Tuesday, June 29, 2010

THE THIRD DRAWER DOWN




One day, I am going to buy a recipe journal. And in that journal, I will keep all of my favourite recipes so I don't have go through the third drawer of shit every time I want to make something.

 
You know the drawer. The third drawer down in the kitchen. 

 
The first one of course is for your general cutlery.  Knives, spoons, forks, that kind of malarkey.  Although, you’d be hard pressed finding a spoon in ours due to our tragic teaspoon shortage.  I am still yet to determine who the spoon thief in the household is but I am heavily suspicious of Jack.  Where he is stashing these will no doubt present itself in the coming weeks.  Luckily, it’s hard to flush metal.

 
The second drawer down houses the big ticket items.  You know, the super dooper apple slicer, the peeler, bamboo skewers, salad servers with gigantic carrots on them, the can opener and the Teflon tube that apparently peels garlic, although no one has ever attempted this nor are they ever likely to. Why it hasn’t been turfed out is another Morley mystery.

 

That brings me to the third drawer. Now the actual drawer number may differ in your house, but I bet every single one of you have one – The third drawer down of shit.

 

In this drawer, all kinds of miscellaneous paraphernalia can be found.  In particular, nuts, bolts, batteries,  inappropriate wrapping paper, warranties and recipes scrawled on the back of empty envelopes.

 
I only write about this today because last night I was desperately trying to find a recipe for quiche that is unfuckerupable. It is idiot proof and I knew it was in that drawer SOMEWHERE.

On my way to (not finding it) I did encounter the following:

134 balloons and equal amount, candles:  Every day is a party at Chez Morley it seems.
 

Copious amounts of nuts and bolts:  Note, these will NEVER EVER be used for anything because whatever they belonged to has no doubt been chucked out in some sort of cleansing frenzy we go on from time to time.

Two, Twenty-first birthday cards: They will be very handy in about, oh, 11 years.


A ball of string:  I think this is just a mandatory third drawer of shit item. 

A set of unidentified keys:  I have a feeling these have followed us from house to house, but we are both too frightened to throw them out. Why I don’t know, because we’ve replaced every single door in this house and our cars have central locking.  I will approach Phil tonight about throwing them out.  I guarantee you he’ll say no.  It seems for every semi-new toy  he throws out behind my back, he scouts out a new key to add to this collection.

A mini shoe horn:  Can’t tell you much about this, other than the fact it’s mini and it’s not mine.  And no one ever uses it.

A double adaptor: I'm pretty sure this would blow up our house if it were to be plugged in.

A coke bottle label:  Apparently we still think we might be the lucky winner of a competition from 2006.  

Our bank book from January 2004.  For a bank account that no longer exists. Seriously??

3 Printer install disks: none of which we own any longer. 

Last but not least, our warranties:  We seem to have the enviable ability to keep warranties for each and every Fisher Price toy we’ve ever received (and probably no longer even own), yet bugger me if I can find the receipt for the camera I bought just over a week ago.  I only know this, because I was about to take a photo of the third (and fourth it appears) drawer of shit for the post and it won’t work. 

 

Anyway I couldn’t find my quiche recipe.   Fuck knows where it is, but it certainly doesn’t live in either of those two drawers.  This led to me moaning to anyone that would listen, that I need a journal.  A dedicated recipe journal and the feedback was mixed.

 

Some of you say you’ve got one and keep it well maintained.  Some say you have a blog where all the great recipes are kept for prosperity and sharing purposes.  Some, like me, say they shove them in a drawer and pull them out every 6 months or so and a few said they couldn’t understand why I was cooking when I have a perfectly good husband.    I liked the last person very much.

 

Actually, we share the cooking load and don’t get me wrong, we have our bog standard meals that get  cooked week in, week out, but sometimes, I want something exotic (not last night clearly, quiche is more Fountaingate than Barbados), but you know what I mean.  Hence I think it's time to grow up and get myself organised. 

 

Now, I have a camera receipt to track down.  It could be on top of the fridge.  That is my second favourite place to horde really important stuff.

I’d love to hear what you do.  Do you have a journal or box?  What about a dedicated drawer of shit?  Or am I just totally alone in this one. 

