I don't know which made me feel older - attending my father-in-law's 60th or the fact I dressed the same as my mother-in-law. (The latter made me suspect that Ben's attracted to women who are like his mother, but it's more likely a mere coincidence. I'll only cry "Incest!" upon one more such incident.) After 3 attempts to perfect my nail polish, I was ready to add my finishing silver bracelet when I saw Kerry clipping on a very similar piece.. and, like myself, wearing a black, lace top, jeans and black heels. So, I skipped the bracelet and changed my outfit, managing to pull back my nail polish whilst pulling on my pants. Damn you to hell, coincidence (and your cousin, Murphy's law and.. Taxes [technically a second cousin])!
We had a very nice time celebrating out at the Malvern Hotel, where we were greeted warmly by John's friends, including his long-time buddy from the Polish neighbourhood, Richard. This gentleman who last flattered me with, "You look good. Why don't you always look like that?" this time asked, "Why are these people saying you look gorgeous?" It's all in good fun (I hope!) and Richie personally saw to it that we were entertained among the older crowd, for the evening. He plonked me down beside one perfect stranger, insisting, "Talk to Carol! She used to live in Singapore."
"Ok.."
Carol did have some interesting tales, like how her Filipino maid had to be smuggled out of the country when it was discovered she was having a relationship with a local, an unacceptable coupling in the community.
Ben and I somehow gravitated to the other cat lover in the room, Chris, who showed us pics of his clever feline squatting over the bath tub drain to pee! He said his wife refused to engage in any bedroom action if the cat was present, both regarding it as their baby. Privacy was not the only condition his wife instilled in this area. She would also ask, from the vantage of the bed, "Is that a cobweb in the corner?" so that Chris soon found himself regularly cleaning cobwebs and such around the house to increase his luck. Clever lady!
When Ben and Chris had left me alone, Richard kept me company with the always-fun conversation starter, "When are you having kids?!"
"What are you, her father-in-law?" someone retorted.
He proceeded to explain ("and tell me if I'm wrong..") that every woman's greatest desire is to have children; he also insisted that women are much smarter than men, however, so the generalisations evened out. As we chatted, he casually brushed my hair back from my shoulder (like an actual father tidying his kid) without seeming aware of it, which I thought was pretty funny.
I noticed a waiter apologising to Kerry for putting a dent in our bum. Our talented friend Lisa made an amazing cake which was sculpted into a bottom, on account of John's nickname, Bum (Bee is the less embarrassing abbreviation). As a lad, he was famous for stripping nude, tucking a piece of newspaper into his bum, setting it alight and running down the street. So, yes, the nickname's quite literal. Someone had dropped a bottle on the cake in the cool room, but Kerry reasoned, "Bee's got a scar on his bum, so now it matches."
Throughout the night, I kept failing in my determination to show comradery to the waitress, Georgia, who had to deal with the rowdy Polacks. I'd just taken a big gulp of cider which I followed up with a massive burp when she happened to walk past.
"Did she hear?" I demanded of Ben.
"Yep. She even gave you a look."
So, with the cake cut, I donated a large portion to the staff, which I handed to Georgia. Ben pointed out that giving her a piece of cake in the shape of a bum was like telling her to kiss my arse. D'oh!
Ben and I had enjoyed our night, but just like the oldies leave early at young folk's parties, we younger two were the first to leave the 60th. We looked for Ben's brother Josh as we were heading out, in case he wanted to join us, but saw him talking to Richard at the bar. "Quick!" Ben harried. "If Richard sees us, we'll never get out!" Bloody party animal, that one. We escaped on a tram and collapsed our weary, middle-aged bodies into bed.
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Monday, August 20, 2012
Wine on, you crazy diamond.
After insisting at work that I would only be avaiable to work every second Saturday, I worked 5 in a row (I sure showed them!) and intended to use my first free Saturday wisely. With undies and toothbrushes ready (sounds exciting so far), we headed to Jas and Mark's, who live nearby to the Yarra Valley (a.k.a. magical land of wine) for a day of tasting.
Our friends' 2 year old, Zoe, was her usual happy self. When simply helped into her coat by grandma, there to collect her, she erupted into a contagious, giggling joy. Yeah, go coats! Zoe's little sister Gwen didn't escape the winery tour (with her sober mother as driver!) and was less excited to see us, staring at me with horror as I squished in beside her capsule. As with anyone who looks at my face too long, she eventually started to cry, so I made her toy bunny bust out a range of dance moves to little avail. Something else on my hand did catch Gwen's eye, however - my engagement ring.. She need only be given a diamond encrusted rattle and she'll never make a peep. She was also interested in my nails, which I'd luckily painted blue with black crackle (I knew that would come in handy - and they told me it was a waste of time!).
Our first stop was Sticks winery, and after only a couple of sips, I slipped all too easily into my boisterous alter-ego. Our winery host described one drop as having a slight tabacco flavour, "unlike cigarettes, but more like a fine, tasty cigar."
"So," I interjected, "the kind of tabacco that's good for ya, then? Haw, haw, haw!" Yes, Rosie, you
cheap drunk. Hilarious.
When I turned my back for a moment, wine man filled my glass with water to rinse it before the dessert wine. To everyone's amusement, I missed that vital instruction and gagged when I sipped on wine-laced water instead of the sweet drink I'd expected. I thought it looked a bit pale! Drunk Rosie, score 2.
