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 Domestic Goddess
Hair-raising and heart-rending tales from that doyen of domestic bliss, Betty Doran, the fearless but frazzled mother of four.
(These are archived rants, you can also read Betty's current musings here.)
All Praise To The Easter Bunny
April 5, 2007
Easter is a celebration steeped in ethnic and ecumenical tradition, with origins that date back thousands of years. Various cultures all around the world enjoy celebrating this auspicious annual occasion in a beautiful myriad of spiritually significant and meaningful ways.
But here in "Betty World," we like to celebrate Easter by consuming our own body weight worth of cheap, inferior grade chocolate in a vast array of novelty shapes and sizes. In our household, when it comes to Easter fare, quantity is valued over quality every time. Here's how our special day usually pans out...
We awake around the crack of 7.30 and commence our worship of "his" mysterious ministrations. Yes, we all wonder and marvel at the resourcefulness of that amazing bunny who manages to leave his abundance of chocolate droppings at the foot-ends of our beds in the middle of the night without having disturbed a solitary excited little human. Then we get straight down to business.
Breakfast - the first and most important meal of the day. So naturally we begin with the most unfeasibly large chocolate eggs and a side order of chocolate bunnies, hotly pursued by chocolate chickens and then we work our way down to the more modestly sized chocolate eggs. Followed up with chocolate frogs/fish/ducks/squirrels and raccoons, or anything else that can possibly be cast in cheap chocolate and wrapped up in colorful, shiny foil. Then, if anyone is still upright, we finish off with a delicate dessert of teeny tiny eggs with fondant filling. Finally, we dutifully recognize the religious significance of Easter and give praise to the heavens above that Easter only comes once a year.
Bake Your Way To Happiness
March 29, 2007
It's one of those great to be alive, glorious days, when you couldn't be miserable if you tried. Well, at least everything's alright in Betty World.
The sort of day when you can't help but sing at the top of your voice. Even when your four year old son sticks his fingers in his ears and yells; "STOP IT MUMMY! I HATE THAT WHEN YOU SONGING!" Even when you, inevitably, pick the most errant shopping trolley with the wobbliest wheels, or go clothes shopping and once again find yourself buying maternity-wear out of sheer habit. Or when you take swimwear to the fitting room and stand there butt naked looking at your potato sack of a body from every which angle.
But I'm still smiling. Even after holding on the phone for a time period during which 48,000 babies were born and several species became extinct. "All-of-our-service-consultants-are-currently-busy-but-one-of-our-operators-will-be-with-you-shortly." Ha! Like there's more than one!
Who cares! In Betty world, today has been a day to just enjoy the simple pleasures, like the feeling of warm sun on your face, sand between your toes and listening to the sounds of children at play. A day to remember that when life serves you lemons you can always make lemon meringue pie.
Lemon filling: 3/4 cup sugar, 1/3 cup cornflour, 1 cup water, 2/3 cup lemon juice, 2 oz. butter, grated rind 2 lemons, 2 egg-yolks. You'll also need one 9" baked pastry case.
Combine sugar and cornflour in saucepan, blend in water and lemon juice gradually and stir until smooth. Continue to stir over medium heat until mixture boils and thickens. Remove from heat, quickly stir in butter, lemon rind and egg yolks and beat until butter has melted. When filling has cooled spread into pre-baked pastry case. Top with meringue mixture and bake in moderate oven 5 to 10 minutes, or until meringue is set and slightly browned.
Meringue: 2 egg whites, 1/4 cup sugar.
Beat egg-whites until foamy, gradually add sugar, beat until sugar has dissolved and mixture is thick and glossy.
Meatballs
March 22, 2007
I love food, but food loves me too. Sometimes I think every delectable dish I ever ingested is still stalking me...
I can't hide my disappointment. The new improved Ikea catalogue had finally arrived and I was hoping its glossy pages would contain clever answers to my burgeoning homemaking problems. But the only thing that even remotely caught my eye was the hunky guy on the penultimate page offering me a tempting plate of "Swedish Meatballs" smothered in saucy Swedish gravy.
There's never a more enjoyable sight to a grumpy ol' gal than a handsome young man offering his tempting, tender, succulent balls on a plate - Swedish or otherwise.
But forget the eye candy, it's the edible sort I've really got an eye for. I just love food, especially in the rare event that I didn't have anything to do with preparing it. But unfortunately, food seems to love me too.
