The Afterlife: No Mans Land

A friend sent me a blog link and I’m not sure why. 

The pitch was something along the lines of ‘fabulous and inspiring…’

Seriously, after 300 words my first thought was this; what is so inspiring about a smug, self-congratulatory blog written by a woman with not only has a husband but local family to share the wear?  

In her happy little child rearing community she’s able to pump out offspring with more efficiency than a production line in a Taiwanese toy factory.

And her perfect husband helps sufficiently with their brood and housework, not to mention their renovations, that she has ample time to sew clothes for her litter, quilt and blog and restore antique furniture, while whipping up culinary triumphs in her Thermomix. 

Bet she’s never been late on the school run in her whole perfect life.

Excuse me if I don’t feel inspired to do anything more than run gagging to the bathroom.

In all of her pomposity she has no idea what it means to have one child, one dog, one cat, six snails and a no-longer-husband. And there are plenty of single mums and dads out there doing it tougher than I am.

Actually I don't consider that I'm doing it tough at all, even though my kitchen is too small to accommodate a Thermomix.  (I have seen caravans with bigger kitchens than mine). 

What I have found tough, is diving back into the shallows of the dating pool; talk about your mid-life crisis.

It was something like fifteen years ago, my last first date.    

I honestly don’t know if I can cope with the untidy selection of discarded outfits all over my bedroom when my eight year old daughter is already on that chuck-stuff-everywhere theme with the living room, and well, every other room in the house. 

I’m just too old for this shit.

No really.

I try for 'understated sexy', without dressing like an invitation - lest I have to resort to combat training to get home unmolested.

And as much as I would greatly benefit from a stiff drink to relax my nerves, I can't drink much because, when your offspring bounces on your bed daily at 6am, you soon realise that hang-overs and young children do not mix.

This leap back in time to my single twenties and thirties just doesn't seem as much fun as it was back then.  I'm more self-conscious now and for many different and uncomfortable reasons.

To shave my legs or not to shave my legs? - that is the question. On one hand it is just asking for trouble; there's that expectation that he'll know either way. But if I don't, what if things are going so well he is in a position to discover that my legs are knitted from mohair? 

Not conducive to getting a second date.

If I wanted one.

And even before leaving the house, I’m already thinking; Not.

I'm just not sure dating is worth the trouble. 

I suppose it's validation - it has the potential to show me I'm still a desirable woman. That I'm something other than than a cook, cleaner, handyman, playmate, homework supervisor, dog walker and dishwasher.

But getting ready for a date knowing I'm paying someone, by the hour for the privilege, even if it turns out to be awful, is a bit of a downer.

Maybe I should just stay home, reorganize the kitchen and put that babysitter's money towards a Thermomix? 

Or maybe I just don't date at all. I mean I've had enough dates to last a lifetime and I'm not a huge fan of sitting awkwardly in restaurants with virtual strangers anyway...

I guess my ideal would be a special friend with a nice kid of their own where we could just hang at each others place, and or go to movies, when we're both on childless weekends -  and have play-dates when we're not.

No marriage, no cohabitation, just hanging out: Friends With Benefits.  

I guess that makes me the perfect woman in many male circles. But where to meet a potential special friend?

Well lightening may strike.

A womans work..

image credit

I think it was specifically at the point, mid-morning, where I was supporting my weight on the bathroom window sill, elegantly squatting over an imaginary toilet marked out in pencil on bare cement, that I asked myself; "am I out of my depth here?"





I am project managing a building site and I'm making it up as I go along. Much to the amusement/ bemusement of my Tradies: affectionately known as the A-Team . They're all mates, and that makes my job easier because they co-ordinate, but best of all they're pedantic, perfectionists and clean.

The plumber was trying not to laugh and I was saying: "No, this will work - I have long legs right? - but most of that length is from knee to hip, so it's a good indicator."

He gave a resigned shrug and said, "OK, shuffle back a bit you're on the edge of the seat there," he looked like he was going to laugh. We were trying to measure out how much space was necessary between the toilet and the shower.

After my undignified squat on 'the imaginary throne', showed us we had ample space,  I made him (because he's broader than I am) stand in the imaginary cubicle and put his hands on his head. Elbow to elbow this , very scientifically, gave us the minimum measurement for the width of the shower. "You don't want to whack your elbows on the screen while you're washing your hair" I explained.

But this was just part of my day. Aside from being hair washing day, I'd already cooked breakfast for She-Who-Worships-Pink, packed the lunchbox, got her ready for/ and to, school (just in time) walking rather than driving for a change. I delivered her forgotten water bottle back to school, called the plumber twice on the road, stopped into Reece Plumbing and ordered the toilet pan, went back home for my reading glasses (God knows what I paid for that toilet -I couldn't read the invoice for the life of me).

I also experimented with tile removal using tools I bought six months ago for a job at home that's still not finished.  I watched a YouTube "removing tiles without breaking them" video first before going live with a hammer and chisel.
I was so proud; the tile I was working on slipped into my hand with neither fuss nor breakage and without damaging the render underneath.  Fueled with a certain smug enthusiasm I then went tile shopping.

After school run, while Pinkster danced her legs off in Jazz Ballet I popped home again, printed, paid and  filed invoices.

This new job as a building project manager (which pays as well as my writing - hah) started a month ago when we bought a one bedroom flat as an investment.
It was dated, run down and had an 'original' 50s bathroom in grey and pink.  The toilet bowl was pink, the sink was pink, the towel rail was pink, the soap holders were pink the loo-roll holder was pink, the tessellated floor tiles were grey and pink.  Even She-Who-Worships-Pink thought it was the ugliest bathroom on the planet.

