Welcome to 2019. I have plans for 2019.
Well, the short-term plans are for the first week of 2019 - sort of an extension of the plans I had for the last week of 2018 with added urgency because I go back to work on the 7th.
To misquote The Princess Bride (because who doesn't), I have got my 50th to plan, my house to re-arrange, my life to renovate, and Guilder to frame for it. I’m swamped!
Life, however, has a way of inserting itself into great plans, doesn't it?
The front room looks reasonable - a few large bags of op shop donations and far clearer than it has been for years - well, except for the large family heirloom sideboard that needs to find another family member to look after it.
Paris' room looks emptier - it had an enforced clean-out a few weeks ago due to misalignment of priorities and a standoff over a 10 minute clean.
We shan't look into most of the other rooms just yet - still on the list.
But the big ticket item for today - the living room - looks amazing - all walls are now primed and ready for some colour.
That was where we had aimed to be today, but as I said, life and insertion...
You see, we have amazing water pressure in our kitchen. We have already replaced all washers at least 3 times in recent memory, and the hardware has been replaced also.
One of our long-term plans is to move the kitchen into the living room area so that it is more open plan and the room it is in can become a sitting room come office space - so the whole "we have to overhaul the plumbing" courtesy of the blessing of high water pressure has been one of those jobs that are in the "can we please put it off until the planets align" basket.
Unfortunately, it seems Aquarius was rising and had a hangover today, because the current fix for the musical "ping ping ping" of dripping taps (holding your mouth right, turning the right tap off hard while adjusting the left tap and giving the spout a bit of a tweak) decided it was no longer going to work at lunchtime.
Lunchtime, when we were about to celebrate a morning well spent with paintbrush and roller, lunchtime, when we had an afternoon of bathing in the ocean and resting on our laurels to contemplate - lunch time, when all hell broke loose.
It is possible I exaggerate when I say "all hell" - although V can colour the air with epistles when dealing with plumbing issues that do touch upon such themes.
One minute, he was rinsing the brush for storage overnight and the next, opera to the tune of gushing water was ringing forth.
It is New Year's Day - I only have two children to ransom, and neither would possibly raise me enough for an emergency plumber on a public holiday.
V is handy enough to try things once, so the water was turned off and 3/4 of the fixtures removed from the existing kitchen wall to determine the depth of the damage.
V is smart enough (ish) to know that when you try to remove the last fixture and all of the tubing behind moves with it, it is possibly best to stop and just swear at it a bit more.
We are blessed - it is Summer, we have an ocean and sea-side showering facilities. We are also blessed with neighbours and friends whom we can cadge showers and laundry options from when we get to that point.
But we did have to suffer this evening with doing a camping wash up in a pan, and Paris learned how to brush her teeth with a cup of water as her rinsing and spitting option.
And we now have to look down the barrel of getting a plumber at a reasonable rate asap.
2019 - you have been an adventure so far.
So - Happy New Year!! How has the New Year been treating you?
Showing posts with label violins wailing in the background. Show all posts
Showing posts with label violins wailing in the background. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 01, 2019
Monday, October 26, 2015
Hector
As has been previously mentioned, technology and I have had a complicated relationship.
It appears, to paraphrase on old chestnut, that I like my technology like I like my men. Affordable, prone to defects and never doing exactly what I want it to do RIGHT NOW. *
Ahem.
Well, you know what I mean.
Lets not pretend I have never had a stereo system in a car remain - or even begin - functional as a system designed to furnish me with any listening pleasure whatsoever.
Excuses from that field of technology range have varied:
- stolen;
- needs a code you will never know, mua-ha-ha-ha;
- has the turn down volume function working just fine, but requires a date divisible by both eight and six on a full moon Sunday to ever contemplate the up direction of sound;
- finally threw enough money at a local business and their know-how to install something with lights and sound and how freaking fabulous is that only(operational by a remote!!) to have the car written off and nobody thinking to remove the darned stereo; and finally
- will only land on six stations and the CD-player is stuffed - but that is okay, the air-con is also stuffed and so the windows need to be down and you can't hear a darned thing anyway.
And I am okay with that.
Tic.
Obviously.
And we know about the washing machine woes and the fridge woes and indeed, the bathroom woes ***
But tonight - well, tonight may have just tipped the entertainment options on the audio-visual devices available in the household.
On the surface, we are sitting pretty. A telly and DVD-player in the lounge. A telly and DVD-pvr recorder **** in the bedroom.
Four remote controls. At one point, we had EXACTLY THE SAME remote in both rooms but doing different jobs.
We have heard rumours of solutions to the universal problem of allocation of muscle memory to ever changing gadget layouts, but we fatefully know that change created by the continuous need for upgrades of technology and options moves too fast for so-called "solutions".
We know people who remember the Beta lesson, and we dare not fasten our faith too firmly.
We have heard rumours of solutions to the universal problem of allocation of muscle memory to ever changing gadget layouts, but we fatefully know that change created by the continuous need for upgrades of technology and options moves too fast for so-called "solutions".
We know people who remember the Beta lesson, and we dare not fasten our faith too firmly.
Indeed, at one stage we even owned a universal remote control - a novelty one, it is true, but it disappeared one post holiday clean up many years ago and we know that it was not meant to be.
Anyhow - do you know how some remotes have just stupid layouts where you know the designer was using the qwerty approach and placing the most common control combinations in the most awkward of layouts? And then there is the whole should volume or channel controls be the left toggle or the right?
And then there is the expletive-deleted ones that have that ONE button - that ONE button, where, when you push it, things happen.
That expletive-deleted-er that moves in a time-zone that is not akin to the one we travel in. It can react before you even think about pushing it - and it can seem to not respond and fob you off until the THIRD time you push it, when it casually flicks out a response and then another and leaves you in that circle of hell of wondering if the THIRD signal had gone through?
No? Come on, I can't believe I am the ONLY person in this universe that has one that has its EPG where its sub-titles should be, its sub-titles in an obsure right combination that seems to be playing battleship with your thumb, and its SOURCE button where the EXIT ***** button should be - and that SOURCE button is truly an expletive-deleted minefield to chance upon.
And tonight? Tonight, the expletive-deleted button chanced upon a whole-new avenue to annoy because I actually was choosing to put in a DVD to watch, something I have not done of late. And boy, was that device expletive-deleted-off with me for not paying it enough attention.
The television was set to bouncing logo and cool jazz, but I stupidly had made other plans for this evening. We're tired. Its Sunday. Maybe something short but worthy to view to finish off the weekend. The documentary that I have just finished had ended on a pretty dismal note, and so something a little lighter. I actually had stuff from the library that promised such an outcome. I was so confident that this was a possibility that I had not even considered any other avenue of excitement.
Cue the ominous music.
I picked up the remote, chose the above-mentioned button, and nothing happened.
Or rather, something happened that was one-half of what was expected to happen to happen - to happen...
Anyhow, the display on the device not connected to the remote - from now on called "the tele" - I was pressing changed, which generally meant that the signal being received from the device conneted to the remote - from now on called "Hector" - had changed - but intriguingly, NOT the combination of blue digital display on Hector. ******
But, do not forget that this is the button that also has an issue with the regularity of time and has no regard - so I waited. Nothing changed.
Then I pressed it again.
It all happened at once. There is a brief-yet-discernible flicker on "the tele" of Hector's logo and a noise - a noise! - from Hector - before "the tele" flicked back to cool jazz and Hector blinked out the old digital display.
Now imagine that happening SEVEN times - because I could not BELIEVE that Hector would do that to me.
It must have been what buttons I pressed. I pressed again. Half-nothing / flick to lulling you into belief something may happen / expeletive-deleted you, no score!
I tried other buttons. Half-nothing / flick to lulling you into belief something may happen / expeletive-deleted you, no score!
I switched it to telemarketing. Half-nothing / flick to lulling you into belief something may happen / expeletive-deleted you, no score!
I even tried sitting down, from different angles and under the supervision of V. Yeah. You know.
So obviously, I decided to blog and plot the demise of Hector and yet again wonder - is it me?
Is this carp I live with an isolated incident - a desert camp - amidst overwhelming harmony with technology in our life?
Is this just the way that it is these days, so suck it up princess, get used to it because the rest of the world sure has?
Is this just a run of bad luck?
Or is Hector actually the new wave of terrorism... ********
* Don't get me wrong. I also like my men like I like a good novel. Intriguing, surprising and enriching the fabric of life.**
** And I like my technology like I like political debates
that focus on the fiscal future with no regard to social, environmental,
sustainable and conscionable outcomes. Yeah, lets not go there...
*** although that is more logistical than technological - hoping to slip that one in with nobody noticing
**** glorified lamp, emitter of signal outages and bouncing screen-saver screen.
***** my first tilt at this word, I mis-typed as "EXIST" - still works, but changes the meaning!
****** funnily enough, the reason for SEVERAL stereo systems and one car system's demise was indeed due to lack of digital display dots... *******
******* okay, maybe not that funnily enough.
******** although, the threat of no DVD you will have to blog again is pretty lame, I think.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
a very pertinent Friday night question...
tonight, V and I did what some parents do when their children have gone to bed.
Tonight, we discussed meteorology; appreciated the merits of bathing between the kitchen timer beeps, we kneaded and rocked; we heard thumps in the night; we contemplated finances and pondered the necessity of inviting an after-hours plumber around.
Our taste in Friday nights runs to fish and chips and salad with boiled egg with the next-door neighbour, Queen Jeanie (no relation).
On some Friday nights, I thaw amazing fish from the bounty provided to me from a chance job with a keen fisherman, create the most excellent batter (and so freaking simple you wouldn't believe it) and dunk bits in and then to the oil-filled wok. A whole array of anything else that can be batter covered and deep fried also get the dunk and fry treatment, due to the quantity of batter that is always remaining (and the darned Scot in me can't stand the waste of unused batter (while the vast Australian that surrounds me obviously can't stand the waste of used batter)), accompanied by chips from the sushi joint at the Shopping Centre and Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad.
Several months ago, Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad, had quartered boiled eggs as part of the salad-construct presented and it BLEW PARIS'S MIND!!!
We often eat salad, but now I have a very avid salad-assistant at the beginning of salad creation - the boiling of eggs - and the end of salad creation - the peeling of eggs (and sneaky attempt at palming some egg for a pre-dinner snack) - but surprisingly not the boring middle bit of salad creation - the actual salad.
