you may say that i'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one...

father's day is almost here (again), and not un-like mother's day, facebook has kindly prompted it's masses to copy and paste (and post) assorted pater related paraphernalia (south africa, 1975, dad is third from the left, next to mum, both sitting behind me).



but which photo? staring at the albums i got that same glazed over feeling which happens at baskin & robbins. but this is the one i went with; awali, bahrain, sometime in the mid 80's, on his way to work to do a couple of fillings. there were a lot of different names on the house signs, some in arabic, but as far as i can remember there weren't any others that started and ended with a z-- and believe me, there are a lot of arabic names that do.



at this point i think it is fairly evident that i cant commit to much of anything-- and i do thank, not blame, my dad for that (it is his fault about the flat feet though) geographical transience can do that to a person. iceland; circa. we were very small-- somewhere in the 3 foot range-- but this demonstrates how the fedorowicz's never travel light, regardless of how much practicing at it goes on.



then there was the "badass" one where he ran the comrades ultra-marathon in south africa (that's 90k south of the equator) some time in the late 70's.



or the one where he took "teenage me" mountain biking around the jebel (bahrain) with his windsurfing buddies, post-gulf war (the first one).



speaking of windsurfing...sheik's beach, bahrain, the 90's.



there was also the apres 'ride around the desert', in the paddling pool, with floating beer...



scuba diving in the red sea in the 80's. well, diving and drinking home brewed wine for the grown ups, ripping apart sea cucumbers and starfish for the under 9's.



and the "poo thing"...duba, saudi arabia; we were so proud of the home made camping toilet that was the sum product of the fedorowicz, wood and barnes families' hard labour.



because this is what we all had to put up with before; a shovel, sand dune and a roll of andrex...



always a family favourite, dad laughing uncontrollably while pointing out the giant, steaming pile the horse (that just carried his son and future daughter-in-law away by carriage) left behind. (keysoe, england, 5-ish years ago).



my birthday card (from my brother), detailing the finer points of a dog's bum, caused such silent mirth and tears of appreciation, that we could not miss the opportunity to document it (buckden, england, two-ish summers ago).



at this point, it's clearly evident that freud would have a field day; the apple cant even be pried off the tree. dad in his dental chair, bahrain.



last christmas.

africa's (other) big five

it is said that "you can never go home", and having been dragged halfway around the world and back again growing up, i don't know that i would even begin to know where i couldn't return to. however, i can go back to the country where i was born. and left. and moved back to. and then left again. which also sounds like a rather familiar pattern in my relationships. anyway. we made the 17 in-flight-hours-not-including-6-sitting-in-transit-at-a-generic-yuppie-bar-in-heathrow honeymoon pilgrimage south of the equator. which gave me plenty of time to ponder which box i wanted to check to identify my profession on the immigration form.



memory is an interesting thing, especially remembering the earlier ones you've forgotten about. landscape became my primary trigger; random mental images of biting into tart apples, sitting in the back of a station wagon, on a family road trip, playing "what's the capital of...?"



africa as a continent truly surpasses north america for it's topography, language, culture, food and dangerous bitey things.



fortunately baboons aren't too particular about whether they urinate in ceramic bowls or on stone walls.



i am not one to take a lot of tedious "scenery" pictures, because people tend to be more interesting- as long as they're not just standing in front of scenery. south africa isn't scenery, as anyone can see from the pictures.



and here's a "people" picture.

dirty little scrubber

a visit from the woman who gave me life, and subsequent years of advice- dutifully ignored- on how best to wear my "you have such a narrow face" hair, kicks off some serious extra credit housework. *

forget polishing the silver and dusting off the 'just for show' china; cleaning the calcified layers of green gunk from the electric toothbrush and wiping pico de gallo fingerprints off the tv remote become the topmost priority. and so i found myself vacuuming the dust colonies that had settled pueblo style, amongst the fireplace brickwork- dog hair is harder to get rid of than a palm full of ringworm.

swiffer brand needs to hurry the hell up and manufacture a collapsible, disposable 'get-down-on-your-knees-and-scrape-the-black-gunge-out-of-the-skirting-board-to-the-sounds-of-kc-and-the-sunshine-band' appliance.




