Friday Follies - Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi!

After such a positive reaction to my last blog about the 'Aussie' language, I need to revisit this subject.  This is Part 1 of some iconic Aussie words and sayings.

I can hear you cheering Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi! 
For those that aren't familiar with that chant, pay close attention at the next Commonwealth Games or Olympics, or any sporting event for that matter, where Australia is competing.  The cheer is usually accompanied by waving of the flag, the donning of green and yellow apparel, blow up kangaroos and fistfuls of beer.

There are quite a few other Australian sayings and phrases that can be baffling if you are new to the country.  I've listed a few below (but trust me, there are many, many more!).

You don't know whether you're Arthur or Martha

The phrase was first recorded in the 1940's, and means that you are confused - you don't know if you are coming or going.

Battler

A battler is someone who is doing it tough - 'battling' through life. Aussie's will often back the battler and cheer for the underdog.  Which brings me to...

Tall Poppy Syndrome

Australian's, while cheering for someone who is struggling or fighting an uphill battle, also like to humble someone that thinks they are better than everyone else.  People of high status (tall poppies) are often resented and cut down to size.  The phrase can be found in use in Australia as early as 1864 in reference to someone that was awarded a knighthood.

Bludger

Originally bludger was British slang for a prostitute's pimp and was found in use in Australia in the 1880's.  It was defined at that time as 'plunderers in company with prostitutes' and 'a thief who will use his bludgeon and lives on the gains of immoral women.'  Today it's meaning is still mostly the same, meaning someone that lives off the efforts of others, as in 'dole bludger' - someone who doesn't work and lives off the government.

Eric Bana played a bogan in
his early acting days

Bogan

This is a very common word here in Australia.  Bogan is meant to be slightly derogatory, but now is often used as a badge of honour.  It's basic meaning is an uncultured and unsophisticated person, someone who is uncouth.  As far as words go, bogan is a recent addition to the vocabulary of Australians and became widespread in use in the 1980's.

The good kind of budgie smugglers

Budgie Smugglers

A descriptive phrase for tight-fitting male swimwear that leaves little to the imagination (also known as dicktogs).  The term was first recorded in the 1990's and is thought to derive from the English phrase - grape smugglers.  As with most Australia words and phrases, it is often shortened to 'budgies' as in "Look at the bogan strutting about in his budgies."

Cobber

Cobber means friend or companion.  There is some debate regarding its derivation, some believe it is from the Yiddish word 'chaber' (comrade) while other believe that it originated from the British word 'cob' (to take a liking to someone).  Nevertheless, it has been in use since at least the 1890's, although is not as popular today as 'mate'.

Cooee

This was originally a call by an Aboriginal person to communicate with another person some distance away.  It derives from the Aboriginal word 'gawi' or 'guwi' and means  'come here'. Today it is still widely used as a signal in the bush.  If someone is 'within cooee' they are within earshot.

Dinkum or Fair Dinkum

If something is dinkum, it is reliable, honest and true.  Fair dinkum means fair dealing that is just and equitable.  The phrase was recorded in Lincolnshire in 1881 and first recorded in Australia in the 1890's.





Drop Bear

A native (imaginary) animal that has extremely sharp teeth.  While it resembles a koala, it loves to devour tourists after dropping onto them from trees.  Some believe that the term originated during the Second World War, but the first record of its use was in the 1980's.

Part 2 next Friday.....



There's a Mouse in the House

Some days I get a bit stressed out that I'm not going to pluck a blog subject out of the ethereal workings of my mind, and other days an idea just drops into my lap like a gift from the creative gods.  This weekend was such a time.


I prefer this type of gift



For the last few weeks, the cats have been honing their mouse hunting skills to such a degree that a 'gift' is announced nightly.  Some nights I am fortunate enough to be woken by the gifts being presented under my bed by a very proud feline.  I don't appreciate these gifts other than being thankful that the cats are keeping the mouse population down - it must be the dry weather combined with spring/breeding season, but the cats don't seem to lack for choice.

