T'is The Season To Be Jolly...Worried

A recent trip to the shops reminded me that Christmas is coming all to soon. The garish decorations everywhere and Mariah Carey belting out All I Want For Christmas were a bit of a give away.

All I've ever wanted for Christmas is Mariah Carey to shut up, but you get that.

Anyway,T'isThe Season to be Jolly and The Most Wonderful Time of The Year and all that. Apparently. Supposedly.

 I know I should really be happy and enjoy Christmas, especially having young children.

 Yet this time of year comes around and the normal low-level anxiety that seems to frequently linger around me is replaced by nail biting, heart gripping anxiety. No, it's not the fear of A Very Bogan Christmas. Although that will probably happen.

Every year, in December, just before Christmas, Micky Blue Eyes has his annual colonoscopy. He seems rather blase about it. I worry. Endlessly.

My reaction to hearing Mariah Carey for the
the millionth time is similar to this. Oh and thinking
about Mick's check up..

Normally, I forget every little thing on a daily basis. Where I put my glasses five minutes ago, what day it is, but the events of October 14th, 2004 are permanently etched into my brain. The day Micky Blue Eyes was diagnosed with bowel cancer.

Master 11 was Master 3 and Master 8 was only 7 months old. 

We had just returned from a holiday in Cairns.  One night Mick fainted in the bathroom. I urged him to go the doctors as it didn't seem normal to faint for no reason. So he did.

They found nothing wrong and all seemed well, until one afternoon about a week or so later he had a sudden attack of the runs with rather a lot of blood. Enough to be alarmed.

Back to the doctors. Blood tests revealed he was anaemic.  He was sent to hospital.

"It's probably an ulcer," the doctor informed him "it won't kill you."

They took him to theatre.

Then I got the news the doctor was coming around in the morning to meet with us. My stomach turned. This couldn't be good.

He got straight to the point.

"There is a growth," he said "there is absolutely no doubt that it's Cancer."

He had to have a blood transfusion immediately.

Dr Hack* called into the room to inform us how he intended to hack Mick apart and operate.

The surgery was being scheduled for Monday.

Meanwhile, he could go home for the weekend and relax.

Um, what?

I don't think I've relaxed since that day.

At home, Mick was not particularly relaxed either. Funny about that.

A family friend rang after my mother had spoken to her and told her the grim news.

Being a nurse, she was familiar with the surgeon who was planning to hack Mick apart on Monday.

She advised us to go to another specialist surgeon.

If he went through with the procedure on Monday, with Dr Hack "You'll be crooker than Rookwood**." Her words.

Frantic phone calls were made.

The doctor oozed condescension when I called to tell him of our intention of switching surgeons. I didn't care. All I cared about was Mick.

The surgery was scheduled for November 1st and went well. Then came the unwelcome news. He would have to have chemo-therapy. For six months. 

We were a month into that nightmare when the next bombshell came.

Mick's brother was also diagnosed with Cancer.

More about that next time.

Yes, all I really want for Christmas is for Micky Blue Eyes to have the all clear. And I still want Mariah Carey shut up.

What stresses you about Christmas?  Or is it only a happy time for you?

*Not his real name.
**Rookwood is a cemetery

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I Need A Hobby

I must confess that the only truly obsessive interest I have is my fascination with Karen Carpenter/Carpenters which I have already confessed, and frankly, it's getting bit old (to everyone else, not to me). Therefore, I really need a new hobby or interest. So, for today's I Must Confess I thought I would share this old post exploring a few options.

I MUST CONFESS: I Need A Hobby

So I logged onto the computer the other day, like I do most days, and began chatting with an online (or imaginary) friend.

"What have you been doing?" she asked, as usual.

My answer is always embarrassingly similar.

"Not much," I typed " the usual, just hanging around here."

"You don't do much, do you?" she helpfully pointed out. "You need to get a hobby."

I reminded her that I already had this blog and my Carpenters obsession, so I don't really have time for much else, but she seem unconvinced.

Perhaps she does have a point. Maybe I do need a hobby. 

So I thought I would take the opportunity to explore some options. Here goes:

SCRAPBOOKING : I currently do have several boxes of photos waiting to be sorted, so I could benefit from this hobby. However, I fear that I would go and buy all the bits and pieces and then just end up with even more stuff, without actually ever getting around to using it. So nah.

My boxes of photos awaiting sorting and my one
pitiful attempt at scrapbooking from years ago

KNITTING: This would make me feel like I'm a hundred year old woman named Enid. Oh wait, I already do feel like that when I wake up every morning, so...maybe. On second thought. No. Just. No.

