haddybobaddy

How to dress your children funny: Christmas 1973 edition

It seems to have escaped my mother's attention that my sister and I are not twins.  I shudder at the thought of the abominations we would have been forced to wear had we been.

I would also like to challenge her on the whole hairband versus ribbons issue. Obviously I am scowling because my sister is rocking the hairband with her hair out while I have mine in pigtails and ribbons. I am so pissed. Wearing our hair out was like totally rad. And mostly forbidden.  It is so. not. fair. that she was allowed all that hair freedom, and I was denied it. This clearly was a precursor to the 1976 Christmas debacle when she got an ABBA t-shirt and do you know what I got? I bet you cannot even guess what I got.

I got a Wombles t-shirt.

No, sorry. I can't talk about it. I thought I could but I can't.

Back to 1973.  I also take issue with the fact that my sister's dress is both pink AND bedecked with flowers. The rule is that if you get pink, then you also get the ugly pattern. It's what god intended. But nooooo. Not in 1973. Not only did I get a white and red dress (FYI Mum. Red and white? So not a susbstitute for pink, just so you know) it had, I don't even know wtf that is on that dress. Space ships? I fucking hope not.  Fruit? Maybe. Yeah, possibly fruit. Better than space ships but it still doesn't have the same cachet as flowers does it? For the record, if it's not flowers on your dress, it bloody better be hearts.

In light of this, do I even need to address the doll* issue? She gets the HAIRBAND (PINK!), the PINK dress with the FLOWERS, and the doll with the PINK dress? Did you really hate me that much, MOTHER?

I take some solace in the fact that my brother did not remain unscathed. Buttoned up to the neck = so cool, sucka. Also, floral fitted shorts? Niiiice. But don't be fooled by that smile. He would have been crying on the inside and I can almost guarantee that right after this picture was taken he punched me to let off a little steam.

*I rolled that doll down a grass bank and her eyes fell out. It taught me a valuable lesson, and to this day, I have not rolled any live babies down grass banks.

Back to our regular programming

Works for the council.

Or works for Village People.

 

Either way, he's working it.

He wears his high visibility vest on our early morning jogs.  I'm not entirely sure he needs it, since the lights of the big cattle trucks that come thundering down the road seem to sufficiently illuminate his big white arse.  But I think he looks cute in the jacket regardless.

Speaking of white, he stayed at the kennels over the weekend and they washed his face with whitening shampoo.  I don't think he's ever looked this...clean? And I was really reluctant to drop him off again this morning since it is raining, and with rain comes mud, and Haddy and the mud? Not such a good combination, akshully. 

But still, and I might be the tiniest bit partial here, isn't he lovely?

Look at that face! Butter would. not. mel....mmm, butter.

Done and done-r

The recital is over and while we still have the christmas parade to look forward(?) to, there is no more dancing until February. 

That's a shame because it's kind of fun hanging around in dressing rooms with your friends.

And it gets even more exciting when the superheroes show up.

I am happy to report that the floor did not open up and swallow me. I did not fall, nor even trip (although one of our number did, as she exited stage left). I did do the wrong step in a couple of places but I righted myself reasonably promptly. Most importantly, and most surprisingly, I did smile most of my way through both dress rehearsals and both performances. Go me.

I did not, however, win any prizes. I left that over to Q, who picked up her second dance trophy.  This one was for hip hop, for most promising dancer in the junior classes.

She has to share it with a boy, but the dude is sixteen, so just quietly I think she deserves it more. I am so not biased.

I'm glad she won that award. It's taken her mind off the fact that tomorrow she's having two teeth extracted and braces fitted the following week.

This will probably be the last of dancing related posts for a while. But don't worry, my crew and I are all signed up for next year.

Just dance, gonna be okay

Today is the day.

Incidentally, you have no idea how much time and effort went into the hair and make-up.  And that was for a pre-dress rehearsal rehearsal. Seriously.  This part of the dancing process gives me the screaming heebee jeebies.  But on to more important matters, namely me.

