Captain von Trapp

Pretty sure Vibewire didn't want this. So, here it is, for you, my loyal readers.

I re-watched The Sound of Music a couple of weeks ago, and apart from realising where various personal preferences arise from (a desire to hike rugged mountains, an embarrassing habit of singing and dancing in various public spaces, as well as a love of peasant-style clothing in garish colours: why didn’t my mother make me clothes out of drapes?) something else became apparent.

That Captain von Trapp is hot.

I was amazed I had never noticed it before (though, to tell the truth, I had astoundingly bad taste as a child – I once had a serious crush on Tom Selleck. And not in Magnum, but in Three Men and a Baby. To this day, a tall, dark, moustachioed man holding a baby makes me weak at the knees). Watching the movie, von Trapp’s hotness was glaringly obvious. It seemed as convincing a reason as any for why millions of women had shown the movie to their children. Not because it was wholesome, or had a good story, or because of the lovely music and singing, but because it offered an excellent opportunity to perve on a hot man for two and a half hours and call it quality time with the children.

What was it exactly that made him so smoking? When I thought about it, there were many things working in his favour. The amazing jawline, piercing blue eyes and dark hair with a hint of salt and pepper over the ears were a good start – an older, experienced Naval gentleman certainly floats my boat. The awesome ‘Austrian’ outfit he wears when we first see him (grey jacket with green lining, crisp white shirt and tie) was also helpful – I’m a sucker for a man in a suit. There’s his deep, growling voice sliding over and stretching his lines, swirling the words round in his mouth and then snapping them out, turning a fairly average and child-friendly script into something ever-so-slightly naughty. Of course, a straight man who can sing and dance is definitely sexy (hence Glee) and one that can play guitar is even more so. There was his captivating habit of standing up straighter and stiffer whilst annoyed, only letting on his large frustration through the barely-perceptible shaking of his hand. There was something hugely sexy about all that controlled rage... There was also something hugely sexy about his wicked smile, which often played around his lips when teasing his children, or Maria.

But, I think the key to the whole issue lies in my favourite scene. This is the ball scene, where Maria is standing outside with the children, and Kurt asks her to teach him the Ländler. Captain von Trapp comes outside, all done up in his tuxedo, watches Maria and Kurt for a bit, smiles to himself, pulls up his gloves and taps his son on the shoulder. There’s that slightly wicked smile again, and the sarcastic drawl as he mutters, ‘Do allow me, will you?’ He and Maria start to dance. There’s a point when the music slows, and the choreography of the dance requires Maria to walk behind Captain von Trapp, and put her hand on his shoulder. He takes her hand and swirls her round until their arms are entwined, their faces inches away from a kiss, and they gaze into each other’s eyes with sudden surprise and understanding that they love the other.

Swoon.

I was asked by a male acquaintance at the beginning of the year why girls, ‘liked all that stuff’. He seemed very put out (though, in all honesty, he’s a little bit like these blokes anyway, in that he’s arrogant and emotionally unavailable – that’s another story – so, I can’t see why he’s so worried). It does seem confusing that we spend so much time telling men that they have to be nice to us, that they should buy us flowers and tell us they love us all the time, but then the men we swoon over in the movies are the arrogant twats who at best, ignore the heroines, and at worst, insult them to their faces.

Christopher Plummer himself, very famously, found the character of von Trapp, and the entire movie, stereotypical and despicable.[1]

But, the various comments under the video of the Ländler scene on YouTube couldn’t be clearer about the effect this type of man has on many women:

‘He might be 80 years old, but Christopher Plummer is still dashing.’ (38 ‘likes’)

‘Grew up waiting, hoping, wishing for a man to look at me the way Chris does her.’ (26 ‘likes’)

‘Chemistry like you wouldn’t believe. Absolute fav moment in the movie.’[2]

The fact is, as I said to my friend at the start of the year, many of us women still love the romance of melting a hard man, or forcing him to show his soft side (I did mention my love of Tom Selleck holding a baby, didn’t I?) There seems to be no more romantic gesture, than for a man to, in the words of ABBA, ‘don’t go sharing your devotion, lay all your love on me.’ A man who turns up his nose at the whole world and all women, but is still completely besotted by one special lady is the ultimate dream. We want to believe that we are the only person that could bring a smile to his lips, the only thing in this wide world he could ever love. Apart from being romantic (and ego-stroking), it’s a comforting thought. The man who hates the world, but loves us, is unlikely to stray or to cheat.

As much as I would like to say, as a feminist, as a mature, realistic, down-to-earth and independent woman, I am looking for a relationship of equals, built on friendship, trust and shared values, and I don’t need any man to build up my sense of self-worth, I’ve been too brainwashed by old-school Hollywood moments. And, that, embarrassingly, I’m going to go watch The Sound of Music again. 

---

[1] Victor Davis, ‘Are Christopher Plummer’s tantrums and arrogance to blame for fact he’s never won an Oscar?’, MailOnline, www.dailymail.co.uk/femail, 06/03/2010, retrieved 23/06/2011.

[2] http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=waNCfEYt-w8, posted 22/06/2006, retrieved 23/06/2011.

The Girl Who Came Before.

