I mentioned here yesterday that I have a problem with loss.

So in the interests of full disclosure, I think I should also reveal I have a problem with shoes. Not in in losing shoes, mind, in finding them.  It appears from the straw poll I performed this morning regarding how many shoes other people actually own, I may* have a problem.  Not a massive problem, just a little one.  Or, not so much little, as errr… Well you be the judge.

Here are my shoes:

42 pairs, give or take.. Mainly give, as I found four more pairs after this photo-shoot, and I remembered I left another pair at a mates house in Melbourne last time I was there…

In my defence, I live in Queensland, and it is quite hot, so I require lots of thong-sandal-flimsy kind of shoes. It does however cool down in the Autumn, so I do require a few shoes for that change of season. In addition I am likely to go to Melbourne at least once a year, so I require black things and warm things to do that.  Plus, there is the fact that I like to give the impression of being kind of casual-sporty, so I have no choice but to have a pair or several of Cons. (You may notice there is one pair of actual running shoes. I wore those in 2011, and I will say they were very comfortable that day.)

So there you have it.  This is what the shoe situation is like for a person with many and varied tastes.  I would also like to remind you, before you mock my abundance, that I wear every single pair of these shoes, except the white wedding shoes, but I will wear those this Friday.  These shoes are my friends and allies.  I have The Menopause, so sometimes it is impossible to find anything to wear that makes a girl feel good. My feet are never fat, and my shoes never fail me.

I have a bit of a problem with loss. Not things, I have two primary school aged kids, I’m down with that, I mean people.

In 1994 I watched a movie called ‘The Sum of Us’, and there is a scene, not really related to the rest of the movie at all, where two ‘Spinster Aunts’ are sent off to different nursing homes by their families.  The scene is in black and white, and in my memory it has them being torn apart, gnarled hands clutching and trying to hold together, voices wailing as their hearts break open.  That scene had me sobbing like it was my hands, my love, my loss.

In 1993 I read ‘Bridges of Madison County’.  “Over-stated romantic claptrap”, I hear you say.  Not me.  I was crying so hard, so vigorously at the sense of loss and injustice at the unrequited love, that I physically couldn’t read it, I was so blurred and bumpy.  I even shed a small tear when Clint and Susan portrayed it at the pictures, albeit not as much.

In 1983 I saw ET.  You know it: I was a blubbering mess when ET went home. I know, I know, he was ugly.  I know, I know, I should have been relieved he was leaving the clutches of Keys and the scientists, but ET.  Home.  No more Ell-i-ott.

In the late 70s I saw Lassie Come Home at the drive-in.  I was beside myself, bawling in the early scenes when Lassie, in fact, did not come home. I can’t remember the rest, I guess it was redemptive and Lassie went on to make many more movies, solve crimes or whatever she did (what did she do?) but I have no recollection of that.  All I have is the loss, and the tears, and my Dad trying not to laugh at what a big baby his no-crying daughter was turning out to be.

Because that’s it. I have a no-cry policy, for the most part. If you’ve seen me cry, you’ll know why, it’s not delicate or pretty or endearing at all.  It’s all snot and dribble and red eyes and rivulets of mascara.  And if I get started I just might not stop.  Ever again.

As much as I’m not good with movie loss, I’m not good with actual loss.  Particularly death.

I don’t really know how to handle it, so in order to keep my no-cry policy upstanding, I have to trick myself that they are still alive and I’m just not seeing them today.  Or the next day, and on and on, forevermore.  I try not to think about it too much, but the problem is, I keep getting shocked when the loss hits me.

Today I looked at the teapot BabyMac gave me when Hayls died, and instead of being uplifted and happy to receive such a thoughtful gift, I just cried.

I won’t be having any more cuppas with Hayley.  Or my Dad.  Or Nath’s Dad.  Or Ricki or Jane or Sam or Marjorie or Melby or Jean or Jack or Sandra.  The roll-call of the dead.

I have something in my house to remind me of every one of my lost ones. Things that I just can’t throw out.

However, last week I decided I would throw out some of my Dad’s clothes that I scavenged when Mum was ready to let that stuff go.  I kept the last things I bought him, I don’t know why that’s what I kept, it’s not as though they were the best of times when he was wearing those last shirts and shorts, but I did.  They didn’t smell like him any more, and they were taking up space, so I put them in a bag and took them down to the garage for my next trip to the Salvos.  Then I changed my mind and brought them all back up.  Then down again.  Then back up.  I don’t want those clothes any more.  They aren’t him, in fact they never were.  No trace of him is left on them, but if I don’t keep them, what is there left to mark his place in my life?  If I throw them away, will I be throwing away one of my memories?

