The living, breathing Mulching Machine
Have you ever owned a dog? Our 'Jorgi' (the lovechild of a corgi and a Jack Russell) is 18 months old. She has the cute folded-over ears and body shape of a JR, but the lovely all-over caramel colour of a Corgi. Except for her front left leg which is white and looks from far away as though she has a bandage on it.
Obviously, like most other dogs, she likes to sniff the bottoms of other dogs when she meets them. However, our dog really goes to fourth base in that she likes to really sniff doggy butts. To the point of embarassment for me, her owner, and a sort of shocked 'Oh dear ha-ha-hah' chuckle from the other dog's owner. It's not just a cursory sniff, a wag of the tail and off they go for a chase; oh no. It's a v-e-r-y long thirty second inhalation and scented discovery of every millimetre of her potential new buddy's butt with the addition of surreptitious licks of whatever else may be dangling or lurking near the tail before going around to the front for a few slurps of their snout. Tail wagging furiously all the while, mind you, of both my dog and the lucky recipient.
Her unerringly enthusiastic version of a playboy bunny's welcoming skills has ensured that she has never ever been bitten by another dog. Despite her rather compact size, she too has yet to be beaten in a run around the local oval by any dog, including William the whippet. She's as nuggety as a footy player with the grace and pace of a grand final-winning Andrew McLeod.
The other day, after coming home from the weekly shopping trip, I presented her with a juicy bone from the butcher. It was a mutton leg, just starting to pong a bit from age and very generously covered with raw meat and yellow lamb fat. It made me slightly nauseous to lift it out of the bag in its sweaty, sticky, stinky state which of course meant that for our dog it was as compellingly attractive as a brick-sized bar of Lindt chocolate.
Or so I naively thought. I went back inside - yes, to wash my hands you germophobe - to finish unpacking the groceries. A minutes later, I was outside again, filling up the bin with various wrappers when I saw her in the garden, lying on her tummy contentedly chewing away at something wedged between her front paws as the sun warmed her back. "Ooooh you're a lucky girl," I crooned out loud like a demented 90 year old spinster, "What a lovely bone you have there!" Strolling over to give her ears a scratch, I noticed that she wasn't chewing an old bone: she was chewing an old stick instead.
"Hey hey HEY Furry Face, I spent a whole two bucks on that bone and you're not even eating it! Where did you put it?" Furry Face stared at me in that uncomprehending but winsome 'I-don't-know-what-she's-saying-but-her-lips-are-moving-and-I-want-her-to-continue-patting-me' expression on her face and continued gnawing at her preferred stick.
Later on in the afternoon she was prancing around the bottle brush bush with a canoe-sized piece of chunky bark that had fallen from our gum tree. This time she ignored the sunny spot and decided to jump up on my daughter's trampoline, slowly grinding her woody prize down to tiny splinters. This regular activity is tantalisingly frustrating for my husband, who often asks philosophically, "Why can't she be trained to chew it in the garden beds, so at least we'll get some benefit from the mulch she produces?" Instead we have to regularly sweep the top of the trampoline, or the back door mat, or once, even the top of the BBQ.
Yes, how come some of those poncy dog breeders (or in-breeders) don't try and come up with a dog who can do some basic chores? For example, if dogs (and cats) like to eat a few blades of grass every day (maybe it's their version of wheatgrass shots), why can't they be bred or trained to eat only the weeds? And as for dog turds, how come they don't bury them when they very willingly do bury bones, balls and stale bread rolls? Maybe they could be taught a thing or two about hygienic hole-digging from their arch-enemies the cats.
Let's not stop there, dear doggy breeders who may be reading this. How about we embrace the digging genes in their unique species and get them to dig through our compost piles in order to get them rotting down properly, and train them to only dig the flower beds when it's time for spring planting? It wouldn't hurt for them to have a dominant gene for the ability to switch on the timer taps either.
Or to sort out the recycling from the green waste from the ordinary household waste for us? Perhaps we could get the breeders to work cooperatively with the councils to develop a kind of wheelie-bin harness that the doggies could slip into in order to put the bins out on Wednesday nights and bring them in on Thursday afternoons? Considering too, that our dog will quite happily eat tissues, loo paper and serviettes if she can find them, how about developing a breed that will snuffle up the loose bits of paper and litter that blow down the street after garbage day? Or breeds that will inhale littered cigarette butts as though they were Good-Os?
And there should be no stopping other indoor advances as well. Opening the side gate for the meter reader; answering the door when your hands are in the sink water and your husband is in the toilet; flicking the heating switch half an hour before you come home or setting the video for the 'Lost' finale.
My Furry Friend is gazing up at me now, her brown eyes silently imploring me to walk into the kitchen and give the thawing steaks to her right now instead of cooking them for our dinner. It's only 2 in the afternoon; hours too early for her tea.
"How about a walk?" She's out of her beanbag and by the back door in a nano-second, flames burning the floorboards behind her. There must be some way to harness that speed and eagerness as an alternative household power source!
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Friday, August 12, 2005
Tantric Farting
In an attempt to learn how to relax and to hopefully learn how to stretch some muscles I don't know the existence of, I went to a yoga class.
I was really looking forward to it and eagerly turned up to the local YMCA dressed in my loveliest target leggings and baggy t-shirt. Being a crisp autumnal evening, it was with dismay that I entered the gymnasium to find that the class was being held on a vacant squash court. It was freezing there, but the teacher had put out a lot of fluffy grey blankets and urged me to find a mat, grab and blanket and lie in the, er, 'dead' pose I think it was.
I sneaked a few sideways looks at the others in the class. A lot of fiftysomethings: all lipsticked, blow-waved and in matching pastel tracksuits. And me, an exhausted thirtysomething who'd left my husband and daughter after dinner and the dishes and was still puffing from the rush to get there. In the background a CD was featuring some chap thoughtfully playing some panpipes near a running stream. The gushing water sound effects reminded me of my hope for some nearby toilets if I couldn't hold on for the whole class. All too soon the purposeful jingle of Zora's gold bracelets indicated that it was time to show us beginners what this yoga stuff was that all the stars raved about.
Zora looked like a fiftysomething too, but one who'd fashioned herself on a hybrid of Kate Bush, Stevie Nicks and Olivia Newton-John in her 'Physical' phase. She was wearing a lycra bodysuit of black and silver, covered with a loosely black crocheted wrap-around vest and a matching silver headband that barely reigned in her dyed black rock star hair. She wore enough face paint to make Christina Aguilera jealous and her long, wrinkled ear lobes were clearly protesting at having to support some turquoise chandeliers. Her legs were encased in tights but tell-tale bobbled lumps below her knees clearly indicated that she had more varicose veins than a senior ladies bowls final.
"Welcome to beginners yoga class, ladies. And congratulations for venturing into an area where, if you keep an open mind and heart, you will learn some spiritual and physical practices aimed at helping your mind, body and spirit achieve a state of enlightenment, or as we like to call it, a total 'oneness' with the universe----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
What the hell was that?
"......Don't worry ladies, it's just some gentlemen playing squash on the next court. Now, if I can get your attention back to me? Lovely, thanks. Throughout our journey, we will mostly be focussing on doing Hatha Yoga in this class. That is, we'll be taking the physical path using our body through Asana and Pranayama to control your mind and senses. It's more than stretching, ladies. It will open your energy channels, chakras and the psychic centre of your body."
Wow, that doesn't sound too bad for eight bucks fifty, I thought, especially if I also get to learn how to properly stretch my hammies and achilles and -----
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
Zora raised her hand, acknowledging the challenge of running her yoga lesson against the continuing squash match. "Ladies? Ladies, we'll be working on Prayama, which are breathing exercises that will help you keep things slow and steady and also enable you to let go of any thoughts that are distracting or stressful-----
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
"..........which will all lead you on your own personal purification process."
Well, I just hoped that she would be able help me personally purify myself by stifling the need to do a wee as soon as practicable, thanks to that panpipin' water music. Thankfully, the first move, 'Table Posture' was a doddle. Think of it as being on all fours, with a flat back like you have to do when your daughter wants a horsey ride around the coffee table.
"Well done ladies, are you feeling-----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Bloody hell Dennis, what a great shot, mate!
"......all calm and relaxed and ready to try some more?"
Yes, sort of, if only my head wasn't starting to throb from the unpredictable squash sounds. We all concentrated on doing the Dog Tilt; staying on all fours with bums down and faces looking up at the ceiling. It was a nice stretch and pretty darn easy. Next door though, Dennis's luck had changed:
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Stupid F*%$ing ball!
Tough luck there Dennis!
Zora's face was frozen into a grim, yet determined smile as we went on to Cat Pose. Our heads collectively dropped down, butts were pulled in and backs were arched. Mmmm, that one also felt nice. This yoga stuff is easy, I thought smugly, temporarily forgetting my full bladder and my aching head.
"It's time for a real classic, ladies: Downward Facing Dog-----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Not bad Dennis, especially after your knee surgery!
Zora demonstrated the pose for us and looked for all the world as though she was just asking for Dennis the struggling squash player to come running up behind and give her a swift boot up the arse. Still it looked pretty easy to me as I prepared to get myself into the pose. How wrong I was. My calves were screaming in agony and my arms and shoulders were shaking at the sheer effort of supporting my ever-increasing bladder and big fat head.
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Dennis - keep your eye on the ball mate! Like this, see?
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
"......Ladies, back to me please! You're all doing so marvellously well! Are we ready for a prayer squat?"
Sure, especially if I can sit down and massage my temples. It was just a big squat with feet flat on the ground and your hands pressed together in prayer in front of your chest and not something that Dennis and his ball-bashing buddy were going to spoil for us, was it? I all-too-hastily jumped down into position - paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp! went my arse.
Oh my god, I just farted out loud. In a yoga class, out in public, full of complete strangers. Did anyone hear? Yes, they did, as all the fiftysomethings' eyes, which should have been focussing on their own belly buttons, were now focussed on me. Where was Dennis's next squash shot when you needed it?
"Er, pardon me folks, it must have been something I ate, heh heh heh...." I lowered my reddened face in shame whilst absently noting that I could conveniently hide it in the downward facing dog pose.
"Well done ladies, it's time for the Gate Pose. Now put your left arm up the ceiling, like this, and put your right hand on your right leg and lean right over----"
Paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp!
"Whoops, me again, sorry about that - I'll move to the back of the class."
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Thanks for nothing Dennis, you were about ten seconds too late to hide my own contribution to anti-yoga noise pollution.
"Low Lunge time, ladies! For those of you who haven't tried this one before, it's like-----"
Paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp!
"Sorry Zora, I'm sure it's nothing like that, you just show the rest of the them and I'll pick it up as I go along" All heads ignored my weak smile and swivelled back to Zora whose mouth had turned into a cat's bum of disapproval.
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Dennis, calm down mate, it's just a friendly game, OK?
Dennis, come back mate, it was only a joke!
Dennis, where are you going?
Sadly, no-one said that to me as I sidled out of class and nipped quickly into the Ladies'.
In an attempt to learn how to relax and to hopefully learn how to stretch some muscles I don't know the existence of, I went to a yoga class.
I was really looking forward to it and eagerly turned up to the local YMCA dressed in my loveliest target leggings and baggy t-shirt. Being a crisp autumnal evening, it was with dismay that I entered the gymnasium to find that the class was being held on a vacant squash court. It was freezing there, but the teacher had put out a lot of fluffy grey blankets and urged me to find a mat, grab and blanket and lie in the, er, 'dead' pose I think it was.
I sneaked a few sideways looks at the others in the class. A lot of fiftysomethings: all lipsticked, blow-waved and in matching pastel tracksuits. And me, an exhausted thirtysomething who'd left my husband and daughter after dinner and the dishes and was still puffing from the rush to get there. In the background a CD was featuring some chap thoughtfully playing some panpipes near a running stream. The gushing water sound effects reminded me of my hope for some nearby toilets if I couldn't hold on for the whole class. All too soon the purposeful jingle of Zora's gold bracelets indicated that it was time to show us beginners what this yoga stuff was that all the stars raved about.
Zora looked like a fiftysomething too, but one who'd fashioned herself on a hybrid of Kate Bush, Stevie Nicks and Olivia Newton-John in her 'Physical' phase. She was wearing a lycra bodysuit of black and silver, covered with a loosely black crocheted wrap-around vest and a matching silver headband that barely reigned in her dyed black rock star hair. She wore enough face paint to make Christina Aguilera jealous and her long, wrinkled ear lobes were clearly protesting at having to support some turquoise chandeliers. Her legs were encased in tights but tell-tale bobbled lumps below her knees clearly indicated that she had more varicose veins than a senior ladies bowls final.
