Ever so slightly masochistic

I used to suffer terribly from impossibly tight muscles around my neck and shoulders. It was probably due to poor posture, because as soon as I stopped spending 8 hours per day hunched over a computer monitor, my neck started to look noticeably longer.

Anyway, for a few months during that time, I used to make weekly visits to a Chinese masseuse who did business nearby. Although she was an extremely petite woman (about my height, but half as wide), her fingers could've cracked walnuts. For $70 I would get an hour of pounding and poking, often so hard and deep it literally brought tears to my eyes.

You would think perhaps, that a massage this painful might well be the last one. But I kept going back every week for more of the same. I did it because, somehow, I knew that it was a good pain. But even now, I hesitate to say this to people in case they think I'm a raving masochist.

These days my muscles aren't quite as knotted, but I've been reminded of the Chinese masseuse because of last night. Last night was when I brought my story into class, to be ripped to shreds. (Other people's stories got torn here and there a bit too.)

It kinda hurt to be given a long list of what's wrong with my literary baby. But it was a good hurt.

Six of one, half a dozen of the other

I spent my child-free time this afternoon looking for a Fathers Day present for the boy. It wasn't as hard as I'd expected - within about 20 minutes of arriving at the shopping precinct I'd found a nice piece of dark greenstone carved into the shape of a whale tail.

So the rest of the time I was trying to decide whether to buy a bigger day-to-day handbag which my nice notebook* will fit into, or a smaller notebook which will fit into my existing bag. Either option could cost the same - $15 (if I stick to sale items in the cheaper shops, anyway). Or maybe next time in town I'll just get one of each.


* I'm talking about stationery here, not my MacBook. And I'll be using the notebook for recording all those wonderful story/painting ideas I'll be having while I'm at the park with TLM or whatever.

the voice of authority

elizaf's latest post reminds me of a similar experience I had (though it didn't take part in the toilets of a gay nightclub).

Last Sunday, before TLM came down with the unidentified virus that has made her feverish all week, I took her to a park near the beach. (For some reason, the weather in August is often really lovely, then spring happens and it all turns to shit again.) For an extra-special treat, I'd bought us a gourmet ice cream in a cone.

We were sitting on the edge of the gravel pit (which is actually a more fun play area than it sounds), digging into the boysenberry and strawberry scoops with our respective spoons, when a little boy a few feet away started to kick gravel towards us.

TLM wasn't bothered, but I really hate getting dust in my ice cream. So I gave the naughty boy one of my glares. My glares work on TLM and they work on the boy, but unfortunately not on this boy. In fact, they seemed to encourage him to kick harder and with more determination.

A spray of dust hit my face, and without thinking I suddenly barked "No kicking gravel into people's faces!!! Or I'll tell your mum and I don't care who she is!!!"

Immediately I remembered that we were surrounded by respectable folks who wouldn't have appreciated the sound of a mum losing her temper. But then I caught the eye of a fellow mother seated a bit further down, and saw her smile with approval.

You don't have to be meek if you're a mum.

Eclipsed

If I can't even remember to show up to see a lunar eclipse (all I had to do was go out my front door), then I guess I have no excuse for complaining about the lack of exciting things to blog about eh?

Im a bad, bad mum

When TLM gets a little snotty around the nostrils, or becomes unable to keep down even a tiny bit of water, or can't sleep at night because she's burning up, I worry. Of course I do, because I don't want her to suffer and don't always know what's actually wrong with her.

If I were a better mum, that would be my only worry. But when TLM gets sick, often my first worry is that she's not going to be able to attend daycare, playgroup or other social event, because she's sick and possibly infectious. If she has to miss daycare, then I mourn for my child-free time - the only time I get to paint or write. If she has to miss playgroup or a playdate, that's the morning's toddler-entertainment gone.

So if, when I'm an old lady in need of company, grown-up TLM resents having to sit around the house all day making me cups of tea, I won't really have an excuse to grumble.

All writed out

I've been sitting here staring at the monitor for the last ten minutes, and I can't think of anything to write.

It might well be because I spent abut three solid hours today, working on the presentation first draft of my short story - the one I had to totally rewrite after the tutor told me my first first draft was really a plot summary for a novel.

Either that, or my life is just too boring right now.

p.s. the good news is that I now have a completed first draft to present to the next class :-)

Eyes as blue as a bottle of Bombay Sapphire...

Three main things I learned in tonight's short story writing class -

1. My first draft is not so much a short story, as a novel in 1700 words.

Apparently the plot holes in my story are merely a sign that I'm trying to fit too much in. The tutor suggested that I take one small portion my story and turn that into a short story. The portion she mentioned, in it's current form, only takes up a single paragraph, barely two sentences. Boy, have I got a lot of work to do before next Wednesday...

2. My metaphors and similes are about as fresh and effective as a sheet of single-ply toilet paper after a long night of beer and over-spiced curries.

3. I may be better suited to b-grade humour writing, than Katherine Mansfield-type of thing.

They called him the black Beatle

I'd been searching for my Earth, Wind and Fire CD, which I'd bought on holiday in the States after hearing their songs at a party in Seattle (hi Mike!).

I haven't been able to find it, but I did find my Stevie Wonder compilation. I remember spending hours doing housework to songs like "For once in my life" and "Ma Cherie Amour" (which isn't as pathetic as it sounds...I think).

It made a nice change from Bach (relaxing music for helping TLM to nap when she's in the hammock) and the Wiggles Movie soundtrack. In fact, TLM really got into it, once she got over the shock of seeing me bob up and down and shake my head (that is, dance).

If I'd known she'd enjoy it so much, I'd have played a lot less Wiggles.

What the Fairy Godmother saw

I thought I'd post this bit of writing I did during last Wednesday's class. I was trying to imagine Cinderella's story from the Fairy Godmother's point of view. We only had 10 minutes to write it though...

She was a busy woman, a very busy woman. Long years passed without a single thought of her god-daughter Fidelma.

And then, one night, after she had expelled several wicked magicians for plotting to kill the king, she felt a twinge.

It was more of a light tingle really, at a spot between her eyes, which could only mean that Fidelma needed her help. She had almost forgotten the poor girl. Fidelma was just a wee babe the last time she'd seen her. She must be, what, at least 15 years old by now.

A rush of guilt came upon her, and she made haste to go to Fidelma's side.

"My darling god-daughter," she exclaimed, "I must apologise for neglecting you all these years." She had been about to ask how she was, but the answer was all around her. Fidelma was covered in smudges of ash and clothed in the most unattractive rags. The room they stood in was obviously in the servants' quarters, hardly where she'd expected to materialise.

"Oh dear" she sighed.

2 terrible

I reckon TLM's terrible twos has started. Yeah I know, she's been 2 for less than a week. But maybe she's advanced? So far, I've noticed:

- The nap-resistance started a few weeks ago.
- She tries to climb everything, whether it's the high chair or a dining chair or a climbing wall (though she doesn't get far with that). She's getting the hang of ladders too.
- The baby hammock has finally been retired. When she started to sit right up in it, I resolved to never leave her alone in it unless I was sure she'd be fast asleep while I was gone. Now that she's able to climb into it (while it's hanging on a low storage hook), it's time to put the whole thing away.
- She won't eat bananas, kiwifruit or oranges unless she can eat them the way I do i.e not already peeled and cut into little pieces. Even if she can't actually manage it.
- And she's saying "no" a heck of a lot.

All the above are probably just the start of a whole new era of hair-tearing, right?

The eye of the beholder

At last night's short story writing class, we discussed the different points of view that can be used in telling a story e.g in first-, second- and third-person, or whether the narrator is the main character, a minor character or an uninvolved onlooker.

I'm still not 100% clear on the difference between telling a story from a minor character's point of view and using first-person, and telling it from a minor character's view but using second-person. So I'll just use "I" if I can identify with the character well, and "he" or "she" if I can't.

The most fun exercise of the evening was to, in groups, attempt to retell the tale of Cinderella from the points of view of various minor characters e.g. the stepmum, Cinderella's dad, etc, and from the points of view of very minor characters e.g. one of the mice who was transformed by the fairy godmother into a footman. I can see why Gregory Maguire has made a career out of it (although I think his results could have been less boring).

And our homework this week is to come up with a first draft for a short story. I've got an idea for one right now, but I won't tell you what it is in case you steal my idea and turn it into a best-selling novel and don't even give me credit for it.

High definition

The boy recently started buying HD (high definition) DVDs. Apparently HD DVDs look so much better than the normal kind, but then he's got better than 20/20 vision and I don't. So last night he showed me a smidgeon of 300, which he'd been itching to see ever since the news that the graphic novel was being made into a film.

And really, I didn't notice any difference between what I saw and what I usually see. It might be a non-geek, girlie thing, but I'm far more interested in a film's plot, themes, characters and acting than in whether it looks as good from three feet away as it does from ten. Or it may be because my eyesight is slightly deficient, and I'm the perfect customer for a low-quality tv set.

