Too young to savour the  bittersweet satisfaction of sipping a steaming cappacino, I thought the sweet, bright yet sophisticated version of my favourite brew matched her personality better anyway.

“Once you wake up and smell the coffee, it’s hard to go back to sleep.” Fran Drescher

As an aside, I am a finalist in the Groupon “Raiders of the lost voucher” blogger competition.  I would be ever so grateful if you would consider voting for me, which you can do by clicking here and writing “Misha” in the comments.  Thank you!

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

They say a picture is worth a thousand words… which is a blessing in this case as this one left me speechless.

It is purportedly the image of Columbian Torero Alvaro Munera, who, in the middle of a bullfight, became suddenly and completely overwhelmed by the injustice and cruelty of his brutal actions in the bullfighting arena and from that moment, became a fervent anti-bullfighting campaigner.  The truth is that his epiphany came much later… and there is some debate as to whether or not it is Munera or another torero who features in the image.

Yet despite the disputes over the details, the power of the image remains.  Innately gentle beasts, the bulls used in bullfighting are conditioned, through extremely barbaric means, to appear aggressive and fierce.   This image shows one particular bull, tortured to the brink of death, who appears to approach his retreating persecutor with compassion, concern and humanity.  Virtues the matador has determinedly buried in order to perform his sickening crowd-pleasing duties.  Qualities that appear to have been unearthed by the very creature he can least afford to attach them to.  At least according to the ancient bullfighting mantra.

I have admitted on this blog before that I avoid conflict.  Detest it.  And yet sometimes it is unavoidable.  Sometimes we are provoked to the brink and we have no choice but to fight back.  Just like Munero’s bull.  And that’s why this image stopped me in my tracks.  Because it tells a story of a different kind strategic warfare.   The art of the peaceful warrior.

It’s not that the bull didn’t have an appreciation of the injustice and savagery metered out against him.  It’s not that he didn’t want it to stop with every ounce of his being.  It’s not that he was unable to match the brute determination of the matador.  It’s not even that he didn’t fight back.   Because he did fight back.

He just chose a different set of weapons.

And while the bull lost his life soon after this photograph was taken, in my mind he still won the battle.

“For to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.”  Sun Tzu

And that’s exactly what Munero’s bull did.  He subdued the enemy without fighting fire with fire.  Instead, drawing on a deep well of forgiveness, kindness and compassion to smother the flames of violence.  The bull was able to lead by example, not brute force.  And in doing so, was able to build his opponent “a golden bridge to retreat across” - Sun Tzu.

One photograph.

One courageous beast.

Grabbing humanity by the horns.

Inspiring one man to incite a stampede of support for animal rights.

And urging us all to cut the bull and find better ways to resolve conflict.

You can find out more about the campaign to end bullfighting by the World Society for the Protection of Animals (WSPA) here.

On a lighter note, I am embroiled in a friendly battle of my own with a talented blogger named Sheri from Mommy Adventures, who is a co-finalist in the Groupon “Raider’s of the lost voucher” competition.  If you have the time to vote, I would be very grateful if you would click on the competition link here and write “I vote for Misha” in the comments.

Have you ever seen a photo/image that has completely changed the way you think about certain things?

Group one consisted of the super-brainy, smarty pants rodents, while Group two contained your average neighbourhood “beer short of a 6 pack”, garden variety rats.  He set up two identical mazes and brought out his eager science students to train the rats to go through the maze.

So… which group do you think did better?  The know-it-all rats or the Mickey mouses?

If you’re waiting for a shock answer here, you’ll be sadly disappointed.  Because the gifted rats did much better in the maze mastery test than their less intellectually endowed friends.

I know.

Another science experiment that sits up there with the one that found that after you have kids, you do more housework and sleep less.  Sigh.  And also, yawn.

