Yet again, it’s been a while.  Between finally moving into our new home, organising wedding and function flowers, trying to set up a nursery, and pack bags for hospital, I’ve barely had time to even think about my poor, neglected blog.  The interim has however given me time to amass a few amusing stories, the first of which I will now relate:

So after staying with friends and house-sitting for 9 weeks, we finally arrived at our newly renovated room, suitcases, paperwork, and pet parrot in tow.  As we pulled into the yard we were met by my father’s, “Erm…  We’ll have to put you up in hotel for two more days…”.  In the end we stayed on a mattress on the floor under my brother’s house for four nights.  BUT, our room was completed…ish.  On first inspection, it’s beautiful!  On closer inspection, there’s no architraves around a couple of door frames, and the front door has only its undercoat, the flooring in the nursery/office area is painted concrete, and there’s no  edging on the bedroom area carpet, the custom installed air-con doesn’t work, and there’s a massive hole going through from our bedroom to my little bro’s that is covered with cardboard until the mythical time it will be repaired – but it’s livable.  It’s clean, it’s private, and it’s ours!  And for such a fair rental price, I absolutely cannot complain.

Immediately, my relief at having a home was replaced by panic that I was having a baby – soon – and I absolutely needed to get this room set up for a new baby.  On our first day we had an assortment of  bed frame pieces, office desk, computer equipment, and ready to assemble baby furniture all covered with sheets and waiting for some long suffering fool to put it all together.  An amusing aspect to the office and nursery area of our room is that  it used to be a patio and designed to allow water drainage, so the floor is on a slope.  This resulted in Dad and Dave (haha, yes, Dad ‘n’ Dave), assembling furniture, and trialing a growing collection of different sized wood offcuts under each leg of furniture, and measuring painstakingly with a spirit level before declaring each piece “close enough to level”.  If the furniture isn’t levelled, filing cabinets, and bookshelves lean on crazy angles to the walls, which makes you feel as though you’ve wandered into some kind of drunken parallel universe.   It also means that if you sit on an office chair on one side of the room, then lift your feet off the ground, you quickly build up speed before crashing into the computer desk/wall/other furniture on the opposite side.  Wheeeeeeeee!!!!  Not so fun if you’re attempting to push yourself back from the computer desk against the unhelpful effects of gravity.  But really the only thing I’ve found difficult, and truly whinge-worthy is that I’m so cumbersome, and so hot, and so tired, I’m completely useless at getting much done at all.

I’m a do-er.  And when something needs doing, I just want it done.  Now.  This is only exacerbated by a baby being due to arrive pretty much any time he pleases from now on.  We’d been here two days.  I had just spent two days of prep work before delivering wedding bouquets and setting up wedding flowers in the city, before helping – well spectating – while Dad and Dave hauled a solid wood wardrobe from our storage unit.  I had then dusted and bleached said wardrobe.  I should have been, and was exhausted.  But still that inner compulsion propelled me to want to achieve more towards setting up our living quarters.  My feet said otherwise.  It was at this point I made two major misjudgements.  The first – the structural soundness of a chipboard and veneer, two tiered, self assembled bookshelf purchased for $15 from Pick ‘n’ Pay.  The second – the ability to be light and dainty at 37 weeks pregnant.  Still wearing the beautiful – and borrowed – maternity dress I’d worn due to its utter prettiness to my wedding delivery, I took a break by sitting on said bookshelf, as Dave and my brother were discussing “important technological jargon” nearby.  A few minutes later, with no warning whatsoever there was a loud crack as the top shelf of the bookshelf, and I – feet pointing skywards -  collapsed.  Then came one milliseconds reprieve as we both landed on the next shelf down before it too collapsed into the base of the bookshelf, a horrible shredding sound accompanying us all the way down.

