Picture this.

 It’s 1987.

 A school bus packed with teenagers rumbles along a windy rainforest road. It is twilight and the kids are rowdy. Dressed in their best gear, they are headed out for a once a year experience.

 Movie night at the Malanda picture theatre. The theatre is huge, the seats canvas and baggy. Rows upon rows of couples sit, snuggling and smooching. One couple in particular catches your eye.

She seems a bit tough, and he’s kinda goofy.

Even now though…he loves her.

She rests her head on his shoulder as the house lights lower, and the movie begins. She feels the tears well as she watches. Her heart swells as she imagines a man that could love her like the main characters loved each other.

 In the seat beside her, the boy squeezes her hand.

 He feels the same.

 The movie ends and they make the long bus trip home, this time snuggled on the vinyl seats, whispering to each other in the dark.

Years would pass, and the girl (now a grown woman) would hear of the movie characters passing.

 Memories of that night would come flooding back.

 Memories of the boy that squeezed her hand, and the way he had held her just as tightly on their wedding day.

RIP Patrick Swayze, and know that your memory has walked with me these many married years.

 God Bless.

Apparently, in some parts of the world “Vegemite“is a myth.

 ”What is Vegemite?” a friend asked me the other day, “Is it like hummus?”

   Stone the crows ! 

 Like hummus? 

For those uneducated in the ways of Vegemite, it is most definitely NOT like hummus.

 Almost beyond description, Vegemite is an Australian breakfast staple.I falter at describing it as a yeast extract (yeast extracted from where?)  but there is no way of describing it without sounding like we spread shite on our toast. 

Salty axle grease!  There I said it……and yet we still eat it……and love it

And if you consider that some people (with more money than sense) imbibe coffee made from beans crapped out of ass of the Civet (a small cat like creature with a wicked caffeine addiction), our yeast based spread seems quite palatable.

So the Vegemite status has set me on the path of discovery.  What other hideous creations exist in the world that people are trying to pass of as food.

Here are a few (and for the record, if you eat any of these…you are a freak!)

Quee

a charming little delicacy consisting of a whole guinea pig……deep fried! 

 That’s right,  little Twinkle and Piggy dipped in batter, then turned into the South American equivalent of a Piggy Mc Nugget

Following a close second, is Quees cousin Monkey Toes.

 The phalanges are deep fried in oil and are comparable to eating grasshoppers or starfish (of course!). 

 Sounds doable, until you consider that monkeys stick their toes up other monkeys bums! 

Consider Birds Nest Soup on your next visit to the local Chinese takeaway. 

 Was there ever any of us who thought this stuff was made from actual birdsnest?

 Well think again.

  Apparently nests snatched from the loving bosom of the Swiflet are very tasty.  It’s the sweetness of the bird saliva that gives it that extra little kick.

  At $80 a bowl, don’t bother.  I’ll spit in it for free.

Codfish sperm.

  Can you imagine the dinner conversation I’d be having with my husband after I’ve tucked into a steaming bowl of Codfish sperm. 

 ”How come you’ll eat fish sperm……..”

Cheeseburger in a can.   This exists…….and I don’t know why!

Along a similar vein is Artichoke flavoured tea in a can. 

I didn’t know I needed Artichoke tea…apparently I’ve been missing out. 

 Need to get me some now!

 Peanut Butter powder. 

 Do I snort it, or shake some in my shoes?

Squid ink Ice cream.

  Ice cream = yum.  Ink = not yum. 

Crushed pearls in Lollipops! 

 Never heard of it?  Well switch on people coz this might just be the product that gives your love-life the kick in the pants it needs. 

Touted as an aphrodisiac, apparently rocks are food now!

Finally, In my own country, you can quite readily find Kangaroo Tails in the freezer section of the local supermarket.

  That’s right, a huge hairy tail.  Not as  popular as you’d think though ..it’s a bitch finding a pot to fit it in

So please, before you judge us harshly, consider the plethora of weirdos out there eating bugs and Pop Tarts.  Some pregnant women eat dirt!

  They are the crazies!  Not us!

For the record, no Vegemites were harmed in the writing of this article.

