SPEAKING OF BURNING OUT...

Well, it’s coming to that time of year again.

That time where I’m absolutely exhausted, and running on empty.

The time where I tend to get sick.

The weight of everyone else’s problems is starting to get on top of me, I think.

I have so much on the go at the moment.  Lots to do at work, lots to do at home, lots to do for CWA, and lots to do with Mum’s unit.  Plus, Jade’s also throwing her usual complications into the mix, as well.  Apparently, it’s all about her…

My head is about to explode from stress, and I’m running myself into the ground trying to get everything done.  So guess what happens: I get sick.

I was crook a couple of months ago, and found out later that I had what a few people I know were effected by: this bug that just makes you incredibly tired and dizzy.  I slept for days.

Now, I think I’ve just got a cold.  Nothing exciting.  Just a stoopid cold. 

However, it was enough to knock me on my arse for three days, and of course, miss out on a day of work (and pay).  Just what I need at this time of year.  Yay.

So, somewhere amongst the chaos, I need to find some peace and clarity, because, as everyone keeps telling me, I have to look after myself.  Easier said than done when the world around you is spinning so fast, you can barely keep up.

At Christmas time, my company shuts down for three weeks.  My plan for this imposed break: sleep my way through its entirety.  Yeah.

However, sitting here typing this, I’m so excited with the realisation that my cold has now gone to my chest, and I need to make an appointment with the doctor.  Yay.  I need to kill this bastard before it gets a tighter grip on me.

And I need lots and lots of sleep.

Ahhhh… the joys of life.

Keep well.

Peace out.

IT'S BETTER TO BURN OUT... THAN FADE AWAY...

So, last night, my friend Keeley and I went to see Def Leppard in concert at Rod Laver Arena.

For those of you who don’t know who Def Leppard is; for shame.  Do yourself a favour, and Google them.

This is the third time now that I’ve seen them in concert, and again, I was sharply reminded of how awesome they are live.

I’m telling you; they’re the most underrated band on the planet.  Musically, they’re very gifted and talented.  Its interesting to sit in an arena with 15000 other people, and feel a united hush fall over the crowd as the guitarists (Viv, Phil or Sav) perform their transfixing solos.    Listening to Joe Elliot scream at me to ‘Let’s Get Rocked’ with the same strength and passion as he had 20 years ago was awesome, and let’s not forget their famous drummer with one arm.  Yes, you read right.  One arm.

Def Leppard were once tagged ‘the unluckiest band in the world’, because firstly, Rick Allen, their drummer, lost his arm in an accident (which you would be right in assuming was career ending), and then they lost one of their guitarists, Steve Clark to an overdose.

You would be right in thinking that was the end of the Deffies; far from it.  Rick Allen constructed a completely different drum kit that utilised foot pedals, so he could still keep playing with one arm and two feet.  It’s incredible to watch him play, and I think out of all of the members of the Deffies, he would be everyone’s sentimental favourite.  He is just a freak.

Steve Clarke was replaced by an Irishman called Vivian Campbell.  I remember first seeing him on their tour in 1993, and thought he was all right.  20 years later, they apparently still refer to him as ‘the new boy’.  He’s just an awesome guitarist.

So, 20-30 years on, and these boys are still rockin’ hard.  They are just fantastic live.  Very interactive with the crowd, and very, very talented.

However, last night I felt like I had seen it all before.  I believe it was the same stage and same video set up as their 2008 concerts.  They still had an acoustic break in the middle of the concert, and still did Rock of Ages as their encore.  Same same, but different.

However, pushing that aside, it was still an awesome performance.  You’re guaranteed a good time with the Deffies.

The one thing I was disappointed with, however, was their support act: Heart.

Anne and Nancy Wilson; two very talented ladies.  Nancy has the voice of an angel, and played about 10 different types of guitars in just an hour long set!  And Anne… man can that woman sing!  Performance wise, they were fantastic.

They pumped through a few of their hits, but disappointingly, didn’t sing their most famous one: ‘All I Wanna Do Is Make Love To You’.  I couldn’t believe it!  It was like their hugest hit, and I really, really wanted to hear them performed it live.  Devo.

Choirboys also supported, and they were fantastic.  Good to see some old rockin’ Aussie’s still pumpin’ it out.  I was surprised at how much of their music I knew.

You know what I love most about live concerts though?  The crowd.  Man, it takes all kinds, I tell ya.  I’ve never seen so many middle aged skinny women, with too much make up on, over done hair, mini skirts and high heel CFM boots on in my entire life.

