Sweet Emotion

I have been accused of being 'clingy'. I was angry at first but my accuser is a believer in ‘conditional’ friendship and not being ‘clingy’ was always one of the conditions so I should have known better but I was emotional - not 'bang down on the floor flailing around in tears' emotional but "Why . .what did I say . . I don't understand . .why are you angry at me . . please don't be mad . .I feel awful . . .what did I do? " clingy and over-stepped the mark! I’ve calmed down a bit now but basically, he was right - I am indeed an emotional animal!

It’s weird because only my most intimate friends see the emotional side of me – most see me as cold, organised and controlling. I’m the coper. The one that steams ahead through adversity. The one who gets things done. I’m the ‘responsible’ one. The one who doesn’t need any help. The pragmatist, the cold fish. The one who is aloof, comfortable in her own skin, capable, opinionated and ultimately sensible and ‘balanced’. If only they knew the half of it! I do tend to rush in with people I like - a bit 'full on'. But those in my inner sanctum see someone different. They are partial to the fragility and my deep and varied insecurities and fears and they understand the clingy thingy. I know I sound a little mad at the moment.

But which is better? To be an emotional cripple and guard your emotions so closely that nobody knows what you’re thinking. To walk away rather than confront issues and work through them? To be unable to enjoy fully functioning interactions and relationships or to be unable to interact with people? I'm sure there's a balance. I don't bottle things up. I let fly.

I looked up some definitions to see exactly where I fit or indeed if I fit.

e·mo·tion·al [ i mṓshən'l, i mṓshnəl ]

Definition:

1. expressing emotion: relating to or expressing emotion

Lately I’ve been expressing a lot of emotion. Sadness at ClareBear’s departure, loneliness living on my own without DrummerBoy, anxious about my insomnia and the house sale, nervous about a new bout of bush rats playing soccer in my ceiling after midnight. Then I get disproportionately upset when someone who is normally pleasant and joyful is rude to me or ignores me. I feel lost when someone refuses to communicate with me or storms off in a huff. When I’m happy, I’m over the moon – seriously I get quite euphoric about the smallest things. When I’m sad I’m totally down in the dumps and disproportionately possessive. Whatever happens to me and around me arouses emotion and usually quite extreme emotion. It’s part of my being and who I am.

2. easily affected by emotions: being by nature easily affected by or quick to express emotions

Absolutely, if someone is nice to me I feel a warm and fuzzy glow it can sustain my psyche for days. If I'm ignored I feel rejected, if I think I've offended I'm remorseful. If someone else is in dire straights or suffering, my heart goes out to them whether I know them or not. If someone close or remote is in pain, I feel for them. If they’re experiencing wonderful things, I try to share their jubilation and excitement. I feel physically sick if there’s discord in any of my relationships, I can’t eat and I can’t sleep, I have this churning pit in my stomach if I think I've upset anyone. Yes, I’m very easily affected by emotions . . mine and those of others.

4. stirring emotions: arousing or affecting the emotions
I’m easily stirred by the sound of bagpipes (don’t ask), the raising of a flag, a gold medal ceremony, a wedding, a graduation, beautiful scenery, the death of an animal (except rats) or when someone unexpectedly does something selfless and completely nice to me I am overwhelmed with joy. Not to the point of tearyness. I don’t cry when I’m emotional generally, tears are saved for moments of abject anger and frustration. But yes, there are events, incidents and memories that significantly stir and affect my emotions on a daily basis. I think that’s pretty normal.

5. inspired by emotion: inspired or governed by emotion, and not by reason or willpower
Instead of listening to the internal voice of reason – it had been reduced to a whisper on Monday night – my heart ruled my head and I went off on all cylinders with an emotional tyrade. Reason was relegated to the back room and I ended up in a tizz.

Frankly I take things way too personally, relationships far too seriously, and I read meaning into random and casual encounters, my heart rules my head and my mouth runs off on its own! The fingers on the keyboard aren’t bad at doing that either!

Ah . . . but it’s better than the alternative . . if I seem ‘over attentive’ (I prefer it to clingy) . . it means you’re one of the few who know me really well and get a glimpse of what many cannot see. Annoying? Definitely. Endearing? Maybe . . .Part of my psychological make-up? Absolutely!

Anyway, me and my anti-clingy friend will be alright I hope. I just have to remember to put my emotions in a box and tie it up and lock it away if our friendship is to continue. Restraint has never been one of my strong points.

Crank it up punters! This is what my head looks like today!

Just Chill!

It's muggy in Sydney this week. Not that hot, about 27 and my iGoogle weather says it's only 57% humidity but they must be sitting on top of an inland mountain cos it's sweaty conditions out there. I am being aided and abetted I might add by the odd 'waves of warmth' that seem to have kicked in now that my pituitary has actually realised my ovaries are long gone. Interesting sensation that . . .I'm hoping a combination of herbals, Red Clover and Black Cohosh will stem the flushes otherwise I'm going to have to move to a cold country before the motor on my standard fan burns out!

That reminds me. Thommo is packing her backs on Friday and heading off to Japan for the second time in as many years. She's a serious skier, hampered only by the odd rickety knee which she's planning to have fixed upon her return. Her theory is that she might as well make the surgery worthwhile by smashing it to bits on mount 非常に高い山. It's the newest skiing sensation apparently. Ian is popping off to Austria to indulge his habit and whilst I envy them both a few weeks in the chill, I don't care much for skiing . . .or snowboarding . . .or tobogganing.

I took DrummerBoy with me for a snowy weekend when he was about 8. He'd never seen snow, let alone tried skiing so I booked him into 'Kindy Ski School' and myself in for a half day lesson thinking that at least I'd be proficient enough to tackle front valley at Perisher or Friday Flat at Thredbo if I could manage to hang onto the T bar without doing the splits sideways.

He took to it like a duck to water. Mind you the centre of gravity for an 8 year old is like that of a Chinese acrobat. Perfectly proportioned with the middle in the middle. As we grow we seem to get longer in the leg or torso and that means balance isn't as easy. Within four hours, the kid's got no stocks, a crash helmet the size of a watermelon and is competently scooting down the slopes and managing to get on a chair lift, TBar and even a pommer by himself.

Meanwhile, fat biatch is walking like a cripple across the car park in unbendy ski boots (nobody told me to not to put them on until you're actually in the snowy bit). I met up with a charming instructor, all dressed in conspicuous red. She was young, European - probably German or Austrian. In our group were also 8 Japanese, non English speaking tourists. Before we even started the lesson, she took one look at my very expensive shades and asked if I'd bought them in a $2 shop. . . I mean . . .crikey . . they were $250 Raybans! I was determined to look good even if I couldn't ski! So whilst my hackles took their time laying back down on my neck we commenced the lesson and I'd already made up my mind that this girl was going to be a cow of gargantuan proportions.

