My Beloved and I went on a date the other day. So did our kids.
Seeing how we don’t live close enough to family, and no friends are game enough to take our two for any extended period, it was a family affair to celebrate our recent wedding anniversary.
And we were reminded once again why people usually wait until after marriage to start their family…they get to enjoy the first couple of anniversaries at least!
Yes despite being engaged for 7 years, we just never got around to doing the “I do”s before we had the ‘you know who’s.
And so it was a table for four at the local Chinese restaurant to celebrate the marital milestone.
In hindsight, perhaps it would’ve been easier to order takeout and eat at home. It certainly wouldn’t have been as exhausting.
Since we don’t have the kind of disposable income that caters to more than the occasional splurge on someone else’s cooking, it’s a special kind of excitement for the kids to eat out. Which translates into a whole new world of enjoyment for us, and I do use the term loosely.
From the minute the kids sat down at the table it was apparent we were in for a real treat. I am yet to see an equivalent display of such joy over paper serviettes folded into fans. And if they didn’t know before, everyone around us was now aware that the round bit at the centre of the table spun around … depositing salt, pepper, and soy sauce at various intervals. (The Australian Cricket team has got nothing on the catches my Beloved was taking that night.)
There was almost bloodshed when the prawn crackers arrived with an odd number in the presentation. Since my Beloved is allergic to prawns, it was up to me to referee the distribution of said crackers, and I made the selfless sacrifice of eating the offending extra. At least I got one.
It was touch and go at the serving of the supper, with the kids taking so long to decide which fork and spoon belonged to which person, that I had to resist the urge to tell them to simply grab their fork‘n spoons and start eating!
Apparently, the novelty of dining out only increased their appetites and instead of the usual 30+ minutes it takes for our children to finish their meal at home, they consumed their portions at a speed (and volume) that threatened to break the sound barrier, and were looking for dessert almost before their parents had begun. Not wanting to rev them up any further considering the pure adrenalin rush that they were currently and so obviously experiencing, we tried to slow them down and fill them up on iced water instead. And here I must apologise (in the event that they’re reading this) to the couple sitting at the table next to us, who experienced an impromptu hailstorm as the kids tried to fine-tune the tines they were using to scoop up the ice (their spoons had hit the floor a little earlier in the piece).
It was about then that my Beloved and I shared one of those unspoken moments that longtime lovers have, and by silent mutual agreement we speedily finished up our meals and asked for the bill.
In spite of it all (or perhaps because of it), the owner of the restaurant was very happy as we settled the evening’s account, and even gave the kids two chocolates each on our way out the door.
I’d like to think it was a generous gesture to say thanks for the patronage.
But I’m thinking there was an ulterior motive, and she was sending us off with one last shot of sugar for the kids to enjoy on our way home, given the dinner-show they had provided.
After such an exciting night, we had to spend a little longer getting the kids ready for bed, before my Beloved and I were able to head that way ourselves. Oh but don’t be thinking we got all romantic once the offspring were asleep. Trust me, there’s no better birth control than taking your kids to dinner. And no better sleeping pill than the utter exhaustion of parenting.
Thank heavens anniversaries only roll around once a year; next time we might just have to hire a babysitter.
Jx
©2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
A Toast...
So I’m standing in the kitchen waiting for the toast to pop when I realise that I haven’t even put a slice of bread in yet.
It’s going to be another one of those days.
Personally, I blame Vegemite.
They went and changed it.
And instead of the famous black spread in the glass jar, it’s more of a muddy brown mixture looking at me from the kitchen bench. It doesn’t have the same yellow lid. It doesn’t even have a name yet.
Seriously, why would you mess with a recipe that has had generations hum that little ditty as they tear into their toast?
It’s the best thing since sliced bread for my money. Or to be more precise, it’s the best thing since before sliced bread (Vegemite: 1922, sliced bread: 1928, if you believe Wikipedia). But now it’s become some sort of cream cheese mixture that is supposedly easier to spread. Doesn’t look right, doesn’t taste right, sure doesn’t feel right!
I’m a Vegemite kid from way back, my kids are Vegemite kids (although my Beloved is not- the traitor), and it’s a rare day we do not have it on our toast or sandwiches.
I even took a small case of it to the States when I went to a JIA conference a couple of years back- we were going for less than 2 weeks but my son and I couldn’t last that long without it. And didn’t it raise some eyebrows and some issues?!
Take Customs and airport security for example. Oh yes my old nemesis just had to come sniffing around when I offered up my little bag containing 30 single use packets of the beautiful black stuff. But would they try it? Oh no. They weren’t allowed to, they said. (I think they were afraid of it, myself.)
Then when I happily tried to share our stash with our American friends, the reactions were mixed, and priceless for some. Turns out I couldn’t give the stuff away, which was ok by us- it meant we had more to spread on those funny little breakfast buns called bagels and make us feel like we were doing our patriotic best for Aussie breakfasts abroad.
Now, despite there being a very good piece of advice which states one shouldn’t reinvent the wheel, some bright spark at Kraft has thought up this way to ‘improve’ an old fashioned favourite. And I have to admit, curiosity got the better of me.
But, I am not a happy little Vegemite.
Things are not as bright as bright can be.
And since they changed the recipe, we will not enjoy that Vegemite for breakfast, lunch, or tea.
Plus, I’ve half a mind to send in my suggestion of what they could name their so-called new improved version. Except I don’t think they’d let me print that on a jar.
Jx
©2009
It’s going to be another one of those days.
Personally, I blame Vegemite.
They went and changed it.
And instead of the famous black spread in the glass jar, it’s more of a muddy brown mixture looking at me from the kitchen bench. It doesn’t have the same yellow lid. It doesn’t even have a name yet.
Seriously, why would you mess with a recipe that has had generations hum that little ditty as they tear into their toast?
It’s the best thing since sliced bread for my money. Or to be more precise, it’s the best thing since before sliced bread (Vegemite: 1922, sliced bread: 1928, if you believe Wikipedia). But now it’s become some sort of cream cheese mixture that is supposedly easier to spread. Doesn’t look right, doesn’t taste right, sure doesn’t feel right!
I’m a Vegemite kid from way back, my kids are Vegemite kids (although my Beloved is not- the traitor), and it’s a rare day we do not have it on our toast or sandwiches.
I even took a small case of it to the States when I went to a JIA conference a couple of years back- we were going for less than 2 weeks but my son and I couldn’t last that long without it. And didn’t it raise some eyebrows and some issues?!
Take Customs and airport security for example. Oh yes my old nemesis just had to come sniffing around when I offered up my little bag containing 30 single use packets of the beautiful black stuff. But would they try it? Oh no. They weren’t allowed to, they said. (I think they were afraid of it, myself.)
Then when I happily tried to share our stash with our American friends, the reactions were mixed, and priceless for some. Turns out I couldn’t give the stuff away, which was ok by us- it meant we had more to spread on those funny little breakfast buns called bagels and make us feel like we were doing our patriotic best for Aussie breakfasts abroad.
Now, despite there being a very good piece of advice which states one shouldn’t reinvent the wheel, some bright spark at Kraft has thought up this way to ‘improve’ an old fashioned favourite. And I have to admit, curiosity got the better of me.
But, I am not a happy little Vegemite.
Things are not as bright as bright can be.
And since they changed the recipe, we will not enjoy that Vegemite for breakfast, lunch, or tea.
Plus, I’ve half a mind to send in my suggestion of what they could name their so-called new improved version. Except I don’t think they’d let me print that on a jar.
Jx
©2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Keeping Abreast of Things
Usually it’s a man’s mind that is preoccupied with the female form. But today it’s my turn.
See, my mum’s beaten breast cancer twice. For various reasons I’m also in a high risk group and it’s almost time to see the Oncologist again. Yay me.
And now I hear that the lady doctor who diagnosed and treated herself while stationed at the South Pole 10 years ago, has finally succumbed to the dreaded disease.
For those not familiar with the story, Dr Jerri Nielsen was the medic stationed at Antarctica in 1999 when she discovered a suspicious lump. That was in June, but the serious weather down there meant she couldn’t be flown out for treatment for at least 4 months. So she taught staff on site how to do a fine needle biopsy (using raw chicken meat for practice!) and then gave herself chemotherapy after the drugs were dropped in by parachute.
But she died recently after the cancer came back and spread. She was only 57.
Such a shame. The world needs more women like this- not less!
It got me thinking about my mum and her doubly brave battle against this insidious illness as the date looms for me to have my annual screening. Yeah, due to a family history of the disease, and my own scare a few years back, we attempt to flatten my breasts into pancakes once every 12 months.
Now, anyone who has ever enjoyed the experience will be feeling my pain right about now. And for those who haven’t, let me educate you a little. It kinda resembles some medieval torture device, and it has to have been thought up by a man (can you imagine a similar contraption being used to check for testicular cancer?! I rest my case).
You go into a room with a complete stranger, strip to the waist, and have said stranger (often with cold hands) put one of your breasts onto a cold metal plate, lower a cold plastic plate onto it, tighten the vice, then send radiation through your precious private possession. Then repeat the process with the other boob.
For added enjoyment, they squash ‘em sideways too.
Oh and for safety reasons, the radiologist gets to retreat into a little booth while they take the images. Bit hard for you to do when you’re attached to the region receiving the rays.
