look ma, no hands

baby 5

Granddaughter. Petit Fille, now 15 weeks old, learnt the mechanics of rolling over this week. She would rather be sitting up, as she is trying so hard to sit, lifting her head and shoulders up off the rug anytime she is laid on her back, but she has to be happy with rolling for now. Her Mummy, Daughter1 shared a short clip of her rolling with the family, so we assumed she was off and rolling.

At her Daddy’s birthday party, Petit Fille partied hardy for awhile, but then showed all the signs that like her Grandma (me!) she found being nice exhausting, so Grandpa Mr FD and I went back to her home with her, so that she could distress and have some quiet time.

I placed her on the rug and she started rolling, and rolling, and rolling. Grandpa even managed to make it down to her level on the rug and set her back to lying on her back, and flip, she would roll over again. She performed very happily for us until the physical effort became too much and I put her down for a nap.

Her parents returned and we told them how Petit Fille had entertained us with her rolling skills. Mr Boy was shattered as he hadn’t actually witnessed a full roll as yet, for it seems that her rolls are few and far between. Even her mother has only witnessed a couple!

Grandparents 1; Parents 0.

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an introvert on the rack

lunch 2

Today is our son in law’s birthday. I have a son in law (Mr Boy) who is 40! That is what happens when you are a child bride and have your first child at the age of 21, before you know it you have a 40 year old son in law! (Daughter1 has just turned 34).

They hosted a small luncheon at a local bowls club where we were treated to a lovely barbeque lunch and birthday cake, as well as the chance to play barefoot bowls and listen to the Sunday jazz session. Mr Boy has lovely friends so it was a very pleasant few hours.

It is a strange sensation becoming the “older generation”. At 55 I don’t consider myself “old” but with the passing of Mr FD’s parents, my Dad and a few other elder relatives it does seem that we are the elder generation at family events now.

There is a certain status one achieves. There is certainly a tone of respect from the “younger” generations. What I enjoy the most being a closet introvert, is that there is less onus on having to be a social butterfly. If I want to sit quietly in the corner no one thinks anything of it. I can be a wallflower to my heart’s content.

I did have one moment where I channelled my more extroverted sister and conducted a conversation with one of Mr Boy’s close friends in which I initiated a conversation with a line of inquiry to discover his occupation as a way to appear friendly. My sister can work a room and by the end of the event will have the life story of just about every attendee, discovered at least two long lost relatives and make such an impact that she will receive Christmas cards from complete strangers for the next 12 years. It comes as no news alert that I, on the other hand, am more your bah humbug  introverted type who finds being nice exhausting.

However, in this instance I took one for the son in law and embarked on a “Oh I have forgotten what line of employment you are in” as if I had ever known with one of his friends.

This was where the flaw in my plan became instantly evident, for he replied,”I work for AKX” as if I should be immediately aware of what AKX stood for. More acronyms followed. He worked in JSR and met Mr Boy when he worked in the CFV department. On and on it went and I could garner no further hints as to what he did or where he did it. Nothing he said seemed to align with what Mr Boy did as a food technologist.

I looked from Mr FD and Son who sat on either side, mute as stone. The cavalry was not coming. Later, I learned that Son knew exactly what the gentlemen did and for whom, for which I informed Son that he should not consider it likely that he shall inherit the Wedgwood collection (jasper blue).

Through a process of generic questioning I learned that he had worked there for 16 years, after arriving from England. He worked with very nice people, many of whom had been there for a long time. It got to the point where I had to admit that I had no idea what he was speaking about as I wasn’t familiar with the industry acronyms or jargon, or start on a line of questioning that could lead to learning the colour of his boxer shorts, when the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow arrived.

“I didn’t have a background in computers but did some work with excel and that led to…”

At the mention of software, things clicked for Mr FD and he took over the conversation. I gulped the last of my glass of wine and came up for fresh air.

Let that be a lesson to you, never go against your natural instincts.

Telling an introvert to go to a party is like telling a saint to go to Hell.”
― Criss Jami

it’s on the tip of my tongue

food potato pete

I have a really sensitive mouth.

Perhaps I should rephrase that. My tastebuds react to pepper, spices and other “hot flavourings” like a mountain forest fire on a 40C summer’s day after a wet spring and a long dry summer. The tiniest, tinniest hint of a spice and my entire mouth burns, my eyes water, nose streams and I gulp for water. The mildest of mild flavourings and the same result! When the rest of the family enjoy a medium spicy curry I am eating plain rice.
I am told that I make quite a good curry, even by Mr FD’s late father who grew up eating curries prepared by local cooks in Ceylon, but I wouldn’t know as I never taste them – not even to adjust flavourings. It would be akin to burning at the stake to me.

