The Brave

The Day Has Arrived

2007-11-13T07:11:00.000-08:00

Today, one chapter closes and yet another opens - that's life. And with those deep and meaningful philosophical musings out the way, I will tend to other thoughts....

For those who do not know, these past two and a half years have been spent living a dream - to live and immerse oneself in another country for at least a year - I have spoken about this dream before. Today, this particular dream ends and we commence the journey home to our native Australia - before indulging in a childhood dream of going to Disneyland.

We are merely tourists now. Prematurely, in the midst of psychological displacement concerning ones whereabouts, I entered into a museum guest book, under the heading of address "Australia". I have no address there as yet, but we had recently sold our family home and I was confused as to where I belonged. Do I belong in Australia? I don't know, we'll have to see. I have felt displaced for so long, and have spoken about this in the past also.

One thing is for sure, I am ready to settle - ready to commit to a locale, a residence, a community and a people - home is where you make it. Is it not, and under such pretenses, Canada....or more precisely, Ladner, British Columbia - quietly poised on the Fraser River Delta, has been home for us for the past two and a half years. Our children have grown up there, we have made some very good friends there, we have had experiences there that we would not have had otherwise. We laboured over a rotten house and made it respectable. I am going to miss the friends I have made and I am also going to miss the land.

On Friday I attempted to taken in the surroundings of Ladner one last time. It was Mister's last day of school and all my errands had been done, Missy Mopps and I had only to kill time before picking Mister up from school. It was a bright Fall day, clear blue skies and a fresh breeze that stung my cheeks. We meandered along the school route alley way that ran behind our old place, the poplar trees had recntly dropped a million leaves; it was like walking upon a thick golden carpet. I sighed and said "thank you", acknowledging the uniqueness of the moment.

Yesterday we had a terrible wind storm. The power was out from 6:30am until 10:30 am. We could hear things being tossed about in the gale. Early in the piece, curiosity got the better of me and I ventured out from under my cosy bundle of blankets to witness the trail of destruction first hand. Neighbouring trees bent unnaturally, in the wind; autumn leaves whirled frantically against the fury of the wind, like panicked villagers scrambling for cover admist a surprise ambushing by henchmen and plunderers, while low dark clouds raced across the sky like a team of wild horses. It was a delight upon the eyes and all I could do was stare in wonder.

I had hoped we might yet experience one last snow, but we are leaving just a tad too early, but if I allow myself some quiet time, I can see the white world outside that, which was once my window, and I can hear the dry crunch of snow and ice under my heavy boots as I walked, and the eerie stillness of a land shrouded in a cold blanket - the memory goes with me.

The lush green of this land; its vibrant boating and fishing community; the birds, particularly the geese and mallards, I will sorely miss. In the stifling heat of an dry Adelaidian summer, I have these images to reflect upon, and only experience will tell me if these thoughts, under such opposing conditions, become points of torture or relief - nonetheless, I am grateful of these experiences; of the opportunity to discover and live these moments and to take away these and many more memories. I will miss Canada, and hope to return one day soon, but for now, goodbye and thankyou.

panic setting in

2007-11-09T08:45:00.000-08:00

Fatigued, over-whelmed, panicked, helpless, stressed - just a few words to describe the state of my being just now.

We have hit the final stretch; Misters last day of elementary school, Missy Mopp’s last day of pre-school yesterday and final ballet session today; Ashley’s last day at the office. We leave on Tuesday, and thus far, do not have a place to stay when we land in Adelaide on the 19th. Yes! You heard that right.

I feel that I have scoured all the Internet sites looking for something appropriate, but I am finding, as was the case in finding our current abode, finding affordable, furnished, short term family accommodation is bloody near impossible. As yet, I have been unsuccessful. I don’t really know what we are going to do. We need something for about 4 weeks till we get ourselves sorted, by this time I am hoping that we will have bought something to move into permanently.

There are still a few options that I can look into, but I now have to wait until Monday when the offices open again; these are student accommodations. I am hoping, with the end of semester looming, there might be a place to rent till Christmas. Most of these places are being advertised for the new school year and are asking for a 6 month or 1 year contract, so basically...I am seriously praying for a miracle.

Pray with me.....

morning in White Rock

2007-10-16T00:29:00.000-07:00

"So, how are the new digs?" a friend innocently asked. She knew we weren't living the desired scenario. "It's Okay", I responded. "small, but we'll survive".

And that is the truth. The place is acceptable, comfortable... nice even. It might be a long way to drive to school, but what it lacks in convenience, it sure makes up for in scenery.

Saturday morning I woke early and felt in dire need of a good walk. As luck would have it, I had the foresight to snatch up my camera on the way out - you never know what you might see along the way. I was mighty glad I did, because it was a glorious morning with a fiery sunrise to welcome in the day.

Would you believe, these first two shots were taken out the front of the place we are staying in. Breathtaking.

A fine mist curled up from the pond like steam from a coffee cup. A Great Blue Heron rested in a meditative pose on the edge of a nearby bridge, and an approaching train wailed in the distance.

During my walk, I stopped to watch the water birds - one last look at the Canadian Geese - they would be migrating South for the winter soon, and so will I.

Many walkers and thinkers were out that brisk morning. It seems the morning truly does have some kind of magical property - the energy of awakening - a buzz that comes with a new day, a new beginning and a new opportunity.

I returned home as the sky, now soothed of its raging oranges and reds, after walking the length of the jetty; stopping briefly to watch the tethered sail boats bobbing in the icy water. The tranquil sound of the lapping water was interspersed by the hungry call of circling gulls and that fore-mentioned train; now snaking its way along the coast. I wondered what the train driver must see along his journey, and whether this section of the journey brought him as much delight as it did me - what a brilliant way to start the day.

Just a few jobs I've had....

2007-10-12T22:28:00.000-07:00

I have had my fair share of jobs. I got my first taste of the employment when I was fourteen.

I spent a week with a friend at her Aunt's house in a rural town near a popular seaside haunt. Her Aunt and Uncle lived in a little house out the back of a corner deli, which they owned and operated.

As part of our keep, my friend and I were to help Uncle and Auntie here and there...it was not stringently enforced and my friend attempted to weasel out of the commitment whenever she sighted an open avenue for escape.

It was a fun week...I had a ball. We even went to the old pre-dawn fruit and veg market on Rundle Street in Adelaide (known as East End) - that really was a great experience - to witness such a frenzy of confusion, energy and activity - the market smells, the haggling, the forklifts gliding from pallet to truck and back again, the frosty morning air, the orange glow of poor lighting, the accents ...it seemed that the world was there, and all this, while the majority slept; unaware of the energies that had gone into ensuring one had fresh bananas in store, ready for breakfast.

That first good work experience lead me to seek out similar work a couple months later, in the local roadhouse/truckstop. I enjoyed working there, but I was a junior to many senior women, who would have preferred to have been anywhere other than that place. These women worked because they had to, and so I, like most of the young part timers there, became the target of their resentment, and was treated with about as much respect and consideration as the rat shit under the shelves in the store room.

My next taste of employment came in the weeks after finishing year 12. Ashley and I took a job in an apricot orchard as fruit cutters and pickers. It was an incredibly sexist environment. Women and kids were paid to cut the fruit, and ONLY the men were allowed to pick it. "So...who cares?", I hear you say. Well, back then, the men were paid $10 per hour to pick fruit, but the cutters were paid $1 per tray of cut apricots. Now I tried the apricot cutting by hand. It was not easy, especially if one wanted to make decent money, and lets face it, why would anyone be there otherwise?

I would cut as fast as I could all day and only manage a rate of $4 per hour. Yep, it took me 15 minutes to complete one tray, and that was working at top speed while cutting my hands to ribbons in the meantime....what a complete waste of time.

I did have a win in that establishment though. I complained to the boss that I was very slow at the hand cutting and the boss' wife started me up working the cutting machine - this task paid $10 per hour.

Ashley left me in the middle of the season to start his apprenticeship, but I battled on and pestered the boss to let me pick the fruit with the men (anything but the hand cutting). He always promised to "think about it", but with each day came disappointment. On what was to be the final day of the season, I had yet another win....I was asked to come out and pick fruit. I felt triumphant in my quest to have once again avoided the drudgery that was hand cutting.

The team was made up of a dozen or so men ranging from their early twenties to late sixties. It was a bit of a farce really. They basically stuffed around the entire time, smoked cigarettes, took turns sitting on their bums while telling lewd jokes in order to embarrass me; all the while I slaved to prove my worth. I was proud of myself when the boss told me I was a fine worker and how he would be happy to have me back again next year - he concluded his note of approval by telling me I was "just as good as any one of the blokes"....what a bloody insult!

After that job, I moved out of home and into the city. It was the 90's recession and jobs were scarce, but I managed to get a job in a cafe. It was unchallenging, but the boss was nice, so it was enjoyable enough until the business was sold. I don't know why my new boss agreed to keep me on. He seemed to resent my being in his employ, and on my nineteenth birthday I was unceremoniously sacked for being too old - I was no longer a junior you see...best birthday present ever - in hindsight of course - I was free to find something better.

The best job I have had - to date - was found in a seaside tourist town where my parents lived; it was in the local video shop. You might think that sounds like a bludgers deal, but this was a HUGE video shop with over 6,000 titles. It was also the local recorded music shop, and later a photo processing shop as well- I was so busy I barely knew what to do first. It was great. The best bit was that I often worked in the place by myself, especially during the dead of winter. I treated that place like it were my own, and my bosses, a married couple, placed their full trust and confidence in me, which was a great feeling. Of course I endeavored to never let them down. They were an interesting pair. The wife was so lovely. She treated me like a friend rather than an employee. The husband was frequently hilarious - though he was quite oblivious to this fact. I remember one time the local pharmacist barged in accusing me of mishandling his "standing order of football tickets" - (we were also a ticketing agency for various events, and football tickets were a hot item that year; often selling out within minutes of them coming on sale). The pharmacist suggested that I was deliberately not processing his ticket order, because his "friend" had bought them recently and had said there were many remaining. In my defense, my boss simply and unapologetically informed the pharmacist "ya mate's pullin' his pud" - which, to the untrained ear, is Australian for - I am sorry Sir, but you are sadly mistaken, and your male friend appears to be a masturbator - I could barely contain my hysterics, while the stuffy old pharmacist quickly retreated from the premises in a humbled dither.

I think the worst job I ever had was the sales clerk job for a jeweler. Sounds glamorous, but most of the time was spent pacing the seldom frequented shop floor, stalking and casing the joint to become the first to snare anyone who dared venture even halfway into the front door. The rest of the time was spent cleaning all finger prints and face marks off the glass, both inside and outside of the shop.

In order to meet your monthly sales target you had to sell big time, and when times were lean, you really didn't care if it was the ugliest piece of crap you had ever set eyes on and had previously shuddered at the very thought of any fool trying it on, let alone buying the odious object - but when under pressure, suddenly everything "looks STUNNING on you, darl". Having to lower myself to such cheap and deceitful tactics was perhaps the most degrading aspect of the job, and I have never let myself forget that. I quit when I was accepted into University and although I was asked to return for the Christmas sales period, but I declined...I still felt dirty.

I have never set the world alight on the career front, but I wouldn't change any one of these experiences - for they all have truly coloured my world.

For more job expereinces check out this weeks Sunday Scribblings.

The Temp

2007-10-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

Happy Thanksgiving!

It is Thanksgiving Day here in Canada. We aren’t doing much. We don’t have an oven to cook a big meal – much to Misters utter disappointment, they tend to make a big deal out of Thanksgiving at pre-school and Kindergarten, so it will be a pretty dismal “so, what did you do for Thanksgiving” sharing come Tuesday, what can you do? On that note, you might have guessed, we have officially moved out.

It was a strange week. The movers didn’t arrive until the Tuesday so essentially; we commenced our week much the same way as every other week – routines intact.
Tuesday morning was a whole different ball game. Basically I drove around with a car full of kids and animals in an attempt to keep out of the removalist’s way. By mid afternoon on the first day, I returned home to find the entire contents of our home – boxed. When you see the material collective of your life gathered in such a way, you realise just how insignificant all this “stuff’ really is - I am going to be without this stuff for at least 2 months.... meh!

By the end of the second day, I returned home to find all but our beds wrapped in brown paper packages; discernible shapes clad in uninspiring shrouds. By the end of the third day, all that remained was dust, fluff and a few marks on the walls, and by the end of the fourth day, everything was gone - including us.

I must admit, there was something unsettling about Magic Erasing the marks off your three year old’s bedroom walls; marks caused by the scraping of toys against the wall; crayon stripes that I had previously blown my stack over; splayed little finger marks and other unidentifiable scuffs. I found myself acknowledging the fact that I was actually washing away all evidence of our presence in the house – “shouldn’t the new people do that”, my five year old asked, more due to the fact that he was growing more bored by the minute and wanted to leave, than any other reason, and it occurred to me that perhaps they really should be doing it themselves - it was they who would likely want to remove our energy, but I cleaned anyway – “no one wants to move into a new home and clean. They will just want to unpack and settle in”, I told my son. He accepted my reasoning. It was true. Cleaning the place you have called home is the right, even if monotonous, thing to do; it is a courtesy.

Upon leaving, I had a quiet word to the house. We dragged the place out of its, neglected, technicoloured and mirrored hell, and brought it into the 21st century, as far as warm colours and new furnishings goes. We didn’t get to some of the bigger home improvements i.e. New furnace, new roof and improved fireplace and chimney, so I thanked the house for its protection, security, memories and loyalty (meaning that I was thankful that the ancient furnace didn’t die over the winter, and the roof didn’t leak in a storm and the crumbling chimney didn’t blow off). I apologised for not fully finishing the job we started, but Murphy’s Law always tends to see multiple things break down soon after one moves into a new abode. I liken this to a spewing forth of the previous energy – out with the old and in with the new...so to speak. Have you ever noticed that? I dare say, the new owners of our place are likely to be up for a furnace sooner rather than later, or if they are wise, they will be putting one in before it goes on the fritz.

The temp accommodation is working out well. The kitchen is a little on the teeny side, but we have been creative with the space and it is going to work out fine – faith prevails. Ashley has FINALLY been given a verbal nod to a job back in Adelaide. Yep, not sure if I mentioned that before, but we decided to move back on a whim (well considered whim). Yet another test of faith, one that we began to sweat about over the last two weeks, because there was no “official” position being offered back in Adelaide and time was ticking away, but we wanted to go home and that was the main priority. The office back in Adelaide was very keen to get Ashley back, but ultimately, it wasn’t up to them. It was such a relief to get the nod about the Adelaide job; we feel we can plan things with greater clarity now. We have even decided to return a week earlier. By doing so, we avoid the American Thanksgiving madness in Disneyland, and since we no longer need that week to pack up the house, we will be making better use of our time before Ashley starts the new position; hopefully we will have some firm housing plans teed up by then.

Having said that, real estate seems to be getting pricier by the week – bit of a worry. The situation with the US economy has made me feel nervous all year. We are thinking of building.....not sure if that is the wisest thing to do either. We really have to be back there to get a proper feel of things. So that is the state of play for now. All of our wares are on a slow boat to Australia and the loose ends are being tied. All things said – life is presently good.

"on hold" is good for something...

2007-10-01T10:05:00.001-07:00

Thanks for checking up on me, I know I have been overly quiet, in fact outright silent - MUTE! I apologise to my regular readers, but right now chaos reigns in our house.

We are packing up to leave this week. The international removalists are coming tomorrow to commence the three day ordeal or packing, wrapping and loading all our wares into a shipping container.

I haven't had two seconds to scratch myself these past two weeks. "So how is it that I now have time", I hear you ask. Well, I am am currently undertaking the monotonous task of ringing all those utility companies to terminate service - yep, I am in for a long morning stuck on hold.

Meanwhile I have caught up on some of my favourite blogs and now what.... hey, why not write a post myself - how novel! Not sure when I might have time to do it again, so here is my chance.

So do you want to hear about the drama? Well there hasn't really been too much drama. Drama is really about how you perceive things, in my opinion, and I prefer a nice peaceful life. So instead I chose to discuss the hiccup in PLAN A, which was to move out of our current address mid-November, jump onto a plane and fly off into a candy coloured sunset bound for Disneyland, before departing back home to good ole Australia.

PLAN A was scrapped when the purchasers of our house wanted to move in 6 weeks sooner than PLAN A had allowed. So with no furniture, two dogs and two kids in tow, local temporary accommodation had to be found. PLAN B was to find a local, fully loaded sublet, and camp out in LA LA Land, oblivious to the worlds turmoils. Like a true idealist, I posted an ad on the all important craigslist, requesting our needs and wants, but sadly - no takers to match our needs or dates.

Onto PLAN C. Plan C consisted of staying in the infamous Beach Grove Motel, in nearby "sunny" Tsawwassen. It looked dingy, but the guy assured us it had a kitchen and a fridge and would suit our situation. Suspiciously however, the guy at the front desk could never find a suitable time for us to view the room we were to occupy for 7 weeks. Last week, with a week to go, I turned up early and unannounced, requesting a viewing. I could see from where I was standing that it was vacant; the cleaners had the door wide open. What could he do?

Let me paint the scene for you....
The place was the size of a shoe box - two beds were in the room, one was in the kitchen/lounge. The so called kitchen consisted of a free standing stove and a sink - no preparation area. The fridge was a bar fridge. There were no tables and chairs and the bathroom was a woeful display of dank, soiled and mouldy ceiling, half a corroded bath and the place was an ice box on a PLEASANT day.

After I had recovered from a fit of insane laughter, brought on by the realisation that this joint was going to be "home Sweet home" for the next SEVEN WEEK!!!!!!! It wasn't going to work. How was I going to prepare meals in there? Where were the kids going to play when it rains? Where were we going to sit to eat? Where were we going to put our 8 suitcases? And above all else - what about my cousin and her daughter, who are coming to visit us at the end of October?

Previously I had joked to her that it was possibly going to be like a scene from a cheesy cops movie - you know those scenes....the suspect is on the run hiding out in some cheap motel with a flashing neon sign complete with dodgey wiring, flickering in the background like it has a nervous tick. I did offer to put her up in a B&B, a mere walk away from the BGM. It looked very nice, and I knew she'd be more comfortable there, but she was in happy to experience hell along with us (bless her). Upon inspection I dare say the BGM was perhaps a little below the movie scene cheesy motel - she was sparse to say the least!

PLAN D - panic. Didn't last long. It sort of arose after the shock wore off. And so I set about trying to find ANY place offering furnished, short term rental that accepted dogs. A place was found in a town about 20 minutes further out. It is small, but about double the size of the BGM. It is clean. It is comfortable. It has a normal sized fridge and a laundry room, and it is warm. When I went there the following day to drop off the deposit, the landlady told me that she would actually be going out of town the week after we arrive and will not be returning until the day before we leave - perfect! So PLAN D it is.

Autumn/Fall started last weekend. It constantly amazes me how in sync the seasons are over here. A couple of weeks ago we were at the beach; sun shining, larraping sun screen onto our bodies. Today we are inside shivering, watching the gold coloured leaves float to the ground.

We had our garage sale on Saturday. My friend helped me out as I didn't think I really had enough stuff to warrant a garage sale, but needed to off load some stuff anyway. My friend's contribution certainly lifted the inventory.

The day was freezing. The coldest day we have had since last spring. I think it topped 10 degrees and threatened to rain the entire morning. It even snowed at Whistler. The weather kept many of the "garage sailors" away, and even the usual dog walkers that traipse around our streets were few and far between - smoke curled out of many a chimney top as we stood embracing our mugs of coffee, inhaling the steam to prevent our noses from succumbing to frost bite.

8am - 1pm, that was our sale time, and the hours meandered along begrudgingly. I have had garage sales before and they are always so boring - an hour seems like a week. The slow procession of minutes and hours made me wonder if it had anything to do with the unwanted items I was surrounded by- all those unneeded and burdensome goods and chattels; layers of the unnecessary, rejected and rendered useless - NULL AND VOID, dragging us all down.

We sold a few things. The sale didn't turn out too bad. One guy bought two laundry baskets of kids toys and items, for his soon to be born baby. It is nice to think our old unwanted stuff might get some new loving. Our next dilemma was what were we were going to do with the remnants - The Thrift Shop, the charity clothing bin and the dumpster - keeping it was OUT of the question. Arrrh! I feel lighter already.

Ok, I have gotten through to all the utility companies now, so I guess I had better get back to packing. I hope to post again soon. Thanks for hanging in there for me. Cheers.

kids

2007-09-14T00:07:00.000-07:00

The last couple of weeks have been incredibly busy.

Mister has started kindergarten and LOVES it. Missy Mopps has started pre-school and LOVES it. WIN!

We started the fall season of gymnastics; Mister chucked his seasonal hissy fit, running away and refusing to join in his group, protesting loudly and laying on the ground, like I am the most torturous mother on earth...which is ultimately what I ended up being. After about 10 minutes of his antics, I thought "Bugger this!" Got down to his level and muttered that we would be coming to these lessons every week for the next 10 weeks whether he liked it or not, so he had better get used to the idea because there is no way in hell he is getting out of gymnastics. And yeah...I have noticed that he only carries on like this while I am present so perhaps next week I will leave him and go and do something else for the hour, and come back at the end. Mafia style tactics prevailed and he eventually participated. Predictably he ended up loving it - like every other time (why me????) and can't wait for next week, because one of his friends ended up in his group. Missy Mopps on the other hand was champing at the bit for her lesson the same afternoon and had a great old time, minus the self-inflicted drama.

Speaking of Missy Mopps, I actually had a great day with the kids today. We are getting used to the new, frantic routine, but today turned out perfectly.

At present, it is still lovely weather out, so we have been making the most of these warm sunny days in dwindling supply and have spent most of this week outdoors.

While Mister was in kindergarten Missy rode her trike while I walked. Her trike is pretty cute. It has an umbrella top and a handle so I can push her when she gets tired (and to save my back). This trike pulls a lot of attention and she loves it. A little old lady was walking by when we were heading back from the park. The lady asked Missy if she would give her a drive home if she sat behind her on her bike. With a wide eyed nod of the head, Missy agreed to ride the lady home on her trike...melted that lady's heart she did. "Oh, you are sooooo cute", she crooned. She really is. My little missy mopps is so sweet.

Funny ting happened at the store today. We were walking along the pavement, heading toward the area where they keep the shopping carts. Along the way there is this great pile of dried bird crap - there must be a nest high in the rafters or something, because no other mounds of crap were visible. On the way back to the shop entrance, cart in hand, I notice a little boy, probably about 7 years old, standing, staring at this great pile of dried bird shit; he appeared totally mystified by the vast quantity of shit heaped on the ground. As I passed him by, he spoke, trance-like, as if speaking the private thoughts of his own mind, "did some bird die there or something", he questioned to no one in particular. I lost it - cracked up laughing. It sure did look like some one had blown the shit out of some bird.

Binned!

2007-09-04T23:23:00.000-07:00

I just finished the book Power of Now by Vancouverite, Eckhart Tolle. I must say, I think this book has had a bit of an impact on me.

In the past, I have been quite a reader of the "spiritual growth" type books, but soon tired of them once most of them started saying the same type of thing... while I occasionally stumbled upon something helpful, the majority weren't really doing it for me anymore.

A very good friend of mine gave me "The Power of Now" for a birthday back in 2004 and for whatever reason, I just wasn't in the right place to read it back then. Even still, I basically only plucked it from the bookcase, because I had nothing else to read one night, while sitting with one of the kids as they fell asleep.

Tolle's words are helping me to let go of the anger I have too long held anger over the SIL and MIL incident. His words are helping me move on from past disappointments and hurts, especially about the career I planned, but never had. His concepts are really helping me let go of "stuff", which is symbolic I think, of this release of emotional baggage. I feel more capable of going with the flow, regardless of the uncertainties that still reign unclear at the present moment. I am reminding myself "in this exact moment, everything is perfect"...because it is. The past is gone, both 15 seconds ago and 15 years ago, and the future has not yet happened, this moment really IS perfect.

