The Slap

It’s always an ominous moment when a child says “mommy I need to tell you something in private”.

Because seriously, you NEVER know what’s coming.

It could be a ploppy in the pants.  It could be a detention.  It could be that she ate the last piece of Cadburys.

And then you get something completely unexpected.

In a most convoluted way, Miss9 went on to tell me how her desk mate at school, a formerly sweet little boy in my eyes, used her as a demonstration model on Friday.  Apparently the demonstration was a slap.  In the chops.

He did what?????

However, as it turns out, this was not the end of the story.

Miss9 calmly waited while he finished explaining whatever it was he was explaining and then promptly slapped him back for all she was worth.  That’s.  My. Girl.

The take home gift on this one is obviously – don’t turn the other cheek – because letting someone slap you and not slapping them back – is plain stupid.  Put that in your lessons in life file – if Miss9 can do it – so can you.

Miss9 didn’t have the patience – she just slapped him one time – for all she was worth.

In conclusion The Slapper who became the Slappee walked away with watering eyes, not before raising a pen over his head in a stabbing motion and growling at Miss9.  Then logic obviously kicked in at that point and he slunk off.  He was probably anticipating her coming back at him with a machete.

Becoming Miss13

Jeez Louise – birthdays in our family are like an Indian wedding.  Becoming Miss13 – this one’s been a big.

Started last weekend with the changing of the beds (the Queen has the changing of the guards – us, the beds).  Speaking of a queen – Miss13 got mine which necessitated a trip to those people with two first names.  Poor Ron the bed salesman shlepped from bed to bed with me.  I was waiting for one to hug me.  The bed – not the salesman.  See, for the past eight years, when I lie down in my bed, it hugs me.  We’re close that bed and me – I have told The Artist that I will fight for custody of that bed before the children. Enough said.

And any new bed needs new linen -  Ikea Tempe is not in fact near Cronulla.  It’s at the airport – a mere 10 minutes from home.  Easier than going to East Gardens.  Life is good.  However, with The Artist and Miss9 along for the ride – it was taking a very long and unfocussed time.  Why we had to try out chairs when we weren’t looking for chairs, is anyone’s guess.  Leaving them to their own devices and catching up later seemed like a good option at the time.  However, things you should know when you shop at Ikea Tempe:

• You cannot get a mobile phone signal in 80% of the store. This is not a problem if you stay with your family – if you don’t – it can be.  The store is 3km long.
• It is almost impossible to swim upstream at Ikea.  People with prams are aggressive – even more so than a blond with an overflowing trolley looking for her people who don’t know the rules at Ikea.
• Apparently, not everyone knows the rules at Ikea – follow the arrows – move forward.  At the point when someone asks what arrows? it’s time to give up.

The be-dazzling furniture blinds some people from the arrows….

• Some people like to loiter and make the most of the Ikea experience.  Others like to get what they came for.
• Ikea don’t make fitted sheets for king size beds – they don’t do kingsize really.  They only make the king size doona’s so as to get the full overlap effect of using them on queen size bed.  WTF is that nonsense?
• You can get the furthermost parking from the door at Ikea – diagonal as the crow flies – on a Saturday afternoon at 3pm – this is very good for Precious – not so good for the aforementioned blond with the trolley who has done two laps of the store as opposed to one – refer to point above about people backtracking and not following the arrows………

Other things you should know about life after a trip like the one above:

• Do not plan to go out with your friends that night in 8 inch heels.  Check with your husband that you are not meeting them at a bar 2km away from the restaurant. [Because you might only discover this when  you tell the cab driver to drop you at the restaurant and then your husband directs him elsewhere].
• Your husband will not notice you are wearing shoes completely unsuitable for a fast walk across Cockle Bay Wharf.  You will have at this stage drunk 2 glasses of wine and 2 vodkas so you might not care.  [And yes - I was the one doing twinkle toes walking on the section that is rustic and board walked outside of the Wildlife World last Saturday night.......]
• Even though some of you met when you were 9 years old – your 41 year old body cannot take a drinking like that and be okay the next morning.