Sometimes I think every delectable dish I ever ingested is still stalking me. For example, hiding away under my left armpit is that irresistible chocolate croissant I had an intense affair with in 1987. One of my chins is now providing a permanent haven for a pre-loved pumpkin pie. And, in the folds of flab where my waist line should be, are the loyal remains of almost every hamburger I've ever consumed. All clinging on with unwavering resolve to remain unmetabolized for the term of my natural life.
Anyhoo, can't fat-talk now, must dash off to Ikea. I've got a hot date with a saucy little Swedish sausage.
The Dreadfulness Of The Home Haircut
March 15, 2007
As part of a new economy drive I've bought some barbers clippers, after all, who needs to waste money on haircuts? Certainly not my two young sons, who are much too young to comprehend abstract concepts like "style" and "fashion". Thus, Betty's Barbershop opened with me at the helm, full of unfounded confidence and misplaced bravado.
"You there, yes, small child with the runny nose, come and sit in this chair and be nice and still while I practice my amateur hair-styling skills on your head with this razor sharp electronic cutting device." Several minutes later I stood back to survey my handiwork.
Even for someone with no hairdressing knowledge whatsoever, I had done a spectacularly bad job. His head looked like a badly patched quilt. Stubborn and insubordinate tufts of hair were poking out at odd angles and his ears were bleeding.
"Never mind darling, I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it with a little more experience," I offered dubiously as my other son vanished in a cloud of dust.
My pragmatic and contractually obligated marital partner saved the day, lovingly placing a pillow slip over the hapless boy's hideous head and bundling him off to a real barber shop for an extreme hair make-over. Phew.
I suppose it may have been sub-conscious self-punishment that drove me later on to agree to letting my 14 year old niece loose on my own mane of untamable locks. But she actually did a pretty good job. A little too asymmetric and edgy perhaps for a middle-aged mother of four, but I feel the erratic nature of the cut reflects my frazzled personality to a tee. Anyway, I’ll be advertising my barbers clippers for sale in the local trader - Hair Clippers going cheap - near new, hardly used, only slightly blood stained.
Floordrobe Malfunction
March 8, 2007
WANTED: personal assistant
Job description: advising frazzled mother of four when she is about to commit another act of sartorial self-sabotage.
Must be available 24/7.
Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else, or is it just me? This morning I was getting dressed when I realized the blouse I wanted to wear desperately needed to re-acquaint itself with an iron. So, I put on the first thing that came to hand, a smelly old rumpled shirt from the dirty wash pile (well, one of the dirty wash piles) and proceeded to iron my clean blouse.
Having achieved that goal (yay - I achieved a goal!), I layed the freshly renovated garment out on my unmade bed (I like to save a few goals for later), ready to pop it on just before leaving the house (thus cleverly minimizing the risk of compromising its pristine presentability with a likely smattering of sticky little peanut butter fingers).
It's now several hours later. I've done the school run and spent two hours at playgroup. I've raced round the local shopping center meeting friends and neighbors and not one of them had the temerity to comment on my choice of scruffy, smelly, rumpled attire. In fact, it's only just come to my attention thanks to an opportunity to achieve that deferred goal and actually make my bed before I lie in it once more. And there it was, my neatly ironed, clean blouse still laying on the bed - right where I left it this morning.
I think this sort of wardrobe based malfunction syndrome may be hereditary. I'm pretty sure I get mine from my mother. My mom has been known to travel the length and breadth of the city's public transport limits with the hem of her skirt firmly tucked into the top of her panty-hose. And once, back in the 70s, went to work with one half of her face fully made-up and the other half au naturale. Not to mention an accompanying head-full of "bed hair". In fact, now that I think about it, it's possible my mother actually invented "punk".
What's In A Name?
February 22, 2007
My middle name is Gay. I got it from my aunty who's Gay too. However, while it can be fun to be Gay, it's not always easy. My mother named her first born son "Mervyn". She says she can't be held responsible as she was drunk at the time, and anyway, it's a family tradition (the name, not the drinking).
This leads me to the vexed issue of naming children. For all those expectant parents out there, everyone (and I mean everyone) you speak to in the months leading up to the birth of your blessed bundle will have an opinion. So, don't worry, you'll never be short of options; they may well be crap options, but you'll certainly have them.
