Lemon Shortcake. A substitute for John Barrowman.

(www.telegraph.co.uk)

I am in a slump this week.

I am trying to cope with the fact that John Barrowman

is actually in the same country as I am but I am not going to be able to stalk meet him.

 I have turned to baking to deal with my depression.

(Needless to say that the kids are happier with that

than if their mum gone AWOL interstate to chase down my celebrity crush.

Probably not least because few people get arrested for cooking in their kitchen.

Stalking, on the other hand...)

If anyone else is feeling a bit down,

about John Barrowman or anything,...

climate change, our prime minister, the cold weather, another grey hair...

or even if you are just a fan of tangy lemon recipes,

this is for you.

(No insipid citrus flavoured cooking happening here...)

BEST EVER LEMON BUTTER SHORTCAKE

Filling-

120 grams melted butter

1 cup castor sugar

lemon rind (as much as you like)

2 eggs, lightly whisked

1/2 cup lemon juice

Place butter, sugar and rind into non-reactive saucepan.

Strain eggs and lemon juice into other ingredients.

Cook a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

Pastry-

2 cups self raising flour

1 cup castor sugar

120 grams chilled butter, cubed

2 eggs

Process (or rub in) butter, sugar and flour till sandy.

Add eggs to make pastry.

Do not overwork.

Line and grease a springform tin or similar.

Place 2/3 of pastry into base and press down.

Pour hot filling over.

Scatter remainder of pastry mix over.

Optional-

Scatter 1/2 cup almonds or macadamias over.

Cook at 180 degrees Celcius for appromiately 40 minutes.

Cool before removing from tin.

Enjoy.

Surely, it's almost as good as a hug from Captain Jack himself.

(www.forum.gateworld.net)

Hairy bits.

(www.drewdahlman.deviantart.com)

Please believe me when I say that when I got up this morning,

I had no thought to write a blog post 

that was going to mention pubic hair.

Pubic hair in soap no less.

But wandering the supermarket aisles this morning,

my mind wandered,

and the posts about how I miss blogging,

about how sad I am at the passing of Phillip Seymour Hoffman,
about how grumpy/sad/ I am that John Barrowman is coming to Australia
but not to Adelaide,

and the one asking how many other people drive and walk around

and imagine what their neighbourhood would be like post-zombie apocalypse

just evaporated when I started to think about hair.

I have spend the last two years freaking out about the amount of hair

migrating to life in the drain every time I wash my hair.

Mr Boozle has been lamenting his every increasing male pattern baldness for years

but, at the end of the (not-as-much-gender-equality-that-we-would-like) day,

just like grey hair,

it is easier for a man to carry off the thinning hair look than a woman.

Ah, the cycle of life...

We are born, hair on our limbs but maybe no, or little, hair on our heads.

We grow, get hair on our heads.

We get hormonal and there comes the fuzz in our armpits and in our nether regions.

We enjoy a full body of hair for a while,

albeit apparently shaving/ripping off/dyeing a good amount of it 

for the sake of fashion/comfort/heck knows why else.

(My GP friend says that by the time our girls are teens,

they will be fashionably hair-free in the you-know-where.

Hands up if you haven't had a Brazillian?

I am not into pain and I am not into looking like a 

pre-pubescent kid so I haven't been there

and have no interest.

I am not too worried about my pink bits being out and proud 

for necessity of health and in the privacy of a doctor's room.

After 3 pregnancies and natural childbirths, I've lost count of how many people

have eyeballed the area and I are comfy with the idea.

However, someone standing there with hot wax

and no necessity towards my health and life prospects

does not make me want to ask my va-jay-jay to be out and proud)

Anyhow, I digress.

Then we start to lose our head hair.

Well, actually it relocates to the face for older women

and the ear canals and nostrils for older men.

The word hirsute no longer means a hairy chest or back.

Any hair left at this point turns grey and starts to grow at awkward angles.

So through our lives we pluck, we shave,

we wax, we dye...

Human beings are weird, really.

I am not really into makeup

and can often head into summer without breaking open the fake tan lotion

but I don't like hairy armpits.

Parental influence? Teenage peers? Comfort?

The media? Partner's preference?

When do we make that decision

to shave that bit or dye that bit?

My folks are pretty laid back when it comes to most things when I was growing up

but my mum was an oppressive fascist tyrant when it came to her teenage daughter's beauty regime.

(OK, maybe she wasn't quite that bad but I was a teenager at the time

and that's how I remember it)

I was not allowed to get my ears pierced till I was 16.

That I could take with good grace.

Nor tweeze my eyebrows.

Taken with not such good grace

but accepted as I didn't (quite) have a monobrow.

But I wasn't allowed to shave my legs either.

