The Box

Home is a charming, quaint, little cottage. ie. an old, tiny fibro in Boganville, obviously. We desperately need to upgrade or renovate. 

"It has potential." Micky Blue Eyes commented when we originally bought the home.  Yes, it certainly did have potential. In the following ways:

• Potential to grow mould on the roof and ceilings of the front bedrooms.
• Potential for the roof to leak (tragically our boys will never be able to thank us during their wedding speech for bringing them up 'under a roof that didn't leak'. This is how Mick thanked his parents during his speech at our wedding).
• Potential to cause all five of us to suffer from lifelong paralysing claustrophobia.
• Potential to cause chills in winter as it so cold. Brrrrrrrrr.
• Potential to feel like a sauna during summer as it is so hot. Phew.
• Potential to become a gigantic, cluttered mess- FAST, due to lack of space.
• Potential to look rather pitiful among some of the other renovated or knock down/rebuilt  homes popping up on our street.

Still, it is our house. We own it, not a bank. Aren't we lucky?  So we try to make the best of it.  Mick started painting. I helped.  (Making him cups of coffee is helping, isn't it?)

  It is half done.  Hopefully the half done look is in, as it may not be finished for another ten years.  The other day we noticed that Master 3 has already helpfully scribbled on the fresh paint. A very cutting edge look indeed, so we might just go with it.

We also have a lovely combination of mismatched, dodgy furniture, including a sofa bed that doesn't match the two dilapidated recliners.  A kitchen sideboard cupboard with the glass missing out of the doors.  And a wardrobe in the boys bedroom which can't be shut. All so very classy and in keeping with our true bogan status.

I'm sure our home could be a candidate for a Home Beautiful shoot.  If there was a Home Beautiful for Feral Bogans issue that is.  Unfortunately, Micky Blue Eyes and I are of the stressy types who would not be able to sleep at night with the worry of a massive debt/mortgage over our heads. Others wouldn't be able to sleep at night in Boganville, ironically.  Me, I'm a born and bred bogan, so I don't know any different. So here we stay, debt free and bogans.

Meanwhile, we can always keep dreaming of the day we become Cashed Up Bogans and finally get that McMansion in Boganville Heights. It's always better to dream big, I find.

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Miscellaneous Morsels

A few days ago I appeared to be in a cooking mood.  I made Spicy Puke ie curry, rice pudding and pikelets. I totally forgot that you're supposed to take artfully lit photos of these tempting treats, so you'll just have to imagine them.  All of these offerings were actually partaken of and consumed.  This is a monumental event in our house.

Truthfully, I will never be auditioning for Master Chef. Or even Mediocre Chef.  Even though, in reality every meal here feels like a Master Chef challenge, with my boys being tougher critics than Matt Preston and co.  It is quite the challenge trying to feed them.
Master 8 will scoff grilled fish with enthusiasm, one night, exclaiming "Mmmmm! I LOVE fish!" So then, I confidently serve fish again with flourish the following week only to hear: "Yuuuuuck!! I HATE fish!"

This battle started from the day they were born.  I sucked at breast feeding. The baby didn't.  I felt like a failure.  The feeding problems persist to this day.

Cake made by my Mum for my 40th birthday.Who needs Masterchef, I have my Mum.

My mother happens to be the best cook in the whole world. Makes melt in your mouth apple pie.  The Best Caramel Slice In The World Ever.  That's what I call it.  Because it is.

Unfortunately I did not inherit this ability.  Sometimes my culinary efforts are fine.  Often they aren't.  It may have more to do with the fact that I frequently  can't be bothered more than anything else. I'm sure I could become reasonably competent in the kitchen if I could somehow summon up the interest and desire to do so.

Somehow when you have three fussy kids and this has to be done everyday it suddenly becomes a massive chore. "Get them involved" say the 'experts' "Get them into the kitchen, cooking with you."  Yeah right. It's all very well for the Jamie Oliver's of the world to suggest this, but they obviously don't  have a kitchen the size of a postage stamp.   Frankly if I put on any more weight, I'll have a hard enough time fitting in there myself let alone getting my kids in there as well.

