Snaptober

OK it doesn’t have the arty ring created by The Moon Topples which is now showcasing some incredibly talended photographers from the blogosphere. I am shamed by my lack of technical knowledge and ability to choose an appropriate subject, let alone my ineptness at handling a digital camera, so I haven’t joined the Phoctober crew, I just browse their sites in amazement. Take a look at the originator of the idea The Moon Topples Phoctober , or browse through Jefferson Davis, pics, they're really lovely, and I really mean that.

So, because I neither know how to operate a camera or have the photographic eye, I’m just gonna do one post with some bits and bobs from the happy snaps . . .think of it as 'snaptober' . . . don’t take them seriously folks, after the last couple of posts, it's some light relief:

The Coathanger

Night at the Opera

This isn't going to end well

Smal concession to romance

Gimme a home among the gum trees, and lotsa plum trees, a sheep or two and a kangaroo

Fighting Spirits and Lost Souls

Yesterday an Australian soldier was killed in Afghanistan. It’s the third Australian death in both Iraq and Afghanistan (except for one guy who was fighting with the RAF). We're great at ducking bullets unless they're from our own guns. The first was a young private suspected of accidentally shooting himself with his own firearm in Iraq. The second, a 41 year old member of the Afghanistan Reconstruction Task Force - the victim of a roadside explosion. The third killed in an anti tank mine accident also in Afghanistan

The media fuss that has followed the death of these unfortunate men is alarming, maudlin, parochial and lamentable. We seem surprised when this happens . . . I don't want to detract from the tragedy because these men were someone's husband, brother, uncle, father but in this instance, they were also combatants put in harm's way and by their own volition. Isn’t that the general idea? They’re trained to fight not just look good in a Dress Uniform! It’s the nature of the job. I wish tabloid TV and the anti-war lobby would realise this and focus on the dickheads that send our troops into frey's that aren't ours. (I'm speaking of Iraq here, I endorse our peacekeeping in Afghanistan which is where the whole attention of the Coalition of the Willing should be focussed to my mind!)

The military has become a convenient way to achieve free qualification, especially for enlisted personnel. Or, you can enrol in the Australian Defence Force Academy and try for a degree along with your military training. Once finished with all the free education and training, there is some expectation that our preciouses may actually go to war. Despite the public outcry! What are they supposed to do stay home and spit and polish their rifles.

Peacekeeping, war, military policing and support for reconstruction is not a Sunday Picnic. It involves fighting, seeing sights you never want to see, taking risk, it’s not for the feint-hearted. Militia embarking on such sorties need a total education on what they’re getting into. Returning soldiers need proper debriefing, psychiatric assessment and ongoing support – sometimes for life.

In an effort to bolster dwindling interest in the armed forces, our Government in its wisdom is now recommending a try-before-you-buy program to recruit into the military. Yep, 1 year’s paid service to see if you like it! Not a bad plan . . . spend your gap year between school and tertiary education or gainful employment learning how to blow shit up and take over the world. (DrummerBoy managed to learn that with a bottle of vinegar and some pool chlorine but that's another story). The recruitment marketing even includes downloadable online gaming to encourage the young to pick up a rifle and fight for Queen PM and country. Is it working? Absolutely. Extreme Battleships and Supreme Air Combat are giving our online gamers a taste of the real thing and recruitment is up for our young would be combatants. But this ain't no Halo pal . . this is war!

What happens to these men an women when they return from the theatre of war. My cousin-in-law was a career soldier. He served in the first Gulf War, Bosnia, Sinai, Lebanon and other combat zones, he worked for the UN, he grew from an active grunt to top brass and retired a happy man at 55. He’s well adjusted.

Another relative was on a pension long before retirement age after flying helicopters in Vietnam. His nerves are shot, he can’t work, drive or function in the normal world but it took 20 years for his PTS to manifest itself. He came home with no debriefing and a raging community who were completely against the war and those who participated in it . . .he was made to feel guilty for being in the army and simply stopped talking about it.

Whatever you think of the current conflicts where Australians are involved, it’s vital that when they come home the balance is maintained. It’s a job. They enlisted but we also need to be cogniscent of their mental state upon their return. It’s important that our military men and women are not demoralised by ongoing criticism of the conflict or left to rot in their own psychosis. It’s we who should take responsibility and our elected politicians that should be criticised. Whilst our soldiers should fight, navy should sail and fly boys must fly, we need to be judicious about the conflicts in which we get involved. Vote with your feet people . . .there’s an election coming up!

Vogons, Boguns and Bogongs

This year, strong winds have driven unusually large numbers of Bogongs (not to be confused with the Vogons who built the intergalactic highway of course or aBogun) to the bright lights of Sydney, where they flutter into office buildings and congregate in city parks only to come alive in their millions when the lights go on. Thes moths migrate in spring each year from the Queensland end of the Great Dividing Range into the relative cool and safety of the Snowy Mountains. That's a helluva hike for a pair of pollen coated wings! High winds in Sydney have blown the little blossoms off course and the bright lights of Sydney have attracted zillions. It's one of the few times you see birds, normally which forage in the daylight, congregate in huge numbers over the particularly the well lit harbour bridge to catch the tasty morsels. Also one of the few times you see the poor things splattered against car windscreens and being smashed by brooms all over the city as if they pose a poisonous threat. I feel for the mottephobics but what has everyone else got against them . . .they're just brown butterflies . . . they don't bite or sting and their stay is very short.

