Incy Wincy

I wish my bladder would respect my bedtime.

Not long ago- and not for the first time- there I was, middle of winter in the middle of the night, facing a big and hairy scary thing when I should have been snug as a bug in bed.

I was under the false apprehension that creepy crawlies had gone into hibernation for the wintertime.  And since it had been a mighty cold winter, I, like other ophidiophobes (and arachnophobes) was feeling relatively confident that we wouldn't be crossing paths anytime soon.

My mistake.

On a regular trip to the wheelie bin with some household waste I encountered an eerie little 8 legged critter residing right under the lid I lifted. And despite the chill in the air, and the aforementioned myth that the larger species of snakes and spiders go to sleep in the winter, 

I can assure you, Incy Wincy it wasn't!

I don't know who was more startled- or indeed who moved faster- Mr Hairylegs or me. Might've been a dead heat, actually. Moving in opposite directions, of course.

So you can appreciate my reaction on a night-time trip to the toilet not long afterwards.

I don't know about you but when nature calls in the night, I try not to wake anyone else. I crawl out of bed, tiptoe around to the ensuite bathroom, and ever so quietly slide the door open and shut, lift the lid and go about my business. I even installed a phosphorescent toilet seat so I can be guided by the glow to where I need to go. Saves turning on the light. Saves a bit of my power bill.

There is a downside to this, as I have previously discovered.

My Beloved, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Throws the covers off, rolls out of bed, slams open the sliding door, slams it shut again, flings up the toilet seat, and goes about his business. Then slams everything shut again and bounces back into bed; almost bouncing me out the other side (note to self: we REALLY need a new mattress).

After recent events I won't be quite so diligent.

Usual story, I am rudely awakened from unconscious bliss by my bladder, but being chilly I chuck on my slippers before hitting the tiles. I head into the bathroom when I spy out of the corner of my still half-asleep eyes, a dark fuzzy shape on the floor by the bowl. So, slipper in hand, I most valiantly and enthusiastically kill....my hair elastic.

Yep I well and truly whacked the crap out of a hair band that had in fact fallen out of my hair en route to the loo in the dark. But I am proud to report not a single squeak came from my mouth during the entire episode (thankfully, none of my other body parts betrayed themselves either).

Not that it matters, as my Beloved has been known to sleep through thunderstorms, phone calls, fire alarms, one time he even slept soundly as a neighbour banged on the window right above his head!  And how many times did he wake refreshed in the morning after I'd been up all night with a crying baby. Must be part of the Y chromosome, as it's a skill set most fathers seem to possess (leaving most mothers saying: "Why?!")

It's just as well I am not one of those helpless females who need their white knight to ride to her rescue when it comes to creepy crawlies. Or anything that goes bump in the night, for that matter. Many a time I have ventured forth from the bedroom to investigate a mysterious sound without  a man to hide behind. In fact my man is behind in bed, no doubt being all brave and manly in dreamland!

Yes, yes, I know the number one rule of horror films: don't go out there alone. But sometimes you don't have the choice (and happy to say most times, there isn't any bogeyman waiting in the wings).

Spiders, though, that's another story.

I've often encountered the little critters on their night-time hunting, while I do the protector thing and check on my children.  I even keep a can of spray handy for times I need to defend life and limb as quietly as possible (after all, this is Australia, home to some of the world's most poisonous species).

But I've never had to kill a hair band before.

Chance are, I never will again.

Jx

©2012

Mirror Mirror

Our family bathroom has a mirror that measures roughly 5 feet along and 3 feet high.

It’s a beauty.

All I can say is that the previous owner/builder of the property must have had slight narcissistic tendencies, but I’m not going to complain; not when there’s enough space to stand two children and a husband side by side at the sink with enough elbow room to avoid small scale conflicts.

Most of the time.

But any time I attempt to utilize the thing myself, I swear there is toothpaste covering every square inch of it! I know- I’ve just cleaned the thing again. And no one seems to see it but me…

There are a lot of home truths I’ve learnt since bringing my babies home:

1. Boys smell*. They really do. And no amount of washing, changing, and deodorizing seems to keep it at bay for any great length of time. Must be that Y chromosome.

2. Children are under the impression that being bored is the same thing as being hungry. It doesn’t matter if they’ve just eaten you out of house and home and have just sat through the latest family friendly feature film…they are like a crevasse in living form.

3. Kids are also under the assumption that Colonel Sanders makes toilet paper, as they seem to expect a ‘magic barrel’ with a neverending supply. As a friend of mine says: there is nothing that can come out of a human bottom to require that much paper to clean it. But apparently both she and I are wrong.

And

4. One small pea-size squirt of toothpaste (as recommended by dentists everywhere) can create enough white specks to cover previously mentioned 5 x 3 foot mirror! (And have you ever noticed that it doesn’t matter what colour the toothpaste is going in, it always comes out white?)

Luckily I’ve also discovered some nifty new wipes designed specifically for mirrors and glass-fronted furniture that promise to get “rid of streaks and leave your glass and mirror surfaces sparkling”. Unfortunately, there’s no guarantee that these wonder wipes will also leave an invisible coating of something akin to Teflon™ so that next time the offspring are on dental duty any sprays will simply go away.

Of course it doesn’t help matters that on the last visit to the dentist the nurse gave the “helpful” suggestion that - in order to brush teeth correctly every time- one should give ten decent ‘flicks’ in every direction. Now, you and I both know that by definition of ‘direction’ that she meant top, bottom, and side to side, in order to ensure every little nook and cranny and wobbly tooth gets a look in. Seems my children took her literally and literally flick the toothpaste in every direction!