"Welcome to beginners yoga class, ladies. And congratulations for venturing into an area where, if you keep an open mind and heart, you will learn some spiritual and physical practices aimed at helping your mind, body and spirit achieve a state of enlightenment, or as we like to call it, a total 'oneness' with the universe----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
What the hell was that?
"......Don't worry ladies, it's just some gentlemen playing squash on the next court. Now, if I can get your attention back to me? Lovely, thanks. Throughout our journey, we will mostly be focussing on doing Hatha Yoga in this class. That is, we'll be taking the physical path using our body through Asana and Pranayama to control your mind and senses. It's more than stretching, ladies. It will open your energy channels, chakras and the psychic centre of your body."
Wow, that doesn't sound too bad for eight bucks fifty, I thought, especially if I also get to learn how to properly stretch my hammies and achilles and -----
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
Zora raised her hand, acknowledging the challenge of running her yoga lesson against the continuing squash match. "Ladies? Ladies, we'll be working on Prayama, which are breathing exercises that will help you keep things slow and steady and also enable you to let go of any thoughts that are distracting or stressful-----
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!!!!
"..........which will all lead you on your own personal purification process."
Well, I just hoped that she would be able help me personally purify myself by stifling the need to do a wee as soon as practicable, thanks to that panpipin' water music. Thankfully, the first move, 'Table Posture' was a doddle. Think of it as being on all fours, with a flat back like you have to do when your daughter wants a horsey ride around the coffee table.
"Well done ladies, are you feeling-----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Bloody hell Dennis, what a great shot, mate!
"......all calm and relaxed and ready to try some more?"
Yes, sort of, if only my head wasn't starting to throb from the unpredictable squash sounds. We all concentrated on doing the Dog Tilt; staying on all fours with bums down and faces looking up at the ceiling. It was a nice stretch and pretty darn easy. Next door though, Dennis's luck had changed:
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Stupid F*%$ing ball!
Tough luck there Dennis!
Zora's face was frozen into a grim, yet determined smile as we went on to Cat Pose. Our heads collectively dropped down, butts were pulled in and backs were arched. Mmmm, that one also felt nice. This yoga stuff is easy, I thought smugly, temporarily forgetting my full bladder and my aching head.
"It's time for a real classic, ladies: Downward Facing Dog-----"
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Not bad Dennis, especially after your knee surgery!
Zora demonstrated the pose for us and looked for all the world as though she was just asking for Dennis the struggling squash player to come running up behind and give her a swift boot up the arse. Still it looked pretty easy to me as I prepared to get myself into the pose. How wrong I was. My calves were screaming in agony and my arms and shoulders were shaking at the sheer effort of supporting my ever-increasing bladder and big fat head.
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Dennis - keep your eye on the ball mate! Like this, see?
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
"......Ladies, back to me please! You're all doing so marvellously well! Are we ready for a prayer squat?"
Sure, especially if I can sit down and massage my temples. It was just a big squat with feet flat on the ground and your hands pressed together in prayer in front of your chest and not something that Dennis and his ball-bashing buddy were going to spoil for us, was it? I all-too-hastily jumped down into position - paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp! went my arse.
Oh my god, I just farted out loud. In a yoga class, out in public, full of complete strangers. Did anyone hear? Yes, they did, as all the fiftysomethings' eyes, which should have been focussing on their own belly buttons, were now focussed on me. Where was Dennis's next squash shot when you needed it?
"Er, pardon me folks, it must have been something I ate, heh heh heh...." I lowered my reddened face in shame whilst absently noting that I could conveniently hide it in the downward facing dog pose.
"Well done ladies, it's time for the Gate Pose. Now put your left arm up the ceiling, like this, and put your right hand on your right leg and lean right over----"
Paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp!
"Whoops, me again, sorry about that - I'll move to the back of the class."
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Thanks for nothing Dennis, you were about ten seconds too late to hide my own contribution to anti-yoga noise pollution.
"Low Lunge time, ladies! For those of you who haven't tried this one before, it's like-----"
Paarrrrp!! parp parp! parp!
"Sorry Zora, I'm sure it's nothing like that, you just show the rest of the them and I'll pick it up as I go along" All heads ignored my weak smile and swivelled back to Zora whose mouth had turned into a cat's bum of disapproval.
THWACK! THWACK-THWACK-THWACKA WACKA THACK!
Dennis, calm down mate, it's just a friendly game, OK?
Dennis, come back mate, it was only a joke!
Dennis, where are you going?
Sadly, no-one said that to me as I sidled out of class and nipped quickly into the Ladies'.
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
REAL Womens' Magazines
I am a hypocrite and am willing to admit it. Well, at least for this particular issue. My husband has regularly had to endure my long and tedious pontifications about womens' magazines. Many's the time I've waah-waah-waahed on about them daring to display unrealistic images of starving models; promoting fashions that are completely unaffordable and including confronting articles on how to achieve a sex life that Pamela Anderson would envy - all of which make us feel completely inadequate. However, I still end up buying and reading the damn things.
Why? I have a post graduate qualification, read the obligatory 'literature' over airport novels and like to think that I have a vague awareness of current events. Yet I can also tell you that Paris Hilton's dog is called Tinkerbell; Elle's youngest toddler badly needs a haircut and Jude Law is a cad. A very good looking cad nevertheless. Articles on Lindsey Lohan and Nicole Richie's drastic weight loss have been avidly digested (pun intended), as has the ongoing saga of Brad'n'Angelina'n'Jennifer. My husband tells me that he's rather envious of Brad - that's right, he too likes to flick through the mags but won't ever admit it. The scientist/physicist within him is horrified at the blokey/Benny Hill that lurks within and once a week breaks through his serious exterior and leaps onto the latest magazine left on the coffee table.
Still, the question of 'why?' hasn't been addressed. It's not a quality I'm proud of, but the reason why I like buying and reading these magazines is to see stars and wanna-be celebrities when things don't go right. When they haven't managed to hang on to their hunky A-list bloke; when they've gained weight or been seen throwing a full-on tantrum after a long evening at the latest Hollywood hot spot. After all, it's these people whom the glossier magazines like to shove down our throats as being what we should all aspire to.
It seems like every friggin' article about Elle MacPherson is titled: 'Super Model, Super Mum', gushing about her body, beauty, wealthy, gorgeous partner and the sheer joy of motherhood. Aaaaugh!! I'm sure it is all a bloody joy if you have secretaries, dieticians, chefs, housekeepers, nannies, chauffeurs, stylists, gardeners, personal trainers and publicists around every day to help. Also, not many of us have a lingerie line to call our own, unless you count the damp ones hanging from the clothes horse in the spare room.
However, even with all of the above-mentioned help, Elle didn't escape post-natal depression or have an enduring relationship, did she? Those couple of negatives haven't stopped the magazine editors from featuring a photo of her this week on holiday in the Bahamas wearing a string bikini with captions like 'She's still got it', and 'The Body is now single, fellas!'. And, at first glance, she does look good. On second glance however she looks all of her 42 years - a freckly, leathery, over-tanned strip of beef jerky from whose hips you could slice the ham for your lunchtime sandwich. Her arms have those big ropey veins (as has Madonna) that reveal many years of dieting for too long and too hard. The hair is dry, stringy and a bit too young for her now.
Hah! A nasty reaction from me, but it's one that keeps me buying each new issue. Liz Hurley's another one for making me feel better about myself. Imagine being famous just for wearing some gold safety pins that accidentally snagged some black threads at a movie premiere. And then only because your boyfriend was caught with a lowly $20 streetwalker with her head in his lap. Bless her, but it only got worse for her, didn't it when the father of her baby publicly and humiliatingly denied paternity until proven wrong by a DNA test...... Other classics include Jerry Hall - for years a swimsuit model who always had 'The Model who tamed the Rolling Stone' moniker, only to be culkolded over and over again by Mick 'You can use my lips as a bean bag' Jagger...... Sienna Miller, being described as the Boho/It Girl, famous for well, being topless in a bit part in one movie and still Jude shags the nanny... Sharon Stone, whose only really successful movie was the execrable 'Basic Instinct' in which she flashed us her growler; now single and scarily botoxed.....The list could go on and on, but I'll stop there because it proves my point - they're a pretty shabby lot aren't they, despite their beauty, wealth and entourages?
My dream womens' magazine would have a 'Let's laugh at the Celebrities' section - see above. Then, when we're cheered up and glad to be who we are; namely, in the suburbs with a crippling mortgage, demanding children and an exhausted marital relationship, then we can read about real articles for real women. Such as:
I am a hypocrite and am willing to admit it. Well, at least for this particular issue. My husband has regularly had to endure my long and tedious pontifications about womens' magazines. Many's the time I've waah-waah-waahed on about them daring to display unrealistic images of starving models; promoting fashions that are completely unaffordable and including confronting articles on how to achieve a sex life that Pamela Anderson would envy - all of which make us feel completely inadequate. However, I still end up buying and reading the damn things.
Why? I have a post graduate qualification, read the obligatory 'literature' over airport novels and like to think that I have a vague awareness of current events. Yet I can also tell you that Paris Hilton's dog is called Tinkerbell; Elle's youngest toddler badly needs a haircut and Jude Law is a cad. A very good looking cad nevertheless. Articles on Lindsey Lohan and Nicole Richie's drastic weight loss have been avidly digested (pun intended), as has the ongoing saga of Brad'n'Angelina'n'Jennifer. My husband tells me that he's rather envious of Brad - that's right, he too likes to flick through the mags but won't ever admit it. The scientist/physicist within him is horrified at the blokey/Benny Hill that lurks within and once a week breaks through his serious exterior and leaps onto the latest magazine left on the coffee table.
Still, the question of 'why?' hasn't been addressed. It's not a quality I'm proud of, but the reason why I like buying and reading these magazines is to see stars and wanna-be celebrities when things don't go right. When they haven't managed to hang on to their hunky A-list bloke; when they've gained weight or been seen throwing a full-on tantrum after a long evening at the latest Hollywood hot spot. After all, it's these people whom the glossier magazines like to shove down our throats as being what we should all aspire to.
It seems like every friggin' article about Elle MacPherson is titled: 'Super Model, Super Mum', gushing about her body, beauty, wealthy, gorgeous partner and the sheer joy of motherhood. Aaaaugh!! I'm sure it is all a bloody joy if you have secretaries, dieticians, chefs, housekeepers, nannies, chauffeurs, stylists, gardeners, personal trainers and publicists around every day to help. Also, not many of us have a lingerie line to call our own, unless you count the damp ones hanging from the clothes horse in the spare room.
However, even with all of the above-mentioned help, Elle didn't escape post-natal depression or have an enduring relationship, did she? Those couple of negatives haven't stopped the magazine editors from featuring a photo of her this week on holiday in the Bahamas wearing a string bikini with captions like 'She's still got it', and 'The Body is now single, fellas!'. And, at first glance, she does look good. On second glance however she looks all of her 42 years - a freckly, leathery, over-tanned strip of beef jerky from whose hips you could slice the ham for your lunchtime sandwich. Her arms have those big ropey veins (as has Madonna) that reveal many years of dieting for too long and too hard. The hair is dry, stringy and a bit too young for her now.
Hah! A nasty reaction from me, but it's one that keeps me buying each new issue. Liz Hurley's another one for making me feel better about myself. Imagine being famous just for wearing some gold safety pins that accidentally snagged some black threads at a movie premiere. And then only because your boyfriend was caught with a lowly $20 streetwalker with her head in his lap. Bless her, but it only got worse for her, didn't it when the father of her baby publicly and humiliatingly denied paternity until proven wrong by a DNA test...... Other classics include Jerry Hall - for years a swimsuit model who always had 'The Model who tamed the Rolling Stone' moniker, only to be culkolded over and over again by Mick 'You can use my lips as a bean bag' Jagger...... Sienna Miller, being described as the Boho/It Girl, famous for well, being topless in a bit part in one movie and still Jude shags the nanny... Sharon Stone, whose only really successful movie was the execrable 'Basic Instinct' in which she flashed us her growler; now single and scarily botoxed.....The list could go on and on, but I'll stop there because it proves my point - they're a pretty shabby lot aren't they, despite their beauty, wealth and entourages?