Saturday, June 26, 2010

DON'T GET ME STARTED. WAIT, YOU ALREADY DID.

I’m going to have a whinge.  Let’s face it, apparently it’s what we women do best, and if it were an Olympic sport, I sincerely hope I would be a contender for at least the silver after I get this off my chest.

 

I spent a good, solid hour yesterday cleaning my car from top to bottom, inside and out. If you’ve read about my cesspit of a car before, you’ll know this is quite a rare event for me.  But because today was my 40,000km service (let’s just pretend the  odometer doesn’t sit at approximately forty-six thousand k’s right now) I figured I better make the Jazz pretty for the mechanics, lest they think I don’t lub her enough.

 

So, after ripping off the car seat cover that was inadvertently involved in a game of hold the coffee yesterday, I discovered some disgusting and unidentified scuzz.  Could be mould, could be dirt, could be a combo.  Hmm, that neck rash Sam is sporting suddenly starting to make sense.  Anyhoo, the scuzz was the least of my problems. 

 

Even after the cleanfest, the fact that the drive-thru kid at KFC (don’t judge me, it was a Friday night and I was rooted) dropped all of our Pepsi max cans on the bitumen which in turn, caused them to explode and basically shoot paint stripper at my duco, didn't really bother me.


It wasn’t even the fact we had to get up at with the sparrows fart to get the car in for servicing at the local Honda dealership that got to me.  Well, it bothered Maddie who has comfortably fallen into the teenage sloth fest that sees her sleep in until lunchtime if allowed. 
 


No, not much worried me actually, prior to rocking up to the big fuck-off, newly built Honda mechanical workshop.  I got out of my car and waited like a plubber at reception waiting for someone to acknowledge me and then I handed over my keys. That’s when I noticed something was amiss. 

 

See these guys have pre-printed invoices, seeing as it’s a standard service and all, and I noticed the figures 703.  Oh, I thought to myself, that must be the code for the 40K service.   Doubtful.    So I decided to ask what price I could expect to pay when I picked it up.

 

Now, here is where I should tell you that this is my first ever, brand new car.  As such, I swore on a bible to Phil (OK, so we don’t own a bible, but you know, I was deadly serious and shit) that I would a) keep the car clean, tidy and the children would NEVER, EVER eat in it and  b) I would religiously log book service it.  One out of two ain’t bad.  Oh shit, that’s two out of three ain’t bad.  Damn you Meatloaf.

 

Anyway, I made vows and I intended to stay true to them.  But let’s face it, when you spend a fair amount of your time in the car when your kids are particularly hungry, the vow* of though shalt not inhale French fries whilst you drive around in the Jazz, goes out the (electric) window.

 

Again, I digress.  The servicing part I have stuck to. For the first time in my life, I have looked after a car mechanically and in fear of voiding my 5 year warranty, have always taken it to the Dealership I brought it from.   You know what?  I know they did fuck all when I dropped it in for the last, oh, say 5 services.  I’m well aware that they just topped up the oil and drove it through their carwash and I happily parted with $200 for the privilege.

 

But this time, well this time, when I asked the question I mentioned so long ago in this post, the smarmy front reception guy said to me “Oh, $700 assuming we don’t find any trouble”.  What the fuck?  Dude, if you find any “trouble” it will be me, kicking you in the nuts for ripping me off.

 

Still, I handed over my keys.  I mean, I'd made that vow.  I wanted a good, safe and warrantied up car.  And hey, I expected it to be a little more this time, but not more than $400.   Walking back to my waiting husband and his idling car, Jack yelled to me at about 1000 decibels through his open window, that he had “just found snot up his nose”. I watched my family faces change from gleeful to confused as I turned and walked back towards the dealership.  

 

I went back inside and got my keys from Smarm and made a vague excuse of bringing it back soon and "not expecting it to cost so much".  Like he gave a shit.  It just meant he could go home earlier on a Saturday. 


Phil cursed a lot on the way home.  There was a lot of “That’s bullshit” and “Seven hundred dollars?” being bandied back and forth.  I got home, rang around and found a great place that will do it for, get this, two hundred and fifty dollars.    No voided warranty, no planting my foot into anybodys genitals**, it truly is a win win situation.

