Bereft to Joyful

When Herbie got put down I was an absolute mess.  I was just devastated and cried all over my friends.  I am not a pretty crier.  I don't cry often but when I do it is loud and anything I try to say is unintelligible.  I just kept saying "I want my dog back" over and over.  I couldn't believe that my dear friend was gone and I was never going to have his company ever again.

To take up some of my crying time I started looking on Gumtree and the Trading Post for puppies.  I did it as a type of therapy so that I could imagine what having each of the dogs would be like.  I found a little dog on the Trading Post site and absolutely fell in love with her.  As I was going away to Melbourne over Christmas I thought that I would miss out on her but when I spoke to her dear Mum she told me she would keep the puppy for me.  I was elated and even though I still mourned Herbie I had something to look forward to.

As soon as I returned from Melbourne I rang Henny's Mum and made arrangements to pick her up. One of my friends gave me the Christmas present of driving me to Murray Bridge to pick up my new best friend.  It took us about one and a half hours to get there and a tense wait until we saw
the lady with the little speck in her arms.  I was worried that after coming all that way we might miss her and I would be even more devastated.  I really couldn't thank Hen's Mum enough but I am sure she could see I was almost speechless with happiness.

Now it would be remiss of me not to explain what tiny Henny is.  She is a maltese crossed with some poodle and chihuahua.  She is mainly white with one black eye and a black spot on her back.  From the back she looks like she has spotty hyena ears, in this case it is not a bad thing. She weighs 1.6kg and is gorgeous. Everyone that sees her falls immediately in love with her.  I have taken some pictures of her but the one that I would have like was one of her asleep between me and my lounge chair.  She was flat on her back with her paws in the air.  It is very hot here today and the fan was blowing on us as well as the air-conditioner.

At the moment  Henny's aspirations outweigh her abilities.  She thinks she can jump onto the top of the re-cycling bin, she thinks that she can carry some of her soft toys that are the same size that she is.  She also thinks she can drag her dog bed around the house.  She appears to be fond of pot plants, cane baskets, floor mats and fingers, definitely fingers.  She also likes my knitting box and managed to find a nice red pom pom to chew on.  She was not impressed when I took it away from her.

So while I still miss Herbie I have much to look forward to.  I have already started teaching Hen to come and sit.  It doesn't always work but it is a delight.  We have had some little toilet mistakes along the way.  A little message her and there.  However, I have been toilet training dogs for over thirty years so a mistake here and there is nothing.

Gracie, my British Blue X Catty Puss is not so enamoured of the puppy.  Little Miss wants to play but Gracie queen of the basilisk stare is not so eager.  It is an interesting stand off, one that I am enjoying.  They will get used to each other but Gracie is not one to make friends with a dog.  She tended to let Herb come up to her and then rub against him and then bite him or smack him with her paw.  She never understood that Herb was a poodle and biting his top knot did not hurt him.  Because Gracie is about three times as big as Hen I was a little worried that she might eat her but so far Hen has all her appendages intact.

Henrietta accompanied me to the vet yesterday and a lady waiting there asked me about my pup. It turned out that she had seen the advertisement on the Trading Post and that her daughter had wanted her.  She was so pleased that she got to see the little speck in real life and said that she couldn't wait to tell her daughter.  I definitely think that my pup has the potential to be a tv star.  She is cute and unusual looking and could sell ice to Inuits (eskimos).

It may appear that I bought another dog before I was over Herbie but in my heart I think I did the right thing. We both have something to offer each other and we are content.

Bereft

My dear little old poodle has been put down and all I want is to get him back.  He was very old, partially blind and completely deaf and suffered from the heart condition and I loved him.  I could not get him put down so finally I asked the vet what she thought and she explained everything to me and the decision was made.  He went off to sleep and when he died I wrapped him up in a blanket and sat and cuddled him.  The vet was lovely and let me stay in the room while I cried.  I went out the back way so I did not have to pass through the waiting room where people were waiting their turn.

Now all I keep thinking is that perhaps he could have lasted longer.  Maybe I could have kept him going just so he didn't leave me.  I would gladly have saved up for the expensive tablets every month or so.  I would have stayed home with him all the time and just ordered my groceries on-line.  If only.  If only it was not the start of a hot summer. If only my car had air conditioning we could have gone down to the beach every few days.  He loved the beach and the mandatory ice-cream before we set off home.

I would never believe just how much I would miss him.  He was the best dog I ever had.  I am not closing my eyes to the fact that he usually peed and pooed in the kitchen while I was out.  He also used to howl the whole time I was gone but he just wanted to be with me.  He was always so thrilled when I returned and did laps around me in the backyard.  I had to stop him as I knew he could have a heart attack at any tick of the clock.

I want to be loved again.  I want to walk to the letterbox accompanied by the dear old thing.  I want to have someone to cuddle up to and to sleep with.  I don't think I can go outside and sit in my swing seat.  That swing seat was for both of us.  I don't want to visit my friends who still have their own healthy dogs.  I don't want to look at pictures of dogs or go to pet shops.  I do, however, want to go to the Animal Welfare League and try to find another 'him'.  Of course that is impossible because he can never be replaced.

My daughter keeps telling me I cannot afford another dog and that if I have no dog it is easier for me to travel to Melbourne whenever I want.  I know all this but my heart is broken.  I just want my dog back.  I am bereft.

The Christmas Tree

The Christmas Tree.               

I have never been a great fan of the after Christmas sales, however, the Child of my Loins and I decided that we wanted a really nice tree.  We arose early and went to dear old John Martins.  The Child is much more aggressive than I and so made her way to the front of the crowd and as the doors went up she ducked under them and sprinted up the escalator.  She grabbed a marvellous tree and had to hang on to it for dear life as people tried to snatch it. 

When I arrived at the tree site I was happy to see that she had latched on to the best tree ever.  We found that was in two pieces and so took one part each and tried to make our way to the cash register.  Unfortunately the branches just hooked in to the main truck and started falling off.  We managed to get most of the tree to the line for the cash register and then the Child literally dived into the crowd to collect the errant branches.  It was the funniest thing I have ever seen. 

The line for the register was interminable.  It took an hour to get served and then told that there were no more boxes.  That was no trouble to us or so we thought.  We made our way to the back of Johnnies to the public phones and rang the Grumpy Man.  Needles to say he was less than impressed that we bothered him when he thought we should make our way home under our own steam.  This did not bode well for the tree.  We waited on the back steps on North Terrace and watched for Mr. Joyful to get there. 

When we saw him coming we raced down to the car and started flinging parts of the tree into the boot.  The rest we shoved into the back seat without really leaving room for me.  I was pricked and poked by the branches but could not complain.  I didn’t want to annoy him any more than we already had.  I tried to make soothing noises and the Child in the front seat happily chatted to him but he was deep in the ‘Why Does This Always Happen to Me State.’

Needless to say later in the day he cheered up and started to believe that his was the idea to buy the tree.  In fact, it was like he had actually invented the Christmas tree all on his own.  The dear Crabby Creature even helped to decorate the tree once we had put it all together. 

I have never gone to the beginning of Christmas sales since then.  I am not capable of pushing and shoving or getting pushed and shoved.  If it had been left up to me that day I would have picked the oldest rattiest tree in the shop.  Hooray for the Child who has guts and gumption. Onya Child.

This tree saga is my greatest adventure in Christmas shopping.  It was a lot funnier on the day than it appears to be in my story.  I can still see the Child diving between people’s legs and coming up for air with a tree branch in her hand.  She is totally amazing.   

Geriatric

I now admit that I have lost it completely.  I went in to the chemist to fill a prescription and while the lady was filling out the ticket I asked for geriatric tablets.  Naturally she was quite happy to give me those tablets because a person who asks for geriatric when they mean generic should have as many of the geriatric tablets as they need.  The next thing she should have done was to call the little men in the white jackets to come and take me away.  Luckily  I can put on quite a turn of speed when I need to so I left the shop before I could be detained.

I wonder how many pre-senile things I have to do before I am classed as actually senile.  I have already put my the driver's licence in the ATM, tried to pay for the same thing twice, asked the girls in the Donut King for coffee and scones, tried to do the washing without turning on the water and of course making scones with plain flour instead of SR.  Maybe I will be senile when there are a certain number of  things on my dementia list.  Maybe I will be senile when I don't know what a list is.  They say that you are not suffering from dementia when you lose your car keys but when you don't know what car keys are.  That is fine I do know what things are.  You will be the first to know when things take a turn for the worse.  You had better, because I will be too far gone to notice.

This geriatric is going to make a nice cup of ?

Reasons

There has to be a reason for most things.  The trouble is that some requests or orders are not immediately clear to me I tend to disobey or ignore them.  My dearly un-beloved Mother was a great one to order me or tell me what to do or what not to do.  I always asked her why and was always told it was because she said so.  That my friends used to irritate me beyond belief.

I was desperate to go the dancing lessons with some of my friends from school but that was immediately vetoed. I begged and pleaded but even though each class only cost a penny it was a definite, "No because I said so".  All these years later I realize it was probably because she knew that there would be costumes to pay for at the end of the year.  If she had told me that I would have immediately understood and stopped my histrionics. I knew she couldn't afford things but I thought that a penny was not too much to learn all about dancing.  Actually after all these years the thing that I wanted to learn was calisthenics.