Besides, they only want to help if we are making something cake like, so they can make a gigantic mess, with flour everywhere, get to lick the bowl then leave me with said gigantic mess to clean up. As well as cakie things which they won't eat because they weren't made by Grandma.  I will then proceed to eat all of them, when I really shouldn't.

I also hear all these stories of children who just love vegetables.  When I announce I can never get my boys to eat anything green, such as broccoli (I don't think their own snot counts) other parents stare at me open mouthed. "Really?" they say "I just tell them it's little trees and they eat it." So I attempted to convince Master 3 to eat it with this method "Look at the little trees!" I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.  Truthfully I don't really get that excited over it either, at least not as excited as I do over chocolate and cakies, but I had to try to convince him.

Master 3 then proceeded to show me exactly what he thought of my pathetic attempts at vegetable consumption coercion by throwing the 'little trees' at me. He also threw the burgers we had last night.  When I informed him we were having burgers he reminded me rather scornfully "You get those at McDonald's you know." perhaps also inferring that they might be superior to anything I could cook.

Is it foolish to keep repeatedly trying to make healthy meals for your kids when they are happier with fish fingers and two minute noodles? And I'm happier with a lot less washing up? I think I'll just go with the second option tonight.

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Books Are My Bestie

I have a book fetish.  Books have been my major companion and 'bestie' since childhood. As soon as I could read, I always had a book attached to me and would often come wandering out to the breakfast table, book in hand.

The amount of times I was busted reading a book under the desk at school are too numerous to mention. It all started with Enid Blyton, of course.  Admittedly all the constant references to characters named 'Fanny' were a bit too much for me at times, but nevertheless the stories were so entertaining that I couldn't put them down. It never dawned on me to question  how four kids and a dog could outwit hardened criminals, always remaining unscathed throughout, in all those gripping Famous Five books I read avidly.  I was rather gullible and dreamy. 

It has since dawned on me that a love of Enid Blyton books might not have started me off on the best path to having a firm grip on reality.  A situation that was made worse by a love of such unrealistic TV shows as I Dream Of Jeannie and Bewitched.  I mean, pleeease,  a beautiful witch, with magical powers that mean she can go anywhere and do anything she desires, yet all she wants to do is completely forsake those powers just to be a normal housewife.  RIIIIGHT.  I don't think so.

Anyway, back to books.  At age 10 I read 'Anne Of Green Gables' and then 'Anne' books took over from Enid as my favourites.  My friend Poss will want me to mention the 'Jill' books. So I will. They were 'horsey' type books.  And I say, they were frightfully good. Smashing and all that.  Just like Enid Blyton.  I did like the odd 'horsey' book, which is curious, because I've never particularly liked horses.

I my teens I went through a stage of reading the dreaded Mills and Boon type romances.  This horrified one year 9 English teacher, who called my mother up to the school to inform her that reading such books caused young girls to believe that if they had sex and had an orgasm, they were in love!

Books are the only thing I still hoard as an adult. With other ladies it's usually a handbag or shoe fetish, with me it's a book fetish. Everyone has their thing.  This is fortunate for my husband in that I'm happy with a two dollar book from an op shop, rather than a two hundred dollar handbag.  Not so fortunate however, in that we often need a spare suitcase to bring home all the books I buy on our holidays.

The fact that I will never have time to read all of these books even if I live to be 137 years old is completely irrelevant.  I still have to have them.   Now I still read lighter stuff. I have a short attention span and three kids, so what I am going to read, War and Peace?

 I do sometimes attempt classic authors like Austen, Bronte or Dickens, all of whom I love, but they require more concentration. So I mostly stick with frothy, girly 'chick lit' as they call it, or war time sagas, because I find it amusing how they always have to time for a brew in between all the dramas and bombs exploding, being a cuppa tea girl myself.

Interestingly, I've never read any Harry Potter books.  And I never will. As I've mentioned before, after having three sons, I'm over it.  I may also be the only person in the entire world who has never read the The Da Vinci Code.  I fear it would be too confusing for my fragile brain.  I can't even figure out how to put my sons Lego sets and other various toys together, so my brain might explode trying to decipher such a book.  I won't be reading the Twilight series or The Hunger Games either.  Ditto Fifty Shades Of Grey.

