The Trip - Part V

Luang Prebang - is it just me or does that seriously sound like a name of a place made up by a 5 year old? Never the less, this is where we spend the next leg our journey.

On arrival in Laos, Geoff and George get waved through (probably because of George's wheelchair) and the girls and I are left to fill in 5 long forms before queueing behind the multitude of tourists, all holding their forms plus passport photos. Hmmm. We have no such photos. I think I missed that detail which I later find in the small print of our itinerary. As it transpires, should you ever happen to be in that part of the world, it's not essential to have a passport photo, you can (thank god!) pay an addition US buck per person and they copy the one in your passport. Phew! So after a long wait fuelling some unnecessary anxiety, we're finally issued with visas and admitted into Laos.

The first evening is magic as we meet up with close friends from Sydney for dinner. Just not enough time, but loved every minute at a fancy-pants restaurant (well, fancy-pants by Laos standards anyway).

The next day, yes, more wats...ahhhh! And that's where the picture of that toilet comes in. E had the worst runny bottom (and we've had lots over our years of travel). She's complaining of feeling sick and of course as you know, my sympathy runs deep so I say for god's sake pull yourself together and get in that van. So she does.

We arrive at the first wat - and she needs to go. Like, right now. We're directed to that toilet. Armed as I traditionally am with a roll of toilet paper and a packet of wet wipes wrapped in a hotel shower cap (yes, that too can be handy in moments like these - happy to explain if necessary -drop me a line) we survive. We get back to the wat...and George needs to go. OMG. Eighteen years old, taller than me by a long shot, unable to even stand on his own - and a filthy squat toilet our only option.

Geoff and I make our way through the building rubble back to that toilet, strip poor G from the waist down, support him from either side, position him over the drop and in that split second, he lets a huge one go. Geoff and I are practically high-fiving each other we're so proud. I don't think I could have felt more satisfied if I'd dropped that myself!!!

Back to the tour....E's feeling like crap (pardon the pun) and George has had enough so Geoff and I and Sass walk to the top of the giggle-inducing Mt Phou Si (pronounced Pussy). I buy Sass three small finches in a bamboo cage to release for good luck. Those birds ain't silly and I suspect they've been caged and released more times that I've had hot dinners!!

Next time.... the strange courting rituals of the Laos hill tribes....

CRAFT's Disease

The other day someone at work asked if I could remember anything about some TV scripts that were presented a couple of years ago. I could and with exacting detail, which caused my colleague to note what a great memory I have. In truth, it’s a bit patchy. There are some things I remember with absolute clarity – my partner reckons I can remember everything I’ve ever eaten at every lovely restaurant – but that’s not actually true.

It’s also been said that I know a heap of useless information – not the kind of useless information that’s useful at a trivia night – just useless stuff, like what a caboose or a mitochondria is.

But there are times when my memory is shot. Like when someone said they’d been to a Thermo-Mix party in the street next to mine – do you think I could remember what the hell that street is called??

Mum calls it CRAFT ‘s disease – Can’t Remember A F-ing Thing.

So when I read the book – Still Alice by Lisa Genova, about a woman coming to grips with early on-set dementia, it was a little bit scary.  It’s a truly great book so I lent it to a friend. I thought it was my friend Sophie, so after a few months I sent her an email:

Me: Hi Sophie, did I lend you the book Still Alice?

Sophie: Not that I recall. What was it about?

Me: A woman with early on set dementia.

Sophie: Are you getting the irony of this?? And no, I don’t remember you lending it to me or reading it. Should I be worried?

My friend Kate used to say our minds were so filled up that it was inevitable stuff would start to drop out. But if it’s stuff I’m interested in, like creative ideas, food and useless stuff, I’m pretty good at keeping that in!

How’s your memory?

Spelling

It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that I’m not the world’s greatest speller. It’s been a life long plague that my mother kindly described as ‘creative spelling’ and that appears to have been passed on to my children.

One of the girls wrote a note to Elaine, her teacher in Grade 2, after continually being asked to be quiet. She pretended it was from me.

