tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21011325332086305942024-03-12T21:10:34.873-07:00 Edible GarbagePenny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-9720863719419338262020-08-14T01:04:00.064-07:002021-01-31T16:49:24.704-08:00Why I hate cooking dinner<p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span>I actually like cooking. I'm not one of those, <i>oh I don't do
cooking, I can't even boil an egg, ha ha ha, </i>type people. Because cooking isn't that hard, you just have to follow instructions.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span>I think those people don't do cooking because cooking for other people is a giant pain in the arse. And cooking night after night for children, is an even more giant pain in the arse.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>I dropped the ball on food discipline when the twins were about two </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></h2><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>It was motherhood triage: keeping bedlam at bay when the kids were very small seemed a more important priority than forcing kids to eat what they were given.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>As a result, I have now created a rod for my own back and none of my kids eat the same thing at the same time.</span></span></span></p><p style="padding-left: 30px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>Max eats boscaiola<a href="http://www.kidspot.com.au/kitchen/recipes/fettucine-boscaiola-1222" target="_blank"> </a>but hold the mushrooms.</span></span></span></p><p style="padding-left: 30px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>Alex eats boscaiola but hold the bacon.</span></span></span></p><p style="padding-left: 30px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>Henry doesn't eat boscaiola at all and would prefer fish fingers, please. </span></span></span></p><p style="padding-left: 30px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>Cooking dinner is a dark cloud that gathers on my horizon every day at about 4pm</span></span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>And if I don't get something started by 5:30 at the latest, the whole evening turns to crap. <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At
about 4:30 my children start making small, squeaky noises about being hungry. The noises escalate to full scale squawks by 5pm.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></p><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>By 5:30pm they start a three-pronged pincer attack like gathering triffids</span></span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>They
corner me from all directions: across the bench, between the pantry and
the cutlery drawer, sometimes they even pop up at the window to the
side passage. <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>They descend on the kitchen making whiny noises and clutching their stomachs as though they are actually starving to death. <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>By
5.45pm I'm simultaneously lobbing snacks at them with one hand,
stirring something in a pan at the stove with my other and kicking them
away with my left foot. I am painfully aware at this point that I am
trapped in a vicious vortex of mixed messages: "Don't spoil your dinner
but here, have a biscuit, get out of the kitchen and leave me alone so I
can get dinner ready."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>By 5.55pm I'm okaying all sorts of crazy
suggestions like: "Can I have an ice block? Can I have just one piece
of chocolate? Can I have a honey sandwich ..." just to get some peace. <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>By 5.58pm the deal becomes, "Have whatever you want as long as I don't have to get it for you."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6.10pm I announce that dinner is ready</span></span></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></h3><h3 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span><span style="font-weight: normal;">*crickets* </span><br /></span></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6.12pm I again, announce, a little louder this time, that dinner is ready.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> *crickets*</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> At
6.15pm I shout in my best fishwife voice, "TURN OFF THE TELEVISION AND
COME TO THE TABLE! I MEAN TURN IT OFF, DON'T JUST PAUSE IT!"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> (Because
sometimes they pause the TIVO and then 10 minutes later as we are
settling in to dinner, the ubiquitous sound of Bart Simpson comes back
to haunt us from the living room.)</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6.20pm we all sit down at the table.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>This
is nice, I like this bit. Sometimes they fight to tell me their best
story for the day. A lot of the time the twins fight over who gets to
tell the punchline to the story, so they make a deal, one will give the
set up, the other gets the punch line. I love this bit. On a really good
day, Max will break out an excellent impersonation of his crazy
French teacher.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></p><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>By 6.26pm deals are being struck around how much on the plate needs to be eaten to get dessert</span></span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> <br /></span></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>I hate this bit.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>"Two pieces of broccoli and one piece of chicken?"</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>"How about two pieces of chicken and just the top bit of the broccoli."</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>"How about everything on THIS side of the plate ...?"</span></span></span></p><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6.28pm I shout:</span></span></span></h3><h3><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span> </span></span></span></h3><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>"It's dinner, not an endurance test! Savour it and enjoy it!" <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6.29, they are all asking to leave the table.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6:30 I am scraping most of what I cooked into the bin.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>6:31 clean up the kitchen.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>At 6:35 they all start brokering their dessert deals. (Two pieces of chocolate and one scoop of ice cream? Four pieces of chocolate and no ice cream?)</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>More bowls, more cutlery, more mess.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large;"><span><span>This is why I hate cooking dinner.</span></span></span></p><p><br /></p>Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-90832531416807419402018-03-19T21:31:00.001-07:002018-03-19T22:01:40.980-07:00Opus interruptus: 13 ways my kids interrupt me when I'm working from home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zLq_gGVmyZw/WrCORe_s7YI/AAAAAAAAVws/PJTVHnh5i8UDoYOsiOYFRwS6kpvvrsP4QCLcBGAs/s1600/Opus%2Binterruptus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="720" height="192" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zLq_gGVmyZw/WrCORe_s7YI/AAAAAAAAVws/PJTVHnh5i8UDoYOsiOYFRwS6kpvvrsP4QCLcBGAs/s320/Opus%2Binterruptus.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I work from home and I have three kids. At approximately 3.45pm every
afternoon, my work day is interrupted when my kids come home. Most days
I welcome this interruption, it’s the perfect time to down tools for 10
minutes and give my brain a break. Sometimes they visit my study one by
one, sometimes they come in en masse to tell me about their day.<br />
But they always come.<br />
<br />
If
I’ve ducked out to the shops, I get an accusatory 'where are you?' phone call, as though me not being at my desk in my study has completely
upended their view of how the world should be. I’m not going to lie,
it’s nice to know that they miss me when I’m not there.<br />
<br />
But during school holidays, these interruptions really push the friendship: I cannot get anything done. The regular interruptions constantly short circuit my concentration and my productivity halves.<br />
<br />
I don’t know if you know this, but it’s actually really hard to get stuff done when you are constantly interrupted.<br />
<br />
Here are 13 things my kids regularly interrupt me for when I am working from home.<br />
<br />
<h3>
1. The wifi password</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
What’s the wifi password?<br />
<br />
F***
knows. It’s some random series of letters and numbers that Telstra
determined about five years ago. When anyone in the house needs to
re-enter the password into a device, I have to look through my wallet to
find the card with the numbers on it, give them the card and then
remember to follow up half an hour later when they have not returned
the card to me. If they don't return the card, no one will ever know
what the wifi password is, ever again, as long as we live.<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. The internet is not working CALL THE POLICE!!!</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
The
wifi and its ongoing maintenance is a source of constant interruption
because it seems my children are unable to function without it.<br />
<br />
When
the wifi goes down, I can virtually set my watch by the time it will
take for a child to appear at the door of my study. Wifi goes down:
count to 10. Child bursts into my room as though the house is on fire.<br />
<br />
During
these moments it’s like I am the embattled IT department of a very busy
and important corporation. Everyone is at me, everyone needs the wifi
fixed NOW and everyone demands to know what went wrong and what I will
be doing ‘going forward’ to make sure the same thing never happens
again. Ever.<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. The TV is not working</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Sometimes,
mysteriously the TV just will not turn on. It’s random and there’s no
sure way to fix it save for the slightly OCD series of gestures we go
through to make ourselves feel better before the TV magically decides to
start working again independent of these specific gestures we have just
performed like superstitious pagans.<br />
<br />
These include, switching out
the batteries, shaking it violently, pressing the ‘on’ button really,
really hard and pressing the ‘on’ button really really hard whilst
pointing the remote aggressively at the red dot on the television.<br />
<br />
When
the TV stops working, of course, I am everybody’s first port of call.
Because I am a television repairman in my spare time. (I’m not really,
I’m being facetious.)<br />
<br />
Anyway, what I do is perform all of the
above useless gestures I have just described. What they don’t understand
is: I have no power over the television and I have no special skills.
There’s really no need for me to be in the room when all of this happens
and therefore no reason to interrupt me.<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. “My computer is running really slow”</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
This
is accompanied by demands to know what I am doing on the internet. Am I
downloading something? Am I uploading something? Is there some reason
that their computer is running so slow that could possibly be connected
to my work activities and if so, my work activities should cease
immediately.<br />
<br />
Again, I don't why my kids think I can solve their PC
problems. as I have told them time and time again, 'I'm a Mac person, I
can't help you with that ugly piece of sh**.'<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. "The internet is really slow"</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Thanks.
Tell me something else NO ONE ELSE IN THIS COUNTRY HAS DISCOVERED
YET!!! Every time they complain, I tell them to enthusiastically express
their support for the NBN to our local member.<br />
<br />
<h3>
6. Something else about the computer</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
I dunno, sometimes all I hear is: 'Bleh bleh bleh computer bleh bleh bleh'<br />
<br />
<h3>
7. “What can I have to eat?”</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
This
would seem obvious to me: whatever you can find in the pantry or
fridge. I think they suspect I have a secret ‘other pantry’ and secret
‘other fridge’ that I am keeping from them.<br />
<br />
<h3>
8. Some sort of argument I was not privvy to but now am required to adjudicate</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
This
one is time consuming. I must collect sworn statements from each
witness, figure out who is in the right and hand down my judgement
accordingly. However, as the department of justice is currently
understaffed, we now have a mandatory sentencing system whereby: whoever
interrupted me to tell me about the argument, is in the wrong.<br />
<br />
<h3>
9. "I can’t find any socks"</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Socks
are like four leaf clovers in this house and a matching pair? WE
haven’t seen one of those since 2005. The reason they can’t find their
socks is because their <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null">socks are all over their bedroom floor</a>,
squished down the side of their bed and scrunched into the gap between
the couch cushions. Sock hunting season commences at the beginning of
the school term. Until then, the socks are free range.<br />
<br />
<h3>
10. The Paypal password</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
My
middle child is has truly mastered the art of interrupting me with
something at exactly the point that I will pay money to get him to go
away. This has resulted in NUMEROUS ‘cheap games’ being bought (some
sort of in-app purchases, I don’t know, when I ask
questions I lose interest as soon as he starts to talk about it) with my Paypal account during
the school holidays.<br />
<br />
I once added it all up after the school
holidays- all those US$15 games he bought when I was trying to get him
to go away – and I nearly fainted. Mea culpa.<br />
<br />
<h3>
11. "Where are the biscuits?"</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
In the biscuit jar?<br />
Where’s the biscuit jar?<br />
In the pantry, where it always is?<br />
I can’t see it.<br />
Have another look<br />
I looked I still can’t see it.<br />
Please have a woman’s look.<br />
<i>(Shouts from kitchen)</i> Okay I found it.<br />
Where was it?<br />
NEVER MIND! I FOUND IT<br />
Was it where I said it was?<br />
<i>Shamed silence.</i><br />
<br />
<h3>
12. "My (insert random body part here) hurts"</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
My
youngest child likes to go to the doctor. I think he likes the
attention or something. He loves having his temperature taken and being
asked how he’s feeling: all of it. And so any vague ache he may have,
requires a long discussion around whether or not he actually does need
to go to the doctor.<br />
<br />
<h3>
13. "There’s no milk"</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
There is milk.
There is ALWAYS milk. Making sure there is always milk is one of the
special skills I have acquired over 16 years as a mother.Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-58551535963014391752017-09-20T20:16:00.000-07:002017-09-20T20:16:47.020-07:0011 ways to be socially awkward: advice from an expert<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KqR20R3giZo/WcMsRg2OKXI/AAAAAAAATMs/GeQ3ZANqodkPY9YpdWLPYmgFfrVrwEeeACLcBGAs/s1600/KISS%2BOR%2BCOAT%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KqR20R3giZo/WcMsRg2OKXI/AAAAAAAATMs/GeQ3ZANqodkPY9YpdWLPYmgFfrVrwEeeACLcBGAs/s320/KISS%2BOR%2BCOAT%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span lang="EN-US">There are many ways to be socially awkward.
I know this, because I am an expert. Throughout my life I have uncovered myriad
ways to create a portable miasma of vague discomfort. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If you are a novice and you would like to
learn how to do it, you’ve come to the right place. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I have tried and tested all of these
methods and I can guarantee that </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">these moments will not only be awkward at
the time, but they will revisit you throughout your life to remind you what an
enormously awkward goober you really are. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">1.
Overthink the social kissing</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Social kissing is an awkward goober’s
kryptonite because there are so many ways it can go horribly wrong. The secret
to cocking it up is to overthink it to oblivion. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">Who
should I kiss? Just close friends or do I kiss that friend of Sue’s as well?
Should we kiss now or in a few seconds? When’s the social kiss coming, is it
coming at all or can I relax? Are we kissing on the left or the right? Are we
making actual lip to cheek contact or just air-kissing? We’ve already kissed
goodbye but now we’re at the car, do we kiss again or should I just wave like a
puppet to signify the social interaction has finished? </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mistake the social hug for a social kiss
</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">If someone goes for the hug and you mistake
it for the full service social kiss, it ultimately means you will unwittingly
kiss some part of that person that should never be casually kissed: an ear, a
nose, an eyebrow. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In my case, it resulted in a slow-moving
Nosferatu impersonation: I lurched around for a landing point that ultimately
ended with his neck.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">3.
Miss the exit on the revolving door </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For extra points: miss it once, then lose
your nerve and miss it again so that you end up doing a few laps and have to
keep saying “Hi” to the people waiting to come in</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">For bonus points: mistime your entry and
accidentally enter someone else’s segment of the door. Now you are both jammed
into a small space, trying to shuffle along at a synchronized rate so as not to
accidentally bum each other. Maximum awkwardness achieved. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">4.
Push on the door that clearly says, “PULL” as you are leaving a crowded café</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And by “push” on it, I mean: really wrestle
with it like you’re trapped inside a burning building and need to get out
before you perish. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">5. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wave enthusiastically at a stranger</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Make sure you do your wacky and ironic
Humphrey B Bear wave - that private joke that’s only funny to you and your
close friends - because it’s not someone you know, it’s just a random woman
with glasses who looks like someone you know. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">It’s important to finish this off by morphing
the wacky-wave-for-close-friends into a wide-arcing and implausible nose
scratch. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">6.
Trip over a crack in the footpath and pretend it’s your new jaunty walk</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This must be done in front of a crowded bus
stop full of bored commuters who have nothing better to do than to watch your “I’m-tripping-no-I’m-walking-funny”
charade from start to finish. Because to prove it’s your new jaunty walk,
you’ll have to keep doing it until you are out of their line of sight. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Extra points for saying something like: “Whoopsie-doopsie!”
at the time of tripping. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">7.
Allow someone to get your name wrong because you’re assuming that you’ll never
see them again </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Make sure you let them say it numerous
times so it’s clear that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> also
think that your name is “Pammy.” It will then transpire that she is the mother
of your son’s new best friend. So you will be seeing each other regularly and
just long enough each time for her to call you, “Pammy”, but not long enough to
warrant a full-scale retraction. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This one has a nice long-range kicker:
because at some point five years down the track you will have to come clean and
admit that your name was never “Pammy” then explain why you didn’t say anything
sooner. Good luck!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">8.
Mutter a random word whilst shaking hands with an acquaintance</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">And by “mutter”, I mean, don’t move your
lips and by “random” I mean, something inexplicable like: “Awesome.” (I don’t
know why I did it, but the handshaking was just so intense and silent I felt I
had to say something.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">9.
Shout “Hello!” at an unnecessarily loud volume when greeting an acquaintance</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I do this a lot. And I know the trigger: someone
who makes me nervous. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US">The intense German woman at my
kids’ school</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US">The old man from next door who
tinkers in my garden unannounced (I mean, serious tinkering; presently he is
cutting up bricks with a machine and relaying pavers. To be clear, I never
asked him to.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "symbol"; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US">The barista who sprays his broad
brushstrokes “flirting” across all ages and genders</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">10.
