Yo! Mama’s Day

F told me last Saturday, rather grandly, that he was going to treat me “like a queen” for Mother’s Day. “You deserve it!” he continued.
“Why thank you,” I responded, also rather grandly, tossing my hair with smug entitlement.
We were passing through the Myer cosmetics department at the time, and I think the phrase made me think of all those snarmy ads with the models assuring you that ‘you’re worth’ expensive face cream and nice shampoo. I was getting into the spirit of things.

Cycling home from school on Thursday, he called back along the footpath through the wind and the traffic: “For Mother’s Day, mum, I’m not going to get you anything. I’m going to donate money for breast cancer instead.”
Something about his tone made me suspicious. I’d just shut down a request to make his own lunches from now on ... which, I’d quickly surmised, was so that he could stack them with banned substances (mainly sugar). Though his professed sentiment was noble, his high-handed tone teetered between generosity and punishment.

“That’s lovely, how nice,” I said.
Silence from the bike ahead.
“We-eellll ... actually, I’m going to pretend Mother’s Day doesn’t even EXIST.”
“That’s fine,” I called smoothly. “Because I was planning to do exactly the same thing about your birthday.”
“My BIRTHDAY?”
“Yup.”
“This year?”
“Uh huh.”
“Oh. I’m only joking, you know.”
“How interesting.”

That night, watching Gordon Ramsay and eating takeaway noodles, I told The Husband about F’s breast cancer plan.
“He TOLD you?” he asked.
“What do you mean? You mean he didn’t make it up to piss me off?”
“No. Something about donating to breast cancer came on TV the other night, you were here, we looked at each other and nodded.”
“Oh. So he was doing it to be nice. At least, at first. Good.”

This morning I was woken by a hug.
“Good morning, your majesty.”
“Hey!”
“Happy Mother’s Day, my queen. Would you like breakfast?”
It was very early.
“Um, maybe later.”
“Can I play the computer?”
“Absolutely.”

Some hours later, I was instructed to sit in the study while he put the finishing touches on my presents. I got chocolate almonds (my favourite vice) and cupcakes (also a hit), both from the school Mother’s Day stall. He made me a handmade book about Ben 10, his latest cartoon craze. And I got a card with a Mother’s Day poem:

Mother’s Day is like, a day for ya mama,
So don’t give her no drama,
Let her wear pajamas
while this day is a mama o’rama

YO!
MAMA’S DAY

Lovely. My favourite present.

Then we went out for breakfast in a cafe down the road, where I ate poached eggs, sautéed potatoes and roast tomato, and F ate crumpets with honey. I read my way through the weekend papers and F read the latest AFL kids’ comic and excitedly opened his new packet of footy cards. I probably got three sentences out of him.

I ran into a friend, eating at a table across the room, his laptop on a chair beside him. (A business meeting on a Sunday? Life of a freelancer!) F barely looked up from his mag as my friend tried to make conversation with him. He got about three sentences, too, though. My friend and I had been at the same party the night before. And I only realised when I left the cafe that this meant he would realise I was still wearing the same dress I had on last night. The dress I was wearing when he DROPPED ME AT MY DOOR at 1am. Embarassing.

In the old days, being seen in the same dress from last night’s party meant I’d got ‘lucky’. Or got so trashed, I’d crashed on someone else’s couch. Today, it meant that after he dropped me home, I’d fallen asleep in front of my laptop under a quilt on the couch, watching successive episodes of Veronica Mars on my laptop until 3.30am. And that I was so tired when I woke up that I decided – what the hell – I’d keep the dress on for breakfast.

My, how life changes ...

This afternoon, The Husband, F and I went to the Sun cinema to see Iron Man as our Mother’s Day outing. We took the boy next door, and the kids were so exciting that they ran down Anderson Street shouting. I loftily reminded them that this was a MOTHER’S DAY trip, so they should make it pleasant for me. At the cinema, they’d run out of Choc Tops and the ATM had run out of money. No EFTPOS. The Mother’s Day crowd was not pleased. My particular little crowd included. We ended up with popcorn and soft drinks. I was so disgruntled to miss out on my Choc Top sugar rush that I went for raspberry lemonade instead. The ultimate non-alcoholic headrush.

