Memoir Monday - The Ring

Here we are for another Memoir Monday on a Tuesday, yada, yada, yankee time difference, blah, blah, blah... oh, and Trav. I WAS here last week, where were you? Hmmmm? Bit hard having a Memoir Monday without the host, ya know.

Now, a little back I referred to my heartbreak over losing my ring. In that story I mentioned the importance of this engagement ring, not only for all it symbolises between Big Boy and I, but also because of the role Wise Woman played in the whole fiasco situation.

And so today my Memoir Monday is, as it says in the title of this post...

THE Ring.

I am sure I have mentioned my performance before, probably in one of those 10 things about yourself posts in the early days. Forgive me if I am repeating something you have already read.

We are going back, back through the years, back to the beginning of the Madmother & Big Boy clan. My wonderful soul mate has just proposed in a reasonably romantic manner, well romantic for the boy he was. Loving and knowing me well, he chose not to design THE RING prior to this proposition, choosing to avoid a madmother meltdown if her control freak ways were not catered to cater to his beloved's little endearing quirks of nature.

Now I will let you know I adore vintage and antique rings. In fact at that point I already owned three, left to me by my wonderful Yee-ha Grandma. So I knew pretty much the design I wanted. I even had an old Angus and Coote catalogue from the 1920's, again left to me by my beloved Grandma, from which I picked a design, or rather a blend of several of the designs within the pages. We went diamond shopping (yes, one of those brokers who specialise in stones alone and would only let you past the armed guards and the security locks if you knew the secret squirrel password and hush-hush handshake), and we went jeweller shopping. Now the first jeweller was situated in the glorious Strand Arcade.

Gorgeous, isn't it. Wise Woman tagged along as she was on holidays staying with us. And because I asked her (a woman of far more elegance and discerning taste than I will ever be). Off we toddle, meet up with Big Boy in his lunch break (looking mighty fine as a boy in a suit, I might add). Discussed design, showed them the various elements from the catalogue I wanted, received quote. Let's just say back then it would have served perfectly as the deposit on your first house. Holy crap! In their defence a lot of the cost was in re-creating the old moulds used to create such fine work on those rings. Well, that's what they told us anyway.

At this point I could quickly see my perfect ring fast becoming an unattainable dream, but we decided to go out to a more suburban shopping centre for another quote, just in case it was feasible.

Big Boy had to work (to earnt the $$$$ to pay for his delicate little petal's obsession desire), so Wise Woman and I went on a preliminary reconnaissance all by our lonesomes out to Eastgardens. Now, do remember back in them days it was not the massive centre it is today. Noooo. It was actually quite small by today's standards. There was a jeweller I had dealt with previously, and I was sure they could help. Off we trot, anticipation building as we ride the escalator up to the top where they were located.

To find them shut. A Jewish holiday apparently. No, I'm not Jewish and had no bloody idea they were. And so, Madmother threw a tanty. A pretty embarrassingly loud, large one according to my mum.

Now, Wise Woman had been dealing with Madmother for thirty-two years by this point. She may have been slender and elegant, but she was also a tough lady underneath that gentile exterior. Quick as a flash she grabbed my arm in a vicelike grip, hissed in my ear to grow up and stop behaving like a five year old, and she had spotted another jeweller at the bottom of the escalator. By this time I am in martyr mode and sniff disdainfully "Well, I am sure THEY will have nothing suitable for ME." But I have no choice in the matter as she maintains her hold and drags me back down to the store.

Well, you guessed it. Not only was the man a master designer and jeweller, he had been apprenticed to his father and still had his Dad's ORIGINAL MOULDS. Voila! One glorious brilliant cut diamond solitaire ring, designed exactly along my heart's desires, and at HALF the price quoted by the city centre lot. And so this ring became a symbol of more than the love between a man and woman, it represented the love, tolerance and none of that behaviour from you young lady relationship of a mother with her daughter. 

As per usual my wonderful Wise Woman was right. You'd a thunk after having her as my mum for the previous three plus decades I'd of learnt to shut up and listen, huh?

This is my Memoir Monday. Love you Mum, wish you were here.



Auction for Lori  is about to start tomorrow. Pop on over to facebook to see the goodies, place a bid, and support this gorgeous woman in her time of need.

Memoir Monday - The Boy Sure Can Dance

Click on the link above and jump on over to Trav's blog.

