Category Archives: Humour

When Cooking is just Science with Food

Desolation: noun, the state of being for a humour blogger when life delivers nothing but unfunny moments.

Yeah, yeah, I can feel the sympathy from the blogosphere rising as you read this. Or maybe that’s just the smallest violins in the world playing a serenade.

Rather than feeling the love, I have been feeling the desolation that can only come from desperately trying to squeeze a droplet of humour out of the vignettes of life and coming up with a handful of pith. Oh, how I have wanted to jump right back in and pump out two or three humour blogs a week, taking the absurdities of life and rallying against them by showing them up for what they truly are. But I had nothing, not just nothing, but a whole truck load of nothing for about the last nine months.

The humour has been in me somewhere, just beyond reach. And like all good bouts of constipation,  the effort to squeeze a few funny words out is more than the product warranted. Hence the bar of publication never being reached.

However, today life delivered a truly absurd funny moment and I am bubbling over with mirth, retribution and have arrived in the zone. That warm and funny place where I can cobble some words together to form humorous thoughts and get them out there for the world to see.

And for what you are about to read, I thank my youngest, Quirky Kid, for the inspiration.

Today, a Sunday, started like any other. Italian Stallion cooked up a storm with his signature pancakes in the kitchen, the paperboy threw the paper into the rose bed, the kookaburras were laughing and Summer is here. But, little did I know what awaited in the kitchen.

For Sunday is also grocery shopping day, a task I don’t really mind. The degree of difficulty in carrying this out is only raised by having sons who eat like freight trains, but won’t tell you what they want to eat. It’s like the effort of having to think about what might satisfy their appetites at some point prior to them actually eating is herculean. So, it’s game of guess the inventory for this week and hope you don’t end up with 6 extra packets of smoked salmon because this is actually Save the Salmon week and nobody sent the memo.

My attempt at getting my guys to focus on their stomachs when they are not actually feeding consists of putting an empty shopping list on the fridge with a pen nearby, hoping they will be inspired enough to write something on the list. The results are not always predictable and often one is faced with nothing but empty blue line fever.

Today was not one of those days. For this is what greeted me on my fridge door.

FullSizeRender

If this is not the greatest gauntlet a kid can throw down to a parent, I don’t know that is. I feel positively inspired with the possibilities.

I can just hear the Queen check out chick now projecting over the supermarket microphone “sense of humour required on aisle 5!”. Or me going up to the front desk and asking where the senses of humour are located? “Why ma’am, two aisles down from the organic cucumber face masks between the low fat, non dairy icecream and the 4 ply luxury, strong as an ox, nothing is going to get through this sucker, toilet rolls”.

Little does Quirky Kid now that he has sparked my funny gland to life. Little does he also know that I have bought him a sense of humour survival pack comprised of all the things that playfully tick him off. The $2 shop has rich pickings in these sorts of things from a giant glass light bulb, because how else do you present a bright idea? to a t-shirt which has “grumpy” of the Snow White fame on it, because that’s how he usually starts each day.

Good mothers hug their sons and comfort them. Great mothers engage in humour warfare and throw down there own gauntlets for said sons to retrieve.

One last thing, the title to this blog has also been inspired by Quirky Kid who has taken up hospitality as a final year subject. This requires him to engage in  70 hours of cooking, none of which is of course done at home. I’m still waiting for him to expend some hours in my kitchen, but alas the only hours he spends in there produce mess for me. In keeping with the grocery theme, I asked Quirky why he chose hospitality, it being quite out of character for him to choose a subject that may require some physical effort and have a practical bent.  Quirky is usually into all things science with a bit of geography thrown in. His response, accompanied by the eye role: “Mum, cooking is just science with food.”

Sounds like a great blog title to me!

London, You Call This a Heatwave? Travelling With A Milestone Around My Neck – Part 1

Q. Why did the 50 year old mother of two cross the world?

A. To get to the other side of course and because there was absolutely no reason to wait for tomorrow to do something she was passionate about. The other reason was to follow the chicken to Budapest which had gone before her so they could have an encounter that involved paprika sauce and cucumber salad, after which one of them would not survive.

But more about Budapest later.

