Last year I wrote about how to be in a long distance relationship. My how the story has changed. Back then it was all excitement and romance and freedom, nine months later there is one word to describe it: shit. So without further ado, I give you, an afternoon in a long distance relationship:
You walk out of work in the afternoon after your boyfriend sends you an email saying he cannot get a week off work to go on a mini-holiday and, you know, actually see each other. You responded reasonably by sending back an extremely cold response along the lines of ‘‘Whatever. I hate you.’’*
Sitting at the bus stop you think about how unfair and terrible life is and your bus arrives. You walk over to the bus to get on and for some reason the bus pulls away without you on it.
‘WHAT THE, ACTUAL, FUUUUUCK?!’’ you scream and then to make your response even more measured, you somehow manage to kick the back of the bus as it pulls away.
‘‘That was your bus then?,’’ a nice looking gentleman asks.
‘‘YES,’’ you say as you briefly consider kicking him.
‘‘There is another one in two minutes,’’ he says kindly.
‘‘I know!’’ you reply and then burst into tears.
The next bus arrives a couple of minutes later and you punish the driver for their colleague’s actions by refusing to say ‘‘Good Afternoon’’ and stomping to the back of the bus.
Once home you decide you are too depressed to go for a run and instead lie on your bed mournfully listening to Lana Del Ray thinking ‘‘Why is love such pain? How can such a good singer have such shitty stage presence?’’
Eventually you go to sleep and wake an hour later when you’re sister arrives home. ‘‘Hi Bridie!’’ she says.
‘‘I’M AN EMOTIONAL WRECK’’ you yell down the hallway.
‘‘Aw babe, look what I have, popcorn and crackers. We’re having cheese and popcorn for dinner!’’ she says, slightly cheering you.
‘‘I figure we can have cheese for dinner, we have awesome bodies B, we can put on a few kilos,’’ she continues, rubbing her stomach at the same time.
‘‘Ok,’’ you sniff.
A few hours later, a wheel of cheese, a bowl of popcorn and some highly inappropriate commentary from your little sister on the most awesome show ever The Voice, and everything is fine in the world again.
There you have it, a (highly melodramatic) afternoon in a long distance relationship.
*It should be noted Poor Matt had visited a few days before. I had told him I would be unable to pick him up from the airport as I would be drinking but promised to be home when he got there. I arrived home an hour after him and forgot to toast him being made editor.
Wednesday, 18 April 2012
Wednesday, 11 April 2012
Anna experiences some racism
My little sisters look like foreigners.
Despite having an Australian born father who had Australian born parents we kids have ended up a weird looking mongrel lot who look only vaguely related thanks to our Irish born mother and Dad's Lebanese grandparents. While Seamus and I are so white we burn like paper if we spend more than eight minutes in the sun, Anna and Alice inherited dark skin with Alice so black she has been mistaken for an Indian more than once. My sisters and I have been constantly asked if we have different fathers or different mothers while some people just refuse to believe Alice and I are even related. The only thing we all have in common are monobrows.
This was amazingly good fortune when we were young because I had physical evidence to back up my claims to Alice that she was adopted and not a real part of the family. Fast forward a few years and Anna has left Grafton and is working in a bar. The combination of drunks and Anna's dark skin and green eyes means she is constantly being asked "where are you from?"
When she says "Grafton" the reply is "No, where are you from?" with that weird emphasis on the "where" that means "You don't look Australian". Which is not something to get angsty about by the way, Anna doesn't look Australian. I'm not exactly sure what Australian looks like but Anna does look weird.
The other night I was on the phone to Poor Matt when a call came through from Anna. I immediately hung up on Poor Matt to answer the call. He is used to it.
"Bridie, someone was racist to me," Anna said in a small voice.
"WHAT?!" I said ready to come down to the pub and give the person a good dose of education. Not violence though.
"Yes, and I cried," Anna continued.
"YOU WHAT?!" This piece of information was much more shocking than someone being racist to little Anna. She barely cried when our grandfather died and here she was crying over a drunk racist asshole.
An old bloke at the bar had refused to drink a glass of water Anna served him with his beer so she cut him off. Which is you know, her job. He didn't take too kindly to it though and told Anna she was "a Christian Lebanese who did not belong in Australia". Anna had then responded by calling management, getting him banned from the pub and then going up to the staff room to cry.