First thing: learn how to snowplough - that's 'stop' for the uninitiated. Tackled quite well for a beginner I thought until I finally planted myself firmly in the snow. I started to undo my bindings to get the skis off so I could stand up and she shrieked, "Leave you're bindings on. You can't be taking them off every time you fall over!" As if I'm going to ski to Blue Cow unless I can avoid falling over! I'm talking about the front valley, about 1km of gentle slope here! So, I was taught to plant one stock in the snow and get up without removing the bindings. This my friends involves the use of stomach muscles . . .WHAAAT! Besides the enormous embarrassment of admitting that since having children, my belly was less than a six pack - every almost success was flouted by some cocky snowboarder either spraying me with slush or attempting to run me over. Meanwhile, children as young as 3 were careening past me with a "check the retard!" look on their face. I spent the next 40 minutes trying to get myself upright while she diverted her attention and yelled at Japanese tourists. Apparently, if you shout at someone who doesn't understand the language, their powers of comprehension improve tenfold -the hypothesis was not born out. They looked even more confused and became quite animated. They were wandering all over the place, ignoring instructions, trying to translate - meanwhile, our little Germanic guide was visibly losing the plot. She shouted at everyone. Berated us on being the most hopeless and hapless group she had ever had the misfortune to earn $500 from and stormed off about 15 minutes before the lesson was to end. I secretly hoped that her visa was revoked or that she fell off the T Bar 60 feet above the ground.

That my friends, was my first and last foray into the world of the white. Fortunately, our snowfields are littered with cafes and bars. I spend a lot of time in most of them acquiring a taste for butterscotch schnapps whilst DrummerBoy tagged along with competent skiing friends and conquered Mount Perisher. The rest of the long weekend, I resolved to cook and housekeep for the exhausted snowboarders and skiers rather than venture back for more public humiliation. I did do something I'm reasonably good at and went for a wonderful Snowy River trail ride with a guy called Jacko and a horse called Chocolate. I watched a little telly, did a little souvenir shopping, walked around the shores of Lake Jindabyne and generally enjoyed the cold and the solitude.

DrummerBoy still enjoys his skiing although our season is short and he didn't make it this year. He's now no stranger to black runs and talking about trying the slopes of New Zealand, Canada or Switzerland sometime. ClareBear has taken to snowboarding and handles herself admirably if the videos from the Dubai Snow Dome are to be believed. Me? . . .I avoid it like the plague but I do miss those chilly walks around Lake Jindabyne . . . especially now as another wave of warmth makes my hands clammy and my brow sweat!

Old Bag!

Years ago, my mother in law bought me a handbag. It's an ugly, shoulder strapped thing made out of rough leather but it has useful bits. A mobile phone pocket, zippy compartments, it's a good size, totally functional but like most things practical, rather ugly. It's my 'work' bag. The bag you take when you know nobody is going to remark on it's plainness or lack of designer frippery. Flickr are running a 'handbag' competition at the moment, inviting all and sundry to 'expose' the contents of their handbags and make notes on their various sites about the contents. After looking at some of the efforts, I thought it slightly blogworthy if not a bit self indulgent (Ok it's very self-indulgent so indulge me!). Hey, it's my blog!

It's not easy photographing the contents of your bag 'o bones . . but they can be quite revealing. This could become a tag or a meme of sorts if you're so inclined - go on . .you know you want to!

The competition has some requirements which I will pass on here to those of you who accept the dare. It must be an honest representation of your bag's contents, no cute pets sitting in bags Paris Hilton style, no 'planted' bits, no camera bags (apparently they have a separate category for that - mmm . . can't wait for that one!). The bag itself must also feature in the photograph and notes should describe the contents.

Now, for the competition, I'll get a whole lot more creative, like hang my lippy's from a gum tree or throw the lot in the pool and see if it floats, or stash it in a glass bowl and get all sorts of arty farty reflections but for now, here 'tis. For the sensitive, I've removed the squashed tissues and paperclips but this is pretty much what fell out of the old gal this afternoon:

Ok . .there's a glimpse of the ugly satchell. Work your way down. Some antibiotics that I had prescribed for an ear infection and never finished. An empty bottle of 'Angel' that I've been meaning to refill for over 2 years. My favourite earrings that make my ears itch so they often are discarded into the recesses of said bag and considered lost . . I found them again when I tipped the bag out. A sun and a moon bought at an arty farty market somewhere years ago. I love them. A postcard from the Merry Widow's travels - Marstrand to be exact (that's in Sweden), another postcard from Blarney (that's in Ireland) an invitation to a client's art exhibition on all things equine. I never went. An Aktor badge of course, so small you can hardly see it but DrummerBoy thought it a good marketing tool - why he doesn't ask his mother do do a Marketing and Business Plan for him is beyond me. My father's passport - I have no idea how long that's been there, probably for the past five years, I must have souvenired it after he died. Four cigarette lighters . . none bought by me! My favourite Estee Lauder lipsticks, I wondered where they'd got to and a wand lip gloss for mid-day top ups. How much lippy does a woman need? (Hey! I live in hope that pucker lips might land me a bloke yet!) A packet of Extra sugar-free chewing gum . . fresh is best and it helps with the smoking and apparently has a laxative effect although I hadn't noticed. A dental bill, paid but not claimed. My ex-Gyneocologist's business Card. I love you Norman but I never want to feel/see you again! Unless it's socially of course and then maybe the lip gloss will pay off? A Shuttle ticket to Melbourne Airport which I never redeemed because Arky gave me a lift in the Merc. Two cheque books . . interesting . . they automatically issue a new one when there are only five cheques left in the old. Obviously, I never wrote the five old cheques. In fact the only cheques I write these days are for my farrier who is a complete technophobe and doesn't believe in internet banking. A book mark from the Snowy Mountains bought by DrummerBoy on his last ski trip 3 years ago! My leather purse and the plethora of credit cards that carry enough debt to qualify me as a third world country as well as my Fly Buys and store cards that keep enticing me on the promise of huge discounts if I spend $100 or more on scented candles or girly stuff. The flip top Samsung mobile phone that I can never get open in time to answer calls and the keypad is ridiculously small but it has groovy ring tones and stuff. A birthday card from BabySis that's been in the bag since October (that's October folks, the 16th to be precise you have a few months to get your act together so put it in your diary and save for presents!). A scratchie I bought in June with a $5 win on it that I never redeemed and a voucher for a free cup of coffee at a local coffee shop.

What's interesting is what's absent. No keys. That's because I don't have any and the ones I have I leave in the car. Please come and steal it, its worth more to me wrecked than sitting in the garage. No tissues . . I HATE snotty tissues being put back into a bag or pocket even more than I hate fabric hankies. No mirror . . . 'nuf said. No comb or hairbrush . . I don't brush my hair - seriously I never brush my hair, there's absolutely no point. Most importantly NO NAPROGESIC and NO TAMPONS! Too much information? Maybe so but that's one of the positive by products of being neutered! To steal a phrase from a young friend "Yayaya!" However they will soon be replaced with Black Cohosh and Red Clover tablets to control the 'waves of warmth'.