Youth and beauty

It's so unfair. TLM has another cold, this time with a temperature and perhaps an ear infection too). She's sleep-deprived because she woke early from her nap after maybe 20 minutes.

But she still looks as fresh as a daisy (albeit a snotty one), while I'm the one with blood-shot eyes.

2

TLM is two today. Although she still had a slight nasal drip, we went ahead with the birthday party anyway. She seemed to enjoy being the only girl in the group of toddlers, and when her three year old girl cousin arrived there was even more excitement. All that bopping and dressing up in Dora skirts - I think the boys kinda dug this wilder, older woman.

And there was a surprisingly small amount of mess too. What a pity we forgot to bring our camera...(though I did get some pics on the phone camera).

making it up

I do enjoy my writing classes; the tutor is both helpful and approachable, and my classmates are friendly and supportive.

It's hard work though, and for some reason I always feels uncomfortably warm there. It's possible that they've got the central heating on too high. Or, something about effort of creating believable characters and putting them into believable (yet interesting) situations - in public - is bringing out hot flushes in me. I haven't had to deal with self-consciously red faces since I stopped drinking, and it's not something I miss.

But I digress, as they say. Last night we were shown a general structure for a short story, and our exercise was to brainstorm a story around a single main character, along those guidelines and working in pairs. My character seemed destined to end up in a mother-daughter relationship type of story, but by the end of the session she'd nearly become involved in a fight with a P-addled almost-son-in-law.

That's what collaboration's all about I suppose.

TV brings out the cutest in her

At the risk of being judged a bad mum for allowing TLM to watch TV, I'm going to say that without television she would have fewer avenues of displaying cute behaviour.

I went all gooey when I arrived unnoticed at her daycare last Friday, and watched as she put a teddy bear to bed in a little cot, bent down to kiss it night-night, and tucked it in under a crocheted blanket.

But just as cute is when she's watching the Wiggly Safari DVD and pretending to be a ballerina butterfly when the Butterflies song comes on. And I just love it when we're watching In the Night Garden together, and during the opening scene where a young child watches his parent's index finger make little circles on his palm, TLM sticks her hand out so I can do the same.

The downside to the speed with which TLM learns from what she watches though, is that I have to be extra vigilant about keeping her away from the advertising. There's no way I want her demanding a Barbie Princess for Christmas.

Murphy's Law strikes again

As you might remember, I was quite undecided about whether to throw TLM a birthday party, as we'd spent most of the winter so far, sneezing, coughing, vomiting, or incapacitated by cellulitus.

Then we struck an illness vacation - three glorious weeks in which no one was the slightest bit unwell - which ignited a small flame of hope, enough that we planned a small toddlers' party for this Saturday and a zoo visit for Sunday.

But Murphy's Law has struck again. Just days away from what should be a memorably fun weekend, the boy is suddenly lurching about in an unhealthy manner and TLM is producing her own snot farm.

Do you think they'll be fighting fit in just 5 days?

One of Meez

Make Tea Not War seems pretty good at finding fun time wasters on the Internet. She's got a Meez and now so have I.

Where the cool kids hang

During yesterday's child-free morning, I set off to find a suitable cafe in town in which to practice my people-watching. But at 9.30 in the morning there didn't seem an awful lot of coffee-drinking going on, and the streets were bereft of potential story characters.

In the meantime I nearly bought 2 pairs of flat-heeled, knee high boots. There are winter sales on everywhere, you see, and I've been feeling boot-desire since about May. Never mind that, under the ubiquitous mummy-wear jeans I'm always in, you can't tell whether I'm wearing knee-high boots or socks and roman sandals. I just wanted some, and now I had time to look for them.

What stopped me from actually purchasing a pair, was the well-known fact that one should always buy shoes late in the day, as this allows for a bit of swelling in one's feet. So I asked to put them on hold, and returned to my search for a well-peopled cafe.

Finally I walked into a trendy place at the end of the street which is apparently a popular student hang-out. I've no idea why anyone would name an eaterie after Fidel Castro, but the odd name certainly hadn't put off the clientele. It was packed. The more recent arrivals were trying to order lattes and espressos while pressed into the tiny corridor in front of the counter, preventing the early birds from sauntering stylishly between the rear seating area and the front bit where all the exhibition photos were hanging.

But what a place for discretely observing the in-crowds! The girl at the next table visually screamed "art student", from the squeaky clean dreads to the op-shop clothes, to the designer boots which made a lie of her image as a poor but creative free-spirit.

Actually, she wasn't wearing designer boots. My mind had simply wandered back to those shoe store sales..

Character-driving

Last night's writing class was so much fun. We each had to pick a person we'd people-watched previously, and make up a whole life for him or her - educational background, relationship history, mental and physical health, even the first time they had sex! Then, in groups of three, we had to devise a story which involved our characters.

The most enlightening thing for me was that, whenever we were stuck with our story development, it only took a few well-thought questions from the tutor to get it going again. Like, what's my beanie-wearing middle-aged Indian salesman doing talking to that blond hippie chick, and how the hell did the elderly ex-professor get involved in all this?

You know, I think I really can write a whole short story.

People-watching

My second short story writing class is tomorrow evening, and I fear that I won't be able to finish the homework assignment we were given last week. What we were asked to do, was to note down some observations of strangers - the way they looked, moved, spoke etc. I'm finding it hard to do, not just because I'm one of the most absent-minded people I know, but because opportunities to people-watch don't easily present themselves to me.

Because, in order to observe people's physical characteristics, I have to be sitting around in a public space, with no toddler-related distractions and nothing much to do. Now I know why people have to quit their jobs in order to write their novels.

A piece of cake

I've started organising a cake stall to raise funds for The Little Madam's childcare centre. It's going to be held in the local shopping mall, and the girl who booked the space for us sounded really keen to try our baking.

"Is there going to be black forest gateau, by any chance?", she asked hopefully. I certainly didn't want to get her hopes up, as I have no idea what the parents' abilities are like in the cake- and biscuit-making arena.

But I do know that it might not be a good idea to offer anything that comes out of my oven. Not if we want to make a profit and avoid disabling an entire neighbourhood with indigestion.

So I'm thinking, unless I find a fool-proof recipe for a delicious and expensive-looking cake or biscuit (and which requires no electric mixer), then I'm best off employed purely on the retail side of things...

To party or not to party? That is the question...

In about two weeks time TLM will turn 2. I kinda want to have a birthday party, because it'll be fun for her and I'd like to return the favour to the kids whose parties we've been to.

But I kinda don't, because:
1. there's probably an 80% chance that one of us will be sick on the day,
2. it's going to be a lot of work and
3. it's going to be hard deciding who to invite and who not to.

In the old days, having a party was easy. Just ask everyone I know, assuming that about half of them will show up, and make sure there is plenty of chips'n'dips and very loud music. I didn't have to organise games because as long as there is alcohol and someone to talk to, you have as much entertainment as you need.

What to do, what to do...

Why it's better not to have carpet

I just about had a heart attack this afternoon. We were at my mum's house and I'd just undone The Little Madam's poo-filled nappy, when TLM whippped it out from under her bum and rubbed it enthusiastically into my mother's just-vaccumed carpet.

It could have been a bit of a disaster, but luckily the nappy had folded itself over, with the pooey stuff inside.

And then TLM tried to scratch her as-yet-unwiped bum with her hand.

This is where nail brushes come in handy.

No write turn

So last night I spent two hours talking and thinking about short stories, along with 8 other people and our tutor. After an hour of introductions, house-keeping rules and ice-breaking games, we got stuck into it.

For one exercise we were asked to write the worst story we possibly could, in ten minutes. Umm...but I misunderstood that instruction and wrote a story with the worst possible scenario. Still, when the time was up you could be forgiven for thinking I'd done exactly what I'd been asked...

I'm not sure what it means, but I left that class feeling less competent than before it'd started. The good news is, it can only get better.

Wish I was there

For several reasons, I probably won't be attending this year's film festival. But in past years I was what you could call a frequent film festival flyer, so out of habit I still pick up the festival schedule. It must be the masochist in me, to want to know what I'll be missing out on over the next couple of weeks.

I've already dog-eared the pages listing the films that sound particularly interesting to me. Maybe you've seen them already, or you're booked to go see them soon:

Perfect Creature - a New Zealand sci fi/fantasy movie, about "a race of intellectual bloodsuckers called The Brotherhood", who provide humans with vaccines in exchange for blood donations.

Day Watch - another vampire movie...hmm. This one's Russian, a sequal to Night Watch.

The Secret Life of Words - about a hearing-impaired woman who has her hearing aid turned off most of the time to avoid connecting with other people. With Sarah Polley and Tim Robbins, this sounds exactly like the kind of movie the boy avoids.

King Corn: corn is everywhere, but especially in our junk food. I bet people with corn allergies must not be able to eat any junk food whatsoever. Poor things.

Manufacturing Dissent: I loved Michael Moore's propaganda films. This documentary apparently started out as a celluloid love letter to Mr Moore, but showed him to be not such a straight-up guy.