The Girl Who Came Before liked to make pancakes. She was very good at them. She was excellent. She could have been a pancake chef. They were fluffier and thinner than the ones you make. She knew how to flip them so they twirled right up into the air, and landed back in the pan without getting all mussed up or doubled over or splattered on the ground. They were like the ones you get in a restaurant. They came in piles of perfect circles, with dripping maple syrup and squares of butter. They were cartoon pancakes. That's how good they were. They were as good-looking as cartoon pancakes. They were that perfect. The Girl Who Came Before could also bake cupcakes with perfect pink icing, smooth gorgonzola sauce, chicken soup and lasagne. Cookbooks were not a foreign language to the Girl Who Came Before, and she could do things to vegetables that would make them want to be grated, chopped, and eaten.
The Girl Who Came Before had stronger arms, which pushed swings higher and gave hugs tighter, had shapelier legs, that ran faster and danced better and a nicer laugh, which was always louder and longer. The Girl Who Came Before knew all the lyrics and all the moves, she could rock a dance floor, stay up all night and shake her (perfectly shaped) booty better than Beyonce.
The Girl Who Came Before knew just what to say to diffuse a situation, she could get Tom and Jerry to see eye to eye. She made everyone feel at ease, she told you the truth, because she was as honest as the day is long, true blue, straight as an arrow, straight down the line, always said what she meant, meant what she said and you knew where you stood with the Girl Who Came Before.
But more than that, the Girl Who Came Before would fill a room, not clear it. She was the person whose messages were always answered, whose calls were always taken. The Girl Who Came Before was the girl people came to parties to meet. The one everyone hoped would be there. She made things fun, and lively and hell, lets face it, she was the party: if she wasn't there, there was no party, there was just a bunch of people standing around awkwardly and coincidentally drinking in the same room together. She was the glue, the bond, the fairy dust, the va-va-voom and the je ne sais quoi, she was the missing piece in the puzzle of your life. She was the one with the awesomest dress, the bestest shoes, the most up-to-the-minute make-up, the cutting-edge hair, the swishiest earrings, the brightest colours. She was the one who everyone threw their arms up at and said, "Ohhhhh, I love the.... " fill-in-the-blank, "Where did you get your...." fill-in-the-blank, "You always look so...." fill-in-the-blank. The Girl Who Came Before was a riot, she was a laugh a minute, she'd crack you up, have you rolling in the aisles, you'd lose your head, split your sides, and die laughing with the Girl Who Came Before.
The Girl Who Came Before was just the right side of rude, the side that made you giggle in surprise, but never frown or misunderstand. She made you feel you were living on the tips of your toes, twisting this way and that to catch what she might do next, to keep up with her crazy, whimsical, hair-brained schemes, but she also never, never made you fear an over balance, a twist too far, a topple and a fall, splat, flat on your face and a broken front tooth.
The Girl Who Came Before was sure of herself, she knew where she stood, she was confident in her decisions and she stuck to her guns. She knew what was best without hand-wringing or ringing up to check with her superiors, because she knew what everyone else did, which was that she didn't HAVE superiors, not really, not even the ones that were supposed to be her superiors: she knew it and they knew it, and she only went along with it because it was polite to pretend they were her superiors, only went along with it because that's the way the world is supposed to work, and there'd be chaos if she didn't. She didn't need to do a google search or check wikipedia to be sure she was right and that she knew best. And, hey, even if someone else checked it up and found the google search said she was wrong, that was cool, that was fine, she knew she'd be right another time, and hey, it was still the right decision, as far as she was concerned, let it go, let it go. But the Girl Who Came Before never had to utter those words, not once in her life did she have to console herself, or comfort herself, or talk herself back from the brink, because those words, those thoughts and feelings were infused in her limbs, they kept her shoulders unknotted and her backbone straight, and her fingers and her hands unclenched. She never had to say, 'sorry', because she knew there was nothing to apologise for, she never had to say, 'It'll be alright', or 'You'll be fine,' or give herself a pep talk. Confidence was an all-day, every-day phenomenon for the Girl Who Came Before, it was part of her body, so she didn't even notice it, came as easily as oxygen, happened naturally and grew as fast as her hair and fingernails, so if a little bit ever got snipped off, it would soon be back again, soon be back again, longer and stronger than before.
So, no matter how hard you try or what things you do; no matter how much you smile or compliment or joke or tease; no matter the talents you possess or the skills you have learnt; you just won't do. You have to face up to the fact that, in their eyes, you're just ordinary.  To them, you're just normal. You're one more person, a mere mortal, one more non-descript face in a crowd of similar faces, that'll be forgotten the moment that its seen. You may be many things, you may have many goals and dreams, you may even be looked on kindly by certain people, but none of this matters when you consider that you are nothing more than the Girl Who Came After the Girl Who Came Before

Kid World

When you look after kids you end up doing things that you haven't done for years, and you never realised you lost the ability to do. I was a pretty active kid, really, when I think about it. I didn't like sports, but I loved climbing trees, dancing, going on hiking adventures, swinging on swings, going down slides, jumping on trampolines, doing cartwheels, doing somersaults etc. etc. etc. Also, being an actor, you spend a lot of time doing strange things, like pretending to be animals, or attempting to express nothingness through movement and all that sort of bizarre stuff. But, since I've been out of acting school for a while, and I'm now 27, which is ridiculously old-sounding (and must be old-being as well, because I'm not longer considered a youth by many funding bodies and programs. Pooh to you, I say), my body got creaky without me even realising.
This came to my attention today when the little one decided she wanted to somersaults. That was ok, but then she wanted me to do them too. I said I couldn't do them. She told me (cheeky monkey) that I need to practice. As I always tell her this when she gets into a strop over the fact that she can't do something, I decided I couldn't get out of it now. So, I attempted to do a somersault. I was worried about my neck. I was worried about my spine. I was worried about my tailbone. The little one wouldn't have a bar of it. 'Practice! Practice!' So, I ended up putting down two sofa cushions and doing somersaults on those.
It was a lot of fun once I got going. It reminded me of a yoga class I took last year, in which our teacher took us through a variety of balancing poses. She told us this was a good thing to do, because most of us (unless we are trapeze artists) always look at the world from the same perspective and along the same lines, giving us a stagnant view of things. But, through yoga and these balancing poses, we would be able to look at our world anew again. I liked that idea, and I thought it was probably an important exercise for someone who wants to be involved in the arts (it also gave me a new perspective on yoga, which I have previously found difficult to enjoy).
Anyway, the point of all this is, that looking after kids, and doing somersaults, for example, offers the same thing, this different perspective on the world. When I write it down like that it seems like a very boring and pedestrian observation. Something that I've spoken about many times on this blog before. I think the difference I'm trying to remark on here is that different physical perspective. I'm crawling around the ground a lot more than I have in years, I'm squeezing into tight spaces, I'm doing crazy things my body hasn't been asked to do for many moons. Its complaining a little. Its outright refusing in some instances, but it is enjoying the change. I've found that if you quit worrying, and just go along with it and see what happens, generally the body will warm up to it. It might even enjoy it. It might find it a welcome change from all the boring gym work it usually gets put through.
On another side, but still related note, it does also make me wonder how much harder it would be as an 'older' parent. I know its something that older parents vehemently deny (that they are in any way less able or capable than their younger counterparts), and I certainly don't want to draw huge assumptions and make sweeping statements, but I'm wrecked after 3 days with one little girl (not even both of them together), and I'm only 27. I'm not as fit and healthy as I have been, admittedly, but I'm no weakling either.
Despite my concerns that perhaps adulthood in the later 30's, early 40's would be, in many ways, more difficult and more exhausting, I still have no plans to have children myself any earlier than 35. My host mother told me last week she couldn't see me without children. This does seem to be a common theme amongst most of the people who know me. Its odd that everyone else feels so certain about the fact, when I'm not convinced myself. Anyway, enough babbling. That's my post for the day. Its not very funny or coherent, but, as I said, I'm wrecked.