I kid you not, this time it was even on the fluorescent light above the mirror!

Anyways, at least the entire bathroom region is looking spick and span and shiny again, thanks to my nifty new wipes. But I bet not one of the aforementioned family members will notice.

Now all I need to do is finish scrubbing the toilet bowls which also seem to be almost permanently sporting splatter no matter how clean I try to keep them (*see point #1 above), and replace yet another toilet roll.

Before I get back into it, I’ll just leave you with one of my favourite jokes of all time, which I think you’ll agree ties in rather nicely with the topic.


Sister Mary Margaret bursts into Mother Superior’s office with the complaint that the kids have been at it again and the boys’ toilet in particular was in a shocking state:

“The little devils have been having yet another competition about who can get highest up the wall above the urinal! I had to send for the cleaner yet again, and just as we were going back to tidy up the stinky streams, more of the bedeviled little creatures were in there having another contest."

“And what did you do?“ asked Mother Superior

“I hit the roof!!”

Jx
©2011

Flat Out

There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for…it just might come true.

As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.

But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.

10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.

And I’m fast running out of ideas here.

I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.

So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.

This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.

Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.

If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.

With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.

To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).

I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)

It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.

After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.

Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.

Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.

With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).

And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.

Jx
©2010

All That Glitters

I was a bit of a tomboy growing up.

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

But I do like bright shiny things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jx
©2009

Two-Thirty

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was my turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*sigh*

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

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

Jx
©2009

Trick or Treat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talk about famous last words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He swears he's shuddering still...

Jx
©2009

The Not-So-Wicked Stepmother

It took me ten years to become a mum.

But less than one before I was launched into the alien world of adolescence.

Because, even before my first-born was born, I was thrust onto planet parenthood with the arrival in our household of my stepson, then aged 9.

If being a mother is one of the hardest jobs in the world, I can tell you a stepmother’s lot is a whole lot harder.

Aside from the obvious difference between a birth and a ‘blended’ parent, just look at the bad rap stepmothers have been given over the years. She’s invariably cast as the villain in the piece in all the classic fairytales and plays from writers like the Brothers Grimm, Shakespeare…even the ancient Greek playwright Euripides who lived way back in 480-406 BC is quoted as saying: "Better a serpent than a stepmother!" Boo, Hissssssss.

And I’m holding Disney personally responsible for a lot of it: just look at their adaptations of Cinderella, Snow White, even “Enchanted” features the classic ‘Wicked Stepmother’ character. She's usually ugly too, just to add insult to injury (although Susan Sarandon is still gorgeous at age 63, if you ask me)!

Kinda makes it tough on the rest of us in that role.

To make it even harder, my stepson was told he didn’t have to listen to me since I wasn’t his ‘real’ mother (no prizes for guessing who gave him that helpful little piece of advice). So I found myself resorting to the age-old trick of parenthood in any guise: reverse psychology. If I wanted him to do something, I simply said for him not to. You can’t argue with that (even if one does have O.D.D.).

But being a stepmother can also make it simpler to deal with certain conversations and situations that can make a biological parent cringe. Since we’re “the bad guy” anyway, we may as well blunder in where others dare to tread.

Like with the facts of life.

When my stepson came to live with us, he had no clue whatsoever about the differences between men and women, let alone where babies come from. And since I was pregnant at the time, a crash course in sex education was definitely on the cards.

Here I pause and reflect upon my Beloved’s insightful and informative approach. It went something like: girls don’t have the bits boys have and so girls have the babies. And left it at that. Naturally I had to step in and explain a few things, especially since he was in the delivery room with us barely minutes after my son was born. Yes, seeing me in all my glory (complete with Grumpy-the-Dwarf nightshirt and wearing a sick-bowl as a party hat) certainly brought him up to speed. And how.

Fast forward a few years and my 16 y.o. stepson has moved back to his mother. You can imagine my utter delight when he informs me that his also 16 y.o. girlfriend spends nearly every night with him in his caravan, so I straight up asked if they were practicing safe sex. He did the ‘Aw shutup’ thing and denied it, but I pressed ahead anyway: “Just make sure you use protection, because the last thing you need at your age is a baby, ok? Or a disease!” I got the distinct impression that no one else had been game enough to venture forth on the topic, so we chatted about it a bit. When I later related the conversation to my Beloved, he kinda blushed (god love him) and said “I’m glad he’ll talk to you about stuff like that.”

He also says he prefers me to take him for driving lessons over anyone else because apparently I don’t yell at him anywhere near as much as the others do. I told him I’m saving my breath lest I need it for screaming. (He thinks I’m kidding.) Mind you, it’s a little scary when he’s laughing so much he can’t keep the car going in a straight line. (I never realized just how handy those little straps above the window really are, until now.)

Yes it’s certainly a different kind of parenting when there’s a “step” involved. But if you’re lucky you can develop a special kind of relationship, in spite of the odds.

And so, back to my original point about stepmothers and the reputation we’ve been given over the centuries, maybe we’re really not so wicked in the traditional sense, more like “wikkid” in the way that perhaps only a teenager can appreciate.

I’m hanging out for the day Disney makes a movie with that kind of happy ending.

Let’s just hope it comes out well before I become a wicked stepgrandmother…

*cackles*

Jx
©2009

D. I. Why?

There are a lot of professions for which I have the utmost regard: emergency service crews... medical health professionals... teachers... oh and the people who install car window tinting.

