The world is a Global Village.
Just ask anyone who’s signed up for Facebook (or as those in the know call it, fb).
After years of being invited to join, asked if I have joined, and outright told I’ve gotta join, I finally did.
Less than 24 hours later, I have ‘67 Friends’.
Wow, I didn’t think I actually knew that many people, let alone have the kind of relationship to call them “friends”.
But there you have it. 67 people thus far have decided they’d like to be in touch with me in a virtual manner. And like The Carpenters sang, we’ve only just begun!
I haven’t managed to do any in-depth searches for long-lost buddies as yet.
Not to mention the requests from people who know people who know me, or requests from people no people I know has ever heard of!
Now, I’m kinda new at all this, but what is the protocol for confirming friend requests, I wonder…
Can you platonically rekindle old flames and run the risk of getting burned by your current S.O. (that’s significant other, for those not up on the shorthand)?
Will you suddenly become super friendly with an ex-colleague who you only ever said “G’day” to if you both happened to be by the watercooler at the same time? Or will you develop a cyber friendship with the one who stole your job?
Do you accept a relative just because you’re related? Despite the fact that you a) have never met them, or b) have not clapped eyes on them for many years- maybe since the last big family reunion or funeral. And how many generations do you go back, or forward, in the name of friendliness? (Don’t tell me that you adore every member of your extended clan…blood may be thicker than water but some folk are thicker still, if you get my drift.) (I’m speaking hypothetically of course – there’s no one in my family to which I’m referring, honest.)
And how does one go about finding people, exactly?
Just on spec, I typed in a few names, mostly of people who have been asking me when I’m going to show my face on Facebook, and darned if the search engine didn’t want me to have practically every bit of their intimate details upfront! I mean to say, if I knew that much about them, surely I wouldn’t have to resort to getting/staying in touch over the information superhighway. I’d be gas-bagging on the phone, or catching up for cuppas like nobody’s business, am I right? We’d certainly be exchanging Christmas cards, to say the very least.
As far as female friends are concerned, most of them have gone the traditional route and changed their surname to their previous (or past) partner. Some of them have done it more than once, so how’s a person supposed to keep track of what name they’re going by these days? It’s even worse if you only ever referred to someone by a nickname (or in the case of our radio pals, had a fictitious name altogether)…fb being as formal as it is, a first and last name at least is required.
So I probably won’t find a few old friends anyhow. And some I sure as hell hope don’t find me (I’d feel terrible hitting the Ignore button).
Due to work and the way my life has progressed, I have been known by a number of names. And I definitely don’t look the same at almost-40 that I did in high school (I wish)!
Oh and don’t even get me started on the barn raising, sorority parties, aquariums, and adoptions of every kind that pop up on my page whenever I find a few minutes to log on. One of the reasons I held off joining the FB revolution for so long was that I simply don’t have the time to sit at the computer for too many hours, let alone play games. My Beloved, on the other hand, has all but made a career out of it (I tell you, if those doubloons translated into cold hard cash we'd be rolling rich).
No I’m flat out figuring out how to set my privacy settings so that every Tom, Dick and Harry on the planet doesn’t get to see my every thought. And nearly every time I’ve tried to upload a photo our computer has ‘detected a malicious program’ and shut me down.
Meanwhile the rest of my 67 Friends (whoa, make that 75 now, I just checked my profile) are busily hatching sheep and building chickens and selling chocolate bars for the seahorse sorority.
*sighs*
If the world really is a Global Village, I seem to have taken up residence as village idiot.
Which reminds me, I best go update my status.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Potty Time
There’s a lot of things I love about being a parent.
There are also things I’m liking not so much.
Without a doubt, the thing I would gladly never go through again: is toilet training.
I now know why some call it potty time. Because it certainly gave me a case of potty mouth a time or two (under my breath, mind you, I’m not that bad a parent).
And it’s true what they say that boys can be trickier than girls. While it took my son a good few months to get the hang of it (and let’s face it, any female who cohabits with a male of any age knows that some never really do), my daughter decided that nappies were sooooo last season, at roughly the same time as that. Two for the price of one. Bargain.
But the departure from diapers only brought about a whole new chapter- the fascination with public toilets. What is up with that?
I swear, even if the kids have gone before we left, we can never go anywhere without at least one of them desperately desiring a dunny. More often than not it’s both, oh and not necessarily at the same time either.
