Flamingo Files

garden life

Watching the romance of American Republicans and Donald Trump reminds me of the times when our daughters would be dating someone we knew were totally wrong for them, but were equally aware that we could do nothing except help pick up the pieces when it was over. A slow motion train wreck.

Son in law dropped D1 off to a ladies party on one side of the city, then dropped our Son off at a Bachelor’s party on the other side of the city. After they all had left home I discovered that both D1 and Son had left their phones at homes, so I had to play phone tag as D1 and Son phoned home of borrowed phones to coordinate pick up times with SIL, who drove back and forth across the city. I opened a bottle of white.

HE Who Never Shuts Up at work has resigned as his Daddy got him a new job – he realised that he was expected to do actually work each day. I wonder if he senses we are all pretending to be sad that he is leaving. Everyone is silently dancing in the aisles.

Been overdosing on The House of Cards. It’s like watching the evil brother of The West Wing and I love it.

I just ate the last of the cookies and cream ice-cream and didn’t share it with Mr FD. I was the one who spent the day with 3 year old Petite Fille while her mother (D1) partied, and her father drove across the city playing chauffeur. Some things Grannies earn.

Did anyone tell Jerry Hall that Rupert Murdoch’s mother lived to be 103? I hope Jerry doesn’t plan on a short wait for the inheritance. His kids must be glad that at least with this wife their shouldn’t be any more kids to add to the will. Yes, cynical is my second name.

I have a sinus headache. Has anyone ever died of a sinus headache? Could I die from a sinus headache? I am going to die from a sinus headache aren’t I? Remember me.

Do we really have to have an opinion about everything today?

Teachers aren’t allowed to staple students heads are they?

Apparently some kid solved the Rubik’s cube in 4.9 seconds. I haven’t been able to solve it in 40 years, even with the cheat sheet. Damn kids these days, got to ruin everything.

It’s autumn but autumn doesn’t appear to know that. It was 33C today. I want some chill. I need to chill out. This hot, summer gig has grown old.

And I have already had two colds this summer. I hate summer colds. Everyone treats to as though you are some freak of nature, getting a cold in summer. Like I chose it or something. I suspect that I am going to continue catching cold germs as long as Petite Fille is in the house as she is on two week cold rotation herself. I am too old for this.

Nine days of term one left. Yay. Then right after the Easter weekend I am flying to Western Australia to spend time with Peppercorn who is three months old already! She started swimming lessons this week. She is three months old. She cried half way through but I think that is a pretty good effort for 12 weeks on earth! We are giving the Rio Olympics a miss, but Tokyo 2020, be there or be square! Oh hang on, I think you have to be 16 years old to be eligible for the Olympics. Yeah, well, we will get back to you.

I had to make a swimming pool for Petite Fille this afternoon. We made it out of two purple shawls. It was a hard landing, but damn it looked good. Especially as one shawl had embroidered flowers . Tres belle.

Why does the first two thirds of the toothpaste tube disappear in two weeks and the last third take three months to use?

My son in law purchased under arm deodorant for me today. Have we now crossed some boundary that we don’t want to know about? He’s a good son in law but perhaps now I have to kill him.

Do you think it is time I decided what I want to be when I grow up?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flamingo Files – drive by style

car drive 1

Thoughts during a long drive home :

Why do so many old ladies wear huge glasses that cover the entire top half of their face? Is it so that they have a better chance of finding their spectacles if they mislay them?

 

If a shelf talker claims a book is “unputdownable” it really means the bookshop staff have either not read it at all, or can’t think of anything to say about the book. I know, I used to write them.

 

Why do people ask “are you eating your lunch?” when they find you sitting at your desk eating your lunch?

And then, why do they still ask you to do something?

 

Colleague, He Who Never Ceases Talking, keeps walking into my office to watch the new school block being built adjacent to the library, as my window has a perfect view of the construction site. By 11am this morning he was in severe danger of winding up under a digger. How many weeks until holidays?

 

Why do they think that people who work in libraries do nothing all day but drink coffee and read books? I drink tea.

Why does the car that holds everyone up in the 100kph zone always have to be the one that speeds up in the 60kph zones?

