Crikey mUm!

Become a Conscious Discipline Parent INSTEAD!

2012-01-20T18:17:00.002-05:00

After months of applying for General Service (GS) positions at Rota Naval Station, and continuously being blocked by military veterans and retirees, I finally broke through the blockade and landed a wonderful position as a Program Assistant (teacher) at the Child Development Centre (CDC).

Today marked the completion of my orientation training, however training in my capacity will be an on-going commitment, one necessary to not only maintain my current skills but to further develop and adapt to new ideas and understandings of early childhood education and of the ever-evolving Navy wide policies and procedures.

Sounds exciting right? I certainly think so!

I also realized this past week, that being a qualified parent, alone, does not automatically result in being a qualified teacher. Rather, I learned that our parenting skills, the ways in which (prior to having my eyes pulled opened this week) my husband and I were directing and guiding Michael through his positive and challenging behavioral moments, were in fact NOT how a teacher would do so in the classroom.

That's not to say that we were bad parents before this week, rather, by us just using the common, 'No and Don't Do This' pre-topic words every time Michael did something we didn't want him to do, we were not only restricting Michael's opportunity to be a part of the decision making process, but we were restricting his basic need of independence (with guided limitations).

We were normal parents who got angry and frustrated when at 7:00pm bedtime, the tantrum started, the "I'm not tired", "I'm hungry", "My belly hurts", "I don't like my room", excuses began, and the climbing out of bed non-stop with screaming and crying, throwing toys at the door until some three hours later played out..every night!

We tried every possible common direction: Stay in bed you'll get a treat in the morning, you'll make mUm and dAd sad, you'll be tired tomorrow, okay come and have something more to eat, a sip of water, Michael it's bed time now, go to bed, that's it, no more getting out of bed or there's no treat tomorrow.

Every one of these reactors did absolutely nothing to ease Michael's desire to stay out of bed, did nothing to ease his tantrum, or our frustration levels...we were letting a three year old take control of us, control of our emotions. Whoah, back up a minute: last time I checked, we were the parents!!!

We were telling him what NOT to do, but we were never educating him on what we actually wanted him to do. We were focusing on the negative behavior versus teaching him the positive behavior. Of course being busy parents, whether in a hurry, tired, sick or frustrated, naturally it was easy to just demand that the negative behavior be stopped immediately and say "Don't do that", "Stop that" etc.

THEN, I was introduced to and trained in, what has become our new live-by, absolutely works 99% of the time rule...the rule of INSTEAD!

"Michael, INSTEAD of hitting your sister, I'd like you to keep your hands by your side and use your words to tell her that you are angry or frustrated".

"Michael, INSTEAD of getting out of bed, I'd like you lie down and stay snuggly and warm".

"Michael, INSTEAD of throwing your toys, I'd like you to help me pick up all the fast racing cars first".

"Michael, INSTEAD of saying a bad word, I'd like you to use your nice words when you talk with friends".

Yes, he dropped an f-bomb at a party a few weeks back and my instant reaction was to angrily say, 'Michael, don't ever say that word again', but he just looked at me with a blank stare and said "Mum, what word, I didn't say it".

I instinctively and somewhat embarrassed (in front of friends - trying to be the good parent) said, "You know the bad word I mean, don't ever say it again you understand".

Now, looking back, it's not rocket science (really) to assume that, he probably had no idea why I was so angry at him for saying a word he had no idea what it was or that he even said, what it meant and why he was supposed to never say it again! He just knew I was angry at him! Is that fair? I didn't tell him what I wanted him to do, I just demanded that he not do what he had absolutely no idea what not to do...confusing....think of the poor kid?

Simple enough using INSTEAD right, in fact probably too simple that it just couldn't possibly work, especially with an, already tried something like this, independent and defiant tyrannical three point five year old?

But, after just ONE week of using INSTEAD's for every time we wanted Michael to do something positive, instead of immediately reacting angrily with on the negatives, "Don't run on the stairs", "Don't throw your toys", "Don't hit", and the 'don't' list goes on and on, we used the INSTEAD rule!

We focused on the positive and not the negative aspect of the behavior and tonight, the week long trial and error culmination, after Michael climbed into bed with only one INSTEAD request, he fell asleep.

My husband and I looked at each other and said, 'ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME....THIS ACTUALLY WORKS".

Who would have thought it could be so simple? Of course, it's not a one-shot guarantee to work every time, as children certainly love to test their limitations, they are experimenting, exploring and developing every day, so to restrict those developments would be unfair, however, we have seen this method work.

We have been taught this method with upmost gratitude and thanks to my new employer and I strongly suggest that all parents, caregivers and providers at least consider the possibility (if not already) of using the INSTEAD approach.

In addition, Dr. Becky Bailey, a guru in educating parents, caregivers and providers on Conscious Discipline added a further in-depth knowledge as to the reasoning behind Michael's behavior, whether it be positive or negative behavior and how we as parents can take BACK control of being the adult!

Dr. Bailey's Live DVD is absolutely amazing, although at $295, may not be affordable for all parents, so instead, grab a 'cuppa', put your feet up and watch this snippet video.

Remember, YOU are the one that needs to be in control...YOU!

Crikey!

*This is not a sponsored post.

You've Got Orders to Rota, Spain...Now What?

2012-01-14T15:25:00.000-05:00

Congratulations!

If you've somehow managed to ~~swindle~~ get your hands on orders to Naval Station Rota (NAVSTA), read on because you're in for an unbelievably amazing experience, one that you'll never forget for so many wonderful, exciting, interesting and challenging reasons.

And for you, I am going to write a series of 'Moving To Rota' blog posts, each one covering VITAL information from my year-long point of view as a military spouse of an E7 active duty husband, living off-base.

I want to bypass the not always entirely accurate handbook of a million details and make your move and time in Spain as REALISTIC and enjoyable as possible. Consider this post on 'Where to Live', Part 1.

First things first: Don't Be Scared! Sure, you're moving overseas but in reality, you're moving to an American military base (lamen) that just so happens to rest on Spanish soil. This means that if you foolishly decided to never leave the gates (and some people do), you would probably never even know you were in Spain...Walmart could be just down the street for all you'd know.

Naval Station Rota Map (Absolutely NOT to Scale)

But, please please please DO NOT become a Base Rat as they are unaffectionately known here. Base rats are those people that rather than get off their butts and experience the amazing short drive away travel opportunities (Portugal, Gibraltar, Morocco) and cultural experiences at their doorstep (literally), choose to sit at home and become Base Rats..no bien!

Where Should I Live?

Fortunately, as it stands now, you have the choice to either live on base in standard (very small) cookie cutter thin walled, base housing without cost, or, you can live off-base (in the economy) and utilize your housing allowance cap, which is different for each service member.

Keep in mind, when you arrive though, you'll have thirty days of paid lodging either at the Navy Lodge or in temp base housing (some deduction in pay for temp housing), to find a house off-base or move into a base house, of which I'm not sure if or what the current wait list is.

However in my opinion, if you have children or pets like we did, and don't mind a small reduction in pay for comfort, opt to stay in temp base housing, as the Navy Lodge is a simple small hotel room.

And on that thirty day window....don't be too scared by the deadline...extensions are possible through housing, as during our way too long (picky) 'house hunting' period, we extended an additional fourteen days.

Eventually, after multiple house inspections and negotiations we found a fabulous house off- base in an area known as El Puerto de Santa Maria (Puerto for short), an area that we had chosen to live, even before arriving to Spain.

We chose to live off-base for the sole reason that we wanted to experience Spain as locals and not as American tourists visiting for three years. We wanted to immerse ourselves into the Spanish culture and with all due respect, remove ourselves from the possible daily drama of on-base nuances of which, unless your spouse happens to be the big big boss (el Jefe), chances are may experience on this tour in some form or another.

ON-BASE HOUSING

There are two housing areas: Las Palmeras (the palms) and Las Flores (the flowers).

Las Flores: Two story apartment, separate kitchen, living, television room. Thin walls, squeaky floors and stairs. Lino floor downstairs, thin grey carpet in upstairs bedrooms. Very small back yards. Joined to adjacent house at kitchen/living room wall. Outside patio area joined to adjacent apartment.

Las Palmeras: Single level, brick house, separate kitchen, pantry, television room. No living room, so most people use a high bar-style table and chairs. Thin walls, larger yards. Houses joined at garage.

Either way, unless you or your spouse happens to be a big, big, big wig, base housing is SMALL, I mean REALLY, REALLY, sell that living room furniture, small...really!

DGF School: Facing the Elementary & Multi Purpose Buildings

However, an exciting conversion project (two houses into one) is underway in Las Palmeras, which from what I've heard is going to be wonderful, although if you are arriving any time within the next 6-12 months, don't get your hopes up on getting one of these...the show model was only released just before Christmas 2011.

Which House, Which Area?

If you do decide to live on-base, when you arrive, not beforehand, head into the Housing Office (beside the hospital), register your arrival and house hunting intentions with them, and you will be shown a map with the available houses to you, rooms based on how many dependent children you have.

Then, head off in your matchbox rental car (from the airport terminal desk) and drive around and see each house.

Keep in mind that some corner lots will have larger yard, some even with trees, some are on a slight hill with a view of the nearby fields (Las Palmeras area: splashed with vibrant sunflowers in season) and some are simply wedged between other houses with no view or yard to speak of. Make your decision wisely, as you only get one paid move!!!

Costs?

If you live on base there are NO out-of-pocket expenses, no gas bill, no phone bill, no heating/ac bill, it's an all-inclusive use as much as you like deal!

Proximity to base facilities?

Base housing is approximately a five-minute drive from the majority of base facilities including the drive-in, Commissary, Exchange, Child Development Centre (CDC), fitness centre, hospital, and obviously, you or your spouse's place of work.

Downtown Puerto: A Bustling Area with the Famous Bullring

David G. Farragut (DGF), the shared one complex elementary/middle/high school is within walking distance from all base houses in Las Palmeras, or at most a two-minute drive away from Las Flores housing.

Is it safe?

Absolutely, you're inside a gated secured military facility.

I mean I wouldn't take it for granted, but your children will always have a playground to play in (they are scattered throughout housing) with numerous other American children wandering around...at all hours and all ages!!! This base is small, everyone speaks English and seems to know almost everyone else and who's children go with which parents. It feels like little suburban America to me.

Should I sell my appliances?

Base housing runs on US voltage with US outlets so you would be crazy to sell your appliances. If you do decide to sell them, housing warehouse can loan you appliances (no cost) for the duration of your tour.

110 US voltage

220 European voltage

OFF-BASE HOUSING

Living off-base doesn't mean that you are removed from the base. If fact, we live in an area called Santa Catalina within El Puerto de Santa Maria, and it takes me approximately a 10-15 minute drive to reach the base, a distance that is not even a talking point considering the size of our house and the experience for us of living in the economy.

Santa Catalina Beach: El Puerto de Santa Maria

I drive Michael to the CDC every morning, work out, drive home, shower, go back on base, sometimes two or three times a day...it's never a concern, every facility is still at my finger tips, though they are just a touch longer.

And, if you are worried about no habla Espanol (no speak Spanish) DON'T BE, as English is widely spoken by most real-estate agents or with the translation assistance of Housing.

If you are considering living off-base, here is a breakdown of the most desirable areas, each with their own personality and each within a few minutes drive from the base. There are other lovely areas, however they are a little further away from base.

EL PUERTO DE SANTA MARIA (El Puerto for short) - pronounced PWERTO!

This is, from what I keep hearing is, I guess the most desirable area for American's wanting to live off-base. Puerto is like a fancy umbrella and underneath it sits little suburbs including Puerto, Puerto Sherry, Santa Catalina, and Vistahermosa.

Houses are typically large three or four story in a white or red wash stone exterior and white marble interior large. Most have medium sized front yards, high security fences, swimming pools, view of the ocean, and are within walking distance to either a gorgeous beach, the port, the country club, bullring or some other form of delightful Spanish entertainment.

ROTA

Rota, an old town is the closest to the base (just outside the gate) and is typically favored by young couples and single people who enjoy a vibrant beach party atmosphere, especially come Summer when the clubs open and the streets pouring with happy tourists and locals are filled with music until 6-7am.

Rota Rooftops from the Castle

The houses are usually two-three story white wash, close or attached to each other with minimal or no yard.

Rota is a quaint historic town filled with great restaurants and nightlife, however, with young children it personally would not be my first choice.

EL AGUILA, EL MANANTIAL & LAS REDES

These beachside areas sit in between Vistahermosa and the Naval Base and the famous Churos stand.

El Alguila with two-three story homes, saddles Vistahermosa but some 'shady' agents will try to tell you that it's considered Vistahermosa...it's not! The reason I cover this is because, just as back in the US, public school selection (if you are interested in sending your little ones to Spanish school) in Spain is dependent on where you live, and the Vistahermosa, El Puerto areas are highly desirable for American and Spanish families.

El Manantial and Las Redes remind me of a 'dude' if Spanish had 'dudes' beach town with a touch of the classic European style. More medium rise apartments than houses here, and all a close walk to the beach and base.

Rent?

Monthly rent, after negotiation can be anywhere from 1500-2200 Euro plus utilities depending on the area of preference, the size of the house or apartment and number of bedrooms.

BUT!!! Never accept the initial asking price EVER!

The Spanish real estate agents and landlords know that whatever seemingly low amount that we Americans pay for rent, it is still likely to be double what the local Spanish locals would pay.

They also have an idea of the military housing CAP range (never reveal your cap), so with that in mind, don't be afraid to negotiate on rent or other amenities such as a pool fence or heating/ac installed etc.

We negotiated our rent down almost 800 Euro per month from the initial ridiculously way above our cap, asking price, and had the owners pay half for the pool fence.

Oh, and by the way, unlike in America where it's law to have a pool fence, not in Spain, so don't expect to find it, and if you do, it's likely that an American family lived in the house previously.

Proximity to base facilities?

Of all the locations above, you will never be more than a ten-minute drive from base or a 20 Euro taxi fare (set amount to get on base). Plus, the benefit of living in town is that you have endless walking-distance options when it comes to dining, entertainment and beaches. There are no cab fares, no carrying your military ID, no 10:00 pm curfew, Spain never sleeps (at night anyway), and you become instantly immersed in the Spanish way of life and the beautiful language...no habla Ingles!

If your children attend DGF school as my older daughter does, the free DGF only buses route throughout all of the above areas to school and return. The buses are supervised by a teacher, names are checked off and ID must be shown. My daughter has only a five-minute walk to and from the bus stop.

Is it safe?

I can truly only speak of El Puerto de Santa Maria in regards to daily living of which yes, it is incredibly safe with private security cars that patrol nightly. It is not uncommon to see families walking around late at night, us included. I have left the cars unlocked with windows down numerous times and never had an issue..we also live in a cul-de-sac, so I'm sure that's part of it. Overall though, I have never felt unsafe, ever.

We were warned of the petty crime in Spain, smashing windows to retrieve sunglasses etc, but touch wood, we have not experienced any of this, however, I have heard from many that Rota and El Alguila are more familiar with these petty crimes. Typically if I'm in town though, I never leave anything valuable in sight in the car...that's common sense.

Should I sell my appliances?

We kept most of our appliances, despite being warned otherwise, and I'm so glad we did. Housing will loan you (no cost) as many transformer's as you need (suggest 3 or 4) for the duration of your tour.

A transformer is NOT a power converter like you buy when you travel abroad, so please do NOT try to use those little travel converters on your US hairdryer or other appliances: they will catch fire and blow up..trust me!

Transformer: So Inconspicuous!

Rather, they are small grey boxes that convert your US voltage (110) appliance to European voltage (220).

The newer transformer's seem to blend better with our appliances and although still two-hand heavy, with three in the house, it means that I can still use the Dyson, whip up my cakes in the Kitchenaide and keep the computer's and X-box charged.

List of Appliances to Consider

Washer/dryer: SELL, as they will not likely fit into the allocated spaces in houses here, plus housing will loan you (no cost) brand new washer/dryer with Spanish outlets for the duration of your tour.

Television/ X-Box/Computer/Stereo: DON'T SELL, as you can hook them up using a transformer, however most houses in Spain come furnished or partly furnished (meaning you tell them what you want them to leave..eg TV)

For all those other smaller items like hair dryers, portable fans, humidifiers, personally we sold most as we knew we were going to live off-base and, then simply went to nearest Walmart equivalent (Carrefore) or the Exchange and purchased Spanish voltage appliances for little cost.

I trust that I have at least given you an insight into the different areas surrounding the Naval Base, the style of house on or off-base and a general insight into your up-coming move. Stay tuned for Part II, which will discuss the intricacies of finding the right house off-base and the process in how to make it yours, despite what 'they' will tell you, plus a little more about the Rota Naval Base facilities and the surrounding area.

Crikey!

You're Not Leaving This House Wearing Those Bones!

2012-01-10T20:06:00.005-05:00

Today as I stood in front of the mirror grabbing those -more than I remember last year- squishy bits, turning left then right, sucking my gut in, sticking my -less than I remember last year- boobs out, twirling some more and pushing my wrinkles flat (it could happen), I realized that, at 36 years old, I might just be equally, if not more ~~obsessed~~ aware of my physical appearance as I was at 12, 13, 14, 15...!

As I studied 'those' bits, the ones that were always at the top of my 'eliminate' list, I began to wonder if I had spent so many years preening and pruning myself every day, that this critically mandatory 'beautifying routine', just like breathing, had become habit, or, if like a teenager, I was still foolishly, immaturely influenced and intimidated by the images of unattainably -without a stylist, make-up artist, personal trainer, hairdresser and incredible genes- beautiful skinny women plastered everywhere...surely not?

Surely I don't want to look like those painfully thin models who never smile, the ones that look like they could use a good feed and a pint of blood STAT? Heck no, but I once did, I absolutely once did!

All I ever wanted as a 'tweenager' was to be a model, and I figured that all I had to do was strut into an agency dressed in a pretty outfit, a face full of make-up, a head of teased hair, and a huge smile, and 'whala' I'd be a famous model!

With this naivety in mind, I entered every pathetic money hoarding model pageant that ran the shopping mall circuit and I convinced my Dad to shell out, I'm sure a crap load of money to send me to Anne Merton Academy of Modeling, on the 'somewhat of a promise' that upon completion, they'd pick me to be their next famous model.

Shock! A few years and a few not famous yet, modeling classes later, I finally realized that, those models who were actually jet setting around the world, looked nothing like me.

They were naturally undeniably beautiful with or without 400 layers of Spackle, their praying mantis-like legs didn't jiggle when they walked, their face didn't look a pizza slice, and they could most likely pick coconuts off the tallest palms by just standing on their tip-toes.

I was NONE of the above!

In fact, I remember sitting in seventh grade class one afternoon failing miserably to lure Aaron Hill's (the class cutie) attention away from whatever her name was, when it hit me that, no matter what funny comment or interesting thing I had to say, it was the pretty, skinny girls like whatever her name was, with some mini unfair 'boobage' going on, who gained the attention of the boys, over some flat-as-a-pancake pimple face like, ah, me!

From that day of subtle as a tornado rejection forward, I made it my focus to stay thin, to attempt to grow my boobs faster (it could happen) and to start wearing make-up to not only cover up the face that could own a 'puss factory' as one charming boy once announced to me in front of class, but to attempt to make myself prettier for the boys, to actually sneak some of that attention that 'blondie' and mini boobs were getting.

Needless to say, I was never the popular girl, the captain of the cheerleaders -if we had cheerleaders-and Miss Australia I certainly wasn't!

It wasn't until eleventh grade in a new school with some boobs that finally decided to show up, a face that didn't resemble a slice of pizza, a new attitude and name (that's another story) that I began to become somewhat popular and see the view from another angle. It also wasn't until then that I'd actually ever considered doing whatever it took to stay that 'new way' either, whether it meant eating a lettuce or a piece of gum for lunch or gorging on a meat pie and throwing it up later.