My dream womens' magazine would have a 'Let's laugh at the Celebrities' section - see above. Then, when we're cheered up and glad to be who we are; namely, in the suburbs with a crippling mortgage, demanding children and an exhausted marital relationship, then we can read about real articles for real women. Such as:
- Don't waste money on tiny crystals, diamentes and glitter. Your toddler can jazz up those boring black work trousers for you. Simply let them hug you from behind, rub their nose on the back of your legs and voila, those snotty little snail trails are now Stylish Silver strands!
- Stuff what they're wearing in Milan - grey tracksuit pants are IN. Go anywhere, do anything and be in no danger of being raped or pillaged by men driven insane by your very aura
- SEX - Forget wasting money on g-strings, frilly bras and manuals on how to keep the man in your life interested. They just don't notice that sort of crap. They are happy if you say yes and are awake. Preferably.
- Next month: How to have sex and sleep at the same time
- Shoes that you can actually walk in.
- How to block out the buzz-saw whine of a tired child's voice when you're out shopping or waiting in the doctor's surgery
- Fashion on a $200 a year budget
- Three easy steps to stop you from over-volunteering to be on more childcare, primary school, sports club, community and fund-raising committees
- Five minute meals with a tin of baked beans, a dial-a-pizza menu and some flat coke
- Mummy Guilt. We all have it and always will. End of story.
- Competition - A weekend's stay (including meals) at a nice BnB in your neck of the woods, with a professional babysitter included
- Chocolate - the new, sixth essential food group. We tell you why.
- Horoscopes - just the one for all twelve astrological signs: You're going to be busy with home and work; very tired all the time and always worried about your kids, house and money situation. You won't feel sexy, thin, smart or successful enough, yet your kids and hubby will still love you. So there.
Monday, August 08, 2005
Saga of Six Crowns
On Friday I was in unwillingly in the big smoke, off to the dentist. For the sixth time in as many weeks.
Y'see, I'm a real stress head. For the past year, my workload - and the way I was reacting to it - resulted in quite a few health problems, one of which was that my the two teeth on the bottom at the back on each side and my two upper front teeth (still with me? If not, I'm talking about six teeth in total) had been worn away to the dentine (the painful, soft bit underneath the enamel) thanks to my unconscious new habit of jaw clenching and grinding during my sleep. It meant that I could barely drink a tepid glass of water or suck air in through my teeth without clutching my head in pain like a permanent brainfreeze but without the fun of eating the icecream beforehand.
My dentist, Doctor T, advised me that he'd need to install six new crowns to make up for the damage caused. At the time I wasn't too sure what crowns were - false teeth, or merely caps? They're sort of somewhere in between: like a false tooth that's permanently affixed to your original tooth which has been drilled away to a tiny peg by the dentist. After the usual check up and x-rays, my first visit involved him grinding away my two back teeth on the left side. Three injections were needed to numb my face enough for Dr T to get his maxi-drill into my cake-cave and start planing the teeth away to tiny stubs. Whilst I could not feel any pain, I could hear the drill, feel the wet spray flying out of my mouth and smell the unforgettable odour of my own slightly burnt teeth shards. It's not a smell I'll forget in a hurry and not one that even those 'clean laundry', 'dirt' and 'coffee bean' perfumers will be rushing to put in their stores.
All this gave me ample time to count the numbers of holes in each ceiling tile - 29 x 29. A weird number it seemed to me, but then again it was preferable to counting Dr T's nostril hairs or getting glimpses of the broken tombstones in my mouth via the reflection in his safety glasses.
His sulky assistant prepared some sort of silly putty to put in my mouth in order to make a mould for the temporary teeth I'd need until my real crowns were ready in about a fortnight's time. He had to press the glue and the interim crowns in as though he was packing down his sleeping bag into one of those sausage sized covers: I was convinced that his hand was going to burst through the back of my head and beyond the back of the headrest.
I was finally allowed to see the teeth, but all they looked like was two half-melted minties. Good enough for a part of my body that'll only get seen if I'm screaming in terror or giggling myself stupid. This very same process happened again for my other two back teeth.
I was expecting the same process for my two front teeth. However, having two temporary crowns stuck on top of the two tiny pegs that were all that remained of my original front teeth made it look as though I'd stuck two chunks of teacher's chalk under my top lip for a dare. I was going to have to talk, smile and be seen in public with teeth that couldn't have been more fake than if they'd been chewed out of wet tissue and spat into my mouth with a pea shooter.
It was a long fortnight, and one that involved very little smiling or uncontrollable laughter (or terror, for that matter). It was with relief - and that's an unusual sentence to write in an article about multiple visits to a dentist - that I fronted up to get my 'real' crowns for my two front teeth; the 'king' teeth that are the main stars of the mouth and smile show. The fake ones were taken off with a few disconcerting "Oh dear, this is difficult" and "Goodness me, the glue's good, isn't it?" by Dr T as he resorted to kneeling on my shoulders and pulling my head so far out of the chair it smacked into the light.
Somehow they were off, and my two new choppers were ceremoniously brought in on a surgical tray. Under the light of the dental chair they looked pretty OK to me. On went the cement and in the mouth. Done. I thanked him, and toddled off back home.
It was only then that I realised that I hadn't even seen what they actually looked like in my mouth. I wandered into the 1980s pink and brass nightmare that is our bathroom and gawped at the mirror in ever-increasing horror. They were grey. My other teeth were white or at least off white. Perhaps it was just me being over-sensitive so I waited until I saw my daughter and husband that afternoon. "Mum your teeth are funny," and, from my beloved, who is always so very tactful and kind, shaking his head: "They're shockers. You've got to go straight back and get them done right."
We've all had to take things back to get them replaced, fixed or a refund, haven't we? But teeth? That are permanently affixed in our mouths? That are made of stuff stronger than our own natural enamels and will last longer than our own lifetime? Hmmm, we ain't talking about an overcooked steak, wonky DVD rental or pair of shoes. Was the dentist no better than a tradesman who'll slap in the tiles in your laundry upside-down when you're at work and then bugger off and hope you won't notice? Especially if you've already paid his account?
There was nothing to it but to walk back in as soon as the surgery opened the following morning. Blushing profusely I asked Sulky Socks to see Dr T. "You don't have an appointment, can I tell him what it's about?" Whilst I was tempted to fire back with "It's about fixing my spare unicycle tyre.....what the hell else could it be about?" I didn't. Instead I gave a weak and embarrassed smile and whispered, "Er, I'm not happy about the colour of my front teeth."
Out came Dr T and with him, the dental technician, Bill. I again repeated my complaint and weak smile. They looked at my smile under the dental chair's light, then the office light, the technician office's light and then suggested I stand outside in the sunlight. I did, feeling like an right berk as I smiled at no-one in particular in the alleyway behind their surgery. There was a green BMW parked there that had 'BITE ME' on the licence plate. Just as my face was beginning to hurt from all that non-genuine smiling, they agreed: the colour was wrong. They got all technical about the base colour being too blue or something but I was happy enough to hear that they agreed about the colour and I didn't have to argue my case. Bill dashed back upstairs and returned with a colour chart of teeth and we three together selected a colour more appropriate.
Back on went the temporary spit ball ones for another fortnight of smiling with tight lips. Two very long weeks later and I was again back in the chair, nervously awaiting my new teeth. Bill brought them in proudly, "Ah these ones are grand, my best work yet." Yeah right, well we'll believe that when we see 'em out in the sunshine, buddy boy. l felt like a slow-mo headbanger as Dr T yanked off my temporary teeth. My tongue immediately ran over my front teeth and it was an awful feeling - two tiny sharp stumps instead of two square teeth and now Dr T wanted me to go outside and smile with these pegs so that they could check that the new teeth were the same colour.
"Please Dr T, don't show me a mirror of the remains of my original teeth - I don't need to see that underneath I look like an in-bred Hillbilly banjo player who only has enough in her mouth to suck tobacco with. I'll just have to trust that you and Bill can check that the colour is right."
"Fair enough. And don't worry, Bill's got the colour perfect this time."
They were glued in and I had a look - perfect, just like my old teeth, except stronger and hopefully immune to any stress-related nocturnal gnawing. "Great, I'm so relieved; they're so much better now," I beamed. "Well, that's the last you'll be seeing of me for a while."
"Sorry love, but we've got a few more things to sort out. It's clear that you'll need some root canal work on your upper jaw and we've got to make you a mouthguard to wear at night so that your other teeth don't get ground away...."
Yeah, it's a real treat for my husband when I go to bed at night now. He's always had to endure that final honk into my hanky to clear my nose before the two squirts of the tactfully named 'Rhinocort' are inhaled, followed by my slapping on some super-strength hand cream which I invariably use too much of and ask to rub the extra on his hands. But now my little routine ends with a 'click clack' as I pop in my rock-hard mouthguard. Any conversation we have after that results in my sounding like a lisper with a mouthful of fantails. Bring it on, baby!
On Friday I was in unwillingly in the big smoke, off to the dentist. For the sixth time in as many weeks.
Y'see, I'm a real stress head. For the past year, my workload - and the way I was reacting to it - resulted in quite a few health problems, one of which was that my the two teeth on the bottom at the back on each side and my two upper front teeth (still with me? If not, I'm talking about six teeth in total) had been worn away to the dentine (the painful, soft bit underneath the enamel) thanks to my unconscious new habit of jaw clenching and grinding during my sleep. It meant that I could barely drink a tepid glass of water or suck air in through my teeth without clutching my head in pain like a permanent brainfreeze but without the fun of eating the icecream beforehand.
My dentist, Doctor T, advised me that he'd need to install six new crowns to make up for the damage caused. At the time I wasn't too sure what crowns were - false teeth, or merely caps? They're sort of somewhere in between: like a false tooth that's permanently affixed to your original tooth which has been drilled away to a tiny peg by the dentist. After the usual check up and x-rays, my first visit involved him grinding away my two back teeth on the left side. Three injections were needed to numb my face enough for Dr T to get his maxi-drill into my cake-cave and start planing the teeth away to tiny stubs. Whilst I could not feel any pain, I could hear the drill, feel the wet spray flying out of my mouth and smell the unforgettable odour of my own slightly burnt teeth shards. It's not a smell I'll forget in a hurry and not one that even those 'clean laundry', 'dirt' and 'coffee bean' perfumers will be rushing to put in their stores.
All this gave me ample time to count the numbers of holes in each ceiling tile - 29 x 29. A weird number it seemed to me, but then again it was preferable to counting Dr T's nostril hairs or getting glimpses of the broken tombstones in my mouth via the reflection in his safety glasses.
His sulky assistant prepared some sort of silly putty to put in my mouth in order to make a mould for the temporary teeth I'd need until my real crowns were ready in about a fortnight's time. He had to press the glue and the interim crowns in as though he was packing down his sleeping bag into one of those sausage sized covers: I was convinced that his hand was going to burst through the back of my head and beyond the back of the headrest.
I was finally allowed to see the teeth, but all they looked like was two half-melted minties. Good enough for a part of my body that'll only get seen if I'm screaming in terror or giggling myself stupid. This very same process happened again for my other two back teeth.
I was expecting the same process for my two front teeth. However, having two temporary crowns stuck on top of the two tiny pegs that were all that remained of my original front teeth made it look as though I'd stuck two chunks of teacher's chalk under my top lip for a dare. I was going to have to talk, smile and be seen in public with teeth that couldn't have been more fake than if they'd been chewed out of wet tissue and spat into my mouth with a pea shooter.
It was a long fortnight, and one that involved very little smiling or uncontrollable laughter (or terror, for that matter). It was with relief - and that's an unusual sentence to write in an article about multiple visits to a dentist - that I fronted up to get my 'real' crowns for my two front teeth; the 'king' teeth that are the main stars of the mouth and smile show. The fake ones were taken off with a few disconcerting "Oh dear, this is difficult" and "Goodness me, the glue's good, isn't it?" by Dr T as he resorted to kneeling on my shoulders and pulling my head so far out of the chair it smacked into the light.
Somehow they were off, and my two new choppers were ceremoniously brought in on a surgical tray. Under the light of the dental chair they looked pretty OK to me. On went the cement and in the mouth. Done. I thanked him, and toddled off back home.
It was only then that I realised that I hadn't even seen what they actually looked like in my mouth. I wandered into the 1980s pink and brass nightmare that is our bathroom and gawped at the mirror in ever-increasing horror. They were grey. My other teeth were white or at least off white. Perhaps it was just me being over-sensitive so I waited until I saw my daughter and husband that afternoon. "Mum your teeth are funny," and, from my beloved, who is always so very tactful and kind, shaking his head: "They're shockers. You've got to go straight back and get them done right."
