Return of The Mac

Blunt is something of an art form around here, and it's good to know we're passing it on to the kiddies.

For years, Grandma Mac has been the families title holder for Queen of Blunt. A spade is a damn silly looking bloody spade with this ol' girl. She's a genuine pleasure to converse with, but thinks nothing of knocking you down a peg or three if she believes it's warranted. 

Late last year I was in the paper because there was a panic about fake $10 notes circulating in G-town and they wanted a photo of someone holding some notes up for the article. Naturally, I threw myself in front of the camera the moment the reporter came into the branch. That Saturday I got a phone call from Tracey's grandma, Grandma Mac, after she spotted me front and centre-ish on page 15.

Me, looking ridiculous.

"You're in the paper," she said to me. Of course, this was no surprise because I was there when they took the picture.

"Oh, they put it in today's, did they?" I said casually. "How do I look? Gorgeous?" Hey, I can dream.

But Grandma Mac isn't known for pandering to bullshit. 

"You look ridiculous," she told me. "You should be embarrassed." And I'm down a peg, where I belong.

But, to be honest, The Mac has been a bit quiet since then.

Still, it seems a new generation of straight talkers is coming through. This morning I was racing around the house picking up all the clothes and toys which seem to spontaneously erupt from my children's wardrobes when my back is turned, when I decided I needed to have a shower. I'd only taken off my shirt and tossed it in the wash when I received a different set of instructions from Miss2 - she'd decided she wanted toast. Now. 

I popped some bread into the toaster and decided to start the dishes while I was waiting for it to cook, when all of a sudden there was an indignant yelp from behind me.

"Put a shirt on!" demanded Miss5. "You're nudie rudie!" 

"It's okay," I told her."I'm a man. Men are allowed to have no top on. Women only wear a top because they have boobies."

She cast a calculated look over me. "You've GOT boobies," she informed me.

"No, I haven't got boobies, I've got pecs," I lied. "And anyway, I'm going to have a shower in a minute."

Again, there was a pause while she thought about this. "Okay, but you're not allowed to go outside." 

Yes, because heaven help us if the neighbours saw. Actually the real concern would probably be the drivers - the reflection off my lily white torso might cause an accident.

But as blunt as this was, it wasn't the bluntest thing said today by members of our extended family - the last word must once again go to the wonderful Grandma Mac, the reigning Queen of Blunt, who was chatting with Tracey's sister, Belinda, this afternoon.

After a lengthy conversation, Belinda was bidding Grandma Mac farewell with the rather nice sentiment, "I can't wait to give you a big fat squeeze."

"Yes," said Grandma Mac accusingly, "you have put on a lot of weight since you've left Weight Watchers."

Look out, people, The Mac is back!



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BetaMan

My manliness has once again been brought into question by none other than my darling wife.

I remember when Tracey and I started dating, whispers seemed to follow me everywhere: "I thought he was gay?"

Not that this summing up of my preferences was news to me. My sexual bent seems to have always been in question. I've developed theories as to why I've been battling this manliness issue for the past twenty five years. It's even been the topic of conversation over coffee at work.

"I thought you were gay for sure," mentioned one colleague several years ago. There was a group of us sitting in the lunch room.

"Me too!" chipped in a couple of the others.

"But why?" I asked.

"You don't like watching football," someone said.

"So? I know gay blokes who love it." According to one mate it's all those tight shorts and man on man action in the scrums. Plus they just plain like sport.

"You notice when we cut our hair," said one lady while others nodded. "Not even my husband notices that, and he pays for it."

"You wear turtlenecks." In my defense, it was just this one shirt and I thought it was very fashionable at the time.

"You wear nice aftershave."

"You notice another guy smells nice and you ask him what he's wearing." This was true. But only this one guy who worked in the office because it used to freak him out and he'd run away from me. He definitely thought I was gay.

But eventually the girls decided, more than all the rest, it came down to one stupid little thing.

"It's the way you say 'five'."

Yep, apparently when I'm halfway to ten I talk funny and therefore don't like girls.