Why do students believe everything a teacher says? For example a student was having problems logging onto his laptop and asked me to help. I told him to retry his password to as expected it worked. “Wow” he said. “Don’t you know everything when works when a teacher stands behind you?” “Really?” he asked with a look of wonder on his year 8 face. “No!” I confessed. “Oh…” the sound of disappointment in his voice was matched by expression. Sometimes it is like kicking a puppy.

Why is it that as soon as the water gets switched off everyone needs to go the the toilet?

 

I ponder upon Flamingo Files

caged woman On my drive home through the city last week I passed a shop that had a pressed letter sign declaring, You will never know how much I love you . All I could think was, well tell him/her stupid! No one should have to guess, it should hit them in the face like a cream pie every day.

A billboard declared that the business could solve “In grown toe nails”, In fact it was branded an “ingrown toe nail clinic”. More ponderings. Does this mean our thong/sandal wearing Australian population is a nation of ingrown nail growers, enough to support an entire clinic, or clinics catering to just that? Or more worrying, does it mean that our literacy levels have dropped so much that few know what the word podiatrist means these days and we have to dumb down the language even more.

[Remember, Australians wear thongs upon their feet, not flip flops. Thongs are not underwear. Well, they are underwear, but they are also footwear. We had the word first, I swear.]

I am thinking of implementing this design feature to my revenge stick. Form, function, but not quite sure about beauty… picnic stick I just don’t want to disturb the balance function as one smites those who have angered me. It would defeat the ants though.

Our dog moped about during my absence last week. He perked up dramatically when I returned. Then Mr FD and Son went away for a few days, and Augie Dog is back to moping, lifting his head at every car noise, sitting by the front door, searching Son’s empty rooms. If he missed me, why aren’t I enough now? I am the one who feeds him most of the time, surely belly love should trump all!

Mr FD and Son left on a day long drive to visit Mr FD’s 90 year old bachelor Uncle. Two hours into the trip I received a phone call. Mr FD had left his wallet at home! This was after I had suggested that he leave said wallet in the car in the locked garage (part of the house) to ensure he not leave it behind. No, he had to bring it inside for no reason… Luckily, Son has his wallet. Obviously, Mr FD needs a wallet that goes ding as well! [See previous post]

If you are a maker of dog toys, there is an untapped market for industrial strength toys for LARGE DOGS. Poor Augie Dog has a rope, a frisbee and a Gorilla Kong on a rope that would snap the neck of a lesser dog. All other toys are for those teeny weeny lap dogs that travel in handbags. Wimps. Augie needs man dog toys. I will be your first order if you take up the challenge – no dings required.

We top dressed the lawn inside Augie’s yard and ever since mushrooms have been popping up. The obvious answer is that there was a lot of mushroom compost in the mix. We think the mushrooms are safe, but don’t trust our mushroom identification skills, so each day we go out and pick the mushrooms before Augie is allowed out. As I rise earliest, this falls to me most mornings. A few times the neighbours have driven out their drive as I do so, and I wonder what they think as they see a bleary eyed Flamingo Dancer with night sleep hair, in her PJs picking mushrooms in the early morning light. Needs must in more ways than one?caged woman 2

eye to eye with the Flamingo Files

This is the Old Windmill is a heritage-listed tower located in Wickham Park, on Wickham Terrace in Spring Hill, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia.  It is across the road from where my eye was crafted!

This is the Old Windmill It is a heritage-listed tower located in Wickham Park, on Wickham Terrace in Spring Hill, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. It is across the road from where my eye was crafted!

We brought the new eye home, and a very nice new eye it is too. It was a little too big at first and gave me a startled look even when I was trying to pretend my eyes were closed in a sleeping position, so a little grinding, polishing and buffing was called for. Well, it was called for three times, before the mirror in my hand told me I was the most glamorous in the land. So with old eye in my handbag, and new eye in its rightful place, and $2150 poorer ($500 to be repaid by medical insurance) I met Mr FD in the downstairs coffee shop where he had been waiting. I fluttered my eyelashes and rolled my beautiful green eyes at him, but he just thought I was having a brain conniption , so I gave up trying to impress and ordered coffee and apple pie instead.