CRAFT: I only have two words for this. One of them is rude. You figure it out.

ART: As I mentioned in my previous post, I possess zero artistic talent, as my greedy brother stole all the artistic genes. Hmph.

PHOTOGRAPHY: Laughable. I can never even figure out how to charge a camera or remember to take one to occasions.

GARDENING: I really, really wish I could drum up an interest in this, but alas the green thumb genes skipped me too, much to my Mum's dismay.

COOKING/BAKING: Considering my love of cakies I could possibly get into this. I may have trouble getting into to all of my clothes though, which are already alarmingly large. Too dangerous a hobby for me.

PETS: I accidentally murdered my dog. Enough said.

TEAM SPORTS: Micky Blue Eyes finds it astonishing seeing an old family video of me as a child, on an overseas trip to Holland. Why? Because I was actually running through the tulip gardens.(Well, it was more like skipping,but you get the point) This aversion to running, combined with a pathological fear of balls, pretty much rules this option out.

POLE DANCING: Now we're talking! Definitely a possibility.  I can't think of a single reason why a middle aged, overweight woman, with recurring vertigo shouldn't at least give this a go. You only live once.

LINE DANCING: While I'm sure I'd rock the whole cowgirl, western look, my curious dislike of country music (considering my generally woeful taste in music) makes this option a no go as well.

YOGA: Or Breathing Up People's Bum's, as it sometimes referred too. I have tried this in the past, and didn't mind it, despite having zero flexibility. So I may go all hippy drippy and get into it again.

In the meantime, I'll stick to boring you with this blog.

 Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Do you have any hobbies? Are there any you would recommend?

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Let's Make A Deal

Recently it became obvious that the boys were in dire need of a hair cut. They could possibly be mistaken for girls if I left it much longer. Especially Mr 4.

This was a prospect I relished with all the enthusiasm normally reserved for a root canal.  For some reason Mr 4 has an unreserved antipathy towards hair cuts.  In his short life, I had only managed to make him have one at the Barber's once. 

To do this, K, the lady barber we always go to, was only able to manage to complete the procedure by shoving the lolly pop, usually handed out upon completion, into his glowering mouth, thusly shutting him up and putting a plug in his protests.

This has meant he has sported many a dodgy at home hair cut done by Micky Blue Eyes.  I wouldn't even attempt it. This may be considered the equivalent of child abuse to some people.

Unwilling to subject him to such embarrassment any longer, I decided it was high time to use my exemplary parenting skills and take swift and immediate action. Like so.

I  gave him my sternest look and said firmly "If you get a hair cut, I'll get you McDonald's after."

"Okay," he agreed quite happily and immediately. Well, duh.

Yep. Bribery. Works every time. 

I'd always been reluctant to use bribery on my boys and resisted it greatly when Mr 11 was little.  I suffered the indignity of every other parent smugly informing me how their child was fully toilet trained while I was still struggling with it. I'd never thought of using bribery.

I bribe my boys with junk food. And the Mother of
the Year Award goes to...

Well, that's not entirely true, I did think of it, but assumed that it would be the wrong thing to do.  What a novice parent I was. Some time later, I realised that I was the only idiot and other parents went straight to the bribe tactics. 

"Oh no, I always bribe them, " a neighbour told me, unashamed. 

So the bribery began.

Now Mr8 is a seasoned deal maker.

 "What do I get?" he demands, when asked to anything. Even something as simple as picking his shoes up.

"I'll give you a massage," he'll offer " for five dollars!"

But back to the hair cut.

Arriving at the Barber's, Mr 4 warily sat himself up in the chair. Reluctantly, he allowed the hair cut to proceed, eager to keep up his end of the deal. Trying to get him to talk, however, wasn't going to work.

"It's his birthday tomorrow," I told K

"How exciting!" she enthused, while he sat sulking and she kept clipping away.

Meanwhile, in stark contrast with Mr 4's sullen silence, Mr 8 happily chatted away.

"One time Dad took us to this other Barber's," he informed us " and they accidentally cut our ears."

"Really?" K replied "I don't think I've ever done that to you."

''Yeah," he went on "they were really bad because they were Chinese."

Taken aback, I admonished him, mortified.  Apparently, I was raising a racist. Oh dear.

K just laughed. Then it was his turn for a hair cut.  While he was in the chair a lady popped her head in to purchase a packet of cigarettes.

"Why do you sell cigarettes?" Mr 8 demanded, his tone dripping disapproval. 

"Oh, because my boss wants me too," K answered.

"It's not illegal to sell them," I told him. He looked astonished.

