I Never Said I Was a Morning Person!

I’m not good in the mornings. I never have been. I’ve always loved to stay up late – I remember sneaking into the TV room, which was on the other side of the house to my parents’ room, to watch movies – or one year (1983), to watch Australia win the America’s Cup yacht race (which must have been late here if it was raced in American daytime – in fact there was much made of the quote by our then Prime Minister who said the following day ‘Any boss who sacks a worker for not turning up today is a bum’.)

I’ve also noticed that I am finding it even harder of late because the house is still in absolute state of chaos, which makes mornings that much harder to deal with. I am just too tired on getting home at 7 or 8pm, then making and eating dinner, to do any little extra jobs that need to be done. That’s why there are boxes spread throughout the dining room and the floor is now an interesting shade of grey even though the tiles are not in fact grey at all.

The Boyfriend really does get the bulk of the angst thrown his way of a morning of late. Really, though, when I am rushing around like a chook with my head cut off, do I want to have a conversation about installing Office on the new computer, or do I need anything from the shops today, or what do you think about the latest boring political news? No, sir, I do not.

Perhaps that is why when They Boyfriend was pushing me to take some fruit to work with my lunch today in the interests of my health, he said “Come on, how about a nice little mandarin? Here’s one just like you, small and cute. We didn’t have any grumpy ones so this one will have to do – just eat it a bit later in the day, not first thing.” Hmph. I resemble that remark.

Updated to Add: The mandarin may not have been grumpy. But it was sort of wrinkly and a bit sour inside. Just like me. Heh.

Awkward Conversations 101

I spent the day today with The Boyfriend’s mum and dad because I was home sick from work, and they just look after me the right amount – offer cups of tea and conversation but leave me alone when I go to lie down.I love spending time with them, and in exchange I cooked them a corned beef to have on their sandwiches for lunch with pickles and cheese. Yum.

I was having a conversation with The Boyfriend’s dad, about Beethoven, and how difficult it must have been to hear the music in his head but not be able to actually experience it the way others did after he went deaf in his late 20s.

We then moved on to how many of the old composers were total nut jobs. I supplied the information that many composers had untreated syphilis, and they were all nutjobs because one of the later complications is going quite mad.

The Boyfriend’s dad said to me ” You know, apparently lots of women are carriers of that”.*

What made me reply with a cheery “I’m not, no need to worry about your son on that one, he won’t catch anything from me!”? I then tried to recover with “No, really, I’ve been tested!”

It was only when he started umming and ahhing that I realised that might have been an oversharing moment and decided not to carry on with the fact that it surely is HPV or something like that rather than syphilis that is rife in the community, and that I thought it was men who are unknowing carriers. I think I’d better cook them something else to distract them.

I Picked This One Well

Work has been somewhat stressful this past week. It was such a nice surprise to receive a text from The Boyfriend this morning: “Fancy dinner out this evening? My treat! Wherever you want to go, the choice is all yours xoxo”.

I replied immediately with just one word. “Maxim’s.”

I’m so glad he gets my humour. He worked out immediately I meant the famed restaurant in Paris, as he replied with “If you pay for the airfare!” Smart cookie, that one. Also, one of the few people who actually gets my jokes.

I’ve made some poor choices in my life. Not that I’d change anything – my mistakes have helped make me who I am. It’s just so nice to know that The Boyfriend is not one of those mistakes.

Cheesy

Ah, Mondays. Don’t you just love them. Mine was even worse given that I had to get up an extra hour early to salt my cheese. That sentence may make sense after the weekend tales are complete.

On Friday night I gathered a group of friends from The Local and off we went to watch our footy team’s last home game for the season. It was great, especially given that we won. On the way home, we stopped in at a bar. I was refused entry. “We can’t let you in ma’am, you are wearing a football jersey”. I might add, this was one of the seedier establishments in the area. I responded “We are in Parramatta, right?” The bouncer agreed. I continued. “Parra just won a home game, in this very suburb, right?” The bouncer agreed again. “And I am not allowed in because I have a Parramatta jersey on?” Yep, that’s right. I obviously looked oh so threatening, I’d have been frightened myself if there had been a mirror nearby.

Once Saturday morning rolled around, I said to The Boyfriend that I was taking him somewhere special. I should possibly have let him know that it would not involve me feeding him, as he got all his nice clothes on and thought we were going out to lunch. I wondered why he got all dressed up. The Boyfriend drove, so I gave just the address. No other clue – a street address. His response? “What, the homebrew shop?” Yes, folks, my boyfriend seems to know the address of the homebrew shop off by heart. I did buy him something special, of course – all the ingredients needed to make a tasty Stella Artois style beer. And let me tell you – hops smell nasty. Very, very nasty. While at the homebrew shop, I bought myself a cheesemaking kit – just a small one that makes brie/camembert style cheese. I started the culture on our return home on Saturday and I’ve been making the bloody stuff ever since. We watched footy at The Local yesterday afternoon – well everyone else did, I was running home every hour to turn the cheese over. Anyway, I have a new appreciation for why nice cheese costs so much. This stuff had better taste good. Little Miss Muffet curds pictured below.