Apparently this is beautiful...not in my world!

By my early twenties, I must have matured (a little) because those dangerous habits disappeared, but the excruciating intent to remain thin did not. I always saw a 'fat whale' in the mirror...always!

When mUm or Dad would say 'Trude you're looking thin, need to put some meat on your bones', rather than consider the possibility that my parents might actually be right, I took it as a compliment, as a motivator to exercise more and eat less, and so I did, until a few weeks after I found out I was pregnant.

After almost twenty years of obsessing over being 'stick thin', one day I just decided that I couldn't be bothered starving myself anymore, wasting so much energy on something so impossible -my body would never be a size 0-, and, because Michael was kicking my very pregnant a*s without relent.

So, today as I stood in front of the mirror grabbing those -more than I remember last year- squishy bits, turning left then right, sucking my gut in, sticking my -less than I remember last year- boobs out, twirling some more and pushing my wrinkles flat (it could happen), I realized that, at 36 years old, I am no longer obsessed with being an impossibly dangerous level of 'stick thin'. I'll never grace the runway-for more reasons than just the body- but I'm healthy and I'm happy that although I'm not even close to body perfect, I have a life.

Living a healthy physical and emotional lifestyle is my new black!

And although I am no longer obsessed with a need to emulate those painfully thin models who depressingly and desperately jolt and jut down the catwalk in their couture skeletal ensemble, I still out of enjoyable habit paint my face on every time I step out of the house...I guess some just die hard or not at all.

Crikey!

A Unique Birthday Party: Virtual Pink Cupcakes!

2012-01-08T16:53:00.002-05:00

Pretty Pink Cupcakes with Meringue Mushrooms

Living the military life, moving from one US duty station to another is challenging enough, now think of military life when your family and friends are not a quick domestic two or three hour flight away, but an international assortment of a painfully long 36-48 hour flight itinerary.

This logistical and incredibly expensive financial challenge has meant that, in the past eight years of this albeit exciting and amazing experience, I've missed a lot of special moments including birthday's, wedding's, baby shower's and, well you get the idea.

The view from Australia via Skype

So, this year for my Step-mUm's birthday, rather than sing the usual off-pitch, tired 'Happy Birthday' via phone at some ungodly hour, I decided to throw her a surprise birthday party.

A pink birthday party in fact, complete with pink party hats, pinkish streamers and what else, pink cupcakes!

My husband thought I was crazy at first, adding his usual sweetly sarcastic comment: 'You're like a little Napoleon, running around ruling the world unless someone stops you'.

So this little Napoleon spent the evening before the party, baking, piping meringue mushrooms and decorating and finally when it came time to throw the surprise, demanding that we be dressed in pink and blue attire, my husband lit the candles and walked into the room with a tray of pretty pink cupcakes adorned with sweet meringue mushrooms and brightly glowing candles.

Grandpa & Grandma via Skype

We yelled surprise and sang 'Happy Birthday', probably, actually most definitely out of tune, and after the candles were blown out, Alena offered a scratchy clarinet performance, Michael sang a song about dinosaurs, and like little pigs, we plucked out the candles and hogged into the cupcakes.

We celebrated my Step-mUm's birthday just as it should be celebrated...if we were there?

Happy Birthday Charleene!

You are truly a beautiful person inside and out, and it's only now as a mUm and a Step-mUm do I realize just how much energy it takes to not just be both, but be both equally. Thank you!

I hope you enjoyed your party, however next year, although I can't promise you that we'll be home, I can promise you an off-key rendition of 'Happy Birthday', a song about dinosaurs and of course...cupcakes.

Crikey!

Three Kings Day: A Spanish Christmas Tradition

2012-01-05T19:11:00.000-05:00

Throughout Spain tonight, millions of little children will fall asleep and dream of the wonderful gifts that the Three Kings will leave in their shoes for when they wake tomorrow morning on Three Kings Day (Dia de Los Reyes).

Three Kings Day (January 6) which falls twelve days after Christmas, celebrates the arrival of the Three Kings (Los Tres Reyes Magos - Three Wise Men), Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar into Bethlehem on the night Christ was born.

However, the celebration begins in early December when children write letters to the Three Kings asking them for gifts and telling them of their behavior throughout the year.

On the eve of the 5th, however, the Three Kings parades are held throughout Spain, and this evening we, along with a few thousand Americans and Spanish joined in the celebration in the town of Rota.

At 5:00pm precisely the marching band started playing and then continued to lead the spectacular array of adorned floats complete with HARD candy pelting children, throughout the streets of Rota.

Each float blasted out Spanish Christmas music while adorable children dressed in traditional costume pelted and I mean pelted from above, that hard candy Grandma's like to hand out, into the eager crowd. I took at least five or six to the head.

I immediately retracted my 'look at the crazy woman with an upside down umbrella' statement!

The parade of floats and musicians itself was small, however, as it continued to weave throughout the streets of Rota, the moment that it passed one area and bags were full of candy, stuffed toys and balls, people would high-tail it across the block and wait for round two, three, four....

We made it to round two.

The Spanish, as I've seen before, are, lets just say committed when it comes to obtaining free goods. And I truly mean committed in a crazy a*s will beat down a three year old or grown man, in WWF style wrestling technique to get their hands on a 50 cent plastic beach ball or toy car!

It was bloody fabulous though in a crazy a*s kind of way - what man will do for a piece of sugar or plastic!

The atmosphere, the music, the floats, the bruises, and the bag full of candy we hoarded was unbelievable, but by far the most exquisite part of the evening was yet to come.

Of course it has to be food, this is me!

'Roscon de Reyes' (King's Ring) an unbelievably light sweet bread cake filled with fresh cream, drizzled with a sweet citrus-like glaze and adorned with brightly colored candied fruit and sprinkled sugar, that we devoured in minutes.

Inside each exquisite cake is hidden a dried fava bean (my bite) - which means that I have to buy the cake next year- and a king figurine (Chad), which means that he's King for the Day!

So, now as the parade has ended, and the last piece of candy is picked up off the street, as it falls just after midnight, most children should (this is Spain) be asleep by now and their shoes be left by the door let the Three Kings know how many children live there.

And just as I leave Vegemite sandwiches, a glass of milk and some carrots for Santa and his reindeer, the children in Spain leave grass and water for the camels and something to eat for Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar.

Remember the Three Kings have travelled all the way across the desert to reach Spain.

Then, come tomorrow morning, the 6th (Three Kings Day), the children will excitedly run to find presents in their shoes and while they play with their toys, the families and friends gather to celebrate another year.

I love Spain!

Crikey!

Happy New Year 2012 from Spain: Feliz Año Nuevo! A Mouth Full of Grapes!

2012-01-01T16:46:00.002-05:00

12 Grapes

Along with a few hundred of my closest Spanish and American friends and my beautiful Rota family, I celebrated New Years Eve amidst bubbles, strobe lights, Jello-oh shots and grapes, in the beautiful seaside town of Rota, Spain.

That's right grapes! This wonderfully unique Spanish tradition entails ~~choking~~ scoffing down 12 grapes - one per clock chime -in the last 12 seconds before the stroke of midnight, and splash them down with the Spanish bubbly: Cava.

Unlike in most countries where New Years Eve parties begin earlier in the evening, the Spanish celebrate the earlier part of New Years Eve in their homes with family dinners.

Of course, being the eager beaver Americans - used to hitting the p*ss hours earlier - from 10:00pm we walked the streets, and it eerily felt like we were the last human's on Earth. Rota was a ghost town!

But then with only a few minutes before midnight, like little ants, they filtered out into the main square, dressed to perfection with their grapes and plastic bags filled with bottles of Cava, Tinto and Sangria ready to party until the sun rose.

Are we in the right place - at 11:00pm.

The DJ warmed up, excited voices buzzed and hundreds of eager faces each more beautiful and drunk than the last, in between sips of wine, kept vigilant watch at the clock tower above.

And then, SILENCE!

In an instant the crowd - us included - raised their grapes, and the first chime rang.

Gong: Chew. Gulp.

Gong: Chew. Choke.

Gong: Choke...I'm just going to have fun watching everyone else!

Tu eres me vida te amo: You are my life, I love you

I honestly thought that this challenge would be a piece of cake, however, as I began stuffing possibly the largest grapes I could buy into my mouth, I decided that unless a Heimlich maneuver was in my future that the Spanish grapes had defeated me...this time!

Once the grapes were downed and the bubbly popped, the DJ pumped out Spanish dance tracks most of which I actually knew and loved, just had absolutely no clue what the song was about.

Through endless confetti, blowers, bubbles, and dancing feet, some more fancy than others, we continued to celebrate, loudly, the new year and all the excitement that it will bring.

However amidst the excitement and my favourite song of the moment, Follow the Leader , as I hugged my friends, something tackled my heart and I started to cry. No, I wasn't drunk, nor did I get into a fight, walk into a wall or fall down a hole. It was something far deeper than any hole I've ever fallen into.

Amigos para siempre!

The early part of last year was tough for me with new 'friendships' - unexpected military spouse drama- so standing beside these beautiful girls, I realized that although horrible back then, it actually took in some morbid way, all of that nasty drama and bullsh*t to bring these girls into my life.

These girls were now embedded into my heart and soul as true lifelong friends, and that's why I cried.

So, yes I'm starting a sentence with so, at 3:30am with tired legs and sleeping kiddies in tow, we pushed our way through the energetic crowd and said goodnight the first day of 2012.

Kiddies at 3:30am?

Oh, yes, the New Years Eve party in Spain isn't reserved for adults alone, in fact in Spain it's common to see young kiddies out with their parents til' way past any 'appropriate' bedtime that we are familiar with. But then, when dinner time here doesn't start til' at least 10:00pm, what else would you expect?

What about Resolutions?

This year I made six resolutions that are not only achievable but such that will strengthen and diversify my character and life even more.

1: To be more adventurous with my fashion sense: Spain certainly is the epicenter of incredible fashion!

2: Speak Spanish fluently: I start classes this week.

3: Travel Europe til' my legs fall off.

4. Become 'most excellent' at playing the guitar - yes I said 'most excellent'.

5: Not give a f*ck about the little people or things that try to cause trouble.

6: Stop saying f*ck!

Of course I wouldn't be a woman if I didn't add lose weight and look fabulous to that list. So, with that said, goodbye 2011, hello 2012. Now, where to celebrate the next New Years Eve: Paris, Germany, Scotland?

Happy New Year! - Feliz Año Nuevo!

Crikey!

Arcos de la Frontera: Living Nativity (Belen Living)

2011-12-30T19:40:00.000-05:00

As the orange glow of an icy Winter sun fell, delicately weaving it's intricate shadows throughout the narrow cobble stoned, white walled village of Arcos de la Frontera, the softly flame lit and palm tree adorned streets reminiscent of Bethlehem of Judea 2000 years ago, came to life.

The Saturday before Christmas each year, the picturesque cliff top village of Arcos de la Frontera in the Cadiz region of Spain transforms it's already historic streets into the Living Bethlehem (Belen Living), a spectacular display of twenty living nativity scenes depicting the birth of Jesus.

Arcos de la Frontera, or simply Arcos as it's known by locals, and now me, is anything but the typical fairy tale village that most guide books lazily describe it and EVERY white village in Spain, as - not sure exactly which fairy tale though???

The village of Arcos with her fortified stone walls and maze of narrow streets, sits atop a glorious mountain that majestically guards the surrounding area and oozes antique romance within each hidden nook.

As for the meaning of the name Arcos de la Frontera, I'll allow travel guru Rick Steves to explain:

Towns with "de la Frontera" in their names were established on the front line of the Christians' centuries-long fight to recapture Spain from the Moors, who were slowly pushed back into Africa. Today, these hill towns- no longer strategic and no longer on any frontier - are just passing time peacefully. (Rick Steves)

Interestingly, only a few weeks earlier on a recent visit to Arcos, the Plaza de Cabildo, the central plateau for Belen Living was just a typical open air smothered parking lot, one that has become very familiar to most of us big beast driving Yanks stationed here, and one that I actually managed to, with 12-point turns, navigate out of, avoiding scratching my car any further.

But on this crisp evening, the stark concrete was replaced with tons of dirt, the cars with donkey's (actually ploughing), and the street lamps and trash cans were hidden amidst endless tall palm trees, burning fires and joyous laughter and music.

The Belen Living path itself strategically and meticulously led away from the Plaza de Cabildo and meandered it's way throughout the steep, often dark narrow streets.

The sweet aroma of burning wax, roasted chestnuts and musty scent of live animals wafted through the cold night air, the rolling sounds of tambourines and Spanish voices darted off the stone walls, and the chatter of 20,000 or so visitors echoed throughout the normally quiet virtually untouched village.

At the mercardo (market) display, women donned in traditional costume flaunted and shouted fresh fish, squid and eel to passers by, cakes, breads and fruit were sprawled out on trays and baskets of vegetables toppled onto the cobblestone streets.

As for the allure of Arcos outside of Belen Living, being a quick 35-40 minute drive from the Rota Naval Base, and host to the running of the bulls event in April, it is definitely a village worthy of spending a day exploring.

The, 'I Don't Want to Be a Typical Tourist' Tip:

As you enter Arcos off the 382, follow the signs towards Centro Ciudad (center of town) and down the hill towards the tourist/tourist bus parking lot, however DO NOT park there!

Why, because if you continue down the hill, you will traverse around the mountain and will be able to capture the beauty of Arcos village and the cliff face some 330 feet above you.

Continue driving (5 mins) and you will come into a residential area: the back tourist-free area of Arcos. Turn left at the first roundabout and left again at the next roundabout.

Grab a park and start walking UP through the white gate.

WARNING!
Rather than the easy walk from the main tourist parking lot to the Plaza del Cabildo past tourist filled restaurants, you will climb STEEP cobble stoned streets and steps using only your internal GPS to reach the top, which by the way will look like it's a million miles away.

And, rather than dodge tourists, you will dodge children, mopeds and an assortment of happily wandering dogs.

The 'path' will traverse along the opposite cliff face that overlooks the stunning valley below, and in between gasping for breath (kidding?), let the delicious aromas of home cooking float into your belly.

Perhaps (actually definitely) stop at an intimate hole in the wall tapas bar and sip a cool drink, play street soccer with some kiddies coming out of school, and attempt to chat with the locals.

Or, if like us are in need of some fruit and toddler entertainment, buy some grapes at a 'tiny' store and after the sweet juice bursts out, roll them down the streets - they never stop!

Then, finally when you reach the top some 25-30 minutes later, aside from your legs burning and chest aching, you'll feel that ultimate sense of ~~what the f*ck was I thinking~~ accomplishment, especially once you place a cold beverage in your hand and admire the beauty of your surroundings.

Now, if you don't want to walk and have 'cajones' the size of basketballs, drive!

We decided to drive after our walk, and although each corner and street looked more narrow and mirror removing than the last, there was only one space that we looked at each other and said 'No way' and had to reverse out.

Otherwise, even our full-size vehicle albeit narrowly, made it through without a single scratch...that's excitement if you ask me!

What About the Kiddies?
Arcos is incredibly child friendly, although as with any of the narrow street white villages of Spain, keep your little ones at hand held distance or in hand, as the locals drive with out-of-control control and at the best of times we were pressed up against the wall or stepping into someone's front foyer as the cars passed.

As for the back route, well, we took our 3 year old both times, and although this route was fun for the first five minutes for him, I strongly suggest a light stroller, as it absolutely has got to be easier than carrying his whining a*s 99% of the way up.

I felt like my entire body was going to topple over with every step, and I'd just keep rolling....

THERE SHE GOES, WHERE SHE STOPS NOBODY KNOWS!

The Belen Living was truly one of the most visually and emotionally beautiful events that I have experienced since moving to Spain, one that we will return for every year that we are fortunate enough to be stationed here.

Crikey!

Coupon Codes: Not Just A White Trash Event!

2011-12-16T12:57:00.001-05:00

Until a few years ago, I thought coupons were reserved only for the white trash folk who would, with a stash of thin paper cut outs, pile into whatever six-wheel contraption could be moved off stumps and head for the nearest All-You-Can-Eat $9.99 buffet!

Then, one day while comparing online prices of jogging strollers and travel cribs, I stumbled upon a coupon site and realized that most coupon codes were far more valuable than just a free ice-cream with purchase (although who doesn't love ice-cream?).

Somehow, through a little additional 'coupon' research I had managed to save almost $200 off the regular price for both the stroller and travel crib.

From that sweet money saving moment on, the white trash vibe had left the building...forever!

Some three years on, while I'm certainly not one of those coupon queen's who can smell a dollar discount from a mile away, with the incredibly accessible range of compiled coupon sites doing the work for me (and now you), I don't have to be. And, especially now more than ever, living in the small military community of Rota, Spain, I truly miss the shopping epicenter of the USA - the late-night Target or Macy runs- where everything is right at your fingertips!

But, the true beauty of these one-stop coupon code sites is that, not only do they display online and printable coupon codes from the homegrown to big name retailers and brands, but rather than leave you hanging after a coupon code's expiration, they replace the expired with something greater, almost immediately. For someone like me who used to leave coupons in the car or dresser for months, only to be met with, 'Shit, it's expired', these sites are invaluable!

It's no secret that consumers stupidly are often forced to pay sometimes 120% more than what the item actually cost to make, so in my mind, there is nothing more satisfying than paying not only less than the retail price of an item, but less than what other online retailers are suggesting that you fork over. And, perhaps, I'm a snot, but while 5% off a pair of shoes isn't really enough to buzz my lights, 30%-50% off an entire order, now that's a fireworks show right there!

So, after a lengthy three-year coupon code research mission, here are the top compiled coupon sites that consistently get my vote, and save my wallet from near extinction:

Retail Me Not
Current Codes
Coupon Codes

TOP COUPON FOUND TODAY!
Payless Shoes : 30% off entire purchase until December 18.

Shoes, glorious shoes: I just saved $73.00 on (9) pairs of shoes!

There are hundreds, if not thousands of coupon code websites out there just waiting to be discovered, so if you've found one, I'd love to know about it!

Crikey!

Porn Star Language: It's a Gym Thing!

2011-12-14T19:03:00.001-05:00

'Yeah, you know you're a bad thing'

The signs inside the Naval base gym read, 'No offensive language or shouting'!

So, while attempting to pedal away every last inch of junk food I'd shoveled into my mouth over the course of this past week, I heard an odd gabble of words that landed my eyes right on treadmill man at 11:00 o'clock.

A grunted gabble, abnormal even for the hoards of sweat hogs that usually strut their stuff in tighter than tight t-shirts and shorter than Richard Simmons shorts.

At first, I dismissed it as simple 'self-encouragement' but then the gabble of words became more definite, each tread more erect as such, until every other, what felt like seconds, my bleeding ears were dominated with 'Yeah, you know you want it' followed by a hearty, I'm gonna get you good'!

Ah, does this douche bag know that he's talking dirty to a treadmill? I can only, but aggh don't want to, imagine what this guy is like behind closed doors!

Luckily for me, he worked that treadmill like never before, right before my and a newly clicked in eye-rolling fan base. I felt embarrassed, mostly for him, but also for me intruding on this guy's intimate moment with, let me reiterate...a treadmill!

I wondered if in fact I'd stepped onto a porn set. Naturally, being a military gym, the buff, brawn and bravado is everywhere but after that, I kindly wondered if management should consider either dimming the lights and adding a touch of sax (not sex), or revising the signs to accommodate and detour some, lets just say 'dominating' sweaters.

And, then today, while pushing weights I hear, VERY LOUDLY echoing throughout the room, 'Yeah, you know you're a bad thing' followed by 'Come on work me'. Are you f*cking kidding me right now? Surely this was the same dude back for some more metal lovin' right? Nope! Dude number two although equally as tight shirted and shorted, but somewhat better looking, was definitely not the same dude. This guy, in all fairness was good, I mean despite the circumstances, he really showed that machine, 'Who's your Daddy!