Apparently I am raising a deal making, racist, anti-smoking fanatic. Oh dear. Admittedly,I'm actually quite proud of the latter.

Mr 11 decided to skip the hair cut.

"I'm growing my hair," he announced. For years he hadn't cared what he wore or looked like. Suddenly at age 11, all that has changed.

He has to have Nike shoes and he's growing his hair. He's too cool for me. In a few years he'll be taller than me I expect. My miracle baby. Not a baby anymore. Sigh.

Hair cuts completed, we exited to conclude the deal with some Maccas. A done deal.

Until the next one.



Do you use bribery or rewards?Or would you? Is there a difference?

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Talentless Technophobe

As you may have noticed this Bogan Blog is bigger, better and more bogan than ever.

I am responsible for the 'more bogan' bit and my brother is responsible for the 'better' bit.

The bigger part, I just made up. It's still the exact same size as far as I can tell.

I have a new header. Thanks to my brother. He is talented.

"If you don't like it, let me know," he said " it only took me five minutes."

Bastard.

You see, I can't even draw stick figures.  You'd think that mother nature would have balanced it out a little and given me a few artistic genes as well. But no, my greedy brother took all of them. Hmph.

There are many more ridiculously artistically talented people in my extended family, so clearly this is genetic trait.  So why did this part of the gene pool bypass me completely?

Not that it deters Mr 4.

"Muuum! Draw Spiderman!" he demands, thrusting pen and paper at me.  My attempts are pitiful. This does not stop him from returning with further demands, each one more complicated than the next.  After Spiderman, he'll want Green Goblin. Then, characters and space ships from Star Wars that he has in lego sets. All way beyond me. 

As well as having zero artistic talent, I am also an astonishing technophobe.

Just using Blogger leaves me in a perpetual state of confusion, causing massive brain explosions. As my Mum says, if my brains were dynamite they wouldn't blow a part in my hair. (She has lots of other funny sayings too but I'll save them for another post.)

Walking home from school the other week Master 11 enquired hopefully:

"Mum, can I get an Iphone?"

" I don't even have an Iphone!" was my indignant reply.

Impervious he continued "Can I get an Ipod for Christmas? Or an Ipad?"

I don't have those either.  We are such a technologically deprived family.  It's quite tragic. 

If we ever do end up purchasing such gadgets, I may never work out how to use them. Or, by the time I do they are already out dated as the next model has usurped them.

That's the problem. Technology changes so fast, it's hard to keep up.  Especially for a technophobe.

I fear my boys will grow up and I will not have documented every second of their existence with photos, videos etc.  After all, shouldn't I have uploaded every cute thing they have ever said or done to Youtube?

Instead I miss photo opportunities on a regular basis. Despite charging up the camera, I turn it on only to have the red light blinking frantically at me.  This happened when I took Mr4 to Featherdale Wild Life Park last term with Playgroup. Consequently I missed a chance for a cute snap of Mr 4 with a koala and other animals.

This photo has no relevance to this post whatsoever,
I just don't have any current photos, of course. Oh, shut up.

Undeterred, I charged it again before our recent bogan road trip. Again, same thing. No go. This means there is no photographic evidence of our trip.

The only positive side is having no photographic evidence of my double chins. Bonus.

It strikes me as absurdly ironic.  As an introverted Aspergian I'm supposed to be a techie geek. I should have computer skills and knowledge of a genius like level rivalled only by Bill Gates, a suspected Aspergian himself.

Since my diagnosis I have been trying to work out what genius like talent or savant skill I possess, as many Aspergians are reputed to have them.   I have come up with: NOTHING.

I guess I can always  comfort myself with the knowledge that not being able to purchase or work out a computer, camera, phone or any gadget pretty much falls into the category of First World Problems.

Besides, my alarming lack of skills and talent will never stop me from banging on here in this boring as batshit bogan blog. So ner.

Do you have artistic talent? Are you a technophobe? (Somebody please say yes...)

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Heavens To Betsy Part Two

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barrelled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet. 

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

Oneday he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was (secretly relieved) saddened and dismayed. 

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See, I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. 

Now, my pesky children are demanding food, so I guess I should feed them.

And they'll be getting an ipod (or something that doesn't require feeding) for Christmas.

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Heavens To Betsy

I'm linking up this oldie for today's I Must Confess and Laugh Link. Even though it's not particularly funny, the old photos of me as a girl are worthy of at least a snort.  It's a tale about pets and the one where I confess to being a murderer.....

Before you call the police, read on....

With Christmas fast approaching my boys already have a comprehensive list of presents they wish to receive from Santa.  Top of the list is a dog.