In grade 7 we had a big concert at the end of the year and I was picked to be the compere.  Naturally Mother dear said no, no, a million times no.  I begged and pleaded and cried all to no avail.  My dear teacher Miss Simons was disappointed but not half as much as I was.   I guess now that Mum did not want to have to walk to the school in the dark and back again.  I also think she was expecting me to stuff it up and embarrass her.  Why couldn't the stupid woman explain herself.  I am fine if there is an explanation.

Miss Simons also wanted to teach me to play the violin.  Again the no!  I am not quite sure of Mum's reasoning.  Probably she thought that it would cost money or that she would have to buy me a violin.  I really don't know.  Hence I am not the slightest bit musical and not first violin in an orchestra.

I wanted to learn to swim but amazingly she said no to that as well.  Maybe it cost to learn I really don't know.  I still cannot swim well but I absolutely love the water.  She couldn't stop me from that.  After seeing Jaws I have been a little fearful of the water.  Let's face it I probably haven't really been in deeper water since that miserable flick.

By the time I was in high school I had pretty much stopped asking or telling her things.  The school put on a concert but I didn't ask Mum.  I just got on with everything by myself and managed to make a good fist of singing and prancing around.  We also did some Shakespearean stuff and I just loved it.  If I had asked Mum if I could do it I would have missed out again.  One year the year 10 girls did a cabaret show with the first years. It was excellent and a great success.  It was the first time I had ever had to audition. I still remember the words of some of the songs.  I was on top of the world when I was chosen and of course chose not to share the news with Mum.  I think Mrs. S. the lady across the road took me as I remember her being there.

At speech night in Year 11 the theme was other lands.  My role was to be a fortune teller reading one of the first years fortune and describing all the places she would visit when she grew up. I guess the premise was that one could do anything or go anywhere we wanted with a good education. We had a lot of trouble at rehearsal because I couldn't make myself heard throughout the Waterside Worker's Hall.  When I got home I was miserable and Mum kept saying I didn't have to go.  Well how was she to know I just had to be there. The problem of not being heard was fixed by me reaching back for the microphone when I had to talk and then handing the huge thing back to the teacher behind the curtain in between.  The reason being that the microphone was hooked up to a tape recorder with the dance music on it. Amazingly, Mrs. S. got Mum to go to the speech night because I was getting a book prize.  Mum didn't even know it was me performing on stage.  Admittedly I had long dangling earrings and a brightly coloured shawl so it wasn't immediately apparent that it was me.  Also I was doing a damn fine job so she wouldn't have expected that.  Mrs. S. said to Mum, "Joan's good isn't she?"  I imagine Mum must have nearly swallowed her false teeth.  I also introduced something for one of the other classes and I think that this time Mum would have picked me out. I still have my book prize and am just as proud of it today as I was back then.

After all the years of Mum telling me what to do I question everything. I still hate to be told anything without a reason. I want to know why you can only take 8 pain killers in a day.  I need a reason to stop eating something or maybe to eat something.  Why is it that use by dates are rigidly adhered to by people like the Child of my Loins.  I want to know why.  Is the use by date a suggestion?  If I eat something out of date will I get sick or die?  When a doctor tells me something I want it completely spelled out.  Why can't I eat salty food, sweet food, chocolates, ice-cream and so on and so forth.  Why do I have to be three feet taller for my weight. Why, why, why???  I remember some guest lecturer at Uni came in and told us to take everything with a grain of salt.  To illustrate his point he kept giving us a jelly bean every time he told us something.  Now there is a man who wants everyone to ask why.  A man after my own heart.

If you want me to do anything you had better have a jolly good reason.  I want a logical explanation for everything.  If there is a good reason I am quite happy to acquiesce.  I never ever want to hear, "Because I said so."  That my friends is that!

Sick poodle

My dear old Herb is not well.  He has an enlarged heart and the valves on the left hand side of the heart are damaged.  On Sunday he was in a terrible state.  He was coughing, wheezing and panting and looked like he was ready to turn up his toes.  After an intravenous cortisone injection plus antibiotics, plus new tablets he had a new lease of life.

He is back to his old but silly self.  I gave him a bath this morning before we went back to the Vet and when I dried him and put him down he started doing laps of the house.  A bad heart and laps do not go well together but try telling him that.

So off we went to the Vet for a follow-up appointment.  The Vet has just done a course on giving ultra-sounds and wanted to practise on the old Herbert.  This was free and just the price I can afford at the moment, however, I did have to pay for more medication.  Today it was $77 and the other day the visit and medication cost $114, plus the original teeth cleaning and medication all up $500.  I think I also paid for something else but I cannot find the receipt.  Probably a good thing really.

I realize that I cannot really afford to pay for all this treatment but I just cannot get him put down when he is so good in between times.  I think that putting him down will just about kill me.  I would not allow someone else to take him to the Vet for that.  If he has been good enough to be my dog for all these years then I am not abandoning at the end.  I think the only way I would put him down is if they tell me he has no quality of life.

Herb is my friend and I am not ready to let him go.  How can I possibly choose to end his life?

House hunting at Semaphore

On Saturday I went to Semmi to look at an older apartment on the Esplanade.  My Mum used to clean one of the apartments years ago but I had never been inside.  The unit is what you would call a fixer upper.  Lots and lots of TLC will be needed to bring it back to make it livable. The bathroom is unfortunate to say the least.  The sink and bath are the most revolting pink.  The tiles are several shades of pink, each a little more revolting than the next.  The sun-room needs relining.  All the carpet and revolting lino need to be pulled up as underneath there may or may not be jarrah floors.  I really don't think that the place has been done up since the fifties.  The kitchen is extremely basic and has cupboards in it that were perhaps made in the late fifties early sixties. I have seen fixer uppers before but this is particularly dreadful.

The place is neither Strata or Torrens title but a Company title.  I suppose that everyone has a share in the company. Evidently once you make your offer you have to meet the other owners to see if you are acceptable and that you personally have to live there not rent it out to 'unsuitable' tenants.  I have heard that this practice applies in Springfield but Semaphore; really.

The other thing I found quite confronting was that the backyard is shared as is the laundry with lovely modern washing machine and a clothes line across the yard.  I am sure that the lowest person on the totem gets told when they get to wash.  Personally I would get a laundry installed in the bathroom but then there is still the problem of hanging the washing out.

Anyway, I came, I saw, I racked off.  Herbie and I went for a lovely walk and paddle on the beach and then we bought an ice-cream.  The ice-cream was the best part.  I know Herbie loved it.

When I win the lottery Herbie and I will live at the beach but not at 1/50 Esplanade Semaphore.

Pillaged

Here I was storing little jars and packets of jam and biscuits as well as lots of other goodies when the child of my loins came over and threw them all out.  She even threw out my soy sauce which was perfectly fine even if it was a little out of date.  I don't think she believes that 'best before' is just a suggestion.  I must admit that my cupboard is tidy now and I can find things that had disappeared.  One of the doors on the cupboard falls off as soon as you look at it so that has been retired and there is still room for everything.  I like to be able to lay my hand on anything so this tidying and throwing out has not been a complete waste of time and groceries.

The next things that have been pillaged are my Telstra, Origin and Housing Trust receipts that date back to 1993.  I like to keep a record of just what I have paid so it was interesting checking out how much my rent I was charged by the Housing Trust since 1993 as well.   There was much shredding from the child and an enormous amount to whinging and moaning from me.  It was all I could do to wheel the re-cycling bin out to the street last night.  I understand that I don't need to keep every little thing but my dearly unloved Mother kept all her dockets from Malin Russell for over twenty years.  She kept the receipts because quite often there was a mistake and her payment was not entered.  She was always able to go in with her trusty receipt.

I also kept every warranty for everything I had ever bought.  Most of the things have been disposed of now so I did not need to put them all in a folder.  This folder was positively bulging so really I didn't mind going through that. The whole of my filing cabinet is practically empty. 

The most important things in the filing cabinet now are my will, my insurance policies and some family information from 1857.  As you can see I am not the only one of my family that hoards.  Of course I refuse completely the notion that I am a hoarder.  I don't hoard I conserve.  Once the child of my loins understands that notion I will be left to 'save' things again.  

I say again, "I have been pillaged."

Welcome home

Casa del Cushie welcomes the Child of my Loins.  How lovely to have the beautiful daughter at home for a holiday.  We spent most of the day shopping.  Actually she shopped and I wandered along watching her. We finally gave up trying to find something to eat at Munno Para because she is not eating bread.  We decamped to Caffe Primo and partook of good healthy food, albeit extremely expensive.

During the afternoon the child went through my food cupboard and found most of the food stuffs so out of date that Moses could have been eating them on Mount Sinai (I think that is the right mountain). At times I had to argue about out of date goods that were still perfectly edible.  Last time she went through my spices she threw out a brand new paprika.  Yesterday it was my soy sauce.  I have been using it but as I don't use it often it tends to last for quite a while.  The reason I was cross about the soy sauce was that we were having stir fry for tea and it needed just that little bit of sauce to give it some oomph and saltiness. I am happy that I can find things in the cupboard, as for the last few months I have only been able to use foods that were at the front.  No wonder some of the things were out of date.  The result is of course that I have a lot of room to untidy again when she is not here but also that I do not need to use one the part of the cupboard whose door hinges are not very strong.  Every now and then I have to give the nails a bit of a belt so I can open it.  That cupboard now has nothing in it.

