The Artist woke up in a terrible state this morning. He had had a nightmare. I immediately asked if the nightmare was that I had died. Because such was his state. What else could it have been to render him so distraught? It had to be that (that I had died) because his greatest fears would be realised in that he would have to:
* be on the frontline (like a General Eisenhower) to deal with two teenage girls and their mood swings on a daily basis
* buy tampons
* go formal dress shopping (for two dresses)
* shop for and cook two meals a night (one for normal people and one for a vegan)
* finally take responsibility for doing the 120 million hours required for Miss18 to get her drivers license
It turns out that my death is not that scary. What is that scary, the stuff that nightmares are made of, is BBQ’ing the dog. He had a dream that he BBQ’d Koda. And Koda’s eyes were open on the BBQ while he was preparing to eat him.
I went to make coffee and returned to find The Artist spooning the dog on his bed (the dog’s) whilst crooning his deepest apologies. The dog was having none of it.
He stalked downstairs with me in indignation to do his morning ablutions. And then the problems started. He would not come inside for fear of being breakfast, even though BBQ is more of a lunch/dinner thing.
I explained to him that he was safe. Traumatised he started eating grass whilst communicating to me with his eyes that perhaps if he eats grass his father won’t find him so appetising. I then told him about the cows that his father enjoys as steak – completely destroying his safety net theory and my hope of ever getting him inside.
The Artist is still apologising to Koda for his terrible dream transgression. But I don’t think he is that sorry because I sent him this Facebook funny to which he responded as follows:
Yup – nightmare my friend.
Love and light
It has been somewhat of an epic weekend here at the Chez. We had a birthday – I got the gift wrong again in case anyone was wondering. And yes, that was me walking down Crown Street on Friday morning in the pouring rain to American Apparel, for nothing it appears.
On Saturday night I had eight young teenage girls sleeping over. They have not previously slept over because back in the day, her sister before her organised a sleepover and we did not have the foresight to quarantine them downstairs. Hence The Artist and I could not sleep. At the time we were both working like mad things and were already severely stressed and sleep deprived. Let us just say that we did not put our best foot forward at 3am and we might have seemed like two potentially psychopathic serial killers. Ever since ours has been the house of non-sleepover legends. They have stayed away like the place has no wifi.
Koda was also excited that we were having guests and on the afternoon walk decided he should be in dress-up when the girls arrived. This is his Mike Tyson.
So the Chez turned into a mini B&B – I had blow-up beds aplenty and did some heavy lifting of the dining room table with Miss17 to ready the place. Things have changed somewhat from a few years ago and I can literally sleep through a freight train coming through the room on rotation. The Artist not so much but we all survived with good humour. The mountain of washing and linen that has resulted has not left me in such high spirits but this has been counteracted this afternoon by my warm bed, a cup of tea, the Olympics and a bag of Fritos. I also had chocolate cake for breakfast. Because I’m an adult and I can. Koda came barracking for chips but it was not on the cards for him. After loads of washing I was not setting myself up for forensic poop cleanup.
We then watched the Gold Coast Titans vs the New Zealand Warriors because Jarryd Hayne had his own camera. He was on the side for a good 20 minutes. I mentioned to The Artist that he could at least have taken off his shirt and made it a worth while experience. He is still cross because he feels like his great love Jonathan Thurston is being gazzumped by Hayne’s very large pay packet. I have explained to him that Thurston needs a good manager to negotiate for him and that it is not Hayne’s fault and that he should bear him no ill will. The chewing gum whilst the camera was dedicated to him on the sideline wasn’t helping endear him either.
And that is the thing about with living with The Artist. Sometimes you have to explain things that are obvious to other people. And sometimes you never know when something surprising is about to be said. Like when he commented that Manu Vatuvei looks like one of his cousins. I’m struggling with this one, naturally. He then rewound the game and paused on Manu’s face. Struggling………
And then he mentioned that when he took Miss14 to soccer this morning he arrived at the wrong field. But it wasn’t his fault because another father was already parked there and was out of his car waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. Steve (we’ll just say his name is Steve) commented that he could see Miss14 had recently polished her soccer boots. As you can imagine she has the filthiest boots on the team – The Artist then countered that with an old school rugby team rivalry joke that Steve’s team were too busy cleaning their boots to win a game against his school team (The Artist went to a school that actually could have been called Thug Life High School had it not already been called Highlands). Whilst they were trading insults and time was moving on, they realised that no-one else was arriving because they were in fact at the wrong field. The Artist is blaming Steve – because he was there already. I have again tried to explain to The Artist that he drove to the wrong field, had Steve been there or not, he still would have been at the wrong field. Sometimes it’s a hard life being the clever one.
One that note I bid you a good week, may the sun shine and the stupid be few and far between.