Turning 50 can be daunting. I think the lead up to the actual event was worse than the event itself and the aftermath. At least that’s what I found, but I realise I am only a fledgling when it comes to 50+ living. That said, I decided to celebrate this achievement, rather than mourn the passing of something and to do it in a way that had meaning for me.

This meant a recent four week family odyssey to Europe and the Middle East. And we all know what happens when you cross travel with a blogger. A blog series about travelling called “Travelling With A Milestone Around My Neck”.

Welcome to my first ever blog series outside the A to Z Blogging Challenge. Over the coming weeks I will regale you with stories of beautiful architecture, amazing culinary delights, delightful characters and possibly the odd travel tip or two as seen from the lens of an independent traveller. This series will be about experiences rather than facts and figures, so come and join me for the journey of a Milestone.

Part 1

Travelling from Australia to Europe is not for the faint hearted. From door to door it involved each and every one of the plane, train and automobile or multiples thereof, only to arrive in London at 6.30am. Who other than the cleaning crew and potential thieves can get into a hotel room at 6.30am?

Not us, not after 26 hours of flying. After catching the Tube from Heathrow to our Hyde Park hotel, we sleepily deposited our bags and ventured out to kill about 8 hours. We arrived to the wonderful news that London was experiencing a heat wave. Wonderful because we had left winter. The morning was cool, but then again it was only 7am, so we were anticipating being washed over with warmth as the sun revealed itself more during the day.

Image from Alberto Vaccaro Flickr phostostream

Image from Alberto Vaccaro Flickr phostostream

Somehow in our  travel world, killing time generally equated to eating and so we went in search of food. What we discovered was that generally London does not wake before 10am, particularly on a Sunday and that after 26 hours of flying one’s sense of adventure is not at its peak. So we settled for some local eminently forgetful offering and then set off towards the Shakespeare Globe Theatre. This was a special request from my eldest, who is passionate about writing and poetry.

The theatre is located on the bank of the Thames and is built in the style of theatre as it was back when Shakespeare was a playwrite. The performances are performed outdoors rain, hail or shine and there is standing room and seating depending on the price you are prepared to pay. We had a wonderful 90 minute tour of the theatre and watched as the stage was being prepared for that afternoon’s performance of Antony & Cleopatra. At various times, the actors would appear to familiarise themselves with the theatre acoustics and exercise their throats in readiness for that afternoon’s performance. Not being sure we would stay awake for the performance we didn’t buy tickets. Please be assured, dear readers, this had nothing to do with Mr Shakespeare’s writing prowess and everything to do with travel fatigue.

It was a beautiful sunny day in London and the sun starved Londoners were out in force along the Thames. Buskers, food vans, town, friends, lovers, families and tourists all contributed to an active, lively throng with a fantastic vibe. This was enough to lift our travel fatigue, which was a good thing because there was another 5 hours yet to go before our eyes would clap on a bed. We were seeing London at its jolly best. I have been to London before in Summer, but I had never seen it this carefree, this animated.

Strolling along the Thames it was inevitable that we would come to the Londoneye. The Londoneye is a mega ferris wheel for tourists where on a clear day you are treated to an amazing vista of London. On this day, there was a mega queue to ride the mega wheel so we settled into a mega wait, which thankfully didn’t turn out to be mega at all. I’m generally not one for pre-buying tickets, because that locks you in to being somewhere at a certain time and that’s not what holidays are to me. 40 minutes later we were in our hermetically sealed bubble along with about 20 others marvelling at the beautiful London landscape. At this point I would love to show you a picture of that vista, but I have to ask for a little patience as I sort through the technical glitch with the photos. In the meantime, here’s a stock photo.

Having safely reached terra firma once more, fatigue again set in and I could encourage the kids no more to keep going. The good news was that we only had half an hour before our hotel room would be ready.london eye view - wikimedia commons

And so we made our way back to the hotel via the London Tube. This has to be the greatest invention known to man. A train every 2-3 minutes to whisk you away to practically any point in London and so easy to manoeuvre around  even a 50 year old can work it out. Try as it might, Sydney just can’t replicate this sort of efficiency.