When I was growing up, my mum bought into a lot of those old wives' tales...

sucking lemons will dry up your blood...

break a pin off in your splinter dig and it will go into your bloodstream and kill you...

shaving your legs will make the hair grow back faster and thicker...

(www.flickr.com)

So picture me,

the slightly dumpy, bespectacled, academic brunette nerd,

who may have also had a haircut resembling a mullet,

bleaching her leg hair through high school.

It wasn't enough for me to be dumpy, nerdy and wearing glasses.

I had to give the bullies a bit more fodder.

The only consolation was that my mother insisted on me wearing my school dress

at a hideous, longer length 

so that less of the bleached leg hair was showing.

That and the fact that the girl with the shortest dress in school 

had orange legs from fake tan 

so that diverted some of the attention,

more than the short dress alone attracted.

So I look at my 6 year old daughter

who has daddy's colouring so isn't a brunette

but has hairy legs all the same

and I think about the big decisions...

When will we give her the sex ed talk?

When will her boyfriend be able to sleep over?

When can she shave her legs and tweeze her brows?
When do we discuss pubic hair etiquette?

Mr Boozle and I,

like most partners, I am sure, 

follow the unspoken rule that head hair left on the soap is fine

but pubic hair is not.

Soon we will have 3 teenagers sharing one bathroom,

one shower

and quite possibly one cake of soap.

It does my head in now when the word "mum" is turned into 3 syllables...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, I can't find my hat"...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, he hit me again"...

But I should enjoy it.

I suspect that I will find that preferable to hearing it turned into 4...

"Mu-uuu-ummmmm, someone left a pube on the soap again.

I'm not touching it.

Can you come and get it off please?

...

...

Mu-uuu-ummmmm?

...

...

Muuu-uuuuu-uuummmmmmm? "

Of course, if my GP friend is correct,
we might not have to worry about it.

How to lose up to 5 kilograms in 10 days. But I do strongly recommend that you read the fine print.

I am here to tell you about a little weight loss secret.

Forget the Atkins diet and the cabbage soup.

Forget the CSIRO diet and protein shakes.

Forget about Weight Watchers or Jenny Craig.

Forget about eating a tapeworm or those pills that stop you from digesting fat.

If you want to lose weight, fast, cheaply

I strongly recommend a good dose of Salmonella.

It works wonders.

That is all.

(textbookofbacteriology.net)

The fine print...

Oh, you are still reading.

You want to know more?

Ah, yes.

Completely understandable.

Well, yes, it is a tad more unpleasant than counting calories and spending an hour exercising each day.

Well, yes, OK, it is a lot more unpleasant.

You could well go from feeling completely normal to rocking back and forth

on the bathroom floor with chills, uncontrollable shaking and nausea and cramps within an hour.

You might well spend the next two days in bed

unable to even watch television,

tossing and groaning, alternating between chills and fevers,

with a constant headache and gastrointestinal cramps.

Your partner may well move into the spare room for a week,
running away from the germs and the tossing and groaning.

The cat may follow him.

You could find that you don't sleep or eat for the best part of a week.

That your brain wont shut down and you feel like you are going through some LSD experience 

at a 1960s party every time that you close your eyes.

You might tell your husband that you are not having any more children,

no argument,

which would appear perfectly logical to you in the middle of a toxic episode

even if not to him.

(think along the lines of "Oh crap. This is so awful.

Will I ever remember how bad this was after the event?

It's like child birth.

Now I remember how awful that was.

I am not having any more children,

even if I am already too old and hubby has had the snip.

No more children. You hear me? 

You hear me?")

You might write a letter to John Barrowman in your head,

apologising to him that you were not having lustful thoughts about him at the moment

but that he shouldn't take offense because you also weren't lusting after your husband or chocolate

at the moment either.

You might even feel so bad that you remember thinking that you wouldn't wish this on

the deceitful, malevolent individual who has made your life a misery in the past year.

You will definitely wish,

even more desperately that the whole thing was over and done with,

that no-one else in the family gets it 

because the thought of your children or husband going through the same hell

is unimaginable.

Then you will get over the worse of it

but wonder at how long it takes you to recover.

That 14 days later, you still lack appetite (and still don't want coffee)

That you never appreciate your good health enough when you have it.

Still, considering that people willingly inject toxins into their skin to get rid of wrinkles

or consume tablets that stops them digesting fat so that it literally leaks out their back end

or still go to solariums for a tan even knowing of an increased risk of skin cancer,

there could be a market for this, couldn't there?

This week...4th January, 2012

...2012 arrived-
and  I actually stayed awake long enough to welcome it.

...my 8 year old son  announced that you had to kiss your girlfriend to make a baby.
Um, well, no, you don't actually.
I mean, it is nice to,
and a big part of the process if you like,
but techincally, nope, no amount of kissing by itself is going to get you up the duff. 

