a mad world

I'm watching

2012-02-15T16:40:00.000-08:00

I can't remember the last time I wrote about things that I love, so prepare yourself and take note of the recommendations about to come your way.

W've been watching such great TV since we moved to the US, but not on broadcast or cable TV. It's all legal, though - via streaming and mailed DVDs from Netflix. The amount of commercials we have to suffer through? Zero. What's not to love about that?

Shows that deserve an honourable mention are:

Mad Men - I've already raved about this, and can't wait to see the next season. I am dying for it, in fact.

Breaking Bad - I love how much Bryan Cranston has you cheering for him, despite the awful choices his character makes. The blur between right and wrong gets incredibly twisted. Sadly, we've been waiting an awful long time for Season 4 to become available (Netflix doesn't always acquire the DVDs immediately).

Dexter - For much the same reasons that I adore Breaking Bad. I became hooked on this back in Australia and have watched some here too, but am (impatiently) waiting for Season 6 to be available.

Weeds - Great for giggles and cringes. Like Dexter, this is actually an oldie that I got started on in Australia. Season 7 is lined up in our DVD queue.

Entourage - Snappy and a little outrageous, it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I know I shouldn't like it for the way that woman are only on the periphery, but the one-liners are too good not to like. Although it can be quite superficial, it has much more heart than I expected. I still have a couple of series to work through.

30 Rock - Two words: Tina Fey. I am in awe of how her mind works. Now, we're up to date and (shock horror!) can actually watch the current episodes as they air on TV. With ads. Not quite the same when I've seen 90% of it ad-free, but I still love it.

Recent discoveries that I love:

Downton Abbey - It's been far too long since I've seen a British show (obviously), let alone one that has me swooning at the costumes and one-liners. Incredible writing. Season 2 is lined up in the DVD queue, and I cannot wait.

Source: tamunatko.blogspot.com via tamuna on Pinterest

Boardwalk Empire - Another period drama (the prohibition era in the 1920s) with amazing details. The writing is fantastic, too. We've nearly finished the first season, and I know I'll be back for more.

Sherlock - Another British show, portraying Sherlock Holmes as a modern-day character in London. Just watched the first episode last night, and was pulled in instantly. Great cast, great story, amazing cinematography and editing. A bonus is that it's always lovely to recognise places I've been. Alas, there are only three episodes in the first season, so it's going to take all my restraint not to watch the next two in a hurry.

There are simply not enough hours in the evenings. The sad truth is I probably spend more time online than actually watching TV, so I think I'll have gone grey by the time we get through the shows on our queue...

Tales of swearing

2012-02-12T14:49:00.000-08:00

Precociousness is a trait I am becoming well acquainted with lately. The Faery just can't seem to help herself.

Take the following brief conversation from yesterday as an example:

The Faery (responding to the wrong TV show starting) said, "Oh fuck."

I couldn't quite believe my ears. "What did you just say?"

The Faery blinked, "Oh fuck."

I sucked in some air, "Ahhh... you know, that's a bad word you shouldn't say. I know you might hear grown-ups using it sometimes but it's really not a nice word and they shouldn't say it either. You can get into a lot of trouble at school if you say it. A lot of trouble."

(Yeah, I am one massive hypocrite, I know - sometimes there's no other word as satisfying to let rip as the old f-bomb, but I'm actually very careful not to say it when she's around.)

The Faery looked up at me, indignant that I'd clearly misunderstood her. "No, Mum... I didn't say 'fart', I said 'fuck'."

Yes. Fart is so much worse than fuck, right? (For the record, we're no prudes in this house about using the word fart.)

Do you know how hard it was not to explode into giggles at this point? She obviously has no idea what fuck means, but at five years old, I'm in no hurry to clarify.

J had a chat with her about it later. He was great, and didn't patronise her. He let her know that when she grows up, yes, she can say it, but it's still a bad word and not for children to say. In the mean time, if she hears him say it when driving - or any other time - then he has to give her a dollar. Same deal if she hears me say it.

A human swear-jar. Her little face was aglow at the very thought. She's a stickler for rules and boundaries, so the idea of policing her own father? Awesome.

This wasn't the first time she'd tested out the word, but it's been almost three years since the last. When she was a little under three years old, I put her into one of those coin-operated ride-on cars at out local shopping centre. She pretended to drive, tooted the horn, and then muttered, "Youfuckenidiot."

Just like her daddy.

It was all in one word and - like yesterday - I thought I'd misheard so I asked her what she'd said. She repeated herself in barely a whisper, and on the spot, wondering if the people nearby had also heard, I nervously told her that we don't say that. Mentally, I was already berating J.

Twice more, that week, she uttered the same phrase. Both times, we were waiting to cross a street - the Faery perched on my hip - as a car slowly drove past.

Context-wise, it was a stirling effort on her behalf. I didn't want to turn it into a big deal, so apart from a quick "No, we don't say that", that was it. For some reason, she obliged and I never heard her say it again... until yesterday.

She's always been rather advanced with her language skills - something I've considered a blessing. However, J and I can no longer spell out words in front of her. Her literacy skills have come along in leaps and bounds, and she's pretty damn good at putting letters together to work out unfamiliar words. She's also blitzing the weekly lists of sight words she's expected to recognise. Additionally, the way she can read and put together Korean letters to form the syllables in words, and tell me the words... it blows my mind.

It's such an exciting time for her, learning to read and write. I remember so well how it felt like the world had opened up infinitely when I was able to read books by myself.

At the same time that this is happening for the Faery, Miss Pie is at a lovely stage where her speech is really improving. It's taken off at a slower pace than it did with her sister, but she's so pleased when she can make herself understood.

Watching their communicative skills blossom - first with speaking, and now with reading and writing - is beyond wonderful. The ESL teacher in me, especially, gets a real kick out of it.

Fun times.

Wordless Wednesday: Recent Randomness

2012-02-08T12:15:00.000-08:00

For once, I'm going to shut up and let the photos do the talking.

Getting active

2012-02-07T13:56:00.000-08:00

So... I've joined a gym.

It's been a very long time. The last time I belonged to a gym was ten years ago, when we lived in London. I was pretty good, and went regularly for the whole year. Not much about my body changed in that time, but my fitness went through the roof. I guess that's something, but I had been hoping to slim down a little too.

Cut to now. I'm okay with my body, but at the same time, there are bits I don't like, and I would be more than happy if I went down a dress size or two. My current weight is what it was pre-kids but it's all about the jiggle. A little less would be nice. My arms are heading dangerously into 'tuck shop lady arms' territory, and I need to sort that out.

There are a few other reasons why I've finally jumped into this fitness kick.

I've never been great at motivating myself to get active, so I've been fairly sedentary over recent years - especially since moving to Los Angeles. In Sydney, I did a hell of a lot of walking, as part of my daily routine. Even the walk to the bus stop (on my way to work) involved a trek up a hill each morning. We lived in a hilly area, with cafes and shops within a decent walking distance, so I only drove to the shops if it was raining. Here, even though it's much flatter, nothing is conveniently located without having to get in the car. Annoying.

I also want to start setting a better example now that the Faery is getting older, and more aware about healthy choices. I can't exactly preach to her about playing outside if she only sees me sitting on my toosh in my down time.

Lastly, I want some of those exercise endorphins, dammit. A more positive attitude and headspace is something I'm in need of, and I hear exercise is great for that... so bring it on.

Luckily, some friends have been raving about a nearby women's gym with child-minding. Just what I need! Having a few friendly faces to run into also helps.

It's early days - I only signed on last week - but so far it's been interesting. I can't help but chuckle already at some of the differences between my London gym experiences and my current situation. The gym in London was tucked away down a narrow lane way, behind a large railway station. It had a lot of squash courts (which I don't think is as popular here?), was mixed gender membership, and a number of the women played rugby. For fun.

In contrast, this gym is part of a large office building near a freeway. Plenty of parking available, naturally. Being a women's gym, there is definitely a wide range of clientele, but in terms of conforming to LA stereotypes, I've already seen quite a few women who have succumbed to Botox, dermal fillers, and silicone. The area we live in has a high Armenian population, so there are also plenty of girls who look, dress and sound like they could be long lost Kardashian sisters.

Anyhow, I have a feeling that by making the effort to hit the gym several times a week, it's going to cut into my internet time... but then, that's the point. Get off my arse, get active. Stop reading, start doing.

I just need to keep reminding myself of a quote I saw on Pinterest:

WHAT YOU DO TODAY CAN IMPROVE ALL YOUR TOMORROWS

I like it.

Portrait time

2012-02-01T17:27:00.000-08:00

I've posted very few photos of myself on this blog. Initially, it was because I planned on remaining somewhat anonymous, but over time I've included enough tidbits about myself that I'm sure anyone who knows me in real life would figure it out if they stumbled across this blog. Well, that and the fact that my daughters' photos are all over this blog are a bit of a giveaway.

Anyhow, I saw a writing prompt the other day that appealed to me - not so much a writing prompt as a photo prompt, perhaps: Share a photo that was taken of you, that you think really captures who you are.

Game on.

The funny thing was that I had to dig fairly far back in the old archives to find a picture that said enough about me. That I don't feel as though recent photos capture 'me' enough? A little strange, I know. Maybe they do, and it's just my perception. Maybe it's just that I really love the photo I chose, and it's a favourite.

So without further ado, I present this.

It's an oldie, taken back in the northern summer of 1999, when we'd first started living in London. I was the ripe old age of twenty-three. A baby, really.

I love this photo because it looks so timeless. Apart from my shoes, it could have been taken as far back as the 1960s - an era I have a soft spot for. I used to have quite a thing for head scarves, and the reasoning for that hasn't changed - they're a great way to hide bad hair days (of which I am blessed with many), and even though I can't remember the last time I wore one, I do tend to tie my hair back when I don't want to deal with it. That would be most days.

This photo captures that I'm a fairy casual dresser. I live in jeans and tops. Sneakers/ballet flats in the cooler months, thongs (flip-flops for you non-Aussie readers) and Birkenstocks in the summer. I don't own much in the way of dressier clothing, and can count on one hand the number of dresses I have.

I'm not big on make-up either. At the most, a bit of eye make-up, concealer and lip gloss... when I want to make the effort. That's not often, though. Some might see this as ballsy confidence ("Wow, no make-up? You must be pretty happy with how you look!") but me? I call it simple case of could-not-be-arsed.

Photos of me with various cats, not necessarily my own? There are plenty of those around. I'm a cat person, yes, but I've been smitten with particular dogs too.

The old VW Beetle here is a rather convenient final touch. It was our neighbours' car and we envied them (although not the part about driving one of these during English winters). We'd had one in Sydney, which we sold - sadly - prior to living in the UK.

Enough with the superficial stuff, anyway.

When I look at this photo, I'm not nostalgic for an adventurous spirit that once existed, because I know it's still there. Small kids are in the big picture now... but here I am, thirteen years later, and living in another foreign country.

In some ways I've changed (who doesn't after having kids?) but for the most part, I like the think that the essence of 'me' is still here.

Linking up with Mama Kat's Losin' It

Retro coolness

2012-01-30T12:53:00.000-08:00

As I was taking the Faery to school this morning, it occurred to me that it was probably time to post something in here.

I parked the car in our usual spot, about a block away from the school. We got out, began walking up the street, and I began contemplating what to write...

...then I looked up and was greeted by this magnificent sight.

Is that not the most fabulous motor home you've ever seen?

If I had to pick a favourite era - in terms of style - it would be art deco (followed closely by the 1950s and 60s). Judging by the millions of blogs out there, I'm hardly unique but hey - the heart loves what it loves.

I could not stop gawking, and neither could all the other people who were walking past. Now, that is photoworthy, I thought, and whipped out my phone for some snaps.

As soon as I was back home, I googled 'decoliner' (the words on the side) and found this website. Quite an amazing feat. The owner - Randy Grubb - is an automotive artist, and used the chassis of a 1973 GMC motor home and a 1955 truck cabin to make this. I can only be in awe of such creativity and cleverness.

And yes, that is a steering wheel on the top deck of the motor home - I couldn't see one inside. There is footage on YouTube of this being driven around Portland, Oregon, before the exterior looked as shiny as it does today.

I love how an ordinary morning can turn up something that's extraordinary so that before I know it, my blog has practically written itself.

PS - I am going to miss the Picnik site when it's gone in April. It's provided so much photo-tweaking fun.

Dragon Heart

2012-01-25T16:01:00.000-08:00

Ever since I was a kid, I've had a love for thunderstorms.

I love the building suspense in the air as a storm approaches. How big is this storm going to be? I love watching the sky change as the the flashes jump between bruised clouds. I love the ear-splitting cracks of thunder when the storm is directly above: as a kid, counting one thousand, two thousand... I love the relief that comes with a storm. There's no better way to finish off a hot day in Sydney than with the storm that's likely to end it.

Years later, as J became familiar with my storm love, he told me it was because I was born in the Year of the Dragon, and the Chinese used to believe that thunder was the sound of dragons clashing in the sky. I loved that idea.

I don't really identify with horoscopes - never viewed myself as a proper Aries - but something about being a dragon appeals to me. For many years, I told myself if I ever got a tattoo, it would be an oriental dragon. Dragon tattoos may be a little clichéd to some, but it's less so if I am a dragon, right? Not everyone else with dragon tattoos are dragons.

(I never did get that tattoo. The publication of a certain bestselling Swedish novel killed that idea swiftly, although I read the trilogy, saw the films... and loved it all.)

This week has brought the Lunar New Year, completing three full cycles in my lifetime under the Chinese horoscope. The last time it was Year of the Dragon, it was 2000 and full of adventure - it was an amazing year.

To all the dragons out there: this is our year and it's going to be great.

My lovely dragon, who has known happier times.
Hatched in Bondi Markets in 1997,
it has had six homes, lived in three cities,
spent nearly five years in a box under my parents' house,
been knocked over by cats, lovingly glued back together,
and is currently well out of reach of little fingers.

In the old gum tree

2012-01-23T14:33:00.000-08:00

A rainy morning - with one sick child home from school, and a spirited toddler destroying the place - meant just one thing. As soon as I could commandeer the TV channels in my favour, it was time for a cheerful programme not intended for a child audience. Live! with Kelly won.

(Photo source)

At some point during the show, there was a wildlife expert on. His name was Peter Gros, and he had the most bizarre, helmet-like head of hair I've seen since Ken doll.

Studly, no? Debonaire? (I've always wanted a reason to use that word.)

He had brought with him an assortment of animals, the cutest being a 6-week-old tiger cub, drinking milk from a bottle. The Faery was most impressed. There was a also a beaver, swimming in an inflatable Disney Princesses paddling pool. I'm sure there's a good joke in there somewhere.

However, it was the last animal brought out onto the stage which set my heart a flutter. As soon as I saw its cheeky grin, I hoped I'd get to hear it singing... and it did. A wonderful sound that made me feel like I was home. Even the Faery - whose associations would be a lot hazier - stopped in her tracks to listen, and was awe-struck.

The bird I'm referring too? A kookaburra, of course. I have such clear memories of singing the nursery rhyme "Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree..." as a littlie at school, and am a little sad my girls won't have the same memories - do they even teach it at school these days? I should probably teach it to them - it's one more thing I've been neglectful with.

There's nothing like the sound of a kookaburra. As much as I'm not a morning person, whenever I'm away from the city and am woken up by their call, I love it.

Is that not the happiest sound ever? A true belly laugh, as though they're in on a big joke we know nothing about.

Feeling somewhat homesick now.

The creature

2012-01-20T16:43:00.000-08:00

Some days, it's hard to ignore the creature in my head that whispers things I don't want to hear. Maybe it's because the truth hurts, I don't know.

This creature whispers that I'm lazy because I've been in no hurry to return to teaching. That I'm lazy for being put off by the idea of searching for, and then juggling a job, day care, and a school run. Plenty of people do it, why can't you? What's wrong with you?

It hisses that I'm a financial burden to J, and the reason why we still can't get ahead. All your doing - stop making excuses. Just get a job already.

It reminds me - frequently - that I'm pathetic. When did you become such a passive lump? When did you start relinquishing important decisions to others? You're not just 'going with the flow'... that's just you in denial. Stop sleepwalking. Stop 'letting' life happen and take control.

It also whispers that I'm not good enough with my girls, that they deserve more of my attention. Engage, engage, engage. Stop going on auto-pilot.

This creature is not my friend, but I listen anyway and suspect it speaks the truth... I have an uneasy feeling I've been taking a backseat in my own life, and for a while at that. Hardly the model of being pro-active.

So... Operation Find-An-Evening-Job is underway. I'm not sure how exactly, when all my qualifications and certificates are sitting in an unidentified box, stored away in Sydney (packed away by accident in the newborn-induced fog shortly before The Big Move). I figure that if I can get some references emailed to me, that will be a start, and then I can look into private tutoring - adults who need help with their English grammar, vocabulary, pronunciation and so on. I've tutored before and it seems the most ideal fit for now.

Hopefully, when Operation Find-An-Evening-Job is successful, that creature in my head will leave me the fuck alone. It's been a little over two years since I last worked and contributed financially, and I think that's part of the problem with where my head is at these days.

I don't value myself as much, and something has to give - that something is me, so I can stop feeling as though I'm only taking.

Wish me luck.

Semi Wordless Wednesday: Instagramming

2012-01-18T08:50:00.000-08:00

I suppose I could tap into my (long ago) Fine Arts studies and write a lengthy discourse about the popularity - and ease - of the Instagram app on iPhones, versus the more complicated ~~science~~ art of SLR photography... but I'll spare you.

I'm new to the world of Instagram, but am currently addicted. Who knows whether it's just a passing phase for me? I'm simply enjoying leaving the home less often with a heavy camera. Lazy? Yep. I do love my camera, but sometimes it's not a bad thing to take a little break from what we love.

Anyhow, if you happen to be on Instagram too and a) want to follow one more person and b) help me build my list of followers into the double digits (Wow, how impressive would that be?) I can be found as @madinla.

Linking up with and then she snapped: Wordless Wednesday but with words.

(Click here)

Meteorologic musings

2012-01-15T14:19:00.000-08:00

Perhaps I've mentioned I have a lovely new iPhone? And that despite never coveting one before, I am head over heels in love with it.

My latest addiction is to the Instagram app, but more on that in the near future.

With the clock app, I never have to calculate what time it is in Sydney before attempting a Skype call.

(My brain thanks my phone.)

The weather app is also handy.

I never have to pay attention to those weather 'personalities' on the TV again - people with whacky names like Dallas Raines (seriously, I have such a hard time believing he was named that at birth, but apparently he was).

I need never google the forecast again - it's all at my fingertips.

As you can see, we're not doing too badly here. Winter has been mild - this is the coolest it's been in about a month. Blue skies and lots of sun - Seasonal Affective Disorder will not be a problem for me in LA.

However, looking through the many Instagram photos of others, I've realised something that's missing - awesome clouds and temperamental weather can make for great photos.

Not a whole lot of atmospheric wonders happening in these southern Californian skies.

On my weather app, I also have the weather for a couple of other cities. Now and then, I like to know what it's doing in Sydney... because I'm a nerd like that.

Rain, clouds, thunderstorms and sunshine - that sounds about right for a week of summer in Sydney. Even a single day can have all of those.

I miss those thunderstorms, I really do.

But when I want to cheer myself up?

I check out what the weather's doing in London, and remember the numerous winters that I suffered there.

Yeah... I don't miss that.

Trains on the brain

2012-01-13T19:16:00.000-08:00

No matter where I live, trains seem to follow me. The house that was home for the first seven years of my life was across the road from a commuter railway line. I can remember peering out my bedroom window with my brother, every morning, to watch the trains clackity-clack past.