I cooked my stir fry for tea (slight argument there about the  minced garlic being out of date, admittedly it did taste like vinegar) and made one hell of a mess doing it.  I cleaned up after tea and put all the dirty dishes into lovely hot hot water to soak.  After that we had a long protracted argument about who exactly was going to do the dishes.  I was reliably informed that I should have a dish washer.  My idea was that I did have one but that it was argumentative.  Eventually when the water was cold I had to bite the bullet and wash up myself.  I am sure there is a rule that the cook does not wash, however, this rule appears not to apply to the Child of my Loins.

As we are having Christmas in October we are having presents now.  I have a nice new Kindle to play with. I love it.  It even has a little light so you can read in bed and not disturb anyone.  As I do not have an anyone I suppose it doesn't matter.  It would be fantastic on long plane journeys though.  I am reading Sherlock Holmes at the moment.  Evidently Kindles can hold as many as 1400 books.  Hopefully I won't run out of power whilst in the midst of reading.

As there was positively nothing on the old teev last night we watched Happy Feet 2 on my computer.  My dvd player does not work so I always watch everything on my trusty laptop.  I really enjoyed the movie but as I didn't watch Happy Feet 1 I was a little confused.  Actually I am always a little confused so why should this be any different.

Today my child is going to take pictures of a friend's little girl.  There is also a lovely new puppy and lots of photographic opportunities there.  I do love puppies and of course Cate so I should not stay home but the embroidering of the faces and buttons on all my dolls calls to me.  I simply must get the ones done that are for Kel's expectant friends.  I am thinking of having a workshop for the two of us where she will stuff the dolls after I have finished the embroidery. I have made a Fat Controller for Dane.  He loves Thomas the Tank Engine.  I also bought some Thomas material and I am going to make him a little bag for his trains and cars.

I would like to go down to the beach one of the days and have a bit of a walk with the old Herb plus buy an ice-cream.  You definitely cannot go to the beach without an ice-cream.  Actually, I have so many plans that there will not be enough days to do them.

So welcome to the Casa del Cushie Child of my Loins.  I am so chuffed to see you that I am ready to burst.

Meat haute cuisine

Today I went in to the supermarket to gaze longingly at steak.  Meat is now my haute cuisine.  I can look at it and smell it but I cannot afford to buy this high end product, let alone partake of it in a restaurant.  I remember when I could afford steak, I could buy as much meat as I wanted but now meat eating is a spectator sport for me.

I remember the taste of roast lamb and roast beef, in fact anything that is roasted.  Nowadays I make a roast without the meat.  I dine on roast potatoes, sweet potato, onion and carrots plus of course some nice steamed vegetables.  I hardly notice that there is something lacking in my menu.  I make some nice gravy and that is my meat hit for the meal.

I have been informed that mushrooms are the new meat.  While I do like mushrooms I would actually like to eat a piece of meat.  Oh that's it, we used to have mushrooms on steak.  Here I am at the beginning again, lusting after steak and eating a sausage.  Yes I do say sausage: singular.  How have I been brought down to this rationing sausages? This is a sad, sad day.

I believe soon I will only be able to partake of meat in my dreams.  I will wake up crying with drool on my pillow.  It is not a stretch of the imagination that I might mistake my feather pillows for a cooked chook and the rest will be history.

Farewell meat, I will remember you fondly.  I will buy you again when I win the lottery, if I win the lottery.  

Time flys

What has happened to my day?  This morning I tried a little more tidying up of Casa del Cushie.  I know once upon I time my house was reasonably clean and tidy but my clockwork appears to be running down.  The biggest problem is that I start to do something and then get distracted.  I do a bit of this and that and then settle down to do a few crafty things.  Today I shopped, tidied, fed the animals (oops forgot to feed the animals), I made the bed, moved some folded clothes from one room to another and then started to make a pompom.

While I was happily winding wool through my little pompom maker my friend rang and said she was on her way over for tea.  I had in fact forgotten she was coming.  I knew when I was shopping because I bought the ingredients for tea but as for thinking of cooking tea that certainly didn't happen.  When she rang it was six o'clock.  I thought it was about two.  Luckily for me I only had to make a stir fry and so it was ready in about fifteen minutes.  I must say it was delicious but sadly there are no leftovers.

I have a lot of things to do this week because the child of my loins if coming over from Melbourne.  I am washing some bed clothes that have been in the cupboard and seem musty to me.  I hate to think that I would be putting the child of my loins in a musty bed.  The worst thing about getting ready for her is that I have to shift all my good stuff (junk) out of the room so she can have a bed.   So what with all the work that needs doing and my incipient hoarding the hours slip past me.  I am scared that the week will be gone and nothing will have changed.  Perhaps if I don't get anything done I can just shift all the stuff from the spare room into my room on Friday.

Tomorrow I must get more things done to the house.  I must, definitely must, sort out all my wool and material.  I have to find neighbours and friends to hide things from the child of my loins. If time gets away from me I will be caught out and have to endure a lecture about spending money and so on and etcetera.

Tempus Fugit.

Misogyny

Misogyny: Alan Jones, that says it all really.
Tony Abbott might deserve a mention as well.

Mindless

I am finally losing it.  The poor cat was so nice to me yesterday and kept sitting on me and purring.  She has tangled up the bath mat and was madly scratching at it when it finally hit me.  I had taken out the dirty kitty litter dish and forgotten to bring another in.  I think it was probably over twenty four hours.  I felt so dreadful that the dear thing had held on and on.  She peed for about ten minutes.  I had to change the tray again before I went to bed.

I now have a note on the fridge to say check the kitty litter.  My new practice is to bring a clean tray in and then take out the dirty one.  I think that I am definitely descending into pre-senility.  Next thing I will be putting a note on the microwave so that I don't heat my knickers up in it.  There is nothing like warm knickers in the middle of winter.  Of course if you do desire warm knickers I must warn you that they tend to burst into flame in the midst of heating.

One of my more public displays of old person disease is to ask Donut King for a coffee and some scones.  One would have thought that the name Donut might suggest something to me.  However, it is a real struggle to remember to say donuts.  Most of the girls are used to me now and just serve me and ignore my feeble minded efforts to order.  One of the places I usually go with my friend is so used to me trying to order that they just get things done without me having to talk at all.  Thank goodness.

Today I was putting on my nice silver earrings when I couldn't find the second one.  I decided not to bother to search the top of my dressing table for the other one so went off shopping.  While I was in one of the shops the lass told me I had lost one earring.  So to make myself clear, I had put one earring in, found the other earring and then searched for the one that I had put on.  Gracious to goodness what is happening to the atrophied portion of my brain.

I have also perfected the darling thing.  "Hello darling, how are you?"   Darling is such a good word.  It sounds nice and friendly and no-one, well most people don't realize that everyone is darling because I don't always remember their names.  It also goes well with Gorgeous, My Flower, My Best Girl, My Treasure and so on and etcetera.  Yep Darl is the way to go.  The good old Aussie Daaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrllllling that's it.

While I am still teetering on the steep slope of inevitable senility I can still function in a reasonable fashion.  I just have to engage the brain before opening the mouth.  Good advice to anyone really isn't it?

Lost in the hills

I have an excellent sense of direction.  When I was eight Mum and I went on a picnic with some people from Port Augusta.  We stopped in the hills and had fresh cheese sandwiches and cups of tea.  Us kids had the best fun running up and down the hills whooping and roaring playing cowboys and indians.

When it was time to go Mum was not to be found.  As I have said I have a wondrous sense of direction but the parent could get lost walking around the block.  Everyone started fluttering around but I knew just where to find her.  I remember them calling out to me about getting lost.  Hah!  There was no chance of that.  Mum was just over a couple of  hills and wandering aimlessly around.  One hill to her looked just like any other.

I don't think I got a very good reception.  I seem to remember that they were cross because they thought I would get lost as well.  Mum was embarrassed and not very grateful either.  I should have been given a medal. Come to think of it with how badly I got on with my mother over the years it would never have occurred to me not to find her.  When we lived in Woodville she never knew the way to go to Auntie Dossie's.  I was only four and always directed her round the corners and over the railway line.  Let us say that she did not have the same internal compass that I do.

A friend of mine also has the same sense of direction as Mum.  She is a walker and goes off in a group once a week.  They take the train to one of the beaches and then walk along and back to the railway station.  If the ladies decide to go to the toilet one of them has to wait for May because as sure as anything she would walk off in entirely the wrong direction.  One time she took the dog to the vet and when she went to pick the dear old thing up she turned right instead of left and ended up at the town centre.  All she had to do was to turn left and then take about twenty steps, turn left again and she could practically fall over her front gate.  Her hubby being used to her as he was drove along Main North Road and found her at the lights waiting patiently for them to change so she could take the dog to the Town Centre.  At least this is what I imagine she was trying to do.  The poor old dog was on its last legs and this little trip probably hastened its end.

