Oh, The Inanity!

Have you ever noticed how the people who talk the most are often the ones with the least to say? I’m talking specifically about those who faithfully relate the minutiae of their daily existence as if each inconsequential detail is a pebble on the path to Nirvana, and who subscribe to the notion that ‘everyone is entitled to my own opinion.’ Such are my husband’s family.

Ever since, at only our second meeting, my mother-in-law blithely spoke right over the top of me and my father-in-law blustered scandalously on about A-rabs, Nips, Chinks, and Abos, I gave up trying to converse with them in anything but the sparest fashion. Like squealing in fright at a trench-coated flasher, it only encourages the undesirable behaviour. Now every enforced visit sees me hunkered down in the ‘I must supervise my two small children!’ foxhole, trying to avoid the barrage of outrageously offensive remarks and slow-mo replays of the week’s non-events.

“How heavy d’you reckon this chair is?” my father-in-law might ask as he brings an ordinary wooden dining chair out of the spare room. “Much heavier than it looks!” he will answer himself triumphantly before Mr. Lonie and I can formulate some reply other than a quizzical “Umm…?”

“It’s had about seven coats of paint since we bought it!” f-i-l will then enthuse, undeterred by our glazed expressions, before listing each colour it’s been, from white, to cream, to bone, to beige, to every shade Richie Benaud has ever worn.

Or: “She is my oldest and dearest friend!” my mother-in-law might gush with what she probably believes is sincerity about the woman who just made her lucky escape from the House of Blather. “But hasn’t she gotten fat! She’s absolutely huge! She must have gained at least 140 pounds since I knew her as a girl. I wonder she travels so much, how does she possibly fit in the aeroplane seat? She must need to pay for two tickets and have the armrest up. If she lost a bit of weight she might finally find herself a husband…”

I’m not averse to a bit of histrionic hyperbole in the name of humour and fun, but sadly I’m not exaggerating here, although a lapse into shameless excess would be entirely understandable after a few captive hours in their company. Over the next retellings (of which there will be many), seven coats of paint will become fifteen, and 140 pounds will become 250. The chilly wind on the holiday they took five years ago is now a raging tempest which threatened to induce fatal hypothermia, and the hour at which a boy-Mr. Lonie woke them on Christmas morning is no longer six o’clock but three.

In my weaker moments, usually when I’ve managed to secure more than a few days without having to resort to sub-conscious defensive hunching and attempted selective deafness, I almost feel sorry for my in-laws. With a rare flash of perspicacity I know their small-minded gossip and prating comes from ignorance and – to put it as bluntly as the metaphorical tools-in-the-shed they are: stupidity. Their unabashed exaggerations are a placebo for their sense of inferiority instilled in them by parents which, from all I’ve heard, I can’t help but be glad I never had to meet. Deep down they think, I believe, that surely no-one will deign to bestow their notice, let alone listen to what they have to say, without the promise of thrilling tales and spontaneous-gasp-inducing statistics, and that’s why they practise this twisted form of self-aggrandisement.

The regrettable thing is, it doesn’t have to be this way. I’d much prefer to hear about f-i-l’s varied employment as stockman, RAAF officer, and murderer-catching policeman, but instead I must grit my teeth through parroted recitations of every right-leaning article he’s read in the paper during the week, styled as his own thoughts and conclusions. M-i-l would find me a ready listener were she to recount her youthful days as a news-making daredevil skydiver, but she’d rather engage in pointless quibbling with f-i-l about whether an uninteresting drive to somewhere I’d never care to visit ended at 11:05 or ‘much later!’ at 11:15.

One day they’ll be gone, but it seems they’re content to leave as their monument to posterity not treasured memoirs, but a woeful collection of drivel. It’s not the Hindenburg, but a tragedy all the same.

For Your Reluctant Enlightenment

Gasp! Two posts in two days – what has precipitated such a rare occurrence in these dark days of sausage-centric drudgery? I’d tell you, but…I don’t wanna. Some things sound too insufferably whiney even to me, so instead I present for your amusement/horror/disgust five things you probably never wanted to know about me.

1) When I was about two years old, I stuck a tic-tac so far up my nostril it never came out again. I’m assuming it managed to slide its way down my throat, because as far as I’m aware I don’t have any tic-tac sized growths obstructing my nasal passage. I remember being surprised because the other tic-tacs I’d already eaten had made the return journey into my nose without any problem.

