Photo Friday

To set the record straight from the other day, I sat down and read a couple of chapters of Pride & Prejudice that I picked up at the library last week. God bless Jane Austen and her short chapters - it makes me feel like I've accomplished something.

Eventually, I'll get around to explaining why I'm so hella busy lately - it's not all new kids schedules, even if that's a lot. So here I am finally posting Photo Friday because I feel guilty that I've been neglecting my blog lately - not to mention how far behind I am in reading my regular blogs. 50 lashes with a wet noodle for me!

I saw this sign up in Rockhampton, and the Hermit was nice enough to pull over so I could get a photo:

At least when it comes to my husband, a truer sign I never saw.

Free Moment

Believe it or not, I've just had 20 minutes to myself that did not involve a bathroom or running an errand. Sparky and Her Majesty are at school, Clive has just gone down for a pre-shopping nap and Miss Thing isn't awake yet. Peace! Quiet! Tranquillity! It's mine, all mine!!!! Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

OK, I don't do evil laughter very well. But I am going to slink off and read an honest-to-God book for 10 minutes or so before I have to get back to work around here.

Apologies

My lack of posting recently has had nothing to do with the Thanksgiving holiday - we didn't celebrate this year - nor can I say I've won the lottery and have been on a spending spree. It's been a simple case of being extra busy along with a couple of changes in the routines of Miss Thing and Her Majesty. It's amazing how a simple change can really throw you for a loop.

Miss Thing has finished with school for the year as her last final exam was Friday and aside from work is home all the time. It also means she's on the computer a lot. Her report card is due out at the end of next week, and I wish I could report that I was more confident that her grades will show marked improvement. At the end of the day, however, I'm just not. She adhered to the plan worked out with her by the guidance counsellor for an entire week and a half before ignoring it and spent the last week of classes frantically scrambling to get assignments done. Fingers crossed.

Her Majesty's change is far more positive. She has been moved up a level in her swimming lessons to junior squad. And, if I can indulge in a bit of parental bragging for a moment, at 4 years and 4 months she is the youngest child that our swim school has ever moved up to squad - not to mention the shortest! The deep end of the pool is just over a metre deep, but Her Majesty isn't quite a metre tall. Thank goodness for that little ledge. Aside from being a little uncertain as to the tasks, she has no problem keeping up with kids twice her age. It does mean that she goes in the afternoons now instead of mornings, so I'm getting used to the change. Should I start looking for swim sponsors now?

I hope to get back to regular postings this week, even if I do win Powerball.

Photo Friday

The bureaucratic nightmare continues. Thanks to everyone giving me websites and such, but because I live in Oz I must, unfortunately, go through the Philippines. Joy. I finally got an email response today that I must, indeed, send them a copy of my first marriage certificate. The divorce decree, which presumes a marriage, is not enough. So now I've had to shell out $42.50 to get a copy (MM - please send it to me once you get it; they don't send to Australia) and ask for an extension from the Social Security asshats since I doubt very much I'll have it by the 15th of next month, never mind it clearing the mail room of the US Embassy in Manila.

So to all the bureaucrats out there, today's Photo Friday is for you:

Even the universe thinks you're f*ckwits.

The Post Where The US Social Security Administration Makes My Head Explode

I can't think of anyone who loves bureaucracy, except maybe bureaucrats and only because they are like giant black holes sucking our tax dollars into their wallets are paid and have a job for life. Today's example of bureaucracy is a true masterpiece of why I'd gladly shove every last faceless bureaucrat into a trash compactor without a second thought.

The Bastard, my ex, has been declared permanently disabled by his doctors and as such is eligible for Social Security benefits (Aussie readers, think disability pension). My personal thoughts on that aside*, I had been sent all kinds of forms from the Social Security Administration for the kids so they can receive some kind of benefit since he cannot support them (as if he ever did). I spend 20 minutes or so venting as to why I have to fill out all these forms before I take the high, if bitter, road and do the damned paperwork. Unfortunately for me, my forms go to the Philippines division, of which I have not heard good things from other Americans living in Australia. Fan-fucking-tastic.

I diligently send proof that I have, indeed, sent all the paperwork that I was required to when I got the letters telling me that they haven't received my forms yet but it may just be that they're still sitting in the mail room and no one has looked at them yet. Really. Good thing I'm not counting on them for my retirement funds or anything. Snails fucking move faster than these people.