I have the solution for America’s gun problem! Sticks. Give every man, woman and child a four foot long stick in place of guns and I am sure that very shortly the death and injury rate will fall. I mean, if you are going to the movie theatre and have to carry a 4ft stick with you, you are going to think twice aren’t you? Also, a 4ft stick can’t be concealed, so everyone is going to know that you are packing one.  As protection, no one will need a bullet proof vet, just a good quality helmut. These could come in a range of decorator colours, basic black for those sophisticated moments.  Sure an arm or leg might get cracked but no one is going to die, and everyone has an equal chance. Plus you can run away or make sure you stand a good six feet away and no harm can be done.  Geeze, I really should run the world.  Now, world peace…

Grade 8 students are so gullible. I was teaching them how to access their school email (many of them don’t even know what an email is! Does that make you feel old?) and I told them that once they had read an email and decided that they no longer needed it to delete it so that they didn’t end up with 4967 emails by the end of the year. I added that of course they should delete everything, except my emails as they were the best and most important. Instantly a look of terror flew across the face of one young student who confessed, “I just deleted one of your emails!” Oh the fun playing with young minds. I told her I forgave her… and then told her I was joking. Damn teacher honesty.

It is amazing how where you live shapes your life. Last week, I was driving through the Village when I felt something drop under my feet. It seemed to fall from under the dashboard. In the city I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now that we live in the country, all those media stories of snakes crawling into cars and dropping onto drivers instantly came to mind, and so I hastily pulled over. Turns out it was my sunglasses case! It did make me aware of how much our life has changed in the last eighteen months.

The real thing, a snake, did eventuate though. Mr FD found a green tree snake had made its way through a hole in the screen door in the laundry and was slithering its way down the hall way today. It was a monumental battle as Augie Dog wanted a piece of the action, or rather snake as well. So Mr FD had to hold Augie with one hand and dispatch the snake with the other. Snakes are protected in Australia, but if they come into my house they are an endangered reptile in my opinion. Just to prove his bravery, Mr FD left the blood smear on the floor near the main bathroom. When I arrived home I handed him the antiseptic wipes to finish the job ( sometimes the fragile female act really is the only course of action!) New screen door being ordered tomorrow.

The Old Windmill, Brisbane http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Old_Windmill,_Brisbane

Flamingo files 2014 style

bird Mary & Dove, Paris 1957

When do we start talking about weather, or even notching the weather? As a teenager I know that I never paid the weather one moment of thoughts, except for rainy days when I would really want to skip school to stay home and read books in bed. I have numerous memories of going out on a winter’s evening  wearing  a feeling light and flimsy blouse or dress. No matter that my teeth might chatter, my skin turn blue and pneumonia would set in by morning, if I had a new outfit without sleeves, and meant for 30C days, and it was 9C outside, I was going to wear it – I had to dress to suit the me I was that night -young and sexy, of course!

I looked in my car’s rear view mirror to see a 1970s model Ford Falcon painted a faded orange colour following me. Inside the orange car was a man, well someone had to drive it, at least for the moment! The man was wearing a faded orange safety vest. All I could think of for the rest of the journey, much of which the orange safety man in his orange vehicle followed me was, why?Does he suffer an anxiety issue, so won’t leave home without all safety elements intact? Has he been involved in one car accident too many (is there ever a suitable number of car accidents to suffer though?) and now wants to warn everyone that he is coming? Does his wife not want surprise returns to home and so makes him wear orange, drive orange? Is he colour blind and thinks he is wearing green? Important need to knows.

The birds around The Village are getting traffic savvy. I noticed a  car approaching a bird pecking in the middle of the road, and when the bird failed to fly away as the car neared I expected a splatter of bird body and feathers to ensure. Nearing the last moment of escape the bird merely moved to the centre road line of the two lane road.

It stepped back to eat its minuscule road meal as I approached. I slowed expecting it to make flight this time, but it merely did the same, stepping to stand on the centre road line as I drew level. Obviously it has learnt it is just a step to the right!

Don’t you think it is a worry though, that our birds have more street smarts than some of our children who have to be escorted across the road after school even as teenagers?

