Can someone please tell me how to actually DO my job?

 It's been a long (and wet!) summer break here and I'm back to work on Tuesday. I love my job and I'm itching to get back to it. Being a Teacher Aide means that I don't work during school holidays and the advantage of this is the long lie-ins on a Monday morning. Some of the disadvantages are: I don't get paid, I miss having lunch at work (the reason I actually go to work), I miss my friends, I miss the school kids, and, did I mention that I don't get paid?

Actually, Smiley and I are in a bit of a panic. We've always been part of a trio. We've been a clique. Smiley, Ant and Ange. It's taken the three of us to go to the Ladies' loo together, it's taken the three of us to stand at the back of school assemblies and look sternly at any kid who tries to walk in with a bag on their back. Where one of us has been spotted, the other two haven't been far away. We've laughed, cried, partied and hugged together.

Then Ant broke the news to us - she was moving. Smiley and I were devastated for ourselves and excited for her. Part of me wanted to tie her to the chair in "OUR" office and part of me wanted to release her like a bird that needed to migrate to a warmer climate.  Is Keri Keri really any sunnier than South Auckland?

Smiley and I have found ourselves in a bit of a predicament. Our roles in the workplace have always been very clearly defined.  Don't tell the boss but it has always been Ant who actually does all the worky-type stuff. In reality, she's the one who's been running the department all this time while Smiley and I wander about the workplace looking cute - and we do that job very well.  Once we'd absorbed Ant's news, Smiley and I just stared open-mouthed at each other and basically wet our pants!!! (metaphorically speaking). I don't even know where the teachers' plastic bags are - or even what they're used for.  I've been asked for said bags on a few occasions and have simply followed Ant's pointing finger and looked like a star when I've handed them over.

I did make a pathetic attempt at a Mr Spock styled Mind Meld on Ant to try and gain access to all her knowledge and expertise. Somehow all that sought after information just didn't manage the transfer from her brain to mine. So I set up a clearfile.  Up until now we've had all of our "important stuff" stuffed in a pink clearfile with the name "Cherie Nicholls" written on the front in vivid. Nobody knows who this Cherie was or is but her clearfile has come in handy every now and then - even though I don't really know exactly what's in there.  So I set up a newclearfile. A blue one, which seems like a very professional colour.  My plan in the last few weeks of the year was to put all my knowledge into that blue file so that Smiley and I would be all set for this coming Tuesday. The blue file is practically bursting with...ummm...emptiness.  That was Plan A.

It looks like Smiley and I are going to have to go with Plan B.  When asked to do any task, we will smile, nod and confirm that it will be given top prioritory. Then if it doesn't work out, we'll look cute and blame Mr D. Everyone blames Mr D ever since he started nicking people's lunches from the staff fridge.

I think I might google Cherie Nicholls...

False alarm

My 84 year old Mum was proudly showing me the new top she bought the other day.  Mum has a two bedroom unit and both rooms have wardrobes and tallboys bursting with clothes that she's bought over the years - each of them a bargain.  Mum never throws anything away. When I was 12 I counted her underpants...ummm...yes...I'm aware that might seem an odd thing for a 12 year old to do but it's now reasonably well-known that I have some degree of OCD.  I blame Jim Henson for creating Sesame Street. I grew up with The Count and his calculating ways.  Anyway, I counted about 53 pairs of underwear when I was 12 and I know that she hasn't parted with any of them since then so it must be quite a collection by now. I just wonder where she's storing it all.

Speaking of underpants, sometimes Mum "kindly" picks up a pair for me from the Asian Dollar stores around here and I'm afraid I just don't understand them. I can deal with them coming up to my armpits. That cuts down on the dreaded "VPL" that you get with tight skirts - although they do tend to create a wardrobe malfunction when I wear my hipster skinny jeans with them.  I can forgive the mistake of having them bought in the XL size when I'm only an S (really, I am!), but what I don't understand is the pockets. The knickers have pockets. Why? For what? Chewing gum? And how are you supposed to discreetly fish into your pockets when you have to dig deep into your undies?  Maybe it's time to cut the apron strings and buy my own lingerie.

