Jun 04 2012
5 Comments
Witty Musings, Hubbys Musings

A Day in the Life

The right side of my ankle does not normally look this fat. This was about an hour after what I have termed as ‘the incident.’

Anyone who knows me, knows I am prone to accidents stupidity that often results in physical pain.

I am not by any stretch of the imagination a ‘sporty’ or coordinated person. Put simply, the ongoing joke is that when God was handing out coordination and talent I was hiding behind the door.

That said, a few months back a friend whose husband plays pro football here in Australia, gave us a match game ball… we decided to throw it around the yard as family (something we haven’t done before) and my husband was apparently impressed enough to comment, ‘you have a pretty good arm on you!’  I can assure you, no one was more surprised than me. It just may have been my finest moment. Ever.

I digress.

I often sometimes occasionally during red moons, walk to pick up my son from school. I had walked so often over the past weeks along with my daily jalk that I felt I might possibly have graduated to being able to jog the whole way, without causing myself serious bodily harm.

On this particular afternoon I had dressed in my cute Lorna Jane outfit, tightened my sneakers, attached my ipod in its handy little silicone pouch, and found my sporty Oakley sunglasses…I was ready to go become a jogging machine!

I closed the door behind me as I took of at the speed of an Olympic athlete. On stride two I slightly misjudged where the garden bed actually met the driveway, and in a swift motion went down like a sack of (well-coordinated and fashionably attired) potatoes. Stride two, people, stride two!!

The pain was excruciating and I was sure I had broken my ankle. Unfortunately my elderly neighbor was outside at the time and saw me go down. He yelled out asking if I was OK. In my desperate need not to be humiliated further, I forced myself to my feet and plastered a smile on my face and yelled out “FINE!”as I gave what I hoped looked like a cheery wave. I suspect my ‘wave’ looked more like a drowning victim giving his last desperate signal for help before never being seen from again, but I did what I could.

I waited for him to walk indoors before I collapsed to the porch and bum-crawled my way into my home. I continued the bum-crawl until I got to the couch and called hubby in a fit of crying.

“You have to drop whatever you are doing RIGHT NOW and go pick up our son from school. School lets out in 10 minutes and there’s no way I can get off the couch, to the car and use my foot to drive.”

In typical fashion, he did what he usually does when there is work to be done in life he’s not too fond of doing – he delegated. Deciding he couldn’t possibly make it on time, he called a friends husband who was picking up their kids that day, and asked him to collect ours too.

Turned out this poor guy was already carpooling a zillion other kids and our kid would put him over the car-safety threshold. If only he had asked, my husband would have told him it would be no problem to strap our kid to the hood (he’s liberal like that).

After a while I heard the sounds of children’s voices from outside the house. It turned out this poor man (Thanks Ray, we still owe you for that one!) had to walk all 7 or 8 or whatever number it was, children to our house to drop our kid off, and then walk them all back to school where his car was parked, before driving them all home. To say he was gracious is an understatement. I suspect we aren’t his favorite people of the year.

My kiddo walked in the door and saw me and my ankle and realized things were not good. He (sweetly) asked me if he could get me anything. “Ice, towel and nail polish,” was my reply.

He didn’t question me, but my husband was incredulous when he arrived home and saw me stretching over in serious pain, in a valiant effort to paint my toenails.

“What are you doing?” he asked, “I know, I know, don’t answer that. You’re painting your toenails even though you are in obvious pain, because you don’t want to go to the hospital and have people looking at your foot un-manicured. I’m right aren’t I?”

My face was the only answer he needed. “You’re insane,” he responded, “completely insane. I can’t believe I married someone as crazy as you, frankly it speaks volumes about my mental health….” he sighed... “Let’s get you to the hospital.”

Having yet to visit an Australian hospital to test the system out, he was quite excited to see what ‘free’ healthcare looked like (especially given he wasn’t the guinea pig).

I think he quietly suspected there would be sick and dying people lying in the hallways, bright yellow warning tape across various rooms and a severe shortage of painkillers along with people screaming in agony and a mild infestation of roaches.  With that expectation, he was destined to be pleasantly surprised.

This is the same ankle, about 4 hours ‘post-incident’.

Here’s how it went:

5:15pm. Hubby goes into emergency and is followed out by a nurse with a wheelchair. I am taken straight into a private room where they took all my details, level of pain, how it happened, given pain meds etc.

5:25pm. Sent to X-ray. Told they were waiting for me there and given directions for how to navigate our way around the hospital to find it.

5:30pm: Arrive at X-ray. Hubby left me to get a snack for our son since we figured I’d be waiting a while.

5:40pm: I call hubby to rush back, they are ready to take me in

5:45pm: X-ray completed. We are told to wait right where we are. The X-rays would be developed and digitals emailed through to the orthopedic surgeon.

5:52pm: Radiologist comes out with our X-rays, tells us to go back to the original check in area, and the orthopedic surgeon would call my name. We head back but are intercepted in the hallway by the surgeon who is waiting for us, and taken to a private room to talk.

5:55pm: Surgeon shows me the X-rays and talks about what happened. I have torn ligaments in my ankle, it would have been better if I had broken it he tells me. Ligaments take as long to heal – often longer…blah, blah, blah. (It’s all sucky news.)

6:05pm He goes to get crutches for me and fits me for them and wraps my foot. Gives me extra wraps and bandages and pain killers and tells me to rest, ice, elevate etc and come back if I have anymore trouble.

6:12pm: As we are leaving the doctor tells me if the pain is really bad, to ‘swig a couple of pain pills down with a scotch or something.’ (I think he was joking, but later in the evening, I briefly consider taking his advice.)

6:18pm: we walk out of the hospital with my husband actually asking the lady at the front desk where the billing department is. She looks at him like he’s a little slow in the head. “There is no billing department” she answers “There is no payment for these services.“

He’s giddy with joy, like a kid in a candy store. It was almost amusing.

6:25pm: We are in the car and on our way home with me having narrowly missed losing my life in front of an ambulance pulling in, due to my lack of co-ordination with the crutches. I suspect another accident in the near future if my crutch ability is anything to go by. (No one warns you just how much coordination is required to use those things!)

6:26pm: My husband excitedly announces that its “awesome” we got crutches for free and when I am done with them he’s selling them on eBay -declaring that this ‘accident’ of mine will end up being a profitable venture for our family.

6:27pm: I witheringly explain to him that no one in Australia will actually buy the crutches, because we can all get the for free from the medical community anytime we need them.

6:28pm: He seems visibly disappointed and wonders out loud about  the shipping costs of sending crutches to the USA to sell to the poor sods there – where nothing in medicine is free.

Later that evening: “Do me a favor honey,” (he looked at me lovingly) “leave that jogging stuff to the professionals from now on…eh? Sometimes we just need to know our limitations in life, and this is clearly one of yours.”

I didn’t cook him dinner for a week.

