bitter sweet at the end of winter and the beginning of spring

Fourteen years ago, my Dad had to ring me to tell me my Mum had died. I imagine it was a pretty shitty job.

So it was good that today, I got to spend a goodly amount of time with my Dad at the engagement party of a cousin who, it must clichedly be said, has never been happier. A cousin who, every now and then, thinks good things about my Mum. And every now and then, he thinks to mention these thoughts to us.

In fact, let me tell you, it was good that I got to spend time with my Dad. We’ve had good news this week. All of my uncles said isn’t it good and smiled in the way that brothers would. And all of my aunties gave me a hug. They’re good like that, my aunties are. They very often hold me in their arms and let the silence do the work.

And one day, maybe I’ll let my cousin know about the particular day he chose. But probably I won’t. It might tip the balance. Balance is a difficult thing.

And that explains why I have spent this week cleaning the laundry and sorting the kitchen drawers.

continuing randomness

Honestly, what a whinger. I do apologise. It’s just, you know, I really was trying to get the house vacuumed. Anyway, having recently discovered that I am in fact one of the happiest of all Australians, I thought I’d best buck up my ideas, so herewith another burst of randomness:

  • once the chisel, which seems to have been fashioned at precisely the diameter to zoom up the hose and precisely the colour to then disguise itself as a butterfly valve of some sort thus inviting you to push it a little more firmly into the hose, had been removed from the hose of the vacuum cleaner, the vacuum cleaner once again worked – can I suggest that you keep a pair of those children’s chopsticks on hand – they have an excellent reach and grip;
  • it’s nice to know that people searching for such information as ‘can you catch botulism from vacuum cleaner dust’ have this blog to keep them entertained as they cruise the web looking for a more reliable source of such information, because in truth I don’t know, though very much hope that the answer is no;
  • it is pleasing to know that Baxter – Australia’s first purpose-built detention facility – is about to be closed, though the pleasure is somewhat lessened by the reasons given for said closure;
  • we have reached a family agreement that there will be no more balloons on sticks gathered from the market or any other establishment, and if all promoters could heed this agreement, we would greatly appreciate it – to be honest, those things are so fucking annoying that I am more inclined to boycott your product than support you in any financial way;
  • I spent forty dollars at the Market Arcade Haigh’s this morning, and although it was all presents, it still made me happy;
  • the man who delivered the replacement worms for the worm farm yesterday had to hurry home, because he had a new chook and didn’t want to leave her on her own for too long;
  • the washing machine which we bought from the mister’s sister for fifty bucks (or so) ten years ago has never even needed a service;
  • I am taking great pleasure in the gold good luck cat with the waving arm that Eldest Boy and I bought at the market this morning to present to my newly engaged cousin and his affianced – I very much hope that it does bring them ‘happity and happy hocks’;
  • the bathroom hasn’t been cleaned for a while, but isn’t too bad.

And two hours later, it all sucks again…

You see, this is the kind of thing that gives me the shits. For some reason, the vacuum cleaner, which is by no means old, but I’m sure is out of warranty, though to confirm that I would first have to find the docket, has shat itself.

Which is particularly shitty, because by three o’clock this afternoon, the house was going to look much cleaner than it does, because I reckon vacuuming delivers a lot of bang for your cleaning buck, and I was really looking forward to sitting in front of a DVD and knitting this evening, all the while enjoying the absence of dust rabbits.

And also, it is shitty because, after several weeks (including three when I wasn’t here) perhaps rolling into months, I have just this morning been able to force myself to ring the oven people to please come – at a time of their convenience – and fix the oven so that I can cook again without that niggling feeling of oh dear, are we all going to be incinerated this evening. Which means that I must once again have dealings with the person who came to ‘fix’ the dishwasher, and let’s just say that me and he are never going to be the best of friends.

When did I become this person?

randomness

It’s lazy blogging, but here is a random collection of things written as they come to me and generally unedited:

  • at the market last week, Opinionated Boy and I stood on the correct weight scales together, because I didn’t want anyone else to see my weight, but really wanted to check mine even though I know that I weight roughly quite a bit more than I used to. The young woman who got on after me weighed 45 kilos which actually made me feel better about myself. Still, I need to do more exercise;
  • work-wise, things are really starting to come together for me, though if you were to say ‘so ThirdCat, what is it you actually do‘ I wouldn’t be able to tell you;
  • doesn’t Bec’s party – and indeed Bec – look ace;
  • we have finally managed to block off all the bat holes at the house in which I hope soon to be semi-living, but fully realise that my dream is still very much at the clouds stage;
  • I see on the calendar there where the mister has written his name and the entry ‘fishing – Yorke Peninsula’ and am not at all sure whether this is a joke and he seems not be returning my texts on said calendar entry;
  • Straight-Up-and-Down Boy is really growing up and it is breaking my heart at the same time it is making my heart sing;
  • the unidentified difficult issues which I can’t really tell you about, because it’s not my business to be publishing such things on the internet are as good as they could be;
  • Opinionated Boy is having a lot of trouble deciding what he is going to wear to the fairy party on Sunday – he has a skirt in a truly dreadful shade of pink and of a truly vile fabric which he often wears for dancing and I am supporting him in his decision to wear it even though I really don’t like pink, and I am quite annoyed with myself for even buying into this whole pink discussion (I think the thing putting him off is that everyone stares at him when he wears it);
  • facebook really isn’t doing it for me;
  • if you got The Age last weekend, the next time you share your bed with someone, you should put the magazine – the one with Barrack Obama – on top of your head when you get into bed tonight and then go psst – it is really funny;
  • I have to go, because I have just got an email from someone which throws into some doubt that point above ‘work-wise, things are really starting to come together for me…’ *bangs head on table*.

and he has such a lovely name

Adelaide, who had been married long enough that even the good quality towel-sets were beginning to fray, had only heard herself say ‘my husband’ three times. No, four. And all of them in the last six months.

