Not Another Bogan Holiday

We finally touched down at Sunshine Coast Airport after our dangerous mission, exhausted but relieved.  I braced myself for the next dilemma. Finding our accommodation. I may have mentioned that I cannot read maps. 

First of all we had to pick up our car, which wasn't located at the airport. We called and they arranged to pick us up. Since there were five of us I had to wait while Micky Blue Eyes took the boys back to their office to organise the paperwork. 

Pacing backwards and forwards in the intense sun, I briefly toyed with the absurd notion of heading back into the airport to jump on the next flight to Melbourne to surprise an online friend.  I could deal with the resulting divorce later. Didn't do it, dammit.  For I was about to become more stressed. I do not fear flying. I do fear maps. With good reason.

We circled around various areas in search of our accommodation, bewildered. It  was supposed to be on the Esplanade. Should be simple, right? Wrong. There appeared to be more than one Esplanade. We were on the wrong one. Which was fortunate because it was  looking a bit dodgy.  Eventually we found the place only to be directed to an even more dodgy car park underneath the apartments with an extremely tight narrow space. We all waited with bated breath as Mick backed in.  Being a hire car, we were very cautious about procuring even the slightest scratch.

The next morning I staggered out of bed feeling like a zombie and saw all of these demented fit, energetic people jogging up and down the esplanade. Bugger that. These bogans were headed for the beach however.  At which point, I discovered I'd forgotten to pack my bikini. Possibly due to the fact that I've never owned one in my life ever. Fortunately, as I'd forgotten to have the lipo-suction, boob lift, tummy tuck, spay tan, waxing extravaganza which would be required for me to be seen dead in one. So I settled for the daily routine of dousing myself in approximately 675 layers of 30 plus sunblock, putting on boardies and a t-shirt and being done with it.

Day two meant a trip to Australia Zoo. A most entertaining day out if you enjoy becoming bankrupt (crikey, it's expensive) while melting in excruciating heat that would make the 7th circle of hell seem like the arctic. You know, with a few animals thrown in for good measure. Leaving there, we travelled further afield to a dairy farm. There were quite a ridiculous number of cows. We just missed the actual tour which would have included being able to milk the bovine beasts. This meant we could just skip to the best part. Tasting. Ice cream. Yum!

Another outing involved a cruise on the canal gawking at the multi-million dollar mansions that most likely feature walk in closets the size of our entire bogan box.  One was the three million dollar home purchased by Steve and Terri Irwin, which Terri now apparently just uses as a holiday home. Reportedly Russell Crowe had recently been staying there. This may explain why, when, a few days later we dropped into a bakery for a cakie fix, we discovered Russell Crowe had been there just the week before.

As we drifted past we also saw the boat which Steve Irwin supposedly died on, The Croc One, parked outside the mansion. Frankly, at this point I couldn't be bothered moving to take a photo and neither could Mr11 apparently. He managed to get this half arsed shot as we sailed past.  Seriously I do not know where that child gets his lazy tendencies from. Ahem.

Our next destination was Hervey Bay where we were staying at a place called The Coconut Palms. A more appropriate name would have been The Inconvenient Poles. There were poles a plenty. You were meant to park in between them. Just when you thought you'd spotted every pole there was yet another pole seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Yep, you guessed it. The inevitable happened. Mick hit a pole when reversing into our spot. Luckily he'd taken insurance so we were covered but it was still a proverbial pain the posterior.

We spent most of the time in Hervey Bay visiting Mick's sister. I celebrated my birthday there.  42 was just another number and not the enlightening experience I had hoped. Sigh. My sister-in-law was kind enough to give me a gift of various goodies, including chocolates, mascara, sun block and an intensive anti-wrinkle moisturiser. But I choose not to take offence at the latter. She just gave them to me because she works in a pharmacy, so she gets her hands on this stuff easily, right?

Leaving Hervey Bay, we headed back to Coolum. The most exciting thing that happened there was that Micky Blue Eyes took the boys to Brisbane to see a soccer game at Suncorp Stadium, so consequently I had some quiet time. Yes, that is exciting. Shut up. On the last day there we went for a drive to Eumundi. Spotting a bakery/cafe, we decided coffee and cakies would be most welcome and pulled up in front of the establishment. At which point, a woman promptly appeared and shut the doors to close up, glaring at us she did so, as if appalled at the idea of any bogan customers. Hmph. I should have stomped up to her huffily a la Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman exclaiming "You just shut your door on us! Big mistake, HUGE mistake, you just missed out on business from the Cakie Queen! You would have at least trippled your daily profits! And we went to the same bakery as RUSSELL CROWE, so yours isn't even good enough for us!! So ner!"

