Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Ode to Chicken Pie (With alarming video)

I am sick.  My throat burns.

In an attempt to make myself feel better I bought a pie when I went to the shopping centre this morning.

I haven't had a pie for about 2 years.  Yet, from far away, this one was calling me - the pastry on top looked light, buttery and crisp, and I could feel the warmth emanating from the pie warmer, urging me to embrace the delights with in.  I eschewed the plain, podgy old meat ones, glossed over the potato topped pie (or potatoe if you are Dan Quayle) with it's crunchy yet soft white whirls, and rejected the temptations of meat and mushroom.  This is because my favourite pie is chicken - plump pieces of juicy white meat floating in an alluring cream sauce...mmmm... perfect in sickness and in health.  I passed over my $3.90 eagerly - hell - I would have even paid $4.50 just to get me some of that.

I cradled it gently and lovingly in my arms while I maneuvered the trolley through the shopping centre, each step laden with anticipation of the first bite, while at the same time paralysed with the fear of dropping it before it and I could have our wicked way.  I started the car, speeding through the traffic, pie perched precariously on my lap. For a split second, I contemplated leaving the shopping in the car just to rush inside and take it, to have it - the first passionate, tongue tingling love bite - but I didn't, wanting to delay the pleasure...mmmm chicken pie...

I dutifully bought the groceries in, and sat down before I sized up the pie, caressing it and taking one last look at its delectible-ness before I enthusiastically bit in, thrusting my tongue deeply into its warm, moist core... and... despite my throat feeling like both Alien and a super spiny Predator had gone a round or two in it,  I couldn't but burst into song...

Ode to Chicken Pie (sung to the tune of O Christmas tree…)

Oh chicken pie!
oh chicken pie!
Your pastry crust deceived me!

You looked so sweet!
So full of meat!
But your pastry crust deceived me!

My mouth was leaking oh so much
My tongue was drooling for your touch
But now I feel sick after lunch because
Your pastry crust deceived me

Oh chicken pie oh chicken pie,
Much pleasure thou can’st give me
Oh chicken pie oh chicken pie,
Much pleasure thou can’st give me

But when your pastry doesn’t snap
and you’re full of
Meat shavings and some jello crap
Instead of having chunks of meat
My cat won’t even eat this treat

Oh chicken pie, oh chicken pie
Your pastry crust deceived me

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Love letter

"You will always be my Odessa, my goddess." he says, wrapping me in a bear hug.  I lean into it, revelling in his strength.  "And you will always be my Oggie, my gorgeous one."  Odie and Ogie, contemplating a life together, thinking we know, like fortune tellers, just how it will turn out.  We rest, sated, new lovers, mouthing words, lovers slang. "I love you", "I love you more." I  trace the words tenderly on his back with my fingertips, challenging him to guess what I am writing. He always knows.

Time was short then, there was never enough. There was never enough of each other.

Neither of us realised then where our paths would lead..things wouldn't be perfect but that our relationship would transcend hardships and challenges and still have something left.

If someone were to ask me the secret what would I say? Never go to bed angry?  Compromise? Forgive?  It is all those things and more. It's remembering how it was but appreciating how it has changed.  It's looking at the life you've created together,  beyond the surface, through all its faults and problems, but still thinking that you wouldn't do it differently.  It's having strength for each other, and still having strength for yourself.  It's about being annoyed and angry, but getting past it. It's seeing the imperfections in each other, the worst of each others nature, yet loving each other anyway. It's being able to still make each other laugh.

We're not twenty year olds any more, there are no flowery endearments, lovers slang replaced by the warmth and reliability of two people who know each other the way that no one else knows them.  We laugh about how things have turned out, how they used to be, and still make plans for the future. His fingers follow the marks on my stomach from bearing his children, the extra kilos, the scars from some injury or another.  His fingers and gaze wander up to my face. He doesn't see the marks, scars, lines from our journey through this life we have built, he has his own.  "I love you," he whispers.  "I love you more."

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

On men...and mammograms

I have to have a mammogram today.  Nothing serious thank goodness, just the last in a series of checkups for a lump that looks routine.

But it got me thinking about who invented these mongrel machines and how it came about.  And of course, having looked it up on Wikipedia the knowledge guru, they were men - Patrick and Jack.  They sound like  innocuous but manly names, like they would own hands that know how to caress, stimulate and tweak the more tender parts of a woman's anatomy.


