Knowledge November - Day 8 - Style by Stealth

I knew right from the start that Love Chunks wasn’t attracted to me because of my car (a Safari Orange-coloured 1971 Volvo) or my fashion sense:

“Hey Kath, bend down and touch your toes, will you?”
“Why?”
“So I can set the table.”

We both laughed and his dislike for my top would have carried a lot more weight if he hadn’t then sashayed – Swish Swish Swish Swish – out of the kitchen wearing his infernally noisy shell tracksuit pants.

It was 1993 when we fell for each other and my expensive, dark green corduroy and paisley patterned overshirt purchased in London in 1991 still had a fair bit of wear left in it in my opinion. Besides, living on Austudy whilst learning how to survive teaching high school kids Australian History and English meant that funds for clothes weren’t available.

Love Chunks’ wardrobe too had a few travesties that he clearly considered were still acceptable to wear in public, like his black leather ‘spray jacket’ style coat with the press-stud shoulder epaulettes, short-sleeved business shirts and stubbie shorts.

It was only at the end of the year when the weather bureau (and a better salary) in Melbourne beckoned LC back and I followed, scoring a debt collecting job at a security firm that was slightly less soul-destroying that performing paid acts of sodomy in bus shelters.

The move from Adelaide provided me with the opportunity to ‘lose’ a few of LC’s most objectionable items of clothing, such as his Speedos.

Sure, he had a fit physique but they were Speedos. Why not cover your genitals in Glad Wrap for all the modesty that tight-fitting, sky-blue lycra provided? And his too-snug, black and brown striped polo shirt that had been witness to key events in his young adult life – year 12, university, residential college, graduate traineeship in Darwin, student teaching in Adelaide, curries with me – had to go. Quietly and with dignity. And, of course, with utmost secrecy, being hastily buried under the lemon tree furthest from the back verandah of our student share house.
When we arrived in Melbourne to our crumbly 1960s flat, we had few boxes to unpack. It was our first home together, and it was fitting that our belongings complemented each other. LC had the sofa, me the dining table. He the VCR, me the telly. He the copper-bottomed saucepans, me the quilt.

Our right hand-side neighbours were silent, with delicious smells of fragrant curries and spices permanently seeping under our door whetting our appetites and the left-hand neighbour assailed us with poor renditions of ‘Smoke on the Water’ via his crackling amplifier. The people above us scraped their chairs on lino at 2am and the woman below at car-park level owned a mouthy cockatoo and liked to smash her own windows whenever she argued with her occasional boyfriend. It was perfect.

A month into the move, LC half-heartedly asked as to the whereabouts of his polo-shirt. Trying to avoid telling him the truth, I spun around, pointed my finger at his chest and said accusingly, “Not so fast, buddy. Where is my green shirt? I can read you like a book, Love Chunks.”
“Well I can read you like a fact-sheet Kath, ‘cos I saw you shove my shirt into the wheelie bin.”

Fast forward sixteen years and I found myself on the very same street as our first residence, attending an Open Inspection out of nosiness, not extra funds. Walking back to our house and towards our bird turd-splattered old Magna, I realised that style and cars are still not what keeps us together.

There’s my thong collection, my one concession to brand names:













Love Chunk’s Babboon Bum bike shorts that are always drying on the towel rack:




















And Milly’s hairs that festoon our clean socks.




















It is Sapphire these days that comments on our outfits, not us. She’ll say:
Hey Mum why don’t you buy those peacock feather earrings from Diva they’re only six dollars and more interesting than the boring hoops you’ve always got on
You should wear clothes like Simone’s Mum. She’s gone back to uni to study art and painting and has got these white boots that are really high heeled and go right up her thighs so that you just can see a bit of her black and purple striped tights under her velvet dress that reminds me of a princess like Rapunzel and she likes to wash her hair in henna
Or you could get your hair streaked a bit lighter like Juliet’s and Sarah’s Mums do and I have to ask - and I’m not trying to be rude or cheeky or answer you back – but why you always think that polar fleece is OK to wear to cafes when you won’t let me wear my crocs there and your running gear is fine to wear on the way to school but I really hate that Ben Lee ‘Love like the world is ending’ t-shirt because it says that you like having sex and I think that that’s a bit rude for someone as old as you......

I took her advice and got my hair streaked.



















Two hours later, I arrived home, did a “Ta Da” twirl in front of her, seeking her approval.
“Oh Mum, you look like a koala bear with those side bits of hair sticking out – why didn’t you get them cut off?”

Love Chunks saw my disappointment and came up and put his arm around my waist, hugging me to him. “Nah you look like Fozzy Bear.”

I bought a seventh pair of thongs as sartorial solace.

Knowledge November - Day 7 - You

"No one is in charge of your happiness but you."

I used to see that saying a lot via calendars, Granny-style greeting cards and email forwards but never really got it until a couple of years ago when my perceived value and contribution to this existence we commonly call 'life' seemed to be sliding out of reach and I was letting down everyone who mattered to me.

It took a bit of professional help, medication and the utmost understanding of experts, family and friends for me to get better and realise that my perception was not the true one and that life would in fact be a fair bit less bearable for those I left behind.

