It was the maniacal giggling that gave Boy Genius away. There is simply nothing in his bedroom that funny. I braced myself and went to discover the source of such unbound joy.
“Don’t cut the wires,” he said, handing me a fistful of black spaghetti that was, until very recently, the cables connecting the television to the vcr.
When an obsession involves potential electrocution and the costly replacement of household items you tend to discourage it (and install a top of the line electrical trip switch).
You’d think after more than a decade of chanting the mantra Don’t Cut The Wires some understanding would sink in. You would be wrong.
These wires were well and truly cut.
But how? We monitor scissors with a vigilance usually reserved for schedule 4 drugs.
“How did you cut the wires?”
“Clippers.” He opens up his fist to show me his nail clippers. I swear he looks proud.
It’s true, where there’s a will, there’s a way.
I’m torn between being worried and annoyed at his continued cutting of wires and admiring his ingenuity.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
No more swinging from the chandeliers
Picture a chandelier.
No, that one’s far too nice.
Make it domestic, circa 1974.
Give it five arms.
Terminate each arm in a clear plastic bowl especially designed to maximize dust collection.
Festoon the entire thing with ropes of clear plastic beads.
Make sure the wire knots holding everything together are clearly visible.
Liberally sprinkle with large faceted plastic teardrops, which look like nothing so much as … well, large faceted plastic teardrops.
Overlay it all with a patina of age.
This was the first thing I saw every morning.
For the last 13 years.
Finally it is gone.
It will not be missed.
No, that one’s far too nice.
Make it domestic, circa 1974.
Give it five arms.
Terminate each arm in a clear plastic bowl especially designed to maximize dust collection.
Festoon the entire thing with ropes of clear plastic beads.
Make sure the wire knots holding everything together are clearly visible.
Liberally sprinkle with large faceted plastic teardrops, which look like nothing so much as … well, large faceted plastic teardrops.
Overlay it all with a patina of age.
This was the first thing I saw every morning.
For the last 13 years.
Finally it is gone.
It will not be missed.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Strange Times Indeed
It is 9 o'clock in the morning and I am roasting a chicken.
Time was I would have considered this a strange thing to be doing at this hour.
Not anymore.
In the past few weeks I've mopped floors at 2 in the morning, scrubbed the shower at 11pm and baked cakes at midnight.
Tell me I'm not alone.
What have you done at atypical times?
Time was I would have considered this a strange thing to be doing at this hour.
Not anymore.
In the past few weeks I've mopped floors at 2 in the morning, scrubbed the shower at 11pm and baked cakes at midnight.
Tell me I'm not alone.
What have you done at atypical times?
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
Tired of Reality
Reality TV: Fascinating commentary on society, providing insight into the structure of communities and the esoteric workings of cultural subgroups or complete crap-discuss.
I just don’t get ‘reality tv’.
I can see where tv station management are coming from. In these times of economic accountability it’s all about the bottom line, and reality tv, with its incomprehensible cult following, provides maximum return for minimum outlay. No actors, no script writers, minimal scenery and make-up/wardrobe costs, what’s not to love?
But what’s the attraction for viewers?
Maybe the first wave of reality tv offered something new and different but the longer these shows run the less they have to offer. And don’t even get me started on “Fill-In-The-Blank with the Stars” type programmes. Apart from the fact that the definition of Stars as used in the title of such shows is somewhat liberal, who cares?
Sure I could shrug and say if I don’t like reality tv I don’t have to watch it and leave it at that. But its insidious presence leaks out of its allocated timeslot and into that of the few programmes I can be bothered with.
And it is this that annoys the hell out of me.
What is so compelling about these shows that they must run overtime by up to twenty minutes? From the inane rubbish I’ve been exposed to while waiting for something half-way decent to start, I can’t tell.
Really, if you’re a fan explain it to me, I’d love to understand the attraction.
I just don’t get ‘reality tv’.
I can see where tv station management are coming from. In these times of economic accountability it’s all about the bottom line, and reality tv, with its incomprehensible cult following, provides maximum return for minimum outlay. No actors, no script writers, minimal scenery and make-up/wardrobe costs, what’s not to love?
But what’s the attraction for viewers?
Maybe the first wave of reality tv offered something new and different but the longer these shows run the less they have to offer. And don’t even get me started on “Fill-In-The-Blank with the Stars” type programmes. Apart from the fact that the definition of Stars as used in the title of such shows is somewhat liberal, who cares?
Sure I could shrug and say if I don’t like reality tv I don’t have to watch it and leave it at that. But its insidious presence leaks out of its allocated timeslot and into that of the few programmes I can be bothered with.
And it is this that annoys the hell out of me.
What is so compelling about these shows that they must run overtime by up to twenty minutes? From the inane rubbish I’ve been exposed to while waiting for something half-way decent to start, I can’t tell.
