This week's To Do list in no particular order

Right.... don't mind me while I just make a little list here for myself, mmkay?

• Celebrate Steve's 40th on Thursday! (As in, actually remember to say something to mark the momentous occasions because, y'know, I could very well forget given my over-worked brain's track record of late)

• Finish this ruddy slideshow of Steve from the moment he was born to the moment he declared trackies and moccassins appropriate attire.

• Lose the 2kg that has somehow crept back on in this past month. I blame all the chocolate of late.

• Make jelly cups for the party on Saturday.

• Finish the blog migration from Blogger to Wordpress.

• Try to stay out of the foetal position while I iron out any bugs and wonder what the HELL I was thinking when I made such a bold move as moving my beloved blog from Blogger to Wordpress.

• Find out how to transfer my feedburner from the old blogger address to my new domain.

• Ask myself if I need another easter egg. Really. The answer will be yes.

• Pray that my plan to make a tetris cake for Steve's party actually works as good as I imagine it might.

• Resist the urge to slap him if he so much as suggests it's not spatially accurate if I do too many of the same piece colour (it's a Tetris thing, you'll get it if you know it)


• Sleep some? Clean some? Remember to feed the fish?

• Remind myself that simply looking pretty is not the same as working well. If it doesn't work, there's no point it looking like this:

What it MIGHT actually look like if I play my css/html cards right....

Most importantly, please oh please come looking for me if my blog suddenly falls off the face of the Blogosphere. Promise me you'll come tap on my shoulder on Twitter or Facebook or something? Still not convinced but here goes, gang!

I'm switching over to Wordpress (hopefully) by this Friday!  Gulp!

(p.s. I have some questions to ask you when you get there - most pressing right now for me is that I won't see all your faces and avitars any more over there in comments on WP! I'm not impressed about that at ALL, I need to see your pictures! It's all going to be topsy-turvy Grey-Man Land!)

And just lastly....

Steve's turning 40!!! My little (incredibly tall) Lenny!  I've been with him since he was 20..... how is this possible? Mercy, me.

A dying art. As opposed to dying for your art.

I doubt it'll ever kill me, but writing anything longer than a page by hand these days hurts!

And that hurts here *close-fisted heart tap to my homies... mummies... blogger...ies*

Eden is hosting a weekly meme - about horses who are not on the nose? - and this weekend it was about handwriting - horses that can write? I don't know, I'm very confused (just generally) - and I was very happy to see so many samples of handwriting. On Twitter, on Facebook, on Instagram. By the time I got around to joining in, I realised (as with so many things in my life) I was beyond fashionably late and it had closed.

Somehow, Eden saw fit to open the Linky back up. So I quickly scrawled the note below - the musings of which I shall endeavour to expand on in a post in the near future - and found myself rather happy to be writing. Actual pen-to-paper writing! I love writing. I love forming the letters, I love watching my hand as it seems to bounce and flow almost with a mind of its own as it shapes the letters. I love the pace of writing - note to self: when brain is overworking..... Stop. Write. Let it slow back down to the limited speed of hand to self-regulate.

I mean, take a look at those k's. I can make the tail of an S go from here to the kitchen. And my w's? My w's are almost out of control. I was quite tame today, really, but I do adore letting loose on a piece of foolscap with a pen. The more felt-tipped the better, for mine.

One thing I've always wanted to do is make a font out of my own writing. That would be awesome. But so lazy. In a world where the shopping list is the only thing I write with any great regularity, even this is becoming obsolete in our house - thanks a LOT, Siri.

Thanks for reopening your Linky, Mrs Land! Looks like several of us just missed out. I am impressed by how keen we are to put pen to paper. I truly hope it doesn't die out as much as "they" say it will.....

Time will tell.

Do you enjoy writing?

Forget Rorschach - My kid, the visionary

What do you see in this image?

Snowman? Round tummy? Two sticks for arms? Hat and all that?

Yes. Yes, that's what you would see. That's what we all see.

Now, you could go testing yourself online and whatnot to see where you're at psychologically and you'd be closer to understanding any underlying disorders of the mind.

Me? I prefer to take the Bliss Bomb test. It's far more satisfying.

Step 1. Take a small preschooler.
Step 2. Hand her the most obvious-looking shape around at Christmas time.
Step 3. Place it in front of her the right way up (and everything).
Step 4. Provide an assortment of crafting "things".
Step 5. Step back and watch the majesty unfold....


That's no snowman.




Is it a bird?







Is it a plane??









No.











No,


It's a.....

Superhero alien likeness of herself.

Of course. Pssscht. If you didn't see that, then, well...... have you had your head read lately?

Post rewind: Beyond nothing

The below was originally posted in October, 2009. It received no comments, which tells me either everyone had the same (or even less) care factor than me about it, or they didn't get the whole Spinal Tap thing... which still makes me giggle immaturely. GOD, but I love that movie....

