Box me up day.

So this guy really has Christmas' number. Yesterday was a good day, as far as days go.
But today I woke up and couldn't get up. Again. This isn't a new phenomenon; it's been a recurrent theme of my holidays thus far. I seem to have contracted a virulent form of inertia.

During term-time I fill my head with reasons the next day has to happen; lessons, errands, people, stuff. On holidays nothing seems to have the same urgency.

I've been told I need to 'upgrade' my violin. This, being a task which could consume finite amounts of time, money and emotional energy (hey, I'm attached to that thing. I've played it most days for the last... fourteen years) is simply too much for me to contemplate.

Can't do it. It's going to require communication with my accountant (who is LOVELY, but whom I prefer to avoid like the plague), some kind of refinancing or redraw on our mortgage, which then makes our mortgage BIGGER... and really, truly and not-quite-ready-to-deal-with-this-yet, I can't justify keeping my violin as well.

Which is a little devastating.

Oh, and then I have to FIND a violin I'm happy with. Which makes me recoil violently, imagining all kinds of uncertainty about is this one better? Significantly better? However many thousands of dollars better? Really? AM I SURE???

Luckily I have my darling husband to divert me from my existential angst with riveting enquiries such as this one: "At what age do you think I should stop carrying Lappy on my hip?"
Dude. It'a a laptop. I know you love it like your firstborn child, but if Apple haven't come up with a way to make it follow you from room to room on delicate silver legs YET, it's probably never going to happen.  Think of it as your wonderfully intelligent child with tragically withered and useless legs.

And never mention baking trays again. Thank you.

Armies of elves fuelled by sugar

Did I REALLY make all those tiny desserts? It's possible elves have been in my house. Or one of those terribly helpful and lovely humanoid aliens from Avatar. We've determined, by the way, that hubs is descended from those guys. He has just enough human to turn his skin pink and bring his eyes a bit closer together, but all the other stuff is right on track to be one of The People.

Hilariously, when we went to see Avatar on Tuesday night, we were handed 3D glasses. Now, hubs suffers from a lazy eye and I am so long-sighted in one eye and short-sighted in the other that my reading glasses give ordinary people migraines. So we weren't so sure that the 3D lark would work for us... I think we both had headaches by the end, but it was probably worth it. That or the kilo of sugar I'm managing to eat per day. Hard to be sure.

I'm currently reading book 2 for Neal Stephensons' trilogy The System of the World and will be tempted to continue doing so tomorrow. We have a breakfast with friends scheduled, which is desirable, lovely and wonderful, then a detour which will add about forty minutes to the trip to my parents' place (DAMN THEM FOR MOVING!) then dinner with half the hubs' family. Not so much my kind of day. Can I veto? I have a feeling today will require copious quantities of toast. Tripod is helping. Particularly their rendition of "I hate your family". A little editing would work wonders.

 Oh look, a mosquito. Because being plagued with red, itchy, revolting lumps will CERTAINLY make my day better. Or maybe I could pass it off as smallpox?

Oh, one more thing.

 Family: Christmas cards in the post: yes yes, very lovely, well done, horrifically organised, supporting charity of your choice who produce the damn bits of cardboard,  but you live ONE suburb away from me and I see you weekly: WHY did you MAIL it??? I'm just saying.

My smallpox is itching.

Today I am melting.

Really. It's one in the morning and I am so hot it's absurd.

This may or may not be my own fault for fashioning sugary christmas goodies (SURPRISE!) until very recently; eleven pm is a GREAT time to start making miniature christmas puddings, complete with baptism in dark chocolate then icing with white and the careful placement of a glace cherry on top (hubs).

And when you finish said puddings, let's make hedgehog! Because surely it will all be fine if I go to bed an hour later every night and get up an hour later every morning; at this rate I will barely be cognisant for Christmas lunch. If you know my family, that's probably a good thing.

Tomorrow: apricot delight (oh yes, condensed milk and dried apricots do a thing of beauty make) and coconut ice. Because that is how I roll. No cooking unless it's assemble and refrigerate. Actually, that's so not true, but I've consumed a LOT of cooking chocolate (accidentally, I suddenly regained consciousness with a wooden spoon in my mouth) and am feeling a little manic. Little? Hmmm. Gargantuan tiny bit.

