ManikPixi

ABC of Me

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Mon, 11 Apr 2011 11:48:00 +0000

I saw this over at Today is my Birthday and thought it seemed like a fun idea because it combines two of my favourite things: lists and alphabetising stuff:

A. Age: *cough*39*cough*.

B. Bed size: King. I'd like to pretend this is because six foot tall Eccentric English Boyfriend takes up a lot of room, but actually it's because I thrash around so much in my sleep you'd think I was in a World Wrestling Championship. Only without the ridiculous costumes. Unless pink puppy pyjamas count as a ridiculous costume.

C. Chores you dislike: Choooooooooores? Nah, you've lost me.

D. Dogs: This is my dog:

Dogs are awesome.

E. Essential start to your day: Coffee coffee coffee coffee coffee. And more sleep.

F. Favourite colour: Purple.

G. Gold or silver: Either, but if I had to choose probably gold. In ingot form.

H. Height: Five foot tall. Although five foot doesn't really count as tall.

I. Instruments you play(ed): I was awesome on the recorder. I also attempted the cello at high school when participation in the school orchestra was compulsory. Ear plugs should also have been compulsory.

J. Job title: Full-time mum? Homemaker? Domestic Goddess? All of which probably means I should do more of "C".

K. Kids: Yes. 15 Year Old Daughter and 11 Year Old Son. Maybe I should get them to do "C".

L. Live: By "Live" do you mean:
(a) where do I live;
(b) am I alive;
(c) is this blog post going out live or pre-recorded;
(d) do I like the 1990s rock band Live.
Please be more specific, you've made extra work for me. But because I like you I'll answer them all:
(a) West Auckland, New Zealand;
(b) yep, I had one of those tests done where they glue electrode thingamees to your head and monitor your brainwaves. I have brainwaves. I am not a zombie. 11 Year Old Son is disappointed by this.
(c) it's going out live right now. No ad breaks or anything. Please feel free to record and play back later.
(d) ugh. Wank Rock. Hate them.

M. Mum’s name: I have two mums, Colleen and Susan.

N. Nicknames: ManikPixi - normally shortened to Pixi.

O. Overnight hospital stays: Yes, after my two caesarians and also when 15 Year Old Daughter broke her elbow when she was three. She fell off the couch onto a toy. Toys are dangerous.

P. Pet peeves: Oh I have so many:
The noises people make when they eat;
whispering;
people who stop their trollies in the middle of the supermarket aisle;
the way nobody ever puts stuff back in the right place in the fridge (I have a system, people, a system);
the way people are always un-alphabetising my herbs and spices (a system, people, a system)...
I think we should stop now. You're already thinking I'm a nutjob.

Q. Quote from a movie: I've drawn a blank. I really want to come up with some favourite movie witticism but my head is empty. Except for the shoes. And the unicorns.

R. Righty or lefty: Lefty. Potato peelers are the bane of my life.

S. Siblings: A half-sister, two foster-brothers and a foster-sister.

T. Time you wake up: I try not to.

U: Underwear: Oh love pretty lingerie. Not that you'd know it by the number of black cotton M&S briefs in my underwear drawer.

V. Vegetables you don’t like: Broccoli. Did you know it's a flower? No flower should ever taste that bad.

W. What makes you run late: Sleeping in.

X. X-Rays you’ve had: Lots. I am accident prone. And a hypochondriac.

Y. Yummy food you make: I make an awesome hummus. 15 Year Old Daughter says my Pumpkin Soup is her favourite food. 15 Year Old Daughter is my favourite daughter.

Z. Zoo animal favourites: Otters! And Tarantulas.

I'm probably supposed to tag other bloggers to do this. Just go ahead and do it if you feel so inspired, and don't forget to send me a link!

In which I defend John Campbell

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 00:17:00 +0000

So, John Campbell has landed himself in a bit of hot water over his interview last night with Ken Ring. Let me start by saying that I there are two things I should be upfront about because I am, in all honesty, biased. First, John Campbell is my favourite current affairs personality. In fact he's my favourite New Zealand celebrity full-stop (it would be safe to say, and Eccentric English Boyfriend would agree, that I have a bit of a schoolgirl crush on him). Second, I have no time at all for Ken Ring - I don't even want to waste space here talking about him. There are some excellent sites out there debunking his theories - a very good post over on SciBlogs does just that.