Seriously, anyone who’s ever tried to apply any adhesive covering to children’s school books will know the utter frustration of first aligning then affixing the fiddly stuff to the surface without leaving telltale bubbles below. It's a bad enough look on books, so who wants to drive around with the reminder of your incompetence staring you in the face every time you looked out the window (mind you, I have seen many many people who do).

If you have the same pale skin that my children and I do (bordering on albino), it’s not an auto fashion accessory as much as a flesh’s necessity.

And I have no qualms at all about paying someone to do the job for me.

But my Beloved, being a typical male, is positive that he can do it himself (I call it the DIY Chromosome), so off we go to the auto accessory shop and pick up a packet of tint.

Well, as soon as he took the roll out of the box I knew I was in for an afternoon’s entertainment.

So I put the kettle on to fix myself a cuppa tea, grabbed a magazine, and took up a position in the yard with a good view of the carport.

There was my Beloved, trying carefully to unroll the tint in order to cut off enough to cover the first window. “Do you think it would be wise to measure the window first and just cut off what you need?” I ask from my perch on the patio. “This is quicker” says he from somewhere under a metre of coloured plastic.

And it was- if you consider the speed with which the roll slipped from his fingers and disappeared under the car, unravelling as it went.

After a number of comments I couldn’t possibly print here, he managed to gather the tint, cut off a section of approximate length, successfully peeled off the backing paper, then set about applying to the auto glass.

Long story short, it was back to the auto shop to pick up another pack, and home again to try once more.

This time he got the tint off the backing paper and onto the window.

Unfortunately he also managed to capture the entire supply of oxygen in the air surrounding him, leaving enough bubbles under the tinting to give one the distinct impression of looking at the world through a bottle of Coca Cola®.

Determined not to be defeated by a packet of plastic, it was a round trip to the shops once more.

Anyway…

After the third attempt, my Beloved gathered up the wreckage, tossed it all in the garbage can, and leaving the still untinted car windows, stalked past me into the house muttering: “We will never speak of this again.”

And we haven’t.

Until now.


1989 Mazda ... c.$2700.00
3 packets of tint ... $149.97
An afternoon spent watching my Beloved try to apply it ... Priceless!


Jx
©2009

Batteries Not Included

At the risk of sounding old here, things sure have changed since I was a kid.

Give us some chalk, a flat concrete surface, and other minor props, and we could entertain ourselves for hours… hopscotch, handball, even just letting our imagination run riot and create temporary masterpieces on the family carport.

It was humble, but we were happy.

And wasn’t mum happier still when the rain would eventually wash the canvas clean, given some of our artwork.

Yes when I was young, even the girls were content to take toy cars to school and we spent hours in the playground creating roads, housing estates, and entire back-stories for the little pencil-eraser-people we shoved into any cars with opening doors. (The boys, on the other hand, were more intent on seeing how many they could simply smash!)

And now- smack bang in the middle of the school holidays- I am reminded yet again how different life is, and these days almost every kid I know is completely ensconced in some electronic device. To the point where some might just have to have them surgically removed!

Unfortunately, they all seem to need to own said gaming gear, lest they miss out on a vital part of childhood and do irreparable damage to their developing psyches.

Oh and heaven forbid you buy the wrong one- it can instantly ostracise your child in the playground, and potentially lead to years of therapy. That’s despite the fact that the average game console costs the equivalent of a small car, and the price of a single game is more than what we used to get in a whole year of pocket money!

My Beloved and I held off as long as we could in getting a new console, using the excuse that the good ol’ PlayStation® had life in her yet. And she did, but naturally chose the exact period our son had another lengthy stay at hospital and home, to finally expire. (Lucky for us, it coincided with a mighty good ‘runout’ special on a PS2® and we were back in business.)

Now, as much as I hate to admit it (and here I go showing my age again), there are certain games that I just cannot figure out for the life of me - or for even my 5 or 6 'lives' granted to complete the virtual quest. (I am convinced though, that some of the characters are suicidal masochists in the way they insist on launching themselves off every available ledge or into the path of every incoming missile, or at least they always do whenever I’m playing.)

Mind you, it’s not just the little boys who love their toys. My Beloved is every bit as addicted as the younger ones, and just as competitive too. He has even resorted to commandeering the console and practicing his moves while I am busy packing our progeny off to bed, just so he can rub it in next time they meet on the multimedia. Or at least give them a good run for their money.

I must also confess that after one too many humiliations at the hands of my family, I happily if not humbly retreat to my laptop to squeeze in a few rounds of ‘FreeCell’. Sure that little King watches my every move (in our version), but at least he doesn’t laugh uproariously at me when I lose.

*sigh*

Give me a stick of chalk anyday...

Jx
©2009

Mobile Mania

Some people should not be allowed to get gadgets.

No really, I mean that.

While it is often said that men are more mathematically minded and can therefore grasp technical stuff better than women on average…and let’s face it, the male to female ratio in most IT departments usually falls in favour of the fellas; but when it comes to certain types of technology, often it’s the boys who do not play well together.

Take my Beloved; while not technically a technophobe, he’s more of a technofool.

See, I’ve had the same handset for almost the entire 2 years of our mobile phone contract. Sure it’s a little outdated now, and doesn’t have all the bells and whistles or the full Qwerty keyboard tidily tucked under a flip top lid, but at least it stills works.

In that same 2 years, my Beloved, on the other hand, has managed to kill at least three phones to my one.

