| |
The gathering (Life- observation)
Posted on 10/20/09 19:16:53 by
Tracy
Round the fire they gathered huddled by the flames, waiting for the old man to begin.
He would take them on a journey, he the dreamer of dreams, the seeker of wisdom who sings the melodies of truth.
To reach their souls with his…
To beat his drum in time to the pulse of the earth spirit, to the very heartbeat of each and every one present.
And in his haunting melodies there would be a unity found, a one-ness...understanding...even the little ones, yet to learn the ways of the world, would feel it.
It wouldn't matter that he forgot the words and improvised using melody alone.
It wouldn't matter that at times his voice grew hoarse and strained.
Transfixed they would gaze upon his toothless mouth, his bright black eyes almost hidden in the furrows of his wrinkled brow, and they would listen with their hearts.
And he would sing......and captivate his audience with his song.
Songs that were lessons.
Songs that taught values and principles so as to keep the tribe safe from the world beyond, and each other.
He would play.... and one by one, filled with the joy of the rhythm and the melody they would rise before the fire and dance.
Under the moon, under the stars, the stories of life, love and loss would be told.
And when it was over there was a communication shared.
A journey traveled.
And then man invented the Music industry.
|
Roast beef revenge. (Life -humour)
Posted on 10/20/09 17:19:16 by
Tracy
I used to love cows.
There’s nothing as picturesque as seeing a beautiful green country meadow dotted with gorgeous black and white dairy cows.
Many a time I’ve yelled at my husband to “stop the car!” so I could jump out and photograph them and then lingered a while trying to lure them over to the fence by waving fistfuls of long grass.
Such timid things though dairy cows, with such amusing faces. They always look kinda dopey to me with that stunned mullet look of theirs.
And when they all start mooing together…..well, it always made me smile.
That was until I discovered “outback cows”
Now they’re a different bunch altogether!
Tougher, meaner and leaner. Brown leathery cows coated with red outback dust… but I still liked seeing them and photographing them on our travels anyway.
More bulls out there and the cows, so I discovered, can have horns too!
If you were to make a cartoon about cows these outback cows would be the “cowboy villains” with guns in both pockets spitting in the dirt as they swaggered down the dusty street ready for a fight!
But I didn’t fully understand just how different these cows are until one very frightening experience occurred.
We were on our way through Western Australia and it happened to be a spectacular wildflower season out there in the desert so I was hopping in and out the car with my video camera madly filming all of the beautiful scenery as we drove.
It was amazing seeing such an otherwise desolate place bursting with little pockets of vivid colour!
My husband and the kids had grown tired of the frequent stops and would sit in the car and wait for me while I fluffed around filming whatever it was that captured my attention along the way.
I had seen a rather nice mound of hills in the background with clumps of beautiful pink flowers in the foreground that I decided would be nice to film, so once more my husband stopped the car and I trotted off with my tripod and camera towards the spot.
As I walked I was pulling out the legs of the tripod and looking for the best place to set up my gear, all the while focused on those lovely pink flowers.
So absorbed in what I was doing I failed to notice, at first, that from behind a line of scrubby bushes a herd of wild outback cows had appeared.
Perhaps they had heard the car approaching and were curious…..then maybe they caught sight of me and were disturbed by the rare sight of a human – especially one carrying strange equipment.
Whatever the case, the point is that they SAW me before I saw them and for some unfathomable reason began running towards me at full pace.
Out of the corner of my eye all I saw was a cloud of dust appear sporting dozens of very sharp pointy horns that were approaching with frightening speed!
It was a silent stampede. Not one of them was mooing in alarm or warning, which made it even freakier!
Time seemed to stand still in that moment.
My brain shouted “Find a tree to hide behind!” but alas only a few twiggy bushes stood between me and them!
My only option was to turn and flee back towards the car which somehow, with the tripod and camera balanced in one hand, I did!
As I turned I saw these cows ALSO turn to follow my direction which was a terrifying sight!
I was being chased!
I tell ya, I ran as fast as my wobbly legs would carry me, screaming like a banshee all the way!
