Saturday Skinfest

I have a confession.

Yesterday afternoon, while driving home from dropping the Teen at work, I was scanning radio stations looking for something decent to listen to. One station was playing "Bye Bye Bye" by boy band *NSYNC. And I stopped scanning. And I listened. And it was good.

:::SOB:::

I am so ashamed!!!!

There, I feel better now I've gotten that off my chest. We can continue to the Skinfest. Yes, I know I'm late again. I've had to begin my Christmas shopping early this year (for me, this is early) due to the Tadpole's arrival in less than 6 weeks and so yesterday spent 6 hours at the expanded Westfield Chermside. I came home exhausted and barely moved from the living room afterwards. Not even for this weeks tasty offerings was I moving from my couch.

And speaking of, let's begin with Mr. November Liam Fulton. This young man featured in an early edition of the Skinfest, but I don't think we can hold that against him. We can, however, hold me against him:


Mr. December, Greg Bird, looks really really uncomfortable posing for this picture. I'd like someone to offer to make him more comfortable by offering to scrub his very large and muscular back. Oh alright, I'll do it if no one else wants:


I find I cater to you breast men out there for the cheergirls. Not that there's anything wrong with that (or so I'm told), but I thought I'd change gears and give you men who admire the female backside a treat this week. From the mighty Brisbane Broncos, reigning champions, I give you this sweet thing who I swear could be my twin sister:


Now I'm off to the Tween's footy presentation day. More skin next week!

Do It ALL at the Post!

Quick quiz! What services are provided by Australia Post?

a) purchase stamps
b) mail letters and packages worldwide
c) buy products from paper and pens to mobile phones
d) pay bills and do your banking
e) apply for an Australian passport
f) apply for Australian citizenship

Trick question!!! You can do all of those things, even get your Aussie citizenship, at the post office. I'm not kidding.

As you may recall, last month the Hermit and I applied for our Australian citizenship. A couple of weeks ago I received our letters from the Department of Immigration and Multicultural Affairs (hereafter known as DIMA) telling us our applications had been referred to the Postal Manager at Redcliffe. Since we are geographically closer to Redcliffe than Brisbane - and no one in their right mind wants to travel into the city for crap like this - the Hermit and I assumed that, like other government offices, DIMA has officials that work in regional centres. This assumption was given more weight when I rang up the Redcliffe Post Office and was told they only did citizenship interviews on certain days and only between certain hours. Sounds like a government job to me!

We arrived at the Redcliffe Post Office shortly after 3pm Wednesday, documents in hand and running over the lists of our rights and responsibilities as wannabe Aussies. We approached the counter and explained why we were there. Ah, yes... step over here please while I get Shirley for you, she said.

I had assumed we'd be meeting with the DIMA folks, taken into a back room somewhere and, well, interviewed. After all, the page and a half long letter mentions the word interview no less than nine times. And I don't think I'm confused as to the meaning of the word 'interview'. Nope, I'm clear on that.

You can see where I went wrong, of course. I assumed.

We were lead to the next space at the counter, where our 'interview' was conducted by one of the Post clerks. She pulled out a checklist for each of us and ticked off the appropriate documents while another clerk made photocopies of said documents (she was nice enough to hand us back the $35 US dollars we had stashed in the Toddler's passport). Mine was first, and I was asked, rather casually, if I had ever been found guilty of any sort of offense, no matter how long ago, in a court of law. Nope. Did I intend to reside in Australia and/or maintain a close and lasting relationship with Australia? Yup. Could I tell her the privileges of an Australian citizen?

I got through the first four out of five when I drew a mental blank. I began to panic. What was the fifth one? Was I going to fail because I couldn't remember? Were they not going to let me stay because I could only get 80%? "I can't remember the fifth one," I bleated, my face becoming flushed.

The clerk reached under the desk to pull out a slim booklet. "You're allowed to look them up," she said, offering it to me.

What??? No one told me it would be an open book exam. "Oh, no. I have them here," I said, handing my hand out to the Hermit for the slip of paper we had been quizzing each other off of (and very accurately too, I may add). We exchanged incredulous looks. Here we were, applying for something we took very seriously and all around us people were buying stamps and picking up the mail. We could read our rights and responsibilities off a piece of paper!

