Water Shortage

Like everyone else, I'm wishing it would rain. I wish it would rain for days and days. The grass, trees and shrubs look like they'd go up in flames and then wipe out the whole city with one massive fire if anyone lit a match or threw a cigarette aside.

I'm trying hard to use as little water as possible and recycle what I can. We have a timer in the bathroom to ensure everyone sticks to the four minute shower rule. I keep Henry's bath water and throw it on the plants (by the way there's something in Johnsons baby bath that the plants love), I fill a bucket with water from the washing machine and throw that on the garden too but it barely seems to make a difference. Everything is just so dry and brittle. It's like the world is tired.

Before Maya was born her Dad and I bought a 126 acre property a little way north of Brisbane but thirty kilometres from the nearest town. On that property was an A-Frame house. A tiny wee house big enough to swing a cat but not much else. In that house had lived a widow and her four strapping sons. They had lived there for many years without any form of running water and no dam and no water storage devices of any kind. When we went to inspect the property we noted that they had about 50 four litre orange juice bottles filled with water lined up on the kitchen floor. Apparently when they went to town to do their fortnightly shop they took the bottles and filled them with town water from the local park. They didn't shower because there was no bathroom to speak of and no running water in the house. I didn't bother to ask them how they kept themselves clean because I really didn't want to know. The Matriarch did all the clothes washing by hand in a bucket and then put the water out for the ten mangy dogs to drink after she'd finished with it.

There were old car bodies strewn about the place and a shed literally filled with nesting rats. The place was a mess, but it was cheap and it had the most magical view over the valley.

The first thing we did when we moved in was to organise an excavator to dig a massive dam in a low where the creeks all met. Then we waited for it to rain. In the mean time we bought an aluminium water tank and paid to have it filled with water and then gravity fed it to the house. This meant we were able to at least wash dishes and clothes and clean our teeth. With no shower or bathroom facilities yet installed we showered outside with a camp shower strung up beneath the frangipanni tree. They were possibly some of the best showers I have ever had. A view of the moutains in front, lush tropical bush behind and no visible neighbours.

Maya was born in that house, well not born there but born into it. She was a delightful bush baby. Every day we took her for bush walks strapped in the backpack on our backs. She'd fall asleep to the sound of the Butcher Bird who followed us around on our walks. She was also born into a home where effort was required just to fill a bathtub with water. For some time after we finally purchased a bath tub we just sat it outside on the front deck overlooking the mountain and plugged it up and filled it with water from a bucket and lay in there taking a bath under the stars. She loved it. We left there when she was not quite two so she does not remember it. I remember well though the difficulties of getting and keeping water. When we moved back to the city it was such a novelty to be able to turn on a tap and just let it run. Each and every time I did though I felt guilty. I felt wasteful. It was such a precious commodity once for some time and it seemed ridiculous to me that my neighbours in the city felt no shame in running their sprinklers all night while they slept.

We should have seen the drought coming many years ago and been prepared for it. Once upon a time every home had a tank and then they were told to remove them because of the health hazard they may cause. Now the councils are paying people to install them once again.

Maybe they should insist everyone gets themselves 50 four litre orange juice bottles.

Bloomin' Hang Nail

Henry has this thing about hangnails. He just can't bear to have one for longer than a few seconds. When he does he says "I got a hangnail. I need to get the clippers".

Tonight while he was bathing I decided to cut my toenails. When he saw me with the clippers he jumped out of the bath, came running over all sudsy and wet and said "Mum, have you got a bloomin' hang nail?". He inspected my toenails as if he were specially trained in detecting rogue hang nails and passed over each one until he got to the one I had not correctly cut. "Oh, I'll get it" he cried out and then just grabbed that thing and ripped it right off my toe and threw it in the bin.

Finger Update

It turns out the doc thinks Maya's fingers weren't broken but just a little sprained. Because he understands the importance a bandage plays in extracting endless amounts of sympathy he wrapped it up good so it looks like it could be really very serious. It's on her left hand so unfortunately she has no excuse for not doing her schoolwork and that upset her more than the pain, oh the pain.

In other news; we've invested in a VOIP phone which for a small monthly fee gives us endless amounts of local and national calls free. Well of course they're not free because we pay a small monthly fee but imagine making all those harassing phone calls I wanted to make but didn't because I thought they'd cost me money.

There's always something to break the peace

And it usually comes in the form of a phone call from a teenager who knows you're at home for the day instead of at work.

Somehow she miraculously manages to break a bone/come down with the worst bout of stomach bug ever/ bang her head/ whatever it may be that would require a phone call to me to make sure I'm not enjoying my time alone at home and that I have to leave the house like right now.

I had the day off today. Not because I wanted to but because there was just nothing to do at work. While I sighed heavily about the loss of a days pay I was secretly pleased because it meant I could have some alone time. Henry would be at daycare, Ben would be at work and Maya would be at school.

I walked my adorable children to their respective drop off zones this morning and walked home feeling somewhat excited about ALL THAT TIME ALONE! Because I was also feeling a little domesticated I came home and cleaned...for a bit anyway.I also shopped for food despite promising that I never would again. I wouldn't go as far as to say it was a pleasurable experience but it was at least without panic. I was able to get in there, fill the trolley and get out in under twenty minutes. I didn't have a toddler to save from the traffic in the carpark or to stop filling the trolley with novelty truck shaped biscuit tins. There was no teenager asking me to buy mascara's and 45 different varieties of chocolate drinks and expensive hair shampoos. I got it home and packed without the toddler and the teenager opening everything before I'd even had a chance to get it out of the car. Sounds like heaven doesn't it.

I washed several piles of dirty clothes, vacuumed the floors and the car and prepared dinner. It's amazing how easy those simple things are when there's no one else to distract you. I even drank a whole hot cup of tea, ate several pieces of chocolate and talked the council guys into feeding some of our tree trimmings into their mulching machine. I think they were disappointed I didn't have more. I almost told them to go right ahead and just cut down all the overgrown trees in our yard and mulch them to a bloody pulp.

I looked up at the clock just after 1PM and knew the countdown had begun. There were only two short hours of peace left in which I could start to read the hundreds of gossip magazines that were left on my back porch by my elderly neighbour over a week ago.

Just as I flipped to the page that would tell me all about how to avoid developing an eating disorder but still be as thin as Lindsay Lohan the phone rang.

"Mum, it's me, I broke my fingers, can you come and get me or should I get the bus?"

"Get the bus, nothing you can do for a broken finger anyway. I'm about to kick start my new diet which includes lots of rest and perhaps some illegal drugs so if you don't mind I'll see you when you get home"

"Ok, well I'll just hobble home, drag my really heavy bag behind me. The girls at school say you can die from a broken finger. They read about a girl in a magazine who once broke her finger and died three days later".

"Really? Her mum must be really mean. Maybe she didn't take her to the hospital in time. Maybe she didn't even bother picking her up from school and made her catch the bus home".

We didn't really have that exact conversation and I may be the meanest mother on the planet but since she was laughing while talking to me and the last time she supposedly had a broken finger it turned out it was just a little bruised. She didn't complain too loudly about catching the bus and I promised to meet her at the bus stop with the car but I didn't want to cut into my OWN TIME because I had eating disorders to learn about.

Worst Shopping Trip EVER

I just got back from the shopping centre. My all time least favourite place. I had to go because I needed to purchase something special. Something I hope the receiver will enjoy. I kind of knew what I wanted so I headed out early in the hope that I would miss all the other shoppers who also had to buy something special.