The second winery, which shall remain nameless out of the kindness of my alcohol enlarged heart, was run by an older woman whose disinterest and long, dour face reminded me a crabby, English teacher from high-school that everyone was afraid of! She heard Gwen whimper and, speaking to the mother through the baby, told her, "You don't like being out, do you? Tell Mum you prefer to be at home in your environment. You don't care what she wants!" Now, I work in a cafe that could be mistaken for a daycare, so I understand wanting to shout, after a few hours of mothers' group, "Your kids wanna go home! What other option do they have for entertainment than opening sugar packets, crawling on the floor and pushing buttons on the fridge?!!" Aside from the fact I would never say this, our friends are not those type of parents and Jasmine had sacrificed the tastings to be our driver! Interestingly, the wicked wine lady's hostility quickly dissolved when Mark showed an interest in the art of wine making and drinking. She warmed to us (especially the boys..) like a small-towner who'd finally accepted the newcomers, giving us a lesson in agriculture and wine cellaring. I noticed her chunky rings embedded with crystals, including one on her thumb, and could understand her as a self-protective, soft-centred hippy.
When Gwen took a hold of and broke Jasmine's very special set of pearls (thankfully not earlier when she was told to go home!) our new friend even advised Jasmine on how to repair it herself to a baby-proof standard. Best mates for life! And she made a couple of sales on a quiet, rainy day. Everyone wins.
After an amazing lunch at Oakridge, an Englishman who we decided was from the same region as David Attenborough (giving him quite the sales advantage! Ah, so pure) ran us through the wines. Mark and Jasmine's resolve for the day was not to buy dessert wine, of which they have an untouched abundance. Attenborough took this as a challenge, showing Mark his best dessert wine which he promptly bought. Nature's voice strikes again.
Riverstone was up next. I drank in the beautiful view and took the free advice (which was, basically no one knows how long a certain bottle of wine will keep past a few years! So, may as well drink it now, eh?) but bought nothing. I broke my own resolve of the day, however, (which was, 'be a tightarse, as usual') at the final winery, Pimpernel, buying the most delicious albeit expensive bottle, 'Groucho.'
We sealed our seediness with more wine and some pizza that evening, and when Jasmine asked the next day, "Can I make you some bacon and eggs?" we assured her, "You certainly can!" It was on to rehearsal for me that arvy (bam! Hardcore), but enough fun was had on the Saturday that I am ready to work the next million I got coming. Thanks, kids :)
Our friends' 2 year old, Zoe, was her usual happy self. When simply helped into her coat by grandma, there to collect her, she erupted into a contagious, giggling joy. Yeah, go coats! Zoe's little sister Gwen didn't escape the winery tour (with her sober mother as driver!) and was less excited to see us, staring at me with horror as I squished in beside her capsule. As with anyone who looks at my face too long, she eventually started to cry, so I made her toy bunny bust out a range of dance moves to little avail. Something else on my hand did catch Gwen's eye, however - my engagement ring.. She need only be given a diamond encrusted rattle and she'll never make a peep. She was also interested in my nails, which I'd luckily painted blue with black crackle (I knew that would come in handy - and they told me it was a waste of time!).
Our first stop was Sticks winery, and after only a couple of sips, I slipped all too easily into my boisterous alter-ego. Our winery host described one drop as having a slight tabacco flavour, "unlike cigarettes, but more like a fine, tasty cigar."
"So," I interjected, "the kind of tabacco that's good for ya, then? Haw, haw, haw!" Yes, Rosie, you
cheap drunk. Hilarious.
When I turned my back for a moment, wine man filled my glass with water to rinse it before the dessert wine. To everyone's amusement, I missed that vital instruction and gagged when I sipped on wine-laced water instead of the sweet drink I'd expected. I thought it looked a bit pale! Drunk Rosie, score 2.
The second winery, which shall remain nameless out of the kindness of my alcohol enlarged heart, was run by an older woman whose disinterest and long, dour face reminded me a crabby, English teacher from high-school that everyone was afraid of! She heard Gwen whimper and, speaking to the mother through the baby, told her, "You don't like being out, do you? Tell Mum you prefer to be at home in your environment. You don't care what she wants!" Now, I work in a cafe that could be mistaken for a daycare, so I understand wanting to shout, after a few hours of mothers' group, "Your kids wanna go home! What other option do they have for entertainment than opening sugar packets, crawling on the floor and pushing buttons on the fridge?!!" Aside from the fact I would never say this, our friends are not those type of parents and Jasmine had sacrificed the tastings to be our driver! Interestingly, the wicked wine lady's hostility quickly dissolved when Mark showed an interest in the art of wine making and drinking. She warmed to us (especially the boys..) like a small-towner who'd finally accepted the newcomers, giving us a lesson in agriculture and wine cellaring. I noticed her chunky rings embedded with crystals, including one on her thumb, and could understand her as a self-protective, soft-centred hippy.
When Gwen took a hold of and broke Jasmine's very special set of pearls (thankfully not earlier when she was told to go home!) our new friend even advised Jasmine on how to repair it herself to a baby-proof standard. Best mates for life! And she made a couple of sales on a quiet, rainy day. Everyone wins.