Then of course, there were the flannelette shirts, wife beaters, acid wash jeans, long hair and mullets.  Yes, mullets.  Not funky, modern mullets, but old-skool 80’s style mullets.  Dear God…

There were actually about four guys a few rows down from us, that had mullet wigs on in different colours; hilarious! 

I also love the loud ‘I-don’t-get-out-of-my-house-much-so-I’m-letting-loose’ whoooo-girls, that insist on standing up and dancing wildly during a ballad, taking 47 photo’s of themselves and their friends for Facebook, all whilst clutching desperately to a half-empty plastic cup of vodka.  Clarsy.

There were these two chicks in front of us, right, that I seriously thought Keeley was going to punch in the head.  They were dancing in the isle, which I don’t have a problem with, but it was what they were doing that was a freak out.

Let’s just say, that if I had given them a pole to dance on, they would have been right at home.

Yeah.  Mmmm…  clarsy.  I bet they were from Frankston.

Behind us, were some blokes that were hard core Deffie fans, and sang every word of every song, loud and proud.  They had a good time.

My friend Carla and her mates were down on the floor, in the crush of people in front of the stage.  The thought of that made me claustrophobic and start to sweat nervously.  Amazingly, she picked my big arse out of the crowd, and we texted each other through the concert.  Particularly when she was like two meters away from a half-naked Phil Collen.  Jealous.  Totes.

I suggested she throw her bra at them, like some other chicks were doing, but she didn’t.  Devo.

It was a great night out, which saw me crash into bed at like 3am.  I’m too old for late nights and early mornings, let me tell you.  However, it’s been a long time between drinks for me, and I drank it in for all it was worth.

Maybe I’m like the Deffies; I’ll keep rocking until I crash, because it’s better to burn out, than fade away.

Peace out.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE PARTIES...

Hi peeps,

I copied the story below from a girlfriend's status on Facebook, because I found it amusing (yes, I'm a conservative) and an interesting comparison.

Enjoy.

A young woman from Mosman was about to finish her first year at Sydney University. Like so many others her age, she considered herself to be Labour Party minded, and she was very much in favour of higher taxes to support her education and for more government programs - in other words, the redistribution of wealth.

She was deeply ashamed that her father was a rather staunch blue-ribbon Liberal voter, a feeling she openly expressed. Based on the lectures that she had attended and the occasional chat with a professor, she felt that her father had for years harboured a selfish desire to keep what he thought should be his.

One day she was challenging her father on his opposition to higher taxes on the rich and the need for more government programs.

The self-professed objectivity proclaimed by her professors must be the truth, and she indicated so to her father. He responded by asking how she was doing at university.

Taken aback, she answered rather haughtily that she had a 90% average, and let him know that it was tough to maintain, insisting that she was taking a very difficult course load and was constantly studying, which left her no time to go out and party like other people she knew. She didn't even have time for a boyfriend, and didn't really have many university friends because she spent all her time studying. 

Her father listened and then asked, "How is your friend Audrey doing?" She replied, "Audrey is barely getting by. All she takes are easy classes, she never studies and she barely has a 50% average. She is so popular on campus; university for her is a blast. She's always invited to all the parties, and lots of times she doesn't even show up for classes because she's too hung over."

Her wise father asked his daughter, "Why don't you go to the Dean's office and ask him to deduct 20% off your average and give it to your friend who only has 50%. That way you will both have a 70% average, it would be fair and you would both be equal." 

The daughter, visibly shocked by her father's suggestion, angrily fired back, "That's a crazy idea; how would that be fair! I've worked really hard for my grades! I've invested a lot of time, and a lot of hard work! Audrey has done next to nothing toward her degree. She played while I worked my tail off!"

The father slowly smiled, winked and said gently, "Welcome to the Liberal side of the fence."

If anyone has a better explanation of the difference between Liberal and Labour/Greens, I'm all ears. If you ever wondered what side of the fence you sit on, this is a great test! If a conservative reads this, they will forward it so his friends can have a good laugh.  A Labor/Green will delete it because they are ‘offended’.

MY BABY MOO

So, last night saw my return to tennis.

I’d convinced myself that I was fit enough to join a social comp on a Tuesday night in Pyalong, which was just a simple social comp with an emphasis on fun.  That suited me just fine.

A triumphant return to the game?  I don’t think so.  Not for me personally, anyway.

It’s been about four years since I set foot on a tennis court, and OMG; you could tell.

