Nanni needs a drink!

I’ve just recently negotiated a four day working week. My initial intention was to dedicate this time to writing my blog and working on a few other sites for relatives.  What has transpired is that I spend the time with my daughter Kristy and my grand-kids Matilda and Charlie. I love spending time with the grand-kids and my second Friday off was going to be a repeat of my first Friday where I ended up on a sun lounge watching the kids play – well that’s what I thought.

The Friday in question went something like this….

6:45am – I set off to my daughter’s place early. Firstly to miss the Sydney’s morning traffic nightmare, secondly to have breakfast with them and thirdly to be with my daughter when she took Matilda for an ultrasound on her foot, which thankfully turned out to be nothing to worry about.

8:00am – While sitting in the waiting room at the health centre I was keeping Charlie amused by reading him a story. All was quiet until Kristy and Matilda were called in for the scan. Charlie thought it was certainly something he should be party too so proceeded to follow.  This resulted in a pissed off little fellow trying to dodge Nanni’s pursuits to stop his progress. After one of his dashes resulted in him almost escaping out the front door into the busy street, I thought it was time for us to go for a walk.

8:30am – Thankfully the scan didn’t take long and we were back in the car heading off for a morning coffee – this would be my first coffee for the day. Baby chinos and cup cakes for the kids as Matilda was a very good girl while getting her foot scanned and Charlie was rewarded for just being cute or more importantly so he wouldn’t annoy our coffee time.

8:45am –  While waiting for our coffees, chinos and little green cup cakes,  we settled down on a comfy lounge. Charlie was intrigued by the display full of colourful cakes and biscuits and various arrays of loaves – carrot, banana, walnut and apple, raspberry and the like.  One’s never to relax when a 19 month old boy is on the loose and it wasn’t long before I was dashing after him as he finally got bored with the window display and found the exit.  Thankfully his cake arrived and Charlie was happy to sit on my lap and eat – ahhhh 5 minutes relaxation and a coffee.

9:30am – After morning tea we arrived back at Kristy’s place where the kids settled down for 30 minutes to watch Play School or as I call it, the memorising babysitter.

10:00am – Kristy ducked off for an hour or so to a training session so the kids and I headed outside. I needed fresh air and was hoping the cool morning was turning into a warm day, unfortunately this was not to be the case but decided a run around the yard would warm me up.

We began with a game of soccer using a small plastic ball. The game didn’t last long as Matilda kept picking the ball up while shouting instructions to Charlie and me – she’s like her bossy-boots Mother.  Needless to say both Charlie and I got bored and moved on to the next game – running races.

For the next 10 minutes we were darting back and forth across the yard. For the first part of the game Charlie’s little legs were running along with us. Of course he never won but thankfully he’s too young to understand winning and losing and every time he finished at either end we’d do a victory lap with our arms in the air – he’s so cute.  When he got tired he insisted we run the race while I carry him.

10:20am – Feeling tired, I decided to fetch an outdoor chair and have a little break. At this time Matilda found a hula-hoop.  I think I managed a 2 minute rest before Matilda insisted I show her how to use it. Thankfully Matilda picked up the knack quickly.  Once she bored with this idea we started to roll the hoop to each other but when my roll didn’t go in the general direction of Matilda instructed me to go to the naughty corner.  Wow, she really is like her mother.

10:30am – I returned to the chair for a rest and watched on as Matilda and Charlie climbed their plastic castle which included a ladder on one end and slippy-dip on the other – all being less than 1 metre high. No sooner did I sit down when Charlie fell off the ladder – and there put an end to the yard games. Time for morning tea.

11:15 am – My daughter returns home. Thank goodness for that, I’m knackered.

12:00am – Lunch time.  Kristy and I and Matilda ate a decent lunch, Charlie on the other hand wants nothing that’s on his plate.  Oh well, I guess 1 cup cake, 1/2 soggy biscuits and some fruit is enough to keep a little boy active.

12:30pm – Off to the shops to look for suitable bed linen for Kristy’s newly renovated bedroom.

12:50pm – We arrived at the shops and put the kids in the twin pram, of which I’m not big fan as it’s wider than most isles can handle.  No sooner did we enter the shop when Matilda and Charlie spotted the mini ride which consisted of two ducks and a swan. We quickly diverted them into the nearest clothes store.  After about five minutes Kristy and I selected the same top, different colours, and while my daughter queued to pay I took the kids to the ride they noticed earlier – after all we had to navigate around it to get to the other shops.