How did they come up with the idea that a woman should stand there, half-naked, and have her tit squeezed until it becomes as thin as a home brand Belgian waffle that you buy in bulk from Coles?  Had they ever wondered to themselves how it might feel to have their testicles put through a laundry mangle?  Did they ever consider placing their nuts gently on a board, being blindfolded and then having someone smash them with a mallet while they made polite conversation about the amount of rain we have been having - and waited for an answer?  Now, just relax, it will only hurt for a second (mwahhahaha).

Or here's an idea - did they ask their wives?

Did they ask their wives if they preferred that all  mammogram operators be 20 something year old females, with perky breasts that have never been mammo'ed?  Did they ask if it would be a good idea if said perkies had repertoire of inane questions that they pull out when you are at your pancake flattest, in the belief that by involving you in mundane conversations you will retain your dignity and somehow misplace the fact you are half naked, deoderant-less, in agony, and $375 poorer?

I don't care about the freakin' rain love, or whether or not the price of cheese has gone up - all my focus is on  trying to stop my teeth clamping together as the skin on my face is gradually pulled down towards my belly button, and hoping that my mental will alone will stop my nipple popping off and splatting you in the eye.  Yes, bimbo, put your safety goggles on...mama's coming ta get ya.  Christ...it's going blue...holy mother of God...

Stupid Patrick and Jack.

Please someone, invent mammograms for men.

On brackets

I never realised how many brackets I use when I write (until I looked at that last post).

The one where I consider having to grow up

I am almost 44 years old and it seems to be an appropriate time to be circumspect about my life and perhaps even (gulp!) grow up.

Yep - control your gasps of horror - I've been considering buying a twinset and a pearl necklace to match my veiny legs, whispery moustache and nefarious body hair (see previous post for the gory details).

"What bought this on?" I hear you ask (or I would, if I had any readers!).

Just a few short weeks ago I found myself in a theatre watching Avatar, (predictable story and characters, fantastic special effects, still worth seeing, 7/10) when I felt my face start to burn, like a cauldron of melted lead.  My chest and legs quickly followed suit. No amount of furious fanning could soothe my burning brow and my husband, much to his joy, found he could read his watch dial from the glow of light emanating from my sweating face.

Is. It. Possible?

I'm not like other women who reach a certain point in their life and bemoan the loss of their children and their femininty, a life where service to others and menstruation somehow validates womanhood.

Not me. I always thought I would vigorously and whole-heartedly embrace the newfound freedom that comes with 'being a certain age',  live wildly, finally guilt free and grasping adventures from where ever they may come.

Well, in reality the first part is true - begone false indicator of womanhood - I am ecstatic to finally see the end of these false idols.  But recently the 'certain age' thing has started to hit.

Firstly, there is something about getting older that renders you invisible to the other sex.  Not that I am actually interested - I am more than happily married - but some harmless ego-massaging when someone looks surreptitiously your way doesn't go astray once a year.  It just makes you feel a little bit more sparkly (my apologies to any rampant feminists out there).   It used to happen all the time, but lately, no matter how much I suck in my gut and stick out my boobs (both of which take a considerable amount of work these days!) I have no sly-peeking guy joy, despite feeling only twenty from the inside out - barring previously noted aches and pains! And, as an added bonus, I have to be careful just how much I suck my gut in - suck it in too much and my boobs fall off their carefully maintained ledge to dangle near my belly button.

And then there is the sad realisation that I am almost middle-aged (the 'almost' part is wishful thinking), still at university, have never had a career, and am broke.  Of course, all these things are related, but it doesn't make it any easier to deal with 26 week gaps between haircuts, one set of sheets, rotating through two pair of shoes and hoping that no one notices that you wear the same clothes out as you do to work because they are the only ones you have. I can't afford adventures - unless you count driving ferociously  like Stig when I am trying to get the young men to work/school on time.

As for living wildly - I had five glasses of wine on Friday night, accidentally took Quinine tablets instead of Nurofen, and was sick as a dog all Saturday - it wasn't even safe to burp.  And, even as I am sitting here typing the blog I have a bandage wrapped tightly around my calf to ease the throbbing of my varicose veins. It's so obvious that my body is 'maturing' (too freakin' fast) but my mind and wallet have yet to catch up.

And then there is the eternal goal of living 'guilt-free'. Ha!


Anyone got a bottle of red they want to share?  Does shopping for a twin-set while drunk count as growing up?