You Know You Need One

Why do you people inspire the worst in me?

For You Rugby Readers

I see a few Rutland Roosters have been reading this blog, so I thought I'd give you a brief update. I'm even wearing my Roosters Summer Tour 2003 #10 jersey as I type this.

Duncan has "learned" to play footy, but he can't resist a good tackle, and gets called at least once per game. I'm trying to convince him that his childhood is over (he'll be four-oh this year), and that he should give up the footy. I'm prepared to compromise, though: I've said he can ref rugby until he keels over and I'll never try to stop him. From reffing, that is. Not keeling over.

At today's game, I made a loud, derisive comment about the standard of refereeing. One of the blokes on the sideline gave me a sharp and immediate look. After the game, just before we left, I walked up to the guy and said, "What was that look you gave me when I said the ref was crap?"

He said, "Don't piss off the ref! He's the only one we've got."

So yeah, he's the best one they've got, too, then, isn't he?

Actually, they really do like him. I'd be surprised if you could find anyone on the planet who has a better or deeper understanding of the game, but better than that is the way he tries to even up the game when it's very one-sided. Both teams appreciate it, since it makes for a more interesting game. He's gotten his initial qualification, and the assessors said, "He's got a great future in refereeing."

So I've been planning which five star hotels we'll be staying in when he's reffing the test matches. It's only fair that I get to go with him; it's my reward for all these many years of standing around in the wind, the rain, and the heat watching a bunch of grown men fight over a ball.

And I know you'll appreciate this last note:

Leander is in the shower washing the dirt out of his nooks and crannies (footy all morning, rugby all afternoon; it's like heaven for boys around here), and he's "Making up my own Haka, Mommy, listen!"

Don't talk to me about it, Leander. Tell it to your father.

By Request

My fan base has begun! Post more often, you say? Prepare for the rambling!

First of all: good news. Well, good news for us, though I can't really say it's good news for the other kid. The town has a new police sergeant, and though they say he's really good, I say it doesn't matter HOW good if he doesn't stay. There have been two sergeants in the three years I've lived here, and there were long periods of time in between where there wasn't any sergeant at all. And we wonder why the crime is so bad?

But I digress.

The point is that this new sergeant has a son. A son with a nut allergy! Why is that such good news, you ask? Because I think the likelihood of Leander being threatened with physical harm by certain adults in this town, as well as the likelihood of him being further discriminated against by the school principal (or The Wanker, as I prefer to call him) is now greatly reduced.

So, you know, I feel for the child, his family, blah-blah-blah, but just let that bitch try sending peanuts to school NOW.

(For those of you who haven't heard the story a million times already, I'll give you the short version: a six-year-old girl said to me one day, "Mummy packed peanuts in my lunchbox today. I don't like peanuts. Mummy says I don't have to eat them, but I have to bring them to school." Mummy is an ex-military woman who needs a hobby. Something other than pretending we don't exist, and threatening the lives of small children.)

Anyway.

In other good news, also police related, we now know the name of the punk who kicked the crap out of our fence a couple of weeks ago. Because he's a minor, the police weren't allowed to tell us who it was, though they did say they'd charged him. But the laws here are idiotic, and because he's not 18, all they can do is give him a warning. Who's responsible for the damage? Nobody. The police say, "You've got insurance, right?" But I'll be damned if I'm going to pay a deductible and higher premiums because some wingnut dented eight panels of the tin part of our fence.

Especially when the wingnut was enough of an idiot to do this in front of witnesses.

What really pisses us off is that this little bastard and his friends (all little bastards, the lot of them) come into the butcher shop for free meat to use to trap yabbies. And then they destroy our fence? Dude, wrong person to fuck with. I'm not my father's daughter for nothing. Happily for us, we're told that the wingnut's mother would actually be disappointed in him (one of her 13 children) for doing this, so it's possible that we may even get something out of it. Most of the other wingnuts have abusive drug addicts for parents, and visiting them would be completely pointless.

But don't get me started on why they're all such useless idiots. I'd have to carry on at length about welfare, and taking away people's reasons for existing, etc, etc.

In other crime-related news, Duncan and I have volunteered to be on the committee (of five) who will be setting up the new Neighborhood Watch organization in our town. There was an informational meeting last night, where we learned that Kojonup (pop. 2,000) has had 1/3 as many burglaries so far this year as Albany (pop. 30,000). Those are not good ratios. My shop has been broken into twice in just over a year, and now our fence has been vandalized. Speaking of people needing hobbies...

I could go on and on, but I'm not being particularly witty or insightful today, so there's no pointhttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gif. I'll leave you with Oliver's comment from a minute ago, when he was reading my email with me, and he saw a woman modeling a knitted shawl:

"She looks very vee-u-tible, and very weird. She's lips look very weird. Your eyes are a bit purplish, Mommy."

(Speaking of my eyes, p.s. to Stephen: You missed my point, clearly. If I am slightly on the Linda Evangelista end of the Linda:Adolph scale, you are slightly on the Brad Pitt end of the Brad:Jabba scale. But only slightly. And I'm still holding firm to the idea that I am, indeed, on the Linda half of that scale, no matter how you insult me by insinuating otherwise.)

Hot, Steamy Tongue Action

Three Years, One Month, and Eleven Days

That's how long I can live here before I desperately need to GO SOMEWHERE ELSE.

How Cool Will It Be When We Can Add Hyperlinks To Our Speech?

