Perils of Speedy RE Preparation

Trying to get everything done for my Religious Education class for this morning. I take a grade 2 class and they are lovely. Noisy and never still, but lovely.

Just quickly trying to copy and then highlight some verses I need them to read out. Quickly grabbed one - Jeremiah 31:3 "... Israel, I will always love you; that's why I have been so patient and kind."

Lovely thought for the day. God is patient and kind and loving. Great.

Onto the next one I read quickly Jeremiah 3:2 "Just try to find one hilltop where you haven't gone to worship other gods by having sex."

What!?! That can't be right! Definitely not age-appropriate. Check the reference.

Jeremiah 3:12 "... Israel, I am your Lord - come back to me! You were unfaithful and made me furious, but I am merciful, and so I will forgive you."

That's more like it.

How funny would it have been if I hadn't actually read the selections, then given them out to my unsuspecting 8 year olds?

... Approximately NONE!!!

Explosively Funny?

Disclaimer: No Jennifers were seriously injured in the making of this post.

I learnt a new lesson on Monday.

When cleaning out a thermos-style milk jug with a hinged lid do not under any circumstances do the following:-

1. Sniff it and discover that it smells a bit icky.

(Well, okay the sniffing wasn't pleasant, but actually had no potential for injury)

2. Decide it needs a really good cleaning and partially fill it with boiling water and detergent.

(You can see where we're going, can't you?)

3. Find that the only available kitchen brush does not fit into the opening, so that there is no way to actually clean the interior.

4. Decide that I'll have to shake it vigorously instead, so put my hand firmly over the lid.

5. Discover that somehow (and I didn't do physics in Senior, so I'm only guessing that this event is triggered by some obscure steam-expanding pressure-building thingamy) vigorous shaking causes a build-up of pressure such that it will explode the lid open and spray boiling water over the mug stupid enough to try it.

It was so unexpected by everyone that another lady, after helping me to find wet towels and frozen peas, asked me how it had happened? When I explained, she made the mistake of saying, "What, like this?" and did it again. Fortunately I had sprayed about two thirds of the water all over me, so she didn't actually get burnt at all, although she ricked her shoulder jumping back from the 'unexpected' spray. Truly a Plass* moment.

I'm fine. Frozen peas, the gift of an Aloe Vera plant (to cut up leaves to apply to my skin) and a call to my little bro (who is a paramedic) seem to have saved my skin. No marks on my face at all, and only a few red marks on my chest which are thankfully away from either sensitive or visible areas. No blistering to date. It remains to be seen if I peel - using lots of moisturising cream and Aloe Vera.

Of all the people in the world how many other people could have this happen to them?

... Approximately None!

Although I am encouraged to think that there is at least one person who is sillier than me.

*In Adrian Plass' book "The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass Aged 37 3/4" he manages to cut his thumb on a knife while doing the washing up. When asked how he had done it he did the same thing with his other hand, causing the same injury. Plass tell it much better than me.

Well, I missed it...

I had quite been looking forward to reaching my 100th post. Excited even.

Then I hit a busy week, and there were bushfires down south, and floods up north, and the novelty of hitting my first century was entirely forgotten.

So welcome to my 102nd post. Triple figures. Fancy this blogging phase lasting this long!

To celebrate I'm going to describe one of my more embarrassing moments. Now, technically this would be much more fun if all of you described one of your embarrassing moments - that would seem like more of a celebration from where I'm standing. But I can't make you do that, and it would be quite unfair of me to describe my friends' embarrassing moments without their consent (yes, Benita, the massage table story is safe for a little while longer).

So here it is:-

My Beloved and I used to be part of the local Choral Society when we lived up north. Each year there would be a musical in the middle of the year followed by a concert in November that raised money for a local charity.

A few years back it was a big anniversary for Mr Rogers (of Rogers and Hammerstein/ Rogers and Hart fame) so the concert was excerpts from various things he had written. So far, so good. There's plenty to choose from: Oklahoma, Carousel, South Pacific and many, many others that I can't remember off the top of my head.

I was selected to play a role in an excerpt from Carousel. For anyone who knows Carousel, it was the only amusing scene in it, where the young girl is skilfully manipulated to allow the villain of the piece to embrace her as he apparently teaches her the art of self-defence. The bloke playing the villain had to lift me up in a fireman's lift, in which compromising situation my 'fiancee' was to find me and then repudiate me as I bawled loudly (but in tune) for the whole of the duet by the two men.

There were a few issues with the selection. For example, my broad American accent was enthusiastic, but possibly not quite authentic.

Then there was the fireman's lift.

Firstly, the villain was played by a man who was having trouble with one shoulder at the time. We had to be a bit careful.

Secondly, I'd been married for about 18 months and had started to gain a little weight.

