Tag Archives: humour

Z is for Zumba: 10 Things Zumba Class Taught Me About Life (#atozchallenge)

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I come to this last Challenge post with a degree of excitement and a huge sense of relief. I’m not one to give up and well, here we are at Z. I’ll be writing more in a post containing my reflections on the Challenge next week after attending to some non-Challenge unfinished blogging business.

So with a great deal of ZEAL, I write my Z post.

I started taking Zumba classes about a year ago. Looking back at that first class, I can’t help but be transported back to that OMG feeling and the eternal question:

 “Just what the heck were you thinking?”

It was an introductory class, so at the END of it the instructors taught us some of the basic latin dance steps of the salsa, cha-cha and merengue. That’s when things began to look particularly bleak. Not sure where I was when they handed out the co-ordination gene, but clearly I was not in that line. My Zumba journey has been a real trip and keeping with the perseverance theme of this post, I bring to you my 10 points of Zumba wisdom.

Here is what Zumba participation has taught me about life.

1. Nobody is born an expert, not even an expert smart-arse. Becoming an expert takes time, training and a whole lot of missteps along the way.

2. Introducing a new routine inevitably increases the chance of missteps. It takes a couple of weeks to feel comfortable with the routine, but once you break through that comfort barrier, it becomes a whole lot of fun. Only you and hard work can break through that barrier and when you do… oh what a feeling! New routines keep life interesting.

3.Nobody focuses on your missteps other than you. Everyone is more worried about their own. There is no spotlight or microphone highlighting that you zigged, when you should have zagged (note the rather topical consistant use of Z words). You think your missteps are so good ? Ha, I’ve got news for you. Ditch the self – consciousness and get out there!

4. Bring your own style to anything you tackle, don’t worry about what to wear, how you look. You can’t do worse than my original outfit of baggy T shirt and old bike shorts. Individuality is exciting and interesting. Remember this also in the context of rule number  three.

5. Everything is more fun with a latin beat ………jajaja!

6. Pitbull is a Zumba class favourite and most of his songs have a great beat that can motivate you to do housework, blogging and other activities …. “two worlds English…Spanish….”

7.  The salsa, cha-cha and merengue are highly technical dance steps. Zumba is not the latin dance championships and you will not be scored on technical merit. Usually, keeping up the energy and your legs and arms moving in something that loosely resembles dance moves is enough. In other words, give yourself a break and just enjoy life’s experiences.

8. The intensity of each routine varies. There is a slow build up starting with the warm up moving to high impact, then a slow catch your breath number, another build-up and finally a warm down. Life is not about being at full throttle all the time. Down-times are permissible and absolutely necessary.

9. Break each routine down to its basics. Start with the leg movements then add in the arms and then put it all together. Sometimes we all just need to get back to the basics and take small bites rather than try to eat the whole pig, which will probably cause you indigestion anyway.

10. A hot looking Brazilian bloke in line next to you makes the hour go faster and sends the energy levels soaring.  Always carry a hot Brazilian looking bloke around with you if you can or if that’s not possible hold onto the idea of something or someone who motivates you.

There you have it, rules and skills for life according to Zumba Zen. I still don’t know how to properly do the salsa, cha-cha or merengue and I’m glad the technical aspects of all of that did not distract me from the bigger picture. I’m moving, sweating, having fun and mixing it with some great people and that to me is more important than championship ballroom technique.

And so with that, here endeth the Challenge.

X is for XY Chromosome: Missing the Refill/Replace Gene (#atozchallenge)

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I live in a house full of males, in a veritable tsunami of testosterone. Those who are familiar with my blog, know that I have sons. For His own reasons, the dear Lord did not see fit to bestow upon me the gift of daughters and sometimes I can’t help but wonder what life would be like if He had. A whole world of Barbie dolls, pink fairy wings and tulle has passed me by.

Boys are a whole lot of fun. Boys are the gateway to cheeky play, physical nonsense and unrelenting banter. We bond over computers, cars, baseball, soccer, laser tag and we wrestle. I am lucky I have always been something of a tom boy so enjoy all of these types of activities and of course, the bond between mother and son is a rather special one. Male to male bonding is also fascinating to watch. I have observed that the more a male is bonded with another male, the more likely he is to playfully tease said other male. Guys’ currency tends to be mild teasing banter and I can mix it with the best of them. I suppose it’s why I have always had a lot of plutonic male friends.

