High Maintenance Biatch

Sometimes, I’m my own worst enemy. I’m keen as mustard, full-on, all embracing, all encompassing and it scares the bejeezus out of people. I can’t just grow into a relationship or friendship or anything. I want it all to happen now, to be instantly liked and embraced and welcomed and involved. It’s so juvenile. I still have this incredible impetuosity . . .maybe it’s just emotional impatience, perhaps I’m unconsciously aware that time is short and no opportunity is to be wasted.

Perhaps it’s because I live a life so ordinary, so quiet, that when someone new and different comes along, I grab them by the throat and love them to death. I spend so much time on my own or not conversing anyone other than my dog that when I have the chance, I’m a torrent of verbal diahorrea, usually via email or letter – I hate the phone. I am in danger of doing this via blog as well but just can’t back off . . .

I have great difficulty understanding withdrawal, quietness, a desire to be slightly mysterious, aloof, uncommitted or even that others actually have a life and things to do other than talk to me! My life is an open book, I wear my heart on my sleeve and am honest to the point of being laborious and just can't work out why everyone else isn't the same. I often mistake this retreat from communication as people becoming disenchanted or intimidated when in reality . . . they often just need to come up for air or simply don't want to share every aspect of their daily life with someone like me. I have to stop becoming emotionally envolved with everyone I meet. I feel empathetic for the similar, sympathetic for the downtrodden, ecstatic for the happy, sad for the depressed and develop a massive crush for just about anyone who pays me a little more than passing attention.

A couple of my friends practice avoidance as a calming technique - a way to keep me at arms length and it's so upsetting. They’ll visit when in town but don’t necessary initiate online conversations or even make telephone calls. When they do, there are often gaps. Everything is short, stacatto when I want lengthy discourse, involvement, all the details and explanations. Then I press the flesh with said friends and they’re impossible to shut up, nights are late and lunches are long . . .it's a wonderful torrent of information and connectedness that has to last me until we next meet. I should be grateful for that and wish such encounters were more frequent.

So, my friends, you know who you are. I’m sorry I’m needy, impatient, forceful and full-on but it’s just me. I don’t mean anything by it, I don't mean to be a nuisance, just can’t curb my enthusiasm or wait long enough for you to break the boredom. Keep in touch with me because I really love your communications and don't be frightened by my verbosity.

More Arse than Clarse

Bloggytalk has been of landmarks from Paris to Belfast, the beautiful and the bizarre. At least the Europeans do it with a modicum of taste and panache even if it does look like an oversized sewing kneedle or a giant ferris wheel. In Australia, good taste gives way to ‘big’ things. Despite having a perfectly respectable Harbour Bridge (The Coathanger), Anzac Bridge (Madonna's Bra aka Jean Paul Gautier) and the Opera House, we have more arse than class. We are the masters of tack, kitch, the underdone and the overwhelming. Here are some of our more notable landmarks for your perusal and entertainment. Unlike the Americans, we do things by half measures and they don't quite measure up. Why commission a master in fibreglass moulding when a bit of papier mache will do?

My personal favourite is the Big Merino, currently undergoing a move from Goulburn in south west NSW because it has been bypassed by the new freeway and visitors no longer stop to find out how Australia got rich off the sheep's back. You can walk inside it and take the stairs right up to the head. The sculpture of this magnificent mammal paid meticulous attention to detail even to the point of giving it enormous testicles.

The Big Merino (Bewfuls)

The Big Banana (Tasty)

The Big Pineapple (pointy)

The Big Potato (Looks More like a Rusty Poo!)

The Big Wine Cask (Goon as we affectionately call it)

The Big Beer Can

The Big Gum Boot (complete with Green Tree Frog)

And because we love our anti-heroes . . . The Big Ned Kelly!

Ageism is Bad Mkay?

It began with a post by Dario asking oldies to layoff the young and to keep their disparaging thoughts to themselves by recognising the good that so many young people can achieve. I agree that we focus too much on the negative and left a comment but deleted much of it because my response had turned into blither and gross generalisations. Not all younlings are bad, not all oldlings are worth their weight in gold and not all baby boomers and genX’s are materialistic bastards but there are plenty in the mix. I then realised that I’m not in the mix, I don’t fit - I am generationless. I have a foot in every camp. I don’t judge people by their age, sex, religion, but I do judge them if they’re assholes or truly wonderful and I’m surrounded by buckets of both.

Oldies
The older generation (basically anyone over 60) can be very pleasant but some are down right rude. Some think that with age comes priviliges, they deserve respect without having to earn it. They feel they should get attention without really needing it and some sort of red carpet treatment because they’re old. I had an aunt who constantly complained about being 'invisible' because she wasn't the centre of attention. I remember years ago doing a cave tour with ClareBear who wouldn’t have been more than 3 years old. I’d propped her up on a rock shelf so that she could see the pretty stalagtite illuminations only to have her knocked off, literally shoved and quite violently by a little lady in a blue rinse so that she could occupy the coveted spot. I trod on her toe on the way out and moved her walking stick while she enjoyed the view.

I’ve been run over by those bloody three wheeler motor bikey pensioner thingies with little orange flags protruding from the back, more times than I care to remember. They’re allowed to drive the contraptions inside the shopping centre – at speed – I might add and are a bloody liability. Almost as bad as the yummy mummies and their three wheeler jogging strollers.

Worse still, I was recently psychologically brainwashed into making a significant donation because an old guy with a Cancer Council bucket puffed through the office saying he was going to walk 25 kms if we’d sponsor him. Blackmail to the most terrible extent, of course he scored!

Then there are people like my parents-in-law who took on basically bringing up one of their nephews despite being in their 70’s and keeping the other two off the streets and away from the gunga. I keep in regular contact with them because they’re not just the grandparents of my own children but lovely, genuine, funny people who have worked hard, cared about others and are now enjoying their retirement in the sun.

Boomers and Gen X
We’re supposed to be the me generation. The ones who benefitted from the post war boom. The space race, dishwasher, the-four-wheel-drive-mother’s-of-invention-generation. I don’t fit with my generation. I don’t aspire to retire and play tennis on Thursdays or golf on Tuesdays. I will never buy a caravan and hold up traffic on the Pacific Highway in far north Queensland. I will never use my voice to berate someone or talk over them in a patronising manner. I don’t want to dress my age, I don’t like listening to tired old hits of the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s (with a few exceptions) and I don’t think that U2 and Sting are the legends they’re proported to be. I don’t want to discuss my aches and pains or the trials of staying in a tired relationship. I love men, I value men, so why would I have an affinity with someone who harps on about their husbands’ failings. I care about environmental economics and taking responsibility for faults. I care about treating others with dignity. I don’t want to keep up with the Joneses. I particularly have a problem with people who use their age as an excuse for not doing things. “I’m to old to learn how to use a computer . . .”. “I don’t know how to start the lawnmower . .” . . for crying out loud have a go at actually doing something yourself. Change that lightbulb . . . add some RAM to your hard drive . . .learn how to set the timer on your DVD (Gawd did I really say that - I still can't use auto text on my mobile!)

Gen Y
I have been known to give Gen Y a metaphorical thumping in terms of reliability at work, ethics, honesty etc. but I think basically they have the formula right. They don’t put up with poor pay and/or conditions, they understand life balance. The only down side is that there’s a whole generation (in Australia anyway) who has only ever known prosperity. We’ve had 10 years of a conservative liberal government, low interest rates, low unemployment . . these are halcyon days for the younger generation. The shit will really hit the fan if intest rates keep climbing, the arse falls out of Chinese industrialisation and the economy begins to decline. Hey, by the time it does that, the Emo’s will be wearing pants around their wastes and donning short back and sides. The surfies will have cut their hair and learned about shoes, the metro males will be trading their pink Ralph Lauren’s for a navy pin stripe suit and the rednecks will have realised that mullet is a fish, not a haircut . . . and I’ll be a toothless granny . . .saying things like “I remember in my day . . . .” Ah, youth is wasted on the young . . .

Thank You

After the stress of last week and the fallout with BabyBro, I was soooo ready for our little weekend away. Thank you darling for such a lovely time - even the shopping was tolerable and at least you and DrummerBoy managed to 'score'. The apartment was very cool and the view fantastic. Nibbly bits were fun and I love a room with a free dressing gown and slippers. Shame the spa was a bit cool but the brekky was hot. Love you both . . .

Family Sucks

I live next door to my younger brother and his family. It's amicable, we work out OK. Tonight he's pushed the limits. The boys had a sound check and played 2 songs. He had a red wine spazz attack. "You make a fuss when one of my kid's park in your space" (yes I do ) "but you'll let these kids play music so loud, I can't think". It was a sound check for fucks sake. Two songs, good songs . . .he was so angry, accused me of being pissed . . .with a red wine glass in his hand! I am not happy. He's irrational, emotional and unbalanced. If I only toldl him what went on in his house when he's away, he'd eat his words. Late night parties, sleeping in his and Stressany's bed. People sleeping in his house when his own children aren't even there. He doesn't know the half of it. This could be a catalyst. I own 40% of the property and am th executor of the estate. I'm now wondering if it's worth waiting for him to recoup his invesment. I think I might sell and bugger it . . . do I care enough about him to hang on for his sake . . . I think not

Rehearsal Night

Ok it's 8:45. The marquee is up, the caterers (Nick and Belina and another girl who's name I can't remember) have assured me that next week's gig is gonna be a blast and they all have it under control. Gilbert has arrived in an enormous ute with foldbacks and amplifiers . . the beer is flowing and I've just spillled half a bottle of champers on the floor (bugga). They're setting up and this is the first time I've heard them live for a long time. I don't know whether to be an American Gothic dragon or the 'khule' mum. More later as the night goes on. I'm about to order 10 pizzas. Ocky reckons his voice is a bit scratchy. OMG what will the neighbours think. They're actually nice kids. I just want to put my tracky daks on but have to look like the responsible adult and this is only the dress rehearsal. I am mad, fabulous, understanding, a wonderful parent or as Brian suggest - a brave woman! Send me your goodvibes folks. Stay tuned!