Instead, I'll just read 'Anne' again for the millionth time. Okay, trillionth....

"Mrs Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down into a little hollow, fringed by alders and ladies eardrops and traversed by a brook....."

Note: That opening line from Anne Of Green Gables was quoted straight off the top of my head.  Truly.  Yep, I really am that tragic.

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

                                                         Which books do you love?
                                      What are you reading at the moment?

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Hormones From Hell

I fear I am alarmingly fat. Side on I could definitely pass for being six months pregnant.  With quads. As for my notorious double chin.  It's becoming triple. I seem to remember life on a parallel universe where I could devour hot chips and lasagne while size 8 hot pants still fit. And as many chocolates as a chocoholic likes. Which is quite a lot, actually.  After all we all know the old line: The answer is chocolate. And I don't give a damn what the question is. Boom Boom.

Of course I am presently living in the wonderful world of PMS. Nothing is guaranteed to turn me into a sobbing wreck more than these feral hormones from hell. I will sob at the sight of a Huggies commercial. I will sob when pants that fit me yesterday, suddenly decide not to zip up today.

I will be found weeping tears of utter desolation, unable to contain my heartfelt and utterly sincere despair over - absolutely nothing. To only minutes later, feeling palpable rage, rancid and real, coursing through my veins.

Slamming doors and glaring at anyone who has the misfortune to glance in your direction.  Micky Blue Eyes innocently looks at me and enquires "New top, is it?"  I am certain that what he really meant was "Looking a bit pudgy aren't we?"  He becomes the unfortunate recipient of the 'death stare' and wisely retreats behind a newspaper without waiting for a reply. I will snap at my boys for the slightest thing then begin wailing seconds later convinced I'm The Worst Mother In The World Ever for behaving like such a monumental bitch.

You will find me walking around feeling like a bi-polar, bloated balloon, with breasts swollen to Dolly Parton like proportions, so tender to the touch that a mammogram would seem like fun in comparison to your partner even attempting to come near them in a futile attempt to have sex. SEX?!!!  You, must be joking, I hear all you ladies shriek along with me, just give me a jumbo size block of chocolate and GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY WAY!!!

Of course, it's comforting to know that all of this will eventually subside only to be replaced by unbearable cramps, the equivalent of 500 knives being stabbed into your lower pelvic area and twisted around torturously for several days, after which you have the luxury of being allowed to be normal again for a couple of weeks (assuming you are one of the lucky ones who has clock work cycles, most of us don't) before - YOU START IT ALL OVER AGAIN!!!

Then, if all of that isn't bad enough, the only way out of this cycle of hellish hormones is to get older and then experience the wonderful world of even more hellish hormones called - menopause.  This is a prospect that sounds about as thrilling as being forced to attend a One Direction concert with a bunch of those idiotic, screaming teenage girls, with their hormones raging. GAH! You see what hormones are responsible for??!!

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

What causes you to have a good old sooky la la sobbing session?

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(It's Just Not) Working Girl

Today I am linking this old post with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess: My First Job.


Recently I happened to watch the retro movie Working Girl starring Melanie Griffith on TV.  The one where everyone was suffering from serious Tragic Eighties Syndrome.

 Mick pointed out to me that I too once sported a mop of Tragic Eighties style hair just like Ms Griffith in the film. See above left.  Okay, mine was far worse than Melanie's. Or 'Tess' as she was in the film. See below.  Sadly, my Tragic Eighties hair was the only potential similarity I had to the character of Tess.

It was becoming increasingly clear to me from an early age that I could never hope to be a career woman. The grand finale of the film where Tess is given her own office while Carly Simon belts out an inspiring chorus of "Let The River Run" in the background, was never going to be a scene that would play out in my life. 

