Friday 22 February 2008

Stirring the waters

Tuesday we get the keys to our house - YAY! It has been a long time coming. It will be nearly 5 months since we moved out of our last house, and I can tell you, we have felt every day of those last five months.

Since October 2007, we have lugged all our earthly wares into seven different places across three different countries. Some stays were more fun than others, but each abode has been about the size of a shoe box...or smaller. We are seriously over it. For Ashley and I, I think our current situation has been the most unharmonious time in our entire 18 year relationship; this whole temporary waiting game has been completely unsettling, stressful and disconnecting - we literally, haven't known if or when we were coming or going.

We bought a house three months ago, JUST after we had signed a three month lease on a rental property. Sounds unfortunate, but actually we were very lucky. We needed to go somewhere, and this unsightly place, with its crappy bathroom; barely functioning toilet; tiles falling off the wall; archaic kitchen with no bench space and hideous wall paper, was the only place that was offering a short term rental contract, and as luck would have it, the place happened to be situated near the area we wanted to buy into, so we grasped it with both hands and figured we would live - and we have.

We have seen our new place twice, so I can't quite remember what the hell it looks like inside. I know (and shudder) that it has a nightmarishly steep driveway, but otherwise, I think it should be all right. It needs a bit of work, but nothing like the dump our old place was when we first bought it. I do remember this new place as having a bit more room for the four (or six) of us to spread out in, than our current dive. It also has a fenced yard for both kids and dogs to run around in. I can't wait.

We are spending about 10 days painting the kids rooms and installing built-in robes, fixing the kitchen floor and other tasks we are anticipating on surprising us, once we enter the place empty. It is our hope that we will be moving in on March the 7th. Then, with some luck, our family will finally be able to settle, and we will be able to start thinking about more interesting things.

Wednesday 20 February 2008

Time Travelling

I have just finished reading The Time Travelers Wife by AudreyNiffenegger. It is about the unconventional love story of Clare and Henry.

Clare meets her future husband - Henry - as a six year old, when he, as an adult, time travels and runs into her in a meadow on her family's property.

The story recounts the history of Henry and Clare's relationship; Clare's life offering the reader a lineal anchor as Henry flits here and there into the past, and occasionally into the future.

Henry's time travelling jaunts are dangerous. He disappears with little warning, leaving only a pile of clothing in the last spot he stood, and a bounty of worries for those left behind - namely Clare.

Henry winds up in another time and place, naked, exhausted and nauseous - he then sets about on the daunting quest of finding clothes, or risk the elements, authorities or the real threat of being chased down by angry mobs intent on knocking the be-jeebus out of an assumed pervert...and other fun shenanigans.

Henry mostly comes from the future, but, for the most part, chooses not to impart knowledge of the future onto those he meets - he is clearly a much burdened man. But what of poor Clare? She is loyal to her man, that is for sure. Her attempts at bearing a child, whereby the time travelling gene appears to always be dominant, is heart breaking indeed. And one can certainly sympathise with her as she helplessly wrings her hands at Henry's frequent and often inconvenient vanishing acts.

Clare's character has known Henry all her life - his comings and goings are normal, if not agonising, but I couldn't help feel a smidge annoyed by these characters. When things apparently got stressful or uncomfortable in Henry's life, he did a virtual runner. If I were Clare, I am sure I would grow to become more than a little bit resentful at such behaviour. I am sure Clare wouldn't mind skipping out whenever the going got a bit tough, but instead, Clare is left carrying the proberbial can and the burden of having to explain the whereabouts of her husband and, when he appears, why he is staggering around naked. She never complains. Not only that, Henry (at her urging) tells Clare all the details concerning lifes little surprises, like who her future husband is, and what their future child will look like, along with possible future vocations.

Makes me wonder how convenient claims of time travelling could be. Much evil could be done, couldn't it? As a time traveller, you could claim things were a certain way in the future in order to get your own way... think of all the possibilities for mind games; could be awfully manipulative for the unassuming and trusting.

I don't think I would like to be a physical time traveller myself. I can't really see the point. How did Henry help humanity through his time travelling? Besides, there are enough opportunities in the present to travel through the ages - take photographs, music, movies and even smells.

Photographs offer a concrete record of an actual time, place, and sometimes, mark a stage in one's development. Photographs are the material evidence of being there. Music, movies and smells are richer, personal and more tangible.