I am in desperate need of some light relief (and sleep) so am going to jump in with a memory Big Boy and a lovely friend dragged up from the memory banks during a chat last night.

In my late teenage years I had a friend, a rock boy, cool dude, every girl wants to vertical tango with sorta friend. Well every girl bar me 'cause I never was one to run with the crowd. Let's call him Brad. Now Brad could dance, and at every gig I went to he'd be at the front near the stage boogying like an epileptic mid seizure. People cleared the area around him... one, because they didn't want to slip on the combination of his dripping sweat and the dribbling drool from the group of chicks standing as close as they could without two, being ko'd from his swinging arms, gyrating torso or other bits of random bodyish bits a bobbing... You get the picture.

This was the 80's. The time of simple drugs and lots of alcohol. The days before random breath testing when partying meant you hit it hard. And Brad did. And danced.

Soooooooo, this one Friday night we are at the local little club. It overlooks the riverbank and has a balcony along the length of one side. Floor to ceiling plate glass windows separate dance floor from verandah. The lights are flashing in that wierd psychadelic manner they called lighting the band in those days. Music is pumping, Brad is going for it. We are sitting at our usual table looking unimpressed. It was important to look disinterested in those days.

A massive crash and the sound of glass shattering draws our jaded gazes back to the stage and dance floor. Have you worked it out? Yep. Brad had boogied his way straight through one of the massive windows. And is still gyrating that taut arse, swinging his arms, kicking his legs in THE EXACT SAME MANNER out on the deck. Not a pause in his rhythm, totally uninjured.

The club manager was unimpressed. Which of course was tres cool back in those days.

Memoir Monday - Back to the 80's!

Trav went missing in action again last week, so I'm gonna do my blog hop McLinky thingo again. Just in case he ain't up to a Memoir Monday this week either. You know, as a mate and all.
Drivel from the Trav:
Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!


Mine is short and sweet this week, as I'm *ahem* meant to be working on the great Aussie Novel for Saturday. Yes THIS Saturday. Five sleeps. Off to change undies now...
 
Back. Okay my post for today is:
 

How Little Things Change - A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words!

 
 
1982:
 

 
 
2010:
 

1980's party

A Madmother has no need to grow up, merely out...

Come and join the fun - add your entry to the link!

Memoir Monday - Roo Bouncing.

An Aussie list on a couple of other blogs has stirred the dusty old memory banks once more. Item number whatever... Have you ever hit a roo?

I have. Two of them in fact. But this Memoir on Monday is about the first. So buckle up that seatbelt and hang on tight. Grip the old JC bar if it helps.

A Roolly You Beaut True Blue Roo Rant.

I'm taking you back... Back into the dim dark days of my once wild youth. Back to a time when fun was easy, all you needed was a mate by your side and the hot blood of invincible teenage years. Oh, and a car with a bit of grunt.

Nooooo - not that one ->

<- This one!

It is early evening. Me, aged seventeen, and my BFF are meant to be studying for an HSC exam. No idea now which one it was. We had done some study, honest. But the brains were feeling foggy so we decided to go for a quick burn in my little blue Mazda. Now my BFF lived on a farm in the boondocks. Lots of deserted roads to take for a short drive and some fun. We head onto the beach road. No lights, dark starless night, thick bush either side of bichumen, no other traffic.

Smart arse BFF dares me to see how my little car flies. The hoon in me happily accepts the challenge. Please note: I am only a P plater.

Foot hits the floor, car easily glides up to 100 k's, then 120. We fly along through the black night, over hills, around curves. Common sense kicks back in, I slow down. Sitting at around a safe 70 k's on a straight stretch, BFF grins over at me in the dim interior and says: "Jeez, we would have been mincemeat if you had hit a roo!"

Next instant  -

BANG

You guessed it. Out of the bush a lone roo with suicidal tendencies leaps in front of the car. Slam brakes on, roo bounds away seemingly unharmed. BFF looks at me, we both crack up. Still laughing, we get out of car to survey what we think will be minimal damage from the light impact. We stop laughing. It was not minimal. It really was not minimal. We were both very quiet on the return trip. And I had to think up an excuse for being in the middle of nowhere when I should have been studying.

Bloody roos. Well, maybe it was just a big wallaby. But it was large enough to cause some mighty expensive extensive damage.  *mutter*mutter*curse*curse*

Memoir Monday: The Fighting Spirit.

