The letter of the day: L

A game of I Spy can be a great insight into your family’s view of life. Fam. Fibro played a long and involved game on our way back from Canberra this week. Everyone had a turn. Even Mr3 who can just about manage to say the alphabet but hasn’t yet realised that it has uses beyond being the words of a song.

Mr6 is a details man. His turns tended to be all about W (for weeds on the side of the road), R (for red lights on the posts) and B (for back of Dad’s head). The Builder is big picture. G for grass. R for Rail. S for signs. I would just go with whatever letter would get my go over the fastest, with the fewest hints possible. In my defence, it was the last half hour of the trip.

Mr3 is an L man. Every turn, he spied something that began with L. Only mostly it didn’t. Cows. Trees. Cars. If questioned, he’d just say ‘oh, I meant Lawnmower’ – of which there were none to be seen. The rest of us just laughed, knowing his next turn would be exactly the same.

As life philosophies go, it’s a good one. Play your own game, make the facts fit where you need them to, and know the most important things begin with the letter L.

Who needs spelling when you’re that sorted?

{image: Perth}

Conversations from the Fibro #5

WHAT I TALKED ABOUT THIS WEEK: It’s that time of the week when I share some of the topics of conversation that came up through work or play (I'll leave it to you to decide which) during life in a pink fibro.

Vincent Van Gogh, why new shoes sometimes need thick socks, Captain Mack (and why I NEVER want to hear the theme song for that show again), sheep, cows, why pigs do not hang out in paddocks, why pig does not begin with the letter L, why eye spy is best not played with three-year-olds, superannuation, telephone landlines, the family assistance computer system, Boystown Lotteries, ceiling fans, electricians, plumbers, bills, The Wire, The Killing, Aspergers, deadlines, Questacon, Kevin Rudd's hospital plan, stress resulting from procrastination, online dating, small houses, glamorous houses, The Famous Five, school disco, what to have for dinner (ad nauseum), fleas, revision, procrastination, birthday presents, meetings in Sydney (yay!), restocking the vege garden, butterflies… it was a big week.

Would love to know what came up at your house.

{image: Australian National Gallery, Canberra}

A beautiful life (and some waggling)

When you say goodbye to an old life and move into a new one, there are some tearful goodbyes that need to be said. Friends, family, blah, blah, blah. These are hard, but, you know, they’ll visit.

Some relationships, however, are over. The tyranny of distance is too great to bear. It’s a rare person who travels hours and hours up the freeway to see their dentist, doctor, hairdresser or beauty therapist. But sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t be one of those rare people.

Surprisingly, the whole hair thing was sorted in minutes. We met through friends, she was cheap, she was good and she was easy. Sold.

It took me a year to find a new dentist. We’ve had our first date and so far things are going well. He’s the kind of guy who’ll tell you if there’s spinach in your teeth. I like that in a person.

I rushed into things with our doctor – sometimes needs must, right? I had a need, he was there, and it’s not easy to find The One when potentials are thin on the ground. Just ask the women of Sydney. Down here, it’s not a matter of choosing a doctor, it’s a matter of finding someone, anyone, with room on their dance card when push comes to shove. So I dove in early, put all my cards on the table, and, fortunately, it seems to be working out.

The whole beauty thing, however, is another kettle of fish all together. I thought I’d cracked it. Things were going well and then… let’s just say that I’m thinking that this may not be a longterm affair.

When you are fair of hair, pale of skin and freckled of hue as I am, you need brows. They need to be shaped, darkened and not destroyed. In the big smoke, I had one trusted soul who'd looked after my needs for seven or eight years. But she didn't want to make the move with me.

I should have tried harder to convince her.

My last visit to what had become my regular salon here ended with me looking not unlike Mr Potato Head. Wearing his Angry Eyes. The Builder tried hard to reassure me, but found it difficult. Every time he spoke to me, his eyes were invariably drawn upward, fixated. I couldn’t even be offended. I kept catching sight of my brows in mirrors and startling myself. I even found myself waggling them. Waggling. This was not good.

Mr3, who is in the habit of telling me when I need to ‘get my brows on’, thought they were wonderful. He kept patting them, like pet caterpillars.

That was more than six weeks ago. Which means it’s time to ‘get my brows on’ again. But now I have a decision to make. Do I risk my regular salon again, knowing I could end up looking like an extra in Toy Story 3? Or do I branch out and try someone new?

Which means all that getting to know you chit-chat again. Baring my brows and other body parts to another stranger. Waiting to see how it all turns out.

The dilemma.

All I can hear in my head is Eddie Vedder singing ‘She lies and says she’s in love with them…can’t find a better brow’.

Almost Famous

The other day, I googled my name (as you do when you write online and often find your work appropriated without permission on inappropriate websites – not vanity, not really) and found myself on eBay. Not selling my virginity or anything (which is possibly a very good thing), but in the second-hand book area.

Yep, my credit card book is in what we artistic folk like to refer to as the secondary market already.

I have to confess this gave me a little thrill. Not the unfashionable nature of my work (clearly I will be like Keats and given my due in 100 years time or thereabouts), but rather its position on eBay.

