Ooh! Shiney! Look!

For a while now I've been at a big of a loss for what to blog about. Life is just bounding along, and I've got my good days and my bad days. I'm finding it hard to do a lot of things these days, and blogging just seems to be one of those which requires more emotional energy than I've got at present. I briefly considered writing about my latest tattoo (before remembering I haven't got one) and then I considered dabbling in a bit of poetry, (before remembering I am no good at it.) Eventually I turned to my facebook friends for inspiration...

So.

Once I knew triplets were coming (or really, any human child at all), I knew my life would never be the same. My body wouldn't be the same (still lumpy, just in different places), my brain wouldn't function at quite as high a level (hellloooo...sieve brain!), and every frock I owned would be of the sensible variety. Privacy would go out the window, a 'night out' might entail McDonald's an a new Scooby Doo video, and life as we know it would be turned entirely upside down - not to mention any monetary compensation for my human suffering would not be forthcoming. What I didn't anticipate was how important it would be to learn the skill of diverting attention (theirs or anyone else's).

Being already able to think on my feet has been pretty advantageous when it comes to the distraction skill. So when the kids ask things like, "Mum, can I use the blender to make a fish milk shake? I think the dog will really love it!" I just use my lateral thinking skills and I divert their attention to say, "You want to give the dog a treat? Grab the cheese grater, then grab the block from the shelf above your head. Cheese is Teddy's favourite treat!" You would be amazed at how easy it is to distract your children from using electrical appliances. Hand them something shiny and sharp instead. Works every time!

I wish the skill of diversionary tactic worked on the other parents at school pick up time. Then those BWA (that's bitches, witches, and alcoholics to you) wouldn't notice so much that these days, I'm a bit of a mess. I seem to always be showing up at school with grotty clothes, messy hair and looking like I ran head first into a big purple knob, complete with dark eye circles. If my mother could see me, she'd have a few choice words to say about how I look at the moment. I'm dressing to match my mood, and believe me that's just not all that sunny and clean and happy. So I'm hoping the school parents are willing to forgive me until I get my act together. (and FYI I'm trying out a new gym tomorrow, one which is a little antidisestablishment [they believe in exercise *and* have normal sized clientele], so here's hoping those endorphins kick in and all will be looking up soon.)

In the meantime, though, it's back to distracting the kids...so when the kids hear me scream, "OH GOD! OH YES!" through the door of our bedroom, then ask me what the heck all the noise was about, I can hide my grin and say, "It's okay, kids...Your Dad, he's not the messiah, he just a very naughty boy!"

___
...and for those wondering about the words and phrases in italic, all of those were suggested by my friends enemies on facebook.

How I Love to Hate Thee Costco

Several months ago DH and I read about how Costco was finally coming to Australia, and to Melbourne in specific. For those living under a rock, Costo is this massive warehouse store where you can get everything from food to televisions to new tires to vitamins to other random crap. It's all in massive sizes (yes, you NEED 3 litres of mayonnaise) and supposedly it's quite inexpensive. Having grown up with the shopping mecca which is Costco, it was with some thrill and anticipation that DH and I waited for it's arrival.

The time has finally come and so we ventured down there about 4 weeks ago...and 1 hour, $600, and cartloads of crap we do not really need later, we decided we wouldn't go back unless we needed paper products again. Which, given the size of Costco products, would be one week past Armageddon. This past weekend, DH casually says, "I think we need to go to Costco... we need...stuff." Oh, okay then. Twist my arm, why doncha?

I only agreed to go if we took a list with us (a list which I knew we would promptly ignore... but I can pretend, right?) We asked the kids if they wanted to go, and two out of three yelled,'YES! Costco is the BEST SHOP EVER!!!". I think this is because the kids can ride in the Costco trolleys (whereas they no longer fit in normal supermarket ones) *and* because they are all collectively saving up to buy the 7 book boxed set of Harry Potter which they spied on our last trip there (FYI, it's $180!).

So we go, only to discover that they closed exactly two minutes before we arrived. The woman at the door felt sorry for us and told us we could go in for a few minutes but we had to hustle. So I took one trolley, DH took another and we set off in different directions. Literally, we were running down those aisles, chucking random shit in our trolley. It was like those old 'Supermarket Sweep' shows where you have to fill a trolley with the highest value of goods in the least amount of time. Anyone remember those shows?

Anyway, DH and I totally won our round. Less than 10 minutes and we spent over $300. On what, I'm not entirely sure. And therein lies the problem with Costco. Sure, you get stuff you need (hello, reams of toilet paper) but then you get all starry eyed over crap you most certainly DON'T need. I'm not convinced it's cheaper than just buying it at normal places (or especially, at ALDI)... but geez, they have totally cool crap in there. Unlike the American Costcos, you can't eat an entire meal via the samples in the aisle... but this is probably because this location is so jam-packed all the time, there is no room for those little toaster oven thingies yet.

Added bonus of the place is people watching, or more specifically trolley watching. Did you know how many people NEED 4 kilos of spinach, a set of tires, and a large cheery cheesecake? Quite a few, it seems. I'm also amazed at the people who go all the way in there to buy ONE towel. Or ONE enormous box of jelly beans. Or whatever. How do these people have the will power?! Yet more Costco entertainment is after you've checked out, watching people with fourteen kids go through 4 of those $14.99 pizzas at the 'cafe'. They also have this totally creepy looking chicken loaf thing, which every time I look up at the poster and think, "What the heck IS that thing?"

Maybe it's the American in me (wanting everything bigger and better), or the Israeli in me (wanting everything cheaper), but, damn, I just love that place.

