Taking the good with the bad

Well, the bad news is that my husband had a stroke on December 4.
The good news is that it was a mild one - he can walk and talk, just not as well as he used to be able to.
It was one of the more terrifying experiences of our lives, far worse for him of course because he's the one who's had to cope with the consequences of a rogue blood clot that decided it wanted to have a holiday in the left side of his brain.
At least, the doctors are assuming that's what it was. They won't know for sure until he has an MRI in Perth on Thursday but there's a family history of clots (in the blood sense, not the other one as far as I'm aware, although one of his uncles was a bit dim) and his grandma had a stroke when, like him, she was in her mid-50s.
Which is far too young but from what I've read on the internet (the equivalent of War and Peace, basically) not uncommon.
The whole thing was very sneaky.
There was no pain, no falling over and thrashing around.
He just felt dizzy and unwell and "weird" and went to lie down. And when he got up he couldn't talk or walk properly.
It's been a lousy couple of weeks punctuated by those incredibly uplifting moments when you're reminded how much you love each other, how lovely your friends and family are and how it's possible to still be attracted to someone who wears long white pressure socks to bed.
It certainly hasn't been all doom and gloom. We realise how incredibly lucky he was that it wasn't any worse and are amazed by the remarkable progress he's made in the last couple of weeks.
We've just got back from the OT (which stands for Occupational Therapy - think the OC but slower, with no bling, histrionics or bad acting and transplanted to outpatients at Albany Regional Hospital).
His right hand is now as strong and as his left, if still not as dextrous. Two weeks ago it had about one-fifth of the strength and he couldn't do basic things like cross his fingers or hold a pen.
We've also been walking the dog nearly every morning since he left hospital, and each day we're managing to go a bit further and a bit more quickly, which is brilliant.
Speaking of hospital, Albany Regional is as old and crappy facility-wise as everyone says it is but the staff are generally wonderful - God knows how they cope.
Another thing: if you have school-age children who are undecided about what they want to do when they grow up, I would strongly recommend you guide them towards becoming a Consulting Physician (sort of a super GP).
My husband had a visit from one on the last day he was in hospital. It lasted for five minutes precisely, during which time the physician and his registrar talked among themselves and the registrar did an echocardiogram. Then they both buggered off.
As I wasn't there at the time, my husband had to get out of bed and pursue the physician down the corridor in order to ask a couple of questions - not easy considering he was walking like My Little Pony on crack and couldn't string more than three words together when he was stressed.
We got the physician's bill a couple of days ago and learned that this tour de force of modern medicine cost $445.90.
If you factor in an additonal five minutes for the corridor pursuit, that works out to $44.59 per minute.
So, take my advice people. Get thee - or at least thy children - to the nearest med school. It's almost as good as winning Lotto.
I have to go now and try to get this house into some sort of Christmas order. The tree's up and the shopping's done but the bathroom is an absolute pit - ain't it always the way?
I hope you and yours have a very happy and safe Christmas.
If time permits, I'll be making La Nigella's horrifically kitsch Christmas Puddini Bonbons for the big day and will regale you with photos of same on my return.
Joy to the world...

I can't believe Callan's dead

We used to watch him religiously every week when we first lived here in Albany 35 years ago. This is what his death made me remember:
Changing into long, wrap-around Indian skirts and tight little tops after work (trackies hadn't been invented).
Thinking prawn cocktails were sophisticated.
Learning how to cook spaghetti bolognese and veal cordon bleu (very flash) from the Women's Weekly Cookbok.
Being given a waterbed by a friend. It was awful - always damp.
Building bookcases out of bricks and planks.
Being terrified of the bats in the garage under the house.
Smoking a joint while we were waiting for Monty Python, Callan and New Scotland Yard to come on the telly (yes, all on the same night).
Ditto, but listening to Poco's Crazy Eyes.
Being persona non grata with the old couple next door because we were living in sin.
My now husband buying a wedding ring with my first (and only) dole cheque. You could buy a band of 9 carat gold for $22 in 1974.
Becoming friendly with the couple next door after the nuptials. She showed me her doll collection and he told me he was so short because a tree fell on his head.
Taping council meetings (which were broadcast on the radio) for my husband, who was a reporter on the local paper. The only councillor I remember is Herb Wanke, for obvious reasons.
Watching The Winners on the ABC on Sunday nights and deciding I'd follow Carlton because they had the best uniforms.
Having a cat called Snooks whose tail later fell off due to an abscess.
Eating a liver and bacon counter lunch at the Premier hotel once a week (it was THE best).
Going to the Sunday session at the London Hotel and listening to Dot (I think that was her name) play the piano.
Above all, I remember feeling very happy and carefree.
We can only hope Callan's feeling the same way now he's shuffled off this mortal coil and is equipped with a halo as well as a gun.

We've also...

...been going to Perth a lot.
I took this pic of a bloke in a cowboy hat while my husband nipped into the Kojonup bakery to buy some lunch.
What follows is the sort of photo you can take out of the car window when your husband's driving at 110kmh, eating a pie and steering with his knees.

In case you're wondering, it's of canola fields.

Feet of Clay

It's a good thing I'm not a war correspondent - the hostilities would be well and truly over before I'd filed the first report.
The trouble with writing to deadlines for 25 years is that when it stops, so do you (at least, I did).
For those who are still around besides my Mum and Boothy and Halfpint this is what's been happening for the past couple of months: house stuff.
To be honest, it's been bliss. It's almost two years since we bought this house and for some reason - the moon being in the seventh house, Jupiter aligning with Mars or whatever - shit, as they say, has finally started to happen.
It started with Garry Butler, the landscaping Eric Close look-alike, who along with Luke the Magic Concreter got the paths sorted out and turned the top garden from a miniature version of the Somme into somewhere you actually wanted to be.
We've got two types of clay in this garden: clay that looks like little turds when you dig into it (brown clay) and clay that looks and SMELLS like little turds when you dig into it (yellow clay).
The gumboots were useless in the face of it, mainly because I couldn't find a pair small enough to fit my feet and every time I took a step the boot would get stuck and my whole leg would pop out.
Crocs and socks were much better so I've spent much of Spring wandering around the garden looking like a menopausal Minnie Mouse with filthy shoes.

