View From the Tenth Level

Closing up shop

2010-06-06T18:01:00.000+10:00

After a run of nearly five years or so, I've decided to retire my blog and turn to other things. My life is about to get a little crazy, leaving not much time for blogging, lingerie modeling, or much else.

I'll be leaving this up for a while, for posterity, of course. It's been fun and no doubt, somewhere down the line, I'll have a new blog. Be sure to look me up.

Sweet dreams.

Melanie O.

Guess who's coming to dinner?

2010-05-11T21:28:00.000+10:00

Dan's been home all day and I've been helping him nurse an injured shoulder. He keeps forgetting that he's not 30 years old any more and he shouldn't lift as much or move as quickly as he thinks he can. Needless to say, he did himself an injury over the weekend, and I've been keeping an eye on him, because, from past experience, he won't look after it himself.

This is fine as long as I'm working from home, which I did today, but in the midst of something I was doing for work, he called to me, frantically, which, in Dan-speak means "come quickly! There's something really cool I want to show you!"

I was thinking,"awesome! Yesterday, I got off a couple of good shots of a kookaburra that was scratching for grubs in our lawn. There must be some kind of exotic bird out there," and so I grabbed my camera and ran to the kitchen window. You never know what you're going to find out there in our yard, in the country.

"Look," Dan pointed. "Why are there poodles in our yard?"

Poodles? I looked.

"Dan, those aren't poodles. They're goats. They must have wandered over from a neighbor's farm and are browsing the menu in our yard."

I grabbed my camera, wondering how close the goats would let me get to them before they took off. They were busily eating the fallen tree leaves and scrub brush and my presence didn't seem to bother them all that much. Goats have strange tastes. They were eating dried grass and twigs and ignoring the grapefruit that littered the ground.

I tried calling to them. I wondered how tame they were. The two young goats just ignored me and roamed our back yard, trying this leaf and that leaf, to see which ones were best. All was well until they got to my roses and started tasting the leaves.

"Oh, you naughty things!" I said, and tried to push their little mouths away from the rose bushes. Fortunately, the roses were spared, but only after I got to pet the little beasts. The smaller of the two of them seemed particularly fond of having his ears scratched, and so gave up his rose bush eating for some head scratching.

After a few minutes, they wandered back down the driveway, in the direction of, I hoped, their home. I was kind of sad to see them go.

I think I heard the small one say, as he trotted off my veranda: "so long, and thanks for dinner!"

How to explode an egg without a microwave

2010-04-13T10:12:00.001+10:00

I have a one-track mind. I think this is how I got to be reasonably successful and is why I also keep surprising myself in not so pleasant ways. Growing up, my dad always told me I had a one track mind. I think he was right. You know how women are supposed to be such great multi-taskers? Well, I think I missed out on that gene.

This morning, I decided to make myself a hard boiled egg for the protein component of my breakfast. I imagined myself to be Julia Child as I put the egg in a pan of water and stirred it around so that the yolk would wind up in the middle of the white, and not down at one end of the egg. The water began to heat up as the egg swirled around.

And then I remembered that I needed to email my office. I'm home today with a cold. I needed to let them know I'd be working from home.

Of course, once on the computer, I completely forgot about my egg - that is, until about an hour later, when I could smell something cooking.

My egg! I had totally forgotten about it and all of the water had boiled out of the pan. Of course, this meant that the egg was now as tough as rubber and inedible. I ran into the kitchen to save my pan from being destroyed, removed it from the burner and touched the bottom of it to the cold water that was sitting in my sink.

The cold water on the bottom of the pan touched off an explosion. Boom! The overly-heated hard boiled egg exploded all over my nice cashmere sweater. I had egg in my hair, and on my face, of course. I was no longer Julia Child. I was one of the guys from Myth Busters.

For breakfast, I wound up grabbing a cold chicken leg from the fridge. At least there is no way I can make that explode.... for now.

Retro-fied

2010-04-10T17:27:00.000+10:00

Well, you knew it had to come down to this. With Mozilla now allowing personas for Firefox, I decided that I needed to dress mine up to keep it in line with the mid-century theme of the rest of my life. So, I trawled through their personas gallery, looking through thousands of designs for that special persona - just for me.

Imagine my huge disappointment when I didn't find anything suitable. If you're a Rob Pattinson fan, you're set. Or if you like animé, you've got plenty to choose from. Some were close, but none were, well, kitschy enough to feed my need for cheese - especially when I'm online and have to actually do some serious work. Solution? Create my own.

At first, it started with a simple cosmic design inspired by my Franciscan Starburst china. Would Mozilla accept it? To my surprise, they did. This was encouraging!

So then, I created a persona using pink flamingos. As everyone knows, pink flamingo yard ornaments were huge in the 1950's and 1960's. That was accepted as well - I was on a roll! Heck, if no one else was going to create cheese, then I was going to.

Not content with that, I then went on to create a Las Vegas leopard theme and a '57 Chevy theme, which, I expect will be approved within the next few days. And several more are in the works.

You know what they say - if you don't like the way something's done, do it yourself. So I did. I'm keeping my Firefox retrofied until further notice.

Menopause - a family affair

2010-04-02T10:57:00.000+11:00

A couple of weeks ago, I came home from a long commute, tired and worn down. By the time I got home after two and a half hours of travelling, I was on auto-pilot. I set my handbag down on the lounge inside the door and shuffled my way into the bathroom to splash water on my face and try to perk up for the rest of the evening.

Later that night, as I was working on my computer, I heard noises. It sounded like someone was walking around on my veranda. I was annoyed. We have neighborhood children who play on our veranda without permission and slam doors. We've nicknamed them "the ferals." "Great," I thought. "The ferals are at it again."

I went to the door and gazed out into the darkness. I couldn't see anyone.

Feeling peculiarly suspicious, I checked my handbag by the door. My wallet was gone! The new pink one I'd just recently purchased. That couldn't be right. I hadn't gone anywhere since I got home! Worried now, I checked the bedroom and the office, thinking that maybe I'd set it down there, even though I didn't remember removing it from my handbag. My wallet has my life in it! Money, ID, credit cards - this was B.A.D.

It wasn't in either obvious place. Now I was really panicking! I called the police and explained that I'd heard noises and the sound of my door closing and I think someone had lifted my wallet! Never mind that a new DVD player was sitting on my kitchen table near the lounge and that hadn't been taken. It was just my wallet. I'd bet anything it was neighborhood teens and they were drinking on my dollar down at the local pub. I had this crime solved even before the police arrived.

The police were very responsive and sent two female officers to the house to take a report. I was a bit shaken up. My house - our castle - had been invaded while I was home alone. I would never feel secure again.

Within 20 minutes after the police departed (no doubt they thought I was some crazy woman on drugs), the crime was solved. I solved it. I found my wallet in the bathroom, sitting on top of a neatly folded stack of face cloths. How it got there, I swear I don't remember. I was the only one home, so I must have put it there. But I don't remember one iota of doing it.

George Carlin had a routine about getting foggy brain as you get older. He asked
"Ever go into a room to get something ... and then forget why you went into it? And the first two words to pop into your head is Alzheimer's disease."

Dan ribbed me about this event for days.

I felt silly about the whole thing, that is, until Dan called me from work last week. His company jacket had been stolen. He'd left it in the break room on a hook, and when he got back from a run, it was missing. Dan was upset. He'd had other things stolen from him in the break room. He'd been given a gift basket from his boss for Christmas, left it in the fridge for a few days, and when he went to retrieve it, the beer and cheese in it had been stolen.

I told him to make sure he never left anything of value in the break room. You just can't trust people to keep their hands off anything that isn't nailed down. Dan agreed, but continued to rant for another five minutes about the den of thieves he worked with. He complained to the office manager and the secretary and they gave him sympathy.

He came home from work that night ... tired after a long day, and went to change out of his work clothes. There, on the bed, was his company jacket.

At least, now we're even.

The black hole of redecorating

2010-03-29T19:07:00.000+11:00

For the longest time, Dan and I have wanted to build an extension on our house so that we have a large area in which to entertain. The last estimate we got was for $60,000, so we've had to put this dream on the back burner. $60,000 represents six or seven trips back home to visit family and tour around. I can't give up my family overseas. I will have to give up the extension - for now anyway.

To make up for it, the second best thing was to start redecorating. I've always loved Mid-Century Modern decor. Enough to be nostalgic and fun. I've done almost all of my redecorating via eBay and have been able to get teak and teak veneer furniture for a song. I've purchased vintage barkcloth curtains and funky mid-century china as well as my starburst clock.

The only thing missing to complete our dining room, has been a teak china cabinet. Dan and I struck gold when we found a five piece teak veneer set in a local second hand furniture store. It's not perfect. Heck, it's about 50 years old, but it's what we needed. There are three full size cabinets, and two narrow cabinets. All but one has lighting. I suddenly envisioned a space for all of my books! No more books stacked on my nightstand! No more DVDs on wire baker's racks!

Of course, once the cabinets were delivered, we realised that we had to completely rearrange the furniture as well as empty old cabinets and bookcases. Five teak cabinets is a logistical nightmare in a small house, but we managed to find space and get everything organised after a day and a half of huffing, puffing, curse words and bruises. It was like moving day. And to top it off, the summer heat returned to make it a hot and sticky affair. By the end of the second day, Dan and I could hardly move.

Once the furniture was in place, of course, we had to go through everything and throw away anything useless and out of date. The job grew and expanded, and expanded and grew until it ate into more than half of our weekend.

Finally, late Sunday night, when the last DVD and book was safely ensconced in a new home, Dan and I turned to each other and collapsed.

"This stinks," Dan said. "I want to celebrate, but I'm too tired. Everything aches."

I concurred. I had no energy left at all. I had to force myself to take a bath even though I'd worked up a sweat all day.

In the end, I think we managed a kiss to celebrate. Redecorating stinks for your love life. But darn, the dining room looks good! It's a walk back through time. Wish we could do the same.

Simple pleasures

2010-03-08T14:25:00.000+11:00

People often ask me why I'm usually in a good mood, even keeled - unflappable even. The secret? I enjoy simple pleasures and try to look for them every day. Simple pleasures make every day a good day.

Sometimes, my simple pleasure is a good cup of cappuccino, seeing my roses in bloom, or receiving a compliment on my shoes.

It can be a smile and hello from a complete stranger. Or finding an email from a friend or family member in my Inbox.

Simple pleasures include winning an eBay auction and getting something I want for a bargain price, or watching an episode of Ghost Adventures with my husband and having a laugh over Aaron's reactions. They include freshly baked bread, launching a new web site, getting a hug from a neighbor's child.

This weekend, my simple pleasures included a trip to a doll show, where I bought much needed doll stands in varying sizes. As I walked up and down the aisles, I was reminded that yes, I collect the right era's dolls for me. And my husband never minds accompanying me to these doll shows. I accompany him to his model train days and am never bored with them. Simple pleasure on top of simple pleasure!

In the evening, we went to a neighbor's house to help them "break in" their newly refurbished kitchen. The husband is a professional chef and the food was delightful. So was the company. Our circle of friends has expanded. And I got hugs from their kids.

Never underestimate the power of a simple pleasure.

Waiter, there's a chicken in my yard!

2010-02-22T13:14:00.001+11:00

We've had rain here for weeks on end. And where there was a small break, it was during the week when Dan and I were at work. As a result, the grass grew... and grew... and grew. It got to be bad enough that I was reluctant to walk across the lawn for fear of what would be hiding in the grass. Snakes? Rats? Wombats? (Wombats are cute critters but apparently, very ornery and they like to bite.)

Finally, after three washed out weekends, Dan was able to run the lawn mower through the grass (but not without some drama.) He scraped his finger on a tree. He straightened up as he mowed under a tree and konked himself on the head. He got oil on the air filter and the mower died which required a quick trip down to the lawn mower repair shop. Thankfully, they had the part that he needed.

The grass was so high, he had to run the mower over it twice - but the effort was worth it! No more hiding places for scary things! The lawn looks like green velvet. Dan was mighty proud of his work, and he called me over to the kitchen window to survey his lawn mowing prowess.

I was suitably impressed. The lawns did look good!

The native birds love it when Dan mows the lawn as well, as they come down and eat up the now exposed grass seed. Our lawn is often covered with rosellas and galahs after a mow. This time, however, there was one lone bird pecking for seed. It was a bird I hadn't really seen before in the wild. It was mainly white and walked in a strange, familiar way.

I looked at Dan. "I think that's a chicken," I exclaimed.

Dan looked at where I was pointing. "Are you sure," he asked.

"It sure looks like a chicken to me!" And the more we looked, the more we agreed it was a chicken. A feral chicken that had escaped its pen. It was an ugly chicken, too - white, scrawny and mottled. I decided that if it laid any eggs in our lawn, I was going to call dibs on them.

Dan went outside to investigate. The chicken, being a chicken, was startled and flew up into a tree. Not into a tree branch, but into the trunk of a tree, which stunned it and sent it back down to the ground where it fluttered for a bit and then took off again, clumsily returning to a neighbor's coop.

Dan stood there laughing. He and the chicken had something in common. They had both bonked their heads on our trees, and all in one afternoon!

Another Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T16:35:00.000+11:00

I usually don't look forward to Valentine's Day. It's one of those contrived holidays used to sell cards, flowers and chocolates to mostly men who get guilted into feeling that they haven't shown their love for their partner enough in the past year. I like celebrating Girlfriends' Day instead.

I wasn't expecting anything, except perhaps a rose cut from one of my bushes, presented this morning with a cup of tea.

Now I feel ashamed that I doubted Dan.

This morning, he wished me a Happy Valentine's Day. I kissed him and wished him the same. And then he gave me a card and a gift.

The card was very sweet, and the gift was something that I had mentioned in passing a couple of weeks ago as one of those "Oh, that might be nice to try" off-hand only half-serious comments. He remembered that I had expressed an interest, and got it for me.

Bless him.

I took him to lunch. We went to a Chinese place. Chinese is not my first choice for meals out, but he loves it, so lunch was primarily for him. By coincidence, it's also Chinese New Year.

Happy Chinese Valentine's New Year everyone!

D. I. Y. haircut - how I cut my own hair

2010-02-01T16:06:00.008+11:00

I've been cutting my own hair for years. In the photo of me as a blonde in the right hand column and to the left, I'm sporting that style. I've worn the same style for years and it never seems to go out of fashion.

One day, I thought I'd go to the salon and get it professionally cut and colored. I walked away $200 poorer and not at all impressed. I went back to doing my own hair, and thought I'd share this with you since salon trips can be expensive. If you have a hairdresser you love - by all means, stick with what works, but if your stylist moved away, you're a bit brave and you need to do something in the interim of finding another one, you might want to try this (but don't do this if you don't feel confident. I don't want anyone coming back to yell at me because they stuffed it up.):

Wash your hair. It's so much easier to cut clean hair. Scissors tend to slip if there's oil in your hair. Dry hair until it's about 60% damp - not soaking wet, but not too dry either.

Step 1: to have hair layered around the ends with the hair in front about the same length in back - part your hair where you normally would, and gather your hair into a coated rubber band (do not use uncoated elastic unless you like tearing your hair,) to make a pony tail in the back. Do not put your hair behind your ears for this. Be sure that the elastic is fairly tight.

Step 2: Slide the band out to a little longer than the length you want your hair. Be sure to keep the band evenly down the middle of your back. It's easy, when you're trying to manoeuvre behind your head, to pull it to one side or another. You might want to have someone help you with this. Keep your hair as straight as possible - avoid bunching on one side or another. If you mess up, just re-do it. This is an important step and you need to get it right.

Step 3: Keeping the ponytail taught and using a SHARP pair of scissors, cut straight across your hair, just outside the band, so that the cut ends fall away, but you don't lose the band.

Step 4: Remove the coated band and part your hair down the middle of the back of your head. Comb hair around to your shoulders on either side of your head. Use your scissors to cut straight across to even up any ends. Check both sides to make sure they are the same length. Do not tilt your head to one side or the other while you do this, or your hair will be uneven.

Step 5: To layer hair around your face - Using your coated elastic again, bend over at the waist and pull your hair up into the band to make a pony tail directly on the top of your head. Slide the elastic straight up and out so that it's about one inch from the ends and then cut straight across outside the elastic. Remove the elastic and let your hair fall back around your face.

Step 6: Blow dry and/or straighten your hair if you wish, or scrunch it up to bring out the waves. Done!

If you want to add bangs/fringe, be careful to cut them longer than the final length that you want, as your hair is quite "stretchy" when it's wet and will shorten up as it dries. Most people look better when fringe is lightly layered and the ends are "cut into" versus cutting straight across. To use this technique, you need a small pair of SHARP scissors (nail scissors work great for this) and cut at a 45 degree angle, chopping into the ends of your fringe all the way across so that they look soft, and not blunt.

I use all of these steps and have for years. A woman's magazine (whose name I've long forgotten) published a version of this DIY cut years ago. This is just a variation that's easy to do and works for many lengths of hair.

Short Variation: If you want to wear a bob, don't slide the elastic out very far for the first pony tail. The closer it is to your scalp, the more tapering you'll get in the back. The same goes for the second pony tail. The closer it is to your scalp, the more exaggerated the tapering you'll have (and the shorter it will be). Don't forget to touch up any strays.

Angled Variation: If you want the front shorter then tapering down to the back (1940's style), bend over and comb all your hair forward and make your first ponytail on your forehead, at the hairline, and then slide the band out to the length you want for the front. Be sure to angle upward and outward as you slide the band out (don't slide it straight downward), so that it's lined up with your ears. Hair should remain straight, with the elastic positioned over the middle of your head with no sections that are slack. Cut outside the band, and then follow steps 4 - 6.

Warning: once you get it right for yourself, you may never let anyone else ever cut your hair again.

The great cockroach debacle of 2010

2010-01-18T09:06:00.000+11:00

I was lying in a warm bath last night. After a day of running errands and doing laundry, it felt great to lie back and feel my muscles return to a state of stasis. Bliss.

Bliss, that is, until I spotted a large, ominous black object on the wall just above the foot of my bath. It looked like a big black flat Brazil nut, except that Brazil nuts can't crawl up the wall. At least, not the last time I checked.

I immediately did what any self-respecting bathing woman would do: I yelled for my husband.

"Dan!"

The noise reverberated around the bathroom (the acoustics are excellent), and the cockroach shuddered at the decibel level and flew behind the curtain, which is hanging directly over the center of my bath. I had succeeded in driving the little creep ever closer to my head, which was where it would surely try to climb into my nose.

I used to live in Florida. Every year, there were stories of how flying cockroaches would crawl into people's noses and mouths while they slept. I'm sure they did it while people were in bathtubs, too.

Dan rushed into the bathroom and I pointed at the curtains, babbling about a big ugly bug. "Geez," he said."I thought maybe you hurt yourself."

He dutifully poked around the curtain. "Careful!" I pleaded. "They love to drop - it's their only defense, and it will land right in the tub on top of me!" I almost jumped out of the tub, but I tried to maintain my composure while Dan got a tissue and picked the Brazil nut off the curtain.