It all started the first time I attempted to get a part time job in high school.  I wasn't really sure if I wanted one, but it seemed like the thing everyone did.    The obvious choice was a job at Macca's ie. McDonald's.  I dutifully filled out the application form.  I needed a reference. I asked a teacher who worked wonders at finding tactful, polite things to say about me when in reality if he'd written the truth it would have read something like "Vanessa never utters a single word, or makes eye contact.  Ever. Hire someone else."

After only two weeks of the preliminary training I was fired.  This did not bode well for a future career.  Let's face it, if you can't even manage Macca's, future CEO (or anything) is looking pretty unlikely. 

A year or two later I stumbled out of high school, with absolutely no idea of what to do.  So I signed up for a two year TAFE course in Library Practice.  Seemingly the perfect choice for the quiet, shy nerd-girl who loved reading.  To my dismay I discovered there was a lot more to working as a Library Technician than just reading books.  You actually had to talk to people.  Starting with the obvious.  A job interview.  EEEEEEEEEEEK!  Just the thought of them fills me with terror. 

I know nobody likes them. Everyone gets nervous of course. But it was completely off the scale for me.  I honestly could not fathom what to say.  It didn't matter that I was the most honest, trustworthy reliable individual on the planet, that wasn't going to get me a job. 

I needed the gift of the gab, the ability to sprout verbal diarrhoea and tell potential employers how completely wonderful I was.  I just simply cannot, to this day, do this.  I don't know how much of it is shyness and how much of it is my Aspergers, which I didn't know about at the time.  Perhaps I might have been able to get the help I needed for employment if I had known, something I desperately needed.

Since childhood, whenever I was asked an on the spot question I would freeze and literally not be able to think of  a single thing to say.  This happened at every interview.  Fortunately I was able to get a temporary position at the State Library of NSW through somebody I knew from TAFE.  But a permanent job elluded me.  For a period of time I diligently kept on applying for jobs.  I wasn't so bad at the written application part, so almost always I was contacted for an interview.  It was the talking I couldn't do.  Still can't. 

Some of the other librarians attempted to help me out by telling me what type of questions to expect to be asked so that I could prepare.  All the preparation in the world, still didn't help and the nightmare continued.  The more I tried, the more effort I put in to attempt to sound and speak confidently the more pointless it seemed.

One time I remember walking into a building for an interview and thinking: Right, I am going to walk up confidently to the front desk, speak up loudly and make eye contact.  Determined, I proceeded to do so only to receive the immediate reply "Boy, you're really shy aren't you?" I must have literally reeled as if he'd slapped me.  Even when I made a supreme effort to try to be confident, it seemed I just wasn't convincing. This was one of the many times the interview ended with me running out in tears.

Meanwhile I was also struggling with the temporary job, trying to fit in to the 'team' environment we were expected to work in.  As well as with being a dreamy, space cadet. An unhelpful trait in the work place.

Eventually I gave up on the library jobs and took a job in an NRMA call centre, principally because I was able to arrive 20 minutes late for the interview, after getting lost, where I mumbled a few incoherent words and they still employed me on a trial basis.  I soon found out why. It was hell on Earth.  NRMA are a great company, it's just that I wasn't cut out to talk to (mostly abusive) people all day.  Even over the phone. Somehow I worked there for three nightmarish years, before finally resigning. 

By this point I was married and we wanted start a family. It wasn't happening and we began fertility treatments.  This involved multiple trips to the hospital at random times, which would have made trying to keep a job at the same time difficult. So in it went into the too hard basket right along with driving.

Years later I had a few more casual library jobs.  (The whole fertility thing is another saga!).  The closest I got to a 'Tess' moment was when I was employed by law firm to look after their small specialist library.  I told them I wasn't in fact, officially a librarian, and they went oh well, doesn't matter and let me pretend to be one for a while.

Yes, I am definitely no Working Girl.  Maybe I'll just have to live vicariously through the film instead. After all daydreaming is something I'm good at.  Sing with me..."Leeeeeeeeet the River Ruuuun, Let all the dreamers wake the nation......"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cv-0mmVnxPA

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The Three B's

Sport and I do not mix.  I associate all sport with the three B's, ie. Bats, Balls, BOOORRRRING.  It all started in year 4 at primary school, when I had this appalling teacher who forced us to play endless games of volley ball.  Endless for me meant any number greater than zero.