Chillaxathon

See my flooffy gown and slippies!

It's late Friday afternoon and the clock is ticking very very slowly. It's pissing down rain and it's cold 13 degrees to be exact but I'm all warm and fuzzy inside because tomorrow I go to the Fraser Apartments for a weekend of pampering, shopping, sight seeing and general debauchery. There's a king size bed, a king size room and a king size spa with my name written all over it. Look out David Jones Food Hall, I'm raiding your nibbly bits section for something exotic and the Elizabeth Street store at street level for a cleanser, toner and masque . . .I just can' wait.

Watch and weep girls, watch and weep!

Push the Button

I am a control freak. Not in a do as I say kind of way but I like to know what's going on, run the numbers, have my ducks in a row and this week I am totally out of control. My brain is fuzzy, I can't make decisions, I'm betwixt and between, distracted, nervous. I can't put my finger on it. ClareBear has announced her travel plans so I have separation anxiety. DrummerBoy is arranging the Big Gig with loads of people I don't know, tents in the back yard, live music bla bla. Work is discombobulated as I vasilate between Exec Ass Gofer Extraordinaire and creative producer of marketing materials. My washing hasn't been done. There's no food in the fridge. The bed's unmade. So not me . . . And instead of breaking crockery, I've burned my finger on the Breville. Hormones? Maybe. Lots going on? Maybe. Going completely mad . . possible. It's an unnerving feeling and I always fear the onset of something geriatric like Alzheimers or dimentia. I remember the important things but forget about soccer practice on Tuesday. I'm beginning to care about people I don't know and ignore people I do. I wake up at 3.00am and can't get back to sleep. It's interesting but befuddling. Everything seems to push my buttons, good and bad. I hope it's just a phase.

That Just About Says it All

Horoscope for the 17th . . .

The Moon can lighten things up while it's in Gemini, which, like Libra, (that's me) is a mental air sign. (Does tha mean I'm a psychotic air head?) You are eager to learn, listen and talk. You may think you should share everything you know, believing that full disclosure is the best option. Discretion is advised now, for there are some things better left unsaid.

Right then. Tight lipped I remain. Besides, I can't compete with Dario's version of Dragonheart.

Ignition . . . but no blast off!

I was puddling home in peak hour traffic last night, running late actually, work is very busy these days. The empty light on as usual. At $1.39 a litre, I let the tank run down to empty. The old Honda was behaving normally as I pulled into the little car park adjacent to our local shops. Into the Welcome Mart for 2 litres of low fat milk and then into the bottlo for 2 bottles of high sugar plonk. All is going well for now except I’m busting to go to the loo (I never go at work, I hate public toilets – in fact I once went to the Big Day Out and had a 10.00am start and a 1.00pm finish without a single wizz!). Get into the car, keys in the ignition and oh oh . . here we go. The car chunks over but doesn’t catch. I turn it off, turn off the radio, lights, rear window heater – all electrics but the battery is firing fine, just no combustion action. Crank her up again . . . chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk! I try to turn her off again thinking I’ll call ClareBear to rescue me while I wait for NRMA Road Service to crank up the old girl. (The car, that is).

Turned the car off but the chunking kept going. After bout 30 seconds it was quite obvious to other shoppers that I had a problem. I even removed the keys from the ignition and the bitch is still chunkin along chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk. A very nice Italian man came over and asked if I was alright and nearly had a heart attack as I stepped out of the car with the keys in my hand . . .the old girl is still chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk. The only thing to do was to disconnect the rather sparky battery terminal and cut the juice. He was very obliging and sweet and I'm grateful that he was just there as a sounding board.

I was struck by the kindness of particularly the male shoppers walking in and out of the bottle shop and the fish and chip shop. About six asked me if I was alright, needed help, needed them to call someone. Quite a surprise for such a ‘comely’ lass. On the other hand, I nearly had my toes run over by a bitch in a 4 wheel drive and the women just ignored me. “I hope your babies keep you up at night and menopause is cruel to you – selfish cows!” Of course I was fine. I was close to home, armed with champers and fags and had my mobile . . .a weird sort of heaven!

By the time the NRMA guy arrived, I’d collected myself. Told him the problem. He said he’d never heard of anything like it and that I probably had a ‘short’ in my ignition “You think?” was my blondesque retort (I am a brunette). Anyway, when he reconnected the battery terminal and gave it a tap, the engine had stopped chunking and was behaving normally. I drove home OK and managed to start it this morning so I’m not sure now whether to just let it be and make sure I don’t get so low on petrol or whether to bust a move on an Auto Electrician. It sounds expensive in a month when Rates and House and Contents Insurance are both due. I so need a new car! I guess one positive to come out of this – it was so late by the time all this kafuffle was over that Clare and I went out for dinner and have a lovely meal and a chat at Arthur’s Restaurant

Can't Get a Word In Edgeways

Just finished listening to Jefferson Davis Podcast once again although despite having a hangover, poor Jefferson barely gets a word in edgeways thanks to Brianf and Grandad rambling on about Whiskey, the good old days, urban development (bring it on I say - develop my holding!) the last days on earth and faux pas with the Queen.

• I lurve the accents. Dario Sanchez you’re a cack and that’s a good thing. Chin up youngling. Grandad speaks well, very clearly and concisely but has a very droll sense of humour. Brian is an East Coast yank who does an amazing impersonation of Canadians, making them sound exactly like Bulkwinkle and some really loopy ideas about the end of the Mayan Calander. Jefferson has a strong Southern Drawl and a laugh that sounds like he’s just done something really naughty and is covering his tracks – poor thing has to compete for space on his own podcast.
  
• I want development please! Just where I live mind you . . . I'm sitting on 21 x 700sq metre building blocks that no developer wants to buy thanks to the real estate slump - it's my superannuation plan! *sob*
  
• It was actually not John Major (ex English PM) or John Howard (current Aussie PM) but Paul Keating, Prime Minister of the day who put his arm around the Queen’s waist whilst introducing her during her last tour of Australia. Little Johnny Howard would be much more politically correct. These days we are in favour of the Danish Royals thanks to Princess Mary – good Tassie girl who met the boy in a pub during the 2000 Olympics – now there’s a fairy tale romance.
  
• I think we’re more likely to fall into a black hole than succumb to the Mayan holocaust – and actually the Mayans died out because they deforested their environment to produce lime as a coating for their incredibly monumental buildings, this in turn dried up the swamps that they used to fertilise their corn terraces. They were possibly the first environmental pirates. The 2012 reference I believe, is to a specific astronomical alignment which will produce a sort of ‘dark’ rip in the night stky if the night is clear enough. We’ll be fine until 2050 when the World Wildlife Fund says we will have reached the point of no return on carbon emissions if we don't change our ways by 2010.
  
• I worry about the amount and range of alcohol you all drink, you make me look like a beginner and a cheap wino. Dario, you’re 18 for crying out loud, I’m glad Whiskey isn’t your drink of choice. Should be Vodka and Red bull or Yaegermeister or something. Brian – TicTac? Enough said. Grandad, you have taste. I don’t drink Whiskey but my Father was also a fan of the Jameson, just with a dash of water, no ice. Try and grab the glass from him after he’d dozed off and you’d feel his vice like grip – not bad for an unconscious bloke!
  
• Jefferson – Apple and Raspberry cordial before bed – rehydrates the brain and prevents the 3.00am alcoholic thirsts.
  
• And thanks for the mention Brian! I am flattered, two ‘hooray’s’ in as many weeks. I would have accepted the invite to join in but I think an aussie accent amongst you lot and we'd need a bevy of babel fish to understand each other! It's nice to hear your voices.
  

Snippets

In September Australia is hosting the APEC conference in Sydney. We get a public holiday and George Dubya gets a mobile phone free zone the size of a football field. That’s right, a helicopter will shadow his motorcade blocking all mobile phone signals for a 500metre circumferance. Hope he doesn’t get a flat tyre!

Apparently, I’m getting Foxtel. The men in my family have conspired and cut a big hole in the wall behind the telly where now resides a big black cable. Something about next weekend’s FA Cup Final and “DrummeBoy while you’re climbing through the roof connecting Foxtel to the Pool Room, drop a cable into your family room and I’ll connect you up for free”. Fabulous, more American sitcoms (how much Will and Grace can you get!), live sports from around the world – but at least I’ll get the cooking shows and the Discovery Channel – for free!

Please remember to keep your life insurance policies in a safe place. If you lose them or don’t record the policy details, your beneficiaries will not be able to claim without a shite load of trouble. I’m trying to locate 3 policies for a lovely old lady who is in dire need of the kish but she’s lost them all silly sausage.

I have just read that more recently it has been suggested that women may not need to surf the crimson wave each month at all! In the natural setting, women's bodies were designed to be either pregnant or lactating almost continuously from the age of fifteen to menopause. It may even be bad for us to suffer so each month! Now they tell me . . .