Prepare to be mortified by acquaintances who'll ask for your thoughts on naming your child, then proceed to vehemently express their disapproval of your choice. Before you experienced the, er, pleasure of becoming pregnant, you may have fantasized about all kinds of possible names for your future offspring. "Gilligan" was always a big favorite of mine. Hoo boy, so many people had an opinion on that one.
With that in mind, here's MY advice for tackling the minefield that is naming your child. It's simple. The next time your in-laws/neighbors/bus driver demand to be let in on the naming rights of your impending infant, you must insist you have narrowed your options down to two possible choices. The first name you mention should be something absurd like "Shilo Nouvel", "Apple" or "Fifi-Trixiebell-Peaches-Heavenly-Hirrani-Tigerlily", then, you follow up with your actual choice. Believe me, they'll be falling over themselves in approval.
So Much For Sex In The Suburbs
February 15, 2007
My contractually obligated marital partner and I have been together for so long you'd think one of us would have been paroled by now. And while I'm happy to say our relationship is still very, er, "functional", it can get a bit stale and in need of livening up. When you get caught up in the day-to-day grind of wrangling 4 kids, it's easy to lose sight of the reason we became lovers in the first place.
When we struggle to find that extra ounce of energy and enthusiasm needed to fulfill each others needs as a couple (I can practically hear my teenaged daughter going "eeww"), I try and find the modicum of motivation I need by inject a healthy dose of imagination into the scene.
Occasionally, late at night, when my husband finally gets into bed beside me I can be less blasé about it if I close my eyes really tight and imagine it's George Clooney climbing in between the sheets and nuzzling the nape of my neck.
"Spoon me, spoon me George..." I swoon as I feel his heated passion arise. Tragically, I suddenly remember that I'm a married woman. Luckily for me Penelope Cruze isn't... leaving George at liberty to have his wicked way with me, as, magically, I have been transformed in my hubby's mind's eye to a raven haired Spanish sex-goddess!
If you've kept up with me so far you'll understand what I mean when I say that George and Penny were "at it" like rabbits last night when the inevitable happened. They were rudely interrupted by one of their numerous offspring.
And unfortunately, there's nothing like the sound of a projectile vomit splattering over a 180 degree arc to chime the death knell of a torrid "interlewd" of parental passion.
It was with a degree of frustration that Penelope Cruze suddenly found herself knee-deep in puke and trying to pacify a distressed child. Meanwhile, a disgruntled George Clooney stuffed the washing machine full to capacity with an assortment of soiled artifacts and wandered back to the marital sack, to await his leading lady.
Sometime later, an exhausted Penelope - looking shagged-out and disheveled for all the wrong reasons - shuffled back to the boudoir, swathed by the heady alluring scent of a potent and provocative combination of vomit and disinfectant. At last she stripped off her saucy sex-goddessy flannelette bath robe and slipped between the covers only to find George flat on his back, out like a light and snoring like a big old hibernating bear. So much for sex in the suburbs.
Maternal Anxieties
February 8, 2007
Whenever I'm struggling with maternal anxieties, I find it a good self-help technique to write it all down and send it off to the world. Hence this weekly dustbin full of domestic dilemmas. It's like a regular visit to a shrink, only more economical.
Right now, my teenaged daughter is on the other side of the globe and my angst is going through the roof. This is the third morning in a row I've sprung out of bed, switched on the computer, got into my e-mail account only to find "No New Messages" from her. Does she seriously expect me to believe that London is such a rural backwater that she can't find one solitary Internet cafe in the whole place? I'm afraid she's driven me to drastic measures, hence this Universal Letter to a Traveling Teen.
My darling daughter,
It's my motherly duty to inform you that your father and I have won the lottery. So, naturally, we're divorcing. He's off to the Cayman Islands and I'm flying out to France. We're still haggling over who gets the boys. I think my precious young sons need a good strong positive male role model in their life. But in the absence of that I still think they should be with their father.
Your sister has found religion and run away to join a nunnery. From now on she will be known as Sister Maria Madonna Christina Aguilera Shakira. She has taken a vow of silence (that'll be the day...) but you can write to her care of The Little Sisters of Small Mercies convent, orphanage, bakery and souvenirs outlet.
