Wednesday, 13 June 2012

Do you have a she-cave?

I used to take pride in my house. I had my stuff displayed lovingly, like some kind of eclectic boho, Bowerbird. Trinkets of coloured glass, draped ethnic fabrics... man, I nick nacked the shit outta my crib.

Then... (insert that scratchy record-coming-to-a-halt sound.....)

Kid one. 
She had a bit of 'the fear' in the beginning. She knew precious when she saw it, she knew better than to mess with my shit. It seems with the creeping in of tweenage hormones comes the bravery that sees her dipping her toes in the I-was-just-borrowing-it pool.

Kid two.
Introducing Cael. It's no use putting your shit up high 'cause this kid will climb. If he can scratch it, shatter it, smear it or throw a raw egg at it, he will... twice.

Kid three.
Forget it. You no longer have stuff. What you do manage to salvage will no longer be dusted, shined & displayed. It will now remain in whatever position has secured it's safety. Maybe once in a while you might run a baby wipe over it if you have one in your hand at the time.

I want a cave. A she-cave if you will. Andy has a man-cave. It's gross. It's basically half of the garage and it's full of stuff he likes but I wont allow in the house eg a huge, cheaply framed print of an African Lion, titty posters and the occasional matchbox car that he's stolen from Cael's collection. He's a muso so admittedly he does have stuff that the kids can't mess with in there. Although, on more than one occasion, he has had to shake various treasure out of his acoustic guitars. 

None of this is the point. He has a cave and I want one.

I kind of consider our bedroom my domain. It is the one room that doesn't look like the Play School set and while the kids occasionally get into my precious jewels it remains relatively grown up looking and sort of stylish.

Why oh why then, does my husband think it is OK to do this to my bedhead....

Seriously? He has a cave. I even assist him with his cave. I printed out some pretty saucy pics of Sophia Vergara, wet in a gold bikini. "Here babe, I saw these and thought you might like them." ... that kind of help. I didn't go and put in a nice table and corner lamp. So why does he think he can encroach on my domain? Arsehat.

The offending scarf was quickly removed. I felt violated. I couldn't just leave the bedhead naked as it was before. I needed to compensate for the prior injustice of poor taste. So, as is my want, I went overboard.

This is it now.

Much better. 

I still want a cave.

Wednesday, 6 June 2012

What's that red chicken called darl?

For as long as I can remember, my family has celebrated every occasion at the same place. If I'm being generous, I'll call it a restaurant. If I'm being honest I'll call it a Chinese take-away near a train station with a couple of tables, one of which has a wood-look formica lazy susan.

My dad loves this place. I'm talking true love. He's going to get it's named tattooed on his butt. (This could happen, his 80 year old self is a recent convert to the art of tattooing and in the last few years has acquired several brightly coloured new designs on his papery old man skin... I think that's another blog though)

His love runs deep. In all the years we've been going to Emily's.... (I should explain here that the restaurant ISN'T called Emily's, my Dad calls it that based on the name of the long suffering hostess who puts up with us. I can't actually even be sure that her name is Emily, she sort of grimaces whenever Dad bellows it out and I have a sneaking suspicion that he might have got it wrong) .... so, as I was saying, in all the years we've been going to 'Emily's' I've only ever noticed one or two other diners eating in. It's possible that I have that wrong and they were just waiting at the tables for their take-away. Despite this, old man Geoff like to book in advance, like several months in advance if given the opporunity. He likes that table with the lazy susan and has a freak out if a surprise restaurant visit is announced.

We were heading to Sydney for a visit last Thursday night. I called Dad on Wednesday to make sure he'd be home on the Friday for us to come and visit. 

"Hi Dad, did Mum tell you we were coming down?"
"Um, OK. Well we are. Anyway, I was going to bring the kids over on Friday for a visit if you're going to be around. It's Mum's day off isn't it?"
"What? All day?"
"Well, no. Not all day we'll have to go back to Andy's Mums to get ready to go out to Emily's later."
"EMILY'S? Shit, has your mother booked? It's a Friday night you know. Bloody hell. OK, well I'll drive down now and book."
"Dad, just call them. You can book over the phone."
"No, no. I'll drive down. I might have to talk to Emily in person."