This, of course, was a revelation to me because I'd always thought you were gay if you fancied people with similar tackle.

Fortunately all this talk disappeared when I started dating Tracey. It seems if she thought I was straight then that was good enough for everyone else.

This morning, however, after fifteen years together, Tracey has started to have doubts herself.

This guy is doing it wrong.

I was woken from a dream about buttons by the sweet sounds of children making their own breakfast. I then snuck across the bed, attaching myself to Tracey in what I thought was a pretty loving gesture of non-expectation.

Not that it could have been anything else considering all the kids were spilling breakfast into their bowls just outside our open door. Even if the door had been shut, Miss0 was standing in her cot staring at us. There really was no pressure, which I know are Tracey's favourite hugs.

"You feeling alright, Princess?" Tracey asked me as she stroked my head. "You a little needy this morning?" She kissed my forehead. "Never you mind, I'll protect you."

"What are you going on with?" I asked.

Then I realized - In movie bed scenes, I was in the typically female position. I had my leg over her leg, my hand across her torso and my head was snuggled up into her neck so I could occasionally give her a little peck on the check.

"It's all right," Tracey told me as I scooted back to my side of the bed with my tail between my legs. "I know you're a big manly man," she added as we assumed the proper Hollywood sanctioned straight man's pose, me with my hands behind my head and her snuggling into me and ignoring my crotch entirely. She tilted her head and gave me a peck on my chin. "Even if you are a big girl."

This is how it's supposed to look...

...but let's face  it, this is more realistic. 

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Some explanation required

A career in childcare seems to have sucked all the cuss words out of my sister in law, Shell, because despite knowing her for about 20 years I can't say I've ever heard her use worse than the word 'idiot.' And almost without fail this will have been firmly directed at my brother, Shane.

Shane's work has had him jet setting all over the place for the last several years. I get jet lag just listening to his itinerary.

Working in a bank, I see loads of blokes come through with jobs which take them away from their families. People in the mining sector, in particular, tend to fly away regularly and for long stretches of time. It's interesting talking to both the blokes who go and their wives who stay behind.

I don't know how these blokes do it. I can't go to Brisbane by myself for one night and get a good night's sleep. I toss, I turn, I annoy Tracey by calling every five minutes. I'm starting to think I'm a bit needy.

Some couples have nailed it. They know why they're putting themselves through all the hassle and they even enjoy both the time together and the time apart. Other couples, not so much. Often I think it's setting a time limit which can make a difference - five years and we're out, sort of thing.

Where the family units break down, I tend to hear the same complaints - 'I haven't had a break from the kids in weeks. He'd come home, put his feet up and expect to be on some sort of holiday,' from the wives, and 'I'd come home exhausted and she'd expect me to take over every little thing so she could have a break,' from the husbands. Wives resentful because they're basically single parents anyway and husbands resentful because they're giving up being with their families to get ahead and not feeling appreciated for it.

Fortunately, my brother and his wife seem to have the 'time apart' aspect sorted. I mean, they're human, I'm sure they argue - and I lived with the man for the first fifteen years of his life: you can't help but want to slap him - but I just don't see them stress over Shane needing to travel. My brother seems to enjoy in-flight food and the all too real (for me) risk of becoming a air crash statistic, and when Shell says he's heading off to Asia or somewhere for a few days there's never any hint of resentment or tone. I'm guessing she rather sensibly likes to limit his influence on their three children.

But I had to laugh when, earlier this week, Shane sent Shell the above photo of himself in Malasia, but failed to add text saying the young boy was a mate's son.

Containing, I think, the only time I've ever known Shell to use of the F word, I'm sure her response (below) had my brother scrambling to thumb in an explanation.

"Great picture my sexy husband, but who the fuck is that child??? If you tell me it's yours you're dropped!"

At least she didn't call him an idiot.

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A face only a mother could love

My children are beautiful - which is a real shit because apparently there's good money to be had in producing ugly kids.

It's one thing to look in the mirror and be dissatisfied with the face looking back at you, but can you imagine being so butt ugly as a kid your dad took your mum to court and sued her - AND WON!