On Friday night, not only was I blessed once by my cats, but three times.  Goodness, that was a fun night, and I mean fun in the sense of trying on bathing suits at the end of a particularly indulgent winter with bright lighting and unflattering mirror angles.  Clawde and Purrkins must think that we are the worst providers on earth, continually showing us how it's done, how good they are at it, and how very much they love us.

Why are the mirrors so unflattering?

For the first incident I was woken from a very pleasant sleep to hear the slap of the cat door and the operatic notes of Clawde telling all within earshot of his great gift.  I got up, and with bleary eyes fished the small torch out of my bedside table to peek under the bed.  Once I had confirmation that there was, in fact, a small mouse in Clawde's mouth, I opened the bedroom patio door to encourage him to take it back outside.  Clawde, being the thoughtful sweetpea that he is, thought I would benefit from a game of chasing, so he ran around the house, periodically dropping the mouse and picking it up until finally I persuaded him to go out front door.  Oh, what fun we had. 

Shawn slept through the whole thing, I might add, the echo of his snores providing a backdrop to our slightly Benny Hill-esque sprint through the house.



The second incident occurred a couple of hours later, after I was lulled into a good deep sleep.  Again, a slap of the cat door, an announcement of the gift, a fumble for the torch and the opening of the door.  I am getting so much practice at this that I managed to tightly and doggedly grasp onto the last vestiges of sleep, only awake enough to ensure that I didn't step on anything that might cause a squeal and slight bladder leakage.  This time I had better success with Clawde departing the premises quickly.  I crawled back into bed and was just about asleep when I heard the distinct crunch of teeth meeting mouse.  Whoops - Clawde must have left the gift before he dashed and Purrkins found it.  I often have evidence to the contrary, but in this instance it seems that Purrkins may have been the smarter one, waiting for his late night snack delivery. 

Shawn slept through the whole thing.

The third incidence was the pièce de résistance.  You know the sequence by now, and this time it was about 5 am and I had already let the dogs out for their morning ablutions.  Clearly thinking he was The Man, Clawde brought in this delectable piece and it was clear that he was impressed with himself - so impressed that he decided to have a jolly good game with it under our bed.  As I leaned down the side of the bed to check out the situation, I spied a tiny mouse doing a combination hop/jump towards me. Eeek!  'Clawde!', I screamed, 'take it outside.'  With a dexterity that most don't think I'm capable of, I quickly jumped out of bed and opened the screen door, while simultaneously encouraging Clawde very firmly to get out.  Typical of a cat, he ignored me.  It was much more fun to cruelly pick up and then let free this poor creature.  By this time, Purrkins thought he'd come and check it out, watching lazily from the sidelines. 

Guess what?  Shawn woke up this time!  Sensing where this was going, he went to have a shower, leaving us to it.

Oh look, a mouse!

I watched the taunting for a minute or so, realising that neither cat was inclined to finish the job.  At one stage, the little mouse made a run for it, while Clawde and Purrkins decided that it was time for a mutual grooming session.  Seriously?  It was time to bring in the big guns.



Chamois has proven herself in the past when we have had a rat problem at the chicken coop.  She is ridiculously quick and efficient, nothing escapes and nothing suffers.  I called her in, knowing that I needed her skills once again.  She picked up the mouse swiftly and then put it down again...unharmed!  I threw some verbal encouragement in her direction, and like a good dog (which she often isn't), she picked it up again and took it to her bed.  I was so pleased and went to get some paper towel to pick up the carcass and dispose of the body.   When I came back, the little dear was sitting next to Chamois on the bed, with Chamois looking at me blankly while laying quietly beside it.  If I had not have witnessed it myself, I wouldn't have believed it, but the mouse actually ran up one of her front legs and across Chamois' chest.  This did prompt a slight reaction from Chamois - she picked it up and put it in the little crook where her leg meets her chest.  Any time it tried to get away, she just put it back.  I would not even begin to unravel what was going on in her mind, but she was calm and happy.

