On My Sister's Birthday...

Today was a significant day for two completely different reasons. Firstly, it was my sister's birthday. June 18th. She would have been 43. I thought of Tanya all day, but then again, I think of her every day anyway.

And today was significant for another reason. It was my first time on a new TV show, The Daily Edition. I am going to be a regular on a weekly panel called The Debrief with two fabulous bloggers, Mrs Woog from Woogsworld and Beth from BabyMac.

I had a great time before the panel began. A stylist looked at our clothes and suggested I wear the other scarf, not that scarf, which was terribly exciting, because she was a stylist, and she said "Yes, that works," and not "OH MY GOD YOU HAVE SHOCKING TASTE" which is what I had feared she'd say. (Although to be fair, the brief for the panel was possibly 'two stylish bloggers and one with shocking taste', so that could have been her reasoning.)

A ridiculously good looking man. And a happy woman.

I had fun with Woog and Beth practising saying key phrases such as "Well, I'm glad you asked me that," and "Let me elaborate for your elucidation," and "What a fascinating point. May I respectfully repudiate?"

And then a very tall and very handsome and very.... broad shouldered man walked into the room.

It was Kris Smith, one of the co-hosts of the show.

The man is good looking. Like, movie-star good looking. Like, slightly luminescent-with-a-hint-of-fairydust good looking. I felt shy, so I didn't approach him. And if you believed that, you've never met me, because I am SHAMELESS around celebrities and immediately pounced on him and asked for a photo.

And then I thought, I have to call Tanya. Because Kris Smith was married to Dannii Minogue who was one of our favourite Young Talent Time stars. And Tanya and I LOVED Young Talent Time. She would be so excited!

And then I remembered. I can't. She died five years ago.

I miss Tanya on her birthday. But it's in moments like these - those everyday moments that are part of the fabric of life - that I miss her the most.

Happy Birthday Tun

Tomorrow is my sister's birthday. She would have been 41, except of course she will be forever frozen at 37. Tanya was only 20 months younger than me, so she always enjoyed the time between June and October, as it was the only four months of the year she could claim we were just a year apart in age.

It's a cliche, and I'm sure you've heard it before, but you never get over losing someone you love. It's not like a wound that heals over. It's more like losing a limb. You learn to live without the limb, but it never grows back, and you never, ever forget that it's gone.

What's more, grief is not at all as you'd expect it to be. My sister had been sick for many years and her death, though shocking, wasn't entirely unexpected. I had actually visualised myself at her funeral many times before. I assumed that I would wail; I'm a very emotional person and it seemed like the logical response. But I didn't wail. I didn't cry. I didn't even shed a tear for weeks.

And in the months and years afterwards, though I would break down on occasion in the privacy of my own home, I found that a wall built up around me in relation to my sister. I could talk about her with friends or my parents and stay completely devoid of emotion. Worse. I became guarded, defensive, almost hostile. I didn't want to visit her grave and I didn't want to meet with her friends to remember her. I'm sure the psychological explanation is that I was protecting myself from overwhelming emotion, but I still felt guilty for not opening up more. It seemed disloyal to Tanya not to demonstrate to the world how profoundly I missed her.

Strangely, though, the nature of my grief has changed over time. It's been three and a half years now, and the bodily tension I feel whenever I think or speak about my sister is starting to dissipate. And she's popping up in my sleep. Over the past several nights I've had recurring dreams about trying to contact Tanya - I have her phone, or I've lost mine, or I can't dial the number - and I wake up feeling like I've lost her all over again.

This morning my husband asked me if I'd like to visit Tanya's grave tomorrow, on her birthday. We could take the kids - they are young and unburdened by adult hang-ups, and always love to visit their auntie. I automatically said no, as I always do. I don't want to visit her grave. I don't want to see a headstone reminding me that my sister has died.

But then, suddenly, I started to cry. And I realised that I do want to go. I want to connect with my sister. I want to leave purple flowers, and Werther's Original Caramels, and Cote D'Or Bouchee chocolates. I want to acknowledge her life, and how much she is still with me. I want to demonstrate, in some small way, how much I still adore her.