Anyway, back to the flash new top that my mother bought the other day.  I have no idea how she's going to squeeze it into either of her already bulging wardrobes but I actually quite liked it.  It was a purple swingtop - not a colour I've seen Mum wear too often but I think it will suit her well.  But there was something about it...couldn't quite put my finger on it...until I picked up the label which clearly said: "Mum2Be"

"Ummm....Muuuuum...you're not in any trouble are you?"  I could tell that she knew exactly what I meant.
"It was on special".
"Errrrm....Mother...do we need to have a little talk?  Just how well HAVE you been getting along with the greengrocer lately?"

I'm the youngest in our family. I came along about a year before the pill became popular which I'm certain was a very pleasant shock...ummm..."surprise" for my parents...

...and I'm not about to be usurped as the spoiled baby!

A day out

"Are you awake?" I opened one eye in response to Beloved's question. "I've just rung the Ns, we're going to have a cup of tea with them at 2 o'clock this afternoon."

I like the Ns. They moved down to Hamilton last year when Mr N became the pastor of a little church there. It looks like this was going to be a good day but why was I being woken up at 8:30 am on my day off to be told about it?

"So get out of bed, we're leaving in half an hour. We're going to spend the day in Hamilton."
"What? You mean I can't check my Facebook messages first?"

With the promise of a day out in a different town, I did my best to comply and was ready about an hour or so later (after doing my hair and makeup).  It looked like a nice day to spend at a pretty park with the kids and maybe to check out that icecream shop I'd heard about.  I asked M, my 14 year old, if he felt up to the drive.  He's nurtured a moustache over the last year or two and it seems that one of the hair follicles was rebelling and had developed an infection.  A build up of pus had made his lips and face swell up and he was looking like a cross between the Elephant Man and Daffy Duck (meaning that he looked like an "ele**uck", which I'm far too polite to say and really isn't pleasant at all). He's had a trip to the doctor and hopefully the antibiotics will start doing their job soon. 

Evil, nasty thing!

 Two hours later, we were driving in the city centre itself looking for a car park.  This wasn't what I had in mind.  We could have driven just 25 minutes in the opposite direction to drive around looking for a car park in our own city.  It was hot and I was getting sticky and grumpy. Beloved doesn't like to pay for parking. I just wanted to get out the car. I offered to feed the parking meter myself and after some heated discussion which seemed to take an hour or so to resolve, we agreed on a spot outside the Warehouse. For those that don't know, this is the NZ equivalent to Walmart.  There is a Warehouse in every town and they are all the same.

Sensing that I was becoming disgruntled, Beloved tossed around a few cans of warm coke in an attempt to quench the temper tantrum. M was instantly covered in it as he tried to aim the can in the direction of his lips, which by now looked like a botched botox job. He couldn't speak and needed a straw. Meanwhile, Beloved and I discussed what our plan was for the time we had to fill in. His idea was to look at the shops. The exact same shops that we have in South Auckland. We were smack in the middle of the city centre, I had poured my cash into a hungry meter and there was nothing left for me to do but to stomp off to the Warehouse in search of straws (and more change for the ravenous meter). The next exciting activity was lunch at Burger King.

Men!  I was even less impressed than I had been at the parking meter: "You got me out of bed, hurried my beauty regime and drove me all this way just to shop at the Warehouse and eat at Burger King? I can't even eat at Burger King. I'm a Coeliac!" then with a "you just do your thing with the kids and I'll do my thing" I trudged off in search of a gluten free lunch.

We met up shortly afterwards and it was decided that Beloved and M would look at the shops. Guess what kind of shops they like to look at? BOYS shops. Shops with BOYS' toys. Shops that I don't like! C and I stuck together and attempted to look into girlie stores but we were quickly ditched by the boys.  So we sat and waited where a young man was busking (badly) outside the movie theatre.

C tries to make her own entertainment with a scrap of paper

It was a long wait. C got bored. I got bored. We scribbled notes to each other to pass the time. We played music on my cell phone to entertain ourselves. We started singing along to the songs. We were pretty good. We even got a couple of moves going.  Some old ladies smiled at C and I think one of them was starting to fish around in her purse. The busker was giving us filthy looks. That was our cue to move off his turf and do something else.

Have altered C's physical appearance in an attempt to protect her identity. She sounded better than Abba when she sang along to "Take a Chance On Me". If only we'd had a hat for the collection. Or a coffee cup. Wonder where we could have got a coffee cup?