I wasn't 'failing', I just thought I was. I wasn't shaming or disappointing my family and friends; just not talking to them about it. My recovery saw me naturally using the stepping stone method my Dad talked about to see the light eventually appearing at the end of many tunnels and how many things - no matter how simple - were there to just appreciate, take note of or look forward to. The scent of Sapphire's hair, Milly's soft ears, Love Chunk's strong hugs, a mug of hot coffee sipped outside in the sunshine, clean sheets and a kind blog comment.

What really clicked was how I woke up each day. Did I need to feel resentful, grumpy or sad before my feet had even slid off the mattress and landed on the floor? If a blob of toothpaste plopped on my top or I spilt the cereal, was it really going to damage the outcome of my day?

This realisation gave me a choice. I could choose to smile, laugh and move on. And I did.

I can't control everything that happens to me or how I react to it, but I can actively search for beauty, comfort and truth.

And yes, blogging is a huge part of it for me. Thank you for reading!

Knowledge November - Day 6 - Fartin' Fridays

Normally, bottom humor is reserved for the males of our species, but not in this house. Love Chunks, a proud male who enjoys burping, the footy and food, is most definitely not a public or proud farter. He uses the modus operandi of the tooth fairy - we're pretty sure it happens, but have never actually seen or experienced it directly ourselves.

My butt-blasts are slightly less pristine, but most likely are more normal. My method is less Tooth Fairy and more the Tasmanian Tiger - we know that it exists, but anyone who was around to witness it is now crazy, dead or both.

Pregnancy was the exception in my case. I merely had to bend over without giving my ever-increasing body five minutes notice and a quick-but-loud 'Parrp!' would erupt. My poor work mates got sick and tired of my weak, "Oh dear, was it worth the two minutes of fun in Malaysia" line after its seventh uttering during the same meeting. When I was sitting still. If I was ever in the photocopying room loading the second tray with paper they'd stick an 'ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK' sign on the door frame.

Sapphire, unfortunately, has the farting habits of a bogan's 1987 commodore - in your face, frequently loud and very proud. All she's missing is the backwards baseball cap, pounding Doof Doof music and the 'I'm Naked From the Waist Down' bumper sticker on her back.

Despite being raised by two extremely intelligent, kindly, supportive and well-mannered parents, the hidden Benny Hill gene seems to have established itself with about as much delicacy as a moose on a music stand. She may be the brightest in her class and have the ability to read a novel in one sitting but give her the opportunity to force out a fart and she's laughing so hard I can't tell where the joyous tears end and the snot trails begin.

I blame my brother David. I've mentioned before that my younger pest/turkey /brother would derive endless amusement from letting a ripsnorter off right in my face whilst I was ensconced in our huge velvet beanbag watching 'Mork and Mindy'. He and his easily-satisfied cackling laughter were long gone by the time I angrily struggled out of the bag and onto my feet.

He shared a room with me until I was ten, because older - and much stronger - older brother Rob wasn't a good sleeper and didn't tolerate Dave's regular night time asthma attacks with much sympathy. I merely slept through them unless Dave was coming off the Ventolin high and decided to treat himself - and me, only two metres away - to a few doona lifters and giggles. At that stage of my life, I learned early that farting and boys naturally go together like Ape and S**t.

When these sad scenes of childhood suffering are relayed back to Sapphire, she laughs in genuine merriment and admiration. Or should it be described as wicked delight, because she has a laugh that only emerges when Farts, Fluffs, Pop-offs, Bums, Butts, Snot, Boogers, Poos, Willies and Wees are mentioned, preferably in the same story.

Friday nights are the worst. Sapphire's had a busy and eventful week at school and LC and I have had our big weeks at work (yes, 'home' is indeed my workplace but with more loads of washing at break times instead of chats in the staff kitchen). If we don't have plans, we tend to flop out on the lounge and feel the lethargy and tiredness attack us from all fronts.

This increased state of relaxation clearly tempts Sapphire's sphincter section to let more than a few dozen go, echoing the rumble of the trams outside.

"For gods' sake Sapphire, stop doing that or you can go and sit in your room!"

Even Milly is roused from her sleep at our feet, and stares at Sapphire reproachfully. "See? You know you're being revolting when even the dog is annoyed!"

Sapphire laughs so hard that LC looks at her with concern, wondering if her chocolate milk or even a lung is going to come out of her nose and flop like a caught fish on the coffee table in front of us.

"Sapphire," I say quietly, trying another angle, "Do you do these at school?"
"Of course not Mum," she snorts, as if I'm a complete idiot.
"Then why do you do them here at home?"

Again, the 'Mum, You're A Total Mental Pgymy' look in response. "Because I'm at HOME. I can do what I like at home. I spend all day squashing 'em and pushing 'em back up and at home I can let 'em out. It's funny! Plus, I can't help it....." she trailed off, looking at me with her huge, innocent blue eyes that I forever feel as though I could jump into.

"But do Dad and I ever do it to you?"
"No, but Dad NEVER does them. YOU do them to Dad at night time, 'cos he told me," she said, her giggles starting up again. Then a new thought enters her head, and she snaps her head back to me, looking worried. "Mum, you're not going to tell anyone at school, are you?"