 

* I think I am confusing vows and commandments somehow.

** I'm pretty sure I’ve never actually kicked anyone in the nuts.  Although, my memory is hazy and I may or may not have kicked my brother in the ghoulies in my pre-teen years.  Sorry Les.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

HAPPY EOFY


 
No I’m not trying to flog you some unnecessary Foxtel goodness.  I’m wishing you a Happy End of Financial year.

 

For a living, during the day, I prepare tax returns.  Now, now, don’t go all Justin Bieber fanlike and mob me, I know it’s pretty awesome.

 

But to be honest, the beginning of a new financial year in an Accounting practice is actually quite exciting.  For one, we get REALLY busy.  And for two, we, um, get to use our mad tax skillz and get people massive refunds.  Sometimes.  Not always.  Please don’t hate me....

 

I joke, but I’ve been at my current job for nearly ten years.   I’ve been in the tax game, with a small break in transmission here and there,  for 18 years. 

 

But I’m guessing like anyone who’s ever worked for someone, it’s only a matter of time before you realise, it’s not about the work you do necessarily, but the people you work with.   I’ve worked at a few dodgy places.  Some where the principals idea of preparing journal entries was sticking his hand down your blouse (he didn’t actually crack on to me, but I was warned several times to be wary) and another where the guy was masquerading as an accountant, solicitor and a real estate agent combined, and was prepared to pay me the big dollars to shut up and just go with it.  Hmmm, no thanks.  Funnily enough, after years of watching Prisoner, my desire to have my head slammed in an ironing press and to become the prison wardens bitch wasn’t high.  So I quit. 

That aside, after working for a wonderful boss, I’ve learnt quite a few things in my time that might just help out the uninitiated with preparation of tax returns and the like this year.  Having said that, this information,  to the general population will be (as Alf from Home and Away would say) stating the flaming obvious.

 

Keep your receipts!!!  Far out, the amount of people who come in and tell us that they want us to get them “most of their tax back” and then give us fuck all in the way of receipts, just astounds me.  Hang on there young fella, I just need to grab my magic wand and conjure up some kind of mystical law-fucking spell that allows me to do that.  We need to see evidence.  End of story.

 

Don’t listen to the Pub Accountant.  A few beers, a few peanuts and the advice starts to flow.  “My mate Johnno gets all of his tax back EVERY SINGLE YEAR”.  That’s because he claims his pool, and his married mans tax and he says he works from home and claims his whole house as a tax deduction.  OH REAAAALLLY?  It is so incredibly dangerous to listen to this shit.  What you’ve got to understand, is that your accountant will be doing their damnedest  (well the good ones anyway) to get you the best, legitimate tax outcome. That way, you can recommend them to others. Why on earth would we be trying to get you the shittest refund in history?  Do you think we enjoy death threats?  Let me tell you from experience, we don’t. 

 

Don’t smoke heaps of pot before coming into see your accountant.  I really don’t think I need to elaborate.

 

We are not the enemy.  In fact, we work for you and not the tax office.  But, we do have to use their laws and guidelines.  Please don’t treat us like bits of shit and tell my boss that you hope “she dies over the weekend” because Child Support took all of your refund.    Not cool.

 

Your refund will take 14 days.  Not 10.  Not 7.  Especially, not 4.  Please don’t keep ringing; we will contact you the minute it arrives in our letter box.  This has been especially hard since the Australian Taxation office implemented a new software system that completely shit itself in December last year.  Think QLD health pay bungle and multiply it by 5.  Yep, that fucked.  Hoping to hell it’s fixed by July 1.

 

Last but not least, if in doubt, ask!!  The old mantra there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, totally applies here.  However, if you do not listen to the reasonable answer you are given and just continue on to be a fuckwit, I reserve the right to hang up on you.  OK, so, sorted??  Good.

 

Happy EOFY everyone and best of luck with the tax man.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

IT'S MY PARTY AND I'LL CRY IF IT WANT TO, CRY IF I WANT TO...