So why are we so disgusted by these fanciful little things. If they were red, blue or pink or yellow, we'd be marvelling at the sight I even have a friend who's mother bought a box of butterflies and released them after her wedding ceremony where they promptly parked themselves on the bride's dress and in her hair to a crowd pleasing "Awwww . . ." But not the little brown buggers, they're pests, apparently laden with arsenic and getting squished and sprayed. I'm up for the brown and boring . . . let the little things be, another gust of wind on the weekend and they'll be off for their Snowy Mountain holiday. They are the Justin Timberlakes of insects . . . they make average looking men, I mean insects, feel good about themselves.

A guy waked into a doctor's office and said "I think I'm a moth". The doctor replied "I think you want the psychiatrist's office just down the hall". The guy replied "I was on my way there but I noticed your light was on". Sorry

Hair Today . . . .

I've written before about my mad hair. I'm overweight, 50 years old yet I obsess about this bird's nest of a bonce that never does as it's told. It's grown quite long so tonight, before ClareBear and DrummerBoy head off for their Saturday night out, I asked ClareBear to trim a couple of inches off the unruly mass so that the mountains of 'product' can do their work and make curls. She promptly crashed with a doona on the couch after a big night and a day at the beach. Fringelet is beautifully coiffed and straightening and producting in the bathroom. Amazingly DrummerBoy has the ironing board out. Didn't even know he knew how to put the thing up!. So as a last resort, I grabbed the dressmaking scissors, the only sharp pair in the house and asked DrummerBoy to trim two inches from the ends. "Sure" says he . . happy to do anything that involves sharp objects. Hair is duly wet, combed dag style with a part down the middle and we move outside to avoid unruly hairiness in the kitchen. He sets to work but his action can only be described as 'cavallier'. Within seconds he's cut an 8 inch string from my now straight and conditioned hair. Well too late, start as you mean to go on says I. No point making a fuss he's already botched it.

Five minutes later and I have a 20's bob. Fortunately with curly hair it doesn't really matter if the cutting's straight but boy is it short. Then again, I always wear it up so no big deal. Amid many giggles, we've decided that I saved $95 at Mark and Geoffrey's. OK so I didn't get the head massage and conditioning treatment but the cut's OK actually, well so I thought . . however due to his lack of ability to measure, and the fact that he's a landscape gardener, I'd be wary of telling him you want a 3 foot retaining wall, you'll end up with a six inch damp course!

ClareBear has decided it's the most disgusting hairstyle she has ever seen and has already made an appointment for the hairdresser next week. . . I think it's the first time she's ever been embarrassed to be seen with her mother! Looks like I'm going short again.

The Power of One Could Be Many

I don't often link to other pages, I'm not into ego stroking or saccharine back slapping. I occasionally link to familiarise anyone reading this mess of potage with some of the people who comment and a couple of blogs that I find amusing but today's post by Absolute Vanilla was thoughtfully written and a subject close to my heart - man's inhumanity to man. Whilst peace in our time sounds like the wish of a blundering Beauty Queen and is completely untenable in the real world I know thoughtful souls can make a small difference.

My delemma, I don't know how. Burma is in lockdown. Even internet priviledges have been denied. North Korea is in denial, it's citizens believing that the rest of the world is non existant, China is ever present on the world stage as an emerging economy yet its human rights record is outrageous. Humanitarian aid groups are leaving Dafour, Zimbabwe has become a lost cause.

People on the streets of just about every nation are out of work or have sunk into depths of alcoholism and drug addition, largely unnoticed apart from the signs they place before them begging for money which you know is just going to be used to perpetuate the cycle of depravity and abuse.

Now I'm not preaching because I've done little to help anyone but myself and my family over past years. Apart from the odd contribution and support of conversation, I'm hardly a 'community animal' but it's well and truly in my retirement plan to make a difference to someone, somewhere if I can through active participation.

I'd ask you just to take a look at Absolute Vanilla's article. It gets you thinking, that's a start. If it makes you 'plan' something, fantastic. If it drives you to action even better. I constantly hear people wanting to initiate change but feel they are a single voice in the wilderness . . . you're not . . .of course our lives go on, there's washing to be done, businesses to run, retirements to plan and children to raise but all of us can contribute in some small way whether it's sending clothes to St Vinnies or blankets to Afghanistan. Cash support for an organisation in which you believe, volunteering, political lobbying, protesting or petitioning. Even bringing an issue to the attention of others is broadening their awareness. We will never stop civil rights abuse, substance abuse, unfair invasion or political bullying entirely but it is the role and responsibility of the strong to protect the weak.

Doctors are Like Policemen

That is, you don't value your doctor, or your police until there's a crisis and you really need them. So when there's a crisis . . I'll call on either or both. In the meantime . . I can't stand them. They're a necessary evil if you need to state the bleeding obvious. My usual visit to the doctor is as follows: "I have a cold" he replies "Well all you need is bedrest, fluids and Panadol." I retort, "Yes I know but my employer compulses me to turn up for a Dr's Certificate to prove that my snot is real". The certificate is written, I have two days off and it's business as usual. He doesn't send me for ENT tests, he doesn't insist on a chest x-ray or do a blood test, he doesn't worry about Avian Flu despite the posters in his surgery. He doesn't even want a snot sample.

However, at my age, things start to happen. I'm not going to venture into the oestrogen zone for fear it might put some off but that's where I am at the moment. So, this morning, I pops into my local Doc for a quick diagnosis and expecting to be prescribed HRT or a low dose contraceptive. No. Doesn't happen. "So, you're a widow? Are you feeling any stress?" - "No it happened 20 years ago". "How did your father die?" . . .um Bowel Cancer . . ."Ah, better have your bottom probed by a complete stranger". "How did your mother die?" ummm car accident. "Oh dear . . . we'd better test your stress and thyroid levels." "Are your children healthy?" Well there is the odd allergy "When were you last allergy tested?", "When was your last blood test, ECG and cardiogram?", "When was the last time you had . . .." (you get the gist, one of those proddy things stuffed up yer nether regions - note plural!)