Hah, now I've got her! "Well that all depends...... wouldn't the boys in your class want to know about it?"

Sapphire's face wrestles with the conflicting humour of the idea and the sheer horror of its reality. "NO! It would be embarrassing! Josh and Lachie do them all the time and us girls just roll our eyes and say how unsophisticated they are."

I pause, remembering that this is what I told her to say when said boys continued to thump her in the arm and run away, hoping she'll chase after them. She'd come home feeling frustrated, asking me why they did it to her all the time. "Oh boys are very unsophisticated creatures," I said. After explaining to her what unsophisticated meant, she took the explanation to heart, and has used it ever since to account for any bit of silly boy behaviour she's endured.

"OK, it would be embarrassing for you, but is it fair for poor Dad and I to have to put up your pop-offs and their terrible stench---"
"Hey Mum, I can't help how they smell. If I could make nice like our rose toilet spray, I would you know."

It was my turn to laugh. "Fair enough, but you've got to stop playing it up, and you should only do them when you're on your own because it's a bad habit that will soon make you very unpopular. Besides," I added, in what I thought was an added 'load her down with the weight of fairness and dignity' flourish, "When have I ever shoved any of my bad habits in front of you?"

Oh dear, it was too late to retract that last, pompous utternance.

"Well," she shot back, with the beginnings of another wicked giggle session, "What about when I hear you blow your nose in the shower; or when you farted as you emptied the bins outside and then it followed you in? No, Mum don't interrupt me - what about when you kiss the dog and then try and kiss me straight after, or those times when Dad can't believe that you still use the big drawer to frisbee the tupperware lids into instead of stacking them; or when you get dressed into your tracksuit and ugg boots for work and don't put your bra back on and when you always lick the peanut butter off the knife ------"

"Er, OK sweetie, you've made your point. Perhaps I'll just move over to the other sofa where I'm closer to the open door...."

Knowledge November - Day 5 - My one and only dietary rule

.... is this: One good food eaten immediately before or after a bad food will completely eradicate the bad.

Don't pretend that you don't understand my logic because we all do it: inhale a king-sized KitKat chunky and follow it with an orange. Ta Da, you've eaten nothing! The vitamins, minerals and overall goodness of the fruit has effectively cancelled out the evil fats, sugars and carbs of the chocolate.

If those poor, award-wage, fifteen year old whopper wallahs at Hungry Fats and Maccas got a cent for every person who ordered a diet coke with their Whopper/Double Quarter Pounder/Large Fries/Grand Artery/Triple Fudge/Finger Lickin'/Deep Dish/ Fully- Fried Meal Deal deluxes, they'd be kicking James Packer out for not being wealthy enough.

I know that I'm not the only Foolish Foodie Hypocrite in this world - that diet coke tap isn't on constant drip for my purposes only you know. Last week I was enjoying a coffee with my visiting parents at a cafe near our house and Mum ever-so-helpfully noted that my pick-me-up of choice - a skinny latte - was accompanied by two melting moments. Yes, those pesky three grams of milk fat were to be avoided like a department store bra fitting if I was to fully appreciate my 50% butter biscuits.

Another method of using this food combining, self-delusional dietary system to your advantage - especially when time is of the essence and your cravings are not to be ignored - is to incorporate both the good and the bad in the same food item.

The berry flan is one such notable item. It is ridiculously easy to order a hefty slice of this delightful dessert, saying something out loud to your friend like, "Ooooh, fresh berries, my favourite! I'll definitely have this one."

Never mind that said fruits are only a stingy layer covering up a brick-thick wedge of cream-laden, full-fat cheesecake which again rests on top of the crushed butter'n'biscuit base. That's just what we all need - the calorific content of the biscuits to be doubled by crushing them up and resticking them together with butter.

But hey, you had at least three mouthfuls of berries, didn't you?

Another personal favourite is the Sunday roast. It all looks and sounds so good in theory: mouth-wateringly roasted meats (with the fats dripped off onto the rack underneath) with an array of delicately steamed and oven-cooked vegetables. All of which is immediately cancelled out by the salty, oily and delicious gravy that is poured over your plate until no colour is visible except brown. Made entirely from the fats swimming in the bottom of the roasting dish of course. However, you need to remind yourself - you did eat three brussels sprouts and half a parsnip, didn't you?

As I was drafting this I applied the theory in relation to beverages, alcoholic ones in particular. My gin and (of course) diet tonic was strictly medicinal because the fresh lemon juice in it is helping my current bout of the sniffles. I'm not the only one in our household who likes to cling precariously to this threadbare theory. My darling Love Chunks has frequently argued that the 'glass of red wine per day' is good for the heart plus it's chock-full of grape juice. What more could a hard workin' family man ask for. (Apart from a Jennifer Aniston and Angeline Jolie menage-a-trois inside his million dollar marlin fishing yacht but that's not for this blog).

Naturally, as I enjoy seeing Bear Grylls fight for survival in the SBS documentary 'Man vs Wild' by wearing his boxers on his head and drinking his own urine (again), the the fat content of the four rows of Nestle Club Dark I will undoubtedly inhale will be nullified by my merely witnessing his strenous, death-defying efforts and reaching down to pat the dog and resume my knittng.