I find my daily road trip a fountain of interest some days. On my way to a doctor’s appointment, I changed lanes on the highway and fell behind a hearse with the words “legend funerals” emblazoned across the back of the car. Legend funerals, doesn’t it just make your imagination race? Visions of Rocky type music blaring as your casket is jettisoned from the rear of the church, paparazzi flashing as your remains roll by. Then I started to wonder about the language itself. Was it really funerals for legends, or was it legendary funerals? Either way I tried not to think of it as an omen as I drove into the car park at my doctor’s office – I am a legend and oh so legendary after all!

 

Flamingo Files

Do you ever get those days when you have a sniffly runny nose and wonder if it is in fact the fluid leaking from your brain? Me either.

Living in the country does make you different. How many other people get to complain at work that they are tired because a cow kept them up all night? She bellowed all night and my only guess is that her calf was taken from her and she was calling for it.

when they are good, they are sufferable, but when they are bad, they are vermin

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Excuse me, but I have the rather urgent need to vent.

People who do a five minute walk through tour and then make snap decisions, should be snapped in half themselves and their pieces scattered on a motorway.

May all those self-indulgent parents who told their child that they were wonderful for merely drawing breath; and may all those parents who don’t give a shit about their feral children and never taught them any values or manners, may you all rot in hell before coming back as a teacher in your next life, if there is one and get to teach your kid; otherwise just burn in hell. Twice.

“Don’t leave your bag in the doorway”

“Why?”

“Because someone will trip over it.”

“It’s not my fault if they are stupid enough to fall over it.”

 

Treat others as you would like to be treated, or I will surely break your arms and legs off.

Argue about the literal meaning of a proverb over the metaphor one more time and I will ram your arms and legs where the sun don’t shine and post you home to mother.

Why should class be fun? Why can’t you just pay attention for 40 minutes and learn something for once in your damn life.

Can I put up an Easter reading suggestion display with the slogan “Don’t be a wasted space, read a book for once”?

May the subject coordinators who create dodgy lesson plans for teachers to present, be locked into an eternal Groundhog Day of teaching that lesson. May you be eaten alive at the end of each day. No exit clause.

Would someone for f-ing sake build covered walkways between our classrooms so that we don’t end up with 152 sopping wet students in the library at lunch time.

Sometimes, sonny boy, you just don’t get to negotiate or argue every point, sometimes you just need to shut up and do.

Don’t give me the finger because you don’t know how to merge on the highway. I see your finger and raise it one as well.

Stop trying to rearrange the front of my car and attach my car to yours by changing  into my lane without allowing enough space between our cars.

“Put your phone away”

“It’s my mum”

“Tell Mum that Mrs FD is trying to teach you right now.”

“But she wants to know ,,, whether to wash my blue blouse or my pink; where I left the remote; whether she can borrow some money…”

“Tell Mum to send a text that you can answer after class.”

Total disbelief as an expression from student who continues conversation with parent.

 

Enough with the rain already, we need to dry out.

I am a goddess why are my feet in the bloody trenches?

assassins

Flamingo Files marathon

Sorry for being like a bad mother and parking you in front of the YouTube screen for the past two days, but I have had  a couple of doona days (sick days) due to a rumbly in my tumbly.

Couple of news items (Australian content) that have driven me mad. One the temerity of the Australian media to think that they had the right or the expertise to question the physical appearance of Olympic swimmer Leisel Jones.  Jones has won medals at previous Olympics during a period when she has gone to a 14 year old child to a woman. So what if she doesn’t fit what we amateurs think a swimmer should look like, she has qualified and that is enough. The arm chair critics should shut up, and keep their gender bias to themselves. No wonder women have body issues when even those in peak condition at a world level are picked on!