As  I write this, Phil is out getting me a birthday present.  Now, we kind of agreed a few years ago, after the kids came along, that we wouldn’t exchange presents.  Because, let’s face it, if either of us want something, we  generally just go out and get it.  Bunnings and Phil have quite the history of this.   And well, on top of that, his money is my money and vice versa. 


Don’t worry, we've never actually stuck to this plan.   I even made it dead easy for him by getting a Pandora bracelet a couple of Christmas’ ago.     There is always a sneaky present of some sort that comes out for him though.  In fact, previously,  I had become increasingly creative with my  present ideas for him.  Twenty laps in a race car with a racing legend, Jet boating, deposit on a surfboard of his choice,  you get the picture. It seems though, these kind of gifts require forward thinking and well, a bit of motivation. 


But this year I just don’t know what happened.  All of a sudden, it was the day before his birthday and I had Jack Shit.    No, not just the saying, I literally had Jack shit.  All over the toilet.   In his pants, on the sheets, in fact, there was so much of it, he was ready to star in his very own Gastro Boy.   So we made a mercy dash to the shops and all I could manage to get him was a plain block of Cadbury chocolate.  Regular Size.  And NOTHING ELSE.


I knew he was disappointed.  I think he might have even  been thinking as the day went on, that I would surprise him game show style, with a snowboard and trip to Perisher.   Bupbow.


The other thing is, we are really trying to finish this house and therefore any unnecessary spending has been ruled out.  We discussed this and I thought he was on board with the plan.  I guess not if todays comment of “I only need 5 minutes to get your present.  I know where the lolly aisle at Woolies is”  Shazam.


I have heaps of friends who just go out and buy the coffee machine they want and tell their husband when he gets home  to “Go look in the kitchen and see what you got me for my birthday big boy”.  Or “Check out these diamond earrings, Happy Birthday to me, thanks darling”.  Whilst I reckon this saves the bullshit of pretending you love the gift you get, (hello earrings from mothers day), it also takes away the exciting part of birthdays – the surprise.


And I think I get my fill of surprises with the kids.   I just about spoil the living shit out of them.  When they ask for toys during the year, I always tell them, “How about you ask for it for your birthday”.  So when the birthday does eventually roll around, I want to deliver.  And when I say spoil, I’m not saying stacks and stack of money on presents, I mean I want them to feel like they are the most special person in the world, for an entire day. 


I’ve always thought the best presents are the ones you can’t buy.  And my only request every year from Phil is a “no strings attached” massage.  Or as someone put it the other day “A massage with no happy ending”.  There is nothing I covet more.   That and a new handbag.  But, just quietly, I’ll be picking that one myself. 



In reality though, as much as I wouldn’t say no to a "Bradley Cooper  jumping out of a gigantic birthday cake surprise", I’m thinking my present may be more along the lines of a snack sized packet of Cheese and Bacon Balls.


Seriously though, it’s just stuff and on most days, having each other and a roof over our heads is enough.   


“The happiest people don't necessarily have the best of everything... They make the best of everything they have...”  (Thanks Emily)


Addendum:  He has just returned home with a jumbo sized ladder strapped to the back of his car.  For Moi?? 



Tuesday, June 15, 2010

STORY TELLAH



I recently came across my daughters Weekend journal from year one.
   
 

This is the Journal where they write, every Monday morning,  about what they got up to on to on their weekends.  It was so cute and hilarious.  Oh how we laughed. 


Until of course, I realised after I actually started reading her somewhat stilted words properly, that she had the teacher convinced Phil and I were divorced and more than likely teaching her to speak ghetto.

 

I vaguely remember some odd, concerned and at times, downright questioning looks when picking her up from school, but it never occurred to me she might be painting me as a tainted woman. 

 

And look, things start off quite sedate in the journal:

 

“Yesterday I went to the Bitch for a piknic”  Translation. She went to the beach for picnic.  Unlikely.  I mean, maybe we went to the beach.  Maybe I was being a bitch.  Unlikely her weekend would have involved a picnic in either scenario though.
 


“today I am gowhang to Mi Dads hows”  The Teacher responded with “I hope you have fun at your dad’s house”. Translation.  So, you’re mum and dad are divorced,  noted.  – Except we weren’t and never were.  This is where the lies begin.