I took Henry with me as his Dad had to go to service the computer of someone who may be an online gambler. Of that I can't be sure. But what it meant was that Henry could not stay home. I had to do the thing I hate most with a child in tow.

Henry had already been to the toilet earlier in the morning and I thought there would be little chance he'd have to go again before I got home. I wasn't planning on being there forever so I left home without any spare underpants or wipes or any of the usual emergency supplies I take along.

While I was in the store, a rather crowded specialist store, Henry very loudly declared that he had a poo in his pants. "Mum, I've got a poo in my undies!". I looked up completely embarrassed to see him waddling over to me, hunched over in the hope that the poo wouldn't stick and might somehow miraculously disappear.

All faces were on me, and my son. Everyone had literally stopped what they were doing and had turned to me to gauge how I might react to this bit of news. I wanted to tell them all that it was just a bit of poo, there was nothing to see, they could all get back to what they were doing because the poo, well it was nicely tucked into his elasticated undies and was not about to fall out at their feet and germ the place up.

Since I'd already found what I wanted I decided that I was just going to pay for it and make Henry wait because after I'd gone to the bathroom to clean him up I was hotfooting it out of that centre. He stood there beside me at the checkout all hunched over with a stench strong enough to kill an already dead rabbit. He calmly waited until I was ready and then we walked slowly to the bathrooms. I'll spare you the cleaning up details but let's just say I was extremely thankful that the bathrooms were free at that moment.

I've learned my lesson. I will never go shopping again. Ever. Not even when I've run out of food.

What's so good about Good Friday?

Well for a start I managed to make my mother happy by going to family day at church with her even though I was tired because I'd been up half the night throwing stones at the possums who must have been fighting off male suitors through the night on the roof right above our bedroom. Of course there was lots of talk at church about how one cannot be complete without Jesus but he was obviously feeling generous because I left with a free bag of Brumby's chocolate hot cross buns.

My mother also has a new car, a very fancy electronic seat type new car. I got to drive it home from church because, well I guess Jesus was feeling very, very generous. Henry hadn't yet seen the car but had heard about and given his obsession with all things with wheels he insisted on being taken for a drive back to Nana's house in it after she dropped me home. He got strapped into the luxurious leather seats and was whisked off with Nana and Richie and treated royally at their home for a couple of hours while Ben and I whipped around the floors with the vacuum cleaner. I know, I know, I can hear the jealousy in your voices. I am sooooo lucky!

Later I dropped Maya and her friends to the movies and after collecting Henry on the way home and borrowing my mother's long handled tree trimmers we chopped back some overgrown bushes. Now we have an enormous pile of tree branches that we are considering dumping in the jungle of the empty home next door. I'm sure they wouldn't notice what with the pile of uncollected mail and the family of mountain lions that have moved in.

Henry, who hadn't slept all day fell asleep on the couch at 5PM, Maya left with a friend for a sleepover and Ben went off to parts unknown to service the computer of an online gambler. That was my cue to crack open a bottle of wine and start...well you know...drinking.

Henry is all excited about the impending Easter Bunny visit but fortunately he does not yet understand the whole concept of marketing and the need to improve profit margins by placing Easter eggs in the supermarkets immediately after Christmas,so the Easter Bunny has left me with only one chocolate bunny and two small eggs to leave in his Easter nest.

Happy Easter everyone.

Ms Manager manages to avoid pool ghoul conversation

So I go to the pool today to take Henry to swimming lessons and I run into Ms Manager as I check in. A little small talk ensured about the weather and what day Henry is booked in next term and blah blah blah. I'm so thinking in my head about what to say about this .

She checks my card and notes that we haven't been for a couple of weeks.

"No". I say. "Last week I had some skin infection..."

She cuts me off mid sentence ..."Oh, that's no good is it love"

"No" I say. "It's not. I..."

"Well, we'll see you next term" and I'm dismissed.

That's it, end of conversation. No time to talk about oozing infections and how they may have been contracted.

Henry and I head for the pool. We get in, ready to start the lesson which always follows the same routine and starts with Crocodile, Crodile on the wall. Just as Henry is about to spectacularly dive towards me with his arms outstretched I glance over to see the legs of a small child, not much bigger than Henry. I notice that his legs are covered in some kind of pool ghoulish rash that looked strangely similar to mine. I have to look away though in order to save my son, who had almost made it to the bottom of the pool because I wasn't looking, from drowning. When I look back the kid is gone. I want to jump out of the pool and track down the mother and tell her that her child is possibly spreading some kind of horrible bacterial germ, infecting other poor innocent children...and their parents.

I then realise that perhaps that child got it at the pool too, maybe the mother doesn't realise that's where it might have come from and hasn't realised that by continuing to bring him there while he's covered in it will just spread it. I want to track her down and scream at the top of my voice that he be quarantined.

I was over it by the time we got to the tunnel game in which I am supposed to force my disinterested 2 year old to chase a ball through a tunnel fashioned from a yoga mat. Throughout the entire lesson today Henry chose to act like a bored teenager. He refused to even consider doing the things that were asked of him and instead decided that he was going to do the opposite of whatever the teacher said. He breathed a heady sigh of relief when the final "grand old Duke of York" horse rides on the noodle signalled the end of the half hour.

The day only got better from there. Well between the hours of 11AM and 3Pm at least. We went to visit Carla and Charli and McKenzie where we ate lashings of home made cheesecake (thanks Carla - it was absolutely scrumptious) and ran around the house scarring each other to within an inch of our lives.

Morning Shots...1 2 3...to kick start the day

And it's only a plastic storage box.

This is Henry's newest and most favourite way of having a bath. We have only a shower and up until Maya came up with the bright idea of filling the tub that usually holds his hundreds of matchbox cars with water and letting him languish till his hearts content he was satisfied with a quick shower.

He gets into that thing and then won't get out. I have to bribe him with a spoon full of "kintella" (nutella) to get him to even hang one leg over the edge. He'll stay in there until he resembles a flaky prune. He puts his cars in and washes them then starts on the shampoo bottles. He insists that whoever is in there supervising him must read several hundreds of books all to his choosing. It must be just the right temperature and have no less than five squirts of baby soap in it and the supervisor must not, under any circumstances, join him in song. If he starts to sing five little ducks he wants to do it alone. The supervisor is allowed to sit, only on the stool, but must not do anything other than read the books he has first approved.

I should be grateful that he considers a square plastic storage box to be the equivalent of a porcelain spa bath complete with gold fittings.

Pool Ghoul

Lately I've been thinking about the psychology behind modern day conversation. It might be just me and in actual fact probably is but a lot of conversations I have, even with complete strangers such as the sales assistant at the local bakery, are all pre-played in my mind before I have them. I feel the need these days to ensure that the words that come out of my mouth has been studied and cleansed of anything that could possibly be considered offensive, defensive, rude, racist, accusatory, selfish, ignorant or nosey.

This morning for instance I've been rearranging words in my head that I need to tell the manager of the pool where Henry goes to swimming lessons. She's done nothing wrong and is in fact a very nice person if not a little dismissive at times. You see I developed some horrid rash along my arms and lower back and I had no idea what had caused it. I never get rashes and have never had an allergic reaction to anything before that might have caused it. I ignored it and hoped it would go away. It didn't. It festered and blistered and got itchy and sore. I went to the doctor who told me it was folliculitis - an infection of the hair follicles caused by heat and synthetic clothing or heated pools and spas. Since I rarely wear synthetic clothing and on the rare occasions that I have in the past have never developed such a rash I assumed it may have come from the heated pool at which Henry has his lessons but I don't know that for sure.

