Category Archives: Funny Stuff

Bonds

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I’ve been a bit absent, mainly because I had another endometriosis clean out which resulted in a couple of post-op issues. One of them, somewhat ironically given the tale I am about to tell you, was the large bruise I grew on my tummy. The problem with the excess skin I have hanging on my tummy is that, well, it’s heavy. The weight of it resulted in a pooling of blood that created a bruise that resembled the poo emoji.

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Right there, the poo emoji.

A week later, the bruising is starting to subside.

However, I wasn’t enjoying being sat on my bottom. I needed to return to some form of normal. So this week, I returned to the gym. No weights, nothing strenuous, just some walking on the treadmill. Restarting normal routines and that kind of thing. It went fine on Monday.

On Wednesday, on the way to the gym, my tummy was feeling a bit sore and crampy. I didn’t say anything in case it resulted in beloved turning the car around, but I should have spoken up, I should have I should have I should have.

But alas, I did not.

I got on my treadmill and after 10 minutes, I realised that the cramping was a signal that there was an issue that needed to be dealt with. I told beloved I’d be back in a tick. I left my phone and everything on the treadmill, and wandered across the gym to the bathrooms. And as I walked in, I was thinking about other things, more important things, more essential things, instead of checking to make sure that the stall I was about to plonk myself down in had toilet paper.

And it did not.

I will spare you the details of my bathroom activities, but the lack of toilet paper presented a significant and serious issue.

I was perched upon a porcelain throne. I was surrounded by silence. My thoughts were racing through my head. What do I do?

I poked at the toilet paper dispenser, praying for a square or a scrap or a whisper of hope.

Nothing.

I should have brought my phone and I should have said something when my tummy was sore in the car, I should have I should have I should have.

But I did not.

I considered my options.

They were not particularly generous.

I needed to keep my tights on, for the sake of decency. Same with my shirt. And the two bras. I considered my remaining options.

While things were already quite dire, I felt it would be indecent to use my undies as toilet paper. What if I decided to do squats and my tights were not squat proof?

This left me with two options.

Left sock, or right sock.

I wear Bonds socks. They come up high enough to prevent blisters, they have a soft sole, and when I mop the floors I can leave BONDS prints all over the floor.

In around 1985, there was an ad on TV for Bonds. It went like this:

As I sat there on the loo, left with a terrible decision to make, I found myself humming the ad. I sighed, resigned to the reality I was faced with. And slowly, I removed my right sock.

When I left the bathroom, I must have had guilt and shame written all over my face. As I walked out, I bumped into a friend who asked me what I was doing. I told her I’d gone to the loo, and mentioned that there was no toilet paper.

She asked me how I had gotten myself out of that particular pickle.

Again, I signed. And I looked down at my feet, sadly. Left foot snug in a Bonds sock. Right foot, naked inside my shoe.

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She laughed and told me I had to blog about this.

And so I have.

Have you ever had this happen to you? What would you have done in my situation?

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Catch Up

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Hello!

This has been a while coming, life has been life and lifing away and the blog fell a little to the wayside. But here I am.

What’s been happening? I did the SIDS Stampede in the Hawkesbury with my sister:

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This was a great fun run, down at my old stomping ground. It was peculiar because the start line was just outside the church where mum’s funeral was, and for a moment, I remembered different moments, kind of like photographs of memory, from that day. But then the countdown started and I saw a friend from primary school and then we were off, running and walking and raising money for SIDS.

And I did the Raw Challenge at Doyalson, with beloved and my legend trainer:

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As you will see in the above picture, I bit off another challenge: wearing a singlet. Wearing. A. Singlet. I haven’t worn one of those in years. I think probably the last time I wore one would have been when I was a kid. Or even when my parents put me in one of those baby Bonds singlet thingies. Did they even exist all those years ago?

Anyway, anyway.

