Bottomless

I'm quite content to be fashion-handicapped: it saves me money because I really don't mind what I wear so long as I'm comfortable and not hot or sweaty. Oh, and I also prefer when my undies don't pinch.

But despite my handicap, at least I know to wear pants to work.

"Forget something?" I asked a work colleague who clearly doesn't.

"It's called a dress-shirt," she snapped at me. Turns out I wasn't the first staff member to mention she was only half dressed and she wasn't pleased.

"I believe the shirt bit," I told her. Basically she was wearing what amounted to her husband's work shirt - like those women in the eighties movies would wear to bed.

"It's a dress-shirt and it goes halfway down my thigh, for Christ's sake." Her blasphemy, not mine.

"But the part with the buttons at the front goes halfway up your-"

"Enough!" she snapped again and disappeared into her office.

But what do I know? I wear jeans to weddings and the beach. My favourite shoes are Sampson sandles. My favourite hat has jelly beans all over it.

And now I'm wondering, what the hell happened to my jelly bean hat? I haven't seen it in ages. I'm sure I never gave it away or threw it out. Tracey will know.

My wife's responses are damningly obtuse. She's always detested my hat. I suspect foul play.

Later that same afternoon, my colleague was telling us how her daughter was in the habit of wearing only her pajama tops to bed. 

"Hey you'll match!" I told her.

Much to the disappointment of the male customers, she's worn pants to work ever since.

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Please raise your glasses

"You look beautiful!" I told my wife on Saturday night as she was about to head out to see a comedy show with a girlfriend.

"I want contacts!" she said by way of thanks. It's a demand I hear around here every couple of months.

"But I like you wearing glasses," I countered. "You've got that whole sexetary thing going on."

"Then why is it when I'm not wearing them you always tell me I look beautiful?"

Only a woman can turn a compliment like "you look beautiful" into a shit fight.

"I always tell you you look beautiful, with or without your glasses, but you're focusing on it now because you hate me cause you don't have contacts."

But she was earnest. "Look!" she said, facing our mirror. "Without my glasses my face looks so much younger."

Now because I wasn't married yesterday I know the correct responses to these sorts of 'discussions', although I admit it took me a couple of years to work out the safe path through this beautiful mine field.

"That's because when you're not wearing your glasses you can't see all the wrinkles."

Hey, just because I know the correct responses doesn't mean I have to use them - and I was the silly sod staying home with the monkeys while she was going out to play so I think I can be forgiven for having a little fun.

Actually the biggest problem with Tracey's glasses is our heads are disproportional (so much so, when our lips are together my nose is at her eye level) and I smudge her glasses with my huge honker when we kiss. Come to think of it, I might even be able to argue glasses are better than contacts on a workplace health and safety platform - without the glasses my nose might poke an eye out.

Ignoring me now, Tracey went into the lounge room and asked the kids, "How do I look?"

The cry went up - "Beautiful!" But it wasn't unanimous.

"Come here, Mum," said Master7, making her drop down to his level. "Take your glasses off.," he instructed. When she complied he nodded sagely. "Yeah, that's better. Now you're beautiful!"


Thanks, mate. The cost of contacts is coming out of your pocket money.

"After the show we might even go dancing," Tracey said as she stood up. "I'll have to see if I've still got the moves."

Suddenly it occurred to me these bars and nightclubs are full of blokes! Young, randy blokes full of testosterone and beer! I know - I used to be one.

"Here, Tracey," I told her as she headed out the door. "Put your glasses on. I'd hate for you to stub your toe on the dance floor."

... and the little one said

I just like the idea, come morning, the kids will be where I put them. We have enough trouble with sleep walkers, we don't need a sleep stalker as well.

For the past several months Miss2 has been coming into our room in the wee small hours of the morning and instead of giving her a cuddle and sending her back to her own bed, Tracey (not Bruce) has been cuddling up with her.

"This will end badly," I've told my wife. "Supernanny would find this 'unassepable'."

"But she's so warm and cute," has been Tracey's defense (Miss2, not Jo Frost).

We haven't accepted 'warm and cute' for the rest of the kids and I'm not sure why it's suddenly cropped up as admissible with this one. I suspect it's more 'tired and couldn't be bothered' but I'm not dumb enough to give that sort of derogatory comment a voice.

But I think there's a change a coming - common sense (ie my opinion) is finally winning through and there'll be a few changes come 2 or 3 am this morning.