So, the challenge is out there . . get yer little digital numbers out, tip up the old ruck sack and show us yer stuff! Now fellas, don't be shy, I know there's a load of interesting stuff in your wallets and pockets so turn 'em out, take a photo and let us learn a little about you. C'mon . . don't keep me waiting!

Last person to play is an old bag!

Hot Flushes, Road Trips and Fun With Friends

I'm back from what is arguably one of the most beautiful pieces of coastline in Australia, the Great Ocean road extending from Airey's Inlet to beyond Pt Cambell. It's wild, blue, rugged and has the most amazing cliffs and free standing rock pylons battered by the sea. Of course, my camera decided to do a bunk on the first day and refused to open the lense so I had the advantage of borrowing TheTeacher's Sony D-SLR. I think I've found my new interest and may make the investment and buy myself an early Christmas Present.

The trip started slightly whacky as we waited at the wrong gate to board our plane. Qantas ended up combining three empty flights and changed the boarding gate but we were so enjoying our $9 champagnes and nattering at the bar that we didn't hear the announcement "Greaves Le Nevez and Bainbridge . . . you are delaying QF 546 to Melbourne, please make your way to Gate 23". Ah, it was all in good fun although I realised that I haven't actually 'run' anywhere for quite some time, let alone from gate 11 to 23 on a shiny terazzo floor! Maybe that's why I don't feel crash hot. Could have damaged some of the wobbly bits.

We started with eggs benedict in a book shop - the only way to start a day then moved on to Monsalvat, home of the Heidleberg school of artists, a higgledy piggledy hotch potch of french reproduction buildings that encourages craftsmanship and artists from all over Victoria. From guitar makers to dressmakers, painters and sculptors, it's well worth the $10 entry to wonder around and the photo opportunities are plentiful.

Monsalvat Artists' Retreat - Heidelberg

Then we hit the road. It was hilarious, old friends, catching up for the first time in a year. Four women, two hot flushing, two awaiting the joys of menopause, all in great need of good coffee, managed to road trip from Melbourne along the Geelong coast and down to Airey's Inlet and in great comfort and style I might add. We were comfortably packed into a state-of-the-art Toyota Kluger, complete with ringing bells and whistles, GPS navigation and all the electronica to ensure we were heading in the right direction. Although the argument is still going on as to whether it was 'gold' or 'mushroom' in colour. I think Struth Ruth is mixing her metaphorical mushrooms if you know what I mean.

We stayed in the cutest, most cluttered(in a nautically overdecorated way) little blue weatherboard house surrounded by a lovely cottage garden. We nattered, we giggled, we cooked, we shopped, we blissfully talked about the lack of mugaccinos and the crappy Saturday markets at Apollo bay. We walked the beach, we fossicked in the rockpools, we admired stunning views, walked up to the lighthouse that featured in Mad Max and Round the Twist and enjoyed a restaurant dinner which was way overpriced but hey . . .we were on holiday.

The highlight of the trip, besides being with good friends, was definitely the 12 Apostles. It's a long drive along the Great Ocean Road in southern Victoria but unlike the rest of Australia, the scenery seems to change more frequently. Once we emerged from a towering forest of Mountain Ash and headed towards that, wind-battered, rugged, cliff-lined coastline, it's well worth the trip. It's windy, very windy. The surf was huge, the Southern Ocean blue as the Amalfi Coast. Very spectacular and quite frankly, took my breath away. No photo can do it justice and I've seen plenty. Hopefully my shots will turn out and once TheTeacher downloads them, I'll upload them to Flickr.

Beginning of the 12 Apostles - thanks to the one in the foreground falling over,
there are now only 11 but many more in the making

After four days our local guide, TheTeacher, who lives in Melbourne, dropped us at the airport. We hugged and lamented that it would be a while before we see each other again. Thommo and Struth Ruth went home, I caught the shuttle to Flinders Street Station and was met by Arky and his lovely partner 'Nore and felt very important sitting in his vintage Mercedes to spend a couple of days them in the city. After scouring specific city stores for a particular cut of beef, the name of which escapes me but was very important for Ark to procure, we headed back to their little house and cracked open um . . . I think it was about 8 bottles all up but we stopped counting after 4. It's the first time I'd met 'Nore even though I'd talked to her on Skype and we'd emailed and thrown stuff at each other on Facebook. She's lovely, emotional, strong-willed, easy to talk to - Her first words to me "We are going to have fun!" Bless . . .and it all started out just right. These are two of my internetty friends . . .well not quite. Met Ark on a Helldesk and he was so helpful and friendly that we played a little via email and stayed in touch even though he's now moved on to better things. I didn't know it at the time but 'Nore also worked for a company with whom I have dealings. He visited me in March so it only seemed right to connect when I had the opportunity. Whilst 'Nore spent time with her own visiting family, Ark and I discovered the highlights of the city including a brief walk through Crown Casino (mainly because it was cool!) Federation Square. A masterpiece of modern architecture housing various artsy fartsy buildings, cafes, forecourts and a stage, shops and arts centre. You either love it or hate it. Actually, only the intense heat emanating from the cobbled square made me hate it . . . quite a lot.

We sighted the Aussie Netball team after their world cup victory, browsed an occult bookshop, bought geeky gadgets at Minotaur. This is a great shop. Pop Culture icons, fantasy, science fiction, models, dolls, t-shirts. I could have spent much longer there and managed to purchase talking dashboard toys for the kids . . . Darth Vader was a winner!

We marvelled at the ceiling in the ANZ bank and winced at an exhibition of art which comprised some bloke smashing and eating vinyl records and dragging a guitar behind a ute in someone's back paddock. I just hope he didn't get a government grant for the works otherwise I'm in the wrong game. We managed to visit five bars in an attempt to regain our composure after trapsing around in the heat. And before you make assumptions, only three beers and two champagnes were imbibed . . .soft drink was far more thirst quenching! We then met up with 'Nore and family for a light dinner. Crown Casino disappointed as the forecourt flames which are supposed to ignite every hour on the hour were a no show so after another round of Lemon Lime and Bitters, we headed home to put on our comfies. I love staying with people who wear tracky daks and T shirts.

We were pretty exhausted by Tuesday and frankly, I felt a lurgy coming on, held at bay only by some borrowed analgesic so we lounged and watched Ark mastering Guitar Hero and viewed multiple episodes of six feet under and the latest download of Top Gear while we all lamented the loss of winter. Melbourne was HOT. . . too hot . . . I shan't be disparaging about their cold climate again.

Then flew back Tuesday night. My fear of flying pretty much conquered althought I still hate that taking off bit. I was very brave and flew on my own. Naturally, the man in the seat next to me was doused in Joop, possibly the most disgusting aftershave ever created. It manages to blend with that end-of-the-day man smell and simply proliferates the sickly combination of cheap musk and body odour! Of course, I booked a seat over the wing so that if it did fall out of the sky, I'd be the first to go. I didn't even panic when we had to go into a holding pattern over Wollongong due to only one runway approach being used thanks to high winds in Sydney. May have had something to do with my oncoming delirium. Not sure what's wrong. No cold, no cough but definitely feeling flushy and fluey. So after six days leave I have lost all credibility with my employers by ringing in sick! Hence the rather banal post today, my imagination is feeling a little run down.