Eagle vs Shark: actually, I wouldn't have bothered to go see this at the festival. I'd've waited for it to come out on general release. But I'd see it one way or another, because I'm a Flight of the Conchords fan.

Call me the unfinisher

What an irony. A few years ago my workplace made us all take personality tests, and according to my test score I was a task-completer extraordinaire. My creativity score, on the other hand, was disappointingly low.

This is no longer true. For weeks now, I've been struggling to start and finish a third painting (I managed two during my abstract painting course). I keep coming up with ideas for paintings,but those blocks of free time in which I can paint, have been frustratingly rare. I'm finding that, by the time I've an opportunity to work on my idea, I've already mentally moved onto the next idea. End result - one canvas has been painted over about four times with a new background colour, but hasn't yet progressed beyond that point.

Creative types are known for their inability to finish projects. Could this be a sign of a personality transformation?

A good morning

It's been a good morning, because:

1. I'm not sick
2. TLM's not sick
3. The boy's not sick

and, since non-one's sick:

4. I was able to take TLM to the local playgroup, which meant that
5. I had a chance to talk to other grown-ups and
6. Didn't have to bounce TLM on my lap to the tune of "Dorothy (would you like to dance with me)" for the umpteenth time

and to top it all off,

7. It turned out to be a warmish and sunny day.

On the other hand, TLM's been in her room for an hour now, and still isn't napping. Can't have everything, I suppose.

too stinky for you

This isn't meant as a complaint about TLM's bowel movements, nor have I any intention of bringing this up at her 21st. But today I had to go pick her up from daycare unexpectedly early. Because her poo was too smelly.

Before you write back commenting on the oversensitivity of the daycare teacher's noses, I should mention they went on to add that they suspected diarrhoea (omigod I spelled that out without needing spellcheck! What does that say about me?) and it's policy to ask parents to take their kids home in this case.

When they rang, I was in the middle of a meeting with the fundraising committee, on the other side of town; by the time I got there to pick up TLM she was looking as happy as ever. Though that may been due to the freshly-made popcorn being made freely available to all little hands.

I just thought I'd share it with you. Thanks.

I know it's just a fantasy world, but...

Yesterday I saw the final episode of Gilmore Girls, and by then I was definitely ready for the end of Stars Hollow World. While it's never tried to be a gritty, real-life portrayal of small-town existence, I have to say that all that Rory-love was really getting to me. She'd become as annoying as Angel's Fred. It's people's flaws that make them human and Rory has increasingly resembled Brainiac Barbie. Thank goodness for Kirk.

A bit of a palaver

TLM's had her Fisher Price Ocean Wonders Aquarium (click here for a picture of the latest version) cot toy since she was about 6 months old. It played a small selection of lullabies while a group of little fishies swum in an endless loop, lit by a gentle background glow. I can still remember that fascinated struck-by-headlights stare TLM had (or Baby, as her blog handle was then) as she lay in her cot watching the show.

So recently, when the aquarium music began to sound like an over-stretched cassette tape and the light show stopped working, I was a bit concerned. Surely it couldn't be the batteries, because I'd only replaced then a week or two ago. I came to the unhappy conclusion that our beloved aquarium was on it's last legs and in need of urgent replacement.

We went to three different shops, and finally found an updated version on the top shelf of the Fisher Price aisle at The Warehouse. TLM was so excited at the prospect of playing with it that she insisted it was bedtime, though it was only 4.30pm. The boy quickly got out his handyman gear and moved the batteries from the old toy to the new one.

Half an hour later, I was driving back to the shop because we hadn't been able to get the damn thing to work. The customer service people were very nice about it, not even bothering to check it out for themselves. Of course, I said I'd have to test the replacement before I left with it - although it meant waiting for the assistant to dig around in a big glass jar for spare batteries because the boy hadn't left our ones in.

And you know what? I got the new aquarium home and the boy couldn't get it to work. So he replaced the batteries, and then it was fine.

fashion sense

Ever since the weekend, when we bought TLM a pair of Bob the Builder pajamas, she's been mad for them. Absolutely mad. Mad as in, must wear them day and night - even atop other day clothes. As in, must wear them on the long walk to the library (actually not a long walk, but she's still got such little legs and insists on investigating every puddle) even though it's raining, blowing a gale and 9 degrees Celsius.

This isn't to say that TLM has neglected her fairy-wear. Today, TLM wore the now-battered wings and deflowered skirt over her Bob the Builder pjs. It was an interesting look, really.

Is this the beginning of the dreaded wardrobe tantrums that young children are known for?

New news from the home front

TLM has another cold, I think. She was unnaturally warm yesterday and had an awful lot of trouble getting to sleep last night. On the plus side, she's learning to blow her nose on a tissue. I just wish she wouldn't use the snotty used ones that I've left lying around whilst distracted...

The boy has decided to quit smoking once and for all, and bought a supply of nicotine inhalers to help. He's already warned me to expect a few days of crankiness, so in lieu of patience I have offered him plenty of space.

Back when I was a frequenter of trendy cafes, Strawberry Fayre was my favourite den of sweet-toothed iniquity. It specialised in cheesecakes so rich that it was impossible to eat a whole piece, unless you were were willing to "rest" in your chair for at least the next two hours. But the manner in which I disposed of last night's individual baked cheesecake (brought home from the Moore Wilsons bakery), shows that some things get easier even without constant practise.

Old habits

TLM has changed so much since her first birthday (she's now almost 23 months). She's also developed a few cute personality quirks.

Our little girl has become obsessed with all things fairy-like, can count to 20 and knows her alphabet, has a favourite fluffy orange sweater which she calls Chicken, drinks the coloured water she's supposed to be playing with and knows the words and the actions to Twinkle Twinkle.

And through an unfortunate word association, when she says a food is "nice" that means she's about to spit it out and rub it into the nearest fabric upholstery.

But some things haven't changed at all. Take the baby hammock she's had since she was born. The Little Madam must be getting perilously close to it's 15 kg limit by now, but we're loathe to stop using it because she still naps in it once or twice a week. She's also reverted back to nap-resistance. Today, TLM did nothing but complain at naptime (despite having been given a pair of fluffy socks to play with), and only finally fell asleep after I took her out in the buggy.

Going back to buggy-reliance could turn out to be a blessing in disguise, actually. I've become a bit slack with the exercise ever since I started painting (again) and writing (or trying to). If the only way I can get a regular cardio workout is by pushing a toddler-laden buggy around for an hour, then I should probably make the most of it eh?

Good examples

At some point in motherhood, I suppose it's no longer a credible excuse for dressing like a dowdy, forgotton spinster, or for being always too tired to properly pursue grown-up interests. I'm glad I went to painting classes, and glad that I've got a short-story writing class to look forward to. But I'm still a grungy dresser who's almost forgotten what it was like to chase glamour and excitement. And what makes me feel a little ashamed of myself is knowing about women who seem to have done it all better than me.

In last weekend's paper I read about a 30-something mother of 2 kids under 2, who not only has continued her design career but has become a published writer as well. Then, in last night's episode of Project Runway, I saw a 42 year old fashion designer, and mother of 4, tell the world that she always - always - dresses up because she never wants to go down that trackpants'n'minivan path.

So, if these women haven't let motherhood be an obstacle to making their mark on the world, why have I?

At this point, it would probably make sense to say that one shouldn't compare oneself to others.

False alarms

We've had a monitored burglar alarm at this house for a number of years now. In fact, ever since the boy moved in and started buying expensive computer and television equipment I've had to not only improve my home's security, but also increase the contents insurance by about 500%.

The unfortunate thing about the average alarm monitoring service is that if someone should actually break into your home, what you won't get is a van-load of armed guards arriving within 5 minutes, ready and willing to accost the greasy bastard who's attempting steal your stuff. All you can hope for is a warning call on your cell phone and an offer to send someone around after he's finished his scone, to confirm that there really is an unwanted visitor on your property. For about $50.

And the annoying thing about the alarm system in our place is that the alarm monitor in the hall keeps going off when it isn't supposed to. Normally it waits until I've gotten myself and TLM nappy-changed (TLM, not me), shod, coated and buggied all the way down to the library. Once we've settled ourselves in for a nice quiet hour amongst the shelves or in the playground just outside, that's when my phone rings and I have to rush us both all the way back to check it out.

The technician's already been to have a look at the monitor and found nothing wrong with it. So the next logical step is to replace this 6-year-old thingy with a new one. But I'm surprised these things aren't expected to last longer than that. It's not as though it's got moving parts or a DVD-playing device.

Has anyone else had this sort of problem with their alarm? Am I being ripped off, or do I just expect too much for my money?

Another mini-milestone

Yesterday, while I was busy getting her lunch ready, The Little Madam climbed onto her high chair all by herself. I was so surprised I almost forgot to feed her. But I came back to my senses just in time to stop her from trying to climb back down.

actor slash model

If you're familiar with the movie Zoolander, then you'll know what this post's title means. If you aren't, then don't worry you'll get the gist of it.