Which was strange she thought as she watched him load the washing machine, because, apart from the flanellette pyjamas he now wore against his once-bare skin, he seemed not to have changed.

She scratched at her head, thought that in this morning’s shower she should have washed her hair, and vowed that tomorrow she would drink less water and eat more cheese.

Bridge to Terabithia on film

You’d be surprised how many people are at a 10 am screening on a Wednesday morning. I was not expecting to be here, but have just this morning realised that if I don’t see Bridge to Terabithia soon it will close. I will lose my chance. So I am in the line too.

A lot of the people around me have won their tickets. On the radio. And isn’t it funny that when you’ve got something for free you’re more pushy than you might otherwise be? It’s all right lady – she is shorter and stouter than me – there’s not that many people here. You’ll get your Harry Potter seat.

I digress. I share my cinema with three other people. A woman probably twice my age. An ex-teacher, I suppose, or perhaps a librarian. And a couple who walk in nearly late. They are in their early twenties, and so I guess she read the book when she was at school and now has dragged him along. It’s what I would have done.

Have you read Bridge to Terabithia? If you’ve read it once, then I’m sure you’ve read it twice. And if you’ve read it twice, I think you should see the film. Quick. It’s closing soon.

Rarely have I enjoyed a film quite this much. I was utterly, completely absorbed. I cried at the very first bird which grew life from the one Jess had drawn. I cried as May Belle ran alongside the race calling out ‘go Jess’. I cried when the music teacher sang. And of course, I cried when…well, you know when. I only had one tissue. It wasn’t enough.

I won’t give it away, just in case you haven’t read it, just in case you’re planning to see it, but this is the type of story that demands to be re-read once you know what happens. As in life, the front of the story becomes more precious once you know the end.

Halfway through, I thought it’s such a pity that my own children are too young yet to come with me. I think he needs another year (or possibly two – he still won’t watch the Pooh movie, so you can see what we’re up against), but one day, he’ll love it, I reckon, my oldest child. And while there are some very good films for children, this will stand the test. It is intelligent and doesn’t patronise. It’s plot and themes are timeless (unfortunately, I suppose): bullying; friendships formed on the outer; a father who doesn’t understand his son. The acting is superb – I mean, just get a look at what that girl does, and yay to the music teacher too. The scenery. Don’t you love the way Aotearoa has become the defining location for stories which dwell on the edge of the imagined and the real?

There was a flaw in the script – the reference to the internet is gratuitous and if it was supposed to date the film, well, it will. And it is true, as they say, that the fantasy elements are the least successful parts of the film. But I thought they were as understated as they were supposed to be, given that in the book, Terabithia was truly a place of the imaginiation. And it was nice to be in a movie that didn’t assault with its special effects.

I’ve got my mother’s copy of Bridge to Terabithia on my desk. There’s her name written in the front. She was a primary school teacher, my mum. Parents who are teachers are crap at teaching their kids anything. Don’t take offence. You know you are – maths, driving, geography – if your parents are teachers you won’t learn it from them. But I watched my mother grow more and more enamoured of this book the more she taught it. It would appeal, I think, to a teacher who is trying to make connections with the children who need it most.

I hope that one of the children she read it to is watching it now and thinking the same thing as me.

Bridge to Terabithia. Five stars.

footy tipping…

…would be fun, except that there is always someone who takes it seriously. And aren’t serious footy tippers exhausting? And then, don’t you get sucked in – just a little bit – to wanting them not to win. And if someone else has to win, well, it may as well be you. And it’s all downhill from there.

And so, the representatives in our wider family tipping competition are our boys. Six years old and four. This, we thought, would be fun and would expose tipping competitions for what they are.

Except that the latent competitive spirit is obviously genetic and, I hasten to point out, passed down through the male side of the line, and one of our boys – the eldest one – is suffering through learning that if someone is going to win, then someone else must lose. And in footy tipping, sooner or later, you must always lose. Ugly (not me, I hasten once again to add, I am gracious in defeat – always).

It is an opportunity for teaching I tell myself as I follow him up to his room. Again. And hold him in my arms while he sobs.

And then, on Saturday, this classic line from eldest boy: ‘the problem is, Dad, I know the past, but not the future’.

And it was only six months ago (or maybe a little more, I don’t know, doesn’t time fly) that he jumped on the trampoline full of the joy of youth and shouting, as he reached the top of his jump, ‘I can see the future from here’.