But wait!  I was just about to slam that ole textbook shut when my eyes flicked over the next paragraph.  Apparently there was no such thing as a smart or stupid rat, at least in Rosenthal’s ratty collection.  Instead, Rosenthal had randomly divided his rats into two groups. They were equally brilliant.  Or not so much.  The only difference was in what he told his science students.  In other words he LIED to them, telling them that one group contained gifted rats while the other group contained stupid rats.

In an interesting turn of events, it seemed that the students unconsciously influenced the performance of their rats, based on their expectations of how the rats would perform.  If they expected their rats to do well, then they did.  If they expected them to become hopelessly lost in the maze, then they generally did.

Oh the ramifications of this little gem.

From now on, my expectation will be that all of my children are genius athletes who will keep their bedrooms impeccably tidy at all times!

And as for my expectations of myself… I will always look impeccably groomed, in my immaculately clean home while being cheerful at all times and working 6 hours a night whilst my perfect family is slumbering soundly.  That is, after spending 4 hours at the gym of course.

Hmmm.

I don’t question Rosenthal’s findings.  It’s true that if you set high expectations of yourself and others, you are inclined to meet them.  But at what cost?  Exhaustion, fear of failure, anxiety, guilt?  I’m not sure I want that for my children.  Or for myself.

We aren’t lab rats.  Or at least we shouldn’t be made to feel like one.  Lab rats generally don’t navel gaze about their expectations of themselves or others.  They just get on with the job of scampering through the fields collecting grains, making a gazillion babies, gnawing through the electrical cables of houses, scaring the camembert out of late night bloggers and taunting their less than gifted cats.

They don’t set out to become the fastest maze runner.  It’s someone else who smacks that expectation onto them and I suspect that it doesn’t make them that happy.

The rat race is an inevitable part of life.  We need to race to survive.  But I wonder if sometimes we scurry around a million mazes more than we need to because we’re conforming to society’s unrealistic expectations of us, rather than what is truly required.

“Happiness equals reality minus expectations”  Tom Magliozzi

Sometimes I think we’re better off clamouring over the occasional maze wall and escaping to the hills with a big wedge of camembert, don’t you?

Do you feel under pressure to conform to unrealistic expectations, or do you march to the beat of your own drum?

Back with the lovely Jess from Diary of a SAHM for #iBOT…

At some stage of their lives, everyone dreams of owning a real, live octopus.

Not just to have black ink for your quill always at the ready.  Or in case you have a sudden craving for hot calamari and chips.  No.  It’s because you have always wondered what you would really be able to achieve if only you had eight arms.  And you want to intently study an ethereal creature of the deep that has just that.  Only, you know, without having to  do any actual scientific study.

So if you had eight arms… would you be able to simultaneously put a bandaid on a scraped knee whilst hanging out laundry, answering the inane questions of a telemarketer on the phone and painting your toenails aqua-marine blue?  Or would you be able to catch up with all of your emails, internet banking, facebooking and tweeting whilst working on four laptops…. simultaneously.  Oh the possibilities!  I could redefine the meaning of the word “Octomom”!   And maybe, just maybe, I could fulfill my dream of one day being a guest on the Martha Stewart show… “One mum reveals the secret behind how she manages to keep it all together!”  Actually it probably wouldn’t be much of a secret… being that I would be floating around town with eight arms and all.

Anyhoo, my friends at Groupon Australia recently moved office and while tidying up their desks, came across an unused Groupon Voucher valued at $500.  As you do.  And they are running a competition to give away the ancient (but still valid) Groupon Voucher they unearthed.  To enter the competition, all you need to do is write a short blog post, saying what you would do with the $500 of Groupon Credit, then send the URL of your post to connect@groupon.com.au.

If I won the $500 Groupon Voucher I’d buy a real live octopus and spend my days languidly watching it swish around its tank while dreaming of what I would do if only I had eight arms.  And then I’d google a tasty seafood carbonara recipe.

Good luck!

“The trick to juggling is determining which balls are made of rubber and which ones are made of glass.”