Oddly enough, I always find it easy to comply with the “hold your breath” request- I’m simply too darn scared to move lest the machine rips my bits right off! I’m already standing on my tippy toes to reach the plate (shortass that I am), and leaning back so my girls can have all the limelight, so what’s a little lack of oxygen in the name of science?
Usually the entire process takes just a couple of minutes, and thankfully your bosoms are squeezed in this man-made machine for about 30 seconds. Oh it all works well in theory. In practice it can be quite different.
There has been much debate about who hurts most- the flat or full chested ladies. I’m in the latter category and I can tell you, it certainly doesn’t tickle! Because I am so generously endowed up top, instead of the few seconds it usually takes to scan the mamms, the poor old machine whirs for anything up to a minute trying to get a decent image of what’s inside. Even the radiologist apologises every time we have to do this, explaining that I’m so dense (in the boobie sense) that the x-rays are having trouble getting through! Again, yay me.
To add insult to injury (and believe me, there can be injury!) I then get to go into another room with another stranger who squirts freezing cold gel all over my girls, and proceeds to map out the mammaries much like a clock, checking for anything the mammogram might miss.
If I’m lucky, the sonographer will take pity on me and give me a heads-up whether there’s anything to worry about this time round. Or else I wait another week or so before I see the oncologist (who thankfully warms his hands before he begins the examination) who will brief me about my bosoms.
So far so good, and I’ve only had to have a needle stuck in the one time (trust me, that’s a whole different ball game of fun!) and I can go back to keeping my dignity for another year.
Having lost one school friend already to breast cancer, and others who’ve come close, I am truly grateful that I only have to do this once a year. I’m one of the lucky ones.
So before I go make a boob of myself yet again, I’m going to prepare for the procedure using the techniques proposed by an unknown author some years back:
Exercise 1
Open your refrigerator door and insert one breast in the door. Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut and lean on it for good measure. Hold that position for 5 seconds. Repeat with other breast.
Exercise 2
Visit your garage at 3am when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Remove your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back up the car until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat for the other breast.
Exercise 3
Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Press the bookends against one of your breasts. Ask the stranger to smash the bookends together as hard as they can. Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year and do it again.
You are now properly prepared!
Jx
©2009
See, my mum’s beaten breast cancer twice. For various reasons I’m also in a high risk group and it’s almost time to see the Oncologist again. Yay me.
And now I hear that the lady doctor who diagnosed and treated herself while stationed at the South Pole 10 years ago, has finally succumbed to the dreaded disease.
For those not familiar with the story, Dr Jerri Nielsen was the medic stationed at Antarctica in 1999 when she discovered a suspicious lump. That was in June, but the serious weather down there meant she couldn’t be flown out for treatment for at least 4 months. So she taught staff on site how to do a fine needle biopsy (using raw chicken meat for practice!) and then gave herself chemotherapy after the drugs were dropped in by parachute.
But she died recently after the cancer came back and spread. She was only 57.
Such a shame. The world needs more women like this- not less!
It got me thinking about my mum and her doubly brave battle against this insidious illness as the date looms for me to have my annual screening. Yeah, due to a family history of the disease, and my own scare a few years back, we attempt to flatten my breasts into pancakes once every 12 months.
Now, anyone who has ever enjoyed the experience will be feeling my pain right about now. And for those who haven’t, let me educate you a little. It kinda resembles some medieval torture device, and it has to have been thought up by a man (can you imagine a similar contraption being used to check for testicular cancer?! I rest my case).
You go into a room with a complete stranger, strip to the waist, and have said stranger (often with cold hands) put one of your breasts onto a cold metal plate, lower a cold plastic plate onto it, tighten the vice, then send radiation through your precious private possession. Then repeat the process with the other boob.
For added enjoyment, they squash ‘em sideways too.
Oh and for safety reasons, the radiologist gets to retreat into a little booth while they take the images. Bit hard for you to do when you’re attached to the region receiving the rays.
Oddly enough, I always find it easy to comply with the “hold your breath” request- I’m simply too darn scared to move lest the machine rips my bits right off! I’m already standing on my tippy toes to reach the plate (shortass that I am), and leaning back so my girls can have all the limelight, so what’s a little lack of oxygen in the name of science?
Usually the entire process takes just a couple of minutes, and thankfully your bosoms are squeezed in this man-made machine for about 30 seconds. Oh it all works well in theory. In practice it can be quite different.
There has been much debate about who hurts most- the flat or full chested ladies. I’m in the latter category and I can tell you, it certainly doesn’t tickle! Because I am so generously endowed up top, instead of the few seconds it usually takes to scan the mamms, the poor old machine whirs for anything up to a minute trying to get a decent image of what’s inside. Even the radiologist apologises every time we have to do this, explaining that I’m so dense (in the boobie sense) that the x-rays are having trouble getting through! Again, yay me.
To add insult to injury (and believe me, there can be injury!) I then get to go into another room with another stranger who squirts freezing cold gel all over my girls, and proceeds to map out the mammaries much like a clock, checking for anything the mammogram might miss.
If I’m lucky, the sonographer will take pity on me and give me a heads-up whether there’s anything to worry about this time round. Or else I wait another week or so before I see the oncologist (who thankfully warms his hands before he begins the examination) who will brief me about my bosoms.
So far so good, and I’ve only had to have a needle stuck in the one time (trust me, that’s a whole different ball game of fun!) and I can go back to keeping my dignity for another year.
Having lost one school friend already to breast cancer, and others who’ve come close, I am truly grateful that I only have to do this once a year. I’m one of the lucky ones.
So before I go make a boob of myself yet again, I’m going to prepare for the procedure using the techniques proposed by an unknown author some years back:
Exercise 1
Open your refrigerator door and insert one breast in the door. Have one of your strongest friends slam the door shut and lean on it for good measure. Hold that position for 5 seconds. Repeat with other breast.
Exercise 2
Visit your garage at 3am when the temperature of the cement floor is just perfect. Remove your clothes and lie comfortably on the floor with one breast wedged under the rear tire of the car. Ask a friend to slowly back up the car until your breast is sufficiently flattened and chilled. Turn over and repeat for the other breast.
Exercise 3
Freeze two metal bookends overnight. Strip to the waist. Invite a stranger into the room. Press the bookends against one of your breasts. Ask the stranger to smash the bookends together as hard as they can. Set an appointment with the stranger to meet next year and do it again.
You are now properly prepared!
Jx
©2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Of Mice and Women
Who was that cartoon cat that said “I hate meeces to pieces”?
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.
Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.
And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.
The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.
There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.
I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.
Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)
Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.
6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.
4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.
Mice: 1, Jo: zero.
Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.
Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.
Mice: 2, Jo: zip.
So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!
After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.
The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.
There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.
After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.
I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.
Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.
It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.
And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
We Have Liftoff
40 years ago, man first set foot upon the moon.
9 months later, I made a spectacular landing here on earth.
Coincidence? I think not.
It seems one small step for man led to one giant leap for mum...3 kids under 3!
At the risk of embarrassing my mother, who is of the generation which believes that the topic of family planning should stay within the family home, let me explain this mission.
I’m not about to regale you with any sexploits, so rest assured this blog will retain its 'PG Rating'. Let me just say this: when it comes to breeding, some people are super stars.
I mean that in the nicest possible way, because let’s face it, it’s people that keep this world turning, and a population boom can bring some mighty big things to fruition (paid maternity leave notwithstanding).
I can also speak for those on the other side of life, the ones who have struggled to make their full contribution to society (going by the old adage of 'one for her, one for him, and one for the country').
But before we go any further on my own story, let’s rewind to when man made the momentous leap onto the moon surface, and my parents celebrated the feat in their own special way.
My mum and dad were both raised as good Catholics and apparently applied at least one aspect of that theological theory to their own marriage; one year and one day after they wed, they presented their parents with grandchild number 1, my eldest sister.
15 months to the day later, they welcomed grandchild number 2, my middle sis.
6 months after that, while the crew of Apollo 11 were making history at a lunar level, my folks were again on their way to helping populate this particular planet, and I am living proof that the earth moved for at least one of them around that time.
Oh I don’t know (and of course mum won’t tell) if that’s really what happened, but I’ve always been amused by the timing: July 1969- Neil, Buzz, and Michael were landing that Eagle, and April 1970- mum was spread……ah, I mean, giving birth to little ol’ me (Watch that Rating there, Jo)!
Yep, seems that dad had only to hang his pants over the foot of the bed, and next thing you know mum was doing what women are supposed to do best.
Whereas in my case, we almost needed a cast of thousands to produce our two.
Way back, while all my friends at school were busy dreaming of who they’d marry and planning what to name all their babies, I was a little reserved in my enthusiasm.
Perhaps I had an inkling of what lay ahead.
I won’t go into all the gory details (see mum, I do know where to draw the line), suffice to say it took 10 years, numerous operations, fertility treatment, and a turkey baster or two, before I was able to successfully complete a pregnancy (and even then it wasn’t to term- impatient little offspring that I have).
And then, much to my surprise and delight, after years of infertility and despite that old wives' tale about breastfeeding being a great contraceptive, I suddenly found myself 'in the family way’ once again.
We’d only just moved into our home, and I was still getting my head around the whole mummy thing, so you can imagine the baby bombshell dropped upon us. Lucky for us, the house we'd just bought had an extra bedroom on the one we'd moved out of.
However, much like Halley's Comet, it seems it was a once-in-a-lifetime event for me and I stopped at the statistical 2.5 kids (if you count my stepson).
My mother, on the other hand, was medically advised to cease her own private space race soon after I was born, otherwise who knows how many siblings I'd have now.
