4 Aug 2013
People are baffling.
People that threaten to rape people because they run a petition to get Jane Austen on a bank note. People who deface memorial pages. People that drive at 20 kph in 60 kph zones. People that idolise Justin Bieber. People that hate on people because they are gay. People that fear refugees. Helen Razer’s forty year grump. People that pay $120 for lululemon yoga pants even though they are made in the same material and factory as your $8 Kmart ones. People who travel the world but only share photographs of their coffees on Instagram. People who don’t use deodorant but still use public transport. People that don’t stand up for older people on buses. People who can’t see without change we’d have no butterflies.
Baffling.
Today, three families took advantage of free children’s entertainment at the local shopping centre which was celebrating it’s third birthday by giving free stuff to customers. In fact, we took advantage yesterday and snuck in a meet and greet with Dora. Free entertainment featuring much beloved characters should NEVER be underestimated.
So today, there was a Peppa Pig concert and the small people were transfixed (mostly)…
And then with happiness in our every step and adorability factor at an 11/10, we went up to have our FACES PAINTED. This is the equivalent of scoring free wine at a free gig. Or as my grandmother might have said ‘the icing on the cake’.
And then we had to queue. Which was a bummer but my grandmother probably also said something like ‘there is no such thing as a free lunch’, which might be translated into something like people getting free face painting shouldn’t expect no queues as well.
Now, this face painter was good. Exceptional. (Sneak peek of end result just for context)
But with such talent came a slightly longer than average ‘time per face’, so even though we were fairly forward in the queue it was taking a while. And as I do, I got chatting to the lady in front of us in the queue and said ‘there will be child biffo if the line doesn’t get a move on’, and she laughed and said ‘or parental biffo’. And we chortled.
And then…. BIFFO!
Two men at the front of the queue started yelling abuse about whether one had pushed in and what appropriate queue etiquette was and how many places you could ‘hold’. And the lady and I smiled wryly at each other and turned our little people’s heads away from the silly men. All of a sudden, there is a push, the shouting gets louder and there is chest bumping going on. Wives are looking embarrassed, a man is intervening to stop the guys beating the shit out of each other, security is being called, the face painter is looking anxious, children are being bustled away from the front of the queue, casual observers vanish and we are all left looking at little perplexed about face painting escalating into violence.
No, you shouldn’t push in.
Yes, you should challenge idiots.
But it was face painting. Cheating at a face painting queue is not setting a good example, abusing people is not a good example, punching other people in front of your children is not a good example, embarrassing your partner is not a good example.
Actions which result in your children missing out on a face painting experience they have just queued for is NOT A GOOD EXAMPLE.
People are baffling. And face painting? Well that shit just got hard core!
31 Jul 2013
Do you guys know Dr Leanne Winter? She’s Raising Boys and getting the old brainbox going on the big, the small, the unusual and the everyday. I’ve not got boys but I’ve met them and I sure hope my girls get to meet the ones whose parents she has influenced as they get older.
I haven’t met her. She came on to my blog one day and has been incredibly positive about my ramblings and just last week nominated me for A Liebster’s Award.
What is a Liebster award?
“A Liebster award is given to support and recognise up and coming bloggers who have less than 200 followers (on their blog) or likers (on their Facebook page). The word “Liebster” apparently has German origins and is reported to mean sweetest, kindest, nicest, dearest, beloved, lovely, kind, pleasant, valued, cute, endearing, and welcome.”
(So OBVIOUSLY she thought of me. Stop chortling you in the back rows)
“By following some basic rules (answer 11 questions set by your nominee, write 11 additional facts about yourself, write 11 new questions of your own and pass the award onto 11 other bloggers to answer) it enables readers to get to know new bloggers and connect with a wider audience.”
Guess what people.
So without further ado, here is my (insert drum roll)
What was the best gift you ever received?
The correct answer I think for this would be the love of a good man and two beautiful children. Phew. But seriously, the best gift ever was an absolute legend ‘mixed CD’ my then boyfriend made me for my birthday. It was my first ever ‘mixed tape’ from a lover and I adored all of it – mixed downloads are never going to be quite the same. I am assuming he is working on the mother of all mixed tapes for my 40th next year right dear?? Actually, I don’t know if he reads my blog – perhaps might try printing this off and highlighting.
Dogs or cats?
