What Your Garage Says About You

This morning I bit the bullet and decided it was time to clean the garage out and turn it into something more useful than our own personal tip.  This is what greeted me when I rolled the door up;

Want a closer look?  Try this one;

 Now you know why I have a phobia about someone calling Hoarders on us.  But there is a legitimate reason for it, I swear!  The (very abbreviated) story goes like this.  We moved house and we moved house quickly so we could focus on selling our old house.  We shoved a lot of stuff into the garage as a temporary measure intending to deal with it as soon as the other house sold.  But, the very first week we moved, there was an epic rainstorm.  After three years of drought, that first week is when it came bucketing down like Old Faithful in reverse for two days straight. That would not have been a big problem except that the chick we bought the house from left out that the roof of the garage leaked like a sieve.

Everything was in two clear inches of water for a week before we realised what had happened.  And by then the water had crept up the cardboard boxes and eaten into our belongings.  We had to madly sort through and turf everything that was ruined and try to plastic bag or crate anything that wasn't.  Then it had to be stacked up where the water wouldn't get it.  And for the year it took to save the money needed to fix the roof situation (our house was shot too), it all just sat there.  Until last week when the roof got fixed.  Ergo, time to address the garage situation.

So this morning I borrowed a trailer from our obliging fam and we hooked in like champions - working for three hours.  This is what we took to the tip at the end of it;

And this is what was left behind;

We still have a long way to go.  But as I worked, I realised a few things.

1.)  I have got to stop buying liquid nails and gap seal;  Every five minutes I'd find another tube of the stuff.  Clearly I buy for small projects and then realise I already have some viable stuff in my caulking gun, handily sealed with a screw.  My grand total was seven tubes and they're now all in the one place so I don't forget and buy any more.  

2.)  My husband would be a lot richer if he hadn't gone nuts on the miniatures and collectible cards when he got his first job;  When I add up how much he's spent on that stuff I weep.  We'd probably have no mortgage if he'd just popped it into a savings account.

3.)  I am not good at returning things to people;  There are a number of examples I could provide here but the most epic is Julia's mug.  Ten years ago when my sorry excuse for an ex gave me the heave-ho I wound up sharing a lovely little mobile home with a great friend called Jules.  Jules moved in and didn't ever ask for any sort of consideration really except that I add her little orange cow mug to the collection over the sink because it had meaning for her.  Which I happily did.  Then at some point Jules moved out.  But the mug didn't.  

For ten years I've carted this thing around, through three house moves, with every intention of returning it to her even though I still don't know why it has special meaning.  I don't ever let anyone use it and it's always in a 'safe' place.  And now that I've written about it on here and she knows where it is it will somehow be destroyed in the next 48 hours.  This happy little cow has been eating my soul for ten years.  Jules, please give us all the happy ending we deserve and come and get your mug.

4.)  Whatever I'm looking for, it's going to be in my husband's car;  Two weeks ago we went down to visit my Dad.  In his rush to pack Charles took everything out of his car and left it in a pile right inside the garage.  First up, we will not speak of the food debris that was discovered.  Just...yuck.  But this pile was like a domestic gold mine.  All the drink bottles I'd blamed the school/daycare for losing, James' socks, Charlotte's jumpers - the spare DOLLY I really could have used last weekend.  The letter containing his bank card that was replaced six months ago.  I wish he'd left it all in situ I could have called Time Team to examine the different stratas.  

5.)  I need to be tougher with people inheriting our baby stuff;  I don't care whether you people have space, you either take it or it goes on Ebay.  We had a high chair, stroller, cot, cot mattress, crib, four crates of clothing and a baby carrier.  

6.)  The people who owned the place before us were stock piling building supplies for the apocalypse;  I've heard of keeping a spare tile or two in case one cracks but honestly there are only a dozen tiles on our bathroom floor.  So why did they keep another dozen in the garage?  And where did the spare kitchen door come from?  None of our kitchen cabinets is missing a door...  Also?  There was a whole other box of tiles that don't appear anywhere in our house and it's sealed.  What on earth were they for?

7.)  Whoever it is in our family/circle of friends that drinks Carlsberg is a pig;  Seriously there were three empty Carlsberg six pack cartons tossed down around the party fridge.  Granted the garage was a bomb site but really, you're a guest and you couldn't walk your rubbish to the bin?

8.)  Mould is a scary, scary thing;  I happened to open a garbage bag that had clearly gotten wet and gone undetected.  I still have no idea what the original contents were but the current contents were menacing and looked like they were going to eat me.

9.)  My husband might be the one responsible for the Carlsberg because it would fit with his total failure to ever clean up after any of his little projects.  Foam and MDF remnants, sawdust, come on man, wield the broom occasionally.