I'm all for self-encouragement and pushing through the pain while working out but for f*ck sake, getting it on all 'dirty-like' with machinery and, without warning forcing me to listen, that's just not on. Despite never wanting to hear amateur action in that environment ever again, it was, I have to say somewhat bloody hilarious.

So, thank you Buck Treadwood and Pecs Heavy for making me vomit inside my mouth, laugh, and, for ending my workout sessions prematurely.

I can't imagine this to be a one off, reserved only for my ears...surely?

Crikey!

Thumbprint Christmas Cards: Ho! Ho! Ho!

2011-12-12T16:21:00.002-05:00

Usually, I'm much more organized by this time of the year. My Christmas cards have already been printed and posted, the tree is decorated and twinkling, the cookies are ready for Santa, and the presents are hiding in the closet.

But, considering that it's Christmas Eve next week, and the only check off my list is a beautifully decorated Christmas tree, thanks to Trees For Troops, I've got some serious rowing to do up this creek!

With absolutely no time for a fancy family Christmas photo shoot (including the dogs) in hideous reindeer jumpers (sweaters: including the dogs), I opted to pull out the paints, glitter and crayons, and create some instantly cute 'Thumbprint Christmas Cards' featuring Michael's stubby little fingers.

However, after three or four 'wonky' prints he decided that his bike was much more fun, leaving me to play kindergarten and finish the cards myself, which actually turned out to be a few 'hours' of unexpected mild entertainment.

Here's what you will need:

1: Paints & paintbrushes

2. Crayons or markers

3. White or colored heavy paper

4. Stickers, glitter or anything shiny..oooh my favorite!

5. A little bit of imagination (trust me you don't need to be Dr Seuss)

Let the fun begin:

1. Fold heavy paper into desired card size.

2. Dip your thumb in paint and press to make the desired figure (Santa, Reindeer or Snowman)

3. Once dry, write a family member's name under each figure, then let your creativity go crazy!

NOTE: Even the 'wonkiest' of prints can be transformed into a unique personal design.

In fact, my favorite card was created when my aim for thumbprint perfection was thwarted by Michael's independence.

Instead of allowing my OCD to kick in and throw the card away, I just looked at it from another perspective. Hmmm, tumbling snowmen trying to escape an avalanche...perfect!

SANTA'S GOT NO ARMS!
The Santa thumbprint card was an original idea that I thought would be easy to create. Two red thumbprints, some boots, a hat and a beard...easy. However, I realized that to make Santa look like more than just two blobs of red paint, I would need to add some extra 'obvious' details.

And, that's where a fine black marker and a fine dipped in white paintbrush, dappled on for Santa's beard, eyebrows, and pom ball came in.

It was only after I stood back and proudly smiled at my creations, some two hours later, that I realized something odd...Santa's Got No Arms!

I thought for a minute, then resigned myself to the fact that a: I didn't know how to draw anything other than 'stick figure' arms and b; my Thumbprint Christmas Card patience had shouted it's last Ho! Ho!

Overall, these 'Thumbprint Christmas Cards' were fun to make and despite my little one having beyond minimal patience, he still had fun dipping his fingers in paint, and I still managed to capture his stubby little fingers on three cards. Three cards that Grandma and Grandpa will no doubt have displayed on the fridge way after the last Christmas carol has been sung.

Merry Christmas!

Crikey!

How To Love Lemons: A Scrumptious Dinner Menu!

2011-12-11T19:12:00.012-05:00

As the saying goes, 'When life gives you lemons...make lemonade'.

So, when I was given a huge bag of unbelievably fragrant grapefruit-sized lemons fresh off a friend's tree, instead of stopping at lemonade, I summoned my taste buds.

I tweaked some already fabulous recipes and created a simple three course scrumptiously mouth-watering dinner menu, featuring what else...the LEMON!

The lemon, an inexpensive staple item that most households have sitting in a bowl, just waiting to be used.

I felt so Iron Chef, 'and the secret ingredient is..'

Initially I thought, 'shit', great that I've got the lemons, and now I have lemon for my tea, but what else can I make other than lemon meringue pie?

So, I played it safe and churned out three lemon meringue pies, each one with a varying height of meringue, each one more delicious than the last and each one increasing the size of my...everywhere!

That's when I decided to create a simple family friendly menu featuring lemons...shit I had enough of them!

Classic Virgin or Vodka Lemonade

Let's start with the classic! This Best Lemonade Ever recipe, combines a simple syrup with water and lemons and is sweet enough for the kiddies, yet packs enough lemon tartness, especially when you add a ~~cup~~ dash of Vodka, that will make you (the adult) wish it were Summer every day.

Note: Although the recipe suggests a (20) person serving, it actually only made enough for us to gulp down in minutes. I would suggest doubling the recipe and what you don't drink, freeze for Lemonade Slushies or Granita.

So, whether you decide on the virgin or Vodka infused option, be sure to serve in martini glasses rimmed with lemon juice and sugar for that extra 'wow'.

A GOOD OLD FASHION ROAST CHOOK (CHICKEN)

I've always loved a good roast chicken but have always found them to either be too tough and without any real flavor other than a salty chewy skin, or too 'gooey', which is just gross.

So, I decided to create my own roast chicken recipe and instead of using oil to cook the chicken, I use an unsalted butter bath which is then used to make a Lemon Butter Jus that is addictive.

This recipe aint' exactly the healthiest, considering you drizzle or in my husband's case, pour the Lemon Butter Jus over the chicken, roast potatoes or whatever side you desire, but for a once a month taste explosion, this recipe is beyond delicious and truly worth the expanded waistline.

Roasted Chicken with Lemon Butter Jus

Ingredients

1 whole chicken (insides removed)

2 large lemons (sliced)

2 sticks unsalted butter (chopped into 2 inch chunks)

1 stalk celery

3 cloves garlic (left whole)

1 teaspoon dried Rosemary

2 teaspoons Kosher salt/regular salt ok

1 teaspoon ground pepper

2 teaspoons cornstarch/cornflour

For Chicken:

1. Preheat oven to 350F (180C).

2. Place whole chicken in large glass baking dish. Rub salt and pepper over chicken and pat into skin.

3. Stuff inside with celery, 1/2 stick chopped butter, garlic, Rosemary, 1 lemon (sliced).

4. Place remaining butter chunks around chicken in glass baking dish.

5. Place remaining lemon slices on top of chicken.

6. Place thermometer inside thigh and bake for about 1.5 hrs (inside temp should be 175 min).

* After 30 min, baste with melted butter every 20 min (keeps juicy and tasty)

7. Let chicken rest for 5-10 min before serving (make Lemon Butter Jus below while chicken resting)

*Yes these are limes from another attempt. Camera died for lemons!

For Lemon Butter Jus:

1. Remove chicken from baking dish and pour all liquid including any chunks into small fry pan.

2. Whisk in cornstarch and bring to boil.

3. Serve over chicken from the bottom (all the chunky good stuff).

Serving Suggestion

Roast potatoes, pumpkin and honey carrots...oh and of course lemonade!

SAVE ROOM FOR DESSERT!

Lemon Bars Cockaigne

*Fancy talk for Lemon Curd Bars, but way fancier in taste!

Adapted from The Joy of Cooking

(Makes about 18 3-inch by 2-inch squares...or not enough)

Ingredients

For the crust:

1 1/2 cups all purpose flour

1/4 cup confectioners/icing sugar

pinch salt

12 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, sliced

For the filling:

6 large eggs

3 cups white sugar

zest of 2 lemons

1 1/2 cup lemon juice (about 6 lemons)

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

Confectioners/icing sugar, for dusting.

Directions

1. Sift flour, sugar and salt into food processor (or bowl)

2. Blend or cut with pastry knives until mixture in little clumps

3. Press mixture into bottom of 9"x 13" baking pan. Press up the sides also.

4. Bake at 325 degrees for about 20-30 minutes until golden brown. Set aside to cool.

Filling:

1. Whisk eggs and sugar together until well combined. Add zest and juice; mix well.

2. Sift flour over top and stir until well blended. Pour filling over cooled crust.

3. Bake until set, about 35 minutes. (Should jiggle a wee bit)

4. Let cool completely before cutting into bars. Dust generously with powdered/icing sugar

So, there you have it, a simple and delicious family menu featuring LEMONS!

Crikey!

Have Pick-Up Lines Evolved or Have Men Actually Become...SMART?

2011-12-04T15:45:00.001-05:00

I'm curious!

Pick-up lines have NEVER worked on me, not the transparent ones slurred and sprayed heartily in my face by some smelly drunk ass or, the ones perfectly rehearsed by an overly cocky wanker anyway!

Yet, recently I've found myself incredibly curious by a new breed of pick-up line, one that hides itself fabulously behind the true intent, and might just be the golden egg for men everywhere...ssshhhh!

I know, I know a pick-up line that doesn't make me want to gag, walk away or slap the brut! Yes it's true, and with this newfound Intel, I've started to wonder if 'men' might actually be getting smarter, and rather than blurt out whatever their penis is thinking, they are simply reverting back to what women love the most, the golden era of elegance and genuine flattery (anything's possible right)?

SMOKE AND MIRRORS

The first time it (the smart pick-up line) happened, I was sitting in my relatively cute unmarried dentist's chair and very casually he said, 'I really like your shoes...they're beautiful'. I thanked him as he went about his work, but I couldn't stop thinking about it during the entire appointment, did he actually just like my shoes (they were expensive and beautiful) or was he dropping a very clever subtle line?

He had to be gay right, and I know that sounds cliche, but in my head, 'Don't tap your last season's Prada's at me missy' was on constant replay...remember Elle Woods said, 'he has to be gay'! I called my husband the moment I left the office, gave him the scoop, to which he very caveman-like responded, 'He was hitting on you'...'but, baby he's gay, remember, Prada's, tapping'. My husband never bought into my theory...that was a year ago.

Then, very recently, while standing at the bar, a young man, looks at me, smiles and very casually says, 'What make-up are you wearing, it's lovely'...which obviously given my pause and deer in headlights look, prompted him to say 'Oh I'm not gay, you just look beautiful'.

WHAT THE HECK! His big friendly smile attached to those words...that was a definite pick-up line if I'd ever heard one and it was brilliant! This was one smart dude, he had combined and executed perfectly, a strong dose of flattery, a, 'I'm not a serial killer' smile, and then thrown in a 'my best gay friend possibility' with an air of confidence that was absolutely impeccable. Bravo 10 out of 10!

Could it really be that simple? ~~Honesty~~ Flattery softened by smoke and mirrors with a dash of confidence? I personally don't know any woman out there who wouldn't feel flattered if a man told her she looked beautiful, I certainly did, unless of course the dude was a slurring sweaty mess attempting to paw my ass.

Yet, although, while this dude was smart, there are many that will never follow in his footsteps. Many that will continue to pull from The Worst Pick-Up Lines Ever, never understanding why 'Have you got a mirror in your pocket...cause I can see myself in your pants' didn't cut it with the ladies!

WOO THE GIRL

Pick-up or chat-up lines have meandered their clever way through the decades, and while their style and delivery may have transitioned with the increasing tolerance of smut, their final outcome..to get the girl has not.

Remember, in Casablanca, when a handsome Rick and breathtakingly beautiful Ilsa locked smolderingly perfect eyes (and eyebrows), she was delighted to hear that he remembered their first meeting, and as he responded, in his confident sexy voice... 'The Germans wore grey, you wore blue', she blushed and the deal was done.

Then, as the romantic era began to slowly fade into the 1960's flirtatiously unconventional "Pillow Talk", the lines became more 'cheeky', the subtlety became the obvious and then, well, by the time the 80's & 90's arrived there was enough cheese to take down Wisconsin. No longer did men, and I say men, cause lets face, 90% of pick-up lines are delivered by men, they are the original hunter of food and women, have to don their best dinner jacket, and woo the girl with their impeccable charm and elegant words.

Instead, arrogance engulfed confidence and the genuineness of wooing the girl through flattery was swept away by hit movies with smokin' hot and cocky leading men, including the infamous ultimate pick-up line...'You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling'. What woman didn't want a sexy group of men serenading her ‘right’? Arrogance became the desired fast track approach to getting into those skin tight pants, be them hot pink lycra or waist high stonewash denim!

SO…

Have men possibly become a little smarter (don't laugh) in their understanding of what actually strikes the core of a woman (flattery and charm?) or were these two incidences a perplexing rarity like hair on a billiard ball?

I’m really curious now to read how YOU have been the target of a ‘pick-up’ line or act, and if flattery and charm were at play and, most importantly…did it work?

Crikey!

Flying High: Life as a Virgin Blue Cabin Crew!

2011-10-18T19:29:00.001-04:00

Without Prejudice

First Flight: TAA. Me in front!

As a little girl, flying was one of those unbelievably exciting experiences that I never wanted to end, but late one night in the early 90's, as I sat alone in the window seat of a very small propeller/engine plane, seconds away from take-off, that was about to change.

As the plane began to tear down the runway, initially the bright lights of Sydney in the distance were distractingly beautiful, but then suddenly, there were unusual loud beeps, long warning tones that continued to wail, as the plane moved faster and closer to wheels up.

I remember the look of absolute terror on the flight attendant's face as she exited the cockpit, and, thinking 'we are buggered'. I knew, at the speed we were traveling, that it was too late to abort the take-off, and as I watched the flight attendant buckle herself in tightly, I sat gripping the arm rest, frozen, waiting for whatever was about to happen.

As the warning lights and beeps continued, the passengers were silent, and then, just as the lights of Sydney seemed to fade in the distance, the plane dropped drastically, and, as I looked outside my window, I was terrified to see the engine engulfed in flames. Within seconds the plane was turning sharply and those lights of Sydney came back into sight, but this time the runway wasn't dark, instead it was lined with seemingly endless flashing lights: fire trucks, ambulances, police cars.

I honestly don't remember the landing or even catching another plane that night (but I did). I only remember being on the ground, climbing over the wing, being grabbed by 'someone', and walking away as I looked back at the plane. I never found out what happened that night, but I know that it left me terrified of flying for years afterwards.

It became routine for me to meticulously count the rows, read every inch of that safety card and most importantly, watch the flight attendants faces...if they were smiling, through gritted teeth, so was I?

Virgin Blue Graduation with mUm & Dad

Then, one day, years later I noticed an advert in the local paper: Virgin Blue Australia were looking for friendly, attractive, smiling cabin crew. I figured the best way to cure my fear of flying: be in control! I applied, made it through the ~~model/cattle call~~ group interview, then the final interview round, and a few weeks later, was sitting in Group 22 training school with a whole slew of friendly, smiling, young and attractive, 'Virgin Blue Clones'.

As I looked around the classroom, I noticed that we all had a similar look: young, thin, blonde hair, big white smiles: very 'Children of the Corn'. The VERY strict guidelines of how we must look, from our uniform (which I loved) to the length of our ponytail, the color of our eyeshadow and how it had to be worn, to the color of our lipgloss: we were 'Virgin Blue Clones' in the making, and, although initially expensive and 'what the f*ck', I thought it was wonderful.

Training was tough but exciting with endless hours of study, airport safety drills and exercises, fire fighting, water rescue drills, and, just being a part of the idea that in a few weeks, I'd be flying almost every day, all day, traveling to new cities every night, was enough to push me through the incredible lack of sleep that came with the every day pace.

But, despite learning the mega Cabin Crew manuel and drilling every possible scenario, the one thing that always stuck with me: "Calm face, smile and Re-Assure, Re-Assure, Re-Assure". "Always remember that the guests are watching you". In lamen terms: even if the plane is nose-diving at warp speed into the ocean, just keep a calm face, smile and Re-Assure, Re-Assure, Re-Assure!!!

Sir Richard Branson & MOI!

My time as a Cabin Crew, was at a time when Virgin Blue was the new kid on the block, and with Richard Branson at the helm, that's right, Sir Richard 'Virgin Records' Branson, with his fresh new airline and renowned gorgeous Cabin Crew flanking his side...how could it not be incredible?

To be honest, my time as a Cabin Crew was probably one of the most exhilarating and dangerously wicked that I had ever experienced. I met some wonderful people, made some great friends, did way too much partying: I still don't know how I survived it, but I did and honestly, I loved every second of it. Of course, being away constantly, in a different city almost every night, meant that while fun, trying to start any kind of 'trustworthy' relationship was futile.

Although, I decided to give it a go once, yet he dumped me 'via email' while I was in another city. Honestly, I can't blame the guy though, my arrogant 'too good for you attitude' and never around ways kicked in and sh*t, I would have dumped my a*s too!

I mean, come on, in addition to being a Virgin Blue Cabin Crew, I was one of the 'Faces of Virgin Blue': my face was plastered in advertising campaigns across Australia, on billboards, in magazines...how could I not be better than some, as I saw it then, hick from the country? I was also ONLY 20 something, so my ego and immaturity went hand-in-hand, and I refused to learn from my mistakes, I just kept making the same fabulous ones over and over and over again!

Elle Magazine: 2nd from right.

Then, one day, just like that, I was done, I handed in my 'wings', and left my Virgin Blue days behind me!

But, to this day, I still watch the flight attendants faces, I still know each ding and beep, and regardless of how big their 'pretty' smile is, if that beep or ding indicates something it aint' supposed to, I know how to get my a*s off that plane pronto!

Would I ever go back to flying though...~~absolutely~~, probably not, but I do love thinking about the idea!

Update: While writing this post and searching for Group 22 pictures, I came across an article in one of Australia's leading newspapers, The Age, titled Cabin Crew Flying After Victory Over Virgin Blue.

The basis of the story is that a group of ex-Ansett flight attendants fought and won against Virgin Blue, over the notion that they, and other women over the age of 36, were overlooked as Cabin Crew for younger, prettier, possibly less experienced flight attendants?

* They claimed the initial assessment process was akin to a "cattle yard" where interviewers homed in on young, attractive applicants.

What more can I say?

A big old CRIKEY!

Week 1: How to Make Playdough, Bread Rolls and Horchata!

2011-10-04T14:17:00.002-04:00

For this week, the very first week of my 'get off my a*s' challenge, I decided to keep it in the kitchen, with three really simple ideas: Green Playdough, Fresh Baked Bread Rolls, and Horchata!

I love all three of these ideas because, the first (playdough) takes me back to my childhood, a time when the most important decision was whether to have chocolate or caramel syrup on my pancakes.

The second (fresh baked bread rolls), reminds me of walking into a quaint bakery in Paris, the wafting aroma of fresh bread, and being surrounded wide-eyed, by unbelievably delicious petit fours and chocolate eclairs.

And, the third (Horchata), takes me straight back to San Diego, California, my first American home, home of real Mexican food, avocado and sour cream on an omelet, and, the Padres!

1: Playdough
While it may seem easier to just buy this amazing multi-colored, finger squishing, monster moulding clay, I decided to give it a shot, just like Grandma (not actually mine) used to make. Of course, when I asked Michael what color it had to be...Green!

One saucepan, some salt, flour and 10 minutes later, and Michael and I had made a giant ball of preservative free green playdough, that not only smelled just like I remember as a kid, but tasted (yes I licked it) just like it also!

What to do with a huge ball of salty green playdough..get out the safe kitchen tools and be a kid again...sculpt an inchworm and an apple for it to live in, of course!

2: Fresh Baked Bread Rolls

20 Minutes of Kneading!

For me, the smell and taste of warm fresh bread rolls is one of life's little pleasures, and if you agree, then you will appreciate making/baking your own bread rolls.

Not only are they incredibly easy and tasty, but like anything home made, you actually know what's inside!

Preparation is clearly the key here! Without a bread mixer, I decided to bake 12 dinner rolls using the 20-minute self-kneading process, of course which only after Chad came home and said "you know we have a bread mixer attachment right?".

Shrunken Head Bread Rolls: All The Rage!

