Moves like Mrs Pedersen

As a casual teacher, the staggering variety of duties I'm called upon to undertake is extraordinary.  I've "taught", among others things, Yr 11 Physics (yep, right up my alley, that one), Library, Yr 9 metalwork (the accident form is still out there somewhere), Yr 12 English, and, the latest challenge, Dance.  And, all this whilst being a fully qualified primary-trained teacher.  They're really heart starting days, but I've grown to love the buzz.

That is, apart from my excruciatingly embarrassing latest stint as a fill-in for the dance teacher for sport.  Normally, gigs like this will be a piece of cake, with the casual simply keeping an eye on the kids while the person with actual expertise in that area will provide some useful instruction.  Not so in this case, as on this particular day the proper dance instructor had not seen fit to bestow her services, and the dance lesson was to be delivered by........(horror of horrors)......moi.  This only became apparent to me as I walked into the room with around 20 teenage girls hoping to see a lycra clad cutie with cd player in tow ready to deliver the goods, only to find an empty room, no music player and tables and chairs neatly laid out for a meeting.  My sinking feeling intensified when we all sat down, the girls looked at me expectantly, and I realised I had nothin'.

Let me just lay it on the line for you, my dancing experience is limited to childhood ballet lessons in Holmesville community hall, numerous bops to a blues band with my drink spilling onto the floor, and on the odd occasion I subject Dan to my version of "interpretative dance", usually after a work-do or a party when the fun ended too soon and we've found ourselves at home but still unsober (haha, yes, that is a word) and full of beans.  Apart from those times, I'm whatever the opposite of "exhibitionist" is.  But wait, then I had a lightbulb moment.  In the words of Cher...."If I could turn back tiiiime". 

In desparation, I offered to teach the girls a Zumba dance, and judging by their faces, the offer came across as more of a threat than a promise. So, I offered the alternative, that they could get together in groups and make up their own dance -  but of course, they'd need to find a decent song on Youtube as inspiration (sucker = me).  This, of course, gave them the green light to devour funny clips/music videos/babies snorting grapes for half an hour and protest to me when questionned that what they were doing was searching for creative stimulus.  And, while I would be happy to do some similar mucking about on my own phone for a couple of hours, my sense of responsibility kicked in...how annoying.

And that's how it came about that I hit the carpeted boardroom "stage" in my knee length teacher-issue cargoes and joggers and performed "Moves Like Jagger" to the tinny sounds of the song faintly radiating from someone's ipod.  At first, a few joined in, but they backed off when given the "that's sooooooooooooooooooo not cool" looks from the older girls, so it was all me.  And hey, I'll give myself some credit - I saw it through.  Mainly because I was getting paid to do it, but hey!

(From now on, though, I'm keeping a hip flask in my bag, just in case).

Excuses, excuses...

I went on a shopping spree today (sorry, Dan, to break it to you this way, but thanks for reading!).  It's always a bit of a frenzied affair when I shop at one of the local shopping centres - for one thing, I'm usually getting as much as I can done before my four-year-old daughter, Erin, loses it.  And she's a fairly patient girl in the scheme of things, I'm just terribly indecisive and try to pack everything into that one particular shopping trip. It would help, too, if I stuck to my agenda - even if I'm organised enough to take a list, invariably I will deviate shockingly.

The list usually reads something like: 

Kmart:    New school jumper and birthday present

Reject Shop:  Plastic tubs to replace broken ones

Coles:  Bread, milk, cheese, pullups

Sportsgirl:  Return faux fir hooded vest from last frantic shopping expedition

The actual trip usually reads something like:

Kmart:  Get distracted by homewares sale, can't find jumper and forget birthday present
Reject Shop:  Emerge half an hour later with packets of stickers and a new peg basket - can't find lid to match tub.
Food court:  Milkshake to keep Erin off my back
Coles:  Smoked salmon, dips and crackers, quince paste, scented body lotion, a double adaptor, soda water and limes for vodkas
Sportsgirl:  Forgot receipt so can't get a refund.
Food Court:  Hot chips to keep Erin off my back, coffee to give me more shopping energy
Myer:  Scan for sales, buy end of season coat for one of the kids that won't fit them next year.