So to my darling friends, TheTeacher, Struth Ruth, Thommo, Ark and 'Nore . . . thank you all for making it a real break before my house arrest from next week. I love you all and look forward to doing it again next year! And if anyone knows where I can buy the full set of Six Feet Under . . . gimme the heads up!

Black Fingernails and Blue Hair

I was asked over the weekend how to bring a wayward teenager back onto the ropes. Not a truly wayward teen but one whose dress code doesn’t fit his parents expectations, one who’s giving a bit of lip to his mum. One who’s going through that sulky, baggy-panted, hoody phase. One who’s finding his feet and showing signs of disrespect. Anyone who’s had teenagers in that 13-16 age group probably knows what I mean. We used to call my niece a ‘teenage poo’ for her tantrums and arguments, her messiness and disrespectful chat but she’s all 'growed up' now, cleaning house, working hard, finished her degree and in a successful relationship – I think her being happy has a lot to do with her disposition these days and I can’t wait to see her at Christmas.

I don’t know what I did right. I didn’t have perfect teenagers but I didn’t have the moods or tantrums either. Good and responsible behaviour was rewarded with little freedoms and it seemed to work. Respect was engendered and most of all issues were and are, discussed in intimate detail and they have always had the opportunity to put their point forward whether I agreed or not. The phrase ‘never go to bed on an argument’ comes to mind. Most of all, I wasn’t afraid to tell them that I was new at all this too. I had never raised kids before and that I was also on a learning curve and didn’t have all the answers. Mind you, being a widow helped. Instead of blaming my situation, it was actually advantageous. There was one rule, one arbiter, one court of appeal and I was defender, prosecutor, judge and jury. Firm but benevolent.

Children are wonderful at finding the chinks in your armour and taking advantage. If mum and dad are arguing or separated, they’ll take advantage of that and use it for an excuse not to conform, to be rude, to assert themselves and to play one parent off another. If mum and dad are too authoritarian, they’ll use that as an excuse and sneak out the window when grounded. If mum and dad are set in their ways, inflexible and uncommunicative, their child will be the same an remain closed and uncommunicative about issues that may be of the highest importance or conflict with their parent’s beliefs.

Let’s face it, these betweeny years are difficult for kids. Too young to be treated as independent adults, too old to be treated as children. Little access to social networking beyond the playground, hanging round the mall, joining the local church group or spending hours in front of a computer. Can’t drive, can’t work beyond getting a few bob for washing dad’s car, mowing the neighbour’s lawn or babysitting the brats next door.

I was the eldest and therefore the most highly disciplined. My objections were tame and I was never too controversial, although I remember almighty rows with my parents. mainly over lack of freedom and being judgemental about boyfriends. Even at 20, my father used to stand and flick the outside light on and off when I was being dropped home, just to let me know that he knew where I was and probably what I was doing. I had a 12:00 curfew and was often locked out of the house if I missed it, dragging a sleepy 11 year old out of bed to let me in.

My siblings were different. The hold over them diminished according to their age. In those days, the worst thing the boys did was grow long flowing locks and smoke behind the toilets at school. This for some reason didn’t cause anywhere near as much consternation as the long hair which irked my mother beyond reason. She then worked on my father and almighty arguments would arise over what? The length of their hair? It was clean, well-groomed just long. It’s just a way of showing parents that you’re fledging the nest. That you want to be different to their generation even though you might be conforming to another group. Emos don’t see their dress code as a uniform despite the fact that large groups of them huddle all dressed in black with half mast trousers, silver chains and black spikey hair. The surf culture don’t think they’re conforming but they wouldn’t be seen dead in Best and Less clothing, it has to be Billabong boardies or Mambo T-s. The surf is God and Beer comes close. The Hoodies emulate black American gangs with their oversized tracky daks and secret hand shakes. Even the language includes words like ‘dawg’ and ‘bounce’.

My point is, that the teen years are years of rebellion. It just happens in varying degrees. It’s not fair to expect your kids to be exactly like you, to want to conform to your ideals, politics and ideas of good behaviour. What’s important is good manners, values, principles and morals and you can have those no matter what you look like. And being able to cut free from the ties that bind – even just a little bit - is also good for a kid's self esteem. Of course if your kid’s right off the rails, it’s harder to bring them back on track by the time they've reached their teens, closeness needs to be cultivated while they’re young through love, conversation and non violent discipline.

If they’re doing drugs, underage drinking, breaking and entering or indulging in violent behaviour then that’s a whole different problem that needs more discussion than I’m capable of offering here

My advice. Keep your marital problems to yourselves, it’s not an issue for your children to deal with. Keep pillow talk where it belongs – in the bedroom. Show a united front with your children and discuss your differences in private. Be there when they need you and hang in the shadows when they don’t. Be understanding of their mistakes, not condemning. Show them love and physical affection. Don’t try to buy them off. If they’re just breaking the mould, dressing differently, listening to music you hate, being rowdy with mates - that’s normal. Encourage them to come home and make it easy for them to entertain friends without you prying. Drop them off and pick them up from parties and gatherings. Set a curfew but make it reasonable. These days things start late and end late. And you thought sleep deprevation ended with infants!

Respect is a two-way street. Don’t think for a minute that you haven’t been observed in your behaviour. Every disrespectful thing you do is burned into their psyche and will more likely than not be thrust back at you when the time is right.

For some, it’s an easy passage to adulthood. I was lucky. Mine have never used their home situation as an excuse for bad behaviour. I was a firm disciplinarian but also an understanding parent. There’s nothing they don’t know about me and little I don’t know about them. An open, honest relationship, plenty of trust and a little responsibility plus an ongoing dialogue in the teens probably helped. Most importantly, keep perspective. Don't sweat the small stuff, save the lectures for the really important issues. To be honest, my house has been filled with tatooed, pierced, dreadlocked alternative types over the years and the ones I've had to look out for are the clean cut straights. Butter might not melt in their mouth but they can be deviously deceptive.

There Was a Moth in My Knickers

I was bringing in the washing today, as you do. Folding myriads of g-strings, pop socks, jeans, Tshirts and socks and a moth flew out of my knickers. (The ones I was folding, not the ones I was wearing). So, in the contemplative mood that I was . . I began to think about what the hell does one wear for 5-6 days in hospital. And then there's the knickers . . .people will SEE THEM. I mean, I know my mother always told me to wear a nice pair just in case I was run over by a bus but really . . .This time . . .lots of people will see them and just because they're medical professionals . . . I have my pride! So it's time to revamp the lingerie. I'm not the pyjama kind although I do have a couple of Peter Alexander bottoms which I generally wear with a Tshirt. I don't want to be swathed in 'brunch coat' or a chenille dressing gown but my very expensive velour one might be a bit ostentatious. I bought it in a fit of peak for a girly weekend and have worn it once. Silk . . nah, not for this sows ear so here I am planning a bloody wardrobe for a hospital visit! I figure I'll be in a gown for a couple of days. You know those lovely blue scrubs with yer ass hangin' out. But for the rest, one should look presentable. Visitors will come and go and lets face it, vanity, thy name is woman.