Normally it doesn’t worry me (I just have to get my gag reflex in check before entering the public domain): I’ve got the anti-bacterial spray for the seat, a tissue or two in hand if there’s not enough loo paper, and enough energy to assist the littlies as they go about their ablutions.
Yes every time we have to use a loo or two on our travels I am reminded yet again of my enduring preference for the bathrooms at home. Bit difficult when you’re off attending a medical conference about your child’s condition, held in Hershey Pennsylvania.
I call it The Great Toilet Tour of 2007. With good reason.
On a 15½ hour flight, my son and I managed to squeeze into the aircraft toilet no less than 14 times. And he was asleep for about 7 hours! I have never been on an international holiday before, and had no idea about what joys awaited me in that cramped and stinky little room. Nor just how cramped and just how stinky that little room would feel about 10 hours in.
*shudders*
Things didn’t get any less claustrophobic once we touched down in the US of A either. Oh no, not when there were soooo many new and exciting things about North American amenities, we just had to try them all. Automatic opening doors, interchangeable seats, infrared flush, remote action soap, water and hand dryers are just too awesome for a 5 year old. A little less awesome but equally as, shall we say interesting for mothers of same, I can assure you.
Yes we hadn’t even been Stateside for 3 hours before we were calling for maintenance of the Holiday Inn nearby LAX. Aside from that old anomaly of the water going down a different direction (it really does seem to, you know), my son was transfixed, and just a little concerned that the water level is quite a lot higher before you even begin to contribute. I have to admit to being a tad wary myself, lest I inadvertently get the bidet effect whilst parked on the potty. What isn’t supposed to happen, apparently, is for that water level to get higher still, until the bathroom floor gets an impromptu wash. A performance that was to be repeated again at a brand spanking new Church just outside Atlanta Georgia, when my son with due diligence ensuring his hiney was shiny accidentally overloaded the porcelain with paper.
Yes there I was, on my knees in the lavatories, muttering holy hell about having to clean up the mess, lest the preacher think any less of his Aussie guests.
But the best was yet to come.
The CNN Center is equipped with some of the most breathtakingly brilliant technology in the modern world. And it most certainly took my breath away. Especially when my son decided to disengage the doorlock while I was still posed kangaroo-style over the toilet bowl, moreso when amidst my shrieks for him to “Close the door!” I moved slightly out of the line of sight of the automatic flush infrared beam, and got to experience what a bidet would feel like after all. Our local tour guides said in spite of the noise levels inside the centre, they distinctly heard my squeal from where they waited outside. (I’m surprised they didn’t hear it back home in Australia, just quietly.)
So whilever I’m waiting for one or the other or both of my offspring to offload at a bathroom stall somewhere, I try to remind myself that they’ve reached a very valuable milestone by being able to do by themselves (and with the door properly locked too, I might add).
Now I get to be one of the mums nodding in sympathy whenever I witness those still in toilet-training mode.
Been there, done that, not going back.
Jx
©2010
There are also things I’m liking not so much.
Without a doubt, the thing I would gladly never go through again: is toilet training.
I now know why some call it potty time. Because it certainly gave me a case of potty mouth a time or two (under my breath, mind you, I’m not that bad a parent).
And it’s true what they say that boys can be trickier than girls. While it took my son a good few months to get the hang of it (and let’s face it, any female who cohabits with a male of any age knows that some never really do), my daughter decided that nappies were sooooo last season, at roughly the same time as that. Two for the price of one. Bargain.
But the departure from diapers only brought about a whole new chapter- the fascination with public toilets. What is up with that?
I swear, even if the kids have gone before we left, we can never go anywhere without at least one of them desperately desiring a dunny. More often than not it’s both, oh and not necessarily at the same time either.
Normally it doesn’t worry me (I just have to get my gag reflex in check before entering the public domain): I’ve got the anti-bacterial spray for the seat, a tissue or two in hand if there’s not enough loo paper, and enough energy to assist the littlies as they go about their ablutions.
Yes every time we have to use a loo or two on our travels I am reminded yet again of my enduring preference for the bathrooms at home. Bit difficult when you’re off attending a medical conference about your child’s condition, held in Hershey Pennsylvania.
I call it The Great Toilet Tour of 2007. With good reason.