Dear Costco, you're all fun and games until the guy hands me the receipt. And then you're no fun at all.

Don't Let Go

The spokes of my new $99 blue Sears bike gleam in the sunshine as they wobble back and forth. "Dad?" "Dad?! You're still holding on, right Dad?" I asked with a waver in my voice. "I don't want to fall off! I'm scared!" "I'm holding, I'm holding!" he pants, as he runs along behind me, one hand on the back of the bike and the other helping him keep his balance.

We went around Balboa Park that day, my Dad and I - me constantly shouting out for reassurance, him holding onto the back of that bike until either he, or I, fell off. At one point in the afternoon, I seemed to be getting a bit more confident, and yet again yelled, "Dad? Are you still there?" because in concentrating so hard on the road ahead, I couldn't really see him behind me, running along. "YES!" he shouted, "I'M STILL HOLDING ON!" ... but when I glanced over my shoulder, I realised he wasn't there. I was riding that bike all by myself. My Dad was actually a hundred feet or so behind me, smiling from ear to ear as I made my way down the path. Panicking, I immediately fell off and landed onto a metal grate buried in the grass. I scraped up my arm, and the front wheel of my new bike spun crazily at an odd angle.

My Dad came running to get me. "Michelley, why did you stop?" he asked me. "Because you weren't holding on and I got scared!" I cried. "But you didn't need me anymore," he said. "You could ride all by yourself." I just sat there, covered in grass stains and with my arm stinging from the scrape, and cried. "Enough," he said. "Come on, we'll try and try again until you get it right." So I stood up, shakily got on again, and set off - this time, making him promise he would hold on for the entire time.

He did hold on, but only for as long as it took for me to get my bearings. And then he let go, and I was (wobbily) riding that bike. All by myself. I was terrified of him letting go, and I was terrified of doing it on my own - but he knew that unless he eventually let go, I would never learn.

That story is actually a good analogy for how I have been feeling since my Dad left me on August 6 this year. Every day I go through the motions of getting up on my bike - the bike which is now my life, filled with a small business, and a home, and a husband and children. Every day, I'm afraid - not of falling down, but of how I will cope without my Dad hanging onto the back of that bicycle of mine. Some days, I ride and I ride and I think, "Hey, I'm doing this, and I'm doing it all on my own!" but then I'll see or hear something which reminds me of him, and I fall off. And I scrape my proverbial arm. And I cry, and I wish very hard that I didn't have to get up and try again.

But, I do. Because that's what my Dad would be telling me to do if he was here. That day in the park, he made me get up on that bike over and over and over again - no matter how much I cried, no matter how afraid I was, no matter how exhausted he became, no matter how much I begged him to quit and try another day. "Come on," he would say, "You can do this," and each day in my adult life, I remember those words - and those are the ones which help me get out of bed in the morning, and move forward.

When I came home from the US after his funeral, I found myself falling through the days. I would get up, full of plans and ideas... and then I would just sit. And cry. And sit. And achieve a whole lot of nothing. The next day was much the same. I would start out intending to get a bunch of stuff done, and then I just... wouldn't. Or couldn't. I consider myself a highly independent woman. I left home at 17, I've always marched to the beat of my own drummer, I've been proud of being "the strong one" and the one who just gets on with it rather than the one who sinks into drama and despair. And yet here I am, aged 33, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to keep going in life when my Dad isn't there to support me.

Don't get me wrong. My Mom and siblings are hugely supportive of me... but my Dad, well, he was the one getting me back up on that bike. He didn't have time for drama and dawdling, he certainly never had time for fear. He just...got on with it. He would be so frustrated with me, if he know how downright scared I was - and am - to get on with life without him. I didn't talk to my Dad every day, and the tyranny of distance meant I only saw him once in several months - but I still always knew he was there, hanging onto the back of my bike. And now, I have to overcome that fear of him not hanging on anymore. I have to just get up, push off, and ride out my life without him hanging on.

Truth be told, I'm completely terrified of doing exactly that. However, I have no choice in the matter. So every day, I'm need to be just a little bit less scared, and a little bit more brave, and I need to get on with it. Because, eventually one day, I won't fall off any more. And think of how proud of me he'll be then.

---
This post written for me, and for Scribbit, who is encouraging me to get back to blogging.

Overheard

While standing in the movie theatre ticket line - 3 pre-teen girls behind me:

1: So, how's youre school holidays been?
2: Umm, pretty okay I guess. Kinda boring.
3: Yeah, me too.

2: Although one thing happened. My baby brother was born yesterday.
[ensues a lot of squealing and giggling and "Ohmigod! How cccuuuutttteeee!!" and "Did you get to hold him??" "Babies are SO cool!"]

1: So does he have a name yet?
2: Umm, yeah. [looks uncomfortable]
1: What is it?
2: It's... Zebby.
1 & 3: WHAT? Did you say Zebby?

2: Yeah. I don't know WHAT the hell my parents were thinking. It's short for ZEBULON. There's my name, my brother E.Z., and now this freaky Zebulon business.

1: E.Z.?
2: Yeah, his real name is Ezekiel, which is freaky enough but at least it's biblical. Zebulon? Yeah, Zublon is completely idiotic. Poor Zebby!

___

...and at this point I had to resist the urge to ask her what her name was. I would have peed in my pants if I found out it was something like "Jane."

Problem Solved

Until I became a chef, I had a serious bug up my bum about people with "food issues." You know, the ones who go out to restaurants but have 'nothing to eat', the ones who ask for four hundred variations to a dish, the ones who can't eat anything but cardboard sprinkled with low-fat fake bacon sprinkles which were manufactured only in Eastern Siberia. Heaven help you if you have the ones manufactured in WESTERN Siberia, those ones are no good.