We have had death by chocolate (yes take it from me, it is never a good idea to keep chocolate bars in the same pocket as your phone, especially on really hot days); another one fell off the back of a truck (and I’m not talking about a bargain here…); and perhaps my personal favourite- not waving, drowning (always remember to remove phone from the dirty laundry before it goes into the washing machine.) You have no idea what it was like having him remember it after the front loader had started -and the door auto lock kicked in- then simply having to watch it go round and round, clunking and thunking for the full cycle.

We’ve also known males who have tossed the thing clean out the car window while shooing flies as they drove, another lost one in the lake as he tried to snap a picture of a fish (talk about the one that got away!); with bonus points to the mate who was merrily throwing sticks in the creek for the dog to fetch whilst chatting on the ‘phone at the same time, and somehow forgot which hand was holding what… (I’m sure you can figure out what happened next- see Spot run indeed)!

But let me tell you, if the Australian cricket team had seen my Beloved in action the day the phone slipped out of his top pocket while he answered the call of nature, he’d be selected for sure!

With all these mobile moments fresh in my mind, I bit the bullet and forked out for one of those almost indestructible numbers- the Samsung B2700.

I’d heard about these rugged buggers that were the choice of tradies and truckies, I was just a little afraid of the price of them- it seemed an awful lot of money to risk on something so small, especially in the hands of my Beloved.

But now I’m wishing we’d bought one years ago- probably would’ve saved ourselves a lot in the long run.

It says on the box that it is “Robust, Durable, Stylish”; it’s dust and water resistant, with special Anti-shock cover that meets US Military Standards. And the guy at the shop promised me his mate hasn’t been able to kill one yet.

Hey, if it’s good enough for the US Military (not to mention the tech shop’s salesman’s mate), it should be good enough for my Beloved. We can live in hope anyway.

So we buy it and bring it home.

After 4 hours waiting for the battery to charge, and what seemed like another hour for me to programme the thing, my Beloved put down the Guitar Hero® and picked up his new handset to admire his specially customised theme and sound settings. I even Bluetoothed a few of our favourite photos and ringtones across from my phone to his, just so it’d feel familiar.

So you can imagine my reaction when he pressed the wrong button in answer to a request on the screen of his new device, and in one fell swoop restored the factory settings and undid all my hard work. Just like that.

Ah, the wonders of modern technology.

Now if only they could design a foolproof fella to go with it...

Jx
©2009

Driving Myself Crazy

I have decided that there is no such thing as the perfect car.

At least, I haven’t found it yet and I’ve been searching for the past four months. Perhaps it’s just not in our budget.

What I have found is a bunch of lemons that could never make lemonade even with all the sugar in the world.

I have also found some of the dodgiest car dealers that ever prowled the planet.

Sad to say, there’s a good reason that used car salesmen keep turning up in lists of professions we trust the least.

Aside from the misguided males who seem to think that a female isn’t interested in anything aside from the colour when it comes to choosing a car, I have also come across the fellas who actually believe that you’ll fall for their charms and buy the first vehicle they show you, even though it’s the wrong size, wrong shape, and definitely the wrong price.

And just quietly, I’ve found that if you know more about the car than the ones trying to sell it to you, it’s time to take the exit ramp.

So there’s been a lot of desktop research going on, not only to narrow the selection for the next family bandwagon, but also what to look out for once you take the next step and set foot on the lot.

Oh and there’s nothing like taking a car for a test drive to strengthen the bonds of the family ties.

Yes, the times I have managed to drag my Beloved and offspring along to check out a likely contender, it’s taken twice as long to get the specs on the car, let alone start talking turkey about buying the thing. If it’s not the kids dashing off in different directions exploring every open door in the showroom, it’s my Beloved spotting something else entirely across the lot and throwing that one into the mix, just to add to the confusion.

Mind you, I have discovered that having the kids tag along can work wonders with any less-than-up-front salesmen…they’re usually so keen to see the back of you all that the usual sales-talk game-playing is kept to a minimum and they’ll tell you what you need to know pretty quickly.

On the flipside, it’s hard to haggle over the trade-in when your children blow your bluff about how good your car really is. No good telling the dealer it runs like a dream when the kids in their inherent honesty remind you about that clunking sound it makes.

After all that, even if you find something that suits, ya gotta go with the to-ing and fro-ing of the figures as both sides try to get the most out of their money. And can I tell you how frustrating it is to get “this close” to driving home the deal, only to reach a roadblock where neither side will move any more.

It’s almost as bad as finding your dream car described on one of those car sales sites, and then finding out it’s sold before you even picked up the phone.

Oh yeah, 4 months is a long time in the search for the perfect car.

But I’ll keep walking the walk and talking the talk and we will hopefully reach a satisfactory conclusion before one or both of our current modes of transportation break down once and for all and leave us stranded somewhere even the roadside assistance won’t wanna come (my Beloved and I are placing bets whose car will go first).

Best case scenario, I will finally win that elusive lottery and be able to simply cruise into the caryard of choice and take two, thanks, in matching colours, if you don’t mind.

Which reminds me, research on that has shown that I might have better luck if I actually bought a ticket once in a while…I only hope the car makes it to the newsagent to do so!

Jx
©2009

Art for Art's Sake

Today I went tattoo shopping with my friend.

I’m not talking about those water-based jobs you get with a stick of bubble gum; I mean the real deal: getting a tattoo artist to insert ink under the skin using an electric needle.

The only thing was my friend didn’t know who to do it, where to do it, or what she even wanted to do.

I’ve long considered getting a tattoo myself, but as I haven’t found a design that I’d be content to take to my grave, I am yet to allow someone else use my body as a canvas. (Mind you, I have 4 tatts already, if you count eyeliner, so I'm not that scared of the process.)