Except he didn't get all of it. The cockroach's head detached from its body and landed at my feet - kerplop - right in the tub. I let out a large "Ewww!" and was about to jump out of the tub again (my muscles were no longer in stasis) when Dan managed to scoop the head out of the bath.

But now my bath had cockroach juice in it. I have never washed so quickly in my life and reached for my razor to shave my legs when something brushed against my ankle. "My gawd," I thought. Is there another bit of cockroach in here?

I quickly pulled the plug and hoped that the offending creature would get caught in the vortex of the exiting water and go down the drain, when I looked a bit closer.

It was the plastic safety cap of my razor.

Feeling rather silly, I finished shaving my legs and got out of the tub while visions of Alien danced through my mind. Cockroach heads don't have eggs in them, do they?

My predictions for 2010

2010-01-04T19:12:00.001+11:00

Whether you believe in such things or not, my grandmother had me convinced at a young age that I was indeed precognitive or psychic. Personally, I think I am the world's biggest skeptic, but I thought, this year, being the start of a new decade, that I'd record some predictions for the coming year. At the end of the year, I expect to get a big laugh out of myself - but maybe my grandmother was right. Anyway, here are my Top 10 predictions for 2010.

1) President Obama will have a major health scare. I hope someone's keeping a close eye on his health. (I'm kind of hoping that this one is just my own feelings of anxiety being projected.)

2) There will be strife between Paul McCartney and Nancy Shevell. Hmmmm...

3) Turkey will experience an earthquake.

4) There will be a tunnel collapse in the NY subway system. However, it will be in a disused line and there will be no casualties. It won't be as a result of terrorist activity.

5) A major solar flare will degrade and possibly disrupt communications for a couple of days.

6) There will be a bacterial-based epidemic that will prove resistent to antibiotics. It will prove to be worse than MRSA.

7) The first wedding will be performed in space.

8) Yet another actor will run for political office. This time, it will be a woman.

9) Scientists will discover a way to curb the obesity epidemic. It will involve a minor surgical procedure to the brain.

10) The economic recovery will continue. Buy stocks now while the prices are good!

I'll be sure to check back on this next January to see how I do. In the meantime, if you have your own predictions, let us know what they are. (Please do this in the spirit of fun that it's intended to be.)

All the best,
Melanie

The post holiday blahs

2009-12-29T18:52:00.000+11:00

The worst thing about holidays is the let-down. Not on the day itself, but within a day or two afterward, when the radio stations stop playing holiday music. Neighbors stop burning their light displays. Some people take down their Christmas trees. Those of us who love to rekindle the magic of the season of our youth during this time of year, realise that we are, as the Buddhists put it, the sound of one hand clapping.

My energy is at an all time low. I'm feeling burned out from the lead up to Christmas. I've cooked, decorated and cleaned. I have no plans for New Year's Eve.

This is when Dan comes to the rescue. He tells me that I have to pick out a Christmas movie to watch. We have an extensive collection of Christmas DVDs - one that would make the American Film Institute proud (despite the fact that there are three or four classics that are missing from this collection at the moment.)

I don't know if watching a Christmas movie four days past Christmas is going to cheer me up much. What cheers me up is the fact that Dan knows how disappointed I am with the experience of viewing the holidays from the other side of the divide. A little sympathy is the cure for many ills. I'll grab a DVD off the shelf and I think I'll light some candles and break out the eggnog, as well. For him as well as myself.

Christmas memories

2009-12-24T21:37:00.003+11:00

When I was little (and even now), our Christmas tree was really important to me. I don't know why this is. I've always loved trees in general - to make tree houses in, to swing on their branches, to hide under the low lying ones and enjoy the shade in summer - trees have always been special to me. This is probably why I don't think I could live in a well developed metropolitan area. Not unless I can afford a large estate with a lot of trees on it.

At Christmas, for a few years, our family would do the traditional thing and go to a tree lot and cut down our own tree. My dad actually did this the old-fashioned way: with an axe and hand saw. By the time I got to be 12, he had tired of that, and we started to buy trees from tree lots. It wasn't as meaningful, but at least we had a real tree for Christmas.

One year, things were a little grim. It was Christmas Eve and we still didn't have a tree! I was frantic about it and begged and pleaded with my dad to get a tree. Of course, just about every tree lot in town was sold out, but there were a few dried out and barren trees outside the local grocery store. Most of them looked as if they'd been cut down several weeks earlier. Someone had spray painted them in the hope of selling them at the last minute. We were one of those last minute customers. My dad and I came home with a tree that was spray painted pale pink. We paid $8 for it. Funny how I still remember that detail.

The pink tree was pretty bare on one side, but we turned it to the wall and decorated it, and it did fine for us that Christmas Eve and for a few days afterwards. Fortunately, it didn't catch fire. One can only imagine how flammable it was, all dried out and spray painted!

I think my dad felt bad about not getting a tree until the last minute that year. Soon afterwards, he joined the Lions Club and was selling Christmas trees from the Lions Club lot in the freezing cold. As for the old axe, I don't think it ever chopped down another tree.

Wishing you all much happiness this holiday season and in the new year.

Terror at the mall

2009-12-14T09:52:00.004+11:00

When I was younger, I used to love to go to the local shopping mall. I could get out of the house, get some exercise by walking from one end of the mall and back, and see things along the way. I think those days are gone forever. In recent years, a visit to the mall is like a visit to the sixth level of hell.

I have taken to making my own gifts as much as possible, for the holiday season. This includes DVDs of things I've done and seen over the past year, jewelry, and cards. But some things, basic things, can't be done this way.

Dan and I needed to do some shopping over the weekend. We needed groceries, mailing bags, and other small items that are best purchased in discount shops. We need to go to the *gasp* .... MALL.

The first hurdle to any trip to the mall is, of course, finding a place to park the car. During any time of year this can be a challenge, but doubly so during the holiday season. We brought our water bottles and walking sticks with us, as we knew we'd be parked at least a mile from the mall entrance. We circled the lot like vultures, waiting for an empty spot. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, we spied one! Dan pulled up, ready to take the coveted spot, when he realised why no one was parked there. There was a 4 WD vehicle with bull bars pulled too far forward, taking up a portion of the spot, which would have positioned the front end our car into the traffic lane. No wonder it was empty!

Finally, we found a spot and prepared ourselves for the obstacle course that was then the treck to the mall's front entrance. We dodged cars and families with prams. More about the prams later. Slightly battle scarred and thirsty, we walked into the mall. We'd made it!

We had four stops to make. Four stops through the Santa photo set-up filled with parents, kids, and grandparents waiting to have a shot with the Big Guy. Four stops past the crowds of tired and irate adults, screaming toddlers and loud teenagers, while, all the time, muzak versions of Christmas songs played over the PA system. I couldn't get out of there soon enough.

Something happens to people when they shop at the mall. The bright lights and lack of clocks anywhere make people slow down to half speed. Tasks that should take 15 minutes, take an hour. We went into our local discount store for mailing bags, sunscreen, and a Christmas DVD. We came out with five DVDs, two pairs of pants, four shirts, Christmas cards that we don't need, and the giant size of sunscreen. I should be hooked up for sunscreen until 2020.

The worst part of the trip? Parents with Prams (PWPs as they now shall be called.) I don't know why, but some PWPs use their prams like Moses used his arms to part the Red Sea. More than once, I've had pram wheels run up my heels by a parent who was in a hurry and had no idea how far forward from their body the pram reached. I think some parents use their prams like snow plows, or people plows, scattering human casualties through the mall, on sidewalks, on trains. People go flying like bowling pins. I cringe in terror whenever I see a PWP behind me.

After three hours in the mall, I was ready for a Valium and a lie down. Dan wasn't in much better condition. I think I may have even opened up eBay on my computer and kissed the screen. Dan retreated to his workshop in his garage (I call it his garage because there is nothing in there that remotely belongs to me) and disappeared for two days. I hear he's having therapy.

Exterior illumination

2009-12-07T10:16:00.000+11:00

It's that time of year again. Time for festive decor, including mood lighting. This includes the outside of our house as well as the interior.

Dan and I have an agreement - I can decorate the inside of the house, and he has reign over the outside of the house. This weekend, we both worked on setting up the exterior lights, including decorating the patio where we have Christmas dinner. The patio is considered to be shared territory, so we both work on that one.

We're getting reputations as the Aussie Griswolds. Our next door neighbor teases us about our electricity bill (which with the new LED lights isn't that much higher than normal.) The only problem? It's summer time here, which means it's not really dark until 8:30 or 9:00 pm. The strings of lights and plastic ornamental items get bleached and brittle in the hot sun. I can understand why exterior lighting isn't as big a thing here as it is in the northern hemisphere. But it's just not the festive season without them.

Growing up, we never had lights on the outside of the house, and in Australia, my husband says it just wasn't the thing to do. In recent years, however, we've seen more and more outside lights and we're having a ball joining in! I bet in a few years, we see outdoor lighting tempered for the Australian summer.

I can't wait!

The Anniversary Rose

2009-12-03T21:44:00.003+11:00

This morning, my alarm went off way too early. I woke up at 2:30 am and didn't fall back to sleep until about an hour before my alarm went off at 5:25 am. I was a train wreck.

Dan's usually up at the same time and passed me in the hallway to give me a hug. "Happy Anniversary," he said. Our anniversary? What day was it?

"Give me a half an hour to wake up," I pleaded.

So, we both finished getting ready for work. I heard Dan out on the back patio rummaging around. Dan is always puttering around outside.

A little later, I was in the kitchen to open up one of the windows. Dan loves to do fry-ups in the morning, which leaves the kitchen smoky and smelly. While I was opening the window, I surveyed my rose bushes. They grow along the perimeter of the patio. I was looking for a pink rose that I noticed was about to bloom. I wondered how far it had opened over night, but I couldn't find it. Still half asleep, I shrugged my shoulders and finished getting ready for work.

Soon, Dan was out the door and off to work after a kiss goodbye, and I went to get my bag as well to make the mad dash for the train.

There, on the kitchen table, next to my bag, was a rose and a card.

It's been ages since Dan gave me a card for anything. This was special. He remembered our wedding anniversary, even though I couldn't even remember what day it was while still in the throes of a sleep cycle.

And then I noticed. The rose. MY rose. Dan had cut it from my rose bush. The rose bushes that I'd been cultivating for years. It was the first pink rose of this season. And Dan had cut it. I was mortified!

I called him and thanked him for the card and teased him about the rose. His reply? "Well, none of the neighbors have rose bushes."

"Well," I responded, "if you're going to steal a rose, it may as well be from me." And then I went back to read the card again. Dan had written a little personal poem for me.

I told some friends what happened and they laughed. I hadn't the heart to tell Dan that my kids used to do the same thing for me on Mother's Day, except they'd steal flowers from the neighbors' gardens.

Dan says his purpose in life is to annoy me and to amuse me. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Graceland... going to Graceland...

2009-11-29T11:53:00.006+11:00

It seems to be a universal human trait not to appreciate certain people until they are no longer in our lives. Not only does this include family and friends, but can extend to celebrities long gone. You know the ones - they were popular during your parents' generation and you thought they were old fogies and not cool enough for you? Such is the case with Elvis Presley and me. Elvis was 40 years old by the time I hit my teens, and I was deeply into ELO, ABBA, and wishing every day for a Beatles reunion. Elvis was for my parents' generation. His portrait could be found in department stores, painted on black velvet. He performed in Las Vegas in jumpsuits for goodness' sake. How uncool was that? Never mind that the Osmonds did the same thing and were a huge hit with my generation.

But a strange thing happened about six years ago. I discovered Elvis. I had always liked his movies. They were a kind of strange guilty pleasure that I kept to myself and only recently shared with my husband. Thank goodness he likes them, too. They're formulaic, fun, and kind of mindless - a good way to get your mind off your troubles. In my early teens, the local TV station would occasionally show an Elvis movie on a Sunday afternoon - they'd alternate with Beach Blanket Bingo and other teen films of the early 1960s - and I'd watch until I got distracted by something else.

I was recently talking to someone about Elvis, and realised that I wanted to know a little more about this man. I mean, millions of fans can't be wrong, can they? And it finally hit me - once I saw past the Vegas schmaltz, that Elvis was truly a handsome guy. Even with a bit of weight on him. And he could sing like an angel even if the lyrics to his songs made little sense sometimes. Well, he wasn't the only singer guilty of performing songs that were either unintelligible or made little sense even when you could understand the lyrics.

So, as an adult, it became a dream of mine to be able to visit Graceland. I wanted to learn more about Elvis' roots. I wanted to pay my respects at his grave. I wanted to soak in the hysteria that surrounded Elvis in the late 50's and 60's.

We got lost looking for Elvis Presley Drive in Memphis. There was a lot of construction and the exit wasn't marked, which I thought was odd, but strangely respectful. After some consternation and doubling back, we eventually found it.

Graceland was purchased in 1958 for about $100,000 - an exorbitant amount in those days. Elvis was 22 and Graceland was his pride and joy. His parents moved in with him, and later, Priscilla, and Elvis's stepbrother. Elvis was a strong believer in family ties. As the decades rolled on, the area around Graceland went downhill with a couple of recessions, but Elvis never thought about selling up. When he died, at the age of 42, he was still living at Graceland.

Graceland is at once tasteful and tacky, opulent, but small and cozy. It's small by today's standards, but very Elvis. The decor hasn't changed since 1977, so walking through it is like a walk back in time. When we visited, it was October, and we were drenched by a deluge from the heavens, but that didn't stop diehard fans from queuing up and taking the tour. We toured the house and grounds, and walked through several exhibits that highlighted his music and film career, admired his automobile collection, walked through his two private jets, and mused over the many celebrity portraits in the café. Plenty of celebrities paid their respects at Graceland. Now that I am older than Elvis was when he died, I am finally a fan. A real fan of the man and his music. I'm thinking that next year, we might go to the Elvis festival in Parkes, NSW. I may even look for a jumpsuit for Dan to wear.

Charleston on my mind, pt 2

2009-11-15T15:15:00.001+11:00

The next day, Dan and I took a ferry ride out to Fort Sumter, where the American Civil War "officially" started; however, as any student of history knows, tensions between the states started long before a shot was fired on Fort Sumter. A visit to Fort Sumter is at once a history lesson, as well as a lesson in politics. It is true what they say: "they who win the war write the history books." It is to the credit of the National Park system, that the Fort Sumter museum is politically impartial and leaves the visitor to make up their own minds as to the weight of events.

Charleston is so full of history, that if you aren't a history buff, you'd probably find the city a bit dull. Pretty, yes, but perhaps not with a lot to hold your attention. If, however, you love history, pirate tales, colonial culture, markets, museums, upmarket shopping, boating, and a few good ghost stories, then Charleston is for you.

The day after our visit to Fort Sumter, Dan and I took a horse and carriage ride through the historical district with a fantastic tour guide named Scott. Scott gave us the non-politically correct version of the Charleston history tour. We loved it and are thankful to Scott for giving us another view of history that would get lost in time if there weren't people like him with deep roots embedded in the development of the South, to keep it alive.

Two signers of the US Constitution, as well as American Revolutionary War officers are buried in St Michael's Episcopal church cemetery. George Washington himself, stayed at the Heyward-Washington house as well as attended events in his honor at the Exchange. The Provost dungeon is in the basement of the exchange, where pirates were held (and got wet during high tide) before they were summarily executed in Battery Park.

Charleston took on its own life and its own meaning during our tour. And, if the tales aren't enough to keep you enraptured, then the food and architecture certainly will.

Charleston is known for its "low country" food. That includes such things as shellfish, red rice and beans, boiled peanuts, gumbo and corn bread, to name just a few. It's also known for the remnants of slavery in its sweet grass basket trade - hand made woven baskets made from the local grasses, sold mainly to tourists from the roadside or in the market. This is a West African art that's been handed down from generation to generation and is under threat from local development. It would be a shame, in my mind, to see this disappear.

We stayed in Charleston for three days, and could have easily stayed for three more. There are plantations to tour, colonial homes to explore, as well as nightlife to enjoy. There just aren't enough hours in the day for Charleston.

Charleston on my mind (Pt 1)

2009-11-08T10:36:00.000+11:00

From Cedar Island, NC, we headed south towards Charleston on route 17. We spent a rainy night in Myrtle Beach, where we caught up with two other travelers at a New York style pizza parlor. They insisted that we visit the Rooftop Bar once we arrived at our destination, to get a good view of the city. They loved Dan's Aussie accent. This is something we encountered everywhere we went: "You're Australian, aren't you?" Dan was tickled and it added to his enjoyment of his holiday.

The next day, we had hoped to take in Brookgreen Gardens and Huntington Beach, but the weather was still rainy and miserable. Oh well - that just gave us an extra day in Charleston, instead. Twist my arm!

We arrived in Charleston to book a room and had time left over to do a short tour of the city to get our bearings, and then have dinner. Our first stop was the Charleston Museum.

The museum is well worth a visit if you ever go to Charleston. A walk through it is a walk through time. Visitors learn about the early history of the settlement, early commerce (rice, of all things), plantation life and slavery, the American Civil War ... right up to modern day hurricanes. We spent three hours there, and even that felt a little rushed.

After a late lunch in a charming café where we had tuna sandwiches and clam chowder, we headed into the historic district and walked around to get our bearings. We strolled through Waterfront Park, where Dan spied the USS Yorktown on the other side of the river. Sailboats idly floated by ... it was idyllic.

Horse and carriage tour operators were everywhere, and we made plans to use one, ourselves in the coming days. In the evening, we had a wonderful seafood dinner (by now, becoming something of a theme in the Carolinas) - Southern style, which meant shrimp and cheese grits, and steamed mixed shellfish, then relaxed with cocktails in the company of other off-season travellers.

If you don't have kids, I highly recommend travelling off-season. The rates are cheaper and the pace is more relaxed. Dan and I made plans over dinner for the next two days of our stay. As it turned out, two days was just not enough...

Carolina in the morning

2009-11-04T15:04:00.000+11:00

Dan and I headed across the George Washington Bridge and down I-95 (me, with white knuckles), past the industry of Baltimore and the congestion of Washington, DC (don't ever stop for a pee break during this stretch. There's no easy on and off the highway here,) and around Richmond, until we eventually crossed over the North Carolina border. The contrast was like night and day - from heavy traffic and aggressive drivers, to wide open highways sparsely populated with cars. I was home!

We stopped for dinner at Emporia at the Carolina Barbecue, where Dan experienced pulled pork and other Carolina delicacies for the first time: corn sticks, fried chicken, cherry cobbler, lima beans, macaroni and cheese, black eyed peas ... He loved it so much, he had to speak to the owner, which made her proud. I'm guessing few people take the time to thank a restaurant owner for such an enjoyable feast. And feast, we did! I'd been looking forward to Carolina barbecue ever since we landed in Tucson, so I was quite happy that we stopped.