According to the girls, I am "not doing too badly".  Q went on to say "You're doing really well, for someone who isn't a natural dancer".  When confronted by my eyebrows hitting the ceiling she argued that I had said so myself at some stage.  Which is clearly not the point, since as any drama queen worth her salt knows, when you say something like that, the answer you seek is "oh no, you were born for the stage" and if Q doesn't know that already then high school is really gonna turn her on her head.

We will be leaving the house by 8 a.m. for the first of the three dress-rehearsals, the last one ending at 4 p.m.  Then we need to be back at the theatre by 6, curtain up at 7 p.m.  At about 10.30 (please god) I will crawl into a strange bed since we're crashing in the big city for the night. Then I will come home and feed the cat in the morning (Haddy is having a sleepover at DDC), then back to the theatre at 1 pm for the second show at 2.  Then I may come home and meet my NaBloPoMo commitment, but if you don't hear from me again, you can assume that the stage floor did actually open up and swallow me.

How to dress your children funny. Part I of an occasional series.

Courtesy of my mother. 

Circa 1971.  

Woah. Too many things deserving attention here. But let's start with the pants.

This was back in the day when we used to call long pants "longs".  But wait, were these long pants? Were they long shorts or short longs? I can't decide.  On the one hand, the knees are sufficiently worn to suggest that they had been a feature of our wardrobes for a considerable length of time. On the other hand, Mum used to make our clothes so it's not like a couple of new pairs were out of the question, fiscally speaking.

Next up: the hair.  I like the way that my hair is parted on the left and my sister's on the right. If I recall correctly, and I think I do because trauma like this stays with you forever, my hair tie was a yellow flower with a red centre and hers was a red flower with a yellow centre.  My mother was all about the symmetry.  But! We just go and fuck that right up by both wearing our handbags on the same shoulders. Way to ruin the mirror image guys.

And then there are the jerseys. The picture does not do the colour of these jerseys full justice. The photo has faded afer many years of being stuck on the wall as a reminder to myself and my daughters that family don't let family dress like twats.  The jerseys are green. But not really, because they're sort of blue as well.  No, not aqua. Not sea-green. Not aquamarine. Not cyan. Not teal.  More like, how shall I put it....algae? Pond-scum. Toxic bloom nicely set off by the white skivvies underneath.

Next up, the shoes.  Firstly, it would appear that we only had one pair of shoes each back in the day, since we are wearing our school shoes sans uniform.  Secondly, something has obviously gone badly wrong (did someone die? get arrested?) since we used to polish those shoes every Sunday night WITHOUT FAIL and yet, here we are in all our scuffed glory.  This picture is just not adding up. 

Aaaand then we have the socks. The final chapter in the whole sorry saga.  Those white beacons of hopelessness, on a trip north chasing the sisterhood of the traveling pants.

Well played Mum, well played.

Where the wild things are

I was getting tea on the other night and I happened to glance out the kitchen window and into the neighbour's paddock, when something caught my eye.

"Holy shit, it's a wombat!" was my first thought. My second thought was "wait, I don't live in Australia".

It turned out to be a hare.

Yes, yes, I know the ears kind of demonstrate that it couldn't be a wombat. I clearly wasn't thinking. Or wasn't thinking clearly. As I said, I glanced out the window and it was the size of the thing that caught my eye, not so much it's auricular appendages (wow, see me go with my fancy words).

This photo was taken with as much zoom as I can get.  The hare is probably about 10-15 metres away (I don't know, I'm not spatially aware. Doesn't bode well for dancing, does it?). Anyway, it was a big motherfucker. It had the legs of a terrier and a vicious glint in its eyes. Probably. Hard to tell from that distance.

It's so exciting living in the country, innit?  This one time? I saw a stoat. But it was dead. Haddy tried to eat it.  Also? Frogs. And possums. And then there are the birds: Pheasants (not peasants, although sometimes I get them confused.  That never turns out well). Ducks. Pukeko. Harrier hawks (these are awesome to watch in action). Rosella. Spur-winged plover.  I could go on, but I really shouldn't.  Next thing you know I'll be admitting to the internet that I bought binoculars specifically for birdwatching, and how embarrassing would that be?