If anyone has any inspiration for a newsletter to clients and any items that might be of interest to a demographic ranging 25 – 75, please give me some inspiration . . . I’m staring at my screen!

Happy Little Vegemites

Yes, this foodstuf is more than a national treasure, it's an institution. Every dinkum Aussie can sing the jingle, spread the right amount and has some of this salty black goodness in the cupboard.
“We’re happy little vegemites as happy as can be, We all enjoy our vegimite for breakfast, lunch and tea”

It's one of those 'foods' that you really never think about until it's not there or when the jar's empty you're racked with incredible cravings - and most times, the jar is empty. Expats import it by the ton and even adventurous foreigners have procured some in large quantities.

Vegemite was invented in 1922 by Cyril Callister in an attempt to figure out what to do with brewery waste products, namely the sticky gooey yeasty bits left over after fermentation. It was actually a grey muddy colour, resembling that thick lubricant that you use on engine and tractor parts but by adding caramel to it, a shiny black paste was born and looked more palatable (apparently). It became a hit during the depression mainly because it is high in B vitamins. Parents suddenly found a way to feed their children high nutrition at a very low cost, and Vegemite took off like a rocket.. It wasn't until the 1930s that Walker foods, the makers of Vegemite in Australia, sold out to Kraft. Worth noting is that while Kraft IS an American company, it has never marketed Vegemite in the USA. Probably with good reason.
This Australian staple is best eaten on toast as a breakfast food or on very fresh white bread with lashings of butter or between two buttered vita wheat pressed together to procude buttery/vegimite ‘worms’. If you’re not sure how much to apply (and this is very important), consult this instruction page on how to make vegemite toast. Brian, your 455 grams should last about a decade!

Stranger Danger

I like unusual people. Probably because I’m so very ordinary myself. I love TheBenchwarmer because he’s young, uber intelligent, emotionally complex, creatively talented, slightly sarcastic and emotionally charged. I like Arkenstone because he’s a self confessed geek who likes the Blues Brothers and hits from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s and can’t resist a KISS concert. I like Dario, even though I haven’t met him because he’s an angry young man with something to say, erudite, funny and a little insecure (but uses the ‘c’ word) just a little too often. I like the Yarpy because he’s so politically incorrect. He’s leaving work at the end of the month and I’ll miss him. Although he left South Africa years ago, his accent is as thick, his lack of political correctness is obvious and his jokes . . .well they’re totally inappropriate half the time.
I also like my little blog community, they all have something different and unusual to commend them.

ClareBear tossed a comment on her way out to the gym last night:
“You need to get some ‘real’ friends, you don’t know who these people are you’re talking to on the internet.” And with that she was gone. I stewed on it.

What’s the difference between talking to people on the internet and joining a pen pal ring? (showing my age there). ClareBear had a pen pal in year six, we travelled to England, caught them by surprise and ended up spending 2 nights in Durham with them. The meeting between the girls was disastrous but I got on really well with her parents and we’ve maintained contact ever since. They even visited us a few years ago and we had a boozy ball and I haven’t laughed so much in years. I think you can get a reasonable hold on people with whom you correspond even if you don’t know their real names or what they look like. Would K8 share Banana Bread recipes and the emotional relationship she has with her little boy if she was an axe murderer? I can’t imagine a sexual predator starting a knnitting blog or posting their holiday snaps of Paris. I’m pretty sure that Dodge is on the up and up despite his nom de plume (anyhow I know his real name, we’ve been talking for a while on a professional level). And a mature man with a gammy leg who takes pictures of baby blackbirds and waxes lyrical about his grandchildren couldn’t possibly be any danger to me. I don’t consider an invitation to a chocolate factory in Pennsylvania a personal threat and it’s not as if I’m ever going to come within 12,000 kms of any of these people in my current financial state so I think I’m pretty safe!

Who’s to say that I’m not the nutter in this scenario?

I have a pretty good idea who reads this blog, whether they comment or not, and I know all but five of them personally. I’d never met Arkenstone until earlier this year but it was a good encounter and we’ll do it again.

So sweetness and light . . . at least I don’t party pash randoms at the pub or plan trips to Mexico based on an 8 hour encounter with a lad named Paco! OK I don't have the wide network of friends that you do or feel the need to party hard every weekend (been there and done that) And I do have ‘real’ friends as well . . .this is just another outlet, a little vent and a lot of fun when you and DrummerBoy are off and about and I have to face my demons alone! So there . . .

She's Committed

Gawd . . she's put a deposit on a trip. Not just any trip but South America, Canada, Ireland and England . . . at least ClareBear has decided to book an Adventure Tour, I was worried about two nubile nymphettes travelling Brazil and Peru on their lonesome. The know people in Montreal and London so that's Ok too. Ireland and England were new additions to me. Sometimes you've gotta read your kid's blog to see what they're up to. At least my washing load will diminish . . .

Yeay!

I've just come back from a lovely breakfast at The Secret Garden, a Balinese style cafe close to home where I had scrambled eggs with smoked salmon and rocket/avocado/tomato salsa and two latte's so now I'm flying! My darling ClareBear bought me a night in a luxury apartment in the city next weekend so we're going to have a weekend away and be decadent in silly robes, spas and crisp hotel sheets and maybe shop and do lunch and all that good girly stuff.

DrummerBoy, spared the wrapping but bought me a new draining rack which I desperately need, a pair of fairaisle knitted slipper socks (very cool and go well with my Nepalese mountain hat so now I have the complete dags outfit), a Picnic chocolate bar - interesting choice - some pink and white lillies and of course the DVD of Happy Feet! I am a happy camper! Love yous both!

WTF

My beloved Iron Chef has been replaced by the smelly finals of the Eurovision Song Contest! WTF! We have some pretty respectable Bulgarian drummers a dreadful Cypriot flat fling and a Russian Gaybo with creepy dancers. Will someone tell me, is this serious. I remember many many years ago someone called Sandy Shaw winning this thing with bare feet and a song called Puppet on a String and Buck's Fizz with something else, I can't remember. They don't even play live, there are no fold backs, leads or amps . .believe me I've been a drummy mummy for years and I understand the technology behind a gig . . is it serious or a should I be taking it with a grain of salt? Save me. I want to watch Japanese chefs destroying giant octopus!

The Long and the Short of It

I really am postponing the inevitable this morning. It's 10.00 and I'm still in my tracky daks avoiding housework. ClareBear's still asleep so its an excuse not to rattle around like Sadie the Cleaning Lady. The previous post on Oddwords got me thinking about what I think is an Australian phenomenon - the alteration of someones name, given or surname. We have a compulson to shorten long names, lengthen short ones or designate a nick name rather than call someone by the name their parents must have anguished over for nine months while their little darlings were cooking in-utero.

Thompson becomes Thommo
Bainbridge becomes Baino
Smith becomes Smithy
Thorpe becomes Thorpey
Fitzgerald or Fitzpatrick becomes Fitzy
Dunn becomes Dunny (may your chickens turn into emus and knock yer dunny down)

If you have red hair, you're Bluey and if you have white hair you're Snowy
If your ears stick out, you're a Wingnut
If your nose is larger than most you might get Schnoz
If you're height challenged, it's Shorty or the tall may get Stretch

If you're Asian you're a Curry Muncher, South East Asian a Minga or Italian you're a Wog, Americans are Septic Tanks, English are Pommies and the Irish are all Micks or Paddys. New Zealanders are Kiwi's and aboriginals Abbo's (non PC) Boongs or Petrol Sniffers

Even my kids names were carefully chosen to avoid alteration but it didn't work.
Clare gets Clarey or Clarence or Baino (yep I stole it)
If you're Adam, it's Ad or AddyB
Helen becomes Hells or Hellsy

. . . or there's
Dazza, Gazza, Mick, Gerry and Robbo

I'm guilty of it myself with friends who have names like Teen for Kristina, Dame for Damian, Marky Boy for Mark, Rob for Robynne, Ros for Roslyn, Jude for Judith and that doesn't include the myriad of stupid greetings such as Possum, Poppet, Cariad, Sweet-Pea, Dahls and Chicken Lips. All terms of endearment I assure you.

The only thing I draw the line at is being called Ma or Mrs B. Makes me sound like some rotund ancient washer woman with pendulous bossoms and a large floral dress with an apron donning the front. My nickname has always been Nell . I hated it as a child but as kids, my friend and I were playing this silly game where you spell your name backwards and mine was Neleh Nnud . . . I guess I was fated to have even those who didn't know my father's 'pet' name for me to call me Nellie - and I've been Nell ever since. I don't mind so much now as long as I don't get formal invitations with it written inside and as long as I'm introduced by my real name so that people don't think my parents had the bad judgement to actually christen me with such an old fashioned nome de plume.

So be prepared . . . you will not be called your 'real' name unless you insist upon it. It's simply un-Australian

Flowers

I love cut flowers. What woman doesn't. These days I don't get them unless I buy them for myself. In the old days, Ray would bring me flowers every Friday night. Nothing flash just the sort of weird coloured collection you get from the local petrol station only he bought them from a guy in a ute who used to tweak the guilt of passing male motorists and cause them to stop and purchase a $10 bunch for their wives or girlfriends. It worked. Then on birthdays, Mother's day and anniversaries I'd be embarrassed in a delightful way as huge arrangements would be delivered to work and I'd be drawn to reception by a loud announcement and surrounded by giggly women asking who the fragrant stems were from. Ray again. He never forgot. Even through the many funerals we've had over past years, fabulous bouquets have adorned the piano and it seemed a shame that so much money was spent on such extravagance which could not be appreciated during the saddest of times. When my dad died, we asked people not to send flowers but to donate to the Cancer Council and the house looked unusually empty as only a few defiant mourners sent their gorgeous tributes.