But does my daring dietary theory actually work? I'd like to think so, at least in my very own KathLand. In hard, cold reality however I still seem to have love handles that you could gather up and tie in a bow behind my back.

Knowledge November - Day 4 - Hardcore Hangovers
























I've learned that drinking a 250ml bottle of St Agnes brandy at an eighteenth birthday party in less than an hour will leave me throwing up long after I thought it was physically possible to.

The same goes for holiday Ouzo purchased in sunny Greece and sipped in a freezing London bedsit and Sparkling Shiraz guzzled like cordial in 35C heat at an Adelaide BBQ that left me sunburned, septic and strung out under a pine tree.

........Or three pints of Guinness swilled at the Dublin factory immediately following a tour that left me so unsteady on my feet that I knocked over a shelf in their gift shop (cunningly placed just outside their pub) and ended up purchasing a Guiness beach towel as an apology before staggering up O'Connell street to my BnB and wishing that Satan would stop stirring my brains with chopsticks and squeezing my stomach like a bellows.

Those hellish styles of alcoholic beverages have never been yearned for, tasted or touched my me again.

It's not just booze that can give hangovers too frightening to ever contemplate risking again.

Tinned peaches were adored by me as a child up until the age of six. As is typical in small children, I ate too much and did the 'ol blanket vomit later on that night that had Mum changing my sheets in the dark and Dad rushing outside to fling the blankets over the Hills Hoist and blast off the chunky bits still clinging to the wool fibres with the garden hose. The over-riding taste and reminder was of the tinned peaches and not the fried lamb chops, vegetables or ice-cream that accompanied them and I can't even see a can of them being opened without feeling queasy to this day

Yet I can eat enough liqueur, dark, milk, nutty, fruity, nougatty, soft, melted, strong, cakey, ganachey, crunchy, crisp, flowing, hot, frozen and molded chocolate to give me a hangover that's rivalled any of my brandy, ouzo, sparkling shiraz or tinned peaches and literally wake up the next morning and think, "Geez I could go a few rows of chocolate right now."

Knowledge November – Day 3 – Size isn’t important

I’m 41 years old today and I’m typing this with a sports towel wedged under my bum to catch the running sweat trickling down the backs of my knees and can hear several choppers overhead keen to catch some aerial views of the crowds attending the Melbourne Cup race.

As I sat in the kitchen earlier this morning opening cards and pressies with Love Chunks, Sapphire and Milly the dog, I mused aloud, “Have I learned anything this year?”
“I seriously doubt it,” shot LC by the coffee machine, making us all laugh.

But I have really. Twelve months ago we lived in a largish double-brick house on a piece of land in South Australia measuring 900 square metres – here in Victoria it’s 220 squares. We haven’t noticed the smaller space but have instead appreciated not being weekend garden slaves or hearing chunks of plaster fall from the ceiling and go SMACK onto the floorboards at 3am.

The gym – okay tool shed – we have is much smaller than our double garage, but it fits in the treadmill since it finally made its way through our delivery-unfriendly front gate. It also houses LC’s new bike and he's looking fitter, thinner and stronger. “Yeah, you’ve downsized yourself by running more this year Mum,” said Sapphire. Thanks sweetie.

Yet my chocolate stash has upsized thanks to GoneChocco and two stints on telly’s ‘A Current Affair’ (thankfully as a fluffy good news piece and not being chased down the street by a reporter as I jam my hand in front of the camera and avoid answering questions on what it feels like to make pensioners poor and homeless). My chocolate contacts have also upsized as I’ve met some really enthusiastic, genuinely friendly and talented chocolatiers, importers, creators and retailers who know more about the brilliant brown beauties than I ever will.

My income is far less than it used to be during my managerial stress-head days or the decline of civilised behaviour with The Bulldog, but it’s more than it was last year which was roughly the royalties from Work/Life Balance for Dummies (ie air and ego) and a tax refund from the previous financial year.

This year I’m actually earning money and still continue to feel utterly thrilled to see my stuff in the newspaper and to work with an editor who ‘gets’ me. I also get the jollies receiving little book parcels in the mail from Jabberwocky in order to review them. Good or bad is fine with me: the fun is in the discovery and in now knowing the delivery man by name.

The city is bigger (over 4 million compared to one million) but the local area is smaller. Joining the Flemington Association has given me friendship with people I might never have met otherwise and stirred a passion that I didn’t know I possessed for history, planning, character and culture .... and good cafes.

“What other changes in size have happened this year,” I again foolishly asked myself out loud in front of my family.

“Your cholesterol has upsized.”
Er yes, thanks darling husband.

“And you’ve downsized your life because you’re 41 now and have less life to go.”
Wonderful, Sapphire, that’s just wonderful.

Love Chunks handed me a freshly-made coffee. “Are you sure you’re not 42? I could have sworn you were 42 today.”

No. Our tiny kitchen just fits in Love Chunk’s coffee machine and the dining table is wedged in so that you need to suck your gut and squeeze in your butt-cheeks in order to sit on the furthest side and dog hairs collect in tumble weeds under the chairs and when Sapphire’s got SingStar going in the lounge room just two metres away it’s impossible to have a conversation but I feel like it’s huge.

