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I’ve been asking a lot of people recently if they know the definition of irony. Mainly due to an episode of Futurama, where Bender continuously reclassifies people’s “irony” comments as coincidence, happenstance, and a few other words I’ve forgotten. I even looked it up in the dictionary, but the definition was too hard to understand. I wondered if it was an example of irony in it’s own right.

Anyway, all of this is a long precursor to an event on Wednesday afternoon, when, after nine days of feeling unwell, I was celebrating my return to health by baking a coconut cake and helping Miss M with her homework. Pilchen, who was inside, asked to be let out, so Miss M obliged, and ran back to the kitchen to tell me Pilch had climbed a tree and looked like she was going to kill a bird. Deep in cake mix, I made some flip remark like “silly old Pilchen won’t catch a bird, don’t worry”. A couple of seconds later, Miss M went to check on proceedings and came running back, crying and screaming that an ironic fate had befallen the bird. I silently cursed the cat, and ran to the front door to see if I could perform a rescue mission, but was too late.

Miss M was totally hysterical, and any explanation I tried to make about a cat being a wild animal, or designed to kill (yeah, I couldn’t believe I came up with that either) didn’t make much difference. Then she asked me if a cat could kill a human, and I thought carefully before replying with a definite “no”, since my last soothing comments had been such a lie.

So I’m hoping Pilch won’t prove me wrong by suddenly leaping the fence and taking down a passerby, because that would be hard to explain to the child. Hoping even more she doesn’t take me down during the night when she appears to be sleeping quietly in the corner …

Today I’m loving: rereading Michael Connelly’s first seven books in four days

Our council no longer does their twice yearly hard rubbish collection, much to the disgust of many who loved to peruse the piles of trash and find the treasure within. Mr Dog is especially sad, having spent hours sniffing, nuzzling and of course, marking the cast offs as we walked the streets in the build up to pick up time.

Now it’s a solo pursuit, and having recently upgraded my mattress and several other items of household furniture, and collectively decided putting a frying pan underneath our leaking washing machine was perhaps not the way to go, James and I organised our very first hard rubbish collection.

James had hurt his back a day before we had to load everything outside, but it didn’t really disturb me, because I’m strong enough to carry heavy and/or awkward things, so hauling a queen size futon mattress, giant bookshelves, and putting the washing machine on a sheet, dragging it to the front door then tilting it from corner to corner until it was out on the nature strip didn’t really seem too hard. Within minutes, someone had knocked on our door to ask if they could take some things, and almost half of our stash of unloved goods had been claimed.

The next day, the rubbish had gone, our garage was swept, and I’d even mowed the lawn. Feeling quite domestically proud, we discovered a cheap washing machine at a large chain store just over the road. We bought one, arranged delivery, and when the machine arrived, I unpacked it, thinking I’d have it set up within minutes, with my current record.

Unfortunately things weren’t so easy, since the machine was missing the water pipe, rendering it totally useless. I got on the phone, spoke to the squeaky voiced teen in charge of that department, and spent the next forty five minutes trying to explain that unless they could get me a water pipe, I wanted the machine gone. It was the best complaining I’ve ever managed, and finally the guy agreed they’d come and take it away in the morning. Luckily I got to pass the baton to James, since I had to work the next day.

Very soon after I’d hung up the phone, I had the third of four practice massage clients arrive. The diploma I’m doing requires 90 hours of massage by the time the practical exam happens, so I’m trying to get as many happening as I can. Earlier on the same day, my massage table had oddly broken in the middle, so being the kind of girl who puts a frying pan underneath a washing machine, I bought some gaffer tape, lay underneath the table with my stapler, and made some repairs. At this point, I’ll also mention before the breakage, the piece that had broken was only secured with staples, so this isn’t quite as insane as it sounds.