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

]]> http://www.theblingbuoy.com/2012/07/25/wordless-wednesdays-juggle/feed/ 16 http://www.theblingbuoy.com/2012/07/18/wordless-wednesday-bloom/ http://www.theblingbuoy.com/2012/07/18/wordless-wednesday-bloom/#comments Tue, 17 Jul 2012 21:01:12 +0000 Misha http://www.theblingbuoy.com/?p=1348

“The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all.”  Walt Disney

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

I appreciate that everyone has something going on and that their capacity to take on the problems of others is limited.

I see that people get angry when they perceive that others are bypassing existing systems to get what they want.  I get that.  I really do.

But….

You knew there was a “but” coming, didn’t you?

Sometimes we need to put all of that aside to see the bigger picture.  Myself included.

On this blog, I have always played it pretty safe.  I’ve avoided compromising my position of comfort by keeping articles lighthearted and uplifting.  And I’ve done that because I believe that we all have a little part of us that is broken.   So I wanted a blog to buoy people through those challenging times that we all have.   To make them feel more comfortable.

But then I see people going through utter misery.   Something a light hearted blog post will have no impact on.  Whatsoever.  I see people who are desperate enough to clamor aboard a dilapidated sea-craft, placing their young children at risk of death, in order to escape the countries into which they were born.  Only to die in transit.  Or languish in a refugee camp while their fate is decided by people who will never truly understand their plight.   Or their despair.

That’s when I realized that it’s time to step out of my comfort zone.

The endless, ineffective political chatter surrounding the asylum seeker “solution” does my head in.  How can changing policies about where or how we “process” asylum seekers have any impact on how people smugglers lure potential “customers”?  For a start, they hardly strike me as the most ethical bunch.  Surely they will happily tell potential “customers” of their plan to outwit any dastardly plan of ours to keep them away.

No.

If you really want to break the business model of people smugglers, then destroy their customer base.  Change the living conditions of the people who have become so desperate to escape that they will do anything. believe anything…  to find a life filled with opportunity, humanity and peace.  If we really want to crush the people smuggling trade, then we need to help create a cultural climate and living conditions that people will not aspire to escape from.  Perhaps they may even be inspired to build upon it.

I am not naive enough to believe that this is a simple goal to attain.  Because it is not.   Yet despite the negative hyperbole around the asylum seeker issue, I genuinely believe that all parties involved would like to see an end to the horrific scenes that routinely flash across our television screens.  Unfortunately, I don’t believe a “solution” is possible as it was always be a work in progress.   I also believe it is wrong to regard it as “Australia’s solution”, albeit that has got to be better than the “Malaysia solution”.

No.

This needs to be a “global solution”.   Or at least a “global vision”.

And it needs to start with the Australian government increasing its support of the United Nations in its teaching of internal conflict resolution skills to war torn countries.   To provide them with better skills in terms of resource and economic management.   Facilitate stronger diplomatic relations, not decaying ones.  We need to work more closely with the United Nations and those countries that are currently “comfortable” enough to accommodate an increase in the numbers of asylum seekers accepted, with a clear intention that this is to be considered as part of a broader policy.   Surely a functioning country with positive diplomatic ties is more “use” to everyone than an imploding, shrapnel spitting one.   Isn’t it worth the investment?  Why not direct our resources to that end rather than the great expense and risk involved in ineffective, unethical strategies such as “turn the boats around” or “people swap”?

So yep.  I believe the solution to asylum seekers begins with a vision of world peace.  If only I didn’t have cellulite, stretch marks and wrinkles then I would be a prime candidate for a Miss Universe title!  Wait.

Does this all sound a little naïve?  Unrealistic?

Not as naïve or unrealistic as thinking that endless, expensive discussions about where to process asylum seekers will result in a “solution” of any kind.   What I see working is a direction, not a destination.  And that’s got to be better than spinning around in circles.