I went back to old Sydney town again, to have quality hang time with my beautiful nephew, Rory the dog. He’s delightful. I put him down a slide at the park several times and he didn’t run away so I am assuming he liked the experience. I also made him a bong. Don’t be naughty that’s not what I mean. I got a bottle, put a hole in it then filled it with doggy treats. Cheap homemade Kong, but out of a bottle = bong. That’s my story anyway. Seriously he is the only dog I know who will then lie on his back and hold onto his bottle like a baby. Little furry dickhead.

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The great clown epidemic has struck the Hunter and so far I have spotted two clowns. Actual time seeing clowns: roughly 2 minutes. Actual time worrying about seeing clowns? Fucking hours. I get that it’s in fun, but here’s the reality. Lots of people have clown phobias. Most people I know will object to people jumping out and scaring them. Many more people will object to seeing someone on the side of the road dressed as a clown holding a weapon, particularly at night. Fear does things to people. It stops them going out. It steals their sleep. It can result in tears and terror and panic and meltdowns. So even though it is in good fun? Fuck off with your clowning. Just stop it. Think about long term consequences for the people you are scaring. Go read a book or watch TV or go for a walk or something else. Dickheads.

So, one more thing to tell you.

After almost ten years, I resigned as a Cub Scout Leader. That’s right, Skunk has officially left the building. I have no idea how many kids I have met along the way. I can’t guess at hours I’ve spent as a Cub Scout Leader. You can’t really number them though. I started Cubs when I moved to Newcastle. When I got here, I didn’t know anyone, I had no confidence, I was sad and lonely and didn’t think I could do anything. So I decided to volunteer. And as an ex-teacher, it made sense to do something with kids. So I popped on that uniform and off I went. It was hard to carry on after my heart group was closed down (3rd Mayfield), but when the next chapter opened at a different Group, I gave it another shot. And I don’t regret it. Kids are great, for an hour and a half at a time, anyway. But the thing is, I’m not the same person I was ten years ago when I started. And this is a good thing. But it meant that it was time to move on.

Here’s how I explained it to the kids, one Monday night:

Pop your hand up if you are ten. Tell me some of the differences between when you were first born, and now. Walking, talking, eating, wearing shoes, knowing right and wrong. All these changes, have they been easy? No. But have they been mostly pretty good? OK. So there’s another change coming up. But remember, change can be OK. When you were babies, I began being a Cub Scout Leader. And look at you now! Big ten year olds. We couldn’t keep you in nappies forever, could we. And just like you have grown and changed, so has Skunk. So Skunk is going to stop being your Cub leader. Because there are other people who deserve a chance at hanging out with you all each week, and because I feel like things have changed lots for me, so I can’t stay anymore.

And they were fine.

Our final night was a black and white dress up. Here’s my costume:

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Aside from all that, and just to keep you updated, I’ve carried on with the gym stuff. Even when I don’t want to. Especially when I don’t want to. Most days, I’m out there slogging my guts out. Here’s an update, and also another reason why I can’t carry on with Cubs – I don’t want to buy a new shirt!!

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How are things with you? Did you miss me?

 

Kitchen Magic

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I’m actually quite a good cook. Really, I am. I learned lots of things from my beautiful Nan, who could make the best meals ever out of not a lot. Lately we’ve been cooking without carbs or heaps of fat (my lack of gall bladder means I can’t manage lots of fat). This has been made easier with the introduction of this baby:

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The spiraller! This thing makes awesome noodles (zoodles) out of zucchini and carrots, and they appear a lot on our plates. I wasn’t always a fan of zucchini – kind of like a wet imposter for cucumber. But this little tool makes them awesome. I got mine from Ebay I think.

With beloved heading away for a couple of days, and with Cubs on tomorrow night, I wanted to make enough dinner for two nights. I’m practical like that.

On the menu in my head: Chicken Alfredo with zoodles.

According to the fridge: Chicken and veges in a fake creamy sauce, with cauliflower rice.

It’s a recipe I’ve pulled together many times now. It tastes so good but is actually really healthy. No major fat issues, no major carb issues, heaps of flavour and very filling. Shall we begin?

Right!

