50 Shades of...

If there is one thing that can strike fear in the heart of any woman, anywhere in the world, it is grey hair.

You only have to take a wander through the colour section at any store to see what a booming business it is to cover up any sign of that shade.

Genetically speaking, it was destined to happen.  My earliest memories of our older generation was a collection of dignified white and grey-haired ladies and gents. Not too many of the blue-rinse set. And not a single purple dye job to be seen. Not in our family any way.

My mother, the proud owner of classic titian tresses, was just one of the clan with a colour so rich it could never be reproduced by a bottle.

Red heads have been identified since around 1510 in their various forms: auburn, copper, strawberry blonde, ginger...and comes with a collection of nicknames, of varying shades of compliments too: Carrot top, Ranga, Ginger Ninja, and in Australia colloquially called "Blue". As we do.

Aside from being the rarest form of natural hair colour in the world, red heads have a lot of other interesting features: studies have supposedly shown that they are more tolerant of pain and require more anaesthetic to knock 'em out in the surgical theatre; the pale skin that comes with it makes them more susceptible to sunburn and skin cancer, yet gives them fewer wrinkles in their old age as a result; red heads are also traditionally known to have a temper to match their fiery tops, but there's no evidence to support this- unless you count the passionate temperaments of the people most often linked to that particular hair colour- the Celts.

Which brings me back to our clan. The recessive redheaded gene crops up at least every generation, and those of us who aren't red all over have natural highlights that money just can't buy.  I learnt this a long time ago when my oldest sister was in her apprentice hairdresser days and was determined to make me blonde. My date with the peroxide bottle just brought out the ginger underneath and I ended up having to go black to cover the mess we made.

That, and buy a few hats.

Now considering the average adult human head is home to about 120,000 hairs ... when they start to turn against their owner, that's a whole lotta grief!

So when genetics came to play and the grey turned up one day on top of mum, she decided to grow old gracefully and let nature - rather than hair colour- take its course.

As we've discussed here before, times have changed in just a single generation. These days the only shades of grey that are totally acceptable is the series of bestsellers by EL James. If it's being read in bed, it's ok. If it's on your head it's nowhere near as thrilling.

Because if you buy the hype, the hue of your hair has a lot to do with being 'hot'. Or not.

But while men get away with the Silver Fox tag, very much so, and you'll still see newsreaders and the like with grey hairs glinting in the studio lights. Not so the female offsider. Correct me if I'm wrong, but the age ratio is getting greater between the fellas at the desk compared with the ladies alongside. Seems as soon as they need a touch up on top, they're replaced by a younger model.

In fact the only shades of grey allowed on prime time TV belong to blokes.

Which is one of the reasons radio appeals to me so much. Doesn't matter about your hair colour, hell you can even show up in your pyjamas if needs be, as long as you show up! Dead Air is not a good sound, in any frequency.

And do not get me started on the schoolyard parade!

No wonder I'm so partial to hats.

Especially when I made the comment to another mother that I was considering giving up the ghost and going the way of my mum, letting my colour come through however it likes. Her response: "Oh no- Never give up!"  Mind you, this was the same mum who commented on how grey my Beloved has become around the temples in the years since kids joined us: "What have you done to him??" (Hey, he's grey for the same reason I am...the aforementioned kids!)  Funny how there was no suggestion he reach for the dye bottle. 

Looks like he's on his way to Silver Foxism himself. Better hope he isn't in the market for a younger model.

So it seems I, along with women the world over, will be keeping the hair colour companies in business for a while yet.

Then for the times I can't afford a dye job, I'll be supporting hat makers too.

And just quietly, I think EL James et al have given grey a shady reputation, in more ways than one.

Jx

©2012

Guerillas in the Mist

I've been letting off some steam.

Literally.

After more than 2 years of having gym membership I have finally figured out where 1) the sauna and steam room are, and 2) how to use them.

I'm not slow.

Truth be told, I was unable to use the gym for a good 18 months after my surgical mishap, and for the same reason I was stiff and sore after attempting a full day's work. So I decided to soldier on, and enlist the aid of the kids' boot camp to entertain my offspring while I stretch out and sweat.

I deposited my daughter with the personal trainer, parked my son in his wheelchair (his current form of transportation) and took myself off to the ladies' change room.

