Let me start by saying this… ” I’m worth it! ”

I deserve the best. .. actually we kitties all do deserve better. Meow!  

Arrrhhhh.... that feels good.

My mom made these cat scratching post just for us! 24″ tall post so that we can get a full stretch and scratch! Big base for a comfy perch! Life is good, with a homemade cat scratching post.

Tall cat scratching post. 24" for a good stretch.

My momma will make 1 for you too, for a small fee to cover the materials.

The standing models are S$30 for a standard size and S$40 for large, taller models. Go for the large ones!

El cheapo hang on door scratching post.

Surely, for S$5, this hang on door knob scratching post is great value for money.. isn’t it?

Hang on the doors are ok.. but.. we want a perch too! Remember, ” I’m worth it ! ”  Come on now, don’t u stinch on me..

But…I liked your pant leg better…..

nd dis iz mah frend.

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EMERY CAT:  A Review

My wife and I don’t have cats; we have four dogs.  So when I saw EMERY CAT on an AS SEEN ON TV spot the first time, I tuned it out (which was difficult to do because of all the cat noises).  When the noises alerted me to the commercial again, I thought of my son that has two of the little furry critters forever prowling about.

THE PROBLEM WITH CATS

If you have indoor cats as does my son, you have to be able to live with the cat dander, which is impossible if you have allergies.  Then, you have to be able to put up with the joys of the litter pan.  And finally, you must be tolerant of their incessant need to stretch their claws and scratch.  My son’s sofa is on it’s umpteenth slipcover, the throw pillows look like they’ve been through the shredder, and the dining table legs look like they’re on the losing end of knife fights with tribes of miniature killer elves.   He’s tried clipping their nails (I should’ve sold tickets to that one!), shooing them away from furniture and even a variety of scratching posts.  Boy, are those things ugly.  Nothing has worked so far.

ENTER THE EMERY CAT

So when I saw the EMERY CAT ad, I thought it might be something that would work for his cats.   The EMERY CAT is a arched base that holds a honeycombed shaped emery coated surface.  The surface is infused with catnip, so it attracts the cat to play.  While the cat is on the surface, the curved shape encourages the cat to stretch their claws and scratch the honeycombed emery surface.  The theory is that the catnip attracts the cat, the curved board encourages stretching, and kitty gives itself a pedicure while playing and having fun.

UPS AND DOWNS

If you’ve seen the commercial, it looks like a “can’t miss” item.  I mean, you no longer need this carpet coated totem pole in your family room that kitty doesn’t use anyway.  The EMERY CAT is small enough to tuck in a corner or out of sight under a table so you don’t have to look at it all the time.  The cats in the ad look like they’re positively addicted to the thing, too.
Not all is catnip though.  Some reviews have been quite critical of customer service taking care of ordering problems.  I think that this is largely due to customers thinking they have to order “2” in order to take advantage of the two for one order.  If you just place a “1” in the quantity box, all should go smoothly.  It’s $19.95 for the item, plus $7.95 for shipping.  If you want the two for one, I think all you have to do is add in another shipping fee.
My son, the procrastinator, hasn’t ordered yet, but he will because my daughter-in-law is going to hit him up for a new sofa and dining room set for Christmas.  If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy!

We have a chair that’s bleeding.

Each time I walk past it, I remember my Medieval lit classes where we read of statues or religious icons that would upon occasion spontaneously start hemorrhaging.  These seemingly miraculous events would increase the tourist trade in small villages throughout early Europe.  Flocks of pilgrims would pack up their bags and take off on foot, traveling long and arduous journeys to go and stare in wonder and awe, and if lucky, to come home with a tiny relic or tee shirt as a souvenir.  The villagers were often extremely proud of their bleeding statue for it was a significant money-maker for the village or church that owned it.

Unfortunately, we have no pilgrims knocking at our door, begging for a piece of kapok.  If only I could invest the trail of chair stuffing that dots the living room carpet with the power to fill husbands everywhere with a love for furniture shopping.  Women would journey far and wide to our apartment for a tiny piece of the chair’s stuffing.  Ticket sales would land me on the cover of Forbes.

This chair was doomed from the start.  I had just purchased and remodeled my first condo when I bought it.  I filled my new space with lots of cool angles and shiny surfaces of glass and mirror–obviously this was my pre-DH period.  In fact, I overheard the delivery men laughing as they delivered my dining table. “She obviously doesn’t have kids living here.”  His partner quipped, “Or a man.”  I didn’t care.  Form and style are supposed to be a single girl’s hallmark.