Not just the case, but was awarded $120,000.

Jian Feng, whose sole purpose in life appears to be making me look like a serious contender for all manner of parenting awards, apparently had this to say, "Our daughter was so incredibly ugly - to the point where it horrified me."

If you played that game where you circle the differences between
the two faces, I think the only thing left visible would be her ears.  

What really bugs me about this, even more than Mr Feng's horrendous statement, is how much of the social media I've been reading is agreeing with Mr Feng's actions - reporting on this court case seems to have fired up a lot of misogynistic rhetoric. Apparently he's right and she's wrong. Her $100,000 worth of plastic surgery has made her into a huge teller of lies and he was wrongfully deceived into thinking their prodigy would be attractive.

Which is why, on our very first date, I told my wife about my facial birth defect and how I regularly wax my mono-brow, because I didn't want any misunderstandings when Geoffrey the Greek was born.

But seriously, I couldn't give a continental why Jian's decided to divorce his wife (and his wife not telling him about her plastic surgery might be fair grounds in many people's eyes) but what sort of a pig's ass for a father announces to all and sundry he's divorcing because their kid has come out ugly. I mean, they're all ugly at first, with their folds of skin and over-sized heads, but give them time and they grow on you.

I know there's no doubt a lot more to this story than the media has given us. I know his comments have probably been taken out of context or souped up or even made up. I certainly want to doubt he ever intended his comments to be heard outside the courtroom.

But the man is still an ass. An ugly, ugly ass. Fortunately, though, when his winnings hit his account he might have the money to undergo some intensive therapy on his personality and turn himself a much more attractive man.

Which apparently is fine so long as he tells his next wife how, despite the kind and engaging personality which she's come to love, he used to be a real ugly ass. Wouldn't want him to end up in divorce court if his next kid takes after him and he says despicable things to members of his family.

Meanwhile, due to my insufferably good looking children, I guess I'll have to keep dragging my sorry ass to work.

This is my brother, Shanus, when he was about four. I think my dad has a case.

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The Media Tart Strikes Again!

The girls at work have dubbed this photo 'Beauty & the Beast' .
Personally, I think that's a little unkind - Talleea looks quite nice.

As many of you know, I am a media tart.

There's nothing I like more than getting my face in the paper. I figure future generations will appreciate the lengths I go to when they're leafing through old newspaper clippings for any mention of their ancestors.

Sure, their triumphant calls of, "Here's one!" will probably be quickly followed by sighs of, "Wait, it's only him again," but at least they'll get a moments thrill in what will otherwise, without my camera-hogging efforts, likely be a thankless and unfruitful search.

The reporter, Craig Warhurst, actually came into the branch to interview someone else, but I managed to elbow my way into his article - a piece on the $70,000,000 lotto up for grabs tonight.

Some people say winning lotto wouldn't change them. It would change me. You'd barely recognize me after all the liposuction, tummy tucking, chin removal and neck replacement. Maybe you'd think there was something vaguely familiar about the smooth faced bloke driving through the bottleshop in his brand new Fisker Karma, but you'd think, 'No, it can't be Bruce. He never bought a carton of beer which wasn't on special.'

My parents once won second division in Lotto. They looked up the previous week and it paid $5000! They rang my brother, sister and myself and told us to go out to dinner - their shout. We each had $200 to spend. Come Monday they found they'd won $500, so they were down $100.

Good luck to anyone who's in the draw. I've gone online and purchased my $2.40 entry (you can buy less games, and therefore spend less, online) so I've been making lists of how I'll spend it and who I'll give it to all week. Please note, if YOU win lotto, you were on MY list, so I'll expect a bit of quid pro quo.

If you'd like to read the newspaper article featuring yours truly as it appeared today you can click over using this link - THE GYMPIE TIMES

This would be our new 'date night' car. It's perfect because
we couldn't possibly fit seven kids in the back.

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What an awphil thing to say

For me, the scariest thing about Halloween parties is the socializing.

I don't mingle well. I have a habit of saying the wrong thing and being frowned at. First impressions aren't my strong point: I'm more of an acquired taste, like Vegemite.