In front of us in the line for tickets, is the parent who thoroughly disapproves of F and periodically asks his kids not to play with him because he doesn’t like “his attitude”. (As I type, F is shouting and screaming in the backyard over football, so I do sort of get it, even while I despise him for it.) The boys are thrilled to see each other. They grab each other’s arms and squeal. In the theatre, we sit directly behind F’s mates. They are eating pieces of fruit their father pulls from a backpack. He slowly, methodically peels a banana and bites into it just as F and Boy Next Door burst into their first bout of squabbling over the chips and soft drink that I – foolishly – bought them to share. To SHARE. In the dark. While they are also supposed to be quiet.

The movie is great, for the sort of movie you can see with a couple of primary school boys. Two hours with Robert Downey Jr is an excellent Mother’s Day present. F’s verdict: a bit gory (he hid his face quite a few times, with me telling him when he could look again), but good. And he gave the soundtrack 10/10. I was impressed when he spotted Marvel comic guru Stan Lee in a cameo (playing Hugh Hefner for three seconds). A nerd in training.

I have a brilliant son who loves me and thinks I deserve to be treated like a queen for a day, and a husband who spent half his day kicking the footy in the backyard with my son and his mate, and babysat for me last night while I went out to a party. I’m doing pretty good.

Peace out, y’all ...

... and happy mama’s day ...

Mean mummy: My war on boredom

I am waging war against the words “I’m bored”.

I’ve never been very tolerant of that complaint. I believe that kids need to be bored sometimes, and to develop the ability to find something to do. Which is what my mother always said to us if we complained we were bored. What came next was the ominous or I’ll find you something to do.

Thanks to a chance encounter with a cousin in Adelaide a few months ago, I have a new and lethal weapon against boredom.

My cousin and I ran into each other during a session at Adelaide Writer’s Week. We hadn’t seen each other for about three years – since her brother’s funeral, actually, which made for a charged atmosphere as we sat through the session, a panel discussion on death. Afterwards, we withdrew from the crowds assembled by the tents and sat under a tree high on the hill, overlooking it all. Voices drifted up to us, strangely disembodied, channelled through the speaker systems. In the shadows of this very public conversation, we talked intimately – for four hours straight – about our families.

Among the heavy issues, we laughed about how my approach to parenting often echoes my own upbringing. Our mothers, sisters-in-law, have always been close. We realised, unsurprised, that they also shared a lot of the same mantras. (“I’m hungry.”/ “Eat an apple.” / “I don’t want that.” / “Well, you’re not that hungry then, are you?”)

We got onto “I’m bored”. My cousin was surprised at my mother’s punchline.
“We NEVER said we were bored,” she laughed. “Because my mum would give us a chore to do!”
“Really?”
“Yep!”
“I might borrow that ...”

**

A few weeks ago, F and his best friend, the boy next door, were asking if they could play the computer. “No.” Could they watch a DVD? “No.” Deep sighs. They stretched out on the dining room floor.
“But we’re booooored,” they moaned. "There's nothing to doooo."
“Right!” I said. “Clean your room, then.”
“WHAT?!”
Their mouths literally fell open, their eyes wide. I wanted to laugh.
“I warned you a month ago about this.”
“We’re sorry! We didn’t mean it! Can this be a warning? We won’t do it again.”
“Nope. You had your warning.”

F had been absolutely charming all weekend. Polite, affectionate, fun. Now, from the bedroom, there came banging. Stomping. A low-level growl (the best friend) and a louder, black-toned barking (F).
“I HATE my mother! I wish someone else was my mother!”
Stomp, stomp. Shuffle, shuffle. Bang, bang.
“This is SO UNFAIR.”
I stifled giggles. Despite the anger, things were obviously getting done.
“Whose STUPID idea was this anyway?” called F.
“It was my cousin.”
“Well, I HATE your cousin. I wish you didn’t HAVE a cousin!”
“Maybe she’d hate you, too,” I replied serenely, and returned to my keyboard.

