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!

 

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!