I’ve  never really gotten the appeal of  New Years Eve.  Most years have been spent lying in bed, in the dark, listening to other peoples celebrations, avoiding drunken midnight phone calls from deranged relatives and friends.  Sometimes I have made the effort to see in the New Year, even if that simply means sitting up till the clock strikes midnight.  Other times I’ve been asleep for three hours, and the ringing phone wakes me.  Often (and sadly) it’s my Mum on the other end partying like it’s 1999.  As she passes the phone from one merry reveller to the next I’m sure she experiences a sense of disappointment that her eldest offspring is a bit of a “Nanna.”  It’s not like I don’t know how to to have a good time, it’s just that I’m not sure what I’m meant to be celebrating?  Usually the passing of another year leaves me ambivalent.  I give no thought to the last or the new.  Today, however I think would be a good opportunity for a bit of self reflection.  I can’t change the events of  the last year, but maybe I can (as a typical Virgo) gain some insight.  Here we go.

                       1.  What am I most grateful for in 2008?

       New friendships in 2008 have bought me more joy than I ever thought a relationship outside of my family could ever give.  I’m most grateful to myself for allowing things to flow and take their natural course.  I like to think that I’m in control of this little universe, so this year letting go has been my biggest challenge. 

                        2.  Have I hurt others?

     No doubt.  I’m a “right” fighter.  I let my fears control how I react and respond.  This is not always the case, however if I’m feeling vulnerable or cornered I can be vicious.  My husband will tell you the worst thing I did to him this year was put his mobile phone through the wash.  I know how upsetting that was for him, and I definitely struggled to be apologetic. 

                      3.  Am I holding a grudge from 2008?

     Absolutely!  Despite my age (35) I still sometimes manage to get caught up in hysterical “womens” business.  I don’t always see it coming, and when it does I am far from forgiving.  During last year I “graciously” extended the hand of friendship to a woman whom I thought needed a friendly face in her life.  Over the course of several months our children played together and had sleep-overs.  Cutting to the chase, it was revealed that she was not the person we all thought she was , and now she can kiss my ass!  This too shall pass, however having to see her frequently makes forgiveness hard.  I can forgive her, but I don’t want her to know that!

                         4.  Did I have fun?           

     Fun is a strange concept for me, because life is a serious business.  Better get it right this time round cause you may end up coming back and doing it all over again.  But then, what if the meaning of life is to have fun and I’m getting it all wrong?  Spending time with my kids on holiday last year was fun, however the eight hour plane trip there and back defies definition.

                          5.  Did I smile or frown more in 2008?

     Can I call it a draw?  No real winner here.  I have smiled a lot, and I think those smiling times were a gift from God, because he knew he was sending me a few frowning times as well.  I frowned at naughty children.  But laughed side splittingly when one of my boys described a friends leaving to live in another town as them “passing away!”  I have smiled when my five year old asked if he could borrow my wallet so he could buy himself a motorbike..and would I mind giving him a lift to the shop?  I have frowned at many doctors.  Frowned at a few teachers too.

                        6.  Biggest lesson for 2008?

     My biggest lesson is that my fears have kept me stuck doing the same things, hoping for a different result.  You can’t pray for change and then sit back and wait for it.   I have learnt that most of the chances we take pay off.  And if they don’t , well we learn, and there’s nothing wrong with learning, especially from ourselves.  I guess that’s my greatest lesson.  I am my own greatest teacher!

Don’t ask me about 2009.  I don’t know what I want or hope for.  I guess I’ll know it when I see it!

He was off to tend the garden, maybe water the lawn, maybe pull some weeds.  The dog circled his feet in anticipation of hi-jinx.  As the MOTH wobbled out the backdoor grabbing for purchase with each step, I felt the old familiar fear reach up and twist my insides.  Our eyes met, and I looked away.  So did he.

Earlier this year the MOTH was diagnosed (after years of sypmtoms) with a genetic condition that affects his balance.  He wibbles and wobbles and teeters.  Sometimes he falls.  It is usually a younger persons disease, so the prognosis is not as grim.  However the outcome is always the same.  It is progressive and terminal.