Finding a locker that actually locked was my first challenge, followed by trying to make the swap from warm comfy clothes to my swimwear of choice (a tankini, as the 'wet room' is unisex and we don't wanna scare anyone now do we) in the world's smallest cubicles. Seriously, would it kill 'em to remove one loo and make the others a little roomier?!

Deal done, I ventured into the steam room and pushed the button; "I can cope with 20 minutes" I tell myself and stepped inside.

Sliding onto the white tiles (again, literally) I wait for the onslaught of hot damp air, which when it kicks in, is every bit as hot and damp as promised. Within minutes I can't make out my own feet, and am finding it a little hard to breathe. But I'm loving it.

Seconds after that I have the distinctly unpleasant sensation of something dripping on my head.  I realise that the condensation on the ceiling is to blame and quietly freak out at the thought of what else may have accumulated up there before gravity brings it back to land...on me. I pop my little towel on my head to prevent any further absorption of god knows what, which also makes it hotter on top. All the better to detox with, no?

In the midst of all this perspiring and pondering I hear the sound of male voices. Can't see where they're coming from but I am hoping that they opt for the sauna instead. Even my modest tankini isn't modest enough, and despite the fact that I still can't see beyond my face in this mist I am not keen to share my space. No one looks their best in the steam room. I am now grateful that even the LEDs can't shed any light on the subject.

Another 10 minutes of this and I am desperate to a) breathe, b) see, and c) drink water that hasn't vaporised in the heat. So I carefully make my way to the door, stealthily slipping and sliding like a madwoman while blindly groping for the exit (again I'm thankful those guys wisely went with Door #2 or who knows what else I may have grasped in my haste to escape).

Outside, after a few delicious deep breaths of cool air, I make my next questionable decision, to try the Monsoon Shower: 10 powerful jets spraying water so cold it'd make an Eskimo think twice. I do my own personal version of the 'Hokey Pokey', and put my left hand in, pull my left hand out, with everything shaking all about. It's not until the spray slows to a trickle I am physically able to take the temperature. Then accidentally touch the button that starts the show all over again.

Belatedly I scan the room for security cameras, in case footage of my foolishness appears on someone's YouTube channel.

Relieved there will be no recordings I make my waterlogged way back to the Women's Room where I towel off best I can and put my street clothes back on. I make quick use of the complimentary hairdryers to blow my 'fro back into some semblance of sense (humidity and my hair do not play nicely together) and check I am not looking as frazzled as I feel before I go get the kids. Here I realise I am wearing but one earring. Must have come off when I removed my towelling head gear.  Am I talented, or what.

After a 45 minute workout my children are appropriately excited and exhausted and allow me to come home to the comfort of the couch and computer and a cuppa tea.

And quietly contemplate a better plan of attack for the next time I decide to let off steam.

Jx

©2012

Footy Fever

Our family had a rare and unusual moment last night. All four of us in the same room at the same time watching the same thing.

Almost-unheard of in our crew.

The usual practice is all of us spread out across any number of rooms and electronic devices (or heaven forbid- a book).

But last night was State of Origin.

While the big fellas of football were battling it out, state against state, mate against mate, our little team was plate against plate as we squashed onto the sofa, transfixed by pizza and the television. And a beer for my Beloved.

Working the ridiculous number of hours that he does, my Beloved has to stick with a 0.0 alcohol limit. And I seemed to have missed out on the Irish Drinking Gene so only imbibe on rare occasions, much to the disgust of some of my relatives. The kids of course are too young to indulge in the beverage of choice for sports punters the world over, but have now reached an age where they can appreciate the finer points of football (that's NRL). Or so we thought.

The Melbourne Cup may well be The Race That Stops A Nation (not sure if there's supposed to be a ® or ™ there) in Springtime, but the annual State Of Origin series captures the imagination of about 11.8 million Aussies- roughly half the total population- for three nights mid-winter. Even those who don't seriously follow the footy (like me) can get caught up in all the excitement.

It's NSW in Blue and Queensland in Maroon as they battle it out for the honour of a trophy and title of Origin champions. Sadly, the boys in Blue haven't been on the winning side for about 7 years now (leading some feisty footy fans north of the border to suggest we should sell the Trophy Cabinet. Rude.)