2) I caught glandular fever off the first boy I kissed. I think I got off lightly; he tried to give me a whole lot more. Fortunately for me, I found that short-arse, bandanna-wearing boy's clumsy attempts to give me an early introduction to meat products all-too-easy to refuse.

3) When I was a little girl, I woke in the middle of the night to an unwontedly urgent call of nature. Leaping out of bed, I whipped off my pyjama bottoms and underpants to facilitate a quicker connection of rear end and toilet. As I raced to the loo, I stepped on something that didn’t belong on my floor, something that must have slipped out of my undies after its premature arrival during my sleep. It was a pellet of pooh. That was a long time ago, and two babies have presented me with a lot worse since, but oh! I can’t help cringing at the memory.

4) I once got so drunk I spent the entire next day in bed, puking up the meagre contents of my stomach. The revolting sight of green, phlegmy stomach-lining globbing into my enamelled wash basin was nevertheless accompanied by weak relief that at last, there was nothing left to bring up. Accepting shot after shot after shot from creepy older men in China didn’t seem like such a bad idea the night before - I sometimes marvel I survived my salad days relatively unscathed.

5) I once flashed my boobs in a busy street. I’d rushed out of the house that morning stupidly forgetting my bra in my haste, and had been wearing a jumper to preserve some modicum of decency. In the afternoon warmth I absentmindedly removed my jumper, my top rose up with it and [cue Benny Hill music] instant nudie show! Of course, my boobs have made public appearances many times since then in their capacity as milk-dispensers, so I'm no longer mortified by the experience. And every goggling teenage boy needs a break now and then.

I'm It!

After much wheedling, Hazelblackberry has prevailed upon me to participate in one of these blog-meme whatsits, and as I had nothing better to do I finally agreed to grace the online public with fascinating insights into ‘Why I blog’. (Actually, we all know I’ve been hopping around on the balls of my feet, hand in the air, pleading, “Pick me! Pick me!” to the well-connected and oft-tagged since I first started blogging, so I’ll try not to widdle with excitement while I set down for your perusal my raisons de blog.)

1) It was on my list of ‘Things To Do Before I Die’, and seemed somewhat easier to achieve than fluency in German from a ‘teach yourself’ cassette tape, or finding someone to publish a book with only two completed chapters. “Ich trinke wein in Wien,” and “Scheisse! Zis vill neffer verk!” is about as far as I have gotten with those latter two objectives.

2) I can pretend I’m keeping my creative writing juices flowing, instead of acknowledging the car that is my novel is stranded in the Nullabor Plain with an empty petrol tank. And the tyres are punctured. And it’s rusting to dust. And the Department of Meat Products road train is ruthlessly bearing down on it, ready to flatten it into sheet metal. And I’m too lazy to heave it out of the way because that would mean less sleep for me and I’m oh-so-tired here in the desert sun with two children moaning at me and a report on the proportion of saturated fat in brawn to complete.

But that’s what’s great about blogging, isn’t it? I can whine about how in forty years’ time when I’ve retired from the Department with my gold salami in hand, I’ll be saying Brando-style that I coulda bin a contender, because:

3) A blog is a great medium to whinge and complain, especially if you specify that your blog is a cathartic outlet for pent-up rantings. I can gripe as much as I like about whatever I choose, whether it be work, in-laws, anal probes, in-laws or work, and no one else can really complain because, well, I’ve made my manifesto clear. Caveat lector and all that.

4) Everyone needs a hobby. Various ones have come and gone in my life, but until I took up blogging, nothing so efficiently combined my propensity for physical laziness with my love of anonymous venting. When I’m too bitter even for this, I shall move on to writing parochial letters to the editor, and calling television network feedback lines to bemoan the waste of my tax-payer dollars on avant-garde tripe instead of more programs about old people pottering around at home.

5) Blogging is the new Crack. How sweet were those palpitations of excitement induced by the very first comments on my blog! How frabjous was the day my blog at last became google-able! How gratifying it is to my pathetically insecure ego to welcome each new reader, each return visitor! How delightful it is to pretend I’m in the league of the more talented and amusing people whose blogs I frequent! That’s why, when I can wangle it, I sit for hours in front of the screen, reading avidly, typing feverishly, finally stumbling to bed when my dark-encircled bloodshot eyes can stay open no longer, happy that I’ve secured my fix for another day.