24 hours ‘post incident’. I no longer have an ankle, its swallowed by the awesome swelling, along with most of my leg. The nice grey color reaches about 3/4 way up to my knee. Sexy, no?

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May 13 2012
21 Comments
Observational Musings, Thoughtful Musings

Mothers Day 2012

1 Day old. Not much bigger than the BIC brand ballpoint pen shown on his back. 1 pound 7 ounces.

8 years ago, I had my first Mothers Day. My son was 3 months old at the time, but in reality, was not even due to have been born!

Born at 28 weeks he was not only 3 months premature, but small for gestational age (SGA). At 1 pound 11 ounces (765 grams) and dropping to 1 pound 7 ounces (652 grams) he was what is considered ‘micro-premmie’.

Micro premmies are babies born less than 2 pounds and/or less than 26 weeks gestation. The list that the doctors give you as a parent of a micro premmie of things that may be wrong with your child, is both large and fear-inducing.

70-75% survival rate with 50-60% of children having lasting disabilities, with a much larger proportion of boys than girls. Disabilities range from cerebral palsy, mental retardation, blindness, deafness, developmental delays, behavioral issues, and more.

Our son is 8 years old now, he is in 2nd grade and is on par for all his subjects, except Math and Art. He excels at Math and has won awards for his Artwork. His sports skills leave a little to be desired (but that is much more likely a result of being my son – a less co-ordinated person you probably could not find than me!)

He is smart, funny, kind and compassionate. He reads and writes well and is also learning both French and Japanese at school. He has no behavioral issues. He is our miracle boy!

He was placed on a ventilator the day he was born. A ventilator is a machine you often see that breathes for the person – it puffs air into the lungs via a tube. It it often means your child will be diagnosed with Chronic Lung Disease. (Something my son has been diagnosed with – though I suspect since our move to Aus, if he were to be re-evaluated he may have the diagnosis reversed – he’s so healthy here!)

Moments after birth, the doctors hand seemed so much larger than his head!

He spent a little over 3 months in the NICU and the fun times included (in addition to the day-to-day dramas) Pneumothorax (Collapsed lungs), Full Blood transfusion, various infections, feeding difficulties, almost daily bradycardia incidents (heart beating too slow), breathing stopping on various all-too-frequent occasions.

Fun stuff!

Holding Hands – holding my pinky finger the day after he was born

Holding babies these small is not usually an option right at the beginning, their skin is so fragile that movement and touch can be physically painful for them. ‘holding hands’ is the closest we got other than a few family photos for the first few days.

Nearly 3 weeks old and his fist still fits in daddys wedding ring

I wish I had taken this ring photo earlier, he was nearly 3 weeks old here. Had we taken it the first few days after birth he would have been wearing it as a bracelet. FYI my husband has small fingers, this ring is a size 7.5 women’s (I know this because I am a size 7 and this is only slightly large on me.)

Pacifier is getting smaller!

In the photo above he is nearly 4 weeks old! As you can see the pacifier is getting smaller….or maybe… he is getting bigger!

9 Weeks old! Pacifier is IN the mouth and shrinking!

And… a few weeks after he came home (4 months old) at just over 5 pounds:

Lastly, a photo take today.

8 years (almost to the day) that he was released from the hospital, and here is the very same brand and style of pen that was in the original photo. How 8 years changes things!

8 years old. The same brand of pen. How things change.

So Happy Mothers Day to me and all the mothers out there ! I have a happy, healthy, growing and thriving boy – what more could a mother ask for?

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Apr 26 2012
29 Comments
Observational Musings, Witty Musings

It’s The Post About Nothing That Makes It Really Something

Unknown Cystic just wrote me a rather chastising comment bringing my attention to the fact that I had only written 3 posts this year.

Of course I made an un-spellable sound, something like pffftttttsshhh, and tossed my head as though the mere thought was absurd.

Then I logged onto my blog and began scrolling. Which, if you’re a regular reader here, you’ll know means that I didn’t even get one full swish on the Macbook mousepad in before I came to the end of my posts for 2012.

Because there were only 3 posts!!

I knew I had been neglectful of course, in fact I previously dedicated a whole post to my neglect, but I didn’t realize that I was four days from the 5th month of the year and only had three posts to show for it – meaning that I couldn’t even claim a post a month!

(A dismal failure in anyone’s world, but one that I was prepared to tell myself was acceptable.)

He told me to ‘just write about what’s happening in life’. So here I am, with nothing of value to say, but posting nonetheless.

I’ve been working on an article on Organic Chicken Farming for days. Days! It should have taken me about 2 hours at most. I cannot seem to make it come together. I have never farmed a chicken (organic or otherwise) so I know nothing about it. Of course this requires me to research it in-depth, and then write about it as if I know what I’m talking about. What fun! I hear you say.

My husband calls it the BS factor and says I have it. It’s one of the nicest compliments he’s given me this year. I’ll leave it to your imagination to decipher what the “BS” stands for.

So I’ve been toiling over this article – so much so that once its done my hourly rate will end up being less than I’d make working the drive-thru at McDonalds – I’m sure of it. But at least I’ll know all about how to farm chickens. One must always remember, the rewards are so much greater than what shows up in the bank account.

My sister interrupted my afternoon of floundering through figurative chickens and their coops, by sending me a copy of her resume and asking me to check for errors like spelling, grammar and these things: ; ‘ ” , . :. (that would be punctuation).

I started reading and her resume went something like this:

Degrees:

Administration

Business

Agriculture

Environmental Planning

Marketing

Law

Running the Country

Experience:

Administration

Corralling Bosses

Sorting Out Industrial Disputes

Solving Environmental Issues

Calming Down Psychotic Staff

Working with Big-Time Lawyers

Pacifying Angry Executives

Pretty Much Running The Country

The thing went on for about 15 pages and used intricate phrases I couldn’t even comprehend like, “….external stakeholders to ensure the organization meets its natural resource management outcomes…”

What the hell does that mean? What’s natural resource management and how does one measure the outcome?

All in all I ended up quite dizzy from the vast majority of complex information on the pages, and had to lie down for a spell. I rallied though and got myself through it, offering key support on the refinement of such an important document.

I contributed things like ‘this would look better with a comma’ and ‘there was a period missing there’ and my favorite, ‘if you switch these two words around, it will look much better.’

Vital stuff.

We all know when she applies for a job and gets it, who she’ll have to thank, don’t we? In typical family member fashion, I’m sure she wont be greasing my palms with my percentage of the salary increase though.