I phoned a friend and complained bitterly about my predicament and men in general.  She was especially shocked to hear that the men in my life had desserted us to go shopping and practically left me to beg on the streets of a strange city with my 6 year old daughter.

2 o'clock eventually came and at last we met up with our friends. The day was redeemed and even M managed to press through the pain to force large helpings of chocolate cake into his mouth. It was a sacrifice he was prepared to make for the sake of being polite.  It really was great to catch up.

I was car sick on the way home.

Life changes

Bit of a stressful start to the New Year in this household. One meltdown by Yours Truly and one massive clot on Beloved's lung. It's funny how events can take an unexpected turn. A few weeks ago we were a busy family of 7 or 8 plus and now we're back to a quiet five.  With Beloved coming so close to the Pearly Gates on the 2nd January, we're now required to "take things more quietly".  Very sad for one of the fosties who thought he had a home for life and the other who had already had everything taken away from him when he was taken into care.  I have to admit that a chunk of my heart went out the door with them. Still, my laundry load has dramatically reduced and there sure are a lot less potatoes to peel. Even so, it's unnaturally quiet around here and I'm not sure if I like it one bit.

The day after Beloved's near fatal clot did the dirty on him, my absolute favourite step-daughter-in-law was off to buy pizza for the kids' lunch.  Beloved, still in the throws of a near death experience, stretches out a feeble arm and croaks: "There are discount vouchers in my bedside drawer". You've got to admire his commitment to saving a buck.  It sure is nice to still have him around <3

Tradition

Ahh Christmas! Love it. Hate the preparation but love the day itself and all that wonderful thought-provoking stuff behind the Reason.  I also love the traditions that we have built up in our family over the years. My kids probably won't remember many of the presents they received growing up (except maybe for that terrifying walking, roaring lion with the flashing red eyes that my mum bought for Beloved's grandson) but I can guarantee that they'll remember the Christmas Eve customs that have been in place for the last couple of decades. Things like listening out for Santa's sleigh bells, preparing his supper, putting out stockings and knowing that in the morning they'll be chocca with goodies with snowy footprints all over the lounge (that seem suspiciously like baking soda dropped in the shape of Mum's jandals). But the one that stands out for me is....drum roll please....the annual CLEANING OF THE TOILET(S). When a large man of advanced years has to deliver presents right around the globe while being plied with milk, cookies and mulled wine, it makes sense that he just might need to make a pitstop once in a while.  After all, he is just a man.  Last year the kids were actually fighting over who would get to do which loo.

C making sure that T has completed the job up to her high standards

We have a new fostie this Christmas and it all seems a bit foreign to him. He'd never seen a Christmas stocking before last night so he wasn't all that convinced when he was presented with a toilet brush.

One tradition I haven't been able to come to grips with is sending out Christmas cards. They're not cheap, you have to line up for half an hour to buy a stamp, they usually end up in the paper recycling bin by January and...I'm just a bit too...lazy.  Shocking I know but sadly true.  If I give a card, I'd much rather deliver it by hand and preferably with a gift.  Consequently a lot of friends have given up on sending cards out to me so my cards tend to be more consipcuous by their absence. This inactivity of mine stunned Beloved when we first married and his suggestion that I make up one of those corny family newsletters wasn't met with much enthusiasm by me either. 

NOT my wall!

A few Christmas Eves ago we got a call that some friends were popping in for a visit. I wasn't totally prepared for this and realised that things were looking a bit sparse on the decoration side - this was in the days before I purchased my giant inflatable Santa and Rudolph. What can I say? I panicked. String was found and hung from wall to wall across the ceiling with sticky tape. You can fix just about any problem with string and sticky tape. Cupboards and drawers were trashed as I managed to pull out every pack of budget Christmas card Beloved had collected over the years. I had those babies strung up and all evidence tidied away just as our visitors pulled into the driveway. It was shaping up to be a brilliant plan as our string of cards was admired:  "Oooooh, you've got a lot of cards!" (which pretty much translates to "Ooooooh, you're much more popular than we are!"). 

I would have gotten away with it if not for the question that followed: "Errrrmmmm....why don't all those cards have anything written inside them?"  To which Beloved replied, "Ange will explain..."

