Procrastination is my middle name.

I shouldn't be writing this at all. But rather attending to the pile that is thus:

And thus:

Oh, the crap you accumulate with children.

International movers are coming on Thursday.

It's a quiet child free day and all I want to do is sit here with the heater on my feet whilst sipping a hot cup of coffee and write about all the stuff that's been going on my head.

There are a few projects beckoning too. More furniture makeovers.

I want to strip this beautful cabinet back whilst I still have a garden big enough to handle the fumes.

I spent some of yesterday and Sunday stripping off that horrible baby poo yellow paint they loved in the 60's from this trolley that I salvaged from my Grandfather's estate. It looks so good.

I could have been packing and organising but I found half a can of paint stripper left over from this chair project.

Salvaged from Vinnies for a buck each, a set of these fabulous mid century dining chairs. Stripped and treated and re-upholstered. I am in love.

I'm on a roll.

Unfortunately no room in the London home for this project. It will be available at the garage sale along with these Parker dining chairs I never got round to.

But I have to reel myself back in to the job at hand.

Organising three distinct areas:

One for packing on the ship bound for London town.

Another for the garage sale.

A third for storage.

People ask if I am excited about the move, about returning to London and all that it entails.

Not currently amongst all this chaos.

But I will be. Probably about a day or two before we go and everything here is sorted.

I am definitely looking forward to many things; to change, to new beginnings, to opportunity, to friends and much much more. But that is a whole other post for when this week is over.

Until then, I will be surrounded in cardboard and packing tape and lots of dust and memories.

In Transit

 Image care of Estan Cabigas

So another two month single Mother stint begins.  Hopefully the last for a long while.

Brad's gone on ahead of us.  Back to London.  Launching full tilt back into work.  Preparing a little bit of financial padding before we arrive in July.

He almost didn't leave, which had nothing to do with the usual culprits like killer hangovers and sleeping in.  His plane was grounded for security reasons.  It seems someone had left a mobile phone on the plane.  These days that's enough set off a full blown security panic and totally screw with a whole plane load of passenger's plans.

Meanwhile, somewhere else, the mobile phone owner was experiencing that sinking moment of realisation and panic whilst pulling apart the contents of his bag.

Brad missed his connecting flight in Dubai and is now pacing the halls of the airport.  No doubt cursing the phone dude, but perhaps quietly wondering whether it's his karma after all.

He left his phone at the departure desk during a recent trip. It was 6am, he'd been up drinking all night.  It was a predictable outcome.  I wonder now if a similar security situation occurred.  Whilst he snored and dribbled onto the passenger beside him, back at the airport all hell was breaking loose.


I noticed that a friend had recently joined a new Facebook page entitled something like: Bin Laden is dead, so let me pack my shampoo already!.

Indeed the liquids restriction has been an international travel disaster.  I know it came to play in the hope that it would divert a real disaster.  But the collective heartache and anger it has caused us travellers could surely create enough force to manifest it's very own large scale natural disaster.  I have seen people in tears, fuming with rage as their recently purchased duty free items have been confiscated at security.

When the liquid ban first came down it was a blanket NO LIQUIDS at all.  I often wondered what happened to all those full bottles of Channel perfume I'd see lined up behind the x-ray counters at security.

It must have been a lucrative time to be a security officer at an airport.  A bit like being a waiter in a fine dining restaurant where the tips are revered.  At the end of the shift they all sat around sharing out the days goods.

Later, when the liquids rule changed, it never seemed to be the same set of rules in every country.   What was OK in the UK was not the same in Singapore.  This surely encouraged the continuation of a whole new black market trade in confiscated goods.

I went to Europe last year and stopped to transit in Bangkok.

Transit: a timeless space,  a limbo land.   Where sleepy, discombobulated passengers float about in a daze.  A large cavernous place that echoes with both silence and chatter all at once.  Where an odd energy permeates the air, a mixture of excited anticipation, anxiety and melancholy.


I tend to buy a litre or two of water for the plane ride in whatever airport I am departing.  I have learnt now to only ever do this once past security.  Pay the premium, but at least board the aircraft with my precious hydrating liquid.

Once off the aircraft in Bangkok, before being herded into the transit area, all passengers must first go through security where the usual 'no water bottles' rule applies.  The fact you have clearly just gotten off a plane with that bottle of water in your luggage doesn't seem to count for anything.  But rules are rules.  What are you going to do?  Make a scene? And what time is it anyway?

I found a spot to purchase more agua, a cheap joint on the lower floor away from the Cartier boutiques and overpriced seafood bars. The time was approaching to snap out of the transit fug and find the boarding gate.

As I paced towards the gate I could feel the distance growing between myself and Transit, and with it an increasing sense of direction and purpose.  I really had someplace to go.  A destination awaited me. Suddenly time was relevant again.