Just for kicks after I sent off my corrections, I pulled out my resume to review the past 20 years of my life. It went something like this:

Degrees:

None that count

Experience:

Rep for an (evil) Multi-National Pharmaceutical Company

Repped for an even more evil Big-Pharma Company

(got a company car and a business card and thought I’d hit the big time)

Moved to Ireland to drink beers with Will and Pamela at the Crown Bar

Moved to England (Cambridge) to drink beers with Wingnut at The Eagle Pub

Moved elsewhere in England (Near Oxford) to drink Tequila shots with Lucy and look after her children (a brilliant merge)

Moved to Denver, Colorado to elope with my (now) Husband

(seemed like a good idea at the time)

Started a business

Got pregnant and deathly ill and closed the business

Had a kid

Started another business

Sold it 2 years later for a very nice profit

(this was the pinnacle of my career, it’s all downhill from here)

Moved to Texas

Started to become green, Texas version of a hippie

Spent 2 years learning that Y’all means You all, and not some guy called “Yoll.”  (Y’all coming to dinner… Y’all welcome to use the pool, Y’all going on vacation. For a long time I thought I had just never met “Yoll.” but knew he was sitting pretty when it came to the invitation department. Seemed everyone, everywhere wanted him around!)

Started Writing with some Focus

Moved to Australia

Decided it was a great idea to study 4 degrees at once

Current Day:

Realized my sister is 8 years younger than me and has achieved more than I will in the next 40 years!

As you can see, if its good times and fascinating stories you’re after, I’m your girl. But if it’s an educated woman with a brain, my sister might be a little more up your alley.

Still, we can’t all be smart, who would all the men marry?  Who would fulfill the black sheep roles?

Every role is important, lets face it, we all really value that our trash collector comes every Wednesday. He is a vital part of our world, he is not unimportant!

I’ll leave you with that deep thought.

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Apr 20 2012
28 Comments
Witty Musings

Beauty or Brains?

If someone can show me the full-amenity indoor bathroom and tell me the number to dial for turn-down service, this is the kind of camping I could get excited about.

My sister and I are about 8 years apart in age and we are vastly different beings.

I am older and wiser. (ie. I have more grey hair and love handles). She is blonde (with the help of a little Loreal) and I am brunette. She is short (5 foot even – though she claims 5′ 2″- and we all nod and smile encouragingly while rolling our eyes at each other behind her back), and I am tall(er) at 5′ 5″. I’m know I was 5′ 6″ at one point but I seem to have somehow shrunk over the years, and I have no idea where the inch went.

It’s generally agreed that she got the looks in the family and I got the brains. (By ‘generally agreed,’ I mean by me.)

My father and my mother seem to think she got both the looks and brains and I’ve just pretty much wasted my prime years perusing J Crew cataloges and visiting Anthropologie stores while mastering the complexities of social media and decorating houses. But what are parents for if not to blow their opinions off as senile and absurd? So that’s what I do.

Our grandmother won’t commit on subjects like these, she’s considered our family’s version of Switzerland and will probably take her true opinions with her to the grave, and I love her all the more for it.

Regardless, for the purpose of this post my sister is the pretty-but-sometimes-dense member of the family. With that in mind, I’d like to recount to you a conversation we had recently.

My sister rented a cabin in our town with some girlfriends and spent the week doing what young women do best; eating out, sleeping in, drinking cocktails and lying on the beach sun bathing. At the end of the week her friends left town she came to stay with us for the weekend, before heading back to her life in her own town a few hours away.

We went out to lunch together and were chatting about her week, when I asked her about the accommodations at the cabin. I am not a fan of any kind of camping – especially when it’s made to sound like it’s a more exclusive experience than camping – like when people call it a cabin but what they really mean is a tent with firmer walls.

To me, unless your cabin has a/c, cable TV, fancy soaps in the bathroom and daily maid service – it’s camping – and no fancy siding or stylish roof line will convince me otherwise.

We had started this discussion about how cabins were still roughing it (in my world) before she went on the trip, and she had tried to convince me of the luxurious level of these particular cabins, adding that they even had air conditioning! I have to be honest it had impressed me, so now I wanted to know what other luxuries were on offer that I didn’t know about.

I mentioned the a/c and asked how the stay was overall, her response went something like this:

The first day we got there there was a horrible smell in the cabin (just as I suspected – glammed up camping is still camping!) and there was no air conditioning or seaside views as had been promised in the photos when we booked, so we went up to the reception area and complained. They responded instantly, assuring us they would move us to a suitable replacement.

We went out that day and when we got back they had moved all our stuff for us into a nicer, more modern cabin, and it did have the a/c wall unit and the ocean views from the deck, so we were pleased.

We got changed and showered and decided to go out for the night and in preparation of our homecoming later, we turned on the a/c to full power to make sure the cabin was nice and cool when we got home and we were trying to sleep.

We got home many hours later (it was a big night!) about 3am, and the place was stinking hot and smelled of something burning!  We had to open the windows to let the hot summer night air in, just to be able to breathe comfortably.

We had seen a sign on the a/c unit asking us to never leave it on when we were out of the cabin, but we had ignored it, assuming it was a cost-saving measure. Now we were panicking, had we done something to the unit leaving it on for so long in our absence?

Had running it for so long unattended somehow overheated the unit? We didn’t want to get into trouble or have to pay for it, so we turned it off and sweltered our way through the rest of the week without mentioning it to the staff.”

The day we left when returning the keys, the guy at the front desk asked if our stay lived up to our expectations?

I made the comment that the a/c hadn’t worked for the entire stay and the guy looked at me with confusion. “we don’t have a/c in our cabins” he said.

I argued with him, “I saw it in the photos when booking online, and we definitely have one, it just wasn’t working.”

“I can assure you, none of our cabins come with a/c.” he responded. I started to get irritated, thinking that instead of offering an apology or some kind of refund, he was being difficult and rude. “Well, what do you call the big unit with the on/off switch on the wall that blows out air?” I retorted.

He looked at me with a huge grin. “I call it a heater. All our premier cabins come with those.” “Oh,” I said, “Well, that explains the burning smell…”

I know the guy at the desk was going to enjoy the memory for the rest of the afternoon, so humiliating!

This story sent me into gales and gales of laughter, because of course it proved my point. There is no such thing as luxury camping, or camping with amenities, and that’s why no one will ever get me out there.

Ever.

Even better, it proved my point that despite my parents obvious disappointment at my lack of achievements in life, I’m still the smarter one.

As an added benefit, I get to repeat this story to all her friends and future children over the coming decades – not to mention the blogosphere – and we can all have a chuckle at her expense. As a sibling, it just doesn’t get much better than that.

Disclaimer: My sister has a very important job earning lots of money and by all accounts her boss thinks she is brilliant. Still, she’s my little sister, so to me she will never be allowed to be smarter than me – it’s simply not possible – right Beck? ;)

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Mar 31 2012
28 Comments
Ankelbiter Musings, Witty Musings

Sneaking in the Back Door

A barnstar given to people as an apology

(Nothing says "I'm so sorry'" like an apologetic Barnstar)
Image by Wikipedia

You know that friend you have that seems to disappear off the face of the earth?

You wonder where in heck she’s gone, leave a few voicemail messages, wonder if she’s alive or dead and eventually give up on the whole thing. You refer to her as some kind of urban legend in your subsequent conversations with your group of friends for years to come.