We've all had to take things back to get them replaced, fixed or a refund, haven't we? But teeth? That are permanently affixed in our mouths? That are made of stuff stronger than our own natural enamels and will last longer than our own lifetime? Hmmm, we ain't talking about an overcooked steak, wonky DVD rental or pair of shoes. Was the dentist no better than a tradesman who'll slap in the tiles in your laundry upside-down when you're at work and then bugger off and hope you won't notice? Especially if you've already paid his account?
There was nothing to it but to walk back in as soon as the surgery opened the following morning. Blushing profusely I asked Sulky Socks to see Dr T. "You don't have an appointment, can I tell him what it's about?" Whilst I was tempted to fire back with "It's about fixing my spare unicycle tyre.....what the hell else could it be about?" I didn't. Instead I gave a weak and embarrassed smile and whispered, "Er, I'm not happy about the colour of my front teeth."
Out came Dr T and with him, the dental technician, Bill. I again repeated my complaint and weak smile. They looked at my smile under the dental chair's light, then the office light, the technician office's light and then suggested I stand outside in the sunlight. I did, feeling like an right berk as I smiled at no-one in particular in the alleyway behind their surgery. There was a green BMW parked there that had 'BITE ME' on the licence plate. Just as my face was beginning to hurt from all that non-genuine smiling, they agreed: the colour was wrong. They got all technical about the base colour being too blue or something but I was happy enough to hear that they agreed about the colour and I didn't have to argue my case. Bill dashed back upstairs and returned with a colour chart of teeth and we three together selected a colour more appropriate.
Back on went the temporary spit ball ones for another fortnight of smiling with tight lips. Two very long weeks later and I was again back in the chair, nervously awaiting my new teeth. Bill brought them in proudly, "Ah these ones are grand, my best work yet." Yeah right, well we'll believe that when we see 'em out in the sunshine, buddy boy. l felt like a slow-mo headbanger as Dr T yanked off my temporary teeth. My tongue immediately ran over my front teeth and it was an awful feeling - two tiny sharp stumps instead of two square teeth and now Dr T wanted me to go outside and smile with these pegs so that they could check that the new teeth were the same colour.
"Please Dr T, don't show me a mirror of the remains of my original teeth - I don't need to see that underneath I look like an in-bred Hillbilly banjo player who only has enough in her mouth to suck tobacco with. I'll just have to trust that you and Bill can check that the colour is right."
"Fair enough. And don't worry, Bill's got the colour perfect this time."
They were glued in and I had a look - perfect, just like my old teeth, except stronger and hopefully immune to any stress-related nocturnal gnawing. "Great, I'm so relieved; they're so much better now," I beamed. "Well, that's the last you'll be seeing of me for a while."
"Sorry love, but we've got a few more things to sort out. It's clear that you'll need some root canal work on your upper jaw and we've got to make you a mouthguard to wear at night so that your other teeth don't get ground away...."
Yeah, it's a real treat for my husband when I go to bed at night now. He's always had to endure that final honk into my hanky to clear my nose before the two squirts of the tactfully named 'Rhinocort' are inhaled, followed by my slapping on some super-strength hand cream which I invariably use too much of and ask to rub the extra on his hands. But now my little routine ends with a 'click clack' as I pop in my rock-hard mouthguard. Any conversation we have after that results in my sounding like a lisper with a mouthful of fantails. Bring it on, baby!
No thanks, I'm just looking
I'm 36 years old, look exactly my age which means I have a permanent post-baby tummy, wrinkles around my eyes and have very little time for current slutty-girl fashion. Despite this, I still need to venture into clothing stores occasionally, especially when my jeans are so worn out and under pressure that they're threatening to rip out a second bum crack.
Honestly is the best policy, I reminded myself as I nervously entered the Just Jeans store. 'DOOF DOOF WAAA WAAA WAAA DOOF DOOF!' assaulted my ears, and even my throat as the pounding of the dance music overtook me. There was a tap on my shoulder and a girl, aged about 11 and thinner than Paris Hilton mouthed something like "Can I help you?" Considering that I was the only person in the store, I mouthed back: "Could you turn it down?" She feigned deafness and cupped her hand behind her ear to get me to repeat it: "TURN IT D-O-W-N!!" With a sulky flick of her fried blonde hair, she spun on her heel (which was actually pretty impressive, seeing as she was wearing four inch spike heels with only a toe strap to hold them in place) and turned the sound system down one quarter of a decibel.
This attitude didn't faze me however. Being three times her age, I wasn't ready to give up so easily to a human hairpin with raccoon eyeliner. "That's sooo much better," I said, "Now, do you have any jeans that are not hipsters, that a 36 year old woman could wear without revealing her arse or gut when she sits down?" The blank look I got in return suggested not. "Umm, we have some that are a bit higher up on your belly.." she said doubtfully. The pair she handed me had a zip about 5cm long and were covered in cargo pockets around the hip area. Despite this, I tried them on anyway. Boy, was I glad that I'm a regular bikini-line waxer and have heeded my mother's advice that women over thirty should never raise their arms above their heads when they're wearing sleeveless tops because otherwise the world would have been at risk of seeing my map of Tassie...... At least they would have had the potential to see it if my stomach wasn't rolling over the waistband so freely.
The DOOF DOOF was turned up the moment I left the store empty-handed. Two shops down and it was EastCoast's turn. I recited my request in a telephone sales monotone: "Hello, I'm thirty six years old, have a stomach not fit for public consumption and need some jeans that will not show off anything below my navel. What have you got?" They had a pair of 'dirty denims' that weren't promising any sleaze but looked as though they'd been through a round of weekend gardening. My legs were imprisoned like pork sausages but the baggy waistband flapped uselessly around the lower half of my arse. All it needed was a hoop as a belt and I would have been all set to busk in the Mall as Bobo the Gender-Realigned Clown.
Perhaps a department store like Myer would have some more sensible options. No shop assistant came anywhere near me in the designer clothes section, presumably for fear of being contaminated with the Daggy Disease that was so obviously infecting me. At least it left me free to rummage through the racks until I found a pair with a zip that looked as though it could handle the job of holding back the dam that was my stomach. Yep, they looked OK on in the change room. Not crazy about the flarey bit at the ends though but I could live with it. As I peeled them off, the price tag swung around and revealed itself to me - $249 - no flippin' way!
Despondently I waddled down to Haighs chocolates at beehive corner. Just for a look mind you. Well, that was my intention anyway. A facefull of frogs later, I decided to brave Harris Scarfes. Now I know that I should give our long-established bargain department store a go, but I've always been put off by the Harris Scarfes of the not-so-distant past: having to squeeze past the throngs of old ladies fighting over the knitwear on sale in the front of the store andattempting ignore the halitosis of the shoe salesmen at the back of the store just to search in vain for some clothing not made from nylon or polyester.
I took a deep breath, reminded myself of my mission - Don't Come Home Empty Handed Or You're Not A Shopper Worth Her Salt - and went inside. It looked as though it had been through a minor makeover - a sort of botox version over the full face lift type. Not needing to avoid breaking up old ladies in scrums over cardigans or lean back from shoe sellers, I stood warily on the escalator up to the jeans section. There, on the wall were a few wooden shelves with some normal coloured denim jeans. Levis. Normal cut. Enough fabric to ensure that my arse and stomach would remain out of view whatever position I decided to sit, stand or raise my arms in. $70, a darned good price.
One swipe of the credit card and they were mine. Now, what on earth sort of top do I wear with them? The sequined slingshots on offer? The boob tube? A poncho? A skivvy? It was then that I realised my mission had only just begun: I now had to go and fight it out with the old gals in the knitwear section.
I'm 36 years old, look exactly my age which means I have a permanent post-baby tummy, wrinkles around my eyes and have very little time for current slutty-girl fashion. Despite this, I still need to venture into clothing stores occasionally, especially when my jeans are so worn out and under pressure that they're threatening to rip out a second bum crack.
Honestly is the best policy, I reminded myself as I nervously entered the Just Jeans store. 'DOOF DOOF WAAA WAAA WAAA DOOF DOOF!' assaulted my ears, and even my throat as the pounding of the dance music overtook me. There was a tap on my shoulder and a girl, aged about 11 and thinner than Paris Hilton mouthed something like "Can I help you?" Considering that I was the only person in the store, I mouthed back: "Could you turn it down?" She feigned deafness and cupped her hand behind her ear to get me to repeat it: "TURN IT D-O-W-N!!" With a sulky flick of her fried blonde hair, she spun on her heel (which was actually pretty impressive, seeing as she was wearing four inch spike heels with only a toe strap to hold them in place) and turned the sound system down one quarter of a decibel.
This attitude didn't faze me however. Being three times her age, I wasn't ready to give up so easily to a human hairpin with raccoon eyeliner. "That's sooo much better," I said, "Now, do you have any jeans that are not hipsters, that a 36 year old woman could wear without revealing her arse or gut when she sits down?" The blank look I got in return suggested not. "Umm, we have some that are a bit higher up on your belly.." she said doubtfully. The pair she handed me had a zip about 5cm long and were covered in cargo pockets around the hip area. Despite this, I tried them on anyway. Boy, was I glad that I'm a regular bikini-line waxer and have heeded my mother's advice that women over thirty should never raise their arms above their heads when they're wearing sleeveless tops because otherwise the world would have been at risk of seeing my map of Tassie...... At least they would have had the potential to see it if my stomach wasn't rolling over the waistband so freely.
The DOOF DOOF was turned up the moment I left the store empty-handed. Two shops down and it was EastCoast's turn. I recited my request in a telephone sales monotone: "Hello, I'm thirty six years old, have a stomach not fit for public consumption and need some jeans that will not show off anything below my navel. What have you got?" They had a pair of 'dirty denims' that weren't promising any sleaze but looked as though they'd been through a round of weekend gardening. My legs were imprisoned like pork sausages but the baggy waistband flapped uselessly around the lower half of my arse. All it needed was a hoop as a belt and I would have been all set to busk in the Mall as Bobo the Gender-Realigned Clown.
Perhaps a department store like Myer would have some more sensible options. No shop assistant came anywhere near me in the designer clothes section, presumably for fear of being contaminated with the Daggy Disease that was so obviously infecting me. At least it left me free to rummage through the racks until I found a pair with a zip that looked as though it could handle the job of holding back the dam that was my stomach. Yep, they looked OK on in the change room. Not crazy about the flarey bit at the ends though but I could live with it. As I peeled them off, the price tag swung around and revealed itself to me - $249 - no flippin' way!
Despondently I waddled down to Haighs chocolates at beehive corner. Just for a look mind you. Well, that was my intention anyway. A facefull of frogs later, I decided to brave Harris Scarfes. Now I know that I should give our long-established bargain department store a go, but I've always been put off by the Harris Scarfes of the not-so-distant past: having to squeeze past the throngs of old ladies fighting over the knitwear on sale in the front of the store andattempting ignore the halitosis of the shoe salesmen at the back of the store just to search in vain for some clothing not made from nylon or polyester.
I took a deep breath, reminded myself of my mission - Don't Come Home Empty Handed Or You're Not A Shopper Worth Her Salt - and went inside. It looked as though it had been through a minor makeover - a sort of botox version over the full face lift type. Not needing to avoid breaking up old ladies in scrums over cardigans or lean back from shoe sellers, I stood warily on the escalator up to the jeans section. There, on the wall were a few wooden shelves with some normal coloured denim jeans. Levis. Normal cut. Enough fabric to ensure that my arse and stomach would remain out of view whatever position I decided to sit, stand or raise my arms in. $70, a darned good price.
One swipe of the credit card and they were mine. Now, what on earth sort of top do I wear with them? The sequined slingshots on offer? The boob tube? A poncho? A skivvy? It was then that I realised my mission had only just begun: I now had to go and fight it out with the old gals in the knitwear section.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Bored or Brave?
A quick wander around my kitchen reveals a few of humankind's most popular foods that we would now dread contemplating living without. Classic basics that are always in our place include milk, yogurt and cheese in the fridge; and coffee and honey in the pantry. It leads me to wonder: Who were the first blokes bored and daring enough to try these foods for the first time in human history?
Already this article will have alienated fifty percent of my reading audience with my brash assumption that the initial tasters will invariably have been men. It may be an overly broad generalisation, but contemporary TV shows such as 'Fear Factor' and the food eating competitions from 'Survivor' seem to feature men as the winners in these daring dining dramas. Even my own father, who I once caught absent mindedly eating my cat's dried fish-shaped munchies from the bowl I'd left near the phone, continued to eat them after I, horrified, told him what they were. The masculine 'Jackass' within him burst forth and he got a great kick out of seeing the disgusted expression on my face. Therefore, I will go on to assume that even in pre-biblical times, blokes still had that mentality within them whilst us gals were too busy gathering nuts and berries with three babies strapped to our backs.