I also realized that I had no salt (very important for taste), and, that my bread rolls technique resembled shrunken voodoo heads versus perfectly rotund rolls!

I also realized that the 12-minute baking time, doesn't mean, walk away to play with the dogs for 20!

Still, without salt (nothing a slopping of gravy and butter didn't fix), and the fact that I had to microwave the rolls back from the dark side of 'hard as a rock', they were in fact rather delicious!

3: Horchata

Rice mash after soaking overnight

Until I moved to San Diego in 2004, I had never heard of Horchata, or real Mexican food for that matter, so, when I was offered a 'real' burrito washed down with Horchata (rice water and sugar), although skeptical that it wouldn't taste like anything other than stale water, I thought what the heck, and gave it a shot (not literally).

Refreshingly Sweet Horchata

Who would have thought that rice water, cinnamon and sugar could be so perfectly too sweet and deliciously refreshing?

Until we moved to Spain, where Horchata is non-existent (no, Mexican food and Spanish food are NOT the same), I never even thought to make it...until yesterday!

Far out, this Horchata recipe from David Lebovitz's 'living the sweet life in Paris' (very Mexican I know), was incredibly EASY and unbelievably delicious.

What's happening next week with Crikey mUm? Perhaps something auto/mechanically related like learning how to change a tyre or the oil...that scares me already!

Crikey!

The Bored Housewife: 52 Weeks To Learn 52 New Things!

2011-10-03T19:58:00.003-04:00

This is ME..Woman and mUm!

Let me start by saying that, I love being a mUm, and more than I could ever have expected, these past three years of being a Stay-at Home mUm (SAHM) and watching Michael grow from a cooing hairless infant into an incredibly cheeky toddler, have been a beautiful yet chaotic concoction of wonderful, hair pulling, and, most of all, eye-opening moments.

Three years that I'd never, let me squeeze in a perhaps, change, in a million years.

But, before I became a mUm, I was a WOMAN, an individual person...sometimes I forget that!

I'm still a WOMAN...first, and a mUm second! Of course, this doesn't mean that I want to stagger home every other morning (just once a week?), after a rockin' night on the shots and the dance floor, nor does it mean that I want to sit around in my 'daggies' every night watching cartoons, talking about children, and losing ME!

There has to be a beautiful balance...I'm still trying to find it!

I went from a perky 24/7 out-of-control flight attendant with no sleep and way too much partying, to a 24/7 in control corporate event planner, with little sleep and just enough partying, and, finally, to a 24/7 professional SAHM and ~~housewife~~ home economist, without sleep nor career, and NOWHERE near enough partying!

Everything I never expected to experience or feel, is my life right now, and, honestly, as exciting as the Backyardigans, train sets and finger painting days are, I'm frustrated and flat out BORED!!!

So, why don't I get off my a*s, quit my SAHM gig, get a job and quit complaining?

~~F*cking ridiculous~~, funny story about that. Actually, back in June this year, I somehow managed to break through the Veterans preference picket line, and was offered a great GS job here at Rota Naval Station. However, due to an erroneous grey area of bureaucracy surrounding my 'in process' US Citizenship, that great job was ripped out from under my feet...a week before I was due to start.

A few thousand dollars and a rushed embassy trip to Rome later, and I was sworn in as a gosh darn it, real life citizen of the U.S of A, yet now, of course that I'm 'technically' eligible, that pesky Veterans preference picket line is proving to be impenetrable, it seems!

So, this weekend, I had to make a choice to either...

A: Sit on my sulky a*s, make cupcakes, and complain for the next three years, to anyone who'll listen, about how hard it is to get a job here, while slowly losing my 'sparkle', and, eventually end up a withered, bitter, gossipy, and nosey old cow....that's a wee bit dramatic(?), but you get my point!

B: Suck it up and realize that, instead of harping on the fact that, I just may end up being a housewife and SAHM for the next three years (not that there's anything wrong with that), that I would use this 'lonnnnnnnng' time to enjoy this beautiful post card destination and SAHM lifestyle that some mUm's would give anything to have.

Addendum 10/4: I chose OPTION B, with a caveat! Enjoy the time AND learn new things...in fact, (52) new things!

Starting tomorrow, Tuesday, October 4, every week for ONE year, I am going to challenge myself to learn something new, or do something that I've always wanted to do. Whether it's making play dough and baking bread, creating a stippling or cross stitch masterpiece, making a tutu, or simply learning the 'Duggie'...I'm going to do it, and, you bet your a*s I'm going to blog about it!

I hope you can keep up...heck, I hope I can keep up!

If you want to join me in this 'life changing, life learning experience', follow Crikey mUm on Facebook for the weekly challenge, and to share your photos and/or videos!

So, if you are also a SAHM or, anyone with a desire to learn or do (52) new things, then get off your a*s and jump on board!

Crikey!

Is Honesty The Best Policy Even If You Don't Like The Answer?

2011-09-25T20:36:00.019-04:00

www.reodorant.com

If I had a dollar for every time that someone asked me to 'tell them the truth', and, then, when I did, be angry at me for doing so, or completely cut me off, well, then, I'd be an absolute squillionaire!

I've always believed honesty to be the best policy, and I still do, but I've fast come to realize that, for most, unless the answer is the desired, feel good one, that perhaps a slight 'sugar coating' is a little sweeter to taste.

I've also come to realize that unless the majority agree with your 'honest' answer, chances are, you can very quickly become the scapegoat.

I think that giving or receiving an honest answer is often actually a lot scarier than we think. I wonder if it's because we are scared that the answer will upset us or someone else, or, that it may get ourselves or someone else in trouble, or, simply because, sometimes, the answer will cement what we already know, but don't truly want to hear?

Who would have thought that one suggestion, 'be honest with me' could have so many moral conditions attached to it?

“If you truly want honesty, don't ask questions you don't really want the answer to” Anon.

How many times had you wanted to tell someone that you fancied them, or that they were being rude, or that their breath smelled, or that their child's bratty behavior was upsetting your child or household? How many times have you actually wanted an honest answer or, have given your honest answer or opinion when asked? How often have you stood up for yourself and told someone something that, while perhaps, it may not have been the answer they wanted to hear at the time, it was the honest one…with the best intent?

"A truth that's told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.

William Blake, "Auguries of Innocence," Poems from the Pickering Manuscript

More often than not, out of fear of upsetting someone or labeling ourselves as 'rude', rather than be honest, we say nothing, and instead, accept our own unhappy frustrations and neglect our own feelings and in the end, the feelings of those we are trying to protect.

If my breath smelled like a sewer explosion, my child was being a brat, or, my a*s really did look fat in that dress, I would absolutely want to know the ‘honest’ truth. Even if it would upset or embarrass me initially (and it probably would, I’m not made of steel), I’d have more respect for you, knowing that you had actually respected me enough to save me from further embarrassment or ‘whispers’.

Corporate Lollipops

I remember being called in to my supervisor's office, at my first job in America, and asked to explain why my client was upset. Well, that would be because when the client asked what I thought, I honestly told her that I didn't like the idea and gave reasons of how it could be better. I wasn't being rude, I was giving what I thought was the desired, honest, answer, but clearly the question came with an underlying 'just agree with me’ clause.

And, then there was the time that, while working for a major Australian airline, I was asked, in front of an entire group, what I thought of the current uniform T-shirt design, of which my one-word response was 'Foul'. It was truly hideous, surely anyone with even the slightest bit of fashion sense could see that, but of course, that wasn't the right answer, so again, I was called in for 'tea and bickies', and advised in a very nice way of course, to keep my 'ASKED' opinions to myself.

Admittedly, I could have used a little more tact, but honestly, why bother asking for an opinion if you really, only want your ego blown into the spotlight…just another lesson learned!

I also learned quickly that, to save any further 'tea and bickies' meetings with the boss, rather than be blunt, I would bite my tongue, smile and give the best 'honest' sugar coated answer I knew they were truly searching for. Oh, but, that’s how it seemed to work in the corporate world, surely when I entered the world of stay-at-home mUmmyhood, it would be different right?

That depends...do you really want an honest answer? Of course you do(n't).

The Parent Poster Child & The Little White Lie

As a parent, I drill into my children to tell the truth, I drill into them that regardless of the outcome, an honest answer will always prevail. Sure, sometimes the situation will be scary, especially when they have done something wrong, and being honest will feel like the absolute last thing they want to be, but at the end of the day, honesty is integrity, and that will shine far brighter than any caught out lie.

I always tell Alena: 'If you've done something wrong, yes, you are going to get in trouble, but if you lie to me about it, then that trouble is going to be ten times worse, you decide'.

What about the little white lie, just as popular as the little black dress? I’m sure that we have ALL told them, whether it's been the, 'oh I feel too sick to come to work', or 'it's not you, it's me', but, are they just an easier, less guilty way to lie, and when do they become dangerously embellished?

Is a lie a lie if it’s not doing anyone any harm, and how would you explain to your child, the difference between a lie and a little white lie when the fact is, in technical terms, they are both lies, and telling neither of them would be considered, being honest?

The Honesty Clause

Being honest should not be brutal or mean, nor need it be sugar coated into an ongoing, tripping up lie either. If you expect to give your honest answer, then you absolutely must be prepared to accept an honest answer yourself. Every situation requires a certain level of respect and 'tip-toeing'...but, there is always an appropriate time and a place for honest words, as long as they are true!

Crikey!

The Making of a Cheerleader: Go Rota Admirals!

2011-09-25T11:25:00.004-04:00

I always wanted to be a cheerleader, although in Australia when I was in high school, cheerleaders were more dancers than the 'Bring It On' type that I'd only ever seen in the American movies.

In fact, until very recently, as in two months ago, I'd never thought of American cheerleaders as anything other than pretty, yet bitchy high school girls in tiny skirts, high-kicking and yelling 'Go Team'!

Oh, how wrong I was! After a friend/cheer mUm showed me 'actual' competition cheerleading, I realized that, the movies, although incredibly entertaining and yes, filled with short skirts and high-kicks, only focused on the not always true, 'pretty and bitchy' part, rather than the fact that these young women (and boys) were actually exceptional gymnasts and dancers.

So, when I heard that the Rota Admirals Varsity Cheerleaders' were hosting an all day Cheer Clinic, with the invitation to cheer and dance at this and next weekend's home games, I was SOLD!

Unfortunately the age requirement for me expired, like, 20 years ago, so instead, I registered my, never wanted to be a cheerleader step-daughter, with the hope that, if anything she'd meet some new friends and have a fun day doing something out of her comfort zone...dancing and cheering, even if she does have her Dad's dancing (I think that's what he calls it) genes!!!

After a full day of hearing 'Wipe Out' over and over and over again and endless cheer rehearsals, led by the talented Varsity Cheerleaders, the 70 or so girls, including Alena were ready to strut their stuff at the home game.

Only one thing left to do...turn Alena into the picture perfect image of a cheerleader, and that's where I, with eyes sparkling, a big cheer bow, and a can of hairspray, came in! A few 'ouches' and 'cough, spluttter's' later and her makeover was complete.

She looked beautiful, the perfect cheerleader. However, it was only after she walked out on that field and started dancing and cheering, that her beautiful smile and newfound confidence truly blossomed. And, as for the dance moves, surprisingly enough they resembled those of the actual cheerleaders in front of her, it was fantastic!

One day of being thrown out of her comfort zone, being pushed to try something new, despite the pre-clinic whining and sulking, turned out to be a wonderful eye opener for both of us. Just one day of being surrounded by the young and contagiously confident Varsity Cheerleaders' and she was ready to take on the world.

And, hearing her say 'I love my hair, I rate myself an 8' was the spark that showed me this 'self-confessed' shy, awkward 12-year old tomboy had finally burst out of her shell with a roaring GO ME!

Give me a C.R.I.K.E.Y!

Don't Ask Don't Tell: A New Direction in Human Rights!

2011-09-20T19:52:00.001-04:00

Unless you happen to be living under a really, really, REALLY big rock, at the stroke of midnight, September 20, 2011, the Don't Ask Don't Tell policy, was repealed, thus taking the world's most powerful military in an ethical human rights direction that, quite honestly, it should have traveled many years before this day.

On this day, as one anonymous sailor stated, the pictures of his pretend girlfriend were replaced, without fear of condemnation or harassment, by pictures of his 'same-sex' life partner. On this day, he no longer had to hide his life, act as though he were a 'normal' hetrosexual male, a hetrosexual SOLDIER!

I don't ever remember my 'normal' husband being told not to talk about me, or pretending that I didn't exist, for fear of being kicked out of the military. I don't remember protests about our 'normal' marriage, or him joining the military as a 'normal' hetrosexual male???

As 'about bloody time' this day is, I still find it incredibly frustrating that, this was ever even an issue! Was it not incredibly hypocritical that this country proudly sent our soldiers to war torn countries to fight and die for human rights, yet on home soil, those same soldiers, were neglected of having any?

Who, are we as a 'civilized' human race to ever condemn our own kind for a matter that, simply should not be one?

Naturally, the religious argument of homosexuality, or the act of, being a sin, is at the forefront of 'many' people's minds, but, from what I know, we are all God's creatures, love the idea or hate it, it's a fact! I can think of far more abominable acts of human kind, that are forgiven every day, other than, a man just loving another man!

Oh, and as for this absolutely ignorant 'hearsay' discussion filtering around the web, that 'if homosexuality is allowed in the military, then people should be allowed to marry animals'...firstly, I say, you ignorant dumb a*ses and, secondly, you're right: some spouses are animals, animals who abuse, cheat, beat, rape their spouses and children!

Who someone chooses to love is none of my because if that someone is willing to selflessly die for my country, so that the 'rest of us' are protected from harm, and continue to live with the freedoms we do now, then in my eyes, that someone is a true military hero, a soldier of the US Armed Forces.

Crikey!

The Paranoia of Facebook!

2011-09-17T20:28:00.005-04:00

I love Facebook, don't get me wrong, it's a bloody brilliant quick and easy way to stay in touch, in real time with family and friends near and far, but, recently I have witnessed first and second hand, that it can be a fabulous breeding ground for paranoia. Words are quick, words are easy, but without a voice, they lack true emotion and depending on the mood of the sender and usually hundred's of receivers, a simple, 'Yeah, Ok', can be construed as 'Well fine then bitch', rather than it's probably, true intended meaning, 'Yes, it's actually ok'.

And, without an actual FACE confirming the destination of an un-anonymously anonymous post, the paranoia bug can set in..'Shit, was that post about me', or 'That post was so about...', which, in turn has every other 'friend' jumping on the bandwagon of support. Shit, I've been guilty of leaving a comment, when I've honestly had absolutely NO idea what the post was truly about, or to who it was flung, and why, because, I thought I was being a good 'friend'. Sure, we all want to support our 595 'true' friends on Facebook, but, without the emotion and truth behind a post, don't kid yourself, it's bloody impossible!

A perfect example is a recent post:

'If you are willing to selflessly die for THIS country to protect the freedom and safety of all of us, then who are 'any of us' to condemn you for your sexual orientation...If you can't stand behind, then get off your a*s and stand in front!'

When I wrote this, I had no particular person in mind, just expressing a blanket opinion, yet knowing that, this is certainly a controversial topic in many circles, so close to home, I wrote 'any of us' rather than 'you', for the simple fact, that I was sure at least one person would go 'Bitch, how dare she'. Ridiculous...you bet, but with Facebook being so 'faceless', simple words can so easily transform this wonderful communication tool into a fantastical venting, gossip fueling frenzy...shit, that was one of Mark Zuckerberg's first mistakes!

So, what can we learn from this, let me rephrase that, what can I learn from this? Venting on Facebook, while so tempting and instant, perhaps, when it involves a person directly, should either be addressed behind closed doors or, be tabled for a bad ass rainy day!

But that's just my opinion, I'm not talking about YOU! Oh, geez, now someone will think I'm talking about them....you get my point?

Crikey!
Thank you K & B for the inspiration.

The 1980's Australian Kid!

2011-09-16T18:56:00.007-04:00

Burleigh Heads: My Lifesaving Club!

I grew up in 1980's Australia, in a little town known as the Gold Coast, famous for it's perfectly endless stretches of white sandy beach, hot 'Skegs' (surfer's), minimal tourism and ample 'no worries' laid-back locals.

Australian life as a kid living on pine forest acreage was exciting and adventurous, our front door was never locked, our friends were a short horse ride away, and it was completely normal and safe to head off through the forest in the morning to play and not come back until sunset.

Our weekends were filled catching yabbies, using a stocking and piece of ham, swimming in the pool or at the beach, climbing trees, and 24/7 applying 'RID' to avoid being carried away by millions of mosquitos!
But, no matter how much fun we were having, come 7:30pm, we would rush, as with most of Australia, to huddle around the 'tele' and watch the popular variety show, 'Hey Hey It's Saturday' with my favourite segments, 'Red Faces' and 'Plucka Duck'.

'Gong em' Red'

Summer days also meant sweating my butt off in my tree frog green primary school uniform (Grades 1-7), under ceiling fans, and, gazing out open windows into the tall gum trees, looking for sleeping koala's, of which there always were.

Primary school was about playing handball at little lunch, eating meat pies at big lunch and singing the Australian national anthem,'Advance Australia Fair' at Friday's assembly. It was about the mobile dentist parked near the tuckshop, playing Red Rover at lunch and stopping during class to watch the Melbourne Cup on the tele.

But, my favourite memory of primary school is annual Sports Day. Sports Day was the one day that we were divided by last name, into house colours, Red, Blue, Green and Yellow, with names that reflected Australian poets (Paterson, Lawson) or wildflowers (Grevilia, Banksia), and athletes won little ribbons for the standard events, 100m sprint, high-jump, long jump, shot put and 800 meter run.

It was also the day that we sat in our house group, dressed head-to-toe in house colour, ate squished Vegemite sandwiches and a frozen popper for lunch, and screamed war cries until the day was done. I wonder if war cries are still a part of Australian primary school life? I hope so!

Everywhere we go
Everywhere we go
People wanna know
People wanna know
Who we are
Who we are
And where we come from
And where we come from
So we tell them
So we tell them
We are Woomerah
We are Woomerah
Mighty mighty Woomerah
Mighty mighty Woomerah

Goooooooo Woomerah!

And, as for my achilles heel; lollies and ice-creams? The Pink Panther and Bubble O'Bill ice-creams were a special treat, Fags and Big Boss Cigar lollies were deliciously inapropriate to be sucking on, and Taco Den was the fancy family-friendly restaurant where you would line up for at least an hour to eat Mexican??? food including
Tor TILLA's as they were pronounced absolutely!!!

Music in 1980's Australia, was a mix of Australian artists, think Xanadu, Olivia Newton-John, and You're The Voice, John Farnham, and, of course, big name American artists, including one of my favourite songs to make up a really bad dance routine to, When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Gets Going, Billy Ocean.

Leather OVER denim...how AWESOME!

But, it was the sexy UK boy band sensation 'Bros' that adorned by bedroom walls, and blasted When Will I Be Famous from my pink 'tape only' boom box! Obviously, I hadn't learned that boys liked boys!

Speaking of boys, well, 'real' men, 'That's not a knife'. Crocodile Dundee sent the world into a tourism frenzy over Australia, somewhat assuming that all men looked like Mick Dundee, carried a big knife, and had a best friend, Neville the Aboriginal!

Truth be told, just like kangaroos, they are not on every street corner waiting to go walkabout,or sit and have a nice chat, in fact the first time I'd ever seen an Aboriginal person 'in the flesh' was, at almost 18, walking down the Queen Street Mall on a Friday night, and I don't recall any of them being named Neville?

And who could forget World Expo 88', opened by Queen Elizabeth II 30 April, 1988, only the most amazing, fantastic, beyond imagination experience to ever exhibit in Australia.

I was almost 12, and still remember the millions of coloured lights everywhere, the cool nights, the exquisite international cuisine aromas, the beyond imagination entertainment, and, running around furiously getting our passports stamped at each incredible pavilion.

