MDGD #2

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The gymnast

MDGD #2. Survived.

Mother Daughter Gym Day. Yes, it does need its own acronym. This year, in my head, it was that sort of day.

This is my second born’s second year of gymnastics. She’s a natural gross motor skill champ, and comes home an excited little iridescent beetroot every week.

Flashback to last year as mother (that’s me) and daughter traipsed off to MDGD. I had a spring in my step and the ill-advised presumption that all would be well.

‘How hard can this gymnastics lark be’, I wondered.

I wasn’t expecting a Nadia Comaneci-like performance, but I did think I could rely a little on my 10 years of dance. They would have to stand me in good stead. Never mind that a couple of decades have passed since my jazz ballet heyday. (I vaguely recall that  my jazz exam featured the music of both The Communards and an early Michael Jackson.) My knees may creak a little, but I can still touch my toes, for goodness sake. What could possibly go wrong?

I made it through the forward rolls – dizziness and mild nausea notwithstanding. I even managed a not completely inelegant arabesque on the beam. And then we moved to the trampolines.  The funnest part. Until I took one too many bounces off the mini-tramp and came down toe-crunchingly hard on the mat. I managed to hobble over to a bench, trying desperately not to bring too much shame down upon the head of my little gymnast. I even managed to keep my potty-mouth firmly shut, but a thought bubble drawn over my head would have seen a lot of #*@#!! action.

It hurt for a very long time – as long as my little toe had hurt after I’d decided to leave it in the path of a metal stool I was dropping in my childhood kitchen. Apparently broken toes mend themselves. Just very slowly.

Given my history and propensity for self toe-harm, perhaps you can understand my pre-MDGD jitters this year. The previous two nights’ doings also had my pessimism meter ticking. On night one, the gymnast had thrown up in bed. Epic proportions, Exorcist style. Cut to night two and a plastic pipey/inlety/outlety thing broke on the washing machine, necessitating no less than 12 towels and wasting half an hour of quality trash TV time to absorb the flood. Husband absent. Alone and palely loitering I was, around a pile of sodden towels, with no one to calm my gymnastic nerves.

Maybe gymnastics and I were just never meant to be? I was a jazz ballet girl after all. Back in the day, my rib cage isolations were second to none. (I know, you’re trying to do them now. Musical stylings of the 80s will get you in the mood.) My primary school bestie and I even choreographed a dance number for our Grade Six graduation; it seemed a shame to waste our never-to-be audition piece for Young Talent Time. Dancing never hurt me. I hurt dancing. Well, running across a road into the side of a moving car hurt me, and a few months in a full-leg plaster cast seriously cramped my dancing style.

In the spirit of maternal martyrdom, I decided to suck it up and get my gymnastics on. I can report that I performed a few quite creditable cartwheels last evening — just don’t ask me about my inner thigh muscles today. I also noted that each and every imprint of my old monkey-bar blisters came back from the epidermal depths approximately five seconds in to grabbing the parallel bars. My hands are still the size of a child’s; the rest of me, not so much.

And so it is over for another year. Nothing broke, the other mums were just as rubbish as me at climbing the slippery fabric rope, and my daughter only reminded two of them about  last year.

Besides which, this week, an evening that doesn’t involve vomit or flooding is win-win and happy dance material in my book.

And yes, I did love this particular costume. Perhaps a little too much.

1983 - Jazz ballet in action.

 

A little bit loopy

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Southern Cross Station

Poor, lonely blog. The forsaking stops here.

I have managed a few peak-hour train trips around the city loop recently. It’s been cause for quiet contemplation on my current claustrophobia status : intermediate level and rising.

For non-Melburnians amongst you, the city loop is our underground train network. As we slide into Southern Cross, the last city stop before the subterranean squeeze, my heart skips a beat. And not in a good way.

From inside the train, Southern Cross — or Spencer St station (if you want to instantly age yourself in this town) — reminds me of a European station. It seems open, airy and has (comparatively) magnificently high ceilings. As the doors open and the crowds spill in, I automatically make myself as wide, tall and grumpy-lookin’ as possible. This is my vain attempt to keep an extra seat-worth of breathing space through the loop. It rarely-to-never works. I am then forced to make myself incredibly busy with a spot of manic reading or frenetic bag-fossicking until we emerge from the depths of Melbourne town.

