Say Cheese!

My Beloved hates having his photo taken.

Hates it with a passion.

While I’m not too fond of it either, I will nonetheless sit and smile when told to. And think of the bigger picture (pardon the pun).

See, each year, and only once a year mind you, I line the family up for an ‘official’ portrait- not official as in the full-suits-and-serious-expressions like the days of olde (mind you, a trip to Nana's was never complete without an enjoyable stroll down memory lane via her vast collection of prints), but a couple of shots taken by a professional photographer to add to the family album (AKA “Rogues’ Gallery”).

I think it’s vital to capture the little smiling faces of our children while they are still young, and it’s quite the eye opener to see just how much their faces change from year to year. At this age, it’s almost on a daily basis, so quickly they seem to grow.

Besides, I like to pretend that we’re a happy family, at least once a year.

Looking at the faces smiling out at you from the resulting photographs, you’d never know what really goes on behind the scenes.

The first trick is to get everyone together- and awake- at the same time. When my Beloved’s on shift work he keeps to a totally different timetable, and not one that the average photo studio works to either. So a Sunday morning seemed the best choice. I even timed it between feeding time at the zoo (i.e. after morning tea and before lunch).

Then there's choosing what everyone will wear, and trying to select stuff that looks good alongside (or even on top of) each other (you know how creative some of these photographers can be). That’s a lot harder than it sounds. I don’t know about your family but in ours everyone likes different colours and styles, and there can be some pretty impressive clashes when they meet.

Having made the final selection for this year's session, my daughter stood there staring while I pressed the necessary creases into my Beloved’s good shirt.

“What are you doing?” came the question from the vicinity of two big green eyes peering up at me over the ironing board.
“Ironing.” was my reply
“I’ve never seen you do that before.” said she
“Of course you have!” said I with something akin to indignation, “just not very often, hey honey." (insert smile here)
“Why not?” pressed my pint-size inquisitor
“Well, your daddy can hardly wear a business shirt when he’s driving the truck now can he? And since I’m currently not in paid employment I don’t have to wear a work uniform either.”

Satisifed that I had staved off any further enquiry I went about the business of de-creasing the cottons without burning anyone in the process. (I should also mention that I am a touch OCD when it comes to ironing, and since I can never get it as smooth and crease-free as I like, I avoid it wherever possible, to keep the stress down all ‘round.)

While I was doing that, my Beloved was in the bathroom muttering about me for making him get dressed up for the occasion (“I even trimmed my ears for godsakes!”). Our son decided daddy was a good role model and also started giving grief about going (without the need for any aural grooming, mind you). Our daughter on the other hand was pressed, dressed, and raring to go, practicing her prettiest poses while she waited for the rest of us.

Then of course came the fun part of finding a park at the shopping centre, less than 4 weeks from Christmas. With my Beloved at the wheel it felt more like a ride on some bizarre undercover rollercoaster as he hurtled up the levels looking for a spot, since we were already late. “There’s one!” came the cry from the back seat, but our current speed was a little too quick and we sailed on by the little green light blinking at us from up above the spare space. “I can see one!” came another cry, but it was red not green which reminded me I needed to brief the young ones a bit better about the fine art of parking at the shops. Finally we found a suitable spot that wasn’t 5 kilometres from the door, which left us T-minus 10 minutes to get to our allotted appointment.

After bustling through the smallest doorway in the world into the smallest waiting room in the known universe, I affixed a look of fake excitement to my face as I announced our arrival to the girl behind the desk who was almost buried beneath a mountain of paperwork from all the other happy families lining up for their annual Christmas tableau (I'm sure my anxiety-related facial tic went mostly unnoticed).

Only 55 minutes after our appointed time, we were ushered into the studio for a series of blink-and-you’ll-miss-‘em portrait shots (and blink we all managed to do at least once- thank heavens for the instant imaging and erasing of digital photos is all I can say).

