Monday, December 07, 2009
Like riding a bike
They say that things come in threes. As I've lost my father-in-law to cancer this year, and my blogger friend to cancer this year, I was getting a bit worried as to who would be next.
Thankfully my husband's mouth biopsy came back clear, Frally's lumpy breast turned out to be just a lumpy breast, and my moles haven't changed shape or size yet, but the third cancer death duly came and so today I went to a funeral.
It was a nice funeral, as far as funerals go. I only cried a tiny bit (I ALWAYS cry at funerals, even if it's for someone I don't really know) and I relished getting to know the deceased a bit more.
It was my friend John's dad who'd died, and when I heard I was rather surprised as he hadn't seemed that old (he was 75). When I heard he'd died "after a long illness" I was doubly surprised, as I hadn't even known he was ill. Turned out he got diagnosed with cancer 18 years ago, and he'd been stoicly fighting it ever since, not really mentioning it to anyone, and steadfastly going against his doctor's orders by making sure he drank plenty of red wine each and every night and ignoring his meds. The docs had only given him a couple of years way back then, but he and the merlot proved them wrong.
He was also a devout Catholic, and so it was a funeral mass. I was raised Catholic but I haven't been to mass in many years. (In fact, I sat down and worked out that the last time I went was in 2002 - twice in fact and for the same family. Once for John's wedding and a couple of month's earlier to his sister's funeral, which was agonisingly awfully sad).
Although seven years have passed since I set foot inside a church, and many more years of non-church-going before that, my first 18 or so years of going to mass every single Sunday (plus extra at Easter, Christmas, and Ash Wednesday) had obviously worked its way into my skin. I automatically said all the responses, did all the little hand gestures at the appropriate times, and even took communion.
They say that "once a Catholic, always a Catholic" and I guess it's kind of true. I mean, I don't consider myself a Catholic and I don't believe in Catholic (or other Christian, for that matter) dogma, but I've always liked the rituals of the mass. And despite years of non-attendance, those initial nine hundred or so masses I attended in my formative years obviously made a big impression on my psyche.
The other nice thing about funerals is that you catch up with people that you haven't seen since the last funeral. You have a cup of tea, catch up on how many children you all have these days, say things like "We really must try to catch up at places other than funerals" and then that's that until the next funeral.
posted by cesca @ 11:22 PM
Friday, December 04, 2009
posted by cesca @ 7:49 PM
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
posted by cesca @ 7:41 PM
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
posted by cesca @ 9:18 PM
Monday, November 30, 2009
posted by cesca @ 7:11 PM
Sunday, November 29, 2009
posted by cesca @ 6:39 PM
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Chaotic hiatus
Did you miss me yesterday?
It was the first day in over a month that I've not blogged, thanks to being at my book club's Christmas do and drinking, oh, just a little bit too much Sauvignon Blanc. Seven of us ladies standing on a balcony overlooking Lyttelton Harbour on a gorgeous evening... sigh... it's surprising that we got around to talking about books at all with a million dollar view like that.
But books were spoken of, of course. I mentioned Ben Elton's "The First Casualty" and Jenny Pattrick's "The Denniston Rose" - the two books that I managed to finish this past month. (I'm actually surprised that I only managed two books. I blame the internet and its distractions and I vow to do better this month.)
Ben Elton was of course wonderful, but I was a bit "meh" about the whole Denniston Rose thing. I liked the historical aspect of the book (and yes, I definitely want to visit Denniston next time I'm on the Coast) but the story itself seemed a bit lacking.
Anyhoo, a good night was had by all but I did realise that I don't really FIT with this group. They're all nice people, but we have nothing in common. My sister is the common link. They're all single, childless women in their late 20s or early 30s who think nothing of spending over a hundred dollars on ugly dresses (although apparently they're "designer") from quirky boutique stores.
I guess it's kind of nice for a change, though, so I will persevere, but I am desperately wanting to get my old Linwood Ladies book club happening again. They buy their clothes at Farmers and the Warehouse and they're MY kind of women.
Anyway, yesterday also left me in a pit of despair as I realised how disorganised my life has become.
I got a ticket yesterday, while my car was parked outside the school, for having an unlicensed vehicle. The ticket was for TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS.