As a teenager travelling to my weekend/summer job, much of my adolescence was daydreamed away - out through the windows of the silver Sydney trains that carried me from the suburban sprawl and into the city.

Over the years, there have been a number of places I've lived in that were a little too close to the trains. Our flat in west London afforded blurry views from the back windows - of trains which whisked people to Oxford, Bristol and Wales. Those trains were bigger, louder, and faster. Foxes loved to hang around those tracks at night, so the evenings were often punctuated by their call, and if we weren't careful, the contents of of our rubbish bins would be raided and strewn across the garden and street.

Is it any wonder that my dreams are frequently peppered with trains? Not so much these days, but for a long time, the most commonly reccurring theme involved me travelling somewhere - usually on a train. Sometimes I'd be on the wrong train, sometimes I needed to change trains. Train platforms would change around on me, announcements would be muffled and confusing. Getting to the destination was never without drama, and I would always wake with relief... easy fodder for Psychology 101, right?

And now? We don't live so close to a railway line, but there is one that winds through our area. The distant sound of the train horns is now familiar, but for a long time they seemed like a sound effect from any contemporary American film - distinctive and chorus-like. A little surreal for me.

The local line passes near J's work, and on the days that I'm playing taxi driver, there's a good chance we'll be stopped at a railway crossing, waiting for a hulking Amtrak train to pass. This is always to Miss Pie's train-obsessed delight, whereas I brace myself with visions of the train suddenly derailing and hurtling towards us. Sydney has very few railway crossings, so this is one difference in LA that I'm still adjusting to.

Oddly enough, I've yet to set foot on one of these Amtrak giants. Despite the fact that I'm experienced with the train networks of four cities, and have hopped on trains in at least ten countries, I haven't been on any here yet. I think that speaks volumes on how necessary a car is in Los Angeles. If the public transport wasn't so dire, I'd have definitely ventured out sans car, but the logistics of it are of nightmarish proportions. Alone, it would be less of a problem, but remember - I'm usually accompanied by little ones. That always complicates things.

Oh, but I lie - I may not have been on an Amtrak train, but I have been a few smaller trains here. You know, the kind that are intended to give small children a thrill (as seen above)...

Semi Wordless Wednesday: Trike love

2012-01-11T09:21:00.000-08:00

One of the gifts that Mis Pie received for her birthday was a tricycle. It was an instant favourite, and when the Faery was done with school for the day, she spent time helping Miss Pie play with the trike.

I didn't expect to witness such lovely moments of sharing, but I did. If I stare too long at some of the photos I took, a lump forms in my throat. It may be clichéd, but there you have it. There is something about the last two photos, especially, that keep me returning for more.

Linking up with and then, she snapped: Wordless Wednesday, but with words.

Remembering, two

2012-01-09T19:41:00.000-08:00

My baby just turned two. No longer a baby, but a sweetly crazy toddler who is morphing into an even sweeter little girl every day.

The day before her birthday was Sunday, so we threw a tea party for her and the smaller kids who live nearby. I've basically had zero experience putting a kids party together (sadly for the Faery, this is very much true - we owe her a few 'proper' parties by now) so I was happily surprised at how well it all came together - especially as it was something I'd only thought up and put together over a few days prior to the party. It was fun introducing our American friends to fairy bread - a staple for every Australian child's birthday party.

The loveliest part was the opportunity it gave J and I to get to catch up with some of the other parents. It brought home to us that we're very lucky for the little community we have going in our apartment complex.

Once the day was over, my belly full of cake and pastries, and the girls were fast asleep, I stumbled across some online birth stories - quite by accident, but perfect timing. I hadn't really read any since I was pregnant, so I allowed myself to read a few... and remember.

I remembered how drawn out the labour was with Miss Pie. How it hurt like nothing else. How relentless the contractions were, on top of one another. How wonderful the midwife was, with her soothing Jamaican accent.

I remembered not wanting the heavier drugs, and how I welcomed the nitrous oxide. Sweet, sweet gas, that became my best friend.

I remembered how fantastic J was, and how I felt like I'd have broken in two if he hadn't been there. How deeply primal it was.

I remembered feeling more confident this time round, knowing I'd done it before and could do it again - even if I did want to cancel the whole thing and go home.

I remembered the relief as she emerged. Out. In this world. Pain subsiding. Hello, look at you! You're so beautiful... and so... big?

She was a whopping 4.44 kg (9 lb 13oz). That's right, I birthed a just-under ten-pound baby, with nothing but gas. I don't normally like to brag... but I wear this particular badge with pride. No apologies. Sure, I got lucky that things progressed in a fairly straightforward manner, but it was fucking hard work nonetheless, so if on the rare occasion I want to shout out from the rooftops about this achievement, I will. Her birth left me feeling like a superhero.

Whether she'd been born a whopper or petite and dainty, the fact remains that she's mine. Healthy, beautiful and loving. J and I made this gorgeous creature who possesses an adventurous spirit - the yang to her sister's yin. A delight.

We can't imagine life without her.

Happy 2nd Birthday, PJ.

Balancing

2012-01-05T14:19:00.000-08:00

We first found this studio-backlot-themed play area shortly after we'd arrived in Los Angeles. We were living in a hotel until a suitable apartment was found for us to rent. The hotel was in a convenient enough location - walking distance through the nice part of town to Burbank's IKEA and local mall, enabling me to to stock up daily on the basics we'd be needing as soon as we moved.

Every day, the Faery and I would trek into town with Miss Pie reclining in her stroller. I'd buy the maximum amount of towels, sheets, pillows, kitchenware, pots and pans I could possibly fit under the stroller and hang off the side. The trudge back to the hotel was always a delicate balancing act, and I received more than a few strange looks from people along the way. The stroller was essentially a caravan, with just enough room for a newborn.

Anyhow, the play area in the local mall provided a convenient rest stop where the Faery could run around and burn off steam, while I breastfed Miss Pie - something I did discretely but earned me some dirty looks. I'm still trying to figure out 'liberal' California.

In those days, the Faery was three and a half, and Miss Pie just eleven weeks old. If she wasn't feeding, she'd be sleeping soundly in her stroller while the Faery played. Miss Pie just fed, slept, fed, slept - such an easy baby.

We found ourselves there again today, but under such different circumstances.

The Faery was in a state of anxiety when we realised she is now slightly taller than the sign showing the maximum height allowed for kids to play there - 4'2", whatever that is. Given she's a sensible kid who doesn't play roughly, I decided it was no big deal, but she was convinced she'd get into trouble from some random authority figure. She couldn't relax.

As for Miss Pie, she's now a fearless toddler and only days away from her second birthday. She was outrunning most the kids there, and deftly climbing the structures, giving cause for my heart to skip a beat on more than one occasion.

Time... it flies...

East, west, what?

2012-01-04T15:05:00.000-08:00

(Click here for source)

A funny thing happened when we moved to the US.

I began to confuse east from west. This is actually a big deal for me, because I have a reputation amongst my friends and family as possessing superior map reading and navigation skills. My sense of direction has meant that I rarely get lost (but it has happened). People who need to turn the map each time they turn corners? I laugh and feel a little smug when I see others doing this (sorry, but I do). I think I've mentioned before that I love maps.

I've even been told I'd make an excellent rally navigator, which I'll take as a compliment.

Of course, north and south have never been confusing and for thirty odd years, I found east and west equally polarised in my mind... but some kind of malfunction has happened to the hardwiring of my brain recently. Only with east and west.

They were never mixed up when I lived in London or Melbourne.

After giving it some thought, I've decided that it must be down to the fact that I've gone from living on the east coast of Australia (Sydney), to the west coast of the US (LA). In Sydney, heading west meant going inland and heading east meant going to the beach. It's the opposite here in LA - is it any wonder that my poor brain gets a little addled? When discussing locations here and I want to mention somewhere nearer the coast from us, it comes out of my mouth as 'east'. Wrong. Likewise when we talk about inland from where we live. It comes out of my mouth as 'west'. The only thing that anchors the correct usage is if I think about where the sun rises and sets.

I always feel like such a goose when I mix them up. It's an effort that requires some mental gymnastics for me to stop and think before opening my mouth, so that I can get it right.

It feels backwards, and I can feel the same part of my brain twisting when I look at the short date here (or even worse, have to write it)... but that, I blame on the stupidly illogical American date format. Not my fault. East and west? I shouldn't be mixing those up.

Our drive back to LA from San Diego last week just confirmed how screwed up my brain is at the moment with this east/west business, when the job of navigation fell to me (happily, as I prefer that to driving).

I wonder if there is a term for people mixing their terminology for directions, when their frame of reference has been shifted... Chartis dysphoria? Because I just made that up, and it has a pretty cool ring to it, yes?

Just don't ask me where Santa Monica is in relation to the San Fernando Valley. I can find it in a flash on a map, but getting my mouth to say it correctly is another matter altogether...

(Click here for source)

A happy ending

2011-12-31T10:03:00.000-08:00

It may be 2012 in Australia, but we still have almost ten hours of 2011 remaining here on the west coast of the US.

Unlike more recent years, I'm not in a hurry to see this one go... but I'm excited to see what next year will bring. What more 'firsts' are out there? We've had quite a few this year:

My first trip to San Francisco, where I took photos like crazy. I loved that city.

Last summer, we hung out down the coast, in the laid back town of Encinitas, venturing a little further south to visit San Diego Zoo - another place that's been on my list of places to see for a long time.

A third place we crossed off our list was Las Vegas, followed by a trip through the Mojave Desert.

Miss Pie had her first birthday, and is very much an adventure-seeking toddler. Her first birthday was January 9th... which means her second birthday is right around the corner. Slow down, PJ!

Perhaps the biggest milestone was The Faery starting her first year of elementary school, and I've seen her blossom even more than I thought was possible.

So... what better way to cap off the year than one final road trip? We decided to head south earlier this week, chase the sun, and see a bit more of San Diego. We stayed in the Old Town region, where the smell of freshly baked tortillas permeated the air, inducing flashbacks to a long ago trip to Mexico.

We spent our first afternoon there gorging on burritos, churros, and - for us grown ups - margaritas. The next day, we took advantage of our annual membership to the zoo, making it our second visit there; rewarding ourselves with sushi at the end of the day.

Our evenings were relaxing ones in our hotel room. Miss Pie snored away while we played Crazy Eights with the Faery and then, lights off for the littlies, we simply read by the glow of technology - me with my new iPhone and J with the iPad.

Yesterday was our day to head back to LA, but with a detour inland to the San Diego Zoo Safari Park. Our zoo membership also covered entrance there, and we loved the relaxed vibe. If you're ever in that area, I can't recommend it enough - I would possibly even recommend it over the zoo.

And here we are. Today is New Year's Eve - I can't help feeling somewhat like a contented cat sprawled out in the sun. 2011? A vintage year.

PS - If you want some comedy, scroll down and you'll be rewarded by the last photo. Promise.

Oh yes, they were. Nothing like making sweet love on the top of a car, right? The twelve-year-old in me had a massive giggle...

Christmas fun

2011-12-26T15:19:00.000-08:00

How was your Christmas?

Ours was lovely. Relaxing, which is just what the doctor ordered. J has some time off work, which is much deserved. This standard 10-days vacation per year ethos in US workplaces is in dire need of an overhaul. Seriously.

We started the festivities on Christmas Eve with a trip to our local shopping centre, which is a little like something that Disney would build if it were in charge of shopping malls - especially at Christmas time. There is a 100 ft tall tree, and twinkling lights galore.

This was followed by a drive around the neighbourhood to witness the extreme lengths some people will go to in order to outdo their neighbours' Christmas displays - fantastic displays, but I'm glad I don't live across the road.

By some miracle, the girls weren't up at the crack of dawn the next morning (this may be to do with the general sickness that's lingering here), so presents were opened at a respectable time... well, the Faery was up early, but to her credit, she waited because we insisted there was to be no opening until Miss Pie woke up too.

Play... coffee... breakfast... Bing Crosby... sunshine... jigsaw puzzles... then a spot of Roald Dahl, read from the newly-acquired fabulous books from various relatives for the girls.

Followed by more play, feasting, and relentless grips on newly-received soft toys. Just us, hanging out. No rushing, no obligations. I hope we have more Christmases like this one.

As for me? 'Santa' very generously - and unexpectedly - bestowed me with a lovely white iPhone. Something I hadn't dared to ever hope of possessing myself, as I am somewhat technologically challenged. My previous mobile phone was pretty basic and I can say that only a day later, I am surprised at how in love I am with my new gadget. Shiny.

Now, the internet can follow me everywhere. Be very afraid...

Pillspills

2011-12-21T12:19:00.000-08:00

The childproof packaging on American medication does my head in.

Every time.

I'm too used to Australian blister packs, where it's easy

to push the tablets through a layer of foil. Done.

American blister packs are a little more difficult to open.

To the untrained eye, they look the same.

The fact that scissors are mentioned in the instructions

should be warning of the frustration level involved.

You see, in addition to the foil, there is a layer of thick paper.

Impossible to just 'pop' the tablets through.

In theory, the paper is supposed to peel away first,

leaving just the foil. Easy.

In my time here, though, I've yet to have this happen.

Scissors are always required, and the pack ends up a mangled mess.

So annoying if I need to pop some of these when I'm out and about.

It's not like I carry scissors on me.

I needed to pop some of these today, and had the brilliant idea

of documenting just how ridiculous it is.

I should have known - Murphy's Law.

WTF?

The pack opened for me in a way it's never done before.

Never.

I was gobsmacked.

I threw away the empty packaging, put the camera back,

and grabbed some water to swallow the tablets with...

...only there were no tablets on the table.

WTF?

I searched everywhere.

They were in the bin, on top of the coffee grounds.

Nice one, MJ.

You can probably guess that in my sneezing foggy haze,

with genuine surprise thrown into the mix,

I'd accidentally thrown out the proverbial baby with the bath water.

Yeah.

I won't combine medication and blogging again...

My life in review

2011-12-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

Being December, most people look back over the past year and reflect. Good? Bad? Bring on the New Year? Be sad to see this one go?

All the magazines use this time of year as the perfect excuse to rehash photos and news stories. Revel once again in the scandals, ogle even more over celebrity transformations.

Last December, I found myself looking back a bit further than just the year, when I found myself scanning my favourite old travel photos.

This week has seen a similar trip down memory lane, courtesy of Facebook. You see, I decided to take a leap and embrace the new timeline format on my profile page. I figured I might as well, if it was going to be forced on us eventually. Plus, it does look rather fetching with the nice large cover photos.

A nifty new feature of the timeline format is that the dates on photos can be changed. This appealed - immensely - to the OCD part of my brain that likes to categorise things into proper chronological sequence. Rather than languishing in a December 2010 album, those travel photos that I'd scanned a year ago are now nicely dispersed along my timeline, neatly prettying up the years from 1999-2003.

Once I'd started, I couldn't stop. I found other old photos that I'd been tagged in over the years, even pics from the mid-2000s (before everyone was on Facebook) that had been added in retrospect. I had to change those dates, too.

Before I knew it, every year from 1999 onwards had been documented on my timeline, along with a few random school photos from the mid-late 80s and early 90s.

Looking at it all, I felt the need to start hiding some of the 'stories' from the timeline. Even though the stories were nothing new, and photos were ones that had always been available in albums for friends to view, it seemed like an overshare and needed culling.

There are the options of adding 'life events' to the timeline, and there are several categories, each broken into further suggestions. I'm sure it's only natural that people will want to add in special times such as graduations, weddings, births of kids... and that's where I draw the line for myself. Facebook has categories such as: New Roommate, New Vehicle, New Eating Habit, Broken Bone, Quit a Habit, Tattoos, Piercings, First Kiss... you get the picture.

Why not just add farts and nose picking to the timeline? Surely everyone wants to know that too?

Maybe it's just me. While I love looking at other friends' photos (I do!) I have very little interest in so many of the potential life events that some other people will no doubt be including on their timeline. I just don't care, and in that same vein, I don't imagine that my friends will be looking at my timeline and annoyed with me for not documenting my various body piercings and drunken antics.

Now that I have my timeline updated and looking pretty, something strange has seeped into the nostalgia factor. It's more than nostalgic. Seeing one's life spread out into neatly compartmentalised categories for others to view, it almost feels like preparation for an obituary. Born in -, graduated in -, married in -, X number of children, worked at -, travelled to -.

Packaged up, ready to go... how convenient.

I'm going to keep the photos on the timeline - because now that I've been thinking about it, the morbid part of my brain thinks what if? If something suddenly happened to me, and I was no longer around, my blog and my Facebook account would probably be the most easily accessible part of me that my daughters may want to access one day. It may be the best way for them to get a sense of my life when I was younger.

Hopefully, it won't come to that. We just never know, though.

Pinned and jarred

2011-12-19T12:02:00.000-08:00

If you've found your way here, thinking this is some kind of crafty DIY blog, then you're fresh out of luck. That's not me.

The chair that I rescued in October, with every intention of transforming, is still sitting out on our back patio. Don't worry - it's getting sat on to enjoy the odd cuppa (or, ahem, glass of wine) in the sun, so not all is lost. In my defence, I just haven't found a fabric that I like enough to recover it with.

Anyhow, with Christmas coming, I needed to be able to give the Faery's teachers something cute - on a budget - and not completely impractical. I hit up Pinterest for ideas, and settled on the idea of dry cookie ingredients in a jar, made pretty.

I'm happy with the results, so decided to share here... otherwise the only people to witness my rare burst of craftiness would J, the Faery, and her two teachers.

I'm hoping the label implies 'Christmas Cookie' in Korean - just to personalise it a little, as her teachers speak fluent Korean, even her regular Kindergarten teacher. I couldn't write the pluralised form of cookie because I have no idea how - I'm still at the Korean alphabet, and consonant/vowel blend stage. As it turns out, a lot of English words have been incorporated into Korean vocabulary - Christmas and cookie being two such examples. The label literally says 'Keu-ree-seu-mah-seu Koo-kee'. Well... like I said, I hope. Otherwise this could be awkward.

Not bad, huh? Kudos to Pinterest, or these teachers would probably be getting Starbucks gift cards (which is apparently quite the norm here). Now if I could just think of a way to use the other ten quart-sized Mason jars from the dozen that I had to buy...

Tchotche

2011-12-16T16:37:00.000-08:00

I've had a million thoughts swirling around in my head, all seeking some kind of release this week, yet somehow I'm incapable of stringing much together in a coherent manner. It may be connected to the fact that my head is as foggy as can be, and my sinuses in need of serious suction. You needed to know that, right?

So, instead of subjecting anyone to ramblings which probably wouldn't make sense, a few photos from the week will have to do.

Don't you love the shiner, egg, whatever you call such injuries? And if you're not already impressed, I'd like to mention that this is the second one - in the exact same spot, but difference causes - in as many weeks.

As 2011 nears to an end, I hope it's not too late to nominate myself for Mother of the Year - because clearly, I deserve it.

This is a house in our 'hood. Crazy-arsed shit, am I right? To properly capture the crazy, I would have needed a wide lens. I'm not even joking - we lost count of how many inflatable Santas there were, in every conceivable scenario. The only sound we could hear was the hissing and whirring of machines to keep these babies inflated. I'm guessing this collection is several decades' worth.

Today, in my quest to find (fruit) mince pies for the festivities - how unAmerican - I encountered this cute little tchotche, and she now has a home on our tree. I also bought a sister for her, so the Faery and Miss Pie can claim one each. I couldn't resist, as my love of Japanese-related items knows no boundaries.

Also? I've been desperate to use the word tchotche since I first encountered it over at Best of Fates (Megan, this should be a proud moment for you, although I'm pretty sure you would have had no idea). If only I knew how to pronounce it...

