I recently read with great interest the findings of a survey into what kids are looking up online.
The results were surprising, to say the least.
“Sex” doesn’t get a look in until after You Tube, Google and Facebook.
And “Boobs” (#28), “Naked girls” (#86), and other X-rated stuff only accounts for 9 of the 100 items on the list. Yep, apparently less than 10% of time spent searching the public arena involves private parts.
Seems kids these days are more interested in the funny stuff than any funny business, if you know what I’m saying.
That’s good to hear, in a world where the F-bomb is dropped a little too easily for my liking, and mainstream television provides an education that was totally taboo when I was a kid. My mum used to turn the TV off altogether if there was even a hint of something ‘rude’. To this day she still does the “tsk” thing if something raunchy is depicted while we’re in the same room. (Doesn’t stop her reading all those romance novels though does it, hmm?)
Perhaps I lived a sheltered childhood, but the most risqué thing we kids did was when the boys of the class punched the numbers 58008 into the calculator and turned it upside down (in my case it was 55378008, but that issue’s well and truly behind me these days...or rather, the proof to the contrary is way out in front).
The wildest we ever got was giggling whenever the word “bloody” appeared in the history books (whilst conspiratorially whispering the accompanying rhyme: “Bloody’s in the Bible, bloody’s in the book, if you don’t believe me go and have a bloody look!” *snigger*).
So it’s somewhat reassuring to see that of all the possible paths a kid could be taking on the information superhighway, there’s still some innocence at play here.
I bet the folk who ran the study had a few raised eyebrows at the results, but in a good way, mind you.
Yes despite the fact that the youth of today have questionable taste in music (something that’s never gonna change), and are also easily amused, judging by the searches for 'Fred’ (‘Figglehorn’, on YouTube, FYI)… it’s nice to know that the children aren’t being exposed to too much adult content, by choice anyway. (Who hasn’t been well and truly surprised by some of the results one gets from supposed innocent enquiries?!)
It’s certainly good news for any parent concerned about what the kids are doing once they sit in front of a computer screen.
Although you may wanna worry if you’re the parent of a child who types “Google.com” into a search site. (Seriously, using a search engine to find a search engine…what’s up with that?)
As it happens, the day I found my stepson had been searching for “pron” (sic) was the day I knew we had nothing to worry about.
That was one time we were happy he’d never won a spelling bee. Lord knows I wasn’t going to be the one to show him where to find www.dictionary.com!
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
How Much can a Yogi Bear?
I’ve heard heaps about what Yoga can do for you.
Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.
The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.
The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).
Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!
If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”
By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.
So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.
I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.
But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.
While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.
I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.
Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.
I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.
I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.
So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.
Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.
Jx
©2009
Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.
The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.
The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).
Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!
If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”
By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.
So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.
I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.
But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.
While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.
I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.
Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.
I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.
I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.
So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.
Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Handy Man
There’s a lot in this world we take for granted.
Like the fact that there’ll always be milk in the fridge, the TV will turn on when you press the remote, there’s still enough fuel in the car to get you to the service station, and no matter what else, you get to grab life with both hands.
Unfortunately I have learned that that last one isn’t always the case (oh and in our house, the first one also depends on who had the last cuppa).
Take my son for example. Due to the damage done by Juvenile Arthritis, he has had the use of both of his hands for a mere two weeks since March this year.
Yep, just fourteen days out of almost 6 months.
And boy, doesn’t it make a difference to your life.
You expect to lend a helping hand to your children when they are little and haven’t quite grasped the concept of hand-eye coordination. It’s a given that you’ll be the one wiping their bottoms, holding the spoon, and doing up the buttons and bows.
But there comes a time when kids either don’t want or don’t need their parents to be doing those sorts of things for them.
Independence is a big thing to a little person.
So imagine feeling like you can’t get a grip on what’s going on around you, literally.
It’s something that my son has to deal with on a daily basis. By default, so do I.
Instead of the usual and efficient school day routine we have managed to get going: I make the kids’ breakfast then move onto getting lunches together before laying out the school clothes ready for them to get dressed while I do the shower thing myself … for the past 5 months I have had to stop and sit and spoon the cereal for my son, make the swap from pjs to uniform, and wipe anything that needs it along the way. Some days we’re lucky to make it to school before the bell, and then it’s up to me to carry the bag to the classroom.
At the other end of the day, while I can usually have the dinner cooking while the kids take a bath, and have them come to the table ready dressed… I have burnt countless pieces of meat, let numerous saucepans boil dry, and totally forgot the side vegies altogether more often than not, while I move from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back, helping my little boy. (And I’m sure the neighbours are used to being serenaded by the sound of our smoke detector.)
But do I begrudge the extra effort I must make to pick up the shortfall of a child without two hands in full working order?
How could I?
Not when I get to sit with my son and daughter for nearly every meal, happily avoid the splashes amidst the laughter of bathtime, and listen to the childish chatter as I get up close and personal yet again doing tasks that most of us simply do for ourselves without another thought.
I have plenty of opportunities to count the freckles on his face, savour the sweet sound of his voice, enjoy the feel of his little hand in mine as we walk to another appointment, and take every chance I get to take some more mental photographs of my darling little man who will be too big too soon.
How many mothers of 7 year old boys get to do that?
And so, on one hand, while it breaks my heart to watch my child struggle with things that we take for granted every day; on the other hand, I get to spend precious time with my son that the average mum misses out on once her offspring decide they don’t need her so much anymore.
And just quietly, that’s a pretty handy thing to get you through the day.
Jx©
2009
Like the fact that there’ll always be milk in the fridge, the TV will turn on when you press the remote, there’s still enough fuel in the car to get you to the service station, and no matter what else, you get to grab life with both hands.
Unfortunately I have learned that that last one isn’t always the case (oh and in our house, the first one also depends on who had the last cuppa).
Take my son for example. Due to the damage done by Juvenile Arthritis, he has had the use of both of his hands for a mere two weeks since March this year.
Yep, just fourteen days out of almost 6 months.
And boy, doesn’t it make a difference to your life.
You expect to lend a helping hand to your children when they are little and haven’t quite grasped the concept of hand-eye coordination. It’s a given that you’ll be the one wiping their bottoms, holding the spoon, and doing up the buttons and bows.
But there comes a time when kids either don’t want or don’t need their parents to be doing those sorts of things for them.
Independence is a big thing to a little person.
So imagine feeling like you can’t get a grip on what’s going on around you, literally.
It’s something that my son has to deal with on a daily basis. By default, so do I.
Instead of the usual and efficient school day routine we have managed to get going: I make the kids’ breakfast then move onto getting lunches together before laying out the school clothes ready for them to get dressed while I do the shower thing myself … for the past 5 months I have had to stop and sit and spoon the cereal for my son, make the swap from pjs to uniform, and wipe anything that needs it along the way. Some days we’re lucky to make it to school before the bell, and then it’s up to me to carry the bag to the classroom.
At the other end of the day, while I can usually have the dinner cooking while the kids take a bath, and have them come to the table ready dressed… I have burnt countless pieces of meat, let numerous saucepans boil dry, and totally forgot the side vegies altogether more often than not, while I move from kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back, helping my little boy. (And I’m sure the neighbours are used to being serenaded by the sound of our smoke detector.)
But do I begrudge the extra effort I must make to pick up the shortfall of a child without two hands in full working order?
How could I?
Not when I get to sit with my son and daughter for nearly every meal, happily avoid the splashes amidst the laughter of bathtime, and listen to the childish chatter as I get up close and personal yet again doing tasks that most of us simply do for ourselves without another thought.
I have plenty of opportunities to count the freckles on his face, savour the sweet sound of his voice, enjoy the feel of his little hand in mine as we walk to another appointment, and take every chance I get to take some more mental photographs of my darling little man who will be too big too soon.
How many mothers of 7 year old boys get to do that?
And so, on one hand, while it breaks my heart to watch my child struggle with things that we take for granted every day; on the other hand, I get to spend precious time with my son that the average mum misses out on once her offspring decide they don’t need her so much anymore.
And just quietly, that’s a pretty handy thing to get you through the day.
Jx©
2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
My Life as a Lab Rat
I’ve been thinking about donating my body to science when I no longer have a need for it myself.
But as I returned home from my annual boobie-pancake-making session, it occurred to me that I pretty much already have!
See, on top of the regular XX chromosomes and other genetic bequests my parents passed on, I have been blessed with a whole lot of anomalies that have kept numerous medical folk entertained (and in business) over the years.
Here’s the CliffsNotes version:
Let’s start at the very beginning (wow, that brings back memories of playing ‘Maria’, but that’s another story for another time); while most kids are kept cocooned within their mother’s uterus for around 9 months before their official arrival, I was virtually hanging on by my fingernails inside mum’s tum. The doctors told her not to go down the procreational path any more after me either, but I’m thinking she would have come to the same conclusion herself, given the challenges I apparently presented from that point on.
Born with brown eyes instead of the regular blue, seems they haven’t been able to decide on a colour from that point on, and my kids often stand nose-to-nose with me to see what shade my irises have chosen to adopt that day. It’s a cool party trick really... if only I could control it, I could make money!
On top of the confused colouring, seems my eyes belonged to a dominatrix in a former life- each one likes to be in control, which causes no end of confusion with coordination (and makes for very interesting games of tennis, I can tell you). See generally the whole hand-eye thing relies on a clear cut dominance of one eye or the other, so while I am lucky in that I can do some things both left and right handed, there comes a point where neither eye is actually in charge, and that’s not the time you’d want to rely on me to catch anything thrown my way (might also explain why I’ve never walked away with a bridal bouquet). Mind you, it impressed the hell outta the ophthalmologist who discovered it, since he'd not actually seen this phenomenon before. Yay me.
My ears aren’t your average auricles either. I don’t mean I’d give ‘Dumbo’ a run for his money or anything, rather, these tiny little pieces of audible architecture have proven difficult for the ENT doc to do regular checkups which makes it tricky to discover the reason behind my tinnitus or so-called ‘aqua ear’ (don’t you know, with tinnitus, every voice rings a bell?). So instead of the usual advice to not put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the doctor is flat out getting his Otoscope in. (But at least I’m not really lying when I tell the kids “I can’t hear you!”)
Moving right along, I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my dentist since my jaw proved lazy in its efforts of growing teeth. Instead of the standard 32 permanent pearlers the average adult is supposed to have, I stopped 6 short, also with no 'Wisdom Teeth' lurking below the gum line (some would say that says a lot about me). I distinctly recall the day the dentist invited no less than 4 others into the room to check out the xrays of my non-existent teeth. I can only say I’m glad they weren’t all charging me for the pleasure; even the dentist declared his family would starve from the lack of services he was able to provide in my case.
I’ll save you from the intimate details of my women’s bits, suffice to say that there are ‘ladies of the night’ who’ve had less men between their legs…and the whole payment thing is the wrong way round in this case, too. I should mention though, that my ovaries have pretended to be my appendix- but only the once mind you- as the surgeon cut the alleged offender out before he realised it was not the culprit at all. And after baffling so many for so long with infertility, the aforementioned ovaries then surprised the specialists (and shocked the hell outta me, I can tell you) by spontaneously producing the goods in the shape of my second, unexpected (but warmly welcomed) child.
I am also the proud owner of the “world’s smallest kneecaps” if you believe the orthopods and physiotherapists. And even my pulse has proven problematic, with one nurse actually declaring I should be dead, such was her frustration to find a pulse to please her.
Which brings me back to my decision not to assist Science after all when that event eventually occurs.
Left with a medical file of a size to rival all 7 editions of ‘Harry Potter’ (with equally as much magic and mystery therein), I have come to the conclusion that I do not actually need to leave my body for doctors to discover once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil ... because I have given them more than enough to discuss whilst I’m still upright.
Jx
©2009
But as I returned home from my annual boobie-pancake-making session, it occurred to me that I pretty much already have!
See, on top of the regular XX chromosomes and other genetic bequests my parents passed on, I have been blessed with a whole lot of anomalies that have kept numerous medical folk entertained (and in business) over the years.
Here’s the CliffsNotes version:
Let’s start at the very beginning (wow, that brings back memories of playing ‘Maria’, but that’s another story for another time); while most kids are kept cocooned within their mother’s uterus for around 9 months before their official arrival, I was virtually hanging on by my fingernails inside mum’s tum. The doctors told her not to go down the procreational path any more after me either, but I’m thinking she would have come to the same conclusion herself, given the challenges I apparently presented from that point on.
Born with brown eyes instead of the regular blue, seems they haven’t been able to decide on a colour from that point on, and my kids often stand nose-to-nose with me to see what shade my irises have chosen to adopt that day. It’s a cool party trick really... if only I could control it, I could make money!
On top of the confused colouring, seems my eyes belonged to a dominatrix in a former life- each one likes to be in control, which causes no end of confusion with coordination (and makes for very interesting games of tennis, I can tell you). See generally the whole hand-eye thing relies on a clear cut dominance of one eye or the other, so while I am lucky in that I can do some things both left and right handed, there comes a point where neither eye is actually in charge, and that’s not the time you’d want to rely on me to catch anything thrown my way (might also explain why I’ve never walked away with a bridal bouquet). Mind you, it impressed the hell outta the ophthalmologist who discovered it, since he'd not actually seen this phenomenon before. Yay me.
My ears aren’t your average auricles either. I don’t mean I’d give ‘Dumbo’ a run for his money or anything, rather, these tiny little pieces of audible architecture have proven difficult for the ENT doc to do regular checkups which makes it tricky to discover the reason behind my tinnitus or so-called ‘aqua ear’ (don’t you know, with tinnitus, every voice rings a bell?). So instead of the usual advice to not put anything smaller than your elbow in your ear, the doctor is flat out getting his Otoscope in. (But at least I’m not really lying when I tell the kids “I can’t hear you!”)
Moving right along, I’ve long had a love/hate relationship with my dentist since my jaw proved lazy in its efforts of growing teeth. Instead of the standard 32 permanent pearlers the average adult is supposed to have, I stopped 6 short, also with no 'Wisdom Teeth' lurking below the gum line (some would say that says a lot about me). I distinctly recall the day the dentist invited no less than 4 others into the room to check out the xrays of my non-existent teeth. I can only say I’m glad they weren’t all charging me for the pleasure; even the dentist declared his family would starve from the lack of services he was able to provide in my case.
I’ll save you from the intimate details of my women’s bits, suffice to say that there are ‘ladies of the night’ who’ve had less men between their legs…and the whole payment thing is the wrong way round in this case, too. I should mention though, that my ovaries have pretended to be my appendix- but only the once mind you- as the surgeon cut the alleged offender out before he realised it was not the culprit at all. And after baffling so many for so long with infertility, the aforementioned ovaries then surprised the specialists (and shocked the hell outta me, I can tell you) by spontaneously producing the goods in the shape of my second, unexpected (but warmly welcomed) child.
I am also the proud owner of the “world’s smallest kneecaps” if you believe the orthopods and physiotherapists. And even my pulse has proven problematic, with one nurse actually declaring I should be dead, such was her frustration to find a pulse to please her.
Which brings me back to my decision not to assist Science after all when that event eventually occurs.
Left with a medical file of a size to rival all 7 editions of ‘Harry Potter’ (with equally as much magic and mystery therein), I have come to the conclusion that I do not actually need to leave my body for doctors to discover once I’ve shuffled off this mortal coil ... because I have given them more than enough to discuss whilst I’m still upright.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Cinderfella
I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
I’d like to … but I can’t.
See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)
And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.
According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.
Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.
I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.
Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).
So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.
I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).
I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.
Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.
And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.
Grrrrr.
Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.
Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.
All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.
Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.
Hmmm.
Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.
Jx
©2009
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sign of the Times
I love signs.
Aside from the hours of enjoyment one can get from reading signposts or those little inserts one gets from non-english speaking countries (go on, when you’ve got some time to kill, try Googling “Engrish”) … I just love wordplay on such a small scale. (What’s that saying, ‘Small thing amuse small minds’?) Plus it gives me something to laugh about sometimes when I really need it.
Take our house, for instance.
As you approach the front door you’re greeted with “Beware of the Kids” (a funky little number I found on eBay), and never a truer word has been written, my friends.
One cannot enter our abode without tripping over the toys and arts and crafts and shoes and sports gear strategically placed in the most inconvenient locations.
I swear our front entry (a converted garage) is like the ‘Tardis’ - the amount of child-oriented items it contains seems to grow with each day that passes, and the mind boggles as to where it all came from, or indeed, where it all goes.
Unfortunately, it is encroaching on the entire interior, as the little darlings forget to put things back from whence they came. Obviously I need to find a sign that says “If it comes out to play, please put it away” that’s actually written in a language 5 and 7 year olds can comprehend.
Moving into the household (and avoiding the minefield of childhood items along the way), there’s quite a nice collection of sayings stuck to the fridge in amongst the family photo’s and children’s art work- two of my favourites are “Housekeeping is an exact science- I’m into art.” and “I’m not going to vacuum until they make one I can ride on!” Hear, hear!
Unfortunately, I have discovered if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done, and I’m yet to figure out a way around that one*.
In fact the first sign to greet me each day is plastered on the laundry door directly across the hall from our bedroom; it reads “Please Dear Lord, make the laundry go away”. I’m still waiting for the Almighty to deliver on that one, but still it stays, offering up a not-so-silent prayer to put an end to washing days. (See above*.)
That goes with another saying of which I’m quite fond: “Cleaning the house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the path while the snow is still snowing.” You’ve got to pick your battles. And I surrendered a long time ago.
So I resign myself to simply overseeing the childhood warfare that takes place on a daily basis, helped along with a cuppa or two.
Needless to say my coffee cup collection has a wealth of knowledge printed thereon to provide inspiration, motivation, or mere contemplation as I up my caffeine intake trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night at the homestead- mind you I have to carefully guard the mug that says “I have children and a sense of humour- what’s your Super Power?”, as too many other mothers can also relate, it seems.
And there’s one sign here that never ceases to amuse one mum in particular whenever she risks life and limb and pays a visit to our humble home. It’s a little pink one that declares: “My Mother was right about everything!”
Every single time my mother reads that one, she turns to me with a chuckle and says “I am so glad you had kids of your own darling.”
Yep, so am I… if nothing else it keeps the signwriters in business.
Jx
©2009
Aside from the hours of enjoyment one can get from reading signposts or those little inserts one gets from non-english speaking countries (go on, when you’ve got some time to kill, try Googling “Engrish”) … I just love wordplay on such a small scale. (What’s that saying, ‘Small thing amuse small minds’?) Plus it gives me something to laugh about sometimes when I really need it.
Take our house, for instance.
As you approach the front door you’re greeted with “Beware of the Kids” (a funky little number I found on eBay), and never a truer word has been written, my friends.
One cannot enter our abode without tripping over the toys and arts and crafts and shoes and sports gear strategically placed in the most inconvenient locations.
I swear our front entry (a converted garage) is like the ‘Tardis’ - the amount of child-oriented items it contains seems to grow with each day that passes, and the mind boggles as to where it all came from, or indeed, where it all goes.
Unfortunately, it is encroaching on the entire interior, as the little darlings forget to put things back from whence they came. Obviously I need to find a sign that says “If it comes out to play, please put it away” that’s actually written in a language 5 and 7 year olds can comprehend.
Moving into the household (and avoiding the minefield of childhood items along the way), there’s quite a nice collection of sayings stuck to the fridge in amongst the family photo’s and children’s art work- two of my favourites are “Housekeeping is an exact science- I’m into art.” and “I’m not going to vacuum until they make one I can ride on!” Hear, hear!
Unfortunately, I have discovered if I don’t do it, it doesn’t get done, and I’m yet to figure out a way around that one*.
In fact the first sign to greet me each day is plastered on the laundry door directly across the hall from our bedroom; it reads “Please Dear Lord, make the laundry go away”. I’m still waiting for the Almighty to deliver on that one, but still it stays, offering up a not-so-silent prayer to put an end to washing days. (See above*.)
That goes with another saying of which I’m quite fond: “Cleaning the house while the kids are still growing is like shoveling the path while the snow is still snowing.” You’ve got to pick your battles. And I surrendered a long time ago.
So I resign myself to simply overseeing the childhood warfare that takes place on a daily basis, helped along with a cuppa or two.
Needless to say my coffee cup collection has a wealth of knowledge printed thereon to provide inspiration, motivation, or mere contemplation as I up my caffeine intake trying to stay awake after another near-sleepless night at the homestead- mind you I have to carefully guard the mug that says “I have children and a sense of humour- what’s your Super Power?”, as too many other mothers can also relate, it seems.
And there’s one sign here that never ceases to amuse one mum in particular whenever she risks life and limb and pays a visit to our humble home. It’s a little pink one that declares: “My Mother was right about everything!”
Every single time my mother reads that one, she turns to me with a chuckle and says “I am so glad you had kids of your own darling.”
Yep, so am I… if nothing else it keeps the signwriters in business.
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Ghost of Childhood Past
I’ve just had word that another old schoolmate has died.
Well, not that we’re that old, really. I mean, sure I’m staring down the barrel of the big 4.0. but I’m still a few months off yet. I can still claim to be young-ish (even if the face that greets me in the mirror some mornings looks frighteningly tired and old).
No, what I mean is, a friend from long ago when we were carefree- the way kids are meant to be.
Sure, we’ve lost touch- as most mates do once you’re not forced to spend 6 hours in their company, 5 days a week, for up to 13 years.
Life kinda gets in the way.
Until someone you used to know dies.
And then there’s the flurry of phone calls, emails, or SMS…firstly to pass along the sad news to someone who might not know…or the messages madly trying to find out why a “kid” you grew up with, has their name in the Obituaries.
Makes me wonder why we don’t take more time, or spend a little more energy keeping in touch while we’re all still fit and healthy.
But there’s your answer right there, isn’t it?
When you’re in the prime of life, sometimes we get so busy just living that we don’t stop and think until perhaps someone isn’t.
Oh I know we’ve all made an effort here and there- sending the occasional Christmas or birthday card, forwarding an email that says “I’m thinking of you”, or even dropping a note or a smiley on one of the many social networks rolling around.
I know I sent a message for this former chum a good couple of years ago now, on one of those “school friends” sites. Didn’t get a reply so I left it at that. Won’t get one now.
But in the face of this news, I’ve already touched base with two other mates, with whom the contact is sporadic but always as comfortable as ever. I guess it’s different if you can date your friendship way back to wagging preschool together by hiding out in the cubby house.
Still, I don’t see them as often as I’d like. Mind you, we all live in different cities now, occasionally different countries, so it’s a little difficult to kick back with a cuppa or a cold one with a friend when distance is your foe.
And so I sit, wondering why yet another classmate has gone too soon.
Thinking of all those who I really should make contact with.
And being thankful for those who I do get to catch up with for a laugh.
And I offer up a silent prayer for the children that I played with...the teenagers I hung out with... the adults I spent time with… who now get to watch over us all.
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It Seemed like a Good Idea at the Time
There’s a dirty big truck that’s been stuck in our front yard for the past day or so.
It’s because it’s big that it’s dirty and it’s because it’s big and dirty that it’s stuck.
Oh it all started out so innocently, but a few poor decisions added up to one whole lotta trouble.
See, the neighbours are planning on building a new back deck. Before they can do this they need to remove a tree next to the driveway to allow access to their backyard. We happen to share that driveway. At this stage it was so far so good and we had no complaints about the planned removal (the tree drops leaves and funny little spiky pods all over the driveway each autumn making a bloody big mess and slippery to boot).
So there they were, 4 blokes merrily chopping and chipping the liquid amber that overlooks the drive. But instead of backing the truck in off the street (then just driving it straight out again), they drove it in and tried to back it out. That was mistake number 1.
This is where the fun really begins!
The driver apparently had a minor moment of panic about how to go about getting out again as the now fully-laden truck started sliding down the drive towards the drop at the bottom (the aforementioned leaves and recent rain making it even more slippery). Mistake number 2.
The smell of burning clutch was our first indication that something was not quite right outside so the kids and my Beloved decided to go investigate. The driver has managed to stop the truck before it went over the edge of the yard (which drops almost straight down into the bushland reserve below), but failed to do so before all but one tyre left the concrete. So now my Beloved offers his assistance, and his ute. He manages to pull the hopper trailer off the back of the truck (with 3 of the tree guys helping) and drags it across the driveway, leaving scrapes and tyre marks as he goes (what can I say, little ute versus big tree chipper).
The truck driver, on the other hand, has decided to get back in the truck and have another go at backing up. Mistake number 3.
By now the stench of burning rubber has wafted into the house to join the smell of burn-out clutch (and wreaking havoc with my plans for dinner, I can tell you).
Not willing to quit while he’s, um, already behind, the truck driver has another go…and succeeds in ploughing up enough mud for us to plant at least 3 rows of vegies, or another small tree. And still the truck is stuck in the muck.
The fellas in their combined wisdom decide to chock the wheels with some nearby timber. Mistake number 4. We now have almost as many woodchips on the outside of the truck as in it!
Not keen to give up just yet, the men then try propping the wheels with blocks. Mistake number 5- as both blocks and tyres disappear into the soggy boggy mess that was our front yard.
So they enlist the help of a friend’s 4WD and try to tow the truck out. Mistake number 6- now the truck and 4WD have almost totally burnt out clutches (and I have an even more beautiful aroma through my home).
Next they call in another mate with another truck and try using that to haul the stuck truck out. That was mistake number 7 as all they managed to do was pull the 2nd truck’s rear bumper clean off.
The truck has now been stuck for over 3 hours, has developed a dangerous lean to the left, and night has fallen. Deciding that perhaps they would have more success in daylight, they leave truck and trailer smack bang in our front yard, and go home (presumably for a beer or six). Except for the guy whose bumper fell off, he rings our doorbell asking my Beloved if he could help him carry it up to the road- it was too heavy for him alone, poor dear.
Since they weren’t planning on coming back ‘til 10.30am I wasn’t worried about getting my car out for the morning school run. Obviously the boss was a little more stressed about his heavy machinery parked in our garden and turns up before I had even managed to get the kids fully dressed and out the door. So I chased said kids into the car, telling them to finish putting socks, shoes, jumpers, and hats on, while I tore off out the driveway before I was blocked in for the day.
I then figured I’d give them space and time to remove the truck, so took yet another car for a test drive (I don’t know what I’ll do to kill time when I finally find the right vehicle!) but was amused when I arrived home to see even more men, even more equipment, and one truck still stuck. (Oh and did I mention it had started to rain again?)
From what I gather (with an occasional peek out the window) they’ve used a bobcat to dig around the bogged up wheels (sunk in up to the axle they were!) used some stronger better chocks to prop up the tyres, and then another bigger truck to pull the bugger out (and this one kept its bumper bar)!
All up, 9 men, 5 vehicles, and almost 24 hours. Lord only knows how many mistakes in all.
Plus we now have a freshly ploughed field for a front yard, and a driveway that looks like it's just hosted the 2009 Drag Racing Championships.
Maybe next time they’ll back it in…or better yet, park it on the street.
Jx
©2009
It’s because it’s big that it’s dirty and it’s because it’s big and dirty that it’s stuck.
Oh it all started out so innocently, but a few poor decisions added up to one whole lotta trouble.
See, the neighbours are planning on building a new back deck. Before they can do this they need to remove a tree next to the driveway to allow access to their backyard. We happen to share that driveway. At this stage it was so far so good and we had no complaints about the planned removal (the tree drops leaves and funny little spiky pods all over the driveway each autumn making a bloody big mess and slippery to boot).
So there they were, 4 blokes merrily chopping and chipping the liquid amber that overlooks the drive. But instead of backing the truck in off the street (then just driving it straight out again), they drove it in and tried to back it out. That was mistake number 1.
This is where the fun really begins!
The driver apparently had a minor moment of panic about how to go about getting out again as the now fully-laden truck started sliding down the drive towards the drop at the bottom (the aforementioned leaves and recent rain making it even more slippery). Mistake number 2.
The smell of burning clutch was our first indication that something was not quite right outside so the kids and my Beloved decided to go investigate. The driver has managed to stop the truck before it went over the edge of the yard (which drops almost straight down into the bushland reserve below), but failed to do so before all but one tyre left the concrete. So now my Beloved offers his assistance, and his ute. He manages to pull the hopper trailer off the back of the truck (with 3 of the tree guys helping) and drags it across the driveway, leaving scrapes and tyre marks as he goes (what can I say, little ute versus big tree chipper).
The truck driver, on the other hand, has decided to get back in the truck and have another go at backing up. Mistake number 3.
By now the stench of burning rubber has wafted into the house to join the smell of burn-out clutch (and wreaking havoc with my plans for dinner, I can tell you).
Not willing to quit while he’s, um, already behind, the truck driver has another go…and succeeds in ploughing up enough mud for us to plant at least 3 rows of vegies, or another small tree. And still the truck is stuck in the muck.
The fellas in their combined wisdom decide to chock the wheels with some nearby timber. Mistake number 4. We now have almost as many woodchips on the outside of the truck as in it!
Not keen to give up just yet, the men then try propping the wheels with blocks. Mistake number 5- as both blocks and tyres disappear into the soggy boggy mess that was our front yard.
So they enlist the help of a friend’s 4WD and try to tow the truck out. Mistake number 6- now the truck and 4WD have almost totally burnt out clutches (and I have an even more beautiful aroma through my home).
Next they call in another mate with another truck and try using that to haul the stuck truck out. That was mistake number 7 as all they managed to do was pull the 2nd truck’s rear bumper clean off.
The truck has now been stuck for over 3 hours, has developed a dangerous lean to the left, and night has fallen. Deciding that perhaps they would have more success in daylight, they leave truck and trailer smack bang in our front yard, and go home (presumably for a beer or six). Except for the guy whose bumper fell off, he rings our doorbell asking my Beloved if he could help him carry it up to the road- it was too heavy for him alone, poor dear.
Since they weren’t planning on coming back ‘til 10.30am I wasn’t worried about getting my car out for the morning school run. Obviously the boss was a little more stressed about his heavy machinery parked in our garden and turns up before I had even managed to get the kids fully dressed and out the door. So I chased said kids into the car, telling them to finish putting socks, shoes, jumpers, and hats on, while I tore off out the driveway before I was blocked in for the day.
I then figured I’d give them space and time to remove the truck, so took yet another car for a test drive (I don’t know what I’ll do to kill time when I finally find the right vehicle!) but was amused when I arrived home to see even more men, even more equipment, and one truck still stuck. (Oh and did I mention it had started to rain again?)
From what I gather (with an occasional peek out the window) they’ve used a bobcat to dig around the bogged up wheels (sunk in up to the axle they were!) used some stronger better chocks to prop up the tyres, and then another bigger truck to pull the bugger out (and this one kept its bumper bar)!
All up, 9 men, 5 vehicles, and almost 24 hours. Lord only knows how many mistakes in all.
Plus we now have a freshly ploughed field for a front yard, and a driveway that looks like it's just hosted the 2009 Drag Racing Championships.
Maybe next time they’ll back it in…or better yet, park it on the street.
Jx
©2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Bottoms up!
First thing I’m going to do when I win the lottery is throw out all my undies.
Oh I’m not going to go off and join a commune or even ‘go commando’ ... it’s simply a secret dream I hold (not so secret now though) to once again own at least one complete set of matching bra and briefs. And socks without holes. Like I used to have in the years B.C. (that's 'Before Children' for the uninitiated). Instead of the hodge podge of decrepit cotton I make do with now.
Yes, due to different demands on the family budget, gone are the days when I had underwear I could happily wear. Gone too, the times when I could strip down to my smalls with a smile when necessary (and given my medical history, it’s been necessary a little too often).
I’ll try to be brief (pun fully intended). These days, I’m flat out finding a flattering (and not flattening) fit for my girls. I’d settle for a pair of panties that stayed put once you put them on. And don’t even get me started on socks! (I’ve already stated my opinion on those annoying little devils.)
Why is it that manufacturers of over-the-shoulder boulder holders for larger ladies think that black, white, or beige is enough of a colour choice? And why are they so darn expensive once you go up a few cups? It’s not like you’re using that much more fabric to make the darn things, for crying out loud!
There have been times, as I’ve recounted elsewhere, that I have tried on practically every item in the store without success. And too many times I have longingly looked at the lingerie section…*sighs*… there but for the grace of God go I.
As for undies, maybe I’m just unlucky, but I’m yet to find a brand that stays where they’re supposed to, looks great, and won’t break the family budget to buy. They either ride up, fall down, or my all-time favourite: the waistband stays behind after the knickers come off (please tell me I’m not the only one that’s happened to?)!
I have found that if you’re worried about the dreaded VPL, you really need to go the G string (in its various incarnations), and risk doing damage where your mother never kissed you. Or if you opt for comfort instead, you’re pretty much left with Nanna knickers, otherwise known as Passion Killers (for obvious reasons). That’s a bit too ‘Bridget Jones’, even for me.
Sure, there are other options for tops and bottoms, but I’m yet to discover the perfect pair within my current price range.
For example, a friend of mine recently splurged on one of those Dr Rey Shapewear jobs. Aside from the fact you almost have to mortgage your house to buy a pair, she found it nearly impossible to A) breathe, B) walk, and C) go to the bathroom… but hey, it’s true that she looked good not doing all those things!
So I’ve had to settle for the Best & Less specials, and managed to get the pulling up or picking out down to a fine art.
Oh, I’ve also decided that genes play their part in these particular problems. (Something else I can blame on my parents.)
Yes, unfortunately for him, it seems my son inherited the family backside and was forever pulling his waistband up or the bottom bits down, until we switched him to boxer shorts. It did the trick too- and the time spent picking at his pants has been greatly reduced, I’m happy to say. He never did quite get the knack of doing it without drawing attention to himself. (My daughter, however, is not at all fazed to tell all and sundry whenever she has a ‘wedgie’. So we’ve put her in those boyleg/shortie undies too, to try head that one off at the pass, so to speak.)
And so, first item on the agenda when I win The Big One is to chuck out all the smalls. And then replace them all.
And you can be sure that when we crack the champers to toast our win, it’ll be “Bottoms up” in more ways than one!
Jx
©2009
Oh I’m not going to go off and join a commune or even ‘go commando’ ... it’s simply a secret dream I hold (not so secret now though) to once again own at least one complete set of matching bra and briefs. And socks without holes. Like I used to have in the years B.C. (that's 'Before Children' for the uninitiated). Instead of the hodge podge of decrepit cotton I make do with now.
Yes, due to different demands on the family budget, gone are the days when I had underwear I could happily wear. Gone too, the times when I could strip down to my smalls with a smile when necessary (and given my medical history, it’s been necessary a little too often).
I’ll try to be brief (pun fully intended). These days, I’m flat out finding a flattering (and not flattening) fit for my girls. I’d settle for a pair of panties that stayed put once you put them on. And don’t even get me started on socks! (I’ve already stated my opinion on those annoying little devils.)
Why is it that manufacturers of over-the-shoulder boulder holders for larger ladies think that black, white, or beige is enough of a colour choice? And why are they so darn expensive once you go up a few cups? It’s not like you’re using that much more fabric to make the darn things, for crying out loud!
There have been times, as I’ve recounted elsewhere, that I have tried on practically every item in the store without success. And too many times I have longingly looked at the lingerie section…*sighs*… there but for the grace of God go I.
As for undies, maybe I’m just unlucky, but I’m yet to find a brand that stays where they’re supposed to, looks great, and won’t break the family budget to buy. They either ride up, fall down, or my all-time favourite: the waistband stays behind after the knickers come off (please tell me I’m not the only one that’s happened to?)!
I have found that if you’re worried about the dreaded VPL, you really need to go the G string (in its various incarnations), and risk doing damage where your mother never kissed you. Or if you opt for comfort instead, you’re pretty much left with Nanna knickers, otherwise known as Passion Killers (for obvious reasons). That’s a bit too ‘Bridget Jones’, even for me.
Sure, there are other options for tops and bottoms, but I’m yet to discover the perfect pair within my current price range.
For example, a friend of mine recently splurged on one of those Dr Rey Shapewear jobs. Aside from the fact you almost have to mortgage your house to buy a pair, she found it nearly impossible to A) breathe, B) walk, and C) go to the bathroom… but hey, it’s true that she looked good not doing all those things!
So I’ve had to settle for the Best & Less specials, and managed to get the pulling up or picking out down to a fine art.
Oh, I’ve also decided that genes play their part in these particular problems. (Something else I can blame on my parents.)
Yes, unfortunately for him, it seems my son inherited the family backside and was forever pulling his waistband up or the bottom bits down, until we switched him to boxer shorts. It did the trick too- and the time spent picking at his pants has been greatly reduced, I’m happy to say. He never did quite get the knack of doing it without drawing attention to himself. (My daughter, however, is not at all fazed to tell all and sundry whenever she has a ‘wedgie’. So we’ve put her in those boyleg/shortie undies too, to try head that one off at the pass, so to speak.)
And so, first item on the agenda when I win The Big One is to chuck out all the smalls. And then replace them all.
And you can be sure that when we crack the champers to toast our win, it’ll be “Bottoms up” in more ways than one!
Jx
©2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Too Many Toothbrushes
My kids come from a long line of hoarders. It’s sad, but true.
While my Beloved and I are both prone to hanging onto stuff that “might be useful someday”, the kids just can’t let go of toothbrushes, among other things.
Given the recommended natural attrition rate of one every 3 to 6 months, we’re talking a whole lotta bristles!
At last count they were up to about 12 apiece.
Thanks to clever marketing by manufacturers, cartoon characters feature heavily (oh yeah, ‘pester power’ is alive and well in the toothbrush aisle). There is Eve and Wall-E, Shrek, pretty much all the Disney Princesses, Mater and Lightning McQueen, Buzz and Woody, Winnie the Pooh and crew, and my son’s latest addition is Bart Simpson. There are also toothbrushes shaped like koalas and other animals (don’t ask me why), as well as the ‘boring’ plain plastic variety in almost every hue.
There are toothbrushes from almost before they had teeth still lurking around- would you believe- toothbrushes that have been chewed more times than any stick of gum, there’re even toothbrushes that I actually don’t recall as belonging to my children at any given time. This is one serious addiction.
But any effort we make to take them away to toss is a dead loss as far as these children are concerned.
The other thing our clutter-loving kids like to hang onto long past their use-by date, is the cardboard roll that once was home to the toilet paper. I cannot even calculate by regular means how many of those have done their thing at the commode yet are still floating about our abode!
I blame myself for that one, as I’m a bit of a crafty greenie, you could say. My kids have learnt that it’s not good to simply throw things away, it’s better to find other ways to reuse or recycle. And so we have no less than 6 of the aforementioned crap-wrap inserts (you can thank my Beloved for that description) currently decorating our dinner table, in the guise of cardboard caricatures of our family (even the dog got a look-in)!
So intent on adding to the roll roundup, my kids have become experts in using up the stuff almost as quick as I can replace it and without word of a lie, you can hear the RINNN-nin-nin-NIN-nin of the toilet paper being spun right off the roll at each visit. If you have kids, I know you know that sound. (One of my girlfriends knows it even better than I do- and she feeds the addiction by buying loo rolls in bulk!)
And it’s a sad state of affairs that we can’t even donate the offending offcuts to the school anymore, as OH&S regulations forbid sending anything in that may have come into contact with contamination. (Whoever wrote that rule has obviously used the bathroom after my son!)
We have tried many ways to wean them off their toothbrush and toilet roll fixation, but learnt a long time ago that if you wanna throw one out, you simply cannot use any garbage can at their eye level or it comes right back out again (talk about your OH&S issues right there!). The only way to do it is under cover of darkness, right before the weekly wheelie-bin collection. That, or let them see me using one of the well-worn brushes to scrub the shower (the “Ewww” factor can work in our favour sometimes).
And so despite our best efforts, our house is home to enough toothbrushes to keep Dr Teeth in business, with enough empty toilet rolls to create a full size reconstruction of the Parthenon!
We can only reassure ourselves with the fact that at least our kids are well-practised in personal hygiene, and when they leave home someday you can be sure that any remaining collections will be personally packed by their parents to make the move along with them.
There’s only, ooh, 15 more years ‘til then, which means roughly 60 toothbrushes and 1500 toilet rolls, if you go by the average family usage.
Hmmm…maybe it’d be easier for us parents to move out instead.
Jx
©2009
While my Beloved and I are both prone to hanging onto stuff that “might be useful someday”, the kids just can’t let go of toothbrushes, among other things.
Given the recommended natural attrition rate of one every 3 to 6 months, we’re talking a whole lotta bristles!
At last count they were up to about 12 apiece.
Thanks to clever marketing by manufacturers, cartoon characters feature heavily (oh yeah, ‘pester power’ is alive and well in the toothbrush aisle). There is Eve and Wall-E, Shrek, pretty much all the Disney Princesses, Mater and Lightning McQueen, Buzz and Woody, Winnie the Pooh and crew, and my son’s latest addition is Bart Simpson. There are also toothbrushes shaped like koalas and other animals (don’t ask me why), as well as the ‘boring’ plain plastic variety in almost every hue.
There are toothbrushes from almost before they had teeth still lurking around- would you believe- toothbrushes that have been chewed more times than any stick of gum, there’re even toothbrushes that I actually don’t recall as belonging to my children at any given time. This is one serious addiction.
But any effort we make to take them away to toss is a dead loss as far as these children are concerned.
The other thing our clutter-loving kids like to hang onto long past their use-by date, is the cardboard roll that once was home to the toilet paper. I cannot even calculate by regular means how many of those have done their thing at the commode yet are still floating about our abode!
I blame myself for that one, as I’m a bit of a crafty greenie, you could say. My kids have learnt that it’s not good to simply throw things away, it’s better to find other ways to reuse or recycle. And so we have no less than 6 of the aforementioned crap-wrap inserts (you can thank my Beloved for that description) currently decorating our dinner table, in the guise of cardboard caricatures of our family (even the dog got a look-in)!
So intent on adding to the roll roundup, my kids have become experts in using up the stuff almost as quick as I can replace it and without word of a lie, you can hear the RINNN-nin-nin-NIN-nin of the toilet paper being spun right off the roll at each visit. If you have kids, I know you know that sound. (One of my girlfriends knows it even better than I do- and she feeds the addiction by buying loo rolls in bulk!)
And it’s a sad state of affairs that we can’t even donate the offending offcuts to the school anymore, as OH&S regulations forbid sending anything in that may have come into contact with contamination. (Whoever wrote that rule has obviously used the bathroom after my son!)
We have tried many ways to wean them off their toothbrush and toilet roll fixation, but learnt a long time ago that if you wanna throw one out, you simply cannot use any garbage can at their eye level or it comes right back out again (talk about your OH&S issues right there!). The only way to do it is under cover of darkness, right before the weekly wheelie-bin collection. That, or let them see me using one of the well-worn brushes to scrub the shower (the “Ewww” factor can work in our favour sometimes).
And so despite our best efforts, our house is home to enough toothbrushes to keep Dr Teeth in business, with enough empty toilet rolls to create a full size reconstruction of the Parthenon!
We can only reassure ourselves with the fact that at least our kids are well-practised in personal hygiene, and when they leave home someday you can be sure that any remaining collections will be personally packed by their parents to make the move along with them.
There’s only, ooh, 15 more years ‘til then, which means roughly 60 toothbrushes and 1500 toilet rolls, if you go by the average family usage.
Hmmm…maybe it’d be easier for us parents to move out instead.
Jx
©2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The Eyes have it
I’ve just been reading new research that says men and women see things differently.
Plus another report into how much we check out members of the opposite sex, which says guys are seen to be spending twice as long as the ladies sussing what else is available.
Talk about stating the obvious!
The theory is that male and female brains evolved differently, with a distinct disparity in our eyesight as a result, depending on what each needed to do to survive.
What the researchers failed to see is that a man puts his very life on the line in the event that he is sprung by the Missus whilst checking out other chicks. They also overlooked the well-known syndrome called: “Having a Man’s Look”.
I’ve got to admit, my Beloved is hopeless at the sneak peek.
I have no doubt that he well and truly fits the bill of those men who like a little look from time to time. What he hasn’t developed, in all this evolution, is the skill to do it without me being fully aware of what he’s up to. And he has tried every flimsy excuse in the book when caught in the act of noticing what’s walking past- even to the point of trying to draw my attention to any male in the area instead. (Seriously, what’s worse, thinking your other half is looking at the opposite sex, or checking out their own kind, hmmm?!)
The research also found that men are better at seeing things in the distance, while women are best up close. Something about the men being hunters, and women being gatherers, and all that from way back.
Again I say, that’s pretty darn obvious to any woman who’s ever stood beside a man standing at the cupboard saying “It’s not in here!” … or to any fella giving directions to a female driver who then sails straight past the street she was supposed to turn up, saying she didn’t see the sign! (Guilty, as charged.)
It’s also apparent that this eyesight stuff has been passed down from generation to generation, and actually shows up quite early in the piece. But this fact was also overlooked in the recent research, possibly because it was carried out by males.
Just last week our 7 y.o. son was standing in front of the open fridge trying to find some biscuits, and yelling to me that we needed to buy some more. I simply walked up beside him, reached into the fridge and took the packet off the shelf right at his eye level. My little boy then declared “I must’ve had a Man’s Look!”
Quod erat demonstrandum.
If you want to look into it even further, you will see there’s evidence that women have better peripheral vision than their male mate- around 180 degrees compared with a mere 30. Which is why a mother, for example, can keep an eye on dinner, see what’s on the evening news, and watch over the children all at the same time. A man, on the other hand, can miss one child drawing on another if they’re standing right beside him.
It’s another reason that a male can swear black and blue that his partner has hidden something on him, when it’s really right before their eyes. (It’s a very handy trick, mind you, hiding something in plain sight. I find it works very well with chocolate.)
It also explains why the aforementioned study found that men are seen turning their head when something attractive walks by, twice as often as women.
I’d like to put forward the suggestion that the female of the species also likes to take a look, some just as much as the men do; it’s just that the scope of our vision means we’re less likely to get caught!
Jx
©2009
Plus another report into how much we check out members of the opposite sex, which says guys are seen to be spending twice as long as the ladies sussing what else is available.
Talk about stating the obvious!
The theory is that male and female brains evolved differently, with a distinct disparity in our eyesight as a result, depending on what each needed to do to survive.
What the researchers failed to see is that a man puts his very life on the line in the event that he is sprung by the Missus whilst checking out other chicks. They also overlooked the well-known syndrome called: “Having a Man’s Look”.
I’ve got to admit, my Beloved is hopeless at the sneak peek.
I have no doubt that he well and truly fits the bill of those men who like a little look from time to time. What he hasn’t developed, in all this evolution, is the skill to do it without me being fully aware of what he’s up to. And he has tried every flimsy excuse in the book when caught in the act of noticing what’s walking past- even to the point of trying to draw my attention to any male in the area instead. (Seriously, what’s worse, thinking your other half is looking at the opposite sex, or checking out their own kind, hmmm?!)
The research also found that men are better at seeing things in the distance, while women are best up close. Something about the men being hunters, and women being gatherers, and all that from way back.
Again I say, that’s pretty darn obvious to any woman who’s ever stood beside a man standing at the cupboard saying “It’s not in here!” … or to any fella giving directions to a female driver who then sails straight past the street she was supposed to turn up, saying she didn’t see the sign! (Guilty, as charged.)
It’s also apparent that this eyesight stuff has been passed down from generation to generation, and actually shows up quite early in the piece. But this fact was also overlooked in the recent research, possibly because it was carried out by males.
Just last week our 7 y.o. son was standing in front of the open fridge trying to find some biscuits, and yelling to me that we needed to buy some more. I simply walked up beside him, reached into the fridge and took the packet off the shelf right at his eye level. My little boy then declared “I must’ve had a Man’s Look!”
Quod erat demonstrandum.
If you want to look into it even further, you will see there’s evidence that women have better peripheral vision than their male mate- around 180 degrees compared with a mere 30. Which is why a mother, for example, can keep an eye on dinner, see what’s on the evening news, and watch over the children all at the same time. A man, on the other hand, can miss one child drawing on another if they’re standing right beside him.
It’s another reason that a male can swear black and blue that his partner has hidden something on him, when it’s really right before their eyes. (It’s a very handy trick, mind you, hiding something in plain sight. I find it works very well with chocolate.)
It also explains why the aforementioned study found that men are seen turning their head when something attractive walks by, twice as often as women.
I’d like to put forward the suggestion that the female of the species also likes to take a look, some just as much as the men do; it’s just that the scope of our vision means we’re less likely to get caught!
Jx
©2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Why Shopping is for The Birds
Remind me never to go shopping on Pension Day.
I thought I was being clever, didn't I, dropping the kids at school then heading to the local Aldi supermarket nice and early to get the shopping done.
Bad move.
Oh it was all well and good when I drove into the underground carpark just before 9am, easily found a park, and proceeded to the lift with my carry bags (good little green shopper that I am).
As soon as the elevator doors opened I felt as if I’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock film.
About 400 eyes silently swung my direction, as I came face to face with the combined elderly of three surrounding suburbs, all waiting for the day’s trading to begin.
Realising there was another good 10 minutes or more before the doors would open and the crowd could fight their way inside to all the weekly specials, I backed away quietly, keeping my eyes on the mob of shoppers before me all the while, and reached around behind to hit the ‘down’ arrow on the lift.
Whispering “I’ll come back later” to no one in particular, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the basement floor as hard as I could (why do we do that, by the way, it doesn’t make the doors close any faster, now does it).
Safely ensconced in my car once again, and talking about it with my friend on the ‘phone, we agreed it was like that scene in “The Birds” when the actors walk carefully through the eerie quiet of the assembled flock, afraid to make the one wrong move that would startle them into a feathered frenzy.
And as I drove out of the carpark, avoiding the assortment of vehicles trying to make their way in, I breathed a sigh of relief at my close call.
I realised my error, of course, during the course of the conversation with my friend (who found my predicament highly hilarious, because it hadn’t happened to her on this occasion) that today was the day that the Centrelink benefits had gone into bank accounts. Furthermore, it was the start of a brand new catalogue at the shops, so every man and his dog was out to bag a bargain.
Since we don’t seem to get a lot of those catalogues (which is a real mystery to me, since every other home around ours gets theirs every week- I suspect my Beloved has something to do with their disappearance) I have no idea what was so special about this week’s Specials; and as I don’t qualify for any regular payment from the government, for me no day is better than any other to get the groceries.
Now, because we really do need milk and other items, I filled in some time by topping up the fuel tank, took a walk through a local caryard (still on my quest to find a better vehicle than the one I’m driving now) and went back around the block to try my luck again at Aldi. Instead of being any better, it was now pure chaos, as little old men in the world’s smallest hatchbacks were stopped right in the middle of the road without warning, waiting for a chance to pull into a park and get their daily bread and other bargains.
It was no better at the next supermarket I went to, or the one after that, as it appears that old-age pensioners were making the most of the winter sunshine and their fortnightly payment, and were out in force everywhere I went.
So home I came, sans essential items, and had a much-needed cup of coffee (black, mind you).
And now I will watch the clock and wait until it’s almost time to do the afternoon school run before I venture out again. Because I have found from past experiences, if there’s one thing almost guaranteed to clear the roads and the shops of grandparents, it’s kids! And quite frankly, they scare me a whole lot less.
Oh by the way, for those who are worried I’m being disrespectful to our elders, rest assured that I ran this blog by my mum first (an expert in that particular field). Amid her laughter, she gave me her standard response to things like this: “You’ll be like it yourself one day.” And that, perhaps, is the scariest thing of all!
;-)
Jx
©2009
I thought I was being clever, didn't I, dropping the kids at school then heading to the local Aldi supermarket nice and early to get the shopping done.
Bad move.
Oh it was all well and good when I drove into the underground carpark just before 9am, easily found a park, and proceeded to the lift with my carry bags (good little green shopper that I am).
As soon as the elevator doors opened I felt as if I’d stepped into an Alfred Hitchcock film.
About 400 eyes silently swung my direction, as I came face to face with the combined elderly of three surrounding suburbs, all waiting for the day’s trading to begin.
Realising there was another good 10 minutes or more before the doors would open and the crowd could fight their way inside to all the weekly specials, I backed away quietly, keeping my eyes on the mob of shoppers before me all the while, and reached around behind to hit the ‘down’ arrow on the lift.
Whispering “I’ll come back later” to no one in particular, I stepped inside and pushed the button for the basement floor as hard as I could (why do we do that, by the way, it doesn’t make the doors close any faster, now does it).
Safely ensconced in my car once again, and talking about it with my friend on the ‘phone, we agreed it was like that scene in “The Birds” when the actors walk carefully through the eerie quiet of the assembled flock, afraid to make the one wrong move that would startle them into a feathered frenzy.
And as I drove out of the carpark, avoiding the assortment of vehicles trying to make their way in, I breathed a sigh of relief at my close call.
I realised my error, of course, during the course of the conversation with my friend (who found my predicament highly hilarious, because it hadn’t happened to her on this occasion) that today was the day that the Centrelink benefits had gone into bank accounts. Furthermore, it was the start of a brand new catalogue at the shops, so every man and his dog was out to bag a bargain.
Since we don’t seem to get a lot of those catalogues (which is a real mystery to me, since every other home around ours gets theirs every week- I suspect my Beloved has something to do with their disappearance) I have no idea what was so special about this week’s Specials; and as I don’t qualify for any regular payment from the government, for me no day is better than any other to get the groceries.
Now, because we really do need milk and other items, I filled in some time by topping up the fuel tank, took a walk through a local caryard (still on my quest to find a better vehicle than the one I’m driving now) and went back around the block to try my luck again at Aldi. Instead of being any better, it was now pure chaos, as little old men in the world’s smallest hatchbacks were stopped right in the middle of the road without warning, waiting for a chance to pull into a park and get their daily bread and other bargains.
It was no better at the next supermarket I went to, or the one after that, as it appears that old-age pensioners were making the most of the winter sunshine and their fortnightly payment, and were out in force everywhere I went.
So home I came, sans essential items, and had a much-needed cup of coffee (black, mind you).
And now I will watch the clock and wait until it’s almost time to do the afternoon school run before I venture out again. Because I have found from past experiences, if there’s one thing almost guaranteed to clear the roads and the shops of grandparents, it’s kids! And quite frankly, they scare me a whole lot less.
Oh by the way, for those who are worried I’m being disrespectful to our elders, rest assured that I ran this blog by my mum first (an expert in that particular field). Amid her laughter, she gave me her standard response to things like this: “You’ll be like it yourself one day.” And that, perhaps, is the scariest thing of all!
;-)
Jx
©2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Our Bitter Battle
For more than three years, nearly four in fact, I have fought with my son.
And yes, at times it has turned physical.
Those were the times I have had to forcibly restrain my child, using every ounce of strength that I could conjure up inside myself, to carefully hold him down and stop him causing bodily harm to himself or others. Sometimes I have failed to do so- and we both have the scars to prove it.
My son is four years old.
And our daily battle is over Arthritis.
In the more than three years since my son was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, I have had to put him through hell in a diabolic “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” scenario.
Starting with making him endure countless blood tests that turned my once-robust bouncing baby boy into a human pincushion, from the age of just 7 months.
Throughout all the x-rays, bone scans, MRIs, aspirates, injections, twilight sleeps and general anaesthetics.
During the prodding and poking and castings and fittings by physiotherapists, occupational therapists, and orthotists.
Amidst the stretches and exercises of the hydrotherapy pool.
Beyond the examinations by Paediatric Rheumatologists, ophthalmologists, orthopaedic surgeons, geneticists, dental technicians, dietitians, and other clinicians.
And in and out of every single day, with medications, limitations, and frustrations.
For almost four years- nearly an entire lifetime for my son- I have had to wrestle with my precious child, and plead, beg, cajole, and convince him to take supplements that counteract or contribute to the drugs that I have no choice but to pump into his little body.
I have had to coerce him into wearing splints, bandages, and orthotics designed to straighten and strengthen his little limbs.
I have had to force him to take the extra medicines needed when he falls prey to yet another illness, this a result of suppressing his immune system in order to combat his own body’s auto-immune attack.
I have had to hold him steady while casts are put on to treat fractures that happen all too easily while his little bones fight to retain precious protective calcium. Then reassure him as they use all manner of tools to take the plaster off again.
I have had to wrap my arms and legs around his, and restrain his head and body during blood draws or eye drops that leave us both crying and utterly exhausted.
I have had to inflict untold torture upon myself as well as my child, as I inject medicine into a tiny little tummy that barely has enough fat for a needle to find its mark.
And I have to tell myself that I must be so cruel only to be the kind of mother who would do anything she can to rescue her child from this bitter battle.
The cruelest part of all is watching my son, my little man, my big boy, my baby, my miracle- adopt it all and adapt so well to these awful demands that are placed upon him by both Mother Nature, and his own mum.
He knows no other way.
It has been his life since almost the start of it; and it is now simply normal for us to go to such abnormal lengths to fight a perceived “rare” childhood condition that is far too common in children.
My son is the 1 child in every 250 thought to have this supposed "old people's" disease. He is the 1 child who could be in any school or suburb in Australia who looks well enough on the outside, giving no indication at all of the turmoil within.
How do I fight ignorant beliefs and explain that Arthritis does indeed strike our innocents and counts the very young amongst its ranks? It can hold them hostage for life.
How can I explain that it is his own body that is hurting him? As with every auto-immune disease, the "good soldier" cells meant to protect my son have instead turned their troops against him. To stop their approach, we must bring out a barrage of “big guns” to suppress their attack, in turn weakening his defenses and depleting his reserves even further.
It is a battle plan no commander would ever want to deploy.
Yet like any commandant, I must weigh up the risks and losses against any ground we could possibly gain. We simply must be prepared to fight this unseen enemy to the bitter end. I must stand stoically on the front line alongside my entire family, as together we face a foe that it supposed to be a friend.
It is indeed cruel.
To see my son give his toys 'blood tests' or 'tablets'- then give them a kiss for being so brave.
To hear my son reciting doctors’ name or various medical procedures, with varying degrees of pleasure.
To feel my son wriggling and writhing in angst and anger as he is put through even more pain in the name of progress.
To know that my son still loves me unconditionally for being there every time.
I don’t know if that hurts me or helps me the most.
But it does inspire me to get back up and fight another day.
Jx
©2006
And yes, at times it has turned physical.
Those were the times I have had to forcibly restrain my child, using every ounce of strength that I could conjure up inside myself, to carefully hold him down and stop him causing bodily harm to himself or others. Sometimes I have failed to do so- and we both have the scars to prove it.
My son is four years old.
And our daily battle is over Arthritis.
In the more than three years since my son was diagnosed with Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis, I have had to put him through hell in a diabolic “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” scenario.
Starting with making him endure countless blood tests that turned my once-robust bouncing baby boy into a human pincushion, from the age of just 7 months.
Throughout all the x-rays, bone scans, MRIs, aspirates, injections, twilight sleeps and general anaesthetics.
During the prodding and poking and castings and fittings by physiotherapists, occupational therapists, and orthotists.
Amidst the stretches and exercises of the hydrotherapy pool.
Beyond the examinations by Paediatric Rheumatologists, ophthalmologists, orthopaedic surgeons, geneticists, dental technicians, dietitians, and other clinicians.
And in and out of every single day, with medications, limitations, and frustrations.
For almost four years- nearly an entire lifetime for my son- I have had to wrestle with my precious child, and plead, beg, cajole, and convince him to take supplements that counteract or contribute to the drugs that I have no choice but to pump into his little body.
I have had to coerce him into wearing splints, bandages, and orthotics designed to straighten and strengthen his little limbs.
I have had to force him to take the extra medicines needed when he falls prey to yet another illness, this a result of suppressing his immune system in order to combat his own body’s auto-immune attack.
I have had to hold him steady while casts are put on to treat fractures that happen all too easily while his little bones fight to retain precious protective calcium. Then reassure him as they use all manner of tools to take the plaster off again.
I have had to wrap my arms and legs around his, and restrain his head and body during blood draws or eye drops that leave us both crying and utterly exhausted.
I have had to inflict untold torture upon myself as well as my child, as I inject medicine into a tiny little tummy that barely has enough fat for a needle to find its mark.
And I have to tell myself that I must be so cruel only to be the kind of mother who would do anything she can to rescue her child from this bitter battle.
The cruelest part of all is watching my son, my little man, my big boy, my baby, my miracle- adopt it all and adapt so well to these awful demands that are placed upon him by both Mother Nature, and his own mum.
He knows no other way.
It has been his life since almost the start of it; and it is now simply normal for us to go to such abnormal lengths to fight a perceived “rare” childhood condition that is far too common in children.
My son is the 1 child in every 250 thought to have this supposed "old people's" disease. He is the 1 child who could be in any school or suburb in Australia who looks well enough on the outside, giving no indication at all of the turmoil within.
How do I fight ignorant beliefs and explain that Arthritis does indeed strike our innocents and counts the very young amongst its ranks? It can hold them hostage for life.
How can I explain that it is his own body that is hurting him? As with every auto-immune disease, the "good soldier" cells meant to protect my son have instead turned their troops against him. To stop their approach, we must bring out a barrage of “big guns” to suppress their attack, in turn weakening his defenses and depleting his reserves even further.
It is a battle plan no commander would ever want to deploy.
Yet like any commandant, I must weigh up the risks and losses against any ground we could possibly gain. We simply must be prepared to fight this unseen enemy to the bitter end. I must stand stoically on the front line alongside my entire family, as together we face a foe that it supposed to be a friend.
It is indeed cruel.
To see my son give his toys 'blood tests' or 'tablets'- then give them a kiss for being so brave.
To hear my son reciting doctors’ name or various medical procedures, with varying degrees of pleasure.
To feel my son wriggling and writhing in angst and anger as he is put through even more pain in the name of progress.
To know that my son still loves me unconditionally for being there every time.
I don’t know if that hurts me or helps me the most.
But it does inspire me to get back up and fight another day.
Jx
©2006
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Secret Women's Business
There’s this new ad on TV that says “You shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.”
I’m inclined to believe it’s exactly the reason certain things are included in the GST...it’s inescapable, and for the most part, not negotiable.
For, what’s that old saying: ‘Only two things in life are certain; Death, and Taxes.’
So it stands to reason that if it’s gonna be needed, someone’s going to put a price on it. In this case, we’re talking about ‘feminine hygiene products’ (and isn’t it funny that there’s still such obvious discomfort about discussing this natural occurrence and management thereof, that they have to employ euphemisms).
And it appears that the ad has caught the attention of the very market at which it was aimed. Which is great news for the supermarket chain in question- seems it’s luring those customers away from their competitors- at least if you believe the word on the street.
For example, I recently paused in the supermarket aisle to peruse all the possibilities for a periodic episode, when a couple comes strolling through. She slowed her pace and came to a stop alongside me whilst he picked up speed and was last seen dashing around the corner into Dairy. As we both stood there, dazed and confused by the size of the selection and the specials, it didn’t seem at all strange to strike up a conversation about it.
“A lot to choose from, eh.” says she, addressing the shelves in front of us but I assumed she was really talking to me. See, eye contact is a big thing in these situations, or rather, a lack thereof (kinda like the men at the urinal so I’m told- you don’t wanna look in the wrong place so keep your eyes at the wall dead ahead at all times).
“Yes, too many.” says I in a sparkling display of my conversational skills.
“There should just be one type of each to make it easier” continued the stranger at my right.
“And one price across the board” I agreed.
“But at least they’re not adding GST to them anymore,” says my newfound friend, “unlike some other stores.”
“Now if only we could get them to take the tax off a few more of life’s necessities!” declared I.
Perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers as our selection seemed to take a little longer than the usual sideways snatch-and-grab on a quick trip up the aisle. And we finally strolled companionably around the corner to find her other half still lurking near the yoghurt section.
As she was smacking him with the sanitary napkins and stirring him for taking off again, I continued on my quest for other essential items (with GST included, unfortunately), chuckling as I went.
I was then amused as I took my turn at the cash register, where an obviously pubescent lad highlighted his rather unfortunate crop of acne with a brilliant blush as he scanned my items. It probably didn’t help that I clumsily dropped that particular product no less than three times as I was transferring it from basket to conveyor belt to bag. (Isn’t it amazing how clumsy one can be when you least need it?)
Based on his face, it made me wonder how the checkout chicks cope when a customer plonks a packet of prophylactics on the counter. (Lord knows I blush if it’s my turn to buy them, and I’m a married woman approaching 40 for crying out loud!) Mind you, I can’t get my Beloved to buy certain items for love nor money…
How did we get to TV shows that show way too much of the seedier side of life, in a world where “sex, drugs, and rock & roll” seem to be both acceptable and attainable ideals; yet the man and the woman on the street still can’t bring themselves to freely use the proper terminology for totally natural bodily functions and the products designed to make that time of life a little easier (oh and what is with the blue liquid they use in all those ads, I ask you? If it’s blue, you’re in big trouble, I’d say)!
But I digress.
So, back to that ad and the claims one shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.
While I’m happy to see at least one supermarket is covering a tax that the average female gets hit with for around 40 years of her life, I’d be absolutely cheering the first company that was brave enough to say it without the euphemisms too.
Jx
©2009
I’m inclined to believe it’s exactly the reason certain things are included in the GST...it’s inescapable, and for the most part, not negotiable.
For, what’s that old saying: ‘Only two things in life are certain; Death, and Taxes.’
So it stands to reason that if it’s gonna be needed, someone’s going to put a price on it. In this case, we’re talking about ‘feminine hygiene products’ (and isn’t it funny that there’s still such obvious discomfort about discussing this natural occurrence and management thereof, that they have to employ euphemisms).
And it appears that the ad has caught the attention of the very market at which it was aimed. Which is great news for the supermarket chain in question- seems it’s luring those customers away from their competitors- at least if you believe the word on the street.
For example, I recently paused in the supermarket aisle to peruse all the possibilities for a periodic episode, when a couple comes strolling through. She slowed her pace and came to a stop alongside me whilst he picked up speed and was last seen dashing around the corner into Dairy. As we both stood there, dazed and confused by the size of the selection and the specials, it didn’t seem at all strange to strike up a conversation about it.
“A lot to choose from, eh.” says she, addressing the shelves in front of us but I assumed she was really talking to me. See, eye contact is a big thing in these situations, or rather, a lack thereof (kinda like the men at the urinal so I’m told- you don’t wanna look in the wrong place so keep your eyes at the wall dead ahead at all times).
“Yes, too many.” says I in a sparkling display of my conversational skills.
“There should just be one type of each to make it easier” continued the stranger at my right.
“And one price across the board” I agreed.
“But at least they’re not adding GST to them anymore,” says my newfound friend, “unlike some other stores.”
“Now if only we could get them to take the tax off a few more of life’s necessities!” declared I.
Perhaps it was a case of safety in numbers as our selection seemed to take a little longer than the usual sideways snatch-and-grab on a quick trip up the aisle. And we finally strolled companionably around the corner to find her other half still lurking near the yoghurt section.
As she was smacking him with the sanitary napkins and stirring him for taking off again, I continued on my quest for other essential items (with GST included, unfortunately), chuckling as I went.
I was then amused as I took my turn at the cash register, where an obviously pubescent lad highlighted his rather unfortunate crop of acne with a brilliant blush as he scanned my items. It probably didn’t help that I clumsily dropped that particular product no less than three times as I was transferring it from basket to conveyor belt to bag. (Isn’t it amazing how clumsy one can be when you least need it?)
Based on his face, it made me wonder how the checkout chicks cope when a customer plonks a packet of prophylactics on the counter. (Lord knows I blush if it’s my turn to buy them, and I’m a married woman approaching 40 for crying out loud!) Mind you, I can’t get my Beloved to buy certain items for love nor money…
How did we get to TV shows that show way too much of the seedier side of life, in a world where “sex, drugs, and rock & roll” seem to be both acceptable and attainable ideals; yet the man and the woman on the street still can’t bring themselves to freely use the proper terminology for totally natural bodily functions and the products designed to make that time of life a little easier (oh and what is with the blue liquid they use in all those ads, I ask you? If it’s blue, you’re in big trouble, I’d say)!
But I digress.
So, back to that ad and the claims one shouldn’t be taxed for being a woman.
While I’m happy to see at least one supermarket is covering a tax that the average female gets hit with for around 40 years of her life, I’d be absolutely cheering the first company that was brave enough to say it without the euphemisms too.
Jx
©2009
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