Suffocating in Suburbia – The next day.

Made a point of getting a good night sleep.  Tucked myself into bed at 9:30pm, only to spend most of the night dreaming I was one of Justine Timberlake’s groupies.  In my dream I didn’t want Justin to think I was ‘just like the others’ so I played hard to get…now where did THAT come from, I ask you?

Being ripped from a dream by a wakeup alarm is never good…but I had decided to try and pull myself out of my slump.  Jump in the shower, wash that misery right out of my hair.  Then I did something stupid.  I know, I have done other stupid things, but this was really stupid.  I stood on the bathroom scales.  Misery has added 2 kilo Aaaaaggghhhhh!  I have been comfort eating.  Funny how we think those tidbits eaten in the cool light of the refrigerator door don’t count.

Determined not to let it get to me, I shook out my freshly washed hair and bravely tried to copy the style I had when I returned home from the salon not so long ago.  Styling hair is not one of my strong suits… I ended up looking like this:

 

Yes… REALLY like that, sans the purple tint and the glasses.  It was not a good look.  Vigorous brushing didn’t help and I finally gave up, what the hell!  Life goes on.  I can go though life with weird granny hair, a spare tyre and STILL think that Justin Timberlake has eyes ONLY for me.

Then it was off to investigate a store I had seen in a catalogue, one of the million or so that are shoved through the post box each week.  The photos displayed a promise of stylish clothing at a somewhat reasonable price.  LIARS!  that is all I can say…LIARS!  Nothing in that store lived up to any of the pictures in the catalogue.  Most of the pants had elastic waists and even with my 2 extra kilo, I am not going down that path yet.  The whole place had a vague scent of Eau de Sweat Shop about it… I did try on one pair of pants… but the mirror seemed to take my 2 extra kilo and make me look like something should not be seen in daylight.  Not pretty.

There was nothing for it but to head home.  On the way back to the car, I thought about the salad I was going to make myself for lunch and the long hike I had planned for this afternoon.  Then, from behind a counter, this jumped out and into my mouth:

Resistance is futile…. abandon ship. LuLu and children first.

PS Scary thing is… this is a true story.

Suffocating in Suburbia

"Remember: no matter where you go, there you are."

It is all I ever wanted. 

For the first 20 years of my life I was tossed from pillar to post.  New house, new schools… nothing permanent.

Then I met Mr Dear Husband.  He comes from OLD stock.. not that he is old, but grew up in a house where his mother was born.  Where everybody on the street knows everybody.  Where 80 year olds meet up regularly with the friends they met in pre-school.  His childhood bedroom, a shrine left untouched since the day he went out into the big, wide world.  It was the fantasy I had always dreamed about.

But for the past 20 years, that feeling of ‘home’ has always just been out of reach, no matter how hard I stretched. 

Eight months ago, life changed – we ‘settled down’.  This was supposed to be it, the one, our time.  I thought all my dreams had come true.  Excited by the idea of building a life where I would never again have to send out ‘change of address’ letters.

So here I sit.  Sunday afternoon.  A beautiful, cold, crisp day.  Loathing in my heart.  I can’t explain it.  It is all so ordered – I don’t know how to live without the chaos.  It is the insanity that makes me feel alive.  This perfect world does not fit.  It is that gorgeous dress you saw in the store window, but when you tried it on, it looked like a sack of potatoes. 

Am I willing to take one for the team?  Is this what the wives in the 50’s went through?  Miss Eight is happy – happier than I have ever seen her.  Mr Dear Husband seems happy. 

I am not equipped for the game.  I am playing golf with a tennis racquet.  Everyone can see it, yet, no one is  brave enough to say anything. Lost.

Tucked in.

It is a titanic struggle of epic proportions.

Winter V’s Spring V’s Winter…

Just when you think it is safe to go outdoors without a St Bernard at your side… BOOM!  It’s back.

But Oh So beautiful:

The yellow flowers appeared overnight last week.  One after another we all noticed, each of us saying the same thing “Oh look at the yellow flowers in the garden!”

And now they all have little ermine stoles, like white blankets tucking them in.

Not sure I have ever noticed this part of the year before.  The sun, glinting off snow, sitting on the flowers.  Incredible.  Mother Nature is really turning on a show.

Why…

…is it, that when I open the cupboard above the stove, the one thing that happens to fall out is a pack of toothpicks that isn’t closed?

Why…

…does it happen when I am racing to get a meal ready for the about to arrive Out-laws?

Why…

…do I then spend the next couple of minutes picking up 200 tiny pieces of wood off the floor, and stuffing them back into a container that seems to be a distant relative of Dr Who’s Tardis.  They came out of that container, so they must fit back in…right?

Why…

…do I then notice that my kitchen floor is in desperate need of a good scrubbing?

Why…

…at the end of lunch, on all days, having never before given it a second thought, does the Father Out-law ask for a toothpick!

P.S. If you don’t know who Dr Who is… well, I am not sure we can really be friends.  Personally, I still have a little crush on Tom Baker.  Exterminate! Exterminate!

It’s just a phase…

Confession:

I love reading tabloids.  The highlight of a trip to the hairdresser – unlimited tabloid magazines.

Perhaps I will alienate my more high-brow mates, but there is something so delicious about tabloid journalism.  Pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be the object of their affection, lord knows I have enough problems getting out of the house without looking like an unmade bed.

Today, this cover caught my eye:

“Why is Angelina turning Shiloh into a boy?  Come on guys… gimme a break!  Most mothers will get a laugh from this. 