I have antibiotics, usually prescribed for severe acne, which is clearing the problem up but I don't want to go to swimming lessons this morning in case it flares up again and also in case I transmit it to someone else. I also had surgery on my shoulder last Wednesday and don't want to risk getting that infected. Anyway I wanted to call the pool and tell them I wouldn't be coming this morning but I also feel I should mention the folliculitis to them but I'm unsure how to bring it up without sounding like I'm accusing them of infecting me. I'm not angry about it and I have no proof that it was the pool that did it to me but I feel I need to let them know in case someone else gets it. It's not nice and definitely unattractive, especially when it's making your bum spotty like the face of an acne prone teenager.

Give me some advice people. Run that conversation over in your mind and flip some words around and give me your final version.

Student of the week AND a job

And this is where I get to act like the proud mother.

Last week Maya scored a Student of the Week Award and a part time job at McDonalds all on the same day.

In her interview at McDonalds they asked her what her favourite subject was and what the teacher of that subject has to say about her. She was able to very proudly report that earlier that same day the teacher of her favourite subject (History) had awarded her Student of the Week.


Now the job thing makes me VERY proud because she will now be able to sink her own dollars into her other passion...fashion.

Views from the Mountain

Wedding Cake by Miss Susan (Sister of the Groom)

So this is what we did last weekend.

That's my brother and his beautiful wife and her two children. There's another one growing beneath her wedding dress right now.

And this is what Henry did at this place



A family weekend turned into a wedding weekend but nobody minded. Not even Henry who had a great time helping pack the booze into the esky for the onslaught of guests that were soon to arrive.

Congratulations you two! Soon you'll have your own baby to pack your booze for you.

When the Outside World is not in your home.

We've only just been hooked back up to the world at large. We had no internet and no telephone for four days. On Tuesday as I pulled the car in the driveway on my way home from work the neighbours mower man came running up to tell me that my cables had been ripped away from the mains and it looked like a truck may have been responsible. I went to talk to my elderly neighbour about it as all the cable had been neatly rolled and dumped in her front yard, right in amongst her prize winning gerberas. She told me that while she was ironing in front of Days of Our Lives earlier that day she'd seen a truck come past and then stop and some men got out and rolled up the cable and dumped it in her yard and drove off again. We all tsked tsked and shook our head at the rudeness of people today. How they hadn't bothered to leave a note or to even see if anyone was home and admit to what they'd done.

As all this was going on my sister called me on my mobile. I told her to call the phone company for me as I wasn't about to pay he exhoribant prices they would charge on my mobile while they put me on hold for several hours to sort it out. They called me back soon after and I explained in great detail what had happened. I told them that the lines had been completely severed from the main line and that the part still connected to the house was many metres above the ground. She told me someone would be around the following day.

The following morning I went to tell my elderly neighbour that they would be here later in the day to fix it and not to touch the lines in the meantime. I asked her if she thought the truck may have come from the house that was being built two doors down. Her reply - "Oh I don't know. I didn't see anything or any truck". Go figure that one out! Someone did come that day, while I was at work, and they called me on my mobile to tell me that they would have to come back with a cherry picker the next day because THE LINES WERE COMPLETELY SEVERED AND SEVERAL METRES OFF THE GROUND AT THE HOUSE LEVEL. I uttered a very obvious "Der" down the telephone line. I had to stop myself from telling him that I was no technician but I had easily figured out that a cherry picker would be needed because, as I told them on the phone, the LINES WERE COMPLETELY SEVERED AND SEVERAL METRES OFF THE GROUND.

Never the less we still had no phone or internet connection and would have to wait another day. When I arrived home from work the following day there were still no connected lines, no internet and no telephone. I called them from my mother's house. Asked why there was no connection. I was told that they were not due until the fifteenth. I told him it was the fifteenth and he very embarrassingly backtracked, attempted to call through to someone to ask what the problem was and why the hadn't been there. He couldn't get a hold of anyone and so rebooked the repair for the following morning - Friday.

Friday morning came and went and no signs of any technicians. They finally showed at around 3pm and had it fixed in an hour and amazingly had no cherry picker. One guy with one very big ladder. Done. Easy. Back to normal.

Maya was more pleased than anyone when the internet was back in service. She had acted as though someone had been slowly sapping the blood from her veins over the four days we were without it.She had been unable to chat for hours on Messenger with friends she had spent the entire day with at school! She had been unable to check her emails and readjust her myspace. It was terrible and heartbreaking to watch her wither away and go to the computer and click the internet icon in the hope that it had somehow miraculously reconnected itself while she wasn't looking. I was getting a littel titchy because I had internet banking to do and bills to pay online but not enough to make me want to tear my hair out. I was actually quite enjoying the peace and quiet that came with a non working telephone. There were no boring telemarketers calling trying to get me to buy telephones or change my internet plan. Best of all I thought my husband wouldn't be able to talk for hours to his best friend...that is until his mobile rang. Not that I mind most of the the time, it's just that those two can talk much longer than any woman can to her best friend. I get a little jealous.

The peace and quiet ended abruptly at around 4.30pm with the first call. It was a telemarketer, wanting me to change phone plans...

So I have a lot to tell but right now I have a lot to do. More later.

Fireman Sam is gonna save the day

Making Tacos

Fireman Sam is the hero next door - well at home anyway

Henry hurt his arm. Well only a little bit but Sissy insisted on wrapping it in a bandage because he wanted a "sticker" (bandaid) and we didn't have any. He was so proud of that bandage and looked at it for a long time while posing his arm several different ways just to try it on for size.

He's into role playing now and has a toy helmet that he likes to get from outside to wear while he's watching Fireman Sam on the TV. Sadly he knows every line from every episode that we own on DVD, which are at some point going to melt from endless rotating they have to do across the laser reader or whatever that thing is.

He sings along with the theme song and if anyone else tries to they're quickly told "no, don't you sing it, Henry sings it". We're not even allowed to poke fun of Dillis (the single mother of the town's naughtiest boy - Norman Price) when she chats up Trevor the bus driver from behind her shop counter. "No, don't say Norman's mum".

When it's finally over he runs outside to get the length of hose he uses as a fire hose, attaches it to the tap and plays out what he's just watched.

"Get the hoses Elvis. Right, now put the fire out, hurry!" (followed by nee naw siren sounds)

"I'll get Tom in the helicopter, we're going to need him, hurry Tom".

It's hilarious and he's terribly passionate about it. If anyone attempts to stop him in his rescue attempts they're quickly told where to go.

He has a pair of winter pyjamas that have fire engines on them and he's currently had them on for three days running. He won't take them off. He's hot and sweaty but he doesn't care. He's got everything he needs -Fire truck pyjamas, Fireman Sam DVD, firehose and helmet. All that makes for one happy boy.

Comfort can only be found in a teatowel

Henry's been ill with an unexplained fever since yesterday. The fever hasn't been enough to stop him from ordering everyone about, including the cat. Our poor kitty who is on his last legs has taken to eating only enough food in order to stay alive. After he's done this he likes to stretch out somewhere that he believes is a nice, quiet, relatively safe place (i.e. where Henry can't find him)and snooze because eating a whole spoonful of food is exhausting.

Henry, who is too young to understand the joy that vodka can bring, likes to tuck things up in bed because he believes that is the only way to be truly comfortable.

Our kitty, after a particularly exhausting feast of mushed up tuna had decided to hide on the chair that usually does a good job of hiding him away from the heavily loving hands of Henry. Unfortunately Henry spied his tail hanging over the edge. He decided that if Kitty was going to sleep he needed and deserved to have a few of life's little luxuries. He rushed to the kitchen and grabbed a few teatowels off the rail and a cushion from the lounge room and did his best to ensure kitty was tucked in comfortably.