On a 15½ hour flight, my son and I managed to squeeze into the aircraft toilet no less than 14 times. And he was asleep for about 7 hours! I have never been on an international holiday before, and had no idea about what joys awaited me in that cramped and stinky little room. Nor just how cramped and just how stinky that little room would feel about 10 hours in.
*shudders*
Things didn’t get any less claustrophobic once we touched down in the US of A either. Oh no, not when there were soooo many new and exciting things about North American amenities, we just had to try them all. Automatic opening doors, interchangeable seats, infrared flush, remote action soap, water and hand dryers are just too awesome for a 5 year old. A little less awesome but equally as, shall we say interesting for mothers of same, I can assure you.
Yes we hadn’t even been Stateside for 3 hours before we were calling for maintenance of the Holiday Inn nearby LAX. Aside from that old anomaly of the water going down a different direction (it really does seem to, you know), my son was transfixed, and just a little concerned that the water level is quite a lot higher before you even begin to contribute. I have to admit to being a tad wary myself, lest I inadvertently get the bidet effect whilst parked on the potty. What isn’t supposed to happen, apparently, is for that water level to get higher still, until the bathroom floor gets an impromptu wash. A performance that was to be repeated again at a brand spanking new Church just outside Atlanta Georgia, when my son with due diligence ensuring his hiney was shiny accidentally overloaded the porcelain with paper.
Yes there I was, on my knees in the lavatories, muttering holy hell about having to clean up the mess, lest the preacher think any less of his Aussie guests.
But the best was yet to come.
The CNN Center is equipped with some of the most breathtakingly brilliant technology in the modern world. And it most certainly took my breath away. Especially when my son decided to disengage the doorlock while I was still posed kangaroo-style over the toilet bowl, moreso when amidst my shrieks for him to “Close the door!” I moved slightly out of the line of sight of the automatic flush infrared beam, and got to experience what a bidet would feel like after all. Our local tour guides said in spite of the noise levels inside the centre, they distinctly heard my squeal from where they waited outside. (I’m surprised they didn’t hear it back home in Australia, just quietly.)
So whilever I’m waiting for one or the other or both of my offspring to offload at a bathroom stall somewhere, I try to remind myself that they’ve reached a very valuable milestone by being able to do by themselves (and with the door properly locked too, I might add).
Now I get to be one of the mums nodding in sympathy whenever I witness those still in toilet-training mode.
Been there, done that, not going back.
Jx
©2010
Renovation Rescue
Have you ever realized just what a messy business this tidying up can be?
I mean to say, we’re in the process of creating more storage in a house with a hitherto serious lack thereof, so our home at the moment looks like the proverbial bomb has hit it.
In fact, our lounge room (which has become the temporary dump site for the rest of the household items) has enough clear space for only two people to sit down at any given time…three if one of the abovementioned people sits on someone else’s lap (and depending on the people involved, you'd probably prefer to be the sitter than the sittee on the settee. Tee hee).
And we’re not done yet. Oh no, we are a looong way off, despite the blood, sweat, and tears that have brought us even to here.
So far the children have new wardrobes built into their bedrooms, we have gutted and retiled the main bathroom (when I say “we”, I mean the tiler of course, under my careful supervision), and are awaiting the shower frames, a glass splashback for the kitchen, and two new doors. Three, if you count the door that was installed only two months ago and has broken already (*you just can’t get good help these days can you?)!
But wouldn’t you know it, now the bathroom door won’t close properly, and we uncovered a bit of a mould problem in the toilet and laundry; where subsequently me in my enthusiastic removal of same, managed to poke my finger through the wall (pressed concrete wall my a$$). So there’s another repair and repaint job just waiting to happen.
My Beloved has had a little more success than I in the renovation department: he has tidied up the tiling in the ensuite (unfortunately our budget didn’t stretch to redo two bathrooms so we’re stuck with the 1970s shocker hidden within) and finally fixed the loo - fingers crossed (as opposed to legs while we were all waiting for an available lavatory in working order). He even got some help from our little daughter (our son preferred to keep his hands clean and play the Nintendo® instead). In fact, one could almost go as far as saying she did a better job than dad did. (One could, if one was game.)
See, my Beloved is not known for his motivation in being man-about-the-house, and somehow manages to mysteriously (or not, depending on your level of skepticism) misplace important parts of his power tools, right when he needs ‘em most. Oh he does a good enough job once he gets going. It’s just the getting going.