I’m scared of running out of them.

And I have a bit of a problem with loss.

Today The Ashers went to a children’s water paradise.  Wake-boarding, inflatable things to climb on and over, and fall into the water from great heights, ice-creams.  It was the Almost Anything Goes of the Sunshine Coast. It was fantastic.  It looked a little like this:

In fact it looked exactly like this

Clearly I didn’t choose this as a way to spend my (preferably) lazy Sunday, but sometimes as parents we don’t get to choose.  Not really.  We have to DO things.  And stuff.  Sometimes those things turn out to be fun, and sometimes they are a bit shit.  Today was fun and shit.

There we were, thunderbird-running along one of the pathways, and trying not to slip over, when I spotted it.  One lump and a bigger lump.  Brown.  Lumps that a women who has toilet trained two children would recognise immediately: toddler turd.

Quick as a flash, and before I even really knew what I was doing, I flicked that crap into the water with my toe.

Then: ewww.  Why did I do that? The water logs were now waterborne.  In the water we were swimming in.  And I’d kicked some turd that didn’t belong to anyone from my gene pool, into the pool.  Just: ewww.

And with that, Coco fell off the side and into the water. Again.

“Quick Coco, swim to the edge, quick, grab my hand, get back onto the raft, AND DON’T OPEN YOUR MOUTH!” I was screaming like a woman deranged, it was like that scene from Jaws 2 when Sean almost gets chewed by the shark. Except there was no shark. Just a toilet truffle.

Coco’s big blue eyes were like saucers as she grabbed my trembling, outstretched hand.  I started dragging her back up onto the slippery, slippery plastic inflatable…

Here we are, almost there, I had her half up, almost safe, then missed my footing, and slipped into the liquorice lake.

OHHHNOOOOTHEHORROR.

We swam through the mire, that I prefer to think of as little clumps of mud, mouths clamped shut, trying to breathe the tiniest bits of air, lest we inadvertently inhale poo particles.  I even tried to keep my ears shut.  (Can you keep your ears shut?)  We tried anyway, just in case tympanic membranes aren’t patent.

You’ll be happy to know we were eventually able to make it out of the cesspit, and so far, we aren’t showing any ill-effects other than my imaginary sore throat.  I’m thinking I will hit the tequila bottle pretty hard tonight, just to kill off the e.coli, mind.  And if I have enough lick, sip, sucks, I won’t know if I’m crook from the old el Toro, or the old el Turdo.

How about you, have you even swum in a dunny?

How was your Sunday, was it as fancy as mine?

So here it comes… If life was a mix tape, and I was your DJ (which I would be, because: bossy) this is what we’d be groovin’ along to:

The Hits:

1.  FINALLY we had some rain on the Sunshine Coast.  Amazing lightning on Wednesday night, with heaps of action out to the west.  We went onto our top deck (yes it’s called TopDeck and no it’s not called BarUP, regardless of what my husband might tell you), and watched it all unfold.  I added some ‘interest’ to the sky-show by screaming with every fork.  Freaked the brats out a bit.   #winning

2.  Halloween chocolates from Aldi. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned my Aldi Allergy before, but I have it, and I can.not.go.in.there.  But I anti-histaminedd up, and got these. So YUM for cheapshit choccies.   Allergy may be waning.

3.  The excitement the kids had anticipating Halloween.  I hear all the ‘ween naysayers being all Grinchy and “it’s so American” about this PAGAN ritual, but to you, I say a big WHATEVs.  We decorated this place with shite plastic and creepy things and they LOVED it.  They didn’t even do the trick or treat thing, but went to Bunnings and yet, loved it still.  I rate you Halloween.

4.  The big kid going to camp.  I’ll tell you more about that another day, but yes he went, (he walked off on me with hardly a ‘bye Mum) and YES he is home again.  I need to harden my heart.

5.  Liam’s new electric guitar.  Some sweeeet tunes coming out of that bedroom these days. The current song to be mastered is “Joker and the Thief”… He can drum it, so we await the one man band.