On Saturday night, after deciding to have an early night with a DVD, The Boyfriend arrived in the bedroom with this nice little tray of pickles, cheese, and milk before bed. OK, Kahlua and milk, but close enough. I think I’ll keep him.

I sure hope my cheese turns out as nice.

Outlaws

They Boyfriend and I spend a fair amount of time with his parents. We have dinner with them several nights a week. (Boyfriend’s mum does all my washing and ironing, bless her cotton socks. How could I not repay that by cooking a few meals here and there!)

This week Boyfriend’s sister has been visiting. I am getting this awkward feeling. Let me try to describe why – here’s a few conversations from the past few days:

Boyfriend’s sister: Mum, do you have a large frypan I can do toasted sandwiches in?

Boyfriend’s Mum: No, but 12 has a really good one, you’ll have to ask her if she can use it.

Hmm. Could be worse. But it keeps going.

Boyfriend’s sister: I need a knife, where are the sharp ones?

Boyfriend’s Mum: Oh, 12 bought me a lovely knife block, you can use those.

OK , I started feeling VERY intrusive by now.

Boyfriend’s sister: Where are the placemats?

Boyfriend’s Mum: Just ask 12, she’ll show you where everything is.

AAAHHHH!

Any Other Time I Would Have Been Angry

Yesterday I was on my way to work. I was feeling pretty tired and second hand after a late night cheering up a friend with a broken heart. I must have looked a sight. Of course, there was no seat available on the train – there never is when you really need it!

It was pretty chilly and I was wearing a read coat that only buttons up high and flares out to mid thigh level. A bit like this one, but possibly less fitted around the waist.

A young man who was sitting near me caught my eye and very politely said “Excuse me, would you like my seat?” Halleluiah! I gratefully accepted, on account of the fact that I felt a million years old, had not enough hours of sleep behind me and a raging hangover. As I thanked him and sat down, he frowned at all the men nearby and murmered something along the lines of how he hated it when men did not stand for pregnant ladies.

I was torn for a split second while it computed in my brain. Flared coat that is not fitted around the belly. Tired looking woman. He thought I was pregnant! It took only a moment to decide between telling him he was mistaken and giving his seat back or leaving it as it was. I smiled at him really sweetly as I thanked him and rubbed my belly in the way I have seen pregnant women do. I like to think I made his day for his thoughtfulness – he would have bragged that all over the office. He sure made mine, and I got an extra 25 minutes of shut eye on the trip that was desparately needed. And I paid back karma wise by making myself almost miss my train home that afternoon by stopping to let work security know someone had left their headlights on in their car which was parked in the work carpark. Oh, and it made a screamingly funny story to tell later at The Local.

Lucky My Head is Screwed On

Mum always used to say I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on. I probably would, too.

The other week, we were heading out to a party. A friend had popped in to visit, and gave us a lift to the party so we wouldn’t have to drive (yay!). We stopped on the way for beer and ice – a party can never have too much ice; people always seem to take drinks and forget the ice. When we got out of the car, I looked around for my shoes. No shoes were to be found. I was sure I’d put thongs on (the footwear type) just as I’d left, but obviously had not.

Friend: Damn! I guess we’ll have to go back and get shoes for you.

Me: Na, watch this.

I walked into the local bottle shop. The guy who owns the store is an absolute sweetheart, even though I find it funny that he owns a bottlo and doesn’t drink much at all.

Me: Hi! Do you happen to have any thongs for promotional giveaways or anything? I seem to have left home without any shoes on.

I walked out a minute later wearing very stylish lime green thongs with “Vodka Cruiser” written all over them.

Mum also used to say “It’s not what you know, it’s who you know”.

Hunting’s Not Just for the Kids

Yesterday as The Boyfriend and I laid in bed, refusing to get up (which I am sure was in no way caused by an excess of alcohol consumption at the Hangi the night before), we talked about our plans for Easter. We’d already delayed the morning’s start by getting up earlier, making toasted sandwiches and coffee, and bringing them all back to bed on a tray while we watched a movie. (Revolutionary Road. Which if you ask me was depressing. Everyone ends up unhappy in the end.)

We’ve invited one of my best friends and her 2 kids to spend the Easter long weekend at our holiday house on the South Coast of NSW.  I rattled on for ageas about what fun things we’d be doing and how I’ve been madly buying little easter eggs and planning an Easter Egg Hunt for the 2 girls.

The Boyfriend nodded and agreed with everything I planned. Then he asked “So when the kids have finished, are they going to do an adult Easter hunt for us?” He went on to add, “Can you imagine how cool it would be to hunt through the back yard, suddenly screaming out, “YAY! I found a scotch and coke behind this tree!”

If it wasn’t such a brilliant idea I’d have laughed at him. Instead I’ve been trying to work out how to have an adult Easter Hunt without scarring the kids for life.

Honesty is the Best Policy

Scene: The boss’ office.

12: I’m really not feeling it. Can I leave at 4 today?

Boss: Hmm. Why?

12: I have this really boring report to finish and I couldn’t be bothered today. I’ve dicked around with it all week and will finish it over the weekend, but this arvo I really feel like going to the pub instead.

Boss: Sure, at leat you’re honest about it. I should really reward that.