Life tries to continue as normal after such devastating news, hence the gardening.  As he pottered in the yard, I began to prepare the evening meal, one ear listening for calls for help or just cries of frustration.  Imagine my surprise then when I looked up from the kitchen sink to see the MOTH swinging from a tree in the garden bed, pulling himself up off the path.  I gave him a curious look and he waved to indicate he was ok.  At this, I looked away knowing how uncomfortable he would become if I continued to  watch.  When I looked back a few minutes later, I found the MOTH and our friendly canine huddled in a garden bed, plotting some mischief .  Then I noticed something green trailing behind the dog.  Aha!  The garden hose!  It was when I noticed it had been looped through her collar, I realised I had to go out and investigate.  The MOTH had decided that as the garden bed was uneven terrain, the best way to navigate the soaker hose (you know the hose with holes all through it?) behind the bushes was to attach it to “Lassie’s” collar.  He would then coax her through, dragging the hose into position.    Knowing our dog, this was the most absurd scheme either of us had ever heard. Maybe if our dog really was Lassie and Timmy was stuck down a well this could have been a plausible solution.  Alas, mans best friend at our joint is a dumb as a box of rocks.   Neither of us could help but bursts into fits of laughter.

So how do you go on smiling after tragedy interrupts your plan for your life?  A lot of people say “If I didn’t laugh I’d cry.”  I don’t know if that’s entirely true, because you’ll always cry no matter how hard you try not too.  I believe that if you don’t laugh, if you take yourself too seriously, you’ll never try!  And trying is what gets us up each day.  God Bless you MOTH. 

 

“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.” Winston Churchill

We’ve all been there.  A time spent enjoying friends, some wine, some food.  As the night starts to wind down you begin to feel peculiar.  In the car on the way home, your gorge starts to rise.  Refusing to spoil an excellent evening, you breath deeply.  In bed you begin to think that if you lie still enough the nausea will pass.  It does.  What’s worse is that moment, deep in slumber, when you find yourself sprinting for the bathroom, praying (for the first time ever) that someone has left the toilet seat up. 

Now some people are excellent vomiters.  Most women I have found will take a bout of vomiting on the chin ( I think I comes from that place where we know there are worse things than vomiting.  Like childbirth).  People generally are aware of the toilet etiquette, but if the proximity of the loo is unacceptable, then a bucket (or in a real pinch, the hand basin) will suffice.  This rule applies to most.  Except small children and…..my husband!

One of my earliest self inflicted episodes, happened at my parents farm.  After a night of drinking Southern Comfort, the MOTH and I (pre-kids) returned home for a lie in.  Ha!  Mum and Dads’ place is minute.  The one toilet sits directly across from my parents room.  There is no door, merely a privacy screen.  No way, no how was I doing the business in there!  So I staggered still partially inebriated, down the dusty track.  Finding an appropriate spot, I let hurl, and staggered back to bed.  I guess I should have mentioned that “my bed” consisted of a mattress on the lounge-room floor.  When I awoke sometime later, I was surrounded by small children, eager to know why I was so unwell.  A tale ensued, ending in the exact location of the vomit being divulged.  Seven children never moved so fast, jumping on their bikes to “see” the vomit!  Parents everywhere were not impressed.

So there you have it.  I too have walked the track of shame.  I have also witnessed many walks, and it is with great empathy that I have rubbed a loved ones back, or held their bucket. Vomiting is Gods’ way of letting us know that just feeling good, is ok.

‘Help, help, ‘ said a man. ‘I’m drowning.’ ‘Hang on, ‘ said a man from the shore. ‘Help, help, ‘ said the man. ‘I’m not clowning.’ ‘Yes, I know, I heard you before. Be patient dear man who is drowning, You, see I’ve got a disease. I’m waiting for a Doctor J. Browning. So do be patient please.’ ‘How long, ‘ said the man who was drowning. ‘Will it take for the Doc to arrive? ‘ ‘Not very long, ‘ said the man with the disease. ‘Till then try staying alive.’ ‘Very well, ‘ said the man who was drowning. ‘I’ll try and stay afloat. By reciting the poems of Browning And other things he wrote.’ ‘Help, help, ‘ said the man with the disease, ‘I suddenly feel quite ill.’ ‘Keep calm.’ said the man who was drowning, ‘ Breathe deeply and lie quite still.’ ‘Oh dear, ‘ said the man with the awful disease. ‘I think I’m going to die.’ ‘Farewell, ‘ said the man who was drowning. Said the man with the disease, ‘goodbye.’ So the man who was drowning, drowned And the man with the disease passed away. But apart from that, And a fire in my flat, It’s been a very nice day.

