Archives for April 2010

I really wanted to write a post about the upside of moving, about the cleansing and liberating feeling of decluttering your home.  About the catharsis involved in wrapping everything you own in butcher’s paper so that you can put it in a box and then take it out of the box and unwrap it 2 kilometres later.  I really wanted to write it.  But I didn’t because I couldn’t.  I like to keep things honest here.

We packed every single thing that we owned and we moved.  Literally 2 kilometres from our “real” house.  Mr Pencil convinced me that employing packers to do the job would make me more stressed. Strange that he only said that after we got the quote from the packers but still, he had a point.  I am a huge control freak.  I need to know what’s happening, when it is happening and why it’s happening.  Also, most times I like to be the one making it happen.

It was with this control gene running at full tilt that I started to move the contents of my “real” home over to my “not real” home.  (Note I do not use the word “unreal” lest it be confused with something that is amazing or ideal).  Because I was eager to start (and finish) I began to empty the contents of my cupboard into green enviro bags, dump them in my car and unpack them on the other end.  After about 76 trips there was not much left for the removalists to do.  If only I drove a truck…….

And so now we are in the “not real” house.  And I spend every minute reminding myself how lucky I am to be in the position that I am in, renovating the house I love and having the luxury of living away from that renovation as it unfolds. But my minutes spent reflecting my luck aren’t the happiest minutes. I am homesick.

I miss my house. I miss my aircraft noise, I miss my nosy neighbour who I had to dodge every morning as I passed her window to brush my teeth.

I miss my huge kitchen and I miss knowing how the oven works.  Last night I attempted to get rid of the smell of this house that is not mine by cooking a hearty, aromatic stew.  I had visions of the house becoming a home when filled with the smells of home cooking and us around the table eating dinner as a family. But instead the house was filled with the smell of smoldering vegetables and blackened meat and as we sat around the table I showed my family how I had burnt a huge crater into my hand creating this burned offering.  Not quite according to plan.
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I miss my carpets.  There are no carpets in this “not real” house. I have never lived in a bedroom with no carpets and I don’t like it.  Little Pencil, on the other hand, love its.  His bed is on casters, you just have to sit on it and it slides to the other side of the room.  So while he is having a ball “racing” his bed across the floor the dog is howling because he can no longer jump on the bed because he can’t get a footing on the floor to make his run up.

I miss the man around the corner who was scared of my dog and I miss the man who used to give my dog bread every day as a treat!  And my dog – he is a mess. He just wants to sit in the car all day because that is the only thing in his life that has not changed.

I miss Little Pencil’s trampoline, I miss my bath and I miss my bedroom.

And in all the chaos and turmoil that has been the packing and moving (and with a fair bit of work thrown in for good measure) I have missed blogging, I have missed twitter and I have missed you.

So from the comfort of my “not real” home  (comfort used in the sense of very, very uncomfortable) I would like to say I am home.  Virtually.  If you know what I mean.

I’ve never written an angry post before.  In fact most times when I feel angry about something I try and digest it a little and calm down before I write.

But today I am furious and I can’t get over it at all so I am going to get it out there – angry and all

I am a vegetarian. That is my choice, and it is a relatively recent one.  I choose to be a vegetarian because I cannot stand cruelty to animals.  The thought of eating them horrifies me.  I don’t push my beliefs on anyone (well at least I try not to be too blatant when I do) and I support the fact that my family eats meat and chicken.  I am very particular though where I buy my meat from. I support ethical farming of animals.  No factory farming, no cages, no cruelty.   I like to think the meat my family is eating had a chance at a good life before it became part of our lives.

And when I go out to eat, I always ask about the eggs.  Because I eat eggs, but I only eat eggs that are free range.  I have been to many places that don’t have free range eggs and, while I don’t agree with their policy, I just order something else. Live and let live.

So today we went out for breakfast to the Coogee Cafe.  The menus said organic eggs. That was a good start.  Before I ordered my breakfast I checked with the waitress (because the thought of eating caged eggs saddens and sickens me).  She happily told me that the eggs were free range and organic. She didn’t bat an eyelid, that is how confident she was. Rehearsed even.