“They” say dogs have owners, cats have staff. It’s a true statement so why would you ever prefer something so clearly lacking in ambition and drive? It’s cats all the way for me. Plus, they don’t drool on you, lick or slobber on you, eat poop/vomit/unidentifiable remains in parks or fart hideously. In many ways they are even preferable to small children.
Which famous person do you admire and why?
There are all the greats obviously – Nelson, Mother Theresa, the guy who invented the Hills Hoist. But mainstream famous person…Hmmm? I really enjoy the positivity and relentless enthusiasm for life demonstrated by the likes of Ellen de Generes, George Takei and Hugh Jackman. The three of them are constantly proving you don’t always have to be an arsehole to be successful.
What did you have for dinner last night?
So pleased to be answering this today and not yesterday – I had a Lebanese Fatoush salad with chickpeas, feta and chicken. Delicious. And no I didn’t make it (Hello – it’s me!), I was out to dinner at the divine
Three Weeds in Rozelle.
What is your favourite way to spend your ‘me’ time?
Now that I’m a bona fide athlete of two weeks duration I should say running but it would be a lie. My favourite ‘me’ time is the hammock, sunshine, chardonnay and a pile of reading material.
If you could invite either Kate Middleton or Johnny Depp to dinner, who would you choose?
This is a no brainer, I’m sure Kate’s lovely but it would have to be Johnny Depp. But not for me, for my husband… you see – once upon a time he misunderstood the rules of ‘Celebrity Free Pass’ and chose Johnny Depp. I have never ever ever ever let him forget it. Or anybody else. It would be the least I could do to make up for something that I STILL get a laugh out of to this day.
What was the last book you read?
Me and Rory Macbeath by Richard Beasley. Do yourself the favour. It’s beautifully written, with vividly nuanced characters in 1970s suburban Adelaide and I’m telling you nothing more because I hate it when people tell you too much about books. Just read it. Brilliant.
What advice would you like to give your 16 year old self?
Girl, stop believing anybody has any more clue than you. You know yourself better than anybody and you’re inherently a good person and the things you are passionate about won’t change – you’ll just get better at articulating them. The world isn’t black and white so you may need to settle down about that a little, but that voice pooping over your self esteem and your self confidence should shut the fuck up. Go crazy, be awesome and seriously girl, that ain’t fat. Trust me.
If you could go anywhere/do anything where would you prefer to be right now?
I would be packing the family up and we’d be heading to Peru. I’m worried that Machu Pichu might slide off the top of that mountain before we get there.
Finish this sentence “I love blogging because…”
I get to arrange 26 letters into all sorts of combinations which generally ramble on in no particular direction until my point is made or I hear my sister’s voice in my head saying ‘Shut up Al – that’s enough’. Words. Love ’em.
What thing do you wish someone would hurry up and invent?
Computers that completely immune to having water or wine or milk or drool or ice-cream smeared all over them. Not that I would ever do this. I just think it would be nice. Honest.
Okay – now I have to tell you 11 random facts that people don’t generally know about me. This is hard because I keep nothing about myself private (much to most people’s chagrin).
- After a night out in London, a friend and I climbed into the garden that featured in The Notting Hill movie. Hint for novices attempting trespass – don’t wear a dress (a) and (b), getting out is much harder than getting in.
- I was first published for writing a certificate winning piece about ‘Mary’ the mother of God. (There was less opportunity for would be authors at Catholic high schools in the eighties okay!)
- Given the choice I would rather be with dead people then dead animals. Dead animals are icky, dead people are just, well, dead.
- I like Gilbert and Sullivan musicals. Like genuinely like. And I know a LOT of the lyrics.
- I will never tell you if I hate a gift. Ever. So don’t bother keeping the receipt.
- The book I hate most in the world is Tess of the d’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy. Studying it in Year 10, 11 and 12 can do that to a book.
- The movie I couldn’t even pretend to like even though the world went crazy for it was The Piano by Jane Campion. I would have chopped her stupid fingers off myself if I had met her.
- Until I was in my 20s I thought Pitch’n’putt was called Pigeon Putt. Well, there are birdies and what not, I just thought it one of those daft golfer things.
- I defriend racists
- I shaved my head for charity in 2007 and my mother introduced me for about the next year as ‘thisismydaughteralisonwhoshavedherheadforcharity’ rather than just ‘this is Alison’.
- I have never done karaoke.