The funniest thing about going to this restaurant is that every experience is exactly the same. It's like some MSG induced Groundhog day.

Dad takes his favourite chair against the wall under the picture of a panda. The rest of us, whose numbers have grown over the years, assemble around him ready for the Geoff show.

It goes like this:
Dad "I love this joint, never had a bad meal here, have we darl?"
Mum "No Geoff, we haven't."

The rest of us snicker as we know what's coming next, even the toddlers wait in anticipation of his next line.

Dad "It's always so fresh."

There it is, this is the line he will repeat constantly throughout the meal and several times at the payment of the bill. He might even throw in another 'never had a bad meal here' for added emphasis.

Time to order. 

Dad "What's that red chicken called darl?"
Mum "It's Peking Chicken Geoff."
Dad "Oh yeah, we'll get some of that hey. Beauty. Better get some Nasi Goreng too."
Mum "Geoff, that's Indonesian. They have fried rice here."
Dad "Nope, I like Nasi Goreng, Emily will make it, she knows."

Exactly the same. Every time. This is no exaggeration, this conversation has played out hundreds of times over the years. My sister and I used to giggle under our breath, now all of us burst out laughing and hi-5ing "There it is, he said it, always so fresh hahahahaha. Nasi Goreng hahahahaha". Dad meanwhile, absorbed in consuming as much 'red chicken' as humanly possible is oblivious to the sitcom he has become.

It should be noted here, that my very wise 11 year old pointed out to me, that while I was busy mocking Dad, I too ordered the same thing every time... eeek, time to try the prawns maybe.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012

Hey, where'd ya get that soap?

Do any of you ever get smell association? You know when the smell of something transports you to another place? New dolls smell like Christmas morning... hand soap smells like a horny ex-boyfriend... huh? Yes. Yes I said that.

On the rare occasions when hubby dearest grabs a few groceries, he always manages to select a certain type of hand soap that ignites some crazy memories for me. I can't tell him not to get it. He'll want to know why. Right now that soap is in our bathroom AND kitchen. 

Oh dear. Impure thoughts left, right and centre.

This is the same brand of hand soap that was used in the family home of an ex of mine. This ex was dumb as dog shit, the poor guy could barely string a sentence together, but he had certain other qualifications. He looked good, he smelled good and he.... was good. Very good.

It was a crazy relationship. We were quite young. I had already moved out of home and had my own apartment. He still lived with his folks and brother. He was always trying to get me to stay over at his place. Ummm why? I have my own flat, we're free to do whatever we want. Plus, I wasn't really that serious about him. Not serious enough to do dinner with the folks anyway.

It so happened that I had a birthday in the midst of all of this too-ing and fro-ing about where we would spend the night. We went out for dinner with a bunch of friends. Two of my girlfriends were dating these quite competitive sporty types, one of them would buy me a cocktail, then the other would one-up him and buy me a bigger cocktail and so on and so forth as the night progressed. Needless to say I was legless. It's the only time in my life that I have been so drunk that I couldn't remember.

The next morning I wake... in what looks like a teenage boys bedroom. Single bed, surf posters, titty posters etc. SHIT. I sit up. I'm wearing tracksuit pants and have a packet of frozen peas stuck to the side of my head. Huh? I look around and there he is, huge smile on his face, sitting on the floor. He got me to stay at his parents house.

"Ugh, why am I wearing your tracksuit?"
"You were cold'
"You were hot."

"SON" I hear a woman's voice bellow, "come here please."

SHIT, SHIT, SHIT. The mum.

He leaves the room, while I try and process where I am. He returns, giggling holding my undies. Yes, my undies. His dog had taken them in and dropped them on his parents bed. Right, that's me then, I AM OUTTA HERE! 