Two pairs of horrified eyes turned my way as I sat disoriented upon  chipboard debris, while the legs of the bookshelf remained upright on either side of me, eight screws pointed horizontally inwards, forming a weird kind of macabre throne.  Horror after horror assailed me.  Firstly, how embarrassing!  Secondly, I now had four male arms reaching to pull me upright as I suddenly realised the shredding noise was the once beautiful dress being torn from hem to armpit as I made my way downwards, thus exposing my underwear.  But on top of this, I just didn’t know what was worse – destroying the bookshelf, or destroying the dress.  Finally, the tears that were threatening started to prick my eyes as I wailed, “I broke the booksheeeeelf!”.  Clinging to the ripped edges of the dress, and my modesty, I allowed the guys to help me up, and Dave escorted me to the bathroom where I begged him to leave me while I cleaned up.  By this time cuts and scratches from the screws had begun to bleed, and I sobbed as I looked at the torn remnants of the dress, now splattered with blood as well.  All hope of repairing the garment was lost as I studied the torn black lace which had been embroidered onto the white cotton panels.  I burst into a fresh round of tears, this time crying, “I broke the dreeeess!”.  Dave returned with some fresh clothes for me, and to fret and poke disinfectant onto my wounds, all the while with me sobbing over the torn dress.

Eventually, I was patched up, cleaned up, and feeling much better.  A sore neck and bump on the back of the head told me I had also bumped it on the cot as I had fallen, but nothing really hurt too much – just my pride.  I went back to our room where I found Dave happily taking photographs of the bookshelf carcass.  I began to laugh, a little at first, then hysterically as I realised how funny the whole thing was.  ”I should blog this.”, I said.  Dave’s reply:  ”That’s what the photos are for.”

Two weeks later, what had been some impressive bruises are still faintly visible, and the only real scar is from a nasty little hole behind my knee.  And in case you’re wondering, I phoned the kind friend who’d loaned me the dress to apologise.  She was not concerned about the dress, and actually much more concerned for my well-being.  I’ve resolved to keep my eye out for something similar, so I can at least try to replace it!

Being in the market for a baby car seat, I’d been doing some research on brands, types, and price ranges.  After recovering from my initial shock when looking at prices, I decided that a convertible one (suitable from newborn – toddler) would suit our needs best.  I then set about  trying to source the cheapest one available that still met the appropriate safety standards.  My best find was $168, which is no mean feat given that these things can cost in excess of $500 with the average at about $300.  Then, miracle of miracles, a dear friend informed me that she’d like to buy us something for the baby, and decided she’d get us a car seat!  Then, it happened…  Browsing online, I stumbled across the latest Target catalogue.  There was a baby sale – in two days – and right on the front cover was a Fisher Price convertibe car seat reduced from $300 to $150!

I HAD to have that car seat.  I was utterly convinced it was a “bait” sale item, and there would only be one or two in stock in each store.  I kicked into ultimate control mode and began setting up an elaborate (hopefully) fool-proof system.  I’d seen the crowds jostling for prime position outside similar sales, and knew what I’d be up against.  So, at precisely 8:30am  Mum was to be waiting outsideTarget at Carindale, I would be at Target, Mt Gravatt, my sister-in-law would be at Target, Browns Plains, and a friend would be waiting at Target, Springwood.  Between the four of us – that car seat would be mine!  When anyone had their hands firmly grasping it, they would phone my mobile, and thus avoid all four of us buying one – should we each manage to nab one.  After thinking it through, I calmed down.  After all, God knew I needed a car seat, He knew I wanted THAT car seat, and if He wanted me to have it, I would get one.  So I organised to go with my sister in law to Target, Browns Plains, while just Mum went to another store.

The day of the sale arrived.  Anxiously I eyed the clock, and drove to the shop half an hour early.  After navigating my way through the unfamiliar car parks at Browns Plains, I ended up parking at the opposite end of the centre, then waddling down to Target where I found Jacqui calmly waiting.  There were only a couple of people there, so we took a bench seat near the entrance and waited.  Within a few minutes, more and more people began turning up.  Dad’s lined up, hands firmly gripping the handles of shopping trolleys while energetic children swung from the sides.  Seasoned Mums with littlies in tow stood determinedly by, eyes fixed on the electric entrance doors.  And rounded bellies of various sizes mingled about nervously, all in expectant silence.   My anxiety increased as crowds gathered, but I maintained an outward appearance of calm.

