A box a day, all through May?

We've unpacked everything we NEED, and now there's a hideous mess of boxes junking up what we call "The Boxroom".

It will one day be called The Playroom. But I have no idea when that will be.

I had a vague idea: wouldn't it be GREAT if I could unpack a box every day for a whole month? We could call it ...

"A box a day, all through May?"

Well, yah, it WOULD be great, but I happen to know myself, and I can tell you right now that the absolute best we can hope for is for me to make it to about 8th May and only then give up. Huh. I should be so lucky to make it to the 8th though.

I also counted the boxes. There are 50. This means that by the end of May, if I stuck to "a B a D, all thru M", I would still have 19 boxes left there in The Boxroom. And I would probably weep. And get a box of matches.

The Packers did indeed save my life (there was NO WAY POSSIBLE I could have done this move without them) but they did some odd things. Today I found a little package of stuff wrapped up in pink paper - we have a squillion of these little pink packages to unwrap - and I opened it. This was what was inside.

That's it. A plastic lid that is no longer needed (to the recycling bin) a plastic spoon that is too grotty for human use (a potential dog-food spoon) and a pair of plastic-handled scissors (to my study.) Thanks, Packers, for wrapping them so nicely, and for keeping them together. For that is where they obviously needed to be. Together. Because they belong. Oh yes indeedy.

One of the slats in Sonny Ma-Jiminy's bed was broken in two. I won't mention which heavy de Elba cracked it while messing about roughly on the bed with which of his children. Anyway, it was a piece of pine, snapped in two.

What would you have done with it?

Well, between Packers and Removalists, one half was carefully wrapped up with the other slats, the other half was abandoned - left in the corner of the room after everything else was packed and loaded onto the van. Now, I didn't particularly care what was done with the broken slat because it's been replaced now anyway, but wouldn't you think that both halves would have been treated the same? I would have too.

Your comments to me at the time regarding your nightmares with Packers were truly unbelievable.

Femina said...
When my friend moved the packers very efficiently packed her handbag. She had to get people to ring her mobile while she pressed her ear against the boxes trying to work out which one was ringing!

Hippomanic Jen said...
I like things that are the same in the one box ... When I've moved my wonderful Mum has come to help me. She is a "I have a space *this* big left in a box, what will fit in that sized space?" packer. I am a "Why don't they make all the ancient history books the same size so that they would fit in the same box?" packer. On reaching one destination and deciding to water my plants I started to fill my watering can, only to find it stuffed with my velcro hair curlers. Mum definitely packed THAT box!!

Ann said...
My last move, the packers (besides breaking things) actually packed my makeup INSIDE the toilet-brush holder!! Dee-skust-ing!! Of course I had to throw out the whole shebang... So we're moving again, and I can't decide if it's worse to do the work myself, or worry about what horrid things they're doing with my stuff....

Adrian's Crazy Life said...
Think that's bad - when we moved to Utah from California, the movers packed my birth control pills! They packed my whole suitcase right in the middle of a 15 foot truck. I had to wear the same sweaty clothes for 3 days straight. I thought oh this is great, I haven't been in Utah for a week and I'm going to be barefoot and pregnant. Fortunately, I didn't end up getting pregnant, but it would have made a funny story!

Joy said...
... One time when my Aunt moved the packers packed her entire trashcan with the garbage still in it. How nice of them.

Thankyou all for your kind comments, even if I'm not getting around to replying to you all personally. Your stories are ghastly, and if I was charged with finding a winner, you would all come equal first.

Hippomanic Jen's mother had a terrifying story about UNPACKERS (I never knew that people would unpack for you!) Beware of Unpackers. Listen to this:

She said that on reaching her destination after a big move, the removalists said that their instructions were to return WITH ALL OF THEIR BOXES. They started unpacking, and HJ's Mum was frantically trying to put kitchen things away into cupboards - any cupboards - while the movers piled her kitchen table high with assorted unpacked stuff.

With two small children, she watched in dismay as the beds were piled high with anything imaginable, because the movers had instructions not to put anything on the floor. It all had to be up off the floor.

I blanched in terror at the thought of that. Apart from everything else, we have 50 boxes of non-essentials including approximately a bazillion useless books that would have to have been shoved somewhere. We certainly don't have enough shelving to hold it all. It would have been enough to make me punch out a bunch of removalists (who my mother kindly calls "gorilla men" due to the usual physique of these men who are engaged in heavy lifting every day of the week.)

In Summary:
- we've unpacked the essential things
- it will be a long time before the rest is "dealt with"
- the Playroom will remain the Boxroom for a while longer
- I am beyond glad that we didn't have an UNPACKING service
- A Box A Day, All Through May is probably a little ambitious, but wouldn't it be great?

Slightly Concerned

I used to check my Statcounter regularly. I always found the Google searches that brought people to my blog were interesting, even if the stats weren't.

I haven't checked it for months until tonight. Now I am disturbed.

I'd settled into a comfortable state of believing that my only readers were those of you who comment, and you're all pretty lovely people.

The google search terms that have brought people to my blog recently, however, have me quite concerned.

