Camping - Why and Where and What for?

The camper has been pulled from its home, dusty and cobwebby, but robust enough to stand the neglect of the past 18 months. Red dust has been ingrained in the cover, the wheel arches, the welded seams. Evidence of holidays past, adventures and getaways. Off-road tyres have a slight flat patch, need some air to plump them up. But our home away from home just needs a hose down, some spit and love and she will be ready to take us to our next memory making camping trip.

We head off on Friday, so this week we will pack the Waeco fridge, fill the water tank, load the canoe on the roof-rack, and pack camping clothes and shoes. Important things to make a place for are bottles of gin, dark chocolate, pack of canasta, my kindle plus a stack of books. The dog is going to be sadly let down when he finds out we are leaving him behind, he likes his camping too. But he won’t be sad for long, my Mum and Dad are coming to stay with him, so he will have five days of gardening and being outdoors and having treats and pats.

The destination this trip is south of Perth, about two and a half hours leisurely drive. It will be hot on Friday, but as we head south and by the coast, it should cool. We will be the first of our group to arrive, so we will set-up our camp, put out the camp chairs, cool the drinks in ice and have a cheese platter ready for when the next campers arrive. Slow and slowed down we will all be. Tension and hyper activity will be leaching from us as ice cold drinks and canvas replace deadlines and offices.

A barbecue, laughs, talking long into the darkness. We will have all decompressed by the time our beds call our names. A cool night with gentle breezes, frogs loud, the moon enough light to see by. The morning will be early, rising with the sun, it will be chilly but warming quickly. The billy is filled, water heating on the gas stove. Coffee in hand, we find our chairs and discuss how we fared in the night, what is on the agenda for today. No one moves fast, a second and third cup of coffee. Breakfast of bacon and eggs, mushroom and tomatoes. 

As we wash the breakfast dishes in a plastic bowl, we will discuss where we will go for lunch. Or dinner. This camping trip we are close to wineries and restaurants, bars and cafes. Or shall we just hang about at camp, have tuna and tomato sandwiches and read and nap. Tomorrow another of our group will arrive. They have a new camper to show us, to demonstrate the little things that make camping easy and fun. Drinks will begin at noon. Those of us who arrived early and are settled will take front row seats watching the couple with the new camper work out the routine.

Four nights and five days of living the nomad. But with luxury tents and campers and kitchens on tailgates. Laughter and lounging. Reading and reminiscing. All this will make more memories of the time we went away, to find ourselves, to find contentment. This is my idea of a holiday. Not a boarding pass in sight. 

There is still the anxiety, that peaks the night before the trip and slowly ebbs away the longer we are away. The farther we are away from home dilutes the anxiety too, which is bizarre when the norm for anxiety is to feel it when we are most out of our normal life.

Monday ... should rename it to get-yourself-organised-day

Why is it that Mondays always are the days we give ourselves the good talking to? The day we start a diet. The day we will set the alarm early and get up and go for a brisk walk. The day we will make a healthy lunch at home to take to work. The day we get ready for work peacefully instead of a hideous rush and leave the house with wet hair and un-ironed shirt (it looks OK, doesn't it?  I just wont take my jacket off). The day we plan with our partner to have a date night this week. The day we eat Bircher muesli and fresh blueberries for breakfast.

By Tuesday we have fallen back into old habits, we tell ourselves that this week isn't a great week to be starting new routines.  We have a meeting with the boss, a visit to the dentist, the car needs a service and besides it's so bloody hot. Next week I will start. I promise. I will even go buy a new diary today and write myself a proper schedule.

It's like a mini New Year resolution every week. The feeling of being in control on a Monday wanes away as Friday approaches and we collapse in a  guilt-fueled, I-give-up Saturday. Sunday night, what I always call Hair Washing Night - as that's when my mother would wash our hair and make sure all our school uniforms were washed and ready and we were made to pack our school bags (often having to unpack the fish paste sandwich left there Friday) - is when we take stock of the less than satisfactory week and give ourselves a talking to, that starting Monday, things are going to change around here. (Can you hear my mother's voice here? I can!)