JB HiFi:   Wander around looking at CDs and DVDs, knowing full well that will just download anyway

Liquorland:  Pick up some "bargain" reds

etc, etc......until Erin chucks a wobbly, and I'm forced to make my way out to the car, struggling with bags of useless items.

Unfortunately, the two major shopping centres in our area have a 3 hour free parking period, after which time you pay extortionate parking fees that double with each extra hour you spend (yes, spend $$$$ in their shopping centre - just don't get me started on how outlandish I find that set-up).  Even more unfortunate is my tendency to squeeze in so much shopping that I'm often sprinting for the car, dragging a traumatised Erin behind me, in the final minute of my free 3 hours.  It's always at that moment that Erry needs to go to the loo, and it absolutely can't wait, and I'm weighing up the most annoying outcome - urine-soaked clothing or paying five bucks for parking.

But no, that's when it's time to draw on my extensive collection of excuses for the person at the other end of the info button on the paying machine.  Today I was 15 minutes over and I declared to the young and nonchalent sounding parking-machine boy, in my most fraught and haggard voice, that I had "trouble finding the exit, as I'm not from around here".  I mean, come onnnnn.  He obviously didn't even think that corker warranted a response, as he simply opened the gate without questionning my very questionnable excuse.  I had to do a witch-cackle on my way through the raised boomgate after that one. 

Usually I don't endorse lying, but when it comes to worming your way out of dishonorable practices such as Westfield parking fees, I admit I feel no guilt whatsoever.  It's not the first time I've duped my way through the boomgates, either, with past excuses including "having no money left, no credit card and no keycard" (and no clue), and "getting caught in the elevator".  I'm sure if there is a camera involved in this whole scenario I'm invariably dismissed as a dumb blonde or a batty shopoholic who can't find her way out of a car park.

There was that far more astute guy at the Charlestown Square boomgate box, who seemed to be more clued onto serial parking fee skippers like me, and grilled me on my (admittedly less elaborate) excuse of having no money left - seeming disbelieving of my announcement that I have no credit card, and curtly declaring that he has now taken a photo of my number plate, and will keep it on file for any future attempts at absconding.  OK, mate, just let me through....and get a life.

The thing I love about excuses, is that the more elaborate the better - everyone knows you're telling a porky, so why not provide some entertainmnet at the same time?  I can just imagine the guys getting together at the end of a hard shift at the end of the boombox speaker and comparing notes on the pathetic excuses they've heard that day.  I suspect most of them (except maybe that one guy at Charlestown), don't really give a toss whether you pay or not, but the challenge is always there to spin an extravagant tale of poverty and woe. 

Hey, it's a fiver I'd rather have in my pocket.

Bliss

Yesterday I experienced one of those perfect mornings - two kids at school, one in preschool, and a perfect sunny day all to myself! What to do? When an opportunity like this arises, there is no better way to spend the day, in my mind, than a walk along the beach and a swim. So that I did, parking at Bar Beach and joining the predominantly female sporty types pounding that stretch of pavement winding up the hill towards The Hill. Beautiful. My favourite tunes pumping through my earphones, a spectacular view of our beloved blue playground the Pacific Ocean and a lively array of people to "watch" took me further than expected, as far as Nobby's. It was there I had my first twinge of guilt, as happy parents happily frolicked with their happy kids in the world pool and the rock pools near Nobby's. Or were they?

Interestingly and coincidently, following on from my initial guilt at seeing such displays of parental attention, I plopped myself down on the sand with a magazine after my refreshing post-walk swim at Bar Beach. I had deliberately found a spot away from the rock pools where good parents were playing with their kids rather than sending them to pre-school and enjoying their day alone. And there, I came across an article discussing recent findings comparing the happiness levels of parents and non-parents. I read, with surprise at first, of how a particular study placed the happiness levels of parents much lower than those of their non-parenting peers. I was surprised, given the extreme emotional feelings that having and raising children have inspired in myself and other parents I know. Then I burst through this bubble of bliss and recalled the endless, relentless saga of feeding, bathing, brushing teeth, nagging about homework, breaking up sibling fights, and their fussing, backchat, demands and downright obstinance. My mind wandered to just last night when I wailed out loud to anyone who would listen (er, no-one) "why oh why is every freakin' night the same ??!!", whilst wrestling a screaming, thrashing 3 year old with matted tufts in her waist length hair towards me and the loaded brush.