But as real estate agents are fond of saying in these cases - it was: "Full of Potential". That is certainly true, but realising that potential (between 10am and 2:30pm) was more than I'd bargained for. You see it also had 1950's plumbing too and that is where the budget blow-out will no doubt come from. Not helping the situation is the Strata Managers (BCS) who have turned out to be as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike with their response(or lack thereof) to water-leak emergencies, general information, repairs.. um even responding to phone calls.

So that was my day. The Orange dog, on the other hand, had an excellently indulgent day, starting with the walk to school with the usual hugs and petting from a ton of uniformed kids. On to the flat for some more petting and fuss from the plumber and his apprentice. Then a walk on the foreshore where he scored more fuss and adoration from two strangers. At Reece plumbing supplies he lay on his back in the showroom - legs akimbo with no less than four sales people taking turns rubbing his belly.

He was a bit disgusted to have zero attention in the tile store but after a drive through KFC where he was compensated with half a box of popcorn chicken, his fragile ego was forgotten.
The walk back to school and Ballet class, is always a guaranteed cuddle-fest but two little girls in leotards kept him company today while I took Pinkster in and helped her get changed.

Tomorrow I have to order carpet and buy bathroom tiles by end-of-day. I need to meet with the tiler on site first thing (after school run) and discuss what and how many I need to buy and what we can do to cover up the ugly mottled and broken peach monstrosities that serve as a very poor imitation of a kitchen splash-back.

I'm guessing tomorrow will be another day that I won't see the inside of a gym, lunch with anyone, get a haircut, pedicure, flu shots, Botox, or even a quick coffee with a girlfriend.

Mummy Mondays Linky

One Mother Hen

Back on the Asphalt

As hard as it may be maintaining enthusiasm while waiting for the Daddy Person to press the camera button (in the end I made rabbit ears behind his head) this was the easy (and cute) bit of the 2014 school run.

The rest was more a case of trying to land on your feet and hitting the Asphalt running.

Last year She-Who-Worships-Pink was attending school in Kindyland which was daunting enough considering the five classes of 25 kids each. But in fairness it was separated from the main school with its own playground and facilities.

Not so this year, now we've joined the scrum.

Oh My Dog - school drop off in the big, BIG school..it's a three ring circus (but with several more rings).

We arrive in the midst of hundreds of gingham clad clowns barreling around, cartwheeling, ricocheting off each other, off walls, out of buildings through doors and hallways.  We are dodging balls and skipping ropes that whip through the air like a series of detonations spewing sports-equipment shrapnel.

Parents everywhere with stunned - 'if I could just remember your name' - expressions, are waving nervously to each other while ducking, weaving and trying to work out where to deposit their shouty, flailing excited offspring.
Others are staggering around Quasimodo style- hunchbacked under the weight of school bags awkwardly looped over a shoulder and their teary offspring firmly attached to one leg.

After the first school run, I found this little pearl on Face Book:

Well I cant exactly do what ever I want, but what I can do is plan my day and logistics.  All without halving the time-frame because of my little co-pilot's need to incorporate a multitude of pit-stops and "I neeed to look at it mummy!" detours..

Just give me another week and I might even get my Mojo back :0)

Pyjama Party

I'd be happy most days doing the school run in my pyjamas.  Trouble is most days we walk. I would be seen. By other mothers who obviously put in more effort or simply have more style than I do. 

Like that lovely Asian mum who trumps everyone on the asphalt; she looks like she's jumped right out of the pages of Vogue. Simple styles but even on rainy days she can make rubber wellies look deliciously designer. (Hers probably are)

There are two French mums as well. Yep. Typical French women: effortlessly chic even wearing ordinary raincoats. Looking like catalogue model-mums in simple loose-fit summer dresses. And they really know how to toss on a scarf around their necks, those Frenchies.

I know I'm being overly self conscious, but for my little Pink Worshiper's sake, I don't want to arrive looking like the wreck I feel in the mornings. I used to have so much more confidence in myself B.C. (Before Child) I was also thinner so more of my stuff fitted. On the other hand I would hate to look like one of those try-hard mums who's got something to prove; Look at me I'm Posh Spice mummy, where are my paparazzi?

Yesterday I got caught out. Miss Lovely Smile called at 3:30 to tell me She-Who-Worships-Pink had not been collected by her dance teacher for her 3:45 dance class. 

I was writing all day so, with my 6am makeup application running down my face, I was a little less than fresh with my panda eyes, grey yoga pants decorated with bleach spots, and a tatty hoodie. And that's how I walked into her classroom minutes later and presented myself at the dance studio in front of all the glamour-mums.

Well wouldn't you know, following on from my recent 'it's not just me theme' I met a lovely woman this morning who was actually admiring my drop-off ensemble. She said, "I bet you're one of those mums, who just throws something on and looks great aren't you?' After I bent down and scooped my jaw up off the floor I explained it was all straight off a Katies in-store display last summer.

I confessed my daily-drop-off-dressing trauma and she confessed to her Pyjama-drop-offs. Wow Pyjama Drop-Off-Mum: another urban myth uncovered. 

Oh the envy!  But not having to get out of your car is small recompense for a horrible peak hour commute across the harbor bridge into the eastern suburbs. Not having to be seen in  a presentable state before 8:30 am after ninety minutes in heavy traffic (just getting there) is a small luxury afforded to brave souls.

There was just that one time, she told me, when she got pulled over by the police for a broken tail light; wearing her worst, oldest, tattiest pajamas. She said she almost begged him not to ask her to step out of the vehicle. 

The officer let her go; he was probably married with school aged children.

I cant help but wonder now if she rethinks what PJ's she's going to wear for drop-off now..

I also wonder, do French Mums wear really stylish pyjamas? Do they have such things as bed scarves to accessorise with?

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