We spent the night in Tarboro, and early the next morning, found ourselves in the Outer Banks, at Kitty Hawk. Dan wanted to see the Wright Brothers Memorial and to learn about the first flight. We checked out the museum exhibits and Dan wanted to know why there weren't any Australians on the Wall of Fame. I had to point out to him that it was an American exhibit, but I was sure that flight enthusiasts had heard of Sir Charles Kingsford Smith, pioneer of trans-Pacific flight.

After our visit to see the Wright Brothers Memorial, we headed down the Outer Banks, past the Cape Hatteras lighthouse and caught the Hatteras Ferry to Ocracoke Island. We were going to continue our trip back to the mainland via the Ocracoke Ferry - but alas, it was not to be. You have to have a reservation for the Ocracoke Ferry, and they were booked out. What to do but spend the night on the island in a hotel and eat sea food?

We spent the night watching Dirty Jobs and Ghost Lab on the Discovery Channel with the sound of the water lulling us into pure bliss. The weather turned the next day, but it just added to the experience of being on the water - grey skies, grey sea. It was difficult to say where one ended and one began ...

Click on photos to enlarge:

Five days in Connecticut

2009-11-01T10:55:00.005+11:00

Dan and I spent nearly four days in the car, driving to Connecticut to see my mother and other sons. I was fretting by the time we reached the Tappan Zee bridge, as there'd been a horrific accident there in the recent past. I'm weird like that - wondering if there was a fault with the bridge as opposed to the driver in question, but no, four days on the road had whittled away my ability to cope with traffic. I was hoping that Andy had made arrangements to be at my mother's, but that was not to be. I got to at least see my two other sons and spend time with my mother.

The weather turned miserable after our first day, so we didn't do much in the way of touristy things. We watched DVDs at home and did a little shopping. We shared dinner on my birthday. Most of the time, we sat and talked and reminisced over a shared breakfast. My mother got out a scrapbook that she made during the time of my father's illness and I read through letters and cards, and pored over mementos of my father's life. There were photos of my grandparents' house at the time of my dad's last visit "home." My mom and dad's high school yearbooks - It was all very poignant. Thirty years has not dulled the pain of the loss of my dad. He wasn't perfect, but he was perfect enough for me.

Going home to visit parents does several things for me: puts me in touch with my roots, helps me to reconnect with family, and also reminds me why we all have separate lives based on our choices of what suits us best. After a few days in the gloomy weather, I realized why I moved to the south in the first place: seasonal depression. I wonder how my kids cope with it? I remember, when they were growing up, I could expect all hell to break loose around October, and not end until May.

After five days, it was time to say goodbye until the next reunion. Next time, I think I'm going to suggest Las Vegas!

Click on photos to enlarge.

Saguaro National Forest

2009-10-28T20:07:00.001+11:00

Saguaro cacti are apparently native only to southern Arizona, so Dan and I went off with family to Saguaro National Forest. It was a forest like I've never seen - a veritable desert garden.

I had no idea that saguaro can be well over 100 years old. Some were as tall as a three storey building. Birds dig holes in them and nest in them. But most of all - they represent the Old West to me: a sign of untamed land and the promise of adventure.

We arrived at dusk and were on the lookout for coyotes and rattlesnakes, but the only wildlife we ran across were birds and small snakes who had come out at night to warm themselves on the asphalt of the road that runs through the park. As we walked through the park, not only did we find saguaro cacti, there were cacti of many different varieties: water barrel, prickly pear, and teddy bear, to name just a few.

So, as the sun spilled its golden light over the prickly desert landscape, I couldn't help but think - "I hope no one ever falls over on these trails!"

Click on photos to enlarge:

Tombstone, Arizona

2009-10-25T19:59:00.001+11:00

As a kid, I loved Westerns. My favorites included The Wild, Wild West, Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Laredo, The Rifleman, and The Cisco Kid. (Anyone with me here?) I am sure there were others, too.

As an adult, I loved Western themed films like Tombstone, No Country for Old Men, Raising Arizona and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. So, I got excited when it was planned for us to visit Tombstone, Arizona.

I expected that history would refute much of what I had learned about Tombstone from the movie that starred Kurt Russell; however, the movie was fairly accurate in its portrayal of major events. I saw photos of the lovely women of the bird cage and the Bird Cage Theatre, which was home to a bordello and gambling den. Josephine Marcus worked in the theatre (and some say, in the bordello) and won the heart of first, the mayor of Tombstone, John Behan, whom she later dumped to be with Wyatt Earp, the new marshal.

We attended an outdoor play that humorously portrayed the tension between the Cowboy gang and the marshal. It became even more fun when a family member was picked to join in on the mayhem.

Lunch was had at the Crystal Palace- the place where Virgil Earp was wounded. The OK Corral is just down the street, and while we didn't go see the re-enactment of the famous "30 shots in 30 seconds" shootout, we walked inside the entry and had a look around.

We stopped at Boot Hill Cemetery where sheriff Fred White and the McLaury brothers are buried. The headstones to the graves are very telling and well... much more colorful than you'll read in many a cemetery.

Everywhere we went, there were signs of history, and with a history of so much violence, the town is reportedly very haunted. We didn't experience anything paranormal, but we did experience a bit of history and I'll never watch the movie Tombstone in quite the same way again.

Sedona, Arizona

2009-10-23T19:35:00.003+11:00

Sedona has a reputation for attracting crystal-seeking New-Agers (and there's nothing wrong with that), but don't go to Sedona for the vortexes. Go to Sedona for the scenery and the ancient Native American history.

Dan and I set off to Sedona with son #4 and his wife, who had organized a Pink Jeep tour for us, and we spent the day taking in the scenery. Dan bought himself a couple of dirt shirts with Southwest designs on them, and I liked the look of them so much, I had to buy a couple as well. If you aren't familiar with dirt shirts, they're T-shirts dyed in the local mud. They come out a gorgeous russet color (like the one my son is wearing).

We strolled down the main streets, looking for kachinas for me (Native American dolls that represent different dancers) and cold drinks. I love how the city has ordinances that make developers comply with building designs that blend with the natural environment. Nothing garish or ugly here. Despite the calendar saying it was the end of September, temperatures were well over 90 degrees Fahrenheit. Our water bottles came in very handy!

After a stroll through the shops, it was time for our Pink Jeep tour, led by our intrepid driver and tour guide, Jason. We had signed up for the Ancient American ruins tour, and headed out into the bush. We zoomed past celebrity homes and found ourselves into wide open ranch land, surrounded by red rocks. It was stunning!

The Native American dwellings were built into the native rock using mud brick and rocks. In their day, they would have looked like a somewhat modern apartment building, with rooms built on top of each other. Built high into the native rock to keep away enemies and predators, I could just imagine what it would have been like to live here, off the harsh land. Life expectancy was around 40 years (less for women.) Each clan marked its presence with a shield with an animal icon painted on the rock face. Around us were petroglyphs - paintings of animals on the rocks: deer, coyote, and coatis. Some people think that the natives, by drawing on the rocks, ascribed some kind of magical hold over these animals, as they were food sources, but part of me likes to think that they just liked to replicate what they saw in nature, to their abodes, much like many of us do today.

It was a fascinating tour, although hot and thirsty work, walking to and around the site. I left only reluctantly, although it did mean that I got to see more red rock and bush on the way back to base. I leave some photos of the day for you to enjoy.

(Click on photos to enlarge.)

The Grand Canyon

2009-10-21T18:23:00.002+11:00

Upon our arrival to Tucson, we loaded up the car (after a quick shower) and headed north towards Flagstaff. No flight recovery time for us - we were on the go. We were going to see the Grand Canyon!

I was concerned that we hadn't allowed for much time on the site, but, as it turned out, the timing was perfect. We arrived late in the afternoon and witnessed the changing colors of the canyon. First, beiges, pinks and gold, and then turning to darker blues and purples as the sun descended. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would have thought that I was looking at a painting, and I can well understand the inspiration for "Southwest" colors. I never before thought of the Grand Canyon as a spiritual place, but, once there, my insignificant humanness became emphasised and I felt humbled by what my eyes beheld.

We walked the rim of the canyon for a few hours, did a bit of local shopping, and then returned again for sunset. To say that the Grand Canyon is magnificent, is an understatement. This "hole in the ground" hides millions of years of history. It's at once a hostile environment that still manages to teem with life. While we were there, we saw desert rats, eagles, and elk. At dusk, the elk came out to forage for food and they took my breath away. I've never seen such a magnificent animal in all my life. Too see bull elks in the wild made me think of my pagan ancestors who revered the wild stag. At that moment, I understood why.

The whole trip turned out to be an amazing experience, one that I hope to repeat in my lifetime.

(Click on photos below to enlarge.)

Road trip!

2009-10-20T13:37:00.000+11:00

Dan and I just returned from visiting family in the good ol' USA, and this year, we decided to be a little crazy and rent a car and drive from Arizona, to Connecticut, to South Carolina, and then back again. In between, we saw the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Tombstone, Long Island Sound, the Outer Banks, Charleston, Asheville, and Graceland. We racked up over 6,000 miles of highway driving and saw bits of disappearing America. Thank goodness for cars that average 30 miles to the gallon or more!

In the Outer Banks of North Carolina, we rode the Ocracoke ferry and saw shoreline that hadn't changed in hundreds of years. In Charleston, where descendants of West African slaves still make sweet grass baskets like their great-great-great-great aunts did, development is destroying the sweet grass. I guess future generations could find other materials from which to make the baskets, but it's sad to think that one day this could be a lost art. I purchased a basket from a young male basket-weaver, which is a pretty rare sight. Basket weaving is traditionally a woman's art.

In Asheville, we once again stepped back in time to get to the top of Mt. Mitchell, the highest peak east of the Mississippi, in the thickest fog I can recall. I remarked to Dan that I wished I could capture the smell of balsam and Douglas fir trees with my camera. I've never been able to find an essential oil or incense that truly captures this fruity-piney smell. I look forward to Christmases with my house filled with the odor of fir tree, so I'm determined to find that elusive fragrance.

In Memphis, we visited Graceland and its surrounding exhibits. I was never a huge Elvis Presley fan growing up. By the time I was a teenager, Elvis was performing in Vegas and seemed to own the domain of middle aged women. I was more into David Bowie. Now that I'm a middle-aged woman, myself, I find myself fascinated with the world of Mr Presley - where he came from, what his values were ... and I confess that one of my guilty pleasures is to sit and watch Elvis movies. Visiting Graceland was one of the highlights of our trip.

Back in Tucson, I introduced Dan to the world of Halloween at Old Tucson. There, the old film studios are transformed into a world of zombies with haunted houses and live performances. Dan and I never laughed so much or had such a great time being "spooked."

To say that it was difficult to come back, knowing that work awaits us both tomorrow, is an understatement. I may live in Australia, but my heart is in my homeland and I can't wait to go back again. Sadly, road trips are a disappearing event in many people's lives now - with the price of fuel, concern over the environmental impact of long trips, and few people being able to take sufficient time off to "see the USA in your Chevrolet." I'm glad we did this as we may never get the chance again.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be writing about my impressions of things we did on our journey around the United States. I hope you'll come back to read about it and see the photos.

The Aboriginal woman and the snake

2009-09-30T03:18:00.000+10:00

Last night, I had a weird dream... so strange that I had to look up the symbolism in it. It's said that dreams are the manifestation of the subconscious mind, and if so, the objects and cast members of our dreams are symbols for other things.

In this dream, a middle-aged Aboriginal woman came to me with a snake and she put it on me while I was in my bed. The snake tried to crawl in my sleeve, but I cut if off before it got to my shoulders and could get completely inside my shirt.

Now, you have to understand... I do not like snakes. Especially in Australia, as most of the ones here are deadly poisonous. But I wasn't afraid of the snake, because I knew the snake would just assume that's as far as the "hole" went. So, the snake came back out of my sleeve and decided to go under the covers.

There I was, dreaming about being in bed, under the covers, with an Aboriginal woman standing next to me, and a snake crawling in and out and over me and under the covers. The snake was making the sign for Infinity across my chest. And the weirdest thing about this? I wasn't scared and I didn't wake up with my heart pounding, as if I'd suffered a nightmare.

I looked up the symbolism of the dream. Did you know that snakes are ancient symbols of wisdom and knowledge? And so are old women. The fact that the woman was an Aborigine suggests that I need to be more in touch with my intuition and natural side.

Ever have a weird dream and want to look up the meaning? Try using this dream dictionary: http://dreammoods.com/. Now if only I could figure out what the heck to do with this information!

A Day on the Hawkesbury

2009-09-15T19:54:00.008+10:00

A glimpse into our day on the river.

Watch it in High Definition on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9EXPZvR-tV0

Messing about in boats

2009-09-14T09:20:00.001+10:00

Our friend D recently received his boating pilot's license and invited a few friends to go on his maiden passenger voyage down the Hawkesbury River for the day. Of course, in my imagination, I immediately saw a scene from Wind in the Willows, where we, the intrepid band of adventurers, meander our way down a lazy river and have a lingering picnic along the banks somewhere.

The day started out fine. It was warm and sunny without being too hot. No one got lost on their way to the boat ramp. Everyone brought food for our picnic and wore the right clothing. It promised to be a fabulous day.

It took a little while to get used to the powerful motor on the boat, but after the initial learning curve, we were on our way with great confidence in our captain, and enjoyed the Australian sun, which had finally decided to end its winter hibernation.

We hit some rough water near the headlands, where the river meets the ocean, and bounced our way into the river mouth. Fortunately, despite the jarring, we were as well-padded as nature intended, and no harm was done. The water smoothed out and we wound our way up the river.

Now, I'm used to the rivers and lakes that I grew up near which are fresh water, and the worst thing you have to worry about is the occasional eel or pike. The Hawkesbury is brackish and has known to host sharks as well as jellyfish and other marine life. I looked in amazement as a huge pink jellyfish went swimming by. I had no idea that they could move that quickly! I always thought they just drifted lazily on currents. But then I also thought that about boats.

We motored our way up past Akuna Bay and found a little sheltered spot to anchor in for "first lunch" as we dubbed it. No restaurant could have provided better. There were sandwiches, fine cheeses and crackers, cold meats, gourmet olives, wine, spicy rice salad and pickled vegetables ... a feast fit for our intrepid band. Friend N got out his fishing gear, determined to catch something with a large prawn. Sadly, there were no nibbles this day; however, the fun's in the fishing, not the fish and we laughed and joked and in general, overate.

We then made our way back out to the main river and headed past Cottage Point, where there's an inn to which you can charter a sea plane for lunch or dinner. Living on the river must be idyllic if you can afford it.

We motored our way past Cottage Point to Bobbin Head, which is near the end of that branch of the river. All out for a stretch and an ice cream. There's a lovely inn at Bobbin Head as well as a public dock and all the mod cons. I could have happily spent a couple of hours there, but there was still much to see and do!

We then got back into our boat, which had become our little island home. We explored to the end of the branch, and then headed back up towards Dangar Island, passing under the railroad bridge. We found another little cove and anchored again in true Wind in the Willows fashion for "second lunch." This time, Friend D2 decided to join in the fishing. No nibbles. By now it was late in the afternoon and we had to head back to the dock to return the boat.

This is when the fuel ran out. The engine sputtered and then died. Not to panic, though. We had a spare tank of fuel and with one phone call to the boat owner, we had it hooked up to the motor. For the next 20 minutes or so, we motored back through the rough head waters. The waves were getting higher and forming white caps. The ride was bumpy, but exciting! The sun was going down. Were we going to make it back to Bayview before it became too dark to see?

Of course not. About 10 minutes before we reached the dock, the spare tank went empty. Something was wrong with the motor. It was leaking fuel. We ran out of fuel a second time and had to call for a rescue, which came a half an hour later, in the dark. The five intrepid sailors, Ratty, Mole, Badger, Rabbit, and Hedgehog sat and regaled each other with tales of Mad Men and District 9 hoping, with each passing boat, that our rescuer was upon us. We thought perhaps we could bribe someone to fetch us fuel with a couple bottles of beer and a bocconcini cheese sandwich.

We were fine, really. It was cool, but we had jackets. We had food. We had drinks (although no toilet). We had a sense of humour. We did not break into song, however.

Finally, with another spare tank of fuel, we made it back to the public dock and disembarked a little tired but happy and congratulating our "captain" on a job well done. So much excitement for a maiden passenger voyage. It was a day we won't soon forget.

As Ratty said, "Believe me, my young friend, there is NOTHING--absolute nothing--half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats."

Travelling - now.... and then

2009-09-07T17:59:00.000+10:00

I remember, when I was growing up, I desperately wanted to be a flight attendant. The first time on a plane, I was ten years old and on the way to New York City with my sister and my grandmother. We dressed up in our Sunday dresses and white gloves. We flew Mohawk Airlines and held for three hours over Kennedy airport, waiting for our turn to land. The plane was hot and stuffy, but I had a window seat, so I didn't care. I stared down on Manhattan and was mesmerised. I knew I wanted to fly again and again.

The next time I flew, it was with my mother and sister and we were on our way to Hawaii. I was so excited! It was a long flight in comparison to that little hop from Syracuse to New York City. This time, it was completely across the country and half way out into the Pacific! I think we flew Pan Am. It's kind of sad to look back and realize that neither Pan Am nor Mohawk Airlines airlines exists any more.

Things have changed a lot since those days, however. Flight attendants' uniforms are less alluring and more corporate. I guess that had to happen eventually, once people moved on from seeing flight attendants as more than just glamor girls with badges. Flight attendants became responsible for flight safety and had to rule obnoxious passengers with an iron thumb. They have to help heft heavy baggage into the overhead compartments. They have to intercede in passenger disputes.

Things didn't used to be so complicated. I remember when I was a kid, flying was a privilege. Not everyone could afford to fly. For many people it was a once or twice in a lifetime thrill. I can still recall people dubbing their trips to Europe as a "once in a lifetime experience." Now I know people who fly to Europe several times a year.

When I was a kid, people knew how to behave politely on planes. Every once in a while, someone had too much to drink and got a bit loud, but the flight attendants kept that person occupied until the drunk either passed out or the plane landed. Most of the drunks were in first class, though. The rest of us managed with Pepsi or tomato juice. In my dreams of life as a grownup however, I imagined that as a flight attendant I could have first class meals and jet-set around the world and not have to worry about the passengers once the plane landed. I could see the world and get paid for it!

There used to be more leg room on flights, too. When did we all start getting squeezed in like sardines? You used to be able to put your seat back and sleep, without landing in the lap of the person behind you. I can't remember when all this started to change. And with less room to move, passengers became more cranky. We stopped wearing our nice clothes - who wants to come out of a cramped space with a wrinkled suit? We also became less friendly and less civil. We stopped tolerating people who took up more than a seat width.

When the passengers became more surly, so did the flight attendants. I recall one domestic US flight where the flight attendants all seemed angry - even though we had all just boarded the plane and there had been no incidents. It was probably because the flight had been delayed by several hours and it was now 2am. Everyone was cranky.

Now, flight attendants have to deal with cranky passengers, screaming children, and crazies trying to open the emergency exit in mid flight. And don't even get me started on "terrorists." The security screening in airports is over the top ridiculous. A million illegal aliens come into the USA every year, but grandma is having her boots checked before her flight in case she's smuggling gelignite.