Anyway, to give you an idea of all the work involved, here's a pic of me in the top garden when we first looked at the house in September 2007:

Here's one when we had the ground terraced in July 2008 (that's my husband taking a picture of me taking a picture of him). The entire fence fell over in a storm shortly afterwards - what a barrel of laughs that was.

And here's what it looks like now. All that's left to do is put a grey wash on the pine terracing and add some more plants.

Since we last spoke, I also got a new clothesline. This was a really big deal because I'd been without one for 9 months. I celebrated with a new pinny - not tailor-made but it could've been.

We've also got stuck into the "lower 40": Removed some crappy old colorbond fencing and this concrete block wall (that stylish orange stuff is to keep the dog in - only 20 bucks a roll at Bunnings)...

...and built a picket fence to match the existing one up the top.

OK, that's a pic of the pickets being delivered. The fence was actually finished yesterday but still needs to be painted, which I can't do until next week, and I'm waiting until then to take another photo.
The bloke to the left of the pic is Saint Laurie, builder and carpenter extraordinaire, if I could bottle him I'd make a fortune. He's brilliant.
We've also had a driveway removed (we had three) so that the three lower levels of the block will be linked by gardens (one of them for veggies - yay!).
Unsurprisingly, we're knackered and a lot poorer, but over the moon about what has been achieved in just a couple of months.

Bugger

Well, we lost and - worse - St Christopher has been suspended for the first three games of next season for playing dirty.
My husband, who's really on a roll this week, has suggested we spend the next few days deciding on the AFL's Dimmest and Toughest Awards.
It sounds a lot more fun than picking Best and Fairest, so I'd like to start the ball rolling by nominating Barry Hall, Jonathon Brown and Stephen Milne.

Word of the Week: Strappado

I haven't done one of these for ages so I thought I'd share "strappado", which I came across in the Oxford English Reference Dictionary when I was doing the Jumble Word puzzle in the paper this morning.
(Not cheating, just looking. Honest.)
I thought strappado might be the name of a Greek stew or some sort of fancy flamenco move but it turns out it's "a form of torture in which the victim is secured to a rope and made to fall from a height almost to the ground, then stopped with a jerk" (the dictionary doesn't say if the jerk should be someone you know but I'd be happy to share Mr Nasty Garden-Path Man if you can't find anyone).
The interesting thing is that strappado must be the forerunner of this:

As in, one day, torture; the next day...well, still torture if you ask me. Let's hope waterboarding doesn't catch on with the extreme sports set.
My word of the week was actually going to be "balls" in honour of my husband, who not only has them but used them to great advantage at Bunnings yesterday.
We both went to Bunnings a couple of weekends ago to buy one of those big patio heaters for our deck because the temperature out there hovers between "brass monkey" and "nithered" (now there's a good Yorkshire word) for all but four months of the year.
It was a bargain, this heater - reduced from $269 to $169.
Then my husband went back to Bunnings on Saturday to buy some phone cable and found that in the space of a week this patio heater had been marked down again, to $99.
He was spitting chips when he got home but seeing as the patio heater was still in its box, convinced me to help him Hunt for the Receipt.
I've used capital letters there because such is the chaos of our in-house filing system, it took three days to find the docket (it was on top of a stack of bricks in the shed - obvious really).
Anyway, long story short, my husband returned the patio heater to Bunnings and got a $169 refund from the lady at checkout number 1. Then he went and picked up another heater - exactly the same - took it through checkout number 2 and paid $99 for it.
I would never have had the guts to try this on and am still positively breathless with admiration. What a guy.

Go Blue Boys

It might be an idea to skip over this post if you're not into AFL or if you're an overly sensitive Dockers supporter.
But first, apologies for the absence - I didn't realise how long it had been until I looked at the date of my last post just then.
There's been lots keeping me busy on the house front, mainly painting, but we've also found a new garden-path bloke (a landscaper) who is smart and friendly and thorough, as in he's spent ages measuring things and chasing up tradesmen. He also bears more than a passing resemblance to this bloke.

Now, I don't know about you, but I'd be more than happy to mortgage the dog to have a smart and friendly Eric Close look-alike wandering around the place for a few days. Hopefully we won't have to - we'll find out when we get his quote today.
But back to footy. The pic at the top of this post is of the thoughful home-made trophy given to me by my nephew, a West Coast supporter, when Carlton first won the wooden spoon back in 2002.
It took him ages to colour it in with blue texta, which tells you all you need to know about West Coast supporters if you ask me.
Since then, despite another wooden spoon, the Blues have clawed their way back and
on Saturday night, for the first time in 8 years, will be playing finals footy.
A sad but true fact: I'm nearly wetting myself with excitement. It's one of the highlights of my year.
My friend, Dennis, on the other hand, is spewing. This is because Dennis is a Dockers supporter and, let's face it, has a lot to spew about.
Which brings me to another highlight of this year.
Considering I've been abused, ridiculed and generally dumped on for years for following Carlton, you'd think I'd empathise with the plight of Freo fans.
Unfortunately, life's not like that.
It all started innocently enough when the Dockers got a hiding at the hands of the Bombers back in Round 2. I thought it might be fun for Dennis to find in his mailbox an application for Bombers membership sent by Mr Matthew Lloyd himself.
The accompanying note read, "Mate, You know you want to do it, love from Mattie."
As it turned out, it was more than fun, it was addictive.
Every week since then, barring when he was overseas on holiday, Dennis has found a letter in his mailbox from people as diverse as Mr B. Fevola, Mr C. Cornes (who sent a lovely birthday card), Mr L.Jurrah, Mr S. Freud and Mr J.H. Christ ("Mate, Would you like me to ask Dad to smite Nick Riewoldt for you?").
The final letter, last weekend, was from Mr F. Sinatra on behalf of Mr M. Pavlich and the boys.
It went like this:

OUR WAY
And now, the end is here,
We stuffed it up, we blew the season.
My friend, I'll say it clear,
We came 14th, and with good reason.

