Do you know what happens when you take the child out of the coal mine and educate it? It gets Christmas holidays. And on those Christmas holidays, given half a chance, it will start a blog spot.
I know Polly did. And I imagine that is only the beginning.
Ridiculous child.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Don't read this bit first
OK, so I wrote the poem in the following post while I was waking up this morning. I still think it's quite good, even though I haven't had my second cup of tea yet. Please read it BEFORE you read the rest of this post. Allow yourself time to absorb my literary genius and identify with my ANGST. Then you might as well read the insensitive drivel dished up by those cruelest of my critics - YES! My own children! Whom I carried for nine and a half months EACH and then brought into this world with SCREAMS of TORMENT and EXHAUSTION. Ungrateful brats.
Polly: *grinning* It's good Mum; really funny!
Mayday: *seriously, and a little shaken* Oh, you can't write that, Mum; it's Teeerible.
Polly: *laughing out loud now* You should just keep the first three verses, but replace all of the "Him" comments with his last one. That'd be REALLY funny.
I absolutely refused to make crepes this morning.
Polly: *grinning* It's good Mum; really funny!
Mayday: *seriously, and a little shaken* Oh, you can't write that, Mum; it's Teeerible.
Polly: *laughing out loud now* You should just keep the first three verses, but replace all of the "Him" comments with his last one. That'd be REALLY funny.
I absolutely refused to make crepes this morning.
A love poem
Her: If I was a fish, would you fillet me?
Him: If you were a fish, I would be a fish, and we would swim upstream together.
Her: If I was a dog, would you kick me?
Him: If you were a dog, I would howl at the moon in your honour.
Her: If I was a nail, would you hit me?
Him: If you were a nail, my hands would bleed.
Her: If I was your wife, would you marry me?
Him: Again and again and again.
Him: If you were a fish, I would be a fish, and we would swim upstream together.
Her: If I was a dog, would you kick me?
Him: If you were a dog, I would howl at the moon in your honour.
Her: If I was a nail, would you hit me?
Him: If you were a nail, my hands would bleed.
Her: If I was your wife, would you marry me?
Him: Again and again and again.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Hang Ten
So we're off to Busselton for ten days to see just how sunburnt I can possibly get while chasing three children around with the sunscreen and screeching "No Hat, No Play!" at the top of my Mommy Dearest voice.
The Christmas shopping is done. DONE I tell you! Oh... so done.
Think of me while I'm gone. Go on.
Is it just too commercial these days to say "Merry Christmas"?
Happy Hanakah everyone. :)
The Christmas shopping is done. DONE I tell you! Oh... so done.
Think of me while I'm gone. Go on.
Is it just too commercial these days to say "Merry Christmas"?
Happy Hanakah everyone. :)
Monday, December 13, 2004
The Voyage of The Savage
May I introduce Over Kill Bill? Over Kill Bill bought a boat. A big boat. A big, shiny, new boat. For fishing. (Ooo, HB will hate that grammar). As I said, for fishing. In.
On Thursday, we picked it up.
On Thursday night we tried it out.
On Friday, Bill had to go to work.
But on Saturday (despite a rather late night) we arose early and hauled it to Mandurah, whereabouts the goodly vessel was put to that chief of tests: could it catch?
With white caps hissing like so many rabid kittens, an intrepid party of five boarded The Savage. The wind stabbed its cold, whispery fingers into five chests and cheeks. Five insolent faces turned seawards.
“Cast off!” quoth Bosun Bill, in a voice most rasp and thundery,
“Aye aye!” quoth four in union, their thirst unfurling plundery.
Beneath the squally waves, armoured spiders hid in vain,
The Savage loosed it’s cages; silent depths released their claim.
The day wore on, the sun rode high, the elements did battle.
The haggard crew drew breath and line and herded splashy cattle.
In weariness and triumph, the overkill was declared,
A victory in pilfery: no watery life was spared.
Sighting land and close escape, the Bosun took his chance:
He turned his craft for safe terrain, and waived the final dance.
The wind exclaimed in protest, spitting salty vampire kisses,
The Savage hummed in two-stroke time, and thanked it for the fishes.
On Thursday, we picked it up.
On Thursday night we tried it out.
On Friday, Bill had to go to work.
But on Saturday (despite a rather late night) we arose early and hauled it to Mandurah, whereabouts the goodly vessel was put to that chief of tests: could it catch?
With white caps hissing like so many rabid kittens, an intrepid party of five boarded The Savage. The wind stabbed its cold, whispery fingers into five chests and cheeks. Five insolent faces turned seawards.
“Cast off!” quoth Bosun Bill, in a voice most rasp and thundery,
“Aye aye!” quoth four in union, their thirst unfurling plundery.
Beneath the squally waves, armoured spiders hid in vain,
The Savage loosed it’s cages; silent depths released their claim.
The day wore on, the sun rode high, the elements did battle.
The haggard crew drew breath and line and herded splashy cattle.
In weariness and triumph, the overkill was declared,
A victory in pilfery: no watery life was spared.