I comforted her by repeatedly saying "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU CRIED".
"I know, but I didn't cry because of me, I cried because it's sad people are so uneducated," she told me.
"Yes," I agreed. "People are really effing stupid."
Despite having an Australian born father who had Australian born parents we kids have ended up a weird looking mongrel lot who look only vaguely related thanks to our Irish born mother and Dad's Lebanese grandparents. While Seamus and I are so white we burn like paper if we spend more than eight minutes in the sun, Anna and Alice inherited dark skin with Alice so black she has been mistaken for an Indian more than once. My sisters and I have been constantly asked if we have different fathers or different mothers while some people just refuse to believe Alice and I are even related. The only thing we all have in common are monobrows.
This was amazingly good fortune when we were young because I had physical evidence to back up my claims to Alice that she was adopted and not a real part of the family. Fast forward a few years and Anna has left Grafton and is working in a bar. The combination of drunks and Anna's dark skin and green eyes means she is constantly being asked "where are you from?"
When she says "Grafton" the reply is "No, where are you from?" with that weird emphasis on the "where" that means "You don't look Australian". Which is not something to get angsty about by the way, Anna doesn't look Australian. I'm not exactly sure what Australian looks like but Anna does look weird.
The other night I was on the phone to Poor Matt when a call came through from Anna. I immediately hung up on Poor Matt to answer the call. He is used to it.
"Bridie, someone was racist to me," Anna said in a small voice.
"WHAT?!" I said ready to come down to the pub and give the person a good dose of education. Not violence though.
"Yes, and I cried," Anna continued.
"YOU WHAT?!" This piece of information was much more shocking than someone being racist to little Anna. She barely cried when our grandfather died and here she was crying over a drunk racist asshole.
An old bloke at the bar had refused to drink a glass of water Anna served him with his beer so she cut him off. Which is you know, her job. He didn't take too kindly to it though and told Anna she was "a Christian Lebanese who did not belong in Australia". Anna had then responded by calling management, getting him banned from the pub and then going up to the staff room to cry.
I comforted her by repeatedly saying "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU CRIED".
"I know, but I didn't cry because of me, I cried because it's sad people are so uneducated," she told me.
"Yes," I agreed. "People are really effing stupid."
My sisters looking foreign and me looking like I am not related to them in any way, shape or form.
Monday, 9 April 2012
"You don't need to go to hospital, you've only smashed a schooner into your hand"
It was while standing in a pub toilet on Sunday night with Poor Matt bleeding all over my hands that I thought ‘‘this is the man I want to spend the rest of my life with’’.
Well, not really.I was thinking ‘‘I wish Matt would stop bleeding, it’s been 20 minutes’’ but it sounds much more dramatic if I say the other thing.
The story of how Poor Matt ended up with both hands in bandages really began in February when he was riding his bike to work and a man in a ute opened his door sending Poor Matt flying across the road and breaking his hand. You can imagine the joy of getting that phone call when you are at work and your boyfriend is in hospital 1000 kilometres away. You can imagine the joy of not being allowed to joke about it by saying ‘‘well at least I didn’t ride into a car door’’ in response to everything he says, because apparently it is not a laughing matter.
Fast forward six weeks, two trips to the surgeon and countless appointments with doctors and Poor Matt is finally on the mend. The hand is still a bit swollen and sore but he only has a bandage as opposed to a cast and it is almost better.
Everything was finally dandy. Until we decided to go to the pub on Sunday night.
We were celebrating Kylie (of the couple Candice and Kylie) being alive for 24 consecutive years and had just been ushered from the beer garden into the pub. Poor Matt, Ricky and I led the way inside where I sat down on a couch and Poor Matt sat down on the opposite one.
‘‘No!’’ I said, in my least demanding voice ‘‘Come and sit next to me!’’
Poor Matt obediently got up, walked two steps and then, with a schooner glass in his right hand, fell over. On to the schooner glass. Smashing it. With his hand. I don’t think enough stunted sentences can fully relay how bad it was to watch. Because his left hand was in a bandage already, the right one took the weight of his fall and therefore the full force of the schooner into his hand.
Ricky fulfilled his role of sterotypical gay man to perfection by squealing ‘‘OH MY GOD’’ and then just standing there. He later told me ‘‘I feel faint at the sight of blood, when Matt fell over I saw that he didn’t hit his head on the other table and I was about to laugh but then I saw all of the blood and thought ‘‘oh my god. I am witnessing something terrible.’’