We dropped so many kicks,
So many games, we played the Power way.
We're just a bunch of hicks,
Who did it our way.

Regrets, we've had a lot,
We wish we'd never started playing.
Each time we hit the road,
We knew we'd usually get a flaying.

We know we played like girls,
We'd like to say, not in a sour way,
We wish we'd never tried,
To do it our way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew,
When we bit off more than we could chew.
The Saints, the Magpies and the Crows,
The Dogs, the Cats, yes, heaven knows,
We lost them all, we hit the wall,
WE DID IT OUR WAY.

PS: Thanks for being such a good sport Dennis. Up the mighty Blues.

Young Einstein

I read in the paper this morning that Canadian animal psychologists have found that dogs are as intelligent as the average two-year-old child.
They used tests designed to show the development of language, pre-language and basic arithmetic in kids and found that dogs could understand up to 250 words and gestures, count up to five and do simple mathematical calculations.
Golden retrievers are apparently among the most intelligent and, the report said, dogs can rival apes and parrots for their ability to understand language.
I don't have an ape or a parrot but I do have a golden retriever (pictured above with my husband's jumper on her head, pretending rather cleverly that she's invisible).
Ella, who also answers to the names Bumhead and Nuffnuff (because that's the noise she makes when she spots next door's cat through the window), doesn't have quite the vocabulary of your canine high achievers but she will very soon, because now I know what she's capable of, I'm going to start intensive vocab lessons.
The words and phrases she knows already are no, sit, stay, walkies, catch, go get it, drop it, good girl, dinner, breakfast, biscuit, chewie (aka Schmackos), yummy medicine, Paul and Kate (our kids), Mummy and Daddy (I nearly didn't include those, so embarrassing), squeaky bone, hot dog (the shape of her favourite squeaky bone), car, let's go, go and do wee, give me a cuddle (when I say this she jumps up on my knee and stays there for hours or until I can no longer feel my legs, whichever comes first), where are my socks, and lie down.
Here is a picture of Ella understanding and obeying the command "lie down".

And here is another picture taken after my husband thought she looked too comfortable lying down and said, "Cat!"

You'll notice that the TV in the background of picture 2 is showing an image of a man in a silly costume. This is because it's the History Channel, to which my husband is connected intravenously.
Some time this week, I'm going to teach Ella the words "History Channel" and this will be the signal for her to grab the remote control and bury it in the garden.
Now I know how clever Ella is, I'm sure she'll have no problems learning this.
Next week I'm going to teach her Pythagoras' Theorem. I'll let you know how it goes.

PS: In case you're wondering, the most intelligent dog breeds were found to be border collies, poodles, German shepherds, golden retrievers, doberman pinschers, Shetland sheepdogs, labrador retrievers, papillons, rottweilers and Australian cattle dogs.
The least intelligent were Afghan hounds, basenjis, bulldogs, chow chows, borzois, bloodhounds, pekingese, beagles, mastiffs and basset hounds.

My First Dictionary

Many thanks to JudiJ for sending me a link to My First Dictionary, a blog by British librarian Ross Horsley, who comes up with definitions like the one above most days of the week.
Horsley's blog is very dark and very funny and I love it. You'll find it here.

Up the garden path (2)

Back in May we asked a bloke to come over and quote a price for laying the garden paths around the house.
This man, who I'll call Mr Can-Do, was very friendly. All over us like a rash, truth be told. Nothing was too much trouble, he could do everything from go to whoa.
The price he quoted for the job was amazing, almost too good to be true. We accepted straight away and, yes, he could start some time in June and, yes, he'd put the quote in writing and leave it in our mailbox the next time he drove past.
He never did give us that written quotation, even though we asked him twice, but this didn't bother us too much because, for some reason, a lot of tradesmen down here won't.
Besides, Mr Can-Do was a nice bloke, wasn't he? Friendly. Trustworthy.
As it turned out, Mr Can-Do didn't start in June. We were also having the house rendered and he agreed with our renderer that it would be better to lay the paths after the rendering was finished. Just ring when you're ready for me to start, he said. What a guy.
So, once the rendering was done - brilliantly, I might add, by a lovely bloke called David Cook - I rang Mr Can-Do and left a message on his phone.
When he didn't ring back after a few days, my husband called again.
And what my husband got this time was a very different bloke. A bloke who was rude and surly and whose conversation consisted of words like "nah" and "dunno" and "maybe".
Now, we're not idiots. After that phone conversation, even Blind Freddy could see that Mr Can-Do had lots of other work and didn't want to lay our garden paths any more. But we decided not to worry about it until after the weekend because, well, sometimes you just get sick of this shit and need to stick your head in the sand for a while.
Then, lo and behold, on Saturday, in the middle of the footy, there was a knock on the door and there he was, in the flesh. He thought he'd better have a look round, he said, before he started the job.
He was friendly again, talking in words of more than two syllables but, unfortunately, he'd morphed into Mr Can't-Do.
There was a lot more work than he'd originally thought when he gave the quote, he said. Before he could start we'd have to do all sorts of things: dig up and redistribute the clay and have compacting sand delivered and put it on the paths and compact it and remove a section of fence and dig up heaps of plants so the barrow could get through because he wasn't having his blokes pushing barrows uphill.
Now, my husband works five days a week, so on Monday he rang Mr Can't-Do and asked if we could pay extra to have some of his labourers do this unforeseen prep work.
"Nah, can't help ya, too busy."
Did he know of anyone else we could pay, then?
"Nah."
It was like dealing with Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Then, lo and behold, we got a call Monday afternoon saying his two labourers would be coming over the next morning - as in, yesterday morning.
So I arranged for the sand to be dumped in the driveway by 9am and dug up the plants and put them in pots and got money out of the bank to pay these two blokes direct.
My husband got up at six yesterday morning to finish things off and the two labourers turned up at quarter past eight.
My husband showed them what we wanted done, then headed off to work, and the two labourers drove off to pick up their tools.
And they never came back.
I waited and waited and waited. The sand was delivered. I waited some more.
In the end, because I had to go out, I rang Mr Can't-Do at 10am to see what was going on. This was the conversation.
Me: Hi, it's Michele. Your two blokes left to pick up their tools at 8.30 and haven't come back. I have to go out and I was wondering what was happening.
Him: Dunno.
Me: Do you know if they picked up their stuff.
Him: Yeah, they got it.
Me: Well, they haven't come back here. Do you have a mobile number for them?
Him: Yeah, hang on. (Pause 10 seconds). Look, I'll have to ring you back.
Me: OK. My number's...
Him (interrupting): Listen, I'm on the road. I don't need this. I'm too busy for this.
Me: Yeah, well, we're all busy. It's not just you.
Him (shouting): Don't you get uppity with me.
Me: I'm not, I'm upset they haven't come back. You'd be upset too if you were treated like this.
Him (shouting louder): Shut up. Just shut up and listen.
Me (shouting back): What? Don't you...
Him (screaming over the top of me): I don't have to put up with this. You can shove the job. I don't need your money.
And then he hung up.
When my husband found out, he phoned this prick and said things to him that could never be printed here.
And that's what Mr Can't-Do wanted all along because now he'll be able to tell whoever's interested what nasty, difficult people we are. He'll be able to justify not doing the job for us.
But only to himself. Everyone I've told about this (everyone I can think of, basically) thinks he's an arsehole who didn't have the balls to say, "Look, I agreed to do this job when I had no other work but now I've got lots and I'm pulling out."
Which is why this post is headed "Up the garden path (2)". If you look at the post below you might see some similarities.
Footnote: we now know that if something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. And if you've got this far, congratulations and a big thank you for bearing with me. I really needed to get it off my chest.