Rather than going over last night's interview in great detail, I'd like to ask you to stop for a moment and give some thought to this:

Over the last few months John Campbell (and indeed many other members of New Zealand's media) have seen and reported first hand the terrible things that both nature and humanity are capable of. He was there after the first Christchurch earthquake interviewing shaken residents; he was on the West Coast talking to the grieving families, police and Pike River employees who were hoping against hope that they could bring their 29 miners out from the collapsed mine; he spoke to the heartbroken widow of a murdered man while her now fatherless son played around his feet; and this last week he's been back on the ground in Christchurch interviewing the shell-shocked, the grieving, the rescuers and the authorities. All the while he's been calm, he's been compassionate and he has very obviously cared. And bless him, he's even managed to be funny (favourite quote from this last week, in reference to a newly-arrived Australian USAR team: "bloody Aussies, sometimes they just make you smile actually.")

It is in his compassion that I think John Campbell's great strength lies. It's what helps the people he interviews to open up to him and it's what draws us as viewers in. But it also has me wondering how on earth, at the end of a day when he's been faced with so much tragedy and grief, so much evidence of how truly horrible life can sometimes be, he can still carry on and not just give up in despair.

So at a time when we are all of us heartbroken for Christchurch, is it any wonder that when faced with a snake oil salesman whose "stick in a pin in the calendar, colour in the days either side of it and call it a prediction" schtick is needlessly frightening already-scared and very vulnerable Christchurch residents, John let his anger boil over and his journalistic standards slide?

Sure we hold our celebrities to high standards and we quite rightly ask our media to be impartial. As a general rule I would say we are justified in this. But they are human and under such trying circumstances can we really blame them for just occasionally letting that humanity show?

In which I feel a bit sorry for myself

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 07:04:00 +0000

Looking back through my ManikPixi posts, I see that the last time I wrote anything for this blog was back in May last year - well over a year ago now. I started my other blog, Pretty Clever, that April and found myself a niche in blogging about, well, pretty things. My readership grew, I scored a couple of guest posts on other blogs and even got sent free stuff to review, and I started to feel that in some small way I was fulfilling my only life-long dream: to write. (Well, that and to be a laser gun-wielding, alien butt-kicking agent for a super secret government department responsible for kicking alien butt. I'm nothing if not imaginative.)

Life was looking pretty good - The Eccentric English Boyfriend and I had moved in together, my kids were growing up gorgeous, my ex-husband and I had a good (if occasionally awkward) friendship and the severe depression and anxiety disorder which I'd battled daily most of my adult life, and particularly since my separation, was mostly under control (even though an aborted attempt to lower my daily dosage of drugs reminded me that it was still there). Things really were looking the best they'd looked for a very long time.

Then one day in December last year my toes went tingly. A relatively innocuous thing at the time - I'd been wearing (very pretty) high heels quite a lot in the previous few days and put it down to the after-effects of the burning ball-of-foot pain that anyone who wears high heels will be familiar with. But then on a Wednesday morning - the day before we were due to fly down to Dunedin for my foster-brother's wedding - I was washing my, erm, delicate bits in the shower and realised that they were numb. Not good. Not good at all.

Scary thoughts pushed themselves into my head, and I pushed them back out again and flew to Dunedin with EEB and the kids. I threw myself into preparing for the wedding, giving manicures to family members and enjoying being back in the arms of my foster family. And all the time the numbness and tingling spread. Upwards from my toes and downwards from my butt, eventually meeting at my knees, I began to have difficulty placing my feet properly when I walked and had the disturbing sensation that I constantly needed to poop when in reality I couldn't. Not that I had no need to, I just literally couldn't.

The wedding was lovely - utterly utterly lovely. The whole weekend was. But in downtime back at our motel unit I was searching the internet, listing my symptoms and reading the list of possible illnesses and all the time in the back of my mind a voice was saying "I have Multiple Sclerosis". Which of course came up in the search results, but I was determined that would not be the answer. Determined that the disease which had killed two women of my extended acquaintance at a relatively young age* was not what I had.

We returned to Auckland on the Sunday evening, and Monday I saw my GP who looked puzzled, scheduled an appointment with a Neurologist for that Wednesday and told me that if my symptoms worsened before then I was to go straight to A&E. By that night I was terrified - I'd tried as hard as I possibly could for several days to not think too much about it but I could no longer avoid it. I knew there was something wrong with me, so that night I got EEB to take me to A&E where the lovely young doctor (who later told me she'd rushed me through as an urgent case because she was worried that my symptoms indicated a fast growing tumour on my brain or spine) had the MRI machine fired up in the middle of the night. It takes an hour for it to warm up, did you know? I spent an hour and a half lying in that tiny plastic tube having my brain and spine scanned and feeling very, very glad that claustrophobia wasn't amongst my list of mental health issues!

I'd sent EEB home to bed earlier - before I found out they were going to MRI me - having been told by a nurse that I was likely to be there overnight and nothing much would happen until the next morning. So I was alone when the doctor returned with my diagnosis - two lesions on my brain and a lesion on my spine indicative of Multiple Sclerosis.

