(…it’s me. I was wondering if after all this time you’d like to meet; to go over everything…)
SORRY for having not been in touch for an extended time. I haven’t even popped in to to leave a little silly ditty or a scrap of pathetic poetry. I do have an excuse, but I can’t reveal yet what it is. Let’s just call it a project (Ah what’s she up to now? say the nears and dears with a roll of the eyes). And, I’ve been on holidays – SKIING,! La-di-da. Also, OH MY GOODNESS I ADORE SKIING. But more on that later.
For now, I thought I’d make up time by publishing a little magazine. Megoracle Magazine, featuring (very brief) reports on News, Sport, Weather, Finance, Books, Music, etc etc. It’s a blatant and sorry attempt at making up for lost time, but anyway here we go…
MEGORACLE MAGAZINE – Issue 1
My favourite news story at the moment is the one about the white house being in chaos, mostly because it all sounds like a hastily written staire. It’s as though there are some enormous puppeteers sitting in the clouds above America having a good old laugh. I mean…
TRUMP REMOVES SCARAMOUCHE (so his name is actually Anthony Scaramucci but I prefer Scaramouche – as in the Queen song – which means masked clown. Nice touch puppeteers.)
WHITE HOUSE Communications Director Anthony Scaramouche has resigned from his role just days after his appointment in the latest of a series of exits from the White House.
President Trumpet hired Scaramouche on July the 21st. The Wall St Executive was appointed despite having no experience in a communications role. It is speculated that the appointment was made off the back of Mr Scaramouche’s avid defence of Trumpet throughout his scandal-ridden campaign and presidency.
Mr Scaramouche only managed a small amount of communicating during his brief term. This included a text to his estranged wife upon the birth of their son, a smooth address from the White House briefing room, some seriously weird tweets and an irate phone call to the New Yorker’s Washington correspondent to say that the (then) chief of staff Reince Priebus “is a fucking paranoid schizophrenic” and that he (Scaramouche) planned to, “Eliminate everyone in the comms team”.
This latest Whitehouse exit comes hot on the heels of the resignation of aforementioned Chief of Staff Priebus (I prefer Priapism, which is a prolonged erection of the penis) and the exit of Sean Spicer who stormed out of his Press Secretary role upon the appointment of Scaramouche.
Priapism was swiftly replaced by Homeland Security Secretary John F. Kelly (let’s add Wannabe in there, for obvious reasons). It is hoped that Mr F. Wannabe Kelly will bring some good ol’ fashioned military discipline into the West Wing shit storm. The ousting of Scaramouche is Wannabe Kelly’s first strategic measure.
Press Secretary Sean Spicer was replaced by Sarah Huckabee Sanders, daughter of former Republican Governor of Akansas and anti-gay evangelist Mick Huckabee. Huckabee-Sanders has publically attributed her career success to the President, because he is nice enough to hire a mother of small children. For fuck’s sake.
Mr Anthony Scaramouche is widely known to refer to himself as “The Mooch”. What a knob.
Well played pupeteers, looking forward to the next act.
Given that it’s the middle of winter and I am fresh out of ski school, my featured sport is Snow Skiing. Snow Skiing is THE BEST for a number of reasons, the main one being that even if you’re of average expertise (me), it’s really bloody FUN. The children, all of whom seem to take to snow skiing like ducklings to water, have a ball. They are on the go all day, they don’t ask for telly or devices and you don’t mind giving them the odd jelly snake on account of all the physical activity. Also, they sleep really well and bound out of bed for another day of adrenaline.
Yes, it can be cold, but gear yourself up correctly and you’re more likely to get hot. And that ski clothing can cover all identifying features, so if you fall over and split your pants in front of the hot Danish ski instructor, you can smile at him later in the cafe and he’ll never know it was you.
And there’s the delightful fact that 99% of people on the slopes (with unsplit pants, pain free knees and good snow coverage) are really healthy, happy and pleased to be there. Happiness lends itself to kindness, which means everyone looks after one another and smiles at you in the hot chocolate queue. The only downside that I can see is the cost. It’s fucking expensive. But in case you do go, here are Megoracle’s skiing tips:
- Pop the children in ski school for a good few mornings and get on the lift as early as possible. There is nothing quite like the feeling of having a break from the fetters of parenthood and flying down a fresh slope of snow.
- Have some lessons yourself if you’re a learner or feeling a bit rusty. Have more than one, with different instructors. Each teacher has different ways of describing technique, some of which will resonate more than others. Suddenly it will go click! And you’re imagining yourself spending the rest of your life on the mountain and buying yourself some of those really expensive, ultra cool snow goggles.
- Speaking of click! If you can’t click your boots into your skis, check that you’re not trying to put them on backwards.
- Proper technique should be quite effortless. If you get out of breath on the slopes and parts of you burn with the effort of staying in an upright position, there’s every chance you’re not looking a sleek as you might like.
- Trust the front of your skis. There is more ski up front than down back, so don’t lean back.
