Is there still partying after 30?

I had planned to see in the new year tonight with a cup of tea, dozing on the lounge in front of the television.

Okay, I lie. Our tv doesn’t work – I planned to be snoring away in bed from around 9:30pm like….well, probably best not to name names here….

Now that I’ve completely lost your respect, might I suggest that the absence of company in this scenario did not stem from a lack of invitations (the use of the singular ‘invitation’ may be a more accurate choice here), or a steady decline into that old age zone where one day smoozes so closely with the next that we choose not to name them individually anymore.

Rather, it came from a dedication to my shift-working mate, who insisted that I go out and merry-make alone, but whom I couldn’t bring myself to leave on such an auspicious occasion. But don’t worry, I’ve gotten over that rather uncharacteristic moment of loyalty and have chosen to brave the uncomfortable few minutes of snogging couples that occurs immediately after the countdown in the name of a good party.

Party-poppers and streamers aside, I do embrace the sentiment of betterment that is bandied about at this time of year – the hope that my failed expectations of the culminating year can be somehow remedied with the dawning of the new. Even though it’s really just another day, it’s also a psychological marker indicating a time to halt the chaos and sniff the fresh breeze of possibility.

I love it. I get to imagine and plan for my ‘perfect life’ and pretend for a short while that I will have the stamina and courage to stick with the plan this time.

What I hate is February. Where the wheels generally fall off the cart. But not this year, no. This coming year will be the year of ‘culminating dreams’ and ‘reaping of the sowing’. Hmm…strike the latter….might not want to go there quite yet. Let’s stick with ‘culminating dreams’, shall we?

So, you can all be witnesses to my resolve to eat fewer doughnuts; be more intentional with my writing; demonstrate altruism with my family and people in general; and to find a way to sneak into my neighbour’s house and permanently immobilise his bagpipes.

Peace and quiet, where art thou?

Every child should come with either an off switch, a volume knob, or at the very least, a pair of ear plugs. For the parent, that is. And not those cheap, flimsy foam things, but the proper, hard-core silicone numbers that block out….well, pretty much everything.

Yes, yes, all clichés, I know. But sitting here on the cusp of week four of the school holidays, I am in awe of the fundamental truth of these pithy little jests.

Seriously, what could be louder than three young boys with new Christmas toys - cap guns, rocket launchers, and animated monster trucks? A bomb? That may sound overly dramatic, but at least the noise would be short and sharp, as opposed to death by continual harassment.

And who said that the male species were not ‘communicators’? I do beg to differ. Whilst ‘me-me-me-knife-and-fork’ (a favourite nonsensical chant of my 3 year old) may mean little to the untrained ear, it sure as heck is still draining to listen to. Over and over.

And over.

Now to be fair, as I fancy myself to be, my increased level of irritability may have something to do with the ongoing concussion issues that I’ve been experiencing. (Of course that would be another story for another day - one that will no doubt buy you a good laugh at my expense.) But head injuries aside, I’m not sure I’m going to make the distance.

How many more sleeps until school goes back?

Okay, maybe patience isn’t one of my strengths. And in hindsight, it is obvious that I have inadvertently revealed how rotten and selfish my innards are, darn it. There’s nothing like a few children around (or thoughts on a page) to highlight personality weaknesses.

I have to stay positive here. Anything that doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Or so I’ve heard.

I have realised a thousand times when considering life’s little challenges that it’s all about perspective. Frankly, mine usually errs on the side of intolerance. Maybe I should get a doctor to check that out?...get some antibiotics to clear it up….

Whilst I may, at any given point, have three people speaking to me at the same time, at least they are still talking to me, right? And if I hear the word ‘Mum’ twenty eight times on average every three minutes, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. In a few decades I might be sitting by the phone willing it to ring, desperate to know that my sons still think of me occasionally.

It’s all about seasons, huh?

As if on cue, B3 (a charming addition to our very own Bananas in Pyjamas scenario) has just unleashed a super-soaker in his brother’s bedroom. I wish I were embellishing for dramatic effect.

Time to check into that clinic.

Consequences of action

I think I reached the pinnacle of multi-tasking this morning when I applied an intensive hair treatment, threw on my cap, and took off down the street for a run.

I broke all the rules – how surprising - putting it on dry hair and leaving it for five times the recommended treatment time. In fact, it is still in my hair right now. Yeah, yeah, I‘ll get to it in a minute.

Come to think of it, I haven’t shampooed since my swim in the pool yesterday. Does that count as ‘washing’ it? No wonder my hair resembles a millet broom.