Form and style are like those super cool pals who show up at 2 in the afternoon bearing bottles of champagne.  You know nothing good can come of this, but at least it’s going to be a lot of fun, and in this case, pretty.  I found a postmodern table that deconstructed the whole notion of what defined a dining table; namely, function.  My new table consisted of a thin sheet of clear glass that rested on two clear glass sawhorses…practical?  Functional?

Hardly, but the table was totally amazing to look at.  It reminded me of a sleek fashion model.  Unfortunately, I soon discovered how high maintenance that chick was.  She turned the seemingly simple everyday occurrence of sitting down to eat a bowl of cereal into a nightmare.  Any meal or snack ended with 45 minutes spent with a cloth and a bottle of glass cleaner, to furiously attack smudges.  And just like some severely underweight but elegant super models, the table was more than a little unstable.  The sheet of glass precariously shifted whenever more than one person sat or walked past it.  I quickly developed the habit of eating at the kitchen sink while looking over to admire the table.

Before I got married, Function was that poor second cousin who lived out in the country.  The second cousin who was rarely invited to come visit, except for holiday dinners, and only then, because in your heart of hearts, you felt sorry for his lack of vision.

Clearly, Function had gone back home to his well-stocked and sturdy cabin when I bought the now bleeding chair.  Like my super model dining table, this chair could have easily posed for the cover of Architectural Digest, or one of those spiffy Italian design journals.  You know the ones with pictures of kitchens or bedrooms that never see children, cats or straight men.  Unfortunately, at least for the chair, I soon acquired two of the three, a straight man and cats.

The chair, I hate to admit, was doomed from the start.  Its fatal beauty is what lead to its early death.  Now, ff you look closely at the remaining upholstery, you can see that it still has hint of glam from its subtle shimmer of deep bronze raw silk from Thailand.  When I saw the chair in the show room, it was love at first sight.  I wanted to hug it.  I later learned that doing so, as would sitting on it, would be a bad thing.  Raw silk stains with dizzying speed.  I would have a series of mini-strokes when friends would plop down, a glass of red wine or box of chocolates or anything edible propped on their lap.  One hand would instinctively clutch my chest while the other would reach for the fabric cleaner —I soon stopped buying anything but bottled water to serve guests.  But stains were the least of my worries.

Patrick, our big fluffy one, is a Birman, a breed that can be traced back to ancient Siam, present day Thailand.  I had no idea the silk chair would make him homesick.  Our other cat, Bongo is a tabby with street smarts and a sense of cocky arrogance.  While Patrick is more demure, choosing to shred when humans are well out of screaming range, Bongo prefers an audience.  With a quick glance to see if anyone is watching, and if satisfied by our turnout, Bongo will start shredding.  Once his audience starts to shout, he runs and zips around behind the chair for an encore performance only to skitter out of the room with (I swear) a huge grin.

The chair could still do a cover shoot; just now it would be one of those covers for a grocery store tabloid depicting the horrid remains of someone who had met their untimely end by being mauled by a pack of wild beavers from outer space.

When I got married, Function left his cabin in the country and came to live with me and DH.  In a fit of disgust, poor Form and Style have left for sunnier, if not sleeker vistas.  At one time, I was convinced that a room had to say something to you upon entering.  The décor should whisper, “The people who live here are cool”, or “These folk all mid-century warm and cozy.”   Clearly, like whistles only dogs can hear; that voice is beyond the auditory range of most men, my DH chief among them.  I put fingers in both ears to prevent what tales the chair says about us.

He’s content to push the chair up against the wall to hide the shreds.  This just caused the cats to refocus and work on the front corners.  DH even invested in nifty cat toy-festooned scratching posts that we line up to form a perimeter around the chair.  These are merely warm up stations before they get to good stuff.

For poor DH, Form and Style are strangers to be avoided.  They speak a strange language and laugh when he orders a coke at dinner.  Ironically, DH will fuss over shirt seams that fail to match, he will move pieces of a carefully arranged table-scape of candles and bowls, to a jumbled heap on a bookshelf, in order to make room for his feet as he watches TV.