The prospect of all those pointy horns and very hard hooves thundering towards me was enough for me to nearly pee myself in fright!
My husband and kids heard my screams and thought perhaps I’d seen a snake.
By the time I came into view and they saw the state I was in, fleeing in absolute terror, they thought it must have been a bloody BIG snake!
I jumped in the car huffing and wheezing and managed to get out one word.
“Cows!”
My husband looked back to where I’d been running from and there by the side of the road was the herd of cows standing dead still just staring at our car.
They looked just as cows do……pretty dopey, a bit perplexed.
Certainly NOT like the wild evil beasts with glowing red eyes, glinting white razor sharp horns and spurs on their hooves that had just been terrorizing me moments before!
“They…..they were ….CHASING me! Those cows!” I puffed.
“They were AFTER me! Wanted to GET me!”
Of course, to this day I have never been quite believed.
“They were AMBLING after you darling!” My husband chuckles.
But no, they weren’t!
They joined forces in a silent conniving almost military way and targeted me – the strange human in their territory and I’m sure meant to make mincemeat out of ME!
I don’t look at cows the same way anymore.
Oh I still love dairy cows and continue to stop and say “hello” to THOSE cows.
But there has to be a fence.
A good sturdy fence, preferably with barbed wire, that stands between me and THEM.
And I don’t see their expressions as so “dopey” anymore because I reckon there’s more to a cow than what meets the eye.
And those outback cows?
Well, I’ll leave them to the likes of John Wayne and Clint Eastwood I think.
|
Passed your use by date?(Life -reflective)
Posted on 10/20/09 17:18:32 by
Tracy
I was standing in front of the stove cooking dinner when my eleven year old daughter, reading a form that needed to be filled in for school, asked...
"What do I write for mum’s occupation?"
"Nothing....mum doesn't do anything." said my sixteen year old.
Whirling around with a wooden spoon in my hand I snapped....
"That's right…”She who sits among bon bon wrappers on the couch watching Days of our Lives! Yup! That’s me!”
"I didn't mean THAT mum!" said the sixteen year old rolling her eyes.
It made me angry and depressed all the same.
What has my life become?
Who AM I?
Why am I here?
Questions I find myself asking time and time again as I stir yet another pan of gravy and think about the fact that I am now officially peri menopausal, my boobs have headed south, my belly is soft and squidgy, my **** is melting down the backs of my thighs and I have completely lost touch with "me" - the person in my other life.... 20 years BC. (Before children)
The other day I found myself preparing to photograph a sweet potato that is growing "vines" in my kitchen.
I looked at it sitting there among the onions in a bowl on top of the microwave and thought it was the most amazingly artistic thing I'd seen in a while.
The colours.....lime green awash with subtle shades of dusky pink on the foliage, reaching up the wall(yes the thing is growing leaves) was just beautiful.
To think that left on its own accord, with no water or earth or even much sunlight, it was beginning a new life there among the onions.....well, it struck me as being amazing.
(Certainly a lot prettier than the time I discovered the corpse of an aubergine under the kitchen sink.)
"Why are you taking photo's of a sweet potato?" my children asked as they caught me arranging the vines against a brightly painted wall.
And in that moment.....I knew.
I have lost the plot.
I really have become the person I feared I would become.
A droll housewife who gets excited over "passed their used by date" vegetables.
What becomes of us?
Those that choose to stay home and raise their children, to forgo a career where they can interact on a daily basis with their peers, get paid for their work, feel as though they have a true purpose in life as a contributing member of society, and have something to TALK about in a gathering of other intellectual adults?
Do we wither away, our brains atrophying in the mundane repetition of daily household chores?
Every day the same dishes sit in the sink waiting for me to wash them up, the same dirt on the floor walked in by the dogs and the kids waits to be swept up, the same tinkle drops on the toilet seat wait for me to inadvertently sit in them, the same fluff gathers on the carpet, the same bench tops needing wiping, table that needs clearing, garbage needs taking out, washing needs folded, the same kids come home everyday with the same gripes, the same arguments, the same shoes and school bags left for me to trip over them in the hall.....