So there they were, dad and daughter up to their armpits in tile glue and grout, when I get called in to appreciate their handiwork. “Looks good,” says I, “well, as good as brown tiles can look, at any rate. But the tiling is fantastic!!” With this I flick a quick look towards my Beloved to gauge whether I have expressed enough exuberance in his efforts (wouldn’t want to scare him off now would I); it seems I have, as he nods approvingly at my approval.
And then proceeded to scratch his ear.
Now, if you haven’t ever experienced grout in the earhole, you probably don’t want to start now.
It doesn’t make the situation any easier if your wife and daughter start giggling at your expense. Insult, injury, and all that.
You’ll be pleased to hear (he was, get it?!) that the grout came out of where it wasn’t supposed to be, and stayed put where it was, and the bathroom is right on target for the shower frames…as soon as the ‘5-10 business days’ are up (and we’re only up to, oh, 28 days so far. Refer to the comment* above). So we’re stuck with the living room being mostly unlive-able for a little while longer.
Which only gives me more time to wander around looking at the place plotting what next needs a renovation rescue. Oh, that sound you hear? Just a grown man crying.
Jx
©2010
I mean to say, we’re in the process of creating more storage in a house with a hitherto serious lack thereof, so our home at the moment looks like the proverbial bomb has hit it.
In fact, our lounge room (which has become the temporary dump site for the rest of the household items) has enough clear space for only two people to sit down at any given time…three if one of the abovementioned people sits on someone else’s lap (and depending on the people involved, you'd probably prefer to be the sitter than the sittee on the settee. Tee hee).
And we’re not done yet. Oh no, we are a looong way off, despite the blood, sweat, and tears that have brought us even to here.
So far the children have new wardrobes built into their bedrooms, we have gutted and retiled the main bathroom (when I say “we”, I mean the tiler of course, under my careful supervision), and are awaiting the shower frames, a glass splashback for the kitchen, and two new doors. Three, if you count the door that was installed only two months ago and has broken already (*you just can’t get good help these days can you?)!
But wouldn’t you know it, now the bathroom door won’t close properly, and we uncovered a bit of a mould problem in the toilet and laundry; where subsequently me in my enthusiastic removal of same, managed to poke my finger through the wall (pressed concrete wall my a$$). So there’s another repair and repaint job just waiting to happen.
My Beloved has had a little more success than I in the renovation department: he has tidied up the tiling in the ensuite (unfortunately our budget didn’t stretch to redo two bathrooms so we’re stuck with the 1970s shocker hidden within) and finally fixed the loo - fingers crossed (as opposed to legs while we were all waiting for an available lavatory in working order). He even got some help from our little daughter (our son preferred to keep his hands clean and play the Nintendo® instead). In fact, one could almost go as far as saying she did a better job than dad did. (One could, if one was game.)
See, my Beloved is not known for his motivation in being man-about-the-house, and somehow manages to mysteriously (or not, depending on your level of skepticism) misplace important parts of his power tools, right when he needs ‘em most. Oh he does a good enough job once he gets going. It’s just the getting going.
So there they were, dad and daughter up to their armpits in tile glue and grout, when I get called in to appreciate their handiwork. “Looks good,” says I, “well, as good as brown tiles can look, at any rate. But the tiling is fantastic!!” With this I flick a quick look towards my Beloved to gauge whether I have expressed enough exuberance in his efforts (wouldn’t want to scare him off now would I); it seems I have, as he nods approvingly at my approval.
And then proceeded to scratch his ear.
Now, if you haven’t ever experienced grout in the earhole, you probably don’t want to start now.
It doesn’t make the situation any easier if your wife and daughter start giggling at your expense. Insult, injury, and all that.
You’ll be pleased to hear (he was, get it?!) that the grout came out of where it wasn’t supposed to be, and stayed put where it was, and the bathroom is right on target for the shower frames…as soon as the ‘5-10 business days’ are up (and we’re only up to, oh, 28 days so far. Refer to the comment* above). So we’re stuck with the living room being mostly unlive-able for a little while longer.
Which only gives me more time to wander around looking at the place plotting what next needs a renovation rescue. Oh, that sound you hear? Just a grown man crying.
Jx
©2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Trash & Treasure
Some sod stole our garbage bin.
Seriously, why would you?
Of all the things to ‘souvenir’ from someone’s yard, why would you nick the wheelie bin?