Then Monday I got a letter asking me for proof of my identity, even though I'm not making any claims, and proof of my marriage to the Bastard, even though I sent them my divorce decree from said marriage and, again, am not making any claims. Since the letter warns me the file will be closed if I fail to send all the proper forms by 15 December, I call the helpful toll free number to find out if they really need the marriage certificate for a marriage that ended over a decade ago and that I burned, or will the divorce decree do. I get a recording that I can only call Monday, Wednesday and Friday from 11am-4pm Brisbane time. OK, fine...

Fast forward to today. I've been calling since 1:15 (it is now 2:50) and have yet to get through to a person. I suffer through the bilingual greeting message (English and Japanese) before being able to push '2' for Australia. I don't understand this, as the Japanese tollfree is, naturally, different. A ring, then I quickly push '1' to match my SSN ending in 1-5 before getting this message:

"Social Security representatives are not available to take your call at the moment. Please try your call later. Thank you," before summarily being disconnected.

Actually, I can listen to the kiss-off in Japanese as well, despite pushing '2' for Australia, before I'm cut off. No waiting on hold, no bad music, nothing. I'm fairly certain if I called directly I'd be allowed to wait on hold while running up a phone bill big enough to pay for a bureaucratic luncheon, but I'm not willing to do that. I can't even hit redial as my pushing '2' and then '1' screw up the number.

Ok, just for fun I tried the direct dial number. They'll take my call M-F, 8am-3pm local time. I press the last number of the Bastard's SSN and... told that line is busy and to try my call again later.

&$$%&$^*&#$^*&$^*&$*%#$*@&%$#*^$&*(^#$^*^$#*$^*#$&%$*&*$&^$

I'm fairly certain that bureaucrats get sent to the the 9th circle of hell.

*- my personal view is that while my ex undoubtedly has many issues, of which mental illness is one, the fact remains that aside from his time in the USAF he's never wanted to work an honest day in his life. You can call me bitter if you want, but I ask anyone who knew him to tell me I'm wrong.

Boys Don't Dance

I sometimes wonder about Sparky's teacher. He came home the other day with the details of one of his final assignments: bring in a song that describes your life and choreograph a dance to go with it.

WTH? I don't know where to begin. First of all, he's 12 and in Grade 7. I'm sure somewhere there is a song that describes his life of PlayStation, sports and siblings that get on his nerves. I'm also sure I don't know it and therefore don't own a copy for him to bring in. But okay, maybe he thinks the latest crap from Justin Timberlake or the Pussycat Dolls would apply to him and Miss Thing would have a copy on her iTunes. I can deal with that first bit.

But choreograph a dance? A 12 year old boy??? Methinks this teacher hasn't been to a pre-teen dance in many many years, or a pre-teen talent show for that matter. I've been to both and I can tell you 99% of the participants are girls. At a dance, the girls are out dancing while the boys stand in groups along the sidelines either watching the girls or acting like idiots. Occasionally both. There are very few boys who will risk the scorn of their mates to go and dance with a girl. At the talent shows, the girls gather into groups of 2-5 and spend hours creating not just the dance moves, but coordinating outfits and props. If you can find boys brave enough to participate, I can guarantee there will be no dancing involved.

I imagine when this assignment was announced, many girls - excluding the shy ones like myself at that age - would have rushed home and poured over all the songs in their iPods to find the one perfect song that would express their lives up to that point. Then they would spend the next several hours in front of the mirror working out their moves before a practice run or four for Mum or older sister.

After declaring most of Miss Things music selection inappropriate for not being "cool enough", or "too girly" or "wrong because they swear", he turned to mine. It was, for the most part, declared "too old", but the clock was ticking so he finally decided that Billy Joel's You May Be Right would do. And his dance?

"I thought I' d start in the fetal position, and then roll around and crawl. To the beat," he began. I must have looked rather astonished because he continued. "Or I could just do this." He stood and nodded his head to an imaginary beat while looking what I assumed was his version of cool.

"Yeah, go with the first thing," I said. He's going for the laughs and in this case I'm fully prepared to defend his interpretation to his teacher should the need arise.

Perhaps you have pre-teen boys, or were one yourself. Am I wrong in thinking that this assignment, which surely won't count for anything and is just something to amuse the kids as the school year winds down, is just a bit gender biased? And what about those girls who would rather walk over hot coals than perform in front of a class? If you were the teacher, what sort of busy nonsense work would you have assigned that was slightly more inclusionary?

Saturday Skinfest

While I'm sitting here and the house - okay, Clive - is quiet, I'm going to do the Skinfest. I'm bound to get distracted by one child or another, or the laundry, or eBay, or chocolate... mmmmmmmm, chocolate...

See? Excuse me while I clean my fingers...