At night the same complaints meet me at the dinner table, the same protests of "but it's not my turn to wash up tonight!", the same painful grade three reading books I have to sit and listen to as my mind turns to mush...and in bed at night....the same penis pokes me from behind.
The same, the same the SAME!
I am not the same.
I am changing.
I only have to look in the mirror to see that.
I'm now in my forties!
The same age I remember being my parents and their friends being as I approached puberty, and thought they were SO old. Past it.....their lives OVER.
And here I am - "there" where they were and how quickly I have traveled here.
I remember the first dawn I spent as a new mother lying in the hospital bed staring at my brand new infant feeling this incredible sense of overwhelming joy.
*I* had made this perfect creature. ME!
What I felt was as close to bliss as I have ever experienced and I knew I would love her with all of my soul and I did and I still do... all four of them.
I know I have the most valuable (though undervalued) job on earth, being a parent and I would not change this whole journey even if I could, but there comes a time, in every woman’s life where a sweet potato brings you back to reality.
I am an intelligent, creative thinking, feeling PERSON.
I am NOT "she who sits among bon bon wrappers on the couch".
I DO have a life - one that needs tending.
My soul that has outgrown the comfortable clothes of motherhood.
Screams for high heels and a loud red dress!
Six hours a day, kid free, where I can and should be nurturing my own needs!
I look at that sweet potato....
Neglected and ignored it has sat in that bowl on top of my microwave, and it HAS changed over time.
Soft and wrinkly it has become....and I could have thrown it out,but I'm glad I didn't, because it has given me such inspiration in the lesson that it teaches...
Even things that are passed their use by date can, all on their own, become beautiful amazing things.
|
My small conquests (Life-humour)
Posted on 10/20/09 17:17:32 by
Tracy
I don't know when I lost my power to fulfil the fortnightly role of doing the family grocery shopping but somehow I did.
It was an insidious thing which eventually led to my position as principal shopper being completely overthrown.
This doesn’t make one bit of sense since I am the one most often in the kitchen doing the cooking and therefore should have some say in which foods are purchased.
My husband is an extraordinary cook.
Everybody tells him this.
This is because when HE cooks (occasionally on weekends and when we have guests) he goes out and purchases all the ingredients necessary for his favoured dish, unlike myself who must root through the cupboards looking for something vaguely exciting to work with.
(You don’t think we ALWAYS have fresh prawns chilling in the fridge or vanilla beans on hand to flavour your coffee do you?)
This overthrowing of power began the moment I allowed my husband to push the shopping trolley.
All that power must have gone to his head, and since he has discovered the Aldi stores, life has not been the same for our family.
My husband has a precise plan of action when it comes to the shopping weekend.
He will lounge around in front of the TV first thing in the morning drinking copious amounts of coffee, take a leisurely shower and sometime around noon he will suddenly spring into action.
He will be gone all afternoon, not returning until dinner time and when he does I am the one expected to pack all the shopping away, which is fair enough since he has obviously been "slaving away for hours fighting with all the other shoppers in the aisles."
It's never very exciting though, my job, packing away the groceries, and this is because I find myself stacking EXACTLY the same items on the pantry shelves every single time he returns.
The same tinned tomatoes, the same packets of fettuccini, the same "smooth" peanut butter, the same chicken flavoured two minute noodles...
It's all EXACTLY the same as two weeks before!
I find no excitement... no joy in filling the shelves with the same old, same OLD!
My taste buds have withered, atrophied.
They are in a sad state of apathy begging for some stimulation!
And for that matter, it’s becoming a bit tiresome being victim to the frequent fettuccini avalanches that occur (because I do not LIKE fettuccini) and keep throwing the regular fortnightly packets that he brings home, way up on the shelf out of sight and out of mind.
Well, that is until they fall down and hit me on the head.
You see, my husband sets off each time with an exact list in his mind of what to bring home that never varies, even if we already HAVE it at home, and what’s more he knows exactly how much it is and precisely where to find it!