I started by cutting up the veges I had. I think there was a zucchini (but a small one), a heap of broccoli, a heap of baby spinach, garlic, a red onion, a kind of floppy carrot. I popped them aside then cut up a chicken breast. ‘Fried’ it off (using a small swig of water to stop it from sticking). Threw in my veges, with about 3/4 of a cup of chicken stock. Let that simmer away for a while.

I usually would serve this with zoodles but I felt like a change. I decided to use up the cauliflower that has been lurking in the fridge drawer. I hate cauliflower. However – and this is a very important however – I found a recipe for cauliflower rice last year. And it sounds like arse but it’s actually really good. If you google it you’ll find a recipe that works for you.

I made the rice, taste tested it, all good. Set that aside.

To finish up the chicken mix, I then added half a small carton of light evaporated milk, with a small amount of cornflour in it to thicken it up. If I have parmesan I add it; if I have some of the special garlic cream cheese I add it. But not both – just one or the other. And it is really awesome.  But!

For you to exactly create what I made tonight, I think this is the essential step:

Turn away for about five minutes, to allow for some random shit to land in the saucepan. It could be a heap of dirt, or maybe an old tea bag, or perhaps even a small bead of cat crap. Not sure what it was. It must have dissolved away into nothing though because buggered if I know what it was.

Anyway, continue on oblivious. It is important that you have no idea that something has gone terribly wrong. Make sure the sauce has thickened (cornflour people!). Put some cauliflower rice into your bowl, chuck some of the chicken stuff on top. Serve the second half into a container so you can warm it up tomorrow night. Yay, anticipation!

Load up your fork and shove it into your gob.

THEN RECOIL IN HORROR AND WONDER WHAT THE FUCK YOU HAVE DONE.

Where did it go wrong?

I have no idea. But I think two things are certain.

1. I am no longer a fan of cauliflower rice. I can only identify the cauliflower as the ingredient that I hate most in the mix, so I feel it is reasonable to lay the blame there.

2. Always have a back up dinner.

Here is a photo of what I cooked:

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And here is a photo of my back up dinner:

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What’s on the menu at your place?

 

In a flap

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That six week mark seems to be so significant in terms of body stuff, doesn’t it. It’s generally how long a fracture takes to heal; it’s the check up point after surgeries; it’s too long to go without a shower. Today was actually seven weeks for me, post endometriosis removal, but it was check up day.

There is seating for seven in my gyno’s waiting room, which I feel is sufficient. I mean, I’d assume that a trip to this particular specialist would be something you’d maybe do with your partner, or just solo. I walked in and two seats were taken (man and a lady, who I assumed were together given his suggested lack of labia). As I waited to see the receptionist I heard a circus outside the door. I looked up in horror as the door opened.

Now, before I explain what entered the door, I would like to expand up the kind of “waiting room person” I am. If I wanted to hang out with friends, I’d probably be more likely to go to a cafe or something. Further, being a waiting room at a medical place, there are potentially going to be some stressy or unhappy people in that waiting room. So not somewhere I would choose to celebrate somebody’s birthday, for example. Because there are other people likely to be there. People aside from myself. I like to sit quietly. I bring a book or my phone or some crocheting. I only eavesdrop if it sounds interesting. Aside from that, the business of a waiting room is simply to wait. 

The door opened.

And in walked three women, one man, and a male toddler.

Now, by my calculations, only one of the three vaginas that just entered the room would have an appointment. I mean sure, they could have booked a group appointment to compare something or other. They might have booked consecutive appointments, so they could go one after the other. Kind of like a fallopian conga line. But it was obvious that all five of them were there for one vagina.

As they settled into all the remaining seats, the two that were there before me were called through to the Doctor’s room. The door opened and another woman entered. It seemed the group of people knew this lady. She sat opposite them and the conversations were loud, and revolved around weeks. Oh you’re 34 weeks? That’s six weeks of nesting! How many weeks of maternity leave do you have? Weeks weeks weeks. Nobody asked me how many weeks along from surgery was. As you know the answer is seven. Very rude.