Actually, we're all still here doing the same old same old and surprise, surprise, your Dad's gone fishing. Still sticking steadfastly to his mission statement - "work is for people who don't fish" (not to be confused with his life's motto – "never stand between a woman and chocolate" ). The boys are engrossed in their favorite game "Spiderman and his faithful Indian Sidekick." Your sister is sprawled across her bed chewing gum and reading trashy magazines and I'm mopping the floor. So, all systems normal. Now, listen carefully. I don't care how far away you are, if there's no e-mail from you tomorrow - YOU'RE GROUNDED.
Maternally yours,
Mother
How Many Bathrooms?
February 1, 2007
This week I'm sending out my deepest sympathies and heartfelt condolences to poor little Gwen Stefani. Apparently, she's moving into a new house with only seven bathrooms! A young mother with a new baby; my god, how on Earth will she manage?
I can't even keep one bathroom clean, let alone seven. It's clear that she'll no longer have time to dress-up like a demented sex-starved Christmas tree on crack, shaking her groove-thang for all the impressionable young children and retirees who are up early enough on Saturdays to watch the video music shows. What was she thinking?
And, as if having to dedicate seven days a week to keeping your bathrooms spic and span wasn't bad enough, she's gone and moved in right next door to Britney Spears. So, not only will she be exhausted from scrubbing toilets, she'll probably have Brits hammering on her door at all-hours wanting to borrow a cup of cocaine, pair of undies or bottle of non-alcoholic breast milk.
That said, I'm pleased to be the bearer of glad tidings for Gwenny, and all of us domestic goddesses alike. Apparently, a new "self-cleaning" substance has been formulated to laminate fabrics that could make washing a thing of the past! Imagine that - no more grubby sports clothes or stinky work shirts. In fact, scientists working for the U.S. Air Force have already produced T-shirts and underwear that can be warn for weeks at a time between washes. But why restrict it to just clothes? What about the self-cleaning home?
I must admit that I frequently fantasize about uncoiling a big old fireman's hose into my humble abode and turning it on full-throttle, until my whole house is sparkling from top to bottom. And perhaps this new miracle fabric treatment will someday make all my dreams come true. So, if there are any budding scientists out there looking for an ordinary germ-filled perpetually putrid house to perform their scientific tests on - PICK ME!
Girl Crazy
January 25, 2007
Girls... I love 'em. And I'm not just saying that because I am one. Don't get me wrong, men aren't bad company under certain circumstances, but as I get older, wiser and wrinklier I really enjoy the company of women. Not in an Ellen Degeneres sort of a way - although I'm sure I'd enjoy her company as well - but just in a fun, friendly platonic, relaxed and conversational sort of a way.
My alpha-male contractually obligated marital partner reckons girls are only girls because they accidentally ticked the wrong box before birth. But I disagree. Apart from the one obvious benefit of being born with a penis (and let's face it, it's not THAT much of a chore to sit down for a pee), I can't think why I would ever want to burden myself with that particular appendage. Those dreadful dangly bits do seem to lead an awful lot of men into an awful lot of trouble with monotonous regularity. I'd much rather have my sensitive bits neatly tucked away in a sensibly snug pair of cotton-tails than haphazardly hanging out of a pair of baggy boxer shorts. That's just fly-fishing for trouble.
I just look forward to my girly gatherings, like getting together with my old school pals. There's always so much to talk about. Who's got married, who's been divorced and who's had another baby (usually me). You can always pick the girls who haven't got around to having babies; they're the ones who haven't aged a bit. The last time I saw one of those girls she was pregnant with her first child. Everyone was "oohing" and "aahing" and congratulating and cheek-kissing like mad; but I just sat back in my recliner chair and said; "Girl, I am SO looking forward to seeing you finally AGE like the rest of us!"
Best of all is the girls weekender. There are only two rules for a good girly weekend; 1) NO KIDS, and 2) NO MEN (although there is one guy called Preston we sometimes admit to the club, but he's a bigger girl than the rest of us). First, we pile into our accommodation and sort out our priorities. Then we pile all our priorities into separate categories (ie: milk chocolate, dark chocolate, hard and soft centers), then we giggle for 48 hours or until we finally fall into a chocolate induced coma, whichever comes first. Now that's what I call girl therapy, and I'm hanging out of my cotton-tails for my next fix!
Ivanna Havitoff
January 18, 2007
You know you're getting old when?
- You go to a friend's birthday party and the music is turned down so low you can actually hear yourself think.
- You go to a venue to see an internationally famous rock band whose collective age almost rivals your own.