"Oh, we just want to know that you have the jist of it," said the clerk, ticking off the box.

Ten minutes later (the Hermit had far fewer documents than I, as I had all 3 kids on my application) we walked out, shaking our heads in disbelief. That was a citizenship interview?? Now we certainly weren't handed any certificates or anything, just a receipt saying we'd turned up and had all of the required documentation. We won't know if we've been accepted for another 4-12 weeks, and still have to attend a ceremony to make it all official. But I had a harder time getting my Queensland drivers license.

Today I asked my Canadian friend DarkSideDeb if she had a similar experience when she applied for citizenship in Victoria. She did, although she wasn't sworn in as a citizen until after the Army transfered them to Brisbane. So it isn't just one of those odd Queensland things.

There has been a lot of talk here about making citizenship tougher to obtain. Longer waits between permanent residency and citizenship. Exams about Australian culture and history. Before Wednesday I was skeptical. After all, the US has an exam and look how well that's done for assimilation of immigrants. (Please take this moment to wipe up the puddle of sarcasm I've dripped all over you.) Now... well I still don't think potential immigrants knowing Don Bradman's batting average or when the First Fleet arrived is going to solve anything, but making it more than another clerical job for Australia Post might be a good start.

Technorati Tags: Australian Citizenship, Australia Post

Three Cheers

The Hermit works incredibly long hours at his job. He's often gone before 6:30 am, and asking him to be home before 6:30 pm so the Teen and I can go to beading class (our latest mother/daughter bonding thing) is akin to asking him to come home early. After he gets home, reads however many bedtime stories to the Toddler until she falls asleep (anywhere between 1-12, depending on her mood), and has dinner, he goes back out to HermitLand (his shed/detached "space") and works some more until 10 pm or so. He also puts in several hours each weekend. All I'll tell you is that he works in IT; one of the few things I self-censor on this blog regards the Hermit's job. I won't blog about in more than a general sense because enough people on both sides of the Pacific who work for this large company - including my own mother - read this blog and I have no wish to upset the apple cart if I say the wrong thing. Discretion is the better part of my husband keeping his job.

I will say that this company does not force the Hermit to work such insane hours. It's something he has always done, in the 10 years I've known him. And plenty of people over the years have tried in various ways to get him to not put so much of himself into his job. Including me. We've all failed.

But that's not the point of this post. I'm giving a huge and public shout of appreciation to my overworked hubby, for not only is he continuing his usual routine at work but is giving his very pregnant wife a much appreciated break by doing more than his share of the housework and general pampering of yours truly.

I'm not one to ask for help, and I can get resentful if someone implies that I need help. I have a superwoman complex, I guess. And I'm not the best housekeeper in good times, so you can well imagine how I'm coping in the heat with a belly that, at 31 weeks gestation, precedes me to the door by a good half a foot. So finally catching on to the fact that his wife is, well, just a tad stubborn, the Hermit has simply starting doing. Dishes. Vacuuming. Moping. Scrubbing the shower. General cleaning.

That would be enough to earn my undying gratitude, but he continues. Makes my tea in the morning and has even learned that allowing the tea bag to sit in the water is called "steeping" and not "weeping". Last night as I sat on the couch in horror after discovering I'm developing the dreaded cankle he brought me tea before heading out to attack the laptop some more. Hells bells, the man even offered to cut my toenails when I was whining that I could no longer reach them! Never mind that he probably wasn't serious and would rather hand me the money to go and get it done elsewhere, he offered!

"This isn't going to last, you know," he said to me over the weekend after finishing yet another chore that I would usually do. He smiled when he said it, so while I knew he was serious and isn't about to turn into Mary Poppins or anything, I wasn't offended. I'll take what I can get for as long as I can get it.

So to my Hermit, thank you. Your ever-loving and ever-expanding wife knows you do, indeed, appreciate her and is returning the appreciation tenfold.