Not that I'm alone in this infliction. There are some very high profile personalities with the same problem. One which springs to mind, and one I always feel a certain affinity with, is Prince Philip, who seems to wear his feet in his mouth more often than in his shoes. Apparently the Queen genuinely gets a laugh out of hearing his public faux pas, like when he told the President of Nigeria, who was wearing the country's national dress, "You look like you're ready for bed!"

Last night we went to a fantastic, preemptive Halloween party next door. Our neighbours have four kids still living at home, and when we added our 5 little ones they combined to create a level of noise the local constabulary must have had a hard time ignoring.

Before I go on with my little tale I have to mention this was the best decorated Halloween party I've ever been to. Probably because the man of the house is some sort of props artist and his good wife a movie makeup artist. All I know is it made our effort last year, with Christmas lights we cleverly dubbed Halloween lights draped over the balcony, look a bit preschoolish. These guys had a smoke machine, floating eyes in the punch (made our of lychees and blueberries) and had set up a huge Haunted House in the carport for the kids. And their kids costumes made my liberal use of fake blood on our munchkins look a little underwhelming. Sadly I can't share photos of the event because Tracey had all our cameras at the wedding she was playing photographer for and didn't arrived until around 8.30pm, but trust me, it was an awesome effort.

Around 9pm I dragged home our three youngest, who had started to hit a wall made of sugary drinks and salted chips, and put them to bed. Tracey followed an hour later with the oldest two.

"I had a bit of an awkward moment," she told me.

"What did you say?" I asked, acutely aware of the role reversal. In fact, if I ever tire of writing about our family life I could write a daily post about my faux pas

"Not me," she said. "I was on the receiving end."

"How wonderful! What happened?"

"That lovely lady dressed as a skeleton was saying to me the parade was a bit of a let down and specifically mentioned the dancing in the park," grinned Tracey. "Then I got to say, 'Oh, our daughters were the ones dancing in the park.' It was fabulously awkward."

"Oh," I said to Tracey. "Actually, I think she owed us that one."

"Why?" she looked at me expectantly. Then a little crossly. "What did you do?"

"Ah, well..." I began strongly, "...they were talking about the parade and she mentioned she was in the Mary Valley bit with the turtles and I said how fantastic it was." Tracey raised her eyebrows, waiting for the punchline. "Then I asked, 'Where you lady carrying the baby turtle?'"

"But that was-"

"Yeah, a much, much older woman. I know. She told me."

"What did you say then? I hope you apologized."

"Even better," I told Tracey. "I diverted attention away from myself by pointing to the hostess," (our delightful neighbour), "and asking her why on Earth she insisted I ask this lovely lady that question." Disaster averted.

Not sure what damage I've done yet, if any, but they all laughed so that's at least promising. I guess we'll know Wednesday night when the neighbours are supposed to be coming over for some pumpkin carving festivities.

While Tracey doesn't seem to be quite as amused as, say, the Queen, she has taken to calling me 'Phil' this morning. Every time she does this I'm sorely tempted to ask her to check out my family jewels, but you know me, I'd hate to say the wrong thing.

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Father of the Year

You might recall a week ago I mentioned how I was feeling a bit of a failure as a parent as my son made the class newsletter because, despite completing his homework every week, he hasn't handed any in all term.

Well, hot on the heals of this it seems young Master7 was called up on parade. How do I know? Because another parent told me when she came into the bank. According to this parent, Master7 was pretty chuffed with himself and grinning all the way.

"He was?" I said stupidly.

"Well he would be. He won $1," she told me.

"He did?"

"To spend at tuckshop."

"Really? That's great." I better get on with my Father of the Year acceptance speach. This year it's in the bag.

"And then," this lady went on, "as he walked back to his spot, he poked his tongue out at his sister." In front of the whole school. Chest...hurts...so full...of pride.

I'm starting to think I don't talk enough to my boy. I thought back to the conversations we'd had the last week and while I'm fairly certain Pokemon, Skylanders and fart jokes featured heavily, I'm equally certain there was no mention of parades or tuckshop.

