I'm smiling on the inside

Harry is my littliest boy. He has dark hair, big eyes and eyebrows to die for. He also imparts great pearls of wisdom, delivered at a precise moment to either create a barrage of laughter or a tortured and embarassed silence. Harry is never afflicted by embarassment, that is usually the sole reserve of his mother.

It seems unfair to let his words dissipate when they can linger longer in cyber-gevity. And anyway, as his mum, I'd like to share some of his little gems.

When Harry was smaller than today, he had a small red bike. Through lack of use it never lost its shine and is currently 'on hire' to a smaller cousin. But I digress. Determined that this little boy would ride a bike while getting fit, I jogged behind him. The birds sang as we rode/ran over the sun puddled pavement. It was a perfect summer's afternoon. A grim look masked Harry's face, his eyebrows knitting in the middle. Jogging behind him, he kept stopping and starting, coughing and spluttering.

'Harry you are doing fantastically well,' I puffed behind him.

Stopping his bike, and turning to me, his little face a picture of thunder, he said 'Mummy, I am fantastically bored.' And with that he dismounted the red stead and started to push it home.

Oh well, I worked out he probably would never wear the yellow shirt in the Tour de France.

A friend, enquiring what school was like, was surprised by his response, 'In a word bull *poo*.'

I was shocked, as it's not the sort of comment you want recorded for prosperity (by a five year old) although it was also probably true. I've never heard him say 'that' word again and when I was bemoaing the horror story to my mother I noted that it wasn't one of my words, but apparently it is one of hers.

A school banker, Harry took his job very seriously. He worked his brow and a smile had no place on his banker's countenance. One day, the supervisor, a young woman, said that Harry's demeanour was scaring off the customers and warned that if he didn't cheer up, a replacement banker would be found. Harry caught her in his steady gaze, saying, 'I'm smiling on the inside...that's what counts'. And the ensuing fuss when the accuser was outed by the other bankers, returned Harry's smile to the right side of his face.

We all have these little gems, which are so easily forgotten and probably mean little to others, but hey, while I'm here...this cyber soapbox has four sturdy sides.

Eat. Pray. Weigh.

What is it about diets?

The first three letters are portentous. They spell doom before you even get to tea. (Cue, potato dripping in butter having been deep fried in peanut butter batter.)

How do we get to the savage village that is Dietville? Is it the saggy scales as we step on in chubby denial? Is it the jeans that we could once pour ourselves into but now overflow with crept on flesh? Is it the embryonic models stretched across fashion pages aimed at middle aged wallets? Or is it the supermarket shelves labouring under fat and salt?

The diet industry thrives on failure to ensure the shareholders, unlike the dieters, are kept content - their pockets bulging instead of their waistlines.

But can the chunkoids blame the fat cats for the stressed denim? No, it is the hand that reaches the mouth, the hand that dips into the bowls of chips, delights in the roasted cashews, the hand that lifts the glass of wine.

Am starting to salivate. Wonder what's in the cupboard.

Ummmm.... Eat... pray... maybe not weigh... not yet anyway.

Cyber Dating Pond

Internet dating, some squirm at the very thought while others may see it offering a little help in negotiating the piranha filled dating pond. After my own interesting experiences, I'd rather skirt around the banks and avoid the teeth, or worse not have a panic attack upon the realisation that razor sharps aren't even interested in my flesh.

But this isn't about me, it's more about the razor toothed fishies.

Whilst this particular fish put off the razors with too much honesty... many razors don't seem to be so fussed with this trait, in fact it's probably viewed as a hindrance. This fish, put a pic up in real time (give or take a few months). Mr A had posted a photo which I should've worked out by the hairstyle was from the eighties and this cyber-fifty-ish was pushing towards his seventies in realtime. Even at my most desperate, I couldn't date somebody Dad's age. Mr A, who had once sported a beautiful, full head of hair was now somewhat more follicularly challenged. Why oh why, would Mr A think that I might not notice the ever so slight timewarp? (Even with my failing eyesight!?!) It's not the lack of hair I lament, but the lack of honesty.

Another little cherub greeted me at a table in the ubiquitous cafe. You know the scene, poor sap hiding behind a menu, eyes darting and hoping the person with the 'mad eyes' isn't the same less mad-eyed person on the receiving end of your little e-missives.

Said ME approached the table with his hand outstretched. As we shook hands, he squeezed his eyes as if testing his bladder, noting, 'I should be able to wait for a few minutes'. (How long before I can abandon Ship Nohope?) The ship was badly hulled in the first few nanoseconds and was sinking fast. When he requested Chamomile tea and took out 'two vitamin' pills (assumed they weren't Viagra!) I tied my laces tightly and scarpered as quickly as my middle-aged pins would allow me, in the politist possible way, of course.

Another interesting thing I noticed was the assumption that as an older fish, you'd be up for anything, which is all very well but dodgy hips and being a little less agile than in youth, would preclude some of the acrobatics suggested in the second missive from one particular razor. I'm not shocked, simply surprised that some razors might think that the social norms and pleasantries have no use in the cyber dating world. I wonder if these razors ever actually get to sink their teeth into any flesh. Or perhaps they work on the 'probabality factor' where if they chuck out enough hooks, something's bound to be hooked.