Right, skin! Dear Anthony Laffranchi - you live on the Gold Coast now. Please take advantage of the ample sunshine and get a tan. And Mat Rogers, someone should keep you away from the tattoo parlour:

I like being able to post pics of Steve Price because he's 33 so I don't feel like such a pervert, even if I am still that little bit older:

I have no idea who this is, but he's Naked For a Cause and that's all that matters:

Guys, Heidi Klum's eyes are watching you:

And now Clive is awake and bellowing for attention. More skin next week!

Photo Friday

Sorry for the delay. I've been doing a lot of thinking in between the multitude of tasks that need to get done and reached some conclusions that have left me feeling a lot better. Nothing earth shattering, so don't be alarmed. Thanks to everyone who left such positive comments - you guys are awesome.

Now the photo. I think it was Gabe who sent this to me when he was on a trip, perhaps Colorado? I really should write this stuff down. Someone will straighten me out if I'm wrong. I find it very fitting:

Meet Winston

No I did not get a new dog. Winston is the tongue-in-cheek name I've given to that mental illness Depression. He is so named in honour of Winston Churchill, who famously called depression a "black dog".

I was first diagnosed with depression back in 1996. Technically he called it an Adjustment Disorder - which I had to look up because, quite frankly, I thought he was making it up - with Depressed Mood. Well, that made some sense. After all 1995 had been a shocker of a year what with a new baby, my father dying from lung cancer and the Bastard leaving me (yes that turned out to be a blessing, but it didn't make being a single mother of 2 easier). Adjustment Disorder... yes, I could live with that.

The more I worked with and opened up to my counsellor - who was absolutely wonderful and whom I'll never forget - the more he realized the original diagnosis didn't fit. Of course I knew it, too, but stubbornly clung to the Adjustment Disorder because, in my words, it meant "I wasn't crazy", but just had a lot to adjust to. One day, he read a list of symptoms to me and asked if I agreed or disagreed with them. I agreed that most of them fit me and walked neatly into his trap when I asked what they meant.

It meant I had - and still have - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It took a lot of time to convince me that PTSD could be applied people other than Vietnam veterans, whom I most associated the diagnosis with, and could be meant for women who had just spent the last 10 years being abused by their partner. We also agreed that I was also dealing with Depression, as a part of and separate to the PTSD. The PTSD - which frankly I don't like to discuss as it involves events that cause me a great deal of pain to remember (hence the diagnosis) - I've learned to get a handle on, more or less. That means sometimes I lose the plot, but I regather fairly quickly. The depression, however...

I've had recurrences in 1999, 2001 and 2004. For the first two, I was able to get through it with counselling. The last time, however, I ended up on medication. It was then that I learned about Churchill's Black Dog and some other ways of coping. Blogging, or writing, was one of them. I was able to come off the meds in 2005 and have been feeling good since.

Or was. Winston made appearances every now and again but I was able to shoo him away. That's getting more difficult now. And I'm getting to the point where I don't care. It bothered me before, when Winston would show up. Now... not so much. But I'm rational enough to know it should bother me, and that it doesn't bother me, well, bothers me. I once described this mental fight I have inside my head between my rational self and my problem self as a little schizoid. If I keep this up, or down as the case may be, I'll be back on the drugs in a month.

So if I'm a little all over the board for the next couple of weeks, be patient with me. I'm just trying to get myself to care enough that Winston is making himself comfortable on the back steps and to tell him to piss off.

Oh and to my family - please do not post comments about how sorry you are, or about how you know someone who will order a pair of cement shoes for the Bastard. I know. I didn't post this to evoke any feelings of guilt and no apologies are necessary. As for the Bastard, he's getting his so there is no need to call in that favour.

Daylight Savings

I believe this satellite picture illustrates why I think our corner of Queensland should have daylight savings time:

That's right - the sun has been up and blazing for quite some time, roughly an hour. Sunlight streaming in my windows, setting the damned wildlife all a-twitter and waking up my kids before 4:30 am. It's not right. I don't care about business needs, I don't care about your damned curtains or cows getting confused - the sun is up at 4:30 am. I don't care about anything at 4:30 in the frackin' morning except sleeping, which I can't do. Don't tell me giving this state - which is pretty damned big - two time zones is the beginning of the Apocalypse. Lots of places do it and I don't see the Four Horsemen there! Except maybe Tennessee but Nashville is there and for all I know the Four Horsemen is a band, so that doesn't count.

