Night of Nights

 

Please note there are spoilers ahead if you have not yet watched the Oscars and wish to do so without prior knowledge of the winners.

Well it was the Oscar ceremony again today (or last night if you’re in the USA) and once more I did the long haul but the difference this time was that I didn’t have to stay up until the wee hours.  I had a day off and very happily spent most of it on the couch despite a long list of things I “should” have been doing (and ignoring the “shoulds” just makes me feel that little bit naughty – sad but true). At about the 2 hour mark I noted that once again the ceremony appeared to be without incident and was fairly confident it would continue in the same vein.  Is this unusual these days?  No, I’m afraid not.  It’s pretty much the same every time but that doesn’t stop us from hoping every year for some excitement – a speech that goes off its rocker, a dress that stops traffic (where are you Cher?), or even a trip down the stairs.  But no, it’s still a celebration of Hollywood, by Hollywood, for Hollywood, and carefully controlled by those who own Hollywood.  Even the host was chosen for his brand of reliable and safe humour (although I must admit to being a bit partial to Billy’s opening numbers).  I also have a suspicion that all the nominees were told to write their own acceptance speeches which could be why not one of them had anything even remotely interesting to say.

So here’s my list of memorable (and I use the term loosely) moments before my mind wipes them entirely from my consciousness (they are barely hanging on as it is):

1.  Morgan Freeman did an excellent impression of Morgan Freeman – he can always be relied upon to add gravitas to any occasion.

2.  Tom Hanks came out and talked about how its Tom the seat filler’s 50th year of filling seats.  This could be a bit heart warming and lovely except that I was totally distracted by the total lack of movement in the upper half of Tom’s face.  In fact the more the camera pans around the first few rows of seats, the more I am struck by the lack of movement in anyone’s face. During the montage of actors talking about their early memories of the movies I can’t get past how not one of them appears to have aged in the last 10-15 years.  Some of them appear to be actually aging backwards (eg. Michael Douglas).  I didn’t realise that The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was based on a true story.   Is there something more than sheep’s whastsit we can inject into our faces these days to pretend we’re not getting older?  Perhaps there’s been progress in living cryogenics. It’s not a hard leap to make the more you look at this crowd.  But I don’t think anyone let Nick Nolte into the secret.  Bless him for looking like a wreck – it’s heartening for the rest of us mere mortals.

3.  Sandra Bullock sounds even more nasal than last year – could her nose actually be collapsing in on itself?  And the poor girl didn’t much look like she enjoyed herself either.  Mind you she did adopt a child after that car crash man cheated on her so she’s probably buggered – it’s very tiring raising a child on your own.  Me and old Sandra probably have a lot in common ….. or perhaps not – my nose is fine.

4. The only genuinely funny moment – Chris Rock talked about how people bang on about how hard it is to work in animation and get “into” their characters.  As far as he’s concerned working for a mail delivery company or stripping wood is hard – being fed lines while sitting in a booth and being paid a million bucks to do it just doesn’t cut the mustard.  OMG someone who tells it like it is.  I’m sure he’ll have been “disappeared” by tomorrow.  Apologies to Tina Fey who was also funny but as it was only a nanosecond many other people may have missed it.

5.  Emma Stone is either really tall or Ben Stiller is really short. And Emma Stone is as lovely and gorgeous as I thought she was.  She certainly gets my vote for most beautiful – and she can definitely talk and chew gum at the same time (you’d be surprised how hard that is for some).

6.  Somebody came on and presented with Robert Downey Jnr.  I can’t seem to remember who it was but they were on with Robert Downey Jnr.  There was an award for something-or-other and it was presented by Robert Downey Jnr.  And then Robert Downey Jnr left the stage and the sun went out.

7.  I am pleased to announce that Martin Scorsese’s face does in fact move above the eyes.  His eyebrows appear to have an independent and interesting life all of their own.  Well done you, Marty.

8. Melissa Leo took the wrong advice regarding her outfit.  Brown sequins are just plain wrong.

9.  I am very happy for the beautiful and regal Christopher Plummer.  I have been half in love with him since he swept Maria off her feet and didn’t seem to mind her god awful haircut – now that’s love.  They don’t make men like him anymore.  He’s the closest thing to Gregory Peck we have these days.

10.  And there’s a nod to our neighbours – Bret McKenzie won a little gold man for original song (for the Muppets).  He’s from Flight of the Concords and NZ.  His vowels may have been a little strangled but his face moved.