It is an amazing thing to have a compass embedded in your head.  I can always depend on it except when I am thinking about something else.  I do tend to start driving somewhere and end up somewhere else that I usually go.  That of course is not the compass being broken it is the sign of the pre-senile mind going into automatic.  Concentration is the key to that I think.  

Knittaholics of the world unite

Here I am sitting surrounded by millions of balls of wool.   I have gone into a knitting frenzy and even though I have multiple balls of wool I buy more each time I go to the shops.  I have a small wheelie bin full of wool.  My unit next to my chair is covered in layers of ball of wool.  There is wool on the floor next to my chair and many many balls of wool and little knitted dolls all over the kitchen table.

Help me!  Hello I am Cushie and I am a knitaholic.  Help..................................................me.

The internet hypochondria for dummies

This morning I woke up with a headache.  Before I took a couple of panadol I decided to google headache. I checked and found out I actually had either incredibly high blood pressure or a potentially fatal brain tumour.  Not wanting to take the advice of one site I trawled through as many sites as I could and my prognosis was not at all good.  Rather than high blood pressure I was convinced that I definitely had cancer.

Every time I get sick I always google and each time I find that I have cancer, multiple sclerosis or every other disease known to mankind.  I have found it is not a good thing to tell the doctor about your findings.  Doctors want to be the person who diagnoses.  They do not appreciate self diagnosis, especially when aided by the world wide web.  They simply send me off with a flea in my ear and a prescription for reflux, my usual blood pressure medication or tell me to take the panadol I could have taken this morning before I went on my internet journey.

I know that I am a hypochondriac and always have been.  I thought that I was bad enough when I just had a family medical book but now with the endless advice from my computer I have turned into Hypochondria Woman.   I would love to do a course from the  "Hypochondria for Dummies" syllabus.  I could earn a Bachelor of  Hypochondria and later a Master of Hypochondria.  Tactfully no-one will mention the 'Dummies' part of the equation.

Anyone can read a text book or check out an internet site but in reality only doctors who have studied for years can actually diagnose.  Give your imagination a rest and ask someone who really knows what they are talking about.  Don't be a 'Dummy'.  I am hereby stating that I won't look anything about health on the net any more, I will wait until the doctor actually hands down his decision.  Repeat after me, I do not have cancer, I do not have the bubonic plague, I do not have TB, I do not have MS.  I do not have a degree and don't know what the hell I am talking about so I will make an appointment with a real person not something that runs on electricity.  

Golliwogs politically correct or not?

For some rather odd reason I have been knitting golliwogs.  I suppose in these days of political correctness I should call them gollidolls.  I have knitted four of them and have to give them lovely curly hair.  There are a lot of ways to do it but none of them work particularly well.  I tried to follow the instructions for knitting the hair but failed miserably.  Someone suggested I use a crochet hook to pull the pieces of wool through.  This was not successful at all as it pulled the filling out at the same time.  Finally after fiddling around for about an hour I finally I managed to sew on the hair thread by thread.  It is my version of the Advanced Hair Studio for men.  To say that it is labour intensive is and understatement.  It took me seven and a half hours to sew the hair onto something the size of a small ball.  It is bigger than a golf ball and not quite as big as a tennis ball.  Seven and a half hours.  It is a good job I have plenty of time on my hands.  Let's face it, it is the best excuse to sit on my fat bum for hours and hours.  I don't have to feel guilty about being lazy.

I have three more gollies to go and then I have four or five dolls that will need hair as well.  At least they will not be black.  I think my problems today can be blamed on trying to see what I was doing when I couldn't see the wool properly.  I am planning on using shocking pink hair for one of the baby dolls and a rather eccentric blue for the boy doll.  I also made about twelve or thirteen little dolls that thankfully do not need hair.  I only have to stuff them and embroider faces and buttons etcetera.  Hopefully I will be finished doing these dolls by the time that the babies I am doing them for reach puberty.

I might get a table at the Grenville Centre's night market in November and try to sell the dolls there.  I really don't know why I torture myself by making something that takes forever to do and that no-one wants to pay for.  The left over dolls will be going to the Lyell McEwin Hospital to be used as trauma dolls.  Mostly the kids get trauma teddies but I am sure they will like my little creatures.  The warmer weather is coming so I won't be doing any more knitting this year.

Now I am back at the beginning.  Are golliwogs politically incorrect?  They are dear little black dolls with fuzzy hair and surely not impinging on African-American sensibilities.  I certainly don't want to insult anyone so if calling them Gollidolls is more to people's taste I am fine with that.  I had a home made golliwog when I was a little girl.  Evidently I wanted the Golli that some little kid had and made such a fuss that a lady called Mum in to her house where she sewed me a funny little doll.  She sewed on a little face and some red hair around the top and I loved it better than any doll that I was given afterwards.  I still had it up until the child of my loins came along, however, it was moth eaten and not suitable for her.  One of the Navy wives got her Mum to knit a gorgeous one for her.  She still has it but it is stored in a box so could be moth eaten itself by now.  I love golliwogs, always did and always will politically correct or not.

Judgemental people

I am watching the news and have just noticed the sports reporter has the largest head.  His body is quite slim and compact but the head, oh my goodness it is absolutely huge.  As Mum used to say, maybe he was behind the door when heads and bodies were matched up.

It is a sad thing that people make judgements on the outer shell of a person's body.  It seems quite normal to pick on someone's weight or their hair or makeup.  I have a large nose and was tortured for years by the kids at school.  Now that I am an adult, albeit an extremely mature adult, I felt that I was over the whole big nose thing but someone pointed out to me recently that my nose was enormous.  I have now reverted to covering up my nose as much as possible.  Yes I already know that noses like ear lobes continue to grow as we age.  You can imagine that if my nose was big when I was at school just how large it is now.  I am frankly frightened that I might inhale a small child through my huge nostrils.  My nostrils are what stopped me from learning how to waterski.  Every time I nearly got up on the skis the water rushed up my nose and started to drown me so I had to let go the rope.

I am a 'fatist,' that is like racist but about picking on those people I perceive as being great fat obese, enormous and gigantic people.  I can say I am a 'fatist' because I am fat and therefore I am able to pick at other fat people.  I am especially pleased when I can say that someone has a bum that looks like two cats fighting under their skirt.  If the person has a particularly large bottom I call it two dogs fighting. It is a code that my daughter and I use.  We just whisper to each other, 'two dogs' and point. The largest bum I ever saw was 'two elephants' and I am still wondering how the person managed to walk at all.  Luckily I do not have a huge bum, however, my stomach is grossly large.  I have taken to trawling through the preggie clothes at K-mart for something to disguise my tummy.

Shallow me also picks on hair styles, tight clothes, muffin tops, camel toes, frayed jeans and track pants, all kinds of piercings, oh and those awful things that boys have in their ear lobes, plus tattoos.  I am sure I have many more little snippy things that I can pick on but that will do for the moment.

When it comes to judgemental people I am quite possibly the Queen. Were I thin and pretty and had a nice little nose I might have a reason to be picky.  I am none of these things.  What I am is an old grumpy woman with too much time on her hands whose only joy in life is to make fun of people who are no funnier than me.  So take it from me if you look like Jabba the Hutt like I do you shouldn't criticise others.        

Turning into my Mum

I am wearing a singlet, to be a little more precise I am wearing a spencer.  When I was still under the authoritarian Mother's rule I had to fight long and hard not to be forced to wear a singlet.  At the time I had just started working and thin blouses were fashionable.  The material was thin so you could see the singlet through the material.  The girls at work used to make fun of me all the time so I had to go to battle with the Mother about my singlet wearing.  Absolutely everything I wanted to do was deemed wrong by the Horrid Woman.  Wearing of singlets was high on her list of appropriate wear.

I don't think anyone can imagine the battle it took for me to go to work with only a bra (perish the thought) under my top.  It took long arguments and then a few weeks of her not speaking to me just to make a point.  While this seems like such a silly thing to fight over it was normal for me to have to go through this process for everything that I wanted to do, not matter how trivial it was.  Nothing was trivial to That Woman.
Previously I fought a world war with her when I refused to wear my singlet under my bra.  She said it stopped one sweating and I countered with the (if you are not wearing a singlet you wouldn't sweat argument.)

Now to get back to where I started.  I am wearing a spencer.  What has happened to me?  Perhaps I am colder than I used to be before I got to be pre-senile.  Perhaps the Bossy Woman gene has finally surfaced.  All I know is that I am doing precisely what I fought for Mum about so many years ago.  Of course I would not be found dead wearing a singlet in the hot weather.  I won't need a singlet to soak up the sweat I will sweat on my t-shirt or tank top.

What next though?  I dread the fact that I might start to look for bloomers in the shops.  That is all I need to find bloomers and horror of horrors wear them.  If you don't know what bloomers are I suggest that you do a google search.  As I remember it they were always a revolting pinkie colour (perhaps flesh.)  They were vile and hideous things and of course much prized by the Awful Woman.

It is said that girls turn in to their mothers so I am watching out for further signs of my degeneration to the level of bossiness and a general refusal to see anyone's point of view but my own.  So far so good, however, I am wearing a spencer (what can I say?)

Education Department

When I first left school I got a job at the Department of Education.  I was so excited about having a job but soon found out how boring it was.  I was a typist but the kind of typist that cannot really type.  I had to plough  on and on typing up lists of their paid work force.  The lists took forever to type and were brain numbingly BORING.