I simply detested it.  I had a dread of the ball coming near me and would flinch and move away instead of diving in and hitting it like you're supposed to.  I never noticed the ball was headed my way until it was right on top of me, as I was already tuned out anyway.  Unlike other kids who looked forward to sport as a means of escaping formal lessons, I dreaded it like most people dread root canal.

  Of course I was always the last person standing there that nobody wanted when team captains had to choose people during sport at school.  You couldn't really blame anyone for not wanting me on their team.  I was completely inept and uninterested. The frequent jibe I heard was always: "You're supposed to hit the ball!"

On one occasion I do remember becoming annoyed when somebody yelled at me yet again during sport at school and shouting back something really forceful like "Oh, shut up!" That actually  was forceful for me, as I think it was the only two words I uttered through all of high school. "Come here young lady!" the teacher announced sternly.  I trudged over sullenly, preparing for reprimand.  "Congratulations," he announced instead "that's the first time you've ever stood up for yourself." It was probably the last too. Oh well.

Unfortunately for me, becoming a mother of three boys hasn't lessened my antipathy for all things sport like.  I still have zero interest.  I haven't even made an appearance at Master 8 or 10's soccer as yet this year.  The season has just started, so I expect I will eventually, at which point the following will happen:

• My eyes will glaze over in approximately ten seconds , even when it's my own child playing.
• When an occasion pops up where we have to go in opposite directions to take both boys to a soccer match at the same time at different parks,  Mick will then ask me detailed questions about the game, such as which team mates were there, who scored the goals and who, in fact, won, and I will have no idea, because after glazing over after ten seconds, I was then tuned out for the entire game.
• All the other parents at the game will be overly concerned with their child's team winning and their child actually scoring a goal, screaming at them insanely throughout the match.  All I will be concerned about is if there is coffee available at the kiosk, and when it will be over so that I can go home.
• When I get there I will have to rely on Master 8 or 10 to locate their team mates because I'm still not entirely sure who they are or what they look like, even near the end of the season, because I've been so tuned out.
• I can't ever really remember the actual name of the teams they play for.  Is it Under 9 Dolphins or Wombats? It's some sort of an animal, I know that much. Can't remember which one though.
• Canteen duties will traumatise me.  This requires me to do all of the things I am hopeless at, at once.  Dealing with people face to face, remembering stuff and adding up numbers all at the same time.  Too scary. Was it one sausage sandwich and two cans of coke? Or one can of coke and two sausage sandwiches?  And then I will proceed to add it all up wrong, either giving the delighted person a free drink or the peeved person the incorrect change.  Consequently, I think I've only done canteen duty a grand total of once. 

Then, in addition to all of that, if the entire season isn't tedious enough, you have the end of year presentation.  This is when you are required to sit through several hours in an auditorium, hearing multiple long-winded, dull speeches about what a great year it's been and politely clapping for every other child clopping up to the stage to get their trophy while completely bored out of your mind, when all you are interested in is your kid getting their trophy and getting the hell out of there and having lunch and a drink or two. Because frankly you need one after having to sit through such mind-numbing boredom.  Or maybe that's just me. 

Sadly though, the joke is on me.  The truth is that because of my tendency to be a sooky la la stresshead I desperately need to exercise. I also need to burn off all the cakies and crap I eat, but I have given up on this presently as this would require completing a triathlon daily.  And then I still may not have burned enough calories.  But I still need those endorphins.  So what do I do?

 I can't do team sports.  Don't even talk to me about Gyms. I have attempted to go to them in the past  when I came to this conclusion. I hate them with a passion.

The queueing up for machines, the doof doof music, the overly polite, patronisingly fake staff who are only interested in getting you to sign up for a hellishly expensive membership.  The posturing people giving you pitying looks at your Best & Less purchased sport wear.  No thanks.