I blame Function for all of this.  It’s not for lack of funds that the chair continues to bleed in the living room.  DH just brought home a huge flat screen TV—Function and he agreed that it was time to replace the old model.  Function convinced him that the new TV would work better with our cable system.  Whereas, my complaints about the chair are simply aesthetic, harkening back to my old companions, Form and Style.

Not giving up, I have lately started to encourage the cats to finish the chair off—a mercy killing, as it were.  When the final puff of kapok rolls across the carpet and a pile of shredded silk remains where the chair now sits, perhaps we will go shopping.  I know it!

No recipe today!  We ate like porkers—I can’t even think about food.

Paddy’s 4 months 15 days old today and see how much i have grown!

at the top of my scratching palace

round orange eyes

large paws

using the netbook

chatting with grandma on skype

paws and ball

big head small feet

the cheshire kitteh

Well, someone just had to let the cat out of the bag, so it might as well be us.  The Emery Cat™ As seen on TV is The Fun New Kitty Scratcher That Actually Grooms Cats’ Claws While They Play!  The honeycomb surface works like a nail file, gently filing away sharpness in their claws.  It makes a great gift for the cat lover in your family or even for the kitty cat himself.   Sure, the only gift your cat may have given you this year is a dead mouse.  But let’s try to look past that. 

The package includes:

• Durable Base with built in catnip
• Cute, playful kitty toy
• Bottle of catnip spray
• Free Bonus De-shedder 

Buy the EmeryCat now for only $19.95 plus you’ll receive the Bonus Gift absolutely FREE!   Now that is something to meow about.

ooo what’s that?

is that for me?

the kitteh grand palace

the third floor does seem comfy

the cubby is a good size too

i like the view from the sky deck

the floating deck

I thought that I arrived in Kenya to meet other felines. What is with this primate business? Isn’t letting one primate pet me enough distraction from my sleep pattern?

Grumble, grumble.  I must admit, this primate is cute and he is nice when he shares the scratching post. He doesn’t move around a whole bunch when he sleeps either – unlike the other primate in the house……

I spent $80 on my fur-babies today while I was out just getting “necessities” at Target (yeah, that happened….).

Their old scratching post was dying, the poor kids were down to the bare wood in some spots, so I picked up this one that’s 32″, which is the highest I can get in the store without breaking my checkbook, and with the roping, it lasts forever. The other one we have downstairs the cats are constantly attacking, and it’s made it a year so far!

I brought it in the door, set it down to turn around and mr. patches was already on attack.  I also decided to pick up the super scratcher while I was at Target because well, one post with 2 cats just isn’t enough.  So again, before I even had it down to the ground and finished, he wriggled his fat ass in, and moved poor princess out of the way.. He’s sleeping on it now of course.That way, she can’t use it.

Add those two on top of food and litter and I’m cat-broke. But they’re worth it!

Dis da one I want and I’m not leaving ’til you buy it for me.

spoiled kitteh iz spoiled.

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Periods(and all the glorious experiences that go with it), different-sized breasts, something-and-a-half- size shoes, PMS,those who go the dark way: pregnancy, urinary tract infection aka pissing razorblades, periods, stretch marks, cellulite, wrinkles (and no it’s not the same- think George Clooney and think Meryl Streep), bras that don’t fit after the third wash, the pill, hip replacement, menopause,did I mention periods? These are just a handful of short ends of sticks we have to chew on as women.

But talking about short ends of sticks, one thing we do not have to worry about is an unexpected and inappropriate-as-all-hell boner. THANK THE LORD for that small (shuddup about the size, there are moments when they don’t count) mercy. But you’re in ‘good’ company dudes: even celebs like John Legend and Wyclef Jean aren’t immune to the wayward ways of the  woody.

Sorry, but we think it’s damn funny.

I realize I outed myself in my last blog as a crazy cat lady, what with being so proud of my cat Jasmine having made it to MyCatHatesYou.com. What can I say, simple things make me happy. What else makes me happy? Web sites like DailyPuppy.com. I think it’s pretty obvious that I love animals; in fact, most of us at Solano Magazine do. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to write a pet column, Petcentric, for the magazine, which still runs every so often.

Buster, probably thinking of ways to install a virus in my laptop

Anyway, in the tidalwave of press releases I receive every day–home furnishings, garden tools, events, cosmetics (oooh, sparkly!), clothing, alcohol, DVD and CD releases, artwork, stationery, political/economic/environmental news–I have seen how much we all love our pets in the toys and treats and all sorts of random inventions. Look, I like finding toys for my cats that they actually enjoy; they’re indoor cats and they get bored. But it surprises even me sometimes to see what’s on the market.

