Posts Tagged ‘beards’

The Pixie once developed a remarkable bond with a broken and rusty scooter I picked up from the hard rubbish and let her ride a short distance to see if it was worth buying her a new one of her own. A few months later, my husband found it down the side of the house and asked if he could use it to fashion a spare part for his motorbike (he’s a regular MacGyver, that one). The Pixie was outraged.

“Not Sparkly!!” she howled and proceeded to cry for half an hour. Yes, half an hour. Over a piece of scrap metal she’d only met for five minutes. And apparently given a name to.

So you can imagine we had to be very careful whenever we spoke in her presence about selling The Love Bus. In the end, we told her it had been “borrowed”. Which, when you think about it, is how the Love Bus’s new owner might like to think of our transaction if it ends up giving him half the trouble it gave us.

Anyway, I realised the other day that I hadn’t blogged about the Love Bus since January’s ‘Trouble‘ post – mostly because it had cast a long dark shadow on my very soul (and the front lawn). And, indeed, I realised that there are many things that I blog about and then never mention again.

So it’s time to do a kind of ‘end of the (Australian) tax year inventory’ – an NDM ‘State Of The Union’, if you will.

For the record:

My hair hasn’t faded, despite multiple washes in anti-dandruff shampoo, and my beige skunk stripe is coming along nicely, thank you very much. Many of my friends have said they like the new colour on me but my husband has never – and will never – speak of it. It’s like my hair is dead to him. I suspect that in his heart of hearts, he just wants me to have long blonde hair – which might come as a huge surprise to anyone who actually knows me. I’m just not a ‘long blonde hair’ kind of girl…

My husband still has a beard and, quite possibly, will continue to have one until I have grown my hair long and blonde.

Thanks to Madame Zap’s enlightening comment on my post ‘My Husband Vs. The State Revenue Office‘, we received a refund cheque for $605 a couple of weeks ago. Interestingly enough they made the cheque out to my husband, even though it had been I (in my capacity as equal owner of the property in question) who had written all the correspondence and made all the phone calls to precipitate that cheque’s sweet arrival. Either they had read my post and been a’feared of my husband’s litigatious wrath, or they’re still stuck in the 1950s. I’ll let you be the judge.

After a very shaky start, Tiddles is now fully toilet trained. He still likes to ‘paint the town yellow’ from time to time but as far as I’m concerned, we’re out of nappies forever and I flip the BABY aisle in the supermarket the finger every time I pass it.

I put notes in my daughter’s lunchbox for the first two months of school before slowly and ever-so-gently weaning her off them – i.e. I forgot one day, she didn’t mention it and I never put another note in her lunchbox again.

Telstra didn’t fuck with me again after I wrote “A Telstra Of A Mess” but nor did anyone give me a free iPhone. With each passing day, I grow angrier and angrier that I am (seemingly) the only person on the planet without one. My lack of iPhone physically hurts me. I think this is what is called ‘A First World Problem’.

Finally, to update you on the opening paragraph of this post, ‘Sparkly’ is now officially ‘in storage’ and (unofficially) has been used to create (in my husband’s words) “a bracket to hold an electrical socket into which I can insert a standard ‘cigarette lighter’-type plug to connect my motorbike battery to a solar charger on the carport roof” which (in my words) “doesn’t actually work and was a waste of good scrap metal”. Oh, Sparkly!

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As young girls, my sister Belle and I both had bedroom windows that faced a block of flats.

In one of the flats, there lived a man whose only discernible feature was that he had a beard. We rarely saw him but when we did he was doing extraordinary things like closing his blinds and turning on (or off) his lights.

We called him Beard Man.

He became the centrepiece of many of our girlhood conversations. I think we even devised a dance called “The Beard Man Dance”, which involved us pretending to close blinds and turning on (and off) light switches. Good times.

Anyway, I recently discovered how beards have a way of creeping up on a relationship. One day your husband is cleanly shaven and then, next thing you know, he’s stopped shaving all together and you find yourself married to your very own Beard Man.

I told my husband about the Original Beard Man. Upon hearing my (extremely) amusing anecdote (blinds! light switches!!), I asked him to get up and turned on (and off) our light and then close our venetian blinds.

He refused, claiming tiredness. You see, after some 20 years of dabbling in karate, he’d finally got around to being graded and had earnt himself a Red Belt. He said the moment he was presented it was like that scene in Return of the Jedi when Princess Leia gives Luke and Han their medals.

“Except you’re more like the Wookie,” I said. “Anyway, what is a red belt anyway?”

“It’s like a black belt, except very very angry,” he said.

“It makes me think about those early sanitary protection devices – you know, with the belts,” I said.

At this point, he grew angry (very very angry) and said I wasn’t allowed to mock his red belt in my blog. However, I was permitted to write about his beard.

“Have you blogged about my beard yet?” he asked, somewhat hopefully.

“No!” I replied. “Like I have nothing else in my life to talk about… Shuh!”

But actually, between you and me, I’ve been very busy recently. I’ve been hanging out at Kidspot Social as one of their “Hero Bloggers” all week, blogging every day, mixing it up in the forums, sharing my sage advice with new mothers who (quite frankly) deserve better.

Anyway, it’s come to Friday and I’m all talked out. I have nothing left to say for myself. Except about my husband’s beard.

Please don’t tell him you read about it here, okay?


News of the beard not enough for you? Feel free to read my Kidspot posts:

The Shoe Must Go On
Indoor “Pay” Centres
Heard As Well As Seen
Bed Time Fun For Babysitters
Let Me Explain

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