Saturday Skinfest

The beauty of still being American and claiming American roots is I can go off American time zones when it suits me. Like today! Sure it's Sunday morning in Brisbane, but it's still Saturday afternoon in my former home state of Massachusetts. Therefore the Saturday Skinfest label still applies! That's my story, and I'm stickin' to it.

Let's dive right in, shall we, with the continuation of our naughty calendar series. Up next is Mr. September Ben Ross. I like Ben; he's a manly man who doesn't feel the need to wax/shave his manly chest hair to show off his impressive physique, yet isn't a monkey man. Yummy:

Mr. October Stuart Webb may play for the worst team in the NRL - South Sydney Rabbitohs - but I dare you to tell him that. Personally, I can't tear my eyes away from his hip and side-on view of a butt cheek to even wipe the drool from my chin:

I promised you menfolk some cheergirls this week, and I won't go back on my promise. Since it's Tri-Nations time (and I slept through the game last night, can you believe it?) I give you a lovely Australian cheergirl. Note the green and gold colours. I still hate her due to her too-flat tummy and perky boobs, but she's got a little girl-next-door look going on:

More skin next week!

This Just In...

I have to do this, not because I was asked (I wasn't) but because it's really cool. For those of you who aren't readers of frequent commenter Harmonica Man's blog, please head on over and spend a few minutes reading his latest post about his son Austin. Especially if you have a teenager, know a teenager, or wonder just what kind of leaders today's much maligned teens are going to be. It will give you hope, particularly if your teenager is like my Teen and more concerned about boys/hair/fashion/The O.C. It's a neat story, as Momma Mooselet would say.

That is all...

Band Camp

Last week, the Tween spent three days at band camp. No, not that kind of band camp. Sheesh. Ages ranged from 8-12, it was for 3 days during school hours in the middle of week about 20 minutes from home. Three local primary schools were involved to keep numbers down and to allow everyone who wanted to go the chance. Previous camps had been so large only about half the kids who wanted to attend were allowed. Which sucks for all involved.

The Tween plays the trumpet and so was put into the Concert Band group. He had four songs to practice, to culminate in a concert for the parents at the end of the three days. To be honest, I think the reason he wanted to go was because it got him out of school for those days. But I am paying for this damned instrument so off he went.

At the end of the third day I dutifully turned up for the sausage sizzle and concert. We were crammed into a small, acoustically poor hall with not enough chairs nor a stage. Up toward the front was the media scrum... oh no, wait. It was just the hoard of baby boomer parents with their video cameras, digital cameras and/or mobile phone cameras waiting to record every second of little Johnny/Jessica's musical debut. They were finally shooed off by someone so the rest of us had a chance of seeing the tops of our child's head during the performance. After a speech that sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher we were told our first performance would be the Strings Band.

I feel that, after listening to this group of kids (which made up about half of the 170 students at this camp) I have solved all of President Bush's problems with the torture of potential terrorists. Sit them in a small room and force them to listen to music from children learning string instruments. I promise you within 30 minutes they'll confess to everything! Beats that pesky Chinese water torture or electrodes to the gonands. Why do so many parents (remember we're talking about 85 kids here, about half of whom were in Year 3, or 8-9 years old) feel their kids show a talent for the strings? Do you really think little Olivia (most of the kids were girls, I noticed) is someday going to sit first chair in the Sydney Orchestra? Do you feel that making a sound resembling nails on a chalkboard is making her smarter? I think the Toddler's reaction summed it up best - she had her fingers stuck in her ears and kept saying "Mumma, what's that noise?"

When the Strings torture concert was over, it was the Concert Band's turn. Mind you these are the rest of the 85 kids who were just as excited to play to a full, if uncomfortably seated, house as their Strings counterparts were. Unfortunately they didn't get that chance as about 90% of the parents of the Strings players up and left as the kids were setting up. How rude! I had to sit through your kids torturing cats playing music, you should sit through our kids slaughtering buffalo playing music as well. In all seriousness it was very inconsiderate and sends the wrong type of message to both sets of kids, and all it would have cost them to show some consideration was 20 minutes of their time. Patsy suggested putting something in the school newsletter, but do parents really need to be told to show some manners? I guess they do.