11.  In the only moment even vaguely likely to cause traffic to at least slow down if not stop entirely – Angelina decided to embrace the femme fatale rep and go for it.  No matter how many good works she may or may not do she will always be known as the one who stole Jen’s husband.  So, dressed all in black, with blood-red lipstick and cheekbones that are threatening to slice through her face, she thrust out one whip thin hip and revealed almost all of one illegally long leg.  And just for a second, every single person in the auditorium wanted to sleep with her.

12.  And finally, I’m pleased to announce that my next husband won the Oscar for Best Actor.  I must ask him how he likes his chops.

Well, it’s all over for another year.  I would just like to thank the Academy for all this silliness because I just can’t help but love it, despite all the reasons not to.

B

 

All Growed Up

 

My daughter is growing up and I don’t think I can cope.  When I realised she needed deodorant I took it in my stride, when I noticed vague breast area development I was fairly calm, the day I realised she had a waist it was a bit much but still ok, when the hairs started sprouting I did need to have a bit of a lie down, and when I had to buy her first bra I admit I almost cried.  If only they served a good stiff G&T in the change rooms it would make it so much easier for the mothers.  But what has finally done me in is a tour of my teenage haunts.   Last weekend we went to a BBQ back where I went to High School (in a coastal town outside Sydney) and just for “fun” I decided to drive past my school, past the beach, past my old house, past the country club – you get the picture.  This in itself wasn’t too bad, although apparently not nearly as interesting for Nos1&2 as I’d imagined. Quite a lot has changed, the area is a lot more built up than it used to be, but what feels more shocking is how much hasn’t changed.  And this, of course, just made it all the easier for those memories to come flooding back.  If only we could filter them and just have the good ones come back.  But where’s the fun in that – it appears that it’s much more entertaining to have all the humiliating ones come back too!

By the time we’d done the tour, been to the BBQ and driven all the way home again (with a montage of 80s “moments” playing in my head the whole time), I felt a desperate desire to check myself into some kind of facility where all I’d be expected to do is lie down and dutifully accept tranquilisers at appropriate intervals.  The idea of my children going through all of that made my head hurt.  The last thing I wanted to do was talk about it.  But in that spooky way of children (like cats who can sense who hates them), No1 decided that it would be a good time to have a deep and meaningful conversation about going High School.  I really didn’t want to tell her that I had felt out of place the whole time I was at High School, that I had cried almost every night for the entire first year, and that eventually I had discovered that if I drank enough peach cooler I could actually be someone else entirely and not have to deal with the discomfort of being me.  Obviously I can’t tell her any of that yet, but I want to be able to help her understand that being happy being yourself is the most important thing of all (and thus the hardest thing to learn).

When I look at her bright, shiny face and see the hope and beauty behind her eyes, I do start to wonder how much gaol time I would actually get for disembowelling anyone who even attempts to hurt her or make her feel unwelcome in her own skin.  I feel so fierce about protecting her and her sister from all the hurts that I think I am finding it hard to face the fact that there are so many more out there.  I can’t stop them all and it probably wouldn’t be healthy if I could.  No matter what I do they will have their hearts broken, they will trust people they shouldn’t, they will find out that life isn’t fair, they will do things they regret, and they will not tell me everything.  Oh lordy, I’m really starting to need those tranquilisers right about now.

Well at least one thing’s for certain, when these things happen (they may not happen overnight but they will happen), I can probably help them forget their pain for a few moments when I tell them about the time I jumped to Van Halen’s “Jump” and my dress didn’t jump with me, or that time I put my sanitary pad on upside down and had to rip that sucker off again, or about how I used to wear so much eye-liner that someone thought I had used a texta on my eyes, or the time I jumped through a rose-bush in the dark (to escape a lusty suitor) and shredded my mum’s new jumpsuit , or about that time we all lied to our parents and stayed in a caravan park overnight after the Year 10 dance …..  oh hang on, maybe not that story.

At least I am still around to be grateful that I survived the teenage years relatively unscathed and now I just have to hope that the ups and downs of mine have made me strong enough to survive theirs.  If not, there’s always that nice facility with the endless supply of Valium.

B

 

 

Whatever

 

I seem to have been struck by seasonal ennui.  Or perhaps I should call it distinct lack of season ennui.  I’d say it’s been brought on by the total inability of the weather to commit to a season.  How hard can it be?  There are only four – choose a damn season and stick to it.  The fashion industry is going to have some kind of stress related collapse any day now.  Winter boots and thongs are now vying for the same shelf space.  I can’t keep up and I can’t be bothered trying.  I have a funny feeling in my waters that this lacklustre approach is now extending to other areas of my life, including (gasp!) this week’s post.  I just can’t seem to decide on any one topic.  And I’m not even sure if I care.

