When I was a kid and nothing bad had happened in my life, everything was measured by fun milestones: before I learned to ride a two-wheeler or after, before I got my first pair of white red-stone roller-skates or after, before I first solved the Rubik’s cube or after, and then after Trixie Belden came into my life, major events slotted between the various thirty-six volumes.

This week on the Socials, Jamie Oliver posted a pic of his wife’s screen-saver.  It was a whole lotta Harrys from 1D.  He mentioned that his own screen-saver is a picture of vegetables.  So I thought it would be funny to send him a pic of a “rude veg” that is in my Insta feed.  So I started scrolling back through, looking for the pic, and then I stopped.

The pic of the turgid turnip that I was looking for was from before.

From when Hayls was still alive.

Hayley was the one who got me into Instagram.  She got me following Jamie and David Loftus and Essena O’Neill.  She was one of my few followers in the early days, and she was one of the few I followed.  She told me to start instagramming stuff. Told me it would be fun.  Told me to practice taking pics for when we would be ready to do a blog together.  When she was done with the cancer.

So as I scanned through my old posts, I could clearly define when she died.

I could go back and have a look at pics that she had commented on, pics we had discussed, pics that she teased me about.  The pics from before.

And then it was after.

All of the pics from after that prove that the world still does on, that life continues to happen somehow.  And that just doesn’t seem right.  There should be no more pics.  Things should just stop, shouldn’t they?

I know I’m supposed to write you a blog right now, but I’m way too stressed.

I have yelling at the contestants on MKR to do (I really do despise them all I think- even the nice ones- I know they “really don’t want to go home yet” I know they’ve “worked so hard” and that they “really want to make cooking their life”.  I don’t need them to tell me fifty-seven times per show.)

I have to make dinner for the next two nights.

I have to clean the bathrooms- they really just can’t wait another day.

And I really should drink the last bit of that wine so that it’s not sitting there in the fridge door every time I open it, taunting me and trying to make me drink it during “the week” (Sundays are not in “the week” you know).

Excuse me…

Okay, I’m back- I just had to stop the cat from completely shredding the carpet- she’s locked in our bedroom- and has been for THE LAST TWO WEEKS- ostensibly to keep her quiet, since the eye-scratch-incident.  She’s going quietly mad in there, and so are we.  She climbs the venetions, pisses on any clothes we leave on the floor, and miaaooowwws every morning from 2.30-4am.  Tomorrow I get to take her to the cat ophthalmologist (yes, there is in fact such a thing) for a two hundred dollar consultation in BRISBANE (two hours each way).  I have a new car.  The chances of her not defecating or urinating on the way are as slim as Carrie Bickmore’s arms.  So yeah, bring that joy.

So this is what you get in lieu of a blog.

Now shhh, Elementary is about to start, and I can’t be distracted from my Johnny Lee.  (He may require my help.  And if not I’ll just stare at him, mouth slightly agape.  I’ll try not to drool.)

Wish me luck (with the cat, not the drooling)

What’s your Sunday night routine?  

How much do you love Elementary?

…From The Ashers xx

Epilogue:  As I was typing, the cat was going BATSHIT in the bedroom, trying to get out. The bastard has just pulled up the carpet. We couldn’t get into the bloody room ‘cos she carpet-barricaded us OUT.  Oh, sweet baby cheeses, save me now, and don’t let me wrap that cat in the wrecked carpet and chuck her in the pool.  Or don’t judge me.  Either works.

Here’s the hits…

1.  Anticipation of All Things ANZAC.  I don’t know about you, but I find this a very emotional day.  I can easily find myself crying, watching the march: the soldiers in years gone by, and now the children, who march to uphold the tradition pass me by.  Everything from the eerie first bars of the bugle, to the remembrance, to the gratitude of a day off filled with sunshine, and ANZAC biscuits and meat pies and a gutsy and traditional match of footy.  More than Australia Day, which for me has morphed into something strange over the years, ANZAC Day is one of appreciation and a strange mix of celebration of the life we have mixed with indebtedness to those who went before us.

2.  These books:

They might be for kids, but they make me cry every.single.time.

3.  SYTYCD.  I don’t care, say what you want about the show: criticise Carrie’s hair and Paula’s dress sense if you like, but these dancers are bloody awesome. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking that I’m awesome myself, what with my Solid Gold Dancer moves from the 80s, and my white man’s overbite, mixed with a good bit of Salt n Pepper’s ‘Push It’ style, but I got nuthin’ on these guys.

4.  These super-cute CR boots that the generous E.Bunny bought for Coco in lieu of choccies.

They might be kinda up there in the price stakes I guess, but if you have a kid who simply won’t wear jeans in winter, they are a pretty cool option to pair with skirts, leggings and the like.  In fact, they will probably save us a fortune this Winter, as her Summer clothes can be worn with these and a cardi, for the pissy little 2 month Queensland cold snap we have here.  Well played Easter Bunny, you fashionista.

5.  Cadbury Chocolate Caramel Eggs.  That is all.

Hit me with your hits.. What did you love this week?

…From The Ashers xx

Hot Damn

I bit into the hot jam donut and thirty-four years dissolved off my skin.

The first bite was just right, a slight crunch of the fried outer and then teeth hit the fluffy of inside. A fine dusting covered my lips and I tried and tried not to lick the tiny crystals, tried and failed like every other time.  I stepped forward in the line, one step closer to that sugary smell.  I read the sign one more time: 20cents each, or 6 for $1.  So two dollars meant twelve donuts.  I pretended to decide if I would have six or twelve, teasing myself with the idea of being able to resist, and saving a dollar for later.  A later that added up to; one packet of Cheese Things, one White Knight, five Redskins, one pack of Fags and about six Cobbers or Freckles or Milk Bottles.  But I already knew I’d choose the donuts, which I may or may not later vomit up on the Spew Ball.  I stepped forward again and held and held and held my breath until I got to the window on tippytoes, so that my first gasp was of pure happysweet.

