my history and knows enough about me to make small talk, but doesn’t know too much. He spends enough time fussing around down there, but not too much time. He is pleasant to look at, but not too good looking. In other words he knows the system and he stays within the parameters.
Something I have noticed as I get older is that the things they need to do “down there” don’t get any easier nor do they get any fewer. You would think once you have been in a relationship for a million years and when you are no longer going down the baby making path that the gyno would be less necessary. But sadly no. It’s still necessary and the number of things he needs to deal with while not necessarily increasing, don’t decrease either. They just change.
The small talk didn’t change. He asked about my business, about my health generally, he talked about birth control and gave me an option to consider regarding my depleting iron supplies. I guess that is all good! No doubt I will be feeling a bit sad when birth control is no longer a topic for discussion, so I will savour that for a while. So all in all it was ok. Despite the positioning, the probing, the state of undress and the lack of eye contact. I am sure my results will come back clear. As usual he commented that my tattoo was still there. He appears quite fascinated by it because he talks about it every year. I guess it is around his line of vision so he can’t help but see it. Don’t be disgusting! It’s on my foot …
Today was my annual check up. I don’t dread the trip, but I don’t race to it with enthusiasm either. It just is. It’s a “ho hum” kind of visit. My gyno is lovely. He is welcoming and warm, but not too warm. He knows my history and knows enough about me to make small talk, but doesn’t know too much. He spends enough time fussing around down there, but not too much time. He is pleasant to look at, but not too good looking. In other words he knows the system and he stays within the parameters.
Something I have noticed as I get older is that the things they need to do “down there” don’t get any easier nor do they get any fewer. You would think once you have been in a relationship for a million years and when you are no longer going down the baby making path that the gyno would be less necessary. But sadly no. It’s still necessary and the number of things he needs to deal with while not necessarily increasing, don’t decrease either. They just change.
The small talk didn’t change. He asked about my business, about my health generally, he talked about birth control and gave me an option to consider regarding my depleting iron supplies. I guess that is all good! No doubt I will be feeling a bit sad when birth control is no longer a topic for discussion, so I will savour that for a while. So all in all it was ok. Despite the positioning, the probing, the state of undress and the lack of eye contact. I am sure my results will come back clear. As usual he commented that my tattoo was still there. He appears quite fascinated by it because he talks about it every year. I guess it is around his line of vision so he can’t help but see it. Don’t be disgusting! It’s on my foot …
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Day 30
Ahh, Melbourne Cup Day – the race that stops a nation.
For me Melbourne Cup Day holds special meaning as it is the day I first laid eyes on my husband fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago! Wow. I was only 25 years old. So young! It seems we have lived multiple life-times since then.
Melbourne Cup Day 1994. I had been invited to the members stand at our local race course by a work colleague. I recall being very nervous at the prospect of the members stand because it seemed so elite! I wore a beige tailored skirt, black blouse with white spots, black shoes, fake pearls and a very dodgy garden variety straw hat which I tied a black ribbon around to try and dress up a bit. My long permed hair was pulled back flat under the hat. I felt terribly glamorous. And of course I was …
It was the end of the day when Derek came along with a group of guys. We were in what I refer to as the B&S bar where the younger drunker crowd congregate to prance and preen and attract a mate. I wasn’t particularly interested in finding a mate. I had just started the breaking up process with mine although we were still living under the same roof. Difficult. It seemed my work colleague was interested in the mating game though. She hit one of Derek’s gang on the head with a rolled up race guide as he walked passed which stopped them all in their tracks for a chat-up session. How very cave man! I don’t much recall the conversation, but I do remember looking up towards the ceiling in order to look Derek in the eyes as he spoke. It occurred to me that being that tall you would always have to keep your nose clean – literally – given we could all see up it. I also recall Derek inviting me out to the casino with them, but I declined explaining the delicate situation of the soon-to-be-ex boyfriend at home. I think he may have walked me and my colleague to our car.
It was a few weeks later before I saw him again. During the breaking up process I was exerting my independence by going out quite a bit. I had spent four years with a man who was a home-body. I was ready to party! I saw Derek at a night club and my work colleague (the cave woman) recognised him. I approached him. I was wearing a dark green skirt with matching tailored vest buttoned to the chest. My perm was flowing freely. He was wearing faded denim jeans and a matching denim shirt. He was playing a pin ball machine. I said “hello Derek”. He looked down at me with confusion and then recognition set in. “Hey, you're that girl from the races, I recognise your eyes!” He seemed happy. I smiled. He said, “I almost didn’t recognise you … you looked so glamorous that day”. To which I replied “so how do I look now? Like a piece of nightclub floor scum?” And the rest as they say, is history …
Since that very historic Melbourne Cup event in 1994 in which Jeune was the winner, Derek and I have celebrated our first meeting fondly. We even spent a few years as members of the local race track. I now have a collection of fabulous hats and fascinators (my poor old straw hat was sent out to pasture to retire gracefully). These days though we tend to have back yard Melbourne Cup parties rather than head to the track, mainly because we find the race days a little too disappointing to be honest. The bars are too full, the fillies are too drunk and the colts seem too predatory. Am I showing my age?
Melbourne Cup is still the race that stops a nation. And it is still the race that stops Derek and I. Today as the entire family dresses in race day finery we will remember that day fifteen years ago that created love, marriage and children.