While Ricky was fulfilling his melodramatic duties I ran over to Poor Matt to look at his hand but he was busy running to the bathroom holding his (previously) good hand and leaving a trail of blood behind him. No one – especially bar staff – should ever have to clean the blood of someone they don’t know and with that in mind I ran into the other bathroom and grabbed the hand towels to mop the blood up before actually checking on Poor Matt.
When I finally went into the Men’s bathroom Poor Matt was running his hand under some water. Not that you could see the water, or his hand for that matter, the sink was just full of blood. ‘‘Interesting,’’ I thought to myself. ‘‘What we have learned tonight is blood actually is thicker than water.’’
Then I grabbed Poor Matt’s hand and using both of my hands managed to put pressure on his worst three cuts. ‘‘They are very deep,’’ I thought to myself but didn’t say aloud as I didn’t want to alarm Poor Matt.
‘‘OH MY GOD, LOOK AT YOUR HAND, DO YOU NEED STITCHES? DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL?’’ Ricky squealed (again) as he entered the bathroom, thus undoing all of my reassuring words and noises I had been making at Poor Matt.
‘‘Do you need more bandages?’’ he asked, looking very pale.
‘‘No, but can you get me a beer?’’ I said, demonstrating the need to have your priorities in order in these bloody situations.
What followed after Ricky was a steady stream of tipsy and well meaning friends looking at Poor Matt’s bleeding hand, gasping at the deep cuts and then repeatedly asking about the need for him to go to hospital. These people were obviously not the children of nurses.
If there is one thing I have learnt having a nurse as a mother, and if there is one thing I have commiserated with cousins who also have nurses for mothers, it is: unless half your face is paralysed, you can’t breathe or bone is visible, you don’t need to go to hospital. You don’t even need to go to a doctor. You will be fine.
So, even after Poor Matt had been bleeding into my hands for 20 minutes, I knew I didn’t have to take him to hospital. He was fine. As I kept telling him, he had only smashed a schooner with his hand, it was just a few cuts.
Finally, after Kylie’s friend brought a bandage and some medical tape from the bar into the bathroom and tipped some un-dilated dettol over the cuts (I winced, Poor Matt did not) the bleeding stopped. ‘‘Matt, I think you need a beer, I’ll get you a beer,’’ Kylie generously offered.
‘‘No.’’ came to the reply.
‘‘C’mon Matt, have a beer, you need one,’’ I offered helpfully.
‘‘Ok.’’
Maybe I should be a real nurse, because my prescription of a beer was all that was needed to cheer Poor Matt up. After one and a half schooners he was almost back to his normal self. His normal self with two bandaged hands.
Poor Matt.
Well, not really.I was thinking ‘‘I wish Matt would stop bleeding, it’s been 20 minutes’’ but it sounds much more dramatic if I say the other thing.
The story of how Poor Matt ended up with both hands in bandages really began in February when he was riding his bike to work and a man in a ute opened his door sending Poor Matt flying across the road and breaking his hand. You can imagine the joy of getting that phone call when you are at work and your boyfriend is in hospital 1000 kilometres away. You can imagine the joy of not being allowed to joke about it by saying ‘‘well at least I didn’t ride into a car door’’ in response to everything he says, because apparently it is not a laughing matter.
Fast forward six weeks, two trips to the surgeon and countless appointments with doctors and Poor Matt is finally on the mend. The hand is still a bit swollen and sore but he only has a bandage as opposed to a cast and it is almost better.
Everything was finally dandy. Until we decided to go to the pub on Sunday night.
We were celebrating Kylie (of the couple Candice and Kylie) being alive for 24 consecutive years and had just been ushered from the beer garden into the pub. Poor Matt, Ricky and I led the way inside where I sat down on a couch and Poor Matt sat down on the opposite one.
‘‘No!’’ I said, in my least demanding voice ‘‘Come and sit next to me!’’
Poor Matt obediently got up, walked two steps and then, with a schooner glass in his right hand, fell over. On to the schooner glass. Smashing it. With his hand. I don’t think enough stunted sentences can fully relay how bad it was to watch. Because his left hand was in a bandage already, the right one took the weight of his fall and therefore the full force of the schooner into his hand.