The crazy thing is that I have a list of certain ‘damage control’ activities that I have to engage in so I can maintain a healthy lifestyle. I regularly lose toenails running; my hair is snapping from swimming laps; who knows what the consequences of cycling are going to be when I get my bike next month (beyond the catastrophic consequence of developing cyclist's thighs). I suspect, given that I am not renowned for my grace and co-ordination, they may be more life threatening than split ends.

The list goes on: breathing in the 'fresh' city air, cutting sleep to fit in exercise, running in traffic…. risky!... It appears that every action in this life exacts a price. What is the cost of gaining a healthy heart? Cancer from sunscreen (you know, the stuff I use to avoid cancer…), or cataracts from sun exposure, or a sprained ankle from a pot hole?….seriously!

It’s a game, really. Try to balance out the good and the bad; oh yeah, and not dying, that’s a priority. It’s not my nature to think about these things – hence the long, long list of historically dangerous behaviour - but when I do contemplate them…

Today I am preparing for a ‘holistic health’ day of family, friends and water-skiing. There’s benefit to be had on so many levels, so I am choosing to ignore the myriad of possibly negative outcomes. They may never eventuate; I mean, gigantic eels may not really live in this dam, (or Amazonian caimans) and if they do, they may not like the taste of human flesh as I first suspected.

I just washed out the conditioner and my hair is soft and supple. Great. Now I can go and trash it again.

Fast lane confessions

If I was any more tired I think my head would slip off my hand into the bowl of risotto on my desk, and I’m not sure that I would care enough to lift it out.

A sad tale, really, but entirely fabricated – except for the exhausted part.

The discerning super-sleuths will have already figured out that I need two hands to type (not everyone does, but my brain works at such an incredible speed that one hand is merely too slow) and even though I do have an empty bowl next to the computer, the risotto is long gone on account of my love of al dente rice.

Which leaves me as just plain tired. Which may be true but entirely unexciting.

The problem is that I have too many plates spinning. How do I keep them all balanced and moving and still remain …well…sound? I am well aware that the problem is a socially shared one; we live in an age where we are encouraged to ‘live the dream’, which usually involves trying to live enough dreams for five lifetimes.

But what does one do if they are passionate about many things and want to do them all exceptionally?

Beauty sleep is the first to go; which is certainly not helping my wolf-whistle factor (something, I might add, that has been non-operational for some time now…). Then we start to let our relationships slide, because surely they will all be there tomorrow, right? What else gets weaker as we strive to accomplish our goals? Holy-Egg-Sandwiches Batman, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to find out.

Which is why I am going to turn off this dastardly computer and join with my children as they finish watching ‘Bug’s Life’.

And maybe another helping of risotto. You know, to give the blog a bit more authenticity.

Left to their own devices

I left the kids at the island bench tonight to finish their dinner. I usually make a point of staying with them, as much in the name of cabinetry preservation as table etiquette. But I had to write something down – when words are flowing, so help me, don’t stand in my way.

Of course there is always a price to pay when you fail to adhere to the ‘Self-Preservation Safety Standards of Mothering Boys’ procedures manual.

I got the ideas down (you can stop stressing), but the ‘situation’ in the kitchen became less than desirable. It wasn’t as bad as the other night when I left the room only to be chased down seconds later by my eldest to report that his brother had put his entire foot in his macaroni.

Rather, tonight, I was dragged back to ‘kitchen reality’ by the gagging sounds being made by my three year old (have you noticed the frequency with which he features in these little tales?). He is quite a creative little sucker, using the top of a spray bottle to extract the juice from his cup, subsequently spraying the newly contaminated fluid into his cherubim-like cake-hole.

He was covered in frozen yoghurt, gagging on the juice hitting the dangly bit in his throat (whatever the scientific name for that thing is…), his middle brother trying to launch his swivel chair into orbit by spinning at the speed of light, and the muffins I left in the oven? Well, let’s just say that I performed my very own miracle turning blueberries into blackberries.

If only this was fictional.

This is my life.

I’ve heard that little girls have tea parties and play ‘talking games’ with their dolls? Could that be true?

There is certainly something to say about the raw enthusiasm of kids. I can’t comment about little girls, but I’ve sure got a lot to say about their soon-to-be hairier counterparts. As much as they challenge my sanity (pretty much on an hourly basis) I am secretly excited about what incredible escapades are going to colour their adult lives. Hopefully none of them will involve a paddy wagon and a bail out fee.

Unfortunately there’s no real underlying ‘deep and meaningful’ message in today’s blog. Just don’t turn your back…

Come on, already

I can’t think of anything more infuriating than drivers that travel ten kph slower than the speed limit. (This is where the ‘rave’ component of the blog title kicks in).