The other big decision is where exactly to put the thing. There’s a lot of talk about which part of the body looks best, hurts worst, and what sort of image will stand the test of time. (Last thing you wanna do is turn up at your nursing home with “we’re here for a good time not a long time” plastered across your wrinkled old hide.)

I would never put one anywhere near the buttock region. Aside from the indignity of having to drop one’s pants in a public place, the thought of having a stranger’s face that near my rear just doesn’t sit well with me.

I’ve heard that the stomach and inner hip are popular, but I’ve also heard the tale about the lass who got a dolphin done, gained a little weight and ended up with a whale.

I simply fail to see the point of getting your favourite image etched on your shoulder or down the bottom of your back. Despite the fact that they’re colloquially called ‘tramp stamps’, you’d need to be a contortionist to see it yourself, and isn’t that the reason you pick a picture- because you like it?!

Necks and arms might be hard to hide in certain social circumstances. I can just imagine my mother going every shade of red if I rocked up to a family function with the full sleeve job (one of my aunts discovered a little pink pig strategically placed upon her daughter when they were getting ready for a wedding and it was pretty much “wah wah wah” all the way home).

The best value tattoo I think would be one in the vicinity of the chest, at least for females anyway. My theory is, it starts up here, give it a few years and it ends up down around your hip. Et voilà- two for the price of one!

But I’d never go there, for the reasons outlined above, about the bottom.

So you can see why I’m still only thinking about inking at this stage of the game.

But my friend is ready and raring to go, and so we hit the trail of the local tattoo parlours to see what they offered, and how.

First place we went into gave me an instant headache. While signs everywhere declared that drugs and alcohol were not permitted on the premises, their standards weren’t obviously as strict when it came to bodily odours and death-metal music.

Trying to stand upwind of the crew alongside us checking out the portfolios of pictures, I came to the conclusion that even if the perfect pic did jump out at me, I couldn’t possibly stand the sounds screaming out of the speakers for the time it would take to do the tattoo. So I for one wouldn’t be lining up for any artwork there. My friend came to the same conclusion, with the bonus of being more than a little concerned about the choice between baring her butt to some fairly large fairly hairy gentlemen, or a lady of questionable sexual preferences. She chose to go with none of the above.

The next place was cleaner and quieter, but the artists seemed to be computer geeks taking a plunge into grunge- only with an ‘80s backing track- so the atmosphere was a little odd to say the least.

It was third time lucky at the next tattoo studio. Not only was it clean and bright and smelt like it met all the OH&S criteria, but my friend finally found the piece of art that said it all (and worked out where to say it too). In spite of the manager’s warning that screaming was not allowed during the procedure, she booked an appointment, and then booked me to come along for moral support. How well she handles it may be the deciding factor whether I continue my search for an image to grace my skin. Or not.

And despite my Beloved not being overly fond of the idea of me getting a tattoo too, he did come up with a suggestion…

He said that if I truly wanted to do something about global warming, I could get a little sapling scrawled across my butt. His exact words were: “as you get older and fatter, the tree will grow and that’s gotta be good for the environment.”

If he’s not careful, he’ll find himself with a permanent mark of his own- the imprint of my boot on his backside. I wouldn’t even charge him for the privilege.

Jx
©2009

Cinderfella

I’d like to refute recent findings that Australian men make the worst husbands when it comes to housework.

I’d like to … but I can’t.

See, my Beloved comes from a long line of folk who expect the woman to do the housework while the man does the breadwinner thing. (But he can never remember to bring bread home though, can he?)

And so he’s of the opinion that he works such long hours he shouldn’t be expected to turn around and do any work once he comes home, not even on weekends. Whereas since I am currently unemployed again (thanks to that car accident), I really have nothing better to do than wander round with a duster, apparently.

According to the British research, Aussie blokes don’t like helping out around the house, and are less likely than any other country in the study to offer to do the chores.

Now not having been married to any man from Norway (the best in the survey), the UK, USA, the Netherlands, Ireland, Sweden, Spain, New Zealand, Japan, Germany, not even Austria (unless you're a little dyslexic), I cannot comment on how domesticated those male creatures might be.

I only know that most men of the Terra Australis variety verily and merrily support the findings.

Now, I’m not complaining really, well ok just a little. But with good reason. In the hours that my Beloved is not out there earning the family income, he is either asleep, or off in some virtual reality of a computer game. And I have to be feeling particularly brave to ask him for some help (even if it’s something I have trouble doing, thanks to a bad back).

So I did a little experiment recently. After I had been accused once too often of “doing nothing around here” … nothing is in fact what I did. Only as far as matters pertaining purely to him, mind you.

I still bought and prepared the food, dutifully packed and unpacked the dishwasher and did the other washing up by hand, and also ran the kids’ school clothes through the washer and dryer as needed. I still wiped down the basins, bath and shower, and scrubbed the yukky bits off the toilet bowls as needed; I also emptied the rubbish and recycling, and picked up and packed up all the detritus that comes with kids; I simply left his clothing to fold itself (I did wash it for him though, couldn’t help myself- there’s nothing quite like the aroma of sweat and diesel fuel to urge one towards the washer).

I also refused to do any extra duties, like yard work, changing lightbulbs, or stuff like that.

Two weeks later, guess whose clothes are still sitting in the laundry baskets where I had dumped them? Or to be more precise, I should say whose clothes are sitting all around said baskets- since someone has been in there foraging for something to wear.