Anyway anyway, I had my appointment with the gyno which was a triumph of uterine recovery. Then, knowing I had to get back on the road relatively quickly in order to get to another appointment by ten, my head got a little distracted. That’s the only way I can rationalise what happened next.

Receptionist: OK Kel, do you need any follow up appointments?

Me: Nope, all good!

Receptionist: Oh good! So you’re free to leave!

Me: Yes, I can take my vagina and go! (Immediate internal reaction: OH FUCK WHAT DID I JUST SAY?)

Receptionist: <blinks then giggles> Yes well make sure you take it with you!

Spinning Around

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Beloved and I just had dinner at the local pub. I’m now sitting on the recliner, rather carefully.

I woke up in a foul and unrivalled mood today. This wasn’t just waking up on the wrong side of the bed – this was fuck the bed altogether and waking up on the floor covered in tanty pants and pursed lips. I was in an absolute funk.

I had to renew my license today, and I wanted to get the monkey off my back regarding doing classes at the gym. I used to do heaps of classes in Sydney, mainly Pump. But that was years ago now. And what better day to tackle something new than a day when you feel like shit and everything in the world is out to get you?

But I made it to the class and survived, and actually really enjoyed it. So now, I present to you from the comfort of my recliner, a beginner’s guide to doing a class at the gym.

The class I took on today was Spin. This has nothing to do with creating wool from a sheep’s back. It has everything to do with these:

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Image Source: greatist.com

Yep, a room full of stationary bikes with big front wheels. The aim of the game in a spin class is to pedal. You pedal sitting down, standing up, leaning forward, sitting up – and you will pedal like you’ve never pedalled before. Round and round and round.

Fact #1: You do not need to wear a helmet.

Fact #2: The spin room isn’t brightly lit, so it’s actually not all that scary.

Fact #3: You will need your sweat towel. Today I had my Lorna Jane sweat towel, which is probably called something much more ladylike and sophisticated in the Lorna Jane catalogue – maybe the Glittering Moisture Absorbing Fibre With Wings, to position the towel in place and actually pull moisture away from the body. Maybe. I’m a bit cross with Lorna Jane, simply because they don’t make active wear for the body shapes that actually really really need active wear.

But I digress.

The sweat towel. I started with mine kind of slung over the handlebars. This wasn’t a good idea. A better idea is to actually drape that sucker across the handlebars. Your arms are going to sweat, which makes getting a grip on the bars a pain in the arse.

Fact #4: The pain in the arse. Your bottom is going to hurt. My concern was more the lady garden to be honest, but no. It’s my bottom that is causing me to sit so carefully tonight.

The confrontation level of a spin class?

Not as high as I had initially anticipated. I was sure (as I am every time I try something new) that I was going to get everything wrong, that I was going to be laughed at the entire time, and that I’d never be able to go to the gym ever again.

Here’s the reality: Every single person in that room was focused on their own bike. Nobody gave a damn about what resistance I had my bike on, nobody laughed at my boobs dancing around the room as I pedalled, nobody challenged my right to be in the class.

This is something that is so, so important.

The people who will mock you, or doubt you – they are not the people actually doing it. They have no idea of the commitment involved. Of the challenge. Of the continual facing of fears. They mock you because they have no idea. But the people in that spin room next to you? Or the people on the same fun run track? Or the ones that you pass when you go for a morning run or walk? They know exactly what it takes to be doing what you are doing.

So relax. You are probably being greatly admired every single time you get out there.

I think I just digressed again.

At the end of the class I remembered my standard ridiculousness. I attempted to follow the stretches but my leg wouldn’t lift. Oh my god, it wouldn’t lift. I’ve done a hamstring or I’ve dislocated a kneecap or I’ve left my lower bowel on the bike seat. WHY WON’T MY LEG MOVE??

Because my shoelace was stuck in the pedal.

This is me after spin. I’m sweaty. I’m a little sore. But I’m proud. And that arse of a mood is gone.

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So there you go. Spin. Have you tried it? What stops you from trying it? When will my bottom feel better?

Game On

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I used to live in Sydney.

I have some awesome friends still in Sydney, and one of them ventured up for a visit this weekend. We shall refer to her as Sarah, because that is her name.

