Thursday, April 20, 2017

Road Trip Baby! Part one

The Fake Gordo Ramsay and I  took a roadtrip with the grunty teen who is here on holiday and would rather be mining uranium with his hands than hanging out with his uncool parents. After much whispered discussions we decided to commune with nature for a few days, and as we hadn’t visited Yesomite off we went.

We lost radio coverage rather quickly, so I finally figured out how to Bluetooth my phone and  my tunes filled the car.

Grunty Teen. “What’s that sound,” he asked in a horror filled voice.
Moves, baby, Moves!
Me: “Disco, baby, where’s your glittering ball.” Some impressive moves were being made in the passenger seat.
Grunty Teen: “Can I walk to Yeosimite?”

A little while later. 

Grunty Teen: “You’ve got Kaleo, The Black Keys and Rihanna’s Love on the Brain?” Eyes wide in the back seat.
Me: ‘Yep, along with Dusty Springfiled’s ‘You don’t have to say you love me. (What a heartbreaker.) Midnight Train to Georgia (nothing else to be said), and a lot of The Boss, Pink Floyd, and The Stones.”
Grunty Teen: “I didn’t think you’d  know who Pink Floyd was.”
Ah, youth. 

As we approached Yosemite, I was alarmed at the temperature doovie in the car that was dropping at a rapid rate, so I lowered the window, stuck my head out and sniffed – dog style, whereby everything on my face froze.
“Holy hell, it really is freezing,” I said to anyone vaguely interested.
The Fake Gordon Ramsay looked at me sideways. “The snow didn’t give it away?”
Me: “I was kinda hoping it was fake snow because you know with all the supposed fake stuff out there…”

Courtesy of LA Times
Fake Gordo: “Yeah, because making snow and throwing it on the ground in random places seems like a fun thing to do.

Sometimes I want the bad language that is in my head to make an entrance, but there is a grunty teen in the back, who I am sure knows a lot more language than I do. 

More to come. 

Friday, March 31, 2017

Practical vs. Sentimental

Last night I was going through one of the many boxes that have moved with us around the world. You know the ones that you’re not sure what’s in them, but it must be important because, hey, they’re here. Anyway, I was looking for a recipe for a cake I’ll probably never make. I was heavily into box number seven, affectionally labeled ‘Documents’ by the removalist, but which the fake Gordon Ramsay had labeled ‘crap we haul around the world with us.’

Hub’s sighed and said in a slightly exasperated voice “You kept all of that?”
Me: “Yes.” I stared at him dumbfounded. “Of course.”
Hubs: “Why do you keep every single picture?”

Because as women and mums are we more sentimental? I’d never get rid of their first school report, my first love letter (carefully printed in seven-year-old writing), a crumpled flower that was clutched in a tiny hand for hours because he wanted me to have something pretty. I’ve kept the newspapers published on the day they were born and every Mother’s Day card. The flower soap I’d had for years sadly didn’t make it. It hit humidity, and well let’s say box number four smells nice.
Is this just a Venus and Mars situation or is it just me being terribly sentimental?

Are you sentimental? Do you keep ‘stuff’ like me or are you like the Fake Gordon Ramsay. Is there something that you’ve saved?

You can't get rid of footprints!

Thursday, January 12, 2017

Holding onto resentment - that big ugly word

We have pretty money
Clueless Wonder Two is in between school terms. It’s summer down under so he’s here. It’s been a while. Quite a while. He’s a teenage boy who speaks in grunts, a language I am slow to understand. If anyone has a manual, I will pay in liquid gold, tequila, the Yen or any currency you want. Name your price.

So, we were having that conversation. Again. The one that goes. Holy crap, it’s three a.m, and someone is breaking into the house. Wait. They’ve already broken in. I can hear footsteps. But, how would they know the alarm code? Armed with a flat-iron, I ventured into the living room. Clueless was eating a mandarin in the kitchen.

Me. In a state of heightened panic: “It’s three a.m. I thought you were staying at Kevin’s?”
Clueless: “Got bored.”
Me: “How did you get home?
Clueless: Another mandarin down. “Walked.”
Me: Trying not to blow a vein. “You walked! Why didn’t you call me, or Uber?”
Clueless: Shrugs shoulders.
He went to bed to sleep hopefully (that’s another blog post), and I went to bed to fret over all the things that could have happened. So, the next morning, after a calming herbal tea. I wanted a quadruple shot of coffee, but I needed to have this chat in a calm and composed manner. Well, out came the camel spitting attitude. He’s okay, nothing would happen, it was only five miles (I nearly faint), I’m too over protective, and this is exactly like the time I wouldn’t let him go trick or treating by himself when he was seven. Even with me hiding behind lampposts and pretending we weren’t related.

Me. Doing a quick match calculation: “That was nine years ago!”
Clueless: With a look of evil triumph: “I walked home last night, and nothing happened. It would have been the same then.”

It wouldn’t, but debating with the equivalent of a hissing camel was getting us nowhere. But, holy hell. He’s held onto this for nine years!

Admittedly, I have held onto stuff, but I don’t think for nine years. I do remember hanging onto resentment at my mother not letting me go to a party when I was sixteen, and all the cool kids were going – to a beach without any adults there but probably bucket loads of cheap alcohol. In hindsight, I can see her reasoning, but I don’t think I’ve held a grudge for nine years. I’m not Freud, but I think that’s unhealthy.

