Budget Budget Budget Budget Budget Budget Budgie Budgie Budgie SMUGGLERS!

Once upon a time, in the land of the Post Pubescens, a man called Jummifera swore that he would never become a Servent of the Pubelist, and nor would he care for the Budgetus. Jummifera would become a purveyor of magnificent smuggled goods, living a Bohemian life playing the five-string, pulsing, 'Lady Trembler' in a band of magnanimous fame. Consuming caffeinated beverages in the morning, and fine ales from noon would be his daily routine.

As much as Jummifera knew about the world - and he knew everything - he didn't know about himself. Nor did he know about Wisdom and the Rose that hath a Wyrm. The Wyrm of Growing Uppeth.

DAMMIT!

I grew up.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck - I have now sat and watched TWO budgets in a row (the passing of years has become like the passing of days). Sadly I am going to sit and watch the budget reply. FOR THE SECOND TIME TOMORROW!

I can't believe I care!?

I remember sitting in a hazey blur a number of years ago, casting soap box comments on all politicians:

Me: They're just a pack of fags

Mate: It's not a fucking microphone, pass it over

Me: I mean, where do they get off? Determining what I pay for a pack of smokes, and for a longie of VB isn't fucking right.

- pause -

Me again: and they wear suits all the time... what's with that? You don't need a suit to be respectable. I know I'm a good person, right? I don't need neat hair to be taken seriously. Just 'cos I have an undercut, and black and blue colours in my hair doesn't mean I can't be a good person. Right?

Mate: I said... it isn't a FUCKING MICROPHONE PASS IT OVER!!!

Me: Oh, ok, sorry dude (passing the microphone over) what is it then?

Mate: It's a portal for our minds and souls to travel through this ridiculous material existence and into the panties of many hot chicks.

Me: Oh, I see... so it goes with my five-string, pulsing 'Lady Trembler' then. Cool. By the way, I dropped the portal in the ashtray earlier.

Mate: (Sniffing portal) You truly are a goose (gags)

Anyway, I have come to the realisation that I have now been in the Public Service for almost five years, have no intention of leaving, am the father of two children, am married, own a house, drive a car, kick a dog, attend church never and care about the budget. And interest rates, and tax, and the mortgage, and ironing my shirt and pants, and gardening.

Did I mention that I like gardening? No? Well, I am like a 32 year old Peter Cundall. Bloodey hell it is sad. I am going to plant leeks this weekend.

My bladder will also probably also start to leak this weekend.

A brief intermission and welcome back big fella (aka Dad)

It's been a while since my last post, however there is good reason. You may recall the post 'The Greyish Blob that is my Child' and the other post 'Aaron with two 'A's' - if you don't, well, you aren't reading closely enough. Either way, my child has grown from a pink/grey blob into a little ball of trouble.

Basically, my wonderful wife has gone back to work this week, and from now on I am in charge of that little bundle of trouble called Aaron. Thankfully I only have to do this in the evenings. As much as I love my time with the little fella, I just don't have that motherly knack that my wife does. We can make mess, we can scream in joy, we can vomit in unison - we just don't seem to have that wonderful sense of order Mum brings. We do, however, break new ground when it comes to babies eating hats. In particular filthy, dirty gardening hats.

What I really wanted to say in this post is that the Overflow of Concentrated Emotion, the Depth of Love and the Fear and Anticipation that comes with raising a child is more than one can bear sometimes.

Stacey went to work this evening,and I cried on and off for hours. It didn't make sense. I AM MAN. I NOT CRY.

I think I was sadder than my wife, who had to go back to work after eight months of maternity leave. Stacey sad. MAN NOT SAD.

I know it doesn't make sense.

New Zealand: Phase Six - Easter Monday on the West Coast

We both woke up to a new and very special day; the sun was barely showing itself in the mountains to the east and the ocean was barely taking notice of anything - smashing big rocks into smaller rocks and entire trees onto the beach nearby.

We hopped out and looked around, noticing in particular that I had parked the van surprisingly well into the coastal heath the night before. The coastal heath itself was thick, rough and sharp. A bit like Britney Spears if she didn't shave. We mucked around in this inhospitable, yet beautiful place and then moved on at a leisurly pace northwards to the glaciers.

After a slightly windy, yet beautiful drive we found ourselves at the Fox Glacier. I stand corrected, we didn't find ourselves there, we found our way there. I found myself back in 1998 when I drank too many pints at the Phoenix bar on a 32 degree night. I also found myself being pretty sick too.

The glacier was much greater, majestic and mysterious than I expected. Its peaks rose above us like the icy crown of a King that struck down all before him. The glacial valley was steep and powerful in its immense silence. It made me think how I really can't stand it when people say that things make them feel insignificant, like 'when I think of how large the universe is it makes me feel so insignificant'. The glacier didn't make me feel insignificant - it certainly made me feel a bit smaller than the boulder the size of a house that I was standing next to (I think the glacier dropped it there). It didn't, however, make me feel insignificant. Being crushed like an ant by the glacier would, on the other hand, make me feel insignificant because I would have to be so pathetically slow for it to catch me.