"Can we get a dog?" Mr 3 pleaded, eyes shining with hope "Pleeease!"

 Mr 11 looked on innocently, having coached his brother to ask the question.

I gave the usual evasive answer that you do when you really mean no: "We'll see." 

Mr 3 pouted, crestfallen. 

"But why can't we get a dog?!" Mr 11 wailed, blowing his cover.

 "We used to have dogs," he reminded me.

I know.  That may be the reason why I am reluctant to go there again.  It's not that I don't like dogs. I do. Well, some of them.

 I'm not a great fan of gigantic horse-like dogs. Or tiny little over grown rat-like yappers. But some dogs are okay. 

Growing up we always had sausage dogs.  A black and tan one called Samantha.  I named her that after Samantha from Bewitched.

 Sammy was a wise, comical old woman in the body of a dachshund.  That dog was whip smart.  A kindred spirit. I adored her.

Sadly, she fell victim to the fate of many a sausage dog. She had back problems which couldn't be fixed and eventually she had to be put down.

The whole family were devastated, as if we had lost a person.  She was such a one of a kind dog that we resisted replacing her for a few years.




Right: Sammy and I, chillaxing in the groovy 70's Left: Me, Penny and Skippa

Then, when I was teenager, we got another sausage dog, Skippa. Then
Penny. Skippa and Penny had puppies.  I loved those dogs so much.

Of course I never had to deal with the difficult side of owning a dog.  My parents (read my Mum) took care of all that. Scooping poop, washing, grooming, de-worming and treating for fleas. 

I just enjoyed the cuddles and comfort of having a canine friend to pet and coddle. 

Years after Penny and Skippa were departed my parents possessed a beautiful beagle named Maggie.  By now I was married and not living at home.  They decided to let Maggie have pups. I wanted one.

I had to convince Micky Blue Eyes.

"I'll clean up after her," I promised. I never did it once. Oops.

Now, we also had Jake.  Jake was a little overgrown rat-like yapper black terrier cross. We were never sure what the cross was. 

Jake and I had a love/hate relationship. I loved him, but hated his tendency to yap. I wanted another kindred spirit dog like Sammy.

Enter Betsy the beagle. Daughter of Maggie. She was beautiful. Gentle. Kind. Adorable. Timid.

And I murdered her.

Yes, I murdered  my beautiful Betsy.  I'm not evil!  But I feel like I am.

One night there was a ferocious electrical storm.  Knowing how timid Betsy was, I should have realised she'd be absolutely beside her beagle self with terror.  I really should have let her inside or locked her in the laundry.

While Jake darted around the back yard barking back at the thunder with equal force (nothing scared that dog) , Betsy barreled her way in through the lattice works and in under the house to hide.

Jake: he lived until he was 17, yapping away..

The next day, the storm abated. Betsy lay on the ground exhausted. Or so we thought. Until it became obvious something was really wrong.

"There's something wrong with Betsy," Mick told me, his face creased with concern "just keep an eye on her." He left for work.

I went outside and stroked her. She wagged her tail feebly.  Hours later, she was dead.

Poisoned. She'd eaten some baits left under the house, which were meant for rodents.

Betsy loved her food. She was a sweet and timid creature who loved her food. I've heard that pets are sometimes like their owners.  I had better be careful I don't eat my way to my demise like poor, beautiful Betsy.

Betsy: RIP Beautiful girl..and..forgive me..*sobs*

I walked around for weeks feeling like a murderer who should be sentenced and hung for killing my defenceless pet.

Jake yapped his way into old age and finally gave his last yap at age 17. Which, in dog years is.. really OLD.

Some time later the boys talked Mick into getting them a bunny.  They named him George.

George got out of his rabbit hutch everyday. Every. Single. Day. The doorbell would ring.

"Your rabbit's out!" a neighbourhood kid would announce. Then I would be obliged to chase the rabbit around the yard and up and down the street. I could never catch him.

One day he was gone for good. Rabbit stew presumably. Or somebody took him. Not sure. I was secretly relieved saddened and dismayed.

There have also been goldfish too numerous to mention.

We are now the proud owners of a lorrikeet named Henry. Which I was supposed to feed and look after.

I did it a few times when he was in a cage, then promptly forgot once Micky Blue Eyes put him in the aviary with his finches. Oops.

Maybe I'm not meant to have a pet. The only one that has survived is my Pet Rock. If you've never had one then you obviously were not a child of the 70's.

Not my actual pet rock, but you get the idea.

My Pet Rock lives on still at my parents house. See? I am a good pet owner. As long as I don't have to feed them. Ahem.