Stay tuned kittens.  Next weekend we're going to wrap it up in the garage and turn it into a fully functioning gym.  In the meantime, have a think - what does your garage say about you?

I Don't Want To Play Anymore

Over the past three months Charles has been doing weights with his brother-in-law Chris on Friday nights.  Just to make it a real family event, Charles' sister (Chris' wife) Jen comes too and brings her two little girls.  Jen and I gossip and chat in the kitchen while the kids go nuts and the men do their thing in the garage and then it's a massive chaotic dinner before they go home.  It's the highlight of my week and I love every aspect of it, from having another mother with small children to soothe me that I'm not the only one losing sleep, to the havoc the kids wreak and the after-glow from exercise I get to see in my man.  Not to mention getting to watch them do push-ups and sit-ups in the living room. I digress.

Friday Nights:  Kids Gone Wild

This weekly ritual has come at the right time for us.  The kids are now old enough to entertain each other and be trusted in the backyard alone.  It's the first time since Charlotte was born that we've been able to dedicate a decent amount of time to exercising and it's starting to snowball.  Charles has been training with Chris and another friend of ours, Big Jim.  On his off days he's been training me in weights and boxfit too.  Things have been gradually coming together and I can feel my mojo coming back.

This week over dinner Chris and Jen mentioned that they've challenged themselves to 30 sit-ups a day for the thirty days of September.  My abs and core have been okay since I had James, but I've only been doing mild, sporadic exercises to keep them alive - nothing serious or dedicated.  So I decided to join them and start my own thirty day challenge.  Charles declined to join us, citing his bad back.

Day one went really well.  I had to do ten at a time with a few minutes rest in between but it was good.  Charles helped me along - standing on my feet for me and giving helpful encouragement*.  I got to the end of my thirty and he demanded five more.  What?  Don't think, just do it!  Um...okay...  I was tired, but I did them.  No explanation for why.  Oh well. 35 it is, a cracking start.

The following day my abs were a bit twingy but not really sore.  I did thirty again while Charles again stood on my toes and barked at me.  Again he demanded five more.  It was much harder this time.  Still no explanation for the five extra.

And then I woke this morning - day 3.  Serious pain and I know exactly which muscles I've been using.  I tried to beg off on doing my 30 but Charles implied that I'd be a loser if I didn't, told me it was all in my head and then squished my toes because I took too long trying to psyche myself into it.

I growled the whole time I did it, feeling like I couldn't do the next one.  When I made it to thirty I nearly cried and I told him no way would I do any extra.
"Sure you will," he grinned evilly, "Come on, five more.  Go!  Now!"

Sometimes I really hate that man.

*  Barking orders.

Compliments

This morning when I woke my daughter she blinked slowly up at me, her small brow knitting in consternation.
"Mama?"
"Yes baby?"
"Your hair is going in all different directions this morning.  It looks a little bit mad."
"A little bit mad, huh?  Is that bad?"
"Well...you're a little bit mad too so I guess it suits you."
Thanks honey.

Life Imitates Dilbert

This week at work was a shocker.  It culminated with my boss demanding, without a trace of irony, that we have a half hour meeting every two days to discuss why we don't have time to do all the work that needs to be done.  She couldn't understand why I laughed until I cried.

The Science of Sleep Bankability and the Art of Sleep Deprivation

I recently read an article about a study into the bankability of sleep*.  You know.  Can you go five hours a day for a whole week and then catch up on the weekend?  Yes.  Yes, you can.  Unfortunately what this study also showed was that most of us in these modern times are carrying a sleep debt that we have no hope of ever repaying and that, eventually, it will shorten our lives.

My own personal sleep bank had quite a bit of credit before we had kids.  Never one to shy away from an early night during the week I also used to indulge in weekend sleep-ins to the point where the question was not necessarily “what’s for breakfast” so much as, “how much afternoon tea should I eat before I spoil my dinner?”

Nevertheless I think all that saved up sleep did was get me through the first month of Charlotte’s life.  After that it was a dramatic slide to this current point where my personal sleep debt could crash the global sleep economy and I’ve become one of those annoying people that call you on a Saturday morning at eight and act surprised that you’re still in bed because “I’ve been up for two hours”.  I digress.

Luckily for me these days James sleeps through the night.  There are no longer feedings at three in the morning and all bowel movements seem to happen during business hours, as it were.  You’d think I’d be well on my way to recovery of my sleep-ins and my sanity.  Alas, it is not to be.

Here’s a snapshot of just one night last week.  Admittedly, Charles was away so instead of tag teaming it was me on my own, but you get the idea.

7.30pm;  Bedtime ritual starts.

8pm; Lights out.

8.32pm;  Small son deposited into bed for sixth time.  Explode.  Yell.  Small son grins cheekily and finally goes to sleep.  Daughter told for seventh time to stop playing and go to sleep.