“How many of these bellies do you think are going after my car seat?”, I muttered in a low voice to Jacqui.  Casting an expert eye about the crowd, Jacqui replied knowingly, “Well, she’ll be using the car seat from her two older ones…” as she motioned to a third time Mum nearby, “And she’s….”  I wasn’t listening, I was too busy nervously eyeballing my fellow competitors one by one, imagining myself in a tug of war over my prized baby seat, and wondering which of them I was likely to succeed over.  And then, about five minutes before opening time, someone inched forward.  Not much, but the crowd caught on.  Everyone was suddenly clustering closer to the doors.  ”Quick!”, I said to Jacqui, they’re moving in!” .  Unperturbed, Jacqui assured me it was just the mob mentality.  It was all ok.  Just stay seated.  I squirmed in my seat like a toddler who’d just scoffed a bag of red lollies and badly needed the bathroom and whined, “But I want to join the mob!”  I leaned forward in anticipation as staff began milling about inside the store.  I inched forward, right to the edge of the seat as the clock ticked ever closer to 8:30am and a Target staff member moved into the position by the door, finger poised to hit the button that would send the roller doors up, and the crowds hurtling in, but amazingly, I remained – just – seated.

At last it happened.  The gut twisting climax arrived.  The doors began to open.  Mums, Dads, kids, trolleys, and round bellies mashed together as people ducked under the still half open doors, weaving about display stands and running for the baby section.  Shooting from my seat like a rocket, I joined the throng.  Smug shoppers who’d already grabbed a trolley from the nearby grocery store dashed by as a throng of us crammed into the trolley bay and fought and tugged at bent and wobbly trolleys stuck together as only shopping trolleys can.  I didn’t mind though.  I had a secret weapon – my lithe and fit sister-in-law, who knew the layout of Target like the back of her hand, ducked and weaved her way through the jumble of shoppers and waddling women to reach my baby seat at all costs.  I would meet her with the trolley once the bounty was secured.

Once I had disentangled a trolley, and managed to control its tendancy to career every way but forward – as trolleys will – I headed for the baby section, secretly hopeful that Jacqui would be waiting, and in possession of the lucrative and elusive baby seat.  Success!!!  Jacqui had won the prize!  As had at least 30 other shoppers – Target had a whole pallet load of them.  Shortly after, my phone rang – Mum had also secured one at Target, Carindale.  Amusingly, she was phoning from the courtesy desk as in her rush to be on time, she had left her mobile at home.  To end our happy story, the seat was lay-byed, ready to be collected by the dear, dear friend who offered to buy it, and we also got the exact cot mattress I wanted at 25% off too.  And so begins a long life of lining up with other crazed shoppers, frothing at the mouth in anticipation at every child related sale within 100km.  I used to shake my head at those people.

As a side note, I recently saw a baby car seat for $30 cheaper.  Such is life.

It’s 34 weeks, and I look like a walking eggplant.  My feet hurt, my neck aches, and I just feel tired.  I’m having trouble sleeping, mainly because I wake up with a dull pain radiating from my hip and ribs from the sheer heaviness of lying on my side.  Then I get up, and my feet hurt from the sheer heaviness of being upright.  One of my life savers has been floating about in the pool at our house-sitting location – aaaahhhh… the weightlessness!  But with all this heavy, slow, and dull feeling, I’ve allowed myself to become quite frumpy – and my eyebrows have suffered the most.  Not least because I can’t get close enough to the mirror to see what I’m doing – thanks again to the eggplant effect.  Actually, I will rather sheepishly admit that for all of my married life, it’s been Dave who actually grooms my eyebrows.

What started as a novelty for him, and huge leap of faith for me when we were engaged became his full-time job because he was surprisingly good at it.  After a few tips from me in the early days, he’s managed to deftly sculp and shape my eyebrows to near perfection.  With pregnancy however, my pain recepters became more sensitive, and I banned him from touching them, instead preferring to do a quick tidy up myself as the need arose.  Enough was enough however when recently I was shocked by the appearance of my neglected and furry forhead.  Not having the stamina, or patience myself, I once more sidled up to Dave and winningly requested he make me look like a human again (as opposed to a rotund yeti).