I nearly cried.
I have never forgotten to get my rego before so was at first incredulous, but when I went searching amongst the utter mess that surrounds my computer I found the reminder papers under a whole heap of stuff I'd had out for the school fair. It had been due nearly a month ago, and I just plain forgot.
I'll pay up, as it's a fair cop. It's a bloody expensive lesson though. I mean, I get the occasional library fine (a dollar a month maybe) but this is a LOT more.
My boss at the bookstore suggested I write a letter explaining how I had been busy virtuously helping with the school fair at that time so unfortunately the rego was overlooked. He said it was worth a shot, so why not? I don't know if my conscience would let me do that. As I said, it's a fair cop. I was at fault.
So I'm sitting here in the study, surrounded by crap. Piles of paper cover each surface, and there are drifts of old toys, papers, books, and other stuff covering pretty much every square inch of the floor (except for a little pathway from the door to the desk). Something desperately needs to be done.
My son had a little friend over today to play and he came into this room and just stared. "What happened in this room?" he said, bewildered. I tried to explain about how a giant monster came in and trashed the place, but he wasn't buying it. I then told the truth: "This is the junk room. When we tidy the other rooms, anything that we don't know what to do with gets thrown in here onto the floor, where it lives for many many months."
Tonight may be the night to finally get stuck into the junk room study and wrestle some order back into our lives.
In totally unrelated news (as Frally's house is expertly tidied and decluttered by Mr Frally on a nightly basis)... OMG, Frally is blogging again! Go and visit her, and tell her I said Hi!
Cutey cutey
It's the start of the Silly Season, when a zillion Christmas parties clog up my previously empty diary.
Well, maybe not a zillion. Maybe.... two? I just realised that the majority of the silly season this year is children's parties, goddammit.
Ach well, those two will be much enjoyed. My new book club is having its Christmas do tomorrow (did I tell you yet about my book club? how it's completely filled with single childless women in their thirties? it's a whole new world!) and my husband's work is having their Christmas party on Saturday night.
There is a possible third party in the works, my mothers' group's annual bash, but as I'm not organising it this year things are a bit quiet on that front. Maybe I should tactfully offer to take over...? (OMG, I can't help myself. Ignore that last comment, and I'll do my best to forget it also.)
Anyway, it's also my daughter's sixth birthday coming up next week, so I've just spent half an hour organising invitations. I had to cut her list short this year, but we'll still end up with quite a crowd. I'm putting my money on 25 children and 15 adults (we always invite siblings and parents too). I've decided that this year we'll head to a local park and have the party there (easy!) and I've also scheduled it for mid afternoon which means that catering will be simple (afternoon tea nibbles, plus a lolly scramble!).
I have my fingers crossed for good weather, because if it ends up raining then 40 grumpy people are going to be descending on my tiny house. And a lolly scramble in the lounge will not be cutey cutey.
Speaking of cutey cutey (I tried to find the Little Treasures ad that that saying comes from so I could link to it, but couldn't, but I'm guessing most Kiwis will understand) I had my hair cut yesterday.
Yes, my twice yearly instant weight loss plan went well - I lost about a kilo in hair and managed to score a male hairdresser who didn't speak at all. Fantastic! (Can't usually stand that chit-chatting that some hairdressers do). Actually, I don't think he actually spoke much English, which could explain the lack of chit-chat, or maybe it was just because he was male, but it was good. He did a decent cut and that's all that matters.
Feeling like I just walked out of a salon, I walked out of the salon and went straight to the supermarket to buy some hair dye. Again, about once or twice a year I suddenly get all angsty about my ever encroaching grey hairs - I'm actually now developing quite an awesome Morticia streak at the front. Usually I don't mind it, but lately I've been feeling old and frumpy and need a lift. So a quick dye job will do. I may do it tonight if the allergy test warnings don't scare me off.
While on a roll, I popped into OPSM to take a look at the latest frames. I tend to change my glasses every four or five years (usually at the same time I get my eyes tested) and although my current frames aren't hopelessly unfashionable, I've been lusting after some of those funky chunky things that the young and trendy people are wearing.