To the next politician who tells me DST is unworkable in Queensland - I'm showing up at your place, with my youngest kids, at 5:30 am on a Sunday morning and I'm mowing your lawn with my incredibly loud push mower. Right outside your window. After all the sun will have been up for an hour then, and I need to get work done before it gets too hot. Then I'm firing up my petrol powered leaf blower and blowing all the debris off your driveway.

Then tell me again why SEQ can't have daylight savings time.

Saturday Skinfest

Yeah yeah, it's Sunday. It's been a very busy weekend. We've had major pool problems, specifically with our sand filter. It fell apart internally and spewed all of its sand into the pool - all 300 lbs (or 136 kgs) of it - which we had to remove before we could use the brand spankin' new and horribly expensive filter. Many hours later we completed our task and switched the brand spankin' new and horribly expensive filter on, only to have IT start spewing sand into the pool. That's right, our brand spankin' new and horribly expensive filter broke as soon as we turned it on. Fortunately it's under warranty (as it should!). Unfortunately a whole bunch more sand was dumped into the pool. Which has to be removed. Our pool is not something you'd want to swim in at the moment. On the plus side, I have a lot of sand laying about to make sandcastles with.

With that said, who wants skin? Since I've been teasing you all about what Miss WTF and I did with our boys Thursday night, here are some clues via the Skinfest:



Yup, we went to the rasslin'!!! And yes, that chick is a wrestler. Because, you know, all women wrestlers pose in their pajama tops and knickers. Because they take their sport so seriously and all.

I'll go back to my usual NRL focused skinfest next week, I promise.

Lest We Forget

Photo Friday

I promise to let you all know what Miss WTF and I were up to last night. Rest assured it was nothing terrible and it involved bonding with our boys Sparky and Master WTF. I just need more time than I have available right now to do it justice. That and Miss Thing is having yet more drama at school that I have to pretend to care about. That sounded harsh, but I'm leaving it because the drama was created by her and I'm inclined to let her deal with it.

But for now enjoy this photo from 2005:

There is nothing wrong with Her Majesty's arm. She went through a phase where every bump and microscopic scrape needed 10 band-aids to cure it.

Go Figure

I've been clearing the house of baby related items as I think 4 kids is well and truly enough. Never mind that I don't have any more room in the house, I think they frown on someone having 5 cesareans. There is no need to hang on to things once Her Majesty outgrows them as Clive probably shouldn't wear them, and no babies to follow who will need the bassinet or other items.

Since I hate haggling I decided against a yard sale, and I'm trying to avoid the consignment shop as I know they'll give me as little as they can - which is fine as it's their business after all. So I did what any 21st woman would do and began to put the stuff up on eBay. Today I sold two items:










The pillow, which stops the baby from rolling onto their stomach when sleeping, went for $11. I listed it for $0.99. Damn. The baby carrier, which sells for over $70, went for $7.50 which was its list price. Huh. That buyer will be very pleased with herself, as I know I am when I snag a bargain. I was stunned with the pillow and disappointed with the carrier, so I guess when you average it out I came out somewhere in the middle. Which despite what Mr. Miyagi says is not a bad place to be.

Relax

I was coming home last night from my usual Tuesday pizza run ($4.95 for a large pizza, hence I don't cook on Tuesdays) when I heard the song Relax (Don't Do It) by Frankie Goes to Hollywood:

That was one of those 80s song that was so infectious you couldn't help but sing along (you're doing it now, aren't you?) but you would rather die than sing it in front of your parents. Unlike Prince's Little Red Corvette, Cyndi Lauper's She Bop or even AC/DC's Big Balls, you couldn't pretend this song was about anything else other than sex. Especially if they ever saw the original music video:


Ummmmm, yeah. Sorry about that. Those wacky English bands with their S&M videos. Here, enjoy some kittens to remove that image from your retinas:

Out of Stock

My empathy box seems to be empty at the moment. Miss Thing just called me from school on her mobile phone to complain that all of her friends have "deserted her". The one comment that really caught my attention was this gem:

"It's not me. I haven't changed or done anything. It's all them. No one can make time for me anymore."

Roughly translated, she's not the centre of attention and she doesn't like it. I tried asking, kindly mind you, if she perhaps said anything to anyone to get them angry with her.

"No! Don't you listen," she snapped before picking up the woe-is-me fiddle again. That tune is getting really old, and today I just couldn't muster up the energy to dance to it. I probably should've, but I didn't. I couldn't. She sensed it and hung up on me a couple of minutes later.

I find I have less patience these days for my drama queen daughter than I used to. Her diva-like behaviour has tested the patience of many friends - of which a fair few are not so friendly these days - boyfriends and family. I never thought Momma Mooselet would lose patience with her, but even she has told my daughter she needs to pull her head in. At what point will she come to understand that the problem is likely not everyone else, but her own behaviour?