Then I became a mother, and a chef, and I realised that while there are food issue bullshit artists out there, a vast majority of people really DO have some sort of food issue. For some it's simple - like people who prefer not to eat coconut, or those who (like me) think veal is creepy. For others, their food issues define their life - they're coealiacs, diabetics, people with extreme allergies and so on. Far from being annoying, these people are just trying to live the best life they know how.

People with food concerns make up a small but significant portion of my business clients - and it's a major reason why I chose to keep my work kitchen as nut free as possible (even though it meant, *sniff*, no walnuts in my carrot cake). Almost every week I'm making dairy free, gluten free, or egg free cakes. I get so many grateful people calling and telling me their child has never had a "store bought" birthday cake before, or the bride didn't think she could eat her own wedding cake, or their grandma's 80th was made better by her being able to eat the dessert.

In my own household we are fortunate enough not to have any food issues (unless you count overeating as an issue!) Recently I was given some cans of the new Carnation Soy Creamy Cooking Milk to try ... and I have to be honest, I looked at it and thought, what the HECK am I supposed to do with this stuff? I'm not a huge soy milk fan, and I was worried that if I put it in anything my kids would taste it and think it was off. Plus this stuff is lactose free, dairy free, cholesterol free, gluten free...and too many 'frees' makes me think this stuff is taste free, too.

However as we all know I'm all about nothing ventured, nothing gained and so I started to add the soy milk to everything. Tonight, in fact, it's in the mashed potato on top of our Shepherd's Pie. A couple of days ago it replaced normal milk in porridge, and yesterday I tried it in my classic Devil's Food Chocolate cake.

The good news - nobody could tell the difference in ANY of the above recipes. I tried the milk neat and while it definitely has that nutty soy after taste, it's actually quite pleasant (much to my extreme surprise.) It's surprisingly creamy without being 'thick' and I have to say it wins big points with me. Often when I cater a Friday night dinner I'm at a loss for dessert - since so many of them are dairy based, and we have some family members who keep kosher. I haven't tried the soy in anything other than cake, but my money is that it works pretty well for most things.

The hardest thing about being a person with 'food issues' is how everything needs to be made special for you, which can be annoying to you and everyone else around you. I can really see how a product like this takes that annoyance factor away ... because basically you can just follow a normal recipe and swap out the dairy milk for the canned soy variety. Suddenly instead of being weird food freak girl, you're acceptable in mixed company. Bonus!

.... and since this is sounding like a endorsement for this product (which, let's face it, it is), I do have one teeny tiny minor gripe about the product. The picture on the front (which on my cans is of a 'Creamy Spring Veges and Fettuccine') kinda makes me want to hurl. The meal just does not look appetising AT ALL, and instead of looking creamy and delicious, just looks like someone squirted some horrible Australian mayonnaise over pasta. And we ALL know how I feel about Australian mayonnaise, don't we? (and isn't 'veges' spelled 'veggies'? Enquiring minds want to know.)

Otherwise - this stuff is fab... especially because it makes my food issue friends less annoying to cater for.

Somewhere in My Youth or Childhood

I must've done something good... but I don't really remember it. The crazy thing is that I have very, very few childhood memories. The only very clear memories I have start from somewhere around the fourth grade. Prior to that I've got some vague ideas of things which happened, but I'm not sure if I 'remember' them for real, or because someone told me about them.

The thing is, by all accounts I had a happy childhood. My parents remained married, my siblings and I only fought once in a while (mostly my sister and I), and we lived a very comfortable life. There is no real reason why I should have so few childhood memories, except perhaps that I don't remember it because it wasn't really all that memorable to begin with. I was a kid, and I was happy, and that was it.

However, since M.B. asked for a childhood memory - I'll give you one which has gone down in emzee folklore. When I was a kid, my sense of direction was terrible - and my attention to detail was even worse. So while I was smart, I was also easily distractable. Hence, I spent a large part of my childhood not only losing stuff (notably my sister's new ski jacket, various pairs of gloves and so on), but also getting myself lost. There are two specific times when I got lost - both of which I'm pretty sure my Mom has yet to forgive me for. The first was at Disneyland. The second was in Beverley Hills. I'll share the Disneyland story here because it has a moral to the story.

For some reason I decided to go into the Emporium in Disneyland (most enormous Disney store ever, right at the start of Main Street.) I told my parents (who were finding a seat for the Electric Light Parade) where I was going, and they sternly told me not to get lost, and to come right back to them. Determined, I walked into the store - and I looked for landmarks so that I would know exactly where to come back to when I finished browsing. So in the window on my right was a Peter Pan display, and on my left was a Dumbo display (or whatever.) I wandered through the store for a while, muttering to myself, "Peter Pan on the right, Dumbo on the left. Peter Pan on the right, Dumbo on the left..." ad naseum.

Eventually I decided to go back to my Mom and Dad. So I looked for the windows of the entrance I had come in, and sure enough I found Peter Pan and I found Dumbo. You can imagine my pride - for once, I didn't get lost! I walked out of the store, and started to look for my parents. I couldn't find them - no matter how much I called out, searched, etc.

I started to panic a little, but since I KNEW I had the right door, they HAD to be there somewhere, right? No amount of crying, searching, asking for help and pleading helped. My parents had disappeared into the Disney-themed night.

At this point my memory gets hazy. I think someone felt sorry for me and took me over to the Disney Police Station, to the "lost kids" section. I'm pretty sure my parents found me there, and got royally pissed off at me for getting lost yet AGAIN (although, sheesh, you'd think they would be used to it, I got lost a lot...) They soundly told me off - that I definitely remember, my Mom going totally ape at me.

