different strokes

Since Mum has moved in, I have noticed that some quite strange things get on her wick.

At 84, it is expected (and even forgivable) that she be somewhat set in her ways. And, she is. With cement.

There has been give and take on both sides and, in the main, it has been a successful transition. We are prepared to accept having ugly tartan placemats at dinner and a tacky fake crystal decanter on the sideboard. She is prepared to suffer through later dinners and a lack of fluffy mats in the dunny. Give and take.

Trouble is, every time I am about to give her snaps for her adaptability, something arises that sets off her neatness gene or her routine requirements. It is usually without any prior warning and, almost always, without obvious trigger.

She suddenly decided that our sideboard was a waste of space and that I didn't need any of the contents. She got slightly obsessed over the fact that I have two knitting needle boxes and that they should be justified into one single unit. For several days it was my over supply of recipe books which offended her. Another time, the fact that I had tupperware that she considered redundant.

There have also been some ongoing campaigns.

She has a passionate desire to prune our garden (well, strictly speaking, for someone else to prune it). The unpaved state of our driveway offends her (it looks so untidy, dear), as do the vertical blinds on our windows (curtains are so much nicer, Fiona). It annoys her (vocally, every time) that my Wednesday dinner mate doesn't offer to do the dishes (or the kids when they visit) and no matter how often we restate that house rules that dishes are never ever done at night, she still bemoans their lack of manners.

There has been one thing, however, that caught her eye in the first few days of her residency and has been a continuing (and continuous) cause of friction ever since. Everyday, without fail, it rates a good whinge session. It has well and truly got on her goat and she has no intention of leaving it alone. It is a heinous sin that my husband commits every morning. That wicked wicked man is the trigger to a daily tirade.

He leaves his breakfast dishes on the table.

Yep. You read that correctly. This master of evil fails to move his used breakfast crockery from the diningroom to the kitchen sink.

Oh, that such wickedness could be.

Just ask her about it. She'll tell you. She can expound on the reasons that such an act is beyond forgiveness for hours at a stretch. She can tsk and tut and sigh about it at enormous length. Not a morning goes by that she doesn't comment upon it and it is a rare afternoon when it isn't mentioned again, at least once.

This is a sin far beyond not putting a pile of pulled weeds into the compost. It exceeds public nail cleaning and belching in social unacceptability. It is more uncouth than failure to use a dinner napkin and more slovenly than cobwebs in the corner.

That small collection of a glass, a coffee cup, a knife and a plate are a still life of evil.

My husband is the constant offender.

Tonight, it came to a head. (Please note that it occurred in the evening, many hours after the offense was committed.) Instead of her muttered self-whinging or her louder moans to me, she actually tackled the sinner himself.

Had she been direct, the effect would have been different. Max responds well to direct. A simple "can you put your breakfast dishes in the sink in the morning please" would have got a pretty positive reaction. The snide "why do you leave your coffee cup for me to clean up?" got a very different response.

It nearly came to blows. (Well, no, it didn't, but it was reasonably ugly.) She was very much put in her place. She didn't like it. A HUGE sulk ensued.

Hopefully, tomorrow it will be back to business as usual. He'll leave his dishes and she'll tsk and complain to me.

*sigh*

Folks is weird.

tradition

A very charming gentleman, as old as old could be,
Stared a while, and glared a while, and then he said to me:
"Read your books, and heed your books, and put your books away,
For you will surely need your books upon a later day."
And then he wheezed and then he sneezed, and gave me such a look.
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Be careful of your book."

A very charming gentleman, indeed, he seemed to be.
He heaved a sigh and wiped his eye, and then he said to me:
"Take your books and make your books companions--never toys;
For they who so forsake their books grow into gawky boys."
I don't know who he was. Do you? he snuffled at the end;
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Your book should be your friend."

This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff,
He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff,
Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted "Fie!
To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!"
I don't know what he meant by that. He had such piercing eyes.
And, he said, "Mark--ME--boy! Books will make you wise."

