I finally found out what that saying really means.
And I can thank my daughter for it.
In all my 13 years of schooling I never once came into contact with the dreaded head lice. Add my sisters’ education as well and between us we managed to avoid the experience for a total of 37 years. My son’s been at school for nearly 3 so far and never brought anything extra-curricular home either. Less than one and my baby girl has shown us what we’ve all been missing.
Oh what joy. (For those who have never experienced it, or whose sarcasm meters are malfunctioning, I actually mean the exact opposite.)
About two weeks ago, after noticing that my little girl was having a great old time scratching her head, and being aware that lice were running rampant in the kindergarten quarters, I took a look through her hair. There was what appeared to be a teeny tiny fly wandering along, so I picked it out for closer inspection and asked my Beloved if he thought it was lice. “I dunno, I’ve never had ‘em” says Mr Helpful. A little desktop research and a phone call or two to other mums and we decided it was not this case this time (“lice don’t have wings” apparently).
I did a quick trip to the local pharmacy to stock up on solution and a lice comb just in case, then I gave her a ‘natural’ headlice treatment just to be sure, and treated myself at the same time (I don’t know about you, but I only have to start thinking about nits and I get all itchy up on top, so you can imagine the trouble I'm having using two hands to type).
Anyway, last weekend she was at it again, so I took her out to the sunshine to see what I could see. And what do you think I saw?
Yep, there was a louse in da house!
Let the nit-picking begin. Oh. My. Goodness. What a tedious procedure that is (hence the terminology)!
Armed with 3 different types of headlice busters, 1 plastic and 1 metal double-sided comb, a mini magnifying glass, and a full box of tissues …and with the entire family for an audience, I assumed the position behind my little lady (who usually trembles with fear at the first sign of combs or brushes anyway) and started sectioning the hair and dousing any louse that dared come into view.
When my arms and feet got tired, still the little buggers kept coming, and I was feeling rather itchy and scratchy myself, I unceremoniously handed the tools over to my Beloved who attacked the other side of her head.
Well, both our son and the dog lost interest way before we looked like finishing the job, and my darling daughter had a tear or two trickling down her face at the discomfort and indignity of the whole affair (those tissues came in handy in more ways than one); I almost joined her in a silent cry of frustration at the seemingly never-ending parade of parasitic critters in residence on my girl.
About an hour into it, I made the decision to operate.
Grabbing the scissors usually reserved for trimming wayward hairs from my Beloved’s mop top, I asked my Beloved to stand down, took a deep breath, and channeled my sister the hairdresser and made the first incision. That wasn’t so hard, so I pressed on undaunted, creating a chunky funky hairstyle that any 5 year old would be proud of. (Hey, anything’s better than the bowl-cut-special of mothers of the 70s, am I right?) “It’s not straight.” my Beloved critiqued. “It’s not meant to be,” says I, gaining confidence with every snip. “It’s asymmetrical. It’s cool!” I declare, stepping back to admire my handy work. Even my daughter’s tears stopped when she saw her new ‘do in the mirror. “Coooool” she said, which was good enough for me. It also meant that the lice comb finished the job with much less stress, et voilà! Nit-free and funky! Yeeha.
While I was in the mood I took the clippers to my Beloved (which those who have been following this blog for a while will know is not a favoured pastime of mine) and my son too. Then I eyed off the dog. Since I have only recently been down that path he managed to escape for another week or two. When I started looking at myself and contemplating what a 'Number 4' would look like on my noggin, I knew I had probably inhaled too many chemicals for the day and it was time to pack it in.
Being a conscientious parent that I am, I then informed the school about the infestation, only to be told they knew all about it and it was a real problem because “these kindy kids keep cuddling”. So we had a little chat with our little girl about that. (It’s not so much a problem with the boys, especially since they reach the ripe old age of 7!)
I’m happy to report that with due diligence (and a special nit-removing shampoo every other day) we are all clear for the time being. I’m also pleased to say that the kids are getting compliments on a daily basis about their trendy haircuts (my Beloved, on the other hand, is copping comments about his pointy head. Hey, not my fault, it’s the shape of his skull I say). And now I know that if anything else like that comes home from school for an uninvited play-date, I’ll be straight onto the scissors, and cut out the nit-picking pronto.
Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go scratch again.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Say Cheese!
My Beloved hates having his photo taken.
Hates it with a passion.
While I’m not too fond of it either, I will nonetheless sit and smile when told to. And think of the bigger picture (pardon the pun).
See, each year, and only once a year mind you, I line the family up for an ‘official’ portrait- not official as in the full-suits-and-serious-expressions like the days of olde (mind you, a trip to Nana's was never complete without an enjoyable stroll down memory lane via her vast collection of prints), but a couple of shots taken by a professional photographer to add to the family album (AKA “Rogues’ Gallery”).
I think it’s vital to capture the little smiling faces of our children while they are still young, and it’s quite the eye opener to see just how much their faces change from year to year. At this age, it’s almost on a daily basis, so quickly they seem to grow.
Besides, I like to pretend that we’re a happy family, at least once a year.
Looking at the faces smiling out at you from the resulting photographs, you’d never know what really goes on behind the scenes.
The first trick is to get everyone together- and awake- at the same time. When my Beloved’s on shift work he keeps to a totally different timetable, and not one that the average photo studio works to either. So a Sunday morning seemed the best choice. I even timed it between feeding time at the zoo (i.e. after morning tea and before lunch).
Then there's choosing what everyone will wear, and trying to select stuff that looks good alongside (or even on top of) each other (you know how creative some of these photographers can be). That’s a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t know about your family but in ours everyone likes different colours and styles, and there can be some pretty impressive clashes when they meet.
Having made the final selection for this year's session, my daughter stood there staring while I pressed the necessary creases into my Beloved’s good shirt.
“What are you doing?” came the question from the vicinity of two big green eyes peering up at me over the ironing board.
“Ironing.” was my reply
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” said she
“Of course you have!” said I with something akin to indignation, “just not very often, hey honey." (insert smile here)
“Why not?” pressed my pint-size inquisitor
“Well, your daddy can hardly wear a business shirt when he’s driving the truck now can he? And since I’m currently not in paid employment I don’t have to wear a work uniform either.”
Satisifed that I had staved off any further enquiry I went about the business of de-creasing the cottons without burning anyone in the process. (I should also mention that I am a touch OCD when it comes to ironing, and since I can never get it as smooth and crease-free as I like, I avoid it wherever possible, to keep the stress down all ‘round.)
While I was doing that, my Beloved was in the bathroom muttering about me for making him get dressed up for the occasion (“I even trimmed my ears for godsakes!”). Our son decided daddy was a good role model and also started giving grief about going (without the need for any aural grooming, mind you). Our daughter on the other hand was pressed, dressed, and raring to go, practicing her prettiest poses while she waited for the rest of us.
Then of course came the fun part of finding a park at the shopping centre, less than 4 weeks from Christmas. With my Beloved at the wheel it felt more like a ride on some bizarre undercover rollercoaster as he hurtled up the levels looking for a spot, since we were already late. “There’s one!” came the cry from the back seat, but our current speed was a little too quick and we sailed on by the little green light blinking at us from up above the spare space. “I can see one!” came another cry, but it was red not green which reminded me I needed to brief the young ones a bit better about the fine art of parking at the shops. Finally we found a suitable spot that wasn’t 5 kilometres from the door, which left us T-minus 10 minutes to get to our allotted appointment.
After bustling through the smallest doorway in the world into the smallest waiting room in the known universe, I affixed a look of fake excitement to my face as I announced our arrival to the girl behind the desk who was almost buried beneath a mountain of paperwork from all the other happy families lining up for their annual Christmas tableau (I'm sure my anxiety-related facial tic went mostly unnoticed).
Only 55 minutes after our appointed time, we were ushered into the studio for a series of blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em portrait shots (and blink we all managed to do at least once- thank heavens for the instant imaging and erasing of digital photos is all I can say).
Only 45 minutes after that we were poured into yet another tiny room for the selection of shots. Now, to look at the 20 or so pictures projected onto the big screen for our viewing enjoyment, you’d never know there was at least 3 frowns, 2 bumped heads (the result of one child trying to push the other out of frame with that particular body part), a graceful but gradual slide off the subject's stool (due to an unforeseen combination of silky skirts on shiny vinyl covering), numerous exclamations of “Dad’s smelly underpants!” (seems the ubiquitous “Cheese” just doesn’t cut it with a 7-year-old boy), countless squabbles and the requisite number of “I’m warning you”s (with more than one captured on film thanks to poor timing on our part) leading to this moment now showing in all its technicolour glory.
Satisfied that we did indeed have at least one visual imprint of a loving happy family in captivity, we placed our order and left without a backward glance, glad to put it all behind us.
Until next year anyway…
Jx
©2009
Hates it with a passion.
While I’m not too fond of it either, I will nonetheless sit and smile when told to. And think of the bigger picture (pardon the pun).
See, each year, and only once a year mind you, I line the family up for an ‘official’ portrait- not official as in the full-suits-and-serious-expressions like the days of olde (mind you, a trip to Nana's was never complete without an enjoyable stroll down memory lane via her vast collection of prints), but a couple of shots taken by a professional photographer to add to the family album (AKA “Rogues’ Gallery”).
I think it’s vital to capture the little smiling faces of our children while they are still young, and it’s quite the eye opener to see just how much their faces change from year to year. At this age, it’s almost on a daily basis, so quickly they seem to grow.
Besides, I like to pretend that we’re a happy family, at least once a year.
Looking at the faces smiling out at you from the resulting photographs, you’d never know what really goes on behind the scenes.
The first trick is to get everyone together- and awake- at the same time. When my Beloved’s on shift work he keeps to a totally different timetable, and not one that the average photo studio works to either. So a Sunday morning seemed the best choice. I even timed it between feeding time at the zoo (i.e. after morning tea and before lunch).
Then there's choosing what everyone will wear, and trying to select stuff that looks good alongside (or even on top of) each other (you know how creative some of these photographers can be). That’s a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t know about your family but in ours everyone likes different colours and styles, and there can be some pretty impressive clashes when they meet.
Having made the final selection for this year's session, my daughter stood there staring while I pressed the necessary creases into my Beloved’s good shirt.
“What are you doing?” came the question from the vicinity of two big green eyes peering up at me over the ironing board.
“Ironing.” was my reply
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” said she
“Of course you have!” said I with something akin to indignation, “just not very often, hey honey." (insert smile here)
“Why not?” pressed my pint-size inquisitor
“Well, your daddy can hardly wear a business shirt when he’s driving the truck now can he? And since I’m currently not in paid employment I don’t have to wear a work uniform either.”
Satisifed that I had staved off any further enquiry I went about the business of de-creasing the cottons without burning anyone in the process. (I should also mention that I am a touch OCD when it comes to ironing, and since I can never get it as smooth and crease-free as I like, I avoid it wherever possible, to keep the stress down all ‘round.)
While I was doing that, my Beloved was in the bathroom muttering about me for making him get dressed up for the occasion (“I even trimmed my ears for godsakes!”). Our son decided daddy was a good role model and also started giving grief about going (without the need for any aural grooming, mind you). Our daughter on the other hand was pressed, dressed, and raring to go, practicing her prettiest poses while she waited for the rest of us.
Then of course came the fun part of finding a park at the shopping centre, less than 4 weeks from Christmas. With my Beloved at the wheel it felt more like a ride on some bizarre undercover rollercoaster as he hurtled up the levels looking for a spot, since we were already late. “There’s one!” came the cry from the back seat, but our current speed was a little too quick and we sailed on by the little green light blinking at us from up above the spare space. “I can see one!” came another cry, but it was red not green which reminded me I needed to brief the young ones a bit better about the fine art of parking at the shops. Finally we found a suitable spot that wasn’t 5 kilometres from the door, which left us T-minus 10 minutes to get to our allotted appointment.
After bustling through the smallest doorway in the world into the smallest waiting room in the known universe, I affixed a look of fake excitement to my face as I announced our arrival to the girl behind the desk who was almost buried beneath a mountain of paperwork from all the other happy families lining up for their annual Christmas tableau (I'm sure my anxiety-related facial tic went mostly unnoticed).
Only 55 minutes after our appointed time, we were ushered into the studio for a series of blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em portrait shots (and blink we all managed to do at least once- thank heavens for the instant imaging and erasing of digital photos is all I can say).
Only 45 minutes after that we were poured into yet another tiny room for the selection of shots. Now, to look at the 20 or so pictures projected onto the big screen for our viewing enjoyment, you’d never know there was at least 3 frowns, 2 bumped heads (the result of one child trying to push the other out of frame with that particular body part), a graceful but gradual slide off the subject's stool (due to an unforeseen combination of silky skirts on shiny vinyl covering), numerous exclamations of “Dad’s smelly underpants!” (seems the ubiquitous “Cheese” just doesn’t cut it with a 7-year-old boy), countless squabbles and the requisite number of “I’m warning you”s (with more than one captured on film thanks to poor timing on our part) leading to this moment now showing in all its technicolour glory.