However, I didn’t really expect to be able to play like a weapon straight away.  I expected to have no control over the ball, and my ‘touch’ to simply not be there.  What can you expect after so long without a racquet in your hand?  In this part, I was not disappointed.

I tell you, I was so nervous, that bricks were coming out of my arse. 

I told myself that I didn’t want to let anyone down, but in truth, I think I didn’t want to let myself down.  I wasn’t really worried about playing like a tool, because I was expecting that.  

I was worried about my body failing me.

I was worried about my shoulder giving out again.  I was worried about my blood sugars dropping low, and having to stop playing to avoid a hypoglycaemic episode.  What I didn’t expect, was my calf muscle to give out on me.

My baby moo, as my girlfriend Bek calls it.  My baby moo let me down. 

I dragged Charlie-Albert out onto the local courts for a hit on Sunday, in an attempt to shake off the cobwebs.  It wasn’t pretty, but I found that I handled myself okay, and felt confident enough that I wouldn’t make a complete dick of myself when I started the comp.

This is when I first twinged my calf muscle.  I spent that afternoon playing in the garden for a few hours, and the calf seemed okay.  I went for a walk that night and it was twinging again.  Charlie rubbed it for me before bed, and when I woke up Monday morning, all seemed well.

Was out and about everywhere on Monday, in high heels, and the moment I took them off, my calf started pinching again.  So Charlie rubbed it again, and I woke up Tuesday morning a-okay.

However, when I was running for a ball last night, BANG!  Pain just ripped through my baby moo, and that was it.  I hobbled through the next set (we only play two sets in this comp), pretty much completely ineffective, and hobbled home.

So, to say I was disappointed would be the understatement of a lifetime.  Just when I felt ready to take that step, just when I had been working so hard in the gym to improve my fitness, my body fails me, and in a way I didn’t expect.

I don’t demand too much of my body.  I don’t expect it to perform miracles.  I just expect it to carry me through life, and every now and then, extend itself for the sake of my health.  However, it is clear that my baby moo did not get that message, and put up a silent protest of its own.

Thanks for that.  Fucker.

I had a great time last night, too.  I meet some new people, and played against some old friends. 

But you know what I love the most?  Playing against the young teenage boys that are all testosterone and ego.  They don’t expect the fat old tart (with the fucked up baby moo) to be able to hit a ball back, and are quite surprised when I can.

I’m sure it’s pretty embarrassing when a 40 year old with an injury can beat you, and of course I keep this in mind when I play them.  I don’t want to shatter their young, vibrant confidence and create a self-doubt that will ripple through the rest of their lives, possibly causing them to give up tennis in shame.

Ha! Bullshit!  I’ll happily give them a lesson in tennis!  Anytime!

Interesting to watch a young buck go from cheeky and cocky at the start of the set, to dead quiet by the end of it. 

Who’s got the moves like Jagger now?  Hey?

Hahhahaaa… 

No; in all seriousness; it’s just a game, and a social game at that.  It’s just fun and something for the people of the community to get together and enjoy.

I just hope that Andrea the osteo can perform a miracle, and this old tart can get her broken arse out onto the court again next week.

Peace out.

ON FOR OLD AND OLD

So, Mum and I went to a CWA function at Heathcote yesterday. 

The Heathcote Branch was having a fundraising event, where Blumes Fashions were holding a demonstration.  Proceeds raised went to the CWA, and in turn, went back into their local community.

For those of you that live on another planet (or in another country), the CWA is the Country Women’s Association of Victoria, of which I am a proud member myself (and am actually the Secretary of the Tooborac Branch – God help them).

Now, those that have heard of the CWA, will have images of a old ladies with perfect white/blue coifs, scones with jam and cream, and copious cups of tea.  That’s not too far from the truth.

We do make a mean cuppa, sanga and scone, but the CWA is also a serious fund raising organisation that endeavours to pour money back into local and international communities, to help out where we can.  However, it’s not only with money that we try to help, but with able (albeit geriatric) hands as well.

I joined the CWA because I wanted to get to know some ladies in my own town, and work for a charitable cause, because I just love fundraising.  It feels good to work for something other than your own end; to maybe make a small difference to a far bigger picture.    It’s good to be involved in something that’s not all about you.

Plus, I’ve made some pretty awesome friends along the way.  I love my CWA sisters.

So, to support our sister branch, most of our members went along to this fashion demonstration.  I had done a little research on Blumes Fashions, and I must say; not my cup of tea.  The fashion is directed toward the older, more mature lady, and not young and funky me.  However, this didn’t bother me; it was a morning out with Iris and my CWA sisters.