If I need to alight at a city loop station, I’m sure my mad scramble up the escalators, out of the recirculated air, is quite an entertaining spectacle. In company, I manage a sense of decorum for the entire experience – distraction is the key. Alone, amongst anonymous commuters, I’m probably more Kardashian than Hepburn when it comes to composure.

I fear this ‘issue’ of mine is getting worse with age. Scuba diving was something I always thought I would be up for.  Subaqueous (just a little) is my happy place, but I am no longer tempted by any part of the self-contained underwater breathing apparatus. The thought of a few garbage trucks-worth of water between me and unlimited supplies of oxygen is now slightly horrifying.

And I really don’t EVER need to go subterraneous at Sovereign Hill again. I will not be a miner, one of the seven dwarves, or an employee of Gringotts Wizarding Bank when I grow up.

Subterranean Sovereign Hill

I feel nauseous just watching someone sliding into an MRI (even though it’s always been a working actor who need not worry about anyone finding anything remotely nasty in their brain). That would be quite the acting challenge for me. Calling all casting agents :  if you need to cast hysterical pre-scan patient, complete with gnashing of teeth and a severe case of the vapours, I’m your number one gal. If you need someone who may actually get their head/body into the machine without throwing up and/or passing out from sheer, blind terror, “Next please” is your best option. I just don’t think I could do it unmedicated — not even for Hugh Laurie.

Tunnels are similarly ‘not my thing’. Dress them up however you like on the outside, but tunnels hold only meditation breathing exercises for me. The Channel tunnel should probably not expect me any time in the next five or six decades.

Frankly, I blame Hitchcock. Bloody Hitchcock. I do so love him dearly, just not for the gift of this affliction.

Let me take you back to the mid 80s. A fresh-faced teen sits down to watch and episode of ‘Alfred Hitchcock presents’. It is called ‘Final Escape’ – a remake of an episode from the 60s series.

Total spoiler alert: I am compelled to reveal all. Really, really need to share.

So, on with the story…
(Excuse the interruptions. Only way I can get through it.)
A nasty pastie inmate enlists the help of the prison doctor in her escape bid.
(Reckless rule breaking? Well I never! Guess she has already murdered her husband.)
She plans to  hide in the coffin of the next prisoner to turn up their toes. (Alarm bells ringing quite loudly.)
Doctor is promised riches in return for agreeing to dig her up after the coffin is buried.
(I really, REALLY think you should be watching your ‘Footloose’ tape again, teenage me!)
Before long someone most obligingly dies and our protagonist makes herself cosy in the coffin in the darkened mortuary.
(Yes, you are totally freaking out already. Why, for the love of Michael J Fox, are you still watching???)
Cut to some time later – underground – and our inmate wonders why her rescuer is dragging his heels.
(Cue teenage hyperventilation.)
She pulls out a lighter, or was it a box of matches?
(Who the hell knows! Just keep breathing, me. Surely flames and wood don’t go well together.)
Light source sorted and lo and behold, the doctor is lying next to her in the coffin. Yes, he is dead and for some reason which I can’t recall, he’s died at work and they have stuck him straight in a coffin.
(OH MY GOD!!!!!!!! Yes Astrid, you are screaming but no sound is coming out.)

And bingo. One teenage girl is SCARRED FOR LIFE. I now have goosebumps. You really shouldn’t have asked. There seem to be some clips on YouTube but I care not to see them. If you feel obliged to watch, knock yourselves out. And if you think I’m a total wuss, no need to share.

I’m trying to make it all seem less scary by looking at the Italian promo picture.

Nicely colour-co-ordinated with my blog (and my everything else) too.

 

Chockers

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Nutella

 

It’s time. Easter is approaching. The smell of bunnies, bilbies and yolkless eggs is in the air.

I give you the inevitable chocolate post.

