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.