Take music for instance. INXS and Icehouse remind me of 1987 and the dreamy summer I spent high and stupefied on first love. I can feel the heat of that summer; a summer I spent with friends at the local pool; eating chips from a paper wrap bought from the corner shop, and Ebony, the tan emhancing cream that my friend and I lathered on our skin, making our skin unnaturally dak and scarily leathery...whatever happened to that product.

The smell of vine ripened tomatoes and Morton Bay Fig trees remind me of my childhood; spending holidays with my Grandparents on their farm on Kangaroo Island. Whenever I smell vine ripened tomatoes I am back in my Gran's veggie garden clutching a plump, sun warmed tomato in my hand. A whiff of a Morton Bay fig sees me transported; swaying on the tyre swing under the dappling leaves of this grand old giant, which was posited in the space that separated the sheds and stockyards from my Grandparents large homestead.

I am ten again whenever I see anything to do with the movie Grease. I am sitting mesmerised with my best friend in her front room, singing the songs and wishing I could be Sandy - the nice dork who snares the hot guy. We don't understand what "sloppy seconds" means, and fast forward the cheesy bits, like when Danny is left high and dry at the drive-in and starts singing "that really boring song", and while we hang out for the carnival scene, when Sandy reinvents herself and does the big reveal - we pretend it doesn't end with Sandy and Danny sailing off in to the sunset in a ridiculous flying car...we never speak of that part.

I don't need to physically time travel when I can do this using my God given senses and memory. So how does that serve humanity? Not sure that it does directly, but these things have served as markers for times of learning in my life - red flags, whether INXS reminds me that over exposure to the sun leads to premature aging and potential melanoma (yeah right) or merely to stop and appreciate the simple things, like fresh tomatoes, ripe and warmed in the sun. This is the kind of time travel I am up for it; first class all the way, baby.

This post has been submitted for the Writers Island prompt - Time Travel.

Sunday 17 February 2008

The pearly whites

I have pretty nice teeth. I get quite a lot of comments about how white they are, and how lucky I am. I feel like such a fake.

I often get asked what I use to brush my teeth to make them so white....umm, tooth paste? My teeth appear extra white because I was over-fed fluoride as a child, which resulted in discolouration of the teeth in just the right places. I have large white patches on my two front teeth and other white flecks elsewhere, on the teeth I reveal when I smile.

I have run the orthodontic gauntlet in my time too. The majority of my baby teeth were pulled out in the dentists chair, as opposed to falling out naturally (apparently to deal with over-crowding issues), and I have had braces not once...not twice, but three times.

I was nine years old and in the fifth grade, when I received my first set; these were fitted to straighten my hideously crooked teeth. My parents didn't order portraits of me from the class photographer that year, because they didn't want a record of my metal mouth. If that rule had been held consistently, there would be no photographic records of me during 7th, 8th or 9th grade either, when I had my second set of braces. These were fitted, supposedly to correct an under-bite that possibly made me qualify as a candidate as Jay Leno's sister....It didn't work, but I do remember the day I got the second set removed.

My Mum asked me what food had I been dying to eat, that had been off limits while the braces were on. I told her I was dying to bite into an apple. So off to the fruit stall we went.

My Mum bought me the deliciously crisp green apple I had hand selected. Before the fateful first bite, I considered the apple for a moment. I took in its unblemished skin, skin so shiny it reflected the light bathed scene behind me. I considered its roundness; its solidity and the weight of this piece of fruit in my clutching eager hand, and when I could bare it no longer, I endeavoured to sink my teeth into the skin, piercing it, and anticipating my mouth to be flooded with the tart, juicy tang I was so longing. Instead my teeth failed me, and bounced off that taut skin like I had just attempted to bite a chunk out of a metal shot put...Oh, and the PAIN! My God, I can still feel it. I remember panicking, and immediately pulling my hand up to my mouth to make sure my teeth were still intact and hadn't spontaneously shattered upon impact. My gums had turned to jelly, so it seemed, due to having been released of the orthodontic imposed tension...I think I ate nothing but custard for three days after that.