For me Melbourne Cup Day holds special meaning as it is the day I first laid eyes on my husband fifteen years ago. Fifteen years ago! Wow. I was only 25 years old. So young! It seems we have lived multiple life-times since then.
Melbourne Cup Day 1994. I had been invited to the members stand at our local race course by a work colleague. I recall being very nervous at the prospect of the members stand because it seemed so elite! I wore a beige tailored skirt, black blouse with white spots, black shoes, fake pearls and a very dodgy garden variety straw hat which I tied a black ribbon around to try and dress up a bit. My long permed hair was pulled back flat under the hat. I felt terribly glamorous. And of course I was …
It was the end of the day when Derek came along with a group of guys. We were in what I refer to as the B&S bar where the younger drunker crowd congregate to prance and preen and attract a mate. I wasn’t particularly interested in finding a mate. I had just started the breaking up process with mine although we were still living under the same roof. Difficult. It seemed my work colleague was interested in the mating game though. She hit one of Derek’s gang on the head with a rolled up race guide as he walked passed which stopped them all in their tracks for a chat-up session. How very cave man! I don’t much recall the conversation, but I do remember looking up towards the ceiling in order to look Derek in the eyes as he spoke. It occurred to me that being that tall you would always have to keep your nose clean – literally – given we could all see up it. I also recall Derek inviting me out to the casino with them, but I declined explaining the delicate situation of the soon-to-be-ex boyfriend at home. I think he may have walked me and my colleague to our car.
It was a few weeks later before I saw him again. During the breaking up process I was exerting my independence by going out quite a bit. I had spent four years with a man who was a home-body. I was ready to party! I saw Derek at a night club and my work colleague (the cave woman) recognised him. I approached him. I was wearing a dark green skirt with matching tailored vest buttoned to the chest. My perm was flowing freely. He was wearing faded denim jeans and a matching denim shirt. He was playing a pin ball machine. I said “hello Derek”. He looked down at me with confusion and then recognition set in. “Hey, you're that girl from the races, I recognise your eyes!” He seemed happy. I smiled. He said, “I almost didn’t recognise you … you looked so glamorous that day”. To which I replied “so how do I look now? Like a piece of nightclub floor scum?” And the rest as they say, is history …
Since that very historic Melbourne Cup event in 1994 in which Jeune was the winner, Derek and I have celebrated our first meeting fondly. We even spent a few years as members of the local race track. I now have a collection of fabulous hats and fascinators (my poor old straw hat was sent out to pasture to retire gracefully). These days though we tend to have back yard Melbourne Cup parties rather than head to the track, mainly because we find the race days a little too disappointing to be honest. The bars are too full, the fillies are too drunk and the colts seem too predatory. Am I showing my age?
Melbourne Cup is still the race that stops a nation. And it is still the race that stops Derek and I. Today as the entire family dresses in race day finery we will remember that day fifteen years ago that created love, marriage and children.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Day 29
There is so much freedom associated with being away from home. We don’t have to worry about school, washing, cleaning, work, clients, sport, cooking, bills. All of those things exist in a parallel universe which we are temporarily removed from. For the moment our day consists of beach, fishing, beach, eating, beach, walking, beach, sleeping, beach, reading, beach, beach, beach. And what is it with that sea air?! It’s heavenly. As much as I love our home and our family life, for the sake of sanity a serenity trip every now and then is absolutely essential. It’s the one time I get to switch off completely. Yep, completely. My brain reverts to neutral. Occasionally I get into first gear but for the most part I remain in park the entire time we are away, Derek uses these trips as a time for active parenting. He does the fishing thing, the boogie boarding, cricket on the beach, building sand castles. I just take my batteries out and go “splat”.
How do you get a piece of this? Well you need to have in-laws who live on the coast and with whom you adore. And of course they have to adore you too or it just won’t work. My mother-in-law cooks for us, cleans up after us, and even does our washing if we put it out for her. In return we take them out to dinner and provide them with award-winning company. It’s that simple! Of course she is probably wandering about mumbling to herself about how lazy I am and how I don’t lift a finger. I do actually lift a finger. I am lifting a finger now … I am lifting 10 actually as my fingers fly across the key board.
Serenity. A disposition free from stress or emotion.
How do you get a piece of this? Well you need to have in-laws who live on the coast and with whom you adore. And of course they have to adore you too or it just won’t work. My mother-in-law cooks for us, cleans up after us, and even does our washing if we put it out for her. In return we take them out to dinner and provide them with award-winning company. It’s that simple! Of course she is probably wandering about mumbling to herself about how lazy I am and how I don’t lift a finger. I do actually lift a finger. I am lifting a finger now … I am lifting 10 actually as my fingers fly across the key board.
Serenity. A disposition free from stress or emotion.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Day 28
In the words of Darryl Kerrigan - "feel the serenity!" Or if you are non-Australian perhaps Frank Costanza's "serenity now!" gives greater recognition.
Serenity is the word of the day. According to the on-line dictionary serenity is a disposition free from stress or emotion. Yep, that describes it. That is where this deep fried fruit is at right now .... I am free of stress and emotion. Free ....
Serenity is the word of the day. According to the on-line dictionary serenity is a disposition free from stress or emotion. Yep, that describes it. That is where this deep fried fruit is at right now .... I am free of stress and emotion. Free ....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)