One More Day to Go

Only one more day of NYWM. Thank christ. Much as I have enjoyed it, and sometimes it has helped me to write some good posts, a lot of the time (especially recently, when I've been very busy), its been quite stressful. For whatever reason, maybe because I set myself a reasonably easy goal (it doesn't require a lot of thought to do do a blog post every day, though it does take some time), I saw it through, when I've failed at things like Scriptfrenzy (which require a more dedicated and focused through-line on completing one script. Even though they tell us it doesn't have to be any good, I find it difficult to keep writing a script if there are problems with the structure, characters or writing in the early parts. I do need to get over this, because it makes it very difficult to finish things and get to the second draft stage. I have a pile of scripts on my desktop in various states of unfinished-ness. I believe this is what is called 'procrastination') I've failed at. Anyway, that was a long set of brackets. Worthy of an academic article. Did you even remember what was at the beginning of the sentence by the time the brackets were closed? I didn't. I started on the next sentence without finishing the last.
Yes, what a segue. What was I talking about? I'm wrecked. I've had the little one all day for the past three days because she's finished school and its pretty exhausting. She's come up with a neat way of getting around my excuse of 'not being able' to do something, which is to tell me I 'need to practice'. She said it to me today when I couldn't do a somersault, which is hysterical, because its what I always tell her and her sister if they throw a tantrum about not being able to do something. So, of course, I had to take my own medicine and attempt a somersault. I put down many sofa cushions before I agreed to do it though, believe you me.
Anyway, the point I was trying to make was about NYWM. I've enjoyed it. I've enjoyed posting this much, and I'm proud of how my blog looks now. I don't know if the quality of the posts for everyone else has increased, but I've certainly enjoyed the month, and I like that I've got a very random but in someways more complete version of my experience here because of it.
I don't know if I will keep up the daily posts into July (for one thing I'm going to be much busier with the girls and a lot more travelling, and I do have to focus on my friggin' Melbourne Fringe and Wexford Fringe show. God, I'm having heart palpitations just thinking about it. If you want to follow the progress on that one, I've set up another blog - I know, I'm obsessed - which is doubling as the show website here: http://nomatterwhereyougothereyouare.blogspot.com/ ), but I hope that I can at least do some more regular posting than I had done. I do like to look at the list of blog posts for June (April looks pathetic in comparison). It gives me such a feeling of satisfaction and production.
So, thank you NYWM for a wonderful month, even if I wasn't technically the right age to participate. 

Rain is Fairy Tears

Today I was given some very vital information by my eldest charge. According to her, when it rains, its because God's fairies are crying. This would help explain a great deal of my confusion over the weather and why Irish weather forecasters don't seem to have a clue of what they are talking about. I mean, if they are attempting to predict the emotions of a bunch of highly volatile and sensitive supernatural beings, they've obviously got to be given leave to have a wider margin of error. The only thing I'll say is that, clearly the fairies in Australia are a lot more fixed and predictable in their moods. Maybe the fairies in Ireland are all teenage girls with PMS or something. 

Anyway, today, the fairies were crying especially hard. My eldest girl asked me why that was the case.

I didn't know what to answer. Should I take it as an opportunity to teach her about the evils of global warming? Poverty? Selfishness? About the fact that she shouldn't hit her sister?

Or should I come up with something more whimsical? The fairies were crying because no-one believed in them. The fairies were crying because everyone always called them angels, and they weren't, they were actually fairies. I was about to tell her that God was mean to the fairies, but I suspected the follow-up question/remark would be 'What did God do?' or 'God is NEVER mean!'

Luckily, I hesitated so long she got bored of her initial inquiry and moved onto the next topic of conversation, which was, why did the car have to go slower as soon as we got into Bandon?

Catholicism is a lot more complicated than I at first imagined.

Vampires

I had the most fun in the world this evening with the girls. I was pretending to be a vampire, and chased the girls around the house like this:

Except my cape had a pattern that looked like this:

Terrifying.

Cute Things Said by the Little One Today

I could create a whole blog just with these quotes, but today had some real corkers:

* She said to me, completely unprompted, 'You're my best friend'. 

* Her bike has had its wheel broken for a while, and we've been telling her that we would 'get the man' to fix it, meaning the man in the bike store. This morning, when I woke up, she told me 'Her man' had fixed the bike.

* She informed me that her classmate, Michael, a real favourite with her, was Spiderman. And that he went 'whoosh' with accompanying arm movements.

* She told me to push her on the swing 'as high as the clouds'. When I told her I wasn't strong enough, she said 'Try!'

* When she was pushing her bike around the house, she got tired and stopped. She sat there, looking miserable, until I asked her what was wrong. She said, 'I need batteries, Jenny, I need batteries.' I mimed putting batteries into her bike and she was off again. Later, when we found a plastic toy of hers that the dog had bitten the head off, she said, 'Is broken, Jenny.' I said, 'Yes'. She said, 'We need to fix it.' I said, 'We can't.' She said, 'Batteries?'

* When we went into the supermarket, I noticed that she had a scratch down her face, and I told her the cat had scratched her. She then proceeded to tell EVERYONE in the store, down the street, in the library, that the cat had scratched her, it had really hurt, she had cried lots, the cat was very mean, and she had yelled at it and thrown it out of the house, when 15 minutes earlier she hadn't even noticed.

* She saw it was raining. Little One: 'Its raining, Jenny!' Me: 'Yes!' Little One: 'Why?' Me: 'Good question...' 

* When we went to the woods this morning, she was so excited she did what I know as her 'crazy laugh'. Its seemed very familiar and I think I finally figured out what it reminded me of. Its this:

Which she does, all the way into the woods, and then turns around, runs back to me, throws herself at my upper thighs, looks into my face and laughs like this again. Its hysterical.

