bullywoolly

She thinks therefore she is...a geek

A ten year old not a million miles away from me just listed her hobbies as (1) reading and (2) thinking.  And with that, the level on the geekometer -- already dangerously high -- shot up a few more notches.  Someone get that kid a Bratz doll, STAT.

Kidding.

But seriously. Recreational thinking? I could get on board with that.  And if I do, then when I'm at work, I should not be thinking.  Thinking is something I should be doing in my own time. Because damnit, I'm not getting paid to think.

Gung Hei Fat Choy*

So apparently I can post every day for a month but thereafter? Not much at all.

Resolutionary:

1. Do more stuff.

The girls came back last night from a holiday on the Gold Coast. They came bearing gifts:

1. A Sylvester toy from Movieworld.

2. Bohemian soap and Flosty Gritter from Lush.

3. Rosamor perfume by Oscar de la Renta.

There was a proud moment as I realised that in shopping terms, I have nothing more to teach them.

* I realise it is not yet Chinese New Year. I just like the way Gung Hei Fat Choy rolls off the tongue. Or keyboard.

Isn't she lovely...

Quin's puppet
Originally uploaded by bullywoolly.

Isn't she wonderful?

Quin has been working on her at school for the last few months, but tonight was the first time I'd seen her. I think she is fabulous. I am trying to convince Quin to leave her perched where she is in the living room, so I can pretend she is mine, mine all mine.

I have fallen in love.

It's not my party but I'll cry if I want to anyway because omg where am I going to put all the children?

Tomorrow after school approximately 15 children are expected to show up at our house for Quin and Tabitha's joint birthday party. Because their birthdays are both over the school holiday period, we usually have parties before school ends, otherwise everyone's at the beach, and there is no greater reason for feeling ripped off than when no one can come to your birthday party. Trust me. My birthday's 29 December. Oh no wait, there is a greater reason for feeling ripped off -- it's when your aunties and uncles give you one present on Christmas day and say "and that's for your birthday as well". Oh god, it's all coming back to me now. I can distinctly remember the day I realised -- it must have been the Christmas of 1975 -- that if my birthday was in November like my sister's, or August like my brother's, I'd actually get two presents per year per aunt and uncle. I had been robbed.

Anyway, back to the present. As in the here and now, not the gift. Tomorrow we are having this birthday party and where we are living is the perfect place for kids parties because of y'know, all the outdoors and stuff, and I have this huge list of games like dress-up relay, feed the monster, wrap your partner up in toilet paper (I know! We are crazy) etc etc. Then I woke up this morning to the sound of cyclone-y speed winds blowing the living daylights out of the outdoor sail.  So I checked the weather report and sure enough, the winds will continue over the weekend, but wait, there's more! There are showers forecasted for Friday and Saturday.

While I have plenty of space for millions of children outside, I have space inside for approximately 2.3 children. So I'm thinking maybe we'll play sardines?

You can dance, you can jive

Or you can jazz ballet. We got the official photographs from the concert.  Voila. Or Viola. Or whatever.

This is Quin.

And this is Tabitha.

Omg, they're dressed the same. They must be twins.

Now that the concert is a safe distance away in thank-god-that's-over-with land, I can look at the photos and think, awww, I'm glad they're doing it again next year.  Check in with me next November to see if that sentiment has been maintained.

Bling!

Guess what we did on Saturday? Go on, guess!

Apart from taking photos of ears, that is? If you guessed, got our ears pierced, you'd be right, only it was them who got their ears pierced, not me, since I had mine done thirty odd years ago.  And as a result of the ensuing years of alchol, drugs, bad music, bad sex, flared pants (the original, not retro), hotpants (ditto), shoulder pads, mullets etc etc, I forgot that getting your ears pierced actually does hurt (a little bit).

And since it was my idea that the girls got their ears pierced, I feel kind of bad about that fact, although they were very brave really, especially Quin when I reminded her that hey, her little sister is standing right there and if you don't turn that frown upside down real quick, she may do a runner.

I'm a monster. Who else would put their babies through that kind of mutilation, just to make christmas and birthday shopping this year a little easier?

Stubborn old goats

My birthday is 29 December, Tabitha's is the 31st of the same month, and Quin's is 13 January.  What this means, apart from the fact that April is a fertile month in our family, is that we are all capricorns. That's three capricorns under one roof, and if you count the actual goats that live here as well, that's a whole lotta stubborn in one household.

My folks came over today, and while they were here I took advantage of having another adult around to clear the guttering, since there was a small rainforest growing therein.  I needed someone to hold the ladder, because despite the fact that I adopt a "she'll be right" attitude to most operations of this nature, I know two people who have fallen off roofs/ladders and sustained pretty nasty injuries.  The weather today was crappy but we decided about midday that it wasn't going to improve so we might as well just get on with it.  Dad holds the ladder while I'm up, about six feet off the ground, wrestling with triffid like weeds that had wrapped their roots around the guttering. 