After an amazing lunch at Oakridge, an Englishman who we decided was from the same region as David Attenborough (giving him quite the sales advantage! Ah, so pure) ran us through the wines. Mark and Jasmine's resolve for the day was not to buy dessert wine, of which they have an untouched abundance. Attenborough took this as a challenge, showing Mark his best dessert wine which he promptly bought. Nature's voice strikes again.
Riverstone was up next. I drank in the beautiful view and took the free advice (which was, basically no one knows how long a certain bottle of wine will keep past a few years! So, may as well drink it now, eh?) but bought nothing. I broke my own resolve of the day, however, (which was, 'be a tightarse, as usual') at the final winery, Pimpernel, buying the most delicious albeit expensive bottle, 'Groucho.'
We sealed our seediness with more wine and some pizza that evening, and when Jasmine asked the next day, "Can I make you some bacon and eggs?" we assured her, "You certainly can!" It was on to rehearsal for me that arvy (bam! Hardcore), but enough fun was had on the Saturday that I am ready to work the next million I got coming. Thanks, kids :)
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Freaky Friday at Zumba.
Friday night zumba sessions are something I lamely like to think upon as parties, I love them so. As with most classes we enjoy, this has much to do with my teacher, Sabrina. She may not run as high-intensity a class as some (a criterion for good zumba), but she is incredibly skilled, inventive and friendly, and I always head home feeling I've been a part of something. That's right, when you're out with your mates on a Friday, I'm dancing at a gym where noboby knows my name and the instructor is paid to be nice to me.. Because it makes me feel 'special.'
In any case, I was excited, as usual, to be heading to Zumba, last Friday. I didn't even let it annoy me when a clearly unusual woman impinged upon my dance space to ask, "Is this Zumba?" With her unkempt hair and mismatched clothing, socks pulled over her tracksuits to complete the look, I thought if her dance skills were like her dress sense, she might need the spot in the front row. My good spirits were only shaken when a different instuctor walked through the door. I quickly assessed the newby and though I remained vainly hopeful, the prognosis wasn't good. She wore bright wristbands and a pointy, blue croptop, like a colourful, unco version of 80s Madonna. Her bronzed, perky faced was topped with long, scraggly hair that was pinned at the fringe in such a way, it gave the impression of mullet. Despite a young daughter in tow, she had a fabulous belly, which led me to hope, "She must have mad dance skills to have stayed in shape.. Right?"
Without acknowledging the class, New Teacher fiddled with the sound system for an uncomfortable length of time, her daughter occasionally intervening to give her some pointers. Meanwhile, a second odd gym member arrived and again, despite the vastly vacant dance floor, stood right beside me. The assumption that she was a normal person and simply hadn't noticed me was dispelled when she turned briefly to look at me, then nevertheless held her spot. When she turned a second time and rudely stared, I took the opportunity to warn, "I may ending up whacking you, there," which was indeed the passive-aggressive threat it sounded. By her indiscernable mutter and otherwise stationary response, I was left to presume she would move once the class had begun.
When the class finally did commence, I was able to confirm the third weirdo in the room. New Teacher not only struggled with the choreography, but had very little grasp of the actual moves. The regulars and I were able to elaborate from experience, but I felt sorry for those less familiar to the class. Now, not every dance teacher has creative pizazz, but it is rare for even one student to outdo them for skill and timing. It seemed to me on Friday that not only were most of the students better than the teacher, but she seemed to be looking to us to lead her! I was cruelly amused by the isolated sight of the woman who had taken my place in the front row, when she moved closer to the stage to emulate a particular move; the teacher was reaching out toward the class and Strange Lady reached back toward toward her, so that for a moment it looked like they were the only two weirdos in the room, beckoning to one another. As for my other spot-stealing friend, she turned to me mid-class and asked, "Do you want to move into the front?"
"No thank you! I'm happy here, but there are plenty of other spaces." Honestly.. I fortunately didn't have to tolerate her for the entire class, because even she was unimpressed by our fill-in and left early.
Zumba is a generally sensual dance, but as I watched New Teacher's awkward movement, I tried to pinpoint a good description of her incompatible style. She had a Barbie-like body, but just like a Barbie who had come to life, she was ironically and comically stiff as a board. She also struggled with the sound technology, often referring to her daughter when she needed to change a song. I had also thought she moved a bit like a 6 year old who had made up a dance to show her parents, so this reliance on her daughter gave me another theory - It was Freaky Friday! Perhaps mother and daughter had a classic body switch and now the daughter had to keep her mother's day job, hence the little girl coming along to assist. There you go. Mystery solved.
Now, look, I may have sounded a little harsh, but I do look forward to Zumba and I don't think it's fair to employ teachers who are just so far below a reasonable standard. Had I not been amused by New Teacher's attempts at dancing, I might have left early with Weirdo #2. We could've gone off and sniffed glue together, or whatever it is that causes her to dance right on top of people. That probably would've given me some interesting stories, too, so I was winnin', either way.
In any case, I was excited, as usual, to be heading to Zumba, last Friday. I didn't even let it annoy me when a clearly unusual woman impinged upon my dance space to ask, "Is this Zumba?" With her unkempt hair and mismatched clothing, socks pulled over her tracksuits to complete the look, I thought if her dance skills were like her dress sense, she might need the spot in the front row. My good spirits were only shaken when a different instuctor walked through the door. I quickly assessed the newby and though I remained vainly hopeful, the prognosis wasn't good. She wore bright wristbands and a pointy, blue croptop, like a colourful, unco version of 80s Madonna. Her bronzed, perky faced was topped with long, scraggly hair that was pinned at the fringe in such a way, it gave the impression of mullet. Despite a young daughter in tow, she had a fabulous belly, which led me to hope, "She must have mad dance skills to have stayed in shape.. Right?"