I patiently lay uncomfortably on my back under a light, breathing deeply to counteract the large baby inside that crushed my lungs while Dave spent quite a considerable length of time working his magic.  Nervousness threatened to overwhelm me a couple of times as I thought he seemed to be plucking an awful lot, but I quickly reassured myself that it was long overdue, and he’d always done a lovely job.  And so I barely glanced at them later in the mirror, and went to sleep satisfied that I would no longer look like some feral Dave had found foraging in the wilderness.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and I thought to check out Dave’s good work.  I stared in the mirror, then looked again, before I said – as evenly and calmly as I could – “You plucked down the arches of my eyebrows.”  Quite proudly Dave said, “Yes!  I flattened them for you!”  An explanation from me followed which was, I fear,  not so even and calm, that I’m supposed to have arches.  Women love to have arches.  I have – or had – very nice natural arches.  And he better hope they grow back!

I’m not sure what possessed him to suddenly change  techniques and remove the top half of my eyebrows, and I don’t know that I ever will find out, but I really can’t complain can I?  I have a lovely husband who actually plucks my eyebrows!  Not to mention grooms my toenails – and that was even before I couldn’t reach them on my own.  I think when he comes home from work, I’ll give him a big hug and kiss and tell him how wonderful I think he is.  Better yet, I think I’ll go and have lunch with him.

Uh Oh!  If I thought I was experiencing “baby brains” before, this latest episode has proven that I ain’t seen nothin yet!  It all began at the end of November…

Dave’s job involves updating websites for various companies.  One day, he excitedly sent me an email with a link to one of the websites he had done an update for.  They sell model cars.  The model car that had caught his eye was a red Mazda, RX-7.  A replica of the car he sold for a pittance to help pay my medical expenses (he assured me it was worth it for the baby, but being rather attached to the car myself and just a wee bit emotional, I retorted that I’d rather the car).  Anyway, I was very grateful and excited that he showed me the link, as I was quite stumped as to what to buy him for Christmas.

I immediately set about ordering the car.  Then the company owner contacted me and informed me that there was none in stock, however he may have one in his storage shed at home and would get back to me.  Alternatively, he said they did have a green one.  I told him that no, it must be red, and that my husband would break his website if he couldn’t get it for me.  I was joking, and I think he knew that, but he still sounded as though he found me just a little unhinged.  That’s ok – I am.  Anyway, long story short, he got back to me, and informed me that he did indeed have one in stock!  I set about paying for it and felt rather stoked at having got him exactly what he wanted (short of a real-sized one that is).

Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I was sitting about wondering what to buy Dave for Christmas.  Excited to find that ABC was offering Dr Who boxed sets for $80 instead of the usual $100, I ordered that, then prayed it would arrive in time.  After a computer glitch on their part which told me the “in stock” item was actually on back-order, then an error on my part involving me giving them the wrong expiry date for my credit card, it all arrived safely, on time, and Christmas was a success.

Then, on Boxing Day, something suddenly occurred to me.  I had ordered Dave a car.  And paid for it.  And it didn’t arrive!  Not only that, I had completely forgotten until now!  And it was public holiday, so I could do nothing about it (I’m a “fix it now!” kind of person).  After checking my bank account and confirming that the money had indeed been deducted, then checking my emails and finding a confirmation notice from the company informing me my order had been processed, I was even more agitated and concluded that it must have been “lost” in the post – or basically, I had paid for a product that some horrible person had subsequently stolen!  Finally, I resigned myself to the inevitable conclusion that I could do nothing about it until the next day at least, and satisfied myself with saying a few choice things about useless companies, and thieves who stole people’s Christmas presents.

By the dawning of Saturday morning, I had remembered that the company sent things by registered post, so I should be able to confirm with them if it had indeed been sent.  I restlessly sat waiting for 9am to arrive so I could phone them and sort the problem out.  Unfortunately, they weren’t open, and I was thrown into a fresh round of being annoyed at useless companies.  Setting my bad mood aside, Dave and I went to my parents’ place to try and locate some paperwork I needed (see post about our living situation), when just as we were leaving, I peered under our bed, far back in the dark recesses, and spotted a medium sized postage box…

Then it all came back to me:  Yes, a box did arrive, several weeks ago.  Dave collected it, and told me he had a parcel addressed to me.  I forbid him to open it.  He pranced about in glee shrieking “You got me the car!” in a sing-song voice.   He then brought it to the house we were staying at.  I then took it back to Mum and Dad’s and hid it under the bed.  THEN COMPLETELY FORGOT THE ENTIRE THING.  I am SO grateful for useless companies don’t open the day after boxing day, and so spare themselves from the tirades of mindless women who have completely lost their marbles.  Oh, help me.

