A Way Cool Blog Award

I have been given an award from the most intriguing Baba Doodlius who is a bird of great wisdom about the truth behind the Universe.

Sometimes when I don't understand the workings of the world, I like to pop over to his blog site and read his musings. More than musings, they are hidden truths. Each post of his puts to bed all the foolish conspiracy theories.

I always feel that something important has been added to my knowledge bank after each visit to his blog.

Thank you Baba.

It is indeed an honour.

Ciao

LC

Wednesday Night Boring Blab

It is the middle of the week and I am tired. Kind of dribble tired. The sort of tired that makes me think of my pillows and lovely white bed sheets. Mmmm.

Now that the warmer weather and daylight savings has started I have increased my exercise regime. Apparently this is the norm. Winter wobblies want tightening.

Although I am a member of a rather quiet women's gymnasium, I actually only go there once a week to do a weight lifting session to try to give some shape to my aging upper arms. I also exercise with an outdoor training group called Step Into Life. We meet two nights each week and do a variety of fairly intense exercises. Next week I will increase it to three times a week just to enjoy the warmer weather.

The good thing about it, is that the trainer provides variety each session so you never get bored, you are doing it with a group of people so it is more motivating and all areas of your body are targeted. I don't always feel like going, but I just do it regardless.

I normally do a circuit one night and boxing the next. Last night I did a cardio session. Personally I hate cardio. The lifting of my legs in a fast and frequent forward action is not pleasant. Running up hills and then down again is hard work, especially when you have to do it five times. Running around and touching witches hats followed by pony leg lifting through hula hoops makes my face radish red and sweaty. Whilst I am running around there like a loony, I only feel a bit out of breath or perhaps a bit tired, but generally never any pain.

This all goes on for an hour. When I got home I was so tired it was unbelievable. One would think that with all that exercise a good sleep would be in order. But something happens when you get older. Things hurt that never used to and wake you up. My night was interrupted with aching muscles, twitchy legs and sore shoulders. I tossed and turned and it was a most restless night.

When I woke up in the morning my legs creaked when I swung them out of the bed. My neck cracked when I turned it and my left hip was having a whinge. My left buttock is deeply aching and I have had to sit in a most unusual position today to counteract the pain from it.

I am a fit person but, honestly, it hurts to stay fit. I cannot imagine how a real athlete must feel when they don't exercise. Because there is no pain when I am moving, only when I stop. Now that I am in the groove of exercise, I get shitty if I don't do it. After years of feeling totally gross being unfit, years of dry retching if I ran fifty feet down the street, years of grunting to do any sit ups it appears I now have to feel a different kind of ache to deal with.

Getting to a fit level is hard work, however, staying at it is not so bad. To not keep up with it brings back all the old health issues that go with being unfit, those that you never realised were so unpleasant.

What I am trying to say is this, before you embark on a life of health and fitness remember you can never go back.

Certainly a line worth crossing though.

My bed is calling me.

Ciao
LC

Friends in Big Houses

I have a friend who lives in Toorak which is a very exclusive suburb in Melbourne.

She does not read this blog, in fact, only one friend reads my blog so I can blab about my Toorak friend without fear of her knowing.

In the meantime, I shall call her Susan on the off chance someone reading this knows her - which is unlikely but still.....

Should I ever get the urge to let her see my blog page, I shall delete the post to protect her feelings.

Perhaps this indicates that I am feeling a bit hesitant or even mean about what I am about to write, but really I just have to write it down.

I have been friends with Susan since I was pregnant. We met at the hospital mother's group and became strong friends. I am actually godmother to her second and third daughters so you can imagine that we became quite close.

The house she lives in is huge. Three storey's of the ultimate in luxury. Five bedrooms all with giant walk in wardrobes and en suites. Theatre room, gymnasium, wine cellar, lift, ballroom, huge dining room, butler's kitchen to serve meals from during dinner parties and the list goes on.

My entire house would fit in the kitchen/family room area. I am not kidding you.

They have a six car underground garage and when you depart from your car you then walk up the limestone lined tunnel to enter the basement. You then catch the lift up to the family room.

The house was renovated at a cost of around $6million. The landscaping was done by Paul Bangay at an astronomical cost of $700K.

They have the most divine art collection of well known paintings all of which hang in very strategic places with appropriate lighting. The hanging was done by a professional.

Whilst the house was being built, the detail that went into it is of the highest quality and taste.

The drapes throughout the house are of the most gorgeous quality, French silks, patterns and muted colours all tastefully chosen. At the top of the handmade African mahogany stair case is a beautiful carpet of white with a pattern designed by Susan herself.

They have a panic room. The husband has to have ransom insurance. The cost of insuring the house alone is $750.00 per week!!!

The furnishings in the house are of the highest quality. Mostly antique with squiggly legs. Chairs that you perch on. Not chairs that you sit and slouch upon. The dining table is Georgian and cost $100K about twenty years ago. The chairs were about $10K each and there are 12 of them. They have a Georgian high chair that the children sat at during the infant years.

Within the kitchen are two fridges which are, funnily enough, full of generic no name foodstuffs. Inside the pantry are two wine fridges which are always loaded with the best of wines. If you were to visit their house at 10.00am in the morning the husband would offer you a drink. It bothers him slightly that I do not drink except under rare circumstances. Perhaps if I was totally bored I may have a small glass to amuse myself - or amuse others with my giggly antics.

Along with this huge trophy house, they are in the process of building a $3million dollar holiday house along the peninsula. With a pool of course.

I don't mind telling you the cost of everything, as her husband takes great pleasure in telling me what he has spent. He is like landed gentry. His desire to exhibit his "wealth" is of a great source of interest to me. Not because I am impressed, far from it, but because it is almost a parody of sorts. He is of great similarity to Niles from Frasier, not only in appearance but also in the worst type of snobbery.

However, despite his ways, he is an interesting, clever and entertaining person. He has never changed and never will.

There is always a catch to a certain type of lifestyle.

They have a shit marriage.

He cannot stand her. They have not had sex for at least 7 years. In fact, I know they have only had sex four times in ten years, all of which was to have a child. They had to do it twice to get the third girl.

Susan is a lovely person and the most dedicated mother. Her three girls are just the most lovely creatures. They go to the most exclusive school in Toorak. When you watch the girls together you can see what a good mother they have.

Since S started school, we have not seen each other much. Mainly at Christmas and other get together's with other people we know. But when we do catch up I always hear about her problems in her marriage. And they are bad.

Her husband is a person who never discusses things of a personal nature. He is one big bottle of resentment. When he met her, he was able to impose his lifestyle upon her. The ultimate control freak, he even organised their wedding which included telling her where to get the wedding dress made.

When children arrived he lost some of that control as so often happens when the mothering skills of a wife kicks in. Most men adjust, but others don't.

The atmosphere in the house is difficult for me when I am there as I am the sort of person who is highly sensitive to the moods of people around me. There is an air of ill hidden hostility from him to her, and borderline victim behaviour from her. The oldest girl sees it and is watching from the sidelines.

When Susan talks about it to me I say to her that she needs to reclaim herself and distance herself from him to get back her self respect and to ensure she sets a good example to her daughters. This does not mean divorce, it just means getting some sort of peace within the household. But she tells me things are hard when you live a lifestyle of sorts, have three children, status and security. I understand that, but that does not negate her right to self respect and some sort of pleasant protocol between her and her husband.

When I say to her that he is exactly the person that she married and to expect him to change is unrealistic. To bring about any change in him, she must change within herself. Even if she thinks that is wrong, there is a point in time where you have to realise that some people do not have the capacity to look at themselves and make good changes.

Whenever I go there, I feel like I have compassion fatigue.

Last time I was there for two days. She talked non-stop about the problems. As I left I turned to her and said that I was sorry that she was in this predicament and for her to perhaps speak to a professional who may help her be more objective about the situation. But she was reluctant to go down that track.

I then said to her that she really needed to do something as for the first time ever, at no stage in the two days I was there, had she asked me how I was. Whilst I reassured her I was fine, what did bother me is that all the negativity she was living was making her forget the world and lives of others around her.