Grab a packet of Maltesers and strap yourselves in.

My name is Astrid and I’m a chocoholic — for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as we both shall live. My saving grace is that my chocolate must be accompanied by tea. Nothing with bergamot, mind you. If I were meant to consume floral flavours, I would be licking flowers indiscriminately.

I was tragically chocolate-deprived as a child (Easter Bunny visits notwithstanding), although not quite by Charlie-Bucket-pre-golden-ticket standards. Surely this is the sole reason for my over-compensation as an adult addict. While our friends supped on Milo and Nesquik on their ice-cream, we had Aktavite. Ah, Aktavite — the nutritionally balanced, sawdust-like, poor cousin of the chocolate sprinkle family. Mum earned life-long teasing from her ingrate offspring for serving Aktavite milkshakes at our birthday parties. Deprived, I tells ya. Deprived.

Then one fine day, I learnt to tag along with Dad on a supermarket expedition. Waxing lyrical about some new contraband I’d heard word of in the playground, I managed to finagle a bottle of Ice Magic into the trolley. (Finagle is a tragically under-used word. I do love the sound of it.) Strike one for the chocoholic on a mission. Unfortunately, my own children have also learnt that age-old equation : Dad (+ supermarket + devious child) = pushover.

I have to admit that I was not above a stealth visit to our loveliest next-door neighbour. She kept a stash of Caramello Koalas for kid-neighbour-sized interlopers. My love of gooey caramel-centred chocolate can be traced directly from her kitchen.

So what’s my particular poison? That depends on my mood, company and sugar levels and the condition that there is nary a hint of orange essence to be found. Let’s just say that Terry’s Chocolate Orange is dead to me. Same goes for the After Dinner Mint Thin I pilfered from a parental 70s dinner party, which turned out to be an After Dinner Orange Thin. Bleurgh.

I used to consider myself immune to TV ads; although I do seem to have a long hard think about otherwise-unappealing cold beverages whenever Hugh Jackman’s iced tea ads pop up. (Is that just me?) It also seems that ads featuring Wonkaesque flowing chocolate send me on deranged hunts for milk Lindt balls or blocks of Dairy Milk.                Conclusion : advertising is evil and should not be inflicted on the weak-willed.

Apropos of Wonka, I have something of a bug bear. I have managed quite a few viewings of ‘Willy Wonka’ in recent years and I will never lose my outrage on behalf of Charlie’s mother. Poor woman spends all day cooking, cleaning,  and presumably chamber-pot emptying, for her son’s four bed-ridden grandparents in a house reeking of cabbage. One mention of a chocolate factory visit, rotten old bugger Grandpa Joe suddenly regains the use of his legs and ungrateful young bugger Charlie thinks it’s acceptable to take the old bloke to chocolate nirvana ahead of his mother!!!! Bad, bad child. Outrageous and totally unforgivable, I say. While I fully appreciate the restorative power of chocolate, Grandpa Joe and Charlie’s behaviour, I do not. The poor woman’s tacit agreement to this is a sure sign of cabbage-induced madness.

I can’t sign off without making mention of my not-so-secret passion for nutella. Nutella naysayers abound, but I fell for it hook, line and teaspoon on my first Italian trip at 17. I have come to accept that it will never taste better than it does there – oozing dangerously out of a warm cornetto (croissant) on a wintry Neapolitan night – but if I click my heels, take a bite and talk to myself in Italian, it can come pretty close.

My Top 10 chocolate treats — a rough ordering :

10. Tim Tams
9. Maltesers
8. Toblerone
7. Cadbury Top Deck
6.  Breakaway biscuits/Caramello koalas
5. Nutella
4. Cadbury Dairy Milk/Flake/Freddo frogs (the super-sized ones)
3. Lindt milk chocolate
2. Chocolate fondant pudding
1. Lindt balls

 

Pop hopping and night fighting

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A little extra time on my hands, apropos of the newly-minted Prep child, has lead me back to reading.

Hold your envious horses at bay for one moment.