Apparently footwear of some sort for wondering the corridors of ailments is mandatory. I'm not sure my ugg boots will fit the bill. Ok, I've got that nailed with a pair of Havaianas (thongs or flip flops to those who don't know). And I bought a couple of pairs of uber comfy yoga pants so that's the bottom bits sorted. I guess the tops will be ruled by temperature. I mean gone are the days of the 'matinee set' or the 'bedcoat' and I don't want my visitors to see me in my jimmy jams. I have a $100 David Jones voucher that I got for my birthday which will buy me a silky nightie or a single pair of pyjamas so that's not really a good use of the funds and frankly, I'm not the slinky type. So, yoga pants and 3/4 T's it is and I can recycle them when I get home. Easy peasy . . so all that's left is a few pairs of half decent knickers, hopefully without the Bogongs attached.

Kicking the Habit

I am one of those filthy smokers. I have been for years. I only ever smoke half a cigarette which makes it even more silly and expensive and I don't smoke during the day except for the Friday chardy lunch with Thommo. . I have my 'breakfast' of a couple of cigs, two cups of Twinning's Irish. Then, when I come home, I make up for lost time and smoke about 10 fags with a bottle of wine throughout the evening.

I was cajoled as a teen down by the creek in Loyalty road by my newbie friend Kate who told me to 'do the draw back'. Eager to make friends and fit into one of the many schools I attended as a teen, I complied and that was the beginning of a lifelong habit. In those days, you could smoke in restaurants, bars, theatres, at your workstation . . . even in designated smoking rooms in hospitals. Can you imagine? Now you cannot smoke anywhere other than the gaming rooms in hotels (providing they have iceberg ventilation), beer gardens or your own home.

I gave up when I was pregnant . . both times . . .true! Didn't smoke for the duration then startedup again once the babies were born. Ray didn't smoke so why did I? Thommo smoked, TheBoss smoked, Pauly Boy smoked, even TheMerryWidow smoked . . . over the years they all kicked the habit but I plugged on blaming circumstance, stress, hard times, hard work and "Hey I like it . . I only smoke half . . bla bla bla . . .".

Similarly with alcohol. I never drank during the week, just the usual weekend benders or wine with a meal on the weekend. I never drink in the morning and only ever at lunchtime if it's a special lunch. I only drink wine or Champagne. I don't hide bottles under the bed or secret them in whilst nobody's looking but I am what could be described as a 'moderate to heavy drinker' importantly, I rarely get drunk. OK I over do it at Weddings because the booze is free or the occasional Bonfire night - it helps me deal better with cranky Firies.

Seriously, I know my limitations. I gave up completely in the late 80's and lost a shit load of weight (due more to hard work than lack of alcohol consumption I hasten to add), it was fantastic. Looked good, felt better . . then again, crisis after crisis and alcohol became a crutch and while some of the drinks I enjoy, most just pop me into a nice calm place where I can deal with the world, work, loneliness, anger and all those destructive emotions that creep in now and then. It puts me in my happy place and tastes nice to boot. Prozac with flavour.

A deal has been struck. The riot act has been read again by ClareBear and DrummerBoy and I suspect the Fringelet is also in cahoots! They're pretty serious this time. It's about time actually and the timing is just right. Time to put that $12 per packet in my wallet not my mouth. Even the awful warnings that appear on Australian packets haven't prevented me and the dreadful shock ads on TV just prompt me to change the channel. But now its time to stop whining about never having any money begin to save myself. As a drinker, it's about time I learned the word 'moderation' and saved it for a glass of wine with a meal and celebration times.

So, here's the go. I'm off to the outskirts of Melbourne from the 15th to the 21st so I have a few drinkies with the girls on the Great Ocean Road . . they would be disappointed if I didn't show usual form. Then I have a date with the Lovely Lenore and GeekBoy so again, I cannot disappoint in the drinkies department but as the only smoker on the entire trip consumption of nurrels will have to be vastly reduced so as not to offend.

Next step, try to maintain the reduction in imbibing and inhalation through to the 29th November when I go in for the removal of all things within the oestrogen zone and endure, instant menopause after the operation and a 5-6 day stay in the institution from Hell - which by the way costs more than a five star hotel in Europe and I'll bet the food ain't as good!

Satan will pale to insignificance in comparison to my mood I'll vouch. Dante hasn't even seen an inferno like my life from 29th November to the 29th December. Once home, I will become completely dependent on a 20 and 22 year old in terms of lifting, bending, stretching and doing. I will be restricted to 10 minutes exercise a day for the first couple of weeks with no alcohol, no smokes, lo cal diet, no driving! If I can handle that insanity for 4 weeks, I think I will have cracked the addiction code!

Well it's a plan and we all know how good I am at making plans . . . Actually GeekBoy/Arky/Crispy or whatever his nick name is this week, gave up thanks to a nicotine patch, lots of encouragement from the girlf and the motivation to purchase expensive geeky gadgets . My motivation? My trip to Paris next July!

Sharies

These are a few of my favourite things:

French Perfume - can't live without it . . Calvin Klein, Rochas and Chanel - life's little luxuries and I don't care if they make me sneeze . .

Genuine Nepalese hat . . no bonfire night is complete with out ear muffs (ugly African CD stacker optional . . .hey! He's Limpopo, now a part of the family - well the family room anyway . ..) My Faaaaaavourite Hat . . .


Curiosity corner . . desk made by my grandad which houses, Japanese lanterns, Grandamas sandwich set, Delft from Holland, Reindeer from Italy, Camel from Dubai, Glass from Venice, china from well . . .China, picnic basket from England, chess set from Australia, Barometer from Wales, Grandma's Tea pot, Bull Dancer from Crete, Pithoi Pot from somewhere in Greece, Duck from Kellyville, Lava man from Vanuatu and Beer pint which I stole from a pub in Manchester and a lantern from "down't mine . . . ee by gum!"

Hub of the house, where people gather, all the action takes place as well as daubing tiles with stroganoff sauce, merriment and Saturday morning cleaning! Does everyone have a junk basket on their kitchen bench?

Now I ask you . . . would an anal retentive clean freak have a fridge like this? Next week it will also have a "What do do whilst I'm convalescing" Roster affixed. Ok that's a bit anal!

Car Troubles

My car is posessed. I have this problem. If I pull up to a halt a little too quickly and turn everything off at the same time I move into park, it makes a kind of shudder and I know when I try to start it again, there will be trouble. The battery is new so the spark flies. It's regularly serviced so I know the fuel is getting through the line and the plugs work. The starter motor is also new so apart from having to bang it occasionally with my shoe, no worries. She's serviced every 10,000ks, lubricated, greased and valve grinded . . so what's her problem? She gets more attention than I ever did!