Wexford, Waterford and White-Water Rafting

I've been waiting to write this post for a while, because I wanted a particular photo, which I thought was going to make the whole thing so much more funny. However, its taken so long to get the blasted photo from the friend who took it (I still don't have it, in fact), so I've decided to write the post before I forget everything and it becomes a boring post anyway.
So, last weekend (well, no, not last weekend, the weekend before), I had to drive to Wexford. Wexford is about 3 hours away from Bandon, and whilst I knew I kind of had to do it, I wasn't relishing the idea, nor did I think it was going to be particularly exciting. So, I decided to drag along some au pair friends to entertain me on the journey and, luckily, managed to convince them that it would be fun - like a buddy road-trip movie across the USA, 'Thelma and Louise' except all in one-day and with more girls and less Brad Pitt, sexual harassment or horrible death at the end.
I also managed to convince them to get up really early on a Sunday morning (one of their only days off) so that we would have plenty of time. So, I drove round to various parts of Bandon that I had never been to before (all very pretty) to find the girls, as well as to a very depressing place called Crossbarry (Crossbarry has 3 empty shops, a service station, a beauty salon and a pub. But, everywhere in Ireland has a pub, so its not really that much an achievement).
It was a beautiful, sunny day in Bandon and Cork, so we were optimistic that we would have fun. Of course, this being Ireland, as soon as we thought it might be a nice day, we noticed that there were storm clouds on the horizon, and we were driving straight towards them. I can't remember much of the first part of the trip, except that we were heading towards Waterford (this is what happens when you leave it more than a week to post) and there was much giggling. It was probably about boys. How embarrassing.
Anyway, we got to Waterford, after passing over a very cool bridge, which looked like the Madonna's bra bridge in Sydney, except that Madonna was missing one of her bra cups.
Of course, because we got going so early, we got to Waterford at around 11am. Now, 11 am on a Sunday in Ireland, is not the most exciting times to be up, as we quickly found to our dismay. To add insult to injury, it then started to rain as we tried to wander around the town and get a feel for the place. So, we ran to the Waterford crystal place, but not wanting to pay the ridiculous price to enter the visitor centre (there is a limit to how much of our money we will willingly donate towards the ailing Irish economy, and we generally like to donate it to clothes stores, or in my case, to charity stores), we decided instead to go to the cafe (we willing give our money away in return for Irish cakes). There were so many amazing cakes to choose from, that I decided that no matter what I chose I would be disappointed that I hadn't chosen something else, so I took the easy route and got a Diet Coke. Then, with all of Waterford currently closed or being rained on, we decided to jump back in the car and head up to Wexford.
We drove through a beautiful area called Dungarvan, which was on the water, with a hill behind it that looked like a patchwork quilt. The sun was coming out again, but the rain clouds were ever-threatening on the sky.
I had researched things to do in the Wexford and Waterford areas (Waterford crystal visitor centre: tick), and one of the things that came up was the JFK arboretum (a big park with lots of different trees), but one of the other au pairs had found out that you could actually go to his family's old estate. This sounded pretty cool, much more interesting than different trees and we were all fans of JFK, so we headed down some tiny little back roads to find the place. It was amazingly well sign-posted (for Ireland, that is), and I didn't get lost at all. There was even a sign telling us that the estate was 100m up the road, and the reception 200m away, which seemed over-kill, but we were grateful nonetheless.
We turned into the JFK estate to find... an empty cow shed and a tiny parking lot.
This confused us a great deal. We had told there would be an estate. We were told there would be a reception. We were expecting a little place with souvenirs (everywhere else in Ireland has one). We got... gravel. 
Now, this is where a photo would make the story so much more interesting, as there was a sign stating, 'Welcome to the Kennedy Family Estate' in front of the sad looking car park, making us all the more confused. We looked over fences and saw what looked liked private houses. We looked at the cattle shed, and saw no-one. We eventually decided that it must have been the 'site' of the old family estate, rather than the estate, and were just about to get back in the car, when we suddenly heard gun shots, seemingly very near by. We then freaked out (well, no, I freaked out), thinking we had wandered on to private property without realising it, and jumped back in the car. Starting the car, I couldn't help wondering if it was meant to be part of the JFK experience, which was a joke in fairly poor taste, but amused me nonetheless. As we were about to drive away, I suddenly had a thought and remembered the very helpful and specific sign we had seen earlier. I decided to drive 100m further down the road, and, of course, there was the reception. It was closed. I guess we shouldn't have been surprised, it was Ireland, though, after finding the one useful road sign in the whole of the country, anything could have been possible.
So, we headed off for Wexford. The sun came out again for us, and by the time we reached Wexford, the shops were open, and the people were out and about, giving us a much more favourable impression of the place. After a quick walk down the main pier, and a quick trial of the world's most terrifying toilet (similar to those toilet cubicles in the Sydney CBD, where everything is mechanical, and you have to pay), which didn't seem to lock properly (the toilet bowl didn't have a drain, and everything in the cubicle was dripping wet. When I left the cubicle again, it became obvious why this was the case, because the ENTIRE cubicle was automatically cleaned after each use... very strange and not at all welcoming), I left the girls and went about completing the chores that I needed to do in Wexford. This meant walking around the city looking at various venues, and in particular, the Irish Agricultural Museum, set in the grounds of the Johnstown Castle, which is now the space for the Irish half of my current show.
The castle grounds were/are gorgeous, have a look:

And the space ('The Cart Room') is pretty cool too:

So much so, that I drove back into Wexford, grabbed the girls and forced them to go back to the castle with me. I'm glad I did, as it turned out to be one of the genuinely interesting things I managed to get them to during out whole crazy road-trip escapade, and they were very patient and upbeat with me the whole time, even though it was a less than amazing trip.
We headed back on the road after seeing the castle, and I attempted to take a scenic route home, which involved driving the girls past a half-finished and completely depressing housing estate, which will probably never be built, but will rot and deteriorate on their prime real estate for years to come; past the port where you catch the ferries to Europe; and almost having them killed by pulling out in front of a hugely irate old Irishman (possibly the owner of the incomplete, depressing housing estate, hence the irateness), who then honked his horn at me for a good hundred metres down the road (I retaliated by honking my horn back even louder and longer. Probably not the best way to diffuse the situation).
We attempted to buy Wexford strawberries on the way home from roadside stalls (things from roadside stalls always seem more authentic, don't you think? Especially when they're kind of rotten and have flies over them... adds to the authenticity), but after passing between 15 - 20 open stalls, we managed to stop at the final stall on our side of the road, which was also happened to be closed.
We pulled in at Dungarvan for a lovely sea-side dinner:

And then continued the drive home. By the time we got back to Bandon, it was around 9pm and I had to drop all the girls off before heading home myself. I was wrecked, and none of us were particularly talkative by the time we said good-by. Still, it was a great day, and productive from my point of view, and enjoyable (I hope) for all of us.
Oh, and, yes, the white-water rafting. Sorry, we didn't do any of that. I put it in for alliteration purposes only. Plus, I thought more people might read it if I put it in the title. I was going to make that whole reveal much more funny, but the whole bloody post took so long to write that now I can't be bothered. Sorry, that was really cruel. I would have gone white-water rafting if I could have. Please don't unfriend me on Facebook because I lied to you.

Animals Big and Small

I haven't given an update on the kittens in a while. They are now 5 weeks old, and utterly gorgeous. All of them have blue eyes at the moment, 3 are black, 2 are tabby, and their names are Liebschen, Tommy, Lexi, Lex and the final one remains nameless. We've moved them from the laundry to the porch, and they are being kept in a little pen which has been created by my fireplace grate and the wall. Though, they proved this evening that they can climb right over the top of it when hungry, and there is the hope of food on the other side of the grate. My eldest girl continues to find new & interesting ways to carry them about, sometimes in her doll's buggy, in her easter egg basket, in a paper shopping bag, clinging to the front of her school uniform etc.

Lexi... or Lex...

I went for a walk this evening in the sunshine, which lasts and lasts (its now 10pm and the sun won't go down properly for another half hour), and I was amazed at how much the countryside changes in Ireland with the seasons, which I've not noticed as much in Australia. I don't know if this is, as people have often scoffed, Australia doesn't have 4 seasons, or its because I live in the city, but its pretty spectacular here. Walking through areas that I walked through only a couple of months ago, it was like a new place entirely. Some paddocks that were completely flat a month or two ago, now have grass that is as high as my shoulder.
These paddocks now have many large animals in them, such as horses, cows and bulls. I'm a fan of these animals, they lend a real authenticity to the countryside and my experience as a 'country girl', but, I generally like there to be some sort of heavy fence in between me and the large animals. Either that, or like the animals to be running away from me in fear.
None of the animals this evening felt the need to do this.
This meant, in order to not be kicked in the stomach by the back feet of a horse (heavens knows why I thought a fairly docile horse, quietly and happily munching on grass was going to suddenly bolt and kick me in the stomach is something that I can't quite explain now that I'm at home, sitting on a nice couch and watching the TV, but it must be an image I've seen in a film or TV show somewhere), I was wading through the shoulder high grass, being stung by nettles and ripped apart by brambles, whilst the horses gave me blank and confused looks over their grass dinner. The one comfort was that every time I went, 'Jesus, what about the snakes???' I was able to send a quick and grateful prayer to St. Patrick. 'Thank you, thank you, thank you St. Patrick for ridding snakes from a country with exceedingly long grasses.'
Just to give me a bigger fright and prove how ill-suited I am, despite my fantasies, to living on a farm, three of the horses decided to trot towards me, which, in hindsight, was probably because they thought I was the farmer and had a juicy carrot or block of sugar to give them (that's what people feed horses in movies, isn't it?), but when you're on your lonesome, being chased around a tree by 3 large horses in an open field, all you can really think of is the stampede scene in 'The Lion King'. Well, that's all I could think of anyway.
There were a couple of bulls that I also ran into (and when I say, 'ran into', I mean, I was in the same field as, though if I were to hold out my thumb, and closed one eye, I would probably have been able to cover up all the bulls with just the tip of it..... that is to say, there was a fair distance between me and them), and whilst, again, they seemed more interested in their grass than me, I still decided to walk on the other side of the barbed wire to them, which required a sort of tightrope act with the river bank, and some strange looks from the locals on the other side. I don't care. At least I didn't have my insides gouged by a bull's horn. 