Twenty minutes later, the boys had called me in to inspect the room, and had eagerly bounded outside to find something to do. Success.

**

This morning, as F shelved his toothbrush and toothpaste, he sang out from the bathroom, apropos of nothing “I’m bored”. Pause.
“Okay, you can clean your room then.”
“But I’ll be late for school! I’m not really bored!”
“I know.” I looked up from cling-wrapping a sticky clump of frankfurters for his lunchbox. “You just wanted to see what I’d do, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
I let him off, in the spirit of healthy curiosity and – more importantly – getting to school on time. But this is one weapon in my parenting arsenary that I’m holding onto.

Thank you, cousin.

A lady is smoking

"Ladies can smoke?" The small voice behind me rings with disbelief.
"Hmmm."
Pause.
"Ladies can smoke." Wondering, amazed. "Men can smoke, too!"
"If they're silly enough."
"Ladies can smoke. Men can smoke. EVERYONE can smoke!"
"Mmmm."
"If they're SILLY enough."

Outside the cafe window, beneath a cobalt April sky, a lady is smoking at her footpath table. She is fashionably draped in black, caramel hair twisted in an artfully messy ponytail. Black sunglasses swim over her eyes. The smoke from her roll-your-own cigarette snakes over her head, over the empty table next to her. One table over, an immaculate baby sits on her mother's knee, barefoot. She examines a pale green lettuce leaf, turning it over in the sunlight. Slowly, languidly, a banner of smoke unfurls above her wispy head.

Across the road, in front of an empty cafe (closed for Monday), a man is smoking. It's the waiter who brought me my felafel, now discarded, half-eaten, at my elbow. He leans against a pole and watches across the road, measuring out his break by the dwindling cigarette.

"It's time for us to go."
I glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the Peter Rabbit books are returned to the shelves and the bill is paid.

Hungry for the ball

F and The Husband have been in training for the new football season for some weeks. Most afternoons after school, they retreat to the backyard or a local park to practise their kicking and marking.

'I'm so proud of you,' said The Husband after this Monday's session. 'You were hungry for the ball. You were in there, all the time, and that's why you did so well. Good on you.'
F beamed back at him over the dining room table, his forkful of chicken parma (perfect food for footballers) momentarily forgotten.
'If you can do that on Saturday, you'll be set.'

**

Last night, F was curled up over my feet on the couch, his head resting on The Husband's shoulder as they followed the progress of the Bulldogs/Essendon game on the screen. His Japanese manga novel lay forgotten on his lap.

Before The Husband arrived home 40 minutes earlier, we had been reading together: me with a manuscript balanced on my knees over a fleecy red blanket, him furled under the same blanket at the opposite end of the couch, his eyes fixed on his graphic novel. The kitchen was dark behind us; so was the sky behind the cheerful striped curtains at the lounge room window. The evening was quiet, broken only by the drone of the dogs' snoring and F's occasional giggle as he read. 'Mum! Listen! He says absolutely after everything, this guy. Listen, it's hilarious!'
'Ha!' I forced a distracted laugh (hey, I'm being truthful, here), and we returned to our mutual silence.

A symphony of barks broke the mood, followed by footsteps on the boards of the verandah and a fumbling in the lock. The Husband stood in the doorway, dogs leaping at his knees, F exclaiming his greetings, the aroma of grilled meat filling the room. He sat down, unwrapped his burger, kissed us hello, and turned on the TV.

Footy season.

'I'm going for the Dogs!' said F.
'Why?'
'Because I want to win my footy tipping and they're number two.'
'Oh. You're betraying Essendon for that?' He shook his head. Essendon is number three in F's hierachy of teams. (After West Coast and the Demons.)

Later, F's head was on my knee, his hair soft under my touch. I stroked him like a beloved pet. He didn't object.
'Can I have something to eat?'
'You can have an apple.'
'Okay.'

I stood to get it.
'But do you want to go to bed? You've got Auskick in the morning, maybe you should be fresh for that.'
'Okay.'