Owl love

2011-12-12T13:17:00.000-08:00

Although we got our tree last week, we only had a few things to put on it (bought post-Christmas last year). We are starting from scratch - not that we have a whole bunch of ornaments sitting in storage in Australia. Nothing of sentimental value, anyway.

Yesterday I made it my mission to buy a few more things for the tree. Mostly generic - but pretty and colourful - garlands and beads. No point hanging up delicate glass baubles with a toddler like Miss Pie around.

I don't know whether the current trend for cute owls in decor is a North American thing, or happening elsewhere... but it's rubbed off on me and I have a bit of a thing for owls. I couldn't resist this one when I saw it. Maybe this little critter will be the first in a line of more sentimental tree decorations to come.

We had fun re-doing the tree, and Miss Pie wanted a photo taken too - while laying on me, naturally. She does a pretty mean owl a hootin' impersonation. Maybe one of these days, I'll actually see a real live owl in LA...

Love thy neighbour?

2011-12-11T14:39:00.001-08:00

Much easier said than done.

After the Armenian gangster (and his family) moved out earlier this year, we had a blissful almost-six months without anyone living above us. For anyone who's ever lived in an apartment with people above, you'll appreciate how great this was. No stomping around, no loud television or music blaring at 2am, no midnight vacuuming, no drunken yelling, no doors slamming.

Our bedroom is directly beneath the living area of the apartment upstairs, so if the neighbours are being less than considerate, we know all about it.

I also understand that noise travels, and there are times when it's hard not to make noise. I'm pretty sure that when I was in my early twenties, I may not have been the most selfless of neighbours... so I'm not against the odd night of loud music.

When our new neighbours moved in, we peeked out our windows and tried to guess whether they'd be trouble or not. We - or rather I - decided that they appeared to be a young professional couple, so Party Central during the week was unlikely. Phew.

Less than a week after they moved in, there was loud hammering above the Faery's and Miss Pie's room. Loud, repeated hammering - like the sound of furniture being assembled. It was 11pm, and a Tuesday night.

Seriously?

Given that our apartment complex has a clause in our lease about not using the dishwasher or washing machine etc after 10pm - out of courtesy to other neighbours - I thought that hammering furniture together could fall under the same category for noise pollution.

I decided a friendly introduction and chat might help, so I went and rang their doorbell.

And waited.

And waited.

I rang again, and waited.

And waited.

I took a step back, to see through the window above their door - there is a staircase which leads straight up to their living area.

What did I see?

The back of the guy, creeping away from the door and up the stairs to the living area.

Oh no, he didn't!

He'd come down, peered out the peep hole, and decided not to deal with me. Clearly, he had no idea that I could see all the way up their stairs.

Anyhow, the hammering miraculously stopped, and that was that. Whatever. I was happy to avoid any confrontation, and he must have realised he was making too much noise.

About a month later, on a weeknight (I'm less likely to complain about noise on a weekend - I was young once, believe it or not), they had their television up way too loud - it sounded like it was maximum volume, and some kind of console game was being played. Again, it was about 11pm, and preventing J and I from sleeping.

I figured they probably just didn't realise how loud it was - it happens - and threw on some decent clothing so I could have a friendly chat.

I rang their doorbell, and waited.

And waited.

Took a step back, peered up through the little window, and saw a sheet-wrapped figure tip-toeing up the stairs, then their lights went out.

Okay... it's going to be like that, is it?

But the noise stopped. Result.

As much as I hate confrontation, something about this bothered me. It's not like we're never going to run into one another - why not keep things pleasant enough? Instead of ignoring me, why don't they just own the fact that they were being a bit too noisy, acknowledge it, say sorry, and move on?

Overall, the noise they make hasn't been too bad. Often, we'll go for weeks without hearing any sign of life up there. Then there are other nights - usually weeknights - where they'll be loud, but it usually stops by 11.30, so we haven't bothered saying anything.

Then last night (actually, this morning) - after being up several times already, tending to sick kids - I couldn't get back to sleep. Their effing television was up loud, and it was 1.30am. I really didn't want to go through the whole charade with their doorbell. It's winter now, and bloody cold outside at that time. Eventually, I gave in because I wanted sleep, dammit.

I went outside, rang the doorbell, and waited.

I took a step back, and saw their lights on... but couldn't be bothered hanging around to watch the back of somebody skulking guiltily away from their door, so I went back inside.

And it was quiet. Result.

I think it's safe to say we have a system in place now, yes? They make noise late at night. I ring their doorbell. No words are exchanged. Noise stops. Result.

I just wish the whole thing didn't make me feel icky.

Barefoot Tales Revisited

2011-12-07T12:18:00.001-08:00

A year ago, I wrote about feet - my feet, how big they are, and how I love going barefoot (those are my bare toes in the above header). I whinged about my lack of options when it comes to attractive shoes in my size, but since then, I've found a few decent online sites which have a fabulous range of shoes for Amazonians like myself. If any readers have similar issues, my favourite site so far is Barefoot Tess. For the first time in my life, the act of browsing shoes is fun. There are whispered possibilities, and I don't end the search in tears of frustration or anger.

I also wrote about Miss Pie's feet, and my struggle to keep socks or shoes on her eleven-month old feet. She was at that age where she just wanted to pull them off, constantly, and it seemed as though every single person I encountered insisted I hear their advice on how to keep her socks on - tying a string around her ankles was one such gem. I still see that woman in our local supermarket, several times a week, and time has confirmed that she is a total nut job.

These days, Miss Pie is less obsessed with pulling her shoes and socks off. She will, but it's usually only when she's been in her stroller for too long and is bored. She's now twenty-three months old, and capable of using those little hands for far more destructive purposes. Socks? Too obvious. Pulling everything off the shelves along supermarket aisles is much more fun.

Miss Pie also happens to be obsessed with her gumboots. Given the choice, she'd wear them no matter what the weather is doing. Being wise enough to know which battles to pick, I just let her wear 'em... and now we're on the receiving end of comments from strangers who think they're super witty and original: "It's pretty sunny today - don't think there's much chance of rain, HAHAHA!"

She is über cute in her gumboots, though. And yes, being LA, there are rarely any puddles to be found, but she does her best. Mostly, she just encounters wet patches of concrete from hoses or sprinklers, but in her eyes, they are just as good. She squeals and jumps on these wet patches, expecting a big satisfying splash. To her credit, she's never disappointed when the splash fails to materialise. "OOK! PUDDOO!" An optimist. I love that.

As for the barefoot weather we were having last December, I'm not sure what's happened. 30ºC this time last year? So hard to believe, but I'm clinging to hope that it might happen soon. It's sunny, yes, but cold. Last week brought icy Santa Ana winds which destroyed or uprooted many large trees in our area. These winds apparently registered at Category 1 hurricane speed, so the damage wasn't surprising. We're lucky it wasn't worse.

A year ago, not only did I write about feet, but I posted some pictures too. One, taken when the Faery was only three, and the other of Miss Pie's chubby almost-ready-to-walk foot. Bare and in the sun, taken the same week as the post. Her feet are growing at an alarming rate, and so much bigger now - is she destined to inherit my large feet? Poor thing.

It seems only fitting to wrap this up with a photo I took earlier this week of Miss Pie and I, in the leaf-strewn local park. I think you can tell who is who, but I will add that I'm wearing a new pair of boots, and they make me feel pretty damned groovy.

Nothing barefoot about this.

Linking this with Mama Kat's Writing Prompts - Blast from the Past.

Click here for link

Merry Tree-ness

2011-12-06T13:56:00.001-08:00

Last year, we didn't really go all out for Christmas. Lots of reasons - like a crawling baby - meant that we decided to skip having a tree altogether. This year, that crawling baby is now a very curious toddler, but one that understands what she's not supposed to be trashing. Sometimes.

A couple of days ago, we got ourselves a Christmas tree, and our apartment now smells like piece of heaven, via Oregon. I love it, because we have such happy memories of our visit there last year.

The hippy in me is very pleased with our almost-six-feet-tall purchase, and I'd forgotten how lovely it is to have a real tree - in this case, a beautiful Douglas Fir. So American, yes?

We don't actually have many decorations on it at the moment (a hangover from last year's Big Move), and I need to buy more. It doesn't bother me, though. I'm not a fan of over-the-top Christmas style - I like to be able to see the actual foliage.

Until I get around to buying some more decorations, this is how the tree looks. Not bad (although there is a concentration of red baubles in one area, at Faery-height). The little girls nearby ain't bad to look at, either...

Mixing politics

2011-12-05T14:20:00.001-08:00

I'm beginning to realise it's not worth mixing Facebook and politics. It's simply too disheartening when someone comments in a way that goes against every grain of my beliefs. I'm all for healthy debate, but when I lose respect for someone in the process, I can't help but wonder if it's worth it.

Yesterday, I saw an excellent visual representation about the situation faced by asylum seekers in Australia, compared to those in various other western countries. It is shameful, and a cause very close to my heart.

[Graph source]

Too many Australians whinge about the asylum seeking boat people - that they have it 'easy', that they get too much financial assistance from the government. This graph really puts the situation into perspective.

I don't know about you, but to me, there is nothing 'easy' about this. First of all, for a person to seek asylum means they've been having a pretty damned horrendous time of it in their own country, and not in a crap-the-bank-wants-more-money-from-me-and-I'm-sick-of-this-awful-weather sense. No, there is usually a fear for survival at stake, whether it's political, religious or economical.

Secondly, the journey made by these asylum seekers, by boat, is downright dangerous. To choose to be on a cramped, tiny boat that's travelling the massive distance from Indonesia to Australia, at the mercy of the open elements and giant ocean waves; not to mention the unsanitary conditions on board as a result of unscrupulous mercenaries who've organised the trip and try to fit as many people on to one tiny vessel as possible... well, if a person is prepared to undertake such a journey, to me that speaks volumes about the nightmarish existence they're desperate to escape.

Thirdly, for those who survive the journey, they are not treated with dignity. They are herded into detention centres, for a ridiculous period of time. Interrogated. Not given the useful tools needed to adapt to a new life in a new country... and then people wonder why there are social problems down the track in some of the areas that the asylum seekers settle in.

I can't speak personally for the asylum seekers in Australia, but one of the first teaching gigs I had in London was at an adult community college, working with refugees. I had students from Somalia, Iraq, Jordan, Bosnia, and Kosovo. I heard some of their horror stories first hand, and will never forget.

I will never forget the young Kosovan mother, pale, trembling, tears spilling, her vocabulary unable to fully articulate her nightmares, but her face saying it all. Being trapped in a room, all the young men around her, shot dead in her presence, as she held her smallest children. Stepping over the bodies. Seeing their destroyed heads in her dreams. Haunted. Telling me she has post-traumatic stress disorder, yet no referrals for professional counselling.

When I hear people imply that asylum seekers are somehow not 'genuine', and are faking it, I see red. To hurl such accusations makes a mockery of countless people who have seen hell. Why would anyone leave their home country with little more than the clothes on their back? Make such a dangerous trip on a boat? Knowingly endure less-than-welcoming detention centres? Indefinitely?

I don't understand the resentment towards asylum seekers, and it's an increasingly prevalent attitude amongst certain sections of Australian society that makes me feel ashamed and disgusted. I do understand there are financial implications for when a nation accepts a number of asylum seekers, but figures show that far more money is actually spent on chasing down and deporting visitors who have overstayed their visas - usually visitors from Western countries. I'm too lazy to link the figures here today, but I've read 'em.

Why the grudge-holding? Why don't people see how lucky they are to have grown up in a country in peaceful times, with access to good public health and education? Why don't people see that it's the right thing to help out a person in need? Why don't people see that by embracing people from other cultures, we can enrich our own?

I don't have any answers, so when I saw what a friend - someone I've known since school - had commented on my link to the above image on Facebook, crying the clichéd phrase about only 'some asylum seekers being genuine', I saw rage. And disappointment. Being late at night, and in different time zones, I decided to sleep on it rather than reply in anger... so eight hours later, I replied. I was happy that I held off on the angry tones, then he bit back and said even more that I'm unable to erase from my mind. I am disappointed, and racking my brains, wondering what's happened in his life (as far as I know, he's done alright for himself) to make him so unwilling to accept the possibility of asylum seekers not being part of a grander conspiracy.

Whatever happened to empathy? Compassion?

That'll teach me, anyhow. No more politics on Facebook. If any more of my friends or family were to respond in a similar manner, to this topic that I feel deeply about, I don't know that I'd deal with it too well. I'd think I'd rather not know how they felt.

Five Things

2011-11-30T15:15:00.001-08:00

It's time for another list (why not?) and I'll be linking this up with Mama Kat's Writing Prompts.

[Click here for link]

Things you don't know about me:

1. I have an unhealthy obsession with maps - couldn't live without Google Maps, or my Times Concise Atlas of the World. Dork? Me?

2. I used to have both my nose and belly pierced - rebel.

3. The tip of my nose clicks when pressed - freak.

4. I can't burp - one will take me by surprise, maybe once or twice a year, but that's it... FREAK.

5. I've had my DNA analysed by 23 and Me, and my haplogroup traces as far back as 40,000 years to Northern Europe. I thought that was pretty cool to learn - it explains why my eldest resembles a Nordic princess.

Things that I know more than a little about:

1. Public transport in all the cities I've lived in (except LA). This happens when you go for nearly fourteen years without driving. My friends in Sydney call me Public Transport Queen.

2. The English language - I've spent nearly ten years teaching adults to speak and write it.

3. Geography - it never interested me at school, but travel has changed that. I could teach it, seriously.

4. Breastfeeding - I have three years under my belt.

5. Movie trivia - it's a little embarrassing what my brain retains. It's as though IMDb has a permanent portal into my brain.

Things I am clueless about:

1. Computers - luckily, I'm married to a professional geek and technical wiz.

2. Financial stuff - shame, and I need to get a better handle on it.

3. Online shopping - how do people find cool sites to buy cool things?

4. Roasting chooks/turkeys/beef/anything - I leave that to the geek husband.

5. Gardening - my thumb is as black as they get. Pity any plant that falls under my jurisdiction.

Things I believe:

1. Chocolate can and will make just about anything better.

2. Women can be their own worst enemy - so much energy is spent blaming men for all that's wrong in the world, but being a bitch doesn't help the cause of sisterhood one iota.

3. Music and art - without it, we'd all be numb.

4. Karma, but not an eye for an eye - let the universe sort it out instead.

5. Lots of clothes, mini mansions, big cars, a gazillion presents for your kids - none of it truly matters.

I'll show you a place...

2011-11-29T13:07:00.001-08:00

...high on a desert plain

where the streets have no name

Ever since I was a teenager and obsessed with U2's albums from the 1980s, it's been a dream of mine to see the Mojave Desert. The stark black and white photographs which Anton Corbijn shot there for The Joshua Tree are so iconic and wild, I just knew I had to see that landscape for myself one day.

Happily, I can now cross that off my list.

On our way to Las Vegas, we stuck to the highway that ran along the north of the Mojave Desert. If I'd thought that seeing my first Joshua trees dotted along the side was thrilling enough, nothing prepared me for the amazing scenery on our return home.

We wanted to avoid the nightmare end-of-holiday traffic for our return trip, so we cut right through the heart of the Mojave, on a series of tiny roads, and eventually connected up with a different highway on the southern side.

Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a tiny 'ghost town' called Kelso, and went to some nearby sand dunes.

It was incredible. All of it. As soon as we stepped out of the car by the dunes, we were struck by the silence. There wasn't even a wind. I always imagined I might feel sudden panic in the middle of the desert because I've never actually been to a desert before (all our road trips in Australia were coastal, or no more than a few hours inland) but in contrast, everything was very much peaceful.

The music we listened to during part of the drive was the icing on the cake. I'd rummaged through the CD folder, and found U2's Under a Blood Red Sky - a regular soundtrack to our road trips back in Australia.

Travelling through the Mojave with my own family, seeing Joshua trees, wild horizons, and listening to vintage live U2... that day, it felt as though life couldn't get any better.

The Vegas Buzz

2011-11-28T15:02:00.001-08:00

Eerily similar to Venice, yet so different.

The Chandelier at The Cosmopolitan.

One of many impersonators and characters on 'The Strip'.

The fanciest sign, for the most seedy-looking McDonald's.

On 'The Strip'.

Don't look up.

The Bellagio's water and light show.

Minnie Mouse's smoke break.

I've always wanted to see Las Vegas, but nothing prepared me for just how exhilarating this city is. It really is larger than life - big lights, big buildings, big sounds.

Big everything.

I don't gamble, and - obviously - I don't hang out at strip clubs. I saw no reason to try either in Vegas, but two things I do do are cocktails and people-watching.

Truly, I felt as happy as the proverbial pig in mud. Wandering around, observing, clicking... it was all I needed.

We spent two nights there and hired a nanny for the first evening, so we could have a date night. We hadn't organised catching a show, but that was okay. We went with spontaneity and wandered along 'The Strip', eventually winding up at one of the cocktail bars that our hotel's concierge had recommended to us - The Chandelier at The Cosmopolitan. He'd read us well, and as soon as our first drinks were placed in front of us, we knew we'd be having more (quite a few more) and doing plenty of people-watching.

Heaven.

The walk back to the hotel was one of the happiest, most drunken walks I've walked in a long time. I felt like I was 21 all over again.

I'd left the camera behind in our hotel room so I wouldn't do anything silly with it - such as lose it. There was only one thing I saw that evening that I regret not being able to photograph, but I think the snapshot will always stay in my mind.

It was a fleeting moment, as we were walking through one of the casinos. Sitting at two of the slot machines, were a bride and groom - both beautifully dressed. The bride was in her late thirties or early forties, and wearing a creamy vintage two-piece suit, a small matching hat with netting over her face, and a bright slick of red lipstick. The newlyweds looked classy, and about as far-removed from all associations of tacky Vegas that one could have. It was an amazing image that I hope I won't forget for a long time.

The following night, J stayed with the girls and put them to bed while I went for a very long wander - this time with my camera. The amateur nerd in me enjoyed playing with the settings as I had a rare chance to practice night time photography. I don't have a tripod, so was somewhat limited, but I had oodles of fun nonetheless.

Vegas made me feel more awake than anything else. I can easily see why people lose entire weeks there, so next time we have trusted family members visiting us? I hope they won't mind a night or two of babysitting for us, so we can fly out for a weekend - minus the kids. I will beg.

It has to be done.

Lucky

2011-11-23T15:36:00.001-08:00

(Photo source)

I know I've mentioned here and here that us heathen Australians don't 'do' Thanksgiving, but it's a hard thing to get away from when you live in the US - not that we want to avoid it; it just doesn't have the same meaning for us.

At this stage, Thanksgiving means a couple of days off work for J, a week off school for the Faery, and endless amounts of scrumptiously tempting food in the shops.

Not bad, really.

Although Thanksgiving means little to me, there's no reason why I can't use this American holiday to reflect and be grateful for the good things in my life. I had actually typed a list of things I'm grateful for, but then realised I was echoing the sentiments of a poster I saw earlier this year. My list was sounding rather clichéd and unoriginal, so I opted to share the above poster instead.

Additionally:

- I am grateful that - most of the time - I have access to information which allows me to make the best decisions I can (not that I always do, though...)

- I am grateful for the perfect health of my daughters. It's lovely that they're also growing to be kind, clever, and gorgeous... but ultimately, good health is so incredibly important and not to be taken for granted.

- I am grateful that I get to wake up every morning with someone who is also my best friend.

- I am grateful for having seen a decent little chunk of the world already, and knowing I will probably get to see more.

- I am grateful for the friends I have. There are many days that have been made infinitely better by knowing such wonderful people.