Driving on we ended up at Noosa Heads, where obviously we were not about to attempt to enter any of the posh restaurants lining the street, and being glared at yet again like the pathetic (but hungry) bogans we were (or are). Instead we ended up in a deserted food court where the only shop open was a kebab place so we feasted on kebabs and hot chips. Classy. Hunger pangs satisfied, we headed to the beach. We sat down while the boys frolicked on the sand. It was a most beautiful scene, with the sun beginning to set lazily over the ocean, but I am not very good at descriptions (or photography) so you'll just have to imagine it.

There were many people and sand castles dotting the beach, including a most impressive one, resembling an Indian Temple. Obviously it had been painstakingly created by some nearby Indian men.  As we sat admiring it, Mr4 barrelled towards it. Cringing, I tensed as the inevitable happened before I could move to stop him and he pounced on it, destroying it immediately. The Indian men looked on, but luckily did not comment. It was a good time to leave.

Twenty four hours later, we were back in Boganville where we belong. Until another bogan holiday.

Linking up with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Rachel from The Very Inappropriate Blog.

Do you think that woman in the bakery/cafe was a snooty bitch, or do you run for cover when you see bogans coming too?

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A Dangerous Mission

The car came to an abrupt halt outside Sydney Domestic Terminal.

"Hurry!" the driver ordered, eyes wild. I opened the car door to searing heat. Within seconds I was sweating profusely. Ten percent heat. Ninety percent nerves.

The suitcase thudded next to me. Anxiously, I gripped the handle, aware of the arduous task ahead of me.

"Come on!" I called to my young accomplice. The car sped off.  Through the doors and a sea of people. The rush of cool air did little to soothe my jangled nerves.  I headed to the agreed waiting place. Breathe, I told myself. Everything is okay. It had seemed such a good idea. So far, our plan was working.

Surveying the crowds of people, my mind raced. Where were they going? Why? Did they have such a dangerous mission ahead of them? How would I get through this?

Breathe. My heart was beating faster now. Dear God, would I survive? As I was about to do the unthinkable. Take three boys on a flight to the Queensland!!! Cue dramatic music. The Sunshine Coast, to be exact.

As per our plan, Micky Blue Eyes, had dropped myself and Mr4 off, and was heading back to his parents house, who live closer to the airport (let's face it, anywhere is closer than Boganville) to pick up Mr11 and 8 and return with his father. Because this is what bogans do. Just to save parking or taxi fairs.

An overjoyed  Mr 4 was peppering me with questions as we waited.  I answered vaguely, too busy trying to stay calm.  Suddenly, a commanding voice pierced loudly through the noise.

"Passengers travelling on flight JQ783 to Maroochydore, if you haven't already checked in, please do so immediately. This is the final call for flight JQ783 to Maroochydore. Thankyou!"

Maroochydore? Um, no problem, right? We were going to the Sunshine Coast. Pause. But where on the sunshine coast exactly?  Gingerly I unfolded the paperwork from my handbag. To my horror I read Flight JQ783 to Maroochydore! It was our flight! Mick and the boys were still not here! Shit! What should I do?

Now, obviously the best thing to do at this point would have been to just calm down and think logically. The flight wasn't until 2.50pm, which was still a way off. However, logic has never been my strong point. I immediately became alarmed.

Surveying the queues, my panic mounted.  Calling to Mr 4, I headed towards the end of a line, suitcase lumbering behind me. Mr 4 was agog with curiosity and excitement, oblivious to my frantic musings.  There I hovered, wondering what to do. An official looking woman in an orange Jetstar vest approached me briskly, perhaps noting my uncertainty.  She then began punching the flight number into one of the machines and printed out our boarding passes, urging me to join the line.

Frowning intensely, I did as instructed, willing Mick to make an appearance pronto.  The line moved along. No Mick. I scanned the crowd nervously. I let people in front of me. Still no Mick. The calls to check in for our flight came over the loudspeaker yet again. This should have been a give away that there was nothing to really panic about as they had said the previous announcement was a final call, yet here they were announcing it again!

All rational thoughts appeared to have deserted me, however and I became more and more jittery. Hurry up Mick!!  The same official woman noticed my agitation as I let more people in front of me.

"What's the problem?" she queried.  I explained the situation.

"You need to check in," she informed me, emotionless "otherwise you may miss your flight."

EEEEEK!!!

"Perhaps you should call him." she suggested.

"I don't have a phone!" I admitted, feeling foolish. The only phone we owned was with Mick.

"Oh here, you can use mine." said another lady in the line behind me, who had heard the whole exchange.  Thanking her, I punched in the number, my fear rising. Voice Mail. I left a frantic, babbling message to hurry or we might miss the flight.   The queue moved again. Still no Mick mercifully appeared.