Sighting land and close escape, the Bosun took his chance:
He turned his craft for safe terrain, and waived the final dance.
The wind exclaimed in protest, spitting salty vampire kisses,
The Savage hummed in two-stroke time, and thanked it for the fishes.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
I think it was the curry
So I'm hungover, and wanted to have a whinge about it, and then philosophise about the possible meaning of hungoverness with reference to my faith. So I figured why not start a blog.
My good friend Hazel Blackberry inspired me. Which is big, because I'm feeling pretty uninspirable at the moment. You know, the hangover. Also a crisis of faith. Never good on the same day.
Here's the thing: Me and a bunch of friends get together every Tuesday night to talk about church/faith/God/community. One of us calls what we do 'homechurch', one of us calls it 'faith community', the rest don't call it anything because, you know LABELS, man. We usually intend to read a bit of the bible or discuss a book (you know, a different one) and sometimes we actually get around to it.
Anyway, once a month we don't intend to do anything except eat, drink, enjoy each other's company and generally let the kids run amok. So last night, as is my wont, I had probably, oh let's say, three too many red wines with the curry. (Note, I mention the curry early on in the piece, so as to soften and possibly waylay the judgement of the reader.)
Hence my current crisis of faith (oh, there have been others).
I figure Jesus (yes, a close personal friend of mine) is not too uptight generally about the whole consumption of alcohol thing. Take the bread and the wine deal for starters. Not to mention the stunt he pulled at that wedding, after the grog had run out, probably long after everyone was pretty smashed, where he turned half a dozen thirty gallon drums of water into wine. Red wine, I should imagine, and probably not dealcoholised.
So I think Jesus is probably fine with it, you know, provided I don't get smashed and then sleep with the wrong bloke or call people rude names or whatever.
I'll tell you who ISN'T fine with it though: one of the mums at my kids' primary school. I figured, the saintly thing to do when one is hungover is not to lie about it and blame it on the curry, but to be honest. To live vulnerably, as it were. So she says to me "Well, I hope it was the curry, and not your Consumption, otherwise you'll get no sympathy from me. Alcohol is a terrible, damaging thing." So what did I do? Did I humbly allow her to judge me, lay down my life for my sister, make myself of no reputation? Turn the other cheek? Not on your Nelly.
I CAVED!
I muttered something about actually being sure it was the curry, and that I thought one of my kids might be coming down with something too, so it could even be viral. And then I got in the car and drove (carefully) home and fell, yes FELL! into bed in a bilious despond of self-loathing. Where I stayed for five minutes until it occurred to me that it would serve both human kind and myself infinitely better if I started a blog. So there you are.
And yes I know that I probably misused the word 'despond' just now but, give me a break: I think I'm coming down with something.
My good friend Hazel Blackberry inspired me. Which is big, because I'm feeling pretty uninspirable at the moment. You know, the hangover. Also a crisis of faith. Never good on the same day.
Here's the thing: Me and a bunch of friends get together every Tuesday night to talk about church/faith/God/community. One of us calls what we do 'homechurch', one of us calls it 'faith community', the rest don't call it anything because, you know LABELS, man. We usually intend to read a bit of the bible or discuss a book (you know, a different one) and sometimes we actually get around to it.
Anyway, once a month we don't intend to do anything except eat, drink, enjoy each other's company and generally let the kids run amok. So last night, as is my wont, I had probably, oh let's say, three too many red wines with the curry. (Note, I mention the curry early on in the piece, so as to soften and possibly waylay the judgement of the reader.)
Hence my current crisis of faith (oh, there have been others).
I figure Jesus (yes, a close personal friend of mine) is not too uptight generally about the whole consumption of alcohol thing. Take the bread and the wine deal for starters. Not to mention the stunt he pulled at that wedding, after the grog had run out, probably long after everyone was pretty smashed, where he turned half a dozen thirty gallon drums of water into wine. Red wine, I should imagine, and probably not dealcoholised.
So I think Jesus is probably fine with it, you know, provided I don't get smashed and then sleep with the wrong bloke or call people rude names or whatever.
I'll tell you who ISN'T fine with it though: one of the mums at my kids' primary school. I figured, the saintly thing to do when one is hungover is not to lie about it and blame it on the curry, but to be honest. To live vulnerably, as it were. So she says to me "Well, I hope it was the curry, and not your Consumption, otherwise you'll get no sympathy from me. Alcohol is a terrible, damaging thing." So what did I do? Did I humbly allow her to judge me, lay down my life for my sister, make myself of no reputation? Turn the other cheek? Not on your Nelly.
I CAVED!
I muttered something about actually being sure it was the curry, and that I thought one of my kids might be coming down with something too, so it could even be viral. And then I got in the car and drove (carefully) home and fell, yes FELL! into bed in a bilious despond of self-loathing. Where I stayed for five minutes until it occurred to me that it would serve both human kind and myself infinitely better if I started a blog. So there you are.
And yes I know that I probably misused the word 'despond' just now but, give me a break: I think I'm coming down with something.
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