* the occupant who logs the most hours sitting on the loo, should automatically win the task of chipping all the caked bits of bodily excreta from the porcelain. **


** this never happens.

just say NO!

i have become the wal-mart mother- despite years of counseling multi-generations of babymomma's, and other ancillary aunties and grandmommas, on the detrimental effects that screaming redirects across the room has on the nurturing and attachment styles of their hyperactive hellians. and while "time-out" is a well researched and peer reviewed method (except when you leave things like rubbish bins full of banana peels, soggy coffee filters and egg cartons in the designated "naughty space") smacks, wooden spoons, shaming, and threats of "don't make me put my laptop down and come in there", tend to be the default technique.



of course until evolution kicks it up a notch and rielly and axel either develop opposable thumbs or the 'bewitched nose twitch', their toys and remains of the granola box will be dutifully tidied up, while they take a well earned, cute looking recovery nap.

real housewives of southern maine

orange county, new york, and atlanta are such obvious choices for the overindulged and overwrought aspiring nouveau riche bimbo. however, the range rover driving contingent of missus's, sporting "someone just hacked up the michelin man" vests, have been grossly overlooked by bravo tv. might i present a case study in support of the northeast.

the stress of endless social obligations, including book clubs, tupperware parties, bridge groups and seasonal affective disorder requires a live-in psychoanalyst to help identify strengths, develop coping strategies and schedule at least one daytime lie down during the week.



segueing into coping strategies...entertaining requires a "cellar" to store the many bottles of wine acquired over the course of time. there's currently a two for $11 special going on this week at hannaford's- from the "barefoot" vineyards.



given my tireless volunteer work (habitat for humanity; currently renovating my own habitat) and philanthropic pursuits, a business and media centre is imperative in order to meet the demands from local communities. and i am never seen without that must have accessory- 'small-dog-to-fit-in-oversized-shoulder-bag-with-lots-of-metal-buckles-that-don't-actually-close-or-hold-anything-in-place-and-wreak-havoc-at-airport-security'.



as with most estate homes, there is usually adequate square footage to accommodate a home gym, which is essential to supplement the several rounds of plastic surgery, a basic human right to any "housewife" worth her botox.



in fact, the space is so palatial, that the interior floor plan spans two county lines, necessitating an additional gym room, complete with hot tub.



and as stephen king, the bronte's, and jane austen have all done before me (because what else is there to do when 6 feet of snow covers the ground for 8 months of the year) there is a cosy window seat to ponder meter and metaphor, birth the next great novel, or just quilt a set of bedlinen showcasing the family crest.



while no game of cluedo is complete without somewhere to slaughter miss scarlet with a candlestick, so must the homemaking elite maintain a fully stocked library of all the classics...j.k. rowling, judy blume...david sedaris.



as you can clearly see, dressing for luncheons, cocktail hour, and arctic temperatures warrants a closet the size of a swimming pool, in order to house the last three seasons of polartec fleece by versace et al.



prior to attaining "housewife status", all young ladies have completed a course/program in something utterly useless, and here is my bachelor's in art history put to use in the personal "collection"; showcasing work from picasso through the ikea movement.



it is also essential that a residence should have it's own workshop, for woodsmithing fine antiques, particularly when inspired and warmed, by a brick hearth, for even better feng-shui. note that contemporary sculptures can also be seen to exhibit both form and function, as evidenced by the rather controversial piece; "dirt devil coat rack".



and just as someone else's long lost british ancestors (mine were too busy raping and pillaging scandinavia in horn-ed hats), did in days of olde, ye scullery maid makes nutritious meals (using organic extra virgin olive oil, mind you) on the agar, for the gentleman of the house.



