primary, secondary, tertiary friends....

I was just putting a pic on Facebook about dinner tonight.

I don't usually put pictures of my food on Facebook, but it's been a yummy day and sometimes I just have to celebrate that.

In reading the general comments on the post, I was reminded about something one of my oldest friends talked about a couple of Boxing Days ago, over a civilised champagne and leftovers.

Without giving away too much detail, I've been lucky enough to have some friends in my life for 51 years.  We started primary school together, Year 1A. I don't clearly understand why there was 1A and 1B before year 2, there just was.

Sometimes we didn't see each other for quite a while, (as long as 37 years, in one case)  but when we next saw each other the conversation just picked up from wherever we left off.

These are primary friends, from primary school (or Sunday School, or before). It was the 60's, we couldn't afford pre-primary.

There are friends from high school, again you lose contact for a while, but still sharing birthdays and collective (if growing vague in parts) memories.  These are secondary friends.  Not secondary in terms of importance, just arrival.

Then there are tertiary friends, university, work, other life events after high school.  In some cases, these people have been in my life for 40 years now.  We may not spend as much time together as we once did, but it's still as easy as it was when we were 18 or 25 years old - before kids, partners, life events. And we have lots of adventures to remember - or try not to mention. Sometimes we only see each other once or twice a year but every time we catch up it's special. Sometimes it's only electronically, but still important. Not tertiary in importance, just arrival.

And of course, there are sisters, more like 56 years, and still special. And offspring, mine and everybody else's. If you love your friends, how can you not love their kids?

I've been very lucky to have these all of these people in my life, and particularly lucky in that generally they all get along with each other. I'm really bad at sending cards and calling for no particular reason, luckily everyone seems to understand that. 

Let's all celebrate our friends.

Dinosaurs, silk and ostrich feathers

Hands up who DIDN'T make a dinosaur suit for their daughter's dog today?  So many hands....

I had the sewing machine out, for routine wardrobe maintenance and alterations, possibly too much time on my hands, and I came across some scraps I had put aside for the oft-requested outfit.  I considered for a moment something in silk and ostrich feathers, but the dinosaur won.  She looks quite cute, in a bewildered sort of way. But my daughter is happy, and as she often says, that's the important thing. 

I've been having a bit of a de-clutter, but when it comes to the stash, one can only go so far.  I saw a post on Facebook for a garage sale, where someone commented that they had never seen so much junk.  I was stunned, the garage in the post looked positively minimalist.  My latent fear of featuring on one of those shows about hoarders surfaced, briefly.

I don't so much have junk, as a stash.  A BIG stash.  Of lots of things.  All of which can be re-used for something, although not necessarily their original purpose.  I don't mind sharing things, when someone needs something, but I have to draw the line at tossing things away in a willy-nilly manner.  

Over the past few weeks I've had some visitors who appreciated my stash.  It's nice, and reassuring, not to be viewed as the upcycling equivalent of a mad old cat woman, and I enjoyed sharing some gems with them. In return, I saw my stuff through their eyes, which gave me some new ideas.  We agreed that  you can't be creative without a stash.

Although it's technically winter, the weather's been sunny and still.  I spent a morning sitting on the front steps with a cup of tea, watching a whale slothing about in the harbour.  You could tell it was cold this morning, when I awoke to one paw visible against the white sheet.  My little friend emerged later, so that he could have a tummy rub while I worked my way through another Dresden File. It's a busy job, being a security dog. You don't want to peak too early.

Every town needs a jester, I suppose.

My resolution this week is to be less gracious with the self-seeking and self-important, the endlessly complaining and the relentlessly boring.  Especially those who achieve all of those special qualities together, and feel that the rest of the world would benefit from sharing their unique insights into everyone elses' failings.  Constantly. 

I figure that I've been patient, polite, and well mannered for years.  I've listened to, and read concepts so blindingly silly that US comedy writers would kill for them. I've been regaled with arguments so cretinous that most peoples' eyes would have remained crossed for years without a change in the wind.  Conspiracy theories so asinine that Days of Our Lives or Today Tonight would consider them fatuous.  Yet they still keep going. Yak, yak, yak. Tap, tap, tap.  Look at me, look at me.

Isn't it a miracle that they're always right? How is it that everyone else is always so wrong? 

Perhaps my mistake was pretending to be interested. Or thinking that rationality is a cogent argument.

A good test is their complete inability to recognise irony. I wonder if it's possible to develop some other sort of test (perhaps something they breathe on, like a breathaliser, since they always have lots to say) which could  flash 'Run Away Now' to those around in large red letters.  Some sort of siren would be handy.

