Ten years ago today this happened:

U.S. 2003 U.S.A. Cigarette Taxes Nov. 8th, 2003 : Native to non-native cigarette taxing was schedule to take place soon in the state of New York. However, a print announcement was made this day in 2003 regarding the delay of this decision, as discussed on the day before. 

WHAT?

Anyway, there was also a lunar eclipse.

The Bledisloe Cup was on in Melbourne.  Some chunky dudes ran around for a bit, and crashed into each other. Someone won.

Most importantly, this happened:

I let this guy come to my wedding:

That was a pretty good decision by me.

These fairies were there:

I rocked up in a mini-bus (as you do.)

And there was a fair bit of this:

At this:

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, apparently once said this, “Love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”  I like that, I like it a lot.

By the time you read this, The Ashers will be all frocked up, and promenading along Noosa Beach.  We might look a bit silly in our ten year old clobber.  My halo tiara might be a bit tarnished, my dress a bit worse for wear, and my veil pretty much shredded, but I guess that’s how things roll, ten years on.  Still, with a bit of spit and polish, we should scrub up okay.  Much like life really.  We’ve added a few wrinkles and a few scars and one or two grey hairs, but I suppose that means we are living a life.  And more than a few of those wrinkles are from laughter.

I love you Nath.  You make me want to be better.  And you’re more than this little black cloud deserves.

Here’s to putting a few scores on our board.

I have pretty ordinary eyesight, so I’m a bit fussy about all things vision related. I wear contact lenses most of the time, because  I have more glass in my specs than a good, solid crystal whiskey glass.  Forget the saying “like the bottom of a Coke bottle”, I’ve got the whole slab.  So my contacts are always well kept, my glasses pristine, and my sunnies polarised.

But this is not a story about my failing eyesight (no I will not be getting LASER any time soon: too scared. No I don’t need bifocals yet: long arms.)  It’s a story about sun glasses.

My last sunglasses were Ray Bans, and I got them about three years ago.  They weren’t cheap, but they’ve done well. Unfortunately I dropped them on the tiles ABOUT EIGHT MONTHS AGO, and I have been wearing them with a massive crack just below my line of vision ever since. I live in Queensland.  So that means I wear them every.single.day.  With a crack.  It was driving me bonkers initially.  And then not so much, because I sort of filtered it out, and looked around it.  Just like the dirt on my floor and the frown lines on my forehead.  I know they’re all there, but hey, we can live in harmony right?  A little scotoma here and there never hurt anyone.

Nathan goes through sunnies like, well, like they’re going out of style.  Partly because he is a fashion fiend, but mostly because he’s a chippy, and he often gets chippies (see what I did there?).

Friday is our 10 year wedding anniversary, and usually we don’t really do a present thing, but this year we decided to get new sunnies. To sweeten the deal, Nath did some work a while ago for a dude who owns a sunglasses shop.  The dude is really lovely, and implied, with a nudge and a wink, that he would “look after us” when we next needed some shades.  So off we trotted.

Before I go any further you must see what I got:

This is the box. All the shiny.

…And this is all the crap inside the box… Gucci cleaning cloth, Gucci certificate of authenticity… In it’s own little envelope.

The handsome case… That will be all scratched to hell in about a week.

Can you believe that shit?  I’m just gonna chuck ’em in my bag, face, bag, car, bag, carseat… And you would be right in thinking that all of those accoutrements drove the dollar value up a bit.  But I wasn’t worried, Old Mate was doing us a deal.  Nath chose some crazy glasses that pilots wear, made my NASA or some such. They’re unbreakable, and I suspect they can brew you a macchiato should you feel inclined.  Again: not worried, we were in the know.

Until we got the bill. We were not so much in the know as in the shit.  We had cash, but NOT THAT MUCH CASH.  With a nod and a wink, our contact looked at the tally and said “I’ll give you a discount.”

Cool (whew).

He gave us fifty bucks off.  FIFTY.

The fact that I am whinging about what sounds like a decent discount, should alert you to the fact that THESE SUNNIES COST A SMALL FORTUNE.  We felt sick, but were too embarrassed to say anything more than a mumbled “Thanks”, and then we beat it out of that joint.  I’m only just coming down from the rush of spending so much money on non-prescription eyewear.

So if you see me, be sure to notice the Gucci badge on the arms.  Because according to our mate, “That, darlink*, is what you are paying for.”

What wankers we are.

*He didn’t really say darlink.

Have you ever spent up big thinking you were getting a discount?

Got any sunnies that could feed a small nation?

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.

Usually I pride myself on being a know-all, and basically just acting smart-arsey as I swan about in my own little world.  I know as much as I need to, about the things that I’m interested in, and for everything else there’s google.  Or if I’m feeling all old-school and retro; my textbooks.

These days you don’t even have to know the name of the song, or even very much of the song that’s dancing around in your head, to decode it.  You can type in a few of the lyrics, or hum or sing a bit of it to an app, and voila: there it is ready for purchase.  Gone are the days of going into Brashs and quietly singing, out of tune and warbling, to the cute guy with the earring, the first verse of the latest Duran Duran.  (Who really knows what The Reflex are anyway?)

Once I was watching Spicks and Specks and I’d missed the intro, so I was wondering who the funny guy with the big teeth was. Just idly wondering mind, I didn’t really need to know, but I typed in “Who is the guy with the big teeth on Spic…” and the answer was there.  I didn’t even complete the question.  I felt like Tony Barber must have, on the fast-money part of Sale.

So with all this at my behest, most days I get around thinking I’m pretty smart.  According to me.