Sports lovers know the go: the pre-match sledging, the settling in period (read: a bit of biff between blokes), and the post-match recriminations: "We was robbed" an infamous (and grammatically incorrect) war cry. All set amidst a soundtrack of screaming supporters in their relevant colours alongside the field.

The usual position for home viewers is pizza and beverage on hand, tv remote under the control of the alpha male, and various missiles within reach when disagreeing with the ref's decision (lesson learned- only have soft options available).

For us, it was one child sitting on one parent apiece, snuggled up in our flannelette pjs (well it is winter) with my Beloved proudly wearing his NSW footy jumper

First try came barely 5 minutes in, with NSW crossing the line much to our jubilation (and relief). Not even having to stop and explain the penalty and scoring system to our offspring every few seconds dampened the mood.

Until Queensland came back with a vengeance. "Shepherd! Shepherd!" cried both my Beloved and I as the player in question dodged behind his team mate and crossed the line to ground the ball. The NSW mob just stood there like sheep and let him do it, obviously thinking it was, well, obvious. However the video referee didn't agree with us, upheld the try, and the converted goal put the opposition in front at half time.

Sadly, our little team of two also fell at the halfway mark, and despite waiting patiently for all the commentators to commentate, and advertisers to advertise, for the entire 20 minute break, barely 10 minutes into the second half we had to send the players off - to bed.

Since it's been such a long time that my Beloved has been able to sit, drink, and enjoy a game, I was on kid-duty again, and could only participate from afar, listening to the exclamations coming from the direction of the living room as the game continued.

So you can imagine the disappointment the next morning when the kids awoke to the bad news that NSW lost the game, and this year's series, by just one point.

Imagine my Beloved's belly after all that beer and pizza, and not enough sleep.

And imagine the reaction when, after all that quality time together, our son declared that he really enjoyed watching the Soccer with us.

Better luck next year.

Jx

©2012

Just Add Water

Science states that the human body is up to 70% water.

Evolutionists say that life as we know it crawled out of the ocean some 3-4 billion years ago.

You only have to watch what happens when particular humans are placed near a body of water to see that it's true.

Take what happened to us late last year.

I noticed our front garden was looking a little lush, considering the lack of attention we give it - first a bit of extra moisture, then a trickle, then a faster flow into the carport beside.

It got to a point that the men of the neighbourhood did as men do, stood around and discussed the matter. After a suitable length of time, and appropriate number of beers, the menfolk decided a natural spring had sprung up in the midst of the front foliage.   

And left it at that.

Until the local Water Board left a little card in the mailbox saying our water usage was "higher than usual".  Still my Beloved thought it nothing of consequence, it was summertime after all and kids being kids had been splashing about a bit in recent times.

When the Water Board left a message on the phone that our bill was on its way and it was, again, a little higher than usual, I felt a trickle of concern.

It turned into a full blown flood the day the bill appeared- December 21. Whereas our regular bill was around the $400 mark, this one came in at $4521.18 (was that 18 cents really necessary?) I mean to say: Four Thousand, Five Hundred Dollars!! A "little higher"? Yes, like Lady Liberty is a little statue!

A discussion with the Water Board had me trying to track down a plumber to come take a look. Good luck with that, 4 days before Christmas. 45 minutes and countless phone calls later I still had not found a tradie willing to come before the holidays; the earliest any of them offered was the 4th of January!  Forget the sugarplums, I had visions of dollar bills running down the driveway. So back to the Water Board I go and beg them to help me find someone suitable to assess the situation. Finally a company agrees, for only $150 call out, plus $90 an hour. 

There go the kids' Christmas presents. I need a Secret Santa, stat!

Anyhow, plumber comes at the crack of dawn next day (pun fully intended, you know what tradespeople are like) and there's me out in the garden in my pjs, with him saying "You need someone with underground detection gear to find the pipe and save a lot of digging". I make no assumptions on the intelligence of the plumbing profession, but Einstein he ain't. So, why, I ask, did your company not send someone with said gear? His advice was to get someone else to do the dirty work, unless I was willing to pay two blokes the hourly rate apiece. Yeah, no.

Armed with shovels my Beloved and neighbouring blokes started shifting soil.

4 hours later, 6 feet down and 8 feet along, they found where the water was coming from.

But we seemed to have misplaced our menfolk.

Instead we had mud monsters of various shapes and sizes, three grown men had a total and terrific transformation back to boyhood, they were having so much fun playing in the mud. 