 

“On Sunday I am going to Sidny Habr Brig”  - Sydney Harbour Bridge.  I can safely say, she’s never seen that bridge or been to Sydney. 

 

“On Monday, I am going to the Zoo bEcause We are going to move housers”  This came with a picture of a moving truck and six other cars.  Perhaps we won the lotto in her imaginary life.

 

“On Sadurday I am going to my dads house because I messe him vere much” Even though she saw him every day.  In her own house.

 

“This afternnon I am going To ride my bike with my brothel and my mum and I am going to Sizzler”   Cause you know, that kind of work makes a kid hungry for cheese toast.

 

On a Fathers day card: “Dear Dady, you are speceal because you read me books and takes me to the beatch, Love Maddie xxxooo”  Take that Beatch.   That’ll teach you to leave your wife and take the kids on interstate trips to the zoo without advising your ex-wife.

 

“Dear Santa, I hope you hav a god Christmas.  I thincy you are had. I would like a barbie doll please.  From Maddison”.  Don’t worry honey, now you’re old enough to understand, I think you know it’s you who’s been had.

 

Only just over a year ago, Sam’s teacher, in my first parent teacher interview with her, asked me why he goes up to his Grandfathers on the train every weekend.  A)  His grandfather lives in Burleigh  B) He sees him about four times a year. And C) we drive him there in a car.  Apparently he had Mrs Bourke convinced he lived with his grandfather on the weekends and he took a train to get there.  Yeah, NO.

 

I guess my main question is why did my children make up stories about,  or idolise alternative lives to the ones they were living.  Did they hear their friends talking about staying with different parents and it sounded exotic?  Would writing “We went to Aldi and mum flipped out when she found a stainless steel  door stopper for $4.99” just sound too mundane?  Actually, yeah, I think I’m starting to understand.

 

Friday, June 11, 2010

KICK START MY HEART

I recently put it out there – how much coffee is too much coffee to ingest in one day?

 

I would have, on an average day, three, maybe four coffees in a 24 hour period.  But I have two teaspoons of coffee at home when I make instant.  So is that really eight?

 

Jesus, that eye twitch is starting to make sense.

 

And the thing is, I had not touched coffee until my first office job, aged 17.  Not even a sip, but to curb both my boredom and appetite, I got stuck into the coffee.   Plus, I had to make it for my geriatric boss who would demand one via internal phone whenever he felt like it.  Only problem was, I was a coffee virgin and thus, it afforded me the luxury of completely fucking it up. Every. Single. Time.   He stopped asking me after a while.



But being a teenager with a rapidly expanding ass due to going from active high school girl, to stationary office  minger in one month, made me want to fill the gaps in my always hungry tummy with something that wasn’t food.  Hellloooo Nescafe.  *gag*

 

My addiction seemed to ramp up after my first child.   Every morning, I would take the two of us down to a coffee shop, usually the same one, and enjoy my first real coffee of the day.  It wasn’t my first one of the day, mind, just my first real one, from a real machine.    I swear to god it was my saviour in those first few months where my mind was mush and everything revolved around nappies, sleeplessness, milk and spew.  It got me out. It got me speaking to other humans and it got me a little bit happy.  So happy in fact, I would often go on a shopping frenzy for shit I didn’t need.   Story of my life.  Hey look at that, I’ve traced it back, I blame the evil brown bean for my shopping addiction. Damn you and your underhanded high.

 

My best friend resolutely avoided coffee until about 3 years ago. She went to a friends, for morning tea and for one reason or another, she accepted a coffee.  Instantly hooked.  Into the latte sachets quicker than you can change Federal Governments and sucking back the cappuccinos on a regular basis.



Same friend just brought a Nespresso Machine. You know the one.  The one where George Clooney comes and licks your ear whilst presenting you with an awesome cup of coffee in bed with every machine purchased?*   We got a chance to sample some in Myer.  I was impressed.  Didn’t think I would be, but was. 
 
I also have two friends who don’t drink coffee.  At all.   One has agreed we need to meet for an alcoholic beverage should we ever be in the same state, the other drinks a truckload of V and probably has more heart palpitations than a fat kid at a cupcake party.


