Long time, no write.

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Many things have been happening around the Archer Residence. Most of which take up a lot of time and energy.

Some of them don’t.

I’ve released the “inner nana” and taught myself to crochet. I have just completed my very first project and I am now the proud owner of a hand crafted and absolutely gorgeous knee rug. I am spewing I didn’t go a bit further, as it’s not quite big enough to snuggle under on the couch! The Inner Nana is also quite keen on baking and whipped up her very first sponge cake. Ok, to be perfectly honest, on the same day, the Inner Nana whipped up her second and finally third sponge cake. Nana is a little scared of going back into the sponge cake waters and has returned to more familiar cupcake territory.

Obviously, the Inner Nana is a Nana of many talents, as the housework is more or less under control, and thanks to Masterchef; the Bloke of the House and I have rekindled our love for cooking. The Bloke has cooked the absolutely most perfect steak imaginable. Rare eye fillet resting on a bed of mash with wilted spinach. We’re eating like Kings and Queens in this house. Right royal, we are. Tonight, it’s quiche lorraine with shortcrust pastry made from scratch thank you very much.

Working full time has created it’s own series of challenges. The washing machine finally decided to die a glorious and spectacular death (damn, there went my liberation) only to be fortuitously resurrected by an unexpired extended warranty  This meant that instead of the Washing Machine Man replacing two or three broken parts - all of which he had in the truck; he’d replace the whole motor and I’d get another five years out of my washing machine. I was without a washing machine for 17 days. Yes. I counted them. I had two trips to the laundromat – with children in tow. I never thought I would publically say I LOVE my washing machine. But there you have it!

Cooking, crocheting, housework… Harriet’s a busy girl!

Oh, and there’s Bloody Bejewelled Bloody Blitz on Bloody Facebook, too. 

Each game only takes a minute… but hells bells, time flies when you start playing that stupid game. Of course, they reset your high score every few days so the challenge is *always* there. And to be the best in your group of friends is such a delightfully satisfactory feeling. With an undercurrent of WHAT do I think I am doing, obsessing over a stupid Facebook game… And did I mention it’s only a minute? Like in the time it’s taken me to write this masterpiece, I could have played 20 games, beaten your high score and been the legend of the playground for like you know five minutes or something… Yes. Ok. I am obsessed. I nearly bought a new mouse because I couldn’t click fast enough.

But seriously, $96 for a super swish laser mouse so I could beat the highest high score in the universe? Sanity prevailed and I backed carefully away from the Mouse Display and resumed my usual programming.

I gave Farmtown the arse, though.

There’s a timewaster from Hell. When I started to stress out about crops to plant if I wasn’t going to be home in time to harvest them, I knew it was time to give it the sack. The guilt I felt when I was having network problems, got kicked off and couldn’t finish harvesting someone elses crops… The feeling of panic that set in was bizarre… It was only a stupid GAME fer feck’s sake.

I didn’t mind it at first. It was fun. I had maybe ten Farmtown Friends, I’d go work on their farms then play around on mine for half an hour then go and do something else. Then I had 15 Farmtown Friends, then 20 and finally about 30. It became a chore. I didin’t want to go online in case someone saw me and wanted me to harvest their crops for them.

It was worse than hiding from door-to-door salesmen on the off chance they’d knock at your door. Because these were people I’d like to chat to under normal curcumstances. It was like they’d all ‘discovered a wonderful business opportunity that could change my life’!

But sanity again prevailled, and I first let my fields go fallow for a while. Then I didn’t visit the site for a couple of weeks. Then I deleted all my “gifts” and then I finally bit the bullet and blocked the application. I felt a giant weight lift from my chest. And I am not the only one! More than a few of my Farm Town Friends have given up the farm in search of something else more meaningful (you know, like housework… Hey, wait a minute… the housework started coming together oh about three or four weeks ago. Just around the same time as I downed tools on the farm!)

Ok, Farmtown’s gone. I’ve accepted I have a problem with Bejewelled… The house is tidy, and there’s cupcakes in the cupboard. The creative juices have started to flow… Who knows, maybe it won’t be five months til my next update! Stay tuned… But I’d make sure you’ve got a cuppa and a cookie or two before you sit and wait…

 

Zen and the Art of Car Maintenance (or things that make me go GRARGH)

The Bloke of the House went away on Thursday for a very long weekend of fishin’ and man stuff, leaving me home alone with the Big Kid and the Little Kid. That in itself doesn’t make me go “grargh”.

Well, it does a little tiny bit – but only because the kiddies and I can sorta, maybe just a teeny-tiny little bit, get up each other’s noses on a weekend when we’re left alone together and there’s housework and grocery shopping and all those other bits and pieces that need to be done about the place. Although they’re more than happy to have the consequences of these bits and pieces, all they really want is a piece o’ they mama! Even if it’s the YELLING Mama

So I thought to myself very carefully “I knows, I will do all the housework at night, then I can play with the kiddies on the weekend, and there will be no need for yelling and maybe, perhaps, you never know… Some FUN could possibly be had.

Except I did not factor in the thing that made me go GRARGH!

The Big Kid came to work with me for a couple of days last week (as a side note, he was PERFECT, and compliments were received from the childfree along the lines of “if all children were like the Big Kid, more people would have kids”) anyway, Big Kid and I returned to the Big Red Car after a hard day’s work – Bags in, seatbelts on, off to pick up the Little Kid and get some tasty take away for dinner…

Except for the whole NOT actually going anywhere part. No ‘brrrrrrmmmm’ when the key was turned in the ignition because the whole key would NOT turn. Not in gear, not in anything and NOT going!

GRARGH!

Big Kid is under control, but the Little Kid? Has to be collected and soonish – WHAT would Ferris Do?

Call the Auto Club, of course.

So I called the Auto Club who confirmed what I thought… The key is stuck in the ignition.

 He hotwired it for me and got me going (yay!)

But he forgot to tell me how to turn it off (oops!)

