Super Trouper (I survived IKEA)

There's nothing in the world quite like IKEA.

It's like mecca for Bogans. You know, the rule is you have to go there at least once in your life and pay homage to flat-packed furniture and clever Svveeeedishhhh rubber things.

There's no IKEA in Bogan-ville-ea. I think the Sveedish are ignoring us due to our penchance for outrageous drunken Karaoke nights that distastefully alter words in ABBA songs. Could be wrong, but it certainly can't have helped.

Recently, Brad the Tradie (BtT) and I were visiting the other side of the country (yes, our immunisations are up to date). Those in the West have not yet offended the Swedes. THEY have their own, very large, IKEA. It even has two eating areas AND the Swedish market food hall.

We felt the pull.
You can see an IKEA rise from the Bogan landscape like a big yellow and blue beacon...calling you to look at lounges, bookshelves and funny little stools. With excitement (having not been to any IKEA for a while) we navigated the buzzbox hirecar through the speed bumps and little whirly roundabouts, parked and fair RAN to the entry. We did have that tricky moment where BtT had to shove past a dawdling pregnant person and we also witnessed a very loud carpark argument between two life partners (blonde, funny accent, cargo pants....suspicious....)

You know 'that moment' when you start in an IKEA with the humungous book thing, your little pencil and list, the paper tape measure and yellow carry bag... the EXCITEMENT of it all! You breathe it in, ready. We were dressed appropriately. Thongs (rubber of course). Shorts. T-shirt. Minimal things to hold to allow for maximum touching of Swedish brilliance. Ready... Set. GO!!!!! GOOO!!!!!!!!!!

STOP!!! Crap, where are the loos?
Ok, we're good to go this time. Push past the little kids. Don't need a kitchen... oooo, noice handles on those doors though... ooo... clever!!! We don't have to stop and look at everything. Glance and prance. Glance and prance. Oooo!!! noice sofa, I'll just measure that. Ooo! Look what they're doing with double bunk kids beds these days! (No, we don't need it). What a great rug! (No, we're not buying it). Get OUT of my way kid. I'M IN IKEA.

Just on that...why don't people make more use of that nifty little room at the entrance where you dump your kids and shop in peace? There should be like, a rule or something, that MAKES people deposit their offspring in exchange for the pencil and tape measure. Especially relevant in the homewares section. Oopps! Another dinner set bites the dust. Wooopsie! I'm in my mid-thirties. I'm over dodging bullets in stores that offer childcare. I'm too busy deciphering the names of the items. Like a Dofflebonger bin and Floppenhunger entertainment unit. Can you imagine if we Bogan Aussies had invented IKEA:
"Ahhh, I'll have the .... ummm... Jim Beam poolroom shelves, the Kermit Green poof and a set of them beer glasses with the swirly on 'em. Oh, and put it all together luv. Me husband ain't that great at them flat-packs."
And the 'restaurant' wouldn't have $5 Swedish meatballs. It'd be meat pie n chips, a lammo and choice of beer or a glass of cardy. And there'd be TV's along that little track thing with the cricket and tennis on. Not fake TV's. BIG PLASMA ones.

And why don't they play ABBA in IKEA?
They sell any manner of Swedish food. Actually, I'd like to see the Swedish Chef Muppet in IKEA.... bom de bom de bom... ooooo DOP DOP DOP! Anyway, I hummed Dancing Queen quite loudly as I browsed. And giggled to myself at the way we always change the words in Mamma Mia to '....ever since the day we farted...'

And then when we got tired of things with funny names, small children bouncing on furniture and nodding approval at picture frames, we sighed, said 'hej da' and buzzed away, happy in the knowledge that if one day we need a bright orange slypendom, there'll be a cheap one at IKEA, packed up, ready to assemble.
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Super Trouper, ABBA. 1980.

The Heat is On!

It's hot.

There’s not much to do in Bogan-ville-ea midst a heatwave. And this week it’s bloody hot.

On several occasion when O.S. (international that is, not Tasmania or God forbid, Norfolk Island), I’ve gotten the impression that people associate Australia with beaches and reefs and stuff. Yes, they’re nice and wouldn’t we all like to ask “where the bloody hell are ya?” whilst marooned somewhere in the Whitsundays, but in reality, as seen in Bogan-ville-ea and most of the country, Australia is a dirty great hot dustbowl.

As a young bush Bogan, growing up in the middle of outback-nowhere, the heat didn’t worry me that much. I got a season pass to the local pool (which wasn’t indoors or highly chlorinated, thus building a strong childhood immune system), ran under the sprinklers when the council water restriction rules said we could (like, between 6:30 and 7pm on ‘our’ night once a week), ate chunks of watermelon up a gum tree and that was that.

I can’t really remember ever whining about the heat. Oh, except that one time when the fam went camping at Lake Keepit and I got pelican lice, bumburn and chafing from using the airbed as a form of watercraft, didn’t wash my hair for a week and it matted and we had to cut a big chunk out. Totally unusual though. Mostly I love summer (but not camping anymore funnily enough). You know, ‘I love a sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains…’ etc. But instead of loving ‘her far horizons’ like the poem says, we seem to have given our hearts over to a national reliance on air-conditioning. The family EH Holden of my youth, our smallish uninsulated house and the schools certainly didn’t have air-con and I seem to have survived.

Nowadays, totally acclimatised to this modern marvel, and with the compounding factor of being on leave from work, I’m finding indoor pursuits are dominating my time during this heatwave. In the last few days I’ve developed an unhealthy obsession with Spray & Wipe and vacuuming. I’ve given the fluffy little dog a haircut (and no he didn’t particularly enjoy it). I’ve washed EVERYTHING we own, put new doona covers on the beds, read three books, fourteen magazines, watched the cricket, watched BtT pressure clean the concrete and viewed several Law & Order multi-episode marathons. I’ve even sold off my unnecessary shoes and boots on ebay. It’s quite entertaining watching people bid in 25 cent increments for boots I coveted and paid a hundred dollars for. All in the air-conditioned comfort of my own home.

The Hippodome is air-conditioned.

 I drive there in my air-conditioned car when I’m bored with my air-conditioned house or need supplies. Today BtT and I went to the Hippodome to get the security tag off the new doona set (no, I didn’t shoplift it… who hides a security tag inside a doona cover packet??? Not even the sales assistant knew!) Naturally, half of Bogan-ville-ea were also there:

“Tayyyyy-lahhhhh!!! Stop hitting your sister or we won’t go to Nanny’s for a swim!”

“Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!!”

SO not fun.

Am desperately trying to avoid the supermarket scene as a political protest at their sneaky tactics that trick me into buying groceries. But BtT was hungry, so we braved the food court. With barely a fuit or vegie in sight, we enjoyed some quality time near a family-day care group outing. Not even seasoned hot chippies with gravy (eaten with a plastic fork) and an extra-hot skim chai latte could convince me that we should stay any longer at the Hippodome. And if any more pimply fifteen year-old coffee servers roll their eyes when I pass them my eco-cup, then I’m going to shove the damn thing up their arse.

 

So, I’m thinking of taking a risk tomorrow.

I'm contemplating running under the sprinkler (I mean the super-modern automated irrigation system from the rainwater tank of course). I need to dye my hair and BtT’s banned that activity from the house now that it’s so clean, so I reckon I’m gonna wear my swimmers and rinse my hair out on the lawn… nope… ummm….onto the tan bark near the clothes line. Yep, get back to my bush Bogan roots (whilst covering the grey of my mid-thirties suburban roots). Think the Dalmatian and I will share some watermelon (there’s NO way she’ll run under the sprinkler… she’s a modern dog with standards!) and then I’ll try to start an ice-cube fight with the neighbour’s kids. When BtT comes home from work he’ll mow the lawn shirt-less and then we’ll slice open a mango, crack some coldies, swat mozzies and watch the kangaroos graze on the local school oval. And then go inside in the air-con to watch the tennis (or another generic American crime show) on the plasma.

Ahhh yes, I love a sunburnt country.

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The Heat is On, Glen Frey, 1984.

Time after Time

Once upon a time people would hunt and gather for their basic needs.

They would spend their waking hours collecting food, finding things to keep them warm, discovering fire, inventing the wheel… you get the drift.

Then the human race became all too clever for its own good. It invented supermarkets. Places where others would drop off the basic needs for instant collection, thus freeing up the rest of one’s day for other pursuits. And so, time after time, we all decided as an evolved life form, to frequent the local supermarket to get ‘stuff’. And everyone was happy.

Delirious actually. Supermarkets necessitated other types of inventions, such as trolleys, inoffensive music, junk mail, loyalty cards, anti-plastic bag campaigns, 8 items or less aisles, in-store bakeries, a variety of packaging, sample ladies, mystery shopping … ah, the supermarket. If it had foxtel and a hot tub we could live there.

I, in fact, just about do live there at present.

BHG and the Glamazons are on school holidays for the summer and in my new world are to be renamed ‘The Locusts’. I’ve often heard stories from Brad the Tradie’s parents about the food consumption gene that persists in their side of the family. I thought it was just their sons that had the gene. Apparently girls inherit it too. And pass it to their friends. The gene’s development peaks in adolescence and necessitates the locust (s) grazing on all edible crops in the house, leaving only packets, dirty plates and carcases behind.

It was manageable around Christmas time. Quite handy actually. The locusts chowed through all the calorie-laden gifts from work (except the wine, that disappeared rather quickly). This was infinitely better than slapping the saturated fat and sugar straight onto my arse, although one gets just a little bitter watching glamazonian teenage girls scoffing all those delectable treats (“actually darl, it’s find to chew one Lindor ball before you shove another one in…. yes I suppose shortbread goes well with truffles and vegemite for sleepover breakfast…whatever, just take all the locusts back to the rumpus room so I don't have to watch…”). Also quite acceptable, admirable even, is the vigour with which the locusts devoured the annual stone fruit crop from the backyard (it all ripened at once typically… if we can invent all these other things can we not invent a plum or nectarine tree that just delivers a kilo a week for two months?)

Then, suddenly one day early this week, the food ran out.

“There’s NOTHING TO EAT!” Ahh, the phrase that sends chills of irritation through a parent’s body.

“Of course there is… have an apple.” (yes, I’ve turned into my own mother)

“Nope, none left.”

“Have toast!”

“No bread.”

“Cereal!”

“Nope.”

“Shortbread!”

“Nuh.”

“Camembert???”

“Dad ate it. Should I make something with that cask of Margharita mix? Is there any more leftover KFC?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake kid, if I have to get tear myself away from the cricket to come out and find you something to eat, I’m going to … (think… what AM I going to do???)… have to …. (quick… think of something…) make a bloody list and GO TO THE SUPERMARKET!”

And there it was. Tea break at the cricket (big Aussie comeback…) and I had to go hunt and gather. I could order online I suppose, like when we were doing the home Swiney quarantine, but it’s so… tedious, all that choosing and clicking. Much better to go to the actual supermarket and mindlessly throw things in the trolley without all that decision-making.

It’s like I broke the dam wall with that one trip to Woolies. Now I seem to live there, going back day after day, time after time, to just get a few things. Like salad in a bag to go with dinner. Or should we have lamb shanks? They’re on special. And a rice side-dish. Extra bottle of Pepsi Max, sunscreen… new dog collar… washing powder… why is it that once you GO to the supermarket and bring all this stuff home, there’s always something you didn’t get that is entirely necessary? When it isn't the school holidays how on earth do we manage to survive on one trip a week, or, god forbid, a fortnightly grocery trip?

Do you find there's always one item that HAS to be in your basket? For me it's Pepsi Max. Or a magazine. For Brad the Tradie is appears to be either carrots or cheese. Come to think about it, maybe baskets are the problem. You can only get enough to last until tomorrow, thereby needing to re-enter the supermarket. AHA! Conspiracy! That's it. I'm only using trolleys from now on. It works the rest of the year, so surely it also works during locust season.

With a trolley you assume instant power.

You are behind the wheel. Get OUT of my way. I HAVE A TROLLEY. We use a points system in our family for trolley usage. Ten points for a sample lady, twenty for a small child, subtract points if you selected a trolley with a wonky wheel or sticky handlebar.

The benefits of supermarket shopping with a trolley are endless. Just relax, listen to the muzak and chuck things into the cage willy-nilly. Mmmm, new flavour of tim-tam. Oooo! Pomegranate juice! Read the labels, enjoy the air-conditioning, read a few mags and nibble on a muffin from the bakehouse. It could practically be listed as a hobby. And shopping at Aldi is more like an extreme sport. Upper body strength, cardio... it's all there with a trip to this no-frills delight.

I have studied supermarkets on an international scale.

Supermarkets reflect a nation's cultural habits and attitudes. Australian supermarkets rate pretty averagely I have to say. We're a society of people who don't really care much for effort. Do you really give a crap which variety of Fruity-Bix cereal goes in the trolley? Who actually buys those varieties of 'funny' lettuce? We've only just invented a second flavour of Vegemite for goodness sake. I remember when crunchy peanut butter came out. My dad was so flummoxed he refused to buy peanut butter at all anymore ("don't know about this change to peanut butter Blossy, it's just not right, messing with something that was already perfect...")

South African supermarkets are a hoot. They're quite small and exclusive. White people go in, buy heaps of carbs and sugar and then throw money at black beggars on the way out. They couldn't use a better metaphor for their country's class divide than the supermarket.

In Japan everything in the supermarket is tiny except the apples. The trolley is tiny, like a basket on wheels really. The food packages are tiny. Like you want much dried cuttlefish in a packet anway I guess, but it's probably why these Japanese people are small. And healthy. The apples are enormous. You buy an apple for lunch, like a meal. Mmmm, what's for lunch today? Four pieces of teensy weensy sushi or an apple? You practically lose weight just getting off the plane in Japan. Kiss eating goodbye unless you're a fan of the sea vegetable family.

Canada, bless bilinguity, have French and English printed on everything. Don't bother reading a package. The print's so small to fit two languages in that you can't read it anyway. But you've gotta love a country that sells 600 painkillers in one (very large bilingual) bottle. That's a nation that trusts their people not to do silly things.

The champions of supermarkets have to be the yanks though. This mob have supermarket shopping down to a fine art. They have enormous alcohol and convenience food-filled buildings loaded with STUFF. The country of excess, indulgence and unnecessary items. I mean, really... 'double-bagging'? I could almost hear the world's dolphins crying as the check-out chick tried to improve my shopping 'experience' by throwing every piece of plastic onto our groceries.  I did love the cupholder on the trolley when shopping at Von's supermarket in San Diego. Wondered what I would do with it until we went inside the store and saw the Starbucks. Yes, INSIDE the supermarket. And actually, come to think of it, once I saw the Starbucks (and knew I had a cup holder), it did make me feel like an extra-hot skim chai latte. To improve my shopping experience. Made me feel like a pecan pie, pop-tarts, bottle of whisky, enough Tylenol PM sleeping tablets to knock out a horse and all manner of unnecessary items too. Fun trip though, if not a tad expensive. Got heaps of trolley points too, what with me driving the trolley on the wrong side of the aisle. Hit loads of people in the ankle. A couple of homeless people in the carpark too. They use trolleys as a portable home, much like a snail. Fascinating culture.

I didn't go to the supermarket today.

I refused to be trapped by their basket-tactics, advertising and the locusts' begs for burritos for dinner. Nope. They can drink water from the tap and remember how fortunate we all are to live in a country where children don't spend their day trekking to the local well or harvesting a small crop of rice. As far as I'm concerned, they can all starve, just eat Vegemite straight out of the jar or crack open that can of condensed milk at the back of the pantry.

Until Saturday.

Or tomorrow at the VERY earliest.

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Time after Time, Cyndi Lauper, 1984.

Party Like it's 1999

Out. Of. Control.

Yep. Let's end the 'Naughties' being wild. Uhuh. I said to Brad the Tradie..."Hon, tonight let's party like it's 1999."

We're pretty wild when we get going you know. We've both done... well... stuff. I remember quite an inebriated night when the Aussie GST came in...whenever that was. A bourbon and diet coke was five bucks before midnight, five-fifty after. There will be people reading this who were there that night dancing on the tables celebrating (???) the introduction of a new sales tax. We were young. We celebrated everything. Just it being Friday used to be reason enough.

Firstly, Brad the Tradie and I had to remember what we actually did when we saw in the 2000 New Year. The new millenium. We looked at each other with anticipation of sharing memory of a brilliant night. Then, simultaneously, we remembered NYE 1999. Bugger. That was the one when the BHG was three years old and it'd been a really hot day and she'd been a total craphead (as three year olds are want to do on occasion), there'd been copious vomit and we'd managed to get her asleep (Phenergan probably), and then we flopped out the sofabed and watched the fireworks from around the world on the tiny little cheap telly we owned, hoping to God that what was happening outside in our nasty Bogan townhouse-land wouldn't wake her up or make her spew...again. Happy New Millenium honey.

We've had better New Year's Eves. Melbourne, Perth, L.A. 1999 just wasn't our best. How is that night ten years ago? How is it now two thousand and nine? The BHG has gone to a party. Without us. The parting conversation ended with "don't drink too much", to which she rolled her eyes and answered "oh AS IF." Naturally. She doesn't do drugs at the park, dance on tables or let strangers buy her bourbon. The wildest thing she's done recently is stay up past 10pm watching Animal Planet.

We've been packing away ten years worth of crap.

We think we're 'ten year' people. BtT got all sentimental the other arve when packing our photo box (yes, before digital cameras). There was a great pic of him digging up our front garden (nice arse!) and he was... THIRTY. And wearing jeans that no one should own or fit into. There was our big silver birch tree... all... little. Was it ever little? Nah... really? There was BHG in all her glory, wearing that cute size three denim jacket with the leopard print cuffs (yes, when she still let me choose her clothes obviously). Apparently I owned a Nissan Pulsar at some point. A PULSAR!??!!! Good grief!

We, feeling a little boring at not having organised to do anything for NYE 2009 asked a neighbour what he and fam were doing tonight. Nothing apparently. ("Got anymore plums off the tree? The kids really like them and they eat like locusts". "Yeah, we know. Ours does too. Here's some peaches as well. Happy New Year".)

So what about resolutions then?

Yeah, even boring old farts like us can have those, right? And i have time to think it through. BtT is watching a scintillating two hour series on street racing in America. I think the oldies next door have already gone to bed (or died) and I've already finished the DVD I'd allocated for today (Cashmere Mafia... yeah, not bad, only seven episodes though and no real ending... anyway, you can borrow it...) Apparently, something like 99% of people don't keep their resolutions. Pfft. They obviously don't structure them correctly. They want stuff that just isn't do-able, like... exercising and eating right. So, on my terribly exciting NYE 2009, here are my resolutions, in writing, for all to see.

In 2010, I intend to:

1. Let the skin grow back on my feet. It's been nearly a couple of weeks since I last sinned and wore unwearable shoes. Yes, the black ones with the perspex leopard wedge heel. But they looked SO GOOD. And there were like, all those end of school year events in a row. Several pairs of unwearable shoes. Yes i know I could wear boring shoes, but really.... with gold sequins? NO! The scars really aren't that bad if you don't look at them in the direct sunlight.

2. Drink a range of beverages. Yes, i think it's important not to neglect hydration.

That's pretty much it. I'm going to ensure my feet have enough skin on them and drink a lot. Can I have some optional ones? Yes, they're my damn resolutions, so I bloody well will.

In 2010, I would very much like to:

1. Learn to surf. Could actually be possible seeing as though I'll be living near an actual beach. Although, this might be like the year i said I'd like to learn Spanish because we'd booked a 7 day cruise to Mexico. But anyway, I can see myself in one of those... thingies that look cool with Lane Beachley hair hanging fifteen or whatever, on a surfboard. Yes. Definitely.

2. Use anti-wrinkle cream. Just every now and then. If I miss a few days, i'll just slather it on extra thick. Like spack filler.

3. Not buy any Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus albums. Since when do their songs make 'the top 100 songs of the Naughties?' Geezzz!!!

4. Try not to accidently hit myself in the head with my laptop screen. Yes. Really.

So, we all see in another year. At least I'm not at 'that age' where my goal for 2010 is to live to see 2011. Actually, it's 10:30pm and I might not physically see in 2010 if that's OK. It'll be there tomorrow, right?

Getting a bit tired.

Typical really.

I'm never an insomniac when it counts.

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Party like it's 1999, Prince, 1982.

Little Boxes

I think the concept of Boxing Day has morphed a little over the centuries.

You see, the name of this public holiday (yes, in Commonwealth countries... apologies to my American readers....) derives from the English aristocratic tradition of giving seasonal gifts, on the day after Christmas, to less wealthy people and social inferiors. If I was a wealthy type, I would expect visits today from my tradespeople and servants to collect boxes of goods in exchange for excellent service in the year to come.

Indulge me in a Bogan interpretation for a moment. Is this in ANY way linked to my annual Boxing Day tradition of taking loads of crap to the Vinnies bin? Like today, we packed up Brad's polyester microfibre double-breasted black suit (circa 1993 in a lovely undertaker-style) and took it to the Vinnie's bin at Izzy shops. Actually, there was an inebriated, scruffy looking chap using the bin as a comfort stop and the thought did cross my mind to offer him the suit on the spot. Didn't though because I doubt he'd have a job interview or funeral to attend in the next little while, but that could just be me being judgemental.

How strange would it be to have tradespeople and 'servants' turn up on your doorstep on Boxing Day to collect boxed gifts? No different to the stream of friends and family turning up to do the same I guess, and at least the servants aren't going to scoff all the cheese and wine like locusts. Perhaps I should leave a gift out for the garbo tonight. Maybe a box of baked goods for the guy who comes to spray the house for spiders, pests and the like. He'd probably like a boxed gift. The Australia Post parcel guy has become a regular... I wonder what he'd like? Fruit cake and a stubbie like Santa? A new pair of sneakers and a puzzle book? Perhaps I should leave little boxes (made of 'ticky-tacky') with tags all neatly lined up (looking 'just the same') for my equivalent of tradespeople and servants.

Nowadays, rather than giving crap away on Boxing Day we seem to be buying more of it.

I was at the Boxing Day sales this morning at the Hippodome. Nice and early in order to undertake some research. Whilst my data possibly isn't a totally valid sample, I didn't find ANYONE who was queueing for ages in Target in order to buy gifts to box for their servants. More like a bunch of salad-dodging Bogans staggering around with armfuls of multi-pack Tontine pillows, half price Chrissy deco's and waaaaaaay too many packets of chocolate-covered almonds ("ahhhh, excuse me... a word of advice... unless you're planning to box up those chockies for your servants today then your arse and thighs could do with a trip to the fruit & veg section...just sayin'...")  You can hardly blame people though for succumbing to the temptation of the Boxing Day sales. I myself even got a new pair of bamboo undies (mmm... absorbent...), some shorts that promise to shape my body (and that just can't be a bad thing in summer, right?) and two-for-twenty-bucks boxes of Lindor Balls.

When I was young my parents tricked me.

Yes, I know that concept is nothing new but I totally fell for it. They told me that Boxing Day was the day that people had to clean up every room in their house and put things away in boxes that they weren't going to use for a while. Pffft. Sounded perfectly plausible when I was eight. And after years and years of this TRICK, I am conditioned to the need to box something on Boxing Day. As well as donating Brad the Tradie's ugly clothes to charity (hope they're not fussy...) today I packed away my winter boots. Some habits die hard. If I'm ever at your house on Boxing Day, look out. There's cleaning to be done.

So what's the story with cricket on Boxing Day?

Were the aristocrats so bored once they'd tended the servants that they felt the need to go play a game whilst waiting for ham sandwiches? Although... we also have the annual Sydney to Hobart yacht race on Boxing Day, but maybe that's so that the uncoordinated folk have something to do. Apparently Boxing Day sport was originally designed to be played between local rivals as a friendly post-Christmas community gathering (read: so you don't have to spend ANOTHER day exclusively with your family.) Again, I think this tradition may have gotten a little side-tracked, seeing as though this year Australia's 'local rival' for the Boxing Day cricket test are the team from Pakistan. Ahhh, bugger it, as long as we smash them, who cares which team we're playing...right?

So as we stagger towards stumps on Day One of the Boxing Day Aus-Pak test and we all head to the fridge to turn leftovers into toasted sandwiches, I feel the need for just one more box. Pass the Lindor Balls darl.

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Little Boxes. Malvina Reynolds, 1962.

Whip It!

There's a whole lot of cooking goin' on.

It's Christmas, that's why. Christmas - the holiday that celebrates the birth of Santa and consumerism. 'Tis the season to be indulgent. Ever noticed how festively coloured Campari is? Pass the Lindor Balls please. I've got baking to do. I'm going to need my strength.

My particular Christmas faves have mostly been passed down from my mother, who could easily medal in several Olympic cooking events, from the Boiled Pudding Marathon to the 100 metres Trifle Dash (dash of sherry that is...when I make it, it's more like a slosh than a dash). I'm not quite as impressive, and becoming less so with age and agnosticism. Really, is there anything wrong with KFC for Christmas?

Over the years I've collated these little recipe treasures into a cooking scrapbook, dated from 1993 when I obviously had too much time on my hands and got very organised. My penmanship and depth of instruction-writing has deteriorated over the years. What was once 'gradually add teaspoon fulls of castor sugar to fluffy eggwhite mix' for mum's champion pavlova recipe is now 'after you've whipped it, chuck in the sugar and stand back'.

The important thing I've learned about Christmas cooking is that you have to whip it. Whip it good. Whip it REAL good. Which is possibly why I received a Sunbeam mixmaster for my 21st birthday, right about the time my arm was going to fall off from beating batters and mixtures.  So that from afar, I could hear my mother screeching "No... WHIP IT!" when I'd prefer merely to stir or beat the pavlova mix. "Do we have to do a Pav?", I'd say. "EVERYONE likes Pav for Christmas!! It's AUSTRALIAN!!!" Mum (a Dutch immigrant ironically) would say. So, once again, I'd whip it. Whip it good.

My friend, Smurfette of the Outlets, is also an Olympic-standard Christmas cooker. She made miniature puddings for all the  Front Office Ladies at work. She gave her friends a copy of her own self-published cookbook as a gift. It doesn't look like my cookbook, all scribbles copied from my mum's books, photocopies from friends ("OMG! I HAVE to have that recipe!") pasted-in magazine snippets and 'side of the cream cheese box' concoctions. Smurfette's book even has a laminated front cover. AND clip-art.

I love flogging recipes from friends, family and random strangers. This is how you get those great finds. I have the BEST chocolate cake recipe, obtained from a Texan exchange student that came to Gunnedah when I was in Year 10 (circa 1987). She stayed with the Hobbs family across the road from us, and knew how to do things with sour cream. Ahhhhh.... we'd been wondering about that funny smelling stuff! You see, about that time Woolworths came to town, replacing corner grocery stores, and all these new and wonderful food products graced our trolleys. Like sour cream. Texan-girl had a chocolate cake recipe that used sour cream. "Makes it moiiiiiiiiist". A HA!!! So THAT'S what sour cream does! Had the recipe ever since. About that time we also discovered oyster sauce, got an electric wok and stopped making choko relish. Them was exciting times in the North-West.

Reading Smurfette's book got me thinking about some of the recipes i'd put in MY cookbook, Tez's Tasty Treats, if I took out all the ones I'd flogged from other people. You know, my very own creations.

* Woolies Greek Salad-in-a-bag. Very much a family favourite. We even have a designated salad-in-a-bag bowl that we know fits the salad JUST right. You can dress the salad up for company by putting cucumber in it. Genius.

* Mixed-up Plate. This clever creation was invented when the BHG was about five years old and we went through that 'fussy' phase. We'd chuck a tiny morsel of everything we could find onto a plate so she wouldn't whine "How many mouthfuls? I hate this!! I don't want my dinner!" Half a sausage roll, some grapes, crackers and dip, half a cheese toastie, vegemite as dipping sauce. It stuck, and now the Mixed-Up Plate is often known as dinner. You know, kind of like a Mezze plate for Bogans.

* Campari & watermelon slushie. Yep, just as it sounds. Ahh, the delights of the modern blender and its ice-crushing abilities.

This Christmas we're not whipping it.

Brad the Tradie concedes that he might not be a true Aussie in that he can't stand pavlova. What a bloody great sigh of relief that is. This Christmas all he wanted was vegemite on toast, some Jim Beam and to make a dent on the lounge watching a foxtel marathon. Hoorah!!!

This Christmas the BHG is fizzing it.

She got a Soda Stream. All very retro and all. Once upon a time at least one Aussie family in the street had a Soda Stream and the rest of us would all want to 'play at their house', especially if they also had a pool. You'd open a soda stream bottle (remember the glass ones?), close your eyes and it'd almost taste like Fanta.  In 2009, having a Soda Stream is environmentally conscious. Saves fizzy drink packaging waste. Comes in flavours like sugar-free Cranberry Fizz and has additives like guarana and ginseng. You practically get an enviro-medal by using it.

Hmmm... Campari and watermelon Soda stream. Fizz it. Fizz it good...I think I'm onto something there...

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'Whip It' - Devo, 1980.

Hit me with your Best Shot

It's a form of masochism. 

Like standing still in front of a group of ten year olds armed with water bombs. Hit me with your best shot. Fire away.

I obtained BRUISES at the mall yesterday. I was run over by a Jeep-sized stroller with shopping bags hanging off the sides and a screaming baby inside operated by a mangy-haired hippopotamother. I, naturally, said "OWWWWWW!!!" really loudly to which I earned a filthy glare from Ms Elephantitus and her two accompanying sprogs as she manoevered her Jeep onto the escalator near the chemist, narrowly missing the Salvation Army man's stall. (No, I'm fine, don't bother checking. Even though I have skin missing from my toes, I'll just pull over and search through my bag for that emergency elastoplast I carry for JUST these occasions! COW!)

Brad the Tradie reminded me later, when I was whining, that I didn't really have to go to the shops. All I had to do was post the Christmas cards. And a parcel for my new nephew both of which could've been done at the Postal Depot. But i HAD to pop into Coles.  And check out the DVD sale at Sanity (I'm on holidays... i need movies... an essential stop). And try to get the electric little-Dutch-pancake-maker in the K-Mart catalogue for my mother's birthday (Sold out by 9:25am? Please. You didn't have any did you? What about the Mr Avalanche icecrusher? OHHHHH, sold out already too? Glad I got out of bed and rushed down here so that you, underpaid as you are oh 16 year old shop assistant, could tell me they're sold out just because you don't know where they are! No, don't bother offering to look out the back. By the time you come back I'll be in a NURSING HOME! Yes, my toe's bleeding onto the floor, stop LOOKING at it!)