It fits in Love Chunks, Sapphire, Milly and myself – everyone I love.

Knowledge November - Day 2 - Don't say it


















Don't ever say "Don't take it personally" to anyone.

Ever.

When you say "Don't take it personally", you're asking someone to accept an insult or an injustice, be publicly humiliated, do your dirty work, lose their job or do something potentially horrible to someone else (like fire them).

It is a meaningless phrase that is often only used to make the utterer feel less bad, not the sufferer.

Saying "Don't take it personally" means that you are also belittling that person's genuine pain and hurt feelings.

Think of it this way: If I came up to your house out of the blue and slapped you across your face and then defecated on your front door step before issuing you with a 'Don't Come Monday' slip, you wouldn't want me to then turn around and say, "Don't take it personally," would you?

Knowledge November - Day One

As longer-term readers might recall, last year I had an Appreciative August, in which I blogged every single day about things I was truly grateful for. Fellow blogger Franzy was inspired (at least, that's my interpretation of it) to start up his own monthly blog theme, but had the wisdom to designate it Single Sentence September which he's done two years in a row now. This year, I've selected November. It's my birth month and often a time I reflect on what I've learned int the past year as I (increasingly) eye another birthday number with equal parts concern and relish.

Knowledge November will see me trying to write on this blog every single day about things I've learned, noticed or realised during my own participation in the hardest event of all - life.

Thousands upon thousands of other bloggers are throwing themselves into NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month in which the goal is to either write an entire novel or at least 60,000 words by the end of the month. The challenge is a mighty one and therefore it's understandable how a lot of blokes - or brave Frida Kahlos - are instead opting for Movember in order to grow a soup-strainer above their top lip for charity with the option of a shave on the 1st of December.

For me it'll be knowledge. Some silly, some wise, some sad, some profound. Or just some.

Today - the very first day of Knowledge November I want to share with you something deeply personal and troubling.

Being a middle child (yes, that could be a separate blog page entirely) and the only girl meant that I used to feel (or liked to imagine, in my more dramatic moments) that I was just the 'spare' kid in the family. Jan Brady was my soul mate; albeit ten years older, many thousands richer and a hemisphere apart.

To me it seemed like Mum and Dad had made a huge fuss about Robert's arrival because he was first and his album was bulging with photographs, christening cards and notations about every aspect of his growth.

Little David's arrival was a huge event because he was the last child. And sickly. And was returned to the hospital for a week because he screamed and made Dad decide to undergo a vasectomy as soon as he could find an available doctor.

The few photos in my baby album - and the fact that my family continually reminded me that my nickname of 'Bubble' was due to resembling a fat SANFL footy player and because I was a chunky-wunky boombah who apparently liked to ride around and around the house on hot summer nights with a bucket on my head whilst the family enjoyed their dinner peacefully inside - reinforced this view.

The other day I saw a two year old girl with her family. She, like me was the middle child with her brother of around four years old was perched upon his father's shoulders and a newborn was sleeping in the pram. My Mum was with me, spending the day in the city before she and Dad flew out to New Zealand for a Grey Nomad experience over the Tasman.

I looked again and saw what they'd done to their precious little girl and clutched Mum's arm. "Oh that's terrible - she's not a wild dog!"

Mum looked down at the ground, showing an uncharacteristic blush of embarrassment. Over a cacophanous shopping centre cappuccino she unburdened herself of something she'd kept from me for nearly 39 long years.

The knowledge I have to impart is darker than being left outside playing with a bucket on my head: much worse. Are you ready? Really ready? Here goes....

I was the only child of the three of us that they put in a harness.

A harness.....! Those awfully humiliating bridles that evil parents make their toddlers wear so that they can't go anywhere fun or further than a metre from the torturer holding the reins who then yanks them back to joyless servitude and submission. Ropes and pulleys disguised in bright materials but never able to hide the fact that they were designed by child-hating Dickensians and still elicit gasps of horror when spotted in public places such as the shops or agricultural shows today.

Dad tried to soften the blow when I rang him, full of accusations, questions and tears.

"You always had a crazy look in your eye and we never knew just when you were going to dash out across the street or shoot around the corner."

Yeah but I was two years old....! Robert was the one who used to ram his head against the asbestos wall when he threw tantrums and David picked white snail shells off the brush fence and crunched on them like cheezels, so how was I any crazier?

I could hear his sigh over the phone line. "Look, we did the best we could do in limited circumstances. It was either that or club you into unconsciousness."

Oh. Maybe it was the best of two options then.

Physlexia

I've had days where nothing ever fits into my mouth except my food, stray insects and - sadly - Milly's tongue when I was bending down to pat Skipper and she seized an opportunity to stop licking her clacker and dash past and slurp me across the kisser before I could stop, sniff the air, feel my face and wonder, "Who just farted?" - but today I've had a Physlexic day.

Physlexia is debilitating, often humiliating and certainly time wasting ailment that results in nothing I touch ending up in the right spot, sometimes not even on the fourth or seventh try.