The other part of my job was to type out cheques for all the teachers in all the schools in the whole state.  One might think that this was preferable to the incredibly long lists, however, that would be an error.  Error being of course the operative word.  If one mistake was made on the cheque it could be signed by the 'Overseer' (she was of course of real joy to work for.)  If two mistakes were made the cheque had to be cancelled.  The idea was that one mistake in one hundred was passable but in my case it was one cancellation in every ten.  The more the 'Overseer' told me off the worse my typing got.  She used to fan the mistakes out of the main body of all the cheques and take them in to the 'Uber Overseer' who truly loathed me.

Although I loved working with the other women in the typing pool I was just not suited to being a typist.  Eventually I was advised by the 'Uber Overseer' that I had to either resign or they would sack me.  I was upset but so so so relieved.  Within a couple of weeks I managed to get a job with the Woodville Council as a typist but didn't take that job because I got a job at Customs and Excise as a clerical assistant.  This folks meant no more typing.

To be fair to the Education Department they were kind enough to keep me on there for about four months and put up with my atrocious typing.  I think it was a steep learning curve for them and for me.  I only wish that we had had computers back then.  I wouldn't have needed carbon paper and white out and erasers.  I could have typed along on my merry way making mistake after mistake and fix them using the cursor.  How I love cursors.

The best thing about the Education Department I found was to not actually work there!

Teachers?

This week in the free newspaper there was an article about a local high school.  It appears that Year 11 students are being paid to coach younger students.  The tutors are paid $15 per hour.  The article stated that the students would be able to explain information is a simpler way so the younger students understand the concepts. At first I thought what a great idea.  It is good for the older students to help those younger plus they get a little extra money for doing so.  However, I may be confused but I thought that teachers taught students to understand  concepts in a simplified manner as part of their job.

I am so frustrated by this story that for once I am at a loss for words.  It is 2012 and teachers pay students to teach other students.  The mind boggles.  TEACHERS TEACH RIGHT???????????????????????

Having thought a little more about this subject I realize that slower students do need a little extra time to catch on to some subjects, therefore a tutor is the way to go.  I know that I needed my friends to help me with maths.  My maths teacher was wonderful and so patient, however, I really needed someone to go over and over things with me.  Teachers can only do so much in a classroom situation.  Therefore, I withdraw some of my rantings but not all of them.

Obsessive compulsive procrastinator rules

I have passed through my reading frenzy and am now madly knitting.  I think I may just have an obsessive compulsive problem.  I need to be thoroughly involved with something that stops me from walking, exercising, cleaning, tidying and even cooking.  The best hobby is the one that takes up almost every waking moment. So you can see that reading and knitting are the top pursuits for someone that takes passivity to an abnormal level.  I could also say that I watch television all the time but really at the moment there is not a lot on that I find interesting.  I do find that television has a rather soporific effect on me.

I have been trying to think of things to do to get me out of the house.  My first plan is to take a table and chair outside and read and knit in the sun.  This does not fix my problem.  I could of course garden, (that noise was the sound of hell freezing over.)  I could go down to the beach with the little old poodle and walk along in the sand.  Now I know I don't actually like to walk all that much but the beach is a different thing altogether. I need to save up for a while, say a month or two to pay for the petrol to go to the beach, but I am sure every now and again I could go for a pay day walkie.  The best thing about walkies on the beach is the ice-cream that me and the little man eat before we zoom (putter) home in the car.

Even though I really loathe walking there is a place in Gawler called Dead Man's Pass that is a brilliant walk. There are paths and a creek with little ponds and a couple of hills that I refuse to let beat me.  Now here is the  root of my problem.  I love that walk there but I just cannot get myself to go.  My friend, God love her, tries to winkle me out of the house but I just sit in my chair knit.  If I am not knitting I am reading.

They say that procrastination is the thief of time and in my case I think that they got that right.  Procrastinator is my middle name.  Cushie Procrastinator that is me.  I will walk tomorrow, I will exercise (never,) I will pull out the weeds later, (much later,) I will rejuvenate the Casa del Cushie by dusting and mopping and cleaning the windows later, tomorrow, in an hour, tonight, in the morning, when I have time.

The thing I always have time is for it doing some sedentary thing.  Oh what could it be, surely not reading and knitting and wasting time, all the time.  If there was a degree in procrastination I would have it.  Cushie, BA majoring in absolutely nothing.

The worst thing is that at the end of each misspent day I am tired.  What the hell from?  I certainly haven't done anything.  Evidently procrastination is very enervating.  I should know, I wrote the book.

red pee

Whaddya do when your pee comes out red.

1. Panic
2. Panic
3. Google
4. Read many googles
5. Figure out you ate lots of beetroot
6. Let breath out
9. Resolve not to eat too much beetroot ever again

and 10 Relax

Concussed

One would think that over a week after smashing my head against the bedroom wall that I would have started to feel better.  However, I do not feel better, in fact, after my x-rays taken today I actually feel worse than I did at the beginning.  The x-ray technician was not the greatest help.  She pushed me and pulled me and made hold poses that have never been in my repertoire at any time.  The most interesting one was the one where she x-rayed me through my mouth.  I thought I was having a flash back to the dentist.  As I am not a fainter I managed to remain upright, if not dizzy.  I was also able to stop myself from vomiting in the lovely clean x-ray suite.

I feel so dreadful now that I have decided to take myself of to bed.  I will throw down some pain killers and an anti-nausea pill and take my trusty wheat bag with me.  I will awaken bright and sparkly and feeling magnificently well.  That is my intention anyway, and as most of us know positive intentions lead to positive outcomes.  In my world they do anyway.

Ball games and climbing trees

I am little disturbed by a new school rule that prevents children playing ball games.  I gather that this before and after school and perhaps in after school care.  The school in question has banned the ball games because they are too dangerous.

When I was at school we played all sorts of games.  Playing ball was one of our favourites.  We had all sorts of games that went on and on.  We juggled the balls against the wall, we bounced them, threw them and played brandy.  Brandy a game where chucking the ball at each other or branding them was a fun thing to do.  Dodging the ball was the thing.  If you were really good you never got branded.  This was a game of skill and not judged too rough for us kids either by parents or teachers.

I don't think that brandy would be encouraged these days.  What once was fun is now vetoed.  I am sure there are a lot of people that would welcome any kind of exercise for kids but are now stymied by rules and regulations.  How are kids going to get exercise if every exercise is now deemed too rough and too dangerous?

My favourite thing when I was a kid in Wasleys was to climb the huge Norfolk Island pines in the next door paddock.  I would climb and climb until I got up so far that the branches swayed back and forth.  Mum used to come out and shout at me but I affected not to hear.  At Peterhead I climbed a beautiful mulberry tree in the next door house.  I climbed and sat and ate mulberries and made the tree into my little kingdom of make believe.  Almond trees were also a favourite of mine.  Of course I was not supposed to climb them when there were blossoms but hey I was a kid right???

At one place where we lived us kids used to climb up a tree onto the roof of a shed, run across the old saggy corrugated iron roof and then shinny down the drain pipe on the other side.  The purpose of this game I think was to see just how quickly we could do it.  We got yelled at for that one too.  Yelling did not stop us it was too much fun.

While I never hurt myself climbing or playing ball I did suffer skinned knees.  Skinned knees were a badge of honour.  If your knees weren't skinned now and then obviously you hadn't really been playing properly like a kid should.  I always managed to sprain my ankle.  I was forever bandaged up and limping but the temporary bother of a sprained ankle never stopped me from going back to doing the exact same things again and again.

'In the 'good old days'  I ran and ran and fell and scraped, bruised and sprained and I had 'fun.'  I was skinny.  I exercised all the time.  I didn't know it was exercise I thought I was playing.  I am sad for kids who will never experience the joy of  playing brandy or climbing up and up through the branches of trees.  Poor poor kids.  I feel like crying.

w..w..w..w.......wrong!

Far be it from me to not be right.  I prefer to not be right rather than wwwwwwrong.

As usual Dr. Cushie knows everything and therefore chose not to go to the doctor after hitting the wall with the head.  I know that people with concussion vomit.  I did not vomit, ergo, I did not have concussion.  I should have realized that the dizziness, nausea and sleepiness were slight hints about whether or not I had concussion.

Finally, today I went to the doctor.  He gently rotated my head and listened to the Anvil Chorus of vertebrae all protesting their treatment.  He gave me the old pre-senile speech.  You know, "Old person, comes with age, be careful, rah rah rah."  He also said that if I don't feel better I should get an x-ray.  Seeing that it has been about five days since I played crash bang with the wall I would imagine that I should have started to feel better by now.   The child of my loins was cross because she would have said to have the x-ray done straight away.  I am not feeling my intellectual best at the moment so I didn't question the doctor's decision.  I will give it a couple more days and then drop in the either see him again or go to my usual doctor.

Never mind I have anti nausea tablets, pain killers and anti-inflammatory tablets.  I have my trusty wheat bag and plenty of time to spend in bed.  I am now at the age when if the doctor says go to bed and rest I do.  Good on him I say.