 I had to call them again to find out how (and they are not supposed to hotwire cars like that, apparently, so the poor bloke is in trouble for doing me a massive favour) and they sent another man to turn the car off for me.

So here’s how I see my weekend… Driving around with a car with NO casing on the steering column, key stuck in the ignition AND whipping a screw driver out of my handbag to start and stop the car…

Of course, I couldn’t actually get it to start with the screwdriver when I tried to do it… Anyway, the Bloke has a Very Handy with Cars mate, so I gave him a call. He, being Very Handy with Cars and all that, was able to confirm that the key was indeed irretrievably jammed in the ignition and that I needed a new ignition barrel. Stat!

He started the car, laughed at my wussy girlie wrists that were incapable of turning a screwdriver in a teensy hole and starting a car, and parked it up behind the roller door for me.

He also laughed at my fear of car being stolen in its whole “doesn’t have any casing on the steering column and look! There’s a very handy screwdriver sitting on the seat” state of glory.

GRARGH!

Anyway, aforementioned Handy Mate located a sparkly new ignition barrel for me – and all I had to do was collect it.

Not a problem, load the kids in the car and drive casually over to the spare parts man and pick up the spare part.

Not a problem at all… Except for the whole “can’t turn the screwdriver because of the wussy girlie wrists” thing. Oh, and the “auto club guy turned the car off by unplugging the fuel pump and then I’ve parked the car on a slope all night and the fuel tank is at the back of the car” thing.

GRARGH!

Oh, and the parts shop shuts at midday, I haven’t had a shower and it’s 10.30am.

GRAAAAARRRRRGGGGH!

Showered, dressed, in the car, roll it down the hill and onto the flat. So far, so good (and nice to know one can actually roll an automatic if one needs to). Then I try to start the stupid thing…

Nope. No starting. Car No Go.

GRARRRGGGH!

I now have less than one hour in which to get this part. Breathe, breathe… centre oneself and calming thoughts and WHADDERYOU KNOW! It started.

YAY!

Turned the car off, bolted inside and bundled the kids out to the car. Inserted my trusty screwdriver into the slot and…

Nothing.

Sweet F.A.

NOT a peep. Just the sound of a car refusing point blank to turn over… And we’re down to 45 minutes.

Kids back inside whilst I called the Cavalry (hey mum????) But the Cavalry were off to the races, and were headed in the absolutely opposite direction.

I went back to wrestling with the car (plus I didn’t want my kids to see me CRY!) Still nothing. So, wiping tears of frustration and rage and general misery from my eyes, I called the Auto Club again…

NINETY MINUTE WAIT…

Then I really cried!

Then I calmed down a bit, called the parts guy and sent a taxi to collect my part with 23 minutes to go. And like magic, the plan came together and I had the part in my hot little hand. Yay!

Mission accomplished.

Of course, I managed to start the car the very instant the Auto Club arrived, because that’s what happens. So I moved my freshly started car, swapped it with the trusty ute and the stupid bloody thing is going to stay right where it is until Handy Mate arrives to replace that ignition barrel and I don’t look like a trainee car thief when I try to start it!

And what was the icing on the cake? What was the thing that really managed to completely and unequivocally made my day?

The sodding washing machine broke as well!

GRARGH!

 

Stalking live relatives…

I have been wondering a little bit about doing the whole using the giant can opener to open the gigantic can of worms and seeing what’s inside thing that I have been putting off and off and off probably for about ummm 18 years.

Is that the longest sentence ever with absolutely NO punctuation?

Here’s the facts and nothing but the facts.

Adopted as an infant.

Cool with that. Cool parents and all that. Happy with them, too.

BUT…

Whole itty bitty gap in my space/time continuum here… And every so often, the gap opens up and I can look straight down into the abyss of “what if?” and “why did…?” and well, sometimes I want to know about the who and the what and the why that happened in the space immediately before and just after I was born.

I was born in the mid sixties (which makes me the second oldest person on the internet) and that’s just what happened to women who had children out of wedlock. Someone came and took them away. Doesn’t make it right, that it’s just what happened. Doesn’t make it wrong, either.

Ok, for some people, they’re not right without their biologicals. They have a great slashing gaping hole in their continuum rather than a wee gap that opens and closes (but never truly goes away). But would they have been right with their biologicals? Or is the wrongness they feel something they have attached to their adoption thing, where it may be something else all together?

Now, I could go for years without anything adoption related crossing my mind in the slightest. Most of the time, it’s just “I am tall, I am blonde, I am adopted and my eye colour is subject to change without notice”. It’s a part of me that’s important but not – just like my eye colour and my hair and my height. Part of what makes me “me”.

Then the cosmos aligns and the gap opens up. Sometimes it opens a little… sometimes it opens enough for me to get the application form to apply for more information. And just once, it opened up enough for me to not only get the application, but fill it in and send it off.

So now I have enough information to contact the Biological Ancestor. More than enough, as I have discovered there’s a degree of fun and amusement in stalking LIVING ancestors in addition to the dead ones.

I can tell you where she lives now (white pages), where she lived a few years ago (electoral roll), what her married name is (that was a fluke, ok) Oh, and the reason I know I am the second oldest person on the internet is because the Biological Ancestor has a web page, too. With pictures.

So I have seen what she looks like. That’s a weird feeling.

Because one of the things I am looking for is to see if I have a family face. She seemed to have darkish hair and blue eyes. I don’t have either. Maybe it’s not her family I am needing to see… Although there’s a touch about the eyebrows here and there… We seem to have similar personalities – in writing at least; although she loves Lord of the Rings and I don’t. But she’s into Terry Pratchett as well, so some is forgiven.

So do I contact her? Or not? Do I open up the can of worms and see what happens? My own mum doesn’t know I have found what I have found for a start – and Bio Ancestor placed a veto (it expired, hence my ability to get the information I have) so she’s not expecting me to rock up on her door step and say “Hi Mum, you need to update your  profile… You need to add on one kid and a couple of  grandkids, alright?”