I turn on the ignition and it makes all the right noises but doesn't catch. If I do this long enough, the ignition keeps kicking over without the engine catching. I can even remove my key and she persists in her rhythmic coughing alerting my dilemma to all and sundry and the only way to stop it is to disconnect the battery. Once done, I just let her calm down, speak zen phrases or chant a calming 'ohm maddy ohm' mantra to relax the diva then have another go. The NRMA man said it's probably a faulty ignition. My mechanic says it could be the fuel line but without being able to replicate it, difficult to tell. (I'm sure he used to be a Systems Administrator).

Either way, it's bloody embarassing. I sit there like a lame duck usually with two inappropriate B rated videos and a couple of bottles of wine in the seat next to me (why else would I go shopping) while nice people come and ask if I'm alright. Give the old girl a little rest. Turn off the radio and electrics, crank the ignition and off she goes to fight another day.

I don't understand. I've looked after her bones for the last five years. She used to be my Dad's car and was lovingly serviced, shampoo'd and polished at Trivett Classic Cars, her tyres blacked and air freshener installed as part of the service . . . she has nice grey sheepskin covers to protect her leathery skin but lately, has been turned into a delivery vehicle with boxes of folders and letterhead on the back seat and rubbish carelessly thrown about. Ah . . Daz always says I'm slow on the uptake . . .that's it. She's got the shits because the regular pampering has come to a halt. Because of the drought and our inability to use a hose, she hasn't had a shower in a year, nobody lathers her bones other than a panicked rub with dish washing liquid as storm clouds gather then she's left out to face the deluge. (DrummerBoy's idea of exterior detailing). Her tyres haven't been blacked for 5 years and she certainly hasn't been polished. Her paint's chipping and the interior resembles a movie theatre after the crowd has left. To make it worse, I think she heard me watching Top Gear last night and probably got miffed when she heard me commenting on how nice it would be to have a new Saab. That's it, project for this weekend, get the old girl gleaming and maybe she'll behave herself. . . just until February . . . Once Clare's gone, we have a spare! Shhhh . . for crying out loud don't tell her or she'll behave even more badly . . .

Aww c'mon boys . . you didn't think I'd leave you out?

Am I a Hypochondriac?

I'm being very blokey today and feeling sorry for myself. I have a sore throat and a hacking cough. I came home from work. I watched Transformers and the House on Haunted Hill II. I fell asleep on the couch and missed the good bits. My antibiotics aren't working yet. Am I a hypochondriac?

You Are 32% Hypochondriac

You can deal well with being sick - even if your symptoms are a little scary. You're occasionally prone to worry about your health, but only when you have pretty strange symptoms.

Are You a Hypochondriac?

A Look at the Yarts And Hedgehogs

Portrait of Clive James by Jeffrey Smart - Brilliant

Clive James once said “Paintings don’t scare people, words scare people . . .paintings are friendly.” Clare Bear once said “I don’t get the point of paintings.” this coming from a Graphic Designer and a graduate of the University of New South Wales College of Fine Arts shocked me a little. I think she was having a bad day. I still have a framed version of her year 10 linograph tryptic on my wall and I love it. It's dark and industrial and yet draws you in.

I love paintings. I particularly love paintings with people in them but I envy the artist. The true artist, the one who is evocative, colourful, interesting, different. One of my top ten things to do before I die (beyond go to Paris) is to spend days wondering around the Louvre or the Hermitage in St Petersberg. I could ensconce myself within these hallowed halls pointing at one and saying “What a waste of canvas - a sheer block of PMS 640! What's the point?” and another saying “God, brings me to tears.” I don’t know what it is about a painting - oddly enough I get the same reaction to some paintings as I do to Barber's Adagiio and bagpipes (and I hate bagpipes). You know that well up in your eyes, heart wrenching, I just have to cry feeling. Then again, I get it whenever I hear The Circle of Life . . .so . . .my little emotional idiosyncracies aside - I wouldn’t give you a cent for a 3 metre canvas drizzled in paint aka Blue Poles but when you understand the complexity of the artist, it all of a sudden makes chaotic sense.

There’s a little known painting in the Art Gallery of NSW Briton Rivière (England, b.1840, d.1920) Requiescat.

Lets face it, by the time we started collecting all the great masters had been raped by the imperialists and all we’re left with is well ‘left-overs’ or generous gifts. This particular painting is a It’s a 19^th century painting of a dead knight, all dressed for burial on a bed with a heavily embroidered bedspread and at his bedside a forlorn hound . . . It is one of the saddest and most evocative paintings I’ve ever seen. I go there just to look at it but haven’t for a long time. It really moves me. I remember when I first saw it, I was about 15 and with my dad, his company were a patron of the gallery so we visited for free and used to go often. It is an extremely loyal painting both in its technical depiction and emotion. I love it. This and the sons of Clovis. Two Frenchmen, punished by their mother for insubordination, she boiled and broke their legs and cast them adrift to await their death as a lesson to others not to go against the will of their parents. Such beauty and brutality. Very emotional.

Evariste-Vital Luminais, Sons of Clovis

But and it’s a big but . . we have some stunning contemporary and 20^th century artists from Sydney Nolan and the members of the Heidleberg school to Arthur Boyd, Margaret Olley and Brett Whitely and a zillion others, too numerous to mention here.

Heidelberg School's Fred McCubbin Bush Burial

Brett Whitely - Arkie Under the Shower

When I first moved to my current abode, we built a shed. It’s actually a double garage up the back. Half was intended for the tractor, the other half for me to start a studio. I've never painted much by the way. I always did Art at school and my major work in year 12 toured the country with Art Express but I always fancied having a bash. It wasn’t to be. The acquisition of horses meant my painting nook was turned into a haystack and tack shed . . .further purchases of motor bikes and tools saw the shed definitely deserve its title.

As I wonder through the plethora of creative blogs available, there are some amazing artists out there, from the cute and kitch to the pretentious and try hard to the considered and careful. Photographers, painters, sculptors, jewellery makers . . . There’s so much talent (and quite a lot of rubbish) But it is something I’m going to attempt. Yummy Mummy yesterday told me of her excitement, nay exuberance at having been accepted into an elite little life drawing class. She charcoals the naked form like no-one I’ve ever known yet her etchings remain hidden in some closet in the Blue Mountains, never mounted, never displayed. She was too shy to give me one that I particularly liked years ago. I bet it's hidden under the bed. I’m a bit like that. I want to paint, draw, create something beautiful, just for me . . . there . . . another thing to do when the apron strings are torn and working full time is no longer a necessity.

Having said all that, the most artistic thing I've ever done is a birthday cake that looked like a Hedgehog and another that resembled a smiling tiger . . .(a mighty fine specimin of a hedgehog I might add! God Bless the Women's Weekly Birthday Party Cookbook)

I really must stop watching Sunday Arts . . it’s doing my head in!

Photo courtesy of www.castwhiskerscakedesign.co.uk
We didn't have digital cameras in the novelty cake days!

Stop laughing . . I mean it . . .you try making chocolatey cakes in the middle of December . . . it's hot! it was a lot more successful than Hickory Dickory who's fondant mice kept melting. Thank God the little angels are more interested in vodka jelly shots these days!