Life in my house can get rather interesting and at times I do feel like it’s three to one. Me thinks there is a slight conspiracy going on around here. Me versus them in a battle of the chromosomes. The battle is the battle of the refill or replenish and the gladiators are merciless. The battle goes something like this:

    1. One of the drinks of choice for the boys is cordial which is akin to Kool-Aid. Cordial is made up of flavoured sugary syrup diluted in water, about 1 part in 10. As a mother I would of course prefer that my sons drink water or other healthier alternatives, but let’s not turn this into a health debate, because then you’ll miss the point of this post.
    2. The cordial resides in a two litre bottle in the fridge and the boys happily help themselves.
    3. At about the quarter bottle full mark, the boys start pacing themselves with the cordial and carefully watch the reduction in quantity.
    4. They will each take only so much such that there is always some quantity above negligible left in the bottom of the bottle.
    5. The object of course is not to be the last to drink from the bottle to avoid having to refill it and to maximise the chance that I will instead do the job.

This battle is all about precision timing and precision measurement. It’s a game of stealth  and strategy. Who knew that the boys possessed the skills of a scientist without the use of scientific instruments? Skills for life, people…skills for life!

The skills learned in the cordial arena are also applied to kitchen paper towel refill and of course to paper refill in the bathroom. The golden rule seems to be NEVER use the last sheet for he who exposes the cardboard roll will be put to unthinkable effort.  Never mind that there are full rolls within easy reaching distance.

At one point I put up a sign in our kitchen proclaiming “changing the roll will not give you pimples”. It didn’t work.

I’m still changing rolls and making up cordial and have firmly come to the conclusion that the refill/replace gene just does not appear on the XY chromosome. Either that or I have a battle of Darwinian proportions on my hands!

W is for Whiffs Of Warmth and Whimsy: The Nose Knows(#atozchallenge)

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The power of the nose and the sensation of smell. They all pass by us from odious odours to appealing aromas. Today’s post focuses on the latter, those memory triggering whiffs of warmth and whimsy.

When I was a kid, my mother cooked. Mothers did that a lot more in those days – they seemed to be less harried than now, but then again I was probably just oblivious to the frantic paddling of feet going on under my mother’s lake. You know that whole gliding swan phenomenon, looks all smooth and in control on top of the lake with the hard work taking place below the glassy surface. I know it’s a different species, but “just keep on swimming….” seemed to be my working mother’s motto. One of my strongest childhood memories is of my mother frying onions. Most European dishes seem to start with the frying of onions. Every time I smell them, I conjure up memories of home, warmth and family. I love the smell of frying onions which together with the sweet sizzling sound envelop me in their promise.

Here’s a list of my other top sensory whiffs and what they conjure for me:

Baking things – is there anything like it? Baking bread is particularly high on the list – so powerful it can sell real estate. Cake and biscuit (cookie) baking also rate highly. These smells are too good just to be contained in the kitchen! Thankfully, there are no calories in odours, so I can indulge until I’m giddy from inhaling. These smells are full of warmth and whimsy and conjure up images of a jolly, robust bakerwoman in a red and white checkered apron.

Coffee beans – Arabica, Kona, Robusta, I’m not fussy as to type, I’ll take any freshly ground coffee bean. Aromatically sensual and warm this smell says friendship and relaxation like no other.

Frangipani – not only a ten in the smelling stakes, but also right up in there in the best dressed flower category. For those of you hungry for facts, frangipani was the name of an Italian perfume used to scent gloves in the 16th century and named after its creator, the Marquis Frangipani. When the frangipani flower was discovered its natural perfume reminded people of the scented gloves, and so the flower was called frangipani. Conjuring up images of Hawaii, hula girls (and boys!), holidays and summer days, the frangipani  odour is sweet and whimsical. I can never go past a perfectly formed frangipani fallen on the ground without picking it up. They are hardy trees too. We once had a frangipani growing in a pot which survived the death plunge off our second story balcony and lived to flower the tale.

I took this one!

