“Mommy poop!”

I was really surprised with our flight from Seattle to Los Angeles.  Hannah confined on my lap for 2.5 hours, not being allowed to walk up and down the aisle like we do on the long haul flight….  I was having nightmares just thinking about it.  Our LA to Seattle flight was after the long flight from Sydney, so she just slept, buggered from sleeping only 2 hours the whole flight.  This time though, the flight was at 5:30pm.  Not time for sleep yet, just time for play.

Luckily, a lovely lady from my women’s bible study group suggested I bring Play-Doh.  I hadn’t actually considered bringing Play-Doh before that, but I went out and bought some the day before we left on our big trip.  As soon as we reached cruising altitude and the seat belt sign was switched off, I got out that lovely little jar of blue Play-Doh.  Hannah sat on my lap, poking, prodding, and squishing the Play-Doh on the tray table.   She played with it for an entire hour.  I don’t think one single thing has grasped her attention for one whole hour ever, in her entire life.  Apart from sleep of course.  And rough-housing with Daddy.

When we got to L.A.  I had to…um…go….  What can I say, when you are going to be travelling for 24 hours door to door, you are bound to have to poop sometime.  Ugh.  I hate pooping in public.  When I was little, we’d go camping and I couldn’t poop the entire trip.  An entire week.  I’ve gotten much better since then, but still I have issues pooping in public.  Having Hannah makes it easier of course.  If there is a smell, no one knows it was me, people assume it was her.  It’s one of the many benefits of being a parent.  If I accidentally break wind in public, loud or not, I can blame Hannah, and no one will ever know.  And being a pregnant woman, by the third trimester, I’m sure this will not be an unusual event…

I do prefer to get one of the one room only toilets so there aren’t a million people waiting in line, knowing how long you’ve been in there, possibly hearing the plop, knowing what I am doing in there.  No.  Thank.  You.  I found a parents room.  A one room, one door, lock when you go in, parents room.  It was occupied.  Humph.  We waited.  And waited.  No one was coming out.  Maybe they had a public poop phobia too (yay, I’m not the only one!).  I waited some more.  Nothing.  I waited for almost 10 minutes.  Hannah kept saying very loudly “someone in there!  Someone in there!”

I gave up.  We went to the normal, a million stall, way too many people waiting in line, knowing how long you’ve been in there, women’s bathroom.  We took the disabled stall, the only one I could fit in with the pram.  All was well, it was loud in there, toilets flushing every 2 seconds, hand dryers and water taps running all the time.  No one could hear anything.  I still didn’t feel too comfortable, but you know, it wasn’t as bad as those 3 stall toilets where you can hear the person next to you breathing.

“Mommy pee.”  Hannah said.

“Yeah, mommy’s peeing sweetie.”

But then I was still sitting there.  Going in public makes it harder to actually…go.

“Mommy poop!”  Hannah exclaimed loudly.

Oh. My. Gosh.  I nearly died.

“Mommy going poo-poo!”  She wouldn’t stop.  She seemed super-excited that she knew what I was doing and that she could vocalise it for all to hear.

“Shhh…”  I said to Hannah to no avail.

I couldn’t do it.  How could I possibly poop in public when my cheeky little daughter was actually announcing that fact to the world?  Sigh.  I was about to have a toddler sleeping on me for many hours on a long flight, not to mention a little boy baby who enjoys kicking my insides.  Add to this a full intestine, and I was going to have a very uncomfortable flight.  Humph.
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The art of stealth

Now a days it seems everyone is in such a rush, being stealthy has nearly died.  “But why would I need to be stealthy?”  you ask.  There are plenty of scenarios that demand a person brings on the  stealthiness.  For example, if it’s 5:30 in the morning and your spouse and child are sleeping and you want to use the door to the outside that is only separated from your spouse’s head by a thin wall.  Oh, and did I mention this door in particular is extremely, annoyingly, obnoxiously loud?

The Jess used to be the worst person ever in the art of stealth (maybe she still is, but she no longer lives in the same house as us, so I don’t really know).  She’d come home at all hours, open the front door and traipse inside.  Problem was it pretty much sounded like a herd of elephants had just rammed the door down and somehow managed to fit themselves inside.  And she thought she was being quiet.