I tried on a few, got a feel for what was there, and made a mental note to book an appointment with my lovely regular optometrist (and of course I'll be buying my frames from him, as he usually sends me home with several thousand dollars worth of frames in a box to "try out" for a few days. He obviously has a crush on me.)
Anyway, spookily enough, my daughter came home yesterday with a note from the visiting eye test person. Apparently she's failed the last couple of eye tests and may need glasses. She sent me a referral to go and see the optometrist.
My daughter was ECSTATIC at this news. Being denied the chance to have bling via earrings the other day, she was over the moon at possibly having bling, necessary bling, in the form of spectacles.
My husband isn't happy at all. He obviously has bad memories from his bad school in his bad part of town with kids being called "four eyes" or somesuch. He probably called them "four eyes" and so is now having bullies' remorse.
But these days glasses seem pretty cool. There is one girl in Eva's class with glasses and hers are AWESOME. They are pink with diamantes on the side. They are the epitome of bling. Eva adores them and has been jealous ever since she got them. I have to admit, this wee girl always looks incredibly stylish for a five year old.
So, Eva has been nagging me to make an appointment with the optometrist, which I shall do sometime in the next couple of weeks. We can go together. It could be our special "girl" time where we choose pretty frames, batt our eyelashes at the optometrist, and giggle over a couple of wines hot chocolate together.
I tell you though, I hope my optometrist doesn't send my daughter home with several thousand dollars worth of frames to test out - for one, I couldn't handle the cost of the inevitable breakages, and two, I thought I was special.
Topsy turvy
Ha! Caught you! You thought that since it's now December, and now that NaBloPoMo is over, I'd simply stop blogging, didn't you?
As it turns out, that whole write every day for a month lark was bloody good for me. It gave me purpose to each and every day, and I even kind of enjoyed it. I may continue. We'll see.
In other news, things are all topsy turvy here.
It's December today. DECEMBER!
Weather gods - please take note. December means that summer has officially begun (the calendary version of summer anyway). I haven't really appreciated having to drag the heater out of hiding these past couple of days, but it's been peeing down and the temperatures have barely got into the double digits. Ahem.
In other topsy turvy news, the country has gone mad. Well, maybe not the entire country, just Don Brash and his cronies.
My husband read out some "recommendations" from this former leader of the opposition cum former reserve bank chief on how we can raise our economic whatever-it's-called to that of Australia's. I was nearly sick into my cereal bowl at his "ideas".
Firstly, let's abolish the minimum wage. That paltry $12.50 per hour that a huge number of the population earn (even those who have gone on to get an education) should be wiped, and workers should only be paid what "the market" thinks they should. Riiiiiiiight. I can see that working.
Secondly, slash the top tax rates, the taxes on business and the taxes on dividends etc to very little. Oh, it's making sense now. Brash wants our AVERAGE hourly wage to RISE to be in line with that of Australia's, and to do that he will make the rich much much richer, the poor quite a bit poorer, but the AVERAGE result of this will mean the average wage will rise. Huh.
What else is there in this report? Oh yeah, raise the superannuation age (no surprises there) and slashing health and education funding (yeah, nice one). There may be more but I think that's when I vomited.
Basically, the rich will get a LOT richer. The poor will get a LOT poorer. Everyone knows that societies where the gap between rich and poor is large are the unhappiest and most crime ridden.
But hey? At least our AVERAGE hourly wage will be on par with Australia, eh? And that's ALL THAT MATTERS.
In somewhat related news, I saw an interesting "Oprah" clip the other day (calm down, I haven't deliberately watched Oprah since about 2004, but this one was on the Free Range Kids blog). She was talking about how Denmark has been hailed as the happiest nation on earth, due to its small gap between rich and poor, its lack of religion, and its socialised (they prefer to call it "civilised") society. As the people in the clip observe, they're more interested in living rather than consuming.
I tell you, if Don Brash's ideas ever come close to being made real, I'm moving to Denmark.
Piercing
Today is the day (in fact, just about two minutes ago, as I was sitting here at the computer wondering what to write about on the last day of NaBloPoMo) when my five, nearly six, year old daughter asked me for the very first time if she can have her ears pierced.