...and I also remember, later that night, walking past the Emporium again. It was then I realised, heart sinking in my chest, that EVERY SINGLE ENTRANCE to the Emporium had Peter Pan on the right, and Dumbo on the left. I had made the mistake of going in one door, and coming out another - but because I was so focussed on my landmarks, it didn't occur to me to look up beyond those landmarks.

Damn you, Peter Pan...and damn you, Dumbo. Moral of the story? That's the last time I ever trust a man in green tights and a elephant who can fly.

An American in Australia

A recent facebook request for blogging topics brought about some interesting writing prompts. Among the requests were discussion about cooking school (already done), grad school (I'm counting culinary school as this one done). The rest of the list ran the gamut from childhood memories to a second instalment of the "why Australian food is weird" post.

So today's facebook suggested topic is all about what it's like being an American in Australia - or more specifically about the cultural differences which make my life here interesting.

It's fair to say my first bit of Australian culture shock happened within an hour of getting off the plane in Sydney. I came here as part of a one year study abroad program, and the first part of that was to spend about 3 days "acclimatising" in Sydney before we all went off to our new universities across the country. So they got all of us off the plane, herded us onto buses (where out the windows we saw Mickey D's, and KFC, and went, "Wait? Have we actually left the US yet?") and took us down to the Harbour. Sydney Harbour in real life is better than you might expect. We've all seen the image of the Opera House so many times - seeing it in real life, it's surreal. Like you are standing inside a postcard. So they took us on a ferry to Shark Island, for a "Welcome to Australia" BBQ. This should have been my first clue.

So, how Aussie was it?

1. The bloody place is called Shark Island. For real.
2. It required a boat trip to get there.
3. It required a fair amount of complaining before we even arrived.
4. It involved meat.
5. It was a BBQ (or a barbie, to be precise), and Aussies need no excuse to stand outside and cook animals over an open fire,

and

6. When I said, "Umm, I'm vegetarian..." to the people there, the silence was deafening. You could only hear the distant lapping of the waves. At which point one of the organisers said, "You'll be right, mate. I think there's a bit of salad over there somewhere" and he waved vaguely in the air with his tongs.

So. I wandered over to the salad area, to be greeted with some silver foil containers filled with lettuce. And a tomato wedge which had seen better days. And not much else.

I stood there for a minute or two, Australian sun warming my back, the sound of the waves at t shoreline below, surrounded by a whole gamut of funny accents, with the heavenly smell of cooking meat invading my nostrils.

So I did what any other self-respecting person would have done. I shrugged, went back to the barbecue, helped myself to a big ol' piece of steak, and waved goodbye to several years of vegetarianism. I've never looked back since. And DAMN, but that steak was good.

In the intervening 14 years, a lot has happened - but so much about this wide, wonderful land hasn't changed at all. All the things about that barbie which were so terribly, terribly Australian are all still true. The only possible exception is that these days, vegetarians are not quite the pariahs they once were.

One of the stranger things about living here is the immense influence of other cultures. So, superficially, it looks like an American city. You can find Target and K-Mart and Subway and Starbucks without trying terribly hard. Underneath all the shiny signs of Americana beats the heart of England. The street names are mostly English, many of the attitudes are English, plenty of food and religious traditions are very English, and so on. Somewhere in the middle of the American outer core and English inner core lies something which is distinctly Australian. The twist to the story, if you will.

It wouldn't be odd, for example, to shop at Costco (American), and notice everyone is very patiently, politely waiting in line for their turn (English) and right outside the door is a sausage sizzle raising money for the local life saving club (Australian.) Australia is often described as "America in the 1950's" and I have to say I think that - with the exception of i-phones and email and assorted gadgetry, that description is pretty accurate.

Many families have one parent who does not work. There is no such thing as the American style of summer camp, because people here TAKE TIME OFF to be with their kids during the holidays. Many families still sit down together, every night, to a traditional dinner of meat and 3 veg. I can send my kids to play in the street or walk the dog by themselves and not worry (too much) about them. People still send thank you cards, handwritten. Almost the entire country shuts down for January, so everyone can have some summer sunshine time off. For the most part, people are polite. Nobody is in much of a rush to go anywhere - in fact my family, when they visit, often complain about how slow service is here. There are not 433 types of milk in the supermarket, and it's only recently that you can buy pre-prepared foods there. People here do not start every conversation with, "So what do you DO?" and things like going to sports games on the weekend are still mostly affordable and people will take their kids along. Caravan holidays are still popular, everything (!) is closed on Christmas Day, and people still ask you what "your Christian name" is.

I could keep going. Swimming is like a religion. Tipping is not expected here, because waiters and hairdressers and everyone else gets paid an actual, real salary. I don't think I've ever heard of anyone suing anyone else because they burned their lip on a hot coffee - actually, I've never heard of anyone suing anyone else at all.

As an American living here, the biggest 'cultural shock' is that it's the underlying values which are different - NOT the way it looks or the accents or the cars on the other side of the road or the plastic money. It's the way people behave - how they act, how they react, and how they perceive life in general. On the whole, I have found Australians to be more relaxed than Americans - but they also have a far greater sense of entitlement. Literally every day on the radio you hear about some profession or another walking out on the job because they want better money, better working conditions, better... everything. There is no doubt that the teachers, the paramedics, the garbage men, the whoever, are working hard. And yet, no matter how much they get paid or how good their benefits are, the chances are high that they'll engage in industrial action at some point. Why? Because, for whatever reason, they deserve it.