I've been watching Top Chef lately, which is a lot like Project Runway but with food instead of fashion. Now, the latter show was hosted by Heidi Klum, who has an irritatingly high-pitched voice and says the same few lines every week. But she's a model, and Project Runway is about fashion, so you can't really say she doesn't belong there.

What's surprising about Top Chef though, is that it's hostesses are just as model-beautiful. But they aren't just eye candy, because they get to make judgements on the contestants' edible art. They sound like they know their food. This makes me wonder, just how many food-aware women are there who look as though they only eat salad (dressing on the side)?.

Could there possibly be such a thing as foodie-slash-model?

The importance of tofu

Here's my latest fiction-writing effort. Leo suggested I give you 300 words on the importance of cheese, but I think enough's been written about cheese already...

How important is tofu? Tofu saved my life, you know.

To you it’s just a food product, a meat substitute for the vegetarian masses. But that wobbly white stuff with no taste of its own – I’m going to be eating it until the world runs out of soy beans, because I’m so grateful.

See, my uncle Ray was a black sheep. He used to sneak off to Kevin Ng’s fruit shop every Monday and Thursday night to play mah jong in the back room. But we all thought he was at the polytechnic learning how to use MYOB. We didn’t know about his gambling habit until those Triad men knocked on our door late one night.

When nasty-looking Chinese men appear at your front door at 11pm, it usually only means one thing – someone’s lost big at mah jong and they’ve come to collect. There’s a reason why Chinese restaurants seem to change ownership so frequently, you know, and the owners always just happen to be big-time mah jong players. Funny that.

After we lost the Golden Lotus restaurant, I had to leave university and get a job. Mum started working nights at the Chopsticks Takeaways, to supplement the earnings from her fledgling tofu business. Joe, my brother, started sending money from London. It wasn’t enough though, because we still had to pay off a hefty mortgage on a restaurant we no longer owned. Every night, mum lit up the joss sticks and asked for some good luck from our ancestors. And every Sunday, she went to church and prayed for a miracle.

Traditionalist that she is, mum soon came up with the brilliant idea of marrying me off to a rich businessman from Hong Kong. She’d never even met the guy; just had a recommendation from Mrs Tse, who played marriage broker when she wasn’t running Chopsticks. It was all set up, you know. I wasn’t particularly eager to get hitched to a stranger (and a foreigner, at that), but I’ve never been much of a rebel, and anyway I couldn’t see any other way out of our financial hell.

But then mum’s tofu business took off. All of a sudden, the foodies who came to buy at the farmer’s market couldn’t get enough of it. Business was so good we had to rent extra work space from Mrs Tse (who also had a finger in the commercial real estate pie). Six months later, mum was bought out by Chan’s Authentic Chinese. We paid off the mortgage and still had a decent sum to invest in the stock exchange (soy bean futures). And I’m still single.

So yeah, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. Funny thing is, Mum won’t take any of the credit for our good fortune. She just continues placing food offerings in front of the lit joss sticks every night, and singing loudly at church every Sunday.

Cabin fever

Being a stay-at-home mum isn't that bad, as long as you don't actually have to stay at home the whole time. Over summer I'd gotten into the routine of taking TLM out each morning - to the park, the beach, the library, community playgroup or whatever - and often our afternoons were filled with playdates (thinly disguised social calls to friends with kids), more visits to the park etc.

But all that stops when the family's invaded by a seemingly endless succession of viral and bacterial infections. For two whole weeks now, TLM and I have had to rely on our small collection of toys, water play at the kitchen sink, our books and DVDs. In fact, I've gotten a bit slack with controlling the amount of DVD-watching she's getting; if TLM starts talking to Dorothy the Dinosaur in her sleep, I'll have no-one but myself to blame.

But I try to be optimistic. Every time the sick person (whether it's me, the boy or TLM) gets better, a small pinprick of hope tells me that we might be lucky enough to enjoy a week of respite before the next bug hits. And in that time, we are no longer social lepers.

wall-to-wall germs

I have to say it's not been a healthy winter so far, and it's still only June! I've been plagued by serial cellutuses (or is that cellulitae?), a gastric bug and then a cold; fortunately the boy remained well enough to play nursie until I got better. And then he got the gastric bug (only for longer than me) and the cold (apparently also much worse than mine). In between those times of grown-up un-wellness, TLM had both of the above as well as an assortment of mystery fevers and whatnot.

And that's why, having missed over half of TLM's swimming classes this term due to sickness, I've decided not to bother enrolling her for next term. It's at times like these when I realise that, since TLM started going to daycare for 2 mornings per week, we've effectively been paying money to keep her at home. At the rate she's going TLM's immune system is going to be indestructible by the time she starts school.

Boy-Girl-Boy-Girl

Ta da! I give you the second of my abstract paintings. Basically, it's what you get when you cross a geometry-for-babies DVD with BauHaus-era Kandinsky (I know, I've got a way to go) and an admiration for Shane Cotton's colour palette.

The idea behind the title is that I wanted it to look like a group of children holding hands before launching into a folk dancing lesson.

The photo's at a strange angle 'cos I got the boy to hold it up, out of TLM's reach. Plus, I don't have Photoshop loaded.

What I've been watching and reading

Despite being unable to avoid making a face every time the words "Oceans" and "13" came up, we did go to see the film. That itself was unavoidable really, because it was the film being screened for TLM's childcare centre's movie night fundraiser. And I was the one in charge (though only through default) of organising the whole thing.

But even though I would still much, much rather have waited to see Shrek the Third or the latest Harry Potter, I did end up enjoying Oceans 13. It probably helped that Julia Roberts wasn't in it. Actually, I think it helped a lot. By the way, has anyone else noticed how flabby Brad Pitt's face has become?

Also, the boy and I went on a bit of a book-buying bender yesterday afternoon, at the new Borders shop. The shop is so massive I'm surprised there aren't giant television screens in there that take up whole walls, playing nothing but hip-hop Borders ads. The boy joyfully selected several graphic novels and fantasy novels, the girl - I mean, TLM - emotionally blackmailed us to buy her a Thomas and Friends book, and I picked up a couple of Kelley Armstrong books. Of the latter, I've just started reading Haunted.

I do like Armstrong's books. Reading her stories of renegade witches and evil corporate sorcerers, reminds me of how I felt when I first discovered Marion Zimmer Bradley's Darkover books - great female characters who had tons of power and didn't have to put up with brass brassieres. (Although last time a reread one I changed my opinion).

Oh, and the boy and I are really, really enjoying series one of Life on Mars. The purely cop show bits are a little predictable, but much of the fun is in the difficulty that the post-millenium Sam Tyler has in trying to fit in with Seventies-style policing practices.

One last thing. Does anyone have any more story-writing challenges for me? Nothing too difficult, though - 300 hundred words seems to be about my word limit, and it has to be okay if it morphs into an anecdote about clothes and shopping.

In recuperation

It's a total coincidence that it happened so soon after our lovely dinner on Friday night - the panting, the sweating, the - I'm not talking about sex, silly!

I'm talking about being horribly, wanting-to-die-and-get-it-over-with gut-emptyingly sick. The kind of sick that stand-up comedians can't talk about without also mentioning diced carrots. The kind of sick that, when you see it in the movies, always has the unlucky vomiter hugging the toilet bowl as though it were her new best friend (but in real life the toilet bowl hasn't been cleaned for a month so you'd never actually touch it).

It happened on Sunday night, more than 24 hours after our meal out. And it just happened to be about 48 hours after TLM woke up in the night, with a thick layer of puke all over her hair, sleeping bag and nanna quilt.

So I reckoned it was a virus. Funnily enough, TLM was over hers by the morning after, whereas my bout with the retched (sic) bug left me week and literally bedridden for an entire day. Fortunately for me, the boy had taken a few days off this weak to give me extra time off. But I don't think he'd been expecting anything more than a couple of hours of light TLM-play each day...

Thankfully, I'm much better today. I even chanced having a bit of toast this morning, with Flora and jam on it too. And coffee. I got to keep it too.

In which I show myself to be an utter piggy wiggy

To celebrate the boy's birthday, we went out for a nice dinner last night. I'd actually tried to book a table at his favourite restaurant, The Great India, but apparently they won't take bookings for twosomes for Saturday nights. It must be all the large groups of Give-me-yer-hottest-curry folk who, having drunk the pubs dry, need to fill their stomachs with something challenging.

So we went to The Recovery Room, which used to be the hardly-missed Malo, and before that the very-much-missed John Street Grill.

When I eat out, dessert is pretty much compulsory, so I told the boy I intended to skip the starters and just order a mains and a dessert. But the boy insisted that we both get starters, because he had his eye on the scallops with the black pudding pancakes.

So, against my better judgement, I ordered the selection of warm breads - 6 thick slabs! - with olive oil and a nutty dip.