Only 45 minutes after that we were poured into yet another tiny room for the selection of shots. Now, to look at the 20 or so pictures projected onto the big screen for our viewing enjoyment, you’d never know there was at least 3 frowns, 2 bumped heads (the result of one child trying to push the other out of frame with that particular body part), a graceful but gradual slide off the subject's stool (due to an unforeseen combination of silky skirts on shiny vinyl covering), numerous exclamations of “Dad’s smelly underpants!” (seems the ubiquitous “Cheese” just doesn’t cut it with a 7-year-old boy), countless squabbles and the requisite number of “I’m warning you”s (with more than one captured on film thanks to poor timing on our part) leading to this moment now showing in all its technicolour glory.

Satisfied that we did indeed have at least one visual imprint of a loving happy family in captivity, we placed our order and left without a backward glance, glad to put it all behind us.

Until next year anyway…

Jx
©2009

No Fleas Please

Took the family to the Vets yesterday.

Not that it wouldn’t be entirely out of place for our little band of 5 to require those particular medical services, but no, this trip was in honour of the newest addition to the ranks- Chester the dog.

Mostly of unknown origin (he was an RSPCA rescue pet) we think he is of Shih Tzu descent (with the regular Heinz variety thrown in for good measure), about 2 years old (maybe more, judging by his lack of teeth, but that could be from the ‘affections’ of the *previous owner). He is also the sookiest little furball I’ve ever encountered (again, remnants of the above*). And he is, we have discovered, allergic to fleas.

Given our geographical location, and the early onset of summer, you have no idea what joy that brings (it’s the gift that keeps on giving).

With temperatures soaring into the 40s I decided the furry little monster needed another haircut, so took to him with a pair of scissors last weekend (leaving enough fluffy stuff lying around for Dr Frankenstein to create an entirely new creature, should the desire strike him). This is how I discovered his whole-body aversion to fleas. Even just one of the little suckers will do it.

Being a good (if not reluctant) pet owner, I booked him in for a total health check up, and annual vaccination. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, the children insisted on tagging along. This is how our entire family came to be perched on two plastic chairs in the Vet’s waiting room, trying to break up the stare-offs and sniffing contests that ensued with other pending patients. Not to mention apologizing for the piddle puddles (boys will be boys, even if they don’t have all the ‘toys’, if you know what I’m saying).

Two hours and $186.02 later (good lord, I don’t spend that much money on myself!) it was home-again home-again jiggedy jig with a 3 month supply of flea/tick treatment, a bottle of specially-medicated shampoo, and 3 weeks of antibiotics in the form of 42 not-so-little white pills.

As I am always thinking of others, I thought it fair to share with you. I have previously posted my experiences with washing the dog (see Doggone It) so you can imagine the fun I’ll be having twice a week for the next 4. And so I will cut to the chase and present “Jo’s Guide to Dosing your Dog” (also applies to cats, with an additional warning/step of applying full-body armour to avoid the subsequent scratches).

Consider it my contribution to the pet-owning community … and my mother’s calendar of entertainment.

1. Get tablets
2. Get gloves
3. Get dog

Now, anyone when has ever attempted this knows all too well that numbers 1 & 2 combined can take a lot less time than number 3. Especially if the dog in question has been subjected to the pill popping process before. I have also found from previous personal experience that surprisingly, large dogs are easier to catch and hold than small dogs. Unfortunately, due to a paralysis tick, we have been forced to trade our large dog for a small one. :-(

4. Find a comfortable position (NOTE TO SELF: squatting down on the floor does not meet the criteria: little dogs can generate a great deal of forward momentum, and face planting is no fun for anyone)
5. Get dog
6. Firmly park backside on floor (can’t fall too far from there)
7. Put on gloves (MENTAL NOTE: probably should move this one up a few numbers)
8. Get dog
9. Wrap legs around dog
10. Using gloved hands, tilt dog’s head back and open mouth (the dog’s that is, yours is best screwed up tight, with or without lips between teeth to aid concentration)
11. Holding tablet between two fingertips, gingerly poke into dog’s mouth, in general vicinity of throat
12. Hold dog’s mouth closed
13. Release dog’s jaw
14. Pick up saliva-coated tablet from floor (not as simple as it sounds, I can assure you)
15. Get dog
16. Attempt to repeat numbers 9 to 11, poking pill further down back of throat (trying to avoid gag reflex for both dog and self at same time).