Which is also the reason I am writing this post.

Happy Birthday Tun.

Who The F*k Doesn't Like PIZZA???

Yesterday was Pinkela's tenth birthday, and on Saturday night I held a party for her. Ten girls, ten nailpolishes, pizza, movie and cake. Simple? Oh PLEASE. Have you ever met ten year old girls???

To be fair, the party began smoothly (or perhaps it was that I began drinking?*). The girls painted each other's nails with glee, and although they also managed to paint the table and the floor, I didn't mind as I knew I could get it off later (and, well, I was drunk).

It was only when I started taking orders for pizza that the trouble began.

"I don't like pizza," said two of the ten girls. Don't like pizza??? Who the fuck doesn't like pizza? Do they have some disability of the taste buds of which I wasn't aware ? If so, shouldn't their mothers have warned me? I mean, it was a pizza party after all!

"Okay, so Lulu and Saskia don't like pizza," I said. "Is everybody else normal?"**

"I like pizza," said another of the girls helpfully, "but just the base and cheese. No sauce."

No sauce? Just the base and cheese? Who the fuck likes just the base and cheese? Is she not aware that that is not pizza at all, but rather melted cheese on bread??????

"Um... I'm not sure they can do pizza with just the base and cheese," I said.

"Oh you can order it," the child said to me confidently. "My mum does it all the time."

I sighed. Of course she does.

I rang up the pizza shop and ordered a variety of pizzas, then took a deep breath and ordered one 'with just the base and cheese'. There was silence at the other end.

"Um.... you mean melted cheese on bread?" the pizza man asked.

I burned with shame. "Look, don't worry about it," I said. "I'll just make her something. You shouldn't have to prostitute your talents as a fine pizza maker to accommodate the finicky demands of an overly fussy eater."***

"Oh it's no problem at all," he told me. "We'll give you some of our cheesy-bread-bites. The kids love them."

I nodded mutely. So now I felt like a right meanie. And ignorant too. Who ever heard of cheesy-bread-bites?

While my husband went to pick up the pizza I made frankfurts and noodles for Lulu and Saskia (aka They Who Don't Eat Pizza) and allowed my friend Karen to top up my glass. Within twenty minutes, the pizza was on the table, the frankfurts were on a plate, and the noodles were in a bowl. The kids fell hungrily upon the food, like famished beasts who hadn't been fed in a month. The pizza disappeared, the cheesy-bread-bites were snatched up, and the frankfurts and noodles.... REMAINED???

"The pizza was good!" exclaimed Lulu and Saskia. "We like pizza!"

I nodded mutely again. Then I walked silently to the table, collected the frankfurts and noodles, and motioned for Karen to pour me more champagne. There was still cake to go, and I needed all the help I could get.

*and for that I thank my friend Karen, whose presence was the excuse I needed to crack open a bottle of champagne.
**Okay, so I didn't actually say it like that, but it's what I was thinking.
***Okay, so I didn't actually say it like that, but I should have.

(Mostly) Fun And Games

Today was the third birthday party for The Child Previously Known As Toddler, who shall now be referred to as Boo. This is because
a) The Child Previously Known As Toddler is far too long a name, and
b) We've been calling her Boo since she was born anyway.

The party went extremely well, apart from several hundred hitches.

The first guests to arrive were my parents, bearing the birthday cake (as I don't bake), the adults' cake (as I don't bake) and the cupcakes (as I don't bake, and my mum bought them from the supermarket anyway).

Except that my parents weren't bearing all these things at all; they were bearing the two baked cakes, but had left the cupcakes at home. Which was a problem, as all the kids' sweets had been carefully tucked inside the pinata for later, leaving a pathetic looking spread of chips and fruit. (And we all know kids have no interest in fruit. You just put it there to look like you care about nutrition.)

So my father was dispatched to fetch the cupcakes, and I apologetically explained to the looking parents that more food was coming later. They looked sceptical. I didn't blame them.

Boo was thrilled at the arrival of her friends, a delight she expressed rather touchingly by grabbing each gift and running to place it in a corner. As you do.

