Monday, April 29, 2013

I can't tell if it's her or me.

I am sitting at my computer when my 8 year old daughter stomps past.


Here is the conversation that ensued.

me: "Are you angry?"

8 yo : "YES!"

me: "Why?"

8 yo: "Because (my brother) is being MEAN TO ME!!!!!!!!" (this is some sort of criminal offence)

me: "What is he doing?"

8 yo: "He's not letting me DO WHAT I WANT TO DO!!!!!!!!!" (also a criminal offence)

me: "Well, what did you want to do?"

8 yo: "I want to play that my imaginary friend is in my body; and he is FORCING HER OUT!!!!"

So. Is my 11 year old son an exorcist? is my daughter an drama queen? am I slowly going crazy here?

Saturday, April 27, 2013

love me like a zombie man

Last night, Fabio and I were watching The Walking Dead, which is a TV series about zombies.

In one scene, one poor man was trying to gather the courage to shoot his zombied wife, and he just couldn't do it.

I asked Fabio:
"If I got zombified, would you shoot me in the head?"

His reply? "Right between the eyes."

me: thankyou.

Fabio: My pleasure, babe.

Then we looked at each other and roared laughing.

Now that's romance, folks.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

lest we forget

Tonight, I'm making a traditional roast lamb with veg and rosemary, and a rice pudding for dessert, just like Nana used to make. It's the most Australian meal I can think of, and I wonder how many of our soldiers dreamed of a similar meal while they lay in their trenches and field tents?

Christmas and Easter are lots of fun, true, but if Australians have a holy day, this is it. ANZAC Day. The day we remember.

In the heartbeat that follows the first two notes of the Last Post, a true Aussies' skin is humped up in goosebumps, as we recall the boys who lost their lives and limbs fighting wars in far-away lands.

We remember their shining faces, their innocence and joy, their enthusiasm for the fight -- and the letters and telegrams that came with news that crushed their families.

We remember the children growing up with no dad, wives growing tired with no husband, mothers growing older with no sons. We remember the sacrifice made by mothers and fathers and wives, knowing their boys might be lost overseas, never to lie in the good red earth of their homeland.

We remember those who came home, weary and heartsick at the things they had seen and done.

We remember those wounded and the nurses and medicos who cared for them, we remember the pilots and sailors and mechanics and drivers and officers and cooks. We remember them all.

The only time you will ever see an Australian crowd quiet and respectful, is at an ANZAC Day service. The weight of all those years, all those young men, all that blood -- we feel it.
Each year, as the number of diggers grows ever smaller, the crowd grows ever larger, swelled by those who proudly march for uncles and fathers and grandfathers.

Our soldiers are the true heroes of this nations' heart.

And we will remember them.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

P is for.....


I'm on the Other Side from most bloggers. I'm one of those weirdos who believe in conservatism, in free markets, in small governments, in more personal accountability, in more opportunities, and less interference.

I believe that you should be able to speak your mind freely, provided you are not breaking any of the already existent laws prohibiting hate speech, racism, or sexism; that if others take offense, that is sad, but a small price to pay for the freedom to speak my mind.

I believe that if you want to ride a bike (as an adult) without wearing a helmet, then you should be allowed to. That if you want to smoke (or produce cigarettes) you should be allowed to do so without interference from politicians, UNTIL such time as it is unlawful to do so.

I believe that if you want to start a small business, you should be given every opportunity to do so. If you fail, you fail, and should not be bailed out, but if you succeed, then you should be rewarded for your time, your resources, your sacrifice.

I believe that charity begins at home; that if people are able to pay their own bills and look after themselves first, they will have money left over to help take care of others; that if we use government to enforce charity, then people will expect government to do it all.

I believe in Australians taking care of the vulnerable in THIS country first, and those in need overseas second.

I believe in rewarding hard work, and making opportunity for greatness to flourish, but not in propping up the arts with tax-payers money.

I believe in allowing those who need a sanctuary to come here, but not in opening our borders to anyone with a boat.

I believe in punishment to suit the crime; that criminals should be punished, and their victims recompensed.

I believe that if a woman manages to become Prime Minister, she should be congratulated for a job well done, not lauded for merely being a woman. If she has to keep screaming about how hard it is to be a woman in politics, she doesn't have the balls to lead this country in a time of real crisis.

I believe Australia is still the Lucky Country. But I believe it has been let down badly, by a very bad government. And my hope is that all that will change on September 14th.

Friday, April 19, 2013

while shopping....

* two people commented on my T-shirt.

This led to animated discussions over 10 and 11. No-one mentioned 9. Sorry, Chris.

* the guy in the deli at Woollies was wearing a name-badge that said KILLER.

When I blinked, it said KALEB.

I'll be watching him closely.

* a cute little girl with her hair in blonde pigtails skipped up the footpath, chattering to herself. Everyone smiled, and got out of her way.

* a lady hopped out of her car, singing happily. Everyone smiled.

* a bloke in the checkout disputed his change (I think he was right) and was so rude, he made the checkout chick cry.

The disputed amount of change? five cents.

What a hero.

* at the lights, the car in front of me, and the car beside me, both stalled when the lights went green. Within a heartbeat, people were beeping horns and shouting. I'm so glad it wasn't me.

Thursday, April 18, 2013

O -- the guilt

The Princess woke up this morning, sooky and complaining. (this is not a completely foreign start to the day for her.)

She said she felt unwell. I checked. Slight temp, possibly imagination. She said she had a headache. No way I could check that, so I gave her Panadol and sent her to school.

Of course, now she has a higher temp, and she's flushed, with a headache AND a sore 'neck', and a bit of a cough. She should have been in bed today, not spreading her cold to all her classmates.