High-tech litter box? The Kitty Lounge is touted as being healthy, sanitary, clean and simple. What it seems to be is, yes, all of the above, but because it’s basically a set of stacked plastic trays that the owner just throws out when it gets stinky. It says the trays are made of recycled plastic, but it doesn’t give any suggestions as to how YOU may be able to recycle them—if you can. I don’t know; what with how green we’re all leaning toward, is using up and throwing out this much plastic—especially if you’re a multi-cat household, which means you might be going through one a day—such a good idea? That’s your decision.

Birdie makes a basket and gets a treat! (photo: Petsmart)

Dog on the run! That wacky Hammacher Schlemmer now offers a treadmill designed specifically for dogs. (Guess what it’s called? The Canine Treadmill.) It goes from .3 to 5 miles an hour. This might actually be a good thing on those colder, wetter California days (if we ever see those again) or even the more brutally hot days when nobody, least of all Princess Pooch, wants to go outside and get their pawsies either wet or burned—but they’re bored silly with staying indoors. Since you need to be present while the dog is on the belt, you could get matching treadmills and work out together!

Playtime! Right before the holidays I got a PR from WebVet.com (as they say, “think WebMD but for pets”). I love this stuff but we didn’t have room for it in our holiday guide: stuff like the Pet Massage Glove, exactly what it sounds like; the Super Pet Hamtrac Racetrack, an exercise wheel/race car for small pets; the Birdie Basketball Gym, basically a big mobile-like playset for your bird; the microwaveable SnuggleSafe Heatpad; 100% natural and organic Happy Dog Aromatherapy Spray, breath and dental treats (what pet doesn’t need those) … on and on and on.

Nighty-night, putty tat. OK, so, cat beds have got to be the craziest things ever, mostly because of cat sleeping patterns. You know how it goes: Putty Tat sleeps there for a few days, then migrates to sleep in the middle of the living room floor. There’s no accounting for territory. But check these pads:

Your cat can relax in style on this modern mini sofa. ($150, AllPetFurniture.com)

I gotta say, that fluffy pink one looks awfully comfy. And look at this cute scratching post:

CUTE. I think my cats need that.

Scratching is a natural activity for a cat, and he doesn’t care that it will damage the material on your expensive new couch. Your kitty isn’t aiming to ruin your possessions. He’s merely attempting to sharpen his claws. When the need to scratch comes over him, he isn’t too particular about what he uses to satisfy the itch.

In the great outdoors, the options for scratching are limitless. A cat can utilize a fence post or a tree for his purposes. However, because your family room likely doesn’t boast these amenities, the second choice is anything wooden, perhaps the legs on your teak dining table. Your cat isn’t scratching your furniture to be ornery, but he is making a point. The message is that he needs something that it’s acceptable to scratch.

Maybe you’re considering declawing your cat as your only option to save your furnishings. But before you go to this extreme, try arranging a couple of scratching posts throughout your house that are specifically designed for a cat. He’ll be glad to have something he can claim as his own, and it will be more suited to him in any case. Be certain that you anchor the scratching posts securely. If they fall over easily, your cat will likely turn his back on it and opt for that sturdy table leg instead.

If your cat uses the scratching post when you’re at home, but goes back to the couch when you’re not there, consider a little deterrence. Cats have a very good sense of smell, so spray some strong air freshener or a cat repellant product over the furniture. That will make the area quite repugnant to him and he won’t be inclined to do his damage there.

As your scratching post becomes used up and ineffective, don’t be hasty in getting rid of it. If kitty can’t find his usual post, he might decide that the furniture is just as good as that new model you bought to replace the worn out one. Rather, place the new post beside the old one until you notice your cat starting to use it. Once you see some wear and tear on the new post, then you can throw away the old one.

Keep in mind that scratching is much more meaningful to a cat than just a way to take care of his claws. For example, a scratching post is a great stress reliever. Some cats consider the post to be a playmate. They also have a need to overcome their enemies, and a scratching post suits this purpose perfectly. Your cat may attack the scratching post, grasp it with his claws and wrestle with it until it gives in. To help out with this game, position the scratching post in an area where there’s some privacy so your cat can sneak up on its prey and have the advantage of a surprise attack on the unsuspecting post!