Why would a person be googling:

• "devil's orchard furry"
• "playdough killing games"
• "sweet and sour afv"
• "free really funny pics of fat ladies with skinny ladies at the beach"
• "wake up each morning my first thought you. when i'm with you my heart races excitement happiness, i never want to leave you it hurts me when i have to. i smile so s..."

And how TWISTED is Google to send them here? Although the "funny pics" of fat ladies with skinny ladies at the beach could be me and Crazy Sister.

My Dad. Sigh.

Me: I've had a few big cries recently.

Mum: Oh no, that's not good!

Me: Don't stress Mum. It's normal. Many women have told me they have cried a lot when forced to move to a new town. Take J___ for example. She's such a lovely, mature well-rounded Christian woman, and she ...
Dad: Big fat woman?

Me (sigh): Geez, Dad, blah blah blah ... (here I blabbered on about weight and medical issues and basically tried to put a kind spin on the fact that, well, you know, some of us struggle with our weight.)

Dad (cutting me off): I've never met her.

Me: Er-?

Dad: You said she was 'well-rounded'.

Me: Oh. Sorry. A funny joke. I thought you were being your usual tactless self. Okay. Thanks. Funny. Ha ha.

Pregnancy Wardrobe

Thingamababy continues to grow.

And as he/she does, I realise I am beginning to wear my shirts like Winnie the Pooh.

(I do, however, wear pants.)

Not Ready

As I dropped Sonny off at kindy this morning, I said to the teacher, "I hope you have a lovely day. I'm off home now as I have a Rather Important Cry to have, and I need to get stuck into it."

She understood, we had a laugh, she gave me a hug and then she told me her crying story from when she moved here 11 years ago.

And I went home and had my Rather Important Cry. Just because.

The thing that set me off was the pressure to get "involved" in a church. Well you know what - I'm Not Ready. I feel sad, hurt, confused, angry, betrayed because of my premature forced departure from the best church I've ever attended. I know that we didn't need to move, we just ... moved. Although it bitterly hurt me, I moved out of love, and today my act of love has me in floods of tears. Don't forget I'm pregnant, too.

I want space. I want a few weeks or months (however long it takes) to mourn the loss of my Life - the friends I have left behind and the church that accepted me unconditionally and allowed me to attend whenever I wanted, as infrequently as I wanted. They let me be me. In a way, it wasn't quite like a church at all, it was more like ... A Nice Place To Be.

I'm not ready. I'm not ready to get involved in the morning services, night services, women's ministry, kids ministry, worship rosters, etc, etc. I've done it all my life. I've been eaten alive at some churches, and in contrast I was given permission to not-attend as much as I wanted to by my recent church. I wasn't ready to leave. And I'm not ready to re-join the roundabout this early, okay? I've only lived here for 14 days for goodness sake.

And now I shall close the comments. I just wanted to talk. I didn't want to hear you say that finding a church will help and getting involved will start the healing process and trot out the old story about taking a red-hot coal out of its fire and it gets all black and cold and then you put it back in the fire and it gets all red and hot again. I've heard it all before. Tonight isn't time for platitudes. Tonight is time for The Truth. The Truth is a raw, wild and spiky thing. And you just copped it.

She didn't want to sleep beside me ...

... on the big bed.

So she climbed down, opened the blanket box, hopped inside ...

... and fell asleep on the blankets.

A Photo Letter from Sonny Ma-Jiminy to Great Nana

Here is a photo-letter that Sonny Ma-Jiminy recently sent his Great-Nana. You'll notice some real names here - I am planning to tell you Thingamababy's name when he or she is born, and I thought that might be a good name to start using real names on my blog. But an early preview of Sonny's and Smoochy's names is okay, wouldn't you think?

Pest Control

One of the first things Sonny Ma-Jiminy thought of when we moved into our new house was the potential danger of hedgehogs.

We don't have hedgehogs here, just echidnas, and even then they always keep their spiky little selves out of town. There's a very slim chance you'd see one anywhere near our house.

(We do however ride kangaroos down the street and take possums in our bags to school. No, really, we do!!)

Sonny decided that we didn't want any hedgehogs in our new home. So he persuaded Mr de Elba to make a sign and stick it out the front.

We had a steady succession of mystified visitors before we remembered to take it down.

What are Chokos & What was wrong with the cupcakes?

Welcome back to a segment we call

"Givinya de Answers"

- the part of the blog where I sit here Givinya de Answers to de Questions you have asked.

You asked:


1. What are Chokos?

I'm glad you asked.

I was going to launch into an explanation, but decided to find a proper reference to them instead. Wikipedia doesn't have an entry for the choko (pron. 'choe-koe'). This should tell you something.

Dictionary.com doesn't have an entry for them either. This should also tell you something.

Reference.com says that 'choko' is another word for 'chayote.' I have never heard the word 'chayote.' This should also tell you something. It defines 'chayote' as 'a green vegetable of the gourd family. It is bland when eaten raw, but better when cooked.' For your convenience, I have put the understatement in blue and the outright lie in purple.