But, considering what I am going to be dealing with when the hormones appear in, oh, about 5 years,

when teddy bear pancakes for breakfast will be no more,

I am going to let this bit of misinformation go uncorrected for now.

(stylingyou.com.au)
...I found that I laugh everytime I hear someone with Nina's (Offspring) ringtone.

I find myself wondering if they are uptight as her.

...and do they have all her crap to deal with too?

...I discovered that 1 minute games are THE best fun that you can have with your clothes on

at a New Year's Eve party.



...Wally continued to chew the Christmas decorations,
right up until we closed the box on them for another 12 months.

(Nae wrap- Anat Rodan)

(Queenie beret- Woolly Wormhead)

...I found that I knit over 25 kilometres of yarn in 2011.

No wonder I didn't get anything else done.

(though I might have snuck one in quick crocheted project to round out the year)

(Granny Square to Wear- Amanda Tipton)

(mundoshipoteticos.blogspot.com)

...I am in heaven as Dr Who repeats are being played 5 nights a week.

No complaints about a bit of David Tennant and John Barrowman

with my summer gin, lemon and limes.

Who said that non-ratings period were a write-off?

Mummy Porn

(flickr.com)



...is *cough* forcing yourself to listen to an audio tape of David Tennant reading

"How to Twist a Dragon's Tail".

In his glorious Scottish accent.

For a few hours.

For the kids' sake.

I'm thinking that if John Barrowman ever records "Fun with Dick and Jane",
I'll have to take a cold shower...

"Every man dies. Not every man really lives"

...so said William Wallace.

I have a birthday coming up in a couple of weeks.

I'll be 42.

No grief.

I am enjoying my forties as much as my thirties

and life, while chugging along a bit too fast for my liking,

is pretty darn good.

(flickr.com)

But

(yeah, always that but)

it hit me today that, at 42 years of age,

I am about halfway to the current life expectancy

of an average Caucasian Australian woman.

Halfway.

HALFWAY.

HALFWAY?

Well, crap. Now that has put things in a different perspective.

I have had a pretty good 42 years

but with another 42 (give or take) left to go,

what more do I want to tick off the list in my life?

Take it for granted that I would like to see an end to

world poverty, war, famine and enviromental destruction.

It is also a given that I would like to see my kids grow up

to become happy, independent adults.

So what things would I like to do before I die?

My very own top 10 bucket list, in no particular order,

at this time in my life:

1 Share a white Christmas with my family

I have had 2 white Christmas' in my life, both in Finland.

Heck, I have even met the REAL Santa!

I might be Australian but I don't like the heat.

Give me a snowball fight anyday.

2 Own a bull mastiff

Big? Sure!

But so cute.
We love Staffies but we have also always loved these big guys.

(dognabbit.blogspot.com)



Hubby and I reckon that we probably wont get one now till the kids leave home.

Can't you just see two oldies prone to hip fractures walking one of these 70kg doggies?

3 Perfect my homemade coffee gelati

I will not be defeated by a frozen espresso.

4 Do a sightseeing safari in Africa

Seeing elephants, giraffes, hippos, lions, you name it,

in their natural environment?

Oh, man. It would be brilliant.

(Yes, I know that the hippo is one of the most aggressive and dangerous animals on earth

but I promise I wont try to pat one)

Plus I'd love to see the Grand Canyon, the Rockies, the Pyramids, Victoria Falls,

Taj Mahal, Great Wall of China, Antarctica, the Galapagos Islands

and just a couple of other places.

5 Learn to play the saxophone

...oh, and the guitar.

I have always loved the sax and for a long time have wanted to learn to play it.

My hubby, a big believer in pursuing your dreams,

bought me one for my 35th birthday.

*ahem*

Ashamed to admit that I have only had one lesson since then.

I will get back to it.

(spiritmag.com)

I have also always wanted to teach myself the guitar.

I learnt music for 10 years as a child

(and hey, I was also in the advanced recorder group at primary school)

so surely I can give it a good try.

6 Be taught how to walk in high heels by John Barrowman

...so says the gal got married in boots with a 1 inch "heel",

who doesn't own any high heels,

and doesn't really want to wear high heels.

But I have seen John Barrowman walk in heels

and according to his autobiography,

he's up for teaching someone how to do it.

(last.fm)

OK So really, if I was totally honest, I would just love to meet him.

(Oh, c'mon, at least something on your bucket list should involve a cute leading man!)

7 Watch every Audrey Hepburn movie

(themave.com)

and while I am at it, watch every movie directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

(and find every single cameo of him)

8 Write and illustrate a book

No idea if this will ever happen

but I have always wanted to write a children's book-

and illustrate it.

I haven't done art since I was 18 so it might be way out of my abilities to do that.

But I'd like to give it a try.

9 Revisit the Sistene Chapel

on my way to revisit Barcelona.