So what happens? Why this roller-coaster? Is it just me, or (I hope) do we all do this? We must do. I just read an article in The Australian that talks about our 5:2 lives. How we live for five days of work that leave us depleted and emptied, and try and fit another life, our social and personal life, into the two days left in the week. I see the problem as having higher and higher expectations. We don't just have friends over for dinner, we have friends over for a dinner designed by Delicious Magazine, in a house that Grand Designs inspired, with a walk around the garden modeled after Monty Don's French Gardens. Impossible standards, unless you have a maid and a chef and a gardener. And that's just a part of the weekend - there is the washing, cleaning, shopping, lawn mowing, pool cleaning, kids sports, car washing, dog washing, blower vac-ing .... and on and on it goes.

(Binge, crash: Welcome to the 5:2 lifestyle
SHANE WATSON THE AUSTRALIAN FEBRUARY 17, 2014 12:00AM)

So, never one to admit failure, I keep trying to get it 'right.'

I set my alarm this morning. I had written a plan (this was after an inspirational writing course this last weekend) to rise at 6am. Do my chores and be sitting at my desk, coffee in hand, open page and spend the next hour writing.

At 6:01am I turned off the alarm, mumbled to the dog, "I'll do it tomorrow" and went back to sleep. In my wisdom (I know myself well) I had set another alarm at 6:30am. 
6:32am - I found my phone stuffed under 3 pillows, and turned that alarm off too.

At what point do we give up completely and just get on with life?

Disclaimer - I apologise that my blog posts might sound odd and jaggered. I have spent the last few months (in blog exile) writing academic essays. I feel the need to reference everything and write a bibliography. Hopefully I will loosen up a bit as I write more!

When Neighbours are NOT good friends

We have our very own soap opera going on in our neighbourhood. About 6 months ago we got new neighbours. They are right next door to us, but its not us directly they are having the feud with.

The mud map above shows the approximate layout (I am no town planner or artist). The black wavy lines is the river, the parallel lines on the left is a major road. We are in a little cul-de-sac that was just a dead-end when the old house subdivided its land and 5 blocks of land were created. The people who bought the 5 blocks, us included, all built within a year of each other. The only one who didn't was Noisy Kids, they were about 5 years later. 

Hippy Neighbour has lived in her house across the road for over 25 years, she is a very sweet, kind lady, who keeps to herself, and has 2 dogs. You have to have dogs where we live, there are a lot of undesirables wandering about, and the houses without dogs get broken into. We have been broken into 3 times, once while we were in the house and asleep. It happened when we didn't have an outside dog.

It has been a happy place to live. Most of us get along, we have parties in the street, know each other, have helped out when needed, rescued dogs when they got out etc. There are a few characters (the latecomers with squeely girls) who are a little prickly, but on the whole its amicable.

Then the new people arrived. Not very friendly as in, we stop to say hello and we get a brush off, or their little puppy gets out and we take it back and there is barely a thanks but a whole lot of yelling at the dog and kids. Little things that tell you they are just not friendly neighbours and that's fine, Mr K and I have got used to living in suburbia now. This is what you get. We get along fine with Hippy Lady, she is warm and chatty, and the Old House people are the same. The Noisy Kids family are luke-warm too, bit weird (that's a whole new story there) but they generally keep to themselves.

About 3 months ago, Mr K gets a phone call from a very distraught Hippy Lady. She has had a visit from the rangers saying there is a complaint about her dogs barking. Its never happened before. Her dogs do bark a bit, but only because she lives on the main road and opposite is a service station that is frequented by some people who think its their local pub. There are often fights and police and of course the dogs are going to bark - that's why we have them.

Hippy Lady confronted the New people, and said that we have been a nice little neighbourhood and we normally just talk to each other if there is an issue instead of rushing off to the Ranger. She was upset, she is a very touchy feely type, but sensible. New Man just was rude and said to keep her dogs quiet.  A few weeks after this, Mr K gets another, more distraught phone call from Hippy Lady. She has had an argument with the New people and a letter from the council. Mr K advises her to just do the best she can about the dogs, and to ignore the New people. She has also found out that the New people have gone to all the houses in the street (except us) and asked them to sign a petition against Hippy lady. None of them did, but she is now furious at New people.

Mr K talks to her for a while, trying to get her to see a lighter side, to not take it as her problem but theirs. Hippy lady lives alone so her dogs are her protectors and company. Mr K suggests she write them a note telling she is doing what she can (she bought a bark buster collar and locks them up when she goes out) and jokingly, to lighten the mood, he said "give them some earplugs."

So she does!!  She writes a long letter (she gave us a copy) and includes some earplugs for the family. You can guess what happened next! Mr K comes home from work and there is an all out fight going on, not physical but verbal, between Hippy lady and New man. Mr K, ever the negotiator steps in and calms them both down, when New Lady gets home, sees the letter and the earplugs and comes ranting and raving out her house to confront Hippy Lady. 