The other issue, also related to the Olympics has been the very vocal complaints from some of our runners that they should have been given more opportunities to compete in various events. I find this very interesting from a generational point of view. With the Olympics we are seeing Baby Boomers having to deal with Generation X and Y. Boomers hold tight to loyalty, while X and Y have lived in a environment of instant gratification and been instilled with a sense of entitlement (usually by their Boomer parents!) and it is interesting to watch it play out. Sadly, it is in such a public forum, and when the sportsmen are living the dream of so many others it does seem petty and selfish to many viewing from the edges.  As equestrian rider Andrew Hoy said in a television interview that when he was not selected for the Beijing Olympics he just worked harder so that there was no way they could over look him for the next Olympics. He is riding in his seventh Olympics, so maybe the runners need to listen to his sage words.

That said, I can’t wait for the Olympics to begin, not because I am a keen follower of sport, but because I am so tired of endless hours of empty news reporting on the Olympics.

My money is on Prince Philip lighting the Olympic cauldron at the opening ceremony. That is why they had to cut the opening ceremonies, to accommodate the length of time it will take Phil to totter to the cauldron with his flame.

The time has come, my little friends, to talk of other things / Of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings / And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wigs

I rediscovered one of life’s little pleasures while I was ill – sitting up in bed in the middle of the afternoon eating ice cream; just because I wanted to. Vanilla is my favourite. I like chocolate too, but vanilla ice cream is just so pure and simple; it just swirls around my mouth and down my throat. Pure bliss.

My Grandchild to Be now has arms and legs and likes to play (remember I was a child bride and like Remax, or Remix, or whatever Bella and Edward named their spawn, my children aged at an accelerated rate and then stopped ageing, I am only twenty something plus thirty something). Daughter1 had another scan this week, and they got to see My Grandchild to Be, flipping and floating and doing all the things it should be doing. D1 has had a little discomfort as her joints have softened a little too much to accommodate the pregnancy and so she has had to wear a girdle brace for the past week. Her morning sickness is peaking (week 11). I tell her things will improve…if not she will forget it all after My Grandchild arrives!

Daughter2 is not moving to England, she is off to Perth for a 12 month secondment. That is right across the country, like going from New York to Los Angeles, but at least it is the same country. I shall miss her dreadfully, as she is my movie buddy and indulges my eccentricities, most of the time, until she reaches her limits and threatens to kill me. I keep her readily supplied with crazy mother tales to entertain her friends, so no doubt she will miss me too. We shall just have to watch movies in marathons when she comes home.

MIL is 90 this year and SIL is planning celebrations. We begged her to keep it a quiet affair, but she is off on her own tangent. Memories of FIL’s 90th come flooding back though – he landed in hospital the day before and we ended up cutting the cake in the hospital. It is another 6 weeks away, a long time when someone is 90…

Do you think Romney is a stick puppet? He always appears so stilted and uncomfortable in public, I can only imagine him with a stick up his….

Three policemen came to our door and Mr FD thought ill begotten youth had finally caught up with him. Hunney the statute of limitations expired on that a long time ago (not sure if Australia has a statute of limitations. I hope not)!

In truth, someone had parked a vehicle on the spare allotment next to our house and young men were seen walking in and out of the bushland and one the neighbours had called it in to the police. We had noticed the vehicle, but as we live at the end of a cul de sac and the allotment is vacant it is not unusual to see vehicles parked there when neighbours have multiple guests. We are all taking turns creating stories to go along with the mystery. It’s a small life but someone has to live it…

a fitting punisment for Mr FD?

guess who came for dinner

A thief entered my mother’s room at the care facility last night. Luckily, she and the other residents were together in the dining room, when a young man entered the building and started to rifle through rooms.

Mum’s was the fourth room that he entered and somehow he triggered an alarm in her room. Two staff members confronted him, but he managed to escape. He was going through Mum’s handbag when discovered. She had nothing of value in her handbag, just some store loyalty cards and about fifteen dollars in cash. My sister has all her important cards.

The police were called, naturally, but Mum was not told about what happened. They phoned my sister and she agreed not to tell Mum as nothing was lost (she probably won’t remember the money) and it is best not to worry her as she has started to really settle in now.

Obviously, the thief knew the routine as he struck when it was meal time aware the staff would be occupied with the residents in the dining room. Heartless to strike at people so vulnerable.