If successful, again move through numbers 12 & 13.

17. Providing there is no remnants of tablet within visible range, carefully release dog and prepare for small furry object ricocheting across the floor
18. Remove gloves, wash hands thoroughly (resist urge to use bleach) and follow with antibacterial rub for good measure
19. Refrain from cursing Veterinarian as you repeat steps 1 through 18 twice daily for the next three weeks.

I tell you, next time the kids ask for a pet, I’m going to recommend a rock.

Jx
©2009

For Our Grandparents

There he is, my dusty soldier,
I can but see him in the gloam;
he's travelled far and witnessed plenty,
now he wants to make it home.

He was but sixteen when they signed him
(he wrote eighteen on the page)
they didn't ask- they needed numbers-
so didn't question 'bout his age.

They fit him out with guns and khakis,
they hacked away his lovely hair,
they sent him far across the water,
where he went, they didn't care.

He made mates and stole thru' jungles,
he saw bombs and bullets too.
Then the dying and the bloodshed
began to chill his soul right through.

He missed friendships and his family,
he wanted kids to call his own,
he wondered if he'd ever see them,
if again he'd make it home.

Spent his birthday in the trenches,
bully beef, and half a cig.
And with firing in the distance
he was told to fight, or dig.

As for we who sit here waiting,
not a letter, not a sign,
no telegram- for that we're thankful,
at least our boy's still got some time.

So while we wait, both sides of water,
for the end, or truce at least,
we prize the past and hope for futures,
him back home to live in peace.


Blasted bodies in the trenches,
Sunken ships upon the reef,
Just one thing will ease the suffering-
Stop the wars, and end the grief.


Lest we forget...


Jx
©1995

All That Glitters

I was a bit of a tomboy growing up.

Hard to believe I know, given my penchant for high heels, jewellery, hair and cosmetic rituals (for those who don’t know me too well, that’s sarcasm right there as it’s a rare event indeed to see me with any of the above, for various reasons).

But I do like bright shiny things.

If it’s a choice between black or colour, I’ll go with the latter (unless I’m trying that old trick of using black to make things look smaller, if you know what I mean), and I do go for glitter. I don’t know if it’s Bowerbird-ism, or a touch of ADD (AKA Attention Deficit Ooh, Shiny!)

Having a 5 year old daughter, it’s a great excuse to pick the pretties- tops, dresses, shoes, and stickers.

My son is really into stickers too, so we have them stuck randomly on doorposts, toilet roll holders, school bags, the dog, not to mention clothing. But it really doesn’t help that when we are standing up it just so happens my bust line is the exact range of my children’s reach…

I’ve lost count of just how many times I’ve trotted off to the shops to do my groceries or banking, and been on the receiving end of a few raised eyebrows. (You can tell the other parents though- they’re the ones who nod and smile when I explain that my kids have been busy decorating me.)

What I don’t like about the shiny/sticky stuff is when it ends up in the washing machine. No matter how many times I remind people to take the stickers off before it hits the laundry basket, I invariably discover it has not happened only after the washer has done its thing (mental note: buy more eucalyptus oil- it works wonders with removing the gunk left behind). Glitter is more of a problem, as it’s usually affixed to the item of clothing, and has to go into the machine as is.