(FYI, the boy's main was an excitingly-described lamb rump with roast potatoes. Both it and the scallops caused him to roll his eyes back in ecstasy. I had the intriguing chocolate pasta with grilled haloumi bits, a very "meaty" vegetarian dish which I couldn't finish 'cos it was too rich.)

And after all that, I still wanted dessert. This wasn't anything to do with physical hunger, oh no. It was the call of the creme brulee accompanied by almond biscotti and raspberry sorbet.

Yummy as it was though, I was too full to do it justice. I really didn't want our romantic dinner to be marred by digestive failure (again).

The boy playfully admonished me for not cleaning my plate.

"I knew I should've just ordered main and dessert", I retorted. "It's your fault for making me order a starter".

"Yeah but you only ate half of it" he replied.

"It was a starter for two!". (Okay, maybe you had to be there.)

All in all, it was a lovely evening out, despite the icy winds and the unexpected rain (possibly because I'd had the foresight to wear my hooded sheepskin coat - the boy however, got a little wet and cold around the ears). The boy can be difficult to please when it comes to eateries, so it was nice when he announced it as being "pricey but really good". My own opinion would be "Good, but pricey".

Boy in name, boy in nature

When I knew that the boy's birthday was coming up, I decided to simply ask him what he wanted. Whatever I ended up buying him was coming out of his pay packet anyway, so it was better to get him something I knew he'd like.

And do you know what he said to get him?

An XBOX 360 and a game called Guitar Hero II. If you haven't already guessed, the latter comes with a shrunk-down version of those guitars you'll see played by Kiss-inspired bands, in garages all over the world.

And he was very pleased with it. Very pleased indeed.

**As a footnote, I did intend to surprise him with an additional birthday item - a pair of grandpa-style slippers to keep his feet toasty during the long winter nights with the game console. P'raps it's just as well I couldn't find any that were dowdy enough, because he may not have got the joke.

Now I know! You just have to believe in yourself!

This one’s from The Editter’s George jnr. I'll admit right now that this isn't my best effort, but that's what happens when your first line sounds more like a last line!

"Now I know! You just have to believe in yourself!" Alannah seemed to have overlooked the fact that Flashdance was just another Hollywood ra-ra movie, not a piece of historical evidence. Sure, self-belief is totally vital if you want to make it big in an artistic industry like dance. But all the self-belief in the world isn’t going to do you any good if you look like a WWF wrestler with a self-destructive penchant for fried foods.

Fortunately, her delusion was short-lived. Even a girl who’s dreamed of being one of those butterfly-like creatures since she was 6, has to bow down to reality eventually. And besides, believing in yourself isn’t something you can just whip up on demand.

Trouble was, if Alannah couldn’t spend the rest of her life fluttering about in a tutu, what was she going to do when she left school? She had no other interests and that was obvious from her exam results.

So an appointment was made with Mister Harris, the school’s vocational guidance counselor. He evidently hadn’t quite finished his tea break when the beefy teenager pushed open his office door and peered around it. She watched him quickly chomping down on the remaining half of his chocolate biscuit, as though he was worried she'd take it from him.

An hour later, Alannah knew that she wouldn’t like to be a bank teller (too much customer service), truck driver (too much time away from home), librarian (pays peanuts), television reporter (her skin would break out at the merest sniff of makeup) or travel agent (too much emphasis on selling). On the other hand, she still didn’t know what she wanted to do with herself if it couldn’t be dancing. On top of that, she was already well late for dinner at home.

She sat on the bus feeling horribly let down by nature. It just didn’t seem fair that, no matter how much she loved doing it or how good she might be technically, the door to her dream job was firmly closed because she didn’t fit the image.

Alannah didn’t know it yet, but one day she would be a founding member of the Big Ladies Movin' It Dance Troupe.

Moving on

I think this morning's visit to our local library's pre-school storytime will probably be our last for a while. When TLM was younger, she could sit through half an hour of storybooks, either intent on the story itself or interested in all the children around her.

But this morning TLM was clearly uninterested, because she kept trotting back to where I'd parked the buggy and rifling through the nappy bag looking for snacks to eat and zips to play with. Unfortunately, we weren't able to simply leave because the buggy was parked in (because we always seem to be the first to arrive).

So I took her over to one of the library computers, found a children's website and let her loose on the Teletubby game pages. She liked it so much she wouldn't let us leave, even when I wanted to go to the toilet.

And that's how I know that she has moved on from storybooks to computer games. My little girl is growing up, and she's going to be a lot like the boy.

Geometry for beginners (0-18 months) 1

After having abandoned my first attempt at an abstract painting, missed the second class and spending days thinking about what I wanted my painting say, I started and completed this one at yesterday's class.

It looks nothing like my classmates' work, one of which was a fabulous impressionistic flower garden scene and the another impressive one being a moody picture based around a collaged image of a ball gown hanging from a coathanger (reminicent of Seraphine Pick).

I got the impression that perhaps the classmates thought my effort was a bit simple. But then, that was what I was aiming for. It is, after all, based on TLM's shape-sorting toy, as well as images from her Baby Newton DVD.

Going potty

I may be wrong, but I'm getting the feeling that TLM will very soon be ready for potty training. For a while now, she's been telling me when she's got a poo. Sometimes, "I've got a poo" means that there's a little brown deposit in her nappy right now. Other times it seems to mean that there'll be one in a minute. Then there are the time when I have to assume that either she's trying to tell me she's got wees, or that she's having me on.

We've even got the equipment ready. I went out one weekend and spent part of my child-free time searching the perfect potty. What I settled on was a 4-in-1 affair, which combines a step (to reach the sink), a potty, a potty seat which can be transferred to the family toilet, and a lid for the whole lot, which can be used as a child's seat. It's all very high-tech and comes in a very attractive lime green and blue.

But even if TLM might be ready for potty training, I don't feel that I am. From what little I know, that period of toddler development largely consists of (for the parent, anyway): 1. never leaving the house, and 2. even more laundry than you had to do before.

I'm thinking of waiting until she's old enough to train herself.

It was my partner who spied it first...

At last, I have come up with a story worthy of ms macs first line. It's about sex, money and shopping. Just joking.

It was my partner who spied it first; the crumpled white and blue of the plastic bag, hidden on the embankment at the train station.
“Thank God” I whispered, the tight knots in my neck muscles suddenly unravelling for the first time all day.

When you’re a member of the police force, having a hens night is never just a Chinese meal followed by a pub crawl. Some idiot always decides to do something mean and nasty, like shave all the bride-to-be’s hair off or arrange for the words “Carpet Muncher” to be inexpertly tattooed on her biceps while she’s comatose in the ladies’ toilets.

In fact, if I really think about, fear of my anticipated hens night was probably one of the reasons it took me so long to agree to marry Frank. Frank would have you believe it’s because I’m a free spirit, hard to pin down and even harder to stop from flirting with every fireman from here to New York. Well, okay there’s a grain of truth in that. Who could resist a hot-blooded fireman? I’m only human, after all.

But really, I love the guy – Frank, that is – and ever since that evening he made me the most amazing lasagne I’ve ever tasted, I’ve known he was the one for me. He’s no muscle-bound silver-jacketed superhero, but he can cook like a god. And give a helluva good backrub. Like I said, the only reason I didn’t marry the guy two years ago was because I was shit-scared of walking down the aisle looking like early Sinead O’Connor.

And I suppose I did get off lightly, because when I march down the aisle tomorrow it’ll be as a brunette and not a baldy. But those cows stole my wedding dress somehow, and hid it in a shopping bag in a disused railway station.

And that’s not the worst of it.

When I opened up that plastic bag, I got an eyeful of orange silk. Orange silk.

Now I’m going to be indistinguishable from the bridesmaids.

Writer's block

You might well be wondering why I haven't posted any new attempts at story-writing for a few days.

I have in fact been labouring on ms. mac's first line, though very unsuccessfully. There's just no way I've been able to turn it into a tale of shopping, sex OR money. It's certainly shown me that I can't write police stories. But I'm not giving up on it, because that's would just be impolite. I'm going to keep with it until I produce something I can bear to be read by your lovely selves.

It might just take a while. Or...perhaps a slight change of wording.

The Little Pretender

Recently TLM has taken to playing "pretend" games - well, one in particular. She's constantly wanting to be lifted into her cot, where her nanna quilt now lives, and pretending it's bed time. Which sounds like every parent's dream, except she insists on me being in the room with her.

Here's a picture of TLM pretending to do the dishes.

Mac Attack

The boy and I had hoped that it had abated, this mysterious energy force in my body which causes our wireless Internet connections to fail.

He thought we couldn't go wrong with a MacBook, because Macs in general have a reputation for being just about fool-proof. But it lasted only a week or so because suddenly it wasn't able to get on the 'Net any more.

So I'm back to very old desktop computer, the one which takes about ten minutes to start up and sends out "overheating" warnings when the room temperature gets over 20 degrees Celsius.

I shouldn't complain, really. Some people have no choice but to blog at work or at the public library.

I woke with a gentle buzzing in my ear...

This first line is from onscreen .