I mean, anyone who has ever taken advantage of the Council Clean-up or ‘Hard Rubbish’ service knows that there are scavengers out there. In fact, some people seem to make a living out of cruising the streets on the lookout for the collection in question, and grabbing anything that looks like it could be worth a buck or two… scrap metal, old appliances, discarded furniture or children’s items, hell, they’ll even take the grass it’s sitting on, if you’re not careful! Don’t laugh, I have heard it happen. (Mind you, they wouldn’t take our bindi-eye infested excuse for a nature strip…there is method in our madness after all.)
It’s true: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Every time we’ve had the Council Clean-up in our neighbourhood, I’m not sure whether to be amused or bemused that in the time it takes to dump one load off and go inside for more, the first lot’s often gone before you get back! (Do they sit in their car staking-out the street, for crying out loud?)
And I just bet that you know someone (or someone who knows someone) who has done exactly the same thing- seen an item loitering on the kerbside that you’re sure you can get use or some money out of. My stepson used to do it all the time (unfortunately, he never seemed to score anything that didn’t end up going back out with the next load).
Go on, hit the local market stalls or check on eBay sometime if you dare, you might just recognise something for sale.
Heck, I’ve even ‘threatened’ to put the children out for collection during times when their behavior is driving me up two walls and down again…except I wouldn’t wanna risk that they’d get left behind. Besides, if ever we’ve used that particular ‘threat’ to our kids (champion debaters that they are) they simply come back with the fact that they do not, in fact, constitute what Council states may be left on the kerb. And they’re right. So they stay.
But it baffles me that someone would want our ancient, stinky, broken, really-doesn’t-deserve-to-be-called-a-wheelie-bin, as with the wonky wheels ours has, you have to drag the thing to the side of the road leaving divets in the ground en route. It didn’t even come from our council area, so someone’s already taken it on a road trip of approximately 720 kilometres (I’m not kidding) before we inherited the thing at our house!
The only endearing thing about our bin is that it came from a tiny little town where a couple of cousins happen to reside, and every time I’m taking out the trash I think of them. Not sure what they think of that little scenario, but there you go.
So it was a bit of a surprise when my Beloved went to bring the bin in on his way home from work this morning (after our regular weekly garbage collection) and came inside scratching his head saying “Someone’s nicked the bin!” (He also offered some insight into the possible parentage of said bin-thief, but we don’t need to go into that here.)
I’m a little cranky about it, to tell you the truth, because we’re in the midst of major renovations at our place, and I’ve been filling the thing up as soon as it is emptied, so I’m a little lost as to where to stash the trash in the interim (and here I too pause to reflect on the marital status of pilferer’s parents).
So with tile-cutters screeching, and power saws screaming, I can only sit and wait for our AWOL wheelie bin and hope that the prodigal refuse receptacle returns in time for next week’s collection.
Jx
©2010
Seriously, why would you?
Of all the things to ‘souvenir’ from someone’s yard, why would you nick the wheelie bin?
I mean, anyone who has ever taken advantage of the Council Clean-up or ‘Hard Rubbish’ service knows that there are scavengers out there. In fact, some people seem to make a living out of cruising the streets on the lookout for the collection in question, and grabbing anything that looks like it could be worth a buck or two… scrap metal, old appliances, discarded furniture or children’s items, hell, they’ll even take the grass it’s sitting on, if you’re not careful! Don’t laugh, I have heard it happen. (Mind you, they wouldn’t take our bindi-eye infested excuse for a nature strip…there is method in our madness after all.)
It’s true: one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Every time we’ve had the Council Clean-up in our neighbourhood, I’m not sure whether to be amused or bemused that in the time it takes to dump one load off and go inside for more, the first lot’s often gone before you get back! (Do they sit in their car staking-out the street, for crying out loud?)
And I just bet that you know someone (or someone who knows someone) who has done exactly the same thing- seen an item loitering on the kerbside that you’re sure you can get use or some money out of. My stepson used to do it all the time (unfortunately, he never seemed to score anything that didn’t end up going back out with the next load).
Go on, hit the local market stalls or check on eBay sometime if you dare, you might just recognise something for sale.
Heck, I’ve even ‘threatened’ to put the children out for collection during times when their behavior is driving me up two walls and down again…except I wouldn’t wanna risk that they’d get left behind. Besides, if ever we’ve used that particular ‘threat’ to our kids (champion debaters that they are) they simply come back with the fact that they do not, in fact, constitute what Council states may be left on the kerb. And they’re right. So they stay.
