Here’s the hits:

Shhhh, spoiler alert: if you are one of my nieces, do not read point one.

1.  Christmas shopping, all done. How good is it once it’s all over, and you can sit back, relax, gloat, and drink things with cranberry in them?  Note to self: must remember to gloat.  We have close to one billion nieces to buy for, and this year, I was saved by GreenB the best clothes ever for Summer, or so the young people tell me.  There’s even a singlet called Ali and some shorts called Coco.  So clearly: they got style.

2.  Hangin’ out with my offspring today in the sunshine. We had a grouse morning, walking over to the Chalet, sitting in the sun, eating ice-cream and refining our Santa wish-lists.  Yes people, they HAVE CHANGED THEIR BLOODY SANTA LISTS.  WHAT THE ACTUAL?   Refer to point 1 above.  Parents=0, Evil Geniuses=1

3.  Friday night tv.  I’m kidding.  It’s not a hit, it’s a SHIT.  A massive poo in an otherwise lovely relaxing aromatherapy bath.  What is going on, television?  Why is Dannii Minogue now a judge on a modelling show?  If she gets a gig commentating the cricket I’m moving to Greenland.

4.  In other excellent telly news; in watching the ads on Friday night tv more avidly than the actual shows, I have discovered that SYTYCD is coming back on.  I have no idea when, but I know that I will love it.  I can’t tell who the judges are from the promo, but my boyfriend Jason better be on it, or there’s gonna be trouble Channel whatever.  You’ve been warned.

5.  THE LONG APRON restaurant in Montville.  I’m writing it in caps lock, because OHMYGOD.  We went there for lunch on Sunday and I must tell you, for the love of all that is sweet and pure, you simply have to go there as soon as you can.  Run, don’t walk.  It’s all kinds of magnificent.  I will give you a run-down in a post next week.

There are two things in the world I really love:

1. Being organised

2. Gloating about being organised.

I guess that’s why I love Christmas so much.  It comes (predictably) at the same time every year, and I buy for the same people every year, so it’s a no-brainer on both counts.

This year, however, point 1. has lead to my downfall.  You see, I did most of my Christmas shopping ages ago.  Bought and paid for it all, so now that all is left is the delivery of a few items.  Lovely.  Heaps of time for point 2. (which after all is my forte).  No need to get anything else.

So I was happily grooving along point 2ing for much of the day today, until Marg paid me a visit.  Marg has been making me a certain biscuity-type Christmas snack for a few years now.  They are delicious, and she makes me shitloads.  More than I can possibly eat, and I can eat A LOT.  Marg is so reliable in her delivery of these buttery, melt-in-your-mouth bics, that I have taken it upon myself to get kitted-out and ready, with quite a few tiny cello bags and cute tags, so that I can “redistribute” the shortbread when it comes in.  I bag those babies up, tag them off, and pass them off as my own.  I find the whole process eminently suitable.

However, this year for some reason- and I blame The Menopause for my lapse in concentration- I forgot about Marg’s drop off of the mother-lode, and already organised  pressies for everyone.  (Truth be told, Marg really did leave her run a bit late this year- some palaver about knee operations and not being about to drive safely, or some such piffle- so if you are reading Marg, can I please expect to receive delivery a bit earlier next year?)

So now I’m left with all the teensy baggies from last year and the biggest bloody tray of biccies you’ll ever see…

I’m nothing if not a trouper, so I’ve gone hard this arvo and made a bit of a dent in the supply, but at this rate I still won’t get them eaten til mid January.

So don’t mind me, I’m off to have an almost-midnight snack.

Pop around if you’re a bit peckish, I seemed to have “baked” a few too many biscuits.

See you 27kgs down the road.  The yummy road.

Do you “redistribute” gifts?

Did you ever get given a free coffee voucher from Zarafas in your Secret Santa and suspect it was a freebie? (Not looking at anyone)

This is Santa Chook

Every year on the 30th of November, in the steaming heat of the tin-roofed garage, Nathan teeters on the top rung of the ladder to retrieve two dusty boxes; one massive box, gaffer taped in a way that suggests the heft of it’s contents, containing that oversized tree, and one smaller one- the decorations.

We know they are the Christmas decorations and the Christmas tree because my Dad wrote “Xmas Decs” and “Xmas Tree” on the sides of the boxes all those years ago, in his distinct, back-slanted script, that I no longer get to see fresh.  Back when those things still mattered to him.  Back when it seemed important to know which box was which.

We heave the boxes down and we puff them up the stairs, and we hold our breath a little as we see what treasures reside inside.

There are thrills of delight, and tinkling of laughter and bells mixing, as we remember things we’d forgotten.  We anchor them again in space and time, as we remember making or buying them.  We throw our mind’s eyes and our memories back to the when, of Christmas past.

Amidst the mirth of recollect this year, there was also melancholy, as it came to pass that Santa Chook was not long for this world.

Santa Chook came into our lives on Coco’s first Christmas.  We went to a work Christmas Party at a time in our lives when things weren’t easy or settled or at all party-like.  Coco was nine months old, and we were far, far from being at peace with her diagnosis.  I felt like life was careening around like a cheap plastic spinning top, the swirly picture on it moving faster and faster, rather than calming down, and I was dizzy with the vertiginous emotions of testings and procedures beyond my sphere of control.  Transfusions were unpredictable and often.  Procedures were unfamiliar and frightening.   Sleep was fractured and elusive, and I grasped the relief of forget that it gave, whenever it deigned grace me.