1:30pm – After the ride, Kristy and I browsed in a couple of dress shops in which Matilda rejected and Charlie just shook his head in defiance to entering another one.  Then we headed to Adairs the Manchester store which is opposite a kids’ playground which we wanted to avoid. Unfortunately Matilda saw it but thankfully Charlie didn’t so we bribed Matilda so as not to bring Charlies attending to it. This was skillfully done with the bribe of a baby chino and cup cake, the second for the day was the bribe resorted too.

1:35pm – As we entered Adairs Matilda, who isn’t tied into the pram quickly jumped out and started to wonder around the shop.  Needless to say Charlie wanted to follow suit so I let him out but decided to carry him around until my arms gave way and finally I put him down.  He was happy to have a little wonder around until he saw Matilda and decided to run after her. Matilda joining in on the game did what most little girls do when being chased – screamed. The more I chastised, the more they both screamed.

I desperately need a coffee!

They finally stopped screaming when Charlie spotted the outside kiddy playground, then he was off.  Luckily I still have some life left and I managed to catch him at the door.  Meanwhile Matilda found a floor display of quilts and began to build a very comfortable lounge. If only it was bigger, I’d have certainly given it a try.

While Charlie was back to being carried he noticed a picture of a dog so we wandered over to have a closer look. He then wanted to demonstrate his love for dogs and wriggled and squirmed until I let him down. He proceeded to crawl on all fours pretending to be a dog complete with poking his tongue in and out, licking the floor and smelling the floor level Manchester.  I was too tired to laugh, I just stared at him with bemused bewilderment.

I really truly need a coffee now.

2:00pm – Coffee time! Yahoo!  Kristy refused me a cake so I resorted to waiting to finish Charlies. Alas, Kristy grabbed it from my mouth and threw it in the bin.  I should have smacked her there and then.

2.30pm – Home time and thank bloody goodness because I am fucked.  As we ascended the flat escalators Matilda decided to hop out of the stroller just before the escalator floor disappeared. As Kristy and I were stuck behind the stroller all we could do was yell at her to turn around. Lucky she did just before the top but she fell over. The momentum of the escalator meant we had no where to go but clear over Matilda who of course screamed. Thankfully she wasn’t hurt.

3:00pm – Home. No sooner were we in the door than my son-in-law returned home from work.  Thank Goodness we have support from additional troops.

By this time I was sitting on the lounge comatosed.

4:00pm – Still on the lounge thinking about whether I’ll go home or stay for more torture. I decided I couldn’t move, so the decision was made.  I stayed but OMG I need a drink!

OMG, I have MAD

It’s becoming noticeable lately that something is happening to me. I’m becoming more forgetful, my eyesight’s going and when I look sideways in the mirror or see side-on pictures of myself, I have to do a re-take because what I see shocks me – double chin, roman nose (not new but still shocks me). Then there is the run lines down my cleavage and my hands appear to be shrivelling up.

OMG, I have MAD

What is MAD? you ask.  MAD or Mature Age Disease as it’s better known, is a disease men and woman become infected with and symptoms start showing around the age of 42, sometimes earlier.  Predominately women get MAD and as my scientific evidence suggests, men contribute significantly to the women contacting an advanced form of MAD. But don’t google ‘Middle Age Disease”, you’ll get lots of information about Medieval Disease which were probably around when we were babies – according to my children anyway.

To explain how I know I’ve got MAD, I’ve outlined some of the classic signs with real life examples:

Failing eyesight

Me:  “Look over there, someone’s left fresh flowers”.
MOTH: “They’re plastic”.

20 minutes later I spot a sign…

Me: “Oh look a complimentary lounge”
MOTH: “It’s a Condolence Lounge”
MOTH: “This just gets better.”

 

 

 

 

Walking along the river’s edge just on dusk…

Me: “Look at those two helicopters side by side following the river”.
MOTH:  “It’s a plane”

Dinner at Japanese restaurant…(new addition)

Me: “Is that a big eel they just served up at that table?”
MOTH: Straining to see the table across the room.
MOTH: “I hope you’re not referring to the tongs that was on that platter so they can server out their meal?”
Me: “Maybe!”

Losing my memory

Me: “How do you spell Christopher”? I sung out thinking MOTH was nearby.
Lady: “C H R I S T O P H E R”
Me thinking: How could I forget how to spell my brother’s name.
Me: “Thank you”.

After numerous emails between my girlfriends planning our next movie night…

Me: “What night are we going to the movies”?
GF: “Are you serious?”
Me: “Yeah”.

Sunday morning text message to GF who have organised an outing I wasn’t sure if I’d go until the morning.

Me: “What time are you going to Paddington this morning?”
GF: “WTF? we’re not going to Paddington until next Saturday. Today we’re going to Watsons Bay.”
Me: “What eva, all the same.  So what time we meeting to go to Watsons Bay?”

A few hours later at Watsons Bay…..