Enough was enough, and I grabbed a blanket off one of the other dog's beds, scooped up the mouse and released it outside.  Any mouse that can survive two cats and one extra large, extra weird dog deserves to live another day.

And I've learned to lock the cat door before bedtime.

  

Friday Follies - A Canadian Navigating the Australian Vernacular, Eh?

I have been very blessed to have dual citizenship and spend my life in both Canada and Australia.  Both countries are members of the Commonwealth which means that they both have enough in common that they don't feel totally foreign to each other, and enough differences to know that you are in a different country.  Each country has a rich and similar history that has evolved over similar timelines, with the people sharing a sense of adventure, humour and attitudes.  With English as the native language (French as well in Canada, n'est-ce pas?), metric measurements (although the Canadians like to call kilometres 'klicks' - as in it's 6 klicks down the road, turn right at MickeyD's....) and Prime Ministers in charge, Canadians and Australians probably have more in common with each other than any other country. We could arguably add New Zealand into the mix, bro, but they wear jandals and put their beers in a chilly bin, so we'll exclude them for now.



Having lived most of my life in Canada, moving back to Australia involved the challenge of navigating the slang.  At least Canucks and Aussies know to spell neighbourhood and humour, not like the Yanks who are lazy spellers and leave out vowels.  Even though I have now lived here for 16 years, Canada is part of me, and sometimes the odd Canadian phrase will escape my lips, and it's blank stares all around.  Cultural education should go both ways.

Toque

Mukluks

In Canada, that thing that goes on your head to keep it warm is called a toque, not a beanie.  And to be honest, I see a lot of beanie wearing here where the temperature is still above 0C.  I don't think they have ever experienced being truly, truly cold. They have never known the particular pain of having your ears unfreeze after you forgot to wear your toque. On the opposite end of your body, Canadians wear mukluks and the Aussies wear Ugg boots.  Personally, well decorated mukluks win in my book any day, but you can't beat the comfort of an Uggy.

Which brings me to my next point.  Why do Australians feel the need to shorten EVERYTHING?  I have listed a few examples below.

Uggies - As mentioned above, Ugg boots

Mozzies - Mosquitos

Cozzies / Togs - Swimming costumes / bathers / swimsuits.  For tight fitting male swimsuits - the descriptive yet slightly disgusting Dicktogs, such as those favoured by a previous Prime Minister.

Something you don't see every day - a PM in dicktogs

Cuppa - Cup of tea or coffee

Maccas - MacDonalds, the place where you get a hamburger made with mince, not a hamburger made with hamburger and enjoy your soft drink, not pop.

Arvo - Afternoon, as in 'do you want to have a cuppa this arvo?'. Not to be confused with 'avo', which is short for avocado.

Footy - Football - which is even more confusing because that can mean soccer, rugby league, rugby union or Aussie Rules Football.  In Canada it means gridiron football.

Biccy - Biscuit (Aussie) / cookie (Canuck)

Choccy - Chocolate - delicious in any country,





Accadacca - AC/DC, need I say more?  Pretty much the backdrop music for growing up in Australia or Canada in the 80's and 90's.

Servo - Service station (Aussie) / gas station (Canuck).  Which brings  me to putting gas in the car.  You don't do this in Australia - it's petrol.  Gas is used for natural gas, but petrol is what goes in most cars, unless it's diesel, then it's diesel!

Tinny - Tin, or can, of beer

Careers - you have Cabbie, Tradie (tradesman), Postie (postman), Ambo (ambularnce attendant), Firie (fireman), Brickie (bricklayer), Chippie (carpenter), Muso (musician), Garbo (garbageman)...the list goes on and on.

And don't forget that Santa gives you a pressie (present) at Chrissie (Christmas).

I still have the constant battle of to-MAY-to versus to-MAH-to.  I believe that I am correct with my Canadian pronunciation.  Who says po-TAH-to? It's po-TAY-to in any country.

No matter what language or slang is used, both countries are great and blessed countries. 