Thirdly, one night at rehearsal I was wearing my work uniform which had a long, lined skirt. Unfortunately the skirt fabric stuck to the villain's shirt and the lining stuck to me and then the fabric and the lining decided to slide all over the place. No one was seriously injured, but it did give some idea of the precarious nature of what we were attempting.

But we eventually had it down pat. For the dress rehearsal I donned a very attractive gingham number, long skirt and button up top that I believe had been made for a production of Oklahoma some years previously. I had gloves, ankle boots, pretty ribbons in my hair and the whole bit.

But because costumes are often made for people to be able to change quickly, the buttons were actually fake and it was fastened down the front with press studs. Which were entirely adequate for the task, unless you were to subject them to extraordinary shear pressure. Like the weight of my body as I was lifted up onto a man's shoulders.

I heard/felt them go as I went up, but there was not much I could do about it (dress rehearsal stops for no-one). As we continued to play on I tried surreptitiously to do up the clips, but I couldn't do it while wearing gloves, so had no option but to cross my arms over my blouse, pretend to be crying into my hankie, and hope that I nothing that should be covered was too obvious.

The pianist, prompter and musical director were howling with laughter at my predicament. The cast was entirely professional.

Until we got to the end of the scene and went onto the next song on the programme - "June is busting out all over".

Chances that I didn't wear another blouse under my costume top for the performance?

... Approximately None.

Oh, and was it coincidence that Choral Society started doing two full dress rehearsals not long after this?

I Obviously DO Need to Lose Some Weight...

If I wasn't motivated before, I am after last night.

I went to a graduation ceremony last night to support one of the ladies from our church who has completed the Hospital Ministry and Pastoral Care Course. As I did the course some years ago, some of my year group are now supervisors or came to support the graduates just like I did.

It was great to catch up with old friends, although the supper was in a very crowded hall.

Now I should digress to say that I was wearing a skirt that I bought some time ago and it doesn't really fit properly anymore. If I pull it up a bit the hip section fits around my tum and it's all good - as long as I wear a top that goes down beyond the point of belly and is loose below. I checked it all out in the mirror before I went, and I couldn't tell that I'd had to hitch it, and the top disguised the difference between the cantilevered belly and my thighs. I'm someone who is very critical when looking in mirrors, so it was obviously fine if I thought it was fine.

One of the lovely ladies that did the course my year came up to me amongst the crowd of people in the hall and softly (and very excitedly) questioned if I was expecting a bub?

There is nowhere to go from there. There is no response that diffuses the embarrasment for both parties. I briefly toyed with the response "No, I'm just fat!" (Thanks, Givinya for the idea from so many years ago which of course was the first thing that jumped into my head in this situation).

So I just said "No, I'm not," with what I hoped was a kind and gentle smile.

How many appropriate responses are there?

... Approximately None

In which I walk down memory lane, and take it to a ridiculous length

From time to time I toy with creative writing. I wrote this a couple of years ago with the thought that I might send it in to the Queensland Planner. I've never got around to it, and it's probably not what they are looking for. I apologise for all the town planning in-jokes.

The following is entirely fictitious. Any resemblance to persons, places, or local governments living or dead is entirely accidental, and/or the product of their own guilty conscience. None of this would happen in real life!

There are days in local government planning when I forget one of my fundamental laws of planning. These are a series of 22 laws that I have built up over my years of experience, and I should know better than to break them by now.

I have come a long way since I first started, when I thought ‘Banana Shire’ was a fictitious entity, much like ‘John’ and ‘Jane Citizen’ and my lecturer’s favourite site on ‘Street Road’. I made some humorous comment to a colleague, before discovering my error.

But back to the point - Rule Number 1: Listen before speaking – or regret it.

I first made this a rule very early on in my career when I was called to the counter to answer a query and thought I was speaking to the proponent of, not the submitter to, an application. Enough said.

Today’s mess was more funny than worrying, but indicated the usefulness of Rule number 1.

I was called to the counter. Mrs Thompson, a little old lady who reminded me greatly of my great-grandmother, was somewhat hesitant and unwilling to come to the point. Her question involved the growing of vegetables in a residential area, and was it O.K? To make her feel more at home, I allowed my verbal diarrohea to take over, and assured her that growing vegetables in her yard was fine, ancillary to the residential use of the site, etc etc.

Mrs Thompson looked crest-fallen, and I stumbled to a halt before asking for more information. It seems that some people in her area have some difficulties with a neighbour who is growing vegetables. She stopped, unable to articulate her precise concern.

Still not having remembered Rule Number 1, I once again launched forth (with a picture of Tom & Barbara Good’s garden from the old series ‘The Good Life’ firmly entrenched in my mind). I was a little more circumspect as I said we could investigate if they were undertaking commercial market gardens at the site, and went on about amenity issues regarding visual pollution, fertiliser odour, pest spraying, machinery operating at odd hours.