Then one day you’re at an event and she comes sneaking in the back door, quietly trying to meld into the crowd and pretend she was never missing in the first place. She doesn’t want a scene and she thinks she may have gotten away with it as she cheerfully joins in on conversations.

As you watch her, you’re annoyed. Agitated. You called for goodness sake! You left messages! She couldn’t even put themselves out for a simple reply?

You and your group of friends lock eyes and give each other a simple nod.

You all know what’s going on. You head on over to the person with a determined look on your faces, you will get an explanation and it better be a *doozy. (Secret CIA mission would probably be acceptable…or astronaut duties, coma, lost at sea, or even becoming a monk would scrape them by. That about covers it though.)

She knows it and you know it. It’s going to be addressed.

As she watches you all head her way, her palms become sweaty and she starts to rehearse in her minds what she’ll say. It all comes down to this. How they handle it will make or break the friendships. (Talk about pressure!)

I’m that person.

I wasn’t sure what the blogging equivalent of ‘sneaking in the back door’ was, but I wanted to attempt it and have you all forget I was ever gone.

I spent at least 4 excruciating minutes thinking about it, trying to figure out how to make it work.

I had nothing.

Zilch.

At the 5 minute mark, my mind started to wander and I ended up thinking about that special I saw in my email inbox about J Crew shipping to Australia for free. That in turn became a marathon online shopping hour at J Crew, and that got me thinking about a winter wardrobe for my son.

I was completely off course.

Trying to be clever clearly wasn’t going to work, so I had to get focused. I visualized the equivalent of the group ‘heading on over’ (and might have peed my pants a little).

I imagined Eleanor and Carrie and Elyse and maybe even UC and  SSM storming over with that ‘you owe us an explanation missy‘ look on their faces… (it bears mentioning, you people are considerably frightening when I think of you banding together in some kind of ‘pack’ mentality.)

(Just saying.)

So I decided to pull up my big-girl panties and grab the bull by the horns and address it directly. Like a grown up. One that isn’t afraid or anxious. Or worried. Or considering wearing combat gear.

“I’m just a really bad person. I’m inconsiderate, irresponsible, selfish, lacking discipline and uncaring. I have no excuse that will give me a clean slate, I’m just plain terrible… so…. is there any chance I can play again? Be one of the gang? I’ve really missed you – I have – but life just has a habit of getting in the way sometimes. Work, study, the end of summer holidays and getting kiddo back into school, planning an 8th birthday party, hubby expanding his business and a house move. 

I actually have 3 posts that I started to write but was never able to finish, I’ll use them one day. (They were good!)”

Well? Where are we at? How was it?

Pass?

Fail?

How about a little sucking up as well?

“On a positive note, I’m nearly all caught up on reading your posts, I’m good on UC, Carrie and most of Elyses. I haven’t even started Eleanors (this weekends treat!) and SSM and Dor’s I will be reading later this week. We are actually going on vacation (thank God) this week, so I will have plenty of time for my favorite bloggers gems of wisdom.”

C’mon that had to help, at least a little?

I’m moving into ‘pretend-I-was-never-gone’ mode, let’s see how that works…

It’s Easter this week as you probably know, and in Australia we have 4 public holidays in a row. Good Friday, Easter Saturday, Easter Sunday and Easter Monday. The only places that are really open are restaurants and of course the shops will be open Saturday – Monday for shorter than usual hours. All other businesses are closed. It’s a favorite weekend of the year here – the only one with 4 consecutive holidays – so many people go away on vacation.

We’ll be heading to Sydney again.

Sydney is kind of like the New York of Australia. If you able to go there, why go anywhere else?

It has so many fabulous things to see and do, the weather is great this time of year,  and we can be there within a day. Other people go to the beach for vacations, we live at the beach, so to us the city is our ultimate vacation destination!

Many of you will be in church celebrating the meaning of Easter this week. I will be in a restaurant somewhere celebrating with a good-quality meal and some not-often-seen family. It will be the first time these particular family members have been together since before my son was born – 8 years ago! A nice way to celebrate such an important holiday.

My son offered up an excellent ‘modern day’ Easter story to me last night that I think I’ll share with you as I shuffle out the door with the crowd, laughing and joking as though I was always a part of the party and never really left…

My 8-year-old:

“Mummy, I learned about Lazarus and Jesus in school  today. They both died and they were wrapped up in material like mummies and their bodies were placed in a tomb, and a rock rolled in front so no one could get in there. But God rose them from the dead, and when they walked out of the tomb, people were really freaking out because they would have looked like some of those guys from **Plants vs Zombies.”



Plants vs. Zombies

Out of the mouths of babes…eh?

* Doozy is a slang word that I think is only used in Australia?? Doozy:  something extraordinary or bizarre, difficult or daunting.
** Plants vs Zombies is a computer or ipad game that has these ugly-looking zombies and mummies that you have to ‘kill’ to ‘save’ your garden from being destroyed by them. It’s a huge game amongst my 8-year-old and his friends (and my 38-year-old husband).
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Jan 03 2012
48 Comments
Observational Musings, Witty Musings

Halfway Dead

Cover of "Happy Birthday to Me"
Cover of Happy Birthday to Me

I am 38-years-old today, that’s right 38-years-old! 38 years!!

Happy Birthday to me, right?

This reminds me of Bill Cosby on the ‘Himself’ tour, talking about being in first class on a flight, and little ‘Jeffrey‘ running up and down the aisles announcing “I’m Four Years Old! I’m Four Years Old! I’m Four Years Old!” throughout the duration of the flight, driving everyone crazy for hours. It ensured they got no sleep, and it was the worst 2 thousand bucks they have ever spent traveling between New York and LA.

I reminded my husband of this when I repeated my age 12 times before breakfast; “It could be worse, at least you aren’t on a plane with little Jeffrey.” He didn’t seem to feel there was a whole lot of difference.

By far my favorite line from the show was this one;

“I said to a guy, Tell me, what is it about cocaine that makes it so wonderful, and he said, because it intensifies your personality. I said, Yes, but what if you’re an asshole?”

I know a few of those cocaine snorting assholes, and so the statement rings even more true now than it did back in the 80′s, when I first saw the show. It never loses its humor to me, and that’s one of the many brilliant things about Bill.

Bill Cosby - Quinnipiac Law

Bill Cosby, comic God.

I’ve seen that “Himself” video (yes video, it was released in the dark ages, otherwise knows as the 80′s) dozens of times – and if you haven’t I highly recommend you rent it out – I guarantee your sides will hurt for days for having had the experience, and it’s much more enjoyable than a Jillian Michaels 30-day Shred workout (yes, I speak from experience on this one), with arguably the same result.

Moving on.

I’m 38-years-old today, and my husband tells me I don’t look a day over 37 and 11 months, (he really knows how to flatter a girl). 38 is kind of a big deal, because in just over 2 years, by the law of averages, I’d potentially be halfway dead.