After retrieving our room key, we were shown to what had to be the smallest closet hotel room in London. For four of us, two of whom were teenage boys! Nevertheless, said teenage boys were asleep in 10 minutes. The Italian Stallion and I went in search of some shops to get the basics for our trip. 34 hours without sleep so far.

And the heat wave? A paltry 24 degrees Celsius (75.2 Fahrenheit). As Mick Dundee famously said in the movie Crocodile Dundee “You call that a knife” so I will famously say ” You call that a heat wave?” Bah, to an Aussie 40 degrees Celsius (104 degrees Fahrenheit) plus is a heat wave.

Nevertheless, it was great to see Londoners out and frolicking about, even if they were tempted to sunbathe in a park in the middle of the city. A rather amusing habit to an Australian who along with most other Australians gravitates towards a beach for that purpose.

With the vision of bikinis and speedos in parks, I could fight the sweet siren call of sleep no more.

Next up: Pomp, circumstance and popping my B&B cherry in France

 

On Bodies and Middle Age: Out of the Mouths of Not So Recent Babes

In the land of the future it’s now Sunday morning and this generally means weekend newspapers and a leisurely breakfast.

The front page of our paper today features a picture of a stunning Elle McPherson under which is written the headline “The Body at 50”. A quick turn to page 7 reveals that Elle turned the big 5-0 yesterday and that The Body still has the body. The article outlines her various business and fashion successes and notes that Time once named Elle the “body of our time”.

I am sure there was no consultation between our respective mothers back in 1964 when they chose to give birth to girls within a couple of months of each other. However, I have had the spectre of being the same age as Elle McPherson hanging over me since the dawn of my time. In what is a perfect case of ‘comparison could really be the thief of joy”, I have tried hard to avoid such folly.

There is no doubt Elle looks fabulous in her now half a century body. And why wouldn’t she? The article tells us she is a devotee of exercise via skiing, surfing, yoga, swimming and hiking, drinking three litres of water daily, completing 500 sit-ups and running up and down four flights of stairs five times every morning in her twenties – Sun Herald, 30 March 2014. If that’s the case, then Elle deserves the way she now looks.

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Image courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Me? I am still struggling with the notion of being able to do 500 sit-ups and running up and down flights of stairs on a full bladder.

So in a moment of comparison insanity (because even the Curtain Raiser sometimes succumbs on weekends), I held up the front page photo next to my face and asked my eldest son “Do you think I could be confused with Elle McPherson?”

Not missing a beat, he replied “No mum, Elle McPherson is not good looking.”

Just goes to show there are some things that not even 500 daily sit-ups and three litres of water can buy you.

There are better things than being perfect, this is just one of them.

Come join me in April when I explore further the concept of being perfectly imperfect in the A to Z Challenge April Blogging Challenge.

 

Introducing the Basmati Rice Man Bag- Fashion Excellence at a Bargain Price

The Italian Stallion remarked the other day that he had not been mentioned in a blog post for a while. This surprised me as the Italian Stallion is generally quite private and has embraced social media to a far smaller degree than I have. However now that the cat is out of the family bag, I really must oblige by featuring him in this post.

The Universe must also have been listening because today it presented me with classic Italian Stallion blog fodder.

It all started with a joint trip to the supermarket for the weekly shop. This is an activity that we have shared at various points during the course of our relationship. There have also been many times when circumstances meant I did the grocery run solo. The aforementioned circumstances being when my piece of mind required it.

ID-10081436Recently it has started to be joint again, and really if you want one of the secrets to a happy marriage, it is this: keep your man away from your shopping trolley. I can handle being advised of inventory control in my run through the aisles “Don’t need that, we already have five packets of it at home” and I can even handle trolley packing for the gifted and talented for the Italian Stallion would never come home with a cracked egg or squashed bread. The Italian Stallion would also never come home with melted anything for he takes the cold product from the fridge or freezer and places it immediately into the cold bag, even though it may be 10 degrees Celsius outside. Such fastidiousness is to be admired if it wasn’t so aggravating in a OCD kind of way. But I am in my zen period, so I choose to keep calm and carry on.