A lot to be grateful for. A lot to feel lucky about.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Going Native

2011-11-22T08:26:00.001-08:00

Last weekend, we went out to dinner for J's birthday, along with some of his workmates and their partners. He was feeling carnivorous, and thought it would be hilarious if we ate at the Outback Steakhouse. Neither of us is a fan of chain restaurants - which seem so popular here - and I had my misgivings, but him being the birthday boy, I acquiesced.

I knew that once we were there, I'd be talking far too much to spend any time looking at the menu, so decided to look online and choose ahead of time. The only problem with that plan was that once I began reading it, I couldn't stop laughing.

For further giggles, I shared a link to the menu on Facebook and let the comments fly from friends and family back home. Some of the thoughts offered were:

- Toowoomba Pasta (with seafood)? The town after which this was named happens to be two hours inland from the coast. Hardly a place that's associated with seafood.

- Aussie Cheese Fries? Well, the Monterey Jack cheese which tops the fries is very much American. Still can't figure out the 'Aussie' element of this dish.

- Californian Chicken Salad? Perhaps this is for anyone who's outside their comfort zone when ordering 'foreign' or 'ethnic' food. Especially given the exotic nature of this particular restaurant.

- Tassie's Buffalo Strips? Because Tasmania is known for their buffalo wings - a fact which has escaped my attention all these years.

- Walkabout Soup of the Day? Sounds messy.

- Coconut Shrimp (with Creole marmalade)? Two thoughts here. The first: that nobody in Australia says 'shrimp'; the second: 'Creole'? Yeah, that's authentic Australian right there... via New Orleans.

- Bloomin' Onion? Never heard of this dish, and according to Wikipedia, it was created in the 1970s in - wait for it - New Jersey. The recipe was then acquired by the (American owned) Outback company and rebranded as an 'Aussie' dish. Turns out these are nothing more than glorified onion rings... but without the ring shape.

- Alice Springs Chicken Quesadillas? We all know quesadillas are actually Australian, and not Mexican. The sooner people acknowledge this truth, the better. Yo.

- New Zealand Rack of Lamb? Because New Zealand is part of the Australian outback. Didn't you know that?

- Chocolate Thunder from Down Under? Okay, I give them credit here for that dish's name. It sounds delicious, and is something I planned to order... but by that point, I was full after imbibing one too many sangria margaritas.

- The number of times that barbie was used in reference to barbecued food? Too many. I also hate to shatter illusions here, but nobody I know in Australia says 'barbie' unless they're talking about Mattel's plastic doll. We are a lazy bunch with language, and shorten many words, but we somehow manage to get out the three syllables required for 'barbecue'. Bar-be-cue. See? Easy.

I rang up to reserve a table for fifteen, and was laughing even harder by the time I got off the phone. There was an initial recording that I had to sit through, voiced by - I'm guessing - an out of work Australian actor, instructed to do his best Paul Hogan impersonation. When the recording was over, I was greeted by an American girl: "Gidday!..." The snob in me cringed.

* * *

The food itself was okay. Nothing amazing, but it wasn't bad. J was more than happy with his steak, so if the birthday boy enjoyed himself, then the objective was achieved, right?

After dinner, a handful of us continued on to a bar called The Bigfoot Lodge. Instead of American-dressed-up-as-Australian-themed, we got North American camping-themed. Much more of a novelty for me, then. The crowd of hipsters did their best to make me feel old, but I went ahead and had another cocktail - complete with toasted marshmallow on a stick. My sophistication astounds me at times.

Eventually, the cocktails caught up with me, and - in need of fresh air and water - I found myself standing outside the doors of a nearby petrol station. The large store was completely lit up, and an attendant was inside... but he'd locked the doors and refused to let me in. I had to go over to his window and the charade for a bottle of water was on. I had to pass the money through one of those security drawers, and felt ridiculous. He served me most grudgingly, and I'm not sure why he even bothered. Dude, you don't feel safe in there? I'm standing out here, freezing my tits off, purse open, with over $100 cash on me for the babysitter.

My lesson for the night? I can't down cocktails the way I used to. My limit is lower, and the recovery time far longer - let's just say I'm grateful for a husband who makes good bacon and egg sandwiches the morning after.

Changes

2011-11-21T12:53:00.001-08:00

What do you think?

For a while, I've been wanting to shake things up a bit with the way this blog looks - make it simpler, less fussy. I may tinker a little more (it's fun) but I'm happy with it for now.

This week seemed the perfect time to jump in and do it, because November 26 will mark a year since I started the blog. I won't be around to post or do a grand reveal on the day, as we'll be in Las Vegas (Vegas, baby... Vegas!) for a quick getaway, so I'm going to go right ahead and pat myself on the back now for sticking at this for a year.

(Photo source)

Wrong turns

2011-11-17T12:09:00.001-08:00

There was this one time when I was in the Netherlands with a good friend, and we thought it would be fun to hire bicycles to get around one afternoon. We'd heard numerous stories about how the flatness of its countryside made it an ideal place for cycling.

We'd been backpacking, and found ourselves in a town called Arnhem, not far from the German border. We caught a bus from the train station to the local youth hostel and after dumping our bags, immediately rented a bike each.

They had no helmets for hire, so I should have realised right then that our mission was somewhat doomed. Having grown up with strict laws regarding helmets and bicycles, I was more than nervous. Courtesy of childhood 1980s campaigns, images of smashed eggs - representing the human skull - flashed before my eyes.

Trying to shake off my paranoia, we set off. The hostel was at the top of a large hill, and we had to ride down a long, steep road to reach the town. Until then, my experience of cars driving on the right hand side was limited to the perspective of a pedestrian. Riding a bike on the 'wrong' side of the road, no helmet, down a very steep hill... let's just say I rode very slowly.

Did I mention I was 23, and hadn't ridden since my mid-teens? I felt deeply embarrassed when an elderly man whizzed past and overtook me down that hill.

We survived our ride, and rewarded ourselves with tasty Dutch treats in the town. After checking out the local shops, and stocking up on food at a small supermarket, we thought we should head back to the hostel, so hopped on our bikes.

Somehow... we got lost. Despite having excellent map skills, we couldn't find our way (from memory, I think the hostel was far enough away from town that it was just off the map). We'd retraced our steps, but taken a wrong turn somewhere.

Followed by another wrong turn.

And another.

We found ourselves cycling on beautiful country roads, but very much lost. Oh, and we'd somehow chosen the one Dutch region that isn't flat, but filled with hills and forest. Clever, right?

Eventually, we saw another elderly man, so we stopped to ask directions. Of course, we'd picked the one Dutch person who didn't speak fluent English. He didn't speak any English, and had a slightly crazy glint in his eyes. We hurried on.

A bit further along, we saw a younger person, and stopped again to ask. It turned out we were only five minutes away from the hostel, and I cannot describe our relief.

The return journey on our bikes - from the town to the hostel - had taken three hours. Three hours of being lost and riding up and down hills, in what felt like the middle of nowhere.

Being so out of practice with cycling, I was in a world of pain for the next few days.

1999 - Somewhere outside Arnhem, and trying not to panic.

The reason why I've been thinking about this 'adventure' is because of all the cyclists I see around LA - with no helmets. It's something I don't understand... especially when I see how crazy some of the motorists are. Who wouldn't want to protect their skulls?

I recently saw a car knock a young man off his bike, throwing him onto the road. It happened right in front of us one day when I walking the Faery home from school. It was awful to witness, but he was lucky to pick himself up with barely a scratch. Of course, he'd been riding with earphones in, and straight in front of a car that was turning right from a side street. It could have been so easily avoided.

I'm guessing that Australia is one of the few countries to have such strict laws regarding helmets, but it's something I agree with and think people are better off erring on the side of caution - especially where children are concerned. Brain damage is tragic.

It's one thing for adults to decide what risks they take, but I can't help feeling angry when I see children riding around the streets without helmets. How can parents be okay with that?

This, in a state which makes it illegal to smoke anywhere in public: "Your children are safe from passive smoking in public places, but their skulls? Meh, not so important...."

Gags

2011-11-16T11:34:00.001-08:00

"Gag! Gag! Gag!"

This is something I hear every time we go out in the car. Miss Pie is at that gorgeous age where her words are finally coming together, albeit not always sounding the way they should. Yesterday, I heard her first three-word sentence when her apple was all eaten: "Eat. More. Apple!" A proud mumma moment for me - compared to the Faery, Miss Pie's speech seemed to be coming along so much more slowly. In hindsight, her big sister was somewhat of a freak when to came to speech development (eighty words by fourteen months, I kid you not).

So much of what Mis Pie says can have several meanings, depending on the context. If she sees something round anywhere - even better if there are numbers on it - then she'll exclaim, "TWO! TWO! TWO!" Meaning? Clock. So I'll reply, "Yes, a clock" or "Yes, it looks like a clock", then she'll say "I-O-I-O-I-O". Tick tock tick tock tick tock.

When it comes to animals, she delights in making the sounds that they make. Don't all toddlers? But her latest one is baffling me. "Hort! Hort! Hort!" That part is easy enough: horse. Then the sound follows, "Haba haba haba", in a sing song voice, intonation going down. Almost like a little Arabic nursery rhyme's chorus.

I'd love to meet a horse that sounds like that, but I'm yet to encounter one.

Anyhow, back to "Gag!" Initially, I thought she was talking about bags, because that's also her word for bag. But, you know, there aren't really a lot of bags to be pointed at out of car windows, are there?

Something that is plentiful, though, are flags. The good old stars and stripes. Maybe it's just our area in LA, but we'd be hard pressed to go more than two blocks without seeing the US flag. Some blocks will have many US flags on show.

Compared to Australians, Americans love their flag.

There may be eucalyptus trees in abundance here, but there's no forgetting what country I'm in.

When Faeries and Pies attack

2011-11-15T12:19:00.001-08:00

Beware the sleeping daddies...

Having two little girls is every bit as sweet as I'd imagined it would be.

A thousand feelings

2011-11-13T13:32:00.001-08:00

When it comes to the old adage a picture is worth a thousand words I often wonder what the number is for feelings that an image can elicit.

The spare time I've had these last few days have been spent organising a stack of photos I finally had printed back in May, into newly-purchased photo albums. Because I can be pedantic about dates and correct sequences, I had to check every single one of these photos with the information on iPhotos.

Somehow - between May and now - this large stack of photos had been rifled through and mixed up. Badly. Did I mention that some of these photos date as far back as early 2008? That's a shite load of photos to be sorting, and each day ended with a headache.

That's at least three and a half years of photos.

Three and a half years of my life, captured, in images.

The oldest photos in the stack were, in some ways, the hardest to look at. That year was all kinds of fucked up for us.

We moved house. A close family member attempted suicide, and of course there was fall out from that. We also had to urgently find day care for the Faery (in an area with long waiting lists), while trying not to miss out on badly needed days of work. Our computer died. Then, J was made redundant (without a payout). I had to switch to working full time while he looked for a job, knowing that my salary would never be able to cover all we needed.

All kinds of fucked up.

Looking through the photos from that period, I had strong physical reactions. Seeing the faded hallway carpet patterns, I could smell the rising damp and mouldy ceilings of our first winter - in what turned out to be a hideously drafty house that we'd moved into.

Seeing the golden sunset glow on the bricks of the back of the house, and the large frangipani tree in the back corner of the yard, I can taste the wine we sipped at once we'd put the Faery to bed. An end of working-week treat.

Seeing the front door open, I'm reminded of the strong winds that barrelled through it and also down the side passage of the house - winds that came up one side of the hill that this house was perched on, bitter in winter but blowing my washing dry in no time.

Seeing photos of the Faery playing on the painted kitchen floorboards, I felt the urge to scrape the white flecks of paint that stuck to the soles of my feet in those first few weeks there - a result of the landlord's cheap DIY before we moved in.

Seeing the light green kitchen walls, I can smell the cooking I did. I also feel the walls' stickiness - from lack of adequate ventilation (no extraction fan above the stove). I can also taste the distinct worry that comes with not having enough money. Not knowing when things would improve. A tight feeling in the pit of my stomach. All. The. Time.

This period was only three years ago, and I can feel it so clearly... but it also feels further back in time. We got through it, and so much else has happened - starting with another move, then another baby, a fantastic job for J (after several false starts with some shitty companies), and that job being the reason for our biggest move of all.

The photos from the newer chapter have a shiny glow to them in comparison, even though everything was printed at the same time. It's purely my perception.

Moving to a new city, a new country... things tend to have a shine for a while. The shine of newness. Adventure. Plus, the feeling of relief that we aren't in the position we were only a few years ago. We didn't run away, but anyone who knows us well understands that we needed a fresh start, and a chance to maybe even get ahead one day. With the industry that J had been employed in, if we'd stayed in Sydney, I'm pretty sure we'd still be stuck on Struggle Street today.

Things are a little less shiny now, but it's still good. There's hope, and one day we'll return to Sydney - winners, not losers.

This has been my headspace over the last few days. Reflective, and grateful that the stomach-churning anxiety of that time is gone (mostly, because I'll always find something to fret about).

I'll never underestimate the impact a photo can have.

Tinted

2011-11-09T09:16:00.000-08:00

Most days here are still bright and sunny, so I wear my sunglasses regularly when driving.

There's a beautiful street near the Faery's school that I usually park on. It's lined with large sycamores and maples that form leafy archways over the street, and every time I turn into that street, I think Wow, the leaves are finally turning!

Then I park the car, remove my sunglasses, and realise the leaves haven't really turned after all - it's just the tinting on my sunnies. Those trees are in fact just a dry shade of green.

This is now my second autumn in LA, so I'm well aware that we won't be getting the full 'fall' effect that other parts of the US experience.

Instead, there's a mysterious process at play - green leaves on trees, brown leaves on the ground beneath. It's hard to catch the transition, and the leaves seem to drop without turning magnificent shades first.

A walk around my neighbourhood yesterday revealed the odd glimpse of leaves changing, but if you weren't looking for it, you wouldn't be aware that the seasons were changing. For the most part, it's sunny business as usual in LA.

Linking up with Mama Kat's Losin' It.

Use as directed

2011-11-08T11:58:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of a rewards-type card, every three months I receive a batch of coupons to use at my local supermarket.

In case you can't see the picture clearly, this coupon is for Stayfree products. In other words - pads.

I'm so glad they reminded me to use as directed. When I think of all the ways I could possibly misuse this product, I can only feel grateful for this sage recommendation.

Mission Possible

2011-11-07T12:19:00.000-08:00

I am now the proud owner of a Californian drivers licence.

Confidence restored, I can return to feeling superior to so many of the idiot drivers in my area who consistently cut me off, don't indicate, don't let me change into their lane, text while they drive, and plough through pedestrian crossings - regardless of people actually crossing. These are incidents that I see on a daily basis (no exaggeration) and I never drive like that, which is why I was so disappointed not to pass the first time.

Anyhow, all good now! I feel lighter, the sun is shining, and I have a hidden stash of the Faery's Halloween chocolates to reward myself with. Even better, I'm going to sleep like the proverbial baby tonight - the stress dreams can fuck right off now. This little glitch is officially behind me.

In other news, we're off to Vegas, baby.

Now when people ask what our plans are for Thanksgiving, I can actually contribute something to the conversation other than it not being culturally relevant for us so, no, I haven't made a gourmet meal plan for the day.

We realised yesterday that it would be the perfect time to go away for a few days, seeing as J will have time off work anyway. Neither of us have been to Las Vegas before, and have been super keen to see the bright lights for a long time. We'll have the girls with us, so it won't be the wild trip it may have been if we'd gone in our twenties, but it's going to be fun nonetheless.

Road tripping through the desert has also been on our list of things to do, and the Mojave Desert is on the way, so I'm excited. If J's lucky, I may even drive for a little stretch of the way.

The hotel has been booked (on 'The Strip'!) and we'll be setting off the day after Thanksgiving - the best excuse ever for not having to slave away in the kitchen.

(Not that I would have slaved away. I've never really mastered roasts - that's J's domain.)

So, Sin City - here we come. If any readers have any tips or recommendations, don't be shy! Leave a comment for me, and I will love you for it.

Puddles

2011-11-04T17:17:00.000-07:00

Today, we had only our third rainfall (that I can think of) in a month, and before that, it hadn't rained since spring.

I suppose when you're twenty-two months old, and haven't seen much rain in a long time, it's a rather intriguing affair. When it was time to do the afternoon school run, the rain began coming down quite heavily, so I covered up Miss Pie and let her stomp around out the front while I got ready.

When I returned a few moments later, I expected her to be stomping like crazy but found her standing still, completely entranced by the falling drops and the sound of echoing drips from the nearby gutters. She was utterly still, and looked completely at peace.

Then she came to her senses, and realised exactly what her boots were intended for. Tranquility gone, just like that. A splashing frenzy ensued.

Although the rain had stopped by the time we got to the Faery's school, she managed to get her legs and arms completely soaked from all the puddle-stomping and hand-splashing. She had a ball.

Most of the adults standing around waiting watched her in envy. Some even expressed a wish to jump in the puddles too.

It's the simple things, right? Jumping puddles and splashing - well, who really grows out of that?

Win/Lose

2011-11-03T15:44:00.000-07:00

I can't decide if today has been a string of successes or failures so far.

After a jittery night of broken sleep, I revisited my favourite place, the DMV. Driving test time. Well, it would have been if their computers hadn't crashed. I was given the option of waiting it out indefinitely, or rescheduling the test.

I ummed and ahhed, and chose procrastination - after all, there was a toddler who needed to be kept entertained, a husband who needed to get to work at some stage in the next hour or so, plus several other errands to be sorted out.

(Last week, it was the DMV's fingerprint scanning device that caused delays. Here's a thought - seeing as the Californian DMV is essentially broke, why not charge more than $6 per driving licence? That's a mere fraction of what many other states/countries charge, but their facilities possess somewhat more sophisticated technology than the ones here which issue pencil-on-paper tests. I almost feel embarrassed for the DMV. Almost...)

So, driving test successfully delayed - and more crazy stress dreams scheduled - the next mission was to get some updated passport photos for part of our visa renewal process.

The last time I needed passport photos of Miss Pie, she was three weeks old. I thought that had been challenging at the time, because every time I took her to the shop for the photos, she fell asleep (and all passport pics require eyes to be open and looking ahead). In hindsight, that was an easy problem to deal with.

Try getting a twenty-two month old to sit still for more than two seconds, and look directly at the camera. A camera held by a total stranger.

Let's just say it's a good thing the resulting photo won't be used for her Australian passport photo (hey, nothing wrong with her 3-week-old photo, even if it bears no resemblance to her now)... because it's the face of a toddler in meltdown mode. Quite hilarious, actually. Whoever processes her visa application at the US Consulate will probably wet their pants when they see it. I'm also hoping they're more lenient with photos used for toddlers, because it's questionable as to whether this one actually meets the strict criteria.

Once that drama was over, I found myself shopping for jeans - bored toddler in tow. Masochistic? Yes, but I want to order some boots online for my massive feet, and will need some skinny leg jeans to go with said boots. I always swore I'd never get skinny leg jeans, but the look of them worn with boots has been growing on me for some time.

Shopping for skinny leg jeans, and did I mention it's that time of the month? A wonderfully bloated time to shop for tight jeans, but I persevered and acquired a pair. However, they probably won't be seeing light of day until I have my new boots too. There's the minor issue of cankles, but the boots will hide them nicely. That's the plan, anyway.

Once we got home and I finally wrangled Miss Pie for a nap, helped the Faery with her homework, and completed various boring domestic chores, it was 3 o'clock. It had been a whole fifteen hours since my last Halloween chocolate - win! So I rewarded myself and raided my daughter's stash - lose.

At least my taste buds are happy now.

FAQ

2011-11-02T13:24:00.000-07:00

I've been having such fun with the writing prompts from MamaKatsLosinIt that I decided to do another round. This is a list of FAQs and I swear - I did not invent a single question. Some of them are surprisingly frequent.