8.56pm;  All Barbies confiscated.  Torch, confiscated.  Threats deployed.  Small daughter finally decides to sleep.  Time to do the dishes.

9.23pm;  Dishes done, washing initiated.  Clothes, books, etc laid out for tomorrow.

10.06pm;  Shower, teeth, etc.

10.32pm;  Bed for me.

10.47pm;  Summoned by small son for dolly relocation purposes.  Bed again.  Finally drift away after noting clock says 11.07.

2.09am;  Cat decides must be inside immediately.  Sounds like Freddy Krueger vs the flyscreen.  Open front door in fury, tell cat she has to the count of three or I’ll wring her furry neck.  Cat seems to recognise absence of big jolly man willing to accommodate cat faffage and for once abandons the wary stare and slink routine that takes 40 seconds before she will deign to enter the house.  The presence of wild, angry redheaded woman prompts her to move before I’ve even drawn breath to say “one.”

2.23am;  Cat has finished her dinner and decides to show her appreciation for me getting up to let her in by climbing onto my chest, clawing me in happiness and drooling tuna by-product flavoured saliva onto my chin.  Toss cat.

3.17am;  Charlotte in floods of tears.  “I miss Daddddy and I had a bad dream that he was never going to come home!”  Honestly, who would blame him if he didn’t?  She detects my frustration at having to get up and screams at me to just get out if I’m not having any fun.

“Charlotte,” I sigh in exasperation, “It’s three thirty in the morning.  I’ve got bad news for you kid but no one has fun when they’re woken up at 3.30 in the bloody morning.”

She blinks in shock.

“Is it really 3.30 in the morning Mama?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.  Sorry about that.”

And amazingly all tears stop and she rolls over and goes back to sleep.

3.42am;  I leave a snoring pinky and go back to my own bed.

6.07am; Woken with a crash when James cracks me over the face with his favourite book of the moment, “There’s a Hippopotamus On Our Roof Eating Cake” and yells, “HIPPOT!  CAKE!  NOW  MAMA!”

*This is not the article I actually read, but you get the idea.

Occasionally Ignorant People Are Inspiring

Our childcare centre has a U-shaped driveway that runs past the front door – an ideal place to pick up and drop your kids off.  Unfortunately it’s been the source of disputes in the past leading them to put up a sign that said “Please be mindful of others when you park in the driveway and do not park for extended periods.”  I never got this sign because it’s pretty simple – you pull up, drop off or pick up your kids and leave.  Staying for awhile?  No problem, use the car park.  Where’s the problem?

Well today I experienced first-hand why we need signs to explain common sense to people.  As I pulled up behind a black car to pick James up this afternoon, a third car pulled in behind me.  I didn’t say anything because I figured okay, she’s seen that I’m boxed in – she’s obviously here for a fast pickup and even if I’m faster I don’t mind waiting a few minutes.  This was at ten past five.

I go in, collect my excited son and strap him into his car seat.  And wait.  And wait.  And wait.  It’s now twenty past five.  I’ve got two antsy kids and a boot full of shopping.  Just as the third song is starting on the stereo and Charlotte has asked for the fourth time why we’re just sitting there, I give up and go in search of the owner of either of these two cars to ask them to please move so we can leave.  We’ve been in the car for over five minutes now and three families have both arrived and left in the time we’ve been waiting.

As soon as I get inside I spot the very woman who’s boxed me in, chatting away with the childcare workers.  Now admittedly, it’s been a long day full lots of horrendous legal muck to wade through.  I was not exactly in my best frame of mind – in fact I was exasperated beyond belief.  But still I just caught her attention and said, “Hey could you please move your car?”

“Oh!  Sorry!  I thought the car in front would have gone by now.”

“Well no, actually he hasn’t,” I tell her, “So if you wouldn’t mind…”

And then I head back out to the kids.

She takes another two minutes to come out and a quick check of the clock shows we’ve all been there waiting eight minutes, fifteen in total since I first parked.  Ms Boxer has one child trailing her, so no reason for the epic pick-up other than a chance to gossip.  As she comes out the door Charlotte asks me if this is the lady parked behind and can we please leave now and I say yup, that’s her and yes, we’re going. 

Instantly Ms Boxer pauses, bends down to my (closed) passenger window and lips pulled back in an aggressive sneer says rather loudly, “Did you just say something to me?”

“No,” I shake my head and jerk my thumb back at Charlotte to indicate I was talking to her.  But that doesn’t stop Boxer.  Clearly me failing to rise to the bait has been a sign of weakness and it’s taken as a signal to ramp it up further.  Boxer gets louder, gesturing with her hands to make her point.  I can’t really hear her through the window though so I hop out and she’s in full on rant about how I’ve behaved and telling me a word of advice, try to be nicer. 