This very charming gentleman said, "Hum," and "Hoity, Toit!
A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit.
Soil your books and spoil your books? Is that the thing to do?
Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir! And Fiddle-faddle, too!"
He blinked so quick, and thumped his stick, then gave me such a stare.
And he said, "Mark--ME--boy! BOOKS--NEED--CARE!"

CJ Dennis

That poem appears in "A Book for Kids" by CJ Dennis. The book was given to me for my 6th birthday and read to me (over and over again) by my father. My children had it read to them by their father.

When they reached adulthood, I tracked down four copies of the original black and white edition and gave one to each kid.

Last time Alice was visiting, she was initiated into the family tradition.

She may be a little young yet but her Opa will ensure that books really do become her friends.

I think he is giving her a wonderful gift.

Mills&Boon plot summary

I grew up in a household caught in a time warp.

In an era when Jean Shrimpton was scandalizing Melbourne society by displaying her knees at The Cup (to say nothing of the horror of her going bare headed), Carnaby Street was exploding with colour and anybody who was anyone was wearing the shift dress, our family was just a tad behind the times. My mother was still getting her money's worth out of her Dior "new look" patterns. My Dad insisted that the tweed sports jacket he bought with his demob pay would never go out of style and jeans were working man's clothes. My sister and I owned going-to-town hats and matching gloves and gabardine coats. Our underwear was voluminous and white (only trollops wore colour under their clothes), our hair was long and braided and we always, always wore a singlet.

One of the joyous memories of that time (and I have few memories at all) was the visits of Mum's brother, my a favourite uncle. (He was actually the only uncle with whom we had much contact. The others were on Dad's side and were Christmas card relatives.)

Uncle Alan was an extremely handsome and charismatic man. And he knew it. Indulged by his parents, well educated at private school and in a high paid job, he was very different from the usual academic frusties Dad invited home.

Uncle Alan blew in and out of our stodgy engineer's household like a tornado of fresh air (and hope).

Arriving at erratic intervals, he never came alone. About half the time he brought along his friend, Maurice (was Maurice a special friend?) and the rest of the time he was accompanied by a succession of ladies. Pretty ladies. To my childish eyes, exotic pretty ladies.

They wore mini-skirts and blue eyeshadow and red nail polish. They carried handbags stuffed with foreign treasures such as chewing gum and make-up purses and teasing combs. They curled their hair, never wore gloves and smelled of perfume other than Ashes of Violets or 4711.

They had modern and abbreviated names like Barb and Jenny and Kitty and they distributed forbidden largess (Freddo Frogs and Stimerol) and painted our toenails. They had jobs like Personal Assistant, model or pharmacy girl.

All very exotic stuff to a kid in Cottontails and a tartan pinafore.

Occasionally, we saw them more than once. Even more rarely, they came a number of times. A privileged couple hung around for many months and sported a diamond ring. One of those was a lady called Margie and the other was my uncle's eventual wife.

Uncle Alan drifted in and out of our lives until I left home. The marriage ended (but not the friendship with Maurice). There were more pretty ladies and long periods of no contact. Until my last visit to Melbourne, I had not seen him for 30 years and knew, only vaguely, about his doings.

Yesterday Mum had a letter from him. He is getting married. He's 79.

And here is the twist in the tale.

He is marrying Margie. One of those pretty ladies. The first wearer of the diamond ring. Nearly 50 years after he first proposed (and three marriages between them later), he is marrying his first real love.

Maurice is to be best man.

Now, tell me that isn't worthy of a Mills&Boon!

---

The lord and master (in his own mind, if nowhere else) is away at the moment. Three nights of just Mum for company. It has been surprisingly easy.

She is slowly getting used to living in our organised chaos and I am slowly getting used to her desire for neatness and routine. Compromise is happening all round.