As for food, aside from trying German sausage, British pub pie and I'm sure a whole assortment of goodies, the one constant treat that comes to mind...the Australian green and gold ice-cream, for the mere price of one million dollars!

That's my version of growing up in Australia as an Aussie kid!

Crikey!
P.S. Clearly the 80's You're The Voice classic hit followed me, well into, um, this year, including my totally awesome Madonna inspired dress! Sis, I love you.

Run, Mugs, Run!

2011-09-14T11:25:00.001-04:00

In a secret place in a calm forest, the birds chirped and the rabbits hopped, and, as the warm sunset glow flickered amidst watchful pine trees, we said goodbye to the most gentle, sweet little dog, Muggles.

Muggles, a unique Chihuahua/Labrador mix (?) with a scratchy bark and eyeballs that just seemed to be a last minute decision, was a little spitfire of lightening speed who could race the legs off a Greyhound.

He wasn't just any dog, he was a part of our family.

Muggles came into our life almost five years ago during a random pet store run, a pet store that until that day, had never visited, and in fact, I almost walked right past the 'ugly' little Chihuahua's yapping away in their rescue pen.

However, being a renowned sucker for those sad little rescue dog eyes, I walked over and saw Muggles looking at me with those big endearing bug eyes and after my initial, 'what the f*ck kind of dog is that', I said, I want him!

Of course, living in a small condo at the time, with already a dog and two cats, I knew that I really shouldn't, and, that Chad would be furious, but I just couldn't walk away. I signed the papers, paid the rescue fee and said 'See you tomorrow'.

There was only one 'teeny tiny' problem...Chad didn't know!!!

So, the following day, while enjoying a wonderfully lazy Sunday on the couch, the doorbell rang! I knew who it was so I told Chad to go and get the newest member of our family.

When he saw Muggles, to say he was furious, was an understatement, but, Muggles didn't give up on him, and within a few days, they were inseparable best buddies.

Muggles was one of those little dogs, with a gentle heart, who always had a snarly smile waiting for you, a smile that could take even the most horrible of days away.

Chad's Goodbye to Muggles.

Dogs bond with you at a level that is so true and pure, they give you unconditional love regardless of what you offer in return. Muggles, I know it will take a long time for us to get past your loss. I will never forget you.

You were by far one of the coolest dogs I have ever had. I will miss you, but I know the moment you left this world, there was a gentle man (my Dad) with a scruffy beard in an old flannel camouflage shirt, surrounded by a few dogs that I loved in my life, waiting there for you, with an old chewed up ball in his hand, saying 'come on Mugs, go fetch'.

Run, Mugs, Run!
x

Streamers In The Trees: My Surprise Birthday Party!

2011-09-10T20:56:00.003-04:00

When I wrote my recent post about my birthday parties as a child being fabulously filled with balloons, streamers in the trees and a big rectangle cake, I truly expected them to remain in my childhood, as a beautiful memory, one that I'd share with my children, and nothing more.

However, it seemed that my friends disagreed, because after an erotic three-hour pampering ritual at the 18th Century Hammam Arabic Baths, I unlocked the front gate and heard 'SURPRISE'!

The people I adored most in this part of the world, those that have stood by me, were standing there, singing 'Happy Birthday' to me.

There were balloons, lots and lots of streamers in the trees, Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Pass-the Parcel, fairy bread, and of course, sitting there on the table surrounded by mountains of scrummy food, the tacky yet so essentially beautiful, white rectangle cake with green flowers and icing that read 'Happy Birthday Trudi'.

I'm not a 'cryer' in the sappy emotional kind of way at all, and surprising me is just so pain in the a*s hard that Chad usually gives up, so how on earth they 'very very sneaky' pulled this off without me having the slightest clue, absolutely rocked!

For once, I was so glad that I didn't have a clue, because that very moment when I looked up and heard the usually futile word 'SURPRISE', and saw genuine, beautiful friends smiling at me, for me, I was thrown back into my childhood..and, guess what....I CRIED, in the sappy emotional kind of way!

I felt humbled, almost embarrassed by all the attention on me, because, sure it was my party, but holy crap, they did all the work, and it was bloody outstanding!

I was back at my childhood birthday party, except for that one tiny little grown up detail... Jell OH! shots, with their own deliciously 'shotting' (is that even a word?) song, which conveniently and repetitively suggested 'shots, shots, shots'...of which, we did just that!

Not to mention the copious amount of Dolcino wine, which left the shop shelf empty, so many streamers (did I mention that?), gooey Vodka soaked Gummy Bears, and a killer 80's playlist that flew right over my head in their covert planning phase of just THREE days!!!

When I wrote my birthday post, I honestly expected and actually 'planned' the night out with friends, but instead, rare, true friendship and the love of my life, stepped in and I had the 'bestest' birthday party EVER!

Crikey!

It's My Birthday and I'm Having A Party, So Who's Coming?

2011-09-01T19:02:00.000-04:00

I Want YOU To Party!

When I was a child, my birthday was the 'bestest' thing ever, as it meant one thing: Birthday Party!

It meant inviting my entire class to my party, a party which mUm and Dad would have in our back yard, complete with music blasting from the old grey 'boom box', limbo, pass-the-parcel, fairy bread and presents.

It meant waking up early that Saturday morning, piling into the back of the old Coke van and driving to the bakery to pick up my birthday cake.

I remember the excitement of walking with Dad, through the shopping centre to the little bakery and upon request, being presented with the long brown box, and inside the most beautiful yet HUGE white sheet cake with a green flower border and icing that read 'Happy Birthday Trudi'.

I remember streamers and balloons, lots of them, strewn around the house and in the pine trees, and, although I don't remember the presents, I remember having the most wonderfully amazing time, simply because everyone I wanted to be there was, and in the glow of melting candles, they were singing 'Happy Birthday', to me.

Then, sometime before my 12th birthday, my parents separated, so having a party in our heartbroken home, just wouldn't have felt very 'happy', so I had a small party at the local roller skating rink, and you know, I can still remember the cheesy party room, the struggled smiles and, me fighting to not cry the entire time.

That was the last birthday 'party' I ever remember as a child.

Still, each year I always felt like shouting 'It's my birthday', and secretly hoped that someone would throw me a party, surprise or otherwise, but when that didn't happen one, two, three years in a row, I resigned myself to the fact, that although on the inside, I wanted to blow up balloons, hang streamers and sing 'Happy Birthday' in front of simple white cake, it was far less heartbreaking to just accept a simple card and let the day pass.

Then I met Chad, and during our first self-exploratory year together, I told him that I didn't want anything for my birthday, no cake or party, so he did EXACTLY that (poor fellow)!

I went absolutely ape sh*t to the point that, his last minute cake attempt went hurtling at warp speed across the kitchen, splattering the walls, window and every crevice in between.

From that day forward, I became the party planner, throwing surprise or otherwise parties for family and friends, and, you know what (lightbulb), I just this second realized why I'm so obsessed with always planning the perfect party...for everyone BUT myself!

Bugger that! From, well, not this birthday, way to short notice, but the next, forward, I'm going to shout 'It's my birthday, and I'm having a party, so who's coming?' I guarantee there will be lots of balloons, music, a killer cake, lots of wine, and good times!

Why should I accept my birthday as just another day, why should any of us pass up on celebrating another milestone of a beautiful life? Life is more precious than we'll ever truly know, so celebrate it!

Happy Birthday To Me!

Crikey!

Ole! A Spanish Bullfight!

2011-08-27T06:59:00.003-04:00

After months of morally fuelled indecision, I finally decided to throw myself into, and attempt to truly understand, while living in Spain, the centuries old tradition of…bullfighting!

The famous writer Fray Luis de Leon, once told Pope Gregory VIII (1187) ‘bullfights are in the blood of the Spanish people’.

After my first experience crammed within the stone walls of the Plaza del Torres, listening to the passion of the 12,000 cheering fans, the sound of roaring Spanish trumpets echoing against a hot setting sun, the exquisite sparkle of sequined costumes, and the absolute pride in the matador's eyes, I believe in my heart, these words to be absolutely true.

Bullfighting in Spain dates back to 711AD when the Moors and Christians, as a respite from killing each other in the Iberian lands, would organize hunting competitions of the greatest beast…the awe-inspiring 1100lb (500kg) Iberian Bull, an animal that would prefer to die fighting rather than flee.

However, it wasn’t until 1133, at the coronation of King Alfonso VIII, that the first bullfight ('corrida') took place (on horseback), that it was considered an aristocratic sport, one which was reserved for important events to entertain guests.

However with the reign of King Philip II, who was appalled at the carnage, a papal decree by Pope Pius V, forbade the practice of corridas. Of course, the ‘commoners’ ignored the papal decree, and without wealth to buy horses, began challenging the bulls on foot, which is how most of us know bullfighting today.

I never expected in my lifetime of being an animal rescue advocate, animal cruelty protester and all-round animal lover, that I’d find myself sitting among those that I despised, watching each bull get picked, then killed, while casually snacking on Spanish candy, as though I were watching the cattle parade at the State Fair.

What most of us know of bullfighting is that the matador parades around in his tight pants and sparkly bolero jacket, does a few ‘Ole’ passes with the cape and then, finally kills the bull, however, these elements are but a fraction of the intricate rules and etiquette of bullfighting.

To explain every single rule and movement behind bullfighting, would take forever, so instead…

Before the matador even steps into the ring, his team - two ‘picadores’ on horseback and three ‘banderilleros’ on foot, lance then pick the bull, wearing it down, bleeding it slowly with each pick, in preparation for their boss and the crowd hero- the matador. As for the blood, sure it's there, but it's hard to see given the dark color of the bull, it's certainly not gushing nor is it all over the ground.

The matador then enters the ring in his hot pink, skin-tight pants and sparkles, and through a series of graceful and skillful movements, as though he were dancing with the bull, dominates until finally, he is ready to kill the bull in one quick stab through the heart, with his sword ('estoque').

If the matador is precise, the bull will instantly drop to it's knees and die, however, unfortunately it can often take a second, even third attempt. For each bullfight program, six bulls enter the ring, with each fight lasting approx 20 minutes.

With a group of friends, some seasoned, but most of use first-timers, I watched the spectacle, I made sour faces, I shed a tear, I smiled, I cursed the ‘banderillas’, I cheered when the bull gored the matador, I even yelled ‘Ole’, and, for a moment, I began to understand how the exquisite pageantry of bullfighting is the shining lure.

For a moment, I was caught up in the beauty and sparkle of the atmosphere, with the finale being irrelevant, however, each time the final death stage (‘tercio de muerte’) commenced, that beauty and sparkle, with head bowed, and eyes closed, faded into guilt and sadness.

Although the words torture and bullfight usually go hand in hand, in a way I agree absolutely, but in a way also, I understand the reason why bullfighting is so entrenched within the Spanish people, and, although I am not a ‘kill for sport’ enthusiast, at least the meat is sold to the local market the next morning.

Until these incredibly fierce, specially bred bulls enter the ring, they live a life of absolute luxury.

Eating the best food, regular flea and tick dips, daily exercise, relaxing in green pastures and open skies, to me seems a far less torturous life than the crammed and prodded, hormone induced, belly exploding cows, that most people eat every day.

Just a thought?

Crikey!

What Will Dad Think? I Got a Tattoo!

2011-08-14T10:54:00.003-04:00

L: Can only see side on

When I was 17, and knew everything, I walked into a 'dodgey' tattoo shop, picked a dolphin design for my ankle (original huh?) and said, 'I'm ready'.

Well, the moment that little needle machine buzzed, I yelled 'STOP' and ran out of the salon, vowing never to let anyone stab a million tiny needles into my body for the sake of a dolphin, no matter how pretty it was!

Then one day, some, almost 20 years of actual life experiences later, and following months of unbelievable challenges and self-assessment obstacles thrown at me from a whole bucket load of angles, it hit me that, I was actually, finally ready.

That one day was three weeks ago!

I drew my design based on my 'person', who I am, who I have always aspired to be like and, how I see the way I have lived and continue to live my life.

I am a Virgo, a true Virgo to the core. I am an absolute optimist, and believe that nothing is impossible, just strategically difficult at times, and life, well, after the passing of my Granny last year, I truly rebooted my system to realize that 'to live a joyless life is not living'.

So, I chose the Morning Glory, Virgo's flower, in pink of course, and for the intertwined stem, an angelic symbol (dark green) that basically suggests to live life with joy and positivity, without regard for the 'peanut gallery' tempting you otherwise.

Did it hurt? HECK YEAH, but thanks to a beautiful friend who talked the entire time and made me laugh, perhaps too much at first, as the artist had to stop each time I giggled, the 45 minutes of buzzing and 'ooh', 'aah' were actually bearable.

Do I love it? Absolutely. Everyday I look at the pretty little (1.5") flower and smile, knowing that it reminds me of where I am in life, what obstacles big or small I've overcome, and that, life is far too precious and short to worry about the tedious details or people, so f*ck worrying about them!

Ironically, around this time last year, I wrote a post about how after all these years, I'm still Dad's little tattoo-free girl, and although I haven't run away to join some murderous biker gang or am selling crack on the streets, I still wonder, what will Dad think?

Crikey!

The Not So Wicked Step-mUm!

2011-08-04T08:41:00.000-04:00

Welcome to Spain, beautiful Alena!

When I found out that my 11-year old step-daughter, Alena, would be coming to live with us in Spain, for two uninterrupted years, I admit that, although I was incredibly excited about the consistency for our family, I was also incredibly nervous.

During the last three years, while we were stationed in Virginia, Alena lived in California, therefore she had only ever spent the too short summer and Christmas breaks with us.

Now, she was coming to live with us, no ‘pit-stop’ holiday, but full-time living with us, and although I love her very much, I knew that there were naturally going to be some adjustment challenges, for all of us.

Being a step-mUm is bloody hard, because the hard-wiring is not mine and regardless of the number of successes I may have, at the end of the day, I don’t have complete control, or the final say, rather, I’m just there to guide her, during these critical ‘tween’ years, towards becoming a respectable and self-respecting young woman.

Harry Potter Costume Contest Winners!

I expect Alena to be strong willed, confident, positive and motivated about life, and I would like her to know that sometimes, as self-indulgent as it may sound, I want her to be more like me.

Being a step-mUm was not, for me one of those little girl ‘when I grow up I want to be a…’ moments, in fact it was the absolute opposite, and although I think to date that I’ve done a great job, there have been little frustrations that I’ve unfairly flung onto Alena, simply for her being another woman’s child.

In saying that, I’m not a wicked step-mother, but I am strict and I do value discipline, respect for self and others, and self-application, without an inkling of room for ‘I can’t’, or ‘It’s too hard’.

The old 'take my ball and go home' trick just doesn't cut it with me, life is way too exciting to just give up when challenged, for it's those interesting, not always fun, challenges that are a true expectation of self-character building.

Volunteering at Rota Animal Welfare League

It’s been almost a month now since our 3-person, 5-animal family unit became perfectly cohesive, and naturally there have been some adjustment challenges, although for the first time in years, it feels easy.

Perhaps it’s because she’s grown up, just that little bit past a child, or perhaps I’ve grown up, or perhaps it’s just because for the first time in years, there’s no hurried return plane ticket deadline.

My mUm always said that you’ll never love a child like you do your own, and I’m actually glad that’s true, because like an outsider looking in, it has allowed me to see Alena’s beautiful uniqueness, and, my always learning, step-mUm responses to it.

As a mUm, step-mUm, and woman, I constantly feel challenged on so many levels, and while there are definitely many, many, many ‘hair-pulling’ moments from all directions, courtesy of my little critters, it’s still a beautiful, beautiful life, one that I never truly wanted or dreamed of, but am so honored and happy to have.

Crikey!

Setenil de las Bodegas: A White Village and a Wedgie!

2011-07-19T12:49:00.015-04:00

I am, absolutely, not a Nervous Nelly when it comes to driving in fact; I am more of your Michael Schumacher wannabe type, however this past weekend, on our adventure to Setenil de las Bodegas, my heart almost jumped out of my chest!

After a beautiful 25 minute, sunflower filled countryside drive from Ronda, we arrived at Setenil de las Bodegas, an exquisite white house village, set into the rock walls and overhanging caves of the narrow river gorge (Rio Trejo).

View from the gorge rim.

Setenil’s Moorish origins date back to the 1st century AD, and, as we discovered, is renowned for it’s incredible chorizo sausage and pork, from pigs bred in the surrounding hills.

While it’s no secret that the streets of Spain are narrow, and we’ve certainly navigated our way through many thus far, it was after a wrong turn, where our full-size car became engulfed by a one-way, with absolutely no chance of turning or reversing street, that we realized, Setenil’s streets were the epitome of narrow!

This was a WIDE street!

At first, it was dangerously exciting, with the steep gorge below us, and, while Chad had to exit the car and direct me through on many occasions, each wall closer to the car than the last, it was the last steep up-hill, sharp corner that punched both of us in the face.

As we approached the narrow gap, we both looked at each other and said, “There is no way that we are going to fit through there without losing both mirrors”.

All I could think was that our car was going to get wedged completely and we’d be stuck for days.

Tapas bar in the cave.

Dumb Tourists!

As locals gathered to watch the excitement, with Chad using his best flight deck directional signals, and a crazy Spaniard on our tail, I inched the car forward. Scraaatch, eek, that was the left mirror, then, scraaatch, oooh, there goes the right one.

This alternating dance continued for a few minutes, until we had literally squeezed our way out.

Although our car instantly became a potential ‘Rotabeater’, and my heart pounded for an hour afterwards, I have to admit that it was bloody exciting.

When I did stop twitching, we meandered through the quiet village, then devoured a delicious lunch of tapas (what else?) and Tinto, at a little bar underneath the cave walls. It was fabulous!

Setenil de las Bodegas is an absolute must extension to a Ronda visit, although, unless a matchbox is your vehicle of choice, I strongly suggest taking the MAIN ROAD, which of course, without GPS, we only discovered, post car wedgie!

Crikey!

Ronda: A Neolithic Adventure with a Fish!

2011-07-18T14:21:00.003-04:00

This weekend, I decided to surprise the family with a relaxing getaway to one of Spain’s oldest cities – Ronda.

Ronda sits on the edge of a 150m canyon, high in the mountainous province of Malaga, and although settlement is dated around 6^th Century BC, archeological findings trace it’s origins back to the Neolithic Age (Stone Age).

I had heard that Ronda was beautiful, although it wasn’t until the warm orange glow of the Spanish sunset danced throughout the narrow cobblestone streets, and the rich aromas of sizzling meats wafted throughout the city, did I realize just how delicately exquisite Ronda truly was.

Puente Nuevo (New Bridge)

Although the afternoon was warm and the ‘many’ hills steep, we decided to explore Ronda on foot, as our full-size American car, often balked at the narrow streets and sharp paint-scratching turns.

Walking, even with a toddler in tow, allowed us to truly absorb and appreciate the intricacy of this ancient city, not to mention stumbling upon the delectable ‘La Giralda’ tapas bar on Calle Neuvo and ‘Las Yemas del Pajo’ dessert bar on Plaza del Socorro.

As any guidebook will tell, Ronda is famous for it’s three brides; Puente Romana (Roman Bridge), Puente Viejo (Old Bridge) and Puente Nuevo (New Bridge), which are all equally as exquisite, however, we wanted something more than just the carbon copy photographs from the Puente Nuevo, so we grabbed at table at Hotel Don Miguel’s terrazza café.

Dinner at Hotel Don Miguel Terrazza Cafe

The terrazza cafe is nestled into the canyon wall, under the Puente Nuevo, so that, as we munched and sipped, our sunset view sprawled deep down into the canyon, high above us towards the bridge and wide across the mountainous landscape.

There have been times in my life when I have almost cried because something was so beautiful, and as the candlelight flickered against the setting sun, and the balmy evening air kissed my skin, that was absolutely one of those moments.