Fast forward 6 years to my 21st birthday, when I had received my third set of braces only a couple of weeks prior. After the second set was deemed a failure, my parents were advised to wait until my jaw had finished growing before other corrective measures were considered. As you can imagine, I wasn't too keen on doing any more with my teeth, and I refused to consider other options. But as time went on, it was found that my back teeth were being worn down at an alarming rate, due to the position of my jaw. On top of that, the self-consciousness I felt about my under bite were causing me to tense my jaw to a point where I felt I had somehow broken it. It really was that painful. To hide my under bite, I also avoided smiling. One day, my Dad mentioned that his co-worker has seen me at my work place and thought I looked like a miserable bastard (my parents have always felt it their duty to pass on all negative comments). This comment was in fact, the kick in the pants I needed to get me to do something about the whole jaw issue. I didn't feel miserable, so why should I look miserable?

I had a jaw reconstruction, which required me to have my jaw wired shut for a month, hence the necessity for braces. After a month, the wires were cut and I had to wear a number of bands over night for another month or so. It was a painful operation - my top gum was cut through and moved forward and the palette was split and adjusted accordingly...but it has paid off. I no longer suffer any pain and I can say, even at 34 years old, I do not have one single filling.....I also smile more, and as they say "when your smiling, the whole world smiles with you".

Submitted for this week’s Sunday Scribbling prompt - teeth.

Tuesday 12 February 2008

exhaling...with reservation

Week three of school was greeted and entered into with baited breath. I am happy to report that things are settling - he is settling. We have had no tears at all this week.


He murmured one weak protest late Sunday night, but I was able to smother the worries before they engulfed into a raging inferno.


Monday morning: we walked to school without the chase shenanigans of previous weeks, and I managed to calmly have him seated, crossed-legged on the carpet with the other kids, without getting out the straight jacket or tranquilisers; although it is possible the teacher was wearing shin guards, just in case.


Today was a definate win; the first time he admitted to having a "good day". I am quietly relieved, but am not yet willing to stay any longer in his classroom, than is minimally required - that means brisk drop off and pick up only. Perhaps in term two, when Missy Mopps is at Kindy four days a week, I will feel that things are calm enough for me to volunteer for his class reading.


Thanks to all who offered advice, reassurance that "it gets better" and personal anecdotes - they were all required. Apologies to all I neglected while my head quietly exploded last week, I will get back to you in the next day or so.

Wednesday 6 February 2008

Separation Anxiety

Week two of school has gotten off to a rough start. I feel utterly exhausted by yesterday's events. The two days off has proved to be a regressive exercise, no more.

The kids have school swimming lessons this week. I volunteered to help dress the kids afterward. I thought this would help Mister, but it made everything worse. He ran away from me again as we walked to school, and it took me 10 minutes to catch him and drag him back again - so we were late.


Mister refused to go in the pool, and instead, spent the hour pleading for me not to leave. It was a nightmare. When it finally came time to say Goodbye, he howled and screamed. It took two teachers to prise him off of me, so I could leave. Missy Mopps was so upset by the commotion that she was foiling my attempts to leave by attempting to drag me back in to soothe Mister.

The lonely walk back to the car was accompanied my much sobbing and pain.

The school rang me later to say he settled well after I left - of course - but suggested I NOT attend swimming anymore - pretty humiliating. They felt my presence was making the inevitable separation, worse. It is, I know. I just cried all day long.

When I picked him up yesterday, he appeared quite happy. After speaking with the principal over the weekend, the school put on a lunchtime activity which was attended by a couple of other kids too -that helped.
Upon our return home, Mister started up again. He did not want to go to school. The pleading and the tears continued until 9pm last night, when he fell asleep after crying uncontrollably.

The anxiety I am feeling about today is extreme right now. I feel physically sick, highly stressed and exhausted. The whole swimming thing, which takes place at 9am, is making matters worse.

I will be taking him - it is the only way for him to get used to school. I have tried to focus on the positives; tried to explain every angle, but I just can't seem to console my boy and wonder if and when this behaviour is ever going to end....and how.

Tuesday 5 February 2008

Demolished

Angry arm rises skyward. It slams down with perfect intention. Wood and metal are no match for a fist; clenched and venting. The materials, foundations and structure of what once was, lay splintered and twisted - forever transformed.

The heart has been ripped from this house; the soul having already escaped, bares witness to the destruction, like a dark bat peering out from a neighbouring belltower.