Should I discuss the complete and total lack of personality in Australian politics today?  I’m pretty sure I’ve probably done it before and who cares anyway? They’re all such yawn inducing bores that I lose the will to live each time any one of them shows their face on television.  And this is from someone who used to love nothing more than a good political stoush (preferably with a vaguely passable bottle of red).

Should I write some kind of diatribe on just how dangerous it is to be a celebrity these days?  I mean your chances of having a very public psychological breakdown or being found dead in your bathroom actually seem very high these days.  Yet despite the alarming statistics parents are still pushing their children onto any available airspace.  If Junior Masterchef had only been slightly more popular I dread to think what the fallout would have been – So Your Mother Thinks You Can Dance?, The Littlest Loser, My Kindy Rules or even a remake of Young Talent Time (oh, apparently we’re already there).  It really doesn’t bear thinking about and, even if it did, I can’t be bothered.

Perhaps now that I’ve confessed to being the lowest common denominator and watching The Biggest Loser I could talk about the fact that I find cry-baby Hamish one of the most cringe-worthy things I’ve ever witnessed on tv.  His mother is busy telling everyone that the Hamish on the show is not her son, he just bears an uncanny resemblance to him and isn’t it amazing how he has the same name?  No, her Hamish has actually run off and joined a cult of devil worshippers.  Let’s face it, she’d rather people thought he had the guts to rip the head off a goat than that he’s a sook of the highest order who can’t keep his pants up and walk at the same time.   If I could just get up the energy I could have a really good rave about that.  I tell you, it’s the ennui.

I could tell you about the crash I had on my bike the other day that was completely my fault (I was going too fast around a corner on a wet road) and the ensuing embarrassment when I had to take Spike to the bike shop because his chain had fallen off and I didn’t know how to put it back on.  The bloke in the bike shop didn’t even blink as he stretched out the chain and popped it back on – it took one finger and less than 10 seconds.  I could tell you about that, but I’m not going to.

You know, I think we’ll call it quits for today.  I just don’t have it and I think it only fair to put you out of my misery.  Sigh …. I’m off to not care about something else ….

B

The Management of the Burnt Chop  offer their deepest apologies (yet again) for the appalling offering this week.  The bar has dropped to a new low and I’m fairly sure it’s below the current performance standards in the new contract.  Believe you me, we’ll be addressing this forthwith at the next appraisal meeting and just getting really quite firm and telling the Chop to pull her damn socks up or, or, or we’ll get really very cross and she just won’t like what that looks like let me assure you.  Gosh, we feel quite revved up.

 

 

 

 

You spin me right round

What a week!  Inspiration has just jumped up and bitten me on the arse that many times I’ve lost count.  For starters, I think I’ve seen two of the most gorgeous films ever made (a big call I know) just in the last week or so.  When I read the book The Invention of Hugo Cabret I was swept away by the beautiful combination of prose and black and white drawings.  The film, Hugo, is equally as enveloping and is pure pleasure to the eye.  The minute it was over I wanted to sit down and write to Martin Scorsese (something I have never been inspired to do ever, not even to Mr Eastwood who is a living genius).  I wanted to tell him that his love story to the art of film making is a thing of rare beauty and to thank him for sharing it with me.  I’m sure if I actually wrote the letter that Mr Scorsese wouldn’t even see it, an assistant would toss it in a pile and if I was lucky I might get an auto-generated reply.  Which would be a shame because I’d really like him to know exactly how much I liked it, how the infusions of colour reminded me of The Age of Innocence (one of the films in my top 10), how the 3D actually made a difference, how the character of Hugo was perfectly cast, how much I loved Ben Kingsley in that role, and how my girls and I are now even more determined to save up and go to Paris.  I’m sure he knows all that (except maybe the bit about saving up for Paris) but I really would like to tell him myself.  I want him to know how his work affects real people because I doubt he comes across many of those anymore.

Then, as if that wasn’t enough beauty for one week, the three of us went to see The Artist.  Fittingly enough, I was speechless (I am just too funny for words!).  It was, quite simply, mesmerizing.  It is hard to imagine how you could enter into a world without sound so easily but it just captured me and wouldn’t let me go until the end.  The subtitles were a bit fast for No.2 but she assured me she could “mouth-read” so knew what was being said the whole time.  This isn’t  a “children’s” film by any means but mine just loved it.  Recently I told them I am going to educate them about film so that they know when they are watching total garbage.  I won’t stop them watching the rubbish but I want them to know the difference.   On the way out No.2 declared that this must have been one of the “learning” films.  After an initial reluctance at being “educated” and having less time to spend watching anything with a cheerleader in it, she’s now keen to see more of the “learning” ones.  Oh my lord, I may have accidentally done something right as a mother.  I knew if I kept banging away it would eventually happen.  Anyway, back to The Artist – I feel it’s important to confess that my gushiness over this film may be a little influenced by the fact that the star, Jean Dujardin, is my fiance.  I’m fairly sure he doesn’t know it yet but I have decided that he’s my next husband.  Oh lucky, lucky him.