The events over the last few days have had me looking deeply into myself and my principles. When the facebook group I was a member of accepted a mere token gesture, which did not address the true issue at hand, and in my eyes, the whole point of why the group was formed in the first place, I was disappointed. When I was accused of having agendas, and being a trouble-maker because I voiced said disappointment and disillusionment, I was seriously unimpressed and began to question the reasons behind the group, and what hidden machinations may have been causing such a strong knee-jerk reaction to myself several others, disagreeing with the admin. Once censorship entered the picture I deleted myself from the group.

Yes, I am referring to the link I posted in my last thread. The group once called PRUE MACSWEEN AND CHANNEL 7 SHOULD APOLOGISE which is now called PRUE MACSWEEN and CHANNEL 7 HAVE APOLOGISED....FINALLY!!! Which is sad considering all Prue Macsween apologised for was her use of the word retard in relation to boys. Not for her comments on segregation, not for her antiquated views on locking away the little disabled kiddies as not fit for human eyes, not for recommending we train them before allowing them out like a bunch of circus animals for the latest exhibit, oh no, NOT A WORD ON ANY OF THAT! But to each their own. If they choose to believe this is a win and not patronising at all, so be it. I just want no part of it, them, or their own agendas for fifteen minutes in the spotlight. Just my take on things after messages sent with accusations, deleted comments, censorship, and little tanty's erupted yesterday.

It did make me sit and look at my own ideals, actions and motivation however. I am further along in this journey than some of the organisers, and would have thought my fighting spirit would be jaded, less driven, and more tired than theirs. A little more rational and accepting, less raw.  I guess I assumed they would have more fight in them than I do nowadays. I was wrong.

Now, you're probably wondering what this has to do with a Memoir Monday? Well this sense of right and wrong, this belief in fighting until you win (or receive an apology), I think it came from here. Just maybe.

Memoir Monday: Don't Mess with Grandma.

Yes, yee-ha Grandma once more. As you probably have gathered over the other two posts about her, this woman had a very large role in shaping who I am today. I have been incredibly lucky to have had such a wonderful person to inspire me, and teach me by example. And now I'm going to tell you a little story. Yes, another one.

Yee-ha Grandma, as some of you know, was a Real Estate Agent but she also owned a number of investment properties of her own. One of these properties is the centre of today's story.

We lived in a largish rural town, and one day a beeg company decided this town needed a shopping centre. The shopping centre was to take up all bar a small section of a large country town block. Yee-ha Grandma's property was dead centre of the main arm of the retail centre. 

Now being a private development resumption laws did not apply. Which meant the beeg company had been quietly buying up a lot of properties prior to the announcement being made, and then grabbing the rest as quickly and cheaply as they could. Until they hit Grandma's place.

Ever notice how people underestimate the older generation? Well, the local agent representing this company was known to Yee-ha Grandma. As a small boy he was found to be deceptive and sly, not trustworthy at all. As he grew his reputation remained unchanged. Having dealt with him on a business level for many years, Yee-ha Grandma had NO respect for him whatsoever. And when he knocked on her door, flashy tie and smarmy smile in place she opened it, and promptly shut it again in his face. He rang, he cajoled, and finally, desperate and with masses of pressure bearing down on him, he came around to canvas her dear family to make her see sense. The offer had been increased again and again by this stage.

I can clearly remember the conversation on our front verandah (I was around sixteen at the time). Freddie, yes that was his name, stupid name for a forty-something year old, initially tried to flatter Wise Woman. He had somehow learnt of the loss of the flame-haired hellraiser, and offered to put a monument in her honour at the front of the shopping centre. The look of disdain which showed on all our faces at his tacky suggestion and inappropriateness quickly had him switching tactics to hint that Yee-ha Grandma was hitting senility and should have control of her financial matters taken from her. I think it was at this ridiculous point my gentile, refined mother told him to go peddle his wares off our property or else she would set the dogs on him. (Mind you, we were lucky he didn't call our bluff or else the geriatric miniature silky terrior would have had his work cut out for him.)

Wise Woman went inside and rang Yee-ha Grandma to dob him in inform her of the latest development, after which Grandma rang the property development company directors and told them if they wished to ever come to an arrangement with her the board needed to fly to country town to meet with her directly. Oh, and if Freddie ever contacted her or any family member again, said property would be put into a perpetual trust NEVER to be sold.