Multiple Sclerosis.

The one thing I'd wanted so desperately for it not to be.

She was lovely, the pretty young doctor. She knew she was delivering devastating news, and I felt her empathy. When I told her of my acquaintances, who'd died when they were not much older than I am now, she told me of her friend who was living a healthy and happy life despite her MS, explained that my experience of it wasn't the way it always happened and that medication was improving all the time. And she did help, bless her.

I was given a huge dose of steroid tablets to take, with a few more days' worth to take home with me - the research shows that short, high doses of steroids (rather than longer term lower doses) are most effective in treatment of MS episodes - told I could go home, and to keep my Wednesday appointment with the Neurologist. EEB was slightly irritated to be woken by my phone call in the middle of the night - not at me but at the nurse who had told him I'd be in overnight - and I think I sounded normal on the phone until I said "I've got a diagnosis". "What?" he asked. "Multiple Sclerosis" I said, and burst into tears. There was silence, what seemed like quite a long silence, and then he said - very simply "Oh crap".

By the time he came to pick me up I was a mess, eyes red-rimmed from sobbing. The guy in the cubicle next to me - who was in some serious pain trying to pass a kidney stone - had quietened his moans after hearing the doctor talking to me. Let's face it, nothing is a secret when flimsy hospital curtains are the only barrier between beds. So I guess he'd had to listen to me crying.

Back at home I curled into EEB's arms in bed and sobbed myself to sleep - overcome by grief and fear and only just beginning to grasp what this diagnosis meant.

The appointment with the Neurologist was at its best unhelpful and at its worst distressing. He was offhand with me and made vague noises about how it was most probably MS but I might never have another episode. I came away feeling somehow guilty that I'd made such a big deal about it. Later I read that it's not uncommon for newly diagnosed sufferers to receive this advice from a Neurologist - that there's a school of thought that says it's more helpful and reassuring to the sufferer to think in this manner. Which is of course utter bullshit. The MS patient who convinces themselves they'll never have another episode is only going to be more devastated when the next episode happens. Sure there's a lot to be said for optimism, but not at the expense of medical reality.

After seeing the Neurologist I almost didn't contact the local Multiple Sclerosis Society. I thought that maybe if he was right and I never had another episode I'd be wasting their time. But then I remembered the sight of those three lesions on my MRI - those three white blobs that had no right to be where they were - and I thought of the daily reality I was facing with difficulty walking and constant overwhelming fatigue, and I knew that whatever platitudes he had used I was facing something huge and I needed support right then and there. And so I rang them, and they were wonderful. They sent around the Field Worker for my area who brought me books and pamphlets about MS and sat and chatted and played with the dogs and let me know that there was so much support available. She rings me regularly to check in, and always asks after the dogs.

She also put me in touch with the MS Nurses who work in tandem with the Neurologist and are lovely - supportive and caring and not at all offhand.

The episode passed after about a month and a half. I regained feeling in all the bits where I should have feeling, the fatigue gradually passed and with the exception of some occasional blurry vision problems which have stayed on I started to get my life back.

Except it's a different life now isn't it? Because every day, in everything I do, that thought is in my head: "I have Multiple Sclerosis". I try to keep positive, to live every day to its fullest potential and to not dwell too much on what might happen, and mostly I succeed but that thought and the fear that accompanies it never really goes away. And with it my depression and anxiety returns more often, probably understandably. So I'm less motivated, and finding less joy in the world. I've been finding it hard to get the inspiration to blog over at Pretty Clever - not that I don't want to I just can't summon the creative energy to do it.

So where to from here? Well the old adage "hey I could walk out in front of a bus tomorrow" may be facetious but it is actually true. As is "well it could be worse". Yeah, it could. It could be much, much worse. Still sucks though. But, I have a passion for life that can't be kept down. Won't be kept down. I'll just keep on keeping on. And hopefully find my blogging motivation again. Maybe even start posting here more often - who knows. It's eight months since my diagnosis, and in the last couple of days I've been having some odd little symptoms which I may totally be imagining, or may actually be the onset of another episode. Time will tell, but that's obviously why it's on my mind even more right now, and what prompted this post. It can be really scary thinking about what this often invisible disease, with its wide range of possible symptoms ranging from irritating to incapacitating, could have in store for me next.

But life doesn't just have MS in store for me. My life contains an Eccentric English Boyfriend, two gorgeous children and excessively affectionate pets. And that's just in our house - I step outside our door and there's a a big wide world out there full of cool stuff. So whatever happens from here on out I should just enjoy the cool stuff.