What are they thinking? Are they thinking at all? Are they in a type of driving-coma where swiftness is irrelevant? Or are they merely unable to handle a vehicle at a speed exceeding the pace of a horse and cart? It totally gets my knickers in a knot.

Yes, yes, I sound impatient and you may well ask whether those 30 seconds that I save with the extra 10kph are worth it. Probably not; but these slugs on the road cause me angst. (See, I’m even resorting to name-calling. Can't you feel the emotion!!).

I also scorn drivers who overtake dangerously or with excessive speed (usually on a blind corner at 160kph) only to be waiting at the next set of traffic lights when the slower car arrives. I’m not that bad – I usually don’t act on my frustration – I just…well….write a blog about it (and take vitamin D tablets because of the lack of sunshine).

Hmm, time to step off the judgement podium.

The ridiculous thing, when I stop and consider, is that we (ie soft shelled, semi-flexible, organ filled, people) are fragile but we are choosing to hurtle around on bitumen (a very hard surface) in large metal cubicles at supernatural speeds. And to add to this, we treat driving as a squad activity – we drive next to and behind other fast moving chunks of metal assuming that they know what they're doing. What about driving beside a gas tanker on the highway at 110kph? Have we stopped to really consider this?

Are we mad? Shouldn’t we be struck with fear at the thought of this, rather than pushing (or breaking…) the speed limit and getting upset about being ‘slow’?

Perhaps I have no fear because I’ve never been in an accident when travelling faster than 3kph (I’ll just skip over those details….). Perhaps I’m just stupid to be so blasé and....well, yep, pretty much just stupid.

I prefer to be afraid of swimming in a dam because there might be gunky plants that touch my feet or eels that brush against my legs; or having a moth fly into my hair. You know, really life threatening stuff.

I’m so used to having everything instantly, that I fail to recognise that some things are better when we take our time. Or maybe they’re not better as such, but at least we might live a little bit longer.

Blow ‘em all to smithereens

I can’t handle the late nights like I used to. What happens to your body as you age to make a 2am Saturday night feel like you’ve been reversed over by a maxi cab? (I would have used the all too familiar ‘run over by a bus’ example here, but heck, I’m feeling creative).

Sounds like I had an exciting weekend; sadly, I was perched on the end of the lounge alone, reading a book. Yip yah, I know how to party.

But the book was an absolute corker. And for a superficial espionage novel, it really got me thinking. Or maybe it was the MSG laced chips and sleep deprivation…whatever. I was thinking anyway, however it came about.

I literally couldn’t put this book down – I read for five and a half hours straight to finish it, my back sticking uncomfortably to the leather and my butt slightly numb, but I was still unable to tear myself away – but why? There was no deep message, no valuable life lessons (unless the need for underwater hand-to-hand combat in scuba gear suddenly arises), no well-developed themes. Just a lot of shooting, missile launching, killing with circular saws (only during a time of life-threatening-self-defensive-need, of course)…you know, general hero stuff.

The question did arise in my foggy mind this morning (when I woke up to an insistent voice yelling ‘Mum, I’ve wet the bed’) as to why on earth I stayed up so late to engage in such a shallow diversion?

Why did I respond with excitement to a protagonist who was so shut off from his emotions that he could look someone in the eye and then shoot them through it? Why does society celebrate the ‘cool head’ rather than a ‘warm heart’? The author tried to depict this guy as one of the more ‘sensitive’ special agent marine commanders (LOL- yeah right…did I mention the circular saw? Yep, really in touch with his softer side), but he was really just a detached, calculated killer.

Don’t get me wrong, the fact that I paid money for such a novel should tell you all you need to know about how in touch I am with my emotions. Sure, a few glasses of vino under my belt and I’ll tell you how you’re my best friend and how much I love you (sorry all of you who were holding onto that ‘moment’ as a meaningful one), but that’s about it for me in the ‘feeling’ department.

But I digress.

Where am I going with this? (Who knows, I’ve only had four hours sleep).

Oh yeah, that’s right. I wonder whether I love fast paced, shoot-’em-up style stories because there’s no nonsense – there’s black and white, good guys and villains, and even though there’s shrapnel flying everywhere, it either causes death or it doesn’t.

Can’t life be a bit more like that? I just want to stop standing around talking about what we’re all going to do, and just get in and do it. Forget the conversational fluff.

Pick your team and ride it out, baby.

And watch out for those fragmentation grenades, I believe they’re ugly.

Of boys and lounge chairs

Freedom. What a complex suggestion.

In an hour we will leave our precious sons with their Grandparents so we can have a few nights away. I can already imagine the sun gently kissing my skin as I lie on the firm sand, waves crashing inconsequentially in the background as I blissfully ignore everything that doesn’t pertain to breathing.