Did I mention this already? About the dancing? It's no big deal, really.

Me: I'm dancing on stage on Saturday night. That's 4 days away. I'm terrified.

BF: You'll be fine. What are you worried about?

Me: That I'll make a dick out of myself. In front of possibly 1000 people.

BF: But you've appeared on stage naked* before.

Me: Yes, but I didn't have to move. To music. All I had to do then was scream and run.

BF: You could try that.

BF: But leave your clothes on.

*It was long ago, and far away.

Hamilton, 1989.  I was young. Too young.

The director was old, and a bit of a perv. Roy, his name was. I won't reveal his last name, because I can't recall it.

The play was Move Over Mrs Markham, a British farce, and I played Miss Wilkinson, a skanky telephone operator who ends up stripping (underneath bedclothes), and who is supposed to exit stage left, wearing nothing but a sheet.

We had been rehearsing for weeks, and then one day Roy, wacky artistic dude that he was, thought it would be so much more "in keeping with farce" if someone were to step on the sheet on my way out the door, leaving me to run through it (the door, that is) stark bollocking naked. I would wear a body stocking, of course, he assured me.

Of course.

Of course, when Roy realised that proper body stockings were way too expensive for the theatre's coffers, he commissioned the seamstress, Ethne, to make one.

Out of flesh coloured jersey knit.

Ethne tried her best, but the end result looked like a pair of granny knickers with a top attached. Instead of fitting like a, you know, stocking, it fit like a pair of granny knickers with a top attached.

It was frightful.

I weighed my options. Wear Ethne's abomination and look like a twat. Or simply wear a smile.

Bearing in mind that this was almost 20 years ago and pre-kids, all of my parts were in their rightful places.  A smile it was.

Ethne was miffed.

Roy was thrilled.

And thus, every night for five nights I would rush off stage, sans sheet.  Peter, our hair and makeup artiste darling, would be waiting in the wings with my candlewick dressing gown.  Peter was reading a Stephen King book at the time, and couldn't put the thing down. He would sit in the wings with my dressing gown on his lap, and a little torch in his hand, reading his book and half-listening to the play so that when he heard his cue, he could stand up with my dressing gown at the ready. 

On the third night, Peter was close to finishing the book, and was completely absorbed.  Needless to say he missed his cue, and when I ran through the door screaming (as per the script), he got such a fright he screamed back, threw his torch at me, and yelled "FUCK OFF!"

That bastard brought the house down.

Tomorrow she's going to share make up tips and help me with my hair

Q:Mum, you shouldn't worry about your dancing. It's fine. Now you just need to work on your smile.

Me:I do have trouble with that.

Q:Okay, so show me your smile. With teeth. Hmmm, that's a bit crooked. *sticks fingers on my gob, attempts to rearrange*

Me:Do you mind?

Q:It looks like you have an overbite.  Do this: *demonstrates appropriate smiling*

Me: *grimaces*

Q:Perhaps you should have had braces when you were a kid.

Me:Perhaps you might like to ring Nana and Grandad and register your disapproval.

Q:Try putting your back teeth together.

Me:Eh?

Q:Like this: *demonstrates technique*

Me:*grimaces*

Q:Open your mouth.  Where have all your back teeth gone?

Me:I don't want to do this anymore.

Q:You need at least two smiles because if your mouth gets really sore, you can do this: *demonstrates smile-switch*

Me:I don't even have one smile I'm happy with.

Quin:Well, just do what you do when you think something's funny.

Me:*grimaces*

Quin:Okay now with teeth.  Okay that's good. That's good.

...

...

Q:Okay, now you're losing it.

Dance like no one's watching. And speak nicely to your mother.

Yesterday I woke up with a headache, having gone to bed the previous night in a fit of disgust at all the people interviewed on TV saying "oh I voted for National, because it's time for a change." The worrying thing is, that very few of them said anything about National's policies.  It was more like, "oh, I've seen her/him out campaigning, so I thought I'd vote for her/him", or even more inane things like, "I voted for Rodney Hide for Epsom, but gave my party vote to National.  It was a strategic vote", without explaining (or I suspect even being aware) of what exactly the strategy was.