We used to be able to fly into a friendly country and get a tourist visa on the spot. Now you have to apply online and declare your intentions before you leave, and even after that, you may not be let in.

Yes sir... flying has changed. I'm kind of glad I was too short to be eligible to be a flight attendant. Now, I'm just a passenger and I try to grin and bear it with everyone else, including the flight attendants.

How to make housework fun

2009-08-30T10:36:00.006+10:00

Take one outfit reminiscent of the late '50s or early '60s. Put hair 'up' and do your make-up. Remember to wear red lipstick and flat heels. Try to look somewhere between Audrey Hepburn and Betty Draper from Mad Men.

Add one husband with a camera who likes to tell jokes. Give husband dirty looks if he says "you missed a spot." Play the "lounge" music collection over the computer and dance your way through the chores - and voila! Housework as play.

Your reward - husband does the dishes and you get to relax with a glass of wine.

Who says chore day has to be boring?

Today, Dan has to repair a plumbing leak. Something tells me he's not going to dress up as Don Draper or Fred Astaire to do it, though.

Unsolved mysteries

2009-08-28T16:52:00.005+10:00

As I approach another birthday (one of those "milestone" birthdays that I refuse to acknowledge exists), I find that I am still troubled by some of the mysteries of the universe. There are some puzzles, it seems, that will never be solved.

One that haunts me weekly is, where do the mates to my socks go? Why is it, I put pairs of socks in the wash, and when they come out of the dryer, there are two mismatched socks with no mates? I want to blame the washing machine or dryer, but we clean those regularly and there have been no missing socks returned to their owners. Do they disappear down some strange black hole? Do aliens like my socks? Are my socks missing time?

Another one that troubles me: why don't I ever have enough coat hangers? I hear they multiply for other people. If this is so, why am I always short on hangers? I regularly clean out my wardrobe, just to free up some hangers, but there are never enough. I have to rotate my clothes with the dirty laundry basket just to make sure that there are enough hangers to go around. Do I occasionally buy new hangers? Of course I do - but still - there are never enough! Where do they go? And why do I have fewer clothes in my closet and still not enough hangers? Is there a hanger thief in my neighborhood?

Why do I always have more work to do on Fridays than I do on Mondays? Monday is the start of the week. That's when all of the tasks should begin, but no - I wind up with the end of the week being the beginning of the week. In other words, everyone wants things done at the last minute, before the start of the weekend. I think there should be a law that says Friday should be the prequel to Saturday and Monday should be the sequel to Sunday. Then we could all work hard one day a week, on Wednesday.

And lastly, why does my husband, whom I love dearly, always want me when I'm in the middle of something else? I can be falling asleep on the lounge, doing nothing but listening to a movie that I have no interest in, and he'll be off doing his own thing. The minute I sit down to do some work or get involved in a project, his hands are all over me. When I'm in the bathroom having a private moment, he makes up a reason to have to check the dryer in the laundry closet just outside the bathroom door (maybe he's looking for socks!) If you have young children, you know that this is a carry-over from childhood, when your kid decides to act up the minute you get on the phone or the minute that Reader's Digest comes to deliver your sweepstakes check.

I've had to accept the fact that there are just some things in life that will never be resolved to my satisfaction. Like aliens and UFOs. And why do aliens make crop circles anyway? Are they just trying to express their artistic tendencies? Or are they trying to tell me where my socks are hidden?

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2009-08-22T11:21:00.007+10:00

There's nothing so sure in life as change, and over the past few months, this has become increasingly evident in my life. Perhaps it's the perspective of getting older that makes me perceive things in a compressed view.

In the past six months, couples have split up and moved on, people have moved away (and replacements haven't moved in), work has been restructured and people have been retrenched, and I even changed my hair colour.

I can understand the person who coined the phrase "Stop the world! I want to get off!" Like Ferris Bueller said, "life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around every once in a while, it's gonna pass you by." Problem is, I think most people get to a certain age, and they just don't want to play that game any more. It's taken me decades to get my life to where it is. I'd like it to just stay this way for a while. Trouble is - you stay the way you are for too long, and you become a dinosaur.

I suppose this makes change a good thing, and it's also responsible for that thing we call Nostalgia. If things never changed, there'd be no nostalgia. So, in honour of change and nostalgia, here's a list of things I really miss, due to Change:

Metal ice cube trays. They never cracked or leaked and you never had to tip the water down the tray to fill up all of the little cubes. The water also froze a lot faster in the metal trays.

Sunday morning with my friends watching the Sunday Monster Movie Matinee. There was nothing better than watching Abbott and Costello meet the Mummy, or the original Frankenstein with Boris Karloff. Every once in a while, there'd be a Shirley Temple movie. My favourite was The Bluebird. Do girls even watch Shirley Temple movies now, or are they all hooked on Hannah Montana?

Dangerous kids' toys, like my Thingmaker. Kids burned themselves on the hot plate, so it was taken off the market, sold, and re-issued. How about kids learning how not to touch the hot plate? Or how about parents supervising its use? Another great toy was my Easy Bake Oven. I'm glad that Hasbro still makes that.

Phone conversations. Remember calling your friends and chatting for ages on the phone? I can remember my mother yelling "get off the phone! I need to make a call." Nowadays, few people use the phone just to chat. Now, it's text messaging and email, or VOIP if you have it. Every time my phone rings, I know someone's trying to get me to donate to a charity. That's when it does ring - which is hardly ever.

Nice clothes. Nowadays, in order to get clothes cut for a woman's shape, you have to go high end designer brand. My mother used to take my sister and me to Sears or JC Penney. They had clothes for every kind of figure. Now, it's not profitable enough for manufacturers to offer so many sizing options. The sizes have all been made generic, which usually means that if it fits me in one place, it doesn't fit me in another. I'm going to go back to sewing my own things.

Time. I used to have more time. I could put my hair in rollers and not have to worry about catching the train into work at 6:30 am. Now, I don't do anything with my hair. No woman I know does, other than the basics. If it can't be styled with a certain cut, it gets pulled back into a pony tail. I could also spend over an hour making dinner if I wanted to. Now, if I can't make it in half that time, then we grab fast food.

Decent music. OK, now I know I sound like a real fuddy duddy, and I do like some new music, but most of it seems to be a complete rehash of the things I listened to in the '70's and '80's. Has the planet run out of talent? Maybe it has and I just missed the memo.

Pastels. I recall little Mid-century Modern homes with turquoise trims and wall colour, or peach and lemon. Cars came in pastel shades like coral, lemon, cream and turquoise. The world just looks so much more harsh without pastels.

Men in suits and a hat. I rarely see a man in a suit. In a button up shirt - sure. But a suit? Rarely. In a hat? Almost never. And pipes? Do men smoke pipes any more? I mean, beautiful burled wooden and clay ones that don't use water and burn flavoured tobacco and not that green stuff. I miss the smell of brandied tobacco burning slowly in a pipe.

Going out to see a movie. Last time Dan and I went to see a movie, all we bought at the concession stand was a bottle of water, and it cost us a total of $38. No wonder we rarely go.

Of course, there are good things about change. I travel more. My salary goes up. My kids are maturing and finding their niche in the world. However, it's pretty telling that one of today's most popular and acclaimed television shows is about life during the Kennedy years.

As for the future, it's still one big blank canvas. It's guaranteed to be full of ch-ch-ch-changes, however.

A message to all lip gloss manufacturers:

2009-08-17T12:14:00.005+10:00

I try to keep this blog light-hearted, which is why you won't find me discussing things like health care reform, politics, homelessness, the war, or mental illness very often. These things concern me greatly offline - so I refuse to bring them online. My blog has become a refuge from these weighty matters.

Having said that, though, I would like to reach a little into my dark side and register a complaint with the lip gloss manufacturers out there.

Why can't you design a tube of gloss where the applicator doesn't fall short of the bottom of the tube? I wind up wasting about 15% of the product in the tube due to the short applicators. The gloss is too thick to try to tip closer to the applicator - it just sits there at the bottom of the tube - taunting me and reminding me of the waste of society in general.

Oh, I have caved in to my practical side and broken up coffee stirrers to try to scrape that last bit of gloss out of the tube, but why should I have to do this, after paying a lot of money for that gloss in the first place? Can't you make your applicators a bit longer so that they just scrape the bottom of the tube?

I don't like squeezy tubes of gloss. They're messy and inaccurate when you go to apply it. I want a nice gloss with an applicator that doesn't waste product, in a tube I don't have to squeeze to apply. Is that so much to ask for?

I'm feeling particularly rant-y today because this situation reminds me of something in our materialistic consumerist lives: planned obsolescence. Everything from PCs to televisions, to underwear and appliances, is designed to fall apart within a couple of years. I think this may be another reason why I love vintage. Vintage items have withstood the test of time. They were made at a time when people were willing to pay a little more for better quality.

Too bad you can't buy vintage lip gloss - and even if you could, would you want to? I bet the applicators could get all of the product out of the tube, though.

A sign of getting older

2009-08-10T15:31:00.003+10:00

Dan called me from work today. He told me that he had a sign from above that he was getting older.

"What happened?" I asked.

"I was out unloading the trailer today, when a bird flew over my head and pooped on it," he told me.

I was rather puzzled as to why this would be a sign of getting older. Doesn't everyone get bird poop on them at least once in their life?

He went on to explain:

"I went to the washroom to clean it out of my hair, when I realised that I couldn't find it. It had partially dried and had blended with my hair."

Dan's hair is getting to be more salt than pepper, and so I giggled. And Dan laughed.

All I could respond with was "ewww". I hope bird poop is good for your hair, and I'll have to remind Dan to shampoo in the shower tonight.

When we both stopped laughing, Dan said "put THAT in your blog." And so, I did.

High school nightmare

2009-07-31T20:43:00.014+10:00

Someone directed me to a site where I could upload a photo and see what my high school year book photo may have looked like through the decades. After I stopped laughing and coughing up my lungs, I decided to save the results and share them with you:

1952, not too silly...

1960. I swear I actually owned a pair of glasses like these when I was a kid. They were horrid blue cats' eye things, ten years out of fashion. I preferred to be blind.

1962. The year of Jackie Kennedy and pillbox hats and hair styles that look like pillbox hats. I actually like this one.

1966. The Flip. I look like Mary Tyler Moore's worst stalker fan.

1976. Gloria Steinem's twin sister. I also owned a pair of glasses like this. I swear. I did. The horror of it all is that I picked these out myself.

1984. The year of George Orwell's apocalypse. After seeing this photo, you can understand why.

1992. I think this hairdo was part of a girl gang initiation. I can admit here that I, too, permed my hair. I had BIG hair. I was hip back then.

2000. I look like this now. Honestly. I'm ten years out of fashion. What's even more amazing is that I like the way I may have looked in 1952 and 1962. Now you know why I'm stuck there.

You, too, can share in the high school nightmare (be ye a guy or a gal, arrr!) Just go to http://www.yearbookyourself.com/ and have fun!

Window shopping

2009-07-27T09:37:00.006+10:00

Yesterday, Dan and I went window shopping... and door shopping, floor shopping, and patio shopping. Friends of ours from out of town came by to look through a model home, which they are having built next year, and invited us to tour it with them.

The house is gorgeous: large open living area, outside entertainment area, formal rooms, four bedrooms and office. I couldn't help but feel a bit envious, as Dan and I purchased our house during the housing bubble and if it's worth what we paid for it, I will be surprised. We don't expect to buy another house any time soon.

There is a marked difference between Dan and me when we walk through model houses. I look at the bathrooms and kitchen - how are they laid out? What conveniences do they have? How easy are they to clean? And I look at the colour schemes. Do I like the colours? Can I apply the colour scheme to my own house? And the overall floor plan: are the bedrooms separate from the living area? Do visitors have to walk past a bedroom to get to the entertainment area? Is the lighting adequate? Are there enough power outlets?

When Dan walks through a model house, he looks at the way things are constructed. We have a large pergola attached to the back of our house that we want to convert to a room. We don't have a lounge room large enough to entertain more than a couple people comfortably and the last quote we received for just connecting the roofline was enough to make us give up on ever having that entertainment area. We gagged on the sticker price and didn't discuss it again for months.

After touring the model houses and seeing how the outside entertainment areas were built, Dan got new a new idea. He'd push the pergola roof closer to the house, so that the house eves overlap the pergola roof, move the guttering to the outside of the pergola, and put flashing up to assist with water flow, which can be done for a minimal expense. The hard part will be putting in a new floor with ventilation - but we can do this in stages. Our new lounge room is now within reasonable reach, although it won't be done any time soon.

I always wondered what the point of going through model homes was for someone who wasn't in the market to buy - but it turned out to be a worthwhile trip.

I love being able to dream! Dan does, too.

Stress kills

2009-07-22T16:21:00.004+10:00

In the past couple of weeks, my world has decided to break down:

Our hot water heater died. We called a repairman who announced that the thermo-coupler was hanging on by a thread, and that the model of heater we have is so old that he couldn't get a replacement part. We have to start saving up for a new water heater. He couldn't tell us how long the repair would last, but that it was, at best, a temporary fix.

Then, a few days later, in the middle of editing an important document, my phone line went dead. With the phone line, went my Internet connection. I couldn't get any work done, I couldn't get into our network to retrieve any documents - and I couldn't call anyone to let them know I couldn't finish up the documents, because I didn't have their phone number programmed into my phone - which wasn't working anyway.

I grabbed my mobile phone and called the phone company. They said my phone would be fixed within three working days. It was a Friday. That meant that it could be the following Tuesday before it was fixed. I was beside myself.

That weekend, we went to the mall, and for the first time in my life, I used an Internet kiosk to send out an urgent SOS to my colleagues. Now I know why I've never used an Internet kiosk except in dire emergencies. The key caps had been moved around by a bored kiosk user, and I had to pound the space bar with my fist in order to get it to work.

Yesterday, the email system at work went down. Things are just imploding around me. This always happens when I'm stressed about something.

Dan and I got our flight plans worked out, and when I went to hunt down my passport, I discovered that I would not be allowed back into the country unless I paid $260 for a special travel visa. I have to take time off work to get a sticker put in my passport by Immigration.

I sometimes wonder: What's next?

Never mind. I really don't want to know. They say that "stress kills." I agree, but it doesn't kill people, it kills electronic equipment!

Christmas in July

2009-07-13T12:18:00.006+10:00

It's nice to know that I'm not the only person from north of the equator to miss Christmas in the winter. I've been in Australia now for nearly eight years, and still am not used to having Christmas in the summer. It feels more like the Fourth of July here, with families having picnic lunches and heading to the beach to soak up the summer sun on Christmas Day.

So, of course, when I found out about Yulefest in the Blue Mountains, I was ready to put on my jingle bells and go! The major hotels and guest houses in the high peaks of the Blue Mountains put on the traditional roast dinner and usually have some kind of live entertainment. This was our fourth Yulefest, and we've yet to be disappointed. No muss - no fuss - leave the entertaining to other people, just relax and enjoy!

We spent our days hiking and doing a bit of shopping, and our nights enjoying hot meals and cabaret style shows. The views in the mountains are spectacular, and it's just the nicest feeling in the world to come out of the cold and sit in front of a roaring fireplace with a glass of mulled wine. No phone. No Internet. No housework. Bliss.

After our three course meal, we listened to the sounds of Dr. Don's Double Dose - a trio that played old New Orleans style blues and boogie-woogie. There were definite influences of Fats Domino, Dr John, and Jelly Roll Morton. We could have listened for hours. There's nothing like live music!

And there's nothing like Yulefest.

You can preview some of Dr Don's Double Dose here: http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/dddd

mp3.com.au/DrDonsDoubleDoseFeatDonHopkinsAndRobGrosser

Don't know why there's no sun up in the sky

2009-07-08T22:46:00.007+10:00

Stormy weather.... (rather suits my mood at present.)

Vacation planning hell

2009-07-08T18:06:00.002+10:00

I've got to take annual leave at work. Not that I want to - I have to, as I've accumulated too much holiday time for my employer to feel comfortable. I can take a month off and still have four weeks of leave left over.

It's never a good time for me to go on leave. There's always a project that I'm overseeing. I manage two employees and oversee their work. And when I get back, there's more work for me to urgently address, than there was before I left.

Don't get me wrong - I love time to myself and I love time off. It's just that there's always a price to pay for spending time away from work.

And then there are the logistical nightmares. My family is spread across the United States. No one is able to come to a designated centralized area to meet up in - not even after we've flown half way around the planet. Instead, Dan and I will have to drive completely across the country at great expense and up and down the coast to see everyone. I told someone where we'd be staying, and could they drive two hours to spend the day with us. That apparently is too far, and could we consider driving an extra two hours instead?

Dan has to take out a loan in order to travel with me this year. We've been looking forwards to a nice holiday for two years. And now I'm dreading it.

By the time I get back to work, after the first week, I'll be in need of another vacation, which I won't dare to take. It'll take my boss telling me that I have to take a holiday to get me to take one again. And, like a masochist, I will go through this same scenario again.

Somewhere, the god of travel is laughing at me.

Oz is somewhere over the rainbow

2009-06-28T16:25:00.006+10:00

Dan surprised me with a day out today. There was another craft show in Sydney, and we went to take a look. I am still coveting the same French doll that I was coveting after the last doll show we went to and I am debating on whether or not I will cave in and eventually buy it.

We had lunch at Subway. Subway is becoming a bit of a weekend tradition with us. I have to confess that I always order my favorite - but that's what I do at all of the restaurants that I visit. I find one or two dishes that I really like, and stick with them. Occasionally, I feel guilty for being so set in my ways that I try something new out of principle - but then I feel as if I've cheated myself out of the pleasure of what I know I absolutely like. Some people would call this being stuck in a rut. I call it being committed. Sometimes, you really don't need to shop around.

The day started out to be fairly warm for winter, but afternoon hit, and so did the storms. The skies were dramatic and moody and full of variety. Fortunately, I had my camera with me and got to take a few photos of the rainbows that followed. I truly felt as if I'd been swept into another world. After all, I really am living somewhere over the rainbow.

Three more stars in the sky

2009-06-26T16:17:00.008+10:00

It started with the death of Ed McMahon*, the booming-voiced co-host of the Tonight Show for 30 years. Ed lived to a good old age and had a life that was never stagnant. He co-hosted several successful television shows as well as the Jerry Lewis Telethon. Ed was the quintessential television Emcee. I never saw Ed on television without a smile, and Ed had a great smile. He knew how to play to an audience and knew how to take advantage of the camera. He had six children, one of whom died from cancer at the age of 44.

With the passing of Ed, so passes the golden age of television, in my opinion. There aren't too many more of his generation still left active in "the business." Ed McMahon was a staple of my night time television-viewing life in one form or another for as long as I can remember.

And then, today, two more losses: Farrah Fawcett* and Michael Jackson*.