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In the grand scheme of things, this is so far down the scale. It's below "Why does Beyoncé dance like that?" and "Why does dust get under stuff I never move?" in my care factor.

But this one time, a few weeks ago, we were at The Reject Shop and I saw this ace little dustpan and brush set on the top shelf way above my head - so, like, Steve's eye height - and I asked him to get me one when we were on our way to the register. He grabbed it, a long-handled brush and matching long-handled dustpan with a nifty little clip on the handle so you can lock the brush handle to it and store them both together, upright, freestanding.

Great! I thought. It looked a little bit smaller now that it was down from the shelf and in Steve's grip, but I thought it was mostly because I was comparing it to his tallness. Yes, it's a word. Uh, I think.

So we get it home and I go to use it.... I have to bend over! But it's no particular height that I can say "It was made for kids" or even simply "It was supposed to be this length", because, quite simply, it's a useless size.

Now I just feel ridiculous using it (and I do, because I have to, because I have to be right and prove to Steve, who at the time muttered the question, "Do you really have to spend $10 on this?" and I had said loudly YES I DO, NOW GET ME ONE). I feel like that scene from This Is Spinal Tap where they're performing onstage around the 11" Stonehenge replica that they had made up, because of a misunderstanding about whether they wanted it to be 11 feet or 11 inches. A sizeable mistake.

Maybe that's it. Maybe it was meant to be 120cm long. And someone made it .... 120mm. Hey, it might as well be that short because it's already close enough to the floor.

Cracking jokes: How the egg lost its head

The other night, I was asked by the LGBB if she could have a boiled egg for breakfast.

So I boiled some eggs in readiness for the next day. 

As is my penchant, I drew faces on them once they were done because I find this a quick, easy (and let's face it, enjoyable) way to differentiate between boiled and raw eggs when they're all together in the fridge. Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can tell by spinning them on the counter top or by their weight or ... yada-yada-yada. My way isn't scientific but it gives me an amused little kick when I open the fridge and see sights like this:

Completely cooked, as they say...

Now, I didn't realise until I took the egg out of the fridge and placed it in Lolly's egg cup the next morning that I had possibly used the wrong choice of facial expression....

"But... you told me it wouldn't hurt a bit!"

But it was too late. I had already used the other two eggs. This could go either way, I thought to myself as I heard her footsteps running up to the kitchen.

The LGBB was delighted to find an egg in her egg cup. She giggled at the silly face. I started to whack the top of the egg with a knife to open it up for her, wondering if I ought to tell her to avert her eyes, when she started to talk in ... well, an egg voice, and said:

"Oh no! I can't look! Quick.... turn me around," and then proceeded to swivel the egg cup so the egg was now facing away from us. I nearly peed my pants at that point but then she started commentating on my cutting ability, in the same egg voice:

"Ummm.... hairdresser?  You're not a very good hairdresser.... You're cutting my brain!"

I thought, Well, at least she's not mortified, and joined in with a "I just wanted a little off the top and sides..."

By the time her egg looked like this, Lolly was excited that the shocked mouth had turned into a smile.

She thought I was magic.

I hadn't the heart to tell her she was looking at the nose, not a little smile. I had inadvertently been clever with my artistic license.

All's well that ends well.

Elderly and infirm: Take note!

Under NO circumstances should you attempt to sleep resting on a football, unless you have a loved one on hand to help fish you out of the predicament you'll find yourself in when you wake and feel all shaky in the bot-bot and then panic when you discover it's because you're resting on a football.

Also? Using an Aussie Rules footy is easier because it will only roll out from under you in one direction. Just a tip.

There are three simple steps to this exercise:

The blissfully unaware stage. Also known as "butt-teetering"....

The "why can't I... Get... Up?" wake-in-panic stage. Upside-down pirouette pose optional.

The "oh shite, I'm really stuck now" realisation sinks in.
If your loved one is kind, they will help you without fuss and keep guffaws to a minimum.
Until they're inside where you can't see them.

This post starred:  Pepper the 18-ish-year-old Wonder Dog with her pointy ears (all the better to hear absolutely NOTHING with, my dear). She's still here. We don't know why, but it appears she is determined to stay for the long haul and/or to prove a point to the upstart "pup" who is now middle-aged herself.

Shuffling, the Running Man... whatever you call it, she's all grown up now

Yesterday, I stood with the other new prep parents as we waited for the doors to open. It's just lucky for me that I got in a kiss of Lolly's squishy, plump cheek and a hug of her waif-thin frame before the teachers came out to start them on their first day of school transition (a process that will take the remainder of the month) because after that, I was eating her dust.