For those who believe our borders should not be porous, I have news for you.  It’s too late.  The commercial world has been leveraging off this reality for a long time.

Everyone has tried or has at least heard of American Coca-Cola.  We happily enjoy Indian takeaway on Friday nights.  Our economy depends on trade of our agricultural produce.  This is a smart strategy.  In fact the success of human beings over other species has largely been a result of its capacity to form large, complex social structures.  And this is operating as we speak on a global scale, commercially more than politically.  So if we want to move forward in terms of asylum seekers and many other issues, we need to build upon this phenomenon responsibly, developing the global village concept with a vision of enabling positive living conditions for everyone.  Poorly managed attempts to close our “porous borders” will only result in suffocation.

And that would be uncomfortable indeed.

 When was the last time you stepped outside of your comfort zone?

“It isn’t the mountain ahead that wears you out; it’s the grain of sand in your shoe.”  Robert W Service

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

***

Everyone in the Middle Ages believed — as Aristotle had — that the heart was the seat of intelligence.
***

The Earth is not actually round in shape; in fact it is geoid. “Geoid” means it has a rounded shape with a slight bulge towards the equator.

***

If you lined up all the slinky’s ever made in a row they could wrap around the Earth 126 times.

***

A dog’s nose print is as unique as a human’s fingerprint and can be used to accurately identify them.

***

Thank you weirdfacts.com for that most intriguing little list of facts.

But the most interesting fact I have read lately is the one that states “You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.” ― Jim Rohn

Interesting.

I have never really considered the effect of other people on me, and have certainly never chosen friends on that basis.  At playgroup last week, the top 5 mothers who were lucky enough to spend time with me were the women who were not busy cleaning up vomit, breaking up toddler wars or taking a sneaky nap on the couch in the corner.  I guess that according to Jim Rohn’s theory, that makes me the awake (for now) parent of a relatively peace-loving (for now), gastro-intestinally sound (for now) child.  Kudos to me, I guess.

But it also makes me think about my effect on others.  Is my 1/5 of an effect on other people positive, happy and uplifting?  Do I maintain relationships with my friends enough such that I can make any difference at all?  And do I want to change people, or be changed by them?

All I know is that if I don’t go to bed soon, then my effect on those around me is more likely to be grumpy, snappy and fighting for the sneaky nap couch in the playgroup corner tomorrow.  Time to hit the hay methinks.

In the meantime, my reality is that the 5 people I spend the most time with are my family.  My four wonderfully messy, funny, energetic little blondies and a husband with infinite patience for my whimsical meanderings.   I think that says a lot actually!  And if I take it one step further than Jim Rohn ever intended it to and average the ages of the five people I spend the most time with, then I am a 12 year old.  An age defined by uncertainty, growth and optimistic visions of a future filled with endless opportunities.  While I could do without much of the turmoil & bad hairstyling choices that come with being 12 again, I think there’s a lot to be said for the sense of opportunity & anticipation of change that comes with that age.

“Refuse to be average. Let your heart soar as high as it will.” A. W. Tozer

Or at least surround yourself with people who make your heart soar.  Then average is all that you will ever need to be.

Do you believe you are the average of the 5 people you spend the most time with?

“If you are patient… and wait long enough… nothing will happn.” Garfield

Now feed me!

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

The slice recipe that my Aunty used to make and was famous for. Based on a recipe that no one had ever seen, except for her. I had tried so many times to replicate it, each time frustrated by failure.

Until now.

I was scrolling through an online recipe blog, searching for the perfect slice to take to my daughter’s playdate in the park that afternoon when I felt a faint glimmer of recognition. I started to wonder if maybe this was it. The secret recipe behind the slice that my Aunty presented to the hosts of every backyard barbeque, morning tea and family function she attended. The slice that everyone ate excessive quantities of. The slice that everyone asked for the recipe for, to which my Aunty would reliably reply, “Sure! Next time I see you!”