When I was growing up in the 1970's, Charlie's Angels was all the rage. I used to love to watch it. I can't describe any of the episodes now, but I do remember Jill Munroe. Every girl at school wanted the Farrah Fawcett hairdo. Farrah was all about the hair. Unfortunately, the hairdressers in town did not know how to do "good" Farrah hairdos. Some of my friends wound up with what can only be described as "wings," sticking out the side of their heads, versus the tousled layers that was Farrah's hairstyle.

Farrah really didn't get taken seriously as an actress until years after Charlie's Angels, when she filmed The Burning Bed and starred in the Broadway play, Extremities. I read the book The Burning Bed and it saddened me so much that I couldn't bring myself to watch the movie. I might go and see if I can watch it online tonight, though - in honor of Ms Fawcett.

Her longtime companion, Ryan O'Neal, never got to realize his dream of marrying Farrah, but they had a son together, and there's no doubt in my mind that they loved each other. It's sad that she died before she could say "I do," but there's no rhyme nor reason to life sometimes, is there?

And then Michael Jackson, who was only a year and a half older than I. I think that's what bothers me the most about his death - how relatively young he was when he died, although I am already seven years older than my father was when he died.

I enjoyed Michael's music growing up. He was a great foil to Donny Osmond - both teen heartthrobs in the 70's. When I first heard One Bad Apple, I thought it was by the Jackson Five. The music produced by those two guys, Michael and Donny, colored my entire adolescence. One of the most romantic songs I ever danced to, was I'll Be There.

When my kids were little, Michael became known as "The King of Pop." He dominated MTV. We went out and bought Thriller, and sang Billie Jean on hikes through our local state park. Michael was riding high all through the 80's and into the 90's, and then something happened. I think that Michael just lost his grip on reality. I found out from people who worked with him, that he was surrounded by enablers - people who were willing to give him godlike status. What I think he really needed was someone to keep him grounded, but if it ever happened, I never read or heard about it. I prefer to remember the Michael Jackson of the 70's and 80's.

So, rest in peace, Michael. You died too young.

Tonight, there are three more stars in the sky.

* All photos are the property of Associated Press. They are used for commentary purposes only.

See you in the funny papers!

2009-06-19T11:37:00.004+10:00

When I was growing up, there was a popular comic strip called Mutt and Jeff. It had been around a long time even when I was a kid. It was a comic about two best friends, Jeff, who was a shorty, and Mutt, his lanky pal, and focused on their get rich quick schemes, to comic effect.

The comic strip became so popular over the decades, that the term "Mutt and Jeff" became part of the common vernacular when describing a mismatched pair. That term could be used to describe Dan and me. I am just over 5 feet tall, and Dan's a few inches over 6 feet. The top of my head barely reaches his shoulders.

This doesn't usually pose any problems. We divvy up the chores according to height. I clean the floors and he can reach things in the high cabinets. We make a good team. The only time our height difference really comes into play, is when we try to take a picture of the two of us, standing side by side.

Witness the following photos taken by Dan at what he perceived to be eye level:

Oooops - cut my head off at the chin and Dan's forehead is mysteriously missing.

Ooops - cut his head off.

By this time, we both have a fit of the giggles. We finally came up with this:

except that Dan, although he is the one with his finger on the shutter, looks like a deer caught in the headlights.

Now, if we could only come up with some get rich quick schemes, our friends could say "See you in the funny papers!"

Kid stuff

2009-06-12T10:52:00.003+10:00

Sometimes, the oddest things can trigger childhood memories. Today, it's peanut butter and jam sandwiches.

My sister and I lived off peanut butter and jam sandwiches when we were kids. Like most kids, my sister and I preferred the taste of peanut butter and jam to just about anything else, except perhaps fried bologna or bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches, which were expensive in comparison.

In the summer, we would beg my mother to pack us a picnic lunch so that we could eat outside. Being the energetic kids that we were, we managed to get half way through our sandwich and apple before we were itching to run around again. But what to do with the sandwich? Easy solution - toss the half eaten sandwich and apple into the next door neighbor's bushes. I don't know if we ever thought about what would happen to the sandwiches, once disposed of in this way. It just seemed like the best place to hide them.

One day, my mother got a call from the neighbor, who reported on her peanut butter and jam bushes. Fortunately, she was a good natured woman whom we all adored, and she and my mother had a laugh over it. Of course, my sister and I were scolded and admonished never to throw half eaten food away like that again. I don't think we ever got any more summer picnics, either.

So, the next summer, I decided that I would become a hobo, like Bucky the little beaver in Tales from Schroon Lake, which is a real place in the Adirondak mountains, near where I grew up. I looked around for a stout stick and a large kerchief that I could tie my few belongings in, and packed, what else but a couple of peanut butter and jam sandwiches in my pack. I was certain that these sandwiches would sustain me for a couple of days, and I was off on one of my adventures.

The adventure consisted of wandering down to the creek and wandering along to a point that the creek became wide and shallow. The neighborhood kids all loved to play there. It was an idyllic spot where one could dig for crayfish or swing on the low hanging willow tree branches. Those were the days that kids didn't have to worry about predators looking for unattended young 'uns.

I seriously wanted to build a camp fire (by rubbing two sticks together, like I'd seen in the TV Westerns I loved to watch; I could never figure out why it never worked for me,) and stay long after dark, but I didn't want to get in trouble with my mother who had a rule: you have to come in when the street lights come on. So, at dusk, I headed back with dirt on my face, hands and clothes, and muddy sneakers. I still had a sandwich left over. There's no time to eat when you're having an adventure in the woods.

So, I tossed it into the bushes. For all I know, it still lies there, a petrified artefact of a bygone day.

One of "those days"

2009-06-08T16:26:00.002+10:00

Ever have one of those days where you just feel totally useless, unappreciated, and in general, completely unmotivated?

Today is one of those days for me, which is really a shame, because it's a public holiday here in Australia. However, we've not done much over the long weekend, save for a day trip to the coast where it was cold and windy (we did get a nice seafood lunch, though.)

I blame the overcast weather. I hate winter. I don't hate the cold - I just hate the overcast skies and the constant rain. I grew up in Syracuse, NY. I read that Syracuse only gets 63 sunny days per year. That's over 300 days per year of cloud cover greater than 50%. No wonder I was depressed as a kid and moved away as soon as I could.

I suppose all of this overcast weather and rain is beneficial to plant life. Our plants can sleep for a season and renew themselves, only to burst forth in the spring with fresh life and vigor. But it's unfair to humans, who are expected to continue to toil and produce, all while mother nature is screaming at us to give it a rest.

As for my mood, like they say in the song, I Blame it on the Weatherman. Still, hibernating for a couple of months doesn't seem like a bad idea. Someone wake me in the spring?

The field mouse

2009-06-01T13:37:00.003+10:00

A couple of nights ago, I was in bed when I thought I heard a rustling noise coming from my wardrobe. Having dealt with rats in our house at one point, I was filled with a kind of panic and dread. Fortunately, the logical part of my mind took over and I remembered that we had closed off all rat-sized access to our home. It couldn't be a rat.

Last night, I was relaxing in the tub, when Dan came in and announced: "Promise you won't scream if I show you this."

I was thinking, if it's a big, hairy spider, all bets are off! "What is it?" I asked.

Dan leaned over and showed me his cupped hand. Caught between two fingers was a little tail, and attached to the tail was a little field mouse. It was no bigger than a ping pong ball and was soft and grey. If a mouse could have a confused look on its face, this mouse did. It sat in Dan's hand, staring off into space, seemingly unphased by being unceremoniously scooped up off the kitchen floor.

Dan explained that he had walked into the kitchen in time to see the mouse walking across the floor. He tried to grab it by the tail, but was unsuccessful. The mouse wasn't moving very fast, and Dan took a chance and just scooped it up in his hands. It made no attempt to escape. It didn't bite. It just sat there, wondering what was going to happen next.

I had a feeling that the mouse had probably found remnants of rat bait that may have been left over from the Great Rat War the year before, and I felt sorry for it. I didn't think it was well, as a wild mouse would have quickly run from view and not allowed itself to get picked up like that. It was either ill, or very old and slow.

"Poor little thing," I said. "Can you put it in the garden?" And that's just what Dan did.

So now we have a garden mouse.

Reconnecting

2009-05-28T21:31:00.002+10:00

Some of you may remember my post from back in November, when I wrote about my sadness and confusion over the disappearance of my first husband, my sons' father. Because of this blog, I've been able to reconnect with his family, and I am totally thrilled! I know that some people would feel odd - but not me. It feels like a bit of me has been restored. I am hoping that some good things will come out of it and that we'll all benefit.

I guess I am writing this because, for many reasons, families become estranged, or best friends fight and "break up," and relationships get lost. In my case, the common denominator passed away, which opened up the way for renewing relationships without the spectre of the past acting as a wrench in the works. And with the way being open, old myths and misperceptions are falling away quickly.

There are still many unknowns, but the desire to meet the unknown is exciting rather than terrifying. I have few trepidations, because any connection is a bonus over no connection.

We are all family, after all.

In front of the camera again

2009-05-18T16:38:00.002+10:00

Despite the fact that I live half a world away from my old friends and contacts, I try to keep up the communication. As someone who has survived life's foibles and other people's freedom of choice, I've learned that life can be unpredictable, and I may find myself back right where I started. I'll be glad that I maintained those relationships.

This past week, I was contacted by my former producer, who enjoys my little home movies. He wants me to make little documentaries and human interest segments for the community TV station in Chapel Hill again.

Oh no, I am thinking. You mean I have to take my film career seriously?

Not that I ever made money working at the TV station. It's just a community station and we tried to provide a bit of glam and culture, and possibly, some laughs. But it did come with perks. I used to get free food and was treated like royalty in Triangle region.

So, this time, if I make these Specials, I can look forward to total anonymity. Except, of course, when I go back to visit. If I do this, I will do this for my Inner Ham. You know, the part of me that likes to be behind and in front of a camera. Cecelia B. DeMille is finding her way back to the limelight. Now I just need to know what kinds of things people in Chapel Hill would find fun and interesting about Australia. Besides my lingerie or doll collection of course.

All suggestions appreciated.

Just swear while you work ...

2009-05-12T09:18:00.002+10:00

I learned something a long time ago from my father. The lesson was:

If you want to get something done, swear while you work.

Many a time, my dad would be in the basement, with the plumber's snake, unclogging the pipes and getting filthy, all the while, letting out a stream of blue language that has probably embedded itself in the concrete walls. One hundred years from now, some ghost hunters will be in our old basement, with EVP machines, and they will capture the playback of a man cursing while he works.

The kick is, however, my dad always managed to fix whatever it was he was working on.

I do believe that this is a "man thing," as Dan does exactly the same thing. This past weekend, Dan was fixing a wall outlet that stopped functioning. He took the wall plate off (after he turned off the Mains electricity, of course) and immediately started to curse the person or persons who wired our house. They left no slack in the wiring for any kind of repair work.

Dan wrestled with the wiring, cutting his thumb in the process, and swearing up a blue streak. I was the designated torch (or flashlight) holder as well as band-aid provider. Fifteen minutes and fifty curse words later - the outlet was fixed and functioning. This methodology works well when you've got those odd jobs to do around the house.

Now, there have been plenty of times I've wanted to let loose with a stream of curse words where I work, but somehow, I don't think that would go down very well.

A little romance

2009-04-29T17:24:00.003+10:00

Dan and I had a cozy night at home this past weekend, and things got a little steamy. We decided we were going to be spontaneous, but before we put on a show for the neighbors, Dan offered to pull the blinds down over the living room windows.

We have very tall ceilings - and very long pull down blinds. If you're not careful, and let go of the pull cord too quickly, the blind zips up to the top of the very tall window, where you will not be able to get it.

And, you guessed it, Dan let go of the blind - and ZIP! Up it flew with a familiar fluttering sound.

I started to laugh. Dan started to laugh. He had to climb on top of the back of our lounge to reach the cord and try again, all the while mimicking the sound of the blind re-winding itself around its spool.

I laughed even harder. My husband was dancing on the back of the lounge, trying to keep his balance. Unfortunately, that did not last long, and he made a futile grab at the pull cord and ripped the blind on his way down.

Both of us by now were completely useless in the romance department. Much like the nights we stay up, giggling, quoting lines from Young Frankenstein to each other. I don't know if laughter or sex is the secret to marital happiness, but I bet it's a pretty close race!

Disappearing landscapes

2009-04-12T19:05:00.003+10:00

Last night, Dan and I did something that we haven't done since we were kids.

We saw a movie at the local drive-in.

Drive-ins used to be the staple of Saturday night dates and family fare back in the '50's and '60's, but somewhere along the line, as towns expanded, the land that drive-ins sat on became too valuable. Most have been sold off and converted to strip malls or business parks. In some places, like Liverpool, NY where I grew up, only the neon sign remains of what used to be the community social gathering place in the summer.

I can remember as a kid, my mother popping a whole paper grocery bag full of buttered popcorn (in the days when you could only get paper). We'd bring our own softdrinks, and my sister and I would hunker down in the back seat under a blanket so that my parents wouldn't get charged for us, and we'd see Disney movies like The Absent-Minded Professor in black and white. It was exciting to hide from the ticket booth - we felt like co-conspirators with our parents, who didn't have a lot of money to spend on entertainment. There was always a double feature, and my sister and I would often nod off in the back seat before the end of the second feature.

There was a little play area near the screen that active children could play on until it got dark enough to show the film. And the concession was always advertised with cartoons. I wanted something from the concession stand, just because of the cartoons.

The drive-ins started to close during the recession of the early 80's, but if you look hard enough, you may find one that's still operating in a neighborhood near you. If you get a chance to go, you should. They're a part of life that is fast disappearing - and with the drive-ins, go those memories of lazy summer nights, necking with your girlfriend or boyfriend in the car and steaming up the windows, and feeling like the center of your own little world in your car.

Now... come with us to the drive-in ... just one more time.

My evil twin

2009-04-11T15:28:00.005+10:00

So, I decided that this year, with the change of the seasons, that I'd change my hair color. I've gone back to basics and it's now just about where my natural hair color should be - but I'm not sure if it's right for me any more. It brings out the green in my eyes, but now I have very piercing eyes and I'm worried that strange dogs will growl at me and attack me. (Don't laugh - this has happened before.)

It's not that I dislike dark hair - I love it - on other women.

Dan's says I am now my evil twin. I'm dark and mysterious. I don't know if I want to be dark and mysterious. It's taken this long to figure out who I am. I'm not sure I want to be a mystery any more. Besides - changing ones hair color is expensive - half my wardrobe and makeup doesn't work any more.

I'll give it a little more time and see if this grows on me. If not, I may go back to my blonde self. It's strange that I feel really out of my skin at the moment.

Truckin' in the Land of Oz

2009-04-08T19:14:00.006+10:00

I've got the week off from work, and this was great for the first day, Monday, when I spent the day preserving and repairing my vintage dolls. I cleaned them and sealed up their surface crazing and painted the areas with missing paint, taking care to duplicate the original configurations and colors. It looks very professional, if I do say so myself.

On Tuesday, I began to wonder what I was going to do with my day. It was overcast and a bit cool and I spent most of the day just amusing myself on eBay. I hemmed a couple pairs of pants and just relaxed. By Tuesday evening, I'd had enough of my "holiday," and told Dan that I was already bored and it was only Day 2 of my vacation.

That's when Dan suggested I get up at 5:30 am and go in the truck with him to make a pickup down the coast.

Five thirty A.M.! "But I'm on vacation!" I protested.

Nevertheless, I was up this morning at 5:30 am and in the truck, ready to go by 6:15. Dan was happy to have some company, and I was happy to get out of the house. The day turned out to be sunny and glorious, and we had an exciting time, going down Mount Ousley in a semi with the electric brakes on, winding through mountainous roads and squeezing through construction zones. You haven't lived until you can reach out your window and touch the concrete construction barriers - if only the truck sat low enough.

And you really haven't seen awe-inspiring countryside until you climb down a mountain and find yourself amongst rolling hills, farms, and winding creeks and rivers. The Shoalhaven area looks just like the John Rea Neill illustrations in my Oz series of books, and I have to wonder if Mr Neill ever made a trip Down Under in the days when you had to travel by steam ship.

We didn't encounter any wicked witches on our trip, although I have to say that finding decent toilets when you're on the road in a truck is a challenge. And you get to see all of the stupid things that drivers do, from a great vantage point.

We turned the radio up and sang along to E.L.O. ("don't bring me down, B-r-u-u-u-ce...") and ate Subway subs for lunch and ran three abreast with other trucks who were struggling to go back up Mount Ousley with full loads. (I am sure people behind us cussed us out, but we did manage to get past.)

Who would have thought riding in a truck could be so much fun?

Angora sweaters

2009-04-07T14:35:00.005+10:00

Winter is fast approaching Down Under. It annoys me that in April, instead of looking forward to sunshine and flowers, I have to prepare for cold weather. I'm not sure I will ever get used to this, as there is no national holiday to break up the monotony of the short days and cold temperatures.

Our house is basically an ice box with a veranda, built in the days when people apparently were much hardier then, than they are now. I decided that this year, I am going to concentrate on buying a wardrobe befitting the climate, so I purchased several angora sweaters.

I love angora. It's soft. It's warm, and it feels "rich." Every time I pick up an angora sweater, I am reminded of sweater girls from the 1950's, and Ed Woods' obsession with wearing his girlfriend Dolores Fuller's sweaters and stretching them out of shape (according to the Tim Burton film). It's sad that no one makes angora sweaters for men. They get stuck with cashmere, which, while also lovely and warm, doesn't have the fuzzy comfort factor of angora.

I have to confess, while I may look nice in angora, Johnny Depp looks better.

Nurse Dan

2009-03-13T22:13:00.004+11:00

I was violently ill last weekend. I mean, the kind of sick that requires receptacles at both ends of the spectrum. The kind of sick that keeps you immobilized because whenever you move, giant, crashing waves of nausea rack your body. I couldn't keep anything down, not even water. Not even the pink bismuth tablets I brought especially over from the States because it's the only thing that actually helps when I have stomach problems. Except for this time.

That's when Dan came to the rescue with cups of camomile tea (when I could stomach some) and decided to be my day nurse.

Dan's funny. He wouldn't leave the house except to run down to the local chip shop for some hot chips for lunch. He asked me if I would be all right alone for a few minutes.

"As long as I don't have to smell the chips when you get back," I pleaded, having just thrown up a bucket of used chips from the night before.

Dan's very attentive normally, but last weekend, he was even moreso. Maybe even a little suffocating. But I can't think of a nicer way to be suffocated. Truly, this man missed his calling in life (which I say is being a nurse, but Dan says is "being rich.")

Thank you, Dan. And by the way, you make a great cup of tea.

Do you look like a celebrity?

2009-03-13T17:24:00.003+11:00

Apparently I look like Naomi Watts. Or Liz Hurley. Or Gwyneth Paltrow. (Huh?)

http://www.myheritage.com/face-recognition

You, too, can see if you look like a celebrity, by going to http://www.myheritage.com/face-recognition and registering. Just upload a photo and see.