The second client had been fine on the table, and the third went swimmingly until the massage was over. Again, the middle section broke off. About now a light went off in my brain. This table was meant for pregnant women, and until these massages, I hadn’t ever got anyone to turn over on it. The main section of the table has a pop out stomach piece, and it was rapidly becoming clear it wasn’t for non-pregnant usage. So because the third and fourth massages were back to back, I spent several minutes re-stapling the table, which of course collapsed in the middle of the massage. I ended up having to gaffer tape around the whole centre to ensure non-breakage. All in the presence of the person I was massaging, which must have been almost as relaxing for him as it was for me.

By the end of the day I was destroyed, and sweating crazily. I hated that table more than anything in the world, and wished I’d put it out on the nature strip the night before with the stupid futon mattress. But cooler heads prevailed, and I bought myself a new table on Saturday, which is so beautiful, so wonderful, and so solid and safe I can’t help loving it. So, out of adversity, excellent massage tables are purchased. The washing machine … seems to be a different story.

Today I’m loving: this picture, courtesy of the flickr mosaic maker

I love free stuff - and who doesn’t? Over the last couple of years I’ve noticed a fabulous trend of value adding, which means a lot of my favorite magazines come with free mascara, lip gloss and every other variation of makeup, bags, necklaces … the list goes on forever.

The problem I have with many “giveaway” things, is any requirement to post a coupon. Not because of postage price, but because I have an inability to post things. I have stamps in my wallet, I live ridiculously close to a post office, which is even open on Saturdays. Hell, I could chuck my letter into the mail at work and know it’d get sent. But something stops me every time.

Anyway, the point of this story is somewhat circuitous, so let me take you back to May, when I finally decided my stove top coffee machine just wasn’t cutting it anymore. While we were camping, I loved it. Back home, even the most gourmet beans tasted bitter, whatever temperature I tried made no difference … and a woman who goes to work at 5.40am needs her coffee, dammit!

So I went to Myer in the city, looking for a moderately priced machine. I discovered the most beautiful red, retro manual machine and decided immediately I wanted it. More expensive than I’d intended, but it was like a work of art, and I didn’t care how user friendly or unfriendly it was. Enter the saleswoman, who proceeded to tell me how much work this machine would be. I could feel myself getting angrier at her as we discussed cleaning (like posting, I have no ability to do this), how long it would take to make two cups of coffee … and then she showed me a couple of other machines, which were much less glam (read not red), stocky, workman-like ugly things. Also more expensive. I didn’t like them. But then, she told me about the free $350 Jamie Oliver cookware that came with those ugly little machines, and suddenly, I liked them a whole lot more.

And to give that saleswoman credit, I LOVE my fully automatic, ugly, squat machine. When I showed it to Bike Boy, he was impressed at it’s automatic cleaning function, because as he said, “let’s face it, you’re a pig”. Sounds harsh, but I couldn’t argue. One of the first questions he asked when we met was whether I’d class myself as a neat freak or a pig. I tried to think what the right answer would be, but decided to go down the path of truth and partly covered my mouth as I replied “pig”. When he came to my house for the first time, he looked around, quietly whistled in that way people do when they’re either horrified or impressed (I’m still not sure which it was) and said “you’re really not a neat freak, are you?”.

So with the machine firmly ensconced, I left the coupon where I’d be reminded to post it. On the floor near the front door seemed like the right place. And I walked past it. Walked over it. Pilchen, Mr Dog and Miss M all walked over it. James, who is a neat freak, made pointed remarks about it. Until finally I picked it up, realised the three months I’d had to post it was days away from expiring and there was some fairly hardcore paperwork to transcribe from my purchasing details. I did it, and got it to the post office with moments to spare. Then I waited. And waited … and so on and so forth.

Eight weeks went by. Nine weeks went by. Ten weeks was creeping up, and I kept thinking about how close to the wire I’d left my sending. But today, I got my giant box with two amazing pieces of cookware. Just in case you wondered, a fabulous grill pan, and a groovy saucepan, which is heavy duty and can go in the dishwasher.

