Friday, April 27, 2012

DREAMWEAVER






 
I dream most nights but generally struggle to remember exactly what the dream was about the next day. I mean, there are *some* that dominate but rarely any that I can remember in their entirety. They are either of a common theme or they are very random, like say when a chicken is chasing me as I rush towards the train station after an explosion of holy water while simultaneously trying to fight off some kind of *thing* that looks like a cross between a rabbit and a cat. Oh, and there was that *one* inappropriate dream about Craig McLaughlin I can’t seem to quite forget, try as I might.


Having said that, there are two dreams in particular that I do have.


The first one involves some variation of me being late or a no show for my shift at McDonalds, which is curious, because I haven’t worked at McDonalds since I was 17, almost *cough* 20 years ago. So why, when I am one of the most hideously on-time, never miss a day of work kind of people, do I continue to have this dream? Well, according to my very industrious research on the interwebs, (which by the way brought up "Dreams of Killing my Boss, Turning up to work naked and doing an impromptu presentation") I have found that the reason I continually dream this way is (and let's just automatically assume the guy that said “This question makes no sence,. go suck a dick” isn't a viable source) is because I have anxiety about reaching goals, pleasing superiors and performing well. And it also suggests a chronic concern about being late. 

This is all  remarkably true. I hate being late. I like to be liked. And I want to perform well in my job. DREAM BUSTED!


The other dream, which is EXTREMELY common is about losing my teeth. Particularly one of my front ones. So apparently this means one of two things: I’m scared of getting old, ugly and sexually impotent OR I’m scared of making an idiot of myself in public. I’m going with the latter. Because I often do EXACTLY that!


The most common dreams are:

  • Being Naked
  • Being Chased
  • About your Teeth
  • About flying (and crashing) 
  • About falling
  • Being tested (and failing)

So what about you? Is there a particular dream you continue to have? Do you dream at all? Like me, do you have unfortunate dreams about plane crashes the day before someone very dear to you is about to fly out.  Most importantly, are you, like me, having peculiar dreams about 1980s Soap/pop stars that you can never admitted to in public? Spill. Better still, I'll do my best to interpret your dream and NOT tell you to suck a dick.

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Kidspot Ford Territory Top 50: Feel the difference






I remember looking around and wondering where to begin. It was all so new. All so foreign to me. I looked over at my baby son, snoozing in his capsule, unaware that he had just moved to a new home. A new house that would be closer to his sick grandmother, yet further away from the friends we had always believed he would be surrounded with. That this, his new abode, was merely a shell. And that his parents, in what could only be explained as sleep deprived insanity, had purchased a house to renovate that on closer inspection, was probably more demolish-able than renovate-able.  


The instructions that morning, that very first morning in our new house, were pretty simple - nothing was to be left on the newly laid timber floors. Sure. I could do that. So I picked up the broom and began the task of well, sweeping.


I looked out the window across the road to see our neighbour making her way down the stairs, young son by her side, with what looked like an old fashioned ‘welcome to the neighbourhood pie'. That was when the baby began to stir.


I placed the broom against the wall and picked him up, his wispy hair plastered to his sweaty little head and it registered that not only was it hot, for some ridiculous reason, ALL of the windows were closed. In Queensland. In Summer. As I was trying to jimmy the 40 year old window open, I saw the broom out of the corner of my eye start  it’s slow decent towards the, oh shit, the new timber floor. I stuck my foot out to catch it exactly the same time as the Window started to fall out OF THE HOUSE.


So to give you an overall picture, there I stood – a baby in one arm, precarious dangling window in the other, all whilst almost doing the splits to try to stop the broom hitting the TIMBER FECKING FLOOR. I somehow managed to secure the window and was about to bend down and pick up the broom just as Phil rounded the corner, totally unaware of what had just happened.  “Oh come on Bern, all I asked you do was to keep stuff off the floors!”

Glare.

“Um, what did you just say?!”   

“These floors are new, nothing is allowed on them for 24 hours, I told you that!” Then he shook his head.

I stared at him in what could only be described as enraged disbelief as he started to reiterate his point.That is the exact moment that living with his parents for the past 7 weeks, the homesickness, the enormity of what we had taken on, culminated into quite the unladylike explosion. As expletives streamed out of my mouth at unnecessary volume, I turned to see our new neighbour at the curb, dropped jaw, her hands fiercely protecting her son's ears. She simply turned on her heel and returned home.