This week I received an interesting Email in my business account.  I thought at the time it seemed “scammy”, but still sent a polite reply just in case.   By the second email though, it was obviously a scam, and by the third message, I decided (with encouragement from Dave and I.T. bro Paul) to just have a lot of fun with it.  To be on the safe side, we removed some identifying details off my website first.  The results are as follows:

Message 1:
This is Rev Mark Robinson,I have contact you to know if you carry pillar candle in stock,i need you to get back to me with the price on Stylos Pillar Candle Trays .Sizes: Small = 10″ x 3″ x 7″, Medium = 16″ x 3″ x 7″, Large = 19″ x 3″ x 7″.let me know the type and size that you have in stock or you can make a special order for me.I will like you to get back to me with a price on that now okay so that i will know the quantity that i will require for my order asap.Let me know if you accept all major Credit Card as the for of payment so that we can procced.Kindly get back to me now so that we can procced..
Regards..
Rev Mark Robinson…

Reply:
Hi Mark,
I’m not sure that you have contacted the correct person. I run a wedding flower business and do not stock pillar candles for sale. I purchase them from decor hire companies/craft supply stores if and when I require them for any weddings I provide flowers for.

I wish you luck in your search for the products you require.

Best regards,
Belinda Muller
FlowerChix.

Message 2:
HELLO BELINDA,
THANK YOU FOR THE MAIL AND CAN YOU GET BACK TO ME WITH THE TYPES OF WEDDING FLOWERS THAT YOU CARRY NOW SO THAT WE CAN PROCEED..

REGARDS..
REV MARK.

Reply:
Hi Mark,

I’M SORRY I ONLY PROCEED WITH WEDDING ORDERS AFTER AN OFFICIAL CONSULTATION HAS TAKEN PLACE.

Regards,
Belinda.

Message 3!!!:
Hello,
Thank you very much for the mail and i want you to order this WEDDING and i will like you to get back to me with the price on that so that i will know the quantity that i will require..its going to be picked up at your location as soon as its ready for pick.Let me know if you accept all major Credit Card as the form of payment so that we can procced with the full payment now..Kindly get back to me with the price now on that now so that we can procced with the full payment on my Credit Card now you can contact me with your contact Number as well…
Regards..
Rev Mark Robinson…..

Reply:
Hi Mark,

As per your request, I have attached a quote for an ENTIRE WEDDING, complete with bride and groom. Due to you declining a consultation to discuss your specific requirements, I have provided a quotation for our “Gold Plated Platinum Deluxe Wedding Package” which is AVAILABLE NOW!
Should this not suit your price range, we have the “YeeHaw, It’s a Weddin’ Y’All Package” complete with authentic rusty pick-up trucks, COMING SOON!

We accept payment by Cash, Personal cheque, solid gold lemmings, or Sendorian Plintos

For further details please call
+61 7 3835 4666 or 1800 333 000 (be sure to ask for the Fraud Division)

Regards,
Belinda Muller
FlowerChix.

Attached:
scamwedding1

*Please note that the above phone numbers are for the ACCC and the Australian Federal Police respectively.

Interestingly, I never heard back from him. *sigh*

About a week ago, I found an emaciated little caterpillar on our bathroom vanity.  He’d plopped out of a bunch of flowers I’d made from some leftovers from a wedding job I did.  Now this sort of thing is always conflicting to me:  As a florist, caterpillars are the enemy.  Nasty and voracious little munchers who ruin expensive flowers and eat my stock greenery plants.  As a nature lover, they’re rather cute and defenceless little things.  And there’d be no pretty butterflies without them.  And this poor fellow did look rather sorrowful.  Taking the nature lover option I gently scooped him up and popped him into a luscious looking flower, hoping he’d eat, drink, be merry and become a fat, little chrysalis.  After all, if he’d escaped the spraying process at the flower farm, avoided being crushed by the picking, packing, and shipping process, then survived half a week in my arctic floristry fridge, he deserved a break.  Sadly, it wasn’t quite to be.