So I walked away with a referral for: Colonoscopy, Ultrasound, Blood Tests, Allergy Skin Pricks, Mamagram, Chest Xray, psychological counselling and a Thyroid Biopsy . . for crying out loud! I'm approaching menopause! So the crimson wave has turned into a sunami and I cry a bit - but not a lot! . . . Why can't I just go into day surgery have an unconscious grease and valve grind so they can do all these procedures at once with me blissfully absent (mentally anyway).

Bugger all that. I'm going to the women's health centre on Monday . . . one little patch and life will be normal. Two little patches and I can give up smoking. Two little patches and a small white tablet and I can deal with life, give up smoking and lose weight - Magic! And no hose up the . . you know what. When I get run over by a bus or beaten by a thug . . then I'll call on a doctor and maybe a policeman. Until then, keep me out of this perpetual cycle of tests, pathology, procedures and prodding. I am not here to keep auxilliary health services in business or to improve state revenue through random breath testing. (Sorry that was a tenuous link to the police theme).

He's not a real doctor you know - But he's much better looking than mine!

Tell Someone Who Cares!

I care about other people . . . . and I often worry too. I don’t always show it but issues affecting others often take up cerebral space and is incredibly distracting. I need all the grey matter I can get just to compensate for the 'affluence of incahol' and the onset of menopause, mad multi-tasking at work, household management, property negotiations and a number of other distractions that deserve my full attention.

Instead, I get all twisted and concerned. I get all anxious and obsessed. All care-bear and worry-wart over the silliest of things.

I get concerned about not keeping in touch with good friends. I have a number of people over on the Northern Beaches that actually care about me . . and I’m lucky if I talk to them once a year . . .pathetic.

I feel guilt at having forgotten to ring my brother in law the other day to wish him happy birthday despite the fact that I know he’s never selected a birthday present or called me in the 30 years we’ve known each other.

I worry about people I’ve never even met . . I read about your lives, trials and tribulations, talk to some of you, email others and have actually met a couple . . I feel involved and it touches me. (In a good way) but sometimes, I think I might have gone too far . . .

I worry about my chicky babe travelling around the Americas with her ‘messy’ friend who incidentally shamelessly announced that she had sex on an outdoor table behind where I was standing in the Beer Garden at the Mona Vale pub. The mind boggles.

I worry about my little lad and his inability to hang on to cash, form a budget or prioritise his spending habits or whether he’s going to break his back on a 40 foot motocross jump!

I worry about my ever-diminishing line of credit as it pays off an ever-increasing mortgage and no signs of developers swanning up to the front door with a briefcase of money.

I care about clients when things go wrong. I’ve lost sleep over share trades, lost forms, slow redemptions that might impact on the settlement of a flat or the comfort of someone going into Aged Care . . .these people have no idea that I get churned about their welfare.

I care about offending people with my straight talk and no-nonsense unsolicited advice. Believe me, I often do and without meaning it. Sometimes it saves lives . . other times it reduces once quite intimate conversations to recipe swaps.

A friend once said “Why the fuck to you care what anyone thinks.” As if I am asbestos coated with an ashphalt inside, some sort of rare exception. I don’t know why but I do. I’m an empathic soul with an enormous capacity for affection and a little experience which can sometimes be of help in Agony Aunt situations. I also get a bit upset if I think that others don’t care about me . . . yeh, yeh . . .I’m needy . . .but it’s better than not giving a damn.

. . .and I haven't even started on politics, the environment, the plight of the oppressed or my own eventual demise . . . .

What do you worry about? Don't want to share it publicly, then email bainbridge1610 at the g-spot.com. I will be happy to give you unsolicited advice and empathise with your situation or provide you with a good telling off!

Ooohh . .Schparkly . . .Shiny bits!

Who is the Fire Starter? Hey! Hey! Hey!

October 1 marks the beginning of the bushfire season – strictly speaking it continues until 31 March . . .Australia wide. Fire bans are in place. It is illegal to have an open fire without a permit. In some areas, a Total Fire Ban is in place which means no flame of any kind, even a gas-fired Barbecue for fear of precipitating a flaming event.

Households in wooded areas and those surrounded by dry grassland are clearing around their homes, cleaning their gutters and ensuring they have extra hoses connected to the swimming pool, just in case.

This is serious folks. We are in our 10^th year of drought and the warmer than usual winter means that little back burning has been achieved by the rural fire service. To compound things, September and October are notoriously windy months . . . and we’ve just come out of our driest September in 20 years.

Only four years ago, BabySis had Elvis http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elvis_(helicopter) dipping into the dam at the end of the street, packed up the kids and a few belongings and moved in with us for two days for fear their house would burn. Nothing could stop the ravaging monster climbing the ravine and indeed, that year, many homes were lost in the local area.

Needless to say, the long weekend was plagued by the outbreak of fire. It’s like someone announces the fire bans and the arsehole arsonists come out of the woodwork to declare open season. . yes . . Every single major fire in NSW (there are now three large fronts burning) was deliberately lit. Whether it’s some fool actually trying to be destructive or an inconsiderate motorist tossing a cigarette but from a car . . . in these hot winds, it can be devastating . . . even glass litter can start a fire . . . One thing for sure, it wasn’t lightening activity. . the storm season has not started.

