Before he became the charming egghead we know and love, the K-Dog apparently lived a parallel existence as a hunky, brooding himbo in 1979 cult classic The Warriors. Tireless research on the part of his PhD students has revealed his secret history. But who are his compatriots?
Out of our way, man. Me and my boyz study the systematic nature of the physical universe and if you don't get out of my face, I'm gonna drop a negatively charged dialectric thin film on your ass. Word.
I was so determined not to get stressed out about this wedding. The idea of paying a bazillion dollars for a party and then worrying, freaking out and losing sleep over it never made sense to me. After all, we've been together for years. We've got the kids and the mortgage. Why bother?
Why? Why? Because of the wedding.
I've always loved a wedding. The best a party could be. Everything is there: pretty outfits. Open bar. Bad dancing. Sentimental tears. And more romance than a Harlequin Black Label convention. It always disappointed me a little bit that Keith and I had such a wonderful marriage but had somehow missed out on the wedding.
The last time I got Keith to try on a wedding ring was years ago, on holiday in Borneo. 'How does that feel, sir?' asked the sycophantic jeweller. 'Like a noose,' replied Keith. (Apologies if you're actually coming to the wedding. I'll probably make that gag again. Just laugh politely, would you?)
So it took us a few years. Now we're going ahead, the plans have got a bit out of control, and quite frankly, I could reach back a few months and slap Past-Me in the face with a seating chart. All those big bloody ideas of mine are coming back to haunt me now I'm in final-fortnight freak-out zone. Me no likey following through on the details. I prefer the wildly imaginative, throw-them-out-and-see-what-flies ideas phase of proceedings. I'm irritating like that.
Now I have to tie up all those pesky ends and I'm getting sweaty hands just thinking about it. Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking of more stuff I had to do. Finally my tossing woke Keith up. He tried to talk me down. 'Every bride would go through this final stressy point,' he soothes. 'They'd more likely be worrying about the contents of their bonboniere boxes rather than how to organise a spotlight for their acrobats (ooh! a teaser!) but it will get done. You can do it. It's going to be fun, remember?'
And then he promised that tomorrow he would make me a big Gannt chart, and I remembered why I'm marrying him. I went back to sleep, but poor Keith, wide awake by then, and worrying about spotlights, charts and bonboniere, was up for an hour.
Teddy is on two feet, and every time he sees a phone he says 'Ah-ro.' Ivy will not take off this Warnie t-shirt, and only answers to the name 'Anthony.' I'm weddinged-out and Keith is under pressure - funding submissions, university politics, the existential crises he faces as an attractive feminist in a crazy, mixed-up world.
As for me, time is not my friend. I'm planning the wedding, wrangling the naughty-buttons and trying to keep the house off the public health blacklist. I'm way behind on email and phone-call returns, and I've been buying bread, and washing powder - two things I haven't had to buy from months. It's freakish how much work a wedding takes. I miss keeping up with the lives of my blog-buddies, and spending time processing my own thoughts and experiences through this blog. I can't wait for the wedding - a festival of fun and romance- but man, I'm looking forward to post-November, when I can settle back into the everyday rhythm of domestic life.
Keith has been in the Arctic Circle talking solar research with fellow eggheads, and we've been staying with Nanna and Pop. Having showers standing in half a foot of cold bath-water, trying not to get sexually violated by an 80 kilo Golden Retriever, and planning the wedding with Mum.
Have the babies after the wedding - I get it, I really get it now, Mum. I'm at the pointy end of the to-do list and the details are killing me. Conversations with caterers/florists/hairdressers etc all go a little like this:
'So the actual wedding is on the 24th of - Ivy, don't hit your brother with the spoon. Sorry, October. It's at the - Ivy! Listen to his noises! He doesn't like it! The beach, sorry, what did you say? Ivy! Stop it right now! - I'm so sorry, just a minute - Dodo is going on the naughty shelf. We don't hit Teddy. The beach, and then - Ow! Teddy, my hair! -at a community hall, where - oh, Christ, sorry, Ivy, please, Mummy will just be five minutes, can you just - hello? Hello?
I've got Westfield-flu after having to take them both on so many shopping trips. One memorable day, with Mum, Ivy threw the worst tantrum ever. It went for about forty minutes, at varying pitches. In between shrieking fits, she did quiet moaning exercises, gathering energy for the next attack. I tried to ignore it all, and towards the end of the mission, attempted some positive psychology; i.e: 'Ivy, you've done a good job controlling yourself for the last few minutes. If you can keep us this happy behaviour you can have a balloon from the lady. ' On the way home I put on my stern voice and tried to discuss The Incident. 'Ivy, that was very, very naughty, what you did at the shops. What was going on there?' Ivy was happy to talk though what she learned. 'I did cry and cry and cry, ' she said thoughtfully. 'And then Mummy did give me a balloon!'
Hello, hola, bonjour, saluton, etc. Welcome to my blog, where I aim to explore some of the juicer chunks of domestic life. I am Rachael, a mum to three kids under six and a wife to one work-from-home solar scientist. Our working stats are three parts chaos to one part serenity and I am always trying to improve that equation. I cook, I clean, I whinge, I write. My back hurts and I possibly/probably have head lice.