Tap dancing elephant

2009-03-07T18:58:00.006+11:00

I'm still fighting the infection that's been in my jaw, at best guess, for a couple of years, although at this point, I'm getting help from my local oral surgeon.

I was on oral antibiotics for a couple of weeks, but the infection, which is in the bone, didn't budge, except to overflow periodically through my gums. That's when the surgeon mentioned the dreaded words: root therapy. Root therapy, it turns out, is just the newest term for drilling a hole into your jaw via your tooth to a) perform a root canal, and b) irrigate the jaw and apply antibiotics directly to the offending area. The biggest difference between the old root canal and the new root therapy is that a root canal can be done in just over an hour - but root therapy occurs over a couple of months, for over an hour each visit.

Now, I suppose, if the tooth had been completely dead, I could have offered this up to you as a completely painless procedure, and to be honest, after a good dose of novocaine, it almost is. However, if I hear "open wide" one more time, I might throw something.

I've had three such treatments and will have to go back for one more, and each time I leave the surgery, not only am I drooling on myself and lisping when I attempt to speak, I have a great case of temporary lockjaw. The surgeon said that my tooth may be sore after this last treatment, which was particularly deep. What he should have told me was that I would think an elephant was tap dancing on my tooth.

This elephant took great pleasure at distracting me day and night. Her rhythm, I must say, is excellent. Not very good with artistic expression, though.

Several days later, the elephant, thankfully, is slowly getting tired and is just now jumping up and down on an old mattress - just in time for me to get a *$#!*ing nasty case of food poisoning for the weekend. At least I don't have to worry about needing to chew anything for a couple of days.

Film at Eleven

2009-03-04T08:29:00.003+11:00

Dan and I make a point of getting out and having fun on the weekends. We both put in long hours during the week, so, when the weekend comes around, we try to let our hair down (or as much of it as Dan can spare.)

I try to record some of this fun - in fact, I have aspirations of being the Cecelia B. DeMille of blogging. However, CB would have never allowed his camera to run out of battery power:

P.S. Some of you may be amused to know that Dan's pedicure has been holding up over these past few weeks.

Girlfriends' Day

2009-02-15T21:45:00.005+11:00

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, and Dan and I did something truly unromantic - we got together with friends and spent the day out.

I haven't really taken stock with Valentine's Day since I was a teenager. It's always been a disappointment. No man I have ever known has put the same amount of importance on Valentine's Day, as we women do. So, I've given up on it.

I've decided that Valentine's Day is now Girlfriends' Day. The day you get out with your girlfriends if you're a woman of any age, and have fun, while at the same time, you share a giggle together about your male partners. My girlfriend Helen and I have both come to the same conclusion. When our children become parents, we will be called Grammie, and our male partners will be called Grumpy.

No one knows why this happens. Men seem to get grumpier as they get older - much in the same way male chimpanzees do. Women, on the other hand, tend to get 'girlier' as they get older, and cause their children to roll their eyes in disapproval at their antics. My sons haven't said a whole lot about me modeling lingerie over the years, but no doubt they wonder when I am going to act like a dignified older woman. The answer to that is - never.

So, I hereby dedicate Valentine's Day to girlfriends far and near. I have girlfriends all over the world (you know who you are), aged from their 20's to their 70's, and each one is a treasure. Some are gay, some are straight, some have partners and some are single. Some are only girlfriends in my memory now. But I wouldn't have traded the experience for anything.

Next Valentine's Day, I may leave my husband at home and just take my girlfriends out.

The perils of boredom

2009-02-08T21:47:00.003+11:00

This weekend has been a scorcher. Temperatures have hovered near 100F out where we live. We are in peril of bush fires due to having no substantial rain for a month. So, what do we do to cope?

We get silly, of course. It might be the heat playing with our brains, but some interesting things have come out of this heat-related silliness.

Dan and I have an annual summer ritual. It's called "Dan's pedicure." It all started several years ago when I was giving myself a pedicure and Dan decided to be a pest and distract me by putting his feet in my lap as I was painting my toenails.

"OK," I told him. "Don't say I didn't warn you." And then I proceeded to paint his toenails to match mine.

Instead of being annoyed at his sparkly purplish-pink toenails, Dan had a laugh, which, of course, made me laugh. Now, every summer, I give Dan a pedicure and paint his toenails. Strangely enough, I don't give myself a pedicure any more.

This year, I thought I would be a little more democratic about things, and ask my online women friends to vote for the colour of the polish. The overwhelming majority voted for mango, out of a choice of mango, pink, gold, silver or pearl.

Dan, being the good sport he is, went along with the vote and is now the proud owner of bright orangey-red toenails. He even pulled out his thongs (flip-flops) to display his toes to the world. Actually, we went to see my in-laws this afternoon, where my father in-law remarked on the redness of the pedicure. "I like being different," Dan explained.

"Well, you've got that one sewn up," Dan's father replied.

I have to admire my husband - a man so secure in his own blokiness that he has no problem wearing sandals on the weekend to show off his pedicure. And I have to admit - mango is his colour.

I'm melting.... what a world, what a world...

2009-02-01T16:34:00.004+11:00

It's summer in Australia, and this one's been a "cracker," as Dan would say. Temperatures have been hovering near (and on some days, has surpassed) the 40 C /100 F mark. My orchids are burning despite me keeping them shaded. I sweat my way through the day, and food doesn't keep - even when I keep it in the refrigerator.

We live in an old country farm house with no air conditioning - not even one of those window units like they have in cheap motels. The best way I have to cool off is to wet my clothes and go around with soggy underwear. This is not only effective, but it is a "green" way to keep cool. I recommend it for anyone else who lives in 19th century conditions.

I wouldn't mind all of this sweating if it was actually the kind of sweating that helps you to lose weight. But of course, nature is cruel, and it's the kind of sweating that makes you blow up like a balloon and feel like someone's greased you down. It's the kind of sweat that makes you stick to anything. Like spaghetti, you can throw me against the wall to see if I'm "done." And let's just say that it doesn't do any wonders for your love life.

Next week is supposed to be even worse, with a heat wave that has hit Adelaide, scheduled to reach Sydney. I am NOT ready for 45 / 112 degree temperatures! I'm not sure what I'm going to do then. I may take a cue from my old cat, Butchie, who slept in the bathroom sink to keep cool in the summer. I do fit in the bathtub, after all.

Phyllis Diller and Aunt Clara

2009-01-23T08:58:00.006+11:00

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, remembering a couple of old commercials from the 1960's. Both were about powdered bleach. Phyllis Diller was hawking Snowy bleach, and Aunt Clara (Marion Lorne) from the old Bewitched TV series, was hawking Oxydol.

So, to test my memory, I went to good ol' Google - and found out that Phyllis did do Snowy Bleach commercials, and if I looked hard enough, I bet I would discover that Marion Lorne did a couple for Oxydol.

I'm scratching my head over why these two commercials, in particular, should pop into my head in the middle of the night. What do you think? Is there any meaning in dreams?

Hobbies can send you broke

2009-01-20T09:21:00.003+11:00

I have come to the conclusion that hobbies can send you broke. Dan has spent hundreds on his model train, which isn't even half built. By the time he's done with it, he will have spent thousands of dollars. I kid him that when he's done with it, he'll get bored after taking it around the club tracks a few times and he'll want to build another one. He sheepishly agrees with me on that.

My hobbies are no less expensive - vintage doll collecting and flying small aircraft. Although I haven't flown in years, I will be the first person to raise my hand upon invitation to go flying and if I'm feeling confident enough, will take the controls.

This past weekend, Dan and I went up with our friend, Alistair and did a scenic tour of Sydney. I invite you to come along with us and view Sydney from the air. Despite the haze and the bumps, it was a grand day out. And one thing's for sure - I will never complain about how much it costs to run my car again!

Gross story with pus

2009-01-06T20:36:00.002+11:00

So, I was told months ago that I would have to have a root canal. One of my teeth has been overly sensitive to pressure for probably over three years - to a point where I couldn't really chew on that side of my mouth any more. I asked around about the cost of getting a root canal, and nearly choked when I found out. And then I heard all of the horror stories regarding broken and lost crowns, badly done root canals that had to be re-done, etc - and didn't THAT put me off getting it done even more.

And then one day, it happened. The pain swelled and my cheek swelled and I began to look like my dead hamster's half sister, with a golf ball stashed in one cheek. I couldn't stand it. The pain kept me up all night and I had to face facts... I was going to have to get a root canal done.

It took about a week for the swelling to subside and I finally began to speak normally again (and not like The Godfather.) And then I noticed, a couple of days ago, the gums around my sensitive tooth swelling again. "Oh no, I thought. Here we go again. Another sleepless night."

But it was not to be. A veritable volcano erupted in my mouth. A volcano of pus. Apparently, there'd been a low grade infection in my jaw for years, irritating the nerve of my tooth. I'd even had it x-rayed and all the x-ray showed was an inflamed nerve and no abscess nor decay. I didn't have gum disease or anything else obvious. So much for that! There is now an angry red spot in my mouth, oozing pus as I type - but miracle of miracles, my tooth is no longer sore and sensitive! Apparently, the pressure caused by the infection was what was irritating my tooth. I can even chew on that side of my mouth again. I expect it will all be cleared up within a couple of days.

In the words of Popeye, "Well, blow me down!"

(Just thought you'd like to know.)

Happy New Year!

2009-01-02T12:27:00.003+11:00

We went into the city to see the fireworks display. Usually, you couldn't pay me to go into all that chaos - but New Year's Eve is an exception. I wonder what Paris Hilton thought of it? (She was at a party here last night.)

Happy New Year, everyone! Let's hope that 2009 is a better year than 2008 was. I don't think anyone would complain about that.

Christmas Day hilights

2008-12-29T10:35:00.004+11:00

This video has been edited from the original to protect the identities of the guilty parties who attended Christmas day festivities at my house... (it was a great day!)

'twas the day after Christmas

2008-12-26T09:15:00.006+11:00

... and while all my relatives are stuffing themselves, here I sit, practically immobile from all of the food that I ate for our Christmas. I wish everyone everyone a very Merry (Retro) Christmas and a Bright New Year!

Dan's selective memory

2008-12-14T17:00:00.005+11:00

What is the secret to getting a man to listen to his female partner? Is there some trick to it? Is there some kind of technique I should be adopting?

Last night, while driving home, hubby stops off at a well-known fast food chain and says he wants a coffee. He asks me if I want anything, and I tell him that "I'm pretty thirsty. How about a small Diet Coke?"

He says fine, gets out of the car, and decides he wants to go in to order, instead of going through the Drive-Thru.

He came back, seven minutes later, with a large coffee and large fries for himself, and nothing for me. Not even an ice cube.

I asked him, "did you get my Diet Coke?" And he answered "Oh, I forgot!" (In the time it took him to get out of the car and get to the cashier, he forgot?) and then said, "Give me some money and I'll go in and get you one." Which means he spent the money he had planned on using for my small drink, on his large fries.

I was so annoyed I answered, "just forget it. Let's just go home so that I can get something to drink." It's not that I didn't have the money, but darn it, how could he have not given me any thought once inside that vile yellow and red den of iniquity? Does being inside that place suck ones brain cells dry?

So, should I cut him any slack for this severe case of "out of sight, out of mind?" Does his stomach shout louder than his memory? Next time, I'm insisting that we go through the drive-through so that I can remind him with whom he's going home!

Where, oh where have my eyebrows gone?

2008-12-09T09:48:00.005+11:00

Getting older carries with it subtle changes. My bra size has gone up and my energy has gone down. I've been fairly happy with this state of affairs, however, until I read an article in a women's magazine, which has me full of self doubts.

No longer can women be satisfied with maintaining a decent BMI and keeping wrinkles at bay. No - we must have eyebrows. Thinning eyebrows are a sign of getting older, and 30-something year old women were writing in, desperate to find a natural remedy for thinning eyebrows. Some people suggested rubbing caster oil into your eyebrows every night, but others reported that it actually gave them thinner brows! Horror!

Now, I have not had complete eyebrows since 1990. My facial hair is light brown or blonde - and unless I wear makeup, I look like I have no eyebrows nor eyelashes. There are visible gaps in my brows. This state is reminiscent of the face of an old doll with the paint worn off and the eyelashes broken off - or, as I've heard some say "two piss holes in the snow."

So, I decided to do something about it. But not anything drastic. I'm not having my pubic hair transplanted and I'm not getting my eyes tattooed. But I can turn to my old friend - Mr Hair Dye. Hair dye is now specially formulated for lashes and brows. It can still make you blind, but apparently, not as severely blind as the old formula dyes.

So, I picked out a nice dark brown shade and gave it a go and dyed my eyebrows. Voila! I still have eyebrow hairs - they're just lighter and finer than they used to be. The dye's given me my eyebrows back! But now I look like Count Dracula.

Thank god it wears off in a couple weeks.

P.S. Women's magazines are EVIL, I tell ya!

A tale of two parties

2008-12-04T16:32:00.006+11:00

Dan and I are very much alike in many ways, except where it comes to our careers. Dan's very much a hands-on blue collar guy, and I sit in an office on a computer every day.

It's that time of year for office parties, and nowhere is this difference more acute, than in the proverbial office party.

Dan's company party

Just over 50 people converged, in a downpour, at the Italian restaurant in the "working class" side of town. About half the people attending dressed up a bit. The rest showed up in jeans and a polo shirt, which may have been dressed up for all I know. I asked Dan to wear something nice, so he did. We both looked festive in shades of red and green. "Very Christmassy," I thought. Turned out, we were the only ones dressed for the season.

People were shy about mingling, at first, until the alcohol was served. Beer and wine was on the company tab, and after about an hour and a half, the ice was broken and people were introducing themselves.

We were served a three course Italian dinner. The food was great. People started to laugh and have fun. There was live entertainment, and people got up to dance. One party reveler grabbed a couple of spoons and played along with the band, which consisted of one fellow with a guitar and a digitally recorded accompaniment.

By about 10 pm, after a few dances, lots of chatting and a very full stomach, we decided to leave before it got to be too much. The alcohol was still flowing, and we both had been to too many parties where people just didn't know when to say "when." People were getting louder. It's true that the decibel level of the voice goes up with ones level of intoxication. One guy was nearly comatose by the time we left, but he had arrived drunk and had nowhere to go but downhill. Other couples were also leaving, but we left with good memories. No incidents.

It had been a good night. The next day, Dan found out that a fight had broken out after we left, and one of the forklift driver's had gotten himself fired over it. Oh well...

Melanie's office party

A few people decided this year, that they wanted to have an intimate "just us marketing comms people do," and organised a fun "Amazing Race" themed party. We met and split into teams and were given clues about where to go (where we had to get the next clue.) No one except the organisers knew where the party was going to be held, but eventually, we all found ourselves on one of the Sydney ferries, headed out to Cockatoo Island.

When we got there, there were hors d'oeuvres spread on picnic tables and the barbecue area was decorated with tinsel and garlands. Someone had fired up the barbie and we nibbled on smoked salmon while the "cooks" prepared rosemary lamb and exotic sausages.

The CD player wouldn't work to save its life, but it didn't matter, as we all chatted for the next half an hour. Then, lunch was served. Lunch had been prepared by members of the party committee and it was every bit as delicious as the professionally-prepared dinner at the Italian restaurant.

We ate.... and ate.... and ate. And then several people decided to explore the island a bit, while the rest of us could hardly move. It was a hot day, but since we were in the middle of the harbour, a nice breeze was blowing. You couldn't have asked for a more beautiful setting or better weather.

After 3 pm, we were officially off the work clock, and the champagne came out. We toasted the launching of a new website and some other achievments that we managed to squeeze in before the Christmas break. There was a "lucky dip" gift box, and I drew a lighted Christmas ornament.

This party was much more low key than the other one... but it was so pleasant and enjoyable, it was hard to leave at the end of the day. The only thing that would have made it better, would have been Dan's presence with me. I guess you can't have everything.

That's why I'm dragging him to the BIG company Do next week.

Brenden Foster, my hero

2008-11-26T12:50:00.002+11:00

I wish there were more people like you in the world.

Where in the world is Peter Knoeller?

2008-11-23T20:10:00.004+11:00

I have few unresolved issues in my life. I don't like going through life with any regrets. When I get to the end of the line, I don't want to leave this earth thinking that I've left anything undone. But I may have to, and that concerns the whereabouts of my first husband, Peter Knoeller.

Peter was my first real love. It was one of those "you and me against the world, Romeo and Juliet" kinds of romances. The harder life got, the harder we tried.

But, it turned out that Peter had mental health issues. Except that I didn't know he did. I just thought he'd had a rough childhood, although his older sister K. and younger brother T. didn't seem to have the same issues that Peter had. Maybe it was because Peter was the middle child - sometimes forgotten - who lived with his mother, while the other two kids lived with their father. I know that he desperately wanted his father's love. Peter's younger brother was his father's favorite son, and his father didn't seem to be aware of how he hurt Peter by giving T. things that Peter had always wanted, like a mini van with a custom paint design and a bar installed in the back. We used to call them "party vans" back then.

Peter and I were married for about four years. We had children together - one right after another. For most of our marriage, we moved from place to place. First to Orlando, where my oldest son was born. We bummed around Europe for several months. Then we were off to Denver, then to Las Vegas, where he began an affair with a married woman, who promised him, of all things, a party van.

Peter left me for the married woman who promised him the party van. How could I compete with that? She was at least 12 years older than he was, with a good job. On the other hand, I was a drug-free practical woman who worked every day at raising kids and trying to be a good wife. I'm not sure what happend to our Romeo and Juliet relationship. I saw my marriage, my health, and my husband deteriorate.

She left her husband. Peter left me, and they got married. The whole thing took just a couple of months. He jumped right from our relationship, to this new one with its promise of party vans, pot, and booze. Their marriage lasted less than a year. He was given the van in the divorce settlement. It was all that he asked for.

After that, he disappeared. He had always talked about going back to the Phillippines, where he'd been stationed when he was in the Navy. Twenty years later, his family was still looking for him. I hired a private detective to try to help me find him. His sons were struggling with the usual issues of teenagerhood. They felt abandoned by their father for the whole of their lives - the same way that Peter had felt abandoned by his father. I had my mother run a check on his social security number - in case he had a credit history. He came up a total blank. The PI located his sister, who was teaching at a college in Florida. I wrote to her to give her an update on Peter's sons. I never heard back. I think he must be dead to them, if not literally, at least, figuratively.

I can only surmise that Peter is dead or has been living in another country with a new identity. He was suffering a mental health crisis and confessed to me that he thought he was going crazy. He insisted "I want a divorce, or I'm going to kill you." I thought it was a threat at the time. Now I know he was trying to protect me. Years after he disappeared, my mother had a chance meeting with Peter's mother. Not even his own mother knew where he was.

I would like to know why Peter did to his sons what his father did to him, when he knew first hand the grief being abandoned caused. I want closure - not for me, but for his sons. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I am not going to get my wish. And maybe I don't really want to get it. Maybe sometimes there is just too much water under the bridge and too many gaps to close, to expect a good result.