Up the garden path (1)

I have a very dear friend, single for a long time, who for the last three months has been in a relationship with a man who is witty, intelligent and passionate.
We're talking about passion with a capital P, both physically and emotionally. He even sends her e-mails from work along the lines of, "Only six hours until I can touch you again."
The last time I saw her, which was the last time I was in Perth, the two of them had just spent a particularly lovely weekend together.
That was four weeks ago. He hasn't spoken to her since.
He doesn't return her calls, nor has he replied to her e-mails.
He's not dead. She knows this because she rang his workplace. Apart from that, though, she doesn't have a clue what happened.
So, for the past four weeks she's been through various kinds of hell, starting with puzzlement, going through bleak disappointment and hurt, and ending where so many women end up: It's probably my fault.
It's not, of course. The guy's an arsehole. A gutless wonder who didn't have the balls to say, "I need a break" or "I'm having second thoughts" or whatever it was that was disturbing the universe that is him.
My friend recently entered the next stage of this awful affair: anger.
Now, I've seen her when she gets angry and feel that someone should probably say to this bloke, "Be afraid. Be very afraid."
It won't be me because I think he deserves whatever's coming. I'm now waiting with bated breath to see if it makes the evening news and if it involves his testicles and a mangle.
She's already talked about hiring a skywriter but I suspect it may go way beyond that.

Things I won't hear in my lifetime

"Hi, this is your dedicated garden path person.
"I just wanted to let you know that the price I quoted for the job is firm and inclusive of absolutely everything to do with garden paths.
"There'll be no nasty surprises.
"Yes, honestly. Absolutely. Swear on a road accident. No need to worry about a thing.
"Have a lovely day."

Muffy the Wonder Dog

Pic: Craig Barrow

If it's as cold in your neck of the woods as it is in mine, you can at least warm the cockles of your heart by checking out the story of Muffy the dog.
My son sent me the link yesterday and it's a ripper. You'll find it here.
Sorry I haven't been around much lately but the weather's been brilliant, if freezing, and I've been outside every day digging, weeding, planting and painting (walls not pictures, unfortunately).
While I was down the bottom of the garden planting quince trees yesterday, I spotted what I thought was a really big pelican out of the corner of my eye.
Turned out it was a lunatic (and I say that with the greatest admiration) paraglider doing aerial "wheelies" over Mt Clarence, so I raced inside and grabbed my camera.

To put this pic (and his/her altitude) in perspective, here's another one taken without the zoom. The paraglider is the tiny little dot you can see to the right of the crest of the hill if you've got really good eyesight and a better camera than mine (as in, now I've made the pic smaller I can't see a bloody thing but if you click on it you'll get a bigger and better image).

Today I have to finish up some painting but I'll be back next week with bells on.
See you then.

Of bladders and bad English

Prostates and pelvic floors being what they are, I suppose it was only a matter of time before someone came up with a website for movie-goers who lose the plot (literally) because their bladders can't make it through a screening.
That website is RunPee.com, an online help-line that takes the guesswork out of when to take a dunny break without missing any crucial scenes or plot twists.
The site covers all sorts of movies and tells you when it's a good time to head to the toilet, how long you've got to do the biz, and then gives you a short synopsis of what you've missed while you were away.
In the case of My Life In Ruins (pictured above), you're safe to go 45 minutes into the movie and have four minutes to get back to your seat.
Brilliant or what? You can check it out here and there's also a blog here.
On another wet note, did you see the story in The West on Wednesday about rain delaying the opening of the new Perth to Bunbury highway?
It was pretty unremarkable except for spokeswoman Tammy Mitchell, who when asked about the delay said, "We've had a constant series of rain events."
God help us. Whatever happened to "raining a lot"? Or even a good old Australian, "It's been pissing down"?