Was I happy at any of those moments? Er, I'd have to say no, not exactly. But 10 minutes later as the same wayward 3 year old squeezed her arms around my neck and said "goodnight", all feelings of frustration and anger (almost) floated away. Don't get me wrong, I adore my kids - they make me laugh and feel proud and inspire a she-wolf protectiveness in me that is inevitable with such intense love.

However, I'm not surprised a clinical study finds that happiness levels in parents is lower. If happiness is measured in terms of feelings of general contentment, serenity and well-being, then parenthood most definately puts the kibosh on that. But if, as the article suggests, happiness is defined by being involved, active and having a sense of accomplishment at the end of the day, then these are attributes any parent could attest to. There's no way parenthood has ever left me feeling like I have nothing to do, or my life has no meaning.

In saying that, I adore that awesome schlumping sound the lounge makes once the kids are in bed and it's time to simply switch off and zone out. I'm quite happy at those times to be mind-numbingly bored and cross-eyed with complacency.

So, I should just point out that my guilt was shortlived on my day of freedom. I told myself to snap myself out of it and enjoy the little life-raft of pleasure that drifted my way. Whatever it takes to stay afloat..

PS. Just as well too, as a sleepless night of vomiting child was just around the corner!

Drunk

I was a bit drunk the other night. Ok, maybe that's an under-exaggeration, cos I was actually completely hammered. I know this not only from my sketchy memories of dashing up for a night with the school mums with a bottle of champagne AND wine, and that fateful moment when I said out loud after guzzling the champagne in record time - "Should I really open this second bottle?", but from the fact that it was pretty early on and I had to nag my 10 year old daughter to get going home. Yikes, I must've been a pretty picture in her eyes - yep, Mum's three sheets to the wind and needs to go home before she makes a spectacle of herself by spewing all over herself.

Yikes. But I can console myself with the fact that I can blame it on the company. These girls are world record holding drinkers - my piddly second bottle was completely pole-axed by one of the girls announcing, not at all shamefully I might add, that she was cracking her fourth! I'll also blame it on the netball game beforehand, too, I think.....or maybe my recent diet has left me so waif-like that I just can't handle my liquor any more.

I like that word, "liquor" (and no, not because it sounds so much like "lick her" and I like to make rude jokes about Liquorland) - it just conjures up images of sophisticated "Mad Men"esque red-lipped housewives pouring generous nips of whisky, or some other such "liquor" into a crystal glass and draining it in one dramatic gulp. Especially after a hard day where she's discovered her hubby's cheating but she's decided not to let on because she has a cunning plan for revenge, involving some form of shrewd, hitting where it hurts (ie, the bank balance) scheme followed by a icily delivered speech about his shortcomings - all the while not smudging the red lippy and drawing on a cigarette with more finesse than should be allowed

But no, I didn't feel the best today, but rest assured I have been truly punished by an extraordinary day-long blaze of naughty behaviour by the kids - they really stepped it up a notch today, let me tell you. Yep, a real festival of fun. Ugh, gotta stop thinking about it and pass out now.

Terrafirminator

In this day and age, you would think that machines used for our general household use would be created with the intent of being reliable, simple and just as they seem. But then someone dreamt up the "Terrafirminator" from Gnomeo and Juliet. This deadly and twisted mix of metal and power is the supremo of lawnmowers. It makes Axl Rose look as metal as a banana split. Right now I can hear our shonky old three-wheeled wonder shittin' metal at the moment for the fear that such a mower exists and might replace him.... or mow him down. Bless him, poor dear tries his best despite his disability - but he's safe for now, his owners are too tight to upgrade just yet. Unless of course he continues his most annoying habit of stubbornly veering off to one side and falling down holes. Not that I'd know, of course, that's hubby's cross to bear.

Not so, unfortunately, for my own little scrap of domestic bliss - the washing machine that I remember Mum grappling furiously with was passed down to me in my early days of setting up house. And faithful though it was... it would suddenly decide mid-cycle that your towels were unfairly distributed and it had become determined to loudly and violently shake them into compliance. But c'mon, the old girl was the first release beyond a washboard, she was old and cranky and not willing to take on my family and its smelly socks. Can't blame her really.