On the rare Friday night, we go to a newly found and absolutely wonderful Kountdown Kafe. For an exceptionally reasonable exchange of money, they will provide you with delicious, filling meals.
I will let you in on a secret. They even know how to cook pretty awesome chips - and will serve them with every meal.
But not only is there food, there are the people who bring you Kountdown Kafe. A most beautiful woman who seems to exude joy as she hostesses the room. And a tall intense man in the kitchen, emerging to visit the pop-up sidewalk salon in the front of the shop, where philosophy, history and music is avidly discussed.
And as the ganache of the whole experience, there is live music with local musicians and always the chance you will be there when the newest material is being tested, the undiscovered will find their feet or the experienced will show you their true talents.
We do not visit often enough, for our enjoyment of life is tempered greatly by the potential grizzles (or tsunamis) of overtired Paris, the enforced disassociation of the teenage 'Salina (and her companion of choice - or ours at the next table (logistics)), V's knees and occasional budget-anxiety.
And most other Friday nights are Salad de Paradis avec l'œufs (that was thrown in to keep my Internationally Renowned Food Blogger status bobbing above the "alleged" line) with Fish and Chips bought at the Seafront Fisho by Queen Jeanie (no relation) over at hers.
Party animals, eh. So after an exhausted Paris (and seven stuffed toys) is said good-night to, and an aloof adolescent 'Salina gives final orders - "turn off my fan, check the radio, don't disturb before necessary, don't talk about me or post my image on the internet", V and I look expectantly at each other, and collapse at opposite ends of the house to decompress.
My chosen mode of decompression on this Friday night was baking. You can dovetail baking nicely with bathroom requirements, internet surfing, background football, cups of coffee and the occasional whispered innuendo. Pretty wild, I know.
Do you know how tempting it is right now to throw in the term "Ironic"? Just so I could get all the true defenders of the meaning of the word ironic to rattle their pitchforks in my direction.
Yeah. But I used to go to nightclubs. Clubbing. By choice. Every. Friday. Night.
True story. It would start with drinks at friends or in town and sort of morph into all night dancing, drinking and being delirious with fun.
And youth.
Sigh - but no, bread baking.
In the beginning, it is quite simple. You measure, you activate, you blood-warmth test and you wait.
Then you mix and you knead and you knead and you knead and you are on guard regarding the amount of flour covering the (sadly inadequate) counters in relation to the moisture in the dough and you can really start to meditate on the world and your place and your circles and the referees background calls and commentators reaction and then the urgency of the floured counter/dough moistness ratio kicks in.
Once the "oh-crap-I-forgot-to-oil-a" bowl is located and oiled, and the dough is covered by a fresh tea-towel and - poof - the troubles of your day disappear.
The timer is set and it is time to MAKE. A. DECISION. Together, as a couple, the most important discussion a couple can have takes place.
Who is going to have first bath.
It is Winter. There are factors to consider.
V got the long straw.
I got to surf and await the next step in the bread making. And decompress.
It has been a week. Aren't they all?
The timer goes off and this beastie goes on.
Isn't she beautiful?
Hello sweetie.
Anyway, ahem. The downside of such an amazing massive oven is the fact that it takes longer to warm up all that space.
But I can cook five loaves (perhaps even six) at the same time. Yeah, baby. Because it is the Food Swap tomorrow and because I am the bread lady. And we need bread. And I am decompressing from the day, from the week, from the fish and chips...
And suddenly it is ON. Baking paper for the trays, oil the pan, knead the dough. Get a knife - guess complex fractions and divide the mass into approximations. Knead each loaf. Cut the loaves for rising. Attempt to reshape the loaves. Realise I am not a food blogger. I am so much such not a food blogger that I didn't photograph any of this!
The timer is set.
Bath-time.
I am currently reading a book. It isn't a bad book. Its quite a good book. But there is just one problem - and that is that it is an African book. And I love African books. I hate that I just emcompassed the whole continent's literary output with a blanket "African book" - but here is the thing. The writing is beautiful - evocative. It builds a world that I have no true understanding of except through the words, and they are words that makes me feel I do have an intimate knowledge of people, culutre, politics and food of a faraway place. But it is one of those books that - and I warn you now Mum, I am going to use a word that you don't like so scroll down the the next picture.
Yes, it is one of those books that at the opening, everything is fucked.
And then lots of really fucked things happen, getting increasing bleak.
And the ending is generally pretty fucked too.
But all with really beautiful, evocative writing.
It always puts me into a bit of a moral bind.
I know that if I keep reading, I will get carried away by the words but, being open to the beauty of that makes you vulnerable to the sheer dispair of the situation of (insert African nation currently being screwed over by multinational trade and aid politics).
And you wonder if you avoid being vulnerable to such dispair... yeah, I am in about the middle of the book.
It was a very decompressing bath.
Thankfully, the timer went off.
Towards the end of bread baking, the whole timing intensity amps up. And when you are not just baking ONE loaf of bread but indeed FIVE of TWO DIFFERENT SIZES, we are talking algebra-requiring calculations for the insertion, turning, swapping and finally inhaling of loaves. Great for decompression.
So, between kitchen timers and all those verby words above, V and I were finally decompressing together. Contemplating our next move. I thought I would check the last turn of the bread before we decided.
As I walked towards the kitchen, and almighty BANG captured my attention.
It was definitely not the melodic beeping of the kitchen timer.
And that hissing sound was not the oven fan.
My mind did an inventory of all the things that could possibly stuff up.
"V" I quivered, as I flung open the back door and peered down towards the laundry. The laundry was dark. Darn, I hate it when good organisation means that the bogeyman has a better chance.
"V" I quivered, because although I am a feminist, I am one of the equal rights feminists thinking the bogeyman should get a choice.
There was a funny smell, but it wasn't burning. There was a haze, but it wasn't smoke. The hissing noise seemed to intesify. The stairs were descended and the laundry declared clear.
"Phew" said V (well, not in those words, but they convey the meaning) "its only raining".
It wasn't just raining, it was BUCKETING down. The hissing sound was accompanied by the roar of a million drops hitting the roof - and the buckets and the washing on the line and the lawn furniture.
When we went back inside, I had a brainwave.
I went to the front door. I went on the front steps.
It wasn't raining at the front steps.
Back we went to the back stairs, and further investigations were undertaken.
A pipe had burst.
We had a fountain in the back yard. Well, not really, because the pipe was directly under the upstairs floor - so it was more a water feature.
The smell and haze in the kitchen was mist.
The water mains must be approached with caution.
It is basically a rectangular bucket at the bottom of the slope of the front yard with a lid.
The lid is not very effective at keeping out dirt. Or water. Or ants. So to turn off the water mains, one must first dig through a mudpit of biting insects. Very Indiana Jones. With our bare hands because in our haste, we had failed to bring along gardening equipment.
Once cleared, the tap turned out to be one of those horrible impossible to turn designs. The only edge that offers purchase does so on such an angle that there is NO SINGLE TOOL in V's kit that will turn that last quarter-turn required. Luckily I am married to a very smart man, because he knows the secret men's business that involves combining tools. Colour me duly impressed.
So the question remains - will this be fixed by duct tape, or will the universe require after-hours plumbers to deal with this sudden turn of Friday night events.
How is your Friday night going?
Tonight, we discussed meteorology; appreciated the merits of bathing between the kitchen timer beeps, we kneaded and rocked; we heard thumps in the night; we contemplated finances and pondered the necessity of inviting an after-hours plumber around.
Our taste in Friday nights runs to fish and chips and salad with boiled egg with the next-door neighbour, Queen Jeanie (no relation).
...
On some Friday nights, I thaw amazing fish from the bounty provided to me from a chance job with a keen fisherman, create the most excellent batter (and so freaking simple you wouldn't believe it) and dunk bits in and then to the oil-filled wok. A whole array of anything else that can be batter covered and deep fried also get the dunk and fry treatment, due to the quantity of batter that is always remaining (and the darned Scot in me can't stand the waste of unused batter (while the vast Australian that surrounds me obviously can't stand the waste of used batter)), accompanied by chips from the sushi joint at the Shopping Centre and Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad.
Several months ago, Queen Jeanie (no relation)'s version of salad, had quartered boiled eggs as part of the salad-construct presented and it BLEW PARIS'S MIND!!!
We often eat salad, but now I have a very avid salad-assistant at the beginning of salad creation - the boiling of eggs - and the end of salad creation - the peeling of eggs (and sneaky attempt at palming some egg for a pre-dinner snack) - but surprisingly not the boring middle bit of salad creation - the actual salad.
...
I will let you in on a secret. They even know how to cook pretty awesome chips - and will serve them with every meal.
But not only is there food, there are the people who bring you Kountdown Kafe. A most beautiful woman who seems to exude joy as she hostesses the room. And a tall intense man in the kitchen, emerging to visit the pop-up sidewalk salon in the front of the shop, where philosophy, history and music is avidly discussed.
And as the ganache of the whole experience, there is live music with local musicians and always the chance you will be there when the newest material is being tested, the undiscovered will find their feet or the experienced will show you their true talents.
We do not visit often enough, for our enjoyment of life is tempered greatly by the potential grizzles (or tsunamis) of overtired Paris, the enforced disassociation of the teenage 'Salina (and her companion of choice - or ours at the next table (logistics)), V's knees and occasional budget-anxiety.
...
And most other Friday nights are Salad de Paradis avec l'œufs (that was thrown in to keep my Internationally Renowned Food Blogger status bobbing above the "alleged" line) with Fish and Chips bought at the Seafront Fisho by Queen Jeanie (no relation) over at hers.
Party animals, eh. So after an exhausted Paris (and seven stuffed toys) is said good-night to, and an aloof adolescent 'Salina gives final orders - "turn off my fan, check the radio, don't disturb before necessary, don't talk about me or post my image on the internet", V and I look expectantly at each other, and collapse at opposite ends of the house to decompress.
My chosen mode of decompression on this Friday night was baking. You can dovetail baking nicely with bathroom requirements, internet surfing, background football, cups of coffee and the occasional whispered innuendo. Pretty wild, I know.
Do you know how tempting it is right now to throw in the term "Ironic"? Just so I could get all the true defenders of the meaning of the word ironic to rattle their pitchforks in my direction.
...
Yeah. But I used to go to nightclubs. Clubbing. By choice. Every. Friday. Night.