After one such shopping day the children and I counted fourteen 500 gram containers of Aldi brand margarine in the fridge, twelve cans of diced tomatoes,ten jars of peanut butter,eleven cans of mixed beans,twenty packets of fettuccini and twelve unopened packets of chicken flavoured two minute noodles, each containing six serves of noodles.
In the freezer were the same neatly separated freezer bags containing, chicken, chicken and more chicken.
The same frozen Aldi peas...the same frozen Aldi beans.
We stared listlessly at the contents of the pantry.
We were depressed...more than that we had simply lost the will to EAT!
Not wanting to offend my husbands sense of duty at undertaking this somewhat mundane task or make him feel inadequate I said to him...
"You suck at doing the shopping."
"Yeah dad, you really suck!" chimed in the children.
"We want something DIFFERENT to eat!" we told him.
The next week he came home with several packets of spaghetti instead of fettuccini and one jar of CRUNCHY peanut butter instead of smooth.
(Oh my, such daring!)
Deciding to take matters into my own hands I recently decided to accompany my husband on one of his shopping trips to subtly try and introduce some variety into our diets.
"I'm sure there are other animals on this planet we can eat besides chickens!" I grumbled.
My experience that day was certainly an eye opener as it became apparent that my husband had perfected the humble grocery shopping expedition down to a T.
It was regimented...disciplined, a certain order about it that I have not before witnessed in my husbands behaviour.
(At least not in the way in which he attends to his household chores…of which there is one – taking the garbage out.)
We began with a visit to Aldi and I was left behind almost running to keep up as he transformed himself into this super efficient shopping machine, carefully calculating the price of each item adding it up as he went, comparing prices, finding the cheapest deals, stacking the trolley neatly so everything fitted just so.
If I picked something different up to place in the trolley he would pounce on me..."How much is THAT? I haven't budgeted for THAT!"
At the checkout he demonstrated even more organizational skill by stacking the conveyer belt with the heaviest items first to be put in the bottom of the trolley, the frozen things together, the lightest items at the end to go on top. (Unlike me, who just throws it all on there and hopes for the best as the checkout person hurls it at me at the end with lightning speed.)
Each time I tried to help I was impatiently pushed away "No! That doesn't go THERE!" he would say.
(What a pity he is not as organised with his dirty clothes in the bedroom. The poor man still can’t figure out where the laundry is or what it’s for.)
His efficiency was simply astounding.
All the other women in the supermarket stood in awe batting their eyelashes at a man with such admirable shopping prowess.
I wanted to throw up.
After packing the Aldi shopping in the car, where I was once again forbidden to help, (because “there is a certain WAY it gets packed into the car”) it was onto the next supermarket – Coles.
"That’s where I buy the chicken if it's on special." he told me marching full speed ahead.
While we were in Coles and he was checking out the price of fruit and vegies to see if he could get a good bargain I tried to slip a packet of instant cauliflower sauce into the basket which to my surprise caused him to experience a small conniption right there in front of the onion stand.
"I DON'T buy packet sauces from HERE! I get THOSE in Woolworths!" he exclaimed, shaking his head at me as though I was a retard.
The cauliflower sauce was slapped back on the shelf and I was met with a very ugly glare.
Well, this did it for me.
I grabbed the sauce and placed it back in the basket.
"I want it." I said quietly.
"Not from here!"
"I want THIS packet of sauce from THIS supermarket!" I said gritting my teeth.
"You can't have it!" he hissed.
We struggled physically for a few moments playing tug of war with the packet of sauce until finally I gave up and let him put it back on the shelf. (People were beginning to stare.)
As soon as his back was turned though I picked it up and hid it behind my back and when he was preoccupied over the price of chicken breasts I tucked it into the basket where it remained unnoticed until we got to the checkout.
"I am never taking you shopping with me again!" he said as the packet of cauliflower sauce was scanned by the checkout lady.
Smiling smugly, I flounced ahead.