People often ask me what it's like to live here. Of course I miss my family, and there are things about America I miss (especially access to cheap labour, good Israeli food, and Entemman's donuts)... but on the whole, life in Australia is about a certain quality of life. People here actually think that taking time off is important, that spending time with your kids is essential and that having a life outside of work is vital. I find that people here very rarely sweat the small stuff. Nobody gets offended too easily, it's practically a requirement that everyone laughs at themselves a bit, and people are just nice. Life in Australia is - to me, anyway - quieter. Slower. More relaxed. Where else in the world do you go to a super-fancy concert or show and have people eating ice creams at intermission? Where else in the world do people think that 'black tie' is some sort of offensive dress code, when jeans and thongs (of the shoe variety) will do just fine, thank you very much?

Basically, how I feel about Australia boils down to this:

The sun (mostly) shines, the food is fantastic, people are friendly... and they invented Tim Tams. Really, what's not to like?

Don't Call Me, I'll Call You

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with technology. In the main I'm a communicator, so things like email and text messaging and facebook all seem like a good idea at first. I get all gung-ho about them, I join up a bunch of crap, I learn to text like a bloody ninja (thanks for the practice, Feather Neice) and I am all, "LOOK OUT, world, because I am CONNECTED."

And then my email inbox starts to fill with notices that people I do not know have commented on my comment to a person I only barely know anyway but who I originally friended out of some very thin thread of commonality. Then the phone beeps incessantly with texts, including ones from my DH, who has a strange fascination with texting me updates about his bowel movements... while he's actually sitting in said location. (Confession: I think it was actually me who started that disturbing trend.) And then I start an email conversation with someone, and we're all "OMG! You think so too?" and "LOL" and "ROFLMAO" and a whole bunch of other acryonyms, until we reach the slightly awkward part of emailing. The part where the conversation itself has come to a natural end, but there's this whole "I have to reply to the reply" thing... and I, for one, find myself hiding from my emails. As I sit under the desk and hope they will forget they ever entered into a conversation with me, I find myself wondering what the original conversation thread was about in the first place.

Anyway. All that was a long way of saying that I have, as of this weekend, been without a mobile phone for about 4 weeks. Now to be fair, in LA I did have the use of a mobile phone but I mostly used it to call my Mom, and I didn't advertise the number so nobody really knew they could call me. As a result I often turned it on after several days of forgetting about it only to realise I had 18 missed calls from my Mom, my sister, and my niece. BUT. I have been without my personal mobile for 4 weeks. This is actually monumental, since my personal phone also acts as my business phone. The bloody thing rings no less than about 10 times a day, and it's not unusual for me to pick it up at 8 pm on Sunday to hear about someone wanting a cake quote.

Don't misunderstand me. From a business POV, I wish it never stopped ringing. From a personal POV, every minute without my electronic leash has been a god send. Seriously, you never know how much you hate something until it's finally gone and you find yourself breathing an enormous sigh of relief.

I have also learned quite quickly who my real friends are. They are the ones who not only actually HAVE my home phone number, but they've USED it. Amazing, right? Who knew I only had one friend? (Okay, kidding. I have 2.)

The freedom I have from my phone is just... brilliant. You have no idea how much free time I have now that I am not texting, I am not listening to voice mails, and I am not looking at the damn thing repeatedly to check if I missed a call (because secretly, I think it's possessed or something and when people call me it does not ring- just to fake me out.) I've also noticed that my neck is no longer at 30 degrees since I now actually look up once in a while instead of down at a itty-bitty screen. If all that is not reason enough, I've also realised what thumbs feel like when they are not numb from pressing too many letters to get that stupid predictive text thing to do what I want and say what I mean.

As of this week, I need to take the phone back (poor NN is about to have her own epiphany when she gives it back, I think she is well and truly over phones in general). I'm not looking forward to it. I don't WANT my phone back. I want to stay in blissful peace, away from the noise and the chaos and the always-here-no-matter-what nature of a mobile phone. It's entirely possible that I feel this way because at the moment, I just crave quiet and solitude.

It's also entirely possible that I feel this way because I've seen an iPhone. And I don't want my crappy Nokia back, I want a phone which can be a Magic 8 ball and tell me the weather, too.

Still Laughing

I briefly considered giving up on blogging entirely... in a world that seems to have suddenly gone quiet, what could I possibly have to blog about? Then I remembered that my Mom reads my blog almost every day, that it's her "It's 4 pm and I'm restless at work" comedic relief, and I realised that if I stopped blogging, I'd be taking a little sunshine out of her life.

So, Mom, here it is. I can't guarantee I'll always be witty or funny or even entertaining, but I can guarantee I'll be there for you - as a blogger or otherwise.

___

One of the more amusing aspects of having a loved one pass away is that you get to see human nature at work. All sorts of people really come out of the woodwork - the friends you thought were close suddenly disappear, the ones you thought were far away come closer, and you realise that your world is much bigger than you would have thought. In a situation like this, people often do not know what to say to you. What could they possibly say which might make you feel better?

The truth is that all we really want to hear is that you are thinking of us, and that you're there. A word of advice - don't wait for the person in need to call you. Just DO stuff for them without being asked. They aren't going to find the time to make phone calls asking for stuff. Bring over a meal, call to say hello (and don't expect a reply), send a care package - whatever. Just don't say "call me if you need me"... because the last thing we're thinking about is calling people.

Actually the same was true when the triplets were born. I had my hands full enough without thinking, "I really should call so-and-so and ask them to do XYZ." The people I appreciated the most were the ones who called, sent food, made phone calls, just DID stuff for me. The people who frustrated me were the ones who would call, hear how overwhelmed I was and then say in an insulted voice, "But why didn't you call me?"