Overhear a compliment and assume it’s for you</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">This will happen when you’ve gone a bit
outside your comfort zone fashion-wise: a brave new hair colour, a fashion hat,
some bold statement jewellery. And because you are thinking about it, you will
assume everyone else is thinking about it too. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spoiler alert: they’re not.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">In my case, it was a jazzy knotted kerchief
at the neck. I just thought I’d try it and so when I heard a work colleague
behind me say: “She’s such a fashion plate …” I naturally assumed. I should
have left it at the assuming but because I am a master player, I felt compelled
to thank her for the compliment. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">She wasn’t talking about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh how we laughed … and by “we laughed”
I mean: she laughed AT me and I laughed whilst dying inside. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-US">11. Fall
into step with your neighbour and realise too late you are headed in the same
direction and don’t have enough conversation topics to cover the terrain </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The most awkward way out of this is to pretend
you need to stop and tie your shoe, then continue to stalk them from four paces
behind for the rest of the way. </span></div>
Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-35868979413072960752016-10-13T17:47:00.002-07:002016-10-13T22:52:45.757-07:00Spare me the small talk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UG_kPsqPKOg/WAApZI0nQEI/AAAAAAAAL4M/oT_fV00WQnwMK2INPNYHnOHBUcRx3azHACLcB/s1600/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-14%2Bat%2B11.39.35%2BAM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UG_kPsqPKOg/WAApZI0nQEI/AAAAAAAAL4M/oT_fV00WQnwMK2INPNYHnOHBUcRx3azHACLcB/s320/Screen%2BShot%2B2016-10-14%2Bat%2B11.39.35%2BAM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I don't just dread small talk, I LOATHE IT! It's draining, it's unnecessary and most of the time it's not an interpersonal exchange: it's just some inane person firing meaningless scattergun questions at you to fill the silence.<br />
<br />
Well guess what? I don't mind silence, in fact, I ADORE IT. Especially when I am sitting in the hairdresser's chair: that captive torture chamber where you not only have to stare at your own face for 40 minutes but you also have to field INANE small talk questions from a 20-something hairdresser who thinks "Keeping Up With The Kardashians" is SUCH A GOOD SHOW.<br />
<br />
"Going somewhere special tonight?" <i>Unless your definition of 'somewhere special' is my couch with a gin and tonic and the entire fourth season of The Good Wife ready to roll, no I am not. </i><br />
"What are you up to on the weekend?" <i>Nothing. Nada. Zip. Even if I was up to something, I doubt the details of it would be of any RELEVANCE OR INTEREST TO YOU!!!</i><br />
<br />
And my personal favourite, the lazy person's way of starting a conversation:<br />
<br />
"So ... what's been happening?"<br />
<br />
Translation: I can't remember anything about you since the last time we made small talk in front of this unforgiving mirror that makes you look like a lizard lady, so give me a few clues about who the fuck you are again.<br />
<br />
Well, news just in: a hairdressing salon in the UK has cottoned on to the fact that some of us dread the inane chit-chat of the salon chair and are now providing a 'quiet chair' for those who 'dread small talk.'<br />
<br />
<h3>
<a href="http://www.stylist.co.uk/beauty/hair-salon-offers-quiet-chair-silence-for-those-who-hate-making-small-talk-cardiff-uk-wales-haircut-anxiety" target="_blank">UK hair salon offers "quiet chair" for those who dread small talk </a></h3>
<br />
I dread small talk so much that I engage in random trips to different hairdressers all over my locality, just so they can't get to know me and start asking more personal questions every time I come in.<br />
<br />
In FACT, what I would like is just a hairdresser's version of the public bathroom 'glory hole' that gay men have. You know, you just sort of push your hair through the hole in the wall and it gets magically 'serviced' by someone on the other side and you don't have to look at them or talk to them. <br />
<br />
Because the problem with salon small talk is: I have nothing in common with hairdressers (I have nothing in common with ALOT of people) and it's really hard to get the conversation 'firing.' And a conversation that doesn't fire, is DRAINING.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Recently I tried to get on board with the chit chat </h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Here's how things went down:<br />
<br />
"Got any plans for the weekend?"<br />
"Yes. I'm going to Melbourne."<br />
"Omigawd, how fun! What are you going to do, go shopping?"<br />
<br />
<i>At this point I should have just said, "Yes, I am going shopping," But then I thought, if I opened up the whole shopping can of worms it would probably lead to more questions about shopping about which I'd have to make up some more answers and ... you know the tangled web ... </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>So I answered truthfully, hoping it would sound so boring it would SHUT THIS SHIT DOWN. </i><br />
<br />
"No, I'm going down for work."<br />
"OMIGOD YOU POOR THING!!! OH NO! THAT'S TERRIBLE!" <i> </i><br />
<br />
<i>Seriously, it was like I had just told her I had inoperable brain cancer. </i><br />
<br />
"No, it's fine. It's fine." <i> I really felt like I had to calm her down before she started to cry. </i>"I actually like what I do for a living. So it's fine."<br />
"Oh, what do you do?"<br />
<br />
<i>Don't answer that! DON'T ANSWER THAT!</i><br />
<br />
"I'm a writer." I said, walking FACE-FIRST into more probing questions. "I'm going down to do some work with my sister."<br />
<i>Awkward silence. Foolishly, I decided to fill it.</i><br />
"On a script." <br />
"Oh! Like for television?"<br />
"A film script."<br />
"Oh! My friend works for <i>Home and Away</i> and they do script meetings on yachts."<br />
"Well, we will not be on a yacht. We will be in my sister's kitchen, so ..."<br />
"Oh."<br />
<br />
<i>Insert: the awkward sound of conversation grinding to a halt. </i><br />
<br />
"So when are you flying down, tomorrow morning?"<br />
"No, I'm going down tonight at 8:30."<br />
"OH NO YOU POOR THING! OH NO!!!"<br />
"No, it's fine. It's actually easier than going in the morning, it's not ... it's fine. I'm fine."<br />
"Oh you poor thing! Oh no!"<br />
<br />
<i>Another awkward silence as she ponders the absolute TRAGEDY that is my sad little life and the way I spend my weekends flying to other cities in the dead of night to NOT GO SHOPPING. </i><br />
<br />
At that point, I pulled an old New Idea off the shelf in front of me and started flicking through it indicating that the conversation was over. But it felt awkward and I felt bad about it, so then I started saying inane things about the celebrities in the magazine just to make her feel more comfortable.<br />
<br />
And I also made a note in my head not to come back to this particular salon for a while. At least six months should wipe her memory of my sad non-shopping, nocturnal flights to Melbourne life to have script meetings in kitchens and not on yachts. <br />
<br />
<h3>
Here's another thing I dread: the head massage </h3>
<br />
Every time. EVERY TIME! And because I keep forgetting to have my file stamped, "NO HEAD MASSAGE" and also because I keep randomly going to different salons so that they can't get to know me, I have to wait for the hair-washing hand movements to change to 'strangely intimate head molestation' movements and head them off at the pass before it becomes too awkward.<br />
<br />
"I don't want a head massage, thanks."<br />
"What?"<br />
"No head massage ... please ... thanks."<br />
"Oh ..."<br />
"I just don't like it."<br />
<i>Incredulous, that I would not want to sample their massage expertise. </i>"Really?"<br />
"Yep. I hate it." <i>Why would I want some 19 year old apprentice MOLESTING MY SKULL? </i><br />
<i>"</i>Oh, that's fine." <i>Said in a tone of voice that implies, it's so totally not fine and now they are offended. </i><br />
<i>"</i>Yep sorry. Just don't like it."<br />
<br />
<i>Now I feel bad because it's awkward and they're still touching my head to rinse off the conditioner, but sort of doing it in a way that indicates they are trying not to 'touch' my head too much because I am so clearly a pathological weirdo.</i><br />
<br />
"It's fine, I mean some people love it." She says, sulkily.<br />
<i>Translation: people who are NOT WEIRD LIKE YOU, YOU TOTALLY UPTIGHT ARSEHOLE.</i><br />
"I know. I'm weird." I concede.<br />
<br />
And once again, note to self: wide berth on this salon. At least 12 months due to the offence the 'no head massage' move has caused. <br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway, my point is: when is the quiet chair (or even better, the glory hole) coming to a salon near me? I'd be up there EVERY WEEK getting my hair blow-dried and relishing the SILENCE.<br />
<br />
Ahh. Silence. But not awkward silence. Just. Silence. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-3262747304431049962016-08-14T00:29:00.002-07:002016-08-14T17:41:32.456-07:0015 types of internet commenters<div style="text-align: center;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p367HqiWHCs/V7AZXumqHyI/AAAAAAAAK_Q/2fMoSoldm7g187trMWcwKz48lMP-hnB8wCEw/s1600/LOL%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-p367HqiWHCs/V7AZXumqHyI/AAAAAAAAK_Q/2fMoSoldm7g187trMWcwKz48lMP-hnB8wCEw/s320/LOL%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<br />
Since the interwebs was created, women have really come to the fore
in online forums and comments boxes. There are three reasons for this female-forward phenomenon.<br />
<ol>
<li>we are very opinionated</li>
<li>we like to talk</li>
<li>in the digital space, we won't get talked over by a man</li>
</ol>
Personally,
(notwithstanding what follows here) I prefer a "lean back" sort of
judgement, with my hands behind my head and not on the keyboard. But I do enjoy the spectator sport of perusing the comments boxes every now and then. Who doesn't? If nothing else, it's always surprising how many people don't know the difference between "your" and "you're."<br />
<br />
In my internet surfing travels, here are 15 types of commenters I have seen A LOT:<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. "All about me" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
As in: enough about this post, here’s a story about me and how good I am that is in no way related to the post above.<br />
<br />
<h4>
2. "Random activist" commenter </h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This
commenter has an agenda and will find any way they can to shoehorn in
their pet protest topic. For instance: on a post about brownies that happen to be made with Tim Tams, they will write something like …<br />
<br />
<i>“Buy Tim Tams and you’re supporting the use of Palm Oil and an unethical company”</i><br />
<br />
I
have no argument with this commenter. It’s a valid point, but if she’s
serious about her protest, she should perhaps take her case further up
the chain, like say, to the Arnott’s website.<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. LOL passive aggressive patroniser</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This
is a digital pat and slap manoeuvre. While pretending to be friendly as
denoted by the use of ‘LOL’, in truth, they are pointing out to
everyone else what an idiot you are.<br />
<br />
Case in point: I once wrote a
very compelling post for kidspot.com.au about how to poach the perfect egg (I know,
Walkley Award, here I come.) I was thrilled that someone had bothered to
comment and assumed it was because they were thanking me for some
really useful tips . Then I realised they were just laughing at the
fact that I had specified the use of an 800g egg (not realising that the
800g on the pack referred to the ENTIRE weight of all dozen eggs. Mea
culpa):<br />
<br />
<i>“LOL are you using dinosaur eggs?”</i><br />
<br />
(Maybe I was. You don’t know the truth about my egg supply sources.)<br />
<br />
Then there were these recent comments on a post about what to cook for dinner if you forgot to defrost the meat:<br />
<br />
<i>“Who needs meat for dinner? LOL. Hardly a big crisis!”</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Microwaves have a ‘defrost’ setting for a reason. LOL”</i><br />
<br />
It has become clear to me that sometimes, LOL is just code for, "YOU STUPID FOOL." In which
case let's all just be straight shooters and type, YSF instead of LOL
wherever applicable.<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. Shoehorn self-promoter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
These are
the people who shamelessly post links to their own piece or links to
their latest self-help book in the comments box in the guise of selfless
altruism.<br />
<br />
<i>"My new e-book, available here, <a data-mce-href="http://ediblegarbage.blogspot.com.au/" href="http://ediblegarbage.blogspot.com.au/">How To Stop Buying So Many Tins Of Tomatoes</a> may help you with this."</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
5. "Random sentence" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
These
commenters are my favourite. They sort of relate to the post, but
mostly that person just wants to say something ‘out loud’ and get
involved. For instance, on a post about "10 quick things to cook for
dinner" this commenter will type:<br />
<br />
<i>“I'm making fish for dinner!”</i><br />
<br />
I
love this commenter, she’s like the friendly person at a party who will
burst into your circle and say something like: "I just ate three of
those prawns on sticks!" Whilst everyone else is deeply engaged in a
conversation about the state of the economy.<br />
<br />
<h4>
6. "Personal attack" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
The
funny thing about the internet is you can’t always see the person you
are attacking, so you have to have a bit of a "paint a word picture"
stab if you want to have a really personal go at someone. This comment below was seen on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/KidspotAustralia/posts/10154434767074505" target="_blank">a post that made fun of Kim Kardashian's latest red carpet outfit</a> (a dress made out of string, just so you know.) It gets 10/10 for visualisation effort.<br />
<br />
<i>“And this article comes from some chick sitting back at her desk wearing her Supre pants and Portmans blazer.”</i><br />
<br />
I
didn’t even know you could get pants at SUPRE!!! I thought they only
sold crop tops and oversized t-shirts with "RELAX" printed on them.<br />
<br />
<h4>
7. "I’m not laughing and it’s making me angry" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Ironically
enough, humour posts are the most divisive of all. <br />
<br />
After all, not everyone finds the same things funny. And the
more everyone else is laughing and having a good time in the comments
box, the more the person who doesn't share the mirth feels compelled to
sh** all over everyone else’s good time.<br />
<br />
<i>“This is not funny AT ALL!”</i><br />
<i>"What a stupid waste of time this post was!"</i><br />
<br />
I
get it. I do. I was once at a comedy club when an older male comedian
came on stage and started doing some very sexist, “women on their rags”
material. Worse still, everyone was laughing their heads off and it
made me FURIOUS. So I "booed" him - I opened my mouth, cupped my hands
in a makeshift megaphone and went "Booooo!" Like I was at a pantomime
and he was the villain.<br />
<br />
So I do understand the impulse to let your
feelings be known. I guess these people are just exercising their right
to "boo". But I should point out that as soon as the "boo" sound left
my mouth, I felt inordinately silly and ineffectual in the face of all
the laughter.<br />
<br />
But the far end of the humourless spectrum is the
person with no sense of humour at all: this person cannot comprehend
that some posts are just flippant listicles. From what I’ve seen, the
problem seems to be a lack of awareness of "tone".<br />
<br />
For instance on a post titled "<a href="http://ediblegarbage.blogspot.com.au/2012/10/supermarket-etiquette.html" target="_blank">Supermarket Rules</a>" someone wrote:<br />
<br />
<i>“Who are you to tell us what we can and can't do?"</i><br />
<br />
I
felt compelled to let this person know that the rules were not
legislated in parliament and so there would be no charges laid if they
chose not to comply with rules like: "Don't bend your arse halfway out
into the aisle when reaching for something on the bottom shelf."<br />
<br />
<h4>
8. The hijacker</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
These
comments box terrorists take control of the comments box and steer it
in a hitherto unforeseen direction: a place where no one could have
predicted things would go.<br />
<br />
And that place is: a comments box bunfight.<br />
<br />
This is the person who, when faced with a news item about say, a missing woman, will say something like:<br />
<br />
<i>“She looks like a botox whore!”</i><br />
To which someone else will reply:<br />
<i>“Shut up, I know her and shes (sic) not a botox whore. YOUR (sic) a Botox whore!”</i><br />
To which the original person will reply<br />
<i>“YOU are!”</i><br />
<br />
And
so on and so on until a post about a missing woman becomes more about
the pros and cons of Botox, who has it, who doesn’t and how people who <i>have</i> Botox should die anyway.<br />
<br />
And just to clarify, to my knowledge the woman had not had Botox.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to ...<br />
<br />
<h4>
9. "You're/your what's the difference?" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
You're - a contraction of "you are" e.g: You're an idiot.<br />
Your - possessive pronoun e.g: That's your problem.<br />
<br />
<h4>
10. "Alarmed by sugar" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<i>“OMG! One and a half cups of sugar!”</i><br />
<br />
Um, yes, it’s a cake. MOST CAKES HAVE SUGAR IN THEM, THAT’S THE POINT OF CAKES!!!!<br />
<br />
<h4>
11. "Wrong gender" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
These
are the men who complain bitterly when a women’s website is not
speaking directly to them, including them or considering how they feel. Boo hoo middle class white man, this corner of the universe is not calibrated for you.<br />
<br />
<h4>
12. "Random bad experience" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
For
instance: This person once had a really bad experience with an umbrella
and so posts about umbrellas really upset her and should be banned from
all websites so as not to upset her further and cause her flashbacks.
Posting things about umbrellas is just plain INSENSITIVE!<br />
<br />
<h4>
13. "Responds at length to the headline" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This
is the commenter who responds at length to the header but doesn’t
actually read the article wherein they might find a more nuanced
exploration of the topic that negates their need to rail against the
header alone.<br />
<br />
<h4>
14. "Pro capital punishment" commenter</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
E.g. <i>“This person should be (insert violent method of extermination here)"</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
15. Parenting choices militants</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Breastfeeding, bottlefeeding, co-sleeping, control crying, sugar, no sugar, attachment parenting, nude parenting …<br />
<br />
What are they vehemently opposed to? What’ve you got?Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-75907818381990140462016-03-03T22:25:00.000-08:002016-03-03T22:25:49.116-08:0010 commandments for kids *
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<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">When Moses came down from
the mountain with Yaweh’s Ten Commandments it was a different world. People
were being smote, bushes were spontaneously combusting and God was broadcasting
from the sky in an ‘attention Kmart shoppers’ announcement for the desert.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">It’s also worth noting, that
men were partial to big flowing kaftan garments and women were regarded as
livestock-type possessions.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">My point is, times have
changed since then and therefore, so should the rules.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Here are 10 modern
commandments* of life that we should be teaching our kids.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">1. </span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thou shalt put thy shoes in
the same place every afternoon. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That way, thou shalt be able
to find them again in the morning.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">2.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt honour thy
mother by eating whatever is put in front of thy face every evening. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For there shall come a time
in thy early 20s when food shall not spring from this magical source, the Lord
thy mother and thou shalt be in for a rude shock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">3.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt put thy dirty
clothes in thy vessel marked: THE DIRTY CLOTHES BASKET. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">That way thy clothes shall
be cleaned and thy shall be able to wear thy favourite Methyl Ethyl band
t-shirt or say, a pair of matching socks when thouest most desires it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">And lo the Lord thy mother
doth sayest: be it not in the basket, be it not washed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">4.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> If thou cannot sleep, thou
shalt not wake thy mother and tell her about it.</span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Lo the Lord thy mother doth
sayest: If thou cannot sleep, I am not interested in hearing about it,
especially if it doth be 3am in the morn.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">5.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt not leave
homework and assignments until 10pm on a Sunday. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For that is the time when
the printer shall surely run out of ink and all the printer ink shops shall be clos-ed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Lord thy mother, cannot
help you with this.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">6.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt put thy dishes
in the magical device known as THE DISHWASHER. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Putting thy dishes in the
purgatorial place known as the bench top above the dishwasher, shall be a sin.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">7.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt not worship
false gods such as the empty milk carton or empty jam jar. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For lo it is not magical and
it does not refill itself if you put it back in the fridge.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">8.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt honour thy
father and thy mother by vomiting directly into the toilet bowl.</span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">As opposed to: all over
thyself and thy bed clothes, on thy parent’s bedroom floor or directly into thy
mother’s lap.</span></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">9.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt honour the kitchen sabbath.</span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The kitchen sabbath begins at 9pm sharp every evening and ends the following morning at dawn. No bowls of cereal, toast, sandwiches or snacks of ANY KIND shall be madeth by you or the Lord thy mother during the kitchen sabbath. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The Lord thy mother, lo she does not give a shit how hungry thouest be beyond this holiest of hours, 9pm sharp. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">10.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> If thou dropped it on
the floor, thou shalt pick it up.</span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Thy lint from thy pocket,
thy scrappy piece of paper, thy pointy piece of Lego, thy shoe. For lo the Lord
thy mother doth sayest: nay I am not the freaking maid in this joint. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<h4 style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<strong><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">11.</span></strong><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"> Thou shalt not covet thy
siblings’ toys, privileges, ice blocks, sweets, biscuits and the like. </span></h4>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For lo he got the same as
you and the Lord thy mother does not give a sh** how unfair thou thinkest life
is.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">The lord thy mother giveth
and the Lord thy mother shall taketh away.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .1pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: .1pt;">
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><i>* May contain 11 commandments </i></span></div>
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Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-8270327956856895562016-02-10T20:39:00.000-08:002016-03-03T21:41:18.959-08:00Confessions of a toy pusher<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zxmc6flVDnc/VrwLuyDAKzI/AAAAAAAAI3o/Qmd84hFUfH4/s1600/toy%2Bpusher%2Bmeme%2B2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zxmc6flVDnc/VrwLuyDAKzI/AAAAAAAAI3o/Qmd84hFUfH4/s320/toy%2Bpusher%2Bmeme%2B2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<h4>
Hello, I am that annoying person who compiles a list of dumb-arse toys you should buy for your kids every Christmas.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
Kidspot.com.au calls this list, 'Top 20 Toys for Christmas (insert current year here)' and everyone clicks on it. </h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
At first I thought it was going to be like Tom Hanks' job in <i>Big</i>. And at first it kind of was: I was sent free toys, I was invited to morning teas with FREE CAKE, I was pretty much on the take and sold to the first person who sent me a free sample of Barbie's Glam Camper van.<br />
<br />
But I have been doing it for three years and this is my scorching of the earth to ensure I never have to do it again.<br />
<br />
As
part of the ‘research’ for this list, I am sent invites from toy
marketers to all their morning teas, toy fairs and toy exhibits so that
they may show me their wares. I have attended many of these fairs, I
have been given a private viewing of a Furby Boom during which I lost
the will to live and I have read countless marketing blurbs describing
the latest revolution in bead art technology.<br />
<br />
After three years, this is what I know and I will now impart it to you, free of charge:<br />
<br />
There
are about 15 categories for ‘new’ toys every year and despite their
efforts to polish up the same old turds, every year when I show up to
eat their free cakes, the 'new' toys are the same ones they dazzled me
with last year.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Here are the 15 categories of toys I am guaranteed to see every year</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<h4>
1. The toy that connects to an app</h4>
<br />
This
is actually every single toy in existence. Once they’ve finished
showing you all the features of the toy the rep then excitedly tells you
that the toy also ‘connects to an app’ on your mobile device. LIKE
THAT’S SOMETHING WE PARENTS WANT TO HAPPEN!<br />
<br />
Like we want our kids stealing the iPad AGAIN to play their stupid games on it and ask us for money to buy into the next level.<br />
<br />
Like
we want our kids to sign up with our email addresses to ANOTHER COMPANY
THAT WILL END UP SELLING OUR DETAILS TO THE HIGHEST BIDDING SPAMMER.<br />
<br />
Like
we want our kids to load up our iPad with so many apps and games that
we can no longer download the latest episode of The Walking Dead!<br />
<br />
ENOUGH WITH THE APPS!!!!<br />
<br />
<h4>
2. The A.I thing that talks to you and eventually reaches self awareness so that it can kill you in your sleep</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<b></b>I
just do not get the appeal of these creepy talking things. Not only are
they stupid battery chewing hunks of plastic landfill CRAP!!!! But
there is something so passive about a toy that does all the story-lining
and voice work for your kid.<br />
<br />
Remember playing with your dolls and
doing all the voices? Even the voices of Ken and Stiffy (Ken’s weird
friend the GI Joe doll whose legs did not bend hence the name, ‘Stiffy’
Just me?)<br />
<br />
That was half the fun. Now there’s a Furby that names
ITSELF before multiplying by having its own Furby babies to amass the
army that will eventually take over the earth. It also comes with its
own arsehole 'personality', takes virtual showers and complains when the water pressure is too low.<br />
<br />
If I wanted an arsehole for a toy, I'd get an old G.I Joe doll and name it Stiffy.<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. The animatronic pet for sad kids who aren’t allowed to have a dog or a cat</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Sometimes
they come on a skateboard and have sunglasses because what's more fun
than a real dog? A dog on a skateboard with sunglasses.<br />
<br />
Then
there's birds in cages that whistle and repeat back what you’ve just
said, a butterfly that lands on your hand and there may or may not have
been a faux stick insect in a cage.<br />
<br />
Just buy your kid a freakin’ guinea pig for Christ’s sake!<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. The pink horse thing with hair</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
I
don’t know why the horses have to have hair, but they do. And I don’t
know why they all have to live in a house or a shoe together, but they
do. What I’ve discovered about girls’ toys is that there is a big focus
on:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Share house living</li>
<li>Lurid pink décor</li>
<li>Horses with hair</li>
<li>Big eyes. BIG BIG EYES</li>
<li>A thematic tie-in to the movie coming out that you will have to sit through next school holidays. </li>
</ul>
<br />
<h4>
5.