Of course, she never did.

My Aunty died just a few weeks before our wedding over 14 years ago. Even at her funeral, people talked about that slice. Did anyone know the recipe? Nope. She always said she’d give it to us the next time she saw us.

Silence.

So when I saw the picture of the slice on my shiny iphone screen last week and perused the somewhat untraditional ingredient list, my heartbeat quickened oh so slightly. It would be warm and sweet on the inside, tempered by unexpected crunchiness… and laced with just enough zest amidst the frost-like icing to make you want more without knowing why.

Not unlike my Aunty, really.

Encouraged by my discovery, I sat down earnestly and modified the recipe to make it fit more precisely with the 14 year old slice memory that had stayed surprisingly sharp in my mind. It was more difficult to make than expected. One of those recipes that is so labour intensive that your hands ache and cramp by the time you gratefully slide it into the oven. Techniques that you never see on re-runs of Masterchef. Instead, your mind floats away on imaginings of the way things were done a generation or so ago, before the obsession with simplification and speed gained momentum.

“The fruit derived from labor is the sweetest of all pleasures.” Luc De Clapiers

And I think that’s what made my Aunty’s slice so sweet. As well as explain why she never wanted anyone to have to make it for themselves.

Soon after my first batch of slice came out of the oven, I served some to my hungry children and my nephew who had joined us for afternoon tea. A sweet, satiated silence followed.

Success.

Accompanied by a sweet sense of sadness.

And long overdue solace.

The left-overs came with me to the school play date later that afternoon. Just before we were planning to leave, one of the mums asked me for the recipe for my slice, to which I replied,

“Sure! Next time I see you!”

Do you have a signature dish you’re famous for?

Hi.  My name is Misha and I am Neophilic.

Which means I have been bestowed with a strong affinity for novelty…. and I’m ok with that.   Whether it be a new restaurant, a new boutique or a new playdough recipe… as long as it’s got a high novelty factor then I’m there like a Frenchman’s fork to a garlic sautéed snail.

Which is why I jumped around the house like fresh escargot on a hot frying pan when the good people at Groupon sent me a voucher to review their service.   The products, services, wellness packages, beauty and travel deals featured on the website are geared towards the neophile lying latently within all of us.  That is, these deals are not the usual collection of products or services that you find in every snail-mail catalogue that clogs your letterbox.  They are interesting, novel and for me… irresistibly addictive.

So… I decided to use my Groupon Voucher to give the Magnetic iPhone Smartcase a try.   Sticking my iPhone on the fridge while perusing new recipes instead of spilling milk/juice/garlic sauté sauce all over my beloved Twitter machine on the kitchen bench – now there’s a novel idea!  And of course like all Groupon deals, it came with a hefty discount.  Groupon has a great collection of deals with up to 70% off!  Did I mention that I like discounts as much as I love novelty?  I tried to Google a term which means “someone obsessed with buying stuff at a huge discount”, but I just came up with the word, “everyone”.

Which is a good thing, because it means that “everyone” who reads this blog will be interested in the Groupon giveaway I have on offer!  All you need to do to win a $30 Groupon voucher is tell me in the comments below… something you have always wanted to try, and why.  It would be great if you could follow Groupon Australia on Facebook or Twitter  … or do what I did and sign up to Groupon Australia to receive the best daily deals delivered straight to your inbox.  The competition is open to Australian residents only.  Winners will be chosen based on the best answer as decided by me on Tuesday 3^rd July at 8pm and the decision will be final.  Winners will be notified by email.