"Call him again," the kindly lady offered me her phone again.  This time I spoke to a startled Mick, who assured me they were in the car, just minutes away.  I hung up.

"You should have told him what desk number you're at." the lady pointed out.

Shit!

"Ring him again, it's fine," she handed back her phone for a third time. All I could do was thank her exuberantly.

 I told a distraught Mick we were at desk 39. He said he was just coming in the door. Finally!  A minute or so later they all appeared, pale and panting. Thanking the lady again, we hurried to the counter.  We checked in our suitcases and headed through to departures. After putting everything through the security conveyor belt thing, we then hastened to our departure gate. 

Quickening our pace, we rounded a corner. A luggage buggy beeped at us to get out of the way. Mr 8's Ipod clattered to the ground in front of it. Mick lunged, grabbed it just in time and we continued our break neck pace through the airport. A long ago memory flashed through my mind. Of returning home from a family holiday to Holland when I was only ten years old. Somehow my parents had miscalulated our boarding time for our flight back to Australia.  We were strolling around the airport, window shopping, when we had heard our names called out over the speakers! The plane had been delayed because of us. I still recalled the humilation of dozens of disgruntled eyes boring into us, as we shame facedly boarded the flight. Hopefully we weren't about to suffer the same humilation!

Breathlessly we reached the gate. Bored people sat around, listlessly flicking through their Iphones or scrolling down lap tops. The plane hadn't boarded at all!  We sank onto a seat, exhausted already.  There we waited. For at least another forty five minutes!! After all our racing, the flight was delayed! Silently I cursed that official woman for stressing me uneccessarily.

Eventually we boarded the plane and prepared for take off. Due to the searing Sydney heat that day we circled the tarmac for at least another half hour. Apparently it was so scorching that the breaks over heat, so we had to wait until they had cooled sufficiently for take off. After what seemed like an eternity of Mr 4 endlessly asking when  we were going, the plane finally rocketed down the runway. We were airbourne, headed upwards and towards the Sunshine Coast.Yep, exactly what we needed More sun. Find out what happened next time.

 Linking up my old crap with Kim from Falling Face First for The Lounge's freestyle session, because that's what lazy bogans do.

 Do you like flying? Have you ever missed a flight?

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Hot Topic

I don't need to tell you it's hot. You're most likely aware of it from the small detail of your face melting off your skull. Unless you are not in Australia. We are, of course, in our summer months presently.

The heat is often a hot topic (pun intended) for these bogans.  Micky Blue Eyes loves summer. In fact, if he had his way we would probably be heading up to Darwin next Tuesday instead of Queensland. He frequently makes remarks like:

"Wouldn't it be great to be somewhere up in the top end now, in one of the water holes, having a dip!"

I usually look at him as if he is deranged. Clearly he is. He grew up in a family who were not familiar with air conditioning. In fact my out-laws still do not have air conditioning in their home. Therefore, another frequent comment I hear, is "We never had air conditioning, when I was a kid!"

My parents, on the other hand, live in a perpetual state of 'heat horror'. In fact they had to go away to the country for the weekend for my Uncle's 80th birthday celebration. My mother was not impressed at the weather predictions. It was as if my Uncle had an unmitigated gall to have been born in summer, so I'm surprised I was born in January.

We were lucky enough to have had air conditioning from the time I was about five or six. I was constantly reminded how of how lucky I was, by my heat fearing parents.Whenever anybody we knew was foolhardy enough to go away for a family vacation, during the summer holidays, they were immediately dismissed as being completely and totally INSANE. We rarely had summer holidays. As I have always been an indoorsy, bookish person, this never bothered me greatly.

However, since meeting Micky Blue Eyes all that has changed. Now, we will usually go away somewhere during the summer holidays. And that somewhere will always be HOT.  There is not really any escaping it in Summer time, in Australia.  I don't mind going away. In fact, I usually end up enjoying it.

My only aversion to the heat, revolves around the reality of being a 'ranga'. This, of course, means that I have the pallid, almost translucent, freckled skin that goes with it.  Five minutes in the sun and I am decidedly pinkish. Ten minutes equals serious sunburn. After fifteen minutes, I may as well say hellooo Melanoma.   All the 30 plus sunscreen will not prevent me from being burnt somewhat.

Therefore, I really prefer to remain indoors as much as possible. Meanwhile, Micky Blue Eyes will want to hit the beach and go for as many walks as possible. He never likes to actually admit that it's hot. Instead he'll attempt to think of as many inventive excuses as to why he feels hot.

"Maybe it's because I'm not playing soccer/doing enough exercise and sweating it out so that's why I'm sweating now." That is a familiar one.