So we walk into the hall, and are greeted by a couple of ladies that collect our entry fee (a whopping $6) and ask us if we would like to buy a raffle ticket.  Aahhh… the traditional CWA raffle.  First prize and the door prize were a Blumes Vouchers.  Awesome. As I walked across the room with Iris, I said ‘knowing my luck, I’ll win one of ‘em.’  Iris just snorted a laugh.

We find ourselves a comfy seat, and check out our lovely surrounds.  Just a normal church hall, with biblical stuff everywhere (chukarama), but in the middle of the room, are several small tables that have been beautifully decorated with flowers and table cloths, and are bursting with platters of slices, cakes, sandwiches, scones and biscuits. 

So, whilst we’re waiting for our sisters to arrive and the demonstration to start, Iris and I quietly enjoy a cuppa and sandwich.  I whispered to Iris; ‘I bet you my house I’m the youngest one here.’

‘Don’t count your chickens too soon…’

‘Oh, I have NO doubt.’  And I was right.  By at least thirty years, I reckon.  Easily.

The demonstrators arrive, and wheel in rack after rack of clothing.  As they’re doing this, the army of Heathcote CWA ladies spread through the hall like a pack of storm troopers, and the empty platters, plates, cups, saucers, flowers, cloths and tables are cleared with military precision.

Suddenly, were sitting in a room full of people and clothes, ready for this demonstration. 

So this demo is unlike any other clothing demo I’ve been too.  All of these racks contained their entire seasonal range in all colours and sizes, so you could purchase what you liked on the day and take it home.  What was even more amazing, though, was that if you didn’t have enough money on you, you could take the items home, and Blumes would send you an invoice, which you could pay later!

I thought this was pretty cool, but when I looked around the audience, I realised that placing and order and waiting for four weeks for it to come in (like Tupperware or Intimo or Postie Fashions)  may not be practical, as some of these ladies possibly wouldn’t have lived that long.  Harsh; but true.

So when the demonstration was over, it was on for old and old.  I just stepped back, because there were walking frames and walking sticks flying in every direction as the blue rinse brigade descended mercilessly upon these poor, innocent clothing racks.  It was out of control.  I was seriously scared for my life.

Somehow, Iris emerged with a couple of pairs of nice pants, tops and scarves.  I don’t know how she made it out alive, but she did, God love her.

So, as I stood back waiting for Iris, enjoying another cuppa and a piece of slice from a table near the kitchen, I couldn’t help but note how friendly these ladies were.  A few of them gave me strange looks, as if to say ‘what the hell is someone as young as you doing here?’  A few came up to me, saw my ‘Branch Secretary’ badge on (God forbid you go to a meeting and forget your badge!) and asked ‘which branch are you from?’ ‘Oh, I haven’t met you before… I’m so and so’ ‘Oh! Tooborac? Well, you’re our neighbours! Welcome!’ ‘OMG! You’re so young…’

It was a fun morning out with some local ladies and my CWA sisters, even if the fashion wasn’t my bag.  Plus, Iris bought a few nice items, and she was happy.

If anything these CWA ladies have taught me, and they have taught me many things, it’s that life is what you make it, so make it as fun as you can.  My CWA sisters are a scream a minute, and I dearly love spending time with them.  They make me feel good, and I make them feel young and heart.  We all had a lovely morning out.

I think that CWA is not just about what you can give to the community, but what you can give to your sisters, and what you unwittingly receive in return.

Plus, I won the fucken door prize.

Iris got the benefit of that one.

Peace out.

FITTING IN

I must admit, that when Iris came to live with us, I was nervous.

I can’t tell you precisely why, but I was concerned.  I suppose… I didn’t know how she would feel.  If she would be comfortable living in bumble fluff nowhere.  How she would handle being away from the action, and not being able to watch the world roll by her front window.  If she would fit in.

Mostly, I thought she may be lonely.  With Charlie and I at work, and Jade at school, I wondered if she would be lonely all day.  Of course, I forget that she lives on her own anyway, with the stoopid cat, so being on her own is something that she’s use to now, I guess.

Her stoopid cat is in storage, as I like to call it.  The cat is living with her friend Sandy at the moment, who breeds ragdolls, and bred mum’s stoopid cat.  She’ll stay with Sandy until Mum moves into the unit.

So, I don’t know what Mum’s more excited about, actually; moving into the unit, or having her cat back.  Stoopid cat.