After only a few seconds he tore all the covers off kitty and yelled in his ear "wake up now kitty, time to go to work".


Obviously the cat was simply way too worn out from all that eating that he just lay there and let Henry do what he had to do and chose to ignore him.

How Can I be so Mean?

Am I really a mean, terrible, hurtful, neglectful mother because I refuse to drive Maya to the bus two days per week?

She has been going to school for nine years and two months but somehow still can't manage to get herself ready with enough spare time to make the five minute walk to the bus stop before the bus leaves.

I drive her to the bus three days a week on the days that I work because I have to go directly past the bus stop to get Henry to daycare. She only has to walk two days but always gets herself into some kind of hysterical tizz about missing the bus because she spent twenty minutes trying to decide which earrings to wear with her school uniform. When I refuse to get in the car to drive her she slams the door behind her while muttering out loud that if she's late or misses the bus it'll be my fault.

It's always my fault. That's what mothers do. They take the blame for EVERYTHING.


10am update:
Ten minutes after she gets to the bus stop and just as I step out of the shower she calls me to tell me the bus has had a crash further down the road and is on fire and people are everywhere and there's a car stuck under it and it's going to rain and if she waits for the next bus she'll be late for school and get detention!

So I quickly put on some clothes, dress Henry who's been wandering around naked, and get in the car to rush to the bus stop to collect her and get her to school on time. On the way home I stop at the shop to pick up some pain killers and vitamins for all the sick people in the house. When I get home I give Henry vitamins and panadol, he wanders into the lounge room with it and spills it all over the carpet. While I clean that mess he wets his pants all over the carpet because I was too busy cleaning up the panadol to notice that he was busting to go. While I clean up that mess he walks past the cat and accidentally steps on his tail and the cat turns around and scratches him across the legs, he screams. While he's screaming the phone rings. By this stage I'm almost about to fall on the floor and start crying. Because when I'm not feeling 100% there's nobody around to pick up the pieces.

I'm feeling sorry for myself but I have every right to. So there.

An event not to be missed

April 28th - the Lyceum Hall, Highland St ESK
Melissa plays with
the Kransky Sisters!
tickets $25.00 [be quick]
for ticket sales [cash or cheque only]
phone: 5424 6364

For those of you who are interested this will indeed be an event worth seeing.

Melissa J Evans, a very talented Musician and the Kransky Sisters. Michele, a good friend of mine was once a Kransky Sister (Ava the Tuba Player) but it seems she's AWOL.

I'll be there.

I don't get paid to de-clutter

All I've got to say, and I need to say this quickly because as I say it Henry is throwing the contents of the video cabinet around the floor, that having a paid job outside the home does not allow one to have a clean, de-cluttered home.

Listening to my child count the videos and call himself a "good boy" as he throws them makes all the clutter worth it. Kind of.

Ridgy Didge

This kid is my nephew. He's all of seven years old. He plays that Didgeridoo like he was born with it in his mouth. It must be that tiny bit of aboriginal blood he inherited from his father that makes playing it so natural. Women are not allowed to play the Didgeridoo, it's bad luck. It's only a man's domain but I had a go anyway and I do alright...for about three whole seconds. It's harder than you'd think.

Declutter the Carpark

The decluttering should start here. Right now. While the owner of all these cars is sleeping soundly. But I am so tired today that I don't think I have it in me. Besides I have the spare fridge in the laundry turned off and dripping all over the floor while it defrosts, three tonnes of washing to fold and a wardrobe rail to fix. Maybe I'll ignore all of those things and just go and sleep instead.

70 things a week

This morning I read Meegan's post about another blog she had found and was inspired by. The idea was to free your life of clutter by getting rid of seven things per week in your home that you no longer want or need.

I had wanted to write a nice lengthy post about the clutter in my life and how it makes me want to start drinking at 7am but I thought most people would be bored out of their minds when they read it. Now that Meegan's gone and started it I am going to take her lead and go on and on incessantly about the clutter/junk/mess that each day fills me with dread as soon as I open my eyes.

My home obviously isn't as bad as some but if I had my way I would only own the bare minimum. Enough just to get me by with. One saucepan, one frypan, enough cutlery for three meals per day, three pairs of underwear, two t-shirts, four bathtowels...you get the picture.

The problem is I never have time to get to the clutter and junk and most of the time when I attempt to Henry will be at the other end of the house taking the flour, cordial and jelly out of the fridge and rubbing it into the carpet for me because he does that stuff so well. If I even turn my back on him for 30 seconds he will find something to destroy and it usually involves the pantry and refrigerator.

I do get around to cleaning out things once in a while but I often come across things that I simply can't get rid of because there is some kind of emotion attached to it. These things never get used and just take up space but to throw it away would be like cutting off one of my arms. I simply can't do it.

Just recently my sister (who lives alone and has only her own mess to clean up) bought herself some wooden coat hangers. I listened enthusiastically while she told me what a difference they had made to her wardrobe, how she was now able to more fully see what she owned and better yet, all her clothes hung at the same level and looked way better when they were colour co-ordinated onto the wooden coat hangers. How I marvelled while thinking that they couldn't possibly be that good!

While shopping the other day I found some on sale and thought I'd get some and just see if they would bring me instant happiness. Guess what? They did! Short lived but I was instantly gratified by the way they made my years old clothing look almost brand new. It was almost as if I had walked into an upmarket thrift shop. I made Maya come and look and couldn't wait for Ben to get home to tell him what a difference they'd made to one moment in my life.

I just wish everything could be fixed with wooden coat hangers.


PS. When I do get around to clearing out the clutter this hat that Maya paid 15 good, useful dollars for will be the first thing to go.

Paper Undies

Today I spent the entire day lying in a hospital bed waiting for a minor surgical procedure that never eventuated. I have a large lipoma on my shoulder which is not harmful and won't kill me but it does cause me some discomfort and it's just plain ugly.

I've been on the waiting list for about four months and the call that came yesterday asking me to make it into the hospital today came a lot sooner than I thought considering it's not life saving surgery. These things, if not too large, can usually be removed under a local anaesthetic but mine is too large for that. I need to be asleep while they cut my shoulder open and scrape it all out.

I had to fast from 6am this morning and be at the hospital by 10.30am. After getting changed into a very unattractive, back opening, purple hospital gown and disposable paper undies I was shown to a bed. There I lay until 4.30pm when they finally told me that due to an emergency procedure that was taking longer than expected I wouldn't be going under today and was sent home.

It was hard to ignore the stomach rumbling and I was just thankful that the aroma from any nearby cafe's could not waft through the ward. My mouth was dry as the Sahara desert because I hadn't even had any water since 6am and was not allowed to.

Luckily I took my book. A juicy little novel I've read about three times in the past. Peyton Place. I don't know what it is about that book but I love it. Maybe it's because it's got that soap opera reputation or that it very deliberately raised issues no one wanted to even believe existed in the 30's, 40's and 50's. It's a sordid tale but perfect for whiling away the hours in a hospital bed where without a blanket your paper undies would be exposed to anyone who happened to walk by.

6210 Times!

Maya has been back at school for almost two weeks now. The chant only started this week on account of the teachers obviously wanted to give them time to settle in on the first week.The Chant generally goes something like this. "Have you done your homework?", "Have you done your homework?", "Have you done your homework?"

I just did some quick calculations and over the last nine years I've said this approximately three times per day on at least 230 days of the year. That equals 690 times per year and that multiplied by 9 equals 6210.

Calculations using the above averages means my mother, who had five children,would have said this approximately 41400 times in the schooling life of her children.