He stood and trotted obediently across the lounge and dining room and disappeared into the hallway. The Husband and I exchanged looks, impressed. In the bedroom, I sat beside him, kissed his forehead and hugged him tight. His arms closed around me, then dropped away as he rolled to face the wall and closed his eyes. There was none of the usual attempt to string out a conversation as long as possible.
'Good night, darling.'
'Good night mum.'

'Wow, that was very mature,' observed The Husband as I resumed my spot on the couch.
'It was.'

**

This morning, he was up early for Auskick. I could feel his presence beside the bed early. I looked at the bedside clock. 6am. Reached out and pulled him into bed for a morning cuddle.

Up at 8am. He'd served himself a bowl of Orangutangos, the sugary organic cereal that donates money to saving orangutans with every box. He'd convinced me to buy it after much pleading at the organic store yesterday, on the proviso that it was for weekends only.

I don't know if it was the cereal, adrenaline or both, but he was bouncing off the walls with excitement. I set him up to practice singing Green Day at the computer (music homework), lyric sheet in hand, as I showered and dressed.

The Husband and F went ahead while I found my shoes. At the gate, I encountered them coming back towards the house. The football had moved - from about six houses down the street to Yarraville Gardens, a 15 minute walk away. Now late instead of a bit early, we piled into the car.

At the oval at last, dosed up with a latte from the travelling coffee van in the carpark, I was relieved to see other parents dribbling in late, all of them coming via the usual venue.

F bounced and yowled in the line for the drills. He pulled faces, chanted, tackled his friends around the waist, and exchanged menacing shoves with a kid he was briefly friends with in Prep, but has been enemies with ever since. I play tennis (or used to) with the kid's mum, who I like. The kid is tall and blandly handsome - but, more importantly, confident and matter-of-factly competent at everything. And a dynamo at sport. He effortlessly attracts friends and pigtailed admirers in swarms, and has the strut that accompanies his exalted playground position. From the sidelines, I caught taunts every time F flubbed the ball (which was often, he was more caught up in clowning than the drills). The shoves and scowls escalated in intensity, but their lightning spats appeared to burn out quickly enough, even as I smouldered at the sidelines, hands clenched.

Nearer the kids, the Father who doesn't like F has taken up position, arms folded and gaze focused. His kids have told us that he doesn't want them playing with F because their dad doesn't like his attitude. Their mother (yes, The Mother) told me the other day that her throat was hoarse with all the shouting she'd done over the holidays because her kids DON'T LISTEN. ('Really?' I'd said. 'Oh. Well, I don't shout at them. I just have to tell them, you know, loudly, all the time, to do what they're told,' she'd croaked. 'Has it happened before?' I'd asked. 'Oh, yeah. Every holidays.')

'Shall we go closer and stand near The Father?' asked The Husband.
'No! I might say something I'd regret.'
'Yeah, me too.'
I hugged him. It's so great to have someone on your team.
'Those two are the kind of parents who think they're perfect and everyone else is wrong,' he continued.
'Yes. Yes they are.'

L's mum joined us, her coffee in hand now. ('It's crap,' she grimaced.) She caught the end of our conversation and snorted in agreement.
'There's a word for that,' she said darkly.
'What is it?'
'Oh, it'll come to me.'
We watched the boys and commented on what they were doing, on F's shoving, on the hugging and tackling that seems impossible to tell from actual fighting.
'I've got it!'
'What is it?'
'WHOLESOME. You know, those parents who think they have it all worked out. I know someone like that. We're friends, but we have opposite values.'
'Like what?'
'Like ... like, she didn't want to send her kids to [our school] because she didn't want them mixing with all the African children.'
'WHAT? Are you JOKING?'
'No. And I went over there the other day and she had all these private school catalogues on the kitchen table and she was writing down the pros and cons of them all. Private PRIMARY schools. She told me one day: You know, I always thought I'd be a Toorak mum.'
'REALLY?' This was hilarious. It distracted me from the boys. A welcome distraction, really.
'Yup. I didn't tell her that that's how we all think of her anyway. A Toorak mum stuck in little old Yarraville.'