Hmmmm. Interesting. I was hoping to get another year or two out of her before this request came up, but oh well.
Of course I said no. Of course she asked me why not. I said because it hurts and then demonstrated, complete with agonised facial expressions, just how much pain she would be in as the red hot needle slowly goes through her tender flesh.
She looked sceptical.
So I then said that she's too young. She put her hand on her hip sassily and counted off all of the girls in her class with their ears pierced. (Thankfully, only a few, and definitely in the minority).
I then told her that having your ears pierced is for tidy children, children who can keep their earrings safe, in little jewellery boxes, without them being scattered from one end of the house to the other. I looked pointedly at her beading stuff, which was scattered all over the floor, waiting for me to "clean it up" with the vacuum cleaner.
She raised an eyebrow at my pierced ears then looked pointedly at the utter mess covering the tops of each and every surface in my bedroom.
I retaliated with my patented Evil Mother Stare, the one that means NO, and so she sighed and wandered off.
But I know I've not heard the last of this.
Actually, I hadn't heard the last of it.
I started typing out this blog entry about fifteen minutes ago. The first five minutes was pretty peaceful, but for the last ten minutes I have been working under intense stress. My daughter came in wailing and shrieking, holding a tiny cheap plastic butterfly bead. Apparently the bead had snapped in two and my daughter was inconsolable. After promising her that I would personally go to the bead shop and buy an identical cheap crappy butterfly bead, she decided to stay, draping her robust body over the desk, trying to get in my way, and just generally moaning, wailing and whining for the next ten minutes, nearly driving me to infanticide.
She's now stopped the whimpering, and has now graduated to the floor where she is attempting to break apart each and every felt tip pen in the pen box whilst still managing to push out the occasional fake cry.
Yes, yes, to all you "perfect parents" out there, I know it's a cry for attention. Yes, yes, I know that she's not happy that I'm typing on the computer and ignoring her. But goddammit.
She's never getting earrings until she's at least eighteen.
Today's Sunday
Today was a Sunday, which is generally the worst, yet the best, day of the week.
My Sundays generally always go the exact same way.
Firstly, I enjoy my only sleep-in of the week.
Now, for those of you who think that a "sleep-in" involves lying in bed later than 7.30am, you can just sod off as you obviously have no idea of what a true sleep-in is.
Monday to Fridays I get out of bed between 7.30am and 7.45am. It's very respectable and we generally get to school before 9.00am, easy.
On Saturdays I get out of bed at around 8.00am, for a 9.30am start at work. Again, very respectable, but in no way a "sleep-in".
But Sundays are great. I get out of bed any time between 9.00am and 1.00pm. If my husband is home he'll bring me a cup of tea and some toast whenever I wake up, and I then read a book or the papers in bed for another hour. It's blissful.
However, lately my husband has not really been home much on a Sunday, as I've become a golf widow. He was out the door at 7.30am this morning, and got home around 6.00pm.
Today I was up at 9.30am as Frally rang. "Cesca!" she chirped brightly, obviously awake for at least ten minutes as opposed to my ten seconds. "Let's get fit! Let's go for a walk along the river!"
My half-asleep brain churned into gear. A walk? With my best mate Frally? The one I'm always moaning about how I never get to see any more? Hey! That sounds awesome!
I then switched to wide-awake, and remembered my children. And remembered that my husband was out playing golf. Dammit. After much discussion of when we were both free to go on walks, it turns out that we're never free at the same time. Ever. Double dammit.
So by then I was awake but went back to bed for another hour to cram in some quality reading time. Then I finally got up and this is when our regular Sunday morning fireworks happen.
You see, Sunday is by far the messiest day of the week in our house. I've been working Thursday, Friday and all day Saturday, which basically means that no-one has done a single skerrick of housework in three days, beyond the basics.
I don't know about others, but I tend to be rather tired after a full day at work, and so Saturdays are a double edged write-off, what with me getting home at 6pm to just collapse exhausted into a heap, and the house being extremely messy from one man and two children pulling everything they can find out of its place and just generally throwing it on the floor from one end of the house to the other.
So by the time I get up on Sunday morning (or afternoon) the place looks as if a bomb has exploded. And I explode.