I had my revenge. My kids' band was better. How do I know this? The Toddler spent the time with her fingers not in her ears but wiggling on the ends of her hands as she danced - spun around in circles - to the very similar sounding four pieces of music. And as every parent knows, toddlers NEVER lie.

Technorati Tags: Band Camp, Torture

Moooooo-box

You may remember that many months ago, a deranged Jehovah's Witness destroyed my mailbox. Well, tore the roof off at least. The Hermit repaired it but really, it's been on life support ever since.

In an effort to spend more time together, the Hermit and the Tween have taken up woodworking. After the grandparents left, they decided their first project would be a new letterbox. It took a couple of weekends, and a few nights after work, but with the Toddler's help in assembling the post and digging the hole for the cement I am the proud owner of the catchiest mailbox on the street, made by my boys:

It's even signed by the artist:

I do have a problem, though, and I'm turning to my readers for help. See that lonely spot on the right side? We want to put something there but are undecided as to what. The original plans called for scrollwork, but as you can see it's a rather rustic design. Scrollwork just wouldn't go. The Hermit considered a plant of some kind, but it would sit in full Brisbane cancer-causing, hotter than Hades sun all day. I fear whatever would go in would be dead inside of a week. I thought perhaps a fake plant, but again the sun would cause it fade quickly, leading to costly replacements. My latest idea was a whirligig, but I'm afraid there isn't enough room for it to spin. So the comments are open to your suggestions.

As to the old letterbox? Well, as the Hermit was lifting it out of its old stump home to be taken to the Place Where Letterboxes Go to Die, he lost his grip and it fell to the ground. Here's what remains:

Replaced in the nix of time, I'd say. What should we have them make next?

Saturday Skinfest - Anniversary Edition

I realized that one year and two days ago (that'd be October 12th for the mathematically challenged) was my blog anniversary. After spending time reading the Comics Curmudgeon and other blogs from his commenters- notably yellojkt's Foma* - I decided to take the plunge and begin my own blog. It's been a great year with three template changes and my writing style evolving. It's given me a creative outlet that was denied to me for many, many years. I've developed a loyal following of family, friends and fellow bloggers, so thanks to all of you for your comments and your support.

To celebrate, I'm giving you a special edition of my first regular feature, the Saturday Skinfest! Since it was originally intended to indulge my worship of really, really, really good looking NRL players - I brought in the cheergirls to make my male readers happy, not due to any tendencies of my own - for this week only I'm bringing you a double feature from the NRL calendar. Guys, I'm sorry but you're being dissed this weekend. It is my anniversary, after all. I'll make it up to you next week.

So let's begin where we left off, with Mr. May, Amos Roberts. Maybe I should take up fishing:


Remember how I said some of these pics were kinda, well, porn-y? Mr. June, Nick Youngquest, proves that point here:


Johnathon Thurston, I love you. I really do. Sure the Cowboys fell apart at the end of the year, but you were always pretty good. You make a good Mr. July. But Jesus H. Christ on a pogo stick what the HELL is wrong with your thighs? Seriously, they have doctors of these types of things:


And I have words of advice for you Mr. August Brent Webb. Grooming is in. Get thee to the shops for a nice pair of scissors for a bit of a trim:


More skin, and the return of the cheergirls, next week!

Tadpole Update

Well I promised an update on the Tadpole, seeing as I'm fast approaching the tail end of the pregnancy. Just over 8 weeks to go now til D-day and all is well.

Wow, that was a short post. Here are the details:

Despite the Hermit's insistence that I'm "huge" (thanks honey) my OB says I'm measuring up at no more than a week ahead of where I actually am. I think I look as big as I do - and in the Hermit's defense I do look rather large - because the Tadpole is so high up. He's sitting directly under my boobs, except jutting 4-5" further out than my enormous E-cups, so I look like one big wobbly mass.

You'd think this would spare my bladder, but alas no. He's also in the breech position, so he gets to use my bladder for judo kicking practice. I'm giving him a 6.3 at this point. Needs work on precision.