I woke with a gentle buzzing in my ear, not the annoying get-out-of-bed radio alarm type of buzzing, but a euphoric soothing buzz that reminded me of last night. It was the sound of my husband cutting firewood with his new chainsaw, that I got him for his birthday yesterday. And boy, was he grateful.

Finally, after 7 years of being together, I had managed to get him a present he actually liked. Oh, I had tried really hard to please him, especially in the early years.

For his 30th birthday, I presented my love with a hand-knitted merino wool sweater. It was navy blue chunky-rib with a crew neck and a skull and crossbones protecting the chest. But I never saw him wear it, instead he seemed to prefer the reindeer sweater that his mother got him.

On his 31st birthday, my other half got a computer game. I'd taken quite a while at the shop, trying to decide between the shooting games, the car-crashing games and the sword-and-sorcerer games. I even asked one of those geeky, sun-starved shop assistants for help. After an hour of staring at images of brass-brassiered women, and loin-clothed barbarians, I closed my eyes and plucked one from the shelves. But...I never saw him play it. He did, however, seem to enjoy the PSP his mother got him.

The love of my life's 32nd birthday gift was a voucher for a full-body massage. Surely no-one could resist the appeal of having one's aches and pains rubbed away by firm, experienced hands? It turned out that his masseur reminded him too much of a boy who'd bullied him horribly during his boarding school years. He'd returned even more tense than before he went in. But his mother gave him a voucher to have his hair done by a world-famous-in-New-Zealand stylist, and that man fair strutted home with his new look.

When my dear husband turned 33, I had his name tattooed on my bum. Nope.

One year later, I celebrated my man's birthday with a surprise party. Every single person in his address book was invited. Unfortunately, several of them were people he'd long since lost contact with - because he'd owed them lots of money. The next day, his mother showed up with several of his favourite home-cooked dishes. Guess who got the bigger smile.

For his 35th birthday, I asked my darling man what he wanted for his birthday. "Just get me something small", he'd replied. But when he undid the big golden bow and unwrapped the crinkly red paper to reveal a hacky sack with a smiley face on it, the long-hoped-for smile of delight did not eventuate. But he still wears the cufflinks that my mother-in-law gave him.

I bet you're wondering now how I finally did it. Well, let's just say I went to someone who always seemed to know what he'd really like, and...stole her shopping bags.

Fairies

TLM has a new obsession, and it's with fairies. She loves waiting for Tinkerbell to swoop up from the bottom of the television screen at the beginning of every Baby Einstein DVD. Under her influence, the boy's computer desktop is adorned with numerous nubile Disney fairies. And now she has her very own pair of fairy wings.

The wings were something she brought home from her cousin's birthday party last weekend. I, of course, was "poorly" and stayed at home. But when she and the boy returned from their afternoon announcing "I'n a fairy", I could easily picture TLM fluttering about in the park with similarly winged little girls, cupcake in one hand and a fistful of popcorn in the other.

Of course, getting TLM to take her wings off is something that has to be planned like a military operation - y'know, with manoeuvers and everything. Because if you spring it on her without any strategically timed distractions handy, you're asking for a hell of a tantrum.

Plus, it's so important to hide them properly. Yesterday, TLM spotted them hanging in the hall just as we'd got home in time for her nap. Naptime was delayed by half an hour while I waited for her to finish her tantrum and cool off in the hammock, before I could start her wind-down routine.

I thnk I can understand why little girls find fairies so appealing. They're represented as pretty, dainty, and magical creatures. I don't understand why boys aren't into fairies too.

As the blind vampire circled her...

Hoo! This was a hard first line to follow, possibly because it immediately made me think of Buffy - and nothing I produced would ever stand up to comparison with a Buffy episdoe. Plus, I piked out of writing a fighting scene even though I thought it was needed. Thanks to Make Tea Not War for thinking of it.


As the blind vampire circled her Mung Bean regretted that she had not thought to pack a semi automatic weapon and also that she had worn her Jimmy Choos. Most of her shoes were cleverly designed to hide anti-vamp weaponry - holy water, pencil-thin wooden stakes or garlic concentrate - but the Choos had been pure frivolity. Still, being a stylish dresser had never held her back from Slaying before. It wasn't going to stop her now.

The vampire sniffed and circled closer until Mung Bean could almost see the brand name stamped on the frame of his dark glasses. What was the point of all that blind-person paraphernalia? It's not like anyone's going to offer to help the guy across the road or anything. Just look at him - oversized canines, demony eyes and dead-white complexion - it'd be obvious to anyone he's not your ordinary, average blind guy.

She had her hand on the stake inside her coat pocket, waiting for him to make the first move. He seemed to know she wasn't just another scared girl, soon to be a hot drink. He was taking his time.

Then, just as Mung Bean was about to beat him about his ugly face with a roundhouse kick, the vamp seemed to see something behind her, and fled back the way he came. She whipped around to see who the newcomer was and found herself face to face with a full-grown slime demon, dripping and foul-smelling.

"Chuck! Good to see you!".
"Hey, Mung Bean, long time no see. Wassup?"
Mung Bean sighed. "Look, you didn't have to scare off that vamp, I woulda made short work of him. I know how to do my job".
"Not from where I was standing", replied Chuck, "Not in those heels." And he pointed to the heel of her left shoe, which looked like it was on the verge of breaking away from the rest of the shoe.
"Oh man...I only bought these last week!"
She was going to have to shop a lot more carefully from now on.

I'd take a village

If anyone were to see me now, lying on the couch with my feet up and a laptop balanced on my good knee, they would think I was having an unusually pleasant and relaxing day. In fact, when I'm in this position, that's exactly how it feels to me too.

Ubfortunately, every time I get off the couch to fetch myself a cup of tea, or go to the bathroom to dispose of one, it all comes back to me. My infected knee not only looks as big as the boy's head, it looks like the boy's head after many hours of drinking.
But at least I'm no longer getting the shakes and shivers, and my body temperature is back to normal.

I feel quite fortunate that the boy was willing and able to take a day off work to look after TLM and me - he'd already spent his entire weekend doing that and probably now has a seriously large relaxation deficit. But I wish I didn't have to rely on the boy to help out when I'm sick.

Ideally, I'd have a wide network of unemployed or stay-at-home parent friends who would come by and entertain TLM so I can get on with getting better. I, of course, would repay their kindness with homemade lasagne (well, perhaps something from the supermarket then) when they get sick themselves. We'd pop into each other's homes just to check on each other's well-being and maybe borrow a cup of sugar...

It's probably the antibiotices talking.

Immobile

I'm really annoyed, frustrated and disappointed. And it's not even because people are pulling me up on my grammer and punctuation.

I'm all of the above because I have a right knee about the size of the boy's head. Yep, the painful condition which has already afflicted me twice in the last month is paying a return visit. I never really appreciated my knees before, because they really make it not worth wearing a mini skirt, but now that one of them looks like it's suffering from a bad case of elephantiasis, well all I can say is, come back all is forgiven.

If I take painkillers I'll be too out-of-it to go to painting class. If I don't take painkillers, I'll be in too much agony to go to painting class. Either way, I'm going to miss my niece's 3rd birthday party.

Well, at least it's a lovely day outside...

Give a person a fish, they'll eat for a day.

The determinist offers the first line of this story...

Give a person a fish, they'll eat for a day. Give a person a wallet full of money, they'll have an AMAZING party. And that's exactly what I did when Bad Harry handed me a worn leather wallet containing five crinkled 100-dollar bills. I didn't ask questions - I don't have a job and my allowance is stuff all.

I can't remember the last time I had that much money in my hands. There was that time I stole Mrs Chang's jade earrings from the jewellery box she hides under her bed, and sold them to an English tourist for 250 bucks. She never did come after me about those earrings, although sometimes when she came to visit my mother for tea and black bean cakes, I'd catch her giving me a questioning look and pursing her lips.

"Aiya", she would exclaim in high-volume Cantonese, "What are you doing about getting your daughter a husband?"

And then I would roll my eyes and find an excuse to leave the room. If I was lucky, they wouldn't notice me leaving the house.

You can have a lot of fun with 500 bucks. A whole gang of us kids went down to McDonalds and bought tons of Happy Meals to eat and totally took over the playground there. We muscled the little kids out of the way and scared of their mums and dads. It was great. Then Elias said we should gatecrash this party he knew about in Wainui, so we went to the liquor shop and that's the last I saw of the money.

I wasn't expecting to see Bad Harry outside our front door. I usually see him down at Vic's, where he goes for pie and chips when his taxi shift finishes. I had to run to get the door before my mother, who was outside hanging out the washing, heard his knocking. He was here about the money. Apparently I was only supposed to be looking after it for him.

Shit, I didn't know. Someone gives you money, what the hell are you supposed to think but that it's yours?

So anyway, that's why I'm working at his mum's takeaway for the next few weeks.

a Mac distraction

There's no new story tonight, but I do have a very good reason. The boy, obviously wanting an end to my eternal computer problems, has bought me a MacBook and I've spent all evening familiarising myself with it.