And the cheapo made-for-rental-homes gas oven currently taking pride of place in my kitchen. How on earth can I achieve the dizzying heights of Masterchef accolades destined to come my way when my dodgy cooker has it in for me? Usually on special occasions, when hungry guests are eagerly awaiting the delicious culinary delights I have promised them, the oven will decide that, actually, that roast pork is just right at half cooked and it's going to save me the embarrassment of serving up a fully cooked meal and turn itself off..damn it! Grrr, makes me want to set the terrafirminator on it.

This did get me thinking, though, about some attempts made down the generations in my family to tame such rampant domestic devices. Certain images spring to mind of my Mum's bottom shaking zealously in time with the old hand-held egg beater, and my Nan's habit of enthusiastically wielding the vacuum cleaner as a dance partner. And sometimes, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em - I don't know what comes over me, but somehow the milk frothing pulse of the coffee machine evokes my most hamstring pulling, leg-kicking Elaine Bennis moves like nothing else can.

Hey - whatever gets you through the day, eh?

No shame

It really makes me laugh how little kids somehow manage to ignore or have not yet become accustomed to society norms. It's almost like they just do and say whatever comes to mind until the (inevitable) but unfortunate day comes when their impulsive act is crucified mercilessly by the harshest critics of all - other kids.

The poor blighters blissfully sail through a pre-school age life where it is perfectly acceptable to run around in the nude, pick your nose and eat it and leave the house proudly displaying a food stained face. One recent incident in my house comes to mind that was a perfect example of an uncensored view of a 3 year old girl. Miss E has an older brother, and thus enjoys the company of his mates, to the point where she thinks they're coming around to visit her (because, of course, it is the pushing the baby doll in the pram and a tea party they've come to take part in and not a raucous wrestling game on the trampoline). On this particular day Miss E exited the toilet and proudly announced to a regular playmate of her brother, "I wouldn't go in there - I just did a big poo". Now, I'm not sure if she was just trying to be "one of the boys", or if she was repeating something one of her other family members had warned upon coming out of the toilet (not me, I assure you), but I could probably say without doubt that it's not something she'll be announcing to her brother's mates in, say, 12 years time.

In fact, if she faces the kind of mortification that comes from others knowing that she has befoulled the toilet, she'd be more likely to hold on when mates around to avoid that very knowledge. But then, why is it that we try and hide something that we all do (even the Queen, I remember being amazed to discover)? I'm speaking predominantly about the female population here, too, as many men I have noticed are still quite proud to announce the stinkiness of their deposit in the big white porcelain bank. Although, some make a vain attempt to hide the evidence of their latest visit to the loo by spraying some eye-watering combination of white lily and pot pourri; which, in my opinion seems to grab the stench, swirl it around with some floral scent and produce an even more unnatural and offensive odour.

Ok, enough about the poo, just think of all the ways we suppress our natural urges to avoid embarrassment and judgement of others. Children are well-known for pointing out obvious facts with sometimes excruciating honesty. The things we think but would not in a million years say out loud - especially observations of a person's appearance - are fair game for a child. When he was at that magically honest age of about 3, My 7 year old boy once loudly proclaimed to me at the beach "look at that, Mum, that man has boobs" - much to my, and the man in question's, intense horror. And really, the poor little soul was just sharing something he thought his mum might be interested in and didn't realise he was being offensive - the rather top-heavy bloke didn't see the cute or funny side unfortunately and demanded to know what he had said. What else could I say but "kids will be kids"? And who hasn't been embarrassed by their child in a supermarket aisle pointing out to one and all the advanced size of the bottom in front?

School kids are especially brutal when it comes to bringing other kids down - it's a self-preservation thing. If all the other kindy kids are busy chanting "you wet your paa..aants" to the poor soul who spilt water on his crotch at the bubbler, they are less likely to turn their attention to the fact that you didn't shake as well as you could've on your last toilet trip. And the moment some loud-mouthed kid caught you rolling a boogie and wiping it under the table was probably the last time you did it (in full view, anyway). These kind of ruthlessly embarrassing moments are the ones that put an end to our youthfully innocent shameless behaviour forever.

