Road Trip from Hell plus Giveaway.


One of the things that my parents liked to do as a form of torture was to take us skiing every year. I know, “Boohoo! You poor creature!” I can hear your eyes rolling from here….
It is funny though, because I cannot remember much about the actual skiing, but can recall every second of the long car trip there and back.

My parents were the proud owners of a V6 Nissan Skyline. I have no idea how they managed it, but they would pack up that little car with everything we needed. It was a military operation.

First up the four of us would get into position across the back seat, with the two in the middle sharing a seatbelt. Once we were in place, Mum would begin her game of luggage Tetris, slotting bags into areas that were previously filled with nothing but sweet, sweet space. Her spatial awareness skills were akin to those of a finely tuned surgeon. Precision was key here, and a weeks worth of clothes, ski clothes in fact, provided us with what I believe to be the first ever prototypes for airbags ever seen in Australia.

Then we would pull out of the driveway. And thus the road trip from hell would begin.

We were not blessed with the technology that we enjoy today, so for entertainment we would roll out the old eye-spy pretty quickly. This would end in tears and then we would play the game where we nominated one sibling that the rest of us would pick on for the entire trip. Passing wind and blaming them. Holding your finger 2 cm’s from their face and saying “But I’m not touching her Mum…..” and the like. I know you know what I am talking about here.

My parents would be enjoying their space up the front, talking a bit but mainly enjoying their new cassette deck that came with the car. And that cassette deck continuously played Neil Diamond Hot August Nights Volume Two, because volume one had been left on the dashboard and melted in the Hot January Sun.

I recall with alarming clarity one particular journey back from the ski-fields. I had requested and received a large jar of which I filled up with fresh snow. Because I was a caring child, I was taking this jar of snow back to school for Show and Tell so my peers could get to see snow, some for the first time, while I lorded it over them.

That jar of snow, all fluffy and white, melted into about 3 cm of water by the time we hit Cooma due to me clutching it in my hot little hands.  “Doesn’t matter.” I thought to myself in my 8-year-old head, “I will just freeze it when I get home.”

And then it started to happen. The feeling of nausea that you get when you know that a little motion sickness comes a calling.

“I feel sick…” I squeaked.

Everyone wound down his or her windows a few centimetres.

But it was too late. It was going to happen.

Dad pulled over quickly and Mum, cursing herself at her superior packing skills, scrambled to undo her wonderful work to try and get me out of the car in time. My sisters and brothers were all banshee shrieking and then it happened.

Like a torrent of warm muck.

Into my precious jar of snow-water.

We drove away, leaving behind a large jar of vomit. My friends would never get to see snow. And I had to live with the fact that it was entirely my own fault.

This post was sponsored by the Seagate Satellite, something I think my parents could have only dreamt about back in 1982.
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Blame it on genetics….

Today started like any other. I woke up a bit early and wandered into the cold kitchen to flick on the heating. Which really only ever stays on for a few minutes before Mr Woog flicks it off and tells me to go and put on a jumper.


Chuy the cat appeared and did his usual greeting, which consists of a few seconds of silence…..

Before screeching at me like a goddam banshee to be fed.

The boys woke up and started screeching at me like goddam banshees to be fed as well. I fixed them some breakfast and for some reason decided to weigh myself, which is something I only ever do if I want to slide into misery quickly. Which is about 3 times a year.


Accidental weight loss? SCORE! I was very surprised after my week of eating crap while on my mini-break and immediately thought I must be the victim of some very nasty disease, or tapeworm or something gross like that. Oh well, whatever it is it can stay until I reach my goal weight. 


Remind me to get a goal weight……..


It was later, when I was whipping up a batch of homemade hummus to go with the carrot sticks I had prepared earlier for the kids lunches on the computer ordering the kids lunches online, that  one of my sons came to me and informed me of an incident that occurred last week, which resulted in him getting a blue card.


A blue card is similar to a red card in sport. Not good news.


Turns out, he had used someones lunch box as a soccer ball, and had smashed it up good and proper, so much so it will never see another vegemite sandwich again. I had to go and see the Deputy Principal and my son had to write an apology.


When I asked him why he waited all week to tell me, he said that he did not want to ruin my holiday. Sweet!


I told him to go and start writing the apology and was internally quite put out that I would actually have to dress for the occasion and even put a bit of a face on……… blah.


He came back with his letter which simply read…..

“Sorry I broke your lunchbox!”



I told him that it was completely inappropriate and far to peppy to be considered a real apology, and to go and put a  bit more thought into it.


On the way to school we had a discussion about respecting other peoples things, being mindful of your actions and taking responsibility. All that shit that my parents tried to beat into me many moons ago.


The Deputy Principal and I discussed the “incident” and we had a little tete-ta-tete with said son about choosing your friends wisely etc.


Then I asked the question that needed to be asked.


“Was the lunchbox in question one of those fancy, schmancy, expensive, partitioned Tupperware numbers?” (RRP $26.99. I know this as I had a brain freeze once and purchased some). 


The Delightful Deputy assured me that is was an el-cheapo, which I concluded was the reason why it was so easily pulverised.


We wrapped up our quick meeting and went in search of the lunchboxless boy to give him the apology letter. I then saw my son hand the letter over to someone before going off to play handball. The somebody was not the victim, but the victim’s friend, who we shall now call the Courier.


I called my son over and had a chat again about being responsible and mindful and doing the right thing and that he perhaps should have given the victim the letter himself.


The bell rang. I walked back to the car thinking about peoples attitudes and habits. I mean, I have one son who has clearly inherited the fussing gene from his father. They are both natural born perfectionists, love a good rule and are obsessed with punctuality. ANd then there is my other son, who is always running late, losing things and breaking the rules. I have no idea where he gets these traits from.


And with that thought swirling around in my head, I shrugged my shoulders, got into my car and drove home.


THE END