On we went, to the third supermarket of the day...Woolworths, where he gets the bulk of the meat and kitty litter.
The same scenario ensued with me being scolded for choosing things that were either "not in the budget" or "cheaper elsewhere", reprimanded for "touching the trolley!" and just generally ignored.
It had become a tiresome, frustrating expedition and I found myself fighting a losing battle against this super organized shopping freak.
By the time we got to the markets hours later and he went about his meticulous system of purchasing the fruit and vegies I had given up.
We drove home in silence.
The very few items I had managed to sneak into the trolley were received with much excitement by the children.
"See! Mum knows what we like! Please, oh please dear father let mum do the shopping next time!"
Well, I did for a while, and the children were much happier,but then somehow, as time has gone by very insidiously he has begun to take control once again.
The most recent, and final straw for me was when I caught my husband in the supermarket, counting out twenty button mushrooms, each to be put in six separate paper bags.
"Portion control" he mumbled, when I asked what on earth he was doing!
It was with great delight that I only used seventeen mushrooms that night as I cooked dinner....and made sure I told him so.
We went shopping today.
My husband is not speaking to me this afternoon.
When I commented on the way there that I wanted to try some brown rice for a change he nearly had a heart attack.
"Do you KNOW how much more EXPENSIVE brown rice IS!"
I thought we would have to pull the car over and stop he was so overwrought.
It was a LONG day.
"We're going to run out of food this week...I'm telling you!" he warned me when we finally got home.
(We won't, but if we do we have enough fettuccini to kill a person…literally!)
When he is not looking the children will once more come to me and whisper...
"Thank you....oh thank you dear mother for saving us from all that sameness! You are the BESSSST!"
And I will serve them brown rice instead of white and rejoice at these… my small conquests!
|
The goat story (Life-humour)
Posted on 10/20/09 17:16:39 by
Tracy
My husband has never liked mowing the lawn. It's just one of those things ( like all things that require physical exertion) that he is adverse to doing.
So, after nearly getting a divorce over the state of the lawn, and him not wanting to spend any money getting the mower fixed ( yet again), or paying someone else to come cut the grass, my husband in his infinite wisdom came up with another one of his great ideas.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed beaming with excitement.
"We'll get a goat!"
So off he whisked us to a local animal park where they had a selection of young goats for sale.
After having carefully chosen one, a female (as the males pee over themselves we discovered)... and a very pretty brown goat she was too, extremely affectionate also, as they were used to people feeding and petting them at the park, he bundled her into the back of the station wagon, amidst my protests of "I really don't think this is such a good idea darling."
"It'll be fine, you watch !" said he, chuffed with his wonderful plan.
The whole way home, the goat, who was not very happy about being thrown in this moving metal box, bleated constantly and popped pellets from her behind at a frightening speed.
I sat in the front seat and said nothing.
Upon arriving home, my husband led the goat straight out to the backyard where he immediately began plucking up huge handfuls of lush green grass, waving it enthusiastically in front of the goats nose.
"See...nice green grass especially for you...go ahead, eat ALL you want!" he crooned.
But the goat just stood there looking up at her new master, nuzzling his hand and rubbing up against his knees in adoration.
The two dogs, curious about this strange looking creature in their territory began sniffing around her with interest , barking when she turned to face them.
Suddenly, the goat, perhaps feeling threatened, proceeded to back up a little ways and then went flying at the dogs, her head bent low in an attempt to head butt them over the fence !
And she would have succeeded ( they were only little dogs) had I not intercepted the attack !
"Maybe we should lock the dogs up...put them in the bathroom for now, until she settles in a bit." suggested my husband after the goats third attempt to send them sailing into the neighbours backyard.
"Let's go inside and let her explore the new environment" he said.
The minute the laundry door closed a most horrific sound began.
The goat, discovering her beloved master was out of sight began bleating hysterically , pounding her hooves on the back door in desperate panic.
"Let me in, let me in, by the hair of my chinny chin chin!" she seemed to scream.
My husband rushed back to the door in alarm and went out to comfort her.