True story. It would start with drinks at friends or in town and sort of morph into all night dancing, drinking and being delirious with fun.
And youth.
...
Sigh - but no, bread baking.
In the beginning, it is quite simple. You measure, you activate, you blood-warmth test and you wait.
Then you mix and you knead and you knead and you knead and you are on guard regarding the amount of flour covering the (sadly inadequate) counters in relation to the moisture in the dough and you can really start to meditate on the world and your place and your circles and the referees background calls and commentators reaction and then the urgency of the floured counter/dough moistness ratio kicks in.
Once the "oh-crap-I-forgot-to-oil-a" bowl is located and oiled, and the dough is covered by a fresh tea-towel and - poof - the troubles of your day disappear.
The timer is set and it is time to MAKE. A. DECISION. Together, as a couple, the most important discussion a couple can have takes place.
Who is going to have first bath.
It is Winter. There are factors to consider.
...
I got to surf and await the next step in the bread making. And decompress.
It has been a week. Aren't they all?
The timer goes off and this beastie goes on.
Isn't she beautiful?
Hello sweetie.
Anyway, ahem. The downside of such an amazing massive oven is the fact that it takes longer to warm up all that space.
But I can cook five loaves (perhaps even six) at the same time. Yeah, baby. Because it is the Food Swap tomorrow and because I am the bread lady. And we need bread. And I am decompressing from the day, from the week, from the fish and chips...
And suddenly it is ON. Baking paper for the trays, oil the pan, knead the dough. Get a knife - guess complex fractions and divide the mass into approximations. Knead each loaf. Cut the loaves for rising. Attempt to reshape the loaves. Realise I am not a food blogger. I am so much such not a food blogger that I didn't photograph any of this!
The timer is set.
Bath-time.
...
Yes, it is one of those books that at the opening, everything is fucked.
And then lots of really fucked things happen, getting increasing bleak.
And the ending is generally pretty fucked too.
But all with really beautiful, evocative writing.
It always puts me into a bit of a moral bind.
I know that if I keep reading, I will get carried away by the words but, being open to the beauty of that makes you vulnerable to the sheer dispair of the situation of (insert African nation currently being screwed over by multinational trade and aid politics).
And you wonder if you avoid being vulnerable to such dispair... yeah, I am in about the middle of the book.
...
Thankfully, the timer went off.
Towards the end of bread baking, the whole timing intensity amps up. And when you are not just baking ONE loaf of bread but indeed FIVE of TWO DIFFERENT SIZES, we are talking algebra-requiring calculations for the insertion, turning, swapping and finally inhaling of loaves. Great for decompression.
So, between kitchen timers and all those verby words above, V and I were finally decompressing together. Contemplating our next move. I thought I would check the last turn of the bread before we decided.
As I walked towards the kitchen, and almighty BANG captured my attention.
It was definitely not the melodic beeping of the kitchen timer.
And that hissing sound was not the oven fan.
My mind did an inventory of all the things that could possibly stuff up.
"V" I quivered, as I flung open the back door and peered down towards the laundry. The laundry was dark. Darn, I hate it when good organisation means that the bogeyman has a better chance.
"V" I quivered, because although I am a feminist, I am one of the equal rights feminists thinking the bogeyman should get a choice.
There was a funny smell, but it wasn't burning. There was a haze, but it wasn't smoke. The hissing noise seemed to intesify. The stairs were descended and the laundry declared clear.
"Phew" said V (well, not in those words, but they convey the meaning) "its only raining".
It wasn't just raining, it was BUCKETING down. The hissing sound was accompanied by the roar of a million drops hitting the roof - and the buckets and the washing on the line and the lawn furniture.
When we went back inside, I had a brainwave.
I went to the front door. I went on the front steps.
It wasn't raining at the front steps.
Back we went to the back stairs, and further investigations were undertaken.
A pipe had burst.
We had a fountain in the back yard. Well, not really, because the pipe was directly under the upstairs floor - so it was more a water feature.
The smell and haze in the kitchen was mist.
...
It is basically a rectangular bucket at the bottom of the slope of the front yard with a lid.
The lid is not very effective at keeping out dirt. Or water. Or ants. So to turn off the water mains, one must first dig through a mudpit of biting insects. Very Indiana Jones. With our bare hands because in our haste, we had failed to bring along gardening equipment.
Once cleared, the tap turned out to be one of those horrible impossible to turn designs. The only edge that offers purchase does so on such an angle that there is NO SINGLE TOOL in V's kit that will turn that last quarter-turn required. Luckily I am married to a very smart man, because he knows the secret men's business that involves combining tools. Colour me duly impressed.
...
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Why did the duck cross the road... or Shoe Part 4 I suppose...)
I would like to announce that the season of Christmas Shopping has officially now launched in Paradise.
I know. Early this year.
("Christmas Decorations as viewed by Paris" - by Paris)
I have heard rumours that some people apparently finish their shopping for the festive season in October. Sheesh.
Where is the fun in that?
What do people do on Christmas Eve if they are not wrapping presents and hyperventilating about enough stuff and more than enough stuff?
I like to approach a Christmas quietly for as long as possible. Sneak up on it.
If it knows you are there, it will try to extract as much festive spirit - or as the agents of christmasitalism call it, profit - from you as possible.
The pickings leaning towards any -isms profitting from me do tend to be rather stringy and lacking in substance. Therefore I have learned I cannot stand up to protracted scrutiny from such suckers, and so quietly with an air of disinterest is the only approach possible.
It is not just through fear of being parted from the filthy lucre that makes me pause, though. I know what the combination of spending, me, and the term "sucker" have, and I actually suffer from a rare (however very rarely fatal) condition, where I am a woman who does not enjoy shopping for the sake of spending.
(I will let you in on a secret - there are more of us out there than you think)
As a result, I am a hugely unsuccessful shopper.
However, even I surprised myself with my launch* this year.
It has been a week - nay, ten days - oh, what the heck, nigh on over a year of crap being dumped in my general vicinity. Not aimed directly at me (all the time) but close enough to make an impact on the otherwise smooth and uneventful perambulations of my life.
The little, niggly stuff amped up a bit over the last week - speeding fine (again, so not my fault), death, confirmation of a friend finale (not due to death), dental dramas, pre-menstrual psychosis - okay, perhaps the lady doth over-exaggerate, but if there is a bad guy aiming stink bombs, they were hitting fairly frigging close to the bone.
So today, all armed with the knowledge that the proposed budget is in the black until at least 2014 ** and listed up, Paris and I set forth on the inaugural shop.
(not an actual representation of the list. I am not giving anyone Vinegar for Christmas this year)
My shoe broke.
My freaking shoe BROKE. I was strong. I did not take it as a sign.
It was not a SIGN.
(if you look closely, you can see a mob of kangaroos behind this sign)
It did, however, mean that, rather than striding into the first store of my chevy, I approached in a more disheveled manner, broken shoes in hand to PROVE that ferality was not my natural state (well, not for the last few years, anyway) but still bowed by the sneers of the righteous folk lined up at Santa's Kiosk and exiting the bottle-shop near the entrance of the Shopping Centre.
Now, I had actually budgeted for a pair of shoes. For Paris. My footwear has not been pencilled in, therefore whatever is spent in the shodding must be spent with care and an eye to very low financial impact.
I have before mentioned my shoe shopping phobias, have I not? Here and here. This one is nothing about shopping for shoes, but emphasizes that should the universal conspiracy have been looking for something that is going to just make my life a little bit more stressy, go for the footwear. The girl sucks BIG TIME at shoe shopping.
Let me just say that I am actually not TOO much poorer, as a result.
My total footwear range has expanded, it is true... however, we would have to describe the trajectory of style and show of social standing as in a Southerly direction, with the other major shoe factor, comfort, not really offering any redemption in the selection I ended up with.
Am rethinking my declination of the feral status.
* Allow me to confess to three transgressions:
- I actually used the internet to contact Santa and arrange his part in one Parisian delight;
- Whilst shopping for 'Salina's birthday I inadvertently overbought at one store (it was an excellent deal); and
- I have hatched a scheme for several of the recipients of the darts of my goodwill that has required an assembly of materials - and I have procured the materials.
** a year that I hold much higher hopes for.
Friday, January 11, 2013
V Day Celebrations
Poor old V.
Paris woke him at 5.30 (not because it is his birthday but because she sneaks into our bed between 3 and 4 and then commences wriggling until one of us arises, at which point she smiles and advises that she is awake too).
It is a stinking hot day here today - relatively, of course. The maximum is 33, which is about exactly what the temperature has probably been for the last week and will be for the next, but it is as humid as a sauna and has been since - well, since 6.30, which is when I slept in until (and tagged him on the whole "entertain Paris" role that is our main task at hand these days).
He got phone calls, but missed the one from 'Salina (got a message on MessageBank, but she didn't sing Happy Birthday, which is mandatory, so we will be following that up later).
We went to the beach - that in itself wasn't onerous at all - but while discussing our strategy (involving who was on "entertain Paris" duty, which is more about wrangling between the flags than actually dealing with whine while on the beach - a pleasant change) a wave caught him unawares just at the bit that causes the bottom bit of knee to wobble around against the top bit of knee, and when there is nothing in between those bits of knees this can cause something close to excrutiation!
Due to a upcoming opportunity, I have need to visit a particular cafe and so I proposed that for lunch, (rather than having the "toasted leftover wraps" that I do so well).
We all dressed up - well, Paris dressed up (in tutu and sparkly shirt) and I matched her (although my tutu was more of a maxi-skirt, but we were both, coincidentally, in pink and white - although as Paris did point out, I didn't have any silver stars), and V - well, he wore a shirt and boardies (which is his daily uniform) - and worked on a plan.
We first visited the library, and despite me having the forethought to reserve rather than contemplate the sifting through the DVDs to find the last series of Hamish Macbeth for our viewing pleasure, it hadn't yet been acted on so we still had to do the sift - more sand in the shoe than total devastation.
Then we hit the main drag to find the cafe - after one circuit to locate the cafe without luck in either parking or location (side note - why don't businesses put the street numbers on display?), we brought in technology to try and find it for us - and I am blaming shortcomings in the technology for the first block's walk with a three year old and a V with a gammy knee on it fooling me (and definitely not on the whole "the map was upside down" suggestion that V may have made). After asking the local constabulary (much more reliable than technology) we walked back to find that the cafe was tiny and choc a block with patrons.