Its calmed down a bit since then, but there are flare ups and these New people are quickly running out of friends. They don't realise that they make as much noise and disturb people too. Their kids are very noisy, he starts up his truck at 6am, he is a compulsive blower-vac user, and we have heard rows that get loud.  They have an alarm that goes off regularly and guess what?  All of us ignore it. That's all part of living in a close neighbourhood. You just have to mutter under your breath (or blog about it like I do) and get on with your life. We can't go about complaining and whining about every little thing that bothers us. 

If New people wanted quiet, they should not have picked a house that was so close to a main road, a train line, a B&B and other houses. I work from home. Yes it can be noisy, but you know what? I either close my window or play music or put in earplugs. If I want perfect quiet I will move to the country! 

I can't see it being a very friendly Christmas party this year, but it will sure be interesting. Stay tuned for further episodes.

An Easter Escape

I will write more about our weekend away, but for now, these pictures will tell 1000 stories.

Our rig - Navara, Trailer Camper, Motorbike and Kayak. Cunderdin WA  

Outside the (closed for Good Friday) No3 Pumping Station Museum at Cunderdin

What you do on camping trips

What we go out here for!

Camp - and boys getting a lesson in wood chopping

More Trees 

Even more trees

Minty - even she likes camping - its the camera she hates!

...and more trees ...

We actually wore Tommy out - ever so briefly

Having fun at the dam.

Having fun on the motorbike - view from the dam

Over 100 year old aquaduct

Karalee Dam

For a 14 year old, blind dog, she still has fun - she went swimming too! Tommy follows her about and looks after her.

Sun setting on a fun day - these boys will sleep well tonight

Slow cooked lamb on a real open fire - we had this for Saturday night - with a bottle of red, under a full moon and a trillion stars.  Beats any 5 star hotel!

When Fantasy meets Reality

Pinterest for women is like a man looking at pictures of a playboy bunny and thinking that would be nice!

You look at pretty pictures of tables set in fields, or apple orchards, with linen cloths and dainty china, tiers of little cupcakes, scones and neatly cut sandwiches.  A string of pastel bunting, billowy swags of tulle, wooden table with paper lanterns strung above.

You get an idea.  What if I have a garden party for my friends?  We could all dress in floral, cotton dress's, be carefree and wallow away an entire afternoon, laughing lightly and sipping pink champagne.    I could take the dining table out onto the lawn.  I could quickly sew up some chair covers in calico and tie a pastel pink ribbon to the back, pop in some dried roses.  Cut out triangles of scrap material and string them together.  It will mean a trip to Spotlight, but it wont cost much.

You have a few 'trio's' but need a few more.  You start to watch Ebay for Royal Albert and Royal Doulton.  A few parcels arrive, you think they are a bargain at $35 a set.  You buy a silver sugar dish and polish it.  On holidays you find a pure white linen tablecloth and eight matching napkins.  The shop lady (who was twice your age, well almost) says they will take a lot of ironing.  You laugh, a little too gaily  that you love to iron.  

You attend high teas at a few places, just to get ideas of what food to serve.  You make up a menu, write it out in long hand calligraphy on sepia paper. You make invitations the same way and hand deliver them.  Sunday.  1pm.  4 weeks from now.

You let a week go by, plenty of time, it's just afternoon tea.  Three weeks to go,  you panic.  Four weeks seemed plenty of time when you planed this, but then you make the 'to do' list. It seems endless.

It's real now.  You have to follow through.  You start by going to buy material.  The natural calico ends up costing you $120 for 8 chairs.  The tulle another $40.  The parcel of material sits on the dining table for a week before you have a chance to sew it.  The chair covers are harder than they look.  You make 3, then have a go at the prettier bunting.  By 10pm Sunday night you have made 2 metres, you are pretty pleased with yourself.

The next weekend you find a perfect silver tea set in a second hand store.  You are delighted.  You rush home and spend the next 4 hours polishing it, plus all the little silver cake forks your Grandmother left to you. You now have enough fine china trios for your eight guests.  You wash them all by hand, drying them carefully.  It takes you ages, but you tell yourself that to slow down is a good thing.  The rest of the house is a shambles and don't even think of going into the laundry!

You go online and find a site that sells everything party.  You buy cupcake cases, striped straws, pastel icing, sprinkles, paper lanterns, sugared almonds, candles.  It costs $124 but you tell yourself you will have these things for years.