The teeny tiny cute thing with big eyes and lots of teeny tiny bitsy
pieces and it lives in a house or a tree with other teeny tiny things
and it’s from a TV show</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Some of them live in a pet shop in Paris
or some shit. I dunno. Are they dogs or cats or beavers? I just don’t
know. I just know that they come in a box with one squillion tiny bits
and pieces that will be lost and sucked up by your vacuum cleaner within
the month.<br />
<br />
Toy companies STOP MAKING TEENY TINY THINGS THAT END UP INSIDE THE VACUUM CLEANER YOU ARE WASTING EVERYONE’S TIME!<br />
<br />
<h4>
6. The digital gaming device that 'reinvents' the entire digital gaming device genre</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
I
don’t understand these things and I do not aspire to understand them.
As soon as the marketing material comes through for these
waste-of-space-in-my-living-room pieces of digital-gaming-excrement my
brain just shuts down.<br />
<br />
The last one that was foisted upon me like it was the re-invention of the hula hoop was <i>Disney Infinity</i>.<br />
<br />
I
couldn’t attend the ‘presentation’ so I had to hear about it over the
phone from a 12 year old toy rep. She was nearly hyperventilating as she
told me about it and I could barely keep my eyes open. Sensing my total
disinterest, she sent one through by courier to seduce me with its
magical gaming-like-you’ve-never-seen-before properties.<br />
<br />
It had
figurines and consoles and Mr Incredible was running through Shrek’s
castle and my GOD it was dull. My kids played with it for about an hour
then lost interest.<br />
<br />
<h4>
7. The faux learning device</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Ever since Baby Einstein CDs were touted as the way to make your baby smarter, I have hated this 'make your baby smarter' horseshit. But I have always included them in
the list, because I figured at least they were trying to <i>offer</i> something educational.<br />
<br />
Last
year it was a watch that rewarded kids for getting off their fat arses
and doing some exercise. It was so depressing. It detected their
movement and then said things like: “Good job you just earned five
diamonds.” And then it sent them a pic of five diamonds that went
‘brrring!’ just for getting off their fat arses and moving around.<br />
<br />
Really? Is this where we’re at?<br />
<br />
<h4>
8. The dumb toddler thing that makes annoying noises and sings alphabet songs<b></b></h4>
<h4>
<b><br /> </b></h4>
I call this section: <i>It don’t mean a thing if it don’t talk and sing.</i><br />
<br />
Sometimes
it’s a train, last year it was a chair with a lift-up seat that looked
suspiciously like a commode. As one of my colleagues shrewdly pointed
out, it would only be a matter of time before you lifted the lid and
found a crap in there.<br />
<br />
It sang, it made up games, it affirmed you effusively for choosing the triangle. It was like The Singing Bush in <i>The Three Amigos</i>:
it just would not. SHUT. UP. In my defence, I suggested that parents
take the batteries out and just use it as a little chair. Because how
much do toddlers love little chairs?<br />
<br />
<h4>
9. The remote control ... whatever<b></b></h4>
<h4>
<b><br /> </b></h4>
Helicopters,
cars, 4WD vehicles, boats, flying fairies. They climb up walls, they
respond to the touch of your palm, they chew up batteries, they end up
gathering dust under a bed because the batteries ran out and no one
wanted to buy any more.<br />
<br />
Batteries, batteries, batteries.<br />
<br />
I
predict that in the future, human children will have devolved in such a
way that they will no longer be able to make those very complex 'vroom
vrooom' 't-t-t-t-t' vehicle noises they can now make because the toys
will be doing it for them.<br />
<br />
Sad.<br />
<br />
<h4>
10. Some kind of Elmo toy that will do the parenting for you</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Big
Hugs Elmo started out as a big soft toy with long arms that cuddled
you. Then the following year, Elmo started handing out affirmations:
“You give the best cuddles.”<br />
<br />
Then the year after THAT Elmo started
putting your kid to sleep for you by shutting down and saying: “It’s
time to go to bed now.”<br />
<br />
Perhaps next year, Elmo will be running an ethics class.<br />
<br />
<h4>
11. Some kind of doll that shits its pants</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Disclaimer:
I have an deep-seated hankering for one of these because my mum would
never let me have one as a kid. To be fair, I can see her point now.<br />
<br />
They are revolting. But still I want one. I don’t know WHY!<br />
<br />
This
year it was Big Snacks Sara (or something) and you made her snacks. She
ate them. She shat them out. Welcome to motherhood, girls. Are we
having fun yet?<br />
<br />
<h4>
12. A nerf gun that REINVENTS THE ENTIRE NERF GUN GENRE</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
I
don’t know where they are going to go next with these because every
year the cartridge that holds the bullets gets bigger or the bullets
come out faster. Nuclear capability perhaps? It’s a slippery slope.<br />
<br />
<h4>
13. Small rubbery pieces of crap with eyes that are breathlessly described as ‘collectables’</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<b> </b>Remember
Trashies? Then they made these weird Shopkins things plus a crappy
little supermaket shop with a stiffly turning conveyor belt that tipped
all the Shopkins things over when it moved and would probably make your
four year old cry.<br />
<br />
These are just more teeny tiny bits of crap that end up all over your floor at home. FUCK YOU TOY COMPANIES! FUCK YOU!<br />
<br />
<h4>
14. Something overpriced and elaborate from a Star Wars movie</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
But
with no female characters obvs. Because extensive research has shown
that girls are weak and need to be chucked in the creek.<br />
<br />
Am I right toy companies?<br />
<br />
<h4>
15. A pillow that does something a pillow probably shouldn’t do like glow or turn into a monster</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Don’t
get me wrong, I like Pillow Pets, but I’m just not sure about the
psychological effects of your pillow morphing into a monster while you
sleep. What will they think of NEXT?<br />
<br />
Oh wait, I know, an app.Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-77170599029770209412015-03-16T20:47:00.001-07:002015-03-17T15:42:27.430-07:0017 annoying things parents do<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sWRP1y2Ey88/VQeg3mBxS5I/AAAAAAAABTc/ep_lpAguU4A/s1600/toddler%2Btantrum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sWRP1y2Ey88/VQeg3mBxS5I/AAAAAAAABTc/ep_lpAguU4A/s1600/toddler%2Btantrum2.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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As a demographic mass, parents are possibly the most annoying group in society. Not only does the government always pitch their tax cuts and free money to us every budget cycle (as though 'working families' are more important than people who live alone with cats) but we also clog up the roads every morning and every afternoon when we're doing the school run. (Because heaven forbid our precious bundles should be made to use their legs for purposeful walking as opposed to enriching extracurricular activities.)<br />
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Let's face it, we are annoying. Here are 17 annoying things parents do.*</div>
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1. Talk about their kids</h4>
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I don't mind hearing about my friends' kids and I don't mind hearing a story that is a GOOD story about your kids. But don't tell me incessant banal sh** about your kids, because guess what? I have my own kids and incessant banal sh** is MY LIFE!</div>
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If it's a story about how your toddler obsessively licks the bin every morning, then I'm in: that's funny. But if it's a story about how your kid is 'taking learning risks' and 'hitting every milestone right on the button' *loud snoring noise*</div>
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2. Volunteer photos of their kids when no one asked</h4>
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If I ask, show me. But don't shove your phone in my face and volunteer a photo of your kid for me to admire, appropos of nothing. As above: I have my own, I know what a baby/toddler/kid looks like and if I don't know you that well, yours are inconsequential to me: they just look like curly-headed potatoes with eyes.</div>
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So, unless I know you quite well and am interested in what your kids look like, don't make me pretend to admire photos of your <span data-mce-style="text-decoration: line-through;" style="text-decoration: line-through;">potato-with-eyes</span> kid.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
3. Block footpaths/shop aisles and access to sales racks with their GIANT Mack-truck sized prams</h4>
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Something about having a pram seems to make people think they are hard done by and therefore deserve right of way. I know this, because I used to be one of those people.</div>
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But since then, I have been run off the footpath by the Mummy Mafia, two-abreast-and-chatting-a-mile-a-minute in their Lorna Jane too many times to forgive.</div>
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I have also had precious, PRECIOUS access to a sales rack blocked too many times by a mother with a giant pram. She just parks it right near the 'Extra 30% off' rack and then goes about her business rifling through the cheap stuff before I can get to it. I can't go around her and I can't approach from another angle to get to that blue and white striped top BEFORE SHE DOES because she's created a road block with her Bugaboo.</div>
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<h3 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
4. Let their kids do cartwheels in between the tables at restaurants because if the kid isn't bothering them, they're not bothered</h3>
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Guilty as charged.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
5. Talk about where they're sending their kid to school/high school</h4>
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Despite the fact that this is possibly the most tedious and boring topic of conversation in all of Christendom, I have found myself initiating this conversation too many times to mention. And then I get deep into it and I suddenly realise what a deeply boring person I have become. I hear us blah-blah-blah-ing on about our kids, and how the school has to be right for the kid and as long as the kids are happy ... and OH MY GOD SHUT UP!!! What a boring bunch of people we are.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
6. Secretly think their kids are more awesome than yours </h4>
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Guilty as charged.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
7. Talk about their kids' NAPLAN scores as though NAPLAN scores actually MEAN SOMETHING!!!</h4>
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<br /></div>
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Let me say this once: NAPLAN scores are not a test of your kids' intelligence, they are a test of how well the school is teaching your child according to the national curriculum.</div>
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And sure, this may be sour grapes because none of my kids ever end up in the pointy section of the graph, (except for punctuation and grammar which is just some weird anomaly and see what I did there? I HATE MYSELF FOR IT.) But seriously, it's not the HSC. It's a basic skills test to make sure the school is teaching your kid properly. So stop quoting me the 'band' your kid is in for numeracy skills. I’m. Not. Interested.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
8. Trail their kids through Target or Kmart leaving a slipstream of chaos and destruction in their wake</h4>
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Guilty as charged.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
9. Let their kid hog the swing at the park because it gives them a chance to check Facebook/emails while they push</h4>
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10. Think it's cute for their toddler to play peekaboo with you over the back of the plane/bus/train seat THE WHOLE WAY</h4>
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It's cute a few times, then it just gets exhausting. Know when to quit, people. Know when to quit.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
11. Say 'use your words Portia' when Portia is having a major meltdown in public and is clearly completely BEYOND words</h4>
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Just pick that kid up, put her under your arm like a football and wing her out of there NRL-style. Now is not the time for 'right-on' parenting.</div>
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<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
12. Invent dumb spellings for standard names to make their kid 'different'</h4>
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Tyffannee, Lee-arne, Blayke, Ezmay, Me’Chell, Kareena etc. etc.</div>
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Two things:</div>
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a) Remember primary school you doofus? Being different is not AN ASSET!!</div>
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b) You have just bought your kid a lifetime of having to spell out out their name for people, over and over and over again.</div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
13. Create annoying disorganised bunching chaos at the airport</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
This was me, about three weeks ago, herding my kids through Sydney Airport. I was aware of how annoying we were, we just couldn't stop being annoying. Everywhere we went. We were annoying. We were THAT family.</div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
14. Let kids use an ipad without headphones in public</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
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On a plane, on the bus, on the train, in a cafe. You find yourself subjected to the perky generic sounds of Peppa Pig or the incessant "BOING BIP BOING BOING!" of the latest educational 'Find that fruit game' because some bint won't make their toddler wear headphones.</div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
15. Take toddlers to a fancy schmancy restaurant and then demand a kid-friendly menu</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
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In fact, let’s just limit that one to the first half of the sentence.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
Parents of toddlers: it’s two or three years of your life when you can’t go out to fancy restaurants (unless you shell out for a babysitter) and I know it’s hard. But please, take one for the team. Just accept that your lifestyle has changed for a while and be gracious: either stay home or leave that kid at home.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
For those of us who have lived through that phase and come out the other side, we don’t want to eat our fancy food while your toddler wraps spaghetti round his entire body, squeals intermittently and makes dough balls with bread in a water glass.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
(To be clear: I'm talking about FANCY restaurants, not your local kid-friendly bistro.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
16. Let their toddler rough up your dog/cat indiscriminately because the toddler 'needs to learn’</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
Yes, he needs to learn that dogs are unpredictable and don’t like being ridden rodeo-style by some 30 pound toddler. But if your child then gets bitten, don’t start calling for the ‘dangerous dog’ to be put down.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
(Again, to be clear: I’m talking about dogs on leads here, I am not talking about uncared-for dogs that roam the streets and are a menace to society.)</div>
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<br /></div>
<h4 style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
17. Get their outrage on in the comments box about listicle-style articles that have anything to do with parenting and kids</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">
The internet rewards articles that have lots of comments: even 'Shut-up-YOU-are' style comments that are barely decipherable due to bad spelling. So if you don’t like it, ignore it and Facebook/Google will assume the article is not interesting to anyone. As a result, it will disappear. Don’t get your outrage on in the comments box, you’ll only make that sh** rise to the top of the feed again.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>* Disclaimer: in the interests of full disclosure, the writer acknowledges that she has been guilty of most of these annoyances in her time as a parent, not including numbers 7 and 17.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-84857325123111891932015-02-16T17:16:00.000-08:002015-02-16T17:27:32.385-08:0045 things that go through a woman's head when she's walking through IKEA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Going to IKEA is a bit like having a baby: it seems
like a good idea at the time, but once you’re in the thick of it, you
start to wonder if you’ll ever make it out alive. Here are 45 thoughts
that go through my head whenever I go to IKEA.<br />
<br />
<b>1.</b> I am going to have the best time and when I’m finished my house is going to look awesome.<br />
<br />
<b>2.</b> Ooh, free pencils. I want one! And a tape measure. This is the best day ever.<br />
<br />
<b>3.</b> What … ? Why are all these people here on a weekday? Don’t they have JOBS!?<br />
<br />
<b>4.</b> Get outta my way large family who brought grandma AND grandpa!<br />
<br />
<b>5.</b> OK, stay on target, stay on target – you are here
to buy a KALLAX shelving unit only. Repeat KALLAX shelving unit only.
Do not, I repeat, do not buy any cheap scented candles or plastic boxes.<br />
<br />
<b>6.</b> Oh that white couch looks so smart … HEY IDIOT!
What have we discussed? You cannot have white furniture. Right, cannot
have white furniture, must not buy white furniture.<br />
<br />
<b>7.</b> I wish my living room looked like that … but …
would I have to get a handyman to come and drill holes into my walls to
make those shelves work? Forget it.<br />
<br />
<b>8.</b> Ooh, a little box of screws and nuts … who doesn’t need lots of nuts and hooks and screwy bits?<br />
<br />
<b>9.</b> I think I’m gonna need one of those big yellow bags.<br />
<br />
<b>10.</b> Something about that cheap couch just doesn’t
quite look right, it’s like the cover doesn’t fit properly or … Hello!
Chair pads!<br />
<br />
<b>11.</b> If I buy these chair pads, everything in my life will be perfect.<br />
<br />
<b>12.</b> What are these things? EKSALS? I don’t know what
they are, but I think I need some, they look like some sort of storage
solution.<br />
<br />
<b>13.</b> I think I might need two bags.<br />
<br />
<b>14.</b> Ah the dining room section. You know what? I’ve
been thinking lately that a fold-out dining table would solve all my
problems. Where’s that stupid free pencil? Now, LAGSIG fold-out table …
Aisle 56 Area 45 … hang on or was that Area … oh forget it, I don’t need
a fold-out dining table … focus, focus. KALLAX shelving unit, KALLAX
shelving unit.<br />
<br />
<b>15.</b> Ah, the kitchen section, where all my dreams can
come true. I feel like I just took a Valium, it is soooo organised and
relaxing in here. If I had that kitchen, I would be so happy.<br />
<br />
<b>16.</b> Hey! Idiot! We’re here for square shelving, keep moving, keep moving and don’t look left or right.<br />
<br />
<b>17.</b> Right, where’s the shortcut. Oh I see it, almost there …<br />
<br />
<b>18.</b> Ooh! Hanging tub thingies for my kitchen. THAT will solve all my problems. I can hang some herbs like Jamie Oliver does.<br />
<br />
<b>19.</b> Hold the phone! Under-bench lighting … that I don’t have to call an electrician to install? I’m in.<br />
<br />
<b>20.</b> Think I’m going to need a bigger bag.<br />
<br />
<b>21.</b> OK, now stay on target, we’re almost to the shelving section, square shelves remember, square shelves.<br />
<br />
<b>22.</b> Stupid big family in my way again. Burn them off. Indicate and overtake, walk like an Olympian, heel-toe, heel-toe.<br />
<br />
<b>23.</b> Ahh, shelving, here we are. Now, KALLAX shelving unit, where are you?<br />
<br />
<b>24.</b> Do I want a unit of nine or 12 squares? Dammit, I should have measured the living room wall. Rookie mistake! Rookie mistake!<br />
<br />
<b>25.</b> Aisle 21 Area 15 . Right, got it, stay on
target. Now get out! Run, run. Don’t go through the market hall just go
straight to the picking section, then to the checkout and GO! Blinkers
on.<br />
<br />
<b>26.</b> Uh-oh the bedroom section. Do not buy any cute
cheap lights for kids, do not buy any cute cheap lights for kids … or
dumb hanging soft toy storage.<br />
<br />
<b>27.</b> OH a bed canopy! That’d be fun. $14? Why
wouldn’t ya? And some of these plastic storage boxes … hang on, do I
need a shelving unit with those – HEY! Stay on target, we’re going
straight to the checkout, remember?<br />
<br />
<b>28.</b> Think I’m going to need a trolley.<br />
<br />
<b>29.</b> Uh oh, here comes the soft furnishings section.
Do not buy cushions, do NOT buy cushions. Or funky Swedish fabric to
MAKE your own cushions. You don’t sew, remember, we’ve been through this
before.<br />
<br />
<b>30.</b> Whew! Made it through I’m nearly there … HEY!