A Positive Note on Siblings

This blog is a journal, a reflection of my moods, my woes, my joys, my recollections, life in Australia and random blitherings. It's honest and it's personal. I received some sage advice from a friend not to write about family or things personal and whilst I understand where he's coming from, that defeats the purpose of maintaining this record. However, I need to be mindful of the effect such writing might have on others.

This blog is not intended to amuse/entertain others although if this is a side product of it's existence, I am delighted. I want something for posterity no matter how humble. I don't structure it's contents or rewrite. I rarely edit anything other than spelling errors and it's written in the moment, from the heart and sometimes before my brain is in gear. Stream of consciousness without the pretention so sometimes, just sometimes, I am over critical and hurt someone's feelings. For this I'm sorry. I have had contretemps with BabySis, a misunderstanding combined with a black mood. Fortunately, because we are close, we have been able to sort it out and remain close. It struck me that I can be vitriolic about my siblings and despite being a positive and optimistic person for the most part, I am also a cynic and can and do articulate the worst in people. It's so easy to be critical, especially if I'm succumbing to other pressures. "You always take it out on the ones you love" and what might remain pillow talk if I had more than a labrador to talk to in bed, is sometimes expressed here. However, this weekend I have enjoyed the best of my family. So this is a tribute to some of them because without them I am nothing and completely alone.

BabyBro is a wonderful neighbour. He respects my privacy. Sure we borrow milk and coffee and tomato paste and soya sauce occasionaly and sometimes forget to put the garbage out or face off after a few to many but we don't interfere with each other's lives. We trust each other, we share our emotions, our opinions, no matter how different. Our children have grown up together, attended the same schools. We share financial issues, personal issues. He is strong willed, in control, often funny. He rarely sits still. He has rewired our outdoor area, refurbished our pool room. We use his Barbecue, tables and chairs, we shade under his massive pool umbrella he shares expenses without the blink of an eye. We delight in twighlight drinks in the summer whilst dipping our feet in the pool. We enjoy spontaneous lunches and dinners together, we've holidayed together, celebrated and mourned together and by and large, we get on extremely well. He is a good husband, a great provider and a loving father. He respects my children and their achievements and is a noble and moral person. These are his strengths and I applaud them in him.

BabySis is possibly the most cheerful person I have ever met. She's bubbly, chatty, funny, irreverent. She has impeccable taste and is the life of the party. She is intelligent although often self deprecating. She is well read and more openly emotional than me. She is a loving mother and a supportive wife. She doesn't let the anal get her down. Where I scream like a banshee and can't relax until the house is clean and the washing done and benches free of clutter . . . she spends time fund raising for the school, reading to and playing with her kids, working on her friendships, because the other stuff isn't as important. She feeds and waters my horses, she makes me coffee every Saturday morning and takes the time to chat about children, life and the things that matter. She loves my kids. She loves her family. She is married to ThePlummer who also values the principal of family and all it entails. Both appreciate the importance of siblings and the notion of family in spite of our failings. She is forgiving, very forgiving. Especially when I'm bossy or controlling and believe me, I can be. She is my confidant, my rock and my shoulder to cry on as I am hers and the nine year gap between us is nothing now that we have reached maturity.

HippyBro is a difficult one. I love him but I rarely see him. He's entrenched in an alternative lifestyle and has no need for the closeness of family. He's always been the one running ahead, the one squirming out of an embrace but that's just him. And though we have grown apart, he was wonderful when my boy was a child. He took every neice and nephew to the snow each year when their turn arose. He spent hours doused in mud from mountain bike riding with DrummerBoy. He bought thoughtful gifts for birthdays and Christmas. He babysat along with Grandpa whilst I went to Europe with ClareBear for six weeks spending hours playing cards and monopoly. And despite the distance between us now, the importance of that involvement during DrummerBoy's formative years was invaluable.

So in a nutshell these are just some of the strengths of my siblings. They are not perfect, neither am I but without them, I am not complete. I guess it's true, families are like fudge - mostly sweet with a few nuts. Our most basic instinct is not for survival but for family. Most of us would give our own life for the survival of a family member, yet we lead our daily life too often taking our family for granted, complaining about their failings rather than focussing on their strengths.

Feelings of worth can flourish only in an atmosphere where individual differences are appreciated, mistakes are tolerated, communication is open, and rules are flexible -- the kind of atmosphere that is found in a nurturing family.
-- Virginia Satir

I Demand a Little Sympathy Mkay?

OK I'm in the oestrogen zone. PMT, PMS whatever you wanna call it. That uber grumpy week before you know what. So today the world is conspiring to piss me off and it's succeeding. My boss is lazy, my daughter's a slurry, my son smells and has a five day growth that looks like he hasn't had a wash for a fortnight. My horse has the snots and my PC won't connect to the colour printer. My friend with the lovely long, silky hair has shaved his head and looks like Dr Evil. My desk isn't big enough, I have too much work, not enough fun, my friends have deserted me, I need a holiday and now I have to decide what to cook the ingrates for dinner! My jaw is sore (I think I slept funny or perhaps it was the labrador on my head) and my boobs hurt. If only men had to put up with this shite for 35 years of their adult life!

I've Said it Before but What Are They For?

Today, we’ve been listening to a slightly different commercial radio channel at work. Needless to say, I am not the fat controller of the radio waves so it usually blares ‘pop music’ played on high repeat rotation and smattered with too many advertisements. The one that really gets up my nose is:

Sexy sounding female with irritating little titter between questions:

Want longer lasting Sex? Is premature ejaculation a problem? Did you know that pemature ejaculation left untreated can lead to impotence?

Now with nasal delivery technology, you can take the first step and you could improve your SEX LIFE and never experience PREMATURE EJACULATION ever again. For an appointment at our clinics or to speak to an AMI Doctor...Call me, call me now 7 Days 1300 432 781

I’m incredibly anti-censorship in the media, or perhaps I should say anti-propaganda because I have limits, especially if it involves the sickening and perverted but when the midday movie has full frontal male nudity (it aint pretty fellas) and daytime commercial radio which advertises remedies for premature ejaculation and floppy dick syndrome, I really have to draw the line. Are there really that many men out there in the 25-50 year old demographic who can't get it on? (I've been out of circulation for a while).Yet when it comes to being truly informative about something that should not be taboo - The Crimson Wave, The Curse, The Monthly's, The Rags, Communists in the Summer House, Ground Under Repair or Rebooting the Ovarian Operating System. . .we are precious and evasive. On Australian TV we cannot tell you what female sanitary products are for other than the absorption of blue liquid, enabling us to surf really well, look great in a bikini, go horse riding and cylcing or in the case of tampons, you can wear a white skirt around the office and they form interesting playthings for your boyfriend and kitten to have a little fun with . . .

Libra - The funniest movie is here. Find it

I don't want to hear about premature ejaculation at 11:00 in the morning, or how to get a stiffy that will keep me satisfied but I'd sure as hell like to know what these little white bullets are for besides kitty play and putting into youre mate's shot glass as a practical joke!