The Italian Stallion is also ever vigilant in the cost savings department. This is not a problem in and of itself, who doesn’t want to save money? But the favoured mechanism of the Italian Stallion is the bulk buy. Let me give you an example, not so long ago I sent the Italian Stallion out for a solo shopping trip which included some carrots that we would serve with dips for some guests. Twenty minutes later, the Italian Stallion proudly waltzes in with a 5 kilogram bag of juicing carrots.

Let me put this in context, we don’t have a juicer. Juicing carrots are usually fatter and less sweet than eating carrots. There is no way our guests could consume one kilo of carrots let alone five.

Nevertheless, the Italian Stallion was beaming.

Today’s incident involved rice. Basmati rice to be exact. Now once again, we are not big rice eaters (yet) and we have been quite content with the white long grain or short grain variety. A one kilo bag usually lasts for a month or two. Despite this a two kilo pack of Basmati rice appeared in the pantry last week. Last week we did not have one meal containing rice, whether of the Basmati variety or otherwise.

The Italian Stallion has cooking chicken korma in his sights. For this, he says, Basmati rice is best. One can only hope that the chicken gets korma’d in the next week or so, because we now have enough Basmati rice to feed a small nation.

Back to our supermarket sojourn. On entering the supermarket we saw it. Snuck into the fruit and veg department was a pallet of 5 kilo bags of Basmati rice. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the Italian Stallion staring longingly at it. He goes over to the pile looks at the price and walks away. I inch the trolley towards the lettuce and mushrooms, thinking the Italian Stallion is behind me, following. Turning to my right, I notice the Italian Stallion once again looking the pile of Basmati rice. Trying the inventory control technique, I utter “we have a big pack at home, we don’t need it”. He agrees with me and reluctantly leaves the pile.

The latest in smart male fashion - the Basmati rice man bag

The latest in smart male fashion – the Basmati rice man bag

Making our way to the potatoes, I once again get the feeling the Italian Stallion is not with me. Sure enough he is back with the Basmati rice pile checking out the price and looking at it longingly. At this stage, I figure he needs to either buy that Basmati rice, never mind actual need, or move to Pakistan from where it originated. The later might be a bit tricky so…

I let him off the hook and say “If you want it, just buy it”.

No sooner do I utter the words, then he’s grabbing his bag of Basmati rice. He comes back triumphantly and deposits his prize in the trolley.

“What’s with all the Basmati rice?” I ask.

“Nothing, I just really liked the bag and its only $1.00 a kilo.”

Yes, dear readers, for the sake of a cloth printed bag with a zip up top, I will be eating Basmati rice for the next year. And the Italian Stallion will be sporting the latest in supermarket fashion. Lois Vuitton and Channel had better start worrying because the man bag has taken a whole new turn.

Have you ever bought something because you liked the packaging? Do you grocery shop with your spouse? if so, are you still talking to each other?

Cheerio and Welcome to my Modern Day Cereal Drama

I have just finished my sixty ninth consecutive Cheerios breakfast.

Well, almost. I did break up the series one day a couple of weeks ago when I luxuriated in a breakfast of home-made fig jam. I can assure you that the maker of said fig jam did not come from this home for I wouldn’t want my image of the undomestic Goddess to be tarnished. If people know you can cook, it only creates pesky expectations even if you can only sort of cook, so better not to go there.

calm breakfast

This less than cheerful Cheeriofest started some months ago when youngest (Geekchild) proclaimed that he absolutely loves Cheerios and could I please round up some in my weekly hunting and gathering trip to the supermarket. Geekchild obtains all of his gourmet tastes from American cartoons such as the Family Guy, American Dad and the Simpsons. Thanks to Homer, Peter Griffin and whatever name the American Dad group go by we have had to try banana cream pie, buffalo wings and corn dogs.

None of these wonder foods figure on the Australian menu. And to think mindless, satirical cartoons were non-educational – ha! Judge my parenting if you must, but I’m always up for feeding (pun intended) my children’s desire to learn about other cultures and expand their taste bud horizon. And no, I don’t indulge their sweet tooth, their takeaway food tooth or give into their every whim and desire. It just so happens that I, too, have always wanted to know what in the world was banana cream pie.

Needless to say, a couple of bites in and both Geekchild’s and my curiosity and palate were satisfied. We can now tick banana cream pie off our bucket (pun intended) lists and can appreciate why it does not figure on the Australian menu.