It is probably the universe's way of throwing a little Karma - and unwanted dog lick - my way for having a shameful propensity to guffaw loudly and inappropriately at people tripping over, falling down or being pooped on by birds. I'd like to think it's because it happens to me so often as well but if I ever catch an episode of 'Australia's Funniest Home Videos' a bit of wee often slips out and that's certainly not anything to be proud of.

Back to my case of Physlexia. This affliction is not a general descriptor, but one that applies to several hours of severe uncoordination performing tasks that can usually be done with my eyes closed. Therefore, it doesn't relate to lack of sporting ability when balls thrown or caught are required, but everyday stuff like hanging out the washing.

My OCD tendencies usually reign supreme during this mundane chore - undies, bras and socks at the back so that any surprise visitors aren't treated to a breeze-filled side-show of the Lockett family's underthings; then a line or two of Sapphire's clothes, adult clothes and finally the large items like towels and sheets. The trouble is, if it's windy, the sheets billow out across the outdoor table and have been known to turn a surprised guest into an instant mummy for a second or two before whipping back into position and resulting only in a surprised expression and a spilt cup of tea.

With the smalls, I usually grab six in my left hand and six pegs in my right and get cracking. Trouble is today Physlexia ensured that I'd drop a peg - bend down to retrieve it - straighten up and a bra would fall out of my hands. I'd bend down again to pick up the bra and three pegs would fall to the ground just as I'd straightened up again. I'd leave them there, reach up to hang up the bra and Sapphire's knickers would drop. I'd swiftly bend down to pick them and the pegs up and forget that I had four socks that would slip out of my grip during the upwards movement and land on Skipper's roof. To the fat guy smoking on the second floor balcony next door, all you'd have to do is edit out the clothes and pegs via a blue screen and I'd be doing a good imitation of Quasimodo doing his daily bell ringing.

This pointless process went on and on and on and by the time I'd finished the clothes were all securely on the line but covered in a fine layer of dust, dead grass and leaf pieces.

Inside wasn't too successful either. First I somehow misjudged the width of the bedroom door (maybe because I'd only passed through it about, oh, a thousand times before) and the thick, unforgiving stainless steel knob decided to puncture me in the upper thigh. I staggered backward and snagged the very same thigh - in the very same spot - on the edge of our bed frame. Poo-Bum-Bugger-Shit-Fart it HURT!

Working in the kitchen proved more challenging than usual (and that's really saying something). Stripping the long hairy bits off sweetcorn cobs is often a bit clingy at the best of times, but today they clung to my hands like mini Maggi noodles. I'd shake one hand and they'd fly off and stick to the other like those unwanted boogers we all try to flick off but don't want to admit to. Thankfully Physlexia didn't seem to be interested in playing havoc with any sharp knives and my only other misfortune was when the top of the squeezy honey container fell off and it burped out a cup load instead of a tablespoon onto my meusli.*

I found myself back outside by the letterbox struggling to pull out the log-sized load of junk mail wedged in there by a little old lady with a wonky old wheelie cart who I've often imagined must have the secret strength of someone a different gender and five decades younger. This daily event always then leads to me walking around to our wheelie bins and sifting quickly through the brochures with my left hand and throwing out the rejects with my right hand, whilst simultaneously flipping the bin lid open. Not today of course. Physlexia's foul foolings meant that I ended up re-enacting the snapping jewellery box scene from Pretty Woman more times than is worth counting.

Alas, even in the bathroom - the last refuge of solitude and simplicity - Physlexia won the day. Reaching in the lower shelf of the vanity for a new bog roll I tried to stand up and doinged - yes, doinged, it even sounded like that - the top of my incredibly thin skull up against the sharp-edged bottom rung of our heated towel rail. Pain and burns for the price of one doing.

Since then, I haven't the courage to try opening my carton of iced coffee at the lip or fold up Skipper's triple-hinged playpen and Love Chunks and Sapphire are out hunting down a rotisserie chicken for dinner so I can avoid hopefully avoid dealing with any apparatus more dangerous than a fork and a plate for a few hours more before this day ends.

Thank god for screw top wine bottles, ugg boots and rows of chocolate - even Physlexia is powerless against my skills in those areas.

* As if honey is going to make the world's most boring breakfast food any more interesting, but apart from drizzling the bowl of raw oats and nuts and bolt-type things with melted chocolate (and thus undoing my cholesterol reduction campaign) there's not much else that can be done, apart from powderise it in a blender and somehow breathe it in.

Ungrateful Gits

Love Chunks woke up on Saturday morning and, after he returned from his refreshing ten kilometre run along the Maribyrnong River, he cooled down, fetched the paper, checked on Sapphire and made us both a freshly ground and brewed coffee.

After finishing my cappuccino, I went back to bed for a bit more of a lie down - chocolate and book reviewing is exhausting work and it felt good to be able to get up at 10.00am instead of my far-too-rigorous weekday waking time of 7:30am.

He and Sapphire then decided to whip up a home made breakfast of potato rosti, poached eggs and home made tomato and kidney bean salsa sprinkled with chopped parsley from our herb garden, and called out to me to get up and join them.



