"AAARRGHHH! What the hell is this mess? Who didn't put this away? Why is yoghurt all over the coffee table? Why are rice bubbles all over the bedroom floor? Why is there lego all down the hall? Why are three pair of dirty underwear under the couch?"
My son hates it when I lose it, and so goes and shuts himself in his room until I calm down. My daughter fights back feistily. "That's not my lego! Only two of the undies are mine! Noah spilt the rice bubbles!"
I then take a couple of deep breaths and try to get the kids to help clean up. "Right, let's go. Five minute tidy time." (Although it would really take more like an hour.)
Eva runs to Noah and screeches "Five minute tidy time Noah! Come on! Come ON! Muuuu-uuum! He's not coming! I'm not going to tidy if he's not!"
My rage overflows once more and I screech like a banshee and begin to pick up the lego and throw it into the rubbish bin. The kids chastise me and start picking up the lego. The minute my back is turned they abandon their efforts and go and jump on the trampoline instead.
Every single Sunday is like this. The extreme scale of the mess and destruction snaps something inside of me. We spend about two hours each Sunday circling each other - me switching between abject despair, frenzied tidying, and yelling at the kids, and the kids switching between pretending to tidy, hiding from me, and making more mess.
After a couple of hours it all settles down. The house is still a pigsty, but at least each room now has a path cleared through the detritus. This is when the good part of Sunday happens.
Saturdays in our family are "Daddy's Day". Daddy and the kids go on an outing while I'm at work. They love it.
Sundays in our family are "Mummy's Day". Once the weekly wars are over, the kids and I always go on an outing while Daddy plays golf. We love it.
I guess others might find it odd that our weekends are organised like a divorced couple's, but it works for us.
So every Sunday afternoon we go visiting, or go to the beach, or go to a park. I generally love having "special time" with my kids, as my kids are so freaking awesome and cool to be around (housekeeping skills aside). This week we visited the newest addition to our family - one week old H. It was the kids' first meeting with their baby cousin, and they were thrilled to get to hold him. I was extra thrilled to cuddle him, as he is just so incredibly scrumptious. (Holding him makes me realise why Maurice Sendak wrote "We'll eat you up, we love you so.")
I felt like an older experienced matron, as cradling him and burping him and all of that was just so natural and easy to me. Better still, he seemed to like me and got that blissed out newborn look pretty quickly. Cluck.
Then it was home again, to the pigsty, and I whipped up a gourmet meal of baked beans on toast for the three of us. My husband arrived back soon after that, happy for spending eleven hours away from us, but all was forgotten once he gave me a kiss and poured me a glass of wine. The kids tossed some rice bubbles on their bedroom floor in celebration and went and bounced on the tramp.
And tomorrow is Monday. Monday is the day I start cleaning again.
Being boring
I'm feeling very uninspired today. I had my busiest ever day (financially) at work today but it was BOOOOORING. My brain still hasn't woken up.
And then I got home to a grumpy husband who's stomping about the place and melodramatically sighing a lot, all because (a) he's upset that the house is a mess (yes, it is, I do my fair share of stomping and sighing regarding this also so I totally understand) and (b) I didn't get on the phone this morning to wish his mother a happy birthday.
In my defence, if he'd thrust the phone in my face and said "Cesca! Say happy birthday to my mum!" I would have happily talked to her. But I was getting up, getting dressed, eating my breakfast, and then I had to go to work - all while he was chatting to her. As I left I whispered "tell your mum happy birthday from me" but maybe that wasn't enough.
It's a wierd one, as I really enjoy speaking to my mother-in-law face to face, but I find it excruciatingly difficult to speak to her on the phone. It's the same with my grandmother - it's an obligatory phone call where the same thing gets repeated each time ("How's the weather there?" "Fine, how's yours?" with the occasional "What?" "What??" thrown in to account for the issue of not understanding each others accents [in my mother-in-law's case] or deafness [in my grandmother's case]).
Or maybe I'm just not a phone person.
Anyway, because of my uninspiredness, I've had a dig around in my files and found an old meme that Melissa posted a while back. I saved it in case I needed it. And today I think I need it.