Him: Your hair looks cute.
Me: Thanks.
Him: It looks like Adolph Hitler in the front.
Me:
Me:
Me: Did you just compare me to a Nazi? THE Nazi?
Him: The way it goes over to the side like that.
Me: Did you just compare me to a Nazi? With a mustache?
Him: It looks cute.
Me: Maybe Linda Evangelista would have been a nicer comparison?
Him: Who?
Me: I am SO going to blog this.
Him: Aren't you glad I say stuff like that? Otherwise you'd have nothing to blog about.


Can I just say? I do live in reality. But... I sort of picture the scale as something like this:



You go ahead and judge for yourself, though:

Linda

Hitler

Me

I mean, his hair doesn't even go the same way!

Martha, You Are Dead To Me

For a new line of furniture, Martha Stewart wants to trademark Katonah, which was named after Chief Katonah. And the TM is already on her website (to which I am specifically not linking).

YOU CAN'T BUY EVERYTHING, MARTHA.

I have gone to the newsagency and canceled my standing order for Living and Weddings. I really have; I'm not just saying that to make the point. Not that I would ever do that.

That should hit her where it hurts. And, okay, if the loss of those two magazine sales doesn't break her right down, just wait until Katonah's done with her. You don't mess with those people, Martha. There isn't a single chain store in that town. If Starbucks can't beat 'em, what do you reckon YOUR chances are, bitch?

Wtf, Martha? WTF?

(Oh, right: it has just occurred to me to mentioned WHY I am so irritated. Katonah is where I come from, right deep down in my soul.)

A Tuesday I Wouldn't Revisit

All day Monday, and all Monday night, I dreaded Tuesday, for three reasons:

1) I was scheduled to teach a class in felting a the local old folks' home, and the activities director made me nervous about the old folks.
2) I had a dentist appointment, to see if I had my first-ever cavity.
3) I left Leander, my peanut-anaphylactic child, at an all-day footy clinic without me.

So when it was finally all over and

1) the old folks were a riot, particularly one grumpy woman who complained about everything in between naps,
2) it's not a cavity, just a sensitivity caused by the cold I've had or well over two weeks, and
3) Leander was completely fine

you'd think I'd have been happy. But we got home to find that someone had kicked in several panels of the tin part of our fence. Little bastards. I called the police, because I'm sick to death of these kids getting away with everything, and the girl next door came out to describe the boys she saw doing it. Miracles will never cease. I didn't still didn't expect anything to come of it, since I've been broken into twice, and the cops have done NOTHING, but we heard today that they have arrested someone. They won't tell us who yet, since the kid is a minor, but we'll find out more on Friday, and I think there might be a way to eventually get the kid's family to pay up. We'll see.

But the old folks, they were hysterical (well, I don't think *they* thought they were, but I was highly entertained). We made felted balls, which are ridiculously easy and involve flexing your hands in warm water - good therapy for old joints - for them to use later on in their exercises. Or for pincushions, said the activities director. Yes, but not both simultaneously, I pointed out.

There were a couple of women who actively enjoyed it, and one man who did, too. There were a couple who tried really hard with very little success (limited motion in their hands, or limited sight), and there was that one lady who hated every minute of it and never stopped complaining (in between falling asleep), except to giggle once, which made it all worth it. She was a riot, and I think it would have been a bit dull without her complaining, and another woman rolling her eyes, oh, it was funny. I even told her to stop being so grouchy, and she nearly cracked a smile. Apparently, she hates to have her hands in anything, even hand cream, so she didn't want to stick her hands in the soapy water to do the felting. I threatened her with finger-painting for our next activity.

I've never been to that dentist before. I had the dark protective glasses on, and two little masked Asian faces bent over me, performing a delicately choreographed dance with suction tubes and tooth polishers, talking gently in not-English. It was all very Lost in Translation.

It was a bummer after all that to spend the night feeling violated and powerless. I had to keep reminding myself that we have very sharp knives and an easy way to dispose of bones and meat scraps.

Thank God THAT'S Over

Stupidly, we stayed up very, very late last night. Duncan performed his annual dish-washing duties, and I stayed up to finish knitting the back of a turtleneck sweater with the Brown Sheep wool that finally arrived from the States this week. We watched the Live Earth concerts for a while, allowing me to point out, multiple times, how far away from the Red Hot Chili Peppers the audience at Wembley is forced to be, whereas I, much luckier and cleverer than them, stood not more than two feet away from Anthony (six from Flea, who was further back on the plywood table serving as a stage) - and had the stage-bruises on my thighs to prove it - when I saw them on their Mother's Milk tour in the amazing venue/basketball court at SUNY Oswego. Which in turn triggered the realization that they are now in their 40s. Which makes me OLD.

But I digress. The point is, Oliver woke up at a reasonable (for him, completely unreasonable for us) hour this morning and got into bed with us. I was still tired enough to ignore his wiggling and fall back to sleep. Then Eddie woke up and came in.

He whispered to Oliver, "It's your birthday!"

And Oliver stage-whispered back, "Where are all the people?"

Which served to highlight the fact that I am a crap mother who was really hoping he wouldn't realize that at this party lark? There are supposed to be OTHER people.

But maybe Eddie can count as a guest, since, while performing the forced march that is Making Oliver's Breakfast, Eddie must have been increasingly annoyed at Oliver's habit of micro-managing the organization of his breakfast cereal. From the bedroom, I can only ascertain that a level of shove took place, and which point Oliver shrieked, "YOU'RE NOT MY BIG BROTHER ANYMORE!"

Let's hope that my theory holds true about how even-numbered ages are more pleasant than odd-numbered ages. Happy fourth birthday, Oliver!

And happy mumbly-mumbled birthday, Mom!