Stacey and I have a knack for getting ahead of the various packs of dickheads that are as much of an inevitability in tourist areas as a wedgie is when you wear satin boxers on a long drive on a hot day. On this occasion we managed again to get ahead of the tool box and enjoy a moment of silence with our friend the glacier. There were a pack of young American idiots that decided to jump the well sign posted (you will DIE if you go beyond this point) rope and head up to the glacier and climb on it. Just as Stacey and I had left we heard the most almighty crash, similar to the sound you hear when standing on the precipice of Yasur volcano. A large chunk (probably the size of four or five buses)had fallen from the roof of the glacier mouth - right next to the stupid Americans. I bet there were some brown dacks that day.
After this we went on to enjoy a lunch with the ducks and trout at Lake Mapourika in the Westland National Park.

The Rain forest on the New Zealand west coast is impressively dense and mysterious. I could easily find myself dreaming of Maori legends, and running from mythical beasts through the thick foliage. Oh wait, that was those mushrooms I ate at lunch - no wonder the duck was looking at me kinda weird...

We pressed on through the forest to Hokitika at the heart of greenstone (jade) country. We had a look around, shrugged our shoulders at the expense, bought some groceries and again moved on to the suitably named Greymouth. Looking at my travel journal I used words like 'pooh', 'featureless' and 'violent in its mediocrity' to describe Greymouth. On hindsight it was more 'bleg'.

We drove on north from there to seek out our place of rest for the night, and did we find a cracker of a spot. Fourteen Mile Beach, stirringly beautiful, rough and peaceful. The sand was a funny grey colour and holy crap there were a lot of friggin BITEYS. AAAAAARGH BITEY! I have mentioned the sand flies before, however up until this point in time I hadn't come up with a name. At this beach I did. Friggin Biteys. They suck. They are all up and down the west coast and they are way worse than mozzies. FRIGGIN BITEYS!

Stacey had been feeling the baby up until this point, and increasingly so over the last few days, and this night I felt the little fella for the first time. I didn't know if it was a 'he' or a 'she', all I knew was it was an incredible moment and I couldn't get over how happy it made me feel. Try and spot the third person in the photo...

Aaron With Two 'A's

I know it has been an extremely long time since I made an entry on my blog and I am truly sorry for that. Actually, who am I apologising to? Anyone who may have read my blog in the past certainly won't be checking in to see if I posted anything recently. Maybe they will. Whatever.

I wrote an entry a while ago about grey blobs - well that grey blob that was my child is now a pinkish, burpy, farty, screamy blob that is my newest son Aaron. And he is friggin awesome. So friggin awesome in fact that I can stare at him for hours and marvel at his awesomeness. He clearly takes after his dad in that department. Actually I think he might out awesome me.

After a few hours of causing his mother some extreme pain he was born on Tuesday 21 August at 3:04 pm. My world changed forever instantly, and I really am happy that it did.

At this stage I want to write as much as possible about the little fella, however there are a number of factors that thwart this desire:

1. The weather outside is a-friggin-mazing and I need to go out and do gardeny things while the little man has a feed (my wife is a walking milk bar)
2. It really shits me when people talk non-stop about their children. I don't mind a bit of chit chat, but when it starts to encompass when they eat, what they eat, when they cry, how much they shit and what colour their shit is I get cranky. His is quite regular on the 3 hour mark during the day, and the 1 hour at night. Usually a deep mustard to orange colour with white curds thanks for asking.

There is some rain forecast in a couple of days so I promise to get back to the blog and finish my holiday thing and tell you more about the baby.

Because you will listen - I will force you to.