It's a bit like a guy buying his wife a car with automatic transmission because he thinks she's not a good enough driver to handle a manual gearbox.

But I can't really blame him. Without going so far as to accept any responsibility for the various ailments my desktop computer and newish laptop have respectively suffered, I can freely admit that my frequent sighs of exasperation were something he could do without.

It arrived today, as a late Mothers Day present. It's slim, it's lightweight and it's elegant. It's got a touchpad instead of a tiny, furry, red knob, and it promises a foolproof (in every sense of the word) computer experience. So far, so good - I've managed to install Office, set up my email account, take some highly unflattering photos of myself (I have crow's feet!) and adjust the clock to local time, all without calling for help. The next steps will be to migrate my entire cyber-life from the two older computers, to this one. Don't hold your breath.

She looked up to see the man staring at her.

Thanks Cathi, for supplying the first line to this story. It's kind of a first draft and might never be finished, but I had so much fun writing it that I may as well post it up and invite constructive comments. Be gentle. Here goes...

She looked up to see the man staring at her. That familiar warm flush crept up Amber’s neck and over her face. Arms curled around in front of her abdomen to hide the object of his unwelcome gaze. Would last month’s night of drunken debauchery never be allowed to die a natural death?

“Hey – never seen a tattooed woman before?” she snarled, hoping he was the kind of man who was intimidated by displays of aggressive body art.

The man backed away, both hands raised in the traditional gesture of surrender.

Pity, he looked almost handsome and might even be single. Well, perhaps she should have thought of that before she went and got an image of a large, snarling rat engraved onto her belly.

It had been a very long, dry year for Amber. Ever since that morning Kevin left the house for a Red Bull and a steak'n'cheese pie and never came back, she’d spent most evenings moping about the flat trying to figure out what she'd done to cause his permanent departure. Her flashiest heels and slinkiest slipdresses languished in the wardrobe. Her friends despaired.

Until, of course, that night last month. It had taken weeks of cajoling, but Amber had finally let herself be dragged out of the house, to attend Melissa’s biker-themed hens night. Whose idea it was, to spend a whole evening in leather and vinyl, lurching from one dive-y bar to the next, she didn't know. None of the other girls seemed to object though - in fact, they seemed positively titillated by the idea.

Clad in skintight black vinyl jeans, vest, biker cap and knee high, Amber looked more like a dominatrix than a woman in charge of a motorcycle. Still, if a get-up like this failed to extract Amber from her shell, then nothing would. Well, except perhaps a few well-mixed cocktails.
Might as well cover her bases.

Apparently they were kicked out of about twenty bars from one end of town to the next, soaring on a wind of sexy invincibility. Men in suits punched each other over them, excited Bogans tried to induce catfights amongst them and bikers - real bikers - thought they'd died and gone to heaven. Apparently the last venue on the itinerary had Costa's Tattoo Parlour. Amber had a very vague recollection of flicking through pages of ink drawings, but thought she'd settled on a monarch butterfly. In the morning she'd found torn bits of paper napkin in her pockets, covered in scrawled telephone numbers and names like "Bazzer", "Scrub" and "Chug". She'd sincerely hoped those scraps of hopeful communication hadn't been reciprocated.

This is fun! I've got months' worth of potential blog posts here!

Tell me a story

I'm starting to realise that, if I want my short-story writing class to get off to a good start, I'm going to have to try and write one some time before it starts.

Now, I'd be the first to admit that I'm not brimming full of story ideas. Otherwise my blog posts wouldn't be mostly about me and TLM. But I don't want to write some confessional piece as a first attempt, because:

1. I won't know any of those people well enough to share personal details with and
2. they might not like me any more, if I do.

So I'm asking you, dear reader, to send me a first line. Any line, as long as it isn't "It was a dark and stormy night", because I think that one's been used before.

Now, the class isn't until July, so don't expect to see a short story from me straight away. But I might decide to post the more interesting-sounding ones...

Nana Quilt

TLM's grandmother on the boy's side, sent her a beautiful handmade Noah's Ark-themed quilt. You can't really tell what it looks like from these photos, but you can tell how much TLM liked it.

Life changers

The Editter answers some pretty interesting questions over here, and I've been inspired by her post, to tell you something about those crossroads in my life (so far) which have led to the blogger you're reading today.

When I was in my final year at secondary school - the year in which you have to decide whether to go to university or technical college or get a nice job in a bank - I almost enrolled in Horticulture.

May I remind you that I have the horriblest hayfever in the world? It's not even a step up from my previous intention, which was to enrol in Veterinary Science, despite my severe allergy to cats and horses. The latter was understandable - I was mad keen on animals - but the former was a desperate attempt to leave home. I came to my senses just before I sent the accomodation cheque to my allocated hostel, and instead went on to obtain a useless degree in Zoology.

Post-post:
Damn! I must've accidentally published this far-from-finished post when I meant to save a draft. By the time I had completely re-written it, two people had already left comments on my accidental post, so it's kinda too late now to replace it with the intended one. Anyway, if you thought this seemed a little unfinished and go-nowhere, then that's why.

Painting class, session one

I keep forgetting that, when the community class schedule lists a class as being 4 hours long, it's really only going to last 3 - 3 1/2 hours. Unlike classes at other (more expensive) places, the tutor looks ready to pack up about three quarters of the way in. Even the students - the grownups who've voluntarily paid to come and learn - seem itching to get away early.

The people in my painting class ranged from absolute beginners to people who sounded like they knew what they were doing. The latter had an impressive array of obviously well-used tools and even started painting on their canvasses before the tutor had started tutoring. The former left after the first ten minutes, presumably because she felt a little intimidated by the latter.

And where did I fit in?

I was the one who came in lugging my gear in one of those large, pink plastic bags you find in your letterbox, which you're supposed to fill with unwanted used goods so that the collector can sell them for charity.

I was the one who knew what Expressionism was, but didn't have any paper to write on (because I'd absentmindedly left the sketchbook at home).

I was the one who had to bite my tongue when the tutor pronounced Joan Miro's name as "Jean My-ro" (it's Spanish, and should sound more like Juan Mee-roh", but forgot to bring a palate board and had to do all my colour-mixing on the lid of the 6"x4" crayon box.

Still, after the initial feelings of uncertainty and rustiness, I was able to cover my canvas with a few coats of colour and produce a thumbnail of what the finished product might be.

I didn't feel right at home, but perhaps it's just going to take time.

Ask Auntie Vi

Dear Auntie Vi


My toddler has recently start throwing food again and it's driving me crazy. I try to make her tasty, nutritious meals, and really hate seeing it all end up on the floor, especially when it's obvious that she's doing it on purpose.

I've tried telling her "No" in a stern voice, but she just laughs at me.

I've tried turning her high chair around to face the wall and ignoring her, but even though the lack of attention upsets her, it doesn't stop her from throwing food at the very next meal.

I've also tried taking her food away as soon as it starts hitting the floor, but this has no effect either (she's probably no longer hungry by then).

What can I do? I'm sick of picking up bits of rice and peas off the floor.


Frustrated of Nappy Valley


Dear Frustrated

In my experience, only one thing has worked so far in stopping one's child from throwing food.

And that is, to take it away from them while they are still eating.


Good Luck.


Aunti Vi

Preparing to paint

Before I received the email listing all the things I needed to take to my first abstract painting class, I'd assumed that I would already have pretty much everything I'd need for Saturday afternoon. 'Cos, y'know, I used to paint a bit.

Then I remembered that most of my student acrylic paints have ended up as TLM's finger paintings. And on her clothes, hair and skin.

I also recalled that my last two blank canvasses have since been transformed into portraits of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, respectively, hanging up on TLM's bedroom walls.

And then the list arrived in my inbox and I realised that I'd have to do some concentrated shopping for art supplies.

Like, I'd have to find myself a colour wheel, a colour chart (whatever the heck that is), a new sketchbook (because mine are all full of naked people), new tubes of paint and 3-4 canvasses. It's just as well I still have my colour pencils, erasers, TLM's crayons and the artist's smock which the boy gave me.

Apparently the cost of obtaining all these items is only supposed to cost around thirty bucks. Like hell they are. The canvasses alone would cost more than that, and that's if I were to buy the the cheap-as-dirt made-in-China ones from The Warehouse.

But I've managed to put together most of the stuff I'll need (except for the colour wheel and colour chart) for this weekend. The sack is so big and heavy that there's no way I'll be able to get there without the car.

Oh yes...I'm supposed to arrive with some ideas for paintings as well. Shit.

Extra-curricular activities

I've done it. I've signed up to a short-story writing evening class, and a weekend class on abstract painting.

The latter was my first choice, but I only managed to get on it today because someone else on cancelled out. I've always had a problem with painting that wasn't representational, so I'm hoping this class will help me get in touch with my non-figurative side.

And as for the short story class, I've never actually had a yen to write stories. But I do like writing so it ought to help, right?

A big plus is that it'll get me out of the house and get me baby-free time on Saturday afternoons.