We even had our own little drama on an overgrown block about 500 metres from our place. It’s never mown or maintained and as Adam and the Fringelet drove down the street from the bottle shop on Monday . . plumes of smoke were rising from the grassland. He called the fire brigade and within half an hour the whole corner was ablaze. For us, a bit of easily controlled excitement (again we suspect it was deliberately lit as this block goes up once or twice a year and nobody lives on it) but for people living in heavily wooded areas, it’s devastating. Gum trees are flammable . . more so than any other thanks to the high alcohol content in their leaves, they also constantly shed twigs, leaves, branches so a hazard reduction policy is essential . . the ground litter is dry as a bone and yet there is always a wanker who thinks it’s fun to ignite.

I’m really sick of this. It’s not just the houses involved, the people, the lost lives and memorabilia, it’s the livestock, the water pollution, the air pollution and the sheer irresponsibility of some people when it comes to lighting fires. I know this sounds rich coming from someone who was recently shut down for not having a permit but that was a pre-season burn and it was contained and safe. All precautions had been met, there was no wind and it was a cool, damp night

. . . 14 years jail isn’t good enough for these dickheads and as we approach another summer with predicted high temperatures, north easterly winds and an 11^th successive year of low rainfall . . they should be burned on their own pyres!

Now crank this up . . .(I just like it!)

Kilos of Craic - Milligrams of Mirth

I am rarely stuck for words but after yet another day of imbibing for Babybro’s birthday and then staying up far too late playing Trivial Pursuit with the younglings - who penalised me by making me answer the Genus questions while they had the kids versions - I feel like a bucket of smashed crabs.

The best I can do is let you hear me, and some mates from around the globe rambling diversified, twittering and warbling about nothing much and somehow edited to make some sense by the very clever JD (well I'm imagining so, I haven't actually listened myself just yet) – that’s Kilos of Craic, the rebirth of the Jefferson Davis Podcast with a little link there on the right. If you fancy being a fly on the wall and living a little vicariously . . . you might find it mildly amusing. It’s a bit long so takes a while to download . . . if you’d like a transcript . . um . . bad luck, I cut my finger instead of the avocado yesterday so my typing has suffered.

I am definitely detoxing for the next 100 years . . . . now where's that kebab?

And last but by no means least . . .have a crack (or is that craic) at this:

You Are Sauvignon Blanc

Engaging and energetic, you have a lot to offer the world - most of it they've never seen anywhere else! You are the type of person who carves your own path in life... and you invite everyone else to come along. The only thing predictable about you is that you could have anything up your sleeve. You're all about sampling all of life's experiences. Both the savory and unsavory ones. Deep down you are: Laid back and young at heart Your partying style: Anything goes... seriously! Your company is enjoyed best with: Smoked meats or spicy food

What Kind of Wine Are You?

Punk Piss and a Poodle

Thank God its a long weekend! I am severely hung over. Aktor nailed the next round at the Mona Vale on Saturday night. They were splendid in their alternative punkness. DrummerBoy went crazy, the fills were on time, the bass player was more animated than ever and Ocky's dreads copped a head banging hammering. They were fantastic and have made it to the finals at Sydney's Metro, one of the top alternative venues in the city. The winner there, goes to Germany for the world championships of the Emergenza International Band Comp.

It all started with the sound check, DrummerBoy was nervous and wanted to head down to the beach side suburb of Mona Vale a little early to make sure everything was in its place. Soundcheck at 5.00pm so of course we arrived at 4:10! I'd arranged to catch up with Busty Substances and TheEngineer in Avalon, have a few drinks and nibbly bits, grab some dinner then on to the hotel to watch the band at 9:30pm.

My arrival at Cockatoo Castle was therefore a little earlier than planned but it wasn't a problem. TheEngineer was in the garden finishing up his pottering, Busty just out of the shower so a nibbly plate was prepared and the biginnings of an 8 bottle rampage began. Seriously, we didn't plan it that way.

It was great to catch up. We all went to school together and have been friends for years. We don't see a lot of each other but when we do, it's like no time has passed at all. They have a fabulously renovated home with a glimpse of the sea through the trees. The house is modern but always a mess, full of interesting nick nacks from their extensive travels and arty farty conversation pieces. Then TheScot and Mrs Brady arrived, another old school friend arrived. Since the night's voting relied on a show of hands, the more the merrier. More chardonnay, more nibbly bits before packing into the car and down to the Noodle bar. Full of course and nobody had made a booking so we resorted to pub grub. Damn good pub grub actually. Coconut prawns, calamari and salad . . more chardy . . .

Met up with very nervous Aktor members who had just downed a foccacia and were limbering up to go on stage. We finished our meal, carried our bottle and glasses up to the Jaeger room. Were duly stamped as having paid in full with the word 'Room' and into the mele of punks, emos and would be rock stars. A brilliant little venue and all in all a great turnout. The night comprised 10 hopeful bands of various ilk, ours playing third last. Aktor had recruited the 75 strong rentacrowd so there were loads of familiar faces. Of course we had to resort to sign language due to the noise. The boys did their set . . .sound was good, stage presence was good, reception was good. They did a really great job and the new song sounded great. More chardy between sets . . we stayed and watched the last two bands which weren't a patch but left before the votes were counted.