This new state of affairs has come about because Tracey walked into Miss2's bedroom tonight and was confronted with an empty bed. "Where's she gone?" she called out to me.

I walked in, expecting to find Miss2 hidden under the blankets. Nothing.

"She was here a few minutes ago," I told Tracey as I checked under the bed and behind the curtain.

It turns out Miss2 has finally decided to cut the pretense. We found her snuggled up on Tracey's pillow in our bed, or "My bed" as she was now referring to it, and refusing to be moved. More than that, she'd decided to redraw the boundaries, and was letting mum know she could sleep over the other side of the bed with me. Tracey looked horrified at the idea.

"This has gone on too long," Tracey informed me. "You'll need to start walking her back to her own bed at night."

Change like this is never easy to achieve and I'm anticipating a few nights of whinging and tantrums as I pry Miss2 away from her mother.

And I daresay Miss2 will be screaming at me as well.


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We help a widow in Georgia

For our 33rd KIVA loan we let little Miss5 choose who we would help. I brought up KIVA's map of the world and she instantly hit on her middle name - Georgia. From there she wanted to help a girl, so we culled the list down to less than 40 possibles. We needed to add $6 to our account to make up the $25 needed for this loan, with the remainding $19 made up of repayments from previous loans.

We've now contributed $231 to our KIVA account and used this money to make $825 in loans to these inspiring people doing it rough but having the gumption to get ahead under their own steam.

KIVA is a great opportunity for kids to learn about the world and how fortunate their place within it is. I've heard of teachers who use KIVA in the classroom for educational purposes, letting the kids research and lend money they raise.

When I asked Miss5 why she chose this lady she said, "Cause none of the others are smiling." I'm not entirely convinced Margalita is smiling either, but I guess it's a pleasant enough grimace. I'm also wondering if she only has one leg.

Here's Margalita's story:

"Margalita is 64 years old. She is a widow and lives with her 32-year-old daughter, Nino, in a small village in the Kakheti region. 

Margalita’s main activity is trade and she sells agricultural products on the local open market. In addition to this, she sells seasonal clothing in nearby villages in winter. She's been active in the trade business for more than two years and has become well known and the number of her regular customers is increasing. Her daughter helps her in this business. Finally, Margalita is busy with agriculture as well. She has a small vineyard. The family’s total average monthly income is 700 Lari.

Margalita has requested a loan in order to purchase additional greengrocery products for resale. She will purchase them from neighbor farmers and re-sell on the open market of the nearby town. With this loan she will increase the turnover of her products. As a result, she expects her monthly income to increase accordingly, enabling her to improve the family’s living conditions."

KIVA has a number of free trials available at the moment if you'd like to see how microfinance works before you commit your own money. KIVA LINK

