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.

 

 

 

 

Mornings

I think I may well be a morning person. I like mornings. Even though I grumble and mutter, I quite like being the only person awake and functioning first thing at home. Of course, if anyone else gets up - that does spoil it. Particularly if said person is demanding a nappy change and a packet of Smarties at 6.30am. Yes, like more than 50% of that request is likely to happen… The bliss associated with sitting down to my breakfast and morning coffee with the paper, surrounded by complete and utter silence is immeasurable. Peace at breakfast time is very Zen for me. If I start the day with a good breakfast (and I am not actually talking about the nutritional composition of the meal); it sets the tone for the remainder of the day.

I like walking in the mornings, too. I love the fresh, unspoiledness of the town, when there’s virtually no-one else around. The only people around are other walkers and runners who acknowledge their fellow travelers with a nod. There’s no need for conversation. Silence is the key. Everyone is moving to their own soundtrack, with earpieces in - unless it’s a conspiracy of secret agents taking a morning constitutional? Then there’s the young lady in yesterday’s clothes being escorted to a car by a gentleman more sensibly clad for the weather. Makes me smile to myself, remember when, and think “what a nice chap, taking her home in the morning…” My walk to work takes me along the main street which starts off as tree lined and residential. I check out the renovations going on, and ogle the houses I secretly desire (there’s three at the moment - one’s finished, one’s a work in progress, and the other is a gothic falling down pile fit for nothing more than the wreckers ball). As the main street slips from purely residential to businesslike, I watch businesses getting ready for the day. It’s like seeing a Grand Dame in her underwear - still slightly shabby, curlers in, sweeping the floors. I walk past the medical centre. It doesn’t officially open until 8.00am, but before 7.30am, it’s almost standing room only in the waiting room. And it looks like the same people, sitting in the same chairs as they were sitting in last week. And at the blood letters next door, there’s already a queue to go in.  

As I get closer to the city, the cars going past increase, with bleary eyed commuters at the wheel. The drive through is doing a roaring trade; and the barista at the cafe down the street is struggling with the cafe umbrellas and tables. Squeezing through with a table slightly wider than the door frame without losing his fingers is like watching a 3D game of Tetris unfold. It’s the same every morning - will it, won’t it, back a bit and through. You’d think with all that practice, he’d remember from one day to the next… Then, it’s a quick nod and smile to the Scottish Painters. I know they’re Scots because they have the flag painted on the front of their van; and a quick wave to the little tailor. He’s a funny little chap and has been there since the dawn of time. His shop looks like it, too. But he’s a very good tailor apparently, just not that good at housekeeping.

Then I am at work, I aim for the main entrance, but am too early. This means I have to use the fire stairs. This makes me squirm a little as it’s the scene of a horrendous crime, and whilst the perpetrator is safely locked away; there is still, for me, a resonance of unpleasantness that no amount of disinfectant and scrubbing can erase. But I am here, there’s coffee, and it’s good.I do like mornings.

 

Better late than never…

A week ago today, my country grew up a bit.

The Prime Minister said “sorry” to the indigenous children who were forcibly removed from their parents over a period of about 80 years. He said “sorry” to the indigenous people who have been affected by decisions made by governments and enforced by people since white settlement.

It was absolutely fabulous. And it was about bloody time.

I found it really moving and genuine, and have a whole new respect for Kevin Rudd, who has shown himself to be an articulate, intelligent and compassionate man. It was wonderful that four of the five surviving ex Prime Ministers were there (and to see Gough Whitlam supporting Malcom Fraser was astonishing in itself); and the one who was absent only served to underline what a complete prat that he was.

And I’m sorry too. Sorry that it had to take so long for someone to say a simple word. More than 10 years since the “Bringing them Home” Senate enquiry was tabled in Parliament, more than enough for someone to have the balls and the conviction to do the right thing. The apology was not about money, and shouldn’t be about money - how much money would it take to replace the love of a child and a mother? More than anyone could imagine.

As Nana Fejo said “Families - keeping them together is very important. It’s a good thing that you are surrounded by love and that love is passed down the generations. That’s what gives you happiness.”

And she’s right, too.

 

Make mine a double…

A double vodka valium latte thank you very much, and whilst you’re there, can you please remind me why I had children instead of sticking to child?

Yes. Today was one of THOSE days. One of those days that make you want to get in the car, make sure it’s filled with petrol and drive as far away as you can…

It all started when the Little Kid woke on the wrong side of his cot, and decided we’d moved to Opposite World for the day…

Now, breakfast is my favourite meal. I could eat breakfast three times a day (and that is a topic for another time); for me, breakfast has a ritual quality where I savour my meal, read the paper and sip on a cup of coffee. I like breakfast. This morning, however, the Little Kid had other plans for me. I made his breakfast - yoghurt and some of my berries in the vain hope that this would stop him from eating mine, and sat down with my breakfast.