(Click here for link)

So, your accent. Swedish? South African? Russian? Scottish?
Nope. Cold, cold, cold, cold.

From across the pond or down under?
Ah. You're getting warmer...

Australian?
Bingo.

What line of work are you in?
I spent the better part of the last decade teaching English as a language to foreign students, refugees and immigrants. Prior to that, I've been a bar maid, worked in retail (mostly chocolates - lucky me, huh?), and even a volunteer phone counsellor. Not sure what's next, but I'm open to cool job offers.

Can you really see kangaroos hopping down the street in lots of places? I bet a lot of people have asked you that.
Quite a few people have asked. And no, it's not like you see them hopping through the city or suburban streets. It's something only really seen in the less urban areas, but I have seen them in people's front yards - in small towns - on a few occasions.

What brings you to L.A. then?
My husband accepted a job here. It's a good job and we were keen to experience living in yet another city/country for a while. You only live once.

What do you normally do for Thanksgiving in Australia?
Well, considering it's a holiday that celebrates an important time in North American history... nothing. It's a normal day. We're happy to go along with the excuse for a good feast while we're living in the US, though!

Would you like your latte hot or cold?
People drink them cold? Ugh, no thanks. Hot, please.

Do you want whipped cream on top?
Oh, you think I need more dairy in my latte? I'll pass, thanks.

Can I have your social security number?
Despite what your store manager may have told you, I'm not legally required to give that information to anyone other than government services. So, no - you can't.

I've only just realised that you're quite tall, aren't you? Just how tall are you?
A little over 6"... or 183cm to the rest of the world.

How old are your daughters?
My eldest recently turned five, and the little one will be two in January.

Can she breathe under that thing?
You really have to ask? Okay, I shouldn't get snarky. It is Southern California after all, and you genuinely may have never seen a rain cover on a stroller before.

What are your pet hates?
The biggest one is chewing gum. So glad that these days, I don't have to sit next to people chewing it loudly on buses and trains. Likewise, I'm glad I spend less time in close proximity to women who drown themselves in perfume. Why do they do that? It makes me nauseous. A third one is balloons drifting around in my apartment. Kids can be so annoying that way.

Favourite colour?
These days, I'm gravitating back to turquoise and teal. Purple is so nineties.

Where do you badly want to visit, that you haven't been before?
I can now scratch San Francisco off my list, so New York is number one... followed by Japan. While we're in the US, there are loads of other places I'd love to see: Las Vegas, New Orleans, Utah, Montana, Arizona...

What's for dinner?
If you ask one more time, I'm going to stab my eyeball with something blunt.

Are we nearly there?
If you ask one more time, I'm going to stab my eyeball with something even blunter.

Can I stay up a bit later?
No. Mum needs her 'me' time.

EAT! APPOOL? APPOOOOOOOL?
Sure kiddo. Here's your third apple for the day...

NOOO????!!!
Um, I'm confused. Again.

Have you seen my glasses?
Wherever you left them last...

You coming to bed soon?
Depends...

Candy sucker

2011-11-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

Growing up and watching Halloween episodes of TV shows as a kid, I always associated it with cold weather and colourful foliage. By the time I lived somewhere that actually celebrated it (the UK), those associations seemed true enough.

Last year was our first proper American Halloween. A few cool October mornings, and I got carried away - carving some pumpkins a week early. Then a few 30ºC days taught me the error of my ways. When pumpkins begin sprouting white fuzzy mould, dark spots multiply, and gunk oozes from underneath... they can be a disgusting thing to pick up for disposal. This year, I held off on carving until the day before.

The Faery was lucky that she had a school-free day, so we went to a park in Burbank for a play date with some of her classmates. A dozen five-year-olds in assorted Halloween costumes? It was cuteness overload.

Meet my swingin' cowgirl.

The park play date was followed by lunch at J's work. His workplace puts on a massive Halloween family lunch every year - complete with ghoulishly-themed food, carved pumpkin competitions, costume parade and prizes (with employees dressed to a level like I've never seen before), treasure hunts, and trick or treating for the littles. A fun way to spend a couple of hours.

...and meet my lil' cupcake.

Then it was home for an epic afternoon nap for the cupcake, and chill out time for the cowgirl, before continuing with some evening trick or treating.

Ah yes, the trick or treating. We now have an insane amount of sugary crap (of which I can't stop eating). I've told the Faery she'll probably have a week before the Sugar Sprite Fairy visits to replace her loot with a toy. I figure that should give me enough time to get to a toy store. It also means I can openly eat chocolate in her presence. Once the switch has taken place, I'll have to be more careful. Chocolate stuffing-of-face activities will have to be limited to post kiddy bedtimes. Even then, I need to come up with a better plan, unless I want to be buying my next pair of jeans in a bigger size.

The lure of sugar proved a happy event.

Overload on sugar and cuteness.

In Australia, we never did anything for Halloween. There'd be one random house in the neighbourhood with Halloween decorations, and a handful of kids would come a knocking. Half the time, they were teenagers who hadn't even bothered to dress up - they possessed some weird sense of entitlement to sweet treats because it happened to be October 31st and they'd seen trick or treating on American shows. So, we tended to keep the outside lights off, keep quiet, and pretend we weren't home if we heard the door bell. As do most people we know - at least, in the neighbourhoods we'd lived in.

We're going to have to rethink that approach when we move back to Australia, though. The Faery was devastated when I told her that not many people bother with Halloween in Australia. There was much sobbing, and declarations of love for all things Halloween, until I heard myself promising that we could still 'do' Halloween when we move back.

Yeah, I'm a sucker...

More than awkward

2011-10-29T21:57:00.000-07:00

After yesterday's efforts, I thought I couldn't feel any worse today. Surely not.

One of J's colleagues (I'll call him A) was having a barbecue today, so we made the 40 minute drive to his place. Along the way, we picked up another colleague, who needed a ride. I'll call him V.

* * *

Less than five minutes after getting in the car, V mentions that he's going to do the driving test next week, and asks if I've taken the test yet.

I'm tongue-tied, really not wanting to talk about driving tests. "Um..."

"... She just booked her test yesterday." Thank you, J. That much is true. I did book a test yesterday. No one needs to know it won't be my first time. It's not really lying...

I feel grateful to J for coming to the rescue. The conversation that follows is mostly V noting how he'd heard the test was ridiculously easy, and me forcing cheerful sounding replies.

* * *

About half an hour after arriving at the barbecue, I finally sit down in the lounge room to eat a burger - as happens when chasing a toddler around. J and I usually take shifts eating at these things. Now, it was J's turn to chase.

My eye casts around the room, taking in the Halloween decorations.

I look up and see the host, A. He adopts a sympathetic expression, and says "Sorry to hear you failed the driving test."

If there'd been music playing on a record-player, the needle would have screeched to a resounding halt.

I feel V's eyes on me. "You've already taken the test, then?"

Feeling like I'd just been busted telling a massive lie, all I could manage was a nod. My mouth starts going dry, and the burger I'm eating is rendered inedible.

The only people in the room I know - and not that well - are A and V. That doesn't stop the others from chiming in, though.

"You failed the driving test? Seriously?"

"How did you manage that?"

And the final person - I don't remember his name so I'll call him Dick (because, well, he's a dick) wags his fingers in my face. Only inches away, "BAHAHAHAHAHA!!! You failed your driving test? What did you do? It's so easy! You drive every day, don't you? How did you fail? What happened? BAHAHAHA!"

Silence.

I squirm.

I feel five sets of eyes on me, waiting for me to answer. I can't even look at anyone properly. My vision blurs as I try to blink away tears.

I glance around, hoping that J is nearby and will swoop to my rescue with a nicely timed smartarse comment aimed squarely at the maturity level of these guys... but he's outside, toddler-wrangling.

In true cliché, I want the ground to open up and swallow me.

Despite wanting to yell at everyone for being so rude, possessing zero sensitivity chips, and to just shut the fuck up, I stammer out a few words about my nerves just getting the better of me, and attempt to continue eating.

Dick is like a dog, though, and won't let up. He keeps on about it, and I pretend I'm not bothered, but I can feel the lump in my throat getting bigger.

Ultimately, I don't like making scenes. I wait another minute or two - until I think I'm going to explode - then disappear to the bathroom to calm down. Once safely inside, I splash cold water on my face, and observe angry red blotches creeping over my neck and chest. I've never seen blotches like that before; not unless wine was involved.

Eventually I emerge, bi-pass the lounge room, and head outside. I can handle ribbing from close mates and family, but not from people who are practically strangers. Grown men, acting like fourteen-year olds. Rude.

* * *

Ever met someone who rubs you the wrong way, immediately? Well, in addition to laughing his arse off at me, Dick continued to irritate me by 'accidentally' bumping up against me one too many times throughout the afternoon, asking if I'm Swedish (which I'm normally flattered by, but in his case made him look even more stupid - I mean, c'mon, Australian and Swedish accents are nothing alike), and making consistently moronic remarks in general. Dick. He was somewhat inebriated, but I don't care. I was glad to go home and get the hell away from him.

A little bruised

2011-10-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

Finding it hard to smile this morning, so when I saw the lovely comments from new visitors - about my last post - it made me smile. Cheered me up more than anyone could know. So, thank you.

Why so glum this morning? I fucked up my driving test. Yay me.

Everyone has their Achilles' heel, and mine would appear to be tests - no matter what they're for. So many of the exams I had to take in school and university resulted in temporary chunks of memory loss, where words and names danced on the tip of my tongue without fulling revealing themselves, until after the exam was over. I was one of those students whose true capabilities were only clear with ongoing assessment tasks, rather than exams.

Driving tests have kind of been the same. When I was eighteen and did my first driving test, my nerves got the better of me. Going down a hill in a 60 km/h zone, I went slightly over the limit. Oops. My driving teacher knew all the local testers, and when he saw who had tested me, he reassured me that this particular tester was notorious for failing most people on their first test, and that next time, odds were someone different would test me and I'd be fine. I felt a little better, then two weeks later... same tester. Thankfully, I showed him. Pride can be a pretty powerful motivator.

These experiences have been a huge factor in why I kept putting off going for my test here in LA. Having an Australian licence isn't enough, and the Californian DMV makes everybody do the driving test to get a Californian licence, even people who have only moved interstate. Technically, once a person becomes a Californian resident, they are supposed to get their licence within ten days - unless they happen to hold an international diplomatic drivers' licence. Which would be rather convenient, right?

I've been a Californian resident for nineteen months now. Oops. I have my work permit. I have my Social Security number. I even got around to taking the written drivers test back in July, which I actually passed first go.

(When I took my Australian 'knowledge' test, it was on computer. Instead of being referred to as 'the written test', it was referred to as 'the computer test'. Because it was on computer. Duh. Back in 1993. The written test at the Californian DMV I went to? Pencil on paper, with a real live human being to mark it in my presence. It's 2011 now - they might want to have a look at what technology is available these days. Just sayin'.)

So, with our current visas up for renewal in a few months, J pointed out to me the other day that I should take the test soon, before we have a mountain more of paperwork which could hinder the process. I could put it off no more.

And I fucked it up. Not monumentally, but my nerves got the better of me. Surprising, right? Little things here and there, which in general are not an issue. Today, they were.

My ego has taken a bit of a bruising, because I know I'm a better driver than what I was this morning. If I thought I wasn't a decent driver, I would not be getting behind the wheel - most days - with my treasured girls in the back seat.

Hell, I know I'm a better driver than many of the drivers here who seem to frequently ignore that thing called an indicator. I don't cut people off, which also seems to be an accepted practice. Bitter, moi?

But I have no one to blame this morning except myself. I am mad as hell at myself, and embarrassed. I had no intention of even writing about this, but then I realised I always feel better when I've had a verbal or written vomit, which is kind of where blogging comes in handy.

Until today, I was feeling pretty good in general about how far I've come with my driving here. Okay, so I still avoid freeways, but I was a less than confident driver when we moved here, and the thought of driving on the opposite side of the road filled me with terror until reality of life in LA stepped in. I didn't want to be stuck at home all day, every day, and LA is such a sprawl that to get just basic errands done, a car is pretty much a necessity.

That drive-test horse shall be ridden again, soon (I've already made my next appointment). Stay tuned.

For now, I'm going to have a small pity party. Just for today. I shall blame PMS, and I shall pity myself in style.

22

2011-10-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not really one for making lists, unless something major in my life requires it - like moving overseas. Oh, I have plenty of lists in my head; they just rarely make it on to paper... which is why, when I saw this writing prompt (from Mama Kat's Losin It) it seemed like the perfect way to spend a drizzly morning inside. It gave me flashbacks to my classrooms as it reminded me of the classic EFL writing tasks I'd set my students, to practise their present perfect tense.

(Click here for link)

Twenty-two things I've done (in no particular order)

1. Seen the sun rise and set over the Pacific Ocean.

2. Moved home thirteen times.

3. Taken belly dancing classes.

4. Made mistakes.

5. Picnicked on camembert, baguettes, and wine outside the Sacré Coeur in Paris.

6. Cried over accidentally-thrown-out artwork.

7. Poured a thousand pints of beer in London.

8. Dabbled in a little French, Italian, Irish Gaelic and (now) Korean.

9. Had my nose and belly button pierced.

10. Experimented.

11. Photographed donkeys in Mexico.

12. Created human life.

13. Dyed my hair red.

14. Swum at beaches on three continents.

15. Consumed vast quantities of chocolate.

16. Feasted on tapas in Barcelona.

17. Rescued frangipanis from the ground, and worn them in my hair.

18. Given birth.

19. Welcomed in a snowy New Year in Sweden.

20. Married my high school sweetheart.

21. Nourished my babies from my own body.

22. Inhaled the alpine goodness of the Swiss Alps, and thought of Heidi.

Mexico, 2000

Above

2011-10-24T13:07:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, we decided to take advantage of the fact that it wasn't stinking hot first thing in the morning, and went for a hike. The spot we chose is called Wildwood Canyon. How pretty does that sound? There are different routes that vary in difficulty and length, but we chose a short leg - we wanted to avoid having to carry the Faery if possible. We saw some deer before we'd even parked the car, but the only other wildlife we saw during the hike were lizards and birds. Plenty of crows (I've never seen so many crows in my life as I have since coming to LA), but the hawks and eagles were shy. Most of the landscape was just scrub - we passed only one tree for shade.

We had no idea how much smog was around until we reached our looking point. Ugh. It was lovely to be above all of that. Below - in amongst that smog - is part of Burbank, in 'The Valley'. To the south (if this photo was extended to the left), we could make out the tops of the skyscrapers from downtown LA, but they were very hazy. Without the smog, they're easy to see - even in my neighbourhood.

It was a bit of a hard slog for the Faery. By the time we stopped for photos, her face was red and dirt-smudged, whispy golden strands of hair flying around her face. Dishevelled and cute. Next time, though, we might get the babysitter for a couple of hours one late Saturday afternoon. It'd be good to catch a sunset, minus hot complaining children. Oh, and minus the smog.

Who's that girl?

2011-10-23T00:11:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when an adult - who rarely goes out - attends a
showbiz party at a club in Hollywood.

Who is she? I barely recognise her.

She looks like she knows how to have fun. How to laugh.

(Some may draw the line at ~~squatting~~ dancing over a large golden

egg on the dance floor, but she thought the egg was fair game)

She looks like a bit of a lush.

She looks like someone I used to know.

The truth is: she was tagged on Facebook in about a dozen photos from the party.

In most of the photos, she is seen clutching glasses of wine.

The truth is: she only had three drinks all night.

The truth is: she was mostly caught up in high spirits,

not the beverage kind.

The bit about having fun, though? That was true.

Believer

2011-10-20T10:03:00.000-07:00

Damn other people's kids.

The Faery has been super excited about a visit from the Sugar Sprite Fairy. She doesn't care about her sugar haul getting taken, because she loves the idea of a new toy. It's brilliant.

Then the other day, she was playing with some kids that live in a nearby apartment. The other kids are similarly aged, and she adores them, but there are also times where it ends in tears because they have much more dominant personalities than hers, and she gets frustrated. This was one of those days. She came running home, in a flood of tears.

"Mum, they said that the Halloween Fairy isn't real! And they said I'm a baby! WAAAAAAAAH!"

Okay, so she can be hypersensitive and cry at the drop of a hat - these kids have figured that much out - but I was furious with them for not letting her believe in that fairy.

She looked heartbroken, so I told her the other girls were wrong and it was silly of them to say that to her. She continued bawling.

I added, "You know why they think she isn't real? Because she only visits children who believe in fairies."

The Faery looked up at me, her blue eyes as wide as can be, and hot tears spilling out. "But I do believe, Mum, I really do!" She nodded her head vigorously.

I told her that the reason I knew this for a fact was because the same fairy visited out friends in Portland after last Halloween.

The Faery smiled, and exhaled in relief.

Am I going to hell for telling such lies to her? I should be feeling bad about it, but I don't. I want her to have some magic in her childhood.

After all, how many people need therapy because they were encouraged to believe in the Easter Bunny, or Santa Claus?

Having said that, I'm dreading the day she comes home from school and announces - courtesy of the schoolyard grapevine - that they aren't real.

I want to bottle her innocence, and keep it forever...

Feline plans

2011-10-19T13:41:00.000-07:00

Remember the chair I reclaimed from the side of a road?
The one I have plans to fix up nicely?

Looks like Emily also has plans for this chair.

A place to plan the demise of her human captors.

Actually, that evil expression is just a yawn...
...but we should consider it a warning.

For now, sleep beckons.
Again.

(Speaking of cats, I'll be attending a crew wrap party and screening for Puss In Boots tomorrow... yippee!)

Sugar Mumma

2011-10-18T12:10:00.000-07:00

Come Halloween, there's going to be a lot of sweet stuff in our home.

This is bad news for my thighs. Very bad news.

Our apartment is in a secure complex, so the only trick or treaters we got last year were other kids that lived in the complex. I'd conveniently forgotten that minor detail when I was in Costco yesterday... and bought a massive bag of chocolates.

I made sure this mix had choccies that we all like. The mix I'd bought last year included chocolates which we hadn't tried before - we weren't expecting to have so many left over. It turned out that I didn't like a third of them. Ever tried Whoppers? They're a cheap and nasty tasty version on Maltesers. Mmm... Maltesers.... The rejected fun-sized Whoppers languished in the pantry for far too long, before finally getting thrown out.

It took a long time for the Faery's Halloween bounty to be consumed. Being new to Halloween last year, I found out about a week too late about the Sugar Sprite Fairy, Halloween Fairy, or whatever it is that other families call her. This is where the fairy comes in the days after Halloween, and exchanges a large part of the confectionary haul for a toy.

I wish I'd known sooner. Instead, after the sugar-high frenzy during the first few days of November, I restricted the Faery's intake to no more than one a day. After a few months, she stopped living for her chocolates, and only asked once or twice a week.

Sometimes, I sneakily dipped into her haul for bribe supplies.

Sometimes, I sneakily dipped into her haul for... me.

(Hey, I never claimed to be awesome at this parenting gig.)

How long did it take for her haul to deplete? Until early July. I kid you not. Eight months! And it wasn't even a large haul because she was scared of the dark and didn't want to trick or treat for very long.

I cannnot go through that again. Far too much bargaining and sulking when the 'treats' were withheld. Oh, and an accompanying toddler's bounty thrown into the equation this year, too.

Yes. The Sugar Sprite Fairy will be making a visit.

Then my next dilemma will be where to hide the exchanged haul of treats - because someone will have to eat them when the kids are in bed.

This is bad news for my thighs. Very bad news...

Once bitten...