* The lovely MS Society Field Worker who facilitates my newly diagnosed group is quick to point out that MS doesn't, as a rule, kill its sufferers - they die from complications related to MS. They become bed-ridden and develop pneumonia, and unable to move around and clear their lungs they succumb to it. Mostly that's reassuring, except if they hadn't had MS they wouldn't have developed pneumonia, would they?

This little piggy grilled your meats

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Mon, 25 May 2009 08:55:00 +0000

Although it's no longer barbeque weather here in New Zealand the EEB and I are thinking about buying a new barbeque in preparation for the day when the house is in a suitable state (ie renovated) to entertain. Up until now I've been leaving window shopping to the EEB, barbeques have never particularly excited me. In fact, I view barbeques in the same way I view cars - as some sort of manhood extension. My motto: the bigger the car/barbeque, the smaller the .... wallet.

But then, I saw this:

That, my dears, is the Lil' Pig grill. Check out her udders! I would presume it's not available here in New Zealand, but if it was I would totally be getting me some of that piggy action! Available from Traeger Wood Pellet Grills. The web site doesn't list the price, which presumably means it's one expensive little piggy!

Proof I'll never win the Mother of the Year award

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Thu, 21 May 2009 02:33:00 +0000

10 Year Old Boy is exceptionally mischievous, and loves to wind me up. He knows that a surefire way to do this is to answer every sentence of mine with "why?". He can go on like this for hours, bless him. I finally trumped him the other day though. I don't remember what the conversation was about, but it went on for some time, me saying something, him saying "why", me trying not to pop, until it culminated with this:

10YOB: "why?"
Me: "well then you were born"
10YOB: "why?"
Me: "because your father and I had sex"
10YOB: *blush* ... *squeak* ... *run away*

I've never seen him leave the kitchen so fast!

Play teh cute!

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Sat, 16 May 2009 10:35:00 +0000

I'm such a sucker for lolcats. And loldogs for that matter. I mean, cute animals, amusing captions, a way to spend hours avoiding the housework - what's not to love! And now they've gone and introduced another way for me to spend hours avoiding the stuff I'm actually supposed to be doing. In fact, two ways.

Now there are two Nom Nom Nom games. Simple, time-wasting, addictive - pull the cat's (or dog's tail), eat the noms and beat my score* - go on!

* It won't be that hard to beat my score. In fact it will be so easy to beat my score I haven't even bothered publishing it, because it was teh suck! But feel free to tell me yours, so I know just how much better you are than me!

What I've been doing

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 01:27:00 +0000

It's been a few weeks since my last proper post, so here's a quick recap of what's been happening. I have:

Been a bridesmaid in purple, and discovered that my Jurlique Citrus Silk Finishing Powder (bought cheap at Gold Coast Duty Free last year) is worth it's weight in gold for keeping my oily skin shine free during an outdoor wedding on a hot and very humid Auckland day.
Survived 13 Year Old Girl's first day at high school, which was more exciting than it should have been when a passing crim attempted to snatch a parent's bag, and the welcoming powhiri was drowned out by the noise of the police helicopter circling overhead searching for the would-be purse snatcher.
Had a delightful (and all too brief) visit from EEB's mum and step-father (the Eccentric English In-Laws).
Laughed far harder than is possibly polite at the Eccentric English In-Laws' attempts to pronounce Maori words.
Introduced the Eccentric English In-Laws to my wonderful Foster Parents on a trip to my home town of Dunedin, and realised that I am a short person surrounded by tall people.
Had a delightful dinner with the Foster Parents and the Eccentric English In-Laws at Speights Ale House in Dunedin, where the lamb was lovely.
And discovered Speights Pale Ale, a light, crisp brew which has replaced Corona as my beer of choice.
Rediscovered the breathtaking majesty that is Central Otago.
Dined for the second time at The Bunker in Queenstown, and had it reconfirmed as my favourite restaurant ever.
Promised the Eccentric English In-Laws that next year we will visit them - hooray for a trip to England with a stop-over in Hong Kong. 10 Year Old Boy was a little underwhelmed by the possibility, until he realised that because we're going for three weeks he'll get an extra week off school after the school holidays. Now he's positively brimming with excitement!
Had a prowler in our street who scared the living daylights out of our neighbours. When I went out to investigate the presence of police cars in the street the policewoman held up a pair of knickers and asked if they were mine - I had to to tell her that none of my knickers are that, well, delicate! Turns out they were stolen off the washing line of a lady a couple of houses round, the next time I saw her I complimented her on her taste in underwear. She only has one child, she may as well wear delicate frillies while she can!

Oh AND, joy of joy of joys, the Eccentric English In-Laws brought over my Christmas present and you will never guess what they got me. Go on, guess ...