From the Crypt

There's a box down in the shed that's stuffed full of newspaper clippings - almost every column I wrote for The West Australian since I began in the late 80s.
Some of these were included in the two books I had published and I hadn't thought about them for years until I was stopped in my tracks by an episode of Murder She Wrote on Foxtel's TV1 channel.
It was an episode that inspired a column that was written, oh, it must be 17 years ago now and it made me think it might be fun to drag out an occasional oldie and run it here.
(I should add that I can't post anything of mine published between 2004 and 2009 because The West owns the copyright and would shit on me from a great height BUT all of the columns written before that are owned by me and good to go.)
Anyway, here it is, the first instalment From the Crypt - living proof that (1) pay-TV has no shame when it comes to endless re-runs and (2) cop shows really haven't changed that much over the years.

I WAS lying in front of the fire watching Murder She Wrote and all of a sudden this guy said, "I always wanted to be a carp. My daddy was a carp, God rest his soul, and when I was a kid he always let me polish that silver badge of his..."
It made me realise you need to have extraordinary abilities to get into American cop shows, as opposed to British cop shows like The Bill where all you really need are sturdy shoes and the ability to memorise three lines: "PC39 reporting for duty, sir", "Give us a break, Sarge" and "Right, mate, you're nicked."
American cop shows, on the other hand, require a multitude of talents. For starters you have to be totally incapable of getting on with your boss so that he can:
1. Take you off the case (but you do it anyway)
2. Suspend you from duty (but you do it anyway)
3. Give you till noon on Toozday to solve three murders and cure your partner of the death wish that is threatening his otherwise promising career, this death wish having been brought about by the violent demise of partner's wife/childhood sweetheart/handicapped child at the hands of a black crack dealer who drives a white Mercedes.
Not that it's essential you have a male partner with a death wish. You could just as easily have a female who's wet behind the ears. This female will have replaced the partner who retired after 47 years on the beat and who has been married to the same woman for 45 of them.
Your ex-partner and his wife will retire to Florida, be gunned down on a golf course by a black crack dealer driving a white Mercedes and wet female will help solve the crime, proving she's got what it takes after all.
You will also need to have an ex-wife so you can go to her apartment to visit your two cute children who will throw their arms around your neck and shout, "Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!" every time you walk through the door.
This wife has to be "ex" because then you can visit your mother and say things like, "Jeez, Ma" when she serves you up enormous home-cooked meals. These meals are necessary because your diet consists entirely of doughnuts and Danish washed down with cawfee that comes in a polystyrene cup.
What's more, you will eat only when you're sitting behind the wheel of a car, preferably one that's parked alongside a broken fire hydrant that's squirting water all over a Puerto Rican couple having a domestic on the sidewalk. Then you can leap out mid-bite, throwing doughnut roughly to one side while you pull out your gun.
And why anyone would want to go through all that just to be a carp, I have no idea.
Far easier, I think, to lie in front of the fire like a stunned mullet and wonder at the meaning of it all.

United We Stand

This is one of our local businesses.
They have a commercial on local TV that features five male employees standing in a line underneath that sign, smiling at the camera.
Every time I see it I think, "How long before they catch on?"
Top marks to the ad person who thought it up, though, for making me laugh every single time it comes on.

Here it is

Hopefully coming to an IGA carpark near me soon, although if I ever see it in the flesh I'll probably start to hyperventilate.
Thank you Leanne from Wicked Campers for asking me to submit a saying to grace the back of one of your vans. It looks fabulous. I love it.
If you don't know what the hell I'm on about, you'll find the full story here and here and Leanne's A Wicked Evangelist blog here.
Now I'm going to have a cup of tea and a lie down. The excitement's just about done me in.

Channeling Elvis 3

School holidays started on the weekend and the town's already awash with "No Vacancies" signs.
I love all the tourist seasons but especially winter when you can wander down the main street and play Spot the Visiting Sullen Teenagers.
These are the ones who'll be making their way through the horizontal rain that's hammering the pavements, pretending they're not related to the man and woman walking directly in front of them.
They will be mobile phone-less because their dads will have said, "We didn't drive 400kms so you could spend all day texting your mates."
Shortly they'll be herded into family cars and driven off to look at The Gap and The Natural Bridge, where they'll consider throwing themselves off.
But before that, Mum's going to make them go into every single gift shop on York Street.
When they get to Wombat Lodge, which is total kitsch heaven, they will find the Dog Rock snowdome pictured above.
I love this snowdome so much, I've bought it many times for family and friends. It costs $10 and was made in Sydney. The "snow" is glitter. It's breathtaking.

Above is a picture of the real Dog Rock, which comes courtesy of Wikipedia Commons.
I had every intention of driving down Middleton Rd and taking a picture myself but it's pouring down at the moment, plus it's also blowing a gale and the temp is 12C.
The real Dog Rock is a huge granite outcrop in the shape of a bloodhound's head. See the cute collar someone's painted on it? I think that's what probably did it for the Sydney snowdome-maker. I think he saw that and couldn't contain himself any longer.
Luckily, his loss of control was our gain. I don't think you could find a finer souvenir.

Dear me

I've got more hair on the left-hand side of my head than on the right-hand side.
I know this because I've been told so by various hairdressers, the most recent just yesterday when I was having my hair cut.
They've also told me that this condition is really common but I can't say I'm convinced.
I mean, I've never had one person say, "Yeah, me too," when I've mentioned it in conversation, which admittedly I don't do very often because then everyone would know I have a sub-standard scalp.
Sometimes I wonder if my life would've turned out differently if my hair follicles had been more evenly distributed.
As in, maybe people would take me more seriously.
Maybe the asbestos-fence removers wouldn't have dicked me around for six weeks if I'd been able to say from the get-go, "Listen mate, you're dealing with someone who has an exceptional follicle-to-skin ratio."
As it was, the bloke on the other end of the phone kept me waiting for ages, called me "dear" five times in 90 seconds and then instructed me to jiggle my phone plug in the socket because there was interference on the line and it had to be at my end because, "It was fine until you rang, dear."
Follicularly unbalanced as I am, my brain was urging me to tell him that Dear would be popping over shortly to rip out his voice box via his rectum and maybe go over a few points he'd failed to assimilate at customer-service school.
But seeing as his was the only asbestos removal company I could find in the phone book, I said things like "Thank you" and "Sorry" and "No worries" instead.
Not that it made any difference. I ended up calling him three more times, was called "dear" a total of 21 times and was eventually sent a red herring called Les.
Les knocked on the door and said he'd be here to remove the fence on the Wednesday or, no, hang on, probably the weekend, depending on the kids' sporting fixtures.
That was three weeks ago.
Then my husband rang and, hey, guess what, two blokes came round the very next morning and removed the fence.
In the meantime, in an effort not to go completely insane, I've been busy establishing an Unbalanced Head Support Group. You're welcome to join even if your head's normal.