I found her name on a genealogical website I frequent, so I can send her a really simple, non-threatening email to suggest that there’s the slightest possibility that she and I may be related in some way shape or form. It’s the kind of thing that should only be seen by her; as when one receives a message from this forum, it directs you *back* to the website in order to read the message.

Do I don’t I, do I don’t I?

As I sit here with the can opener, taptaptapping…

 

A Story about a Fairy Princess…

Once upon a time, a Fairy Princess was born in a great tower far, far away.

 

Unfortunately, the mother of said Fairy Princess was not deemed to be a suitable person to be the parent of said Fairy Princess; so she deposited her progeny at a place where the Fairy Princess would find a home that would be perfectly suited to her Royal-ness.

 

Or something like that.

 

Perhaps it was more along the lines of Skanky Trollope paused briefly in the process of taking many drugs and rooting many men to squeeze out a crotch dropping and passed it along to the place where homes were found for Mini Trollopes?

 

Although seeing as said infant was a healthy and rather chubby young thing, one would be right to assume that perhaps the reality fell somewhere between the two. It was the mid sixties, and the Summer of Lerve was slow to come to the City of Churches. In fact, it is strongly suspected that the Summer of Lerve secretly bypassed the City of Churches all together. And the Summer of Love happened in 1967, by which stage, the hero of this story was a strapping young toddler.

 

In 1965, the Prime Minister was Robert Menzies; the Governor General was a Viscount or a Lord. And Australia sent its first troops to Vietnam. Light Fingers won the Melbourne Cup and Australia was really crap at cricket. The population was only a bit over 11 million people – which is about half what it is now. They were listening to The Beatles, and The Stones, and Herman’s Hermits with a bit of Billy Thorpe and the Seekers for a bit of local colour. Oh, and Mary Quant invented the mini-skirt.

 

Australia officially abandoned the White Australia Policy (was it really only that long ago?) and an erstwhile young chap called Tom Angrove invented the wine cask. He held the patent for the container for Chateau Cardboard, and is thus the Godfather of many cheap and nasty nights on the piss (perhaps Our Fairy Princess was more closely related to Skanky Trollope? Although her tastes swiftly turned toward wine of the bottled variety; which does  indicate a definite touch of princessery…)

 

Classic television such as Gilligan’s Island, Batman, I Dream of Jeannie and Hogans Heroes all first took to the airwaves in 1965. Our Fairy Princess distinctly remembers watching these shows as a five and six year old, well after they’d finished being produced; so it would appear the Summer of Lerve was not the only thing slow to come to the City Of Churches.

 

Now, our Fairy Princess was adopted by a lovely young couple who lavished her with love and affection. They provided her with a home and a baby sister (although according to family legend, our wee princess would have much preferred a puppy…) and everything else a girlie could need.

 

This did not stop Fairy Princess from turning into Angsty Teen, however. But unlike most Angsty Teens who wished they were adopted and their Real Parents ™ would come a knockin’ on the door; Fairy Princess could console herself with the fact that Loving Parents were not really her parents and that she actually was a Fairy Princess and surely one day her Real Parents™ would come flying to her rescue and save her from these terrible people who wanted her to smile occasionally, and oh maybe do her homework instead of aimlessly staring out the window and plotting their demise.

 

Of course, time passes, and Loving Parents resumed their former role in the life of our young Fairy Princess – that of loving parents! However, Fairy Princess was not immune to this tiny little nagging feeling of “hmmm, am I missing something?” every couple of years. After a few of these “couple of years” went by, the Fairy Princess realised that what she actually wanted to do was find out what went on before she was adopted by the Loving Parents…

 

So she sent away for the application forms. This was indeed the very olden days decisions had to be made, letters had to be written and responses awaited eagerly. Of course, by the time the eagerly awaited response arrived, the Fairy Princess had changed her mind sort of… Or chickened out, most likely. Away went the application form for another day; until that niggle arose again. Naturally, being as how these applications had to be lodged with a government department, and being as how government departments like nothing more than changing something that’s working perfectly finely, Our Fairy Princess would again send away for the application forms, wait, and subsequently change her mind.

 

This happened more than once. Maybe more than three or four times. By which stage, the government department had gone all 21^st century on her and the application form was available WHENEVER she wanted it. So much for that excuse any more. Obviously, though, the availability of the aforementioned application form at her fingertips just made it easier for her to say “oh, another day”.

 

Then, the Fairy Princess had progeny of her own, and the need to find out at least a little something about what happened all the way back then was getting a little harder to ignore. Somehow, the application was downloaded and completed in many different pens, the identification was copied and certified and the application was posted. Not without first checking with the post office as to when the post box would be cleared and if it were still possible to change one’s mind. It was, and she didn’t.

 

Finally, the giant envelope arrived and was opened and our Fairy Princess had a name. Strangely, it wasn’t a name that fit. In fact the name that she saw made her snigger a tiny bit. SO not her, and so indeed someone she used to know but we’re getting away from the track here…. There was more information to be read about and a letter from someone who sounded a lot like her… “Strange, reading your own voice”, she thought as she read it. Even more so, as she was the same age, give or take, as the person when she wrote it.

 

Another application form or two, some judicious googling and at least one or two strokes of luck, and our Fairy Princess had more than enough information to go in search of and to locate the recently named Biological Ancestor, who seems remarkably similar to the Loving Mother!

 

So there’s not a thing to stop her from going ahead with contacting the BA… Except for one or two minor details… Like the subsequently expired veto placed on her records by the Biological Ancestor – technically, our Princess has been ‘rejected’ twice. Would her ego stand up to a third time? Did the veto mean the BA really didn’t want to know about her? Or because she didn’t renew it when the time came, changed her mind again? Oh and there’s the whole not even quite sure if she wants to go open what is potentially a can of worms and get involved with a whole ‘nother bunch of people when she has as little to do with her actual relatives as is humanly possible…

 

And this is where we will leave our Fairy Princess, sitting in front of her gigantic can of worms, can opener in hand…

 

To be continued…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oops…

It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

I’ve been a tiny bit busy lately. I know, any excuse for not updating you with the inner workings of my little brain. But I really have been busy.