See what you're all in for. Maybe you'll all be lucky and have kids who love homework as much as they love making life hell for their parents. It's statistically unlikely...unless you've given birth to a microchip controlled nerd.

Watch the war in colour

The TV just told me that a new DVD of World War I is available. IN COLOUR! The colour will make it a joyful viewing experience because that black and white is just way too gloomy.

FREE!

Today I received a FREE brochure in the mail that invites me to sign up to receive more FREE brochures.

Yippee! More junk mail. By simply signing and sending off the tear off section I'll be able to receive free brochures about Male Arousal Patches, How to Win the Lottery, and How to Become a Published Writer. Very diverse and information that all good households need.

There's probably one coming to your suburb soon.

It's all in the way you flick your hair

I wish I had the self confidence of a fourteen year old and felt comfortable strutting about the house saying "I am so great, I am so great!" right after I'd just signed a contract with my parents agreeing to clean both toilets twice a day in lieu of having to do the dishes.

Yesterday

Four in the toilet, three in the pants!

Each time he told us he wanted to go and only three times we didn't make it in time.

A major breakthrough in all things toilet related

Not only did we have the plumber come yesterday to repair the toilet but Henry for the first time ever uttered these words with sounds of desperation "Mum, I have to do a wee on the toot"and then followed through.

We were so proud and so was he as he looked in the potty and saw it filled almost to the top.

When he needs to go he walks around with his legs crossed and bends over as though he's in pain. It's like he thinks if he does this he'll stop it coming out and wetting his shorts or something. I've tried to catch him each time but as soon as he'd get on the potty he'd stop and nothing would come and then he'd do it in his pants. My theory of him becoming uncomfortable each time he was wet eventually paid off and he asked to go. YAY! He may regress yet but so far this morning he's asked us to take him three times but not done anything. Yet.

I'll live in Melanesia

So the Intensive Behaviour Therapy is paying off. I think. Henry's day care teacher takes great delight in telling me how cheeky he's been though. I'm almost at the point of asking her if he EVER does anything positive. I think she's just paying me back for the time I got very irate with them all for leaving Henry outside. It's the same old story. The minute you question anyone's ability to do their job properly they'll pay you back by being stoney cold and miserable towards you.

In fact I'm starting to wonder whether or not anyone has any "people skills" anymore or life is so busy it just doesn't allow for "friendliness".

I am a member of freecycle.org. An online worldwide junkyard. The idea is that you post the stuff you no longer need (as long as it's still useable) and pass it along to someone who does. For free. The purpose of it is to keep stuff out of landfill for as long as possible by recycling it. You pass it along. You can also ask for specific items that someone may have lying around but forgot they had.

I have never asked for anything or actually ever collected anything from freecycle but I have managed to offload a lot of stuff that was too good for the tip but not good enough to sell. The problem is though that there are some people who will immediately respond to a post and ask for ANYTHING and EVERYTHING you have. They don't do it politely either. They write to you and say "I'll have it, post it to me at this address". As if! As if I am going to go out of my way to pack something that is FREE and send it off to some moron who is incapable of asking politely for it.

It's not just freecycle. It's everywhere. I'm sick and tired of it! There's no time to be polite because they always have somewhere to be that's better than where they are.

I watched a program on television last night about some Australian cops working in Melanesia. The guy said his time there had given him a new perspective on life because the people there have nothing but are so happy. The people back home in Australia live in relative luxury and have many possessions but are all miserable and stressed because they're chasing an impossible dream. Our communities have broken down, whereas their community is all they have. Each person looks out for the other. Maybe we need community based Intensive Behaviour Therapy.

End of rant.

Intensive Behaviour Therapy

I haven't been posting much lately. Partly due to lack of time but partly because I've been involved in some Intensive Behaviour Therapy (another way of saying I've been disciplining him in a psychologically friendly manner) with my adorable son. I guess the Terrible Two's have hit with some kind of incredible fury.

We had four days at my sister's house where he was an absolute angel because there was ALWAYS something to occupy his time, including the ute which he is sticking his head out of in the photo above. So I believe this current phase may be due to boredom. I've dug out all my old parenting manuals and have been intently reading them for the past few days and putting the ideas into practice. They work for the most part. I've also figured out that every afternoon I have to take him to the park and wear him out otherwise he's climbing the walls between the hours of 6 and 8PM.

I've given up attempting to visit with friends, especially those that don't have small children or never have because unleashing Henry in their homes induces a look of shock and horror and I can see them calculating the minutes before we leave. They start glancing at their watches and muttering under their breath that they just remembered they had to be somewhere. Somewhere away from us. I try to leave their homes in the same state it was when we arrive but it's sometimes very hard to see EVERY piece of broken glass. Plus it's impossible to have a conversation in which one person is required to speak a whole sentence at once so visiting anyone for company is clearly out of the question. If I need to lay eyes on another adult human I simply go to the grocery store. At least there when Henry pulls all the baked beans cans off the shelf I can walk away and pretend it was someone else.

The parenting manuals all assure me that this behaviour is normal for his age and he's testing the boundaries etc but I'm not sure if I'll make it past this and come out the other end still sane.

Perhaps I need to buy a ute and leave it permanently parked in the living room.

Rejuvenation

This morning I had a massage. And a skin rejuvenating facial. The photo above of my sister's cow has absolutely nothing to do with this by the way. I just posted it because the that cow is so relaxed she feels comfortable slobbering all over the floor of the house while she hollers for her daily weet bix.

So, before I attend my massage I go through my usual morning routine - shower, teeth, clothing. I look decent enough. I'm clean. I smell all perfumey and stuff. I get to the salon and am greeted by a smooth skinned well dressed, slim young girl. Immediately I feel dowdy. My denim skirt and crushed t-shirt and unkempt hair (I didn't bother with this) make me look like the stressed out, time poor mother that I am. She on the other hand looks like she's just stepped off the facial table.

I haven't had a massage for a long time. I had forgotten how uncomfortable they can actually be. I don't mean it's not relaxing, it's just that as soon as they tell you to undress you become instantly aware of the fact that you forgot to wear your best bra and undies. You've got on the ones you wore when you were still pregnant, the ones that have stretched so much they should actually be painted with the southern cross and raised on a flag pole. Your bra strap has been broken for months and it's attached to the cup with a rusty safety pin. You forgot that SOMEONE UNRELATED TO YOU MIGHT SEE THEM.

Luckily she leaves the room and you're able to take off your bra and hide it in your handbag before she sees it. You can get on the table and cover your undies with the towel that's hanging over the end of the massage table.

She tells you to get on the table and get comfortable and she'll be back in a moment. So you do. She comes in. Asks if you're comfortable. Too cool? Too warm? You've got your face shoved in that hole and your skin is being stretched so tight you can't really answer without sounding as though you've been trying to swallow one of the cotton wool balls you saw on the side table.

She warms up some oil in her hands and gets started. Bliss! for a minute or two. Then you get an itch in your leg. Right down behind your knee. You apologise and reach behind you to scratch it. Get relaxed again. Start drooling because you can't get your lips to meet together because they're stretched wide open while you've got your face in the hole. You watch it drip onto the floor. It's better to close your eyes. You relax again.

You start to wonder whether or not she's noticed that hairy spot on your back and is she thinking she'll offer you a wax job before you leave. You hope she doesn't notice the love handles that have formed over your hip area. You wonder if she thinks about having to massage really fat people and does she compare you to them. You hope she doesn't look down at the cracks on your feet and offer to give you a foot job too. Has she noticed that you haven't washed your hair for a few days? Are your ears dirty? You tell yourself that these things don't matter. She does this everyday. Surely she's not checking me over for signs of self neglect while she's attempting to help me relax!