We thought we might overcome that by getting a counter-ie at the revamped pub on the corner - to discover that they too were well patronised and nary a table to be had. The fact that a large tableful of people from the establishment that deviated from employing me fairly recently sealed the fact that we weren't going to wait around for an opening.
By then, the attitude of a V in pain and an over-excited and hungry Paris led to the decision that a certain Scottish establishment would cater her meal, and those "toasted leftover wraps" were back on our menu!
A very important birthday phone call was interrupted by technology again this afternoon, with our hands-free phone also displaying signal-free interludes during conversation. Another thing added to the "things we need to replace" list.
V went to go to the shops for some dinner items, and car battery charger got added to the "things we need to replace" list.
Luckily, the complete lack of battery made itself known in our driveway, so V still got to the shops for dinner items AND got to have the RACQ come visit us and recommend the abovementioned car battery charger...
Paris and I set about making his birthday cake - the old favourite, Moist Chocolate Cake by Stay at Home Mum. Do you know what a difference it makes if you read 1 1/4 as 1 3/4 when you are looking at the sugar?
Yeah - not recommended.
On the whole, though, he did say that he enjoyed the day. Isn't he sweet? Happy birthday darling - and next year its going to be different. Isn't it?
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Something's missing
Time. Inspiration. Sentence structure. Cohesive thought.
Me on this blog much.
Bah!!
Still working like a chihuahua paddling the Pacific - feels like I am going nowhere but at least we haven't been dragged under.
To make life just that little bit more interesting, Paris isn't going to Daycare any more. 8 months old and already she is having problems with authoritive figures...
How is next week for you? I intend to give myself a half-day SOMEWHERE to do fun stuff (like mow the lawn, clean the house and maybe blog).
Missing you all.
Me on this blog much.
Bah!!
Still working like a chihuahua paddling the Pacific - feels like I am going nowhere but at least we haven't been dragged under.
To make life just that little bit more interesting, Paris isn't going to Daycare any more. 8 months old and already she is having problems with authoritive figures...
How is next week for you? I intend to give myself a half-day SOMEWHERE to do fun stuff (like mow the lawn, clean the house and maybe blog).
Missing you all.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Beware the Ides of July
Warning - very long and eventful.
Actually, really long and eventful. Feel free to scroll to the end, hit "comment" and tell me to learn to edit.
No one died in the creation of this post.
It all began on Bastille Day.
Wednesday, Paris goes to visit her FDC Mum Lorikeet and play with her two new friends. It was the 3rd time she had made such a jaunt - the first time she was bemused, the second time was cut short due to visitors - isn't third time the charm?
Wednesday, and I had been at a meeting the night before for one of my part-time jobs for a local community organisation. Much, much bureaucratic work is required of me in a very short time-frame - with many "I never saw it", "I didn't have it" and "I gave it to you" moments regarding the actual files and folders that are the difference between winging it (yeah right) and just tweaking a bit of this and that...
Therefore, first job on my agenda was to do a treasure hunt in the office. The office is approximately 3 strides long by 2 hops wide. There are 2 doors - but one door is covered by one of the two cupboards. There are also 2 filing cabinets, a desk, 2 chairs and 12 archive boxes. Cupboards are full of files, archive boxes and obsolete computer equipment. Filing cabinets are full of files. Archive boxes are full of files and obsolete computer equipment. The computer is empty. The airconditioner doesn't work. Its okay - its winter.
I began the treasure hunt with the archive boxes, recording what is in each so if ever we need to find the letters regarding a certain project in 2001, I can lay my hands on them. Nothing is younger than 6 years old.
I move then to the first cupboard (after looking briefly into the second cuboard and seeing another 4 archive boxes and a shelf of obsolete computer equipment). Again, I record what is there, so if we are looking for projects ranging from 1998 - 2005, I am your girl.
As I get to the bottom of this cupboard, I notice that I have welts appearing on my midriff. Of course, I give it a good itch, shrug it off and keep going. I have to find what I can and I am sure if I set my mind to it, it will go away.
As I get to the bottom of this cupboard, I also notice more bloddy obsolete computer equipment. Disks that slots are no longer built for, answering machines for phones that no longer exist - and a box with an external hard drive.
My interest is piqued. I plug it in to the computer and emit a "Eureka" as all the files I will require are contained on it.
I also notice that I am no longer scratching the welts across my tum - I am scratching my shoulder - and my leg - and my arm - and my boobs - and my ears...
I have to go home to pump in the absense of Paris anyhow, but I have to find two more paper files for the last of the "must do" list. I "eenie-meenie-minie-mo-ed" the filing cabinets and struck gold immediately.
I pack the external drive and relevant paper files and go out to the car, noticing my hands are swelling and very itchy. I think perhaps the oldness of the paper or something has dried my skin out, so I hydrate heavily on the drive home.
When I got home, V had lunch organised and, although my hands were still itching all else was good so I took a Clarrytyne (spelt incorrectly for a reason), chalked it up to "stuff happens" and filed it all away.
Paris - well, they say third time is the charm, but I have the feeling she didn't spend a great deal of energy on charming Lorikeet...
Thursday dawns, and my hands are so itchy. This happens from time to time, so I take another tablet and it limits itself to just being annoying beneath the fingernails. I had a bit of a run around morning planned with my own bureacratic dealings. Paris was a bit narky at me and quite uncompliant in the "going to sleep to let Mummy get organised" phase of the morning, but otherwise it only took about twice as long as it should have, as is the wont of bureacratic dealings.
I also got a phone call for some more work required, so I made plans to meet with prospective client Friday. Woo hoo - I can't actually chase full-time work while I have my other temp job going this month as the client's are overseas and I place a great deal on the honour of holding their fort.
I made a phone call to an electrician, as I have organised installation of a new kitchen for the P&C (I am to learn to SIT ON MY HANDS and have no more bright ideas in meetings) and, as they are due the next day want to make sure someone is around if they have questions. Electrician will call me back with a more precise time. I call the school to ensure that if that doesn't happen, someone will have a key there at any time. I call the convenor to see if she wants to add anything. I think I have every base covered.
By lunchtime, my feet are itchy as, so I dose up with the anti-histamine again, give Paris to V and head off to my other job. This job is in an office that is a beautiful old Queensland cottage sadly in need of a renovate.
Again, it involves lots and lots of paper, some of it quite old and a lot of it very messy. This is a very busy job with phones and faxes and instruction through email and Skype and fanning fires and putting out fires. The alternate afternoons I am contracted to keep this office running while the bosses are overseas are extremely full on. As the bosses are touring Europe, my afternoons are their very early mornings.
By the end of the 3 hours I am wiped, and duly send of my timesheet to the agency and close down the computer. "This computer will install 4 updates. Please do not turn off. It will turn off automatically after installing." Great. Except that I have to unplug and put the computer in a safe place before leaving.
I tidy the desk. 1 of 4 updates installed. I look at the sea of tidying required in areas I tiptoe through - and remember the maker of such mess requesting I not tidy it as "he knew where everything was". 2 of 4 updates installed. I check the front door - funny, it hasn't latched properly after I checked the mailbox at the beginning of my stint. It takes a bit to get the lock to latch, but I get it done and deadlocked. Side note relevant later - This door can only be locked from the inside, as there is no handle on the outside to shut it..) 3 of 4 updates installed. I fill the fax machine and ring home to tell them I will be late. 3 of 4 updates installed. I go to the toilet and look at 4 more areas desparately in need of a good tidy. 3 of 4 updates installed. I straighten up the files I am in charge of and put notes in all the right spots. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 4 of 4 updates installed. Yaaa hoo. I put the computer away.
Only 20 minutes late. 20 minutes that aren't on my timesheet and aren't approved by my client. 20 minutes I could have been with my family. 20 minutes I could really do with the money from. Still, its only 20 minutes and the balance sheet of life will even out.
I deadlock the back door, check I have my keys and put all of my stuff outside. I set the alarm - I have seconds between this action and getting outside. I dash outside and pull the door shut - and it won't latch. I pull - click - not locked - and pull - click - not locked. Expletive deleted.
I go back inside and switch off the alarm (remember - only seconds between movement and alarm set allowed), check I have my keys in my hand, try to latch - click - not locked - click - not locked - click - not locked. I look carefully at the latch and determine the problem is not a case of sagging hinges (as is often the problem of old doors) but rather the opposite (which would indicate shifting frame). I pull and put my immense bulk behind a judicious push downward on the latch - click - it locked!!!
I undeadlock the door, set the alarm, race outside, pull down hard on the door - click - not locked. Expletive deleted.
I go back inside, switch off the alarm and contemplate Plan B. I dig out the computer again, switch it on and log onto Skype. Skype won't start. Try another Skye shortcut. Skype won't start. Click every shortcut for Skype I can find. Click on Skype program from the program list. Eventually 4 Skypes open all at once - but they all say one thing. The client has left the virtual building (and didn't have to worry about latching locks) and probably is enjoying a croissant in the French countryside.
Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn. Plan C. I toss out the tempting thought of just setting off the alarm and scarpering, making it the security company's problem. I contemplate the client's elderly parents and look at the numbers they have given me - none of which have "in case the house won't lock, try..." Finally, I rang my agency and asked what I should do.
The boss immediately offered to hop in his car and come and assess the situation. While waiting for him, I tried a few more click - didn't lock combinations (always ensuring I had the keys on my person - its not THAT sort of adventure).
The hundred and eleventieth try, it locked. Of course, I hadn't done the whole "set alarm, deadlock door" routine beforehand because I no longer believed in the possibility. I went back in and deadlocked, set the alarm, pulled - click - didn't lock. Aaargh. Alarm off. Wait for Agency Boss. Patient-expletive deleted-ly.
Agency boss arrives, tries the click a few times and agrees it is a problem. However, he was a man with a solution - a 7 inch solution. He drew out a screwdriver and, with a little leverage we got it to lock. Hoo-ray. Oh.
Unlock, go back inside, check deadlock, set alarm, race outside, pull with judicious placement of screwdriver, click - and latch.
5 o'clock. An hour late. 1 hour that isn't on my timesheet and aren't approved by my client. 1 hour that I could have been with my family. 1 hour that I could really do with the money from. Still, its only 1 hour and the balance sheet of life will even out. Won't it?
My hands are so itchy on the way home, but after all that working with old stuff and the last hour, stress will do that.