- You know all the words to every Carly Simon song ever recorded.
- All of the above.
Last weekend, my contractually obligated marital partner and I had an unusually hectic social schedule, beginning with a EuroTrash costume party for a friends' 40th. Eagerly incarnated as our "Euro alter egos" we set off across town. "Nils Control" and "Ivanna Havitoff" riding down the freeway of love in a pink Porsche. Well, not so much a Porsche as a Toyota, and not so much pink as rusty. But a girl can dream can't she?
Nils, repleat in his skin-tight unitard with big shaggy Tina Turner style wig and even bigger and shaggier footwear. Ivanna, resplendent in multi layered leopard spots, knee high black boots and bad hair boufant. Ready and raring to PAR-TAY. We arrived not long after the pre-booked paramedic. This looked set to be a top night out.
The evening certainly started out with great promise but no one could operate the complicated computerized mini CD player (a sure sign of imminent senility). Thankfully, someone had the good sense to have brought along a pre-pubescent child who soon had the CD player sorted out. Our ten year old DJ got the party into full swing pumping out relentless Never Heard Hits To Meditate By - at minimum volume. And a cracking good night of conversation was had by all - wardrobe malfunctions notwithstanding (there's no such thing as going for a "quick pee" when you're wearing a unitard). Everyone behaved themselves to an exemplary standard - with the possible exception of the paralytic paramedic - and all us old farts were safely tucked in our beds by midnight.
We also happened to have tickets for a English rock band's concert the following night. The night club venue was full to capacity. The average age of the 3,000 occupants looked to have been about twenty, and every one of them was singing along with every song. I desperately attempted to look inconspicuous by moving my lips in a mumbling motion and hoped like heck there were no professional lip readers checking me out. At one stage a young man in my immediate vicinity momentarily refrained from furiously flinging his head around to convey a complimentary comment on my funky headwear (bad hair disguise). Just for a laugh I told him I was the lead singers' grandmother. He was impressed and without a hint of irony shouted "COOL - You rock Granny!" as he hurled himself into the mosh pit. I guess I walked right into that one.
The band were in high spirits, ecstatic to be having a break from their exhaustive High School schedule. When they finally finished and left the stage the house music came up to encourage the elated throng to depart. What do you know, a Carly Simon classic. Finally, a song I actually knew all the words to.
The Donut Path To Weight Loss
January 11, 2007
Another year, another New Year's resolution. Well, to be more precise, another year, the same resolution - with another opportunity to get it right. My "groundhog day" New Year's resolution invariably goes something along these lines: "I vow to be somewhat less 'fiscally challenged' this year, to be less 'generally crap' than I have been in previous years and to not have gone up another dress size by December." Sadly, I usually fall short of even these most modest of aspirations. This year however, I think I may be in with a chance.
Regrettably, I have a hopeless track record when it comes to dieting. I read Dr Phil's entire book The Ultimate Weight Solution and didn't lose an ounce. I re-read it and I still weighed a ton. Of course, with a marathon read like that I had to keep a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on hand just to keep up my reading strength, but you'd think that by reading the entire tome twice I'd at least lose half a pound; life is so unfair sometimes.
Anyway, one evening recently I found my two daughters fighting for prime potato position on the couch. It turns out they were engrossed in an episode of "The Biggest Loser". As I moved to change the channel they screamed in unison "NOOOO! We're just about to find out who wins the money!" Well that got my attention. Are you telling me these people get to lose weight and win money?
I elbowed them both off the couch and made them go get me some popcorn. Then came the revelation. It was amazing, incredible. I mean these people had literally re-invented themselves. They all looked so fabulous, so glamorous, so absolutely emaciated with happiness. I was totally inspired - I mean I could really use that sort of moola. And if there's a competition for really big losers - I'm gonna be A WINNER!
So I've come to a momentous decision. It's time to get tough. I'm going to bite the bullet, rope that steer and grab the bull by the horns. Hand me the Krispy Kremes and get me a soda - I'm BULKING UP for my forthcoming audition on "The Biggest Loser..."
Measuring Up
January 4, 2007
I like to set my personal standards comfortably low. That way, if I ever have any kind of success it feels like a really big achievement and by contrast I can't possibly ever be disappointed. For example no one could have been more proud or pleased than me watching my 11 year old daughter take third place in the 'B' division freestyle race in the '2nd' division interschool swim meet. I screamed like a banshee!