I'm going to miss Helen.

And then I spent the rest of the day at on-stage rehearsals for The Big Production next weekend. Because all three of us are in the show, we had to be there at 9 am for Q's hip hop, 12.00 p.m. for Q and T's jazz, and 2 p.m. for my hip hop.  We did manage to get away between 10 and 12 since Q's hip hop finished on time, but then I had to stay there from 12 until 4 until us oldies (but oh so goodies) had had our one and a half minutes on stage.

So I sat and watched all the other items, went to the loo about ten times (per hour. old lady hip hoppers need to be very cautious) and did my knitting. Yes, I am your Nana.

This year, unlike previous years, I didn't see a whole lot of Scary Stage Mother Syndrome going on (think chicken-necked mother from Painted Babies).  I did, however, witness an awful lot of Young Girls Behaving Badly.  Good grief, if I had spoken to my mother the way some of these prima donnas speak to theirs, I would have received a good old whap to the head.  I used to get one for frowning, for god's sake. 

Imagine, if you can, the scene.  A theatre filled with aspiring dancers ranging from 3 to 90 (for reals, there is a nonagerian tapper in the mix, although I didn't see her yesterday. I hope someone thought to check all the dressing rooms before they shut up for the night). Several unfortunate mothers sit there holding all their daughter's crap on their laps.  And a number of very similar exchanges proceeded to occur over the next few hours.  Enter self-absorbed adolescent with bigger volcanoes on her face than her chest: "Mum...Mum...MUM! Give me my top...NO. My top...no....my GREEN jazz TOP!..the one for my costume...NO! My jazz costume. God!"  And Mum would apologise and rummage around until she found the GREEEN jazz TOP! and daughter would snatch it, and flounce away. Then she'd come back wearing her GREEN jazz TOP! and Mum would get out her camera and S-A-A would shriek and say: "MUM! Don't! God!" and Mum would apologise.  And then S-A-A would say "can you give me some money. I'm hungry." and Mum would say, I didn't bring my purse, and S-A-A would click her tongue and roll her eyes and Mum would apologise.

Wtf? I kind of get that teenagers are horrid. I've been told this often enough, and I was one once. Allegedly.  But the apologising? And the failure to you know, deal with the behaviour? I am not understanding of this.

My kids, one of whom is fast approaching this adorable phase of development, do not. ever. speak to me like that. Not because I whap them on the head, or any other place for that matter. They don't speak to me, or anyone, in the ways I observed yesterday, because they have been taught respect, and they learned respect because there have always been consequences for its absence.

It is possible that these girls are getting schooled for their behaviour when they get home, and that across Hamilton last night there was wholesale cellphone confiscation.  I like to think there was, anyway.

But I still have a headache.

Port Waikato

On the drive to Port Waikato there are two signs that always make me smile. The first is a council sign, just before a long stretch of straight road, that reads: "Franklin has one race track. This is not it." Obviously there's at least one comedian who works at the Franklin District Council.

The second is a hand painted sign that reads "Pat's Culvert". This cracks my shit up, since it is clearly not a council sign and I like to think that one morning Pat got out of bed and said "That's it. I'm sick of everyone using my culvert" and went out and made a sign. 

I'm easily amused.

The last time we went out there was in February.  Haddy is a lot bigger now than he was then, and marginally better behaved. Even though he is not reliable at coming when he is called, I was contemplating letting him run off leash for a bit, until about 10 kids on motorbikes came screaming down the beach.  Uh, I like my dog unsquashed, thanks. 

So he remained restrained for the duration. But he still had fun. We climbed the sand dunes,

 

to get a better look at the river mouth.

 

We stopped and had a bite to eat, and dug some holes.

 

Well, at least one of us did.

Sometimes you've just got to get your arse in there to get the job done properly.

And once you've put the hard yards in, you can sit down in the cool sand and have a wee rest.

It's as simple as that.