Darn. The electrician hasn't called. As V has been really relied on in the past week while I have worked, I wanted to organise the morning out so he can get a few hours study in (he is doing Building Design - a natural progression for a kneecapped bricklayer with attention to detail). Oh well, if the electrician advice isn't an entertainment option I have an ABA playgroup I can take her to. Cool idea.
I email the clients telling them my adventure (in a much shorter fashion) and offer my services to facilitate a handyman as I will be in town around 1 for a business meeting.
Then I settled and enjoyed an anniversary evening with my husband (we celebrate many, but this one is 4 years since meeting IRL) of sleeping in front of the television and holding hands, then joined by a no-longer-sleeping-through-the-night Paris.
Friday, and lord my hands are itchy. V threatens the doctor but it must be just stress. No electrician call, so I cook pikelets for the playgroup, gently nudge 'Salina towardscompletion of an avalanche of homework (first week back) a meltdown, take another tablet, feed Paris who decides, contrary to the Thursday experience, she will sleep well and early for the morning nap.
I rang 'Salina's teacher to ask about a meeting to get a few strategies together for the ever so helpful to everyone in her class 'Salina and discover that most kids got the wrong end of the stick with the avalanche, and were only required to outline the project.
By the way, administration wants to talk to you as the electrician has arrived. As I am assuring administration that I will be there in 5 minutes, my mobile rings - it is the school. I reject the call. When I hang up the landline, it rings again and wakes Paris. It is another member of the administration team telling me the electrician has arrived. I advise that I will now be there in 10 minutes, as the baby is awake.
As I am only going to be there for a short time, I leave Paris with V, dress and race up to the school. The electrician they have sent is not the electrician who put together the quote.
He didn't know he had to cut a hole for the stovetop. He has never cut a hole before.
He didn't get them to unlock the storeroom door as he didn't know he had to do stuff in there. He can't install the range as the range has to have special fixtures to make it pretty and we don't have special fixtures. He can't install the range as it has to be higher than if he attaches it where it needs to be attached. He can't work out that if the range is set into the cupboard above both problems are solved. That would require cutting a hole. He has never cut a hole before.
He needs the manhole. The manhole is in a second storeroom that the key I have gained to open the first storeroom won't open. He goes to get his lecky tools and I go for another key - and another key - and finally the fourth key works.
The electrician doesn't return. I call V to see if all is well with Paris. No answer. I call the convenor to see if she wants in on the electrician fun - she is coming up to check it out.
The electrician doesn't return. I rearrange the first storeroom so he can work in there. I rearrange the kitchen so boxes aren't all over the place. I call V to see if all is well with Paris. I can tell by the tone when he answers that the whole "morning of study" I had promised him was an option he had been in a mindset to pursue.
The electrician doesn't return. The convenor comes up and we finish unpacking all the boxes in the kitchen. I start to contemplate the abduction of the electrician. As I decide that I should call his employers and see if an emergency is holding him up, he saunters back.
As the convenor is there, I feel confident to go and collect Paris before I come back to see if the work is going in the right direction, because thus far the electrician hasn't filled me with confidence.
I go home for a timely snipe with V, collect Paris and a few pikelets for the convenor and return.
During my absense, it has been determined that the electrician and the convenor have certain hobbies in common and he will be fine giving us a call when he finishes for us to move the fridges into position and sign off on the project. As the jigsaw is screaming and I am feeling a bit itchy - no doubt from stress - I agree to this, reminding that I have a work meeting at 1 which I am assured is okay, as it will be well before then.
I return home, V and I resolve our spat and Paris requests a feed. As I am feeding her, V and I discuss her current bowel status (the romantic talk of parents of babies) and I mentioned that I wasn't actually feeling crash hot. As I thought about it, I realise my throat is sort of - well, not really sore, but a bit tight. The itchiness is back in my hands - and as I removed Paris from the boob, see that my whole bosom is bright fire-engine red.
I mention it to V - I am not dying or gasping for breath, but it isn't normal. I rang my family chemist - she recommended seeing the doctor. I rang the doctor - how does Thursday next week sound? Running late and overbooked. Darn. Everything itches now, and the red is moving down my stomach and my hands are swollen.
As Paris has just gone down, I decide I will drive myself in to the hospital for someone to look at it, with a "I promise I won't be a martyr and will call 000 if I start to black out" to V. My car had the baby seat in - but as it also had the fuel in and V didn't need to go anywhere with Paris, I drove my car.
I rang the potential new client to advise her of the possible movement of her appointment, but she had her phone switched off. There are still hours until the meeting so I am cool with that.
In emergency it took an age before triage (I eventually rattled the administrative staff up - who had looked back at me for 20 minutes - asking if I was meant to be at another place). I would have placed me between the "time wasting - not going to die today" and "my goodness this is dire" categories myself, but once she heard the words "throat tightening" she acted with alacrity and found me a gurney in the hallway behind the scenes.
I confessed to breastfeeding but having a baby that will take a bottle if required. They stuck me with needles that meant she would have to take the bottle option for a day. They gave me tablets. They inserted a line and said "this will make you very drowsy - can someone come and collect you", at which I had to admit no - so gave me a fancy version of the tablets I had been self-medicating with.
I then had a long, long time waiting for the rash to start clearing. By this time, it was raised and livid up my throat, down my arms, all over my torso, on parts of my thighs and, from the feeling of my scalp, all over my head.
I learned a lot of enlightening things during my wait. The World Cup was rehashed (as many of the doctors were from all corners of the globe it appeared a spirited point of commonality). Someone had a glass in their throat. The baby on the other gurney in the corridor was so cute (affirmed by every passing staff member). I am so lucky. Someone had trouble understanding that alcohol shows up in the blood tests they had taken for her. I am not pregnant (one of the "we have to rule this out because we have no idea of the cause of the rash" things). Tattoes do not look good when set off by lilac hospital gowns. When someone is pronouced dead before arriving at the hospital, their details aren't put into the emergency system. One of the nurses is going to have a boy in seven months. Another has 5 grandchildren. The ambulance brought in a man in work clothes with something solid being held from his stomach - from the blanket outline, I am assuming a dagger. No doctor was officially assigned to me, hence the wait.
Anyhow - now nearly Saturday andI have a sleeping baby (so bottle feeds, crying because no access to boob and self-settling has its upside) I have just resettled Paris who has decided that Formula will no longer be contemplated as an option, so we have a finite amount of expressed milk to play with - and a blooming long unedited post for you to wade through.
I didn't get to my 1 pm. I explained to her why I had disappeared off the face of the earth, and I could hear her struggle between the "oh my, you obviously aren't dead, come and meet me for work anyway" and "oh my, you could have died - but you didn't so come and meet me for work anyway" and "oh my, I suppose throwing a baby into the mix is so pathetic, when are you coming to meet me for this work" camps. I didn't get back to the electrician. I explained to the convenor, the principal and the administrative staff why I had disappeared off the face of the earth and wasn't contactable. They were more sympathetic.
All well here now, however. Still getting little itchy flares and the occasional red showing up here and there, but the drugs are battling hardy, and I am sure that most of it is psychosomatic or my hypochondria kicking in.
Actually, really long and eventful. Feel free to scroll to the end, hit "comment" and tell me to learn to edit.
No one died in the creation of this post.
It all began on Bastille Day.
Wednesday, Paris goes to visit her FDC Mum Lorikeet and play with her two new friends. It was the 3rd time she had made such a jaunt - the first time she was bemused, the second time was cut short due to visitors - isn't third time the charm?
Wednesday, and I had been at a meeting the night before for one of my part-time jobs for a local community organisation. Much, much bureaucratic work is required of me in a very short time-frame - with many "I never saw it", "I didn't have it" and "I gave it to you" moments regarding the actual files and folders that are the difference between winging it (yeah right) and just tweaking a bit of this and that...
Therefore, first job on my agenda was to do a treasure hunt in the office. The office is approximately 3 strides long by 2 hops wide. There are 2 doors - but one door is covered by one of the two cupboards. There are also 2 filing cabinets, a desk, 2 chairs and 12 archive boxes. Cupboards are full of files, archive boxes and obsolete computer equipment. Filing cabinets are full of files. Archive boxes are full of files and obsolete computer equipment. The computer is empty. The airconditioner doesn't work. Its okay - its winter.
I began the treasure hunt with the archive boxes, recording what is in each so if ever we need to find the letters regarding a certain project in 2001, I can lay my hands on them. Nothing is younger than 6 years old.
I move then to the first cupboard (after looking briefly into the second cuboard and seeing another 4 archive boxes and a shelf of obsolete computer equipment). Again, I record what is there, so if we are looking for projects ranging from 1998 - 2005, I am your girl.
As I get to the bottom of this cupboard, I notice that I have welts appearing on my midriff. Of course, I give it a good itch, shrug it off and keep going. I have to find what I can and I am sure if I set my mind to it, it will go away.
As I get to the bottom of this cupboard, I also notice more bloddy obsolete computer equipment. Disks that slots are no longer built for, answering machines for phones that no longer exist - and a box with an external hard drive.
My interest is piqued. I plug it in to the computer and emit a "Eureka" as all the files I will require are contained on it.
I also notice that I am no longer scratching the welts across my tum - I am scratching my shoulder - and my leg - and my arm - and my boobs - and my ears...
I have to go home to pump in the absense of Paris anyhow, but I have to find two more paper files for the last of the "must do" list. I "eenie-meenie-minie-mo-ed" the filing cabinets and struck gold immediately.
I pack the external drive and relevant paper files and go out to the car, noticing my hands are swelling and very itchy. I think perhaps the oldness of the paper or something has dried my skin out, so I hydrate heavily on the drive home.
When I got home, V had lunch organised and, although my hands were still itching all else was good so I took a Clarrytyne (spelt incorrectly for a reason), chalked it up to "stuff happens" and filed it all away.
Paris - well, they say third time is the charm, but I have the feeling she didn't spend a great deal of energy on charming Lorikeet...
Thursday dawns, and my hands are so itchy. This happens from time to time, so I take another tablet and it limits itself to just being annoying beneath the fingernails. I had a bit of a run around morning planned with my own bureacratic dealings. Paris was a bit narky at me and quite uncompliant in the "going to sleep to let Mummy get organised" phase of the morning, but otherwise it only took about twice as long as it should have, as is the wont of bureacratic dealings.
