Going to the Loo is not a Spectator Sport!

...but I am thinking about starting to charge admission in my house.

My cats are scat and watersports fetishists, it would seem.

Any move towards the hallway, where you could, conveivably, be going to towards the bathroom, results in a stampede of truely impressive proportions.

There are only two cats, you see- well one and a half really as one is still a kitten- but in that moment in time, anyone would swear there is a plethora of shrunken elephants charging you from behind.

Your best bet is to stand still and wait till they pass, allowing a moment for the dust in their wake to settle. But no one every waits. Human instict kicks in and all you can think of is "arghhh! Run! before you are trampled underneath their mighty feet!"

Usually running presents another problem. Both the cats are too dumb to avoid feet. So, inevidably, one will be stepped upon. And, drama queens that they are, they can't simply wince, learn from their mistakes and move on- no- thye have to freak the fuck out, youwling and hollering about like someone is poking hot sticks into their ears.

So then you have to stop and check that they are ok. Difficult to catch a hurt cat, too. They just wont stop wiggling and writhing about. So after you've managed to grasp one of the slithery little bactards by getting the tip of an ear, a back paw and most of a tail in your fist, that tends to set the whole howling process off again.

5 minutes later and you are in the hallway, dancing from one foot to the other because you are busting to pee, and the little furbag is finally calm enough to begin purring contentedly- until you make the move to lay it down. Then its all huffiness and indignation.

Continuing along the hallway, and making it finally to the bathroom with milliseconds before your protesting bladder gives way, you will usually find the door has developed this weird inability to close, and make a strage squeak with repeated attempts.

This usually menas that one - or more frequently, both cats and stuck, halfway in the bathroom and halfway into the hallway, stretched thin in the middle, attempting to hold their spleens in as the slamming door does iots best to guillitine them.

And so begins the epic tale of yowling for sympathy once more.

Usually at this point I allow them in the bathroom- not cause I desire and audience, but becuase I'm mortified at the idea that I might, as a full grown women in her 30s, wet my pants like a toddler.

Cats are supposed to be refined. Dignified. Elegant. Especially ours- both purebreds- one lilac point burmese, one black oriental. Somehow this elevated sense of being does not get bestowed upon those around. They could not care less that you are pising enough to put out a small forest fire. They think nothing of your privacy.

Winding about your legs, standing on hind feet to see under your ass like they don't have any idea what the noise is. Jumping into your lap, head butting your chin and demanding that you treat them as they are your sole purpose in life.

And as if this is not enough, their newest game is to goblin into the bathroom overnight and steal away with the toilet roll.

I find that when this happens, it is best to open the door to call out to Scootah and ask him to find it or bring me another. I do this partly because I really need the loo roll to wipe- but also, I'll admit to finding it amusing to watch the wee furry little bastards ears prickle at the sound of footsteps in the hall, watching them sprint off excitedly, and seeing, a moment later, the Boi coming round the corner full tilt, eyes wide as he tried to change step mid stride as to not step on a stray cat limb.

Perhaps it is a spectator sport, afterall.

Australia; love it or hate it?

I became an Australian Permanent resident last week. So I've been reflecting a little on my experiences in the “Land Down Under”, and of all its quirks and curiosities.

Hates;

-Australians insist on retaining the use of French words, but completely disregard proper pronounciation of the same. For example “Debut” is used at least daily on various news programs, pronounced “deboo”. I cringe every time. Maybe that makes me a snob. I don't care. it's still wrong.

-The service industry. It completely lacks- well...service. Because there is no tipping, waitstaff simply overlook any attention to detail or even common courtesty. They get paid regardless, and any one daring to rudely point out that their work is not up to snuff would probably regret every saying anything. “So you ordered steak and got chicken? Oh well- enjoy your chicken- and we will still be charging you for the most expensive steak on the menu”.

-The heat. oh my god, the fucking heat. Paradise, my ass! It actually IS the underworld- Yes, Virginia, there is a hell- and the Devil went down to Queensland.