We have been sorting through all this stuff. We don't have that much stuff really; we are quite minimalistic people. But man...there is still all this....stuff. I love sorting through stuff I no longer need; clearing the path so to speak. It seems like it is just stuff, and yet it has always felt so freeing for me to do that.

We are having a garage sale in a couple of weeks and so there are piles of miscellaneous goods stacked in the corner of our lounge room. Tonight we have gone through the office cupboard. Every house, it seems, has a dumping ground. My parents chose their pool table. We tend to throw papers and foreign objects into the office cupboard with the intention of sorting through the clutter and filing it properly, in the ill defined time of later.

Tonight, while going through a stack of notebooks and paid bills, I found, yet again, the diary I kept while in year 12; I spoke about it a couple of weeks ago - the one that was filled with teenage angst and unintentional hilarity. I threw it out. I don't need it. Yeah, it holds some of my history in it. For sure, it talks about the emotional pain I was in at the time. It talks about parental frustrations, school struggles, boyfriend issues, stupid pranks played on school friends, bad poetry and other stuff, but why keep it? For 18 years I have kept that diary as a reminder of my youth; as a material snippet of my journey thus far; perhaps even as a testimony to or evidence of my very existence.....I don't need it anymore.

Carth

2007-09-02T21:34:00.000-07:00

My son is completely obsessed with anything to do with the Disney/Pixar movie Cars. I am not really sure how he became aware of the movie. We didn't take him to see it at the cinema, but when the posters began to emerge advertising its release on DVD, he begged for a copy.

We got the movie, unsure of whether it would hold his interest, but it did. He loves it. He even pretends to be Lightning McQueen, who actually helped him out with some pre-school bullies when he found, while pretending to be Lightning McQueen, that he could outrun all the kids in his class. Since then he has been progressively collecting all the little die cast car characters from the movie. He has t-shirts and pj's emblazoned with the Cars theme, even his sandals and undies have Cars on them.

Leading up to kindergarten, Mister has been less than enthusiastic about starting something new (read: outright defiant). Last week however, I managed to find a Cars backpack, lunch kit, drink bottle AND pencil case, so now he is impatiently counting down the minutes until he is able to use all his new Cars stuff and show it all off to his new school friends. Hey, whatever helps.

Recently his best buddy has been enthusiastically collecting cars and they play well together with their cars and swapping characters with each other. This week his best bud got a number of new cars and excitement over these toys reached fever pitch as they plotted together which ones they wanted to collect next. Upon hearing this for the entire week, I went on the net the other day and searched out some hard to find characters that we NEVER see in the shop and won an eBay auction for some of them. I wasn't sure how or when I was going to give them to him, until today....

Mister has a bit of a speech problem; he quite badly th'usses his ess'es, and unfortunately Missy Mopps decided to copy him even after she had originally started saying these sounds correctly. I once spoke to a speech pathologist about it, and she told me, if the rest of his speech is fine, especially if he can say his z's properly, then his th'ussing is merely a habit - "a habit that will be difficult to break", she assured me. Thus far, she has been right. We have tried everything to help him out of the habit, but he would become so frustrated that he would simply refuse to co-operate or he'd intentionally th'uss at us with exaggerated defiant emphasis.

Today we bribed him. "Practice saying your ess'es correctly and once you have them down pat and spoken without a second thought, we will get you a couple of hard to find Cars characters". Well! Never before have I heard him so enthusiastic and excited by a challenge. I was impressed. We corrected and reminded him for a good 2 hours tonight, without one wobbly cracked - he was really trying. As I said...whatever it takes.

Guess who he wants to be for Halloween?

My happy place

2007-08-31T12:51:00.000-07:00

Ok, we are officially sold. Yep. SOLD SOLD SOLD SOLD. So sold we broke out the champers. So sold the stager lady took back all her stuff (boo hoo).

For a week our humble abode lived up to its potential. Its inner beauty shone out to all the world and said - "this was what I was born to be". Now it is a mere skeleton of what it once was; a mish mash of unrelated objects, and a chasm of echoey space.

Hand over day is October 7. We have a back up plan to move into the skanky motel, if required. Otherwise I am feverishly scanning the postings at craigslist for a reasonably local sublet, short term lease, vacation house or furnished dwelling that allows pets: so far no luck. Just for the record, I will in fact consider it a minor miracle if I do find anything that suits - just being realistic.

Surprisingly we aren't at all panicked. We have plan B, so what could go wrong? The household items will go early; our financial commitment each month should be slightly less, and then we have a free week up our sleeves. We are thinking of using that week, not to pack up the house and have a minor nervous breakdown, but instead, to chuff off after the dogs leave; arrive a week earlier into LA and do the planned Disney trip BEFORE the American thanksgiving. Originally, we had stupidly planned our trip to the happiest place on earth, oblivious to the fact that Thanksgiving week was notorious for being the most crazy weekend of the entire year oops. We are thinking of checking out San Diego or San Fransisco over Thanksgiving week instead, though still leaving for Australia the same day as originally planned. Sounds like a plan to me, don't you think. Its Only the details once BACK in Australia that are entirely vague and sketchy, but then again, we have plenty of time to work through those issues once this debacle...I mean, well hashed plan are home and hosed.

Its a test of faith...remember.

On the prowl

2007-08-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

We had the building inspector go through today. It all seemed to go ok; mostly positive. The realtor is confident that the sale will be finalised tomorrow - yay.

I looked into renting the house in the next street, but had no luck. Most places around here seem to be leased for 6 months to a year minimum. I did look into a motel in the next town; it is in a really good location - by the bay, but its a bit of a humpy! I can already imagine the inside of it - one word "skanky"....ah, who cares. We need a place that offers reasonable short term rates and a willingness to accommodate our dogs - such finds are few and far between. This one meets our minimum requirements AND has a kitchenette, so beggars can't be choosers as my Mum would say, we'll live. If we were to go with that motel, it would mean sending our stuff back early, which is actually a good thing. It also means that Ashley could stay in his job a week longer than anticipated (I am sure he will be thrilled with that possibility). It also means a bit more of a run around with the school and pre-school drop offs and pick ups, but I am sure I will manage.

I might hang off booking that motel and wait for the local paper to come out tomorrow. They might have someone looking for a house sitter (sure) or a sub-letter during the exact times we will be needing it (fairyland, I know).

I guess there is always a tent.

Up There, Cazaly

2007-08-28T00:00:00.001-07:00

I am re-submitting this post because, for whatever reason, the video I had attached was no longer available...so here it is again, video AND accompanying post....

Yesterday the kids were looking for items to play dress-ups in. I scoured the cupboards to see if there was anything appropriate, for that purpose. All was almost lost until I peered into one of Ashley’s drawers, rummaged around a little I found two Australian Rules football jumpers.

One was black and white, with the Port Adelaide Magpies team emblem emblazoned on the front; the South Australian team of choice for both my husband and I, prior to Port Adelaide forming a national team –The Power, and opting for the colours black white and teal (there was already a national black and white Magpies team - Collingwood boo hiss).

The other jumper was red and white striped, baring the moniker of the Ramblers Football Club or “The Roosters”, as they were known; a jumper Ashley had commandeered from the golden days of his country football playing youth.

For the moment I sat clutching those rough, synthetic knit guernseys, an array of football memories bloomed forth in my mind, like imprisoned buds on a sunny day.

I am not a sport fanatic by any means, but football is so ingrained in my personal history that I have possibly developed or inherited some kind of appreciation gene for the game.

Aussie Rules Football is quintessentially masculine. The game is rough and the culture surrounding it inspires a similar coarseness. I grew up with the passion for the game all around me; both grandfathers were players, as was my father and brother, along with most men in my community. But for me, football was more than a game; it was, and still is, a multi-sensory, multi-layered experience.

Football brought our small community together during the winter months. It brought excitement and activity to the town and surrounding region. To me, as a child, football meant long family drives in the car, as we travelled to remote towns within “the league”, to follow the football.

It meant hanging out with my childhood friends and wandering around the ground to the sound of cars honking their horns on the sidelines, whenever a goal was scored. You could hear the harsh voices of men and women screaming, “come on, get up ya useless bastard”, and other profanities, to umpires, opposition players and supporters, along with their own team players; voices that were hoarse from too much yelling, too much alcohol, too many cigarettes and too many hard knocks.

Then there was a whole other harmony. The sound of thundering feet scrambling after an erratically floundering leather ball; so unnerving was the collective sound of nearby galloping feet, panicked and urgent voices; that it sounded like a herd of screaming, stampeding brumbies were about to hurtle through the sidelining crowds, to trample us wee ones in their frantic, fleeing wake.

There was the thumping sound of leather against damp soil during the centre bounce; the smack and slap of a boot walloping the living daylights out of the ball, and of course, the shrill reverberations of the umpires whistle.

Then there were the smells of the game. Such as the sickening, yeasty pungency that wafted through the air, signalling to all that the bar was open for business, and the amber fluid was flowing abundantly; the suffocation of cigarette smoke catching in our small throats, making us splutter and gag; wet leather; bruised damp grass.

There were other smells too, ones that lured children from the snug quarters of the family car; meat pies and pasties, the hot golden buttery goodness hanging in the air like the sun on a winter’s day. That smell taunted us kids, and we would pester our mothers until we had each managed to secure one of those heavenly pastries in our eager hands, along with a packet of salt and vinegar chips, and an extra 20 cents jangling in our pockets for a white paper bag brimming with an assortment of homemade cupcakes, for later on.

There were also the games – not just the bone crunching, mud bath battering and clash of men on the official ground, but the sidelines games; the climbing in trees, hide and seek in the bamboo forest, the escape into a fantasyland of kings and queens, sisters princesses, “Gone with the Wind”, castles made of bridal creeper and moss, and hanging out in the playground, inventing new tricks on the monkey bars.

Now, as adults, my husband and I would make a habit of cozing up on a winter’s night to watch a game together, whether it is fish and chip Friday with a bottle of wine, or another time when our team was playing. It was the history of our involvement with the game that drew us to it, week in week out, season after season.

Here in Canada we rarely see a game. Occasionally we might see a game telecast on FOX sport, but it isn’t live; the results of those games are already known. I can not watch it, not without the vibe, the hype and expectation, speculation, and subsequent jubilation or commiseration with my fellow country men, living in the moment that is fresh footy lunacy. Consequently, my passion for the game fell into hibernation, and receded into a mere glimmer of its former blazing self, and I told myself that football wasn’t all that important to me.

But when I handed over the football guernseys to my children, they slipping them on and running around in them, the sight made me smile, but I shrugged and happily went back to what I was doing, until they inquired into the history of the “soccer jumpers”.

”Oh! But these are not soccer jumpers. These”, I declare proudly, “are Australian Rules Football guernseys”. And at once the stories of football and my passion for the game unfurl like an exquisite Japanese fan, and my enthusiasm was eaten up and absorbed by two wide eyed children who announced that they would “like to see that”.

And since it is impossible that I take them to a game here in Canada, and there was no telecast showing today, I downloaded a song long regarded as the unofficial Aussie Rules Anthem; a song, that has, for generations, inspired many a young Aussie lad to dream of playing footy on the big grounds, with the big boys and the crowds – that song is Up there Cazaly.

Calling ALL Snowbirds

2007-08-26T23:05:00.000-07:00

We are still in the cooling off period of selling our house. The deadline for the buyers to pull out is Wednesday...so fingers crossed that doesn't happen. They are getting the building inspection done on Tuesday. We have only had this house for two years, so I can't imagine that is has suddenly started to crumble under foot during that time; especially considering all the work we have done to the damn thing.

We have just one smidgey-didge of a dilemma in selling this house; we are being turfed out six weeks earlier than we had planned....I know we are fools for accepting such conditions, but the offer was a very good one, so we would have been just as foolish to have turned it down. We have our plane flight back to Oz already in our hot little hands and our dogs are firmly booked for their 30 day stay in the Spotswood quarantine centre in Melbourne (it is supposed to be the best), AND we have family coming to visit us at the end of October, so we can't leave Canada any earlier.

I am not too worried, Muse suggested we rent an RV for 6 weeks and send our stuff back early...might have to do that if we get desperate....Anyone need an honest, reliable and very responsible family to house sit over October and most of November...(preferably located in the Greater Vancouver region?) No? Drat!

Our neighbours across the road gave me a contact for the house behind them. Apparently it is a rental and the current tenants are planning to vacate. If that works out it would be quite a coincidental and wonderful feat. We would love to remain in the area until we leave; especially with the school year about to start next week.

We would have had to have found temporary accommodation anyway, so perhaps we will be able to stay in our temp accommodation until we officially leave. I am choosing to see this minor hurdle as a test of faith...we have a few weeks up our sleeve to find an alternative arrangement anyway. Wish us luck.

Cooling off....

2007-08-24T08:22:00.000-07:00

Holy smokes Batman!

Looks like we've already sold the house.

KA-POW!

open house

2007-08-23T12:22:00.000-07:00

It has been one of those day, you know. After the realtor took the photos for the website, he casually informed us that we already had our first cabs of the rank, as far as tire kickers and beard pullers go; "6:30pm". "Gee thanks", I replied. It looks like evening showings are going to be the norm; everyone works around here, so I guess they have to come after work or risk leaving it until the weekend, when the place might (HAHAHAHA) already be sold.

As soon as the realtor put the sign up, we had people on the prowl, doing the drive-by, rubber neck style. One couple even parked next door in the car park, got out and cased the joint; peering over the fence and what not. I was making dinner at the time, and it was most disconcerting to have a couple of strangers grinning at me through the kitchen window (now I know how the gorillas at the zoo must feel). I must say, it was a bit exciting to see people interested in the house, but then again, they were probably just sticky beaks agog that the place is on the market so soon. The neighbours have been awfully friendly all of a sudden, coming out for a chin wag and a pry...even got asked to Saturday lunch...that NEVER happens. Boy, am I an old synyc today!

Anyway, after the realtor's look-see at 10am, we had three appointments lined up:6pm, 6:30pm and 7:30 pm. Dinner was screwed. We ended up ordering a pizza and eating it in the park, then letting the kids play in the playground. It was a huge novelty for them.

It would have been great to be able to go to a restaurant and have a nice dinner, but we had the dogs with us. They are quite unbearable to most people- they yap and howl and jump up on people's legs; tearing stockings and planting muddy foot prints on pristine white slacks - no manners whatsoever - so we have to take them away when prospective buyers are on the scene.

Not only the dogs are we carting around town, but also the smelly old dog bedding, as they camp out on the floor of our room. We also have our portable microwave on the front seat. Oh, you didn't know you could get portable microwaves - you can't. We have two microwaves. We bought a cheapie when we moved into a friends house for the month prior to moving into this house. This friend had no mod-cons whatsoever, even his kettle was of the heat on the stove variety. Anyway, when we moved into the house, we found the built-in microwave to be lacking a handle, and of course, that particular size was no longer made by anyone, anywhere in the world. The only way to open the darn thing was to jimmy it open with a steel ruler....no thanks, so the cheapo microwave stayed and took up precious bench space, thus, it must be removed during showings.

Last week, Ashley had a brain wave and took a handle off one of our old cupboard doors and managed to cut up a white light switch surround, and somehow managed to secured the handle good and tight. The microwave opens now, but I am too afraid to use it in case the thing blows up or something equally ironic, and we will have to replace it anyway - at $500...no thanks. So the cheapo, counter hogging microwave, which I quite prefer by the way, stays, and these days gets to go on trips every so often (dear me).

Tonight's three showings went well apparently, though no one made an offer. We have another group coming at 6pm tomorrow. That means we have to stay away from the house all day again - the kids can't make a mess if we aren't there.

We did have a reasonably good day out today though. I had to go into the next town to pick up some shoes, which didn't happen (oh well). Afterwards, I promised to take the kids to the park. The kids played there for about 90 minutes, before we headed off for a walk through the gardens. Mister chucked an enormous hissy fit after playing the entire day and insisted upon sprinting around the 400 metre running track they have alongside the park. He was determined to run the entire 400 metres in lane 5 (because he is 5), and he insisted that missy mopps and I run too, in our own lanes. Missy mopps was tuckered out and wanted to be carried and to be honest, I really couldn't be stuffed, but because we didn't play the game, he chucked a monumental wobbly. Then another after I convinced him that we would just watch him run the final 100 by himself, during which he confused the track lines and veered out of his lane. He was insisting he start the race over again (for about the fifth time) when I managed to lead him to the car, screaming, but not kicking, where more wailing and gnashing of teeth occurred amidst laughable claims that he was "not tired". "suuuUUUuuure!"

Needless to say, it has been a long day - for us all.

the results are in

2007-08-21T01:02:00.000-07:00

Okay. Here are the photos after the stager finished her handiwork. Most of house was a mish mash of bits and pieces that were struggling to fill the space provided. The lounge room literally only had a couple of sofas in it and that was it, as you can see from this first picture.

I was quite happy to have a stager come in and do something with the area, since we aren't into buying more stuff mode, what with the move back and all, and the lounge room is the first room one arrives to upon entering the house, so it is important to make a good first impression.

Anyway, the whole point of staging is to draw attention to the house, rather than the things in it, or the ugly wall paper; hideous overly mirrored walls and dog piss stained carpet...as was the case when we bought this house. Yes, the aim is to give it enough that a potential buyer can see themselves living in the space, rather than picking up the owners vibe i.e staring at their wedding photos; checking out the diplomas on the wall and the books in their book case etc. It all has to be inviting, pleasant and reasonably impersonal.

The stager was actually at our place for a good four hours, which surprised me. The other surprise was that she not only did the one room, like she said she would, but she added a couple of bits and pieces to most of the room to tie it all in (I guess so people weren't immediately struck by how one room looked suspiciously lovely while the others looked so so).

The stager used many of our own things, but arranged them in different ways. She mostly added lamps and pictures to our vacant walls, and added a few other decorative pieces.

In the end the changes she made were quite subtle, but made a dramatic impact. She brought in the ottoman for the living room, which gave the room a great grown up look - that room was formally dominated by the kids and their stuff.

She also gave us a kitchen table which is not pictured here. She moved our own table into a space in the lounge room to make it into a formal dining room (pictured here). The kitchen table she gave us is a little rectangle one which gives our kitchen a look of so much more space. She did a really good job.

I think the biggest surprise came from Ashley's reaction. He wasn't sold on the stager idea. In true blokey fashion, he couldn't really see the point and did not appreciate the potential power of soft furnishings and a few well chosen pieces of furniture, but he was suitably impressed.... I am glad, because I just kind of said "we are doing this" and this was it.

To answer Muses query, the kids were great about the new furniture and stuff. The stager didn't touch their rooms, which was good. It is all a bit of a novelty stillm so they are presently respecting the rules about the new things. I do know, the longer the place takes to sell, the harder it will be to maintain the pristine look, so I am praying that it sells quickly so we can give this stuff back and get back to being the uncultured slobs we normally are, ha!

pre-wedding jitters..kind of

2007-08-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

I took my daughter to ballet this morning, and upon my return was shocked to see a for sale sign leering at me on my front lawn - forgot about that bit. I feel a bit of the ole panic stations setting in and I am not really sure why. I am as nervous as crap, like I am staging an event or a wedding or some such theatrical performance where timing and atmosphere and all that was rehearsed must go according to plan or risk a bout of luke-warm reviews from potential ticket holders, or grumblings from the disgruntled guests who brought the expensive presents.

Speaking of staging, a friend offered to have the kids while the stager was here; she is here now. I asked her what I could do, but she shooed me away and told me to relax and make myself a cuppa. I must say, I feel entirely useless and don't really know what to do with myself (typical), so I thought I would blog instead. I could read a book I guess, but I don't think I could concentrate anyway. I promise I will post a piccie of the staged room in the next post.

I just hope the place sells quickly. We have been slaving away like who knows what trying to get this place looking like a vogue magazine on a TV week budget. I have ditched piles of stuff...one really doesn't need a whole lot to get on in this world, so why cart a whole lot of useless stuff around the globe only to have it sit there gathering dust readying itself for its next international voyage (God forbid).

Yesterday I stumbled upon a pile of suspicious looking folders. Upon opening them I found they were in fact my entire catalogue of school report cards from 1979-1990 (shudder). I remember my Mum giving them to me one time when she moved, but I don't think I have ever read them. Of course that led me to waste the next two hours as I scanned the horrors of my early academic history.

Actually it was a bit of an eye opener to read them all at once. There were some definite themes that perhaps should have been addressed: "struggles to comprehend written instructions", "extremely slow at working things out", "gets frustrated", "makes silly errors", day dreams", "needs to listen more carefully", "careless". I have long wondered if I am actually dyslexic, as such themes have continued to be issues for me - particularly the comprehension aspects. I tend to have a private panic attack whenever a timed written comprehension test is presented as part of a recruitment drive. Time and time again, this will be the part in the test that sees me exited from the program. But then again, what good is worrying about that now - the horse has bolted so to speak, and this is who I am - stick to what you are good at kiddo!

Dear Diary

2007-08-19T00:54:00.000-07:00

Dear Diary is the theme of this week's Sunday Scribbling.

I have kept diaries of sorts since I was perhaps 15 years old. I threw out my first ever diary due to its shamefully embarrassing and juvenile content, but I kept my second one, which just so happened to be a school project we had to do as part of our year 12 English curriculum. I doubt any teacher actually had a read of its content; it was written by a dopey 16 year old after all, but had anyone chanced a bit of a skim through, they might have been surprised, for I never said a word in the majority of my classes at school, and the diary content, in hindsight, is both riotously hilarious (though not deliberate) and tragic (perhaps melodramatic is a better word...or angst-riddled maybe).

It did pass my mind to share one of the more laughable moments in that second diary, but I refrained from doing so, instead I thought I would share this little tid bit. In hindsight I think perhaps I might have suffered a little of the old post natal depression in the aftermath of having my babies. I was quite depressed and despairing for quite a while afterward... then we moved to Canada and the isolation, the loneliness, the lack of support was almost unbearable. To make matters worse, I then endured Vancouver's wettest winter ever; a winter that just would not let up. The darkness, the lack of vitamin D and my already questionable mental state saw me plunge into a deep dark hole, one that I could not see my way out of......until I travelled by myself to Australia to attend my friend's wedding. It was the break I needed; the beginning of my turn around. You'll be happy to know that I am in a much better place these days.

This is a diary entry of my landing in Sydney after my "great escape". It is a bit of an emotional rant - I hope you can follow it:

2nd March 2006 – Sydney Australia - 27 degrees Celsius

What a tumultuous thirty-six hours. Talk about stress and serenity; life and death; darkness and light; turmoil and peace; sanity and insanity; warm and cold.

What would a numerologist say of this state of being; highs and lows and opposing thoughts, feelings and experiences?

I love my family, but my soul has been dying and I have felt like one of those ships lost in the Bermuda triangle – having mysteriously disappeared without a trace, with no hope of ever being seen again –soul off the radar.

Actually the red light is still flashing on the navigation screen. It signals that all is well; all is registering. Life and the vessel are following the straight path to its destiny. Perhaps the vessel might encounter a storm or undue turbulence, perhaps the people on board are a bit bored themselves; they might feel a bit uncomfortable for a while, but they know it isn’t for long; they know that there is an end to their suffering – they can generally count down the hours on one or two hands. So for them, it is mostly…. well, bearable. I don't know where I am going or how long it is going to take. It is as though I boarded a ship without an itinerary and have unwittingly boarded one that has simply been set adrift.

My dreams have stagnated and rot due to a lack of reflection. They fade away like the colour of a bright red t-shirt left for weeks to dry on the clothes line during a heatwave. The brilliant red grows duller and duller; the garment stiffens and becomes unshapely with each rain and scorching it gets, hanging there neglected and forgotten.