The Mistress is fond of flea markets. During Summertime there’s a flea market every Sunday in the town where the House of Chaos can be found and whenever she has time (and the pecunia needed for the fun) she will scrounge to her heart’s content and come home with all kinds of cheaply-bought lovely stuff for enjoyable adornment of the house. Or, in Grumpy Man’s words: “She’s found some new junk to clutter the place with”.

This time however he had to grudgingly agree that 4 interesting books are indeed a good find and he didn’t even complain about the scratching post. The virtually new scratching post with hardly any wear and tear, coming from an old lady whose feline companion sadly didn’t manage to celebrate its 18th birthday. But as the saying goes: “one person’s loss is another person’s bargain”. We now are the proud owners of 1 (one) blue-furred and sisal-wrapped scratching post. With a platform on top. Neat !

“Neat” was exactly what Zorro must have been thinking when he first set eager and approving eyes upon the unfamiliar contraption. After I finished reconstructing it (when I bought the post it had to be disassembled for easier carrying) he, together with a bold Hrimnir and a timid Frankette, immediately set to carefully checking it out. After a few tentative sniffs, and some not-so-tentative cheek-rubs, Zorro planted his furry behind -and his implicit approval- upon the platform and stayed put. He even remained perched on it when I took out the food bags and filled the bowls.

Later on, though, Zorro retreated to his recently chosen spot on top of the Cupboard of Many Treasures and presumably went to sleep there. He wasn’t however. The moment one other of the feline denizens of the House of Chaos came over in order to carefully sniff at the new scratching post a vengeful streak of black-&-white anger careened down from the cupboard and onto the hapless kitty. Repeat three times. Even Frankette, usually Zorro’s darling (which means he hasn’t tried to kill her yet and usually tolerates her passing close-by), had to make a fearful dash to safety, her lithe back raked by angry claws. Nobody was to approach the new scratching post. It was all his and his alone. HISSS !!

Now, I knew Zorro could be territorial. The cat-nip in the Garden of Chaos has perished, completely stripped bare and soaked with scent-of-Zorro, nobody else tries to reside on the top of the Cupboard of Many Treasures, and when Zorro is sleeping in the Nest even the simians hesitate to occupy it. But this hogging of the new scratching post has set new standards of obsessive possessiveness. He all but wrote his name on it and he clearly intends it to be the sole user of it.

Even when he is not occupying the platform, or lying on the cupboard in ambush, his promise of dire wrath somehow lingers in the air and the other feline denizens can sometimes be observed staring forlornly at the empty and unused scratching post. They would so love a rub, or a rake, or even a quick sit-on… but they don’t dare. There’s always the quiet menace of an angry Zorro exploding into righteous anger and they all respect his merciless punishments. He doth rule by terror.

So now we’ve placed the scratching post elsewhere, next to the mill (don’t ask why we have a lathe and a mill in the living room, it’s just one of the many reason why ours is called the “House of Chaos”) and The Mistress’ computer. Zorro still occupies the platform from time to time, but since he can no longer dive-bomb the unwary user it seems to have lost some of its appeal and currently the other feline denizens are tolerated near it. A tolerance they have relished and celebrated with tentative face-rubs and scratches. They swiftly grew bolder when they noticed that Zorro would indeed not keep watch all the time and now Hrimnir and Frankette can sometimes been seen frolicking around it. Loup-Garou and Bean -Sidhe, older and wiser, have abstained from using the scratching post however. The fear doth lingers.

Yet with two frolicky kittens (they’re still one year old…) ravaging the scratching post I fear that Zorro’s enjoyment of the scratching post will be short-lived. They tend to wreck things thoroughly, and even though these scratching posts have been designed to withstand intensive kitty-use this one already sports the slightly haggard look of a scratching post well-used.

Picture below: The Lord and Master of All He Beholds on His Throne.

Meh, it’s weekend again and that means… Friday Ark ! The Carnival of the Cats (Artsy Catsy) ! Weekend Cat Blogging (CatSynth)! Bad Kitty Cats Festival of Chaos (Samantha and Mr. Tigger) ! Ahhh… so many parties… so little time.

Once again The Katt Box has been rather quiet and with good cause.  Firstly I honestly haven’t had much to say because there has been just too much going on, in my head and in my space.  Secondly, I have been enduring what seems to be a squid infestation.