While it’s ok for me to grab a bra or briefs and find them with a little bit of bling they didn’t previously have (I mean to say, they’re not seen by the greater community, and it amuses me knowing it’s there), my Beloved has more trouble accepting the extra accessories. Therefore, with his gear especially, I usually do another run through the rinse cycle if it’s been particularly prettified.

Bowerbird that I am, I recently brought home a darling little nightie for my darling little daughter (couldn’t resist it- brilliant bargain end-of-season markdown that it was). All I can say is: I don’t know how there was any glitter left for anyone else it was sprinkled with so much of the silvery stuff (which is what attracted me, obviously). I’m also sure it came out of the wash barely half the weight it went in since it ditched most of its dazzle during the cycle. Unfortunately I didn’t have the foresight to make sure there was nothing belonging to my Beloved in the same load.

Anyhow, I thought I got it all off again, until he came home from a hard day’s night to inform me he has a new nickname courtesy of our daughter’s inadvertent contribution to his work uniform- the other truck drivers and dockhands apparently think it’s hilarious to call him “Princess”.

Naturally, he doesn’t find it anywhere near as amusing.

“Look on the bright side,” says I (pun fully intended) “your Hi-Vis gear is just more highly visible than the others…think of the OH&S benefits!”

Sad to say, he didn’t think I was too funny either.

Since he knows that he can’t quash our fascination with all that glitters, he has strongly suggested that I triple-check each load of washing before it goes in.

I just as strongly suggested that he could do his own washing from now on.

Personally, I think his preference would be to suck it up and wear his stuff with the occasional sticker or shimmer, over having to sort, wash and fold for himself!

Besides, if it makes people smile to see my strapping-great-truck-driving hubby with some errant sparkles on his shoulders from time to time, then my work here as a fairy godmother is done.

Jx
©2009

Ageing Disgracefully

I really shouldn’t read magazines.

Sure they’re a good time waster on occasion, and provide plenty of fodder for those who like to comment on other people’s lives (let’s face it, who hasn’t enjoyed that particular pastime from time to time?).

Unlike what the man in your life has told you, most members of the feminine gender do read the articles. And that’s what gets me in most trouble.

For example, I recently read a survey about what age is best. Not surprisingly, it was around 25 years. The reasons included: you’re past the teen angst (and hopefully acne as well), school and study is behind you, kids are still ahead, and you’re making fairly decent money - most of which is a disposable income. Life is good.

But another study showed at what point you reach your peak.

27.

Yep, even before your third decade you have officially hit and passed the prime of your life. The ageing process picks up speed, and gravity kicks in.

Moreso than my 30th, and even with 40 fast approaching, I remember really hating turning 27. And now I know why.

As I recall, it was around that time I was finally comfortable with my body, only to discover it was about to start heading south. Fabulous.

It was also the not-so-magical milestone of my first grey hair.

I was so unhappy about it, I wrote a poem, which caused much mirth and merriment to everyone else it hadn’t happened to at the time (not laughing so loudly now though are they, hey). Personally, I blame my maternal DNA- a good number of mum’s family went grey quite early on. (My eldest sister lays the blame on the same ancestry for her dodgy eyes, and my middle sister swears her “slopey shoulders” came from that gene pool too.)

When I found that unfortunate follicle, I went to great pains to style my hair around and over it, and hope that it didn’t peep out of the otherwise brunette bunch at inopportune moments. I kept it pretty quiet too.

At least I didn’t make the same mistake as my sister. One time at work she had to use the bathroom, and decided to give the hair and lippy a quick check before returning to her post. As females are well aware, fluorescent lighting is more our foe than our friend, and there shining brightly in the insulting illumination was a new addition. Now, since my sis is one of those people who likes to share their life story (even at first meeting), she left the ladies’ room and declared to everyone in earshot: “I just found a grey hair!!”

Consider the setting.

She had just left the toilets.

I bet you can draw the same conclusion that her colleagues did in response to her grand announcement…

And so, in addition to her newfound grey hair, she had one very red face.