Whatever sentimental lump-in-throat, emotion-choking moment that might have come was well and truly stamped out by her confident hand-flick wave behind her in my direction - it said "See ya, wouldn't wanna BE yaaaah" - and I was left standing there going, "So..... that was it then?"

My work here is done.

This divine little creature who only yesterday (ok, well, more accurately maybe it was over 3 years ago) was delighting in the post-euphoria of her very first ever plane ride by breaking into dance, barely aged 2:

... and was the most adorable tantrum-throwing twonager:

... and a rocket scientist in the making:

... is now a school kid. Even though she still technically has two months of kinder left for this year. But best not to mention it around these parts, it's a touchy subject.

The LGBB went off to kindy today determined to showcase her latest dance move for the kids and teachers. Today she headed off all full of excitement about the morning spent at her new school which had given her renewed self-confidence to perform and speak up in front of others.

This is it. It's her moment. She is ready to unleash The Running Man on her peers. I hadn't the heart to tell her that *yawn* we've already been there, done that, back in the '80s because she loves Party Rockers just so very much. A little... too much, in fact.

So first, her class. Then... the world. Look out.

Yes. My work here is done.

One for the Cat vs Dog People: Keeping Tabs

I'm not a cat person. I prefer dogs.

Cats are too aloof for me.

Dogs, on the other hand, are joyous pleasers. I love and really appreciate a doggy's bliss in the simple things - I have been known to laugh myself to tears (quickly) at the image of a dog with its head out a car window. Why, Pepper herself has been the source of amusement at one time or another in this house when she's partaken in a journey in the car. Steve and I worked out many years ago that Pep's speed limit for external-head travel is about 58km/h, for this is the speed - test after test - that she would retract her little red pointy-eared head and concede defeat.

So it was that I accepted with not a little surprise the affection bestowed on me by our adopted cat.

Miss Tabitha.

Tabbez

A skitzy, belligerent (giving Jazz a run for her money), expectant and over-affectionate puss if ever I knew one. This cat has Velcro-ed herself to me. She meaows and bays and mews for me if I go to the toilet and she can't see me. If I go to bed to watch TV, she comes and sits ON MY CHEST. The cat cannot get close enough to me. And only me.

For a non-cat person, this has come as rather a distasteful shock.

But after 19 months now of having her around and getting used to her, I have to say.... she is a gem. Don't tell her I told you. She is here to stay, most definitely. It's as if we always had her. Not that she will ever, could ever, take the place of Steve's first cat, Rusty, though. Now HE was an awesome, none-like-him cat. He has appeared to me in dreams - even recently - like some big sphynx-like, larger than life, living, breathing statue. What a beauty he was.

I still prefer my clunky, dufus doggies, yes. But this cat has wormed her way into my cat-free heart.

That reminds me: Note to self - must worm cat.

Trick-or-treat friends: Why cheese in a box was better than Halloween

So Halloween is coming up on Monday here in Australia.

I'm sorry, I am going against the grain here and saying - as I have done consistently in previous years - we don't "do" Halloween. Just the whole headless, bloodied, ghoulish mask thing is one that freaks our sensitive little petal right out. See, the LGBB likes the idea of Halloween (what's not to love, on the surface? You dress up, you walk around your neighbourhood in groups of friends, you go door to door receiving sweets for nothing). But she always forgets that witches terrify her. Masks make her hysterical. And the sight of (even fake) blood has her father and I assured for the time being that she would not make a very good vet. Or doctor. Of any description.

I was talking to a friend earlier today about why it is that Halloween is such a big deal here. 'Have we missed something?' I always ask when I find that rare person who doesn't go in for the ritual.... a term I have to use loosely.

We were none the wiser after discussing it, realising that we are uneducated about the practice of Halloween and are more than happy to allow for people who partake in it. But that it is simply not something our children join in on (because of not enjoying the dress-up bit when it comes down to sheet-adorning, mask-applying crunch-time).

We agreed that all we see is a chance for our children (nothing personal here, just talking about her children and mine) to be delivered rather mixed signals: That out of the blue, we're encouraging the notion of going along with something simply because everyone else is doing what they collectively think is a good idea (peer pressure reinforcement... and don't you be thinking for one second that mothers aren't pressured by their peers!) and, more's the sticking point for me, be rewarded with so many treats it would make your eyes pop. The kind of treats that, at any other time of year, are meted out with great restraint in our house. Why would I be okay all of a sudden with the LGBB collecting lollies from strangers, only to bring them all back here and have what would effectively be (the way I ration them) a few months' supply of junk food? The thought of having all that in the house - and her being aware of it... and nagging me hour after hour for more - is more than I can sanely bear to imagine. These two things alone are simply not the kind of mixed messages I want to send her. Call me a prude. A stick in the mud. It just doesn't sit well with me.