You know that job I didn’t think I’d get?

I got it.

So I have gone from grumbling through three days a week of misery in the Hellhole Known as My Previous Employer to spending my days playing with numbers, reading reports and going on excursions (today, I saw the Premier). Much more satisfying and dare I say it, enjoyable. BUT I am now working five whole days a week. And I am now a commuter. Yes, I have joined the ranks that trek up the highway to the Big Smoke. This commuting trek is only for a relatively short time, at which point we shall be able to resume our usual programming, as I will not be spending three and a half hours a day getting to and from work. Unsuprisingly, this renders me somewhat comatose at the end of the day. My brain is full of exciting tales for your reading pleasure, so there is plenty for you to look forward to – eventually.

Now, just to tide you over, I am going to share with you a snippet or ten about my commute. My wonderful and courteous new employer believe that a happy work force leads to a productive workplace. This is such a change from working in the Hellhole (coffee, anyone? Piece of fruit? Oh, what about a massage…); and in the interests of convenience for the staff, they are running a bus so that we don’t have to squeeze onto the train, which is an adventure in itself.

My preferred mode of transport is the Train. This is primarily because the bus doesn’t always suit me; and also because, despite my advancing years, I still get car sick if I so much as put my head down in a moving vehicle. This means reading, writing – anything more than staring mindlessly out a window or having a wee kip means I am liable to lose my lunch. Whilst sometimes it’s nice to stare aimlessly out the window, on a regular basis it feels like a waste of *me* time. So I tend to catch the train. But the train comes with it’s own set of interesting drawbacks.

1. I catch a train fairly early in the morning. Not as early as some, but still early. Normally, I get there early enough to see the “special train”. The Special Train is a gentleman of advancing years. On a push bike. Wearing a hard hat. Every morning at about 6.53am, he blows a horn and pedals along past the platform as fast as he can. Making train noises. Cracks me up, it does. Every morning, just before the 6.56 arrives – there he is.

2. I get on the train at the second stop in the morning. This means that if I position myself close enough to the edge of the platform and if I have my elbows at the correct height, I can finangle my way into the carriage and get myself a nice, comfy seat. This is a good thing. If I got on one stop later… I’d be STANDING for the entire journey. That wouldn’t be so much fun. Coming home, I sometimes catch the bus, but mostly catch the 16.55. This train is Old Skool. It has compartments! It’s an old diesel loco and takes for ever to stop at all stations. But hey, can stretch out and relax.

3. Things I like about travelling on the train… I can read (no, I do NOT know why I don’t get sick on trains); I can catch up with reading reports and the like for work, too. But mostly, I just read. Uninterrupted 50 minutes of reading time – bliss! In the afternoons, I have been getting MX which is the free paper, reading it and attempting to do the puzzles before I toss down the whole thing in disgust when I stuff up the suduko. I used to be lucky to read a book in two weeks - now, I am reading about two or three a week. I like listening in to other people’s conversations, too. Like you know she’s gone all like weird you know like she’s studying and stuff like and she’s not mucking up like. Like. Teenagers are like you know… Like.

4. Things I don’t like so much about travelling on the train. Aside from the whole three and a bit hours total commute and all that… You’d be thinking that in the morning at least, most people would have had some kind of interaction with the whole soap and water scenario. Well, you’d be wrong. Soap is apparently optional for rather a substantial proportion of the average city commuter. And the wearing of the expensive clothing is not an accurate predictor of how close the wearer has been to the shower that day. This is most noticable when I am squeezing myself onto the Loop train in the morning.

5. I am also not so keen on the pressure I put myself under in order to catch a train that gets me home in time to say “Hi” to the Bloke Of The House and the offspring. After a particularly fraught evening involving skin of ones teeth and the sight of Fair Harriet RUNNING (and been damn grateful for flat shoes and the wearing of trousers, I tell you what); an alarm has been set up on my computer to advise me that it’s TIME TO GO NOW, ok?

6. And techincally, it’s not *A* train that I catch in the morning – it’s two trains. I have to change trains in the morning – push my way off the first train, using as many skills as I needed to get *on* it in the first place; trundle up and down ramps and across platforms to find the right train that’s headed my way. Then I get to shoehorn my way onto the Loop train. Quite frankly, this is an experience. An unpleasant one. Particularly for all the people who get whacked in the head and randomly stepped on by Little Miss Incompetent… Yes, that would be me. I’m a danger to myself and everyone around me, and I am armed with a backpack, so watch out!

So there you have it. This is week five of thirteen weeks of commuting. I am sure that by Christmas I will indeed be able to change trains without maiming anyone AND walk up the escalator at Parliament Station without being a coronary candidate three quarters of the way to the top!

 

101 uses for an Arts Degree…

I believe I may have mentioned at some point that in addition to being your humble correspondent and Wayward Domestic Goddess; I am indeed gainfully employed as a Slave for Wages in a large and bureaucratic nightmare. What I haven’t mentioned is that the aforementioned position is about as stimulating and challenging as a bowl of cottage cheese. Whilst I am not asking the eternal question of “Would you like fries with that?” I am sure that it is only a matter of time before the Powers that Be decree that the addition of a deep fryer behind reception can only be an improvement to the quality of service provided, and I can indeed add that phrase to my repertoire.

 

I may also have mentioned that I have a short attention span…Oh look, a tractor!

 

Now, where was I?

 

That’s right…Underwhelmed and under stimulated. In fact, to be perfectly frank, bored out of my tiny little mind. So what’s a girl to do? The last time I found myself in this position, I decided a spot of further education would be just the ticket. But I’ve been there and done that and got the pretty piece of paper hanging on my wall to prove it.