GF: “Is it OK if I get ready to go out next Friday night at your place?”
ME:  “Yes sure, where are you going?”
GF:  “WTF, we’re going to a Cuban Restaurant next Friday night. There’s only been 100 emails going around about it.”
Me: “Yeah, I was just testing you.”
Me thinking:  I think I better retake that dementure quiz the Dr gave me last week.

Unfortunately I could go on with a long list of similar tales but I’ve forgotten most.

Miss Daisy driving

I have a confession to make – I’m a backseat driver! I’m a terrible back seat driver when I’m slightly hungover and an even worse one when slightly hungover and hungry. Luckily for MOTH today I have both a hangover and I’m hungry.
Here is an account of today’s 10 minute drive

I have a confession to make – I’m a backseat driver!  I’m a terrible back seat driver when I’m slightly hungover and an even worse one when slightly hungover and hungry. Luckily for MOTH today I have both a hangover and I’m hungry.

Here is an account of today’s 10 minute drive.  All spoken words appear in “quotations”. My thoughts appear in blue italic. Excuse the language.

1 minute after leaving home

Me:  “You missed the short cut”.
MOTH:  “Oh yeah”

Less than 1.5  minutes from leaving home and MOTH misses another turn

Me: “Where are you going? You should have turned down that street” I say in a irritated voice
MOTH: “It doesn’t matter we’ll just doddle down here.”
Me thinks:  It’s f#*king Saturday, we have 1,000 things to do and you want to doddle.

Less than 2 minutes from leaving home and MOTH misses yet another turn

Me: “Go down that street so we can get back on track”.
MOTH:  “Do you want to drive? If not, shut up.”
Me thinks:  Well I should have driven, you certainly can’t drive Miss f#*king Daisy and we’re heading south when we should be heading west. Just turn sometime this year.

Less than 4 minutes from leaving home and we’re approaching an intersection and the lights are about to turn yellow at any second and we’re doddling along.

Me thinks: Move it for christ sake. The f#*king lights gonna turn yellow and you’re going to stop like you usually do just to piss me off. MOVE IT – NOW.

Less than 5 minutes from home and approaching a right turn and the lights are about to turn yellow and we’re still f#*king doddling along.

Me thinks:  OMG another f#*king green light and where not gonna make it through- FOOT DOWN – MOVE IT- GOOOOOO

As we sit at the lights MOTH sees a fish and chip shop for sale and says something about a strange place for a food shop

MOTH: “yadda yadda, blah blah…..”
Me looking towards the shop and thinks:  Boy I’m hungry, what I’d do for a greasy chico roll. 

MOTH still rambling on about the shop….

MOTH: “Yadda yadda, blah blah”.
Me thinks:  You couldn’t go any slower could you?  Because I’m sure if you did- WE’D F#*KING STOP. I think I’m having an aneurysm. 

Less than 6 minutes from home and we miss yet another f#*king turn and we’re still f#*king doddling along

Me:  “You’ve missed the turn now we’re heading back home”.
MOTH: Stops and turns around…..

Me thinks:  I can’t believe this. We’ve been here hundreds of times. What the hell’s he thinking? Surely I’d get off on a sympathy vote if I strangled him?  I need to go home and lie down. 

Less than 10 minutes from leaving home, we arrive at our destination and MOTH buys me a big monitor screen so I can write loving blogs about him.

Thanks MOTH, what would I do without you?
Me thinks:  Let me count the f#*king ways!

 

Paranoias and phobias

Remember my blog Tics and twitches and I said I would tell you about my paranoias?  Well here it is. But promise me you won’t think I’m completely insane. After all I think I have licked some of them and manage others.

Firstly I should define the terms paranoias and phobias.  And where else will I get the best overview but from Wikipedia.

“Paranoia is a thought process believed to be heavily influenced by anxiety or fear, often to the point of irrationality and delusion.”

“Phobia (from the Greek: φόβος, Phóbos, meaning “fear” or “morbid fear”) is a type of anxiety disorder, usually defined as a persistent fear of an object or situation in which the sufferer commits to great lengths in avoiding despite the fear, typically disproportional to the actual danger posed, often being recognized as irrational.”

Ok, I’ve read the definitions and it seems that I fall into both buckets – depending on the fear factor.  But I must admit after reading most of the commentary (well at least 5% skimming as it’s frigging boring) I don’t think my paranoias or phobias are anything to worry about. They just make me the person I am – a ranting raving lunatic – but a lovable one!

I guess the best place to start is when I was a little girl.  And this little girl lived in a far away country town. Well actually it’s only 2 hours from Sydney but way back then; it was a faraway place.