As soon as the woman left I picked up the phone, keen to find out why I'm learning this stuff about my kids from people at work. When Tracey answered I asked her why she hadn't told me Master7 had been called up on parade this week.

"He has?"

"And he won $1 tuckshop money!" I added, my tone probably more suited to saying he'd been called up for setting fire to the library.

"Oh that's nice," said Tracey. "What for?"

When was the last time the winner of Father of the Year was married to the winner of Mother of the Year?

That night we cornered our little man in his bedroom.

"Why haven't you told us you won tuckshop money for something?" I asked him. He grinned up at us like we'd found out his dirty little secret. "And why did you win it?"

"For being good," he told us. "When you're good your name goes into a draw."

"And you won tuckshop money!" I said. "How exciting. You'll be able to buy a drink at lunchtime."

"I usually just buy iceblocks," said Master7.

"You've won this before?"

"Three times this year and twice last year."

I think we'll keep it simple. "My fellow Australians, thank you for bestowing on Tracey and myself the much coveted title of Parents of the Year..." Yeah, that'll work.

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Clones are people two

The offending shirt in an offending pose.

"What about this shirt?" Tracey asked me, shaking my 'Clones are people two' t-shirt at me. "I haven't seen you wearing it for ages."

"I love that shirt," I protested.

"Then why don't you wear it?"

"Because it's shrunk." Even as I said it I knew this wasn't the strongest argument for saving my t-shirt.

Tracey glanced meaningfully at my belly and then ever so briefly on my B cups before asking, "You're sure about that?"

We're having new carpet laid in one of the bedrooms tomorrow, which means we've spent the night emptying that room of anything touching the floor.

Given this is the room Miss17 recently moved out of, you'd be forgiven for thinking it should be pretty much empty already. Reality is, however, it's become the family dumping ground for everything from the vacuum to blankets to washing to odd chairs I didn't even know we had.

Naturally, because we're cleaning out this room, Tracey has decided to go through the whole house like a dose of salts, and the first thing Tracey always does when she's in a 'this house needs an enema' mood is to start tossing out my stuff.

Now I would argue heavily I'm not a hoarder but, with the exception being my kids' stuff (especially the little bits of toys I step on, which I gleefully bin every chance I get) I don't like throwing stuff out. I have a shirt I bought on our honeymoon in Thailand. It's got paint stains all down one side but it's survived every cull in the 12 years since I brought it home: mainly because I hide it amongst Tracey's things.

Unfortunately, though, my 'Clones are people two' t-shirt was already in her clutches.

"Fine," I said. "Throw it out."

"You throw it out," grinned Tracey, tossing it over to me. Like I wasn't suffering enough!

"Fine," I said, issuing a heavy protest sigh. There's no point arguing with your gaoler.

"Hey," Tracey called after me. I knew that cheeky tone. She was about to go for the slam-dunk.  When I turned she was pulling out handful after handful of my t-shirts from the cupboard. "Do you want me to throw out all your other shirts which have shrunk?"

"No," I said, defeated. "I'll have nothing left to wear."

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A Piece of...Cake

I don't usually bag a kiddy book, but last night I was reading a couple of stories to Miss2 and Miss5 when I came to a book called The Large Family - A Piece of Cake. The thing is, the wrongness of this story has stayed with me all day, so I have to write it down so I can purge my thoughts.

"I'm fat," said Mrs Large, is the opening line of the book. It's about a mother deciding to go on a diet and so the whole family has to go on a diet.

Now I love kids books. I love how there's not a lot of words and my kids go to bed much better if I take a couple of minutes to read to them - although I myself struggle, as I've mentioned before, to stay awake all the way to the end.

We have hundreds of kids books in the house. Hundreds and hundreds. More today than even yesterday because today was book club at school so we took the kids before work and brought home another ten. I could have done with one of those books last night, but instead...

I was frowning well before I got halfway through the book, with it's idea of a healthy dinner being watercress soup and a glass of water, but it was the following which made me wonder what on Earth the message was this book was trying to teach my kids:

It was awful. Every morning there was a healthy breakfast followed by exercises. Then there was a healthy tea followed by a healthy jog. By the time evening came everyone felt terrible.