Loonie and Toonie



At the end of the day, no matter where you live, you've just gotta give'r, eh?  We are all trying to deke out life, enjoy a mickey or two-four that we bought with loonies and toonies while being a keener at work to avoid going on the pogie. 

Figure that one out, Aussies!

PS - I have heard just as many Aussies, particularly Queenslanders, say 'eh' as Canadians. So take off, you hoser.

Bob & Doug McKenzie - true Canadian Hoser





 

  

 

 

 

Battle of the Beds

Who said sharing is caring?

If there is one thing that is consistent in this house, it is the Battle of the Beds. It is most important to ensure that you are on the 'best' bed in the house if you are of the four-legged variety.  The 'best' is not always the same, and can change without notice.  I don't know what the criteria for the best bed is, nor am I aware of the algorithms used to calculate how often it should change, but I do know that it is very important.

The dogs each have an extra-large memory foam bed that takes up half of the living room.  Not only do they get to lay their massive bodies on memory foam, they also get to snuggle into a single bed quilt each.  Now I admit, this is more for my convenience than theirs, as the dogs seem to always be filthy, and it is easier to wash the quilts every week than take the covers off the beds and wrestle them back on (with associated swear words and grunts).  The cats have a smaller dog bed that they have taken over, a cat tree plus every piece of furniture in the house.  The humans slot in as necessary.

King Clawde - Smallest Pet, Biggest Bed.
I think Chamois lost this round.

Normally each dog has a preferred bed, but Chamois (who is a  head-strong, stubborn cow if truth be told) decides that Manu's bed is her preferred bed, no matter what bed he is on.  When the dogs are let in, it is sometimes a race to see who gets the 'preferred' bed.  Sometimes Manu wins as Chamois (did I mention she was stubborn) decides that she won't come in at your request, but would prefer to wait until you are once again comfortable on the lounge, snuggled into the pillows watching your favourite show.  Manu will promptly fall into a noisy snore-fest, looking comfortable and serene, eyes rolled back into his head and excess skin pooling around his neck.  Chamois will walk in, look at him, well, stare at him, until he slowly opens one eye.  He can feel that dog staring, using her will to wake him up and get him to move.  Sometimes 'the look' is enough (she's a girl, she has known how to do 'the look' from birth), and Manu gets up with a sigh to relocate to the other bed - which is exactly the same to my eye, but what do I know. 

If this tried and true method doesn't work, she ramps it up a bit and sticks a paw on him.  Not in an aggressive way, just to let him know that she's there.  Much like Freddy Krueger pops out of the ceiling to let you know he's there.  Once in awhile, Manu will dig in and pretend to ignore her.  This will prompt Chamois to be a little less subtle and plonk her derriere next to him on the bed, and just slowly, slowly nudge over until she has left him with little room.  I can attest to the efficacy of this manoeuvre - she uses this on us too if she is up on the bed during a thunderstorm (yeah, she's not so tough).  Again, Manu will get up with a sigh and move to the other bed.  He may be moved again later too, depending on Chamois' mood.


Sometimes there is another factor in the bed equation, and that's the cat.  Clawde loves the dog beds too, even though he is a fraction of their size, he likes to fill as much space as possible.  I'd just like to point out that no one dares to move Clawde off a bed.  Manu will always be the one without, as Chamois will take the other bed, and Manu will lie on the floor with his sad eyes, looking between the cat and us, as if to say 'Hey, can you please fix this for me.  Please?'


Battle lost

We are currently dog-sitting Mabel, so now there are 3 dogs competing.  Manu almost always ends up on the small bed because Mabel is female too, and well, you know....



Technically, sleeping on human, not on lounge



Unfortunately, Mabel has become accustomed to sleeping on the furniture at my house, which in turn has made Chamois decide that this is a great idea (which has been reinforced by another dog that we dog-sit), much to the detriment of my lounges.  I try and resolve this by creating an impenetrable barricade of kitchen stools, etc, piled onto the lounge, but she sometimes still manages to find a way.  I've given up trying to cure Mabel of this habit, and now give in and put an old blanket on the ottoman, which she scrunches up to create a nest anyway.  Sigh...