Our actual children, on the other hand, stood well back from the filth, in their gumboots. 

The womenfolk were standing a little further back again, armed with various  cameras and recording devices, capturing the moment for posterity...just in case one of the aforementioned fellas did something that might win us the big bucks on those Funniest Home Video Shows.

Sadly, while there was a lot of laughter, cursing, and occasionally squealing from 'the pit' (yes, squealing), there wasn't any footage worth submitting. Happily, they found where the Water Board were making their money, and after more swearing and squealing, they were able to clamp it off until the plumber could come back - using a system that would have made MacGyver proud- a bit of wire, a rubber glove, some duct tape, and a plastic bag.

They caused such a spectacle that the neighbours across the street had set up deckchairs and were sitting, drinking, and cheering everytime the water got turned back on and the men started their swearing and squealing again.

After much mirth and way too much mud, the boys reckoned their rubber glove/duct tape/clamp combination would do the job until the professionals came back (at the crack of dawn the next day). Surprisingly, it did.

Now all we had to do was unearth (literally) our spouses, by way of the garden hose on the lawn- no way was that much mud coming inside our homes.

And after a bit more begging, pleading, and form-filling for the Water Board, they accepted our submission that the original water pipe had simply given way due to old age (happens to us all), and they reduced the bill from 4-and-a-half grand, to a mere 500-hundred-and-something.  Plus the plumber's bill.

The kids got their Christmas presents after all.

The neighbours got a new drinking game out of it.

And next time the neighbourhood needs a bit of cheering up, we'll just add water.

Jx

©2012

Take a Break

We've learnt a very important lesson again this weekend. While most boys bounce, ours breaks.

You know how it is, around the age of 10 the male of our species gets a shot of testosterone in their system, and suddenly they are 10-foot-tall-and-bullet-proof.

They start getting into even more mischief than usual, playing hide & seek at bath or bed time (i.e. they hide, you reluctantly seek), some develop an intimate relationship with the principal's office, and more often than not engage mouth before putting brain into gear (some would argue that they never grow out of that one).

But hormones are not the only things with wings at this age; many a male has the sudden urge to fly ... on bicycles or skateboards, or off any height well above their own. If they're not careful (which, let's face it, is most of the time) they come back down to earth with a thud. 

My little man, though, came back with a crack.

It was simple enough: they were at a play centre, there was a jumping castle (AKA bouncy house), boys being boys got bored with jumping on the castle, so started jumping off it (totally against the rules and clearly signposted, but, well, these are 10 year old boys we're talking about).

While most of them made a safe landing, my son did not. And like I said, where others bounce, he broke.

Now I wasn't there (I was otherwise engaged at a funeral out of town) but I'm told that appropriate First Aid was applied, along with a mandatory rest period, before my boy hopped back up to play. Literally.

See, he has a mighty high pain threshold. A lifetime of juvenile arthritis has given him that. 

Unfortunately it's also given him brittle bones (years of steroids have leeched essential calcium), so no one thought he was that bad. Including the man of the moment.

Imagine my dismay after a day away farewelling a friend, to come home to news that our boy's left foot was "a bit" swollen, and sore. A bit?? By next morning when he hopped out of bed (again, literally) it was a football rather than a foot, and it was off to hospital we went. Exactly 9 years to the day after we first took him to Emergency with a swollen left foot!

See, it's not the first time he's fractured something. Third, actually, both prior breaks being arms (left*, and right), both from 'falling off' chairs (he had a little help both times, but that's another story).

Long story short, 3+ hours in Emergency, a few xrays later, we got the diagnosis of fractured Metatarsal #2 on the left foot, and suspected fracture of the Talus too. Terrific- like the scaphoids of before*, only the trickiest bone to diagnose, and slowest to heal.

After a decent amount of plaster cast and bandages (back slab only at this stage- for those playing along at home- due to excessive swelling of the football, er, foot), a quick lesson in using crutches, and a referral to the orthopaedic surgeon at the fracture clinic, home we go- with strict instructions for no walking whatsoever. 

Forget flying.

But because it's merely the latest challenge in a long line, and with more hormones on the horizon, our boy will bounce back.

Hopefully this time he won't break!

Jx

©2012

My Name Is Joe...

I've developed an addiction.