What remains, now lays strewn across a leveled field and out onto the grotty sidewalk running parallel beyond a chain-linked perimetre. A rusty letterbox stands erect like a tombstone out front - a somber guard inscribed with the number 9.

Its innards, spilled, are spread for all to see; a white lavatory exposed to the daylight, lies unnaturally with a lifeless oven, baking in the sun. A timber wardrobe stares blankly up at a perfect sky; its doors unhinged, hang open - spent and heaving. No contents remain inside, it has merely been discarded; while a buckled skeleton is uncerimoniously heaped into a mountain of past memories, sprouting distant echoes of laughter and joy amongst the rubble, along with a lifetime of tears, broken hearts and smashed windows.

The Brave
3rd February 2008

Sunday 3 February 2008

Goodness Gracious! Great balls of fire.

Anyone got a bean bag? Ever had the clean the darn thing? My son has and we had too.
DOG PEE!

What a nightmare. Had to vacuum all the stupid beans out of the bag. Do you know how static sticky those things are? THEY. GO. EVERYWHERE.

I did manage to get them into garbage bags; double bag them and put them up high so the kids couldn't get them. Then I washed the bag and left it dry.


That was a couple of days ago. I was waiting for some help to get the beans back in...wasn't too sure how I was going to manage that task without creating a big old mess and was even toying with the idea of throwing the lot out and putting the empty bag away - should have.


Went to Victor Harbor today, to visit the parents. Dogs stayed home; locked out in the back room. Upon our return, we opened the back door to - you guessed it - beans, millions of tiny, white balls stuck everywhere and on everything. Looks like the dogs climbed up onto the boxes we had stacked out there; the boxes the bags were sitting atop. Looks like the dogs climbed up there, accidently knocked the bags down, then decided to give the bags a bit of a sit on. Somewhere along the line the bag was scratched to smithereens and the beans were spread all over the place.


We were hopping mad and have just finished cleaning up the disaster zone - NEVER AGAIN. If the dog pees on that thing again (and God only knows why he did it in the first place) it is going straight in the bin. HUMPH!

Saturday 2 February 2008

The Mount Compass Cup

What better way to get reaquainted with one's Aussieness than to do something completely ocker (stereotypically feral Australian), and on Australia Day, no less.

January 26th is known as Australia Day and is also the day of the famed Compass Cup -"Australia's only cow race". In true Australian enthusiastic style, the Cup only kicks off at 12:50 pm. The day is not only about cow racing, no siree. There is truly something for everyone at the Compass Cup. You can enjoy such athletic delights such as the Thong Throwing competition (footwear variety not undies) and tractor pull; all the glamour of the cat walk with the rubber boot marathon, and for the culinary enthusiast the Australian Iron Guts competition, which amounts to demolishing large quantities of Aussie treats, such as meat pies, lamingtons and Iced Coffee, complete with the always classy vomitting equals disqualification rule. There was also the very blokey ute competition, which consists of hotted up man toys with big engines parked in a line with burly owners posing along side and of course the mandatory drive by with obligatory elbow sticking out the window sunglasses pose - iconic Aussie rock classics like those screamed by Jimmy Barnes, Cold Chisel and The Angels blaring from the stereo and a bit of an engine rev ....so impressive, I almost fainted. But wait folks, it wasn't all glitz and glamour, there were legitimate scientific experiements which involved moments of risk and daring; the Engine Blow promised to deliver this brand of edge of your seat action.


A waterless and oiless old beater was presented in the middle of the arena - the sacrificial lamb if you like - the object of this high brow experiment was to see how long it took to blow 'er up. Fire extinguishers were at the ready as several blue singletted scientist initiated the experiment, but like all worthy experiments the outcome was surprising and not the least bit expected - bugger all happened in fact, the engine simply died a quiet death after about 20 seconds (quite the anti-climax).


The cow race itself was painfully non-action packed, although quite comical. The main challenge was staying on the cow - no saddles you see. But unlike race horses, the cows weren't into it and planted their hooves into the turf like unwilling mules. It wasn't a race persay, rather a win by default. The winning cows were those who just happened to be walking in the right direction for long enough to have eventually and quite accidentally wandered over the line, while the rest of the handlers chased loose riderless cows all over the arena as over zealous chaps attempted to climb on board. It was a crazy spectacle and a weird day, but after that... I knew I was home.