Alcohol. Who was the first guy willing to eat a piece of rotten fruit to see what it tasted like? Was it a dare made by his fellow neanderthals around the campfire? Was he facing near death from starvation? And, after eating this spoilt fruit, when did he notice that he felt rather warm inside and happier? After swallowing a few more squishy pieces, when did he believe that he was the strongest hunter; the best at draggin' the gals back to the cave by their hair; owned the most flints, did the funniest woolly mammoth impressions and started yelling instead of whispering? Sadly, we'll probably never know the answer to that essential question - not while the US is spending billions on jaunts to the moon and back in dodgy shuttles.
The little we do know about this chap really only goes as far back as 10,000 years in Mesopotamia, or Iraq as we now know it. Their first brews were made from date palms and news spread far enough for the Babylonians to write the first regulations about drinking in public houses and for the Egyptians to devise the use of straws to suck it down faster. Then of course the Romans went even further, and worshipped a God of wine - Dionysus (or Bacchus, if you were Greek). They worshipped this god in orgiastic binges of drunken excess and it's no surprise to read further on that they also built special rooms, known as 'Vomitoriums' to recuperate in before heading back out to the party for more.
Dairy Foods are even more puzzling. Historians attribute human reliance on other animals' milk to around 8,000 years ago when the Swiss and the African Masai tribe chucked away their pesky nomadic lifestyles and decided to form permanent settlements instead. They found that there was less wild animal food to be had and animal milk became a very important part of their diets as a result. OK, so that's all very interesting, but who was the Swiss chap and the African dude that, many thousands of miles apart, decided to have a go at lying under one of their pet goats, sheep or cows to have a wee suck on a teat? Seeing as date palm wine had been widely introduced to mankind about two thousand years earlier, perhaps it influenced their decision to try it....
What about yogurt? There's a legend that tells us that a young Turkish nomad noticed that his pitcher of milk wasn't looking too good after sitting out in the blazing 45C heat. (Not that he knew this, but it had been contaminated by organisms who thrived in the warm stuff). Despite the look and smell, he chugged it down anyway. He was apparently excited enough to tell the others of his tribe and by the 8th Century, it was known as 'Yogurut'. Bless him - was he brave, stupid, starving or lacking any sense of smell?
Cheese is the other classic food. Those date-palm-wine drinkin' Mesopotamians were still at it - they are also attributed with noticing that milk curdled in the heat and could solidify and taste different. Who was the poor sucker who had to taste the first batch? And as for later varieties of cheese such as blue vein, stilton and washed rind I have no doubt that the end product of fermented fruits would definitely have played a huge role in the foolhardy factor.
The world's highest traded item, second only to oil, is coffee. Where would we be without our morning jolt and excuse to meet up with friends? Apparently the first known discovery of coffee beans was around 850AD, which is relatively late for fearless food tasting. History has it that an Ethiopian goatherder named Kaldi noticed that his goats were - ahem - much friskier after eating them. This excited him enough to try them too and he ran back to his village and 'started to feel happier.' No details are readily available on which person ground them up and poured hot water over them, but I bet it was his wife who was trying to stretch her housekeeping budget a bit further and cope with a hut full of bouncing babies.
I'll conclude this piece with one of my favourite foods, honey. What lunatic, presumably not the full jug of date wine, would risk being stung on the face, hands and arse to clamber up a tree, wade through wax and slurp down this magnificent syrup?
These questions remain in the 'unanswerable' file, along with 'Why do men have nipples?' and 'Tell me again what the purpose of a mosquito is in life's food chain.' Take heart dear male reader - without the bravery and stupidity of your forbears, we would be so much the poorer without these fantastic foods.
A quick wander around my kitchen reveals a few of humankind's most popular foods that we would now dread contemplating living without. Classic basics that are always in our place include milk, yogurt and cheese in the fridge; and coffee and honey in the pantry. It leads me to wonder: Who were the first blokes bored and daring enough to try these foods for the first time in human history?
Already this article will have alienated fifty percent of my reading audience with my brash assumption that the initial tasters will invariably have been men. It may be an overly broad generalisation, but contemporary TV shows such as 'Fear Factor' and the food eating competitions from 'Survivor' seem to feature men as the winners in these daring dining dramas. Even my own father, who I once caught absent mindedly eating my cat's dried fish-shaped munchies from the bowl I'd left near the phone, continued to eat them after I, horrified, told him what they were. The masculine 'Jackass' within him burst forth and he got a great kick out of seeing the disgusted expression on my face. Therefore, I will go on to assume that even in pre-biblical times, blokes still had that mentality within them whilst us gals were too busy gathering nuts and berries with three babies strapped to our backs.
Alcohol. Who was the first guy willing to eat a piece of rotten fruit to see what it tasted like? Was it a dare made by his fellow neanderthals around the campfire? Was he facing near death from starvation? And, after eating this spoilt fruit, when did he notice that he felt rather warm inside and happier? After swallowing a few more squishy pieces, when did he believe that he was the strongest hunter; the best at draggin' the gals back to the cave by their hair; owned the most flints, did the funniest woolly mammoth impressions and started yelling instead of whispering? Sadly, we'll probably never know the answer to that essential question - not while the US is spending billions on jaunts to the moon and back in dodgy shuttles.
The little we do know about this chap really only goes as far back as 10,000 years in Mesopotamia, or Iraq as we now know it. Their first brews were made from date palms and news spread far enough for the Babylonians to write the first regulations about drinking in public houses and for the Egyptians to devise the use of straws to suck it down faster. Then of course the Romans went even further, and worshipped a God of wine - Dionysus (or Bacchus, if you were Greek). They worshipped this god in orgiastic binges of drunken excess and it's no surprise to read further on that they also built special rooms, known as 'Vomitoriums' to recuperate in before heading back out to the party for more.
Dairy Foods are even more puzzling. Historians attribute human reliance on other animals' milk to around 8,000 years ago when the Swiss and the African Masai tribe chucked away their pesky nomadic lifestyles and decided to form permanent settlements instead. They found that there was less wild animal food to be had and animal milk became a very important part of their diets as a result. OK, so that's all very interesting, but who was the Swiss chap and the African dude that, many thousands of miles apart, decided to have a go at lying under one of their pet goats, sheep or cows to have a wee suck on a teat? Seeing as date palm wine had been widely introduced to mankind about two thousand years earlier, perhaps it influenced their decision to try it....
What about yogurt? There's a legend that tells us that a young Turkish nomad noticed that his pitcher of milk wasn't looking too good after sitting out in the blazing 45C heat. (Not that he knew this, but it had been contaminated by organisms who thrived in the warm stuff). Despite the look and smell, he chugged it down anyway. He was apparently excited enough to tell the others of his tribe and by the 8th Century, it was known as 'Yogurut'. Bless him - was he brave, stupid, starving or lacking any sense of smell?
Cheese is the other classic food. Those date-palm-wine drinkin' Mesopotamians were still at it - they are also attributed with noticing that milk curdled in the heat and could solidify and taste different. Who was the poor sucker who had to taste the first batch? And as for later varieties of cheese such as blue vein, stilton and washed rind I have no doubt that the end product of fermented fruits would definitely have played a huge role in the foolhardy factor.
The world's highest traded item, second only to oil, is coffee. Where would we be without our morning jolt and excuse to meet up with friends? Apparently the first known discovery of coffee beans was around 850AD, which is relatively late for fearless food tasting. History has it that an Ethiopian goatherder named Kaldi noticed that his goats were - ahem - much friskier after eating them. This excited him enough to try them too and he ran back to his village and 'started to feel happier.' No details are readily available on which person ground them up and poured hot water over them, but I bet it was his wife who was trying to stretch her housekeeping budget a bit further and cope with a hut full of bouncing babies.
I'll conclude this piece with one of my favourite foods, honey. What lunatic, presumably not the full jug of date wine, would risk being stung on the face, hands and arse to clamber up a tree, wade through wax and slurp down this magnificent syrup?
These questions remain in the 'unanswerable' file, along with 'Why do men have nipples?' and 'Tell me again what the purpose of a mosquito is in life's food chain.' Take heart dear male reader - without the bravery and stupidity of your forbears, we would be so much the poorer without these fantastic foods.
Friday, August 05, 2005
An unintentional 'dacking' at Kinder Gym
Have you ever been to a Kinder Gym themed party? Here in South Oz, they are mostly held in gymnasiums in the rainier colder months and contain all sorts of fun things like Tarzan ropes, huge Olympic-sized trampolines, rolling mats, rings and - best of all by far - the Pits of Foam.
Pits of Foam, are, well, pits in the ground filled up with foam I guess. One Kinder Gym near us has a 10 feet deep pit in the floor, roughly two adult trampolines long that is entirely filled with foam and sponge squares. It can entered in one of two ways - by running along like a lunatic until you go "Sprooiiiiinnnnngggg!" off the mini tramp into the pit; or by flinging yourself in free-style at the other end.
Me, I prefer free-style so that I don't smother any little kid who inadvertently gets in my way. You see that's the joy of these Kinder Gym places: parents are allowed to play too. I defy any grown-up to say that they still feel stressed, angry, anxious or nervous after hurling their bodies about during their child's Kinder Gym party.
Admittedly, it does take a bit of bravery to do it. When the other Mums are clad in their Yummy Mummy designer duds and you turn up in your tracksuit pants and a ponytail, you are already saying loud and clear that you're up for a bit of immature action. I thought it was best to start slowly on something that's not attention grabbing, like a short go on the tarzan ropes. Feeling every single muscle under each of my arms snap away from the tendons like guy ropes on a tent is a subtle reminder that I'm no longer as supple as I was in those halcyon playground days of the 70s.
Still, I'm out there now, and there's no going back to the pursed lip crowd of the watching Yummy Mummies. It's over to the big trampoline. And what a flattering sporting device this is! Unlike my child's trampoline that has "NO-ONE OVER 90KG ALLOWED" stamped all over it - and my husband reminding you that my cuddly 67kg would translate to far more than 90kg when the physics of gravity and increased pressure caused by jumping are factored in - this trampoline is bloody HUGE. Three Kym Beazleys could jump on this and only be in danger of snagging one of their toenails in the netting. It's like swimming through air and boy, don't the children look small from up here? The only negative is that the last time I jumped on a trampoline (circa 1979) I didn't have breasts. Now they're threating to burst out from their underwire and spandex and blacken both eyes. Of the kid on the trampoline next to me.
Sadly, it's time to get off and let someone under the age of 37 have a turn and allow my now-throbbing hooters a chance to stop bouncing. Also because the Yummy Mummies are yelling at me to "Get the hell off and the kids a go!" All righty then, it's time for the PIT OF FOAM! In a lengthy run-up second only in athletic grace to that of a high-jumper, I go for the freestyle end. A triple pike, double lutz, back crackin', side splittin' dive later, my face is wedged up against the side and my back is being used as a landing pad for three foolhardy six year olds. Why is it that kids don't think that adults feel pain? I'd like to be able to voice that question out aloud, but by now my face has slid down the wall and I'm breathing in the crumbly bits of foam that gather at the bottom.
As for my bottom, it's sticking out of the foamy flotsam like a resurfacing whale and through the foamy spongey crumble-haze I am vaguely aware of another little midget landing on it after their leap off the mini trampoline end. Channelling Dory from 'Finding Nemo', I find myself singing 'Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming swimming......' as I ineffectually flop around to flip myself upright. Five minutes later, my panicked red face bursts triumphantly through the surface of the foam cubes.
Each attempt to clamber out of the pit itself seems to result in sinking further to the bottom in an increasing cycle of exhaustion and foam crumb inhalation. Somehow I have success after hoiking my right leg up and out of the pit and dragging the rest of me behind. It would have looked rather dignified and deft if I hadn't have accidentally strained a hammie and popped off a stinker at the same time. Luckily, no-one heard or noticed my efforts except for a three year old sibling, who stared at me, stared at the booger on her finger and stared at me some more.
It is now that I curse wearing baggy trakkie daks with a generously elasticated waistband. A supervisory father kindly offers to grab my arms to haul me out. My arms and my torso are now being heaved safely out of the satanic pit, but my tracksuit pants have stuck to the god-awful cubes like obsessive velcro. As I slowly emerge, it is with increasing horror that I feel my daks slowly pulling themselves down. Do I yell out "STOP! Let me drop! You go on ahead and leave me here" to the helpful father or be more grateful to escape than ashamed at showing off my arse to a packed gymnasium?