The Aus Geek –
http://theausgeek.wordpress.com/I’m not babysitting –
http://imnotbabysitting.blogspot.com.au/
Should they accept the challenge my questions are:
1. Pets or children?
2. Which music video do you wish you’d produced?
3. Are you a planner or do you ‘wing it’?
4. What is your ideal Sunday afternoon?
5. Is the ziplock bag or the Hills Hoist the greatest invention ever?
6. What is your favourite fruit?
7. If you had to name a ‘least favourite’ word, what would it be?
8. You can only do one household chore for the rest of eternity, which one would it be?
9. Your most awesome body part?
10. Earliest memory?
11. If you could be in any sitcom, which sitcom would you choose and why?
And…. go!
26 Jul 2013
I was very lucky today to be nominated for a Liebster Award by the fantastic Dr Leanne Winters on her Raising Boys blog today. If you haven’t read her, you should check her out her out here, yep, here where it is highlighted!
And I was going to Liebster it up.
But I have the evening to myself and I have been doing some thinking. Today, as I do every year, I went to see 1440 and The World Press photo exhibition. So I’m going to Liebster if up over the weekend but today I am going to work myself through the exhibition’s aftermath.
As always, it moved me. And disturbed me. And made me feel slightly awkward. And bored me (sports photo bit), and made me laugh. But mostly, it disturbed me.
The casual stance of neighbours torturing each other. The mother burned in an acid attack. The babies piled high in a morgue as a result of a missile attack. The soldiers floating in oil slicks on disputed borders. The mattresses of prostitutes in wheat fields outside cities. The terror in the face of a boy who survived his parent’s suicide pact. Praying volunteer firemen post tsunami. Broken limbs. Hopeful faces. Destroyed cities.
Some people’s every day realities. Some people’s normality. Unfathomable.
And I, well I distracted my older toddler with Peppa Pig games while my baby slept and I circled that room full of snapshots of other people’s everyday.. I believe in reality. I believe in honesty around death. But how, how do I contextualise those pictures for them? I have no words that would describe them adequately. My children have no experiences which would allow them to empathise. I like, no I love, that they believe the world to be a good place full of licking furniture, trampolines and tickling. I adore this about them. The freshness. The trust. The vitality.
But I am sad. So very sad for people who don’t have the luxury of safety. Of trust. Of normality. Of love.
You might ask, well why do you go?
Because the photography is exquisite. The stories told simply. With one picture. And these are real. Real life for so many. Real, inexplicable, terrible, painful, joyous, personal. To capture that is a gift. To view it, a privilege. Such talent. Such courage. Wow.
These are lives I will never live. Lives I can not ignore just because they are not my own.
Do I know what to do? No.
But do I think it important that we do not live our lives in ignorance. Yes.
I hear people say “I don’t watch the news, it is too depressing.”. Well I say to you – “Selfish and get your head out of your own backside”.
How fucking lucky are you to have the luxury of ignoring violence, fear, pain, persecution? Of uncertainty? Of discrimination? Of difference?
You can’t fix it necessarily no. But you should never ignore it. You should never disregard those journeys. Because it’s just a genetic freakin’ lottery that you are not them. As the expression goes – there but for the grace of God go I.
And if you’re not religious – you get the point so spare me the ‘god’ semantics of the expression.
Do I want my children to know of those things? No. But do I do them any justice by ignoring the reality of so many people on the planet? No. So therefore they have to be exposed. Gently. With Peppa Pig in their laps when they glance up at one photo and say to me – that man needs a band aid, He has some blood on his face.
Yes darling he does. That’s a good suggestion.
25 Jul 2013
In the June of 2004 in South East London, as I sat upon the sofa of my new house share, gormlessly starring at the TV, munching popcorn (because not uncommonly at this period of my life I was living on popcorn and water for a couple of days prior to payday), a cute male bum temporarily obscured my view.
Now I had only been in that house a few days, so unfamiliar backsides passing through the lounge room were not uncommon. But cute backsides on tall slim men with soft brown curls and the most incredibly pale blue eyes were much less common.
He was hot.
And just back from Glastonbury.
An absolute sweetheart. Interesting, fun, funny, verbose, quiet, thoughtful, passionate, opinionated.
A good Scrabble opponent.
Did I mention? Very handsome.
And disappointingly – my house mate.
So very very very unsuitable on so many many levels.
Well.
You know the rules. Whatever else was a pro or con, he was a house mate.
And I was moving back to Australia.
It was agreed. This will NOT happen.
So.
A month later, having become friends, we kissed for the first time and he promptly turned, threw himself over a fence and we agreed that we could NEVER take this any further.