With all this beauty surrounding me and assuring me that the world is OK I was ripe for an uplifting documentary.  On a friend’s recommendation I watched Finding Joe.  I won’t tell you too much here because I think you should all see it for yourselves* but it was about a man called Joseph Campbell who studied myths and religion and whose philosophy was to “Follow your bliss”.  He did not believe that you should do this for wealth or status but by finding what you love and doing more of it you will have a richer experience of life and unexpected doors will open.  The film has a variety of people discussing this idea and the idea of the hero’s journey (the basic story of any film or myth).  One of the quotes in particular caught my eye – “We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us”.  Breathtaking.  I tell you, I felt so huge with potential after watching this doco I almost exploded.

It must have been that potential that I carried with me to the ice rink today.  I haven’t mentioned my skating for a while and I’d say that’s probably because I have lately wondered if it was worth continuing with.  My progress appeared to have completely stalled over the last few months of 2011 and the 6 week Xmas break was quite welcome.  I felt pretty disheartened, it didn’t make me feel like I could fly anymore.  I wanted that back.  There’s no money in it, there’s no reason to do it, I’m not going anywhere with it – I did it purely for pleasure.  For months and months I have been trying in vain to master a one-foot spin.  I’ve watched kids 30 years younger than me spinning around the ice and seethed with jealousy.  I’ve watched other adult learners get it and been so frustrated because I just couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong.  I had almost given up on it even though it was the move I have wanted to do since I started skating.  Last week our class got a new coach.  I’d been in a lesson of his once before and written him off as too hard to understand but this time I was pleasantly surprised to find I really enjoyed the lesson.  Today, after many false starts, he showed us a practice move to make spinning easier.  A few tries and I was spinning on one foot ladies and gentleman.  I could not believe it.  I came out of the spin with a whoop and the biggest smile I have ever felt on my face to find it was mirrored in his while I was shouting “did you see that?”.  It was pure joy.  And it made it even better to see that the coach, who teaches at much higher levels than a little skate-school class of adults, could be happy for me too.  I imagine he knows what it’s like to follow your bliss so he can recognise it in others.

Needless to say, all thoughts of giving up skating have been wiped from my mind.  To be able to feel like that, about something that may appear to others to be a waste of time, is something I want more of.  The fact that I’m 43 and learning to ice skate for no reason whatsoever is neither here nor there.  Joseph Campbell had something to say about that – “What will they think of me must be put aside for bliss”.  You said it brother.  I wonder if this means I should stop wearing the sensible black pants and go and get me some bling?  Mutton anyone?

Spinning on one foot may sound stupid but I am so grateful for the chance to know what it feels like – and for the chance to keep feeling it.

B

* https://prescreen.com/movie/Finding-Joe

The management of the Burnt Chop would like to inform the readership that the Chop’s schedule has changed this year.  Posting will now be done by Monday, rather than Thursday.  We apologise for this unannounced change and, as has become usual, thank for your incredible patience.  Oh and by the way, we believe this is the Chop’s 100th post.  Bravo.

 

 

Shame

I know, I’m late.  What has kept me from you I hear you ask?  Well people, to be perfectly honest it’s good old shame.  Yes I am ashamed to be so weak-minded, so easily influenced, so unable to learn from past mistakes.  I am shamed to the core and feel like covering my face and skulking in the shadows.  And the truth is that I just didn’t want to tell you but I knew once I got here I’d be unable to keep it from you.  I don’t know quite how to break this to you because I’m afraid, no, I know, you’ll think less of me.  OK here it is – I have again succumbed to the Siren call of The Biggest Loser.

There I’ve said it. Oh I know it’s television at its most hideous, people at their most despicable, with more flesh baring than porn.  But I just can’t look away.  It’s like smoking – once you have one you’re done for.*  If I’d just been able to stay away from the first episode I would have been fine.  I could have pretended it wasn’t happening.  But I didn’t.  I almost drooled on the tv at the prospect of being horribly manipulated on a daily basis.  I didn’t even try to stay away.  And to make matters worse they’ve sweetened the deal by making it The Biggest Loser – Singles.  As well as the emotional roller coaster associated with the usual outpourings about battles with weight, now there’s the added frisson of wondering if James and Michelle will get it on once they’ve shed a few pounds.  Whoever’s on the camera sure knows how to capture a longing look ….. or create one out of thin air.  It’s pure art.