Like a footy player caught with his shorts pulled down during a running tackle, I have no choice. It's the arse and then freedom. It is with an increasingly mature attitude that I realise the truth - I've got to keep going, finish the task and then pull up my pants with confidence. Pity about the Yummy Mummy choking on her takeaway latte though.
Have you ever been to a Kinder Gym themed party? Here in South Oz, they are mostly held in gymnasiums in the rainier colder months and contain all sorts of fun things like Tarzan ropes, huge Olympic-sized trampolines, rolling mats, rings and - best of all by far - the Pits of Foam.
Pits of Foam, are, well, pits in the ground filled up with foam I guess. One Kinder Gym near us has a 10 feet deep pit in the floor, roughly two adult trampolines long that is entirely filled with foam and sponge squares. It can entered in one of two ways - by running along like a lunatic until you go "Sprooiiiiinnnnngggg!" off the mini tramp into the pit; or by flinging yourself in free-style at the other end.
Me, I prefer free-style so that I don't smother any little kid who inadvertently gets in my way. You see that's the joy of these Kinder Gym places: parents are allowed to play too. I defy any grown-up to say that they still feel stressed, angry, anxious or nervous after hurling their bodies about during their child's Kinder Gym party.
Admittedly, it does take a bit of bravery to do it. When the other Mums are clad in their Yummy Mummy designer duds and you turn up in your tracksuit pants and a ponytail, you are already saying loud and clear that you're up for a bit of immature action. I thought it was best to start slowly on something that's not attention grabbing, like a short go on the tarzan ropes. Feeling every single muscle under each of my arms snap away from the tendons like guy ropes on a tent is a subtle reminder that I'm no longer as supple as I was in those halcyon playground days of the 70s.
Still, I'm out there now, and there's no going back to the pursed lip crowd of the watching Yummy Mummies. It's over to the big trampoline. And what a flattering sporting device this is! Unlike my child's trampoline that has "NO-ONE OVER 90KG ALLOWED" stamped all over it - and my husband reminding you that my cuddly 67kg would translate to far more than 90kg when the physics of gravity and increased pressure caused by jumping are factored in - this trampoline is bloody HUGE. Three Kym Beazleys could jump on this and only be in danger of snagging one of their toenails in the netting. It's like swimming through air and boy, don't the children look small from up here? The only negative is that the last time I jumped on a trampoline (circa 1979) I didn't have breasts. Now they're threating to burst out from their underwire and spandex and blacken both eyes. Of the kid on the trampoline next to me.
Sadly, it's time to get off and let someone under the age of 37 have a turn and allow my now-throbbing hooters a chance to stop bouncing. Also because the Yummy Mummies are yelling at me to "Get the hell off and the kids a go!" All righty then, it's time for the PIT OF FOAM! In a lengthy run-up second only in athletic grace to that of a high-jumper, I go for the freestyle end. A triple pike, double lutz, back crackin', side splittin' dive later, my face is wedged up against the side and my back is being used as a landing pad for three foolhardy six year olds. Why is it that kids don't think that adults feel pain? I'd like to be able to voice that question out aloud, but by now my face has slid down the wall and I'm breathing in the crumbly bits of foam that gather at the bottom.
As for my bottom, it's sticking out of the foamy flotsam like a resurfacing whale and through the foamy spongey crumble-haze I am vaguely aware of another little midget landing on it after their leap off the mini trampoline end. Channelling Dory from 'Finding Nemo', I find myself singing 'Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, swimming swimming......' as I ineffectually flop around to flip myself upright. Five minutes later, my panicked red face bursts triumphantly through the surface of the foam cubes.
Each attempt to clamber out of the pit itself seems to result in sinking further to the bottom in an increasing cycle of exhaustion and foam crumb inhalation. Somehow I have success after hoiking my right leg up and out of the pit and dragging the rest of me behind. It would have looked rather dignified and deft if I hadn't have accidentally strained a hammie and popped off a stinker at the same time. Luckily, no-one heard or noticed my efforts except for a three year old sibling, who stared at me, stared at the booger on her finger and stared at me some more.
It is now that I curse wearing baggy trakkie daks with a generously elasticated waistband. A supervisory father kindly offers to grab my arms to haul me out. My arms and my torso are now being heaved safely out of the satanic pit, but my tracksuit pants have stuck to the god-awful cubes like obsessive velcro. As I slowly emerge, it is with increasing horror that I feel my daks slowly pulling themselves down. Do I yell out "STOP! Let me drop! You go on ahead and leave me here" to the helpful father or be more grateful to escape than ashamed at showing off my arse to a packed gymnasium?
Like a footy player caught with his shorts pulled down during a running tackle, I have no choice. It's the arse and then freedom. It is with an increasingly mature attitude that I realise the truth - I've got to keep going, finish the task and then pull up my pants with confidence. Pity about the Yummy Mummy choking on her takeaway latte though.
Clubbing 2005
The ceiling lights are off and the multi-coloured dance lights are swirling around the crowded room instead. Kylie’s ‘Locomotion’ is blaring out of the huge sound system and smoke from the dry ice machine is billowing dramatically in the air.
The guys linger on the outside of the hall nursing their drinks, nervously chatting to each other and trying not to pay attention to the girls. The girls are dancing in groups, giggling and sneaking glances at them.
The drinks the boys are holding have wonky right-angled straws. In their excitement, some boys have squeezed these fruit-boxes too hard and the floor is now lacquered in orange juice. At the bar, several dozen packets of chips are on sale and have attracted an eager crowd of buyers. The girls who are busy dancing have donned their glow-in-the-dark bracelets, waving them in time to the songs. It’s a late night – five o’clock – and the party is just starting.
We parents recognise the scene, having attended many such events ourselves. Tonight though, it’s our six year old children who are the patrons of their primary school reception-to-year-three disco. A full hour of ‘mayhem to music’ from 5pm to 6pm. They are all out of uniform, whilst we oldies remain in our work clothes or jeans. We sit quietly in the chairs furthest away from the DJ, feeling very much like daggy wallflowers, yet most of us can not resist the urge to smile at the entertaining scene.
‘Hollaback Girl’ by Gwen Stefani comes on, and all of a sudden the dance floor is packed. This is a song they all know, unlike that old one that they could see their mums singing along to. Boys link arms with each other and some of the girls do rather good versions of gyrating and shoulder wiggling. A third group becomes mesmerised by the video screen, and a fourth decide to make light sabres out of their glow sticks and hold sword fights instead.
Fashion is out in force tonight and everyone looks fabulous. Long boots are the clear winner in the ladies’ footwear stakes, as are denim skirts and fur-trimmed vests. The boys mirror the girls by choosing vests and denims but have forsaken boots for their newest sneakers. Hair gel is everywhere, making it a risky proposition for a passing grown-up to ruffle any child’s’ hair without spiking their hands.
The heat in the room is now stifling and the juice is flowing freely. The dancers start to tire and head back to the bar for sustenance or to their parents for a lap to sit and recuperate on. The DJ senses this and opts for a classic: ‘YMCA’ by the Village People. The dance floor is packed again; this time by the parents, dragging their offspring with them. One boy is overheard asking his Dad: “How come you know the words to this song? What are you doing with your arms?” It doesn’t end there – ‘Nutbush City Limits’ is played next and the teachers enter the sweaty fray. It’s elbow room only at the hottest place to be at 5pm in the suburbs.
My daughter is having a wonderful time and has only come over once to ask for some money to buy a packet of chips. She has danced to every song and has bucked the vest-denim/boots trend in favour of her purple Angelina Ballerina tutu ensemble. This look has impressed young Jacob, who bravely ventures over to yell in her ear: “That’s a pretty dress. Do you want to have a dance with me?” Hell, if she didn’t I would have, but she did. They held each other’s hands and shuffled uncertainly to a rather inappropriate dance version of ‘Sexual Healing.’ It raised a few eyebrows amongst those older than eight as we all mentally crossed our fingers that none of them could understand any of the lyrics or decide to ask us any awkward questions afterward.
The two young dancers didn’t last out the entire song, however. He wandered off to get a closer look at the smoke machine and she came over to ask me if she could buy anything else. “No, it’s nearly tea time”, was the response.
The disco finished off with Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’; obviously a modern classic for these young funksters. The light sabre fighters were still fighting, albeit to the beat of the song, the video-heads were enthralled with the video clip and the bar was finally closing.
All too soon, the smoke dissipated, the sound was turned way down and the overheard fluoro lights were turned on. I clutched my lovely girl’s sweaty little hand and gazed down at her flushed, happy face. Would you like to come here again next time? “Oh yes”, she immediately replied. “But don’t drop me off, I want you to be here the whole time.”
Of course – just try and stop me. I just hope that next time my eyes won’t fill with tears so that it’s noticeable to any of the kids.
The ceiling lights are off and the multi-coloured dance lights are swirling around the crowded room instead. Kylie’s ‘Locomotion’ is blaring out of the huge sound system and smoke from the dry ice machine is billowing dramatically in the air.
The guys linger on the outside of the hall nursing their drinks, nervously chatting to each other and trying not to pay attention to the girls. The girls are dancing in groups, giggling and sneaking glances at them.
The drinks the boys are holding have wonky right-angled straws. In their excitement, some boys have squeezed these fruit-boxes too hard and the floor is now lacquered in orange juice. At the bar, several dozen packets of chips are on sale and have attracted an eager crowd of buyers. The girls who are busy dancing have donned their glow-in-the-dark bracelets, waving them in time to the songs. It’s a late night – five o’clock – and the party is just starting.
We parents recognise the scene, having attended many such events ourselves. Tonight though, it’s our six year old children who are the patrons of their primary school reception-to-year-three disco. A full hour of ‘mayhem to music’ from 5pm to 6pm. They are all out of uniform, whilst we oldies remain in our work clothes or jeans. We sit quietly in the chairs furthest away from the DJ, feeling very much like daggy wallflowers, yet most of us can not resist the urge to smile at the entertaining scene.
‘Hollaback Girl’ by Gwen Stefani comes on, and all of a sudden the dance floor is packed. This is a song they all know, unlike that old one that they could see their mums singing along to. Boys link arms with each other and some of the girls do rather good versions of gyrating and shoulder wiggling. A third group becomes mesmerised by the video screen, and a fourth decide to make light sabres out of their glow sticks and hold sword fights instead.
Fashion is out in force tonight and everyone looks fabulous. Long boots are the clear winner in the ladies’ footwear stakes, as are denim skirts and fur-trimmed vests. The boys mirror the girls by choosing vests and denims but have forsaken boots for their newest sneakers. Hair gel is everywhere, making it a risky proposition for a passing grown-up to ruffle any child’s’ hair without spiking their hands.
The heat in the room is now stifling and the juice is flowing freely. The dancers start to tire and head back to the bar for sustenance or to their parents for a lap to sit and recuperate on. The DJ senses this and opts for a classic: ‘YMCA’ by the Village People. The dance floor is packed again; this time by the parents, dragging their offspring with them. One boy is overheard asking his Dad: “How come you know the words to this song? What are you doing with your arms?” It doesn’t end there – ‘Nutbush City Limits’ is played next and the teachers enter the sweaty fray. It’s elbow room only at the hottest place to be at 5pm in the suburbs.
My daughter is having a wonderful time and has only come over once to ask for some money to buy a packet of chips. She has danced to every song and has bucked the vest-denim/boots trend in favour of her purple Angelina Ballerina tutu ensemble. This look has impressed young Jacob, who bravely ventures over to yell in her ear: “That’s a pretty dress. Do you want to have a dance with me?” Hell, if she didn’t I would have, but she did. They held each other’s hands and shuffled uncertainly to a rather inappropriate dance version of ‘Sexual Healing.’ It raised a few eyebrows amongst those older than eight as we all mentally crossed our fingers that none of them could understand any of the lyrics or decide to ask us any awkward questions afterward.
The two young dancers didn’t last out the entire song, however. He wandered off to get a closer look at the smoke machine and she came over to ask me if she could buy anything else. “No, it’s nearly tea time”, was the response.
The disco finished off with Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’; obviously a modern classic for these young funksters. The light sabre fighters were still fighting, albeit to the beat of the song, the video-heads were enthralled with the video clip and the bar was finally closing.
All too soon, the smoke dissipated, the sound was turned way down and the overheard fluoro lights were turned on. I clutched my lovely girl’s sweaty little hand and gazed down at her flushed, happy face. Would you like to come here again next time? “Oh yes”, she immediately replied. “But don’t drop me off, I want you to be here the whole time.”