 

Pretty piece of paper…

 

Ahhh, I have an Arts Degree. What can one do with an Arts Degree? Hmm. One can deliver fries with a smile, wait on tables, clean toilets, make beds, fold laundry… Wait a second, that describes my life of Domestic Goddessery. No, there has to be more than that. Ooooh. Looking up stuff. I can do that. I am rather good at doing that and here’s a job that does just that…

 

What? Apply for another job? Are you insane? Find another job and leave the bosom of the large and bureaucratic nightmare? Where I am bored and frustrated and slowly going around a very twisty bend? What a splendid idea, chaps!

 

So I exhumed the resume – it’s a wonder how well parchment holds up over time; caught up with the last hundred years or so, whipped up a letter outlining my general fabulousness and sent it all off into the ether. Done. And dusted. And as a creative writing exercise, not a bad thing.

 

And then they called me…

 

Eek!

 

And no, that was not a mouse. THAT was the noise my faculties made when they left the building. My goodness gracious me, I felt like Sally Field at the Oscars – “They like me, they really like me”. But bloody hell, that means a job interview. And it had well and truly been a long long time between drinks. On the positive side, the last job I went for, I did actually get. On the negative side, that was so long ago that children who were born on that day can actually vote now! Things have changed, too. Back then it was all a bit of a chat and when can you start? Now, it’s all behavioural interviews and tell us about your strengths and weaknesses.

 

How does one make being a scatterbrained chatterbox with a really short attention span seem like an attractive proposition, anyway? And most importantly, what on earth do I wear!?! It’s the dead of winter, global warming appears to be on hold, or all the frozen air is being blown straight away from Antarctica or something and apparently it’s not the done thing to wear trousers to a job interview.

 

There was one thing to be done – pantyhose. I shall briefly mention here exactly how much I loathe pantyhose and the whole torturous contortionisms that are required to get ones slightly longer than average legs into a sheer nylon tube designed for legless midgets.

 

Anyway, pantyhose on, small children more than slightly freaked out (“what happened to your legs, mummy? They’ve gone all black” from the Big Kid, and “oooh take it off, take it off” from the Little Kid; which probably indicates how long it has been since I have worn pantyhose.) There were trains to be caught, and people to be impressed.

 

The auspices were not great – three hours sleep the night before, they had my name wrong at the door; and I had to wait for 15 minutes. Just long enough to get sweaty. Fabulous. The interview went well enough that I wasn’t upset with my performance. I made eye contact, I had some answers prepared. Not to the questions they asked, but since when has that been a problem? They seemed like lovely people, and the chances of me seeing any of them ever again?

 

Buckley’s and none.

 

I don’t think I am what they’re looking for… But I don’t feel like I have lost out. In fact, I feel like I have gained a lot from the experience. I have an up to date resume. I know I am attractive to a prospective employer on paper, at least. And I have successfully completed one job interview. Not only that, I have discovered that an Arts Degree could possibly be a passport out of Hell and even a ticket to a more exciting place. Most importantly, I have acknowledged that I don’t need to stay where I am forever. And failing getting out, I can always get some more education to stop me going postal…

 

Invincible Mother Pants

 Greetings from Chez Archer. 

Life has descended into chaos, madness and other related things generally involving output from orifices preferably dealt with by their respective owners. Unfortunately due to the lack of age of some of the owners of the aforementioned orifices, the attentions of Super Mother have been substantially required. 

This has resulted in two things. 

1. A considerable upswing in the average number of loads of washing; and

2. A dearth of postings from yours truly. 

With the parts of the second part directly caused by the increase in parts in the first part. Or something. Parts. Washing. Excessive bodily fluids flowing; creative juices not so much. You get the picture.

 

So far, the Little Kid, the Big Kid AND the Bloke of the House have been struck down by any combination of the two lurgies we’ve been accommodating. There’s the Gastro Lurgy and the Chest Infection Lurgy, both of which have knocked around the members of the household listed above. 

 

But did you notice who does NOT feature prominently on the list of afflicted members?

 

Oh, you did! Here, have a Tim Tam you clever thing, you. Oh, have two… 

 

Yes. Me. The Mother of the House. 

 

Despite being poo-ed on, spewed on (more times than I can count – five head to toe changes of clothes in a single day for me alone may give you an indication of the troubles I’ve seen) and having assorted noses wiped upon parts of my personage; I am yet to develop even the slightest twitchiest tickle in the throat, or even the most minute grumbling of the lower intestine. 

 

WHY is this so? This is indeed a question worthy of the Great Doctor Julius Sumner Miller…  

 

Mother of the House is bathed regularly in the output of two small children, yet manages to escape unscathed from the ravages of said illnesses? Bloke of the House catches everything that’s going round? It’s not fair, is it?

 

Although, if you think about it… it’s not all that bad. I mean I don’t have to race off to the toilet with a bucket and a box of tissues under my arm because sure as anything, if I don’t – one of the other bits will go off. I can tuck into a delicious meal without wondering about the impact on the more delicate organs. Well, I could if I could be bothered cooking a delicious and nutritious meal for one after a day of cleaning up effluvia…

 

Has to be in the pants, I tell you.

 

The Invincible Mother Pants

 

(worn on the inside, naturally!)

 

Playing Pirates with my Imaginery Friends

Last night, I helped my friend’s daughter with her maths homework. Algebra. 

“So what?” I hear you say…

Well, she lives over an hour away and we did it via MSN. (I don’t know what’s more noteworthy – the MSN homework help or the fact that I can still remember how to do algebra 20+ years down the track…) We worked out the answer, she worked out what I was doing and it was all good. At the same time, I was chatting to another friend and comparing really bad family snap shots. This friend’s at least 200km away and here we were, comparing family shots like we were sharing a cuppa and a biscuit.