It’s not the luxuriating on the lounge under a freshly-crocheted blanket reading of which I speak. Not yet, anyway. Mind you, with wintry weather prematurely upon us and the crochet hook doing double time, couch retreats with freshly brewed pots of tea are surely not too far away. I’m talking grass roots, back-to-basics reading. Featured titles have included “Jj Jigsaw” and the less renowned  ”Ww Whale”, and we have read such pithy lines as, “I can see the cat. I can see the castle. I can see any number of  ’insert word starting with c here’.” Yes, prep readers are upon us. Hurrah. I love going in to help with Prep reading for the opportunity it affords to meet some of the kids and sticky beak at the classroom and my little man interacting therein — for the reading books themselves, not so much.

Reading is surely one of the greatest joys afforded to us as sentient beings. It is a wonder and a privilege to share in a child’s journey to literacy. But let’s be honest, (early-childhood educators, avert your eyes) it can also be downright tedious. It’s been a few years since we’ve seen Prep readers in our house. As a trained language teacher, I do see the value of repetition and patterns in early readers, truly I do. But my, are they dull.

I do think that one reader —specifically, a grade 2 reader—  broke me and prejudiced me against all readers in general. “Australian Currency” was its title. I suspect it may have been penned by a champion of anti-capitalism.  I challenge the most committed shopaholics to retain their interest in the dollar on reading it. I was actually compelled to write “Too boring. Couldn’t finish” in the reading homework book. That’s quite something for someone who has a natural propensity to follow instructions.

Only the other night, as we came to the end of  ”Mm Mummy’s getting restless”, I remembered something. A quick scout around the indelicately placed book piles in my son’s room and I found it. “Hop on Pop”. Saint Dr Seuss to the rescue once more.

All three kids have loved Dr Seuss. I would even say that I have a mild crush on his books. My brother even more so. Unlike my brother, I am no walking anthology of the works of Theodor Geysel, but I know what I like and I like what I know.

Little man is loving and learning “Hop on Pop”. There is one page, however, which has caused all three of my children to interrupt my reading of this book. Not one of them has batted an eyelid at Red, Ned, Ted and Ed sharing a bed, nor has Pat sitting on an upturned baseball bat or three fish lolling in a tree seemed to bother them. The merits of ” NIGHT FIGHT We fight all night.” have always been questioned. Whacking each other on the head with sports equipment has never been a daily (or nightly) activity in our house. I do believe the kids may have be a little thrilled at reading about something which they can’t conceive of doing (or being allowed to do) themselves. I have my suspicions that this may have crossed Dr Seuss’ mind as well.

So thank you, dear Dr Seuss, for giving us “Hop on Pop” and little man’s other favourite Seuss of the moment, “I can read with my eyes shut”. My own personal favourite, “Oh, the thinks you can think”,  is a whole blog post all on its ownsome. To be continued…..

NIGHT FIGHT We fight all night
End note: If only Dr Seuss had penned something about the dangers of removing a Lego man’s hat with your teeth while inhaling, perhaps little man, his teacher and all may have been saved the trauma of this week’s classroom choking episode.

Hopefully he now has as much respect for tiny plastic choking hazards as I have for his teacher.

A Wonder-ful toy.

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Lego Wonder Woman

A few days ago I went a-searching for a boy present. Now that I’ve had my own mini-man long enough for him to be a school boy (sniff), the chain store boy toy aisles have less of  that  ’undiscovered country’ feel about them. As littlies, I would love to say that my kids were equally happy with something from either gender designated aisle, but that would be a big, fat porky pie. They’ve had access to all flavours of toys from the time they were old enough to cradle a soft toy or roll a car but frankly, like most kids I know, they’ve stuck with stereotypical boy/girl playthings. These days, Lego is the exception to my tribe’s self-imposed rule.

I  have a few (mothers of boys) friends who have experienced pink-induced panic attacks and paralysis in the girly aisles. Fair enough too. Sometimes there’s only so much fairy/princess/anatomically-impossible doll/backpacking, large-headed explorer child merchandise a grown woman can handle. (Not that I hold Dora’s large head against her. Oversized hats are de riguer in our genetically top-heavy family. And she has taught the kids a smattering of Spanish — minor compensation.)