Lighting … FOCUS! Do not buy cheap paper lanterns, do not buy cheap
paper lanterns. Well, maybe just one.<br />
<br />
<b>31.</b> Ooh trolleys, now I can get more stuff. No! Take
the shortcut, take the shortcut … I see the shortcut to the checkouts,
take it, quick, take it and you can still get out of here alive!<br />
<br />
<b>32.</b> OK, so I took the shortcut but … what? Market
hall? How did I end up here? Goddamn you Swedish temptress! OK, so maybe
just one box of wine glasses, they’re so cheap, why wouldn’t ya?<br />
<br />
<b>33.</b> And these napkins are fun.<br />
<br />
<b>34.</b> Oh and these coffee mugs, I think I’m going to
start a new theme, blue and taupe. Three blue, three taupe. And I’ll
need some new blue and taupe placemats to go with my new theme.<br />
<br />
<b>35.</b> Aaand maybe some plates.<br />
<br />
<b>36.</b> OK, we’re nearly there …just walk straight
through the cheap-scented-candles-that-smell-like-food and
garden-knick-knacks-that-you-don’t-need section.<br />
<br />
<b>37.</b> Ooh a gazebo! Could I do that myself without
calling a tradesman? HEY! You’re here for square shelves, KALLAX
shelving unit, Area 15 Aisle 21 … or vice versa, anyway, remember, keep
going. Just keep walking.<br />
<br />
<b>38.</b> Oh my god, I’m finally here. There’s the
checkout and there’s a checkout with only one person waiting. Quick
speed up and get in front of the big family who brought grandma and
grandpa, how did they get in front of me again?<br />
<br />
<b>39.</b> Awesome, self-serve checkout – I don’t have to talk to anyone about how my day is going.<br />
<br />
<b>40.</b> I LOVE this self-scanner thing, I feel like a shopkeeper. I might even ask that lady how her day is going.<br />
<br />
<b>41.</b> Uh-oh, no bags. I’m gonna have to buy another
one of these stupid big IKEA bags to carry all my stuff and then when I
get home I’m going to have to wedge it into the linen cupboard with the
other five I already have.<br />
<br />
<b>42.</b> Finally, I made it out. I’m clear. I can see the EXIT. I’m free! I’m … wait I think I forgot something …<br />
<br />
<b>43.</b> Oh sh**, I forgot the KALLAX shelving unit. I’m going to have to come back tomorrow.<br />
<br />
<b>44.</b> Help me, I can’t remember where my car is.<br />
<br />
<b>45.</b> Seriously, somebody help me. I don’t even know who I am anymore.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="ob_org_header"></span></section>Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-17814185523168255262015-01-04T22:17:00.005-08:002015-01-04T22:17:50.865-08:00Confessions of a school volunteer<br />
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Life as a school mum is peppered with call-outs for volunteers. And
when it comes to volunteering, there are those who do and those who
don't. If I'm going to be honest, my instinct is to be in the latter
category. But I have tried, with varying degrees of success.</div>
<br />
Each time I tried (and each time things went pear-shaped ... again) I
learned something new: about myself, about the art of volunteering.<br />
<br />
Here are my five most formative volunteering experiences and what I learned from each one.<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. The white elephant stall<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">The first time I volunteered I didn't actually volunteer. My friend
Antonia volunteered on my behalf. She had gone to the P&C meeting
to see what she could do to help with the school fete. When they asked
who would do the white elephant stall, she shot up her hand and
volunteered both our names. </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">Her thinking was: we both like second hand shops, so who better to run one?</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">It was a nice idea in theory and I was keen to start stock-taking
awesome bric a brac. I even went to the newsagent and bought some cute
little price tag thingies with string so that we might attach them to
all the quirky treasures that surely would inhabit our picture-perfect
white elephant stall.</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I imagined us sitting on stools, in big straw hats, chatting away
sipping coffee, while people "oohed" and "aahed" over our gorgeous
second-hand wares. We would be quite the curators, I imagined.</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">However, we had not counted on two things:</span></h4>
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
a) Sorting, pricing and storing the contents of a white elephant stall takes top notch big-picture organisational skills.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
b) When you say this:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<em>Please donate to the white elephant stall</em></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
Most people hear this:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<em>Please dump your worthless rubbish in the school hall: free council clean up!</em></div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
We got bits of wood and wire, broken mugs, bags of old shoes that not
even a hobo would want for free, mismatching wine glasses, ice bucket
holders (sans ice buckets) mouldy clothing including underwear and lots
and lots of foot spas. More foot spas than was humanly decent.<br />
<br />
Faced with this mountain of detritus, we soon realised we did not have
the required skills to deal with it. Adding to the problem was the fact
that it was taking up considerable space in the school hall and the
music master was not happy about it.<br />
<br />
There followed various inept attempts to move our "stock" somewhere
else, none of which came to fruition and the first hint that we were not
equipped for this task.<br />
<br />
Next we set about "organising it." I did
random unhelpful things like write prices on things with an indelible
black marker pen while Antonia spent an inordinate amount of time
talking to herself while sorting and grouping things in to price
points. Only to realise she couldn't keep track because meanwhile I was
moving things around and writing on them with a black marker pen.<br />
<br />
In short, we were both indians and we needed a chief.<br />
<br />
So far, not so good.<br />
<br />
The day of the fete we set up our stall
and everything was going fine: until 2pm when we realised that if we
didn't start a fire sale like, RIGHT NOW we would again be stuck with
mountains of junk to deal with after the fete finished. And given our
track record, the school hall would not be offered as a "storage"
option.<br />
<br />
This stuff would be coming home with us if we didn't start getting rid of it.<br />
<br />
We started spruiking like a pair of pros.<br />
<blockquote>
"Everything $2!"<br />
"Everything must go!"<br />
"FREE foot spa!"</blockquote>
This
was precisely when the head of the P&C witnessed me selling off her
"priceless" and lovingly donated gold-rimmed wine glass set (of five,
yes five) for the fire sale amount of $2. (Truth be told, I was about
to GIVE them away.)<br />
<br />
Honestly, I thought she was going to send me
to detention. She rushed over, snatched them back and told me they were
"worth much more than $2 thank you very much!"<br />
<br />
At the end of the
day, still sitting on our mound of rubbish we were mercifully bailed out
by a fast-thinking school dad who organised for Vinnies to come and
pick up our remaining unsold "stock".<br />
<br />
<i>Lesson: If you are an indian, do not apply to be a chief.</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
2. The cake stall</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
My next foray into volunteering was to heed a simple but plaintive school newsletter call out:<br />
<br />
<em>Cake stall helpers required. Please call Julie on 9724 5566</em><br />
<br />
I
called the phone number, as required, and was slightly disappointed
when I was not greeted with gushing declarations of thanks for
volunteering my "helper" services. In fact, Julie seemed completely
disinterested in having heard from me. I'm pretty sure I heard her yawn
in my ear as I explained why I was calling.<br />
<br /> "Just come to the senior staff room at 2pm on Tuesday." She said wearily.<br />
<br />
I
turned up with my best helper apron on. In my mind, I was imagining a
fun communal vibe as all the helpers laid out cakes, gossiped and became
lifelong friends.<br />
<br />
I stood at the door of the staff room looking
for Julie. Then I spotted a bored-looking woman standing over a table
full of cakes quickly put two and two together.<br />
<br />
"Julie? I'm Penny, we spoke on the phone."<br />
<br />
"Take this cake and put it on the table outside." She said, simply.<br />
<br />
I
did that and wandered back inside, keen to do some more "helping." I
saw about 10 other "helpers" being directed by Julie to take one cake
each out to the table. No one was having much fun. No one was bonding,
and apparently no one was really needed. It seemed Julie was just
humouring us all and allowing us to help her because she assumed we had
such empty lives we had nothing better to do than ferry cakes one at a
time from one table to another.<br />
<br />
After the cakes were set out on
the table we all stood in awkward silence and waited for further
instructions from our Dear Leader. Julie just went about her business
setting prices on the cakes, sorting out her float money and pretending
the rest of us didn't exist.<br />
<br />
In light of my expectations, the stiff silence and the lack of bonhomie was tragic.<br />
<br />
After
about 10 minutes of pretending it was normal to stand in an empty
school playground with an apron on doing absolutely nothing I decided to
make like a banana and split. I never saw Julie again and I vowed never
to volunteer for anything with her name attached. Which pretty much
cancelled me out of most volunteering activities at the school because
Julie, in spite of her chronic lack of leadership skills, was the Big
Cheese of volunteering.<br />
<br />
<i>Lesson: Don't expect to make friends or be thanked.</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
3. Canteen duty</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
After
ascertaining that P&C people didn't actually want the amateurs
amongst us messing with their work, I decided to volunteer for a
different department: the canteen. Apparently they actually
were desperate for helpers and added to that, I have done enough time in
cafes and pubs to know how to put together a mean salad sandwich and
count back change out of a five.<br />
<br />
It was a promising beginning. The
canteen coordinator was a lovely 50-ish woman who practically cried
with thanks when I turned up. So far so good. Gratitude: tick. She was
also a very good delegator and gave me a big list of tasks to complete
before the recess bell sounded. Apparently I was the best helper she'd
ever had and she kept telling me so. I was having the greatest day
ever.<br />
<br />
Things went a bit pear-shaped however when I apparently did
not properly police the two queues at the canteen window: one queue was
for junior school kids and the other queue was for senior school kids.
There was also a yellow line behind which they had to stand, UNLESS it
was their turn, at which point they were allowed to step forward and
state their business.<br />
<br />
One particularly beguiling little girl kept
turning up in the markedly shorter junior school queue. She would smile
at me like the cat that got the cream and buy another chicken chilli
tender before thanking me in a most charming way. I thought she was just
taken with me, because I was so welcoming and motherly.<br />
<br />
"She's not a junior!" A kid yelled at me. "You're supposed to tell her to get in the other queue!"<br />
<br />
Pretty soon there was an angry mob of kids at the window demanding to
know why I had let someone rort the system. Apparently this was a
serious offence and "she does it all the time!" But I refused to be
drawn into their petty dibby-dobbing mostly because I did not want to
admit to myself that I had been "had."<br />
<br />
"Queue, schmew!" I shouted finally over the dibby-dobbing rabble. <br />
<br />
Which was when the orderly two-queue recess rush became a disorderly "everybody bunch at the window" free-for-all.<br />
<br />
When
my friendly canteen coordinator returned from the cool room to see the
chaos I had unleashed she shouldered me out of the way and started
shouting instructions about two orderly queues and staying behind the
yellow line.<br />
<br />
Some weeks later, the school-run not-for-profit
canteen system went under and the canteen contract was put out to
tender. I'm not saying my little 'queue schmew' stunt was the cause, but
I have a feeling my amateur antics were the final nail in the coffin.<br />
<br />
<i>Lesson: Just because there's no pay, doesn't mean there are no rules.</i><br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
4. Parent band</h4>
<br />
By
this stage, I was extremely reluctant to stick my head up ever again.
But just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.<br />
<br />
One
morning, I was minding my own business at the local coffee shop when two
of my favourite school mums (a particularly rebellious pair who had
recently infiltrated the P&C and started wreaking havoc amongst the
straight-laced Julies of the world) snuck up behind me and said:<br />
<br />
"Ah-ha! Just the person we've been looking for!"<br />
<br />
They
had a proposition for me. Would I put together a parent band to
perform on the day of the school centenary fete? (Important sidebar: in
another life, I was a relatively successful indie musician.)<br />
<br />
My
mission, if I chose to accept it, was to hand pick my own cracking hot
band out of available parents and play a few awesome tunes to impress
the dignitaries and politicians who would be walking through the school
on the day.<br />
<br />
"Your call, you do what you want, you're in charge. Just make it good." Said Agent 1.<br />
<br />
They also had "intel" A video of the previous parent band which they played to me on their i-phone.<br />
<br />
"See this?" Said Agent 2. "This is what we <span data-mce-style="text-decoration: underline;" style="text-decoration: underline;">don't</span> want."<br />
<br />
It
was a bunch of parents having a really fun time making a very awful
noise with drums, Casio keyboard, flute and tambourine. Apparently it
was their version of <em>House of the Rising Sun</em>. It wasn't any version I'd ever heard, let's just put it that way.<br />
<br />
And
once again, flattery made a fool of me. But in my defence this task
was right in my comfort zone and the one area in life where I am
actually comfortable taking on the role of leader.<br />
<br />
What could possibly go wrong?<br />
<br />
I accepted the challenge, imagining myself as a veritable Jack Black in <em>School of Rock</em>. I could whip these parents into shape and show them how to ... pop-rock-with-a-country-twist. How hard could it be?<br />
<br />
What
I did not foresee was all the previous 'parent band' members, the
have-a-go funsters, assuming they would be included. I decided to give
them enough rope to hang themselves. With my core musicians already in
place ( a terrific bunch of naturally talented hobby players who were
prepared to let me lead) we invited the others to come to rehearsal and
show us what they had.<br />
<br />
They came, they sang, they stank up the
rehearsal room and remained completely obvlivious to the fact that they
were creating a stench of mammoth, "Oh my god why would you want to do
that in public?" proportions.<br />
<br />
I remembered then that complete lack of talent always comes hand in hand with a complete lack of self-awareness.<br />
<br />
Added
to that, they expected the rest of us - the ones with the actual
musical ability -to simply back them like a karaoke band. They came with
all manner of ridiculous song suggestions, no charts (musical notation
that might have helped us do their bidding) and the expectation that we
would stand in the background spontaneously playing whatever song came
into their head at the time.<br />
<br />
After rehearsal I went home and sent
an email to Agents 1 and 2, tendering my resignation as "band leader." I
couldn't deal with these nutcases and nor was I prepared to:<br />
<br />
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
a) perform in public with them</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
b) be the one to tell them their services were not needed</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
As
a last-ditch compromise, I suggested we allot them one song each in the
hour-long set; but they were to bring charts to the next rehearsal and
there would be no, <em>House of the Rising Sun</em> or <em>Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend.</em><br />
<br />
Agent
1 was having none of it. True to her cat-amongst-the-pigeons form she
fired off a group email informing everyone bluntly and with no
apology, who was "in" and who was "out."<br />
<br />
Then as a final "so there" she effectively signed my death warrant:<br />
<br />
"Penny is in charge, what she says goes!"<br />
<br />
Fun times in the playground after that, as I became, "The diva who kicked everyone out of the parent band."<br />
<br />
But
the show did go on. And in case you're wondering, my hand-picked
musical cohorts and I rocked the weather shed on the day of the
centenary celebrations. We rocked it like ... a bunch of 40-something
parents playing some very acceptable country pop rock.<br />
<br />
However, a
lot of people still hate me and I can no longer enter the school
playground for fear of having a "Kick me I'm a diva" sign taped to my
back.<br />
<br />
<i>Lesson: Don't get involved, no matter what the circumstances. Just don't get involved. Ever.</i><br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
5. The scone and coffee stall</h4>
<br />
But
take heart, these tales of volunteering horror do have a happy ending.
When my eldest child started high school I took advantage of the "clean
slate" and decided to give this volunteering thing one last go. Going
with my adage of sticking to my skill set, I put my name down for the
"coffee stand" at the annual school open day.<br />
<br />
<br />
Soon after
volunteering my services, a very organised and efficient email arrived
in my inbox: I was allotted a one hour shift on the day and told where
to show up including a very helpful map of the school attachment.<br />
<br />
I
turned up to find a well-oiled machine going on in the school's home
ec. kitchen. Students with chef's hats on were pumping out trays of
perfect scones one after the other. Another set of students were then
jamming and creaming them. And yet another two were manning the espresso
machine in a most professional and efficient manner.<br />
<br />
My instructions were simple: take orders, deliver orders to tables. I could do that. And I did.<br />
<br />
Clearly, someone "big-picture smart" was in charge; all I had to do was
follow instructions. It was busy and fun and I even made some friends.<br />
<br />
<i>Lesson: It's a numbers game. One out of five ain't bad.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></h4>
Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-20092932398699005372014-10-05T00:03:00.000-07:002016-08-29T21:36:45.054-07:00Dumb arguments I've had with my kids<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<br />
Before I had kids, I never thought I’d one day be standing outside a
holiday house, (with all my friends watching on from inside) having a
passionate argument with a small person about the merits of a sweaty
cube of cheese.<br />
<br />
My then-two year old had been holding the cube of cheese since we
left Sydney – two and a half hours previous. When we got out of the car,
I saw it had not been eaten, but was still clutched lovingly in his
sweaty little fist.<br />
<br />
One thing was for sure, that fetid cube was not coming into the house with us.<br />
<br />
“Just drop it.” I said.<br />
“No.” He replied, his fist closing more tightly around the prize.<br />
“Just chuck it away.” I insisted.<br />
“No.”<br />
“Are you going to eat it?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“Then chuck it away.”<br />
<br />
And with my friends watching through the front window (waiting to
yell ‘surprise’ for my birthday holiday) my toddler and I engaged in a
brief but violent tussle over a cube of cheddar.<br />
<br />
Finally, might won
over right and I prised open his fist (as he screamed blue murder) and
gleefully discharged the cube off into the gutter.<br />
<br />
That done, we grumpily entered the house and had “Surprise!” yelled
at us as my friends jumped out from behind a curtain (which was
inexplicably the makeshift ‘door’ to the third bedroom.)<br />
<br />
The whole thing was surreal, from the sweaty cube to my friends hiding behind a curtain that logically should have been a door.<br />
<br />
The existence of children in your life brings with it some pretty
dumb arguments that you nevertheless find yourself getting quite het up
about.<br />
<br />
Here are some other dumb arguments I have had with my kids:<br />
<br />
<b>What’s heeeee’s name?</b><br />
<br />
One Sunday, Max (then three and a half) was doing some acrobatic work
on the coffee table when we heard the tell-tale ‘thump-waaaah!’ sound
that signals you will be spending the rest of your day in the ER.<br />
<br />
As we checked his partially detached ear and loaded him into the car I
began to worry that along with a disfigured ear, he may have incurred
some sort of brain damage from the knock to the head.<br />
<br />
He had been very quiet and wasn’t even crying any more. I was
starting to get really worried. And then I heard this from the back
seat.<br />
<br />
“What’s heeee’s name?”<br />
<br />
This was our regular car argument: Max would point to a random
stranger and ask me what their name was. <br />
<br />
The argument would go along the lines of: I<i> dont know/but what’s hee’s name/ I don’t know/ but what’s hee’s name/I don’t know/but what’s hee’s name?</i> ad infinitum until Max had exhausted himself and nodded off to sleep.<br />
<br />
But this time, relieved that my son was obviously back to his usual programming, so to speak, I decided to play along.<br />
<br />
“Barry.” I replied.<br />
“What’s heeee’s other name?”<br />
“McBarry.” I said triumphantly. “His name is Barry McBarry.”<br />
<br />
And so began a long tradition of naming random strangers out the car window.<br />
<br />
Madge McBadge, Ray MacEnray, Jan McPutty and Helen Curlybones (an old lady with scoliosis) just to name a few.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
A nun is not a nut</h4>
<br />
Max and I once had a very lengthy and heated exchange about whether or not nuns were nuts.<br />
<br />
My point was: just because she’s chosen to dedicate her life to God, does not make her crazy (debatable, I know.)<br />
<br />
His point was: But she’s a nut. Look at her.<br />
<br />
(To be fair to him, she was wearing the traditional garb and swanning
about the streets of Leichhardt like Mother Superior from The Sound of
Music.)<br />
<br />
But it was the principle that was important so I decided to tell him a
thing or to about tolerance and difference and religion and how
seriously some people take their dedication to The Big Guy Upstairs.<br />
<br />
He just kept insisting that she was a nut.<br />
<br />
At which point I thought he was pretty young to be making judgements about other people’s life choices and I told him so …<br />
<br />
Which was when I realised that he was only four and he thought the word for a nun was ‘nut.’<br />
<br />
<h4>
No one is getting in the door until I can actually get to the door</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
We have this argument every weekday afternoon at approximately
3.20pm. Coming home from school, my three children charge the front
door so that they might be the first through it. But it’s a small
porticoe and if they bunch around the front door, the keymaster (me)
cannot actually get to the door and it brings proceedings to a grinding
halt.<br />
<br />
But all of them refuse to give ground. For some reason being the
first one through the door is of utmost importance and something not to
be surrendered under ANY circumstances. So we stand at the front door
in a bunch while I invoke the usual prophecy,<br />
<br />
“No one is getting in until I can get to the door.”<br />
<br />
It usually takes about five minutes for them to figure out (again) that the lady with the keys speaks the truth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>I know it’s hard to believe, but I actually know more about ’80s era retro music than you do</b><br />
<br />
<br />
My eldest son, (now 14) is a real music buff and to be fair, he has
very good taste. He prides himself on knowing everything about
everything when it comes to music and bands. He loves Nirvana and finds
it hard to fathom that I once played on the same stage as them (Big Day
Out 1992) But <a href="http://youtu.be/4RNztL-CeI4" target="_blank">here’s the proof</a> if, like him, you don’t believe me. (That’s me at 0:58 with the short bobbed hair worrying that no one is going to turn up.)<br />
<br />
But I digress, (impressive, or WHAT?)<br />
<br />
Recently we had a very heated argument about whether Paul Weller from the poncey 80s band, <i>The Style Council</i> was the same Paul Weller from the very retro cool post ’60s band, <i>The Jam</i>. Max simply could not accept this as fact and to be fair, it is pretty fantastical when you consider songs like, <i>You’re The Best Thing</i> against, <i>A Town Called Malice.</i><br />
<br />
I have not yet been able to prove that the two Paul Wellers are never
in the same room together, and so Max still does not accept this
musical aberration as truth.<br />
<br />
<h4>
When it is cold outside, it is preferable for one to dress as though it is cold outside</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Conversely, when it’s 38 degrees outside, it’s logical to wear shorts, not long pants and a giant army overcoat.<br />
<br />
<h4>
When you go on holiday, packing your bag usually means packing some underwear</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Have you packed?<br />
Yes.<br />
Did you pack everything you need?<br />
(exasperated) YES!<br />
Are you sure?<br />
YES!<br />
Did you pack underwear?<br />
(Embarrassed silence)<br />
<br />
<h4>
Just because I don’t go into your room, doesn’t mean you can convert it into a rubbish tip (and similar versions of same)</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This is essentially a very tricky definition of jurisdictions: if
it’s their room, doesn’t that make them the boss of it? I have not been
able to find a legal precedent (that doesn’t put me in the same
category as say, Hitler or Mussolini) that will effectively blow their
argument out of the water.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Dessert is not a basic human right</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
My kids act like I am some kind of heretic who should be reported to a
higher authority whenever I declare that they don’t actually NEED
dessert.<br />
<br />
The argument comes about when we run out of ice cream, at which point
they start rocking the fridge back and forth like rioters.<br />
<br />
I have
tried to explain to them the logistics of replacing the large four litre
tub of ice cream BEFORE the current one is used up and that sometimes
there might be ONE DAY where the running out of the old ice cream does
not perfectly line up with the buying of the new ice cream.<br />
<br />
But they just act like they want to report me to the police.<br />
<br />
“You don’t actually NEED dessert.” I say.<br />
<br />
This stops them in their tracks. They all stand stock still and make the sign of the cross.<br />
<br />
“Devil woman.” They hiss in a frightened whisper.<br />
<br />
<h4>
When travelling three minutes to school, does it really matter who sits in the front seat?</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
I understand this obsession on a long car trip … but three minutes,
seriously, you can’t sit in the back seat for three minutes without
bitching and moaning the entire way?<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
No you can’t buy crap on ebay with your own pocket money …</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Because when it comes and it’s crap, you cry. Every. Time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
What dumb arguments have you had with your kids? </h3>
<br />
(That's a rhetorical question BTW, don't feel obliged to answer it. It just seemed abrupt to end a post without asking what you've been up to.) Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-11906362667146937952014-08-21T23:10:00.000-07:002014-08-21T23:10:30.362-07:00Why are we not extinct?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
Have you ever looked at the animal kingdom, then looked at humans,
then back at the animal kingdom, then back at human beings again and
wondered why human offspring are such a pain in the date to take care
of?</div>
<br />
Baby giraffes, for example, just schloop out, get up and go.