But lately I feel I may have dropped my standards a little too low - even by my standards. I think this current bout of angst may have been triggered when my small son asked me to stand up against the "measuring" wall in out kitchen. We like to regularly record the varying heights of all the kids that come and go from our house. Not just our own kids but their cousins, friends, friends of friends, cousins of friends of friends - it's a pretty busy wall.
Anyway, I happily obliged, eager to see if I'd grown at all since the last time. You see, I have this theory that I'm not really too fat at all, I'm really just way too short. If I could put all my energy into growing just another 12 inches or so I'd be perfect(ish). Alas, it wasn't to be. My son lined me up, took a crude measurement and excitedly passed his judgment; "You're about 20 years ago!"
Tragically for me, he's right. Except that 20 years ago I wasn't a bad-haired, fat, frumpy old frazzled mother of four. It's true that some of the clothes in my closet are at least twenty years old. It's also true that I haven't been able to squeeze into any of them for about the last ten years. But I just keep holding on to this insane notion that this whole aging process thing is just a temporary glitch and one day I'll wake up young and gorgeous again. And who knows, perhaps by the time that happens all those moth eaten old clothes I've been manically hoarding for all these years will be right back in fashion.
Ho Ho Ho Woe
December 21, 2006
'Tis the season to deck the halls with boughs of holly or climb the walls with cries of "woe is me," depending on your Christmas spirit level. I must confess, the weeks leading up to the "joyous season of giving" generally find me running around like a headless turkey, becoming more and more confused and panicky with every remaining shopping day.
Usually, I feel lucky to have even made it home alive after a day of negotiating the Christmas shopping crowds. Add a couple of toddlers into the mix - both eager to advise me of their ever increasing Christmas demands at every turn - and my brain goes AWOL. I rarely end up finding a single item on my list but often manage to return with a trunk-load of assorted inappropriate giftware that will almost certainly have to be returned at the first opportunity. And all of it costing ten-times more than I budgeted for. Never mind about "visions of sugar plums", it's nightmares of credit card statements that dance around my head.
Inevitably, the big day arrives. Excited children, universally synchronized, to awake before dawn. Sleep deprived parents, the world over, who've been up most of the night doing the Santa Claus thing; assembling bicycles/dolls houses etc, getting into the kinky role-play with the sexy Santa suit and the big black boots (or is that just me?). Hot, strong coffee followed by 18 hours of marathon-like eating frenzy in which my family will consume more carbs and protein than a sizeable Olympic weight-lifting team.
The late-night drive home with a trailer-load of freshly unwrapped booty. Tired and emotional parents barely coping with over-wrought children, crying and squabbling over various toys and trinkets, some already lost or broken (even worse when the kids start crying and squabbling too). Finally, crawling between the covers and giving way to a dribbling deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
I guess you could say I'm just a sentimental old romantic at heart, looking through my rose colored novelty over-sized sunglasses (circa Christmas 2002). Still, I'm thinking of adding "secure straight jacket" and "month's supply of valium" to my own wish list. In the meantime, I'll try and raise my Christmas spirit level with a nice big tumbler full of "Christmas Cheer." Best wishes to all for a safe and happy holiday.
Satan's Toxic Waste Dump
December 14, 2006
Frequently, the mess in the bedroom my two darling daughters occupy gets so out of hand that I have to call for an old priest and a young priest.
The wardrobes in Satan's toxic waste dump are empty and the girls complain that they have "nothing to wear!" On the other hand, the FLOORDROBE is full to capacity. Trying to explain to my girls that they should put things back where they came from before another outfit is put to the test is futile. A bit like trying to convince their dad that his CD collection would be so much easier to manage if the CDs were actually in their cases.
But who am I trying to fool? When it comes to mess-making, I'm no slouch. Sadly, our entire family unit seems to be composed of born slobs. I sometimes think the only reason I've had so many children is that I was hoping for a neat one; an obsessive compulsive neat-freak that could happily indulge themselves 24/7 by cleaning up after the rest of us.
Still, someone has to pick up the CDs/clothes/shoes/3 day old bowls of cereal; and that someone usually ends up being me. When I was in high school my English Lit teacher, Mr. Jones, was always very keen for us to leave our classroom in a pristine state. "Always be kind to cleaners," he used to say, "you may be one yourself one day."