My daughters argue that it is because I grew up with a plain Jane cook for a mother. Overcooked meat and three vegetables boiled within an inch of their life was our custom menu. Exotic was making a cottage pie! However, I argue with their argument. I think I was just created a delicate creature and my taste buds are no less sensitive than the rest of my body and soul.

So the fashion in recent years for adding chilli to absolutely everything, even chocolate, has meant my diet has been severely restricted and somewhat repetitive. Is there no thought for the individualism in tastes anymore? I hazard an opinion that it is to hide inferior ingredients – make the horse meat more palatable in case of point.

Another issue is the penchant to sprinkle sesame seeds or poppy seeds atop breads and other foods, as mere decoration. Not enough to add flavour but too many for a person who needs to avoid small tiny seeds like sesame or poppy in their diet to maintain life. It means that if I buy bread rolls I have to cut it in half to exchange a top for a bottom with Mr FD who can withstand a double dose of seeds. It really annoys me when I get to almost the end of my roll, and look at the bottom bottom and see that seeds have collected there in the baking process as well.

You can imagine the fun of bottom sharing when we buy takeout burger! Mr FD always winds up with the extra sauce and mayo as they are always placed on the top too!

So, when I am Queen of the World as I will be one day, one of my first commands will be to do away with “fashionable” blanket food flavourings and give choice back to the eater. Freedom to consume foodstuffs without fear or repercussions – coming to a kitchen near me, and you, soon!

Or a few heads sans chef hats will roll.

by the book

Librarian

Copyright. Doesn’t the word just fill you with joy and enthusiasm?

Now, imagine an entire day spent listening to someone drone the Australian copyright laws at you. Hours and hours of … you can use downloaded music for the classroom but you can’t use it for a school competition, you can make a copy of an out of print book, but not if there are other editions available, all those, what I call the i before e exception to the rule, rules.

Add to that a table companion who sniffled and snuffled all through the day, and who had the temerity to exhale her hot germy breath all over me so that within the prescribed 72 hours I had a sore throat and runny nose to the point that I couldn’t spend time with my grand daughter this weekend (Petit Fille is 12 weeks today!)

So, the very next time someone says to me, “It must be wonderful to be a librarian and have all those books to read!” as though I sit in my office with my feet on my desk reading every volume in the collection all day, every day, I may just move those feet off the desk top and land them where the sun don’t shine.

better than the sound of silence

abstract_sound_waves-wide

Young colleague who is hearing impaired (challenged is perhaps the better term, hearing challenged) has just received new hearing aids. After they were fitted she went to the bathroom. While in there she heard a noise and became very concerned that there was a leaking pipe somewhere, or rather a gushing pipe.

Slowly the realisation dawned that it was the sound of her own urinating!

On the trip home with her partner she was describing how different everything sounded, including his voice when she heard a noise which she thought signalled car problems.

“It is just the air conditioning” he replied.

“Well, I don’t like it!” she declared.

We don’t realise how much we “blank” out of our everyday life do we?

the faraway place

garden walk 1

I am so over this whole responsible adult person role that I have been playing for way too long. I really do think I have been typecast and it is time for the damn second act to allow me a little of improvisation.

Don’t you just get fed up to the eye teeth with the alarm ringing, roll out of bed at 5 am every weekday to climb over the sleeping dog and kick your toe on the way to the bedroom start to the day?

Not to mention, but I am, the deciding of which costume to wear to perfect the character that you need to be that day . Am I professional take me serious woman; learning is fun teacher; reading is not a bore librarian, I have my own style and refuse to be a stereotype and yes I can wear pearls with everything if I want to individual, or my brain has gone on a long beach holiday in a foreign country and left my true identity in control and that is not good I anyone’s book boomer?

What to wear versus what is ironed/clean or fits me. Then lunch…sandwich or wrap, salad or frozen meal? A can of tuna… Onto the highway and its more of that get out of my way I may just drive over the top of you but the thought that it might damage my car and cause me more inconvenience (going to jail will do that, inconvenience, I mean) and why are you all passing me when I am exactly on the top legal speed (my cruise control confirms it) commutes that leave me way to much time to contemplate my wretched condition and as I drive 40 minutes each day I am tired of all my recorded music and the radio is driving me mad with their depressing news and information or inane breakfast shows.

A day of lamenting that parents don’t teach their kids respect or responsibility, or much of anything any more. Kids shouting their rights to you but never considering that maybe you have rights too. A life of buckling under management teams that all seem to be bad copies of each other – all inept, deaf, blind and dumb in the sense that they always have to take to road to nowhere and expect you to sing happy songs as they throw you off the cliff and point fingers at you.

Years of people making promises to fix the washing machine on Wednesday but to call on Thursday and say they can’t make it for two weeks and then still now show up and a world where everyone is willing to critique your performance, your life, your actions, but never stop to self-reflect at all. People in glass houses shouldn’t stand up in the bath, matey.

No suitable ending in sight, except the big light calling, calling, and to some that is no ending at all. Life’s a shit and then you die. Nobody cares, nobody dares, off we go again.