It's too hot for cut flowers to survive long in the summer, especially since we don't have air conditioning. In fact a fantastic thick bunch of variegated roses that Babysis bought for Babybro's 25th Anniversary in February literally wilted before our eyes on a 35 degree day. Such a shame as they had real fragrance, something unusual these days when roses are bred for looks rather than their scent.

These days I buy flowers for myself although occasionally if I'm feeling blue or a 'thank you' is in the air, ClareBear or DrummerBoy will indulge me. Usually with Lilliums of some kind, they last a fortnight and provide beautiful waxy colour in my plain glass vase on the kitchen bench. During the summer, it contains good quality but still fake silk flowers that never wilt but are now looking like they need a dust. (something not quite right about that).

Tomorrow is Mother's Day in the southern hemisphere so maybe i'll get a bunch of flowers - then again, maybe I'll get a new dish rack . . . which is what I, the ever practical and pragmatic mother, have requested. For some reason the chrysanthemum has become the flower of choice on mother's day. I don't like them, they're boring and yellow and white and smell like cat pee. But we're having breakfast in a cafe within a nursery with BabySis and ThePlumber out our way in the morning, so I might just lash out and buy myself a bunch of something fragrant. For the rest of you mums out there, have a wonderful day and spoil yourself or get someone to spoil you. It's only one day a year but we deserve it! Happy Mother's Day.

Oddwords

The following were results for an Ozwords Competition where entrants were asked to take an Australian colloquialism, alter it by only one letter, and supply a new and witty definition. You clearly need to be an Aussie to understand.

Billabonk: to make passionate love beside a waterhole.
Bludgie: a partner who doesn't work but is kept as a pet.
Dodgeridoo: a fake indigenous artefact.
Fair drinkum: good quality Aussie wine.
Flatypus: a cat that has been run over by a vehicle.
Mateshit: all your flat mate's belongings lying strewn around the floor.
Shagman: an unemployed male roaming the Australian bush in search of sexual activity.
Yabble: the unintelligible language of Australian freshwater crustaceans.
Bushwanker: a pretentious drongo who reckons he's above average when it comes to handling himself in the scrub.
Crackie daks: 'hipster' tracksuit pants.
Shornbag: a particularly attractive naked sheep

Interntional readers: just ask if you don't know what the 'root' word means
Aussie readers: feel free to add to the list

Creature of Habit or Compulsive Obsessive?

I am an addictive personality. Just ask my friends. I’m addicted to cigarettes, alcohol, good food (I emphasise the ‘good’), routine, cleanliness, tidiness, obligation, fair play, DVD’s . . . they say there’s an ‘addictive’ gene and if so, I think I’ve got it. Or maybe I’m just weirdly compulsive after all the change in my life . . .

My symptoms are:

• I smoke – although I’m trying to cut down, never smoke at work or in the car I’m still managing to puff about 10-16 nurrells a day.
• I drink – my attempts at an alcohol free midweek have improved greatly but I have fallen off the wagon a couple of times.
• I am tidy – I have to have clear benches and floors, straighten the towels, wash the dishes, sweep the floor before Ileave for work in the morning. Things have to be just so and if they’re not when I get home the Banshee breaks out.
• I am a creature of habit – I rise at 6.00am and NEVER lie in, walk the dog, have a shower, get dressed, go to work at 7:50. Lunch at 1:30 and dinner . . . well that’s flexible depending on who’s home but never before 8.00. Saturdays – Go to Babysis' for coffee, do the washing, clean the house, change the sheets, check the pool, blow the leaves. Shop on Sunday afternoon.
• I have to have a cup of coffee at 11:00 in the morning and 3:30 in the afternoon or I am not pleasant
• I have to make my bed every morning whether there’s a dog on it or not
• I have to iron my T shirts (although I draw the line at linen and tea towels)
• I have to have the last word on emails (this can be a particular problem if emailing someone else who has to have the last word on emails)
• The toilet paper has to hang 'over' the roll not 'under' with the pattern facing up
• I have to intefere on the rare occasions that my children cook because they’re messy little morons in the kitchen.
• I HAVE to check my regular stable of blogs before I start work in the morning (this means coming in earlier of course)
  

It's not all bad . . . I'm addicted to friendships, principles, good manners, loyalty, family, hugs and love . . . but having identified the ‘disease’. I am now resolving that from today, I’m going to be a little more spontaneous and a little less dictated to by my addictions and obsessions . . .

Nope . . . it’s no good . . . I just can’t do it. I is what I is.

Change is the Only Constant

I hate change even though I live with it, work with it and 'deal' with it constantly. I've changed countries, schools, states, marital status, jobs, hair colour, weight, looks, political sides, interests, friends, tastes, moods, circumstances, lifestyle - everything in my life involves change, random and constant. Frankly my dears . . .I'm totally pissed off with it. I want to sit in an armchair looking at the view, patting my dog with some certainty in my life. Just one constant. I want to know the whole family will get together on Sundays, high days and holidays, that my income is secure and regular and that the only thing I have to worry about is planning a break in the routine. I'm over surprises (unless they're presents). I'm over not knowing what's going to happen, I'm over not feeling secure and safe.

. . and now, another change. Thommo has switched Tennis days to Friday so my lovely chardy lunch partner will not be coming to work and our lunches are a thing of the past. Actually, I'm thankful for the many Friday Chardy Lunches we've had and I know nothing lasts forever, plus I'm on the wagon at the moment so they'd just be plain old Friday Lunches. I'm sorry we didn't have a chance for a 'last lunch' tho.ugh. So . . . without even 'toasting' the last official Friday Chardy Lunch . . . it's all over red rover! I guess there'll be the odd 'bye' at tennis and I'm sure I'll get back on the wagon one day . . . and when that happens . . .we'll do lunch!

Just Because . .

Identity Crisis

The MerryWidow is on the edge of her trip to Estonia. She’s of Estonian derivation but has never been there. She has a strong cultural identity. This is shared by many 1st, 2nd and ongoing generations of Australians. I may have blogged about this before but as a white, anglo-saxon, with an English heritage, I really feel this lack of connection with any ‘culture’ or nationality. We have huge Greek, Italian, Vietnamese, Indian, Lebanese communities here and many other racial minorities all of whom embrace their Australianism (with the exception of a teensy weensy Mulsim bunch who get more press than they deserve) but all of whom retain their cultural identity through national organisations, their food, their customs, religion or language. I feel like a fish out of water sometimes.

I lack pride in my heritage. I have nothing against the English at large but the thought of our only historical claims to fame being world domination and the Morris Dance bothers me. I’ve been back there a number of times as a child and an adult. I have friends there who are fabulous, fun, good sense of humour but none have this cultural ‘connection’ that people from other nations bring to their new homes.

Australians are trying desperately to develop a cultural identity. Often it revolves around an illegible ‘ocker’ accent and the use of ‘strine’ (an equivalent to Amurkin and Oirsh). So much so, that I could write a dictionary, correcting foreigners on pronunciation. Oh, I forgot, that’s already been done.

But we are so homogenised here that there are no obvious differences even in accent, despite the country being almost the size of the US and only 20 million people spread throughout. There are those from regional areas, affectionately known as “The Bush” and the coastal dwelling towns and cities but we all sound the same, except for the odd difference on vowel pronunciation or the addition of ‘aye’ at the end of country Australian’s sentences. For the most part we dress the same and we largely think the same and I can guarantee that EVERY Australian owns a pair of thongs.

So here I sit, within a country I love but not feeling part of it. With a heritage I’m not particularly proud of although I wish I could be. I don’t talk strine, I’m very well spoken even though I might ham it up on occasion. I do use Australian colloquialisms occasionally but only for effect and I like the way CRIKEY! Looks in capitals, it speaks volumes of enthusiasm thanks to that crocodile guy.

Recent research has found that in an historically short period, Australia has become one of the most diverse and successful multicultural nations in the world.

• Australians are free spirits who are easy going, people who like to have fun and enjoy life. They do not take themselves seriously nor do they engage in “pomp and ceremony”.
  They are open-minded, optimistic, honest, decent, down to earth, and friendly.
• We like to help others: Australians are generous of spirit and committed to helping others by giving a “hand-up”. We also support the underdog and confront the bully. It’s important to ‘be there for your mate’.
• Respectful of other cultures: Australians are tolerant of a range of cultures, egalitarian in nature, and embrace diversity.
• Good Workers: innovative thinkers who engaged in team work, great competitors committed to the pursuit of excellence, and hard workers who valued reward for effort.
• Committed to “having a go” : It doesn’t matter how hard the task, we just get on with whatever we are doing. We’ve taken the best of different cultures in our country to make a very Australian mix.
• Mateship: Australians highly value mates and establish strong friendships based on loyalty to friends. Family and mates are the most important people our lives.
• A Fair Go For All: Australia has become the most egalitarian society the world has ever seen and Australia’s values are a product of a deep sense of social equality.
• Love of Country : Australians shared a genuine and intimate love of their country and a see it as a land of opportunity

Australia was characterised as religious, based upon democracy, peaceful and secure, and providing both a “good life” and “education for all”. We were also found to be a nation who liked to renovate homes, loved drinking beer and loved to entertain by holding a barbeque.