I also got a phone call for some more work required, so I made plans to meet with prospective client Friday. Woo hoo - I can't actually chase full-time work while I have my other temp job going this month as the client's are overseas and I place a great deal on the honour of holding their fort.
I made a phone call to an electrician, as I have organised installation of a new kitchen for the P&C (I am to learn to SIT ON MY HANDS and have no more bright ideas in meetings) and, as they are due the next day want to make sure someone is around if they have questions. Electrician will call me back with a more precise time. I call the school to ensure that if that doesn't happen, someone will have a key there at any time. I call the convenor to see if she wants to add anything. I think I have every base covered.
By lunchtime, my feet are itchy as, so I dose up with the anti-histamine again, give Paris to V and head off to my other job. This job is in an office that is a beautiful old Queensland cottage sadly in need of a renovate.
Again, it involves lots and lots of paper, some of it quite old and a lot of it very messy. This is a very busy job with phones and faxes and instruction through email and Skype and fanning fires and putting out fires. The alternate afternoons I am contracted to keep this office running while the bosses are overseas are extremely full on. As the bosses are touring Europe, my afternoons are their very early mornings.
By the end of the 3 hours I am wiped, and duly send of my timesheet to the agency and close down the computer. "This computer will install 4 updates. Please do not turn off. It will turn off automatically after installing." Great. Except that I have to unplug and put the computer in a safe place before leaving.
I tidy the desk. 1 of 4 updates installed. I look at the sea of tidying required in areas I tiptoe through - and remember the maker of such mess requesting I not tidy it as "he knew where everything was". 2 of 4 updates installed. I check the front door - funny, it hasn't latched properly after I checked the mailbox at the beginning of my stint. It takes a bit to get the lock to latch, but I get it done and deadlocked. Side note relevant later - This door can only be locked from the inside, as there is no handle on the outside to shut it..) 3 of 4 updates installed. I fill the fax machine and ring home to tell them I will be late. 3 of 4 updates installed. I go to the toilet and look at 4 more areas desparately in need of a good tidy. 3 of 4 updates installed. I straighten up the files I am in charge of and put notes in all the right spots. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 3 of 4 updates installed. I stare at the computer. 4 of 4 updates installed. Yaaa hoo. I put the computer away.
Only 20 minutes late. 20 minutes that aren't on my timesheet and aren't approved by my client. 20 minutes I could have been with my family. 20 minutes I could really do with the money from. Still, its only 20 minutes and the balance sheet of life will even out.
I deadlock the back door, check I have my keys and put all of my stuff outside. I set the alarm - I have seconds between this action and getting outside. I dash outside and pull the door shut - and it won't latch. I pull - click - not locked - and pull - click - not locked. Expletive deleted.
I go back inside and switch off the alarm (remember - only seconds between movement and alarm set allowed), check I have my keys in my hand, try to latch - click - not locked - click - not locked - click - not locked. I look carefully at the latch and determine the problem is not a case of sagging hinges (as is often the problem of old doors) but rather the opposite (which would indicate shifting frame). I pull and put my immense bulk behind a judicious push downward on the latch - click - it locked!!!
I undeadlock the door, set the alarm, race outside, pull down hard on the door - click - not locked. Expletive deleted.
I go back inside, switch off the alarm and contemplate Plan B. I dig out the computer again, switch it on and log onto Skype. Skype won't start. Try another Skye shortcut. Skype won't start. Click every shortcut for Skype I can find. Click on Skype program from the program list. Eventually 4 Skypes open all at once - but they all say one thing. The client has left the virtual building (and didn't have to worry about latching locks) and probably is enjoying a croissant in the French countryside.
Darn, darn, darn, darn, darn. Plan C. I toss out the tempting thought of just setting off the alarm and scarpering, making it the security company's problem. I contemplate the client's elderly parents and look at the numbers they have given me - none of which have "in case the house won't lock, try..." Finally, I rang my agency and asked what I should do.
The boss immediately offered to hop in his car and come and assess the situation. While waiting for him, I tried a few more click - didn't lock combinations (always ensuring I had the keys on my person - its not THAT sort of adventure).
The hundred and eleventieth try, it locked. Of course, I hadn't done the whole "set alarm, deadlock door" routine beforehand because I no longer believed in the possibility. I went back in and deadlocked, set the alarm, pulled - click - didn't lock. Aaargh. Alarm off. Wait for Agency Boss. Patient-expletive deleted-ly.
Agency boss arrives, tries the click a few times and agrees it is a problem. However, he was a man with a solution - a 7 inch solution. He drew out a screwdriver and, with a little leverage we got it to lock. Hoo-ray. Oh.
Unlock, go back inside, check deadlock, set alarm, race outside, pull with judicious placement of screwdriver, click - and latch.
5 o'clock. An hour late. 1 hour that isn't on my timesheet and aren't approved by my client. 1 hour that I could have been with my family. 1 hour that I could really do with the money from. Still, its only 1 hour and the balance sheet of life will even out. Won't it?
My hands are so itchy on the way home, but after all that working with old stuff and the last hour, stress will do that.
Darn. The electrician hasn't called. As V has been really relied on in the past week while I have worked, I wanted to organise the morning out so he can get a few hours study in (he is doing Building Design - a natural progression for a kneecapped bricklayer with attention to detail). Oh well, if the electrician advice isn't an entertainment option I have an ABA playgroup I can take her to. Cool idea.
I email the clients telling them my adventure (in a much shorter fashion) and offer my services to facilitate a handyman as I will be in town around 1 for a business meeting.
Then I settled and enjoyed an anniversary evening with my husband (we celebrate many, but this one is 4 years since meeting IRL) of sleeping in front of the television and holding hands, then joined by a no-longer-sleeping-through-the-night Paris.
Friday, and lord my hands are itchy. V threatens the doctor but it must be just stress. No electrician call, so I cook pikelets for the playgroup, gently nudge 'Salina towards
I rang 'Salina's teacher to ask about a meeting to get a few strategies together for the ever so helpful to everyone in her class 'Salina and discover that most kids got the wrong end of the stick with the avalanche, and were only required to outline the project.
By the way, administration wants to talk to you as the electrician has arrived. As I am assuring administration that I will be there in 5 minutes, my mobile rings - it is the school. I reject the call. When I hang up the landline, it rings again and wakes Paris. It is another member of the administration team telling me the electrician has arrived. I advise that I will now be there in 10 minutes, as the baby is awake.
As I am only going to be there for a short time, I leave Paris with V, dress and race up to the school. The electrician they have sent is not the electrician who put together the quote.
He didn't know he had to cut a hole for the stovetop. He has never cut a hole before.
He didn't get them to unlock the storeroom door as he didn't know he had to do stuff in there. He can't install the range as the range has to have special fixtures to make it pretty and we don't have special fixtures. He can't install the range as it has to be higher than if he attaches it where it needs to be attached. He can't work out that if the range is set into the cupboard above both problems are solved. That would require cutting a hole. He has never cut a hole before.
He needs the manhole. The manhole is in a second storeroom that the key I have gained to open the first storeroom won't open. He goes to get his lecky tools and I go for another key - and another key - and finally the fourth key works.
The electrician doesn't return. I call V to see if all is well with Paris. No answer. I call the convenor to see if she wants in on the electrician fun - she is coming up to check it out.
The electrician doesn't return. I rearrange the first storeroom so he can work in there. I rearrange the kitchen so boxes aren't all over the place. I call V to see if all is well with Paris. I can tell by the tone when he answers that the whole "morning of study" I had promised him was an option he had been in a mindset to pursue.
The electrician doesn't return. The convenor comes up and we finish unpacking all the boxes in the kitchen. I start to contemplate the abduction of the electrician. As I decide that I should call his employers and see if an emergency is holding him up, he saunters back.
As the convenor is there, I feel confident to go and collect Paris before I come back to see if the work is going in the right direction, because thus far the electrician hasn't filled me with confidence.
I go home for a timely snipe with V, collect Paris and a few pikelets for the convenor and return.
During my absense, it has been determined that the electrician and the convenor have certain hobbies in common and he will be fine giving us a call when he finishes for us to move the fridges into position and sign off on the project. As the jigsaw is screaming and I am feeling a bit itchy - no doubt from stress - I agree to this, reminding that I have a work meeting at 1 which I am assured is okay, as it will be well before then.
I return home, V and I resolve our spat and Paris requests a feed. As I am feeding her, V and I discuss her current bowel status (the romantic talk of parents of babies) and I mentioned that I wasn't actually feeling crash hot. As I thought about it, I realise my throat is sort of - well, not really sore, but a bit tight. The itchiness is back in my hands - and as I removed Paris from the boob, see that my whole bosom is bright fire-engine red.
I mention it to V - I am not dying or gasping for breath, but it isn't normal. I rang my family chemist - she recommended seeing the doctor. I rang the doctor - how does Thursday next week sound? Running late and overbooked. Darn. Everything itches now, and the red is moving down my stomach and my hands are swollen.
As Paris has just gone down, I decide I will drive myself in to the hospital for someone to look at it, with a "I promise I won't be a martyr and will call 000 if I start to black out" to V. My car had the baby seat in - but as it also had the fuel in and V didn't need to go anywhere with Paris, I drove my car.
I rang the potential new client to advise her of the possible movement of her appointment, but she had her phone switched off. There are still hours until the meeting so I am cool with that.
In emergency it took an age before triage (I eventually rattled the administrative staff up - who had looked back at me for 20 minutes - asking if I was meant to be at another place). I would have placed me between the "time wasting - not going to die today" and "my goodness this is dire" categories myself, but once she heard the words "throat tightening" she acted with alacrity and found me a gurney in the hallway behind the scenes.
I confessed to breastfeeding but having a baby that will take a bottle if required. They stuck me with needles that meant she would have to take the bottle option for a day. They gave me tablets. They inserted a line and said "this will make you very drowsy - can someone come and collect you", at which I had to admit no - so gave me a fancy version of the tablets I had been self-medicating with.
I then had a long, long time waiting for the rash to start clearing. By this time, it was raised and livid up my throat, down my arms, all over my torso, on parts of my thighs and, from the feeling of my scalp, all over my head.