There is a week to go.  The garden is still a mess.  You haven't picked up the dog poo for a week now and the lawn needed mowing a month ago.  There are dead patches mixed with eye-high grass.  The roses need a good prune, and cooch has invaded the flower beds.  You work like a navvy in the garden, and cajole your husband to help by offering favours you know you will be too tired to grant.  You rush to Bunnings and buy 'potted colour' at exorbitant prices.

The weekend of the garden party.  Saturday.  You want to make everything from scratch, the old fashioned way.  A shopping trip with a toilet roll for a shopping list, which includes a visit to the kitchen shop to get specialised tart trays and a 3 tiered platter.  You get home, exhausted and not at all feeling like cooking.  You poach chicken breasts in tarragon to make sandwiches.  You make cupcake batter and set out 2 dozen pink pokerdot cupcake cases (you want to send everyone home from the party with their own, beautifully decorated cupcake to remind them how wonderful you are). 

You bake and ice and decorate.  Piping bags were never your friend.  At 7pm your husband casually wanders in and wants to know whats for dinner.  You snap at him, 'fucking cupcakes!'  At 8.30pm you are eating Maccers from the kitchen bench as you stir custard.

By 11pm you are exhausted, you have been in the kitchen all day.  You feel a little panicked that you haven't yet cleaned the house or scrubbed the toilet.    But you go to bed satisfied that you have made all the cupcakes, have made the filling for the three sandwiches - smoked salmon mouse, chicken and celery in creme freche and cucumber and sour-cream  there are 10 individual chocolate mouses in shot glasses (2 extra as you broke your deal with the husband and this may get you off the hook), miniature lemon meringue pies, fruit custard pies - you even made the tiny pastry cases and glazed the strawberries with apricot jam.  You sleep, but not well - a to do list for tomorrow running through your head.

Midnight.  You wake with fright as you just remembered that you left the fruit custard tarts to cool on the bench and they have custard in them and need to go in the fridge.  You debate if they will be ok, have visions of your lovely lady guests with food poisoning, and get out of bed to find a container they can be stored in and wedge a place in your overflowing fridge.  Its 2am before you finally get to sleep.

8.30am.  You have slept in!  You start yelling at your husband to stop being a lazy bastard and help you.  You make him clean the toilet while you start cutting crusts off two loaves of white and wholemeal bread. He comes back 2 minutes later and says he is done.  You know damn well it wont be done properly and have to do it yourself.  You hate him.  You tell him so.  He takes off to the shed.

You know your hair needs washing, but no time now. You need to get the table set.  Your sister-in-law phones you and asks if you need some help?  You try and keep the panic out of your voice as you casually say no love, all under control, I just want you to come and enjoy yourself.  

You have to go and apologise to your husband, you need him to help you move the dining table onto the lawn.  He helpfully asks if you cant just use the outdoor table?  No you say through clenched and stubborn jaw - the vision is for an extravagant dining table on the lawn.  It's the whole POINT!  He just silently carries one end as you struggle and heave it past door frames.  You take a chunk of plaster out of the wall.  You swear.  He disappears into his shed again.

The linen table cloth, that has been ironed once, still looks like its been slept on by the dog.  You set up the ironing board and try and fix it.  The bloody old bitch at the shop was right.  You hate her too.  You reason that when its covered in plates, glasses, napkins and food, and you have sprinkled rose petals all over you wont notice the wrinkles.  You are wrong.

It's now 11.30am.  The table is set.  It looks pretty.  Now to move all the chairs outside and cover with the calico.  You don't dare ask the husband, you can hear him hitting something pretty hard in his shed.  The covers are fiddly, the bows on the back even more so.  You only got around to making 6 covers, too bad!  You think to hell with dried roses.  

The 2 metres of bunting only goes on one side of the fence.  You had visions of it all the way round.  It looks a bit naff.  The paper lanterns keep falling down from where you have strung them.  It's 12.45 and you still are not showered or dressed and you have scones to make and pots of tea to prepare.  You stuff the very expensive tulle back into your laundry.

You just get in the shower and you hear the door bell.  Shit.  You husband comes to the rescue and starts telling your 8 lady friends what a bad mood you are in, and laughs that you will need a lot of champagne to calm you down.  You get out of the shower, still half wet and throw on the floral dress, that you just remembered you needed to iron. Makeup and hair are forgotten.