No respondents considered economic, scientific or cultural endeavour as an important aspect of national identity. Significantly, this result differs from findings in other nations where contributions to economic, scientific or cultural endeavours have been identified as an important part of their national identity. Could have something to do with the fact that our best minds, scientists, cultural identities have to move overseas to get the recognition they deserve.

Then again, we did invent:

The cardboard wine cask (Goon Bag)
The Hills Clothes Hoist
The Esky and it’s child the BYO Bottle Holder
The combine harvester
The Cochlear Implant
The Wave Piercing Catamaran (ferry)
The Differential gear
The Black Box Flight Recorder
The ‘ute’ (small pick-up)
Variable Ratio Rack and Pin Steering
The Electric Drill
Kiwi Shoe Polish (ironic)
Latex Gloves and other bits
The Two-Stroke Lawn Mower
Garage Roller Doors
Polymer Bank Notes . . . .shall I go on, and on, and on?

Basher Bainbridge and Grievous Greaves

My best friend Thommo is one of those people who can walk through a door and do real damage to her funny bone. She's thin as a whip. You could fit three of her in a normal doorway yet every time, well almost every time she walks through one, she smashes her shoulder or elbow. She's the one that will walk behind the car and crack her shins on the tow bar. The one that will cut her finger opening a tupperware container, split her lip licking an envelope or stab herself with a paper clip. She's notorious for self injury. She was ironing once in her undies and managed to burn a neat line right across her perpetually flat stomach . . . I have no idea how that happened.

Match her with me and we're an awesome combination. My claim to fame, breaking breakables. Every Christmas I'm given at least a dozen champagne glasses and if there are any left by June, I'm travelling well. I choose generically white plates because my pretty Wedgewood blue and white plates are strictly reserved for 'best' in case I smash one of the set and can't replace them. I contstantly knock handles of mugs and have a box of mismatched ones nestled in the back of my corner crockery cupboard. I was inspired to blog this as I've just broken my large pyrex mixing bowl and spent half an hour painstakingly sweeping tiny shards from the floor. Slate floors are bad for bashers. I also have a load of those milk shake glasses. The 1950's retro style ones with grooved sides but the bastards shatter like a windscreen if you so much as put them in water that's too hot or nudge the flickmixer with them while you're washing up. Just as well I bought a 16 pack on special! In fact, once, not so long ago, I had 8 generously sized asian bowls, perfect for soup, noodles, laksa, curries or even spag bol . . . only two remain and one of those is chipped. I'm a liability . . .thank goodness we don't go out much together other than our Chardy lunches on Friday . . . the world as we know it would not be safe with the two of us on the streets for any prolonged period of time. See Grandad, I wasn't joking when I suggested shipping your Sully and Cully or Cully and Sully bowls down under . . .maybe I should revert to melamine.

I Spoke Too Soon

Wouldn't you know it. After the previous accolade afforded my progeny, one of them is now in the bad books. The lawn remains unmown despite his promises, two wet towels and an uncovered doona (from the weekend) along with the once neatly folded replacement cover plus an assortment of smelly clothes festooned about his bedroom floor. The bed is unmade as usual and he insists on hanging the bathmat over the shower not his wet towel. There were dirty dishes in the sink and pieces of Malaysian Noodle strewn all over the floor. Beer bottle tops and a coffee cup on the computer desk and sofa cushions in a state of chaos and I haven't even started on the mud covered bike boots in the laundry leaving sods of clay all over the floor. Not to mention university papers strewn from here to kingdom come. He isn't home tonight, playing in two bands, not one and having the time of his life! There is an eviction notice nailed to his bedroom door!

Sorry Clare for bearing the brunt of my wrath! He will get his comeuppence.

A Credit to Their Parent

I’ve never been one of those parents that brings out the school report for all and sundry or placed the sports trophies in a conspicuously obvious place. I’ve admired and rewarded my children for their efforts by helping them to set goals. Once the goal is achieved, they then feel the sense of accomplishment and it’s really not necessary to brag about it to others. BabyBro’s family are both bright and sporty and all through their growing years, I was reminded, along with others, of their fantastic grand final wins, their placement in gifted and talented classes and their academic prowess. Over the long term, one finished a degree and now works in a bar, the other took 5 years to complete an Electrical Apprenticeship and the other who qualified to go to university is now doing an administrative traineeship. Not that there’s anything wrong with this but all that academic bragging hasn’t played out yet. (I say yet because the ‘trades’ in Australia are definitely lucrative so JimmyD might well yet prove he’s got what it takes to make a million.)
Besides being two of the most loyal, friendly, dedicated, helpful and wonderful friends I know, my children have turned into tremendous adults without the bragging and accolades. As a single mum, I’ve tried to keep it real and help them understand the life is full of joys and disappointments and that it’s unrealistic to expect that you won’t experience a range of both.

They have learned to work to achieve their goals. ClareBear set a really early goal to go to Disneyland. I told her that if she never had “could do better’ on her report card, I’d take her when she finished primary school. She was good to her word and we had an extended holiday for 3 months in 1995. She’s had a part time job since she was 15 years old which has allowed her to travel to Japan, Vanuatu, Italy, Greece and to run her own car.

DrummerBoy’s goals were simpler . . . a remote control car, a few hours in a go-cart, a Drum Kit . . . but when he’s motivated, he too can achieve his goals and get what he wants out of life. He too has worked since he was 16 years old as a labourer, a salesman at Target and now as a landscaper and Pool Shop attendance, all whilst attending uni full time. He's spent two of his four month end of year holidays pulling data cables through roofs and labouring on posh gardens in 35 degree heat. He’s managed to kit himself with a pocket bike, a car and a trail bike (and an inordinate amount of beer and Yagermeister) which gives him hours of pleasure.

The point I’m making is that I am absolutely bursting with pride. Not just because they’re achievers but because they’re humble, hard working and genuinely nice people. So imagine my disappointment when ClareBear said last week that she doesn’t want to attend her graduation! Students have the choice but she’s so over University, which ended badly emotionally with GymJunkie dropping her on the last day, on the phone, on the freeway . . . Feelin-alright-not-feelin-too-good

I can’t say I blame her, sitting for two hours in a mortarboard and gown for the 30 second handshake amongs 1000 other students (NSW University is huge) but I did so want a picture of my lovely girl being acknowledged for 4 years hard work. Some justification for the destruction of my dining table with scalpels, model glue and fabric dyes and inks and the inability to have a sit-down meal between semesters because it resembled an artists garret. I guess I wanted some closure to four years of absolute highs and devastating lows and an official farewell to the pretentiousness of the artists and architects who called themselves ‘Tutors’ when in fact their egos were so big there was no room for serious mentoring of up-and-comers.

All’s good now. She has a good job, good money and a fun crowd to work with and it all seems so far from last year.

Ah well . . .we’ll have a very special celebratory lunch, somewhere by the sea with a view, along with the Grandparents and extended family. I’ll present her with her framed degree and just for fun, I might even make her sit there in a cap and gown!

I’m really proud of you darlings . . . you have fulfilled all my expectations and proven to me that as a parent, I did something right.

An Epiphany

I've just come back from my weekly battle at the supermarket and taking ThePrincess for a walk. It's a beautiful autumn day, about 26 degrees, the sun is shining and I'm exhausted. It's probably only the third time I've worn the running shoes I bought last winter! Having this time to think, whilst she sniffed every blade of grass, chased the ducks, and sploshed around in the pond at the end of the street, I've actually managed to make an 'affirmation'. I'm overweight, as serial substance abuser, quite lonely and something has to be done. I've been relying on selling the property as the panacea for all my ills as it will provide me with significant financial independence and allow me to do the things I really want to do - travel, go to the theatre, refurbish a home . . .take on a hobby or two and even semi-retire.

Four years down the track and developers are conspicuous by their absence despite loads of building activity on our perimeter and the only offers we've had have not met the mark so do I wait, get more and more bored and unhealthy or is it time to seriously tackle the problem? It's a no brainer. I have a sedentary job, I'm physically lazy because exercise is hard and I drink too much. Because I drink, I also smoke too much. At my age, this is just ridiculous. I don't smoke at all at work. I don't even think about it but in the evening, once I get home, it's nothing to knock off a bottle of wine and half a packet of cigarettes. I've realised that at $12 a packet, plus the cost of even the cheapest wine, I'm squandering about $500 a month or more and that's a conservative estimate. No wonder I'm constantly short of cash? I'm also getting more lonely and morose as the kids are now leading a life of their own and I'm left to my own devices more and more with little left over cash to entertain or get out and about doing the things I love. But this now is going to end. Tomorrow, I'm going to begin eating breakfast and get the old metabolism firing. I'm not a big eater so my body is in a constant state of 'famine' conserving energy and resisting weight loss. My evening drinky poos are also packing on the sugar and the fact that I have given up my before-work-walks with Lily is also a big contributor and even she is looking depressed at not having the opportunity for a run in the morning.