Of course I prefer to patronise our local toy shops but sometimes, due to product availability and budget constraints, only the big kahuna stores will do. You know. You’ve been there too.

There I was trawling the aisles, when I saw HER. I think I lost my mind.

Lego Wonder Woman, that’s who.

Six year old me squealed like a demented chicken/Belieber. (Belieber =  a young devotee of the musical stylings and cherubic smile of Justin Bieber. Or so I’ve been told. No, I really shouldn’t know that word, much less use it. It won’t happen again.)
Present day me was also temporarily incapacitated.  I’m just grateful that my audible gasp was not mid-nori roll scoffing. I suspect that the employees of that particular retail outlet may not be trained in the Heimlich manoeuvre.

Lego Wonder Woman may be unrealistically flat-chested, but having been fairly oblivious to cleavage at 6,  I’ll let that pass. I would however, be tempted to ink in some bullet-proof bracelets. Shrapnel and Danish plastic are not exactly a match made in heaven.

Gazing at my new love, a harsh realisation hit me. All this time I had given Leela full credit for my long boot predilection, when Wonder Woman/Lynda Carter’s spectacular red numbers were really my first love. Best blame this memory lapse on the children. Definitely not old age. PS. Leela, I love you no less.

I loved playing Lego with my little brother — distinct lack of fancy, pink new age blocks notwithstanding. Back in the Lego days, we were quite the formidable dynamic duo in our Wonder Woman and Batman costumes. Playing with my very own Wonder Woman figurine, in costume, may well have caused spontaneous Astrid combustion.

But now that I have seen her, she WILL be mine (little man’s)!

I miss my Wonder Woman costume. Mum’s handiwork is no longer. I fear it disintegrated long ago, overused and overloved, gone to the great invisible Wonder Woman airplane in the sky. I believe the Lasso of Truth was missing from my 70′s ensemble. Perhaps Mum thought it best not to risk sibling strangulation. Differences of opinion between superheroes were bound to happen

Until the school boy’s birthday rolls around, I will have to content myself with an occasional clandestine trip to the toy aisles and find any excuse to play with my friend’s (technically her son’s) Wonder Woman.

My hot-pants-wearing days may be 3 children and some years behind me, but I see nothing wrong with a little long-red-booted playtime.

My friends are welcome to join me.

Costume optional.

BYO superhero.

Wonder Astrid

Little big man

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I’ve been struck down with quite a severe case of suck it up princessitis. I can’t quite seem to manage it. The long summer sojourn has come to an end and I am quite the emotional little flower this week. This time, it’s not just the impending school lunches that are weighing on my slightly askew tiara.

My third and final babe — my contribution to the menfolk population — is starting primary school tomorrow and I’m feeling a little bereft in anticipation.

But don’t get me completely wrong. There are things I’m looking forward to having time for once the little man is safely in the bosom of our most lovely school.

1. (Ooh! A list!) Reorganising the pants off every room in the house.

2.Working out definitively what I want to do when I grow up.

3. Exercise — so I can gaze at my navel with more ease and flexibility between the hours of 9am and 3.30pm.

However, I will miss the little man with the funny stories, the products of the his superhero/Star Wars/Harry Pottered imagination. I will miss our lunch dates and I will miss having time to just hang out. I’m trying not to go on the maternal guilt trip to the Land of Things We Should Have Done, things that we never quite managed to get around to as often as I had imagined. He is also the baby who helped keep me sane through the months of intensive care visits to Dad after his car accident. At the end of the day, the little man always needed a feed.

11 years is a long time to be at home with wee bairns.  I feel so lucky to have been able to be around with them, elbow deep in playdoh and my magnificent mothers’ group. I am so incredibly fortunate to have my three babies at all.

Over the years,  I have tried not to let Dora, Diego,  Hi-5 et al permeate my brain or cause any permanent visual or aural damage and yes, I have sometimes even found time to be bored. Toilet training and reading a Wiggles book for the umpteenth time (shoot me, shoot me now) spring quite rapidly to mind. But then I’ve also been to work meetings during which I have contemplated just how much damage sticking a sharpened pencil in the eye of mine own true self, or that of the person who — for the love of whatever deity you do or do not hold dear — will not shut up. So I have no regrets on that score.