Now, being from Sydney, I felt a certain level of pressure to provide Sarah with a Novocastrian experience that demonstrated the superiority of my adopted home town. Newcastle is great. It’s laid back, it’s beautiful, it lacks the chaos and crowding that is hallmark of Sydney. So my little brain went into overdrive.

I considered beach walks, live music, the Thai Ladyboys show that is currently in town.

And then it hit me. A far greater idea. An idea that would go down in history, and perhaps should appear on the Top Ten of things to do in Newcastle.

Yes, I created a game show night.

I collected Sarah from the train station and went straight to the supermarket. Stage one: Supermarket Sweep. With a budget of $10, Sarah was issued with the instructions to collect ingredients that she would use to create a “tasting plate” dessert. She also had to buy one packet of paddle pop sticks for a later event. I had to do the same, but my mystery item was a bag of elastic bands. The plot thickens, friends.

Ingredients: check.

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Stage two. Within a 30 minute time frame, create a dessert using the ingredients purchased and basic pantry items.

I was a little surprised at the processes Sarah included:

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She expressed surprise that this would be how she spent a Saturday night. Little did she know the fun had only just begun.

We cooked down to the wire, friends. Both our desserts needed some fridge time, which allowed the perfect opportunity for Stage Three: The Price Is Right. This challenge was easy in theory. Make a list of the items purchased. With a time frame of 60 seconds, the challenge was to put these items in order of price, from most expensive to cheapest. The stakes were high. I won.

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Once victory was claimed it was time for the taste test. Now, neither of us knew what the other was cooking. My philosophy was to pick a dessert that I knew was a crowd favourite, but adapt it so that it could be whipped up quickly on a budget and still taste good. I present to you: Chocolate Cheesecake (complete with artistic smear that looked vaguely like excrement)!

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Sarah took a slightly different approach.

In my more generous moments, I can see what she was aiming for. The combination of savoury and sweet, the elements of surprise and texture variation, the bite size idea of the canapé. Upon presentation I was more than a little surprised to see Cheese and Bacon Balls.

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What you have just gazed upon is banana slices, with holes inside them. These holes are filled with banana lollies. The banana is topped with Ice Magic, with a crumbled Cheese and Bacon Ball crust. Sarah explained that she felt this would result in a taste sensation similar to salted caramel.

It did not.

Stage four was a sneaky one. It involved the creation of catapults. These catapults were then used to fire marshmallows across the lounge room. What was a bit sneaky about it was that this was a blatant trial run for Cubs. Sarah absolutely had the edge in this battle.

Ah, Newcastle. You have much to offer. I can’t help but wonder if I lived in Sydney still, would this evening of game show shenanigans would even been considered as suitable entertainment for a visiting friend.

I think it would, to be honest. But admit it. You’re jealous, right?

How do you entertain friends?

Moon and More

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I shared this morning about how that pain in the arse anxiety had been lingering around this week making a nuisance of itself. I write about this kind of thing fairly openly. The reason? Because I figure if I have to battle with this kind of thing, then I can’t be the only one. So by writing about it, I am letting at least one other person know that they aren’t all alone. Makes pretty good sense to me.

We’ve had a funny old week.

I turned 38 a week ago, which we marked by getting a birthday tattoo. I’d been wanting to get this one for a long time, so it was really special to see it finally etched onto my skin:

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My mum’s signature, and a butterfly in ‘her’ colours. 

But before we did the inking, beloved and I went to a writing awards afternoon tea. I’d entered a writing competition a couple of months ago, and got an email inviting me along to the presentation to the winners. It was on my birthday so I figured, why the hell not. And beloved and I went along.

But it turned out that I totally WON! I took out first place with my piece, “Check Out”, which you can read here. Let me know what you think. The writing competition coincided with the International Day for People with Disabilities. I wrote about Aspergers.

Here’s me with cameras in my face. Awkward.

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Winner winner, chicken dinner!

The weekend was of course the Santa Run. It was awesome, and I am still really proud that I did it.