So, this is it . . .I'm not yet fit enough to join ClareBear at the Gym and winter is approaching so it's a good time to tackle the issue in the cool. I dread another summer where I feel breathless and lacking in energy when the mercury rises. I want to go to the beach and not hide under an umbrella, I want to wear a pair of shorts and a strappy top to show off my tan. I want to go into a shop and buy something that fits first time and looks fabulous. Most of all, I want to 'feel' better. I want to banish this lethargy and have the energy to take up an interest that doesn't rely on family or friends, something solitary and rewarding . . . I'm not saying I won't drink the odd glass on the weekend and I'm not going cold turkey on the cigs . . . but the current rate of imbibing and puffery has to stop. My excuses have now dissipated and I have no reason for being the sloth I have become. There's a bottle of Bollinger chilling in the fridge. This will be my swan song.

Tomorrow . . . the health kick begins . . . wish me luck!

Too Short, Too Tight, Too Tarty

We don't argue . . .well we don't 'fight' we often have heated discussions and lively debates. I'm in the habit of returning from work and screaming like a banshee because someone's left a dirty cup in the sink or hasn't hung their wet towell over the shower rail. But apart from that . . .we have a very harmonious household. DrummerBoy knows to avoid me when I'm on a tyrade and once I've cooled down, we discuss things rationally. ClareBear is so even tempered that she either ducks for cover or obliges straight away to keep the peace. However . . . there is one thing upon which we do not see eye to eye . . .most times she goes out on a Saturday, dressed to kill - attractive, slightly sexy but tasteful . . . sometimes when she goes out . . .she looks like a tart. She thinks she looks like a sex bomb. OK could be the jealous, grumpy old woman in me but this girl is petite, pretty, good natured, intelligent . . . so why tonight, ready to go out and about clubbing in the city's red light district of all places, did she look like a street walker. Grey suede calf length boots, a piece of denim wrapped around her hips that was a poor excuse for a skirt, a skimpy black singlet top and a purple wide leather belt and enough eye makeup to make a transvestite proud. Everything was too small, too short, too tight too over the top. Am I just jealous because it's been years since I'd fit into, let alone dare to wear, something so provocative? I gave her the 'look' and was quickly repremanded and told to pull my head in but . . . sorry sweetheart, you're better than that, you're a beautiful girl and you don't need to dress to attract Sydney's sleaze bags . . . time we went shopping.

Aha, so maybe that's her cunning plan . . .

What Constitutes a Pie

The latest spates of 'interview me's' has been quite revealing and because I'm between hanging out the washing and doing the vaccuming (something which makes me a little tired due to my recent bout of snots) I had a quick look at Grandads blog. He's hijacked some questions and caused a trans Atlantic controversy about what constitutes a pie! Brian has decided that pies can only be sweet, surrounded by pastry and preferably filled with fruit or something sticky. I'm inclined to agree that in order to be a pie, pastry must be involved.

Grandad likes the mashed potato type, Shepherds, Fish and similar. Here, we have mastered the meat pie. It's a football-goers staple, available in every school canteen and only occasionally contains pieces of plastic or the odd rat's dropping. The Australian Meat pie is about 12cm across, neatly hand sized. It generally contains what is loosely considered ground beef in a gloopy gravy although I suspect those little gristly bits are lips and assholes. By law, it needs to contain only 25% meat. It is eaten hot and topped with tomato sauce although that in itself promotes controversy. Do you slop the sauce on the top of the lid and risk it splotching all over your T shirt or do you poke the sauce dispenser into the crust and give it a generous squirt? If you live in South Australia you have what is affectionately termed a 'floater' and top your pie with mushy peas. Then there are the gourmet pies - Thai chicken curry, peppercorn and mushroom or cottage pie with lashings of reconstituted mashed potato. Personally, I'm not a lover of the pie - it's very un-Australian of me but there you go.

And for the record . . . a burger is not a burger unless it contains a meat patti, lettuce, tomato, fried onions, beetroot, plastic cheese and tomato or BBQ sauce . . . the pickle is a fabrication of MacDonalds and totally inappropriatee . . . and if you want a burger with 'the lot' it also involves a fried egg and a rasher of bacon!

"So where's the egg, bacon and beetroot?"

Flu Schmoo

I am sick today. I'm a pathetic, 'male' kinda sick where I want someone to tuck me in on a couch and make me dippy egg and soldier boys with strong cups of tea and watch crappy daytime TV. I had a flu injection a few weeks back so it's not flu but it didn't prevent me coming down with the snots. My eyes itch and my ears are sore and my nose is red despite the use of aloe vera tissues. I'm such a woos. The only drugs I've got is a zinc echenacia blend of herbal do nothings. And its a Friday which means according to the sick leave policy that I introduced to keep the Gen Y's honest, I have to go to the doctor, tell him I have a cold so that he can write me a certificate so that I can prove I'm not fudging. Worst of all, there isn't a mint slice to be found and my tissue box is empty so I've resorted to using toilet paper and had to forfeit my chardylunch with Thommo - not that I can taste anything . . . excuse me while I go and put on my ug boots and wallow in self pity.

A Girly Thing

It's a girly thing I suspect but I've always had an obsession with horses. From that first donkey ride from Shenton's farm where we used to get our free range eggs to now being the custodian of two retired nags who are passing time in Babysis' paddock and sure that they have retired from the arduous chore of being ridden.

As a kid, I would ask for money for birthdays, high days and holidays to have a riding lesson or day trek and my Nanna who was very generous, bought me flash jodphurs and a jacket and a velvet hat that was too big so I looked like a right royal ponce on a pony. After emigrating, she sent me 200 pounds when I was 12 and I bought my first horse. A 2 year old slender little cremello with bright blue eyes. She looked like a liberty horse and although just broken in, she had no idea about riding aids and persisted in rearing every time I swung the leg over. We ended up going to 'school' she being coaxed by a carrot in my Dad's right hand and a dig of the heels by me. I had Dusty for over 7 years. We rode over hill and dale, freeways and highways. She was enduring and willing and only difficult when in season and persisted in kicking out at any other horse who sniffed her bum at that time. The rearing stopped and we had many an adventure. Someone approached me whilst riding one day and offered to buy her from me as her 'type' was good for throwing Palominos apparently (not literally - horsey term for giving birth). So, in need of a car and at 17 years of age, I parted with my pretty pony. I visited for a couple of years and she had two beautiful anglo arab foals before I lost interest.

Then at about 22 years old, I went with a friend to a horse sale, an auction. I'd never been to one before but was curious. They were all paints, kitted out in stock or western gear and one stood out from the crowd. Black and white, stocky quarter horse type, very pretty. I got my friend to lend me the $400 needed to outbid the knackery and arranged for the horse to be delivered to our suburban back garden before going off to work at my part time job! I had nothing. No halter, no bridle and definitely no saddle and more importantly, no place to agist him so he spent the night in the swimming pool enclosure.

I wouldn't recommend this way of buying a horse. You don't get to catch it or ride it first. He was a sublime ride but as an ex rodeo pony had two speeds - stop and fast. He came with papers so I knew he was 10 years old but catch the bastard? I don't think so. He had other ideas and no matter how much bribery was offered, getting that halter on was a major event. Often three of us would try to corner him with a long rope. Once caught, he was like a baby. Bombproof and the most beautiful ride. BabySis also had a love of horses so our first mistake was Luke, an ex trotter who rarely broke into a canter. We persisted with the 'mule' but you couldn't tie him up without him breaking the reins and galloping back along the bitumen to the safety of his paddock. He was also too big and after breaking her arm in a fall, he had to be sold. He looked fantastic the day he left, we'd fed him up and brushed him down. Poor sap that bought him!

Then we bought Shane to keep Nicky company and as a safer option for BabySis, he was fantastic. Not pretty but reliable. He stayed with us until boys and cars took over and spent the last of his days as a farmer's wife's weekend ride in the country. Nicky stayed with me until he finally went down on his last legs. He was euthanased and buried in the back paddock bless his little white socks.

Then after a long break, my sister was having trouble getting pregnant and decided that Dressage might provide the necessary distraction to help her 'relax' and conceive. She bought Brutus. A 17.3 hand giant ex racehorse who had been schooled in the fine art of dressage. Problem was, that as soon as he got out into the open, he thought he was back on the track so riding anywhere other than an arena was madness. She went her way and never enjoyed the magic of trail riding on him. He lasted 2 years before she finally did conceive and was sold on, now all she's left with is a very expensive pair of top boots!

I had another rush of blood to the head and decided to buy ClareBear a pony. Maybe one that I could also ride and so Lasalle Royal Flash (Laurie) came into our lives. A pure bred Arab with lots of stamina. Pretty to look at but the king of bluff and a complete poo factory. Riding him was like walking in the woods with Hansel. I'm sure he shat himself every 50 metres just in case he got lost and needed to find his way home - you would know him by his trail of poo. Again, moving forward and rearing was the test he put ClareBear through ant at 15.3 hands, he was just too big for a 12 year old. I had no such problems with him - heavier and more experienced, so I adopted him as mine and we began the search for something more suitable for the kid.

After buying 6 horses over a lifetime, we finally got it right with Yorkston Classic (Chippy) a 13 hand Welsh Mountain, Australian Stud Book Pony built like a brick shithouse. He'd done the show circuit by age 7 and was perfect. Bombproof, traffic proof, solid and to this day thrives on the smell of grass. Besides the attitude of a short man (arrogant and too big for his boots) he provided another few years of pleasure when mum and daughter would go to riding club or ride over the back which is now occupied by office blocks, 500sqm building locks and millionaire mansions. It was once over 100 acres of fields and poplars, creeks, trails and galloping tracks. I never had a car big enough to tow a horse float so we became land locked and as our trails diminished, so did our desire to ride.

