...of a 'certain' age

I've had this weird problem for about 18 months now where women older than myself keep offering me their seats on public transport.

It's happened about 7 times now - twice in the past 3 months - and it's really beginning to become uncomfortable because I am no longer in any doubt that the reason all these women are trying to be nice to me is that they think I'm pregnant.

I'm not. Nor am I attempting to get pregnant.

Also, I really don't see what it is that they're looking at that's giving them this impression. Admittedly, I am not the most svelte or waif-like creature; but I don't think it's merely about the proportions of my belly.

Just quietly, I think it's an age thing.

It's as if my biological clock is ringing so loudly that casual bystanders can hear it. But I'm not inclined to listen to it just now; and continual reminders from well-meaning old biddies is only serving to draw my attention to it.

If I were of a paranoid disposition, I would think that the universe is trying to give me a message from my mother.

oh dear god, no

It's official. I went and got myself a facebook.

It's something I've been resisting since the bad old days of Myspace. My excuses were, variously:

• I'm too old
• I don't need one
• they're pointless and ugly and full of horrible pictures
• Myspace is gay

Unfortunately only half of those reasons are true these days; and I'm in danger of falling seriously behind the times. Nearly everyone I know has one* and it just seems to be the best way of staying in touch without actually having to, you know, speak to anyone or leave the house or anything. I imagine it's kind of like "going together" was in grade 5.

* Apparently, even my mother has a facebook page. Sure, she hasn't actually filled out any of the profile and there's no picture of her - but the point is she has one. I did not ask her to be my friend. Is that bad?

always in threes

There are times when being married is the most comforting thing in the world because of the safety that comes in numbers.

If you've ever had a spider in your car, been invited to a friend's wedding or needed a light at the bus stop, you'll appreciate that other people aren't always hell. Sometimes other people are an absolute necessity. Other people kill spiders, fill empty chairs and light cigarettes.

Ah, but husbands... Husbands are more than mere other people. Husbands are super heroes.

When something needs fixing, burning, pruning or building; they don't worry themselves about the hows, whys or wheres. They roll up their sleeves and get straight to sorting it out. No time to worry about protecting the hardwood floor or securing the trailer; not when there's work to be done.

Which is why it's so very handy to have the Monkey-husband about the house when I pull one of my rare but spectacular fuck-up stunts.

Today I out did myself:


No, it's not The Blob. That's what happens when you put an everyday plastic chopping board in the oven.

Like a complete idiot.

It happened very simply. Despite my better judgment, I used a plastic board as a trivet while I added dripping to a roasting pan for Yorkshire pudding. Then I picked up the pan and put it back in the oven without realising that the board was stuck to it.

I was momentarily perplexed when I opened the oven 5 minutes later to lift the pan out for the pudding batter and it wouldn't budge.

There are moments in life when you regress to a pre-adolescent state, assume the fetal position and hope that someone else will make the horror stop.

This was one of those; and I've never been so grateful for the can-do attitude of the Monkey. He stepped up and totally sorted that mess o-u-t.

And he did it without a care in the world - even though it topped off a day which has already seen the demise of the Toastamatic and the toasting of his server.

Thank you, Monkey-husband. Today was truly a red letter day for the Dickersby household.

excuses

I'd dearly love to write something here. Something interesting or useful or both; but I've got nothing to work with here.

nothing

nothing

nothing

I could tell you what I ate for breakfast, I suppose. Or wax lyrical about the cyclist I saw on my way to work yesterday, blowing his nose into the air as he rode along - that made me laugh.

But I just can't seem to find the way to put one word in front of another and end up with a sentence; much less a narrative.

high school is so 1995

So, yes... That high school reunion thingy. Here is what I learned:

1. The reason I don't run into anyone I know from high school at the mall is because I don't actually know anyone from high school
2. Attending a reunion doesn't freak you out as much as you'd think, particularly if you don't actually know anyone
3. You can get the largest glass of white wine In The World for $3 at the local lawn bowls club

More than that, I learned that what happened in high school stays in high school. Sure, I remember a few things about people that I'm sure they'd wish I didn't - but no one wants to hear about it any more than I want to talk about it.

Except to you, dear intraweb.

Here are some of the things I thought but did not say to people at my high school reunion:

"Hey! You're the chick who pashed my boyfriend at the prom!"

"...wasn't your dad a chicken sexer?"

"It's not my fault you kissed like a corpse. I was just telling it like it was."

"Wow, you're skinny now. Do you have an eating disorder?"

Which brings me to the final lesson; which I didn't so much learn has confirm: I am quite the snarky bitch, yes?