What’s that? Nothing very revelatory in what I’ve just told you? I’ll change the rules, then. The topic is ‘Five things you never wanted to know about me’. You’re it.

The Art Of Diplomacy

A university lecturer of mine once told me I’d make a great diplomat because I laugh a lot. As well-intentioned as her comment was (she meant, I think, something along the lines of laughter setting a good vibe and making people happy and relaxed), she was overlooking some crucial traits a great diplomat ought to display, such as subtle political sensibilities, a commanding influence, and prowess in the delicate art of high-stakes negotiation – traits which are conspicuously lacking from my character. Contrary to her opinion, I harbour grave doubts about my ability to broker a history-making solution to the Iraq problem by chortling loudly at Dubya’s unfortunate mispronunciation of ‘Shi’ite Muslim.’

We should therefore all be grateful that I am not involved in minimising ethnic strife in Africa, mediating between China and Taiwan, or securing the disarmament of rogue nuclear states. However, there is still the issue of the petty politics of my daily life, which could clearly benefit from the wise guidance of a career stateswoman, but which, alas, I must navigate alone.

The two major obstacles to diplomatic détente, as I see them, are social ineptness borne of shyness, and a stubborn, proud refusal to lie about my feelings and opinions. I’m not so concerned about the former even though most people think I’m an utter twit for saying things like, “Yeah, she has a lot of mental problems,” when what I mean is, “She has a lot of issues weighing on her mind”. I just cross my fingers and hope they can see my verbal vomits for what they are – flustered attempts at conversation, with no malicious intent.

What gets me into awkward situations is the latter character flaw, when I’m forced to express some sort of opinion which, for the sake of ‘if you can’t say anything nice…’ I’d rather not. I dread pregnant acquaintances excitedly announcing the names they’ve chosen (“Neptune for a boy, and Rubella for a girl!”), or new parents proudly showing off their babies (every baby is beautiful – even the ones that look like weird little Jim Henson puppets). I fear being asked what I think of someone’s outfit or hairstyle. I’m ashamed to recall my final farewell to a roommate with whom I’d had a rocky relationship (she hugged me and said sincerely, “I really like you, you know.” I would never see her again and had the chance to release some good energy into the world by saying I liked her too, but instead I submitted limply and replied noncommittally, “Hmm”).

It’s one thing to be true to my feelings and express sincere opinions, but platitudes and evasion will not stave off a breakdown in diplomatic relations forever. I’ve come to the conclusion that sincerity is a two-edged sword that must be tempered with tact and John Howard-style non-core truths. It’s either that, or kick someone under the table next time they ask me in front of three bosses, “So, are you glad to be back at work?”

Problems Of The Privileged

I’m very grateful I have access to good health care and can afford it. That’s why I’m trying really hard not to complain about the administration of the dental practice I visited today, or the size of the refund I received from my private health insurance.

At least I’ll be covered when I burst a blood vessel from the effort.

From Sen. The Hon. Neil O’Nooply

It recently came to the attention of the Minister for Meat Products that certain of his suit-clad minions have breached the Australian Public Service Act (Supplementary) paragraph 10.1, Duty to refrain from looking stupid, and it fell to me to draft a minute to be propagated department-wide, reminding all staff of their obligations. Hereunder a reproduction of the salient points of the minute, including infractions and remedial instructions:

1) Multi-coloured mullets.
No. You are not cool, trendy or young. You are just a (poorly informed) fashion victim with a hairstyle that doesn’t go with anything, let alone business suits or your head.

2) Surf-brand lanyards.
Three times wider than everyone else’s, in eye-blinding colours and emblazoned with trademarks you pay to advertise, these should be avoided by everyone who isn’t a try-hard fifteen-year-old.

3) Expensive utes that have never been on a farm or unsealed road.
What’s the look you’re going for here? Gentleman farmer? Country boy made good? Wealthy landowner? Whatever image you’re attempting to project, the only one I see is ‘tool’ (and not the useful sort).

4) Shorts.
No, no, no, ladies! The weekend was yesterday. I don’t care what Cue has in its window display - today we wear trousers, skirts or dresses.

5) Hands-free mobile phones.
Unless you’re driving a car and on an absolutely necessary call, you should not be sporting one of these. People do not see you swaggering around talking over-loudly into your headset and think, “Now there’s a powerful high-flyer! Look, he’s in constant demand on the phone and far too busy to use his God-given hands!” They think you’re an arrogant technosexual.