But it baffles me that someone would want our ancient, stinky, broken, really-doesn’t-deserve-to-be-called-a-wheelie-bin, as with the wonky wheels ours has, you have to drag the thing to the side of the road leaving divets in the ground en route. It didn’t even come from our council area, so someone’s already taken it on a road trip of approximately 720 kilometres (I’m not kidding) before we inherited the thing at our house!
The only endearing thing about our bin is that it came from a tiny little town where a couple of cousins happen to reside, and every time I’m taking out the trash I think of them. Not sure what they think of that little scenario, but there you go.
So it was a bit of a surprise when my Beloved went to bring the bin in on his way home from work this morning (after our regular weekly garbage collection) and came inside scratching his head saying “Someone’s nicked the bin!” (He also offered some insight into the possible parentage of said bin-thief, but we don’t need to go into that here.)
I’m a little cranky about it, to tell you the truth, because we’re in the midst of major renovations at our place, and I’ve been filling the thing up as soon as it is emptied, so I’m a little lost as to where to stash the trash in the interim (and here I too pause to reflect on the marital status of pilferer’s parents).
So with tile-cutters screeching, and power saws screaming, I can only sit and wait for our AWOL wheelie bin and hope that the prodigal refuse receptacle returns in time for next week’s collection.
Jx
©2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Ice as Nice
Took the kids ice skating in the holidays.
With temperatures soaring into the 40s (that’s celcius for the overseas readers) indoor activities were in demand. And what better way to spend a hot summer’s day, than on ice.
We are lucky to live in such a fabulous part of the world that has both beaches and ice rinks just minutes from our door. But the bonus is you don’t have to worry about sunburn when you stay inside (frostbite is another matter entirely)!
I’d tried ice skating before, in the days BC (Before Children, that is) so I knew from firsthand experience how fun- and foolish- the pastime can be.
Quick wander down memory lane, if you’ll allow…
Since I had spent a great deal of my childhood on rollerskates, I was quietly confident that I could handle blades as well as wheels. So my friends and I paid the entry, and hit the ice.
And discovered it’s not quite the same after all.
After a few minutes doing my best impression of a toddler finding their feet, I was soon skating with the best of them, and even managed to go backwards (on purpose, as opposed to involuntarily as can happen from time to time) for a while.
We were even cocky enough to not just skate but started moving to the music blaring from the speakers spaced out around the rink (that had the amusing effect of being REALLY LOUD as you went past but not so much in between). And groove we did. Oh yeah, it wasn’t just the temperature that was super cool, just ask us.
Well after some solid skating time, and proud that I had managed to stay upright for the entire 2 hour session, I then lifted a foot to step off the ice for the safety of solid floor. That was my fatal mistake. See, out of the blue this little critter bolted out from nowhere straight into my legs, sending both me and he onto the frozen rink. He on top of me, to be precise.
What a pain in the icehole.
Thankfully it was my pride that suffered the most, and I half-crawled for the bar to pull me off the rink and back into shoes, much to the amusement of the expert skaters all set for the next session; Smarty Pants that they were (as opposed to cold, wet pants like me).
Because that image of me planted butt down on the ground has stayed with me long after the event, I was content to stay on the sidelines (and in shoes) when the next generation took to the ice with Vacation Care these school holidays just past. That was in spite of the fact that they had these Zimmer-frame type contraptions for the very beginners to hold onto.
Mind you, it was lucky that I did, because one little bloke did an action replay of my moment, only he went down as he was stepping onto the ice, and spent the rest of the session sitting, foot propped up, hot chocolate in hand.
The rest of the group passed casualty-free (except for a few decent blisters), and we only had to stop a couple of kids from eating the ice; only one of them belonging to me (*shudders*).
And unlike the first time I put myself on ice, my kids had their proud mother standing by with camera to capture the event on film (well, SD card, but you know what I mean). Got some great shots too- including one taken just as my daughter was about to fall, with her little feet going so fast trying to get grip on the ice rink, they’re actually blurred in the picture! Ah, good times, good times.
The bonus for me as a mum was that the effort of trying to stay upright and uninjured sure required some exertion, so by the time I took my two home again, they just didn’t have the energy or even the inclination to start the squabbling that had plagued so much of the holidays.
In fact, I’m thinking of signing them up for lessons.