Anyway, while I continue to entertain myself with the notion that I can owe my very presence to Neil Armstrong et al planting that flag on the moon…I live in hope that my little girl will be equally amused to hear that she was her parents' housewarming present.
Jx
©2009
9 months later, I made a spectacular landing here on earth.
Coincidence? I think not.
It seems one small step for man led to one giant leap for mum...3 kids under 3!
At the risk of embarrassing my mother, who is of the generation which believes that the topic of family planning should stay within the family home, let me explain this mission.
I’m not about to regale you with any sexploits, so rest assured this blog will retain its 'PG Rating'. Let me just say this: when it comes to breeding, some people are super stars.
I mean that in the nicest possible way, because let’s face it, it’s people that keep this world turning, and a population boom can bring some mighty big things to fruition (paid maternity leave notwithstanding).
I can also speak for those on the other side of life, the ones who have struggled to make their full contribution to society (going by the old adage of 'one for her, one for him, and one for the country').
But before we go any further on my own story, let’s rewind to when man made the momentous leap onto the moon surface, and my parents celebrated the feat in their own special way.
My mum and dad were both raised as good Catholics and apparently applied at least one aspect of that theological theory to their own marriage; one year and one day after they wed, they presented their parents with grandchild number 1, my eldest sister.
15 months to the day later, they welcomed grandchild number 2, my middle sis.
6 months after that, while the crew of Apollo 11 were making history at a lunar level, my folks were again on their way to helping populate this particular planet, and I am living proof that the earth moved for at least one of them around that time.
Oh I don’t know (and of course mum won’t tell) if that’s really what happened, but I’ve always been amused by the timing: July 1969- Neil, Buzz, and Michael were landing that Eagle, and April 1970- mum was spread……ah, I mean, giving birth to little ol’ me (Watch that Rating there, Jo)!
Yep, seems that dad had only to hang his pants over the foot of the bed, and next thing you know mum was doing what women are supposed to do best.
Whereas in my case, we almost needed a cast of thousands to produce our two.
Way back, while all my friends at school were busy dreaming of who they’d marry and planning what to name all their babies, I was a little reserved in my enthusiasm.
Perhaps I had an inkling of what lay ahead.
I won’t go into all the gory details (see mum, I do know where to draw the line), suffice to say it took 10 years, numerous operations, fertility treatment, and a turkey baster or two, before I was able to successfully complete a pregnancy (and even then it wasn’t to term- impatient little offspring that I have).
And then, much to my surprise and delight, after years of infertility and despite that old wives' tale about breastfeeding being a great contraceptive, I suddenly found myself 'in the family way’ once again.
We’d only just moved into our home, and I was still getting my head around the whole mummy thing, so you can imagine the baby bombshell dropped upon us. Lucky for us, the house we'd just bought had an extra bedroom on the one we'd moved out of.
However, much like Halley's Comet, it seems it was a once-in-a-lifetime event for me and I stopped at the statistical 2.5 kids (if you count my stepson).
My mother, on the other hand, was medically advised to cease her own private space race soon after I was born, otherwise who knows how many siblings I'd have now.
Anyway, while I continue to entertain myself with the notion that I can owe my very presence to Neil Armstrong et al planting that flag on the moon…I live in hope that my little girl will be equally amused to hear that she was her parents' housewarming present.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Wax on, Wax off
I love winter.
Not necessarily the red noses, or dry cracked skin, or family tag-team with the various viruses doing the rounds. No, what I love about winter is, you can hide your legs and armpits.
Because one of the most pressing questions ever to perplex a woman surrounds the issue of hair removal.
What is the most effective method?
A lot of time and effort has gone into finding the ideal answer to this question, and there are a lot of options to choose from: shaving, waxing, epilation, depilatory creams, laser, bleach…just to name a few.
To my knowledge, not one single solution has been discovered that is permanent and painless. And let’s not forget cheap!
As soon as it is, I’ll be blogging about it!
Now, I’m fairly fortunate in that I am not among the ranks of those who are constantly aware of their hair, nor have to daily indulge in addressing it (and by that I don’t mean giving it some cute nickname like 'Yowie' or 'Yeti', although that could be appropriate at times).
But I have been blessed with the pale Irish skin and dark Irish hair to make me have to take care of things from time to time. Oh and having had a gorilla for a father doesn’t help.
Yes, anyone who doubts the close relationship between humans and apes has not yet met the male members of my family. At some stage in these men’s lives, their hair decides it’s just too darn far to travel to the top of their head, so sprouts from their shoulders instead!
And so, since we have a bit of time before the subject (and certain body parts) has to see the light of day, let's look at some of the more accessible methods.
Bleach is a bugger, especially if you get it places it really shouldn’t go (and I’m not just talking ‘bout your favourite bath towel here, if you know what I mean). And all it really does it highlight the fact that you have hair there- especially when caught in full summer sunlight (Hello, hairy halo)!
Depilatory creams have such a strong smell that you may as well wear a sign afterwards saying “I just dehaired myself!” Plus it’s an annoying waste of time sitting around trying not to smudge the stuff for fear of leaving telltale patches of fur.
Epilation hurts quite like nothing else I’ve ever known. Luckily it’s one of the ways to keep hair at bay for a few weeks so the torture can be spread out. (I only have to text my friend the words “Holy Mother of God” and she knows that I have the epilator out again.) But if you get too close to denser areas of hair, you can jam the thing and no amount of pleading is going to get it out of there without tears or potential blood loss.
And I have to confess that after an incident with a razor as a teenager I will only consider that particular method as the very last resort (take it from me: it is never a good idea to scratch your face while shaving your legs!) Plus, the time spent shaving is way out of proportion to the time spent being hairless, but once you start you just can’t stop (kinda like Pringles, without the tasty interlude).
As for laser (or intense light) hair removal, unfortunately in my current financial circumstances, that’s not an option and I’ve heard once you head towards that light you really gotta keep going ‘til there’s no hair there; and there's no guarantee that'll happen anyway.
I’ve even tried those funny little glove things you put over your hand and kinda file the hair off, like an emery board for the body. Sure it does a nice job of exfoliating as you go, and also gives the old bingo wings a workout, but honestly, by the time you reach your toes, the hair has grown back on your thighs!
So that leaves waxing, my preferred torture in the name of hairlessness.
Now, it’s often been commented that you've gotta be somewhat masochistic to let someone heat up wax and spread it on your legs (and other regions), wait for it to set, then rip it off, extracting the hapless hair- roots and all.
Here I also must warn you of the danger of DIY waxing. Aside from the obvious discomfort, you need to be well up on your yoga in order to put yourself in the positions required to remove the wax without taking your skin off with it. And for those venturing near the bikini line I cannot stress enough the importance of wearing underwear as you go! Happily, this time I was not the one who inadvertently stuck her legs together at a most unfortunate area (seriously, would YOU be brave enough to move if it happened to you?)!
But if you get the right therapist there can be the minimum amount of teeth clenching and fingernail imprints left in their beauty bench.
I even nodded off once during the procedure.
Mind you I was almost 8 months pregnant at the time and was doing the deforestation routine before our trip to the maternity ward.
There I was, barely able to get up on the treatment table (thank heavens for those motorised numbers), and actually could not even see the therapist working below the belt, thanks to The Bump between us… and I was soooo tired from growing my bub, that I actually dozed off. Even the therapist couldn’t believe it. It’s hardly a relaxing process, after all.
Unfortunately, unless you plan on being permanently pregnant (and that could be a tad tricky for any males who like to get their ‘manscaping’ done), there’s really nothing else for it except perhaps pop a paracetamol before you go or just grin and bare it.
Yes I for one am ecstatic that summer is still a good 4 months off yet…I have a great excuse to keep myself covered until absolutely necessary. You never know, someone might even have a brainstorm about abolishing body hair between now and then, so watch this space (just don’t pay too much attention to the legs or you could see a yeti yet)!
Jx
©2009
Not necessarily the red noses, or dry cracked skin, or family tag-team with the various viruses doing the rounds. No, what I love about winter is, you can hide your legs and armpits.
Because one of the most pressing questions ever to perplex a woman surrounds the issue of hair removal.
What is the most effective method?
A lot of time and effort has gone into finding the ideal answer to this question, and there are a lot of options to choose from: shaving, waxing, epilation, depilatory creams, laser, bleach…just to name a few.
To my knowledge, not one single solution has been discovered that is permanent and painless. And let’s not forget cheap!
As soon as it is, I’ll be blogging about it!
Now, I’m fairly fortunate in that I am not among the ranks of those who are constantly aware of their hair, nor have to daily indulge in addressing it (and by that I don’t mean giving it some cute nickname like 'Yowie' or 'Yeti', although that could be appropriate at times).
But I have been blessed with the pale Irish skin and dark Irish hair to make me have to take care of things from time to time. Oh and having had a gorilla for a father doesn’t help.
Yes, anyone who doubts the close relationship between humans and apes has not yet met the male members of my family. At some stage in these men’s lives, their hair decides it’s just too darn far to travel to the top of their head, so sprouts from their shoulders instead!
And so, since we have a bit of time before the subject (and certain body parts) has to see the light of day, let's look at some of the more accessible methods.
Bleach is a bugger, especially if you get it places it really shouldn’t go (and I’m not just talking ‘bout your favourite bath towel here, if you know what I mean). And all it really does it highlight the fact that you have hair there- especially when caught in full summer sunlight (Hello, hairy halo)!