Ok, here's a clue. And it's just as awesome on my wrist as it looks in the picture.

Because one is never enough

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 06:48:00 +0000

The thing to do when you have a blog which you update sporadically is, obviously, to start a second blog. Which you will then update sporadically. So of course that's precisely what I've done ... Ladies and Gentlemen (well, just ladies actually because it's a blog about makeup and clothes and shoes), may I present to you my new blog, Pretty Clever.

Bully to you

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 21:03:00 +0000

I was humming Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer to myself this morning (somewhat out of season I know but bear with me) when a thought occurred to me that I've had a few times before: the lyrics to that carol really annoy me. Think about it, Rudolph was picked on by the other reindeer because he was different, and it was only when he performed an heroic feat that he was elevated in their eyes and they stopped bullying him. Now don't get me wrong, this is not some diatribe about the writers and purveyors of this message, which also turns up in many teen angst-ridden dramas on screen and in print. They're only writing what's already there. How many of us, on the receiving end of bullying, have fantasised about being revealed as the lead singer of a famous rock band, or an ass-kicking laser gun-wielding secret agent for a secret government agency fighting alien invasions (ok so those two particular fantasies are mine) thereby earning the respect and adulation of their former bullies?

I was bullied throughout my school years, and the truth is if I had had the chutzpah to be a rock singer or secret government agent then I wouldn't have been bullied in the first place, because bullies have an innate ability to read people and they can spot the ones like me whose body language and glances say "I have no self esteem, please just ignore me".

There was one particular girl at high school who bullied me mercilessly, both with words and occasionally more physical methods, followed by a gaggle of her friends all eager to join in the fun. I was incredibly lucky that I had a wonderful best friend who stood up for me, and formed herself and the rest of our group into an honour guard of sorts around me whenever they saw her coming across the school field. A trip to the school counsellors office in tears eventually put a stop to her bullying (what methods he used to convince her to cease I don't know, I just know my relief was immeasurable). A couple of years later, after she had left school, I ran into her one day when I was out with my father - she was the checkout operator on our till at the supermarket. My heart sank when I saw her, but she astounded me by apologising, in front of my father, for the way she had treated me. I don't remember my answer (I do remember the interrogation from my father afterwards, I'd never told him about the situation), but to this day I have the utmost respect for that girl. It took some guts to say that, in the presence of my father and the other customers, and it just goes to show that just as victims don't always have to be victims, so too can bullies change their ways - and it doesn't take an heroic act to bring it about.

Oh boy

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 20:07:00 +0000

Bizarre vignette of the day: Jessie lying on the beanbag happily chewing on a toy with Fred straddled across her back, his little legs barely touching the floor, merrily humping away.

Seriously, this is what passes for normal in our house!

It's called an elevator

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 19:45:00 +0000

Watching The Big Bang Theory last night (my current favourite), the scene in which Sheldon and Penny are having a conversation as they walk the numerous flights of stairs to their apartments. On each landing they pass the elevator doors, criss-crossed with 'Out of Order' tape. In the ad break 9 Year Old Boy turns to me and asks "Mummy, why are so many of those rooms out of order?".

My morning fix

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 21:12:00 +0000

I'm at the computer with my morning cup of coffee catching up on my blog reading (also know as avoiding the housework) so I thought I'd share a few of this morning's favourite links:

From Shoewawa, boot wearing season is over here in NZ with summer on its way, and I couldn't afford these in a month of Sundays, but I love love love these Thomas Wylde boots.

The heel, the multiple skull buckles, even the slouchiness (which wouldn't normally win me over) - available here.

From Fashionably Geek, no I haven't reversed the picture, this watch actually runs backwards. Leonardo da Vinci was left-handed (like me) and the theory is that his backwards writing was not an attempt to write in code, but rather to avoid smudging the ink as he wrote.

And it's beautiful to look at. Available at The Unemployed Philosophers Guild, the same site that carries the Dali watch I love so much.

The Boston Globe's Big Picture blog is a favourite of mine - the photo collections are always stunning, and today's Antarctica pics almost have me thinking it would be worth braving the cold to go there (I said almost, I seriously hate the cold).

(Image: Zee Evans/National Science Foundation)

And to end, something a little ghoulish. Ugly Overload has some mosquito photos that will have you reaching for the insect repellant.

And now I should start my day, but tearing myself away from the window may be a little difficult. The lady across the road has had a gardener in the last few days, and today he's out there shovelling topsoil. Young? Check. Tanned? Check. Topless? Check. Toned physique? Check. EEB looked somewhat suspicious when I tried to convince him that maybe he should go in to the office today rather than working from home. I wonder why...