TheEngineer, sick of sipping water, drove us back to Cockatoo Castle for . . . you guessed it . . .more chardy. He threw in the towel at 1:30am so Busty and I sat up squinting at each other, smoking far more than we should and reminiscing. Oops, out of chardy . . but there was a nice bordeaux in the bureau so to speak . . .sploshed more in clean glasses and finally crawled up the stairs -literally - and attempted to make up a sofa bed among much tripping and giggling. You know that laughter when someone starts you off and after that everything is fucking hilarious. Hysterical stupid girlish tears down the face, fall on the floor giggling . . . fantastic, my face still hurts. Bed made, that was it, the close of the night at a useful 3.00am. Good effort by the girly swats I say!

The only problem, we were still pissed at breakfast so sailing on a breezy spring day wasn't such a great idea.
a) none of us were in any condition to drive down to the mooring
b) none of us was sober enough to hoist a jib, let alone a mainsail

So we settled for a fried breakfast and the Sunday papers. I probably shouldn't have driven home as soon as I did, my head's still swooning and I'm thinking the only cure is hair of the dog. And that brings me to the Poodle. They have the most amazing steel grey standard poodle called Harry . . nothing particularly special other than he's just lovely. So Punk over for the night, still Pissed and now ThePrincess who is mightly annoyed at having been left alone for the weekend is taking great interest in my track pants which obviously smell like Poodle.

Well done boys, champion effort. Well done girls . . .even better effort 6 bottles of chardy, 1 bordeaux and a bottle of bubbly before we threw in the towel. Some sort of record methinks. I'm so proud!

Ooooh me 'ed.

Food Fight or Why Napisan Isn't Just for Nappies

Brianf has been travellin' with work and that means lots of meals in hotels, cafes and restaurant visits and I'm guessing he's becoming a bit of a culture vulture and a gourmet critic when it comes to American cuisine. I think he's moved on from squab stew (yes I had to look that one up in the dictionary). We have a standing joke about him not eating enough veg and downing entire pizzas with cheesy crusts . . . then feeling vomitous. He doesn't approve of pineapple on pizza or beetroot on hamburgers . . . you know Americans . . big servings of stodgy food. He would disagree but that was certainly my experience in LA, limited as it was. But as usual, I digress . .

I loves me food. I mean I really loves me food - good food that is - not necessarily big helpings but if I go to a restaurant, I want something that I can't be bothered cooking myself and without being too big headed, I'm not a bad cook so it has to be more than filet mignon or pepper steak. I like 'towers', things that take a long time to prepare or look pretty.

I'm not a junk food eater although last night I did succumb to BBQ ribs while DrummerBoy ate one of his weird Pizza combinations, something meaty drizzled with pesto and sweet chili sauce (the boy's a mutant). The ribs however were fantastic but not something you eat at a restaurant. There are some things that have to be eaten in the privacy of your own home due to the fact that drizzles of stuff end up on your shirt and you suddenly become very attractive to dogs and you have to resort to using Napisan long after the babes are out of nappies (I did use real ones with my little angels, not the environmentally disfunctionaly disposable type) in order to remove the unremovable orangy marks that result from BBQ sauces and soy. So folks, only attempt these at home:

Soy honey chicken wings. Love em. My kids hate anything with bones in it or 'chunks' of meat so I don't often get the opportunity but five or six honey soy soaked bony boys are delish. Wipe fingers on back of tracky daks when finished.

Ribs. I have a friend who marinates pork ribs on the bone in Coca Cola. I had the 'eeeuuuwwws' when I first heard about it but seriously, it tenderises the meat and gives it a sweet, sticky coating when barbecued that's just delicious. Again, not to be eaten in public. Invariably, they're devoured at home whilst wearing a white or pale pink T shirt which challenges the anti-stain commercials. Oops, nearly forgot the hyphen.

Crab. Never eat crab in public. The juicy bits spit out at the table next door where the guy is just about to propose and has placed the ring in a glass of pink sparkly when he is hit by a gob of 'mustard' from a wayward carapice. But Queensland Mud Crab . . .they're huge, sweet, messy and gently cooked in chili, garlic, black beans and soy are to die for. Crays, yabbies and scampi fall in the same category if served in the shell.

Chocolate Brownies: I mean the super gooey ones that you make at home and daub with sour cream and dark chocolate topping . . . they will invariably break while being eaten due to the fact that you can't wait for them to properly cool. The offending chocolatey toppingy bit which has been a little too generously sploshed rolls down the front of the same white or pale pink T shirt and lands on the floor, making a 5 year old labrador very, very happy . . .she doesn't know that chocolate aint good fer dawgs. Another garment fit only for the Napisan bucket.

BBQ Green Prawns in Chili . . these are raw green prawns, marinated then lightly cooked in soy and chili in the shell. Same issue as the crab. Just as you break the head off, you catapult some of the mustard into your beau's eye. He screams because it's hot and bearing a chili missile. The whole thing ends in lots of eye bathing, prawns going cold and a red faced would be lover deciding that you're cuisine is too dangerous to deal with so he'll go out with someone who serves safe meat and three veg. It's hard to be blinded by a pea. Although my nephew once stuck one up his nose and got a nasty ENT infection . . .

Pork Crackling: You know, the crispy skin from a well roasted leg or loin. Lovely but sometimes so hard it resembles a roofing tile and no matter how sharp the cutlery, a shard manages to ricochet across the room and usually land in the host's Reidel glass filled with Grange Hermitage. Very embarrassing and you've not only managed to ruin his $50 glass of red but also duplicate the spatter effect normally reserved for the scene of an axe murder.

OK not a tag but . . being largely Al Fresco eaters from October to March . . (dogs pick up the bits that fall on the floor so outside is a safe venue) . . I'm interested in your anecdotes of embarrasing dining experiences . . . and thanks Bri for the inspiration . . I had nothing.