So, with a ten week wait to curse my inaction, I’ve changed my ways. Last week I posted three coupons, this time for makeup products I don’t really need, and may not use (Miss M, however, will appreciate anything I don’t want). Now if I could just get onto paying my credit card on time, I’d be practically perfect!

Today I’m loving: as I’m writing this post, my glorious coffee machine is cleaning itself. Don’t tell Bike Boy, but I think I’m in love …

Miss M and I have just come back from seeing Mamma Mia, courtesy of one of my gorgeous clients (thanks Clive!).

It was a very sweet film, with just the right amount of emotion, laughs, and Stellen Skarsgaad, who I suddenly have a bit of a thing for. My favorite thing about it though, was my nine year old child knowing almost all the words to the songs.

I’m not really sure how it happened, since my home has been an ABBA free zone since I hit my teens, but I could hear her singing under her breath to nearly every tune. ABBA were definitely a huge part of my early life, and I can still remember being at my friend Imogen’s house when I was younger than Miss M, dressing up and performing for her parents (how delighted they must have been!). The only issue was both of us having dark hair meant we always fought over who would be Annefried. I’m not sure why we didn’t want to be the blonde.

Then slowly as I grew up, I moved into a a phase where their poppy tunes no longer held me in thrall, and strange smock-like clothing didn’t rock my world any more. It might’ve been when I discovered Au-Go-Go records and their mailing service, and started worshipping the Ramones. Ah Joey, no one will ever replace you in my mind.

Anyway, I digress. In the last three months we’ve been to see three musicals. Again, courtesy of Clive, we got preview tickets to Wicked, and I have never seen Miss M so enthralled by anything. She sat on the edge of her seat, gripping the armrests with white knuckles. The show was long, and we didn’t get out of the theatre until after 11pm, but she was so pumped on adrenaline she couldn’t relax.

A couple of weeks ago, my father Josh came to stay with us, and we took him to see Guys and Dolls as his birthday present. Totally different in style to Wicked, and a much less glamorous show, Miss M was still quite captivated, and for days afterwards I was treated to random songs from the show, most notably, “Sit down you’re rocking the boat”, which was used any time I tried to get her to do anything she didn’t want to. She’s also quite partial to “I’ve got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere, and there’s a guy who says that if the weather’s clear …”, but she needs a partner in crime to sing the “can do” part. Josh often obliged.

Miss M is now talking about becoming a costume designer or movie make up artist, and I was impressed to see she noticed the difference in Meryl Streep in Mamma Mia and The Devil Wears Prada, and after seeing Madonna’s new film clip this morning mentioned how much makeup she had on to cover up the “old lines”, going on to point out exactly which “old lines” she meant. I stifled my horror, since if Madonna has “old lines”, I have no hope, but there’s no denying she’s right.

Some time in the distant future, when she’s helping me cover up signs of age, and advising me on my wardrobe choices, I’ll think back to these three stage and screen events (and Clive), and their impact on my maniacal girl, who loves glitz and glamour, and rightly belongs in exactly that world.

Today I’m loving: Joshua from the US So You Think You Can Dance. That guy is unbelievable!

Recently I came to the conclusion my life is a series of obsessions. The conduit to this conclusion was, ironically enough, my current obsession - online mahjong.

Happily, I can place the blame elsewhere, squarely at the feet of my Bike Boy, who recently got a new computer, which had a mahjong game on it. Within seconds, I was hooked, and nothing else was of interest - except the different layouts I could put the tiles into, and possibly changing the background to authentic seagrass matting.

And maybe Bike Boy isn’t the only one to blame. When I was little, I used to stay with my grandparents in Launceston quite often. That may or may not have been due to the fact I was a slightly rambunctious child, not unlike my own Divine Miss M, who now stays with her own grandparents in Hobart. Not often, but for long stretches of time, to make up for the lack of often-ness.