Or, it's the chair he's sitting on is leather so that is making him sweat not the fact that it's 40 degrees in the shade.  Similar to how most males won't ever ask for directions when lost, Micky Blue Eyes will never admit that is, indeed hot, and the heat is effecting him.

He laments the fact that air conditioning is contributing to global warming and that people have become far too dependent on it. Which I have. Thanks Mum and Dad.

Just to be thoroughly inconsistent though, as much as I abhor the heat, I definitely do not think the cold is any better. No matter how many times people tell me that it is 'easy' to warm up, just chuck on some extra clothes, I have personally never found that theory to be true. My feet remain blocks of ice all through winter despite three pairs of socks and Ugg Boots.  I've even been known to have cold feet as late in the year as November. Now that is just plain wrong.  I must have been a frog in past life or some other cold blooded animal.

So here I will be complaining about the weather for at least half of the year. I whinge when it's hot. I whinge when it's cold.  Right, excuse me while I go back to melting.

How do you survive the heat? Do you love the heat? Prefer the cold? Don't care? Let's discuss the weather! It's fascinating. Isn't it? Oh okay, I'll shut up about it.

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The Meaning Of Life Is....42

Apparently it is now 2013. All the fireworks and doof doof here in Boganville last night, kind of gave it away.  Meaning, there were slightly more fireworks than what we usually hear every night. Anyway, I should probably wish you a Happy New Year. So I will. 

Happy New Year! May 2013 see all your dreams come true and Gangnam Style finally dying a long overdue, painful death. My neighbours very helpfully decided to blast it at around two seconds past midnight. Yeah, the 500 gazillion, trillion times I heard it in 2012 weren't quite enough, thanks very much. 

Anyway, being January, it probably means I should take the Christmas tree down. Eventually. It also means I will be turning 42 in approximately 14 days. Supposedly this is the answer to the meaning of life. 42.  According to Douglas Adams anyway.

It’s been a while since I read the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy series (since high school in fact) , so I can’t quite remember the finer details.

All I remember is these two things coming up at some point in the series: the answer to the meaning of life is 42 and the phrase  Don’t Panic!  Both of which are relevant to me presently as I tend to be overly panicky and I will be 42 very soon.

Therefore, I expect I shall suddenly possess the wisdom of the ages. Have it all sorted. Stop panicking? That would be good.

That, or I shall suddenly stomp off to Greece on a  holiday, a la Shirley Valentine, leaving my ungrateful family behind blinking. I remember watching that movie  a very long time ago and thinking that 42 sounded really old. Yet here I am. Really old.

The thing is, I couldn’t stomp off to  Greece even if I wanted too.  My children are not grown up. I have a four year old. I am destined to be mistaken for his Granny by the time he is at school. Sigh.

There is also another reason I couldn't stomp off to Greece. Or anywhere. It would scare the bejesus out of me.

Jetsar, fasten your seatbelts, here come some scary Bogans again. But,
I have tragically never been on flight by myself.

 

The truth is, I am (almost) 42 and have never even been on a flight by myself. I know, tragic, aren’t I?

I have also never:

·         Smoked a cigarette

·         Taken illegal drugs

·         Had a bikini wax

·          Or even a leg wax

·         Been so drunk I’ve thrown up or couldn’t remember it

·         Seen a dead person (unless my not quite cooked baby counts)

·         Had a career

·         Bought a car

·         Had a broken heart (unless losing my not quite cooked baby counts)

And I still can’t:

·         Make eye contact

·         Talk/communicate

·         Have a successful job interview due to the above two things

·         Sew a button on

·         Be organised

·         Make scones (well,I can,but they don’t rise

 

*   Make anything remotely edible, according to my boys anyway

·         Make a decision about the slightest thing, even what to have on a sandwich

·         Have a needle or blood test without freaking out

·         Ditto dentist appointments

·         Programme the dvd/vcr

·         Do anything whatsoever involving technology

·         Read a map

·         Reverse park (sorry, I’m letting down the sisterhood, admitting these last two. Admitting all of them really)

Anyway, we could be here for another 42 years. You get the idea.

I have been on a plane, just never by myself. Once with my parents and lots of times with Micky Blue Eyes. And then with Micky Blue Eyes and the boys. Which is ever so fun (insert sarcasm here).

So naturally we are doing so again and flying up to Queensland on January 8th. There I will spend my birthday. I expect it will just be another day and I'll feel exactly like I did the day before.

Completely clueless. Thoroughly inept and inadequate in every facet of life.

But at least I'll get to have cake.

And I’ll just have to keep remembering: Don’t panic!

What have you never done? What IS the meaning of life? Just kidding. But if you really have it figured out I’d be interested!

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