Without acknowledging the class, New Teacher fiddled with the sound system for an uncomfortable length of time, her daughter occasionally intervening to give her some pointers. Meanwhile, a second odd gym member arrived and again, despite the vastly vacant dance floor, stood right beside me. The assumption that she was a normal person and simply hadn't noticed me was dispelled when she turned briefly to look at me, then nevertheless held her spot. When she turned a second time and rudely stared, I took the opportunity to warn, "I may ending up whacking you, there," which was indeed the passive-aggressive threat it sounded. By her indiscernable mutter and otherwise stationary response, I was left to presume she would move once the class had begun.
When the class finally did commence, I was able to confirm the third weirdo in the room. New Teacher not only struggled with the choreography, but had very little grasp of the actual moves. The regulars and I were able to elaborate from experience, but I felt sorry for those less familiar to the class. Now, not every dance teacher has creative pizazz, but it is rare for even one student to outdo them for skill and timing. It seemed to me on Friday that not only were most of the students better than the teacher, but she seemed to be looking to us to lead her! I was cruelly amused by the isolated sight of the woman who had taken my place in the front row, when she moved closer to the stage to emulate a particular move; the teacher was reaching out toward the class and Strange Lady reached back toward toward her, so that for a moment it looked like they were the only two weirdos in the room, beckoning to one another. As for my other spot-stealing friend, she turned to me mid-class and asked, "Do you want to move into the front?"
"No thank you! I'm happy here, but there are plenty of other spaces." Honestly.. I fortunately didn't have to tolerate her for the entire class, because even she was unimpressed by our fill-in and left early.
Zumba is a generally sensual dance, but as I watched New Teacher's awkward movement, I tried to pinpoint a good description of her incompatible style. She had a Barbie-like body, but just like a Barbie who had come to life, she was ironically and comically stiff as a board. She also struggled with the sound technology, often referring to her daughter when she needed to change a song. I had also thought she moved a bit like a 6 year old who had made up a dance to show her parents, so this reliance on her daughter gave me another theory - It was Freaky Friday! Perhaps mother and daughter had a classic body switch and now the daughter had to keep her mother's day job, hence the little girl coming along to assist. There you go. Mystery solved.
Now, look, I may have sounded a little harsh, but I do look forward to Zumba and I don't think it's fair to employ teachers who are just so far below a reasonable standard. Had I not been amused by New Teacher's attempts at dancing, I might have left early with Weirdo #2. We could've gone off and sniffed glue together, or whatever it is that causes her to dance right on top of people. That probably would've given me some interesting stories, too, so I was winnin', either way.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Painting the Rosie Red.
It was a beautiful day in South Gippsland, last Sunday. Flowers were at the peak of their bloom and cried, "Pick me, pick me!"; the horsies were neighing, "See those hills? I can take you there, baby"; and the wide, open spaces were just begging for a good frolicking. Ben and I weren't silly, though. We knew the real action was to be found at the beach. There, we would laugh into the sea breeze, sipping on delicious bottled water and shifting uncomfortably in our rag-like clothing which we had specifically worn.. to paint a house. Whaaaaat?
You see, my mum and her brothers recently acquired my late uncle's home which they decided to keep in the family. They've put a lot of work into restoring the house, with a lot more to go, so my sister volunteered herself, Johnny and I to do the weatherproofing. Though happy to contribute, I was immediately anxious that any attempt by me at DIY would somehow lead to setting myself on fire ("Well, the tin says 'flammable', so.. guess I light it?"). Ben wasn't overly keen, either, but our tree-lopping, landscaping, fisherman, man's man brother-in-law Jason reassured us with his experience and the added incentive, "We'll have some beers after."
It was 'a tad disconcerting' then, when Bec called Sunday morning to say that Jason had gone fishing and she didn't have a sitter for my nephew, Clay (who had just woken up, right behind schedule). The painting had essentially been left to an artist (of the soft-handed variety. Sorry, hun. Your gym calluses are hot, though), a baby, a dude with Lupus (that's all you are to me, Johnny!) and two useless girls! (Not to be sexist. But, seriously.. Men should do all the hard work. Then rub my feet.)
Jason's promise to finish any work we left undone avoided the use of his very blood for paint. Bec turned out to have a little experience with painting, at least, and any questions we had left were certainly answered in the hundred page letter sent from England by my uncle, which listed all the things he wanted us to do (the painting at an easy number 1...). His letter was punctuated with the admittance he thought it best to be absent for our working bee, thereby avoiding his usual stigma of 'control freak.' AHHEEMM...
Since agreeing to the painting, I had noticed a growing reference to all the jobs we would be doing for our 'working bee'. Don't get me wrong - though I would abuse men in accordance to traditional gender roles for my own convenience, and it seems that I am so inexperienced in physical labour that I have to blog about it - I am actually not opposed to hard work. I just get a lot more done when I actually know what I'm doing! I had doubts we would even get the painting finished (sparked by my best-friend's comment, "You're not gonna get the painting finished." She also predicted I'd pee all over myself when I had to squat on a camping trip. She doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to.. live).