Before the game was played, there was time for questions and a pep talk with a couple of Bulldogs players. F, typically, asked two questions. ('What's Akka like?' and 'Who is your Brownlow pick?') Then there were free team photos handed out and autographs for the kids. Lots of them were wearing Bulldogs team caps and jerseys, so they crowded around to get their clothes signed.
'I'm going to cut this autograph out and stick it on his football card!' F declared triumphantly, waving his team photo at us.
'Mmm, that sounds a bit tricky.'
The Husband said his goodbyes. He had to get to work. F's dad arrived to pick him up. (This was all running well over time by now.) Instead, he was just in time for the show.

**

Game time.

Sigh.

What can I say?

F was, indeed, hungry for the ball. He chased it all over the field. He managed to get it quite a few times.

He also wrestled players to the ground in too-rough tackles and screamed in frustration when those players were awarded free kicks as a result. He yelled and cried when L, one of his best friends, kicked a goal f(he was on the opposing team). In fact, he ran off the field and shouted and cried on the far end of the oval. The Father led him back to the game. (The shame of it.)

And he shoved the kid who'd been needling him all morning to the ground with a flash of intensity and viciously kicked him as he lay on the grass, leaving the kid bawling, moaning and clutching his knee.

Which is where I intervened to tell him off, along with the coach.

At the end of the game, the coach approached me to ask what F's deal was. I explained that he has Asperger's and has trouble controlling his emotions and also knowing the line when it comes to tackling. I explained that he has trouble coping with losing or not doing things perfectly. That he and The Kid had been having issues all moring and that there was a story to why he lost it like that, though it was of course totally unacceptable. That I would talk to him about his attitude.

The coach had a talk to F, and I think he handled it well. We both told him he needs to tell the coaches if there is a problem, not resort to violence.
'Right. So I should be a dobber?' F sobbed.
'If someone was bothering you in the classroom, would you push them to the ground and kick them or tell the teacher?'
'Tell the teacher.'
'Okay, then. The coach is your teacher.'

There were more chats in the car ... about attitude and positivity and teams and sportsmanship. About me being embarassed and ashamed about the day's behaviour, though I am generally very proud of him and he is the best thing in my life.

'F, I'll tell you one thing,' I said, twisting around to face him in the back seat. 'Aren't you glad your coach [The Husband] wasn't there and had to go to work? That he didn't have to see that.'
His face was stricken, the defiance slipping from his eyes, replaced by shame.
'Don't tell him! Please!'
'I'll see. But you have a chance to make a fresh start next week. It's the first game he'll see. Yeah? Does he need to coach you on attitude instead of footy skills this week?'
'Maybe I need both.'

**

God I hate Auskick. And I doubt that football is really a good thing for an Asperger's child. BUT football gives him a much-needed social glue and he seems to enjoy playing it at school. And he and The Husband have so much fun playing it and watching it together. Sigh. I guess anything worth having needs to be worked for. Maybe that includes this.

What (not) to wear ... or do to your hair

WARNING: Slightly exhausted narcissism ahead

This week I've decided, without really deciding, that I suddenly care about my looks, after not really caring for a while. I must have glimpsed my self in a mirror and got a shock. Actually, no, it's two things. Three things. One: saw photos of myself and hated them. Two: F told me: 'no offence, but the bottom of your hair really doesn't match the top of your hair. It needs to be darker.' Three: I put on outfits in the morning - winter clothes, for the first time in ages - and The Husband looks at me askance, like I'm all wrong.

When your child is commenting on your regrowth, it must be pretty bad. Even if it IS a typically blunt Asperger's child.

So, I got a garbage bag and filled it to the brim with clothes from my cupboards and drawers. Including a lot of long-sleeved tops that I wear underneath things that have shrunken with countless washes and need singlets underneath them to protect my torso from the elements.

Shopping. One flattering cardigan (to replace about four unflattering ones I ditched) and a long-sleeved black top that fits.

Hairdresser. Chopped off about half the length and asked for a colour that would spawn minimal regrowth. One shade darker than my natural colour (which I haven't seen in, oh, 15 odd years). Almost black.

Reactions? F thinks I need to grow my hair back and that it's TOO dark now. And that my new cardigan looks 'weird'.