It’s only been one week and we’ve already had tears, laughter, shock, awe, and disbelief that  men over 12 can cry on tv so easily.  Who knew a treadmill was something to sob over or that lying down and refusing to get up was the normal behaviour of someone over 3?  It’s fantastic – I wouldn’t change a thing.  And Dr Norman Swan really came into his own the day he unloaded a few tonnes of fat onto the ground in front of the contestants and trainers – more than one of them had trouble keeping their low-fat, low-sugar, low-carb, low-calorie, low-flavour breakfast down.

See?  Now I’ve confessed I just can’t stop talking about it.  I should never have mentioned it. I feel possessed, and not in a good way.  I know that week after week I’ll tune in to see little Tiff screaming like a banshee, to watch Shannon’s eyes get closer together while he gets more and more confused about why his team aren’t doing what he says, to marvel at Michelle’s ability to turn a training session into an emotional breakdown without blinking, and to swoon over Commando’s tatts while they all state the bleeding obvious … and then repeat it  before and after each word from the sponsors.  I am clearly lost.  All I can do is promise to try not to talk about it every week.

My gratitude this week is focussed on the programmers at Channel 10 who’ve given me a small reprieve each week by not airing Loser every single night.  It may save me from complete and total ruin.

B

* Just an aside – I’m a mere few weeks away from two years without a cigarette.  Yay Chop!

The management of The Burnt Chop would like to express their deep concern for their client and assure the readership that they will do all in their power to influence the Chop to go to reality rehab and give up this destructive addiction.  But, as you’ve no doubt noticed before, she doesn’t listen to a word we say.

And here we are again …

Well here we are back in another year (they just keep rolling on don’t they?).  I have a spooky feeling in my waters about 2012 and I am confident enough to predict a good one (either that or I have a urinary tract infection).  It is going to be Year of the Dragon after all and that can only be a good thing.  There’s a reason why the Chinese regard themselves as descendants of the Dragon and have Dragons all over everything – apart from the fact that they are beautiful.  This year is going to be one of happiness and success.  Bring it on.

Now I know I alluded to big changes to my blog site this year but, as you can see, it hasn’t happened.  In fact I can report that absolutely nothing on my to do list got done over the holidays.  I had so much on that list it was starting to feel a lot less like a holiday than I had intended so I basically ignored it and just hung out with Nos1&2.  I am pretty sure I won’t be on my deathbed looking back and wishing I had re-arranged my sock drawer more often.  At least this gives Nos1&2 a few happy memories of their mother not being a whirlwind of stress and activity and can use those memories to get them through the dark days ahead (let’s face it, in the not too distant future I will have two teenage girls in my house – dark days indeed).  We did the whole family beach holiday thang and went to Bryon Bay – along with around 10,000 other holiday makers, including Elle McPherson and Lara (who the bloody hell are you?) Bingle.  Clearly they heard The Chop would be up there.  I firmly believe Byron council should have a quota for visitors and close the gates once it has been reached.  The traffic up there was enough to send me back to Sydney – at least we have alternate routes.

I have to say that after a week of packing 5 children, 3 adults, 75 surfboards and enough water and snacks for a small battalion into two cars every morning, and then unpacking it all at the beach every day, then putting it all back into the cars every afternoon, then taking all of the above plus 25 kilos of sand out of the cars again, and washing out 8 swimming costumes and towels, and organizing 600 showers and a daily feast fit for a pack of sumo wrestlers, I did start to wonder who this was a holiday for exactly.  Because it didn’t feel like one for me.  I am fairly certain that Elle and Lara had a different experience of Byron Bay to mine. But, complete and total exhaustion notwithstanding, I did have a lovely time and got some new ink work on my shoulder courtesy of one very talented Tom Denholm at Creative Tattoo.  I had a competition with a 19-year-old bloke about who would say “ouch” first.  Needless to say I won – I have given birth twice after all.

However, I don’t want you to think that my lack of achievement this holiday season is indicative of a deeper and on-going malaise.  I did find time to make some commitments for this year (I don’t like “resolution”, it sounds too wishy-washy).  These include a training plan for the SMH Half-Marathon in May (I am already in week 2 of the plan and so far so good), bringing more music into my life (all three of us have committed to at least 10 minutes music practice every day and I now have 5 guitar chords under my belt), a draft of my first novel (and no I haven’t started it yet, it is still in my head where it has been for the last 10 years), and, most importantly, I am deeply committed to my ongoing struggle to live in the now.  I want to be right here, in the moment, every day.  No regrets over yesterday, no worrying about tomorrow.