I've been told I'm borderline anemic, which helps to explain the sudden onset of shortness of breath I've been getting. Yesterday I was standing in the library watching the Toddler randomly grab books to take home when all of a sudden I felt like a fish out of water. I had to quickly sit down and try to catch my breath while an older patron watched me uneasily as if I was going to shoot the Tadpole out from between my legs right then and there. So now I get to take nausea-inducing, constipation-making iron tablets. Joy. But since I kinda like to breathe I guess I can live with the trade-off.

The OB also recommended calcium supplements to stop the horrific leg cramps I've been getting at night. I'll be turning over in bed when all of a sudden I get a knot the size of a cricket ball in my calf and my toes feel as if they're trying desperately to make contact with my kneecaps. I did remember from my time in nursing school that this meant I was deficient in some mineral or another, but couldn't remember which. This probably has to do with my maternity nursing instructor. She was evil. I remember describing her as a hyena that stalked the antelope, just waiting for one to show weakness before she pounced and savagely pulled it to bits. Given that she once told me I'd traumatized both the Teen - for not allowing the then 4 year old to go to her grandfather's funeral - and the Tween - for "nipping the tip" when he was born - it's no wonder I've tried to forget anything I learned from her as soon as my exams were over.

Blood tests also confirmed that I'm Rh-negative. Hey, thanks for telling me something I've known since I was 17 and first gave blood! Simply means I have to get additional injections to prevent antibodies. Which would be no big deal, but here it meant I had to go from my OB's office, through two connecting buildings, down one floor and meander along hallways to the Labour ward so a nurse could give me the shot. I had the Toddler with me, who was more interested in drinking her Sprite and asking me an endless litany of questions as she wandered her way along the halls, cutting people off like a drunken sailor, than actually getting to our destination. Why my OB simply couldn't do it is beyond me, but I've come to accept that things happen here for no logical reason in a "it's always been this way" type of thing. Best part is I have to do it again in 5 weeks!

So it's all good! I'll double in size in the time I have left, making me resemble an elephant bull seal complete with whiskers as the hormones really start to kick in. The weather is getting hotter as we approach, making breathing even more difficult. Then I get to suffer from sleep deprivation, which President Bush feels isn't a form of torture. Oh, and we still can't agree on a name.

Someone tell me why I did this again?

Congrats

Last week I got this picture in the mail:


My friend, whom we shall call Reb, got married in Vegas. I knew about it beforehand, and she even sent me the video link so I could see the ceremony afterwards. While the Hermit bemoaned the fact she went all the way to Vegas to get hitched and didn't even have Elvis perform the ceremony, I thought it was sweet. Even better was that most of her siblings flew out to surprise her by being there.

Why is this such a big deal? Friends get married all the time. Reb, you see, is my oldest friend outside of BostonBootGirl. We met in the fourth grade, when her family moved to my end of town and she changed schools. That means we've been friends since we were 8 years old, or to put it another way for 28 years. More than a quarter of a century. Holy crap.

I won't pretend we've been bestest friends all that time. We had different interests in high school, went to different colleges and chose different paths in life. But I've never considered her NOT my friend. We can always get together and remember a time when we were like this:



No fair embarrassing your friend if you aren't willing to be embarrassed too. That's her on bottom and yours truly on top. Dated Dec 1984, which made us 14 or 15, depending on birthdays. And Reb, if you think these are bad - my God that green in my parent's kitchen really was horrendous - be thankful I didn't put up the pictures of us on the beach with the stuffed polar bear. I also apologize for the quality - my Photoshop skillz are limited.

So congrats to you and your sweetie. I wish you all the best in your life together. And remember this - old friends may post "oh my god where the hell did she dig that up" pictures of you on their blog, but we'll never tell the stories behind them. Unless it boosts our traffic, and then we might!

Saturday Skinfest

Last night was my first night in ages since I've had no football to look forward to. I'm feeling a bit lost. Thank goodness for the Skinfest.