Wedding anniversaries – gotta love ‘em.

My initial response to the suggestion of time away was to melt in relief….ah, to have no responsibility for just a little while! But as the time approaches to walk away from those sleeping angelic forms (we shan’t mention their ‘form’ pre-dinner…) my heart sinks a little and the desire for freedom that burned so earnestly in my breast a few short hours ago seems strangely subdued.

There is the matter of perspective to consider. When your child is publicly jumping on the lounge chairs, stopping narrowly short of ripping the stuffing out, it is easy to imagine enjoying some time away…(of course that example is fictional, any resemblance to any child related to me is entirely coincidental….). When we carry through our threats and plan to leave the loves (brats) with their welcoming (shuddering) kin, we tend to draw back and consider the bigger picture.

In that moment when we focus in on the worth of what we have, the reality of what’s important and what’s not crowds in on our child–beaten (peace-starved; badgered; harangued…all work as excellent substitute words here) brains. It allows a mental gearshift.

Therein, I suppose, lies the value of the adult retreat; we can take stock and realign with our deeper selves, which is often shadowed by our fatigue and challenges.

So what I’m really trying to say is that if our boys have ever ripped the stuffing from any of your furniture or mistreated your goldfish by launching lamingtons into the tank as wanna-be boats, get over it.

Road trips and other natural disasters

It’s a constant source of amazement to me how horribly wrong things can turn on any given day; especially when that particular day has been ear marked as one that is going to be significant. It then stands to reason that if a collection of days are anticipated as being special, like, say, a holiday, then a type of ‘calamity magnetism’ ensues.

*sigh*

Well, at least in my world.

I do wonder if I’m unique in this; is my life purpose to balance out the good and bad happenings in the cosmos? Not to sound bitter (heavens no! I embrace the craziness), but if I was to be drawn as a cartoon, besides being particularly becoming, there would be a storm cloud drawn over my head and an idiot grin on my face.

Yep, that about sums it up.

I have wondered if everyone else is editing their lives, only offering up the savoury bits? Surely not. Stories are always more interesting with a bit of blood and vomit (preferably not in the same occurrence, though).

By now you are surely wondering about my horrendous holiday happenings. For ease (and in the name of brevity) I will list them:

• Fell down ½ flight of stairs and split open foot- blood and exposed flesh – bruised forearm – very embarrassed.
• 12 out of 14 in our unit simultaneously suffered a gastro/vomiting virus – knocked out for 2 days.
• Son smashes head on coffee table – massively bruised forehead – thankfully no child protection services involved.
• Two more family members fall down stairs (not as spectacularly as me, though).
• Number 13 succumbs to vomiting virus 4 days after everyone else on the day we leave – 6 hours of driving and car vomit.
• Somewhere amongst it all, a mystery head cold emerges in the children. Lots of snot.
• Do three blind pimples count? I mean, seriously!(I could be lying here, I think there were more but I’m in denial).

In spite of it all, I would rate our trip away as fantastic. Sure, it had it’s own set of troubles, but we were really living life fully skiing down those slopes (just a little out of control, hanging on the edge of the skis…). None of the misadventures were life threatening (although I wanted someone to shoot me in the ninth hour of the whole bile-vomiting episode), and just like Bond, we all lived to see another day.

Lows serve several purposes; they make us stronger, teach us patience and contentment, and make the highs all that much sweeter.

To live is a risk, but who would have it any other way? Not me (she says giving a helmet head-butt to her brother-in-law snowboarder…)

Road access

I find it amazing to be sitting in the car, motoring along, checking my emails (which is my euphemism for Facebook) and typing my next scintillating blog. Ah, technology. I can’t believe that I got through my childhood in such a primitive fashion. Fancy having to write letters, or heaven forbid, use the telephone with that stupid round-out number dially-thing-a-ma-jig.

I do find it all a little nauseating – of course that could just be Mark’s driving and the eerie sounds of ‘Shark Boy and Lava Girl’ coming out of my head rest. Is that weird feeling in my gut guilt or that last meal at McDonalds?

A quick techno-count reveals that in the car we have two ipods, two Nintendo DS consoles, two laptops (we like symmetry in our family) and one DVD player…don’t fret, it has two screens. And to think, this is our holiday to get away from it all.

So what are we having a break from, if we have brought it all with us? I just couldn’t bring myself to unplug from my life. We have tried some old-fashioned road trip techniques – 20 questions; spot the road kill; eye spy; singing along to the Christmas CD (BJ’s request….I’ll make sure to remove that precious little gem before our next adventure).

