25 Mar 2014
I have a confession to make which I realise, even as I write it, will permanently make me a social pariah.
I am so very bored by your cute cat and dog memes and videos.
I don’t mind the pictures of your actual cat or dog. I get that you love your pet(s) the way I love my children and those are the kind of thing I like to see scattered throughout my feeds. Actually, considering the number of people I know that own strange animals I would like to extend this love to all your lizards, cows, goats, alpacas, rats, snakes, rabbits and relatives.
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| That’s not even my biggest gripe |
But giant dogs wrapped around their owners with cute captions about being scared of the vet? No.
Boo? No. 1000 times no. It’s a rat crossed with a dog dressed in a tutu. No. No.
Cats hidden in dog litters? No.
Dogs trashing the joint and looking innocent with ‘clever’ captions? No
Cats pretending to be meerkats? No.
Dogs in glasses with scientific references? No.
Grumpy cat? I didn’t find him interesting the first time let alone 7 billion shares later. No.
Anything to do with dogs and American servicemen? No, no, no.
Cats with hitler moustaches? No.
Puppies saying they let the dogs out? No.
Cats playing pianos? No.
Dogs in cars? No.
Cats with heads in bread? No.
Ninja dogs? No.
If you have the time to be searching out and sharing these things you need a hobby, a partner or a job. Possibly all three. Together. Where you don’t have computer access. Please.
Or join the appropriate support group. If people can come together to talk about their compulsion for public masturbation there is probably a support group for your cat/dog meme thing. And it’s not something you’d have to lie to your mother about.
Please.
Save me.
For the love of Roscoe Arbuckle – save YOURSELVES.
24 Mar 2014
It’s the day after the day they left.
You know the day, you’ve had house guests for a few weeks and you’ve had to curb the naked wandering through the house trying to find the clean clothes basket, your cupboards are almost but not quite the way you like them and your house hummed with a different energy.
Now that it’s ‘that’ day, the fridge is strangely empty and your children are insisting you be the ‘clothes robot’ when you dress them which seems to double the time it takes to get dressed but it’s kinda fun and anyway, you have no doubt that you’ll be playing all sorts of other cool ‘Grandad’ games over the coming weeks. Conversations are starting with ‘Granny said’, ‘Granny drew’ or ‘Grandad always’ and you know that the little people are finding the day after they day they left a little strange too.
I’m not one of these people that minds guests. Especially ones I like. I always love having people stay and it’s a genuine invite when I say ‘any time’. I mean it. Every time. These guests were extra special because with my in-laws living back in England, I am always grateful they find the time to come and hang out with the girls and Nick, just because they want to do so.
The day after is not because our visitors were difficult. They played endless games with the girls. Read books. Drew pictures. Did puzzles. Did more puzzles. Cooked meals. Washed clothes. Drove us places. Minded the girls so we had a date night. They were, as always, lovely. I have the kind of in-laws you know other people wish for and so sometimes I have to make up horrible things about them so they seem more believable. So this is not about them. Or any of the guests that come and stay, be it for a night, a few nights or longer.
It’s just that, somewhere along the line, our little quartet has come to mean perfection for me. I find the rhythms of our lives together peaceful. I love the in-jokes and the silliness. I love squashing the four of us on to the couch and having snuggles. I love family interpretative dance time. I love playing the ‘your turn’ game at breakfast around the table. Strangely, I even love having the girls burst into the toilet to tell me the thoughts in their heads RIGHT NOW. I even love being able to have discussions (read arguments) and resolve them without having to do it in hushed whispers. Life is always better when you can slam a door and yell a little.
And while I will always love the energy of guests, the stories, the memories you create by stuffing a house full of people you love – and such gatherings will ALWAYS be part of our lives – I love that what I have is enough. There are no gaps.
Nick. Tully. Cassidy. Me.
Happiness. Even on a Monday.
20 Mar 2014
I have lost track of my weeks a bit. But I think we’ve just finished week 5 and are moving into week 6. Either way, we’re still in March and the run’s not until May so I am not panicking yet.
Anyway, I had a week where my training was pretty much non-existent. I missed my Monday training for the refugees, my Wednesday training for Tiger Parenting and the Saturday one for reasons not pretty. Then back into it again with a Joey session.
Joey sessions are basically exercise and love. That man doesn’t have a mean bone in his body. We did the Victoria Secret workout (basically huge amounts of ab work), combined with some ballet moves, a spot of running and kick boxing. I obviously have a natural affinity for boxing because Joey said I was a natural. And since Joey thinks Miranda Kerr looks like she has constipation most of the time, I am very inclined to believe him. I also think Miranda Kerr is more Stepford Wife than real person. I deeply distrust anybody who thinks that we can look like her if we eat seeds. Those are genetics darling, I’ve seen your mum. Seeds are not going to cut it for me. .