My grandmother, Mavis, had a social group of about six other women, who would go for walks, have morning tea, and also play mahjong - not online, but hey, it was back in the seventies. I remember being fascinated by the tiles, the tiny, tiny dice and the little coloured discs which I’m sure I used to put in my mouth (possibly swallowing some), and always wanting to play with the delicate little ivory stick included in the set.

That set is now one of my most prized possessions, along with Mavis’s coffee grinder, and a necklace she always wore when I was little, which I still love as much as I did when I was about five. Miss M now plays with it when I wear it, continuing a beautiful trend which will hopefully go on for generations. The delicate little ivory stick I mentioned before has been broken in half (I wonder by whom?), and there do appear to be several coloured discs missing, but the tiles are all there, still as beautiful as I remember.

Back when I still worked in television, a friend of a friend of mine was making beautiful jewellery from antique dominos and mahjong pieces. I toyed with the idea of selecting a piece of mine and having a necklace made, but the idea of the set not being complete broke my heart. When I pulled out the case the other day, I was overwhelmed by such an enormous sense of nostalgia and beautiful happy memories, I was really pleased I’d decided against the jewellery. Miss M and I went through the tiles and selected our favorites, and I told her about Mavis and her friends, incredible Neenish tarts and scones, and walks along the Tamar River with a bunch of older women who were really amazing people.

Sadly, the rules for non-virtual game are more than my brain can handle at the moment, so I’m going to stick with the Shockwave version of Daily Mahjong, and I’m quite proud of myself for sticking to my limit of only the daily ones, rather than look at my watch and realise I’ve played a thousand games (don’t laugh people - it could easily happen!).

So there you go, a little confession to finish the week. Possibly followed by more next week. I make no promises though!

Today I’m loving: the tiara I bought on ebay last night (and that sentence possibly includes two allusions to future confessions).

This is a bit of a Clayton’s post, but hey, it’s been a while, and a girl’s got to find her way back slowly okay?

Today as I was coming home from massage school on the tram, my mind was wandering, which is fairly common. Don’t ask me why, but I started thinking about my all time favorite wrestler, Triple H. Anyone who knows me, or has read this site previously, knows I love wrestling. In fact, it was heavy immersion (hiring every wrestling video from Movieland) in this sport of kings over a three week period which led me to my current job, and gave me the ability to make friends with nearly any twelve to fifteen year old boy who isn’t too fussy about how current my information is.

Triple H, back in those days, was the coolest because he was such a great heel, or bad guy. He married the boss’s daughter in a strangely circuitous scam, lied, cheated, used a crappy finishing move, but had the verbal skills and the work ethic to pull it all together and make me love him. I’m not claiming I still love him, but I do remember those feelings fondly.

A few years ago, my wonderful friend Jade showed me a clip of Triple H doing rehab after he’d torn a quad muscle and been unable to wrestle for seven months. Because this was a promo for his big re-appearance, it was edited brilliantly, has a great song as background music, and at the 2.31 mark … a magical quote.

This three minute piece of film used to be my coping mechanism for almost anything going wrong - I’d watch it, and find myself inspired (by a close to 400 pound madman!). But I lost the DVD, and haven’t seen it, or maybe needed to see it, in ages.

Today we started the deep tissue unit of the massage diploma, and it’s all just a little scary and new again - easy to feel overwhelmed. So I checked out You Tube, and lo and behold, my video was there. So now I’m putting it here. If you don’t want to watch it all, just cut to the 2.31 mark, and listen to the inspiring quote. You might not like wrestling, or the man in question, but you can’t deny what he’s saying is great advice.

So here it is. Thanks Triple H - I might’ve moved on, but we’ll always have these three minutes.