Here is where I begin to lose my temper.

“I think that might cut both ways,” I tell her, “Given that you’ve boxed me in and taken your time getting back to leave.  That’s not exactly nice, or even courteous, is it?”

She’s kind of retreated since I got out of the car and she’s on the back foot now.  I assume she was expecting me to humble myself, apologise and backtrack, not get out of the car to address her rant.  But she still goes in for the parting shot.

“Hey even THEY commented on your attitude,” she snaps, jerking her head at the childcare centre, “I’ve been boxed in lots of times and I don’t make a big deal out of it!”

“How is asking you to please move your car making a big deal out of it?”

“It was the look you gave me when you said it,” she shoots back, “But don’t worry I’m leaving now.”

“Well I’m truly sorry you feel so imposed upon,” I shrug, “But thanks for moving.”

The disgusted snort I got as she threw herself into the car does not encourage me to believe this is over or that Ms Boxer is going to let it go.  

Never one to miss a chance for self-evaluation* I’ve been sitting here for the last hour-and-a-half wondering how I could have handled the situation to achieve a different outcome.  All I can come up with is I should have either faked elation at the chance to ask her to pretty please, sugar on top move your car or sat there and awaited her gossipy pleasure without a murmur. 

Obviously Ms Boxer feels that an apology is in order and after a long time contemplating exactly what I should apologise for, I think I’ve finally come up with the answer.  Introducing Tool Chick’s first commercial product – a line of “I’m Not Really Sorry” greeting cards!

I apologise for your lack of consideration by TCGuide2Life
Make a note card at zazzle.com.au

Or perhaps this is more your style...

You're Still Wrong by TCGuide2Life
Browse other Humour Cards

And for our American friends...

I Apologize For Your Lack Of Consideration (USA) by TCGuide2Life
Create a notecard with zazzle.com.au

*Agonising.

Creepy Foxtel Complaint Resolution

Our Foxtel IQ has had a malfunctioning live pause for some time now.  You hit pause and the pause sign comes on the screen while your TV show goes right on playing in the background.  Annoyingly you then can’t change channels or do anything until you “exit” live pause.  Which is not really paused.

Television is hardly the cornerstone of my life.  As for live pause – myeh.  I tend to record my favourite shows and then watch whenever I have free time (mainly so I can fast forward through the ads).  But for a five-year-old who has been told to go and do something right now* live pause is vital.  Today I got sick of the whining and decided to ring Foxtel for help fixing the dead pause situation**.

Annoyingly I got one of those voice recognition answering thingies that never works.  Call Telstra and ask for “faults” and you get a recorded message saying, “Telstra records indicate that we currently don’t have any faults”*** and then it thanks you for calling and hangs up on you****.  That’s if it doesn’t accidentally register your request as “I wish to speak Falusian” and switches into an unintelligible long-forgotten language.  I digress.

“Please tell me why you’re calling,” a suave male voice said and I sigh.  What the heck, give it both barrels.

“Foxtel IQ live pause isn’t working,” I huff, waiting for the “I’m sorry I didn't understand your request.  Please wait while I transfer you to one of our customer service representatives.”

But today it's not to be.

“Ah,” Suave says, “A service call.  I just need to verify some information.  Please say the ten digit phone number connected to your account, including area code.”

“Uh…XXXXX XXXXX,” I say quickly.

“XXXXX XXXXX, is that correct?”

Smug bugger.

“Um.  Yes?”

“Excellent.  We find that 90% of service issues are resolved by shutting down and restarting your account from our end.  Let’s try that now.”
Behind me the television suddenly goes silent and I swing around to stare at it.

“You’ll notice all the lights of your IQ will come on all at once…”

Which they do, on cue.

“…and then they will go off again.”

And bugger me they do.

“Please wait five minutes for your service to resume.  If you have a Foxtel IQ, your service will resume exactly where it ended.  If your service does not resume, please call us back.  We’ve taken a note of your phone number and, if you call back within the next forty-eight hours, you will be put through to our service centre.  Thanks for calling Foxtel.”

I sit there, goosebumps crawling all over as I realise that I didn’t ever actually speak to a person and the Foxtel computer helpfully rebooted everything without even asking me if that was okay.  I am in the process of relating this to my small family (who want to know why Sonic the Hedgehog or, indeed, the television as a whole isn’t on) when Foxtel suddenly powers back up…right back on the kids channel it was on when it shut down.  Worse/better, live pause now works.

Creepy.

* Because you ignored the first thirteen requests.
**We’ve tried a bunch of stuff but nothing has worked so far.
***Of course you don't.  Just ask your customers.  And your shareholders.  And the other telcos.  *ahem*

**** This is not actually what I got when I called them but the format and end result on my blood pressure was similar.  Fortunately, we're not with them anymore.