So folks I do have concussion, I was wwwwwrong.  God I hate saying that!  I will try to avoid my doctoral skills, (I have none) and take notice of my daughter and friends.   W..w...w...w...wrong!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Old lady falling

I fell out of bed last night.  Well in truth I was trying to get back in to bed when I fell.  All in all it was totally my fault because I did not turn on the light so missed the edge of the bed by about half a metre.  I always walk around in the dark at night so last night was nothing unusual.  Perhaps since I am in the pre-senile stage of my life I should turn on a light or two until I get under the bedclothes.

So I fell 'into bed or out of bed' it doesn't really matter, however, fall I did.  I smacked the back of my head so hard onto the wall that I heard all my neck vertebrae crack.  I lay on the floor for some time waiting to see if my extremities still operated and once all was found to be correct I dragged myself up onto the bed by hanging on to the dressing table.  Later in the night I had the worst headache so wobbled out and heated up a wheat bag and placed it on my head then my neck.

A great many sensible people would have called an ambulance so they could get checked over in hospital.  However, I have never used sensible and myself in the same sentence and will not do so now.  So I spent the night turning and twisting and heat bagging until morning.  I arose, looked after the animals and then feeling pretty awful I went back to bed and slept another few hours.

I have an appointment with the doctor on Wednesday, that is if I have not died from concussion or some such thing.  As long as I have lots of sleeping I am fine.  Before I get berated about my actions I must say this in my defence.  I did not lose consciousness nor did I vomit, I also remember exactly what happened to me.

I don't like to go to the hospital.  Once they get their hands on pre-senile people like me who live alone, they are not keen on releasing them.   So once again, I am fine and I will be turning lights on at night.  I will endeavour to find the edge of the bed before I sit or lie down.  I am good/fine/couldn't be better!  

Tooth fairy

My tooth fairy has given me the most beautiful temporary crown on my front tooth.  I look amazing.  Well my tooth looks gorgeous.  The tooth fairy is Dr. Viv, the most amazing dentist ever.  Dr. Viv rules!!!!!!

Frugal

Frugal means, sparing, prudent or thrifty.  My friend Freda, (Frugal Freda I call her,) is the Queen thriftyness.  She saves buttons and tea bag strings and tiny pieces of card probably from old tea bag packets.  Once she has sorted through all her buttons she sews each set onto a tiny piece of card with the tea bag strings.  This way she can give the buttons to (who?)  She spends many an evening sorting through all the buttons until her husband, (surely one of the most boring men on earth) gets angry and tells her she is making too much noise.  She does I must add, sort the buttons on a metal tray.

When Frugal Freda is asked for a pattern or a recipe she writes it on the tiniest piece of paper in the tiniest writing imaginable.  Every speck of the paper is covered and almost all illegible to the reader.  During the war years I gather one did not waste anything.  The fact that we have not been in a World War for over sixty years does not seem to matter to her. I should make her a huge mosaic for her that states, 'Waste Not Want Not.' It would of course have to be made of old pieces of tile taken from building sites and second hand shops.

Freda throws nothing out.  She saves the bags the Messenger comes in, corn flour bags and sugar bags. She saves egg cartons and plastic tops for the local schools.  She only knits with recycled wool and I am always amazed when she saves tiny little left-overs of wool.  I am not talking about half a ball of wool, I am talking about one hundredth of a ball.  She always says that you may find a use for it at some stage, (not in my lifetime I always think.)  The Boring Man also hates her knitting because of the click clacking of her needles.  'Miserable old Goat.'

I have never known her to buy new clothes.  She shops exclusively in Vinnies Vogue, the Salvos and Blind Welfare.  I suppose she does buy new shoes but I am sure she only buys another pair when hers are positively worn out.

When Freda shops she has a list of her exact needs for the fortnight.  She usually purchases home brand items and never lashes out on anything.  When her trees bear fruit she makes jams, chutneys and stews up as much fruit as she can and then gives the left over bounty to the neighbours, her fellow church goers and even places some in boxes in front of her house.

I doubt that Freda has ever been to a stage show or concert.  She considers the cinema too expensive as is dining out.  Once she went by bus to Western Australia to see the wild flowers blooming; she does love flowers.  Freda has lovely plants on her front verandah that she has grown from cuttings.  It is out of the question to actually buy a plant from a nursery.

There are no pets at Freda's house.  Pets cost money and money my dears is not to be wasted!  I often wonder exactly what she is going to do with all the money she saves.  I am not above imagining that her grown up children will happily spend their whole inheritance in the matter of months, however, if her habits are anything to go by they will sock it away for a rainy day that will probably never come

Although the following has nothing to do with frugality my favourite Freda eccentricity is that she always picks up rubbish from the foot paths, gutters, front fences and around shops.  She also picks up weeds on the way home from Church.  I suppose that she does throw the rubbish and weeds into bins because I hate to think that she saves other people's rubbish as well as her own. She reminds me of a little old bag woman but one with a nice home.

She is a true daughter of the Depression and War and the most endearing eccentric lady I have ever met.

Addicted to

I have just had the worst weekend ever.  My computer ceased to work.  Of course it did work as an ordinary computer.  I could still use Word or Excel if I felt so inclined. (I didn't.)  However, I wanted to get on to the Internet.  I wanted to go to Igoogle and Facebook and do my general knowledge crosswords and of course access Google Chrome where I compose my blog.

Every time I tried to go onto the net I got the same silly message," Forget it old woman you cannot go onto the Internet, it no longer exists for you."  Well words to that effect really. I spent some time talking to people at Optus and after they realized that I am a complete nitwit they gave up.  One person offered a great solution, that I should get a technician to come in and fix it for me.  Needless to say I do not have enough money to keep myself housed and fed so getting a technician is out of my league entirely.

The best thing about my problem is that my friend Jo is down from Queensland and she is a computer whiz. Today she came and did wondrous things.  She spoke to an Optus person, who even I could understand, and  then she fixed the computer for me. I do not know what I would have done if she hadn't fixed it. I could have asked my friend's son but I do hate to disturb him especially because he is the go to guru that the ordinary gurus have to go to at an extremely large company.  He gets enough silly questions a day without me adding to his stress.

I have had my computer fix.  I am happily sending messages to everyone to tell them that my computer is working.  They were all having a garden party thinking that I had finally been silenced so I guess I have spoiled their little celebration.

I am baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaccccccccccccccccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Aged

Not so long ago I noticed that the skin on my inner arms was dry.  I started slathering myself with all sorts of creams but to no avail.  Then the skin on my legs began to shrivel.  Not realizing that these skin conditions were subtle hints I again went the way of sorbolene, vaseline and in fact any kind of lene I could find.  I must state that I do not get subtle hints.  Therefore it did not cross my mind that my skin was ageing.  Actually it had aged.  It had aged while I was busy doing all sorts of wondrous things, like sleeping in, reading, writing, doing courses, gaining a degree and so on and etcetera.  

The worst thing about ageing is that one gets huge brown marks on the face and arms.  I had not really noticed the marks on my face until I bought a magnifying mirror.  All the better to pluck facial hair my dear.  I was absolutely horrified at the huge brown spots on my right cheek.  I did manage to calm myself down a little when I remembered that it was a magnifying mirror.  However, they were age spots.  I was in a quandary because the only people I knew with age spots were older people.  You know people in their sixties.  Then I realized I am in my sixties.

The worst thing was that I found great crater lines on my cheeks.  Lines on my face, I don't think so!  At first I blamed seeing the lines on the mirror but even with an ordinary mirror the old person lines were still there. While I would love to have a nice smile like Jennifer Hawkins I see that I look as cheerful as the Queen on a bad day.  No wonder one of my friends from school calls me grumpy.

I guess before the crepey skin, brown spots and lines there was some hint of extreme maturity.  My hair slowly became salt and pepper and then silver.  I don't mind about that.  I think silver hair looks distinguished.  Some of my friends started turning grey when they were still in their twenties so a bit a grey was not a  problem.

At last I have come to the conclusion that I am not only 'extremely mature' but also 'pre-senile.'  I don't feel older.  I feel like a nineteen year old but just a bit creaky.  I may be an arrested adolescent.  I always used to say, when I grow up and come to think of it I say that now.  When I grow up in a few years time I may feel that I am aged but at the moment I feel positively juvenile.  What I see in the mirror is not what I feel on the inside. The package is worn but the contents are pristine.    

Dentistry rules

I have had a charming black front tooth for many many years.  It has always been so expensive to get it fixed that I just haven't bothered.  When I got my extras with Bupa I went and got it priced and the gap was $600.
Needless to say that put paid to my white tooth plan.

The best thing about being older and diabetic is that I now have a Health Care Plan.  Timidly I approached the dentist and found out that I would probably only have to pay a gap of $200.  Yesterday I went in to ask about getting a veneer on my tooth and the dentist explained that a crown would be better.  Don't ask me what she actually said because of course I cannot remember.  However, the upshot is that I am getting a lovely lovely white crown.

I spent some time in the chair having great tunnels ground into my tooth.  I am guessing that I have a sort of double fang.  The dentist then popped a temporary crown in.  It is a little whiter than my teeth and a little bigger but the new one will be the right shade and the right size.

I won't be able to go past a mirror without checking out my gorgeous smile.