But then Monday. Then Tuesday. Then Wednesday. And now, Thursday.

And for some reason, the culmination of those days resulted in a bit of a slump, with anxiety lurking around behind me as I try to navigate my days. I don’t know what the cause is, I don’t think there is a single cause.

But there is good news.

Because after I told the lovely folks on the Facebook page that I’d been duelling with anxiety, several of them said “Same here”. And just like that, I wasn’t all alone. And it helped, enormously. Because we’re all in this together, aren’t we?

A bit of a smile to end the day upon:

Beloved and I have been doing the Elf on the Shelf thing this year. I’ll do a full post about our Elf and his adventures later in the month, but this morning I had a brilliant idea. Beloved was fast asleep after coming home from a night shift. I was boiling Christmas puddings, when it came to me: The best ever idea for our Elf. It involved a bauble from the Christmas tree, some string and a big piece of tape. I positioned him, then woke up my beloved. As she got out of bed I started singing Wrecking Ball. She gave me a look for introducing Miley Cyrus to the bedroom, but when she opened the floor she collapsed into giggles.

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So, you know. Life. It goes up and down. In and out. But we’re not alone. There’s always someone to talk to, be it a friend or a doctor or a relative or a pet or your reflection. They’re all valid resources. And days are temporary, there’s another one on the way. And in the meantime, there are always elves.

Once bitten

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Twice, actually. Not that we’re counting or anything.

You see several years ago I was bitten on the foot by a redback spider. For the uninitiated, these little beasts are… well… spiders. With a red stripe on their arses. Perhaps this spider identification chart will be of assistance?

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Source: Reddit.com

After I was bitten I started to feel a bit average. Fronted up to one of those bulk billing McDoctor places, and was told that because the anti-venom treatment was pretty nasty, my best bet was to treat the symptoms and wait it out. “Redback not kill you,” said the doctor I saw. “Redback kill baby, kill old people, not kill you.” I filed away that information, hoping to never need it again.

I NEEDED IT AGAIN.

Saturday morning was a flurry of panic and chaos. Beloved had a market on and we decided that I would come and help her set up, then go to the gym, then home to get changed, then back to the market for pack up. But as they do, plans changed and I would up spending the day at the market. Which was quite fun actually. HOWEVER, it meant that my morning getting ready was no longer appropriate for an all day event.

It was early, I was in a hurry, I thought I’d be coming straight back home. So I didn’t put on that most basic of attire, the underpants.

MY GOD HOW I HAVE PAID FOR THIS NEGLECTFUL MOMENT.

Because somewhere, in the midst of hauling market gear and sitting on a camp chair that was festively decorated with spider webs, a redback crawled up my shorts and bit me fair and square in the midst of mine lady garden.

Bloody pervert.

I told my GP yesterday and she wasn’t overly surprised.

So now, I am achey and sore and feeling quite pathetic, but I have a very good story to tell, which I have just told.

Have you ever been bitten by a spider? Have you ever been bitten in a delicate location before?

Little Memories

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Mrs Woog posed a question last night, regarding the heat and whether kids should be sent to school.

It reminded me of a time, when I was in around year 4.

It was swelteringly hot at the time. I was in a demountable classroom at my tiny little primary school. I was partnered up with a boy named Luke, and we were learning about invertebrates and skeletons and the like. The teacher had (somewhat foolishly, given the heat) brought in a couple of tins of sardines. We were pulling these oily little fish apart to look at their skeletons, when like a mirage my mum appeared at the classroom door. She laughed about the smell in the classroom and said she was here to take me home early, because it was hot and she’d finished work early.

That was a great day.

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Nothing Without Labour. My primary school emblem.

I remember another time at primary school.

I’d lost something in the playground, and had pilfered permission to go back to the playground to search for whatever it was I had lost. In a moment of ten year old logic, I climbed up the highest bars we had in the playground. Now, ordinarily I wouldn’t have attempted to climb these bars. They were really high. But up I went. Got to the top, turned myself around, and gazed over the empty playground. Then I realised how high I was. My friend Paul came trotting out of a classroom and asked me what I was doing. I shouted down to him that I was maybe a little bit stuck. He climbed up and then we climbed down together. I can’t remember if I found what I had lost.