The Rain Used to Make Sense

This is Ireland:

You will wake up at 7am because the sun is shining so brightly behind your curtains that it makes your room look as if the lights are on even though they aren't. You will roll over and close your eyes, think, 'just a few minutes more.' You will then be plunged into darkness again as thunderclouds roll over the sun, and you will fall back asleep in spite of yourself.
You'll wake up at 9am to rain falling on one side of the house, but not on the other. Confusingly, the side of the house that is being rained on is also bathed in sunlight, whereas the side with no rain is covered by clouds.
The rain will stop, but the clouds will remain, but you chance it and go outside. It will be reasonably warm, but 10 minutes later, a bitter wind will start to blow and you'll run inside. Half an hour later, you'll hear sounds on the roof, look out the skylight and see that it is hailing.
2 hours later, the sun will be out again, and you'll head outside in just a singlet, because by now, its scorching. You go for a walk, but an hour later, you're shivering and the clouds are black, so you run home before the rain starts again and rug up in your warmest clothes. Half an hour later, the sun will be out again, but you've been tricked before, so you stay inside. You watch small patches of cloud come and go, and you know the sun is mocking you for hiding inside. Its sunny all afternoon. So, that evening, after dinner, you'll go for a walk in the bright, bright sun, but, suddenly, out of nowhere, apparently because you've come outside, it will start to rain. You look around for the clouds, but they are nowhere to be seen. Where is the rain coming from? You convince yourself that it must be a sprinkler, not rain, and continue to walk. The rain gets heavier, and the sun gets brighter. You begin to think you are in some sort of mind game, some sort of postmodern, philosophical mind-fuck, like the end of 'Sophie's World', where you're not sure who's fiction, who's the author, what you're supposed to believe in, and maybe the rain is just a figment of the collective imagination that knows Ireland to be a rainy country and so brings the rain out of nowhere, out of sheer belief, just to keep up appearances.
Then the rain will stop, you'll look up into the sky, and there will be a sunset so beautiful that if someone was to paint it in its true colours, people would call it tacky and sentimental, but when its there in front of you, in real life, it is heart-achingly beautiful and inspiring. There will be four or five levels of different types of clouds in the sky, in different colours of peach, pink and yellow, and you go to bed full of optimism for the next day, which will surely be better weather-wise than this one, I mean, just look how the clouds have cleared up....

Gifts

She hated buying gifts.
It wasn't that she hated giving gifts, she loved giving gifts. But, she hated feeling obliged to buy gifts for occasions, like a birthday or Christmas. She loved stumbling across the perfect gift, a book of poems by a favourite author in an old hard-backed edition in a second-hand bookstore, or a postcard with just the right message blazoned across it. Gifts for no reason, she liked those gifts. But she hated giving gifts to people when they were expected. When everyone else was giving gifts. When her gift was going to be sat next to all the other gifts and judged. And rated. And potentially found wanting.
She didn't like to give junk. She didn't like to give things that would clutter a person's house. She hated stores that were labelled 'Gifts 'n Things'. Stores that couldn't specifically name what they sold were invariably stocked full of knick-knacks that nobody needed and would never in their right mind buy for themselves. She suspected, in the best scenario, most 'knick-knacks' were wrapped up and passed on to the next person to need an obligatory gift for an obligatory holiday. In the worst scenario, they went straight into the bin.
But, here she was again, 'Cardiology'. She felt slightly nauseous walking in amongst all the pastel, the kittens done up with bows, the sparkles, the glitter, the over-powering lavender smell that was pulsing through the air, sticking at the back of her throat and making her gag.
She picked up a ceramic dog that was crouching, wagging its tail and looking up at her invitingly. She had an insane desire to smash it on to the black and white tiles right there in front of the sales assistant. Surely that would be worth.... $34.95??? For a ceramic painted dog??? Jesus. She put down the dog gently, jumping slightly as it knocked the glass display cabinet.
She turned around and saw the sales assistant glaring over his wire glasses at her. A male sales assistant? In a store like this? Closeted gay, she though involuntarily. He sniffed disapprovingly as if he had heard her and looked back down at his magazine.
She sighed and looked back at the display cabinets. There were a variety of ceramic objects, baskets with bows, playful kittens with red balls, a smiling pig. The pig was cute, but surely giving someone a smiling pig for a birthday present might send the wrong message? Even if it did have a festive straw bow around its neck?
She moved on to the next display cabinet. This was full of plastic toys, ones that could be wound up, walk on their own, or be made to sit or stand in various ways. Around the back of the display cabinet were the risque wind-up toys, walking penises, the sort of hilarious things people gave for 18th birthdays and hen's parties.
She walked over to the wall, a selection of photo frames, coloured, metal, decorative... who uses photo frames anymore these days, she thought? And turned back to the store.
The sales assistant was glaring again. She smiled hesitantly at him, which he didn't return. 'Can I help you?' His voice was like ice. What on earth drew a person like this to ceramic kittens with balls? Or did staring at ceramic kittens all day long turn a normal, happy person into this? This, glaring, sniffing, disapproving grouch.
'Just looking', she chirped in her perkiest voice. She enjoyed the wince her reply drew from him. She wondered what his reaction would be if she started whistling. She began to swing her arms, a slight bounce in her walk, and started whistling, 'Tomorrow' from Annie. If he was going to inflict pain in the form of ceramic kittens on her, then she would inflict bad musical theatre on him. He kept glaring and sniffing.
On the other wall were signs to hang around the house to make it look cozy. 'There's No Place Like Home' on metal painted to look like wood and far too many hearts and birds surrounding it. No, no, no, it was all so bad. But she'd visited every other single store in the shopping centre, and there was nothing there.
She had to admit she had no idea who the person was she was buying a gift for. Well, of course, she knew who they were. It was Kathy, the receptionist from work. But who was Kathy? What did she like? Did she like to watch romantic movies on a Saturday night with tissues on one side and a box of chocolates on the other? Or did she spend her weekends going hiking and rock climbing? Was she the sort of person who would enjoy a Cecilia Ahern novel, or would she look down on anything that hadn't won the Pulitzer Prize? She didn't even know if Ruth was someone who would like to receive a card that was sincere or with a joke on it? If she got a card with a joke should it be dirty or insulting or tacky?
She turned back to the first glass cabinet. The smiling dog was smiling at her again. Screw it. She had better things to do with her time. She picked up the smiling dog, and then, for good measure, she picked up the wind-up penis. Hell, everyone needed a walking penis in an office as bad as hers. She took them over to the glaring middle-aged sales assistant, who suddenly broke into a wide smile which meant she knew she was being overcharged for her ceramic dog and wind-up penis by at least 50%, but she couldn't care less at this point. She was going to get a fresh bread roll and sit in the park and enjoy the rest of her lunch break.