I really did have dreams once, but I don’t remember what they are now….
Actually I do remember, but the fire of possibility has long been extinguished, the winds that fanned the flames – exhausted. What remains is the ashen remnants of an idea.

Everything starts with an idea – sure, but passion, desire, inspiration, hope and opportunity are needed for an idea to sprout forth. Nourishment enables the idea to gather strength and strive toward its greatest potential. We all need a little visual progress from time to time. Don’t you think?

I often find myself sympathising with the jailbirds – the prisoners. I can’t think of a more debilitating place in which to gather hope for a better life; of believing deep down that one is a worthy human being, with talents and gifts to offer the world, but are prevented from achieving this end. I often feel that my life is as restricted, lonely and confined as a prisoner – but at least I can get into my car and roam. It is not my physicality that is being held prisoner as much as my mind. I am a slow thinker – considered no more clever than an ass, when I were at school. In reality however, I really just needed the time and freedom to think.... I am not at school anymore. I am at home, but I still need that time to collect my thoughts and arrange them on the blank pages of my mind. But today I am not at home. I have managed to escape.

Alone I took a plane to Sydney Australia from Vancouver Canada. I think I spent most of the journey in a state of shock; my mind was numb, confused and unaccustomed to peace. I felt paralysed during that flight, not knowing what to do with myself and this yet unrealised freedom. My mind only seemed to switch back on as I exited my plane - like a child's forgotten toy that had suddenly been gifted a fresh battery.

I have been away from my family for 24 hours now, and I have barely spoken to a soul; customs guy at the airport; train ticket girl and the waiter here, in this glorious cafe that I now find myself.

For the first time in ages...years, my mind is observing its surroundings; it is reflecting, absorbing and watching the energy that is this peripheral life with all its activity. I am enjoying the silence, the stillness, the ability to just be...uninterrupted within myself.

I feel free.

in the darkness....

2007-08-18T08:22:00.000-07:00

I was thinking today, about a good friend I had in high school. She was adopted. I don't know why I started thinking about her really. We lost touch years ago. She undertook her latter high school years in a boarding school in the big city, and while we tried to maintain contact over that time, life took over, as it does. She moved, I moved, her parents moved and my parents moved....she could live in the next street for all I know. Nevertheless, we were good friends at the time. Her parents owned and ran a local motel, and I was invited regularly to stay over at her place; we were even allowed to stay in a motel room if one was vacant.

The motel was close to the local swimming pool. One summer we spent practically ever day at the pool (a fact you might find surprising if you had read the story, two posts back). This friend even invited me to stay with her at her Aunt's place in another town, over the winter break. Her Aunt owned a corner deli and we spent most of the week working in it, which was a huge novelty (for me anyway).

We did a lot together, this friend and I. I remember one night, creeping out from one of the motel rooms we were staying in and walking to the all night truck stop (roadhouse/diner/servo) for hot chips; scrambling over neighbourhood fences and into foreign backyards, then walking back through the local cemetery eating hot chips from a wrap of butcher paper, while trying to make out the inscriptions etched into the old leering Gothic style monuments. This friend was there for me during a difficult time in my life. She was funny and crazy; a risk taker and a bit unpredictable...a welcomed distraction, and just what I needed at the time.

Despite all this, I realised it was quite difficult to get to know this particular friend. There was somewhat of a wall that she placed around her that forbid one from really getting to know her. Humour was her best defense; whenever things go a bit intense or serious, whenever the deeper or the tougher question were raised, she expertly sidelined all and any expectations of a genuine or heartfelt response. Never did I learn her hearts crush, while we were at school together, although she told me of the her crush in her new school, he being at a safe, unlocatable and unidentifiable distance - a mere abstraction to me, a fictional character in a novel or a cartoon upon which to wonder and imagine, but never know.

One night however, when laying in our respective twin beds in the motel, darkness draped upon all forms, our voices rising up in the night, unencumbered by the intimidation and bounds of body language suggestions, my friend started talking about her adopted older sister and how, when her sister became upset with my friend, she would tell her that she wished she "had never chosen her" at the hospital/orphanage. I asked my friend when she had been told she was adopted and while wrapped in the safe shroud of night, she told me that she had always known. Her mother was unable to have children, and her birth story was that her parents took her older sister to choose a sibling, and her sister was said to have proudly chosen the prettiest baby in the establishment. My friend seemed happy to recount this story to me. It was a comfort to her; it made her feel loved and wanted, like she belonged for she was chosen.

On the back of this discussion; seizing the moment and perhaps being both rather insensitive and a little daft of age, I then asked my friend if she ever thought about her birth mother. "No", came the abrupt reply, a reply tinged with disappointment and hurt, "and I will never look for her. She gave me up. My parents are the only parents I know. They are the ones who love me. I never think about my birth family." And with that I felt a door close. Silence descended like a rock in a still pond - hard and fast, fanning ripples the only sign that something had occurred...I heard her muffled sobs in the darkness, and it broke my heart to think that I had brought this pain to the surface, for it seemed apparent that this was something that she had often mulled over in the private corners of her inner being. We never spoke of it again, and she seemed happy with that, but the conversation stuck with me, as has the memory of her quiet stifled tears and I have wondered about her and where she is today and whether there really is some part of her that seeks, and longs.

*Photo by Olivier Follmi - "A Tear of Coldness at 4200 Meters, Ladak".

Jet - Are you gonna be my girl ?

2007-08-14T21:50:00.001-07:00

We are well into cleaning over drive here - even cleaned the oven (HA). We have the place spick and span, and I even took Jeanie's advice and neatly organised the INSIDE of the bloomin' cupboards in case some sticky beak happens to take a gander inside.
The realtor suggested we put some nice mood music on for when he brings people through for open inspections - last time we went all Enya...it was that type of a house...I am not sure what we will choose this time around, this is perhaps not the sound he was anticipating, but I did drag out the old Jet to get us all into the cleaning mood - the kids went wild for it. They loved this song in particular, but rather than clean, they dragged out drums, guitars and noisy toys to pretend they were part of the band and preceeded to jump around giggling hysterically - it was a riot!

friggin' bathers

2007-08-14T01:43:00.000-07:00

Today I got rid of my abhorrent swim suit. Yep! I threw that thing in with a whole bunch of other garments and unnecessary household items and off loaded the whole darn lot into the charity bin at the local servo.

I have spoken before about my un-love of bathers/togs/swimwear (whatever your choice phrase for such an item might be).

My old swim suit was an embarrassing two piece; an electric blue tankini with attached skirt to be precise, or perhaps something akin to what grannies might have worn in the 1970's, if you like. It was a scary thing in hindsight, I have to admit; a $15 investment made over a year ago. But since I have bought that swim suit, I have dared enter the water of my local pool to take the kids in or to just do a few laps, without constant reminder or fear that my lilly white, luminous, jiggly, thunder thighs might be causing an array of poolside perusers to gasp and shudder at the very sight of me, but alas, I had a reality check a couple of weeks ago. We were in Whistler. The accommodation we stayed at had a pool (oh dread). For some reason my friend's 5 year old son was very eager to check out every one's swim suit. "Can I see your swim suit?" he asked me one morning. "Nah, its not very interesting", I told him, feeling more and more intimidated about the big, scary swim suit reveal by the second, "you'll see it later".

The first time we all went swimming, no one said a word about my swim suit, but then again, I didn't make eye contact with anyone either, sending a definite message of "I don't want to talk about it - OKAY!". The second night though, my friend's son innocently asked me, "is that an old swim suit?" To which I was so embarrassed, laughed and chose not to answer, because, as I have just revealed, I bought it only the year prior, but the style beamed like a neon sigh old lady. This boy was not content with my non-reply however, and my choosing to remain tight lipped about the bloody thing only caused him to gather his own theories about the confusing item I was wearing. And his conclusion? "Yep, I'll say that's got to be a really old swim suit!" he tells me while nodding, eyebrows raised, smiling from only one side of his face.

Oh dear. There is nothing like a child to tell you just how shite you look. Actually, I tend to trust such opinions a little more; children tell it how they see it, without malice or consideration of another's feelings, but I thank him for his opinion, however embarrassing it was to hear it - it was the truth. The swim suit was way too big for me, and it was darn awful. On top of that, it was probably doing the exact opposite of what I was going for, which was to blend in with the scenery and disappear. So into the charity bin it went, where some other overly self conscious person or granny is likely to pick it up for a bargain basement price.....or perhaps it might be burned as something that should never again see the light of day (as it should be)...who knows.

Ironically, I then went over to the local pool and donated half a pack of swimmer nappies (diapers) to the local pool; my daughter no longer needs them. The pool staffer was very grateful, and as fate should have it, gave me a complementary pass to the pool as a thank you. Now Ashley is having a week off work right now, and it is summer over here, so naturally Ashley, seeing the freebie that has just been thrown my way, suggests we go to the pool in the afternoon - "yay", yell the kids excitedly, running off to retrieve their swim suits from the cupboard in readiness. "Oh, you can take them", I casually replied to Ashley. But Ashley insisted we all go as a family "it'll be fun", he reckoned. So I 'fessed up that I had just tossed the scary suit in the charity bin, so I unfortunately, had to stay home. Baffled, he pressed me into explaining why, which brought me to relate the whole Whistler incident to him...so what happened next? He MADE me buy another swim suit, right then and there. He was even willing to drive me into the next town where there is more selection.

I must say, I wasn't very motivated to buy another swim suit. For a start, I wasn't confident that I would find anything I would even half-heartily like, nor did I intend on spending very much money on something I didn't intend on wearing too often, but on Ashley's insistence, I agreed.

I suggested that I might be able to find one in town, so Ashley drove me to each store and waited with the kids in the car. Its the end of the season as far as swim suit buying goes, so it was pretty slim pickings, but since Ashley was adamant that I not used the old, "damn, I don't have a swim suit excuse" (again), I caved and reluctantly bought a suit that was acceptable enough - it only cost $25.

So in the end, I went swimming and we all did had fun - I just hate the getting in and getting out part of swimming.

I wish I didn't have all this angst about body image. It makes the very idea of activities, such as swimming, extremely difficult for me to entertain.

A friend once told me, "if you look around, there is always someone bigger and there is always someone skinnier, so forget about it and have fun." I liked that piece of advice, though I wasn't wearing a swim suit at the time. For me though, it isn't about the sizes of other people at all. It is about the level of comfort I feel in myself, and that, unfortunately, has nothing to do with size.

Let the show begin

2007-08-10T09:51:00.000-07:00

Had a talk with the home stager today. I was expecting her to be all pretentious; turning up her nose at our very humble abode, while then preceding to pick the shit out of it, after which she might nominate our modest digs for a spot on Canada's Most Sad Arse Interiors...or something along those lines, but alas, I was rather wrong.

The stager was very thankful that ours was a vacant look problem, rather than hordersville.

Basically she told us that she could work with most of what we already had, move our lounge suite and dining table around a bit, add a kitchen table, coffee table here, some side tables there, lamps and a couple of trinkets and "done". I was really surprised. She was rather complimentary really - wanted to know who chose our paint colours - "moi", I said, batting my eyelashes. She reckoned they were great. Also said she wouldn't change a thing upstairs, and even gave some good practical hints for when selling a home; such as always remembering to put out white towels, because it make the room look cleaner; take all personal effects of the bathroom counters, dunny lid down; remove everything from magnetic from the front of the fridge; let the drapes hang to the sides, rather than tying them back, for an updated look, etc...

The cost for her services seemed very reasonable too, so I think we are going to go for it. I might even post a before and after picture when it is done, so you can see what you think - (silence will suggest "me no like"). Anyway, I just hope ME like, and potential buyers like!

We might even put the house on the market a week earlier to get a head start before the new school year stalls proceedings a little, but then again, there is a baseball grand final taking place on our street next weekend, so that might not make the best impression...we make the final decision tomorrow.

I am actually feeling a little nervous about the big sale. I think because once the house is sold, then we are officially moving back. In a way, up until the official sale of our home, we always have the option of changing our minds...not that we are in two minds about our decision to move back. I guess it is more the fact that our Canadian experience will officially be over, and as I have said before: I already fear that I will wake up one morning and think, "hey, did that really happen? Did I really live in Canada for nearly 3 years?" It seems I am already dreading that moment, and I feel I am trying to scramble at something intangible that will hold this experience in me, but I am not sure what it is that I can take or grasp; souvenirs and stuff don't quite cut it. So how DO I absorb the essence of my experience here, and hold it forever? Perhaps I already have, time will tell.

Tinker Bell Movie Trailer

2007-08-08T10:16:00.001-07:00

Mister has revealed his intended future vocation - I hope you have a large cup of coffee on hand, because he wants to be.... a vet (to farm animals and giraffes), a farmer, a car mechanic, a marine biologist, a fire fighter, a Dad AND a professional runner.

After his big reveal he paused, wondering, then asked "how can I do all that?" Indeed.
He is only five, and I am sure his list will change over time, but for humours sake, I suggested that he get Daddy to help him learn about cars, practice running now, start saving up to buy a farm, perhaps just a hobby farm. I told him he would have to go to uni to study to be a vet and maybe he might have to choose between land animals and marine life, but I guessed it might be possible to do both, and then he could be a volunteer fire fighter, because that takes quite a bit of training in itself. As for the father thing, I said he could be a Dad once he found the right girl (a loooong way off into the future) - phew! He thought all that was quite plausible and do-able - ha.

When I was 5, I remember the teacher asking each of us what we wanted to do when we grow up. The first girl to be asked said she wanted to be an air hostess; I think every girl then responded with the same answer. Man, I am 33 years old and I STILL don't know what I want to do when I "grow-up".

Missy Mopps is three. She wants to be Tinkerbell when she grow up.

panic stations

2007-08-04T09:47:00.001-07:00

I got yet another preliminary taste of what is to come, yesterday, when the Real Estate agent rang, 6pm on Thursday night, to ask if he could bring around another interested party, the following morning. So, like the gal in this ad, we had to act fast.

Actually, it was nowhere near as bad as the last time. I had just gotten a guy in to clean the carpet that very day, and I had scrubbed all the bathrooms the day before that, chucked a whole heap of useless crap from the cupboards over the weekend, and had even cleaned the fridge, so all we really had to do was re-organise inside a bit (hide the dog beds and microwave) wash the floors, fold the laundry and a bit of gardening, which wasn’t too bad after our big clean up the last time. Ashley had even poisoned some of the persistent weeds and stray grasses that insist upon growing through the cracks in the driveway; these had died off and were easy to remove.

So what was the verdict? It was a woman looking for a place for her parents, who live in another province. I don’t think the house is going to be suitable for them. For a start, it is a pretty big house for an older couple; it even seems too big for us, but still the woman reckoned her parents would want to put in a new kitchen (nothing wrong with the old one, other than being a little on the snug size); they would want to knock out a wall somewhere too (bit extreme), and they want to double glaze all the windows, which is fair enough. The woman also didn’t like the idea of a lit tennis court out the back either. I have never actually noticed any adverse effects coming from the lights to tell you the truth, so last night I went outside to see if they interfere with our yard, but the only ones we can see from our yard are beaming out the other way, so I am not sure what she is talking about really, it is not like they play all year around anyway. If these are the buyers concerns for the house, then why would they bother buying it? She took some pictures to email her parents anyway, but I doubt we will hear anything more. The realtor sounded a bit disappointed, but it isn’t even on the market yet, so it is no biggie. It is also good to get some feedback ahead of time.

I think we are going to get a stager to come in and do a little something with our L-shaped lounge. We have only a couple of sofas in it – sparse is an understatement, and we are neither in the position nor the mindset to buy more stuff at the minute. Sounds like fun. Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a go at doing something like that myself. I love doing that kind of thing….

August 20th is the week we officially go on sale, so it is creeping up quickly. It is a long weekend over here at the moment. We are going to hit the garden shops and plant colourful stuff. Hope you all have a good weekend too.

distracted

2007-08-02T16:10:00.000-07:00

I have lost the plot a bit lately, not sure if you all have noticed.

I can't seem to write. I feel totally consumed with the changes taking place in my life right now, the uncertainties are a little overwhelming, although I know I will be back in Oz on the 26th November. The many questions that have no answers, revolve around selling the house, finances and relocation costs, how the dogs will cope in quarantine, Ashley's yet to be determined job, finding a house, stress reduction and family balance, and the all inevitable foggy future.

Getting fit or fitter, seems to be something I can at least control and push ahead with, while everything else seems to have stalled, or is floundering.

My other obsession at the moment; South Australian real estate, seems all consuming. Nightly, I scan the likes of http://www.realestateaustralia.com.au/ and others, searching for something that will likely not ever be. It is only August, and we can not realistically do anything about housing until December anyway, but I can help but look; scanning the pages of houses up for sale; wondering what we might end up in; what is available on the market within our imagined budget. Then there is that vague, yet lingering possibility that we might prefer to build.... but where? Wouldn't that be fun....Wouldn't it? We have even chosen a possible house plan, and yet I keep going back to the real estate pages on the web, viewing floor plans and checking maps to see where these possible places are located - more often than not, these supposed possibilities already have a contract on them before the week is out. Nothing is lasting long on the "for sale" lists, and when it does, I begin to wonder what is wrong with it. I should post some of the shocker interior photos I have stumbled upon - hilarious, although there is always that risk of offending a reader who will comment that their bathroom/living room/kitchen/whatever, looks exactly like that. (oops).

There is always the renovation possibility, but to tell you the truth, we've been there and done that and as rewarding (I suppose) as it was this time around, it has taken us a good two years to get this far, and we aren't wishing to repeat the experience, at least not this soon after this rather traumatic experience. Put it this way, if we were to purchase a house in a similarly hideous state as this bugger was, it will have to be structurally sound and dirt cheap. So that is where I am at at the present moment. I miss my interaction with the softly spoken natural world. I really miss it. I understand that I am driven and focused on a future time, which is not recommended I know....well, a time when the future seems clearer and more certain, or at least when the structures around us have ceased to be beach sand; us attempting to build a castle from it without water - (we seem to have some of what we need in order to make it, but are seriously lacking the crucial elements so our structure fails to take form. I know it will all come together in the end. I am ready for it, raring to go in fact, but at the moment, this lack of clarity is distracting and frustrating, and I long to be settled in a state of calm, once again.

Whistler...you asked for photos

2007-07-29T00:40:00.001-07:00

I just got back from Whistler...Brrr, was it cold! Just joking. Ashley took this first picture when he was there with some work buddies in February 2005. He had never skied before, but they took him up the top and left him to his own devices anyway (I guess they didn't want a novice raining on their parade). He came home black, blue and very sore from his falls and near misses into the trees.

This trip I went up with a friend. She and I dared a trip away with the kids, leaving the guys at home to mind the house. Vancouver/Whistler is the future home of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games, but the weather was all summer while we were there - it was grand.

There is so much to do in Whistler. In Winter it is "the place" to go for skiing and the like, so it never really occurred to me to go there in the summer.

Whistler is a village surrounded by mountains. There are two ski mountains, Whistler and Blackcomb mountains, apparently Cougar Mountain is being groomed as a third.

There are numerous trails one can walk during the summer, along with some upper level glacier skiing. At the feet of these mountains are a number of lakes, some glacial fed lakes filled with stunning, turquoise coloured water, while others are regular snow melt lakes; these tend to be dark in colour, mimicking the deep green colour of surrounding pines and fir trees.

We took the kids for a swim in Alta Lake one afternoon. They had a ball, but immediately afterward started complaining of "swimmers itch". It is fine to swim in these lakes, as long as you thoroughly wash yourself off afterward, which we attempted to do, but not well enough, so it seems. The kids were pratically climbing the walls on the trip home, panicking about their itchy legs....it was straight into the bath once we got back to the accommodation.

Whistler Village is a happening place; vibrant and humming, with a multitude of little shops and cafes to duck into and explore. Mountain biking is a huge deal during the summer months. While we were there they were having some kind of competition, that involved an elaborately designed course and some scarily high jumps, positioned at the far end of Village Walk - the shops. Some kid had a bad tumble on one of thsoe jumps while we were there. Not sure what happened exactly, but he was stretchered off the course and the ambulance collected him a short time later - hope he is alright.

There were other biking trails that people could take, further up the mountain as well, but the young people, all walking around with their massive bikes and mud splattered up their backs, brought a great vibe to the village.

Where there are mountians and snow, there must be rivers and the odd waterfall, so not wanting to miss the opportunity to view one, we took a hike to Nairn Falls; trundling single file along a narrow path that dropped straight into the raging Green River below. The rocks surrounding the falls were smoothe and slilppery, even while dry, the result of an ancient volcano that had once spewed lava over that very spot. It was incredible to think that we were standing upon ancient lava.

Salamanders, green tree frogs and the rubber boa constrictor live in the park surrounding Nairn Falls - not that we saw any of these creatures, much to Missy Mopp's disappointment, she was hoping to see the damn snake. Although we did not see any salamanders, we did see four black bears over the course of our stay: a young male (I am guessing) who had crept out of the forest along the highway. We imagined that he was hoping to cross over to the stream on the other side. The other chance sighting was while coming down Whistler Mountain on the gondola. We saw a mother bear with her two cubs, hiding in the shadows of the nearby brush; oblivious mountain bikers riding mere metres away....bit of a worry.

Speaking of the gondola...I think the 25 minute, 6000ft up gondola ride was the trip highlight for all the kids. We adults enjoyed it too, but also the mountain itself. Up there we were really able to take in the vast and breath taking scenery. There are a number of hikes one can take up there, some guided. We chose the 30 minute paleface loop trail, it was perfect for a family with small children. The kids also got a kick out of touching some of the small patches of snow that lay, left over from the winter.

A trip up the mountain is not cheap, $30 for one adult, or $50 for a day trip, but kids under 7 years are free, but when you think about it, you are paying to ride the gondola AND use the park and mountain, so really, it is actually pretty good value, and the scene atop is priceless anyway; well worth the money, even if we weren't up there to ski.

We had phenomenal weather the entire time we were there. We hiked and saw wildlife, and on top of all that, the four kids together were pretty well behaved. It was a great little get away - I would love to experience Whistler in the winter, but that will have to happen time. I doubt we will have the chance to get back there before we go, but I reckon I will remember our trip to Whistler forever.

off again....

2007-07-24T02:31:00.000-07:00

I am off again. A friend and I are taking ourselves and our kids for a trip to Whistler for a few days. I am taking a good book with me - The Memory Keepers Daughter (enjoying it so far), and a good drop of wine. Should be good. Catch you all on Saturday when I get back.

The Dinner Fix - Sandi Richard

2007-07-23T02:31:00.000-07:00

I detest making dinner. It stresses me out; is a thankless job and there is so much cleaning up afterwards and what for...no one seems to appreciate the effort I go through each night.

As many of you know, I have two kids, 4 and 3 years old. For me, and countless other parents (I am sure) dinner is a fiasco largely considered with dread. I slave over a hot stove, in the largely futile attempt to create some healthy, balanced meal that will ensure the future well being of my children and sustenance for their day to come. What I get in return is mostly turned up noses, and nasally whines of "I don't like that", to which I protest, "but you haven't even tried it. How do you know if you have NEVER tried it?...TRY IT!"

Torture is a closer word for dinner in my house - both from the kids AND for me. Dinner is also the time when Ashley returns home from work - not a pleasant home-coming for him; frustrated wife and defiant, tired kids. I had indeed resigned myself to this disgruntled over dinner fate, hoping with time, this phase would pass, and my kids would one day become enlightened to the benefits of the vitamins and other nourishing details of foods other than Dora the Explorer tinned spaghetti.

Me, I was never really into meat, although not exactly a vegetarian, I tend not to go for meat - fish and chicken.... yeah, but red meat...not so much. I have always enjoyed vegetables and salads, and living out in whoop whoop, we never had fast food or take out - a meat pie or a pastie at the footy on Saturday was about as crazy as it ever got. McDonald's was a treat we only ever indulged in on the way home from Adelaide - which occurred only once in a blue moon - and then, believe it or not, I always ordered the garden salad with french dressing (oh and a sundae with hot caramel sauce).