(angelsanddemonsofrome.com)

Apart from the few thousand other people sharing my personal space,

I have to say that the Sistene Chapel is one of the most beautiful things that I have ever, ever seen.

And one day in Barcelona wasn't enough.
I want to explore the city properly. It is beautiful, alive and colourful.

10 Try some amateur acting

I did a little in high school

but my personality isn't suited to being a performer.

I get lots of hot flushes when put in the spotlight.

But maybe I could give it a go at a local group.

Way outside my comfort zone.

But, hey, life is too short.

(verydemotivational.memebase.com)



So what is on your bucket list?

The Old Woman Crush Syndrome.

(glitteruniverse.com)

I have been feeling pretty darn good since I hit my 40s nearly 2 years back.

My 30s were a fantastic time:

we achieved a lot in terms of family, home and business

and there is a confidence I achieved finally escaping most of the peer pressure

that I felt as a teen and in my 20s.

I have an ever increasing sense of mortality

which I think has been associated with becoming a mother.

I fear that I wont be around to see my kids grow up to be

(hopefully) healthy and happy and settled in their lives.

But now that I have settled into my 40s

(and have been assured that I am not mid-life yet-

someone said it somewhere, once, and I am chosing to believe them),

I am starting to definately feel like I am coming down the other side of the hill.

Little bits of the body here and there are starting to slow down or fail.

I am slowly but surely getting out of touch with the youth culture

(though once I have 3 teenagers,

I am guessing that I will be back in touch in no uncertain terms)

Planning my 50th birthday will happen before planning any of my children's 18th birthdays.

But my secret fear is what I call "the old woman crush" syndrome.

When does it become a bit...you know...inappropriate to have a crush on someone?

Expected as a teen,

natural as a 20-something- year old,

not surprising as a person in your 30s, dare I say?

But is it a bit (or a lot) cougar-ish when you are in your 40s?

Or is it OK till you are 50? Or 60? Or as you squeeze out your last 93 year old breath?

And then there is the issue as to what 

(or I should say who)

 is an appropriate crush.

Too old could be a bit yucky.

Too young would not be something that you'd be sharing with the ladies on tuckshop duty,

now would it?

For tween gals at the moment,

it would appear that you are meant to swoon

at the mention of Justin Bieber.

(www.gossip.whyfame.com)

I thankfully have no vestige of interest in the likes of tween heart throbs.

I think more about giving birth to them than kissing them.

What about teens?

Break out in a sweat at the thought of Zac Efron?

Nope. Doesn't do it for me either.

No idea (no interest?) who's hot for a 20 or 30 year old.

Maybe something with fangs and a six pack.

I grew up in times when Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt were dubbed

"The Sexiest Men in the World"

(Personally I think that Johnny Depp is still right up there)

(from images.starpulse.com)



As a teenager, I adored George Michael

(before he came out)

As a late teen, Rupert Everett

(before he came out)

(http://www.imstars.aufeminim.com/)



Yes, OK There would seem to be a pattern there but let's just not get distracted for now.

(And I am loving the fact that the photos that I spent hours gazing at lovingly,

longingly as a teen

nearly 30 years ago,

 have been immortalised on the web.)

Peter Davison was the Dr Who of choice.

Loved Tom Baker but in a platonic way

while Peter was so darn cute.

(http://www.sella.co.nz/)

Did anyone else love Mickey Rourke?

(before he turned into plastic fantatic)

(But not gay as far as I am aware)

C'mon, he was hot!

Ever flutter the heart a little bit at Bill Pullman in
While You were Sleeping"?

In my 30s, I think I was too busy with conception, gestation and newborns to have the time to worry about who had a six pack or not.

Then, as I regained my sleep, my pelvic floor muscles and ownership of my boobs,

men on the screen suddenly seemed to be interesting again.

Mmmm, Gale Harold

(playing a gay man in "Queer as Folk"...

OK, still not going to go there)

David Tennant,

the thinking woman's Dr Who heart throb.

(http://www.sandalsandsocks.typepad.com/)

Pierce Brosnan,

the perfect 007.

Well. he was on the list till I heard him sing in "Mamma Mia"

Now I just have to step back on that one for a while and recover.

Colin Firth

(whom incidentally shared the screen with Rupert in "Another Country" all those years ago

and I didn't look at him twice)

(static.open.salon.com)

John Barrowman.

Torchwood, theatrical leading man, someone once said "sex on legs"

and yes, gay.

(Maybe I am attracted to gay men as it is a pretty safe fantasy world)

But interestingly all my current crushes are men of similar age.

Do you think that most people

are naturally inclined to be attracted to those who are of a suitable age?

(even if not suitable sexual preferences)

So, c'mon, share.

If I can own up to George Michael posters on my teenage wall,

surely you can own up to someone past or present

who floats your boat.

It'll just be between you and me.