Heading back to Wikipedia, I found the entry for 'chayote' to have an obvious error. The sections labelled 'Culinary and medicinal uses' and 'Myths', whilst well-known in themselves, had suffered a switching of their headings. The entry could also have done with a detailed account of how Australian kids have traditionally used chokos, including the suggestions I mentioned in my comment on the choko post, e.g., throwing them at people and sticking them in people's exhaust pipes.

While doing a prac in a nursing home in the third year of my training, I learned that elderly people love eating cooked choko. It was the green vegetable of their generation. They just don't like the green veggies of our generation, and prefer choko to veggies like broccoli and asian greens.

But the truth is Chokos are not nice to eat. And this is why the sign was an impossibility - either you take chokos, or you enjoy life.

2. What was wrong with the cupcakes?

Again, I'm glad you asked.

I'd just moved in to my new home, and therefore decided to follow a tried-and-proven secret cupcake recipe that proved a massive success at Sonny Ma-Jiminy's party. It's called 'using a packet mix.' I have never in my life had such glowing compliments on my baking as I received for Sonny's cupcakes and also his butter cake with jam and chantilly cream.

Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy creating food from scratch (baking less than main meals though) but those people at the packet mix place put something magical into their packets that make it much nicer than any recipe you'll find in a crusty ole cookbook. Don't tell anyone. I am convinced that the road to hell is paved with empty cake-mix packets.

But.

My new oven runs a bit hot and the tops of the cupcakes were blackened while the insides were crumbly and dry. Seven out of the twelve were salvageable. The icing didn't stick onto them well, and ended up with crumbs all through it. Nevermind, stick some decorations on top and with sparklers, nobody will notice. I will re-post a picture of Sonny Ma-Jiminy's cupcakes here, and pretend that Smoochy Girl's looked the same.

That's called denial.

Now for the piece de resistance - a lovely moist butter cake, iced and with sparklers. Yeah right. The middle, which usually flops, rose to the point where it achieved twice the altitude of the sides. This cake, for unknown reasons, was shaped more like the Pyramid of Giza than the hatbox shape I was after. I sliced the top off with a bread knife and froze it a little so I wouldn't scuff up crumbs into the icing as I was spreading it on.

I used up all my icing sugar making the icing. I decided to make it a pale shade of mauve to contrast with the little pink cupcakes. One drop of red and one drop of blue made it a ghastly vibrant shade of bubblegum. I checked and realised it needed three drops of red to one drop of blue, but as I was putting two more drops of red in, three drops glooped out and the whole lot went a bilious shade of reddish bubblegum. No way on earth I was going to serve that up, not with my Mum and my MIL there. The road to hell is paved with artificial colours.

Very secretly, lest I suffer the wrath of a mother who would estimate the cost of the wasted icing sugar and insist I save it and put it to 'some other use' (the road to hell is paved with wastage) I let the lot go down the sink and reluctantly opened the icing that came with the packet mix, hoping it didn't have that awful plasticky packet-mix-icing smell to it. I made it up. It turned a ghastly shade of yellow and was so oily I couldn't spread it properly. I secretly put the whole cake in the little fridge in the garage and it sits there now, wondering what went wrong.

I myself am wondering how a grown woman who can cook can stuff up two packet mixes.

I was determined to be a gracious hostess and not let anyone know that there were plans beyond sandwiches and seven dry cupcakes with crumbs in the icing. The sparklers were lit, Happy Birthday was sung and my father got panicky about the noxious fumes he could smell coming from the sparklers. He insisted we further open already-open windows and take the children outside lest they die or something.

I forbore to point out that the delicate pink icing was now covered with a black soot that was sure to kill us all, took kids & cakes outside, and tried to work out why when I invited eight children two of whom require gluten-free food, I only provided seven non-gluten-free cupcakes.

I then proceeded to forget to serve up the jelly I'd made the night before, and the guests were none the wiser.

Let's hope the road to hell is not paved with culinary disasters.

A Week in Pictures

Over the packing, moving and unpacking weeks I thought of several interesting things to blog about. But unlike Crazy Sister, I am not good with the pencil and notebook thing, so I've forgotten it all. Typical. Instead, here are some pictures to show what we've been up to.

The last morning in our old house, and some pics that Sonny took outside:

The Packing:

This was the bit that I hated, all OCD-75% of me:
(Yes, I let a MAN pack my car! That is why the grass-encrusted whippersnipper was an inch away from the clean pizza trays - poor things were left in the oven until after the packers had gone. But bless his heart for packing the car for me.)

Empty

Sleeping at Grandma's:

The beginning of the FIRSTS: our new home! And of course, the unpacking:

How a 75% OCD woman coped. Put the mugs together, flatten the packing paper into little piles, label the boxes nicely:

First dinner together as a family in our new home ... just about to head off to EASTERFEST (formerly the Australian Gospel Music Festival - now we live in the town where it's held):

The 'smile' of The Startled:

The best vantage point when you're four and you're exhausted:

What Daddy could see:

And kept coming back to see:

Smoochy Girl's second birthday!

The cupcakes were not as much a success as Sonny's cupcakes a few weeks ago:

It's fun starting all the new firsts. Although I still don't feel I was "done with" Ipswich and ready to move, I hope that the happy memories there will fade pleasantly and these new memories will continue to be made.