What is this thing called breakfast?

What is this thing called breakfast?

But back to the Cheerios. It just so happens that the Cheerios request happily coincided with a visit to Costco. And there it was the beacon of Cheerios down the end of the aisle beckoning and seducing me with its corn, wheat, oats and rice, 10 vitamins and minerals and no artificial flavours. All 650 gram giant double packs of it.

Me: “Great, they’ve got it, Geekchild is really going to be impressed”

The Committee: “Two packs of 650 gram cereal is too much. Geekchild will be eating Cheerios for 120 consecutive days”

Me: “But it’s here, now. Soooooo convenient”

The Committee: “You can always get a smaller pack back at your local supermarket”

Me: “Listen Committee, when you start having to cope with the strangeness of teens eating habits, you will know that having them eat breakfast before lunchtime is a major achievement. Decision overruled”.

And so here I am some months later eating my sixty ninth consecutive bowl of semi stale Cheerios. Geekchild has had box of cheeriostwo. There’s only about 25 more to go for in one of my more particularly grey moments I bought an additional smaller box from my local supermarket thinking that Geekchild would benefit only to find that the level in the open box had not fallen in a month. You see teenagers don’t tend to tell you when their food passions wane, you are meant to pick up these vibes through subliminal mind transfer and your abilities as a parental oracle.

Uncle Tobys or Nestle if you are reading this please DON’T send me any more Cheerios. I’m grateful that my modern day cereal drama is almost at an end, the finishing line is in sight.

Things I have learned from this experience: everything in moderation and there’s no use crying over stale Cheerios.

Last night, Geekchild came to me and said “this V8 juice is great mum, can you buy another five bottles?” At which point 25 bowls of Cheerios bathed in fruit/vegetable juice flashed before my eyes and I escaped to take refuge in my pantry.

The sacrifices we make for our children…

Have you ever been the victim of your child’s food fads? Are you ever concerned about their eating habits? Would you like a bowl of stale Cheerios?

10 Last Thoughts In The Dying Hours of My Fifth Decade

So, it is done and it is true what that say, life really does go on.

vintage birthdayAs the day loomed and time in its relentless pursuit marched on, the smell of my fear became more pungent. Whilst my determination to make middle age an era of opportunity and adventure is absolute there was just something about actually crossing over the great divide that I could not wrap my mind around. A moment in time, a mere second and here I am on the other side of fifty.

Whilst the great event occurred a couple of days ago, I have only now plucked up the courage to recount my thoughts during the dying moments of what has undoubtedly been my best decade. For my fourth decade was when I asked:

Hello, is it me you’re looking for?

and my forty something year old self echoed back a resounding

 

YES!!

In line with the great “one day I’ll look back on this and laugh” tradition, I penned the following in the dying hours of my forty-ninth year :

  1. Sometime overnight I’m going to cross the great abyss. Logically, I know I’ll awaken in the same bed, in the same body, but sometime during the night when the moon steals the light from the sun, time will steal from me another decade.
  2. Politicians really do write to you on your 50th birthday, on rather posh looking stationary containing a signature that was actually penned by a human. This is not to infer that politicians are human, but apparently reaching 50 is seen by some as a great achievement. I understand at 75 there will be a telegram from HRH. Chances are by that stage HRH will be a him and I suspect that the birthday greeting may come in the form of a tweet. I mean, who sends telegrams anymore?
  3. I have no need to lament the loss of perky boobs or a thin waist. I never had them during what most people would consider my heyday. My confidence and body have now finally crossed paths and whilst there’s a few things I would tweak, I’m certainly not crying over the loss of my 20’s body. In fact, I’d be crying if I still had it.50 years of awesome
  4. Is there something pre-ordained at birth about being chosen to live a counter-cyclical life? Sure, my life has proceeded down along the conventional route of birth, school, university, marriage, career, motherhood and mortgage. However, emotionally I have never felt better or more adventurous. With the boys getting older, it is now all ahead of me.
  5. Sometimes I look at people the same age as me and am overcome with the sensation that I am surrounded by old people. Not that age has anything to do it with per se, but I wonder if they look at me and feel the same. I sincerely hope not. Particularly as I’m just regaining some relevance and credibility to my teenaged progeny. Surely it’s about outlook and energy levels, people!
  6. I seem to be entering the age when it is fashionable to engage in “unwellness” contests. This shits me to tears. I can’t understand why anyone would want to compete to have the most complex health problems or the most famous specialist treating them. Since when did having a health problem become a social status symbol? Don’t get me wrong, when people talk about their health problems I will listen patiently, but I don’t see the need to raise the stakes by out “bad healthing” them. It takes me back to the days of playgroup and new mothers competing over who had the worst labour stories. Ick!
  7. Patience really is a virtue and I’m getting more virtuous as the years roll on. Another counter-cyclical trait?
  8. One of the best decisions I made was not to have a big birthday bash, but to make this a jubilee year and have lots of little jazz agecelebrations over the length of it. From celebrating with friends on different continents to high tea in the mountains, the celebrations will focus on our shared milestone of friendship not about my individual milestone of reaching 50.
  9. I’m actually younger than Michelle Obama – go figure.
  10. Zzzzzzzzzzzzz well, by then it was 10.45 pm.