Really, if you’re a fan explain it to me, I’d love to understand the attraction.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Fish Bottle is Yucky
It was the noise that brought me running.
The unmistakable crash and thud of a small object hitting the wall at great speed.
It took me a moment to recognize the orange and green confetti spread across the lounge room floor as fish food. But once that had registered it took me no time at all to identify the same flakes clinging to boy genius’s lips.
I swear I’d only left him for a moment. He was contentedly watching his Harry Potter DVD and I thought I would take the opportunity to go make the beds. How was I to know that a 15 year old would suddenly decide to try eating fish food? He’s never shown any inclination to taste things before.
Apparently it wasn’t the gourmet treat he’d expected-hence throwing the can at the wall, I suppose.
The forceful stomping on the way to the bathroom told me two things. Firstly, building on a slab was a wise choice and secondly, this wasn’t over yet.
Fortunately the tantrum held off until after he’d rinsed his mouth out. Then it was full-on, throw-yourself-on-the-floor and flail-your-limbs-around-while-screaming. I’d give it a 7/10. It loses points for being at home rather than in a public place, for having a recognisable trigger and not being too unreasonable in the circumstances (yes, we do have a fairly liberal interpretation of unreasonable).
After around 10 minutes he’d calmed down enough to stand up and tell me that “fish bottle is yucky”.
I’m willing to take his word for it.
The unmistakable crash and thud of a small object hitting the wall at great speed.
It took me a moment to recognize the orange and green confetti spread across the lounge room floor as fish food. But once that had registered it took me no time at all to identify the same flakes clinging to boy genius’s lips.
I swear I’d only left him for a moment. He was contentedly watching his Harry Potter DVD and I thought I would take the opportunity to go make the beds. How was I to know that a 15 year old would suddenly decide to try eating fish food? He’s never shown any inclination to taste things before.
Apparently it wasn’t the gourmet treat he’d expected-hence throwing the can at the wall, I suppose.
The forceful stomping on the way to the bathroom told me two things. Firstly, building on a slab was a wise choice and secondly, this wasn’t over yet.
Fortunately the tantrum held off until after he’d rinsed his mouth out. Then it was full-on, throw-yourself-on-the-floor and flail-your-limbs-around-while-screaming. I’d give it a 7/10. It loses points for being at home rather than in a public place, for having a recognisable trigger and not being too unreasonable in the circumstances (yes, we do have a fairly liberal interpretation of unreasonable).
After around 10 minutes he’d calmed down enough to stand up and tell me that “fish bottle is yucky”.
I’m willing to take his word for it.
Monday, February 18, 2008
Eulogy for the Unnamed Goldfish
He was a good fish
He was an old fish
He is a dead fish
We commend his scaly soul to Heaven
And consign his earthly remains to Werribee
As I waited to ensure he made it around the S-bend I couldn’t help but compare his passing to that of Gil, one of his forerunners.
Gil, also orange and of carp ancestry, merited the full state funeral. When he was found ‘sleeping funny’ and the nature of his posture explained there was much weeping and heartfelt sorrow. He was buried in an oversized match box out under the grape vine and prayers were mumbled by the mourners as he was laid to rest.
That was around seven years ago. It doesn’t seem like such a long time past. Yet today those same children who wore black arm bands at Gil’s funeral are practically teenagers and noted this latest loss with a simple “Mum, I think the orange fish is dead.”
While I am glad they can accept that death has its place, and I do appreciate that fish don’t really lend themselves to attachment (they aren’t exactly the cutest or cuddliest of pets, be honest) part of me laments the maturing of the compassion and innocence displayed in the outpouring at Gil’s funeral.
Goodbye Unnamed Goldfish. I hope your life with us was as happy as any goldfish could expect.
He was an old fish
He is a dead fish
We commend his scaly soul to Heaven
And consign his earthly remains to Werribee
As I waited to ensure he made it around the S-bend I couldn’t help but compare his passing to that of Gil, one of his forerunners.
Gil, also orange and of carp ancestry, merited the full state funeral. When he was found ‘sleeping funny’ and the nature of his posture explained there was much weeping and heartfelt sorrow. He was buried in an oversized match box out under the grape vine and prayers were mumbled by the mourners as he was laid to rest.
That was around seven years ago. It doesn’t seem like such a long time past. Yet today those same children who wore black arm bands at Gil’s funeral are practically teenagers and noted this latest loss with a simple “Mum, I think the orange fish is dead.”
While I am glad they can accept that death has its place, and I do appreciate that fish don’t really lend themselves to attachment (they aren’t exactly the cutest or cuddliest of pets, be honest) part of me laments the maturing of the compassion and innocence displayed in the outpouring at Gil’s funeral.
Goodbye Unnamed Goldfish. I hope your life with us was as happy as any goldfish could expect.
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