Ten Things I Suspect My Wife Hates About Me

1. My one handed dishwashing. While reading a book. Well I was reading already when the dishes needed doing. When it comes to multitasking I'm an old hand - an old withered hand gripped by arthritis and hangnails. My greatest multitasking achievement is being able to simultaneously not watch more than one child at a time. As for the dishes, well  I don't ask Tracey to stop cooking dinner when one of the kids needs help with their homework. Besides, the cutlery is just going to get dirty again at breakfast. 
2. My ability to produce air. Seriously, I don't know where you women keep it - you must burp a lot or something. All I know is if I didn't let it out I'd explode like a baked bean in a microwave. 
3. How her parents put me to sleep. When we take the kids places we do the traditional "Now you kids be on your very best behaviour or there'll be no food for a week and we'll cancel Christmas" pep talk. When we go to my mother-in-laws the pep talk is firmly directed at me. "Don't you fall asleep!"  I've tried everything - throwing back extra strong coffees, sleeping in before I go, sipping on V drinks while I'm there. I've attempted explaining to Tracey I nod off on her parents' lounge because I'm so at ease and it feels like home, but she's not having any of it. "Don't you dare fall asleep or, so help me, I'll wake you with a kick to your groin. I'll do it too. I've got enough kids so I don't need those things anymore." I tend to stand a lot when I'm over there.
4. The way I tidy the house. Tracey can take all day to put the kids' rooms back to rights. I can do it in ten minutes. Okay, so there'll be bits of puzzles missing and dolls clothes they'll never find again, and I'll probably need to make an extra trip to the dump, but at least we'll be able to see the carpet.
5. My parenting. I have a more 'hands off' approach than Tracey. I give my kids permission to hurt themselves whereas around Tracey the kids are more likely to get clipped by the blades of her helicopter. I figure they'll soon learn the definitions of hot, sharp and high. Tracey is the forest ranger who makes sure everyone is sticking to the rules whereas I see myself more as an SES member who sweeps in at the last minute to whisk them to safety. Or the hospital.
6. My shopping skills. You see, Tracey and I have polar views when it comes to essentials. With a flood imminent, I raced to the supermarket to stock up on toilet paper and eggs while they were still available. The trouble is supermarkets have so much nice stuff. Like Bocconcini, which was on special. Then some lemonade - well work was to be cancelled for a few days so I figured we could sip shandies. On a similar theme I added coke, cornchips, salsa, cream and sticky date puddings. And Tim Tams.  I figured the flood was essentially a bonus holiday so we may as well enjoy ourselves. Tracey took one look when I got home and labelled me the worst emergency shopper ever.
7. My driving. I really don't know how I manage to drive anywhere by myself. Tracey takes on the roll of spotter when we're out together. "Truck!" "Bike!" "Lights!" she'll announce as we scoot around town. She has no faith in my abilities. Which is why when I was driving to the shop with a friend from work it was so nice to hear her say how well I managed to maneuver the big beast around the car park. "I do do alright," I thought to myself as I parked. Then backed into the car behind me. "You really botched that," I told my bewildered colleague. "You're supposed to yell Car!"
8. My inability to hear the kids. "Bruce!" Tracey will scream from the other end of the house, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand to attention. "Can you see what's going on?!" I'll look up and there in front of me will be Miss5 and Miss2 embroiled in a battle over a teapot lid, both screaming blue murder and baying for blood. "Hey, hey, hey," I'll say, almost stepping between them, but more accurately just stretching a hand in their direction. "No need for this. Give me that." And then I'll sit on it and go back to my book until Tracey contacts me again. Which, given the girls will now be baying for my blood and trying to dig the lid out from under my bum, will likely be about thirty seconds. 
9. The way I dry myself. Or more specifically, my insistence on using a fresh towel after every shower. I know it's wrong but I don't care. The soft freshly scented material makes me happy. Tracey uses more soaps, scrubs and shampoos than me, so I figure we're about even. And anyway, I more than make up for this small indulgence by managing to dry all five little kids with a single towel - sometimes I even go the extra distance and use the one I dried myself with.
10. My face. When Tracey was pregnant she'd wake up feeling fine. It was only when she looked at me in the morning she'd get morning sickness. She'd glance at me then suddenly freeze, a look of shock and horror on her face, before racing off to the bathroom with her hand over her mouth. Seems when she's preggers my face makes her vomit. 

Great Stuff

Keeping all the balls in the air is hard. We love catching up with family, but sometimes, for whatever reason, we leave it a bit too long between cuppas.

Which is why we were so happy Great Grandma Lawrence dropped by this morning. As a lovely surprise she brought with her a bunch of dressups she picked up at the thrift shop for each of the girls.

 "They're beautiful!" I told her as I called for Miss8, Miss5 and Miss2 to drag themselves away from the telly for a minute.

I was very pleased when the girls showed they were as happy to see Great Grandma as they were to be given fairy dresses.

Miss5 was especially thrilled and surprised to find Great Grandma Lawrence in the kitchen. "I haven't seen you for a long time," she squealed, throwing her arms around her. "I thought you were dead."

Better late than late, I guess.

We help a 21 year old mother in Kyrgyzstan buy livestock

Our 32nd KIVA loan is going where none of our loans have gone before - Kyrgyzstan.

Now Kyrgyzstan, for those even less traveled than myself, isn't misspelled. Apparently they had a pile of unpopular letters sittings around and thought they'd make their country's name out of them.

Aigerim has asked for $750USD to help increase her herd from one to more than one. Here's Aigerim's story:

"Aigerim is 21 years old, married and has a 2-month baby. Animal husbandry and crop-farming are the main sources of income for Aigerim and her family. As of today, Aigerim's farm counts 1 cow with a calf, 1 horse and a 1.4-ha plot of land where Aigerim grows potatoes and maize.