After we had eaten my son decided he needed to use the toilet.  I went with him.  The toilets were rather hideous but that is not the end of the world nor the crux of the story.  Just outside the toilet door was a huge box of eggs.  Yup outside the toilets not in the kitchen.  I looked at the big box of eggs and the words CAGED EGGS shouted out at me.

I felt sick to the stomach.  Sick that I had eaten a caged egg. And sick and angry that the staff had had the gall to lie to me so open faced.
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And so, as is my want, I approached the waitress in charge behind the counter.  And she told me that they don’t use those eggs for breakfasts.  Great so they just buy tortured eggs as an outside the  toilet display!  When that argument did not wash with me she told me I had no right to rifle through their produce. Um, the box was not hidden and I did not rifle!

My husband paid for the meal and we left.

Seriously I don’t get how anyone can buy caged eggs.  I just don’t.  The lives of those chickens who are debeaked and forced to endure their entire lives in tiny cages horrifies me, keeps me awake at night even. But that is my choice. I don’t expect anyone else to carry the same intensity of feeling about this that I do.

But when I go out for a meal I expect to be given the right to make my choice on correct and valid information. I don’t expect to be lied to and I don’t think I should have to stand for being misled.

I am angry, beyond words, that business can get away with this despicable behaviour.

And if you have any concerns about eating caged eggs – you probably shouldn’t go to Coogee Cafe

Mr Pencil told me the other day that he loves Tiger Woods.  Like really loves him.  He didn’t say “I love the way Tiger hits the ball” or “I love watching Tiger’s swing” or even “I admire a man who can sleep with 14 women and not get caught on woman number 2”. No, he just plainly loves everything about him.  He doesn’t even know him so I found that weird.

I began to think that maybe he was having a bit of a mid-life crisis.

• He recently bought a fancy new car
• We are about to do a major renovation to the house
• He has bought a surprising number of new clothes lately
• He owns 28 pairs of shoes (Fact!) and still needs to buy new ones all the time

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Surely this can only point to one thing.  He is having a mid-life crisis

And then yesterday the final piece of the puzzle fell into place.

Mr Pencil insisted that we all get scooters.

He went off to the toy shop (he insists it was a sports equipment shop) and bought 3 razors.  One for my 9 year old son which is perfect but the one for the 41 year old mum and the 42 year old dad – a bit odd.

And then it got worse.

Today he insisted that we go scootering as a family.  He is a very stressed individual, he rarely takes time off work and he never has time for exercise. So, given that he has taken some leave (to keep me in check) and today was a glorious, day we set off with our scooters to travel Bronte to Bondi and back again.

I have done this walk hundreds of times.  He has done it many times.  I told him there were too many stairs.  He told me there were none.  I told him that it was a uneven, jagged, coarse, rocky, stony surface (I used lots of words to try denote rough) . He laughed.

So we got there and it was simply magnificent.  To look at.  If you don’t mind stairs and rough ground (oh and also unspeakably beautiful ocean views). Little Pencil raced off doing wheelies and ollies and all manner of tricks, Mr Pencil was pretty nimble and I was a little more hesitant.  Okay.  I was a lot more hesitant.  But I needed to hesitate to point out how many stairs there were and how rough the ground was (and how petrified I was every time I gathered a tiny bit of speed).

I thought I was pretty fit but it turns out I am not scooter fit. My right leg hurt like hell from placing all my weight on it and my arms hurt like hell from having to carry the scooter up and down all the bloody stairs.  I was very worried that I might fall off the scooter and bruise my ego. I was also off the scale terrified watching Little Pencil coast down ravines* at a speed that was inconsistent with being human.   I was hot (not just because I was wearing a jumper and it was about 28 degrees) and I was very, very bothered.

The setting was magnificent and it was awesome to spend the day outdoors with my two favourite boys.  I am obviously delighted that my husband does not have 14 lovers (at least not that I know of) but I really wish he had chosen to buy me a diamond bracelet to celebrate his mid life crisis. This scooter – I don’t think it’s going to get much more of a run

*Okay they were ramps but they were extremely steep

It is Mr Pencil’s birthday on Wednesday and I am stymied about what to buy for him.  After all he is a man and men are notoriously hard to buy presents for.  Tricky already. But, to make it double tricky (because single tricky is for amateurs) I am well known as an excellent present buyer.  Worst bit – I am only known as an excellent present buyer by Mr Pencil.