Ahem. Exactly WHICH one of us is in need here?

Trust me. You won't be getting in the way, bothering anybody, annoying people, or being a nuisance if you are actually DOING something to help without being asked. Don't know what I like to eat? Bring fruit. Don't want to get in my way? Send a text or leave a message. There are so many ways you can help a friend without annoying them. And if you DO bring over something I don't like? Believe me, I'll appreciate the gesture anyway.

Anyway so one great source of amusement for my family was the horrendously inappropriate comments people would make. Every night we'd sit down together, hashing over the day and just connecting to one another - and we'd nominate the "most inappropriate comment of the day" one of us had received. Several times my sister and Mom told me to blog about it - because some of them were really winners. I realise all these people meant well. I realise people who don't know what to say often say the wrong thing. I realise that none of these comments come from a malicious intent, but I also realise these are the funny as hell moments you need to hang onto when you feel as though your world is crumbling.

Without further ado, here are some of the best comments we, as a family, received during the days following: (in no particular order)

1) "Didn't I see you at the kosher butcher today? I'm sure I saw you there, don't you remember?" [my sister replies that no, she wasn't there...because really, we all go food shopping two days after our Dad's funeral, right?] "But I'm SURE it was you! Really, I saw you there!" [continue argument ad naseum]

2) "Hey, I saw you hugging [my son.] You guys make a great couple! *nudge, nudge*"

3) "You look SO much thinner than the last time I saw you! Grief obviously suits you!" [This one, I just stood there, mouth agape. I could think of no witty response.]

4) "You know, you're all alone now. Your kids will go back to their lives and leave you. You'll be all. on. your. own. Sitting in that big, lonely house, all by yourself...how are you going to cope? You're going to be so lonely..." [and so on and so forth.]

5) "The pain will never, ever go away. You might learn how to cope with it, but the pain will never end."

6) "There will forever be a giant hole in your heart. You'll walk around feeling like there is a part of you missing, forever."

7) [automated phone] "Hello, this is Kaiser Permanente. We're calling to do a short phone survey with {my Dad} to see how he's enjoying the service he's receiving from us. Please press 1 if you are willing to take part in our customer service satisfaction survey." (I wonder if there is there a "press 1" for you assholes killed my father through mis-diagnosis?)

8) "There is nothing worse in life than losing a husband. You'll never recover."

9) "So, tell me! How *are* you?" [My Mom's reply was, "How do you THINK I am?"... which often made the person realise what a dumb thing it was to ask in the first place!]

...and so on and so forth. There were so many of these, it became almost a sport to see which of us had the best ones every night. While it might be that some of the above statements are true, it's not really all that comforting to hear, is it? I know people are well meaning, but...geesh, people! You're not helping. We're Jews, we don't do emotion. We do food. Bring over a poppy seed cake and stuff a piece in your mouth so that you don't say anything stupid, okay?

And consider this blog your Public Service Announcement for the day. Next time you've got a friend in need or grief, don't point out to them that their life from here on in will suck. Newsflash: They already know. Just sayin'.

Heartstrings

My Dad, who I've written about on this blog several times, passed away in a most sudden manner on Thursday,August 6th. I'm now back in the US and will be here for a few more weeks as we all try to unravel the details of his affairs and remember to just keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I'm not sure when I'll come back to blogging.

Got Me Again

Tuesday nights are a bit of a mess around here. There's the usual school pick up, homework, lunch and dinner making and blah-di-blah...and then there is the ballet class, and more recently the Cubs (Boy Scouts) for DS. Most of our "events" end well after 8pm. 8pm on a Tuesday after I've been cooking since 7am mean I'm a bit of a wreck. This makes my Tuesdays a nightmare, especially as DH is working loads of extra hours and I can't rely on his usual help.

Tonight, I brought DS home from Cubs, sent the girls to bed and sat down with my son to eat (his) dinner. Over slow cooked Osso Bucco (you KNOW I was going to get a food plug in there) with him, I looked over and realised just how, well, grown up he looks. Most amusing was when he took a bite of dinner, chewed a bit, cocked his head to the side and said, "Hmm. Tender, juicy, flavourful... exactly as it should be, Mum." (And thank you, future MasterChef judge!)

Anyway so I'm looking at my silly, gorgeous son...all tousled hair and red cheeks and gorgeousness, and I'm thinking, WHEN the heck did my little boy grow up? So, lacking in self control and with a tear in my voice AND my eye, I say to him, "Oh, my gorgeous boy. When the heck did you grow up?"

And he says...

"Possibly in the last 8 years I've been alive. I'm pretty sure that's when I did it."

Bloody kid. Ruined my moment.

Bashert

In Yiddish the word "bashert" (bah-shehrt) refers to fate or destiny. It's most commonly used in the arenas of love and marriage - where your bashert is your divine, ultimate partner. A bashert is someone you were meant to be with, a match made in heaven (like me and DH. Awwwww....) These days the term bashert is often used to refer to other things which were meant to be - finding the perfect job, finding a great house, etc. If it was meant to be, it was 'bashert.'

Today, I quit my job.

My cooking job which I really enjoyed, which suited my days and my hours and most of all my pocketbook. Suffice it to say I had no intention of quitting my job today - the opposite, actually. My last day there will be August 31st. When I started the job, I told the owners that I would stay for the winter and then re-assess the situation with my business. Here in Australia winter ends on August 31st, and officially Spring begins on September 1st. All that is a very long way of saying that I quit my job, but I think it's bashert.