All set to disappoint, whatever our accomplishments, we strapped our disheartened spirits to job number one and I was surprised when I found myself actually having fun (a few hours before the paint-sniffing headache set in. I recommend glue, instead - it's a better high).
There some hiccups when we were getting started. Johnny had to gurney a few areas, and when he re-emerged covered in flecks of mud and woodchip, Bec was reminded, "Oh, yeah.. I meant to tell you not to go too hard so you don't get covered in shit." There you go, John! Apply that, past tense.
I had also thought of bringing my good ladder from home (see? I'm handy 'n' shit) but decided we'd already be set with the necessities. Well, there were only two rickety, relatively short ladders and all I could think about was my workmate's husband who'd been severely injured falling from a dodgy ladder. As Ben was the tallest, he got the bullshit job of leaning a dangerous ladder on a dangerous angle and reaching for the highest planks. He soon grew sick of me 'spotting' him and preaching 'safety first!' Also, I criticised his painting technique (just to make him feel at home. "You're doing it wrong! You'll never amount to anything!" You know, typical wife stuff).
There were a few other items that would've been useful to bring. We couldn't find ice cream containers (as recommended in the letter from England), so we used cheap mixing bowls from the house for paint and tea towels for rags, Bec all the while reassuring, "I'll buy new ones." Eventually that attitude became so second-nature, I imagined us just painting over the windows and saying, "Ah, fuck it, we'll buy new ones. Grumble, grumble.." It's a free-for-all!
I had arrived in a singlet and shorts, picturing an easy little montage where we all dabbed paint on each other's faces and got a tan. As I had to prune a lot of branches away from the house to make room for my ladder, however, whatever tan I did achieve was ripped from my skin, inspiring a new vision of showing up to work, where we have to wear tiny shirts, looking like a botched (or successful?) alien experiment. Yeah, you know all the glamour's gone out of your life when you feel a bug go down your shirt, whilst holding a bowl of paint at the top of a ladder, and your only option is to think, "I'm gonna assume that wasn't a spider."
I started to feel that sun after a while, and when I told my sister I needed a 'second coat' of sunscreen (I'm a total painter now. Got the lingo), she began to sing, "We're painting the Rosie red!" as in the original Alice in Wonderland. I don't know if it was all the paint-sniffing, but I found that utterly hilarious (so I'll repeat it here, in case it is).
Little baby Clay was well-behaved throughougt, even taking a nap after his sleep-in. It's a baby's world! Ben's Mum took pity on us when she heard we were a small crew + baby, so she came along to watch the boy for a while. Ben's brother, who is dealing with a custody battle for his own son at the moment, also came for the ride. It was nice to see them getting to know my nephew, but I was sad to know they couldn't enjoy the same freedom with their own son and grandson. It is simply unfair and a terrible waste.
On the way over to the beach, Josh drive Kerry's little black hatch and insisted on staying in front of us, even though we knew the way. When he stopped for fuel, Ben and I took the opportunity to get in front, but were soon overtaken with a finger stuck out the window for effect. Once we hit Foster, I could see Josh was going the long way through town, so I gave Ben a short cut to take back the lead. We rejoined the main road just as a little black hatch was approaching, so we shot out in front and gave them the finger, totally satisfied. That is, until we realised Josh and Kerry were still in the lead and we'd just given the finger to strangers! Oh, well, it would've given them something to wonder about all day (I'm sure they'll be telling future grandchildren).
At the end of the day, our patient little Clay-boy began whining a little and when all the adults joined him in this, we decided to pack it in. We called past Mother's for a hearty meal and the reminder that no matter what we had or hadn't done (including tearing through and leaving her a pile of dirty dishes), we were all perfect angels. Ahhh. But, of course.
You see, my mum and her brothers recently acquired my late uncle's home which they decided to keep in the family. They've put a lot of work into restoring the house, with a lot more to go, so my sister volunteered herself, Johnny and I to do the weatherproofing. Though happy to contribute, I was immediately anxious that any attempt by me at DIY would somehow lead to setting myself on fire ("Well, the tin says 'flammable', so.. guess I light it?"). Ben wasn't overly keen, either, but our tree-lopping, landscaping, fisherman, man's man brother-in-law Jason reassured us with his experience and the added incentive, "We'll have some beers after."
It was 'a tad disconcerting' then, when Bec called Sunday morning to say that Jason had gone fishing and she didn't have a sitter for my nephew, Clay (who had just woken up, right behind schedule). The painting had essentially been left to an artist (of the soft-handed variety. Sorry, hun. Your gym calluses are hot, though), a baby, a dude with Lupus (that's all you are to me, Johnny!) and two useless girls! (Not to be sexist. But, seriously.. Men should do all the hard work. Then rub my feet.)
Jason's promise to finish any work we left undone avoided the use of his very blood for paint. Bec turned out to have a little experience with painting, at least, and any questions we had left were certainly answered in the hundred page letter sent from England by my uncle, which listed all the things he wanted us to do (the painting at an easy number 1...). His letter was punctuated with the admittance he thought it best to be absent for our working bee, thereby avoiding his usual stigma of 'control freak.' AHHEEMM...