Sale of the Century

Well, not quite but a Booktopia book sale is always good and the one they've got on at the moment (their end of financial year sale) is a ripper.
You'll have to wade through 41 pages to check out all the specials but it's worth it if you want to get your hands on things like Peter Robinson's Inspector Banks novels for around $5.
There's all sorts up for grabs but I know from past experience that you have to be quick - they sell out fairly quickly.
Postage is $6.50 for up to 100 books, their service is great and the books are usually delivered within a week (they're based in Sydney).
And I know I sound like a walking advert so I should probably point out that I have no connection with Booktopia other than being a customer.
We're a family of mega readers - we have books coming out of our earholes - and I've been meaning to blog about good internet bookshops for ages.
A really fabulous one is Book Depository, which is based in the UK and not only has a list and prices that rival Amazon but also has free delivery worldwide.
Again, the books are usually on your doorstep within a week and the service is excellent.
You can get bucketloads of hardback titles at Book Depository for about half the price you pay in Australia (it will vary according to the exchange rate) and you don't have to worry about the weight because the postage is free.
I managed to get Rick Stein's Mediterranean Escapes for about $30; it was selling for more than $60 in bookshops here (they have a massive range of cookbooks as well as house and garden, craft, photography, art - you name it).
There are links to both websites just to the right of this post (under Places I Like To Visit).
If you're a booklover, believe me, you'll be like a pig in the proverbial.

And the winner is...

Actually it's a tie because I still can't decide between "Keep honking - I'm reloading my gun" and Robin Williams' "If women ran the world we wouldn't have wars, just intense negotiations every 28 days".
Leanne, I'll leave it up to you which one you use and thanks again for letting me have a go, I can't wait to see the photo.
I only hope the finished van doesn't make it to the IGA carpark down here, I think the excitement would kill me (sad but true).
Apologies also for not getting all your comments up quicker, the result of two birthdays in the past week, massive hangovers and the realisation twice in five days that even though I'm old enough to know better, I still don't.

Happy camper

One of the many advantages of retirement is that I'm now eligible to enter all the competitions The West Australian holds when it wants to boost its circulation figures.
You know how it goes: "Win five Holdens in five minutes!!! PLUS if you also get The West home-delivered, we'll throw so much money at you you'll start to hyperventilate!!!"
I learnt long ago that this sort of thing is not to be sneezed at. My husband's late Aunty Marie practically made a career from it. She was a professional competition enterer who for years had set aside a couple of days a week to enter competitions in as many magazines and newspapers as she could lay her hands on.
The amount she spent on mags and postage was more than made up for with free trips overseas, holidays throughout Australia, hampers of food, crates of booze and more floral arrangements than you could poke a carnation at.
Her home was packed to the rafters with K-Tel bottle cutters and mismatched soft furnishings, curios and ornaments - all of them brand, spanking new; all of them to someone else's taste.
She bought so many women's magazines, I was amazed Kerry Packer didn't show up at her funeral so he could give thanks for a life that was integral to his financial well-being.
Sadly, seeing as Marie was an aunt by marriage, there was nothing genetic going on husband-wise, so that special combination of skill and dumb luck was not passed on.
Basically, my husband's a dud at winning stuff and I'm not much better.
Inspired by Marie's regular and often astounding windfalls, I did try my hand at it for a while when the kids were little and managed to win a trip to Singapore.
It was a Valentine's Day competition in the Women's Weekly and you had to write a poem for your true love.
As far as I can remember, mine went like this (I don't think the 5th and 6th lines are right but, hey, it was 25 years ago):
"Pitter, patter, little feet,
"Mother dear feels dead beat.
"Through each grimace, whinge and scream,
"She cherishes a secret dream
"That one day, darling, you and I,
"Will wave our cares and woes goodbye.
"We'll leave the kids with mum-in-law
"And bugger off to Singapore."
And we did - bugger off to Singapore, I mean, for a week of unalloyed luxury. We were flown first class and it was so good I would've been quite happy to spend the entire seven days on the plane.
But despite that major success I haven't entered a competition since because the dedication required to reach Marie-like heights is, truth be told, really boring after a while.
I'd like to hold a competition of my own, though, because after writing the Poxy Lady post (click here to read it) I was contacted by A Wicked Evangelist from Wicked camper vans.
And, hey, guess what??!! I've been asked to send them my favourite quote or saying and they'll have it spray-painted on the back of a van and send me a photo of it!!! (All the exclamation marks are to convey how utterly thrilled I am to be asked. Next time I think I'll write about how much I'd like someone to give me a million dollars. You never know your luck.)
The problem is coming up with just one quote.
My favourites so far are:
* Keep honking - I'm reloading my gun.
* I plan on living forever. So far, so good.
* The problem is that God gives men a brain and a penis and only enough blood to run one at a time (Robin Williams).
* There's no such thing as fun for the whole family (Jerry Seinfeld).
* If women ran the world we wouldn't have wars, just intense negotiations every 28 days (Robin Williams again).
If you'd like to help me choose, let me know which one you prefer via the comments thingy below. Or if you think you have a better one - and here's where the competition comes into it - let me know.
No prizes apart from the honour of having your quote on the back of a Wicked van, which is pretty bloody excellent if you ask me.
PS: If you'd like to check out A Wicked Evangelist, click here.

