Monday, December 20, 2010

Never say never...

At the end of 2009, a friend & I made a solemn, pinkie promise VOW to never, ever join another committee. Ever. Our first foray had seen tumult the likes of which I had only seen on Jerry Springer. Presidential autocrats, staff walk outs, drug scandals (OK, I may have made a bit of that up, but just for dramatic effect, you understand) were the meet in the AGM sandwich. By the end of that year, my cohort & I were of the opinion that we had to take the helm the following year and right the darn ship before we lost more lives...and by lives, I mean social death.

Nominating myself for an executive role, I was all revved up with the view that I was going to assist the committee in what our Julia would term an "Education Revolution". In short, I was going to sort out the filing cabinet, get some decent shelving for the office, and put an end to bitching in the car park via open and transparent leadership. In what can only be described as a quirk of nature, I became what locals term "Knocked Up". With this development, all that Bolshy enthusiasm was puked out of me via all day barfing and the air headed affliction that tends to characterise my pregnancies. I could barely form a sentence let alone bring order to an organisation, already nursing bruises from the trauma of the previous year.  Let's just say my position was vacant, without me actually vacating the role. I offered my resignation during rare moments of clarity, however my co representatives on the committee must have lost their minds too, and refused to accept it. Damn fool kids.

During the end of year AGM, my friend & I made our vow, after deep thought and some getting of wisdom. Looking back, it was all a little Rumpelstiltskin.

Fast forward through a year of childbirth, sleep deprivation and milk engorged jubblies. I now nursed not only a gorgeous female munchkin, but a hankering to return to the world in a guise other than life support to a baby and wailing wall to the Groom and two small lads. Hearing the occasional rumbling regarding the committee to which I did not belong, I sensed again a need for my insightful observations and ability to oil the social cohesion among my peers. Yes, it was time to start attending the local committee, tell some fart jokes and sink some Sem Sav Blanc. This would also enable me to get out of the house away from all three delightfully demanding cherubs and their father. Two birds, one Stone (geddit?!), happy days.

Knowing this may be my only means of escape without lecture or guilt, I began working on my friend. What if he joined me? It could be great, better than the last two times. No really. Wearing him down over subsequent months took cunning, skill and more that a few sessions on the lattes down at the local cafe.

As the AGM approached, I sensed I was close to successfully convincing him to again be my partner in crime. I even embarked on a campaign to have his spouse get in his shell like. Wouldn't it be wonderful to sit on the committee together as husband and wife? Mwahahahaha!  Crunch time came and although my friend was absent from the AGM, the opportunity was wide open when nobody else among the parent body volunteered for the role intended for my now powerless--to-resist buddy. I nominated him on the spot, garnered the support of his Mrs and sealed the deal. Success was mine.

Looking forward as we were to enjoying a scandal free term on the committee, we waxed lyrical about the potential for bonding with fellow representatives, our much loved staff, several varieties of ale, vino and perchance branching out to spirits at meetings. The world was our oyster, so long as we could achieve quorum of course.

Days after our committee was formed, the bomb dropped that made both of our previous dramatic terms appear fun and festive. Yes, the director and senior staff member submitted her resignation after 14 years at the helm.  My brain imploded. Here was all the proof I needed that my previous two terms had been disasters, not due to the noxious personal conflicts of other representatives and staff, but because I had lent my involvement to the process. In short, any committee to which I became a member was doomed to experience dramatic upheaval. Yes folks, it IS indeed all about me.  Putting this notion to the resigning member of staff was met with denial all round. I am still not convinced.

As for my poor, manipulated friend, now charged with finding a suitable replacement for our much loved outgoing leader...I am hoping my role in convincing him to come back with me to the committee fold will be viewed only as that of complicit negotiator, rather than the carefully planned project that it was, in truth. Now that he is knee deep in CV's from graduates around the state, he will not have time to view this blog and discover that I was the mastermind behind the greatest turn about our community has seen...since the last time someone changed their mind, anyway. Guess I'll be providing the booze for next 12 meetings then...red or white ladies? Beer anyone? I'm hearing good things about vodka and gin...



Monday, November 29, 2010

8 years down...

Happy Anniversary to the Groom, nice work there my Love.  Nothing else to add there really...here's a pic of the way we were!

Friday, November 26, 2010

Drip, drip, drip...

I don't generally consider myself to be a vain person. If you could see my cracked, unpedicured heels, you would have to agree. Don't get me wrong, I do succumb on the odd occasion that I have to leave the homestead for outings other than Kinder Drop Off, School Drop Off, the corresponding Pick Ups. Sadly, these are few and far between, so primping, preening, nay, brushing my hair, are luxuries I seldom entertain.