Now that our lovely riding space has gone and I guess ClareBear's interest has moved on to boys and the beach, Laurie and Chippy reside in Glenorie. They're petted and patted, fed geriatric horse mix and occasionally preened and manicured or brought out to perform at the odd children's birthday party. Their manes are matted but they're happy campers and showing no sign of decline other than Chippy's dark grey dapples have faded to white and Laurie's muscle tone aint what it was but at 25 years of age, he's looking pretty good.

So, the silliest purchases I've ever made are now two pieces of scenery that need to be fed, watered and tended to . . . someone told me that it's not unusual for an arab to live to 40!

Crikey . . .what a commitment.

Road Rage

Only in the past few years have normally polite Australian drivers become infected with that world wide phenomenan 'road rage'. I myself have given the finger to a number of drivers for inconsiderate practices. Even on my short trip to work each morning I run the gamut of greedy lane mergerers and pushy bus drivers, mid-intersection traffic blockers and butt throwing smokers. And this morning . . . a cleaner had parked in my designated spot . . .that's part of my salary package thank you and you can move your little shit box toot sweet! Which he reluctantly did, pretending that he didn't understand a word I said.

Here are some moray's that need to be obeyed particularly on my route which is Wrights Road, Green Road, Showground Road and Old Castle Hill Road.

• Do not beep me when I'm stopped, giving way to cars on a roundabout. You're supposed to!
• Do not try to push in when I allow a single car to merge. If each car lets one car in, the traffic keeps flowing
• Do not tailgate me or I'll drop down to 30kms an hour, sit on my breaks and hold you up. I don't mind arriving late!
• Don't block the bloody intersection when I'm turning right you twit, it leaves me in limbo and the lights change before I can make the turn.
• Don't flick your cigarette butt out of the window. We're a dry continent and you'll start a fire you dickhead 18 something with your windows down and the doof-doof making the bonnet vibrate.
• I know you have right of way - but buses . . . use your fucking mirrors. If I'm up near the driver, give me time to move ahead rather than trying to barge arse me out of the way. \
• Do not steal the car park space I have stalked two shoppers for. I will not tolerate such arrogance. I will get out and shout at you.
• If you're a friggin' cleaner in my building you do not have a designated car space so stay out of mine (and don't pretend you don't speak English!)
• Stop at Zebra crossings - pedestrians have right of way
• If you're a small asian person in a Land Cruiser, get a booster seat so you can see over the dashboard
• If you hear a siren, pull over to the left dipshits. I've actually been in an ambulance that has been gridlocked and it's incredibly selfish and dangerous. Let them do their job.
• Police - don't random breath test at 8:00 on a Tuesday morning. It causes mayhem. This is the Bible belt for Christ's sake, who drinks on a Tuesay evening in this neighbourhood other than me!
• Check your mirrors . . . motorbikes ALWAYS sit in your blind spot so look over your shoulder too.
• Stop talking on your mobile phone, you're careening all over the road

And remember, I drive a 14 year old car and I don't give a shit if you ding me . . .I will hold my own as if it was a bleedin' hummer! Thank you to the nice truckie who let me in this morning just before I was squished onto the median strip by a school bus. Yer a champ!

And so he did . . . .

Interview me . . I pleaded . . . and so he did . . . Brianf has passed on some questions, not that they're of much interest to anyone but here goes . . . they are difficult questions.

1. Motorbike or Scooter?(In other words Rocker or Mod?)
Difficult, I'm not sure about whom you speak. I think I'm a bit young for the Rocker/Mod analogy. (And surely you are too - aren't we talking late 50's early 60's, I was but a child). If you're talking about horsepower, I don't have a preference and prefer 4 wheels to two - energy efficient so I guess I'm a bit of a woosy scooter. If you're talking taste in music and fashion, then I guess I'm a rocker. I'm a jeans and t-shirt girl and would love a leather jacket if I could afford one. (If I was slim enough I could borrow ClareBear's!) I was one of the oldest audience members at a Smashing Pumpkins and the Chemical Bros and one of the youngest fans of Tony Bennett so . . . I have probably one of the most diverse tastes in music from hard rock to a little doof doof . . . even some alternative chill soothes the savage breast on occasion and Grieg makes me cry.

All life on Earth will end in 24 hours. How are you going to spend the time?
Awww not fair . . . I need more than 24 hours! Go to Paris (Kate I'm very jealous) and blow out the Mastercard, all $25,000 limit of it. Book a suite at the George Saint, buy some pate and brioche. Find someone to have sex with that's half my age and not too bad looking (again nice buns, good tan), but he has to leave straight after, no time for conversation. Drink a bottle or two of Billiecart & Salmon Champagne in my new Reidel glass, tell my kids I love them to bits and am so sorry I said no to drugs cos they're gonna die anyway and they might as well have had a good time - give my dog a hug. Thumb my nose at the bank because I won't have to pay off my mortgage and have a good cry because it always makes me feel better but I don't do it often enough.

3. Dressage, Hunter/Jumper or Steeple Chase and why?
Horses? Now I know what I'm talking about here (I have an idiot Arab and a stubborn Welsh Mountain) I'm a Hunter . . . not uber good looking or terribly well groomed but scrub up well on occasion and am practical, durable, passable. Can go the distance and won't let a few little hurdles get in the way. Can rattle a few hedgerows but get out of trouble quick. (Although those Dressage Boys are mighty handsome with their fancy footwork)

4. Steven King, Genius or sick, twisted freak?
Sick twisted freaky genius. But his books are too long so I resort to the DVD's. Not exactly high literature but entertaining. I've only read The Shining and Misery so I'm not a devotee.

5. How do you spend the perfect weekend?
One of three ways. Either in a five star hotel suite with a spa in just about anywhere with a facial treatment, full body massage, a la carte room service, lots of Champagne and those plush gowns and hospitality slippers with nothing but good company, a bunch of DVD's and a good book. . . .

Out somewhere remote and countrified, doing much the same thing, sight seeing, horse-riding, camp fires and barbecue but there must be a hot shower, a king size bed and an en suite with a flushing toilet. My roughing it days are over . . . I now like a chocolate on my pillow!

See my reference to Paris . . .I will get there one day . . . even if I'm catheterised in a wheelchair and dribbling my porridge all over my knee . . . are you up for the wheelchair push Clare?

Douche Bag

I'm a forgetful douche . . .soccer training at 8.00 Tuesdays!

Apron Strings

We have this rule in our house. It started as the kids became more independent and wondered off on their own. I don't mind what's going on but you tell me where you are, who you're with and what time you'll be home. Probably about age 16 was the beginning of this rule. Owed much to the Sydney Olympics when my then 16 year old wanted to taste the city. It was safe, well lit, lots of people, public transport all night, loads of security so she was allowed do do things that would have been taboo under normal circumstances. She went to events, watched live sites and stayed out late.

But now, I'm the parent of a 20 and 22 year old and as long as they live in my house, it's my rules. I still want to know where they are, who they're with and what time they'll be home. I now find myself getting more and more paranoid if they don't check in. Both are pretty good and report if they're staying at a mates place or have changed plans but every now and then, their guard slips and so here I am blogging, wondering where the hell my daughter is. I know she left work early and had a doctor's appointment at 6.00pm. But it's now 9.00 and her phone's on message bank. No biggie. She's probably gone to the gym and took a 7:30 class which means an 8:30 finish and might have done some weights or an aerobic class afterwards but I'm sitting here, dinner at the ready fretting about where she is and what she's doing and it's barely 9.00! I hear so many parents say they can't wait for their kids to leave home, mainly because they're layabouts or messy or don't contribute. I love having my kids at home, they're my best friends and I can't say that about either of mine. They pay board, they contribute to the chores and they're great company but . . . if they didn't live at home, I wouldn't worry so much when they didn't report in. Maybe I would. Perhaps I'm going to be one of those unbearable mothers "You didn't ring me this week . . " Ok time for another msg to see where she is . . . my apron strings are stretching but not yet broken.

Catch Him If You Can

Work prevents me from deep thought so just to keep in the game, here's something to frustrate and make you giggle. It's clean, it's fun, it's addictive and extremely silly and because I dont have your emails, it's now here . . .

Take Superman's Photo


Enjoy.

Guilty Pleasures

Kate answered some pretty telling questions about herself and has begun a sort of question ring with other commenters which should be much fun. Anyway, one of the questions asked of her was ‘What are your guilty pleasures?’. Although I read ‘What do you do that you really enjoy that you’re slightly embarrassed about?”

. .well it’s confession time:

I like Who Magazine. I don’t buy it but it’s the first one I gravitate towards in the hairdressers or the surgery . . . Hollywood gossip, pretty dresses, glamorous people.

Astrologyzone online . . . enough said

Dancing (I use the term lightly) on my own late at night. I crank up the music and off I go. Uncoordinated and wild but hey, my dog won’t dob me in . . .

Perving on young men . . . I like a good-looking bronzed labourer. There’s nothing wrong with looking! My mother used to say “A cat can look at a King”. There’s nothing like a nicely formed bod and buns so tight you can bounce ‘em off the walls. Much like men appreciate nubile nymphettes, I’m partial to a sideways glance at a younger man. (Mostly due to my delusional impression of myself.)