It got me thinking, though, about my upbringing. Namely, the fact that we never did trick-or-treat-ing (we lived in a place where the houses were so spaced apart by paddocks that you'd be lucky to visit ten in a 1/2km stretch... too much for little feet!). But I wasn't short for treats. Oh, no. When I wanted the really good stuff, I had my friends. Better yet, I didn't have to pester anyone! They did it all and I just sat back and cashed in with eyes bigger than my little stomach.

Paula was the junk food friend. She was the kind of kid who pestered her busy mother for food even as she was finishing her final mouthful of the last thing she asked for (and received). In one 2-hour play at Paula's after primary school, I could be assured of an Augustus Gloop-type array of gluttony. Pure bliss and delight to my seven year-old eyes! Crisps, ice lollies, packets of Tic-Tacs, a choc chip biscuit or four. I remember the time I went there and was crestfallen to realise.... I had eaten so much I felt full. So full, in fact, that I couldn't possibly fit in the Wizz Fizz, popcorn or bowl of cocoa pops (because "cereal is a healthy snack") but did anyway. Oh, how I was ill.

Michelle was the soda fountain friend. Until the magical year we received one of our very own (1984, I believe it was), it was Michelle's house you went to if you wanted carbonated water mixed with the most disgustingly good imitation cola syrup. Oh, yeah. That was The Stuff.

There were others, each with their own delightful contribution to my childhood treaties stage. However, of all of them, Caroline was by far the top shelf friend. For you see, in Caroline's house one could be assured of the Expensive Cheese. The heavily over-processed long-life no-refrigeration-required-until-opening Kraft blue box cheese.

Oh my. I was instantly in love. With the cheese, not Caroline.

My childhood - sadly or not, you be the judge and keep the judgements to yourself thank you very much - was improved greatly by the discovery of thickly sliced "cheese in the box" (as we called it) sat atop white bread and stuck under the griller. The base of the cheese slices would go gooey, while the top would lift away up towards the heat and grill to browned perfection. Once cooled down a tad, you could stick your finger through the dome-puffed cheese crust and break it away. Delectable. Taking a bite, the cheese would ooze and string. Sheer. Delight. From-a-box.

I took a survey (of one) and discovered my friend also remembered the name of her Treat Friend - Margie. Margie who introduced her to slabs of real butter atop hot toast. Now, to a girl who'd only known fast and efficient margarine to that point in her life, the discovery of butter was akin to finding her religion.

So I maintain:  Halloween does not have to be. It never factored in my childhood and I was no worse off for it. Granted, I essentially thought cheese with a shelf life with no end-date bunged on some bread and grilled was the absolute shiz. But still... we won't be bowing to the pressure bestowed on us increasingly each year to join in that over-commercialized "festive fun" occasion known as Halloween. It's so northern hemisphere, it's almost embarrassing. Mind you, how in the heck we are going to continue to get away with this as the LGBB grows older is another thing. I guess I should also add a disclaimer here that I will "never say never" definitively. But for this year at least, once again, we'll be conveniently unable to hear the doorbell. Oh, what a shame.....

Go on. Hit me with your bah humbugs! I'm used to it!


Do you have a treat friend? Do you remember their name and what they had on offer at their house? Please share!

The hills are alive

It's okay, don't click away. I'm not doing a post about Julie Andrews' Maria or any of the von Trapps for that matter. Unless, of course, you were expecting some exciting new information about the Rodgers & Hammerstein musical or some juicy tidbit about the Baroness Shraeder (and wooh, that link right there is rather interesting.... if that's what you were looking for....)

But I digress.

These hills are majestic. I love them. LOVE them. When we found this pocket we thought we had hit the jackpot. Energetically speaking, I reckon we have. The land, even the house, seemed fertile. No, not like that. But certainly in terms of rich atmosphere. Deep thinking. Soul-reviving.

Yeah. It's here. Ever-present. And I also seem to forget that (or take it for granted, at least) until a visitor inadvertently reminds me how lucky we are.

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Okay, so.... Kristin of Wanderlust fame is here. I have blogging royalty in my humble abode. As I live and breathe.

I also have lasagne in the oven. And a child happily watered and fed at a neighbour's place (where she secretly wishes she could live on time-share). Here I am, sat in my relatively clean and tidy kitchen and I'm happy.

You know how I know?

I can't stop bloody singing.

This happens to me every time someone comes and stays with us. I don't realise until I have visitors just how much I sing. Like..... at least 70% of my day. I don't mean like my old Uncle Will (rest his soul) who is purported to have spent his years on his remote South Australian sheep station (astute readers will know the homestead I am speaking of) sing-talking his way through the day - which sounds kinda cute and lovely but is apparently really annoying to be around 24/7. I mean singing everything that comes on my playlist.

