Hello, my name is Alison and it has been six days since I have blogged.

Sorry about that RRs… We had an internet shut down for a day, which was later fixed by the nicest offshore Optus representative you ever did call.  Then all things Christmas and alcohol related took over.

My Mum is here, and she holds my blog in disdain, so being the good girl that I am, I haven’t made time to sit in the apple orchard and ruminate on the state of the nation.

I had intended to regale you all with my excellent Christmas planning and exploits (which are extensive and organised and pinteresty) but then: alcohols happened.   And the the best laid schemes o’ bloggers and men… gang aft a-gley.

As we, er, speak the Gris-ashers are packing the cars to go camping, approximately 29.1kms south of all things safe, secure and sparkling.  There will be no internet, and so, I’m sorry to say, no blog.  For a whole week.

It feels a bit weird, to be honest.  I’ve kind of gotten used to you lot, but I promise I’ll be back next week.

Enjoy your hols… May your bubbles be tiny and lively on your tongue, and your mozzie bites few.

Merry Belated Christmas, Happy New Year, and of course, Happy Birthday to me.  Seeya on the other side. xx

Once upon a time my girls and I decided that we would like to go to the cricket.  This is probably not true; what we decided was that we liked some boys who wanted to go to the cricket.  Except they called it criggit. Because: Aussies.  So we decided we would follow those fine fellows to watch this game of gentlemen.

But not without refreshments.

So we got prepared.

Two nights before we got about a dozen oranges and froze them: check.  The night before we got the vodka: check. I worked in a pharmacy at the time, and we sold syringes back then, so I got us a couple, for injecting.  Not us, the oranges.  With vodka.  Seemed like a sound idea at the time, as the fun police at the MCG had recently come up with some cockamamie rule that said that you could no longer take your blue and white foam esky full of VB cans into the criggit.  Some nonsense about drunkeness, or too many rounds of OzzieOzzieOzzie I suspect, either that or the newly fashionable Mexican Wave, replete with the throwing up of all manner of debris as you ‘waved’.  Like Melbourne’s version of Cyclone Tracey.

It took much longer than anticipated to fill up the oranges, as the only syringes we had in stock were tiny gauge 1ml ones suitable for diabetics and junkies.  So two shots of vodka per orange equalled 60 injections.  Per orange.  After a while our fruit resembled pithy citrus sieves, and our voddy was leaking all over the bench, and not into our mouths as planned.

So we slurped it up and turned our attention to the watermelon.  I suspect we may have been less than expert, and more than tipsy as we proceeded to bore a tiny hole into the melon, tip the fluid in with a funnel and, prepare to freeze it.  Again, a little* ended up on the bench and in our bellies.  The watermelon didn’t fit in the freezer, so we smashed it open and lapped it up like puppies at the bowl.  We were nothing if not conservationists.

The only fruit left were some scungy tomatoes at the bottom of the crisper.  Remember we were uni students, and were it not for Vodka, Lime and Sodas we all would have had scurvy long ago.  Fruit was not our thing.  Some bright spark** said, “Yay, Bloody Marys” so we valiantly went about volumising with vodka.  The bright spark had the idea of also injecting a bit of Worchestershire Sauce and Tabasco.  For authenticity.  You may suspect this plan also failed.  If so, you are a genius, and correct.  So we pashed the mangled mess of tomato, vodka and condiments off the bench top.  At some point we decided that criggit was a most excellent sport, and eagerly awaited the morn, where we would arise, fresh as daisies and smelling twice as good, dress in our finest hats and summery frocks and amble off to the match.  Graceful and genteel  we stumbled off to bed and didn’t awake until the phone rang mid-morning, with one of our beaus asking where we were, and wondering when we would be joining them.

Even with our jangling heads and husks of voices we managed to answer in the refrain known to all fans of the criggit when the man in white makes an error against your country:           “Fuuuuckkkk offfff”.

Those boys were ne’er seen, nor heard of again.  Good riddance.  We’d been burnt by The Ashes.

*whole bottle

**me

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)

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…

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.

From time to time I have be known to go off on tangents regarding health practices; high doses of fish oil for the family until we were all whiffier than the Bli Bli Big Fish Farm, bucketloads of high potency Vitamin B until we were up all night pinging and burping on that good gear, Ginger Extract that had to be kept cold at all times or it lost it’s effects (apparently), Sea Minerals, Selenium, Chlorophyll, Probiotics.  You name it, I’ve probably done it.  Other than green smoothies.  Don’t get me started on those things. I think I have made it clear I will not drink anything green unless it contains Midori, or at a pinch, Creme de Menthe (Hello Mint Slice, you old friend of 70’s dinner parties and fun in a glass).

My latest is acai. I know, I know, acai berries have been and gone, but I’m still into ’em.  Mostly, I suspect, because the brand I buy comes in a fancy wine bottle.  I shit you not, it looks like a schmick bottle of vino, and in fact, it actually costs more than most of the squashed grapes that we imbibe around here.

I keep mine in the fridge, so it’s icy cold when I have it in the morning, and I imagine I’m kicking back in some tropical paradise when I slurp that baby down.  Some days I have it in a shot glass, some days a wine glass.  I have even been known to have it in the Royal Doulton champagne glasses when I’m feeling particularly fancy.

But it is the vessel in which it comes, the wine bottle, that was my undoing today, as you shall soon see.

We were a bit under the pump here this morning.  It was the last day of school, and there was a multitude of things to remember to do and to have, and today was also the day that I decided that I would get ALL OF THE THINGS DONE, so I wouldn’t have to do them with the brat-bags next week.  As well as that, today was the day I decided that I would get fit, which means it took me longer to get ready, because, as we all know, if you want to get fit, you need to look fit first.  Even though my planned exercise was running on the treadmill in my own hotter-than-the-butterfly-enclosure-at-Melbourne-zoo-when-you-have-a-panic-attack-because:FLYING THINGS-garage.  I needed to look hot, and I don’t mean my temp.

I may* have also been distracted by the internets a little bit too.

So it transpired that there was to be no fake, slowly sipping on a berry-colada, dose of acai today, it was down the hatch or not at all.  It will make my Mother’s bottom prickle to read this, but, shockingly, I decided to drink straight from the bottle.

I was over at the sink at the time of this infraction, head back, gullet open.  A bit like those good ol’ lay-backs we used to do at the bar of Brat Pack, way over yonder in the late 80’s when we called Tequilla “ToKillYa” and thought it was funny, cos it didn’t.  (And now it does.)

Our kitchen window overlooks our sideway, and lines up pretty much with our neighbour’s kitchen window.  As I wiped the berry residue of my acai-slammer from my lips, I got that feeling that someone was watching me.  I looked into my neighbour’s joint, and I could see him standing there, head turned, eyes averted.  I can just imagine him saying in his head, “I will not look at that lush, I will not let her see me seeing her swing from a wine bottle at 6am, oh those poor children, oh hang on, the children probably caused it.”

Of course him looking away and pretending not to see, has made it worse, because now, how will I bring it up?

Me: Oh hey, you know how you saw me drinking wine straight from a bottle at 6am on a Wednesday? Well that wasn’t really wine, it was my vitamins.  Special vitamins.  You haven’t seen them ‘cos they aren’t in shops.  I get them delivered.

Him: Okaaay, sure, I didn’t see anything, but okay, vitamins, in a wine bottle. Cool.

So yeah, I’m looking forward to the Street Christmas Party this year.  Shouldn’t be awkward at all.

I’ll be the one on the acai.

*My twitter feed has been particularly stabby today, so I was voyeuring around the joint, as well as checking checking to see if any of you had read my blog yet.