HAVE A NICE DAYSPIKE MILLIGAN

Reading this to my eldest tonight, brought me swiftly back to childhood memories.  At the time, anything related to my Grandfather seemed dull (like listening to the news on the radio) and irrelevant.  Now I thank him for introducing me to Spike and the wonderful epitaph he left after his death…”I told you I was ill.”

This morning a friend called to ask me what I was doing today.  “Domestic Goddess!”  I said.  “Me too!”  she replied.  Then I got to thinking about her house and my house, and I realised that we each had very different ideas of what a “domestic goddess” did.

You see I never grew up with a very domesticated mother.  She was a career woman in the sense that she had no choice but to go out to work.  Usually there was never anytime or she was too tired.  So, weeks went by, and if you started to think your bed sheets were looking (and feeling) less than linen fresh, then you changed them yourself.  If you needed a shirt ironed same rule applied.  School lunches were another task that fell to your own volition lest you wanted to starve.  Now, don’t get me wrong..we weren’t neglected (ok maybe just a little) it’s just that priorities were different then.  For my family anyway.

This lack of domestic pride has followed me into my own adulthood, and as hard as I have tried, this is one genetic trait I can not kick.  In fact I see a lot of merit in spending time with my kids or with my nose buried deep in a wonderful book.

For example, I don’t do bathrooms.  Toilets yes!  Bathrooms no!  “Fine”, you might say.  “So who does the bathrooms?”  I don’t know.  “Not me.”  I do manage to iron, but only once a week, and the pile that the ironing comes from teeters in my lounge until the pile falters.  This I see as a sign from God that I should now fold and put the clothing away.  I wash the clothing daily however my enthusiasm ends there, and frequently I am forced to wash the same load several times before it is hung out.  And lets not speak of the horrors that await us in the kitty litter!

Occupationally were are required to move frequently.  This is always an excellent opportunity for your family (and strange removalists) to get a clear view of how domestically inclined you’ve been over the last few years.  Children are always excited to find their long missing toys under the lounge that hasn’t moved from the day the last removalist plonked it down!  One greasy, smelly chap once told me that he had helped move the people who lived in our house previously, and that she had kept it ALOT cleaner than I had!  Ha!  Cheeky sod!

People take a lot of pride in their space, and place a lot of status on the cleanliness of their abode.  One friend once boasted to me that HER cleaner complained that she wanted the house too clean!  I felt for that cleaner!

 

So, how can I claim the title of “Domestic Goddess?”  Because I am a goddess at all I do.  Some people might say diva, but I think that conjers up images of Mariah Carey, and I don’t wear my clothes that tight.

I am “Goddess” because I am woman!  We are all “Goddess”.  Your title is just waiting for you to claim it!

Life in Australia in the 1970s and 80s was a very different time to the one we are raising our kids in now.  As kids we were left to roam the streets in harmless little gangs, pulling pranks, doing stunts on our bikes, wandering in and out of each others houses.  School holidays were a time when we barely saw our parents, except to ask for fifty cents to buy an iceblock at the shop.  My parents were extremely comfortable with leaving me at home, in fact my younger sister and I were commonly known as “latchkey kids.”  When we got up in the morning, and when we got home from school, we were unsupervised.  We stayed out of any obvious trouble, but we ate alot!

Now, I wasn’t a naughty child, but I was curious, and an enormous snoop.  My Gran was apowerful influence at that stage.  If she told me I could “eat” that flower, I would.  Thankfully the only strife I ended up in, left only myself emotionally battered, and embarressed. 

Ok, so I can see you’re starting to get upset..”poor little neglected child.”  But I think you’ll see that I always got what I deserved..and what was that?  Well it’s the same thing I get coming here everyday…attention!

                                           Incident number one:  my Dad advised me NOT to stick a fork in the power point!  He was very clear- “no forks” or “powerpoints!”  Right!  Got it!  The instant his butt was in the car, backing down the drive way I was in the utensil draw.  Spoon?  No good!  It had to be a fork, he was very specific!  A spoon might work, but I couldn’t risk it.  Scene cuts to me standing on a chair jamming the fork into the socket.  By some miracle I wasn’t killed, but a bolt of electricity travelled up my hand so hard and fast, that it left me with an aching arm for the next three days.  My Dad never twigged.  I dropped a few hints, but he’s a man and subltletly was never his strong point.

