Distractions.

Always distractions.

I know I am neglecting my blog. But apparently I am easily distracted.

Most recently, each time I sign in to this blog with the intention of writing, I get caught up reading a TOTALLY ADDICTIVE BLOG called: this battered suitcase. ( www.thisbatteredsuitcase.blogspot.com ) It is about travel in South East Asia, and she is alluring. Usually I read until I've caught up on this strangers' travels, then I find my small window of writing opportunity has passed.

Today, Cooks is being 'good' and I reckon I can squeeze out another 5 mins, so here goes....

I have been wanting to write something hilarious for AGES, but strangely, this city has me stumped.

Things aren't really funny in Watsons Bay. Well, maybe they are, but I keep missing them, either that or I've lost my sense of humour. ?

The whales: big & plentiful (but not funny).
The boats: floating (but not funny).
Work: tolerable (but SO not funny).

So sorry. Sorry for losing my sense of humour. But I WILL find it again.

We've got a month or so before our lives are turned upside down again, thing is, we aren't quite sure which direction we will be heading. We will either head north aboard Awaitea, or go and work in Asia somewhere, or travel in Asia, or go catamaran shopping. Somewhere. What we DO know, is that we're not ready to settle yet.

Fasten your seatbelts kids.

Lady Muck's Erection.

Roo's school has a fantastic kitchen garden, and the school have been asking for a volunteer to create a girlfriend for their resident scarecrow, Malcolm.

I thought it would be a nice idea to leave a legacy in the form of a scarecrow, so put up my hand.

There began a scarecrow making frenzy. Of course it all happened with superhero speed, as once I start something I pretty much OBSESS about it until it's complete. Not good for my brain or my family for that matter. Good however, in this case, for Malcolm.

After several trips to the oppy for her garb, and to the hardware store so that my over engineering husband could create a frame which would withstand a cyclone, she sat, frighteningly, in our hallway, for a week, waiting for it to stop raining long enough to be able to enact her erection in the vegie patch.

She only spent a day or so in the hallway, as she freaked us out every time we caught her in our peripheral vision - nightmare causing stuff - the rest of the week, she lay, face down, in a corner of an unused room....

Anyway, she's up now. She's freaking out the kids in the kinder classes who overlook the vegie garden, and not us at home, which is a GOOD thing. She might however be a bit fancy for Malcolm.

Oh, and her name is Lady Muck. My clever sister Sam thought of that. Nice work Sam, although no-one here gets it... don't all husbands call their wives Lady Muck? Or is it just mine?

The kids and I recently had a brief visit home. Roo in particular had been hassling me to see his friends, and so, we zipped home for our fix.

I also had an alterior motive: to see if a visit home was 'enough' or whether it was time to come home permanently.

We filled every moment with friends and family, exhausted ourselves extensively, had sleepovers and sleepins, and were well and truly plum tuckered out when we came back to Sydney.

Cookie, being the most 'changed' to her little friends (thanks largely to her haircut), had to work hard to convince her mates that it was indeed her. On one such occasion, Cooks stood happily next to her pal, whilst her pal appealed to her mum "where's Cookie?" right beside you darling. The poor little possum, burst into tears, stating "but I want the other Cookie". They found their friendship again after not too long.

Another little friend of Cooks', seemed to accept that Cooks had cut her hair, and that it was indeed still Cooks', HOWEVER, Cookie had just, simply, become a boy. Hence, "is he sleeping on my floor mum?" and "he's in the bathroom". etc etc. Cookie took it all in her stride.

She also amused us all one afternoon, whilst creating a communal picture with some little friends. My pal asked her what those lovely things were in her picture? Cookie replied matter of factly that they were "creatures that live in your hair". Most little girls draw flowers and girls. Cookie apparently draws head lice. She's a funny little bugger.

Roo had a wonderful time with all his friends, and certainly got his fix. I also formally apologise to everyone we visited for COMPLETELY TRASHING YOUR HOMES. I did warn you. We haven't changed!