I guess my current state boils down to coping with the closing of a chapter. All of my nearest and dearest, some serial departers among them, know just how farewell-phobic I am. I don’t avoid goodbyes, I just rate them somewhere between  root canals and multiple child delousing. I would like to say that if I could dress them up in a foreign language, so much the better, but some of the worst have been in Italian and/or in Italy. For me, waterproof mascara is the epitome of false advertising. Maybe I’ve just never laid out enough cash at the cosmetics counter.

Tomorrow morning, sans mascara, I will remind myself that my beautiful, sensitive, funny boy is champing at the bit to move on to the next phase. I just need to catch up. I do want to enjoy his big day and this one and only year with all three kidlets at primary school.

There will most definitely be tears, but there will also be proud parents, dear friends, sugar, champagne and a cuddle at 3.30pm.

Suck it up princess.

How bad can it be?

The razor blade of life

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2011 may have given me Steve Carell Office marathons (of the watching, not running variety), but the 70s gave me Tom Lehrer.

To be more precise, Tom Lehrer was a gift from the 70s, and my Dad.

Witty, ascerbic and an undisputed master of wordplay, Tom was just my kinda guy. Now in his 80s, the most fabulous Mr Lehrer was a satirist, singer/songwriter, pianist, mathematician and university lecturer. The 50s and 60s were the lucky recipients of his songs. I would happily give my as yet undisturbed wisdom teeth and almost consider throwing in a child or husband to have been able to attend one of his musical theatre lectures. To attend one of the maths-flavoured variety, perhaps you’d just score my teeth. Did manage to snag myself a funny, musical, bespectacled, maths nerd husband though. Coincidence? You be the judge.

But, before I go on, I think you should hear from the man himself. There are far too many songs to pack into one li’l blog post, but if you have a hankering to see more, the wonderful wide web will oblige.

On road trips,  Dad would faithfully pull out the Tom Lehrer cassette tape to get us through the last hour of the day. No Wiggles or Justin Bieber for us, we would relish the words of the funny American man who had our parents in stitches. Dad loved Lehrer’s political and socially themed songs, such as ” Werner von Braun”. But it was the black humour of songs like  ”Poisoning Pigeons in the Park” and “The Masochism Tango” that I really remember making him laugh and they in turn had a special appeal to little old 70s me.

I’m convinced he turned the volume up during “Bright College Days” when it came to the line, “Soon you’ll be sliding down the razor blade of life”. That single line has stuck with me, like a razor blade in fact, more than any other — ever. I can still hear the high-pitched squeals of my 70s self as that line blared out of the old Mazda speakers, and my toes are curled inextricably around my sheet as I write.

On those occasions, Dad’s eyes would sparkle with a joy that I am only fully appreciating as my babies grow up — that of sharing  something you think is truly wonderful with your children. At least I like to think that’s how he felt.

In January,  I have my Dad particularly on my mind. This week he would have turned 74. It was the second birthday he has missed. Two too many for my liking. Procrastinating and prevaricating (coincidentally, two of Dad’s favourite words) on YouTube recently, I decided to look up Tom Lehrer. Curse my luddite tendencies that I did not do so when I could still share the footage with Dad.

I can in time however, share them with my kids and give them a taste of their grandfather’s sense of humour, much in the way that some of his (and my) favourite films, “Kind Hearts and Coronets”, “Some Like it Hot” and “Rear Window” and his copies of PG Wodehouse and Dickens will be a connection of sorts in the years ahead.

I’m pretty sure Dad would approve of me showing them Daniel Radcliffe’s Tom Lehrer party trick. If anything’s going get my 11 year old Harry Potter devotee fired up about Tom Lehrer — and chemistry — this will be it.

Happy birthday Dad.

2011 – You’re so last year

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Well, hello there, 2012. Piacere. Pleased to meet you.

I find that I have to wait until the turkey, pudding and panettone have settled before I can adequately reflect on the year just done.

So now that’s sorted,  what have you done for me lately, 2011 and just so we’re being fair, what have I done for you?

Shall we make a list? Just because we can.

1. I have bestowed upon you one shiny,  new blog because, heavens to Betsy, the interweb is terribly undersubscribed. Besides which, I do hate to imagine how 49 Ukrainians, a score of Russians, mysterious dropper-inners and family and friends dispersed around the globe may otherwise have spent their time. They may not have learnt anything, but I’m fairly confident that I kept the person who googled “madam” and “Astrid” away from less savoury web postings — even momentarily — and possibly killed a little of their joy along the way. Chalk one up for the prudes.

2. You have given me back (geographically speaking) one of my dearest friends. The happy transition from flying-distance to walking- distance cannot be underestimated. I like to think of myself sitting in Melbourne town, spinning my web, bringing all my friends who have so inconveniently sought to make lives interstate and overseas, back home. Yes, it is all about me and my needs and it does seem to have worked on more than one occasion, so I must be on to something. Perhaps I should think of it in terms of crocheting though, rather than spinning. Can’t really cope with the “self as spider” analogy. Even Charlotte of the self-titled web would scare the pants off me and clearly, I need little assistance in that department. (see point 3). Now if only 2012 could teach me to cast my permanent extraction crochet all the way to Italy…

3 & 4. I see your friend return and I raise you 2 (count them) public humiliations. After this episode, who knew I had the time and energy to squeeze in another before year’s end. Yes, I probably did. Note to self : items of clothing (that fit) unworn for an undetermined  period of time, are probably best left in the wardrobe, or transferred directly to the bin. Pant loss at the local shopping centre (mercifully, in the underground carpark) due to a faulty zip, is neither welcome, nor an obligatory part of the Christmas shopping experience. An extra hand or a staple gun would have been gratefully received.

5&6. 2011, I shall give you credit for introducing  me to The Office(US) and the office. For one of those, I am eternally grateful. For the other, let’s just say it remains to be seen. You know how I feel. And Steve Carell. Just felt like saying his name.

7. Harry Potter 7.2. Alan Rickman, you magnificent thespian, you.  You had me at “Misssster Potter”.

8.True to form, you’ve brought your own personal recipe of joys and sorrows, hellos and farewells, births, deaths and marriages. But while the former will never entirely negate the latter, the joys do make the sorrows infinitely easier to bear.

9. Apropos of joy, here’s a little clip I met in 2011 that gave me the most enduring smile. My dear friend who doesn’t even like Doctor Who (yes, she is real) brought it to my attention, so that deserves a smile of its very own.

So 2011, thank you (and me) for the good. It’s been uplifting, nourishing and just plain swell.

I bite my thumb at the bad with all the churl I can muster.  It deserves nothing less.

The indifferent can take care of itself.

So, bring it on 2012, give it your best shot — though if you could outsource the school lunches x 3, I’d be much obliged.

There’s a spot over here….

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Rule #1 – Grey hairs and pimples do not belong on the same head.

Rule#2 -A dead fly does not belong in a fridge, even if it didn’t intend to die in there.

Rule #3 -You do not talk about Fight Club.

Sorry, Edward Norton just popped into my head to say hello. It doesn’t happen often. Brad was busy.

Allegedly, grown-ups can cope with grey hairs. We all have different coping mechanisms. Some rock their salt and pepper locks with cool and style. Others have people, let’s call them “dressers of hair” who, for a fee, can cover even the smallest number of silvery wisps. I choose Door Number 2 and am yet to foresee a time when it is not my door of choice.

As someone who has not had short hair since the age of 5, I am clearly deeply attached to my locks. I am long-haired. That’s who I am. Besides which, my hands would barely know what to do with themselves if I went for the big chop. The pageboy bowl cut in my Prep photo probably explains the whole long hair thing.