Would coconut ice be offputting if I dyed it.... blue and green instead of boring pink and white?

Why is my life such a strange and difficult place?

Damn those tea-infusical whatsits with their clampy-shutting properties.
Make tea. Leave infuser on sink. Decide I want more tea. Knock out leaves (still wet, of course) and dip infuser back into brown paper bag of tea (I KNOW, it loses it's flavor uness hermetically sealed in tupperware blessed by the Pope and consumed within five hours of purchase, so shoot me now)... where damp edges of infuser contract sticky tea leaves. Which I fail to notice until I drop the damn thing into a cup pof hot water and it begins to haemorrhage Black Vanilla tea leaves everywhere.

This is why I should only drink mint tea made from mint leaves growing through my front decking. Or, choc-mint tea, as my beloved bro-in-law gifted us with CHOCOLATE mint (oh baby) a few years back and it's run feral with the established mint so I now have some very strange variations on a theme of mint colliding with cocoa running wild under the rosebush.

Ahem. You may have realised that around here silly season really is silly season. It starts with ballet concerts and violin recitals, but then it turns into holidays, and suddenly all my very focused and directed manic energy is turned utterly, rampantly outwards. We've been dancing Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday and Sunday of the week just gone. Nearly went again tonight, but venue of choice has a puny dance floor and an open mike, meaning that if you CAN dance to the music, you'll probably fall over someone while trying.

Amusingly, on Saturday I was approached by a photographer who offered to do a photo shoot of me to promote.... myself. Uhhuh. Because I spend SO much time promoting myself. Dude, I'm fighting violin students off with a STICK (not a bow. Bows are not weapons, they are part of a delicate instrument and if you don't treat it with respect you'll have to play with an air bow. Ahem.)... yeah. A STICK. And I'm married, so it's not like I need to advertise for a husband. Although that could provide excellent leverage for... most things.

Why else would I want to promote myself?! HEY! LOOK! I can dance (if there's a band, and a guy who can lead, and I don't fall over because the dance floor is so crowded with people holding up their drinks, the bar and each other) sometimes. Wow. That totally deserves some promotion. I feel so lame. (Actually, that's pretty funny. Dancing, and then the lame. Lame like limping. Forget it. No-one's got a vocabulary any more.)

Why should I do a random photo shoot? I mean, really. Would you?

Definitely the low point

And so the term ends, not with a bang, or even a whimper, but a ... chunder.

You read that right. My last lesson, A. responds to my maniacally chirpy "So how are YOU today?!" (remember, plentiful sugary stockpile in my fridge) with a "Not good."

Further questioning reveals that A. vomited earlier today but now feels pretty fine (hence his presence at class). "It's okay!" he reassures me as only a six-year-old can. "If I feel like I need to vomit I'll just go outside." Faced with this unassailable logic, we have a great lesson...

Until A. gently puts down his violin and states, "I'm going outside. I feel like I'm going to vomit." He lets himself out and has a brief discussion with Dad, who runs to their car to fetch the emergency bucket while I stay with A. .

Who vomits. Who's all done by the time Dad returns (well, his back's only big enough for one person to rub, so really best Dad timed his return to coincide with the mopping-up and glass of water operation we slide into like old pros.

I'm ready to put violin away and usher gently to the car, but when you're six, emptying your stomach on your violin teacher's back lawn is really no barrier to having a good lesson. A. marched back in, picked up his violin, and launched into "Song of the Wind" with gusto. And a joke about the previously forgotten melody having been buried beneath the half-digested noodles now gracing my garden.

I'm sure there's a joke in here somewhere about teaching and teachers and chucking, but I'm on the comedown from macaroons-with-dark-chocolate heaven, so make it yourself. And to all the parents out there, I do so too get to experience the highs and lows of parenting.

Complete with vomit.

Nearly there.

Just one more day.
Given the amount of refined sugar happily sitting in my refrigerator (honey delight, Maltesers, Lindt, Cadbury, homemade macaroons, butter shortbread, etc, etc, so forth and so on) that really shouldn't be too hard. It's been a long term.