So I exercise at home.  By myself.  Where nobody can see what an uncoordinated klutz I am.  Wearing an attractive ensemble of leggings, one of Mick's t-shirts and joggers with holes in them.  Huffing, puffing, sweating, face red as a beetroot.

Which reminds me.  I suppose I had better go it do it.  Soon.  Oh, okay, now.

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Quiet Discomfort

I am, of course, famous for being quiet, introspective and deep.(ie an off with the pixies, space cadet who can't think of a single original thing to say) which means that I do not find myself making faux pas. In fact my biggest faux pas seems to be the fact that I AM so quiet. It seems to bother people tremendously.  This has led to the following situations and observations.

When an outgoing, talkative person leaves a job, their co-workers are genuinely regretful to see them go, not only because of their work contribution, but also because of their wit, conversation skills and general friendliness.  People descend on them with loud exclamations of "Sorry to see you go!" and promises to keep in touch and meet for coffee.  There are lots of 'in' jokes on the farewell card about all the crazy times at staff and Christmas Parties.

This is in stark contrast to a shy, quiet person, (ie. me). When you leave a job (assuming you can get one in the first place) people make such heartwarming comments like:

"Oh well, we'll miss your work, but not you - you're too quiet."

When the farewell card goes around the office, everyone politely signs it, all the while wondering:
 "Who is she?"

Other stuff that has happened:

People routinely talk about me as if I'm not there.

People who would never dream of telling an overly loud chatterbox to just shut the hell up, think nothing of telling me that I SHOULD NOT be so quiet. That I MUST come out of my shell.

Frequent jibes heard are:

"It's always the quiet ones you gotta watch."

 As if being quiet means I am some sort of weird psychopath waiting to happen, who could potentially snap at any given moment. Well, just so you know, I personally keep my collection of sawn off shot guns right in between my collection of Carpenters cds and Lucy Maud Montgomery novels. NOT.

"Stuck up bitch!"

I heard this a lot growing up

 Me? Stuck up? I live in Boganville for christ sakes.  Me? A bitch? I honestly wish I could be one.  Even just for a day, just to see what it feels like.

"You're the quietest person I've ever met/known." 

 Hmph.  Don't they know any dead people.

Other stuff that occurs to me:


People whom I've met several times and by now could reasonably expect they might remember me, look at me bewildered, frantically searching their memory banks and coming up with...nothing...as they have forgotten my name.

I spent decades of my life being nice, polite, sweet and giving to other people who wouldn't even like me if I gave them a Ferrari, only to be informed during a so-called Confidence Building group thingy, that quiet, shy people are selfish and self-absorbed. This didn't particularly build my confidence, come to think of it.

In a recent social situation I was my usual quiet, unassuming self. Meanwhile, a group of young women were chatting away incessantly. The bulk of the conservation seemed to involve bitching about other friends and acquaintances who were not there. At times the comments were not only bitchy but downright racist. I said nothing. Maybe I should have. Nobody else said anything. Then, in amongst all this racist bitchiness, somebody turned to me and exclaimed loudly :

"You're the quietest person I've ever known! You're never gonna change, are you?" Hearty chuckles. How am I supposed to respond to such statements? I have no idea, but I probably gave her look that would freeze hell over.

Apparently being bitchy and racist is far more socially acceptable than being quiet. I don't get it. I never will. Sigh.

Selective mutism is, of course, part of having Asperger's Syndrome. I was just lucky enough to score a genetic hatrick of traits. I'm introverted, shy, quiet AND an Aspie, so therefore, is it any wonder I am so quiet? Maybe I should wear a sign on my chest or something informing people of all of the above, so they won't make a federal issue of it.

Ultimately, the older I get the less I care about what random people think of me. Hallejah! About time. Occasionally, I frustrate the fuck out of Micky Blue Eyes with my silence. I DO care about that. I don't know how he puts up with me, sometimes. But then again, I don't know how I put up with him either. Interesting. Apparently we like putting up with each other.

Okay, I think I'm done.  Back to what I do best.  Shutting up.  Try it some time people.

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

Are you a talker? Too quiet? Or just right? What's so wrong with being quiet, anyway? Any thoughts?

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