The child of my loins wanted to know if I would have a glistening white tooth, so I disabused her of this notion.  I told her it was a bit like choosing a hair colour.  That she understood.

I do so love the dentist.  Well I do love the dentist when there is no needle and no extraction. Oh did I tell you I definitely love the dentist.

What are they thinking?

How to get more shoppers into Rundle Mall.  First of all take up the paving. Good idea Council at least you have that right.   Remove coffee shops, fruit and veg shops plus the tourist shop and the beginning of the mall.   Shove the Mall's Balls 'The Spheres' down to one end.  If Flugelmen was dead he would turn over in his grave.  Are they going to take away the John Dowie, 'Girl on a Slide' and the 'A day Out' pigs sculptures?

The Council want to open up the mall to more shoppers and tourists.  They want to provide entertainment area. If they do have an entertainment area are the buskers going to be able to use it. Why not ban buskers altogether?  You really cannot have them taking up space in the mall.

And so to the last question why would anyone want to shop in the mall when the ambiance is gone?  Gone will be the days when people going home from work can quickly pick up vegies and not have to troop in to the big shops.  Gone will be the days of husbands who have annoyed their wives picking up some flowers to smooth things over at home.  Clear out the mall ergo clear out the people.  The mall will be the biggest white elephant in town.

What were the Council thinking; the truth is that they don't think. I don't want the mall to change but if and when it does I want to be the first to say, "I told you so."

P.S.  It has come to pass that the Council have indeed emptied the Mall of shops and stalls, relegated the Malls Balls (The Spheres) to another placement, and separated the pigs.  The pigs were meant to be an installation.  The title of the pig sculpture is "A Day Out", obviously the pigs have all gone their merry way and  agreed to meet later at the Balls like everyone else in Adelaide does.

Where have all the shoppers gone, gone to look for a mall with comfortable seats and trees with shade. Gone to a Mall where one can sit and have a drink, buy some flowers and vegetables and get information about Adelaide.  The Council ensures that Adelaide lives up to its name of being the most boring capital city in Australia.

ugg boots

Where are they, where are they?  I know I have ugg boots but I cannot find them for the life of me.  I need to find those lovely woolly boots because my feet have turned in to blocks of ice.  Today the temperature must be close to freezing so I need to search everywhere for my beautiful uggies.  I have looked in my wardrobes, (yes wardrobes,) under the beds, behind the dressing table, (I know that they cannot actually be behind the dressing table) however, I give it a burl anyway.  Finally, in the last place I looked there were my uggies sitting in the bottom of a large plastic box where I put rarely worn shoes.  I think it is humorous when one says the 'thing' was in the last place I looked.  Of course it is.  You wouldn't keep looking after you found the thing, would you????

I am so happy.  My uggies are so lovely and warm and definitely worth the effort of finding them.  I promise myself that I will no longer pack them away but keep them in plain sight. Once again I do so love my ugg boots.

Catholic

Why can't Catholics make up their minds whether they want to sit, stand or kneel?  I would have thought that they might ask for people's preferences at the door and then just sit, or stand, or kneel for the whole service. I am intrinsically lazy, therefore I do not want to be bobbing up and down for the whole Mass.  This whole up and down thing of course affects the older members of the congregation.  Poor old things take ages to stand and then they have to sit down, then kneel and so on.   In the Masses I have attended it is the oldies who are far more likely to try and kneel.  When they do creak down to floor level it is almost impossible for them to get up by themselves so their fellow parishioners have to drag them upright.

I used to go to Mass years ago and I could never figure out the responses.  Evidently after you have been going to Mass for years and years these become second nature.  Let me say now that I am fascinated. There are responses and crossing oneself, tapping and kissing or what I imagine to be tapping and kissing.  My absolute favourite is the 'Peace be with you.'  This is the  part of the service where the Priest says, "Peace be with you."  The congregation answers, "And also with you."  That is nice to give something back to the Priest, who let's face it has given everyone Communion and done most of the talking.  Everyone says 'Peace' to each other and then either shakes hands or kisses everyone around them.  I am not one for kissing really but a nice handshake between relative strangers is nice.  

I love the Catholic Mass.  I love the ritual.  I love that the Mass has not changed and that people now are still making the same responses and standing and sitting and kneeling just as people have done for a couple of thousand years.  Of course the Mass is now in English, or German, or Italian and so on rather than in Latin. I do have a missal that has half of the page in Latin and the other half in English to make it easier to understand exactly what the Priest is saying. 

I especially love Communion.  Everyone stands up and in a very orderly way goes up to the Priest who gives them a wafer and says, "Body of Christ."  They respond with an 'Amen.'  I take it there is a special way to hold your hands where the Priest places the wafer.  Then they line up again and to get a sip of Communion wine with the words, "Blood of Christ," and they respond, "Amen."  For those of you who are health concious the rim of the chalice is wiped with a sacramental cloth to clean away the germs.  The thought is also that as the chalice is cold that it will cause the germs to die.  Perhaps God protects those who drink his blood.  Who knows!  

I always feel sorry for the tiny little kids who can see Mum and Dad and older siblings going up and getting a potato chip from the man in the pretty frock when all he gives them is a pat on the head.  Mums are just as likely to have a small packet of chips in their bags for just such an occasion.  Maybe I should do that as well. Although I am not so easily fooled as a little kid. 

My favourite Mass of course is Holy Thursday.  I find it particularly moving and infinitely sad.  This is the time that I feel the closest to being a proper Catholic.  While other might like the Christmas Mass it is Holy Thursday that does it for me every time.  Even though Easter Saturday Mass takes forever I do enjoy it.  I am in awe of people who have been non-Church goers their whole lives becoming part of the Catholic community.  One day I might just take a leap of faith and become a real Catholic not just someone who flits in and out of Mass without making a commitment.

My favourite Church is in Melbourne.  It is St. Francis Church in Elizabeth Street. I believe it is the oldest Catholic Church in Melbourne and possibly Australia.  The atmosphere is beautiful.  They have about seven Masses on a Sunday just to accommodate all the Church goers.  At times the Church is so packed that there are people standing across the back of the Church and down the aisles as well.

I find Mass particularly peaceful and soothing. It is a beautiful and even though I am not a Catholic I respect those who believe.  With a "Peace be with you," I always leave the Church uplifted and indeed peaceful.  

blogger seeks readers

I realize that I am writing my blog for my own enjoyment, however, where are my readers?  My stats show that no-one in Australia is reading it. Where are you people?????

Of course the fact that my blog is mainly about pre-senility may put people off.  Who wants to hear an old chook talk about things that happened over fifty years ago, or who's mind is losing grip on reality.  While these things are of major interest to me and other old ducks they are really not relevant to Generation Y.

Please humour me by checking out my blog. You don't have to read it; just click on it.  It will make my stats look far more exciting and I will think that I have dedicated readers.  Let's face it, I am pre-senile, easily pleased and an avid stats checker.  So please me, please.

Massage

Yesterday I went and had the best Chinese massage ever.  The man found pain in places that had never had pain before.  I didn't even think I had those places to start with.  When he really wanted me to suffer he used his elbows to dig right down to the bed-rock.  After a while I had cripple nipple and had to move a bit to get the pressure off the bosoms.  I once had a hot stone massage in Vietnam and my nipple was squashed so I kept trying to release it but all the hot rocks started sliding off and the girl didn't want me to move.  My advice is to always check your nipples before you lie down to have an hours massage.  It is imperative!

I often wonder what the masseurs are saying to each other while they are massaging.  I wonder if they are commenting on rolls of fat or saggy boobs.  It is quite possible that they are only talking about what they are having for tea but one never knows.  In my case I think they could well be saying, "I don't know how she is lying flat with that huge stomach in the way."

I was so relaxed during my massage that I could have dropped off to sleep but for the pain.  Just when I thought I was ready to drop off and have a snore session the man found a new and wondrously painful part of my anatomy to attack.  When I thought he had finished he sat me on a chair and then massaged my neck.  He also moved my head from side to side.  I felt like a ventriloquist's dummy.  I do tend to stiffen up when someone is revolving my head around a 360 degree turn.  Well maybe that is an exaggeration.  Still I felt really good afterwards.  I think it is the case of the banging your head against a wall, it always feels better when you stop.

Being a poor old pensioner I cannot always afford a massage but I really think that they do me the world of good.  I believe that I won't completely seize up if I can have a massage every couple of months.  It is really a matter of going without.  I could go without food, that wouldn't kill me.  I think that I am being pro-active and keeping old person's frozen joints away.  I will be able to get down and boogie for years to come.

So remember, always make sure your boobs are comfortable before the massage starts.  Don't worry if they are talking to each other and you don't understand what they say.  It is probably a blessing that you don't.  Keep having a massage as often as you can accumulate the money.  If you really enjoy pain a massage is the thing for you.  Masochists of the world unite!

Clothes

When I started work I bought myself a black and white coat.  It was sort of like the pattern on David Jones bags.  I was proud of it and felt very modern and warm.   I also had a navy blue cape.  They were in fashion in the mid sixties and I felt the height of fashion when I was wearing it.  I wore it with a sort of furry hat that I am sure made me look like a mad rabbit without ears.  It didn't occur to me that I looked weird.  I was confident in my outfit and funny looks from people didn't dent my confidence at all.  My next coat was a beautiful teal colour and made of some entirely unsuitable material that let in every speck of cold there was in the winter.  I loved the coat and even though it didn't keep me warm to wore it when I went out to the pictures and so on at night.  I looked gorgeous; well the coat did.