Friends with Benefits

I haven had it for a while. Not regularly anyway it tends to be casual, a special occasion thing. But when I do I like ambient music, a warm room, soft hands, low lights. I used to be comfortable doing it fully naked but as my body image declines, I prefer doing it whilst semi-covered beneath the blanket and clean white sheets. I'm over the days of doing it on a bed, chair, couch or even on the kitchen bench. I like it to linger . . . half an hour just isn't enough, less than 90 minutes full attention or I'm just not satisfied.

I love the spiralling motion of it, the sensuality, the quietness, the fragrance, the woosiness - it's better when he doesn't talk and if he must, his voice must be low, dulcit, gentle, swooning - I love the touch from toe to forehead, both hands smoothing and silking their way along my aching form . . .then, when its all over, my muscles ache not from pain but pleasure, warm and worked but not sore. There's no deep and meaningful conversation, just a moment of sleepy privacy to get dressed and leave. No requests to move in, no pressure to get up first and put my face on . . . no talk of relationships, no commitment or harassment and that means no hurt or disappointment for either of us . . . In fact it was so good, I might go back tomorrow . . yep, it's a deal, a good arrangement . . . nothing like an aromatherapy massage to refresh the body and soothe the soul!

Fatherless Day

Today, Sunday 2nd September is Father's day in the land of oz. Most of it has been spent in the garden. DrummerBoy came back from his house sitting to mow and the place looks green, trim and sunny. I whipper snipped and poisoned the weeds and made the pool sparkle. All in all, a great day to spend the late afternoon sitting in our freshly mown environs, enjoying the sunset and reflecting.

Sadly, none of us have fathers. DrummerBoy and ClareBear's passed before they even had time to know him. And mine died five years ago this coming 6th October. I don't visit their graves. I don't want to remember them like that and I don't think they would want to be remembered that way. I know CastleBrook Lawn Cemetery will be scattered with floral tributes and sad families today but I want to sit in 'his' garden and drink his health . . because now, he is enjoying good health and happy times . . . or so I like to believe.

One of the last conversations I had with my father was while I was massaging his frail hands. He was in the late stages of metastatic liver cancer and fading fast. We discussed what tales those square "Irish Mitts" could tell about his 73 years on this earth.

As tiny hands many years go, they held the handle bars of a bicycle when he would reluctantly deliver bread from the family bakery. They held pieces of shrapnel, traded like swap cards as childhood trophies during the Blitz.

They weilded a mighty lacrosse stick during his years at Grammar School and turned the pages of chemistry and textile texts during his years at University.

These tired, and rough old hands once clasped the hands of another, his one and only love, our mum. They have wrapped his four children and seven grandchildren in their embrace and occasionally left their imprint on a few deserving backsides. They rested assertively on boardroom tables, laboured in five gardens, pulled thousands of weeds, repaired metres of fence and pruned tonnes of hedgerows.

They have slapped the kitchen table in heated discussion and firmly shaken the hands of friends and acquaintances. They made toboggans and assembled bicycles even led reluctant horses to pony club.

Dad's hands had masterfully guided his favourite Waterman Pen through thousands of Herald crosswords and fumbled clumsily with a computer keyboard. They have firmly gripped many a glass of scotch and wine, even whilst he dozed in front of the TV they never fell from his vice like grip.

They have gently clasped a golf club and driven a hole in one and clutched the odd trophy. They reached long and often into the lolly tin, plucking a handful for his grandchildren, and long and often into his deep pockets to subsidise his own children's mad exploits.

With these same hands, he consoled us through our personal trials, applauded our achievements, celebrated our milestones and softly pushed us forward. They were the hands of a gentle giant, a loving husband, dad and grandpa and I miss their touch.

And to all the dads today:

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

and . . .as Great Grandad Patrick used to say . . . may you live as long as you want and never want as long as you live . . . Happy Father's Day!

Love Reigns

I just watched a movie called 'Reign on Me' with Adam Sandler. Unusually serious and rather resonating but the closing credits bought a real feeling of de ja vous. Love Reigns O'er Me. I'd forgotten this song from my high school years and it made realise how cool some of the 70's stuff was. Of course the original was in 1973 with Roger Daltry and The Who remade by Pearl Jam (gotta love that Eddie Vedder) but there's nothing like the original.



Excuse me while I get all JD:

Only love
Can make it rain
The way the beach is kissed by the sea
Only love
Can make it rain
Like the sweat of lovers
Laying in the fields.

Love, Reign o'er me
Love, Reign o'er me, rain on me

Only love
Can bring the rain
That makes you yearn to the sky
Only love
Can bring the rain
That falls like tears from on high

Love Reign O'er me

On the dry and dusty road
The nights we spend apart alone
I need to get back home to cool cool rain
I can't sleep and I lay and I think
The night is hot and black as ink
Oh God, I need a drink of cool cool rain

I'm Rooted!

My father never had a filling in his life, my mother had a partial ‘plate’. Babybro had his first filling at 46 years of age, BabySis just visits the dentist to get her teeth industrially cleaned. HippyBro should be buying shares in the Hills Dental Clinic his teeth are so soft. Drummerboy has never had a filling. Clearbear has just had nine. Me, well I've been quite lucky but the old filings fall out when I chew gum or something crunchy and I have a dead nerve in one of my teeth so time to face the music.

Yes I’m fine thank you with the rooting (hahaha) bit of my canal treatment begun today and without an anaesthetic, how friggin tough am I? Hey Brian! Tat schmatt! It didn’t hurt then but I can feel it twinging a bit now. I'll have to get Grandad to run down to the chemist.

The tooth is drilled, the nerve literally filed away with a range of teensy-weensy toothy files that are rubbed up and down the interior of the tooth to widen the cavity up to the root. (That word always makes me giggle). The scaley stuff (dead root hehehe *so mature*) is removed and something foul tasting and bleachey inserted then stuff is packed into it and a temporary filling to let the sanitised packing clean out the tooth cavity over the coming week.

Next week, it all gets taken out and a permanent filling inserted and a bit of bleach to whiten me and brighten me. Then a couple of nice porcelain veneers on three other teeth and I’ll look like an American! Then I won’t need (nor will I be able to afford) anything else for Christmas!

Sorry, this post is self-absorbed and all about me yet again but I’m feeling very brave about having my roots pulled. And, might I add deeply ripped off by our Dental health system. I pay a load for Medical, Hospital and Dental cover. Have never been in hospital other than to have babies, don’t need Chiro, Physio, Accupungture or a new pair of running shoes - I need good dental care!

Now children, look after your teeth, brush twice a day, floss after every meal and use a mouthwash in the evening (but don’t spit it down the sink if you have an Envirocycle or Septic Tank system because it kills the 'good' bacteria). See your dentist every 12 months for a checkup clean and scale and you might then be able to avoid spending thousands of dollars on root canal therapy and DaVinci veneers!

Then again, if it doesn't look any good, this ho can pimp her root with some grillz!

Did I say root enough in this post?