Don't get me wrong, I am not professing to be a health nut, but I do appreciate and enjoy eating vegetables. But my frustration is not simply about my kids eating more vegetables. Rather, I would like them to eat more balanced meals and be open to trying new things - healthy things.

Anyway, when in Calgary, my friend, who like many of us, suffers similarly with the dinner dread, stumbled upon a Sandi Richard cook book. She is on telly and all , but her thing is meal planning, as opposed to cooking, but what is the difference?

I don't know about you, but at about 5pm I go to my pantry, unconscious and clueless about what I am going to make for dinner; already resigned about the predictably balked at outcome and protests of "yuck", all the while muttering to myself about why I bloody bother anyway. Then I scan the uninspiring ingredients lurking moodily upon my balsamic vinegar ringed shelves and the stress and pressure of what to make, begins.

Sandi Richard books are more than cook books - sure, they are filled with great recipes, but they also tell you how long each recipe will take to cook - from pantry shelf to dinner table, and there are shopping lists in the back, based on a weeks worth of recipes, according to how the book is set out.

i.e Week One of "The Dinner Fix" book, includes these recipes: Mexican Hamburgers, Spinach and Cheese Ravioli in a tomato tapenade with green beans, Asparagus stuffed Chicken with hollandaise and Greek salad, Red snapper with pineapple salsa Pecan wild rice and asparagus, Asian Meatball soup with baby carrots and dinner rolls. Then on page 161 the book lists all the ingredients you will need to make all of these recipes. Ont he back there is even room to adjust the list.

The beauty of the meal planning idea is that you can confidently choose something to make for dinner (in the morning even), knowing that all the ingredients are there in the cupboard waiting to be used. On top of that, all the recipes are sooOoo easy and quick to make.

So far I have made the Spinach and Cheese Ravioli in a tomato tapenade with green beans and Asparagus stuffed Chicken with hollandaise and Greek salad. Both recipes were very well received and eaten. I demanded that the kids try each one, despite the protests and assurances of "not liking it". Mister didn't care for beans in the ravioli dish, but he liked the rest of the meal. He requested that I make it again with a different side veggie, and I will certainly take that feedback on board for next time. The chicken was soooOOOooo good. I will certainly be making that one again, and I am looking forward to making the snapper dish next time. I believe there is hope concerning dinner after all.

If you are interested, you can check out Sandi Richard and her "cooking for the rushed", yourself.

*My only quibble about Sandi's writing is that she uses an excessive number of exclamation marks. I was exclaiming a few things myself at each glimpse of all those unnecessary vertical distractors. Enough with the exclamations marks!

motivation

2007-07-20T10:31:00.000-07:00

When registering for runs/walks around the traps, you usually have to go somewhere to pick up your participants package, which usually includes your runners number, a chip if you are doing the half marathon or marathon and the essential t-shirt.

For the Scotia Bank run, we got a t-shirt and a bunch of brochures about other runs, a sample tube of sun block, hand and that was about it, which was kind of cool, I thought. The HBC Run For Canada runners pack was a real bonus: sample sun block, hand cream, chocolate almonds, a hat, gum, water flavour crystals, a toy for the kids, brochures about other runs AND the essential t-shirt; it was like Christmas. The best thing in the runners pack was a pedometer or step counter. Accompanying the step counter was a little card explaining the step counter and supplying a guide as to what the number of steps one records, means. Under 5000 steps, suggests you have lead a fairly sedentary life, 5000-7499 means you undertake a low level of activity, 7500-9999 means you are somewhat active, 10,000 means you lead an active lifestyle, and above 12,500 means you are highly active. The aim, the card suggests, is to lead an active lifestyle, thus taking at least 10,000 steps per day. There are even online walking clubs you can join for extra motivation, like this one launched in Brisbane and others, like this one. You could say that I have taken this little motivational challenge to heart. Actually, it is quite a handy little device, showing me how little activity I do when I have a slackers day in front of the computer.

Ideally, I like to get the sedentary status off the radar before lunch time, so anything after that is a bonus. It is funny how different activities use different steps, say I go to Curves and that is it, a curves work out is about 2,500 steps, so Curves alone is not enough. If I walk there as well, I might almost reach the 10,000 step mark, so on the weekend, when I can walk to Curves, I can reach the 10,000 before breakfast, and that feels fantastic.

On Monday, I was too tired to go to Curves (felt like shit actually), but I still had a list of jobs to do around the house. I was really surprised at the end of the day, to find that I had recorded over 11,000 steps, just by doing the housework.

Currently the step counter is a bit of an obsession, but it is a healthy one. I want to be active, who it helps to have something that tells me the truth about just how active or inactive I have been on any given day. A pedometer is a fairly simple device and reasonably inexpensive too. If you have a chance to get one, I would recommend it. I don't want to be sedentary - do you?

What's your flavour?

2007-07-17T02:31:00.002-07:00

Over the weekend a friend introduced us to a Vancouver icon - La Casa!

La Casa, for those poor souls, who, like us prior to last weekend, are completely unaware of this local marvel, is a gelato parlour that boasts 218 flavours , can you believe that?

We turned up late on Saturday afternoon, and the place was packed. La Casa Gelato is positioned at 1033Venables Street in East Vancouver, not a noted touristy destination, but people know about it.

La Casa Gelato is made on the premises, with the establishment supplying many of the local restaurants around town. La Casa is perhaps not the place to go if you have trouble making up your mind, although the free samples of varieties inspiring the curiosity certainly help in that regard; there are also a number of "cone" options as well.

So what did we opt for? I had raspberry cheesecake, Mister had Mint Choc Chip, Ashley had the the old tried and true- double chocolate chip, Missy Mopps had electric blue Cotton Candy, much of which was worn down her chin and the front of her brand new dress; our friend however, went for something more exotic, "Death by Mango" and white, something weird (sorry I forget what the other flavour was).

I wish I had the chance to take my Grandpa to this place; his eyes would have glazed over at the thought.

Verdict: damn good gelato! Will try to remember to visit there a dozen times before we leave town.

baby news

2007-07-17T02:31:00.001-07:00

For those who read my post from over a week ago, and are patiently waiting to here news about my suffering friend and her long overdue baby; I am sorry to have left you in the lurch. The baby was born on the 11th (while I was away). And despite the lengthy wait my friend had to endure; all are well, which is as much a relief as it is a blessing. Speaking of blessings, she had a healthy baby girl - "Sierra Dawn".

calgary

2007-07-17T02:31:00.000-07:00

The kids and I have just come back from Calgary, which is a lovely city located in southern Alberta, the next province over from British Columbia. We were visiting some good friends. It was great.

Poor ole Ashley had to work so he stayed home with the dogs, which didn't turn out to be a cake walk since Cobie (yes him again) decided to run away on the first night, while a glasier replaced our kitchen window after it fell prey to some shithead(s) who decided to sling shot an apple through it, early Sunday morning. The dog WAS found, albeit some 5 hours later.

My friend had many activities planned for us and we got to see a good deal of the city. We also had ample time to chat, which seems to be something that we can do awfully well together.

Calgary enjoys a dry summer heat. It was pretty warm when we were there; at one stage reaching 32 degrees. For us, who enjoy a milder, more humid summer, it was hot - although my attire (something that is frequently letting me down at the moment) was not helping matters; I roasted. I SERIOUSLY need to invest in some decent summer wear ahead of our arrival to Oz in late November - they are starting to get their Fall stock in over here already - Noooooooo!

On the outer rim of Calgary they have an amusement park called Calaway Park. It was pretty awesome, and fantastic for the kids. All you have to do is pay your entry fee and then you can go on all the rides you want. Missy Mopps loved the carousel the most. They also had a height chart at the gate, that let your child know, at a glance, which rides he/she qualified to go on, thus eliminating any possible rejected-at-the -front-of-the-queue tantrums.

This week and last were the weeks of the famous Calgary Stampede. The Stampede brings a great cowboy atmosphere to the city (apparently moreso than usual), and many people are seen walking around in cowboy hat and boots. We were taken to a Stampede breakfast one morning, which was held in the closed off car park of a local shopping centre. There was a petting zoo and pony rides, show horses, cow milking competitions, country music bands and other displays, not to mention a sumptuous pancake and sausage breakfast to be had, all on the city of Calgary's tab - Thank you very much. It was great to be a part of that busy festival vibe.

Since it was hot, we headed to Eau Claire, situated near Downtown Calgary. Eau Claire has a great kids water park, through a beautiful garden park, just over the Bow River bridge. All the rivers I have ever seen are murky brown and reasonably calm: the Murray, Torrens, Darling, Murrumbidgee and even BC's Fraser River, at least at our end. The Bow River had a strong current - a really strong current. People raft on the river, but it is too dangerous to swim, apparently many people have drowned in it, and even rafting is pretty dangerous due to the current, but it was the river's colour that blew me away the most; bluey green. I couldn't get over it. I have never seen such a fresh clean looking major river before.

We also took a trip to the mountains - Banff and Lake Louise, in the heart of the Canadian Rocky Mountains, in particular. Any who are even remotely familiar of these areas, will know that they define the word "beautiful"; snow capped mountains; fir trees as far as the eye can see; the bluest tranquil lakes one can possible imagine, filled with an abundance of frigid glacial waters, and clean crisp mountain air. These are the scenes that inspire artists of all mediums, mountaineers, environmentalists and John Denver (well sort of) We even saw a bear - yep its true, a wild black bear foraging for food on a hillside close to the road.

Some fool apparently rowed his canoe off Bow Falls at Banff when we were there, but we didn't see it, Thankfully. The reports said that an English tourist was taken to hospital with a great deal of bruising - hopefully mainly to his ego - idiot.

While the trip to the mountains was fab, the drive with the kids was nightmarish. Mister kept complaining about sore legs (?) Missy Mopps had to stop every 10 metres to go to the toilet and we had a 20 month old who was very tired - Mister and Missy Mopps' antics were not helping in that regard, but we survived.

Before we headed back home on Friday, we visited the Calgary Zoo, which is great. The Greater Vancouver Zoo is not so good, and I am saying that as politely as possibly, but the Calgary Zoo is wonderful, with large modern enclosures, environmental programs and kids summer education camps. It also has a Prehistoric Park, with life-size models of dinosaurs in amongst terrain similar to the environment it once lived. Prehistoric Park opened in the early 80's, and the models did look a little worst for wear, but the kids went nuts over it. Alex was so excited to see all there fake dinosaurs, even though he said he would prefer to see the real animals before we got there.

All said and done...we had a wonderful time in Calgary, but I think the best aspect of the whole trip was catching up with my lovely friend; enjoying her company and seeing our kids play so well together, just as they used to back in good ole Australia.

Next week - Whistler.

see ya...

2007-07-10T02:17:00.000-07:00

I was hoping to get in a more inspiring post that this, but I was too busy yesterday, and this morning I am too bleary eyes and foggy brained to think of anything above function only level. That said, I am off to Calgary for a few days, with the kids, to visit a dear friend.

When I get back I hope to have a good read of everybody's blogs, and say "hi", I haven't had a chance to do that at all, this week.

Have a good week everyone...oh, and for those who were wondering, still no word about my friend and her well baked bubs. Thank you to all who sent well wishes to her.

Slip Sliding Away

2007-07-07T08:27:00.001-07:00

Sunday Scribblings – “Slippery”

This week, I dedicate my Sunday Scribblings contribution to a dear friend who is waiting patiently for her baby to be born. My friend is now eight days overdue and I am really feeling for her – my first was six days over, and that was certainly long enough.

The Sunday Scribblings prompt for this week is “slippery”, which prompted the memory of this little story…..

Some fifteen or so years ago, I worked with a girl whose best friend was pregnant. My co-worker even attended this girl’s birth, as her birthing partner. A couple of weeks before the birth, the mother-to-be was given a surprise baby shower by her friends. At one point during the party, the guest of honour mentioned that she would like to have music playing during her labour; to help her focus and relax. The idea prompted much discussion about the kinds of songs she might find helpful in such a situation. I believe some classical music was suggested and a few tranquil Enya songs, but then some smart arse suggested this little gem: Simon and Garfunkel’s Slip Sliding Away.

While my co-worker had re-counted this story straight faced and oblivious, I was doubled over in hysterics over this labour ward possibility and the cartoonish image that had set forth in my mind. My befuddled co-worker stared at me for about two seconds before she too saw the funny side, and before long we were both barely able to contain ourselves.

Now being a Simon and Garfunkel fan from way back, I must say, this song is fabulous, but the lyrics are of a more gloomy reflective nature, but boy…the chorus sure is fitting!

So with that my dear friend, I am praying for you, and I sincerely and dearly hope your baby comes slip sliding right on out with ease, any moment now.

Much Love XXX

I am having a go at this youtube version since all attempts to post the original have failed thus far...not sure what this has to do with anything, not really sure it even goes with the song. Enjoy it anyway.

Poetry Thursday - The Fall

2007-07-05T02:17:00.000-07:00

The girls at Poetry Thursday are off on a well earned break, but Poetry Thursday still continues throughout the summer, though without suggested prompts. I wrote this a while ago. I have been reviewing it in recent weeks, so I thought I may as well share it.

The Fall

The dramatic heights of loveliness,

Caressed the soft waves of her hair.

A potent intoxication

Suspended reality in the air.

An hypnotic high; so mellow,

Burnished through enamored eyes.

Mournful tones though, now resound,

In guttural wrenching cries.

The ebb and flow of a peculiar fate;

A world turned on its axis once more.

Those fruits, once thought so delicious,

Are spoiled; rotten to the core.

She dared to pierce that taut red skin,

Seeking juicy delights beneath,

But neither zing nor sweetness whetted her lips;

An odious pungency caught her teeth.

That wily fervour, from her past

Could not be arrested forever.

Seized by a love; never mutually roused,

Not then, not now – not ever.

22/5/2006

Photo by Elliot Erwitt

"California 1955"

ready...set...WALK

2007-07-02T15:34:00.000-07:00

I did the HBC Run for Canada 3km Walk yesterday. I don't know...there is something about lining up to a start line, stomach filled with butterflies, excitement and anticipation building, readying oneself for the GO signal, only to set out for a.... walk. It seems almost as silly as competing in a staring contest or a thumb war - really. A walking race just doesn't seem serious enough. Scold me for saying that if you like, I don't mind.

I positioned myself at the front of the start line, and steamed away when given the go ahead. Soon I found myself way out in front, and I felt really self conscious - Is that not the most insane thing you have heard today?

I haven't ever been comfortable in the lime light or exposed in anyway, give me a dark corner to hide in any day. If I were to come back as an animal, I would probably end up being a chameleon - blending perfectly into the scenery.

Anyway, it didn't rain yesterday - Canada Day - It was perfect weather really, so I have no excuse about not providing a dreaded God Awful photo this time, except I HATE having my photo taken!!!! Here is my 3km medal - hee hee!

By the way, I came third, don't know exactly how many people took part, but it was fun anyway. I finished in 24 minutes, which is slow, so I have something to aim for now. I am going to try for a 5km run next time, and leave the walk races until I am in Australia...unless there is another race walking to do before then.

Ashley and the kids enjoyed the 1km race, and they gave every participant a t-shirt and a finishers medal. There were free cupcakes, water and balloons for the kids, it was a great way to spend Canada Day, and raise money for Canadian Olympic Athletes too, which was the whole point of the run.

The cusp

2007-06-30T23:34:00.000-07:00

You know sometimes, fate can deal a hand that can actually be considered a blessing in disguise. Take astrology for instance; I am quite an analytical type of person and I am also rather good at dealing with the abstract. I have been told I can see that which is not immediately apparent to others, (others however, sometimes pause for a couple of seconds as they ponder my "perceptive" offerings, before defiantly declaring "BULLSHIT!", but never mind). I don't actually do astrology. I am vaguely interested in it and, in theory, I would like to know more, but I, born in Australia on the 22nd November 1973 at 6:17pm (for anyone who cares), am perfectly placed on the cusp of Scorpio and Sagittarius.

I have had a professional reading done, which places me JUST inside Scorpio territory, but many of the write ups often have the 22nd November down in Sagittarius, therefore I am conflicted, and often bamboozled when confronted with advice offered by "The Stars", mainly due to my feelings of obligation toward reading both signs. Such a conundrum ensures I not pin all my vague hopes of some enlightening piece of trivia, so easily retrieved from within the pages of the local rag.

I am more of a do-it-yourself kind of girl anyway, and so I find numerology to be more to my liking, as far as predictive devices go; everyone's birthday is their own, thus eliminating problems to do with times and geography. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the science of astrology, but it is too complicated for my novice brain, so I don't do it.

I actually did a 6 month numerology course, a couple of years ago. I loved it. I was working the numbers and studying, at every possible opportunity. I even turned into one of those annoying friends who provide impromptu readings (apologies to any who had to endue that. I do try not to do that so much anymore).

These days, I run the numbers more for my own information. I am not fanatical about dates and stuff, I just find the trends interesting in how they correlate to particular goings on for that day/month/year/9-year cycle.

Personally, there are too many variables to astrology AND numerology for one to give a quick and simple impersonal reading in a newspaper or online like setting. I can see the value when worked out for an individual based on that individuals specifics, but other wise....I did talk to a guy who worked for a newspaper, who did tell me, when their astrologist is sick -"they just make it up"! I kid you not.

Fro all of you who are in a similar boat, read here to learn more about the dreaded cusp! Or here to gather further insight into one of your favourite Sunday Scribblers.

Me!.....Running?

2007-06-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

I have gone and done it now. I have signed up for one of those learn to run clinics at the Running Room. Last night was the first night. I was a little worried about it at first, which is why I didn't happen to mention it before now. I have always been a hopeless runner, but after this first session I think I know why.

This first session was such an easy initiation into it - 1 minute run then 2 minutes walk x 6, that I can see the erring of my previous ways. No wonder I could barely make it to the corner of the block before passing out in an exercise asthma induced heaving fest, which, upon recovery, would then see me dragging my sorry arse back home to hide my runners in the closet, in a place I hoped never to see them EVER again.

The gentle approach is definitely a stroke for the ole confidence, and I am actually looking forward to next week. Running seems to be a much bigger deal in Canada or at least Vancouver, than it seemed to be in Adelaide; there are runners speciality stores all over the place here, and they all appear to offer some kind of running clinic or classes. These clinics are relatively inexpensive too, which is such a breath of fresh air after the heady high prices of my seldom used, and therefore guilt inducing, previous gym memberships.

The session I went to last night was FREEeeeeee; perfect for a tight wad like me. I even met a woman called Elaina there, and we got to talking ..... oooooohhhhh socialising! How totally against my nature (no eye rolling permitted).

The Learn To Run Clinic was actually a lot of fun - wasn't expecting that. Next week we are doing 1 minute run 1 minute walk X 10.

With all this activity and the inspiration I am getting from it, I am a little concerned that I will lose some momentum when going back to Australia. I have mentioned that I have already contacted a Race Walking Group in Adelaide, but I have also just now, seen that there is also a Road Runners Club there too. I am pretty excited about this new fitness thing in my life. I can barely believe it, but....I AM RUNNING!

**UPDATE: I just had a thought, there is a 1km kids run for the HBC Run for Canada. I asked Ashely if he would like to go in that with the kids while I do the 3km walk. It now appears we will all be doing the HBC on Sunday. Mister LOVES running. I'll see if I can muster a photo this time.

Playing Pomp and Circumstance

2007-06-25T15:22:00.001-07:00

The Graduate:

No I am not talking about the movie, we actually have one in our midst - a pre-school graduate, that is.

A couple of weeks back the kids in Mister's class were photographed in graduate cap and gown. Today, with just the class picnic to be had, parents and relatives of graduates were treated to specially prepared songs and shenanigans; a prelude to watching our little rascals receiving their graduate "diplomas". In Australia, I had to slog through 4 years of university before being honoured with such ceremony and officialities by the academic world. Even in high school we were lucky if we received a boot in the arse as we exited those hallowed halls for the final time - I remember my high school certificate came in the mail. Elementary school was capped off with a year 7 "disco". All I can remember about that was perfecting my wall flower impersonation to a tee; a skill that has served me well in life, ever since. I never went to pre-school or kindergarten; straight into grade 1 ....so yeah....28 years I had to wait for my first graduate moment.

Getting back to Mister's big day, the kids entered the room to the dreary tones of "Pomp and Circumstance" while balancing hand-made, and rather ill fitting, cardboard graduate caps on their heads, shuffling in, determined and concentrating, in the hope that they not be the one whose hat topples off in front of everybody.

We parents and relatives listened to renditions of "baby bumble bee" and "good bye my Friends", in both English and French, and then the "diplomas" were passed out along with a laminated class-page; a double sided piece of paper which consisted of self-portraits of each kid in the class, and their names scrawled underneath. Nice touch.

They had obviously practiced the routine a couple of times, because every child was very well behaved and stood patiently for the individual glory moment in receiving their diploma.

After all the goodies had been handed out, the teacher gave a little spiel before announcing morning tea. At this point the kids were starting to get a little restless, and began pretending they were pirates; their rolled up diplomas suddenly doubling as telescopes (eye eye Cap'n). It was all pretty cute; Mister was positively beaming, as all the kids seem to, when the parents are allowed to attend for a special reason. The graduation for them was a good thing. Finishing pre-school is a little rite passage for them, as we all begin to ready ourselves for "the big school" and the accompanying complexities and issues which face our older children as the years roll on.

Missy Mopps starts the three's class in September, so I didn't really feel like we were letting go of anything major with the graduation ceremony, and I don't really think Mister understands that pre-school is over for him now, but it was still a little sad to think that these kids, most of whom Mister has spent the past two years, will all be going their separate ways. A couple of them will start at the elementary school with Mister; the rest though, we are never likely to see again, especially after November when we return to Australia. I guess that is just life, but the loss of sapling friendships is also the high price of moving away.

The 5km

2007-06-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

I did the Scotiabank 5km today. Sorry Scotty - no photo. I did get Ashley to take one before the race, but it was an utter shocker, I would have gotten him to take one after the race but......

It absolutely bucketed down the entire race. I arrived at the race just as the half marathon winner, Kenyan Patrick Nthiwa, was maneuvering toward the finish line. He took top billing in atrocious conditions; winning in just 63 minutes. What I was most impressed with was the guy's finish; he was sprinting toward the finish at a pace that would definitely leave the majority of us in his dust over a 100 metre distance, except this guy had already run over 21kms -an inspiration indeed.

Me, well, I turned up a novice, and I LOOKED like a bloody novice. Let me explain....

I decided to rig myself out in my comfy tracky daks; the ones that are floppy and probably at least a size too big, but at least they make me feel "hidden".

Upon my arrival, there was still 30 minutes before the 5km was due to start, so I stood by in the rain, to watch the early marathon finishers come in; it was already bucketing down.

After 5 minutes of that, I decided to do what the sane people were doing, and stand under a big tree to keep dry. For some reason it seemed wetter under there, but reason was telling me that this fact had to be impossible despite the river that seemed to be travelling down my water proof jacket and trickling down the front of my top - so I stayed there.

When the race finally got under way, I set about to get into my walking action. I think that lasted about 500 meters before I felt the pressure to run - it just seemed silly to be walking so early in a race while all these people were passing me, not that I could seriously see myself running the entire 5km - I haven't before. I think I ran about 1.5kms and fast walked the rest. I really should have stuck to my guns, been disciplined and fast walked the whole thing to test out my consistency in that style, but oh well. Next week I have the HBC 3km Walk, so I can have another go then.

The unfortunate thing about my race was, you guessed it, my attire. This time it wasn't my shoes. This time it was my reassuring comfy, floppy tracky daks. In the down pour, they soon became utterly drenched and heavy. The water weight locked within the fabric caused them to drag down with every step I made, to the point where I feared the "hidden" might suddenly become exposed in the most public and embarrassing of ways. I was literally wringing out my pants as I was marching along. Eventually I got the idea of hitching my pants up and tucking the stretched sodden fabric into my undies....so NOT a good look, but at least I could then get back to concentrating on the walking technique. In the end I ran the final 500 and crossed the line 44 minutes after I started. Oh well. At least I finished. At least I have a time to beat for next time...and there WILL be a next time.

