Fun Fact Fiday

Sloths only go the bathroom once a week. I bet they don't take the paper with them...

Successfully Ageing? Ummmm No!

Bondi Beach 

G’Day!

Today our greeting comes from Australia who are celebrating their national day today. 

My local paper runs a large advertisement which puzzles me:

'Come and join our Successful Ageing Seminar'

What if you’re not successful? Is there a pass grade? If you fail is it lights out?

Wiki Commons courtesy of Incry

Me?  I'm fighting the ageing process one ‘miracle’ promise at a time.

I have bathroom drawers brimming with products guaranteed to turn back the clock, erase those lines and bring back once luminous skin. (I'm not sure my skin was ever luminous, but I live in hope). I’ll slather that stuff on for a week, a year, as long as it takes. I’ll stare hopefully at those lines imagining them being ironed out. (Honestly, if they made an iron for faces, that sucker would be winging its way to my door).

My clearly clueless wonder husband, sighs heavily when yet another miracle jar sits proudly next to his contribution to the bathroom counter- deodorant.  He asks in a bewildered voice why I bother because to him I’m lovely. Keep those rose colored glasses on Clueless. 

Zipping up and down the aisles of my local pharmacy, I'm struck by the tiny section dedicated to male moisturizers when women have triple-decked shelves dedicated to fighting the first signs of ageing. 

Is it mostly women fighting ageing? Is there a secret men’s club out there? - Clueless assured me there isn’t.  Is it programmed into our genes? Are we influenced by advertising? Are we worried about being replaced? Clueless looked a tad too excited at that thought.

I will keep searching for the ‘Turn Back Time’ miracle cream because hope and luminous skin are fabulous things.

Am I along in my quest? 

Is there such a thing as a miracle cream?

What are your thoughts on ageing?

Fun Fact Friday

Sea otters hold hands when they sleep to keep from drifting apart.

Ahhhhhhhhh.

Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

One Food. Choose. Now!

The grunty teen and I were conversing - me in English and The Grunter in a series of caveman grunts I have yet to decipher because I have girly bits so I’ll never understand.

We were talking/grunting about food, more specifically what we would have for dinner. Head Clueless Wonder - the budding Gordon Ramsay was whooping it up in Sydney. 

Courtesy of Kevin Trotman Flickr Commons

The Grunter was unhappy I wouldn’t be serving sausages swimming in cheese. I explained that I couldn’t because I’d signed an online eradicate scurvy petition when he was born and every meal had to contain a green vegetable or fruit.

There we stood like duelists at dawn.

Courtesy of Doug Gelster Flickr Commons

We used to play this game when The Grunter was little and squishy and, well seemed to like me a whole lot more. If he could choose one thing to eat for the rest of your life what would it be? With nothing to lose I asked what he’d eat.

Grunter: “Sausages.”

Responsible parent: “Salad (a total lie, but I was going for the higher moral ground here, and to underscore the whole scurvy issue.)

Grunter: “A green apple.”

Responsible Parent: “Peanut butter.”I can and do stand in the kitchen and spoon that goodness right into my mouth. While I prefer crunchy I will take smooth.

Grunter: “Can, I make dinner?”

Responsible Parent: “Sure.” Shocked and deeply suspicious, I had the Thai restaurant down the road on speed dial.

Twenty minutes later, The Grunter and I sat at the table. On his plate was a partially burnt sausage covered in bbq sauce, a slice of cheese and half an apple. On mine was a handful of scattered lettuce, a single wonkily cut cherry tomato and the other half of the apple covered in peanut butter.

Courtesy of Glenn3095 Flickr Commons

Best meal of the week.

If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life what would it be? I think you can guess mine.

Does anyone know where I can purchase a manual on understanding grunty teen boys?

Why I'm never giving up the dream of size SMALL.

Nestled in my bedroom drawers behind the sweatpants and the ‘roomy’ jeans lie a pair of black jodhpurs. Every time we move house or country the Jod’s come. The Jod’s are family.When I open the drawer and run my hands lovingly over the black fabric, I am letting myself live the dream a little longer.

You see the Jod’s have one magical letter. The ‘S’ on the tag. That ‘S’ represents hope. Hope that one day my small self with fit those suckers. If you looked at me you’d say “Those Jod’s were quite a few cream donuts ago, just quietly.” Why, yes, yes they were. The Jod’s were a time when I could run without causing damage to the pavement. The Jod’s were pre-kids when I could party on tequila and feast on cheese-puffs (something I still do because they’re cheese puffs and I am their slave). The Jod’s were a time before I worked out (kind of) at home, instead of hitting the gym and being mistaken for the janitorial staff. (Apparently you don’t wear your Buffalo Bills T-shirt (with pride) and a pair of quietly unattractive bike shorts, but instead wear matching lycra in cute prints.)

The Jod’s represent hope. Hope that one day, barring disease they will slip on with ease. Hope that one day I will finish the Paleo/Atkins/South Bay/Tomato Soup/Orange Juice/Fig and Bacon/Boysenberry ice-cream and cheese puffs diet (okay, I made the last one up). Until then I’m hanging onto the Jod’s, because they give me hope, and if you can’t hope then my world got a bit smaller (but not my butt) and sadder.

What about you? Is there a piece of clothing you hold onto?