 

Fresh Strawberries  – if you have ever picked your own strawberries, you’ll know that I mean. When I was young, my family used to travel to the country and pick strawberries from strawberry farms. The smell is sweet but subtle and oh so seductive and brings a promise of sticky juice, sinfully small seeds and yes, whimsy. As a child it was hard to resist not popping the fruit directly into my mouth rather than the picking bucket. Also, being fresh and ripe, no sugar was required. Occasionally I can find that smell in store-bought strawberries, but it’s hit and miss.

As you can tell, I’m a big fan of whimsy….

What smells float your nasal boat?

T is for Taste, Texture and Tone: Flunking Interior Decorating 101 (#atozchallenge)

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I was talking to a friend earlier about the topic for today’s “T” blog post because I was not really happy with my initial topic choices. It’s every good woman’s right to change her mind and I must be a very good woman today because I’ve changed my mind about my blog topic a hundred times. But enough about my blogging angst….

I have always pictured living in a house with personality – one that’s warm, personal and says a lot about its inhabitants. Understandably, this personality is not created overnight and requires something more than just a professional interior decorator’s touch. Our naked rooms are just begging to be dressed and I would like nothing more than to dress them. But I am looking straight into those oncoming headlights, just like those cute little rabbits that end up as someone’s rabbit stew.

Coordinating taste, texture and tone just seems like an impossible task. Scanning ads and the Internet for furniture pieces I like is easy. I’ve got a pile of torn out newspaper pages all depicting wonderful buffets, sofas and display cabinets. But matching pieces to decor, pieces with each other, pieces to fabric and having the vision to put it all together is beyond me. No number of trips to IKEA or items with really cool sounding nordic names will teach me the art of home decorating. Just digressing for a moment: those IKEA design names are so great, I wonder if they design first and wait for inspiration to name it or some manager at IKEA says make me a “pysslingar” or a “raskog”.

As a result, our rooms echo, our walls are bare, our sofa is old and our knick knacks are homeless. This friend I was talking to has so much talent in this area, I want to live in her house…. heck, I want to be her house! She decorated it herself and it screams “welcome” and this is a “home” from every angle. Thankfully, she has offered to provide me with some much needed advice, hopefully enough to overcome my decorating inertia.

Another tool I am going to use is the website, design-seeds.com. The site has delicious colour cards, presented in such a fashion that you mostly want to eat them. I am hoping to find at least a few cards that will give me some ideas on what matches with what. One of life’s little mysteries has always been that I cannot transfer my ability to colour co-ordinate my wardrobe to furnishings and wall colour. They are not so different, are they?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maybe it’s the thought that getting it wrong has big consequences. The possibility of having to stare at an olive green coloured wall next to pink skirting for the next 20 years of dinnertime does not bode well. But they looked really good on the colour card and that small postage size sample we tried out before committing. They did officer, honest…..

The time has therefore come to bite the home decorating bullet. My knick knacks need a home, the rooms need to be dressed and I need to get over myself. My tones will now learn to match my textures so that I can telegraph my taste. Onwards and upwards to furniture swatch, colour palette and wood grain hell heaven!

Have you had any interesting home decorating experiences?

R is for Reality: When Realities Collide (#atozchallenge)

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I have been married to the Italian Stallion for more than two decades. When we first met back in the dark ages we spent some time comparing our respective realities and decided that we were a pretty good fit. The big items were all processed and ticked (checked) and the courtship culminated in a marriage proposal….eventually…..after seven years and well, it was a leap year. We were married nine month’s later, went on our honeymoon and then we started to live together.

That’s when each of us REALLY got acquainted with the other’s reality.  The first decade of our marriage was about whose reality was better. Ah, young love…aint it grand? The next decade was about making our own new, bigger and better combined reality, something we have done with moderate success. The third decade is still a work in progress but involves consolidating and building on that combined reality and helping our children create their own.

Let me give you a pictorial sense of our reality on a few of the more significant marital issues:

Pets

His Reality                                                                                                 My Reality

Our Reality 

Holidays

His Reality                                                                                                My Reality

Our Reality

Romance

His Reality                                                                                                      My Reality

Our Reality

Housekeeping

His Reality                                                                                                 My Reality

Our Reality

What happens when realities collide? Apart from the smoke and ash that eventually settles, it’s not really the black hole that one would think. Life is certainly not dull and we all bring our prespectives to the household.