The Husband approves of both.

F's father looked at me, paused, then said 'you look very gothic'. To which I sarcastically responded 'I don't think I can take any more compliments today' and walked off. Very teenage behaviour I know, but this week I feel like a teenager.

I feel like maybe I look like I made an effort with my appearance at some point over the past year. But I did prefer not thinking about my appearance too much and plan to return to that happy state soon, which is usually broken only when I see my younger (twin) sisters (a few times a year), which always makes me think I should lose weight. They are very slender, with concave stomachs, and look vaguely like me - which is what makes the comparison so disconcerting. Ah well. They haven't had a child. And they have seven years on me.

Last night, dressing to go out, I walked through the lounge room and The Husband said 'F, look at your mum'. F looked at me and smirked, then started laughing.
'What?' I said and he shook his head. 'No, what?'
'It's just that your bum looks REALLY big in that dress.'
I turned around and returned to the bedroom. I could hear The Husband saying 'F, NEVER do that, really,' in awed tones. 'You should never say that to a woman.'
'Why?'
'They don't like it.'

It was an hour later that his dad made the gothic comment.

Luckily, this week, I don't need to go further than school or the local cafe to buy my chicken pie and latte. That should give me time to get used to not caring again ...

Rebel without a clue: A true story from long ago

It’s not every day that that your flatmate moves their furniture out while you’re at work, disappearing for good. But it happened to me.

I don’t know what it would have been like to arrive home and be surprised by the empty room. As it was, I discovered her disappearance when I rang home to check my messages during the day.

This was my goodbye note, as delivered by Telstra Message Bank:

“Hi, it’s Rebel here. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve had to move out to go live with my sister because her boyfriend has just been arrested in London and she’s had to go over there to be with him, so I have to look after her house while she’s gone. She’s having to spend her savings on getting over there, so she doesn’t have enough money to pay her rent. So, I’ll have to stay living with her even after she gets back, to help her out. I’m really sorry about running out on you like this, but she is my sister and she needs me. And I had to move out suddenly like this, because it was the only time that Tom could help me move my stuff. I’ll call you again later and leave some money for the bills. Sorry. Bye.”

I hung up needing a cigarette. I needed to go outside and think. I definitely needed to get away from customers. How can you think about whether the new Tara Moss is out yet and avoid answering the question about whether it’s any good, when all you can really think about is what you’ll do to pay the gaping hole in next month’s rent?

Sitting in the alleyway behind Little Collins Street, I felt oddly relieved. I didn’t really like Rebel anyway.

She had been better than Bob, the sixty-something retired tradesman who told me he watched TV all day and had two girlfriends, one of them my age. (“Nice big screen,” he had said approvingly of the wooden 1970s box that Jason had bought through the Trading Post and left behind.) She had been better than the truck driver who had asked if he could park his rig in the street. And better than the (really quite sweet) student from the country who said the only problem was that she might have to move back there in a few months. When Rebel turned up at the door, sister in tow, twenty-something, chatty without being irritating and with only a bike to park, I’d been ecstatic to install her in the big front bedroom.

But Rebel was weird. Or maybe she just thought I was weird. I don’t know. The first thing that went wrong was on the day she moved in.

*********************

The room was empty, except for a freestanding six-door cupboard that almost entirely covered one wall. It was a truly monstrous thing, another relic of Jason’s hurried departure. Honey-coloured wooden panelling with mirrors plastered across its breadth, so that your reflection seemed to follow you around the room. Rebel loved it. So, even though I’d been planning to somehow get rid of it once someone took the room, I left it for her. While she was moving her stuff in, there was a splintering crash that drew me running from the kitchen, where I’d been deliberately staying out of their way. Three accusing heads (Rebel, her sister, their friend Tom) turned to look at me as I approached the mess that had been Jason’s cupboard.

“I just opened the doors,” said Rebel.

It was like it had torn itself apart at her touch. The flimsy chipboard backing had sprung free from the nails holding it to the frame and flung itself backwards. And worse, the body had tipped perilously forward, throwing open its outer doors and spewing out glass shards onto the carpet.