Oh. My. God. We were THAT family. And yet, yet, we weren't. Usually.


Bear with me – this does have a point. Of sorts.


See, that neighbour, the lady with the pie, she did eventually speak to me and strangely, she is the one I have to thank for introducing me the world of Blogging. I mean, she didn’t warm to me straight away, but I’m guessing she was won over by the small acknowledgment waves I enthusiastically doled out each morning and the lack of full blown domestics in our home.

After some time, she told me all about her blog. So I checked it out.


It was super crafty, had perfect photos of her perfect boys floating down wooden stairs to a perfect beach. There were short tales of idyllic family outings to museums and places of further education.  Her recipes were non fat, non sugar, non fun.  There were posts about the disgusting habits of parents that had children with headlice. And the evils of the school canteen. We were fed images of her child genius playing the piano wearing homemade clothes having had just finished a home school lesson all the while devouring lettuce wrapped in prosciutto.  


Meantime, her real story was more like a parallel universe. Her 4 year old was still soiling his pants. Daily.  She was known to call her husband home from work to deal with “this”. Both of her boys ate more sugar and yellow food colouring  than my children have seen in their LIFETIME.  Her husband would sneak over and ask to have a beer because he “wasn’t allowed to have alcohol". Her children  gave my children nits. The hypocrisy was amazing.


And her hypocrisy annoyed me. And it annoyed me because she had people not only believing that her perceived perfection was easy, but they were somehow inadequate if they were failing to achieve the same. Ultimately though, it annoyed me because the only person she was lying to, was herself.


So that is initially why I started So Now What? I wanted to  represent a realistic take on life in suburbia as a married, working parent of three. To prove that it ISN’T always perfect. And it’s not ever predictable. But it *is* always real.


As part of the Kidspot Top 50 Bloggers competition, I have been required to write this post that will be my entry. As such, I had to explain how my journey into blogging started and what sets me apart from the others Bloggers nominated. This is the hard bit. Why am I am more deserving to win the AMAZING trip to New York City (Oh, just my ALL TIME fantasy destination) to attend 2012 BlogHer and a Ford Territory to drive for a year. I'm guessing *now* wouldn't be the right time to mention the whole sideswiping incident though, no so won’t be doing that.


As to what sets me apart from the other 49 I stand alongside? Probably not a whole helluva lot. We all love what we do and do it to tell our own, unique stories and share our experiences.


But, OH, also to note, if you vote for me, you could win 5,000 big ones just for clicking a button. So even if you think I’m a grammatically incorrect moron, don’t let that stand in the way of your own potential win. 



Plus, check out my competition, I am in outstanding company.

Monday, April 9, 2012

DROPPING THE BALL










Two of my children still believe in Santa, however after Saturday night, I’m pretty sure at least one of them is now fairly suss on the Easter Bunny. 


See we decided, in our wisdom, to go out on Easter Eve. Fact: Dinner + wine + show + wine x late night = a less than adequate Easter Bunny impersonation. That formula can also lead to irreversibly damaging your twelve year old daughter, who, although old enough to know that the whole Easter Bunny thing is a giant sham, is not entirely prepared to witness her less than sober parents trying to perfect an Easter Bunny sized bite from a questionable carrot.


We’ve got years to save for the therapy. I digress.


So, after successfully making it appear that a Bunny had gone on some kind of rampage through our kitchen, we continued on with the actual Easter Egg Drop. I guess every parent has their own way of doing this, but we’ve always placed the eggs at the end of the kid’s bed. This way, when they wake up in the morning, they think that the Easter Bunny was RIGHT, FREAKING THERE! Looking over them. Actually, thinking about it, that’s kinda creepy. 


ANYWAY


Phil walked in first, arms loaded and as it turns out, a little unsteady. See, one of Jack’s eggs was a giant football and I can confirm that when one of these is accidently dropped on the floor in the dead of night, it makes a loud noise. Loud enough to wake up a 5 year old. The situation went a little something like this - Or a little exactly like this:


Phil drops egg, thump, we both freeze mid egg drop like we are playing an epic game of statues and the five year old looks directly at his father and smiles. Oh shit, it’s all over. No, wait, he lies back down and appears to go back to sleep.  We both look at each other, silently place the remainder  of the eggs around and then go to bed and pass out.