But alas, yet another security check ahead.  The Liquids Nazi strikes at the very last hurdle.  I was disgruntled to say the least.  I pleaded.  I disputed.  I made a scene.

In that echoing soundless space my rage was palpable and I didn't care.  The ridiculousness of it all was infuriating.  I threw my unopened water bottle into their clear plastic bags with the most graceful attempt at contempt I could muster.

I realised then why the water was so cheap in that last stop shop.  It's recycled.  All those misguided travellers.  The shop owner has never experienced such a prosperous period of growth in profits.


I've been in transit for a while myself now.  Discombobulated, (how cool, I get to use that word twice in the same post) in the beginning at least.  But this last year or so certainly in limbo, between places.  Seemingly floating, timelessly, through days and weeks.  No fixed direction.  A friend suggested that perhaps that's just how we all feel after having a few kids. There could be some truth in that.

But I know am going somewhere now.  I have a direction. Purpose.  I am heading towards that departure lounge with long, steady confident strides.  A whole new chapter awaits for us to begin.  We are gathering momentum.

Boarding.

Deranged Bunny

 

Dear Mister Easter Bunny, 

Hi how are you? I was just wondering if you could take a photo of yourself on the camera please. And not to be rude or anything, but people say, and there is this movie about what I am about to say called Hop. Does Easter Bunny, you, digest and drop jelly beans out of your backside? Because if it is true can you please do it.

PS You are the best

I will also leave you a carrot

Jack xxoo

 

Jack, who mostly behaves like a world weary ten year old bad ass gangsta rapper, decided to write the Easter Bunny a note.  This suggests that perhaps he still is a child under that tough and cool exterior and that he may still hold onto the vague hope that myths such as EB and Santa might just be real.

However, his innocent and sweet intentions were set to ruin upon the discovery that his seven year old brother had already marked the other side of the page with the following depiction of me:

That's me! Flipping the bird. Naked. Leaking breasts. Dilated pupils. Definitely not a vajazzle in sight. Let's face it, looking pretty unhinged and deranged.

Jack and I were equally disturbed by the discovery of this image and for entirely different reasons. We did however both agree that Easter Bunny probably wouldn't like it and that it might be a good idea to re-write the note on a clean sheet of paper.

The kids discovered this morning that EB doesn't drop jelly beans but bullets instead. It's an Aussie thing.

I've discovered what I really look like through the eyes of my children and have been considering a course of therapy to recover some semblance of sanity and positive self image.

Going for Good

Are you going for good?

I get asked this regularly.  But I am not sure what it really means.  I guess it means; you ain't coming back for a while, are you?  And I guess the answer is probably; no, I guess we ain't.

However, the term 'for good' has such a ring of permanence to it.  I feel that by answering yes we are somehow bound to the decision, we can never return, re-neg or rebound.  Stuck forever in that place we choose to go.

But aren't we all in a state of impermanence?  Anicca.

" Anicca is a Pali word for "impermanent." The Buddha taught that everything conditioned is impermanent. To be conditioned is to be dependent on or affected by something else, and Buddhism teaches that all phenomena, including beings, are conditioned.

The transitory nature of all conditioned things is the basis of life. Because all phenomena are in a state of flux, change is possible. New life is possible, and enlightenment is possible, because of anicca."

As a child I travelled quite a lot.  I don't find the notion of moving house, town or country particularly stressful.  Our reasons for moving weren't motivated by poverty or misfortune.  My experience was always one of adventure and excitement.  I felt safe and secure wherever we went.  I come from a long line of professional global shifters.  Most of the male members of our family having served in the Air Force and others being adventurous entrepreneurs.  All the women adept in packing up house.

So we shift again to the other side of the globe.  The only thing I won't do next time is ship the entire contents of my house.  Travelling light is the key to this global shape shifting gig.

I have had a bit of advice lately on what to take and what to off load.  Some say take only the items that have a real purpose.  In this they refer to something practical I am sure.  But I can't overlook the value in an emotional connection to the pieces we surround ourselves with at home.

This chest of drawers some would argue is completely expendable and readily replaced.

But I created the story behind it.  I salvaged the drawers, then lovingly restored and painted them with a beautiful Farrow and Ball colour.  They also fit perfectly in the alcove beside the bed in our London home.

And what for the trinkets and pictures on top?  They all have meaning and history.  They remind us of who we are and where we have come from.

A friend once suggested that having a single item of furniture that travels with us from home to home would give the kids a sense of continuity.

The piece I chose to fill this job is our kitchen table.  Perhaps a rather large and cumbersome choice I will admit, but there is more to it.

A slab of European oak made to measure.  Slightly wider than the usual measurement and about 6ft long.  A wide matching bench runs down one side to squeeze lots of kiddies upon.  The chairs I recently salvaged and renovated myself.

More than the obvious practical purpose of the table there runs a romantic notion too.  The idea to have one central bit of furniture around which family life evolves.  The focal point for family activities, the heart and soul of the home.