Of course – just try and stop me. I just hope that next time my eyes won’t fill with tears so that it’s noticeable to any of the kids.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
TV - home for ACRONYMS
If you're as sad as me, you'll find yourself flipping through your weekly TV guide the day it comes with the Sunday paper, just to see if there's anything worth keeping your eyes out for on the box for the following week.
Even if you're not as sad as all that, I'm sure you'll still not fail to notice just how many acronyms there are for TV shows. Hey, even TV itself is an acronym, come to think of it. ER was one of the first ones to start it - no doubt believing that 'Emergency Room' didn't sound sexy or compelling enough.
If I flip through the guide whilst typing this, I notice that we have 'Law and Order: SVU'. No, that's not a Sports Vehicle Utility, but a 'Special Victims Unit'. In other words, it's one of those cop shows where the murder always involves a dead girl who lives a secret life; normally involving prostitution, pole dancing or a sleazy strip club. And yes, the detectives are always compelled to visit at least one of these sordid places in order to solve the crime. NCIS is another one, presumably standing for 'Non-imaginative Crime Investigation Series'.
You've also got AFL footy, the NRL Show, Late night NBC news. At the insomniac's hour of 3:00am we have JLF, but I have no idea what it stands for - Juicy Lesbian Fairies perhaps, or Judge's Liver Failure. This is then followed by USA high.
The king of ancronyms of course is the CSI franchise. We have the original CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) set in Las Vegas, and CSI: Miami and now CSI: New York. I'll start watching the day they release CSI: Port Augusta.
We've even got the movie, DOA playing on Saturday night!
To digress a bit, let's now look at numbers, shall we? They too, are now considered important enough to be a show's name. We have - 20/20, Hi-5, the 7:30 Report, The 4400 and 24.
I asked my husband last night what acronym would you choose for yourself and he immediately shot back with: "BBD. Bloody Big Donger." Hmmm well he may be a physicist and mathetician all that, but there's still a fair share of Benny Hill lurking within.
As for me, it would definitely be WACA - Worrywart And Chocolate Addict.
If you're as sad as me, you'll find yourself flipping through your weekly TV guide the day it comes with the Sunday paper, just to see if there's anything worth keeping your eyes out for on the box for the following week.
Even if you're not as sad as all that, I'm sure you'll still not fail to notice just how many acronyms there are for TV shows. Hey, even TV itself is an acronym, come to think of it. ER was one of the first ones to start it - no doubt believing that 'Emergency Room' didn't sound sexy or compelling enough.
If I flip through the guide whilst typing this, I notice that we have 'Law and Order: SVU'. No, that's not a Sports Vehicle Utility, but a 'Special Victims Unit'. In other words, it's one of those cop shows where the murder always involves a dead girl who lives a secret life; normally involving prostitution, pole dancing or a sleazy strip club. And yes, the detectives are always compelled to visit at least one of these sordid places in order to solve the crime. NCIS is another one, presumably standing for 'Non-imaginative Crime Investigation Series'.
You've also got AFL footy, the NRL Show, Late night NBC news. At the insomniac's hour of 3:00am we have JLF, but I have no idea what it stands for - Juicy Lesbian Fairies perhaps, or Judge's Liver Failure. This is then followed by USA high.
The king of ancronyms of course is the CSI franchise. We have the original CSI (Crime Scene Investigation) set in Las Vegas, and CSI: Miami and now CSI: New York. I'll start watching the day they release CSI: Port Augusta.
We've even got the movie, DOA playing on Saturday night!
To digress a bit, let's now look at numbers, shall we? They too, are now considered important enough to be a show's name. We have - 20/20, Hi-5, the 7:30 Report, The 4400 and 24.
I asked my husband last night what acronym would you choose for yourself and he immediately shot back with: "BBD. Bloody Big Donger." Hmmm well he may be a physicist and mathetician all that, but there's still a fair share of Benny Hill lurking within.
As for me, it would definitely be WACA - Worrywart And Chocolate Addict.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Is it just me or have coughs and colds become more virulent, lengthy and painful in the past few years? Sure sure, we get given antibiotics if a cold lingers on for too long and it's clear that a throat or chest infection has kicked in or there is too much chunky, lime-green snot on tap, but I honestly don't remember colds being that harsh when I was growing up.
Whilst at the moment we have news of the latest space shuttle's trip to the moon with 'our' Andy Thomas floating about in it doing some sort of mechanical work, the old saying of 'We can send Man to the moon, but can't cure the common cold' seems particularly relevant.
'Our' Andy, who's about as Australian as Greg Norman and speaks about as much strine as Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, is obviously a pretty smart bloke. He's participating in a huge NASA program that supposedly costs more than the African continent's overseas debt to tootle back over to the moon and around the earth a few times. Why, I have no idea. What on earth are they going to see, feel or discover that hasn't already been done during so many visits before? It's hardly going to be a future competitor against places like the Bahamas as a fun holiday spot is it?
Shouldn't Andy and his buddies be focussing their efforts on curing colds, or eliminating them right from the outset? In the past five years or so, I've seen strong, fit and healthy people deteriorate into stooped and exhausted shells who can barely be understood behind the head full of mucus they're having to lug around from place to place. This snotty and coughy state is no longer able to shaken off with a hot honey and lemon drink and a day off, but carries on for weeks and weeks and weeks. The suffering person has, by this stage, completely given up on common social courtesies and will simply trumpet their nose into a tissue with a noise not unlike that of a distressed elephant lost from its herd in a vain effort to rid themselves of a mugful of mucus. I'm sure I'm not the only person who has seen these poor bastards blow holes in their tissues due to the volume of phlegm that's been flung out of their facial flutes.
And the coughing....! I was convinced that my husband Dean was about to hawk up a lung last week. He looked like the Marlboro Man in his retirement years with a puffy red and sweaty face from the effort of it all. And there was no rest for him - or us, his loving family - at night either. Once his sweats and shakes had subsided, his throat was revving up for its turn in the spotlight. Or should I say soundscape. With his snot-filled noggin, his stuffed-up chest, regular puffs from his inhaler and struggling to breathe, that fleshy little punching bag at the back of his throat was in fine fettle. (What is a 'fettle' anyway?). The resultant snores sounded like an outboard motor that had been stuck in a swamp.
A loving jab in his back with my elbow did not nothing to stop the noise - even when he rolled on to his side - so he was kicked out of the marital bed and exiled into the spare room. Only out of concern for his own welfare, you understand. With eighty year old double brick walls and two solid-wooden doors between us, his snores were now muffled to the mere level of a leaf blower at my bedside table.
It's so easy when you're not the one with the cold to think "Ah, it's just a cold, stop being a wimp," but when it's you with the cold, all you want to do is shove two test-tubes into your nostrils to let them drip freely and save you the bother of wearing away your face with continued tissue wipes.
So Andy, lovey puss, sweetie darling honey boo - would you please consider parking that shuttle indefinitely and finding a way to eliminate this dreadful affliction. You'll get more gratitude and news coverage than if you farted in the capsule.
Whilst at the moment we have news of the latest space shuttle's trip to the moon with 'our' Andy Thomas floating about in it doing some sort of mechanical work, the old saying of 'We can send Man to the moon, but can't cure the common cold' seems particularly relevant.
'Our' Andy, who's about as Australian as Greg Norman and speaks about as much strine as Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon, is obviously a pretty smart bloke. He's participating in a huge NASA program that supposedly costs more than the African continent's overseas debt to tootle back over to the moon and around the earth a few times. Why, I have no idea. What on earth are they going to see, feel or discover that hasn't already been done during so many visits before? It's hardly going to be a future competitor against places like the Bahamas as a fun holiday spot is it?
Shouldn't Andy and his buddies be focussing their efforts on curing colds, or eliminating them right from the outset? In the past five years or so, I've seen strong, fit and healthy people deteriorate into stooped and exhausted shells who can barely be understood behind the head full of mucus they're having to lug around from place to place. This snotty and coughy state is no longer able to shaken off with a hot honey and lemon drink and a day off, but carries on for weeks and weeks and weeks. The suffering person has, by this stage, completely given up on common social courtesies and will simply trumpet their nose into a tissue with a noise not unlike that of a distressed elephant lost from its herd in a vain effort to rid themselves of a mugful of mucus. I'm sure I'm not the only person who has seen these poor bastards blow holes in their tissues due to the volume of phlegm that's been flung out of their facial flutes.
And the coughing....! I was convinced that my husband Dean was about to hawk up a lung last week. He looked like the Marlboro Man in his retirement years with a puffy red and sweaty face from the effort of it all. And there was no rest for him - or us, his loving family - at night either. Once his sweats and shakes had subsided, his throat was revving up for its turn in the spotlight. Or should I say soundscape. With his snot-filled noggin, his stuffed-up chest, regular puffs from his inhaler and struggling to breathe, that fleshy little punching bag at the back of his throat was in fine fettle. (What is a 'fettle' anyway?). The resultant snores sounded like an outboard motor that had been stuck in a swamp.
A loving jab in his back with my elbow did not nothing to stop the noise - even when he rolled on to his side - so he was kicked out of the marital bed and exiled into the spare room. Only out of concern for his own welfare, you understand. With eighty year old double brick walls and two solid-wooden doors between us, his snores were now muffled to the mere level of a leaf blower at my bedside table.
It's so easy when you're not the one with the cold to think "Ah, it's just a cold, stop being a wimp," but when it's you with the cold, all you want to do is shove two test-tubes into your nostrils to let them drip freely and save you the bother of wearing away your face with continued tissue wipes.
So Andy, lovey puss, sweetie darling honey boo - would you please consider parking that shuttle indefinitely and finding a way to eliminate this dreadful affliction. You'll get more gratitude and news coverage than if you farted in the capsule.
Think before you wrap
6th birthdays are a challenge. No, I’m not talking about the themed party (Kinder gym? Ten-pin bowling? Fairies and pirates? Maccas?) but the actual presents that the birthday child receives.
My daughter turned six recently and was swamped with gifts. Most were educational, lots were creative and sadly, ALL required some parental involvement.
First up was a knitting set. It had instructions but they looked about as easy to follow as the manual that came with our flat-packed computer desk that took three hours and lots of F-words to put up. I recognised the wool and the knitting needles in the box but the diagrams were all dancing in front of my stressed eyes, refiguring themselves into a computer desk pattern.
My Mum taught me how to knit in 1978. Even then, as I struggled to knit a scarf, I knew that it was never going to be a skill that I would be able to pass on to my daughter. I had dropped so many stitches that my grandma, trying to be encouraging said: ‘Lovely crocheting, dear.’ And now, my daughter was in front of me pleading for me to teach her how to knit. Before I could open my mouth, I could already sense the ‘Don’t you DARE get her to ask Daddy to show you’ glare emanating from my husband. Instead, I weakly said, ‘I don’t think we’ll have time for that before lunch. Why not start with your shopapopolis set? I reckon that’ll be pretty easy for you.’
Yeah right. Designed by some deranged Salvador Dali fan, it came with visual diagrams that even the computer desk designers would have been envious of. Little plastic balls were meant to fasten the walls of the shopapopolis together, as they so obviously do in real bloody life. The dolls in the set were so bizarrely constructed that we both agreed to use sticky tape. Four weeks later, the hellish little shopping town is still on our coffee table because neither of us has the energy to take it apart.
And who knew that plaster of Paris was still in vogue with the tween set? The damn stuff gets everywhere, finely dusting our living room with snow and then sets immediately. How we were supposed to affix the magnets on to the back of the plastic teddy bears eluded me. Each time I pressed one in, the plaster cracked until teddy looked as though he’d been shot at close range. My daughter suggested the sticky tape which she took from the ello set and got to work on the teddies.
My stress levels were reduced initially when we slowly worked our way through her other gifts. Bubble blowers – fine, fun to do, nice to look at, something pleasant to do outside under the eaves when it’s raining outside. Little did we know that the dog would nearly die from exhaustion in her efforts to ‘catch’ each brightly crystal-coloured bubble that floated by. An hour later her nose was covered in a rainbow slick of detergent and she was foaming rather unflatteringly at the mouth.