Now, I am not a total weirdo, I do have real life, flesh and blood friends that I interact with on a face to face basis. But what with one thing and another; my friends seem to be scattered far and wide across the countryside. Even the closest one at 5km away is still a tiny bit too far to just pop in for five minutes and a cuppa. Assuming she’s home…

Since I started delving into the World of Flylady, though, I have discovered the joys of chatting whilst I do my housework with a pack of semi-strangers. These are a group of women brought together by the simple fact we’re reluctant housekeepers who forgot to queue up on the day they were handing out the Domestic Goddess Badges. All of us can think of a thousand million bazillion things we’d rather be doing than cleaning up after other people. A few of us work as well, which brings its own particular challenges – juggling those domestic responsibilities in the limited time remaining after putting in a 30 hour week. So we chat to each other… Encourage each other on a bad day; reward each other with coffee breaks and loads of virtual vodka.

Back in the Olden Days, people tended to grow up, go to school, go to work and raise their own families in the same area for generations. In fact, in some places – they still do. But lots of people move around, be it for education, work opportunities, for love for just the simple fact that they CAN. In the Olden Days, too, it was customary for Mother to stay home with the kids, and for Father to go out and work. 

So people stayed closer to home and they knew their neighbours. Pop in for a quick cuppa tea and a biscuit; borrow a cup of flour, pinch that recipe for Aunty Edna’s Prize Winning Scones, quick whinge about Little Johnny tracking mud through the house *again* and back into your own place. Have a chat over the fence whilst you hang out the washing, watch the kids playing some death defying game involving sticks and rocks. There was a sense of community.

Now though, people are in and out of their cars in their driveways or straight into the two car garage and inside the house. Mothers are just as likely to be at work as Fathers, and children move away from their families. People don’t talk to other people. Ok, they nod and wave; but that’s the limit of their interactions. One of my neighbours is an octogenarian dope fiend – not the type of person I’d be hitting up for recipe tips – gardening tips, maybe, but not cooking. My other neighbour plays drums. Badly. And the only reason I know his first name is because I can see his wireless internet connection.

But my on line buddies are like my “neighbours”. We hang out over our virtual fences and chat about the kids, pinch recipes from each other. Ok, it’s a tiny bit difficult to borrow that cup of flour when you need one, but hey the service station round the corner has all of that. When you’re having a bad day, the kids are finger-painting with your $100 a jar moisturiser, you’ve just dropped a brand new box of Rice Bubbles all over the floor and you just discovered the neighbour’s cat has killed a bird in the laundry. And in the bathroom. And is eating the head in the middle of your bed…

*PING* there’s one of Lovely Ladies calling out “You Flying today, Harriet? Come and join us…” I get it off my chest, and 15 minutes later, the cat is evicted, the Rice Bubbles are swept and the soft and sweet smelling children are doing something less expensive.

The Bloke of the House calls them my Imaginary Friends. He also doesn’t quite understand how my chatting to Imaginary People means the housework gets done… However he’s conceded that if the cost of a clean house is having the Missus on the computer; it may well be a small price to pay. 

There’s something about a burden shared being a burden halved or something – and whilst we’re not *really* sharing the housework, we are. We are sharing the drudgery and the repetition. Taking the mindlessness out of it… Work for 15 minutes, chat for 5, work for another 15 and brag about what you achieved (or moan about what you didn’t) and at the end of the hour or the day, the washing’s done and kitchen is shiny; dinner’s on the table and hey, we’ve actually eaten lunch. One of us will remember, for sure. 

And it’s not all about doing the housework…

Sometimes, we play Pirates!

(Arrrrr)

 

Domestically Challenged

To say that I am a reluctant Domestic Goddess is probably understating my loathing for all things housekeeper-ly. I am the child of someone who is blessed in all things domestic. Unfortunately, whilst she was doing all that nurturing, Mrs Archer regretfully forgot to pass along the knowledge about Very Useful things such as How to Keep a Spotless House; and How to Cook a Decent Meal. We could get into a discussion about nature v nurture and the impact of the environment upon the child, but hey, at the end of the day, I am by nature a Sloth.  

Well, it is not strictly true that Mrs Archer simply forgot to impart her wisdom; Mrs Archer did indeed do her best to instil in Young Harriet the rudiments of Homemaking; however I seem to recall these communiqués fell on strictly deaf ears. My former demi-goth, pre-emo, post-punk self was all “like whatever, mum. As if I am going to need to know that crap, I am going to have a career and be fair sick and that” or whatever the eighties equivalent of a singularly unco-operative teenage girl may well have said (probably a very emotive eye-roll and a sigh – I seem to recall spending a lot of my adolescence Not Speaking to my Mother). Mrs Archer did indeed do her best, and to this day I still hang washing and fold sheets and towels the “Approved Mrs Archer Way” (as does the Sibling – who is not known for seeking approval of the parental variety).

 

I left home at a reasonable age, straight into a share house with two blokes; neither of whom were Domestically Gifted. The bathroom got cleaned when the mould started to touch one’s head and or feet in the shower. And Not Before. Dusting occurred when someone realised the television picture looked a bit dim. And as for cooking – well, I still lived close enough to home for a couple of meals a week and Ripper Roasts delivered.

 

Another share house and a motley crue of co-tenants picked for their ability to pay their share of the rent on time, rather than any skillz on the domestic front. Housework was yet another dirty word, with people flinging around a dish cloth and half a bottle of White King when the mould started to rise. Ok, that particular house had issues of it’s own that no true Martha Stewart type would have been able to remedy without the aid of a bulldozer. Week days were spent working, and the weekends were spent preparing for and recovering from the excesses of the night before. Not time to cook or clean or any of that petty bourgeoisie stuff; a heartily disposable income meant buying a new outfit instead of working out the vagaries of the washing machine. And Ripper Roasts still delivered. 

  

Time marches along and I moved into my own house. I developed my own system of Piles and Pathways to portray the illusion of order. There were clear pathways to the important things like the bed and the fridge; and if I could immediately more or less put my hand on the pile that may or may not have had what I was looking for… that’s organisation, isn’t it? I could cook a little, and got around my limited repertoire by having cereal for dinner and buying a substantial lunch each day.