"Yeah, sure," we'd chortle back, with exaggerated sarcastic intonations. Now just look at what's become of me. I'm beset by the Curse of Mr. Jones, forced into an endless purgatory of domestic chores. Now, where's that priest's phone number.
Keeping Up With Mrs. Boney-Butt
December 7, 2006
It's all very well for your Madonnas and your Angelina Jolies to be mother of the year, isn't it? What with 24/7 nanny service, hot & cold running macrobiotic chefs and personal chauffeurs, there's nothing left to do but tone your boney bottom for an hour or three in your fully equipped home gymnasium. A quick Jolie-Pitt stop to pick up another one of those oh-so-cute little African babies to add to the collection, a spot of retail therapy and back to the mansion in time for cocktails. Yes, child-rearing can be hell.
But here's the thing I really hate. I'm busy telling the school's cafeteria/cake stall/chocolate raffle/fete day volunteer roster co-ordination manager why I can't possibly help out on whatever fundraiser happens to be running that weekend (I have an infinite supply of feeble excuses), when, right in the middle of my spiel, I'm rudely interrupted by the arrival of a jaw-droppingly attractive young woman who we'll call Mrs. Boney-Butt. She's pushing an occupied toddler stroller and has a new born baby strapped in a carry pouch. She eagerly signs up for duty first thing Sunday morning, then wafts away leaving a Chanel No. 5 scented zephyr behind her.
The roster lady dutifully informs me that; "Not only does Mrs. Boney-Butt cope wonderfully well with her young family, she also runs a successful small business from home. How she fits it all in and still finds time to coach the under 7's softball team AND be vice-president of the Parents and Citizens Committee is just amazing."
"ALRIGHT ALREADY, I'll sign up," I spit, as I snatch the pen from her hand.
That's how I came to spend the best part of my entire Sunday slaving away over a charity stall at our local school last weekend. I had the unfortunate task of coordinating the donations and sales of "pre-loved" toys/games/videos and other such family friendly amusements. In theory it should have been a relatively straight forward task - if not for the toddler factor.
My boys quickly developed an operation of military precision for seizing, commandeering, inspecting and dismantling every last item that our kind community had rallied to donate to the cause. Uniting to conquer, and then dividing up their spoils in a surprisingly fair and equitable fashion (toddler team work) they managed to stash away at least two-thirds of the best "booty" before I'd even had a chance to set-up. I might as well have just written a check for the lot and cut out the middle-man.
It turned out to be a lot of fun though, after all. The school can now afford some new sporting equipment and my volunteer parent-helper status is topped up for a while. So now, I can put my feet up and have a well earned rest; right after I find somewhere to store this "treasure trove" of second-hand stuff we ended up buying.
The Pink Barbie Novelty Headband
November 30, 2006
DISCLAIMER
Firstly, I'd like to take this opportunity to explain why I was wearing that ridiculous PINK NOVELTY BARBIE HEADBAND last Thursday. My 5 year old niece left it at our house and I found it when I was cleaning-up (moving the deck chairs on my own personal Titanic). Having no designated place for it, I popped it on my head for safe keeping - and promptly forgot all about it. I discovered my absent minded error after several hours worth of shopping and running various errands around the neighborhood. So NOW I'm officially sartorially challenged on top of my other disability.
Have I mentioned my other disability? I probably haven't, I don't like to make a big deal out of it. Fortunately, it's not that obvious most of the time. In fact, I was almost completely unaware of it myself until I started regularly using a computer. It turns out that I'm "digitally disabled," as I've got only two fingers that can type. I've been trying to get those two to teach the other ones, but it's a laborious and unrewarding process, they all seem to be suffering some kind of learning impairment.
Now, I don't think it's at all clever or amusing to make fun of the disabled, but apparently my daughters do. Their mirth knows no bounds whenever they see their hapless Luddite of a mother poking two-fingeredly at the keyboard. I spend too many butt-numbing hours slaving away at my computer with eight useless digits hanging helplessly from my hardly working hands. But I don't let it get me down. I persevere with the dedicated determination of a Paralympian, sacrificing all to produce the significant literary work you see before you.