1. What was your favourite subject at school?
Huh. This is unusually hard and we've just started. I'm not sure that I had a favourite subject. They were all pretty much the same to me. If pressed I guess I would have to say English. Or maths. Or biology. Or history. Or maybe art.
2. Did you have a favourite teacher? What was it about them that you liked?
This isn't getting easier, is it? I went to about a zillion different schools, and never stayed in one for more than two years, so I had a lot of teachers in a lot of different schools.
Interestingly enough, the very first school I attended was Aorangi Primary in Christchurch - the same school that is in the news all the time at the moment due to that evil witch Minister of Education Anne Tolley wanting to close it down. I have a lot of weird, yet good, memories from my Aorangi days.
But I'm wavering off the topic. Teachers. Well, I remember that I had a nice teacher in Singapore named Diana (can you believe I remember her first name but not her last name?). And in high school I remember a couple of awesome teachers, but their names totally evade me now. So, hmmmm. Yes, a few good teachers, but no stand out 'To Sir With Love' ones that have made me remember them forever.
Bah. Whoever said that school days are the best days of your life was lying.
3. What do you like most about yourself?
I like that I'm pretty laid back and don't get offended or upset by trivial little things. Life is too short.
4. Why did you start blogging?
Back in 2004 myself and my best mate Frally (I'd link her name to her blog, but she seems to be taking a blogging hiatus at present) were talking and I mentioned that I'd like to write more. She suggested blogging. I said "What the hell is blogging?" She showed me, and we both started blogs on the same day. Hooked ever since.
5. Can you show us your 5 favourite blog posts?
They're pretty much all the early ones in that first year. Check out the side bar for the Top Picks from the Archives. Actually, I should really update that, as I've not put any top picks in since 2006. I'm sure it hasn't all been downhill since then.
6. What do you love most about your partner?
He buys me wine.
7. Next to your husband/partner/significant other/children, who do you speak to most often?
There's obviously an unspoken assumption that I speak to my husband more often that I speak to other people, which isn't always true. I guess at the moment I'd speak most often to the other school mum friends I have, as we hang out in the playground every day after school. I miss Frally though. We used to talk nearly every day but now we're just too damned busy with our respective schools.
8. What are your 5 favourite books?
Oooh, now we're talking.
Okay, well, Jostein Gaarder's "The Solitaire Mystery" is definitely numero uno. Blows my mind each and every time I read it. And then my new favourite author Neil Gaiman could possibly pad out the rest... "Neverwhere" is great, as is "The Graveyard Book", "American Gods" and "Anansi Boys".
I'm doing my best not to think too hard about this or else about a hundred other awesome books would spill out of my brain all over the keyboard and then I'd be stuffed for the next few hours.
9. Do you have a favourite work of art?
I have a couple.
Firstly, Andrew Wyeth's "Christina's World".
I love this for two reasons. Firstly, because when I was at university, it was hanging on the walls of the psychology department, and it seemed to sum mental illness up quite well.
And secondly, I read an amazing book called "Skallagrigg" (probably a contender for top five, but I'm trying to move on) and this painting featured a lot, but instead of mental illness it was about physical disability. Mind blowing.
My other favourite is Evelyn Page's "Summer Morn".
I'm distantly related to Evelyn Page, and this painting tickles me as it seems that every friend I have has a print of it on their wall.
10.If you could live for a year anywhere in the world, where would you choose?
A year? Just a year? So many "what ifs" go along with this question. i.e. does it have to be a country that I can't currently access? Would I be able to access a decent lifestyle if I was there or have to live on my own finances?
Okay, let me think. I'm veering towards Hawai'i, as we spent an idyllic month there eight years ago and thought the whole place was awesome. Yeah, Hawai'i.
Or Scotland. Or Australia. But I can live in those places if I want anyway. I just don't fancy the whole upheaval of moving just at the moment.
OMG, just finishing this entry had made me bored. Apologies for the boring post. Especially to those new readers that I've magicked up these past couple of weeks - wow! Obviously the day-to-day drudgery of NaBloPoMo has reaped rewards in unexpected ways.
Cross your fingers that I get my blogging mojo back tomorrow.