There's none of this, 'Ooh make sure you support his head or it will
fall off ...' malarky.<br />
<br />
And you don't see Mama Giraffe patting her
newborn to sleep in elaborate ways, or force-feeding it solids while it
turns its head this way and that to avoid the spoon (probably because
giraffes don't use spoons but that's a whole other area to do with
opposable thumbs versus hooves) or having an argument about the shape of
the leaf she's just proffered Baby Giraffe as a morning snack.<br />
<br />
I'm
sure, there is a scientific answer to all of this: something to do with
the fact that our brains, unlike a giraffe's, are not the size of a
pea, something to do with walking on two legs (means your pelvis is
narrower so the baby has to come out earlier) and the overall
sophistication of the human brain and how wonderfully complex it is and
optimising cognitive and motor neurone development and metabolic rates
blah blah blah blah BLAH!<br />
<br />
But all that science doesn't change the fact that some aspects of human parenting are just much harder than they should be.<br />
<br />
And if we are making such a meal of this most basic survival tactic (raising children to make sure the species is propagated) how are we not extinct? <br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
Here are 10 things about human parenting that should be easy, but are actually ridiculously difficult</h3>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
1. Sleeping</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<strong>Subsection a) Newborns</strong><br />
<br />
If
babies are so tired? Why don't they just go to sleep? It's not hard.
And it's not like they've got a million things on their mind that are
whirring around and around tormenting them. As far as I can see all that
is on a baby's mind is: <em>boobs,</em><em> soil pants, be cranky cos I can't sleep.</em><br />
<br />
What's the problem baldy? This is the time in your life when you are
allowed to sleep the day away and no one will judge you. Make hay while
the sun shines you crazy fool!<br />
<br />
<strong>Subsection b) Toddlers</strong><br />
<br />
Alls
I'll say on this is: what is not to like about an afternoon nap? I
cannot think of one thing (apart from maybe dribble on the pillow, but
even that is not a dealbreaker for me.) I don't have one bad thing to
say about the concept of an afternoon nap.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Subsection c) Children</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Why
is bedtime such an area of total avoidance tactics for kids? I love
bedtime. I can't wait to get in there and get me some shut-eye. Why are
kids so averse to going to bed? If sleep is so essential to brain
development and survival in general, how are kids not EXTINCT if they
don't even like sleeping?<br />
<br />
<h4>
2. Eating</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<strong>Subsection a) Breastfeeding</strong><br />
<br />
While
some women find this easy, there is a large section of us for whom this
whole suckling your own young thing is an unmitigated disaster. This
should be a no-brainer. You're a mammal. You give birth to something,
you feed it. We all have the equipment. Why is it so hit and miss?<br />
<br />
The
animal kingdom does not seem to suffer such extreme existential
difficulties as humans: that is because the animal kingdom has 'innate
behaviour.'<br />
<br />
Breastfeeding should be 'innate behaviour.' So
why do some of us just suck at it? (pardon the pun) And then we have to
endure the expert advice and the theories on why it's not working and
the weird rigs to make things work and the specially shaped pillows and
the 'football hold' and the 'make sure you've got a quiet place and a
drink of water to rehydrate' and the nipple creams and ...<br />
<br />
This stuff should just .... work! How are we even still here? Why am I not extinct?<br />
<br />
<strong>Subsection b) Feeding toddlers</strong><br />
<br />
Again,
this should be a no-brainer. If a toddler wants to live, why don't they
just eat what they are given? Why are they such fussy little f***ers?
Who gave them the right to throw their food on the floor while we
kow-tow around them ducking and weaving and just praying that something
of some nutritional value will go into their mouths.<br />
<br />
How has it
happened that we waste our time doing elaborate things with food to try
to force our children to do something that should just be innate
behaviour?<br />
<br />
Again, how are we all not extinct if this is the way our young behave? It's absurd!<br />
<br />
<strong>Subsection c) Feeding children</strong><br />
<br />
Some
years ago before I had kids, I saw an episode of Oprah featuring
Nigella Lawson. Nigella was there to give advice on feeding a family and
was presented with a particular family of six. There were four kids
and every single kid had a different food fetish: Grace didn't like
peas, but she did like beans, Tom didn't like beans OR peas but he did
like pasta, Hannah didn't like beans OR peas OR pasta but she did like
steak ... Riley only ate foods that were white and they could not touch
each other on the plate and so on and so on.<br />
<br />
I was AGOG! I was HORRIFIED!<br />
<br />
This poor wretched woman had to make four different meals every single night.<br />
<br />
I
did not know how she was not sitting in the corner rocking back and
forth. I also did not know that I was looking at my future. Not the
four kids named Grace, Tom, Hannah and Riley, but the poor wretched
woman who had to make multiple meals every evening for fussy kids with
dumb food fetishes.<br />
<br />
I know it's partly my own fault for not being
tougher on them but COME ON!<br />
This whole eating thing is pretty essential to survival. Do you <em>want</em> to be a dodo bird?<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. Toilet training</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This
is another area of child development that I cannot reconcile with the
idea that supposedly we are the most evolved species on the planet.
Surely the transition from pooing in your pants and having it squish all
over your arse to realising that it feels much better to just let it
drop away from you into a receptacle should just be<em> innate: </em>a sudden realisation one day, that you do not want to sit in your own excrement any more.<br />
<br />
Why have we evolved into a species that has to be 'taught' how to go to the toilet properly?<br />
Kittens know this stuff! Kittens!<br />
<br />
Aren't
we supposed to be smart? If we're so smart, why are our kids running
around with poo catchment devices strapped to them? Isn't that physical
proof that we are in fact, as a species, a bit simple?<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. Getting dressed</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<strong>Subsection a) pyjamas to clothes</strong><br />
<br />
It
would seem to me, that getting dressed is just something that has to be
done. It's a non-negotiable requirement of being human: like, not
sitting in your own excrement beyond the age of four. It's not
something that should ever be up for "debate." So why do kids bitch and
moan and carry on and try everything they can to avoid getting dressed
in the morning?<br />
<br />
<strong>Subsection b) clothes to pyjamas</strong><br />
<br />
I
think I have written before about my kids' penchant for sleeping in
their clothes. Once they have the clothes ON, they don't want to fuss
around with pyjamas at bedtime. Is it so hard to pull your shirt up over
your head, replace it with a pyjama shirt and then do the same on the
bottom half of your body? And those pyjamas are right where you left
them, by the heater, on the living room floor. I'm doing everything I
can to facilitate the process.<br />
<br />
<strong>Subsection c) Oral hygiene</strong><br />
<br />
What
is not to like about having a mouthful of minty freshness and clean
teeth? What is not to LIKE???? Why is it a continual battle to get kids
to brush their teeth: morning and night. I've given up on morning, I
just don't have time to say the same thing over and over to each child
five times. I've decided to save my breath for more important things
like, "GET DRESSED!"<br />
<br />
And if good oral hygiene = good health and good health = survival, why do children rail against it so fiercely? <br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Getting in the car</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
When my kids
were little and I had to strap them into car seats and five point seat
belts every time we needed to go anywhere, I couldn't wait for the day
that getting in the car just meant saying, 'get in the car.'<br />
<br />
My kids are now 11 and 14 and that day has still not arrived.<br />
<br />
<h4>
6. Starting school</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
This
is controversial, but I don't get this. Why is this still being
"debated" and agonised over? A teacher friend of mine really simplified
this whole thing for me. She said, "The year your child turns five, is
the year they should be at school." See? Simple. Don't think about it
any more than that.<br />
<br />
There's even a cut off date, I think it's 30th
of June. And I do understand that when your child's birthday is pretty
close to that date, it might be a line ball call. But I'm talking about
the other end of the spectrum: the kids who are already five, or they
turned five in February. Feburary! And parents are still going, "Hm, I
don't know, I just don't know: to send or not to send."<br />
<br />
And I
acknowledge that every kid is different and some kids aren't socially
ready and there will be exceptions blah blah blah. But within reason,
people!<br />
<br />
We're now seeing seven year olds blitzing their classmates
in kindergarten because they got 'held back' until they were 'ready.'
Ready to what? Be bigger and smarter than everyone else just because
they had been on earth for two years longer ... e<em>volv</em>ing?<br />
<br />
One
thing I will say, people: school is not a competitive sport, if you are
holding your child back, to give your child 'an edge' over their
classmates, UP YOURS!<br />
<br />
<h4>
7. School awards nights</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Having
experienced both the public and private sectors in this area, I would
have to say, that the public sector has it all over the private in this
regard.<br />
<br />
Here is the comparison:<br />
<br />
At the state primary school,
we go in, we sit down, principals says a few words. A FEW words. She's
brief, she's concise, she's on message, she's on a needs to know basis.
Minimum amount of awards given out. Children move like well-trained
soldiers up to stage and back to their seats. Children stand up in
seats, turn around to face us. Sing song. Cute awww, applause. The end.<br />
<br />
At
the private high school ... oh it's Power Point presentations from here
to ETERNITY! It's keynote speakers it's 45 minute addresses from the
principal, it's every freakin' kid in the form getting some bull****
award. It's a whole heap of information I didn't need to know, it's
architect's drawings of the new science block its FOUR HOURS OF MY LIFE I
WANT BACK!<br />
<br />
(The free cake, however, is top notch.)<br />
<br />
This
stuff should not be a punishment. It should be something we all look
forward to. But the fact of the matter is, we all dread it and no one
wants to go.<br />
<br />
<h4>
8. The teen years</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
In theory, this is where we
should all be able to just sit back and relax and take our foot of the
parenting pedal a bit, enjoy the burgenoning young adults our kids have
become. And it is, to a point.<br />
<br />
However ...<br />
<br />
... just
recently, I was rudely awakened to the fact that the teen years are
going to be something like the toddler years again. Your kid will do
dumb things and you will constantly be on watch to make sure they don't
hurt themselves.<br />
<br />
<h4>
9. Family dinners</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
When these go well, they are a joy to behold.<br />
<br />
But
just recently it occured to me (when I was dining with adult
companions) that I have developed a terrible habit of bolting down my
food like a pack animal. This is because when I eat with my kids there
seems to be some race to finish eating and get away from the table.<br />
<br />
If I don't inhale my food in one gulp, I will be left alone at the dining table, sadly consuming my food like a lonely spinster.<br />
<br />
If eating together is so important for our social well-being, why are my children so plainly against it? <br />
<br />
<h4>
10. Letting them go</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
After
all this pain the arse stuff, we should be desperate to see them go,
right? So how come the thought of my youngest two starting high school
next year makes me feel sad and like it's almost over? And how come
every time I see a little blonde toddler who looks like my Max, I go,
"Awww, little Maxie, I miss him so."<br />
<br />
And what about when they move
out of home? What will become of me? I never thought I'd be one of
those mums, but despite all of the above, I don't ever want them to
leave.<br />
<br />
What's that about? Why am I not EXTINCT?Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-24210609806077070632014-08-10T02:05:00.002-07:002014-08-10T02:05:57.269-07:00If I had a girl ...<h3>
You always want what you haven't got. Here's my list of things I would do if I had a girl. </h3>
<em></em><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CZ6_8qxo_RI/U-c0ymYX2tI/AAAAAAAAAZc/JeYHhwYXFSY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-10+at+6.59.59+pm.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CZ6_8qxo_RI/U-c0ymYX2tI/AAAAAAAAAZc/JeYHhwYXFSY/s1600/Screen+Shot+2014-08-10+at+6.59.59+pm.png" height="320" width="245" /></a></em></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Above: how my daughter and I would get around town ... if I had one ... </em></div>
<br />
I am the mother of three boys. This
means people often ask me if I would have liked a girl. The honest
answer to that is: yes. I would have loved to have had a girl, quite
simply because I am a girl and it would be great to have a like-minded
soul in the house.<br />
<br />
But if you write yourself a list, the pros and cons of boys versus
girls basically balances itself out. Boys wee on the toilet seat, but
girls steal your hair elastics. Boys are noisy and physically combative,
but girls can be quietly devious and they really hold a grudge. Boys
leave dinosaurs, LEGO and trucks all over the house for you to trip
over; girls leave pink fluffy bits and creepy pony-things with hair-dos
everywhere.<br />
<br />
It’s much of a muchness.<br />
<br />
I love my three boys, they are awesome company. We also like a lot of
the same things: science fiction movies, Japanese food, walks in the
park, Will Ferrell and Ben Stiller. We think the same things are funny
and we all prefer the humanities over the hard core sciences.<br />
<br />
But sometimes, just sometimes, like when I trip over another plastic
machine gun or I have to scour the boys’ clothing section in the local
department store, I fantasise about what it would be like if I had just
one “pink one.”<br />
<br />
Here is my completely fantastical and unrealistic list of all the awesome things I think I could do if I had a girl.<br />
<br />
<h3>
1. Do perfect plaits on someone else’s hair</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<span style="font-weight: normal;">I love doing other people’s hair. When I was a kid, I had an
extensive Barbie collection plus a Barbie Fashion Face and hair-dos were
my stock in trade. It’s not the same doing plaits on your own hair –
you get sore arms and one of the plaits always turns out back-to-front.</span><br />
<br />
If I had a girl, I would be able to do awesome plaits in her hair,
plus we could experiment with things like French braids, chignons and
sock buns. So many hair-dos and no-one to do them on.<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. Go shopping in the girls’ clothes section of a department store</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
FYI mothers of girls only: you are spoilt for choice in that
completely fabulous girls’ wear section. You’ve got your smock top and
leggings combos, you’ve got your little tops with ruffles on them,
you’ve got your stripes, your florals, your polka-dots, your gelato
colours, your rainbow motifs AND you’ve got those completely adorable
knee-high boots with comfy rubber soles (that I actually want for
myself) and that’s not even counting all the cute dresses and fairy
tutus!<br />
<br />
Do you know what we have in the boys’ section? Two choices: your
basic drug dealer/pimp look in a crazy patterned hoodie, or your boring
and conservative nerd-goes-to-Sunday-School in checks and stripes
outfit. So you’ve got your skateboard punk or your Christian Antioch
youth. There is no in-between. There’s no room for a boy who say, likes
fashion but doesn’t fit into either of the aforementioned categories.
Sure, you can get some good stuff if you go designer and splash around a
LOT of cash (say in Pavement or Industrie) but I’m talking about the
average middle-class budget here.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, I wander into the girls’ section and just touch things. It’s heavenly in there.<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. Buy the mother-load of Barbie stuff</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
When I was a kid, only my American friend, Jordi had all the cool
gear like the camper and the dream house, because she brought it all
with her from the US. These days, what with internet shopping and the
global economy, you can get that stuff here! Plus the outfits! The
accessories! The complete range of personalities and looks! These days,
Barbie has ‘careers’ that define her – and a pink espresso machine.<br />
<br />
Every year I ask my boys to get me a Barbie for Christmas. They think I’m joking. I’m not.<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. Decorate a girl’s room</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
With regard to soft furnishings, it’s a bit like the clothing thing.
The choices for boys are: dinosaurs, spacemen, pirates, cowboys and
masculine checks. It’s very hard to make something visually pleasing
with that palette. Plus, girls tend to personalise their space a bit
more lovingly.<br />
<br />
My friend has two girls and their bedrooms are quite simply,
delightful. They each have a little dresser with a mirror; there’s pink
sparkly throw cushions on the bed and the bed itself is shrouded in the
soft veil of a mosquito net. The word “LOVE” is spelled out in
photographs of the family on the pinboard; there’s a row of coloured
fairy lights pinned to the wall and a variety of shoe styles to suit
every outfit and mood are painstakingly laid out in neat rows on a shoe
rack.<br />
<br />
Do you know what we have in my boys’ rooms? A big box full of guns,
every available surface covered in LEGO, cowboy doona covers and dirty
old sneakers thrown into a big plastic bucket.<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. Go shopping in a proper wafty, just passing the time, way</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
My boys are quite good shoppers, but for them, it’s a search and
destroy mission. There’s no wafting around until
something-you-didn’t-know-you-needed catches your eye. They need an
objective, a plan of attack and then it’s mission accomplished and we’re
out of here.<br />
<br />
My mother, sister and I, have a completely different approach: we go
in with a vague idea, we waft, we split up and keep in contact via
mobile phones, we come back together and give opinions. If someone
(usually Mum) puts their hand on a pair of jeans with a 12-inch zipper
we say, “Seriously, how long does your zipper need to be?” If someone
else (usually me or my sister) puts her hand on something from Perri
Cutten we say, “Oh hello, Morag! Are you ready for the retirement home?”