I do however, have little time for the pretentious wankers who turn up to a generic coffee shop and order a half caff, soy, extra hot, mini, non-fat chai tea latte.  FUCK. OFF. 

 

So, back to my original question – how much is too much.  I have settled on a limit of 3 a day.  2 before I get to work, one when I get there.  Sufficient stimulus to get me awake, functioning and get all four of us to kindy/School and work each day.    That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
 



How many do you do a day?

*May or may not be a bit of bullshit.

Monday, June 7, 2010

TAKE ME TO MY BEACH

I grew up on the Gold Coast which means it was practically mandatory for me to wag school in year 12 and head down the beach on my oversized mens bike with ape-hanger handlebars and roast myself in the midday sun, lathered in baby oil.  


For some unknown reason, we never got busted.  Perhaps it was because no one ever noticed we were AWOL or more than likely, it was because our high school was just really shithouse at monitoring truancy.

 

Our favourite beach was Focus, so called this due to it being in front of a big round building as coincidence would have it, named Focus.  We spent every daylight, weekend hour on that beach.  Sunbaking, swimming and perving.    We spent every spare cent we had on Coconut Oil, Cheetah Togs and Oakley Sunglasses.


 

This all came flooding back to me on Sunday when I got a solid whiff of Reef Oil.  After letting off some heavy duty cockroach bombs inside our kitchen, we as a family had to get the hell out of dodge and decided to give the beach a whirl.

 

Now, again, living on the Gold Coast, you would think we would be down there most weekends, but to be honest, most weekends we run out of time.  Not to mention the fact that the surf beach is a 25 minute drive away (with the Broadwater being walking distance) and well, add to that fact that we are incredibly lazy, our beach days are limited.  


My kids love the beach and have seemingly zero fear of the waves.  Unfortunately on Sunday the waves were dumping like a footballer down a hotel hallway, so we had to be very careful, but for a winters day, it was sensational weather.

 

The reef oil of course wasn’t mine.  Not too far from where we dumped our plethora of shite which included sunscreen, towels, hats, two spare changes of clothes, the Sunday Mail, 25 monster trucks and my body weight in Tupperware, lay two young ladies in their bikinis.   Holy maxi family Batman, where the fuck did the family with the beach bag the size of Kansas come from?

 

What struck me was the fact that, there I was, in military issue clothing, caking my children in suncream and erring on the high side of the sun alert level and yet here these two girls were, (one a fair skinned ginga) slathering reef oil on and having little regard to the danger of the sun.

 

I know this sounds hypocritical, after I just explained what I did in my youth,  but I can honestly say, and let me be a Nanna for a moment, back in my day, we just weren’t alerted to the danger of the sun.  My own mother suggested I fry myself with pure olive oil to get a better tan for god sakes.   We would have competitions of who could rip the largest piece of second skin off a sunburnt back.    This would not have been the case if the dangers of the sun had been presented to us back then, the way it is now.

 

Now I take Jack into kindy and he must be covered head to toe in Sunscreen, have appropriate hat and stay out of direct sun during the midday hours.  Same with the school aged kids.  They are whiter than Michael Jacksons good hand, but so is most every other kid their age.

 

The thing about the beach is that it’s so versatile.  Of course there is the general, swimming and sunbaking aspect to it but on Sunday I saw it being used by a couple who were clearly distraught and taking some time out.  There was a group of American boys using the beach as a grid iron stadium and for a young girl and her boyfriend, it was being used as a daylight drivein complete with heavy duty makeout session. 

 

After two hours of swimming, driving cars through sand hills, making sand cakes, a couple of moments of going postal at Jack, kicking balls and sliding down the sand hills, we packed up our copious amount of shit and got cracking.  Well Jack tried to get to know the bikini girls a little better first by asking them why they “had their boobies out”, but then we got going. 

 

I do wonder if all of this will sink in to my daughter or whether her desire for a fabulous tan in her teens will outweigh all of the scare tactics.  She can always just have a close look at her mothers crows feet and freckly face. That should give any young kid pause for thought.