Remember last week we started out with our semi-pornographic pics of Mr. January and Mr. February rugby league? Actually, they weren't that bad. So let's continue our theme with Mr. March, the lovely Ashley Harrison from the not-so-lovely Sydney Roosters:


You'd think with the huge tiger tat Mr. April is sporting he'd play for, I don't know, Wests Tigers? Nope, he plays for the Newcastle Knights. I won't hold that against him:


I'm trying to find some good pictures for you menfold, really I am. It's proving difficult. You'd think with the number of blokes who watch the game I'd find some good ones fairly easily. Not so. So cut me a little slack with what I do come up with fellas, ok? These two Manly ladies seem to be thinking about more than cheering, if you know what I mean:


Right, I'm off to let the Toddler go for a swim before she drives me batty. More next week!

Braced Again

Let's get some housekeeping out of the way before we get to the meat and 2 vege of the post. 1) We're still pink in support of Breast Cancer Awareness month. Please go to the website of your choice to find out how you can lend your support. 2) I've taken down a couple of blogs, most sadly The Green Straw, and added a new one for your perusal - My Ovaries Made Me Do It. Jennine is a stalker, er, frequent reader/poster of View From the Cloud and drew me in by issuing the "what's in your purse" challenge. Go check her out, she's a trip. 3) I've added a permanent link to the Crickler puzzles over at the Boston Globe. These are addicting, similar to a crossword, with 5 new puzzles a day. If you enjoy crosswords go and check these out.

Now to the post. Back in January, I took the Teen to get her braces put on. This was after 6 months of wearing a plate designed to bring her jaws into alignment. I'm still paying them off and not due to finish until next June. She's done well and the orthodontist says she's ready to have them off and move on to a retainer after Christmas.

Not content to only drain one large sum of money from me, our ever-happy orthodontist announced to me back in August that the Tween was ready to commence his treatments. The good news was twofold - the Tween wouldn't need the same plate that the Teen had, and Dr. Cheerful was going to give me a sibling discount. The bad news was after receiving the treatment plan, the amount was still enough to compel me to ring their head office and ask, "Uh, does this amount include the sibling discount? It does? You're sure? Right..."

So we made appointments for after football season and to allow me time to put aside the GDP of a small Caribbean country. Yesterday was the big day. After a nervous night we turned up shortly before 10 am, ready to make that all important decision for the young man about to get metal bonded to his teeth - what colour should the modules (the bits that hold the wire) should be?

"What about black?" he asked, holding the various colour choices in his hands with a grin on his face. "I could go goth."

"You'll look like your teeth are rotting away."

"Oh, yeah. What about lime green and yellow?"

"You'll look like you have a mouth full of mold."

His grin broadened. "That'd be kinda cool."

In the end he went for glow-in-the-dark green and blue. It's a nice contrast to the Teen's current colour choices of pink and lavender.

The choice made, he was called in to the treatment room where he spent the next hour with the melodious sound of metal tools clinking gently against his teeth. I was recalling various tales from people who all had their own stories to tell. His friend's mother who just that morning, after hearing my reason for turning down her invitation for the Tween to come to their house that day, related how much pain her own teenaged daughter had been after getting her braces. Lindsay over at Suburban Turmoil and the tears in her stepdaughter's eyes, emerging from the treatment room after two hours of apparent torture. (You'll have to take my word for it, as the posts have gone missing) But then there was my own Teen, a self-confessed Drama Princess, who spent very little time complaining over the discomfort and was more concerned with her looks. So which would I get?

An hour later the door slid open and my Tween emerged. I looked up expectantly. "How'd you go, bud?"

He grinned at me toothily. "Good. How do I look?"

So either I have the best orthodontist ever or my kids have no nerve endings in their mouths. Win/win as far as I'm concerned.

And yes, they do actually glow-in-the-dark. Giving the Tween his good night kiss last night was just a little creepy.

Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary Pictures

I've managed to find a spare hour - not easy when you've the kids home on school vacation - and have uploaded some more pictures of Momma Mooselet and Shepster's tour of the local Brisbane sights. These lot are from our visit to Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary; I mentioned it a few posts back but have managed to get more than a photo or two up. If you like pictures of furry Australian icons like the koala and kangaroo (which you can also get as a nice slab of meat for your next barbecue) than these pictures are for you!