So imagine, if you will, how much I must have detested the fugly lump that grew upon my shoulder blade when pregnant with my 2nd born. This bodily addition doubled in size when the latest baby was in utero, and another, smaller piece of ugly grew about 5 cm away, to the north just to add to the hideousness of my back. I took myself off to the local GP a couple of weeks back and told him that I couldn't stand these monstrosities on my back any longer. They made me feel uglier and fatter than even reality would suggest I am, on my worst day. Even the children had began to note when seeing me showering that "Those things on your back are so gross Mum!". It was time.

So there I sad, various shirts and undergarments smooshed unceremoniously up about my pits while the Doc had a bo peep at the skin tags. More like skin abominations. He merrily agreed that they were disgusting and must be removed, "..especially that big one!" he exclaimed in horror. I am fairly sure he stood back and gagged a little at that point. Perhaps overcome with revulsion, it was then that he just quietly suggested that he have a bit of a go with some liquid nitrogen right now. I had clearly conveyed my desperate need to be rid of these feral lumps. Not having any previous experience with liquid nitrogen, I quickly agreed. He warned me that the larger of the two may not drop off, given that it was likely it had a "deep stem". My turn to puke into my mouth a little.

Off he went to what I assume to be the cupboard housing items of pain and punishment. He returned, a discernible spring in his step, with a couple of normal looking cotton buds and a small bowl. "Had anything burned off before, have you?" he enquired. Nope, not a thing, never had a filling in my teeth either, I proudly offered.  As he busied himself preparing the grotesque-lump-removal kit, I sat dreaming of my post-nitro back, all smooth and dewy, like the back of my youthful, pre-baby body.

I came too with a shriek. The insistent pressing of burning nitrogen into my lump was a pain the likes of which I had not felt before. Childbirth? Meh. This was unbelievable. I bit my knuckle, kicked the table and tried to remember that two of my children were in the room, and that dropping the F-bomb was not an option. "Your Mum's a bit of a woos" noted the sadist...I mean Doctor, to the 4 year old. "I think you're hurting her with that stuff", rebuffed my gorgeous son. I think he pressed the white hot stuff into my lumps for a total of 5 minutes. I may, of course, have blacked out for unspecified amounts of time, I can't be sure. When he had finally finished, he again suggested that the smaller lump would likely just fall off, while he couldn't be sure the big bastard would. If not, I would need to make an appointment with his colleague, who would cut it out. You know, like coal, or an iceberg.

So here we are, two weeks on. The little skin tag has indeed fallen off, with little fan fare or worry. The larger, uglier skin tag, now with its very own postcode and taking Christmas Card delivery, has not. No, it has morphed, would you believe, into something entirely more horrid that it was to begin with. This is really saying something. Crisis point was reached this morning after my shower, when I felt what I assumed was hair water dripping onto my back and down my side. I reached up, bent my wrist around and pulled the many times changed dressing off the...let's call it an organism. The band aid was red, soaked with blood, only a thick splodge of pus bang in the middle breaking up the scarlet pools. It smelled really freakin' awful. I turned around to try to see what was going on in the mirror behind me. Even without my glasses on, I could see that the drip, drip, dripping as not water from my hair, but blood fairly pissing down my back and side, from the organism.

Try as I might to stem the tide with my yellow towel, all I managed to achieve was...an orange towel. Nice. I had the Groom pop 47 band aids over it, so that I could get going and have the boys to their swimming lessons on time. I called NurseOnCall, just to get an opinion. They suggested I had an infection, and that if I started to feel hot, to go to hospital. Can you imagine dying as the result of attempting to have a hideous but harmless back growth removed?!  "She never saw it coming...being as it was on her back. Still, that'll teach her for being so up herself". Vanity. The moment you give in to it, nothing but blood and pus. That'll learn me. Now, where did I put that crimson nail varnish...

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Treading Water

So the Groom is unwell, the baby has a virus and I am in demand. Fucking wonderful. I must say the virus is a groovy one, if you are the type who finds massively thick green snot drying to the consistency of varnish groovy. The first day, I wasn't sure of the thick ooze was arriving all over her face and hair courtesy of her eyes or nose. Time soon told the tale, as it tends to do. This means that, again, she is taking very little solid food, and is all GA-Ga about the boob juice.  So much for getting her to take a bottle and upping the real person food, huh?

Meanwhile, I continue to dream dreams of housekeepers on the permanent staff, alcoholic beverages and packets of Styvies.

In other news, got myself a grouse frock from one of the many local 2nd hand wonderlands yesterday, complete with scarf to accessorise. It's green, jersey material, kind of 1942 style, with cream coloured flowers on it. Sound horrid, but isn't. I got it to wear to a mate's 30th birthday celebration, but given the hospice situation at the Chateau, I wore it out and about today. Sure, I look fatter than the frock would like me to, but a bit of draping with said scarf and a denim waist coat, and I kid myself that the vulgar bulge where my tummy used to be is camouflaged.