Satisfied that we did indeed have at least one visual imprint of a loving happy family in captivity, we placed our order and left without a backward glance, glad to put it all behind us.
Until next year anyway…
Jx
©2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
No Fleas Please
Took the family to the Vets yesterday.
Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.
Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.
Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).
With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.
Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).
Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.
As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).
Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.
1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog
Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(
4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).
If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.
17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.
I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.
Jx
©2009
Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.
Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.
Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).
With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.
Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).
Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.
As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).
Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.
1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog
Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(
4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).
If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.
17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.
I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
For Our Grandparents
There he is, my dusty soldier,
I can but see him in the gloam;
he's travelled far and witnessed plenty,
now he wants to make it home.
He was but sixteen when they signed him
(he wrote eighteen on the page)
they didn't ask- they needed numbers-
so didn't question 'bout his age.
They fit him out with guns and khakis,
they hacked away his lovely hair,
they sent him far across the water,
where he went, they didn't care.
He made mates and stole thru' jungles,
he saw bombs and bullets too.
Then the dying and the bloodshed
began to chill his soul right through.
He missed friendships and his family,
he wanted kids to call his own,
he wondered if he'd ever see them,
if again he'd make it home.
Spent his birthday in the trenches,
bully beef, and half a cig.
And with firing in the distance
he was told to fight, or dig.
As for we who sit here waiting,
not a letter, not a sign,
no telegram- for that we're thankful,
at least our boy's still got some time.
So while we wait, both sides of water,
for the end, or truce at least,
we prize the past and hope for futures,
him back home to live in peace.
Blasted bodies in the trenches,
Sunken ships upon the reef,
Just one thing will ease the suffering-
Stop the wars, and end the grief.
Lest we forget...
Jx
©1995
I can but see him in the gloam;
he's travelled far and witnessed plenty,
now he wants to make it home.
He was but sixteen when they signed him
(he wrote eighteen on the page)
they didn't ask- they needed numbers-
so didn't question 'bout his age.
They fit him out with guns and khakis,
they hacked away his lovely hair,
they sent him far across the water,
where he went, they didn't care.
He made mates and stole thru' jungles,
he saw bombs and bullets too.
Then the dying and the bloodshed
began to chill his soul right through.
He missed friendships and his family,
he wanted kids to call his own,
he wondered if he'd ever see them,
if again he'd make it home.
Spent his birthday in the trenches,
bully beef, and half a cig.
And with firing in the distance
he was told to fight, or dig.
As for we who sit here waiting,
not a letter, not a sign,
no telegram- for that we're thankful,
at least our boy's still got some time.
So while we wait, both sides of water,
for the end, or truce at least,
we prize the past and hope for futures,
him back home to live in peace.
Blasted bodies in the trenches,
Sunken ships upon the reef,
Just one thing will ease the suffering-
Stop the wars, and end the grief.
Lest we forget...
Jx
©1995
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
All That Glitters
I was a bit of a tomboy growing up.
Hard to believe I know, given my penchant for high heels, jewellery, hair and cosmetic rituals (for those who don’t know me too well, that’s sarcasm right there as it’s a rare event indeed to see me with any of the above, for various reasons).
But I do like bright shiny things.
If it’s a choice between black or colour, I’ll go with the latter (unless I’m trying that old trick of using black to make things look smaller, if you know what I mean), and I do go for glitter. I don’t know if it’s Bowerbird-ism, or a touch of ADD (AKA Attention Deficit Ooh, Shiny!)
Having a 5 year old daughter, it’s a great excuse to pick the pretties- tops, dresses, shoes, and stickers.
My son is really into stickers too, so we have them stuck randomly on doorposts, toilet roll holders, school bags, the dog, not to mention clothing. But it really doesn’t help that when we are standing up it just so happens my bust line is the exact range of my children’s reach…
I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve trotted off to the shops to do my groceries or banking, and been on the receiving end of a few raised eyebrows. (You can tell the other parents though- they’re the ones who nod and smile when I explain that my kids have been busy decorating me.)
What I don’t like about the shiny/sticky stuff is when it ends up in the washing machine. No matter how many times I remind people to take the stickers off before it hits the laundry basket, I invariably discover it has not happened only after the washer has done its thing (mental note: buy more eucalyptus oil- it works wonders with removing the gunk left behind). Glitter is more of a problem, as it’s usually affixed to the item of clothing, and has to go into the machine as is.
While it’s ok for me to grab a bra or briefs and find them with a little bit of bling they didn’t previously have (I mean to say, they’re not seen by the greater community, and it amuses me knowing it’s there), my Beloved has more trouble accepting the extra accessories. Therefore, with his gear especially, I usually do another run through the rinse cycle if it’s been particularly prettified.
Bowerbird that I am, I recently brought home a darling little nightie for my darling little daughter (couldn’t resist it- brilliant bargain end-of-season markdown that it was). All I can say is: I don’t know how there was any glitter left for anyone else it was sprinkled with so much of the silvery stuff (which is what attracted me, obviously). I’m also sure it came out of the wash barely half the weight it went in since it ditched most of its dazzle during the cycle. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to make sure there was nothing belonging to my Beloved in the same load.
Anyhow, I thought I got it all off again, until he came home from a hard day’s night to inform me he has a new nickname courtesy of our daughter’s inadvertent contribution to his work uniform- the other truck drivers and dockhands apparently think it’s hilarious to call him “Princess”.
Naturally, he doesn’t find it anywhere near as amusing.
“Look on the bright side,” says I (pun fully intended) “your Hi-Vis gear is just more highly visible than the others…think of the OH&S benefits!”
Sad to say, he didn’t think I was too funny either.
Since he knows that he can’t quash our fascination with all that glitters, he has strongly suggested that I triple-check each load of washing before it goes in.
I just as strongly suggested that he could do his own washing from now on.
Personally, I think his preference would be to suck it up and wear his stuff with the occasional sticker or shimmer, over having to sort, wash and fold for himself!
Besides, if it makes people smile to see my strapping-great-truck-driving hubby with some errant sparkles on his shoulders from time to time, then my work here as a fairy godmother is done.
Jx
©2009
Hard to believe I know, given my penchant for high heels, jewellery, hair and cosmetic rituals (for those who don’t know me too well, that’s sarcasm right there as it’s a rare event indeed to see me with any of the above, for various reasons).
But I do like bright shiny things.
If it’s a choice between black or colour, I’ll go with the latter (unless I’m trying that old trick of using black to make things look smaller, if you know what I mean), and I do go for glitter. I don’t know if it’s Bowerbird-ism, or a touch of ADD (AKA Attention Deficit Ooh, Shiny!)
Having a 5 year old daughter, it’s a great excuse to pick the pretties- tops, dresses, shoes, and stickers.
My son is really into stickers too, so we have them stuck randomly on doorposts, toilet roll holders, school bags, the dog, not to mention clothing. But it really doesn’t help that when we are standing up it just so happens my bust line is the exact range of my children’s reach…
I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve trotted off to the shops to do my groceries or banking, and been on the receiving end of a few raised eyebrows. (You can tell the other parents though- they’re the ones who nod and smile when I explain that my kids have been busy decorating me.)
What I don’t like about the shiny/sticky stuff is when it ends up in the washing machine. No matter how many times I remind people to take the stickers off before it hits the laundry basket, I invariably discover it has not happened only after the washer has done its thing (mental note: buy more eucalyptus oil- it works wonders with removing the gunk left behind). Glitter is more of a problem, as it’s usually affixed to the item of clothing, and has to go into the machine as is.
While it’s ok for me to grab a bra or briefs and find them with a little bit of bling they didn’t previously have (I mean to say, they’re not seen by the greater community, and it amuses me knowing it’s there), my Beloved has more trouble accepting the extra accessories. Therefore, with his gear especially, I usually do another run through the rinse cycle if it’s been particularly prettified.
Bowerbird that I am, I recently brought home a darling little nightie for my darling little daughter (couldn’t resist it- brilliant bargain end-of-season markdown that it was). All I can say is: I don’t know how there was any glitter left for anyone else it was sprinkled with so much of the silvery stuff (which is what attracted me, obviously). I’m also sure it came out of the wash barely half the weight it went in since it ditched most of its dazzle during the cycle. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to make sure there was nothing belonging to my Beloved in the same load.
Anyhow, I thought I got it all off again, until he came home from a hard day’s night to inform me he has a new nickname courtesy of our daughter’s inadvertent contribution to his work uniform- the other truck drivers and dockhands apparently think it’s hilarious to call him “Princess”.
Naturally, he doesn’t find it anywhere near as amusing.
“Look on the bright side,” says I (pun fully intended) “your Hi-Vis gear is just more highly visible than the others…think of the OH&S benefits!”
Sad to say, he didn’t think I was too funny either.
Since he knows that he can’t quash our fascination with all that glitters, he has strongly suggested that I triple-check each load of washing before it goes in.
I just as strongly suggested that he could do his own washing from now on.
Personally, I think his preference would be to suck it up and wear his stuff with the occasional sticker or shimmer, over having to sort, wash and fold for himself!
Besides, if it makes people smile to see my strapping-great-truck-driving hubby with some errant sparkles on his shoulders from time to time, then my work here as a fairy godmother is done.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Ageing Disgracefully
I really shouldn’t read magazines.
Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).
Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.
For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.
But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.
27.
Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.
Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.
As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.
It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.
I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)
When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.
At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”
Consider the setting.
She had just left the toilets.
I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…
And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.
I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.
These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.
It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).
I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!
And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.
Well now, that’s something to look forward to.
There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).
Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?
Jx
©2009
Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).
Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.
For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.
But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.
27.
Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.
Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.
As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.
It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.
I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)
When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.
At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”
Consider the setting.
She had just left the toilets.
I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…
And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.
I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.
These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.
It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).
I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!
And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.
Well now, that’s something to look forward to.
There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).
Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?
Jx
©2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Sink or Swim
With summer coming on I started thinking it was the right time for a refresher course in swimming.
Oh not for me- I avoid a swimsuit like a cat avoids a bath- no, for the children (who have no qualms about being seen in spandex- or even in their undies if the urge strikes).
Since we happen to live on one mighty big island, with our home nestled between a lake and an ocean, I’m all for teaching water safety from a very early age. I mean, it takes a surprisingly small amount of liquid for a child to drown (as little as one inch of water!) and I know people who’ve had that tragedy happen, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my precious ones.
As soon as they reached the required minimum age (6 months) we were off to swimming lessons at a local centre.
They took to the activity like the proverbial duck to water, and I’ve gotta admit there’s a lot of enjoyment in taking your baby by the hands and floating them about in the warm water. (Not so much fun the mad dash to the change room when the water surrounding your child becomes suddenly and suspiciously warmer still...)
Things were going, um, swimmingly, until a ‘misunderstanding’ between the instructor and ourselves. Sadly, despite being well aware that our son had Juvenile Arthritis (AKA JIA) and that mobility was an issue some days due to disease activity, she still thought it perfectly fine to label him “lazy” during lessons (I since found out she’d told another boy he “swam ok for a fat kid” so maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a child’s instructor).
Swimming is one of the few exercises that doesn't cause a kid with arthritis much pain- the water cushions the joints and keeps impact to a minimum. It's also great for overall fitness, so I can't tell you how disappointing and frustrating that whole scenario really was.
We still let the kids go in the water where possible but I figured they needed a little stroke correction to keep them in the swim of things. And so a few weeks ago I signed the kids up (now aged 7 and 5 respectively) for a refresher course at different centre.
After a quick assessment, both children were put in the same lane for the half-hour lessons.
While I expected our son to have a little trouble getting his arm over his head for the freestyle stroke because of the JIA in his shoulder, he manages to get along quite fine, albeit a little slowly at times. (He does tire easily though and still manages to come out a glowing shade of red, despite the coolness of the pool.)
Our daughter, on the other hand, swims like a flea in a blender.
It’s hilarious to watch: one arm goes up and she darn near does a sideways somersault as she turns to swing the other arm…while the legs are churning up such a wake, you’d swear a 200hp powerboat was passing by. (It’s like having your own Jacuzzi without the motor!)
I swear, if the instructor didn’t keep a helping hand on her as they made their way along the lane, she’d be right back where she started (covering the whole pool in the process).
And don’t think just because you’re sitting on the side of the pool that you’re safe from the spray. No way.
My daughter can send out enough water to saturate the entire row of parents innocently watching their water babies. I try not to make eye contact now, ‘cause there’s only so many times you can say “Sorry”. (And it's really hard to sound sincere when you're laughing.)
In fact I’m almost inclined to pretend that particular child belongs to someone else entirely and just join the chorus of “tsk”ing (in shades of amusement and bemusement) that seems to follow my daughter’s progress across the pool. But where's the fun in that?
Besides, it sure is refreshing on a hot day!
So with only 7 more lessons ‘til the term is over, I’m banking on it that this instructor is making as big an impression on my children and there’ll be no need for any more of this learn-to-swim stuff, at least until this current crop of participants and their parents has moved into the bigger pool.
Either that or hope the budget stretches to a private session instead. Oh and bring the wet weather gear with me just in case.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To download a whole lot of free Fact Sheets about water safety (in a number of languages), visit The Royal Life Saving Society - Australia website here. And to find an AUSTSWIM course near you, start here.
Oh not for me- I avoid a swimsuit like a cat avoids a bath- no, for the children (who have no qualms about being seen in spandex- or even in their undies if the urge strikes).
Since we happen to live on one mighty big island, with our home nestled between a lake and an ocean, I’m all for teaching water safety from a very early age. I mean, it takes a surprisingly small amount of liquid for a child to drown (as little as one inch of water!) and I know people who’ve had that tragedy happen, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my precious ones.
As soon as they reached the required minimum age (6 months) we were off to swimming lessons at a local centre.
They took to the activity like the proverbial duck to water, and I’ve gotta admit there’s a lot of enjoyment in taking your baby by the hands and floating them about in the warm water. (Not so much fun the mad dash to the change room when the water surrounding your child becomes suddenly and suspiciously warmer still...)
Things were going, um, swimmingly, until a ‘misunderstanding’ between the instructor and ourselves. Sadly, despite being well aware that our son had Juvenile Arthritis (AKA JIA) and that mobility was an issue some days due to disease activity, she still thought it perfectly fine to label him “lazy” during lessons (I since found out she’d told another boy he “swam ok for a fat kid” so maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a child’s instructor).
Swimming is one of the few exercises that doesn't cause a kid with arthritis much pain- the water cushions the joints and keeps impact to a minimum. It's also great for overall fitness, so I can't tell you how disappointing and frustrating that whole scenario really was.
We still let the kids go in the water where possible but I figured they needed a little stroke correction to keep them in the swim of things. And so a few weeks ago I signed the kids up (now aged 7 and 5 respectively) for a refresher course at different centre.
After a quick assessment, both children were put in the same lane for the half-hour lessons.
While I expected our son to have a little trouble getting his arm over his head for the freestyle stroke because of the JIA in his shoulder, he manages to get along quite fine, albeit a little slowly at times. (He does tire easily though and still manages to come out a glowing shade of red, despite the coolness of the pool.)
Our daughter, on the other hand, swims like a flea in a blender.
It’s hilarious to watch: one arm goes up and she darn near does a sideways somersault as she turns to swing the other arm…while the legs are churning up such a wake, you’d swear a 200hp powerboat was passing by. (It’s like having your own Jacuzzi without the motor!)
I swear, if the instructor didn’t keep a helping hand on her as they made their way along the lane, she’d be right back where she started (covering the whole pool in the process).
And don’t think just because you’re sitting on the side of the pool that you’re safe from the spray. No way.
My daughter can send out enough water to saturate the entire row of parents innocently watching their water babies. I try not to make eye contact now, ‘cause there’s only so many times you can say “Sorry”. (And it's really hard to sound sincere when you're laughing.)
In fact I’m almost inclined to pretend that particular child belongs to someone else entirely and just join the chorus of “tsk”ing (in shades of amusement and bemusement) that seems to follow my daughter’s progress across the pool. But where's the fun in that?
Besides, it sure is refreshing on a hot day!
So with only 7 more lessons ‘til the term is over, I’m banking on it that this instructor is making as big an impression on my children and there’ll be no need for any more of this learn-to-swim stuff, at least until this current crop of participants and their parents has moved into the bigger pool.
Either that or hope the budget stretches to a private session instead. Oh and bring the wet weather gear with me just in case.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To download a whole lot of free Fact Sheets about water safety (in a number of languages), visit The Royal Life Saving Society - Australia website here. And to find an AUSTSWIM course near you, start here.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Some Assembly Required
As I write this, there’s only 49 sleeps, 14 hours, 14 minutes & 49 seconds until December 25th (according to Santa’s Official Christmas Countdown Clock) so time has come once again for the little ones to write their list of what they’d like.
I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.
My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.
Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.
It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!
I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.
So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.
Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.
Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.
It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.
Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.
Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?
Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.
I thought too soon.
After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.
Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).
It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.
Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.
Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.
But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…
…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!
Jx
©2009
I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.
My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.
Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.
I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.
It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!
I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.
So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.
Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.
Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.
It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.
Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.
Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?
Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.
I thought too soon.
After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.
Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).
It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.
Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.
Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.
But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…
…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Two-Thirty
I’m not afraid of dentists. Really I'm not. And I hope I’m leading by example for my kids.
Since dental health was hard to come by in my mother’s formative years, she went to great pains to ensure her children had an exam each year without tears. It’s paid off too, and I’m happy to admit that even at my advanced age (nudging 40 doncha know) I still have all my own teeth in good working order, albeit with one or two fillings.
My Beloved, on the other hand, comes from a long line of odontophobes and only comes along for the ride in his duty as a dad.
So it was with varying degrees of delight and despair we all headed off for our annual check-up.
The kids enjoyed their ride in the dentist’s chair, and came home with congratulations for their efforts and a new toothbrush apiece. My Beloved fared a little worse, and had an extraction (which broke halfway out, much to his disgust) and left the surgery with a list of follow-up appointments. Needless to say, he was not a happy man.
Then it was my turn.
Now, since my most vivid memories of the family dentist (let’s call him Dr X) were that the man had the hairiest and scariest nostrils in the known universe, I always ensure I keep my eyes closed while ever one is leaning over me (even if they are wearing the requisite facemask). I also try to give my own nose a good going-over with a tissue before going in, just in case.
Anyway… there I was, enduring the examination, trying to hold up my end of the conversation with the dentist’s fingers between my teeth, when the hygienist manages to get the suction well and truly stuck to the inside of my cheek and added to the number of digits in my mouth in a bid to dislodge it (those little suckers hurt coming off too)! Then after a few more scrapes of the benignly titled but evil little ‘dental explorer’ (making my aforementioned fillings sing in the process), I was subjected to the air/water syringe and somehow swallowed enough of the stuff to give me the uncomfortable and embarrassing sensation of having to burp. Yep, all gassed up and nowhere to blow.
Fortunately, anyone who knows me also knows what a pathetic belcher I am - no burping out the alphabet for me (here’s how to do so, if you want to hone that skill yourself)- so I thought this would be the one time my gassy little gurgle could pass by unnoticed.
But since the ears of anyone working in the field of dentistry are well trained to decipher even the smallest sounds in the course of communication when all but incommunicado, even my teensy weensy “erp!” did not escape attention, and the resulting smile on the dentist’s dial gave me a great display of his pearly whites (someone obviously gets dental care for free, so straight and shining were they).
So it was with great relief that I was finally given a clean bill of dental health and set free from the surgery to go about my cavity-causing business for another 6 to12 months.
Imagine my dismay as I looked in the car rear-view mirror to see how bright and white my teeth were for the time being, only to discover that I had not been quite as diligent in examining my own nasal cavities as perhaps I could have been (cue the horror music). It was flashback to Dr X all over again.
*sigh*
I can only console myself that this particular dental practice is a prime training ground for the newly-graduated, and the chances of me seeing the same bloke next time were as small as the gaps between my molars.
Likewise, I hope that anyone looking my way as I drove out of the car park might mistake my grimace for a grin, lest I trigger any bouts of odontophobia for the next on the waiting list.
Jx
©2009
Since dental health was hard to come by in my mother’s formative years, she went to great pains to ensure her children had an exam each year without tears. It’s paid off too, and I’m happy to admit that even at my advanced age (nudging 40 doncha know) I still have all my own teeth in good working order, albeit with one or two fillings.
My Beloved, on the other hand, comes from a long line of odontophobes and only comes along for the ride in his duty as a dad.
So it was with varying degrees of delight and despair we all headed off for our annual check-up.
The kids enjoyed their ride in the dentist’s chair, and came home with congratulations for their efforts and a new toothbrush apiece. My Beloved fared a little worse, and had an extraction (which broke halfway out, much to his disgust) and left the surgery with a list of follow-up appointments. Needless to say, he was not a happy man.
Then it was my turn.
Now, since my most vivid memories of the family dentist (let’s call him Dr X) were that the man had the hairiest and scariest nostrils in the known universe, I always ensure I keep my eyes closed while ever one is leaning over me (even if they are wearing the requisite facemask). I also try to give my own nose a good going-over with a tissue before going in, just in case.
Anyway… there I was, enduring the examination, trying to hold up my end of the conversation with the dentist’s fingers between my teeth, when the hygienist manages to get the suction well and truly stuck to the inside of my cheek and added to the number of digits in my mouth in a bid to dislodge it (those little suckers hurt coming off too)! Then after a few more scrapes of the benignly titled but evil little ‘dental explorer’ (making my aforementioned fillings sing in the process), I was subjected to the air/water syringe and somehow swallowed enough of the stuff to give me the uncomfortable and embarrassing sensation of having to burp. Yep, all gassed up and nowhere to blow.
Fortunately, anyone who knows me also knows what a pathetic belcher I am - no burping out the alphabet for me (here’s how to do so, if you want to hone that skill yourself)- so I thought this would be the one time my gassy little gurgle could pass by unnoticed.
But since the ears of anyone working in the field of dentistry are well trained to decipher even the smallest sounds in the course of communication when all but incommunicado, even my teensy weensy “erp!” did not escape attention, and the resulting smile on the dentist’s dial gave me a great display of his pearly whites (someone obviously gets dental care for free, so straight and shining were they).
So it was with great relief that I was finally given a clean bill of dental health and set free from the surgery to go about my cavity-causing business for another 6 to12 months.
Imagine my dismay as I looked in the car rear-view mirror to see how bright and white my teeth were for the time being, only to discover that I had not been quite as diligent in examining my own nasal cavities as perhaps I could have been (cue the horror music). It was flashback to Dr X all over again.
*sigh*
I can only console myself that this particular dental practice is a prime training ground for the newly-graduated, and the chances of me seeing the same bloke next time were as small as the gaps between my molars.
Likewise, I hope that anyone looking my way as I drove out of the car park might mistake my grimace for a grin, lest I trigger any bouts of odontophobia for the next on the waiting list.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Trick or Treat
October 31, when all the good ghouls and boys come out to play.
Everyone thinks it’s “an American thing” but the origins precede that particular nation by a couple of thousand years at least.
From what I've been told, way way back, the ancient Celts used to celebrate the festival of Samhain and early pagans commemorated the feast of All Hallows on November 1; some believed that the night before, the spirits used to roam the earth looking for a good place to get their eternal rest (I hesitate to use the term “beauty sleep” because, c’mon, have you seen some of these creatures in question?)!
Christians still commemorate All Saints Day with church services (and when I was a kid we were told that heaven help any Catholics who missed a Holy Day of Obligation such as these, or you might just find yourself wandering between the worlds when your time has come!). And 'round about the 1970s it became a good excuse to dress up, eat, drink, and scare the living daylights out of family and friends.
Since I’m still a big kid at heart despite what age the face appears that lurks inside the mirror mirror on my bathroom wall (believe me, some days I could win a fancy dress contest without the fancy dress, if you know what I mean), and since I’m not a huge fan of having children door-knocking round the neighbourhood, it seemed like a great idea to have a small Halloween Party at home this year. Note the use of the adjective ‘small’.
Well, once word got out it was like opening Pandora’s Box all over again- and despite our two children being given strict instructions that they could only ask 5 friends each, we had little creatures coming out of the woodwork. Plus any parents that came along for the ride.
Undaunted, even with no idea how many I was actually catering for, I set about searching for creepy crafts, ghoulish goodies, phantastic face-painting, and also had the bright idea of home-made piñatas (seriously, who wants to spend a fortune on a few bits of cardboard that are only going to get smashed to smithereens?).
And then I said the words like so many mothers before: “Come on kids, it’ll be fun!”
Talk about famous last words.
Setting the kids the easy task of tearing up newspaper, I set about making the paste. Here my Beloved steps in to advise I wasn’t using enough flour and consequently used up our entire supply in one go. The end result was a misshapen ball covered in peaks of flaky flour.
Of course it then had to rain for a week straight which meant the papier-mâché simply refused to dry. Naturally, the kids lost interest in the whole process since it was “taking too long”, so it was left to me to make the most of every bit of sunshine, trying any and every kind of adhesive to ensure it would hold together long enough for a number of kids to get a turn smashing the swinging stash.
As it happened, the night before our party coincided with Joeys (junior girl and boy Scouts), so there I was madly trying to complete the piñatas, and finish practicing the crafts we were going to do with the group the next day (I don’t like to launch any activity onto others that I haven’t had a crack at myself…saves me looking silly when the time comes). Happy with my efforts and content that the pumpkin and skull would both survive at least one whack of the piñata stick, and safe in the knowledge that if the edible crafts didn’t work out even I wouldn’t mind taking care of the rejects, I dashed back to the Scout hall to do the evening pick up.
It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I realized the reason the scout leaders were giving me those strange looks. It had nothing to do with me sneaking into the hall during the “Dib Dib Dib Dob Dob Dob”s, and everything to do with the dab dab dabs of fluorescent paint prominently placed on the front of my chest.
Making a mental note to check the mirror before leaving the house next time (no matter how much it scares me), I was all set for the onslaught the next afternoon. And an onslaught it was. There were costumed children running screaming from go to whoa, numerous (thankfully minor) casualties throughout the course of events, pumpkin guts from one end of the yard to another, and just a couple of tantrums when it was time to leave. But a good time was had by all.
In the cold light of day, despite catering to an army of little monsters the night before, my Beloved informs me that to him, the scariest thing about this particular Halloween was taking him shopping on a Saturday.
He swears he's shuddering still...
Jx
©2009
Everyone thinks it’s “an American thing” but the origins precede that particular nation by a couple of thousand years at least.
From what I've been told, way way back, the ancient Celts used to celebrate the festival of Samhain and early pagans commemorated the feast of All Hallows on November 1; some believed that the night before, the spirits used to roam the earth looking for a good place to get their eternal rest (I hesitate to use the term “beauty sleep” because, c’mon, have you seen some of these creatures in question?)!
Christians still commemorate All Saints Day with church services (and when I was a kid we were told that heaven help any Catholics who missed a Holy Day of Obligation such as these, or you might just find yourself wandering between the worlds when your time has come!). And 'round about the 1970s it became a good excuse to dress up, eat, drink, and scare the living daylights out of family and friends.
Since I’m still a big kid at heart despite what age the face appears that lurks inside the mirror mirror on my bathroom wall (believe me, some days I could win a fancy dress contest without the fancy dress, if you know what I mean), and since I’m not a huge fan of having children door-knocking round the neighbourhood, it seemed like a great idea to have a small Halloween Party at home this year. Note the use of the adjective ‘small’.
Well, once word got out it was like opening Pandora’s Box all over again- and despite our two children being given strict instructions that they could only ask 5 friends each, we had little creatures coming out of the woodwork. Plus any parents that came along for the ride.
Undaunted, even with no idea how many I was actually catering for, I set about searching for creepy crafts, ghoulish goodies, phantastic face-painting, and also had the bright idea of home-made piñatas (seriously, who wants to spend a fortune on a few bits of cardboard that are only going to get smashed to smithereens?).
And then I said the words like so many mothers before: “Come on kids, it’ll be fun!”
Talk about famous last words.
Setting the kids the easy task of tearing up newspaper, I set about making the paste. Here my Beloved steps in to advise I wasn’t using enough flour and consequently used up our entire supply in one go. The end result was a misshapen ball covered in peaks of flaky flour.
Of course it then had to rain for a week straight which meant the papier-mâché simply refused to dry. Naturally, the kids lost interest in the whole process since it was “taking too long”, so it was left to me to make the most of every bit of sunshine, trying any and every kind of adhesive to ensure it would hold together long enough for a number of kids to get a turn smashing the swinging stash.
As it happened, the night before our party coincided with Joeys (junior girl and boy Scouts), so there I was madly trying to complete the piñatas, and finish practicing the crafts we were going to do with the group the next day (I don’t like to launch any activity onto others that I haven’t had a crack at myself…saves me looking silly when the time comes). Happy with my efforts and content that the pumpkin and skull would both survive at least one whack of the piñata stick, and safe in the knowledge that if the edible crafts didn’t work out even I wouldn’t mind taking care of the rejects, I dashed back to the Scout hall to do the evening pick up.
It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I realized the reason the scout leaders were giving me those strange looks. It had nothing to do with me sneaking into the hall during the “Dib Dib Dib Dob Dob Dob”s, and everything to do with the dab dab dabs of fluorescent paint prominently placed on the front of my chest.
Making a mental note to check the mirror before leaving the house next time (no matter how much it scares me), I was all set for the onslaught the next afternoon. And an onslaught it was. There were costumed children running screaming from go to whoa, numerous (thankfully minor) casualties throughout the course of events, pumpkin guts from one end of the yard to another, and just a couple of tantrums when it was time to leave. But a good time was had by all.
In the cold light of day, despite catering to an army of little monsters the night before, my Beloved informs me that to him, the scariest thing about this particular Halloween was taking him shopping on a Saturday.
He swears he's shuddering still...
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
The Not-So-Wicked Stepmother
It took me ten years to become a mum.
But less than one before I was launched into the alien world of adolescence.
Because, even before my first-born was born, I was thrust onto planet parenthood with the arrival in our household of my stepson, then aged 9.
If being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world, I can tell you a stepmother’s lot is a whole lot harder.
Aside from the obvious difference between a birth and a ‘blended’ parent, just look at the bad rap stepmothers have been given over the years. She’s invariably cast as the villain in the piece in all the classic fairytales and plays from writers like the Brothers Grimm, Shakespeare…even the ancient Greek playwright Euripides who lived way back in 480-406 BC is quoted as saying: "Better a serpent than a stepmother!" Boo, Hissssssss.
And I’m holding Disney personally responsible for a lot of it: just look at their adaptations of Cinderella, Snow White, even “Enchanted” features the classic ‘Wicked Stepmother’ character. She's usually ugly too, just to add insult to injury (although Susan Sarandon is still gorgeous at age 63, if you ask me)!
Kinda makes it tough on the rest of us in that role.
To make it even harder, my stepson was told he didn’t have to listen to me since I wasn’t his ‘real’ mother (no prizes for guessing who gave him that helpful little piece of advice). So I found myself resorting to the age-old trick of parenthood in any guise: reverse psychology. If I wanted him to do something, I simply said for him not to. You can’t argue with that (even if one does have O.D.D.).
But being a stepmother can also make it simpler to deal with certain conversations and situations that can make a biological parent cringe. Since we’re “the bad guy” anyway, we may as well blunder in where others dare to tread.
Like with the facts of life.
When my stepson came to live with us, he had no clue whatsoever about the differences between men and women, let alone where babies come from. And since I was pregnant at the time, a crash course in sex education was definitely on the cards.
Here I pause and reflect upon my Beloved’s insightful and informative approach. It went something like: girls don’t have the bits boys have and so girls have the babies. And left it at that. Naturally I had to step in and explain a few things, especially since he was in the delivery room with us barely minutes after my son was born. Yes, seeing me in all my glory (complete with Grumpy-the-Dwarf nightshirt and wearing a sick-bowl as a party hat) certainly brought him up to speed. And how.
Fast forward a few years and my 16 y.o. stepson has moved back to his mother. You can imagine my utter delight when he informs me that his also 16 y.o. girlfriend spends nearly every night with him in his caravan, so I straight up asked if they were practicing safe sex. He did the ‘Aw shutup’ thing and denied it, but I pressed ahead anyway: “Just make sure you use protection, because the last thing you need at your age is a baby, ok? Or a disease!” I got the distinct impression that no one else had been game enough to venture forth on the topic, so we chatted about it a bit. When I later related the conversation to my Beloved, he kinda blushed (god love him) and said “I’m glad he’ll talk to you about stuff like that.”
He also says he prefers me to take him for driving lessons over anyone else because apparently I don’t yell at him anywhere near as much as the others do. I told him I’m saving my breath lest I need it for screaming. (He thinks I’m kidding.) Mind you, it’s a little scary when he’s laughing so much he can’t keep the car going in a straight line. (I never realized just how handy those little straps above the window really are, until now.)
Yes it’s certainly a different kind of parenting when there’s a “step” involved. But if you’re lucky you can develop a special kind of relationship, in spite of the odds.
And so, back to my original point about stepmothers and the reputation we’ve been given over the centuries, maybe we’re really not so wicked in the traditional sense, more like “wikkid” in the way that perhaps only a teenager can appreciate.
I’m hanging out for the day Disney makes a movie with that kind of happy ending.
Let’s just hope it comes out well before I become a wicked stepgrandmother…
*cackles*
Jx
©2009
But less than one before I was launched into the alien world of adolescence.
Because, even before my first-born was born, I was thrust onto planet parenthood with the arrival in our household of my stepson, then aged 9.
If being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world, I can tell you a stepmother’s lot is a whole lot harder.
Aside from the obvious difference between a birth and a ‘blended’ parent, just look at the bad rap stepmothers have been given over the years. She’s invariably cast as the villain in the piece in all the classic fairytales and plays from writers like the Brothers Grimm, Shakespeare…even the ancient Greek playwright Euripides who lived way back in 480-406 BC is quoted as saying: "Better a serpent than a stepmother!" Boo, Hissssssss.
And I’m holding Disney personally responsible for a lot of it: just look at their adaptations of Cinderella, Snow White, even “Enchanted” features the classic ‘Wicked Stepmother’ character. She's usually ugly too, just to add insult to injury (although Susan Sarandon is still gorgeous at age 63, if you ask me)!
Kinda makes it tough on the rest of us in that role.
To make it even harder, my stepson was told he didn’t have to listen to me since I wasn’t his ‘real’ mother (no prizes for guessing who gave him that helpful little piece of advice). So I found myself resorting to the age-old trick of parenthood in any guise: reverse psychology. If I wanted him to do something, I simply said for him not to. You can’t argue with that (even if one does have O.D.D.).
But being a stepmother can also make it simpler to deal with certain conversations and situations that can make a biological parent cringe. Since we’re “the bad guy” anyway, we may as well blunder in where others dare to tread.
Like with the facts of life.
When my stepson came to live with us, he had no clue whatsoever about the differences between men and women, let alone where babies come from. And since I was pregnant at the time, a crash course in sex education was definitely on the cards.
Here I pause and reflect upon my Beloved’s insightful and informative approach. It went something like: girls don’t have the bits boys have and so girls have the babies. And left it at that. Naturally I had to step in and explain a few things, especially since he was in the delivery room with us barely minutes after my son was born. Yes, seeing me in all my glory (complete with Grumpy-the-Dwarf nightshirt and wearing a sick-bowl as a party hat) certainly brought him up to speed. And how.
Fast forward a few years and my 16 y.o. stepson has moved back to his mother. You can imagine my utter delight when he informs me that his also 16 y.o. girlfriend spends nearly every night with him in his caravan, so I straight up asked if they were practicing safe sex. He did the ‘Aw shutup’ thing and denied it, but I pressed ahead anyway: “Just make sure you use protection, because the last thing you need at your age is a baby, ok? Or a disease!” I got the distinct impression that no one else had been game enough to venture forth on the topic, so we chatted about it a bit. When I later related the conversation to my Beloved, he kinda blushed (god love him) and said “I’m glad he’ll talk to you about stuff like that.”
He also says he prefers me to take him for driving lessons over anyone else because apparently I don’t yell at him anywhere near as much as the others do. I told him I’m saving my breath lest I need it for screaming. (He thinks I’m kidding.) Mind you, it’s a little scary when he’s laughing so much he can’t keep the car going in a straight line. (I never realized just how handy those little straps above the window really are, until now.)
Yes it’s certainly a different kind of parenting when there’s a “step” involved. But if you’re lucky you can develop a special kind of relationship, in spite of the odds.
And so, back to my original point about stepmothers and the reputation we’ve been given over the centuries, maybe we’re really not so wicked in the traditional sense, more like “wikkid” in the way that perhaps only a teenager can appreciate.
I’m hanging out for the day Disney makes a movie with that kind of happy ending.
Let’s just hope it comes out well before I become a wicked stepgrandmother…
*cackles*
Jx
©2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
D. I. Why?
There are a lot of professions for which I have the utmost regard: emergency service crews... medical health professionals... teachers... oh and the people who install car window tinting.
Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).
If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.
And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.
But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.
Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.
So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.
There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.
And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.
After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.
Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.
This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.
Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.
Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.
Anyway…
After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”
And we haven’t.
Until now.
1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!
Jx
©2009
Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).
If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.
And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.
But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.
Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.
So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.
There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.
And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.
After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.
Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.
This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.
Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.
Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.
Anyway…
After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”
And we haven’t.
Until now.
1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Batteries Not Included
At the risk of sounding old here, things sure have changed since I was a kid.
Give us some chalk, a flat concrete surface, and other minor props, and we could entertain ourselves for hours… hopscotch, handball, even just letting our imagination run riot and create temporary masterpieces on the family carport.
It was humble, but we were happy.
And wasn’t mum happier still when the rain would eventually wash the canvas clean, given some of our artwork.
Yes when I was young, even the girls were content to take toy cars to school and we spent hours in the playground creating roads, housing estates, and entire back-stories for the little pencil-eraser-people we shoved into any cars with opening doors. (The boys, on the other hand, were more intent on seeing how many they could simply smash!)
And now- smack bang in the middle of the school holidays- I am reminded yet again how different life is, and these days almost every kid I know is completely ensconced in some electronic device. To the point where some might just have to have them surgically removed!
Unfortunately, they all seem to need to own said gaming gear, lest they miss out on a vital part of childhood and do irreparable damage to their developing psyches.
Oh and heaven forbid you buy the wrong one- it can instantly ostracise your child in the playground, and potentially lead to years of therapy. That’s despite the fact that the average game console costs the equivalent of a small car, and the price of a single game is more than what we used to get in a whole year of pocket money!
My Beloved and I held off as long as we could in getting a new console, using the excuse that the good ol’ PlayStation® had life in her yet. And she did, but naturally chose the exact period our son had another lengthy stay at hospital and home, to finally expire. (Lucky for us, it coincided with a mighty good ‘runout’ special on a PS2® and we were back in business.)
Now, as much as I hate to admit it (and here I go showing my age again), there are certain games that I just cannot figure out for the life of me - or for even my 5 or 6 'lives' granted to complete the virtual quest. (I am convinced though, that some of the characters are suicidal masochists in the way they insist on launching themselves off every available ledge or into the path of every incoming missile, or at least they always do whenever I’m playing.)
Mind you, it’s not just the little boys who love their toys. My Beloved is every bit as addicted as the younger ones, and just as competitive too. He has even resorted to commandeering the console and practicing his moves while I am busy packing our progeny off to bed, just so he can rub it in next time they meet on the multimedia. Or at least give them a good run for their money.
I must also confess that after one too many humiliations at the hands of my family, I happily if not humbly retreat to my laptop to squeeze in a few rounds of ‘FreeCell’. Sure that little King watches my every move (in our version), but at least he doesn’t laugh uproariously at me when I lose.
*sigh*
Give me a stick of chalk anyday...
Jx
©2009
Give us some chalk, a flat concrete surface, and other minor props, and we could entertain ourselves for hours… hopscotch, handball, even just letting our imagination run riot and create temporary masterpieces on the family carport.
It was humble, but we were happy.
And wasn’t mum happier still when the rain would eventually wash the canvas clean, given some of our artwork.
Yes when I was young, even the girls were content to take toy cars to school and we spent hours in the playground creating roads, housing estates, and entire back-stories for the little pencil-eraser-people we shoved into any cars with opening doors. (The boys, on the other hand, were more intent on seeing how many they could simply smash!)
And now- smack bang in the middle of the school holidays- I am reminded yet again how different life is, and these days almost every kid I know is completely ensconced in some electronic device. To the point where some might just have to have them surgically removed!
Unfortunately, they all seem to need to own said gaming gear, lest they miss out on a vital part of childhood and do irreparable damage to their developing psyches.
Oh and heaven forbid you buy the wrong one- it can instantly ostracise your child in the playground, and potentially lead to years of therapy. That’s despite the fact that the average game console costs the equivalent of a small car, and the price of a single game is more than what we used to get in a whole year of pocket money!
My Beloved and I held off as long as we could in getting a new console, using the excuse that the good ol’ PlayStation® had life in her yet. And she did, but naturally chose the exact period our son had another lengthy stay at hospital and home, to finally expire. (Lucky for us, it coincided with a mighty good ‘runout’ special on a PS2® and we were back in business.)
Now, as much as I hate to admit it (and here I go showing my age again), there are certain games that I just cannot figure out for the life of me - or for even my 5 or 6 'lives' granted to complete the virtual quest. (I am convinced though, that some of the characters are suicidal masochists in the way they insist on launching themselves off every available ledge or into the path of every incoming missile, or at least they always do whenever I’m playing.)
Mind you, it’s not just the little boys who love their toys. My Beloved is every bit as addicted as the younger ones, and just as competitive too. He has even resorted to commandeering the console and practicing his moves while I am busy packing our progeny off to bed, just so he can rub it in next time they meet on the multimedia. Or at least give them a good run for their money.
I must also confess that after one too many humiliations at the hands of my family, I happily if not humbly retreat to my laptop to squeeze in a few rounds of ‘FreeCell’. Sure that little King watches my every move (in our version), but at least he doesn’t laugh uproariously at me when I lose.
*sigh*
Give me a stick of chalk anyday...
Jx
©2009
Saturday, October 10, 2009
All White Now
There’s a running joke in the family: if you ever wanted to look like you had a tan, you simply stand next to me. Yes it's true, I could make even Frosty the Snowman take on a healthy glow. And you certainly don’t need any reminder about slipping on the sunnies when I’m around- the glare alone has been known to put dogs and small children into a hypnotic state. (Just ask my daughter’s teacher the day I helped out on an excursion to the lake one sunny day…)
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Sugar and Spice
…and all things nice…that’s what little girls are made of, right?
We all know the poem.
But anyone who knows a little girl with Type 1 or Juvenile Diabetes, also knows that too much of the sugar part does more than spice up their life…it can actually take it away.
It’s a frightening thought, and one that’s always hovering on the edge of our minds ever since my beautiful niece was diagnosed 6 years ago, at age 9.
Let me put it this way: there was a display recently- 15,000 hypodermic syringes stuck into the ground in the middle of Martin Place in Sydney. It was to demonstrate the number of needles a child with Diabetes will have to use by the time they reached the age of 15.
My niece is 15 and the needles just keep coming.
It’s a truly cruel condition that too many kids are affected by, and too many people know too little about. As I write this, about 140,000 Aussie children have been diagnosed.
When my niece developed the disease my sister was told that "there might be a cure within the next ten years". 6 years and counting and that answer’s still out of reach. But at least they have made some fabulous progress in that time.
There’s the artificial Pancreas, Islet transplantation, and while not an ideal solution, there are now pumps that can be installed, which sends out doses of the vital insulin, and cuts out a lot of the injections. The pump itself is a little box similar in size to a pager; the user wears it and it delivers the dosage needed over 24 hours. The downside is that the amount of finger pricks needed for monitoring blood glucose levels is tripled- yep these kids have to do up to a dozen a day just to make sure everything is working as it should.
Because if that blood sugar gets out of whack the complications can be deadly: blindness, kidney disease, heart disease and stroke, and sometimes nerve damage which can lead to gangrene and amputation. Whether low or high blood glucose, it’s a fair bet that there’s a shortened life expectancy. Thankfully, current info shows that the rate of these serious complications is lower than it used to be. Thank Heavens for small mercies.
But if you have ever seen someone you love go through a “Hypo” you know just how scary this thing is. And how helpless it can make you feel, even as a bystander. (Even Rob Thomas sang about the struggles his wife faces, in his song "Her Diamonds".)
It’s truly terrifying if, like 80% of cases, no one else in your family has it, so there's no one to turn to, to help you understand why your body’s turning against itself. And I cannot even explain how it feels when your child has an autoimmune disease and know you didn’t cause it, but know you can’t cure it either.
And until a cure is found, a child with diabetes will have it into adulthood. While not necessarily a life sentence, it is certainly life limiting.
Imagine having to weigh up every single mouthful. Or counting every carb in every bite you take. Imagine having to sit with your friends at the movies and just watch as they tuck into the requisite popcorn or cola or choc top ice cream.
Imagine having to watch the clock and stop what you’re doing no matter how much fun you’re having, just so you can stab yourself in the finger and squeeze out some blood to test your glucose levels. Then imagine having to measure up the insulin, pinch your skin and stick a syringe in.
My niece is one of those awesome kids who took on the management of her medical condition at quite a young age- within months of being diagnosed she was injecting herself. It makes me smile through the tears at how inspirational these children can be.
So if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to take a little poetic license here and rewrite that rhyme, in honour of my gorgeous god-daughter and niece who makes me proud every single day with her maturity…
What are little girls made of? Spirit & strength, at unbelievable lengths.
That’s what these little girls are made of!
My apologies to Mother Goose, but if her child had diabetes I’m sure she’d understand.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To find out more about the Federal Government’s Insulin Pump Grant, or to help the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation in their quest for a cure, just follow the links.
We all know the poem.
But anyone who knows a little girl with Type 1 or Juvenile Diabetes, also knows that too much of the sugar part does more than spice up their life…it can actually take it away.
It’s a frightening thought, and one that’s always hovering on the edge of our minds ever since my beautiful niece was diagnosed 6 years ago, at age 9.
Let me put it this way: there was a display recently- 15,000 hypodermic syringes stuck into the ground in the middle of Martin Place in Sydney. It was to demonstrate the number of needles a child with Diabetes will have to use by the time they reached the age of 15.
My niece is 15 and the needles just keep coming.
It’s a truly cruel condition that too many kids are affected by, and too many people know too little about. As I write this, about 140,000 Aussie children have been diagnosed.
When my niece developed the disease my sister was told that "there might be a cure within the next ten years". 6 years and counting and that answer’s still out of reach. But at least they have made some fabulous progress in that time.
There’s the artificial Pancreas, Islet transplantation, and while not an ideal solution, there are now pumps that can be installed, which sends out doses of the vital insulin, and cuts out a lot of the injections. The pump itself is a little box similar in size to a pager; the user wears it and it delivers the dosage needed over 24 hours. The downside is that the amount of finger pricks needed for monitoring blood glucose levels is tripled- yep these kids have to do up to a dozen a day just to make sure everything is working as it should.
Because if that blood sugar gets out of whack the complications can be deadly: blindness, kidney disease, heart disease and stroke, and sometimes nerve damage which can lead to gangrene and amputation. Whether low or high blood glucose, it’s a fair bet that there’s a shortened life expectancy. Thankfully, current info shows that the rate of these serious complications is lower than it used to be. Thank Heavens for small mercies.
But if you have ever seen someone you love go through a “Hypo” you know just how scary this thing is. And how helpless it can make you feel, even as a bystander. (Even Rob Thomas sang about the struggles his wife faces, in his song "Her Diamonds".)
It’s truly terrifying if, like 80% of cases, no one else in your family has it, so there's no one to turn to, to help you understand why your body’s turning against itself. And I cannot even explain how it feels when your child has an autoimmune disease and know you didn’t cause it, but know you can’t cure it either.
And until a cure is found, a child with diabetes will have it into adulthood. While not necessarily a life sentence, it is certainly life limiting.
Imagine having to weigh up every single mouthful. Or counting every carb in every bite you take. Imagine having to sit with your friends at the movies and just watch as they tuck into the requisite popcorn or cola or choc top ice cream.
Imagine having to watch the clock and stop what you’re doing no matter how much fun you’re having, just so you can stab yourself in the finger and squeeze out some blood to test your glucose levels. Then imagine having to measure up the insulin, pinch your skin and stick a syringe in.
My niece is one of those awesome kids who took on the management of her medical condition at quite a young age- within months of being diagnosed she was injecting herself. It makes me smile through the tears at how inspirational these children can be.
So if you’ll forgive me, I’m going to take a little poetic license here and rewrite that rhyme, in honour of my gorgeous god-daughter and niece who makes me proud every single day with her maturity…
What are little girls made of? Spirit & strength, at unbelievable lengths.
That’s what these little girls are made of!
My apologies to Mother Goose, but if her child had diabetes I’m sure she’d understand.
Jx
©2009
NOTE: To find out more about the Federal Government’s Insulin Pump Grant, or to help the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation in their quest for a cure, just follow the links.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Mobile Mania
Some people should not be allowed to get gadgets.
No really, I mean that.
While it is often said that men are more mathematically minded and can therefore grasp technical stuff better than women on average…and let’s face it, the male to female ratio in most IT departments usually falls in favour of the fellas; but when it comes to certain types of technology, often it’s the boys who do not play well together.
Take my Beloved; while not technically a technophobe, he’s more of a technofool.
See, I’ve had the same handset for almost the entire 2 years of our mobile phone contract. Sure it’s a little outdated now, and doesn’t have all the bells and whistles or the full Qwerty keyboard tidily tucked under a flip top lid, but at least it stills works.
In that same 2 years, my Beloved, on the other hand, has managed to kill at least three phones to my one.
We have had death by chocolate (yes take it from me, it is never a good idea to keep chocolate bars in the same pocket as your phone, especially on really hot days); another one fell off the back of a truck (and I’m not talking about a bargain here…); and perhaps my personal favourite- not waving, drowning (always remember to remove phone from the dirty laundry before it goes into the washing machine.) You have no idea what it was like having him remember it after the front loader had started -and the door auto lock kicked in- then simply having to watch it go round and round, clunking and thunking for the full cycle.
We’ve also known males who have tossed the thing clean out the car window while shooing flies as they drove, another lost one in the lake as he tried to snap a picture of a fish (talk about the one that got away!); with bonus points to the mate who was merrily throwing sticks in the creek for the dog to fetch whilst chatting on the ‘phone at the same time, and somehow forgot which hand was holding what… (I’m sure you can figure out what happened next- see Spot run indeed)!
But let me tell you, if the Australian cricket team had seen my Beloved in action the day the phone slipped out of his top pocket while he answered the call of nature, he’d be selected for sure!
With all these mobile moments fresh in my mind, I bit the bullet and forked out for one of those almost indestructible numbers- the Samsung B2700.
I’d heard about these rugged buggers that were the choice of tradies and truckies, I was just a little afraid of the price of them- it seemed an awful lot of money to risk on something so small, especially in the hands of my Beloved.
But now I’m wishing we’d bought one years ago- probably would’ve saved ourselves a lot in the long run.
It says on the box that it is “Robust, Durable, Stylish”; it’s dust and water resistant, with special Anti-shock cover that meets US Military Standards. And the guy at the shop promised me his mate hasn’t been able to kill one yet.
Hey, if it’s good enough for the US Military (not to mention the tech shop’s salesman’s mate), it should be good enough for my Beloved. We can live in hope anyway.
So we buy it and bring it home.
After 4 hours waiting for the battery to charge, and what seemed like another hour for me to programme the thing, my Beloved put down the Guitar Hero® and picked up his new handset to admire his specially customised theme and sound settings. I even Bluetoothed a few of our favourite photos and ringtones across from my phone to his, just so it’d feel familiar.
So you can imagine my reaction when he pressed the wrong button in answer to a request on the screen of his new device, and in one fell swoop restored the factory settings and undid all my hard work. Just like that.
Ah, the wonders of modern technology.
Now if only they could design a foolproof fella to go with it...
Jx
©2009
No really, I mean that.
While it is often said that men are more mathematically minded and can therefore grasp technical stuff better than women on average…and let’s face it, the male to female ratio in most IT departments usually falls in favour of the fellas; but when it comes to certain types of technology, often it’s the boys who do not play well together.
Take my Beloved; while not technically a technophobe, he’s more of a technofool.
See, I’ve had the same handset for almost the entire 2 years of our mobile phone contract. Sure it’s a little outdated now, and doesn’t have all the bells and whistles or the full Qwerty keyboard tidily tucked under a flip top lid, but at least it stills works.
In that same 2 years, my Beloved, on the other hand, has managed to kill at least three phones to my one.
We have had death by chocolate (yes take it from me, it is never a good idea to keep chocolate bars in the same pocket as your phone, especially on really hot days); another one fell off the back of a truck (and I’m not talking about a bargain here…); and perhaps my personal favourite- not waving, drowning (always remember to remove phone from the dirty laundry before it goes into the washing machine.) You have no idea what it was like having him remember it after the front loader had started -and the door auto lock kicked in- then simply having to watch it go round and round, clunking and thunking for the full cycle.
We’ve also known males who have tossed the thing clean out the car window while shooing flies as they drove, another lost one in the lake as he tried to snap a picture of a fish (talk about the one that got away!); with bonus points to the mate who was merrily throwing sticks in the creek for the dog to fetch whilst chatting on the ‘phone at the same time, and somehow forgot which hand was holding what… (I’m sure you can figure out what happened next- see Spot run indeed)!
But let me tell you, if the Australian cricket team had seen my Beloved in action the day the phone slipped out of his top pocket while he answered the call of nature, he’d be selected for sure!
With all these mobile moments fresh in my mind, I bit the bullet and forked out for one of those almost indestructible numbers- the Samsung B2700.
I’d heard about these rugged buggers that were the choice of tradies and truckies, I was just a little afraid of the price of them- it seemed an awful lot of money to risk on something so small, especially in the hands of my Beloved.
But now I’m wishing we’d bought one years ago- probably would’ve saved ourselves a lot in the long run.
It says on the box that it is “Robust, Durable, Stylish”; it’s dust and water resistant, with special Anti-shock cover that meets US Military Standards. And the guy at the shop promised me his mate hasn’t been able to kill one yet.
Hey, if it’s good enough for the US Military (not to mention the tech shop’s salesman’s mate), it should be good enough for my Beloved. We can live in hope anyway.
So we buy it and bring it home.
After 4 hours waiting for the battery to charge, and what seemed like another hour for me to programme the thing, my Beloved put down the Guitar Hero® and picked up his new handset to admire his specially customised theme and sound settings. I even Bluetoothed a few of our favourite photos and ringtones across from my phone to his, just so it’d feel familiar.
So you can imagine my reaction when he pressed the wrong button in answer to a request on the screen of his new device, and in one fell swoop restored the factory settings and undid all my hard work. Just like that.
Ah, the wonders of modern technology.
Now if only they could design a foolproof fella to go with it...
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Whole Tooth
What’s the going rate for the tooth fairy these days, I wonder?
I only ask because while helping my son clean his teeth tonight, I discovered he has not one, not two, but five baby teeth about to drop!
He’s only lost the bottom front two (central incisors) so far and has been eagerly watching all his friends reap the rewards of placing their little pearly whites under their pillows. And now he’s got the wobbles up in all four incisors along the top, along with the little left lateral incisor down the bottom, all at the same time.
If that’s not enough to worry about, there’s great confusion as to what a tooth is worth.
When I was a kid (doing my best impression of a granny here) it was around 10 cents a pop, but the deal was we had to put it in a glass of water by the bed and promise not to peek during the night, for fear of scaring the fairy away before payday. Plus we only got paid if our teeth were in good condition- a good way of making sure we brushed right, day and night; something we also try to impress upon our kids.
Now, I know in other parts of the world the tooth fairy doesn’t do cash, but leaves a toy or a gift of some sort instead (smart fairies those- ‘cause who knows how much those things cost?). But I overheard a kid at school the other day telling his friends how he got a note for his last toothy transaction, and a blue one at that (that’s $AU10.00 for our friends overseas)!
Sheesh, if the tooth fairy in this family had to fork out even $5 a time for the 20 baby teeth the average kid possesses, that’s (uses fingers and toes) $100 per child! Sure beats the hell outta the 2 bucks my mouth earnt me all those years ago!! Talk about inflation.
And to be honest, I don’t know if our local friendly fairy has a quick $25 on her if all five fell out at the same time…which is looking likely.
I mean, hasn’t the Global Financial Crisis affected the fairy folk at all?
With the economic downturn and the way values have fallen worldwide, I would’ve thought the going rate would’ve gone the way of a lot of things- and that’s down, not up.
But my son has put a lot of time and effort into all the toothy talk, especially since at all of age 7 he feels hard done by that a lot of the kids in his class are already busy growing all their permanent pearlers (our daughter is mega cranky because at 5, she hasn’t even started to get any wobbly ones, no matter how hard she tries); he’s managed to lose only two so far.
And lose them, he did.
After days and days of playing with the first wobbly one, it came out while he was munching a packet of potato chips. He thought it was a hard bit of chip so he spat it out on the ground. In the living room, for goodness sake! (Oh don’t worry, we had a chat about that, too.)
I just happened to look at him and said: “Where’s your tooth gone?” before he realized the error of his ways. So there we were, all four on the floor looking for a tiny little tooth in the beige carpet, for crying out loud. I found it and balanced it on the tip of my little finger to show the others when our daughter hopped up to see and accidentally smacked my hand in the process…sending the tooth flying once more.
The second tooth came out in the next-door neighbour’s swimming pool. Same deal- I looked at him and asked: “When did you lose your tooth?” which sent all the kids into a frenzy trying to find the thing. Yeah, good luck on a pebbled pool base! After tearfully begging the neighbours to let him know if it showed up in their filter (it didn’t), he came home to write an epic letter to the tooth fairy explaining what had happened. Luckily she’s just about heard it all, and still came good with the cash, despite receiving nothing in return. (Don’t know that I’d be so generous. Oh, wait…)
And now with 5 little wobblers at once, I’d best be keeping my eye on them. I’ll also keep the camera charged and ready, because if they do all come out at the same time, it’ll make for a great photo opportunity (perfect for, say, a 21st birthday party, don’t you think). Best stock up on soup and straws too, because I don’t think he’ll be doing much chewing ‘til the new ones grow in.
In the meantime, I’ll try and come up with a reasonable payment plan for just how much a baby tooth is worth (hopefully before the tooth fairy’s services are again required in our residence), and I’ll leave you with this little bit of wisdom to do with what you will:
Remember, always be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you!
Jx
©2009
I only ask because while helping my son clean his teeth tonight, I discovered he has not one, not two, but five baby teeth about to drop!
He’s only lost the bottom front two (central incisors) so far and has been eagerly watching all his friends reap the rewards of placing their little pearly whites under their pillows. And now he’s got the wobbles up in all four incisors along the top, along with the little left lateral incisor down the bottom, all at the same time.
If that’s not enough to worry about, there’s great confusion as to what a tooth is worth.
When I was a kid (doing my best impression of a granny here) it was around 10 cents a pop, but the deal was we had to put it in a glass of water by the bed and promise not to peek during the night, for fear of scaring the fairy away before payday. Plus we only got paid if our teeth were in good condition- a good way of making sure we brushed right, day and night; something we also try to impress upon our kids.
Now, I know in other parts of the world the tooth fairy doesn’t do cash, but leaves a toy or a gift of some sort instead (smart fairies those- ‘cause who knows how much those things cost?). But I overheard a kid at school the other day telling his friends how he got a note for his last toothy transaction, and a blue one at that (that’s $AU10.00 for our friends overseas)!
Sheesh, if the tooth fairy in this family had to fork out even $5 a time for the 20 baby teeth the average kid possesses, that’s (uses fingers and toes) $100 per child! Sure beats the hell outta the 2 bucks my mouth earnt me all those years ago!! Talk about inflation.
And to be honest, I don’t know if our local friendly fairy has a quick $25 on her if all five fell out at the same time…which is looking likely.
I mean, hasn’t the Global Financial Crisis affected the fairy folk at all?
With the economic downturn and the way values have fallen worldwide, I would’ve thought the going rate would’ve gone the way of a lot of things- and that’s down, not up.
But my son has put a lot of time and effort into all the toothy talk, especially since at all of age 7 he feels hard done by that a lot of the kids in his class are already busy growing all their permanent pearlers (our daughter is mega cranky because at 5, she hasn’t even started to get any wobbly ones, no matter how hard she tries); he’s managed to lose only two so far.
And lose them, he did.
After days and days of playing with the first wobbly one, it came out while he was munching a packet of potato chips. He thought it was a hard bit of chip so he spat it out on the ground. In the living room, for goodness sake! (Oh don’t worry, we had a chat about that, too.)
I just happened to look at him and said: “Where’s your tooth gone?” before he realized the error of his ways. So there we were, all four on the floor looking for a tiny little tooth in the beige carpet, for crying out loud. I found it and balanced it on the tip of my little finger to show the others when our daughter hopped up to see and accidentally smacked my hand in the process…sending the tooth flying once more.
The second tooth came out in the next-door neighbour’s swimming pool. Same deal- I looked at him and asked: “When did you lose your tooth?” which sent all the kids into a frenzy trying to find the thing. Yeah, good luck on a pebbled pool base! After tearfully begging the neighbours to let him know if it showed up in their filter (it didn’t), he came home to write an epic letter to the tooth fairy explaining what had happened. Luckily she’s just about heard it all, and still came good with the cash, despite receiving nothing in return. (Don’t know that I’d be so generous. Oh, wait…)
And now with 5 little wobblers at once, I’d best be keeping my eye on them. I’ll also keep the camera charged and ready, because if they do all come out at the same time, it’ll make for a great photo opportunity (perfect for, say, a 21st birthday party, don’t you think). Best stock up on soup and straws too, because I don’t think he’ll be doing much chewing ‘til the new ones grow in.
In the meantime, I’ll try and come up with a reasonable payment plan for just how much a baby tooth is worth (hopefully before the tooth fairy’s services are again required in our residence), and I’ll leave you with this little bit of wisdom to do with what you will:
Remember, always be true to your teeth or they’ll be false to you!
Jx
©2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Snakes & Adders
I have a confession to make. I am Ophidiophobic.
Even the word slithers off your tongue. In plain English it means scared of snakes. In anyone’s language, it’s a fairly understandable fear.
I don’t remember when I first became aware that snakes and I did not get along, but I do recall being a kid and doing a pretty mean rendition of Jesus during his whole walking-on-water routine the time the SES fellas suggested we hop out of the flood waters due to some King Browns seen floating by.
There’s even proof of my phobia in full living colour, from when a bunch of us stopped for a scenic shot at a local lookout a few years ago, to test out a friend’s whizz-bang new camera with self-portrait feature.
She set the timer to take a series of shots, and when she got the film developed a little later, here’s how the sequence panned out (much to everyone’s amusement).
1st picture: all subjects happy and accounted for, standing by a rock in the sunshine.
2nd picture: there’s me, looking off to one side while the rest are still smiling inanely at the camera.
Picture number 3: here I am making my move, in the opposite direction from where I was last looking.
And the 4th picture in the sequence: well, if you look closely you can just make out that blurry bit at the bottom of the shot is actually my foot as I run away.
As for picture number 5, all I can say is at least the scenery was nice.
Talk about a Kodak moment!
So you can imagine my utter glee when my darling daughter was invited to a friend’s birthday party where the special guest was the Reptile Man.
Obviously this phobia isn't inherited because every time he came round our side of the circle for the kids to pat the ‘pets’, I found myself “just popping over to check out the refreshment table” while my little girl was front and centre with the creatures. (I’m only hoping that my trembling burnt off some of the extra calories I consumed in the process.)
And if I didn’t think it would have done irreparable damage to my child’s standing amongst her peers, I would’ve happily left before the official opening of the presents, since Mr Reptile decided he would allow photo opportunities for the little partygoers at the same time.
Oh yes, there was Miss 3 with a dirty great python wrapped around her shoulders like the feather boa that claimed its name, and there was me trying to stop my hand from shaking enough to snap the photo. Of course I had to politely decline the man’s kind offer for me to hold the thing as well. (I mean, kids don’t need to hear that kind of language.)
My ophidiophobia even sneaks up on me while I sleep. Now, I’ve heard that some dream interpreters say that seeing snakes in your own private picture show is actually a phallic symbol. Well, let me tell you, even if I met the man* who was represented by those serpents of indeterminate length, I would still run the other way!
Yes, to paraphrase Freud: sometimes a snake is just a snake. And I’m afraid of them all.
Unless of course we’re talking snakeskin shoes and handbags…maybe then I might be open for discussion. ;-)
Jx
©2009
(NB: my Beloved wanted me to include a note that the above passage* casts no aspersion whatsoever on his snake-handling ability, if you know what I mean.)
Even the word slithers off your tongue. In plain English it means scared of snakes. In anyone’s language, it’s a fairly understandable fear.
I don’t remember when I first became aware that snakes and I did not get along, but I do recall being a kid and doing a pretty mean rendition of Jesus during his whole walking-on-water routine the time the SES fellas suggested we hop out of the flood waters due to some King Browns seen floating by.
There’s even proof of my phobia in full living colour, from when a bunch of us stopped for a scenic shot at a local lookout a few years ago, to test out a friend’s whizz-bang new camera with self-portrait feature.
She set the timer to take a series of shots, and when she got the film developed a little later, here’s how the sequence panned out (much to everyone’s amusement).
1st picture: all subjects happy and accounted for, standing by a rock in the sunshine.
2nd picture: there’s me, looking off to one side while the rest are still smiling inanely at the camera.
Picture number 3: here I am making my move, in the opposite direction from where I was last looking.
And the 4th picture in the sequence: well, if you look closely you can just make out that blurry bit at the bottom of the shot is actually my foot as I run away.
As for picture number 5, all I can say is at least the scenery was nice.
Talk about a Kodak moment!
So you can imagine my utter glee when my darling daughter was invited to a friend’s birthday party where the special guest was the Reptile Man.
Obviously this phobia isn't inherited because every time he came round our side of the circle for the kids to pat the ‘pets’, I found myself “just popping over to check out the refreshment table” while my little girl was front and centre with the creatures. (I’m only hoping that my trembling burnt off some of the extra calories I consumed in the process.)
And if I didn’t think it would have done irreparable damage to my child’s standing amongst her peers, I would’ve happily left before the official opening of the presents, since Mr Reptile decided he would allow photo opportunities for the little partygoers at the same time.
Oh yes, there was Miss 3 with a dirty great python wrapped around her shoulders like the feather boa that claimed its name, and there was me trying to stop my hand from shaking enough to snap the photo. Of course I had to politely decline the man’s kind offer for me to hold the thing as well. (I mean, kids don’t need to hear that kind of language.)
My ophidiophobia even sneaks up on me while I sleep. Now, I’ve heard that some dream interpreters say that seeing snakes in your own private picture show is actually a phallic symbol. Well, let me tell you, even if I met the man* who was represented by those serpents of indeterminate length, I would still run the other way!
Yes, to paraphrase Freud: sometimes a snake is just a snake. And I’m afraid of them all.
Unless of course we’re talking snakeskin shoes and handbags…maybe then I might be open for discussion. ;-)
Jx
©2009
(NB: my Beloved wanted me to include a note that the above passage* casts no aspersion whatsoever on his snake-handling ability, if you know what I mean.)
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Idiot Box
Anyone with children has at one time or another employed an electronic babysitter.
I know I’m not the only one who has sat their offspring down in front of the TV or DVD and prayed that there was enough interesting stuff to keep them quiet for an hour or so. Bonus points if they can actually learn something as they sit.
The word ‘Television’ is derived from both Greek and Latin words, and literally means ‘far sight’. (And some days as far as some kids are concerned, the farther out of sight, the better. Am I right?)
But there’s a reason why the good ol’ Telly is also known as the boob tube, goggle box, and the idiot box.
See, while my Beloved and I are comfortable enough with our kids watching re-runs or refreshed versions of series that were around when we were younger: e.g. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Scooby Doo, Tom & Jerry- even Transformers and The Simpsons are passable- but some of that new stuff is scary!
So in the interests of at least trying to understand what our small ones were watching on the small screen, I recently took another look.
I'm still not convinced the nicknames are wrong.
Exhibit A: Yo Gabba Gabba! Why do they have to YELL all the time? I get that they’re excited about life and all, but those bright colours, crazy songs, freaky characters, and all that YELLING does my head in some days. But at least it seems to be one of the shows that teaches children something, unlike many other questionable concepts aimed at the young. (Even if my Beloved thinks that ‘Moono’ was modeled on a marital aid...and can I just say, not anything I own!)
Exhibit B: Dora the Explorer and her ‘cousin’ Diego. Sure it introduces kids to another language, and demonstrates basic problem solving, but what about child safety? Seriously, where are their parents? Letting them wander off all over the world on their quests! I’ve also gotta say, ever since someone else pointed out their unnaturally close relationship, I look at these two Spanish mini adventurers in quite a different way. Kissing cousins perhaps? Hmm. Let’s not ruin it for the children.
Exhibit C: In The Night Garden. Case in point: Makka Pakka, Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, the Tombliboos and the Ninky Nonk. While I have never imbibed anything illegal, I can only imagine that they’re the kind of creations one could come up with after the drugs kick in and before the munchies begin. Perhaps one needs to take a drag from a little green bag to fully appreciate the complexity of the characters.
Exhibit D: Lazytown. Just watching it wears me out. And isn’t anyone else at all worried that an entire town relies on a bloke living in a blimp up above? Have they not heard about what happened to the Hindenburg? Oh, the humanity!
As for Chowder, Spongebob, Flapjack, I’m not even going to go there lest I start that twitching again. (And we can’t really afford the therapy anymore since we got Pay TV connected.)
All I can say is thank goodness my kids are too old for Teletubbies and Boohbah- they always made me feel like doing something awful to their soft toy incarnations. (Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, thinking calm thoughts…)
Anyway, the latest research supposedly suggests that children should not be exposed to any television at all until they are 2 years old or more…to give them a chance to develop all their senses without any extra artificial and superficial influences.
I couldn’t agree more.
At least, by the time a child turns 2 they should be talking well enough to be able to explain it to their parents.
Jx
©2009
I know I’m not the only one who has sat their offspring down in front of the TV or DVD and prayed that there was enough interesting stuff to keep them quiet for an hour or so. Bonus points if they can actually learn something as they sit.
The word ‘Television’ is derived from both Greek and Latin words, and literally means ‘far sight’. (And some days as far as some kids are concerned, the farther out of sight, the better. Am I right?)
But there’s a reason why the good ol’ Telly is also known as the boob tube, goggle box, and the idiot box.
See, while my Beloved and I are comfortable enough with our kids watching re-runs or refreshed versions of series that were around when we were younger: e.g. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Scooby Doo, Tom & Jerry- even Transformers and The Simpsons are passable- but some of that new stuff is scary!
So in the interests of at least trying to understand what our small ones were watching on the small screen, I recently took another look.
I'm still not convinced the nicknames are wrong.
Exhibit A: Yo Gabba Gabba! Why do they have to YELL all the time? I get that they’re excited about life and all, but those bright colours, crazy songs, freaky characters, and all that YELLING does my head in some days. But at least it seems to be one of the shows that teaches children something, unlike many other questionable concepts aimed at the young. (Even if my Beloved thinks that ‘Moono’ was modeled on a marital aid...and can I just say, not anything I own!)
Exhibit B: Dora the Explorer and her ‘cousin’ Diego. Sure it introduces kids to another language, and demonstrates basic problem solving, but what about child safety? Seriously, where are their parents? Letting them wander off all over the world on their quests! I’ve also gotta say, ever since someone else pointed out their unnaturally close relationship, I look at these two Spanish mini adventurers in quite a different way. Kissing cousins perhaps? Hmm. Let’s not ruin it for the children.
Exhibit C: In The Night Garden. Case in point: Makka Pakka, Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, the Tombliboos and the Ninky Nonk. While I have never imbibed anything illegal, I can only imagine that they’re the kind of creations one could come up with after the drugs kick in and before the munchies begin. Perhaps one needs to take a drag from a little green bag to fully appreciate the complexity of the characters.
Exhibit D: Lazytown. Just watching it wears me out. And isn’t anyone else at all worried that an entire town relies on a bloke living in a blimp up above? Have they not heard about what happened to the Hindenburg? Oh, the humanity!
As for Chowder, Spongebob, Flapjack, I’m not even going to go there lest I start that twitching again. (And we can’t really afford the therapy anymore since we got Pay TV connected.)
All I can say is thank goodness my kids are too old for Teletubbies and Boohbah- they always made me feel like doing something awful to their soft toy incarnations. (Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, thinking calm thoughts…)
Anyway, the latest research supposedly suggests that children should not be exposed to any television at all until they are 2 years old or more…to give them a chance to develop all their senses without any extra artificial and superficial influences.
I couldn’t agree more.
At least, by the time a child turns 2 they should be talking well enough to be able to explain it to their parents.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Are We There Yet?
I’ve just come home from a weekend away. And now I need a holiday.
There’s nothing quite like packing two small children in the car for a trip to your home town, to make one contemplate the differences between the life you’re living & the one you left behind, and the journey in between.
And whoever said “Time flies when you’re having fun” obviously hasn’t taken a trip down memory lane with my lot on board.
Since we finally bought a car that wouldn’t break down 5 minutes out of town, I decided it was time to head north for only the second time this year to see the family; my Beloved chose to spend some quality time at home alone.
I set the alarm for 5am to get an early start on our 3.5 hour journey. It was after 1pm when I finally pulled into my mother’s driveway. (I'll let you do the math.)
In that time, I had to re-pack the car twice to allow my sister to fit in, hand over the entire weekend supply of ‘travelling lollies’ to the kids, stop to refill drink bottles a couple of times, sought out toilets of acceptable sanitation quality at least twice, referee countless arguments, try to deduce the reason behind my daughter's feet feeling "fizzy", and pull over for an impromptu play in the park in a bid to wear the kids out enough to sleep the rest of the way.
But on the upside, I only had to stop twice to attend to a vomiting child. (Loving those V-Bags I buy in bulk- they catch it all nicely!)
We all agree the best thing about this car is the DVD player in the back. The kids get to watch a movie with their headphones on while up front I get to listen to the CDs of my choice. I didn’t realize just how much I was enjoying the latter until my son pipes up from the back seat: “Great singing there mum.” No wonder the people in the car next to us at the traffic lights were looking at me that way.
Not to worry. I continue to cruise on down the road, with “Nineteen Somethin’” at (almost) full boar (love that 9 speaker stereo system!), and marvel that Mark Wills is obviously of a similar age to me, he describes it all so well. (Except for the Daisy Duke bit- I preferred Luke Duke myself…mind you, John Schneider seems to be ageing rather nicely…but I digress…)
Due to a bed shortage in the ol’ 3 bedroom house I grew up in, I had to share with my 7 y.o. son. (He was cranky because his 5 y.o. sister was quicker than he at “bagsing” sleeping with Nanny instead, and he drew the short straw as far as he was concerned. He neglected to ask me what I thought of the sleeping arrangements, mind you.) After a late night at my eldest sister’s place celebrating my niece’s birthday, we all fell into bed well after the regular bedtime.
Then, after being kicked 15 times, head-butted 4, and used as a footstool once or twice, I decided to use the body-pillow as a barrier between us, curled up into the foetal position, and finally managed, ooh, 4 hours sleep.
Then guess who had to answer the call of nature around 5.45am and decided the quickest route to the bathroom was to crawl directly over the top of me…?
That aside, we passed another pleasant day with the family before we waved goodbye and promised not to leave as long between visits next time. We hit the highway and head home…along with what seemed to be every single ‘L’ and ‘P’ plate driver in the known universe, who all had the same reaction- sheer panic- every time their speedometer hit 80kph and had to hit the brakes. (I'm sure you can guess the subsequent response from the line of traffic following.)
But at least it was only a 5 hour trip home.
We walk in the front door: there’s dirty washing in the sink while the dishwasher stands empty. The clothes are still waiting in the washing machine, right where I left them. We’re low on milk and we’re almost out of bread. My Beloved is in bed trying to stock up on sleep before a night-shift at work. The dog, on the other hand, is wide awake and going crazy in the driveway causing me to trip over while I’m carrying the bags in from the car. Which gives me reason to pause and ponder why we always manage to come home with more than we take, it’s not like we had any time (or indeed inclination) to go shopping! (I come to the conclusion that Mum must’ve found more of the flotsam and jetsam of our childhood and decided it was time we got to keep it at our place. Thanks Ma.)
Now the kids are fighting in the bathtub. My Beloved is up and about and muttering something about the end of his peace and quiet. And the dog is sitting on my feet while I sip a hot cup of tea and type.
Yep. There’s no place like home. And don’t we just love it!
Jx
©2009
There’s nothing quite like packing two small children in the car for a trip to your home town, to make one contemplate the differences between the life you’re living & the one you left behind, and the journey in between.
And whoever said “Time flies when you’re having fun” obviously hasn’t taken a trip down memory lane with my lot on board.
Since we finally bought a car that wouldn’t break down 5 minutes out of town, I decided it was time to head north for only the second time this year to see the family; my Beloved chose to spend some quality time at home alone.
I set the alarm for 5am to get an early start on our 3.5 hour journey. It was after 1pm when I finally pulled into my mother’s driveway. (I'll let you do the math.)
In that time, I had to re-pack the car twice to allow my sister to fit in, hand over the entire weekend supply of ‘travelling lollies’ to the kids, stop to refill drink bottles a couple of times, sought out toilets of acceptable sanitation quality at least twice, referee countless arguments, try to deduce the reason behind my daughter's feet feeling "fizzy", and pull over for an impromptu play in the park in a bid to wear the kids out enough to sleep the rest of the way.
But on the upside, I only had to stop twice to attend to a vomiting child. (Loving those V-Bags I buy in bulk- they catch it all nicely!)
We all agree the best thing about this car is the DVD player in the back. The kids get to watch a movie with their headphones on while up front I get to listen to the CDs of my choice. I didn’t realize just how much I was enjoying the latter until my son pipes up from the back seat: “Great singing there mum.” No wonder the people in the car next to us at the traffic lights were looking at me that way.
Not to worry. I continue to cruise on down the road, with “Nineteen Somethin’” at (almost) full boar (love that 9 speaker stereo system!), and marvel that Mark Wills is obviously of a similar age to me, he describes it all so well. (Except for the Daisy Duke bit- I preferred Luke Duke myself…mind you, John Schneider seems to be ageing rather nicely…but I digress…)
Due to a bed shortage in the ol’ 3 bedroom house I grew up in, I had to share with my 7 y.o. son. (He was cranky because his 5 y.o. sister was quicker than he at “bagsing” sleeping with Nanny instead, and he drew the short straw as far as he was concerned. He neglected to ask me what I thought of the sleeping arrangements, mind you.) After a late night at my eldest sister’s place celebrating my niece’s birthday, we all fell into bed well after the regular bedtime.
Then, after being kicked 15 times, head-butted 4, and used as a footstool once or twice, I decided to use the body-pillow as a barrier between us, curled up into the foetal position, and finally managed, ooh, 4 hours sleep.
Then guess who had to answer the call of nature around 5.45am and decided the quickest route to the bathroom was to crawl directly over the top of me…?
That aside, we passed another pleasant day with the family before we waved goodbye and promised not to leave as long between visits next time. We hit the highway and head home…along with what seemed to be every single ‘L’ and ‘P’ plate driver in the known universe, who all had the same reaction- sheer panic- every time their speedometer hit 80kph and had to hit the brakes. (I'm sure you can guess the subsequent response from the line of traffic following.)
But at least it was only a 5 hour trip home.
We walk in the front door: there’s dirty washing in the sink while the dishwasher stands empty. The clothes are still waiting in the washing machine, right where I left them. We’re low on milk and we’re almost out of bread. My Beloved is in bed trying to stock up on sleep before a night-shift at work. The dog, on the other hand, is wide awake and going crazy in the driveway causing me to trip over while I’m carrying the bags in from the car. Which gives me reason to pause and ponder why we always manage to come home with more than we take, it’s not like we had any time (or indeed inclination) to go shopping! (I come to the conclusion that Mum must’ve found more of the flotsam and jetsam of our childhood and decided it was time we got to keep it at our place. Thanks Ma.)
Now the kids are fighting in the bathtub. My Beloved is up and about and muttering something about the end of his peace and quiet. And the dog is sitting on my feet while I sip a hot cup of tea and type.
Yep. There’s no place like home. And don’t we just love it!
Jx
©2009
Sunday, September 6, 2009
To Sleep, Perchance to Dream
I’m an insomniac from way back.
Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.
But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.
It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).
And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.
It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.
I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.
My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.
So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.
But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.
On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.
Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.
I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.
After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).
But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.
“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.
A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.
Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.
Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.
I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…
Jx
©2009
Oh as a kid I was a dream- took myself off to bed before the rest of the family had even finished dinner, on more than one occasion.
But only because I knew I’d be awake in the night long after everyone else had headed for the land of nod, or up before the sun.
It’s a condition that’s plagued me into adulthood, and is especially bad during periods of high stress (which pretty much sums up my life at times).
And there are reasons that sleep deprivation is used as a form of torture. Just ask any parent of a newborn. Or a long-term insomniac.
It’s also a booming industry…just ask your friendly pharmacist.
I’ve tried counting sheep (but must be allergic to wool or something), I’ve tried whole-body relaxation techniques (by the time I reach my head, my feet are wide awake again), I’ve tried every kind of ‘natural’ and medicated sleep aids (most with the unnatural reaction of making me more alert), attempted to master the ‘Mindfulness’ thing (but keep getting distracted by the very thoughts meant to relax me), I’ve also tried reading to make myself nod off. Non-fiction books are best.
My Beloved couldn’t believe it the night he woke to find me sitting up alongside him thoroughly ensconced in the pages of ‘Hamlet’. “No one reads that by choice” says he, “I haven’t picked it up since high school, and even then I’m sure I didn’t finish it!“ I, on the other hand, have now discovered that I had a fairly decent grasp of the plot after all, according to the notes scribbled down the margins of my copy from senior school (see Mrs V, I was paying attention!); I have also found that the Bard is almost unequalled in his ability to lull one into slumber by his scribing.
So I have managed to finish the sad story of the prince of Denmark, along with the tragic tale of the Montagues and Capulets, the nocturnal musings of Midsummer, and even got something out of “Much Ado About Nothing” before I begin to doze.
But even then there’s a big gap between getting to sleep and staying asleep.
On the nights where I do manage to get a solid stretch of shut-eye, odds are it’ll be broken by either a family emergency with one of the children allegedly finding crocodiles in their bed, or dreaming they’ve trotted into the bathroom while are in reality still soundly between the sheets (you know the joy I’m talking about)… or the dog decides it’s his night to play alpha male of the neighbourhood. Like last night.
Yes I was rudely awakened from a most scintillating subconscious state where I was the first (and may I say hilarious) female presenter on 'Top Gear' (What the? Must be all that car research I'm doing!) when the silly little critter joined in the canine chorus of the wee small hours, strutting all along the fence line with his pathetic little bark.
I am ashamed to say that where my previous dog- a rather large Labrador- could shake the surrounding streets with his booming “WOOF!” echoing throughout the night air, this fluffy little mutt we rescued from the RSCPA can’t even manage to startle the possums perched on the porch.
After an hour and a half of “ruff, ruffruffruff, ruffruff, ruff”, I had to go shut him up for his own sake- it was such an embarrassing display, I certainly didn’t want anyone knowing that dog belonged to us (even though it seemed to disturb no one else but me).
But then another hour later, after he had finally slipped into doggy dreams himself, I was still wide awake and prowling the bookcases for something to help switch my mind off again.
“’The History of the English Language’ looks good”, I thought, as I propped up the pillows behind me and settled in to read.
A mere twenty pages into the story of how first the Celts, then the Romans, and then the Normans claimed Britain and changed the local lingo I felt my chin hit my chest and took the cue to kill the lights.
Before I knew it, the kids were bouncing into the room for their Morning Hug, and I was shuffling out to the kitchen to greet the coffee maker with a similar level of enthusiasm.
Hopefully I’ll manage to inject enough caffeine into my system to get me through the hours until I can chase the kids to bed and start the game of cat-and-mouse with Mr Sandman once more.
I better keep a copy of “the Scottish play” beside the bed just in case…
Jx
©2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Driving Myself Crazy
I have decided that there is no such thing as the perfect car.
At least, I haven’t found it yet and I’ve been searching for the past four months. Perhaps it’s just not in our budget.
What I have found is a bunch of lemons that could never make lemonade even with all the sugar in the world.
I have also found some of the dodgiest car dealers that ever prowled the planet.
Sad to say, there’s a good reason that used car salesmen keep turning up in lists of professions we trust the least.
Aside from the misguided males who seem to think that a female isn’t interested in anything aside from the colour when it comes to choosing a car, I have also come across the fellas who actually believe that you’ll fall for their charms and buy the first vehicle they show you, even though it’s the wrong size, wrong shape, and definitely the wrong price.
And just quietly, I’ve found that if you know more about the car than the ones trying to sell it to you, it’s time to take the exit ramp.
So there’s been a lot of desktop research going on, not only to narrow the selection for the next family bandwagon, but also what to look out for once you take the next step and set foot on the lot.
Oh and there’s nothing like taking a car for a test drive to strengthen the bonds of the family ties.
Yes, the times I have managed to drag my Beloved and offspring along to check out a likely contender, it’s taken twice as long to get the specs on the car, let alone start talking turkey about buying the thing. If it’s not the kids dashing off in different directions exploring every open door in the showroom, it’s my Beloved spotting something else entirely across the lot and throwing that one into the mix, just to add to the confusion.
Mind you, I have discovered that having the kids tag along can work wonders with any less-than-up-front salesmen…they’re usually so keen to see the back of you all that the usual sales-talk game-playing is kept to a minimum and they’ll tell you what you need to know pretty quickly.
On the flipside, it’s hard to haggle over the trade-in when your children blow your bluff about how good your car really is. No good telling the dealer it runs like a dream when the kids in their inherent honesty remind you about that clunking sound it makes.
After all that, even if you find something that suits, ya gotta go with the to-ing and fro-ing of the figures as both sides try to get the most out of their money. And can I tell you how frustrating it is to get “this close” to driving home the deal, only to reach a roadblock where neither side will move any more.
It’s almost as bad as finding your dream car described on one of those car sales sites, and then finding out it’s sold before you even picked up the phone.
Oh yeah, 4 months is a long time in the search for the perfect car.
But I’ll keep walking the walk and talking the talk and we will hopefully reach a satisfactory conclusion before one or both of our current modes of transportation break down once and for all and leave us stranded somewhere even the roadside assistance won’t wanna come (my Beloved and I are placing bets whose car will go first).
Best case scenario, I will finally win that elusive lottery and be able to simply cruise into the caryard of choice and take two, thanks, in matching colours, if you don’t mind.
Which reminds me, research on that has shown that I might have better luck if I actually bought a ticket once in a while…I only hope the car makes it to the newsagent to do so!
Jx
©2009
At least, I haven’t found it yet and I’ve been searching for the past four months. Perhaps it’s just not in our budget.
What I have found is a bunch of lemons that could never make lemonade even with all the sugar in the world.
I have also found some of the dodgiest car dealers that ever prowled the planet.
Sad to say, there’s a good reason that used car salesmen keep turning up in lists of professions we trust the least.
Aside from the misguided males who seem to think that a female isn’t interested in anything aside from the colour when it comes to choosing a car, I have also come across the fellas who actually believe that you’ll fall for their charms and buy the first vehicle they show you, even though it’s the wrong size, wrong shape, and definitely the wrong price.
And just quietly, I’ve found that if you know more about the car than the ones trying to sell it to you, it’s time to take the exit ramp.
So there’s been a lot of desktop research going on, not only to narrow the selection for the next family bandwagon, but also what to look out for once you take the next step and set foot on the lot.
Oh and there’s nothing like taking a car for a test drive to strengthen the bonds of the family ties.
Yes, the times I have managed to drag my Beloved and offspring along to check out a likely contender, it’s taken twice as long to get the specs on the car, let alone start talking turkey about buying the thing. If it’s not the kids dashing off in different directions exploring every open door in the showroom, it’s my Beloved spotting something else entirely across the lot and throwing that one into the mix, just to add to the confusion.
Mind you, I have discovered that having the kids tag along can work wonders with any less-than-up-front salesmen…they’re usually so keen to see the back of you all that the usual sales-talk game-playing is kept to a minimum and they’ll tell you what you need to know pretty quickly.
On the flipside, it’s hard to haggle over the trade-in when your children blow your bluff about how good your car really is. No good telling the dealer it runs like a dream when the kids in their inherent honesty remind you about that clunking sound it makes.
After all that, even if you find something that suits, ya gotta go with the to-ing and fro-ing of the figures as both sides try to get the most out of their money. And can I tell you how frustrating it is to get “this close” to driving home the deal, only to reach a roadblock where neither side will move any more.
It’s almost as bad as finding your dream car described on one of those car sales sites, and then finding out it’s sold before you even picked up the phone.
Oh yeah, 4 months is a long time in the search for the perfect car.
But I’ll keep walking the walk and talking the talk and we will hopefully reach a satisfactory conclusion before one or both of our current modes of transportation break down once and for all and leave us stranded somewhere even the roadside assistance won’t wanna come (my Beloved and I are placing bets whose car will go first).
Best case scenario, I will finally win that elusive lottery and be able to simply cruise into the caryard of choice and take two, thanks, in matching colours, if you don’t mind.
Which reminds me, research on that has shown that I might have better luck if I actually bought a ticket once in a while…I only hope the car makes it to the newsagent to do so!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Art for Art's Sake
Today I went tattoo shopping with my friend.
I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.
The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.
I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)
The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)
I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.
I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.
I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!
Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).
The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!
But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.
So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.
But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.
First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.
Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.
The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.
It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.
And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…
He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”
If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.
Jx
©2009
I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.
The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.
I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)
The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)
I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.
I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.
I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!
Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).
The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!
But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.
So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.
But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.
First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.
Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.
The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.
It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.
And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…
He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”
If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.
Jx
©2009
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