In fact, though I like to pretend our move to Australia was for more noble causes, the actual reason I hopped up and moved, was I saw the latest life expectancy statistics in the US.

The average life expectancy for a woman in America is 81.3 years, but here’s the kicker, the average life expectancy for a woman in Australia is 84 years, the third highest in the world following Japan (not sure that it’s accounting for the recent disasters) and Hong Kong.

Do you see what I just did there? I added almost three years to my life, just by packing up and moving to the other side of the world!

Genius? I think so!

Right now, I am a full 4 years from halfway dead! So awesome! (Of course this precludes terrible accidents like being hit by a bus, or my stalker hiring a hit man to take me out.)

It’s weird isn’t it, when you begin to see your life in terms of how long you have left.

Granted, there probably aren’t a lot of 38-year-olds that think this way, but they should. I suspect people would be a whole lot more productive in life if they made decisions based on how it’s going to affect them in the afterlife – or in the few months or years before they get to the afterlife.

I for one, am determined to be a lot nicer to my son.

After all, it’s he that will make or break me, when it comes to crunch-time. When I’m begging him to let me live with him, and not send me to that dreadful home – promising not to soil my adult diaper ever again – I’m going to remind him of all the times I let him have a day off school just because, and the times I paid out his pocket money even though his table-clearing and dishwasher-packing skills, left a lot to be desired.

And I have a backup plan – you simply cannot be too prepared when it comes to your inevitable demise – I’m going to be rich.

In the unfortunate event that I do a terrible job raising my son, and he wants to dump me in a home quicker than I could say “geriatric neglect,” I will use the undervalued power of manipulation. I will wave the all-desirable will in front of his face with threats to leave it all to the pygmies in Africa.

I don’t actually know who, or what, the African pygmies are, but my grandmother has spent her lifetime sending them all her money, and they still don’t seem to have enough, so they seem as worthwhile of a cause as any.

As for the riches, I don’t actually have a concrete plan for how I will be building the massive wealth, but you know, you can’t get too caught up on the details – do you think Steve Jobs made his money overnight? – Of course not! So I’m not sweating the small stuff in my master plan, all in good time.

Well, I’m off to enjoy my 3rd January on a beautiful summers day here in Australia, Happy New Year to all my friends all over the world who followed in the footsteps of Australia and finally made it into 2012.

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Dec 31 2011
20 Comments
Observational Musings, Thoughtful Musings

Hello 2012, The Year Of Contentment.

sydney habour bridge & opera house fireworks n...

Image via Wikipedia

I’m naming 2012, ‘The Year of Contentment,’ is there really any better goal in life?

To be rich, beautiful, famous, successful… whatever your desire, we see these people splayed over our TV’s, ipads and computers. Attaining these goals has not made them more content, nor more worthwhile individuals. Do we really think Kim Kardashian is content? All that (plastic) beauty, money, fame, travel, clothes…not for one minute do I believe she leads a full and contented life.

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, Charlie Sheen, Britney Spears, J-Lo,  when I look at these people – and the train-wrecks that are their lives – I see nothing even resembling contentment. It’s been written about, and proven time and time again, money doesn’t buy happiness, but what about reaching ones hotly-desired-and-worked-for goal?

Whether it be fame, riches, notoriety, publishing your first book, building the dream home, buying your first new car, a laptop, phone, holiday…. people dream and wish and hope, and gruel-it-out at their jobs just to get to the goal.

When they finally do, they are left with a stark reality. They are the same person – with the same struggles, angers, frustrations and flaws – as they were before they attained the goal. Goals are not a terrible idea, but placing all your life’s hopes and dreams on one ultimate goal, may well set you up for disaster.

In gambling we all know that riding all your money on one hand can make or break you – and the odds are not good, of it making you. Non-material goals are probably going to work out a whole lot better than the material ones, they bring a sense of self-satisfaction that a iMac just can’t compare with.

The only way to truly become content is to be happy with who you are, and the choices you are making right now. Who knows what 10 years will bring? Sure its good to have your 5-year and 10-year goals – we all have them, and it often helps us focus and not get lost or overwhelmed with day-to-day life – but be careful not to live for your goal.

You may find your life has passed you by, in your desperation to get to the pot of gold at the end of your rainbow – or worse -  you may find that it was all a fairy-tale to begin with and the pot of gold doesn’t even exist. It was built-up to such a frenzy that it couldn’t possibly live up to the hype that was created and it’s not nearly as satisfying as it was supposed to be. (Kind of like Google +.)

So my ‘goal’ for 2012, is to be content, just the way things are.

I still have a way to go, but I know I am closer to it than I was 12, 18 or 24 months ago, and that’s an achievement in itself. I make my choices for me and for the betterment of our family, and have zero concerns about outside influences and their opinions of my choices.

So what are my goals for 2012, other than contentment? (A heady goal, I know!)

One of the foremost long-term goals I have, is the kind of son I want to raise. Sticking him in school to get an education, and exposing him to a few sports for team camaraderie, while feeding him 3-minute pizza and mac ‘n cheese, simply isn’t going to cut it for me. In recent years we have made some tough decisions for what we believe is his benefit.

On an ethical level, we wont’ take him to the circus, even if ‘everyone else is doing it,’ because our family will not play a part in contributing to the suffering and abuse of animals.

On a moral level, we have removed people from his life who were dysfunctional, choosing to further their own agenda, at the expense of him and his betterment.

On a physical level, we moved him to a new environment – 1/2 way around the world – in part, to help with his health, and his lungs have never been better! He hasn’t seen a doctor in over 12 months, a first for our family where we have been used to bi-monthly visits.

On a nutritional level, he eats a 90% organic or biodynamic, home cooked, wholesome diet – because without it – we believe his mind and body cannot operate as it was intended.

But what about character?

I have a clear path and direction that I want to lead him in. It is not one of achievements, trophies and awards (though those things are of course nice, and even admirable), its of a greater achievement for which there is no adulation, no award and no prize.

My goal is to raise him to be a person of integrity and clear values. A kind, considerate and empathetic person, someone who will sacrifice of himself to help another. To see a need, and move to fill it as a matter of habit. A person who will evaluate the cost of a decision and make a choice – even if it is to his detriment – if it accomplishes a greater good.

I watch the world we are creating for our kids. A world of processed foods, high-tech TV and video games, instant gratification, and selfishness. One where people no longer matter unless they contribute something to us of value. The term “networking” has become the new way to find employment all over the globe. People pass out cards and promote themselves endlessly. What about reputation? Integrity? Hard work and consistency? Honesty? They seem to have fallen by the wayside in favor of a buck, (or saving a buck).

I don’t want to forget to teach the basics, opening a door for a lady, saying “please” and “thank you,” standing for an elderly person, or pregnant woman on a bus. Respecting your elders, even if the conversation seems boring and out-of-touch.