                                        Incident two:  Dad (again), pointed out a specific plant in a friends garden.  “Whatever you do, don’t eat that, it’ll give you lockjaw.”  Now, I’m no biologist, and even at nine I knew you could’nt just eat random weeds, but I could see that this sucker was particularly unappealing.  Keeping  in mind I was at a  birthday party.  Pretty sure I was gonna eat the fairy bread and lollies over some hideous looking Triffid.  But, the challenged had been laid.  So, I took a piece and I ate.  I wasn’t sure what lockjaw was ( in hindsight I think he meant rabies! ), but suddenly my jaw started to tingle.  My friends started to gather round.  Next thing my Dad was there, bundling me into the car as I rubbed my jaw!  There’s a tale similar to this one, but it involves me, Dad and a warning about some chillies!  There’s a lot more swearing in that one!

So, I guess you’re wondering how I ever survived my childhood.   When you embarrass and humiliate yourself enough times you become reslilient.  And while I am cautious about how I phrase things to my children, experience has taught me one thing.   There is no substitute for experience

 

 If you have made mistakes, even serious ones, there is always another chance for you. What we call failure is not the falling down but the staying down.
– Mary Pickford

 

Today I narrowly avoided a melt down.  Not just my meltdown, but MOTH’s meltdown at me as well.  All day I had pushed and pushed.  He tried to lighten the moments with his usual purile sense of humour, but I refused to be won over.  When he did finally ask me what was wrong, I snapped a stare so hard and fast, the glass in a nearby window cracked.  “So?’  You ask..”usual day at my place.”   And usually I would agree, but today proved to be the exeption.

Because today, after my attempting a fairly accurate version of Attilla the Hun…my computer crashed!  Worse than that, I had killed it!  Apparently I had given it a cold or the flu or some hideous disease, and now  MOTH (who by now hates me ) was placed in the enviable position of  “rubbing my bitchy little nose in it!”

See, he’s the fix it guy.  That’s why I married him.  Saves on car mechanic bills, antenna repair men, etc….Sadly, he’s not a gracious Mr Fix-it.

So..what did I do?  Well, I don’t particularly like the taste of humble pie, so…..I hid.  And like most blustery storms, it all blew over.

I am somewhat humbler now.  And a bit wiser.  And a bit smug!   “How grown up was I avoiding a big fight?!”  Yay me!

However I post this warning!  This could have easily have been you instead of me!

Is it a woman’s prerogative to be a bitch for no reason?

I don’t mean “PMS” Bitch or “do I look fat in these pants” Bitch.I mean the Bitch who “can’t be pleased”. ” Twist yourself inside out for, make copious cups of tea for, you can’t win” Bitch!

This Bitch is an intelligence nightmare.  She can plan a set-up five steps ahead, and can execute it with a ruthlessness and cunning, that would make the SAS proud.  One minute she’s asking if he can bring in the washing.  The next she’s tearing him a new “A”  for being a lazy, ungrateful slob.  Offer to help out with the groceries however, and he’s faced with accusations and recriminations.  “Do you think I’m a child?”  “DO I look like I can’t cope?”

Any good husband does his best to make his wife happy..right?  So, what would it take to make The Bitch happy just for today?

                                                               – a holiday? (” I’d have to pack”..and “have you seen my bikini line?”..and..”I’ve got nothing to wear!”)

                                                              -a party with friends? ( “I can’t have people around,the house is a mess”..my husband is a lazy slob!” )

                                                              - a spa treatment? (we’re back to the bikini line again! )

                                                             - a shopping spree? (sure..coz wandering a department store  full of stuff I can’t afford, whilst being stalked by the “riffraff” police is exactly what my self esteem needs!” )

Needless to say, The Bitch has many talents.  The most obvious being sarcasm, a trait most men can’t appreciate.  She can no more resist “bitchiness” than a bee resists the flower.  Genetically she is designed that way…it keeps the guys off balance!

My advice to any MOTH is this:  see her sarcasm as wit, get her drunk and ride it out!

 

I love being married.  It’s so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life.  ~Rita Rudner