Der Elan, my dorta (and she managed to spell her own name correctly) is alowd to tork in clas.

Okay, it could have been me, but it wasn’t.

The situation isn’t helped by the fact my partner likes to constantly remind us all that he was the Grade 6 Spelling Bee Champion at his school. (Which I particularly like to remind him of when he sends me emails with glaring errors – there’s that MBA shining through!)

I can only hope that high school is going to be able to sort out my daughter’s spelling, but I’m also hoping you’re all being vaguely forgiving of mine….

Human Nature

Friday night found me at a Human Nature concert. ‘Why’ is what I’m hope you’re asking  yourself if you have any idea of the type of person I am! Well, my oldest son has disability and his friend from the special school was going, so naturally he wanted to go too. His mum, Tara, tells me he loves boy bands so he can sing along. Fair enough. To date, my son has loved bands like Cold Play, Green Day and, for his Make A Wish wish, even met The Killers. I was afraid his disability, which is progress, had now spread to his taste in music.

So, back to the concert…I had no idea elevator music could draw such a crowd! My enthusiasm was, perhaps, marred by the four hours sleep I’d had the night before due the client/agency Christmas party, a hectic day at work including a client breakfast and a lunch, plus the fact I was having 19 for Christmas dinner the next night and had so far, done absolutely nothing about it.

Thankfully there was time before the show started to skull a glass of champagne – purely for medicinal purposes. We ran into another girl from my son’s class who was there with her parents and sitting next to us in the wheelchair access bays. In fact, I’d have to say there were a lot of people there with disability and the rest were even more middle aged that me – so on the upside, I felt young! And at least all they were all enjoying it.

I’d joked during the day with my colleagues, singing ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ couple with some slick 80s style aerobics moves and I was not disappointed – that’s exactly how they opened the show. Followed closely by some Barry Manilow (including the classic ‘Oh Mandy’) by which stage I sent a text to Tara, a few seat away, saying ‘Kill me now…”. (For those Barry fans, I just Googled to see how to spell his name, to discover he’s touring Australia in April!! Get in quick. What a shame we’ll be in Africa….). They decreed nearly every song ‘special to us’ and everyone they worked with in Vagas as ‘legend’.

I should have enjoyed in more, I knew all the words, but really, I felt like I was trapped on a cheap cruise ship in the South Pacific were at least the cabaret is included in the price, and hey, you’ve got nothing else to do in the middle of the ocean!

At least it wasn’t a late night. Even the boys were keen to get going before the inevitable encore. On the way out, I asked my son what he’d give the show – out of 10. He hesitated. ‘Five’, was the final verdict.
‘And what would you give the Green Day concert?’
‘Ten.’ Phew - I was so relieved!

Good Help

The old adage is true; it’s hard to get good help.

I know I’m spoilt when it comes to having assistance on the domestic front, but I do have exacting standards (although you’d never know it looking at the state of my desk at work…)

We had a domestic goddess a while back who’d clean, wash, fold, put everything back where it went, rearrange the linen cupboard, refold and colour coordinate every thing in my wardrobe and on occasion, even throw dinner in the oven on her way out. Then she moved.

Our current cleaners are lovely, lovely people. When they first started, they said to just write anything down that needed doing. What I quickly discovered is their grip on the local language is as tenuous as a wet bar of soap. One minute they seem to have a fairly firm grip, the next it’s completely shot out of their grasp.

I did leave them a note, once, asking if they could put the clean washing back in the cupboard. They said they’d seen a note but couldn’t read my writing. Seriously, I had printed like a 12-year-old high school girl, so don’t think typing it in 36 point would have actually help.

Nearly every doona is in its cover side ways, there are single sheets on the queen sized bed and dust thick enough to grow tomatoes on the bookshelves.

Last night I noticed the spider webs on the ceiling fan in our bedroom are now so elaborate, I’m torn between attending to them myself or just spraying them silver for Christmas.

But the bathrooms are clean, their folding is so good it’s slashed my ironing bill and they are lovely, lovely people. Where did I put that can of silver spray paint??