Staff are reminded that strict adherence to all parts of the Public Service Act is required for salary progression. Dress code for IT staff remains extant (ie: jeans and tee-shirts are mandatory at all times).

Meanwhile, the Act doesn’t proscribe looking like a comfortable frump, so I guess my pay-rise is in the bag.

Misters Are Doing It For Themselves

I thought he’d learned his lesson after the gaffe shortly before the birth of our second child. The one when I remarked that I hoped this delivery would not occasion the same pain and suffering as the first, whereupon he asked, “What pain?” Sputtering with enraged incredulity, I’d somehow managed to refrain from squeezing his abdomen in a vice and shoving a prize-winning butternut pumpkin through an inadequately tiny orifice while maniacally screaming, “This is what you missed while you watched telly and ate sandwiches, you empathically-challenged pig-man!”

But no. It seems Mr. Lonie wagged a lot of classes at the Academy for Sensitive and Supportive Husbands, because even the greenest of dangly-genitaled spouses would have the decency, if not the self-preservation instincts, to prevent his latest clanger from passing their lips.

“Why does it feel like I do everything around here?” I complained, referring pointedly to Mr. Lonie’s habit of sitting at the computer monitoring sports results while the housework and child-wrangling is accomplished seemingly magically around him. “Hmm, sometimes I feel the same way,” he said. Not as in, “You’re right Darling, I’m sorry I haven’t been helping more”; but as in, “That’s funny, I thought I did everything in this house.”

You can imagine my flabbergastedness. I was so shocked it took a few minutes for the righteous anger to seep into my consciousness, but if he thought for that few minutes he could voice such an outrageous opinion with impunity, he was wrong. Just in case I’d grossly miscalculated, I mentally ran through my obligations and accustomed duties, tallying them against his. “Nope,” said the little accountant in my brain, punching some final numbers into his calculator. “The figures say FIRE AWAY!” So fire away I did.

It was a short, sharp volley which ended in the perhaps none-too-mature denunciation: “You think you do all the work around here? Well now you can see what that’s really like!” followed by my desistance from all normal tasks and complete refusal to lift a finger to help. (Well, except for the grocery shopping. And the laundry. And the washing up. Because if you want something done properly, and all that.)

The only apology I received was half-hearted and obviously insincere, so until I get a real one, I’ll be enjoying my new leisure time. And Mr. Lonie can forget any bedroom hijinx – he’ll soon learn the meaning of doing everything himself.

Ripped off, metaphorically speaking

After its failure to provide me with the anticipated twenty-nine dollars and ninety-five cents worth of enjoyment, it was with a faint sense of disappointment that I returned a book, the latest to fulfil its raison d’être, to the shelf.

The prose was tritely formulaic and the protagonist another eye-rollingly boring woman of great beauty and greater character flaws, who ultimately finds redemption and a happy ending in the arms of the man she loves. Yawn. The characters were as endearing as my baby’s last vomit, and the enticing premise was nothing but a fraudulent ruse, an invitation to undertake a free personality test before an assault by pests worse than scientologists – and the natural enemy of high-school essayists everywhere – metaphors.

Alright, so maybe I should have expected as much, given my selection of a book from the magical realism genre. And I know that must seem like an odd complaint, given that many of the books I enjoy are intentionally rich in metaphors, allegory and social commentary, but the beauty of those stories is that they can, if like me you are lazy-minded and still rebelling against minute analysis of dull school curriculum books, be read as simple tales of good versus evil, or triumph over adversity, or coming of age, or sentient meat products.

What I object to is the laboured metaphor, the diversion from the narrative to irrelevant details designed to sledgehammer the author’s ‘real’ message into our heads, and repeated every couple of pages just in case us thickies didn’t get it the first dozen times. I’m talking about such twaddle as a character inexplicably stopping to pull at a loose thread, and find it unravelling just like her predictable life is unravelling! Or interspersing scenes from The Wizard of Oz with the heroine’s own adventures, because she too is both literally and figuratively lost, and realises there’s no place like home!

Do I lack an appreciation for creative works with non-literal meanings? Probably. I dislike modern dance. Stanley Kubrick films have stolen hours of my life that I want back. I look at most modern art and see bogus tailors making clothes for the emperor. Does this mean I’m contemptibly low-brow? Perhaps. Sometimes my brows are so low I could pass for the amazing moustachioed woman. So to appease my ruffled sensibilities, the next book I read is going to be a familiar favourite, one I know I can enjoy just for the story, without exhausting my brain with ponderings on deeper significance. I was thinking of Animal Farm.