-Women are women. Girls are women. Female toddlers are bloody women. Tomboys just don't exist. Look around the average shopping centre, the average beach, the average playground- you can easily tell the sex of each and every baby from the age of 4 days old because the girls are completely clad in matching Oscar De La Renta handbag and shoes, and are wearing the latest shade of lipstick.

Likes;


-Australia is where the boy is.

-The beach. The ocean. Endless white sand, water warm enough to actually swim in (or fall about helplessly in, in my case), gorgeous enough to make me cry.

- Fruit, nuts and flowers that are common enough to practically be considered weeds. Mangos, Avocados, Macadamias, calla lilies- all grow in backyards without most people giving a second thought to just how good they have it.

-Taxes are built into the price on everything. No more guessing or calculating taxes on the way to the checkout. no more being caught short. What you see is what you pay. Simple.

-the breathtaking wildlife. Nothing quite compares to an early morning coffee on my deck while a flock of several hundred Gallahs sail by gracefully overhead.

- Surfers Paradise- a city that combines all the cheese of Las Vegas with a breathtaking view where city skyscrapers meets white sand beaches that stretch for miles. The glorious wrongness of strolling through the all night open malls that are patrolled equally by hookers and families out for a late night stroll with their kids in tow. Neither thinks the other are out of place.

-Traffic that merges like a zipper. One lane merging into another simply means that the far furthest in front has right of way. None of this waiting on the side of a freeway waiting for a break in traffic cavernous enough to let a car go from 0 to 100- you simply math speed of traffic on the on-ramp, and traffic actually accommodates your entry smoothly.

-The fact that my accent is considered “Exotic”. I've been harassed on several occasions to read simply so I could be listened to. It is a surreal thing to run into a convenience store at 4 am after a night of clubbing to be held up for ten extra minutes, simply to read the ingredients on a package of hot dogs for the clerk or sits enraptured at your every word.

- An economy that has been growing steadily for so long that an entire generation of Australians have grown up not only hoping to achieve all their dreams- but with the security that anything really is possible. No, not even possible- but expected. It's resulted in a delightful positive, laid-back, devil-may-care attitude that is infectious. Que Sera, Sera indeed.

-Australia is where the boy is.

Australia. It seems I love it more then I hate it. But its still not pronounced deboo.

I truely am an innocent...

Today, I received an unsolicited email from a young American lady, curently on holiday in London, UK, who tells me she "read it on the net somewhere" that I used to live in London myself. And then she asked me to tell her where she could "buy some green".

It took me about three minutes to figure out what she was asking for. I honestly had NO clue. I was sitting and thinking to myself; "Green? Why would she want to BUY American dollars once there? Why not bring them with her? and surely everyone knows about banks and currency exchange places?"

It's a wonder I can tie my own shoes.

Weird Al rocks the house.

I am Canadian.

Nikki WhereIS

I've been debating changing my name to Nikki WhereIs. As it is the most commonly heard phrase in our home, particularly in the morning. I don't mind it for things like keys, which could get set down anywhere (except on the actual keyrack, cause that would just be silly, wouldn't it)?

But I do get the littlest bit irritated and sassy when asked on a regular basis things like "Nikki WhereIs the milk?

"Ummm...its 40 damned degrees at 7 am- where do you THINK I might be hiding the milk? Did you even LOOK in the fridge"?

My typical morning involves following in the Boi's wake, picking up things he will need along the way; wallet, car and house keys, swipe card for access to the office, gym clothing, laptop, sunglasses, lunch, books for class. By the time we get out to the car, I'm juggling his gear and mine (A single handbag), a la Octopus Extraordinaire, and he's relaxed and empty handed, save for his bottle of water, stretching and enjoying the morning sunshine while I dance about on one foot trying not to drop anything while unlocking the car door with keys held in my mouth.

I love mornings But I should demand a raise.