I don’t care whether he grows up to be a Jew or a Christian, a punk, or preppie. I don’t care if he chooses to be a janitor or a doctor. I care about the impact he makes on the world around him, however small that impact may be. I want him to leave this world a better place than he found it.

He will have flaws, it is of course, impossible not to.

Acknowledging his mistakes, and making an effort to do better is as important as never committing the mistake in the first place.  A lesson without a mistake to learn from, is not a lesson – it’s a tutorial. (Personally, I never learned too well from tutorials.)

To this end, this holiday season, after reading the wonderful post by Southern Sea Muse, we researched children’s homes in our area. Unfortunately, we are in a small country community and the do not exist here – though we do have the contact details to use for some in the city, come Easter and next Christmas.

We made the decision instead, to call our local public nursing home run by the Salvation Army. They service both low-care and high-care patients, and after talking with a wonderful lady, we agreed to bring gifts and cards to 8 elderly people with no family. 4 women and 4 men.

We arrived bearing our gifts, plus flowers for the ladies. My son had made cards for each and every person, and they loved it. He was in fact (as far as I could tell), the closest thing to being treated like a Rock Star, without the microphone and sell-out crowd.

 

The Kiddo, Bearing Flowers and Gifts for the Elderly

Oh, I watched him cringe when the first old lady with long whiskers sprouting from her chin wanted to hug and kiss him, and I also watched when he softened at her delight and he hugged her just a little bit harder. We laughed together at the 96-year-old man wanted me to ‘come back tomorrow’ so he could bring me some roses from the home garden and ‘take me out on a date.’

We felt somber as we visited with the elderly woman with no hair and a body swollen with  fluids who, we were told, would not survive the next 48-hours. We patted her hands, left her with the last Christmas card she would ever see, and her last human contact from someone who wasn’t earning a paycheck to be there.

We wondered out loud, how one is unfortunate enough to end their life this way.

My son received an education in the theory ‘it is better to give than to receive,’ and in the harsh realities of life for those that have no family who care, and whose friends have all passed on long ago.

Did he leave his experience so impacted that his life would be changed forever? I suspect not.

The indicator? On our way home while I was extolling the virtues of the experience, I suggested we do the same thing every year. He responded with ‘uh, how about every second year?’ Clearly my job is nowhere near complete. He is a child after all, a 7-year-old boy who has no true understanding of loneliness, old age and death…. and as it should be.

But hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day, right? This is why my goal for raising him must never lose focus, never deviate.

It is the nature of the beast to want to satisfy ourselves, turn a blind eye and pretend we didn’t see that thing we should take action on, and fulfill our own empty desires. It is the nature of this 21-st century to tell us we deserve it, we deserve it immediately and without sacrifice – and should anyone else get in our way we should cut them off at the knees – it’s a dog-eat-dog world, after all.

This is what parents these days have to contend with. It’s a crap-shoot people – we’re just rolling the dice, hoping for the best – and praying we did our ‘homework’, that the job we have done is enough, and we won’t see them on the channel nine news in a police chase inside a decade.

I jest of course. I will be content this year if I fulfill my role to educate and guide my son, to be better than what the world tells us is acceptable, even desirable. If I guide him to want more than what is on offer from the media, and the ‘cool kids.’

Oh, what a goal I have undertaken!

Lets face it, whether you are rich or poor, beautiful or homely, healthy or sick – we only have one shot at this year that is 2012 – let’s make it count for all the right reasons.

Happy (Australian) New Year!

Tagged , ,
Dec 23 2011
20 Comments
Observational Musings, Witty Musings

Loyalty Cards

English: Different customer loyality cards (ai...

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At this time I have about 53 loyalty cards either crowding my keyring, overflowing my junk draw or cramming up my wallet. They are the bane of my existence for two reasons;

1. I hate all the extra crap I have to carry.

2. I cant not have them because I’m possibly missing out on a discount, a rebate check – or worse – a free set of blunt steak knives made in China, from some kind of cheap, toxic plastic and quasi-metal.

I went to the local grocery store the other day and as I was checking out, the lady asked for my loyalty card. As I searched in my bag for the card I said to her; “I’m not sure if I have one, Im not really that loyal.“

Of course what I meant, is that I wasn’t that loyal to that particular store. I usually shopped at a grocer much closer to our house. I dug around in my purse a little more, and then looked up at her to find her staring at me oddly.

I immediately realized what I had just said and stupidly decided to explain myself further.

“Well I am loyal, you know…..in life. I’m just not that loyal to your store. I’m really a very loyal person by nature, I mean, I’m not having affairs all over the place on my husband or anything….but, you see, all these grocery stores are so close together, and they all have a card, and there are so many cards, its so hard to keep track, and well….”

My voice trailed off as much for breathlessness as for lack of a really plausible explanation, that would clarify things, and get us on a better track.

You know that moment where you know you are rabbiting on like a raving lunatic, and you know the other person is thinking you’re a total whack-job? Yet for some reason, you can’t seem to stop yourself rambling aimlessly, in a desperate attempt to sound like a lucid person?

This was my moment.

Of course I intend to reward her for my humiliation by showing absolutely no loyalty, and never visiting that grocery store again.

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Dec 16 2011
22 Comments
Observational Musings, Other People's Musings, Thoughtful Musings

In The Spirit Of The Holidays And All Things Good

Christmas tree

Image via Wikipedia

“You Must Be The Change You Want To See In The World”

Mahatma Ghandi

Though I spend most of my time making this blog one of light, airy humor, there are times where something of a little more substance is warranted – today is one of those times, and I do hope you read on, because this is vitally important.

One of the most poignant and valuable writers I have found on the web today is Southern Sea Muse.

She is a clinical therapist to ten broken children. Children that we – humanity – have broken. They were not born this way, but it has been their unfortunate lot in life to have the hope, faith, joy and happiness extracted painfully from them over time, by the very people who should have protected them.

SSM takes it upon herself, to spend her days doing what she can to restore their faith in us, willing them to give us another chance.

In her spare time, she portrays in such vivid detail on her blog, the lives of these children – I feel like I have stepped into their world – if only for a moment. In response to her herculean efforts, it’s up to us (yes, you and I), to take up the baton and do what we can to help her on this mission to restore what she terms as their “disintegrated hearts.”

Especially at Christmas.

SSM writes very openly in her blog about how she sees these children and their experiences, and it is insight into a world I personally cannot comprehend. A world, I need to hear and learn more of, because without education there is no understanding, and without understanding there is no call-to-action.

This being the case, I thought it a perfectly worthwhile venture to repost her latest post here (with her permission), in the hopes that more people will not just continue to stop and be thankful for a moment about how fortunate we are, but more importantly, take action and do what we  can for the forgotten children who exist in our cities.

To pave the way for a better future for them and children like them.

Without further ado,

The Sequestered Angel Tree

by Southern Sea Muse

In a land far away from our minds stands a lone angel tree today, seen by few, known by fewer. This tree is different from the rest.