I scramble to get dressed and start to back my arse out of his bedroom window. He is pleading with me to stay for breakfast and I am trying not to punch him in the face. As my feet find solid ground beneath me, a voice pipes up "Hi love, you must be Reb. Aren't you staying for breakfast?" The dad. Doing some gardening, right where I land.


I stayed for breakfast. In fact I had many breakfasts there as his family was the coolest. Very cool. We stayed together for a while. It wasn't the most mentally satisfying relationship, but it had other advantages. All of which I am reminded of when I use that soap.

Does anything like that happen to anybody else? Do you have sensory overload when certain scents abound?

Sunday, 27 May 2012

He really wants this head case on the road?

First of all, I need to apologise to you blog.  

Sorry. So sorry. I'm an arse. I went back to work and that means I've been too focused elsewhere to dedicate any time to you, just as we were getting to know one another too. Well returning to work is partly responsible...  The Voice, Offspring and Snog, Marry, Avoid may have also played a role. 

What a mole. I am, you can say it blog. I'm sorry.

A bunch of stuff has happened, I won't bombard. I might start with today though. No biggie... I JUST HAD A FREAKIN' DRIVING LESSON! Yes, me. Driving. Go ahead, laugh, it's OK.

Apparently my 20 year procrastination was wearing a bit thin. My "We can't afford lessons" and "I've got no time, what, with the kids and all' line of bullshit was nipped in the bud by my resourceful husband. He booked me a lesson. 

Insert panic attack..... NOW!

"Who with? Is it a guy or a girl? Young or old? Did they sound calm? Do they know about me? Maybe you should cancel, let me find someone, someone who knows I can't drive. What day? Monday? Noooooo, no Mondays are no good, I'm too busy with work. Shit, shit, shit....."

I'm not gonna get away with it. He's gonna make me do it. 

Let me explain. I would like to drive. I even have dreams where I'm driving. I have no idea what I'm doing, and a police bust is always imminent as I swerve all over the joint, but I get from A to B. Reality though is that I would like to drive and be instantly awesome at it. Learning to maneuver a tonne of motorised metal on roads full of other tonnes of motorised metal scares the living shit out of me. I can barely cross a road on foot with my eyes open. I missed out on seeing a bunch of shops in Bali because of my fear of roads. "Oh, look at that shop over there with exactly everything I've been looking for in it, pity it's on the other side of the road. Oh well, nevermind."

Flash back to my pregnancy with Ruby, late in the year 2000. OK, I'm about to be a mum, I'm 25 and most of my friends have been driving for years. I better get this license. Right, let's book a lesson. Lesson is booked, instructor arrives, I squeeze my fat arse into the drivers seat and start sobbing hysterically. The poor dude didn't know what to do. I was sobbing, tear snot, dribbling. Lesson over.

Now here we are 2012. Living away from a big city, a mother of 3 with no more excuses. Shit, why am I such a head case? I'm my own worse enemy. 

Andy has even taken gears out of the equation this time and booked me an automatic lesson. The guy arrives. Elderly, Canadian and poorly wigged. It's distracting, this mop of haphazardly placed synthetic yarn atop his noggin. STOP IT REBEL. Focus. 

Alright, this car is unoffensive enough, here we go. He allows me no time to lose my shit, straight into it... "That's your gas, that's your brake... drive..." FUCK. This is really happening. The guy proceeds to recite his entire cheesy gag thesis. SHUT UP DUDE! I DON'T KNOW WHAT I AM FUCKING DOING AND THERE ARE OTHER CARS ON THIS FUCKING ROAD YOU DICKHEAD.... OK, that was my internal dialog, in reality I was gripping that wheel like my last twistie and nodding politely.

I can't drive. I'm usually good at stuff and it screws my head that I'm not good at this. It's ruining my grade point average. Plus, I could die, or kill someone, or be seen... in public... in a learner car with Mr Toupe 2012.