After a while you start to forget about all that stuff because your face is actually numb. You have to pull stupid faces at the floor to help get the feeling back. You realise though that the tension knots in your back have disappeared. Just as you do she tells you it's time for the facial. She says she's leaving the room for a few minutes to make up the mask. She tells you to roll over onto your front and use the towel to cover yourself. You breathe a sigh of relief because you haven't paid any attention to your bikini line in several years.

She re enters the room with a bucket of foul smelling gunk. Apologises for the stench but assures you it's the best facial mask ever and that it's got REAL egg in it! Great! Slopping egg all over your face could be done at home where no one would care about your decrepit underwear but obviously this is a special egg facial. It's got added ingredients that are going to suck the poison straight out of your pores.

You discover the facial part is actually really very nice. Before the smelly gunk goes on some lovely smelling creamy/oily type things are lathered around and some hot towels are used to wipe it off. There's a steamy thing right in front of your nostrils turning the stuff inside your nose into a watery mess that starts rolling down your face. She very gently wipes it off for you and pretends she didn't notice.

Soon enough it's time for the foul smelling gunk. She lathers it on about two inches thick and then leaves. It seems like she's gone forever and left you with this concrete stuff to dry on your face. You can't move or it'll crack. Maybe it's supposed to do that!?

She returns and starts to scrape it off with a spatula. Then she rubs away at your face trying to remove the last dried up bits of egg. Finally it's over. But you don't want it to be. Because while you were in that room having someone pamper you and there was some kind of chanting being played in the background you realise you had actually relaxed and you didn't want to leave the confines of the dimly lit room that seemed a million miles away from the dirty floor, the screaming kids and the pile of bills. You realise it was the best damn massage/ facial you've ever had!

Then you go to work. With bits of dried egg still on your face.

Crappy New Year

I sure hope the crap that was floating around the bathroom floor and computer room downstairs earlier today is 2006's way of saying "smell ya later".

After we farewelled my sister and her children, who had stayed overnight, Ben went down to his computer room and soon after came running upstairs and announced there was a disaster. The floor was covered in water and floaty bits. We hastily put Henry to bed and started the mop up while trying not to gag. Not sure what went wrong but that is the third such incident since we've lived here. The bathroom downstairs rarely gets used and the plumber says the pipe that flows over is connected to the kitchen plumbing so something is going wrong somewhere. With a bit of luck we can move sometime soon. Just waiting for the lotto win that is coming my way.

The only good thing to come from it was a trip to the dump to get rid of some bits and pieces that were just taking up space anyway. Nothing important was ruined and thankfully no water got into any electrical appliances.

I will take this opportunity to kiss 2006 goodbye and enjoy the rest of my anniversary/ New Year's Eve with my husband and child. I may even polish off the vodka.

Wishing all of you the very best for 2007. May the weather be kind to you, the money tree abundant and the good cheer flow lashingly.

Merry Christmas to all

It's 6.30am and I'm the first one up. I'm quietly waiting for Henry and Ben to poke their heads out of the bedroom. I can hardly wait to see the look on Henry's face and hear him say "Oh my Goodness" as he tears the paper from the gifts piled under the tree. Then we'll call Sissy and wish her a Merry Christmas and find out what Santa brought her.

Merry Christmas one and all. May Santa bring you nothing but joy, champagne and a stuffed turkey. Happy Feasting!

And so this is Christmas

I'm finding it hard to get in the festive mood. It's not the weather because, thank God for small miracles, it's surprisingly cool for this time of year. By cool I mean it's not yet 50 degrees. There's a beautiful breeze most days and I am still able to breathe relatively comfortably. I haven't really felt festive at Christmas for a few years now. Maybe that just happens when you get older. Each year it becomes more and more of a drain and each year you can handle less and less festive spirit in the form of sparkling wine.

When I was a kid I looked forward to Christmas from about October onwards. By the end of the birthday marathon it was time to start preparing for Santa's visit. Of course now that I'm a mother who has to work for a living and try to provide many Santa gifts it has a new meaning. How my mother who had five children and ran a business did it I will never know.

My brother and sisters and I would spend hours drawing pictures of Christmas trees and colouring them in and hanging them all over the house. We'd make loops out of coloured paper and string them together and hang them in a doorway and on the tree. We'd carefully plan our shopping lists with the small amount of money we'd saved throughout the year. We'd write lists of things we hoped Santa would bring to us. Our home would become a veritable drop in centre . Friends and family would be in and out and the front door, not even bothering to knock. Those who knocked were not known to us but my father would still not bother getting up from his chair. He would simply yell "Enter" in a voice so loud it would frighten away even the most hardy red cross collector.

My father always left a six pack of beer for the garbage collectors, the postman and the milkman. We'd all stay up late Christmas Eve hoping to get a glance through mum's bedroom door where she'd locked herself in trying to wrap and sort out Santa's stash. We'd wake at about 3am to sneak a peek at our stockings but first we'd hurry to the kitchen to see if Santa had drunk the beer we left him and eaten the Sao smothered in Vegemite. We'd then go lock ourselves in the bathroom and check out the goods. We'd go back to bed for maybe another hour and then later make as much noise as possible while pretending to be quiet so that Mum and Dad would get up and we could open the gifts under the tree. Mum would play some carols and ever so graciously tell us how beautiful the strung together ceramic swans we bought her were and how they were just what she wanted. Dad would read every word on the label of the cheap aftershave and tell us he'd use that as soon as he had a shower.

Someone was given the job of stashing all the wrapping paper in the bin and then we were shooed out of the house so mum could start the gargantuan task of cooking a turkey, taking phone calls, wiping bloodied knees when someone fell of their new bike, and slapping hands when someone attempted to stick their finger in the gravy to test it out.

We'd sit on the front lawn and wait for the neighbourhood kids to come by with their new shiny toys and we'd compare. We'd then stuff ourselves stupid with food and then in the afternoon have a water fight with the hose while Mum and Dad slept.

Maybe I just don't have enough kids.

Get a Byron Bay Massage

I'm not sure if the message posted above the heads of these mannequins is completely visible but it says;

Make a fashion statement everyday

Watch the sunset from the lighthouse

Get a Byron Bay massage

I imagine this is some kind of list dreamt up by merchandisers and marketing professionals. The scene kind of reminds me of those ads years ago that presented cigarette smoking in a glamorous light - you too can be too cool for school if you have these clothes coupled with a distant, vacuous look. It's standoffish but inviting (read pert nipples).

Anyone who knows anything about Byron Bay will know that it's not only where the "beautiful people" go but it's also where the "feral" people go. The dirty hippies hang out there selling hash filled cookies to anyone who doesn't look like a cop. I imagine the real attraction to Byron Bay is it's beautiful coastline but there's got to be an element of the dangerous that is also inviting to the kinds of people this shopfront window is appealing to - young girls with an eating disorder who have rich parents who supply them with credit cards.

But I may be wrong, maybe it's women like me who think they could somehow emulate that look. When they're rushing all over town to pick up screaming toddlers and hormonal teenagers they imagine they can switch off and become as vacuous as a mannequin with pert breasts and a distant look. Somehow they'll be able to treat themselves to a Byron Bay massage and watch the sunset from the lighthouse while enjoying a home made cookie.