In the words of Spartacus (bear with me)…

“Licinius Crassus: Do you eat oysters?
Antoninus: When I have them, master.
Marcus Licinius Crassus: Do you eat snails?
Antoninus: No, master.
Marcus Licinius Crassus: Do you consider the eating of oysters to be moral and the eating of snails to be immoral?
Antoninus: No, master.
Marcus Licinius Crassus: Of course not. It is all a matter of taste, isn’t it?
Antoninus: Yes, master.
Marcus Licinius Crassus: And taste is not the same as appetite, and therefore not a question of morals.
Antoninus: It could be argued so, master.
Marcus Licinius Crassus: My robe, Antoninus. My taste includes both snails and oysters.”

And that’s why I love this giveaway… so that you can choose whatever your taste desires.  Even if that means buying a Groupon voucher for that new French restaurant around the corner…

Disclosure: I was provided with a Groupon Voucher for review purposes and a $30 Groupon Voucher for a giveaway to offer one of my valued readers.  All views are my own.  No snails were harmed in the writing of this blog post.

Hosted by Three Lil Princesses

Suddenly my rhythmic reverie was broken by the rowdy rumble of old ute as it hurtled noisily towards me on the road.  Three burly men crowded the front cabin, spilling out of the open windows.   As they drove past me, they waved heartily, wolf whistled and beeped the horn.  I think they were trying to get my attention.

Was I mortified?  Possibly.  Flattered?  Ummm… uh huh!

I know.  Not very politically correct.  Dreadful, in fact.  But frankly, it doesn’t take a lot to bake my biscuit nowadays.  Actually, that’s why I was out running.  Too many biscuits.

Now to be clear, I’m no Cindy Crawford clone.  My belly was once home to each of my four children, two of them rooming in at once (hello twins!), and I fondly bear the physical reminders of my four proudest achievements.  I also have the not so proud reminders of too many biscuits.  That said, I owe a lot to compression running garments.   Enough said.

But what I liked about those men on their way to work at some frightfully early hour was their sense of fun… and the fact that they wanted to make me smile.  Which they did.  And that seemed to make them even more jovial.   Even at 6am, that kind of interchange really does bake my biscuit.  Who smiles at 6am!

So for the rest of the day, I decided that I wouldn’t take myself too seriously.  I couldn’t naval gaze anyway, on account of my naval being covered by the aforementioned compression garments.  Which was a blessing, considering the excess biscuits…

Instead I stopped and had a laugh with the local Baker (whilst buying more biscuits).  And then I bent the strictly healthy lunchbox rule to sneak in a few sweet bikkies as a surprise for the kids.  At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the crumbs.  The resident schoolyard pigeons would take care of that.

“Happiness is not a state to arrive at, but a manner of traveling.” Margaret Lee Runbeck

And so it took three men travelling together in a rowdy old ute at the crack of dawn to remind me not to take life too seriously.  And that it’s ok to enjoy a few biscuits every now and then.  Even the slightly nutty, non-politically correct ones.

What’s your favourite type of biscuit?

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

When it comes to defending my children I don’t just scream, I roar.  It’s a voice that was unfamiliar to me before I had them and sometimes the raw intensity of it scares me.  But then in the daily grind of attending to their needs and all of the hoopla that surrounds family life, I have found that my own voice has become somehow muted.  Not even a silent scream.  Just deafening silence.

Yet my convictions, values and beliefs are still bubbling furiously below the surface.  In silence.  Because through the thinly veiled portals of our wide screen televisions, smartphone screens and newspapers, the raw brutality of humanity strikes me like a sledgehammer. Every, single. day.  Unthinkable acts of injustice.  Images of despair.  And so often …. an accompanying plea for action.  To make it stop.  To make it right.  And, some would argue, to end our suffering by proxy.

Most people I know give more generously of their time and money to charitable and humanitarian causes than they can probably afford and yet still, it doesn’t seem to be enough. There are always more causes.  More help required.  More change needed.  And we are told that if we have nothing left to give, then we must sign this petition.  Or put a badge on our Facebook profile.  To have our voices heard. You must speak up!  No… you must SHOUT!  Shout until your throat aches and it hurts to breathe.