And now, taking my tongue right out of my cheek, I am hoping to make this the best decade yet with the Italian Stallion and to continue to carve out our new reality in middle age. 

Q is for Quirkiness: It’s Quite The Thing To Celebrate (#atozchallenge)

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I have a set of those magnetic word fridge magnets in my kitchen. The ones where each magnet is a word which can be combined to form sentences or thoughts or anything else that takes the author’s fancy. I thought having a set would promote creativity in my sons and communication within our family to assist with inventory control – there is much to take from a one word sentence: “milk”. Plus, I was just plain curious what my children would do with them.

The magnets have been used to comment on the garden, the weather, my sons’ self proclaimed awesomeness (well, they are teenagers) and my wisdom or rather lack thereof (well once again, they are teenagers). The other week, I woke up to find the following stuck on my fridge:

My initial reaction was laughter. My thoughts then drifted to the message being more of the same said self-proclaimed awesomeness variety and I found myself asking exactly to what apparatus was this referring? As far as I knew, my sons had not had a working chemistry set for at least five years. The thought then crossed my mind that in fact it could be my husband’s message. Well, I have to confess I have had more romantic overtures but for an attention grabber this scores about an 8.5.

I then paused and concluded that this was my younger son’s work, he of the quirky nature. I say this with a great deal of motherly love and affection for I love this quirkiness in him. Whilst this was on my fridge, to me it was totally off the wall. This type of humour for an almost 13 year old?  I’m not one to brag incessantly about my children. In fact, I survived mothers’ groups with my infants without once proclaiming they understood the theory of relativity at the age of 4 months. Oh, the pressure!

But, it has made me realise I am drawn to quirkiness and that parenting a quirky child is not without difficulties. The school system generally does not rate quirkiness highly, relying on pushing students through a mass transit system. A lot of teachers don’t value and just don’t know how to deal with difference. In the jungle of the schoolyard, there is a tendency for quirky kids to be ridiculed and abandoned. Tweeny boys look for and bond over similarities. It has been that way since the cavemen starting comparing their clubs.

My desire is that my quirky one enjoys his high school years and looks back on them as a positive experience. But I am conflicted, I don’t want him to lose his quirkiness, his uniqueness. I have this sense that as an adult his quirkiness will hold him in good stead and that it will make him stand out in the competitive crowd in positive ways. In my adult world political correctness, conservatism and uniformity abound. But ironically, it tends to be the few who are truly innovative which leave a mark on that world. And how does the innovative adult’s journey usually begin? As a quirky child.

So, on this Q day I celebrate quirkiness. May my son’s apparatus continue to rock the storm throughout his life.

P is for Plethora: So Many P Words, So Little Time (#atozchallenge)

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The A to Z Blogging Challenge is an interesting beast. There are some letters that I have struggled with and yet there are others where the ideas just come in abundance. I suppose that’s why they call it a challenge.. and challenging, yet gratifying it has been.

“P” is one of these plentiful letters with great topics coming to me without pause. I really didn’t need to plow the dictionary or plunder the Internet for particular subjects. So being the positive person that I am, knowing that I won’t be pilloried by the wonderful blogging population out there and pondering that perchance this post will be pertinent to at least some of you, I have decided to publish a plethora of “P” words.

I have a passion for word play and punning. Some might say that’s a bit peculiar, but I have come to the conclusion that word play and punning are rather popular pastimes. Not one to procrastinate I throw on my pantaloons and pursue my passion with persistance and patience and without pause.

I also have a pechant for rhyming schloky poetry. I have penned a plentiful number of positive and philosophical birthday poems for plutonic pals and acquaintances. Some of them have even thought they were pretty as a picture and have framed them for posterity. They are rather unique pieces of prose and are in no way pedestrian. A poetic portrait, if you will. One day I may even find prosperity through my prose and passions. Pending that, I will have to participate in paid penance…er, employment and persist in perfecting my product  part time.

All “P” words aside, I really do love to write funny rhyming poems for friends’ special occasions and love to think about rhyming word combinations and puns. I’d love to hear from you if you (secretly or otherwise) love punning and word play. Let me know what form your punning/word play takes.

Just in case it wasn’t pitch perfect and painfully clear, this post was brought to you by the letter P and the colour purple. It was no problem or painstaking, and in fact was a pleasure to produce.