You know of the others. Right now in stores across the United States stand hundreds of “angel trees,” decorated with carefully disguised identities of needy children in the community. These are children who through no fault of their own are in situations which render them financially less fortunate than other children on Christmas day. These children may live with their families or perhaps are foster children, but they still have the freedom to live with a family, attend school, and, although challenged, have a fairly typical daily routine in the daily world.

Allow me to introduce you to a similar, but rarely-seen angel tree.

This tree also has the names of carefully disguised identities of needy children, but these children are apart from the community. These children are the emotionally less fortunate who, through no fault of their own, have been subjected to and somehow survived unconscionable circumstances which have scarred their souls so badly, that they are unable to function in society as we know it. These children cannot live in a home, neither with family of origin nor foster home. These children cannot attend school due to their disintegrated hearts.

These children are locked away in an institution, both for their safety and for the safety of the community, or because they are the most emotionally fragile of children. They simply cannot handle life as we know it. They are there to mend their hearts and souls, and remain there until they are fit for society. This may take days or weeks for those in acute care; months, or even years in the long-term residential facilities…all of which are eternities, in a child’s eyes.

There they spend their days and nights, eating and sleeping, playing and fighting, wondering how they got there, and contemplating what they need to do to get out. There they try their hardest to get through each day with the shadows of their past following and haunting them, trying to do what schoolwork they can, trying to get along with others, with varying levels of success.

Some try their hardest because they have hope. Others do not try because they have given up hope, and need encouragement from one moment to the next. Still others try their hardest to show others their very worst, because if they can be disliked or violent enough, they can reject others before others have yet another chance to reject them…at least it is one thing in life they can control.

Their angel tree sits quietly in the corner of the small, empty lobby, the only unlocked room in the building. Other than the receptionist, it is only seen by the few still connected to these children who are able to visit: the state worker who must ask the child to choose between a voucher for clothing or a voucher for toys and who will be home with their family on Christmas; the ashamed, distant relative who is reluctant to be involved but wants to make a good show, the occasional lost driver who took the wrong turn down the end of the long road; the tireless staff and nurses doctors. Oh, and the UPS guy and mail carrier, neither of whom bring things addressed to specific children living there, except on rare occasions.

The requests for needs for these children seem somewhat unusual. The angels on this tree bear wishes for things like socks, because their roommate flushed their last good pair down the toilet during another one of his nightly rages, with enough bone-rattling shrieking to create a new nightmare for another child down the hall on the unit, unable to sleep…and not a shred of memory of the crisis, come sunup.

Like playing cards, since many of the games on the market, electronic or otherwise, further cause them to be unable to distinguish reality from fantasy, and may trigger violent flashbacks. Or reinforce their tendency to want to solve problems with disconnected sarcasm and indifferent violence.

Like soft, stuffed animals or dolls, since anything battery-operated requires batteries – and anyone who’s been behind those locked doors long enough knows that if you slam a battery in the door near the hinges just right, it will expose a very sharp object that can be found in the core of the battery, which can then be used as a weapon to hurt someone. Or, for the self-harmers, to cut on themselves and draw blood, and wind up wearing scrubs and on 24/7 observation for days as a result. It is unfathomable to think how a young child might learn such behavior, but there it is.

Hygiene products are also popular, since the hospital-issued products are not exactly kid-friendly, and it is much more fun by far to brush your teeth with sparkly bubble gum toothpaste, like most other children enjoy on a daily basis. A pretty ribbon for her hair. An emery board, since nail clippers are not allowed on the premises, and long nails can be used to gauge eyes in a sneak attack from behind. A SpongeBob blanket for a bed instead of the typical ho-hum hospital sheets. Warm Cinderella footie jammies. Or a visit from a volunteer big brother/big sister or mentor, an objective other who will play a game with them and listen to their story…a story most can’t bear to hear, a story which defies common sense and human rationality.

Food item requests are never found on this angel tree; some children are on strict diets due to side effects of medications. And besides, the child who roamed the streets for his next meal has been known to wheel deals with other children: “I’ll give you the coupon I earned for extra game room time, if you give me your snack.” Snacks are then discovered hoarded under mattresses, up in ceiling tiles or in the paper towel dispenser in the bathroom which the adults all assumed were locked and childproof.

Some children ask for earmuffs to block out the incessant noise, which may come from either side of their skull at any given moment.

How did they get there, anyway? It may be because their parents sold them for sex in exchange for drugs. Or left them for long periods of time to fend for themselves. Or perhaps they locked them in closets or entertainment cabinets for their convenience. Or molested them repeatedly over the course of years.

These are the children who don’t know where their parents are, and the parents are either dead from their misdeeds or are happily homeless, preferring drugs and alcohol over their child….or simply abandoned the child and left the state, never to be heard from again. Some children may know where their parents are, but their parents voluntarily turn them over to the state because they don’t want them anymore. These children may have been in 15 foster homes, with no stability or sense of permanency. These children may have been along for the ride and witnessed a drug deal gone bad, resulting in murder. Or witnessed murder in their very own living room. Or tried to murder their family during a psychotic episode.

The end result is a child who is unable to make sense out of the world, who relates to others as they have been related to, and who does not and may never know childhood, as it is supposed to be known.

These are the children we forget about because they are quietly locked away from the rest of us while they pick up the pieces of their bewildered, shattered lives. You will not see them in schools or on sports teams. You may spot them briefly at the store, at McDonald’s or on a playground closely monitored by staff, if they are deemed well enough to go out into public at the time and their medication and behavior are stable. If that is the case, you will likely not know it is them you are seeing, and it likely will not register in the moment you see them, just where it is they lay their head at night – a place where they must be to work out their raw feelings of depression, anxiety, trauma, psychosis…their fear, their disappointment, their confusion, their rage

The angels on their tree represent a completely different type of need – a need that is real but often goes unknown and unheard by most.

Still needing and wanting to believe in something despite their inability to trust mankind, the younger ones hold fast to their belief in Santa. No, there is no chimney in this place, but they are assured that Santa has keys to the joint, nonetheless. Their lives may have taken an unthinkable course, but their anticipation and hope in being loved and cared for like any other human is entitled to, is no different from yours or mine.

I urge readers (and writers) to locate the nearest children’s psychiatric hospital in your area (and they are there, somewhere…I cannot point you in the direction of the children I know due to privacy and confidentiality issues). Please consider dropping off a small gift  for one of these children who will wake up Christmas morning behind locked doors…on the inside looking out, never sure when they will be ready, if ever, to be the one on the outside looking in.

This gift needn’t be material…write them an anonymous letter and tell them how brave they are, how proud you are of them for enduring all they have. Tell these children that they can do it, that they are loved, admired and respected. That they are believed, that their feelings are real and important. Tell them that they matter. Color them a rainbow with your words, that they might be assured that their world will hopefully not flood like that again.

Such a small gesture has incredibly meaningful ramifications.