They arrived the following week. And paid her triple the market value of the property. I still remember the awe and admiration this earnt her within the community. Also the respect shown to her by this bunch of powerful businessmen who were in charge of a mult-million dollar company. Never condescending nor patronising, they knew she had them by the short and curly's, and were impressed by her negotiation skills in that face to face meeting. I don't think they nor Freddie ever again disparaged the wisdom and experience age brings.


I guess the lesson here is she always stuck to her guns, and fought for what she believed in. I was brought up with the conviction if you feel strongly about something then you fight for it. You do not capitulate, you do not censor those who disagree, and you do not become some egotistical buffoon who bullies those they are meant to be working with for change.

Sometimes in battle the truly brave and honourable are those you never imagined, and the black knight turns out to be someone you never expected. Sad, really, when adversity reveals true colours.

Memoir Monday - A Slap in Time

Short and sweet, this Memoir Monday on a Tuesday.

Trav evoked a faded memory with this week's post about being slapped. Now, you may think because I am outspoken (loud), opinionated (loud), and downright ornery (very loud) sometimes that I would have a lot of slap receiving history in my jaded past. Not true. Maybe people are scared of me (hah, if only they knew), or perhaps I am not quite as controversial as I like to think? But the only slapping history I have is this one.

Picture this, I am in my late twenties, a professional career woman, a responsible adult. I am reversing MY car out of my parents' driveway. Some moron, thinking he is invisible, comes flying round the corner and up the street, which is in the centre of town, doing about 80 clicks. Nearly wipes out rear of my car, gives me the finger. I snarl in retaliation "Fucking idiot!"

WHACK.

My very petite, refined, elegant mother, Wise Woman, belts me across the top of my left arm. And then repeats motion again. Glaring intimidatingly from the passenger seat she utters: "I do not care how old you are, you are still my daughter and I WILL NOT tolerate such language from you." 

Ouch. For someone so little she sure packed a punch. My arm is throbbing just thinking about it.

Thanks Trav. Really needed to re-live this moment, right? Right.

Memoir Monday - Everyone Needs a Monty.

Now Trav seems to have dropped the MMs again, but I like 'em and just in case he doesn't make an appearance AGAIN this week, am adding a Linky here for anyone who want to join. So look at the end of this week's speil and jump on in if you wish.

I am finding inspiration from other bloggers for a lot of these posts. This week it is the turn of Maggie over at Mind of a Mad Woman with her beautifully poignant post on caring for the elders of our lives. Go read, and take tissues. As for my Memoir Monday, I give you:

The Full Monty

Once upon a time there was a young Madmother who had a loving family with a cast of regular characters. Parents, sibling, Aunts, Uncles, cousins, grandparents. But this little girl was blessed. She had someone that no-one else she knew had, and that everyone needs. She had a Monty. Now, what is a Monty, I can hear you ask. A Monty, in this story, was the close friend and business partner of Yeeha Grandma. A man who never married, had no close family living, whose life revolved around work and making sure little Madmother and the flame-haired hellraiser were protected, loved and happy. He was family.

Now, I could at this point tell you lots of little stories made up of memories of days long past. Things like how little MM and her pals would run and hide giggling in the sandhills of deserted beaches as the Monty climbed and searched, calling constantly, becoming more and more agitated. Secure in a child's blissful ignorance of the predators that could steal innocence, they would wait until his yells had reached fever pitch before launching themselves from their secret spot and into his strong,safe arms. Or of how he would lean over little MM's bed in her Grandma's house and pretend to dribble, waiting until that long thread of drool would almost land on her contorted face before sucking it back into his mouth (yeah gross, but hysterically funny to a five-year-old tomboy).

Of the many words of wisdom and long counselling sessions as Madmother grew older. He was the one who would sit and listen without judgement, hold her hand as she cried, cook MM bacon and home-made chips to heal her bruised heart  and to eat whilst they'd watch The Bill.

Of how he played a solid, constant role in her life as she studied, travelled, grew up. How Monty was always there when MM needed him.

But that is not what this Memoir Monday is about. No.This is about when lives are reversed and the carer becomes the one who needs care. It is about being elderly in a largely  indifferent world. It is about the cruelty of aging.

He suffered a stroke, but after sucessfully fighting back via rehab, he contracted pneumonia which caused permanent damage. The Monty with incredibly high intelligence and possessed of rapier sharp intellect became irreversibly confused and frail of mind. The adult became the child.