Hotel Don Miguel Terrazza Lower

After dinner, we strolled down the pedestrian only Calle Nuevo, lined with tapas bars and boutique clothing stores, and following a delicious ice-cream sundae, weaved down countless cobblestone steps lined with wrought iron windows and vibrant flower pots, towards our quirky yet intimately fabulous bohemian style Hotel Enfrente Arte.

Nestled in the basin of Ronda, the art district, recognizable only by a small wooden sign, Hotel Enfrente Arte was without doubt the most unusually wonderful, stylish in it's own unique alternative way, 4* hotel that I have ever stayed in.

We stayed in the Tower Deluxe room, and as I stood on the balcony overlooking the surrounding valley and swimming pool, I felt as though I was in one of those Penelope Cruise movies, where, she opens the wooden windows, and as the orchestra score plays, the warm breeze rustles her sunlit hair and the camera then pans across the magnificent valley.

Tower Room: View from the balcony.

It was also actually, the first ‘rule-free’ hotel that I have ever stayed in.

Rule-free?

While, alcoholic beverages were included in the room rate (whoohoo), a smiling bartender was not! Instead, the traditional Spanish casa meets vintage auto garage, downstairs bar was, wait for it…self-serve.

After we picked ourselves up off the floor, we decided to, along with a lovely English couple, actually test the ‘rule-free’ option, with Chad playing jovial bartender, until the 2:00am headache and dizzy eyes kicked in.

'Doctor Fish' ponds.

But, if an alcohol infused evening isn’t your cup of tea, then perhaps the ‘Doctor Fish’ treatment followed by a relaxing swim in the pool or some quiet time in the red library or camel inspired sitting garden might be.

The ‘Doctor Fish’ treatment is an extraordinarily odd yet effective spa treatment where hungry little fish tickled and nibbled away at my tootsies, amidst a rainforest setting of ponds, trees and chirping sparrow-like birds.

The following morning the ancient sound of church bells echoing throughout the valley woke our heavy heads, and, after another 'Doctor Fish' treatment, we gorged on quail eggs, chorizo and an endless assortment of Spanish breakfast delicacies (also included), and planned our adventure for the day…Setenil de las Bodegas!

Crikey!

The Man’s Part is Called a Penis…

2011-07-09T19:36:00.000-04:00

Not one to beat around the bush, I’ve always remained politely candid when explaining ‘those’ topics, with my 11 year old daughter.

I’ve always put on my best game face, taken many deep breaths and just blurted, bullet point style, desperately hoping that, through those wide-eyed 'I'd rather be anywhere else' blank stares, some of my nervous rambling was sinking in.

It’s not easy, to open up with a friendly, ‘So the man’s part is called a penis’, because for one, the word penis is just so, ‘uggh’, and two, do I really want to talk about this stuff, when I could simply direct her to the same book that I remember giggling over as a child-‘Where Did I Come From’?

Unfortunately, although this book is a ‘somewhat’ realistic version of accounts, it just doesn’t cover the other 'taboo’ subjects that usually go hand-in-hand with the baby-making process. Those subjects, that, while I’m quite sure she’s already pre-learned about on the play ground, I’ll no doubt end up having to take a deep breath, put my game face on and explain…aggh shoot me now!

I don’t ever remember getting the ‘birds and the bees’ talk or the added directors cut from my parents, (does anyone actually remember their birds and bees talk?) and, as for sex education in school, my high-school sex education class taught us how to change a nappy (diaper), which, ah, kind of defeats the purpose of sex education - just saying?

Therefore, throughout high school, although I could talk an average game, honestly, I was absolutely clueless, about so many things, and, with this in mind, as Alena prepares for middle school this year, in a new country, with a new set of friends, I’m wondering just how much more should I tell her.

I have heard what kids her age, already know, and while I don’t want her growing up too quickly, I don’t want her crying in the locker room shower either!

Now, add to that, a three year old who comes running up to me this morning yelling, almost hysterically, ‘mUm my penis is sticking out’!

Without thinking, I went into textbook mode and explained the situation, of which he proudly repeated numerous times throughout the day. What else could I say?

While he’s absolutely miles away from the garden of birds and bees, he is a little boy, growing, way too quickly into a little man. A little man who will have a whole new set of ‘boy’ topics to discuss, topics that I certainly can’t relate to as a woman.

Chad, you got the next ‘boy bits’ talk!

Crikey!

Mayle, P (1977). Where Did I Come From?. New York: Kensington Publishing Corp.

I'm Proud to be an Almost American!

2011-07-04T16:33:00.005-04:00

I’ve always considered myself to be an Australian who just happens to be living in America, married to an American man, and mUm to an American baby, yet, even with all this 'Americanness' attached to me, why don’t I feel like an official American?

You’d think somewhere spiraling around my busy mind, there’d be a humming ‘God Bless The USA’, or a ‘You got this girl’, but there just isn’t, and, it’s not because I don’t love America or am proud of my affiliation with her, I do, I am, but, I’m just not an American…yet!

Sure, I’ve lived in the US for over almost (8) years as a Permanent Resident, have a SS number, paid a crap load of taxes and with my hand on my heart, have quietly sang more than my share of the 'Star Spangled Banner', yet somehow, I’ve always felt like an outsider, looking in, sometimes, perhaps on purpose.

I’m an Australian citizen after all. I’ve spent the majority of my life chanting Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!. Oi!, Oi!, Oi!, so would it really be fare to my country or my heart to start yelling U.S.A?

Would I lose my ‘Australianess’, or, be ostracized by my fellow Aussies, simply because I love the USA and was so proud of hosting my first 4th July party complete with Captain America cake?

Then, a funny thing happened. While at a military retirement ceremony recently, the poem My Name is Old Glory was presented by a young sailor, a poem that brilliantly and poignantly reflected the power and passion of the American Flag, through the eyes of the flag itself.

I am the flag of the United States of America
My name is Old Glory.

As I sat there and listened to the words that were being spoken, surrounded by American sailors young and old, my wall of stubbornness began to crack, and I felt a tear discretely slide itself down my cheek.

I have been a silent witness to all of America's finest hours.
But my finest hour comes
when I am torn into strips to be used for bandages
for my wounded comrades on the field of battle.
when I fly at half mast to honor my soldiers...
and when I lie in the trembling arms
of a grieving mother at the graveside of her fallen son.

In the eyes of every sailor, passion and patriotism for the flag, burned, yet it burned not out of obligation to a career that introduced them to the heartbreaks of war, just as it would have done to thousands of sailors decades ago.

It burned because it wanted to, because in each sailor, each American, the American flag represents the fight for not what is in front of you, but what is behind you.

Perhaps it was the heat, or the fact that I’d been living on chicken breast and spinach for two weeks, or perhaps, it was just simply that, for the first time in (8) years, I truly understood what it meant to be an American.

I have been soiled, burned, torn and trampled on the streets of countries
I have helped set free.
It does not hurt . . . for I am invincible.
I have been soiled, burned, torn and trampled on the streets of my country,
and when it is by those with whom I have served in battle . . . it hurts.
But I shall overcome . . . for I am strong.

Pride, sacrifice, arrogance, reverence, heartbreak, and opportunity, these backbone words represent what I believe to be the heart of America, and, although I’m not an official American Australian just yet, in a few weeks I will be.

I know that when I do take the Oath, it will be with genuine pride, and, heck, I may even throw in a Crikey at the end!

Crikey!

SMSgt. Don S. Miller, USAF (Ret.). 'My Name is Old Glory'.

Walking on Eggshells: Aspergers Syndrome Through a Parent's Eyes

2011-07-01T11:53:00.002-04:00

Thank you friend for helping me understand.

Being a parent is hard enough, behind the scenes, let alone on the scathing battlefield of judging eyes.

As parents we know our children better than anyone else, we know their weaknesses and strengths, their emotions and behaviors, their tantrum starters and cheeky behavior, simply because we experience it every day.

Our children are not perfect, our children will not always say and do the appropriate thing at the appropriate time, but who is so powerful as to judge another’s child based on an ‘in the moment’ action that may in fact have had thousands of ripples leading up to it.

Being a parent of a ‘normal child’ is hard enough, now, imagine being the parent of a child with Asperger’s Syndrome (AS), who has spent their entire child’s life defending the ‘gossip’ of their bad parenting skills, when in fact, their child’s display of ‘peculiarities in speech and language; socially and emotionally inappropriate behavior and the inability to interact successfully with peers’ (2009, NINDS) is not the result of ill discipline or bad parenting, it’s the result of a neurological disorder that has no cure.

Children without delays in social skills already struggle to fit in with their peers, so imagine how much harder a child with AS has to fight against isolation and acceptance, when in essence they may not even understand it themself.

Sure, it’s easy to say, ‘Why don’t they just put the kid into a special program’? Great idea if the resources are available, however unfortunately in many communities military or otherwise, they just are not, leaving an A+ little professor to deal with the mean taunts of children, and unfortunately, adults, who just don’t understand what it is like to raise a child with a neurological disorder.

It also leaves mUm and dAd mentally and physically exhausted, left alone to play the roles of parent, teacher, doctor, psychologist, friend and linebacker, for not only their child, but their reputation within the community. Who are we to judge anyone’s child simply because, we do not perhaps know or understand the behind-the-scenes?

‘Normal’ is the norm and anything that doesn’t fit the majority mould of ‘normal’ becomes deceivingly abnormal. I believe the primary deception that breeds instant judgment with AS is based on the appearance of the child.

An AS child looks like any other regular kid for their age, however their cognitive development may in fact be that of a 5-year old, hence the inappropriate remarks or actions. It’s therefore incredibly easy for an outsider to think ‘what the f*ck is wrong with that child’ or ‘I don’t want that kid hanging around my child’, if an inappropriate comment or action is witnessed.

This truly breaks my heart because no parent should have to feel isolated by their community, nor defend a condition that not even God himself can cure! I’m sure He’s been asked though.

Being a parent is bloody hard, there’s only so many Parent of the Year awards floating around, so perhaps before judging others, step back and reconsider the possibilities.

Crikey!

National Institute of Health (2009). National Institute of Neurological Disorders and Stroke-Asperger's Syndrome.

Hey Bitches, Listen Up!

2011-06-25T09:54:00.000-04:00

What is the deal with some women being downright, feline scratching bitches?

It took years of fighting and oppressed struggles for women to finally be recognized by men, as equals within society and in the workplace, yet, sometimes, that fight seems to get lost so frequently and easily with a bitchy slip of the tongue.

I wonder if it’s this same historic fight for ‘equality’, that turned on an irreversible switch, one that has women fighting so darn hard to be seen as anything but weak, and reliant upon the opposite sex, that they’ll go to any length to defeat their apparent opponent – another woman.

Have we, as women, become our own worst enemies?

Why does a woman, become labeled as a ‘Casting Couch’ graduate, if she becomes too successful, a gold digger if she marries an older, wealthy man or, a bimbo, if she has fake boobs? I just don’t understand why a ‘gaggle’ of women will get together and talk about other women, yet a group of men, are likely to ~~scratch their asses and fart~~ talk about, beer, cigars or their sports team’s playoff chances.

Men do not give a shit about or talk gossip, unless it relates to the latest X-Box upgrade or the fact that beer is on sale at the local store. Men do not stand around the BBQ discussing Bob’s beer gut, or screech, ‘Oh, he so shouldn’t be wearing that, it makes his a*ss look huge’.

Of course, I ignorantly can’t brand the entire female race as a mega ‘Bitchopolis’, but in truth, we kind of are, at some point or another. If you can honestly attest to never having said a snide remark about another woman, then, you know what, I admire you, because I certainly can’t!

I’d like to think that bitchiness tends to eradicate itself after college, as we mature into responsible, what’s the word, oh, adults, however, unfortunately, in some women, it only solidifies itself like poisonous tar within their personality.

We, as strong women, are supposed to be on the same team, fighting towards ‘true equality’ not poster children for archaic ‘flash backs’ of an oppressed past!

Don’t be a bitch, it’s just not cool!

Crikey!

Jack and Jill Went Up a F*cking Big Hill!

2011-06-23T05:59:00.000-04:00

Ordinarily when someone has suggested that we go mountain climbing, it’s been a pleasant one, perhaps two-hour stroll along a gentle incline of a walking track, however, this January, that someone certainly wasn’t my Dad!

When Dad suggested that a group of us climb Australia’s highest mountain, Mount Kosciuszko (7310 feet above sea level), of course, given that I had always been up for a challenge, I excitedly jumped on the idea.

However when I found out that, not only would we be hiking up a steep 6-hour steel grate trail, but that we would be pushing Michael in the pram while doing so, I was somewhat concerned.

Mount Kosciousko majestically watches over the Snowy Mountains Valley, a spectacularly beautiful, multi-resort, snow skier’s paradise, with the swirling slopes blanketed with elegant Snow Gums, although, as Summer arrives, the melting snow is replaced by thousands of wildflowers, crystal clear mountain streams, foxes, and eager climbers…just like us!

Our journey began with a quick flight to Australia’s capital, Canberra, followed by a, gulp, minivan rental!

The idea of me driving a minivan is like the color yellow, it just doesn’t suit me, but Dad insisted, so, of course, through gritted teeth, the first photo of our adventure, me driving a mUmmyvan!

A scenic 4-hour drive took us from Canberra to the pretty lakeside village of Jindabyne, the less expensive accommodation hub for many tourists to the Snowy Mountains region, and, given that the mountain resorts were closed for the Summer, our hotel area of choice for the next few nights.

The following morning as my 6:00am alarm sounded (Dad bashing on the adjacent room wall), I scurried out of bed, did my hair and make-up and packed our backpack with enough muesli bars, apples, chocolate bars and bottled water for a 5-day rescue mission.

Yes, I did say hair and make-up! You just never know where Steven Spielberg might be searching for his next star, however, unfortunately, unlike the previous perfect hair days, weather, the weather this morning was chilly and the winds blustery, the sun not even attempting to make an effort…of course!

As the 15-minute chairlift ride crested over wildflower covered slopes, towards the base station for the climb, I caught my first glimpse of the actual mountain that we were about to climb. F*ck it was a long and steep incline, and that is without having a clear visual of the peak!

Whoosh, the gale force wind slammed into my body, as we exited the chairlift, thus blowing any hope of a good hair day, straight down the mountain.

Rugged up but chilly, and layered in sexy white zinc, we began to climb, and actually laughed at how easy it was to push the little tank in the pram on the grated steel path…but then came the first steep incline and one of over 100 stairs!

Pushing a pram up a hill aint fun at the best of times, so when it’s blowing an icy gale and there are a sh*tload of stairs involved, fun, it becomes more of a ‘I think I can’, then fun! My legs and lower back were screaming at me to stop, and that was in the first few minutes…geez, only 3 more hours to go!!!

Fortunately, Chad, myself, and, my apparently superhuman Dad alternated pram duties, so I could stroll along, stopping to take countless photographs, sip on icy mountain water and munch on the endless supply of muesli bars.

I certainly wasn’t going to win any Edmond Hillary points for technique, and to be honest, I didn’t care, I just wanted to get my a*s to the top!

Finally, we did make it to the top and it was the most spectacular feeling of accomplishment, exhaustion and frostbite. I, with a toddler in tow, had climbed Mount Kosciuszko and stood on top of Australia.

The rocky landscape sporadically dotted with clumps of wildflowers and shrubs, sprawled for miles, the air was a crisp blue, and even the sun broke through the podgy white clouds. It was breathtaking!

But, the only thing better than going up a mountain-going down!

At a relaxed pace, I was able to truly absorb the intricate beauties of this mountain and the surrounding Australian scenery.

Wow! I never realized how beautiful this part of Australia was in the Summer, as I had only traversed the snowy slopes during the Winter months.

Climbing Mount Kosciuszko, should absolutely be added to any Australian itinerary!

Thank you Dad and C mUm for an amazing adventure, one that I’ll remember forever.

Crikey!

Excuse Me, I've Got An Important Announcement to Make!

2011-06-18T11:43:00.005-04:00

CANNONBALL!

While enjoying an afternoon BBQ by the pool with some friends the other day, something happened that startled, shocked and amazed us immensely.

As Chad sat on the pool’s edge and chatted with me through the fence, Michael only a few feet away, easily within arms reach, for some reason we looked in the other direction, and in that instant, Michael fell into the pool.

What startled me the most was that, he fell in without making a sound or a splash!

Perhaps only a few seconds, if that, passed, when I turned back around. It was so quick that I don’t truly remember if I sensed him falling into the water, or actually caught the tail end of it, but I do know that, when I did look back, he had already turned himself around, reached to the wall and pulled himself up out of the water.

Are you kidding me?

While Chad and I never want to experience that feeling again, it made us realize that, how Michael reacted when he fell in, would definitely have saved his life, had, for any ‘unthinkable’ reason, we had not been there.

It made us both say ‘Thank God’. Thank God that Michael started swimming lessons at three months old and how grateful we were that, through the Lawrie Lawrence Worldwide Swim School (Australian Olympic Gold Medal Swim Coach) program, Michael had learned that exact ‘turn around’ technique.

We were RIGHT there beside him!

I wasn’t frightened or angry, just a little ‘what the f*ck just happened’, cause, I knew that, even through his frightened tears, he had saved himself…he was ok! Once Chad had scooped him up, we all cheered and congratulated him on being so brave and doing such a great job, which helped redirect his tears into a huge smile! From that moment, he went from wet cat to the Cannonball Guru in this video.

We taught Michael the basic techniques of water conditioning and swimming from birth, of which, of course he is still mastering, and, I actually used to teach ~~splashing & singing~~ swimming lessons to infants and toddlers at the YMCA in Virginia.

Unfortunately, I resigned within a few weeks due to being incredibly frustrated by the fact that, children could not officially learn any swimming (life saving) skills until the age of 3.

In Australia, while 3 month old babies were going under water and reaching for the pool edge, in Virginia, the extent of my 'approved' swimming lessons was dribbling water on their 6 month old shoulders. I tried dunking the kiddies underwater, and even had my own private group of rebel mUm's who were amazed and supportive, however once the Y found out, I was reminded of their pathetic policies, and, well, I resigned!

Seriously???

I even had a 16-year old lifeguard tell me that I could not teach Michael to swim underwater or even put his face underwater because, he was only a few months old, and that it was dangerous for an infant to be under water!

NO SHIT! You think? That’s why I’m teaching him to swim, dumb ass!

With this, I plead that, even if you don’t have a backyard swimming pool, that you condition your baby to love and respect the water and, teach your toddler to swim, or at least teach them the basic techniques that could save their life, should they ever fall into a pool, lake, or even a melting ice-chest (it’s more common than you think).

And, if you can't find anywhere that teaches children under (6) months, or the lessons available are pointless splash and song sessions, then I have the perfect solution!

The Worldwide Swim School provides online swim lessons (video tutorials) that progress with your child’s age, and as our preferred method while overseas, we found the programs incredibly easy to follow, inexpensive and, well, based on this past weekend’s event, highly invaluable!

Crikey!

Noah Called, He Wants His Ark Back!

2011-06-09T09:02:00.001-04:00

We were once a happy little two dog, one cat family, however, last week that all changed.

Wednesday

While driving through a busy intersection, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting the car in front of me, who, in turn was dodging a pint-sized, petrified yet darn lucky kitten.

Under any other circumstances, I would have stopped instantly, although on this particular morning, I was running late, with still another (15) minutes away from Michael’s school, on the phone with Dad, plus I had some incredibly urgent immigration matters to attend to on base, so I kept driving, not daring to look back.

However, once I arrived on base, I knew that I had to go back and ‘hopefully’ rescue the kitten, and, even though, it had been almost (30) minutes, I still drove like a mad woman, praying that it had made it across.

When I arrived back, I saw it cowering against a wall, so I parked illegally, scooped it up and drove back to the base veterinarian, who, I found out, wasn’t in until later that afternoon. An off base wild goose chase later, and I was back on base, desperate for someone to tell me if this little thing was going to make it.