Yes, squid and I don’t mean the calamari steak type.  A week or so ago I found a delightful ’self-help’ article in a women’s magazine.  Normally I don’t read self-help articles (basically because I know some people, namely myself, are beyond help) or women’s magazines (the ”Get a bikini bum in three weeks” articles are becoming a bit stale).  However in light of the fact that The Odd Couple moved house, I got to bring home all the items which they just didn’t feel like packing.

In the Woman & Home (see, definitely not something I would buy) January 2006 publication is a lovely article entitled “You Have the Right to Remain Silent” penned by a lady with a lovely sense of humour, Martha Beck.  The entire article struck a chord but there was one bit that hit home harder than the rest.  If I may quote:

“Squid is my word for people who seem to be missing their backbones but possess myriad sucking tentacles of emotional need.  Like many invertebrates, squid appear limp and squishy – but once they get a grip on you, they’re incredibly powerful.  Masters at catalysing guilt and obligation, they operate by squeezing pity from everyone they meet.”

Oh, admit it!  Everyone has had a squid or two in their lives at some stage or another.  These are the people who complain about their boss but never do anything constructive about it, the people who complain about their relationships but a year later you are still hearing that he/she is involved with an inconsiderate cow/jerk.

This article came to my attention after having spent a particularly trying morning with a friend who is going through more than just hell on earth at the moment… correction, for the last two years.  As he (finally) walked out the door it became painfully clear that all the good, logical advice which has been laid at his feet was for nothing.  His announcing of his intention to try and make amends (when he hasn’t done anything wrong) with the cause of his own personal hell made me want to grab the fridge and bludgeon him to death with it.

The sheer mental exhaustion morphed into physical exhaustion and the simplest tasks took extreme amounts of superhuman effort on my part.  Needless to say, by the time my weekly guitar lesson swung around I found myself having to apologise profusely to my long suffering guitar teach because I hadn’t touched my beloved guitar once in a three week period (okay, I had ‘flu as well at some point).

Now, my guitar teacher also has a degree in psychology (I tend to be a ‘quality’ kind of girl when it comes to selecting teachers).  After a (bad) rehash of Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven we had a long discussion about squid.  After I regaled him with my tale of being a squid magnet, he said something very true – it is one thing to be a good listener but if six months later you are still hearing the same story, it might be time to get nasty (this strategy is the suggested one in the aforementioned article).

My problem is I have yet to learn the art of being nasty.  But life is nothing but a learning curve, isn’t it?  Which is something squid should maybe try and learn – in everyone’s life there are bad things you cannot change ever or at that point.  There is no point in continually complaining about it – if you can change it, change it.  If you can’t, shut up, accept it, deal with it and stop annoying everyone around you!

So, to the folks out there who can cry on a friend’s shoulder and then get on with life, I salute you, I applaud you.  With regards to squid… perhaps one should adopt the Hannibal Lecter approach:  ”I love squid, they taste just like calamari.”

There is a very good reason why this blog has been deathly silent lately. Nearly two weeks ago my personal space was occupied by two half humans belonging to the collective “Flyboy’s Kids.” Personally I am beginning to understand the standard parental laments of “We never have time for each other since the kids” and “I crave adult conversation.” Now I am beginning to realise the reason for a parent’s permanent glazed countenance.Being around kids saps everything out of you, your creative spark, your ability to conduct a conversation with someone of mutually well-developed thought processes, you lose your small desire to get out of bed in the mornings because eventually the sound of high pitched voices, wails, giggles and screeches will invade your much loved mental calm.

These bi-annual invasions are however interesting from a psychological “lab-technician/lab-rat” point of view (me being the technician in case you were wondering). Attempts to morph City Kids into Farm Kids in a two week period means using shock tactics.

It’s also a somewhat frightening comparison between when I (and most of the people I know) was growing up and how kids are growing up these days.

Play Time

Then:

Growing up in a flat meant I never had the privilege of being able to disappear out the house but given the chance, I wouldn’t be in the house. There was roller skating downstairs in the foyer (much to the landlord’s annoyance), walks around the block, anything that didn’t mean being stuck within the confines of four walls.

Flyboy and Reptile both had opportunities to spend childhood holidays on grandparents’ or family farms. They both concur, grandma/auntie had to send out a search party to look for them when it was getting dark, come rain or shine. TV was an unheard of bore – how can moving pictures be more exciting than finding stick insects and chameleons?