Today I’m loving: my gorgeous daughter, who knows how to laugh, even in the toughest of situations

After eighteen solid months of growing my hair, I’d finally had enough of all of it being the same length, and veering between the two mandatory styles for a 5am riser - pulled back (my favorite, especially on mornings when my hair seems to have a mind of it’s own) or a crazed mane unable to be tamed by brush or styling products. By styling products I mean organic coconut oil, so perhaps that’s where the problem lies.

Last Monday I decided I wanted a fringe (aka bangs, which I kind of prefer, but no one here seems to know that term). Because I know any hairdresser is unable to listen to the instruction “please don’t cut the fringe above my eyebrows”, I thought I’d do it myself. Then I flashed back to the last time I cut Miss M’s hair, and thought again. Conveniently, I had to pick her up from her father’s house, and he just happens to be a fringe cutting master. Ten minutes later, he was holding a huge handful of hair, and I had funky bangs like a Fitzroy hipster, which is convenient, since that’s where I work.

The next morning reality hit. Before, my uni-length hair meant a loop of elastic was all I needed to make myself presentable. At 5.10am I looked in the mirror and noticed the fringe had decided my bathroom was zero G’s and was now pointing to the ceiling*

The stupid coconut oil was no help at all, so I resorted to soaking the hair with water and moulding it with my hand, then I ran out the door cursing my vanity. But, I’d underestimated the hair styling capacity of my bike helmet and now I like my new hair.

I’ve had about fifteen people at work not recognise me, been told I look about ten years younger, and one of Miss M’s friends said I looked too young to have an eight year old child - and is consequently my favorite friend of Miss M’s, welcome in my home at any time! I also like it because it reminds me of Sean Young’s hair in Blade Runner, and it looks like Betty Page’s bangs - although she clearly didn’t mind her eyebrows showing.

Just as a small non-haircut aside, I did my first theory assessment for the massage course last week and got a perfect score. When I told Miss M, she gave me a hug and said “Mummy, I’m so proud of you. I never expected you could do so well”. Let’s just say it took the gloss off the moment slightly.

Today I’m loving: the rowing machines at work, which I used twice last week, and am trying hard not to get obsessed with. But let’s just say next time I get on there, I’m doing better than 2910m’s in fifteen minutes.

*I used to learn Kung Fu from an Australian teacher who pronounced l’s as r’s, possibly to make him more authentically Asian. Our whole class had an ongoing competition to see who could get him to say the most l’s/r’s, and would ask “where should we point our fingers?” His answer - “to the ceiring”. When we discovered he had an Old English Sheepdog, let’s just say our questioning was merciless. Now every time I hear the word ceiling I can’t help chuckling.

Over the past couple of days, I’ve learned a huge life lesson, one that may explain why many of my, and other people’s relationships have failed, and may fail yet again. Gather closely friends, as I reveal my terrifying secret … communicating is hard!

Like most people, I have many skills. Previously, I would’ve counted communicating among(st?) them. I spend my day at work showing people how to do difficult things, finesse their technique with carefully chosen words … I’m a mother to a girl I’m fairly sure I have an awesome relationship with - there must be some communication there.

But put it in a relationship sense, and things get difficult. You may already be surmising, but yes, it’s true - Bike Boy and I hit that all important relationship marker - the first argument - and unfortunately, he’s just as stubborn and pedantic as I am. As these things always seem to be, it was over nothing. But as well as the “nothing” there was also “something”, which seemed to have nothing to do with the “nothing”. So we talked. Talking turned into arguing, then tears, then everything was okay, apart from exhaustion like I’ve never known.

Several things puzzled me about our argument. We’re open and honest with one another, which actually freaks me out a bit. I feel like I can say anything, and won’t be judged harshly for it … and yet, I don’t. I spent some time yesterday thinking about previous arguments I’ve had, things I’ve said and haven’t said, and came to the conclusion I’m way too stubborn for my own good. I know there are times when I’ve deliberately not been honest because I feel the other party should work it out for themselves - why should I make it easy for them? Then things get horribly adversarial, and only ugliness can follow. I came to other conclusions as well, but I’m going to keep them to myself … but not out of lack of communication, okay? Just because I want to.