(Photo is of Peter with our son Andy, in 1979, who ironically also suffers from mental illness and who has also cut off contact with family.)

Being thankful

2008-11-19T18:30:00.003+11:00

There are many things I miss about living in the States. Besides my family, I miss the North American holiday season. From October through to February, even March, there is one holiday after another, and the one holiday that will forever be quintessentially American in my mind, is Thanksgiving.

I suppose I don't really need a special day for remembering all of the things that I am thankful for year 'round, but it's nice to have that day, a historical memento of what our forefathers celebrated, to set aside time to be with family and friends. I miss having a long weekend, time to cook a huge turkey, and using all of the chairs around my dining room table, which, these days, sees use of only two most of the time.

I miss the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, that, to me, heralds the Christmas season. I miss the crisp autumn air, real apple cider, and pumpkin pie. This year, I had to buy canned pumpkin for pies from the David Jones International Deli, at $9 a can!

So, this year, to compensate for not having a holiday, I'm going to list all of the things I'm thankful for (and I encourage anyone reading this, to share their list in the comments section):

I am thankful

1) that all of my sons made it to adulthood without too many mishaps. At least, not ones that they couldn't recover from.
2) that I am relatively healthy. Besides the aches and pains of early arthritis, I really don't have a lot to complain about. I still have a good figure and few lines and wrinkles in my face.
3) that I've got a job doing what I love for an organisation that I believe in.
4) that my mother is still around and we've had a chance to build a good relationship despite those rocky teen years.
5) that I can afford to shop on eBay for those kitschy mid-century modern items that I love, like my starburst clock and my Franciscan Starburst dishes. Latest purchase, a 1957 Shirley Temple doll in great condition.
6) that I'm married to a good man. Never thought that would happen!
7) that I've been able to travel and see the world and be exposed to other cultures and ways of thinking.
8) that I have friends from all over the world who mean so much to me. I only wish that we could get together more often.
9) that I have value to other people.
10) that I have a mortgage. Yeah, yeah... mortgages can be a pain in the butt, but if you have to pay for a place to live anyway, may as well own it at the end of the day. At least the house has character and is in the country (and comes complete with a ghost, if you believe in such things.)
11) that my son Andy has a fairly stable place to live, even though he never writes any more.
12) for a good sense of humor, without which I would not have survived to this point.

There's a lot more, but this is a start. Can't wait to bake those expensive pumpkin pies!

Losing it

2008-11-10T13:40:00.003+11:00

Ever have one of those days when you just feel like you've got so much on your plate, that you can no longer keep track of anything?

On any given day, I forget

My ATM card PIN number
The name of an actor or actress that starred in a movie that I just watched
Where I left my keys
What I was supposed to get at the grocery store
My home phone number
The password to any number of online accounts
Where I put the latest release of the software that I wanted to install today.

I used to worry that maybe it was the onset of early senile dementia, until I finally came to the conclusion that the number of PIN numbers, names, and places that I have to keep mental track of has exploded exponentially since I was in my 20's. Back then, I had to remember my address, phone number, bank account number, and social security number. If pressed, I had to remember my children's names when I was yelling for one of them:

"Chris! I mean Andy!! I mean, Stephen! Get in here and clean up this mess!" (I've never been good at names. It's a good thing I didn't try to name my kids anything other than "common" names.)

Now, between having to remember at least two dozen log in names with accompanying passwords, my Australian tax file number (which I still don't have memorized,) in addition to my Social Security number, the names of sons plus their partners and their partners' parents names, three ATM PIN card numbers, secret codes and passwords which now no longer can contain just letters, but must have a combination of letters, numbers, and symbols - my brain is ready to collapse on itself.

I think my brain needs a vacation, although some people may argue that it's already on one. Truly, though - it's not that my brain is on vacation - it's that life's become too complicated. I'd treat myself to a Blackberry in order to keep all this information organized, if it wasn't such a security risk. At least, stored in my mind, there's no security risk involved. Especially since I forget most of it, most of the time.

The Silly Season

2008-11-08T10:51:00.003+11:00

Australians typically call the period from about the middle of November until after New Year's Day, the Silly Season. This usually means weekend after weekend of non-stop parties (which includes drinking and debauchery) and mayhem. People still go to work, but no one really expects to get much done.

Not so where I work. When you work for a Christian charity that eschews alcohol, there's little opportunity for things to go wrong. This does not mean that things don't get silly, however.

We hold our company Christmas party at one of the camps that we run. The camps are part retreat, part Outward Bound activities, and party attendees have the choice of dancing the night away at an alcohol-free disco, or doing such things as rappelling and riding the Flying Fox. I think it may be the only Christmas party in the world, where you're expected to show up in khakis and hiking shoes and to bring a bathing suit.

Not that this is a bad thing. The hard part about my company Christmas party will be - do I wear the knee-length khakis or the long chinos? And how do I look festive when I look like I'm going for a hike in the woods? And will Dan want to go swimming in the heated pool? That last one scares me. I have bleached blonde hair. Women I know with bleached blonde hair wind up with green hair after swimming in a chlorinated pool

I guess, if I wear a red bathing suit and my hair turns green - I'll look festive enough. Bring on the silliness!

The presidential election

2008-10-26T10:17:00.002+11:00

I don't usually get political in this blog (hey - politics makes strange bedfellows and all that), but I can't resist this video from Ron Howard:

See more Ron Howard videos at Funny or Die

Unfaithful

2008-10-24T18:50:00.005+11:00

My camera died. My wonderful Canon Powershot A95 - with manual and auto exposure, 12X zoom, 5 MP images, and articulated LCD display. It died just in time for me to receive my new vintage clothes. My camera was fine one day, and then the next....nothing. No LCD display and no photos, not even with the display turned off. I sobbed. I threw things. I stamped my foot.

It didn't help.

So, one week later, after I discovered the clumps of hair in the bath that had fallen out from the stress, I decided to *gasp* ... replace my camera. I feel like such an adulteress! How can I be so disloyal to my beloved Canon? And to make it worse, I bought

A KODAK.

Yes, a Kodak Z812 IS with 12 X zoom, 8 MP images, image stabilization and HD 720 pixel video. It is more powerful and has more features than my little Powershot A95, but at a lower cost.

I can't wait for it to be delivered! I'm such a tramp.

The "C" word

2008-10-12T11:43:00.005+11:00

I've gotten to a point in my life, where I finally know more cancer survivors than cancer victims. This is good news for all of us, but especially for my family, as my son Stephen may have oral cancer.

My son smokes and has since he rebelled as an adolescent. When cigarettes got to $6 a pack, he switched to chewing tobacco (dip) to get his nicotine fix at a price he could afford. So much for the cost of cigarettes motivating people to kick the habit. Nicotine addicts just feed their habit in increasingly dangerous ways.

Stephen noticed a lump in his mouth and made an appointment with a dentist to have his teeth cleaned and the lump checked out. The dentist spotted precancerous cells and told Stephen that he'd have to have a biopsy on the lump to determine its nature. Stephen went in last week to have it done. It will probably be a few days before we know the results of the tests.

When Stephen mentioned the dentist's findings to his friends, they all pooh-poohed them. In their opinion, no one my son's age can develop oral cancer. I guess no one told them about Sean Marsee, who died at age 19 from dipping snuff.

Of course, I am worried sick about what the results of the biopsy might be... but I'm hopeful because I know several cancer survivors. I wouldn't have been as hopeful 30 years ago when my father died from cancer. When you become a parent, you sign up for hazard duty (although no one ever tells you this.) There's really nothing in life that can prepare you for this sort of thing.

I work with someone whose infant son was just diagnosed with retinoblastoma. His son may lose his eye to save his life. It's been a month of sadness all around - so I try to think of all the people I know who are cancer survivors, and I say thank you to them for sharing their stories. It makes the "C" word a little less scary.

Update: Stephen's first biopsy (a cheek swab) has come back clear, so now he just has to have a needle biopsy of the lump. Keep your fingers crossed!

Perpetual motion

2008-09-21T14:23:00.004+10:00

It's Sunday afternoon and I'm sitting here, sweating. Me! Sweating! My big hair is even bigger! The weather's nice, so you know what that means... it means that Dan and I are working on the house.

Our house, since it's an Edwardian one, requires lots of TLC to keep it in reasonable shape. The driveway is white gravel and needs to be re-done and have weed mat laid down before we are engulfed in vegetation. The brick wall that hides the piers under the foundation needs to be re-done, as the mortar is crumbling and the people that patched over it and painted it didn't want us to find out. We eventually did find out when the bricks went askew and all of the rendering peeled off.

Dan's cleaning out the garage and taking things to the local garbage tip. I've been weeding the rose beds and mosquito-proofing our outdoor toilet. The next thing we're doing is putting unwanted items out on the curb for the locals to help themselves.

It wouldn't be so bad, working up this sweat and going until my hands give out, but it never ends! I'm glad that we're cleaning out a lot of the unwanted items, however, since it gives Dan more space in our garage. I would love to have more living space in our house. I mentioned this to Dan and his mind immediately went to work.

He took me around to the back of the house and went to work, describing how we could add an informal room to the back of the house, where the pergola currently sits. At first, I'm excited, but then I wonder ... how much will this cost, and how long will it take to build this room? I already feel like I live in a perpetual construction zone.

Pity our friends though - between completely gutted kitchens and bathrooms, they've been living in a construction area for months. I think I've figured it out. Women like projects that they can see the end of. Men like projects for the project's sake and when one gets done, they want something else to tinker with. Or maybe that's just Dan and me. We'll never split up. We have too many unfinished projects.

Hair, the long and short of it

2008-09-14T09:04:00.006+10:00

I was browsing through the celebrity news this morning (which is often what one does on a lazy Sunday morning,) and came across Victoria Beckham's new short pixie cut, which is great for women with small faces and frames. The consensus seems to be that she looks wonderful. As for me, I see too much maintenance. Trims every month or so - having to use a blow dryer every day. That's just not for me.

I had my hair cut in a bob a few years ago, and hated every moment of it. Not that bobs don't look fabulous - but unless your hair is pretty much dead straight, it takes a lot of work to get it to look nice, and one rain storm or humid day can ruin 45 minutes' work with the blow dryer and straightener. I have Albert Einstein's wild hair. It was a great look for him - not so good for me.

I wear my hair long now and find that it can look great and isn't a lot of work. I wear it "up" at night and brush it out in the morning. It doesn't need to be washed and blow-dried every day. It's great for someone like me who prefers a more carefree approach to mornings.

One issue I've always had with my hair, however, is that it's thick and wavy (even curly in some spots), and hairdressers just don't seem to be able to do cuts for wavy/curly hair. I've seen some pretty horrible shaggy cuts that flip out in the strangest directions. It doesn't help when your hair has an uneven curl to it and just does its own unflattering thing if left to its own devices. It's disheartening to walk past every hair salon in town and see posters of women with dead straight hair. Needless to say, I've been doing my own hair for years.

What is it with hair, though? We women with wavy hair either want it straighter or curlier (just be something - anything, please!) Women with straight hair want more body in it. Women with curly hair want straight hair. I think this is part of the human condition. The grass, or hair is always 'greener' on the other side of the fence.

Update on Andy

2008-09-12T08:17:00.002+10:00

A couple of months ago, Andy called my mother, asking if she'd get him a copy of his birth certificate. Why? Turns out, while he was briefly hospitalized, his wallet was stolen. In his wallet was his birth certificate, his photo ID, and his winning lottery ticket.

Horrified, my mother asked him if he'd reported it to the police. Andy's response:

"I'm a mental patient. They'd think I was making it up and would say I just misplaced it."

After recently reading stories about mental patients being ignored and allowed to die in corridors (NC) and waiting rooms (NYC), I can believe my son.

On the bright side, he's out of the hospital and has a small subsidized apartment in a facility where there are other men like him who have mental illnesses or addictions to overcome. They have social workers and access to their medication. This is probably how Andy will live, indefinitely. It hasn't stopped him, however, from getting a girlfriend!

I like to think that having his lottery ticket stolen is a blessing in disguise. I think that the moment the government got wind of his winnings, his benefits would have been cut or terminated. A loss of a short term gain - in exchange for longer term benefits.

I only wish he'd write!

Dressing up

2008-09-08T10:35:00.003+10:00

My birthday is coming up, so I've decided to treat myself to something that is a little bit special. I'm going to purchase a vintage silk dress.

I love vintage - and make no excuses. Designers used to design to flatter a woman's figure. Clothes had curves - just like women do. Although the women I work with dress nicely, everything looks vaguely like maternity wear - shapeless and flow-y. Somewhere along the line, designers stopped creating structured garments, I suppose, because it's just too expensive to manufacture tailored clothes. My size US 6 used to be a size 12/14 back in the 60's. It got too expensive to have such subtle sizing differences, so now I can wear clothes that are either slightly too tight or slightly too loose.

So, to go forward, I'm going back. And I'm buying vintage. And I'm going to wear it to work and introduce my colleagues to the wonderful lines and fabrics of vintage.

This also reminds me: does anyone dress up any more? Friday casual has become Monday - Thursday casual, and Friday casual has become weekend carefree. I have heard people say that they work better when they don't have to think about how they look - but in my experience, people that dress sloppily are also casual about their work. It's not that I'm uptight about appearances - far from it - but I just think we're losing something. I rarely see a man in a tie any more, which makes me sad. My dad wore a suit and tie to work every day, and he was a computer tech. Today's IT techs show up in jeans and t-shirts now.

I knew that I would start missing some things as I got older. But dressing up? Who would have thought it? I used to hate trying on clothes when I was a kid (I still hate it), but I always loved dressing up. So, I'm bucking the trends and doing my own thing. I suspect this will make me a relic one day. I'm hoping that I'll be a well-dressed relic in clothes that flatter my figure - or I may look like a kid that ransacked my grandmother's attic.

Snapshots

2008-08-31T16:00:00.006+10:00

I remember when I was a child, how badly I wanted to be grown up. On family trips to the beach, I admired the young women in their bikinis and sunglasses as they stood in the line at the snack bar. It seemed like such an adult thing to be able to go to the beach by yourself and buy your own Cokes and hot dogs.

I looked up to the grown women in my family: my grandmothers, who always had rules about how things should be done. My mother's mother made sure that my sister and I always wore white cotton gloves whenever we went out. No one does that any more. No woman went out without a hat and lipstick and I remember my grandmother's collection of pillbox hats and liquid lip varnishes. No one makes those lip varnishes any more - at least, not the way they used to. I suspect they may have been laden with toxic chemicals.

I loved my grandmother's house with its clothes chute and huge attic. The basement had an incinerator and was divided up into separate rooms, one of which my grandfather used for his HAM radio equipment. Their house was a great place to explore, and I wanted one just like it when I grew up. I don't think anyone builds houses with clothes chutes any more, or an incinerator in the basement.

I remember my father's mother and her little dressing table that had her Moon Drops lipsticks and Pond's cold cream laid out neatly for the few times she went out. My father's mother always had a neat house and always cooked for our family when my parents took us to visit. The grown-ups used to sit around and play cards at night, while the kids colored in coloring books. Looking back, those were our halcyon days. Now that I'm a grown-up, I don't think I could re-create those days, for many reasons.

I remember my mother best, dressed in a Pucci-esque print dress. I don't know why this particular dress stands out (I think I may even have a picture of her in it somewhere), but it seems to symbolize the freedom of the late '60's. I think that was a big part of my wanting to be grown up - we just seemed to have had a lot of freedoms in those days. Isn't it funny how you can recall the past with just a snapshot, and the best snapshots of the past are the ones in your head?

TV Dads

2008-08-20T19:51:00.008+10:00

I recently saw a photo of Robert Reed, who played Mike Brady on The Brady Bunch, which got me started thinking about all of the TV dads that I knew, growing up in the '60's and '70's and the images that they portrayed.

The first dads I remember were Ozzie Nelson from the The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet, and Steve Douglas, from My Three Sons. These dads, while faced with the adversities of raising boys in a modern world, rarely lost their cool and approached parenting with logic, humor, and wisdom. Although someone else was writing the script, these were dads that I could look up to, and they were dads the way that I thought dads should be. Ozzie stayed married to Harriet and they supported each other and presented a (mostly) united front to their offspring. Steven Douglas, an engineer, was a widower, and his brother was brought into the family to help look after his three sons (one of whom was adopted). This show proved at once that men could be both nurturing and disciplinarians.

Amongst the widowers, TV dads gave me Tom Corbett in The Courtship of Eddie's Father, and Andy Taylor of The Andy Griffith Show. Again, the dads were wise, funny, and unflappable. They had housekeepers and maiden aunts to help raise the kids - but these dads took their responsibilities seriously.

After Mike Brady and The Brady Bunch, there was Jock Ewing of Dallas. Jock was the stern patriarch of the Ewing clan, who, despite his sons' misadventures, remained the backbone of the family and the love of Miss Ellie's life. This was a dad who was powerful, but fair, and just as much a husband as he was a father.

Some time in the '80's, though, dads got "dumbed down" and saddled with mouthy kids. The emphasis of family shows went from Father Knows Best to "It's All About Us Dad (or Mom,)" and parents got shoved to the sidelines as silent mentors at best, and became the butt of jokes, at worst. Steven Keaton of Family Ties played second fiddle to his son Alex. Child characters usurped the authority of parents in shows too numerous to mention. Dads, as characters in sitcoms especially, deteriorated to incompetent buffoons, with the noted exception of Bill Cosby, who was really a throw-back to those '60's dads. I remember the praise heaped on Mr Cosby at the time (deservedly so) - but his character of Cliff Huxtable was really a rehash of Ozzie Nelson's TV character.

When I got married the first time, I truly expected that the man that I married would be like the dads I grew up with on television. It was a harsh awakening to learn that not all men take fatherhood or being a husband with the same depth of conviction that I saw in the TV dads.

For all of the "old fashioned values" that get put down every day in the media and in our daily interactions, I'll take the old TV dads over the new ones any day.

Photos are for commentary purposes only.

The new oven

2008-08-11T10:35:00.003+10:00

My oven died. Last year.

We took it apart to see if it could be fixed, but the bottom element was completely corroded. How it got to such a sad state, I have no idea. The oven was only 3 years old. In my mind, I see a former tenant drying engine parts in it and corrosive liquids dripping down the back ... certainly, a new oven's quality couldn't be THAT bad?

At any rate, there have been no nice baked dinners or cakes in our house for over a year. Our oven did little more than grill.

I finally saved up enough money for a replacement, and Dan and I went oven shopping. I was overjoyed to be able to pick out my own stainless steel Italian oven. It's beautiful - a fan-forced electric oven with 5 different cooking modes. I'm in heaven! The first thing I'm going to do once we install it is bake a cake!

And then came the dilemma. How to get it home? The store only delivers on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the days that I'm in the city. So, we asked around to see if we could borrow a neighbor's utility vehicle.

The clutch was broken on it.

Dan asked to borrow one from work. It was being used.