It’s a social activity, it’s collaborative and it’s relaxing.<br />
<br />
There’s nothing relaxing about going shopping with boys: they’re
either underneath the racks making the clothes spin with their feet, or
they’re being all business-like and choosing the first thing they lay
their hands on and saying: “Yep, that’ll do. Let’s go.”<br />
<br />
It’s hunter versus gatherer and I’m a gatherer.<br />
<br />
<h3>
6. Watch dumb girly movies at the multiplex</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Instead of wasting my time watching some dumb action movie with
talking machines in it, I would like to waste my time watching some dumb
romcom with talking hair-dos in it.<br />
<br />
<h3>
7. Pass on my vast collection of Alannah Hill cardigans, smart coats and fabuloso boots of every genre and style</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
I have a seriously fantastic wardrobe. There is so much good stuff in
there. And no one to hand it down to. I’d love to keep it all in the
family, so to speak.<br />
<br />
<h3>
8. Be a completely fearsome MOTB and GMOTB</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
That’s: Mother Of The Bride and Grandmother Of The Baby.<br />
<br />
Let’s face it, the boy’s mum is a bit peripheral on both these
things. It’s all about the ladies when it comes to weddings and babies.
When I got married, my own mother-in-law was left completely out in the
cold while Mum and I planned the whole thing in a completely inept and
lacklustre way. It must have been excruciating for my MIL because a) she
only has boys and b) planning fabulous events is her forte (this I know
now).<br />
<br />
But she wasn’t MY mum and it’s all about the bride.<br />
<br />
It’s the same with babies. We all say, “Oh, let’s not tell anyone
until we’re past the 12-week mark.” And then we immediately go and ring
our mums. And would we take our mother-in-law’s advice on breastfeeding
and baby routines? Neee-owww! (No) Maternal grandma is queen bee in this
department, too.<br />
<br />
On the upside, I won’t have to pay for any weddings. High five testosterone-forming-stem-cells!<br />
<br />
<h3>
9. Have the “now you’re a woman” talk</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Just kidding. How happy am I that I won’t have to do this? I shut my <em>own</em> mother down when she tried to have it with me 30 years ago.<br />
<br />
<h3>
10. Give extensive advice on frenemies</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Recently my twins recounted a story where one of their friends had a
little hissy fit because he wasn’t given the role he wanted during a
classroom group activity. When the twins tried to explain their side of
it to him, the friend shouted: “I don’t wanna hear it!” And huffed off
to the other side of the classroom.<br />
<br />
“Then what happened?” I asked, expecting that they had persevered
with trying to appease him and engaged in some serious emotional
entanglement and passive-aggressive argy-bargy.<br />
“We just ignored him,” they said, and then they changed the subject and started talking about something else.<br />
<br />
Oh, to be a boy! It was as simple as that. Someone got upset, they
ignored him. That was that. They’ll all be friends again tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I have had some serious “frenemies” in my time and I really feel I
could impart quality knowledge on the topic of how to handle tricky
female friendships. But my boys will never need my advice on that one.<br />
<br />
Boys are so cut and dried. They have no stamina for grudge-holding nor do they heed any of the unspoken, “You should have <em>known</em> what I was thinking and feeling” subtext.<br />
<br />
Which, come to think of it, is what I love about boys. And why I love having a house full of them.<br />
<br />
<h3>
So, do I really wish I had a girl?</h3>
No, not really. I may be missing out on shopping, planning a wedding
and playing hairdresser, but on the upside, I didn’t have to go and see <em>Frozen</em> and I don’t have to guard my hair accessories. I just put them down and when I come back, they’re exactly where I left them.<br />
<br />
Tell me, mothers of girls, is that what happens in <em>your</em> house?Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-12709214921470469672014-06-27T20:39:00.001-07:002014-06-27T20:39:09.846-07:0010 things you can't plan for as a parent (but totally should).<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Parenting is not so much about pre-emptive
backburning as it is about putting out constant spot
fires. </span></div>
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<br />
When you first find out you’re pregnant, you get all proactive
because at that point, you’re in control of your life: you buy cots,
nappies, wipes, baby clothes in all sizes and you really convince
yourself you’re going to be TOTALLY on top of this whole parenting game.<br />
<br />
Then you give birth to a small human being and it slowly dawns on you
that you are no longer in full control of your own destiny.<br />
<br />
With every year that passes, there is something else no one told you
about that you should really have planned or had a contingency for.
That’s when you realise that parenting is not so much about pre-emptive
backburning as it is about being prepared to put out constant spot
fires.<br />
<br />
Be alert, but not alarmed because …<br />
<br />
Here are 10 things you <em>can’t</em> plan for as a parent (but really ought to anyway).<br />
<br />
<h3>
1. Stitches</h3>
<br />
If you have kids, someone, somewhere at some point in time is going
to need stitches. You can say, “Careful …” all you like, but sooner or
later someone is going to just run headlong into a brick wall anyway.
You <em>can’t</em> prevent it, but you <em>can</em> prepare yourself for
the fact that your kid will go to pieces when the doctor produces a
needle and thread to sew up the wound.<br />
<br />
What you should also be prepared for is the fact that it’s not so
much the stitches that will make your kid scream, but the needle that
comes BEFORE the stitches, often times directly into the wound itself,
that will require you to exercise your best
firm-hold-use-arms-and-legs-to-keep-him-immobilised grip to keep your
child from flailing around when the needle goes in.<br />
<br />
In fact, one of the most common refrains of parenting is: <em>Do you think that’ll need stitches?</em><br />
<br />
With the underlying subtext of: <em>Can I get away with not taking him to the emergency room this time?</em><br />
<br />
<h3>
2. Nits and worms</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
No matter how fastidious you think you are, these will at some point
enter your home. You can’t really prevent it but you can mentally
prepare yourself for the inevitability of it. Don’t freak out, don’t be
ashamed: it’s just nature’s way of making all parents equal. Because no
matter how vigilant and ‘clean’ you think you are, it will happen to
you.<br />
<br />
If you are really unlucky, one or both of these will make their way onto <em>your</em>
person. Which is the point in your life when you really know you have
become a parent: sitting quietly while your partner combs bugs out of
your hair like a couple of chimps in the jungle.<br />
<br />
Or perhaps treating
yourself to four squares of ‘bum chocolate*’ after dinner.<br />
<br />
*a.k.a: Combantrin<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. Midnight vomit</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Learning to run to the bathroom to vomit into the toilet is a massive
developmental milestone that should be on all key developmental
indicator lists. The day your child identifies their body’s ‘vomit’
signals and reacts accordingly is almost as a big a day as when he takes
his first steps.<br />
<br />
Until he reaches that point, you need to mentally prepare yourself
for the fact that your kid will wake in the night and either vomit all
over themselves or come into your room and vomit all over you.<br />
<br />
What can
you do? Nothing much except acquire a good vomit clean-up technique that
can be carried out in the dead of night without waking up the whole
house.<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. A totally trashed couch that not even Vinnies will take</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
If you are planning on getting a new couch, don’t bother until your
youngest child is about 10. There’s no point. It doesn’t matter how
vigilant you are, that thing will be trashed.<br />
<br />
Just accept that your couch is no longer a couch, it is a jumping
castle, baby change table, cubbyhouse, giant serviette, a snot-post
(like a cat’s scratching post but for snotty noses), a wee-absorber and a
place where the baby will vomit.<br />
<br />
And when you are done with it, just take it into the backyard and set fire to it. Believe me, Vinnies doesn’t want it.<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. Spilled drinks</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
It doesn’t matter how many times you say ‘careful’ or ‘don’t spill
that drink’ or even reach across and shift the glass of milk away from
your child’s flailing, clumsy hands, there will be a spilled drink at
dinner time at least once a week.<br />
<br />
My advice: just serve water. It’s easier to clean up and doesn’t make the floor sticky.<br />
<br />
Sometimes my kids spill their water and I just leave it to dry. Can’t
be bothered. It happens all the time. It’s like breathing in and out in
this house.<br />
<br />
<h3>
6. Concussion</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
So far, we have had two concussions in this house. Two out of three
kids ain’t bad. Be alert but not alarmed when your child, after falling
and hitting their head somewhere, suddenly asks you the same question
three times in a row or cannot remember what day of the week it is. And
get thee straight to the ER.<br />
<br />
Take a good book and maybe a deck of cards because once you reveal to
the doctor that your child lost consciousness, if only briefly, you
will not be allowed to leave that emergency room until the requisite
four hour monitoring period has passed.<br />
<br />
<h3>
7. An act of defiance or mischief that is totally out of character (or so you thought)</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Just to keep you on your toes, your child will at some point, when
you are least expecting it and when it is least convenient, do something
completely out of character that will see you sitting in the
principal’s office lamely saying something like, “I don’t understand,
it’s just so unlike him.”<br />
<br />
It seems to be a rite of passage for kids to suddenly turn left when
all their lives they have always turned right, to suddenly decide they
will be the kid who steals everybody’s calculator and hoards them under
their desk, to spontaneously write nonsensical profanities in chalk all
over the wall behind the girls’ toilets (yours truly, I still don’t know
what possessed me.)<br />
<br />
It happens to the best of us. You can’t plan for it, but you can be
prepared to come down like a tonne of bricks on your kid in order set
them back on the right path. Rest assured, the tonne of bricks approach
usually works with most kids and only has to be employed once.<br />
<br />
<h3>
8. A bathroom of embarrassment</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
When you have ‘company’, be prepared for the fact that your kids will
probably leave a ‘deposit’ behind for your guests to admire. You can
try to go all Harvey Keitel in <em>Pulp Fiction</em> and be the
equivalent of a crime scene ‘cleaner’, but it is inevitable that the one
time you forget, will be the time the real estate agent comes around to
bring prospective buyers through.<br />
<br />
(At which point you need to impress
upon your potential buyers that the extra ‘feature’ in the toilet bowl
is not one of the inclusions.)<br />
<br />
If it’s not an unflushed deposit, it will be an inexplicable ‘banner’
of toilet paper from one side of the bathroom to the other, a
wee-sprinkled toilet seat or toothpaste spit in the basin.<br />
<br />
<h3>
9. Being implicated as racists</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
I have some friends who are the most right-on, proper, non-racist,
unbigoted people I know. They are exemplary human beings and carefully
impart their values to their children at all times. But their youngest
child is determined to make them look bad.<br />
<br />
He was last seen barring
another child of ethnic descent from entering the preschool cubby house
while saying, “We don’t want your kind in here, chocolate face”.<br />
<br />
I have no suggestions for this one, it has me beat.<br />
<br />
<h3>
10. Imperfect teeth</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
All the brushing and flossing and careful coddling of those beautiful
pearly whites will not prevent the inevitable. It is an unavoidable
fact of childhood that something will be knocked out, chipped off or
broken in half before the onset of puberty.<br />
<br />
So far we have had one front tooth cracked in half and one that has
had to be pulled out because it had an abscess. Teeth are one of the
major casualties of childhood.<br />
<br />
Find a good dentist and have him on speed dial.<br />
<br />
<i>*Note: the coining of the phrase "bum chocolate" should be credited here to the Mckee/Gray household of Cammeray </i>Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-29987167269463972972014-02-09T23:10:00.001-08:002014-02-09T23:16:15.308-08:00Weird stuff my mum used to do that I am now really vibing with ...<div style="text-align: left;">
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<br />
When I was a kid I thought my mother's obsession with the pigsty in my bedroom was weird.<br />
<br />
"What's her problem?" I thought to myself. "It's not like <i>she</i> has to live in here."<br />
<br />
I
also didn't understand why she got mad when I "cleaned up" my room by
shoving the big wodge of mess into my cupboard and then leaning heavily
on the door until it was tightly packed in like a Jack-in-the-box.<br />
<br />
"What's the problem?" I thought. "It's tidy enough for me."<br />
<br />
One day I was minding
my own business, hosting a tea party in the pigsty when my mother
reached the end of her tether.<br />
<br />
"I <i>said</i>, 'Clean up this pigsty!'" She shrieked. (I suspect now, it was about the tenth time she'd said it.)<br />
<br />
Then she slammed my bedroom door so hard that my little China tea set shattered and everyone at the tea party fell backwards.<br />
<br />
The
door flew open again; Mum was mortified. She then spent the next six
months scouring the shops to try to find a replacement tea set. It so
happened that the tea set was irreplaceable. (It was that one high
quality toy item that we just happened upon in a toy shop and then
never saw again.)<br />
But every day when I came home from school there
would be a new "peace offering" sitting on my bed: a plastic tea set,
an "almost-but-not-quite-right" China tea set, a new doll for my tea
party.<br />
<br />
She told me recently that she still feels bad about losing
her temper and breaking my tea set 35 years ago. I told her that I
completely understood why she did that.<br />
<br />
Until you become a mother
and find yourself shouting things like, "Whose shoes are these?", "Take
your bowls to the sink!" and "The dishwasher is now receiving!" you do
not really understand that there is method in what appears to be the
madness of motherhood.<br />
<br />
(It's a bit like being the humourless
office manager that no one likes: walking around with your necklace pen
so that no one can steal it; making sure that everyone got the memo
about the meeting in boardroom five, because if you don't remind
everyone, no one will turn up and everyone will say, "I didn't know
there was a meeting in boardroom five?")<br />
<br />
Here are some other "weird" things my mother used to do that I now completely understand because I do them myself.<br />
<br />
<h3>
1. Shimmy around the kitchen floor on a towel</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
You
know what I'm talking about: the old "mop the kitchen floor then shimmy
around on a towel to dry it before kids and dogs can come in and ruin
your good work" trick.<br />
<br />
And then this seemingly absurd demand: "Don't come in here, I just mopped the floor!"<br />
<br />
<i>So we're all supposed to stay out of the kitchen for the rest of our lives now?</i> I used to think.<br />
<br />
Well, yes. Got a problem with that?<br />
<br />
I used to see my mother doing the kitchen floor shimmy and think it was hilaaaarious. <i>What a nutbag!</i> I thought to myself. Now? I love me a good shimmy around the kitchen floor on a towel.<br />
<br />
<h3>
2. Walk into kids' bedrooms and obsessively sniff the air</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
"The
Nose knows." We used to snigger about my mother. She could sniff out a
dead sock in the crack of the couch or a mouldy orange in a school bag
at ten paces. It used to annoy me that she'd come into my room and
immediately start sniffing the air:<br />
<br />
"What's that ...? Is it ... parmesan cheese? Did something die in here?"<br />
<br />
Now I find myself doing it every day. Why are kids so stinky? And why are they so impervious to their own stink? It kills me.<br />
<br />
<h3>
3. "It's the dotty bits of paper that I can't stand."</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
My
mum used to say this. And I used to go, "Whatevs crazy lady. Whatevs."
(Or the 1970s equivalent of "whatevs.") She'd bend over and pick at my
bedroom floor where the offending "dotty bits of paper" resided. I could
not for the life of me see what she was talking about.<br />
<br />
Now? I am
constantly picking up "dotty bits of paper" off the floor ALL OVER MY
HOUSE! And I find myself muttering, "It's the dotty bits of paper that I
can't stand."<br />
<br />
<h3>
4. "Do you <i>have</i> to make pancakes and no thanks I don't want one."</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Remember
when you decided to make pancakes and you couldn't understand why your
mum wasn't thrilled about the prospect of someone making pancakes? And
then you didn't understand why she didn't want you to make her one?
What's not to like about pancakes? <i>What is she? CRAZY? </i><br />
<br />
Recently
my eldest son offered to make crepes as a special treat for breakfast.
I watched with gritted teeth as he sifted flour like wedding confetti
all over the kitchen, used a metal spatula on my Jamie Oliver non-stick
frypan and slopped pancake batter in the unreachable gap between the
bench and the cooktop.<br />
<br />
As it happens he makes a pretty good crepe.