There was no after race photo because of the rain; Ashley and the kids stayed in the car and waited for me, rather than stand out there enduring the elements, and I didn't stick around after the race either- I needed to get out of those damn clothes ASAP.

Predictably, the sun came out as we drove home, and around 2pm it was so warm we could even shed the fleecy jackets - it IS summer after all! Although an electrical storm just passed through and it has been showering intermittently ever since - funny old day really. I did score the all important souvenir racers t-shirt, which I can and will flaunt at every available opportunity. No one needs to know it took me 44 minutes now, do they?

Super agente 86 opening

2007-06-22T12:11:00.001-07:00

"Would you believe...." there is a new GET SMART movie coming out in the next year or so, starring Steve Carell as Maxwell Smart Agent 86 and Anne Hathaway as Agent 99. Should be a hoot!

thoughts on a windy day

2007-06-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

I am so caught up in planning and worrying about the future that I have quite forgotten to take notice of the now - no wonder I am in a creative funk.

I took the time to notice how the wind bends the tips of the poplars trees lining a neighbouring property- it was like a playful dance.

whispering sisters
share secrets in the breeze
poplars sway

Marathon effort

2007-06-21T12:50:00.000-07:00

The house isn't even on the market yet and we have had potential buyers through already.

Got a call from our chosen realtor late last night, informing us that he had a group of out of towners, who were here for a very short time. They were looking at real estate, but wouldn't be ready to buy anything until September, when they officially move over - which happens to be right when we were planning to put 'er on the market. The realtor asked if he might be able to show our place to his people at 10 am the next morning...."I am sure we can come to such an arrangement", I blindly agreed before lowering the phone with that glazed look in my eye that tends to send the dogs dashing for cover under the bed.

Now while we are technically ready to roll, the place wasn't exactly in pristine show case shape. Last summer we had unsuccessfully attempted to establish a lawn from rolled out sod. When the moving panic stations set in around March this year, we gazed upon the patchy disaster out back, declared "war", and laid down fresh soil prior to spreading seed with our fingers firmly crossed in the hope that we weren't Canada's biggest lawn growing failures.

On the 14th day, after some praying and hoping and a few curse words flouted on the 13th day, green needle like spouts emerged - hallelujah!

Unfortunately, in his mad scientist like frenzy, Ashley, who admitted to dousing the designated area with three times the recommended amount of seed, had scattered lawn seeds everywhere, and these, of course, had taken off; flourishing in similarly annoying ways as the stray hairs that create the dreaded monobrow....and while I HAD been meaning to get to pulling out the offending areas of rogue lawn growth, I was a long way from finishing the job.

Seeing no end in sight, not to mention the 10am deadline looming in front of me like the bomb countdown clock scene in one of those cheesy suspense thrillers, I rang Ashley to suggest he return home NOOOOOOW! Before he arrived home I had managed to mow front and back lawns; I had only mowed it a week ago, but grass grows quickly here, and I almost cursed that lawn we had so painstakingly nurtured with our own bare hands - it took me an hour to finished the job.

Ashley arrived home just in time to start the weeding - bwah ha ha ha (evil laugh). I had to fix diner, get the kids bathed and into bed and then get that place sparkling clean and staged to perfection.

We don't have an abundance of stuff. In fact we have a large L-shaped lounge room with only a lounge suite and a bookcase in it....the room even echoes! The Realtor suggested we might like to "do something" with the "space" to make it look "errr....useful". No time for that, but I did manage to hastily scavenge some things out from the forgotten corners of a couple of cupboards and shelves to spruce 'er up a little.

At 2:30 this morning we declared that we had "kicked 'er in the guts", the house was looking smashing and smelled as fresh as Pine-Sol can.

When I awoke, some 4 hours later, I only had the carpet to vacuum and the beds to make, so I got out my best snarling beast face and growled at the kids to not touch ANYTHING, which must have gotten lost in translation somehow, because they apparently heard, "dump your toys into a pile before pouring your apple juice on the freshly mopped floor, then laugh about it". Needless to say, I was "not happy, Jan", but we did manage to evacuate the building with yappy dogs in tow, well before the 10am deadline.

Basking in the aftermath of a cleaning marathon enough to make even Mr Sheen beam with pride; I am officially stuffed. I have no idea how the actual inspection went with said people - they did eat the cookies I left out on the table, so I guess they didn't run away terrorised and screaming upon entering the door. I don't have any particularly special vibe about this first very early preview of our place; our official on-sale date isn't until late August, but I am keen to hear any feedback the Realtor might have for us for next time around.

UPDATE **** Realtor was happy with our efforts. Said group of out-of-towners are apparently "thinking about it", which I read as "attempting to book the next plane out ASAP, preferably under the cloak of darkness". Each to their own I guess.

Granville Island

2007-06-17T19:08:00.000-07:00

It is official. We will be back standing on Aussie soil on the 26th November. There is much to do before then, and so much more to say goodbye to.

It was Fathers Day yesterday in North America, so we took Ashley out for the afternoon to Granville Island. For those who are not familiar, Granville is a great place to go, whether you are local or a tourist. If you are into the arts Granville is the where you might like to head. Granville Island is one of the venues hosting the International Jazz Festival, which is running over the next couple of weeks. Having said this, it seems there is always some kind of live music being played over there, no matter the time of year.

Granville is also considered a bit of an artist colony, with a variety of art studios, galleries and exhibits dotted all over the place. You can enjoy an array of good food on Granville, whether is be scouring the public markets for fresh produce, baked goods, delicious coffee and even some Granville Island brewed beer, or taking in a meal at one of the many restaurants and cafes scattered all over the island - there is literally something for everyone. There are plenty of nifty shops to peruse and there is even a kid's market, which houses a number of toys stores, an extensive puppet store, a large play gym and a cool gem store out back. They even cater for those among us whose children are of the four legged variety, with a place called Woofles and Meowz.

The aquabus can take you from English Bay to Granville Island in a matter of minutes, and the yachts lining the wharves provide a great boating atmosphere....oh and there is the tranquility of the water, swirling and lapping dockside...but that was a given, wasn't it? I really love it over at Granville. It has such a great laid back vibe; people are out to enjoy themselves and relax, and the misty mountain views make you just want to breathe in the scene or bottle it somehow, so you can take it in at some later stage, like a soothing tonic. These are among the things I will miss when we leave; the strong boating culture, the green colours, the water, the mountains, and the cool fresh air....sigh....a camera can only take you so far.

revelations to shake your head at

2007-06-17T01:08:00.000-07:00

I have a bit of a strange sense of humour, or as my Mum would say "small things amuse small minds" (eye roll). Regardless, I am about to admit to two quirks of my deranged mind, because this weeks Sunday Scribblings prompts is all about eccentricities.

Words. Since the age of 10, a swag of words have kept me suitably amused; their sounds accentuated and drawn out; a generic image of the object kept in mind while doing so was enough to have me in fits. To indulge my mirth in my list of amusing words, I would attempt to incorporate these words into conversation so others might fall prey and inadvertently use them. Egg was one of those words. Somehow I managed to get my entire grade six class to repeat the word over and over one day as we ate our lunch. I think someone had a hard boiled egg for lunch and attempted to talk with it half stuck in their throat, which distorted their voice into a Muppet-like parody....that was what started it. No one could understand my amusement of the word, but enjoyed my laughing like a fool, which explains the collective repetition.

Frock was another such word. If you aren't familiar with this word, it is a kind of grandmotherly word for dress; to get "frocked up" is slang (at least in Australia) for saying one is about to get dressed into more formal attire in order to go out for an event (Ha). The word frock always inspired imagery of some dowdy old house dress. So if a friend were to tell me she "loooooved" my frock", I would know she was really just taking the piss. I thought it hilarious that my Gran's town had one women's clothing store in town; named "The Frock Shop", which was apt considering the crusty merchandise. I couldn't help a wry smile on my wedding day though, when my Grandmother complimented my "pretty frock"....as I said, small things....

Sandwiches was yet another such word that would send me into stitches. In the eighth grade we would have some class bonding time straight after lunch, in a short session called pastoral care. I forget what we did during those periods, but I do remember having to get into teams of four, naming our team and doing stuff. While the other groups gave themselves encouraging, intimidating names like ummmm "The Angry Army of Dudes" or "Princesses of Power" (I just made those up. Can you tell?) We were called The Sandwiches, The Cushions, The Hurdy Gurdies and The Sausages, simply for the amusement of forcing the rest of the class and the teacher to say our stupid word. Oh, the maturity. Is it just me, or do other people have a personal list of hilarious words too? Come on, fess up.

The other eccentricity of mine is something I like to call sound tracking. When sitting in the car with the music on, imagine the scene beyond the windscreen is the accompanying MTV video. If passersby happen to be plodding along in time with the music, well...even better. The more mismatched the scene to the music and song words, and the more unlikely the "actors" and "groovers" unwittingly thrust into my so called "music video", the more hilarious. Try it out next time you are stuck waiting at a pedestrian crossing, I can guarantee, you will at least question my sanity.

The Alex's

2007-06-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

We just came back from a fourth birthday party. It wasn't overly abundant with guests; just five little girls and four little boys.

Three of the little boys were named Alex. They were all about the same age and got on like a house on fire - collectively they were called "The Alex's".

When we were pregnant with our kids, we chose a few names that we liked, and then scanned the birth announcements pages in the months leading up to the big event, to ensure that our chosen name was not being reproduced in abundant quantities; "who would want to be one of 10 of that name, in their class room?", we figured.

In hindsight, I am SO glad we chose to call our son "Mister"!!!!

Ole Misery Guts

2007-06-08T14:43:00.000-07:00

For the last two years, we have walked the same route to pre-school, and for the past two years, we having been crossing paths with the same woman, as she takes her child to the pre-school in the other direction. We pass her walking to the school, then again as we both walk home in our opposing directions; our paths always crossing at some point along the way. We pass her again on her way to pick up her child and again as we all walk home for lunch - that is sometimes FOUR chance meetings, each pre-school day.

For the past two years, whenever I have passed this woman, I have made the effort to acknowledge her, by offering a friendly nod; saying "good morning" or "Hi", or smile. Not ONCE has this woman returned with like-minded pleasantries, instead she passes-by stony faced, with a grim down-turned mouth; the only facial movement detected is the periodic, rhythmic tensing of the jaw, suggestive of one chewing on a piece of gum (or cud).

I find my failed attempts at garnering any kind of response from this Sour Puss, increasingly humiliating as the months have passed, to the point where I dread our morning interlude, because I feel awkward and also compelled to offer some kind of friendly acknowledgement, purely out of politeness, even knowing the "cold shoulder" will always follow. Everyone else is courteous, why can't she?

Today my daughter was walking behind me, on our return home after dropping Mister off at pre-school. Missy Mopps stopped dead and refused to walk on; Sad Sacks was coming our way. At least Missy Mopps gave me the excuse to turn my back on that woman until she passed us by, thus enabling me to preserve a little of my dignity this time, at least.

What IS this woman's problem?

Arnott's Barbecue Shapes

2007-06-07T14:09:00.000-07:00

I am normally one for foods that err more on the sweeter side ("mmmmm.... chocolate", as Homer Simpson might say).

The other day however, I was doing the grocery shop at the local, when I came across an unfamiliar looking box of crackers, emblazoned with the words, "Baked Crisps Chipotle Barbecue". My mind immediately tuned to thoughts of the product pictured here, on the left: Arnott's Barbecue Shapes; those delightful Aussie crackers that forbid many a lured nibbler from ever eating just one.

The Barbie Shapes, as they are fondly referred (at least in my family) are a baked cracker topped with a generous and very visible smattering of onion powder, salt, dried parsley and tangy, dried tomato seasoning. When one makes it to the bottom of the cracker carton, there lies a considerable layer of the tomato seasoning, the honour in syphoning and scrounging this tomatoey treasure from the furthermost corners of the cellophane bag, is both highly coveted and heavily debated. With this in mind, not to mention a mouth reminiscent of one of Pavlov's dogs, I grabbed a box of "Chipotle Barbecue" in the deluded hope that some ingenious fellow had managed to replicate the Arnott's taste...it was not to be.

While the Chipotle Barbecue were faintly reminiscent of the Arnott's variety, they were really only mere wanna-bes; though I doubt the crew at "President's Choice" were trying to re-create the Arnott's classic or were even aware of the product's existence. Nevertheless, there was no comparison. The President's Choice flavours included tomato (apparently), smokey chipotle pepper and onion powder - a fine mist of each, at best. The ingredient list on the back of the pack suggested dried parsley was also a feature of the President's Choice cracker, and the picture on the front of the box appeared to second this assumption, but alas, even after a thorough search to the outermost regions of the cellophane bag, no such positive i.d's were returned.

Don't get me wrong, the Chipotle Barbecue were edible. I didn't mind them at all, but they weren't a patch on the Arnott's variety, and the failed hope of sampling some ridgy didge barbie shapes, has now left me wanting - not that I really need them...please DON'T send me any! OK.

Ducks in a row

2007-06-06T15:04:00.000-07:00

Presently I am frantically trying to organise myself and, as the expression goes, trying to "get my ducks in a row".

Over the past couple of weeks we have seriously been trying to organise the big move back to Australia from Canada ,and also plan a bit of a life for when we get there.

We have gotten the dogs sorted for going back to Oz, which is probably the part we really must have our wits about us.

Australian quarantine (AQIS) requirements are among the strictest in the world, if not THE strictest in the world. I understand this; our geography means that our industry and natural resources have been fairly well protected from outside nasties, but due to global factors and the ease of our modern transient lifestyles and international business, it also means that an infestation of some forest eating parasite or similar threat, can more easily and unwittingly be transported if we are not careful. This also means, if we were to decide to pack up and leave tomorrow, and chuck the dogs on a plane bound for the land down under, they would end up spending a torturous six months in quarantine in Melbourne. Since we are planning our move back with plenty of time on our side, we are starting the quarantine process now. By getting all the checks and vaccinations done well in advance, fingers crossed, they will only have to spent the mandatory minimum 30 days in quarantine...so the dogs are sorted. They are booked to go with the delightful people at Worldwide Animal Travel.

I have also been busy getting quotes for shipping our life back to Australia. I have one quote and am awaiting another, so a decision is closing in on that one.

We have also been preparing the house to sell....as opposed to what we WERE doing, which was preparing the house to live in. We have a realtor lined up now, and a price and date for putting it on the market - end of August.

I have been perusing the online discount airfares; smart fares seem pretty damn good; four one-way tickets from Vancouver to Adelaide via LA for under $3500 - total.

We have also been checking out schools for Mister. The Australian school year finishes up, very soon after we get there. He will be going into reception in February (or kindergarten as the Canadians call it), and we would like to visit the school we are considering, prior to enrolling him. I would feel better having had a taste of the vibe while kids were still present, and also the attitudes of the teachers. While this is all good in theory, we do sort of need a place to live within the designated school district. Consequently, we have also been obsessively viewing Domain and Real estate Australia, to see if our meagre budget will actually get us a place, without us having to sell our souls to the bank.

We have also been trying to find a reliable car that won't break the bank...we try to avoid loans as much as possible. I HATE debt. I am entirely SICK OF IT.

Thanks to Scotty, I should be able to resume my frenzied walking activity. He sent me a great running link, which outlined the contact details of a mass of Australian running groups and affliated associations. I have contacted one of them - Race Walking Australia. I got an email back from a guy to runs the Adelaide group, inviting me to his club. For me, it is important I line up exercise groups before hand, because I know, in the chaos of a big move like the one we are planning to embark upon, the fitness momentum will become lost and eventually so will my motivation; then it will start to get darker at night and colder, and next you know, I am making all kinds of lame excuses as to why I couldn't be bothered joining an exercise group, then come spring I will HATE myself for not continuing with the fitness regime, having undone all my hard work...you know, all that hard work I am planning on doing until we leave...in November.

All in all it is a busy time; but then again, I revel in the opportunity to organise all this stuff, the only problem is that I am pretty much done for now. There isn't much else to do until August now, when we do one final prep before putting the house on the market. I don't mind. I prefer to be ready.

under-estimated

2007-06-05T08:43:00.000-07:00

I remember when Dad first took my training wheels off my bike; I was six.

I remember the anticipation; my self-doubt and concern about riding without my tiny support wheels. I remember Dad's encouragement and promise that he would not let go of my bike until he knew I was ready and able to ride on my own. I remember taking off for the first time, Dad running along side me holding the seat so I would not topple over. He kept telling me to peddle and concentrate on where I was going - "look straight ahead". We did this over and over again, on the circular driveway out the front of the ole homestead, near the garage. Unbeknown to me, Dad, though still running alongside me, was decreasing the amount of support he was applying in order to keep me upright, until his assistance was no longer required. Then eventually, we took off together, Dad stopping part way while I rode on - solo.

I had ridden a few metres before I realised he was no longer there; of course I turned to see where he was, and of course I fell off and scraped my knee, but I was also encouraged to get right back on there and try again, and eventually...at some stage, I must have gathered the experience and confidence to ride steadily.

Mister is an avid bike rider. He loves to tear around the street on his bike, and show off to the neighbour, delighting in her telling him "how fast" he can ride. Now and again we have suggested that perhaps he might like to take his training wheels off, but as is usually the case with him, we were met with much wailing and resistance, but since he is still only four, we didn't push it.

On Thursday afternoon, Mister was watching "Franklin", a cartoon about a turtle and his mates. During the episode, Franklin took the training wheels off his bike, and for whatever reason, Mister suddenly declared that he would also like to take his off. We were delighted to hear this, and bargained with him that we would do the deed on Saturday and spend all afternoon nurturing his confidence and guiding him in the art of bike riding sans trainer wheels.

On Saturday, Mister was champing at the bit, waiting impatiently as Ashely removed the wheels. We encouraged him to ride on the lawn at first, but the ground was too moist and spongy and he was having a hard time getting started, so we took him out the front, where there is a pavement and lawn for him to fall onto. So we took him out there, nervous about how this experience might turn out; how much wailing and disenchantment there would be as he struggled to control and balance the bike, without the customary support. We were bracing ourselves for a very long day; some skinned knees and howling; the beloved bike very likely being tossed aside to pouting promises of "never riding it again UNLESS those trainer wheels are replaced"...but we were wrong.

I kid you not, we had scarcely gotten into the front yard before Mister, without ANY assistance whatsoever, jumped on his bike and rode off BY HIMSELF! Ashley and I were both stunned, looked at each other, and then threw our heads back and laughed out loud. Mister couldn't understand what we were laughing at, and since we didn't want to make him paranoid, we explained that he was doing a fantastic job, and "could not believe" that he was riding so well so soon after removing the trainers. We told him "we could have removed them weeks ago if we had known he was that good". Basically we praised him up, and he was very proud of himself. He even went for a ride around the block. He did very well, but got a bit wobbly when the path appeared to narrow, but overall he rode exceptionally well for a first go.

Yesterday morning he showed a friend his new biking skills, and then he declared that he was going to teach another friend how to ride without trainer wheels - I am sure the other friend would be wrapped!

Mister, who has been known to be an overly resistant nervous nelly about practically EVERYTHING, has really gained a lot of self-confidence in recent weeks. He is really enjoying being a "big boy" and we are also, very happy to see him bloom.

Mallee Born

2007-06-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

I have talked before, about being born into “a dry husk in the middle of nowhere” – well, the "dry husk" is actually called Geranium, a town located in an area known as the Murray Mallee, and while this tiny farming community did have its virtues; a great community spirit being among them, relative peace and quiet, and a child’s winter scrubland discovery park out the back of the ole homestead, being others; the isolation (both social and geographical), the drab dry landscape, the searing heat, the flies and the lack of general facilities, were points I remember with just a little disdain.

As a child I had woefully awful looking teeth and compromised hearing. This winning combination of mild impediments meant I had to travel to the city, from time to time, to see specialists. “The city” was a good two hour drive away, but despite the distance, I didn’t mind these trips, because the city was somewhat of a wonder to me.

The first thirty minutes of our city bound journey were the most excruciating. Mile after mile of unchanging bitumen scenery, skirted with creamy limestone rubble, and thickets of scraggly mallee trees lined the road on either side, limiting the journeyman’s view to the road side and straight ahead. The Mallee Highway would easily make my top 5 list of “most boring stretches of road” (The Hay Plains taking top honours, however).

The final 40 minutes of the journey toward the “big city” were my favourite. Parched flat landscapes transformed into rolling hills, as we began the ascent into the Adelaide foot hills. Brown and golden hues were replaced by cool shadows and lush greenery. The road would start to wind, and the higher we ascended the better the view; where we had been eye level with the golden sway of wheat, an expansive vista emerged, revealing yet more green rolling hills and deep valleys. A sense of relief would wash over me at around a place called Stirling in the Adelaide Hills, where the trees appeared taller and more tightly clustered. A couple of grand old homes would peek out from forest-like surroundings; inspiring my imagination of how urbanised folk might live.

Whenever we went to the city to visit a doctor or orthodontist, we got dressed up in our sacred clothes; the ones we kept for special occasions, the pretty things that were seldom enjoyed. After our round of appointments, we would venture into Rundle Mall to stock up on goods unavailable in our neck of the woods. I enjoyed taking in the sights and sounds of the city; the gardens and buildings, the colour of the stores and their merchandise, the clicketty clop sound my good shoes made on the pavement; dodging the crowds as we huddled under the store fronts and eaves to avoid the rain, drifting along; me a speck within a sea of people. I especially enjoyed studying the clothes that city people wore; the business suits, the high heels, the fabrics and how these various fabrics moved and floated. Everything in “The Mall” was a wonder and a delight to me; our visits made especially sweet by Mum, who allowed us to indulge in a variety of treats not usually available to us in the country; such as a fish and chip lunch in a department store cafeteria, and a chocolate donut for dessert; an ice cream in a cone, a bag of sweets to take home, from Darrell Lea, and usually something else; a book, piece of clothing or a toy. Even when Mum and Dad went to the city alone for the day, they never failed to bring us back a special surprise – it was like receiving a souvenir from their “holiday”!

In reality though, I never got a really good glimpse of city life. Mum would drive into the centre of the city, along the same streets every time; parking in the same car park across from the University of Adelaide, with its Gothic halls looming in the foreground, a place where the grand iron gates set my mind going on yet another fantastical journey. Nevertheless, my impressions of the city were fairly limited, and seemed to leave me ever the more curious and wanting.

I was aware that the city was well populated compared to my little town, which boasted a district of just 80 people when I lived there, but since we always drove along the busy commercial streets, I never really witnessed suburban life, and I remember one day asking my mother where all the city people lived. “In the houses behind all the shops”, was her reply. I took this literally of course, and tried to peer down the narrow alleyways and side roads as we motored past, never really catching a glimpse of those illusive city folk playing in their front yards or doing at-home-city-people-things. Over the years, my curiosity built to a point where I could only see my life and my future there, in the city.

As a ten year old, my family moved from the dry husk in the middle of nowhere, to Murray Bridge; a large rural town straddling the Murray River, approximately located one hour east of Adelaide, but the big city still beckoned, and at seventeen I moved there, seeking employment. I enjoyed my life there. The ocean was close. The energy of my seaside suburb hummed. It was exciting, but as I grew older, I realised that the hustle and bustle, the noise and the concrete claustrophobic jungle were not really for me. I enjoy the various conveniences of the city, but I prefer more lush tranquil environments and expansive horizons. Today, I am happiest where there is opportunity to visit nature on a regular basis, and be blessed with the sounds of birds chattering and the wind whistling as it darts through the leaves of trees. I need to have green colours around me; dry landscapes fill me with a bit of a sense of suffocating panic, like I too might evaporate and shrivel. I enjoy the city, but the country is in my blood and my soul, and if I had to choose, it would be in these, more peaceful havens that you would find me.