 

Then I met the Bloke of the House.Well, to say our ideas of housekeeping were poles apart was probably understating their disparity. My “eh, just put that pile over there and sit down” ways clashed somewhat with his love of clear surfaces (and clear couches). And apparently those cupboards with the stick in them are for hanging ones clothes instead of draping them across the floor. I also learned that just because I had 8 plates, it did NOT mean I could go for 8 days without doing the dishes – I didn’t have that many saucepans anyway; and hey, I only had four bowls, so I did the dishes at least every FOUR days, alright? I was water saving… 

 

Something HAD to give. 

 

So I dusted off my copy of Mrs Beaton’s Guide to Household Maintenance. (Yes, I really do have a copy. It was given to me by a swain in my youth. Possibly, it could have been a subtle dig at my superlative housekeeping skills. I wouldn’t know why…) many pages on how to deal with recalcitrant under footmen and disciplining scullery maids… Hey, STAFF… now *there* is an excellent idea. However, the main problem with Staff these days is that you have to pay them. By the hour. And in order to render a house suitable for actual cleaning, one needs a team of several Staff and bucket loads of cash. So I was still spending copious time rearranging Piles in order for the Staff to clean around them. NOT what I had in mind. My thoughts were centred on a team of scullery maids, a cook, an under footman or two, and Eduardo the Pool Boy…

 

So I turned to the Internet.

 

As you do.

 

And its way more fun than cleaning… And yes darling, I know I should be cleaning this godforsaken pit of filth, but I am Learning New and Better ways to make our home a lovely sanctuary, ok? No, I am NOT playing endless games of Solitaire… And in amongst the endless games of Solitaire, I stumbled upon Flylady.

 

Now, my first dip into Flylady wasn’t all that successful. Flylady has some philosophies that do not coincide with mine (she doesn’t like PILES for a start); and when I first dipped my toe in, was more geared toward the stay at home housewife with her children off her hands – which certainly didn’t help a sometimes working, sometimes not, mother of pre-schooler, who was also a student and who wanted to have a life occasionally. And quite frankly, I find the infomonials and testimercials slightly disturbing – saving a marriage with a $17.95 organiser? I don’t know about that. Flylady is a bit like Oprah for cleaning – one mention of your product on her website and hey – instant hit! Not to mention that some of her ideas seemed downright ridiculous. I mean the whole idea of keeping my kitchen sink clean and shiny by putting my dirty dishes in a tub under the sink… eeuuww. 

  

So I wandered off. I discovered the Organiser lady and The Bat Lady and a number of Other Ladies, none of whom seemed to have the Magic Wand I needed to get my head around this whole “get rid of the piles and have a clean house” thing.  So I returned to Flylady once again. This time, I decided to have a crack at the magical Control Journal which would instantly transform my chaos into order… Except it didn’t. Oh, and I got bored with compiling it… Which really didn’t help at all. Although I do now have a central place to keep the takeaway menus.

 

In the midst of all this, I discovered a few of my own housekeeping tricks – like how one can make Order appear out of the Chaos one determined two year old can create, get a meal started and have the kid clean and presentable in less than an hour before the BOTH gets home from work; andafter the Lady Of The House has spent the entire day lolling on the couch and idly surfing the internet for housekeeping tips! Now that involves serious flying – the flying around the house in a mad panic kind of flying. And gratuitous use of a large plastic washing basket…

 

This method of tidying is the Fly-By method – where I enter a room, chuck everything that didn’t belong into the basket; move to the next room, rehome anything from the basket that belonged there; and chuck everything that didn’t belong in the basket – rinse and repeat and before you know it, there IS a semblance of order amongst the carnage; all that’s left in the basket is rubbish, which gets chucked in the bin. Run the carpet sweeper over the floor and if Bob’s not yer uncle, he’s definitely a close relative!

 

This was followed by the Smoke and Mirrors technique – it’s all in the illusion. If the floors are clean, the room looks clean – even if it needs a good dust and there’s a three week old apple on the windowsill. Making the bed gives an illusion that the entire room is tidy; because your eye is drawn to the clean, flat surface and no one can see the chaos behind the door. And speaking of doors… Shutting them on the whole disaster makes a world of difference in maintaining the delusion. Temporarily at least. This is good for distracting stray visitors.

 

Anyway, somehow or other, doing Fly-Bys with Smoke and Mirrors seemed to make the PILES shrink to Piles; and before I knew it, the Piles became piles. Cupboards were being emptied of the Boxes of Piles, shelves were appearing where the much smaller piles could be accommodated and I discovered a little book in a junk shop in Castlemaine. This little book was giving me the same message as Flylady, but without the Control Journal and the box of dirty dishes in the cupboard under the sink. It also gave me a method of breaking down the tasks I had to do in order to make my house run in a way that satisfied both my need for minimalist effort and the BOTH’s desire for clean spaces. And somewhere I realised what my issue was with Flylady.

 

I don’t like her language!

 

I object to being told what to do, so OUT with the Control Journal and IN with The Organised Chaos Book. It’s what I am doing – organising my chaos. Flylady calls CHAOS “Can’t have Anyone Over Syndrome” – when you’re too embarrassed to have visitors; but that never bothered me. I figured people came to see me, and I could always move a pile out of the way so they could sit down. If they didn’t like my mess, they could invite me to the pub! As for Crisis Cleaning – Blood is a crisis, Fire is a crisis, Global Warming is a crisis… a bit of mess aint! 

 

So I am dipping my toes back in the Flylady waters; this time armed with a phrase book. 

 

I do indeed like some of her ideas (that’s probably why I keep going back) – like you really CAN do anything for 15 minutes; and spending 15 minutes getting ready the night before saves me close to half an hour in the morning. Making my bed each day (no matter how often I have to do it) really does make me smile. Flylady has also added in Flying with kids, and Flying for working women – I wonder when she’s going to add the Flying with a toddler and a school kid and working all at the same time whilst trying to squeeze in a workout occasionally? The little book lead me to work out my daily routines AND get them into the right order for maintaining the house. I’ve also discovered the joys of Flying with my Imaginary Friends who help take the drudgery out of the endless repetition of each day.