Nicely tenderised

TLM seems much better today, apart from needing an incredibly early nap (9.50am, instead of midday). But we still didn't get out and about because I've been in horrible pain since about Saturday afternoon.

The paracetomol was doing very little to relieve it, and really the only affect it seemed to be having was that I was really drowsy all the time. The Ibuprofen worked much better, but I refused to take if for ages because I'm asthmatic and there's a warning about it on the back of the box.

So anyway, half of my back was feeling really tender; every time I accidentally brushed it against, oh, a puff of air, it hurt like crazy. I've worn a grimace that's lasted for days.

Then the boy decided this "pimple" needed squeezing. I hope you guys aren't eating right now.

But I'm not going into the gory details of what came out of there, mainly because I didn't see anything. But I can tell you that those squeezes hurt like hell. In fact, by the time he'd finished with it, I was blubbering like a baby. I don't remember crying that hard when I gave birth.

And he's going to have to repeat his extractions every evening until it's all gone. So there'll be no cream buns on the snack menu for at least a week.

Like I said in a comment in the previous post, now I understand why Dr House is such a grumpy bastard.

It was just a pimple

It started out as a little whitehead on my shin. A week later practically the whole leg was bright pink like I'd left it under the grill and fallen asleep. It was quite painful to the touch too, and in the end I had to get the doctor to look at it because I didn't want to scare the toddlers at TLM's next swim class.

Fortunately, a course of antibiotics cleared it up nicely and those toddlers at the pool only had to contend with the sight of me in a swimsuit that was decomposing from the effects of pool-cleaning chemicals.

Just three weeks later, the same thing has happened to a spot on my back. The whole right side of my back is now so tender it's keeping me up at nights, so I that can't just blame my sleeplessness on the feverish child down the hall. Who knew a pimple on my back could turn me into a little old lady, hobbling around and wincing every time a breeze brushes over me?

Apparently I'm a little bit run down.

Kenny, the toilet guy

I keep forgetting to post about Kenny, a movie we watched on DVD recently. It's got to be one of the best movies I've seen this year.

It's an Australian mockumentary about a guy whose job is to look after those portable toilets which are so ubiquitous at just about every big outdoor event you've ever been to (you know, the kind that people lose their wedding rings in, the kind that petrolheads set fire to at the car races, the kind that well-dressed snobs throw up into....).

People he meets at parties suddenly spot a distant guest they just have to greet, once they find out what Kenny does for a living. His dad keeps trying to set him up for interviews at other jobs - any job other than the one he's got as an un-glorified toilet-cleaner. His ex-wife rings him at the most inconvenient times with their son's discipline problems.

But Kenny likes his life. And he's not a thicky either - his line "there's a smell in here that'll outlast religion" (while he's cleaning a loo from the inside) is good enough to...um, dine on...for years to come. And he's such a lovely guy too.

The movie is so well made, and the acting so convincing, that I didn't even realise that it's all fiction until the end when I saw the acting credits. Which makes the movie even better than when I thought it was for real.

If I had a rating system for films, I'd give this one a 10/10.

Okay

TLM woke up from her afternoon nap all grizzly, but that's quite normal for her. I just put her in her hammock, which is suspended from a hook in the living room ceiling, and bounce her in it until she's ready to continue with her day.

What wasn't so normal was that she hardly left the hammock all afternoon. She was having one of those moods where nothing will make her happy - not cookies, not watered-down juice, not drawing on her clothes with felt pens, nothing. So I asked whether she wanted to get back into her hammock.

"Okay".

After a while, the grizzling came back. Did she want some dried apricots? "Okay". Some juice? "Okay". Some nashi pear? "Okay". Some BoohBah? "Okay". (Yep, she can watch DVDs from her hammock - that's the beauty of having a plasma TV screen up on the wall.)

TLM was "Okay" with having dinner too, but it turned out to she was only "Okay" with playing with dinner i.e. spooning macaroni cheese into the fruit salad and vice versa.

When I realised how hot she was to the touch, I thought she might want to go to bed early (like, an hour early, 5.30pm early). "Okay".

It was certainly a refreshing change to "No", but I'd rather she didn't have to be sick to be compliant.

Pottery or photography?

Last night I was lying on the couch wondering whether all this television I'm watching, is even more responsible for my brain shrinkage than the stresses and strains of motherhood.

So, I've decided to do an evening class.

I'd actually thought about it in the past but the couch had always waylaid me. But last night, I talked about it with the boy and he thought it was a great idea. It would be less scary than committing to a full-on course of formal study, but better for my mind than watching The Biggest Loser week after week.

There's a slight problem in that it's too late to enrol in most evening classes, and many of them start too early in the evening for the parent-tag to take place. Still, I could always go to life drawing in the meantime.

I'd just have to hide my stick-figure drawings until my ability gets back to a reasonable standard...

Songs for TLM

My singing has gotten so much better since TLM came along. Sometimes I even sing in tune (though I'm never going to be asked to jam with The Eagles).

Ode to Cheeky Monkey (TLM's chimp soft toy, sung to the tune of the Bellybutton Song on our MagIQ DVD)

Cheeky Monkey, Cheeky Monkey,
When you wash him, he's not funky.
He's your favourite so-oft toy...
Oh Boy!

Swing Low, Sweet TLM-mobile
Swing low, sweet TLM-mobile
Comin' for to carry me home.
Swing low, sweet TLM-mobile
Comin' for to carry me home.

I looked over ***town, and what did I see
Comin' for to carry me home.
Lions and tigers and chimpanzees*
Comin' for to carry me home.

(*we live near the zoo. There are 3 more verses but they don't get any better)

It's a long way without a buggy (Sung to It's a long way to Tipperary)
It's a long way without a buggy.
It's a long way to home.
It's a long way without a buggy.
And we don't even live in Rome.
That's why we've got a buggy.
So we can get there.
It's a long long way without a buggy,
Especially from here.


Hey, I never said the songs were any good!

No bargain

It's bad enough that, when I made the effort to go all the way out to DressMart* to look for cheap-but-fasionable clothing, I couldn't find a single thing to buy. Either I didn't like it, or it wasn't discounted much, or it was available in ridiculously small sizes only.

What made it so much worse, was receiving a $170 speeding ticket a month later, because driving home on the 100km/hr motorway I was a bit late slowing down for that 80km/hr stretch of road in the middle of it.

Bah.


* If you don't know, it's a mall where every shop (except the cafe, which is hideously over-priced) sells for up to 70% discount. It's mostly factory seconds and left-overs from previous seasons.

Braininess runs in cycles

Every now and then after dinner, I take the Nintendo DS out of its case and play a few rounds with the brain gym. And I've learned that my intelligence fluctuates even worse than a serial dieter's weight.

Sometimes I'll take the test, and do astonishingly well in the Calculate section but not so well in the Memory section. Other times, my Calculate score is shameful, but my Memory seems to have made a comeback.

In part, this is to do with which sets of tests I get. But I think it's even more influenced by how tired I am, how loud the television is and whether I can hear TLM having a nightmare in the next room.

It makes sense, really, but I'd never realised how much difference it makes. So I suppose the idea of studying in the evenings might not be a very good one eh?

What I'm reading

These days, when I go to the library by myself I tend to look for books about writing professionally, books about finding one's perfect career and cookbooks for people who don't enjoy cooking.

The Lonely Planet Story
But the library book I've been reading lately is Once While Travelling - the Lonely Planet story, by Tony and Maureen Wheeler. Mostly told from Tony's perspective, it starts how he met and married Maureen and takes you through 20-odd years of building what's become a vast travel-publishing empire. It appealed to me because most of my travels were aided by Lonely Planet guidebooks, and I'd always wanted to become a travel writer. Despite the alleged hardships, I can't help feeling that theirs was the perfect life, because even having kids didn't stop them in their unbeaten tracks.

The story isn't all in chronological order, which can be confusing at times, but it's all interesting. Tony talks about the times when Lonely Planet was on the brink of financial collapse, as well as the time when his marriage was too. There is even a chapter on what it's like to be a guide book writer, which I found both enlightening and off-putting. Having read this chapter, I don't think I'd want to be one (I'd rather be like Bill Bryson - sort of a roving personality - than spend all my travelling time rushing around checking facts).

Still, reading about the Wheelers' adventures makes me quite wistful.

The Hero with a Thousand Faces
When a major new bookshop opens in town, I want to go and see whether they stock anything in particular that isn't already available in the exiting shops. So when I went to the new Borders shop, I was expecting to come out of there with some new American book.

What I did buy was a copy of Joseph Campbell's The Hero with a Thousand Faces, which is so old I probably could have found a cheap copy at one of the many second-hand bookshops. Still, I wanted to read it because I'm quite interested in the universality of myths (plus it was mentioned many times in articles about Buffy), so I bought it. I haven't gotten that far into it yet, but at the moment I'm enjoying the the stuff relating particular Greek myths with psychiatric conditions e.g. the infamous Oedipus Complex.