Now I am loathe to admit that it is often when I hear this call to action that my voice fades into the white noise of guilt ridden inaction. Not out of apathy, objection or self importance … but out of a lack of faith that it will make any difference. Whatsoever. I simply cannot comprehend how my scrawled signature on a scrap of paper will incite the radical change the petition paper is calling for.  If I’m brutally honest, I can’t fathom how even reams and reams and reams of scrawled signatures from around the world can evoke any change.  How can it?  Surely the people perpetuating these hideous acts are completely impervious to social pressure from cozily suburbanized mums like little ol’ me?  So instead, I continue about my merry way as a walking embodiment of Edvard Munch’s Silent Scream.

And then just when I think I can sink no further into my hole of hopeless helplessness, a letter arrives from our local council advising that the objection I had lodged to accompany a petition I had signed regarding a local development… had been upheld.  Upheld!  My rare forte into petition signing had, ironically, made a mockery of my silent petition against petitions. But more than that, the formal acknowledgement that my voice had been heard and valued awoke a part of me that had been submitted into silence for so many years.

“The only tyrant I accept in this world is the still voice within.” Mahatma Gandhi

Maybe the next time I find myself trapped in a room full of screaming people, I’ll hum a war cry and encourage others to join in on the chorus. It’s better than the alternative, surely.

Do you regularly sign petitions and support awareness campaigns or do you believe they are ineffective?

 

 

Today I’m starting over with Edenland…

 

Where I live it seems everyone knows everyone, but in a good way.  It’s impossible to go down to the local village for supplies without someone asking how your sister with the new baby is going or how the personal training is progressing (also the cue to take the ginourmous chocolate bar OUT of your trolley).   There is a high social expectation of courteousness, community and kindness.  How does that kind of culture develop?  And how can I bottle it and send some to Parliament House?

That’s not to say that it’s all Pleasantville here all of the time.  Oh no indeed.  In fact it was just a few short weeks ago that I strolled jauntily into to my local hairdresser, only to notice the main window completely smashed…  a sinister break and enter!

Me: * Wide-eyed staring at broken glass *

Hairdresser: A break-in.  It was the eldest boy from the Lunatic Family from number 54 down the road.  He took all of the hair-straighteners to sell on ebay (* note: “Lunatic” is not their real surname)

Me: tsk

Hairdresser: I just hope he’ll give one of them to Mrs Lunatic.  She has serious frizziness issues.

Me: Hmmmm

Hairdresser: And I worry about her follicles.  And the fact that she’s probably too busy to come in and learn about my new super strand strengthening serum to offset inevitable damage caused by hair-straightening over-use.

Me: I worry too.

Hairdresser: Would you mind popping this serum sample into her letterbox on your way home?

Me: Sure thing.

Hairdresser: Ta muchly.  Mwah!!!

I know.

It makes the Brady Bunch look like a particularly scary episode of Jerry Springer, doesn’t it?

But it is nice to see that in the age of depersonalisation and detachment, that civility still exists.

The free dictionary defines “civility” as “the act of showing regard for others”.  It’s the stuff you say to a Bank Teller that you wouldn’t necessarily to say to an ATM, even though you’re receiving the same gorgeous green stuff (I know it’s not actually green stuff here in Australia, but it sounds better than “rainbow coloured plastic”).  You chat pleasantly about the weather and then thank them for their assistance.  Sometimes I do that to the ATM when I’m particularly sleep deprived, but that’s a whole other blog post.

 ”Politeness is half good manners and half good lying.”  Margaret Wilson Little.

Is that such a bad thing?

What are people like your local area?  Road ragers, happy cruisers or indiscriminate steering wheel wavers?

Joining With Some Grace for … 

“The irony of human life is that it is lived forward but understood backward.”  Soren Kierkegaard

As an interesting aside, this photo was taken in 1934, probably using a Beau Brownie camera that would have been bought for between $1 and $4.