To think Mum lived all those years in her home, the last 12 alone and was never robbed, and here within her first month in a place we considered safer for her, she is a crime victim. The security of the facility has been my main concern since the night Mum wandered out into the street. I know they can’t lock them away, but I do think they should have more secure systems, such as locking the front door. They do at the facility where Mr FD’s Mum is a resident, though most of the ladies there are capable of answering a knock on the door from anyone wishing to enter. Mum’s companions all have walkers and are less mobile so staff would have to answer the door, but I do think it needs to be considered.

Well, no guess about who has gone to the top of the stick list – actually he will be lucky if he only gets the sticking he so richly deserves if I get my hands on him. One day he will be an old person, and I hope bad karma rains down on him!

Flamingo Files, Wednesay style

I am wearing my knitted blue dress and I am so sexy, even if I say so myself (and I do!)

We have a bird problem outside the library; birds perch along the exterior window ledges and poop over the paving, especially in front of the doors. We notice that it is worse after the weekends when the birds can perch unmolested.  So, one of the building staff purchased a large plastic owl and had it installed on the corner of the building. The theory is that it will scare the birds away. I think it is more likely that the birds will fall about laughing! This morning a big black crow was making friends with it, and the crow only took flight when I walked towards the building (no, you don’t want to make comment as to the relationship between my appearance and the level of fright of the bird, well, not if you want to live). Pity the owl doesn’t have a voice and motion sensor. I would record the message “No food in front of the library! Put your bag on the bag racks! I am talking to you, kiddo!” Then it would really earn its place!

I increased my life insurance and income protection insurance this week, so if I mysteriously disappear in the near future, please feel free to point the finger at Mr FD. He has been following the Baden-Clay case closely, as indeed everyone has.  If he suggests I suddenly developed a passion for going for walks late at night, call him a liar. We all know that I do not exercise, indeed exercise for me is moving from one end of the couch to the other (Flamingo Dancers do not get sweaty, we merely become dewey).  I also do not swim in local water holes or creeks. I do not walk along the nearby river’s edge either. Even if he didn’t do it, he deserves to suffer in my absence. He should have taken better care of me!

merely dewey, not sweaty!

The quote on my desk calendar states, “The plainest sign of wisdom is a continual cheerfulness: her state is like that of things in the regions above the moon, always clear and serene” (Michel de Montaigne). Obviously I am never going to possess wisdom, for continual cheerfulness is beyond me. To be continually cheerful one must no doubt be continually nice, and we all know that I find being nice so damn exhausting. Last week I developed a severe migraine from an extended period of niceness, and required a day in my bed to recover my evilosity balance.

Over a week ago I bought some green grapes which I put into the vegetable keeper of the fridge and promptly forgot about. On Monday morning I remembered that they were there (okay, I didn’t remember, I found them when searching for a tomato that hadn’t gone mouldy) and decided to take them for my lunch. Problem was that after a week in the fridge the grapes were no longer as fresh as they had once been (who is?) so when it came to lunch I allowed myself to reject them in favour of some chocolates that were being passed around. Guilty as only a catholic girl can be, I vowed I would eat them the next day, so I kept them in my lunch bag (lunch bag, think of something Fred Flintstone would carry, except in insulated black nylon!) Next day rolled around; as did grape time and I now know those damn grapes have been in the bag, not even the fridge since yesterday. My mind imagines the brown patches as browner, brown patches. Now, we all know that I am never going to eat those damn grapes. I am going to keep playing this routine until the damn things fall out of my lunch bag, or the fuzzy mould takes hold. Then I will throw them out. So, why don’t I save myself all these feelings of guilt and just turf them into the compost bin now? They are going to a better place – earth to earth and all that. However, there are still starving people in the world and so I keep pretending to myself, which is even worse, as it is not as though my lack of grape appreciation is public knowledge (I am no longer on Facebook) so I need only hide my dirty secret from my own consciousness, but I can’t. I have a solution though – I shall give them to Mr FD when I go home. And that, Virginia, is what husbands are for…

Speaking of vaginas, Virginia, male student was waiting for male friend at the circulation desk and was reading through a homework quiz. One of the questions was “Do women have a cervix?” Neither of them knew, and I did not enlighten them. Some things a boy just has to work out for himself.