Bzzzzzzzzzt.

Wrong answer.

Hand over the berries, woman, or I shall scream. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH.

I hand over the berries.

Kid 1 Mother 0

Then the Big Kid gets up and is ready for his breakfast. He has raisin toast. The Little Kid doesn’t like raisin toast. I suspect this is why the Big Kid *likes* raisin toast.

LK: Want rase toast, mummy

Me: You don’t like raisin toast

LK: WANT rase toast mummy

Me: But you don’t like it..

LK: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Rolls eyes, hands over a slice of raisin toast and promises Big Kid I will shortly make him another piece. I force Little Kid to actually place his buttocks on the seat of the chair instead of hanging off it like a slightly berserk monkey.

LK: I no like rase toast mummy WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

Me: Told you.

Kid 0 Mother 0.5 (still made the flippin’ toast, didn’t I?)

Moving right along to dressing the Little Kid. You’d be thinking that clothes that were perfectly acceptable two days ago would pass muster… well, if you were thinking that - you’d be WRONG.

Hysteria ensues as Little Kid screams that his clothes DON’T FIT and I join in with YES THEY DO. Little Kid also announces he  does not want to wear a nappy, and I decree that indeed he does, as he still tends to pee in random places. NO NUK JUST JOCKS MUMMY. Some wrestling follows and Little Kid is dressed in different clothes, but indeed wearing a nappy and jocks. These clothes were only partially acceptable, as he proceeded to spend the bulk of the day semi-naked.

Kid 0 Mother 0

Time to clean up the kitchen after breakfast. This involves stacking the dishwasher, and in order to stack the aforementioned dishwasher, one requires the door to be open. The following conversation was heard…

Shut door. No. Shut door. No. SHUT door. No, I need it open. SHUT DOOOR!!!1!! No. SHUT DOOOOOOOOR!!!!1!1!111!oneone. NO! WAAAAAAAAH. I’m finished now. Door SHUT Yay!

It is important to visualise my part correctly with one hand on the wire basket, one foot on the door, and the other hand alternately batting away the Little Kid and shoving dishes in as quickly as possible.

Kid 0 Mother 1 (I think I won that one)

At some point during the proceedings, I had a small and very noisy tantrum of my own. With door banging and some shed talk and a small amount of rending of hair. This lead to a very interesting hair day.

One of my very favourite books[1] tells me that inside every yelling person is a person who is not yelling. Unfortunately today, my not yelling person is sitting in a corner with her hands over her ears and rocking gently whilst dreaming of a vodka latte.

Kid 1 Mother definitely 0

And for the piece de resisitance…

Apparently I had my shoes on the wrong feet. Yes, me. The Mother. The one who is more than capapble of dressing herself. Lace up sneakers, no less. On the wrong feet. And the expectation was clearly there that I undo the carefully tied laces, place my shoes onto the opposite feet and thus continue upon my way. I thought not, and said so. His reply - WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH SHOES WROOOOONNNNGGGG MUMMMMMMMMYYYYYYY

Kid 0 Mother 1

I tell you what, it’s a good thing this kid is cute. Or he’d have a one way ticket to military school in his sweaty little paw right about now.

Oh, and the events described above?

Took place between 6.30am and 7.25am this morning. Yes. Less than one hour!

---

[1] “Buddhism for Mothers” Sarah Napthali

 

pretty pieces of flesh

Crushes.We’ve all had them, and if we are normal, healthy and red blooded human beings, I am pretty sure that 99% of us still do.

But I am discovering, to my chagrin, that I seem to have an unconventional taste in Crushes.

For example,  I do NOT fancy Brad Pitt. I think he looks like he smells. Even when he looks fairly clean, he still looks like he’d have a right unwashed pong about him. However, Robbie Williams almost definitely does smell, but if he was taller, I would say he is almost attractive. Tom Cruise is another man I would not give up a roast dinner for. He too would smell - Of Brut 33. And Old Spice. Both at the same time.

When all my teen-angsty friends were crushing over Daryl or Shirley, I had my thing for Red Symons. Yes, that Red. He of the Mr Surly Grumpy-Pants fame. I had a thing about him. And Harrison Ford instead of Mark Hamill; Robert Carlyle - even in Trainspotting. And while Christopher Eccleston made a really rather HOT Doctor; David Tennant… Snaggle toothed and slightly grubby Englishmen give me great delight.