Since agreeing to the painting, I had noticed a growing reference to all the jobs we would be doing for our 'working bee'. Don't get me wrong - though I would abuse men in accordance to traditional gender roles for my own convenience, and it seems that I am so inexperienced in physical labour that I have to blog about it - I am actually not opposed to hard work. I just get a lot more done when I actually know what I'm doing! I had doubts we would even get the painting finished (sparked by my best-friend's comment, "You're not gonna get the painting finished." She also predicted I'd pee all over myself when I had to squat on a camping trip. She doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to.. live).
All set to disappoint, whatever our accomplishments, we strapped our disheartened spirits to job number one and I was surprised when I found myself actually having fun (a few hours before the paint-sniffing headache set in. I recommend glue, instead - it's a better high).
There some hiccups when we were getting started. Johnny had to gurney a few areas, and when he re-emerged covered in flecks of mud and woodchip, Bec was reminded, "Oh, yeah.. I meant to tell you not to go too hard so you don't get covered in shit." There you go, John! Apply that, past tense.
I had also thought of bringing my good ladder from home (see? I'm handy 'n' shit) but decided we'd already be set with the necessities. Well, there were only two rickety, relatively short ladders and all I could think about was my workmate's husband who'd been severely injured falling from a dodgy ladder. As Ben was the tallest, he got the bullshit job of leaning a dangerous ladder on a dangerous angle and reaching for the highest planks. He soon grew sick of me 'spotting' him and preaching 'safety first!' Also, I criticised his painting technique (just to make him feel at home. "You're doing it wrong! You'll never amount to anything!" You know, typical wife stuff).
There were a few other items that would've been useful to bring. We couldn't find ice cream containers (as recommended in the letter from England), so we used cheap mixing bowls from the house for paint and tea towels for rags, Bec all the while reassuring, "I'll buy new ones." Eventually that attitude became so second-nature, I imagined us just painting over the windows and saying, "Ah, fuck it, we'll buy new ones. Grumble, grumble.." It's a free-for-all!
I had arrived in a singlet and shorts, picturing an easy little montage where we all dabbed paint on each other's faces and got a tan. As I had to prune a lot of branches away from the house to make room for my ladder, however, whatever tan I did achieve was ripped from my skin, inspiring a new vision of showing up to work, where we have to wear tiny shirts, looking like a botched (or successful?) alien experiment. Yeah, you know all the glamour's gone out of your life when you feel a bug go down your shirt, whilst holding a bowl of paint at the top of a ladder, and your only option is to think, "I'm gonna assume that wasn't a spider."
I started to feel that sun after a while, and when I told my sister I needed a 'second coat' of sunscreen (I'm a total painter now. Got the lingo), she began to sing, "We're painting the Rosie red!" as in the original Alice in Wonderland. I don't know if it was all the paint-sniffing, but I found that utterly hilarious (so I'll repeat it here, in case it is).
Little baby Clay was well-behaved throughougt, even taking a nap after his sleep-in. It's a baby's world! Ben's Mum took pity on us when she heard we were a small crew + baby, so she came along to watch the boy for a while. Ben's brother, who is dealing with a custody battle for his own son at the moment, also came for the ride. It was nice to see them getting to know my nephew, but I was sad to know they couldn't enjoy the same freedom with their own son and grandson. It is simply unfair and a terrible waste.
On the way over to the beach, Josh drive Kerry's little black hatch and insisted on staying in front of us, even though we knew the way. When he stopped for fuel, Ben and I took the opportunity to get in front, but were soon overtaken with a finger stuck out the window for effect. Once we hit Foster, I could see Josh was going the long way through town, so I gave Ben a short cut to take back the lead. We rejoined the main road just as a little black hatch was approaching, so we shot out in front and gave them the finger, totally satisfied. That is, until we realised Josh and Kerry were still in the lead and we'd just given the finger to strangers! Oh, well, it would've given them something to wonder about all day (I'm sure they'll be telling future grandchildren).
At the end of the day, our patient little Clay-boy began whining a little and when all the adults joined him in this, we decided to pack it in. We called past Mother's for a hearty meal and the reminder that no matter what we had or hadn't done (including tearing through and leaving her a pile of dirty dishes), we were all perfect angels. Ahhh. But, of course.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sleepless in Glen Iris (or, the Midnight Step Class).
The only issue Ben and I have taken with our otherwise perfect new home is that sleeping upstairs on a Summer's night can be like trying to relax in a scalding hot bath. As I fell asleep without too much trouble, last night, I was disappointed when I opened my eyes to find that it was not only still dark, but that I seemed to be suffering from dengue fever. I got up and cooled myself with a wet face washer, leaving it beside the discarded cloth where Ben had apparently done the same. This had the effect of about zero to minus 10 in terms of helpfulness, so I retrieved the face washer and this time returned to bed wearing it on my head (blokes dig it). The idea was quite effective if I was prepared to move the face washer to a new place on my body every few seconds. I thought, "It's probably almost time to get up, anyway," but the clock said, "Nup. It's 2 am, sucker."
"Damn you, clock! (I really must replace you with something less abusive.)"
I had forgone the use of the floor fan before bed to spare Ben its noisy chugging, which now proved more of an annoyance than a kindness as I resorted to crashing about in the darkness to set it up. After only a few little gusts of warm wind from the fan's rotation, though, I cut my losses and stumbled downstairs in search of a cooler bed.
The lounge was bright, so I went about closing all the blinds and switching off all those damned bright little lights you get on electronic devices. Two trips up and down the stairs later, whacking the spare mattress into any loose object within it's range as I went, I was all set up to sleep on my new slice of floor. And so was Malcolm, the cat.. It's bad enough having that hot little fluffball weigh down your legs on a cool night, so I kicked about until I'd convinced him it was a no-go.