I went into the office to tell the owner that I needed some time off in September, to rearrange my roster and take some days off. This is because in September we have a huge number of family and religious committments which are non-negotiable. My neice's Bat Miztvah, the Jewish High Holy Days, and so on. September is just a month of a lot of stuff happening, and just luck would have it that most of them are on the days I normally work. So I went in to say, "September is a hard month for me, scheduling wise, can we work this out together?" and then give them the dates and see what we could work out. I imagined we would talk about swapping shifts, maybe getting another person in, etc.

What happened in reality was very different. The owner had a MASSIVE tantrum, and repeatedly told me that I was unprofessional, ridiculous and an altogether irresponsible person for not telling them about this earlier. Ahem. 6 weeks is not enough notice? Really? Has he ANY idea how most chefs barely bother to give 6 HOURS notice, let alone 6 weeks? It's a very long story but in the end I never got to talk about the roster, I just got yelled at for several minutes. According to the owner, I should have mentioned these things when I got interviewed, as it may have impacted the outcome of the interview. Is he kidding me? I asked him if his prospective Christian employees need to ask for Christmas Day off (while they are in the interview), and he said YES, they do.

Yes. Ahem. That was the proverbial straw. So I said, "Well since you're all about giving notice, and my contract requires 4 weeks notice of resignation... HERE IS YOUR NOTICE. My 4 week resignation notice starts TODAY." and I walked out.

Freedom never felt so good. It took a lot of will power not to punch the air and yell, "YYYEEESSS!!" as I walked away.

So back to the bashert part. I was telling The Neighbour's Wife all about this and she kept telling me it was bashert, that this was meant to happen, that it means NOW is the time to focus on making the business a massive success. I laughed her off, saying that the whole concept of bashert is just bullshit. She started to ask me all about a property I am VERY interested in for the business. I've made about 3 phone calls about this place and so far it's been really hard to pin down the agent to go and inspect the place. Anyway TNW just kept saying, "I'm telling you, it's bashert. It really is."

So I laughed and hung up and went to make dinner.

I checked my mobile phone, and it turns out I had missed a call while talking to The Neighbour's Wife. The call was from the agent of the property I want for the business, inviting me to make an inspection appointment. For tomorrow.

Bashert? Hmmm.

Let's consider this. I told the owners I'd stay for the winter...and my last day of work there is the last day of winter. I told TNW that I would call the agent on Wednesday... but the agent called me first and organised an appointment for Wednesday.

Now I'm not saying I believe in all this bashert business - far too airy fairy, too superstitious, too... not concrete for me.

But to quit my job and have access to the property ALL on the same day? In the same couple of hours?

Well. You know.

Maybe it's bashert.

21 Up

Firstly, some housekeeping ... since I've not blogged in a while I'd better get that out of the way. My lack of blogging is mostly lack of good ideas, so if you want to hear about something specific, speak now by commenting below.

The Neighbour's Wife and The Baker's Wife have both returned to blogging. Go and give them some of your reading love.

Remember the whole mynah bird incident? I was sitting in our home office the other day when I heard a awful racket from the back of the house. Turns out one of the kamikaze birds came back for some more bubble wrap action! So first I ran around freaking out and screaming like a girl, and then I got a broom and shoo'ed his sorry ass out of the door. Seriously? What's with the bloody birds?!

And now back to our regularly scheduled (okay, getting BACK to regularly) blogging:

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21 Up

This past week DH and I celebrated our 12th wedding anniversary. Since I make a big ol' deal out of my birthday, you clever types should realise that I was married aged twenty one. Who the heck DOES that anymore? Surely only chicks who appear on Maury Povich, or several of the Duggars, or people for whom the condom snapped in two. Among my friends I was the first to get married - and more frighteninglyI am still one of the only ones married. At the time my friends were supportive but secretly I think they were wondering if I'd lost my cotton pickin' mind.

At the time, it seemed like a pretty logical (and totally fabulous) plan. After all- I knew I'd met the right person. What would be the point of hanging around just dating? It was the obvious choice, the right next step for me and DH's relationship. Part of this decision making was of course driven by DH's age, and by his insistence on living in Australia. I can't imagine my parents letting me move across the globe for just any old boyfriend. That said, marrying DH was so simple, so obvious, so totally RIGHT ... that even on my wedding day I wasn't nervous. I had no cold feet, no doubts, no second thoughts, no nothing other than, "Can we get a move on with this ceremony? I've got some dancing to do!"

12 years later I look back at my 21 year old self and I think, HOLY CRAP. How the heck was she so self-assured? How did she make such a life-altering decision? I find it truly hard to believe that I had the wherewithal to make that choice - but then here I am, 12 years later, and I still adore him and he adores me and we are sickeningly lovey dovey.

Originally I was going to post a list of advice I'd give my 21 year old self - things I wish I knew then, things which might (or might not) have helped shape my life choices. Instead, as my neices (who both read this blog) are heading in that teenage/young adults direction, I'm going to write a list of stuff I think THEY should know. Granted, being teenagers, they will roll their eyes and think I am dorky and ignore me... but hey, this is my blog and they can eye-roll in their own time.

So, A and H, this one's for you. Here's all (okay, ten things) of the stuff I wish I knew then:

1. When it comes to boys, trust your instincts. Sure, it's a lot easier when your family all love the guy and your friends think he's cool. Neither of those are reasons to stay with him if somewhere in the back of your mind is a little niggle of doubt.

2. When it comes to boys, trust your friends and family. They all hate him? Maybe wonder WHY that is before committing to anything.

3. Knowing how to put on make-up properly (and not look like a circus clown or someone who is trying too hard) is an essential skill even for fashion-backwards people like myself. Knowing how to do it while driving a car is stupid and foolish, but nonetheless totally useful (esp lipstick and mascara.)