So, to fill the void that stoopid cat has left, she consoles herself with the three overly affectionate flea bags that I have, one of which was also bred by Sandy.  Certainly, they do not make up for stoopid cat, but they go a long way…

However, my initial concerns seem to have been unwarranted, as Mum has slipped into country life quite easily.  She fills her days knitting and watching her shows on Go! , Gem or Seven2, or she potters around my extensive garden, or goes for a drive to Kilmore or Heathcote.

I may come home, and she’s done some ironing, vacuuming or cleaning of some kind, which I protest about, but really don’t mind.  She feels useful and I feel ever appreciative.

I think, above all else, she enjoys the company at night.  Instead of being on her own, and getting random drop-in’s from her friends and family (which she loved), she has The Buttlers.  I don’t think that’s much of a trade up personally, but she seems to enjoy it.

Iris and Charlie get along like a house on fire.  I often come home, and they’re in the lounge watching some shit on telly (he has subjected her to the quality of Jerry Springer, and the other night, they were watching Machete), or flapping their gums.  I should say, it’s more Charlie flapping his gums, because he’s finally found a woman that actually gives a shit about what he craps on about.  Bless.

Iris loves her son-in-law.  He’s the favourite; clearly.  Nearly more treasured than the stoopid cat.  It drives Jade and I mad.

I also think Iris enjoys spending more time with me.  I take her on outings and adventures, looking at kitchens, carpet, and shopping centres around us.  I take her visiting friends, and out for lunch.  I assume Iris enjoys this.  I know I do.

I enjoy her being closer, and can’t wait until she’s in the unit, and life settles down into some semblance of normality again.  Where I go back to doing my own ironing, and Mum can start the next chapter of her life, and enjoy her time in Kilmore, where Bek will drop in for lunch, Carmel will drop in for a cuppa and a gum flap, and Charlie, Jade and I will be there as often as we can.

And the stoopid cat will have its mamma back.

Peace out.

SOME RENOVATIONS OF MY OWN... SORT OF...

Well, I don’t think I realised how much I loved renovating, until I got hooked on The Renovators.

You see, I have extensively renovated my own home, and have renovated a house owned by a local primary school, and loved every minute of it.

Sure, I haven’t physically smashed down walls myself, but I have coordinated everything, and with my own home, have painted the majority of it (I’m really good at filling in nail holes and weather boards, waterproofing a shower cavity, and can caulk like a mo fo).

Now, I’ve another two renovations creeping up on me. 

Firstly, our bathroom at home.  OMG… does that room need some serious love.  That will be Charlie and my job at Christmas time, when we’re both on holidays.  Gut the room, and start again.

I cannot wait.

However, I have a little renovation coming up that I didn’t really realise was a renovation until Iris mentioned it last night.

I’ll be renovating Iris’ new unit.

I’ve spend the better part of the last month, designing a kitchen and getting quotes for the same and for new flooring.  I’ve been co-ordinating everything to run smoothly, so poor Iris can move into the unit she’s been waiting nearly three months for.

If I may digress a moment: Dear Vendor: hurry up and move the fuck out.  You said you’d probably be gone early, and you have not.  Clearly, you lied.  We’re waiting on you.  Get your shit together and go, and don’t even dream of asking me for an extension.  28^th of October; be gone.

Anyway, back to it.  I’ve got the carpet organised, and I’m just waiting on another kitchen quote, and then, come settlement, we’ll be ready to order and roll.  Oh yeah. 

Hopefully, Iris will be able to move in by mid-November.  She’ll be waiting a little longer for the kitchen, but all of the carpeting will be done, so in she can move in.  Yeah!

This weekend, I plan on taking Iris furniture shopping.  A new dining suite, couch, coffee table, entertainment unit and telly.  What fun it will be!

Iris won’t know what’s hit her when she moves into the new Stone Manor!

And that’s just the interior.  Wait until we start on the little garden!  Now that’s gonna be fun!

I love renovating.  I love taking something old and tired, and transforming it into something new and beautiful.  I can be done so simply, too. 

My house is a perfect example of that. It’s a post WWII weatherboard, that’s now completely different to the original building we moved into.  Both inside, and out. 

Unlike the competitors on The Renovators, I haven’t mutilated the house, and turned it into some modern, monochromatic, clinical abode that appeals to the 30 something’s of this era.

No, it’s been lovingly restored, with most of its original features (pictures rails, plate shelves, built in pantry’s) all restored and retained, and the new extension we built, ties into it all.  Sure, we have travertine tiles and floating floors, and beautiful modern blue and green hues throughout the house, but it’s all relevant.  The period of the house has been respected, even if it has a modern ensuite and country style kitchen.

