Today is 4th of July which doesn’t mean much at all to us Aussies, but to the Yanks, it’s kind of a big deal.
I was never in NYC for 4th of July celebrations as I was always out of town performing, which has given me a lovely national perspective on this important day.
In most towns there is a parade, all of which I remember as being rather underwhelming. So underwhelming in fact, that I don’t have a single photo as proof.
Surely I’d captured that dreadful parade in Bar Harbor Maine where the local bakery had drawn a handmade sign, stuck it to their truck and made their daughter precede them by cartwheeling down the road. Their windows were rolled down and they were providing their own soundtrack – What A Feeling – the reason eluding me as to its appropriateness for an Independence Day parade.
So then I thought I’d post some pics of what I did get up to during my 4th of July celebrations, but I’ve worn a lot of embarrassing costumes in my day and I think it’s best I don’t show you the time I was a dancing plate, or a nun, or a murderess, or a cow. The latter being a pivotal role in the show as you can well imagine.
What I can show you is proof of my devotion as a loving and caring wife, cognisant that her man is far from his homeland and seeking to dispel that misery by a making a homemade flag cake.
I made this one our first year back in Australia. The perspective is a bit funny, but trust me, it was a really big cake and since Gregory isn’t really into sweets, it was left to me to consume.
The next year I got ahead of myself and moved onto lollies as decorations, which (as you can see) were less successful. This mix of food colouring and cream is an important thing to note and i’ll be sure to make sure I inform Andy so he doesn’t make such a careless blunder when decorating his fancy cakes.
I have to admit that last year I failed in my wifely duties and didn’t so much as consider the mighty flag cake. At that point, the only thing I was considering was checking into a sleep clinic so I could nab a few hours break from the restaurant.
Equally so, today I will again fail in my duties to bring my husband’s homeland to him because we are moving on Monday and the house is a reflection of my mind. A complete shambles.
Sometime during the opening months of the restaurant, and just in case we weren’t getting enough of the place, we rented the ‘treehouse,’ the name Gregory has fondly given the apartment above. At the time it was the best and only thing we could do given the hours we were working, but the time has now come for our living situation to drastically improve.
Frankly, I need to break up with this place and never consider a reconciliation.
Firstly, there is no bathtub. Now being a tall lass, I’m no fan of a bathtub, but it’d sure make life easier with my small friend – and the new friend inside. We purchased one of those massive blue plastic shells from K-Mart which worked for a while, but getting my derriere and engorged belly down that low these days is a feat of momumental proportions. And so we shower together, which is fine. Fantastic even, but doesn’t help me much in my quest to decrease the intensity of the relationship I have with the Mighty Q, before her sibling arrives and unceremoniously does it for me.
Also, there is no outdoor area. I don’t know if anyone noticed, but it just rained for 16 DAYS STRAIGHT. Q and I were about to kill each other with the only kitchen utensils left unpacked – a spatula and her mini whisk. My money was on her by the way, she’s feisty.
Further, you cannot have the washer, dryer and radio on at the same time without blowing a fuse. Literally and figuratively. Now before you go getting all environmental on me, yes, I’d rather not use the dryer too, but the big arse building development at our back door has blocked all sunlight entirely and I cannot get the aprons and napkins dried in time for service. That’s right, I’m also the washer woman for Hartsyard. It’s a glamorous life I lead.
Speaking of this building site, and nothing against the lovely builders who help me carry my belongings and small child up the death spiral staircase (‘we’d rather help you carry groceries than help you when you go into labour’ they tell me), but the dust, dirt, mud, trucks and now GENERATOR that runs from 7am until 4.30pm every day are really starting to get to me.
Add to that the jack hammer across the road at the petrol station (mysteriously shutdown last week sometime, but since no one has come over to say we’re in danger, we assume it’s not going to blow) the hood system outside our bedroom window which hums like a small hovercraft and a toddler who has nightmares and wakes me for middle-of-the-night cuddles and I am really starting to believe that delivering my second child has got to be far less painful than my current situation.
Farewell drafty apartment where walls don’t meet floors. Goodbye to the hole in the kitchen roof that let litres of water in, saved only by accident as I had put one of our pots up there to store. Toodle-oo to the front door handle that now only turns in one direction. Sayonara annoying set of 6 stairs badly placed and so narrow you have to climb them like a duck so you don’t trip.
As one friend put it; ‘Nome, you’ve lived in squalor for over a decade now,’ (you should have seen some of the places I lived in in NYC while carving out a life as a performer) ‘it’s really time you improved your standard of living.’
So get ready world. Team Llewellyn/Hart is moving into a house. A house with a bathtub and a kitchen with actual bench space, a proper front door and somewhere to store your garbage bins. It has a plentiful supply of electricity sockets, a built-in wardrobe and even a proper space for a fridge. Oh my, are we living the highlife now.
Happy Independence Day people.
I hope you too can embrace the sentiment of the day and find a way to liberate yourself from an irritating circumstance.
BRING. IT. ON.