Surfing A Massive Wave

2007-06-02T01:47:00.001-07:00

When I was in my early twenties, I would sometimes awaken, bolt straight up in bed, heart pounding so hard it risked bursting out of my chest, my eyes as large as dinner plates, because I had just had another of those nightmares involving a massive tsunami.
Dreams of this nature are very common. They are essentially your classic anxiety dream or nightmare, depicting ones sense of feeling swamped, swallowed up, consumed, helpless in avoiding the inevitable or completely overwhelmed.
For me, simply watching this video inspired many of those feelings, especially after the surfer breaks through the first part of that massive wave. He is seen scooting out through the white churned up water, only to have the second part of the wave hot on his heels. It almost looks like a giagantic menacing hand lurching and clawing at the surfer, from behind his back. The eerie creeping sound of the wave building and then pounding down with all its force is almost sickening.
Are these people fools or heroes for doing this kind of thing? I was certainly left in awe.

On second thought......

2007-05-31T07:48:00.000-07:00

***GROAN****
I just woke up. It has been over 24 hours after my glittering performance at tuesday's boot camp, and I have discovered.....I have triceps.

Well, I always knew they were there... in theory anyway. Now, for the first time ummm ever, I can feel them. Ouch, I just scratched my head....typing hurts. Thankfully there are just a few isolated muscles that KILL, unlike the first time I ever played squash.

When Ashely and I played our first game of squash, neither of us were any good, but we got so into it that we played enthusiastically for over an hour. I could hardly move the following day; every possible bone in my body felt as if it was encased in thick steel springs like those used to make professional trampolines. I remember having to go to work the following day (and the rest of the days in that week) after our squash game; I was working as a baker at the time. I had to continually crouch down to get things and lift heavy trays...I had never felt such all over pain in my life - pain that I knew to be beneficial rather than one born out of injury...although I sure moved like an invalid, at the time.

Anyway, my triceps feel like that today...what a big wuss I am. I feel even moreso after reading Tracey's most recent entry! You really are amazing Trace.

The Golden Compass

2007-05-31T01:18:00.000-07:00

I just stumbled upon a trailer for the up-coming movie "The Golden Compass". It looks bloody fantastic. I can't wait to see it, even if it does only comes out in December.

If you are not familiar with this story, I have included the synopsis quoted on Rotten Tomatoes the movie review website:

Based on author Philip Pullman's bestselling and award-winning novel, The Golden Compass tells the first story in Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy. The Golden Compass is an exciting fantasy adventure, set in an alternative world where people's souls manifest themselves as animals, talking bears fight wars, and Gyptians and witches co-exist. At the center of the story is Lyra (played by newcomer Dakota Blue Richards), a 12-year-old girl who starts out trying to rescue a friend who's been kidnapped by a mysterious organization known as the Gobblers - and winds up on an epic quest to save not only her world, but ours as well.
--© New Line Cinema

Poetry Thursday - Bird

2007-05-31T00:36:00.000-07:00

This is my contribution for this weeks Poetry Thursday. I chose not to do the optional prompt task, which was "River". I had so many thoughts, ideas and memories about The river that flowed through my area, and rivers in general, that I found I could not properly harness my thoughts, but I did garner a number of ideas for regular blog posts instead, which I will get around to writing one of these days, and you never know, having gotten those stories out of my system, I might even come up with a river poem at some stage. Rather than contribute nothing, I thought I would share this poem, which I wrote a few months back after a quiet, reflective walk along the dikes near my home.

Bird

Eternal, rejuvenating flower.

Waiting.

Tight as a bud.

She blooms.

Wings outstretched;

Feathered petals,

Fanned and reaching.

Taken.

A dance with natures breath,

Gliding, darting, diving;

Carried upon the wind,

Like spores of a thistle.

She swoops down,

Landing with grace.

Enwrapped.

Tight as a bud,

Once again.

19th January 2007

Boot camp

2007-05-30T13:48:00.000-07:00

Last night I showed up for Nordic Walking and got a bit of a surprise - no I wasn't wearing these shoes. The Run Inn, the crowd that co-ordinates all the marathon training clinics, for which the Nordic Walking group is a spin off, were putting on a "boot camp" session, and the Nordic Walkers were invited to join - we aren't usually, so this was why I was surprised.....NO WONDER so few people showed up last night.

Most of the people in my group moaned and groaned about the boot camp; grumbling that this was NOT what they had signed up for. I was open minded about the whole thing and happily joined in enthusiastically - how often does one get a free personal training session?

It was a warm night last night and the instructors worked us hard. First we had to run to the destination of our training, then the instructors had a bunch of "stations" set out and grouped us into our "speed level", and placing one group at each station to start. First we had to run as fast as we could while a partner pulled us back with a band - that was my favourite one. Next we had to do "t-push ups" for a minute, then sprints. The next station saw us jumping over low hurdles, then jumping onto a box with both feet up at the same time, then jumping in and out of tires placed on the ground. The next station we had to jump over and back over a rope for a minute, as hard as we could go, then do side push ups (which nearly killed me), then sprints toward an obstacle of cones with an abrupt stop at each cone. Then we had to jump in and out of the rungs of a ladder laying flat on the ground then....we had to do it all over again. After we went through the course twice, we all got together and did more sprints then slow jogged or Nordic walked back to the Run Inn.

I was completely exhausted by the end of it. I haven't sweated so much in my life - it was GREAT!!!! I wouldn't mind doing that type of workout once a week, if possible. Apparently there is such a session on Monday nights, which would fit in with my schedule. The boot camp goes for 6 weeks, but has already started, so I am not sure if I can still join in - we'll see.

Oh, and I am pretty sore today, but it is a good kind of sore, the kind that tells me that I did good work last night. Does anyone know it there are any running clinics in Adelaide, like the one I mentioned above. I believe there is a "Run Inn" in Queensland, but what about good ole SA?

Lingering

2007-05-29T12:38:00.000-07:00

This past weekend the fair came to town, as it does each final weekend of May. This particular fair consists largely of exorbitantly priced amusements, aging carnival rides and of course, the usual carnival fare; greasy chips, hot dogs, popped caramel corn, hot sugar donuts and candy floss…. among other things; so-called food stuffs that smell good in theory, but in hindsight always leaves one wishing there were such places as food confessionals, where one could simply reveal thy food sins, offer up ten Hail Mary’s and miraculously be absolved of all cholesterol, calories, rotten teeth, future cellulite and spare tires.

The other consistent feature of fairs such as ours, are those humorless nomads, otherwise known as carnival employees. Each ride or amusement tends to be manned by these atypical characters; faces lined and leathery from over-exposure to the elements; hands and clothing oiled and greasy from rigging together their equipment; fingers swollen and nicotine stained, knuckles gnarled from physical labor; and while the ability to chuff upon a cancer stick seems to be a requirement of the job, “jolliness” and “must be good with people”, certainly didn't seem to have been a mandatory component of the job criteria.

Most of the carnival characters sat begrudgingly on the crude stools, glaring grimly and sullenly into a vacant abyss, occasionally rising to intimidate some over eager, sugar hyped kid and/or their impatient parents, like some kind of boorish nightclub bouncer. I am sure they have a lot to deal with, particularly those who have to deal with smart-arses and alcohol inflicted teens, but I have noticed that the carnival really does attract a certain type of individual into its employ - the positively miserable, and they remain so, standing in stark contrast to those enjoying the thrill and vibe of the carnival.

Having said all this, my children were very excited to learn that the fair would be taking place over the weekend, and were eager to hurry along to it. Friday night was opening night for the fair, and the carnival rides were all half price. Mister happened upon at least half his pre-school class there, which was an added bonus, as far as he was concerned.

I arrived with a limited amount of cash, determined that this meager amount would be our budget for the evening, but I was soon shocked and dismayed at how quickly the cash supply ran dry; frittered away into thin air it seemed, for we certainly had nothing significant to show for it. Nevertheless, we did enjoy three rides (my young ones being very easily pleased) and managed to escape with that mandatory bag of candy floss that is said to be “for the kids”.

Saturday and Sunday are the serious carnival days. Everything is full price and there are more exhibits, craft sellers, and a petting zoo. Sunday caps off the carnival with a parade, which mainly consisted of local business people and politicians, and also fancy cars owners who had been summonsed to chauffeur some posing old codgers, whose identities I hadn’t the foggiest about, but the parade is really an illustration of town spirit, and with that in mind, it was indeed, a great success.

Today in the aftermath, I took Missy Mopps to her ballet class, which takes place in a hall alongside the carnival grounds. Since parents are not invited to witness classes for that age group (parents are seen as a distraction – and rightfully so, from what I have witnessed), I decided to venture out and gather a glimpse of the carnival clean up effort, but much to my disbelief, there was nothing left.

At some stage through the course of the past night, those diligent rough bastards of the carnival had packed up the entire show and hit the road, and what remained was our humble town park; a pristine picture of how it stands on any other given day. If one was to venture into town for the first time, one would never have known that this land had only yesterday, been teeming with people, colour and noise. And as I stood there taking in that still and unspectacular scene, I thought I might allow myself to delve into the deeper layers of what I was witnessing, so I took myself for a wander around the park, and allowed myself to feel.

It is an interesting thing to do; to return to the site of particular and recent activity. If one allows oneself, one can feel the flurry of activity still churning in the atmosphere like a disturbed river bed, whereby the water is left muddied and unclear. As I walked, I noticed the faint outline of a square. A shallow pool had been resting there the day before; my son had paddled a little boat in it; he had stood upon that very spot, feet bare and waiting in line for his turn. I walked around a playground perimeter fence; we had stood there Friday evening in a long impatient line up, consisting of overly excited children, surly teens and tired parents, all waiting for the tardy ticket collectors to open up their booths.

I meandered over to where a large stage had been set up the day before; a band had been playing there. The stage was now gone, but the green tiered bench we had sat upon while eating hot dogs, remained, and I imagined us sitting there, munching away to the tune of a howling child who had just spilled the entire contents of his lemonade onto the grass below. I could still feel us there.

I then moved over to a square patch of earth that had temporarily housed the petting zoo. Remnants of straw were scattered upon the hoof trampled grass. It amazed me to think that this small fragment of land was completely surrounded by people, just yesterday - 5 or 6 people deep in some places, and a dozen rabbits hopping behind the fence; dodging a brood of fluffy chicks. A piglet and lamb scurried in another pen, while a tiny pony nibbled at tufts of grass alongside a calf; a solitary llama stood alone in the remaining pen, peering our from behind the hairy fringe hanging over his eyes. Children clung to the fence in the hope of being asked if they might like to hold one of the smaller animals. My son was patient and was finally rewarded which the chance to hold a chick, which he said was warm and soft in his gentle hand. We each crouched down to stoke the chick held loosely in his grip, which seemed surprisingly calm and happy to oblige, despite the excitement surrounding its temporary environment.

On my way back to the ballet hall, I passed a concrete picnic table, such as the type commonly found in parks everywhere. I noticed six extinguished cigarette buts lying discarded in the well trodden grass surrounding the table. These buts were fresh; their filters still white, appearing not to have endured much time on the ground. I concluded that they must have been smoked yesterday. Two buts had been thrown to the ground when the smokers were done with them; embers of ignited tobacco left to wane, dulling and transforming to grey ashen conclusion. The other buts were crushed on one end, snuffed out by a rubber soled toe; an action that had left a sooty smear on the ground.

Yesterday people had stood right there and smoked those cigarettes, and in a way they were still there, with me standing like a future ghost in their circle, or perhaps traces of these yesterday smokers were now encircling me while I stood pondering, and it struck me that much of the weekend’s energy was still present in the park as I walked. The faint smell of hot cinnamon donuts wafted in the air as black birds pecked feverishly at minute food particles that had been scattered over the lawn. The energy stirred and it hummed. It hung in the trees like dark bats and swirled along the ground like tumble weed carousing across a dusty plain, and I wondered if that energy might still be there next week, when I returned for my daughter’s next ballet class.

There are ghosts everywhere and in everything, you know. If you don’t believe in ghosts, you are just not looking hard enough.

It never fails....

2007-05-23T13:07:00.000-07:00

Whenever I use the bathroom, it never fails that either one or both of my children will cause incident during the brief time I am in there. They will follow me and sit, stand or lay next to the door, and either quietly tap the door, thump it violently or yell at me through it, until I come out.

Should I manage the miraculous task of creeping away unseen, it never fails that one or both children will start screaming for me to "come here" and much to my urgings, they will not divulge the reasoning behind my immediate and urgent summonsing.

On the even rarer occurrence where I have managed to venture to the bathroom alone, without being followed; they knowing exactly where I am going, but are too engrossed in whatever it is they are playing to care, it never fails that some freakish mishap or bizarre turn of events should befall upon one or both children in my absence, causing one or both children to scream at blood curdling decibels, which leaves me panicked and helpless in my efforts to speed things along so I can attend to the broken limbs, broken teeth, gauged eyes and split open heads I am imagining I will find upon scrambling out of the bathroom...which, for your information, is never the case, despite the stuck pig-like squealing and squawking going on, or the terrorised tone of the non-injured party who is frantic for me to emerge "quiiiiiiiick"and call 911.

Why oh why oh WHY, can't I use the bathroom in peace...just once?

Scotia Bank 5km....walk

2007-05-21T19:27:00.000-07:00

Well, I have bitten the bullet (so to speak), and entered myself into the Scotia Bank 5km fun run/walk, which takes place on Sunday, June 24th, in Stanley Park, Vancouver.

I heard about this walk from a friend who is registered to do the half-marathon. Coyly, I asked if the event had a 10km walk, but she didn't know. So while they didn't have a 10 km walk, I am happy to start out with a 5km walk. If that goes well I will see about others, and the Terry Fox 10km in September, which I mentioned in an earlier post.

So there you go, I have had enough of my all talk no action, and have finally made a commitment. I disappointed myself by dilly dallying about the Vancouver Sun Run, which I missed in the end. It would have been a good experience. So procrastinate no more - lets get moving.

naive enthusiasm

2007-05-20T13:07:00.000-07:00

I was feeling a bit cocky the other morning; a bit over confident, let me explain.

I had a particularly good session at the Nordic Walking group earlier in the week. I had practically run the course; leaving the rest of my group in my dust. At one point I looked back to ensure I was still heading the right way, and they appeared to me as mere dots in the distance, trailing behind me. For all I knew they were screaming for me to "turn left" or "come back, we are going THIS way", they were too far for me to hear a word they might have been saying.

Walking doesn't really puff me out. Sure, my shins are feeling like they are on fire and my face has turned a colour to match the soles of my inflamed feet. Oh and there is all that sweat pouring from my face; enough to fill a small lake, but otherwise you wouldn't know I had exercised; I have plenty of breath to spare.

So I was starting to think.... perhaps I should step it up a notch. Perhaps I should have a bit of a go at the ole running....now that I am super fit and all (HA HA HA HA).

So anyway, I got up Friday morning with the realistic notion of parking near Curves, so I could run back to the car after I was done.

I parked in a park nearby and walked the rest of the way, I was surprised how close that park actually was in the end, but reasoned that I would ace the run back and the ease of that experience would boost my confidence in a way that would encourage me to park further away next time, or even run ALL the way from my house.

So I did my usual work out, and after grabbing my keys from the basket on the front desk, I bounded out the door and sprang into an impressive gallop.

I think I was perhaps 45 seconds into the run when I began to dread the whole awful idea, and I remembered, all of a sudden, why I joined the Nordic Walk group and not any of the running options "the clinic" had to offer.

I think I made it back to the car in just over two minutes; heaving, nearly dying and vowing never to contemplate such a stupid idea EVER AGAIN.

Conclusion: I am terrible at running and.... quite hate it really.

Future research: Still considering a 10 km walk, weighing the options and assessing which might be right for me - will keep you posted.

Glass Castle

2007-05-17T18:07:00.000-07:00

I just started reading The Glass Castle: A Memoir by Jeannette Walls. It is quite an astonishing read. I am a bit hooked on it right now, with wild horses practically having to drag me away from it.

I must say, I was desperately trying to find something to read. I had started several books; The Red Tent by Anita Diamant, which I had been meaning to read for many years after a couple of recommendations. I was quite taken by the first part, it was very interesting to read about the women of biblical times and their experience with child bearing, but since it is written in the voice of Jacob's only daughter, Dinah, it lost me a bit when the focus moved on to Dinah's early childhood. When I am in the mood I will pick it up again and see where it goes from there.

I am still on and off with the Tibetan Book of Living and Dying by Sogyal Rinpoche...it is a hard slog, what more can I say, and I have been reading more of Memories, Dreams, Reflections by Carl Jung, as previously mentioned, and what a crazy bastard that guy was! Yeah, yeah Carl, we all know you were a genius and whatnot, but geez! It is yet another book I will have to read more of when I am in the mood. It is an extremely interesting read about the inner workings of a famous mind, who studied minds, motivations and behaviour, but I am not in the mood for it right now....another time Carl mate.... I promise.

I also started the The Resurrectionists by Michael Collins, but quite frankly, it did nothing for me. I didn't get far into it, and I am probably doing it an injustice by not seeing it through to the end, as I have read that the beginning is the weakest, but I did not find the dialogue between Frank and Honey overly convincing, and besides, I was really looking for something that gripped me from the first line and reverberated throughout the day (not too much to ask is it?).

Well, apparently not, because The Glass Castle managed to do just that. This is the opening sentence of the book and first chapter entitled "Woman on the Street":

"I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster".

The next couple of pages goes on to describe this well-to-do woman's homeless mother; the feelings she has about sighting her and her thwarted attempts to "help". The next chapter simply entitled "Desert" describes a truly remarkable and stunningly dysfunctional childhood.

I think the fact that this "woman on the street" was called Mom by the author, was what really shock me, freezing me in the moment, in such a way that I had to consider why, but so often, the homeless are the nameless, peripheral characters in a story. They are never someones Mom, and yet, in reality, many of them are mothers or fathers, or Grandparents.

There was a book a friend once lent me, about a homeless shelter in Calgary. I can't remember the name of it, but the book paid tribute to some of the homeless people who had spent time in that particular shelter, providing a background of information about these people and revealing the road that lead them to become homeless, as told in their own words. it was incredibly interesting and certainly provided a voice for many a homeless person.

Getting back to The Glass Castle...this book is a memoir of author Jeannette Wall's life. I haven't actually finished the book and therefore, should not be recommending a book that I have not yet finished, but I am going to anyway, because I am finding myself totally mesmerised by this story, so if you see it around, check it out.

Not enough hours...

2007-05-16T14:07:00.000-07:00

Where have I been all week? I don't really know. I have been so busy that I have hardly had the time to think, let alone write, which is a bit of a shame really. It seems there really aren't quite enough hours in the day at present.

This exercise thing has really given me an injection of something. I don't really know what, but I am feeling soOOoo much better. I almost feel like I have been in a cocoon for the last little while, and now I am breaking out. I have even had the nutty inclination to undertake a Nordic Walk, or even a regular walk, if that is not possible, in a more official capacity....say like a 10km walk or half marathon! Even saying that out loud seems a bit far fetched and ridiculous, but why not? The Terry Fox Run is coming up in September, maybe I should aim to do the walk in that. Or maybe I could actually take a serious look and see that there is a run/walk opportunity every weekend - yikes! No, I am not that keen, but it would be good to have something to aim for and train for. I haven't had goals for a long while, setting some out, is definitely well over due, and since I have finally set foot upon the fitness road, that seems to be a good place to start.

So what else has been going on? Well we are currently attempting to co-ordinate our return to Australia. I have contacted a realtor to sell the house; gotten a quote for an international removalist; started the ball rolling with the quarantine requirements for the dogs; looked into flights back; researched schools for Mister when we return, not to mention housing. There is so much to do, and yet nothing much to do, as it is too early; everything is in the research phase right now, but on top of all that, I still have the everyday stuff to contend with, and now the sun is out, the garden is growing wild. I am relieved about that. the garden wasn't looking too good, not so long ago.

While I am really busy right now, I have to say - I love it. I tend to get depressed when I can't find anything to do. I am not really one for sitting around, which is a statement that actually flies in its own face, because lately, I have been doing a fair amount of sitting around, much to my own disgust. Oh, and I did manage to take that swim I alluded to last week. I went on Sunday morning, and this time I managed to swim for 30 minutes...without passing out. Gee, I must be getting fitter.

Poetry Thursday - The Ramdomiser

2007-05-10T07:48:00.001-07:00

Poetry Thursday has a new tool- The Ramdomiser, which brings up a new word prompt when the PT page is refreshed. Our task was to use our random word in a poem. I got "unfurl". What a magical word; poetic in its own right.

Unfurl
Creeping vine
T'ward heavens, curl
Entwining branch
In tangled whorl
While newborn ferns
Reach and unfurl
Midst shafting forest light

© Strauss
9th May 2007

Yay me!

2007-05-09T14:38:00.000-07:00

I had my first reality check (my phrase not theirs), this morning at Curves. I knew I was feeling so much better for going. I also believed that I was beginning to feel more toned, and my clothes weren't as tight, so I wasn't all that fussed about whether or not I had lost weight, even though I was aware of how terribly unfit I was, but as Tracey gently reminded me, "muscle weighs more than fat", so with that important mantra ringing in my ears, I walked into Curves this morning, with my head held high, for I knew I hadn't missed a session...as yet.

I must admit though, I did actually have my fingers crossed that my body fat percentage might go down. I scored in the "poor" range at my sign up measurement; a reality that brought back humiliating high school memories of being forced to stand in line to be submitted to the dreadful "skinfold pinch test" by some insensitive physical education teacher, who then boisterously insinuated that one was a bit on the lardy side - shudder. Truly, that practice should be outlawed, it was not like anything more was done about it; the chubby ones weren't immediately told to drop and give them 20, nor were we sidelined and given a pep talk about diet and exercise, nor enrolled in a special hard slog fatties program, rather we were only given a brow beating and a tsk tsk'ed as we shuffled away with our tails between our legs.

Well, horror stories aside, I was given a reprieve this month, because I lost 4 pounds (2kgs), 5 inches (dunno the conversion) and reduced my body fat percentage by 2.1% - whoo hoo, go me! The body fat reduction saw me receive a Curves t-shirt as a reward. It was a pretty cool feeling, and other Curves devotees were congratulating me on my effort. What a great start to the day; kind of makes me regret eating those 6 chocolate chip cookies yesterday - oops.

The result encourages me to keep going, and to even see about doing a bit more. Maybe I can take a leaf out of Tracey's book and add a swim once a week for something different...although I do have some ghastly memories of when I attempted that form of exercise last time LOL. I guess I am a bit fitter this time around and not as idealistic, we'll see.

Realistically speaking, I think I should probably reap more benefits if I do take a more concerted effort with the ole diet. I don't think 6 chocolate chip cookies is good for anyone really. Do you?

Purpose

2007-05-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

We have a bird house hanging in the lofty cedar that basks in the sunshine, out the back door.

I really missed the parrots that flitted in and out of our yard in Australia. Their noise and colour, brought such life to our yard, and I used to encourage their return by hanging bird munchies in the Stringy Bark growing at the edge of the lawn. These munchies were bought from the store in a block, which was basically a make up of seeds, dried apple and syrupy water to hold it together - the birds loved them. Here though, the rats congregate if I put seed out and they are certainly NOT welcome.

Last year I placed the bird house in the tree and hoped it would become tenanted. I believe we were outside playing one late spring day, when a sparrow stumbled upon the bird house, inspected it inside and out, and called for an entire afternoon, to all the birds in the district, to let them know her intention of claiming this seemingly vacant abode, for herself. No one challenged her, so she made it her home.

In the summer, we started doing up our backyard, and perhaps it was the commotion coming from outside her front door, I am not really sure, but she up and left one day and never returned.