Goblins under the bed

When I was quite young, say around 7 to 9, between sunset and bedtime I was sure
there was a distinct possibility that a sinister being would somehow get into the house, crawl under my bed or in my wardrobe, lying in wait for an unsuspecting innocent child. So each night before hopping into bed I would carefully inspect all hidden regions. Once satisfied, I would jump into bed tuck all my limbs away under the blankets for fear that if exposed, would be chopped off.

Can I have some more please?

Then there is my most notorious phobia or paranoia, I’m not sure which bucket to put this one in but after watching the movie Oliver, the musical version, I would wake up every night for months in a terrible state.  I dreamt that I died and was re-born back in the early 1800s as a poor street urchin, similar to Oliver, living on the dangerous streets of London avoiding incarceration in the notorious workhouses.  Mum was so concerned she asked the head Nun of my primary school to talk to me who told me she’d get the priest to talk to me if the dreams didn’t stop. Needless to say I was cured immediately – it was a miracle!

No-dle to the needle

Not long after the Oliver phobia/paranoia, I became obsessive about dentists, especially needles. I managed to avoid the dentist needle until I was almost 30 which then I realised; what was the big deal?  Anyway, I managed to convince mum not to drag me to the Dentist for over 1 year and when I was hitting the two year mark I realised my time was up. This was going to be the year Mum wouldn’t take no for an answer.  So for 6 months I refused to eat anything sweet.  And then one fateful Xmas while holidaying in Manly, my cousins pestered me to buy ferry floss, and I knowing full well ferry floss consisted mainly of sugar, refused. However, I did agree to buy musk lollies, the soft ones. But I’d only agree to eat them while hovering over the bathroom sink so I could brush my teeth immediately after.  Luckily for me this little phobia worked, only one filling on my next visit.  Without a needle of course.

Silly walk

Another phobia was walking on footpath lines – I avoided them all together if possible. I’d walk in an uncoordinated fashion, very similar to John Cleese’s funny walk sketch in Monty Python.  I’m not sure what age I was when I first got this phobia and today I don’t avoid them. However, I avoid walking directly on the un-painted section of pedestrian crossings.

Check  one, two, three

I’m  a checkerholic, meaning I’m continually checking if I’ve forgotten anything that belongs in my bag:  keys, wallet and phone. The three essential things in any women’s bag, along with makeup, tissues, perfume, dental floss, band-aids, hair bands and combs.  If going overseas my checking phobia reaches critical point where I’ll check my bag ever 5 minutes or so from the time I leave the house to the airport, at the airport, in the plane, at the other end and continually throughout the holiday.   Now this phobia drives me mad and it drives MOTH mad too.  Having said that, I’ve never left anything behind of importance, just my mental capacity to cope.

Who’s watching my back?

Another paranoia I’ve had since a little girl is the feeling someone’s behind me, especially when I’m alone and it doesn’t matter whether it’s night or day.  It’s worse when I’m sitting at the TV and the lounge isn’t against a wall or when I’m up during the night.  Sometimes I literally run back to bed just to avoid the feeling of the impending hand on shoulder sensation.  Hold on, I think someone’s behind me now.

So there you have it, the major phobias and paranoias I’ve dealt with, and in some cases still dealing with, throughout my life.  I’m not mad – am I?  I think we all have various phobias and paranoias.  So how about you tell me yours.  I’d love to know I’m not the only mad person around here.

 

Like three peas in a pod

Last Sunday my daughter, son-in-law and two grand-kids picked me up so we could visit my furniture designer.  My daughter got into the back seat in-between the kids, my son-in-law didn’t know where to go so I popped into the driver’s seat and away we went. We were happily chatting about design ideas for my daughter’s bedroom when all of a sudden a stupid women decided that my lane looked more appealing. I think she had the idea that she was the only one on the road and therefore didn’t give any warning about her move into ‘my’ lane.

Needless to say I was rather upset by her lack of driving skills and given my propensity to swearing profusely, especially when under the influence of road rage, I began to launch into my usual barrage of profanities using all my favourites such as the ‘f’ word and depending on the driving offence at hand, the ‘c’ word is another favourite. I must add here that all this is done within the confines of my car, so no one is the wiser.  Before I got my favourite words out, I realised that my impressionable grand-kids were behind me.  Immediately I stopped and finished the sentence with “you damn idiot”.  Feeling rather unsatisfied because I couldn’t finish what I really wanted to say, I finished the rantings with mumblings under my breath.  I looked over at my son-in-law for sympathy but all I was presented with was a look of surprise followed by the rolling of his eyes.  “What?” I asked.  “Like two peas in a pod” was his reply.

Now this is not the first time my son-in-law has had this same surprised look or uttered the old English saying, like two peas in a pod, which dates back as far as the 16th Century.  I think the look of surprise is when he realises yet another instance where my daughter and I show remarkable similarities.