For what is small to us, is huge to them, bigger than we might ever guess…whether or not we remember about their angel tree now and in years to come. Like a standout, cherished childhood memory, they will remember, and it may just be the one memory of hope and love that will help heal them on their horrific journey. It may be the one thing they have, hold, hang on to and refer back to as the biggest spark of light that brought them through their darkness.

God, help us all help the sequestered and forgotten children of the world, the ones least seen in our communities – the ones who most need miracles and a reason to believe again.

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Dec 14 2011
15 Comments
Observational Musings, Thoughtful Musings

Planking Mario’s, School Principals, and Lunar Eclipses.

We love my son’s school. Love. If I could go back in time and go to school again, I’d attend myself.

It’s one of those nice unexpected surprises in life. You pretty much assume that you’re going to like some things about your kid’s school, tolerate others, be totally agitated by a few, and pretty much just get through. When your expectations are exceeded, it’s like winning the lottery.

Before my son started at this school, we checked out another. We met with all the appropriate people and liked them. It seemed like a good fit, the grounds were well-looked after, facilities were great, class sizes reasonable. It ticked all the boxes – until we met the principal.

I’ve had a theory since High school that all school principals are assholes (sorry to all the principals reading, but bear with me on this!) My principal(s) were very small men (figuratively), who took great pleasure in being king of their castles, and wielding the power whenever possible. I went to a private schools so rules were usually more strict and discipline was of primary importance.

One such rule was when you were old enough to get your drivers permit, you could only drive your car to school on approved days. The reason?  There was not enough parking in and around the school for teachers and students.

What this translated to for most students, was the permission to drive to school a day or two per week, necessitating train and bus transport for the remaining days.

This is almost an exact replica of my first car. Except mine was a faded baby-poo green. I'm sure you can imagine my popularity and level of coolness.

Unlike most of my more intelligent counterparts, who drove whenever they liked, and parked a decent distance from the school – walking the rest of the way and keeping the school none the wiser – I decided to confront the system with honesty, and buck it to their faces.

Why, I questioned, did the school not plan for this growth and expansion by choosing a location with ample parking? What was the board of directors doing about this issue? Many hours of valuable homework time were being lost by seniors, wasting time on public transport when they could be home focusing on work (or the latest cosmo magazine and manicure), depending on your definition of ‘work’.

I found a lovely old lady who lived a few houses up from the school, who had no car and an empty driveway. She was more than happy for me to park my car at her house every day. The principal declared it a ‘no-go’. It would be unfair to other students, he claimed.

My father got involved and there was a lot of back-and-forward letter writing for a while, before, totally exasperated, dad decided to call the principal and talk it out – hopefully solving the problem once and for all. I don’t remember much about the conversation other than hearing him shout “You have your head so far up your ass you can’t see the light!”

My father was not prone to bad language. In fact, this might be the only time I ever heard him use the word ‘ass’. Clearly this principal had driven him to the point of absolute frustration with his lunacy. I understood completely.

As I heard him hang up the phone, I smiled to myself, knowing that only a positive outcome for me could come from such a statement.

It did. I drove every day for the duration of my schooling.

I digress.

When we met with the principal at the alternate school we were checking out, he put out his hand to shake ours and his voice boomed; “You are so lucky to find a space with us…. this school has such an exemplary record, we have a waiting list of people desperate to get in. You really should consider yourselves incredibly lucky. I was honored as one of the top 20 principals in NSW in 2002.”

2002!! That’s like 9 years ago dude! Before wireless internet and Justin Beiber (his fame – not his birth – though it’s probably a close call). It barely counts as this decade! (Judging from his personality,  I also suspected the criteria was very ambiguous.)

I mumbled something polite, while giving my husband the look. The look said; “we are not sending our kid to learn under this douches guidance, under any circumstances.”

We left and I exclaimed, “Can you believe it? I thought it was only because my last memories of school were as a kid, that I thought all principals were such douchebags! They’re still douchebags, even though I’m an adult!”

(Perhaps not the most eloquent way to describe it.)

My opinion changed when I met my sons current principal.

I liked him immediately. As we toured the school he shared story after story with us, keeping us laughing and impressed all at once, but what sold me was this statement;

“We have a zero tolerance rule for bullying in school, we don’t have a bullying problem…well except for Jennifer L,” he sighed dramatically.

“Jennifer L is a grade A student, prodigy at violin, mathematics state champion 4 years running, volunteer firefighter and all-round incredible person. Unfortunately she had a fight with her boyfriend in the senior center last year and slapped him across the face and she’s been labeled as a bully ever since.”

“I flinch every time I see her, or use a book as a protector shield if she comes to my office – I just never know what she might do. She is mortified. I use her as the example for bullying for every new student that comes in the school.”

His eyes twinkled as he described the situation and his mouth showed the beginnings of a smile.

It was hilarious imagining this super-achieving ‘good girl’ let the emotions get the better of her (as only teenage girls can do) – and slap her man  – and then be the poster-child for bullying for the rest of her school life.

I loved it. And so did he. The smile on his face told me he enjoyed telling the story and he enjoyed ribbing her about it at every opportunity. I suspect she is able to laugh about it too.

So here my son will stay (at least until their bullying mascot graduates and then we’ll need to reconsider our options), and in the meantime this school has given me hope that there are school principals that exist who are nice, normal, amusing, and not on some kind of crazy power trip.

Thank you to all those who fulfill this role with dignity, fairness and kindness.

______________________________________________________________________

As we all know the lunar eclipse happened on Saturday night (Australian Time). It started about midnight and I had decided to stay up to watch and try to get some photos.

Clouds did not predict a successful outcome

I am not particularly great with a camera. I love photography, but the aperture, ISO, white balance..blah, blah, blah… is just all to technical for my little mind and so I just randomly change these things up and down as I take photos and hope I get a few that work. (Really, I do. Makes my husband crazy.)

Unfortunately, this theory landed me with a hundreds of photos from the eclipse that were useless at best. Shockingly, a few of them did turn out OK and I decided to include them here. All I used was my Canon Rebel XSi, a tripod, my Front Porch, a Sigma 70-300mm lens, and a bottle of wine.

(Bottle of wine is mandatory, remember you are staring at a big light in the sky for hours with nothing else to do but check out the edge work on your neighbor’s lawn. Studying that edge work is a lot less arduous when you are liquored up. Trust me.)

It started really cloudy, so I didn’t get any good full moon shots, and I wasn’t sure how it would end up

They eventually started to dissipate and I decided to hang in there to see what might be

Clouds moving - Showing some promise

I got it!

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In other news I’m in BIG trouble with my 7-year-old. We discussed his photo being in my last post about our trip to Sydney, and I forgot to put it in there.

Though I have since rectified the situation, I promised to place it in this current post so it does not go unnoticed. I hereby present you with Mario planking with Yoshi, in Sydney.

Now please don’t try to tell me my posts aren’t pure, unadulterated entertainment.

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