So, instead of withholding this information from Bike Boy, as would be my usual behaviour, I came clean. After I’d finished, he admitted he felt exactly the same, and suddenly I didn’t feel like such a loser anymore. So, we’ve come up with a strategy for dealing with any situations arising from here. A several fold strategy, in fact. Even better than that is the feeling I’m actually maturing as a person. Because what good is a Certificate 4 in Life Coaching if you can’t back down in an argument? I think we all know the answer to that, don’t we?

Today I’m loving: the strawberry and rhubarb yoghurt I discovered yesterday, and my sweet dog, who at last has some relief from the bites on his ears.

On Friday, I picked up a giant package from the post office, containing materials for the diploma of massage course I’ve enrolled in. Upon opening said package, I felt a steady and definite sense of nausea creeping from my stomach up to my throat - nausea representing one of my least favorite things … reality.

I spent the next thirty minutes in a stupor, shuffling through text books, manuals, DVD’s, CD’s - and the groovy lucite pen with the flag of Australia on top of it, then decided I’d better do something constructive. So I started the reading for the first unit - Clinical Aromatherapy.

Within the first couple of minutes, I realised the course is fantastic, in part because it touches on things I’m already interested in. I’ve loved aromatherapy for years, now I’m studying it. And, just to really freak you out (Josh and Ria, especially you), the first day I read the manual from cover to cover and yesterday I took re-read and took notes on the first twelve pages for an hour. After this post, I’ll read/note take for another hour, since James and Miss M have gone into the city to buy Lonely Planet guides and protein powder - for James, not Miss M.

Let me display my new found knowledge with some random aromatherapy facts. The term aromatherapy wasn’t coined until 1937, by a French cosmetic chemist called Gattefosse. He became interested in therapeutic qualities of oils after an explosion in his laboratory left him with gangrenous wounds. He applied lavender oil (angustifolia - derived from leaves), and recovered remarkably quickly. He then worked with many people, including soldiers injured in WW1, mainly using thyme, lemon, clove and chamomile oils to treat, and also disinfect instruments.

The first English language book dealing with aromatherapy wasn’t published until the 1970’s, although documented use started with the Egyptians, who embalmed their dead using cedarwood and myrrh. My favorite thing is Cleopatra, scenting the sails of her barge with oils so her subjects would know their queen was passing. She also seduced Mark Anthony with her lavish use of rose oil … but I think she might’ve had a couple of other tricks up her toga sleeve as well.

So there you go - I’ve retained some detail, you’re a little more knowledgeable - we both win. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a date with my manual and index cards.

Today I’m loving: Pilchen’s love of Ultimate Fighting, and decision to come on dog walks. If only she wasn’t so well camouflaged in the dark.

Two posts in one day - a precedent I can barely believe I’ve revisited!

The point of this one is to display the photographs below, of Miss M and her shiny new BMX.

We spent nearly two hours choosing, and she wouldn’t be swayed by the pink and black one I was keen on. Now I realise that would’ve been the wrong choice, since James is quite jealous of the red bike, and it’s been admired by several men since we brought it home, and as Miss M pointed out “no boys would’ve liked the pink one, Mummy”.

Bike Boy is also proud, having asked Miss M whether she wouldn’t prefer a mountain bike. She scoffed, and said she’d never ride a bike with gears, in case she “accidentally put it in an easy one and rode like a nanna”. Because both his bikes are single speed, I think he feels like he’s started off a new generation of tough, gear despising riders.

She’s already riding standing up, made the jump from pedal to hand brakes, and is quite the professional. She wants the pegs put back on so she can do tricks, but I’ve worked hard to convince her to wait at least a day or so. I’ll be watching … through my fingers.

(later) Today I’m loving: my tough little monkey, who isn’t scared of anything!