Ride the Big Red Car

Yesterday (oh it seems like years ago now) I took Henry to the Wiggles concert. I had my doubts as Henry always says "don't like the Wiggles" whenever I suggest we watch them on TV. That's only because they don't know the Fireman Sam theme song. Yet. I also find it rather amusing that that it's called a "concert" because that conjures up images of drunken teenagers sweating profusely while screaming and gyrating with their arms in the air to a screaming gyrating performer on stage. I guess a Wiggles concert is a little like that only the audience are not drunk and most of them are under five.

I hadn't really followed too closely the rise of the Wiggles since Maya ditched them for the Spice Girls about 10 years ago so I wasn't really prepared for the traffic jam as cars full of screaming toddlers lined up waiting to get to the carpark of the Boondall Entertainment Centre. I sat in traffic long enough during that jam to watch a mother get out of her car and take her daughter behind a tree to water the grass and casually stroll back to the car which hadn't moved more than an inch or two.

Last time I saw the Wiggles was in 1995 when I took Maya to one of their "concerts" in a church hall at Oxley for the grand price of $5. Now they're big enough to play to a packed out audience at a major entertainment complex to which tickets had been sold twelve months in advance and were accompanied by a personal loan application. They even have security guards at each corner of the stage to stop those sweating, gyrating toddlers from getting too close and possibly throwing a grenade and ruining it for everyone.

Henry, to my surprise, loved it and stayed still for at least three quarters of it, then he just got a tiny bit feral as opposed to the loose cannon type of feral he usually is. He did try a few of his usual bossy techniques on little Owen, a beautiful blogger baby we met for the first time at the concert. Owen was really getting down and grooving in the seat directly behind Henry but Henry didn't like it and demanded Owen "get off there". (Don't worry Owen, I punished him later by not letting him listen to Fireman Sam on the way home).

We also got to meet up with Charlotte and Carla who we hadn't seen for some time. Charlotte was doing pretty well at the grooving too on her heavily pregnant mother's lap.

Ah, it's a joy for parents to see their offspring enjoying themselves while they're still young enough to have a good time without the help of illicit drugs.

If only the pit didn't have sand

We gave Henry this tub filled with sand for his second birthday. At first he wouldn't go near it because it actually had sand in it and this sand made him "diiirrrty". He would sit beside it and Twinings Tea his fingers in the air so that they wouldn't have to touch the sand while he played with his trucks. Just recently he's started to get a little more friendly with it. He won't sit in it yet or put his feet anywhere near the sand but he will actually move his trucks around. He still attempts to avoid having to touch it but at least now he doesn't start thrashing around as though he's got a thousand bullants eating away at his flesh.

I attempted to make the experience more enjoyable for him by adding some of his plastic road pieces, building tunnels and adding some ginger leaves to create a more realistic "machines that destroy old forests" scene. I then got in and covered myself in sand, got his matchbox excavator and made machinery noises while pretending to dig and load up the dumptruck. He watched me intently, told me not to get "all diiiirrrty" and then had a go at it himself. The above photo is the result of me acting like a 2 year old so that I might teach my son how to act the same.

Wombat Divine

On Saturday evening we took Henry and Maya into the city to see the Myer Christmas Window Display. Every year they base their display on a different theme. This year it's Wombat Divine by Mem Fox. It's a kids book about a Wombat desperate to be in the school Nativity play but it's difficult to find him the right part as he's either too fat, too sleepy or too clumsy. He ends up fitting in perfectly as the baby Jesus.

We have had this book since Maya was Henry's age. It was much loved by her and is now much loved by Henry. The pages are all dog eared and smeared with vegemite and other assorted food items. The illustrations in the book are beautiful and the Myer display has clearly been in keeping with the book. They've even managed to find fabrics and colours that are all identical to the book.

I wasn't sure how Henry would cope with being in the city as I tend not to take him out in public very often because, dare I say it, he's a right royal pain in the butt. He runs off. Nothing can hold his attention for more than two minutes (except Fireman Sam). I was surprised that he enjoyed the window display enough to actually spend a total of about five minutes admiring it. As soon as he'd seen enough he of course took off. Fortunately we were in the mall and there was plenty of room for him to run without fear of being run over by a vehicle of some kind.

When we left we took the glassed elevator down to the carpark. We stood him in the elevator, told him to hang on and look outside. After the first level the lift descended into the darkness of the carpark and poor Henry must have thought he was being thrown down a well as he started shaking and was on the verge of tears but was too much in shock to actually cry. As the lift stopped he said "oh, oh don't like that lift Mummy". I picked him up and he was very tense and his heart was beating fast. The joys of running wild through the mall had been replaced by a fear. I only hope he isn't now psychologically tormented by the experience and will re-enter an elevator when the time comes to do so.

Happy Birthday Maya

Today marks the 14th anniversary of Maya's birth. I'm in shock and somewhat distressed of course but it's not about me. It's about her.

Yesterday afternoon we went to my mother's to play ladies in celebration. My mother had baked a sponge cake, pecan shortbread type things, mini puddings, and christmas tree shaped biscuits. This was all served on a crisp white linen table cloth, royal doulton china and lead crystal serving dishes. Even Henry had his own mini teacup. My mother does this for all her female grandchildren on their birthdays. I'm not sure whether she's attempting to show up her own daughters or whether she simply likes any excuse to lay out the "good" china.

There is of course a party which will involve several teenage boys and girls running around my home and neighbourhood planned for this coming weekend. I'll crack open a bottle of McWilliams sweet sherry and add it to my coffee as I lovingly agree to each and every demand placed upon me. After all isn't that what mothers do?

Here's proof. Proof that he won't say "five"

I found one!

Just the other day I was wondering if it was at all possible to buy a CD of theme songs from children's well loved TV shows. Postman Pat, Fireman Sam, Thomas the Tank - all of Henry's favourites and had even thought about making one myself. Until today that is.

While trawling a $2 shop I found one. It has a whole passel of favourites including the three mentioned above. We played it in the car on the way home and Henry thought for a moment Fireman San was going to pop up in the front seat driving his firetruck. I looked around to see his expression and he was not moving but his eyes were darting around the car in anticipation. Finally he relaxed and started singing along but when Postman Pat started playing soon after I thought he may just wet his pants with excitement.

As soon as Postman Pat finished Playschool started and this unfortunately elicited a cry of "don't like that song, put Fireman Sam on". So we listened to Fireman Sam a total of three times on the trip home from the shopping centre. I think a part of me is going to definitely regret wishing there was such a CD and having that wish come true.

Unhappy Hour!

Melissa J Evans suggested, and rightly so, that I write a post about the price of drinks at "Happy Hour" at this place.

She played there on Saturday night and if you've been reading my past posts you'll notice that I already mentioned that. As we rolled up Melissa rushed out and stamped our hands with some kind of blind eye graphic thing that should herald to the bar staff that we were entitled to "reduced price, Happy hour" drinks. I thought this was fantastic as I'm always one to take advantage of anything as long as it's reduced in price. I don't drink out very often and in fact have probably not actually purchased an alcoholic drink in a bar for several years. I sauntered up to the bar and placed my order, flashed by hand and hoped that significant gesture would mean my three drinks would only cost the price of one. Isn't that what Happy Hour usually is? An encouragement to spend more on booze by getting you rotten drunk for next to nothing in the first place. Everyone knows that after 3 or 4 you just don't care.

I dug my $5.00 note from my wallet and handed it over with a giant smug smile. After all I was there to support the megastar of the evening and I was sporting some eye like stamp on my hand. The female bar attendant took the five dollars and turned it over to check if there was anything else to accompany it. She then looked at me and then back at the five dollars and let out an enormous sigh. "I'm sorry miss but it's actually $25 for the three drinks you just ordered". I coughed slightly and said "but I have this stamp, see" and waved it under her nose. "That stamp only applies to Blue Caracao, Sherry and Blackberry Nip". She said. How stupid am I? Of course it only applies to drinks that no one has dared to consume for over 20 years.