So you can imagine my surprise last night, when I got a riddle incorrect.  Because, shock of shocks, I used only my brain.

Curses to you, brain.

Immediately after I sent the answer to my FB friend, I googled the answer, feeling all puffed up and superior, only to find, “Computer says NO”.  Of course, every part of my being wanted to avoid the public ridicule, and see if I could change my answer, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.  The only thing I abhor more than being a dummy, is being a public dummy, and the only thing I hate more than that, is being a cheat.  Ever since I cheated on the Rubik’s Cube in 1981, and my Dad just quietly said “That’s disappointing”, I haven’t had the heart for it.

So here I am.

Grumpy and cross and all giraffe-y.

For two more days.

Grrr….

….Fricken Facebook… Mumble mumble…

Have you done the stupid FB riddle?  Are you a giraffe?

Now with added shame

I wrote a post last night that may did include a comment about a person on tv that was a little bit ascorbic quite mean.

At the time of writing (11.30pm), I thought it was amusing.  To me.  Alone in my little bedroom and without anyone else reading it.  So I hit publish.  Keyboard warrior, me.

I didn’t write the post TO the person.  I didn’t provide any links to him personally.  And unless the post was to go viral, like my posts usually do (see that sarcasm again there?) he would never even know.  But that isn’t really the point is it?

In the shower this morning, I had a moment.

I thought about the target person, and then all the people who are out there, in the media in all it’s various forms, and how easy it is for some lonely, solitary dude with a keyboard and an internet connection to write mean things, even if they are a little bit funny, or a bit rude or they get that sad, unhappy dude a crumb of attention.

I wouldn’t say what I typed, in the safety of my bedroom, to that tv host IRL.  If he was a mate, I might tease him about it, but as a random stranger, no.  Not because I’m afraid of voicing my unpopular opinions, but because some things should just stay in my own head.  I’ve taken the post down, so if you weren’t fast enough this morning, you’ve missed it.  Suffice it to say, it was HILARIOUS, INSIGHTFUL and probably the post that would have seen me featured in HuffPost, and seen me ensconced as the winner of the internet for today.

If you did see it, shut up.

It is like my Mum said, “Say nice things.”

So now, instead of teasing famous people, I’m going to tease my own progeny, because that IS allowed (she says, as she ignores her Mum’s best advice).  This is what the ex-Third Smartest Kid said this morning:

Nanny: Your reading is getting really good Coco

Coco: Yes I know, I’m the second smartest kid in my grade.

Nanny:  Cool, who is the smartest?

Coco: Number one is Stella and Ben, Number two is Me and Shaylah.

Nanny: (knowing that Coco previously held the title of Third Smartest) Who is the third smartest?

Coco: All the other kids.

So, there you have it folks, NAILED IT, again.

I think the Ashers win the internet today.

Have you ever been mean on the internet?  Or is it just me? (Hold me, Love me)

Bored shitless, and trying to avoid Twitter (Yes, that Mia Freedman victim-shaming-rant fallout is still going on) so we decided to watch Dancing With The “Stars”.

Oh Holy Mary, Mother of God what the Hell is going on here?

Firstly, there’s a new host.  Where is Sonja?  And why does this new chick look suspiciously like her?  Is Channel 7 having a “single white female” moment?  And why did she just say “cock-a-roaches” instead of cockroaches?  If she says “aks” instead of asks, I’m ringing the switchboard.

Secondly, some dude just did metal fingers because he got a “rock” song for his poncy dance.  But he didn’t really do metal fingers, with the index and little finger like pointy debbil-horns.  No, he did the two-fingered “up yours” fingers from 1974.  But he meant them to be horns.  What a tool.  Plus: not a metal song.

I’m cringing so much I can hardly watch.

Cut to the audience, and by the looks on their faces, I think some of them are experiencing the searing pain, of images burning, burning, their retinas.  The rest are sitting quietly, zombiod*, reflecting on how they may best re-arrange the soft furnishings in their lounge-rooms tomorrow.

Thirdly, who are these stars?

One of the contestants was so uncoordinated, the choreography was designed to prevent him from, well, dancing.  The Annoying Judge said, “You just might win Non-Dancing with the Stars”.  What?  What stars?  Doesn’t he mean “Dancing with the Non-Stars”?  WE DON’T KNOW WHO ANY OF THEM ARE.

So we have invented a game**.  The rules are as follows:

1. Turn down the audio and avert eyes whilst the intro and mini-montage of the “journey” part is on
2. Watch the dancing bit
3. Try to guess which one is the dancer and which is the “star”
4. If you get it wrong: scull.
5. If you get it right: also scull (otherwise the show really is unbearable)

That is the end of the game.  Brilliant in it’s simplicity, no?  It seems the show is getting better each time we follow steps 1 through 5.  I am considering adding in some new rules.  Like: every time someone mentions how they hope they aren’t going home this week: scull, every time someone mentions how much they’ve grown: scull, every time Daniel McPherson says “That might just be the dance of the night”: scull.

I’m changing my mind, this show, really is pretty good.

OH BLOODY HELL, NO, THE RUDE AND ANNOYING CHICK FROM THAT HOME COOKING SHOW JUST CAME ON, HOW ON EARTH IS SHE A STAR? SHE DIDN’T EVEN WIN: Scull.

Okay, I take it aaalllll back. This show bites: scull.

*Possibly a made-up word.

**We didn’t invent it, and it’s not a game.  It’s just called getting pissed I think.  But with added yelling at the telly.

Do you watch DWTS?

Have you invented any excellent games I must know of?