Guilt. I has it.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

not for sissies. (N)

Over the last few years, my 'stuff' has really started to pack it in.

I've had to upgrade my glasses, because I was making that face my dad makes when he's trying to read something. You know the one.

My hips are knackered, my knees are buggered. I can't hear half the stuff my kids say, and my hands hurt by the end of the day.

Growing older is tough.

Monday, April 8, 2013

how to read in bed

1. First things first, clear the space. Remove the phone, the iPhone (stop looking so shocked. You won't die), the tv, the laptop, and the kids.
Make the bed, so the sheets are smooth and the doona fluffy. Pile up pillows and head-rests into a kind of mountain.

2. Assemble the necessities. A good book (or preferably, a big pile of them), a cup of tea,

a book-seat if you have one, some good lighting, and your glasses if you need them.
Some munchies if you MUST. (these tend to get very comfortable in bed, and settle on your stomach and butt, refusing to budge, so be careful.)

3. Prepare yourself. Take a bath or a shower, apply some pretty lotion, get your nightie on.

4. Climb into bed and get very comfy. I recommend propping yourself up, so that this doesn't happen

however, take your chances if you prefer to read flat on your back.

5. Bliss out.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

shut the door

My two-at-home-kids are not yet door-slammers.

My older kids were. One time each. There is a cure.

One I bet my mum wished she had known about, because I was a Champion Door-Slammer. Defiant, loud, deliberate. SLAM.

And Mum had not just me to contend with, but also my two sisters.
There's only 3 years between us all (well 35 months, if you want to get technical) and that must might have been cute when we were little and people used to mistake us for twins and a singlet.
However, when puberty hit, it hit hard. I was a cantankerous and moody bitch, so nothing much has changed there, but the sisters followed closely behind.

To the best of my recollection, one slammed occasionally, the other saw it as a personal challenge when doors remained on their hinges. Just like me. (so proud)

However, no WAY was I going to allow my own kids to slam doors! I devised an Evil Plan.
If they slammed a door, I made them open and close it 10 times quietly.

Instant cure.

Bet you wish you'd thought of that in time to cure me, Mum. XXX

Saturday, April 6, 2013


A friend and I were talking about laundries the other day, as you do.

I have a new laundry, albeit a rented one, and it has a ROTARY clothesline (BLISS! alright, RENTED bliss) that stands in it's own patch of very soft, green, grass. There are no trees overhead, so no bird poo on the washing.

I often hear magpies, kookaburras and cows. They are not rented, thankfully -- just a part of the Ambience Package that came with the house.

Granted, the clothesline stands on the edge of a 2 foot drop, so I have to be careful not to blindly follow the washing around the line, but that's a small price to pay for the pleasure I get, hanging the wet washing and bringing in the dry.

Because it is a pleasure. The grass underfoot, the breeze, the sounds of animal life, the smell of sun-dried cotton, all combine to put me in a Happy Place.

It was not always so.

My last laundry (also rented) was an afterthought, jammed into a space between the kitchen and the carport. Still, it was serviceable. The clothesline was not.
It was one of those horrible clacketty things you pull down from the wall (in this case, sometimes literally) and the wires were actually wires.
Forget your plastic-covered, easy-to-clean convenience. This stuff had road grime, birdpoo and cobwebs entrenched in every inch.
As an added bonus, it had snarly frizzy wires that had almost managed to escape, and these would stab me in the fingers or poke holes in the cloth if I allowed my attention to wander.

Unsurprisingly, my dryer got a big workout in that house.

My friend has that same kind of clothesline. (cousins, we think)
And we talked about how we avoid using the laundries and clotheslines if they're ugly or dirty or just plain don't work.

I have a dream laundry in mind if I ever build. It will have bench space for folding, and hanging space for drip-dry. It will have plenty of room to move, and no doors that open over each other.

And I want a clothesline just like the one I have now.

Friday, April 5, 2013


M is for



I'm constantly being harrassed told harrassed by my friends that I should have a mobile.

Well, I do have one, but it's out of charge, out of credit, and I don't know where it is.

Well, I do know where it is, but I'm not getting it.

I hate the bloody things.

For lots of reasons, none of which make any sense to most people.

I don't like it that someone could ring me at any time on it. If I'm out shopping, or enjoying time with my family, or on a date with my husband, or whatever, I don't want phone calls. And I don't want the extra hassle of remembering to turn it off and on, so don't offer that as a solution, please.
There are plenty of times when I just want peace and quiet, to be alone with myself, to think or to just be. I don't need phone calls in the middle of that. It jangles me.

I don't like it that when I'm enjoying time with someone, and their phone rings or dings, EVEN IF they are polite enough not to answer it, their eyes dart to it constantly, and their fingers twitch. You know what that says to me? it says that I am not interesting enough to hold your attention.

You know the worst part about that? my husband does it. I know it's for work. I know it could be a call to say that one of our guys has been hurt or something horrible. BUT. I feel shunted aside. And it spoils the entire outing.

I think I'm pretty good at keeping in touch with people. I have a LANDLINE, which you can call me on at any (normal) hour, and I have Facebook. I don't think I need to attach myself to a phone 24/7.

Here's another thing that absolutely drives me crazy.

IF YOU'RE DRIVING, AND THE PHONE GOES OFF, DON'T ANSWER IT! Seriously. What is the WORST that could happen if you ignore the call until you get where you're going? if you're concerned that it might be urgent, PULL OVER.


And the worst part about that?

My husband, who is a fairly sensible bloke in every other way, can't pull over. He fiddles with calls and even reads text messages while driving. I love him to bits but I want to smack him every time he does it. He could kill someone. He could kill himself. For a frigging text message.

So, no, for all intents and purposes, I do not have a mobile. And I won't be getting one.