Yesterday I went to wash my hands, and at the same moment as my hands turned on the tap and water gushed into the sink, I spotted my little caterpillar friend precariously curled around the drain hole.  He was gone in an instant and my despairing wail could – I’m sure- be heard two suburbs away.  I ran agitated to my housemate who did try her best to seem upset by my ridiculous emotions.  Next I hysterically phoned Dave at work who gratifyingly sounded horrified when I burst out with, “I KILLED A CATERPILLAR!”.  My feelings of being understood and comforted were short lived however when after he asked me to repeat what I’d said and he realised I said CATERPILLAR and not CAT, he said, “Oh, well never mind we’ll get you another…”  What?!  We’ll get me another???  Doesn’t he realise that I’d gone out of my way to save this caterpillar, and now I was the very person who killed it?!  I was a murderer! Trying to explain the anguish I felt at its slow, drowning death fell on Dave’s bewildered ears, and I realised he was hopelessly inept at consoling wives in affairs that just didn’t really matter.  I hung up and started blubbering in earnest.  Then I had an idea…

Leaping up, I raced into the bathroom and began feverishly dismantling the pipes below the sink.  Out poured a dank stench, filthy water, hair balls, pipe slime, and one very prostrate caterpillar!  I plucked him from the water and was relieved to see a small twitch of movement.  I very briefly considered, then discarded the idea of trying some kind of caterpillar CPR before I laid him gently on the bench to weigh up my options.  First things first, there was no way I was putting the sink together again in that vile state.  So I used drain cleaner to clear the putrid pipeworks.  While the fumes contaminated our bedroom and ensuite I took my soggy little rescue effort downstairs and generously popped him into an entire bunch of lisianthus and hoped for a speedy recovery, before grabbing the keys and heading to the shops for essential supplies (paddlepop icecreams) while the air cleared at home.

Hours later my larval friend was looking a bit sick and deranged and I realised he most likely wasn’t well before the incident, and would die anyway.  It was almost certain he had been affected by pesticides and was sick when I first found him over a week ago.  But that’s ok.  I didn’t directly kill him, and I gave him a bed of petals to quietly pass away in rather than the horrifying death of drowning.  I was still completely sure I wasn’t being too crazy until I mentioned my drama to my brother (Paul), and friend (Ruth) on google chat later and received the following reactions:

It started to dawn on me that perhaps that was a little unhinged.  Then Dave arrived home and shared the reactions of his workmates:

“That’s definitely pregnancy hormones”;  ”She really needs more to do”; and overall amusement in general.  And so came the realisation that this was a story that definitely deserved to be on this blog.  Peace, love and caterpillars to you all.

One of our housemates has a budgie.  A very cute, very fat, very blue and rather long in the tooth -er, beak- budgie name Marvin.  Marvin is also slightly psychotic and will stay up very late into the night chattering and chirping away to himself long after he’s been “tucked in” and his cage covered.  He further completes his delusions of being an owl – rather than a budgie – by frequently napping during the day.  One of his other adorable quirks is his outright terror of ever getting out of his cage.  If a door is held open, or when we occasionally try to encourage his liberty by removing the roof segment of his cage he will react by shaking violently and scuttling to the furthest corner, away from the “evil” freedom.

One particular morning, it was a gorgeous, warm, sunny day outside despite it being the middle of Winter.  I was watching as Marvin sat in his favourite hanging ring, nibbling away at it and chattering inanely.  Noticing my mindless rapture in watching the little fellow, Dave also stood alongside watching, his silly smile mirroring my own at the antics of the endearing little creature.  Our alexandrine parrot was enjoying the fine weather in her outside cage, and by-and-by Dave wondered aloud if Marvin might also like to be outside.

“Mind you,” he said, “Last time I put him outside, the wind blew his cage over.”

My face quickly changed to one of worried concern and I gasped, “Oh no! Did he get away!?”

Baby Brains have struck again!

As all expectant parents (and even couples who aren’t expecting) do, Dave and I have begun to discuss baby names.  At the moment, due to it’s being thoroughly appropriate, we call the baby “Chuck”.  Although I must admit during my worst moments it’s also been referred to as “The Little Bastard” (not exactly accurate), “The Parasite” (very accurate), and I must shamefacedly, and repentently admit,  ”Spawn of Satan” (I was feeling  very particularly unwell and catching sight of the stretch marks careering across my thighs and buttocks didn’t cheer me up any).