This year, as I undertook my morning ritual of gazing out the bathroom window after I shower, (I do this so I can feel the cool breeze on my hot face) I was delighted to see that the birdhouse was inhabited once more. This sparrow, lived in the house for some weeks before she determined to make a cozier nest, and I watched her one morning journeying to an fro with old twigs and brush, and forcing them through the tiny round opening at the front of her house.

Now I believe she has some chicks. From the open bathroom window, I can hear tiny peeps and the mother bird flits out in search of food and returns, perches on the edge of her house's opening; her head in and tail out, presumably feeding her young. One day I hope to bear witness to her brood taking flight.

This morning however, I observed mother bird preening herself on a thin branch nearby. She seemed relaxed and content while attending to her personal needs. Then she flew away.

Her activities lead me to ponder the themes of duty and purpose. I thought about birds and animals and wondered if they ever questioned their existence, or do they accept that this IS their purpose, and once their babies are grown and are strong enough to leave the nest...how did she feel? Was she relieved to be free of her children's demands? Was she sad that she was now alone in the world? Did she worry what would become of her many children? Did she ever long to see them again, and if she did, did they recognise her and greet her with affection? Or did she then become immediately concerned with preparations for surviving the coming winter, and come next spring, would she be filled with the insatiable desire to fulfil the destiny of mother to a brood of birds once more?

In that moment, I favoured the notion that this little sparrow knows and is quite certain of her purpose in the world, and I found myself envying her, just a little.

gobbledy goop

2007-05-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I wrote this. I now believe I understand what that was all about, although perhaps these lurkings of the mind may be something of the more sinister kind. I don't mean to be mysterious, it is probably just me being overly sensitive...it wouldn't be the first time. I promise I will let you know the details if and when they come to pass...but don't hold your breath.

Life really can change in a day, and I know, most of us can't really predict the exact details of the future, but even still, I find myself sitting in the present moment feeling quite uneasy.

A wise person would probably let go of this feeling of great anticipation and dread, for what will be, will inevitably be, and nothing can be done about it, but I really do hate surprises. I like to be prepared, although I am also very aware that it is that which we are ill prepared for; those surprising moments, that are brought to us as gifts of change. These are our evolutionary moments..... at this sudden thought, I find my metaphorical tail suddenly wags, even if it is only ever so slightly.

I "stumbled upon" this today...makes you think.

Picture: "Fate Plays a Hand" by Gerry Charm

The sea urchin's test

2007-05-06T11:38:00.000-07:00

I grew up on a farm in a dry husk, set in the middle of nowhere. In those young heady days of mine, the sea was an entity of dreams; a seldom experienced sensory delight, and a memory, since the cresting waves, expansive ocean and the beach were not readily accessible. Due to this geographical glitch, the sea became something of a wonder lust to me; something that even today, makes me truly believe that I could not live without being within a short driving distance from the sea, or at least, a good sized body of water.

While the sea was too far for me to enjoy on a regular basis, my Grandparents lived on Kangaroo Island, which was many miles away. My brother and I, if we were lucky, usually visited them once a year.

My Grandparents had an expansive rural property, consisting largely of cereal crops and Suffolk sheep. Their old homestead stood atop a crest along the dusty road that hugged the island's northern coastline. In the summer, the coastal hills were carpeted in golden wheat fields that swayed in the nautical breeze, while large ships and tankers inched silently along the horizon; setting my imagination to wonder about the countries those boats were heading. What was the cargo they hauled? What did the crew do aboard the ship? Did they ever get sea sick? Were the crew leaving home with heavy hearts, or drifting toward their homelands with joyous smiles upon their faces and a special glint in their eyes?

During my time on the island, the sight of ships comforted me, as there was a slight feeling of disconnection with the rest of the world, which was in some ways a relief and in other ways disconcerting. Consequently, I could often be found sitting quietly on Gran's shady veranda wall, sending my whimsical thoughts toward the horizon and my daydreams out to sea.

My cousins lived within arms reach of my Grandparents, so whenever we visited, we would always have the opportunity to play with our cousins.

My cousins were all younger than I. The eldest of them was perhaps three years younger. I always felt that their lives were so idyllic - imagine living permanently beside the sea.

Whenever possible, I would steal away through the wheat fields to the secluded rocky bay that lay hidden at the front of my Gran's property, and wander in the company of my own self and the ocean song.

There were always mounds of seaweed strewn across the beach, but the large rocks that had collected there, made the bay dangerous and unswimmable. I enjoyed returning to that spot, regardless, as there were all kinds of sea treasures to be found in the rock pools, tangled in the seaweed, and stuck between the rocks themselves.

Collecting shells was a favourite past time of mine when visiting my Grandparents. The shells were not only beautiful and various in their uniqueness, but they also provided me with a sea connection during my absence; the salty aroma of my sea treasures bringing images of the sea; the island, and the gentle ocean lullaby, flooding right into my home in the dry husk, set in the middle of nowhere.

Finding a perfect, unscathed large shell lying within the questionable shelters of the rocky bay was always a delight, and somewhat of a miracle. The shell's survival was considered by me, to be a testament to its fate in my collecting it and looking after it, since manoeuvring its way through those unforgiving waters, without dashing itself upon the rocks seemed quite an achievement.

I remember one day, Gran took my brother and I for a walk to the rocky bay, along with our two oldest cousins, Bethany and Nicole. Bethany and Nicole didn't go down to the rocky bay all that often, as far as I was aware. They were too young to go there on their own and besides, the ocean was always there; its accessibility and permanence was taken for granted, and as far as I knew, none of my cousins collected shells.

It goes without saying, I arrived at the rocky bay with basket in hand and eyes cast down scanning the rocky coastline for shells. Bethany and Nicole, chased each other, giggling and jumping along the rocks. My brother searched in the seaweed to see what the tide had carried in for discovery. There was always plenty of old netting and floats, tin cans, old shoes and pieces of driftwood. I can't remember him ever finding anything overly exciting.

On this particular day, as my cousins ran amok, Bethany chanced upon a huge, perfectly formed and exquisitely detailed sea urchin's test. I was green with envy. In my opinion, she could have cared less about it - I was the avid shell collector, so it should have been MINE!

Gran went on about how "lucky" Bethany was to have found such a rare jewel in the rocky bay, and warned her to take care with it. Gran offered to look after it for her, but Bethany, so concerned that her sister might steal it from her, chose to hold the sea egg herself.

Bethany continued to scramble over the rocks, taunting her younger sister with the sea egg which bobbed and bounced in her hand. Nicole could not even get a close look at it before Bethany whisked it from her sight and stormed away giggling. Out of frustration Nicole threw a large piece of slippery seaweed at Bethany, and I remember watching it flip and flop through the air. Bethany turned just in time to see the slimy missile careening toward her and ducked out of the way, but the bay does not easily excuse those who are careless with its gems. While steadying herself, Bethany unfortunately trod unsteadily on a slick rock, slipping and letting go of the precious sea egg. I watched, seemingly in slow motion, as the sea egg dashed against the rocks, before being crushed by the full force of Bethany's collapsing body.

It broke my heart to think that the sea egg, which had somehow conquered the great ocean and survived the dangerous coastline before coming to rest in the rocky bay, was not ten minutes in human hands, before it was destroyed.

Bethany was not hurt by her fall, but when she saw her shattered treasure, a great wail sprang from the depths of her heart and echoed around the rocky bay, for she could see what she had done, and understood what she had lost. Bethany sobbed for the remainder of our walk in the bay, and frantically searched for a sea egg to replace the one that was no more, but her search was fruitless, and the five of us walked back through the golden wheat fields to the homestead, in silence.

Over the years that followed that incident, I often found unscathed sea eggs in the rocky bay, and I cherished each one as a reflection of the one once beheld and lost, but my finds were small and never as brilliant as the perfect giant that was Bethany's for those brief few moments. I have also wondered whether perhaps fate had intervened in that moment, not to punish Bethany for her carelessness, for she was but a child, but to demonstrate to our young minds that such things are precious, or perhaps it was something more...perhaps such things should never be taken from their natural habitat, for they are a part of the circle of life. So if turning into the pulp of the earth and grit of the ocean floor is part of that cycle, then Bethany merely hastened that process along.

For pictures of the area, check this out.

Submitted to Scribbit's May Write Away Contest.

The edge of memory

2007-05-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

I was having a think about my first memories last night, trying to see through the thick fog that has accumulated at the commencement of my life, to see if I were able to gather up any discernible shapes, dust them off and give them a good hard look at.

I have thought about early memories before, particularly while reading this book by Carl Jung. In it, he shares what he believes to be his earliest memory - he lying in his pram, enjoying the sun streaming through foliage as he is being pushed along.

I returned to the topic of first memories when viewing the writing challenges from EveryAuthor.com. Challenge #6 was called "pre-verbal", and offered these instructions: Take a pre-verbal infantile memory and set it to words. Now a few commenter's suggested that this could not in all reality, be done, and I have thought about it and, I must agree. I could offer an interpretation of the situation, but that is probably the limit of this exercise.

As far as infantile memories go, the fog thickens around the two - two and a half year mark.

I remember my 5th birthday party; being told by David Williams that I was "going to marry him. He would have a farm. I would be his wife and make his dinner". David was a nice enough boy. He was a friend. I was in no way infatuated by him, at any point in my young girlish life. I can't really detect a feeling that went only with his heartfelt demand. Perhaps I was a little shell shocked, like, "Wow, someone really wants to marry me...neat, but hey...you can make your own damn dinner!"

I remember wearing a chocolate coloured sun dress with little flowers on it, complete with GOD AWFUL frills around the straps. We had our playgroup graduation party straight after my birthday party, and so most of us went down to the school for a "Do" that the year four class was hosting. My mother didn't like David's family very much, and spent the entire party tearing us apart and steering me toward this older boy, who was the son of my Mum's friend. While we were dancing, this particular friend of the family kept lifting my arms up to peer down my dress...I didn't like it and spent the entire time trying to get clear of him, and then wrestling my arms down to the sides, in an effort to preserve my dignity.

Speaking of sundresses; I also remember one Christmas, my Aunt and Uncle giving me a grass green and white striped seersucker, floor length sundress with a frill at the bottom, and yes, it really was as ugly as it sounds. My parents made me put it on to show my Aunt and Uncle. I HATED it, and remember running away screaming and hiding behind a door. How embarrassing. I can only imagine how horrified my parents might have felt by that display. I was probably about three.

I also remember my third birthday party. The memory of my friend Vicki screaming in hysterics while my Mum was trying to take our picture, is helped along by the lasting photograph in the family album; her outstretched arms and tear streaked, traumatised face is frozen in that moment, for all eternity. I do remember her howling her head off, and wondering "what is wrong with you?"

I remember falling into my Grandparent's drain. It was a grassy trench, set at the back of their house, with a river of thick black sludge running along the bottom. I was probably a little over three years old. I don't remember the actual fall into the drain, but I do remember that I was promptly taken home in my Grandpa's ute, and being sat as far away from him as possible as we journeyed home, because I stunk. I also remember being scrubbed in a warm bath of water, smelling strongly of Dettol.

My brother and I are only 15 months apart in age. I remember this day. Not sure how old I am, perhaps three and a half. Mainly I remember cracking the absolute shits because the photographer insisted I hold the block, and I wanted the puppy. This grown man made just as big a deal, by insisting I hold the damn block, as I did, in wanting to hold the puppy. I was affronted that he should give me the insignificant inanimate-looking boring block. I wanted the cute little dog, "because ....because ....because I AM cute DAMN IT. Don't you GET IT! I am a living breathing person, not just another prop in your damn picture.....you bastard." I was such a delightful child.....

I grew up on a farm in the sticks, which was surrounded by scrub. One of the summer hazards of such a location were the snakes. If you are not an Australian reading this, then you have probably heard the rumours about Australia and our venomous snakes...well those rumours are all pretty much true.

My Dad was so concerned that we would naively want to pat the "nice snakey" sunning itself somewhere, or chase one as it tried to slither away from us, that he put the fear of God into us concerning such creatures. I can not remember him warning us about snakes, but he has told me that he did, and from a very early age. It must have been a fairly grave and penetrating conversation, because I have always and continue to this day, to have a profound snake phobia. The mere slight of one slithering across the yard half a mile away, is enough to see me crumble into a screaming, panicked and terrified mess.

So befitting the theme of this post, the earliest memory that I can recall, is not from infantile days per say, but from a time when I had probably just begun my career as a steady confident walker- perhaps I was two.

It was just after lunch, and I had run outside. My parents were still sitting at the table, probably drinking coffee or something. We had a broad veranda that ran around three sides of our federation-style stone homestead. I rounded the first corner at the front of the house, when I saw something out of the corner of my eye. When I got to end of the veranda I dared look back. Confronting me was a disturbed brown snake that had most likely been curled up asleep in the sun, prior to me running past it.

From my perspective, I was trapped. I could not run back to alarm my parents of the snake that was now slithering around in front of me. I didn't really have the vocabulary at that stage, to yell exact details pertaining to the emergency occurring outside, nor the ability to communicate feelings concerning the threat to my personal safety, and so I did what every other kid my age would likely do in such a situation, which was scream my head off in blood curdling decibels, in order to get my parents off their behinds and come out and see what the hell is up. I can only imagine the conversation from inside. It would have gone something like this......

"What the hell is wrong with her NOW?"

"Probably went arse over head or something"

"So.... do you want another cuppa?"

"yeah, sure".

silence...well, besides the wall trembling screaming in the distance.

"She is still howling her bloody head off out there".

"f*#@!"

"(resigned sigh) I'll go out and see what the problem is".

"WHAT. IS. WRONG WITH YOU?...oh!"

"HEY! You better get out here, there's a bloody snake!"

Apparently my Dad shot the snake. He is petrified of them too. I don't remember him shooting it, although I was aware that he shot other ones. Maybe my Mum took me inside at that point, but I do remember him heaving its lifeless body over the fence on the end of a garden fork; its body writhing on the end of the fork like it were made of rubber. My Dad would then bury it somewhere out in the scrub. I always had nightmares of snakes and falling into snake filled pits, after that. Shudder.

So there you go, just a little glimpse into the early memories of the The Brave's warped little brain. I still couldn't manage to put words to an early pre-verbal memory. I think really, the best one can do is paint the scene with words, rather than implying a running dialogue. It seems to be the feeling or emotion, and the sensory aspects of those early memories that stick in mind, rather than the running commentary. What do you think?

Poetry Thursday - Its a Free Day

2007-05-02T11:37:00.000-07:00

This is my contribution for Poetry Thursday for this week. There was no particular theme this week. Instead we were invited to share any poem we liked.
Bruised
The sunlight strains through a dust stained window
Speckled in last spring’s dried raindrops
Bruised shadows fan the entirety of a compromised chamber
Not radiant, not luminous, not exactly dull, but – gentle and subdued
They flicker as the sunlight plays with the stirring foliage outside
Like shadow puppets behind a calico screen
I could cleanse the tainted glass;
Lift the burden from its smattered lens
The light would then flood blindingly, naturally, dazzlingly
But I have become accustomed to the bruised shadows,
And they trouble you not-
Those gentle bruised shadows that dance for me.

© Strauss
10th June 2006

Blocked

2007-05-01T11:10:00.000-07:00

I must apologise for the lack of postings just lately, but it appears my muse has up and left the building....seriously, I got nuthin'. Do you have days like that?

Of course I have been doing stuff, but my senses, for some reason, seem to have shut down to my experiences. I usually wallow in my interactions with people; allowing their energies to wash over me like a stream over river stones, and normally I also like to bask in the glory of the natural world that surrounds me; morphing into the landscape, drinking and soaking it all in, osmosis style, but over the past couple of weeks, it just seems that I have tuned out, and I am struggling to reclaim that same reflective mind space. I am not sure what it all means, really.

In an effort to gather inspiration, I went searching for writing prompts, online. If you ever find yourself in a similar predicament, I did find this site, but even having stumbled upon these numerous ideas, I still didn't feel the energy move me to scrawl feverishly inspired ramblings or recount fantastical musings from a former existence. HELP.

Over the past couple of weeks I did complete two numerology requests, and I rather fear that the numerology muse might just have given the creative writing muse the ole hip and shoulder and ousted her from these, the most humble of lodgings, they being my head space - obviously there ain't room enough for the two of them.

Anyway, with those tasks out of the way, I would rather like to welcome the writing muse back. Perhaps I could invite her over for cake and black tea served in my best china cups. She might divulge where she has been. She may have been on a trip somewhere, and will delight me with stories of far off lands, like Egypt and Peru or Siberia.

Perhaps she has been ill or had broken her leg, and spent the past couple of weeks feeling frustrated, unable to move, while stretched out on a soft bed strewn with plump, hand-sown cushions, a heavy, feather stuffed patchwork quilt spilling around her, while her plaster covered leg hung, hoisted in the air.....I must make some room for a wheelchair, should she be in such a state when she calls upon me again.... and some ramps, she might be trying to reach me now, as I type this out; that winding metaphorical staircase, I insisted upon during the construction of my humble abode, has proven time and time again, to be impractical and rather off-putting to some - darn it!

Or perhaps she has been taking care of another, and has spent these recent days sitting vigilant in a rocking chair beside a sun-lit picture window facing a tranquil garden. Her loved one resting fitfully in a bed nearby, moving in and out of fever inspired hallucinogenic sleep. She, blotting a hot, sweat beaded forehead with a cool damp cloth whenever the need arose and spooning thin soup into a weak, dry mouth . She could do nothing more, but daydream with a lavender crocheted rug hugging her knees as she rocked in her chair, and watched the birds play in the birdbath outside. She was dutiful in her care, but will tell me of her longing to return to her day job, as my muse... yeah right. Please come back, muse.

The long road home

2007-04-26T10:00:00.001-07:00

We are coming home.

On the virtual eve of your two year anniversary here in Canada, we have decided that we are going to go back to Australia. We hope to be standing upon Australian soil by December 2007.

We don't know what we are going back to. Things change with the passing of time; places, people, ourselves, and then there are the unexpected things; things that perhaps only we, the removed, will notice.

Things will not be the same once we get back, nor do I expect them to be, which makes me a little afraid, a little uneasy and tentative in expressing my joy to return. I am afraid you will not like the new us, if you perceive there to be a "new us"; I am concerned that you have adjusted splendidly to our absence and there is no longer a place for us in your lives. Our kids don't know you, and you don't really know them; give them time, they will love you, just as we do.

We don't really know exactly where we are going to call home, within our wide brown land; we are hoping Adelaide, so we can be nearer to those we have missed, but the reality is that we have to go where the work is.

So why now....when we initially suggested forever.

Well, the answer to that could very well take pages to explain, and each page might present statements that contradict with the last: I love it here, but I dislike what I have become. I have enjoyed the years of quiet reflection and have appreciated being removed from certain stressful situations, but I dislike the isolation, dislocation from the social and the loneliness. The financial situation here has been crippling, stifling, limiting and suffocating, and yet we hope to return with a good profit. Ashley will tell you his love for sport is one reason he yearns so strongly for Australia, and yet we have not watched a single game of hockey, a sport that rivals Aussie Rules, concerning the inspired passion, and frenzied supporters stakes. We might tell you how soul depleting we found the cold dark months of winter over here, and yet the sight of falling snow was such joy to the heart, that our inner child simply burst with wonderment and playful abandon that we secretly wished it would keep falling like soft feathers, forever. We will tell you that the timing fits with children's schooling so they fit in and make friends, all the while tearing them away from the Canadian friends they have already made. I might tell you that I have missed Australia and am glad or, perhaps relieved to be home, but do not scold me, if I present with a broken heart when reflecting upon my time in Canada, for unlike Australia, which I know to be waiting for us with reassuring welcoming arms, I know my life here in Canada can never be again...it is over and it is done, and it feels a little like the end of a marriage, in some respects....one simply can not go back.

I first fell in love with Canada in 1999, when we spent time there on vacation. I longed to return, and dreamed of one day doing just that, saying that "I could live there"....mind is a powerful thing. But like all fairy tales, they are just that, fairy tales; skimming over the realities of real life and the practicalities of everyday living...no one lives happily ever after; it would be superficial to suggest they do; dismissing a person's growth through the challenges, adversity and the self-reflection they have had to endure.

When we return, I hope to make some good choices. I hope to return, having acquired some wisdom, though I can't tell you what kind of wisdom that is, for at this point, as I am still living in the moment. I hope to return and not make the same mistakes I have made in the past, but really, I don't know where life is taking me next.... taking us next, but I am open to whatever it is.

I just want to live.

Solar Flares

2007-04-26T00:16:00.000-07:00

I am contributing this poem to Poetry Thursday's NaPoWriMo prompt - Blaze.

Solar Flares

Solar plexus swells and radiates.

A throbbing, scorching sun,

Burns the centre of my being.

Intense.

I am left,

Feeling blistered and tender.

Oh! The pain.....

Had I known before,

I would have protected my heart

Under a hat;

Wrapped my soul

In dark glasses

And drunk a cocktail

Of Mississippi Moonshine and SPF15 Plus.

One can never be too sun smart.

16th February 2007

A bit of a turn off

2007-04-25T23:28:00.000-07:00

The kids annoyed me so much the other night that I had to go for a swift walk to the local Star Bucks to let off steam and brood for about a half and hour, before I felt up to facing the troops again.

It was really just a plain old power struggle and attempt in boundary pushing. For the one millionth time, Mister and Missy Mopps decided to turn out their toys on the ground, only to walk away two minutes later, with a pile of discarded rubble scattered around.

I struggled to get them to clean it up, and the effort involved tired me out, so this time I gave them an ultimatum: clean it up or no TV for a week - they called my bluff...so there has been no TV this week.

Actually, they have been surprisingly great about it. They have only asked to watch the box once, and when I said no, they were very accepting, shrugged their shoulders and went off and did something else. We have done a few other things this week; together things, made cookies, iced cookies, painted an assortment of pictures, played more, drove bikes, sorted through junk, generally tidied up and even went to the dentist. We have all been in better moods even. I must say, I am rather impressed.

We might have to make this a permanent arrangement in our lives....well, at least in a much more limited capacity...this was a positive move, for all I think. Though I haven't had much time to write this week, I have had fun with the kids.

Life is about the experience, after all...

2007-04-24T00:48:00.000-07:00

Ok, Ok! I wrote this last night BEFORE the fitness jeer up, so bear with me.

It appears Karen from Misc Mum has posed another challenge; the HELLO GORGEOUS challenge: Find a picture of oneself that one is happy with, and tell the story around it... pretty much.

Initially, I doubted I could fulfill this challenge. I haven't exactly been able to find my "happy place" for a while, and sifting through the photos I have on file, well there weren't really a whole lot of pictures of me in there, and of the few there were, they were GOD AWFUL; talk about a miserable looking so and so. Even a photo that was taken only two weeks ago, terrible! I looked tired, frumpy, washed out, pale, as if Dracula had sucked the life out of me, AND I appeared to have aged about ten years over the past two and a half. I didn't realise, but I have literally been wearing the hardships I have endured over the past couple of years, like a rumpled overcoat.

This is one of the few recent pictures I actually like; there are others that are passable, but I don't have a scanner. This one was taken by Ashley in September 2004. We had just taken Ashley out for a Father's Day lunch at the Port Adelaide Football Club in Alberton, South Australia (a dream come true for Ashley). Port won the premiership that year, if I remember correctly.

After the lunch, we took the footy out and went to an empty field and kicked it around. It was a glorious clear blue spring day; warm, with a gentle breeze, which shifted through my hair in just the right way.

I looked tanned and fit, though we were coming out of winter. My hair looks good, not the hacked to death with a machete, birds nest, I sport these days.

I am holding my beautiful six month old daughter, who has been an absolute joy since the moment she drew breath.