I have music on in the house all the time. ALL. The time. Would that annoy you? Does that annoy Kristin? I haven't asked her. Let's do a little experiment. Let's see how long it takes the powers of Twitter and Facebook and etc. to find out.

So I'm making dinner before and I'm singing my heart out. My heart outttt. To Scenes From An Italian Restaurant. I swear, I would belt it out in front of you no matter where, no matter when. Then James Taylor (oh, young James Taylor, how you make my heart flutter so) and a bit of How Sweet It Is. Along comes Elton John who, okay I'll admit, doesn't reeeally float my boat but I respect him musically. But even his little-loved (by me, anyway) I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues gets me singing. By the time I am humming the really high harmonica bits - you know the part I'm talking about? no, I will not vlog me humming it - I remember.

Oh, shite. Kristin is in the next room. Having some chillax down time. Hey, by the way, do we say "chillax" any more? Is it what the kids are saying? Or have I just shown my dagginess? Er.... if not in the previous several paragraphs?

Okay, anyways, so here I am on my second layer of lasagne laying when I realise I have HRH the US blogger in my lounge room. And I'm mid "woooooooo-ooooo" when I do.

This is getting serious.

I have already admitted my Hall and Oats guilty pleasure to her today. It happened when Kiss On My List came on. I fought every urge not to sing in front of her then.

And this is the funny thing (probably what stops me from pursuing a career in singing or some form of music like several of my more with-it relatives have): I am really self-conscious about singing in front of others even though I can sing well.

Do you sing well? Would you ever sing in front of someone? (drunk karaoke doesn't count)

More importantly.... how long do you think it's going to take before I find out if Kristin has even noticed I can't seem to stop singing??

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Just before I go, today I was flicking through letterbox catalogues. Gorgeous kitchen table sets (we have a dining table but no chairs and I lust after lovely dining chairs when I see them). I pointed out one I liked and the LGBB, sitting next to me, adjudicated, "Nope, don't like that one. That kitchen's too clean. I like our kitchen." Which of course begged the question.... and the answer to her question was "Yes, I like our messy one."

Sigh.

Oh God. King Of Pain by The Police just came on. Gotta go..... can't type and sing at the same time.

There's a little black spot on the sun todaaaaaaay.

Vlog: The Party Trick edition

I haven't the words for my own stupidity. So I will just tell you in the words of my child, "Funny Mr. Funny." Or she may perhaps have said Farty. I can never tell with her. But she's always calling me Mr. something or other.

Strange.

Anywho, all this is just me procrastinating. See, I'm in two minds about showing you this vlog. After you see it, you will surely see that I am a lunatic. I'm not sure if I'm ready to let the remaining two of you who don't already know and are still reading this blog that.... I am. Almost certifiably so.

Ack. Let's get on with it, shall we? And make sure you watch right til the end for a special guest appearance.

Dear god... here we go....

The Barter System

You would be forgiven for thinking I have ditched this blog. I haven't. I am just hellishly snowed under this week, what with my home being overrun by visiting family who are staying with us until the weekend. You know how it goes.... It just doesn't seem appropriate to sit and write lengthy blog posts when I should be spending time with family I don't see, save for flying visits every two years.

So, in lieu of the myriad things I want to say, please delight in a typical exchange between Yours Truly and the beloved:

Me: *making a grand statement I didn't mean to have fulfilled* I want a cheese slice

He: *trudges off and returns triumphantly*

He: *hands cheese slice over between index and middle finger with an air of 'breadwinner doling out money to the trophy wife'* Git yourself something nice.

Me: Awww, ta... Hey, d'you think in the history of time, they ever paid for goods or services with cheese?

He: It's possible

Me: But what if they didn't have change? 

He: *nibbles a piece of imaginary cheese down to smaller denomination and hands over to invisible salesperson*

He amuses me no end. That is all.

Don't judge me

Apologies in advance if you were after yet another D&M from Yours Truly. But this one is the piece-o'-fluff post that wrote itself - you know the ones? - over several weeks. The elusive post that was always going to have to be a work in progress because, dagnabbit, I kept thinking of things when I didn't have pen, paper or iPhone handy to jot points down.

So. Finally. Here it is. A piece I shall entitle......