Merry Christmas all

Don't think of an elephant

I have the sudden urge to grow a mango tree. Not because I even like mangoes, but because during a conversation with Zeeb I learned that it's not exactly within the confines of NZ law to grow a mango from the seed of the fruit imported into the country for the sole purpose of eating. I did not know that and for that very reason, I desperately want to give it a go, not because I have a criminal mind but...because I've been told NOT to. Zeeb confessed that she bought a mango and has been secretly trying to get the seed to germinate and I was quietly impressed. It seems that the apple (or in this case, the mango) doesn't fall far from the tree. I also just happen to have a mango seed that I've been watching closely. But nothing has happened and I'm starting to get bored with it so I think I'll stick with tomatoes.

Thoughts are difficult to rein in from time to time. When you know you shouldn't think about something; when you've been expressly told not to think about something, you can guarantee that the very something you're not supposed to think about will turn into an elephant that you're not supposed to be thinking about.

The other evening I was on my way out for a banana split with R - something I enjoy immensely because R is totally awesome and usually splits her split in half so that I generally end up with one-and-a-half desserts. Don't you just love friends that feed you? Anyway, I was driving along, trying not to think about R's half of a banana split that I was hopefully going to eat (it would be rude to expect it, wouldn't it?) and I was feeling quite pleased with myself for being so in control of that elephant when something caught my attention at the reserve on the corner. There was a group of kids playing "something-that-involves-a-rugby-ball" and supervising the group was a very fine speciman of Samoan manliness. This guy had a six-pack, pecs, a six-pack, biceps...did I mention that he had a six-pack?

It's not that I was distracted from my driving or anything, but it was pretty difficult to miss him and impossible not to appreciate...ummm...God's handiwork. Imagine my HORROR when I realised that he was one of our STUDENTS from SCHOOL! I had taught him the 9 x tables just a couple of years earlier. This kid in a man's body is younger than two of my own kids! Get that stampede of elephants out of my head!!!! In fact, while you're at it, could somebody please gauge out my eyes while he goes and puts a shirt on? Although not as unpleasant, the feeling was almost as bad as when our 2IC changed his shirt in front of me and I was exposed to a hairy snail trail working its way over his lint-filled belly button. *Shudder* there was no six-pack on that occasion and I wouldn't have objected to being struck blind then either!

So I'm giving up on mango trees and six-packs. I want nothing more to do with them!

Confessions of a delusional housewife

Sometimes my mind is like my own little playground. I don't know about you but just once in a while (like - ohhh, I don't know - every day) my thoughts get a little carried away.  This afternoon I was dipping my pet chickens into a bucket of cold water, as you do, when something interesting happened. Well, it was interesting to me. But before anybody calls the SPCA perhaps I should clarify that my two frizzle hens are broody again and the cold water treatment is meant to snap them out of it. It's not working.

So I dunked my bird into a bucket of cold water (which considering it's a hot 30 degrees celsius outside, was quite refreshing for both of us) and gave her a bit of a cuddle (as you do):

Reconstruction with Pepsi: Not actual photo of actual wet chicken

Then we had a bit of a moment. I perched Pepsi the hen onto my outstretched arm and she actually STAYED there! Normally she's a very frisky bird who has given me a few good peckings but it appears that on this one occasion I had tamed the beast! That's when my thoughts drifted away. I straightened my back, stuck out my chin and thought of this:

Pepsi and Ange, the grecian huntress

I literally BECAME Diana the Huntress. It took a good ten minutes of posing before I realised that Pepsi had deserted me and was scratching about in the nesting area again. I don't think Pepsi would have made a good hawk afterall and besides, I would probably rescue any prey from her beak anyway. I guess that means I wouldn't make of a huntress either.  I'm not too sure if any of my neighbours saw me and assuming that they would have had no comprehension of  my dramatic transformation into a greek heroine, it might have seemed a little odd for a middle aged woman in suburban Rewa to be holding up a scraggy chook with such self-importance.

I decided to share my experience with Zeeb. Her comment was that she could imagine my life as a sit-com.  She wondered if I could actually hear the harp music and see the waves that usually occur in dream sequence.

So that's todays excitement. A bit of a slow day I guess.