Anyhoos – did this bizarre thing in our dynamic training of running straight lines in a sprint, the curvy bits at a jog, than sprint, than jog etc. This went on for about 5 kilometres on a hot humid night after I’d spent most of the day in the car going to a funeral and back again. I wasn’t in the zone but I kept lurching around the oval and hoping that one of the football guys training in the middle of the oval would accidentally kick a ball into my head so I could go home. No luck.
And then, on my Saturday morning run which followed SEVEN HOURS UNINTERRUPTED SLEEP, I was on fire. I ran 10 kilometres, up hill and down dale, huffing and puffing and I never stopped. Not once. Partly, well mostly, this was because Paula hung out with me (chronic chest infection meant that my pace was a nice shuffle for her) and she didn’t once try to positive talk me anywhere. She just let me mind sing L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. to set my pace for every hill (thanks Noah and the Whale) and chatted away cheerfully for the bits where she knew that friendly conversation wouldn’t result in her untimely demise.
I broke through quite a few mental barriers and set a number of PBs that morning including making it down into the Lane Cove National Park. CanTooers are fond of saying that they love Talavera Road. Which I’ve always called bullshit on – it’s a nightmare, but now I realise they don’t love Talavera Road – they love the National Park and are trying to stop people finding out about it. Secrets out – my hot tip is just start in the National Park and you’re welcome.
And then this week we did Time Trials. This involves running 5 kilometres as fast as you can to see if you’re improving. I shaved 4 and a bit minutes off my time, an improvement of 10% and was kindly accompanied by Matt for a chunk of it. It also means that officially I am ‘still the slowest’ but faster at being the slowest if you know what I mean. Part of that increase might have been running with Matt, though you aren’t to tell him. The man is inspired by positive mind sets and self discipline and exudes more enthusiasm about life than the average 5 year old in a toy shop. Thinking on it, I suspect he’s a fembot too.
So here we are – about to start the distance runs on Saturday and I’m at my computer where an email Coach Christie sent me made me cry because she was ridiculous amounts of lovely. I am basically surrounded by positive and inspirational people and feeling like I can finish 23 kilometres in May.
It’s okay – I’m surprised too.
19 Mar 2014
Late last year on my personal Facebook page I asked my friends what etiquette was sorely missing in the world today. Over fifty vehement, ranty suggestions (I had obviously hit a nerve) later, I present
THE TALKING FRANKLY GUIDE TO ETIQUETTE IN THE MODERN WORLD
In no way are these posts endorsed by the likes of June Dally Watkins or any professional royal butlers.
Let’s start at the beginning.
What is etiquette?
Etiquette is defined as “the customary code of polite behaviour in society or among members of a particular profession or group”
You may know this more commonly as ‘How not to be an arse’.
We start today with the lost art of the RSVP. RSVP is French for ‘répondez s’il vous plaît’ which means ‘Please Reply’. Why we use the French I don’t know – I suspect it’s because everybody loves an acronym and a second language makes us ‘tres chic’.
Let’s start with a quiz to help you identify your own RSVP habits:
A friend sends you an invite to an event. They use Facebook or email to send it because this is 2014 and that is how we communicate these days. Do you:
a) read the invitation, check your calendar and with partners, etc and reply by the RSVP date?
b) read the invitation, and reply maybe but you have to check your calendar, talk to your partner and forget all about it, leaving the poor bastards hanging?
c) read the invitation and reply yes, knowing full well you aren’t going to go but hey, it’s not you paying for catering?
d) read the invitation, reply yes figuring that if you get a better invitation you’ll take that instead because hey, it’s not you paying for the catering?
e) read the invitation, and don’t reply at all because you don’t want to commit?
f) read the invitation, and don’t reply at all because, actually, you don’t know why, you just didn’t?
f) don’t read the invitation?
If you answered anything but A, you’re an arse.
It’s okay we can fix this.
There is no good reason bar a scenario that requires Jake Gyllenhaal to rescue you from a freak ice storm that takes over the world to not reply to somebody when you are invited to something. Apart from accidental death, but that is a fairly rare occurrence so unlikely to count as a genuine excuse.
The basic rules are this.
- Reply. ALWAYS REPLY.
- If you say yes and that changes for reasons you can’t control, let them know ASAP.
- If you say yes, don’t blow them out for something cooler. If the opportunity is a once in a life time, talk to your friend – they’ll get it.
- If you say yes, turn up.
- If you say no, don’t turn up.
- If you don’t reply, don’t expect to be invited again. The one strike rule applies because generally if you’re an arse once, you’re an arse all the time.
- If you forget, ring them and own up. Apologise.
When people invite you to something it’s because they want you there. If you don’t reply, it’s basically telling them you don’t value them, or the invitation. Even if it’s a business invitation, somebody has taken the time to ask you and you should be polite enough to say ‘Thanks but no thanks’.
When it comes down to it, don’t make them do the following up, it feels very much like begging and I can assure you, whoever you are, you’re not that cool.