Don't Judge Me

• Sometimes? I buy chocolate and don't share it. Not unheard of, I know. But when Steve asks if there's any, I tell him there isn't.... (don't judge me)
• I gag at the sight of spit on the footpath. I know I do this. Yet, still, I search for them, sometimes rather obsessively - particularly on train station platforms and the ramps leading up to same. I know not why.... (don't judge me)
• When the LGBB brings home lolly bags from parties, if there are any fun-size Smarties packets I keep them for myself before she can see them.... (don't judge me)

• I play with the dog by running around the island bench in the kitchen, calling her name to make her keep following me, even though I tell the LGBB not to use the bench as a lap circuit. In my [somewhat flimsy] defense, I do this when she is in bed.... (but still, don't judge me)

• I deliberately plant earworms in the LGBB's head because she sings them in the "voice" of Scraps, her soft toy dog. Seriously, until you hear good ol' Scrapsy belt out The Entertainer in a tuneful series of "bar-ar-ar-ar"s, you haven't lived. So... (don't judge me)
• I actually think I like the bloody cat.... (don't judge me)
• I get irrationally frustrated by eating sounds. As in, the sounds of people eating. The slurpier, the worse I take it. In fact, I can't even sit still thinking about this and typing it. My leg is jiggling in irritation.... (don't judge me)
• I tend to make stupid lists in my head. Good ones. But forget to write them down. A lot. Book plots, story connections, shopping lists for yummy recipes. Lost. I even sometimes announce an impending good blog post on the promise of such a list coming back to me. It often doesn't. And I post any old drivel in its place.... (don't judge me)




What don't you want to be judged for?

The elephant in the womb: Why I'm glad I'm not an elephant

In July, 2006, I looked like this:

A very early capture of our little Photobomber, Jazz, refining her art

My ribs being positioned where they are (right on top of my hips with nary a centimetre between bone structures), there is nowhere to go but out, baby! So the LGBB was hovering out over nothing. A bit like walking the Eureka Skydeck88, I imagine. I only know what it was like from the building's perspective: damn uncomfortable and actually painful (I tried not to complain at the time, grateful as I was, but man.... my body was not happy and I had to increasingly manage the unexpected pain as I got bigger).

Around the time the photo above was taken, I mused the following to Steve (lifted from my old, now private, blog). He had no end of these sorts of musings thrown at him and, thankfully - or not - I recorded them on my blog as they happened. He's a funny guy. Most of the time. This time, I wanted to stab him. But I couldn't move.

Please excuse me, but there's an expletive involved:

Me: Imagine being a pregnant elephant. And gestating for two years. WITH AN ELEPHANT.

He: *daring to speak after thinking a moment* Hey... imagine if YOU were pregnant for two years. With.... an elephant.

*****respectful pause*****

Me: Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.


I had forgotten all about this until tonight when I heard on the news that Melbourne Zoo's Asian elephant, Num-Oi, is expecting her first calf. Already four months along, it is considered very early and there is a risk of miscarriage, as with any, and I felt a pang of hope mixed with trepidation. I don't know why.

Then the news presenter said the expected due date was sometime in January..... 2013.

January 2013!?!

And of course, me being me, I got to thinking how utterly, utterly stressful that would be for an elephant if it had lost its first calf in infancy. They remember, you know. Don't they? Elephants, I mean. What the hell would go through an elephant mother's mind, I wonder. Waiting and gestating that, er... little 100kg precious bubba.

The day we took the LGBB to the zoo last year, I admit to shedding a happy tear seeing this gorgeous little three-month-old healthy girl:

Baby Mali on a family outing in April 2010:

"Are we THERE yet?"

I am SO glad I am not an elephant. Respect to the mamas. Major respect.

The forlorn photobomber

(this is a post kinda especially for Jodie from Mummy Mayhem - I know she hearts the idiotic antics of my photobombing dog)

Today, I bring you.....

Pensive Jazz

Regular readers will recall that our little Waggedy-Ann loves a good old-fashioned photo-bomb. The tricky trickster that she is. Please see here (for Exhibit A) and here (when she returned). These are by far not the only times she's done it, but they are the most recent. Over time, perhaps I'll dig out some others.

I'm starting to wonder if Jazz thinks there's not enough attention on he...... BWAAAAAAHAHAHA I can't even finish that sentence without guffawing. This has got to be the most attention-seeking (and getting) dog I have ever come across, although I hazard a guess there are plenty of others out there. Do you know one?

It all happened today when I decided to take a photo of the LGBB in her under-desk cubby hole. Eating a lollipop and listening to Shirley Barber's Fairy Stories on her headphones ("when you hear this tinkly sound, turn the page"... didn't you just LOVE those as a kid?).

Except.... Jazz caught on straight away. One "click" of the DSLR and she was over by my side in a flash, practically sitting on me so that I couldn't not take her photo, like this one time - last week - when I was trying to take a photo for posterity of my dear Pepper and Jazz actually did sit on me in a most passive-aggressive display. Don't believe me? Here, look at the evidence:

Ahh, a slumbering old lady...

Oh... you have camera? You want to snap MEEEEE! Yes?

Story. Of. My. Elderly. Life *woeful Eeyore look - Peppy's so good at those*

Oh don't yell at me and tell me to get out of the... here I'll just lie at your knee...