I have it on very good authority that the day you do find a grey hair down there, Father Time (sadistic so-and-so that he is) is ticking real quick from then on. (Just quietly, that particular moment won’t be marked on my calendar when it rolls around!) Depending on just how fast he ticks, you might even find yourself in the market for a merkin. But I digress.

These days I have to admit I long for the time I had just one little grey.

It’s true what they say, stress and pregnancy (not to mention the kids themselves) can change the pigment and mobilise the grey army marching up on top. Unless I can find room both in the schedule and the family budget for a trip to the hair salon, I now need to be a whole lot more creative in my styling to hide the traitorous tresses (I also own a large number of hats).

I’m happy to report though, I found a little article in ‘New Scientist’ which claims that having that certain hue in your hair might protect you from cancer; since that dreadful disease also runs in our family, that’s gotta be a good thing, right?!

And while we’re on the subject of good news: ‘Health Plus’ magazine surveyed its readership and found that women in their 40s are apparently having the best sex of their lives.

Well now, that’s something to look forward to.

There’s gotta be some ups to go with the downs (pun fully intended).

Yes, we might have to age, but who says it has to be gracefully?

Jx
©2009

Sink or Swim

With summer coming on I started thinking it was the right time for a refresher course in swimming.

Oh not for me- I avoid a swimsuit like a cat avoids a bath- no, for the children (who have no qualms about being seen in spandex- or even in their undies if the urge strikes).

Since we happen to live on one mighty big island, with our home nestled between a lake and an ocean, I’m all for teaching water safety from a very early age. I mean, it takes a surprisingly small amount of liquid for a child to drown (as little as one inch of water!) and I know people who’ve had that tragedy happen, so I wasn’t taking any chances with my precious ones.

As soon as they reached the required minimum age (6 months) we were off to swimming lessons at a local centre.

They took to the activity like the proverbial duck to water, and I’ve gotta admit there’s a lot of enjoyment in taking your baby by the hands and floating them about in the warm water. (Not so much fun the mad dash to the change room when the water surrounding your child becomes suddenly and suspiciously warmer still...)

Things were going, um, swimmingly, until a ‘misunderstanding’ between the instructor and ourselves. Sadly, despite being well aware that our son had Juvenile Arthritis (AKA JIA) and that mobility was an issue some days due to disease activity, she still thought it perfectly fine to label him “lazy” during lessons (I since found out she’d told another boy he “swam ok for a fat kid” so maybe she wasn’t the best choice for a child’s instructor).

Swimming is one of the few exercises that doesn't cause a kid with arthritis much pain- the water cushions the joints and keeps impact to a minimum. It's also great for overall fitness, so I can't tell you how disappointing and frustrating that whole scenario really was.

We still let the kids go in the water where possible but I figured they needed a little stroke correction to keep them in the swim of things. And so a few weeks ago I signed the kids up (now aged 7 and 5 respectively) for a refresher course at different centre.

After a quick assessment, both children were put in the same lane for the half-hour lessons.

While I expected our son to have a little trouble getting his arm over his head for the freestyle stroke because of the JIA in his shoulder, he manages to get along quite fine, albeit a little slowly at times. (He does tire easily though and still manages to come out a glowing shade of red, despite the coolness of the pool.)

Our daughter, on the other hand, swims like a flea in a blender.

It’s hilarious to watch: one arm goes up and she darn near does a sideways somersault as she turns to swing the other arm…while the legs are churning up such a wake, you’d swear a 200hp powerboat was passing by. (It’s like having your own Jacuzzi without the motor!)

I swear, if the instructor didn’t keep a helping hand on her as they made their way along the lane, she’d be right back where she started (covering the whole pool in the process).

And don’t think just because you’re sitting on the side of the pool that you’re safe from the spray. No way.