Which is a shame really. Us adults could learn a thing or two from kids about honesty. OK, so we can't all go around being brutally honest about people's appearance - that would likely make us susceptible to wrath and, perhaps, assault (or, even worse, a retorted reply broadcasting a few home truths of our own physical shortcomings). But surely we shimmy around the truth a little too much at times when candor would be much more helpful. Like when shopping with a pal and the outfit she's tried on makes her look like a sallow and lumpy sack of potatoes - are you going to let her go out like that? Or when hubby comes in for an early morning grope with breath that smells like horse manure dipped in sour milk - do you hold your breath and close your eyes and try not to imagine you're kissing a camel, or do you demand that he brushes his teeth before he has the reward of sucking in your own less than fresh vapour? I don't know about you, but I feel really cranky if I discover, too late, that I've been walking around all day with a baked bean stain on my cheek and no-one had the nerve to tell me.

So come on, lets take a leaf out of the kids' book and say it like it is - "you smell like faaa-art, you smell like faaa-art"

Principal blunder

Well, funnily enough (or not, as the case may be), my first post describes an incident today which doesn't really make me laugh, although some - more ruthless types, perhaps - might find it amusing for a bit of friday arvo entertainment.

OK, I'll admit, I had entered a state of what could be described as a daydream, which featured such pressing matters as whether I fancied white or red wine for arvo drinks while cooking tea, and whether anyone would notice that I was wearing my daggiest trackie pants and sporting a super-flat unstyled hairdon't, to pick the kids up from school - when pulling into the 5 min pickup lane out the front of the school. And yes, this daydream state, coupled with the scarily snug proximity of passing buses and cars, caused me to negotiate the squeeze past parked cars into the pickup lane a little too closely. Thus, with the sudden demolishment of my dream-like state came the horrifying sound of one car scraping against another.

My gut-dropping horror was immediate, and instantly intensified by the realisation that the victim car was the shiny black number that belonged to none other than the school principal. For gawd's sake, what are the chances? But then, with said Principal hogging the most sought after carpark on the street causing overwrought mothers to negotiate the swing past at the peril of their own and his vehicle, one could argue that it was an accident waiting to happen? I'll keep telling myself that, anyway.

So yes, with there being many witnesses, including one father gleefully announcing - "you know whose car that is don't you?", I had little choice but to tuck my tail between my trackie-clad legs and haul myself out of the car to admit my driving folly. With it being end of term, and teachers safely inside wildly celebrating the delightful prospect of two weeks of student (and parent)-free bliss, my humiliation ran deeper still as I was reduced to knocking on the door and sheepishly asking the gestapo ..oops I mean, office lady....at the door if I could speak to the Principal (let's just call him Mr B). Waiting outside nervously, with the kids demanding - "why do you have to see Mr B, Mum?" - my thoughts turned to how I would break the news, but I had little chance to conjure up an elaborate sorry tale as Mr B appeared promptly, face frozen in Principal Politeness, and invited me inside. As tempted as I was to join the thronging, rejoicing mass of teachers behind the scenes (would there be champagne?), I actually said to him..."you'd better come out here"...with a more exaggerated tone of dread than was perhaps necessary or intended. To his credit, Mr B retained his polite and patient facade whilst no doubt inwardly eyerolling about yet another drama queen mother (and doesn't she know it's the last day of term?) and came out to face the music. Without the opportunity of drafting and editing my sorry tale, I simply blurted out - "I scratched your car" - to which, to his credit, Mr B's head tilted somewhat, but he didn't yet freak out.

With tentative, and perhaps slightly frantic curiousity, and no doubt expecting to see half his car guaged to within an inch of its life, Mr B held back a sprint as he followed me out to the scene of the crime. We inspected the damage together, and with my attitude shifting ever more abruptly to one of undermining the damage, in order to minimise the potential damage to my wallet, and Mr B keeping his cool and conceding that, really it wasn't too bad, we parted company with my licence number in Mr B's hand and the agreement that panel beaters would decide my fate. I do have to admit that my opinion of Mr B has now risen above the former one earnt by too many memories of swimming carnivals snickering with other mothers about his insistence upon donning skimpy budgie-smugglers to such events. He is now, in my eyes, either a great actor, extremely impassive due to a very long school term, or just a nice bloke.

(but it still makes me laugh to think of him stuttin' his stuff in his budgies at the local pool;))