Depilatory creams have such a strong smell that you may as well wear a sign afterwards saying “I just dehaired myself!” Plus it’s an annoying waste of time sitting around trying not to smudge the stuff for fear of leaving telltale patches of fur.
Epilation hurts quite like nothing else I’ve ever known. Luckily it’s one of the ways to keep hair at bay for a few weeks so the torture can be spread out. (I only have to text my friend the words “Holy Mother of God” and she knows that I have the epilator out again.) But if you get too close to denser areas of hair, you can jam the thing and no amount of pleading is going to get it out of there without tears or potential blood loss.
And I have to confess that after an incident with a razor as a teenager I will only consider that particular method as the very last resort (take it from me: it is never a good idea to scratch your face while shaving your legs!) Plus, the time spent shaving is way out of proportion to the time spent being hairless, but once you start you just can’t stop (kinda like Pringles, without the tasty interlude).
As for laser (or intense light) hair removal, unfortunately in my current financial circumstances, that’s not an option and I’ve heard once you head towards that light you really gotta keep going ‘til there’s no hair there; and there's no guarantee that'll happen anyway.
I’ve even tried those funny little glove things you put over your hand and kinda file the hair off, like an emery board for the body. Sure it does a nice job of exfoliating as you go, and also gives the old bingo wings a workout, but honestly, by the time you reach your toes, the hair has grown back on your thighs!
So that leaves waxing, my preferred torture in the name of hairlessness.
Now, it’s often been commented that you've gotta be somewhat masochistic to let someone heat up wax and spread it on your legs (and other regions), wait for it to set, then rip it off, extracting the hapless hair- roots and all.
Here I also must warn you of the danger of DIY waxing. Aside from the obvious discomfort, you need to be well up on your yoga in order to put yourself in the positions required to remove the wax without taking your skin off with it. And for those venturing near the bikini line I cannot stress enough the importance of wearing underwear as you go! Happily, this time I was not the one who inadvertently stuck her legs together at a most unfortunate area (seriously, would YOU be brave enough to move if it happened to you?)!
But if you get the right therapist there can be the minimum amount of teeth clenching and fingernail imprints left in their beauty bench.
I even nodded off once during the procedure.
Mind you I was almost 8 months pregnant at the time and was doing the deforestation routine before our trip to the maternity ward.
There I was, barely able to get up on the treatment table (thank heavens for those motorised numbers), and actually could not even see the therapist working below the belt, thanks to The Bump between us… and I was soooo tired from growing my bub, that I actually dozed off. Even the therapist couldn’t believe it. It’s hardly a relaxing process, after all.
Unfortunately, unless you plan on being permanently pregnant (and that could be a tad tricky for any males who like to get their ‘manscaping’ done), there’s really nothing else for it except perhaps pop a paracetamol before you go or just grin and bare it.
Yes I for one am ecstatic that summer is still a good 4 months off yet…I have a great excuse to keep myself covered until absolutely necessary. You never know, someone might even have a brainstorm about abolishing body hair between now and then, so watch this space (just don’t pay too much attention to the legs or you could see a yeti yet)!
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Shop 'til You Drop
It’s not often I get to hit the shops without an entourage.
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Oh my Beloved avoids the shopping centres like the dog avoids a bath- so it’s a rare event to have him along on the excursion- it’s usually just me and the kids.
So when I do get to escape, even for a quick trip to the supermarket for some essentials, it’s a blessing. And usually quite enlightening.
I’m an observer of people, you see, and there is plenty of fodder at the food stores!
Take the other day, for example.
I was standing in line at the checkout with my ‘handful of groceries’ (an old joke of my mother’s, because in fact anything more than one item is actually over the aforementioned handful) when I can’t help but overhear what’s happening with the people in front of me. So did the rest of the queue. Sadly for us, we couldn’t quite see what was going on, but anyone with a long-haired child could guess...
It’s obviously a mother and daughter tag team, and it’s also obvious that the mother has just about had enough ‘quality time’ with the daughter for one outing.
The one-sided conversation goes something like this, the following all coming from the mum (and I bet you’ve experienced a similar scenario). I have to say, the mother in question did a stand-up job of positive parenting- up to a point:
“Oh Darling, don’t do that with your hair, please.”
“No, please Darling, don’t do that with your hair.”
“Honey, I said don’t do that.”
“I mean it, please don’t do that, it’s annoying.”
“Leave your hair alone Darling.”
“I said, leave your hair alone!”
“Leave it alone now or I’m going to get cranky.”
“Alright, I’m really getting cranky now- stop doing that to your hair!’
“I mean it, don’t do that to your hair!’
“Alright, that’s it! As soon as we get home, I’m cutting all your hair off !!”
Now, for the rest of us in line, it was all too familiar despite it being a tad dramatic, and especially for those of us who had managed to make it to the shops without our own little darlings in hand, it was more than a little amusing and a whole lot refreshing to not be the one delivering the diatribe in front of a captive audience for a change.
So who knows whether the “darling” in question did indeed get the impromptu haircut as threatened. What I do know is that I came home with my handful of groceries, gathered up my two kids in a bear hug and ruffled the living daylights out of their mop tops.
And revelled in the fact that I got to go out without them.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
If Men Ruled the World
I have a husband, a son, and a stepson. Even our dog is a boy (though, thankfully, he’s of the no-nads variety).
Now, I could quite easily end this blog here and now, and I’d put money on it that a fair number of you would know exactly what I was talking about and could fill in the blanks all by yourself.
But since this is my 15 seconds of fame, I’ll carry on, shall I ladies? (And any man brave enough to venture forth from here, please note: you have been warned!)
If any of the abovementioned male creatures gets sick, the whole world as we know it comes to a screeching halt. The moon stops orbiting the earth, the sun falls from the sky, and human life ceases to be. Or it may as well.
All because a male is ill.
If, on the other hand, the females of the household get sick … life just goes on as before.
See, God created mankind in His image. And even God had to take a day off.
Whereas the female of the species just keeps ticking along, day after day, doing all the things that fall into the category of “women’s work” with the occasional ribbing from her mate (get it? Ribbing! Sorry, I couldn’t resist).
As we know from basic biology, it takes two Xs to make a woman, which in my opinion gives us a double dose of the stronger stuff, or twice as much tolerance when it comes to pain.
It is sad but true that if men had the babies, the world population would be much lower than it is today (and here’s where a man jumps in and says that wouldn’t be altogether a bad thing), if men went through pregnancy and labour, there would be medals made to hand out specifically to honour that achievement, and if men had to put up with PMS and the like roughly every 4 weeks, we would see the annual sick-day quota shoot up by at least an extra 12, and there would miraculously appear on the pharmacy shelves a painkiller to beat them all, at a very reasonable price too, I might add!
Yes, while it is true that man does traditionally carry the woman over the threshold on their wedding night, when it comes to the pain threshold, the typical male is reduced to a crawl.
Take my Beloved, for example, he recently recovered from a cold.
A cold.
He used up every tissue that Kleenex has managed to manufacture this past month, damn near drained the dam of its water supply, washing down enough paracetamol to put the local junkies to shame, and spent the better part of a week in bed (he did drag himself to work, God love him, purely because we need the money).
Just to balance out our particular equation, there’s me. I have suffered from endometriosis and polycystic ovaries since puberty kicked in. Most months I have trouble standing upright due to the agony in my uterus. I am usually anaemic, so throw in some good old-fashioned fatigue there. And I am one of those lucky lucky ladies that enjoys this wondrous event for a full 7 days each cycle. Yay me.
Do I get to wallow in my misery in the comfort and privacy of my bedroom?
Do I get to snuggle with a hot water bottle and a decent dose of anti-inflammatories?
Do I get to hit the pause button on the daily play-by-play of family life- the cooking, cleaning up, and chasing after kids?
Do I look like a man to you?
Oh no, with so much masculinity in our midst, I must just keep going.
And woe is the woman who happens to mention it’s “that time of the month”, because that only lays us open to a potential onslaught of PMS jokes thought up by someone who’s never experienced PMS, for obvious reasons.
So we suffer, but we do it in silence. And if the opposite sex shows some sympathy and offers a hot cup of tea, we do not throw it back in their face (however tempting that may be at times), we are gracious in our gender, and grateful in our manner.
And we curse the living dickens out of them over the internet instead.
Yes men may think they rule the world, but we know who keeps it turning don’t we?
Jx
©2009
Now, I could quite easily end this blog here and now, and I’d put money on it that a fair number of you would know exactly what I was talking about and could fill in the blanks all by yourself.
But since this is my 15 seconds of fame, I’ll carry on, shall I ladies? (And any man brave enough to venture forth from here, please note: you have been warned!)
If any of the abovementioned male creatures gets sick, the whole world as we know it comes to a screeching halt. The moon stops orbiting the earth, the sun falls from the sky, and human life ceases to be. Or it may as well.
All because a male is ill.
If, on the other hand, the females of the household get sick … life just goes on as before.
See, God created mankind in His image. And even God had to take a day off.
Whereas the female of the species just keeps ticking along, day after day, doing all the things that fall into the category of “women’s work” with the occasional ribbing from her mate (get it? Ribbing! Sorry, I couldn’t resist).
As we know from basic biology, it takes two Xs to make a woman, which in my opinion gives us a double dose of the stronger stuff, or twice as much tolerance when it comes to pain.
