Wholesome Relic

The Pancake of Shrek, originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

You've heard of the Shroud of Turin, the Nutrigrain of E.T., the Tortilla of the Holy Virgin, now meet the Wholesome Pancake of Shrek...

I only thought to photograph it after I'd added the sauce, but I shit you not, this cheese-and-corn pancake really did look like Shrek when I flipped it. I guess it goes without saying that after adoring it for about 10 seconds, my son wolfed the lot. So there goes my e-bay fortune. It was worth it to see him eat something with gusto!

Remember to breathe...

Agapantha for Zoe, originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

...especially when the air smells like victory!

Congratulations to crazybrave for deservedly winning Best ACT Blog in the recent Blog awards. And also for being a champion chick. And a awesome mum. And for just being around when we all need her.

Cents and Sensibility

Poo Bum. I was going to put up a few fun pics to relieve the boredom, only to find that my photo server is "having a massage", which is techie funspeak for timeout for servicing. Fair enough; don't we all need it?

I am having major "consequence issues" with my soon-to-be-eight-year-old son at the moment. Last year, I've come to realise, was the "Year of Us", in which Best Beloved and I woo'd, wed and nested, and Bumblebee's schooling and discipline went a bit to the dogs. This year is the "Year of Him", when I do my best to make him understand that he is a bright, brave, confident youngster who can achieve anything if he believes in himself enough. At the moment he is a whiney, unfulfilled, unable-to-finish anything little monkey who is too scared of the dark to get out of bed to pee and consequently wet the bed. It breaks my heart how full of fear that kid is. I love his imagination, and the fact that he can make an exciting game out of a piece of stick and someone's snapped-off shoelace, but when it takes him 6 hours to not pick up anything in his room (I'm still incredulous), even with mummy coming in and offering helpful hints about how to make the job fun (you could have a book army, and a t-shirt army, but first you have to gather together all the troops), I just feel utter despair. I don't want to be picking up after him for the rest of his life! At one point he yelled from his room "You said you'd give me pocket money if I did these jobs and so far I've never seen a thing". My response was, of course "That's because you've never finished a job yet!" I am quite happy to dish out the moolah, but not for nothing.

Ah, actions and consequence. Or, non-action and consequence. So far we've come up with the rule that there is no Dr Who unless the room is reasonable and (when school starts) homework is done. This was greeted with gales of tears, because Dr Who is not a treat, it is the air we breathe. It may just work. Next on the list for me is getting him doing confidence-building things -- cooking with me, riding his bike to school more, maybe even (and this shows how desperate I am) joining the local Cubs. Apparently Cubs have moved on a bit from the old swearing allegience to the Queen and God thingy, so it might be worth a shot. My buddhist brother-in-law swears by it for his restless son.

I guess the trick is to be consistent. It should be easier this year with back-up. In my 6 years as a single parent, I'd make great resolutions and they'd all go to mush when I'd get home exhausted after a long day's work and have to deal with a nagging kid. Cross fingers, this year will succeed. If not, I predict year of girlfriends (or, quite happily, boyfriends) cursing my poor mothering skills. Ay yay yay, worse than bad karma.

Adding mental exhaustion to the mix

I just spent a hell of a lot of time reading in order to vote fairly in the Australian Blog Awards. Phew! There's a lot of talent out there. And that's only the blogs with followings who know about the award. Only a couple more days to vote, as it's being announced on Australia Day.

I was one of the patsies who couldn't work out how to register to vote until the penny dropped when I read the comments -- ahh! you copy over the email address and remove the word REMOVE. Duh. Never mind. I blame the lack of blood getting to my brain. Literally. I'm still bleeding, and almost ended up in hospital again yesterday, second time in a week. A bouquet (I will find a picture soon) to crazybrave for being on childminding standby.

Unfortunately the Chinese herbs haven't done a thing. I was sorely tempted to pop the emergency pill yesterday. So I'm looking a bit pale and feeling a bit wan; I spend a lot of time lying down. It seems to be working, as the torrent yesterday has slowed today. Best Beloved keeps feeding me things with high iron content, and I'm drinking lots of fluids -- anything to keep myself out of hospital! My poor left hand throbs just thinking about another cannula. I'm seeing a specialist tomorrow, and my fear is that they'll have to operate again. Still, I'm catching up on my rest and my reading, and Bumblebee and I are ripping through the first Deltora series.