This Is Me...

…but not. My skin is redder, my body more cylindrical, my insides less offally (guaranteed 100% rectum free!), but you get the idea.

I’m off to bed – it’s more comfortable than my computer desk. Wish me sweet dreams that aren’t about populating work databases, and perhaps tomorrow I’ll actually get around to posting something worth a click.

Exhausted and Blasphemous

The intelligence and aptitude tests I was forced to take for my current job are obviously not the dunce-filters my department hoped they were, because I find myself burdened with responsibilities I feel grossly incompetent of shouldering to my satisfaction.

After weekdays now spent alternately berating myself for being an ignorant moron whose underachievement must surely become clear to my colleagues and supervisors once a reasonable period for patient understanding has expired, and marvelling at the contradiction within my ethos which allows me to adopt a ‘good enough is good enough’ attitude towards practically everything else but places such high demands on my performance in a position which lost its lustre long ago, I find I have insufficient energy and brain power remaining to formulate a blog entry of any description, let alone a mildly diverting one. Weekends have not been spared, either; my former days of rest are now victims of the cruel housework:spare time equation.

So, Dear Readers, thanks for your loyalty. While I have absolutely no illusions about the interest in the earth-shattering reports I'm paid to produce, on things I can’t imagine anyone possibly caring about, it’s nice to know that someone reads and perhaps enjoys at least some things I write.

Oh, and Jesus? Thanks for the long weekend! That whole excruciating-death-and-miraculous-resurrection-to-save-mankind-from-our-sins thing was pretty cool too.

Fugitive Recaptured!

“A dangerous fugitive is back in custody today after evading capture for 12 months. Lonie ‘Lunchmeat’ Polony was hauled before the authorities and summarily sentenced to an indefinite period of tedious labour for her crimes against society.

“Known to broadcast her unsolicited opinions among the innocent members of Bloggerland through the medium of a ‘blog’, she was found guilty of subjectiveness, tiresomeness and ‘whingeing like a Pom’.

“Polony’s defence relied heavily on supplication to the compassionate nature of the governing powers, citing motherhood to two small children as grounds for continuing freedom. However, she failed to recognise the complete lack of compassion or empathy in the very seigniors to whom she plead her case.

“We believe Polony may, given the slightest opportunity, attempt escape and a return to her antisocial behaviour. Whilst citizens should ON NO ACCOUNT confront Polony, who is considered armed and dangerous, we urge the public to be continually on their guard against further cyber-rampages, and to report any sightings of Polony or her perfidious works on 1800 123 400.

“That’s all for this special news bulletin, I’m Ivor E. Towers. Goodnight.”

Mother Of The Year

I’ve stuck stickers on my baby just so I can laugh at him perplexedly trying to remove them.

I’ve let him snack on ice-cream cones and eat food he dropped on the floor.

I’ve added chocolate syrup to his formula (which ‘they’ insist he must have while I’m at work) because I can’t get him to drink it any other way.

I’ve driven 200 metres down the road before Miss Lonie piped up: “Mummy didn’t strap me in!”

I’ve done all this and more because I’M THE BEST MOTHER IN THE WORLD!

(Britney Spears and Madame Bovary also ran.)

Deforestation

Two pockets of old-growth forest were arbitrarily razed today. Countless unique species were lost forever, and too late the ruin of a Thylacine den was discovered in the stark desolation.

I hadn’t realised it had been so long since I last shaved my armpits, and I must say, even with my lucky inheritance of the South-East Asian propensity towards sparse body hair, I was surprised at how productive those little follicles have been. It’s not that I think women with unshaven armpits are, as one well-adjusted netizen has opined, ‘lesbian sasquatches’; in fact I see the merit of the argument that ‘real’ women (as opposed to pre-pubescent girls) have hairy armpits, although I haven’t encountered many women who subscribe to that notion within my circle of acquaintance.

When I lived in China it seemed common for women to leave their armpits au naturel, and I still remember my mother wrinkling her nose in distaste at what she considered the East German female Olympians’ unsightly hirsuteness. Perhaps it’s bourgeois to shave? Well, call me a counterrevolutionary running dog, because I choose to maintain depilated axillae – when I’m not living a vanity-neutral (the less charitable might say slovenly) lifestyle, that is.