But wait, there's more!!! I'll also throw in a link to one of my earlier albums to the same locale, about 2 years earlier. We took the Toddler there for the first time and she thought the kangaroos were dogs. "Doggie!" she'd exclaim in delight and try to climb onto one. Gave me a heart attack. If you like seeing just how quickly kids can change in two years, these pictures are for you!

All Hail

What a night for a Grand Final! It was a cracker of a game, and guess who came out on top?

Go the Broncos!!!!!!

Many a time growing up I watched the SuperBowl only to have one team totally annihilate the other, making for a really dull game. This game was nothing like that. Even when Darren Lockyer kicked that field goal in the 73rd minute (out of 80 total minutes) to put the game more than a converted try out of reach - a sign that as the losing team your chances have just sunk lower - I was not convinced. Even with less than a minute to go and perpetually grimmed faced coach Wayne Bennett left the coaching box (coaches in the NRL rarely sit along the sidelines, why I don't know) to go down to his team, I refused to give in. Many years of watching the Boston Red Sox snatch defeat from the jaws of victory have made me wary.

That's what you call a back stretch. Oh, quit yer screaming Billy, you big sook!

But then it was over. And the Brisbane Broncos had won their 6th premiership in 18 years. What a way for the warhorse Shane Webcke to end his career. Plus I have an entire year to taunt Miss WTF! I must get my hands on a commemerative t-shirt, even if I can't wear it for a while yet.

Here are some pictures so I can continue to bask in the moment and torture Miss WTF (fair's fair) just a wee bit more:

I liked this picture because it looks like Darren Lockyer (L) has two very different arms.

How thrilled does Webbie look here?

This was a nice moment when Lockyer called Webcke up onto the platform to accept the premiership trophy. You'll see that shot a lot next year, guaranteed.

No Gatorade here, it's straight to the alcohol! Welcome to Australia! At least they stuck with their sponsor's brand.

Nearly every picture I saw of big Brad Thorn was him in the crowd, and they loved it!

Shane Webcke, beer firmly in hand, discussing his post-footy plans with the Prime Minister of Australia, John Howard. And all the US President does is make a phone call.

Darren Lockyer and Shane Webcke, another beer firmly in hand, relax after the game with the premiership trophy.

God, I love this game!!!

We're Pink

Do not adjust your screen. That bright pink background colour you're seeing is not a mistake... bright perhaps, but not a mistake.

Mooselet Musings is supporting Pink for October and showing our support for all those who've fought this disease - win or lose - and for those who research a cure. Thanks to Dave over at Blogography for putting this thought into my head.

I've been very fortunate so far in my life to have no one in my immediate family suffer breast cancer. Lung cancer, maybe, but that's another story. I have, however, taken care of patients who have it, had it, or succumbed to it. I am also blessed (and I don't use that word often) to know Boss Lady, my former nurse manager back at my old job and best boss ever. She was so good even the Hermit sent her flowers to thank her for all of her help in rescheduling my shifts when he had to go to Australia before the permenant move. Shortly after I left the US she was diagnosed with breast cancer. When I went back in 2004 to visit I got together with a bunch of my former workmates, Boss Lady included, and she was simply amazing. Not because she was continuing to recover and getting back on her feet despite more setbacks that would send a healthy person screaming for a straightjacket and the heavy drugs, but because she still had a sense of humour. I never laughed so much as she related her Year From Hell - from diagnosis to surgery to healing-gone-wrong to the death of her mother to the vacation-of-doom to her house nearly burning down. That she could laugh and make those around her laugh says something about this remarkable woman. Boss Lady, if I never told you this I'll tell you now - you are one of my role models. Not just as a nurse, but as a woman.

So to find out how you can support Breast Cancer Awareness Month - because chances are either you've got two of 'em yourself or love someone who does - follow the link above or see the nifty badge in my sidebar.

Technorati Tag: Pink for October, Breast Cancer Awareness