Sweet!

Of course, the cats are not immune to this type of behaviour (they are assholes after all, it's in their DNA), and Purrkins will often jump on Clawde and bite him if he wants to be where Clawde is.  It does depend on moods though, as I will see them curled up together like the Yin Yang symbol, sweet as can be.  They do actually love each other very much and are quite bonded.

Yin Yang, sort of

And last, but not least, the humans.  It's not unusual for me to walk in to the living room and see Shawn in a contorted position on the lounge, not in his usual spot, trying to play X-Box.  Beside him is a cat, curled up into a tiny ball but somehow taking up more space than Kim Kardashian's butt.  Shawn just gives me a pained look, knowing that his place in the pecking order has once again been reinforced.

For all of the antics and the constant battles, I know that we could have 20 dog beds and 571 places for the cats to sleep and this behaviour would still continue.  As long as I have my place, and Purrkins and Clawde continue to view my lap as one of their favourite spots to sleep and snuggle (or on my face in Purrkins' case), then I'm pretty happy. 

 

I think Clawde is happy too.  I wish I could
relax that much.

 

 

Friday Follies - As Good as Gold

Tomorrow will mark a great day in our family history - my parents will reach a half century of marriage - their Golden Wedding Anniversary.  I'd like to say wedded bliss, but anyone that's been married knows that the term married bliss only exists in the same world as Prince Charming, one-size-fits-all and suggested serving size.

I'm sure there are blissful marriages, but a good, solid and real marriage takes work, sometimes more, sometimes less, but the rewards definitely outweigh the sacrifices.  In my opinion, if your marriage is blissful, someone is suppressing their feelings.  It is impossible to live with someone and share your lives together without completely getting on each others' nerves at times.  Spouses should challenge each other, be a place for safe, heated and great debates, and should tell you to pull your head in when you are being a dick or a prima donna.  In these throwaway and disposable times, it is so nice to know that people do believe in commitment, integrity and unconditional love.

Awwww.

Long marriages are such a rarity, in fact, that they even get recognised by the Queen in Commonwealth countries.  Mum and Dad will have to stick it out a bit longer though - Lizzie only sends out a message for 60th, 65th and 70th wedding anniversaries.  In fact, the Queen might have to send a message to herself - she and Prince Philip have been married for 65 years.  With all of the pressure in their lives, crazy work schedules and public scrutiny, I think that is amazing.  You can still see that twinkle in their eyes when they look at each other.

The world's longest recorded marriage is 86 years, 9 months and 16 days for Herbert and Zelmyra Fisher.  The marriage only ended because of Herbert's death at 106 years old (which is remarkable in itself).

Rudolph and Jean - whoops!

At the other end of the spectrum, the world's shortest Hollywood marriage on record was between Rudolph Valentino and Jean Acker.  As she would not let him in to the honeymoon suite, he gave up after 20 minutes and went home to start divorce proceedings.  They didn't put much work into that, did they?

Don't think that it is just the younger generation think that marriage isn't forever and something to be shed like the season's latest fashions.  The oldest couple to divorce were 98 years old, ending a 36 year marriage.  I'm not sure who was more pissed off at who - Bertie or Jessie Wood - but imagine going to all of that trouble just shy of your 100th birthday?  Why bother.  Of course, Bertie may have left the toilet seat down one too many times, or thought that his Jessie would really love those one-size-fits-all jeggings that he purchased on late night TV.  Divorce proceedings are understandable in those circumstances.

Glynn and one of his many wives

Some people love to be married and would curl up into a lonely and sad ball if they had to be alone.  One such person was Glynn Wolfe.  Glynn, a Baptist minister, holds the record for the largest number of monogamous marriages - 29 in total. His longest marriage was 11 years and the shortest was 19 days.  Marriages number 1, 8, 9 and 23 ended due to death (the wives, not Glynn's), while the rest were due to divorce, with one annulment. The last marriage was over due to his death in 1997. Even with 29 wives, 19 children, 40 grandchildren and 19 great grandchildren, no one collected his body after his death.  I think there may have been a reason for all of those divorces, don't you?