And whilst we’re on the topic of Tall Dark and Handsome - Doc Neeson. Phwoar, he used to really pop my cork. I met him once, and I was a dribbling fan-grrl I tell you. It was a very memorable evening, I tell you. I was taken back stage by my friend to meet his Uncle Bernard. He kissed my hand. I swooned. Now, I am a tall girl - but he towered over me. This incredibly tall man with piercing blue eyes looking down on me as I gibbered like a fool. And to think that today Uncle Bernard is pushing 60!

To finish off, I must recount the tale of Meeting Chris Isaak. 

I was on my way to my friend’s house and she called me just before I left to see what I wanted to do. I mentioned that Chris Isaak was playing at Southland and maybe we could go have a look. She thought it was a cool idea and off we went. We parked the car, checked out where the band was playing and got ourselves a good position to see the show, We weren’t total Fan-Grrls you know, it wasn’t as if we had to be frontrow centre or anything (unlike seeing Andy Prieboy in St Kilda with Mad M - but that’s a tale for another day). Saw the band, they were pretty good, then they announced that Chris Isaak would be hanging around to sign autographs.

The queue was immense, so we weren’t going to bother. We went and bought his CD, looked around a couple of shops and decided to hell with it, we had no other plans, we were just on for a chat anyway - so chatting in the queue and being all ironic and everything about being there was fine with both of us.

So we queued. For TWO WHOLE HOURS. We both expected that he would announce “autographs were over” at any moment, and just chatted and giggled about being fan grrls and how Mad M would be soooo jealous when we told her at work on Monday. Then it was our turn.

By crikey, that man is HOT. H.O.T. Swoonworthy blue eyes, muscular arms, sleeves rolled up - and that voice… Honey, dark chocolate smoothness as he looks up at you and asks how to spell your name… ahbadahddhahweedhhsaa. Lost all ability to speak, I did. And my friend wasn’t much better than I was. We got our signed cds and ran off giggling like the total fan girlies we really and truly were; then had to have a good sit down afterwards to recover.

And as for Mad M… She, of course, had to do one better. She went to the concert, queued up for THREE hours and got a tshirt, which she wore to work the next day. Bet her tshirt’s all worn out now. And I still have my cd!

 

Moving House

On the recommendation of some fellow Bloggers, I have made the gradual transition from Blogger to WordPress which appears to have many more fun tricks and cool toys to play with.

I have been given a Personal Challenge by a friend, and that is to write two pieces a month. I am making it a New Years Revolution to give myself a fair crack at the challenge, because that pesky life business has a way of getting in the way of best laid plans. However, stranger things have happened and inspiration can strike at any moment.

 

Can you remember….

The bloke of the house and I were having a discussion the other day about the humble mobile phone.

Now, I was a relatively early adopter of this technology - I justified mine as I needed to be contactable when my father was very ill. My parents were even earlier adopters - they had one of those Bag Phones… Gigantic and cumbersome, the size of a rather large shoebox - but for the parental units who liked to go off the beaten track - quite a practical, and really awe inspiring device, despite the need for both of them to stand on the roof of the 4WD - one to hold the bag and one to talk on the phone - in order for them to get any reception at all…

It was a lot better than having to leave messages at umpty dozen caravan parks in the (usually) vain hope they would call in there for a shower on their way to somewhere else wild and savage.

My first phone was a lot more modern… Mine was a flip phone, it was small enough to fit in my pocket and I didn’t need to stand on the roof of anything in order to use it! The main problem I had with mine was its tendency to go flat if I made or received more than three calls; accidently changing the language to Norwegian when I was on holidays (but my housemate had the same phone, so I could call him to get instructions to change it back); oh, and my housemate having an identical phone to mine and neither of us realising for two days…

But I sure felt special, I tell you.

There are indeed some benefits to having a mobile phone - if you break down in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, you don’t need to walk for kilometres in the dark and knock on the door of some freaky potential serial killer’s house and ask to use their phone. And you don’t need to walk back to your car with the certain knowledge that the aforementioned freaky serial killer has just cancelled your call to the auto club and is right this very moment stalking you down their very long driveway. Oh, and you’re not getting wet, either, because it is in the rules that cars must break down in the middle of the night when it’s raining.

It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a specific work number - I have a mobile, so can be contacted on that if there’s anything wrong with the kids. And when my dad was ill, I stressed less about being away from home for any length of time, and thus uncontactable.