And guess who’s been caught out flicking a light switch with no response too many times to count? Same person who has tripped over the lawnmower sitting in the exact same spot it was left a fortnight before.

Grrrrr.

Seems my little experiment backfired on me, didn’t it. And it’s looking highly likely that the sight of this avalanche of laundry will force me to do something about it after all.

Along with the rest of the stuff I “never do around here”.

All I need now’s a couple of ugly stepsisters and the fairytale’s complete.

Oh well, at least I feel I’ve well and truly proved the story about Aussie men and their lack of enthusiasm about housework. So I can do the “I told you so” dance to my heart’s content, if ever my Prince Charming takes me to the ball.

Hmmm.

Maybe in my next life my Fairy Godmother will send me a nice, single, Norwegian fella instead.

Jx
©2009

Of Mice and Women

Who was that cartoon cat that said “I hate meeces to pieces”?

I’d like to shake his, er, paw. Because I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Yes every year, ‘round about now, the local mice population decides to relocate en masse into our ceiling. And so every night at this time of year, I am serenaded by the sound of scratch scratch scratch within the walls.

Now I don’t begrudge them wanting to come in from the cold. I wouldn’t like to be raising my family out there in the backyard either. But unlike the mice, we work hard to earn money to put a roof over our head. We don’t just try to freeload off somebody else’s shelter.

And unlike the mice, I don’t feel the need to disturb all the occupants of the abode while making my bed.

The first inkling that our annual visitors were en route came about 2 weeks ago, and I haven’t managed a decent night’s sleep since.

There I was, deeply dreaming about … well, um, we don’t really need to go there do we… suffice to say I was deep in sleep when suddenly and inexplicably, the man of my dreams started to scratch himself. In a most undignified manner too, I might add. Even in full flight of fancy I found the behaviour a little odd and was none too impressed to be dragged out of fantasy into reality where the man was gone, but the scratching continued.

I stared blankly at the blackness trying to establish what the sound was and from whence it came. I then tried the element of surprise by flicking on the light with hopes of scaring anything away that was in the room. Sadly no, the tactic was not a success and that damn scratching continued. I realised it was going to be full-blown warfare as the enemy had obviously bunkered down above my head.

Cursing that the rotten rodents had the upper hand this time, I made a mental note to bring out the big guns the following night. (I also tried to make as much noise as possible in the daytime to disturb their sleep, but it doesn’t seem to have the same effect on them.)

Daylight saw me digging out the traditional set-and-forget mousetrap; the wooden base thing with deadly steel spring that would snap shut on any hapless creature trying to score a free meal. After many attempts to fix the thing without doing damage to my fingers in the meantime, the trap was set. All we had to do was wait for nightfall to come.

6 hours later I silently cheered as I heard the distinctive snap of the trap.

4 hours after that I was muttering about sneaky little so & so’s and their lucky escape.

Mice: 1, Jo: zero.

Next I bought some of those heave-and-leave poison packs, and we scattered them in the crawl space above.

Seems our resident mice have more selective taste than that, and not a single rat sack was even sniffed at, 2 days later.

Mice: 2, Jo: zip.

So it was back to the hardware store discussing my options with the helpful 12 year old who was on deck that day (well he seemed about 12 anyway), I purchased a couple of the newer mouse-friendly plastic traps. This, I don’t get, as isn’t the whole idea to mercilessly eradicate the little blighters?! Nonetheless, feeling sure that my actions would not be frowned upon if by chance anyone from PETA stopped by unannounced, it was home again to prepare the traps, this time using peanut butter as the bait- a supposed "guaranteed" way to catch any pests that dared pilfer the proffered foodstuff (try saying that quickly three times)!

After another scratching session through the wee small hours, I went to check the traps to see how they fared.

The sound of plastic being dragged across the floor should’ve prepared me.

There, looking like the most sorrowful little caricature one could imagine, was a teeny weeny little mouse entrapped by one teeny tiny toe it seemed, trying to make good its escape from the kitchen with trap in tow.

After trying to shield the pitiful little critter from the prying eyes of two small children and a dog, I called for my Beloved to take the pathetic little thing outside to release it. After calling me every kind of wuss under the sun, he did.

I’ll give you one guess who came back that night for a joyful family reunion that seemed to progress from one end of the house to the other, from dusk ‘til dawn.

Mice: 3, Jo: zilch.

It was at this point that I discovered a much better way to invest my money in this perpetual rodent rebellion, and I’m happy to say that last night at least, I didn’t hear a thing.

And so Mr Jinks, I totally concur with your summation of the situation whenever Pixie and Dixie were around: I too, hate meeces to pieces. But I’m lovin’ my new earplugs!

Jx
©2009

Recipe for Disaster

Oh I know he means well.

And I know that old adage that "it’s the thought that counts".

But sometimes I just have to wonder what exactly is going on in that brain of my Beloved.

Especially when it comes to food.

OK so he doesn’t go as far as wearing a kitschy ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron or anything that implies he actually knows what he’s doing. But each time he’s let loose anywhere near a kitchen it’s like the Masterchefs in reverse. Only nowhere near as organised to start out with.

For instance, our first date.

Wisely and thankfully he chose to treat me to someone else’s gourmet genius that time, as I‘m not sure I’d have lived to tell the tale otherwise.

Now, usually one is trying to impress the other party on such an auspicious occasion. You go to great lengths to make yourself look good, smell good, sound good, and try desperately hard not to do anything to dispell the myth that you are good at everything.

So, why, I ask you, would you order the red curry at the Indian restaurant?