Other interesting tidbits I've picked up from friends who have dipped their toes in this rather despairing pond, are great to regale with girlfriends over a glass of wine or three. One chuckled that a would be dater with an out-of-date pic suggested they put their coffee date off due to his stomach stapling surgery. His photo, showed a man in the peak of fitness but the Georgie Pie in the background should've been both a hint and a portent of what was to come.

In Auckland there is the dreaded man drought but I think there's possibly more of an honesty and good mannered drought from my own, often peculiar, experiences.

But alas, let us not end on a note of bitterness as it does nothing for my wrinkles!

I have two very dear friends who met and subsequently married in the very pond I've been so disparaging about. I'm not sure how they did it, but they found each other and, well, isn't that just lovely! There is hope!

Don't despair, patience might prove to be the greatest virtue in this new and sometimes scary world of dating.

Tupperwary

I was surprised to be invited to a Tupperware party. My first thought was, are they still making that stuff?

With a drawer filled with mismatched tops and bowls, I have struggled in decluttering phases to try to coerce (some may say force) a Tupperware lid onto an incompatible and unrelenting bottom. Unfortunately, I've not been able to bring myself to throw the tops or bottoms out, don't ask me why. I'm sure when I get run over by a bus they'll be handy to help house the leftover asparagus rolls at the 'after party'.

The party was fun, it was women, surprisingly young women, all keen to engage (some might say fight) in trying to win tiny portions of Tupperware with their Tupperware auction money. It was like plastic gold, well it certainly seemed to be priced that way (it has a lifetime guarantee which cannot be said of many of the plastic purchases from the $2 shop). Slap! I am now the proud owner of a little plastic boxy thingy that I can pop in my fridge and it acts like a mini-cryogenic chamber for my tomatoes (well at least two medium sized ones, maybe four cherry). It was excellent fun, with a well mannered and slightly quirky host. (As an aside, am a bit worried about a wizened Tomato Disney emerging from the depths of the fridge in a few years time...cue Fantasia music.)

What worried me, was the worry factor which had not been factored into my Worry Table prior to the party attendance. Wrinkles. Mouth wrinkles, get worse when you sup from squirty bottles. I very nearly bought a lovely green bottle with a wide mouth to allay further chasms opening up around my lips. It was something I'd never worried about. I can only imagine that while out jogging I'd nearly submerge myself if I was trying to avoid wrinkles as I supped from a Tup'. I'm trying all sorts of pouty manoeuvres to try to rectify the damage I've no doubt done by sucking on the wrong type of bottle for years and years.

And there we have it. Plastic that lasts longer, albeit often forgotten, than many children born on the wrong side of the coin.

But I do aspire to my pantry looking like the one featured in one of Tupperware's brochures. Sparkling, clutterless and the joy of actually being able to find the vanilla essence when you need it.

Perhaps we should fill some Tupperware containers, all our mismatched ones and send them to the mouths that need it. When emptied, the lids and tubs could be used as tools.

Offspring

I'm not sure how it happens, well, have the biological bits under control but it's the personalities. You burp them the same, you change their nappies the same way (same brand, too, from memory) - they even eat the same things (that might be due to the lack of culinary genius on their mother's part) but they're so different.

So? How come?

Don't ask me, I'm in awe (well, these two I prepared earlier are mine) and flummoxed by the 'chasmic' differences.

• Attitude to homework
  Big - "I'll do my homework soon." He does, but soon is a precarious piece of time which means different things to different people. To Mum, it means just after now. To Big, it might mean finding himself at his desk but it's nearer to midnight than midday.
  Small - "What's homework?"
• Attitude to sport
  Big - Waiting to be subbed on the rugby pitch, focus, angst (he's not on) and complete, unbridled willingness when coach requests he play.
  Small - When asked by his coach if he'd like to go back on the field for the final five minutes, responds "I don't really think so, maybe next week."
• Mummy's bad hair day
  Big - "You look like you stuck your finger in a light socket."
  Small - "Mummy, you always look beautiful." (Said with straight face.)
• Where do babies come from
  Big - "Mummy, can you stick babies in the microwave?"
  Small - "Mummy, you don't need to tell me, I know. It's all about Daddy's sperm."
• School
  Big - Packs his bag and sets off with a spring in his step and his brain in his head.
  Small - "I don't think I'm really suited to school."
• Mummy noting that's she's going for a jog
  Big - "Have a good run!"
  Small - "Mummy, go back to bed and relax, jogging is stressful."
• Flatulence
  Well, do you have to ask? A smell's as good as a laugh.

So, anyway, ain't it grand! Would be boring if we were all the same...I think.

You to Wolverhampton

Texting is a whole new language. It has all but dispensed with the wonder and virtue of the vowels instead now crowding the tiny screens with over confident consonants wrestling with meaning.