No sooner did he utter the words when my daughter followed through with “look into the future, Mum’s just me twenty years older”, then she launched into an infectious giggle which I immediately caught and so did my son-in-law.  After a moment or two I stopped giggling and said “what’s wrong with that?” which only inflamed the giggle session.

I’m sure at the end of the day, my son-in-law is bestowing a compliment on me. We’ll that’s how I see it anyway.

Like I mentioned, there have been many occasions my son-in-law has given the same look and has uttered the same thing. He’s even said many times that me, my daughter and grand-daughter are like three peas in a pod.

I must admit the similarities aren’t lost of me either. Sometimes I feel like I’m watching a re-run of my life and thankfully that’s not a bad thing.  And the older my daughter gets the more she’s turning into me and the older my grand-daughter gets I see my daughter at that age doing, saying and acting the same way.

And I can’t finish this blog without mentioning my two sons who I have watched turn into their fathers.  My eldest son is the spitting image of his dad and that’s great because his dad died and I’m so lucky to watch his legacy live on in our son. My youngest son looks, walks and thinks like his dad and luckily for him, his dad’s pretty cool.

And then there’s my beautiful baby grandson, who reminds me so much of his uncle (my eldest son) and in turn reminds me of my eldest son’s dad. As I’m sure my son-in-law’s mother sees similarities between the generations as well.

It’s comforting to know that our legacies are being passed down the generations and from what I see of my kids and grand-kids, it’s one to be proud of even if the legacy includes the odd occurrence of road rage, albeit road rage no one ever hears or sees unless you’re in the same car, as my son-in-law can testify too.

4 marg-a-rootas and I was rooted

This blog is a sequal to ‘5 slippery nipples please’.

It’s Saturday night and I’m on my way to the city for another night out with my girl friends (GFs) to celebrate a birthday. A few of us have booked into the Grace Hotel for the night expecting that none of us would be in a condition to get home.  Although I don’t live far from the city, I thought it was a great bonding opportunity.

Our night started at Cockle Bay for dinner at the Blackbird Cafe, and I must add the beef skewers I ordered would go down in my culinary list of best eats. I’m a very fussy meat eater having spent several years as a vegetarian and 6 months during this time as a vegan,  so I can only eat meat that melts in my mouth. This delicious meal was washed down with my first cocktail of the night. I can’t remember the name of the cocktail but it was red and yummy.

After dinner nine of us walked the 15 minute or so to the Bristol Arms Hotel, commonly known as the Retro. The Retro offers five levels of dancing from the Basement through to the rooftop. We were in the Pure Retro room on the ground level.  Now you can be forgiven if you think I’m the one who chooses to go to the Retro purely for 80s music but I’m not one of those middle aged people stuck in the 70s or 80s for my music enjoyment. On the contrary, I’d much prefer the music of the 90s or 2000s but my 30+ year old friends seem to love 80s music, so who am I to complain.

The Retro also caters for Hen’s nights, so there’s always a group of hens clucking around a bride-to-be all dressed in the theme of the night. This night’s theme was ‘Puss’n Boots’.  I was a bit disappointed with our party, which blew out to around 30 guests, most got the ‘boots’ bit right but clearly missed the ‘puss’ component, including me.

The music got off to a flying start with Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama”, which technically isn’t an 80’s song but an old favourite none-the-less, followed by The Bangles “Walk Like and Egyptian” which was well and truly an 80s song and transported me back to “the day” when I was dancing up a storm at the local Workmans Club, commonly known as the Workies. It was the only venue in town for most of the 80s and songs like the ones mentioned were new releases.

Who would have thought many years later I’d still be dancing to the same songs.  I can only hope for future generations the likes of Lady GaGa, or as I like to call her ‘Lady all gimmick no talent’,  will be thrown in the ‘forgotten’ closet with all her freakish muso ancestors of times gone by.

Anyway, I mentioned the Retro caters for Hen’s nights and on this night there were two distinct groups of Hens. One group approximately mid 20s, all skinny and gorgeous. The bride-to-be wearing a slinky black dress barley covering her arse, with hooker heals on a very high boot. Her friends all equally as thin and pretty taking turns doing sexy little dance moves on the podiums that are scattered around the room. If it wasn’t for the short black veil worn by the bride-to-be, I would have thought they were out to impress the blokes with their skimpy attire and sexy moves.  Well I guess maybe there were!

