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
Tuesday, August 11, 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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