I got ready for the next bite, prepared, for you never know just when that scalding glob of fluoro pink will fly out of the donut and onto your delicate tongue, searing it for three days.  The process is: bite, pant with mouth open, and swallow, allowing the deliciousness slide down, forging a molten path along your oesophagus.  I handed over my two dollars, clutching the straining paper bag to my royal blue parka.  It was already becoming translucent with grease, and I had to be careful not to shake it too much- I could hear the waterfall of sugar falling from the donuts with each step.  I found a spot on the cold ground away from the annoying seagulls that were my brothers, and inhaled, like a sommelier.  The first bite was always the best and the trickiest.  Too big, and the scorching jam would shoot out and burn my fingers: IwontdropitIwontdropit, too small, and all I’d get was the dough.

Bravely, I popped the rest of the donut into my mouth and savoured the burning sensation, the touch-memory warming up old synapses that recalled the frigid wind coming off Albert Park Lake, making the metal rungs and handles of the play equipment so cold they burnt my fingers like the hot jam.  We called it Special Park for it was magical… Towering, curling slides, strange swings with almost evil leering kite-faces that went ‘swing-swong’ as well as ’round and ’round, orange and green balls that spun around and around whilst we chanted “FasterFaster” to our Dad on the outside, whose big arms never seems to stop or tire, ’til we came tumbling out, drunk on donuts and the spinning and the taste of hot, almost-vomit in the back of our throats.  Parents sitting in the idling warm of the car, listening to Fleetwood Mac or maybe Bob Marley, and imagining stealing a moment for themselves away from wide and innocent eyes, whilst outside we ran and ran from fort, to swing to see-saw and back, beanies pulled down tight but ears still numbing to deafness as we ran, almost weeing our pants with joy and daring when they honked the horn to go home and we scattered like Autumn leaves over the park so they couldn’t drag us home.

Special Park.  Special Days.

Did you ever go to Special Park?  It’s gone now of course, there’s a race-track and restaurants and the gentry enjoy the space that children once ruled.  The dirty-white of the donut van, ne’er to be seen.

Did your family have their own Special Park?

…From The Ashers (And the McShane-Rolfes) xx

In an effort to introduce the Evil Geniuses to the concept of “I Quit Sugar” (AKA I Quit Fun, and pretty much life as we know it) we decided to change the rabbit habits and set them a task this Easter.   Make the little buggers work for their eggs.  So we procured some of those tiny, barely-a-mouthful eggs, as well as a vast array of ‘gifts’ for them to hunt down.  I call them ‘gifts’, for as Liam said half-way through the task, “The Easter Bunny is waaay more practical than Santa- he keeps giving us stuff we need, like Winter PJs and new lunch-boxes”.

And that, my friends is where you give yourself a little mental high-five, and recall the time they nearly sent you mad, whining and crying because the 110m walk home from the beach was “killing” their precious feet and grinding them into stumps.  Or something.

So it went down something like this:

12.17am: The Bunny was drinking a few too many Little Creatures pale and refreshing ales and trying to make up riddles

12.52am: The Bunny had sorted and laid out the clues and surprises.  The Bunny was a bit ‘tired’ at this point.

4.24am: Unit Two woke up and had to be sent back to bed (I lied, and said the Bunny hadn’t been)

4.50am: Unit One woke up and had to be sent back to bed (I lied, and said I had seen the Bunny lurking around, but he got scared away by their noise.  Unit One cried.  Unit Two heard the ruckus and cried too)

5.10am:  Both Units awoke properly and came upstairs.  There was a vague light, so no hiding the fact that the Bunny had been, and frankly I could see where this was heading… Sweet Baby Cheeses, is there no redemption to be had?

No, the Sunrise at Sunrise Beach did not compensate

And so on it went.  Eighteen clues, eighteen weird little presents with the odd tiny egg.  It took quite a while, which was good as I needed my Easter coffee after less than four hours sleep.  I’m not the Bunny I once was.

The clues. Some leave a little to be desired, but hey, there were Little Creatures to be consumed

The highlight for me, was this clue (which I quite liked):

It took them about five seconds to figure out it was “ice’ and go look in the freezer.

You maybe Evil you two, you may have deprived me of sleep and chocolate and sanity, but you are MY kinda geniuses.

Hope you had a happy Easter.  What is your Easter tradition?

…From The Ashers xx

Isn’t it a magical thing when you meet someone new, and you just click?  Slide on into a groove.  Sometimes it can be like you’ve always known them.  And you can even be from completely different backgrounds and continents.

What is that?

I’d love to know.

Is it common interests, similar sense of humour, shared tastes?

I don’t know about you, but I know that it doesn’t seem to happen that often, but when it does, it’s profound.  I find there’s a weird settling in period, where you think you’ve found something special, a little seed that will grow into a friendship, if you give it the basics, but you don’t know if the other person has the same sense.  So you shimmy around each other a little, testing out the ground, seeing if this new little sprout will take hold, or if the elements will sweep it all away.

I know I can be a bit strange to other humans at times, but it takes everything within me to stop myself from coming over like a Kindy Kid: Do you wanna play with me, and be my friend?  Wanna be in my gang?

It would be much simpler if that was socially acceptable, don’t you think?

Perhaps I’ll try it.

What about you, how do you make new friends?

What makes you click with someone?

…From The Ashers xxx