As time passed he no longer recognised many, but MM was lucky to be a constant in his thoughts. She came home as often as she could, keeping visits as close to fortnightly as possible. His dimmed azure blue eyes would clear of the clouds when she walked into the nursing home that was now his place of residence. He was one of the very select few permitted to abbreviate her short name, and he would stroke her arm, crying, saying "T**y, you're home, you haven't been to see me for so long." And over the weekend each time she returned it was to be greeted with the same refrain. Time had ceased to have meaning for him, which was a blessing in some ways, a curse in others.

He regressed into another world, another time. Sitting in his massive water chair (like a king on his throne) he commanded the other patients in the common room, directing the mayhem.
Some days the Monty of old would appear, wanting to wheel and deal. He would advise MM, teaching her how to strike a bargain, usually imagining the purchase of the furniture in the room, though he confessed to be concerned over "How to get the old ducks to move out of our chairs..." Other times they were in his old truck, and he would patiently explain how to double-clutch up the hill with the full load of frozen prawns. And of course MM would be lectured long and hard on not parking in the sun with those damnably expensive seafood items in the rear.

The hardest times were when he was frustrated, and the anger would bubble forth. These were the times he accused her of leaving him stranded on the train platform, or of having a fiduciary motive for keeping him locked up. These were the days she paced the hallways letting off steam and trying to dredge up the good memories. These were the moments the staff would pass and mutter :"Bad day. Always remember they lash out at those nearest and closest to their hearts." And whilst it was not home, and privacy or personal space were a thing of the past, the caring staff made life bearable in the public fish bowl. A kind word, a fleeting touch, the joy in a worn face as they listen to the same story again and again. MM was truly grateful for the care and respect shown under such difficult circumstances.

It was heartbreaking to watch the slow mental and physical decline of a man who was a well-respected part of the business community. Madmother's memory was full of the times walking down a busy city street when they were stopped three or four times by well-dressed men who shook Monty's hand in reverence and awe. Now that same hand shook uncontrollably as he attempted to spoon thickened soup between trembling lips.

Two long years he lingered in his own personal twilight zone. At the very end as he hovered two or three days, MM remained by his side, sleeping in a chair by his bedside at night. During his rare lucid moments she sat, stroked his hand and talked of all he had given her over the years. And talked of Grandma waiting patiently for her congenial companion to cross to her side. He left this life one bright, sunny day, with a deeply contented sigh as if signalling "My work here is done."

Whilst his loss was felt so very much, Madmother also gratefully realised how very blessed she was to have a Monty in her life.

And when her children were small she'd lean over their beds, kiss them goodnight, then raise herself up and allow a long thin string of dribble to lower nearly but not quite onto their hysterical faces...

Memoir Monday: Yee-ha, Grandma!

Yada, yada, you know it. I have copied this, as always, from the Trav's blog:
Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab the code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!
Comment on Trav's blog post if you want to be linked. Cause I ain't doin' it for ya!

Now, I must thank the gorgeous, bubbly one, Melissa for giving me my Memoir Monday inspiration. I didn't have one of those fairytale Nanna's either Mel. Not like this:

Or this:

No siree. My grandmother, known as Grandma, was flamboyant and funny, extremely bright and opinionated, loving and devoted yet tough. I wrote about her many eons ago, of her love of driving, her Pied Piperesque attraction for the neighbourhood kids, her loss, but someone as large in character as Grandma could not be captured in one post. And so for today's Memoir Monday tale I give you:

Yee-ha Grandma!

Now, you're probably wondering about the red, right? There is a reason, but you guessed there would be, didn't you. Right up until her death, I never saw my grandmother without her face on. This consisted of pancake foundation, loose powder, and Revlon's Red Red lipstick. Even today, twenty years after she has been gone, when I see someone with those truly red lips I think to myself: "Wonder if it's Revlon Red Red?"

On any other elderly woman it would have looked ridiculous. On Grandma, well it suited her. She was strong in personality, and strong in her beliefs. She also maintained her curly blonde hair until her passing, managing to fit in a perm a few weeks before she was hospitalised.

I grew up constantly being told I, as a woman, could achieve anything I set my mind to. Now this, you need remember, came from a woman who was born in the late 1800's. A woman who left and subsequently divorced my grandfather in the 1930's. A lady who sold dresses door to door to farmer's wives who hid the egg money from their husbands. Who went on to become one of the first female Real Estate agents in New South Wales, and who set many a sales record which were unbroken for decades. This woman, who at nearly 91, still was a practising agent, and sat up and signed the business cheques from her hospital bed.