L is for Lyrics: Na Na Na What…? (#atozchallenge)

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In what now seems like an eon ago (was there ever a time I was blogging before the A to Z April Blogging Challenge?) I wrote a post about having a song of the moment (or SOM).  Briefly, a SOM is a song that has taken residence in your head and can cause behaviour alterations, like hanging around in cars just to hear the end of the song. You would think that with a SOM, I would know all the lyrics, all the pauses, all the subtle differences in beat throughout, all of the song’s nuances. You would think…

When I was a teenager and even when I was a twentager (a term I just made up to connote someone in their twenties), I used to know the lyrics to all of my SOM’s, relevant other songs and just songs I didn’t really need to know about. I would sing along perfectly timed and worded to even the most complicated of tunes. I’d like to think I can appreciate beat, rhythm, chorus and verse.

However, something happened on the way to the concert hall. Somewhere along the line, my head got filled with children’s schedules, household schedules, household administration, laundry, payment deadlines and work related matters. My brain, being a finite capacity organ got stuffed with all sorts of adult trivia and my ability to remember song lyrics has been compromised ever since.

This doesn’t stop me from singing along to SOMs and any other song that catches my ear. I think we have all been there. Driving in the car with teenage son, good song comes along, singing along happily, the big main chorus moment about to arrive and ………I fluff it. Said teenage son in fits of laughter and thinking I’m seriously uncool because the fluff moment comes usually when the artist has paused briefly and well, it’s out there for all to hear.

Then there’s the cover up. Me singing along quite happily until my knowledge of the lyrics dries up. So I don’t miss a beat, I make up some words that sound the same as the words in the song, sometimes with hilarious consequences. Sometimes, the cover up is not even done with that much finesse, sometimes there is only a grouping of sounds that aren’t even words, sounds that are meant to sound like the words in the songs and that I know what I am doing. At this point I lose all credibility for cool with my teenage son who is laughing hysterically trying to say “you don’t know the words, do you, Mum?”

Really, the artists have a lot of explaining to do as to why they can’t get with the programme. It’s not that hard, really. I refuse to admit my lip synching days are here just yet. I’ll leave that to the professionals.

What do you do when the lyrics don’t come as they are meant?

J is for Jeans: I Think Therefore I Am a Blue Denim Purist (#atozchallenge)

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I love jeans and have worn them ever since I can remember. Personally, I think all men and women, no matter their body shape or size look good in jeans. Jeans can make a person look incredibly sexy – more so than any low-cut top or mini skirt. A smart woman knows how to leave some things to a man’s imagination and play her jeanwear to the max.

Playing the jeanlook to the max!

Being born in the mid sixties, I was  a little young for the whole hippy flare thing when it appeared the first time around. I confess I haven’t really embraced it this time around either. I’m more of a straight leg or a boot cut kind of girl. The things those cuts do to a woman’s leg length are truly miraculous and I owe more than a few inches to some clever fashion designers.

Over the years, trends in jeans have come and gone. We have had the skinny, the stovepipe, the boyfriend, the baggy, the flair, the straight, the dyed, the stonewashed, high rise, mid rise and low rise to name just a few. I have worn most of these jeans styles over the years although have steered clear of the skinny, stovepipe and boyfriend. By avoiding these, I am hoping to prevent inflicting permanent psychological damage on my sons – it just wouldn’t do for me to be wearing the same clothes as their female teeny peers.

Traditional jeans were a product of the 1850’s gold rush. The miners wanted sturdy work clothes with pockets that did not tear away. Leob Strauss (later to be known as Levi Strauss) started making copper riveted “waste overalls” in 1872 and received the patent for them in 1873. Jeans became really popular in the 1930’s after covering many a bottom in cowboy movies. They were originally dyed blue by the use of indigo dye.

All of my jeans have been either black or traditional denim blue. OK, I admit that I did wear dyed jeans for a brief period in the eighties, but the dye colour I chose was light blue. My blue jean population has far outweighed my black jean population for I am a blue denim purist. I have never owned a pair of white jeans.

For those of you who are up on the latest fashion trends, the latest “jeans” style is the neon skinny. These come in all sorts of fruity flavours – pink, red, mint, grape etc. I am waiting for them to produce the multi-coloured fruit salad jean, if only to have all fruit groups covered. With the greatest respect to all the fashion aficianados out there – THESE ARE NOT JEANS. They are coloured tight-fitting pants, that happen to resemble jeans, simply because they have two legs, pockets and a zip. 