The Shits:

1.  Crumbs on the floor.  How do you get there?  HOW? No wonder I love wearing shoes so much.

2.  BAS. You suck. You know it.  That is all.

3.  My new iPhone being full already.  Seriously? Is there a 64GB?  Bloody music.

4.  No Brody on Homeland.  Where is he?  What is happening?  How much more of that insipid daughter can we stand, and how many panic attacks from Carrie can I handle?  Gimme Brody, and gimme him now.

5.  Commonwealth Bank ads.  NO.  The Toni Collette one was bad, but now the singing dude? Really?

Have a great weekend…

What are your Hits?

What SHITTED you?

…From DJ SHADOWCAT xx

Have you ever been to Bunnings?

I seriously hate that joint.  With serious and hate.

Why do the aisles not line up?  Why is the coffee so awful?  Why does it smell so bad?  And what scorcery is it, that allows adults, dressed in bright red, to be so camouflaged by a bunch of tools, when their service is required?

I am alone in my Bunning hatred over her at The Asher House. On any given weekend, at least one person will say “Let’s go to Bunnings”.  The kids love to play there, Nath loves the rows and rows of tools that I won’t allow him to buy, and me?  Well I don’t love one single thing.

In fact, on a lazy Saturday, the husband thinks Bunnings ticks all of the parenting boxes.

• Exercise for children, by playing in a “park”? Tick
• Creative stimulation for children, by doing craft? Tick
• Purchase of some thing or other for home improvement, in the hope of getting laid? Tick
• “Healthy” lunch from sausage sizzle? Tick
• Donation to charity via said sausage sizzle? Tick

Apparently everybody wins.  As long as I don’t have to go, that is.

So tonight was Halloween, and I was working until about 8.30pm, so ‘weening was up to Nath and Coco, (Liam is at school camp: my heart lives outside my body right now, but more of that another day when I can breathe again).  Those two little blue-eyes colluded together and chose what they would get up to.  They spoke in whispered tones and made their intricate plans, before announcing to me, “We’re going to Bunnings.”

WHAT?

Yep, apparently that cesspit of failed home improvement attempts also does celebrations: Easter, Christmas, Halloween.

So they went off at 5pm, excited and costumed. Things looked at little like this:

They arrived home well after 8pm.  Coco usually goes to bed at 6.30pm.  So I’m guessing they had some fun.  There was face-painting, craft, a jumping castle, billions of kids and a free sausage sizzle.  At the hardware store.

When I was tucking that strange li’l punkin-fairy-thingy up in bed, I asked her if she had a fun Halloween.  “Oh Mummy”, she said, “it was the best Halloween ever.  I love Bunnings Warehouse. The lowest prices really are only just the beginning.”

So there you have it.

Maybe the joint aint all bad.

(And who says my kids watch too much telly?)

Do you do Halloween?  

What did you go as?

I just watched the latest episode of Ja’mie by Chris Lilley.

OMG, I can.not.believe.him.

After about three minutes you’ve completely forgotten that this horrid, new millennium version of a character from The Naughtiest Girl in the School, is not real, forgotten that this is not a doco.  Or Big Brother.  And that she is a bloke.  I don’t find the show funny at all, it is more cringe-worthy than anything, and a even bit embarrassing, as I wonder how much of Ja’mie was me at school.  Yet I can’t look away.  Even though I want to.  Would prefer it, even.

Perhaps the show is so startling because even though Ja’mie herself is OTT, the way Lilley portrays her is not extravagant or elaborate or even drag-queenish at all.  The show is not that kind of entertainment, where we, the audience get a wink and a nod that lets us in on the joke.  It is serious, or at least that is how I take it.  Chris Lilley just happens to be portraying a girl, and I find it interesting and strange that he does it so convincingly.

I find the whole thing very uncomfortable, and I wonder how much of it is the gender issue, and how much is the disgust with the characters of Ja’mie and her girlfriends.  I’d love to be able to separate the two.  To be able to figure out what it is that I don’t like, or is it because it’s all manner of my biases and prejudices rolled into one?  There is a lot of ugliness by the teens, with no redemption or resolution, as the adults appear oblivious to, and even enable, what is going on.  And that ugliness is hard to see. Or unsee.

It’s a fascinating half hour.  I love it when an actor is able to draw me into their world so convincingly, without my consent, and in this instance, wincing all the way.  I don’t like the sensation.  It makes my skin crawl and I feel like a cleansing shower afterwards, and yet I know I’ll be back for as long as Lilley makes me.

This is not the first time Chris Lilley has done this to me, and hopefully it won’t be the last.

Have you seen the show?

I’d love to know what you think.