My memories of my grandmother are true and strong today. She had a huge role in forming who I am, and I love it when people (her daughter, Wise Woman included) comment "Oh, you are just like your grandmother!" even when they do not mean it as a compliment. I am a formidable foe, as she was. I have a strong sense of black and white on moral issues, as she did, and I am a loyal and true friend like her.

This incredible woman chose her own way out. Admitted to hospital for a minor health issue (though nothing is minor in your nineties), I did not realise she was ready to let life go. I had completed my degree, was employed in a prominent, successful company, in her eyes I was settled. I was by her side when she went in, and kissed her goodbye before driving back to the city. It was in the days before mobile phones, and so it was early the next day upon my arrival at work I received THE call. Grandma had slipped into a coma and was not expected to live.

I do not know if she realised by instilling her strength of will and ability to fight adversity that I would not accept this lightly. I sadly missed an urgently booked flight by ten short minutes, and instead drove the four and a half hours crying and praying for her to be alive upon my arrival.

We were met by her doctor at reception. "She will not survive the night," he proclaimed to my mother and I. I think now I must have given him the Grandma look of total disdain, for he stepped back, alarmed. I know my thoughts were stupid man, if you think that you do not know my grandmother at all! By this time it was mid-afternoon and outside of visiting hours. Nobody attempted to stop me as I took my place by her bedside. For the next three or fours hours I sat and argued with her in a one-sided debate.

"You cannot do this to me, what will I do without you."
"I love you, if you love me don't give up. Fight, for me if not yourself."
"I won't be okay with this, I can't cope with losing you, please, please come back."

Yes, I was a very self-focused young woman, and looking back it was incredibly selfish an attitude, and really quite arrogant of me. I think the nurses thought I was mad, I know the doctor believed I was delusional. But I believe you may be already aware of the outcome.

It was early evening, and dinner was being served to the other patients. Once more I squeezed her unmoving hand, and said: "I love you" with all the fierceness I could muster in my exhaustion. Her warm fingers tightened around mine, and her frail, dry voice croaked out a cracked "love you too." Yes, my Grandma came back out of love and concern for me.

For the next five days she counselled me, explained her desire to be free of this world where her body was failing her. She did not want to be here if her mind did too, and she explained I needed to let her go. Time to grow up a little.

In one of our last conversations I asked her: "What if you change your mind? What if you get close and decide you want to live?" She gave me THAT look, probably very similar to the one I had given the doctor on arrival. In her words: "I came back for you once, what on earth makes you think I couldn't do it again if I chose?"

Unbenownst to me she had told her daughter, Wise Woman, and niece, that she would not go if either myself or her business partner and dear friend were present. She quietly slipped back into a coma on Saturday morning, and waiting until myself and her partner had left for a brief time, she sighed and slipped away. My Mum and her cousin were there together to support each other to the end. Just as Grandma had decreed.

Sorry if this is not the usual light and funny MM. I had intended it to be, but somewhere along the way it became a post from the heart.

I owe a lot to this incredible, formidable woman and thank God for allowing me to be a part of her life every single day. She is still here with me. Be it in a phrase or a look, or the passionate way I live my life. No halfway measures for the granddaughter of Grandma. It just would not be acceptable.

Oh, and to get the title - you need to follow the link to my old post about her.

Memoir Monday - Toot, Toot!

Stolen from the Trav's blog: Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab the code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along! Of course, you also need to comment on Trav's blog post to be linked, lol.

So, here we go... buckle down, it ain't pretty.

Once upon a time in a far off country town there lived a family of four: Grumblebum (father), Wise Woman (mother), Flame Haired One (oldest daughter) and a very young Madmother (younger daughter). They were a happy little clan, and surprisingly (for those who know the MM now) religious to some extent.

On this special day the fof were attending the local Anglican Church for their oldest daughter's confirmation. You know, the bit where you study for weeks and weeks, then go off to the church, get blessed, make a few promises and finally are allowed to sip that grog and chomp that wafer (actually, it is the other way around, but meh). And this particular confirmation of twenty or so virginal young people was even more special due to the attendance of the Bishop of the Diocese. Very, very serious stuff.