Once the children were gathered, it was time for Pass The Parcel. Being a veteran mother (using 'veteran' in the sense of 'elderly') I opted for two parcels to go around the circle at once, to move the game along a little faster. It was a wise decision, as one parcel was permanently halted in the lap of little Daniel, who refused to relinquish possession of said parcel after the fourth layer was unwrapped.

Thankfully, by the time the Pass The Parcel was over, the cupcakes had arrived, and it was time for a Snack Break. Even more thankfully, every child had taken a cupcake by the time my son knocked the plate onto the floor, smashing it into a million tiny pieces. And if anyone cut their feet on the shards of crockery, thankfully they didn't start bleeding until they left my house.

Next up was the Pinata. I gathered the children around whilst my big kids took the opportunity to throw chocolate coins all over the garden for the upcoming Treasure Hunt. Unfortunately, several children noticed them tossing the chocolate coins, leading to a mad stampede of three year olds before the Pinata could even be unveiled. This sudden change of plans didn't turn out to be a problem at all, except for the one well behaved child who had obediently lined up for the scheduled game, and ended up with no chocolate coins at all. Luckily Boo could be coerced into sharing a couple of hers, but as she had collected about 37(given her home field advantage and all) this didn't exactly reflect a deep generosity of spirit.

The Pinata was a wild success (using 'wild' in the sense of 'mild'). Each of the kids had several turns, mainly because the Pinata turned out to be indestructible, seeimingly built to withstand not just parties of three year olds, but tsunamis, hurricanes, and possibly even nuclear war. In the end my son and his friend tore the bloody thing down, stomped on it, stabbed it with bamboo sticks, and ripped it apart with their hands. Lollies did not as much 'rain down' as promised as be 'tipped out' onto the floor. But the three year olds didn't care. They had lost interest by this stage anyway.

So then nothing was left but to eat the birthday cake (which was fabulous, thanks to Nana's baking and a Spongebob transfer) and open the gate to let the guests out. Presents were opened, Hubby went to work with a broom, Boo was dispatched to bed, and I scrubbed the chocolate stains on the carpet.

Using 'scrubbed the chocolate stains' in the sense of 'fell asleep'.

Boo's party was lovely. But next time, I'm hiring a fairy.

The 40th Birthday (Hairy Yeasty Toenail) Poem

This is most of a 40th birthday poem for a dear friend of mine, whose defining qualities are
a) being incredibly nice
b) getting thrush a lot
c) not waxing or trimming her toenails regularly, and
d) having tons of sex with her husband (when she's not in the throes of b)).

I started by talking about how gorgeous and slim she is.

She says she eats a lot
but I am sure that's just bravado.
The only thing I see her eat
is toast and avocado.

Her lips and eyes are stunning
and she has the flattest tum.
Her hair is long and flowing
all the way to her firm bum.

She throws her clothes together
and she always looks amazing
spending money that her husband earns
when working hard at glazing.

Despite her wondrous beauty though
she is of course still flawed,
though her minor imperfections
will not make her less adored.

She sometimes feels unwell
and I don't want to make her blush
but whenever she takes medicine
she gets quite shocking thrush.

Of course, this can come as relief.
At least she gets respite
from the amorous advances
that come at her every night.

Not only does she suffer
from a very itchy snatch
but she often lets her underarms
grow to a thick, long thatch.

Her leg hairs also get so lengthy
she could almost plait them.
Months pass before she makes time to
let her beautician at them.

Her toenails too can get so long
she looks just like an elf.
It makes me feel crazed with desire
to cut them off myself.

To her dear husband Henry
she's a truly lovely wife.
Through good times and... well.. more good times
they've never come to strife.

She married him when she was twelve.
She's never had an ex.
And yet they still spend half their lives
in bed and having sex.

She can't say no to anyone
and nothing is too taxing.
The only thing that she rejects
is trimming nails and waxing.

She goes to quite tremendous lengths
for friends who are in need,
and with a friend like me
that happens frequently indeed.

We wish you Happy Birthday
and a very happy year.
Despite leg hair and freakish nails
we hold you very dear.

(with thanks to @sharpestpencil and @sheepsclothing for their inspiration for a couple of rhymes)