I am also tremendously grateful that all the Christmas and New Year festivities came and went without incident and I sincerely hope it was the same for you.  Welcome back to the Chop and I’ll see you here every week.

B

The Management of the Burnt Chop would like to acknowledge that, under sufferance, we will continue to try to manage the Chop the best way we can in difficult circumstances.  There’s not a lot you can do with an artistic temperament.

Undone

It’s official – I have lost the plot.  Not only the plot, but also the beginning, middle and end.  I no longer know which end is up … or down.  My own name escapes me.  I have no idea what day of the week it is.  I do know we are in December – I would have to be dead not to have noticed the inexorable descent to Christmas.  But as for the year? Not a clue. I completely missed last week’s blog post and didn’t even realise until Monday.  Tonight’s yoga class went so fast I suspect I actually slept the whole way through.  I have no memory of any downward dogs. I am now frightened to stop moving or close my eyes for fear I will never get going again.  My bed seems to be inhabited by a Siren because I find myself just heading there without making a conscious decision to do so.  Sleep may become so addictive I’ll need to go to rehab just to get out of bed.

Why am I in this state?  Let me tell you (try and stop me), the amount of organisation it has taken to make sure two children get to all their rehearsals and end of year events, while doing favours and calling in favours, working, attending Christmas functions, Christmas shopping, working, coordinating relatives and ex-husbands, navigating the type of weather that clearly indicates that the end of the world is nigh (begs the questions -why bother Christmas shopping?) working, and …. and … and just breathing in and out has been so ludicrous that it has done me in.  All I have to do is to get through the last round of dress rehearsals and attend the actual shows – 4 days and I can collapse.  I don’t think I can do it.  Invading Russia would be a piece of cake compared to this.  When are they going to perfect cloning or work out how to survive without sleep? Why does the end of the year have to be so exhausting?  By the time you get to your holiday you’re so wrecked all you can do is sleep.  I’m sure by the time I wake up it will be time to go back to work.  It may also have something to do with the fact that it has been a whole year since I had any sort of decent break.  A few days here and there in the school holidays just don’t cut the mustard.

I have now decided to spend Christmas Eve in a voluntarily catatonic state – lying on the floor staring at the ceiling.  All day.  Whatever hasn’t been done by the day before Christmas Eve (Christmas Eve Eve perhaps?) will just have to stay undone.  There is only so much of this I can take.  Something has got to give.

This is where you come in.  I am going to take a short break from the Burnt Chop Syndrome and, very soon, all other forms of responsibility as well.  Do not fear though, I will be back around mid January next year.  And I plan to be back bigger and better than ever and hopefully with a site re-vamp.  My theme for 2012 (I always like to have a theme) is to make the Burnt Chop a Blog To Be Reckoned With.  We are going to get out there and make a noise that will be heard outside Chopworld.  At some point I will ask for your assistance with this but I’ll leave that for next year.

Before I go, I would like to say that I have enjoyed every bit of writing this blog and am so grateful to everyone who reads it.  Those who’ve posted comments or just told me what they think of it have filled me with inspiration and kept me writing even when I thought I had absolutely nothing to say. It is truly amazing how nothing can turn into something right before your eyes. If you haven’t yet left a comment, I would love it if you did so I know you’re out there.  And to make sure you don’t miss anything please subscribe and you’ll automatically be sent an email each time there’s a new post.

Here’s to the end of 2011, it has truly been a great year.  May 2012 be even better.

Bxxxxx

P.S.  Nos1&2 prefer me in this state as I seem to agree to anything.  I’m just glad I haven’t ended up with another pet ….

The management of the Burnt Chop would also like to extend their thanks for reading despite the disgusting overuse of exclamation marks, the irritating digressions, and the wholly self-indulgent nature of the entire blog.  We will be charging a lot more next year if the Chop wishes to retain our services.  Merry Christmas.

 

Shorts (or A Series of Unconnected Bits I Will Attempt to Glue Together)

Today I went to a meditation seminar for the whole day.  I must say it was a lovely change from the old work routine but I’m not sure I was au fait with all the talk about reincarnation.   At morning tea one of the other participants told us all how she had chucked in a perfectly good job in order to do a two-year course in Art Therapy.  She has just finished and is now qualified to put up a shingle as an Art Therapist.  She cheerfully told us she was even qualified to help atheists.  As a card-carrying atheist myself I almost told her that no self-respecting atheist would want the help of someone who talked about them as a separate species.  I later had cause to reveal my atheism when I was asked by the facilitator if I had ever had the feeling I had “been here before”.  Well, no I haven’t.  I’m sure if I had been here before I’d be much better at it than I appear to be.  The talk went on this way for quite sometime and I have to say I do have difficulty with the idea that the rampant flesh-eating disease you contract today could be related to bad karma from a previous earthly experience.  We no longer have to look for a cure for cancer – it comes from crimes we don’t remember we committed or grievous wrongs we did people we have no idea we ever met. I’m now wondering what I did before my current incarnation to deserve the ugly mole under my arm or the curiously misshapen nails on my little toes.  Perhaps I coveted my neighbour’s ass.