2011-10-17T13:13:00.000-07:00

Pop culture's obsession with vampires is nothing new, and I've had my own bit of fun over the years.

Interview with the Vampire was the first movie that had me swooning over Brad Pitt. It had people raving about Tom Cruise's performance, which wasn't really much of a stretch when you think about it. Egomaniac plays egomaniac (amongst other shared attributes) - easy.

Another source of vampires that I've enjoyed is True Blood. Oh yeah, lots of eye candy in that one. Eye candy and Southern accents - can't go wrong, really. I began in the Team Bill camp, but shifted to Team Eric as soon as Alexander Skarsgård cut his hair. Mmm... Eric...

There's a camp element to True Blood that I appreciate - the show doesn't take itself too seriously. Sadly, I'm a season behind, and must rectify that as soon as possible.

The big vampire franchise that I haven't been able to get into is Twilight. As a thirty-something year-old, I just can't relate to chaste teen romances any more. There is so much that seems wrong to me about Twilight. I mean, vampires that do venture out during daylight hours, their skin protected by special make-up? And have no fangs? Puh-lease.

My curiosity got the better of me one night, a few months back, and I watched the first movie. It didn't win me over. Clearly, I've become one of those 'oldies' because I really don't see the appeal that Robert Pattinson has over the hordes of teenage girls. To me, he just looked like an actor with a kittenish face, wearing lipstick. Nothing sexy, or even handsome, about that.

A reliable source informed me that I shouldn't go near the books. I trust her judgement very much, so will take her word for it that I'd hate them. I thank her for saving me the trouble.

I have to confess here that I haven't read the Sookie Stackhouse novels (from which True Blood is based), or even any Anne Rice. No one could accuse me of being particularly immersed in the world of vampires then. I think I attempted Bram Stoker's Dracula once, but got bored and gave up.

So why am I rambling away about vampire films and books?

I recently saw an ad on TV, which made me think about how mainstream vampires have become.

I mean, really, Revlon? That's the best you can do to make me want to buy your lipstick? You want me to fantasise about someone biting me? Even the font used is a blatant Twilight reference.

Know what effect this had on me? I had to buy some new lipstick yesterday. I've been wanting a red one for an upcoming party, and haven't actually owned a red lippy in ten years - true. However, I steered clear of the Revlon section and bought a different brand. Sorry Revlon... (actually, I'm not).

Vintage love

2011-10-12T13:07:00.000-07:00

Before I ramble on about my latest project, let's get one thing straight. This is anything but a Mormon Mommy blog. As much as I fantasise about fixing things up, DIY and I do not have much of a history together. The last time I repainted something I rescued from the side of a road was about six or seven years ago. It was just a small side table - something that a three-year-old could have painted with ease.

So when I was walking the Faery home from school yesterday, and saw a lonely old dining chair sitting on a nature strip, outside an apartment building, I wasn't sure what to do... but something about that chair was calling me. I saw potential.

Only one problem - we were early into a twenty-minute walk home, in 30ºC heat, with Miss Pie in the stroller, because J had the car. No way could I grab that chair. When we got home, I rang him up and begged him pretty please to swing by that street on his way home, and if he didn't think the chair was a piece of junk, could he pretty please toss it in the back of the car and bring it home.

Five hours later, J walked in the door, carrying this chair. I was genuinely shocked that nobody else had already reclaimed it. As soon as I saw it again, it felt like I was welcoming home a new friend. There's a bizarre pull towards this chair - I'm even experiencing déjà vu as I type this sentence... spooky.

Anyhow, maybe I've been spending too much time on Pinterest, but I have grand plans for this chair. A completely new colour - perhaps something bright, like turquoise or yellow - and some cheerful new fabric to reupholster it. A pretty chair for the girls' room.

Naturally, I know nothing about such a process, but... how hard could it be? This is what the internet is for, right? Okay, so I don't even own a pair of plyers right now (moving overseas will do that - I've yet to reacquire many things we didn't bring with us). But dammit, I'm making a trip to Home Depot very soon.

(A little secret: I'm not bad with my hands. I used to top the class with my woodwork projects, many years ago. I like using my hands. I even used to daydream about doing some kind of carpentry course. Maybe I will one day, when I live somewhere that actually has the space for a little shed out the back. I'd be in heaven.)

So why am I writing about this? I figure that if I declare my intentions in writing now, the chair will spend less time languishing on our back patio. Blogging about it will force me to pull my finger out, and actually get started on this project much sooner than I would otherwise. I'm a procrastinator by nature, but I can also be obsessive about completing certain tasks, once I've begun. Just ask J how late I went to bed after assembling a dollhouse for the Faery's last birthday. Must. Finish.

Happily, this chair is as sturdy as they come. According to the label underneath, it was made by Stanley Furniture, in Virginia. I love that it wasn't from a cheap labour factory in a third world country. Even more impressive - my Google research tells me that the average dining chair from this company retails between $500-$800. Each. I realise that kind of money is normal to some, but I can't - for the life of me - imagine spending so much money on a single chair.

I get the impression this chair was sitting in someone's garage, alongside other DIY projects. The tiny splatters all over it are not from dirt - they're golden flecks, the casualty of another project. I pledge a better outcome for it.

For now, this lovely chair is sitting just outside our back door. Every time I walk past and catch a glimpse, I smile.

Still green

2011-10-09T21:15:00.000-07:00

Apparently it's autumn. Gone are the patriotic red, white and blue themes in the shops. Gone are the end-of-aisle displays for s'mores ingredients. No more cheap punnets of raspberries.

Instead, the shops are kitted out with garlands of bright orange leaves and pumpkins, and are all about apple cider, and flavoured cafe lattes with names such as pumpkin spiced and cinnamon gingerbread. Halloween decorations are beginning to breed, and mornings out and about will see people wearing their uggs with pride.

I have no doubt that elsewhere in America, trees are actually turning orange, and the days are much cooler now... but LA is yet to receive that memo. Here - it's still green. It's still very warm during the day. Today, half of my clan went for a swim. Summer? Not gone yet, people.

Last year was my very first proper Halloween. I was a little eager, and carved out several jack o'lanterns one week before the big day. They were pretty damn fantastic looking, if I may say so, especially for a first timer. A couple of days later, the mercury hit 30ºC, and my beautiful jack o'lanterns - still kept inside, not outside - began to curl in on themselves, slowly imploding. White furry mould began to grow inside and regretfully, I threw them away and started again.

This year, I won't make the same mistake. In fact, with such a fearless, ahem, 'adventure-seeking' toddler around, I may pass on the carved pumpkins altogether. I'm pretty sure they'd only end up being moved around, sat on, licked, squashed, and whatever else Miss Pie thinks would be fun.

In the mean time, I need to sort out Halloween outfits for the girls. Martha Stewart I ain't, so they're going to be a mix of what we already have lying around, and store-bought. I love the small kiddy costumes in the shops, and I love the idea of adding to a growing dress-up box. It even makes me just a little green with envy. I'd have loved to have had an assortment of costumes when I was a kid... but I'm happy to live vicariously through the Faery and Miss Pie. That's what kids are for, right?

Calling...

2011-10-07T12:45:00.000-07:00

Along with ridiculous steps to access information, or retrieve some phone messages, it would appear that receiving recorded phone messages is the norm here in the US of A.

Every Sunday night, my mobile phone rings and I'm cheerily informed, via recording, of "important announcements" and reminders from the principal of the Faery's school, regarding the upcoming week.

Twice in the last few days, my phone has rung and - despite not recognising the number - I've answered it.

Instead of a real live human on the other end, a recorded female voice has greeted me: "Hello, I have a call for you. Please hold while I connect you."

Several moments of muzak passed, then, "All of our representatives are currently busy with with other customers. Please wait for the first available..."

I have no idea what she said next, because it was at that point I hung up. Both times. I don't know why I expected something might be different the second time.

But really, is that the best they - whoever they are - can do to get my attention? Seriously? I wonder what the actual success rate is of interacting with people who are dumb enough to wait around? Or don't have anything better to do?

Listen, if you are going to call me and interrupt whatever toddler food fight I'm busy diverting, you'd better bloody well have something of interest to tell me. Nope? You want me to sit on hold? I have a response for that - it starts with "F" and the second word is "off".

Time to go back to ignoring the numbers I don't recognise, and letting voice mail catch them - although somehow I don't think these people will be leaving a message. It's funny how I never get messages from them.

Perhaps some companies believe that leaving an air of mystery will give people hope that they're sitting on hold so that they can be told they've won a million dollars.

Oh crap. I hope they weren't trying to tell me I've won a million dollars.

Unless I really have. But they'll have to try harder...

Arachnid

2011-10-04T17:11:00.000-07:00

Hello...

Spiders and I are not friends. I think as I get older, the way I react to them gets worse. You'd think it would be the other way round - desensitisation - but nope.

Something I've loved so far about living in LA is the lack of spiders to deal with. Maybe there seems to be more of a contrast because our apartment here is fairly new and lacking cracks and holes, whereas in Australia, we'd always lived in much older homes. But in general, Australian creepy crawlies win hands down over American ones.

So the other day, when I was about to open our patio gate and saw this stripy red spider, my heart jumped up into my throat. I had no idea what kind of threat it posed - I mean, look at it. Its colours and markings scream to back the fuck away, right?

Being an Aussie, I've been conditioned to expect the worst from spiders - given the lovely variety of venomous ones that exist across our continent. However, that doesn't explain J's rather casual Buddhist approach of capturing and releasing them outside. I love him, but he's a freak. These things need to die if they're on my turf, and - preferably - someone needs to do that dirty work for me.

J wasn't home and I needed to know what I was dealing with, so I grabbed the camera (for perspective, the bar it's perched on is 2cm wide).

Then began my task of googling spiders - no easy feat, when my physical response to every hideous image on the screen was to break out in a sweat and almost vomit. No exaggeration.

After feeling a whole lot of queasiness, I finally found it - a Phidippus adumbratus (some call it a red back jumping spider). Harmless, apparently. The jumping bit, I don't like, though. Also - I challenge any Australian to relax around a spider that has red back in its name.

Call me heartless, but I'd have probably dumped half a can of insect spray on it, like I would in Australia... but we didn't have any. A situation that (gasp!) would have been unheard when I lived there. Toxins be damned.

I guess you could say I have arachnophobia...

Universal truth #9

2011-10-02T14:21:00.000-07:00

Bubbles will always get kids excited. There's the thrill of the chase, and nothing else as satisfying as popping 'em. Mastering the skill of blowing them brings a sense of achievement, as does the ability - for some toddlers - to catch them on their tongue. Mmm... detergent flavour...

Hat

2011-10-01T15:35:00.000-07:00

Miss Pie is obsessed with hats at the moment. Actually, she's obsessed with any item of clothing that she can attempt to put on herself; hats just happen to be the most readily accessible. Paper bags will do, too. She raided her sister's dress up gear the other day, found this headband, and insisted, "Hat!"

Who could argue with these blue eyes?

It's a shame she's probably going to be our last babe. We make pretty damn cute ones.

Chinatowns

2011-09-28T13:20:00.000-07:00

Over the years, I've come to associate certain things with Chinatown. These expectations have been supported by visits to Chinatown in a number of cities - Sydney, Melbourne, London, Vancouver, and San Francisco.

Some of these Chinatowns are small and quaint (hello London! hello Melbourne!). Modest in size but charming, nonetheless.

Others are massive. My weekend in San Francisco was nowhere near enough time to fully discover its Chinatown.

No matter what, they all have a lot in common. They have more than their fair share of shops which look like they belong in an episode of Hoarders (I haven't actually watched it, but it taunts me whenever I browse through the shows for instant streaming on Netflix).

The buildings are beautifully jumbled, close together, and crowd the narrow streets and laneways that are a standard for districts found within walking distance of other city attractions.

San Francisco

They are always cheerful and full of colour. Vibrant.

San Francisco

I thought these qualities were a must for Chinatowns world-wide.

Until we visited LA's very own Chinatown last weekend.

Sure, there were the Hoarder-qualifying shops. And I guess it was within walking distance of other city attractions, if you count the Dodger Stadium - which is only really accessible by car. This is Los Angeles, after all.

But jumbled buildings on narrow streets? I didn't know it was possible for Chinatown to do sprawl. On wide, can't-cross-quickly roads. The closest resemblance to bustling laneways were depressing, dark arcades which would have felt right at home in the communist era.

How about some colourful vibrance, you say?

Los Angeles

Um, not really. I didn't take any photos of the buildings, because I wasn't feeling terribly inspired by them. At all.

Happily, there were plenty of shops with all kinds of products spilling out onto the footpath. After walking past the twentieth shop selling turtles the size of your middle toe, the Faery now has a new obsession and wants one.

And of course, it wouldn't be Chinatown without seeing some kind of food product to turn your stomach (as well as drooling over the more appealing food).

Los Angeles

I'm sure that Lady Fish Paste is tasty for some, but I think I'll pass.

Equinox

2011-09-27T12:57:00.000-07:00

Equinox has officially been and gone. The mornings now have a chill in the air - requiring jeans and layers - and the mercury is taking longer to peak each day. Daytime still feels like summer, but then the late afternoons cool down quickly, bringing the kind of whispy clouds that like to be seen in autumn. The sun sets in an incredibly massive crimson ball (thanks smog!), and the nearby mountains turn all kinds of hues of purple.

It's quite beautiful, but I'm always sad to see summer going.

Ahn-young

2011-09-26T11:48:00.000-07:00

Already, four weeks of full-time school life have flown by in a blur. A completely new routine, for all of us - out the door by 7.30, every morning (somehow it seemed easier when I was working), into the car, drive, find a parking spot, walk a block or so to the school, reign in Miss Pie, wait on the school's front lawn for the Kindergarten teachers to appear, hurried kisses goodbye, watch the class line disappear into the building, kids waving goodbye one last time, walk back to car... then do it all over again in the afternoon, but in reverse - with homework thrown into the mix.

Only four weeks, but it feels like we've been doing this forever. I haven't decided if that's good or bad.

What I do know is that I'm grateful for how well the Faery has adjusted to it. She's not in an ordinary Kindergarten programme - she's in a dual language immersion programme, which means half her day is in one classroom, with all of those lessons in English, and the other half is in the classroom next door... with her lessons 100% in Korean.

Roughly a third of her classmates are from Korean families who speak little or no English at home, another third are from families with some kind of Korean ancestry and speak little or no Korean at home (maybe one parent is Korean, or they might be third generation Korean American), and the other third have no physical or cultural ties to Korea.

The Faery falls into that last category, and I've already copped some horrific judgements from other people for enrolling her in such a programme. I don't care, but I wish they'd mind their own business all the same. It's not like the Faery is their child. A lot of soul searching went into this decision, and it wasn't made on a whim - "Hey, let's screw with our child's education for fun!"

Firstly, with my background in teaching English - both as a second language, and as a foreign language, which require different approaches - I strongly believe it's great to learn another language at an early age. The benefits are enormous, in many ways, regardless of the language. The younger, the better, too.

There's a mountain of evidence, from countless studies, to support this. I'm sorry, but the negative nancies (including some family members) are simply being ignorant. Too bad for them.

It's true that children in bilingual programmes are a little behind - academically - for the first couple of years while their brains assimilate everything in two languages, but then they fly ahead of the rest.

Another reason why we decided to go ahead with this is that the Faery is not your average child. She is super bright, and was speaking exceptionally well from a very early age. She mastered the Roman alphabet - reading, writing, sound recognition - long ago, and thrives when being challenged, so this option for her education seemed like an excellent fit.

I'd be lying, though, if I said I wasn't worried about how she'd handle the initial stress of being in a classroom and not understanding a word, but she's taken it in her stride so far. At the end of only her second day, we stopped for a treat on the way home, and she wrote her name in Korean on a paper bag for me:

Two days ago, she came bounding into our bedroom not long after 7am, and asked "What day is it?"

"Saturday," and I kept my eyes firmly shut as she lay down next to me.

I heard little sniffles, soon followed by muffled sobs, "But I really want to go to school today..." and then a howl.

Later that day, she sat herself at the table with her crayons and paper, and busily set about creating her own worksheets - just like the ones she does at school in her English class. The alphabet was witten out twice, once in upper case, once in lower case. For both of them, she'd circled the letter h. Underneath, the same letter was written repeatedly in both upper case and lower case. Several other puzzles were drawn underneath, where the solution involved the letter h. All of this was her own undertaking, and the worksheet copied purely from memory.

Did someone say nerd? I'd better enjoy this love of school while it lasts.

Seriously, though, I am deeply impressed, amazed, blown away - all of those cliché superlatives - by this child of mine.

I could not be prouder.

Ay to Zee

2011-09-25T19:55:00.000-07:00

Here, just for fun, is my definitive guide to Aussie/American translations. Some are obvious and well known from years of exposure to American TV and films; some are minor... and some can just be downright awkward.

I wasn't sure how to classify it on my list, but let's just say that while fanny can be innocent enough amongst Americans, in Australia, we'll think you're referring to your vagina. True. The word fanny pack will still make us double over in laughter.

I had to learn some of these the hard way - cornflour in the US (strictly for baking use) is entirely different to cornflour in Australia. I had a few failed stove-top sauces and soups before I worked that out. I mean, it looked different in the packet (I should have realised then) but so do a lot of things here. Turned out cornstarch is what I needed to thicken things. Thank you, Google and Chowhound.

Then there was the time I spoke to the staff at the leasing office of our apartment complex. We'd been having issues with the kitchen tap, and you should have seen the blank looks I received when I asked for the tap to be fixed. Yes, I knew the word faucet, but I'd completely forgotten about it - this was in the first few weeks here, when I was still getting by on the broken sleep of a newborn.

More recently, every time the Faery's teacher talks about trimesters, I keep glancing at her belly. It's a word I've only ever associated with pregnancy.

Anyhow, the language teacher in me felt the need to compile a list. It's by no means complete - feel free to suggest words that I can add - and I'm not even touching phrases, spelling or pronunciation. Not yet.

(My Australian vocabulary may be Sydney-centric in some examples, as things can vary from state to state - likewise, some of my American examples may be more Californian-speak than general)

I am such a language nerd at times.

A-K
arse - ass
autumn - fall
bill (restaurant) - check
bin - trash
biscuit - cookie
breastfeeding - nursing
bonnet (of car) - hood
boot (of car) - trunk
bubbler - drinking fountain
bum - butt
bum bag - fanny pack
CBD (central business district) - downtown
capsicum - bell pepper
caster sugar - baker's sugar
car park - parking lot
chickpeas - garbanzo beans
cinema - (movie) theater
cornflour - cornstarch
cot - crib
cutlery - flatware
doona (quilt) - comforter
dummy - pacifier
fairy floss - cotton candy
flat/unit - apartment
fringe (hair) - bangs
footpath - sidewalk
g-string - thong
give way (driving) - yield
grill (cooking) - broil
holiday - vacation
hoodie - sweatshirt
ice block - popsicle, ice pop
icing sugar - confectioner's sugar
indicator (car) - signal
jam - jelly
jumper - sweater
kebab (skewer) - kabob

L-Z
lemonade (such as Sprite) - lemon-lime soda
letter box - mail box
lift - elevator
lolly - candy
lollypop person - crossing guard
minced meat - ground meat
mobile (phone) - cell phone
nappy - diaper
notes (dollars) - bills
old-fashioned lemonade - lemonade
overtake (driving) - pass
pedestrian crossing - cross walk
petrol - gas
plain flour - all purpose flour
poo - poop
porridge - oatmeal
postcode - zipcode
pram - stroller
queue - line
rocket (lettuce) - arugula
rockmelon - cantaloupe
rubbish - garbage
sultana - raisin
scone - biscuit
soft drink - soda drink
tap - faucet
teat (on baby bottles) - nipple
term (school) - trimester
thongs - flip-flops
thrush - yeast infection
timber - lumber
tinned (food) - canned
toilet (public) - restroom
toilet training - potty training
tomato sauce (condiment) - ketchup
torch - flashlight
travel cot - playard
trolley (shopping) - cart
tunic - jumper
ute (utility truck) - pickup truck
zed (alphabet) - zee
4WD (4 wheel drive) - SUV

Where I'm From

2011-09-21T21:18:00.000-07:00

I am from fruit cordial, from Weet-bix and sunburnt holidays at a dolphin-friendly bay.