 Other than caring for the infirm, I did manage to escape long enough to get myself back on the local pre-school committee for 2011. I am hoping we have a good mix of stiffs and jesters this year, with minimal personal attacks and all the piss one can drink while doing ones bit for the kids. My last foray barely rates a mention, given I was pregnant and as such in a semi-permanent state of amnesia. I have retreated to the safety of minute taker for this stint. Bugger all responsibility, plenty of space to air one liners and matters of importance, both.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Daily Grind

And sadly, no, I don't mean the hip grinding type. School drop off and pick up. Getting children to brush teeth and dress themselves. Changing peed on sheets. Massaging various egos. Sending birthday cards. Washing the clothes. Folding the clothes. Putting the clothes away. Wiping arse. Remembering to brush ones own teeth. Cooking food for people who will tell you what a crap job you did, and how much they hate what you served up to them. Watching your weaning baby struggle to crap now that she is on formula part time. Having your clothing choices and hair style bagged by the only one who you want to approve of said choices.

Now, please don't misunderstand me. I adore The Groom. My children are truely lovely. We have enough money coming in to afford a roof and food etc. I am grateful for all of these blessings. Some days, however, it all seems like a hell of a lot of energy expenditure for precious little result. Is the baby going to recall how I hugged her to me while she strained to expell a brick shit? Na. I think I just cling to the hope that all these things that I, and most parents, do will be felt long down the track in the souls of our little ones as active love. Otherwise, what's the freaking point? Maybe it just keeps us occupied until we die, and that's all life actually is. Buggered if I know. I'll certainly let you know if I find out. Now, I must go flush a nugget, that shit is ripe.

Monday, November 8, 2010

What to do, what to do...

Faced with a most rare block of time to myself (well, Miss is still here of course, let's not get TOO carried away now), I am flummoxed as to which road to take. Do I a) fold and put away the 12 loads of washing strewn about the homestead b) go back to bed or c) catch up on recorded episodes of my favourite programs? Tough choices, all, I know. Given I will be out this arvo with my standing Tuesday Luncheon Special with Da Girls, housework really needs doing now. I am soooooo very tired, and the bed calls my name with its siren song. And yet, here I find myself in the ol' recliner, foot rest popped, baby playing happily with the curtains beside me, watching last weeks episode of House.

If you can explain this, please do. I consider myself quite bright, and the other two options certainly deserve my attention more the the smart arse quips of a pretend person. Not even a particularly good episode. And now I look around, the clothes piling up around us all, threatening to form their own union and walk out. Well, at least Dad would always have a job...

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Carnival Hangover

So the Groom is back from his 14 day hard slog that is the lead up and running of the biggest horse racing event in the world. There were a couple of extra degrees of difficulty this year, given his ill health of late, the baby cutting FOUR teeth at a time and the big boy's pining for their Dad. We were all so longing for his return to the family fold...so much so that we forgot about the whole reassimilation period that takes place after this massive disruption to our family life.

The boys are soooooooo excited to see him, they become more loud, more nutty, wake up earlier, wet the bed and generally lose their shite. I turn into something resembling a terrier, jumping around him wanting attention and the odd scratch under the chin. And I loathe small dogs. I end up annoying myself, let alone the depleted-in-every-way Groom. He, meanwhile, has missed us so much he just wants to bathe in our glow, forgetting of course the we do not in fact glow at all. So he is exhausted, tired, worn out, but still desperate to be around us. Us, the loud people he adores, who do not lend themselves well to rest and recovery. Do you sense what happens next? Wall to wall tiredness and disappointment, that's right, and that's just the children.

Happily, this phase lasts but a week, with the Groom getting home earlier in the evenings and spending some much needed time chillin with his homies. Soon enough, love will conquer all of this blahness, as it is want to do, and we will return to more acceptable levels of up, down and the occasional plateau.

John Lennon reckoned that love is all you need. Not true. You also need tolerance, alcohol, friends, family, shortbread and music. Oh, and Zoloft, always with the Zoloft. Close Johnny, but no cigar.

Welcome to the World

Finally, the oft discussed PoopnBum Publishing has a home. Nic, this one's for you!

As a frustrated writer type who hasn't written shit, save some extremely overdone minutes at the local pre-school, I thought it was time to stop dreaming and start doing. That said, I have no idea what this is going to be, most likely just the self indulgent ramblings of a thirty something, mongrel bred white Australian woman.

That will have to wait, however, as my baby girl just started her usual 10pm crying session, so I'll be off to pop my boobs into her perfectly formed mouth and send her back to sleep in the manner which works best, but western "wisdom" advises is incorrect. Go figure, they wonder why we're all on Zoloft...