Older ... some might like say wiser but let's face it, we're probably just pedants ... wrestle with the new technology to ensure the vowels have a place on the tiny screen. I struggle with not being able to find apostrophes and commas. But I will not abandon the Good Ship Vowel. See will never be 'C' for me. You will never sink to the new 'U' lows that have befallen the textual machinations of the young more hurried texters.

Predictive text has a mind of its own. Less agile or chubby fingers cause all manner of textual chaos when texting in a hurry. You becomes Wolverhampton (a useful word in the New Zealand text lexicon) and sex is only a stroke away from pew. In haste, a number of nonsensical messages have been greeted by bemused friends who usually ring back to find out what the message was, hence negating the use of this cheaper form of communication.

When I bought my last mobile phone, the shop assistant asked 'What would you like to use your phone for?' I replied truthfully, 'Making telephone calls.' I nearly had to resuscitate the poor thing. I may be able to multi-task but I don't always want my 'things' to be able to do the same. It's just all too confusing.

Ah Technology ... gr8 if nt a bt flmmxng.

Muddle-aged dating

Dating as you have to deal with the spread of middleage is daunting. Some might venture to say terrifying. In fact, so terrifying that I've decided to sit it out this later-age dance and if the frog hops onto my dance card then, and only then, I'll decide whether or not to leap. I suspect my feet will remain dry and firmly on the ground, but who knows, I'll keep a bit of lippy in my purse just in case.

As you wrestle with your girth, and the life lines, children shine a completely different light onto your situation.

Sometime ago, I dated a gentleman... or at least a bloke... with whom I had little in common. He was a pleasant sort of chap and it was nice having someone to pop around for a cuppa and a chat. The relationship rocked along for a few months and at the conclusion ('the dumping') my youngest son noted with cynicism, 'He's gone back to Planet Idiot, eh mummy?' From the mouths of babes, the big fat truths.

Unfortuantely, the most magificient feature of my at-the-time chap was his propensity for the most astounding... well... farts. They were rounded and full and trumpeted as you can only imagine the most farty of farts to sound like. Their comedic value knew no boundaries with my two sons. No embarassment ever accompanied the aromatic trumpets, nor apologies. To be fair, in the farting arena, they were the grand champions. The Mike Tyson of flatulence.

We bumped into him sometime after the last aromatic intrusion into our lives and I noticed, for the first time, the very roundness of his bottom, and suddenly it all made perfect sense with regard to the cachophonous nature of his emissions. Physics and biology, quite fascinating.

I hope my bottom wasn't eyed up and compared to a pachyderm. Oh sod it, what if it was?

Vanity

We're all a little vain. Some a little more than others. We all look in the mirror, falling back in horror when we catch our reflection unprepared. Unprepared to be seen by self.

If we're honest, we have our own special way to approach our reflection, similar to the way we 'greet the camera'. Personally, I prefer the jaw-jut when greeting the mirror. My dentist would advise against this due to a clicky jaw and the possibility of it popping open and staying that way for eternity (would they get the lid shut!?!). I used to think smiling was good but with the grin comes the harrowed horrors of skin which has seen too many sunny days over too many years.

Of course, with the sagging of skin also means the inevitable moving of reading material further away from the eye. This is a plus. If you dread being up close and personal with the mirror, fading sight offers a few positives as we stagger into our dotage. Those little hairs sprouting on chins or nostrils can no longer be seen, those wrinkles are no longer crevices. I'm gorgeous! Be warned not to have a squiz with your $10 reading glasses on.

For many of us, our mirror gazing occurs in the privacy of our home. Bedrooms and bathrooms would seem to be the room of choice. But what of the others who are a little more blatant in their self-idolisation? I don't judge the loving of self a bad thing, afterall somebody's got to, but in public... please!

Today I stood in the lift, squeezing in with four other people. Nobody's gaze met, it was as if were modelling for a department store catalogue. But one, I wouldn't say attractive, girl turned to the mirror at the rear of the lift. She thrusted her arm forward motioning me move from my little corner so she could get a good look at herself. Although I was trying not to goggle, I attempted surreptious. There she pouted and preened. She flattened phantom stray hairs and licked her lips. She raised her eyebrows and lifted her head. All the while her eyes were trained on her reflectoin.

As the lift reached my floor, I could no longer bear witness to her glorious preening.

The beauty industry thrives on our fear of getting old, or much, much worse, looking old. Advertising products aimed at those in the muddle-age are modelled by the practically embryonic. Girls in their twenties are seeking repair-work from plastic surgeons. I could start on the ethics but where would I stop?

Beauty is something to behold. I love watching people whether they be fairytale beautiful or Dickensian in their abject ugliness. We all know we should be looking for the goodness of the soul, but let's face it we always have a good look at the packaging first. It that is found wanting, we don' t bother to find out what's inside. Sometimes we return to the discarded and marvel at our stupidity.

Mirror meandering is marginally better than soul searching ... now don't me started on the navel. It's omnipresence is all encompassing but that's another industry fuelled by fear and guilt.

Off for some beauty sleep.