Later that evening as Sapphire was on the phone to Juliet and I was playing on the computer, Love Chunks rustled up a rather nice dinner - BBQ-ed peppercorn salmon, oven-roasted olive oil and rosemary potatoes, seared asparagus and sesame seed oil and salad sprinkled with balsamic vinegar. We ate with plates balanced on our laps in front of 'The Big Bang Theory'.


















But when it was my turn to do something for lunch the next day they weren't so thrilled.















I don't know why - surely they needed a change?

Fan Boy

"Here, this is for you," he said, beaming at me on Monday, offering me a freshly-picked flower.

He is tall, handsome, confident ....

... four years old

.... won my heart with his very first smile and impish 'Hello'

.... and I've looked forward to 'bumping into' him on the daily walk to and from school every day since that first meeting.

Carefully holding the flower, I walked alongside him, chatting casually, answering his questions with a breezy nonchalance I did not feel inside as his scooter clattered along the kerb.

The flower deserved to be saved for a while longer to preserve the wonderful fizz of happiness bubbling away inside, so an ancient shot glass was found for Patrick's impulsive gift.

On Friday, at the end of a busy week, I was at my usual place by the side gate at the school; not welcome in the grounds due to having Milly with me, waiting for Sapphire to emerge - sticky hair, tired grin and usually staggering under the weight of her tortoiseshell-of-a-backpack.

Fifteen minutes ticked by which is about five months in a 'The bell has gone and school's finished for the week' time-frame and Milly had been greeted and patted by her regular dozen or so stage door Johnnies. Sapphire's friends and class mates had all hustled past, said 'Hi' and headed home. The cleaner arrived and the yard-duty teacher was ready to unzip her fluoro vest and find her hatchback in the staff car park. Still no Sapphire to be seen.

My stomach started pounding in anxiety. Where was she?

Oh yes, then I remembered - Sapphire was at her extra music lesson straight after school to cover the one she missed when at camp last week. I was therefore content to linger at the gate with Milly, ruffling her ears as we checked the progress of the apartment block being built by burly Kiwi blokes across the road and the angry pair of Pomerians complaining about the intrusion in the tiny brick house next door.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Patrick. He was playing in the sandpit inside the school fence while his older brother Lachlan was kicking the footy with his father, Chris.

Patrick finished poking his stick collection into the squashed lunch time sand castle made by older kids and spotted me.

"Kath! Hello Kath," he yelled happily and ran over.

I turned and smiled, walking towards my young male admirer.

His father was about 100 metres away and had met me only once before and on that singular occasion I was wearing a dress, heels and make-up and was about to go out with his wife Amy to see a fashion show and movie about Valentino.

He was not, therefore, able to instantly compute that the figure in denim jeans and a black hoodie that was - at that unfortunate moment - covering her head due to the cold breeze, was, in fact, his wife's friend.

Like a taller and thinner Tom Cruise from 'Minority Report' at the swimming pool he instead noted that his youngest son was approaching a shabbily-dressed stranger at the school gate.

"Patrick!" His face was a mask of instant anguish and there was no way his six foot-seven frame was going to allow me even a moment to consider reaching out to ruffle his son's hair. He ran like a streak of petrified parental lightning across the oval.

"PATRICK!"

I flipped my hoodie back and smiled nervously. "Er, Hi Chris. It's Kath."

Chris's face was still reverting from panic to blankness.

"Chris? I'm Kath; your wife Amy's friend. We went to see that movie together...? We're coming to your place for morning tea this Sunday...?"

He nodded, the colour returning to his cheeks. "Oh, yes. Kath...."

I couldn't help but say it out loud.

"You thought I was a paedophile, didn't you?"

Food Fetishes

Yep, that title will get my regular 'Enid Blyton Nude Tennis' searchers in a lather! Calm down the rest of you, it's a meme (as in stuff about Me-ME!) on food. It's probably a good thing I did this straight after dinner or I'd be inhaling a wheel of Brie wrapped in bacon that's been left simmering in a cauldron of melted Lindt right now.















1. Whats your #1 comfort food?
Do I have to say it after all this time? CHOCOLATE. There. You happy now?
Blocks, truffles, bars, coatings, chips, cakes, tarts, cheesecakes, pastries, biscuits, logs, creams, caramels, ganaches, frogs, scorched objects, organics, liqueurs.

2. If you were stranded on a desert island what 5 foods would you want to have with you to survive on?
I’m assuming that tropical fruits, coconuts and fish are freely available – well they are on my desert island. Apart from the most obvious (see question one), I’d also have to go with cheese (wouldn’t think I’d be able to find a cow there, let alone the capacity to make a brie), bacon (a change from seafood and coconuts would no doubt be nice), rice (to make sure there was some ‘filler’ if fish and fruit weren’t plentiful) and black pepper. Everything tastes better with pepper.

3. What are your signature dishes? (What dishes are you known for making?)
Chocolate cheesecake
Berry cheesecake
Lemon cheesecake
Chocolate Mousse. Pots au Chocolat. Sexual Chocolate. Triple Chocolate layered trifle.
And spaghetti bolognese.