It’s a home, and a practical one that does get dirty every now and then.  As someone once said to me, your home should be clean enough to be hygienic, but dirty enough to be a home.

So, I love renovating, and am seriously looking forward to the next couple of months, which will see me change the face of things again.  Unlike my own home, you don’t have to knock down walls and build extensions to improve a property.  Sometimes, just a lick of paint, new flooring, some new furniture pieces, and even a re-vamped garden, is all you need.

Bring on the next few months, I say!  Bring it on!!

Peace out.

AUCTION DAY!

OMG!

For those of you addicted to it, as I am, wasn’t the Renovators Finale good last night? *has LMFAO’s ‘Party Rockers’ playing in her head*.

Wasn’t it just incredibly amazing that most everyone’s favourite won?  That the fibro cottage was the last one auctioned, and left everyone hanging?  That the young buyer (who looked a lot like Luke) was too afraid to bid, then just went nuts?

Isn’t it wonderful that August FAILED.  The man everyone couldn’t stand, who had the biggest ego of the competition, was shocked when he FAILED.  Oh, it was wonderful!

I was wondering if it would turn out like The Block’s finale; an anti-climactic fizzer.  However, we were not disappointed.  After all, it is Channel 10, where production rules and a perfect outcome is guaranteed.

It’s was like a production teams dream come true!  You couldn’t have planned it better.  Oh, wait a minute….

Let’s be honest; the houses transformed were spectacular.  Agreed.  However, were they any different to any other house in the street, or were they just a ‘historical’ grab, because they were part of a reality show that not many people gave a shit about?

Keep in mind, that the real estate market is very slow up in Sydney, as well as incredibly over priced.  Wouldn’t see Melbournites paying $700K for a refit shop in one of its crappier suburbs near the airport, would you?  I think not.  We’re smarter than that.

So the fact that these six houses actually sold on auction night, was incredible.

The Half Done House was so over done, that it was too classy for the area.  Stunning, but over the top AND, the only one 100% finished; apparently.  I felt sorry for Peter.

The ’60 suburban… I think I was the only person that wasn’t overly impressed with this house.  It looked cold and clinical, but a family could redecorate it, and it would look liveable I guess.

The Inner City Terrace was amazing.  Monochromatic and elegant; what I would have expected Luke to pump out, and he met his target market. 

The Weatherboard; I’m really surprised that this didn’t go for more.  Out of all of them, this one is what I thought would have been closest to ‘a home’.

The Shop; I would have loved the shop to decorate.  As August said; it was a completely blank canvas.  However, I didn’t particularly like what he did with it or how he decorated it, and I don’t think I would like to live in something that looked like that.  I would be expecting people to knock on the door, and ask for the minimum chips and a couple of pieces of flake.

That leaves our favourite house: the Fibro Cottage.  The chippy wins out in the end.  What a complete transformation, and winning the pool package surely helped his cause.  That house looked lovely when it was finished, albeit marginally less clinical than the others.

So, our favourite wins, our most hated loses, and all’s right in the world again.  Incredibly, one of the dorkiest guys in the competition walks away with $100K to spend on his girlfriend’s house (as she so quickly pointed out, he needs to get back to her place and start working.  However, I’m not sure if she’s just talking about the house there…).

As for the competitors, all 24 of them; weren’t they all tarted up?  Why?  We know you looked like shit whilst doing the renovations, so why dress up?  You have nothing to prove.  Do we really need to know that you can look human?  Do we really care?  Kristy: instead of using a chisel on your next renovation, try it on your face because dude: WAY too much make up.  And Suzanne; put your tits back in love.  Overshare. 

So, what will become of our judges?  Will they disappear into oblivion, like the competitors, who we will not give a second thought to in a couple of weeks’ time?  I wonder if Baz will go back to sailing around the world (as he does), and the Asian dude with the weird beard will go back to his designing, Brendan back to looking gorgeous whilst playing with plants on the Lifestyle Channel, and the chick (whose name I have already forgotten… see) will go back to doing whatever she was doing before she was plucked from obscurity.

I wonder if we will see a second season of this series.  I wonder if Michael will be the only Top Australian Renovator? Never challenged; eternally awesome.

The only thing I’m disappointed in, is that unlike the Masterchef model it’s based on, the contestants didn’t bang on about their ‘renovating dream’.  I wonder if Michael will take his $100K and pursue his dream, whatever the fuck that may be.

Whatever the case; good luck to him.  He deserved the prize.