Having survived the fall over the abyss, I’m moving forward smug in the knowledge that there’s another 10 years to go before I have to worry about another milestone birthday and that it won’t involve correspondence from a politician.

Have you ever received birthday greetings from a politician? Do you stress about milestone birthdays?

The World According to Low Cost Airlines #zerotohero

Assignment 5: try out at least three other themes — even if you’re happy with the one you have. Include at least one you would never think of using.

Assignment 6: publish a post that includes a new-to-you element.

One of the shows I used to watch with monotonous regularity in the early noughties was Airline. The show gave a fascinating glimpse into the operations of a UK based low cost airline, EasyJet operating out of Luton airport. Whilst air travel is meant to be glamorous, this show gave a no holes barred look at the travel industry, human nature and low margins.

Here’s a classic episode:

Fascinated by the myriad of personalities which featured in the show and the myriad of problems they encountered, I was hooked. Human beings are such fascinating creatures and holidays seem to bring out the best and worst of us. The show centred around conflicts and conflict resolution and how Easy Jet dealt with their delightful difficult customers in dealing with the complexity and unpredictability of air travel.

From the show I learned that:

  • low cost airlines have only a small window of opportunity for their aircraft to depart
  • they will not hold boarding open even for five extra minutes
  • there is nothing you can say to a low cost carrier to let you on the aircraft if you arrive late
  • losing your nut is particularly ineffective when trying to resolve conflict and only attracts tv cameras
  • I never want to go Luton airport
  • there is no story you can tell a low cost airline that it has not heard before.

Roll the film forward to 2006 and in a particularly non lucid moment, I booked an internal Europe flight with Easy Jet. 2006 was a time when the self help travel industry was in a fledging state and travel forums like Trip Adviser were largely centred on accommodation. There were little or few internet forums discussing travel and I had yet taken to social media. None of that stopped me though from booking the family holiday to Europe from beginning to end myself. The hardest part was booking the Europe domestic flights because I knew nothing about that market. So recalling Airline I went with Easy Jet on a flight from London to Athens.

The only thing was it left just after 6.00am…. from Gatwick airport…miles out of London. At 4.30am the trains to Gatwick don’t run. How lucky that the limo driving friend of the hotel receptionist did. How unlucky that we got onto the freeway and it was blocked by police due to a traffic incident. How unlucky that driver dude had to stop for gas. How even unluckier that driver dud took twenty minutes to fill the tank and whatever else he did when he disappeared into the gas station shop.

You know where this is headed, don’t you?

That’s right, our own Easy Jet moment. Arrived five minutes too late for boarding. Frustration welled up and our only day in Athens flashed before my eyes. This was the day we were to conquer the Acropolis. Instead, I was waiting for the Airline cameras to arrive to film my pleas for clemency. Yes, they would still take us, but next flight out was 13 hours away. In the end we took a flight with another airline, had a wonderful evening twilight and ate the most amazing Feta whilst gazing up at the backlit Acropolis. However to this day, my bottom has not graced an Easy Jet seat.

Then I vowed never to use another low cost airline.