My sister and I, however, used to do that thing where you make crepe batter then
you try to make pancakes with it.<br />
<br />
Mum used to decline our anemic,
gluey "pancakes", quietly wait until we had lost interest, then sidle in
and make herself the perfect thin, lacy crepe. I used to think that
was impolitic of her. Now I understand.<br />
<br />
<h3>
5. Swim in the pool without getting her hair wet</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
I
don't know what it is about getting older, but my hair just ain't what
it used to be. As a result, if I'm having a good hair day, there's no
way I'm going to ruin it by putting my head under the water when I go
for a swim. It'll take hours to dry and when it does it will be a big,
old, bag-lady, fright-wig. And don't even get me started on the prospect
of going to bed with wet hair and waking up with the wig-on-backwards
look.<br />
<br />
So I make like Esther Williams and breaststroke my way elegantly around the pool with my head out of the water.<br />
<br />
Just like my mum used to.<br />
<br />
I
also never understood why Mum didn't want to stay in and play Marco
Polo with us, or at least do a few somersaults or multiple laps
underwater to see how long she could hold her breath before she got out.<br />
<br />
She knew then what I know now; 20 seconds in the pool is AMPLE!<br />
<br />
<h3>
6. A completely non-negotiable attitude to Kentucky Fried Chicken</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
We were allowed to have Macdonalds, but KFC was absolutely, no exceptions, don't-even-try-to-change-my-mind blacklisted.<br />
<br />
I get that now. And don't get me started on people putting greasy chicken buckets on their heads.<br />
<br />
<h3>
7. "Tall things go on the tall shelf."</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
This
was my best friend's mother. She had a thing about putting the tallest
items on the top shelf of the fridge. And she would get very frustrated
when Cassie did not comply.<br />
<br />
"The tall things go on the TALL shelf." She would say insistently.<br />
<br />
I
get it now. If you put the short things on the tall shelf, you run out
of room for the tall things. I say this every other day to my kids: "The
tall things go on the tall shelf."<br />
<br />
<h3>
8. Obssessive hoarding of stationery items and a refusal to share them</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
This was my dad. "Don't take my stapler off my desk!" <i>Jeez,</i> I used to think, <i>Dad's pretty uptight about his stapler.</i>
But every day, as I waste another 20 minutes hunting down the kitchen
scissors, the sticky tape, the stapler ... I feel Dad's pain.<br />
<br />
FYI:
I now keep my most treasured items (stapler, sticky tape, calculator
and a green highlighter pen) in a secret drawer of my desk. To the
outsider, this seems like unnecessary hoarding behaviour, but to a
parent, it is just a basic survival instinct.<br />
<br />
<h3>
9. "Plating up" her takeaway McDonalds</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
Every
other Sunday we would get McDonalds. We were never allowed to eat in,
or get soft drinks. Two more things I did not understand back then, but I
do now.<br />
<br />
When we got home, Mum would get out a plate, arrange her
burger and fries on it and then daintily add an extra splodge of sauce
to her cheeseburger. As I sat on the couch, with my head virtually
inside the takeaway bag inhaling my food, I thought Mum was SUCH a
weirdo.<br />
<br />
I get this now: just a modicom of civility to take the edge off the idea of fast food.<br />
<br />
<h3>
10. Driving the wrong way in the shopping centre car park</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
I
have covered this before. But this was the one thing my mum did to
break the rules. She was the most goody-two-shows, law abiding citizen
... until she got into that Grace Brothers car park at Warringah Mall
and all bets were off. She would flagrantly ignore the yellow arrows on
the road and take the quickest route to the parking spaces nearest the
store's entry.<br />
<br />
She was so blase about it, that as soon as I got
my license I took that same route in the same carpark, thinking it was
what everyone did. I was completely aghast when people "honked" and
"hooted" their outrage as they came at me the right way.<br />
<br />
Someone even
wound down their window and yelled out, "You're going the wrong way,
idiot!"<br />
<br />
It hasn't stopped me. Something about being a mother makes
me think I own the place. Even my ex-husband (a shameless law-breaker
in every other way) found this behaviour shocking.Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-92155817155541972862014-02-01T17:31:00.000-08:002014-02-09T22:32:22.693-08:00Confessions of a real estate copywriter<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
My name is Penny Flanagan and I am a real estate copywriter.<br />
<br />
It's an odious confession and I am suitably ashamed of my flagrant overuse of the words, "immaculate" "stunning" and "sleek" - just to name a few of my standard go-tos.<br />
<br />
I also have these phrases programmed into my auto-correct (with coded anagrams):<br />
<br />
Gourmet gas and stone kitchen (ggsk)<br />
Seamless flow through bi-fold doors to deck (sftd)<br />
Palatial master retreat with ensuite and balcony (pmreb) <br />
<br />
Real estate copywriting is a purple-prose artform: it is the art of saying nothing whilst using as many stupid superlatives as you can think of.<br />
<br />
At times, out of desperation and boredom, I have invented some words. <br />
<br />
Other times, I have reached for some fake French words: not because I am a bilingual wordsmith, but because fake French words, to an idiot, sound pretty and sophisticated. <br />
<br />
And my client is an idiot; my client is a real estate agent. <br />
<br />
The worst thing about being a writer who works for real estate agents is that bad is good.<br />
<br />
Essentially what they want from me is; a very bad piece of writing. <br />
<br />
They want sentences packed with too many adjectives and they want me to repeat the same idea over and over again, in subtly different ways, all within the opening paragraph.<br />
<br />
They call this ingenious writing method: "the hard sell." <br />
<br />
If you have been unfortunate enough to have had to peruse the real estate ads in the past few years and have laughed derisively at the copy contained therein, please spare a thought for the professional writer who has been forced to shit that word excrement onto the page.<br />
<br />
<h4>
In our defence; we do it simply because that's what the client wants. </h4>
<br />
They don't want a good, crisp, factual piece of writing with rhythmic sentences and clear intentions. They want meaningless "floofer-fluff" sounds with stupid words like "stunning" and "superb" peppered liberally throughout each paragraph and then regurgitated again in bullet points (just in case you didn't get it the first time round.) <br />
<br />
If we don't give it to them, they send it back with helpful feedback like this:<br />
<br />
<i>It's just not exciting enough.</i><br />
<i>It's a bit boring. </i><br />
<i>You're not selling it. </i><br />
<i>I need your best, times 65%</i> (I think he meant, he wanted my best PLUS 65% more, but clearly maths was not his strong suit.)<br />
<br />
<h4>
I have tried to single-handedly improve the genre</h4>
<br />
In my early years, I decided to pioneer a crisp, factual journalistic style; something I would be happy to put my name to. That was my litmus: "Would I be happy to put my name to this?" If the answer was "no," I went back in and toned it down. <br />
<br />
I produced some lovely, clean pieces of writing ... and as a result, I got no work for about three months.<br />
<br />
Then the first job that landed to me (after no one else was available, I was so far down the chain with my crisp, factual prose) I just went to town and gave it a bit of "superb" and "fabulous." I may have even used the word, "spectacular" to describe some pretty ordinary district views. <br />
<br />
All of a sudden I was in demand again. I realised then, that there was no byline and so I just went all "fabulous" and "spectacular" on their real estate arses.<br />
<br />
I got quite popular. <br />
<br />
And as writing gigs go, it's money for jam.<br />
<br />
If you can grin and bear the constant "feedback" from the client (a person with no tertiary education who gives you helpful "pointers" on how to write better) it's relatively easy money. And the work is sporadic enough to allow you to do other things with your life in the downtime. <br />
<br />
But in terms of purposely writing badly, working for someone who tells me to give it my best TIMES 65% and using dumb words ...<br />
<br />
<h4>
Where is my limit? </h4>
<br />
I have hit my limit a few times in the last five years. For a while I simply gave them mean nicknames as a coping mechanism.<br />
<br />
Fat Neck<br />
The Amazing Pear-Shaped Man<br />
Roberta (She was very common and reminded me of Cat Stewart's, Roberta in <i>Underbelly</i>.)<br />
Nuggety Joe (A miniature bag of walnuts who claimed to be a cage-fighter in his downtime)<br />
The Gymp (He would specifically request me by name, but always, ALWAYS sent my copy back with petty grievances. It occurred to me that he was the kind of guy who would like to tie his girlfriend up and keep her in a dungeon below the house.) <br />
<br />
Then mid last year I hit my limit again after Nuggety Joe sent my copy back with the complaint that I had not used enough pretty words to describe the backyard. (It was a south-facing square of dirt and I made the judgement call; the less said the better. ) <br />
<br />
So then I decided I would only work with agents who didn't give me the shits. As a result, my client list is rapidly dwindling. <br />
<br />
<h4>
Then, just the other day, I received this email from one of my previously preferred agents: </h4>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Hi Penny,<br /> </i><br />
<i>Pam from (company name omitted) here, I work with (agent's name omitted)<br /><br />The copy writing (sic) has been great as usual, and thank you. (Agent's name) has just asked if we could avoid using the words spacious and refurbished. Generous and renovated work, or anything else you can think of.<br /><br />Let me know if you have any questions.<br /><br />Warm Regards</i><br />
<br />
<i>Pam </i></blockquote>
<br />
At first glance, it seems innocent enough. The tone is friendly and I like the way she started off by "stroking" my ego, to prepare me for the ridiculous request that follows.<br />
<br />
So hats off to Pam for her people skills.<br />
<br />
But can I avoid using the words "spacious" and "refurbished"? And by "avoid," she meant, don't use them ever ... Again ...<br />
<br />
In any bit of copy.<br />
<br />
Ever.<br />
<br />
(Because as requested, I called her to let her know that I had some questions and she clarified it for me.)<br />
<br />
I could give you a detailed and thorough argument for why it is near impossible NOT to use the words "spacious" and "refurbished" when writing real estate copy; something around how I have to say the same thing in different ways over and over, so I actually <u>need</u> three words that mean the same thing: Large. Spacious. Generous.<br />
<br />
If you can think of a word that isn't ridiculous that can replace "spacious" in my magic three, please post it below. And no, "capacious" is not an option.<br />
<br />
As for "refurbished." Call me a word nerd but to my mind there is a subtle difference between "renovated" and "refurbished." "Renovated" implies something old, brought back to life. "Refurbished" implies a sort of polishing up, a more decorative sort of makeover. <br />
<br />
And considering most homes on the market in Sydney have been to some degree, tarted up for sale, whether it's repolishing floors and adding a fresh coat of paint, or a total overhaul situation, I need to distinguish these nuances with different words.<br />
<br />
(For the record, a learned colleague of mine once coined the phrase,
"freshly schemed" to describe bathrooms and kitchens that have been
tarted up for sale but not properly renovated. She said I was welcome to use it and it has served me well.)<br />
<br />
And I don't mind if people have a really good reason for not liking a particular word. For instance, one elderly Catholic gentleman once very kindly asked that I not use the word, "immaculate" when writing his copy.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"I'm very religious," he said, "and to me, that word is only appropriate for the Virgin Mary." </blockquote>
<br />
He spoke to me personally and he was very polite and apologetic about it: acknowledging that it may be a weird idiosyncratic request.<br />
<br />
(I have a soft spot for the veterans: the old school real estate agents with their strong work ethic and "no lies" integrity.) <br />
<br />
So, part of my problem with the email is:<br />
<br />
a) the lack of good reason for banning these words<br />
b) the delegation of this trivial task to someone lower down the food chain <br />
<br />
One of the things on Pam's "to do" list that day was, "email copywriter re the words spacious and refurbished." <br />
<br />
It's just a dumb power play by a small man in a cheap suit. <br />
<br />
<h4>
But my real point (and I do have one) is this: </h4>
<br />
I have just taken you through the ridiculous words I have used in real estate copy. I have made words up, I have used faux Frenglish words, I have completely overdone the superlatives to an embarrassing degree on a regular basis.<br />
<br />
I have joined two words together to create new compound words that do not (and should not) exist. <br />
<br />
And THESE are the words that I am no longer allowed to use? <br />
<br />
Spacious<br />
Refurbished <br />
<br />
I think I have just hit my limit.<br />
<br />
Consider this the detonator that will blow the bridge.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-73715513858147685842013-12-20T21:00:00.000-08:002013-12-20T21:09:46.784-08:00Five places I shouldn't have to make conversation<div style="text-align: center;">
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Recently I have been watching <i>Sex and the City</i> in its entirety. So far I am up to Season 2. Don't judge me. It's non-ratings period and I've already watched all of <i>Mad Men</i>, most of <i>Breaking Bad</i>, all of <i>Nurse Jackie</i> and am currently waiting on season 2 of <i>Newsroom</i>.<br />
<br />
There was nothing left that appealed to my current state of mind, so I went retro with it and decided to give Carrie Bradshaw a whirl: if only for SJP's big hair and her slightly horsey face which manages to be ordinary and beautiful at the same time.<br />
<br />
But the series, apart from Carrie smoking like a bogan* throughout every episode, is still surprisingly contemporary in its themes.<br />
<br />
Recently I watched the episode where Miranda's new boyfriend wanted her to do some dirty talking in bed. Miranda was aghast:<br />
<br />
"It's the one area in life where I don't <u>have</u> to talk or make conversation."<br />
<br />
To this, I concur. And I'm not so much talking about the dirty sex talk part, but just about life in general. There are certain areas in life where we should all be absolved of making conversation with people.<br />
<br />
Here they are: <br />
<br />
<h4>
1. The supermarket checkout </h4>
<br />
I have flagged this before in a very controversial piece entitled, "<a href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/supermarket-etiquette-10-rules-to-follow/#.UrUf0I0Qtdc" target="_blank">Supermarket Etiquette</a>." In return, a few checkout operators piped up and claimed that as part of their job, they are required to make conversation with customers.<br />
<br />
But honestly, if I get asked one more time by a 15 year old checkout operator,<br />
<br />
"So how's your day been?"<br />
<br />
I am going to <u>tell</u> them how my day has actually been in mind-numbing detail. <br />
<br />
The other more leading question they often ask is this:<br />
<br />
"So, what are you up to for the rest of the day?"<br />
<br />
Umm ... let's see... how about, none of your business, Boy Who Doesn't Even Shave Yet?<br />
<br />
Am I supposed to answer this question? Is there a stock answer to give to this? If there is, I haven't found it yet.<br />
<br />
If I give them a bit of "Oh this and that .." they seem offended at my lack of effort. So sometimes I feel bad and try to go with it: I tell them what I'm doing for the rest of the day, which is when their eyes glaze over as if to say,<br />
<br />
"Alright, lady, I'm not actually interested, I was just making a noise with my mouth." <br />
<br />
<h4>
2. The hairdresser </h4>
<br />
I know other women love a bit of chit chat at the haidresser because I HEAR THEM MAGGING ON AND ON ABOUT INANE THINGS as I am cowering beneath the hum of the blowdryer hoping my hairdresser doesn't feel left out because I don't talk to her. <br />
<br />
I have a regular hairdresser and she knows I am not big on the chit chat. So she generally doesn't talk to me beyond, "How've you been?" And "What are we doing with your hair today?" And then at the end ... "How are we blowdrying? Straight with a bit of movement?"<br />
<br />
But recently she got a bit comatose with my haircut and started cutting my hair in her sleep. By which I mean, she didn't listen when I said, "I would like you to cut it properly this time and not leave a big Quasimodo hump of hair at the back of my head." (Perhaps because I didn't keep her mind active with inane chit-chat). So I had to change things up and ask for someone else.<br />
<br />
At which point the inane chit-chat started up again.<br />
<br />
"So, you going out this weekend?" The trendy young hairdresser asked me, eagerly anticipating some fabulous response where I was going to a gallery opening or some hipster party in a silver lame dress and kitten heels. <br />
<br />
<i>Do I look like I'm going out this weekend? </i><br />
<br />
I'm a 43 year old woman with three kids. Women in my demographic generally don't "go out" much on the weekends. We just collapse on the couch and watch reruns of <i>Sex and the City</i> so we can wear comfy pants and watch other women go out every weekend trussed up in their Spanx and heels. <br />
<br />
Even if I <u>am</u> going out on the weekend, it's rarely to some fabulous Carrie Bradshaw-style party. It's just to a friend's house for dinner, or out to a cheap Thai restaurant with my girlfriends. My social life, even when it's active, is just not that interesting.<br />
<br />
In fact it's often so disappointing as a response that it's a conversation <i>stopper.</i> (As I discovered the one time I <i>was</i> actually going somewhere and I gave an honest answer: "Oh just out to dinner with some friends." She virtually dropped the blowdryer on my head in her utter lack of enthusiasm for the concept of "going out for dinner with some friends.")<br />
<br />
<b>3. The Blow Dry Bar</b><br />
<br />
Recently I have taken to getting my hair blow dried at the Blow Dry Bar. It's cheap, very quick and it means that for at least a week, I don't have to deal with the nightmare-on-my-head that is my unruly, recalcitrant hair.<br />
<br />
It has become patently clear to me that other women only go to the Blow Dry Bar if they have a special function on. Because<i> every time</i>, <i>every time</i>:<br />
<br />
"Going somewhere special tonight?"<br />
<br />
No. I just like getting my hair blow-dried. I'm weird like that. Again. It's a real conversation stopper that nearly results in the blowdryer being dropped on my head.<br />
<br />
<h4>
<b>4. Clothes shops</b></h4>
<br />
The other place I don't think I should have to make conversation is when I am in a clothes shop.<br />
<br />
"Got the day off today?"<br />
<br />
No. No. I haven't. I work from home and I'm skiving off. There's a million things I SHOULD be doing but here I am floating around David Jones. Thanks for reminding me.<br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Taxis </h4>
<br />
I have an Eliza Doolittle thing for cabs. I love getting cabs. But I don't like talking to the driver, not because I don't think he's worthy of my conversation. I just don't like talking when I get in a cab: I like to zone out and stare out the window and feel happy that I've just outsourced one of the worst things about living in Sydney; driving in traffic.<br />
<br />
I especially don't like talking if I am going to the airport, which I do a lot, not because I'm fabulous but because I am a working musician and I tour with a comedian (my sister.) It's just part of the gig; going to the airport, fighting with the check-in dolly about whether or not we've paid for our extra baggage, bunching up with the general pubic and getting my hairspray confiscated again, getting on a plane and going to some weird regional town with a big theatre to put on a show.<br />
<br />
Apart from the two weeks every two years where we go to the Melbourne Comedy Festival, it's just business as usual, and there's actually not much glamorous about it. <br />
<br />
But <i>every time, every time</i>.<br />
<br />
"Where are <u>you</u> off to today?"<br />
<br />
Oh some butthole town in north Queensland.<br />
<br />
"Business or pleasure?"<br />
<br />
Oh COME ON! <br />
<br />
This question of "business or pleasure" with regard to where I am going every second week with my guitar, is a bit like the double flush button on a toilet: suddenly I have to stop and define something I don't really want to think that much about.<br />
<br />
If it's "business," then I've clearly lost my performer's mojo. And if it's "pleasure" what right do I have skipping town without my kids every second weekend? Am I a bad mother, or what? <br />
<br />
<h4>
But there is a place for inane chit chat. </h4>
<br />
And if you do it right, it can be a very satisfying exchange with a fellow human being. It's not about vague questions that demand fabulous answers that I cannot give, but rather, it's about being <u>specific</u>.<br />
<br />
A few weeks ago, I was in the checkout queue and was served by my favourite checkout boy. He's clearly a friend of Dorothy (even if he doesn't know it yet) and he's a faaaabulous inane chit-chatter.<br />
<br />
Instead of saying, "So ... how's your day been?" and then checking out of the conversation once my mouth started moving, he cast his eye over my groceries and said:<br />
<br />
"Oooh! Maggie Beer ice cream. I haven't tried that flavour, is it nice?"<br />
<br />
"It's delicious!" I replied, really warming to the idea of talking about food. "Sometimes I stand at the freezer at 3 o clock in the afternoon and just eat it straight out of the tub. It's the ultimate afternoon pick me up."<br />
<br />
"Ooh and raspberries!" He virtually squealed with delight. "They're expensive! You're really treating yourself today!"<br />
<br />
And so finally, this virginal conversational flower was "opened up" by a chatty homosexual boy.<br />
<br />
You've gotta love The Gays.<br />
<br />
<i>* This observation was flagged by my friend Liz Winters; who coined the phrase, "smoking like a bogan" and should be credited here.</i><br />
<br />
<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-11358722505315642112013-12-16T19:30:00.001-08:002013-12-17T00:34:45.975-08:00Tales of Christmas Day disaster that will make you feel normal<div style="text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clarke Griswold; the patron saint of Christmas disasters</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I have a friend who is adopted. At Christmas time she gets quite
wistful about what the perfect family Christmas <u>should</u> be like.<br />
<br />
To
add to her angst about not having the ideal family Christmas, her
parents are divorced and so she now has a step-family as well.<br />
<br />
The
relations within this mish-mash of people can sometimes be fractious;
family dinners can often blow up into arguments and she's been known to
storm out in a huff when she thinks things aren't representing her
"perfect family" ideal.<br />
<br />
In her mind, her "real family" is out there
somewhere and this adopted cum step-family she has ended up with, these people
who know and love her best, are not it.<br />
<br />
But it's Christmas time in
particular that brings out her inner Pollyanna about what her life
would be like if she could just have a real family; a close family; a
family that enjoys being together and passes the turkey round with
laughter in their eyes and carols in their hearts.<br />
<br />
I think she
probably even imagines that all the "real" families are standing around a
piano, arm in arm, singing Christmas carols together.<br />
<br />
<h4>
And then, one year, she tracked down her biological parents</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
THAT
Christmas she spent with her biological father and his new partner.
Her bio-dad's new partner was an airhead of a woman given to long rants
of ignorant bigotry. At one point, my friend found herself in the
kitchen, hunched over the beautifully trimmed turkey she had basted to
perfection for her perfect family Christmas, muttering "Shut the fuck up, you
stupid cow," over and over to block out the airhead's ranting.<br />
<br />
When she told me this later, I took her hand, looked into her eyes and said, "Congratulations, you now have a real 'family.'"<br />
<br />
<h4>
And just like that moment when Dorothy realised that there was "no place like home," she realised she had had a real family all along</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Perfect
family Christmases do not exist. We all imagine that everybody else's
family is sitting around like the family in the Coles ad: smiling gaily
and kissing each other warmly and Grandma just loves the personalised
mug she's just been given with "Best Granny Ever" printed on it.<br />
<br />
But
in reality, Christmas Day is like a wedding: it's a time for families
to come together and see if they can bung on a function without getting
into a fight.<br />
<br />
Rather than relay Christmas stories of family
togetherness here are some choice cuts of Christmas Day disasters from
my own friends and family that should make you realise that you do have
the perfect family Christmas after all.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Christmas is cancelled, I'll be in my room if you need me </h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
About
10 years ago, I found myself muttering my own mother's most well-worn
Christmas phrase: "Oh come on everybody, don't fight, it's Christmas."<br />
<br />
What
happened was this:<br />
<br />
Our four year old woke up at the crack of dawn,
went out to the Christmas tree and opened all the presents including the
gifts for his baby brothers. It was like some fiendish urge overcame
him and once he started ripping that Christmas paper off things, he just
couldn't stop. He came into our bedroom, with a mix of guilt and
elation on his face: like Hannibal Lecter after he has just fried
someone up in butter and eaten them.<br />
<br />
What made things worse was my
then-husband was so upset at his perfect ideal of gift-giving under the
tree being ruined, that he locked himself in our bedroom and refused to
come out. Which was when I found myself standing on the other side of
the door saying, "Oh come on, don't be like that, it's Christmas."<br />
<br />
The
four year old was in tears of guilt and regret. Christmas morning was
officially a disaster. I think we eventually patched things up, but it
was about as far from the television ad version of Christmas Day as
things could get.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Year of The Fuck Off Bush</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Another
Christmas my brother and my sister got into a fight about ...
something. My sister (perhaps emboldened by the champagne) decided she
wasn't going to let it go this time. As Michael stormed outside to "smoke it off," my sister
decided to get to the bottom of things, once and for all.<br />
<br />
"Why do you hate us?" She called after him as he stomped away from her, patting himself down for a cigarette.<br />
<br />
He
declined to elaborate. Instead, he slipped behind a large bush and
stood there in his silent fury. At which point smoke began drifting out
from behind the bush. (I think he was behind the bush because my mother
was always at him about giving up smoking.)<br />
<br />
"It was like the bush was smoking." My sister told me later.<br />
<br />
"But why do you hate us?" She asked the smoking bush.<br />
<br />
Which was when the smoking bush became the "Fuck off Bush." Because the bush began shouting, "Fuck off, Kate just fuck off."<br />
<br />
Henceforth, it became known as the "Year of the Fuck Off Bush."<br />
<br />
And again, my mother with her well-worn phrase: "Oh come on everybody, don't fight, it's Christmas."<br />
<br />
<h4>
The calamari that ruined Christmas</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Another friend once had a Christmas disaster that blew up over some calamari.<br />
<br />
"My
sister was supposed to be responsible for cooking the calamari. At some
point my mother over-stepped the mark in the kitchen and began to cook
the calamari herself, her own way. It became a flashpoint for how my
mother "demeans" my sister and my sister ended up crying in a bedroom."<br />
<br />
Apparently
his mother was completely unrepentant about cooking the calamari her
own way, because according to her, that's how it's best cooked. The
sister was eventually extracted from the bedroom, Christmas continued,
but it was far from perfect.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The valium that made Christmas bearable</h4>
<br />
Yet
another friend who shall remain nameless, decided one year that the
only way to have a peaceful Christmas was to crush up a valium and put
it in her brother's food. This was because her brother, a combative and
aggressive drunk, was notorious
for starting arguments over the Christmas lunch table. As a result their Christmases often descended into unpleasant argy
bargy as he arced up over something or took offence at something
someone had said, or even just set off on his latest rant about life in
general.<br />
<br />
So she took matters into her own hands and 'took the edge' off his personality with some hidden valium in his potato salad.<br />
<br />
"It was the nicest Christmas we've ever had. He was delightful company that year." She says.<br />
<br />
<h4>
The Christmas hostess with the unmostest</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
"One
year my sister insisted on doing Christmas." Another friend tells me.