In vast contrast the second group of Hens consisted of all little fatties fussing over an equally fat bride-to-be. Now I’m not being a bitch, this is purely an observation by a middle-age not-so-thin woman. But I must give credit to the little fatties they certainly came dressed in theme, albeit not the theme of the night.  The bride-to-be wore a black corset with a short pink tutu and long black boots. Another hen was dressed in a corset and very tight pants with long lace-up boots. Her boobs poured over her tightly worn corset which reminded me of ice-cream bludging over the sides of a waffle cone which struggled to contain the impending flow.

More to the power of these girls, I say. It certainly shows that they are comfortable in their own skin – all of it.

Speaking of skin, I have never seen so much exposed flesh in one room. The majority of the girls got into the ‘Puss n Boots’ theme – I’ve never seen so many almost exposed pussies in my life. Not that I wanted to mind you, but on this occasion I didn’t get much choice as many of the girls found their way to the nearest podium and danced like they were at a strip club. Some better than others and given the short dresses – well you use your imagination.

My observations didn’t stop at the girlies on the night. The boys gave me something to reflect on as well. Unlike ‘back in the day’ when I was night-clubbing, the boys at the Retro, after a few drinks, were also taking to the podiums, in-between the strippers – I mean girlies. One by one they would take turns showing their skills in hip hop dancing, or whatever they call it. And one several occasions I’d see a group dancing together, clearly letting their mucho act slip for the sake of the music. The blokes in my day stood around the edge perving.

On my last visit to the Retro, I was drinking slippery-nipple shots, this night I was drinking the cocktail of the night aptly named “marg-a-roota”, which by the way is how it was spelt on the waitresses badge worn next to her voluptuous boobs. I’m sure the blokes enjoyed the sight and got mileage out of asking for one. By one I mean a marg-a-roota – just in case you were confused.

Anyway, the night progressed and after four or so marg-a-rootas, I was feeling rather rooted but fought off the feeling of wanting to go home and crawl into bed by accepting the offer from my persuasive GF to get up on the podium and dance. No sooner did I hop up, she was called away. There I was left high-and-dry dancing on a podium. Oh well, I had two choices:  1. start stripping, as that seem to be working for others, or 2. Escape.  Having decided on choice 2, I made an awkward exit from the spotlight and continued dancing at ground level until it was time to go, which for us was around 1am. By this time I was wide awake and looking forward to early morning dessert at the Lindt Cafe at Cockle Bay.

However, my hopes were dashed by the 30+ year olds who clearly had enough and wanted to hit the sack. So here I was, the old broad of the group, walking down Sussex St Sydney aiding the birthday girl who could hardly walk because she had worn new boots for the occasion and they were killing her. Her sister was also struggling to walk in her second pair of boots for the night as the first brand new pair broke and she ended up in her sister’s slightly smaller pair.  To top it off the bloke of the group was also the walking wounded in his new shoes. All complaining about the freezing cold.

Goodness gracious me, times have changed.  I don’t think the youngens of today are as tough as we were ‘in the day’.  When we left the Workies at midnight, because that’s when it closed, it was so cold you could see the steam emanating from our mouths when breathing out. We’d wear skimpy clothes, high heels and barely a jacket between us. We’d head off to the pizza joint which opened until 3am then try and muzzle in on any parties to extent the early morning into mid morning.  Now that was Friday night’s entertainment. We’d back it all up on the Saturday night.

Ahh the kids of today – they just can’t handle it!

Don’t piss me off

I was in a very bad mood on Tuesday morning and the first to cop the first ‘piss off don’t bother me’ chant was the MOTH (man of the house). You see I had a long weekend, it wasn’t planned but I was struggling with an almost cold and needed a recoup day, or as I call it – a sanity day.

Firstly you might ask “What is an almost cold?” Let me explain…

An almost cold is when you feel like you’re coming down with a cold, you’re a little sniffily, maybe you have a dull headache and possibly a little hot and cold.  You wait for the full bout to descent but it doesn’t. That’s an almost cold.

Anyway, back to my bad mood.  The bad mood usually derives from not feeling terrible excited about my life at that moment and especially not happy to do something I’m not in the mood for, like going to work.

Yes I can hear you all say – “we all have to work so suck it up princess”.  And I agree, but this is my blog and I have the floor so I’ll whinge if I want too.

Anyway, on these days I’d join the gym – again, write a more interesting blog, meditate, do yoga, read a book, anything but go to work. Hense my bad mood.

I guess we all have these days and I wonder what the world would be like if we were all doing what we really wanted to do.  I can’t imagine anyone wanting to sit in front of a computer all day, or dig holes to make roads or buildings, or make luxury cars for others to drive.  I’m not sure anyone would survive watching footy all the time, although I have my doubts about some blokes.  I can’t imagine a world without restaurants; after all they provide 50% of my weekly meals.  I guess we’d have to catch, kill, skin and cook our own meals, live in self built accommodation, walk everywhere and make our own clothes from animal skins or weave from various grasses and plants.