Anyway, being the thoroughly organised person that I am, I’d like to have a name picked out.  Whilst I would like my children to have slightly original names, I’d prefer to do this by picking old-fashioned, not very commonly used names, rather than the current fashion of making it up myself (I might think I’m creative, the rest of the World will probably just think I’m stupid, and what if I just called my child a very rude word in another language) or taking a regular name, and spelling it differently.  Don’t even get me started on that.  It’s not cute, it’s not clever, and your poor child will be spelling his name to everyone for the rest of his life!  Nor will I name our child after it’s place of conception.  Somehow Eight Mile Plains doesn’t sound quite right.

I’m not a hippy, and I have no aspirations to rival Hollywood celebrities in their competition for who can give their child the most ridiculous name, but there is a name that has always sounded nice to me.  I’ve always loved the girl’s name “Cherry”.  Of course, I would never, ever call my daughter Cherry.  I know only too well how the vile, crude and immature minds of teenage boys work, and no, I will never inflict the kind of comments such a name will draw on my innocent daughter.  Though I haven’t decided if it’s any worse than another unfortunate name I once had the amusement of spotting.  Looking through a childhood friend’s class photo, I happened upon the name of a girl christened “Pinky Brown” by her obviously cruel and unusual parents.  I sincerely hope high school wasn’t too traumatic for her, and she’s married to a lovely man with any last name but Brown.

Anyway, while I prefer the older names, there are some that I wouldn’t go near with a 10 foot pole.  For example:  Bertha, Beryl, Cecil, Agnes, Eugene… you get the picture.  Another problem I’m finding comes up more and more is the incompatibility of our last name with the most respectable of first names.  Some of my favourite names have been shifted to the “discard” pile after sounding them out with our last name of “Muller”.

Muller, I know, is a completely normal, and rather boring last name.  But I got quite a surprise at the number of names that sound odd, wrong, or just plain comical when placed before it.  This is partly because despite the correct pronunciation being “muller“, we live in Australia.  And as long as we are Australian, us Aussie ockers will always pronounce it “mullah”, thus rendering any name that ends with an “ah” sound ridiculous.  So automatically the name Ella is out – this I don’t mind at all.  There is a startling popularity of Ella’s as the moment, as well as Isobella’s (shortened to Bella), and I can just imaging roll-call at school in 5 or so years time:  ”Ella Marshall”, “here”, “Ella Jones”, “here”, “Ella Smith”, “here”, Ella Watkins…  But there’s other names I now cannot ever call my children.  Not only do names ending with an “ah” sound odd, but also names with a double “L” in them, and names beginning with “M” too.  Some examples:  Hannah, Milly, Deanna, Melissa, Milton, Marshall… And so it goes on.

So, what am I to do?  I’ve begun compiling a list of definite “no-goes” as well as a list of “approved” names, and this will hopefully help to narrow down some choices.  Or, we could just throw all common sense out the window do what Dave suggested.  One night as I was half-heartedly going through my lists, Dave peered over my shoulder and exclaimed, “If it’s a girl, let’s call her “Daniella Molly Hannah Muller!”

I went grocery shopping today.  After 10 days of being confined to the house, too sick to drive, or even venture past the front door, I felt like a seven year old who’s just been told they’re going to Disneyland!  My main priority when I got to the shops was to buy fresh produce.  I’ve been barely able to stomach anything for so long, so I was thrilled when I woke today wanting nothing but fresh vegies and fruit, and for some odd reason, it had to be green.  Beans, snow peas, lettuce, granny smith apples, bok choy, cabbage, broccoli – I wanted it all!  But no tomatoes, carrots, corn or pumpkin – it just wasn’t, well, green.

Feeling slightly nauseated, but too liberated to care, I pulled into the not-very-well drained, open air car park.  One of the first things I noticed when I got out of the car is a pile of muck, sitting in a pool of dirty water by the concrete edge of a nearby garden bed – you know the ones, they’re full of scraggly looking plants, long overdue for a trim, scattered about the similarly derelict looking car park full of discarded shopping trolley sculptures, in a vain attempt to make it aesthetically pleasing.  Anyway, sitting right on top of this pile of muck was one of the freshest, loveliest looking wombok (chinese cabbage) leaves I’ve ever seen.