I just hope the young lad that bought the fibro cottage had daddy’s permission to bid that high…. Mmm…

Maybe we’ll get a Renovators reunion! OMG! Wouldn’t that be awesome?  Revisit them in six months’ time, and see what they’re doing with their lives, and what the houses look like now.

Now THAT would be entertaining!

Happy renovating!

Peace out.

A PRAYER FOR GUIDANCE

So, I received an email from a girlfriend, which contained a prayer by the Reverend Billy Graham.  Billy Graham is possibly one of America's foremost evangelical christian preachers.

Now, those that know me, understand that I'm not one to 'preach' religion to anyone, even though I do enjoy a good debate about it every now and then.  However, I thought this prayer was amazing, so I would like to share it with you, and maybe give you something to think about.

'Heavenly Father, we come before you today to ask your forgiveness and to seek your direction and guidance. We know Your Word says, 'Woe to those who call evil good,' but that is exactly what we have done.
We have lost our spiritual equilibrium and reversed our values. 
We have exploited the poor and called it the lottery. 
We have rewarded laziness and called it welfare.
We have killed our unborn and called it choice. 

We have shot abortionists and called it justifiable. 
We have neglected to discipline our children and called it building self esteem.   
We have abused power and called it politics.
We have coveted our neighbor's possessions and called it ambition.
We have polluted the air with profanity and pornography and called it freedom of expression.   
We have ridiculed the time-honored values of our forefathers and called it enlightenment.   
Search us, Oh God, and know our hearts today; cleanse us from every sin and Set us free. Amen.' 

Even a pagan like myself can appreciate the wisdom in these words.  

I hope you can too.

Peace out.

WHAT THE HELL HAS HAPPENED TO WARNIE?

What the hell has happened to Warnie?

Where the hell has my podgy, peroxided ocker gone?

Who the hell is this slim, trim, stylish man they are calling Warnie?

Correction; calling Shane.

Wtf?

I want the old Warnie back!

I want the drinking, smoking, taking-my-mum’s tablets, adulterous, prancing around in my undies in a hotel room with two hot chicks, inappropriate texting, spin bowling champion back.

I love Warnie, and not for his spin bowling.  He was pure entertainment, and I loved him.  He was an Aussie bloke stuffing up all over the globe, and now he’s gone.

I’m gutted.

And it’s all that Liz Hurley’s fault.  She’s changed my Warnie.  Changed him into a man I do not recognise.  How am I supposed to take his cricket commentary seriously now?

He’s a fantastic commentator!  He made the ashes interesting (and that’s saying a lot).  Now, I can’t hear his voice without seeing this remodelled version of Warnie, and getting depressed.  It’s all ruined!

Friggin Liz Hurley.  If I didn’t love her too, I would be pissed right off. 

I mean, I’m sure the new diet and exercise regime is doing wonders for Warnie’s health, and he’ll be around a lot longer than he possibly would have been, before she stepped in.  However, he’s over tanned (or is it just the ridiculously over white teeth that make him look that way), with boring hair and a skinny frame with funky clothes.  I think I even saw him with a fucken man bag, for god’s sake!

HTFU Warnie!  Stop being this….thing, and go back to the way you were! You showed the world that a slightly overweight ocker could be a sporting champion of the world!  You gave every man out there hope that they could achieve anything!

You can’t do that now.  You’re so thin you’ll snap in half!  What message is that sending to the men of Australia, Warnie?  You have a responsibility here.  Get your shit together man, for God’s sake!  The men of Australia need you!

I want my old Warnie back.

Peace out.

LIFE ON A FARM

Life on a farm is interesting.

I don’t consider myself as ‘living on a farm’, because my idea of a farm is very different to the reality I live.

However, if you class a ‘farm’ as having a lot of pasture land, water tanks, fire pumps, cows and sheep grazing, chickens, goats and stupid cats, well then I guess I live on a farm.

I think you have to have two hearts for farming; one that’s practical, and one that’s humane.

You see, about five years ago, we bought our first lot of cattle.  10 beautiful cows which we planned to breed from and sell off the babies over the next few years.

So we’ve hired a ‘rent a root’, as I like to call him (a bull for hire), who services our girls, and for the past four years, we have been favoured with good calves.

We’ve sold some of these calves at the livestock market, and others we have sold butchered to people in the local community.

I think this is one area in which you have to have two hearts.  You see, the practical side of you says ‘we’re breeding these beasts for a profit.  The end.’ So you try not to get too attached, which is hard, because the calves are adorable.