Quick I'm Hyphenventilating

I love the English Language . . I love its amorphous nature, the fact that you can get everything the wrong way round or misspelled and yet it still works. The fact that there are a thousand different words for the same thing . . just look at a lipstick or paint colour chart! I love that it’s this fantastic hybrid of thousands of years of invasion and influence. It’s rebellious and despite the Victorian’s best efforts to confine us to grammatical rules . . .I aint havin’ none of it!. As a student of literature, I loved it’s descriptiveness, it’s vaguaries, it’s versatility. I love the spoken word, slang, colloquial or otherwise. Yes, even that word has time and place.

This probably explains my difficulty with punctuation. I have no respect for it. I write as I speak, generally. I’ve always been a weak spellerer. Something to do with right to left brain exchange. So much so that whilst at Uni the now late Australian Author, Thea Astley used to deduct marks for spelling mistakes in my literature essays, no matter how good they were. She’d knock off half a mark for a grammatical error and one for spelling. I thought that’s what sub-editors and proofreaders were for! I was therefore very relieved to fall into a journalistic/creative writing career where someone else worried about all those commas, colons and full stops as well as my shocking spllig. As a result, my writing style is a little rambly but definitely narrative and conversational. A bit like me after three glasses of bubbly.

So it’s no skin of my nose to discover that about 16,000 words have succumbed to pressures of the internet age and lost their hyphens in a new edition of the Shorter Oxford English Dictionary.

Ice-cream is now icecream (we always knew it was Icecream, youscream, we allscream for icecream) but now it has even more companions. The word ‘email’ apparently yields more Google search results than ‘e-mail’. The poor old hyphen has been made obsolete through conversations conducted via text and email, spread on the interwebyness and seepage into newspapers and even books. Another factor in the hyphen's demise is designers' distaste for its ungainly horizontal bulk between words. Yeay, a victory for the arty farty.

Personally, I’m ambivolent about the hyphen although I’m not a fan of hyphenated names:

I mean one could retain Hilary Smythe-Bottomly . . .but it has the smell of the hunt about it. Besides, from a personal perpective, I fought long and hard for my married name. Ray had to chase me pretty hard before I caught him, it was exausting! I’m not giving it up. Had I married Mr Cocks or Mr Bottom, I might have thought differently.

So now Adam and Eve wear a figleaf and should get off their hobbyhorse and stop being crybabies about being castout from the garden for eating icecream. They’re lucky to escape with their pinmoney and something to cover Eve’s potbelly. Perhaps they should have considered testtube conception prior to doing the deed on their waterbed and playing sexual leapfrog, the lowlife outcasts. I hate to pigeonhole them but they did take it over the touchline!

Less is More

Not much time tonight, it's been ballistic and I've just got time to do something between demi glazing onions and adding Thai curry Paste:

Absolute Vanilla: (and whatever that chook is called). Chin up, get well the flu sux. Hugs all round
B3N: Where are you? Given up blogging?
Kate: Nice to have you visiting but where on earth did you get the time to write such a huge list! Maybe that's something I should do on Tuesday evenings
ClareBear: Nice start to a blog . . .even if it is a bit premature . . . Do they have internet cafes in Equador?
Grannymar: What would I do without you. . . I hope the walls aren't talking back and I'll listen to the Podcasts on Saturday.
Grandad: Glad you found your brain . . Guess what . . last night they had a doco on the Rose of Tralee. Apparently last year was won by a Queenslander and this year by an American . . .time to get your gun out.
Wordnerd: Whatever you do DON'T agree if Miss Priss asks you to match every dollar she saves to buy a pony . . . trust me, I'm really over this lunchtime feeding biz.
Jefferson Davis: Where are the kilos of craic? You have a 'parlour' how quaint. Can I come into it sometime my little spider?
K8: Please come over and clean my windows. I promise I'll put all the huntsmen in a jar and mail them to Daz and double spray the doggy snot with Windex
Kahlerisms: You've got 24 hours to change your mind . . .otherwise, your couch is mine *evil laughter*
Johnny Dodge: You play that trick again and, and, and . . .I'll fall off my chair laughing. I had no idea who it was for about 30 seconds until you snickered. Oh for and everyone else "John is Cool"
Nonny Mouse: Love yer work. Keep yer knickers on.
Brianf: Glad you're feeling better, get some fresh air, eat your greens and stay away from that rich food . . oh and pumpkin isn't just for pigs
Benchwarmer: Update your blog! And I think it's your shout for lunch
Daz: I'll stay up till 10:30 just in case. If I was your Digs Mummy I'd make nice lunches for you and a thermos full of caffeine.
Thommo: You'd better be available for lunch on Friday, I have so much venting about TMAPITW!
Merry Widow: Thanks for the email and I'm glad you're having a blast. L- o-o-o-n-g Lunch on the 12th! Although Ocean One has been bought by the Tandoori Sizzler so the seafood platter might be doused in cardomon.

Oh and thanks to all of you for your thoughtful, funny, entertaining, heartfelt and rude comments. I wake at about 6.00am and log in to check out comments and take a peek at your blogs. You get me going in the morning. *Bless*

Tiresome Tuesday

I hate Tuesday nights . . no I really do. To the point that I'm looking for a course, a hobby, a pastime to occupy the hours between 7 and 10. DrummerBoy goes to band but before he does, he manages to decimate every room in the house with stray shoes, dirty washing, wet towels and infuse the entire house with garlic thanks to the 4:30pm pizza (he's landscaping again so comes home like a ravenous beast and devours whatever is available). ClareBear goes to the gym and invariably ends up at someone else's house for natter night, catching up on post weekend goss.