Not much other news so I will put in a cutesy grandchild pic...

and, one of the lovebirds....

sparkling news

Last Monday morning (at the airport, in the very wee smalls), I met my baby's boyfriend for the first time. I brought him home and over the next day we got to know him.

We liked him.

This is a good thing. It is a very good thing.

Because, on Wednesday, he did this.....

He put a smile on her face and a ring on her finger.

*squeal*

My baby is getting married!!

---

In other news....

We made the presentation of the Antarctic trip to the old fart on Father's Day. (For him) there was a HUGE positive reaction. He smiled and said "this is excellent". He has spent almost all the time since doing research (the trip, the vessel, the history, the geography etc etc).

We did good.

I'm sure there are lots of other things I could be writing about but my mind is blank. Diamonds on my kids' fingers do that to me.

WOW - an entry

A lot has happened in my life since I wrote here last. Some trivial, some quite momentous.

Probably the first thing I should mention is that my wonderful (and exquisitely handsome) ophthalmologist has put me on steroids and I can now see again (hence the entry). It will take me forever to catch up on all my blog reading (if ever) so I ask for some leeway if dramatic stuff has happened in your lives and I've missed it.

Other happenings. Hmmm. Mum has, at long last, moved in. She arrived about a month ago and is slowly settling in. It has meant HUGE adaptations on both sides but we are plugging along and coping with each problem as it arises.

Small thins are driving me up the wall (like her insistence on putting toilet lids down and her appalling dish-washing skills) and, I am sure, things about our household are getting on her goat (who's name is probably Ulrick). I know our lack of neatness and (what she sees as) order is a sticking point, as are our hours of eating. These troubles will iron out over time. She is one ballsy lady for making such a massive transition so late in life. We'll, together, make it work.

Medically, things have moved along. I had the surgery to remove my thyroid (and was most displeased to get a very neat discrete scar below my collar line having anticipated the old-style cut throat). I've healed well but the quacks are still playing around with my thyroxine dosage. Apparently it can take up to 12 months to get it settled into a routine. In the meantime I will just have to learn to cope with drowsiness and weight gain (because dieting is definitely not my forte).

The brain tumour is currently quiescent and just being watched. It may come to action at some time in the future but, for now at least, it is wait and see.

My beautiful granddaughter is doing all the right things and growing into a bonnie child. *inserts gratuitous grandbaby pic*

Tegz is a wonderful Mum. She's had a few hurdles (such as her milk supply going to crap) but she has blossomed in her chosen role. I am inordinately proud of her. Being a full-time mum isn't a popular choice these days. Snaps to her for sticking to her guns and putting her kids before materialism.

Other big news is that two of my kids are heading back home to live. B and her gorgeous hubby have both been posted to Perth. YAY. It is quite an unexpected (and prestigious) posting. We get three full years (and the planned grandbabies) before we have to think about losing them to the military relocation treadmill again. Double YAY.

My baby has also had some pretty big events in her life. We caught up in Sydney recently when we were both witnesses at a court marshal. Although the circumstances were crappy, it was wonderful catch-up time. She spoke (at great length) about the new (and, she says, permanent) love in her life. My "I'll never marry or have babies" daughter is talking white frocks and layettes in the near future!! Yikes! We have yet to meet this paragon of manly virtue but that will be rectified next week when they come over for a visit. The eldest two (and their partners) have met him and approve (phew) so it should be all good.

My son has set a date for his long awaited wedding. We shall all gather in KIng's Park on May 30 next year and celebrate the newest member joining our family (although, she's been around so long it feels like she already is a member). It will be bigger than Ben Hur and cost the earth but her dad is insisting on doing the whole father-of-the-bride bit so we just have to sit back and enjoy. I just have fun suggesting that Mum and I will wear matching purple lace and watching the panic set into the happy couple's faces. I'm bad.

OK, that will have to do you. Mum is getting angsty about me being secreted in here so long.

There will be more.