all i need now, is to ferment a fetus in my uterus for 9 months and i will have earned enough points to cash in on a monogrammed apron in 'save the tata's" pink.

and for those of you who might be concerned that i have "changed", let me reassure you; tongue is firmly in place, as are both cheeks.

painting by numbers

i have a long history of not committing-- to eyewear, shampoo, relationships, countries, and walls. as a child, we moved into accommodation provided by my father's work, i then lived in my grandmother's flat during undergrad, and moved into rentals every few years thereafter. however, i have been "practicing" thoughout the course of my own changes in address, by helping 'mortgaged and monogomous' friends; spackle, strip, and roll, offering (unsolicited) opinions on the merits of "watermelon-mango" as an accent colour for the toilet cistern.

the walrus said, "the time has come" (check your nearest lewis carroll), for me to choose, and while i typically enjoy as much colour as dame barbara cartland's eyeshadow palette, this does not translate well into a space inhabited by furniture, framed art, and periodically, a christmas tree. too bright and/or too many, is too trendy for the interior-- and will date faster than those god awful lamp shade dresses that everyone has been wearing this past year.

perusing the colour wheel at lowes, i found that choices are categorized into food groups, the weather, and random nouns. an immediate appetite boner occurs when rifling through; "burnt caramel", "coconut cream", "pale butter", "maple taffy", "orange toffee", "honey tea", "creamy oat", "pumpkin custard", (does the paint company outsource to yankee candle?), "coffee whip", "butterscotch sundae", and "tomato bisque". and i strenuously object to "fruit compote" as a signifier for pale yellow.

aspiring (or even actual, and therefore super-dooper nerdy) meteorologists can choose from; "heatwave" (with a "dehydration" accent wall and "gatorade" trim?), "lightning", "sunburst", "solstice", and "rise-n-shine" (the abercrombie line of paint identifies it as "morning wood").

and the more peculiar; "grand hotel awning yellow", "fuzzy navel", and "champagne tickle". i question the validity of "soft duckling", because how many times do you really see matted looking chicks with feathery dreds.

i would like to submit my contributions to either the eddie bauer or martha stewart collections; "batshit grey", "morning sickness", "bloodshot pupil", "draining sinus", "burnt bile", "seeping scab", "penile drippage", "toasted scabies", "rosacsea", "oops-i-washed-my-whites-with-my-blue-jeans", "one-week-out-of-the-month-knicker-stain-umber", "white t-shirt's armpit", "dig deeper earwax orange", "sewers after the tsunami", "wifebeater plum", "toilet bowl" (a popular choice for those doing the pebble dashed sponge painting technique), and "lint trap", accented with "oops-i-sharted-myself-after-a-serious-chicken-vindaloo".

carpal diem

there is a tingling in my fingers- and it is not love, bengay, or the results of handwashing too close to a plug socket. it would appear that the many hours i have logged on the laptop are benign compared to the scrubbing, stripping, scraping, and rolling that the nerves in my metacarpals have endured over the past four weeks.

my fingers are currently arthritic, and fairly useless for "activities of daily living". this serves as yet another reminder why it is so important to find a life partner (preferably someone 20 years junior) who can grip the requisite four sheets of double layered charmin (andrex for the british reader, other nationalities-- aside from a hand or a hose, fill in your popular national brand here) and wipe for me, or at the very least hold it still and i will just "glide" across. clearly wiping is not the problem, when your fine motor has gone down the toilet.

and with all the standing (and scrubbing/stripping/scraping/rolling) i can expect my first varicose vein to swim to the surface any day now.

home...

...is where you start from...where the heart is...there's no place like home...is where you lay your hat...where you can always go back...whatever you make it...everywhere you go...what you need...safe...a shell on your back...there...welcoming...an escape...bricks...memories...where you grew up...picket fences...an airport...people