It was hard going.  Dad sees me struggling and suggests he has a go.  My father is pretty strong, and fit, but he is also seventy-five years old and not as steady on his pins as he used to be, so I said "no, she'll be right, I just need some tools".  So I came down the ladder and we both went into the garage to look for something to try and cut the weeds out.  I go further into the garage to have a poke around, and just as the thought that he might double-cross me enters my mind, he is off. The old man freaking runs back to the ladder with me in hot pursuit, but he beats me to it (wtf is wrong with me?), and is halfway up the ladder before I even catch up. My mother is inside watching through the window, so I mouth to her "oh my god! so stubborn!", to which she mouths back "where do you think you get it from?"

And here I was thinking it was a gift from the stars.

Because You Dance to Disco and You Don't Like Rock

We all know the situations that bring out the worst in us, and the sensible among us do their best to avoid them.  Some situations can cause even the most fair-minded, rational and reasonable people to behave very badly.

For me, it's karaoke.

For some reason, whenever there is a microphone within reaching distance, and the opportunity to showcase my (not at all, really) talent, I become someone I don't like very much. And someone that no one else likes much either.

I can't help myself. I can hear myself. I can see myself. I wish I could take myself by the hand and lead myself quietly away, but oh my god, the power of the mike is such that resistance is futile.

It would be easy to blame it on the alcohol, but there is no time for drinking when there are songs to be sung. And it wouldn't be so bad if monopolising the microphone was my only indiscretion, but no, that's not enough for me! Why, it is surely my duty to trash other people's musical taste as well. I mean, really, why would we sing Born to be Bad when Delta Dawn's on the menu? C'mon people!

So there's the monopolising, and the refusal to play anything post-1973. Candida, anyone? (I mean the song, not the infection).  There is also the refusal to go home until all of the songs on the selection list (apart from those I deem unworthy, naturally) have been sung at least three times.

Uh, so I tend not to be invited out to karaoke with the civilised people anymore.  But that's okay! Because now we have this! So I get to be obnoxious in the privacy of my own home, with only the girls to judge me.  And that is just so awesome.

Quitter

Tonight signals the end of two things: Quin and Tabitha's jazz concert (hallelujah and praise the lord) and my 2006 NaNoWriMo attempt.  As I sat through the final performance this afternoon, my head pounding as a result of mother-helping ten under-aged prima donnas through the process, I contemplated my pathetic word count and the effort that would be needed to meet the deadline and I realised that I'm all outta love for the NaNoWriMo.  Last year was our year.  It was new, it was a challenge, but a year out and I'm all enh, whatever.  I don't think we can bring that feeling back. 

NaBloPoMo, on the other hand...well!  Just the way it brushes my hand, ever so gently, as if by accident.  The way it catches my eye then looks away, pretending it's not interested.  Let's just say, I'm still committed to the NaBloPoMo.

Back to the dancing.  Turns out buns were required for the hair, which would have been fine, had the buns not been required to be hidden by the baker-boy hats, which would have been fine had Quin not been blessed with the thickest hair ever.  A tantrum was had. But then I pulled myself together and did the best I could. 

It appears I have signed up for hip hop classes next year. As in, I am signed up for hip hop classes next year.  After witnessing my hip hop moves, er move, this afternoon Quin said, "did you think about the 'fun adult tap' classes?"  Next year she's doing her own hair.

Don't grumble, give a whistle

Earlier this year, Quin and Tabitha started taking jazz ballet lessons.  They were keen on the idea, but I wasn't so sure.  I worried that it would cause needless anxiety and lead to constant comparison with everyone else and I just did want to run the risk of "everyone is better than me" and "I'm not good enough" neuroses.  It turns out my concerns were well-founded.  I cannot keep up with the other mothers.

I don't know where they honed their craft, but my goodness! These women with the knowing of the stuff! Stuff like: how the hair is supposed to be tied for the medal test, which is different to the way it is supposed to be tied for the examination; the difference between the medal test and the examination; why one would wear makeup for the examination but never for the medal test; what isolations are and why they should be strong; why hair should not be washed for at least a week before a competition (why? why, for the love of god, why?)

The unknowing of the stuff, and the asking of the questions, and the freaking of the fuck out, has hit fever pitch right now, since the studio's end of year production is taking Hamilton by storm this weekend.  [Quin and Tabitha's group are performing a number to the tune of "Always Look on the Bright Side".  It's a pity none of them can whistle.]  The last few weeks have therefore been more frenetic than usual, with an extra practice here and a costume fitting there and how about another extra practice all the way over here and oh my god now I know why my mother never encouraged me to partake in any extra-curricular activities.  Wise woman, my mother, even if she did tell me I couldn't wear tampons until I was married.

Don't. even. ask.

Anyway, tomorrow morning there is a dress rehearsal at 9 a.m., photo call at 6.15 p.m, concert at 7 p.m, and a matinee on Sunday.

Does their hair need to be in a bun or a plait?

Anyone?

Help me.