And, just like that, the doors opened, (I’m sure I heard angels singing), and in walked the ARMY man, who just so happened to be in Spain finishing up some Veterinarian training and, who, ever so kindly offered to work on kitty. A few days and bottles of Baby Cat milk later, Dodgey has become the coolest, feistiest little addition to the Webster Family.

Sunday

While enjoying a gorgeous day at Conil Beach with some friends, this little dog comes tiptoeing slowly, apprehensively across the hot sand, clearly desperate for shade, water, food, and love.

We could see that he wanted to be loved, but perhaps through abuse, was too afraid, so we just gave him some water and ham, and let him hang with us in the shade.

A few hours later as we were packing up to leave, although I knew he probably wouldn’t be there if we came back, and, although his sad little eyes broke my heart, I just couldn’t see how we could add another animal to our already stretched Jolie-Pitt brood.

And, just like that, as though my beautiful husband could hear my internal pleas, he said, ‘If you can get him into the car, we’ll keep him’.

BINGO!

That’s all I needed to hear, and before we knew it, little Jefe (pronounced Hefe), with some prolonged coaxing, was in the car and farting toxic clouds of ham, bound for his new home!

Jefe (Spanish for Boss), who bears an uncanny resemblance to Muggles, has become an awesome, happy as a pig in sh*t dog, a best buddy to Muggles and fast becoming one of Chad’s. Even Dash doesn’t seem to mind having him around.

Pepper on the other hand, well, she’s French!

Crikey!

The $6,000 Watermelon: My Unique Life in Spain!

2011-06-03T04:50:00.005-04:00

Sure, beautiful weather, delicious food, inexpensive wine and endless European traveling opportunities may, from the pages of a popular travel guide be obvious reasons to visit Spain, but, they compare not to a few unique reasons of my own, that I believe make Spain one of the most vibrant, unusual and exciting places to visit.

1. Zombies Beware!

If a Zombie Apocalypse is ever on the horizon, Spain is the one place I’d want to be. With 10-foot high fortresses surrounding each house, and solid 3-inch steel bars on every door and window, even if Zombies did manage to climb their scraggly asses over the walls, they’d only be met with a double tap at the bars…’braaaaaains’.

2. The 80’s Never Really Left!

I don’t know whether it’s the front and back camel toe, tight as physically possible, leave nothing to the imagination pants and the MC Hammer jumpsuit that screams 80’s, or that while tearing down the freeway, ‘The Final Countdown’ blasts through the speakers, that keeps this little part of Spain grasping for the 90’s, but I love it!

After weeks of shaking my head at the fashion sense, or lack thereof, today, for research purposes (of course), I decided to test out some of these outfits, and I have to say that I’m loving the ‘uber’ comfy and cute MC Hammer pants, however, the camel toe khaki look, just isn’t for me…and this one was considered way too big!!!

3. Sleepy Sunday’s!

Apart from when I lived in Australia, where Sunday’s signaled a big night out at the Cri for the ~~‘Get Your T*ts Out and Anything Else Your Drunk A*s Wants to Flaunt’~~ Wet T-Shirt competition, Sunday has always been my least favourite day, simply because, come sunset, the weekend is DONE!

However, here in Spain, Sunday is truly a day of rest, where, aside from a handful of restaurants in the small tourist areas, this area is ‘Cerrado’! Sunday is a day to go to church and spend time with family and friends, not hunched over a cash register, and although my US dependency ways kick in at times, and I just want to go shopping, I’ve learned to just grab a glass of wine, sit by the pool and RELAX!

4. The $6,000 Watermelon!

I was somewhat surprised when my Spanish Seedless Watermelon weighed in at a cost of $6,000! I mean, I love watermelon and don’t mind paying a little extra for it, especially considering that locally grown fruit here is beyond delicious, but $6,000, are you f*cking kidding me?

Does it cut itself and feed you, or, is there a sweet baby Jesus bar of gold inside that warrants the $500 per lb price tag?

While I’m sure that a simple oversight is at fault, and, that I should tell the store manager, I’m having way too much fun weighing my $3000 cantaloupe and $500 lemon!

5. Safety Comes In A Jar of Wax!

I love a good parade as much as the next guy and will happily stand sideline cheering and singing, dancing and yelling as the procession passes, however, when 80% (guess) of the population rides dodgey mopeds, perhaps coating the narrow, round-about filled streets with WAX, might not exactly make for an ideal MENSA candidate? I can neither confirm nor deny that my husband can relate to this.

6. ‘Really, I Can’t Park There?’

Whether by Spanish driver mentality or lax of regulation, traffic signs simply appear to be ‘suggestive’. I mean, really, what’s a 120km speed limit if everyone else is doing 150km including the friendly policeman who calmly waved as he passed me at warp speed, cigarette in-hand.

From what I’ve seen here so far, the Spanish police, military or otherwise are incredibly relaxed, often eating a sandwich or puffing on a cigarette as they wave you through, compared with Captain America who diligently near asks for a DNA sample and retina scan before giving the all clear.

And, blocking all traffic to stop and have a long chat with a friend, isn’t met with vicious NYC horns and knee capping, instead it’s actually met with…nothing, other than perhaps a few tapping fingers….probably to some Duran Duran 80’s classic.

So, there you have it, no need to rush out and buy that fancy travel guide now, everything you really need to know about Spain is right here?

Don’t forget to pack your camel toe pants!

Crikey!

Captain Michael's Pirate Adventure!

2011-05-23T05:46:00.001-04:00

It’s official. I vow to NEVER again be so ~~f*cking stupid~~ eager to; move overseas, unpack 13 crates of household goods, re-decorate an entire house, make a 3-tier fondant cake, study for three uni exams, and, for that ‘go punch yourself in the head’ bonus point, plan and host a 3 year old’s birthday party, in TWO weeks!

Captain Michael’s 3rd birthday pirate adventure, yesterday, was the culmination of two incredibly stressful yet gratifying weeks since moving into our Spanish casa.

After endless late night, car crammed Ikea runs, and cases of Dolcino wine, our beautiful home was ready to bring aboard some crusty pirates to celebrate Captain Michael’s birthday.

Of course, oversleeping the morning of the party, when you’ve still got a huge pirate ship to build, a yard to decorate, and, a huge ass cake to construct and decorate, isn’t ideal, but with perfect weather, great friends and drinks flowing, what’s a drop of chaos?

As for Michael’s pirate themed birthday cake, without a strong decorator in the area, I had no other choice than to become an overnight cake decorator, of which, while exciting was incredibly challenging.

Learning about fondant and tiers and buttercream glue was a mix of trial, error and ‘oh f*ck’s’, however, with a touch of creativity and very little patience, my very first attempt was, I must say so myself, Arggghmazing!

Captain Michael had an absolute blast, tearing around with his pesky crew mates, destroying, in less than 20 minutes, the pirate ship that Chad kicked a** on building, and of course, as usual, I’m standing inside sipping wine, chatting away, and I hear the cheers, ‘Now it’s a party’, as my son comes running inside butt naked.

Luckily, we have great friends, who understand that, Michael loves to be at one with nature, and, really, with such beautiful warm weather and 10-foot high fences, who can blame him?

Now, as I sit here on the patio, this warm Sunday afternoon, contentedly sipping through a few glasses of wine and listening to Jimmy Buffet and the birds chirping, I see that, the candy has all been eaten, the pool cleared of pirate coins, and, the presents unwrapped, yet in the breeze, one guest still lingers…the Jolly Roger piñata!

Thank you everyone for sharing Captain Michael's Pirate Adventure with us and, of course for the awesome loot!

Agggghhhhh!

Ruffles, Ruffles, and More Spanish Ruffles: Ole!

2011-04-25T14:05:00.001-04:00

Somewhere under all of these endless heavy ruffles is an Australian girl, who never in a million years thought she’d be dressed in a traditional Spanish Feria (Flamenco style) dress, complete with straw-like curls, neon blue eye-shadow, and a mammoth flower on my head, but here I am…somewhere under all of these wonderful ruffles.

Squeezing (literally) myself into a near skin tight $900 custom blue and white Feria dress and strutting my instantly created, JLO a*s down the catwalk for the ‘2011 Sevillana Fashion Show’, made me realize that I’ll never take breathing for granted, ever again.

It’s not for a sizing error either that this beautiful dress, left me oxygen deprived, rather that, Feria dresses are designed to be worn ‘cinch, cinch’ broken rib tight, so as to ~~blatantly~~ teasingly show off the beautiful curves of a woman’s body, specifically the main attraction, the ‘derrière’.

For the first and I’m pretty sure, the last time in my life, I uttered the words ‘I wish this dress made my butt look bigger’.

These dresses, and the Spanish women who wear them, and, somehow dance with spectacular passion, in them, are pure works of art, of which my infantile two-week Sevillana dance lessons will attempt to compare this coming Feria season.

My intention is to ‘razzle dazzle’ the crowds through the smoke and mirrors of my own gorgeous sea of twirling ruffles, and perhaps, by the end of Feria season, with a few wines, even come close to mastering this beautiful style of dance.

Crikey!

Crocodile Tears: A mUm's Selfish Love Will One Day Bite Me on the A*s!

2011-04-25T13:43:00.000-04:00

I have always been a level headed not too emotional mUm who feels that, unless Michael is bleeding profusely, not breathing or without limb, he’s probably going to be alright, and doesn’t really warrant any mUm tears or stress.

However, today on Michael’s first day of pre-school, as I kissed his crocodile tears streaked cheek and turned my back on his desperate ‘mUm don’t leave me’ eyes, for the first time, my head toppled.

I have to admit that, I caved, and as I gave him another reassuring hug, I felt selfishly absorbed in his sadness and desperate longing for his mUm, something that, in a few years, he won’t display often enough, and I just know I’ll miss terribly.

How did pre-school arrive so soon?

It feels like only yesterday that he was snuggled in my arms, drooling and cooing, when oddly enough then, I couldn’t wait for him to become more independent, to fill his own shoes.

My little man is growing up so quickly, too quickly in fact, that, while I adore witnessing his many milestones, it also scares the crap out of me, because it means that he’s just one day closer to turning around and giving me a kiss on my crocodile streaked cheek.

Crikey!

The Veteran v.s Military Spouse Dilemma!

2011-04-22T09:34:00.002-04:00

I’m at a moral crossroad of frustration and forced understanding, in regards to employment preferences for Veterans, specifically those that do not hold the necessary qualifications or experience, to perform the required duties of an advertised position.

I’m a military spouse, on base in Rota, trying to gain employment in a Government Service (GS) position, however, although the required qualifications and experience of the position match my entire professional career perfectly, my application was instantly ‘canned’ and will continue to be ‘canned’ as long as Veterans, qualified or otherwise, continue to apply for the same position.

Unfortunately, for me, and hundreds of military spouses living on an overseas military base, this is a common undeniably ‘just the way it is’, frustrating scenario, of which, there just doesn’t seem to be quick-fix solution in sight. Well, that’s not entirely true, the solution is as obvious as a rock through a window, but that’s where my dilemma lies.

While I feel strongly that a Veteran, who has given 20 years of their life serving their country unconditionally, should absolutely be shown respect for their sacrifices, with special preferences, I also feel that the common sense in employing someone without the necessary qualifications and experience required, is asinine!

In the civilian workforce, it is highly unlikely that an uneducated street cleaner is offered the position of CEO, if up against an experienced business manager with a double Masters Degree, but in the GS world, perhaps so! Of course, I’m not denying the fact that, a Veteran with 20-years in the armed forces certainly has an extensive resume of training and experience in various situations, of which could be manipulated to suit a desirable GS specific skill-set.

What I do question is the fairness of this towards military spouse candidates, who in retrospect have sacrificed ‘normal’ life to follow their military spouse around the world, and, who legally cannot work in an overseas economy. It's not like we have a flourishing money tree in the backyard either. Three years on one income with a child to raise, childcare if you have any plans of having some mUm time, and perhaps some travel, doesn't come cheap. Sure there are achievable non-GS jobs on base, but trust me, to earn less money than the cost of daycare...there's no way you'll see my a*s standing at your front door holding a pizza!

If the command is constantly promoting and encouraging military spouses to apply for GS positions, shouldn’t we at least be given a look-at CHANCE?

Crikey!

A Dash of Disney: Part II

2011-04-21T16:09:00.000-04:00

Speaking of bellyaches, Disneyland is an endless buffet of deliciously overpriced eats, whether it’s a juicy Tiki Hut pineapple spear on a hot Summer day, a medieval and meaty turkey leg in Frontier Land, or the famous Mickey Mouse pancakes drizzled in sweet syrup and dusted with powered sugar, there is truly something for every belly.

But!!! If you truly want to ~~go bankrupt~~ indulge yourself in the ultimate dining experience, perhaps, on your visit, you should consider following our incredibly memorable (for so many reasons) ‘eating itinerary’.

8:30am: We started our day off with a, ‘more than hearty’ buffet breakfast with "Surf's Up! Mickey Mouse and Friends Character Breakfast" at the recently opened, Disney's Paradise Pier Hotel.

Unlike the Disneyland Hotel, where you have to battle with masses of sugar-hyped kiddies and over zealous, elbowing parents, just to see the characters in their frequent song and dance numbers, the "Surf's Up!" breakfast was more personalized, and Michael and Alena had more than enough 'bruise-free' interaction with the characters.

A brief walk took us right into the main Disneyland entrance, and, more importantly, made room for more ‘eye popping’ treats once we stepped onto Main Street.

Almost immediately, the sickly sweet aroma of unbelievably delicious four-layer candy coated caramel apples filled the air, partly because these exaggerated candy apples were being made in the store, and secretly because Disney actually sprays candy apple scented mist onto Main Street (bet you didn’t know that).

Before our bellies could even consider grumbling, we were finally sitting waterside at the coveted Blue Bayou restaurant inside the Pirates of the Caribbean attraction, listening to the sweet sound of live jazz and crickets chirping, and getting lost in the romantic moonlight of the Louisiana bayou, without a single pesky mosquito in sight.

Occasionally the gentle splash of boats, filled with confused faced and envious tourists, thinking, how do we get to eat there, would glide past. I know this look, because, WE have been those same envious tourists many times before, simply due to my forgetting to make a reservation at least a month in advance.

This time however, as I dined on scrumptious Seafood Jambalaya and sipped sweet iced-tea, I obnoxiously smiled and waved at those unfortunate tourists, as though I were some A-list celebrity, but, when the check near equals a 4-star hotel stay, bugger them, I’ll wave and lick the plate clean.

After our late lunch, as the sun began to set, amidst whirling rides, magical entertainment and endless ‘ooh’s and ahh’s’, we found time for my all-time favourite Disneyland treats, warm Churos, kettle corn and frozen banana’s, washed down with ice-cold lemonades…could it get any more gluttonous? Well, unless you’ve not read a word I’ve just written, yes, absolutely!

As midnight crept closer and Michael’s eyes and legs became heavier, it was time for our last-chance 11:00pm ‘pig out’, the traditional Webster Family ending to a Disneyland adventure…Ice-Cream Sundae’s from Main Street Ice-Cream Parlor.

With the aroma of fresh strawberries and warm chocolate fudge topping wafting as smelling salts, Michael sprung to life and almost mechanically devoured his, and part of Alena’s sundae…that’s my boy!

Aside from this exceptional display of parenting gluttony, we actually only had one ‘Parent of the Year’ moment, when Chad decided to take Michael on the Matterhorn Rollercoaster, (at night) forgetting that, the kid-friendly ‘Zippididoodah’ singing animals actually belonged to Splash Mountain, not the terrifyingly fast Matterhorn, with it’s roaring attack from the enormous Yetti.

No surprise that, when I met them afterwards, Michael was clawing at Chad like a wet cat, and, through petrified tears, screaming, ‘Off Daddy!’ However, I realized that although Michael may not remember this moment or the entire Disneyland adventure in years to come, I'll always have the photos to show him, that in fact, Disneyland is truly the happiest place on Earth.

Crikey!

A Dash of Disney: Part I

2011-04-20T11:37:00.000-04:00

It’s true, it’s true, it’s true, Disneyland really is the happiest place on Earth!

With one last military tour (Spain) before Chad retires and we call Australia home, permanently, we decided that, en-route to Australia this past Christmas, to take the kiddies to Disneyland, for what would be Michael’s first visit, and possibly our last for many, many years.

However, with cancelled then delayed flights, a dodgy forced overnight hotel stay, mixed with ‘lucky me’ experiencing a severe bout of food poisoning and a 3-hour drive curled in the fetal position, we arrived 12 hours late, at Grand Californian Resort, only steps away from a cure…Disneyland!

From the moment you step onto any of the Disney properties, there is an overwhelming feeling that, if you asked for the stars, a Disney employee would just about go to the moon to get them for you. It’s a magical place, where even after many visits, I still turn into a wide eyed, huge grinned little child when I see Cinderella’s Castle majestically touching the skyline, adorned with endless twinkling lights, towering over all of Disneyland.

Oh, how I wish just once, I would look up and see Cinderella waving from the tower window.

Disneyland is a sprawling family haven that, through delicious food, intoxicatingly friendly employees and endless ‘WOW’ entertainment and rides, has a knack at miraculously curing an overtired screaming toddler, a way too cool for school ‘tween’, a too grown up adult who’s forgotten what it’s like to just be a child, and, apparently, a mUm’s excruciatingly painful food poisoned belly. If that’s not enough, California Adventure (adjoined) is it’s modern, electric wing man.

I still remember Alena’s ecstatic face and girlish squeal the first time we took her to Disneyland, and those two days filled with beautiful smiles, childish laughter and nightly bellyaches from eating anything and everything that came across our path. I had wondered if, and hoped, that, although Michael was a few years younger than Alena’s first visit, that he’d present us with the same in awe of everything, photographic memories, including one that was selected to be a part of the ‘Happiest Faces on Earth’ murals displayed throughout Disneyland during the 50th Anniversary Celebration.

One look at the steam train bellowing the ‘allllllll aboarrrrrrrrd’ announcement and I’d captured the first of over 800 ‘in awe’ photographs of Michael, including the prized ‘Lollipop Shot’, before our two days at Disneyland left us with, as usual, sleepy eyes, happy memories, and perhaps, a little too contented, bellyaches.

To be continued….

Watermelons, Wildflowers and a Sparkly Gold Shoe Sunset

2011-04-13T05:52:00.051-04:00

Although Summer hasn’t officially begun, in Spain, the warm sunshine and blustery Lavante Winds, from the Strait of Gibraltar have, bringing with them watery eyes and sniffles, due to the rich pollen and dirt particles swept up within.

The Levante Winds actually blow through much of Western Europe, pollinating the soil and plants in their path, thus the vibrant display of newly blossomed fields of rich purple and yellow wildflowers, and road-side stalls selling large sweet watermelons and succulent peaches and juicy nectarines.

There’s just something about Summer time that warms my soul (excuse the pun), be it the crisp chirping of busy birds dusting off the winter, the rough feel of salt on my skin after a day at the beach, or the excitement of a burnt orange sunset just teasing for a Summer dress and sparkly gold shoes night out.

Peurto Sherry central, a vibrant downtown area only minutes from the Naval Base, comes alive in the Summer evenings (9:00ish) with bustling Tapas bars, adorned with beautiful wine sipping Spaniards and highly ‘conspicuous’ wine-guzzling Americans (yep, that’s me), spilling out onto the cobble stoned streets.

Therefore, when a friend suggested we do ‘Ruta de la Tapa’, translated by my exceptional Spanglish as: ‘Tapa Walking Bar Crawl’, where twenty three participating bars, displaying the ‘Ruta de la Tapa’ poster, offer patrons a beer or house wine and a featured tapa for only 2,50 Euros…I was SOLD!