So, we went to pick it up in the old Beamer, thinking that we could angle it into the trunk. WRONG! The oven is much bigger than we thought. There was only one option left: roof racks.

A kind gentleman, as big as Dan, helped us lift it to the roof racks. Dan strapped the oven down with four different straps. This is where driving a truck comes in handy. Who'd have thought this skill would come in handy outside of work?

The oven was strapped firmly to the roof of the car, and that's when the wind picked up. I didn't think we'd make it home without the oven being blown off the roof racks and into the path of some unsuspecting car. But no - we went sailing down the road while the wind howled, whistled and groaned through the straps and often sounded like a cow in hard labor. We even got some curious gazes from cattle as we groaned our way past farmhouses.

Fortunately, we made it home in one piece and managed to slide the oven off the roof using a ramp, onto our veranda. Slowly, but surely, Dan and I got the box into the house. I have a new oven!

But the oven doesn't plug into the wall, like the old one does. It has to be hard wired. It's been several days and there it sits, in its box. Dan's trucking skills were handy..... but now we need an electrician!

The art of pizza

2008-08-01T16:51:00.003+10:00

There have been two foods that I have loved my entire life: ice cream, and pizza. As I get older, however, I realise that I am drifting away from craving ice cream, to craving pizza. I think this goes along with the decline in the need for sweet food in my life (including chocolate. O the horror!) Whatever the reason, I'm thinking that pizza is the perfect food.

I am not sure why this is. Pizza is simple - a bread-like crust, tomato sauce, cheese, and toppings of your choice. There's variety available in the toppings, but I always seem to gravitate towards my favorite: pepperoni and onion. I know people who like ham and pineapple (fruit on a pizza is a travesty, in my opinion, unless it's a dessert pizza. I've had those, too,) meat lovers (cholesterol on a crust), veggie lovers, margherita, seafood, barbecued chicken - you name it. If it's edible, it probably can be a pizza topping.

Pizza is versatile. You can make "gourmet" style pizza with goat cheese and exotic ingredients, for formal affairs. You can cut it up into small pieces and serve it as an hors d'oeuvre. Pizza is just as at home with black ties and dresses, as it is with jeans and t-shirts. Pizza can be made at home as easily as it can be made by a pizzeria (just make sure you have a good hot oven and a ceramic pizza stone.)

Pizza can be eaten politely with a knife and fork, or folded or rolled up and eaten casually, with strings of mozzarella cheese dripping from the pizza slice to your mouth. It can be eaten hot or cold. In fact, pizza eaten cold makes a great breakfast.

I can't think of any other food that I can honestly say I don't get tired of having on a regular basis. Sunday is pizza night at our house. What's your favorite?

Running away

2008-07-20T16:09:00.011+10:00

There are times when I have to get away - when family, work and home just becomes overwhelming and I have to say "that's enough. I have to get out of here."

I wish I could be more spontaneous with these declarations, but, since I'm a responsible, practical person, I plan for the weekends that I "run away." This weekend was one of those long planned-for weekends, and I decided that the Blue Mountains were calling me.

Dan and I spent our honeymoon (all three days of it) in the Blue Mountains, and I fell in love with the area at first sight. While the flora and fauna are uniquely Australian, the culture is mainly United Kingdom-ish. Spending a weekend at Mt Victoria was like a quick trip overseas, even though it's only two hours or so from Sydney.

We divided our time between taking in the natural beauty of the area, and taking in the quaintness of the towns along the railway line. Dan loves digging into the local history, as he was a part of it as a train driver back in the 1980's when there was the last well-known snow storm. He was delighted to see a photo taken of the trains, all snowed in, on the fourth of July, 1984. He was there that night.

As for me, I loved browsing through the area shops. I bought several tin toys, reminiscent of my childhood, to add to my toy collection. I am going through my second childhood, and I think I actually giggled when I found a wind-up robot that I used to play with, as a kid. The robot shot sparks through its eyes as it precariously walked across the counter in the shop. I had to take a tin robot home with me.

We shared Yulefest dinner with other guests at the old guest house where we were lodged for the weekend. The guest house is the kind of place that rattles with ghosts of a bygone era. Its Arts and Crafts décor reminds me in ways of my grandparents' house and I feel a bit lost that I don't own anything that once belonged to my grandparents.

Mulled wine flowed at dinner, which was populated mainly by retired and elderly women. There were a few token men (Dan loved being surrounded by noisy, bubbly women) and a token child, and the conversation was free and funny. I felt like the baby of the group, if it hadn't been for the presence of an eight year old girl. (It's usually the opposite in most social settings.)

Several of us seated together were immigrants to Australia, and we laughed over how we misunderstood several Aussie expressions while getting used to the country.

"As far as I know, a schooner is a kind of ship - not a type of beer glass."

"From where I come from, a stubby is something obscene."

"He told me to 'hang on', and I kept looking for a coat hanger and asking where I should hang it," (this misunderstanding from a Parisian woman who regaled the evening with tales of her marriage to her 'uncouth' Aussie ex-husband.)

Dan and I were half frozen for most of the weekend - but loved every minute of it. Sometimes you just have to run away and forget about responsibility for a while. The best part of this? I came back home to positive family news. Maybe I should run away more often.

Red lipstick

2008-07-04T14:47:00.005+10:00

I wore red lipstick to work yesterday. I don't normally wear red for every day situations - I normally save it for those special nights out, but after watching Jeanne Crain in State Fair the other night, I decided I wanted a little bit of 1940's glamor in my life.

I noticed that red lipstick gets a lot of looks - from men and from women. I think that there must be something tantalizingly sexual and juicy about red lips. Red lipstick makes young women look older and more sophisticated, and older women look younger and more sultry. The shade of red is important, though. Orangey reds only look good on redheads. Red lipstick also tends to bleed more, so you can't apply it to the edges of your lips unless you want to look like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?

Despite the risks, I wore red Dior lip gloss all day. It feathered a little, but overall, I liked the change. I got looks. I felt vibrant. Men did a double-take, and so did some women. I'm going to make this more of a habit.

So, what do you think? Is red lipstick IN?

After Dinner Tea with Dan

2008-06-25T19:34:00.002+10:00

Dan and I have a nightly ritual. After dinner, we usually settle down with a hot cup of tea and something sweet to nibble on. There are a couple of rules for myself, though, that I regret if I break:

One: it has to be a smallish cup of tea unless I want to be up and down all night with trips to the bathroom and
Two: it has to be an herbal infusion of some kind, as caffeine will keep me awake for hours.

So, tonight I was rummaging around in the pantry, looking for herbal tea while Dan boiled the water in the kettle.

"I'm running out of herbal teas," I declared to my husband, who made sure I was going to use a small cup. "All there are, are these flavored black teas, and I can't have caffeine."

Without missing a beat, Dan offered:

"Why don't you have a coffee instead?"

There are good reasons why we're together. Laughter is probably healthier than tea.

Dan's 50th

2008-06-15T09:34:00.004+10:00

Dan has his 50th birthday on Wednesday, but we celebrated last night. It's a truism that birthdays were meant to be celebrated on the weekend, unless you can manage to take time off from work. Dan hasn't had a birthday party since he turned 30, so this had to be a little bit special. 50 is one of those milestone birthdays that I, at least, can't let slip by, unnoticed.

The preparations were made several months in advance. I booked the local Italian restaurant, well known in the area. You can't get a table in there unless you book well in advance. And then I invited 10 of Dan's closest friends to come to dinner with us. At the last minute, there were 11, but the restaurant was accommodating.

Two of the dinner guests were a bit of a surprise for Dan. They live a good two and a half hour drive away down the highway, in Canberra. I wasn't sure they'd be able to come, so I kept it a secret from Dan. By the time they said they'd be able to make it, we decided to still keep it a secret. These are friends we haven't seen in months, so, I made sure that Dan was convinced that they would not be able to attend. Other guests had just gotten back from a trip overseas and were a little jet-lagged, but they came anyway. It's lovely to know you have such good friends.

Dan and his parents

The restaurant, Esco Pazzo lived up to its reputation. A gas fire burned in the fireplace and kept the dining area cozy. The weathered brick building with its heavy wood beams lent the perfect atmosphere for a winter meal. We all sat down and began our orders, and I was concerned that maybe our Canberra friends would not show up - but they did, and surprised Dan. He was so tickled that they drove all that way just to have dinner with us. I think, as we get older, this is what makes birthdays special - not gifts of "things," but gifts of time and good friends, food, and atmosphere.

Although it sounds cheesy, a good time was had by all. We all agreed that we would go back and have dinner at the restaurant again, and we wouldn't need a special occasion to have to go. Every time friends get together and go out and have a good time, it's a special occasion. And the food? It was fabulous. I had duck ravioli - a peppery concoction with a tomato infused bechamel sauce that was out of this world! I can still taste it in my memory and I will be going back for more at some point.

Of course, we finished up with cake, ice cream, and sparkling wine at our house, and by 10pm, people were fading. That's what happens when you have a great time, good wine and lots of laughs (and in some cases, jet lag.) The smile never left Dan's face.

Happy birthday, Dan.

The birds win

2008-06-10T11:23:00.005+10:00

We live in the country, and, as such, there are always "critters" around - from rats in the roof, to birds in the chimney, and snakes in the woodpile. Recently, the birds have taken the prize for being the most annoying house guests. Besides kicking debris and moulted feathers down the chimney, you can hear them flapping and carrying on in the evenings as they settle in for the night. So, Dan decided that they had to go.

He examined the chimney. We have two fireplaces, back to back, and the chimneys are separate. Each chimney has a ledge where the chimney tapers - perfect for nest building. The dining room chimney looked clear - so it must be the chimney in our front lounge that was home to the culprits.

Dan decided that we would smoke the birds out. Never mind that the fireplace in the front lounge has a coal insert. Dan decided to burn wood and paper to make lots of smoke. I had my doubts - the damper in the coal insert isn't large enough to let the wood and paper smoke up the chimney - it wasn't designed for that.

Dan was sure that his plan would work however, so he carefully collected kindling (just damp enough for the required amount of smoke) and gathered up old personal papers that he was going to burn anyway. Within a few minutes, he had run us out of the lounge room.

It was a lovely smoky fire - so smoky that the damper couldn't handle it, and smoke poured into the lounge room. Dan poured water all over the fire to put it out, creating an ashy mud in the coal insert. I ran and opened up the front window to let the smoke out, but the carpet, walls, and furniture now have the aroma of smoke. We'll need to wash everything.

The birds are still there.

Marilyn

2008-06-07T16:55:00.004+10:00

I recently bought two biographies of Marilyn Monroe, and am reading them "together" to compare and contrast the facts about this actress who has achieved a kind of immortality, more than forty five years after her death. One is by Fred Guiles and the other was written by Gloria Steinem. They are a study in similarities and contrasts (in fact, Ms Steinem's book often borrows from Guiles' writing to extrapolate further.)

What's interesting to me is that both books attribute Marilyn's persona to her deprived youth and childhood. Marilyn had few islands of stability as a child growing up and was driven to invent herself as an adult. She learned early on that she could use sex to open doors and seemed to have no qualms in doing so. She was smarter than she let on to those around her, and was determined to be taken seriously as an actress. She worked at honing her craft, and died of a barbiturate overdose just at the height of her fame.

Today, I was in House, a discount housewares store to purchase some Murano glass beads for some necklaces that I'm making. There, in one of the aisles, were ready to hang posters of Marilyn for sale - Marilyn from The Seven Year Itch and Marilyn from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Over the months, I've seen them disappear, only to reappear with more stock. Marilyn is still saleable, and it's not just men that love Marilyn. We women love her, too. She defined sexy, yet vulnerable, worldly, yet innocent - every contradiction rolled into one peroxide package. Over the years, other actresses have tried to emulate Marilyn, but have come off being a bit overdone and tacky.

I have to wonder, had she lived to old age, would she have faded into obscurity, with just the power of her name to remind us that she was once "someone?" I think of Marilyn with a tinge of sadness, and think about all of the serious acting roles that she wanted to pursue. Her passing meant the end of an era, but I've come to realize that she still has influence on me. She's shown me that women can be smart and funny and sexy, but that we can also burn ourselves out by trying to be everything to everyone.

Dan calls me his "little Marilyn," but most of us are just a pale shadow of the original, and to be honest, and I wouldn't even want to try to be another Marilyn. That's asking the impossible.

It's the world's smallest violin and it's playing just for me

2008-05-21T16:47:00.003+10:00

I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Dan's been asking me all week for extra cash because he doesn't have enough for new work boots or fuel for his car. Of course, I don't mind at all - these are necessities. And then I found out why he's so short on funds.

He decided he wanted to get me a belated Mother's Day gift. He bought me a violin. He knows I used to play as a kid and have talked about learning again. But Dan doesn't know a thing about violins. He went to eBay and bought me a child's 3/4 size violin - a cheap made in China job from which I can't get any sound.

When he realised how bad it was - I could see the disappointment well in his eyes. He meant to surprise me with something special - but this is badder than bad. I will be surprised if he can get his money back. The violin came without the bridge attached. He took it to our local music shop, who asked him if he bought it off the Internet. They wouldn't even look at it. So, we've glued the bridge on and are hoping for the best.

I suppose it may make a nice wall decoration at some point. And I know I shouldn't be irritated, but, in essence, I'm the one that paid for this waste of wood.

I take comfort that his heart was in the right place, though. At the end of the day, I appreciate the gesture. Not too many husbands go out and buy their wives violins.

Just when you give up...

2008-05-15T15:17:00.002+10:00

... something good happens!

I heard from my mother that Andy has resurfaced - in Florida, $25,000 richer! He's on new medication (which is apparently working) and he actually called to ask for financial advice after a win in the Florida lottery. A year ago, he would have blown through the money in a month or two.

I'm so happy at this moment. I'm off to write another letter!

Dan's haircuts

2008-05-11T16:54:00.007+10:00

I am many things to my husband: cook, therapist, mistress, housekeeper, personal shopper, and, to top it off, I'm his beautician.

Dan's not what you would really classify a metrosexual, but he likes to look neat most of the time. When we got married, he went off to get his hair cut, as most men do, and I thought the results were rather uninspiring. But hey - he was doing the right thing. The next time he needed a trim, I offered to do it for him, just to see if it would come out any better than what he could get at the cut rate salon. I'd been cutting my sons' hair for years and if they liked their haircuts, maybe Dan would, as well.

The first haircut was a huge success, and Dan, seeing that he was on to a good thing (free haircuts!) made requests for eyebrow tweezings to thin out his monobrow, and ear hair trimmings. Thankfully, he didn't ask me to trim his nose hairs.

I am quite happy to do this for him. I can't blame anyone but myself if his haircut comes out looking horrid, and it gives us a chance to chat and joke around without other distractions. Dan says the best part is that he gets to ogle my boobs without repercussions. He says that was a common fantasy he had whenever a woman cut his hair (just so you cosmetologists know - in case it wasn't already obvious.) I've warned him never to fondle me mid-haircut unless he wants part of his ear clipped off.

You know, it's these little silly things that keep couples together. I hope he never goes bald.

Brazen hussy

2008-05-10T17:57:00.004+10:00

I've decided that I am a brazen hussy. I'm not ashamed of my body, don't mistreat myself, and am not afraid to give my opinion if asked for it. Some people call that being brazen. If that's brazen, then I guess I'm proud to be so.

In the past week or so, there's been a huge hubbub about 15 year old Miley Cyrus baring her back for Vanity Fair magazine. I saw the photo. It's sweet and not suggestive, and yet there was such a huge outcry from people who called her "slutty" and accused photographer Annie Leibovitz of creating child porn. A legacy of our Puritanical roots, no doubt. Miley was neither brazen nor slutty. She is, however, trying to transition out of the pre-teen music industry. She's not going to be a kid forever.

All of these unflattering labels we throw at women - "slutty," "brazen," "trampy," and worse, make me want to laugh. Most of the time, it's women calling other women those names. How sad!

My husband loves the fact that I'm a brazen hussy. He lusts after me like a teenager. How good is that for my ego? I think every husband should lust after his wife. Imagine how much happier we'd all be. Maybe we wouldn't have wars or child abuse.

Sometimes it's nice to be naughty. Now you'll have to excuse me .... I have to find some trashy lingerie to wear. Dan comes home from work in an hour.

Transitions

2008-04-26T15:55:00.004+10:00

I spoke with my father-in-law on the phone today. He'd been hospitalised all week due to an infection that completely incapacitated him. This same infection flares up every couple of years and every couple of years, we hold our breath, waiting for him to pull through.

Today he announced that he and my mother-in-law are planning on selling their home and will be moving to a retirement community closer to us where he won't have to look after the lawn and garden or maintain the pool, and where there are security and emergency services.

You would think that this might be a sad announcement - but no. My in-laws are excited about this. It will be like moving to a resort! There will be a country club on the property, as well as an eye clinic, physicians' offices, tennis courts, swimming pool, and lots of other amenities. Things sure have changed from when I was a kid!

No. This is the new "old age" where people like my in-laws can enjoy the fruits of their lifelong labors and be looked after at the same time.

Secretly, there's a little feeling of jealousy in me. Dan and I are still running the rat race - going nowhere at times, it seems. I imagine my in-laws lounging by the pool while the cabana boys bring drinks with umbrellas sticking out of them (of course, this is my fantasy, so I'm allowed to have cabana boys in it) and an attractive nurse helps my father-in-law into his robe. Dan and I will probably be working until we're his parents' ages (unless we get some help from State Lotto.)

Transitions aren't what they used to be.

Photo credit: Read more about the Pensioners' Playground.

Letting go...

2008-04-16T12:38:00.005+10:00

Back in the 1970's, Paul McCartney and Wings recorded a song called Letting Go, which appeared on their Wings over America album. The song was mainly about lust, but as I think about my son, Andy, whom I haven't heard from in over a year, the chorus of that song comes back and plays over and over in my mind:

Oh I Feel Like Letting Go
Oh I Feel Like Letting Go.

My son Andy has decided to sever his relationship with his family. I think it stems from the fact that he has used up his resources - no one will give him a free place to stay without him taking his medication and going to counselling and therapy. He doesn't want to follow through on a program that would require him to use part of his disability check for housing. In his mind, his disability check is like his "allowance" and he should be able to blow it on restaurants and CDs if he wants. Emotionally, Andy is still 15 years old and every day should be about being "treated" to something. He suffers from Bipolar disease as well as other personality disorders. He's 28 years old.

I have had to face facts - Andy just wants to be left alone to live life as he wants to. He doesn't want family members telling him what to do. He needs regular professional help by the mental health field, but only uses it when he reaches a crisis stage.

More than a year's gone by since I got a letter from him. As time goes on - he drifts farther and farther away. I've had to chase up his location over the past year, and I have no idea if he ever read my letters. The last letters I've written have been returned to me, unopened. He's moved again and we can only guess where he is. I'm not going to chase him any more. He just remains an evasive butterfly. I just hope that, as time goes on, he will decide to re-establish contact. He knows where we are.

I just hope he doesn't wait until it's too late. In the meantime, I have to let go.