Then of course, there is the other part of you that get’s attached because they are adorable, and hilarious to watch running and playing around your paddocks.

With the successes of breeding and selling, comes the sadness of losses and death.  This is an inevitability of life on a farm.

I remember, with the first crop of calves we had, Charlie was moving the mums and babies from the back paddock (53 acres) to the front paddock (47 acres), as he likes to move the livestock around and spell the paddocks to let them regenerate.

We have a huge damn in the back paddock, which is fenced off.  The gate is open so the cows can wander in and have a drink.  Anyway, when Charlie moved the cows, he counted them all to ensure they were all there, with their calves.  However, what he didn’t realise, is one of the cows had dropped their calf through the day, so we had an extra one. 

So, when he counted the cows and calves, according to his calculations, there were all there, and he was totally unaware that a little baby had been left behind in the damn paddock.  Poor little poppit was too young to realise how to get out of the damn paddock, and Charlie found him the next day, dead. 

It was devastating, not only to Charlie, who had poured so much love into these cows, and unnecessarily felt so stupid for making such a simple mistake (he’s only human), but to the cow that had lost her baby.  I can still see the mother standing at the fence of the smaller paddock calling to her calf that was dead.  It was terrible…

And so this spring season sees us welcoming some new additions to Allenbee Fields.  Our Five year old cows are dropping their fourth calves now.  We have two heifers that we bred ourselves that have had their first ones as well.  It’s all a bit exciting.

However, along with the happiness, again comes the sadness.

Last night, Charlie was watching one of the mum’s very closely, as he was sure she wasn’t far of ‘dropping’, as he likes to call it.  So, he went out to check on her this morning, and he was too late.

The little calf was half way out of his mum, and the sack hadn’t broken like it should have, and was still covering its head.  The poor little calf suffocated before it was even half way out.  Charlie had to pull the poor thing out the rest of the way, in the middle of the paddock.   He tried to revive the calf, but it was just too late.  The poor little thing was gone.

This is the reality of living on a farm.  These are the losses you take.  9 months and $1000; gone.

Some people say that they’re just stupid animals with no feelings, so who cares.  Move on.  They clearly haven’t seen a cow mourn its lost baby.

When a cow has a calf at foot, they bond very quickly through smell and sound; particularly through sound.  The mother has a distinctive ‘moo’ that the calf becomes accustomed to.  Just before the birth, the cow will separate herself from the herd.  Then, after the calf is born, they will spend the next few days on their own, the calf getting use to the sound of it’s mother.  Then, they will rejoin the herd.

When we ‘humans’ go near the cows, the mothers consider us a threat (they’re very protective of their calves), and give a deep, gentle warning ‘moo’.  The calves will freeze; stare at us in complete wonder, and then run back to their mother.  It’s gorgeous to watch. 

Very maternal.

However, there is no greater display of maternal love than a cow grieving. 

After Charlie gave up trying to revive this lost calf this morning, when he stood back and ‘let go’, he just watched as the mother stood over her baby, licking it clean, gently mooing and waiting for the calf to respond.

He couldn’t take it, so he left them to it, coming back to the house with the heartbreaking news.

Still, the mother tended to her calf; waiting and hoping.  Gently mooing and encouraging. 

When I left the property at 8.30am (about an hour later) she was still gently licking and cleaning her baby. 

When I came back at 1.00pm, she was sitting quietly beside her baby; waiting.

I went out again, and when I returned at 4.00pm, she was still sitting there.

Charlie and I went for a walk after dinner, about 7.30opm, and there she was.  She stood up as we walked past; watching us, giving that warning moo for her dead baby, telling it to stay close because there was a threat in the area.

‘How long will she be like that, Char?’ I asked, tears streaking my face as I watched her from the fence.

‘Oh…. I don’t know… she may walk away from it tomorrow…’ he replied sadly, and we plodded back to the house, our hearts a little heavier; the faint, deep mooing of the mother carrying in the wind behind us.

In the front paddock, were the last four cows to give birth.  One had done so, two were in waiting, and one had now lost her bub.  In the back paddock, were the eight other cows that had successfully given birth.  There babies were running toward the tent that Jade and her friend Jenyca had set up under the big tree next to the damn for the night. 

They all came to a sudden stop about two meters away from the tend, looking in awe and wonder at this strange thing in front of them.  There were all about two weeks old.  I wondered how long before one of them tried to walk into the tent with the girls…

Two hearts.  Wins and losses.  Joys and sorrows.

That’s life on a farm.

Peace out.