We were fortunate enough to grow up in a stable (I use stable in the 'solid' sense, not in the mental sense!) family, and all of our parent's friends and our friend's parents were in long term, committed marriages, with divorce being extremely uncommon. I am forever grateful that I was raised with these examples of relationships as it has given me the tools to enjoy and nurture my own marriage.

Happy 50th Wedding Anniversary, Mum and Dad!

For some links to some marriage advice from people that have been married for a long time, click on the links below.

https://www.fatherly.com/love-money/relationships/marriage-advice-from-old-couples/

http://bigthink.com/ideafeed/old-couples-tell-researchers-the-secrets-to-a-happy-marriage

  

The secret to success.....

When You Know Egg-sactly Where You Want to Go

Electra in her natural environment

My hens have decided that laying their eggs in the chicken coop is not always the best choice.  I think the dogs have something to do with it, as Chamois seems to know that she can snack at the egg smorgasbord during the day when she hears the hens' 'announcements'.  My girls realise that their eggs aren't safe, so then choose somewhere new and less obvious to lay their 'bum-nuts' (there is some Australian vernacular for you Canadians!).

It is a weekly challenge to find the new favourite laying spot.  You would be surprised at how hard it is to find these secret stashes in the garden.  Suddenly you notice 16 eggs hiding under a shrub, or a nice little nest nestled in the centre of a grassy plant.  Unfortunately, once you find one of these spots and raid it, with the bottom of your t-shirt turned into a handy carrying basket chock full of yummy chicken goodness, the hens decide that it's not a safe spot any more and move on.  And the hunt begins again.

As you know, chickens like to sing the song of their people after they lay an egg, and are quite proud of the fact that they have yet again produced this item from their fluffy little bottoms.  Upon hearing such songs, I drop whatever I am doing in the house to try and find the secret place.   The tricky little girls have usually started their announcement away from where the incident occurred, and I am no closer to the treasure.  It is so frustrating - you can walk around and around the same part of the garden and not find anything, and then a week later happen to glance over at a different angle and voila!  Eggs...and lots of them.



Tee-hee, another Star Trek meme



All of the eggs-hausting sleuthing has led me to egg-streme measures and turned me into a bit of a stalker.  The other day I went to feed the chooks their kitchen scraps and top up their food, and Electra was running back and forth, desperate to be out and free-range.  When I let them out, unlike the other hens who started clucking and scratching at the ground for tasty morsels, her little legs were working like pistons as she headed up the yard like a kid with a turtle-head poking out (you know what I mean).  'A-ha', I thought, 'Electra is on a mission.'

As I started to follow her, she noticed what I was doing, and promptly stopped to stand innocently in the yard. 'Nothing to see here' was what she was thinking.  Okay, two can play that game.  I stopped following her and looked nonchalantly around the yard.  Clearly fooled by my great acting abilities, she started back on her trek.

Electra & Sesame

This game of cat and mouse (or human and hen, if you will) continued up the yard, past the house and into the top garden, with plenty of stops and starts along the way.  I was being tricky peering around the corner of the house, my eagle eye peeled for any sign of her sneaking into a hidey-hole.  There was a slight panic when I lost sight of her, but I found her again.

Snuggled deep into some ornamental grass, she wiggled her bottom into a comfortable position and tried not to look at me.  I left her alone - this egg-laying business can take awhile and now I knew where she was.  Of course, she knew that I knew, and I knew that this nest would be abandoned after today.  But I was egg-static - I found a great pile of eggs when I went back later (and yippee, I beat that bloody dog to them too!).

Fortunately they do return to vacated nests after a period of time, so my circuit of egg-checking becomes larger and larger as I add new locations to my list.