I am from a fibro bungalow, lavender-light walls on a street named for love, heavenly jasmine punching the air in evening September showers.

I am from eucalyptus, tall and strong; from orange blossom and frangipani blooming in the backyard, competing side by side.

I am from rummy and stubbornness, from Chris and Jenny, and the best grandmother of all.

I am from memorised repeats of Fawlty Towers, and secretive books tucked under pillows .

From 'you're too honest for your own good' and 'you can be whatever you want.'

I am from no place of worship, with a fierce sense of right and wrong.

I’m from Sydney and Northern Europe, meals devoid of ethnicity, and passionfruit-drizzled pavlova.

From young newly-wed parents, the remarried grandfather who refused to know me, and the widowed grandma who loved me times a million.

I am from yellowing round-cornered photos on sticky-lined pages, contained within crinkling plastic; glossy black '70s vinyl LPs, encased in worn sleeves from another era; stories buried in chests, their keys discarded, the things that are unsaid yet somehow defining.

Mama's Losin' It

This piece was motivated by my lovely friend Angie's post at The Little Mumma. She had been inspired by this writing prompt over at Mama's Losin' It.

Universal truth #15

2011-09-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

No matter what country, continent, or hemisphere you happen to be in; no matter how far away you are from home... when you're going for a walk and get hit by the aroma of onions frying, this always smells heavenly - any time of day.

It's the smell of home.

/tə'maːtəʊ/

2011-09-19T13:07:00.000-07:00

There's a family-run diner - not far from our place - that we like to go to for a weekend brunch, every now and then. A treat. They do great pancakes, milkshakes, omelettes, spicy breakfast burritos as large as your face... I could go on.

The fact that this diner isn't part of a franchise makes us love it even more. I don't know if it's typical of American restaurants, but it seems that in our neck of the woods, the majority of restaurants and diners belong to nation-wide franchises that specialise in bland food: Appplebees, IHOP, Marie Callender's, Olive Garden... again, I could go on. Those places hold no interest for us, though.

So, yesterday, we found ourselves at our diner. Endless coffee? Check. Toddler in high chair, throwing everything within reach onto the floor? Um, check.

When it was time to order, I began with, "I'll have a Californian omelette, but without the tomato-"

"It's tom-AY-to, not tom-AH-to, Mum!" The Faery shook her head, and gave the waitress a knowing look.

Wow. Looks like I have a little five-year-old smart arse on my hands.

Yeah, that's right. A smart arse, not ass. I am too old to change the way I speak, and I don't want to.

At least she still calls me Mum, not Mom...

Money Drawing

2011-09-16T15:55:00.000-07:00

My previous post may have been scraping the blogging barrel with talk of certain medical procedures, so - with that out of my system - I'm going to move on.

One of the cooler things about living in LA is the Hispanic grocery stores and sections in the supermarkets. In most of the supermarkets I've shopped at, the Hispanic section includes colourful pillar candles in tall glass jars. The jars are adorned with images of Jesus, Mary and any Catholic saint you can think of.

Given the wide range of saints, I assume the candles are for prayers... but I just love the kitsch value.

This morning when I was doing my usual round of grocery shopping, I decided it was time to invest in one of these candles... because, you know, $1.49 is such a lot of money. Our apartment still feels a little bland - decor wise - and I always love splashes of colour. I'll never be someone who decorates in only tasteful shades of taupes and greys.

I couldn't decide which saint we need the most help from (all?), so in the end I went with this:

The bottom of it proclaims it to be a 'Money Drawing Candle'. Apparently there is even a lucky number inside.

Hey, who couldn't do with more money coming in? Of course, it might help if I actually played the lottery...

OTT - Let's get physical

2011-09-14T13:04:00.000-07:00

I had no intention of writing about the following, but a good friend suggested it, and I've (sort of) warmed to the idea. If you're male, you may want to move along - nothing to see here.

Last week, I finally had a long overdue check-up. A simple enough procedure, but of the variety that I think most women put off doing.

First of all, a nurse ushered me into her little office to check my blood pressure, weight, height, and ask all the routine health-related questions.

Next, I was led to the consultation room to wait for the doctor. I was told to get undressed, put one of those backless gowns on, and that the doctor would be there shortly. Having never worn such a gown in either Australia or the UK, I'd always thought they existed solely for American TV shows and movies. I first realised I was wrong about that when the Faery had to have a paediatric physical in order to attend preschool last year. She was four, and they produced a mini backless gown for her to change into. Really? That, right there, seemed like an OTT moment to me.

So, naked under my medical-centre-issued gown, I waited. The doctor arrived, and told me she just needed to wait for the nurse to come and assist. For a pap smear? Really?

The nurse arrived, wheeling an entire tray full of shiny implements. Really?

The doctor instructed me to get on the bed, and place my feet in the stirrups. REALLY?

It's not like I'm afraid of stirrups, but I've had this procedure done numerous times, had countless pregnancy check-ups, given birth twice... and never once saw a pair of medical stirrups. It felt so... unnecessary. OTT.

The Aussie equivalent of this procedure involves half-stripping, hopping onto the bed for the doctor, the doctor tells you to pop your heels on the bed's corners, shuffle your bum as close as possible to the edge of the bed, take a deep breath... and... then it's over and done with. Relax. No assistant on standby.

The British version (yep, I've been around the world where pap smears are concerned) is pretty much the same, except they call it a smear test, and registered nurses are also able to perform the procedure.

This American version? OTT, if you ask me. I guess the backless gowns could be interpreted as an attempt to provide some dignity by protecting one's modesty.... but then the stirrups go and do away with any sense of dignity.

True.

An interesting aside - in Australia, pap smears are recommended every two years. In the UK, every three years. In the US, it's recommended every year. I wonder what the stats are for rates of cervical cancer in each country, and just how much difference yearly, versus every two years, versus every three years really makes.

At any rate, at least I can now cross this off my very long to-do list...

Cracks

2011-09-13T11:49:00.000-07:00

One day last year, the Faery and I were having a conversation when she began staring intently into my eyes.

"Mum, what are those cracks in your eyes?"

Was she talking about my ~~crows feet~~ laughter lines? "They're called wrinkles."

"No, Mum, not your wrinkles. I mean, what are those red cracks in your eyes?"

I was confused, but then the penny dropped. My eyes must have been looking red, so I explained to her about small veins, and the role of veins in our bodies.

Wrinkles, blood-shot eyes... either way, boy did I feel attractive. Yeah, baby.

Apart from a quick status update about it on Facebook that day (which resulted in many amused comments), I'd forgotten about this particular exchange.

Until the other day.

I was going through the wad of school worksheets from last week that the Faery had brought home in her bag. She is currently in a bilingual Kindergarten program, and learning Korean, so it seems like there is double the amount of stuff to sort through each day.

Amongst her worksheets, I found this:

In case you missed it, take a closer look.

I felt compelled to ask her what the red lines were. Don't ask why.

With a roll of her eyes and a big sigh, "They're veins, Mum. Remember? You told me eyes have veins."

I wonder how long she's going to add this detail to her rendition of eyes. How often do her teachers encounter children who insist on drawing eyes in clear need of Visine?

I consoled myself with the fact that at least my eyes are green. That stoned, blue, blood-shot eye belongs to someone else...

8 am

2011-09-12T12:36:00.000-07:00

I'm not a morning person, but...

...scenery like this makes the school run a little easier.

Welcome back

2011-09-09T12:51:00.000-07:00

Her music has been a spectacular backdrop to many significant occasions in my life.

Each album holds its own piece of magic in my heart, and is associated with times of growth - making the transition from girl to woman; learning abut myself as a university student; forging friendships with people I'll love forever, over bottles of red wine (you know who you are); giving my Discman a heavy workout on red double decker buses, the London Underground, Melbourne trams and Sydney trains.

Her music is warm and burns with intensity. Sometimes it crackles, sometimes it roars. Listening to her voice, her words, and her music is like having a large fireplace, glowing and bright, in a corner of my soul. Her more mellow tracks warm my insides like a smooth wine; the raw songs burn on the way down, like rocket fuelled whiskey.

She's an enigma to me, and I'll never forget the evening I saw her perform live: An unusually balmy night in Melbourne. The beautiful Forum Theatre. A small figure in a one-shouldered red dress and red cowgirl boots. A guitar trapped to her. A huge voice. Tears in my eyes, a lump in my throat. It had been one of the most stressful weeks in my life and I was alone, but for a few hours, I floated.

Years later, when J and I were deciding on a middle name for Miss Pie, we realised she would have the same initials as this amazing artist. It was a total coincidence, but a happy one. Little PJ.

This week, PJ Harvey won her second Mercury Prize. No one else has ever done so. When I read that news, I realised I'd been neglectful and needed to hear her latest offering... so that's what I've spent the last few days listening to.

I can already feel it entering that large fireplace in my soul, clearing out the cobwebs, and settling right in.

Welcome back, PJ.

(Photo source)

Refresco

2011-09-07T14:28:00.000-07:00

I'm not much a of a soft-drink girl, but I've been drinking an awful lot of this lately:

Thirsty? That's my problem. This heat makes me crave super sweet cold drinks more than usual. Normally, Coke is just a hangover cure for me (not that I have much of a call for that these days)... but over recent weeks, I've found myself buying a small glass bottle on an almost-daily basis. Bad.

These bottles of Mexican Coke are only $1 a pop at my local shops, and meet several of my rules regarding Coke.

The first rule is that it always taste nicest from glass. The second rule is that Coke sweetened from sugar cane (as opposed to high fructose corn syrup) is always going to taste better than its American counterpart. Oh, and my third rule is to never drink the diet or sugar-free versions. Not only is it a taste thing, I just don't see the point.

An added bonus is that this black liquid solves my conundrum of settling for less-than-mediocre coffee when a caffeine fix is also required. That's what I call a win.

And hey, this Coke habit is definitely ~~cheaper than~~ preferable to the other kind of Coke habit. I have so little in the way of vices these days... no one stands between me and a good old sugar hit.

Heat, quakes and dust

2011-09-06T14:40:00.000-07:00

How Southern California feels (Photo source)

It is damn hot right now. So hot, that even the notorious LA smog has retreated from the sun.

Fahrenheit is something I've yet to master interpretation of, but I know one thing without having to reach for my conversion chart - triple digits equals serious heat. It also sounds far more dramatic in fahrenheit.

101ºF versus 38ºC... see?

The heat has been fairly consistent over the last few weeks. I can't really complain - I'll take heat over cold any day, and we're lucky to have access to a swimming pool. We also have air con in our apartment, but I'm not a big fan (sorry for the pun).

The air con is usually switched on as a last resort to cool our place down. I hate having to keep all the windows shut, and I hate having to forever nag the Faery and her playmates to close the door - again - as they run in and out.

Anyhow, we've not had much choice lately. It's air con, or roast to death.

Spending the days inside - what feels like - hermetically sealed quarters has had its advantages, though. I've finally been able to tackle some DIY projects I've been wanting to do for a while. Well, one project.

That project was to start a photo wall. I've wanted one for the longest while, and J is able to get a lot free photo printing done through his work - perfect for showing off some of my better photos of us, the girls, and travels.

Having rented for so long, I was never able to build a collection of framed photos for the wall, because our leases usually prohibited us from putting hooks or nails in the walls. However, our current place seems to be a little more lenient about that, so I decided to go for it.

Last week, I began the process of selecting from the stacks of photos I asked J to enlarge and print for me, and sorting them into different frames. Only a dozen pics for now, but it's a start until I get some more frames. It's a convenient excuse for another trip to IKEA.

Despite recommendations in California to not hang anything above sofas and beds (earthquake safety), I thought to hell with it, and sprawled some photos above our sofa. My reasoning was that if an earthquake does strike, and we do happen to be on the sofa, we'll just get off it - how hard could that be?

Last Thursday, I hung up two more frames in the morning. In the late afternoon, I switched on the TV to catch some news, and saw that there had actually been an earthquake at 1.47pm. It was 4.3 on the Richter scale, so apparently somewhat noticeable... but, nope. I didn't feel a thing (J informed me that everyone who was sitting down at his work felt it, and that's only a five-minute drive away). I'm hoping this means our apartment building is exceptionally sturdy.

The framed photos on the wall didn't so much as wobble a millimetre.

I've been admiring my handiwork ever since but this week, it just occurred to me that there's a downside to having a lovely collection of moments framed on a wall - dusting.

I've never been particularly diligent when it comes to dusting. I've never had big collections of pretty knick-knacks that collect dust, for two reasons. One, I hate dusting. Two, small chubby hands of destructive toddlers. It's a system that's worked fairly well for me in recent years.

Not any more. I've gone and put up the biggest damn dust-collecting collection of all on the wall...

Desperate Housewife

2011-09-02T13:23:00.000-07:00

A lot happened over the second half of July that I didn't really have time to sit down and write about.

One of the cooler things was seeing a frenzy of film crews in my neighbourhood. One morning, I was heading north along my street, up past my local supermarket, on my way to the park. The traffic outside my apartment complex and local supermarket was insane. There is never traffic built up on those streets, but as I went past the supermarket, I could see why - everyone was rubbernecking. Half the supermarket's carpark was cordoned off, and police on motorbikes were standing on the street curb, directing the flow of traffic. Within the carpark, massive bright lights were set up, surrounded by cameras and large white trucks. That was all I managed to see, though.

That evening I had to buy some milk and after paying for it, I asked one of the staff members what the filming was for. "Desperate Housewives," she answered, "I can't believe I missed out! I had the morning off, and it was all packed up by the time I started work in the afternoon." I knew how she felt. I haven't actually watched an episode since about 2007, but still, it would have been interesting to see some of it being filmed. Given that most mornings involve a walk up to this supermarket, I felt a little cheated that this happened on the one morning I did something different.

That same day, driving back from the park and along some of the back streets, I saw another group of large white trucks parked outside one of the fancier houses. My mother-in-law was in the car, and got a better look than I did - she told me that the trucks has CSI written on them. I guess my neighborhood was in demand as a filming location.

The following day, I had to take the Faery to her preschool. We walked (it was only two blocks away) and I saw more filming equipment being set up along that street. Once we arrived at her preschool, half the carpark was full with catering vans and marquees. I asked the preschool staff what this was all for, and again, it was for Desperate Housewives.

That afternoon, on my way to collect the Faery, I was crossing at the intersection where filming was taking place and heard, "And... ACTION!" So many people were standing around the set that I couldn't really see anything. I made it to the other side, doing my best to look blasé and cool - as if I'm used to being surrounded by film crews, and then I heard, "CUT!" I looked back and got a clearer view of the set. A brunette woman was sitting in the driver seat of a car, and a police officer (or actor) was leaning over and talking to her, with his motorcycle parked behind her car.

Hearing those calls for action, and to cut, put a big smile on my face. If that isn't living in LA, then I don't know what is.

As the Faery and I began walking back home, we had to cross that same intersection. While we were crossing, she asked me what the filming was for, and I explained they were making a TV show called Desperate Housewives.

The Faery, "Well, why are they filming it every day? And what is a housewife, anyway?"

I replied that a housewife is a woman who doesn't got to work, and stays at home instead.

By this stage, we were across the road, and within earshot of the immediate crew and set. In a loud, clear voice, the Faery exclaimed, "THAT'S JUST LIKE YOU, MUM! YOU'RE A DESPERATE HOUSEWIFE!"

A few chuckles erupted around us, and I'm pretty sure my face was turning pink as I grabbed her hand and pulled her along faster.

I'd forgotten all about that day, as the next few days were filled with the Faery's birthday, followed by a trip to San Diego. However, I recently picked up one of those gossip magazines, and in the 'star' photo section, I saw:

(Photo source)

I also found a site with a series of photos taken that day, here. Yes, I had to google gossip sites for the greater good of this post. It needed a photo, right?

Oh, and Teri says hello.

Sisters

2011-08-31T09:33:00.000-07:00

I hope they'll be the best of friends one day.

My Faery

2011-08-28T16:08:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow, my first baby starts school.

In some ways, it feels like a huge milestone... yet it also seems as though she's been barrelling towards this day since her birth.

My first baby, who - instead of crying when she was born - looked up at my face after she was placed on my chest, and studied me intently. An old soul peered at me through her eyes, like we'd met before.

My Faery, who was speaking in sentences at such an early age. Despite her baby face, people always expected her to be older, because of how well she could speak.

My Faery, whose personality is one big paradox. Incredibly innocent, but also mature beyond her years. How is that even possible?

My Faery, who has such a sensitive soul. An ever thoughtful, kind, considerate little girl with an amazing awareness for others' feelings.

My Faery, who's had to learn the meaning of adaptation over the last twenty months - more than many adults do in a decade of living. First of all, becoming a sister (sharing J and I after having us to herself for three and a half years), then moving to another country and leaving all that she'd known and loved - in her short little life - behind.

My Faery, who possesses a runaway imagination. Books are devoured, and I can't keep up with her output of drawings. Empty boxes, toilet rolls, odd-shaped plastic packaging - in her eyes, they are all potential toy homes, robots and rocket ships.

My Faery, with her heart-shaped face, a light splatter of freckles under wide blue eyes and across her tiny nose. White golden hair with unruly waves, and the most stubborn cowlick to boot... have I mentioned how stubborn she is, too?

I watch her in awe, and study her features, amazed at this beautiful creature. She's sweet, she's smart, she's healthy and - I hope - happy.

I couldn't ask for more.

Golden Oldies

2011-08-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

It's taken a while, but I finally get it.

Now I know how care-free it feels to be driving alone, with some favourite music blasting away. In the past, given my lack of driving confidence, I've usually preferred no music when it's me who's driving. Music felt distracting. Also, with two little people in the back of the car - oh, say 98% of the time - things tend to get noisy anyway. On those rare occasions where I'm alone behind the wheel, I've savoured the silence in the car - just me and my thoughts.

Lately, 'just me and my thoughts' don't seem to cut it, though. Last weekend, when I was making an escape for a few hours, I impulsively switched the radio on. Lucky for me, J had it tuned in to a station he'd already discovered and likes - KROQ. Even luckier for me, the station was having a 'Nothing but the 90s' weekend.

Heaven.

It must be a sure sign of ageing - being reduced to fits of bliss when hearing songs from 'way back'. As a kid, I remember how happy my mother would be listening to songs from the 70s, when we were in the car. The Doors aside, I remember thinking how daggy and old those songs were - songs that weren't as old (then) as the songs I found myself belting out to on Sunday.

Oops.

If anyone cares to join me in a trip down memory lane, here are some of the songs from KROQ's playlist that had me smiling like I haven't smiled in a long time:

Ah, sweet youth...

Most of our CDs are boxed into storage back in Australia. Many of our favourite albums are on our iTunes library, but we never got around to putting them all on. I wish we'd been a little more organised in that respect, but hey, the internet is a wonderful thing in the mean time, right?

What songs take you back?

Double D

2011-08-23T11:16:00.000-07:00

As promised to myself, ages ago, I finally got around to treating myself and went bra shopping last night.

What an epic mission.

A few weeks ago, when our budget didn't allow for such folly, I cheekily went into Victoria's Secret and got fitted anyway. I was child-free for a few hours, and thought why not? It'll save time for when I actually go bra shopping later.