We took Coco to the party with us- it was that or not go- because it was the only way I could hold onto an atom of that adult I was trying to remember to be.

We played a silly game: The Present Game, whereby you can steal someone else’s present, or take a mystery parcel from the central mother-lode.

Randall unwrapped Santa Chook.  He was jaundice-yellow like my golden child, and his coat and hat glowed red with a sheen that only cheap plush made on foreign shores, with no concern for inhaled particulate matter can produce.  And when Randall The Mighty pressed the “press here” button, it was like the angels spoke to me, and me alone.  Santa Chook crowed his morning doodle-doo and broke into The Chicken Dance.  He was the first of that glut of animated toys, a wonder of 2007, and I knew I must make him mine.

I stole him-legitimately, and within the rules of the game- from Randall The Mighty, and Randall stole him back.  I stole him again, and again Randall stole him back.  And again.  And again.  And again.  Long after the other participants had lost interest, Randall the Mighty stole that Santa Chook, and I stole him back.  Until eventually the yelling and the raucous music woke Coco up.  She was screaming, in the piercing way that only the simple and the very sick are able to do, so I bought her down to the arena, and held her in front of Randall the Mighty.  He “pressed here” and Santa Chook burst into his song.  Coco was transfixed.

Randall The Mighty became Randall The Vanquished, bowed his head, and handed Santa Chook to me.  Randall The Saviour.

All of that long hot Summer of Coco’s first year, Santa Chook distracted her when she was fractious, soothed her for a time, when what she really needed was blood.  The blood-red of his suit substituting, momentarily, for the life-blood.

Eventually, we put Santa Chook back in the box marked “Xmas Decs”, and we moved forward into a new year.  I would often consider getting him down from those dusty rafters, when days were difficult, when my arms ached to put that child down, for just a moment, without that persistent wail.

I never did get him down, most days just the thought of him would bolster me.  Knowing that I had him there, if times got too tough, that there was respite.  A potential.

This year, when we opened that box with all of the ‘xmas decs’ inside, I grabbed out Santa Chook and ‘pressed here’ like I always have, expecting him to herald the start of the season with his crackling warble, only to hear a tiny “crrr”.  Then nothing.

I’ve changed Santa Chook’s batteries twice.  I’ve cleaned out the craw that was half full of battery decline and salty moisture.  I’ve stroked and pushed and heimliched him, but Santa Chook is no more.  Oh Santa Chook, you saved my sanity, little mate.  You were worth every one of those nine hundred and ninety-nine cents that you probably cost.

Vale Santa Chook.

Yes, I know he’s either a chook (no cock-a-doodle-doo) or a rooster (and not a chook), but Santa Rooster sounds wrong.

1.  So on Sunday I went to a wine lunch, and got a bit tired = No blog.

2.  Yesterday I minded some other kids (and ours) all day, with no minutes to myself = No blog.

3.  Then last night: Homeland = No blog.

So here’s a little something, or in fact two little somethings to tide you over until I have some space in my head to write you something:

1. Liam playing the James Bond theme on his new guitar.  He’s had five lessons.  I think it’s pretty good (as I should, given I have absolutely no musical talent, plus, I’m his Mum).

2.  Uncle Rico.  Who doesn’t love Uncle Rico?  He reminds me of Uncles Glenn and Darren.  I wish they were here.

Speak soon, RRs…

What a week!  Here’s the Hits:

1. School holidays!  Yay, to long lazy days by the tepid pool, ice-creams leaving sticky, drippy, trails down salty, sun-kissed arms and almost wet, humid air, all set to the background drone of the cricket commentary.  No morning rush to dump the kids at prison school.  No homework.  No lunchboxes.

2.  Setting up the Christmas Tree.  We make a bit of a big deal about it, having a roast and some cranberry drinks to celebrate turning on the lights.  Sweet traditions of ornaments old, and one new.  The advent drawers with a tiny gift from the Elves every night.  Let’s hope they remember to leave said gifts, every.single.night, for twenty-four nights.

3.  A day of no time constraints and no drama, sitting by the pool today at a mate’s place.  Happy kids.  Happy Mums.  Happy days.

4.  Plotting and planning all things Christmas, handing out the teacher’s presents, finalising all the other present purchases, and just basically, getting ready for the fun that is the weeks to come.

5.  Chocolate and beer.  A match made in Heaven.  The End.

Have you set up your tree? Send me a pic.  Or not.  As you wish.

I have a few friends.

Not too many close ones though.  About five.  And I don’t even tend to them very well.  They are left, mostly to look after themselves, and pick up where we left off, whenever we find each other.  Somehow they are a bit like my tomato plant- I got it from The Worst Shop in the World, for two bucks, stabbed it into the Smallest Patch of Sandy Dirt in the World, and it hung in there.  Still.  Neglected?  Oh yeah.  Bearing fruit?  Double yeah.  You are my kinda friend plant, tomato.

One of my five died this year.  I have written about it a bit.  Less than I’ve wanted to, but more than Regular Readers probably have wanted me too.

For a while I thought I might try and find somebody new, to boost the membership, fill the space perhaps, but the hole is too big for me to reasonably expect anyone to fill it.  Plus, I think I like the wound open.  Maybe I’m a bit like those kids who cut themselves, the pain makes the pain a bit less.  Or something.

Anyway, I was thinking about friends, and time, and how much we have available to allocate to each, and I remembered this episode of Curb, one of the funniest shows ever made.  You are one clever/silly/annoying/cringeworthy/hilarious man Larry David, and here, you speaketh the truth.

Enjoy.