4. It's Friday night, you don't know what to cook. You opt for?
If Love Chunks isn’t home and take-away isn’t an option, it’ll always be a One Pot. Pasta, risotto, stir-fry or a curry of some kind. ‘Lazy and basic’ is one way to describe my approach to cooking but I prefer ‘organised’ and ‘reducing the amount of cleaning to do afterwards’.













5. What's your ultimate food weakness?
Oh come ON – chocolate. I’ve got high cholesterol, I run like the clappers just to look slightly chubby instead of morbidly obese and I actually lie in bed fantasising about the stuff.

6. What food can you soooo not eat?
Pumpkin and sweet potato. Hate them and actually start gagging if someone plops a chunk of the roasted stuff on my plate. Broad beans are a close second – Dad used to grow them and Mum would boil them until they went all grey and wrinkly. “Grey and wrinkly” is not how you want ANY food to look. Or taste.

















7. You need a drink, you grab a.....?
Glass of water, straight from the tap. Room temperature. Delicious.
Second – freshly ground coffee brewed by Love Chunks and his girlfriend Ms Krups
Third – three hand-squeezed oranges – and the pith – gulped down straight after a run
Fourth – icy cold Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee
Fifth – Domaine Chandon champagne (if someone else is buying).

8. What's the most decadent dish you've ever had?
It was more of a meal than a specific dish. Back in 1997, restaurant-of-the-moment Radii was open at the Park Hyatt in Melbourne, and LC and I joined three mates for a ‘degustation’ meal that clearly needed its own vomitarium next to the table. It was too much, too rich, too buttery, too oily, too heavy, too decadent, too wasteful too too too...... Poor Ian ended up in hospital the next day and had his gall bladder removed – that ridiculous meal was the final straw.

9. What's your favourite type of food?
Home made. Mum’s ham and pearl barley soup and her just-out-of-the-oven cup cakes; Love Chunks’ roast chicken, linguine carbonara, moussaka and salt-and-pepper flathead (the fish, not his hairstyle); Dad’s lasagne; Jill’s hummingbird cake and breakfast of any kind cooked by LC and Sapphire together.

10. Favourite Dish?
Too hard to answer. Is there a meal that combines roast chicken skin, bacon, asparagus, brie, stilton, chocolate, iced coffee, fresh oranges, kalamata olives, smoked salmon, carrot sticks and wood oven bread together?

11. If your partner could take you to any restaurant, where would you go?
My tastes are simple, so I’d avoid the la-di-dah places that win the chefs hats and poncy reviewer accolades. Instead, I love going to Chinese noodle houses that look a bit daggy but are full of homesick students or Greek places full of families and corner cafes that do a roaring breakfast trade all day. Pretty well anywhere that I can wear my jeans and sneakers into and not stand out.
















12. Soup or Salad?
Salad. Isn't soup just a hot salad? But no, salad it is, especially if it’s a ‘salad’ in name only but has lashings of blue cheese mayo, bacon pieces, parmesan shavings, croutons, olives, sun-dried tomatoes, char-grilled octopus or chicken that squashes the tomatoes and lettuce leaves.

13. Buffet, Take-Out or Sit-Down?
Sit down for socialising and take-away for hiding at home in my trakkie daks and ugg boots. Oh who am I kidding, ‘take-away’ – it’s always home delivery!

14. What's the most impressive meal you've ever made?
I did a pretty damn nice prawn and spinach risotto (from scratch) with dill (the herb, as well as my skill level) and lemon a few weeks ago that LC and Sapph were very impressed with. Still a One Pot though.

15. Do you consider yourself a good cook?
Only if Chopper REad considers himself a patient and gentle man, so Nope. Cooking is a chore, much the same as vacuuming up Milly’s hair off the red carpet, cleaning out the rabbit hutch or weeding without gloves. I love to eat but HATE having to stand at the fridge and think about what I have to do to what’s inside it to make it acceptable to plop on a plate.

16. Do you know what vichyssoise is?
Leek and potato soup or those silly 'poo catcher' pants made in silk that rustle when you walk to the bus stop?

17. Who's your favourite TV cook?
No-one stands out – they’re vaguely entertaining but I’ve never been inspired to cook anything I’ve seen demonstrated on the box. Jamie’s OK, but I don’t ‘get’ the sex appeal – the lisp, the Macaulay Culkin fish lips and the ‘loadsa herbs’ and ‘pukka’ is annoying, not attractive. Nigella’s fine too, but it’s more her way with words that’s seductive rather than her actual recipes. I love Masterchef as a tv series but have not wanted to cook anything that Gary Mehigan or George Calombaris have demonstrated – too fiddly and too fatty for me.

18. Can you name at least three famous cooking personalities?
Julia Child (love Meryl’s characterisation of her), Peter Russell Clarke (well, he used to ask “Where’s the cheese?” and end with a paedophilic giggle a lot in the eighties) and Keith Floyd – I loved the way the camera would fog up because Clive got in too close.

19. Homemade or homemade from a box?
Home made. Nothing out of a box fools anyone. And that goes for starlets' body parts too!

20. Tag three more foodies... Nah, I won’t because you all can do it if you like and let me know. Aren’t we all foodies, don’t we all need to eat?