When Miss Eight was Miss Three, she accompanied me on a quick trip from Australia to Germany.  Somewhere between Singapore and Frankfurt we picked up some stowaways.  A collection of imaginary friends.  All had names that was some derivative of ‘Rebecca’.  There were seven of them in total.  This caused many problems when it came to fitting them all in the car.  We had to extend the dining table so they call all have a place, and Opa developed a fear of his own sofa after being reamed out for sitting on one of the ‘friends’.  This lasted for several months, all of them came back to Australia with us, until they were eventually retired one by one.

When Miss Eight was Miss Four, she changed her name.  Within a week she had everyone calling her Emma.  We don’t know anybody called Emma, we don’t know where she heard it, but she was Emma.  If you called her Miss Eight, she wouldn’t respond, there was no budging her.  This too passed after a few months.

When Miss Eight was Miss Eight (this was yesterday) she woke up and announced that she would like to wear all black to school.  HUH?  My little Strawberry Shortcake snookems has turned into a bad-assed-gangsta-rap chick.  As luck would have it, I happened to come across a black hoodie at Aldi, two sizes too big.  She loved it.  Today she has toddled off to school looking like she just fell out of a 50 Cent video.  As a friend asked me today, “When did eight year olds become the new teenagers?”

Seems to me, that Angelina is just going through the same phases that we all do.  Besides, I think that little Shiloh looks like she is a real character.

We…have arrived.

I’ll set the scene for you:

The Outlaws are about to celebrate their Golden wedding anniversary, and have kindly invited their nearest and dearest (and me) to join them for a lush weekend at a hotel. I pretty much had my bag packed before they had finished saying the words ‘Spa facilities’.

It was planned with military precision.  Everyone knew that the Saturday night festivities would begin with a visit to the local catholic church.  Traditional in these parts.  The Mother-Outlaw had arranged it all so that the priest knew we were coming.

Now, here is were the story went a little awry.  This hotel is situated in a small town, 45 minutes drive from the nearest Autobahn, and that is really extreme for Germany.  We gussied ourselves up in preparation for the feast after church, slapped on some lipsticks, straightened ties and all looked about as glamorous as it was possible to be (even me).

There was a little hitch when we arrived at the church and found it surrounded by mountains of snow, somewhat of a challenge when you are wearing 6-inch heels, but overcome nonetheless. 

The Mother-Outlaw swanned in first.  Her full length mink coat pulled snugly up around her ears.  This is a determined woman.  Without missing a beat, she marched directly to the first pew and sat down.  We followed in her wake. 

As the church started to fill up, it became obvious that there was a problem.  People shuffled past us, peering at us with as much discretion as they could muster.  We stood out like sore thumbs.  People were bundled up in their snow/work gear.  Boots were the order of the day.  Flashing diamonds and fur coats were not often seen in these here parts.  Turns out we were sitting in the pew usually occupied by the children receiving their first communion lessons.

As we were leaving, my sister-in-law turned to me, we looked at each other and shouted “Dynasty!”  The rest of the evening was spent laughing and both wanting to be Linda Evans.  Lord knows I would probably be more suited to the role played by Joan Collins, but Linda was so pretty.

I bet we were the talk of the town for the next week.

Who is Marion Ravenwoods?

The phone rings again. (Just like in the last post… get with the program people)

“I can’t get home. There are no trains, no planes… no escape.  I am going to have to live at the airport like Tom Hanks.”  He is snivelling a bit.. I can hear it. 

“Well I will just come get your cute butt then, won’t I!”  I am good like that… a problem solver.  “Stay where you are, I will be there in a hour and a half – give or take a couple of stops for snacks and such.

Now, under normal circumstances, this would have been no problem, but yesterday, Hurricane Xynthia hit land and blew it all to hell.  It was chaos.

“Mama, will you please stop saying that!”  She is protesting after I have shouted at the top of my lungs for the 27th time - "Sit tight Daddy, we are comin’ to getcha!'”  She also mentioned something about hearing them say on the radio that the Airport was closed to all traffic.  I just ignored that bit.  I was on a rescue mission – I was going to save my man.

After we had circled the airport FOUR times, I had to admit that Miss Eight was correct.  The airport WAS closed… there was no way in.  I was being held back from my mission by a mere 2.2km according to ‘Lisa’ our resident know-it-all or  TomTom as it said on the box.

What to do?  What to do?  I know, let’s stop for snacks.  A pee would be good around now. Thank goodness for German Service Stations.  As we were perusing the selection of fine bottled waters, I could see the airport reflected in the fridge door.  I paid the guy behind the counter five bucks to use his mobile phone (because I don’t have one…. I know, only person on the planet without a mobile phone… get over it)

“Um honey, not sure if you know this, but you are locked in.  That airport finds you so darn cute, they have decided to keep you!  Ok, I know this isn’t funny… and as I have just ordered a low-fat mocchacino, do you think you could jump in a taxi and come to me?”

Sometimes, I scare myself with my own genius.

Once I had all my chicks back under my wing, we headed home.  I was starting to come down from my ‘Indiana Jones’ high (or maybe that was the 3 double mocchacinos I drank at the petrol station) – and the full impact of the storm called Xynthia started to hit home.  Trees down everywhere, all trains, planes and automobiles cancelled. Massive pileup on the other side of the Autobahn (the side that Miss Eight and I had skipped through a mere hour earlier).  It was not pretty.

Nothing like a little rescue mission to get the blood pumping.