I don’t have a particularly sweet tooth but I’m the one who ‘cleans up the edges’ of a new ice cream container when I unpack my shopping. It has softened on the way home and just has to be tidied up before it’s put back in the freezer.

Once, after a failed attempt to make my own Caesar Salad dressing, I poured Cardini's Caesar Dressing all over the salad and to this day my sister-in-law raves about it. . . I have never confessed and felt a little guilty for taking the credit!

I watch Big Brother . . . please don’t think any less of me. It just happens to be on during the making-dinner timeslot when there’s little else to watch anyway . . . I told you I had voyeuristic intentions.

Words Cannot Express

The girl’s feeling a little blue today. I don’t know why, maybe it’s the weather or the onset of the cold or too much time to think. I miss my mum. She was remarkable in a very ordinary way. She was one of those well-spoken private school girls whose parents went to great lengths to ensure she had a good education. The only daughter of Welsh parents, simply because my Nana was RH negative and lost two subsequent children before there was a post-natal treatment for this rare blood group. I’ve inherited the strain but these days, it’s a simple injection after the birth of your first child and all is well. I only found out this fact as a young mother myself, my Nana never said anything about losing a full-term baby and a nine month old. How devastating that must have been for her. I miscarried my first pregnancy and was unconsolable until I realised it happens to 75% of women.

My mum was the daughter of a conscientious objector, a simple but gruff man who just wanted his slippers ready when he got home and tea on the table. Her mother also worked but wasn’t the slipper-grabbing kind. She was a flapper, an Auntie Mame, a party girl to whom routine, organisation and dinner at 6 meant nothing. I think this is the reason my own mum was so ‘straight’ and sensible.

They lived in Manchester, the hub of industrialisation and major target during the war. Mum was evacuated to Wales for safety where she lived with her Grandfather, a grocery store owner who dealt in the black market and her Uncle Donald, the “Crunchy Pickles” magnate. Avid Welsh Evangelists who attended Horeb every Sunday, cleansed their souls, then proceeded to operate illegally during the war years.

Her Grandfather’s black market trade wasn’t as we know it today, not guns or drugs, but flour, butter, sugar, sweets and nylons. Apparently he kept the profits of his activities under the bed in an old leather suitcase.

After the war, she trained as a nurse at Withenshaw hospital in Cheshire where she met my Dad while he was visiting a sick relative. She also contracted tuberculosis, nursing sickly children. She had half her lung removed just weeks after getting married and spent the first two years of her married life in hospital.

After her recovery she had four children, me, the eldest, a son, another son and many years later an unexpected but very welcome daughter. We lived well in a nice house on quarter of an acre overlooking a golf course with a country aspect. We didn’t know it but things were getting tough and so when my Dad was offered a position in Bombay or Melbourne, they thought about their options. She would never have lived in India, although I often wonder what I would have been liked raised there and attending boarding school in England. We chose Australia and became ten pound poms – Australia offered assisted passages to migrants in the 60s and early 70’s to bolster their small population. After six weeks on a small cruise liner and separated by 12,000 miles, we landed in Wooloomooloo and spent a few weeks in Sydney before driving to our Melbourne home.

I remember her being incredibly homesick. For two or three years, she cried regularly, missing her beloved Mammy and Daddy and feeling isolated in this strange country that had a term for the English – “Whingeing Poms” because we always complained that the sausages weren’t as tasty, the bacon wasn’t as good as Danish, the furniture was badly made, the shops were shit and the people were unwelcoming. I guess we suffered much like any other migrant family as the waves of different nationalities came into this very multicultural domain. Australia is a nation of poms, spiks, wogs, chinks and curry munchers to the older Aussie Generations. It’s currently the Islamic Lebanese and Somalis that are bearing the brunt of racist venom but next year it will be some other wave of migrants.

After two years in Melbourne, my father was transferred to much more expensive Sydney. They lost money on the sale of their house and had to stretch to buy a modest but comfortable newish home in the North Western Suburbs of Sydney. It was hotter, more humid and she used to feel exhausted in the heat. As the family grew we moved onto acreage and that’s where I find myself now. Living next door to the paternal/maternal home, now occupied by BabyBro.

As we grew, being a stay-at-home mum began to bore her and she became tetchy. She decided to complete her Midwifery certificate and went back to nursing full time. Shifts and all. It was difficult with four kids ranging from 6 to 18 but she was determined and thank God she did. She won an academic prize for her achievement and began working at our local hospital. She was a wonderful midwife and now has a Maternity Ward named after her. Funnily she refused to be present during the birth of all our children, too much tension. She would book us in, take our observations then retreat home and hang by the phone but it was like having our own childcare nurse at our disposal. Poor BabySis had her babies much later and didn’t benefit from her nurturing during that time of life.

She was tough, a disciplinarian and a back-of-the-leg smacker, usually involving wet rubber gloves, but always sentimental and emotionally physical. A hug from her was so intense, you had to prize yourself away, it always felt like the last she would ever bestow. When you were sick, a bed was made up on the lounge with a little table, fizzy drink, some teen magazines and always vegemite soldier boys or in my case baby desserts and ice cream as I was a chronic sufferer of tonsillitis until I had the bastards removed in my 20s.

She liked to work evenings, it gave her the opportunity to taste the day then go to work at 2.00pm – 10.00pm. My Dad used to pick her up (to keep him off the whiskey) but this proved fatal in 1992 when one Wednesday, he went for his usual sojourn to the hospital, just a 10 minute ride from us. He was involved in a head-on collision with a four wheel drive returning from the scene of a murder. Obscure? Bizarre? Fantastic? Absolutely mind-numbing. The protagonist had engineered an ‘accident’ after murdering an ex-girlfriend and dumping her body to give himself an alibi but hadn’t banked on his victim having just half a lung. She died within hours. My father was never the same and we didn’t pursue the issue through the courts - it was all too sudden and too painful. We were told by the police that he was sentenced to 9 years jail on a plea bargain, she was 62 years old and that bastard is now free to wonder the earth.

I still see her fleeting past my kitchen window in her white uniform. She used to come in at 10.00pm occasionally to have a ‘wind down’ chat and a cup of tea before going home to bed. We had private, intimate chats, she helped me enormously with routine, children, relationships, housekeeping, economising and whilst she could turn the mood of the room sour with a single look, she could also cause an eruption of laughter with a well placed joke or naïve action.

I don’t know why I miss her today particularly but I do. She was everything I aspire to be, lively, well-travelled, well-read, gossipy, grouchy, well disciplined, caring and incredibly supportive, although sometimes so naïve it was embarrassing. Upon meeting the parents of one of my brother’s friends (who’s real name she never knew), she smiled boldly, outstretched her hand and said “Oh, pleased to meet you, you must be Wanker’s parents”. Once the faux pas was explained she shrank with embarrassment having no idea that the kid’s real name wasn’t Wanker or even worse what the word wanker meant.

On another drunken after-dinner occasion, we were playing charades. She stood bolt upright, nominated a film, passed wind then fled to the kitchen at speed. Of course, the movie was “Gone with the Wind”. It was so out of character for her to fart that we all rolled on the floor in laughter, tears streaming. It took hours for us to compose ourselves.

I hope she knew that I loved and valued her because I rarely told her. She would be gutted to know that I don’t even visit her little plot at Castlebrook Cemetary. My memories of her are so alive, I can’t bare looking at that pathetic little stone which simply says “Much Loved”. My Dad is now parked next to her after his battle with Cancer in 2002 but that’s another post.

This is just a potted tribute to one of the most important influences on my life.

I love you cariad.

Comfort Food

It’s another wet and chilly Saturday, my loungeroom looks like a Chinese laundry and BabySis, MikTay and the brood have just left after having coffee and a talkfest. ClareBear is finally cleaning her allergy ridden room and there’s Chicken Soup simmering on the hob.

Brought me to thoughts of comfort food. Not necessarily food you’d order in a restaurant or cook for the family but food you like when you’re feeling under par or is tied to a particular memory or event:

• Vegemite and lashings of butter (not margarine) on freshly baked white bread
• Arnotts Mint Slice Biscuits, guaranteed to make you feel better when you’re sick
• Caramello Koala’s, better than a trip to the psychiatrist
• Chopped tomato, shallots, cheddar cheese and a splash of mayonnaise toasted on bread with generous amounts of freshly ground pepper – the best ever quicksnack
• Hawks Nest Thai Chicken Pies and a chocolate Paddle Pop – then you know you’re on holiday
• Fresh Mango Daquiris, the flavour of Summer/Christmas
• Iced coffee, with Blue Ribbon ice cream but without the whipped cream so you get more coffee scrumptiousness
• Real potato (not that reconstituted rubbish) hot chips from greasy Joes with loads of BBQ sauce or dark gravy
• Pistachio nuts – cos they keep your hands busy
• Roast dinners, just the aroma makes you comfy
  
  I’m sure there are more but it’s time for a toasty.

I Karnt Spel

It's not that I can't spell, I just type very quickly and hit buttons without checking stuff. It's the bain of my life. At uni, I used to lose marks for spelling errors, a bit cruel in a literature analysis or a biology essay I must say but my tutor was an author and spelling and grammar were her bugbears. I think she scarred me for life because even with spell-check things with an 's' get published with a 'z' in the American style. "our" endings get replaced with 'or' endings and I'm a gonner. Then again it's clear that u kan spel anithing rong in the Inglish languidge and stil be understud wich is probubly the onli languidge int he wurld wear that happuns withowt afecting the meening. I hav two do my woshing now.