No, wait, I'll SIT ON your knee - you shuddup, you, over there *grrr-woof*

There. Isn't that better? I We got what we wanted. Yes? *Arooof*

Jazz is sorry. Very, very sorry. But she can't stop doing it. When she sees me with a camera, she has to come and be in the frame.

Strike a pose.

You will tell me when you think it's time for an intervention on her, won't you, dear reader(s)?

I am grateful to my dear dog, Jazz, who herself is not getting any younger (she's 7 now but acts like a pup, always), for helping me smile after the post about our elderly matron earlier this week. No change in old Pepper, but still very much here and sticking to my side.... perhaps frustratingly so, as I can't seem to move in any direction without her being there and I have to be careful not to kick her over. Yes. That close.

Thanks for popping by if you've come from Maxabella's lovely place, I hope to visit you at yours if you've linked up there this weekend:

The longer jumper

Now this is my kind of sport.

The Casual Longer Jumper from Lolly Lovers on Vimeo.

She was there to sell makeup but the father saw more

What, pray tell, did he see beyond a scantily-clad boofie-haired gum-chewing loud-mouth saleswoman?

I ask you, what kind of irresponsible single parent could possibly hire someone to nanny his children on these few flippant facts:

She had style
She had flair
She was there*

That's all! That was the extent of her resumé and the basis on which she was hired. Apparently the girl they described, was just exactly what the doctor prescribed. Really?? For serious? He should have at least asked her to say something, because I'm sure that squawking would've changed Mr. Sheffield's mind.

Suffer the little children, indeed.



* Disclaimer: I do NOT watch The Nanny. I was just flicking past. On my way to the Biography Channel. Honest injin. And I only know the father's name because it's well quoted by Nanny Fine and has become like a catch phrase. Oh, and I only know her name is Nanny Fine because..... just because. But I swear, I've never watched an episode. Okay, well I've never watched a FULL episode. I'm going now.




This was originally posted on my old blog - the funnier one - on Sept. 11 2006. I keep bumping into these old ones as I trawl through looking for relevant posts to dig up for you on my Infertility & Loss page. Have you checked out the new ones there yet?

The Photo-Bomber returns

This is a chair. 

It's a very deep-seated, comfy chair. I won it on Ebay the other week. It needs a good scrub and a change of cushion cover and then it will be good as new. Well, as close to good as new as a forty-year-old chair can get.

This.... *sigh*..... is Jazz.
Jazz doesn't like camera flashes. Obviously. However, she does
love herself a good photo shoot. 

If you have ever met Jazz, you will know the reason for my sigh. Even our builder, who was onsite here for about six months during the extensions, got to the stage of greeting her with an exasperated yet affectionate, "Oh yes, hello, JAZZZZ." Because as annoying as she is, you can't help loving her. She shits me to tears. I still adore her. The time that builder accidentally let her escape (which you can read about here) proved it to me: I do love her enough to know I would desperately miss her joyous energy around the place.

Still, she can't help herself. Whenever she sees a camera, she owns it *snaps fingers in imaginary lightning bolt shape* And don't let this photo of her fool you. She is NOT old, decrepid, slow or docile. By any stretch. She is the most boisterous, bouncy, belligerent seven year-old dog I have ever come across. I blame it on the Labrador in her. And the me-me-me's she's got about her? I blame her jealous Kelpie streak.

Below is what happened when I tried to take a photo - just one, that's all I wanted! - of my Ebay score to show you the fabric I'm planning to use for the new cushion.

How do you think I went with that one then? Eh? I'll let you decide.

You get the picture.

But can you see the fabric?

Worst cringe moment - what's yours?

I remember it clearly. I still recoil with embarrassment when I think about it.

Oh, and then there was that time I called out, "I'm on the toileeee!" when I heard what I thought were Steve's footsteps coming into the ensuite. They weren't Steve's. They were the carpet layer's. You may well ask yourself why I had a) not closed the door (not that the ensuite was anywhere near where anyone could see or hear someone was on "the toilee", b) why I had not remembered in the first place that there was a tradie in the house (for I had clean forgotten), and, most importantly, c) why I had called it a "toilee".

But I digress.

That was not my most cringe-worthy moment, no. No, that moment came when I was sitting beside my three week-old daughter in the NICU with Steve, enjoying a chat with my Obstetrician who had dropped by to say hello. He did this often, almost daily. It endeared me to the guy for life. In fact, he was the most frequent visitor we had. And I will never forget his care and kindness. Willing our girl on, with us. Come on, what's not to love about that?!

On this day, as we briefly chatted about this and that - his visits were never longer than a few minutes - he was talking about his wife (whose name I will change to save myself any further cringe-worthy embarrassment).

"Helen's left me..." was all he got out.

