Archive for December, 2010

When I was ten years old, I came up with the creative (and thrifty) idea of making everyone ‘paperweights’ for Christmas. So yes, I ended giving everyone that year –  as one obviously grateful person put it – “fucking painted rocks”.

Years and years later, after my beloved paternal grandmother died, I found the rock I had painted for her amongst her things. Yes, she had kept it for twenty years.

Moreover, it had evidently broken into into a number of pieces at some point and someone – most probably my grandfather – had carefully glued it back together.

It felt to me to be the ultimate display of grandparently love. Although, when I shared this story on twitter and admitted that we also discovered, upon my grandmother’s death, boxes and boxes filled with empty sandwich bags, some remarked that it could also be seen as the ultimate display of some kind of pathological hoarding disorder.

But what is love, except the pathological hoarding disorder of the heart, I say.

I have so many things around the house to remind me of all of my grandparents and, as my post on the demise of my grandmother’s Kenwood Chef shows (see ‘K-Chef‘),  the passing of every single one of them is like a small dagger in my heart.

A few months ago, one of the ceramic ‘love birds’ I inherited from my maternal Nanna, got smashed into a thousand million pieces by one of the boys (illegally) kicking a ball in the loungeroom. I was devastated.  My husband immediately picked up the pieces, saying he would put it on his ‘to be fixed’ pile.

It was at this point, I really cried. You see, “going on the ‘to be fixed’ pile” is generally a gentle euphemism for “going straight to the bin”, used to sooth the tears of a small child whose ‘favouritest’ plastic McCrappy toy has been chewed like so much puppy chewing gum.

But a few weeks later, I was rummaging through my husband’s top drawer to find change (for the lunch order bags, what else?) when I found it. There, carefully placed and tied up in a plastic bag, was my shattered love bird, really waiting to be fixed.

And it made me grateful that I had such a husband and such grandparents and such a life.

Merry Christmas, everyone. May you all give – and receive – wonderful gifts this Christmas. And may nobody give you a “fucking painted rock”.

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On my gravestone, it’s going to read ‘It was the puppy that did it’.

Fuck the Andrex puppy. Roxy the puppy shows us how it's done.

After that, the gravestone might actually then go onto mention the $100 my husband spent on a second hand wetsuit only to have the zip break the very first time he went out in it. For the record, my friend KT ended up having to cut him out of it while I stood by trying to block my ears to the deafening sound of a hundred dollars going up in flames less than two weeks before Christmas.

The Alcatraz of the wetsuit world.

And then, shortly after that, there might be something about these boxes, which appeared unbidden and without explanation, and pulled up a chair in the house’s main thoroughfare. And stayed there.

Make yourself at home, you cardboard bitches

Oh, and there probably would be something about how the festival of consumerism just wore me down in the end, not more so than when I discovered that Barbie and Stephanie Meyer had rogered each other senseless and put the following in my local supermarket for the rather reasonable price of $20 per doll:

The photo is blurry because my hands were shaking in fear that such things exist in this world.

And then maybe – just maybe – there might be some small mention in very small print about how I basically ate and drank myself to death that Christmas.

Best served with half a litre of gluhwein and at least four shots of vodka.

And then at the very bottom it will say “But really, it was the puppy that did it.”

No, really.

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I regard my friend Mzzz E as one of my most effective ‘channels to market’  when it comes to my good works as an international trendsetter. After all, when I first briefed her about ‘Awks Giraffe‘, it took less than a week for one of her supercool friends to be using it on Facebook. Yes, Facebook.

So I couldn’t wait to pitch a new trend I’d been working on to her when we caught up the other day.

“I’ve got this idea, right?” I began. “I’m thinking of doing a ‘What’s HOT and what’s NOT list for Christmas’.”

“Tell me about it,” Mzzz E said, all ears.

“Well, because everything I write as being HOT, I end up then dissing anyway and anything that I write as NOT kind of becomes hot simply because I, the NDM, am writing about it… I thought I should morph the two terms so it becomes what is H’NOT this Christmas,” I concluded, triumphantly.

“What?” Mzzzz E said.

“H’NOT!” I repeated, with gusto.

“… And?” Mzzzz E said.

“It’s neither HOT nor NOT. It’s H’NOT!” I repeated again, widening my smile to the point of almost cracking my face in two.

She just looked blankly back at me. At that moment, I swear I could hear a tree falling alone in a forest.

To be honest, I must admit I felt hurt and a little confused. I mean, c’mon people!  She was an instant adopter of ‘Awks Giraffe’ but wasn’t going to touch ‘H’NOT’? The mind boggled. H’NOT was so…. so…. H’NOT!

The topic of conversation swiftly changed and any attempts to put H’NOT back on the table were swiftly dismissed by the obviously discerning Mzzz E. Eventually, I let it go.

Then, yesterday morning, after an hour of sitting at my computer trying to work out what the hell I could write about this week, I burst out of my room, all smiles.

“I’ve got it!” I said to my husband. “I’m going to blog about ‘H’NOT’! And how Mzzz E refused to board the H’NOT train! And how that’s all her mistake because that there train’s an express to the stars, baby!”

[Which, now I think about it, probably makes it more a rocket ship than a train, but somehow, saying Mzzz E was refusing to board the H’NOT rocket ship doesn’t sound as good.]

“You’re really scratching around for material at this time of year, aren’t you?” my husband responded, shaking his head.

“That in its very self is so H’NOT, it’s not funny,” I replied.



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