And then the real birthday weekend dawned yesterday with a brunch and a sleepover.  And I wish someone would have let me know that:

• Teenage girls can only hear you when you confiscate the computer that they are facebooking on.
• Teenage girls don’t need to sleep on a Saturday night – they can just whisper in their loudest voice all night and it refreshes them.
• Even when they say they are going to help you with decorations, what they mean is they will glue gun three butterflies onto a lantern -and only because you don’t know how to use the glue gun.
• They will not co-operate when  you ask them to have some photos taken.  Then they will be disappointed when there is nothing to load on Facebook after the party.
• You will buy 12 too many croissants. You will buy 12 too many scones. You will buy 36 too many eggs
• You will spend the two hours of the brunch chained to the kitchen making bruschetta because that’s all anyone wants.
• Your rainbow cake that took you three hours to make will be stunning.

• 

  The Cake. I owe you one Martha Stewart – one to the head with a chair.

• There will be half a cake left over but your efforts will see you be a Facebook sensation amongst your child’s friends.
• You will want to kill that bitch Martha Stewart who posted the rainbow cake recipe on the internet – because that’s where your child found it in the first place.
• You will swear to the Holy of Holy’s that you will never do this again.  Never.  And then chances are, you will again next year.

Sawubona – I see you

There’s an African greeting from home that’s swimming around in my head.  At school we learned Zulu and the very first word taught was “Sawubona” which literally translated means “I see you”.  It’s an acknowledgement that the person exists.  Not just a hello but a way to say I am looking at you to see how you are.

Three small words, “I.  See. You”.

With this in my mind I’ve had cause to reflect on those we really see and who really sees us.

Some things I know for sure.  The people closest to us often don’t.  Perhaps it’s the familiarity of the relationships – the voice that’s become like white noise, instead of one that counts.  And while it makes me question whether one should only present a happy sparkly self – I know everyone’s got their shit and inevitably, life goes on, tomorrow’s a new day. 

Whether you like it or not.

The people I really want to mention are those that aren’t family or necessarily very close friends but those we encounter as part of our every day life.  They sometimes take more than a brief second to empathise with us and actually stop and connect.  Even though they don’t have to.  It’s that “I see you” moment that means everything.  Everything.  Its the acknowledgement that I heard the stress in your voice when you ordered coffee, I saw the look in your eye when you said hello.  It’s a reason to carry on.  To have a bit of faith in others.  You know who they are, and personally, to me, you know who you are.

So, to those out there who do take the time to shelve their own shit, leave judgement wherever it belongs and look people in the eye and give them a voice – I hope you know the good you do.

It keeps people putting one foot in front of the other.

One foot in front of the other.

So perhaps you’ll go into the new week keeping this post in mind and being the person that says Sawubona,  or at the very least appreciating the other person that does.

Dodging Landmines

I feel like Lara Croft in Tomb Raider – landmines everywhere.  (I haven’t actually seen the movie but it looks like this is very much the case).

Dodging landmines – unfortunately not as successfully as the lovely Lara

Similarly, I’m getting my arse grazed everywhere by exploding situations. And I’m going to need a new colon at the end of it, or at the very least a donut cushion.

The poor ladies and gents at work – I don’t even know how to start apologising – their virgin ears are no longer.

No explanation needed.

I’m not much better at home.  A bit shouty apparently.  My father pointed out that it can’t be easy to live with me at the moment.  I had to agree – I don’t even want to be with me.  I strike fear in my own heart.

Sometimes, I actually mean it.

And the poor Artist Formerly Known As – offered me a cup of tea last night at 6.30.  Apparently I didn’t have WINE tattooed on my forehead.  A suggestion that perhaps tea would serve me better went down like a lead balloon, followed by scattering and the appearance of a large glass of white.  Magic this shouty stuff.

Not cutting it – I wanted Mr Wine.

Tried to earn back some points today with Miss12 who is getting braces fitted in a few weeks.  The back story is that I scheduled on a Monday morning after giving the orthodontist major grief about the time of the appointment and how he’s a complete shit not to start work at 7am. Turns out it’s a religious holiday for us Jewish peeps and my office is closed as is the kids school.  I had also growled at Miss12 when scheduling that she would be a-okay to go to school and to man up.

So, to now appear to be the benevolent mother (that I am clearly not right now) I sent her an email to say I had decided we could go home after her braces were fitted and that she didn’t have to go to school that day.