I will take blue denim over food group fashion any day of the week. If the pair has a leather branding patch on the back depicting two horses pulling a pair of jeans and can fade in the wash, so much the better. I am not fussy, I’ll take dark denim, faded denim, almost white denim and sometimes spotted denim.

Many a pair of my jeans have retired into the cut-off hall of fame – at which point they cease to be classified as jeans and become jean shorts.  Another good use for used jeans is this handy quilt, which I DIDN’T make, but admire anyone who could.

Long live the blue denim jean revolution. The use of the indigo font in this blog is a salute to blue denim and Levi Strauss!

[To any students of fashion who may accidentally stumble onto this page, this article represents my own personal viewpoint and is written toungue in cheek. Please don’t use it as an educational reference, unless you want a guaranteed F.]

 

H is for Home Run: What It Means To Be An Australian Baseball Fan (#atozchallenge)

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Have you ever felt like a square peg in a round hole?  I often feel that way with my love of baseball.

Living in Australia, I am surrounded by a sport’s mad culture. Relative to its population (currently just under 23 million), Australia packs a mighty punch on the world sport scene, particularly in relation to non-winter sports. We are one of only two countries that have competed in every summer games of the modern Olympiad, having won a total of 444 medals.

Our national games are Australian Rules football/ rugby league in winter and cricket in summer. In some parts of the country it is almost mandatory to introduce yourself by which footy team you follow… “Hello my name is Joe and I am a Sydney Swans supporter. It has been three weeks since I last entered a football ground”  and to speak “footy tongue” so you can converse with shop keepers and cab drivers.  For years Australia dominated world cricket – all forms: test cricket, the one day game, the world cup, we were the force! The force at the moment is “consolidating”  – the wonderful euphemism used by cricket lovers who are in denial and refuse to use the “s” word, or “slump”.

Me, I’m a baseball lover. That good old square peg in a country that dotes on cricket.

I am not sure how much you know about cricket, but the long form or test cricket is a game that is played over five days… as in five whole days!  The usual result is a draw, pushing keys into the grass to test the pitch is considered normal, commentators count the number of seagulls present on the pitch to stay awake  and players stop the game and take tea in the afternoon. All I can say is please point me in the direction of the national paint drying championships right now!

Baseball has a small following in this country and is played if you know where to find it. But you have to look!  Kids as young as five can sign up for the sport and there are clubs scattered throughout the country, although nothing as comprehensive as America’s Little League. We have a Major League baseball nursery on the Gold Coast and talented players are scouted and signed to Major League baseball teams at the age of seventeen. There have been about thirty Australians who have played in the Major League, about a dozen of whom are currently active. Our highest profile player is probably Grant Balfour, currently with the Oakland Athletics.

The Major League baseball season has just started in the States and all is right with the world again. I am always slightly conflicted this time of year as it means winter is headed our way, but thankfully we have the baseball to warm up and bless our little cotton socks. Baseball is generally played in the States in the evenings so it means we get the coverage during our morning – usually when school or work gets in the way. The best thing that has happened for us starving Australian baseball fans is the internet. We can now stream live baseball games and get the play-by-play in real-time, complete with American radio ads.

So this is how to spot an Australian baseball fan:

    • they desperately scour the internet for snipets of major league baseball news and happenings
    • they have lots of American friends
    • they know what a walk off homer is
    • they linger at social venues with ESPN just to catch a glimpse of play at lunchtime
    • they know that any cricketer who wants to know how to throw a ball needs to train with a baseball player
    • they pine for Autumn because that’s when opening day comes around and know that winter is baseball season
    • the will pay a scalper a bomb when they are in America to get tickets to a baseball game
    • they stand up to stretch in their lounge rooms after the end of the sixth inning
    • they spend summer and winter watching their children play baseball and have an all year around baseball tan

We are knee-deep in our football season at the moment and I have my head buried in the Boston Red Sox (when not blogging, of course). Thankfully, my blog has had a better start to the season than the Red Sox, but I live in hope.

And my ultimate home run? My family visit to Cooperstown and Fenway Park last year. Da da da datta daaaaa…… charge!