Just a Blab

We all like to look our best. It is natural.

That is one thing I do like about digital cameras. You can take loads and loads of shots until you are happy with the end result. Then just delete the daggy ones. Erase that double chin shot, that half closed eye droop, the mouth open at the wrong time, bad hair or unflattering expression etc.

I still keep some photos I don't like. I just do not show anyone.

People will often take photos of anything and everything with no regard for the appeal of the content.

Here are photos of me I never, ever want taken:

1. Flossing my teeth
2. Washing myself in the shower
3. Sitting on the toilet
4. Watching television with my mouth half open
5. Eating
6. Ironing
7. Having sex
8. Doing poo patrol
9. Sitting at the computer with my mouth half open
10. Asleep with my mouth half open

The other night I had to take S with me to the outdoor exercise class as K was not at home. He amused himself with the camera while I was sweating like a horse. I cannot help but notice that he will always take copious amounts of inane shots of his face when he has the camera in hand.

He did deign to take a photo of me kickboxing.

It is not flattering, but I feel compelled to put it up as a confirmation of the things I have to do to stay fit.

I might send it off to Nike for consideration for their next catalogue.

Ciao

LC

Detox?

I am sure everyone knows the fashionable thing to do now is "detox".

Not the rehab version of detox where the celebrities end up when their career needs a boost.

I am talking the detox thing where you don't eat certain things for days on end, do some fasting, drink some fresh vegetable juice with wheat grass juice and then add some selenium powder in it for full impact. You only do this twice a year apparently.

Almost as bad as my gall bladder flush episode from hell.

You can buy all sorts of packets of products from health food stores that supposedly outline the full procedure. In fact, one Christmas K gave me one such packet to try. What sort of present is that I ask you? I have a book on drinks to make whilst you detox. The drinks are essentially non alcoholic cocktails full of lemon, lime and ginger. So very refined.

Yesterday I noticed an advert in a women's magazine that had the headline "Why detox twice a year, when you can do it every day". Now that seemed interesting. So I read on for full details.

It was advocating the partaking of Metamucil each morning after breakfast. Metamucil is basically a fibre mix that you drink with a glass of water.

So, it appears that a detox is actually all about having a CRAP each day.

Then, a few pages later there was an advert with the headline "Send your children off to school each day with a glass of Metamucil".

Hold on here. This is wrong, wrong, wrong.

What is going on here. It is bad enough that companies add things to food, even milk, to encourage action stations in the dunny department, but would it not be better to encourage healthy eating habits from the word go?

There is something strange about getting people, children especially, to take a product to have a crap without first investigating their diet.

By the way, have you ever taken any of those fibre gel drinks? You want to be very, very careful about when you take it, how much you put in the glass and how long you wish to sit on the toilet. If you don't drink four glasses of water with it, you end up with a 1kg moving mass of fibre trying to make it's way through 80 feet of intestinal tract. Very, very unpleasant for yourself and those close to you, if you get my drift. And, if you are prepared to drink four glasses of water anyway, you would not need to drink fibre gel in the first place.

Personally, I would rather send my child to school with a multi-grain sandwich, piece of fruit and a cup cake. Because I can tell you right now, there is no way that he would drink something like Metamucil after his breakfast. I mean, it is hardly as appealing as an orange juice is it?

No matter how nicely they package the container, no matter how many yummy and tangy flavours it comes in, if you have ever tried one you would have realised that no child is going to be fooled into thinking that is a treat of sorts.

My advice is, before you go "detoxing" at breakfast each day, have a look at what you are eating for breakfast. In fact, have a look at your whole food intake for the day. Extra fibre may be needed for some, however, let us not make it a first choice and certainly not try to make it fashionable by calling it a "detox".

Detox? Yeah right.

Ciao
LC

Dishwasher

We have a dishwasher. It was a wedding present from my mother-in-law. Initially she suggested a choice of a grandfather clock or a dishwasher. I am unsure if she meant that as a joke, but the answer was a no brainer.

When I was younger washing dishes was a form of punishment. I hate, hate washing dishes. When I lived alone I used paper plates or ate out of tins to avoid washing dishes.

In my life it is dishwasher or divorce.