4. Independence is a fabulous thing, but it doesn't magically appear. Take the time to learn some "boy" stuff - change a tire, change a fuse, inflate tires, shovel snow, kill spiders, construct stuff from IKEA.

5. Independence is a fabulous thing, but there is something really wonderful about having another person in your life with whom you do not need to appear independant. Sometimes having a stiff upper lip isn't all it's cracked up to be. It's totally fine to let someone know the real you.

6. Cultivate the friendships which are about giving and receiving. Learn early how to "cull" the friends who only suck the life blood out of you. Friends who are always negative, friends who are always needy, friends who only want your friendship because of what it gives THEM - turf them.

7. Make sure you put energy into friendships and not just 'relationships' - because girl friends are by far your best ally in the trials and tribulations of life. Even now I regularly go out with girl friends - either one on one or in a group, just for dinner or a girly laugh or a movie or whatever. I WORK at maintaining friendships. It's worth it. I know SO many women whose lives are "lost" to their husbands/partners...and outside of their home they have nobody left. Sometimes it's lonely as hell being a wife and a mother, and your friends are who will save you from that.

8. Learn to be financially aware. Know how to balance a check book, how to write a budget and live within your means, how to save effectively, and how to pay bills. Yes, we all hope you marry one of Bill Gates's kids - but in the event that doesn't happen (and anyway he's not Jewish so what would your grandparents say?) you need to learn to handle money. Don't be afraid of it, because it's the thing which will allow you a pair of Prada sunglasses when you need them most.

9. Learn to cook and bake - even if all you learn is a handful of basic dishes and a decent birthday cake recipe. Knowing how to cook opens up innumerable doors. You can impress potential boyfriends (and his parents), you can look after yourself properly if you're living alone, you can make friends and influence people. Knowing something about food and how to make it is an essential skill. (Hint: It's all about the salt, okay? Salt = flavour.)

10. Have a plan, but be prepared to change it. I think it's important that everyone have some sort of life plan on which to base their future choices. For some it will be specific: "By the time I am 25 I want to be living in Paris and working as a runway model for Karl Lagerfeld." for others it will be generic "By the time I'm 25 I'd like to be working in a job, married and with 2 kids." Either way, have some sort of idea of the direction you would like your life to take. Live a mindful life with that plan in the back of your mind, and make choices based on that plan or the pursuit of the goals within the plan. Then suppose life takes an unexpected turn. Learn to revise the plan. Point is, a life based solely in spontenaity will eventually result in the feeling that you didn't achieve a bunch of stuff you wanted to, mostly because you failed to plan for it. I'm not going to go all "The Secret" on you - but I will say that most things in life are possible when you have a clear idea on how to get them. You won't ever be a Parisian model if you're eating chips and sitting on the couch.

So there you have it, girls. Advice from a cake-baking, tree-hugging, ex-hippie, totally loud-mouthed and occasionally totally insane Aunt. Do with it what you will.

...and while I'm sure this isn't the anniversary post which DH had in mind, I remind him (almost daily) how lucky he is that I was clever enough to marry him. Not bad for a 21 year old.

Release Your Inner Goth

One of the prime reasons I love Jewel as much as I do is that she shoves me way, way, wwwaaayyy out of my comfort zone. She makes me dance, she makes me think, she makes me stop being the comfortable suburban mother that I am 99% of the time. It's not always easy being friends with her - we seem incapable of idle small talk and go right for intense four hour chat marathons - but in many ways I enjoy the mental challenge. She asks a lot of questions and demands real answers. Funnily enough, someone recently told me that *I* am hard to be friends with, for much the same reason. I always seem to be challenging people to think harder about themselves, about their lives, about...everything. I'm not all that fabulous at casual conversation.

This week Jewel invited me along to a fund raising party for a local cafe... and while this sounds all innocent, let me tell you it wasn't innocent at all. First, it was held in the grounds of a historic convent. Secondly, it was a dress-up party and the theme was Victorian Gothic/Addams Family. Third, there was going to be dancing, and a ghost walk, and at least a hundred people I didn't know (but 3 who I did.) I don't really DO creepy, and I certainly don't DO dress-up, and I really, really don't do hanging out with random strangers on a cold Melbourne night.

However.

I went. I dressed up (and I looked bloody amazing... who knew a Morticia wig and sparkly black false eyelashes could transform a person so much?). I danced, I sang, I acted like a fool, I ghost walked, and I hung out with 100 random people...and I loved every single solitary second of it. It reminded me why it's so important to step outside of our everyday lives... because sometimes, you just need a break from the infernal treadmill.

Both Jewel and Cocoa commented that I am a "joiner" - in so far as they ask me to get involved or participate in something and I tend to go full steam ahead. So not only was I sporting the wig and eyelashes, but I also had black nailpolish, vampy fingerless glove thingies, loads of make up (including a totally fab black liquid eyeliner cobweb coming out of the corner of my eye), black skeleton necklace AND a black cape. When I went to pick up Cocoa, her son (who I see every day) did not even recognize me, "Wait a second. Which Michelle are YOU?" I know, I know..me, wearing long hair, make up and nails and whatnot, and NO photographic evidence. The mind boggles.

Truly I was surprised at how much I enjoyed myself, and how much I enjoyed the dressing up bit of it. I had several people tell me that dark hair suits me (hmmm...) and in the end it was decided that I need to get in my gear again and venture to school pick-up looking like that. You know, not a bad idea at all...

So - who is inviting me out next? This suburban mother goth is ready to PAR-TAY!