Well, until last weekend. I am currently DIYing the bookings for our European vacation later this year and this time I have no lack of information for an excuse. However, the flight I wanted, the one on the right day at the right time is operated by a low cost airline. This time, the friendly Norwegian Air Shuttle. I’m not going to bore you with the whole sorry saga of why I had to change the booking ten minutes after I made it, but a call to Norway was on the cards. After dialling the number, I received a wonderful friendly greeting in Norwegian which then lyrically read through the phone menu in Norwegian for about five minutes. The very last sentence of which was “If you would like to hear the options in English please press 0”. The English version took 1 minute after which I found myself on hold having been told their website was experiencing problems which meant an unusually high call volume. Lucky me, I chose the one day when Scandinavian efficiency was on holiday. After about 10 minutes a most pleasant young Norwegian man broke through the musac peaking brilliantly in English. He listened to my plight with enthusiasm and empathy after which he thought he had to decline my request but would speak to his supervisor.

They must have been having coffee because it took a while. And he apologised profusely for keeping me on hold before officially declining to make the change request. He then apologised profusely for keeping me waiting once again and again once more before finally ending the call. Clearly, this guy did not talk to Australians every day.

He was so freaking’ polite and nice. And he had such a cool accent. So I bottled up my frustration and wrote a few non frustrated emails to sort out the issue. Here are a few examples of Norwegian’s friendliness from their twitter feed. They are so thoughtful that even their planes have thought bubbles.

I am pleased to report that since my conversation with Norway, Norwegian Airlines have since come to my European party in all of its orange and white livery.

So takk så mye, Norwegian Airlines . You have given me my right of passage and also the vehicle for learning how to embed a tweet into my blog posts. And for this, you deserve a

thumbs-up-smiley-hi

Now, if we can only make the flight…

PS. As for the theme assignment, I did this on my own over the Christmas break. White on black or black on white? That is the question. I almost went with a black background this time, but reverted to the white side at the last minute.

A straw poll: What do you prefer dark skin, light writing or light skin with dark writing?

Mother of Sons? You Might Just Be A Ladybromum

Weekends are for blowing away the weekday cobwebs and what better way to start the process than by reading the weekend papers?

Weekend papers contain all sorts of intriguing nuggets and tidbits that are wonderfully self contained. One of these nuggets is a little feature called “Dictionary For The Modern World” which introduces readers to modern day linguistics by describing words and their meaning. Today’s word was ladybro:

A ladybro is a man’s female friend (or girlfriend) who is cool enough to hang with the boys. She must share their appreciation of beer, sport and all forms of humour involving bodily secretions. Princesses need not apply.

This little snippet caught my eye for several reasons. Firstly, I have always regarded myself as a bit of a ladybro (although in my day the term was probably “tomboy”) without the liking for beer. I have played wingman for my guy friends, attended many a sporting event with them,  laughed at their fart jokes and judged burping contests. If that grosses you out, then maybe you should take your kitten heels and jump off this post here. Don’t get me wrong, I can do ladylike. It’s just that it’s way too much work, so its reserved for special or mandatory occasions.

I’m also the mother of sons, not daughters, so naturally found this definition highly relevant to my adult parenting life.

And being the punster and blog writer that I am, I naturally concluded after seeing this definition that there should be a parental variant, ladybromum:

A mother of sons who is cool enough to hang with them. She must share their appreciation for cereal at all hours of the day and night, sport, computers and all forms of humour involving bodily secretions (and never admit to that in polite company). She must give as good as she gets and never wear pink, but must enjoy a good wrestle and endure being tickled. Princesses will be eaten.

So are you or would you want to be a ladybromum?

son quoteFor me the answer is a resounding yes. The state of ladybromumness is about fun and connection and some parenting messages are best delivered in ladybromum mode. The stuff about cleaning rooms, folding laundry, rinsing dishes are far more effective delivered in ladybromum mode. The alternative is seen as nagging and is eminently forgettable. And of course some of the most poignant moments of parenting involve bodily secretion humour. It’s the great leveler. No one is immune as much as polite society may think otherwise.

And as a ladybromum you really know you have made it to the top when your sons invite their friends over and don’t immediately shoo you out of the room or when you are invited to share a big bowl of Cheerios at 3am in the morning.