My next obstacle was the ticking of a cuckoo clock I had once told Ben was not too loud to have near the telly. Oh, the irony! My fatigue finally won the battle, though, and I drifted off into something like sleep. Malcolm waited whatever amount of time he thought was fair before tangling himself in the blinds, trying to reach the cat door. I dragged myself off the floor and cleared his way, to have him just sit in front of the now accessible door with a look that said, "Why'd ya do that, mama?"
Mmmother FUCKER!!
It seemed Malcy would be my tormentor of choice over the heat, that evening. I next awoke with him cheekily laying across my legs, which wasn't so bad until he started biting my toes! (He may have received a kick for that.) Then, of course, he started his usual crying for food at 5 am, despite being fed at 6:30 every morning, which got my own stupid stomach to grumbling. This was the final straw before I decided to use.. the water spray. The spray was only a recent tactic that Ben and I were usually hesitant to use on our precious babies. On this occasion, however, I almost relished the thought of soaking Mal face-first as I triumphantly stated, "That's it, Malcolm! You were warned and now you're getting the spray!" The second my hand reached for the bottle, I remembered I'd moved it to the bathroom to use on my hair.
Uggghhhh.....
And that was it for me. I was done, broken. My joints all ached from squishing up on the small, unsupportive mattress, which my hip had weighed down to the floor. So, I dragged my sorry arse back up the stairs to lay on my comfortable bed in my uncomfortably hot room for the last half hour before my obnoxious alarm.
I have remained tired and bitter all day and I hope you appreciate me writing this blog! You better, or you'll get the spray... *Shakes fist.*
"Damn you, clock! (I really must replace you with something less abusive.)"
I had forgone the use of the floor fan before bed to spare Ben its noisy chugging, which now proved more of an annoyance than a kindness as I resorted to crashing about in the darkness to set it up. After only a few little gusts of warm wind from the fan's rotation, though, I cut my losses and stumbled downstairs in search of a cooler bed.
The lounge was bright, so I went about closing all the blinds and switching off all those damned bright little lights you get on electronic devices. Two trips up and down the stairs later, whacking the spare mattress into any loose object within it's range as I went, I was all set up to sleep on my new slice of floor. And so was Malcolm, the cat.. It's bad enough having that hot little fluffball weigh down your legs on a cool night, so I kicked about until I'd convinced him it was a no-go.
My next obstacle was the ticking of a cuckoo clock I had once told Ben was not too loud to have near the telly. Oh, the irony! My fatigue finally won the battle, though, and I drifted off into something like sleep. Malcolm waited whatever amount of time he thought was fair before tangling himself in the blinds, trying to reach the cat door. I dragged myself off the floor and cleared his way, to have him just sit in front of the now accessible door with a look that said, "Why'd ya do that, mama?"
Mmmother FUCKER!!
It seemed Malcy would be my tormentor of choice over the heat, that evening. I next awoke with him cheekily laying across my legs, which wasn't so bad until he started biting my toes! (He may have received a kick for that.) Then, of course, he started his usual crying for food at 5 am, despite being fed at 6:30 every morning, which got my own stupid stomach to grumbling. This was the final straw before I decided to use.. the water spray. The spray was only a recent tactic that Ben and I were usually hesitant to use on our precious babies. On this occasion, however, I almost relished the thought of soaking Mal face-first as I triumphantly stated, "That's it, Malcolm! You were warned and now you're getting the spray!" The second my hand reached for the bottle, I remembered I'd moved it to the bathroom to use on my hair.
Uggghhhh.....
And that was it for me. I was done, broken. My joints all ached from squishing up on the small, unsupportive mattress, which my hip had weighed down to the floor. So, I dragged my sorry arse back up the stairs to lay on my comfortable bed in my uncomfortably hot room for the last half hour before my obnoxious alarm.
I have remained tired and bitter all day and I hope you appreciate me writing this blog! You better, or you'll get the spray... *Shakes fist.*
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Nature Bites.
A lot of you may have noticed I've been suspiciously quiet, this year. I know what you're thinking: "That Rosie's a sociable girl, with lots of exciting tales to tell (she's really pretty too. I want to give her money and jewellery). Surely her New Years Eve was at least worth a mention?"
Well, folks, I'm glad you mentioned it. Up until now, I've keep the dark events of my NYE a secret, afraid of the dire consequences I that might befall me for squealing. With your support, I have finally gained the courage today to tell my story. (It could also be that I didn't want to offend my friends with whom I shared new years, but have had absolutely nothing else to write about and I'm sure they'll forgive me [right, guys? "Yeah.. Rosie rocks! Did you get the jewellery we sent you?" Aw, shucks. You shouldn't have]).
Ok.. Here it is:
CAMPING.
Need I say more?!
For those of you who don't know, camping is the most degrading, dehumanising.. stinkifying experience available to the human man, femmebot or worm baby. I had always suspected this, but as I'd also denied my husband the chance to camp for the past ten years, I thought it only fair that I give it a try. (Of course, it turned out that I was right and should never listen to anyone about anything, but we nevertheless put my fear and hatred of all things natural to the test.)