Love and light
Yesterday I took the dog for his afternoon walk. I was somewhat in a rush as I had two meetings to attend back to back last night and time was of the essence. A few metres from the park we met a woman with two little skye terriers. Koda was beyond delighted with his new friends and promptly dashed off with them running hot on his heels to show them the mud ditch. As he landed I started screeching so he barrelled out of there, shamefaced but joyous. Our new friends who were a significant bit smaller were more immersed or submerged if you will and their owner stalked off unimpressed (probably never to be our friend again) to find a pool to wash them in. My Koda only had it up to his knees (if you know what I mean) so I felt like I was winning to some degree.
I also figured that on the walk home some of the dirt would rub off and would be less noticeable particularly as The Artist gets upset by this stuff and says I don’t know how to control the dog. [I can totally control the dog by the way when I want to and when I catch him before the devil takes over his mind and body]. So quickly I huffed and puffed up the hill in the 29 degree heat and arrived home with Koda who still had his “black socks” on so to speak. I had just ten minutes before I technically had to leave the house to get to my meeting on time unless I was planning on breaking the land speed record that day.
Koda would not come to the hose. Problem. Flatly refused. And time was now of the essence. So what to do – if the mountain won’t come to Mohammed and all.
Strategy Lauren, I willed myself. Strategy. And all of a sudden it became so clear.
I got a plastic jug and the dog shampoo. Filled it with water from a bucket that I placed on the side. Sweating like a beast I individually dipped each leg in the jug, shampooed it and then rinsed it by dipping it in individually again.
Once he had been towelled off, I went to lie down on my bed in my underwear to try and cool down with the aircon blasting because there was no time to shower. At least one of us was now clean. The other was still sweating like a mofo. A strategic and clever mofo I might just add.
And a few hours later I returned home to see the little bastard’s legs and paws gleaming at me. Gleaming like four beacons in the night.
Love and light
Today we ventured all of a 100 metres from our hotel suite to a place of repute called Nikki Beach. It came recommended and is very beautiful. Also small children are not allowed. Hence part of my excitement (I no longer have small children so I am allowed to say this again after a brief hiatus).
The serenity was immediate, disturbed only by the loud club music and me trying to make myself understood about the gin and tonic I needed.
After a short while some very rambunctious Aussies abroad fueled by wine and sangria launched into the water. All except one who had an oozing burn on her leg who walked her dirty feet along the bar and then plonked her bum down on it, legs akimbo, lest her burn get wet. The Artist was dry heaving at this point. A bigger cossie might also have been in order for a lady of her mature years.
Once the shock wore off our attention was diverted to two Eastern Block couples. It is my unprofessional opinion that the ladies were professionals on a working holiday with two men who in no lifetime could score partners like that. There’s batting above your average and then there’s sheer ridiculousness. There was some under the water action that I cannot speak of as this is not a porn blog. There was also pimple squeezing with a tissue casually left on the pool bar top. At this point I was holding my head in my hands keening quietly to myself and debating whether there was ever going to be hope for this world when such people live among us – pimple squeezing in a public place should come with a good flogging.
I’m now going to try and reboot my brain and rid myself of the nastiness I have witnessed at this fine establishment today. It is happy hour and I’m trying to restore my faith.
Love and light
Sometimes The Artist talks and I don’t pay attention. It’s like a thing I do. Most of the time I get away with it and all is well. However, today there was this one time………..
Two nights ago The Artist who is also a tourist in Bali currently was prattling away about booking a tour today. We had discussed going to Ubud. He mentioned cycling and as I was not listening properly I did what I sometimes do and I make up a story for myself. So in my mind we were going cycling through Ubud visiting a temple or two and shopping. All good.
This morning as I was getting dressed in my harem pants for the excursion I was told this was not suitable attire for the cycling excursion. Still not totally concerned I asked about the distance. 19km……. The cold hand of fear and disbelief strangled my heart. Firstly, I have not properly been on a bike (aside from that one time a few years ago in Kingscliffe) since I was about 10. And trust me on this one – a spin bike does not count. DOES. NOT. COUNT.
At breakfast once we’d reached our destination by car there was mention by the guide of 25km. At this point I tried to summon my yogi Ujjayi breath – this means breathing in through the nose and out through the nose and through your throat of something. I cannot even spell it – I had to google it twice to get it right.
I insisted on the children’s bike because these short little legs are not built for adult bikes and I was going to need to touch the ground frequently.
So, without getting into all the gory details, I did my 25km in a state of constant terror. We rode on the fucking street and if you’ve ever been to Bali (or even Thailand) you might understand the perils associated with this. Miss16 actually had a set to with a moped but they both seemed to pick up and go about their business – she showed that guy who was boss, is all I’m saying. By the time we reached our lunch venue and set down point my hands were cramping so badly they were only slightly less painful than the part of my body connecting with the seat. So, what didn’t emerge unscathed was my nether regions. I need an icepack I tell you. A cruel and unusual punishment this was.
With all the love and light from Bali
So we all like to feel a bit fancy. I personally love a bit of fancy until about six hours before I have to be fancy and then I start to moan about my lot in life and why this fanciness has come to ruin my evening.
