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.*

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!