And me, well I drank too much (!), ate too much (!!), talked too much and gratefully accepted all the generosity and time afforded me by my MUCH. LOVED. FRIENDS. AND. FAMILY.

and so to the alterior motive: I'm happy to continue on doing whatever it is we're doing, I'm not ready to come home, and keen to continue being adrift..... and stay tuned, August will bring change, and hopefully more entertaining and interesting posts! and I'm looking forward to it.



Excited squids.


Amongst their special mates.


All a bit much.

Wear beige.

Today I'm off to Roo's school's Mothers Day lunch.

something is bothering me: is it [Mother's] or [Mothers] Day? i.e, if it's the day belonging to Mother then it would be Mother's, but if it's for all the mothers, then it would be Mothers, and so, by that reckoning, seeing as though it appears to be a day for all mothers, belonging to mothers, then it should be Mothers'. But then I guess we don't really own it........

Anyway, to celebrate the occassion, I am trotting off down the hill to the water's edge to spend a 3 hour luncheon with some other mums, and we have been asked to wear white or beige. So as not to overstimulate the senses......

Now, some of my friends, are VERY good at wearing white. I however am NOT.

I am a dirt magnet. I have never looked crisp and clean. it is not in my makeup. in the rare occasion that I have worn the wretched hue, I have come off second best - food slopped down my front, or sat on something disgusting - right on the crack, never a cheek, always the crack ?@#*!

Currently, I don't have anything white. I did have, but I managed to dye it all pink in the last wash.

So beige it is, and beige it will have to be.

I have ONE beige top, well it's possibly more peach than beige, and then again one might call it apricot or oyster, but I'm going to have to go with beige. This top is unfortunately a bit see through, so it will have to have a [formerly white] pink singlet beneath it, which will potentially make it more of a salmon colour... It is also made from a very fine cotton, so no doubt, I will slop my first sip of sparkling down the front, and my [now salmon] top will have a wet patch which will stick to the [originally white] singlet making the top a dirty sort of clay colour - AND IS THAT DIRTY SORT OF CLAY COLOUR BLOODY BEIGE?...

Probably not.

Now, what to wear on the bottom....

Happy MOTHERS & STEP-MOTHERS Day.

Calling all Brides...

I DARE you to put on your impending wedding invitations:

Phones on silent in bags please.

Too many weddings I've worked at have tables full of guests on their smartphones. They aren't talking to the person beside them, they aren't dancing - they have no idea what is happening beyond their phone.

Recently, one even went so far as to ask me what the WIFI password was at my work.

My response:
the password is 'doyouknowhowmuchthebrideispayingforyoutosithereandsurfthenet?'

So go on brides, start the trend. Your guests will thank you for it :)

Stage mothers & guinea pigs..

As the weeks progress, our lives are becoming steadily busier (why do we do this to ourselves?).

Desperate to fill the days to the brim - or as Kipling said, make each minute 60 seconds worth of distance run. (or something along those lines), one such activity has been Roo's entrance into the entertainment industry.

The anonymity of Sydney, led me to sign him up. Sign him up to a [child exploitation?] modelling agency. He said he was keen, but lets not fool ourselves, how on EARTH would he know WHAT to be keen for, and for that matter, I also had NO IDEA what to expect. Nevertheless, here we were, after school one day, off to a casting for a TV commercial.

I was more nervous than Roo. We walked into an office, which was empty except for a couple of partitions, and a table or two. As we were virgins, we were led to fill out a form, of which most was left blank, as I had no info. with me (measurements etc). Roo was then asked to stand against a wall, facing a Korean dude.

'Hello Roo*, Carouac?'

Roo* looks shyly at me

'Carouac?'

*bows head and looks extra shyly at me

I say, I think he wants to know if you can act. 'can you act?'

*'no'.

'Cayoucry?'

*looks shyly at me.

'Can you cry?'

*'no'. said through tear welling eyes.

The End. And off we go.

Hmmm, we chalked that up to experience and walked out the door, vowing not to subject Roo to that again.
Problem was: he got the job.