It should be noted that The Fake Gordon Ramsay was in Chicago or off with his new and improved family.
 I guess that means Clueless and I will sit down and examine if there’s anything else festering in there that needs to come out.

 Is there anything you’ve held onto for too long?

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

How I know technology has taken over my world!

Grunty teen texted me from his bedroom asking if I could put a piece of toast on for him so he could have an extra three minutes sleep. I was texting out a furious reply when I realized what I was doing. I was texting! What’s happened to me? (therapy and medication are helping, somewhat). I yelled at him to get his sorry butt into the kitchen and make his own toast!

Instead of phoning a friend on her birthday, I wished her happiness on Facebook, sent an email and thought back to when me and Fred Flintstone grew up, and there wasn’t the technology around today. I miss hearing human voices who aren’t trying to convince me I owe the IRS millions and a bailiff is coming to my house (bring it). Someone wanting to sell me solar. I phoned my friend, and we chatted for ages. Dissed our kids, complained about our husbands and lamented the fact we haven’t won Powerball. We laughed, smiled and hung up with a promise to keep phoning. All without an emoji in sight.

A beautiful handwritten Christmas card landing in my mailbox instead of an electronic one. I too have been guilty of this. But the line at the Post Office will be huge? I’ll have to get out of sweats and look somewhat decent and go into a shop, so people don’t turn to stone when they see me. Medusa and I are quite tight, just quietly. A Christmas card with thoughts from across the miles landed in my mailbox, and the delight of opening it, checking out the Snoopy stamp, reading the heartfelt message means I’m returning the favor to everyone. I am showered, there are no visible snakes in my hair, and I’m off to the post office. If I’m not back in a week send a search party, please. 

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Who's Clueless now?

It has been a while between posts. Clueless Wonder Two is here and wanted to shop! I'm all up for Clueless Two to not look like the child who sleeps under the pier. Shopping with a grunty teenager when you don't speak grunt is 'frustrating.'

` The fake Gordon Ramsay and I swanned in this week after date night and stopped inside the front door. Backstory - it has been sweltering here in Southern California.

Me: "Has the house been possessed?" Gordon: "Not sure." Me: Looks around nervously. "Should we call a priest?" Gordon: "Do they make house calls?" Me: Stares at the icicles forming on the windows. "They did in the movie, and that's always a reliable source."

Clueless Two then informed us we have air conditioning. We've lived here a year! Talk about who is Clueless. I thought it was the non-working security alarm. Right, I'm off to see if there's a hidden hot tub in the back yard. The picture is of Clueless at Redondo wearing shorts without holes. Thank you, Nordstrom Rack.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

What's in your drawers??

Today is Clueless Wonder's birthday!
Clueless when he was little in his fat, bat hat

Today I was supposed to be writing, but really all of the drawers in the bedroom had to be emptied the clothes folded with military precision. After the clothes, I really should Dr. Google how to concrete the driveway. Wandering the aisles at Staples for a hole punch I might need is on the horizon.
Hello, queen of procrastination!

During the drawer procrastination, I came across the fat, bat hat from the above photo. I adored that hat and thought Clueless looked quite jaunty wearing it.
Jaunty Hat

Nostalgia for days gone by creep up now and then. He's getting older and the days of skipping a couple of meals to lose a few pounds are way gone, if they ever existed. Eating only carrots and hummus for days, turning slightly orange and not losing anything is upon me.

Next week is green apple week. If you see a strange woman in the aisles of Staples muttering about the perfect hole punch while lugging a bag of apples, give her a small smile. She needs it.

Is there anything nostalgic you've kept?

I do promise to post why I call him Clueless Wonder.

Tuesday, August 16, 2016

How I overcame my fear of tomatoes

I'm a tomato and I rock. 
Bunch in tight people, this is a personal one.

 I loved tomatoes. Wait. I used to love tomatoes. Not a day would go by when I didn’t munch on the red blast of sunshine.
Fast forward to when my mum was in Critical Care, barely hanging on. She’d gone from feeling mildly unwell to hooked up to tubes in a matter of days. I asked the lovely doctor what could have happened.

“Could be something like a tomato pip that got stuck in her bowel.”

One tiny, tiny tomato seed could do that?

The strawberry vacherin I will never make

Tomatoes and I parted ways. Over the years I missed them, but, the old ‘what if…” hung in my brain. I couldn’t take the risk. I had children. I hadn’t cooked even one of the five thousand recipes I’d painstakingly cut out.  I had so much still to do.

Then one day, not long ago, I ate a cherry tomato. It was heaven. It was delicious. I’d been torturing myself and missing out because of ‘what if’.

What if has turned into ‘why worry about stuff that I have no control over’.

I could be felled by a tomato. I am more likely to get run over by a bus (I always look the wrong way – I blame my Kiwi roots.) The likelihood is the stress my children induce will bring me closer to hanging with my mum.

So, for me, no worrying about ‘what if’ instead I’m going to concentrate on ‘no more worrying about what I can’t control and have a blast while I’m here’.

Me and mum hanging with Skippy.