Ricky fulfilled his role of sterotypical gay man to perfection by squealing ‘‘OH MY GOD’’ and then just standing there. He later told me ‘‘I feel faint at the sight of blood, when Matt fell over I saw that he didn’t hit his head on the other table and I was about to laugh but then I saw all of the blood and thought ‘‘oh my god. I am witnessing something terrible.’’
While Ricky was fulfilling his melodramatic duties I ran over to Poor Matt to look at his hand but he was busy running to the bathroom holding his (previously) good hand and leaving a trail of blood behind him. No one – especially bar staff – should ever have to clean the blood of someone they don’t know and with that in mind I ran into the other bathroom and grabbed the hand towels to mop the blood up before actually checking on Poor Matt.
When I finally went into the Men’s bathroom Poor Matt was running his hand under some water. Not that you could see the water, or his hand for that matter, the sink was just full of blood. ‘‘Interesting,’’ I thought to myself. ‘‘What we have learned tonight is blood actually is thicker than water.’’
Then I grabbed Poor Matt’s hand and using both of my hands managed to put pressure on his worst three cuts. ‘‘They are very deep,’’ I thought to myself but didn’t say aloud as I didn’t want to alarm Poor Matt.
‘‘OH MY GOD, LOOK AT YOUR HAND, DO YOU NEED STITCHES? DO YOU NEED TO GO TO THE HOSPITAL?’’ Ricky squealed (again) as he entered the bathroom, thus undoing all of my reassuring words and noises I had been making at Poor Matt.
‘‘Do you need more bandages?’’ he asked, looking very pale.
‘‘No, but can you get me a beer?’’ I said, demonstrating the need to have your priorities in order in these bloody situations.
What followed after Ricky was a steady stream of tipsy and well meaning friends looking at Poor Matt’s bleeding hand, gasping at the deep cuts and then repeatedly asking about the need for him to go to hospital. These people were obviously not the children of nurses.
If there is one thing I have learnt having a nurse as a mother, and if there is one thing I have commiserated with cousins who also have nurses for mothers, it is: unless half your face is paralysed, you can’t breathe or bone is visible, you don’t need to go to hospital. You don’t even need to go to a doctor. You will be fine.
So, even after Poor Matt had been bleeding into my hands for 20 minutes, I knew I didn’t have to take him to hospital. He was fine. As I kept telling him, he had only smashed a schooner with his hand, it was just a few cuts.
Finally, after Kylie’s friend brought a bandage and some medical tape from the bar into the bathroom and tipped some un-dilated dettol over the cuts (I winced, Poor Matt did not) the bleeding stopped. ‘‘Matt, I think you need a beer, I’ll get you a beer,’’ Kylie generously offered.
‘‘No.’’ came to the reply.
‘‘C’mon Matt, have a beer, you need one,’’ I offered helpfully.
‘‘Ok.’’
Maybe I should be a real nurse, because my prescription of a beer was all that was needed to cheer Poor Matt up. After one and a half schooners he was almost back to his normal self. His normal self with two bandaged hands.
Poor Matt.
Monday, 2 April 2012
My Triumphant Return to Whinging
The craziest few working weeks of my short life are finally over, the Queensland state election campaign has finished. This also means I have finished making my life seem much more interesting than it actually is via Facebook. No more photos being posted along the lines of "Oh look I'm in Longreach, look I'm in Cairns, look I'm interviewing a former Primer Minister, look here is a photo of another former Prime Minister, DOES EVERYONE SEE HOW BUSY AND IMPORTANT I AM?!"
The trove of Facebook photos (and an LNP Time for Change clock, GEDDIT?!) are not the only mementos of the campaign. After five years of living as a New South Welshwoman in Queensland, I think I finally got the baptism that defines me as a Queenslander: the (then) Premier told me to harden up in the toilets in Mackay.
I had been whining (shocking, I know) about how I hoped bad weather would mean we could stay in Mackay after having breakfast in Cairns and spending a few hours in Townsville. We were meant to keep flying to the Gold Coast and I was tired dammit!
As I was whining at the sink in the bathroom of the thousandth pub we had visited in five weeks, a voice from the stalls said ‘‘Ahh Bridie, have a cup of cement and harden up.’’
My response was to run out as I was pretty sure that voice belonged to Anna Bligh. This was much better than my response would have been otherwise which probably would have sounded like a toddler tantrum.