Sometimes my kids invite their friends around to cruelly point their dexterous little fingers at my underemployed digits and laugh at my expense. But happily, there is an upside to being disabled. I recently applied for a special parking permit and it couldn't have been easier. The application letter I wrote was so atrociously typed that they fast-tracked my approval and had my validated pass courier delivered to my door. Now, wherever I go, I always get the BEST parking bay. And, as long as I'm wearing my new pink Barbie novelty headband (when I spring sprightly out of my vehicle) nobody says a word.
Go And Ask Your Father
November 23, 2006
Curly's going straight. No, I don't mean he's giving up his life of crime (although that would be nice), I mean his HAIR is going straight. I suppose it was bound to happen, he's two-and-a-half now and my other three kids all lost their curls with their first haircut, never to return. So logically I thought, if I could just manage to avoid EVER cutting Curly's hair... but biology has intervened. Are all my kids cursed with straight hair genes? Damned straight.
All is not lost however; at least they still come up with the odd curly question now and then. Like at the breakfast table yesterday when my 4 year old philosopher asked; "How did we arrive here?" I had to consider that one for a while, and then I carefully replied; "Well, son, it depends on whether you're coming from a theological or an anthropological point of view. Many magnificent manuscripts have been produced by some of history's greatest thinkers debating various theories on this very issue, but none have succeeded in solving the puzzle once and for all. In short, the jury is still out. But if you think you can come up with the definitive answer, you come and tell me and together we'll publish a great academic text and make millions of dollars and you can spend your entire share on Spiderman paraphernalia and I'll send you a postcard from Acapulco."
Unfortunately, he missed nine-tenths of my reply as he'd long since removed his philosopher's hat, replaced it with his "dominant alpha-male" baseball cap, and run off to torment his little brother.
But the curliest question of them all came from my eldest daughter a few years back, when she was around 11. I thought it would be a good learning experience for her to accompany me to an antenatal clinic appointment. And a bit of a bonding session considering the imminent anticipated entrance of a precious new-born sibling rival.
It all went swimmingly well, I thought. She listened attentively and seemed very interested in the whole process. On the way home in the car she asked a barrage of questions to which I replied to the best of my dubious ability. Then I had to open my big mouth; "So has that cleared things up for you, honey? Was there anything else you wanted to know?"
"There is one thing that I'd like to know," she said, a little hesitantly. "What's an orgasm?"
I bit my lip and thought hard. "Well, sweetie, an orgasm is how you know that sex is finished and you can finally go to sleep." To my immense relief she seemed content with that. One thing's for sure, when her younger siblings come to me with their own inevitable pre-pubescent curly questions, I'll be ready with a straight answer; "Go ask your sister!"
It's Hammer (Drill) Time!
November 16, 2006
For my 40th birthday my husband thought he'd surprise me with a tradesmen's quality diamond headed electric hammer drill. I was hoping for diamonds, but it wasn't quite the sort I had in mind. Fortunately for him he kept the receipt.
On my way to the store to exchange it, I practiced my "reason for return" spiel. You know the routine; "Oh, my husband bought this for me but I really don't like the color/style/shape/see-through crotch" etc. But fortunately, my wheedling excuses weren't necessary.
I'd got as far as; "My husband bought me this for my birthday..." and the cashier gave me a knowing, sympathetic look, reached out to touch my hand tenderly, and said in a broad Yorkshire accent; "Ooh, I'd have KILLED him!" Then with one swift "ker-ching" she handed over the cash. In no time at all I'd bought myself some perfume, a nice new pair of knickers and a luscious lipstick.
I can see my husband's logic. I AM the "handy" one around the house. I've now painted every wall in our house - some of them twice (on account of my hubby's unfathomable objection to sleeping in a fuchsia pink boudoir; he reckoned it put too much "yin in his yang" - go figure). I change all the light bulbs and I can fashion a useful long handled hook to retrieve the disgusting, slimy, long-haired sub-species hairus cloggus drainium that regularly dies an unfortunate aquatic death down our shower drain (eww!).
I'm also useful with a butter knife and I can generally find a hefty shoe to wield in the direction of any insubordinate floor tacks. However, some household jobs are beyond even MY considerable capabilities. Like the other day, when my kitchen drawers finally collapsed after years of abuse, and cruel and unusual punishment. That's when I conceded defeat and called in a professional.
The repair man looked vaguely bemused as he removed the whole roll of packaging tape I'd mistakenly calculated would hold it together. And with the expert application of a few tradesmen's quality diamond headed electric drill-holes and some sturdy screws, the job was done. Who'd have guessed?
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