The next day she phoned me at home and apologised for being such a drag while I was there.

I said it was okay, and it truly was.

I am planning a catch up with her in a week or so as we have not spoken for a couple of months. It is hard seeing people you care for unhappy.

The photo I have posted is of the two of us together having lunch at a winery about three or four years ago. One of the last times I had a few wines.

It was a funny afternoon.

Ciao

LC

New Mug

Every girl should have one of these mugs.

Just take it out when needed.

Says it all.

Ciao

LC

Studio Update

As you may remember, I am having a studio built for me in the back yard.

It has been a little bit slow, the process. Recently the floor was put down. I have hardwood floors compliments of my boss at work.

Then there was a bit of a discussion about which way the pitch of the roof would be, where the door would go etc.

On Sunday K came home with a load of timber to start the frame.

In the meantime, I have this incredible back log of ideas hanging around in my head banking up one behind the other. I have had to write things down as I fear some of the ideas may be lost in the waiting.

I want that studio finished!!! Sooner rather than later. But I am patient and grateful that it is being done for me.

My brother rang Sunday morning and had a long chat with K. I could hear words like "hang on" and "don't put me under pressure" and "I like to have a coffee when I pick up timber" and things like that.

My brother is a builder. He has every conceivable tool for that trade under the sun. He had phoned up to organise coming over to give K a hand with the studio. The conversation was not sounding very good.

After ten minutes K comes into the kitchen.

"Your brother, takes over everything. Here I am enjoying thinking about the studio and how I am going to build it and all the steps I want to take. Now he is coming Monday before Cup Day and putting up the frame and roof with me. I was doing this for you, now he is taking over", he says in a most annoyed voice.

Well, I do know my brother can be rather bombastic but, well, he is a builder and doing a studio is a doddle. He likes to lend a hand especially as he likes to do things for me.

"Well, I know how you must feel, but, to tell you the truth, having my brother help you in no way takes away from the meaning behind the studio". I say this carefully.

"It's not the point, I was enjoying the doing of it" K continues.

"Ah, now I just want to ask you something. Just how long did you plan to take whilst you were enjoying the building process?" I ask.

"Oh, I don't know. Taking into consideration how many music jobs I have on the weekends for the next couple of months - I guess about three, probably four months", he muses about that.

"Ah, I see. So, I would not have been in that studio this side of Christmas?". I said.

"Oh, no. Actually, it never crossed my mind as to when you would want me to finish it. I just wanted to do it at my own pace". he ponders this and a semi-surprised look crossed his face.

"Maybe it won't be so bad to have your brother help" he adds.

I have to stop myself from doing a little jig in the kitchen. It would not be appropriate.

Instead I just nod my head and change the subject.

Then next morning my brother drops around for a cup of tea.

I did the little jig of happiness in the kitchen then.

Wooo Hooo.

Monday morning - frame up.

Ciao
LC

Huh! What!

Last night I was at the computer (what's new) just Ebaying and looking around when S came in and said he wanted to show me something he did.

"Mmmm, okay" I said and turned to look at what he was doing on computer number two (yes, two plus a laptop).

"Well, I did this thing on Youtube. You know, I have my own account thing. So, I got one Youtube video and then another and took the image of the Sim girl from this video and kind of super imposed it over this one here so it looks like the guy is catching a Sim girl and not a mouse". What do you think?" he went on.

"Huh? When did you do that?" I asked, shocked.

"The other day. Plus, I have uploaded this hypercam thing so I can video me playing Runescape and then upload it to Youtube. The only thing is, I don't know how to integrate music with the Runescape video I take and I want to do that before I upload it. Do you know how?" he goes on.

"What?" I am still coming to terms with the first thing he did.

"Do you know how to do it?" he looks at me like I should have the answer.

Obviously I don't but I must not let him know that, for the first time ever, it appears he knows more than me.

"Oh, yes, well I may have done it or something like that but it is a bit late now and you have to go to bed. We will look at it tomorrow", I hurry him into his pj's.

Well, it is tomorrow and I still cannot work out what he did.

Hypercam? Integrate music into it to upload to Youtube.

Sheesh!

The race is on. I think I may have another year or so up my sleeve of computer savvy.

Ciao
LC

Politics

It is election time here in Australia.

Election campaigns in Australia are rather low key compared to the big bonanza affairs we see in America. I suppose that has something to do with the teeny weeny population we have in comparison.

I never talk politics with people as, like religion, it is a very emotive topic. Generally I keep way out of the whole thing and keep my thoughts to myself until election day.

Here, if you vote Liberal you can bet that any Labour voting friends will be very hostile about it and have a strong desire to try to change your mind. I personally dislike confrontation. I also do not like having to justify why I choose one political party over the other.

Today I shall make a little change to my "never talk about politics" rule. With this election I am truly stuck in the middle.

To vote for one party means economical stability and poor goods and services. To vote the other is to ensure a fucked economy but strong goods and services until the money runs out.

To vote one party is to not have the action perceived to be required to deal with the global climate issue. To vote the other one is to risk the stability of many business's while implementing extreme changes to deal with the global climate issue.

Working within a small business helps me see the value of one political party. Having a child and wanting a healthy education system shows up the strength of the other.

There are so many pros and cons with both parties that ultimately affect me in so many areas of my life.

Voting in Australia is compulsory and even if it weren't I would still vote as a show of gratitude for living in a democratic society.

For the first time I have no strong feeling about either party. It is as though they no longer have the individuality and strength that once made them so different from each other. Almost like a child choosing which parent they love the most.

On the day I shall have to go with my gut instincts.

At least I have the opportunity to vote. Unlike some countries for which freedom of speech and democracy is just not an option.

Ciao
LC

Childhood Friends and Reality

When I went to high school I had a friend called Debbie. We were pretty good friends at school and I used to hang out with her on weekends.

She lived not far from me and I used to spend a lot of time at her house.

There were eight children in her family. Six girls and two boys. Most of them had moved out when I knew her, only three were still at home. Debbie was the baby of the family.

I loved their house. It had an air of solidarity about it. Each Sunday her mother did a roast lamb lunch. Friday was fish night. Tuesday they had pancakes. They had a billiard table in the lounge room along with a veneered stereo gram. The place had polished hardwood floors, nylon curtains and a yellow laminex table in the kitchen. On the weekends the place was full of family and friends. They always had barbecues and noise and fun.

Her father was a silent man when I was around. He was usually watching television and drinking a beer. Her mother was very busy. Always doing housework, cooking, laundry or popping up to the shop with her basket on her elbow and a scarf on her head. There was never a raised voice in the house.

Debbie had a white bedroom suite in the Queen Anne style which was popular in those days. Upon the bed she had a beautiful purple chenille bedspread on which a white toy bear sat, the back of which had a zipped opening to store her pyjamas which were always matching and pretty. Sometimes I would perch upon the purple, faux fur topped stool and look at the little ornaments she had upon it.

We would mime Linda Ronstadt songs using a hair brush as a microphone. Debbie always had the most recent records in her collection.

At Christmas I would come over in the afternoon and the billiard table would be covered with a festive cloth and all the lovely food would be there for the eating. Her mother always gave me a nice present and I felt very included in the day.

Each summer she always had a lovely golden tan, her hair went blonde and her mother would buy her a new pair of summer sandals. Boys liked her. Debbie was always dressed in nice clothes, had the newest bathers, a big striped beach towel and when she went to the hairdressers they did her hair with a Farrah Fawcett flick that I was never able to obtain with my own hair.

Every holiday she went on holiday down to Rosebud which was near where her grandparents lived. One holiday she met a boy called Tony and lost her virginity to him. The story she told me of her first love filled me with envy. It was straight out of a Mills and Boon novel. She tried to match me up with a friend of his, but I was too uncomfortable with that thought. Not even shy, just not ready to have a boyfriend I suppose. I was not even 15.

I envied her life.

Not long after that things changed in her family. The husband of one of her sister's went to jail for armed robbery. Her eldest brother was charged with the manslaughter of the son of his de facto wife. He had drowned the two year old boy in the bath because the child had cried too much. It was a shocking thing for the whole family to come to terms with.

Her other brother tried to kiss me once when I was there. He was about twenty and recently married. He cornered me in the kitchen and I was most upset, especially as the attention was unwanted by me. I never told Debbie as for some reason I felt that I had done something wrong. Future visits I made were full of fear and apprehension.

Debbie met a boy, or should I say she met a man and was in love. She was sixteen and he was three years older. I did not like him at all and found him boring. They did things together and I became the third person. Visits to her house dwindled from almost daily, then weekly and then now and then. That was a learning curve for me in realising the place of men in some girls lives.

One Sunday afternoon I went to visit her and the boyfriend was there. I stayed later than usual and it was dark. Debbie's mother suggested that the boyfriend drive me home and I said okay. There was no way I would walk home in the dark. When he pulled up in front of my house he lent over to me and put his hand up my dress and tried to kiss me. I pushed him away and semi-leapt out of the car more in fear than any other feeling. He drove off. I am unsure as to what he said to Debbie about what transpired but she did not speak to me again.

Debbie was pregnant by the age of seventeen and married the boyfriend.

About ten years ago I got a phone call from her. She was still married to the same person and had three children. We had a long talk and during the conversation she told me how her father had sexually molested all of the girls in the family. He was an alcoholic, abused her mother and was, by the time I got that phone call, very ill with cirrhosis of the liver. Her parents were still together despite what had transpired but they lived very separate lives. Her mother was no longer doing a Sunday roast as the children refused to visit. She had to visit them at their place instead.

Debbie told me how much she envied my family and how much she loved visiting my home and looking at all the strange things we had. The volatility of my family was fun in her eyes. We were so interesting and so European and her family were just Housing Commission poor Australians in comparison.

We made a time to catch up, but she rang me back a week later and told me she was too busy. My gut feeling was that she regretted having told me about her family. However, about a month later I saw her at a department store. She had a job there checking people's bags as they went out of the store. She talked to me in a hurried manner and kept apologising that she had lost a tooth the day before when she bit on a bone from her Sunday roast. I was shocked at her appearance but I know I hid it well. It was obvious that my being there was making her feel awkward and I helped her out by making some excuse about having to take S home for his afternoon sleep.

Debbie was the spitting image of her mother in every way imagineable. Gone was the girl I went to school with. I looked at her as I said goodbye and she would not meet my eyes. I have not seen her since.

Afterwards I thought about how my perception of her family was so wrong. How my envy was so misplaced. How she hid that secret from me. More than likely it never entered her mind to tell me, which is, unfortunately, usually the case with any level of abuse.

It just beggars belief what secrets go on behind the "perfect" family facade.


Ciao
LC

Daylight Savings

Daylight savings has arrived.

This is when we turn the clocks forward one hour to enable us to have some extra daylight during the warmer months.

It also means that I lost an hours sleep this morning.

I woke up at 7.30 (really 6.30) and stumbled out of bed and plonked my tired body in front of the computer. K was sitting there all showered and dressed and cheery as can be.

I stared for a while at the screen and then, to my surprise, I fell deeply asleep for about a minute.

So I had to go back to bed for half an hour to get a bit more rest.

The first week of daylight savings is unbearable for me. My entire body clock just resents it.

Plus, try putting a child to bed when the sun is still shining.

Still, once I have settled I love, love, love the extra daylight at the end of the day.

Ciao
LC

Freedom

Today S has spent a lot of time away from me.

Right now I am doing some bookwork for a client and S has gone off with a friend and his mother to the local swimming pool. K is on a music job.

It all started this morning with a phone call asking if S could go to the opening of a park that had been refurbished by the Council recently. The park is only five minutes walk from us but it does involve the crossing of a rather busy road.

I dropped S off the the boy's house and chatted to his mother for a few minutes. Naturally I was assuming that she would go with them to the park and just hang around until they got sick of the festivities that were there. But, no, as we got to the roadside kerb I realised that she was only intending to supervise them to cross over.

There was a hesitation on my part as I had to make that split second decision as to whether or not I should go with them. Then I looked at S and he was talking to his friend totally oblivious to my dilemma. That familiar urge to keep him safe was washing over me but there was another feeling there. The feeling of my need to give him his freedom.

I bent over and kissed him and said something about him being careful and to watch out for boogey men. He rolled his eyes and laughed at me. They both crossed the road as I watched and just as S almost got to the other side he lifted his legs in a very silly, frog like leap.

It was as though something akin to freedom had arrived in his body and he had to express it.

Either that or he was indicating to me that he knew I was watching him and decided a backward wave was just too, too uncool.

For a few long seconds I watched the two boys make their way through the park, heads bent down as they talked. S was sort of slouching as he walked and had his hands in his pockets. Their world, at that moment, was totally disconnected from mine and everyone else's.

The procurement of freedom for a child is almost like a line that they will cross from which there is no return. Each step they take offers the lure of greater freedom and that is where the tug of war begins. I am sure there are going to be more and more times where I have to decide just how much freedom my son is ready to have.

Or, perhaps, just how much freedom I myself am ready to take back in the process of letting go of him.

Ciao
LC

My House

I was looking at a picture of the house owned by Oswegan and thought how countries differ so much in their places of residence. The house I live in is a typical Californian Bungalow (Australia version). These houses were built for returned soldiers initially and then became a common style in Melbourne between the war years of 1915 to the 1930's. My house was built in 1928 I think.

The colour scheme we have chosen is very traditional. People often paint them cream with white trim or light green with darker green trim. The style of house lends itself to having upstairs extensions and it is easy to add that without spoiling the simple lines of the existing structure. We toyed with the idea of going upstairs but a number of reasons prevented us. The cost would have been $150K, more housework (eew) and, really, with only three of us in the house there was no need for five bedrooms really. So we put an new roof on it and that was the end of the discussion.

We have done quite a lot of work since moving in. The house was tiny and we added some extra rooms. Built a big garage in the same style, paved the driveway and have had a lot of cosmetic work done inside. However, by todays standards, our house is small but our backyard is nice and big.

Many years ago, streets were lined with these Bungalows. As people die, the property is sold to the highest bidder who often happens to be a developer. So, house after house has been demolished to make way for some very, very ordinary and ugly contemporary buildings. I am afraid to say that the company I work for has been guilty of such acts of neighbourhood destruction.

There is something very sad when the integrity of an existing street scape is ignored during periods of construction booms. Not only do you lose the history of the landscape, you also negate the existence of people who lived a life prior to your arrival.

Prices for these style of homes in our area have skyrocketed to the point of no return. Twenty years ago K paid $95K for the house. We have perhaps spent $200K at the very, very most. Recently a completely unrenovated example in our street sold for $931K. Whilst I think the value is debateable, it may well help to save such a house being pulled down.

When I was about six we used to live in a area that still had many of these houses left. One in particular was so perfect, so original and picturesque the vision of it stuck in my mind for years. About five years ago I worked around the corner from that house and would drive by and stop to look at it. The same man lived there and had to that day kept it as new and original as the day it was built. It still had an outdoor laundry and toilet. He maintained it non stop, painting, hammering, gardening and sweeping every day. The footpath that ran along outside his front fence was white with his daily sweepings.

I have not been past for a couple of years and cannot bear the thought that he has died and someone has come in and taken away his relevance in the overall life of the house.

Family dynamics change, schools change, shops where I went as a young girl come and go, friends drift in and out of life, my appearance, my car, my aims and attitudes have changed. And, now that I am here in this place, all those transitions have been good and meaningful.

Sometimes there are some things that I just do not want to change in my life. And that eldery man's house is one change I am not really interested in facing. All other movements in life have made sense to me, but for some reason I just cannot imagine I would be so accepting of that last link with some very precious thoughts about how life could be if we all really tried hard.

It just would not seem right.

Ciao

LC

Cooking Lesson

Remember to grease the pan before baking cupcakes.

Ciao

LC

Tonight

I am cleaning house.

No posting.

Being a good girl.

Ciao
LC

Bogged Down

For quite a while I have had a bad relationship with my teeny bathroom.

I don't want to clean it.

The toilet is the only item in my bathroom that is cleaned on a very regular basis. I keep finding excuses not to clean the entire room. I half do it.

Kind of pick the hair out of the plug hole in the shower.

Clean one side of the shower screen.

Clean the other.

Clean tiles in shower.

Sweep the floor.

Take things out of cupboard and clean it all.

Put things back in the cupboard.

Might take the 15 coat hangers off the back of the door and put them away in the wardrobe.

Change the towels. Make sure washing is taken off floor and put in the wash.

Put away the three pairs of shoes that I kicked off and left.

Clean the mirror.

Wipe the bench down.

Clean the very, very stupid square basin that sits on the timber bench top and is a shit to keep clean but looked fantabulous when I bought it.

Clean the spout of the over sized, curved tap that comes out from the wall over the basin and has toothpaste on it because I drank from it after I brushed my teeth. Yeah, sorry, disgusting but I do, did and always will - saves me washing a cup.

Wipe over the white tiled walls with some eco-unfriendly bleach to get it smelling fresh.

Wipe the top of the designer toilet roll holder that collects dust and also has scratched my thigh as I have gotten off the toilet due to the fact that it is a shit design (but looks good) and was placed a bit too low and now cannot be moved or it shall leave holes in my tiles.

Wipe window sill and rediscover a fly graveyard. Out of sight, out of mind really.

Reading the above sounds impressive doesn't it?

And it would be if I did all of that in one day and not over a time span of four weeks.

Who would think it would be so hard to clean a 6' x 8' bathroom?

Unfortunately I have the bad habit of breaking up all my activities into ad infinitum detail and then getting bogged down by the details.

Either that or I am just lazy.

If you ever need a manual written about how to clean your bathroom, let me know.

Ciao
LC

Morning People

I am unsure how people with more than one child actually get out of the house each morning. I have enough trouble getting myself out of the house.

This morning all was going well. That means that I got out of bed by 7.00 am. It means S was dressed for school by 7.30 am. I don't have to mention K at all as he is a morning person. He opens his eyes, gets out of bed, gets up, puts the heater on, has a shower, gets dressed, shaves, puts the kettle on etc etc.

I am not a morning person. For me, waking up is like climbing out of a giant crater of cotton wool. My alarm system is complicated. Clock set back ten minutes so when I wake up I know I have ten minutes more minutes to lie in. Actually, I have twenty minutes to lie in as I set the alarm for 6.50 am, it goes off and I know it is 6.40 am so then I can wriggle around and enjoy the semi-conscious state of sleep.

Except when I fall asleep because I have woken up at 6.40 am when it would have been more prudent to wake up at 7.00 am and just jumped out of bed.

So, I also set a second alarm for 7.00 am to wake me up in case I have fallen asleep, but then I wake up knowing it is still only 6.50 am as the clock is ten minutes fast.

You get my drift.

Sometimes I am so "not awake" that when I have gotten out of bed I have walked into the bathroom door as my hand is slower than I thought. Being "not awake" is totally different to being tired. Being tired means you just did not get enough sleep or perhaps you did too much the day before etc. However, "not awake" means just that. Body is asleep and being propelled by a semi-conscious brain. Terrible combination. Involves eyes being unwilling to open, loud plonk on the floor when legs fall out of bed, dragging of sheets still somehow attached to body and then shuffling movement for the next few minutes.

Unless we all sleep in. Then it is like someone shoved a rocked up where the sun does not shine and panic stations all around. It is those days I have a very, very bad hair day!

Anyway, today I got out of bed on time, was showered and dressed on time. And then, all of a sudden I ran out of time and had to rush. In the process of rushing I poked my mascara into my eye which set me back ten minutes whilst I recovered.

I am unsure how I just ran out of time when all was going well. Perhaps I just took too long eating breakfast. Or stood and watched television for a bit longer than I realised, whilst having my cup of tea. I did get a phone call. And, my hair was most unwilling to do as I wished and needed extra work. I need to address those problems at the next meeting I have with my brain!

This running late meant I was unable to do the usual change of clothing thing I do nearly every morning. Seriously, nearly every morning I change my mind on what to wear. I have done it all my life. It is a most annoying trait, but I no longer try to stop it or I shall spend all day wriggling in clothes I have been unable to connect with prior to leaving the house.

When I go to bed a night, I lie in bed and think of what I will wear the next day. Mostly it is a variation of different jeans and tops. Nothing spectacular I can assure you.. Blue Jag Espy jeans with white t-shirt and red shoes. Or Esprit black trousers with green striped shirt and black shoes. What about other Jag Paddington jeans with black t-shirt and black shoes. Once I have those three of four options worked out, I can get on with sleeping. Then, the next morning I know already what I may change into. Very organised.

Now, because time was against me and I was unable to do my usual clothing change routine I got to work in a pair of jeans I don't really like. And I had my clogs on which don't really match the jeans. And that spoilt my day.

Tomorrow I shall take the utmost care when applying my make up. There is no way I can have two days in a row not having the possibility of changing my clothes.

Oh, reading this back has made me tired. All that thinking about nothing at all.

Still, it is important now and then to just prattle.

Ciao
LC

Alice Springs

When I was about 22 I went on my own for a holiday to Alice Springs.

On the off chance you ever make it to Australia, there is one place that I would recommend to visit, despite the long journey it takes to get there, and that is Alice Springs. The vastness of this red, hot and visually beautiful place takes your breath away.

I decided to go on my own as I was, at that time, in a nowhere place in my head. I had finished being a nanny and had moved back home to live in my parents caravan in the front yard whilst I was looking for somewhere to live. It is likely I needed to get away from things for a while. And Alice Springs was pretty far not just in distance, but also in lifestyle.

The photo I have posted is of me with another traveller on top of Ayers Rock signing the visitors book. I am the one in white. We climbed the rock very early in the morning as the temperature is low. To climb it in during the day is a recipe for disaster. The first 200 metres up the Rock take a retch inducing effort. You have to hold onto a chain to pull yourself up the smooth ascent. Once you get past that it is an easy trek across the top. In the background you can see The Olgas, another spectacular part of Northern Territory. The view from the top of Ayers Rock is quite breathtaking. Red earth, sparse trees, blue skies and a sense of being very, very minute in the expanse of the land.

These days, Ayers Rock is known as Uluru which is the original name given to it by the Aboriginal people. There are signs posted at the Rock informing tourists that to climb Uluru is considered disrespectful to the original inhabitants. There is no law against climbing, many people choose not to. Just as many decide that having travelled from the other side of the earth they are not going to miss the opportunity. Personally, I would just go with what felt right on the day and if that meant a climb was in order, then so be it.

Part of the deal with the trip I had booked was the opportunity to have four hot air balloon flights. I found this terribly appealing and was so excited about doing something I had never done before. The place where I was staying was run by the person who conducted the balloon flights. He was a South African immigrant and had been flying balloons for years. I have to say, he was a most repulsive person physically. He was always unwashed, greasy haired, unshaven, smelly and of a leery disposition. Creepy. Still, it takes all kinds to make a world.

The first balloon flight was a silent and spectacular event that crossed over the red desert on the outskirts of Alice Springs. It was an early morning - 4.00 am - and was followed by a chicken and champagne breakfast. However, this tranquil event was not to be repeated.

The next flight was a complete disaster. The pilot took us, by accident, over Pine Gap which is known for military satellite operations and has a wide "stay away" zone. We were instructed to bring the balloon down immediately by the military police and, upon landing, had our bags and bodies searched. The pilot found it incredibly amusing. The passengers did not.

Against my better judgement I decided to go up once again the next morning. I am sure my decision to go was based on the fact that my holiday included four balloon flights and I was going to get them regardless. This particular morning was quite windy and a couple of passengers expressed concern about the blustery wind. We were assured that all was well. Unfortunately this was not to be so. The balloon shot up rapidly to over 2000 feet and it took a great deal of effort to control the path of it and bring it down to a safer level. In the end the violent winds cut short the flight and we had to make a crash landing in amongst trees. It was quite terrifying and I, along with others, ended up with some fierce scratches from the branches that pierced through the basket.

Needless to say, I decided to forgo the fourth flight. I had had enough - deal or no deal.

Three years later there was an horrific balloon accident in Alice Springs which involved the pilot of one airborne balloon crossing over the top of another. The bottom of his basket tore of the top flap of the balloon which cause the hot air to be expelled. The balloon plummeted to the ground and all twelve passengers and the pilot were killed upon impact. The site was so horrendous that one of the ambulance men who attended the scene had to leave his career on stress leave.

The pilot who caused the accident was the same person who had flown the balloon when I went on holiday all those years ago. He tried to leave the country but was caught at the Perth Airport.

I extended my holiday in Alice Springs by an extra few days whilst contemplating what to do with my life. I was sorely tempted to stay and get work. I loved the sense of isolation, the feeling that a person could start again in this hot and beautiful place. There was that urge to be free. To just be free of the burden of family, relationship problems and uncertainty. In the end, my practical nature rang true and I just caught the bus back to Melbourne to get on with life.

Because in the making of that decision as to whether I should stay or not, in the back of my mind I knew that there was one person I could not get away from. There was one human being I needed to ensure I had a good relationship with to enable my life to have meaning no matter where I lived.

And that was me.

I personally think I made the right decision, but there was something supremely pleasurable about nursing the urge to stay during those last few sunny days.

Ciao

LC

Fashion Whinge

At the beginning of each fashion season I am posted a variety of fashion catalogues from different companies. I like to put my name down to have these posted as it validates my existence on this earth - even if it is from someone who only wants my money.

As I get older, the fashions get more and more unlikely to appear in my wardrobe. And that has nothing to do with I can fit, it has to do with what I would be seen in.

Recently Country Road sent their Summer catalogue to me. Now, I have been wearing articles of clothing from that store since I was about 18 years old and, even as I have aged, they have generally had something that I might like to add to the wardrobe each season.

This year I have finally accepted that, unless I wake up tomorrow suddenly aged twenty, there is not a snow flake's hope in Hell that I am being seen in any of these clothes. Trust me when I tell you that when you put those fashion rags on, you will look like you raided your daughter's wardrobe with your eyes shut.

And that has a lot to do with the Smock top/dress. Who, in there right mind would want to wear something that makes you look fat even if you are thin? Worse than that, most of the smocky dresses are made in a grey cotton interlock material and gathered in a semi-bubble hemline that clings to even the tiniest of bottoms and hips and just looks ugly. No-one should wear a dress type article of clothing that grabs your hips and bum and then moves up and down with it.

The look may be cute on a young girls with straight bodies who can carry of the little swing and balloon shape of that style well enough but on someone with female form it looks most unflattering.

Smock shirts are reminiscent of days of pregnancy for me. Last year I caved in a bought a smock top and was asked, more than once, if I was pregnant. That was enough to send that top to the op-shop.

They are also drafty. I am not sure if it is my age, but I hate any clothing on my upper body that allows draft to enter and make chilly my belly. Also anything that may, should I lift my arm up, expose my 43 year old stomach to the world.

The problem is, when it comes to fashion, there is so much out there for younger, funkier gals and a good amount out there for older women, but the in between "I ain't ready to be practical yet" kind of women get a bit left out. Or, the range the you like does not match the money that you have to spend!

Since I am doing a blah blah blog about clothes, when are people going to dress to suit their body shape? Even the slimmest person can look bad if they dress in something too tight, too loose, too short or too long. Dress to suit body types, it makes a big difference to how the clothing will fall.

Not sure what is happening in the US and UK but the swing style mini skirt is big this year in Australia. So, I shall be seeing loads of legs, that would look best in a stylish knee length skirt, walking around town. And don't bend down in those swing dresses, unless you want everyone to see what you had for breakfast.

At least that fashion of the thong/g-string showing out of a pair of "wax to get in your dacks" jeans is over.

I just realised I sound like a boring middle aged women full of some sort of deep rooted resentment about not being able to dress in clothes that a 25 year old would wear. Especially since after quite a few years of not being able to wear what I wanted, now that I can, I can't. And if you love and wear the above mentioned clothes, I can bet you look better in them than I do.

Ah, I feel better now.

Might go and put on my jimmy jams and watch TV.

Ciao
LC

Travel Blab

The first time I went overseas was 1994. I was thirty years old and very, very excited about it all. K and I were off to Singapore, UK and then Denmark to visit some of my family. Six lovely weeks of overseas bliss. Some serious shopping was ahead.

In Singapore K and I went to an camera/electronic store to buy a video camera. I also wanted to buy a portable CD player which was the height of technology at the time.

So we end up in this store which is full of the latest in gadgetry, which for 1994 was not very much in comparison to today. I still remember the name of the person who we spoke to there. Jimmy Choo.

I bought a shake proof portable cd player for $400 which was much cheaper than you could buy here. It chewed through batteries like a dog eating a bone. It is still working today, although you can bet I don't carry it with me when out for a jog! K bought a top of the range video camera. But, along with it he bought a special lens.

A fish eye lens.

Now, I am not sure if you know what that is. You attach the lens to the front of the camera and it enables you to have a much broader view of you surroundings via the video camera. Sounds fantastic doesn't it! Well K certainly thought so and bought that little lens with great excitement.

Almost the entire trip was filmed with this lens attached to the video camera. It makes me look like a baboon and makes my bum look huge. It looks like we had a holiday in a fish bowl. It distorted the views of Portobello Road, the inside of the hotel room, my nose and every other place we stopped by. It gave the trip a surreal appearance.

By the time we got to Denmark the novelty of the lens had worn off and that part of the trip is very normal.

In the meantime, it looks like K went overseas with a fat arsed, monkey faced female.

Although, after all those English breakfasts of bacon, black pudding and sausages, by the time I got to Denmark it may well have been true.

Needless to say, the lens has never been used since.

Ciao
LC

Monopoly AGAIN

Today was very hot and we decided to stay home. K was playing on a music job and I was unpacking groceries when my brother dropped in with his family. After an hour of a great deal of noise S and I were left alone again in the quiet house and I suggested a game of Monopoly. He always beats me at this game but I was certain it would not happen today.

I felt confident, sitting there in my messy kitchen and half unpacked bags and wearing clothes that made me look like a coconut ice. I had bought all the utilities and train stations. Also under my belt were some properties and S was constantly landing on them having to pay me the money... I felt lucky.... Until of course, I landed on MAYFAIR again and LOST the game AGAIN!!!

Of course, someone was quite unsympathetic to my howls of dismay!!!

Ciao

LC

My Locale

Most Sunday mornings I like to pop down the street and do some food shopping. There is a lovely independent book shop that I always like browsing in. It has been there for so many years and has a great variety of art books and lovely obscure novels.

I always like to stop by at the local trash and treasure market and buy some plants. Whilst there are some regular stall holders, there are also many people who have emptied out their cupboards and garages and come to sell all the bits and pieces for others to buy.

Here is the bagel shop where I buy the delicious bagels that S has for lunch. The shop is owned by Orthodox Jews and is therefore shut on a Saturday.

Below is where I buy my fruit and vegetables. The owners only take cash which is good because it keeps the price of everything lower. On Saturday and Sunday mornings it is packed with people.

I walk at least three times each week. I try to generally do a seven kilometre walk or a five kilometre run. During daylight hours I like to walk through the park which goes through the back of houses for a couple of kilometres. It has been possible to have this track as underneath there is a huge stormwater drain otherwise I am sure it would have been built on by now. I jog down this and love looking at the back of houses that abutt onto it.

So, just a couple of pics of my local area.

Ciao

LC

October 12th

Was National Egg Day.

It passed me by, which is not surprising as I don't actually eat eggs.

There is a valid reason for this and everyone in my house knows it along with anyone else who has deigned to ask me why I won't eat them these days.

When I went to school I had one glorious year of cookery classes before my father forced me to do woodwork. His reasoning being he did not want a useless daughter. Okay, fine.