I learned a lot of enlightening things during my wait. The World Cup was rehashed (as many of the doctors were from all corners of the globe it appeared a spirited point of commonality). Someone had a glass in their throat. The baby on the other gurney in the corridor was so cute (affirmed by every passing staff member). I am so lucky. Someone had trouble understanding that alcohol shows up in the blood tests they had taken for her. I am not pregnant (one of the "we have to rule this out because we have no idea of the cause of the rash" things). Tattoes do not look good when set off by lilac hospital gowns. When someone is pronouced dead before arriving at the hospital, their details aren't put into the emergency system. One of the nurses is going to have a boy in seven months. Another has 5 grandchildren. The ambulance brought in a man in work clothes with something solid being held from his stomach - from the blanket outline, I am assuming a dagger. No doctor was officially assigned to me, hence the wait.
Anyhow - now nearly Saturday and
I didn't get to my 1 pm. I explained to her why I had disappeared off the face of the earth, and I could hear her struggle between the "oh my, you obviously aren't dead, come and meet me for work anyway" and "oh my, you could have died - but you didn't so come and meet me for work anyway" and "oh my, I suppose throwing a baby into the mix is so pathetic, when are you coming to meet me for this work" camps. I didn't get back to the electrician. I explained to the convenor, the principal and the administrative staff why I had disappeared off the face of the earth and wasn't contactable. They were more sympathetic.
All well here now, however. Still getting little itchy flares and the occasional red showing up here and there, but the drugs are battling hardy, and I am sure that most of it is psychosomatic or my hypochondria kicking in.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The appliances in my house are giving electrical goods a bad name...
Some of you may know me and things that are technological have a complicated relationship.
I have a whole section dedicated to my previous washing machine.
This year has already seen me bemoan things that should but don't or can't or won't when you add the ingredient of me.
And while you already know music doesn't come easily to me in my car - you may not yet understand just how fully this miasma is penetrating my life.
From a different tangent, I may have made mention that I have 2 daughters.
Salina
and Paris
Beautiful are they not?
Amongst the unwritten posts that rattle my brain occasionally, 'Salina and her iPod adventures feature.
And I may have mentioned that, while a thing of delight and beauty, the latest addition to our household has a wee bit of an issue with daylight hours and the desparation of sleep deprivation (which, quite frankly, is a far less chronic version than the one of the off-the-rack babies that have not yet got the whole "sleep through the night thing" that our special order has... I am not swapping)
Add to the above thought strands the concept that I live in a house that is reputed to have been originally owned by an electrician. He obviously hated his work. With a vengance. You can tell this by the way that he installed only 1 power point in the whole of the living room.
That one power point has to provide power to the television (works), the set-top box (works to a degree - there is an unwritten post or two regarding that issue), the video recorder(works)/dvd player (weather-dependent - on sunny days), the fan (a necessity during Summer here) and the stereo...
If I vacuum - or we decide to blow up the spare mattress - or have to charge other equipment, generally the stereo is the one to be unplugged due to the complicatedness of the whole TV set up and the neccessitativeness (I know, I know, but it is late and it conveys what I think I mean) of the fan.
And while it may have been mentioned that I do not greatly covet the title of Housekeeper of the Year I do know my way around the 25 year old (all modern ones die too soon) vacuum cleaner - and apply such knowledge on occasion - and sometimes I am just too darned lazy to plug the stereo back in.
It has come to pass that one lovely blogging friend, Debby at Life's Funny Like That took great pains to track down a special CD for Paris and I to enjoy the benefits of. Aren't some online friends amazing?
I am a pretty crap IRL friend (and relative, I know) who keeps meaning to email The Circle and ask them what is the statute of limitations on thank you notes, because I am that girl.
I mean, not only have I yet to do the birth presents for Paris, but also the wedding and right back through all of 'Salina's (and my own) birthdays - I really, really mean to (and have lists from virtually all these occasions) but I am caught in a horrible dilemna... (and yes, I KNOW I spelt it wrong, but I now deliberately pronounce it that way)
I cannot write a note. I want to put everything in. And therefore I build myself a huge task with what should really be a bread-and-butter note. And then I add in all the other things I should be thanking for. And then life trips me up and before you know it 10 years have passed.
Anyway, during the ladies visit a few weeks ago, I received the CD that Debby sent, and I thought "beauty, I should let her know it is received and test that out".
And then...
And then...
(Enter the image of me hanging my head in shame)
And then I did neither. Instead, I filed the CD in the box that is currently my to-do pile and got all caught up in what happens when you mean to be DOING...
I am so sorry Debby!
So when I finally tripped over that box that is currently my to-do pile because I it was getting to be a bigger mess than the room it is hidden in and found the CD today, I thought "beauty, I should let her know it is received and test that out".
Well, I took that CD and I marched - nay, skipped to where the stereo resides. Within 3 feet of me was the delightful Paris, the ideal test subject for our international experiment.
However, the stereo was not yet plugged.
I plugged and selected the buttons for the CD...
And this is where I encountered yet another example of me + technology = FAIL because it seems that the stereo has reduced itself from a "stereo with 1 working speaker, static FM reception and a dodgy tape deck" to a "stereo with 1 working speaker, static FM reception, dodgy tape deck AND weather-dependent CD capabilities".
I have a whole section dedicated to my previous washing machine.
This year has already seen me bemoan things that should but don't or can't or won't when you add the ingredient of me.
And while you already know music doesn't come easily to me in my car - you may not yet understand just how fully this miasma is penetrating my life.
From a different tangent, I may have made mention that I have 2 daughters.
Salina
and Paris
Beautiful are they not?
Amongst the unwritten posts that rattle my brain occasionally, 'Salina and her iPod adventures feature.
And I may have mentioned that, while a thing of delight and beauty, the latest addition to our household has a wee bit of an issue with daylight hours and the desparation of sleep deprivation (which, quite frankly, is a far less chronic version than the one of the off-the-rack babies that have not yet got the whole "sleep through the night thing" that our special order has... I am not swapping)
Add to the above thought strands the concept that I live in a house that is reputed to have been originally owned by an electrician. He obviously hated his work. With a vengance. You can tell this by the way that he installed only 1 power point in the whole of the living room.
That one power point has to provide power to the television (works), the set-top box (works to a degree - there is an unwritten post or two regarding that issue), the video recorder(works)/dvd player (weather-dependent - on sunny days), the fan (a necessity during Summer here) and the stereo...
If I vacuum - or we decide to blow up the spare mattress - or have to charge other equipment, generally the stereo is the one to be unplugged due to the complicatedness of the whole TV set up and the neccessitativeness (I know, I know, but it is late and it conveys what I think I mean) of the fan.
And while it may have been mentioned that I do not greatly covet the title of Housekeeper of the Year I do know my way around the 25 year old (all modern ones die too soon) vacuum cleaner - and apply such knowledge on occasion - and sometimes I am just too darned lazy to plug the stereo back in.
It has come to pass that one lovely blogging friend, Debby at Life's Funny Like That took great pains to track down a special CD for Paris and I to enjoy the benefits of. Aren't some online friends amazing?
I am a pretty crap IRL friend (and relative, I know) who keeps meaning to email The Circle and ask them what is the statute of limitations on thank you notes, because I am that girl.
I mean, not only have I yet to do the birth presents for Paris, but also the wedding and right back through all of 'Salina's (and my own) birthdays - I really, really mean to (and have lists from virtually all these occasions) but I am caught in a horrible dilemna... (and yes, I KNOW I spelt it wrong, but I now deliberately pronounce it that way)
I cannot write a note. I want to put everything in. And therefore I build myself a huge task with what should really be a bread-and-butter note. And then I add in all the other things I should be thanking for. And then life trips me up and before you know it 10 years have passed.
Anyway, during the ladies visit a few weeks ago, I received the CD that Debby sent, and I thought "beauty, I should let her know it is received and test that out".
And then...
And then...
(Enter the image of me hanging my head in shame)
And then I did neither. Instead, I filed the CD in the box that is currently my to-do pile and got all caught up in what happens when you mean to be DOING...
I am so sorry Debby!
So when I finally tripped over that box that is currently my to-do pile because I it was getting to be a bigger mess than the room it is hidden in and found the CD today, I thought "beauty, I should let her know it is received and test that out".
Well, I took that CD and I marched - nay, skipped to where the stereo resides. Within 3 feet of me was the delightful Paris, the ideal test subject for our international experiment.
However, the stereo was not yet plugged.
I plugged and selected the buttons for the CD...
And this is where I encountered yet another example of me + technology = FAIL because it seems that the stereo has reduced itself from a "stereo with 1 working speaker, static FM reception and a dodgy tape deck" to a "stereo with 1 working speaker, static FM reception, dodgy tape deck AND weather-dependent CD capabilities".
Saturday, September 26, 2009
I would like to announce my return to the real world
However the dust storm on Wednesday started it all off again, and therefore we have interminable coughing from this neck of the woods.
To compound the joy of the moment, 'Salina has her own special variation of it going, a lovely hybrid of what she has had lingering for months and what Mummy has brought to the table.
Oh, and not to miss out on the action, V has just started his version, and we can have the full symphony at some points of the evening.
Vitamin Cs in high demand and a fun September school holidays being enjoyed by all.
Prior to Wednesday, however, things were brighter - we were visiting relatives which meant a great deal of horsely and cousinly activity for 'Salina.
There was a slight amount of hair pulling for me with diminished internet connectivity (not just for my social life - I actually had some work that required a bit of internet - I have the WORST boss in the world, she won't even let me enjoy a holiday. Of course, I could just thumb my nose and resign but as I work for myself I do this regularly and no notice is taken)
Next week I have plans of actually having some school holidays with 'Salina, and then bundle her into care for a few days while I work and prepare for a lightening trip to Brisbane (already overbooked with relatives, friends, school reunions and buying stuff for baby).
Collapsing is on the cards in October.
I hope the world is treating my internet friends well, and I promise to pop by at some point soon.
To compound the joy of the moment, 'Salina has her own special variation of it going, a lovely hybrid of what she has had lingering for months and what Mummy has brought to the table.
Oh, and not to miss out on the action, V has just started his version, and we can have the full symphony at some points of the evening.
Vitamin Cs in high demand and a fun September school holidays being enjoyed by all.
Prior to Wednesday, however, things were brighter - we were visiting relatives which meant a great deal of horsely and cousinly activity for 'Salina.
There was a slight amount of hair pulling for me with diminished internet connectivity (not just for my social life - I actually had some work that required a bit of internet - I have the WORST boss in the world, she won't even let me enjoy a holiday. Of course, I could just thumb my nose and resign but as I work for myself I do this regularly and no notice is taken)
Next week I have plans of actually having some school holidays with 'Salina, and then bundle her into care for a few days while I work and prepare for a lightening trip to Brisbane (already overbooked with relatives, friends, school reunions and buying stuff for baby).