I had stuff going on in my life back then. I was finishing up my International Studies Graduate Diploma, and had just started my numerology course. I had a social life, and good friends with whom I would catch up with here and there, for coffee, a chat and/or a walk. Life was sweet. I was pretty happy....so why the bloody hell did I go and trade that in, for:

-No physically available friends
-No social life
-Isolation, all all its forms
-No decent career prospects... at all
-Bugger all sun
-a very limiting financial situation
-a house that should have been bulldozed
and
-a severely dinged self-esteem?
HELLO
No wonder I feel like a big fat loser!
........................
I was somewhat depressed after doing the picture paints a thousand words photo comparison "this is then, that is now" style (not recommended). Then I thought about things a bit and realised that I had just started trying to reclaim myself; fitness being the first cab off the sluggish rank, and so I thought I would blog about that instead, thinking I would leave my scornful words to disintegrate into frail moth eaten papery rags that no one would ever read.

Later I re-read to Ashley, what I had written about my photo shock, and it was kind of funny to hear it out loud. In fact, we fell about laughing over my harsh words. So I thought I would share it with you and give myself a few lasting words of encouragement while I am at it, so here goes: "Hello Gorgeous, you have been missing in action for a while, but I hope to see you real soon. You are doing well, mate. Don't worry, you'll get there".

Fitness Update

2007-04-23T01:48:00.000-07:00

Since I made the grand announcement, the other week, about getting fit and joining Curves, I have been rather secretive and silent about the whole thing...that would normally indicate I had done bugger all about it, and was hoping you might all forget that I ever mentioned it...yeah.

Considering the low opinion I have of myself, that is exactly why I didn't mention it before now, but surprise, surprise, I have actually kept up my deal with the devil (the devil being me) and have attended Curves regularly and diligently over the past two weeks.

The first week, I attended four times in a week. The second week, I attended three times and added a Nordic Walk venture to the mix, since it was the first week of the Spring sessions.

And you know, I am starting to feel the benefits. I can feel that this exercise thing is doing me some good - not Lycra good (we may never get to that point), but good all the same. The exercise is even helping my mood. I feel like I am kind of clawing my way out of the dark and dreary doldrums. There is even a spring in my step, and an absence of "the snarly grump" (also me).

Imagine if I saw this thing through until November and even beyon. How much better perpared might I feel, when the dark abyss of winter begins to cast is gloomy shadow over the landscape? O-Oh, I can feel some hopes getting up a little too high, some unrealistic expectations creeping in ...I better get back into my box now and pretend I haven't noticed the changes...

I will present another update in two weeks.

Like thistle spores in the wind....

2007-04-20T23:24:00.000-07:00

Rooted.....hmmm, an unfortunate word within the Australian vocabulary. I won't explain it, but the Aussies among us will understand.....

"Roots", of course has other connotations, neither vulgar nor offensive, and it is within this context, that the dear folk at Sunday Scribblings have proposed the word "Rooted", along with its contextual variants, for this weeks writing prompt.

Actually, I really would like to feel "rooted". I haven't felt rooted in a really long while...ten years, in fact. Please allow me to explain.....

My husband works away a lot. The company for which he works, runs its operations internationally, for the most part. As the company grows, so too is the need for positions in new regions. Most of the time he is told, with little notice, that he is to be sent to such and such a base in Whoop Whoop for X number of weeks. We could live with that arrangement, that is the way of the world, according to his particular line of work.

A couple of times though, he has been told, that he was to move permanently to another country, to run a base. Twice this has happened. Twice our world was rocked by such scenarios. Twice it fell through at the eleventh hour, leaving us writhing, depleted, and clutching for something hidden in the nothingness; a strange feeling, especially given that nothing fundamental seemed to have really changed, at all.

Rootedness is a state of mind, but it is also wrapped up in issues concerning identity, belonging and ones sense of stability. One's culture and country, along with the memories connected to those concepts, are generally things that remains firm, sturdy and steadfast, in ones life. That being said, I know this is not the case for all. I have worked with enough refugees and immigrants, to know that country is really just as impermanent as everything else in this life, but for the most part, it is the most enduring and stable of the things and ideas that sway and teeter precariously in our lives. A sense of home is essential to rootedness, birth country or not...we all must feel we belong somewhere.

In 1997 we were told we were going to Myanmar (Burma). We had no choice. I have nothing against the place, but I had just started a path of higher education. Education, at that point in my life, was akin to an inner calling; one that was more to do with healing, than simply learning stuff. Needless to say, the decision to journey down that undulating educational road was not made lightly, so the possibility of abandoning such dreams was thwart with much nonsensical angst. My head was filled with questions, "why now, when this education journey felt so right?" These questions led me on to another path, such as wondering about opportunity, and ideas about that which lays in wait for us in Myanmar; "what if we were MEANT to be there".
The deal eventually fell through, but the process made me question my studies, interests and focus, resulting in me ditching my ambiguously defined Arts degree; two years in, and commencing a Social Work degree instead; a four year commitment.

The first year of my SW degree was fantastic, and I met a wonderful friend at the new university, who I now consider one of my soul sisters. At the end of that first year, the company Ashley worked for, suffered a major contractual blow and laid off a large number of people as a result. Ashley's position vanished from under his feet and he was told the only position for him, within the company, was in Thailand...we had the weekend to think about it, though it was hardly a decision really, it was a forced situation.

For months we made hasty logistical arrangements to leave; letting go of certain things around us. Suddenly, the life we had always known, could not feature within our immediate plans, and we had to try to imagine a different reality.

After four months, and no word of exactly when we were leaving, we were told, once again, "the deal was off", while initially relieved - this degree thing felt constantly under-threat - the company had a dilemma on their hands - what to do with Ashley. This type of uncertainty carried on for a year, resulting in an inability to plan ANYTHING, for we were assured we were being shipped off "somewhere", just as soon as a position became available. It was a most unsettling time, with out lives feeling stagnant and stalled.

In the end, Ashley was re-titled back into the same job that had been made redundant a year before. The same job Ashley had been doing the entire year, in an unofficial capacity. Once again, nothing changed...but I did.

The energy that swirled during that time, uprooted me. I had spent such a long time floating, like a thistle spore in the wind, that I just wanted the breeze to carry me where I needed to go, and lay me down gently on a new patch of fertile earth. I guess I was yearning for the energy that had so violently uprooted me, to run full circle, but I would have to wait another 6 more years for that part in the process to take place.

When the opportunity arose, we applied to move permanently with the company, to Canada; and in doing so, the proverbial monkey was off our backs. I think our little corner of Canada is beautiful. Daily, I stand in awe of my surroundings: the mountains, the islands, the greenery, the water, the animals, but as enchanting as it is here, it actually feels like we are just on one really long holiday. We have no family here. The politics of this country are foreign to me, although I have tried to get into it, the background of the issues are missing, and so I largely feel ignorant to it all. My friends are in Australia, and they are creating lives and families of their own. A dear, dear friend of mine rang tonight, to tell me she had her baby - a healthy boy, her first. I can't believe that I am here, missing such a momentous event. She was the first of my visitors for each of my children, and yet, I am not there, for her glorious moment. Hey, I can't even get into hockey for Gods sake, and it is THE PLAYOFFS (go Canucks!) See, even THAT wasn't convincing. My husband has been terribly homesick; pining for his Aussie rules football and his cricket (yawn). As for me, I am not really pining for anything, other than people.

For me, becoming uprooted was emotionally painful. It could be likened to a young child being ripped from the arms of a panic stricken mother, and never feeling the enveloping reassurance of her loving embrace again. It is difficult to give in and trust being touched the same way, since it felt so traumatic to be plucked from the soil of ones own sense of self, the first time around.

It would be nice to settle and embed oneself whole heartedly into the process of building a life. I seriously want to shout at myself - "for God's sake, GET ROOTED! "

Poetry Thursday - the one where I am too chicken

2007-04-19T00:18:00.000-07:00

I am a reclusive type of person. In fact, it took me nearly 20 years to pluck up the courage and reveal my poems to anyone. While I present them here, at Poetry Thursday, I have only done so since Februray 2007. It was a daunting proposition, at first, but everyone has been so supportive in their commentary, that I feel gamer in sharing my writings, but to under take this weeks prompt was a little too much, too soon for me. Yep, I am a piker and I sincerely apologise.

Instead of this weeks totally optional idea, I have opted to share a poem I wrote earlier in the week, for the NaPoWriMo prompt "Bluff".

The Bluff
The Bluff stands tall;

Rising like an ancient warrior

From fertile coastal plains.

Proud and sturdy

Against the tumultuous sea.

The stoic Bluff;

Bearer of unrelenting lashings

Vicious attacks

From angry waters churning below

They strike hard against unyielding granite footings.

The south wind thrusts

Its merciless breath

Tousling squat grasses

And wild geraniums

Trembling in the scraping gale.

Summit yearnings

Require fortitude

But jubilation awaits the brave

And unsurpassed seascapes

Transfix initially reluctant ramblers.

Encounter Bay curves gently, to the east

A sandy beach hugs the coastline,

Like lemon frosting on a delectable cake;

The white teeth of broken waves

Bite hungrily into the shoreline.

With disciplined eyes

One can trace the edge of the world

Until far-flung sea mists

Blur the horizon

Blending land, sea and sky, into one.

There is nothing south of The Bluff

But a million miles of sea

And eventually ice.

The Bluff is enduring.

The Bluff stands tall.

14th April 2007

Little Black Box - NaPoWriMo Prompt - Tick Tock

2007-04-18T00:48:00.000-07:00

This poem is being submitted for Poetry Thursday's NaPoWriMo April Daily Prompts. Today's prompt has been posted as Tick Tock.

Little Black Box

There’s a little black box that sits in the shadows

It harbours hearts in there.

One is swollen past bursting point,

The other, is in for repair.

The little black box bears a gold design

Of filigree hearts and flowers,

And a gold faced clock mounted onto the lid

That silently counts down the hours.

There's a little black box that sits in the shadows-

This box you gave to me.

You told me to care for its precious contents,

Then you slipped me a golden key.

I opened the little black box one day,

And saw the paired hearts resting there

While the swollen one beat without failure or strain,

The other lay limp with a tear.

So I laid some flowers next to the hearts,

And locked the lid tight with the key.

I wound the gold clock on top of the lid,

Knowing time would set them both free.

17/04/06

Reincarnation options.

2007-04-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

A dear Aussie friend came for a visit over the weekend. She has kids, we have kids, so we planned to meet at the Vancouver Aquarium. It was so great to see her. She moved to Canada soon after we did, but lives in another province. Although it had been almost two years since I had seen her, it felt like I had only seen her yesterday, and we fell back into that lovely comfortable mode of being, that one is able to, when in the presence of a true, and much loved friend.

We shared a lovely day together, and got to chatting about all sorts of things. We were looking at the playful otters spinning and turning in the water, when my friend smiled and said, "Oh! I love otters. I'd love to come back as an otter". I so enjoyed her statement, and began watching the otters from an entirely different perspective.

They were gliding through the water with boundless energy and such grace. Their mesmerising swirling rhythm, made me feel that I were witnessing some kind of aquatic ballet. Indeed, to be as graceful, full of life and playful as an otter would be a marvellous life, and so my friend's utterance, made me wonder what I might like to come back as, should there ever be that kind of opportunity.

We were looking at the fish in the large Pacific Canada tank; fish with cold bulging eyes peering into the dark, murky depths and sour, down-turned mouths. The fish glided through the water with such defeated looks, starring back with a disdain for life, quite unaware that they were some of the rock stars of the marine world, as we mere humans had arrived in droves for an opportunity to ogle closely at them.

We concluded however, that they looked rather like grumpy old men and women, and should they speak, not a kind word would they have to say. They did indeed appear like they had tasted something bitter...perhaps they had - what with all the polluted streams, oceans and waterways, not to mention the hook stabs in the mouth they might have received, and there is the old, being plucked from their natural habitat and familiar surroundings to consider - I might look a bit bitter myself, if I had to endure all of that.

Of course, there are many kinds of fish, the variety we were observing at the time, were perhaps among the less fortunate in the fishy looks department, just as there are such individuals among the human kind (I for one, will not be looking into any mirrors during this discussion!).

The Beluga Whales were beautiful. I love their gentle faces, but they live in arctic waters, which quite frankly, doesn't appeal to me in the slightest.

The Beluga are white, like fresh fallen snow, which makes perfect sense in an environment bobbing with icebergs, but if I were a Beluga with a preference for much warmer waters, then I think I would indeed stand out more so than a pimple on a debutante's dial. I could chose to holiday in the tropics, where the beach sands were luminous white, then I might blend in....although a beached whale is never a good sign, and a good dose of sunburn on my lilly white skin would throw the the cobblers on the entire plan. However, if I, as a Beluga, thought ahead, and invested in a couple of large barrels of zinc cream to smear over the entirely of my being, then I should be alright, but since I belong in the frigid waters of the Arctic, why would I? Life of a tropics seeking Beluga was starting to sound far too complicated.

How about a dolphin? Everyone loves them. My daughter certainly delighted in their thrilling acrobatics; their leaping and their diving. Dolphins have such a likable reputation and admirable social willingness. They are noted with mystical reference and are often considered protectors; alarming surfers of sharks, lurking in their midst.

Well, I am not really noted for my extrovert behaviour, and it is a little degrading that I would have to perform tricks for a smackrel of fish. What if I were not in the mood for tricks and games? What if I just wanted to laze around on an off day, and attempt to curl up on the sea floor somewhere and be lulled to sleep by the muffled sounds of the deep? I don't think the crowds would really appreciate an introverted, sometimes depressed dolphin - no fishy treats for me. I guess I wouldn't have a weight problem to obsess over....

A gull landed on the ground before me, while I was being swept away in adventures of life as a dolphin reincarnate. The gull was not part of the aquarium exhibits. A gull is the ultimate gate crasher, although this gull's presence largely went unnoticed.

The gull was enjoying the dolphin show and didn't even have to pay, and even though the gull is essentially an animal of the marine world, living life on the sea breezes and dining on fish, the gull was not required to perform, nor was the gull trapped within the bounds of an exhibit or tank. The gull was free to fly out to more interesting surrounds, when ever he felt compelled to do so, and he could choose a variety of activities in which to amuse himself. Such as diving into the water in search of a hearty fresh meal. Resting upon the land; snuggling away from the icy gales, and searching for sea treasures hiding in the rocks, or allowing his leathery feet to sink into the soft sand. A gull can glide on a carpet of salty air, spy life from above, or play tag with other gulls. That certainly sounds like a charmed life to me.

In retrospect, my friend wasn't thinking only of the animals within the confines of the Vancouver Aquarium, and neither was I, but it was fun to imagine life as one of those marine creatures - but in all seriousness, I think I really would like to come back as a bird...a sea bird, preferably one that takes flight.

The Empress

2007-04-16T16:27:00.000-07:00

Last week we took the ferry over to Vancouver Island for a day trip. We have lived here, in Greater Vancouver, for almost two years, and had not yet ventured to those sweet corners of the province. In fact, there are many islands one might chose to sail to; Vancouver Island being the biggest, and also the home of Victoria, the capital city of British Columbia.

It was unfortunate that we had so little time to spend over there. The Island is such a lengthy beast; quiet worthy of a good weeks stay in fact. It is also a rather diverse region, with its snow capped mountains, and beachside resorts and surf. It sure was pretty over there….

Victoria is a lovely city, with some beautiful old buildings along the coast. A stroll along Inner Harbour made for a pleasant afternoon in the spring sunshine. The mild conditions drew a lively bunch of people, and also artisans, who set up shop along the seawall, in order to sell their wares. A brass band serenaded our dreamy meanderings, while a variety of tiny boats, water taxis and sea planes busily darted in and out of the quay, like worker bees diligently delivering nectar to the hive.

We had a lovely lunch at the Wharfside, which gave us a spectacular view of the water activity below. The restaurant had an elegant nostalgic feel about it; golden wood trim shining and preserved under several layers of lacquer; high ceilings with exposed beams; distressed works of art, which could only really suit a place like that, and grand lighting. The entire place carried a nice balance of warm rustic charm meets style.

We enjoyed a spot of gallery hopping after lunch. There were many to choose from. I really loved the works of EJ Hughes. Apparently he only passed away this year, but his paintings really captured BC coastal living, to a tee.

I think however, in my very humble, inexperienced and highly unqualified opinion; I would have to say that the ruby in the city of Victoria’s glittering crown would have to be the exquisite Empress Hotel, which was built a century ago.

The Empress is so exquisitely regal and romantic, one can not help but feel transported to another time, perhaps the roaring 1920’s, when the western world was awash with cash and excessive displays of extravagance were the name of the game, for those who were able.

The dining rooms alone are enough to make most people gasp, and of course, The Empress is famous for its Afternoon Te, an activity most who chose to indulge, are only ever likely to do once for the experience, because at around $50 per head for a pot of tea, chantilly cream, teeny cakes and cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off, well it is pretty steep. It goes without saying, we didn’t indulge; rather, we wandered those hallowed Empress halls; traipsed muddy footprints over its fine carpets; blotted the lacquered finishes with our grotty fingerprints and rumpled the upholstery, just like thousands of other sticky-beaked visitors, had done before us – an activity that is entirely cost-free.

The Empress really was an awe-inspiring experience. How enchanting to be surrounded by her…I didn’t want to leave. Just being in her presence made one feel proud in oneself, and I began to wonder if I should perhaps find employment in such an establishment, so I could envelop myself in such romanticism, on a daily basis. I even dared allow myself to daydream on that possibility, as we shuffled through the room where 50 or so people were enjoying Afternoon Te.

I imagined myself, a waiter dressed in the obligatory tailored white coat uniform and black trousers; the politeness in my voice, as I willingly served my seated patrons, and the fine culinary props I would present before them, to ensure the Empress experience really was one that would live on in memory, for decades to come.

I looked around at all the proud people nibbling on sweet pastries and taking dainty sips of tea through pursed lips. They poured the steaming amber liquid into faultless, beautifully patterned china tea cups, while being ever so careful they not spill a drop and soil the starched white tablecloth beneath. Conservatively dressed women, sat tall, giggling and haw-hawing behind manicured hands, at an irrelevant tid-bit, offered by a stuffy old fellow, bearing an unsightly chime of sandwich crumbs stuck in his otherwise neat moustache.

Immersing myself in the scene, I did begin to wonder, whether being a servant in such an establishment, I might eventually come to resent The Empress, her uppity crowds and emphasis on perfection; such majesty tends to draw and inspire the proud, along with the arrogant, and I could only imagine the ways some of the various staff may have been mistreated, disrespected and even dehumanised, over the years.

There must be balance in all things. It is therefore, little wonder that The Empress; with her extravagant detail and beauty, might expose some of the more ugly examples of human behaviour, and the superficialities present within individual personalities, and so I resigned myself from The Empresses employ, before the imaginary ink had dried on my imaginary employment application; preferring instead, that her rare stateliness linger longer in my heart, rather than taint her memory through an exchange of disappointed energies, blood, sweat and tears.

Poetry Thursday : Part 2

2007-04-12T00:19:00.000-07:00

I would like to thank Brian for offering his line to this weeks Poetry Thursday prompt, the one with all the rules II, his line under endless skies she wore white. This is what his line inspired from me.

Vapour maiden
To the tilting sway of ocean lullabies,
He stood aloft his creaking vessel.

Immersed in maritime harmonies,

And the rhythm of cresting waves;

Hushed, like a babe in tender arms.

He waited for her at the bow;

Patient like a returning soldier's lover.

His eyes scoured the heavens

And panned the entirety of a lavender horizon,

Until she revealed her form.

Light reflections

And atmospheric mood

Determine her appearance;

But today,

Under endless skies she wore white.

A mass of rumpled petticoats

Spill from under her skirts.

They billow with the memory of sweet promises;

Revealing themselves as silver threads

Embroidered into the hem.

A crown of sunbeams strain through soft tresses;

Cirrus wisps trailing behind her.

But with eyes cast down,

She appeared despondent,

For a vapour maiden's life is fleeting.

He gazed upon his illusive vision

Until her windswept fate overcame her,

Smearing her luminous features,

And swallowing her subtle radiance

And gentle form.

Her vanishing breaks the spell cast over him.

Their brief interlude is a window to Her world;

A world where the sea meets the sky at the horizon;

And should he choose to follow her,

A vapour maiden, who will lead him safely home.

I don't look good in lycra

2007-04-09T23:35:00.000-07:00

May I be among the first to reign in the post-Easter guilt insanity, by announcing that I have just signed up with CURVES for Women. How predictable! Surprise BLOODY surprise.

On the back of inspirators, like Tracey and Kimberly, I think it is time; time for a new regime, a fresh, more positive outlook; a new MEEEeeeeee.

I wonder how long my newly found enthusiasm for energetic things will last? 5, perhaps 10 minutes? Golly, I do indeed disappoint myself with my good intentions, lofty and fanciful expectations and gung-ho idealism. I do tend to go into such fitness ventures with all the gusto of the newly inspired and then....I don't know, immediate results do not present themselves, and so I lose interest, become disenchanted and give up, thus returning to my far more productive and successful, sedentary lifestyle. sigh.

I am fully aware that it takes time and effort, and also perhaps, JUST as one is on the verge of giving up, the break through appears, but I sabotage my efforts in a zillion different ways on a daily basis, so why is this time going to be any different? Honestly? I have no idea.

I have been doing the Nordic Walking thing, but strangely, I am not getting the results I had expected from it. I am planning to persist with that group on Tuesdays, since it is a group thing, and I think I respond well to group motivation , and it is a little social, unlike going to the gym for an aerobic session (which, quite frankly, bores me shitless), but I also need something else...so Curves has been chosen, as "it".

"So. What made you pick up the phone and call....today, of all days", asked my perky recruiter.
"Well yesterday you were shut, Mate." (ok, smart arse).

No seriously, a couple of friends recommended Curves to me, and since there is facility very close to my house, well...why not. Furthermore, the workouts are only 30 minutes, so I hardly think I will have time to get bored before it is time to leave (although stranger things have happened). It is also kind of like a group thing, in that the staff are right there....so all in all, it seemed like a good idea... at the time. I hope to go three times a week; as they suggest. I have been weighed and measured (results being all to horrifying to reveal or admit to), so I will hopefully be able to see my progress over the coming months (....Oh God! Months....).

So, like the Nordic Walking, I am posting this for all to see, so you might once again, hold me accountable and bear witness to my reluctant and resigned, yet necessary steps, down fitness lane.

Poetry Thursday - the one with all the rules II

2007-04-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem a while ago, as you will note by the date, but am posting as part of the Poetry Thursday prompt - "the one with the rules II", which sees participants borrowing from lines of other participant poetry, but a line must first be offered, before a participant can become "inspired" by it - just one line, that is all we are allowed to reveal. So from my poem, In the Bud of a Rose, I am offering the line "If you and I were inanimate things".

I thought it might be interesting to see what people come up with from that line, or how they might use it in a completely different way. Anyway, I am eager to check out the lines left by other participating poets, to see what inspires me.

The deadline is Thursday, should be fun.

In The Bud of a Rose

There's a gulf between us – you and I
A sea, so many leagues deep.
While slumbering restfully in your bed,
It is I who struggles to sleep.

I fret the day and am nocturnally troubled
About the state and future of things.
I wonder if I could possibly live
With the threat this activity brings.

We hardly compare – you and I.
I hide and you expose.
You wear your heart there on your sleeve,
I conceal mine in the bud of a rose.

You shout to the roof tops to proclaim your love-
I express devotion with mime.
I leave no impression when I walk
But your presence is felt for all time.

If you and I were inanimate things
You’d be a poem and I’d be a mist.
I would vanish, in the warmth of the day
-You’d linger in mind like a kiss.

I remain nameless to most kind folk and foe,
But you know me as “friend”,
And my mind's agrieved by this journey you take
And just how this story could end.

But the moon, it still shines there high above
Like a torch light on a stray page.
And although there's a gulf between us
We might see the same moon, at some stage.

© Strauss
18/4/06