I was proved correct in my guess that it was the Premier when I hastily exited the bathroom and almost ran into her security guard.
If you want to read more about what I did on the election campaign you can go here, this blog of course, is to deal with the much more interesting stuff. Such as how sick I got after the campaign. After weeks of tense negotiations with long distance boyfriend Poor Matt I ended up being the one who had to fly to Sydney the weekend after the campaign. Did I mention in the last week of the campaign I worked 52 hours in four days? My body was ready for big "eff you". I woke up on Saturday completely incapable of getting out of bed. I felt like I had been hit by a truck. So I did what every adult does when they are exhausted and sick: I whinged to my parents, despite them being hundreds of kilometres away. No sooner had I texted Dad to let him know I was dying, then he brushed me off to my mother, thus continuing a pattern firmly established when I was four-years-old and ran in to the house with a bleeding face to my father who immediately told me to go downstairs to my mother and did not even bother escorting me there.
Poor Matt had been dutifully making me cups of tea and mopping my furrowed brow while I moaned that it was all his fault for making me come down to Sydney. "I'm ringing my mother," I dramatically declared to Poor Matt as I grabbed my phone.
"Muuuuuummmm," I wailed as soon as she picked up the phone. "I'm siiiiick."
"You don't sound very well Bridie, you know I helped deliver you cousin's baby this week*," Mum said.
"I know, but my throat REALLY hurts," I replied.
Mum made all the right sympathetic noises and helped me diagnose myself with a chest infection and told me to go to the doctor.
"Okay mum, can I still drink beer if I have a chest infection?" I said using my journalistic skills that ensure I always ask the important questions.
"Yes, but make sure..." Mum replied, but I didn't really need to hear the rest.
"Ok! Thanks! That's all I needed to know! Bye!"
So after spending most of the gorgeous, sunny Sydney weekend in bed, I returned to Brisbane where Anna picked me up from the airport and drove my weak self home. After sleeping for four hours despite arriving home at 10am, I woke up and had Anna look after me much better than Poor Matt ever could. Not only did she walk me to the petrol station so I could buy a chocolate Magnum for my sore throat (it works!) but she sat on the couch with me for six hours watching Sex and the City and cooked me popcorn for dinner.
And that ladies and gentlemen, is how an adult survives being sick.* I will write a proper welcome for my cousin Courtney’s brand new son Emmett soon. First I had to tell everyone I was sick. He is very cute though!
But look! Here I am in the newspaper taking photos of Premier Campbell Newman at his swearing in
The trove of Facebook photos (and an LNP Time for Change clock, GEDDIT?!) are not the only mementos of the campaign. After five years of living as a New South Welshwoman in Queensland, I think I finally got the baptism that defines me as a Queenslander: the (then) Premier told me to harden up in the toilets in Mackay.
I had been whining (shocking, I know) about how I hoped bad weather would mean we could stay in Mackay after having breakfast in Cairns and spending a few hours in Townsville. We were meant to keep flying to the Gold Coast and I was tired dammit!
As I was whining at the sink in the bathroom of the thousandth pub we had visited in five weeks, a voice from the stalls said ‘‘Ahh Bridie, have a cup of cement and harden up.’’
My response was to run out as I was pretty sure that voice belonged to Anna Bligh. This was much better than my response would have been otherwise which probably would have sounded like a toddler tantrum.
I was proved correct in my guess that it was the Premier when I hastily exited the bathroom and almost ran into her security guard.
If you want to read more about what I did on the election campaign you can go here, this blog of course, is to deal with the much more interesting stuff. Such as how sick I got after the campaign. After weeks of tense negotiations with long distance boyfriend Poor Matt I ended up being the one who had to fly to Sydney the weekend after the campaign. Did I mention in the last week of the campaign I worked 52 hours in four days? My body was ready for big "eff you". I woke up on Saturday completely incapable of getting out of bed. I felt like I had been hit by a truck. So I did what every adult does when they are exhausted and sick: I whinged to my parents, despite them being hundreds of kilometres away. No sooner had I texted Dad to let him know I was dying, then he brushed me off to my mother, thus continuing a pattern firmly established when I was four-years-old and ran in to the house with a bleeding face to my father who immediately told me to go downstairs to my mother and did not even bother escorting me there.