This was repeated seventeen times.
Eventually he managed to quiet her by sitting on the laundry floor, with the door slightly ajar, petting her head...but that was as far as she would allow him to "leave" her.
"Are you going to sit there all night dear? I asked after an hour of watching him try to shut the door, only to have the hysterical bleating resume.
(By this stage all the neighbourhood dogs were howling and barking each time the goat started up, and I was very worried that the neighbours would start complaining.)
"Well, maybe JUST for tonight she can sleep in the kitchen." he said eventually.
"We can't have her bleating all night like this now can we?"
So, he made a bed for the goat in the corner of the kitchen, and erected a barricade between the kitchen and the lounge room to keep her off the carpet.
"I promise, I'll clean up the mess in the morning" he said.
The goat bleated quietly from the kitchen a few times but after a few minutes seemed to settle down.
We sat down to watch a little TV.
Next minute, suddenly this THING came flying into the lounge room!
"Jesus! Did you see that...It jumped over the barricade!" Said my husband struggling to push the goat off his lap, where it was trying to snuggle in.
For the next hour we built the barricade higher and higher....even using the erected ironing board, but each time, the goat backed up as far as she could go and simply catapulted herself over the objects.
Well I'd had enough! This was ludicrous!
"You'll have to damn well sleep in the kitchen WITH the goat if any of us are going to get any sleep tonight!" I said angrily.
"I'm going to bed !"
The last thing I heard before I fell asleep was the spare mattress being dragged into the kitchen.
I didn't envy him...it was the middle of Winter, bitterly cold and the lino floor would not be a pleasant place to bunk down.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I awoke to a quiet little noise coming from the other side of my bedroom. It sounded like something was in my wardrobe scratching around !
Alarmed I fumbled for the light switch on my bedside table lamp.
To my relief I saw it was my husband hunched over, half in, half out the wardrobe.
"What on earth are you doing !" I exclaimed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." he said rummaging around in the drawers.
"What are you doing!" I asked again.
And with that he sheepishly stood up shivering slightly, pointing to what I realized then were his soaking wet clothes, and said........
"I woke up and the bloody goat was in bed with me,....... and it's pissed and **** all OVER me !"
Well, needless to say, the goat was returned to the animal park the next morning.
My husband explaining awkwardly that he'd had to sleep with her to keep her quiet, ...and that the neigbours would not approve....much to the confusion I'm sure of the goat farmer who, was much too polite to ask any further questions.
And now? Now we PAY someone to come and mow the lawns, and my husband doesn't complain one bit about this arrangement.
|
Womens magazines (Life-humour)
Posted on 10/20/09 17:15:39 by
Tracy
The other day I found some hair screwed up in a ball, obviously pulled out of a hairbrush, on top of the fridge....
"Is anyone saving this for any particular reason?" I inquired.
I cannot find a single hairbrush in the house, but somebody is thoughtful enough to put, in the "safest place in the house" (the top of the fridge) the hair that was attached to it.
My life is like that.
You see, this is the reason I do not read women’s magazines.
If all I had to contemplate was "ten ways to please your partner in bed using fruit" my brain would be a lot less stressed.
I can't even FIND the fruit in my fridge.
I think it's that stuff covered in white fur behind the seven empty containers of margarine, balanced on top of the lettuce.
You don't believe it is possible to balance things on top of a lettuce?
Meet my kids.
You should see what they do with the dishes.
"Washing up sculptures" I call them.
Instead of grabbing a tea towel and drying some dishes they keep piling things one on top of the other until it reaches the ceiling,then five minutes later somebody walks in and grabs the tin opener....which is right at the bottom.
I shouldn't complain.
At least they participate in the washing up (once I have dragged them kicking and screaming away from the computer and threatened a million untimely demises if they don't help clean up!)
See this is the problem with women’s magazines.
They just don't cater to REAL women or women beyond the age of about puberty.
Once you get married and have kids it's like you become invisible.