My daughter can send out enough water to saturate the entire row of parents innocently watching their water babies. I try not to make eye contact now, ‘cause there’s only so many times you can say “Sorry”. (And it's really hard to sound sincere when you're laughing.)

In fact I’m almost inclined to pretend that particular child belongs to someone else entirely and just join the chorus of “tsk”ing (in shades of amusement and bemusement) that seems to follow my daughter’s progress across the pool. But where's the fun in that?

Besides, it sure is refreshing on a hot day!

So with only 7 more lessons ‘til the term is over, I’m banking on it that this instructor is making as big an impression on my children and there’ll be no need for any more of this learn-to-swim stuff, at least until this current crop of participants and their parents has moved into the bigger pool.

Either that or hope the budget stretches to a private session instead. Oh and bring the wet weather gear with me just in case.

Jx
©2009

NOTE: To download a whole lot of free Fact Sheets about water safety (in a number of languages), visit The Royal Life Saving Society - Australia website here. And to find an AUSTSWIM course near you, start here.

Some Assembly Required

As I write this, there’s only 49 sleeps, 14 hours, 14 minutes & 49 seconds until December 25th (according to Santa’s Official Christmas Countdown Clock) so time has come once again for the little ones to write their list of what they’d like.

I’m hoping mighty hard that there’s nothing on there that includes extra batteries, or any assembly whatsoever.

My Beloved and I are only just recovering from last year’s efforts.

Since I just happened to be in a particular discount department store when they put out a huge special on trampolines (which featured prominently on the 2008 Christmas list), guess what the kids ended up with? And since I knew for a fact that a friend wanted one for her tribe, I simply had to do my civic duty and call to let her know about the bargain too.

I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Anyone who’s ever tried to steer a shopping trolley knows how incredibly exasperating it can be. I swear the things have a mind of their own, and no sense of direction whatsoever.

It’s also sadly obvious that they’re not designed to take the big ticket items, because I had a reindeer’s chance in hunting season of fitting our trampoline in the wire basket provided - let alone two of them!

I can only say how happy I was that the display of said items was fairly close to the Lay-by department, at least I didn't have far to go.

So there I was- trying to lift one of the boxes onto the trolley one-handed, and guard the other one- in amidst the fiercest crowd of bargain hunters I have ever encountered. I practically growled at any shopper that came sniffing around my haul, just waiting for me to abandon my bouncy booty.

Seemed I was making a spectacle of myself (so what’s new? I hear my Beloved ask) and soon there was a friendly staffer hovering to offer assistance.

Unfortunately, the size of the staffer in question was even smaller than my pathetic 5 foot 4½ inches, and she was as hopeless as I was in attempting to balance a box across the top of the trolley (of course the dimensions were too big for it to fit inside). After fruitless efforts to make the mate fit as well, I then had the cunning plan of nudging the other one along on the floor (using my good leg) inch-by-painstaking-inch towards the Lay-by counter, also trying to steer the rogue shopping cart as I went.

It would be a joy to say the story ends happily here. But then, I wouldn’t be blogging about it if life was that easy.

Oh no, after dutifully making all the payments, then came the fun of picking the thing up from the shop and bringing it home before the fat man in red rode again.

Well, not being one to learn from my mistakes apparently, I overlooked the obvious and neglected to take my Beloved along to help me collect it, didn’t I?

Arriving at the store I was informed that due to its large size I had to drive around to the loading dock to pick it up. Oh well, at least there’d be a storeman to load it in the back of the ute, I thought.

I thought too soon.

After pressing the buzzer to hail some assistance, how bemused was I to see what looked like a 12 year-old working the back dock (minimum pay doncha know), and not one who had enjoyed a lot of fatty foods, judging by the size of him. He took one look at the ticket and tells me I’ll have to help. Oh goody.

Afraid of breaking either the precious parcel or the storeboy (seriously, he didn’t deserve the title of storeman) I had to shoulder most of the load and then try to manoeuvre it into my Beloved’s Brumby (AKA a Subaru BRAT, and I can assure you it was a toss-up who fit the description best: the car or storeboy, given his continued commentary about how heavy it was).