Saturday night – The Artist and I – along with around 3998 other people attended Diner en Blanc. It’s this lovely event each year – secret location – tres adventurous; everyone wears white – tres like a wedding; and tickets are hard to come by – tres lucky to get one!
Except I didn’t read the fine print. Because The Artist always reads the fine print (accountant and all). I didn’t tell The Artist that I had booked until a month before because I knew that there would be extensive resistance (please read with French accent) to this – he is tres not in to fancy, in fact dressing up is wearing a t-shirt as opposed to a singlet (summer, autumn, winter and spring).
Then the preparatory emails started arriving – bring your own fold up table, chairs, table cloth, crockery, cutlery, glassware – and NONE OF THAT CHEAP NASTY PLASTIC STUFF. Had I not already purchased my grogg through these people (compulsory) I totally would have been Toodalooooo!!!!!!! (Lauren for Au Revoir French People)
Now here is something you might not know – The Artist and I are not good at picnics or camping. In fact I have never been camping and our idea of a picnic is ordering pizza/sushi/whatever and sitting on the grass in Centennial Park eating it – and I say the grass because I would never remember to bring a picnic blanket.
After a lot of fuss and bother – and the buying of white shorts and a white singlet – The Artist graced the halls of Westfield Bondi Junction on a Saturday morning (tres traumatic) after much screeching that he simply HAD to play the game on this one – we were good to go.
Laiden like pack horses, table and chairs in hand with our cooler bag we trotted off to The Opera House.
It all started off relatively well, we jumped the queue, we were the first to arrive on our row (weird) and we were located next to the VIP area – tres chic and we laid ourselves all out. The Artist went to collect the pre-ordered wine and champers. He was red wine, I was champers.
I have never really seen a bottle of red explode like that on opening.
It was windy too and the people next to us didn’t get the memo about the cheap nasty plastic plates (that were not allowed!) that they were happily eating their sushi off with soya sauce. The Artist’s shorts were now decidedly grubby and no longer so white after the aforementioned plate had made like a UFO in the wind and crash landed on his lap. My tablecloth was deceased.
We looked at each other and by unspoken agreement decided it was time. So two people out of 3998 others leopard crawled over the Opera House stairs clanging our table and chairs as a spotlight shone on a woman in front of us singing Ava Maria – not the quiet unobtrusive exit I was hoping for.
As we passed the entry checkpoint where they had confiscated my favourite umbrella (weapon apparently) I asked the security guard whether it was possible to retrieve my brolly. Once we established brand he whipped out a state of the art specimen in a cover, same brand. I didn’t miss a beat, claimed my win and thanked him while The Artist stood there incredulous whispering – that’s not your umbrella. Quiet, I hissed, keep moving.
It even smells new. Excitement (read in French accent please)
And that was the end of that. Forever. Some people are just not meant for fancy. (I think the other 3998 had a good time.)
Love and light
I heard an extraordinary story yesterday. At a concert in Sydney on Wednesday night, a certain Wiz Khalifa took it upon himself to do a bit of crowd surfing. As you do. Well, he jumped onto that crowd and they body surfed him for approximately five seconds before dropping him onto the floor. Problem. Enter his mountainous security detail who safely transported him back to stage. Problem solved. Except not.
Because he was now without his shoes.
This had to be told to me twice.
“What do you mean without his shoes?”me
“They stole his shoes”.
“Who stole his shoes?”me
“What? Why? Why would they steal his shoes? You mean, they ripped his shoes off him?”me
“Yes, they wanted souveniers.”
Now in the civilised place that I consider my world, one does not simply take someone else’s shoes off their feet. Aside from the grossness of it – they are someone else’s shoes for God’s sake! It is rude, just rude.
Wiz apparently felt similarly which resulted in a five minute standoff with the crowd while he bargained the return of the shoes for his return to the microphone. Apparently “dreaming my friend, dreaming. Those shoes are already on their way somewhere to be sold on eBay for a mint”. So like any true professional he took off his socks – generously chucked them to the crowd – lest they need some socks to go with his shoes and promptly posted on Instagram that he continued his performance barefoot. Bravo sir, bravo.
This generated a discussion last night around the dinner table. It seems I am living with two thieves. Both The Artist and Miss16 would roll a person for their shoes. The Artist is lusting after the boot that Joel Stransky kicked that drop goal with in the 1995 Rugby World Cup. He would not sell it on eBay – he would put it in a glass box and put it in a place of honour in the house – his man cave because it’s not going in the lounge.
Miss 16 is less selective saying that those shoes (that used to belong to Wiz) would be worth a fortune and I think her motives are purely financial. She would definitely swipe shoes and isn’t fussed about which celebrity would fall victim to her crime.
Miss13 and I will continue to fly the flag of honesty in this house – someone clearly has to have their feet planted securely on the ground in the hope that they can keep their shoes.
Love and light