One hour of several courses of the same route. I still can't drive. Worse still, I have to do it again. Next week. Fuck.

Old age? Insult to injury.

Sunday, 25 March 2012

Narcissistic. But if true, bloody hilarious!

According to Wikipedia comedian Rebel Wilson and her family spent a lot of time at NSW dog shows as she was growing up. 

I know this, because 
a) I bloody love her , I'm always fascinated by other people who grew up with my name. It wasn't common to be anything but a Lisa or a Sharon in my day!
b) I was googling her because of point a)

It should be noted that I spent pretty much every weekend from the age of 5 at NSW dog shows or dog related social events. I mean EVERY single weekend. When I first read that she did too I was FREAKING OUT! Same name, same life, same physique.... WOW! 

But then I thought.... hannnng on a minute....

Now, while there were lots of dogs named Rebel, I have no recollection of any other children named Rebel. Particularly other chubby, funny children... 

So, I have to wonder if somebody, who knew me at that time, has seen her comedic stylings and said 
"Oh, I remember that chick. She was awesome at Junior Handlers... She hasn't changed a bit!" 
Perhaps, using their powers of recollection they then provided said information to Wikipedia.

This may seem slightly narcissistic, but it is entirely possible. And if true, bloody hilarious!

I hope that one day our paths collide. Is it possible that the whole time there was ANOTHER Rebel, queuing up behind me at the soggy Jaffle van? That would have been cool. Someone who could relate to the taunts of "Are your parents hippies or something?" and "Hey, what's your real name? That's my dog's name ya know". 

In the mean time, here's hoping there's a mix up with the royalty cheques!

Saturday, 3 March 2012

Paroled for good behaviour.

Last night something amazing happened...

I got a night off. A night off from my normal routine. The only bum I wiped was my own. The clothes I wore were not made of stretch jersey. My hair was brushed, my eyes were kohl lined and the company I kept spoke in complete syllables (for the first part of the night anyway).

I am talking ladies night, night on the town, dinner orders that didn't include happy meals, drinks, clubs, pubs, Byron Freakin' Bay baby!

3 of my favourite gal pals jumped on a tiny Rex plane and flew from Sydney to Ballina for a debaucherous weekend in the Bay. Seeing as this party town is just down the road from us, my darling husband dropped me off and headed back home to negotiate the war zone on his own for a night. Bless.


Some civilised beverages by the pool with a bit'o cheese platter action to start the proceedings. That's what I'm talking about. This was pretty short lived though, in part, thanks to an annoying mosquito like human that kept buzzing around. This young guy was pretty confident and the sight of four womenfolk enjoying each others company was too much for the young cub.

Dude "Hey, hey girls, hi, where are you from?"
Dude "Hey, hey girls, what are you drinking?"
Dude "Hey, hey girls, why don't you come for a swim."
Dude "Hey, hey girls, can you look out for my friends, we're gonna try & sneak 8 people into one room."
Dude "Hey, hey girls, where are you going tonight?"
Dude "Hey, hey girls, can you keep an eye out for the manager chick, I don't wanna get busted sneaking all those people in."
Me "I think you'll be OK."
Dude "Yeah, ya reckon? It'll be alright hey?"
Me "Mmm hmmm. There is no way anyone is gonna believe that you have 8 friends."

Time to go out.
I learned a few things. 
a) I love those moles with all my heart, but I kinda knew that already. 
b) After copious amounts of Mateus, Katie Jones develops the extraordinary skills of Adele and can put on quite a show on the piano at the Rails Hotel. I couldn't really hear properly but judging by the appreciative stares she was getting from all those seated nearby she must have been spectacular. 
c) My dear friend Bronnie is about to pen a book about her exploits in Cronulla. We have decided she should call it 223Ohhhh.
d) What I am discovering as time ticks by is that crowded, expensive, loud pubs on a Saturday night are no longer my thing. Eeek. I said it out loud. Party girl Rebel, who still loves a gig or a festival, just doesn't dig Saturday night pubs anymore. A little bit of time at a few different pubs & I was done. I had a fantastic time, but I had had enough. I'm pretty certain that I will never again feel the giant hands of a bouncer gripping my upper arm while he mutters "Come on m'aam, you're making a scene." Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

It was with a weary sense of maturity that Nat, the other Mummy in our group, & I decided it was time to carb up at the bakery and head back to our digs. We left the debauchery in the capable hands of the younger, childless, party animals amongst us and retired for the evening.