Perhaps the benefit of leaving home for a while is the change of routine, rather than achieving a state of absolute isolation. It is nice to be able to connect into our real lives via our virtual ones for peace of mind. We know you’re all safe (and of course what you’re all cooking for dinner, all you facebook braggers…)

In spite of the fact that the sound of my fingernails on the keyboard is driving my husband to the edge of his sanity, I can’t help but relish in the access to the world sitting on my lap. Isn’t that human nature to want to be connected and existing within community?

I do believe in balance, although it is somehow hard to achieve with an exuberant personality, but moderation is the key to living a happy and healthy life. Except when you’re talking about winning, there can never be too much of that…lol..or humour…those things are never inappropriate *laughing*. So maybe a little bit of internet for the road is okay after all.

Speaking of winning, I have five more questions to ask Mark to seal my title as ‘Indisputable 20 Q champion’.

See ya’ll online.

Which genius invented the road trip?

As I sit here eating the tiniest apple in the world (thank you Super IGA pre-packed dodgy produce) I am aware that I’m in avoidance mode. I’m thinking of cleaning the shower with a toothbrush in a minute.

I know that I have to pack five bags for our holiday road trip, and I use the word ‘holiday’ loosely. It is the worst kind of packing, too. Not an off-to-the-beach-with-a-pair-of-togs-and-towel pack, but rather an oh-my-gosh-there’s-going-to-be-snow-and-I-need-every-known-clothing-item-known-to-man pack.

And the truth is, I’m a lousy packer. I could arguably be called a ‘just in case’ packer. Every family has one, it just happens that I am the packer-in-chief. At least I’m confident that every family member has, at worst, twice the number of underpants that they are actually going to need.

Thankfully, once I have compressed the squillion items into the tiny suitcases, it becomes my husband’s problem fitting them into the car. (At this point I feel free to throw extra things in the pile, whether there’s room or not – just the kind of wife I am). He sees it as a personal challenge getting it all in; symmetrical, perfect, and squared.

Our family does a touring drive every year in honour of our vehicle’s lease agreement. In some random dimension, it apparently costs us less to run it if we put more k’s on the clock. I’m no engineer, but it all sounds a bit dicey. My application to relate the same principle to buying shoes was sadly rejected.

I wonder why humans create so much extra work in the name of a ‘relaxation’? We invent artificial activities and then have to employ a myriad of other manufactured technologies in order for us to be able to carry them out. Hmm. Not very advanced at all, really, just complicated.

It usually takes me a week to prepare for the break, and then the same to unpack and re-order when we get home. Even camping trips (you remember those simple getaways?) have become colossal tasks in need of a project design team. For a free spirit kind of girl, I find none of this appealing! I have suggested the we just buy new clothes when we get there….another rejected application, of course. (Clearly I need to change roles; chief packer to application approver…oh, yeah!)

Oh well, at least the kids’ carsickness seems to have settled down and the youngest is not so obsessed with that Elmo CD anymore. Let’s just hope the snacks and Nintendos get us through the 2838 km round trip with our sanity intact.

The snow had better be kickin’ butt this season.

Winter meltdown

What is with this insanely warm weather? It’s August, for the love of Pete. But it’s not just any August, it is the August before the September that we are going to Falls Creek...to the snow; i.e. the white icy precipitation that is supposed to fall from the sky in cold climates. Bugger.

The last ski trip I went on was also to Falls Creek (that cursedly warm Victorian winter wonderland) eleven years ago. I have the mugs to prove it. My then fiancé had planned a grand honeymoon adventure, involving rising at 6am the morning after the wedding *blanch*- wait for this - and driving for two days to the ski fields. Romantic? I think not. Alarm bells should have been a-ringin’ at that point right there. What a disaster. It was the warmest season for a long time. Probably the warmest…until, say…now.

Nevertheless, we are on our way in less than a fortnight. Excited, yes, but also floored by how much it has cost to get the family decked out in all the gear. When I consider the price of accommodation, lift and ski hire, food and petrol, I shove my fingers firmly in my ears and sing the ‘la la, I’m not listening song’ (yes, if you’re creative enough, you can even ignore yourself. Or is that if your personality is fragmented enough? Whatever).

I’m guessing that the snow paraphernalia industry is worth millions considering how much they are charging. Isn’t it all made in sweatshops? I had to scrape myself off the floor before I could pay the lad at the ski store, which is undeniably important practice for the snowfields considering my skill level.

Did I mention that this holiday was not my idea?

The only way to rationalise the expense is to say ‘What the heck, it’s only money’. (Cripes, I hope Mark didn’t hear me think that!) And to a point, that’s true. But I can list a kazillion greater ways to spend those numerous dollars than on such frivolous fun. Dare I mention feeding starving children? (Nope, too spineless).