I still haven't learned. I drop into the shops on the way home, buy something nice for tea. Tonight Chicken Kiev and end up cooking for myself ThePrincess and two microwavable lunch boxes. Television is terrorist Tuesday with programs on Palestinians trying to cross the border, much in the same way as Mexicans run the gauntlet to get into the USA or a plethora and I mean plethora, on three channels of American crap such as CSI, SVU and NCIS . . .then the last station has the best offering . . Dancing with 'some celebrity you've seen on a magazine in the Dentist's surgery'. Gawd, it's so depressing. So I went back to the Bronze Horseman then realised that my glasses need upgrading and I can't read more than a chapter without my eyes watering. So, I see who's on Skype . . nobody . . check the blog . . . everyone's at Uni, work, tennis, watching CSI, SVU or NCIS or lying-in cos they're retired. So here I am at 9:14pm thinking I might as well go to bed. And the world thinks that Wednesday is hump day!

There’s a tag or a meme or an idea going round at the moment. Your ‘Eight Rules To Live By.” I found 8 a bit restrictive and since I don’t mind being tagged, I’m not much of a tagger so consider yourselves all tagged and have a go. After thinking about my rules for life, they weren’t vastly different to this Nepali Tantra Totem which I’ve had for quite a while, tucked somewhere in the recesses of my C Drive:

• Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.
• When you lose, don't lose the lesson.
• Follow the three R's: Respect for self. Respect for others. Responsibility for all your actions.
• Remember that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck.
• Learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.
• Don't let a little dispute injure a great friendship.
• When you realize you've made a mistake, take immediate steps to correct it.
• Spend some time alone.
• Open your arms to change, but don't let go of your values.
• Remember that silence is sometimes the best answer.
• Live a good, honorable life. Then when you get older and think back,you'll be able to enjoy it a second time.
• A loving atmosphere in your home is the foundation for your life. Do all you can to create a tranquil, harmonious home.
• In disagreements with loved ones, deal only with the current situation. Don't bring up the past.
• Share your knowledge. It's a way to achieve immortality.
• Be gentle with the earth.
• Once a year, go someplace you've never been before.
• Remember that the best relationship is one in which your love for each other exceeds your need for each other.
• Judge your success by what you had to give up in order to get it.
• Call your mother.
• Approach love and cooking with reckless abandon

So Where the Bloody Hell Are you

I got nothin . . .work was manic so have a giggle on me:

My Auntie Marian

She doesn't want me to write this post and has sabotaged my first attempt. But . . .My father was one of three children. He had two sisters, Daphne and Marian. Neither ever married, largely due to their financial circumstances, the blinding of their father and the need to keep the bakery alive during the late war years, they say, took away opportunities for romance.

Whatever their excuses, neither married. Daphne was the 'masculine' sister. The one who took care of affairs, registered cars, the chief adminstrator. Marian was softer, sweeter, the teacher, the empath. A well respected teacher, department head and eventually head mistress of a school near Luton. They lived distant to us Cheshire folk so visits were restricted to Whitsun and Christmas, baby births and funerals or fantastic half way visits at Twy Cross Zoo in Wales where I remember picnics of Scotch Eggs and cold sausages (ah English cuisine - what an oxymoron that is).

My Auntie Marian took me to Switzerland when I was 7 on a school trip full of 16 year olds . . . she bought me a high school uniform for the occasion so that I'd fit in . . I felt very important. I sat at the staff table and mingled with the 'big girls'.. I walked across the original Lucerne Bridge before it burned down in the 80's. Ate Swiss Chocolate and fondue. Marvelled at the Gornergrat and Jungfrau and learned the legend of Mt Pilatus before dancing with Lederhosen clad mountain types and I hated their unsalted butter.

She, her sister Daphne and my Grandma lived together in a little thatched village called Shillington. Their view was farmland and they were within spitting distance of a Medieval church with a spooky graveyard and brasses on the floor. I loved the place. We visited when I was 16 and I went again as a loner when I was 21. After my Grandma died, there were two, and in 1989 there was just Marian. She was alone . . no reason to stay in England, her selubrious and popular career long gone (how quickly people forget) . So after my Dad had settled all the affairs necessary after the demise of a loved one, she visited. It was nice . . she told stories we hadn't heard . . . she liked a gin and tonic . . she was eager to learn but slightly outstayed her welcome. A six week stay ended up being 4 months and my poor mother was about to tear her hair out. Our ageing aunt was not good at walking and actually seemed to quite like being dependent on others. Marian and my dad would have drinking bouts which turned them both into aggressive monsters and sometimes it was simply beyond the pale - him whiskey doused, her supping from her 'gin tray' of Gordon's and a jug of chilled water.

Marian duly returned to her lonely life in England. Then came the request for sponsorship. She wanted to emigrate at 70 years of age. She had the means, the health (although highly dubious, I think some forms were 'embellished') But come she did. My dad, filled with brotherly duty sponsored her, found a home for her and she lived with us for 2 years before passing.

My point . . .I remember her as vital, educational, instructive, friendly, warm. The times we spent at her house were full of arty dramatic young men and women, sherry before dinner and a bath so deep you could swim in it . . she taught me how to 'take tea' from Shelley China and how to identify a neolilthic flint and she introduced me at a very young age to home brewed ginger wine and chocolate digestive biscuits.