Sheesh. Needless to say those drinks were the first and only I bought all night.

It's here

Summer is here. Well not technically but it sure is hot enough. The tar on the roads is already melting and the pavements are curling trying to hide themselves from the sun. Some people are jealous of our summers but those people are all psychologically deranged. They need help in the form of therapy in an air conditioned office. The end of October and early November are my favourite times of the year. Just before the sweltering sun makes it impossible to spend any time outdoors between the hours of 7AM and 7PM.

What's so unfair about this is that we're expected to ENJOY Christmas Day in 40 degree plus heat. For some stupid reason we still bake hams, turkeys and all manner of hot edible things and sit around a table stuffing our faces while we drip with sweat.

When I was a kid Christmas never seemed to be so hot. Maybe it was but we just didn't notice it. After lunch we'd all hang out under the mango tree stuffing our faces with freshly deposited mangoes and watermelon that Dad broke up by throwing on the ground. We got the hose out and sprayed each other, had rotten mango fights with the neighbouring kids, played with our gift which usually included something for us to share and always came with a timer to deter any fights over who had been on it the longest.

As I get older and the weather gets more intense I begin to dread the whole thing. The sun just burns. Even our eyeballs sweat, we can feel the skin cancers developing and growing as we take the rubbish to the bin. The ground burns under our feet. Sometimes even the beach is just too hot to take advantage of - the sand is too hot to walk on let alone sit on.

One day we'll make it to the US for a white Christmas. One in which we can build snowmen, ride sleds, have snowball fights and then go inside and warm up.

One day.....we might even get smart and actually buy only cold foods instead of just talking about it.

San Francisco - Love Ya Gutz

This is not San Francisco (well der) but it is downtown Caxton Street, Paddington. This is where we just heard Melissa J Evans, sing a little ditty she wrote about San Francisco. She was launching her new CD. She personally signed the one I bought - "You're a legend, Love Ya Gutz!" Ben suggested she just sign it over to ebay so it can more easily be flogged off when she becomes a megastar but I wanted something a little more personal. Love ya Gutz is it.


She just gets better and better. Her songs of love, sorrow, friendship and sometimes even misery are haunting, soulful and funny all at the same time.

I don't like that one

This is Henry's new catchphrase. "I don't like it". "I don't like that music". "I don't like the daycare". "I don't like the muesli bar". Whatever it is we offer him he just says "Don't like that one". The only things he does like are the things he can't have; chocolate, ice cream, lollies, the huge truck at K Mart, his very own excavator, you know, easy things like that.

It's cute for a nanosecond and I don't know if he says it because he can or if he really doesn't like the things he says he doesn't.

Yesterday on the way to daycare I played a CD of songs, calming, soothing, quiet nursery rhymes, things that I thought he would like because when I play the radio he's always telling me he "don't like that song". Since he likes to listen to these nursery rhymes sometimes at home I thought he might appreciate them in the car. I was wrong. Each song was met with "don't like that song". I skipped through each one, he listened intently for about two seconds before announcing "don't like that song". When we got to the final song on the CD he said "have to buy a Wiggles music". So I guess that's what I have to do.


If one could buy truck sounds on a CD that is probably what he'd be most interested in listening to.

Let's clear the air

We had a wild storm rip through town the other day. It lasted all of about fifteen minutes and tore the roof right off this church, an event my husband witnessed. It might be a while before the "perfect church" is able to open its doors to some not so perfect churchgoers.

The days leading up to said storm had been rather tense in our household but the storm seemed to clear the air somewhat and that afternoon saw everyone at home in a relatively good mood. Always being one to take advantage of any situation Maya thought it would be a good idea, as she usually does, to ask for something.

Maya: Everyone's in a good mood today

Me: Yes, maybe the excitement of the storm gave everyone else something to focus on and brought with it some fresh air

Maya: Yeah. Hey maybe we could have take away for dinner

Me: No we can't

Maya: Why not?

Me: Because we don't need to, we have plenty to eat here

Maya: But I don't want to eat it

Me: Too bad

Maya: What about pizza?

Me: No

Maya: ok. How about the Golden Arches?

Me: No

Maya: Oh why not?

Me: Because of above mentioned reason. If you had no choice but a cup of rice to eat each day you'd be happy to eat whatever I happen to cook which won't include rice

Maya: But I do have choices. I don't have to eat rice everyday.

Me: Yes your choice is a home cooked meal or nothing

And so began an hour long argument about how everyone else gets stuff WHENEVER they want it. I always remind her this is not true but she insists on informing me that all her friends do indeed get everything they ask for ALL the time. Yesterday she told me that ALL her friends are allowed to have 20 people sleep over for a slumber party on their birthday EVERY year. Either this is completely untrue or their parents are all stupid.

Happy Birthday Dad!

Bossy Boots

Henry has become very bossy. I suspect this is partly due to the fact that he has had to learn to stand up to his sister and loudly tell her to "stop teasing me Sissy". The bossiness has extended to anyone who does anything he doesn't approve of, like for instance the little girl at the supermarket who was hurting no one by swinging her shopping basket while waiting for her mother. For some reason Henry thought she shouldn't be doing that so he told her very sternly "stop swinging that basket". Later while lined up at the checkout a lady stood behind us holding a cake she was waiting to purchase, Henry tells her "Hey, that's not your cake, put it back". Fortunately she thought it was somewhat cute and didn't slap me around the head with the cake for teaching my child bad manners.

That night while in the shower I heard him telling his cars to go to sleep. I looked around and he had them all turned upside down and was telling them "goodnight, sleep tight". He then ran from the shower to get a towel for their blanket. He covered them and then lay on top of them to hug them.

I like pets....cheap pets like spiders and things

If I had a spider as a pet it's likely it might go away somewhere when it got sick and die a natural death, or be eaten by its partner or a bird or a ghecko or something. That doesn't happen with a cat. When a cat gets sick it costs a whole weeks wages to fix it. It must be taken to a veterinary surgeon who will charge a lot of money just to tell you that it needs antibiotics, IV fluids and an overnight hospital stay because it has a gastro-intenstinal infection. My next pet will be a spider.

Happy Anniversary

Today marks the first anniversary of my first post. Well not by actual date but by Melbourne Cup race day. Yes it was that time of year again today and I'm proud to say that I won a total of $6 if you take out what I had to spend in order to win it. I choose my winners based on who is paying the most money. Of course that doesn't mean they are the favourites but precisely the opposite. Since the Melbourne Cup is the hardest race to pick a winner in I figure it doesn't matter who I bet on and going for the highest odds means that if I do back a winner I'll be further out in front than I otherwise would have been. This morning before swimming lessons and after watching out for the odds on the TV I went and placed my bets. When I did this the horse who ended up winning was paying $108 for a win. By the time it actually won it was down to only $17 and that is what I won as I only placed a $1 bet for a win or place.

Wee - wee

The thing I thought might never happen finally happened: Henry managed to actually wee on the toilet. After months of sitting him there and making those stupid noises that are supposed to sound like water running and having him watch us while we're at it and saying "wee wee" about 300 hundred times per day he finally managed it. Not without mess of course. Half way through he was as shocked as I was and had to pull it out midstream to see what was actually going on down there and in doing so managed to spray half the bathroom. Of course we clapped and cheered and jumped up and down and gave him a sickly sweet jube snake as a reward. For the rest of the afternoon he kept going into the bathroom and saying "you did it, yay! give him a snake!"