Shocking as it may seem to those who disagree that house slippers are appropriate footwear in which to go shopping, I’ve enjoyed my year of not wearing makeup, not styling my hair, and completely eschewing pantyhose and high heels. But now it’s time to let my outward appearance reflect my change of circumstances, and smarten up for the office. So I’m taking up the hems on my new trousers, dusting off the makeup, and deciding which hair product to helmet my hair with. Oh, and Ferals? Chaining yourselves to the trunks will not dissuade me: logging starts on my legs tomorrow.

My Medical Certificate

To Whom It May Concern:

I have examined Lonie Polony who is
suffering from

A psychosomatic disorder

And will be unfit for work from 26 March 2007 to indefinitely

Signed Dr. Lionel Nopoy

Please bear with me while I post another return-to-work rant – or else just go away, twiddle your thumbs/have a cold shower/enter a chubby bunny contest and come back another day when there may be a post more to your liking.

Over the last week or two I’ve begun to feel weird aches, pains and heartburn afflicting my poor polony body. I’ve blamed everything from too much lactose to bug-filled reservoir dregs (insert Mr. Brown joke here), and even did a wee on a stick to rule out an unscheduled firing of my uterine oven. However, I’ve had to conclude that in the (hopefully) unlikely event of kidney stones or one of those horrible giant tumours that makes it into the Guinness Book of World Records, I am indeed, like Miss Hoover, suffering from a psychosomatic disorder. (Whether that means I’m crazy or not is highly contentious – popular opinion has it that my tenuous link with sanity snapped when a speck-cleaning gone awry caused my own eyeball to wrinkle.)

You see, I’m becoming rather anxious about once more donning the yoke of a humble minion to His Manofsteelness and all that entails for my children, our family life and my accustomed sleep-in-and-day-long-pyjamas. Even though over the last couple of weeks I was supposed to ease myself back into the early mornings, the showers in the cold and dark, the application of make-up and wearing of presentable office clothes, and the readying of one helpless and one unaware-of-urgency child to leave the house before eight o’clock, this morning was the first in a loooooong time that I’ve managed to haul my indolent carcass out of bed by then.

And with less than a week to go, I’m experiencing a rush of guilt which is not nearly so pleasant as, say, a rush of melted chocolate, because I haven’t been the baking-and-craft-and-enduring-childhood-memory-creating mum I somewhere got the idea all other at-home mothers are, to my children while I had the chance. So now I’m going to go and assuage that gnawing sensation in my tummy with home-made glue and cut-up cereal boxes, and hope that cleaning up the inevitable house-wide mess will take my mind off that fact that I’m utterly unprepared for going back to work.

Monday 26 March is going to be a scandalously obscene, XXX-rated shock.

While The Cat's Away...

We ordered Chinese takeaway from the restaurant we haven’t eaten at since my mother decided one day she disliked it.

Then my dad passed around Easter eggs.

No-one bothered to record The Bill.

Have a great holiday, Mum! (I love you!)

I Have My Needs!

I was going to sit down and write a new post, but I’m too distracted by thoughts of once more biting into those soft, creamy-white buns. It’s been some time since we last indulged ourselves, and frankly, with two small children, we haven’t had much time or opportunity.

But now my longing has increased to undeniable desire, and I no longer care what strange things they see or hear – it’s a perfectly natural activity after all, and I can’t shelter them from the facts of life forever. So now I’m going to oil up, and prepare to get really sticky and messy.

Yes, I’m going to make mantou.

Shakespeare For The Modern Woman

Lonie Polony! Beware the ides of March, for that is the day on which a disgusting find in your kitchen will make your stomach turn and give you the long-term heebie-jeebies.

Okay, so no-one jumped out of the pantry and tried to assassinate me, but in my opinion, finding what I suspect to be animal droppings on my kitchen bench is pretty bad. I readily admit I’m far from the most assiduous housekeeper, but I wouldn’t say the place has quite gone to the dogs yet; unfortunately it looks like it’s gone to the mice.

My only small comfort, which I keep repeating out loud to myself as I rock back and forth sucking my thumb, is that I hadn’t noticed the nasty little pellets before today (and yes, I did clean yesterday, smartypants) so let’s all just humour me and agree that last night was our very first (and hopefully last) visit from…whatever it was.