Wordless Wednesdays, with…

As I sat sweetly daydreaming of my impending motherhood during antenatal classes, it did not cross my mind even once that public, tearful histrionics were a potential a side effect of the parenting gig.  And I’m not talking about the baby.  I’m talking about public, tearful histrionics… from me.

In my head, shopping with my newborn cherub would look something like this:

Leisurely strolls through bustling city streets with my contented baby slumbering soundly in the pram, while I picked up gorgeous, fashionable bits and pieces from exquisite urban boutiques, before meeting my handsome husband for a decadent lunch in that swish little Italian restaurant that everyone was raving about.

Sometimes the effects of pregnancy hormones on my brain were nothing less than terrifying.

Needless to say, the reality of life with a newborn was somewhat different.

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what tipped me over the edge that fateful day, four months into life with my new baby.  Maybe it was the exhaustion from not having slept whatsoever for four entire months.  Not even one wink.  I swear.  Perhaps it was standing in the world’s longest queue to await our turn for a magical winter wonderland photo with frozen smile Santa.  Or the fact that my baby felt that prams were, in fact, contraptions of cruel torture, instead insisting on being constantly carried.  It may have been her spectacular “number 3” explosion while being held in aforementioned queue.  Which happened just as a wise elderly lady trotted past and helpfully advised that my baby will turn into a spoiled brat if I pick her up every time she cries.  Cue baby vomit appearing on my new shirt (not a strong enough projectile vomit to appear on elderly lady’s shirt unfortunately).  This all coincided with The Chipmunks version of Jingle Bells starting to screech mercilessly from nearby speakers for the billionth time that day, causing my already frazzled baby to “sing” along.

And HUZZAH!  Hark the herald angels, err, herald the arrival of my very first, very public, mummy meltdown.  Giant, dripping teardrops and wailing histrionics selfishly stole centre stage from frozen smile Santa.  Everyone stared horrified at the crazy lady with the bodily fluid stained outfit, sobbing perfectly in sync with her beautiful, squawking baby.  Doom.  I surrendered my highly treasured spot in the Santa queue and was watched by the appalled masses as I did the walk of shame to the carpark… empty handed.   I consoled myself with thoughts of how when I got home, I would photoshop a picture of my baby sitting on Santa’s knee so I couldn’t be accused of denying her the “magic” of Christmas (as a side note, that plan didn’t go as well as it seemed in my head either).  And I swore I would never, ever again set foot in a shopping centre.  Not ever.  Never.  Nope.

I now loathed the one thing that once brought me so much joy.  Shopping.  And yet ironically, my new arrival necessitated more retail therapy than ever before.  Never-ending upsizing of baby clothes as she grew and grew.  Nappies galore.  A new baby carrier when I finally gave up on prams.  Upgrading baby car booster seats to meet ever stringent safety requirements.  Toys and activities to keep busy little minds and hands out of mischief.  It seemed my baby could easily clean out the entire baby department of Big W every. single. week.

And then I discovered internet shopping.  Oh internet shopping!  How I love thee!!!  Recently I discovered that Big W have added online shopping to their list of services.  Genius!  Shopping for toys for a birthday party my now 8 year old has been invited to while rugged up on the couch and sipping hot chocolate.   Oh the luxury of time to properly browse and think about what I need without worrying about toddler tears and histrionics, the “I’m bored” mantra and figuring out how I’m going to simultaneously lug 5,837 shopping bags and four children back to the car!  What’s not to love about that!  I might even pick up a few more essentials, like extra thermal blankets for the kids beds, a cookbook, oh and more sunscreen, maybe some new nail polish…

And to the person who invented internet shopping… for you I have nothing but public, tearful histrionics… of the joyful, grateful, kowtowing kind.  Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!  xoxoxo

 At first I tried to hurry them along, but then I stopped for a moment too.

“There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child.  There are seven million.”  Walt Streightiff

Wordless Wednesdays, with…