“It fell on me,” she said.

Luckily, she had caught it. Together the four of us tipped the whole mess backward and leaned it against the wall. I went to get the vacuum and a rubbish bag for the glass. It was easy to take the cupboard apart after that. Piece by piece, we moved it down the passage and stacked it in a corner of the shed. Tom and Rebel’s sister went home to get a wire hanging rack for Rebel. Exhausted, Rebel made chicken two-minute noodles in the microwave and took her dinner into her room.

She ate her dinner there every night after that, for the whole of the six weeks she spent living in Jason’s old room.


**

This is, as you'll probably realise, something I found while browsing forgotten folders on my computer. All true, even the names. Really, who names their daughter Rebel? What do they expect? I never got any money for the bills. And a trucker and his fiancee moved in after that. One night they saw me reading a book on the couch and responded with dumbfounded awe. ('You gonna read that whole THING?') I was glad to move out of there.

Another meme: 5 things

Helen tagged me for this meme - sharing facts about yourself, random and weird.

The rules of this meme are:
Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names, and links to their blogs.
Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

So, here goes ...

1. I don't like cooking or housework. I wish I did. So many people say they love to cook these days, including a lot of my friends. Sometimes I feel like a bit of a freak that I can't say 'me too' and join in with a recipe tip involving seasonal market produce, or mention the cuisine I'm currently hooked on. But I'm not like that, and I've decided I'm too old to pretend to like things I don't. I cook to eat, and sometimes I put in an effort, sometimes I'm really quite lazy. F thinks I'm a great cook, though, based on my pita bread pizzas with ham, cheese and tomato paste, my family pancake recipe that I copied from my parents, and the salad wraps I make him for lunch (pita bread again). Oh, and cheesy scrambled eggs - yes, scrambled eggs with cheese added. Genius. And there you go ... I have shared recipes, after all.

2. I have Asperger's Syndrome. After F was diagnosed last year, and one too many things sounded awfully familiar, I sat through four sessions and got my own diagnosis. It seems that my dad, my brother and probably my dad's dad (long since dead) have it, too, though they haven't been offficially diagnosed. How I feel about this depends very much on the day/week/month you ask me about it. Most of the time I'm not particularly bothered.

3. I am 32 years old and I don't have a driver's licence and will probably never get one. I don't know why, really, but I'm not mechanically minded, and that's part of it.

4. I got together with my husband at a work Christmas party over seven years ago. He worked in a bookshop down the road from mine, owned by the same people, and he used to volunteer to take the store transfers down so that he could talk to me. Later, he, his sister, me and my flatmate all worked together in the same bookshop at the same time. It was fun. A bit like high school, really. (Only fun.)

5. When I was young, I think about ten or so, I remember wanting to have a house by the sea with a tin roof and an open fire, so that I could sit inside on winter's days and listen to the rain. I'd still like that.

I tag Cristy, Redcap, Audrey, Eleanor Bloom and ThirdCat.

Easter break

The price of fame

'I'm a bit tired of being famous,' he sighed, over an after-school apple at the kitchen table.
'Oh?'
'I had someone ask me for my autograph today.'
'Really?'
'Well, they came up and told me they'd seen me in the paper. And I said,do you want my autograph? And they said yes. I was joking, but they were serious. I signed their hand with my pen.'

I try not to laugh.

'And people keep on coming up and telling me they've seen me in the paper. Some of them have even done it twice. And I'm like, I know!'
'Do you say that?'
'No. I think it.'
'Ah.'
'I'm getting a bit sick of it.'

There is a moment's silence.

'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I tell you what, if the chance ever comes up again for you to be in the paper, I'll say no.'
'NO!'
'So, you'd WANT to be in the paper?'
'Yes.'

'Well,' I say. 'I guess that's the price of fame. If you're in the paper, people will come up and tell you they've seen you. You can't switch it off when you want to. You either want the attention, or you don't. It's up to you.'
'I'll be in the paper. Definitely.'

Overheard at Flinders Street station

'I like movies about real heroes. Because that's what I aspire to be - heroic.'

Does it seem interesting to anyone else that she had an American accent?