Suffocating in Suburbia – Day 1, Therapy

When I am feeling a little ‘ornery, one of my favourite pastimes is to torture small children. I tell, they ask for it!

Play Dates (what a stupid name, who came up with that!) are big with the 8-year-old set. They fly thick and fast throughout the school week, and considering that twice a week the kids are out of school at 11:30am…that makes for plenty of time to make me nuts when I can no longer avoid my obligation to reciprocate.

But revenge is sweet and best served up by a strange mother speaking a foreign language.

One child in particular likes to show me she thinks she is the boss. We have had a couple of Wild West Style, Mexican stand-offs that would make a lesser mortals toenails fall out. An example? Sure, how about the time I baked delicious Oatmeal Cookies and sent them along to a group meeting. When I arrived at the end to collect the my midget, Little Miss Bossy looked me right in the eye, bit into the cookie and then proceeded to act as if I had given her rat-bait-laced-arsenic. In front of ALL the other mothers she spat out the offending cookie and proclaimed it ‘the worst thing she had ever tasted!’ Game On Biiiaaatch!

Today she sat at my kitchen table, having come home with Miss Eight. After lunch they were to do their homework before they could cut loose and play pagan blood sacrifice barbie/nintendo– and Little Miss Bossy was having a hell of a time with her Math. “Can’t you help me?” she begged. “Can’t you do it for me?” Miss Eight rolled her eyes and stifled a laugh – she knew full well what the answer was going to be.

“Well what would be the good in that? I have already passed the 3rd grade – you haven’t” she knew we were having a power struggle...and she was sizing up the competition. “Its up to you honey… if you don’t want to do, then don’t do it. What would your mother say?” And here is the corker – her mother makes me look like Carol Brady (I would have said June Cleaver, but she didn’t have a maid). Miss Bossy’s mother scares the pants off everyone, and I have noticed her child keeps a healthy respect (and distance) should there be any ‘smart-mouthing’ goin’ down.

“Oh my mother wouldn’t care, she would just tell me I could do it later…” with all the nonchalance of a professional card shark, down to his underwear in Vegas.

A-haaaa…yeah, right.

“Um by the way, what is your home phone number again?” I have wandered over with the phone in my hand. “Why? Why do you want to know?” Her face is suddenly flushed and there is fear in her eyes. I have you now, my pretty.

“Because I am worried you are going to squeal!” Her exact words – I kid you not. (of course she said it in German)

Oh little one, when will you learn you can’t compete with the master. That time you played with Miss Eight and decided to see what would happen if you tried out all my lipsticks – then didn’t roll them down before putting the cap on… did I squeal? Noooooooo, where I live, we save up juicy facts like that for a rainy day. I will just add it to your tab.

You may call me Mrs Fields… next time, eat the damn cookie!

Ps: Photo is from Coraline – if you haven’t seen it, go watch. The 5 girls I took to the movies thought it was the scariest movie EVER (including my own), but I personally think it should be required viewing for all Eight Year olds ;)

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.