Do I desire to evade the reality of poverty? Or does a part of me wish for a taste of being without, that I might have a smidgen of understanding about just how well off I am? Something to ponder as I swoosh through the powder, or slosh through the muck, as well may be the case.

In the words of my favourite sloth; ‘Slalom, baby’.

Behaving badly again

I’m trying to tell myself this morning that I just need a new perspective and then I can change my bad attitude. With an infection in pretty much every orifice above the chest-line, let’s just say that my outlook is a little dreary.

So far in the minutes that I have been awake, I’ve snapped at my 6 year old for trying to get me to read his reader with him...hello, I can’t see the page for the gunky ointment in both my eyes!!! And I flicked the youngest on the top of his head for running circles around me with the ‘Little People’ bus (slightly ashamed of that one, but if I had the strength I would chuck that bus far, far into outer space), which sent my overloaded sensory receptors into...well...overload. Then when he knocked my sorted colour swatches off the desk, whooh, I won’t repeat that spectacular outburst in a public forum.

*Sigh* I have whinged to my husband that I couldn’t taste the latte for the phlegm (his fault, of course), couldn’t find the school socks because of someone else’s incompetency (ahem...), and have narrowly drawn up short of eating my eldest child for telling me that he didn’t want any banana, thank you very much. Ouch. I look more like McEnroe’s evil twin sister than a nurturing, suburban mother...

Carol Brady has left the building.

Blah, I hate being sick. Needless to say, my family hates it even more. Not only have I lost my charm, let’s just say that any tenuous claim that I had on ‘good looks’ has decidedly snapped overnight. A shower and some toothpaste would go a long way to helping there.

I’m a train wreck.

In my head, I know that all I need is a change of mental context. In the grand scheme of things, my little health meltdown is a pathetic hiccup. Potentially, I could have woken up with a condition that would separate me from my family permanently; I might not have even woken up at all today. But I did...bet they’re all happy about that.

I feel the pressure to act better, but lack the strength to do it. Have you ever been behaving badly...say, fighting with your spouse and being a cow (I never have, but you probably do it...) and then the phone rings and you switch into sweet-as-pie mode? It’s a bit tricky to hang up the phone and continue the previous conversation. And rather humbling...

I know we let it all out with those that are closest to us, but I believe that to be a mistake. A bit of big-picture-perspective would go a long way to helping my relationship stresses.

Now, where is that box of Panadol? MARK!!!

Plugged into the grid

As I sit here with my head wrapped in glad wrap, I feel rather forlorn.

Not because I look ridiculous (because, I do) but because I have left a place today that is dear to my heart, in order to return to another that is even more precious. Crazy really, that we can have multiple loyalties and varied degrees of relationship that we have to juggle and arrange - all in a vain attempt to feel complete and to live with the least amount of disconnection.

Away from home this weekend I missed my family. Now that I’m here and I have them, I miss my friends. Ah, I’m such an enigma...

Why do we crave human connection so strongly? At times I’m enraged by it, but I’m not happy without it, either. I want to surround myself with people, and yet have ‘space’, too. A female riddle? I think it’s bigger than that.

Obviously there are some I want to connect with more than others (stop thinking Orlando Bloom, because I certainly wasn’t...).There are those that I love, those that I like a lot, those that I can hang with, and then of course there are those people who I just want to choke. (If you’re questioning whether this applies to you, then it probably does...) Did I mention the ones I will go to lengths to avoid; measures that fall marginally short of having the skin slowly peeled from my body by an acid bath? (Sorry, I watched a horror movie last night, which may have left me feeling a tad mentally disturbed.)

In the words of my brother, perhaps we should put all the annoying ones on an island and shoot them? Lol – can’t choose your relatives, now, can you?

There are many people in my life and all have different purposes. I’m still looking for the one that will fill the ‘clean my house’ purpose, but aside from that one special person, I’m overwhelmed with human links. I think I want to be a lone wolf, and I do make a very good one, but underneath all of that water resistant fur is a lupine that is distressed by detachment. I would rather not admit it, but I do want relationships, even when they suck.

I want freedom within the confines of my secure world of ‘my people’.

I don’t actually want to be alone.

Time to wash out the toner before I look like I’m part of the blue-rinse brigade and I find myself standing at the school pick up tomorrow on my own. Hmm, might keep that trick in reserve...

Ah, sweet Adelaide

What a beautiful city Adelaide has turned out to be.