So, in the large, cold, formal Anglican church, full to the brim for this celebration of the first communion, a six year old MM sits with her Mum and Dad in a row about halfway back in the pews, and watches, enraptured, her older sister in the front row. Eleven year old FHO glances back and waves a few times. Patiently they watch, all three beaming with pride as FHO takes her vows, has her drink and nibble, and returns to her seat for a couple of hymns and the closing prayers. Being the gracious older sister, she eventually signals for eager little MM to creep down the side aisle to join her in the front pew seat of honour. MM beams, and quiet as a church mouse, tiptoes to join her. All is good,they sing the praises holding hands, listen reverently as the high up bishop honcho speaks and blesses them, and then kneel for the prayers.

It was this same year. Angelic ain't I?

It is quiet, terribly quiet. So hushed you could hear a pin drop. And the  stillness seemed to drag on and on endlessly. Solemn occasion this. And MM being well really pretty much as out there as I am now, began to wonder what would happen if someone made a little noise to break the silence.

So little MM, kneeling in the front row, sweetly calls out at the top of her six year old lungs to the huge, echoing church, (you guessed it):

TOOT TOOT!

It was quite melodical, let me tell you. Cannot properly convey the sweet sound with the written words.

I was promptly sent back to G and WW in disgrace. And she didn't talk to me for a month as she suffered under the constant jibes of "toot, toot" from friends which, of course, didn't help the situation at all.  

From that point on it became my signature call. So don't be too surprised if you hear the doorbell ring one day, and then a loud "Toot, toot." You'll know who it is...

I Think I Can, I Think I Can...

Okay, here's the deal. This little blue caboose is going to try and get back into blojo mode and blog every day, or at the very least, every couple of days. May be short on our busy school holiday's days, but at least something. Even perchance just a quick "Toot, toot!" Now, as Trav seems to have dropped his Memoir Monday mode (*mutter*mutter**curse*curse*) I may have to come up with some other bandwagon to hitch my tales of a tiny terror onto.

Oh, look, screw it I will try one more time to kickstart the dinosaur tomorrow, so start thinking up your Monday Memoirs and I'll put in a McLinky thingy in the post. If this post HINTING for him to step up doesn't work, and I'll go kick Trav one to see if he will at least direct people here if HE doesn't get off his increasingly smaller butt and do it (hint, hint)...

Ooh, excitement - it now seems, according to his blog, he intends to! Remember that he is a yank, and it means it will be put up at some ungodly hour late on Monday, so I will still post here tomorrow arvo, and then edit to link to the TRAV! (Maybe I should have read the small print on his blog before coming in to blurb, oops. My bad.)

Oh, and people, if you wish to find out the story behind the Toot Toot, you'll need to tune in tomorrow.

And if you like what you read please follow, or at least comment so I get a little of my much needed positive feedback (it is hard being a blogger, we do crave some accolades you know).  Oh another thing - hey you lot - ever noticed how much I link your blogs when I refer to them? Hell, ever noticed how much I refer to other blogs at all? Well - how about some reciprocating, huh?

I'm feeling a little neglected over here in the closet...

A Memoir in Memory of Memoir Mondays, with Kudos to Thea for her Inspirational Post...

Yeah, I know, the title itself is enough of a novel without the post... But here goes, *deep breath*.

I was MIA for a few weeks as well you know, sunk into the quagmire of sadness and nursing a severely wounded spirit. And so I missed a couple of the infamous Memoir Mondays. Imagine my sadness when upon my return I read this post of Trav's on his aptly named  I Like to Fish... blog.

Now, whilst I understand the reasoning I am one who truly hopes this is a mere skuttlebucket in the Travisphere and that he hurries on back to us blog buds.

But in my own little world as I am, I am holding a Memoir Monday all on my lonesome. If you wish to add to this pseudo blog hop, feel free to leave link in a comment and I'll add ya at the bottom of this post. All you need do to join is:
Grab the button from Trav:

Do your memoir and link it here, it has to be a true tale, and either add a comment on Trav's Blog to let him know, or tell me to do it. Just so he knows we care...

Now, on with my tale... and the story behind the second half of the title.

In my google reader today, up pops a post from the lovely Thea at Do I really Wanna Blog? Now, this a subject near and dear to my heart, as not only do I have two terribly fussy eaters, but I myself was one such creature in my childhood (and even a little now as a all growd-up).

All those wonderful little jibes sounded so familiar, all those "Ooh, what do they eat then?"

comments we endured, not to mention the nasty holier than thou attitude of those "Oh, my kids will eat anything I tell them to" pariahs.