I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs. Nor do I gamble, and I am married- with children- so there's NO chance of me being a sex addict ("More's the pity" I hear my Beloved mutter). I've never had what you call an addictive personality (unless one counts an ongoing love affair with chocolate products).

Nonetheless, I have picked up a bad habit.

I seem to be slightly obsessed with social media.

Not that I'm on it 24/7 (maybe 2/7 is closer to the mark) but there's something about it that draws me in on an almost-daily-basis.

I'm not the only one. You only have to check out the collection of cartoons cropping up- on the internet of course- to see much of the modern world is similarly occupied. I'm sure, if I Googled it, there'd be support groups for it.

Some of my friends seem to live online...at the very least their lives are being narrated in a suite of tweets or a posse of posts. One friend got to the point where she would actually speak in status updates. Joe Bloggs thinks that's taking things a little too far!

I am also fascinated by the fascination with the number of 'friends' or followers one has. I mean, who in the real world can honestly say just how many friends they have on any given day? Simply consider BFFs, workmates, schoolfriends, various other associates, siblings, spouses and offspring (just for the record, I have 33 'first cousins' alone, and very quickly lose count after that)... Yet we're keen to keep an eye on the number of friends on Facebook, Inc. and the like. Heaven help us if we're unfriended for any reason. (Here's where I say, by some strange quirk, my tally changes depending on the device I'm using, so I tend to stick with the one where I have the most.) (See, only slightly obsessed!)

But yes, I confess to logging on to look at what others have got to say, how others are spending their day, and occasionally come up with suitably witty or thought-provoking comments of my own, in 140 characters or less (insert appropriate emoticon here).

In a world where so much is seen, not necessarily heard, one wants to be seen to be having as much fun as everybody else; hopefully the grass isn't greener on the other side of the screen.

Conversely, if things are a little rough in the real world, it's nice to escape to a virtual reality where one can hang with friends, blast those bubbles, or build a 'ville with no ill will.

So I admit my addiction, minor it may be, and happily click away each day, albeit at the expense of my study or the housework at times. (Seriously, who wouldn't rather surf the 'net than sort socks - we all know how much fun that can be, right?!)

Yes here I state that I am just a little OC with my PC.

And you know what? I "Like" it!

Now, I was going to write some more, but someone's just commented on my profile pic...

Jx

©2012

Yellow Belly

I am a coward.

Bit strange me saying that as I have never been known to back down from a fight, even stepping up for someone else at times. And one of my most useful (and most used) mantras is : "Feel the fear and do it anyway" (thank you Susan Jeffers). I'm forever telling my kids that it's ok to be nervous, that butterflies in the tummy can be good, and the true definition of bravery is being scared of something but having a go regardless- the ol' "get over it, get on with it" mentality.

But today I am a coward.

Too afraid and uncertain of how to act, what to say, that instead I'm keeping quiet.

Not that I'm not worried my silence will send the wrong message. It's just, I don't know what message to send.

So  I sit.

And send none.

And then fret that my fear will take too long and I'll miss the chance to say anything at all.

Here's my dilemna: two people are in two different hospitals, neither of them near, both fighting for their lives. It's been a while since I had an actual conversation with either of them and now the clock is ticking. Fast.

What do you say to someone you once had no trouble filling hours talking to? How do you express the feelings you yourself can't even clearly understand?

And when is the right time, when time is running out?

I've previously pondered the dynamics of human relationships that get waylaid by life. Friendships that are interrupted by the very act of living. Some you can pick up where you left off- if only the chance comes up. And I've philosophised before about the family connections that get cut off by word or deed - or both- from one party or the other. But the human animal is a funny creature- one that relies heavily on "later"...until it's too late.

So, coward that I am, and desperate to not have the final memories be bad ones or sad ones, I haven't actually spoken to either of these people, who were once so dear to me. I've sent balloons to one, SMSed the other, and left a slightly cringe-worthy message on the machine of the mother of my friend, I was so tongue-tied at the time.

Me, the one who they say was born talking (if family mythology can be believed). Me, who could allegedly talk under water with a mouth full of marbles (an untested rumour). Me, who has been known to get paid to speak for a living.  Me, who is sadly, strangely, silent now.

I simply cannot find the words. Nor trust my voice not to break.

A coward indeed.

And I am so afraid that when I find my courage, it'll be just too late to say anything at all.

Jx

©2012