Friday, June 4, 2010

HAPPY BIRTHVERSARY



Today is a double bunger.  It is Phil's birthday and it is also our 11th Wedding Anniversary.

 

I have pre-written this as a) we have a hectic schedule between today and the last time I blogged and b) I want to enjoy this day.

 

It kind of just happened that we got married on his birthday.  It certainly wasn’t in our original “plan”.

 

See, we’d booked the church for September.  The dress was paid for and sitting patiently in my closet.  The venue had been narrowed down.   And then, well then I missed a very important date.  My period. 

 

So everything I had ready for nine months time, all those moments I had already lived out in my mind, exploded into a cloud of morning sickness and fear.

 

One thing I was sure of, I wanted to be married before I had that baby because otherwise, I knew we would just never, you know, get around to it.
 


And look, it’s not like we didn’t get quality time together before we got hitched.  We had been together for over four years.  We had been travelling, albeit to Bali a hundred times, but still.  We were living together and saving for a house.  So we knew what we wanted, we just didn’t realise our undies only need touch for me to fall pregnant.

 

So what to do?  I clearly remember feeling that ill during my first 16 weeks of my first pregnancy, I could barely get myself dressed and into work, let alone pull together a wedding for 80 people.  But somehow I did.  I would say we, but let’s face it, Phil just turned up (oh and fixed the drain, more on that soon).

 

And the date, well it just had to be that date. The reasons elude me now.  Perhaps I thought it would be cute to get married on his birthday.  I was only 23.  Maybe it was the only day those around me could definitely make it. I have no freaking idea, but that’s what we did.

 

So, going with the track record of the last, oh say 100 years of fairly mild, dry early winters, we organised for the ceremony to be held on the headland at Burleigh Beach.  My girlfriends and I would drive up there on the weekends proceeding the day, Savage Garden blasting and all four of us bubbling over with excitement.   We would map out where I would walk, where Phil would stand and look out onto the Ocean I expected to say our vows to.

 

But of course, fate had other plans for me.  I went to bed, the night before the wedding to the sound of pouring rain.  No problem I thought, it will stop.    I put my pillow over my ears so I couldn’t hear it.

 

Yet, the next day, it was still raining.  Ot Oh. 

 

June 5, 1999, was the rainiest day on the Gold Coast in over 16 years.  A fact I heard bandied about and marvelled over quite a few times during that day.  That and the old chestnut “Rain on your wedding day is good luck”.  Bet no one says that to a couple when they get married on a balmy sunshiny day. 

 

The wedding and reception was moved to my in-laws big, beautiful house in Burleigh.  I can honestly say I loved my day.  And even though my husband was on his parents roof 30 minutes before I was meant to arrive plugging a leaking drain, he too looked a vision when I eventually walked in on my brothers arm to “A groovy Kind of Love”. 

 

I remember lots of tears and a lot of love in that room that afternoon.  I remember a friend saying to me “That is the best ceremony I have ever been to; you could just tell the love between you two is real”.  That meant a lot to me.

We babymooned in Bali, one last time and enjoyed our last months as a married couple sans kids. 

 

4 months later, our lives changed again.  Again, there was  rain event.  Seems we Morleys love a good rain event.  You can almost set your clocks to us.

 

So Happy Birthday Phil.  I asked your son Sam today how old he reckons you are.  He said “Well, considering he’s old and  crippled, I’d say the big four oh”.   You're not far off mate and even though you still haven’t moved past goggling tits on the interwebz and more than likely will never read this, I love you.  Happy Anniversary beautiful man.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

GUEST POST

Megan over here at Caveat Calcei  is a Lawyer. 

Oh and she is addicted to shoes.  In fact, her blog slogan is - Law & Shoes… I practice one to buy the other.    But that kinda doesn't do her justice.  She is one smart lady.  Who is compassionate, insightful and able to bring out a story from seemingly nowhere from almost anyone.   I was honoured she wanted a story from me.  Truly.

On her blog, I tell you about my red shoes, my love for them, my disdain for them and my inevitable giving into them.


Wednesday, June 2, 2010

YOU ARE WHAT YOU TWEET

My husband and I just had the conversation where he got to tell me "I told you so". 
 