I know, my friends and I were naughty

I learned the art of stealth when Hannah was a baby and any tiny little noise would wake her up.  There was no washing the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, or sweeping the floor when Hannah was asleep for me.  No, no, no, that would be disastrous.  When she napped, I would have a nap, read a book, or, if I were feeling really daring, watch TV extremely quietly.  No, that’s not true, I learned the art of stealth in my naughty teenage days when I used to sneak out with my friends and change those moveable letter signs to say rude things instead of their normal advertising (at least I didn’t smoke, drink, do drugs, or steal things…).  There was one sign that was

Even got my initials on this one

particularly fun to change since it belonged to a girl at works dad.  I didn’t know that the first time we changed it, but the next day she came to work and told us all about it.  So of course we did it the next night too.  It was so much more amusing to change it, then hear about how annoying it was.  Plus my dad used to work the graveyard shift (overnight) and sleep during the day.  He’s a pretty light sleeper and would wake if we so much as farted, so I guess I learned to be stealthy then too.

My husband, and his side of the family on the other hand, are not so stealthy.  I guess they didn’t sneak out when they were younger, or have any other reason to be quiet.  I tried to teach them how to open and shut a door in a way that doesn’t make noise, but they just got offended (I thought I was being helpful) and told me that they are not 5.  So, doors are still loudly opened, I still wake up every time, and sometimes Hannah wakes up as well.

Being stealthy is easy.  All you have to do is turn the door handle all the way until the little thing that holds it in place in the door frame (whatever that is called) is all the way inside the door, then push or pull the door open (while still holding the knob, keeping the thing inside the door).  Viola, silent door opening.  Closing is just the same only opposite, turn the handle all the way, push or pull the door shut, then turn the handle so the thing is in the door frame.  Turning and pulling/pushing at the same time, on the other hand, makes lots of noise as the thing hits the edge of the slot it lives in when the door is shut.  Oh, and you have to do it slowly, with care, not hastily, with reckless abandon.

Now if I hear you’re using the stealth strategy for not so good purposes, I will sick ninjas on you, so do yourself a favour and don’t.

The day I accidentally ate lamb

Let me just start by saying that I don’t eat lamb.  I don’t eat beef.  I don’t eat a lot of different meats.  Not because I think it’s wrong, just because I think they taste disgusting, and after all this time of not eating them, the very thought gives me the heeby jeebies.  Maybe it’s because red meat has (or seems to in my mind) a lot more blood in it, and blood makes me very squeamish (which is why I gave up wanting to be a veterinarian).  One time, The Jess was in our kitchen (we used to live together.  Twice), and decided it would be an awesome idea to cut an english muffin open while it was frozen.  Not on a cutting board, mind you, but in her hand.  I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this.  Blood was pouring out of her hand, dripping everywhere.  My arms started flapping (that happens when I’m excited, grossed out, or freaking out) like I was trying to fly off, out of there as fast as possible. “What do we do, what do we do?!”  I screamed.  “Argh!  I can see the meat!!!!!”  So yeah, that is the relationship between me and blood.

Meat and I go way back too.  Once when I was, I don’t know, maybe 3 or 4, my parents wanted me to eat some beef.  I was such a fussy eater.  They said I couldn’t leave my seat until I ate it.  Hours passed, I wasn’t budging.  Dad must have been at work.  Mom had to go and take care of the horses, so there I sat.  Until I got an idea.  I knew she’d check the toilet, the garbages, all the usual little hidey holes, so I wrapped my disgusting beef up in a napkin and hid it under the china cabinet.  And, I was allowed to leave my chair.  But what about the smell, you ask.  Yeah, it smelled pretty bad, but it was decided  (ahem, after I suggested it) that an animal must have crawled under the mobile home and died again.  That had happened before, so it wasn’t too far-fetched.

 

“I’m so hungry!”  I said to Aaron.  We’d been waiting for dinner at the 40th birthday party we were attending (what, we have a 40 year old friend?  We must be getting old) for quite a while.  Some of the important guests were rather late and the food couldn’t be started without them.  My tummy was grumbling at me, willing me to go and get some of the delicious smelling indian butter chicken.

“Dinner is served.”  That announcement pleased my stomach.  I got in line for the serve yourself feast.

This is butter chicken

“Butter Chicken.”  The little folded sign in front of the bain marie read.  I took a ladle full, grabbed some accompaniments and went back to my chair.

“Mmmm, this looks delicious!”  I told Aaron, right before I put a big bite in my mouth.  I started chewing.  This doesn’t taste like butter chicken….  This is a bit spicy.  Butter chicken isn’t spicy. I cut open a piece of meat.  Hard to tell, but this could be chicken.  Part of the thigh or something.

“Which one of those is butter chicken?”  I asked Aaron.  He had opted to try both the chicken and the lamb.