If this is all true then Julia Gillard should be afraid, very afraid.  Don’t worry I’m not going to bang on about the policies of either side (they’re so frighteningly similar what would be the point) but I am deeply disappointed in her.  I heard on the radio that politicians are getting a pay rise.  And Julia’s $90,000 raise is far more than I earn in a year.  This apparently takes her salary to a measly $470,000 p.a.  While public servants had their pay rises capped at 3% they now have to wear their boss getting a pay hike of just under 20%.  As far as I’m concerned, accepting this raise is a big up yours to all her staff and would put her in huge karmic debt.  The only problem with this scenario is that it is her next body that will spontaneously combust, not this one. Shame Julia, shame.

Clearly we are all in some kind of trouble that may or may not have been caused by the misbehaving of our past selves.  You only need to notice the strange and ominous weather patterns we are having lately.  I have to say in my travels between home and the seminar today I experienced at least three distinct seasons.  In the past week alone I reckon we’ve had all four.  What is going on?  My favourite theory is that the weather gods are heartily sick of Christmas cheer already.  This is what happens when you peak too early.  I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again, September is too soon to deck the halls.  I really think there should be some kind of embargo until December.  I informed No.s 1&2 some time ago that our “tree”* would go up in December and not a minute before.  Any second now they’ll notice the date – I’d better go and dust it off.

I am grateful that I have no memory of any past lives.  If any of my former selves did anything wrong then at least I don’t have to carry the guilt with me now.  There is simply no room for any more – Motherhood has entirely over-flowed my guilt reservoir.

B

* If I can ever work out how to put a picture on here I will share my “tree” with you.  It is a natty construction of garden frame, wire, tinsel and decorations.  All I need to do is get it out of the garbage bags and place it somewhere the dog can’t reach.  Voila – instant, fuss free tree!

The End is Nigh

What is it about this time of year that makes everyone think the world is ending on Boxing Day?  Why is it suddenly imperative to get together with people before Christmas?  I even caught myself saying it recently – oh we must catch up before Christmas. Why, why, why?  I will still be here after Christmas, they will still be here after Christmas, there is nothing in particular that makes seeing them before Christmas so important.  Every year people behave as though Armageddon is on the cards on Christmas Day despite yearly evidence that Boxing Day dawns every time – like clockwork.  Shopping for food in the days leading up to Christmas is a damn nightmare.  Women with huge trolleys ram each other to get the last box of mince pies (which no-one in their right mind would eat at any other time), everything is supersized or bought in bulk (presumably to stock the bomb shelter), the only shop busier than the supermarket is the bottle shop.  No one can stand Aunt Vera (or the end of the world) without being half tanked.  If only I wasn’t so picky about fresh fruit, vegetables and meat or I’d be able to avoid the mad panic and just buy everything in advance – that’s why tins were invented. You’d swear the shops were going to close forever on the 25th of December, and that we would be reduced to scrounging on the streets for food scraps leftover from grossly over-catered Christmas lunches.  Let’s face it, most people eat enough at Chrissie lunch to last the whole year anyway.  I guess stuffing your face makes it easier to avoid conversation and thus the Traditional Christmas Family Meltdown.

Goodness me, I seem to have my cranky pants so firmly on I think I may even have given myself a wedgie.  I blame the weather.  I mean I am caffeine bloody free, meditating like a crazy person, trying very hard not to eat junk food (if you ignore the 6 snakes I just inhaled) but all I want to do is rip someone’s head off.  No one in particular – just the next person who crosses me, or even considers crossing me, or accidentally walks in front of me.  Because I am pretty fit these days I think I am now experiencing the kind of implosion a body can initiate when it doesn’t get its customary amount of exercise.  I normally get far in excess of the recommended minimum of 30 mins a day but thanks to this damn, damn, damn rain I have not been able to cycle to work this week and I haven’t had a run since last Friday.  I can’t believe how crappy I feel.  And not just physically – my brain is starting to get in on the act as well.  Yesterday came and went without my registering that it was blog day and I have made several double bookings for the next few weeks, which I now have to untangle.  While my organisational skills are usually of a very high standard (in normal circumstances I could invade a small country in my sleep), I now find myself unable to plan more than 5 minutes ahead.  And I couldn’t make a decision to save my life.  It would be suicide to even enter a DVD store – I’d still be wandering around on Boxing Day unable to work out what I’m in the mood for.  Oh for the psyche cleansing effects of a good run.  If this weather won’t leave me be I will be left with no choice but to part with a ridiculous amount of money for a casual gym visit so I can pound their treadmill until the endorphins reach a level high enough to restore my equilibrium and return me to my usual chipper self.  I guess it would be much cheaper than the court case necessary after I’ve gone mad with a machete in the local square.
 The irony is not lost on me – all this work on eliminating dependency on cigarettes and now caffeine, only to discover I’m addicted to exercise.  Oh well, it could be sooo much worse – crack anyone?