If it cannot go in the dishwasher I don't use it. Well, with the exception at Christmas when I used the special dinner set and bone handled cutlery and then hand wash it all at the end of the night.

When my husband loads the dishwasher he obviously thinks that somehow the water expelled during the wash will find it's way behind the plate that has been wedged against a bowl. However, when I load a dishwasher I can get almost the entire contents of my kitchen cupboards in there. He hates it when I fuss around and reload a "full" dishwasher as it means there will be one third more space and that means more to unload later on.

Now, I am so sure that the dishwasher was not supplied with a utensil of any sort in the top rack. But for some reason we have this constant presence of a wooden spoon that sits in the top rack requiring two or even three washes to get it clean.

I think what happens is this. The washer is loaded up, the wooden spoon casually tossed in fully loaded with food (not me doing this) and kind of positioned in a way that will discourage any water making contact with it. It then goes through the entire wash, rinse and baking dry process (which ensures that the food is encrusted onto the spoon). K then unloads the dishwasher, sees the spoon is not clean, rotates it around for the next wash rather than take it out and clean it.

As each wooden spoon is finally cleaned properly it is replaced by another dirty one.

Such an event could be avoided if I unloaded the dishwasher more often. However, the system of double dishwashing a wooden spoon appears to have worked so well for the past sixteen years that I feel it would be silly to change it.

That is how traditions start and I find comfort in that..

Ciao
LC

Spider Story

If you live in Australia, you can bet that you will share your house with a spider at one point in time.

Unfortunately the spiders' that we have here are quite often huge and hairy. Or nasty and poisonous with a bite that can leave you ill or with some sort flesh rotting condition.

Whenever I poke around in the garden I am not fearful of what the neighbour's cat has left behind, but of the spider's that live in the earth. I always wear leather gloves.

I do a spider check in my bedroom before I go the bed a night.

K is not scared of spiders at all and will just grab them and take them outside while I run to the other end of the house.

To say I am terrified of a spider is an understatement. If I see one nearby I will leap suddenly to the opposite side of where the spider is. On the rare event that there is a spider upon my body I have done really bizarre, convulsive type of movements and removed my clothes. On many occasions I have stopped my car in traffic and leapt out, endangering my life in the process, due to the fact there is a huntsman in the car with me.

In December 2004 I had just been to visit a Chinese doctor and jumped into my car to go home. At that stage I had a white Honda CRV. I was about to start the car when I notice three little, teeny spiders crawl across the windscreen of my car. I leant forward to study them. They were on the inside and the looked very much like a baby huntsman, so I squashed them.

Over the next day or two I noticed odd webs stretched across my steering wheel. I started to feel extremely anxious and complained to K at home. He laughed and said don't worry. But then a few more little spider's turned up. I was convinced there was a nest of huntsman spiders in my car somewhere. I made K search the entire car to no avail.

On New Year's Eve S and I went to the movies for the night as K was working on a music job. The movie finished at about 11.00 pm and we made our way out to the car park. It was a hot night and the car park was packed with movie goers. I was holding a rolled up poster in my hand which we had been given when we saw the film.

When we go the the car both S and I stopped at the same time staring in utter horror for the entire roof and sides of the car was covered in thousands of baby spiders. Crawling everywhere and at great speed. I said "shit, shit, shit" and did not even bother to apologise to S for my lapse of manners.

I started hitting the blighters with the rolled up poster, then gave it to S to do. This went on for about 10 minutes and there seemed to be no end in the population of creepy crawlies. Other cars drove by slowly, pointing and having a laugh at our situation. After another 5 minutes of whacking away at the car I said to S that we were going to have to bite the bullet and get in the car and go home.

We opened the doors slowly and inside there were more spiders which we squashed with some clothes that were lying on the back seat of the car. Finally we resigned ourself to having to just get in the car. We sat rigid and anxious all the way home and I am surprised I did not get a speeding ticket as I just wanted to get out of the car as quick as possible. Once home both S and I jumped out, locked the car and ran inside the house.

The next day the interior of my car was very webby and very spidery. K had to go through the entire car until he found the nest nestled in the door rubber of the driver door. By then the spider's had left their little home and were entrenched in my car.

We had to go on a week's holiday not long after that and by the time we got back home, the spider population had decreased but the size of the spider had increased due the the cannibalistic nature of the creature.

Each day K had to search the car and squirt fly spray under the seats. Generally a huntsman likes to sit high up so the visor is always the first place to look - just do not check it when you are sitting in traffic or the spider will fall on your lap.

In the end the last spider turned up when I was loading something in the back of the car and I made a man nearby get rid of it, which he did most reluctantly.

That was about three months after I saw the first spiders appear. It was a most stressful three months for me.

Don't ever park your car under a tree.

Ciao
LC

Make Up

I love make up. I love putting it on and seeing the end result. To me it is like decorating a canvas.

Foundation smoothing over my skin. Translucent powder to set the foundation. Liquid eyeliner across the eyelid. Black kohl pencil under the lower lashes. Black mascara coating my eyelashes. Russet coloured eyeshadow for blending. Special gel brush to keep my eyebrows smooth and arched. Cream blush to stop me looking like the Crypt Keeper.

I can put my make up on in ten minutes. A "night out" or "special event" look would be twenty minutes at the absolute maximum and that would include television watching time in between the interchanging of tools and products.

Over the years I have learnt to control my crying to avoid smudging my make up. This gives the impression to others that I am very stoic, which is not necessarily true.

I can ignore the worst type of eye itch to preserve the paste.

I never touch up my face during the day except for lipstick on the way home from work. Having "done" my face up for so many years I know what brands last the distance.

In all my life I have only slept with my make up on twice. Even when completely inebriated I have had enough of a thought process to remove the face debris and cleanse my skin.

When I was younger having my face made up defined me and I was terribly anxious about being seen with a naked face. I don't care now. You can come by my house first thing in the morning and see me in my pj's and pale faced for what it is worth.

Today I have on my face what I term as the "natural make-up" look. Interestingly enough, this sort of "no make up" look takes fucking ages to get right and is meant to make me look dewy and peachy skinned. Lots of blending etc. The reason I have not much on today is that I had itchy eyes due to the windy day yesterday. Plus, it is nice for a change.

So, today people said things like:

You look tired.

You look sick.

What's wrong?

Have a big night?

You have bags under your eyes.

and

You look younger (would not mind that one at all if the comments above did not accompany it).

Nearly every day I wear make up.

Most people tell me I don't need make up.

But they only say that when I am wearing it.

Ciao

LC

The Rocket

A friend of mind recently asked me to take some photos of a climbing frame that he used to play on as a child. He wanted to do a painting of it. So today S and I went together to have a look and take some pictures.

I remembered also climbing on this when I was a child as did my husband. Today S had a climb and we took some photos. It was a long way up.

To get to the top you have to climb up little ladders and pop through a hole to get to the next level. There is definitely a size limit which indicates to me that the rocket is geared for children.

It was funny to see S do exactly what I and his father had done so many years before hand. Not that I want to live in the past, but there is something nice about seeing your own child enjoy the same thing you did. There is some sort of validation in that.

When we got to the bottom and jumped back into the car S told me he thought it was fantastic and could we go again another day.

Even I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Ciao

LC

Melbourne Cup Day

Today was a public holiday in Melbourne to celebrate a horse race.

Yes, a horse race. The Melbourne Cup is the pinnacle of the Spring Racing Festival and the nation stops to listen to a horse race. The race is 3,200 metres in length and the better a horse is, the greater the handicap. One horse had to carry at 66 kg handicap which is fairly substantial over that distance. The favorite does not always win. Last year a horse called Makybe Diva won for the third year in a row. Very exciting stuff for the punters. Even Mark Twain once made a mention of the race.

The day is also a great opportunity for women to show off the most outrageous and glamorous outfits, especially hats. In the 1960's Melbourne was outraged when Jean Shrimpton turned up at the Melbourne Cup with a mini skirt, no hat, no gloves and bare legs. She looked divine. Made all the other women look so stuffy with their pill box hats.

We caught up with friends at The Docklands which is a waterside area which has become quite the place to live just on the edge of the city. We often go there and the kids catch up and ride their scooters around. On sunny days it is crowded and there may be buskers and music. People ride their scooters and motorbikes in. I feel a bit envious as a few years ago I had a Vespa which I sold and would love to buy another one. However, should I have an accident there are too many consequences to consider (death for example) so I shall simply admire from afar.

I enjoy modern, outdoor sculpture that encourages children (and adults) to climb or touch them. This piece is one of a collection of sculptures which are like a white forest of smooth tree roots emerging from concrete. We cannot ever go past without having a play on them.

The place is almost sterile with its planning. I suppose that is the way of the future when developers make their mark on formerly industrial land space. There are the appropriate amounts of park space, walking paths, drought tolerant greenery, eco reed beds to filter the polluted water and a great deal of restaurants and cafes. The park I have pictured here has a very interesting wind powered sculpture. I like looking up at it as the wind catches in the coloured scoops and blows them around. It is quite mesmerising. The coloured sections are made of recycled then coloured tyres and are very bouncy to walk upon.

We got home after a couple of hours of walking around and having coffee.

Even though there were things to be done at home, sometimes it is nice to just enjoy the day somewhere else and refocus on the rest of the week.

Ciao

LC

A Lot Happens In One Day

This morning I got out of bed to get ready for work and remembered to take a photo of the studio. Here it is at about 7.30 am.

Little brother comes around with his gear.

Just before I head off to work at 9.15 am I take another photo of K and my brother pondering the plans for the day ahead.

Home at 2.30pm and here it is!

Nothing like seeing something spring up from the ground so quickly.

Tomorrow the weatherboards are going on.

I am getting very excited!

Ciao

LC

Is Laziness Genetic?

When I was younger my mother always said I was lazy.

But I think that implies that I don't do anything useful or helpful.

The fact is, I don't like doing things I don't want to do and have been inclined to express that feeling, or somehow avoid the job. If I enjoy it, well, I am right into it. Better to be honest about it than go through life being resentful. Obviously as an adult you have to just do things you don't want to or no-one else will so any thoughts of having someone do it all are unrealistic unless you are loaded with money.

In the early years of my marriage K used to do whatever I told him to. Nothing major, just things like getting me a pair of scissors, pass me this that or the other or could he put something away for me etc. Sort of like having a slave. One day he said to me "Why do you keep asking me to do things? Why don't you do it yourself?" to which I replied "I would do it myself, but you keep doing what I tell you to do". I mean to say, I am only human.

Not that long ago, K complained that S expects him to do everything for him. I said that maybe he should learn to say no to a son who is naturally going to try to get at least one parent to be a slave. I reminded him of the early days of our marriage. "Ah, okay", he answered.

If you can get someone to do your bidding, it is hard not to be a teeny bit naughty about taking advantage of that.

It may have been a coincidence, but when I was a child I always needed to go to the toilet when the dishes needed doing or the washing needed hanging out. My mother used to get so angry with me and my nickname was "Lazy Sod". Lucky children who get pet names such as "Blossom" or "Cheeky"! Even the threat of a belting did not seem to sway me to change my habits. The more determined my parents were to make me more helpful the more resistant I seemed to become.

Recently, I have noticed that every time my son has to go to bed, empty the dishwasher, pair socks or anything along those lines, he needs to go to the toilet for a CRAP!!! He manages to be on there long enough for me to have to do the fucking job myself.

Must be in the gene pool.

I can hardly tell him off can I?

Ciao
LC

My Danish Aunt

In 1994 K and I went overseas for six weeks. The last 8 days of that trip involved a jaunt around Denmark to catch up with some of my relatives.

One of those people was my Aunt B.

I was about 30 years old and this was my first trip overseas. At the height of my anxious self I had made the entire trip a very stressful event for me and, maybe, for my husband at times. The fact that there is a wedding ring lying somewhere in the cold moors of Scotland is proof of the "maybe" factor in the previous sentence.

We got to Denmark and I was reasonably placid and looking forward to seeing everyone. After staying for a few days with my Uncle, who was the most organised human being I have ever met, we then made our way to meet my Aunt B.

She had been an art teacher and quite a beauty in her younger days. Very rebellious and eccentric. She married but had no children, instead being a foster mother to seven children who, unfortunately, later got taken off her. Years later, after a torrid affair with a farm hand, she divorced her husband and remarried. But they all decided to live together for economic reasons - or so the story goes. Eccentric was her persona. She collected anything and everything. If it fit in her house, she would buy it. If it could be painted and did not move, out came the paintbrushes.

My Aunt lived in a farmhouse with her husband and ex husband. Also in the homestead was a vagabond of sorts that she had befriended. All of them were very hospitable.

I need to explain what I was like in those days. Two words - highly strung - are fairly accurate. Along with those two words are things like germ phobic, anal, uptight, anxious, self conscious, fussy with food and freaked out by anything that I could not control. But, fortunately I managed to maintain the exterior of an easy going person with good sense of humour.

We get to my Aunt's farm and it was the hottest that Denmark had been in about 100 years. Hot and humid. The room we were given to sleep in was a most unusual cave of sorts. On one wall was a collection of firearms and on the other a collection of about 500 assorted bottle openers. Adorning every flat surface was a stuffed animal or bird of sorts. The air was stuffy and the light was gloomy.

It was also the dogs' room and the bed we were to be sleeping on was also the dog's bed. So, the sheets were put on and some pillows and it became our bed. The dogs' were most annoyed by that and during the day they would sleep on the bed and refuse to get off. During the night we had to have the door shut or the dogs' came in to sleep with us. If we kept the window and door shut, the room ran out of air very quickly and I would wake up looking like I had taken a breath of air on Mars. To open the window was to be exposed to the noise of the intermittent traffic that roared by during the night which would wake me up in almost lunatic fright.

I ended up with flea bites.

My Aunt kept exotic parrots in her lounge room. Seven of them in great big cages. There was a constant movement of dusty and feathery air in the room which mixed in with the cigarette smoke drifting from the constantly lit cigarette in my Aunt's hand. My head was in freak out mode thinking of germs and dirt. Any desire to eat had all but gone by day two.

Aunt B was a good cook. Always lots of Danish nosh to get stuck into. Rye bread, cheeses, liverwurst, farm fresh butter and yummy pastries. Had the kitchen been clean I may have appreciated it so much more. But the dogs came in and out and licked the floor, hens were allowed in the kitchen and the fly population was the worst I had ever encountered - and coming from Australia that says something. It was my dinner that a fly landed in, who else's would it be but mine?

The bathroom was shared by all. There was an unusual set up with the shower over the bath. You had to sit on a moulded seat to have the shower. Now, there was no way I was putting my bare bum on the same place the everyone else did. So I perched like a little bird on a stick and, balancing in a very nervous manner, attempted to wash myself. One morning as I wobbled precariously in that position I noticed that the window was stuck open and anyone who came into the courtyard could stand and have a chat to whoever was in the shower. As the courtyard was the only way to get into the house, the comings and goings of people was constant. This was too much for my senses and I had to make the shocking decision not to shower for the next two days.

I ended up with a stomach ache which was totally anxiety based.

My Aunt was my mum's favorite sister. She felt a bit upset when I told her the state of the place and thought that perhaps her sister was just getting older and that sometimes people are not so bothered by issues that upset others. Then she mentioned something about me being a bit uptight, perhaps I was. Still, when I watch the video we took I can feel assured that I did not imagine the "organic" nature of the place.

Then my mum said to me that I was so much like her sister had been when she was younger. I was a bit offended to tell you the truth.

About three years ago my Aunt came out from Denmark to visit us. By then I had grown into myself and was so much more appreciative of people and all they had to offer. I spent a few days with her and my mum. Aunt B really was a most witty and amusing person. Very different to the average 75 year old. Upfront, creative, sharp and delightfully inconsiderate of what other people thought of her. I thought how great it would be to be dynamic like that well into old age.

The comment my mother had made came to mind.

Maybe being like my Aunt was not such a bad thing after all.

Ciao
LC

Rainy Days and the Only Child

I have an only child. Not for any one particular reason the decision came about. A myriad of reasons most likely.

Firstly, he was IVF. Therefore the fact that I even have him is rather amazing. He sat in the freezer in a little dish for 8 weeks before he arrived in my womb. I have had more work on my plumbing than anyone I know. In fact, one of my rather exciting journeys in theatre has resulted in my twat being in a medical magazine due to the rarity of the condition. My favorite aperitif is Midazolam twenty minutes prior to surgery.

Secondly, my body is quite objectionable to any excess hormone activity which resulted in PND after having my son and has put me in the high risk area of Post Partum Psychosis. Er, no thanks - my mother has a tale or two to tell of that condition.

Finally, I have the type of nature that suits one child springing forth from my body and no more. Other people's children I can handle, I would be a good wicked step mother, but had I had one more, there would have problems.

Both my husband and I are eternally grateful we have him and never regret that we don't have more. Just as we are happy that other people have 2, 3, 4 or more children or none at all. However, people have often said the most astonishing things to me (never to K) when they find out I have an only child. Their tone is always accompanied with pity.

Examples are:

Oh, what if he dies? - To which I then reply my standard answer of "well, you have three, does that make it any less devastating if one dies?"

He will be lonely. - To which I then reply "Are you saying that people who have siblings don't get lonely?"

Why did you only have one? - My standard answer is "Cos I hate kids and this one popped out and I could not send him back". I used to give a more pleasant answer but have decided that being asked such a thing is just too rude for such politeness. It is right up there with asking people why they have no children. Treading on a touchy area when discussing fertility and child bearing or lack of it.

Isn't that selfish just having one? - I just say "Why is it selfish?" to which there is no answer.

Doesn't he get bored having no-one else? - Well, I get bored sometimes as do all of us. We all have to learn to deal with that one. Anyway, why would he get bored when he has ME....

My son gets to play with his mother more than any other child I know or he knows. Today it is pouring with rain, and, as I am still tired from yesterday's being unwell so have decided to stay in the cave. K is out on a music job. Now, I don't want S to sit on the computer all day (only I am allowed to do that), or the Xbox. So, out comes the 5 tonnes of Lego and we do stuff together. Which involves me looking for the pieces, handing them to him and then he builds the end product.

We then may take out a big puzzle and fiddle around with that for half an hour or so. Then we draw together. He will then take out some books and read many facts and figures out aloud to me from Ripley's Believe it or Not and also Guinness Book of Records. Then out comes the chess and checkers or Monopoly. Maybe some cards.

He gets a very solid three or four hours of my undivided attention. Which is fine by me. If you came over to my house you would also get my full attention.

Now that may or may not be a good thing. He told me the other day he prefers being out with me as I know what he likes and I listen to him a lot. Perhaps that is because we are similar.

Sometimes he has to get all my attention to learn how redirect his own. Whilst I am okay with him being on the computer or playing Xbox sometimes, those activities are very reactive if you compare them to being creative with Lego, puzzles or reading. If I have to stop what I am doing and zero in on him to enable him to start thinking for himself, then I am happy to do that.

All I can say is this. The house is quiet. The Xbox is off and S is reading.

And that is rather nice.

Ciao
LC

Caboolture

When I was ten my father had a notion to go up to Queensland to make his fortune. He had hoped to buy a caravan park in a tourist filled place. When we got to Queensland we initially lived in the caravan park that he was hoping to buy. If you ever want to put your children in danger, go and live in such a place. It was full of the most unsavoury and creepy people who were always on the look out for young children to entertain. But that is not what this is about.

The deal to buy the park fell through and we ended up buying a milk bar opposite a high school in a place called Caboolture. The building was fibro cement and terribly depressing for my mother. My dad had to go and get a job as a builder locally and my mum had to work in the milk bar making lunches for surly faced teenagers from the school.


Initially I hated being in that place. This was my third primary school and I really did struggle making friends as I was very shy. That slowly changed as I managed to establish some sort of relationship with a couple of other girls. The school was structurally a beautiful old building with wide verandah's and the classrooms had louvre windows to let fresh air into the rooms. Giant Moreton Bay Fig trees adorned different parts of the school, a welcome haven from the sun and a place to climb for the boys. Girls were not allowed to climb trees if they were wearing dresses.

I was forever getting headlice and ringworms as were the rest of my class mates. Children did not have to wear shoes to school. Perhaps the humid environment lent itself to all sorts of skin eruptions and other creepy crawly things. Not that it bothered me but I am sure that my mother was not too impressed.

There was so much freedom for me up there. When I think about what I did after school and on weekends it makes me sick to the stomach now that I am a mother. Running wild, riding my bike, out of the house in the morning and back just before dusk. I used to go down to the local river and swing out on a rope to the middle and let go. We would play around on the railway tracks leaping off when the goods train with its long and never ending cargo would make its way through the town. Not far from our house was a pine plantation in which my friends and I would disappear for hours on end. The silence of that plantation has always stuck in my mind. The only sign of life in it were the ants that crawled on the pine needles and tree trunks.

Cane toads were a common problem in Queensland and still are. We would catch them, wrap them in a plastic bag and put them in the freezer to die before throwing them into the rubbish bin on collection day. It may sound quite mean and I an not sure would not allow my son to do it these days, but really, they were a pest to the natural environment.

When we moved there we had very little money to spend on furniture and my dad managed to get some hospital beds for us to sleep in. The house had lino floors and was cold and quite ugly inside. I remember finding some streamers in a neighbours rubbish bin and taking them out and decorating my room. At times I would look for interesting stones to put on the windowsill or cut out pictures from magazines and pin them to the side of my wardrobe.

When I was about 20 I went up there with a boyfriend and took a photo of my old home. It had not really changed.

Earlier this year when I went up to Noosa we decided to go back and see my house. It was almost significant for me as S was the same age that I had been when I moved up there. When we got there I could not believe the changes to the town. It was totally unrecogniseable. The house had been pulled down, the trees that once graced the school had were long gone. There was nothing there that I could pin to my childhood.

So, I took a photo and off we went, unlikely to ever return.

My family and I only lived there for a year or so. My father blamed my mother for his lack of personal success and failure to obtain his dream. It never occured to him that he may have been at fault.

I have a vision of my mother in that fibro house we lived in. She was leaning over the washing machine putting the wet clothes through the mangle. Her hair was in curlers and covered in a scarf. I think I asked her a question and she just said to "go on and get outside". The back door was off the laundry and I recall the joyous skip off the back step I did before I raced off the through the backyard and slipped through a gap in the rear fence and darted off for the day.

She was still doing housework when I came home that evening.

Ciao

LC

Saturday

Well, I had to spend the entire day in bed as a result of munching lollies over three days.

I honestly did not have that many, no more than the average person would.

However, I have a problem with my body being able to tolerate colourings, preservatives, excess sugar etc and the end result has been a migraine, vomiting and extreme fatigue.

K has told me not to do it again.

Which I won't.

But those licorice all sorts were yummy....

Ciao
LC

Friday at the Shops

Today was a borderline waste of make up.

Car had to go in for a service. I got lost on the way there. Probably because it was scary hair day time of the month and my brain went into twit mode.

They gave me a loan car - well, I paid for a loan car - and it annoyed me because it was pale grey inside and had no window tint which made my big fat fuck off headache bigger than Ben Hur. Plus the car was automatic and that makes me daydream at the same time which is unsafe. My car is manual, tinted windows and dark inside and makes me feel secure like a mole rat underground. Feeling secure is important on twit brain days.

So, the only thing to do is go to a big shopping centre and wander around aimlessly for three hours, or was it four. I cannot remember, it is all a blur. But I did come back with clothes which meant it must have been a pleasant event.

Then came home to meet someone about installing a grey water system into our home. We have water restrictions here and it is prudent to use the washing machine and shower water on the garden. We have decided to do it professionally rather than drag a hose all over the garden trying to water it. Long term wise it is the best thing - short term wise I have to stop freaking out how expensive it is to get it installed. Whenever I spend money like that I feel queasy for a day or two. Once the deed is done I recover well enough.

Have eaten another swag of lollies. In fact, I am sure that half my food intake consisted of extremely strong coffee and lollies. I broke it up with sushi for lunch.

Now I am just hanging around the house eyeing off the ironing.