I remember sitting at home, waiting for a call, for hours and hours when I was an angsty teen ager (and I have the hand-written angsty teen diaries to prove it… “why doesn’t he call me? I know there’s a phone at the cricket club. I’m sure he’s got 20c to make the call. I’m not going to drive down there…” I guess if I was a teen today, I could send him progressively angrier text messages, whilst I messaged my girlfriends on MSN. Or just plain go out and if he called, he did…

Now, though, my leaving the house litany is “purse phone keys” assuming I am alone, of course. Otherwise, it takes me ten minutes to reel off my list of “must haves” when I walk out the door - kids, nappies, snacks, toys, change of clothes, hats sunscreen wipes purse phone keys. I rarely leave the house without that tiny, pocket sized anchor to the rest of my life.

I rarely use it for “emergencies”, most of the calls I make are “darling, how much milk do we have?” or “can you bring the washing in?” and not forgetting the “where the hell are you?” call that I was not able to make when I actually was an angsty teen instead of the mature and responsible adult I am now.

Except sometimes I forget it…

And you know what?

It feels good, it feels free…

And really really naughty.

 

Hunting for the family

Let me start by saying I am not the kind of person who gets any joy from shopping. Yes, I enjoy the casual stroll around the shops, maybe buying something, maybe not. But shopping for a purpose does not make me happy. And shopping for food makes me less than happy.

The closest supermarket to my house is located in a small, slightly weird shopping centre. We call it Deliverance Village, because I always hear banjo music when I am there. Not only is the supermarket frequented by more than the average population of loonies, there is a particularly large number of elderly people. Now, I know I too will be an old person one day, but still. Old people are really annoying in supermarkets. They stop randomly, stare into space, smell strongly of mothballs and old, and accost innocent bystanders to tell them their entire life stories…

This is why internet shopping makes me very happy. I sit at my computer, glass of wine in one hand, shopping list in the other; pick out my selections, and press send. them less than 24 hours later, it’s delivered to my kitchen. Yes, my KITCHEN. All this for less than $8. Calm, pleasant transaction, and all I have to do is put it away.

BUT…

I have been dieting. I have been eating well. And most importantly, I have been eating a lot more fresh food. And fresh food is something the internet groceries do not so well. So I shop at the fruit shop and the butcher and the baker, with only an occasional need for a top up shop at the supermarket. This means heading to the local with list in hand for a quick trip around the aisles…

OR…

Hmm. We don’t need all that much. It’s not really worth doing an online shop, I’ll just go to the supermarket…with the kids. I really don’t need all that much stuff, and last time we went they were really good…

Yes. Well. That was last time. I bribed them with a snack to start off with - iced bun from the bakery. Mmmm sticky. The Big Kid hops out of the trolley when it started getting congested - six litres of milk and six litres of juice will fill up a trolley somewhat. The Big Kid is pretty good - doesn’t run away, will help more often than not. The Little Kid likes to Help. We start working our way through the list, and the first pass through the supermarket is - well - They Moved Everything Around.

Don’t you hate that?

I don’t go to the supermarket all that often, but I go often enough that I know roughly where everything is. But when They decide to rearrange things, it’s a Phil Spector Nightmare. First pass through, the trolley is getting full; and I seem to have lots of large things. This means the back of the little seat is starting to ummm move forward, I guess. The Little Kid is getting restless, so I let him out. Little Kid has been cooped in the trolley for half an hour, he’s more than a little restless so the first thing he does when he’s released is run…

STOP!

Half a dozen old dears stop dead in their tracks, and the Little Kid cuts and weaves through their legs. I am hot pursuit, wheeling the overladen trolley between the oldies and the shelf stackers. I catch him, threaten him with going back *in* the trolley… It’s all good. I go back to checking my list, and scouring the shelves for the things that were right there last time we came… So - I have one eye on the Big Kid, one eye on my list, one eye on the shelves and one eye on the Little…

STOP!

The Little Kid backs carefully away from the stack of really interesting and shiny things he has his paws on, and a couple more old dears gradually start moving again… We finally get to the checkout, Big Kid has managed to completely trash the packaging of a 12 pack of toilet paper by pretending it was a Ben 10 watch. Hmm. 12 pack of loo rolls v watch. Yes. I can see the connection. Little Kid decides that he has to Help unload the trolley. Little Kid cannot see over the trolley let alone pick anything out to put on the coveyor belt. I take things out, hand them to him, he puts them on the conveyor belt, I move them along… I call the Big Kid back with his Ben 10 watch err toilet rolls and give the Little Kid a banana.

By the time we got home, I was ready for a Bex and a lie down. But unfortunately, I had 90 million bags of shopping to lug up the stairs, then put away whilst keeping aforementioned children OUT of the shopping and from sampling tasty objects.

Memo to self: DON’T DO IT!!!!