Unfortunately, (although she may beg to differ) my fine “dresser of hair” was not in my bathroom the morning I discovered my first, second and third grey hairs. I had actually leaned closer to the mirror to inspect an oh-my-giddy-aunt-I-am-too-old-for-this pimple. By the way, I  have no immediate aunts, just one great-aunt left and I have never considered her to be particularly giddy. But then I’ve never asked her whether she discovered her first grey hairs AND a pimple on the very same day.

After I had shouted at the kids during the morning madness a little more than usual, I cried my very First World problem tears into my weak, skinny latte. There may even have been chocolate involved and no, I see no connection between cocoa-based products and my pimple. Between bites, I mean sips, I decided that it was just bad and wrong.
Surely if we have earned the right(?) to bear silver in our hair, we have also earned the right not to bear spots on our face. Is it not right that we should also have at least a 20, nay, a 30 year gap between having to pay for the Clearasil family’s Swiss chalets (by covering up our own pimples) and subsidising their beachfront retreats in the Bahamas by hiding the pimples of our offspring? My high horse and I are quite sure about that one.

Nature and hormones seem to disagree. Well, in your face stinky hormones, not mine! I was determined to sit down with my hormones and have a long hard talk about the injustice of it all. They were strangely unco-operative. But my inner Pollyanna lives in hope of a day when hormones are sentient and can read rules, although they’re probably no use with dead flies.

‘Til that day arrives, make-up and the nice lady with the expensive hair paint will see me through.

Baubles and black trees and beads, oh my!

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O Christmas tree/Albero/Tannenbaum. You’d think someone as manically obsessive about the Yule tree would have the old “O Christmas tree” lyrics down pat. But alas, “la la la la la la la”, features quite prominently in my renditions of that particular carol.

There’s no such lackadaisical approach to the real deal — decorating my festive pride and joy. No siree. I am what you might rudely but accurately call, a Christmas tree control freak. Yes, I think I do have a slight crush on my tree each year, not that there’s anything wrong with that. I am a (Christmas) tree hugger.

It all begins on the first of December. The boxes are opened, and the sweet smell of my treasured glass and porcelain ornaments is in the air. (Oh, let me have my olfactory delusions. I have read “Perfume” in the last 12 months, and it is Christmas after all.) If festive commitments keep me from my tree-trimming date, I am antsy as antsy can be. Is it just me?

‘Tis the season once again to read “Olivia helps with Christmas” to my little man. Much as I truly love this and all the Olivia books, I can’t help but shake my head at the front page every time I see Olivia’s Dad carrying a tree into the house on Christmas Eve. On Christmas Eve!!! As my little man would say, “What the ???”. The fact that they are pigs is no excuse. If the lack of opposable thumbs doesn’t stop them trimming on December 24th, what’s so wrong with the first of the month?

I know what you’re thinking. Yes, my tree is black. I’m neither goth nor vampire.  Black is the new green. And  no, it is not real.

Colour co-ordinating my ornaments is paramount. If they are co-ordinated with my living room colour scheme, which of course they are, so much the better. While you may think that would take the fun out of it, you would be so very, very wrong.  I let my Christmas tree OCD take over and happy am I.

I do love the smell of a freshly cut tree, infusing a home with its Christmassy aroma. I do not love the feeling of pine needles puncturing the delicate skin which resides on the arches of my feet, nor the truly singular sensation of said needles tickling the nerve endings just under my toenails. I’m afraid to say that one December of barefooted, nocturnal wanderings around a real tree,  put me off for life. I admit that the tree did take up approximately half of our then living room and I am not an avid in-house shoe wearer at the best or warmest of times. And the bi-daily sweeping/floor maintenance was never going to happen — not even in the land of Before Kids.

There is of course an added bonus of non-living tree. When February (I mean January 6th)  inevitably rolls around, tree in box, box in wardrobe, tears on pillow and we’re packed up for another 9 or 10 months. No manky old pine needles strewn down the hallway, and neighbours never need know just how long the tree is in situ.

I love the tree my kids put up in their playroom completely unsupervised by yours truly. I love Christmas trees in general. I just love mine a smidgen more. Until I stop tearing up when I turn the lights on each year, I’ll let my tree-freak flag fly free.