I must keep my eye on Electra for other reasons as well.  She disappeared last December for 3 weeks - we thought the neighbour's dog had got her - and then re-appeared with a lovely little flock of chicks.  Which means she had an egg-cellent hiding spot somewhere in the yard.  I'm onto her now, and if she disappears again, we'll be scouring the foliage for that particular fowl.  While chicks are great, dealing with unwanted roosters is much too stressful for me.  So I will continue my egg-hunts, and continued to  njoy our tasty, free-range organic bum-nuts. 



Friday Follies - Don't Toy With Me

Shiny and sparkly!!!

A Facebook post popped up in my newsfeed the other day.  It was from a group that posts things from the past - 'do you remember...'.  This particular post was about Lite-Brite.  Boy, did that bring back some memories.  I loved my Lite-Brite and I remember playing with it all the time.  I still have quite an affinity for sparkling, bright flashy objects - perhaps my obsession started there?  Then again, I remember staring at those sparkly rainbow stickers that would change colour depending on the angle of the light.  They were big in the 70's and I'd stare at them for hours (it's okay, they've done tests, I'm not mentally challenged, I just am distracted by sparkly things.).

Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star

I started thinking about other favourite toys that I had during my childhood.  The more I thought about it, the more I remembered.  I've listed some of my favourites below.

According to my parents, my first baby toys were a beer can and a tobacco tin.  That may have laid the foundation for my teen years, but that discussion is for another day.  I can remember a few favourite toys from my toddler/early childhood years.



The record player was a staple in many houses in the early 70's.  I can't recall the tunes that it played, but I am pretty sure it would have been nursery rhymes.  It used to fascinate me how it worked.  They must have been well made because I don't think we were gentle with it at all, we may have used the 'records' as Frisbees, I don't know for sure. 

TinkerToy was another big hit in our house.  We would spend hours joining the bits and pieces together.  I don't think we made anything particularly creative, but looking back I imagine that most things built resembled a model of a molecule.  Lots of fun, and WAY less painful than Lego.  

My brother had the Fisher Price garage (Fisher Price made great, sturdy toys, didn't they?).  We had hours of fun with this, and it went well with the Matchbox cars that we got when we were a bit older.  I believe that some of these are still in the possession of my parents, and they are still a hit when little kids come over.  The original cars were solid steel, very heavy and could really take a beating (or just about take out an eye if you winged it at your sibling...who we all know deserved it anyway).  We had all sorts of jumps set up and created many daredevil tricks.

Pretty in Pink

Camping anyone?

Moving on to the more 'girly' toys, of course there was Barbie.  I had the Barbie Corvette, and Barbie and GI Joe would travel together in pink perfection.  We also had the Barbie Camper - I can still remember the smell of the vinyl.  In fact, some of the promotional stickers that we have at work have the same smell, and I have been busted sniffing them....oh, the shame!


Another favourite of mine that I did not own, but played with religiously at a friend's house, was the doll head that you could put make up on and style her hair.  We used to play with that for hours.  I knew early on that I was 'hair illiterate' and could not master anything more complicated than a ponytail.  Maybe if my parents had given me one for Christmas like I begged for every year, I would have better luck in the styling department....but I doubt it.

Looking good, Miss Barbie



As we got older, the games changed.  We played Operation, fought over the Atari, made pretty pictures with Spirograph and drove Mum insane with Simon.

 

But there was one toy that brought great joy to our house - the slot cars.  Dad loved giving us slot cars, and we'd spend hours setting up the tracks and having races.  I can still smell that distinct electrical odour that the triggers gave off as you eagerly tried to beat your opponent.  The only problem was that when Dad had his friends over, we all got kicked off the track and, from the sounds of it, a lot of beer was consumed and a lot of good-natured competition ensued.  I suspect some of our toys were never really meant for us in the first place - our parents may have chosen games that they enjoyed too. 

Race anyone?

I wonder what kids of this generation will remember when they are our age?  I hope they have some memories like this, and not just memories of screens.