So like all good parents, I bribed the living daylights out of him to 'perform'.
I did everything BUT stand in the wings with overexaggerated facial expressions and spirit fingers. Thankfully, his 'dad' spoke kindly to him throughout the filming, and Roo did well, and enjoyed it. He was very proud of himself. He deserved his bribe of Lego Creations.

And all this attention and accolade for Roo, might just be the cause of Cookie's latest 'performance'. One evening, whilst we sat finishing dinner in the dining room, our beautiful daughter, busied herself in the kitchen. Those that know Cooks, know that when she is is quiet for more than 2 minutes, one MUST investigate, and so Xave, with apprehensive feet, went to check. Ten seconds later, he returned with what looked like a guinea pig in his hands.

A cute, cuddly guinea pig.

A cute, cuddly guinea pig made entirely from Cookie's hair. Pretty much all of it.

She had done a number on herself. Most was short, except for a few long bits at the back. She'd cut down to the scalp in a few spots, fringe and back, and for the life of us, we have no idea how she didn't make herself bleed. What a clever? girl.

I've tidied it up, and think she looks adorable, if not a bit peculiar.

... this is how our lives are progressing.

Always with some sort of drama. Keeps us honest.

Advantage: Al

I hesitantly went along to my first day of 'ladies tennis' at an incredibly picturesque set of courts in Sydney's eastern suburbs. I guess I was expecting a certain amount of snobbery. I was wrong. Is that reverse snobbery?

I was at once made to feel very welcome, and was instantly introduced to a couple of ladies who kindly embraced my presence. The usual pre match [size up] banter, naughtily led me to whip out my borrowed racquet and ask: 'is this a tennis racquet?'.

That worried them.

Can't imagine why.

We then proceeded to the court, me with my allocated (and quite understandably worried) partner - thanks to my racquet joke - for our first set of doubles.

Now, I've smacked a couple of balls around a court with my step son Dan over the years, and was the under 12 champ a long long time ago, so when asked about my skill level, I said, um, compared to who? Thankfully my first set was with 3 other fairly relaxed players. We were evenly matched, and had a good game. Deuce.

That was certainly not the case as the day progressed.

It's quite an unpleasant feeling, when you are losing the game for your partner. I knew I needed to up the ante. I needed to find my opponent's weakness. One particular opponent was very 'up to date' with the rules and regulations. When I am serving, after I've served the first ball, if it [suprisingly] goes IN, I fling the second, unused service ball behind me in a mad flap to get rid of it prior to the return.

NOT ALLOWED.

Apparently, it is distracting, and they could claim the point. My partner: 'no you can't'. My opponent: 'yes you can'. My partner: 'no you can't'. My opponent: 'yes you can', and so on and so forth... It was getting a bit fiery. This of course continued on when my 'up to date' opponent lost her visor in the wind (one MUST wear a visor). My equally 'up to date' partner announced after that point, that we could have claimed the point due to the distraction of said visor. Oh dear. The claws were well and truly out. During my dressing down about my flingful 2nd ball however, it was suggested, with a smile that was all fangs, that I either 'get a ball holder' (way too fancy for this chicken) OR, 'pop it in your undies dear'. Now, I'm already self conscious about gallavanting about the court with a bunch of strangers with my cellulite in FULL VIEW, and I certainly do not want to hoik (sp?) my shorts up further by shoving a bloody ball up my undies, so I replied, (I had no choice) : sorry dear, my undies are so full of arse, that I couldn't possibly fit a tennis ball in there'. 40 Love.

I then proceeded to run her around the court, trying to capitalise on her weak spot, but she had a cracking serve and a frightening forehand and beat us fair and square.

She had just turned 70. SE VEN TY!
Poetry. Good on her. Ace.

I then played with a fiercely competitive lady, who proceeded to instruct me prior to each point. It worked. We won. But it gave me the SHITS! Love all.

My last game was funny, relaxed, and close.

As I left for the day, happy in the knowledge that I wasn't completely useless, and wondering if my strained, tortured, unused muscles would actually get me to the car without collapsing, I heard a lady call to me: 'you'll do well here'.

I expect I will dear.