What about her Tamagotchi? A tiny little virtual pet, worn around the neck on a chain in the form of a computer game. Well, in the first few days, we had to have a few rather unsettling discussions about death and avoiding responsibility, didn’t we? You see, six year olds go to school and don’t have time to check on their computer-pets every ten minutes to see if they’ve done a poo, feel hungry, hurt or unhappy. By home time, their beloved pet is dead, covered in a dot-matrix halo. My daughter’s eyes fill with tears as she wails, “But I’m BUSY Mum, I don’t have time to look after it during the day!” Subsequently, I found myself agreeing to take care of Bucky by carrying him in my handbag. It bleeped constantly and most often during meetings, a the bus ride and at the cinema. I purposely let it poop itself off the screen because the last thing I wanted was another responsibility, albeit a techno one. Maybe there’s a positive in all this and I’ll be able to use it as an example in later years when I’ll have to discuss the awkward subject of sex, contraception and avoiding teen pregnancy. Hopefully not before the age of 48, my husband hopes.
6th birthdays are a challenge. No, I’m not talking about the themed party (Kinder gym? Ten-pin bowling? Fairies and pirates? Maccas?) but the actual presents that the birthday child receives.
My daughter turned six recently and was swamped with gifts. Most were educational, lots were creative and sadly, ALL required some parental involvement.
First up was a knitting set. It had instructions but they looked about as easy to follow as the manual that came with our flat-packed computer desk that took three hours and lots of F-words to put up. I recognised the wool and the knitting needles in the box but the diagrams were all dancing in front of my stressed eyes, refiguring themselves into a computer desk pattern.
My Mum taught me how to knit in 1978. Even then, as I struggled to knit a scarf, I knew that it was never going to be a skill that I would be able to pass on to my daughter. I had dropped so many stitches that my grandma, trying to be encouraging said: ‘Lovely crocheting, dear.’ And now, my daughter was in front of me pleading for me to teach her how to knit. Before I could open my mouth, I could already sense the ‘Don’t you DARE get her to ask Daddy to show you’ glare emanating from my husband. Instead, I weakly said, ‘I don’t think we’ll have time for that before lunch. Why not start with your shopapopolis set? I reckon that’ll be pretty easy for you.’
Yeah right. Designed by some deranged Salvador Dali fan, it came with visual diagrams that even the computer desk designers would have been envious of. Little plastic balls were meant to fasten the walls of the shopapopolis together, as they so obviously do in real bloody life. The dolls in the set were so bizarrely constructed that we both agreed to use sticky tape. Four weeks later, the hellish little shopping town is still on our coffee table because neither of us has the energy to take it apart.
And who knew that plaster of Paris was still in vogue with the tween set? The damn stuff gets everywhere, finely dusting our living room with snow and then sets immediately. How we were supposed to affix the magnets on to the back of the plastic teddy bears eluded me. Each time I pressed one in, the plaster cracked until teddy looked as though he’d been shot at close range. My daughter suggested the sticky tape which she took from the ello set and got to work on the teddies.
My stress levels were reduced initially when we slowly worked our way through her other gifts. Bubble blowers – fine, fun to do, nice to look at, something pleasant to do outside under the eaves when it’s raining outside. Little did we know that the dog would nearly die from exhaustion in her efforts to ‘catch’ each brightly crystal-coloured bubble that floated by. An hour later her nose was covered in a rainbow slick of detergent and she was foaming rather unflatteringly at the mouth.
What about her Tamagotchi? A tiny little virtual pet, worn around the neck on a chain in the form of a computer game. Well, in the first few days, we had to have a few rather unsettling discussions about death and avoiding responsibility, didn’t we? You see, six year olds go to school and don’t have time to check on their computer-pets every ten minutes to see if they’ve done a poo, feel hungry, hurt or unhappy. By home time, their beloved pet is dead, covered in a dot-matrix halo. My daughter’s eyes fill with tears as she wails, “But I’m BUSY Mum, I don’t have time to look after it during the day!” Subsequently, I found myself agreeing to take care of Bucky by carrying him in my handbag. It bleeped constantly and most often during meetings, a the bus ride and at the cinema. I purposely let it poop itself off the screen because the last thing I wanted was another responsibility, albeit a techno one. Maybe there’s a positive in all this and I’ll be able to use it as an example in later years when I’ll have to discuss the awkward subject of sex, contraception and avoiding teen pregnancy. Hopefully not before the age of 48, my husband hopes.
Monday, August 01, 2005
SMUNDAY SMUNDAY
I have a suggestion that will benefit the world as we know it. We need to add an eighth day to our week, hereby known as SMUNDAY. Calm down, I'm not talking about 'working smarter, not harder' and all of that consultant crap that gets crammed down our gullets in an effort to disguise the fact that you're now doing two jobs instead of one since Tony left and hasn't been replaced...... No.
Let's all calm down and accept as a fact we all work hard from Mondays to Fridays. Whether you're in the office, out on site or at home, there's hard yakka involved. Some of that will include the inevitable school drop offs and pick ups, attending school committee meetings, thinking of vaguely edible dinners to cook and clean up after, reading and homework with the kids, doing dishes or scraping off the muck before loading the dishwasher, returning phone calls and ignoring those annoying 'Hello, we are from southern television service' calls from Mumbai during dinner time...all before flopping down on the sofa in exhaustion by 9pm, only to realise that there's nothing on TV you want to watch. All OK? All agree that that's pretty much what your weekdays and nights are like? OK, let's continue.
God (for want of a better word to describe whatever it is up there) originally gave us Sundays for rest and recuperation. Nice one, but somehow we also managed to snare ourselves the Saturdays for the same purpose. However, over the decades, these two special days have been slowly eaten up with more work, commitments and socialising than actual rest and recreation.
Common activities are usually taken up with hosting our kids' playdates, escorting them to birthday parties and refereeing sleep-overs. Let's not forget the six loads of washing, drying, folding and ironing there is to do, plus having to pick off the bits of tissue that of course got stuck in the dark load. (That's when I really, really HATE polar fleece and am firmly convinced that it's the devils' own velcro).
The weeds leer out as us each time we get in the car and out of the house, the dog 'nuggets' in the back yard are piling up higher than Eddie McGuire's paycheck and the hairs on the bathroom floor could only have fallen from a passing Yeti. Despite these visual stressors, we focus on making up curried lamb shanks and lime tartlets with creme fraiche from 'delicious' magazine for our Saturday night dinner party.
Said dinner party becomes a raucous event, because the two couples you invited each have three children, and none of them look tired or even prepared to consider the idea of being put to bed in the various bedrooms. Any hopes you had of witty and intelligent adult conversation over dinner instead becomes a stream of unfinished sentences: "And then the bazaar owner got the cobra and - NATHAN! WE DO NOT PUNCH! PUT YOUR SISTER DOWN!", or "So we met Nelson Mandela, who said - EMILY! GET THAT PIECE OF PIZZA OUT OF THE DVD PLAYER!" By 9pm, we all give up and the couples take their kids home to bed whilst we clean up the mess with ringing ears.
And we all know that drinking too much at dinner parties will guarantee that our children wake up at 5am on Sundays, reminding us that we promised to make muffins/take them yabby hunting/make plaster-of-paris fridge magnets with them.
The introduction of Smunday will give us back our day of rest – not only from our work, our domestic life, but also from each other. The introduction of Smunday will undoubtedly break all laws of time, physics and common sense because the entire world will be turned off. This God person will press their cosmic 'pause' button and everyone around us will be frozen in whatever mode they were in on a Sunday afternoon. Say, about 4pm.
Smunday will be a day where I - and you, in your own chosen way - will be allowed to do whatever I feel like on my own. It will finally give a real meaning to old phrase ‘do it in your own time.’
Just imagine what world-shattering things you could do –
I have a suggestion that will benefit the world as we know it. We need to add an eighth day to our week, hereby known as SMUNDAY. Calm down, I'm not talking about 'working smarter, not harder' and all of that consultant crap that gets crammed down our gullets in an effort to disguise the fact that you're now doing two jobs instead of one since Tony left and hasn't been replaced...... No.
Let's all calm down and accept as a fact we all work hard from Mondays to Fridays. Whether you're in the office, out on site or at home, there's hard yakka involved. Some of that will include the inevitable school drop offs and pick ups, attending school committee meetings, thinking of vaguely edible dinners to cook and clean up after, reading and homework with the kids, doing dishes or scraping off the muck before loading the dishwasher, returning phone calls and ignoring those annoying 'Hello, we are from southern television service' calls from Mumbai during dinner time...all before flopping down on the sofa in exhaustion by 9pm, only to realise that there's nothing on TV you want to watch. All OK? All agree that that's pretty much what your weekdays and nights are like? OK, let's continue.
God (for want of a better word to describe whatever it is up there) originally gave us Sundays for rest and recuperation. Nice one, but somehow we also managed to snare ourselves the Saturdays for the same purpose. However, over the decades, these two special days have been slowly eaten up with more work, commitments and socialising than actual rest and recreation.
Common activities are usually taken up with hosting our kids' playdates, escorting them to birthday parties and refereeing sleep-overs. Let's not forget the six loads of washing, drying, folding and ironing there is to do, plus having to pick off the bits of tissue that of course got stuck in the dark load. (That's when I really, really HATE polar fleece and am firmly convinced that it's the devils' own velcro).
The weeds leer out as us each time we get in the car and out of the house, the dog 'nuggets' in the back yard are piling up higher than Eddie McGuire's paycheck and the hairs on the bathroom floor could only have fallen from a passing Yeti. Despite these visual stressors, we focus on making up curried lamb shanks and lime tartlets with creme fraiche from 'delicious' magazine for our Saturday night dinner party.
Said dinner party becomes a raucous event, because the two couples you invited each have three children, and none of them look tired or even prepared to consider the idea of being put to bed in the various bedrooms. Any hopes you had of witty and intelligent adult conversation over dinner instead becomes a stream of unfinished sentences: "And then the bazaar owner got the cobra and - NATHAN! WE DO NOT PUNCH! PUT YOUR SISTER DOWN!", or "So we met Nelson Mandela, who said - EMILY! GET THAT PIECE OF PIZZA OUT OF THE DVD PLAYER!" By 9pm, we all give up and the couples take their kids home to bed whilst we clean up the mess with ringing ears.
And we all know that drinking too much at dinner parties will guarantee that our children wake up at 5am on Sundays, reminding us that we promised to make muffins/take them yabby hunting/make plaster-of-paris fridge magnets with them.
The introduction of Smunday will give us back our day of rest – not only from our work, our domestic life, but also from each other. The introduction of Smunday will undoubtedly break all laws of time, physics and common sense because the entire world will be turned off. This God person will press their cosmic 'pause' button and everyone around us will be frozen in whatever mode they were in on a Sunday afternoon. Say, about 4pm.
Smunday will be a day where I - and you, in your own chosen way - will be allowed to do whatever I feel like on my own. It will finally give a real meaning to old phrase ‘do it in your own time.’
Just imagine what world-shattering things you could do –
- Being able to eat Kit Kats for tea, left-over cheesecake for breakfast and CCs for lunch (Important note: there’s no fat content in Smunday foods);
- Leisurely wandering into the shops for a browse minus the frustrations of entertaining a whiny hanger-on, finding a car park or having to rush in and rush out before the lunch guests arrive. Staying in the shops and being able to look through everything without having to say “It’s OK, I’m just looking thanks.”
- Being able to wash the dog, who, being motionless, is cooperative, willing to stay in the bath and not shake itself all over you.
- Being able to read the paper. In one go. With a hot coffee.
- No phone calls, interruptions or pleas to help put together the ello shopapopolis set.
- Having the TV and DVD player to yourself, so that you can watch Jude Law, John Cusack, Keanu Reeves, Brad Pitt, Colin Firth and Hugh Grant without sarcastic comments from your husband.
- Wear your pyjamas all day
- Burp, pick your nose and fart wherever and whenever you want to
- SLEEP.
That would be enough for the first few Smundays, but then I suspect that I’d be yearning to take it a few mischievous steps further. Slipping into the designer boutiques that always intimidated me to try on ridiculously expensive outfits that I’d never have the reason to wear anywhere. Popping into Haighs to sample every flavour of chocolate truffle behind the glass cabinets. Hanging a yo-yo from Colonel Light’s finger. Removing all hipster jeans above a size 8 from clothing racks to spare us the agony of seeing stomach rolls flapping freely in the breeze.
Smunday could be a day to finally carry out some petty revenges. Slipping a couple of prawns into your office whinger’s curtain rails or simply being able to stand in front of your enemy and really let ‘em have it – verbally I mean. Having a good shout at that person for whom you can always think of witty retorts – three hours later. Or – and this would take a bit of psyching up because of the intimate touching involved – unzipping your boss’ fly whilst he’s in freeze mode at his local café?
It's just an idea, but I'll keep my fingers crossed.
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