I don't actually remember my last whole day off. You know, the kind where you can sleep in, eat toast, eat more toast, realise it's lunchtime and expend HUGE effort upon taking a shower, eat more toast and think about a short nap before dinner.... Huh. No wonder I feel like a beached whale.

And before the interminable chorus begins, let me say it for you: Oh, enjoy it now, because when you have kids...!

You know what? You're a bunch of mongers. Jealous mongers. Because I am actively non-engaged in procreation. I'm practising, thank you very much. Only when I feel that I could pass some kind of theoretical examination (not just the practical) will I attempt to bring another living thing into this world. Then and only then will I actively relinquish my sleeping-in privileges and consign them to the days PB (pre-baby). Until then, all you jealous people shut up.

Moreover, if I was really making the most of it (or, indeed, if you REALLY wanted me to make the most of it), I'd be doing this EVERY DAY. Yep. EVERY day. But I'm not. Once a week, usually more like once a fortnight.
Or, in this particular instance, once a term. So stuff your jealousy back into your skull and relax in the knowledge that I am run ragged, on empty, sleep-deprived and a little crazy right now. Just like all you parents.

It's possible that my iphone will replace the need for offspring entirely. After all, I now have something to do with every waking minute of every day (clearly I don't already have enough to keep me busy).

In other news, played Pachelbel's Canon with three of my students for the staffroom today (yes, it was full of staff at the time). Two Gr 6, one Gr 5, me. Response: Gushing. Me: You ain't seen NOTHING yet. The best part: they really haven't. There's something immensely kick-ass about being a Suzuki teacher.

There is something much less kick-ass about your husband calling out a correction to your blog post.

Yeah, well, it's my blog and I'll type "than" instead of "thank" if I want to, than you so very damn much.

See? Running on EMPTY. No sparkles left in the magic wand, try me in January.
Or February.
Perhaps.
Maybe the sugar's making me cranky....
I should totally refuel.

Phones can't scuba.

On Friday night I drowned my phone. Again. At least the last time I was aided by a sixteen? month-old who perceptively spotted that I carried a litre of water in my handbag and surely life would be a little more fun with added damp. I wasn't thrilled, and neither was his mom; two phones with one water bottle is a little precocious, I feel! Still, I fell back on my husband's phone (forcing him to downgrade to a chunky GREEN flip phone aka the Kermit bling phone) and we all continued along.

So, hadn't I learnt my lesson? Well, yes, I'm much better at restricting access to my handbag. But that wasn't the problem this time.

Scenario: Friday night.

Driving into the city to meet friend and her work colleague (aka B & C). B calls. I give her an ETA plus parking time. That's fine, they're doing some Christmas shopping, no drama.

Find a park approximately halfway across city. Visit 7-11 to facilitate gold coins for meter. Finally, car is legally parked and can begin to hike.

Text B to update her on status. Tuck phone into back pocket awaiting reply. Realise am desperate for toilet (drained L bottle of water so would not have to lug it about but could attempt semblance of hydration) and decide to stop at QV on way to city centre.

Yep, I've forgotten that my phone is still in the back pocket of my jeans. So much so that as I gratefully yank them down in the privacy of a toilet cubicle, I freeze upon hearing a certain clatter. This is the bowel-freezing terror that can only be experienced when you hear the clatter of an electronic device containing your LIFE against porcelain. Followed by a splash.

Yep.

Splash.

I leap up and am confronted with the dilemma of any adult who's become conditioned to the yuck of putting my hand into the toilet bowl. Knowing I have no other way of contacting anyone, I pull it out. And am immediately grateful for ballet. You all know what I mean. At least the water was still clear.

After scrubbing EVERYTHING I dry it off and flip the sodding thing open- and rejoice! It lives! There's a message from B stating their approximate location and a call me when you get close! And then it dies. Eff. I don't know her number...

Ten minutes later I've found a payphone, I've got $2 in 20-cent pieces, I DO know my home number, and the guy who lives there will solve this. Probably.

I call. And although I can hear the bemusement and a certain baffled patience, he does. I call back and he's not only found B's number, he's called her, explained the situation, and can tell me where to meet her.

Two city blocks and a slight error later... We meet. Happy days indeed.