 

I have to admit that I have come to enjoy living in a more ordered place; where everything has a home instead of a pile. So I have raised my standards a little bit, and the BOTH has lowered his and we’ve met in a slightly calmer place closer to his end of the scale than the middle. A place where the bills are paid, there’s food on the table and clean washing in the cupboards. The ironing is outsourced and there’s no mould growing in the shower. You can walk through the house without dislodging a precarious Pile of anything… Ok, there’s the odd dust bunny here and cobby there; but hey, I still have a ways to go.

 

And as for that box for dirty dishes?

 

Well, I call MINE a dishwasher!

 

 

 

 

 

Breakfast of Champions

This morning, I had an alarm malfunction of the operator kind. Aside from initially completely forgetting to even *set* the alarm, I then managed to set it for 6.00PM. TWELVE hours after I need to wake up. And of course, this happens on a morning where I absolutely positively have to be out the door by 7.00am, 7.05am. At The Very Latest. Now, thanks to Flylady (a topic for another time) and also in no small part to working for almost my entire adult life; I have a morning routine that runs like a well oiled machine -  when I just have myself to get ready, I can go from sleeping to out the door in 45 minutes; showered, dressed, bag packed, bed made,  breakfasted, kitchen cleaned up and wiped down, hair and face done and I am gone…But this morning, I had exactly and precisely 20 minutes to get ready (25 minutes if I used that spare five). Something would have to give… Ok, washing was up to date enough to leave; dinner – with a phone call, the Bloke Of The House can organise that; can’t make the beds because there’s people in them. Unpacking the dishwasher… I could skip that. Ok, I have gained maybe 10 minutes… But I cannot be late, I cannot go to work in my pyjamas; nor can I sacrifice doing the hair and face – I have a professional image to portray; and I don’t want to scare the natives. Bag is packed the night before, so no time savings there…There’s only one thing left, conceivably, to go.BREAKFAST.

Nooooooo.

I love breakfast. It’s my favourite meal; not simply because it’s the first food I have consumed in ten or so hours, but because it is, in itself, a wondrous thing. It’s the most versatile of meals. There are really no rules – it can be sweet, it can be savoury, it can be sweet *and* savoury all at the same time (maple syrup and bacon, anyone). It’s a meal that can be enjoyed at any time of the day or night. Gone are the days where breakfast consists of a bowl of soggy cereal, two bits of cold toast and a half drunk cup of coffee…Or an artery hardening plate of fried eggs and fried bacon, swimming on a plate of congealed fat and sauce. Breakfast can be anything you fancy.

 

There are  undeniable health benefits to breaking one’s fast; breakfast kick starts ones metabolism, breakfast eaters are better able to concentrate, and breakfast helps one control one’s weight so why would you *not* eat it?

Personally, I prefer to start my day with a bowl of home made muesli, some fruit and a good dollop of Greek yoghurt. This is accompanied by a large mug of coffee – NEVER instant. Life is too short for instant coffee, and when making a delicious cup in a French Press takes one extra step, and less than thirty seconds, why on earth would you NOT take the time. I like to prepare all the elements of my breakfast and sit down, uninterrupted, with the paper and consume both.  In fact, it is a Known Fact in my household, that once Mummy sits down with breakfast, there are to be no requests for more toast, more juice, more anything; no cries of “he’s looking at me” and “he keeps copying me”. It’s too bad, so sad, DEAL kids, Mummy has breakfast.

Weekend breakfasts, or days when we’re all around during the week tend to be a bit more exotic. Pancakes are a favourite, served with jam (four flavours) and cream or maple syrup and ice cream. Or bacon and eggs – perfect, golden yolks and crispy bacon, drained properly, and served with piping hot buttered toast. And there’s nothing like the smell of raisin toast wafting through the kitchen of a morning, mingling with the aroma from the espresso machine. Winter mornings call for porridge. A heart warming bowl of stodge, guaranteed to keep you full and warm all the way til morning tea time.

There’s also something incredibly civilised about going out for breakfast. Going out for breakfast enables one to catch up with friends, have delicious coffee brought to you along with plates of food; and best of all, somebody else to clean up the mess. In my Wicked Youth, (or back in Ye Olden Dayes), I used to go out with my girlfriends until we’d get kicked out of somewhere at 3am. Small children, advancing age and related wisdom put paid to that idea… and it also seemed to put paid to the idea of catching up on a regular basis. then someone hit upon the plan of BREAKFAST – it’s an occasion where small children are tolerated, smiled at and almost guaranteed to be amusing rather than painful as breakfast normally does not coincide with any known “Devil’s Spawn Child From Hell” times. In addition, it does not really impinge on the rest of your day. Breakfast at 9.00is, done by 10.30am or 11am and the rest of the day is your own.

 

Breakfast dates are win/win for everyone. Chance to enjoy some good company and some good food, can bring the kiddies if you must…

 

So do it…

 

Break that fast!

 

 

Harriet’s Home Made Muesli

(this will fill a 5l container)

1 kg rolled oats (not instant)

500g Processed bran

100g shredded coconut

100g flaked almonds

375g box of sultanas

 

Mix up in a giant mixing bowl and put into an airtight container. Sultanas can be replaced with dried fruit medley. Serve with yoghurt and fruit for a lovely breakfast!

 

   

 

Ellen’s Blender Pancakes

(You will need one blender)

2 cups SR flour

2 cups milk

2 eggs

 

Pop 2 cups of milk in the blender along with the 2 eggs

Whizz

Add one cup of flour

Whizz

Scrape down sides

Whizz

Add second cup of flour

Whizz

Scrape down sides

Pour dollops into a preheated fry pan. We like thicker, smaller panners, so only use 400ml milk. This feeds four nicely.