Fast forward to now and we finally have another dog!  I promise not to murder her! Shut up.

Her named is Cookie, as decided by Mr 10. We adopted her from an animal shelter. After only a week or so, she already seems like a part of our family. 

Do you have any pets? Please tell me I'm not the only one is old enough to have owned a Pet Rock???

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Meep Meep

Today I am linking up this past confession with My Home Truths for I Must Confess. Thanks to Kirsty for hosting the link up and giving me the opportunity to take part!

Now to the stunning revelation(s):

I have a confession to make. More like two confessions to be honest. The first startling revelation is that I have actually been watching Big Brother.

Gasp! Shock! Horror!

It's purely for research of course.  After all, I have to keep up my reputation as a Bogan for the sake of this blog. That's one excuse. The other is that it's my bonding time with Master 11. Where once I used to dance around to the Wiggles with him, now we watch Big Brother together. The things we do. He totally forces me. He does! Oh, shut up.

Besides, watching a bunch of gregarious people who love the sound of their own voice and seek attention in the form of cameras on them 24/7 is oddly fascinating to me.  Perhaps because I am the polar opposite. An intensely shy, introverted Aspergian who flees in alarm at the sight of any form of camera. 

I destest drawing attention to myself.  In fact, I just realised that I haven't had a photo taken of myself since March. As for talking, well, let's just say that conversation skills are definitely not my strong point. Slight understatement. That's like saying that sensitivity is not really Alan Jones's strong point.

Anyway, I was getting to a point with my revelation, and that was to my second revelation.  The house mates on Big Brother invented the expression of a 'Meeper.' This is meant to describe a person who doesn't really fit into a group as such, so they kind of 'meep' or hover around conversations, then ineffectually try to join in.  However, somehow it doesn't quite work for them, so it's almost as they've just gone: "Meep Meep!"  Inevitably, Meepers seem to end up draining and dampening a conversation instead of keeping it flowing.

My point is, watching this, I realised that I am probably something resembling a 'Meeper'.  Worse still, I am not even particularly good at 'meeping' As I've mentioned conversation skills are not my forte.  Particularly in groups.

Whenever I take Master 3 to Playgroup, I suspect I 'meep'.  I awkwardly hover around conversations taking place, utterly clueless as to how to join in.

I'm a Meeper like Road Runner,
shame I can't run fast like him too.

Finally, not wishing to appear totally aloof, I make a fumbling attempt to say something, but never overcome the awkward feeling that I am, as they say on Big Brother, 'meeping'.

This probably has a lot to do with two things:

1. My shyness
2. My Asperger's

Since having children, though, I have to regularly be in situations that require making small talk.  Something that, as a shy, introverted Aspie I am seriously woeful at. Hence my 'meeping'.  Sometimes, however, it becomes even worse.

Take for instance, the time I took Master 8 to a McDonald's party for a school friend.  What was hours of Happy Meal filled fun for him, was excruciating for me. I was forced to sit with all the other Mum's and make chit chat.

It all started okay with banal comments on the weather and how the year was flying by. Then, the conversation took a serious turn when one Mum remarked that a friend of hers had recently suffered a late miscarraige but had still had to deliver the baby as the pregnancy was so advanced.

"Imagine having do that," she said, her eyes wide with horror "I don't think I could do it! It would be so awful!"

"Yeah, it is," I responded "that happened to me."

Her eyes widened further. She gaped in disbelief, obviously wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. But she could never have known. Trust me to drob a  bombshell and kill a conversation.

Another time, a Mum at Playgroup confided how worried she was as her father was in hospital having various tests. I helpfully shared how Micky Blue Eyes had had cancer, while her worried expression turned to one of blind panic. Realising my mistake, I hastily apologised. But it was too late.

I truly mean well, it's just that I have terminal foot in mouth disease combined with 'meeping'. I'm a 'Foot in Mouth Meeper'.

So, to avoid such social gaffes I usually stick firmly to what I do best. Shutting right up. That, or, where I once used to be extremely self-concious about eating in public, I now enthusiastically shovel food into my mouth at social occasions. After all, it's rude to speak with your mouth full, right? As long as I keep shovelling I don't have to talk.

I'm unsure if it's too late to cure my 'meeping' and general social awkwardness. All the literature I have read regarding social skills in ASD seems to be directed at children.  So, at the mature age of 41, am I stuck with my 'Foot in Mouth Meeping' tendencies? I guess so, since the only answer I have is this:

Meep Meep.

Do you 'Meep'? Say the wrong things? Or are you the king or queen of chit chat?

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