Now:

Fall out of bed at 10:00, stumble over to the computer and play Chicken Invaders I, II or whatever until the demo is all used up. Evil StepMother concentrates on ‘zoning out.’ Argue with brother/sister about who stole the ‘cool gun prize’ and the ‘food’ and proceed to kill each other. Evil StepMother removes all computer privileges. Proceed to sulk, SMS mother that you are having the worst holiday ever and SULK! Liberally use the following: “I’m bored” and “There is nothing to do here.”

Proceed to play annoying games on cell phones. Evil StepMother wonders if it is too early to start drinking. ‘Phone mother nightly for soap opera updates – kids watching soapies? Where people bonk each other like rabbits and pop each other off with gay abandon?

At the Table

Then:

It was a simple set of rules: Chew with your mouth closed. Hold your knife and fork properly. Sit up straight and don’t lean on your elbows. Chew with your mouth closed. Don’t talk with your mouth full. Don’t interrupt adult conversation. You will get seconds after the adults have said they have had enough (sort of like a pride of lions set up). You will eat what is on your plate. You will not waste food because there are thousands of children starving in Africa (I still get nightmares about people dying of malnutrition).

Now:

“What’s for supper?” “I don’t eat that.” Evil StepMother pours herself a healthy glass of wine. When the food is served, attack your plate like a starved wolf. Slouch down, firmly plant your elbows on the table and bring your mouth down to your fork without moving your arms. Proceed to stuff as much as possible into your mouth in one go (food consumption was in the past a matter of competition to see who could finish first, this is now a residual habit). Because your mouth is so stuffed, don’t bother about keeping it closed or about those horrid noises you make. In fact, you are so used to sounding like a pig at a trough you don’t even hear the sounds of glutinous mastication anymore. Evil StepMother tries to squeeze last drop out of the empty 5 litre box of wine.

When you see brother/sister is nearly finished and already asking for seconds, proceed to stuff your face faster than possible in case you miss out on seconds too. The fact that you aren’t really hungry anymore has got nothing to do with it, it’s about making sure you get the same amount. Get seconds, stare at the plate and then announce “It doesn’t taste nice.” Evil StepMother opens next 5 litre box, pours a healthy glass and proceeds to gulp it down in one go.

General Manners

Then:

If I referred to an adult as a ‘he’ or a ’she’ I got walloped to the other side of Christmas. Adults were respected, whether you liked them or not, whether they drooled all over themselves or not, whether they flicked spittle in your face when they spoke and whether they squeezed your cheeks when they greeted you. When someone told you you looked like your hideous, unattractive, totally unrelated stepgrandfather, you smiled politely and mentally promised yourself you would save for plastic surgery when you are older.

Children were seen and sure as bloody hell NOT heard. When guests came to visit, you politely excused yourself from the supper table when you were done and you disappeared (this was the only time I could go and play marbles in the traffic if I wanted to). “Please” and “Thank you” were NOT optional extras. Sweeties and swigs of beer were things which were offered to you and sure as hell NOT asked for – they were little gifts from heaven, presented when you had been angelic.

Now:

Everyone is a ‘he’ or a ’she’ except mother who seems to be The Perfect Being and the only one worthy of respect. Even Dad is a “he.” When other adults come and visit, sit in on the adult conversation (usually not meant for young ears) and offer your opinion and inane schoolyard stories when not asked for. Treat other adults like they are schoolyard friends/enemies. Remember to nag for sweets on a regular basis. When Dad drinks a beer ask for a sip every few minutes, to the point that you manage to guzzle down more than half the can and suffer your first hangover at the ripe old age of 12.

Fortunately, after removing computer privileges, the great outdoors have held more interest than these four walls and the Evil StepMother’s monosyllabic answers to the never ending stream of disjointed and bizarre questions. The bikes have been utilised, a couple of cows were sprayed down in the dairy (with or without permission I am not sure), boats were built and raced on the dam, a springbok horn was discovered and they are turning into bona fide farm kids.

The sad things is after nearly two weeks of really hard work, constant parenting and suffering from mind numbing exhaustion, they will return to their mother on Saturday, become miniature replicas of the adult rat racers and when they return, the slog will begin again.

One thing I have realised though is, as imperfect as Maw is, she didn’t do such a bad job raising me. I said as much to her the other day.