- Don’t carry your trusty old skis all the way up the mountain because you want to save on rentals. Ski shapes have changed. They are wider at the tips these days and much easier.
- Don’t wee in the snow because yellow.
- Don’t listen to me, I have had six days skiing in the last twenty years and I’m over-inflated on residual adrenalin. But yeah probably don’t wee in the snow.
Tasmania’s current weather: Fucking Freezing in the mornings, deceptively bright and sunny with a sniff of spring in the daytime, just enough to make you let the fire go out and leave your clothes on the line long enough for them to get dewed by 3 pm and frozen by 5.
Also, I saw a fly today. Surely these means winter is waning. And on Wednesday it’s going to be 18 degrees! Goodness, I can’t remember what 18 degrees feels like. Should I dig out my shorts? Eeeek, no because legs.
I lied about the finance report, finance is boring, no finance.
Oh wait I thought of something – don’t change too much money into foreign currency when you leave Australia because if you have to change any back again the exchange place will take most of it. Rob you fucking blind they will, mark my words.
I have been reading Ethel Turner’s “Seven Little Australians” to the children. I love this book, and I am determined that the children will too. It is not the easiest book to read aloud; old fashioned language, words like prenaturally and irascible, multiple nicknames causing confusion, a bit of dwelling on detail, which in this age of ‘click-on-this’ instant gratification is anathema to enjoyment for children. There’s a lot of glazed eyes and fiddling with the curtains and me saying, “Are you listening?” but bugger it, I am going to make them see how lovely it is. (Admitedly I do find the bits about Meg’s waistline and her love interests is a bit protracted, but you know, interests change.)
I have also recently flown through two of Tasmanian writer John Harwood’s novels, “The Seance” and “The Ghost Writer”. They are Victorian gothic mysteries, spooky and suspenseful and delicious. I had trouble putting them down and both books left a bit of unexplained spook hanging in my thoughts. I can’t wait to get my hands on his third novel, “The Asylum”.
I am a proud fan of Britain’s Got Talent. I don’t know why I prefer this one over the myriad of talent shows on telly, but I do. It might be David Walliams. But the reason I want to mention it here is The Missing People Choir. Oh my goodness. None of them are professional singers but all of them have a missing person in their lives. Or should I say, a person missing from their lives. And when the Missing People Choir sings “You Took My Days” from Ghost the musical, well where do I sign?
I can’t express how sad I am at the premature death of Dr G Yulupingu. I first heard his music in a Port Douglas art gallery about eight years ago. I bought the CD on the spot and it’s been on high rotation in my house and car ever since. I sang my favourite of his songs, “Bayini” on stage for the Festival of Voices two years ago. It sounds like a cliche but I can say with complete honesty that his music changed me. It is hauntingly beautiful and it will haunt me – in the very best sense of the word – for the rest of my life. Thank you Dr G, your music is a life-force; you are gone but you’re never gone.
In other music news, American singer songwriter Michelle Shocked has released an albumn with nothing on it. Just silence. And that’s all I have to say about that. For fuck sake.
Surprise peas are called surprise peas because they’re surprisingly expensive. Almost $9 for 200g of shrivelled peas. No one was more surprised that me. But they’re surprisingly good, which is also why they might be called surprise peas. And here’s another surprise – I don’t even mind them uncooked, straight from the packet. Minted ones are fucking awful so avoid those.
In other food news, dill is lovely in chicken sandwiches.
In health news, I dug around with a needle in my husband’s finger and pulled out a bit of metal. I was very proud. This comes fifteen years after a time when I didn’t think much about regularly defibrillating a person back to life in the Emergency Department of a public hospital. Husband was unable to see the splinter due to age-related hyperopia (the need for reading glasses).
MORAL: Everything is relative. And go and get your eyes tested.
Don’t put broken glass or crockery in the recycling bin. It fucks up the process.
Black is the new black. Apparently. This is unfortunate because I thought navy was the new black. I’m in a bit of a navy rut actually. I even have a navy blue car, which is possibly a mistake. It shows up every speck of dust and your children can write, “Mum is bossy” in said dust with utter clarity. The upside is that you can add, “Because she is the BOSS”.
If you mix a cup of craft glue, a cup of shaving foam, a table spoon of cornflour, a pinch of baking soda and a few squirts of contact lens solution, you will have non-stick SLIME! Add food dye and a drop of scented oil for extra fun. Playing with it is addictive but the best things is that the children will bugger off and leave you alone for HOURS.
And on that note, here’s a bonus parenting bit:
Next time your time-anxious child hovers around the bathroom door while you’re in the shower and asks if you’re ready to take him to football (for the sixtieth time), you must:
- Immediately exit the shower
- Hastily dry yourself
- Don a pair of knee length socks, and a large pair of knickers
- Pick up your handbag
- Announce loudly, “I’m ready, come on darlings!”
- Get car keys, await shrieks of mortification
- Return to bathroom and complete ablutions without further interruption.
And with that, I officially launch the new week. Have a lovely one. xxx