This is what you get for having kids

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 00:13:00 +0000

After the post about the bean bag explosion EEB's mum emailed me with the story of the time she had taken EEB and his sister shopping and they managed to open the zip on a bean bag and spill the beans all over the store. EEBM quite rightly pretended they weren't with her (oh how many times have I done that).

It's no secret that children were put on this planet to embarrass their parents. When 9 Year Old Boy was a toddler he couldn't make his 't' sounds, and replaced them with 'f'. Imagine if you will how much fun it is when, in the middle of a busy doctor's surgery filled with old ladies, your son announces that he has just seen out the window "the biggest f**k ever"!

Then there was my friend whose daughter went to play at a friends house and decided to indulge her artistic side. Not long after she came home her mum was startled to receive a phone call from the friend's mum, who just wanted to let her know that a certain little girl had written on her son's penis. (Can't have been a very long sentence, one imagines). Luckily the friend's mum had a sense of humour.

When I was a teenager, living with my foster family, my one and a half year old foster sister decided her doll's hair needed washing and promptly did so ... in the toilet!

Thirteen Year Old Girl has always had a knack for asking awkward questions. On one occasion when she was teeny we arrived at my grandparents' house for a family gathering. Great-Grandpa was nowhere to be seen, and upon enquiring wee girl was told he was in the toilet. "Is he sitting down or standing up?" she asked the assembled family members.

Fast forward to another family gathering, wee girl's dad was somewhat uncomfortable at the time having been stricken with epidydimitis ('epidydimis' being the tubing in the testicles, 'itis' being an infection - you do the math) and wee girl was under strict instructions not to jump on him. Well she arrived at grandparents' house, bounced straight onto Great-Grandpa's lap for a cuddle, stopped for a moment then turned to GG and asked very seriously "Grandpa do YOU have infected testicles?".

All I can say is they better look after me in my dotage, because I've earned it!

Does this mean I'm a grown up?

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 00:44:00 +0000

I'm glued to CNN watching the US elections. Also, GO OBAMA!

Still not entirely clear on how the American elections work, is it just me or is it all very complicated? If it weren't for hours and hours of West Wing viewing I wouldn't have even the faintest idea what was going on!

I am the most fascinating person

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 22:44:00 +0000

Having dogs can be a very ego-stroking experience - everything I do is, to them, utterly fascinating. Every move I make around the house is accompanied by the tick-tick-tick of two sets of paws following me, every action watched by two pairs of eager, inquisitive eyes. "You're hanging the washing out - incredible!" "You're going to the toilet - amazing!" "You're scraping poo off the deck - astounding! (Also, could you put that back, I was planning on rolling in it later.)" If it weren't for my children's uncanny ability to bring me back down to earth with a crash I could start to get rather full of myself.

Eagle-eyed readers (all two of you) will have gleaned that we have added another fluffy bod to the menagerie. Meet Fred (aka Top Hat and Tails of TennTyne).

Fred is a Sealyham Terrier - a once popular breed that is now top of the list of endangered dog breeds in England. EEB's family in England has always had Sealyhams and several months ago he contacted New Zealand's only Sealyham breeder. She had no puppies available at the time, but when the family who originally took Fred sadly had to return him due to unforseen circumstances EEB immediately came to mind. We met her and Fred at the NZ Kennel Club show on Saturday, fell in love and brought him home with us, where he has now settled in so well that you'd think he'd always lived here. Jessie loves having a playmate, and Fred is besotted with Jessie.

In other news, Jessie bit the corner off the outdoor beanbag, the kids discovered that jumping on the beanbag produces a shower of polystyrene beads, the deck now looks like a snow storm hit it and Fred is walking around with polystyrene beads stuck in his fur. I tell ya - it's comedy gold in this house!

(And in case you're wondering: yes that is EEB in the picture hiding behind Fred.)

Another one of those 'awwwwwwwwwwwww' moments

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 21:55:00 +0000

I've just bought myself a new wallet, and when I was swapping stuff over from the old one I found two wee notes tucked away in a pocket. They were written by 13 Year Old Girl last year on my birthday, as instructions for herself and her brother regarding the preparation of my breakfast in bed.

The first note reads:

1. Presents
2. Tea (strong)
3. Toast x2 (Marmite)
4. Book (Princess Handbook)

Note that I was provided with reading material, the Princess Handbook is very appropriate is it not?

Second note:

1. Wake up early
2. Be happy
3. Breakfast in bed
4. Big hugs for Mum
5. Happy birthday

I know I've said this before, but it bears repeating: I love my kids!