She’s wise that one.

Didn’t even take ten minutes for the return email to read – “School’s closed that day mom, but nice try.”

So, clearly I’m fooling no-one.

And next week will be better.

Or I’ll be writing to you from a beach in Bali.  My passport is current.

Internet Banking – suspended baby!

Someone in a management position in my household yesterday (who wishes to remain nameless on this blog), had to request that I call up our banking people to cancel a direct debit.

While I completely realise that this post will make emancipated women everywhere cringe, I’m free to admit that I don’t do the banking in my house, I don’t care about the banking and don’t want to know about the banking.

I care that the Mastercard, Handicard and Amex card work.  Hard.

"The kids" working hard

However, every now and again in order to get something accomplished I’m required to present myself on the telephone as the account holder or something and get debit orders or whatever changed.

The problem is that as I only ever do this every three years or so, the chances of me remembering my eight digit customer are minimal and thereafter remembering my three digit access code are less than zero.  Sometimes similar to the balance of the said account.

However, I’m ever hopeful and willing to please, which saw me on the phone to a customer service representative bumbling my way through the “questions to identify you because you don’t remember your codes” process.

What is the key word associated with your acount?  Fail

Are all your accounts in joint names or separate?  Fail

What are the names of the accounts you hold with us?  Fail

List a recent transaction you made.  ”I withdrew a hundred bucks out of an ATM at about 7.25am yesterday morning”.  This question I’m certain I passed but apparently by this stage the customer service representative had had quite enough and informed me that she really couldn’t in good faith identify me and that my telephone banking privileges were suspended until I presented myself at a branch with full photo id.  (Because my driver’s license photo is such a good likeness of my glamorous self).

I don’t think she was expecting me to say “Fuck, my husband’s going to kill me”.

Unimpressed. Did not like the word "fuck" so much.

The “fuck” must have scared the shit out of her because she didn’t admit to also suspending all internet banking.  Cow.

In addition to the everlasting school holidays – work is reaching critical mass – and a trip to the bank was not on the agenda for today.

Unfortunately the peeps at Amex needed to be paid to ensure that a certain card continues to work.  Hard.  So off I scuttled.

The serious dudes at the real bank as opposed to the internet bank were much much nicer.  There’s something to be said for face to face.    They fixed me up quicksmart.  They understood that the last time I telephone banked was in 2009 and that I couldn’t be expected to remember the code.  They couldn’t explain however why the code I’d pumped into my phone in 2009 – that clearly said 3 dig code (I am like Pussy Galore in Goldfinger – subterfuge is my game) didn’t work.

Pussy Galore - if you don't know, don't ask.

We’re probably going to have the same conversation in 2015 when something similar occurs. Sanjeep also tried to sell me life insurance while I was there and some financial planning.  I smiled blankly and gave him a business card.  He’ll be in touch.

Management was unimpressed and felt the need to say he knew I was going to stuff it up.  Truth be told, me too.

So while you cringe at my complete lack of financial knowledge and dependence on management to sort out finances,  sleep well tonight, because management also knows that if he ever screws me over I will go at him with a chainsaw and dissolve him in a lime bath.  And Sanjeep has my back.   And all my banking codes.

The Moon and Venus – generating bullshit and madness in my world

Wow – don’t know if the moon isn’t aligned with Venus but some people are truly losing their perspective (read: minds).  It’s been a full week of bullshit and head shaking on my behalf.  Here are some choice moments – I know you don’t want to read a three page blog so I limited it to two small instances.  You’re welcome.

Sitting in my car last Thursday collecting the kids from school – tension was mounting with the onslaught of the school holidays.  I was in the car as opposed to out because the school has this “go with the flow” arrangement.  It is categorically more fucked up than the carbon tax.  There is no flow, no go and anarchy reigns supreme with the jumping of the line when there’s a gap – like teenagers at a Justin Bieber concert.   This often results in an irate member of staff with a bullhorn forcing an elderly grandparent (they are the worst offenders by the way) to loop the block and do the drive of shame.  Much to the delight of other smirking serial offenders, who have either not been caught that day or chosen not to offend at that particular moment.  Kudos to you mofo’s.