I was so wrong.

The assistant measured me, and told me I was size 34DD. I was more than happy to hear that, given I was a DD pre-kids, before two pregnancies and three years of breastfeeding.

Armed with that knowledge, I went back last night and spent a good half hour, painfully selecting a few bras in my size. It took longer than I thought because whenever I saw a style I liked, I couldn't find a colour I liked in 34DD.

Turns out 34DD is not so easy to find nice bras in, even in Victoria's Secret.

Eventually, I made my way into a fitting room, only to be horrified once I began trying on the bras.

First, what the hell is wrong with the fitting room lighting in those stores? It was suitably dim, yet somehow, every dimple and vein in my skin was highlighted. Did I look hot in those bras? No siree.

Secondly... back fat? Wtf? When did that happen? Deep breaths. The bras do feel rather tight...

Turns out I'm not a 34DD after all. The assistant handed me a 36D to try on, which fitted okay-ish. I pointed to a little spillage at the sides, and suggested to her that perhaps I need a 36DD, but she told me the wire would go too high under my arms, and a D would be better.

Back to the drawing board, I left the fitting room to choose a new selection of bras. This time, different colours were available, and again, not all to my liking, so it took me a while.

Armed with my new selection, I returned to the fitting room. No more back fat, but each of the bras gave me massive spillage at the sides - more than the initial 36D I'd tried on. Unattractive, and uncomfortable. I called in the assistant - who, thankfully, was different to the other girl and seemed to have more of a clue.

Turns out I'm not a 36D either. Definitely a 36DD.

I had to start all over again. Different colours, and all that. Turns out DD, in any size, has less variety.

In the end, I settled on just one bra. An hour and a half it took me, to buy one mother-effing bra. A very pretty bra - no less - but only one bra.

I am so glad I didn't have to do that with small kids in tow. I'd have lasted ten minutes - praise the forces that be for night time shopping!

But next time? I'm buying online. At least after trying on over a dozen bras, I know my size for sure. Clicking on a few little boxes has got to be easier, and surely the big warehouse will have all the colours/styles in DD. That's what I call a win.

This is not me... (Photo source)

I think I fill out my Victoria's Secret bra

better than any of their models do -

no tissues or chicken fillets required.

Pandas and polars

2011-08-21T13:18:00.000-07:00

While we were on our little holiday down the coast, we visited San Diego Zoo.

We loved it, and it didn't feel as massive as I'd heard it was. Although we didn't see everything that day, it wasn't because of the size. We just took our time and stopped often, knowing we'll be back to see more another weekend. We walked the entire length at one point, and it didn't seem to take that long. It didn't feel any more sprawled out than Taronga Zoo in Sydney.

As I was waiting in line to see one of the pandas, I overheard a couple of people behind me, talking on their phones - saying how big the zoo was, and how much walking they'd had to do. I had to hide a smile. I get the impression that there's a large portion of the American population who dislike walking. Or aren't used to it.

As for the panda? He was the first one I've ever clapped eyes on in real life, and the word cute doesn't do justice. He was so round and soft-looking... I just wanted to curl up into him for snuggles.

Our year's membership is just the incentive we need to force us off our bums one weekend, and return - I'm looking forward to it already.

Whose idea was it to give the kid some Coke? (not mine...)

Up close and personal with my first polar bear...

by far the coolest sight.

Floating foot of a sleeping Faery, coming back from the zoo.

Nothing says 'road trip' more than a car floor scattered with road maps.

Please enter

2011-08-19T14:53:00.000-07:00

In past posts, I may have referred to the health care system here, and how I'm not a fan.

Last week, I made an appointment for something that wasn't urgent, but I'd been putting off for a while. Women's business. Naturally, there were slim pickings for times that suited me (ie not having to drag both girls along). Three weeks from now, I should be sorted - a whole month after I made the appointment, for what is essentially a basic check-up.

Yay American health care.

As I was making lunch for a suddenly-starving Faery today, my mobile phone rang. I didn't recognise the number, but answered anyway.

There was a pause, I almost hung up, then a pre-recorded message greeted me.

"Hello, MJ. This is an important announcement from Kaiser-Permanente. For your patient notification, please press one, or you can retrieve your message at any time."

Kaiser-Permanente is the stupid health insurance company we are with (as provided through J's workplace), and has us by the short and curlies. I'm unimpressed with them because our options seem pretty limited - we can only see doctors in their medical centres as it seems the more independent practicioners don't accept KP. Thankfully there is a centre close by, but as mentioned before, I can never get an appointment when truly needed without waiting. It's quite ridiculous.

So, being KP, I thought I'd better quickly listen to the message, in case it was about a change to my appointment.

I pressed one.

"Please enter your patient medical record number, followed by the pound key."

Really? The message isn't just waiting for me after all? I scrambled to find my purse so I could grab my KP membership card -

"The number you have entered is invalid. Please check the number and enter it again."

Sheesh! Give me a chance to find my number, why don't you? I located my card, and entered its number.

"The number you have entered is xxxxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

Oh my god. Just give me the frigging message already - YOU were the ones who rang ME. I pressed one.

"Please enter your date of birth, followed by the pound key. For example, if your date of birth is January 12th, 1973, enter 01121973, followed by the pound key."

Aaaaaghh! I entered my date of birth, and pressed the hash key.

"You have entered xxxxxxxx. If this is correct, please press one. If this is incorrect, please press two."

With an almighty exhale, I pressed one... to receive a general message about the importance of having a pap smear, and if I have not already done so, I should make an appointment as soon as possible.

Oh the pain.

If I hate bureaucracy and the American health care system, I think I detest automated phone prompts equally - especially when I didn't even make a bloody phone call in the first place.

How. Rude.

(Meanwhile, the Faery almost passed out from hunger.)

I also hate having to call customer service, and this perfectly illustrates why.

I'm glad I found that. I needed a laugh...

Subtitles unavailable

2011-08-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

Without getting into the pros and cons of kids watching TV, lets just say that I belong in the 'whatever gets you through the day' camp.

Some days are easy. I'm in a groove, I'm relaxed, and I'm on fire - in terms of entertaining the Faery and Miss Pie. Stimulating their little brains, and all that. Other days... well, the TV is my saviour.

When the Faery was a toddler in Australia, we figured out which shows were okay for her to watch.

By 'okay', I mean the visuals, voices, or songs didn't leave me wanting to bash my head, repeatedly, against a wall, and start downing glasses of wine at 10am. Shows such as Hi-5 had that effect, so that one was definitely avoided. If you're not from Australia, I dare you to click on the link. The off-key singing and costumes will make you want to vomit... not really selling it, am I? I also try to minimise exposure to Dora The Explorer, for my own sanity.

Shows that we liked (or weren't horrendously offended by) over the years were:

- Play School
- The Wiggles
- Bindi: The Jungle Girl
- Sesame Street
- Go Gabba Gabba
- Curious George
- Pingu
- Thomas & Friends
- Maisy
- Pocoyo
- In The Night Garden (seriously, what substances had been imbibed by the creators?)
- Peppa Pig
- Shaun The Sheep
- Fifi & The Flowertots
- Charlie and Lola

(Photo source)

Okay, so some of these still left me wanting to bash my head, but not as violently.

A large portion of the shows are British, because that's just how it seems to be in Australia - more British children's shows than Australian or American. As annoying as some of these shows were (hello, Fifi) I didn't mind having them on in the background because their accents were so lovely - especially the ones with regional voices. I always have time for a Scouse or Yorkshire accent.

Moving to the US, I realised we wouldn't have access to quite a few of the Faery's favourites any more. I was fine with that because as long as Sesame Street and Curious George were around, I knew I'd have a babysitter for at least an hour or so ~~a day~~ when needed.

I learned very quickly that Barney & Friends brought out the worst in me. He was banished.

For a while, our cable package included the Nick Jr channel, and a whole lot of old favourites from back home were available to us again. Joy! However, that joy turned to disappointment when I noticed that many of the British shows had been dubbed with American accents.

It's nothing personal about American accents, but I can't help wonder why this was done. Some head honcho of some company, somewhere, decided that American children may not understand British accents, perhaps? If so, give me a break - that's underestimating the intelligence of kids. Or maybe it was done for their parents' benefit? Who knows.

Shows such as Peppa Pig - where the voices are mostly from the south of England - have been left alone. However, Thomas & Friends, Fifi & The Flowertots, Maisy, and Bob The Builder (with voices from the north of England) have all received the dubbing treatment. It's a little sad, really. They had the best accents.

We no longer have Nick Jr. We only have one of the PBS channels that airs Sesame Street, Curious George, and a handful of other small children's shows. Before we stopped getting Nick Jr, I recorded a stockpile of some of their better shows on the DVR... but thank god for Netflix and it being able to stream Yo Gabba Gabba to us. That show has saved many a day.

And as I type? Miss Pie is ensconced in a Maisy DVD that I'd forgotten about, and have only just dug out.

Thank you Netflix, and thank you DVDs.

Five

2011-08-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

1981.

I know, what was with the dorky haircut? Do I look like Andy Warhol's love child, or what?

Blame it on the 80s, I guess.

(I remember my mum being furious with the hairdresser)

I was five.

In kindergarten, and from the look of it - my winter uniform.

I don't have any photos of my first day at school, but they must be floating around somewhere.

It's a rite of passage, isn't it?

The first day, out in the front garden.

Clad in a new uniform, purchased one or two sizes larger - to guarantee it will fit for a year.

Likewise, shiny black shoes - empty at one end, leaving room for growing toes. Big feet on scrawny legs.

(Maybe that was just me)

Anyhow, this experience is a given for most Australians, given our public schools' love of uniforms.

A few weeks ago, my Faery turned five.

In a few weeks' time, she'll be posing for her first-day-at-school photos.

Without a uniform.

I'm a little sad about that.

No over-sized uniform.

No shiny black shoes.

One thing's for sure - her bag will look huge on her.

It's not the same, though.

From the time she was born, and I began to imagine her starting school, it was always with a school uniform - it was before we'd even entertained the idea of living in the US for a few years.

Not having a uniform has its own advantages - no stressing on Sunday nights about what hasn't been washed or ironed - oh wait, I don't even have an iron.

(I never claimed to be a domestic goddess)

Lucky I won't be needing one, then.

So, regular clothes it is. She's so fixated on her favourite clothes that she'll probably want to wear the same two or three things, over and over.

Not that different to a uniform, really.

Still, looking at the new autumn clothes arriving in stores, I feel the need to go and buy a cute preppy outfit for the Faery to wear on her first day.

Something with checks. Preferably pleated... although there is the lack-of-iron issue. Hold the pleats, then.

And long socks are a must.

That's if she'll let me.

I'm sensing that a uniform would be harder for her to argue with. There's a lot to be said for having no choice.

Whatever. All I know is, it's going to be the end of an era, and the beginning of a completely new one for the Faery.

Sniff.

Banking on some art and soul

2011-08-13T23:55:00.000-07:00

Here's a little secret.

I love myself a bit of subversion.

No one would ever really put me in the rebel boat, but I have a lot of strong opinions and ideals - mostly all in my head. I'm just too lazy to do much about it, really. Sad but true. I did rock my Doc Marten boots that I wore back in the 90s, though.

Last night, I saw a brilliant documentary, although I'm wondering how real it actually is. Perhaps the whole story was a set up, but it was nominated for Best Documentary at this year's Academy Awards, so I'm going to give it the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the main 'character' of the film appeared to be so crazy, that kind of shit can't be made up.

The documentary I'm referring to is Exit Through the Gift Shop. If you like a good story, interesting (read: nutty) characters, and - like me - a bit of subversion, do yourself a favour. Watch it. It's almost worth it alone just for the lilting Welsh-accented narration (courtesy of Rhys Ifans).

The aforementioned features were all great, but what really got my juices going were the images of street art. They appealed very much to the inner artist/rebel in me (who never sees the light of day) - especially the work of Banksy. Clever social commentary, and all that.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm hip and have been following him all these years... but his name definitely rang a bell last night, and I'm guessing that perhaps he was blurrily on my radar when we lived in the UK. Whatever.

The term 'street art' doesn't really do him justice. What he creates is art, pure and simple. I won't waffle on with interpretations and discourse because I did enough of that when I studied Fine Arts to last me a life time.

Instead, I'll leave you with some of my favourite images of Banky's work.

Extra special because it was painted on to
the Israeli West Bank barrier... ballsy
(Photo source)

Likewise with this one
(Photo source)

Who doesn't love stained glass?
(Photo source)

Clever
(Photo source)

Aww...
(Photo source)

Poor Thomas
(Photo source)

I want someone to throw me some flowers
(Photo source)

I think I may have a new hero.

Mañana

2011-08-10T14:43:00.000-07:00

Last week, we spent four days in a beachside town, on the northern outskirts of San Diego. The town was called Encinitas, and was just what we needed to recharge our batteries.

Time slowed right down. Although we were still on the northern side of the US-Mexican border, there was much that reminded me of our time in Mexico, eleven years ago. I loved the proliferation of taquerias that dotted the coastal highway near our hotel. Those places are the real deal, along with small Mexican-run grocery stores, where tortillas are sold by the weight. Best of all, no one was in a hurry. When we were in Mexico, we joked about how laid back everyone was. It didn't matter what the situation was, no one hurried, and we'd say "Mañana, mañana" (tomorrow, tomorrow). It felt similar in Encinitas.

Our accommodation - arranged at the last minute due to unforeseen events - was a basic roadside hotel. The kind where you park your car just outside your room. It was fun, though. I was worried about all four of us in one room (hadn't done that since first moving to LA when Miss Pie was eleven weeks old... at eighteen months, she's a different sleeper) but the girls were fantastic. Our room was pretty much just a place to sleep, anyway.

Day time was for hanging out at nearby Moonlight Beach:

Day time was also for visiting San Diego Zoo - somewhere I've wanted to go for many years. We ended up getting a years' membership, so that we have an excuse to head down south again. It was actually better value, and it meant we didn't stress about rushing around and trying to see everything on one day. Knowing we'd be back one weekend made it much more relaxing.

We had close friends also staying in Encinitas. They had organised a house swap from where they live in Oregon, so late afternoons and evenings were spent at the lovely house they were staying in. Our kids all played together like they'd only been apart a few weeks, and we got to eat (and drink) up a storm, heading back to our hotel each night at an ungodly hour.

It was perfect.

Now it's back to real life, and the ho-hum of domestics. Outside, it's hot, and without the cooling ocean breeze that we had in Encinitas. We didn't get to run off to Las Vegas, for reasons I won't bore with. Let's just say not all the necessary conditions were in place. I'm disappointed, but we had such a brilliant time last week that I'm (kind of) okay about it. We had a local date night, so it wasn't a sad ending.

I do want to close my eyes, though. Open them, and be back in our little Encinitas hotel room. Everything was simpler for a few days (well, except the part about trying to do everything around a toddler's need for a midday sleep).

Sun, warmth, fun, great company, tipsy late-night conversations, kids dancing... must do it again.

PS - How adorable is Miss Pie, and how spunky is the Faery? She got her first case of sunburn (oops) but she now has the most golden-coloured skin to die for.

Burning London

2011-08-09T19:33:00.000-07:00

There were grand plans to come in here, wax lyrical about our little beach holiday, and share photos.

I will do that... but not today.

It doesn't help that I have the end-of-holidays blues. My little holiday had me walking on a high for a few days, but reading about the current London riots has sent me crashing back to earth - with a heavy thud.

Yes, I've whinged about my not-always happy time in London, but I would feel upset to read about these riots in any of the cities I've called home. Riots are riots - ridiculous.

I simply cannot comprehend the mentality behind such stupidity - why these people are incapable of thinking for themselves, and why they feel the need to destroy what's not theirs. What planet are they on?

Seeing the images, reading accounts, and hearing about it from friends, I'm grateful that we lived in - and experienced - the UK when we did. It was never a utopian experience, but a decade ago the economic and political climate was surely better than it is now.

I guess that's what happens when large groups of society would rather vote for ~~reality~~ elimination show contestants, than vote in a government election. Smart, huh? Much more chance of being stuck with an unpopular government. My take on it is if you didn't vote, tough shit. Suck it up and move on (just like in the US, voting is not mandatory in the UK.... I know - I was surprised, too. Australia seems to be in the minority on that one).

Don't even get me started on the looting. Such opportunistic scum - "I'm angry because someone was shot dead by the police in a different part of the city... I know, smashing windows and grabbing a plasma TV will make me feel so much better!" Is that how these people think? Or, more likely, there's an absence of thought process.

We had our share of drama and close calls with the Real IRA bombings and when we lived over that side of the pond. In July 2000, I was leaving for work one morning - only to see our street being evacuated by police. A bomb had been found on a major overland railway line, which carried all westbound overland trains out of London. This line ran along behind our row of houses and flats, and the bomb had been left under a nearby bridge - less than 400m from our backyard, I kid you not. Thankfully, the police used a controlled explosion on it, and no one was hurt. It was a worry, though.

Then in March 2001, I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed when I heard what I thought was a single clap of thunder. Odd, I'd thought. It turned out to be a car bomb explosion, outside the BBC Television Centre in White City - roughly 3km from where we were living.

In August, another car bomb went off, in Ealing Broadway - only 1.5km from us. Ealing was where we went to do our groceries and most other kinds of shopping, rent videos (back in the day!) from Blockbuster, and I'd even belonged to a gym near the station. That last part is hard to believe, I know.

J and I had been married at Ealing Town Hall - that same year - so Ealing holds a lot of memories for us. It was part of our 'hood.

After those explosions, we were a little nervous, but had always been aware of bomb threats (the first thing we'd noticed when we arrived in London was the lack of rubbish bins at the tube stations). We carried on living as normal, and the men behind the bombings were eventually caught.

It's a little like moving to Los Angeles. You know there's a chance of an earthquake but you try not to dwell on it.

At the end of 2003, we returned to Australia. In July 2005, London was changed forever by a series of suicide bombings, all in one morning. I'd had various connections to two of the bomb locations - nearby work, train line changes... I didn't sleep that night until I knew all my friends were okay. I can't even begin to imagine the horror of that day.

But back to Ealing... the most recent riots took place there overnight, and it's been surreal to see images of cars alight and buildings damaged. Ealing isn't a rough area. It's quite gentrified, and if riots of such force can happen there, they can happen anywhere. The thought chills me.

Summertime in London. It's the loveliest time to be there... but also seems to be when people go bonkers...

Postcard from California

2011-07-25T12:05:00.000-07:00

It's time for a small holiday break (or vacation, for those of you who speak Yankee).

Over the next couple of weeks, I have J's mum arriving for a few weeks, the Faery turning five (!), and a trip down the coast to the northern San Diego beaches - for a catch up with much loved, old friends. After we return to LA, if I'm super lucky, J and I might even be able to run away to Las Vegas (sans kids) for a night.

That last plan is just a tentative shadow, but I have my fingers crossed extra tightly - we desperately need a night away, just the two of us, and who knows when we'll get another opportunity for the Faery and Miss Pie to be in the excellent care of a family member.

I suspect that even if I was inclined to squeeze in some cyber ramblings amongst all these summer festivities, I may not actually have much internet access while we're away... so I'm going to call it a clean break for now, and be back in a few weeks. Hopefully I'll have a tale or three to tell, and you know there'll be pictures...

Squeezing sunshine from the storm

2011-07-22T17:53:00.000-07:00

We had news yesterday, about the unexpected death of someone we knew back home - someone who had helped J immensely in many ways, as a mentor and father figure.

It's been a kick in the gut for J.

This is the kind of stuff that forces me to stop. Breathe. Be. Forget the petty grievances, and squeeze my little rays of sunshine even harder.

Rest in peace, G.W.