It is sad but true that if men had the babies, the world population would be much lower than it is today (and here’s where a man jumps in and says that wouldn’t be altogether a bad thing), if men went through pregnancy and labour, there would be medals made to hand out specifically to honour that achievement, and if men had to put up with PMS and the like roughly every 4 weeks, we would see the annual sick-day quota shoot up by at least an extra 12, and there would miraculously appear on the pharmacy shelves a painkiller to beat them all, at a very reasonable price too, I might add!
Yes, while it is true that man does traditionally carry the woman over the threshold on their wedding night, when it comes to the pain threshold, the typical male is reduced to a crawl.
Take my Beloved, for example, he recently recovered from a cold.
A cold.
He used up every tissue that Kleenex has managed to manufacture this past month, damn near drained the dam of its water supply, washing down enough paracetamol to put the local junkies to shame, and spent the better part of a week in bed (he did drag himself to work, God love him, purely because we need the money).
Just to balance out our particular equation, there’s me. I have suffered from endometriosis and polycystic ovaries since puberty kicked in. Most months I have trouble standing upright due to the agony in my uterus. I am usually anaemic, so throw in some good old-fashioned fatigue there. And I am one of those lucky lucky ladies that enjoys this wondrous event for a full 7 days each cycle. Yay me.
Do I get to wallow in my misery in the comfort and privacy of my bedroom?
Do I get to snuggle with a hot water bottle and a decent dose of anti-inflammatories?
Do I get to hit the pause button on the daily play-by-play of family life- the cooking, cleaning up, and chasing after kids?
Do I look like a man to you?
Oh no, with so much masculinity in our midst, I must just keep going.
And woe is the woman who happens to mention it’s “that time of the month”, because that only lays us open to a potential onslaught of PMS jokes thought up by someone who’s never experienced PMS, for obvious reasons.
So we suffer, but we do it in silence. And if the opposite sex shows some sympathy and offers a hot cup of tea, we do not throw it back in their face (however tempting that may be at times), we are gracious in our gender, and grateful in our manner.
And we curse the living dickens out of them over the internet instead.
Yes men may think they rule the world, but we know who keeps it turning don’t we?
Jx
©2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Doggone it
If there’s one smell I cannot stand it is damp dog.
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
No, there’s no metaphor at play here. I simply do not like the scent of a canine coat once it is wet. It is an affront to my olfactory system.
After the terrible loss of our chocolate Labrador to a tick last year, we now have this funny little creature that was rescued by the RSPCA, by the name of Chester. He’s an 18 month old Shih Tzu, we think. He has strawberry blonde fur. But also has a rather nasty habit of chewing it off. This leaves him looking like a cross between a hairless cat and a floor mop.
Since it’s winter and he complains about the cold (but doesn’t stop chewing his hair off, mind you) I bought him a couple of doggy sweaters. But instead of ‘out of mind out of sight’, it only seems to highlight the male-pattern-baldness the dog is displaying. He’s quite a sight, and definitely not one seen on the dog show circuit.
Anyhow, after a few too many days of rain turned our backyard into a bog the little critter being close to the ground, has kinda dip-dyed himself and has a dark brown to blonde thing going on (Sorta like Madonna in the ‘let your roots show’ phase, only in the opposite order).
With great reluctance I realised it was up to me to do something about it.
As soon as Chester heard me turn on the tap in the laundry tub he bolted.
After chasing him around the backyard for a few minutes, I resorted to bribing him with food to get him close enough to grab him (I actually caught him by the jumper which handily half came off in the process). Then after a few futile moments foraging in his fur I was able to find and remove his collars in preparation for the big event.
There is now the saddest pair of big brown eyes peering up at me from top of the washing machine, and he suddenly discovers some Chihuahua in his parentage as he starts shaking in anticipation (or maybe it’s trepidation).
After trying to coax the dog into the tub of his own accord, I attempt to lift the little fella up. I swear his toenails grew two inches as he tries to hang on for dear life- unsuccessfully I might add- as it’s a little tricky getting a grip on whitegoods.
At last he’s in the water. So far so good. But now the little devil won’t sit down. “Sit!” I say, using the accompanying hand signal (and not the one usually reserved for those who are peeving one off), and start pushing down on his rear end. (Goodness me when did he get so strong- he’s barely a foot long for crying out loud!) I finally get his butt down and reach for the doggy shampoo, only to find him standing up again. This scenario is played out for a couple of minutes until both the dog and I are decidedly drenched.
I would like to say that things get easier once I have shampoo in hand. But you would not be reading this blog right now if that were the case.
Oh no, Chester’s fondness for the smell of shampoo is obviously equal to my liking for wet dog, as he tries to bolt again, but I manage to catch him just as he escapes over the side, by wedging his little body against the tub with my tummy.
At this point my Beloved sticks his head in the doorway with an “Everything ok?” I find myself addressing his rapidly retreating back as he realises that it is not. This little dog is well and truly giving me the Shih Tzus.
Vowing not to let a little blonde bundle of fur defeat me, I soldier on with the shampooing, and eventually get enough suds from top to tail. Then, after despairing that there are more knots here that the Sydney to Hobart yacht race, I resort to doing some wizardry with the scissors.
How hard is it to hold a dog with one hand while trying to trim with the other and not cut anything that the mutt might need?
Here’s usually when my children come to see what I’m up to and offer their assistance. Chester takes this as an opportunity to break free from my grip and takes a flying leap off the washing machine and frantically tries to get his footing on the tiles. Not fast enough. Against all common sense, I launch myself at the little wet woofer before he streaks off up the hall. And then find myself becoming a human windshield while two kids take cover behind me as Chester starts shaking off the water.
I manage to wrestle him back on top of the washer, and give him a good towel-dry before I put him down and stand back for the post-wash performance (Chester running crazily around the house, rolling on the floor, rubbing his head up and down the hall, all interspersed with more distribution of water droplets).
At this point I am wishing we had funds to enlist the professional services of a mobile dogwasher, and am well and truly lamenting the fact that we are all but banned from the local pet stop after I accidentally sprayed the assistant with flea rinse (well, she would come asking questions whilst I had hose in hand). Plus Chester choosing to act all top dog like and mark his territory on the counter didn’t help the situation any (they said it happens all the time, so perhaps he could be forgiven).
But for now at least the dog is lovely and clean again. While sadly, I smell like…wet dog.
Jx
©2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Confusion Reigns
There’s something about wet weather that drives people crazy.
Or rather I should say- in wet weather, people drive crazy.
The experts suggest we slow the speed down by about 10kph during precipitation. And leave a little more space in between you and the vehicle in front, to allow for sliding when stopping.
Yeah, right.
I’m beginning to think it wouldn’t hurt if the experts proposed that some drivers leave the car at home altogether on rainy days! It’d certainly make life a whole lot safer for the rest of us road users- if not a little less interesting.
OK, so in some parts of the country this drought has lasted a long time. But surely even those living in the driest areas have had a chance to maneuver a motor vehicle under grey skies. One would think not, given the examples of not-so-precision driving witnessed during periods of precipitation.
Even the roadside assist guys will tell you there’s a lot more call outs for dings, bangs, and bingles…not to mention flat batteries as people turn their lights on then forget to turn them off again once they reach their destination. Well, duh.
Seriously, if you want to catch idiots in action, just add water.
I don't know about you, but I’ve seen cars fishtailing round corners, some sliding into parked cars or fences, stopping on the wrong side of the red light, even swerving onto the other side of the road to avoid puddles, for goodness sake (it’s not like your car isn’t getting wet already)!
And just last week my Beloved narrowly missed becoming a hood ornament for some bloke driving with his high beams on in the mist (and apparently still couldn’t see where he was going)!
Oh and hands up who else has seen people totally forget basic road rules like how to give way at intersections when it rains?
Yep, they either cut someone else off in a bid to beat traffic, or sit so long it’s as if they want the road clear from here to Hobart before they venture out. I got caught behind some lady in a 4 wheel drive for almost 10 minutes yesterday while she waited for a gap in the traffic that a semi trailer could’ve fit through! I felt like going up and tapping on her window to see if she was having trouble finding first gear…but I didn’t think she’d appreciate my roadside assistance.
But the strangest episode of wet weather weirdness behind the wheel I’ve ever witnessed was when a woman backed out of her spot in the car park at the local shops, totally misjudged the size of her car in relation to the size of the car park, and ripped off her entire front bumper and half the driver side panel as well. It was a brand new 4WD too. Then she stood there doing the 'dance of the damaged car' until I could no longer see her in my rearview mirror. (You know the one- jump out of the car, race to the front, clap your hands over your mouth then on either side of your head, shake it all about a few times, and pace back and forth as you try to decide what to do next.)
At the risk of sounding sexist (as I am a female driver too), I could only hope that she has an understanding husband, or a good panel beater, or even better- both. And hope that she catches a bus next time it rains.
Yep, there’s just something about the wet weather that causes stupidity to flood the population at large. And with more cloudy days on the way according to the forecast, the footpath is perhaps the safest place to be.
Because, to paraphrase Eliza Doolittle: it’s plain that rain washes brains down the drain.
Jx
©2009
Or rather I should say- in wet weather, people drive crazy.
The experts suggest we slow the speed down by about 10kph during precipitation. And leave a little more space in between you and the vehicle in front, to allow for sliding when stopping.
Yeah, right.
I’m beginning to think it wouldn’t hurt if the experts proposed that some drivers leave the car at home altogether on rainy days! It’d certainly make life a whole lot safer for the rest of us road users- if not a little less interesting.
OK, so in some parts of the country this drought has lasted a long time. But surely even those living in the driest areas have had a chance to maneuver a motor vehicle under grey skies. One would think not, given the examples of not-so-precision driving witnessed during periods of precipitation.
Even the roadside assist guys will tell you there’s a lot more call outs for dings, bangs, and bingles…not to mention flat batteries as people turn their lights on then forget to turn them off again once they reach their destination. Well, duh.
Seriously, if you want to catch idiots in action, just add water.
I don't know about you, but I’ve seen cars fishtailing round corners, some sliding into parked cars or fences, stopping on the wrong side of the red light, even swerving onto the other side of the road to avoid puddles, for goodness sake (it’s not like your car isn’t getting wet already)!
And just last week my Beloved narrowly missed becoming a hood ornament for some bloke driving with his high beams on in the mist (and apparently still couldn’t see where he was going)!
Oh and hands up who else has seen people totally forget basic road rules like how to give way at intersections when it rains?
Yep, they either cut someone else off in a bid to beat traffic, or sit so long it’s as if they want the road clear from here to Hobart before they venture out. I got caught behind some lady in a 4 wheel drive for almost 10 minutes yesterday while she waited for a gap in the traffic that a semi trailer could’ve fit through! I felt like going up and tapping on her window to see if she was having trouble finding first gear…but I didn’t think she’d appreciate my roadside assistance.
But the strangest episode of wet weather weirdness behind the wheel I’ve ever witnessed was when a woman backed out of her spot in the car park at the local shops, totally misjudged the size of her car in relation to the size of the car park, and ripped off her entire front bumper and half the driver side panel as well. It was a brand new 4WD too. Then she stood there doing the 'dance of the damaged car' until I could no longer see her in my rearview mirror. (You know the one- jump out of the car, race to the front, clap your hands over your mouth then on either side of your head, shake it all about a few times, and pace back and forth as you try to decide what to do next.)
At the risk of sounding sexist (as I am a female driver too), I could only hope that she has an understanding husband, or a good panel beater, or even better- both. And hope that she catches a bus next time it rains.
Yep, there’s just something about the wet weather that causes stupidity to flood the population at large. And with more cloudy days on the way according to the forecast, the footpath is perhaps the safest place to be.
Because, to paraphrase Eliza Doolittle: it’s plain that rain washes brains down the drain.
Jx
©2009
Tears of a Clown
I’m thinking about kicking a black dog.
Now, before you go all RSPCA at me, let me clarify: I’ve been putting a lot of thought, time, and effort into how to get rid of Depression.
If you’ve ever been diagnosed with it, you will know that I’m talking about more than feeling peeved you didn’t get invited to that party, or upset that you had a fight with your other half, or even frustrated and worn out by this whole parenting thing. No, I’m talking a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy, lack of motivation or any sense of achievement, or a sorrow that you cannot seem to shake if you allow yourself to stop and think about it.
On the outside you might seem as happy as chirpy as ever. Or if somewhat subdued, not totally withdrawn. You might still be getting up out of bed, going to work, going through the motions as a wife and mother, and adding something to the world each day. You might be doing it all with a smile on your dial. Furthermore, you might even be the one that others have always relied on to lift them up when they’re feeling low.
But inside, you know you’re faking it.
It’s called The Black Dog. And let me tell you, there are way better pets.
First time I faced Depression was when one of my best friends was killed right before my horrified eyes by a speeding driver. I was 14 years old and I don’t know that I’ve ever truly shaken that one off. Ironically (which I’ve only just now realised), this time it’s also due to a driver- but this one was apparently putting on her lipstick as she drove, and slammed into the back of our car when the line of traffic in front came to a stop. I was injured, my kids were injured, and my car has never been the same since.
Long story short: I lost my job, we almost lost the house, and I gained a Black Dog.
But still I had a support group to run, a camp to organise, committees to attend, causes to champion, friendships to nurture, a husband and children to care for… so I forced myself into motion and tried hard to turn that frown upside down. Because, after all, no one likes a whinger do they.
So here’s where “Smokey” Robinson comes in, with that song. OK, so the inspiration’s a little off, he got the idea from an opera- ‘Pagliacci’- which is about clowns who hide their hurt and anger behind painted-on smiles. But it’s the same concept- pretending to be happier than you feel.
*But don't let my glad expression,
Give you the wrong impression.
Really, I'm sad, (Sad, sad, sad, sad.)
I'm sadder than sad. (I hurt so bad.)
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not at the stage where we need to hide the sleeping pills or anything (in fact I wouldn’t get any sleep without them, I’m sure), but it’s really tough some days. Especially when life seems to be just hunky-dory for everyone else on this big fat planet.
But I’ve got to keep going, don’t I, for the kids, for my Beloved, and for myself. And if I can find a little something each day to make me LOL, then I’m looking for it (bonus points if it’s a ROFLMAO)!
So forgive me if this blog seems a tad melodramatic, or not as ‘up’ as some of the others I’ve done. No doubt it’ll take me even longer this time before I decide whether to post it or not. But maybe it’ll touch someone else who’s got that bloody Black Dog for company at the moment, and if there’s one thing that usually brightens my life, it’s making someone else’s a bit better.
In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to give myself some more laugh lines.
And so, just as “Smokey” gave a nod to an opera in his lyrics, I tip my hat at you and your hit song Mr Robinson, for summing up how so many feel:
*Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my sadness hid.
Smiling in the public eye,
But in my lonely room I cry.
The tears of a clown, When there's no one around.
Now...where’s my makeup?
Jx
©2009
*Tears of a Clown, 1967, Tamla/Motown label, Written by Stevie Wonder, Hank Cosby, and William "Smokey" Robinson
Now, before you go all RSPCA at me, let me clarify: I’ve been putting a lot of thought, time, and effort into how to get rid of Depression.
If you’ve ever been diagnosed with it, you will know that I’m talking about more than feeling peeved you didn’t get invited to that party, or upset that you had a fight with your other half, or even frustrated and worn out by this whole parenting thing. No, I’m talking a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy, lack of motivation or any sense of achievement, or a sorrow that you cannot seem to shake if you allow yourself to stop and think about it.
On the outside you might seem as happy as chirpy as ever. Or if somewhat subdued, not totally withdrawn. You might still be getting up out of bed, going to work, going through the motions as a wife and mother, and adding something to the world each day. You might be doing it all with a smile on your dial. Furthermore, you might even be the one that others have always relied on to lift them up when they’re feeling low.
But inside, you know you’re faking it.
It’s called The Black Dog. And let me tell you, there are way better pets.
First time I faced Depression was when one of my best friends was killed right before my horrified eyes by a speeding driver. I was 14 years old and I don’t know that I’ve ever truly shaken that one off. Ironically (which I’ve only just now realised), this time it’s also due to a driver- but this one was apparently putting on her lipstick as she drove, and slammed into the back of our car when the line of traffic in front came to a stop. I was injured, my kids were injured, and my car has never been the same since.
Long story short: I lost my job, we almost lost the house, and I gained a Black Dog.
But still I had a support group to run, a camp to organise, committees to attend, causes to champion, friendships to nurture, a husband and children to care for… so I forced myself into motion and tried hard to turn that frown upside down. Because, after all, no one likes a whinger do they.
So here’s where “Smokey” Robinson comes in, with that song. OK, so the inspiration’s a little off, he got the idea from an opera- ‘Pagliacci’- which is about clowns who hide their hurt and anger behind painted-on smiles. But it’s the same concept- pretending to be happier than you feel.
*But don't let my glad expression,
Give you the wrong impression.
Really, I'm sad, (Sad, sad, sad, sad.)
I'm sadder than sad. (I hurt so bad.)
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not at the stage where we need to hide the sleeping pills or anything (in fact I wouldn’t get any sleep without them, I’m sure), but it’s really tough some days. Especially when life seems to be just hunky-dory for everyone else on this big fat planet.
But I’ve got to keep going, don’t I, for the kids, for my Beloved, and for myself. And if I can find a little something each day to make me LOL, then I’m looking for it (bonus points if it’s a ROFLMAO)!
So forgive me if this blog seems a tad melodramatic, or not as ‘up’ as some of the others I’ve done. No doubt it’ll take me even longer this time before I decide whether to post it or not. But maybe it’ll touch someone else who’s got that bloody Black Dog for company at the moment, and if there’s one thing that usually brightens my life, it’s making someone else’s a bit better.
In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to give myself some more laugh lines.
And so, just as “Smokey” gave a nod to an opera in his lyrics, I tip my hat at you and your hit song Mr Robinson, for summing up how so many feel:
*Just like Pagliacci did, I try to keep my sadness hid.
Smiling in the public eye,
But in my lonely room I cry.
The tears of a clown, When there's no one around.
Now...where’s my makeup?
Jx
©2009
*Tears of a Clown, 1967, Tamla/Motown label, Written by Stevie Wonder, Hank Cosby, and William "Smokey" Robinson
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Child's Play
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in this life, it’s this: never startle a child who’s having flatulence issues.
A hard ask if you’re fond of sneaking up on your kids to spring a surprise cuddle on them, or hiding around the corner to go “Boo!”, or even suddenly tipping them upside down when they’re on your lap, for a laugh.
If they’re having the aforementioned issues, it’s way more a gag than a gag, if you know what I mean.
I’d like to say and I’m happy to report that I have that sort of relationship with my children: a lot of love, and a lot of laughs, most of the time.
Oh I’m not pretending I’ll be their BFF or anything, and believe me, they don’t get away with murder with me (unlike their father who is wrapped firmly around their finger at times). But I like to enjoy my kids while they’re still young enough to enjoy it too. Before they hit puberty and decide how dumb and daggy their ol’ mother is. (And before they become parents themselves and realise how handy you are to have around!)
Other things my children have taught me:
* Even if you start out an hour ahead of time, you will invariably be at least 5 minutes late.
* The newer the cake of soap, the faster it gets squished into the plughole.
* When making choc chip cookies, you need to start out with twice as many ingredients as you need to finish with.
* They will always remember the words to the most inappropriate songs (e.g. ♫ “It’s just you and your hand toni-ight” ♪).
* The clothes/shoes that cost the most will be outgrown faster than anything else.
And:
* No matter how big the bed is, if you let even just one of them into it, you’ll be the one stuck like a postage stamp up one corner!
But perhaps the best thing I have learned from my kids, is how to play.
In between worrying about money matters, working on the big decisions, and making sure you’re being mature, it’s one thing that a lot of us grownups forget- how to get in touch with your inner child.
Now, there’s a big difference between being child-like and childish, and if there were more adults who acted like the former and not the latter, well, the world would be a happier place I’m sure.
And if a few more of us parents found a little more time to play with the kids, we’d all be more confident too. Smiles can do wonders for the soul.
If nothing else, the kids would certainly appreciate it, now and in the future.
But learn a little from my experiences, if you’re going to get down to their level figuratively speaking, just make sure it doesn’t backfire on you, literally!
Jx
©2009
A hard ask if you’re fond of sneaking up on your kids to spring a surprise cuddle on them, or hiding around the corner to go “Boo!”, or even suddenly tipping them upside down when they’re on your lap, for a laugh.
If they’re having the aforementioned issues, it’s way more a gag than a gag, if you know what I mean.
I’d like to say and I’m happy to report that I have that sort of relationship with my children: a lot of love, and a lot of laughs, most of the time.
Oh I’m not pretending I’ll be their BFF or anything, and believe me, they don’t get away with murder with me (unlike their father who is wrapped firmly around their finger at times). But I like to enjoy my kids while they’re still young enough to enjoy it too. Before they hit puberty and decide how dumb and daggy their ol’ mother is. (And before they become parents themselves and realise how handy you are to have around!)
Other things my children have taught me:
* Even if you start out an hour ahead of time, you will invariably be at least 5 minutes late.
* The newer the cake of soap, the faster it gets squished into the plughole.
* When making choc chip cookies, you need to start out with twice as many ingredients as you need to finish with.
* They will always remember the words to the most inappropriate songs (e.g. ♫ “It’s just you and your hand toni-ight” ♪).
* The clothes/shoes that cost the most will be outgrown faster than anything else.
And:
* No matter how big the bed is, if you let even just one of them into it, you’ll be the one stuck like a postage stamp up one corner!
But perhaps the best thing I have learned from my kids, is how to play.
In between worrying about money matters, working on the big decisions, and making sure you’re being mature, it’s one thing that a lot of us grownups forget- how to get in touch with your inner child.
Now, there’s a big difference between being child-like and childish, and if there were more adults who acted like the former and not the latter, well, the world would be a happier place I’m sure.
And if a few more of us parents found a little more time to play with the kids, we’d all be more confident too. Smiles can do wonders for the soul.
If nothing else, the kids would certainly appreciate it, now and in the future.
But learn a little from my experiences, if you’re going to get down to their level figuratively speaking, just make sure it doesn’t backfire on you, literally!
Jx
©2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
274 messages, 127 unread
...that's what's awaiting me in a little folder I have labelled "Deal With Later".
Even those with basic maths skills (and even without the aid of a calculator in this day and age!) can see that though I may appear to have 'read' more than half of the emails in the aforementioned folder, there's a fair whack of cyber stuff I am seriously procrastinating Dealing With (I've put off even looking at it, for crying out loud)!
So what sort of things am I planning to Deal With Later?
Oh, you know, the usual online catalogues, internet surveys, and you-beaut special offers, but mostly news articles about the chronic condition that around 1 in 250 Aussie kids live with on a daily basis.
I run a support group which has recently been accused of providing "too much" support by way of information about the disease and its treatment; and therefore "scaring" people!
To me, Information is Power. Sometimes, what you do know can't hurt you.
But to some it's somewhere in the "I don't wanna know" category (kinda like the fact that during the course of our life, each of us will inadvertently swallow 3 spiders whilst sleeping- Yum).
And so, with all the extra stresses surrounding our little family castle in recent months, I have had to pull up the drawbridge and leave others to raise their own shields against the onslaught of the unknown.
(Speaking metaphorically, you realise, 'cause if we had the kind of money to actually own a piece of valuable property like a castle, a lot of the recent extra stresses would become redundant. Mind you, I doubt that too many of the landed gentry in days of yore had access to the internet either, so never had to face this very predicament. *chuckles*)
I will Deal With it, of course. I have found that running and hiding is not my forté (for starters, I run like a girl- a very uncoordinated girl with no sense of direction- and either my boobs or my butt make it difficult to secret my entire body away at any given time). And so I will proof read and post any information that I think is relevant to those people who have come to rely on the support group, especially those who like to take control of the condition. I've just had to put it off until I could Deal With it.
Oddly enough, while they say "tomorrow never comes", I find Later is always lurking nearby.
And when it comes to email, nothing except a computer crash is gonna cut that pile down for me. But then you run the gauntlet of losing everything else too. (Oh yeah, had that happen and wasn't that a laugh?!)
Oh crap, my Inbox icon just lit up to say there's more mail arrived from the newsgroups.
Looks like Later got here a lot sooner than I planned. *sighs*
Well, nighty night, sleep tight, don't eat too many spiders tonight.
Jx
©2009
Even those with basic maths skills (and even without the aid of a calculator in this day and age!) can see that though I may appear to have 'read' more than half of the emails in the aforementioned folder, there's a fair whack of cyber stuff I am seriously procrastinating Dealing With (I've put off even looking at it, for crying out loud)!
So what sort of things am I planning to Deal With Later?
Oh, you know, the usual online catalogues, internet surveys, and you-beaut special offers, but mostly news articles about the chronic condition that around 1 in 250 Aussie kids live with on a daily basis.
I run a support group which has recently been accused of providing "too much" support by way of information about the disease and its treatment; and therefore "scaring" people!
To me, Information is Power. Sometimes, what you do know can't hurt you.
But to some it's somewhere in the "I don't wanna know" category (kinda like the fact that during the course of our life, each of us will inadvertently swallow 3 spiders whilst sleeping- Yum).
And so, with all the extra stresses surrounding our little family castle in recent months, I have had to pull up the drawbridge and leave others to raise their own shields against the onslaught of the unknown.
(Speaking metaphorically, you realise, 'cause if we had the kind of money to actually own a piece of valuable property like a castle, a lot of the recent extra stresses would become redundant. Mind you, I doubt that too many of the landed gentry in days of yore had access to the internet either, so never had to face this very predicament. *chuckles*)
I will Deal With it, of course. I have found that running and hiding is not my forté (for starters, I run like a girl- a very uncoordinated girl with no sense of direction- and either my boobs or my butt make it difficult to secret my entire body away at any given time). And so I will proof read and post any information that I think is relevant to those people who have come to rely on the support group, especially those who like to take control of the condition. I've just had to put it off until I could Deal With it.
Oddly enough, while they say "tomorrow never comes", I find Later is always lurking nearby.
And when it comes to email, nothing except a computer crash is gonna cut that pile down for me. But then you run the gauntlet of losing everything else too. (Oh yeah, had that happen and wasn't that a laugh?!)
Oh crap, my Inbox icon just lit up to say there's more mail arrived from the newsgroups.
Looks like Later got here a lot sooner than I planned. *sighs*
Well, nighty night, sleep tight, don't eat too many spiders tonight.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Recipe for Disaster
Oh I know he means well.
And I know that old adage that "it’s the thought that counts".
But sometimes I just have to wonder what exactly is going on in that brain of my Beloved.
Especially when it comes to food.
OK so he doesn’t go as far as wearing a kitschy ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron or anything that implies he actually knows what he’s doing. But each time he’s let loose anywhere near a kitchen it’s like the Masterchefs in reverse. Only nowhere near as organised to start out with.
For instance, our first date.
Wisely and thankfully he chose to treat me to someone else’s gourmet genius that time, as I‘m not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale otherwise.
Now, usually one is trying to impress the other party on such an auspicious occasion. You go to great lengths to make yourself look good, smell good, sound good, and try desperately hard not to do anything to dispell the myth that you are good at everything.
So, why, I ask you, would you order the red curry at the Indian restaurant?
Yes, I’m afraid any chance of romance goes out the window when you are busy chugging a jug of beer after a generous first forkful of your main meal.
Even the priciest personal hygiene products and a restaurant’s entire supply of serviettes cannot compete with full body perspiration in full swing.
And any pretence of politeness doesn’t stand a chance in the face of such obvious discomfort, as I tried to cover my laughter by sipping my drink, which in a show of karma went down the wrong way, almost causing me to choke to death.
All I can say is ours is obviously a love to last a lifetime, as here we are still together some 20 years later, with many moons and many meals in between.