Damn them all for being on time  and damn your husband for not taking them straight out into the garden.  Now all the ladies are assembled in your kitchen, which looks like a teenagers bedroom, you look like a bedraggled,  crumpled teenager to suit.  Smile.  Open a bottle of pink champagne and get them to follow you out to the garden.

The oos and ahhs at your elegant, garden, Pinterestque table setting don't take away the exhaustion and despair you are feeling.  You gulp down your champers and fill up the glass again.  A kind friend follows you into the kitchen so you mercilessly put her to work arranging food onto platters.  She asks a million questions of how you want the cakes placed, which platter for the sandwiches, do you want the scones on the top tier or the bottom.  You don't freaking care anymore because the scones are burning.  

It all goes off pretty well considering   The ladies have a great time, you are glad however when it all ends earlier than you fantasied about.  Your husband ventures out of his shed when he hears you have got drunk.  He flirts with your friends, and tells them stories about how much of a bitch you have been preparing for this day and you don't care.  Only your sister-in-law stays to help clean up. You feel bad.  Every Royal Doulton, every silver fork, every crystal platter has to be washed by hand. You can't do it in the dishwasher.  You tell her you will do it all tomorrow.  She tries to insist she will help.  You get cross and tell her to go the hell home.

There is lipstick on most of the linen napkins and pink icing and rose petal stains on the tablecloth. They never come out.

You and your husband have cupcakes for dinner, you were too drunk to give them out to the ladies as they left.  The kitchen stays like this til morning.

Nope.  The fantasy never lives up to the reality.  Any playboy reading man will tell you that.


Footnote : Pinterest did not have any pictures of the reality ... I wonder why?

Canasta - a card game of life

I had this favorite game of cards come back into my life this last week.  I used to play it a lot as a kid and teenager.  Then boys, husbands, kids and Foxtel happened and the game was relegated to camping trips and blackouts.

It's a great game.  Strawb and I are the champions at it.

My son #2 has just taught his girlfriend to play it, and last week we introduced her to the giddy heights of a doubles game.

It got me thinking however, how this game resembles life at times.

Here is my version of life according to the rules of Canasta.

1. Canasta may be played with 2, 3, 4, 5 or 6 players but is best fun played with four persons as a partnership game.  
• Yep, just like life.  2 players is the most stable game, 3 can be fun, 4 as partners comes with a lot more rules, and 5 & 6 players just gets messy.  
2. Canasta is played with two decks of 54 cards or a total of 108 cards including 4 jokers
• We all have to play life with the same deck of cards, but sometimes its fun to play with the jokers
3. The dealer shuffles, cuts and deals the cards face down, clockwise beginning with the player to the dealer's left
• Like life, we get dealt the cards in a set order.  We can't change the cards we get dealt - this isn't poker - and so we must be clever with what we have.
4. Each player gets 11 cards in a game with 4 or more players, 15 for 2 players or 13 for 3.
• The lesson here is that you get more with when you only play with 2 people, but a threesome could be a good compromise.
5. The goal of Canasta is to obtain the most points by melding, or creating sets out of one’s cards. 
• Isn't this what life is?  Gathering the most you can before you die!
6. When it is your turn, you may draw the top card from the stock and put it into your hand without showing anyone.
• Pays to keep some things to yourself - the element of surprise is always good.
7. Also, remember that in Canasta, both jokers and deuces (twos) are wild cards. A set consisting entirely of wild cards is not valid.
• Lesson here is not to play with just the wild boys.  They are OK for a bit of fun, but you can't settle down with them.
8. The hand ends as soon as a player goes out. You can only go out if your side has melded at least one Canasta.
• Going out is the whole purpose of the game.  Just ask any teenager!
9. In a partnership situation, you may ask the other partner "May I go out?". If the partner answers "no" then this is binding and you may not go out and if the partner answers "yes" then you may. However, it is important to note that consulting your partner is not compulsory and you may go out without asking your partner.
• Enough said ;-)
10. The game also ends if the stock pile runs out of cards.
• Sad but true - when life has run out of cards for you, the game is over.
11. You can freeze the pack to slow the game down
• Cold shoulders, freezing out players - all has a similar effect.
12. Good strategy involves knowing what to keep and what to discard.
• So glad I found the good cards early on in the game, its a hard game knowing what to keep and what to discard.  Ask any dating agency.
13. You score extra points if you can go out with a concealed canasta
• Probably only score the points with fellow players, not your partner.
14. A player who has accidentally drawn an extra card must discard it in a future turn without drawing a new one.
• Especially if you are playing a partnership game.