B

P.S.  I’ll have to get back to you on the gratitude – I’m just not feeling it right now.

Shopping Daze

I have once again had cause to remember why shopping centres are really not for me.  The other day I had to go to David Jones so I took No2 and gamely ventured into the nearest Westfield.  It was a Saturday.  It was very scary.  The noise level was brain scrambling to say the least and the light was so so bright I thought I’d be strapped to a chair and interrogated any second.  I tried to stay very focussed on the task at hand – David Jones, Cosmetics, Clinique, Mascara.  I chanted it like a mantra to keep me safe: DavidJonesCosmeticsCliniqueMascaraDavidJonesCosmeticsCliniqueMascara

Unfortunately it wasn’t enough.  I walked past some kind of kitchenware stall, you know those floating shops stuck out in the middle of the walkways.  They sneak up on you because they don’t really look like shops and get you when your guard’s down.  One minute I glanced at a stand with very interesting looking knives and the next minute I was about 20 metres away with a bag of new knives swinging from my arm.  I was flabbergasted (one of my all time favourite words) and couldn’t remember for the life of me how that had happened.

I stopped and turned to No2 – why did I buy these? I asked her in bewilderment.  She just shrugged her little shoulders and said – I don’t know (and looked at me like I’d lost my mind and she could already see what my old age might be like for her).  Not only did I not need new knives but I couldn’t afford them either.  I mean the blasted fat man in the red suit is just around the corner and I can barely afford a visit from him let alone funky, unnecessary knives.  No.2 threw me a life-line and sensibly suggested I take them back.  Fantastic idea but I just knew I’d die of embarrassment if I returned something 5 minutes after buying it.  Do you know how moronic you feel when you explain to an 8 year old why you’re too chicken to return something you don’t need ?  I promised her faithfully I would do it the next day.  Those Westfields are damn dangerous places so after that I navigated my way to and from DJs with my eyes on the floor – leaving quite a few people concerned for my mental health as I passed by.  At least I stuck to my guns (eventually) and left only with the mascara I’d gone there to buy.

Unlike the weekend before, however, when I went to the Mind Body Spirit Festival and went a bit crazy.  Those festivals are already a little on the loopy side – half the stalls are attended by very well intentioned folk who just want everyone to be happy and healthy (particularly in the colonic area), but the other half just want your credit card.  And in order to get your credit card they want to make sure you think you need “healing”.  I have never seen so many “cures” in the one spot.  Luckily I had enough of my wits still with me to avoid being cured and instead bought the most expensive yoga mat I have ever seen, several fairy dolls, a set of shape-shifter cards (who knows when you might need them), various Peruvian bracelets and had a very lovely discussion with one of the delightful women at the Brahma Kumaris stand about the type of oil she uses on her face.  I swear she had the skin of a 20 yr old despite being over 60.  I won’t say I told you so but I have extolled the virtues of coconut oil before – say no more.  I may have been lucky to get out of there without partaking of any type of healing but my bank account could have done with some.  Really it’s just a Westfield in disguise – chuck a few floaty Indian curtains and some sequinned, purple throw cushions about and Bob’s your uncle.

But I mustn’t be too cynical – there were many people there who just wanted to promote health and well-being and that has to be a good thing.  Given my recent foray into meditation and life sans caffeine I have to say I’m all for it.  It is an amazing thing in this frantic busy world to step out for even just a few minutes each day and focus on just being.  Not on being a mother, or a sister, or a lover, or a daughter, or a worker, or a friend – just being.  I have been doing it now for 16 days in a row and I’m not saying it’s easy, I still have great trouble turning all the chatter off, but I am starting to feel as though it’s making a difference.  That difference may not yet be discernible to the naked eye but I know it’s there.  Either that or I’m becoming a shape-shifter.  Let me consult the cards and get back to you on that.

B

P.S.  Can I just add that I’m very grateful to the kitchenware stall for taking the knives back no questions asked. Merci.