At first, I was actually excited about camping out under the stars with a bunch of friends for new years eve. There was to be yoga, games, music, the beach and boozin'. I imagined we'd take some walks by day then tell tales by the fire come nightfall. With only a shed on the property, there were no amenities available but there would be 'cooking facilities' and (it was initially indicated..) a portaloo, which I could handle. Even when I heard the temperature would be around 40C, I didn't worry, thinking, "That's ok, at least we won't be cold at night!"
The panic began to set in when we were warned a few days beforehand that there was no water and.. no toilet. I received the final piece in the horror puzzle not more than a day before we set out on that fateful trip, when I was told, "Bring a jumper, because the days may be hot, but the nights are freezing." Nnnnoooooooooo!!!!
By the time I realised camping was best left to the homeless insane (as well as my lovely, sane friends who mostly have homes. Good save?) it was too late. I pleaded with people to give me an out, or at least some advice, but met with a lack sympathy and a "she'll be right" 'tude. Only my best friend saw my complete unsuitability for the trip, laughing in my face as she predicted, "You are gonna get covered in pee!" No, she didn't suspect my camping pals were in some secret golden shower society, but referred to the coupling of my constant need to pee with a constant lack of toilet.
When the day came to get our camp on, I could no longer hide my problematic sissiness and chose to embrace it. I slapped on a pink dress and an impractical, rainbow array of nailpolish, so that if I died covered in pee, at least I'd be pretty.
On the drive to the campsite, we met up with my Dad who had convinced us to borrow some swag-style sleeping-bags my step-mother made. When we pulled-up, Dad approached the car and, after motioning for me to lower the window, taunted, "Have you had your morning poo?"
The swag bags proved well worth the abuse, providing a very comfortable night's sleep (and, I want to say, somewhere warm to poo. Take that, Dad!).
We also stopped at the beach on the way to have a beer with Ben's relatives, moving on to our showerless destination only once we were sunburned and covered in sand and sweat. Brilliant.
My spirits lifted a little when we reached the campsite. It was a lovely block of land with some tree clusters that assured shade and pee coverage, and was miraculously fly and mosquito free. Approaching our group of friends, however, the first sight my eyes caught proved a fitting omen: we met with the wrong end of a yoga position in which the practitioner laid on his back with his legs about his head. Ah, yes, the olll' butt-in-face greeting.
I had intended to join some group yoga lessons, but as I found only my friend and her partner, both advanced.. 'yogi/n', balancing feet on eachother's shoulders and bending into impressive little pretzels, I shamefully scrapped that idea in favour of keeping my shaky, rigid abilities to myself.
Moving on to the rest of the group, the next surprise was that it was mostly comprised of strangers who had in tow, roughly, oh, I would say.. One million children. Hey, strangers are good. How else are you supposed to make friends or learn anything new? (Which I presumably would've done had I stirred from my 'sulking in chair' position. It's a yoga position. Rosie yoga. Rrrroga...) Heck, I even like those little fuckers (or, 'kids'). I just hadn't imagined my dream of running naked through the fields and swearing like a sailor would be so quickly dashed by kiddie sing-a-longs and general clowning. So, I took to my chair like a professional Rogin.
I remained rock-like until dinner time, when we set out to find our promised cooking-facilities. Just to add to all my other pre-conceptions that were based on no evidence or suggestion, whatsoever, I had presumed that there would be some sort of stove available in the shed on the property. Instead, we were directed to the insert of a washing machine, in which we were to build a fire then cover with a grill plate. We fell tellingly silent at this revelation, recognising our make-shift stove as karma for our arrogant joking on the way down, "There'll probably just be a fire and a piece of tin!" Initial shock and awkwardness aside, Ben's brother Josh did actually cook us some amazing, smoky steaks which were a highlight of the trip. And a pumpkin and beetroot salad that I invented all by myself turned out to be delicious. Just sayin'.
After we'd set up our tents, I pretty much sat in my chair, occasionally falling asleep, waiting for midnight to strike so I could go to bed! I know, I'm an absolute misery guts. Josh had borrowed his tent from a younger cousin and discovered only after its construction that it was child-size. It looked so ridiculous, covered in a kiddy motorbike theme and all, that I couldn't help but laugh.
The night was freezing and dewy, as promised, a second torture to the day's searing heat. When the damn new year finally came, I looked for Ben to say goodnight. He asked me to hold up my lantern while he detached a spider from its web, but as he kept his hand still, the spider began to climb toward the obstruction. He flicked it away from himself which happened to be in my direction. That's what we call a 'camping goodnight.' In the morning, I also saw a spider crawling over my bra in a pile of clothes in the tent, which I was glad I hadn't noticed the night before.
Since Josh had provided a fine dinner, Ben and I confidently took to frying up some bacon and eggs for breakfast. As the grill had been pretty active by that point and we had little skill or patience to properly clean it, however, we ended up with greenish bacon and eggs that would've starred well in a Dr Seuss book! One quick dip at the beach later, to rid of all that camping sin, we were on our merry Melbourne way.
A couple of three things I did like about the trip:
- My friends' little girl Luci was impressed by my nails, and we spent a bit of time learning all the colours. (Although, she eventually just decided that they were all orange. Fair enough.)
- Mark's amazing telescope.
- Mark himself! As well as all the people I did know, and the one person I didn't who I spoke a few words to.
I'm sorry you all had to tolerate me on your camping trip, but rest assured, you'll never have to, again!
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