6 hours later, we are woken by two very excited boys invading our bed. This was too early of course to determine the level of our hangover, i.e was it mild and able to be fixed by two panadol and a Bacon and Egg McMuffin, or more serious and in need of 7 more hours sleep and a long stint sitting on the shower floor.


That’s the thing about kids though, they are fairly indifferent to your self-inflicted suffering.  And rightly so.


After showing off  his haul, Jack looked at his father and said "I saw you in our room last night"  Phil and I made eye contact and simultaneously started to try and explain the situation with horrible and clearly ill prepared lies.


“Well, the Easter Bunny was running a bit late, so he got me to bring the eggs up to your room”  Sam looked sceptical, yet fairly disinterested.   Jack, with an amazed look, “So you SPOKE to the Easter Bunny?” I piped up with a “Oh sure, we both did, but he had a tonne of eggs to deliver and he was already running behind schedule.” Sam still looked on, saying nothing. Jack just kept looking at us, wide eyed and asked us what we talked about. For some reason, we both continued to further dig ourselves into a complicated and quite frankly, unnecessary hole by spinning a story about broken down cars and having to wait for the RACV.

As we both continued to make up the completely unbelievable tale, Sam got up off the bed, walked over to the door, turned to us slowly and said “Sounds to me like the Easter bunny had one too many beers.” And with that, he sauntered  downstairs to check out the carrot situation.


I’m still not sure if he’s on to us.


Yes. They do own shirts.


How did you find out the truth about the Easter Bunny? Please don't tell me it was through this blog post. 

Monday, April 2, 2012

STALK STALK ME DO. YOU KNOW I STALK YOU.






Circa 1993, I thought I fell in love. In hindsight I actually just had a big old dose of infatuation, but these things are hard to determine at the time. He was like an addiction to me. He consumed my thoughts. Only problem was, he didn’t know I existed. So I had to get creative and make sure he did.


See these days, if you want to know something about someone, you can have all the information you need in roughly 0.58 seconds. You can find out what bands they are into and “FaceStalk” them on Facebook, you can search for them on Google, check out their career on LinkedIn, find out if there are witty via Twitter and even, if you are completely desperate, see if they were in a shitty band at the turn of millennium by searching what’s left of Myspace. All of this information is yours, without having to leave the comfort of your own home.


Now, excuse me for a minute while I go all “Back in my day” but when I needed to know more about someone I was obsessed with, there was a distinct lack of Facebook or viable internet search engines available to me, and as such, I had to use the old fashioned form of stalking to investigate my interest. This involved staking out my subject’s home, doing drive-bys, getting near, yet not obviously too close to his house, preferably at night, often with a best friend as my wingman and wait for him to emerge. Not creepy AT ALL Right? 

So let’s call this guy Matty, the one I was into, because, well, that was his name and I’m guessing, still is. Matty and I, after continually ‘coincidently’ finding ourselves at the same place at the same time, got talking and eventually, kind of got together. If getting together means becoming his short lived booty call then yeah, we were totally boyfriend and girlfriend. I’d sit there, happy to be in his company post shag, he’d pop on some Fleetwood Mac, pick up his book and silently will me to leave. I was pretty bad at reading signals back then.


Now, if mobile phones were attainable back then, I definitely would have received a “Look Bern, I don’t want to use you for sex anymore, please stop dropping by” text message, but they weren't. Even a Phil Collins styled break-up by fax would have been less humiliating than coming across him macking on with some old lady at the local nightclub. I was destroyed.


For weeks, I’d sit in my room, writing bad poetry in my scented diary, listening to Fleetwood Mac, cry-singing over zealously to Sara. It truly is the best therapy for getting over what you believe at the time, is an irreparable broken heart. But I did get over him and he ended up marrying the older lady. Huh. Great for the self esteem.


It was some years later, when I had all the modern technologies available to me, that I did what every self-respecting woman does, I looked up all my ex-boyfriends on the Internet. When I say all, I mean, four. It was like a really shit version of 'Where are they now?'

   
This is what my search on Matty delivered:


“Man, 28, narrowly escapes jail for Tupperware Party Stabbing” complete with a picture of a fat bald guy doing the finger to the photographer.


Bullet. Dodged.


So tell me, have you looked up old flames? New flames?  Or just used modern technology to find some vedy vedy interesting information about someone?