What better item than a kitchen table?  Of course it rarely looks like the photo suggests.  It's usually covered in stuff, the dumping ground, both literally and metaphorically.  It sees and hears everything this table.  It's been around the world!

My romantic vision sees this table staying with us forever.  I am not sure it's even made so well to stand up to the expectations I have put upon it.  Nor do I treat it so well that it should want to stay with us forever.

But already after less than five years the surface is marked with time and memory.  Ink marks and scratches and stains that connect us to our past and remind us of who we are and where we have been, that root us to the place, wherever that might be.

So in packing up this home my guidelines will conform to not only the practical uses for the items selected but their true value in terms of connecting us to our home and to our past, and providing the comfort and stability that allow us to accept and conquer the challenges that lie ahead.

How do you travel? What are your packing guidelines?

Kookaburra friends

Grateful for....

As I was hanging up yet another load of washing on this fine and glorious day (which incidentally I am very grateful for; the sunshine and being able to get a tonne of washing done) a strange and totally foreign thought entered my mind.

I wasn't feeling the usual dread at the imminent arrival of my Mother-in-Law but rather a sense of relief. And believe me, 'relief' and 'Mother-in-Law' are certainly not concepts which usually go together when contemplating the arrival.

But you see she is arriving with a task already laid out for which she may apply herself contentedly. Brad slashed his foot in a surfing accident yesterday afternoon. Foot and leg injuries are his forte.

Instead of spending my Friday night curled up with a glass of red and a good movie I was in fact at the local A&E awaiting the patient to emerge. And emerge he did with a giant bandage and multiple stitches and strict instruction not to move about very much for 3 days.

School holidays. Crippled husband. Things weren't looking promising. But alas our very own nurse maid is soon to arrive. For this I am grateful. Although maybe I am speaking too soon.

On a metaphysical or spiritual level the feet are all to do with one's connection to Mother Earth. Or the Mother! Injuries can represent our fear of moving forward, literally slowing us down and perhaps making us take a deeper look.  Also they are said to be the storage location for old grief and resentments, stored in the feet far away from the heart.

"Louise Hay suggests that feet represent our understanding of ourselves, of Life, and others, and toes represent minor details of the future." Compassionate Dragon

And I am always grateful for delving beneath the surface and conquering fear, releasing blockage and understanding ourselves on a deeper level.

As usual this is all part of Maxabella's Grateful blog hop, check it out.

Have a GREAT weekend.

Bedazzling down under

 image care of http://www.reviveme.com.au/vajazzling/

There’s been a recent wave of blog posts dedicated to the new black of vagina grooming (here and here and this one is hilarious).  That is: Vajazzling.  Otherwise known as bedazzling your private bits, as brought to the wider global audience thanks to Jennifer Love Hewitt.   So I thought I would join the bandwagon.

I initially posted a little status update and link on my FB page earlier this week, I won't link that here as it's a little inappropriate and might attract the wrong kind of audience.  Needless to say there was a huge response in the comments section.  The whole idea really captured the collective imagination.

My errant husband returns from an epic 6 week trip abroad tomorrow.  He hasn’t seen a vajajay in a while.  I am not sure he could care less about the vajazzle, and quite frankly I doubt he’d even notice in the initial frenzy that possesses a deprived man.  That’s not to say I didn’t prepare myself to a suitably presentable standard.  It’s the least I could do.

But when a friend mentioned he’d been ‘Pejazzling’ for some time now I began to question just how far I’d slipped off the fashion radar.  I spotted my daughters jar of craft jewels and a stick of UHU and considered the possibilities. 

In searching around on google, it's amazing what you can discover.  And although I took the 'pejazzle' comment with a grain of salt, I did actually come across a rather disturbing image and the insightful information that it's set to be the European summer's biggest trend.  

So guys, if you are keen to add a bit of swarovski brilliance to your sword, game is on!   It's like the stuff of fairy tales.  The story of the Knight in shining armour and his jewel encrusted sword.  He is the envy of all the land.  The combination of his talented swordsmanship and magical tool leave all that encounter his brilliance quivering in anticipation and awe.  It's the stuff dreams are made of.

But until now it seems us ladies have been the only ones putting ourselves under enormous pressure and physical pain to keep our landscape design up with the latest trends.

One of my favourite photographers Rankin, who is way ahead of his time and also loves a good vagina shot, may have hit on a more achievable home style vajazzle experience.  Let's call it the vajsprinkle.  

Easy to achieve with a few commonly found household products.  Best of all it's totally edible.  That's got to add a little more spice than a couple of fake diamonds.  It also removes the need for all those pesky questions about what happens when the hair starts sprouting again or if the guys hair gets all tangled up around the crystals.

So if you are seeking a new experience look no further than the baking section of your local supermarket and get vajsprinkling today!