So in summary – RSVP etiquette can be summed up with one key point.
You’re welcome
18 Mar 2014
The Liberal Party is my friend. True story.
I’m an extremely white (it’s the Irish genes), middle class, married, heterosexual female with two non-school aged children. I am married to a white immigrant. We live in Sydney, have plenty of access to water when we need it, are employed and have no disabilities. Neither of us have parents requiring aged care at the moment, aren’t using schools and it benefits us to have the child care workers paid as little as possible to ensure our child care fees stay down.
While my backyard is located in land that used to belong to the Wallumetta people, it’s not my fault that it was given to John Doody shortly after European settlement and I am just generally thankful it has no coal so Gina doesn’t want it. When you think more broadly, I’ve been to the Barrier Reef so if it gets wiped out, I’ve got the photos and while I want my internet to be faster, I can always move to England if this becomes the one thing that will improve the overall quality of my life.
I have no good reason not to support all the things the Liberal Party is doing, because even as they systematically break nearly every one of their ‘core’ pre-election promises – I am not affected.
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| So middle class we buy coloured ponchos |
Well except for the traffic in Western Sydney which I was assured would be fixed if they stopped the boats. Apparently the boats have stopped but traffic in Parramatta is still a nightmare.
And that’s why I marched in march. I’m really cranky about that traffic.
Not really.
I marched because it doesn’t matter which government you choose at the moment, they are lacking inspirational, compassionate, economically viable policies which benefit the people and the environment we live in. We are systemically destroying the future of the country by pandering to an already wealthy elite. We are choosing greed over need. We are asking what is in it for me, not what is in it for the country as a whole. We should be prepared to pay more taxes to protect our environment, to have the first Australians’ recognised, to support our farmers, to pay for quality care for our ageing population and our children, to pay for good educations regardless of public or private, to care for people seeking asylum and etcetera.
We should not mistake populist patriotism for fact. We should be prepared to say that democratically elected or not, the government is not speaking on our behalf. And while I am personally not a fan of Tony Abbott, we need to stop hating the figure heads and remembering that whether it’s Tony or Bill or Kevin or Julia or Clive – they are figureheads for their party and they do not exist and they do not speak without the support of their parties. And lots of speech writers.
March in March is just like the ‘Convoy of No Confidence’ of a few years ago. It’s not just leftie do-gooders that like to have the odd protest. The right like to do it too. That’s the beauty of democracy. Everybody can have a say.
But when conservative police estimates predict around 100,000 people across capital cities and small country towns turned out to say ‘Not in my name’ and the media forget to report it – you know that you are living in a country that is not as free as we believe. In fact our democracy is tainted and manipulated.
And that is why I marched.
Because cynicism has no place in justice
Because apathy is complicity.
Because I have the privilege of being able to speak up, when so many don’t.
And ultimately, because I didn’t need to do so. And may I always be so lucky.
9 Mar 2014
This Wednesday, we will be farewelling my Great-Uncle Fred.
He caught a lot of fish in his time did Uncle Fred. He liked to fish. And he had a great laugh on him.
But the most important thing he taught me is a very valuable lesson about casual racism.
See, when I was young, I thought his name was Uncle Fritz. Everybody called him Fritz when they talked of him, or to him. And it was fondly. Nobody disliked him.
And then one day, probably when I was nearing double digits and we were visiting him and my Great-Aunt, he said to me that he’d prefer it if I called him Fred and not Fritz.
Why?
Because it’s my name.
Not Fritz? Is Fritz your second name?
No. My name is Fred.
So I said to my folks, Uncle Fritz wants to be known as Uncle Fred now.
Why?
Because it’s his name.
And we started calling him Uncle Fred. Both when we spoke to him or about him.
It probably didn’t happen that seamlessly. He’d been one name to us for a long time, but see, Uncle Fred was German. Defected to the Russians I think just as soon as he could. He was only a boy at the time, not yet 18 and it was towards the end of the second war where soldiers on both sides were getting younger and older as those of the ‘right age’ were decimated and a generation lost. As I understand it, he lost his entire family in the war and went first to America and then came here to Australia, where he eventually met my Great-Aunt and blah blah.
And he was called Fritz because he was German. And that stayed happening for years. Even in the family.
Absolutely no malice intended probably. Like a lot of the casual racism in Australia both then and now, people aren’t necessarily being intentionally cruel, but it doesn’t mean that we aren’t being awful.
Uncle Fred had every right to be called by his own name and I’m glad we had that conversation. No matter where he started, he was a person first and a proud Australian second. And there is no political bias in that statement – he and I were on opposite ends of the political spectrum in every way I think know. But he was a good man and he was loved and he will be missed, particularly by his wife, daughter and grand-children.
And almost thirty years later, that one conversation and that huge lesson still resonate with me.
Thanks Uncle Fred. Happy Fishing.