A girl has her pride.
And now, that girl has a bonafide husband and two daughters.
I blame him. And my lily livered Pride.
He may be right in every way. Infuriating. Pigheaded. Procrastinating. Painful.
But perfect.
For me.
Happy nine years beautiful man.
xxxx
23 Jul 2013
I just finished a week off. It was supposed to be a holiday but turned into ‘the week I have enjoyed the least in my parenting career’. Or you might choose ‘completely horrid’, ‘unenjoyable’ or ‘totally f#*ked’.
And I was going to try and blog about it but I think its best just to sum it up by sharing a text I sent to my husband at work last Thursday afternoon:
“If you by word or insinuation ever refer to this week as a holiday we are getting a divorce.“
And I meant it. It was a completely awful week.
Then there came a weekend where I got a haircut and had my eyebrows cut back to the undergrowth allowing my eyes to emerge from where they were hiding and I was looking forward to a return to the world of adults. Or work – which is about as close as anyone can wish for.
I should have seen looking forward to going back to work as a sign that something was wrong.
Sunday night – after a weekend of sneezing, I was whacked with the mother of all viral infections – glands up, sore throat, ears blocked, chesty cough, aches, pains, runny nose, head ache and a case of woe is me so dreadful I almost couldn’t sum up the energy to be pissed off at Rudd’s PNG ‘solution’.
And I went to the doctor. And she said “You are sick – here’s a sick certificate, go home and avoid pregnant people and old people until the end of the week.” And so I did. Mainly because my office is currently full of people doing ‘Dry July’ and other such pregnancy euphemisms or sporting stomachs protruding in fecund glory and I work in the aged care industry. Which means that it would be morally reprehensible to take my manky snotty self into the world of adults. And is there anything worse than sick people coming to work to demonstrate their commitment? No. Nothing. Except Rudd’s stupid solution.
So I’ve slept. And taken my medicine. Mainlined Vitamin C tablets. Told my mother I can’t see her because she’s old even though she’s in town for a few days. And moped. And today I followed the twitter streams about the royal baby from under my duvet. Doctor’s orders.
Now that I no longer feel that death is imminent, I can sense that I might well recover. I still blame this new exercise malarky. Basically I believe my body has gone into profound shock and reacted by trying to kill me.
But I might even stop whinging at my husband about how this is worse than man flu. But not today. I have a sick certificate giving me official permission to whinge at him for at least another 36 hours. It’d be rude not to take full advantage.
17 Jul 2013
Before I took up this running malarky (ie today), there was only one sport in which I truly excelled.
And that was ‘The Bouquet Toss’.
Before Beyonce, all the singles ladies had only one way to get a ring on it and that was to catch the bouquet at a wedding and know that happiness was but a proposal away.
The problem with this is that everybody was always too cool to saunter their single arses out on the dance floor to take part in this odd, but strangely enduring, ritual. Of course, with so many of us shacking up before we got married, we were able to take part in this ritual for a lot longer than the lasses of yore and grow cynical and dismissive. But brides like throwing it, people like watching it and I, I loved it.
And not because I was expecting a proposal. Nay, I’d been a Bridesmaid six times and I knew that my chances of getting married had withered like testicles of winter swimmers. But the sheer joy of making ‘a big deal’ out of it cheered up many a painfully tedious wedding.
Step 1. Holler and catcall to all the other unmarried ladies when the time comes, badger them into joining you on the dance floor.
Step 2. Hitch dress up, tuck into undies for effect. Growl.
Step 3. Rock from side to side, hands on knees – as if about to commence the Haka.
Step 4. Talk up your agility and wins. Diss the other women as eternal spinsters. Say ‘yo mama’ a lot.
Step 5. Roar and leap into the air punching other people in the face until the bouquet is yours.
Step 6. Give it to the girl quietly sobbing on the floor beside you as she wants desperately to get engaged and ‘beastly Alison won the bouquet toss again’.
Step 7. Drink wine and dance.
But for me it all came to an end, one of the highlights of many a wedding, when I saw Spamalot in 2008. As the bouquet was tossed into the audience, years of competitive training came to the fore and my arm shot up, catching the flowers tossed glibly by Sanjeev Bashkar and boom – before my trip to London was over my boyfriend had become my fiance and my years of bouquet catching were over.
What did you truly excel at before Monty Python and Sanjeev Bashkar intervened?