Essentially we’d be spending our days surviving from one day to the next leaving no time to do the things we really want to do.

On that note, I guess I’ll just have to go to work.  But be warned, when I’m in a bad mood, I mean a very bad mood – don’t piss me off.

I can’t wait until….

We all find ourselves saying at some stage, “I can’t wait until…..”. This something you can’t wait for maybe simple as “I can’t wait until the weekend”, or “I can’t wait till I go away next year”. Or it maybe you “can’t wait until you’ve paid off the house”.  It wasn’t until I heard my daughter utter the words “I can’t wait until Matilda says her first word” or “I can’t wait until Charlie gets out of nappies” that I remembered back in the day when my daughter was a baby followed by her two brothers I was constantly saying “I can’t wait until the next stage of the babies development” – whatever the next stage was.  Then when you have three kids at home you can’t help but say “I can’t wait until they go to school” followed a few years later with “I can’t wait until they’re old enough to drive themselves to soccer”.

I told my daughter that what she’s doing now doesn’t get any better so enjoy “the now”.  The best years of my life was being a stay at home Mum with 3 kids.  But I too uttered the very words my daughter does and I continue to this day utter “I can’t wait until….”!

When I look back at my life it seems to me that I’ve lived from one can’t wait moment to the next.  Does this mean I’ve never lived for ‘the now’? Have I never reached a stage in my life when I’ve reached the “can’t wait” moment and felt a sense of achievement?

It’s obvious to me that I’ve never lived for the now, so what should I do about it? Maybe I should have thought about that years ago when I started to dream about the life I couldn’t wait to achieve.

When I see my daughter being a full-time Mum, taking the kids to swimming lessons, dance classes, playgroup, play-dates in the park on a beautiful sunny day, I remember how simple life was for me doing the same things years ago, how important my role was in bringing up my kids. Of course the pay sucked but I ran my own little business, ran a tight timetable with many enjoyable events thrown in. Everything I did mattered, at least to my kids. Maybe what I should have been saying is “I can wait” because what I’m doing now is great and when my life moved to the next stage, again I should have said “I can wait”!

Now life’s ticking away and I’m still saying “I can’t wait”…but I can wait, I have no choice because what I’m doing now is what I’ve been saying I can’t wait for all along.  I guess the old saying is so very true – be careful what you wish for.

Finding Mr 50%

I had dinner the other night with two girlfriends (GFs), both in their 30s and single.  One has been on a dating site, eHarmony, for a while and the other GF has just signed up for the same site after an unsuccessful five minute membership with RSVP – apparently she got numerous emails from blokes using handles such as flavourisious and fullysicbro and thought that maybe she wouldn’t find the “one” on this site unless she was really looking for a fully sic bro who thought he was flavourisious.

It became apparent from a discussion about tick boxes that I realised my GFs were really narrowing their selection criteria.  For instance one GF would disregard any man who selected from a list of “things you can’t live without” the option of “can’t live without sex”.  Ok, that would narrow the list down to 15%, maybe less. Her reasoning behind this was that they were only looking for a f-buddy, if you get my drift.  The same GF also disregarded any man who didn’t select the option “enjoyed reading books”, narrowing the list down to about 3.5%.

For the 3.5% of men who got through this tough selection process and went as far as emailing or chatting online, they would get the boot for spelling mistakes or crappy grammar.  There’s not a man I know that can live without sex, loves to read and who could win a spell-a-thon.

The other GF is looking for an Aussie bloke, preferably tall, professional and a good sense of humour. She’s had a couple of unsuccessful relationships with non-Aussie background blokes, one who is tied at the hip to his mamma and the other whose family wouldn’t eat at her house because she ate pork.  In a multi-cultural city like Sydney, finding an Aussie bloke is becoming a tall order.

This discussion got me to think about about all the discussions I’ve been in with single women and how they all want the same thing, to find “Mr Right to spend the rest of their life with”.  Their idea of Mr Right usually sounds like this:  tall, handsome, romantic, someone to share long walks on the beach with, intelligent, someone who listens to what ‘you’ have to say.

Faced with that criteria and the ones set out by my GFs, no man on earth qualifies.

You might get your tall and handsome man who may even be romantic and they may even like long walks on the beach but his man will be more interested in his looks, his romantic gestures will be a ploy to get laid by other women, and the long walks on the beach will be to see what other hot women perv on him.  He’ll be dumb as dog shit and couldn’t give a damn about your woes. And let’s face it, this man is looking for his Pammy big titty Anderson – so needless to say this relationship won’t be a lasting one.

