Exposing ourselves.

The concept of a common experience is self-deluded rubbish.

Kinda like, well, you know, even playing fields, religion and the promotion of dairy as a health alternative.

And I know all this because, once again I spent the day out and about with my boys.

First up, I had to drop in on the quilting lady and organise Clair's sampler quilt to be done for her birthday.

Plus I had to ask her all about the quilting of Dad's yellow circley prick quilt.
Fantastic news there, she can quilt the first verse of Wordsworth's daffodil poem onto it, thus saving me from a thousand expletives and perhaps 4 weeks of grief.
I hate stitcheries, and I don't care who knows it.

I also have the green light to go ahead and make my Aboriginal hexagon quilt as big as I please as it doesn't need to be custom quilted at all and therefore won't cost me $400. Phew.
So, maybe I will go on to make it the shape of Australia after all.
Creative extravagance or lunacy?

And, as my uncle had safely delivered her babies some years ago, and because I was kind enough to drop her daughter's shoes at a friend's place on the way home, she even booked Dad's quilt in before I've actually finished it.
Unheard of.
And she gave me a break on the price too.

So, it seems that I am now officially a member of the quilting community.

Anyway, I was inside with Quilting Lady (and rushing) but also talking sewing and cuddling her cat, and the boys were outside dying from heat exposure, cursing my nimble fingers.

Poor Hell Boy is sick again, which is extremely unusual for him.
The heat did him no good at all.
He looked kinda frayed and wilted when I came out, which I'm sorry for, but I emerged with the weight of the world off my shoulders.

Anyway, common activity, widely varying experience.

Next stop, Rouse Hill shopping centre food hall.

Food halls are pretty close to the way I picture Hell.
Hell would have more Roosters jerseys.
There was only one there today, but it was stinking up the joint anyways.

Seriously, the very sight of those rags makes me start spitting.
Hell Boy's somewhat worse than me, but today I noticed that even calm, loping Yoga Boy was heard to mutter "cunt" or similar, under his breath.
It certainy wasn't "ohm", I'm sure of that.

Has he finally seen the light? Or have we worn him down to a nub and conditioned him like Pavlov's dog?

We split up to select our lunch and when we met back at the table, I had to laugh at the highly illuminating selections we had each made.

Mine was brown bread with avocado, turkey, cranberry, spinach leaves and cucumber. No butter.
And water.
No nonsense, make it snappy.

Hell Boy opted for piping hot Asian prawn soup in a bid to really get his fever happening, and Yoga Boy returned with a Quarter Pounder.
He immediately proceeded to scrape off the pickles and the onions, rather like a flavour-phobic 4 year old, or an average Australian adult. Same diff.

Then he remembered that he doesn't like McDonald's chips, threw them away and purchased another burger, again without asking them to leave out either of the dreaded flavoursome items.

Our final stop was Border's of course.
And coffee.

We each purchased a book, and I believe that the titles could easily be used to sum each of us up successfully.

I'm not shy, I'll go first.

Mine was the very first book I grabbed off the bargain table for $9.95.
A fine display of my inclination (and talent) for making a snap decision and sticking to it.
I like that about me.

Simone's choice = Toilets of the World.
256 pages.

I like it because it has a picture of a female urinal device that allows you to pee standing up like a man.
I would like to pee like a man.
Squatting places you at such a disadvantage.
Besides, it would be handy for road trips and doctor's visits.

Yoga Boy's choice = The Compass of Zen.

Looks sensible, seems to be about spiritual paths, yet promises, "an often hilarious presentation" of Buddhist traditions and teachings.
I confess I've never married Buddhism and hilarity in a sentence before today.
Hmm, I don't think I'll borrow that one.

Hell Boy's choice = The Grizzly Maze.

An in depth account of Timothy Treadwell's fatal obsession with Alaskan bears, and his descent into madness as he lived (and died) with them.

Oh, and Jeff also purchased a copy of Juxtapoz magazine because he liked the picture of the tattooed goat.
Fair enough too.

So, there you have it.
Three closely connected people with similar values, identical voting preferences and exactly the same address, exposing themselves through choices as simple as literature and lunch.

No butter.







PS I think this may be my fourth blog in a row featuring urine.
Go figure.