I choose my battles, and as long as they eat, and eat reasonably healthily MOST of the time I sure as hell don't stress over diet.

This brings me to my Memoir Monday Memory...

As I mentioned my children in their finicky fussiness taker after moi. However I grew up in a household where by hell, you ate what was put in front of you or else you will sit there until did! No, not Wise Woman, but Grumblebum imposing his formidible will upon his picky, stubborn daughter. Did I mention how much I take after him in lots of ways?

So, there we'd sit. Glaring at each other. Until I got smart. Learnt to always wear a top or coat with deep pockets, made sure I did a toilet run mid-meal (with masses of food buried deep in my stretched cheeks), brought the family pet in under the dining room table (though that little bugger hated most of the same things I did - bar lamb's fry... very grateful for his appetite for lamb's fry), ducked into adjoining lounge room on a quick ruse..

Wise Woman often remarks that she was still finding food stuffed down the back of the lounge decades later.

Did it change my eating habits? No. It wasn't until I was much older and moved away that my tastes expanded. But I grew up, as will my boys. I don't sweat the small stuff, as long as they eat reasonably healthily most of the time, then I am happy. I tell you though, the smell of fried lamb's fry still makes me dry retch.

And next time my darling sister-in-law makes snide jibes about my kids "And what on earth do they eat?" when they refuse her jam drenched cheese dip, I'll sweetly remind her of the times she bought McDonalds on the way to our place for a meal, when I had already checked and organised their favourite foods... How short memories can be.

See Thea, you are not alone in the kitchen as the short order cook (though I personally prefer to be called Queen), in fact I doubt there would be elbow room!

Schnitzel anyone?

  

Memoir Monday - Like Sands Through the Hour Glass...

so are the days of our lives? Yeehaw: It's Memoir Monday time again!

Oops, not that one... this one:



As the Trav says:
"Hey y'all. This little thing is called Memoir Monday, and I'd be thrilled if you gave it a shot. Just jot down a story about yourself, grab my code down there, and I'll link you up to be read by all my wonderful blog buddies. The only rule? It has to be true. I am personally doing what I can to help cure your case of the Mondays. Thanks for playing along!"


Screaming masses of stalkerish fans join this blog hop sorta thing of the fisherman. If you want to be in the kewl group then leap on over and join in. Just make sure the tale you tell is one to captivate and, of course, the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth!

And so on with my Monday Madmother Mouthing Off.

Friends often tell me: "You should write a book." Not because they adore my turn of phrase or written prose, nor due to any underlying adulation of my ability to spin a tale. No. Merely because my life has ALWAYS seemed to lurch from crisis to crisis. Just like a soap opera.

So, for today's Monday Memoir, I am going to tell you a story from my overly dramaticised youth. In standard subtle soap script style of course.

Scene 1:  Crowded Ballroom.

Our heroine, Bad Girl (prior to Madmotherdom), has just had a confrontation in the ladies room with Old Wife, who was formerly married to The Crush. Bad Girl and The Crush had enjoyed a brief relationship during a break in his marriage. The Crush had since survived a failed reconciliation attempt and now was with Boring as Batshit Woman. Bad Girl, unused to defeat, was still nursing a badly bruised ego and a lingering lust for The Crush. These unrequited emotions did not stop her from starting a new sensual adventure with the aptly named Toy Boy. Toy Boy has crashed the Ball to seek out his partner in the carnal.

TB:  "Hey. Thought you might need me, so me and Offsider decided to drop in and crash this joint."
BG: "You told me this was not your scene, you told me you weren't coming to some boring formal crapshot place."
TB: "It isn't my scene, but you are. I figured with The Crush, Boring as Batshit Woman, and Old Wife being here it might get a bit difficult."
BG: " *Sniff*, she said "Here it comes, would you look at what it's wearing!" Then her bunch of witches sniggered at me. *Sniff!*"
TB: "Whaaaaaat? Look at her? Come on - really look at her! She is a scrag. You are looking so hot tonight, how can anything she said worry you? What, didn't they have a mirror in the toilets? Do you not know how good you are looking?"
BG: "You're just saying that to get me to take you home with me."
TB: "No I am not. You look amazing. Come on, let's dance."

All eyes upon them, they take over the dance floor. At one point TC tries to cut in but is rebuffed, OW scowls from her seat, BaBW, well, is just boring as batshit.

Cue theme music.

The end.

And yes, I did take him home that night, but it wasn't the first time, nor was it to be the last.