I’m pretty sure that my favourable impression has not been entirely due to the fact that I’m on holidays with no responsibilities; get up whenever, run, eat, shoot weaponry in the back shed, Google whenever...ah, the serenity. Of course all of that puts one in a gleeful mind state, as does the succulent food and abundant wine....should I continue? Those of you living down here, by rights, should look like fattened calves with all the ‘culture’ you consume every day.

But it is definitely more than that. The thing that I’ve noticed is the people.

Not only am I staying with two of my favourite people in the world (I just got slipped a 50 under the table as I type), the Adelaidians are actually nice. It would appear that they like their jobs, really do want to hear what you have to say, and have a great attitude to life down here in their frigid land (which I must add has resembled a springtime paradise during my stay – go figure).

Adelaide seems to be all about people on people – hmm, well, I’m sure there’s a bit of that going on too, but not really what I meant – People appear to respect each other, and place value on things beyond winning and being the best. And it isn’t just one or two people; everyone I have spoken to genuinely seems to care. Even though the geographic climate is cold, the social climate is anything but.

The examples are abundant. The first winery we visited yesterday wasn’t open when we arrived. After checking to see if they could open the cellar door for us alone, the owner directed us to his immediate neighbour. Recommending his competitors??? Caring that we had somewhere to go? (Are you hearing this Brisbane service providers????) What planet was this guy from?

Planet Adelaide, apparently. Where everyone is a human...

To top off the perfect, heart warming day, we came home to our cosy stone bungalow (I’m claiming part ownership here) for some intimate face-to-face conversation.

Hmm...all three of us got on our computers and facebooked each other – laughing at the things we were typing and sending into cyber-space. Probably my Queenslander anti-social bad influence...

Okay, so they’re good down here, but they’re not perfect. Whatever. I am so coming back.

Strange night animals

I had the opportunity to go to the theatre this weekend to see Cats. I hadn’t thought much beyond the fact that we were getting out of the house for a night with friends; only a vague awareness buzzing in the background that I hate musicals. Pressed to consider it, I would have conceded that having my legs waxed is more appealing than sitting for two and a half hours in darkened silence while actors sing and dance me a tale.

What was I thinking?

We frocked up, were picked up, and then got held up– arriving eventually in our seats minutes before the felines arrived in all their lycra-clad glory. After a brief, animated discussion amongst us about what we knew of the storyline, we decided that we knew....well...pretty much nothing and we would just have to pick it up as we went along.

Let me just say right now that the best part of Act One was when I started sneezing and made a muttered comment about being allergic to cats. I got the giggles, the kind that are born of tiredness and a lack of oxygen to the brain...and then socially limped my way through to the interval with stifled mirth (bored children always manage to find something to entertain themselves).

The lights rose and no-one in our party had the foggiest idea what was going on, and what the heck was a Jellicle cat? This caused more contraband laughter amongst us anti-theatre heathens. My husband’s epiphany involved the realisation that it was actually about cats (I was a few steps ahead of him, there) and we eventually agreed that there was no detailed story, but it was, rather, an abstract study in behaviour.

Phew, that was a relief. I could relax in the second half of the match (...if only it was football...) I spent much of the interval standing in the 10 minute bathroom cue chatting to a woman about how we were enjoying the performance (lying...) and how fantastic the costuming was (scrambling...), when she leant in and asked me “Do you know what it’s about?”

Crisis point.

Here I am, an English teacher with two Arts degrees (hold the toilet paper jokes please, we are discussing high-brow culture...) who was confused about one of the most famous shows ever. Damn, I wish I had’ve googled the blighter before I left home.

I was disappointed with myself. Not because of my ignorance, but because I was embarrassed to admit it. I was concerned about appearing un-savvy in a ‘cultured’ setting and had forgotten that my opinion is valid. Why was I determining my worth based on what the toilet line thought? I know better.

Our friend phoned the next morning to tell us about a new show that was coming to town...Dogs...and would we like to go see it with them. Funny man....click.

The human triad

I have a theory. Stop groaning, it’s a good one.

The mind must rule the body.

It came to me at the gym this morning when my muscles started arcing up after being indulged with two days of bed rest. One set of lunges was all my legs said they would do (apparently, poor babies). Good one. I was dressed and present and by Jove, I was going to do what I went to do.

I can hear my mother sighing as she has a flashback to me as an obstinate toddler (then kid, teenager....adult...), but personality disorders aside, I think this revelation is important.

My body played dead this morning, rolled over with its legs kicked in the air. Not literally - sorry all you visual learners – but it didn’t want to cooperate. I know that the flesh is lazy, but it can also be manipulative and convincing when it has something to say. Why else did we invent the remote control, or do we hit the snooze button a dozen times before we roll out of that snugly bed? It’s only lazy because we let it be.