So ladybromums unite. One day your sons will thank you for your fortitude, authenticity and relaxed attitudes by introducing you to their very own ladybro. By which time all that play wrestling with your sons will have well and truly payed off.

Ladybromum solidarity forever!

No Nuts Please We Are British

No doubt you have seen the latest reports from the News of The World phone hacking trial about HRH (aka the Queen) and her nuts. This is a priceless little piece about alleged pilfering by police of HRH’s nut mix and HRH’s displeasure at her finest “scoffing the lot”. Google “The Queen and Nuts” and you will find pages of articles reporting this juicy salty morsel. If you missed the story you can read about it here.

CrownNow, I preface the comments I make about this story with a statement that I am rather fond of HRH and the monarchy in general. Whilst we Australians flirt with the idea of becoming a republic, we haven’t quite succeeded in breaking the monarchical apron strings. Our head of state is still HRH’s representative although she (presently, anyway) is an Australian. So this piece is not about that particular debate and nor is it intended to bash the monarchy.

But really, how can this story go past without comment? It is just too precious.

We learn that HRH apparently prefers savory over sweet and that to meet this need, staff leave out cashews, Bombay Mix and almonds in the hallways of Buckingham Palace. Although some outlets have reported that the nuts were left out in advance for wedding guests of Charles and Camilla, it seems they were firmly intended as a permanent, rather than an event driven, fixture to satisfy HRH’s salty tooth. We also learn that HRH sensing something was amiss marked the level of the bowls with a marker to determine their levels.

One can’t help but applaud HRH’s sleuthing skills and scientific approach. Not for HRH is sitting and waiting to catch the thieves. Clearly HRH understands the merits of forensics and one can’t help but wonder if HRH is a fan of NCIS. And all of this done with a degree of stealth that not even the police detected. One wonders how HRH eliminated the corgis as suspects.

However, one can’t also help but wonder whether the corridors of Buckingham Palace are really so large and long that Bombay MixHRH’s nut cravings have to be met mid transit. Does HRH not have a passel of ladies in waiting and butlers who could bring HRH fresh nuts in her private chambers so the constabulary would not be tempted? And what of hygiene generally? One can’t get past the visual of a row of tiny tables, each 100 metres apart and sporting a lace doily upon which sits an open bowl of Bombay Mix strategically placed down the Palace corridors just in case HRH had an urge for nuts.

Further just how many hours of phone tapping did these journalists have to sift through to find this little morsel? And what about what ended up on the journalistic cutting room floor? Perhaps more would have been revealed about whether HRH would actually use the word “scoffed” or whether she would have used words such as “consumed”, “ingested”, “gobbled”, “gorged” or “devoured”.

Tell me more, I’m going nuts here!

Any way you slice, dice or roast this story it should be digested.

At least I now know what to bring HRH next time I visit England. A bag of Bombay Mix and a finger print set awaits gifting.

We are seriously amused.

I’m No Turkey This Thanksgiving #NaBloPoMo

If you are a turkey in the United States of America and are currently reading this then congratulations not only have you achieved a level of intelligence that is most fowl, but chances are you will survive the next twenty four hours.

As I write this most of you are catching your final moments of peaceful rest before Thanksgiving preparations begin in earnest and the feasting begins. And then when you finish saying thanks there will be yet more feasting and probably some football watching and/or discussion. At least that’s what Thanksgiving to a non American who is far, far away seems like.

Australians don’t have a Thanksgiving, but I’m not going to let that stop me getting with the programme.

So here are my tips for a trouble and calorie free Thanksgiving:

1. Purchase only fresh, quality ingredients

turkey in a cab

2.Be sure to review the nutrition information panel to ensure that you have bought the best for your family

turkey can nutrition panel

3. Examine the produce and verify its freshness and suitability

deflated turkey

4. Toil away for hours weaving your magic to create a memorable feast that your family members will remember for years

front on turkey

5. Admire your handy work which looks even better in profile

turkey side view

Enjoy. And don’t forget the accompaniments like I did. Next year, I’m definitely scouting for inflatable potatoes, gravy and the odd vegetable or two.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers.