The Meandering Matriarch

With Cowboy Boots You Can Swagger

The Meandering Matriarch — Thu, 24 May 2012 11:29:02 +0000

Well, I’m really cross that it has taken me until now to discover that the key to swaggering is …cowboy boots! Some men can swagger without them, of course, but for some reason women can’t seem to. In fact, I reckon not many women swagger at all. What a shame! I think we need to change that–So girls, it’s time to get yourself some cowboy boots

and start swaggering. You can feel it doing you good.

There are occasions when only a swaggering entrance–or exit–will do, and a bit of John Fogarty playing in the background is the perfect accompaniment.

Of course, we can’t always control the soundtrack to the seminal moments of our lives, but at least we can have a bit of CCR rolling around in our head. In fact, I think it might just work better if you are the only one who can hear the music. Trust me on this.

Yes, I know I’m being self-indulgent here, but sometimes we just have to go where the mood takes us. What kind of mood is that? I hear you ask. Hard to say, really. Mellow, reflective, and — well– self-indulgent. And why not?… At least you get to listen to some great music with me! (Okay, ‘Boots’ isn’t so great, but ya gotta love Creedence!)

BTW: the next Great Debate on Point:Counterpoint will be posted soon. The topic is There Oughta Be A Law… Against Spitting. MM is speaking in support of the proposition. Not surprisingly, tHC is a bit slower to get his submission in, but given that his is a very difficult case to make, it’s only fair to cut him some slack. I expect it will be posted soon. Stay tuned. MM

Point : Counterpoint

The Meandering Matriarch — Sat, 19 May 2012 22:41:51 +0000

ANNOUNCING A NEW BLOG!!

I’m excited to tell you about a new blog, which is a collaborative effort between The Hobart Chinaman and me–The Meandering Matriarch.

It’s called Point : Counterpoint

At Point : Counterpoint, The Meandering Matriarch and The Hobart Chinaman debate some of the more puzzling issues of our time…the questions that go bump in the night. We welcome your comments and your suggestions for future debate topics. What bothers your brain in the wee hours? We might even invite you to take sides and vote for what you consider to be the winning argument. But that’s debatable. You can rest assured, of course, that we will always be PC. Or not.

CHECK IT OUT

The first debate is the proposition:
Rod Stewart’s musical prowess is exceeded only by his fashion sense

See you there! MM

Felix and Sajithruban

The Meandering Matriarch — Tue, 15 May 2012 01:43:50 +0000

I’m so excited! I just received a packet from World Vision containing information about the two little boys I am now sponsoring. I’ve been thinking for a long time–years, really–of sponsoring a child, and at last I’ve done it. The trigger–inspiration, really–was a lovely first-person account of a young man visiting the child he has sponsored for a number of years. He was asked by World Vision to write about his experience. The writer’s father is a fellow blogger who recently–and proudly–published the story. You can find it here.

Meanwhile, I have taken the plunge into sponsorship myself. No doubt many of you are already sponsoring a child and can appreciate how elated I feel. Perhaps you have your own stories to share. They are welcome here.

I decided that I would sponsor two young boys: I chose five year old Felix, from Rwanda, and eight year old Sajithruban, from Sri Lanka. Because of their ages, and more importantly, because of the lack of a school for Felix, and the very limited schooling for Sajithruban, these boys will not be able to write letters for some while. They will be able to communicate with the help of a volunteer (and translator), so I shall enjoy writing to them, and my fingers are crossed that I will hear back from them. I dream of being able to visit their communities sometime in the future, and I will be looking for other ways to help their communities through World Vision. I can’t show you their photos, but I can tell you that they both are delightful-looking boys–with that spark in their eyes that tells me that not only are the lights on, but someone is definitely at home behind those eyes!

I’m so excited. MM

Wire-Bendin’ Blues

The Meandering Matriarch — Mon, 14 May 2012 05:54:04 +0000

Here’s how it all came about. The year was 2008 and I was still hampered by mobility issues. Not to mention hampered by the rather fulsome doses of pain medication, which may explain the whole thing. Nerve pain, it turns out, is a real bugger to manage. Anyway, I was pondering how best to pass the time when I got this idea. So I says to myself, “Self, what you need to do is make some wire baskets.” Self agreed most readily and shuffled about to gather the tools and materials for the job. And so it was, that with some great blues recordings providing the soundtrack, I set about the task of making some wire baskets to store my tools and other flotsam and jetsam in. (Why would you want to do that? I hear you ask. Because that’s the kind of girl I am; I like making things with wire. Okay?)

Somewhere along the line I shifted from listening to the blues to composing them.

I had forgotten all about it–along with most things from those times–until a couple days ago when I stumbled across Wire-Bendin’ Blues on an old PC (while searching for The Chook House Blues for the previous post). I should add here that I do not have a musical bone in my body, so am wholly dependent on finding a talented musician who has the chops to handle this work with the inspiration and skill it so obviously deserves. If any amongst you might be that person, I would be most happy to consider collaboration. Remembering, of course, that I hold the copyright to the lyrics.

So, without further ado, here are the lyrics to Wire-Bendin’ Blues

WIRE-BENDIN’ BLUES

Oh, baby, I got them wire-bending blues,

And I dunno what to do.

I got them wire-bending blues, Oh yeah,

And I dunno what I’m gonna do.

I gotta basket load of troubles

Cause my baby ain’t comin’ home no more.

I got dust in my pocket;

I got dust in my hair;

I got dust in my ears;

Lord, I got dust everywhere.

Yeah, Baby, I got them wire-bending blues,

Tell me what am I gonna do.

I got them wire-bending blues, Honey,

And I dunno what I’m gonna do.

I gotta basket load of troubles

Cause my baby ain’t comin’ home no more.

I’m all tied up in wire,

I’m all twisted inside.

I’m bent and I’m bruised

There’s nothin’ I ain’t tried.

I got them wire-bending blues, Sugar,

what am I gunna do.

Got them wire-bending blues, Sweet Mama,

What am I s’posed to do?

I gotta basket load of troubles

Cause my baby ain’t comin’ home no more.

I got taxes to pay

And credit cards galore.

Wherever I turn my head

Money’s flyin’ out the door.

I got them wire-bending blues, oh yeah,

I dunno what to do.

I got them wire-bending blues, yeah Baby,

What am I gonna do?

I gotta basket load of troubles

And my baby ain’t comin’ home no more.

I’m gonna buy me a ticket;

Gonna pack up and go.

Gonna leave all my troubles

And let the good times flow.

I got them wire-bending blues, Baby,

I dunno what to do.

I got them wire-bending blues, Oh yeah,

And I dunno what I’m gonna do.

I gotta basket load of troubles

Cause my baby ain’t comin’ home no more.

I’m thinkin’ a harmonica would be the instrument of choice. MM

The Scoop On Coop Poop

The Meandering Matriarch — Sat, 12 May 2012 23:14:07 +0000

Chook Heaven

One of my jobs today is to clean the chook house. As chores go, this one is pretty shitty, albeit chicken shitty. But one can’t just let the poop pile up forever, can one? (Are we allowed to say poop online? On WordPress?) Someone once told me that if I say “Pardon my French” whenever I use a word that might offend, I could get by with it. Well, to be honest, that just doesn’t work for me. I almost never write or say anything in French, and I’m guessing you don’t either. But I digress. Where was I? Oh, yes, in the chook house, cleaning out shit (if you’ll pardon my Canadian–and, no, that is nothing like a Brazilian). Where was I? O.M.D. –even my digressions have digressions!

As I was saying, today I have to clean out the chook house. Unless I get a better offer. Failing that, I might just pull on my cowboy boots and head oat and aboat, (see? I do occasionally speak Canadian). Going oat and aboat would, of course, be a direct act of Avoidance Behaviour, (which I’ve written about previously; I’m an Expert). I’ve done plenty of that since I’ve been home, culminating most recently in the (probably late) filing of my 2010/11 income tax yesterday. Man, what a shitty job that was! Worse than cleaning the chook house.

Today I mostly just have to rake out the crap of the past few weeks and find a place that can make use of it. There are plenty of empty spots that could use the fertiliser. Then I’ll just spread some fresh hey around. (N0, that’s not a typo–my chooks are really cool). Speaking of which, some years ago (early 1990s) I wrote a blues number which, if I can find it, I will include here. My aim was for my son to put it to music, but, alas, that still hasn’t happened. Now I’m banking on one of my grandsons taking up the challenge. Let’s hope I don’t have to wait for a great grandchild to take it up… It’s called Chook House Blues. (Update: I still haven’t found it, despite having searched everywhere, and having turned my study into something resembling a bomb site. But I shall keep looking.)

By the way, some of you may be wondering how the chooks are settling in. Well, I’m here to tell you, they are growing at an alarming rate. Blossom, dearie, is providing a lovely little egg every second day, and has not been egg bound again (yet). Except for Blossom, dearie, they all explode out of the chook house and run to greet me whenever I approach. I know it’s only cupboard love, but I’m rather used to that. There is also a lot of flapping of wings and efforts are being made to leap to new heights. (That can be amusing if the chook doing the leaping happens to be in the two-foot-high runway that connects the henhouse to the larger enclosure.) I can’t wait until Satchmo starts trying to crow. I shall try to capture that on video to share with you. Even with their little pea brains, these chooks seem able to recognise a good thing when they have it. Life’s Good here at Fossil Cove.

A Sunrise for Satchmo to Crow About

So now it’s Decision Time: Will it be the cowboy boots or the rubber boots? MM

PS: Later. The rubber boots won the day, despite the appearance of a much better offer. Nor did I don the cowboy boots and go oat and aboat on my own. It’s not like me to be so strong against the Forces of Temptation, but–unlike me–the chookies now have a much tidier home, and I’m feeling slightly virtuous at having Done the Right Thing. sigh

JE HI DI JA HU DI JE HI DIII

The Meandering Matriarch — Thu, 10 May 2012 03:43:08 +0000

The Joy of Yodelling

Check out The Yodelling Pickle

Sometimes my brain just goes walkabout and leaves me behind, looking more bewildered than usual. The thing is, I recently came across an article about yodelling. It recalled to mind that old line about “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should.” It occurred to me that perhaps I should do a series of articles on that theme. On the other hand, of course, just because I can doesn’t necessarily mean I should… Nevertheless, that is my intent. And my first step into the mire is the very thing that spawned the idea: Yodelling.

To start with, can you believe that there actually is a yodel school in Berlin? I was shocked, too. It turns out that it is more of a yodel workshop–three hours on a Sunday afternoon–held in a hairdressing salon. (I hadn’t realised the Germans had such a sense of irony: from hairdressing to hair-raising.) In fact the yodelling teacher/salon owner, Doreen Kutzke, says people who can sing well tend to find yodelling problematic as they “are just not used to making those sounds.” Indeed. Kutzke also says, “It sounds a bit like a donkey. It’s really not a pretty sound, it’s really quite filhy.” She maintains that yodelling can be sung (her word) to jazz and classical music.

You have to check this out. It is NOT another yodelling pickle…

There must be some benefit/purpose to yodelling, I’m thinking. The cry (her word again) is used by African tribes to keep evil spirits away. Where there’s a yodeller, there are no demons. Hmmm.

Yodelling is also supposed to be a good means of releasing stress. I would have thought transferring stress might have been a better choice of words. The stress release comes with the realisation that when you yodel, you get to sing really loudly. Children pick up yodelling more quickly than adults, apparently, because they are more accustomed to being…well, loud. It’s impossible to yodel quietly.

I’m wondering how well it works to take yodelling out of the alpine countryside and bring it into an urban environment, especially in these multicultural days. I can imagine it being the ultimate cultural clash. I don’t know the cultural mix in Germany these days, but I’m betting there aren’t many demons. MM

Pardon Me While I Fard

The Meandering Matriarch — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 23:37:12 +0000

I’ve learned a new word! I love it when I can add a new word to my day-to-day vocabulary. And this one is a dandy. I learned it on the Word of the Day gadget on my Google home page. The word, of course, is fard: fard \fahrd\ , verb: 1. To apply cosmetics. noun: 1. Facial cosmetics.

Fard

How handy is that? Now, instead of having to ask, “Where is the ladies room, please, I want to powder my nose,” we ladies can simply say “Pardon me, please, I need to fard.” Oh, happy day.

On another matter…

I wrote about this some months ago, and there has been a new development. I’m not claiming credit for what is happening in The Netherlands, I’m just saying… In Amsterdam a new cookbook was launched just this past week called The Insect Cookbook. Unfortunately for those of us who don’t speak Dutch, it has not yet been translated into English, but it is surely only a matter of time. This new cookbook apparently is replete with recipes to help you boost the protein in your diet through the addition of insects.

There are restaurants around The Netherlands which already are featuring dishes ~~infested~~ enhanced with insects. Indeed, a restaurant in Haarlem recently served a five-course menu of insect dishes. This month’s special is meat pie sprinkled with nuts, seeds, and worms. Yum. A word of caution to those of you who are ready to rush out and get some creepy-crawlies to toss into your next casserole or pie: apparently the taste of insects does not go well with fish. But, then, no food is perfect.

Oh, yes. About the book launch–a specialist insect chef (now that’s gotta be one lonely professional association!) attempted to set a record for cooking the world’s biggest grasshopper pie. I’m guessing it didn’t have any creme de menthe in it… MM

Surviving The Brazilian

The Meandering Matriarch — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 23:47:10 +0000

The deed is done, and I’m here to report. Loosely. There was no screaming (at least none that I noticed) and no tears (perhaps if I could’ve I would’ve–we’ll never know). For the more hirsute I expect there would have been both. I will admit to numerous sudden sharp intakes of breath.

For those who have never done it, let me set the stage. First I was told to have a seat, it wouldn’t be long. After about five minutes, a woman appeared with a clipboard in hand and–standing no more than three feet from me–bellowed my name… “for a Brazilian?” A hush fell over the waiting room, broken only by the roar of stifled sniggers as I got up to follow. I was expecting a cell–given that I was being led to a torture chamber, but it was a pleasant enough room. Actually it looked more like a doctor’s exam room than anything else. That gave a nice, clinical atmosphere to the setting. There was the raised bed/table with a lovely paper sheet and a fluffy pillow, and, as the woman pointed out, a towel for privacy. I was instructed what to take off, and told to lie down. As she left the ~~cell~~ room she said, “I’ll be right close by.” I don’t know why that was supposed to be helpful. To her credit, she didn’t say she would return shortly. In fact, she returned about twenty minutes later, after giving me ample time to ponder all the possible answers to the question in my head: What the hell am I doing here?

I’ve always hated elevator music. I assume everybody does. I can’t help wondering why they play it? Perhaps to discourage people from riding up and down until their favourite song finishes. Anyway, the next worst kind of music is New Age Spa. Unlike the elevator, however, you can’t just get off at the next floor when you are lying on a bed/table with only a towel “for privacy.” So after twenty minutes of the musical version of water torture, the woman returned.

“Have you had this done before?” she asked. ”No,” I answered. “You mean people actually come back and do it again?” She gave me a look that said eye roll, without actually moving here eyes. Then she explained what she was going to do, which consisted basically of ‘pour on hot wax, yank it off.’ She didn’t actually pour the hot wax on; she slathered it on. That was no drama. Nor was the little wait until it cooled down. Then it happened, without warning. Rrrrrrip! O.M.D. By the time I realised I was still alive, and in the same little room, she had slathered on the next load of wax. This time, I thought, I’ll be ready for it. Yeah, right. Like we’ll be ready for Armageddon. Anyway, this little routine–slather, cool, Rrrrrrip–continued for a couple days. Then it was over. The woman smiled widely, “Well that was the easiest first-timer I ever had,” she said as she walked out of the room. MM

Waxing Eloquent About the Brazilian

The Meandering Matriarch — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 02:11:07 +0000

“Oh.My.Dog,” I hear you say. ”She’s not really going to talk about that, is she?” Well, yes, friends, I am. I lied about the eloquent part–it certainly won’t be that. But I shall try to be as…delicate as I can. Those of you who thought I was going to write about someone from Brazil should probably turn to the Archives and find another article to read.

Perhaps I should explain why I’m writing about The Brazilian: it’s all in the name of Research. Truly diligent writers do all sorts of things in the interest of descriptive accuracy, and I am about to write a scene in my current book that involves The Brazilian. It isn’t something you can ask someone to describe in detail, nor would I want to merely speculate about it. So I have scheduled an appointment for about an hour and a quarter from now. I’m thinking I might take a couple pain killers in advance. A couple drinks would have been better, but I have to drive.

Back in early January I wrote a piece about going into a tanning salon for a spray-on tan. (Do Not Sweat For Five Hours) One reader suggested I get a Brazilian, and report on it. I think I suggested she do the job and I would happily publish the link to it. That’s after I said I’d sooner jump off a cliff… (I hope you are reading this, Clare!)

Several years ago I saw a cartoon that I thought was especially hilarious. It showed a beauty salon with a big sign in the front window: SPECIAL! BRAZILIAN WAXING Then off to the side, toward the bottom was another, smaller sign: Senior Discount Applies. Silly me. I thought it was funny then, but now I’m not laughing. Nevermind. It has to be done. I shall report back shortly. Stay Tuned. MM

P.S. There will be no pictures.

Egg Bound…O Lordy!

The Meandering Matriarch — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 05:32:05 +0000

I was beginning to panic. I remembered reading several years ago that the treatment for an egg bound chook was to put some vaseline on your finger and stick it up the chook’s vent until you felt the egg, then press from the outside with the other hand to crush the egg. Then, of course, the feathered lady would need a douche. Definitely a two person job, and I’m a one person operation. Maybe there is another way, I thought. So I googled it. My diagnosis appeared to be correct–all the symptoms were there, but it appeared I might not have to get quite so intimately involved in Blossom’s difficulty after all.

Most of the advice I could find advocated the steam approach. This looked difficult. It involved putting the hen in a cage with an open floor (nearest thing I have is a possum trap) and placing the cage over a steaming kettle, being careful not to have it too hot lest it burn Herself. Well, I reckon steam is steam, and steam is hot, so I guess the trick is to know how far from the steam is just right. Then you are supposed to put an overhead lamp above the cage, and cover the whole business with a blanket or plastic sheet to keep it all warm (but not too warm–95-102°F is the correct temperature range).

Meanwhile, I should mention that not only had Blossom not had anything to eat or drink, but all of the little Australorps were huddled around her in the henhouse keeping vigil, also with no food or water. There is food and water in the henhouse, but I’m certain no one had touched it. By 2:30 p.m. I was getting very anxious about all of them. I decided to try Plan B, which was the other popular advice I found online. This involved putting Blossom into a sitz bath. The correspondents assured readers that the chooks love it. So I got out a basin and put what seemed a suitable depth of water in–not too hot, just right–and carried it out into the chicken run. When I looked in the henhouse I couldn’t see Blossom anywhere at first, but then I saw that all of the blackies were huddled around her in the far, darkest corner. Once I managed to get her out she was surprisingly docile compared to the objections she had raised this morning when I had winkled her out from the henhouse to try to get a look at her bottom in the sunlight.

Anyway, I managed to get her out and into the other enclosure, and gently dipped her into the warm bath. This, I am reliably told, will relax the muscles so that the egg can pass. Well, Blossom wasn’t having any of it. My goodness, did she put up a squawk! I could see there was no way that little plan was going to work, but I decided that before I tried any other approach I needed to get the littlies out of the henhouse and out into the fresh air for some food and exercise. As I started to open the door to the henhouse, I saw, on the ground just in front of it, an egg! broken, of course, but an otherwise perfect egg, with a lovely orange-yellow yolk. A perfect free-range specimen. Blossom had obviously squirted it out as I carried her out of the henhouse and I hadn’t noticed.

She’s fine now, but I’m a little frazzled. Perhaps a warm bath would help. MM