And can I keep my sanity long enough to see her get there?

Estrogen OD

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING POST IS VERY HEAVY ON THE ESTROGEN. MEN - YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

You know something is missing from your life when you find yourself watching Pride & Prejudice over and over and over. Furthermore, you start to think that maybe your life has been more than a little too focused on the 'mother' and not so much on the 'woman' when you find yourself rewinding these two scenes more times than you care to admit:

:::sigh::: Excuse me while someone fetches a mop to clean up the puddle of estrogen-laden goo I've just melted into. Won't be a second...

I know I'm committing some kind of sacrilege when I say I prefer Matthew Macfadyen as Mr. Darcy rather than Colin Firth in the BBC version, but there you have it.

I'd like to read Pride & Prejudice, but not only do I have little time but I found Sense & Sensibility difficult due to the language. Or rather the grammatical and language style of Austen's writing. I feel a little stupid admitting that, as if I need to have writing 'dumbed down' in order to enjoy it, but I don't think I'm alone.

Now you'll excuse me. I have some more sighing and wistful daydreaming to do.

Saturday Skinfest

Dear Lauren,

First off, congrats on marrying Darren Lockyer last weekend. Or as I like to call your husband, Darren the Shirtless God. I hope you understand that just because he's married now doesn't mean he's off the menu as far as the Skinfest is concerned. I'm pretty sure it's in his contract that he trains at least 3 times a week without his shirt. And since I'd hate to see him do all that hard work for nothing, I'm going to continue to help him out. You don't mind, right? Because I'm all about helping the players, without whom we wouldn't have a game. So really, I'm performing a public service. It's not about the skin, I just say that to boost my numbers.

OK, I'm lying through my teeth. We like to drool, and your husband ranks towards the top of my list. But we promise not to touch. Deal?

Listen, if you and Darren ever have a little girl, give me a call. I'm sure we could work something out between her and Clive.

Fondly,
Mooselet

And now to the main course, featuring a double shot of the newly wed Lockyer:


Who wants to volunteer to warm up poor Cooper Cronk? I sometimes find a hint of skin is just as appealing as the whole view, especially when you have a wee bit of snail trail:

And Dave, this is for you:

More skin next week.

Photo Friday

Tuesday was a shite day. I was in a great deal of pain due to my eye and by the afternoon I'd had it. Sparky and Her Majesty were fighting over something, Clive was well into the Witching Hour (that time in the late afternoon/early evening when little kids have a complete meltdown, much like Chernobyl), the Hermit had retreated to his shed and I was grumbling about Miss Thing because she hadn't taken the recycling out again. I grabbed the recycling box and went outside, trying to shut out the noise and calm my frayed nerves. When I turned around to head back inside this caught my attention:

The metal you see is the roof of my house.

And I felt better. Sometimes it's the little unexpected pleasures that make it all worth while.

Books

I love books. How could I not, growing up like I did where Momma and Poppa Mooselet were never without a book in their hands? There was always something to read at our house in just about any genre you could think of, and I could always convince Momma Mooselet to let me pick up a couple of paperbacks at the book store when we went shopping. I guess you could say books are to me what shoes are to a lot of women.

These days in pains me to not have as much time for reading as I'd like. I'm reduced to borrowing old issues of National Geographic from the library so I don't feel as if my brain is atrophying from the lack of grown-up reading material and time to read what I do have. I'm insanely jealous of fellow blogger yellojkt and his BooksFirst posts, which detail what books he's bought and read in the past month. Even if his taste doesn't always mesh with mine, I'm still envious that he has all those books to read. Momma Mooselet's personal library could rival the stock of a small book store - she's probably given more books away than a lot of people have ever read in their life :::cough,cough President Bush cough,cough:::.

I like a lot of genres, but mainly my tastes run to historical books of both the fiction and non-fiction variety, including biographies. I have a particular interest in English history and the English monarchy, especially the Tudors. I will also admit to enjoying the occasional soft porn historical romance novel by the likes of Julie Garwood or Beatrice Small. I certainly do NOT read Harlequin or Mills & Boone - I'm fussy with my porn romance books.

Thanks to Judge a Book By It's Cover and the nifty widget from LibraryThing they introduced me to - or rather brought me up to speed on, as I've seen others like it - I can share the historical portion of my library with you. Look over in my sidebar (you'll need to scroll a bit) and check it out, and you'll see I'm not joking about my Henry VIII obsession.