When I was at the shopping centre I realised something rather interesting about the similarity between them and houses. The company I work for builds very big houses. The inside of these houses end up looking like the inside of a big modern shopping centre. Who in their right mind would want that look? The coffee shops are designed in the same style as the kitchens we install. Even the table and chairs look the same. It is weird. And boring. Also beige, brown, chrome and stone topped. Let us not forget the polished concrete floors. How friendly....so conducive to a pleasant home environment. Although it could be a deliberate move to confuse people as the whether or not they are home. Or, perhaps to make people think that being at the shops is like being home. How nice.

My head feels as though there should be more for me to whinge about, but my brain has sent a message that it is completely empty and to try and squeeze one more bit of twaddle is a waste of time.

So, unless I have a thought of some value drifts by I shall say.....

Ciao

LC

Halloween

In Australia Halloween is not a tradition.

That does not stop kids dressing up and going from house to house trick or treating. Not many do, but last night S and his friend got out there and roamed the streets a bit. Came home with a few sweeties.

I bought a huge amount of lollies in anticipation of children knocking at the door. Not one turned up.

I was forced to eat all the licorice all-sorts myself.

What a pity.....

Perfect remedy for PMT which in itself could have turned into a hideous Halloween trick.

Ciao
LC

Art

I love Art.

I know that is a vague, almost throw away statement. What really defines Art anyway? Most likely my idea of what Art is completely opposed to another persons thoughts on the subject. Many people do not see a place for Art in the general day to day process of living. Apart from being a decorative accoutrement to a home, a painting would never be considered as an important addition to a persons life.

Art to me is essentially a creative form of expression. Whether it take the shape of painting, sculpture or collage is not relevant. The purpose of Art also transcends the requirement to be financially recompensed for what is created. That is only a bonus.

I also separate Art from Craft Making. Not because one is better than the other, it is simply what I have experienced on a personal level. Having partaken in a plethora of craft type activities and gaining no personal satisfaction in the end result made me realise what the problems is. My own creative core was never addressed during the different activities I did. This does not mean I am right in my thoughts, it is only what I think.

I love the emotion behind what people do in the pursuit of Art. Colours that blend into an almost chaotic connection. Raised surfaces that leap from abstract form. The challenge to interpret what the Artist was thinking when they lifted the canvas to easel and, brush in hand, moved those thoughts across the surface in the most personal form of expression. Expression that cannot be verbalised without alienating themselves from mainstream society.

Stories told in artistic form also leave behind history for others to interpret. During the Victorian period there was always a great deal of meaning and morals that were interwoven in the subject matter of a painting. What may seem to us as, quite simply, a well structured and interesting painting is, in fact, loaded with subtleties that, for it's time, were quite shocking.

One of those paintings is "The Awakening Conscience" done by "William Holman Hunt".

Not just a painting, but a story of a fallen woman. Who would think by just looking at it. When I saw this painting at The Tate Gallery many years ago, I was galvanised by the content of this. Having read very intensely about the Pre Raphaelites prior to my trip, my head was full of the stories behind each painting and what a satisfying difference it made when I stood there admiring the full glory of the object in front of me.

Of course, this just one of hundreds of paintings which say so much more than is initially presented to the viewer, but for me, it was one of those moments of truth when I realised how ignorant I was about the world of Art.

When I was younger it would be common for me to wonder around the Art Gallery just looking at paintings. Just trying to work them out. Dreaming about doing something myself. Making sketches and colours up in my head. Reading Art books.

As I got on with life and work those visits became less and less until they eventually stopped. Work, marriage, home, child and just getting on with things put a lot aside. That is not a bad thing, it just is what it is. The journey that takes us from one stage in our life to another, each one as valid as what preceded it.

So now there is something almost dreamlike in realising that I have almost reached a place where I can put my hand inside my head and take out ideas, emotions, thoughts and memories and put them into a visual form. It may or may not be to everyone's liking, but as one dear friend once said to me "Other people's opinions matter, but they are not absolute", it really is not ever going to bother me if no-one likes what I do. This time of my life is actually quite a lot about me.

That may seem selfish, but really, is it so bad to sometimes embark on things that have nothing to do about anyone but our self?

Ciao

LC

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