Yes, Friday and not enough weekend ahead to do anything to change my mood, my life, my chances. Drink will rot my liver, pills make the head hurt, chocolate goes to the hips and everywhere else. I long to lie in green fields but the fire ants would bite, the snakes would slither and bite as well no doubt and the crows would pick over what was left.

Turn off the clocks, shut all the factories, stuff the children in the closet. Let’s go to the faraway place where we always expected to be. Burn the bridges behind. I’ll boil the kettle you can get the teacups from the cupboard in the corner. Then sit down, drink your tea and shut up or I swear I will hit you with my stick. I swear I will.

Curse

 

other duties as required

Teacher 1
Parent teacher interviews today. They started at lunch time and concluded at 8pm. Parents were allotted 10 minutes until a bell rang; the usual speed dating process!

I had only one appointment- the very first time slot. It was with the mother of a student that I taught last term, and no longer teach as it was a term unit, so I didn’t have much to discuss. I gave a chapter of my life story, that hurried them on their way.

After that I was on door duty, or meet and greet, as the parents arrived. We were also expected to keep an eye out for irate parents or uncomfortable situations at which we were somehow to magically intervene. I don’t know what a genteel person such was I was expected what to do, and I had not packed the stick, so all I could promise was to bite people on the knee caps. As many of our parents are large Samoans and Maoris, I don’t think I would have got further than a knee cap, stick or no stick!

Home now and tucked in bed – yes, exhausted from being nice. Lordy, the things a person has to do…

loss and devious ways

yurt 3

Arrived home Sunday night, after a weekend of helping with Petit Fille, to learn that my uncle (married to my mother’s elder sister) had died. He was also 90 and it wasn’t unexpected. I am trying not to think about “things coming in threes”.

Mr FD’s cousin declared at MIL’s funeral that “we are the older generation, now!” That was a little scarey and also a little bewildering. She is in her 60s, as is Mr FD and his sister. I, of course am still in my 50s so I am pretending that her declaration does not include me!

A colleague is having some issues with one of the members of her team and is feeling utterly unsupported and actually ill treated by our management who should be backing her up in an issue with the subordinate, and I do feel so much empathy for her, having lived through The Basement of Discontent and an even more poisonous workplace prior to that. The age old story that management actually have to see a number of good staff walk out the door before they realise who the real poison in the workplace is. “Street fighters” can never be handled by taking the moral high ground, better to go where you will be happier and supported.

In a strange coincidence I was buying take out at a highway stop last week when I looked to my right and the “poison” from my previous workplace was standing not two meters away. I don’t know if she recognised me as it has been ten years, and I now have grey hair, but I certainly recognised her – and utterly ignored her.

My natural instinct would be to be polite and say hello (and we all know how I find being nice exhausting), but in her instance I just thought I am no longer paid to tolerate you, and I have no need to acknowledge you and so I didn’t! It felt good, it still feels good.

I hope my colleague doesn’t leave, as she is my one true friend, after Minerva the Library assistant, but life is too short and too much time is spent in the workplace to waste it in a situation that makes you unhappy. Often we don’t realise how unhappy we are until we go somewhere where we learn to be happy again. She may have to do that.

The saying “Life’s a shit and then you die” is running through my mind right now. Tomorrow is another day…

and another one bites the dust

2012_10_model-simone-d-aillencourt-13a435b90-710621-320-445

Well, that was the week that was. Saturday was the day mother in law passed on. Sunday the offically opening and naming of our library took place, a year after we actually started using the library!

Being a catholic school “opening” meant the bishop cam along and blessed the building and all those who sailedwork in it. A mass was held outside the building. It was all very pious until the bishop was giving his sermon and a loud male voice rang out “hohohhohhohohohoh”. It was hard to tell if it was a laugh or a cry, but everyone pretended not to notice. A few minutes later another hohohohohohoho rang out.

Next day at the staff meeting all was explained. An elderly man in the community suffers from dementia and every so often he lets go a hohohhhoho. His other party trip is when he goes to communion he pats the priest on the head. Apparantly on our day he took communion from the Bishop and yes, he patted the bishop on the top of his balding head.

Aren’t those the moments to remember, though?

line of fire

dance 1

The room in which our television reigns supreme is a long, thin room, but wide enough to accommodate the two brown suede recliner chairs that we use for our viewing pleasure.

Over time, due to our risings and seatings, the chairs gradually progress down the length of the room until we need to squint to view the screen. Even so, lack of clear vision does not motivate us to push our chairs back to their original resting point.

Oh no, that only happens when we discover that we are out of range for remote use, then we push our chair back into its best advantage spot. It does mean that we often to have conduct conversations to a chair occupant some distance behind us because they haven’t hit the outer boundaries as yet, but that is a small price to pay to maintain control of the television remote.