Whilst sitting in my genuine secured spot, against my better judgement I took a call.  There was ranting.  There was raving.  From me there was eye rolling.  I tried, yes I really tried, to see the other side.  But I couldn’t.  Circumstances dictated that realistically people had generated their own hysteria and believed their own bullshit.  All I can say is shame on you for your lack of generosity of spirit and small-mindedness.  Maybe in the next lifetime you’ll return as a Buddhist Monk who has taken a vow of silence.  I see that as your only redemption to a world you currently pollute with your rhetoric.  Bearing in mind that you are unlikely to read this, I rant to myself.  Thank you very much.

At 180km/h

Fast forward to 4.15pm yesterday when a meltdown from Miss12 over a dress not obtainable due to size and stock issues made me question not only my parenting skills but a value system in place for a generation of kids who only know ‘easy come, easy go’.  Whilst trying not to laugh at the madness, my parents made no effort to hide their mirth  But, the underlying issue of “I want to die and cancel my party because I can’t get this dress to wear” is a worrying concept.  I took the opportunity to mention that

• no, you are not clinically depressed over a dress.
• no, you are not going to die because you are so disappointed and
• no, everything is not going wrong in your life because of this small and insignificant snafu with an item of clothing.

Miss9 wants to know if it’s the hormones causing this.

So to make the world a more liveable place I stopped in at the temple of Dan Murphy, bought 2 of these,

Spiritual enlightment

7 of these (one was cold – the rest were boxed)

Muchos cheapos in bulk

and a slab of these (for Arnold/Management/the artist formerly known as The Big O – who by the way does not want any part of this blog anymore – this will be another story for another day).

The second last mention of "you know who"

Did I sign up for any of this?  The answer is obviously no. 

But isn’t the world an interesting place at the moment?  

Which is why the blog is called what it is.

Cat Rescue – I’m like Veterinarian Barbie……..

Powering home from soccer practice this afternoon, come 5pm with daylight saving no longer, things are somewhat murky.

I spotted a new bump in the road.  Love a challenge – headed straight for it and when I was almost upon it realised it was a cat.  A beautiful blue British short hair.  Having a full on sleep in the road.

There was swerving and children screaming.

I was told that due to my almost murder I had to loop three blocks, circle back and see if the cat was

a) dead

b) sleeping

c) dead in which case I would have to remove it from the road because it was still in near perfect condition (no thanks to almost me)

The pressure was extreme so I looped, pulled back round and it was still there….

Now I’m not squeamish about anything aside from IV lines and dead animals.  I’m scared they’ll seep.

So I double park flush in front of the cat to protect it from oncoming traffic (like myself).  It still hasn’t moved.  An inch.

Flashers on.

I get out.  The crowd in the back of the car is roaring their approval.  I’m like Harries on Bondi Rescue.  Or Dr Chris on Bondi Vet.

Thank you God for giving me an excuse to finally load a photo of Dr Chris onto my blog.

I approach.  The cat doesn’t move.  I’m having a truly oh shit moment here.  It’s dead.  No movement.

Desperate times, desperate measures.  So I do the “here kitty kitty kitty” thing and it moves and stretches and yawns.  The crowd goes wild.  It’s got quite a mouth of teeth on it.  And impressive claws.

But it makes no move to get out of the road.  So I figure, what’s the worst that can happen?  It can scratch the crap out of my arm or bite me.

I flex and bend and go to pick it up.  It’s not as furry as I thought.  It’s one big fat heavy cat – perfectly happy to be lifted out of the road and onto the pavement.

A likeness. Add 6 kg's............

The crowd is now laughing hysterically because apparently it was quite funny to see me powerlifting this cat.

Yeah right.

My random act of kindness for the day.

Pay it forward if you can peeps x

And no amount of crowd pressure was making me hunt down it’s residence and return it to its owner which I am certain lived in the house outside which I double-parked and conducted my “rescue”.

Along with the crowd in the back of my car, they too were probably laughing their arses off at the Blond in the platform heels and skinny leg jeans, bum akimbo ‘rescuing’ their state of the art feline in 5pm traffic.

Let that be your happy mid-week image to carry you through.

xoxoxo