What Turns You On?

Attempting to come up with ideas for an article for Vibewire, which I am rapidly running out of time to write. I don't know if I will write it in the end, but anyway, it makes up another NYWM post.

Here is a list:

beards
left-wing politics
a compost heap (ooh, yeah, baby, let me see your compost heap...)
guitar skills
glasses
deep voices
accents and/or knowledge of a different language (think John Cleese and Jamie Lee Curtis in 'A Fish Called Wanda')
one or two well-placed and unique tattoos (one that means something to you, not just some hindi letters that you thought might look deep because it was in a different language)
a man holding a baby. even hotter is a man holding a baby with a tattoo (on the man not the baby!)
the ability and desire to speak/write in grammatically correct sentences
a bicycle (but not bicycle clothes)
dark hair with blue eyes
wristbands
a newspaper or a book (see http://hotguysreadingbooks.tumblr.com/ ooh, there's a guy on the first page at the moment with a beard, glasses, a tattoo and a book! I wonder if he has a deep voice and an accent or owns a bicycle???), preferably being read whilst sitting at an outdoor table at a funky little cafe. 
soccer players
a love of British comedy and the ability to pick up on random Monty Python/Eddie Izzard/Black Adder/Black Books quotes that are dropped, without explanation, into conversation
extensive travel miles
chests
chopping wood for a fire (look at my biological instincts jumping in - look after me! build me shelter! find me food!)

And a corresponding what turns you off list. Not strictly necessary, but I think its possibly more interesting:

Guys who use 'lol' (you are not a 13-year old girl wearing Cherry Chapstick. Apologies to all male friends who use 'lol')
Too much Lynx deodorant (I am no longer a 13-year old girl wearing Cherry Chapstick)
Shiny tracksuit pants with the buttons up the side. Especially when worn to the pub or a restaurant.
Too much hair product (I shouldn't have to wash my hands if I touch your hair).
Communicating via grunts (see above).
shirts that are too clean and crisp, teeth that are too white, a smile that is too wide. I don't want to date people off Colgate ads.

I don't know if that helped, but its a start, I suppose.

Do as I Say...

The Little One has been picking up a few of my phrases recently, which is more than a little cute.

The first one she started parroting back at me was, 'Thank you though'. You see, she likes to offer me all sorts of things, most of which I don't want. 'You have porridge?' she'll say, or 'You go to loo?' or 'You go outside?' etc. etc. For ages, I was replying, 'No, I'm alright, but thank you though.' So, then, one day, I just said, 'No, I'm alright.' There was a pause, she looked at me blankly, then smiled and chirped, 'thank you though!'

The second one was a little more embarrassing. There have been a few times when things have gotten tough with her elder sister, and I've used the phrase, 'I'm begging you.' So, one day a couple of weeks ago, the little one wanted me to play with her. I had to do a few things before I was ready to play with her, though, so I explained this and then went and started doing my chores. The little one kept calling out, 'Jenny? Jenny?' and I would answer back that I needed to finish some things before I could play. Finally, I came out of her room, ready to come downstairs and play with her, and she was standing on the bottom step, hands on hips, saying over and over, 'I'm begging you', with a little shake of the head.

The final one was the best though. Both she and her sister can be very stubborn... well, I'm sure most kids can be. But, anyway, I always try to correct them if they say something that is factually incorrect. I don't know if other people would care so much, but I feel like I should be educating them. Anyway, a lot of the time, they will insist, despite further explanation, that they are right and I am wrong, at which point, I decide I can't be bothered arguing anymore with children, it seems too pathetic, and so I say, 'Ok, ok, if you say so!' Last week, I went upstairs with the little one. She was pulling books off the shelves, so I said, 'Shall we read a book?' to which she replied, 'That's not a book!' to which, of course, I replied, 'Yes it is!' She said, 'No, its not.' I said, 'Of course it is!' To which she sighed, shook her head, rolled her eyes and said with perfect intonation, 'If you say so!'

Found in the Washing Machine

I find lots of things in the washing machine after the clothes have been washed. A lot of these things make sense to me. I've found coins. I've found 5 Euro notes, which I'm always terrified will fall to pieces when I unfold them. I've found 50 Euro notes, which are even more anxiety-inducing than the 5 Euro notes. One day, I took the clothes out of the dryer, and it was as if the shirts were laying 50 Euro notes, rather like the goose and the golden eggs. Every time I picked up another shirt to fold, out floated a 50 Euro note. I've found little plastic Peppa Pig figurines, looking shiny new, Hello Kitty dolls, and finger puppets. I've found keys, empty chip bags, receipts and notes. Yesterday, with every piece of clothing pulled out of the machine, out tumbled a brightly-coloured golf tee.

But, today's discovery was by far the strangest.

It was a slice of ham.

That's right, you read correctly.

A slice of ham.

In fact, it was an entire slice of ham, remarkably in tact, smelling of lavendar, and clean as clean could be. The colours had been renewed, and it was soft enough to dress your baby in.

Now, most likely, the ham was dropped into the washing basket by the little one when she got bored of eating it, but I like to amuse myself with other stories of how it came to be there. Perhaps someone got confused, and thought the dirty washing basket was the bin. Perhaps the cat picked it up out of the kitchen and went and hid it in the machine, like a chipmunk storing nuts for winter. Perhaps someone decided it was dirty and put in the washing machine to be cleaned. Perhaps it was an alive piece of ham, like in a Pixar animation, or that terrifying beer commercial with the walking tongue, and it was attempting to make its escape via the washing basket.

But my favourite theory is that someone in my house carries around ham in their pocket. You know, for ham emergencies.

'This sandwich needs a slice of ham, stat!'
'The vegetarian's fainted from anaemia! Quick, pass me a slice of ham!'
'We're being robbed by armed bandits, I'll throw my emergency ham in their face, while you make a run for it!!'

59 Seconds

This is an exercise I got from a book my Dad bought me called 59 Seconds, and I'm using at as my 'creative' post for the day, because its kind of interesting. The exercise is 'how to create a perfect diary', and when the author is talking a 'perfect' diary, he means one that is going to significantly increase your levels of happiness and satisfaction with your life (the book is great for any of you out there who would like to improve your life, but don't trust those self-help gurus and pseudo-cults out there. Its all backed by research, psychological studies and good stuff. Plus, the guy who wrote it is totally no-nonsense and doesn't make ridiculous promises, like, you'll quit smoking by this evening, and there's no chanting or ritual hugging required. The author is Professor Richard Wiseman, which is also hysterical).