"What!? Is she insane???" I gasped before I could stop myself. It was involuntary. I couldn't help it. To this day, I desperately hope that if he remembers the speed with which I blurted out my sentiments and how ready I was to question his wife's decision, he will factor in my heightened hormones and that I was not of clear mind.

Everybody who has ever had a baby (rather, anybody who has been under the care of a nice Obstetrician to start with), I am sure, would be well aware of the phenomenon that is being under a giddy trance and loving him (or her?) with an almost fierce protective ownership. If you've had a good rapport with him during your confinement, chances are you take quite a shine - almost a worshipping - to the fellow by the time he delivers that baby safely. Particularly when you go into spontaneous early labour, like I did.

Well, anyway. Didn't I play my Blatantly Obvious card that day? In front of my highly amused, tight-lipped "You're On Your Own"-looking husband standing just behind and to the side of my beloved Ob.

AHEM.

My Obstetrician gave a polite laugh as he continued, "No, she's left me with the kids while she goes over to England to visit her aunt."

Oh. That kind of "left you".

Why does the ground never actually swallow you up when you want it to?

Can you tell me your most cringe-worthy moment? 

You know, the one that, when thought of, causes an involuntary audible groan to escape you. And makes you flap your hands or slap your knees or run on the spot or do the "la-la-la's" to drown out the image if you think about it.

Come on, spill. Promise I won't laugh. Much.

Ebay: 5 Unwritten Rules of Engagement

I love Ebay. I really do. I have used it for a number of years and financed a variety of holidays and home projects with the money raised from carefully selected items we place for sale. I maintain that it is all in a good photo, brief details and cheap as possible postage.

Right now, I have a target: I want to raise about $400 to spend on some outdoor screens to go outside the kitchen window. Only way I am going to be able to afford them is to sell some shit. And that is where the good buyers of Ebay come in. Just like when I am in a buying mood and buy someone else's unwanted crap and help them out. I do love Ebay.

However... there are some pitfalls. A few persistent niggles I have about the process. Namely, the buyer who doesn't pay any attention to what I've listed and just thinks they'll contact me, regardless of the information all being in there.

These are the types who will ignore the queue signs in the bank and start their own line, pretending they can't see the half dozen people all lining up in the designated spot and who are all now staring bemusedly at the one VIP who's rummaging importantly in their handbag and queuing in the wrong spot for the teller.

They are also the ones who skip over the finer details of any conversation: "I'll have the pumpkin soup." "I'm sorry, we've run out of both soups of the day, sir, is there something else you'd like from the menu instead?" "Ummm... do you have any of the pea and ham left?" Urgh.

So, this is an ode to them. I figure, if you can't beat it out of them, you may as well try reverse psychology. It can't hurt any more.


Ebay: The 5 (Unofficial) Rules of Engagement:

The first rule of Ebay is to check if the listing has a Buy Now price. Contact the seller. Ask them if they have a Buy Now price. Chances are, you'll be told in the most thinly-disguised frustrated of ways that, no, they don't have a Buy Now price because if they did, it would be listed. But try it. You just never know, you might come across a buyer who is willing for you to snatch away an item that already has bids and watchers on it. It's worth a shot (obviously, because every second buyer seems to try it these days).

The second rule of Ebay is to look for the dimensions of the item. If you see the dimensions clearly shown in the listing already, ignore them. Contact the seller. Ask them for the measurements. Bonus points if you can find a listing that not only has the dimensions in the body of the listing, but also as an answered question made visible at the bottom - where another buyer has beaten you to the punch and asked this completely pointless question already. This is not as rare as it sounds. So go hunting!

The third rule of Ebay is to win an auction for something within easy driving distance of your home. Contact the seller. Tell them you wish to pick up the item and wait for them to respond with their address and contact details. Then, advise them that it's too far now that you've looked it up on the map. And that postage is not an option because you make it a rule never to pay for postage and deal on a pick-up only basis so you no longer require the item*. Bonus points if you can actually hear a popping sound (that may or may not be a head exploding) from the direction of their suburb as they compose a reply to you along the lines of "It's an extra two streets from the suburb you thought it was, are you KIDDING ME???"

The fourth rule of Ebay is... Contact the seller. Just contact them. Ask as irrelevant a question about their item as you can think of. Top marks for asking something that is obvious, ie. if the item in the photo is orange, ask if it is orange; if the item in the photo is a plank of wood, ask if it is a plank. Of wood. You get the picture.

The fifth and most important rule of Ebay is to list an item for sale with the best unintended misspell you can get away with. I give you still my most favourite ever Ebay auction title, the one Steve likes to call


"I hear he also does balloon animals".....:

Got a doozy of an Ebay story to share?
Do you use Ebay? And more importantly, are you good at it? If so, why can't YOU bid on/win my items? It would surely save us both some grey hairs.






* Yes... This ACTUALLY happened to me.