You might be fine with that, but I challenge you to think about what you might be missing out on. The mind can dream up a myriad of exceptional things to do but how many do we actually pull off? Kids seem to have less regard for what their bodies are saying...consequently they believe they can and will do all that they imagine. Okay, and probably break a few bones along the way. But heck, they really were flying there for a few seconds...

What is a human, if not a combination of mind, body and soul? Of the three, the only one we eventually shed is the shell we call ‘body’, so why should it rule? When we allow it to, the consequences are usually less than inspiring.

My point is, the body’s stop-this-it’s-too-hard alarm goes off well before we redline, so why don’t we push it harder? There are limits; I’m not advocating seeing how long a person can go without their medication in the name of mind domination; we should understand that there are certain signs that don’t fall in the ‘playing dead' category. (Like the day we ignored our child in the backseat on a journey up a winding mountain who ‘felt a bit sick in the tummy’. Heard of Mount Vesuvius?). But learn those limits and regain control.

We all know that brain knows better than brawn (which brings me back to the gym analogy...), so why not start investing in those schemes our brain imagines, and extend ourselves. Then when the day comes that we step out of this earthly body we will be able to appreciate its service rather than mourn the missed chances because we allowed gravity to hold back the desires of our heart.

Where there’s smoke, there’s fire. You’ll also find my kids...

It would be so nice to have the time to finish something; the cup of tea I made half an hour ago, the idea for a story I want to outline before it evaporates, the incessant pile of ironing. My priorities have a strange way of becoming lost amidst the chaos. Even bathroom privacy becomes a limited (by which I mean non-existent) commodity with a three year old in the house.

Ah...and here he comes now...

So far today we’ve had the ‘I’ve kicked the skin off my big toe and there’s blood’ crisis, the ‘He’s wearing my hat and won’t give it back’ meltdown, only to be topped by the ‘I didn’t quite make it to the toilet with that no#2’ catastrophe at morning tea. (Those of you who don’t have children can all stop being smug...your toilet training time will come).

What would my life look like with some space? I try to explore that idea occasionally by locking myself away when my husband’s at home, giving strict ‘do not disturb’ instructions. I think the record is about 15 minutes and 23 seconds. About the same as my uninterrupted sleep record.

It’s a weird thing to merge your personal priorities with someone else’s when you get married, and then to trade it all for the needs of consecutive screaming masses of flesh (some would call ‘bundles of joy’) as the years pass. Sometimes I feel that I’ve been divided, and then divided again, until I wonder just how much of me is actually left.

As I sit here and type, watching child number three draw on my new twenty six dollar novel with a red texta (sometimes it’s just easier...), I wonder at the sense of it all. As much as I long to be done with this stage of my life, what lies beyond it? Maybe there is more satisfaction to be had in the messy here and now than in the wrapped-in-brown-paper-and-neatly-tied-with-string existence that I anticipate.

I suspect that I don’t actually know what I’ve got ‘til it’s grown...

Oh no, he’s just had another accident. How about, I can’t see the forest for the pees...

Challenging Norm?

Sunday is my long run day. My tranquil, relaxed pace, stretch-your-legs-and-know-you’re-alive run. It brings a certain peace to my chaotic week of children, household, work...blah blah blah... and I feel kinship with my community and surroundings. It’s a spiritual thing.

So when I ran past my neighbour this week watering his garden, I should have given him the expected smile and ‘hi’, an understanding flitting between us that we were both nature lovers and that all was good with the world.

But I didn’t. And it wasn’t.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was stark naked, his bronzed, aged buttocks presented to the roadside as he hosed his agapanthus, that threw me. Maybe it was the inability to suppress my laughter and speak at the same time, not to mention avoiding tripping up the kerbside whilst I surveyed the proud sight.

He didn’t appear to notice me, and I wasn’t risking a second look to check (in case I was scarred for life and had to seek immediate counselling). I ran the last kilometre home; my thoughts no longer on the warmth in my muscles or the regular beat of shoes on the bitumen. It reeled with the possibilities. Was he suffering from dementia? Was there a nudist colony in my suburb that I was unaware of? Did he just not give a stuff what I or the rest of the neighbourhood thought?

Two days on, I’m still thinking of him and his freedom in throwing caution (and his clothes) to the wind. My attention when I’ve driven past his house has been less on the road and more on the shrubbery to see if I can catch another glimpse to convince myself that I did actually see what I saw.

Who is this guy who wears no clothes and challenges the conventions set down by generations past? Should he be applauded for his sense of frankness, or locked up for indecent exposure? I’m not quite sure, but it did make me wonder what the rest of us are hiding.