Over an extra-hot skim chai latte and a caramel creme brulee frappacino this morning (at a shopping mall of course), my friend Melon and I grappled with our choices when it comes to going near the shops this week. We, of course, were masochistic to the max by being at the busiest mall in Canberra whilst undertaking this analysis, and practically had to yell at each other over the din of pissed-off shoppers passing by our table. Why do we do this to ourselves?

Catching up with friends, then doing that extra bit of shopping is, in theory, a really good idea. Two birds, one carpark. Need a couple of loaves of bread, some extra Santa stuff ("Where DO you get those stick-on earring things that four year olds like?"), exchange gifts, have a latte... But as we noticed the lack of 'ho ho ho' around we got to looking at alternatives to being mallrats the week of Christmas.

Online shopping is really convenient (once you memorise your credit card number and get friendly with the Australia Post guy so that he only gently throws your purchases under the gate). But, as Melon pointed out, you can't TOUCH the stuff before you buy it. And you have to make your own latte. Good for books, giftcards... beige gifts that don't need to be touched, shaken, tried on or examined internally.

Another alternative is to outsource.

I'd kind of like having a personal assistant (actually, four bodyguards like Britney would just about do the job!) after my friend Organica made, assembled, tagged and delivered most of my presents this year. All I had to do was wrap them. Which I totally buggered up, because in a moment of stupidity I bought orange cellophane and turned all my work colleagues' presents into parcels that more resembled bushfires than gifts. Never mind. Lesson learned... obviously Organica has to WRAP them for me next year too. She keeps a list of who I give to and what those people like. Yeah, I know it's not healthy. But she takes Mastercard so it's a guilty habit I have no intention of giving up.

Given that we like touching things, Melon and I did deem 'the markets' worth the Chrissy shopping risk. If you like dried flower arrangements, knitted pigs, glass figurines and wood carvings. And the lattes at the markets are just SO not OK. A lot of hand-made stuff is at the markets. Melon makes her presents because she has a valuable little personality trait called patience. Gorgeous tree shaped shortbread with those cool little silver balls on them, all in rows. Sigh...maybe in my next life.

Which leaves... the shopping malls. Especially for getting the presents for the kids. And you kind of HAVE to leave that to the last minute, because you just don't get 'the right gifts' otherwise. So, here I was today in that little piece of teenage girl heaven known as Supre. The BHG (Better Homes & Gardens girl) has had a thing for Supre for a few years now. I've tried doing the Christmas Supre thing a few different ways. I've tried the obvious... gift voucher. But then I had to go back there so I could 'help' spend the voucher (read: approve) the purchases so that she didn't come home with fifty bucks worth of fluoro yellow dresses and shirts that say 'you know you want me' (yes, I do get a bit funny about thirteen year olds wearing that stuff, I don't CARE if it's got a dolphin picture on it, it's STILL skanky!) We hit a new record last year with nearly 90 minutes in Supre. With DOOF DOOF music belting, bobble-headed shop assistants screeching on their mobile phones instead of getting us the next size up ("yeah, like... right.. and like i KNOW right!!!!"), I vowed not to do the Supre gift voucher 'thang' again.

So today I went in there... with trepidation... to purchase a pair of tie-dyed shorts ("the SHORT ones, not the OTHER ones. Otherwise my life is... like... OVA!!!!") and a matching tank top. BHG and the Glamazons are ALL wearing them. I managed to knock over a mannequin (an anorexic looking one with an oversized head, obviously lacking in strength and unable to stay upright for long periods), slosh some of my Boost Juice Slushie onto the tank top display (what am I... an octopus? The cup had to be put down whilst I searched for an XS top. As I said to the the bobble-head after the death-glare, if she'd been bothered to help me rather than touch up her mascara, or even sort the damn tops into piles by size, then the 'incident' wouldn't have occurred. I then had to show another bobblehead how to use the EFTPOS machine. I wish Supre had self-serve kiosks like Big W so I didn't have to talk to anyone during Christmas shopping. Needless to say, the shorts had better bloody well fit, because they ain't goin' back.

Unless I need to pop in tomorrow for something...