Naturally, I’d have to go along with them, just to make sure all was well. Who knows, next time I’m brave enough to skate, I’ll spend the entire time on my feet!
Jx
©2010
With temperatures soaring into the 40s (that’s celcius for the overseas readers) indoor activities were in demand. And what better way to spend a hot summer’s day, than on ice.
We are lucky to live in such a fabulous part of the world that has both beaches and ice rinks just minutes from our door. But the bonus is you don’t have to worry about sunburn when you stay inside (frostbite is another matter entirely)!
I’d tried ice skating before, in the days BC (Before Children, that is) so I knew from firsthand experience how fun- and foolish- the pastime can be.
Quick wander down memory lane, if you’ll allow…
Since I had spent a great deal of my childhood on rollerskates, I was quietly confident that I could handle blades as well as wheels. So my friends and I paid the entry, and hit the ice.
And discovered it’s not quite the same after all.
After a few minutes doing my best impression of a toddler finding their feet, I was soon skating with the best of them, and even managed to go backwards (on purpose, as opposed to involuntarily as can happen from time to time) for a while.
We were even cocky enough to not just skate but started moving to the music blaring from the speakers spaced out around the rink (that had the amusing effect of being REALLY LOUD as you went past but not so much in between). And groove we did. Oh yeah, it wasn’t just the temperature that was super cool, just ask us.
Well after some solid skating time, and proud that I had managed to stay upright for the entire 2 hour session, I then lifted a foot to step off the ice for the safety of solid floor. That was my fatal mistake. See, out of the blue this little critter bolted out from nowhere straight into my legs, sending both me and he onto the frozen rink. He on top of me, to be precise.
What a pain in the icehole.
Thankfully it was my pride that suffered the most, and I half-crawled for the bar to pull me off the rink and back into shoes, much to the amusement of the expert skaters all set for the next session; Smarty Pants that they were (as opposed to cold, wet pants like me).
Because that image of me planted butt down on the ground has stayed with me long after the event, I was content to stay on the sidelines (and in shoes) when the next generation took to the ice with Vacation Care these school holidays just past. That was in spite of the fact that they had these Zimmer-frame type contraptions for the very beginners to hold onto.
Mind you, it was lucky that I did, because one little bloke did an action replay of my moment, only he went down as he was stepping onto the ice, and spent the rest of the session sitting, foot propped up, hot chocolate in hand.
The rest of the group passed casualty-free (except for a few decent blisters), and we only had to stop a couple of kids from eating the ice; only one of them belonging to me (*shudders*).
And unlike the first time I put myself on ice, my kids had their proud mother standing by with camera to capture the event on film (well, SD card, but you know what I mean). Got some great shots too- including one taken just as my daughter was about to fall, with her little feet going so fast trying to get grip on the ice rink, they’re actually blurred in the picture! Ah, good times, good times.
The bonus for me as a mum was that the effort of trying to stay upright and uninjured sure required some exertion, so by the time I took my two home again, they just didn’t have the energy or even the inclination to start the squabbling that had plagued so much of the holidays.
In fact, I’m thinking of signing them up for lessons.
Naturally, I’d have to go along with them, just to make sure all was well. Who knows, next time I’m brave enough to skate, I’ll spend the entire time on my feet!
Jx
©2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Aussie Aussie Aussie
Cleavage and humidity do not play nice.
That’s just one of the conversation starters that cropped up this Australia Day.
We’d had the traditional discussion about changing the national flag, and the debate about becoming a republic, then it was down to the serious business of hitting the beach with family & friends.
With about 90% humidity by 9am, my cleavage and I thought it was a damned good idea.
So we packed the children, towels, umbrellas, shade shelta, sunscreen, hats, thongs, drinks, snacks and ice packs in the old car, along with a nifty little beach cricket set I picked up at the cheap & cheerful shop, and headed south. A little too far south, as a matter of fact, as in the heat of the discussion about patriotism my Beloved missed the turnoff and inadvertently joined the traffic bound for the freeway (proving once again that men cannot multitask the way a woman can).
If that wasn’t bad enough, he got a tad hot under the collar once his mistake was pointed out (no less than three times in direct relation to the number of other family members in the car) and forgot the flag sticking out the car window at the precise moment he wound it down. There was the ‘boxing kangaroo' waving its fist in farewell to us in the rearview mirror as we retraced our path up the Pacific Highway. Luckily we still had another flag poking out the other window and that was almost enough to keep the kids happy (and quiet) for the remaining ride to the beach.