Out of the mouths of babes

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Wed, 15 Oct 2008 11:16:00 +0000

I've been going through some old backup discs, sorting out all my digital photos, and I found this little story from 2004 that I thought I'd share with you:

During a visit to Dunedin (which had involved a very exciting trip by plane), I was playing a game with then Five Year Old Boy and his Nana when he told me that I was dead, and had gone to heaven. I asked him if heaven was nice and he replied “No, it’s boring”. “How do you know, have you been to heaven” asked his Nana. “No” said Five Year Old Boy. “So how do you know it’s boring then?” she asked. “Because we passed it on the way here!” was his reply.

Kleptomaniac dogs, rubber doormats and Michael Jackson

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Fri, 03 Oct 2008 04:17:00 +0000

An inspection of the garden yesterday morning revealed the following things: a pair of 13 year old girl's socks, game pieces from Snakes & Ladders, a pair of EEB's boxers, six rubber doormats, three empty tins from the recycling bin, a pair of 9 year old boy's trousers, a ripped bag of kitty litter of the recycled newspaper variety - you should see what happens to that stuff when it's been out in the rain, a cushion, the blankets from the dog's kennel, 13 year old girl's jacket, and the wrapper from the huge bar of Caramello chocolate. We'd only eaten a few pieces out of the block - bet that was one happy dog!

Several things are clear from this. First - I need to get out in the garden more often. Second - my dog is a kleptomaniac. Third - I should stop buying rubber doormats and invest in some wrought iron ones - let's see her face when she tries to chew on that!

The house was (as usual) full of children yesterday, and they entertained themselves for some time playing "Jacksonified" - a variation on the classic game of Tag that they made up themselves. The basic idea is the same as in Tag, but the person who is in is Michael Jackson, and they chase the other kids until they catch someone, who then becomes "Jacksonified". A pretty succinct comment on the state of Michael Jackson's career no? He has joined the likes of the Bubonic Plague and become a children's game (a'la Ring a Ring a Rosie)!

No smoking please - I'm giving up. No, seriously.

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 30 Sep 2008 19:52:00 +0000

I don't have a particularly good history with quitting smoking (obviously, otherwise I would have, you know - quit), but given that I am now a Woman of No Income (otherwise known as staying home to oversee the renovations, which haven't actually started yet), I think it's only fair that the EEB shouldn't have to pay for my nicotine addiction. He would quite rightly point out that he already pays for my shoe addiction. And my chocolate addiction. And my lingerie addiction. And my 'ooooh that's so pretty, I can has?' addiction. Also, my children hate it that I smoke. Oh and my father died at a relatively young age of a heart attack after a lifetime of smoking. And I keep getting bronchitis. And I'd quite like to grow old disgracefully, not die young of some smoking related condition. Enough reasons already? I sure hope so.

So I smoked the last smoke in the packet at 6.30 this morning. EEB and the kids are ducking for cover - watch this space and wish me luck.

In unrelated news, the dog was outside for five minutes and is now covered in Something Disgusting With Tomatoes In It. Not sure how I'm going to remove it, given that we don't use the bathtub since the 'water leaking down the side of the bathtub and shorting out the washing machine and dryer on the day before we flew to Australia when I still had five loads of washing to do' incident of July 08.

Everyone has an opinion - bless them!

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Thu, 11 Sep 2008 23:33:00 +0000

The thing about parenting is that from the instant you announce your impending arrival to the world everyone has an opinion for you. Breastfeeding, toilet training, two year olds, siblings - the list is as long as the many phases in a child's life. Coming from other parents I can understand it, and I've even been guilty of it myself - the thing is when you've survived a childhood phase and you and your child come out the other side of it (more or less) intact you're pretty damn proud of yourself and eager to share your new-found wisdom with others in the most well meaning way. So when other parents feel inclined to give me unsolicited advice I nod, smile, and sometimes follow it if I think it's worthwhile. When the advice comes from non-parents I nod, smile and generally ignore it (whilst quietly smirking over the shock they're going to get when they actually have children of their own!).

I've noticed this happening again recently because my gorgeous daughter has just turned thirteen. Yep, that's right folks, I have a teenager in the house, and if I'm to believe the comments I've had from some, it's all downhill from here - a hellish dive into sex, drugs and rock and roll which I'm led to believe I'm completely unprepared for. What really gets my hackles up is when people make these comments in front of my daughter. I've always believed that if a person hears negative comments about themselves often enough they're likely to start believing, and embodying, those comments.