See, not content to just impress me as a cool calm customer of the epicurean kind, my Beloved has also, over the years, attempted to show how hot he is on the other side of the hotplate.
To date, his culinary clangers include: a pot pie where the pot became part of the pie, so well was it cooked.
Using vanilla essence instead of parisian essence whilst attempting to reproduce his grandmother’s homemade gravy.
How about Sticky Date well and truly stuck to the plate?
Or, when aiming for some father-son time in the kitchen by making anzac biscuits for Anzac Day…well let’s just say the troops from the local fire brigade were on standby for any subsequent attempts at bonding through baking (which fortunately were few and far between).
These days I try to steer him towards recipes of the no-bake variety, and even they can get out of control (turning a mild-mannered man into a rampaging Ramsay). Last time he dug out the frypan, our small son was heard to exclaim “so, these are pancakes, except they look different and taste different.”
And since it’s supposed to be the rule in our house that whoever makes the meal gets to sit back and relax afterwards (which, funnily enough only seems to work when anyone else has done the work), guess who gets the pleasure of tidying up the kitchen? (Once I can find it, that is.) I must confess that there have been times when it has been far easier to throw out and replace equipment than hold out any hope that it can be used again in the manner for which it was intended.
Plus I have now made sure that there is none of that brown glass cookware so favoured by bachelors, left in our house, ever since the explosion (I am sure my eardrums will come good again someday…at least I hope). It is indeed amazing just how many places baked beans can stick in your standard family kitchen.
Hark, do I hear the slow cooker coming out of the cupboard? Sounds like my cue to rescue the ladle from my loved one…
Bon Appétit all!
Jx
©2009
And I know that old adage that "it’s the thought that counts".
But sometimes I just have to wonder what exactly is going on in that brain of my Beloved.
Especially when it comes to food.
OK so he doesn’t go as far as wearing a kitschy ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron or anything that implies he actually knows what he’s doing. But each time he’s let loose anywhere near a kitchen it’s like the Masterchefs in reverse. Only nowhere near as organised to start out with.
For instance, our first date.
Wisely and thankfully he chose to treat me to someone else’s gourmet genius that time, as I‘m not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale otherwise.
Now, usually one is trying to impress the other party on such an auspicious occasion. You go to great lengths to make yourself look good, smell good, sound good, and try desperately hard not to do anything to dispell the myth that you are good at everything.
So, why, I ask you, would you order the red curry at the Indian restaurant?
Yes, I’m afraid any chance of romance goes out the window when you are busy chugging a jug of beer after a generous first forkful of your main meal.
Even the priciest personal hygiene products and a restaurant’s entire supply of serviettes cannot compete with full body perspiration in full swing.
And any pretence of politeness doesn’t stand a chance in the face of such obvious discomfort, as I tried to cover my laughter by sipping my drink, which in a show of karma went down the wrong way, almost causing me to choke to death.
All I can say is ours is obviously a love to last a lifetime, as here we are still together some 20 years later, with many moons and many meals in between.
See, not content to just impress me as a cool calm customer of the epicurean kind, my Beloved has also, over the years, attempted to show how hot he is on the other side of the hotplate.
To date, his culinary clangers include: a pot pie where the pot became part of the pie, so well was it cooked.
Using vanilla essence instead of parisian essence whilst attempting to reproduce his grandmother’s homemade gravy.
How about Sticky Date well and truly stuck to the plate?
Or, when aiming for some father-son time in the kitchen by making anzac biscuits for Anzac Day…well let’s just say the troops from the local fire brigade were on standby for any subsequent attempts at bonding through baking (which fortunately were few and far between).
These days I try to steer him towards recipes of the no-bake variety, and even they can get out of control (turning a mild-mannered man into a rampaging Ramsay). Last time he dug out the frypan, our small son was heard to exclaim “so, these are pancakes, except they look different and taste different.”
And since it’s supposed to be the rule in our house that whoever makes the meal gets to sit back and relax afterwards (which, funnily enough only seems to work when anyone else has done the work), guess who gets the pleasure of tidying up the kitchen? (Once I can find it, that is.) I must confess that there have been times when it has been far easier to throw out and replace equipment than hold out any hope that it can be used again in the manner for which it was intended.
Plus I have now made sure that there is none of that brown glass cookware so favoured by bachelors, left in our house, ever since the explosion (I am sure my eardrums will come good again someday…at least I hope). It is indeed amazing just how many places baked beans can stick in your standard family kitchen.
Hark, do I hear the slow cooker coming out of the cupboard? Sounds like my cue to rescue the ladle from my loved one…
Bon Appétit all!
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
"Just a normal little boy"
My son wishes he was “just a normal little boy without arthritis.”
Well, we know what arthritis is- inflammation of the joints- right?
But how does one define “normal”?
The Australian Oxford Dictionary describes it as “conforming to standard, usual, regular, typical.”
But for my son- on a typical day it is normal to feel constant pain. It is normal for him to move more slowly than other kids, or to miss out on things altogether when he has trouble moving at all!
It is normal for my son to regularly take tablets, and medicines, and subcutaneous or intramuscular injections. Just like it is normal for him to have his standard blood tests every few weeks to make sure all the medications are working. It’s normal for my son to have eye checks, medical imaging, dental exams, physio, occupational and hydro therapy; to wear splints, orthotics, bandaids and bandages. It’s also quite usual for him to miss school for another trip to another specialist or another stay in hospital.
It is completely normal to do all of these things… because he has had arthritis since he was just a few months old, and he knows no other way.
…and yet… my son has had a whole new world of opportunity open up for him that a “normal little boy without arthritis” might never know!
He’s had days and weekends away at places and events that only ‘special children’ get to go on. He’s met celebrities, been on television, radio, in newspapers, magazines and the internet. He’s been given gifts that we as parents could never hope to afford.
He’s been able to wish upon a star, and fly halfway across this planet!
He’s made some wonderful friends, seen some truly amazing animals, and done things that most of the kids at school will never get to do.
But he would swap it all in a heartbeat- be glad to never know any of it- just to be “a normal little boy without arthritis”.
And I would do anything to make his arthritis go away.
But I can’t.
So I do what I can.
I’m there for every appointment, learn about every new treatment, and help make those around him aware of his strengths, and the challenges he faces.
I’ve been his voice from before he could talk, and spoken out for him and all other children living with a so-called “old person’s” disease.
And when all else fails, I have my arms ready to hold him. After all, that’s what mums normally do, isn’t it?
Do I feel sorrow, or anger, or frustration, or even guilt, that I don’t have “a normal little boy without arthritis”?
Why yes I do.
Do I wish that the doctors could tell me if or when I might ever have one?
Absolutely.
But do I thank God every day for the miracle that is my son; the resilient, strong, clever, confident, caring little boy that we have been blessed with and are lucky to have in our lives?
Without a doubt.
And would I swap him, for some other “normal” little boy?
Not for one moment.
If this is normal- to have arthritis in our lives- then I’m in it for the long haul right alongside my son. And together we’ll take the downs- and the ups- along the way.
Besides, what is “normal” anyway?
Jx
©30 April 2009
Well, we know what arthritis is- inflammation of the joints- right?
But how does one define “normal”?
The Australian Oxford Dictionary describes it as “conforming to standard, usual, regular, typical.”
But for my son- on a typical day it is normal to feel constant pain. It is normal for him to move more slowly than other kids, or to miss out on things altogether when he has trouble moving at all!
It is normal for my son to regularly take tablets, and medicines, and subcutaneous or intramuscular injections. Just like it is normal for him to have his standard blood tests every few weeks to make sure all the medications are working. It’s normal for my son to have eye checks, medical imaging, dental exams, physio, occupational and hydro therapy; to wear splints, orthotics, bandaids and bandages. It’s also quite usual for him to miss school for another trip to another specialist or another stay in hospital.
It is completely normal to do all of these things… because he has had arthritis since he was just a few months old, and he knows no other way.
…and yet… my son has had a whole new world of opportunity open up for him that a “normal little boy without arthritis” might never know!
He’s had days and weekends away at places and events that only ‘special children’ get to go on. He’s met celebrities, been on television, radio, in newspapers, magazines and the internet. He’s been given gifts that we as parents could never hope to afford.
He’s been able to wish upon a star, and fly halfway across this planet!
He’s made some wonderful friends, seen some truly amazing animals, and done things that most of the kids at school will never get to do.
But he would swap it all in a heartbeat- be glad to never know any of it- just to be “a normal little boy without arthritis”.
And I would do anything to make his arthritis go away.
But I can’t.
So I do what I can.
I’m there for every appointment, learn about every new treatment, and help make those around him aware of his strengths, and the challenges he faces.
I’ve been his voice from before he could talk, and spoken out for him and all other children living with a so-called “old person’s” disease.
And when all else fails, I have my arms ready to hold him. After all, that’s what mums normally do, isn’t it?
Do I feel sorrow, or anger, or frustration, or even guilt, that I don’t have “a normal little boy without arthritis”?
Why yes I do.
Do I wish that the doctors could tell me if or when I might ever have one?
Absolutely.
But do I thank God every day for the miracle that is my son; the resilient, strong, clever, confident, caring little boy that we have been blessed with and are lucky to have in our lives?
Without a doubt.
And would I swap him, for some other “normal” little boy?
Not for one moment.
If this is normal- to have arthritis in our lives- then I’m in it for the long haul right alongside my son. And together we’ll take the downs- and the ups- along the way.
Besides, what is “normal” anyway?
Jx
©30 April 2009
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