That little incident aside, we proceeded to set up camp and have a great day beside the sea under the famous Aussie sun. After about 3 hours of frolicking in the sand and surf, we fired up the portable BBQ and settled in the shade for the traditional sausage sanga. There’s nothing quite like a burnt banger in a bun, complete with tomato sauce and healthy dose of sand.
Then after waiting the prerequisite 30 minutes after eating, it was another round of sunscreen and back to the sand for an all-in game of cricket (complete with Australian-flag-decorated bat). Happily, my back was feeling better than it had for days and I surprised everyone (myself included) by diving into the action trying to beat both boys and breakers to get the ball (our daughter was quite content to search for seashells, and the other mothers declined our invitation to join the game, for some reason). For me, the horrendous humidity took precedence over pride as I leaped and splashed about the beach in a bid to beat the heat.
It was only after I felt the sting of the sun through my multiple layers of UV protection, and the children (and husbands) were visibly dropping from all the excitement that we agreed it was time to head home, apparently taking half the beach with us in the back of the car (waiting for me to vacuum out the next day).
Sadly, there were two casualties from the excursion: my back started scolding me for being a little too ambitious in fielding wickets for the cricket… and my son suffered bright stripes of sunburn from where the zinc cream stopped after he refused to wear his hat after one too many dunkings in salt water.
As we all rolled into bed after celebrating our national day the Aussie way, we started making plans to continue the tradition for same time, same place, on the 26th January 2011.
But maybe next year, to paraphrase another seagoing individual: we're gonna need a bigger umbrella.
Jx
©2010
That’s just one of the conversation starters that cropped up this Australia Day.
We’d had the traditional discussion about changing the national flag, and the debate about becoming a republic, then it was down to the serious business of hitting the beach with family & friends.
With about 90% humidity by 9am, my cleavage and I thought it was a damned good idea.
So we packed the children, towels, umbrellas, shade shelta, sunscreen, hats, thongs, drinks, snacks and ice packs in the old car, along with a nifty little beach cricket set I picked up at the cheap & cheerful shop, and headed south. A little too far south, as a matter of fact, as in the heat of the discussion about patriotism my Beloved missed the turnoff and inadvertently joined the traffic bound for the freeway (proving once again that men cannot multitask the way a woman can).
If that wasn’t bad enough, he got a tad hot under the collar once his mistake was pointed out (no less than three times in direct relation to the number of other family members in the car) and forgot the flag sticking out the car window at the precise moment he wound it down. There was the ‘boxing kangaroo' waving its fist in farewell to us in the rearview mirror as we retraced our path up the Pacific Highway. Luckily we still had another flag poking out the other window and that was almost enough to keep the kids happy (and quiet) for the remaining ride to the beach.
That little incident aside, we proceeded to set up camp and have a great day beside the sea under the famous Aussie sun. After about 3 hours of frolicking in the sand and surf, we fired up the portable BBQ and settled in the shade for the traditional sausage sanga. There’s nothing quite like a burnt banger in a bun, complete with tomato sauce and healthy dose of sand.
Then after waiting the prerequisite 30 minutes after eating, it was another round of sunscreen and back to the sand for an all-in game of cricket (complete with Australian-flag-decorated bat). Happily, my back was feeling better than it had for days and I surprised everyone (myself included) by diving into the action trying to beat both boys and breakers to get the ball (our daughter was quite content to search for seashells, and the other mothers declined our invitation to join the game, for some reason). For me, the horrendous humidity took precedence over pride as I leaped and splashed about the beach in a bid to beat the heat.
It was only after I felt the sting of the sun through my multiple layers of UV protection, and the children (and husbands) were visibly dropping from all the excitement that we agreed it was time to head home, apparently taking half the beach with us in the back of the car (waiting for me to vacuum out the next day).
Sadly, there were two casualties from the excursion: my back started scolding me for being a little too ambitious in fielding wickets for the cricket… and my son suffered bright stripes of sunburn from where the zinc cream stopped after he refused to wear his hat after one too many dunkings in salt water.
As we all rolled into bed after celebrating our national day the Aussie way, we started making plans to continue the tradition for same time, same place, on the 26th January 2011.
But maybe next year, to paraphrase another seagoing individual: we're gonna need a bigger umbrella.
Jx
©2010
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