Exercise 1: Thanksgiving
3 Things that you are grateful for over the past week.

1) Morning sunlight waking me up early
2) Sitting with 5 kittens on my lap
3) Having a movie night with a friend

Exercise 2: Terrific Times
Think a wonderful experience in your life, and relive it for a few seconds. Then write a few sentences about what it was like.

I'm at 'The Decemberists' concert in Dublin. I've been looking forward to it for 4 months, when I first found out they would be playing in Ireland when I was in Ireland. I've got a seat on the balcony, which I prefer to being on the floor, I've got a perfect view of the stage, no-one's pushing into me, and my body isn't aching from standing up so long. Its the final encore. Colin Meloy has come back onstage with just his guitar and he plays the beautiful song, 'June Hymn', dedicated to the coming summer, and the summer-y day we've just had in Dublin, by himself under the lights and I'm filled with complete happiness and joy. I'm on the verge of tears, hearing those beautiful chords, I don't know what they do to those chords, how they create them, how they create the right pattern, but they are just perfect, and fill you with such inspiration and hope and joy to be alive.

I'm skipping exercise 3. Well, I didn't skip it, I wrote it, and it was lovely, but I've decided its too personal to put out on the web. Sorry.


Exercise 4: Dear...

Write a letter to someone who means a great deal to you and express how you feel.

I'm going to take out the name.

Dear....
I'm so grateful to have met you. You are level-headed, always full of intelligent, wonderful advice, as well as comfort and support. You take on challenges with a smile and nothing is too difficult for you. I can talk to you about anything and I never feel judged. When I get worked up or critical, you'll gentle turn my head and make me see something a different way. You get me off my high-horse. But, apart from all of that, you always make me laugh, you've got a wicked send of humour and a fabulous smile, and you're always coming up with fantastic, creative plans.
Thanks for being so fabulous.
Jenny

Exercise 5: Reviewing the Situation
Write 3 things that went well for you.
1) Telling my host family that I wanted to move on to Kinsale in September
2) Meeting with my director and getting things organised for the Melbourne Fringe, the Wexford Fringe and the Galway Theatre Festival
3) The play date my eldest girl had yesterday afternoon

I'm not sure how this has helped my writing, but it does make me feel good :) I think some of these things are interesting exercises though, I mean, when you think over what you've felt grateful for, or are happy about, you come up with interesting responses sometimes. Again, it could be an interesting way of getting across information in a play or story. So, not a waste of time, really.

Disaster Elephant Strikes Again!

This is the result of another unconscious writing exercise from 'The Deadline Club'. You write freely for 5 minutes, writing down whatever comes into your head. Then, highlight the phrases you like. Write freely for another 5 minutes, using those phrases you have highlighted as inspiration. Highlight the phrases you like out of the second one. Then, create a poem based on the highlighted phrases from the second unconscious writing.

I'm sick of poems though, so I've written a whacked out story.

An elephant in a china-shop is worse than a bull. The Disaster Elephant attacks every situation as if it were an elephant in the tiniest, most delicate china-shop in the whole world.
The Disaster Elephant is no ordinary elephant. It is bigger than your average elephant. It is louder. It is certainly messier. It has bigger feet and a longer, clumsier snout. It gets everything ever-so-slightly wrong. Instead of giving you a yummy treat, he will give you hideous lollies that make your tongue fizz and froth. He will blow snot out of his nose at you instead of the water he had intended. He will eat his poo instead of his food, he will hit you over the head with the stick he was attempting to move out of your way, and he will trample your favourite kitten to death. He will create a tsunami, when he was tryingg to make a wave pool, he will light the Karelian Forests of Russia on fire, whilst attempting to light a stove and he will create genocide in Balkan Europe whilst only meaning to organise various ethnic and religious groups into viable nation-states of a post-communist world. This is what he does. He is the Disaster Elephant, and disasters are what Disaster Elephants do best.
The worst thing about it, for the poor Disaster Elephant, is that he is trying so hard to please. None of his disasters are created with malicious intentions. They are always plans that were originally intended to help or assist, to amuse or entertain, to comfort and love.
But the Disaster Elephant can't do anything right. It is his fate. His tragic flaw. Shakespeare should have written a play about him, and billions of school children the world over should have written essays discussing how it was his actions alone that ultimately brought about the death of his friends, his family and, finally, his own downfall.
Sometimes the Disaster Elephant cries himself to sleep in his straw.


What the fuck was that?? Seriously, though, what is that? I'm too tired to turn it into anything more logical or worthwhile. I swear I'm not drunk or on drugs. Just in case you were wondering.

Your Letter is...

I got this exercise from a Facebook status update. How modern and down-with-the-kids and stuff is that? But, I actually think it would make a kind of cool way to structure a story, or a play, to open chapters and break up scenes. I think it would be an interesting way of showing character. So, this is how it goes, you get a letter and then you fill in the blanks.

Something I like:
Something I dislike:
Something I love:
Something bad:

Your letter is 'A'

Something I like: apples
Something I dislike: anger
Something I love: anticipation
Something bad: antipathy

Your letter is 'B'

Something I like: badgers
Something I dislike: broken-hearts
Something I love: Barrington Tops
Something bad: Botox

Your letter is 'C'

Something I like: cats
Something I dislike: cabbage
Something I love: carrots
Something bad: cancer

Your letter is 'D'

Something I like: dogs
Something I dislike: damage-control
Something I love: dressing-up
Something bad: disasters

Your letter is 'E'

Something I like: eggplant
Something I dislike: e.coli
Something I love: eggs
Something bad: e.coli

Your letter is 'F'

Something I like: food!
Something I dislike: food.
Something I love: fingers
Something bad: farts

Your letter is 'G'

Something I like: goodness
Something I dislike: gashes
Something I love: giggles
Something bad: gigantism

Your letter is 'H'

Something I like: houses
Something I dislike: hornets
Something I love: hats
Something bad: horse-poo

Your letter is 'I'

Something I like: igloos
Something I dislike: ice-cream
Something I love: ice
Something bad: ice-storms.