I love eBay. I don’t know a single person who lives outside a capital city who doesn’t love eBay (come to think of it, many of my city friends could also claim Number One Fan status, but we’re not talking about them). I am out and proud as an eBay Groupie.

My last three purchases have all been brilliant. The first was a Lego minifigure of Obi-Wan Kenobi, complete with cape. An absolute bargain at $7.50, plus $2 postage, if Mr6’s reaction was anything to go by.

The second was a stack of Moleskine cahiers – six sets of three notebooks each, A5 size, divine. I made half of them into Christmas presents by sticking pages from my Dad’s 1950s French textbook on the front (see, told you I was artistic folk) and have stored the rest until the day comes when nothing but a clean, fresh, crisp notebook will do.

(As an aside, I love notebooks. The endless possibilities they contain. Mine usually end up containing lots of shopping lists and scribbled phone numbers, but there’s always the possibility that one day… well, anything could happen.)

The last purchase was the biggest and best. Inspired by my friend K’s house – which I wrote up for this month’s South Coast Style, on sale now (see pic) – I found myself trawling for vintage school maps. And I found one. At the right price, in Victoria – now in my home, awaiting The Builder’s application of a nail on the wall on which to hang it. I just love it. It’s even got Papua New Guinea as an Australian Territory, just as it was when I was born there all those millions of years ago.

Imagine life without eBay. Just doesn’t bear thinking about, now does it?

{image: Nicky Gordon}

It seemed like a good idea at the time

Spike Milligan had ‘I told you I was sick’ as his epitaph. I was toying with ‘I told you I was tired’ (in the moment where one considers such things), but changed my mind over the weekend. Mine will now read: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The reasons why I have chosen this are too numerous to mention – and will hopefully be even more numerous by the time I get around to having to actually use it – but I can start with three examples from the past few days.

On Friday, I had to do an urgent phone interview. Mr 3 showed no signs of sleeping, but I decided to put him to bed anyway. He did not wish to go to bed and screamed like a baby banshee. So I chose to put him into my bed with a pile of books and bribes of jelly dinosaurs if he stayed quiet for the 20 minutes it would take to talk to my corporate guy from the US.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

He was quiet. It went well. I was so relieved when it was all over that I skipped down the hall to praise him for being a good boy. The praise died on my lips as I opened the door.

Mr 3 had entertained himself by drawing ALL OVER the wall behind my bed in blue crayon. All over the bed. All over the bedside table. All over the sheets. The sheets! Talk about thorough.

When The Builder and I were having a civilised discussion about this several hours later, he wanted to know why the blue crayon had even been in our bedroom. I couldn’t remember. Then I did. I’d put it on the bottom shelf of the bedside table whilst vacuum cleaning months ago. So I didn’t crush it all over the carpet.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

On Monday, we took the boys to The Masterpieces from Paris exhibition at the Australian National Gallery. When we planned it, we had visions of delighting our children with the works of the Masters and instilling in them a lifelong love of art. Actually, that’s not true. We just wanted to go and had to drag them along. But still.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

And so today I have a new idea of hell. It involves one three year old, a large pram, about 4 million people (mostly old, mostly wearing those damn audio tour headphones), 100 old paintings and a confined space.

He did like it. He told me so. He thought the ‘painting of the dark’ (Van Gogh’s Starry, Starry Night) was really nice. His favourite. Mr 6 liked it so much he painted himself in it (see left) at the self-portrait station of the family activity room.

But when I wheeled Mr 3 away from the crowds into the relative peace of the Minimalist art room, I could see him looking at all those blank white canvases in confusion. “I could do better,” I could almost hear him think.

His longing for a blue crayon was written all over his face.

Finally, the end of FebFast

A little late with today’s post, but, you know, it was 1^st March and, you know, FebFast is over, so, you know, I’ve been busy celebrating.

Actually, that’s not technically true. I gave up on FebFast on Friday night, two full days early. Went to Fibrtown’s coolest venue to see Lucy Thorn sing cool music in cool boots – and the atmosphere went to my head. Or maybe that was the night flowering jasmine, which fills the whole garden (told you it was cool) with heady, heavy perfume and just cried out for a nice peppery cab sauv as a counterpoint.

I know, I have no willpower. But I did have a good night.

I’ve since been in Canberra for three days (penance, perhaps?). My overwhelming feeling of the place is that it’s somewhere that offers a great lifestyle – but doesn’t seem to have much life.

That said, Fam Fibro had a great time. Because we did Canberra stuff, like visit the Questacon, go to the Paris Masterpieces exhibition, drink coffee, ride bikes and walk around a lot. We even drove past all the consulates just to check them out.

The highlight, though, was the Best Western on Northbourne Avenue. Or so it would seem. We were actually looking for the War Memorial. “It’s number 9 on the map,” I said, with confidence. And off we went in search. I was still confident, right until we pulled up out the front. Oh.

For future reference, the pink numbers are the accommodation numbers. Tourist attractions are in black. It was all very unclear to a person who needs to turn the map upside down so it’s heading in the right direction.

Usually, I am a good navigator. No, really, I am.

I’m just better when I know where I’m going.

Possibly I should have held out on FebFast at least until we got home.

{image: Pix by Marti}