Anyway, in this fantastic 1950's inspired giant kitchen were lovely white stoves beside which were laminex topped work benches. Behind us were sinks at which we cleaned our utensils and we could look out at the schoolyard whilst we did it. After we cooked a meal or a cake we would then go into a little purpose built dining room where we would set the table correctly and sit down and eat what we had made.

To this day, I adopt the same basic principles of cooking that I learnt in the brief year. Especially since my mother was a very, very bad cook and what I learnt from her I do my best not to put into practice.

One day in class the teacher was telling us about the importance of eggs in cooking. She spoke about nutrition, binding value and flavour etc.. Then she held up the egg in front of us and said:

"Think of an egg as a hen's period".

So, that is the reason I just cannot bring myself to eat eggs these days. I have had times when I eat them - but it is always in the back of my mind...

Just be careful what you tell your children. There is such a thing as too much information.

Ciao
LC

Twat Talk

A few weeks ago the three of us went to the museum for a look around. It is good value there as entry is free for children and there is a lot to see.

They were holding an exhibit which was all about the Great Wall of China and we decided to make our way downstairs and have a look at it.

On the way, I had to go to the toilet and K and S waited around for me.

When I exited from the toilets the two of them were standing around staring at me in semi disbelief. "What" I said. Then they went on about how long I took. And I said "yeah, whatever, what is the big deal?". I just left it at that but S wanted to know why I took so long.

"Because I do. okay", I answered. But he would not let up and wanted an explanation as he and dad only took a minute to have a pee.

"Good for you" I replied.

"Did you have a poo?" S asked.

"NO, and can you just leave me be please". I was getting a bit annoyed about the whole Spanish Inquisition about my trip to the dunny. Honestly, it was getting a bit tense.

"Well, tell me then. Why does it take you so long?", S confronted me.

I could not believe this level of interest in my toilet trip. So I turned around and said "Well, it is like this. First I get in there and have to wait. Then, when I finally get into the hot and stinky germ ridden cubicle I have to find somewhere to hang my 45 kg handbag. There was no door hook so I had to balance it carefully on the door handle three times before I got it right. And because I had a jacket on, I had to take it off because I hate having to pull my jacket over my head almost to perch over the dunny seat so it does not fall in. Okay. Then I have to make sure I am really careful about what my hands come in contact with because I am a bit germ phobic about public lavatories. I also have to make sure I don't move too much or the auto flusher will go off and flush half way up my back. Then, when I finished having a pee I had to shove my fingers up the toilet roll holder to grab the end of the roll to get some paper, which incidentally only came out two sheets at a time due to some cost saving mechanism they have in there which really annoys me because I want 50 sheets to wipe my front bottom and this means I have to fart around with the toilet paper over and over again!". At this point I had to draw breath so to enable to finish the rest of the detail.

S looked at me and said "Wipe your what?".

"My front bottom" I repeated.

"You mean your vagina" he said

"Yes, yes okay that is what I meant. Yes, I want 50 sheets to wipe my vagina", by this time I am thinking how this conversation happened. K has moved away by this time.

To S looks at me like I am stupid and says "Really mum, you don't need to use silly words like "front bottom". I mean, it is your vagina".

Oh, yeah, how silly of me.

Fortunately I no longer have to justify how long it takes me to go to the toilet.

Ciao
LC

Friday Piano

Tonight S was part of a piano recital. His piano teacher has all her students do a piece of music in front of everyone. He went well.

The thing with childrens concerts is just how long they take.

It started at 7.30 pm and we listened to each child play a brief piece. Then the more experienced students had longer pieces.

And then longer.

Lots of wriggling starts to happen.

Then I start to count how many names to go.

The room is stuffy and warm.

Two hours has now passed. S is looking in my handbag for pen and paper. I have a numb bottom and begin to wonder how on earth I shall bear 24 hours in a plane when I go overseas next year. I start to cross and uncross my legs to get some relief. Look up at the ceiling. Wonder how a mezzanine floor would do in the room. Thinking about what food shopping I shall do on Saturday. Remember that S is off to a party so we have to get a present.

Finally the last person comes up and plays a lovely Chopin piece. A rather long one, but well played and, because we all know it to be the last one, the mood is starting to lift.

When she finishes everyone gives a round of applause accompanied by a sigh of relief.

Then the piano teacher stands up and says that the same student is going to play one more tune as an encore.

If I remember correctly, an encore is usually encouraged by the audience.

This encore takes thirteen long, wriggling minutes.

The exodus from that room is fast.

But all in all, a nice concert to be part of and despite S bemoaning about piano every day, he was rather pleased with himself once he had done it.

Ciao
LC

Woo Hoo

Alarm went of this morning at 7.00 am. Actually, it goes off at 6.50 am but mobile phone is ten minutes too fast which means I can sleep in for those extra ten minutes. But I don't want to be asleep when I sleep in so I want to be woken up ten minutes earlier than I need to be just so I can enjoy the feeling of sleeping in.

But I was able to lie there in my snoozy bed for longer as I have today off.

Yep, Fridays off are almost in full swing.

Except I do have to go to my brother's and do some bookwork for him.

But after that I am off to buy new school shoes for me. Sit have have a coffee and read the paper. Going the hairdressers.

Day is sunny, sunny, sunny. Jeans and t-shirt day.

Plus, I thought I might have to think of some other things to blog about. Reading back what I have written, I realised I come across as the local village idiot!

I shall take my little camera with and take some pics of my local area.

Try and impress upon others I do have some decorum.

Ciao
LC

When to Fib

When I was twenty one I got a job being a nanny to an 18 month old boy for a wealthy family in Toorak. I would look after the child six nights each week and all Saturday and Sunday. During the day I worked in one of their factory outlet shops selling jumpers, vests and Glomesh handbags to elderly women. Whilst I did not mind the job, I had been put in a position of having to take it because my then boyfriend had met someone he preferred to me and I had to move out of our place of abode. Basically I had been dumped and kicked out of home.

The house was huge and I had my own two bedroom apartment within it. There was a pool, tennis court and every conceivable mod con you could have imagined. The boy I looked after was a darling and I was quite fond of him. However, whenever the parents had one of their huge, catered for dinner parties I had to dress in a Laura Ashley navy pinafore dress and bring down my "charge" to meet all the guests. Most embarrassing.

I had every Friday night off and would go out just for the sake of it. Since my aforementioned boyfriend was no longer interested in taking me to the pictures, or anywhere else for that matter, I was forced to just catch a tram and then hang around the City killing time. Talk about lonely.

I had been nannying for about 8 months and on one Friday night had caught up with a girlfriend and we went out for a couple of drinks. When I came back to the house I was a bit tipsy. The whole place was dark as everyone had gone to bed so I kind of stumbled around trying to find my way along the long hallway and up the two sets of stairs to my area.

I could not find a light switch and ran my hands along the wall fumbling around and eventually came across, way above my head, what felt like a light switch. I flicked it on and off half a dozen times but no light came on. So I just continued my semi-pissed way up the stairs before getting to my bedroom and hopping into bed.

It had only been a couple of minutes when all of a sudden the doorbell went and lights switched on all around the house. I got up and looked out the window and the place was surrounded by about five police cars. Feeling a sense of panic I jumped back into bed to wait and see what was happening.

The mother of the boy knocked on my bedroom door and opened it and said not to worry as the panic alarm had been switched on and the police were coming to make sure everything was alright. It dawned on me that the "light switch" I had fiddled with on the way to bed was in fact the panic button. Which explained why it was in such an obscure place. There was a brief moment when I thought I should tell her what had happened, but she left and the moment passed never to be revisited.

Over the next two weeks the entire security system was overhauled at great expense all because of me and my misdemeanour.

Ciao
LC

Natural Remedies

There is nothing like ill health for a person to become the recipient of well meaning advice from others. Especially if the problem appears to be non-specific.

Over a few years ago I developed some problems with my stomach. The details are so boring I shall not go into detail (not in this post anyway). It became an issue in 2004 and despite visits to the Doctors there was no resolution on hand. But, who needs a Doctor when you have friends and the Internet. During the process of self-diagnosis I decided that I had Gall Stones and thus searched the Internet for a cure.