Your letter is 'J'

Something I like: Jenny!
Something I dislike: Jenny...
Something I love: jumpers
Something bad: jelly belly

Your letter is 'K'

Something I like: kangaroos
Something I dislike: kicks (aimed at me)
Something I love: kicks (in a chorus line)
Something bad: kidnapping

Your letter is 'L'

Something I like: labrador puppies
Something I dislike: laziness
Something I love: love
Something bad: lying

Your letter is 'M'

Something I like: mangoes
Something I dislike: mice
Something I love: men
Something bad: molten-lava

Your letter is 'N'

Something I like: napping
Something I dislike: nappies
Something I love: notebooks
Something bad: nightmares

Your letter is 'O'

Something I like: orangutans
Something I dislike: orders
Something I love: opposites
Something bad: oatmeal

Your letter is 'P'

Something I like: pancake flipping
Something I dislike: poo
Something I love: passion
Something bad: predjudice

Your letter is 'Q'

Something I like: Qantas
Something I dislike: queues
Something I love: quiet reading
Something bad: quibbles

Your letter is 'R'

Something I like: reading
Something I dislike: roads
Something I love: rain
Something bad: racism

Your letter is 'S'

Something I like: snapdragons
Something I dislike: snoring
Something I love: sunshine
Something bad: sugar

Your letter is 'T'

Something I like: tigers
Something I dislike: Taliban
Something I love: tap-dancing
Something bad: temptation

Your letter is 'U'

Something I like: unicorns
Something I dislike: unfair
Something I love: undying devotion
Something bad: unimaginable pain

Your letter is 'V'

Something I like: variety
Something I dislike: vipers
Something I love: Vicks VapoRub
Something bad: vanity

Your letter is 'W'

Something I like: whispers
Something I dislike: witches
Something I love: whiskers
Something bad: wanting

Your letter is 'X'

Something I like: xylophones
Something I dislike: xenophobia
Something I love: X-chromosome
Something bad: Xanadu

Your letter is 'Y'

Something I like: you
Something I dislike: yapping dogs
Something I love: Yogi bear
Something bad: yelling

Your letter is 'Z'

Something I like: zoos
Something I dislike: zoos
Something I love: Zip, Zap, Boing!
Something bad: zealotry


Wow. I was not going to do all of them. But I got addicted. Sorry!

War of the One-Eyed Woman

Here is another story I met in Scotland, and I'm using it as my creative post for today because I can't be bothered thinking of something else.

So, for many centuries, the Isle of Skye was home to 2 warring clans, the MacDonalds and the MacLeods. Around 1600, it seemed that the rivalry would be ended, as Margaret, the daughter of the MacLeod's clan chief, Rory, fell in love with Donald Gorm Mor MacDonald, the son of the rival clan chief. After much arguing and gnashing of teeth and threats, the clan chiefs gave in to their children and agreed to the wedding. They were kind of like 'Romeo & Juliet', except it worked out better. At least, it worked out better to begin with.

See, it was tradition in the Isle of Skye at this point, to have a one-year trial marriage before the marriage was actually formalised. So, Donald and Margaret had a wonderful year, they seemed to be a perfect match - he was handsome, she was gorgeous, they were the Brad Pitt and Angeline Jolie of their day. However, Margaret failed to bear a child during the year (and overseas adoption in the 17th century was a nightmare, to say the least), and to make things worse, an accident took one of her eyes, making her less like an Angeline Jolie and more like... more like... more like Angeline Jolie without an eye.

So, Donald, being an upstanding and honourable young gentleman, decided that he didn't really like his new wife as much as he had thought he had, now that she was kind of funny-looking and couldn't make him any babies that looked like him to make him feel like a manly, virile, invincible and everlasting man, and so he told his dad he wanted to call the wedding off. This was much to the delight of his father, who hadn't relished the idea of calling of all the warfare with his rival clan. He didn't quite know what he was going to do with all the free time, quite frankly. Chief clan MacDonald said, 'No worries, Donald. We'll handle this in a sensitive and appropriate manner, to make sure that no-one gets hurt or upset, I mean, the last thing we would want to do is to provoke another horrific war with our rival clan.' It was in this spirit that he sent his not-quite-daughter-in-law who had just lost her eye home to her family on a one-eyed horse, led by a one-eyed man, and accompanied by a one-eyed dog.

Surprisingly enough, chief clan MacLeod took offense to this treatment of his daughter and a huge bloody war ensued, which resulted in large losses on both sides and is now known as 'The War of the One-Eyed Woman.'

Two posts for NYWM

I haven't posted for NYWM for the last couple of days, and that's because I just couldn't bear to look at my computer screen anymore. In fact, the thought of looking at my computer screen made me want to break my computer screen, and as I very much like my MacBook and paid a lot of money for it, I decided I would, instead, take a break from blogging.
The thought of writing anything at all, also made me feel pretty grumpy, so I took yesterday off, and watched TV, and went to the supermarket, and just chilled out and it was great. But, I am determined to fulfill my NYWM promise, so I have done some 'creative' posts this afternoon. But, once again, staring at my blog didn't fill me with any inspiration, so I decided to actually write out my creative posts and photo them this time.
So, here is the first one. I was also kind of sick of words, so I wrote with pictures instead.

And, then I wrote this one, which was a thought I had in my head on the weekend. I attempted to turn it into a longer piece and to imagine what a slow food restaurant would be like, but it was kind of dumb, so I decided it was a one thought post. I put the attempts at a longer story in the photo too, so you can see that I'm not lying to you :) 

So, there are 2 posts from the last 2 days. I am up-to-date. Except for today's post as well. I'll get to it, I promise.

Another post! Argghhhhh....

This was a stupid idea. Blogging every day. Something 'creative'. What kind of bullshit is that? I mean, really? Something, 'creative'. What a wank. I'm sick of this. No-one's even paying me. PAY ME STUFF. The blog posts are boring. Well, they are to me. I don't have really cool drawings like this girl does:

http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/

Which is a really, really cool website with wonderful (hilarious) whimsical drawings and great stories and it is truly 'creative' and I have my crappy little blogspot blog with my google image search photos.

Baaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh.

Be warned. I'm going into existential crisis mode again.

I just need an exercise. Any writing exercise. Anyone got an idea? Preferably something quick and easy. Acrostic poetry. Now there is a good, quick and easy exercise. There's something you can shoot off in 5 minutes and feel like a writer and feel productive and slightly smug about your amazing powers of production and blah, blah, blah.

But, I've already done acrostic poetry.

Ooh. Ok, I've just gone back to the Emerging Writers Festival website and they've given me a great exercise. Ok, ok, oks. Let me get some paper.

Its another food-related post. This is insane. Am I always hungry, or do I just never think about anything else except food?

So, the exercise was to write 'I remember, I forget, I remember, I forget,' all the way down a page, leaving space for a comment in between. The remembers were very easy. The forgets weren't. It seemed a contradiction in terms to try and remember what you've forgotten. Anyway, interesting exercise, and I like the pattern and the structure. I like patterns and structures. I'm a little OCD. As well as being a perfectionist. Oh the joys of being me.

ANYWAY. Here is the exercise:

'I remember
Asking Mum to make me cheese & lettuce sandwiches and thinking I was grown-up because I wanted to eat 'vegetables' at school. But,
I've forgotten
Every single meal Mum ever cooked me. But,
I remember,
She made a gingerbread fairytale castle once for our American Christmas and she was the coolest mother on the block. But,
I've forgotten
What it tasted like. I can't remember if I even ate any, but,
I remember
Her, standing over it, in a candy-striped dress, grinning madly and so proudly.
I've forgotten
if I liked the food Mum made me, but
I remember
I hated the food Dad made me (that is, until he discovered Chicken Satay and Beef with Black Bean Sauce).
I've forgotten
How to stop eating when I'm full, but,
I remember
I used to be able to do it.
I've forgotten
Everything I ever knew about diets and losing weight.
Well, I wish I had.'