Tim Winton - you Rock!!

I feel like my child has just won the honour awards at school.  I am bursting with pride!

Yeah, a bit weird of an analogy, but stay with me here.

My all time, ever, favourite author, Tim Winton, took out #1 place in the ABC's First Tuesday Bookclub's 10 Aussie books to read before you die, with Cloudstreet.  Number One!!  Out of all the amazing books in this country, the public chose Cloudstreet as their favourite.

ABC First Tuesday Bookclub

I have read every book Tim has ever written, buy all his books as first edition hardbacks plus a paperback when it comes out so I can lend it to people.  Some of my hardbacks are signed by Tim himself - confess that I am a bit of a groupie and go to book readings or signings by him.

Although, the last time I went to a reading (for The Turning) I didn't line up and ask him to sign my book.  He just looked so sad, so out of place, wanting to be away from people and this book selling machine.  He looked like he wanted to be on a beach, or at his kitchen table, writing.  So I went home, and gave him a gift of personal space.

I have loved every single book he has ever written, but my favourite is his latest Breath.  My sons love his books too, something that is tough to do - get boys to read.  I still remember Son#1 hopping about, getting me to read That Eye the Sky after he had read it and wanting to talk to me about it.  Lucky it was a short book, I devoured it in half a day, then Son and I sat and talked and talked.  Now that is something!

I love Tim's style, his (seemingly) easy writing manner, as you read, you feel like you are talking to an old friend.  I get the same feeling of place every time I read his books - I am about 15, everything is exciting.  We go camping on the beach, way down South, with my family, my best friend is there too.  We escape the adults, and at night walk down to the beach where there are some boys with a campfire.  They look a little rough, older, surfies, our hearts race, but we try and be brave/cool.  We sit with them, we talk, they are smoking pot and hand us some, we shake our heads.  I look into the fire, there is a delicious electricity around us, a thrill to be had, yet we don't know why... yet.

This is where Tim's writing always takes me.  On the precipice of discovery, a teenage girl about to fall into the most exciting time of her life.  Fear, mixed with sexual tension and a sense of emerging power.  I wish I had better words to make this scene of time and place come alive.  It will be a good writing exercise I think!

If you haven't already, go discover Tim's work.

Strawb & Jago - Naked!

Wow! It’s been a whole week and I haven't written a thing about the last Strawb and moi day! Has anyone else noticed that as the silly/festive season approaches, time seems to evaporate into yet another week gone?

So Last Friday. Strawb's pick this month, and the darling girl did indeed pick - she picked me up from home! I know what a challenge that is, even though we live in the same city, we are at opposing sides of the city and the river. So for her to travel over bridges and through the city, in just-past-peak hour traffic is a treat indeed. I was glad she came for a little house visit, so she could ooh and aahhh over our recent renovations.

She was being very tricky and not telling me where she was taking me. This has kind of become a trend in our days out - which is fun and challenging! So we drove by Subiaco, Claremont - all potential cafe places (albeit a little bit posh for us Roley Boguns), past the show grounds (few months too late). She had me worried as we approached Graylands - was this an intervention to have me committed? Following the railway line to the sea, she let it slip we were going to a cafe.

 


Aha! It's not the Bookcaffe? I asked. She was shocked and dejected that I had guessed her little plan. Incredulous, she asked how I knew of it, she thought she was being very tricky taking me to two of my favourite places rolled into one! I said , sweety, darling, sweety, I have been to this place many, many times and am even on their mailing list. Books. Coffee. Cake. Come on, that's me in a chubby nutshell. (I then had to admit that the real reason I first discovered this place was that Son #2 saw a specialist whose practice was right next door!)

After a chai latte, a good ole chat, and a browse (and buy) in the delicious book area, we donned hats and Strawb led the way on a very pleasant walk. The idea was to walk the scenic route to the beach, where naked men awaited us, with a cool G&T. We got a tad lost, and after walking up a medium sized hill on a very sunny day, we were sweating instead of glowing and I was in no mood for naked men - but they could hand over the Bombay. We settled for a Naked Fig gin and tonic which was even better.