One of the cures was a Gall Bladder flush. I was encouraged to go ahead with this activity by my mung bean niece who had partaken in the flush and had amazing results.

The process involved fasting for one day, drinking Epsom salts in water, followed by olive oil and then a glass of fresh apple juice. The idea being that the Epsom salts would empty the bowels, the olive oil would force the gall bladder to expel the contents and the apple juice would help break down the olive oil. This final stage of this "flush" involved shitting through a strainer the next day to count the gall stones that would leave the body to show how successful it all was.

You also had to go to bed and lie down immediately to allow the process to occur without interruption.

So, the day arrived and I did the fast. That evening at 8.00 pm I drank the Epsom salts and it was at that point I started to wonder what I was doing. A few minutes later I drank down the olive oil and then followed it up with the apple juice chaser.

I then lay in bed feeling unbelievably unwell and realised there was a possibility I was insane to listen to my niece.

In the middle of that long night, although I am sure I did not vomit, I woke up with olive oil on my pillow.

The next morning I vomited quite violently a few times. The next three days I had a very intense relationship with the toilet.

It was a hideous experience.

Later, I discussed it all with my niece and she was so surprised at my reaction she asked me in detail again about exactly what I had done. It all sounded okay.

I went back and looked at the “recipe cure” and it was then I realised that I had gone wrong along the way in a rather significant manner.

Instead of consuming 25ml of olive oil I had, in fact, misread the measurement and downed 250ml of olive oil. Oh, what a difference a zero makes.

To this day when I think about how I managed to tip that extra virgin olive oil down into my stomach I feel ill.

A year later I had the gall bladder taken out. I cannot say it solved the problem, but it was a lot easier than a “Gall Bladder Flush”.

And, in case you are wondering, I did not do the final stage of the cure.

Ciao
LC

Weight Gain

I have put on some weight. Only three kilos so it is no big deal as I possibly needed to.The weight gain has been all through exercise therefore it has a different feeling to it as opposed to just eating too much. You know, less jiggle factor.

Now, there are a couple of things that happen before I can admit to any weight gain.

If the scales tell I have put on some weight I think it must be fluid.

If a pair of jeans are a bit tighter than usual I tell myself that they shrunk. Same goes for trousers or cargo pants etc.

Too tight t-shirt, just means I have more muscle across my shoulders.

Skirt fitting a bit firmer, hey, no big deal as it was too loose before.

Dress looks tighter, well I never liked it anyway.

Bra going down a hook for a looser fit, just means my hooters are bigger and what is wrong with that.

But, I have no excuse at all if my cotton undies are too, too uncomfortable to wear.

That just tells the truth.

Yep, today I put on three pairs of knickers and decided to admit to myself I had put on a bit of weight and it was therefore time to get new ones. Because, I cannot put up with underwear that is too tight or, worse, too loose. You spend the entire day tugging at them and also have the worst VPL happening which is most unfashionable.

Just another excuse to go shopping......

Ciao
LC

ZZZZZZZZZ!

I have been so awfully tired today at work.

I think because last night I did bookwork until late, then had to wind down from that and ended up in bed at 11.30 pm.

A recipe for cottonwool brain syndrome the next morning.

Followed by the concentration of a peahen at work all day.

Which was interupted by frequent visits to Ebay, Blogs and the news pages.

Attempts to boost brain power with more than one double shot skinny latte was ineffective.

Finally gave into my bean brain and just did what came naturally.

Which is nothing.

Ciao
LC

Cricket Story

Everyone has embarrassing moments. I think I have had my fair share and, despite being a grown up, they still happen, albeit not on such a regular basis and they are certainly not as high in the squirm factor.

Years and years ago K and I were invited to a wedding in Wangaratta which is about 3 or 4 hours from Melbourne. We were not married at the time so I guess I must have been about 26 years old.

At the time K had a 1968 Mark2 Jag which was a most luxurious classic car, despite being a little bit high maintenance. I was also high maintenance being in the thick of my highly anxious, over sensitive, shriekingly shy and moody stage of life. Going to a wedding was my idea of hell. Sitting with people I did not know for hours on end was not an particularly pleasant prospect to me and I could not shake the foul temper that was creeping over me.

It was summer at the time and Wangaratta, being an inland town, was stinking hot. The drive was long and on the way the Jag overheated and we had to stop by the road whilst it cooled down. K was stressed about the car and I was stressed about - well - everything and anything that upset my space. I can still recall standing by the side of the hot and dusty road with the sun baking down on me. Poor, poor future husband having to contend with my irritation. By the time we got to Wangaratta and booked into the motel the atmosphere was highly charged and I was in a fairly precious temper.

To make matters worse, we were late and had to rush to get dressed and ready for the wedding reception which was being held at the local football club rooms (how quaint), having missed the church ceremony due to the car incident, I barely had time for a shower.

My outfit was a lovely linen maroon suit with which I teamed with black stockings and shoes and looked rather fabulous. As we stepped out of the motel room I started to wind down and relax, the prospect of the wedding not so ominous to me now.

The motel was four storey's high and we decided to take the lift down to the ground floor. In the lift were about seven other people. As the lift started to descend I felt, to my absolute horror, something moving in the crotch of my underwear.

Now, I am not sure about other people, but any unwelcome wriggling in my knickers is total "freak out" material. I made some screeching noise and shoved my hands down my skirt and into my underwear. At the same time, everyone turned their head toward me and watched, in absolute fascination, as I produced from my nether regions a big, black, shiny cricket. There was silence as the doors opened at the ground floor and we all walked out.

Unfortunately for me, two of the inhabitants of the lift at the time were also guests at the wedding and by the time I got to the reception the "cricket" story had been relayed accordingly. Thus I spent the night sitting at a table with people I did not know being very aware that a more than a few people were having a good giggle about my episode in the lift. I was too uptight and too anal to appreciate the humour of it.

The whole thing came to a head when I went into the ladies room and there was a girl in there doing her make-up in the mirror. She looked over at me and said "Oh, you're the bird with the spider in her undies - ha ha ha".

Trying to maintain some dignity I replied, in a very polite tone, that it was not a spider, that it was in fact a black cricket which had somehow made its way into my luggage and my underwear. I then mentioned that there had been a cricket plague in Melbourne recently.

To which she replied "Oh, well then, you're a cricket knicker chick". Ya wanna watch who ya let in your undies love, personally I'd rather a footballer than a cricketer. Ha ha, get it? Footy vs cricket!. She was laughing as she went back to the reception.

For the next few months after that day, I always checked my underwear before I pulled it up.

Ciao
LC

Bookwork

The thing with being a bookkeeper is that you have to do bookwork.

I have to do our own books here at home and tonight I did them.

It was very time consuming and had a high level of "ho hum" factor attached to it. Especially since I do this sort of stuff all day long on a huge scale.

But, unlike at work I had no qualms about looking on the internet. Had a jolly good time reading blogs, visiting Ebay, reading the news and looking up silly words in an online dictionary.

Now I am done was about to get ready for bed when I realised I had not eaten dinner and it is 10.00 pm.

It explains why my stomach was aching.

Mmmmm, late night sandwich coming up.

Ciao
LC

Apples

I read a really delicious post at Lydia's outlining a very tempting apple dish.

It reminded me of how much I love apples and when the apple season starts I am so pleased to see them all arrive in the supermarket and grocer's. I eat at least three apples every single day. Generally, if I do not have an apple in the house I will go out especially to get one. My favorite apple is Pink Lady for the colour, taste and texture combination is almost perfect.

But what I do not like is those fucking stickers on every single apple. They are placed on the apple to identify what type of apple it is to the check-out chick to enable the correct price to be charged.

Those stickers end up everywhere. Stuck on the floor, in a little roll in my pocket, on the front of a cupboard, in my mouth because I did not see it and stuck in obscure places around the house. In fact, the other day there was one on the end of my sock! At work I peel them off and stick them in the same spot. I have quite a collection.

Apple season is drawing to a close here so one would expect to see an end to those fiddly little shitful pieces of paper.

But no, they end up on nectarines and peaches because it appears that no-one knows the difference between the two.