Why is it that teenagers are consistently viewed so negatively? I remember seeing a documentary many years about about a famous anthropologist whose area of speciality was teenagers, specifically the differences between teenagers in different cultures. Some of the cultures she studied had no concept of 'teenagers', no word for it in their vocabulary - children essentially went straight from childhood to adulthood, often with an accompanying ceremony to celebrate the event, and she observed in these cultures a lack of what we would think of as 'typical' troublesome teenage behaviour. I don't want to make broad brush stroke generalisations out of this, but it is food for thought isn't it?

The years ahead may be difficult, there may be times when I search frantically for the instruction manual that was through some oversight left out of my daughter's packaging, but in the end she knows I love her and I know she loves me (even on those days when I'm 'The Worst Mum In The World'). We'll come out the other side of The Teens, and I'm going to treasure every damn moment of it along the way.

No matter what anybody else says, my son thinks I'm cool!

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 23:54:00 +0000

Being a parent is guaranteed to present you with moments that tug at your heartstrings, and when I read this story that my son brought home from school I had tears in my eyes! Here it is, and aside from some capitalisation I've recreated it in all of its glory (note the variety of ways 'piercing' is spelt - love it!):

My mum silly and clumsy. She is very smart and she has lots of anmils. Tom her boyfriend is very smart too. My mum loves the computer and she is very nice her faverite website is NeoPets she is very good at it. She has one son (aka me) and one daughter (aka Shannon my sister). My mum is very happy she had us. She has black/red hair. She has a belly button pieceing three ear pircings and one tounge percing. She is very cool her name is Selina. She has a part time job I love my mum she is the best.

Puppy training

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 11 Mar 2008 03:04:00 +0000

So, Eccentric English Boyfriend, 12 Year Old girl, 8 Year Old Boy, The Menagerie and myself have finally set up house together. Three weeks ago we moved into our new house, and it still looks like an explosion in a box factory. It's a big house, but we have a lot of stuff.

To add to the chaos that comes with shifting and combining two households we have added to The Menagerie - we've adopted a border collie cross puppy from the SPCA who we've named Jessie, and she's gorgeous. And excitable. And chews stuff. And poos. And wees. And did I mention chews stuff?

She is a lovely girl though, and is responding really well to training. The whiteboard on the wall of our kitchen has written on it a list of the commands we use for Jessie, so that we are all using the same command (ie 'sit', 'don't chew that', 'stay', 'come back here with my bra' and so forth). The other day as I was getting the kids prepared for school in the morning EEB was in the hall attempting to put his boots on so he could go to work. His attempt was obviously not going very well, and judging by the yelling coming from the hall it was probably a lot to do with the fact that he had a small puppy hanging off his shoe laces. He may not have been finding it very amusing but we all did, and after giggling at the commotion for a while 12 Year Old Girl emerged from the kitchen with a wicked grin. "Mum, I've written a new command on the whiteboard" she giggled, and sure enough at the bottom of the list she had written:

"FOR GOD'S SAKE!"

The Great Hunter - The Early Years

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 15 Jan 2008 23:36:00 +0000

It is another blisteringly hot Auckland day today, and my cats are all stretched out in the shadiest spots they can find, moving only when the passage of the sun dictates. Marvin in particular suffers during summer, although his coat is the shortest it is also the most dense (rather like him, I am afraid!), and on days like this his slothfulness knows no bounds.

Marvin wasn't always like this however - six years ago he was a frisky, bristly, playful, clumsy kitten (ok he's still clumsy). One particular day when he was only a few months old I heard him come barrelling in through the cat door and rowl for me in that voice that cats do when they've brought you a present. Sighing, I headed for the dining room, preparing myself for the carnage I would find, and there was Marvin proud as punch in the middle of the dining room rowling expectantly and standing over his prey. The look on his face said it all - 'look mum, I caught it, and I killed it, and I brought it for you, and I'm so clever, aren't I mum?'.

And his prey? One very large, very dead ... leaf!

He went on to be a great hunter, who brought us all manner of things (including, on two separate occasions, tuis). At the ripe old age of six he no longer hunts (obviously that would require too much energy), but I still like to remind him of his first big kill!

Pointless but cool

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 10:26:00 +0000

Via Ooh Shiny, this cute wee dude plugs into your USB. The faster you type the faster he pedals, and the LCD display shows your typing speed. I particularly love his manic little face!

I wonder if I could convince my boss that having this would boost my productivity?

All yours for 19.99 pounds (why does the standard New Zealand keyboard not have the pound symbol?), from here.

More Dali

noreply@blogger.com (Selina) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 09:16:00 +0000

Found on Fashionably Geek, this watch is definitely more within my price range than the clock I love. This is one of those statement items that has you engineering situations where people will ask you the time just so you can show it off! The ant, by the way, counts out the seconds, and his moustache halves are the hands of the watch. Brilliance!

And in case you're wondering, US$34.95, and available here.