Clearly the author hadn't heard of endorphins.

I'm not likely to be mistaken for a rock star surviving on a steady diet of nothing but uppers and downers, but I don't promote being biggish. I don't hate it or feel guilty about it. I certainly don't run down the idea of eating well and getting the heart rate up.

Still the fact we'd just eaten pizza in the park for dinner was probably giving me guilt issues as I read this book.

And how did it end? Well it was all for nothing because the whole Large family stole a piece of cake from the fridge behind each other's backs. Then they decided they were meant to be fat and gave up the healthy lifestyle. How's that for a message to be getting on with?

Yep, I don't normally bag a kiddy book, but in this case the bin is the best place for it.

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A day of play

Today was Tracey's last day of working for Blockbuster. As sad as she is to be leaving the team, she's very excited about setting herself up as a photographer. - something she's been wanting to do for several years, but couldn't because pregnancy and babies kept running off with her brain.

"I've done the right thing, haven't I?" she asked when she came home, a little teary and emotional. Naturally I assured her she has. She's a great photographer, loves looking at the world through a lens and, if you've got the opportunity, why not do something you love.

I also suspect she's anxious to spend more time at home with the kids on weekends - you know, the time when I'm mostly home with them too.

"I'm a doggy!" Miss5 told me this morning as she scuttled past me on all fours with her tongue out.

"Me dooo!" yelled Miss2, following her big sister in a cloud of chuckles. Miss2 does an even more realistic puppy than her big sister because she isn't fully toilet trained yet so she leaves the occasional puddle around the place.

How much fun is it to watch them pretend play? I like to encourage them.

"Good dogs," I said, bending down to pat them both fondly on the head. "Come on. Come on girls," I said cheerfully, slapping my thighs, and they followed me into the kitchen where I set down a bowl of water for each of them.

This afternoon I could hear the kids in their bedrooms practicing their 'show'. I knew it was a show because I was handed tickets at various stages throughout the day. One ticket isn't enough: each kid likes to produce their own.

So earlier tonight, with Tracey home from work, we gathered in our best pajamas in one of the bedrooms and Miss8 kicked things off with Mary Had A Little Lamb on the violin. We all sang along the second time through, some of us with our own version of the lyrics which earned me some raised eyebrows and her a huge round of applause.

Then Miss5 danced and sang a song of her own making - a little ditty about Christmas Eve and all the stuff she seemed likely to find waiting for her under the tree - which ended with a heart-stopping spin and jump off the bed, and again we clapped and cheered.

Miss2 danced as only two years olds or rhythmless headbangers can, and earned herself a standing ovation.

Then came Master7. Master7 learned today derriere is another word for bum. How he learned this, I don't know. Perhaps it was that one time I mentioned it today while I was threatening to pat his bum if he didn't behave, after which the two of us, joined by Miss8, chased each other around the house playing a sort of bum-slap tag game. Who knows? That might have been it. So tonight, Master7 did a bum dance for us while reciting all the words he knows which mean bum: derriere being the latest addition and, going by the number of times he mentioned it, the chorus. Master7 didn't quite make it to the end of his song before we stopped him but still earnt himself applause from the (mostly) appreciative audience. Especially this one bloke who was trying hard not to laugh.

So a very creative day all round for the kids. Unfortunately, though, some of the pretend play did carry over to the evening meal.

"Don't use your fingers," Tracey said to Miss5, and to our little girl's credit she immediately pulled her hands out of her bowl....

....and planted her whole face, mouth open, into her food.

"I'm a doggy," she said when she came up with a mouthful of mash.

"Good dog," I said, and patted her on the head. When I spotted the horrified look on Tracey's face I added, "Well she is. She did what you asked." Her expression changed to a smile, although I confess she was shaking her head.

Yep, I think Tracey feels she's made the right decision changing careers.

I'm happy too - with Tracey home I'll have more time to teach our cute little puppies some tricks.

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