And, of course, every few hours I get to sit up at the computer and read blogs! So much more fun than any of the crap on tv lately. So good luck to all involved in the ballot... I'm looking forward to the results.

Despicerous

Ewww, I feel disgusting, all slimy from the overuse of 'freedom' (25 times) and 'liberty' (17 times). And that was only the ten minute Radio National summary. The only saving grace was the champion who screamed 'boo' or some such collection of vowels in a clear carrying voice throughout Bush's inauguration speech. Onya.

Enough. Sometimes you just have to look out of the window at the gorgeous silvereyes flitting through the banksia tree and think of nicer things, like 'I wonder what crazybrave has mounted last night (besides O)?'.

I am feeling a bit despondent about my fertility prospects as my inner regions continue to hurt, and am encouraged by sites like uncommon misconception and a little bit pregnant which are wonderful sites of witty women who have been through many many trials, far worse than anything I've come up with and have come out the other end (only recently) with a little wriggler. It seems like a lucky omen that I only discovered them on the upswing (their archives are heartbreaking). I am sure that I too will prevail, but right now I'm in the Big Black Void where all is just blood and tears.

So I have a good six months at least where I have to not think any of this women's stuff, and I can get into making a few books and pints -- woops, prints (although I can see a few drinks on the agenda too, once I get off these dratted antibiotics). I'm going to Mackay in February for the Second Australian Artist Book Forum, so hopefully I'll return all fired up and feisty, ready to churn out poetry with lead. I think the first step is getting hold of the nipping press offered to me by Lawrence of Gallery 451, which makes my mouth water to think of (it will help me bind my own books and postcards by pressing everything nice and FLAT). Is it sick to be so turned on by metal objects?

Join in

bushblackout_5, originally uploaded by Ampersand Duck.

Not Taking the Piss

Sorry to those who were enjoying The Woodford Files -- and to anyone who wanted to read about letterpress printing! I am determined to blog a bit more on the former and a lot more on the latter ASAP, but first I need to have a whinge.

I have just spent to last two days back in hospital thanks to what was finally diagnosed 'an abnormal period'. Let's just say that my insides have always been abnormal and have recently been rendered more so by the slip of a knife and be done with it. That's not what I am whinging about.

What I am whinging about is fucking ultrasound operators (right terminology? ultrasound administrators? Oh hell, let's not mince words. Let's call them TORTURERS) who think it is acceptable to fill a woman's bladder up with water and then not allow her any relief while making her wait more 45 minutes over the scheduled appointment time. I was in this position, begging for a quick pee (I know how to let a little bit out, I've had plenty of ultrasounds in my abnormal life) while my bladder distended to the point of absolute agony. There is something about being in nothing but undies and a drafty gown and sitting in a wheelchair that strips me of my authoritas, and no matter how I tried to sound angry, it just came out as pathetic. By the time the cunty bugger operator started the session, I was in such pain that the slightest touch of the jelly-covered thingy made me weep. I lay there with tears running down my face, trying not to wish horrible experiences upon him in return. The words 'you can empty your bladder' rang out into an empty room -- I was already there before the 'ooo' of 'you' had left his lips, and I poured enough liquid out of me to replenish the Murray-Darling with ease. AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Seriously, it is one procedure for which no-one should be made to wait. There is a circle in Dante's Hell waiting for anyone who works in radiology who thinks people are just crossing their legs sweetly in waiting rooms. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Oh, as a quick postscript: I have decided that Western medicine sucks, and am putting all my faith in ancient Eastern herbology. My wonderful Aunt, who is a Chinese-medicine healer, has prescribed me herbs which promise to cure incised wounds, gun-shot wounds, and various forms of women's blood problems. In each pack of capsules there is one little blister with a tiny red pellet, which is the special first aid for a gun-shot wound! Auntie has always wanted to be able to break open that pocket and feed it to someone, but no-one has ever come to her with a fresh gun-shot wound, not even in the little red-neck town her clinic is in! I think it's only a matter of time...