Happy Birthday Ella

It's the dog's 10th birthday today and despite a comprehensive search of the vast Ella photo archives, this is the only party-type pic I could find to mark the occasion.
It was taken a few Christmases ago and is a reminder that you should never let your kids near your booze cupboard when they're also in possession of a glue stick and a packet of glitter.

A girl's best friend

Bugger diamonds. The value of a bolster, hammer and cold chisel is incalcuable when you're removing tiles designed to withstand an engagement with the Pacific fleet.
These tiles are everywhere, even on the window sills, in varying (marbled) tones of lemon, pale blue, beige and pale grey.
Back in the 60s people were apparently so confident that any survivors of the apocalypse would be interested in checking out their home-decorating flair, they attached these tiles with stuff that was designed to outlast man himself.
I was told by a procession of helpful blokes who walked through the kitchen that the best way to get them off the walls was with a mini jackhammer.
And they were probably right, but seeing as I'm the sort who gets nervous pushing spuds down the feedtube of the food processor I decided against it.
I've never been good with things that combine an electrical current with movement on a major scale, and blood mixed with cement dust has never been my idea of a fun day in, especially when the blood belongs to me.
Plus, the guy who did our bathroom reno removed the tiles with a mini jackhammer and not only were the dust and noise a major pain, it wasn't much quicker than doing it by hand.

Above is a pic of some of the work I did yesterday. Gorgeous kitchen, eh?
On the upside, the hammering scared the crap out of the mice. They've all scarpered.
And in case you're wondering (believe me, many people do) why we took this on, here are a couple of pics of what we can see now we've put up a deck (if you click on them you'll get bigger pictures).


It may be hard work but when all's said and done, it's like having your own little slice of heaven.

Mice 7, Michele 1

It's not every day you find two mouse turds stuck to the side of your HP Sauce bottle and for that I'm extremely grateful (although I can't help having a grudging admiration for something that can crap and scale a vertical surface simultaneously).
I had an inkling it was mouse season when I was painting the shed because one of the little critters poked it's head out from between two bricks and watched what I was doing for a while.
This proximity to David Attenborough-type reality didn't bother me much because since a mouse ran down my arm last year and took ten years off my life (it was hiding in a jacket), I've toughened up a bit.
The one that poked its head out from between the bricks was only a baby and as cute as a button and if I'd had a shovel handy I would've walloped it, because before you could say "Mickey and Minnie" it would've grown into a big ugly sucker and started crapping all over my pantry.
As it turns out, its bigger friends have been doing just that, so at the moment I'm waging a war on mice and have discovered, courtesy of the back of the mouse-trap packet, that there is indeed a mouse season and it's NOW.
Unfortunately, of the eight traps I set, only one was visited by a mouse that was dumb enough to get caught. The other seven had the bait removed (peanut butter and bacon) but hadn't been sprung.
I suspect I'm baiting the traps not only with the equivalent of Nigella-type mouse food but also with far too much.
I don't want to resort to poison (to my mind, traps are pretty instant therefore less cruel), but I'm so sick of the little bastards my resolve is beginning to waver.
Maybe standing guard with a shovel isn't such a bad idea after all.

Poxy lady? Let's hope not.

Spotted in a supermarket carpark last week, one of those Wicked rental camper vans with the following slogan painted on the back: "If God were a woman would sperm taste like chocolate?"
As an atheist, this is a hard one to answer but I'd like to think that if there was a God and she was female, she'd have the imagination to go seasonal.
Beer and seafood in summer, roast chook in winter, chocolate on birthdays (and let's not forget special catering for those who have allergies, gluten intolerances etc).
Unfortunately, all of that wouldn't fit on the back of a van so I can see why whoever wrote it just went with chocolate.
But while we're on the subject of spotted, it's one of the reasons I haven't been around lately.
Son, who lives on his own, came down with chicken pox, big time, as in really ill.
He's now better and my husband and I are waiting to see if the pox will be passed on to us.
We both think we had it when we were kids but my husband can't check because he's an only child and both his parents are dead.
My mum says she doesn't remember me having it but then my mum's reached an age where one in 10 conversations start like this:
Mum: "I read that book you were telling me about, what was it called, you know, the one that was made into a film with...what's his name?...I saw him on TV last week with that woman who was married to Xavier Cugat...Ron! What was the name of Xavier Cugat's third wife?...it's on the tip of my tongue..."
Suffice to say, every time we itch, we panic.
And in case you're wondering, Xavier Cugat's third wife was Abbe Lane.

Why my husband has a paint stirrer sticking out of his chest

I know it's not next week but I needed to share.
This is because I finished painting the shed, which is actually a brick garage.
The bricks are those awful 1960s salmon-coloured ones, the sort of salmon colur that owes more to Kit-e-Kat than John West.
I painted them dark grey to match the big Colorbond shed alongside and while they'll never make Home Beautiful, the whole garage/shed combo looks a lot better.
It's a bastard of a job, painting brick walls: fiddly, takes ages and makes you ache in muscles you didn't know you had.
So I was really pleased when I finished and it looked great and I couldn't wait for my husband to get home from work so I could show him.
So he arrived home and he looked at it and he pointed to the top right-hand corner and he said, "You've missed a bit."

Leg of Sven

Actually, I don't know the name of the leg's owner. I just know that the publishers of Swedish magazine, Tare Lugnt, decided to release their third edition as a tattoo.
You'll find more pics, plus a Youtube video, if you click here.
The thing I find most shocking is that this human mag didn't bother to buy new undies for the photo shoot.
All that pilling around the crotch is so not a good look.
It raises some interesting possibilities, though, in these times of dwindling magazine and newspaper circulation.
I mean, who wouldn't be interested in an edition of Inside Out tattooed all over Orlando or Brad or George, if only to find out where they placed that retro lamp?
And that's all from me this week because the weather down here has been unbelievably good and is threatening to stay that way until Sunday.
I've already backfilled a retaining wall with sand (which was as exciting as it sounds) and today I'm finishing painting the shed.
See you next week.