Yes, I’m afraid any chance of romance goes out the window when you are busy chugging a jug of beer after a generous first forkful of your main meal.

Even the priciest personal hygiene products and a restaurant’s entire supply of serviettes cannot compete with full body perspiration in full swing.

And any pretence of politeness doesn’t stand a chance in the face of such obvious discomfort, as I tried to cover my laughter by sipping my drink, which in a show of karma went down the wrong way, almost causing me to choke to death.

All I can say is ours is obviously a love to last a lifetime, as here we are still together some 20 years later, with many moons and many meals in between.

See, not content to just impress me as a cool calm customer of the epicurean kind, my Beloved has also, over the years, attempted to show how hot he is on the other side of the hotplate.

To date, his culinary clangers include: a pot pie where the pot became part of the pie, so well was it cooked.

Using vanilla essence instead of parisian essence whilst attempting to reproduce his grandmother’s homemade gravy.

How about Sticky Date well and truly stuck to the plate?

Or, when aiming for some father-son time in the kitchen by making anzac biscuits for Anzac Day…well let’s just say the troops from the local fire brigade were on standby for any subsequent attempts at bonding through baking (which fortunately were few and far between).

These days I try to steer him towards recipes of the no-bake variety, and even they can get out of control (turning a mild-mannered man into a rampaging Ramsay). Last time he dug out the frypan, our small son was heard to exclaim “so, these are pancakes, except they look different and taste different.”

And since it’s supposed to be the rule in our house that whoever makes the meal gets to sit back and relax afterwards (which, funnily enough only seems to work when anyone else has done the work), guess who gets the pleasure of tidying up the kitchen? (Once I can find it, that is.) I must confess that there have been times when it has been far easier to throw out and replace equipment than hold out any hope that it can be used again in the manner for which it was intended.

Plus I have now made sure that there is none of that brown glass cookware so favoured by bachelors, left in our house, ever since the explosion (I am sure my eardrums will come good again someday…at least I hope). It is indeed amazing just how many places baked beans can stick in your standard family kitchen.

Hark, do I hear the slow cooker coming out of the cupboard? Sounds like my cue to rescue the ladle from my loved one…

Bon Appétit all!

Jx
©2009

Pray, May I get some Privacy in the Privy?

Never, since I had children, have I been allowed to go to the bathroom in peace.

Not once, I tell you.

My Beloved, on the other hand, (along with the husbands of every other woman I know when the subject has come up in conversation) can do his ablutions in absolute privacy.

The man can even wallow in the bathtub reading a book for up to an hour undisturbed.

But, as soon as I even think about taking a shower or answering the call of Nature, the natural reaction of my children is to desperately need me for something that cannot possibly wait just a few minutes more.

Due to a design flaw (just one of the many) in our supposed award-winning-architect designed (read: male, in every sense of the word) house, if the doors to the Master bedroom and the family laundry are open simultaneously, the neighbours get a direct view into our room…and whatever’s going on in there at the time.

Worst time is first thing in the morning, when the kids duly deposit their dirty washing then just have to come into my room whilst I’m having a rinse. Yes, all too often I’ve been caught with a real ‘roo-in-the-headlights look as too late I realize my error in strutting out of the shower sans towel.

The same architect also thought it a good idea to install the type of window in the ensuite that if opened to let the steam out or fresh air in, enables the next door neighbours- and those next door to them- a clear view through too. I’m positive it’s not quite what the muppets meant when they sang about how you get to meet the people in your street, on those children’s TV shows. (Just quietly, I've never lived in the kind of neighbourhood where you meet the kind of people they do on a daily basis!)

Nonetheless, I am sure that the entire neighbourhood knows it whenever I’m ‘visiting the ladies’- if not for the aforementioned ludicrous layout, but by the accompanying “I am in the bathroom, please leave me be!” from me.

I actually started composing this blog in my head whilst parked upon the porcelain- to the strains of “Mu-um, he called me dumbhead!” and “Mu-um, can you fill up my water bottle?” and this particular chorus also included my Beloved at the door: “Are you in there? You’re wanted on the ‘phone.”

For goodness sake, let me pee in peace please!

But no, a quiet time on the pot is not my lot in life. Nor can I ever seek solitude in the shower. As for tranquility in the tub- forget about it.

So, again I pose the question: does a mother ever get some privacy in the privy?

Unfortunately every mum I’ve asked has the same answer, and it is not the same one to: Does a bear poop in the woods?!

Jx
©2009

Get a Haircut, and Get a Real Job!

One of my sisters is a hairdresser.

Why anyone would choose that profession is beyond me.

Oh don’t get me wrong, I admire the lads and lasses who work wonders for those who are follicularly challenged. I just don’t have the same skills as my sis when it comes to doing do’s. In fact I would be so honest as to admit that my big sister has more talent in her little pinky, than I possess in both hands combined!

Take my daughter, it's a battle to run a brush through her hair, let alone style it into something as simple as pony or piggy tails! Now, part of that’s her, part of that’s me, but even my little girl chose to lose some locks to reduce the time I have my hands in her hair. Wise move.

And here’s a good time to confess to having had an epiphany that I was indeed becoming my mum the day I threatened to whap my daughter on the head with the brush if she didn’t. sit. still!

But I can also thank my maternal gene pool for gifting us with the type of mane that simply will not be managed for any length of time; I’m yet to find an industrial strength hairspray that will hold our hair. (But at least I was consistent in my school photos- pick the kid in the class with the messy tresses and there you go.)