Collapsing is on the cards in October.
I hope the world is treating my internet friends well, and I promise to pop by at some point soon.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Happy moanersMother's Day
Yay - the batteries and the camera have come to the party that is my moaner's Mother's Day, so I will walk you through the feature of my life at the moment.
Here is the reason I get to wear the Martyr's Crown. This was last week. She was well last week. Well enough to beg me to put curlers in her hair. She has a combination of genetics that lends itself to putting curlers in her hair for absolutely no gain - both she and I occasionally hope that something will take, and we have fun trying. I try not to blame this exercise on herbeing at death's door current malaise.
Here she is after a bout of the most effective treatment available to her. As mother's (well in my family) have in generations past, I put a bit of eucalyptus in some boiling water, stick my kids head over it and a towel over her head. It does actually cut the coughing - and even when it doesn't, coughing is far more pleasant muffled with several layers of towel and scented with the odour of gums. Sickroom smell sure does permeate the house otherwise!
See, she can put on a happy face - that is what makes this motherhood gig so worthwhile, that she makes an effort.
I make an effort too! See - some SUPER mothers CAN whip up a batch of playdough when their children beg - and look pathetic - for long enough and hard enough.
Because I get the joy of jaunting off to work for several hours a day away from the constant hacking, I felt sorry for her and bought her some flowers. I felt sorry for V too, but he won't be bought by flowers - I made him muesli bars. She loves her flowers.
She actually said to me last night (in her weakened voice with just a trill of pathetic sickly child) "sorry I couldn't get you flowers for your Mother's Day, Mum. Sorry I have been so much trouble." awwwww - I responded it was her job to be annoying and my job to look after her with as little complaining as possible. I didn't mention it is an insurance policy for old age. She is smart. She will work it out.
This is the view from my back window. I call the one on the left "my Birthday present" and the one of the right "my Mother's Day present".
Hey - where do you THINK she gets her ability to generate total pathos from?
By the way - I would actually LOVE it if we had a beautiful Mother's Day and I wasn't moaning TOO! Its just that I do it so well, and it is the only string to my bow after being woken at 5.20am - no sleep-in and breakfast-in-bed option to tick apparently!
The whole world is a better place that I didn't chose nursing as a profession.
I would love to send a shout out to all the Mother's who HAVE done this, either newly or forever - some do it without complaint. If that one is yours, give her an extra special hug - mine will be getting her extra special hug down the phone line now.
Here is the reason I get to wear the Martyr's Crown. This was last week. She was well last week. Well enough to beg me to put curlers in her hair. She has a combination of genetics that lends itself to putting curlers in her hair for absolutely no gain - both she and I occasionally hope that something will take, and we have fun trying. I try not to blame this exercise on her
Here she is after a bout of the most effective treatment available to her. As mother's (well in my family) have in generations past, I put a bit of eucalyptus in some boiling water, stick my kids head over it and a towel over her head. It does actually cut the coughing - and even when it doesn't, coughing is far more pleasant muffled with several layers of towel and scented with the odour of gums. Sickroom smell sure does permeate the house otherwise!
See, she can put on a happy face - that is what makes this motherhood gig so worthwhile, that she makes an effort.
I make an effort too! See - some SUPER mothers CAN whip up a batch of playdough when their children beg - and look pathetic - for long enough and hard enough.
Because I get the joy of jaunting off to work for several hours a day away from the constant hacking, I felt sorry for her and bought her some flowers. I felt sorry for V too, but he won't be bought by flowers - I made him muesli bars. She loves her flowers.
She actually said to me last night (in her weakened voice with just a trill of pathetic sickly child) "sorry I couldn't get you flowers for your Mother's Day, Mum. Sorry I have been so much trouble." awwwww - I responded it was her job to be annoying and my job to look after her with as little complaining as possible. I didn't mention it is an insurance policy for old age. She is smart. She will work it out.
This is the view from my back window. I call the one on the left "my Birthday present" and the one of the right "my Mother's Day present".
Hey - where do you THINK she gets her ability to generate total pathos from?
By the way - I would actually LOVE it if we had a beautiful Mother's Day and I wasn't moaning TOO! Its just that I do it so well, and it is the only string to my bow after being woken at 5.20am - no sleep-in and breakfast-in-bed option to tick apparently!
The whole world is a better place that I didn't chose nursing as a profession.
I would love to send a shout out to all the Mother's who HAVE done this, either newly or forever - some do it without complaint. If that one is yours, give her an extra special hug - mine will be getting her extra special hug down the phone line now.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
Friday the Third(eenth)
yesterday...
I had a big day, as happens in life I went from "needing a little extra work" a week ago to "Oh My everything happening at once".
So I decided to start early, and at 5.30 was tootling away at the 'puter - which was dandy until between 6.30 and 7.00 when my internet speed went to 0.
I rang Bigpond, and after an interminable conversation with a computer got to speak to a lovely young lady from the sub-continent who, after asking me about the lights on my modem advised me that it appeared the whole of the network in Queensland was out and would be until 1pm - maybe 11.
After I got off that call, my blood boiled at the 'not good enough'-ness and called Bigpond back.
My conversation with the computer was a little terser this time, and Mohammed advised me that I had told the previous lady the wrong information about my lights and therefore the problem was with my modem and me and there was nothing wrong with their network, and to be a good girl and call the manufacturer of my modem/router and get them to fix my problem.
I had to wait until 8am to call Netgear, and they took me through various tests and told me to get back to Bigpond armed with the right jargon words needed to assure Bigpond that the problem did not lay with their product.
The good news was that the computer in Bigpond now recognised my phone number and put me directly through to the person line.
The lovely Rosetta, a supervisor, advised me there might be a problem with my modem that those jargon words would not cover, and so I should test the system by turning it all off for 20 minutes and then reset it all, and if it still didn't work to call back and they would escalate my issue.
I did as I was told (because I had no alternate plan) and of course the results of the test were that I should call them back to escalate the claim.
The Bigpond automated routing service obviously REALLY knew my number by then, because twice they sent me into the purgatory of dead-phone tone before giving me lovely hold music interspersed with marketing.
I on hold music when a call waiting signal came through - as I had only waited 7 minutes at this point, I was willing to throw it away if someone wanted to call me. It was my mother - and I had a "short" conversation with her.
I then got hold music and marketing for 27 more minutes - one of the lovely messages was "have you spoken to your mother lately? How long since the last time? I bet she knows. Why not call her?" - can you believe it...
Finally, I got a warm body at the end of the phone - and Justin had an Aussie accent.
It was the only comforting thing in the phone call, as after telling me that it wasn't them and I wasn't told that and it couldn't be, he suddenly noticed that there was another query from my area and maybe that could be interesting and - oh, would you look at that, it seems that the whole region has a problem!
I agreed that was quaint and perhaps had a slightly heightened tone when he advised he would escalate the problem to one that actually had a technician looking at it, and there should be some answer by the close of business...
That was just my morning - the afternoon I spent in a beautiful heritage listed building formatting documents and fixing databases and then I had a 3.5 hour drive in the dark over country roads - it was only 200km, but when your high beam = 20 metres visibility and nice nature has a habit of hovering in the middle of roads oblivious your approach (so do the toads) and the roads have a habit of becoming bulldust without warning.
Ah - nothing like a whinge to purge it from your system.
So - how do you deal with life when it throws you lemons? (Besides blog, that is!!)
I had a big day, as happens in life I went from "needing a little extra work" a week ago to "Oh My everything happening at once".
So I decided to start early, and at 5.30 was tootling away at the 'puter - which was dandy until between 6.30 and 7.00 when my internet speed went to 0.
I rang Bigpond, and after an interminable conversation with a computer got to speak to a lovely young lady from the sub-continent who, after asking me about the lights on my modem advised me that it appeared the whole of the network in Queensland was out and would be until 1pm - maybe 11.
After I got off that call, my blood boiled at the 'not good enough'-ness and called Bigpond back.
My conversation with the computer was a little terser this time, and Mohammed advised me that I had told the previous lady the wrong information about my lights and therefore the problem was with my modem and me and there was nothing wrong with their network, and to be a good girl and call the manufacturer of my modem/router and get them to fix my problem.
I had to wait until 8am to call Netgear, and they took me through various tests and told me to get back to Bigpond armed with the right jargon words needed to assure Bigpond that the problem did not lay with their product.
The good news was that the computer in Bigpond now recognised my phone number and put me directly through to the person line.
The lovely Rosetta, a supervisor, advised me there might be a problem with my modem that those jargon words would not cover, and so I should test the system by turning it all off for 20 minutes and then reset it all, and if it still didn't work to call back and they would escalate my issue.
I did as I was told (because I had no alternate plan) and of course the results of the test were that I should call them back to escalate the claim.
The Bigpond automated routing service obviously REALLY knew my number by then, because twice they sent me into the purgatory of dead-phone tone before giving me lovely hold music interspersed with marketing.
I on hold music when a call waiting signal came through - as I had only waited 7 minutes at this point, I was willing to throw it away if someone wanted to call me. It was my mother - and I had a "short" conversation with her.
I then got hold music and marketing for 27 more minutes - one of the lovely messages was "have you spoken to your mother lately? How long since the last time? I bet she knows. Why not call her?" - can you believe it...
Finally, I got a warm body at the end of the phone - and Justin had an Aussie accent.
It was the only comforting thing in the phone call, as after telling me that it wasn't them and I wasn't told that and it couldn't be, he suddenly noticed that there was another query from my area and maybe that could be interesting and - oh, would you look at that, it seems that the whole region has a problem!
I agreed that was quaint and perhaps had a slightly heightened tone when he advised he would escalate the problem to one that actually had a technician looking at it, and there should be some answer by the close of business...
That was just my morning - the afternoon I spent in a beautiful heritage listed building formatting documents and fixing databases and then I had a 3.5 hour drive in the dark over country roads - it was only 200km, but when your high beam = 20 metres visibility and nice nature has a habit of hovering in the middle of roads oblivious your approach (so do the toads) and the roads have a habit of becoming bulldust without warning.
Ah - nothing like a whinge to purge it from your system.
So - how do you deal with life when it throws you lemons? (Besides blog, that is!!)
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