Rust as a lifestyle statement

One of these days I'm going to learn how to scan magazine pages but until then you'll have to bear with me and put up with the dodgy photos.
This pic (along with the other pictures in this post) is from the May-June edition of Inside Out magazine. It's one of dozens of house/garden-type mags I've bought in the last 16 months, because when you're faced with an overwhelming house reno it's far easier to sit down with a drink and a glossy magazine rather than actually do any renovating.
As a result of all this magazine browsing I'm now quite well-versed in the art of design wank. And if you ask me, this pic is right up there with the best.
As in, it's fine if you don't mind grass seeds burrowing into the crotch of your undies while you sip your lemon barley water and nibble on a chunk of baguette (which I sincerely hope is made from organic, hand-milled flour or I want the cover price back).
And it's definitely not a problem if you don't mind being at one with the less cuddly of nature's offerings (snakes, bull ants, centipedes, ticks, feral pigs, escaped serial killers etc).
But otherwise it's bullshit, isn't it? I mean, when was the last time you said, "Darl, how about we have a picnic in the middle of a field of really long grass? Go on, dare ya!"
Worse: Those rusty old French cafe chairs, which are a fiver a pop in their homeland, cost $160 each. The folding metal table is $1000. The skinny little cushions tied to the top of the chairs are $40 (yes, each).
Now for pic number 2, which provided a much-needed laugh-out-loud moment after a morning of digging holes with a pick axe:

It may look like a giant toilet-brush holder but it's actually a bathroom sink. It doesn't say in the ad if council-approved sink fencing is required, but considering the way little kids like to stick their heads in things, it's probably a good idea.
In the meantime you could always use it for your home brew or to bathe your pet rabbits.

Finally there's this picture, which is attached to a story about Patti Southern (the lady wearing the table cloth), who owns a retro furniture store in Sydney (as in, it's all original vintage stuff).
I know I've said it before but what is it with this retro thing? Why does only the really ugly stuff seem to survive?
I lived through the 60s and 70s and I know for a fact that if anyone had bought my Mum that hideous red and blue lamp, she would have beaten them to pulp with it.
Or dumped it in a field of really long grass. Now there's a thought.

Spare me. Please.

If you looked at page 4 of The West Australian this morning you would have seen it featured two pics of blokes in suits.
The second pic was under the heading "Vote Yes for work-life balance: industry leaders" and accompanied a story on the daylight saving referendum.
It began like this: "For Wesfarmers chief Richard Goyder, it means being able to enjoy a casual barbecue or game of backyard cricket after work.
"Alcoa's Alan Cransberg says it provides extra time with his family in Mandurah.
"And for Rio Tinto's head of iron ore Sam Walsh, it makes easy a post-work swim, catching up with grandchildren or a meal out.
"But the three industry leaders agreed yesterday that daylight saving delivered significant benefits to the State's economy by making it easier to do business with the Eastern States..."
All I can say is: Like I give a shit.
At the moment, I have two friends who are staring retrenchment in the face because the company they work for has gone belly up, and I know many more who are doing it really, really tough.
And I'm supposed to vote Yes to daylight saving so I can help out three rich blokes who want more leisure time without compromising their money-making activities?
If it wasn't so insulting it would be funny.

Get thee to a kitchen...

...and make yourself some Anzac biscuits. The home-made versions of these biccies are so far ahead of shop-bought it's not funny and they're ridiculously easy to make.
Mine are courtesy of a Bill Granger recipe but there are heaps of recipes on the internet (or ask your Nana, she'll probably know one off by heart).
Whatever you do, don't call them cookies, or a digger might (quite rightly, if you ask me) come over to your house and wash your mouth out with soap.
Eat your Anzac biscuits in front of the Collingwood/Essendon game tomorrow.
This is something I look forward to every year, not because I like either team (they're Carlton's sworn enemies) but because there's a really good chance half a dozen of them will beat the crap out of each other, be hauled before the tribunal and be out for several games.
But that's just me.
Whatever you do tomorrow, have a good one.

Word of the Week: Crook

That's crook as in ill, unwell, feeble, queasy, frail, delicate, poorly, ailing, infirm, indisposed, under the weather, sick as a dog, in a bad way, rooted.
I've been all of these things this past week, first with the flu, then with a stomach wog.
And speaking of 'sick as a dog', as I was rolling on the floor in agony with what was probably wind but felt like imminent death, I kept bumping into our faithful hound, who'd decided she'd help make me better by lying as close to me as possible and sighing a lot.
As I looked into her big, brown eyes, I thought of all the little golden retriever ways I'd come to know over the years and said, "If I die and no one finds me before 5 o'clock, you won't eat me will you?"
On the upside, I'm feeling a bit better today and at least got to be sick in cosmopolitan surroundings.
We were up in Perth for a few days, not that I got to see anyone or do anything or go anywhere because I was too ill.
But the car trip was a blast. There's nothing like 400kms-worth of sitting still to make you realise that the human body is an amazing thing.
I mean, I can't think of anything else that would be capable of producing enough snot in four and a half hours to fill the MCG.
I was so busy blowing my nose, I almost missed one of the highlights of the trip.
It's just past the half-way mark and is known (in our family anyway) as The Place of the Three Signs.
In the space of just a few minutes you see these signs on the side of Albany Highway:
1. Welcome to Kojonup, First Shire With 1,000,000 Sheep
2. Moodiarrup
3. Crapella Rd
I hang out for these signs because:
1. My husband always says, "So many sheep, so little time" (I'm easily amused).
2. I love the name Moodiarrup. I often wonder if the locals shorten it to Moody, as Ravensthorpe is shortened to Ravie and Cuballing to Cubby. The picture at the top of this post is of the Moodiarrup Hall, which you can read about here.
3. Our dog's name is Ella.
And that's it really. One thing I love about writing this blog, as opposed to writing a newspaper column, is that I can just stop whenever I want without having to think of anything clever to finish off with.
So this is what I'm finishing off with today: The MCG is about to overflow. I'm going back to bed.

How the President will harvest his home-grown spinach

OK, maybe not. You'll find out what it's really all about here.