Poor Matt had been dutifully making me cups of tea and mopping my furrowed brow while I moaned that it was all his fault for making me come down to Sydney. "I'm ringing my mother," I dramatically declared to Poor Matt as I grabbed my phone.
"Muuuuuummmm," I wailed as soon as she picked up the phone. "I'm siiiiick."
"You don't sound very well Bridie, you know I helped deliver you cousin's baby this week*," Mum said.
"I know, but my throat REALLY hurts," I replied.
Mum made all the right sympathetic noises and helped me diagnose myself with a chest infection and told me to go to the doctor.
"Okay mum, can I still drink beer if I have a chest infection?" I said using my journalistic skills that ensure I always ask the important questions.
"Yes, but make sure..." Mum replied, but I didn't really need to hear the rest.
"Ok! Thanks! That's all I needed to know! Bye!"
So after spending most of the gorgeous, sunny Sydney weekend in bed, I returned to Brisbane where Anna picked me up from the airport and drove my weak self home. After sleeping for four hours despite arriving home at 10am, I woke up and had Anna look after me much better than Poor Matt ever could. Not only did she walk me to the petrol station so I could buy a chocolate Magnum for my sore throat (it works!) but she sat on the couch with me for six hours watching Sex and the City and cooked me popcorn for dinner.
And that ladies and gentlemen, is how an adult survives being sick.* I will write a proper welcome for my cousin Courtney’s brand new son Emmett soon. First I had to tell everyone I was sick. He is very cute though!
Tuesday, 31 January 2012
Toodles
This is a note to let my faithful readers know J’Adore Jabour is going on an extended holiday. Is that the sound of a thousand hearts shattering I hear? More likely it’s the sound of ambivalence. But I digress.
Don’t worry, I am not going quietly in to the night. I have had a busy couple of months and in that time I neglected the blog. I have another busy month ahead of me and I would rather go on hiatus than do a half arsed effort at blogging. I also have a couple of other projects in mind.
A few words of advice for while I’m gone:
Don’t count calories, it’s boring. Don’t count your money, especially in front of other people, it’s boring. Most importantly, don’t be boring. Be obnoxious, be amused, be offensive, hell you can even be stupid. But don’t be boring.
Don’t worry, I am not going quietly in to the night. I have had a busy couple of months and in that time I neglected the blog. I have another busy month ahead of me and I would rather go on hiatus than do a half arsed effort at blogging. I also have a couple of other projects in mind.
A few words of advice for while I’m gone:
Don’t count calories, it’s boring. Don’t count your money, especially in front of other people, it’s boring. Most importantly, don’t be boring. Be obnoxious, be amused, be offensive, hell you can even be stupid. But don’t be boring.
Thursday, 19 January 2012
Anna on Environment Preservation
The Brisbane CBD is absolutely LITTERED with hippies asking people to give to charity. I cannot walk half a block without someone asking me if I care about the world (the short answer, no).
Anna was pulled up by someone from Greenpeace the other day and the conversation went a little something like this:
Greenpeace Girl: In a few years orangutans will be extinct.
Anna: But won't there be some in zoos?
GG: Well, maybe I guess, but they won't be in the wild.
Anna: Well then they'll be exotic. Kids love exotic animals!
Anna's exquisite logic continued when the Greenpeace Girl brought up tuna.
GG: 95 per cent of the world's tuna is gone, soon tuna will be extinct.
Anna: Yuck, good, I hate tuna.
Anna was pulled up by someone from Greenpeace the other day and the conversation went a little something like this:
Greenpeace Girl: In a few years orangutans will be extinct.
Anna: But won't there be some in zoos?
GG: Well, maybe I guess, but they won't be in the wild.
Anna: Well then they'll be exotic. Kids love exotic animals!
Anna's exquisite logic continued when the Greenpeace Girl brought up tuna.
GG: 95 per cent of the world's tuna is gone, soon tuna will be extinct.
Anna: Yuck, good, I hate tuna.
Thursday, 12 January 2012
Family Portrait
The most accurate family portrait ever taken.
From left to right:
Mum is getting cranky about something we do not understand.
Seamus is trying to keep the peace and calm the crazed females.
Alice is being a downey wombat and does not understand what is going on.
Anna is trying to calm Mum down by being angrier than her.
I am in my perpetual state of hungover.
And Dad. Dad is reflecting on how much better life was BC, Before Children. Which is his perpetual state.
Photo courtesy of Candice.
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