Jum

The Greyish Blob that is my Child

I am sure some people understand it, and I am sure there are many others that don't understand it and pretend to anyway. I am sure that most of the people think I am a bit crazy - a bit on the weird side. I am absolutely certain that people think I am completely mad when I run around the office waving a sheet of photocopied paper shouting 'look! It is my child! See, see, here is its nose, you can make out an eye and there is its head! Look at the little hand that it is holding to its mouth! It is sooooooo cute!'
Some people understand my enthusiasm and greet it with a wisened (they already have kids) 'let me see...oh, isn't it fantastic! is it a boy or a girl?' followed by a disappointed 'Oh, you aren't finding out are you".
Some people just hover nearby listening in, like I would, because they really couldn't be bothered pretending to care what is going on because it is Thursday morning and work sucks.
Most greet it with a smile that says 'damn, I should have gone to the toilet just then, rather than look at that next email'. They then look at the picture as I wildly point out the features and make random and quite pointless statements like 'it was like it was waving at us' and 'when we first saw it it was drinking the amniotic fluid and I said to the ultrasound lady that the baby is taking after her father and it was really funny and, yeah...'
There are a few people in this world that seem to be very wise and very full of it. Advice that is. Not shit. They like to say things like 'wait until it is two and it throws the first tantrum' and 'enjoy it now while it is quiet, you have eighteen years of hell coming up'. Thanks. Watch me throw a tantrum if you don't shut up.
My wife likes to look, ahem, we like to look at a number of websites, however one seems to grab my attention the most. It is probably because of its straight up web address www.i-am-pregnant.com. It has a week by week section which is apparently useful if you know what week it is. I don't know what month it is, let alone week, but I do know that this week has some of the funniest footage ever. The little ultrasound of the baby is what I am looking at. What is it doing? Am I besotted and all clucky or what? If I were these parents I would put up extra high fences around the house. I would also invest in a heap of velcro. Chandeliers are out of the question.
Our little one doesn't seem to be as active, but I don't care because I really hate to run after things. Besides a lazy baby is a healthy baby.
Ours is already full of character. I know because it waved at me with one hand and gave me the finger with the other.

Jum

After the sadness has gone

I decided that I needed something funny after my last post, and rather than go and cook pasta and meatballs like I really should, I went on the hunt. Well, trust some Euro bloke to make a baby laugh with a funny noise....

I continued on and found another vid. If I was the parent of this I would be proud. It is cute, furry, and clearly a barrel of laughs. Quite frankly I would like two proud toes like this thing, maybe this is where the surname 'Proudfoot' comes from.

Rather than go on I will leave it at that. Perhaps I should read some one else's blog.

Cheerio

Jum

In Constant Fear of a Horse Head in my Perambulator

Today my wonderful wife and I decided to brave the baby shops of Canberra to have a look at cots (boring), bedspreads (I yawned so hard I dislocated my jaw) and prams - WOOHOO! Yes, prams, strollers, perambulators, joggers or whatever you want to call them are magnificent things. I have been sucked into this strange little world and quite frankly I am o.k. with it. There is so much choice out there that it at first seems overwhelming, but as you start to kick a few easily detachable wheels you begin to sort the Fords from the Holdens, the Deawoos from the Hyundais, and the Bondi Taxis (aka Toorak Taxis) from the far less pretentious and far more pragmatic 1978 pattern Land Cruisers.

To start with you have the straight out strollers at around $200 or so. These are practical, lightweight and simple to use - as long as your child is capable of sitting up by itself. Essentially they are the Daewoos of the stroller world, usually owned by those that are completely unconcerned with what it looks like, just as long as it gets you there. Even if it does lose the odd door on the way.

Second of all you have the cheap three wheelers - liable to tip at a moments notice. They are large, cumbersome, stupid looking and generally pretending to be something better. Magnas; they are dangerous and so are their owners. These are the ones that take out your ankles in the supermarket aisles.

Third are the more expensive and excessively large three wheelers. Quite a number of them are made by Jeep, and you need a Jeep to be able to move the thing around. The sheer size of these things is impressive. In fact they remind me of one of my very first posts. You see proud parents put their little babies into these things and crawl in after them when they realise that the baby has completely disappeared along with a fortnights worth of groceries. I have also heard that the dashboard lights and GPS units can play up.

Finally is my favourite - the type that makes me all quivery inside. The well thought out, modern, sleek next generation strollers. I must admit I spent a lot more time than I probably should have done with these things. I got caught up in the polished aluminium frames, the easy release capsules, the intelligent fold up mechaninsms and the three position reversible reclining seat. My beautiful wife will have no problems getting me to come along to the baby shops in future, although she probably won't want to come with me because the store clerks did look a little concerned when I started singing 'Transformers, more than meets the eye...' and making special sound effects every time I adjusted something.

I did learn a lot through the course of my adventure. Not only did I learn about the intricate workings of prams of all sizes, I found out about the baby mafia. I am now in fear, and quite concerned for my safety; what if we buy the wrong brand, what if we buy from the wrong shop, what if I speak to the wrong clerk? Apparently, according to someone who was new in the world of baby retail, there is a very cosy relationship between baby chains and baby product suppliers. There is even an unspoken agreement that the prices will remain the same from store to store. No competition, no bloodshed. Now I know why all these kids are listening to Eminem and shooting eachother - it is instilled into them before they are even born. We are a doomed race! In one of the shops was one unfortunate child trying to recruit some bitches so he could go pimpin' with his posse. Subliminal messages, designed to foster a special love for all things bling, are issued through Fisher Price toys. There is more to the trade in baby powder than you think.

I had better go, I just noticed a posse of youths in some pimped out Jeeps eyeing out my place...