Nobody writes stuff targeted at harassed mothers who have to conjure up a meal for six people when all there is left in the pantry is two dozen packets of fettuccini , Tabasco sauce and fifteen tins of creamed corn.
Nobody talks about what it's REALLY like trying to achieve an orgasm while your mind is occupied with wondering if there are an even number of clean socks to go round for the next day, or if you really HAVE removed every single nit and louse from daughter number two's head and if all the sports notes, swimming notes and dancing notes have been signed sealed and delivered to the relevant school bags.
Nobody talks about the things you find in the bottom of children’s school bags!
Lie back and think of England?
It would be my pleasure!
No, instead they talk about Brittany Spears "finding herself" through her fanny flashing escapades, how to avoid ingrown hairs after your bikini wax and romantic encounters with fruit!
I ask you...who has the time to wax and polish the damn thing?
I would love to answer some of the questions women write in to the "sexperts".
Q - I have an "outtie" vagina and I am very conscious of it. Can I get rid of it?
A - Remove the mirror from between your legs dear, come spend a week with my kids and the resulting shock will cause your overhanging labial lips to retreat in horror back into your body, permanently sealing it for life.
I mean honestly! I have been hearing quite a bit about this new kind of plastic surgery lately for women who want a “designer vagina”.
Like they aren't playing on women’s sense of self-consciousness as it is without us worrying what darn shape our nether regions are in.
Isn't it enough that we have to worry about our damn pelvic floor muscles? Sucking and squeezing for all we're worth at traffic lights!
I've told my hubby he'd better take the stairs co's mine are now permanently parked at lower ground level and they ain't moving!
I really can't believe that women PAY people to drip hot wax on their vagina's and rip their pubic hairs out.
And they call these places "beauty salons". More like torture chambers from hell!
Does it somehow make these women feel "special" to have somebody else tend to such delicate matters?
Just go stand outside in your bikini while your hubby's got the whipper snipper out!
I'm sure he'd be happy to oblige.
The other day I had to run with my dog and kids over scorching hot sand to get to the beach.
I haven't done more than a pleasant amble in, oh about a decade....
It felt horrible. Worse than the sand burning my toes!
It was positively painful.
As we stood sizzling in the water I noticed some people looking at me strangely.
I know it was rather a dramatic entrance to the beach, the dog yelping, the kids screaming and me gasping for air, but I didn't think I deserved such odd looks.
It was only when I got home that I realized why.
With all the bouncing about across that hot sand I must have exceeded the elastic limit of my bikini top that I was wearing under a skimpy sleeveless T-shirt.
One breast was somewhere around my knees while the other was still tucked safely in the under wire.
To say that I was "unbalanced" would be quite an understatement.
For all I know as I stood there dizzied from the exertion the runaway breast might have been hanging out of my armhole and I wouldn't have noticed.
See, real women have issues like this to deal with.
We have to do things like scrub toilets where little boys have accidentally "backfired"....
We have to scoop out the build up of black wax from the inside of the dogs ears so he doesn't fall over when he walks.
We have to make sure there is an even number of muesli bars left in the pantry for the kids school lunches, and if there's not investigate, sentence and execute the child who has stolen one.
We have to sign an endless catalogue of school notes and remember to check that they are wearing underwear.
We have to find all the "missing things" in the house for everybody else and when our own stuff goes missing offer the children money to find it. ( I KNOW they are purposely hiding it from me now!)
We have to allocate computer time, TV time, make sure whoever is in the shower is actually using soap, check toothbrushes for signs of inactivity, rescue cats, spiders, gekko's and make sure the boy child is not breeding some kind of biological hazard in the bottom of his school bag.
But no....womens magazines tell you how to please your partner by turning him into a banana split!
Do they tell me the reason why all my children on a daily basis lose "important things" that they cannot do without....and yet save the hair from missing hairbrushes?
Do they tell me what to do with all that fettuccini?
If I could find a "real woman’s" magazine I'd write to them and tell them what it's REALLY all about.
But first.....I must go and find some whipped cream and nuts to go along with that banana sticking out of my husband’s orifice.
|
|
|
|
