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.