Noticing the curious black calling-card as I wiped down the bench, my Self-Preservation made a valiant attempt at preventing a neurotic meltdown, suggesting it may have been the wizened end of a banana or some currants I’d spilled. Reason turned a blind eye, and they would have gotten away with it too if it hadn’t been for that pesky second dropping.

Rudely thrust out of the blissful state of denial, I spent the next several minutes gazing in horror at Google’s offering of mouse dropping images, desperately hoping the foreign coin used as a scale to demonstrate the difference between mouse and rat pooh was larger than it seemed, because rat scat is worse than a house mouse. And after reading stories of people poisoned by mouse pooh and the horrible details of their demise, and descending into the kind of jumpiness one only expects in lunatics, I decided it was time to bundle the children out of the house and bring down some murine death.

I briefly considered a cat, but opted for a disposable trap which is supposed to enclose and conceal the little corpse, obviously designed for squeamish types like me who don’t want visual evidence they’ve just killed a furry animal they actually find quite cute when it’s not scuttling about the house at night spreading all sorts of diseases. One of the traps was accidentally set off as I decided how to position it for maximum murderous effect, and by golly it was loud. Now I have two conflicting dreads: hearing that horrible noise in the night, or not hearing it and finding more droppings tomorrow.

With an imminent return to work, childcare guilt, a crappy haircut, and legions of spiders and bugs that already torment me with their choice of abode, I hardly need anything else grabbing hold of my delicate nerves to stretch them even more uncomfortably taut. Et tu, Mickey?

You Know Your Haircut Sucks When...

1) The most common reaction you get is surreptitious, raised-eyebrow glances;

2) The only remarks your loved ones make are:

(a) Huh, I thought you looked different.
(b) You should go to my hairdresser, she’s really good.

Oddly enough, I still like it. It just needs some fine-tuning.

Why Oh Why?

Every so often I feel an irresistible urge to meddle with my appearance in some painful or disastrous way. Whether it’s tweezing my legs, armpits or bikini line, or taking up a pair of scissors and shearing hanks of hair from my head, my better judgement always chooses that moment to turn away and twiddle her thumbs while whistling a carefree tune.

I’ve done it again.

A friend of mine says the only difference between a bad haircut and a good one is two weeks. Let’s hope it’s more like one and a half.

The End Is Nigh

There are now only two weeks to go until my return to work, and I can’t help but feel the same way I used to when I was a schoolgirl: when the gloriously long summer holidays during which the previous year’s lessons trickled out of my brain unchecked were nearly over, and those hateful back-to-school merchandise ads mocked me with their timely bargains. That same pulsating ball of violently ill, metamorphosing larvae is lodged somewhere in the region of my diaphragm (anatomical, not contraceptive), and this time I don’t know if they’ll be appeased by the promise of new stationery.

I’ve been trying to quell the rising dread with reminders of the benefits I’ll soon be enjoying, but my half-hearted attempts at a list have not produced anything compelling. Sure, I’ll be getting paid again, but I’m doubtful there’ll be much left over after Mr. Costello and childcare have taken their sizeable chunks. Yes, I’ll have more interaction with adults, but my children (who even with their tantrums and sometimes maddening behaviour are always preferable to many grown-ups I know) I’ll probably only see for around three hours a day. Alright, my sartorial aesthetics will improve, but have you not read a single post on this blog? I’d go everywhere in my pyjamas if I thought I could pull it off without looking like an escapee from the psychiatric ward.

The only outcome of a return to work I can grudgingly admit may be positive, is receiving sufficient stimulation for my brain to return to reasonably intelligent function. I’m talking about being able to think of the mot juste without having to resort to frequent consultation of the thesaurus and dictionary, or even worse having it elude me entirely like a butterfly just out of reach of my tattered and ineffectual net. I’m referring to the ability to string together a sentence, a paragraph, a page of something vaguely interesting to read that doesn’t leave me sunk in despair and clinging to my earlier scrawlings like a once-vaunted starlet now fallen into obscurity obsessively watches her own films to remind her she was once The Next Big Thing.

Then I can lament the lack of time and energy to fulfil my childhood ambition, whilst deflecting attention from my laziness, half-arsedness and disavowed mediocrity, so much more eloquently.

In the meantime, there’s a well-stocked supply room in my office building – and there’s a fistful of pens with my name on it.