A very good and wise friend lives by the maxim that he wouldn't want to die not knowing, and he wouldn't like you to, either.  I think that we would be performing a community service by sharing the truth with the perennially pompous, the neverendingly narcissistic, and the incessantly idiotic. 

They won't stop, of course, but we won't have to listen to it.  Once, you would have to go out to seek them out.  With the interweb, they lurk wherever they can, insinuating themselves into other's interactions and deluding themselves that people aren't deleting and or blocking them. 

And frankly, if you're thinking "that's terrible, I'm going to leave a comment here", you're probably one of them.  Think about it, while I block you.

"I've seen better tennis playing in a tampon commercial." *

I spotted this while in Denmark today with a friend.  I like it a lot.

We were on a tip shop trawl on a sunny Sunday and as always the Denmark tip shop did not disappoint.  Being that it was also the art market day in that burgh it was quiet at the tip but there were bargains to be had.  My friend picked up a metal based, solid wood topped table to use as a workbench and a solid wood table top for the stash.  I snapped up some mint Doc Martens, a lovely old wooden box, and a book.





Pausing for a pie from the less-expensive-but-just-as-good-bakery at the other end of town, we observed the native wildlife navigating for parking spaces - an endangered habitat on market day - amongst the introduced species (tourists) who overrun the natives at this time of year.

With room in the car we came home via the Albany tip shop, a poor sad shadow of it's country cousin. There's no real spirit of adventure at the Albany tip shop, and it's sad that so much goes through to landfill.  Kudos, however, to the enterprising employee who was doing his bit for the economy by transferring stuff straight from the incoming line to his own vehicle.  Firm direct action to reduce landfill.  Pity about the PR.

There's an enormous space which could be better used there, and it's a retailing adage that the more you have to choose from, the more you sell.  If stuff sits around and doesn't move, cull and get new bits in.  There's no cost for the stock and it's not like they have to go far to get rid of the stuff that doesn't sell.

We did manage to snag some bargains though, real wrought iron veranda lace and standard lamp base,  a vintage atlas, and various other bits and pieces.  End of the day, I think we spent about $10 between us. I also snapped up the following from various trawling hotspots during the week:

*Girlchild, Facebook status, this week.  Who knew she watched tennis? 

babysitters

I noticed in passing on Facebook that one of my children's ex-babysitters was celebrating his birthday this week.  Always a chap noted for incisive social commentary, his post accurately observed "Yes, I am birthday."  Which said it all, really.

My children were blessed with a succession of creative and imaginative babysitters, generally the cash-strapped and desperate teenaged offspring of friends. Nowadays those brave souls are (reasonably) respectable members of society in their mid to late twenties, who have no doubt almost outgrown the terrifying flashbacks of the Hitchcock-like horror commencing with the slam of the front door as the parents fled into the night.  The twitching is barely noticeable now.

Birthday boy was famous for a time when my children worshipped his green spiked hair.  Apparently "my babysitter has green spikey hair" was a claim of huge street cred in the primary school playground. There was a clamour from others whose babysitters were considered pale and uninteresting in comparison. Perhaps wisely, he never capitalised on the child care career his notoriety offered and indeed, to this day his name must remain confidential.

I also recall another artistic youth who was so popular (and so obliging) as to agree to look after a positive gaggle of my own and other children at once.  He survived by entertaining them with his lovely drawings, and we had an art show when the Mummies returned  to the homefront.  He had rendered  the characters from Alice in Wonderland, cartoons (various), and a number of toys which were presented for an instant portrait.  The portrait of a reclining nude caused a second glance, to which he said "Barbie" and somewhat desperately - "they made me do it."  Having spent time with those particular little girls - one being mine - I understood his position. Fear is a powerful motivator.

On the occasion of one Mummies' night out, we returned to find that the Daddies had fed the children and decided to relax with a beer before putting the kids to bed.  About 10.30pm the little girls had  taken the executive decision to tape the Daddies' eyes shut. Since they were asleep anyway, you understand, and it wouldn't be fair to wake them. 

I quite miss the thrill of a new toy catalogue, the challenge of finding that exact thing for a birthday - I once called every Toyworld franchise in two states to locate Optimus Prime in his gorilla manifestation. (And I was successful.) Perhaps I verged on the slightly obsessional, but I like to think of it as focus. My skill with Lego was superior.  I still know more about a lot of Transformers, Beastworld, Batman and Barbie than is probably good for me, and I can paint Warhammer with alarming precision.

A good friend recently passed on some beautiful Dungeons and Dragons books to my not-really-a-teenager-anymore son, whose eyes grew wide.  He proclaimed that now he was really going to be able to kick some D&D ass, as he dragged them back to his cave.  It's still exciting to see him find things to play with. Now, if only I could motivate him to get a haircut......