Then there’s the intelligent guys. These men usually don’t have a sense of humour; their idea of romance is to take you to a Star Wars convention (I’ve been on a date like this once). They won’t listen to you because they’ll have their headphones on while playing Star Ship wars with someone in Russia. They are usually short and stubby or very tall and skinny with no arse – yuck!

Meet Mr 50%

So faced with these limitations, I think all single women should aim for a “Mr 50%”. However, when selecting the 50% they need to remember there are validations they need to pass to achieve this 50%. Let me explain….

You can’t have tall, handsome and intelligent; or tall, handsome and funny; or tall, handsome, intelligent and funny.  You can’t have short, handsome and intelligent; or short, handsome and funny.

You can have tall, funny and ugly; or tall, intelligent and ugly; or short, ugly and intelligent; you can also have tall, handsome and dumb as dog shit. If you get my drift? Unfortunately girls, men don’t come any other way.

And as for their next criteria: “to spend the rest of their life with”.  Given the limitations I described above, does any woman see themselves with these guys longer than, let’s say, 10 years?

However, on the other hand, given that finding Mr Right is like finding the pot of gold on the end of a rainbow, you may as well stick it out because the grass isn’t greener on the other side – all you’ll find is another Mr 50%.

Lil babes’ lost

babygravesAs a little girl I remember asking my mum about my sisters who both died around the time of their birth. I can’t recall how I found out about them but I guess mum told me at some stage.  The idea I had two big sisters, although dead, was a fanciful dream for a little girl who was one of two kids, the other being my brother who was seven years older than me. I asked questions such as how they died, their names, how old they would be. Simple questions a little girl would ask unlike the questions I’d ask now such as how my parents coped with the loss and why didn’t we visit my sister’s graves like we did for all other passed family members.

It wasn’t until after mum died and a visit to see her childhood and best friend, Aunty Anne, I discovered there was a third baby, a boy, stillborn.  I also learnt this baby boy was replaced immediately by my brother. Finally I understood how mum breastfeed my brother even thought he was adopted. Because this birth, death and overnight adoption occurred in Sydney, well away from the country where they lived, no one knew about my brother’s adoption, not even my father’s best friend, Alan, who was with my brother when he found our adoption papers. This was the same day my mum woke up and dad was dead beside her. My brother was 28 and he had no idea he was adopted.

Learning about this third baby and the events surrounding my brother’s adoption made me feel terribly sad for my parents and I wonder how they coped. Looking back I can only say dad soldiered on and had to be strong for both him and mum. Mum was a very soft woman who would tear up at the most trivial things and unfortunately I’d go crook on her for being a big sook. If I only knew then what I know now,  I would have given her a hug instead of a scolding – sorry mum.

My renewed interest in the lost babies came about during the June long weekend in 2011. I had already started to research my adopted families ancestry and during that research I came across the Family History section of Birth, Death’s and Marriages website. This website is a great source of information, especially when piecing together family generations. My maternal aunty and her dear friend who we always referred to as aunty, were visiting and I was busy doing all sorts of searches on the website. One search put to rest a family rumour that my aunt’s uncle was indeed her cousin.

I was about to call it a day when I decided to do a search with the hope of finding something on my adopted siblings. I figured it was a long shot as I believed all three were stillborn but I entered the search criteria and pressed submit. When the screen refreshed what displayed was a table with three records, three little babies’ names, the year of death and my parent’s names. Although I had known for most of my life about the baby girls and recently about the baby boy, to see their names listed on the screen made it all too real.

  • Robyn Maryee died 1950
  • Daphne died 1952
  • Christopher Bede  died 1953.

So many emotions swept through me at that moment:

  • Sadness for my parents who lost three of their own flesh and blood.
  • Sadness that my parents weren’t able to morn their loss, or so it seemed.
  • Sadness I had taken their place. I lived the life they should have lived with the wonderful family that they, not me, were born into.
  • And finally I felt sadness for these three little souls no one acknowledging their almost existence except for a couple of conversations with mum when I was little.

Since that June long weekend, I’ve discovered all three babies burial places. The two girls are buried in the town where my parents lived and the baby boy is buried in Rookwood cemetery. No headstones mark their existence or death. And I’m certain no funeral took place for all three.

It wasn’t entirely my parent’s fault the babies were not given a funeral or a headstone, it was fitting for the era when dead babies were whisked away and the parents left to deal with the loss the best way they could. There is so much more to this story beginning with a young couple falling in love just before the war broke out and marrying just before the war ended,  followed by the tragic loss of three babies through incompatible blood types, and a new beginning for two unwanted babies – me Katherine Therese and my brother Christopher Karl .

In memory of Robyn, Daphne and Christopher
I wish we got to meet you