My son, too, has fairly unruly curls, but because he’s a boy he can get away with it looking like he just crawled out of bed. Truth be told, he probably did. (I know, some people pay a fortune for the bed head look, so at least we save money getting it for free!)

As for my Beloved, well his hair is the strangest I’ve ever seen. And I mean that in a nice way. Truly. It’s just a bit too much like a steel wool afro for my liking. Imagine Michael Jackson back in the day (may he RIP), crossed with a Brillo pad, and that’s kinda the hair we’re talking.

But after one too many comments à la “Hey Garfunkel, where’s Simon?” he figured it was time to put his life on the line and his hair in my hands (and all over the towel, the floor, the dog, the kids, down the front of me…) once again.

And so it was through ‘shear’ desperation (pun intended) he sat himself down in front of me last weekend, clippers in hand.

Now, if there’s one thing I insist before I do someone else’s hair, it's this: they have to brush it first. If that happens, there’s less tears all ‘round.

It was fairly obvious that he had not done so when the number 4 comb got stuck in there, and had him physically lifting his butt up off the chair every time I tried to pull it out.

And at this stage of the game with one side of his hair clipped and the other sticking up, he was looking kinda like that guy from Boney M (who puts a part in a ‘fro anyway, I ask you?)!

After much coaxing from me (and more than a little cursing from the man in question) we got the job done- only to watch in amusement and amazement as the local birdlife swooped in to carry off the clippings. I sure wouldn’t choose to use it to feather my nest (seriously, who wants a hairy backside?)

Now, there’s an old wives’ tale that if a bird steals your hair, you’ll go mad. But in my Beloved’s case, I’d say it was the birds that had to watch out- and I’m sure even the backyard cuckoos are a little more so after collecting his curls.

But I’m no birdbrain- I managed to get the clippers down to a number 2, so that despite the fact that he’ll be wearing a beanie to work for a good few nights yet to keep the chill off his newly rediscovered ears, at least none of us need to go through the harassment of hairdressing at home for a long while to come.

And despite my earlier comments about those who do this haircutting stuff for money, I'm thinking there could be something in it for me after all.

Next time my Beloved asks for a trim, I’ll try to remember to set up the video camera before I begin…I hear Funniest Home Videos pays big dollars for the kind of stuff I see for free.

Jx
©2009

Too much Testosterone...So little Time

If you logged onto my blog thinking you were in for some juicy news about a cougar-cub on the prowl, well I’m sorry to disappoint you- the story here is much more mundane, although you just might see some animal action if you read on…

We’re car-hunting at the moment. And hunting seems a close to appropriate word for it- it is a jungle out there in used car territory!

I’m also starting to think that the representatives selling these vehicles wouldn’t be entirely out of place wearing animal skins whilst beating their chests about how good a deal they’re doing you.

At the very least, they remind me of a pack of wild dogs chasing a scent.

I’m a big one when it comes to researching if we're about to outlay any significant amount of money. Partly because we never seem to have that kind of cash ready to go too early on in the piece; also because if I am going to hand over our hard-earned dollars, I want to make darn sure that someone else is going to work for it as well!

So I scour the motor vehicle classifieds, check out the Trading Post online, log onto the plethora of places that offer ‘realistic’ valuations on used cars, sign up for eNewsletters with the latest hot deals, and make the odd phone call to scout out the pedigreed from the mongrels before we go see who’s best in show.

But the other day, on impulse, I stopped in at a caryard I drive past on my way to work, and took a walk through the automotive graveyard (which should’ve tipped me off straight up as the whole arrangement kinda reminded me of carcasses around a kennel). There were cars in every body shape and size– sedan, hatchback, ute, 2, 4, and All-Wheel-Drives, and those funny little coupés and convertibles mostly driven by men who like to feel the wind in what hair they have left.

Anyway, not long after I entered this classic masculine domain, the dominant male in the pack came sniffing around:

"So, how can I help you today?"

(Um, I’m here to get my legs waxed, how do you think you can help me?) “Yesss, what can you tell me about this car?”

After much prowling and posturing, he proceeded to parley with me about the various pros and cons of the carcasses -I mean, cars- answered a few questions, got out a business card and then said the fatal words: “So bring your husband in with you and we’ll take it from there.”

Now if there’s ever been anything to raise my hackles, that’d be it.

I growled out a “Thankyou” and slunk back to my low-value trade-in.

See, my husband (God love him), though he possesses the XY gene that apparently automatically provides one with an encyclopaedic knowledge of all things motorised, has never been in "top gear" when it comes to the mechanical (mind you, he does bear a passing resemblance to Jeremy Clarkson in hair and height). He takes care of the basics, but is lacking a basic instinct when it comes to bargaining.

And when it comes to driving home a deal, my Beloved best take the passenger seat.

My husband squirms in said seat when I ask questions like “Is it a full-sized spare?”, “Do you have a fuel consumption comparison?”, and the good old conversation starter (or stopper, depending on the answer) “Why’s it for sale?”

And my Beloved is well and truly reaching for the door handle when it comes to fine-tuning; “So that’s with all the mats and plastics and tint included, yes?”

Therefore my husband knows if anyone in any way suggests that I bring him in to seal a deal, the writing's on the wall- and it's an obituary at that.

Nosirree, that certain car dealer might be top dog when it comes to his particular pack, but he found out it can be a real bitch to bargain with the one actually holding the purse strings.

So maybe there was the world’s best car deal waiting for me in that pokey little yard I still go past on an almost daily basis, but damned if I’ll be driving anything out of there.

And it looks like the hunt is to be continued…

Jx
©2009