As I threw these suggestions forward she was still looking at me blankly, and I began to panic and draw even more ridiculous possibilities for how a vege patch could be causing concern to the neighbours. I think the most ridiculous one was the idea of big lights all over the yard to make the plants grow more quickly, but an increasingly large part of my mind was trying to work out how much of an idiot I was going to make of myself before managing to palm the complaint onto one of the Environmental Health Officers.

Finally I ran out of words, and asked her to explain what the problem was. (A sentence that would have saved a whole heap of embarrassment if I had used it at the beginning of this episode.)

It seems that Mr Jordan from number 45 lost his wife a few years ago, and tends to spend his time in the garden to cope with his loss. The problem was not that he was operating a commercial operation, quite the reverse.

It seems that the garden has become bigger and bigger each year, and he gives the neighbours all the produce that he can’t use himself (which is heaps, because there is only one of him). At first, they all enjoyed the occasional veges and used to compliment him on the size, taste, and freshness as a way to start conversations to see how he was going. Unfortunately, some of the neighbours complemented veges that they didn’t actually like, and now don’t know what to do with such huge amounts of them. Mrs Thompson can’t eat the amount of produce that he is giving her, and like all the rest, doesn’t want to hurt his feelings.

Hmmm, and getting the Council to do something about it wouldn’t hurt his feelings? I tried to explain that that wasn’t really a Council problem. By the time I was finished, I could feel the not-quite-hidden smiles of the Customer Service girls from behind me. Can anyone explain to me why is it that Customer Service are never busy when the planner makes a fool of herself?

Maybe that should be Rule Number 23.

Ways to get out of this situation without embarrassment?
... Approximately None

How Embarrassment!

I did some grocery shopping this morning. I like to go to a separate, not-part-of-a-shopping-complex butcher just up around the corner from home on the way home. They sell good quality meat, I know them, and they know me.

I really miss the anonymity of the city sometimes.

Today, while one bloke was toting up my order, another lady was ordering what she needed from one of the younger ones. What she actually said was "Do you have a nice bit of rear?"

I burst out laughing. Aloud. Very loudly. You can guess what I thought I heard her say.

How many ways are there of explaining my loud, inappropriate laughter away?

...Approximately None.

Make like a teabag

There are times in my life when I seem to step back from myself and get a whole new perspective on Jen. I had one of those incidents this morning.

I was standing at the sink doing the washing up. That behaviour is natural enough for someone who doesn't have a dishwasher. So far I'm normal.

I was up to the elbows in hot soapy water, making it about the first time my hands had been warm since I got out from under the blankets this morning. Unfortunately, my nose was at that stage of cold where I can never be certain if it is (a) just cold, or (b) if it is starting to run. The act of blowing (which would satisfy my curiosity as to whether it was a or b above and probably make me more comfortable) would involve the removal of wet rubber gloves, and the trip to the bedroom to find a tissue. Then the nearly impossible task of getting wet rubber gloves back on, made worse by the fact that my hand size is too small for one size of gloves and on the brink of too tight for the next one down (If I buy the larger ones I drop things because the fingers are way too long).

So this is where the whole thing falls down. You see, the stainless steel sink doesn't keep the water hot for all that long at this time of year, so I don't have the time to blow my nose because I will have lost the hot water window. So I soldiered on, trying to get the dishes finished before the water reached the official temperature range known as 'tepid at best'.

Several deep sniffs later I realised that having my hands in warm water was encouraging my inner Jen to process and desire to release all the liquid I'd consumed at breakfast. But with only a few more things to go, and the water still reasonably hot I couldn't go just yet. That's when the voices in my head started (and where I began to realise I'm not as normal as I like to think)...

The first was some talking head advocating the small ways we can be more energy and water efficient. Running another lot of hot washing up water was not an option. (I hope the planet appreciates it!)

The next was my Mum, 'you should have gone before we came'. (Thanks, Mum.)

The third was some miscellaneous doctor on TV saying that women end up with bladder problems because:

1. we go when we don't need to on the off chance that we'll need to go later when it would be inconvient, and
2. we hold on to finish tasks when we should go.

(Surely that's not correct?)

It was then that my mind stepped back and I found myself jiggling (and still sniffing). My hands working as quickly as they could to finish the designated task, but the rest of me doing a little dance on the spot. Like a three year old who doesn't want to stop playing a fun game just to go to the toilet. Except that I don't even like washing up.

Let's just say that it was a relief to finish on more than one level. Oh, the sacrifices we make for the planet. And the difference this particular sacrifice would make?

...Approximately none.