Usually my thoughts would either skip over the sight entirely, my mind busy with other thoughts.  Or, on a more socially conscious day I might pick the leaf up and pop it into the nearest rubbish bin, or at the very least think what a shame it is that it’s lying there to rot because someone has either carelessly discarded it, or unknowingly lost it while packing their groceries into their car.  But not today, oohhhh no.  Today my mind had much more insane thoughts about such things.  Spotting the beautifully sculpted leaf, it’s dainty green colouring fading from fresh lime green to a gorgeous shade of cream, I incomprehensively thought, “Wow!  That looks so good… I should eat it!”

I just managed to control my actions before I made a public spectacle of myself and scuttled into the supermarket, eternally grateful that nobody else knew just how close I came to eating garbage from a mud puddle.  Maybe I should keep myself locked up for a bit longer?

Occasionally, I must brave the local Westfield to buy more of the medication that is stopping me from wanting to die.  And occasionally again – oh all right, every time – I go to Wendy’s to buy a scoop of ice-cream (don’t worry, it’s not soft serve).  Because ice cream must be eaten slowly to avoid what my adorable friend Linda calls a “slushy tumour”, I’m less likely to throw it up again.  A couple of times, I’ve been served by the same lady, which has prompted me to pen the following letter:

Dear Friendly Adolescent at Wendy’s,

Having been a frequent customer of yours, I’d just like to get a few things straight.

• You obviously enjoy your job (I’ve noticed you’re the only one there who tries to coordinate the exact shade of your pink shirt with your lipstick, and I could never be bothered doing such funky things with my eyeliner unless I was happy to get up in the morning, and so therefore must have liked my job), and you are very helpful, but please don’t look pouty when I politely decline your offer to try the “Strawberry Cheesecake  - it’s the flavour of the month!”  I didn’t tell you to shove your flavour of the month, or anything remotely impolite, I simply said no thank you, it’s a bit sweet for me.  In fact, Strawberry Cheesecake has always been my favourite flavour (I was actually a bit rude once when I’d driven 10km to a Baskin Robbins only to be told that while they advertise they have 33 flavours, their window only fits 32, so one flavour would always be missing, and today it was Strawberry Cheesecake.  Then they dared to tell me they had no waffle cones, but that’s another story) it’s just that right now, strawberry cheesecake is too rich.
• Once we’ve established that I’d rather not try the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour, please allow me to peruse the flavours without instantly launching into “Do you want something chocolatey?  How about fruity?…”  The flavours are right in front of me.  In a see-through perspex window.  Clearly labelled.  I’m not trying to figure out where they keep the mouse traps in Bunnings – I can plainly see the flavours you have, please let me look.  The truth is, each time I come I have no idea what I want, I need time to look at each flavour in turn, and if my stomach doesn’t heave – that’s the one!
• I understand that a single scoop in a “kiddie cup” is $3.00 and it will only cost me $4.00 for two scoops.  Trust me, every economical bone in my body is aching that I will take the obviously worse deal of a single scoop, but it does make sense.  One scoop means a nausea friendly portion size, eaten slowly and thoroughly enjoyed.  Two scoops means more than my stomach can handle, eaten with increasing speed as the ice cream melts, and consequently $4.00 worth of wasted ice cream being puked down the toilet.
• Please act as though I am normal.  I don’t want to resort to explaining away my oddness by telling you I’m pregnant.  The main reasons are (A) I’m really not sure you’d care, or even know that women act like alien beings once they become impregnated,  (B)  I know I don’t care for everybody to know (gives them time to smile knowingly and say one of the many cliched phrases that makes me want to punch them),  (C) For some reason, when in shopping centres, a woman is not considered pregnant unless she’s waddling uncomfortably under a mu mu while her belly gallantly goes forth one metre ahead of the rest of her, and I don’t look like that yet, so that would make me seem like a liar, and so even stranger in your eyes.

So while I admire your orientation to customer service and think your boss is lucky to have you, try to remember there’s a few crazies out there, and treat us like we’re normal and nothing to be surprised about.  Most importantly, try not to take it so personally when we don’t try the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour, it’s not your fault.

From the green looking lady who always refuses the Strawberry Cheesecake Flavour.