While our 9am stumble-inerers slept off some naughtiness, Nat & I ambled slowly around the magnificent Byron Markets this morning feeling only slightly shady. Life is good. No. Life is GREAT!

I am now back in the bosom (yesssss, I finally got to say bosom in my blog) of my little family and all is well in the world.

I hope the girls had an uneventful flight home. I wouldn't want anything to put them off coming up again VERRRRY soon. Got any plans next weekend moles?

Saturday, 25 February 2012

Whoops, I've had a few beers...

I reckon it might just about be time to meet one of the chicks in this tribe.

*Queue ringmaster voice...
Sheeeeeeee's gorgeous, sheeeeeeee's funny, sheeeeeeee's clumsy
Sheeeeeeee's sometimes a slave to pre-teen hormonal outbursts....
Heeeerrrrreeeee's Ruby!

Normally this gal is as sweet as pie. A doting big sissie, a thoughtful and well mannered child, a beautiful daughter with a quick wit and an awesome amount of hilariousness. This is that Ruby.

There are times, however, that the eyes roll, the doors slam, the voice mutters and the head spins. THIS is that Ruby.

Overall though, she is one of my favourite people on the planet. As with everyone else so far, I will give you an example of a regular scenario with Madam Rubes.

So it's a Wednesday night and we have a family night out planned. We are heading down to a local club to meet some friends for dinner, one of whom is a bestie of mine who has travelled up from Sydney. As usual with these things, there are a couple of spanners thrown into the works. By the time Andy gets home from work Ivy has already fallen asleep and Cael is displaying the kind of toddler boy magic that is not really fit for public consumption. Andy suggests that just Ruby & I head down without the babies.

A night out? No babies? 
We are out the door in a cloud of smoke before the poor guy even finishes the sentence. These moments are few and far between. We have lovely time out and come home feeling relaxed and happy from our little break.

Upon our return we approach the entrance, I knock & Ruby leans forward to peer in the glass panel at the side of the door to see if Andy is coming to let us in. It is necessary, at this time, to point out that Ruby has been genetically blessed with my awesome co-ordination (*disclaimer a: there is no scientific evidence of any such genetic predisposition b: there is also NO awesome co-ordination, we can fall over in our sleep). As Ruby leans forward she somehow manages to trip, slamming her face into the glass at the same time as she emits a rather loud fart. Clutching her head, she stumbles backwards, giggling... and still farting. Our front entrance features some stepping stones and a whole bunch of pebbles so this scenario is playing out like 'smash, trip, fart, giggle, stumble, rubble, rubble, stumble, fart, giggle'. It reaches it's climax as she lands, arse up, in a huge planter that is just to the side of the entrance, still giggling and occasionally letting some more flatulence escape. She becomes stuck in the planter, legs in the air and her bum kind of wedged in under the leaves of the plant as her body is basically folded in half. By this time Andy has opened the door and I am standing there bewildered at what I have just seen. It is now that Ruby pipes up, still giggling, with "Whoops, I've had a few beers." (Ruby is 10, there was NO alcohol consumed!)
Andy, still looking shocked asks "Woah. Have I just time travelled forward 10 years?"

That night, as Andy & I are trying to go to sleep, one or the other of us would burst out laughing at the memory of her giddy & stuck in the planter.
Andy exclaims "Man, if that ever really does happen, I am going to SPIN out." 

I guess time will tell.