“This one,” he said, pointing his fork to the one that didn’t resemble what was on my plate at all.

Oh…my…gosh… I just at LAMB! “Boo, this is LAMB!”

Yep, the signs were the wrong way around.  After I freaked out, the signs were corrected.  I ran to the bathroom to scrub every tiny molecule of disgusting lamb from my mouth.  No, I didn’t, that was a lie.  Funny thing is, it wasn’t even the meat that tipped me off, it was the spice.  The lamb sign said spicy, the chicken one did not.

The Stubborn Grandma strikes again

Yesterday it was really hot, prompting the following disagreement:

Grandma: “Where do you want this fan?”

Aaron: “Under your bed!”

Grandma: “No, where do you want it?!”

Aaron: “We can’t put it anywhere, it’s not safe for Hannah.”

Grandma: “What about in this corner?”

Aaron: “No, she can get to it there.”

Grandma: “So where do you want me to put it then?!”

Aaron: “Back under your bed!”

Grandma: “I’m trying to help you and you’re just being negative!”

Aaron: “Yeah, because I told you not to bring it out!”

Grandma: “But I don’t take any notice of what you say.”

Meanwhile, I’m watching and laughing uncontrollably….

Grandma: “I’ll put it here.”

If only I had the video camera handy. Hahahaha.

And the winner is (drum roll please)….

71 views.  Oh my gosh, that is the most views I’ve had in a single day.  Ever!!  If only I could get to 100!!  And all because of the car. It seemed like a realistic goal to me.

The next day:

Opening my laptop,  an e-mail caught my eye.  “Boo (not as in Boo, I scared you, as in pet name for my husband)!!!  I got freshly pressed!!!!!!!!!”  Sure, it was his birthday that day, but I couldn’t contain my excitement.  It’s not every day you get freshly pressed.  I fumbled over all the keys on my laptop, too giddy to operate it properly.  The wait was agonising.  Why is it the internet always takes so long when you really, really want to look at something?

Finally (after what seemed like an eternity), the page loaded.  1,220 views!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  And the day wasn’t even over yet!!!!  I felt like I’d just won an Oscar.  Well, what I imagine it would feel like.  Being Freshly Pressed is what every blogger strives for (ok, maybe not all bloggers, but I certainly did).  After 3 days of being Freshly Pressed on the front page (how does that work, I thought being freshly pressed only lasted for 24 hours?), 5,899 views, 1,853 votes, and 160 comments, the winner is…..

BLUE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Interestingly, 24.32% of Aussies said the car is purple, the highest percentage of any country.  Maybe it really is a cultural thing.  Maybe they are taught that way.  Or maybe Aussies have a high percentage of colour-blindedness…. I’m just happy to know that I’m not colour blind.

Thank you to everyone who read my blog, voted, and made comments.  Sadly though, the argument is far from over.  Aaron, of course, claims my photos make the car look blue.  I say they look true to life.  I even took one in the sun and one in the shade, so as not to bias said photos.  I will have to find out the actual colour from a dealership or auto shop.  If I can be bothered…..  For now though, I’m happy to go with the majority, and say: “Sorry Boo, the car is BLUE!”

P.S. Since I got a lot of comments about the nice flowers next to the car, here are photos of the flowers in the front and side garden (Thanks to Trish, who planted them all a long while ago).

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Colour: Is it a cultural thing?

“It’s blue.”

“No, it’s purple.”

“Whatever, it’s so blue!  There’s not a SPECK of purple in it!”

Aaron and I have had this argument a million times in the nearly 6 years (well, we gave it back for a couple years when we lived in the city, but you get my  point) we’ve owned the little Suzuki Swift Cino.

“I’ll just look up the colour in the manual.  Or papers.  Or something.  I’ll look.  I’ll find it, and it will say blue, you’ll see!”  I looked.  I didn’t find it anywhere.  I even googled it.  I couldn’t find the original manufacture colours anywhere.  So, I did what all rational people do: I started polling people.

“Purple.”

“Purple.”

“Oh, you mean the purple car?”

That didn’t go so well.  Surely I can’t be partially colour blind, can I?

Suddenly, I came to the realisation that the only people I’ve asked (the only people available to ask) are Australians.  So what if colour is a cultural thing?  Maybe, just maybe, some hues are so close that in some cultures/regions/countries, they are viewed as one colour, and in other places, the view is slightly different.  Maybe I’m not colour blind after all.

I put it to you, what colour is this car:

Blue or Purple?