My siblings remember her as a demanding and debilitated old woman who wanted to be the centre of attention . . . in the end she was frail, and the most exciting thing about her was her motorised wheelchair. Sure, the older she became and the more gin she drank the more demanding and laborious she seemed. It was a chore to visit (she didn't tolerate young children well) . . .but she was a warm and loving person. She taught me so much about my family, my history, my origins . . sadly she died one week before my mother and any thunder she had to weild was stolen.

Grannymar recently posted about the value of knowing where you came from, your history and the stories that your elders have to tell. Often they're tiresome, some you hear over and over again but when they're gone, they're the anecdotes you pass on to your children. They're the things that make our short tenure on this planet important because they show connection and give us a tantalising hint at the answer to that proverbial question "what is the meaning of life".

We forgot about Auntie Marian . . . just for a little while . . . other events placed her in the background although now I think about her influence on all those hundreds, maybe thousands of young lives and whether they give her a passing thought. Then again the first post I wrote about her . . she disapproved and froze my PC. I think she's a little happier about this attempt.

Foot In Blog Disease

Keeping it real 'ish on email and blogs is pretty difficult. Things can be misinterpreted, humour can be misgauged as sarcasm and caustic humour considered as rudeness. It's a real trick to get your personality across without voice or expression don't you think? That's also why I like talking to some of my bloggy pals on Skype, at least a little vocal intonation gives the game away. I don't take too much time over my posts . . . I work full time, raise two kids and do all the things that working mums do . . .and especially at the moment trying to fatten up the old fella, time is at a premium. I type pretty much in the same way I speak. I'm a fast typist so the verbosity just pours onto the page as the words form in my brain probably much quicker than I could ever say them - hence my restrictive vocabulary. Occasionally the words bypass my brain altogether and I just talk shit. (I can say that . . .you can't) Then again, sometimes I pour over the draft and edit it so that I'm sure that my message is understood, particularly if it's more than a blithering but most times, I just rant, joke, reminisce and vent and sometimes, just sometimes, it turns into something worth reading or hanging on to for my littlun's to read long after I've fed the worms - I hope. Although sometimes albeit rarely, I realise that what I've written isn't quite what I've meant, other times someone tells me what I've written isn't quite what I meant.

Not so long ago, I did the unthinkable and sent an email about someone to them. It was serious stuff and almost cost me my job . . .the only saving grace was that the remarks, whilst disparaging were absolutely true. Phew a close call.

I'm not overly guarded on the blog, but I'm very keen not to offend anyone. I don't delete comments unless they are derogatory to someone I know or another commenter. Say whatever you like about me, I have thick skin unless you go for the jugular and if you do, you'll know about it.

So for the record if you're referred to as a bugger, bastard, git, slut, boofhead, paduan, youngling, ratbag, redneck, twit, ginger, redhead, bluey, wingnut, ankle biter, bloke, dag or a dill . . . I really like you. Even if you come in as a drongo, dipshit, dipstick, jumped up moron old fella or a mongrel . . .I'm not really having a serious go. If I call you a racist, extremist, biggot or patronising asshole . . .then I'm probably not too happy with you but I will never call you a 'C'.

The long and the short of it, apologies to anyone I've stuck it to unintentionally. I will be more sensitive to transcultural interpretations of what I consider to be gentle pokes. Hey, I'm well known for foot-in-mouth-disease so what's so different about a blog. What you read is what you get. I do however, reserve the right to insult Il Diablo . . . but I don't think he'll mind . . . he doesn't read my blog!

It's a Dog's Life

One of the things I really enjoy, is walking my dog, patting my dog, rumbling with my dog. Either close to home or packing her in the car and going to my sister's where there are two other labradors that enjoy a rambunctious romp and getting as wet and dirty as possible.

I just watched a TV show on our multicultural channel about people on 5th Avenue in New York and similar selubrious addresses, they live in luxurious apartments and pay dog walkers to take their pampered pooches into Central Park three times a day. Apart from the unpleasant pooper scooping it looks like a pretty nice job. Chocolate labradors, standard poodles, Bichon Freise and the usual pyjama cases (any dog less than 20cm tall with long hair that should really have a zip down the middle for you to stuff you're nightie in). They get paid $600 a week . . to walk a dog! I'm in the wrong job! Then there are dog nannies, dog chefs, dog groomers, owners of doggy birthday party venues (you get to keep the balloons for $250). I'm talking US dollars here . . . it was funny but it did point out the fact that we do so much for our dogs whilst the poor canines in other countries are considered food, not to mention the plight of humans.

We think little about the bush dog, armoured to protect it from being attacked by pigs, or the country dog that survives, chained when it's not working, on castrated testicles and table scraps or the guide dog that knows it's working once the harness is engaged, or the police or sniffer dog that will do just about anything to be rewarded with a rolled up hand towel and play.

When I die, I want to come back as a rich man's dog . . . As a dog lover, I spoil my pooch. It's obscene . . .but I still do it. ThePrincess sleeps on my bed . . . she is my companion, my pal, my live teddy bear . . . . She showers with me, (well once every six months) eats the stuff that the kids don't turn up to eat. (She enjoyed soy basted salmon tail, peas and new potatoes last night because ClareBear preferred a Big Mac) and listens to my pillow talk. I don't really care what people think, she never gives me cheek . . .she sits by me when I'm in tears with an understanding look in her eyes . . she forces me to exercise . . . she barks at marauders (read rabbits) . . . I even spent $3,000 on her to replace a ruptured cruciate ligament when so many other things around the place needed repair. And she's a gun soccer player . . gets a stick in the mouth and rolls a ball around the yard until her nose bleeds. I don't know why they afford us so much pleasure, but they do. I loves me Lily - booyakasha!