Sliding doors....

Not the crap movie with that stupid concept that we’re all living parallel lives.  We’re not people!! This really is it.

No, the sliding doors I’m referring to are on my car – well, van probably. It has two – one on each side.

A work colleague sternly warned me after the returning from maternity leave for the third time that one more, and I would be looking at vehicle with sliding doors. Amazingly, that didn’t deter me and I went back for another. Although I think even three and being a Cub Leader – sorry, Assistant Cub Leader – is probably justification enough.

I don’t love my van, but I am missing it. The practicality and convenience of sliding doors is a bit like pre-sliced cheese; once you start using it, it’s very hard to go back. It’s been at the panel shop for about 5 weeks. It suffered from hail damage (similar to my thighs…if only I could book those in for repair and claim it on insurance!) and then got rear-ended by Tom outside work. Which, as it turned out, was kinda fortuitous, as the insurance company wouldn’t kick in for a loan car for hail damage alone, it had to be involved in an accident. Thanks Tom!

People do seem to be surprised I drive a van, despite the fact it is black, has dark tinted windows, is European and has leather seats. A guy at work said he thinks it’s hilarious – the way I dress and that I drive a van…hmmmm…I’m still not sure how to take that. Suggestions welcome.

So I’ve just rung that fancy-pants brand’s panel shop again and no, it'll be a few more days yet of struggling like a normal person with doors on a fixed hinge.

PS If anyone is reading any of these ramblings, it’d be great if you could subscribe (via the email is probably easiest – on the right hand side) and or leave a comment. I’m feeling lonely!!!!

To Tu or not Tutu?

I was meeting a new client the other week and of course, the eternal big question; what to wear?? You only ever have one chance to make that first really big impression – before they get to know you and have in confirmed that you really are kind of odd.


My dress sense is  - well - not your typical corporate attire. Luckily, I work in a reasonably liberal office and no-one actually cares. So, in summing up my style (I use the word loosely) my daughters like to continuously remind me I’m not sixteen anymore. I, on the other hand, the glass-half-full view, remind them that the only thing worse than mutton dressed as lamb, is mutton dressed as mutton. And I’m sticking to that until I can no longer dress myself.
I worked with Jacqui for a while and while we were out one day, we notice an slim, older woman not only wearing a shapeless floral dress but some really chunky Jesus sandals to go with. “So, at what point do you suddenly think that’s okay?’ asks Jacqui in bewilderment. We are both lulled into a depressing silence.
So, back to the new client. I ask my colleague for her advice. “Not the tutu” she says definitively. “Why not the tutu?” I ask, just a little crushed. “Because they don’t know you and it screams that you’re a woman not to be fucked with.” Wow. I had no idea it was so powerful…..hasn’t worked on the kids!

W.E.M.

Is anyone else getting the fingers? The three making ‘W’, ‘E’ and ‘M’ in front of the forehead denoting ‘What Ever Mother…’ Nice.

I’m getting it a lot from Kid 3. She’s reached that age.

She’s also inclined to go around the house singing, sometimes wearing her iPod. It’s not good. And I figure if I don’t tell her, who will? “Put that cat out of its misery!” I yell so she can hear over the deafening volume of Lady Gaga.

“Mum, as a mother, you’re supposed to encourage me….that hurt my feelings.” (Dragged out whinny at the end, just to replicate the same reaction I have to fingernails down a blackboard.)

“Yeah, well, check that job description and I think you’ll also find it’s my job to embarrass you, and I take that part really seriously.”

She knows this because during a recent clean out, I pointed out how much crap she had flowing out of a small chest of drawers.

“I know Mum, but don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I can nourish it down to one drawer.”

Once I’ve stopped laughing, I ask her if she actually knows what ‘nourish’ means.

“No, not really”

“Clearly!”

Naturally, I though this was so funny I tell everyone who’s over.

“Mum, would you stop telling everyone, you’re so embarrassing."

Yes, I am! So, W,E,D – What Ever Daughter – right back at you!!