It took quite some time before I was able to 1) shut the tailgate with the trampoline box safe inside, and 2) actually move my achy body enough to drive the car home.

Once I got here though, I did my best impression of an Olympic relay runner and passed the metaphorical baton to my Beloved for the assembly process in record time.

Needless to say that as soon as I saw him surrounded by countless plastic packages and paraphernalia (including instructions written in hieroglyphics, apparently) I figured that perhaps I’d had the easy end of things after all. He finally had the trampoline taking pride of place in our backyard, only to inform me he wasn’t sure what to do with all these bits left over.

But as I sit, with 49 sleeps, 13 hours, 51 minutes & 26 seconds until it’s Santa’s showtime once again, I’m happy to report that there have been no major injuries from last year’s gift (we never did figure out where the other bits went)…

…and I’m praying that this year, perhaps the kids will be asking for books!

Jx
©2009

Two-Thirty

I’m not afraid of dentists. Really I'm not. And I hope I’m leading by example for my kids.

Since dental health was hard to come by in my mother’s formative years, she went to great pains to ensure her children had an exam each year without tears. It’s paid off too, and I’m happy to admit that even at my advanced age (nudging 40 doncha know) I still have all my own teeth in good working order, albeit with one or two fillings.

My Beloved, on the other hand, comes from a long line of odontophobes and only comes along for the ride in his duty as a dad.

So it was with varying degrees of delight and despair we all headed off for our annual check-up.

The kids enjoyed their ride in the dentist’s chair, and came home with congratulations for their efforts and a new toothbrush apiece. My Beloved fared a little worse, and had an extraction (which broke halfway out, much to his disgust) and left the surgery with a list of follow-up appointments. Needless to say, he was not a happy man.

Then it was my turn.

Now, since my most vivid memories of the family dentist (let’s call him Dr X) were that the man had the hairiest and scariest nostrils in the known universe, I always ensure I keep my eyes closed while ever one is leaning over me (even if they are wearing the requisite facemask). I also try to give my own nose a good going-over with a tissue before going in, just in case.

Anyway… there I was, enduring the examination, trying to hold up my end of the conversation with the dentist’s fingers between my teeth, when the hygienist manages to get the suction well and truly stuck to the inside of my cheek and added to the number of digits in my mouth in a bid to dislodge it (those little suckers hurt coming off too)! Then after a few more scrapes of the benignly titled but evil little ‘dental explorer’ (making my aforementioned fillings sing in the process), I was subjected to the air/water syringe and somehow swallowed enough of the stuff to give me the uncomfortable and embarrassing sensation of having to burp. Yep, all gassed up and nowhere to blow.

Fortunately, anyone who knows me also knows what a pathetic belcher I am - no burping out the alphabet for me (here’s how to do so, if you want to hone that skill yourself)- so I thought this would be the one time my gassy little gurgle could pass by unnoticed.

But since the ears of anyone working in the field of dentistry are well trained to decipher even the smallest sounds in the course of communication when all but incommunicado, even my teensy weensy “erp!” did not escape attention, and the resulting smile on the dentist’s dial gave me a great display of his pearly whites (someone obviously gets dental care for free, so straight and shining were they).

So it was with great relief that I was finally given a clean bill of dental health and set free from the surgery to go about my cavity-causing business for another 6 to12 months.

Imagine my dismay as I looked in the car rear-view mirror to see how bright and white my teeth were for the time being, only to discover that I had not been quite as diligent in examining my own nasal cavities as perhaps I could have been (cue the horror music). It was flashback to Dr X all over again.

*sigh*

I can only console myself that this particular dental practice is a prime training ground for the newly-graduated, and the chances of me seeing the same bloke next time were as small as the gaps between my molars.