To be honest this title is well deserved. These are just some of the amazing gifts I have given him in the past

• Sunglasses that really looked good on him
• Magazine subscription for a magazine that he once flicked through more than once (a boy/cars magazine)
• An ipod loaded with all his favourite music
• Tickets to a concert
• A photo book filled with pictures of him and Little Pencil
• Perfume (yup – one year I bought him my favourite perfume but it was only after he bought himself me a new computer for my birthday)
• Signed photos of Mark Taylor (when Mark Taylor was my husband’s favourite human being and captain of the Australian cricket team and not the face of an air conditioning company)

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Now I am all out of ideas.  I have used all the good ones up.

Why is it that men are so hard to buy presents for?  Could it be that there needs are so simple?  Mr Pencil has more than enough clothes and to him they are necessities rather than luxuries.  We already have a TV and an x-box so that’s entertainment covered.  The thought of him wearing jewellery repels me and he already drives a very nice car (in case I strike oil in the garden and want to buy him a very expensive gift).

He only has one past time and that is poker.  I can’t buy him skill and try as I might, I certainly can’t buy him luck. He owns all the music that he likes because he never gives himself an opportunity to listen to anything new and I can’t buy him better taste in said music.  I have tried buying him DVD’s.  They remain unopened and are sometimes used as coasters.

He does not collect anything and has no taste for trinket type things.  I could give him a photo for his office but of what ? I cannot find a photo of myself where I don’t look like a grumpy elephant.  As much as he loves animals, I know he would not like a picture of a grumpy elephant on his desk.  I cannot give him a photo of himself either –though I suppose I could give him a mirror.  I could give him a photo of Little Pencil then I would have no ideas for Father’s Day.

That leaves…well it leaves nothing really.

So I think I will buy him a spa retreat.  I know there is nothing he would like less.  But I would like it a lot.

Last week we admitted Little Pencil to hospital, fit and well.  Happy and healthy.  Bouncy and cheeky.  They were meant to just remove his tonsils but my lord it feels like they made him sick.

For a week now he has been in pain.  He doesn’t whinge.  He doesn’t complain.  He’s just sad.  He won’t eat, he’ll hardly drink and he is reticent to speak (this is actually a very good thing because when he does speak he sounds like a chipmunk who has just swallowed helium).

We have been stuck at home for a week now.  A week where he has not wanted to be more than one metre away from me. Although we have managed four outings

1. To the doctor – he seemed to me to be getting worse not better.  Official diagnosis – he needs to eat
2. Family dinner to honour the Passover celebrations.  Yup with great faith comes great responsibility . Considering that I do not have great faith that should possibly read “with great familial pressure comes great responsibility “
3. To a friend – because we needed to smile and we needed to escape the cleaning lady.  This was a very bad move because although he loved seeing his friend he went into meltdown on arriving back home.  Literally fall apart.  And when I say literally, I mean literally.  Falling apart included throwing up
4. We went to see a movie.  He held his throat and I watched him hold his throat

So it has not been a great week.

He is painfully thin and is in agony when he tries to eat.  I can put close the fingers of one hand around his leg. And his cheeks are sunken and hollow

I have offered him

• Ice cream – every flavour known to mankind. With bits, without bits. With sauce, without sauce. With sprinkles, without sprinkles. In a cup, in a cone, in a spoon, on a stick with a straw and with my fingers
• Chocolate – whole, melted, pureed, liquidised, grated and even cut into teeny tiny squares
• Jelly – orange, red, green, blue, yellow, rainbow.  Set, not quite set and even in liquid form
• Soup – Chicken. Vegetable. Hot. Cold. Warm. Tepid. With noodles and without
• Eggs – scrambled, boiled, poached, fried and Easter
• Nutella – so he had to fight me for this one but still I did not put up much resistance
• Peanut butter – he ate some.  From a spoon.  It almost glued his mouth shut.  He won’t eat it again
• Pasta – with butter and without. With tomato sauce and without. With cheese and without

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Oh and last night he woke up crying at 1am in pain.  Refused to even swallow the panadol and finally, after much threatening that I would not like to publish, he went to sleep at 4am.

This feels like the bad, old days.  I coped then.  Not so much now.

This is my tether————————————————————————————— and this is me, right at the end of it.