Why all the references to naked? Apart from the fun factor, where we were was the nudist beach of Perth - Swanbourne. Being a nudist from way back (like 47 years back) and despite a body that legally should be covered at all times, I am more than happy to shed my gear and run about in the buff. Strawb, who has the world’s permission to get nekkid, is not so keen. Actually, I jest, although we were on Swanbourne Beach, the nuddy part was way off in the distance - another long, arduous walk through soft sand - I don't need to see willy's that badly!

A lovely restaurant has sprung up on this part of the beach, with glorious ocean views and even more glorious Hendricks with cucumber. The meal was ho-hum, but the company, gossip and gin more than made up for undercooked prawns and tough (how the hell do you make pizza dough tough?) pizza. The topping was nice, but nothing special. What was special however were the desserts. A pannacotta with passionfruit was divine and Strawb drowned herself in some hot, gooey chocolate lava bath.

Just as well we had lots of calories, as we sure got to burn them on the walk back. Do you think it’s our age that we seem to stare at topless boys unashamedly? And when did school boys start looking like prime athletes? We both agreed that when we were 17/18 boys sure didn't look like these Adonis gods did. The boys we hung about with were puny and tiny and had squeaky voices. That's why dating a much older guy was so kewl!

Of course, we got lost again on the way back to the car and train station. I think we need to stop talking while we walk and start paying attention. That way we can still get lost but at least we will learn about where we got lost. Or take a bread crumb out of Hansel and Gretel's book.

Great day out, something a bit different, good chat, good perving, good gin. Tell me how life gets better than that?

For other adventures ...

Strawb & Jago - The Beginning - Roleystone

Strawb & Jago - South Perth

Strawb & Jago - Art Review

My rubber man in the kitchen drawer

I was rather outnumbered last Friday night, in a good way - Mr K had invited his best mate over for dinner.  He has recently become a bachelor, or rather, a week-on week-off dad, but this was his week-off so he was playing bachelor.  We also had the resident bachelor, Uncle J, just home from a trip to the island where he owns land, and in need of some home cooked Aussie tucker.  (I encourage his visits after he has been away as he normally brings me a large blue bottle from duty free!)

 

So there I was, making dinner for three men, the ultimate feminist - when I had need of my little rubber male replacement tool.  I keep it in the third drawer down in my kitchen drawers, as the kitchen is where I use it the most.  It's orange and rubber and dimpled, and it comes in handy when I don't have a man around.  But it failed to satisfy this particular night.  I had no choice but to get a strong male to help with the task.

I had a choice of three.  Mr K was otherwise occupied - having decided that now, with guests here, was a good time to fix the light in the pool.  He now had transformers and screwdrivers and globes on the outdoor table.

Mr New Bachelor was busy opening beer.

So that left Uncle J, who first had to give me stick for needing a man in the first place, teasing me that I had my own device for the job.  I told him that yes, I did have my rubber man, but this night, I could not manage on my own.  I needed a real man.  I think he liked the ego boost as he did as he was asked.

Either that, or he really wanted the pickled onions in the jar I was trying to open.

Do you have a rubber man in your drawers?

Mine was a party gift from Tupperware

Red Bull - Another wild ride

I was watching the Gruen Planet the other night, a debate on whether the stunt pulled by Felix Baumgartner, who dropped 39km out of the sky, was a very elaborate advertising campaign or sponsored science. It made me recall a time when my own sons, aged 5 and 7, acted recklessly  - all because of red bull.

My darling Strawb, single, footloose, a career girl - she was not married nor did she have any children.  Not even a dog, some fish maybe, but essentially, at this time in her life, she had no warm-blooded living being to care for.  I had come up to the city to visit her and get a taste of what city life and being single was like - except, I had my sons in tow. 

Strawb took me out for a day’s shopping and lunching in Fremantle and my wide eyed, country boys loved it.  They adore their Aunty Strawb, according to them she is way cooler than me.  After this incident, I am not sure I agree.  I was having a lovely time browsing the shops, except as all mothers know; enjoying shopping with children is a different experience to enjoying it without children.  Strawb, who was nursing a bit of liquid indulgence from the night before, was in need of rehydrating and took the boys off to get a drink while I had 30mins to power shop.

I met them sitting on a bench in the mall - both sons grinning and clutching a can of Red Bull each!!  If they had had a beer in their hand I don’t think I would have been as shocked.  Strawb, I said, what on earth were you thinking?  Huh? she says, confused.  The boys said nothing, adoring looks aimed at Aunty Strawb - but I could see the liquid making its way into their bloodstream - the fallout was coming.  Mean and horrible mother that I am, I took the cans off them both, feeling sick as I realised both cans were empty.