Among some of the unique tapas we sampled: ‘Menudo de choco’ (cow stomach), ‘Merluza con crujiente de acelga con fondo de salsa de pimiento acompanado con patatas’…and breath, (fish and potatoes) and, ‘Carrillada Iberica al Pedro Ximenez con manzana’ which we ‘think’ was Iberian Pork, regardless, was exquisite.

‘Ruta de la Tapa’ continuing through May 8 (excluding Semana Santa), is a delicious immersion into Spanish food and wine, where, even if your Spanish is embarrassingly undecipherable, just point to the poster!

And, even if your Spanish is perfect, I still recommend going online and printing the walking map with tapas descriptions, as with twenty-three restaurants, unless you’re Kobiashi hot dog man, there’s just no way that you can sample them all, like we found out.

Arriving at 10:30pm, surprisingly late even by Spanish standards, unfortunately we missed out on trying the ’Raviolis de crema de queso con vinaigrette de pesto rojo’. Another Spanglish translation: Cream Cheese Ravioli with Red Pesto Vinaigrette.

Sounds much more delicious and romantic in Spanish, don't you think?

Cow Stomach & Kidney Beans

‘Ooh’ my stomach is grumbling…tapas anyone?

Crikey!

A Moment on the Lips: Spanish Exploration!

2011-04-06T10:31:00.000-04:00

The way to my heart doesn’t pave from diamonds or expensive lingerie or even exotic adventures, it doesn’t require a treasure map of compliments and Coach bags, rather, it’s a prehistoric path, usually reserved for the heathen man variety…FOOD!

So, when I devoured my first meal on Spanish soil, the exquisite taste of cured meat, creamy cheese and olive oil, the staple ingredient of Spain, I vowed that, even though it could mean popping a button and possibly taking someone’s eye out, I was going to eat my way throughout Spain.

Spain throughout has an incredibly exotic menu of traditional dishes, including and most famously, paella, and carne de parilla (grilled meat), of course simply incomplete without the pride of Spain…plump tart olives, as a teaser. Food is a sensory experience. My entire body tingles at the aroma of anything searing over an open flame, or a decadent dessert exquisitely layered into a piece of art, that becomes Eve’s apple, so tempting, yet so wicked.

‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips’ has absolutely no business at my dinner table, especially when flame grilled Provolone drizzled in olive oil with garlic stuffed olives and fresh crusty bread, paired perfectly with a glass of sparkling Tinto, is on the menu.

Sure, come Summer when my bikini strings are holding on for dear life, I’ll no doubt have a ‘fat’ moment, which will prompt my overfed a*s to the gym, but more importantly, that small moment of woe will compare not to my culinary insatiability.

I’ve only been in this beautiful country for three weeks, yet I’ve managed to explore some exceptionally palatable meals, including a Spanish tortilla (not the flat Mexican style), which breaks the limits on egg, potato, ham and cheese gluttony, garlic drenched olives from the Gypsy Market, and a mountainous plate of flame-grilled meats, even a Titan would surrender to.

Perhaps, it is the ‘no rush’ mentality of the Spanish culture that makes dining a conversation and food-savoring experience, for which there is absolutely no time limit.

Unlike in America, where your ‘over perky’ tip driven server forces you out the door before you’ve even taken your last bite, in Spain, it’s unlikely you’ll receive your check hours after your meal unless you ask for it, and because you are so lost in unbelievable tastes and beautiful conversation, it doesn’t really matter.

Food is meant to be enjoyed with every bite a savoring moment, not some revolving door reservation that hits you on your hurried a*s. Sure, I may sound like an ‘arty farty’ hippy, but, for just ONE meal I challenge you to explore the flavors of your meal, indulge in conversation and enjoy food!

So, what’s next to eat on my culinary exploration?

Crikey!

Bitter Sweet Goodbyes: It's a Military Thing

2011-03-25T14:12:00.000-04:00

Living in San Diego, with its mild, year-round weather and laid-back lifestyle, life is good, and, with the influence of nearby Mexico providing an endless array of unbelievable taco stands, there really isn’t any reason to complain.

So, when, after almost four years of ‘loving life’, we received our last-minute orders to Norfolk, Virginia, I was devastated, as it meant, not only leaving gorgeous San Diego, but it meant saying goodbye to our wonderful friends, and a job that I truly loved.

Given that I was seven months pregnant, it also meant enduring the coast to coast, seven-day drive, with the pain in the a*s dogs in tow, a million bathroom breaks, and an assortment of sleepless hotel nights, only to end up at a destination, that I’d heard was ‘boring as cold bat sh*t’.

Three days later, we completed the long, isolated drive through Texas (really, it’s that big) and ended up in New Orleans, where Chad’s mission was clearly to gulp down every Hurricane, Tornado and any other radioactive concoction, while I, fat as a whale, carried his drunk a*s through Bourbon Street, as he slurred for fried chicken.

The next morning, me fresh as a peach, Chad, stinking like a mixture of vomit and swamp a*s, we drove to Memphis, Tennessee, gorged on BBQ (what else?) before spending a few hours at a little place called Graceland. I grew up loving Elvis (thanks Dad), and actually visited Graceland about the same age, as Priscilla was when she met Elvis, so there was no way that we were going to drive on through.

For the record, I think that Elvis was the sexiest man on the planet, pre-bloated jumpsuit days, and I just know that I would have been one of those screaming banshee women, front row, hissing and clawing for a sweaty scarf.

Anyway, back to the story. Another boring overnight somewhere, and finally we arrived into an overcast, wet, cold and miserable place called Norfolk…home for the next three years. We had only ten days of military paid lodging to find a house, and, on day five, a late night Craigslist search brought us to our perfect house, in a place I’d never heard of…Chesapeake!

We signed the contract with the landlord, and within a week, we were unpacking furiously. Our two-story house, almost three times the size of that in San Diego, for half the price, sat in a quiet tree-lined neighborhood, just across the road from a park that in the Summer time would come alive with an endless parade of fireworks and events.

But, most importantly, we were surrounded by families with young children, families who would become close friends, with backyard birthday parties and BBQ’s the norm. Friends that could just hang out or spy on each other through the fence, friends that know how to have fun and friends that if something went down, you know you could rely on to cover up the hole and hide the rope.

Michael arrived two months after we moved in, just as Summer was about to kick our a*s, Chad deployed three months later and I ended up in hospital with a concoction of Post Partum, Deployment and Moving stress…fan-friggin-tastic! Even Muggles, must have been stressed by the move, as he stopped eating and lost all the hair on his underbelly and man-part.

That was one of my many breaking points, and I decided that seven months alone in a brand new home, as a single mUm with an infant, coming into a Virginia Winter wasn’t going to cut it, so Michael and I flew back to Australia and waited out the deployment surrounded by family and sunshine. Muggles, Pepper and Dash spent their vacation at the Family Dog Club, spending their time running through open fields and playing with other dogs and cats.

Finally, April arrived and we were back in Chesapeake, as a family, and were able to actually settle in, get to know our neighbors and enjoy our new home. And it is only now, as I sit here, in Spain, thinking back on our time in Virginia, do I realize just how wrong it was to assume the worst before I’d even given it a chance.

Virginia, although I can’t honestly say that I love the place or would ever go back, I can say that our friends are what made Virginia special. Friends that I genuinely hope to see again in our travels, and friends that I do truly miss.

As any military family knows, there’s always that silent ticking deadline before the next move, that unspoken goodbye that’s just around the corner.

Although Michael is only young, I wonder if, when he waves goodbye, he understands that he will not see his friends tomorrow or the next day, or the next.

I wonder how children who spend their entire childhood saying goodbye to friends every few years feel, and whether they truly understand the purpose of it, or just accept it?

Crikey!

Castillo de San Sebastian & A Sea of Glass

2011-03-23T12:11:00.001-04:00

In the heart of Cadiz, Castillo de San Sebastian sits silently watching over the water, just as she did almost five hundred years ago, although then, the water surrounding her lapped against strong intact walls as she stood boldly protecting Cadiz.

Castillo de San Sebastian’s lower walls remain submerged, however, an unusual low tide once every nineteen years reveals the lower walls and tunnels, and allows visitors to walk from the shore to and around the castle.

As we drove in convoy to Cadiz, we expected only to see a handful of visitors, not the thousands that clamored along the castle walls, some in 6-inch heels (it’s a Spanish thing), and some, like our munchkins, barefoot and covered in sand.

The moss-covered rocks, steep castle walls and deep blowholes prompted beautiful photographs and daring maneuvers to capture, of which one unfortunate visitor found out, warranting a cavalcade of emergency vehicles as they tightly inched along the bridge through a sea of people.

Amidst the endless photo moments and excited chatter, however, our ‘friends’ introduced us to the infectious addiction of collecting ‘sea glass’, of which, until today, I thought was a sarcastic term for beach garbage.

‘Sea glass’ are actually pieces of discarded glass bottles that have been swirled about the ocean, washing in and out with the tides, so that their sharp edges and shine have become coarse and opaque.

Predominant colors are teal, green, white and brown, of which Chad’s pockets were stuffed to the brim, but it is the rich violet color that is incredibly rare (unless you’re name rhymes with Bonique) and, from what I’m told, worth a few dollars.

I can already hear my mUm’s incredibly creative and skillful mind ticking!

Crikey!

You'll Just Love Rota, Spain!

2011-03-21T14:46:00.004-04:00

The moment my feet touched down on Spanish asphalt and the warm sunlight filtered through the palm trees, bouncing off my ‘jacketless’ skin, I knew that I was going to love Rota, Spain, just as I’d been told I would, countless times before this actual day.

Rota Naval Base, where the Crikey mUm family will be stationed for the next three years, is situated in the Bay of Cadiz, (pronounced Cadeeth) which spans the southernmost tip of Spain, just below Portugal, just above Gibraltar, and, is the ‘Best Overseas Location’, according to a truly unbiased source: Rota Naval Base!

I am absolutely inclined to agree, as within 24 hours of arriving here, thanks to our amazing sponsors and awesome advance move Facebook friends, we had unpacked our nine suitcases, two dogs, and a cat, processed our Spanish ID cards, met Michael's new sitter (fantastic) and, proceeded to became way too familiar with Molly Malones Irish Bar.

Alright, perhaps Irish Car Bombs and Vodka were not the most authentic of ways to be introduced to the Spanish culture, but in our defense, it was St. Patricks Day, and it kicked ass!

The following morning, after yawning and grumbling our way through a hard-earned hangover, we collected our 'rent-a-matchbox' and drove to Vistahermosa, splashed in the ocean and then, with friends enjoyed an early dinner paired with a spectacular sunset and flowing Tinto's de Verano's (wine spritzer)...my new drink of the Summer.

What little of Spain, I have already experienced, is just beautiful, the people are warm and impeccably dressed (always), the food and drink is amazing, the landscape and architecture unbelievable, the siesta attitude is so needed, and the friends we have, are just bloody outstanding!

Turns out they were all right…I just love Rota, Spain!

Many more adventures to be continued…

Crikey!

Defusing an Explosion of Toddler Rage - I Laughed!

2011-03-11T10:12:00.001-05:00

Tonight, as Michael exploded, screaming 'I want to go with Daaaaaaaaaaad', while wildly tossing magazines, and kicking over chairs with absolute detestable and uncontrollable rage, all because of his own indecision about walking the dogs with Chad, I couldn't help but look away and laugh.

As much as I wanted to be the 'perfect parent' and support and comfort his emotions, instead I stood in utter shock at how so much anger could spew from ordinarily the most gentle and affectionate little boy, when only minutes earlier, he was snuggled in my arms, patting and kissing my cheek, saying 'I wuv you mUm'.

Once I snapped out of shock, I simply held him gently at eye level and said 'I know you are angry and frustrated, but throwing things is not acceptable behavior'. 'I love you very much, but throwing things can be dangerous', and, within a few seconds, he was again, snuggled in my arms, still whimpering, but defused.

I truly believe that Michael needs to be treated in the same respectful manner as I like to be treated. For example, if I were spewing mad and someone tried to spank, yell or restrain me, I'd go ape shit, so why should I expect it to be alright with Michael? The difference between Michael and myself is that, when I get angry, I ~~f*cking lose it~~ can control my emotions, whereas, his little brain is still figuring out what emotions actually are.

I'm lucky that this melt-down occurred at home, as, naturally, I would have been incredibly embarrassed by my initial 'bad parent' reaction, and I'm sure, even more so, by his. And, although I know that toddler tantrums are completely normal and generally fizzle out after a few minutes, it doesn't make it any easier to watch my little man transform from a cuddly bear into a screaming out-of-control banshee.

How do you control your toddler's tantrums, and does it differ from home to when in the public eye?

Crikey!

You Rusted the Dishwasher: An Ode to a Landlord!

2011-03-08T18:48:00.003-05:00

Without Prejudice

After an agonizing few weeks of pure disorganization, courtesy of military sub-contractors and, quite possibly, the most incompetent cluster f*ck moving company on the planet, our house is vacant, and the insane clutter and chaos has been replaced by crisp white sheets and an oceanfront hotel balcony.

In less than two weeks, through a military move, we'll call Spain home, so once the movers left and the house was cleaned, we naively assumed that, after three years of being the perfect tenants, our walk-through today would be a simple, ten minute formal procedure, with the deposit check in hand and a hug goodbye!

Assume = Makes an Ass of U and Me

However, the walk-through started an hour early with a phone call advising that the house needed to be thoroughly cleaned. That's right, a phone call from the landlord, already in our house, without us there? This instantly turned my dial to 'Attack' mode, as no matter how many times I questioned what exactly needed to be cleaned, was met with the 'it needs to be cleaned' line. And, while, to my landlord, it may have looked like I was listening, in fact, I was actually playing out one of those alternative violent head-rolling endings.

And, after a few minutes of listening to some ~~'f*cking absurd'~~ unreasonable accusations, including, but not limited to, us intentionally setting a roof light fixture on fire, creating a bathtub water leak, and rusting the dishwasher, although I wanted to repeatedly bang her head against the wall, instead, I just advised that I had to walk away, leaving my gallant husband to do battle.

And, battle he did, almost three hours of ~~screaming~~ negotiating her bullsh*t suggestions down to 'reasonable', enough at least, to accept our slightly dented deposit, hand over the keys and defriend her on Facebook (bad ass, I know).

If we had gone all rock-star on the house, kicking in walls, leaving crop circles in the lawn, then fair enough, sack us, but really, $500 on a rusted dishwasher...that's just f*cking insane!

Yet, despite the excruciatingly bitter taste of today still lingering, the actual anger has almost disappeared, thanks to my good friend, Moscato, and, the knowledge that, in a few days, while she's still freezing her unreasonable a*s off here, we'll be sipping Sangria's on the warm beaches of Spain.

But, still I ask: How do you rust a dishwasher?

Crikey!

The Nagging Wife - EXPOSED!

2011-03-02T15:49:00.003-05:00

After almost seven years of ~~research~~ marriage, I am ready to dodge all bullets and expose my version of the Nagging Wife Syndrome.

But before I do, the following brief transcript, occurred during our recent house move, and although similar to many before, was the final straw.

Friday
Wife: 'Your stuff has to be ready by Tuesday'
Husband: 'Don't worry, I'll have it done'.

Sunday (noticed stuff not done)
Wife: 'Just reminding you about Tuesday'.
Husband: 'I said I'll get it done, stop Nagging'.

Tuesday (moving day)
Low and behold, husband doesn't have his sh*t together and is running around like a chook (chicken) with it's head cut off, while yelling at me to help him, and boldly suggesting that, I didn't tell him this had to be done! Short of wanting to drop kick his ass to China, I calmly reminded him that, I had told him, however because I didn't want to NAG, I let it go.

So, what is Nagging Wife Syndrome, and how did I become the nagging wife that I swore I'd never become? I went directly to the source to find out, and according to my husband, I'm not a nag, rather, I get frustrated, and use a strategic placement of ideas to get my point across (ah, in English).

Does, this mean then, that 'husband' has no sense of urgency, and, that unless I use my strategic placement of ideas appropriately, nothing will get done? And, in that case, could the root of Nagging Wife Syndrome be, in fact, the insouciant Man?

What needs to be done today, should have been done yesterday has always been my philosophy, however, from what I've observed throughout life and marriage, while most women appear to follow this same philosophy, most men don't!

But it's not their fault! Men and women have been wired differently, each induced with obliged specifications from birth, subconsciously nourished by parents and society, throughout their childhood. Little girls play house and marriage, while little boys play guns and trucks. Girls get frustrated with the boys foolishness (innocent pre insouciance?), while boys get frustrated with the girl's bossiness (innocent pre nagging?).

Now, hold on for a minute. Does this mean that wives don't actually nag, rather they become an unfortunate element of their husband's inability to display any sense of urgency, due to wiring and childhood foolishness?

HECK NO! I've witnessed pure nagging in true defiance of all laws, these fire-breathing, nag spewing dragons, I'd slay with my own sword. I'm just opening up the idea that perhaps in 9 out of 10 cases, women simply get fed up with delay, and, rather than play the 'I'll just do it myself', out of principle, repeat and repeat and repeat the specific placement of ideas!

Now, it's your turn. Have you been privy to Nagging Wife Syndrome, whether you be a genuine fire breathing dragon, or just, simply frustrated?

Crikey!

Some Things Just Never Get Old

2011-02-25T21:53:00.000-05:00

It wasn't until today, when a friend started posting Chuck Norris statements online, that through my hysterical laughter, I realized, no matter what direction life has taken me, or how quickly or slowly time has passed, some things just never get old to me.

Certain feelings and emotions have been imprinted on my heart and mind, whether I choose them to be or not, and even when the sad ones creep though sometimes, I don't mind, because there's always the happy ones standing close by, and it's a wonderful thing when they pop up unexpectedly.

Like the smell and feel of freshly washed sheets off the line, reminds me of when I was younger, swinging on the clothesline in my Granny's back yard, or the smell of freshly baked muffins teasing to be eaten, or even better, my Dad's roast beef and potatoes wafting through the air...is enough to warm my soul even on the coldest day.

Or, when I'm driving, and I scream 'I LOVE THIS SONG, to one that I haven't heard in years,

Take On Me by 'a-ha', 80's bops me right into that high-tech video clip and into Morten's arms (he was totally new wave hot) and, It Must Have Been Love by Roxette has me sitting on a bus, with my 'tape recorder' and headphones, staring out the window, day-dreaming about an older boy, who has absolutely no interest in me whatsoever.

And, then there's the Night At The Roxbury, Zoolander and Happy Gilmore trio! You know what I'm talking about: the head bopping move, and 'the files are in the computer', or the 'are you too good for your home', one-liners that usually make a regular appearance on many a drunken night out (or not).

I wonder if, when I'm pushing 90, sipping 'punch' and slow dancing with my saggy-bum husband, he'll look at me and say 'it's all in the hips'? I hope so.

What imprints make you smile or take you back?

Crikey!

Double Delicious Friends

2011-02-22T12:24:00.003-05:00

There is nothing more exciting than being the focus of a surprise, whether it be that completely unexpected Tiffany necklace, overseas jaunt, or an intimate birthday party, surprises are simply wonderful.

And, what I find to be even greater than the surprise itself, is the actual execution, whether it be a blindfolded drive to the airport or waking up to a room full of balloons, one of which was attached to a Coach handbag, there's just something so Pretty Woman (minus the whole hooker thing) about it.

Take this, just another ordinary morning for example.

I was upstairs doing my make-up when my phone beeped.

A text message read only one word - PORCH.

I raced downstairs, almost tripping over my excited legs, opened the door, looked around, then down (just like in the movies) and found the most adorable wrapped gift, placed perfectly on the step.

Of course, the 'sneaky squirrel' who delivered it, was no-where in sight, planned beautifully, leaving with the desired effect.

The execution was perfect, and, although I truly love the gift, it was the surprise execution that makes me smile and remember just how much I love giving and being given surprises.

Thank you dear friend, you made my day.

Crikey!