In order to further develop her business, Aigerim has turned to Bai Tushum & Partners for a loan of 35,000 som (KGS) to purchase young livestock. Aigerim is planning on investing the earnings from the loan into further business expansion."

KIVA helps people to help themselves by providing the funds for small microfinace loans which they would otherwise be unable to access. We loan out in lots of $25USD (lots of lenders put together to make up each loan) and the money comes back in dribs and drabs so we can then lend it back out to someone else.

If this sounds like a great idea (and it is :) ) then here's a link to KIVA so you can see how it works for yourself. There are some free trials on offer at the moment, meaning you can get in and see first hand how the process works without using your own money. Link to KIVA site

Hot Water

"The bins on fire," my boss told me.

"What?"

"Outside. The Bin. It's on fire."

I looked. It was: smoke was wafting out the top. A lot of smoke. Some idiot had put a lit cigarette into the bin.

I raced to the kitchen, flipped on the tap and threw a bucket under it. I didn't wait for the bucket to fill because I didn't think I'd need all that much water. Within a minute I was outside dumping the water into the bin.

The smoke almost stopped, but then went on as strong as before.

"You're doing something wrong," said a helpful passerby.

"My mistake," I told him. "It was hot water so only made it worse."

I left him trying to sort that one out and raced back inside to re-half-fill the bucket.

This time, when I splashed the water into the bin, the smoke stopped. Mission accomplished. Disaster averted.

"That was so exciting," I told the girls at work, "I'm considering a career change."

When I told my story to Tracey I embellished a bit. "Do you think they'll make me Mr May or Mr December?" I asked, referring to the firefighters' yearly calender of hunks and spunks.

"Mr February," Tracey told me. Then, before I could get a big head, she added, "It's the tiniest month."

Burn.

The Highest Form of Flattery

Sitting down for a cuppa with Grandma and her friend, Tracey and a swag of our kids were having a chat.

Generally our kids are well behaved at Grandmas, and they love going over, but you can't always control what the kids will pull out of a situation and find amusing. Maybe it was the talk of corns, aches or checkups, but suddenly Master7 was drawing chuckles from Miss8 and Miss5.

He was bent over with one hand on his hip and the other stretched out in front of him and he was mumbling something.

"What's wrong with him?" said Grandma as Master7 maintained this odd stance as he shuffled over to the table. "What's he saying?"

Master7 turned around and did the same thing again, this time back across the room to the door. 

Again he mumbled and, in horror, Tracey realized what he was saying and what this bizarre pantomime was about.

"What's he saying?" repeated Grandma more loudly. "Is he alright?"

Suddenly it was clear to Tracey the hand out in front of Master7 was meant to be clutching a cane. She wanted to get him to stop but words wouldn't leap fast enough to her lips.

Pivoting, our boy trotted across the lounge room like a giant teapot. By now the two girls were in serious danger of losing control of their bladders. This time he spoke loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear, his voice warbling for an added note of authenticity. 

"I'm an old man," he said with his cheeky grin firmly in place. "I'm an old, ooooold man."

Not if you keep that up you bugger.

Fortunately Grandma and her friend didn't seem to mind, or they're so deaf they still don't know what he was doing. Either way really.

Love Match

Today is one of the highlights of the year for the matriarch and patriarch of this Devereaux household.

It's a day which reaffirms to my wife why we're so perfect as a couple and why I'm so awesome in her eyes and, dare I say, irreplaceable in her heart (I'm projecting here, but I think I'm close, really close). As usual, she requested alcohol.

For lovers the world over, the 14th of February is a date set aside for their trysts and kisses, to reaffirm their love and, in the case of parents, to claw back some of the magic which helped create their little buggers in the first case. For us, one day is not enough.

Each year we have three days which serve to symbolize the biggest thing I have going for me in terms of being attractive to my wife. I am not a sport nut.

In our household there are no days lost to car races or grand finals. I don't own a single jersey. I don't watch it, follow it, think about it or ask about it. I just don't get it. The State of Origin, all three matches, stand tall as a symbol of my total lack of interest in watching sport which my wife finds an extremely attractive trait. And we think that's worth celebrating.

So while the rest of the state gathers around pizza and beer to holler encouragements at the telly, my wife and I snuggle up on the couch and do something a little naughty: We watch a non-G rated movie. Tonight, it's my number one favourite - When Harry Met Sally. It's about two friends who fell in love, just like us.

Don't wait up people: I may want to watch the special features.