Ciao

LC

Surnames

One thing I love looking at are the long and interesting surnames that people have.

When I used to work in the corporate world I would often come across some fantastic names. Long and always difficult to pronounce I would resist the urge to ask the owner of the name to repeat it over and over to enable me to say it fluently. There was one person who was from India and had the most fantastic surname with 19 letters in it. As we worked together, she did indulge me in helping me get a grasp of it.

Last year my niece graduated after ten years at University. As we are quite close, she invited K, S and I to the huge event.

It was held at the Telstra Dome and there were thousands of people attending. Students, parents of students, students' siblings, grandparents, teachers, cousins, friends, uncles and aunts. It was the most organised and well-orchestrated event I had been to. We were all handed a thick and glossy booklet which outlined the order of the night. When the evening got into full swing, the names being read out for awards just droned on and on. Each mention rewarded with a low key generalised clapping of hands.

As we sat waiting and listening to the tedium of it all, I started to read through the list of names and awards. There were many different nationalities which were reflected in the surnames and one surname in particular was made up of 27 letters. They were being awarded for something that had the words "genetic, molecular and rice" in it. Something significant in the world of food production etc.

I sat for ages trying to mentally pronounce this name. Over and over I mouthed the letters. It really stumped me. I kept thinking how the person reading out each name was going to manage this feat. Surely he must have to really practice in front of the mirror or have some sort of instruction from the owner of the said name.

Well, I was not the only one pondering this name. When the moment finally came for this star student to be awarded their diploma the atmosphere in the air was electric with anticipation. We were not disappointed as the pronunciation was faultless and smoothly delivered without any hesitation. The entire audience erupted into volcanic cheers, clapping and whistles. The student, a fine featured young woman, stepped up to receive the award with pride.

I wish I had kept the details of the name just for the sheer challenge of getting it right.

Ciao

LC

I Knew It

Deep down I have always known that housework is not good for you. I always feel like shit when I am doing it.

And here is proof! Straight from the news website (so it MUST be true)....

Housework might be bad for your health, according to a study suggesting that tidying up as little as once a week with common cleaning sprays and air fresheners could raise the risk of asthma in adults. Other studies have linked these types of products with increased asthma rates among cleaning professionals but the research published on Friday indicates others are potentially at risk as well. Exposure to such cleaning materials even just once a week could account for as many as one in seven adult asthma cases, the researchers wrote in the American Journal of Respiratory and Critical Care Medicine. "Frequent use of household cleaning sprays may be an important risk factor for adult asthma," Jan-Paul Zock, an epidemiologist at the Centre for Research in Environmental Epidemiology in Barcelona, who led the study, wrote Asthma is an inflammation of the airways with symptoms that include wheezing, shortness of breath, coughing and chest tightness. More than 300 million people worldwide suffer from the condition.
Using data collected from 22 centres in 10 European countries, the researchers studied more than 3,500 people over a nine-year period to see how many developed asthma and whether cleaning could be a cause. Two-thirds of those in the study who reported doing the bulk of cleaning were women and fewer than 10 per cent of them were full-time homemakers, the researchers said. The study found that the risk of developing asthma increased with the frequency of cleaning and the number of different sprays used but on average was about 30 to 50 per cent higher in people exposed to cleaning sprays at least once a week.
While air fresheners, furniture cleaners and glass-cleaners had the strongest effect, the researchers said the study did not determine what biological mechanism sparked the increase.
©AAP 2007

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Ciao
LC

Bagels

I love bagels. The semi-sweet chewiness of a fresh bagel with nothing but creamed honey on it along with a strong cup of coffee is, in my mind, an ideal combination. Even toasted they have a flavour that is distinct from a normal white bread roll. We have a local bagel shop that is open every day except for Saturday. Every couple of weeks I will go down and buy some fresh and warm bagels for lunch. I have even made them, but the work involved does prevent me from doing that on a regular basis.

In 2000 I went over to the UK on my own for ten days. S was almost three years old and, as we could not all afford to go, it was decided it would be good for me to have some time on my own. I was recovering from PND and S and I were having trouble being apart for any length of time as we were so attached to each other. I think I just needed to make this trip having never been overseas on my own before.

The trip was a big deal both emotionally and physically. I caught up with some friends for a couple of days, but essentially spent the entire time completely alone with the exception of a couple of preplanned tours. One of the tours was in the evening and took in the historical seedy parts of London. At one point we ended up in Brick Lane in which are two very well know bagel shops near each other selling bagels 24 hours a day. I bought two cream cheese and salmon bagels to eat later on in the hotel room. I can still recall the uneven, chewy softness of them today. The cream cheese oozing from the sides of the tasty treat and onto my hands is a fond memory.

I walked everywhere in London. Walked and walked as though trying to walk away from myself. I remember having the most intense panic attack outside the Victoria and Albert Museum and having to make it back to the hotel room without crawling on my hands and knees. That was the point I thought it would be good to visit some friends so they could take care of me, which they did so well.

There were many phone calls back home as I was profoundly homesick and, despite enjoying the sights and sounds of glorious London, I was struggling. There were some good things though. I had a hotel room at a two star place called The Regent Palace which was situated right at Piccadilly circus. The room was tired but clean, the single bed was saggy, the decor tragic and if I wanted a shower I had to book it. The sounds of the street never stopped, drifting up through the window, cars, buses and rubbish trucks making me feel part of some life going on. I slept in my clothes one night I was so tired and possibly quite depressed. Three nights in a row I went and ate at Burger King followed by two donuts. I took the food upstairs in my room, ate it in bed and threw the rubbish on the floor. Looking back, I knew I needed to do that.

Half way through the ten days I was away S did not want to speak to me on the phone when I rang home. K told me he was watching television and did not want to speak and, although I was a bit upset, I understood that perhaps Playschool would be more interesting than speaking to me.

The truth was, that when I phoned S said to K "I can't talk to mummy because it makes me cry". K had decided to keep that from me as he knew I would be devastated that I had somehow made my child so unhappy he said that. He was right to do that. I was too far away from home to deal with that.

The first thing S said to me, in his sweet little voice, when I was picked up from the airport was "did you get me toys?", so I guess he had recovered from my brief absence.

Every time I eat bagels I think of that whole trip and wonder how on earth I did it.

Next year, all three of us will be going to London and we can visit the bagel shop together. A different experience at the same place.

It is always good to look back and realise how far you have come.

Ciao
LC

Shoes

Most of the time I wear black school shoes with long pants or jeans. They are neat, practical and comfortable.

They last for ages - at least twelve months of almost daily wear. I love them so much and always get the same brand when they wear out. Whilst they do look a bit like safety shoes, I still think they are much better to wear than girly shoes that hurt my feet. Between my school shoes and clogs, my feet are always so happy.

I actually put them on without untying the shoelaces. Just kind of wriggle my foot into them and then bang my foot down for the final fitting. Goes against every rule about shoe longevity management.

Generally I never polish them. They have some type of "never need to shine" leather so when I look down, they look fine to me.

However, the other day when I wore them to the Motorcycle Grand Prix they were so covered in mud that I was forced to polish them. Now it is not often that I actually have those shoes within twelve inches from my face but on Saturday I did. My shoes, which looked fine from 5'9" away looked totally disgusting from 12" away. The leather was full of fine cracks, the heel was scuffed, the soles had cracks across them and the interior of the shoe looked like it had been eaten by moths. And, worse than that, they smelt of foot and not leather. Eeewww!

I plan on getting a new pair this week. Only this time I shall take more care of them.

Always some sort of maintenance to be done.

Ciao
LC

Lunchtime Internet

First work day of resisting urge to go on the internet.

Well, had to go on just once or twice to bid on a shirt on Ebay. Could not resist. BNWT Tommy Hilfiger shirt for not much at all.

I can justify that small indulgence.

Trouble is, I actually have nothing to say but feel the need to use the earnt opportunity to indulge myself.

It was not that easy.

Like resisting food when you are starving.

So, if I only spend 3 minutes on the computer while I eat lunch and then get back to work, does that mean I can go on it again later? Or is this it until I get home?

Ciao
LC