Likewise, I hope that anyone looking my way as I drove out of the car park might mistake my grimace for a grin, lest I trigger any bouts of odontophobia for the next on the waiting list.

Jx
©2009

Trick or Treat

October 31, when all the good ghouls and boys come out to play.

Everyone thinks it’s “an American thing” but the origins precede that particular nation by a couple of thousand years at least.

From what I've been told, way way back, the ancient Celts used to celebrate the festival of Samhain and early pagans commemorated the feast of All Hallows on November 1; some believed that the night before, the spirits used to roam the earth looking for a good place to get their eternal rest (I hesitate to use the term “beauty sleep” because, c’mon, have you seen some of these creatures in question?)!

Christians still commemorate All Saints Day with church services (and when I was a kid we were told that heaven help any Catholics who missed a Holy Day of Obligation such as these, or you might just find yourself wandering between the worlds when your time has come!). And 'round about the 1970s it became a good excuse to dress up, eat, drink, and scare the living daylights out of family and friends.

Since I’m still a big kid at heart despite what age the face appears that lurks inside the mirror mirror on my bathroom wall (believe me, some days I could win a fancy dress contest without the fancy dress, if you know what I mean), and since I’m not a huge fan of having children door-knocking round the neighbourhood, it seemed like a great idea to have a small Halloween Party at home this year. Note the use of the adjective ‘small’.

Well, once word got out it was like opening Pandora’s Box all over again- and despite our two children being given strict instructions that they could only ask 5 friends each, we had little creatures coming out of the woodwork. Plus any parents that came along for the ride.

Undaunted, even with no idea how many I was actually catering for, I set about searching for creepy crafts, ghoulish goodies, phantastic face-painting, and also had the bright idea of home-made piñatas (seriously, who wants to spend a fortune on a few bits of cardboard that are only going to get smashed to smithereens?).

And then I said the words like so many mothers before: “Come on kids, it’ll be fun!”

Talk about famous last words.

Setting the kids the easy task of tearing up newspaper, I set about making the paste. Here my Beloved steps in to advise I wasn’t using enough flour and consequently used up our entire supply in one go. The end result was a misshapen ball covered in peaks of flaky flour.

Of course it then had to rain for a week straight which meant the papier-mâché simply refused to dry. Naturally, the kids lost interest in the whole process since it was “taking too long”, so it was left to me to make the most of every bit of sunshine, trying any and every kind of adhesive to ensure it would hold together long enough for a number of kids to get a turn smashing the swinging stash.

As it happened, the night before our party coincided with Joeys (junior girl and boy Scouts), so there I was madly trying to complete the piñatas, and finish practicing the crafts we were going to do with the group the next day (I don’t like to launch any activity onto others that I haven’t had a crack at myself…saves me looking silly when the time comes). Happy with my efforts and content that the pumpkin and skull would both survive at least one whack of the piñata stick, and safe in the knowledge that if the edible crafts didn’t work out even I wouldn’t mind taking care of the rejects, I dashed back to the Scout hall to do the evening pick up.

It wasn’t until I was preparing for bed that I realized the reason the scout leaders were giving me those strange looks. It had nothing to do with me sneaking into the hall during the “Dib Dib Dib Dob Dob Dob”s, and everything to do with the dab dab dabs of fluorescent paint prominently placed on the front of my chest.

Making a mental note to check the mirror before leaving the house next time (no matter how much it scares me), I was all set for the onslaught the next afternoon. And an onslaught it was. There were costumed children running screaming from go to whoa, numerous (thankfully minor) casualties throughout the course of events, pumpkin guts from one end of the yard to another, and just a couple of tantrums when it was time to leave. But a good time was had by all.

In the cold light of day, despite catering to an army of little monsters the night before, my Beloved informs me that to him, the scariest thing about this particular Halloween was taking him shopping on a Saturday.

He swears he's shuddering still...

Jx
©2009