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Miss Naughty Corner, in Kindy. Nothing much has changed.

The bus trip to and from school was long. I remember we were among the first kids on the bus and the last ones off. But in the morning as we came close to the school, there was a particular hill. And if you were in the back seat, and you bounced up and down and timed it just right, when the bus hit the bottom of that hill you’d get jolted up in the air. Another friend of mine lost her front tooth that way. But it was OK, it was a baby tooth.

This last memory I’m going to share with you is a bit fuzzy. Kind of like the lights are fully turned on in this part of my remembering, but I do like this memory.

It was very early in my schooling career. I think it was my first ever day of school. So I would have been 5. My sister, 9. And I remember her helping me get dressed. I had Strawberry Shortcake shoes. And a lisp. And for some reason I think my clothes were hanging over the grate that surrounded the fireplace, but then logic kicks in and I think but it would have been summer, why did we have the grate in place? Then adult reasoning kicks in, and to be honest I can’t imagine my parents packing up the grating just because the fire wasn’t being used. But yeah. My sister. Helping me get ready for school.

I loved primary school. It was small, it was safe, it was familiar. The wheels fell off a bit in high school because it the high school I went to was freaking huge. But isn’t it funny, how sometimes memories creep up behind you and embrace you and carry you back to a time when things were easier and gentler and nicer.

What was your favourite thing about primary school?

 

 

All Dressed Up

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There’s a new layout on my blog writing thing and it’s slightly offputting. I have this feeling that I’m about to publish a blog to an entirely different universe but what the hell. Let’s see what happens.

After the fancy dress party on the weekend for beloved’s son, I was discussing the various costumes that I’ve come up with over the last few years. You see I love dressing up. I frigging love it. So I program dress up nights into my Cub program as often as I can. I thought the time was right to take you on a fancy dress trip down memory lane. Inspiration, ideas, down right idiocy, it’s all here. None of these costumes cost more than $15 to pull together. And each is more ridiculous than the next.

So strap yourself in! Here we go.

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First cab off the rank is the cat in the litter box. This was for my friend’s Crazy Cat Lady party. Please note the actual kitty litter, and the (fake) poo.

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Pirate Night was for Cubs. This was a dress up night that was actually badge work – Codes and Signals. SO. MUCH. FUN. The pirate shirt got another run a few years later:

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Beloved’s daughter had a Carnival themed 18th. She’s now planning her 21st and that is going to be one hell of a challenge. I’m a fortune telling machine, kind of like the thing in Big that sets Tom Hanks off on his crazy adventure as a big person.

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You know those friends you have where you’re so frigging honoured that they picked you to be in their life? Well my one of those friends had a 50’s housewife kitchen tea. I was still unable to walk when that one rolled around, so I wasn’t going to be able to rock a bubble skirt and high heels. Actually I can’t do that anyway. So this is what I came up with.

The same legend chicky had a Circus themed 30th. She issued the challenge for someone to go as the “blow job clown”. You know, the clowns with the mouth open wide waiting for someone to shove balls into it. Challenge: accepted.

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What’s next…

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Cowboys and Indians night at Cubs! This one is totally out of focus but gosh it was a good night. I remember telling the kids I wanted to see at least one horse. AND I GOT MY HORSE!

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Medieval night at Cubs was the night I scared some of my younger kids. These pustules were truly gross. They’re made out of bubble wrap. The joy was that it was a hot night, and because they were secured with bandaids, they eventually filled with sweat and condensation. So I was able to pop them. Brilliant.

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We also had a rock n roll night. I can’t remember the reasoning behind this one but does it matter?

And this brings us back to the most recent costume, Gru.

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My reasoning with dress ups is that you either throw everything into it, or you don’t bother. And the person dressed up will never look like the goose – it’s the person who doesn’t try that ends up looking silly.

Do you like dress ups? Have any costumes of note?