By my very nature I am a sceptical person.  So when I started using twitter, I took it slowly. I followed people I knew, knew of or I was interested in.  And it wasn’t long until I was on my way. 

 
Phil was dubious.  “What are you doing, meeting dudes on there?”  And I guess, if he starting talking or tweeting to random people on the internet, I  too would be a bit put out.  But it has never been about that.  Not for me anyway.  I talk to lots of people about lots of things.  And I’d like to think I’ve made some very strong and real connections since mid last year when I started “social networking”.  I’m not in it for the networking side, just the social bit.  Oh and the fact I am a bit of a news junkie, I find that the news travels to Twitter way quicker than TV or radio a lot of the time. 

 
I’m not looking for new best friends.  I’ve already got mine and they could never be replaced. 

It’s kind of hard to know though, when people are just showing you a facade on the net.  I mean, there are endless avenues to secure fake photos, personas and lives and basically turn themselves into anybody they would like to be. 
 
A year ago, I didn’t even really know what a blog was.  I was introduced by an acquaintance. She told me I should check out hers and gave me the web address.   The first thing I noted was that it was kind of like an online journal of her life.  I was intrigued.   So much of her life was on there.  I mean I knew her, she was also my neighbour and whilst I wouldn't say we hung out, I knew a fair bit about her.   Her blog displayed lots of crafty things she made.  She is very talented and absolutely gifted at holding kids parties.  But then again, if I did nothing all day, I reckon I could whip up a pretty outstanding Lego Man party myself.  It wasn’t long until she started to rant.  About stuff that I could see she was clearly being hypocritical about.   She made out she was the worlds biggest earth mother and dutiful wife, whilst in reality, she was good at keeping her husband firmly planted under her thumb and borrowing tools and gear off her neighbours and then hastily turning around and talking smack about them.    At one point, she called her husband home from work one day to clean her sons arse.  True story.

In short, her on-line and real life personas, just did not match up.  It was easy to make herself into something she wasn't.  What struck me though was that in the end, she was only deluding herself.
 

 
So, having said that do I change my mind on subjects?  Yes.  Do I say stuff in one breath and then maybe contradict myself in the next?  I don’t intend to but maybe I do?  When you are trying to entertain and be funny, sometimes situations are made to look more entertaining than they actually were. Let’s face it, me saying I stood in line with a tantrumming toddler whilst someone took too long at the ATM is not as funny as the way I blog about it.  But all in all, I’ve stayed true to who I am and what our family represent which is basically organised chaos. 
 

For instance I could not have made up the last year I have been through.    I just couldn’t have.  Cancer, broken bones, surgery, breast cancer scares, teeth pulled, tampon painting. Could I put all of that out there just for the fun of it?  Well I couldn’t.  You have to have a good memory to make it as a good lier.  And my mind is like a freaking sieve.
 

OK, so what this really is about is my last 48 hours.

 
During that time, it has come to light, someone I follow on Twitter, someone I have actually met in real life (only 1 of 2 I have actually done this with) turned out to be a total scammer and a fraud.

 
She led me, and a lot of other people to believe a lot of things that are simply just not true.  Basically, she sucked a lot of people into believing she was incredibly sick with cancer.  She made up fake people online that she used to con money from unsuspecting, good hearted people.

 
I should have followed my gut instinct.  That something was off.  That and the fact that she was incredibly rude to the majority of the retail assistants she spoke with that day.  But hey, she was meant to have cancer.  You can't call bullshit on someone with cancer over a "gut feeling". 

 
Where the lies start and end, at this point in time, are undefinable.  It was elaborate.  It was started at least over a year ago and a lot of good, smart and trusting people were sucked in.  The sad thing is, at the end of the day, if she really was sick, we all would have embraced her.  Probably even helped her out financially eventually should she have needed it.   But now, well now, she’s fucked herself.  And she’s tarnished a lot of what I thought was cool about this whole “community”, which is really sad, because I reckon 99% of the people I know, follow and speak with, are really fun, smart, and genuine people.

 
I think this may very well be, the modern day scam.  And I think I’ve had my very first taste of the evil side of the net.