Strawb was a bit put out by my reaction, until I explained to her what was in Red Bull and how this is like LSD to a child!  She laughed.  I told her she could have them both, for the rest of the day, alone.  Then she could tell me how funny it was.  She sobered up at this point, after seeing the boys, now with Red Bull running in their veins, jumping from bench to bench along the mall.  The trip was coming.

Our only option now, was to take them somewhere far away from civilisation and with lots and lots of open space.  We quickly walked them to a park and let them run off the worst of it.

We still laugh at this, especially now that my sons are young men and go out on benders sometimes and need a pick me up the next day. I also look for my revenge but Strawb and her husband chose not to have children - I reckon it’s because she doesn’t want me getting even.  And I am too much of an animal lover to spike her dogs drinking bowl with red bull. (would be funny however!)

I told her I was writing about this incident and she corrected me on one crucial fact. She said it was the boys who told her to buy the Red Bull, she had never even heard of it, so she had no idea of its potential in the wrong hands. The little so and so's had pulled the beanie over her eyes!

So Master C and Master A - the gig is up and Aunty Strawb says you need to make amends for your wicked ways and setting her up like that - by buying her a drink called Sucked In - Red Bull and Gin - served with dinner and remorse.

 

In the interests of public health Red Bull contains:

caffeine ,

taurine,

glucuronolactone,

B-group vitamins,

sucrose,

glucose

The equivalent to 17 cocktail frankfurts, 2 glasses of red cordial, a pack of fairy floss and 5 showbags to a child

The Grumpy Middle Aged Men - aka Statler and Waldorf

My Friday nights are normally spent with two grumpy old men.  Human, and maybe less hairy versions of the Muppet's below,  but they are every bit as grumpy, jaded, mocking, judgemental as these old boys.

I am not going to name names, lets just called them Mr K and Uncle J.  They know who they are and it doesn't matter as they would never lower themselves to read a 'blog' let alone mine, let alone a trivial women's blog.

This is how a typical Friday night goes (from my POV)
 
6:30PM - We, as in Mr K and I are still at work.  Uncle J sends a text message to me. 'How thirsty are you on a scale from 1 to 10?'  I am not in a drinking mood.  I am tired, stressed and just want to go home, take off my bra and shoes, put on trackies and slippers, have tinned tomato soup, toast and a book.  I sigh.
 
6:32PM - I reply 'Me? Only a 3.  Mr K - probably 7'  I can see Mr K from my office, he is opening his 3rd beer and having noisy banter with the staff.
 
6:33PM - Uncle J replies 'That's a combined score of 10 - on my way over via the bottle shop.  Just ate, so don't worry about dinner for me'
 
6:59PM - We are now home, I long for some alone time.  I did not for a minute fall for Uncle J's comment that he would not eat.  The man is a bachelor and is always hungry, especially for anything that is not preceded with 'Mc' or 'do you want fries with that?'
 
7:02PM - The front gate chimes, the dogs bark.  I am halfway out of my shoes.  The bra will have to stay on.
 
7:05PM - I am in the kitchen, glass of champagne (yes, it was French) just poured.  I scour the fridge and freezer for inspiration.  I have chorizo,wine and rice.  I start to make risotto, sipping at my champagne as Mr K and Uncle J make themselves comfortable on the deck.
 
7:20PM - I can hear mumblings and garawfs outside as I stir another ladelful of warm stock into the risotto.  The smell of cigar smoke is faint, but familiar. 

7:36PM -  Sprinkling Parmesan and parsley on the risotto, gathering plates and forks and napkins, I move towards the sounds of men and beer.  They are just finishing having a belly laugh at some unisex driver in an Audi who went the wrong way down a one way lane.  There is a metaphor somewhere there.

8:02PM - Risotto is all but gone, I get complimented by Uncle J 'Great you can make food like that without any kitchen noise - I can't stand all that kitchen noise'

8:16PM - I finish my one glass of champers, Uncle J has finished the rest of the bottle.  He asks if I want another drink?  What I really want is to lay on the couch with my old dog and watch lifestyle shows.  He cajoles me into another glass, just so he can justify opening another bottle. 

9:58PM - I have listened to politics, economics, business, programming, guns, survival techniques, knives, young women, more politics, religion, foriegn policy, and finally I have had enough.

10:12PM - I clear the table, stack the dishwasher, make myself a Milo and finally can go to bed and take my bra off.

How are your Friday nights spent?!