Nowadays I look at the young girls who are wearing denim short shorts in the middle of winter.  I don't know how they can do that when it is so cold, however, when I think back to my unsuitable coat I think I understand where they are coming from.  If you feel comfortable in something even though it may not be particularly sensible, you feel good.  What is a little cold between friends?

Now I opt for nice warm clothes.  I like to wear layer, upon layer, upon layer.  All very Sara Lee really.  I love to wear lovely thick socks, Ugg boots, track pants, spencer, t-shirt and jacket and so on.  I have a lot of lovely warm scarves.  Some of them are silk that I hand dye.  I love these scarves and hate to part with them.  The idea of course is to sell them.  However, I digress.  I also have some beautiful soft scarves that I bought in Vietnam.  They were incredibly cheap and are the best scarves I have ever owned.

I do love to be warm but when I go shopping I have to remove some of my layers otherwise I would die from heat prostration inside the shopping centre.  From the car to the shop I freeze but once I enter the shopping centre's sauna like atmosphere I am able to suffer the temperature.  It is at a time like this that the young girls come in to their own. They are so perfectly happy in their little shorts that I am jealous of their comfort.

When I find myself being critical of what people wear and do a bit of the 'when I was a girl' I must try to remember down the long years to my unsuitable coat and my cold legs when I wore fashionable clothes.  I really  believe that 'fashionable' and 'sensible' do not go together in the same sentence.  Now that I have reached the age group that I call pre-senile I believe that it is comfort rather than fashion that dictate my clothes purchases.  I want to be warm and comfortable and also as long as it 'fits' I will wear it.  I am now 'pie a la mode' rather than 'modish.'

Dotty lady conversation

Yesterday I saw one of my friends at the shops.  She was sitting on a seat near the lottery counter.  She seems to be shrinking.  I sat myself down and began to chat with her and I was amazed that we both spoke the same language. 

We ascertained how we both were and then went on to talk about some friends from Church.  Well we tried to talk about people but we couldn’t remember their names.  Our conversation went a bit like this.

“How are you?” 

“I am fine, how are you?”

“How are the family?”

Well Peter has the same thing that James had……………..you know………..prostate cancer.”

“Oh that is awful.”

“Yes but he is fine now.”

You know Kath died don’t you?”

“OMG how awful.”

“I used to hate it when she phoned me because she was deaf that she couldn’t hear my answers.”

“Oh and Margaret’s husband died and now she is in the Alzheimers Ward in the Nursing Home.”

“She has gone down hill quickly.”

“You know her friend………. the lady that used to take Communion to the Nursing Home with her, she must be devastated.  They were friends for thirty years or more………….I just can’t think of her name.”

How is Ruth, is she still walking?”

“I think she does but her husband………….whathisname……………he is sick and not able to drive anymore.”

“Oh and Pat………….you know the one who lived over the East, well she died?”

“I don’t think I told you Annie is writing up her husband’s life story………..he lived such an interesting life.”

“I would love to do something like that.  I had better start soon or I won’t remember anything.”

“Is the awful lady still going walking, you know the one……………..the one Pat didn’t get on with.  The one………………I think she was German……..you know?”

“I know who you mean………………… I don’t think so, I haven’t seen her but I really don’t go out much anymore, just to do the shopping and my Friday mornings at the Church.”

“There is one lady I see sometimes………………..what’s her name………….well anyway we think she is wearing a wig.” 

“She went away on a tour with some other Church ladies but she slept in it, if it is a wig.”

“If we see her I will give her hair a bit of a tug. I will say something about leaves in her hair or something.”

“Joan Wilson is still going strong but she isn’t allowed to drive anymore.  I think she is ninety-three.”

“She is amazing.  Is she still in that club………….you know…………….about plants or something.”

“I think she is but I don’t seem to be able to keep track…………..!”

Enter her husband.  Whathisname?  I know his name……………….I really do but I just couldn’t think of it at the time.  He is a dapper man and has a sort of little pencil mustache……………………………I should know his name………………it is the same as Margaret’s husband……………………..the one in the Nursing Home……………the one who died.  You know………………………oh well I will think of it later.

“Well I must be off, I have to get shopping done…………..bye…ah…………ah………..?”

I wouldn’t mind our muddled conversation except that my friend is in her eighties but I am only in my sixties.  If I am as muddled as her now, what am I going to be like when I am in my eighties?

This conversation is either very funny or very sad, I cannot make up my mind or what is left of it.  Maybe it is a little of each.

Friday the 13th

I don't believe that Friday 13th is unlucky. However, against all odds today I was twenty minutes late for my friend's birthday lunch. I had my shower but was clearly unable to dress myself because when I looked most of my clothes were inside out. I rushed out without feeding the dog.  I forgot Lorraine's birthday present.  Her present was hidden in such a place that it was practically impossible to find.  It was right next to my handbag.

After lunch I went to Coles and was so flustered by trying to bag up my groceries that I left my credit card in the machine.  I wondered what the beeping was.  I picked up a prescription from the Chemist and couldn't find my purse.  The purse was in its own little part of my handbag, the same place it always is.

I wondered why I was so disorganized and then it hit me.  Friday the 13th.  Now I had something to pin the blame on.  My sleeping in was not because I had stayed up until midnight watching tv.  It was not because I don't yet know how to dress myself.  I didn't forget the present because I was in a rush.  I was not flustered at Coles because of having to bag my groceries.  My purse was not lost or hidden or in a place it did not belong.    It was all the fault of the day.  Friday the 13th.

From now on I will treasure Friday the 13th.  This will be the day when it matters not what happens.  I can blame it all on the date not on the pre-senile state of my brain.  I really wish we had Friday the 13th more often then I could explain away much more of my dotty old lady behaviour on the day.  Roll on the next one.

Crochet

I have crocheted lots of different things.  A few years ago I made a striped blanket in pink, grey, lilac and white. My friends have asked me who made it and are amazed when I tell them I did.  It is perfect and the pattern is exact.  As we know I am now pre-senile so the thought that I might perhaps mess up the pattern for my new wildly coloured rug is not too much of a stretch.  I have been counting the trebles for each part of the pattern and most of them are odd numbers.  I do not want to be the Picasso of crochet; I want everything to align.  However, even though I want it to look good I am not unpicking anything.  Now there is no use telling me that unpicking is easy and I only have one loop to pick up, I utterly refuse to fix it.  I have invested so much time getting it to this stage and for someone as pre-senile as me, it is important to get things finished as soon as possible.  You never know when you will topple over into just plain old senile. Come to think of it, judging by the work already done I think I may have toppled already.  Still I am getting to work with nice bright wools and it is cheering me up during this grey winter days.  I will give the rug to someone who has no idea about crochet and I am sure they will love it.

I believe that I will only be truly senile when I don't know what the crochet hook is used for.  That will be the test!

Walk is a four letter word

I am happily pre-senile but I have realized that I do need to get up off my fat bum and go for a' walk.'  (Actually I don't have a fat bum, I have a fat stomach.)  The only exercise that I can afford to do is, wait for it, 'walk.'  Now that I have finished studying and have lots of time I have promised myself that I will go for a 'walk' every day.  I know if I stop for even one day I will turn back into couch potato Cushie.

'Walk' is the ultimate four letter word for me.  I don't want to 'walk' it is boring.  I do take the little old dog and he seems quite chuffed about it all really.  I also have a mp3 that I can listen to, to pass the miserable time and stop me thinking about rubbish that happened a lifetime ago.  I would like to 'walk' with someone but most of my friends work so I don't have access to a fellow 'walking' sufferer.  Why oh why does the exercise have to be 'walking.'  I can skate, roller and ice but of course when you are sixty-six you do tend to worry about falling, however that is the perfect exercise for me because I love it.  The other problem is that I got rid of my skates about ten years ago so I don't have that option available any-more anyway.

'Walking' is cheap the only cost is shoe leather.  'Walking' is not bad for your body, you cannot 'do a hammy' or tear a muscle.  'Walking' is great exercise and even better if you 'power walk.'  I may be forcing myself to 'walk' but no-where in my contract with myself do I state anywhere that I am 'power walking.'  I do not 'walk' at speed, I sort of amble and try not to fall over the dog's lead.

So here we are, little old Herbie and I taking Shank's pony.  I think I have said before in another blog that Shank had no pony he walked.   So everyday we set out together with a nice big plastic bag for him,  (we are not in the habit of leaving dog poo on the path) plus a large bottle of water for me.  The real reason and only reason that I have decided to walk is that the child of my loins does not want me to fall off the perch yet.  As I can feel bits of my body starting to seize up I guess that I should do something about it even if it does consist of the most awful exercise in the whole world.  Free but crappy!

In conclusion, I state again, I HATE WALKING.'

PS.  I knew it would happen.  I walked for three days and then turned back into a fat lazy old woman.  I need a carer to come and make me walk.  They don't have to do anything but force me up out of bed and drag me kicking and screaming along the linear park.  Why oh why am I so lazy?