"She was absolutely insistent that she host Christmas dinner that year,
she begged us to let her host. So we went to lunch at my husband's
family, didn't eat much to save ourselves for the big impressive feast
my sister had promised us because nothing would offend my sister more
than if we didn't eat her special feast. "<br />
<br />
They turned up just as the hostess was popping the plastic lid off a few mixed bean salads from Woollies.<br />
<br />
"Honestly,
you have never known disappointment at Christmas until you have arrived
to the sound of plastic lids being peeled off a couple of Woollies
salads." Says my friend.<br />
<br />
Did she serve any turkey?<br />
<br />
"Oh I think there was some cold ham."<br />
<br />
It has become the stuff of legend. The Year Her Sister Hosted Christmas.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Uncle Trevor's major Christmas erection</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
It's not what you think.<br />
<br />
My
mother has three sisters and when we were kids, they would each take
turns hosting Christmas lunch. One year we went to Aunt Liz. Her husband
had spent the morning putting up a large marquee in the backyard, to
keep the sun off the table. As we arrived my Aunt Liz proclaimed loudly
to everyone within earshot (including the neighbours.)<br />
<br />
"Trevor has one major erection every year and this is it!" (In reference to the marquee.)<br />
<br />
I
was about 14 at the time and I thought it wickedly witty. I did notice
however that Uncle Trevor did not find it in the least bit amusing.
Later on, Aunt Liz coralled the children into the garage and schooled us
all in a performance of, "Do your boobs hang low do they wobble to and
fro ..." She was quite insistent that we mime the wobbling of our boobs
to and fro and also that we give it petrol when we "tossed them over our
shoulders" at the end.<br />
<br />
We performed it to our bemused parents, with Aunt Liz conducting us vigorously.<br />
<br />
I
remember thinking it was funny, but something about her determination
to stir things up that year made me suspect something was amiss.<br />
<br />
Turns out, it was the last manic gasp of a marriage in trouble. About a year later, Aunt Liz and Uncle Trevor were divorced.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
Christmas lunch with the family? No thanks we'll just pop in for a drink</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Another
friend tried to do the right thing by her in-laws one year when they
were at a loose end. She graciously invited them to join her extended
family for Christmas lunch.<br />
<br />
"They made it quite clear that they
would rather do anything but spend Christmas with us. They popped in
for a drink then continued on their merry way to a quiet lunch alone, at
a cafe in Paddington."<br />
<br />
<h4>
So there you go ...</h4>
<br />
If you think your family
Christmas is messed up, remember: the more messed up it is, the more you
have the perfect family.<br />
<br />
Enjoy your family this year, extended,
adopted, step or biological. Whether it's the awkward squeak of cutlery
on plates or the sound of family tensions boiling over in the heat of
the Christmas moment.<br />
<br />
Family is family and yours is perfect.Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-4082060694890424052013-11-19T02:43:00.000-08:002016-03-09T17:31:53.224-08:00Five reasons why the film, Sliding Doors is implausible<h4>
</h4>
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<br />
The film <i>Sliding Doors</i> is a lot like the film, <i>Love Actually</i>: It is an incredibly annoying film but I find myself watching it from behind a cushion every time it's on TV.<br />
<br />
I think I watch it because of these two things: <br />
<ol>
<li>Gwyneth's short blond hair-do. </li>
<li>The Dido song they play over the credits at the end. </li>
</ol>
The rest of it, I loathe.<br />
<br />
What I really should do is Google "Gwyneth's <i>Sliding Doors</i> hair-do" and listen to the song on my i-pod.<br />
<br />
But I never learn. And last Sunday, I once again sat through 90 odd minutes of Gwyneth Paltrow's 'shagging' British accent and John Hannah's distracting eyebrows.<br />
<br />
And once again I found certain plot points completely implausible. Here they are. <br />
<br />
<h3>
5 reasons why the plot of<i> Sliding Doors</i> is completely implausible</h3>
<h3>
</h3>
<h4>
1. Gwyneth Paltrow's accent</h4>
Despite her valiant "stiff upper lift" nasal rendering of a British accent, it all falls apart when she has to deliver lines like this: "You bastard, you bastard. You useless shagging bastard." During these oh-so-colloquial "shagging this, shagging that" bits I needed two cushions; one for each ear. <br />
<br />
<h4>
2. A man who slavishly repeats Monty Python catch cries, is a man to be avoided at all costs</h4>
<br />
When Gwynnie meets the talking eyebrow man (John Hannah) he tries to cheer her up by saying this: <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"You know what the Monty Python boys always say ... Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" </blockquote>
<br />
<br />
At which point, if it were a realistic script, Gwyneth would say, "I'm
sorry, I just realised that I have to be over there." And walk quickly in the
opposite direction without looking back. And then the next time she sees
him, (in a bar as per the film) she would dive UNDER the bar and
hide from him lest he come over and tell her about the Spanish
Inquisition again. (Which he does A LOT and no one ever tells him to shut up.) <br />
<br />
It is a known fact that men who quote Monty Python are insufferable
unfunny boors. (While I don't mind the odd, "Run away! Run away!" it's the entire tracts of obscure phrases that push the friendship.) However, in the film, this is the beginnings of Gwynnie's
finding him charming and attractive. She's quite a good actor, despite her accent woes and her face clearly says: "Hang on, this guy is quite interesting and quirky, I wonder when I will see him again."<br />
<br />
IMPLAUSIBLE. <br />
<br />
<br />
Further to that ...<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. <u>Acting out</u> Monty Python sketches makes you a lady repeller, not a lady magnet</h4>
<br />
Then they go to a dinner party and John Hannah re-enacts an entire Monty Python sketch, complete with red-faced "giving it petrol funniness" and wacky "I'm a terrific John Cleese mimic" voices. Everybody is laughing so hard they can barely speak! They're leaning forward, clutching their stomachs with their mouths open in gasping mirth. The camera pans around the table about three times to make the point that everyone is having the TIME OF THEIR LIVES and this guy is SUCH A WAG.<br />
<br />
Gwyneth is <u>creasing</u> herself and instead of getting up from the table and saying, "I'm sorry everybody I just remembered that I'd rather be at home poking forks into my eyeballs," and hot-footing it out of there, she gazes lovingly at him across the crowded table, as though this whole Monty Python re-enactments thing has only increased her ardour. IMPLAUSIBLE!<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. A man in purple Lycra is not a hunk of rowing spunk. </h4>
<br />
Then Gwynnie goes to Eyebrow Man's rowing race. And he's wearing a purple lycra rowing skivvy with a matching team cap that makes his curly hair sit out from under it like a clown wig. In this get-up Gwynnie finds him devilishly attractive.<br />
<br />
IMPLAUSIBLE.<br />
<br />
This is taken further into the IMPLAUSIBLE realm after the race, when Eyebrow Man 'leads' the team in some very, very unfunny group chanting work (<i>My Highland Goat</i> -style) and Gwynneth finds it all so charming and "fun" that she loses her hands inside the sleeves of her jumper. CUTE or what?<br />
<br />
Not only that, this seems to be the 'a-ha' moment where she falls <u>deeply</u> in love with him: standing in a room full of pasty Pommie rowers who are all chanting some very unfunny stuff, while trying to balance on one leg and butt their heads forward and shouting, "Heat!" <br />
<br />
IMPLAUSIBLE.<br />
<br />
This is, in fact the point in a dating scenario where you consider just fucking off out the back door without explaining yourself to anyone. <br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Starting your own PR company = renting a well-lit photogenic space and painting it duck egg blue</h4>
<br />
When Gwynnie gets sick of waitressing and delivering sandwiches, Eyebrow Man suggests she Roxy Jacenko it up and start her own PR company. Cue montage of "congratulations your business loan application has been accepted" forms clutched to the breast interspersed with fun times painting the new office duck egg blue. Then it's all done. She just sets up her table and chair and starts taking calls. IMPLAUSIBLE ...<br />
<br />
... because of how much fun they have painting the room.<br />
<br />
Anybody who has ever painted a room knows it's a c#$% of a job. Oh it's all fun and games and cute dots of paint on the nose for about 10 seconds. Then you have to start paying attention to the cornices and you have to paint around the light switches not to mention the bit where you have to down tools and wait for each coat to dry.<br />
<br />
IMPLAUSIBLE PLOT POINT!<br />
<br />
They would hate each other if they tried to paint a room together. And she would really, really grow tired of his Monty Python sketches while trapped in a duck egg blue room thick with eye-watering paint fumes. <br />
<br />
So there you have it: five reasons why the plot of <i>Sliding Doors</i> is implausible ...<br />
<br />
Oh and the thing about living two parallel lives at once ... a little bit implausible, but not as implausible as all of the above. <br />
<br />
Next week: <i>Duets</i>: 5 reasons why Huey Lewis (and the News) could never be Gwyneth's father. <br />
<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-40137570797148371402013-11-06T17:30:00.000-08:002013-11-06T17:30:14.662-08:00Adventures in pet ownership<b>Kids and pets are like cordial syrup and water: is it necessary to mix them? Or could you just as well have drunk the water on its own and been happy? Before you decide, consider my own personal experiences with a variety of pets. </b><br />
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<b>Part 1: is a dog really necessary? </b></div>
<br />
Once you have finally moved beyond the toddler stage, it’s almost
inevitable that everyone in the family* who was not responsible for:<br />
<br />
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
a) cleaning up other people’s excrement daily</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
b) feeding everyone else breakfast before they fed themselves</div>
<br />
will decide that now is a good time to get a dog.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Before you acquiesce to this mob mentality, consider the fact that dogs are just like toddlers.</h4>
<ul>
<li>They make your house stink</li>
<li>They leave toys and bull's penises scattered all over the floor (the bull's penis is maybe just the dog)</li>
<li>They need to be taken to the park in the morning for a run around or they go nuts in the afternoon.</li>
<li>You have to feed them.</li>
<li>Thunderstorms make them go all ... Linda Blair in <i>The Exorcist.</i></li>
<li>They need to be taught over and over and OVER AGAIN that pooh and wee does not belong on the living room floor.</li>
<li>They have an aversion to bathing and disappear under the bed as soon as they hear the bath running.</li>
<li>They don’t know how to use a knife and fork.</li>
<li>They like to hang around in the nude apropos of nothing.</li>
<li>They bite people.</li>
</ul>
<br />
If
after all these sound arguments, your kids are still begging you for a
dog, here's how to stave of the inevitable for a while.<br />
<br />
<h4>
Part 2: six suggestions for an interim pet you can get before you get a dog</h4>
(As based on my own experiences and the experiences of friends.)<br />
<br />
For reference I have rated each one according to the following scientific parameters:<br />
<br />
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
Stink</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
Maintenance</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
Care (ie: how much you will end up caring about it.)</div>
<br />
<b>1. Goldfish</b><br />
<br />
I
am an experienced owner of about 20 goldfish. Not all at the same time,
it’s just that they kept dying and we had to keep replacing them.
After a while we ran out of names so we just numbered them. Number 20
goldfish actually committed suicide. He disappeared from the tank and
then we found him months later, stuck to the back of the chest of
drawers. He was well and truly petrified (so long-dead he was a scaly
husk of his former self.) The only conclusion we could draw was that he
had made a Nemo-style jump for it in order to escape us.<br />
<br />
<i>Stink factor: low</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: low</i><br />
<i>Care factor: low</i><br />
<br />
<b>2. Guinea pigs</b><br />
<br />
Guinea
pigs are a great pet for small children. Until you hold one, cop a
feel of its rodent backbone and realize that they are just rats without a
tail. Plus you have to clean out a cage full of crap and wee-soaked
newspaper every second day. Peeyoo! They stink.<br />
<br />
We solved this by
“free ranging” our guinea pigs. Which is a fancy way of saying: we put
the cage out in the council clean up and let the pigs loose in the
backyard. They loved it there; they fashioned a little humpy out of a
dead tree, they came running over to us when we fed them and most importantly, we didn’t
have to clean their stinky cage.<br />
<br />
Then we moved house and the new
backyard wasn’t so ‘guinea pig’ friendly.<br />
<br />
Call me heartless, but I
found it hard to care when there was an urgent knocking on the door one morning and the neighbours informed us that our guinea pig was cowering beneath their car. I had to go through the motions of trying to lure
the guinea pig out with a plastic golf stick. I made all sorts of ‘tch
tch tch’ noises at it and tried to remember its name. Eventually we had
to go to soccer. I can’t remember what happened after that, but I don’t
think we ever got the guinea pig back. Which comes under exhibit A of
‘care factor.’<br />
<br />
<i>Stink factor: high</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: medium (unless you let them go free range)</i><br />
<i>Care factor: low</i><br />
<br />
<b>3. Cats</b><br />
<br />
If
you like a more independent, self-cleaning sort of pet, cats are for
you. Personally I find cats a bit scary. My sister has a particularly
evil cat who lies in wait for me at the top of the stairs, plays dead on
the second step when I’m coming down and tries to kill me by tripping
me down the stairs and breaking my neck. Then sometimes he just stares
at me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a data-mce-href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/evil-sarge.jpg" href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/evil-sarge.jpg"><img alt="evil sarge" class="size-full wp-image-34883 aligncenter" data-mce-src="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/evil-sarge.jpg" height="326" src="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/evil-sarge.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br data-mce-bogus="1" /></div>
I
know he’s thinking about other ways he might “off” me. My sister
claims he’s not thinking anything because he has the brain the size of a
pea. But one day I came in and found him Googling, “How to cut off a
human’s air supply with your paws,” on the computer.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D84JvovlkfY/Unrox56NfOI/AAAAAAAAAV0/AlX_T_zuDqM/s1600/catoncomputer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D84JvovlkfY/Unrox56NfOI/AAAAAAAAAV0/AlX_T_zuDqM/s320/catoncomputer.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<i>Stink factor: medium</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: medium </i><br />
<i>Care factor: High on your side. Low on theirs.</i><br />
<h4>
<b> </b></h4>
<h4>
<b>4. Hermit crab</b> </h4>
<br />
I
know a little boy who has a hermit crab as a “pet.” I put that in “…”
because it’s really just like having a shell in an empty fish tank and
pretending that there’s something in there.<br />
<br />
<i>Stink factor: low</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: low</i><br />
<i>Care factor: off-the-chart low (what can I say? It’s a shell in a glass box.)</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
<b>5. Frogs</b> </h4>
<br />
I would highly recommend a frog as a pet. But you need to be prepared to:<br />
<br />
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
a) catch live cockroaches in a glass jar at dusk</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
b)
be woken in the dead of night by a dramatic symphony of croaking from
an amphibious voice box designed to carry for kilometres through the
swamps.</div>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
My brother, Michael had a frog called, “Raphael.” Michael
would go out into the street at night and catch a jar full of live
cockroaches for dinner (Raphael’s, not his own.)<br />
<br />
He also kept
large gobs of Blu Tack stuck to the bedhead. One day I asked him
what the Blu Tack was for and it transpired that it was the fastest and most efficient way to shut that frog up in the middle of the night. He then did a demonstration
of just how hard he needed to hit the tank with the gob of Blu Tack to
make the croaking stop. It was pretty hard. So FYI you have to have good
aim and a very good arm.<br />
<br />
It was particularly fascinating though,
to watch Raphael eat his “dinner.” With his big sucker hands pushing a
live cockroach into his mouth … it was like a live version of David
Attenborough’s, <i>Life In Cold Blood</i><br />
<br />
<i>Stink factor: medium</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: medium</i><br />
<i>Care factor: high (if only for the nightly spectacle of watching it eat live cockroaches with its sucker hands)</i><b> </b><br />
<br />
<h4>
<b>6. Mice</b></h4>
<br />
Mice
seem like a good idea. Until you start with two and suddenly two
becomes … one … hundred. Mice have a freakish ability to reproduce and
they have no morals either. Don’t think that purchasing a brother and
sister from the same ‘litter’ will stop them going at it night and day.<br />
<br />
When he was a kid, my ex-husband talked his mum into purchasing two
boy mice from the pet shop. Or. So. They. Thought. They should have
twigged when the mice kept playing piggy back. Pretty soon the mice were
multiplying in the cage exponentially as a rampant incest-fest took
hold.<br />
<br />
They put the mice in a box, put the box in the boot of the
car and drove out to a bush clearing to offload the unwanted mice.
Along the way, they heard squeaky noises coming from the glove box. He opened the glove box and …<br />
<br />
... remember that old nursery rhyme: hickory dickory dock, the mouse ran up the clock?<br />
<br />
Well, this mouse ran via the internal workings of the car from the boot to the glove box and straight up his shorts leg.<br />
<br />
<i>Stink factor: high</i><br />
<i>Maintenance: high (just by sheer numbers …)</i><br />
<i>Care factor: low (Unless you get a really smart, talking one in a sweater vest like Stuart Little.)</i><br />
<br />
<h4>
But lastly, if you're still thinking about that dog, just consider the two images below as a sort of ink blot test.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a data-mce-href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/OMGx2withtext.jpg" href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/OMGx2withtext.jpg"><img alt="OMGx2withtext" class="size-full wp-image-34882 aligncenter" data-mce-src="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/OMGx2withtext.jpg" height="344" src="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/11/OMGx2withtext.jpg" width="500" /></a></div>
<br data-mce-bogus="1" />
If
the image on the right doesn't put you off, then you are the sort of
person who loves high maintenance relationships, so knock yourself out
and go get a puppy from the pound.<br />
<br />
Enjoy. I'll be here with my pet rock and my hermit crab.<br />
<br />
(* Usually your kids and your husband)Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-59337391982729942142013-09-29T22:53:00.000-07:002013-09-29T22:55:05.924-07:0010 things I don't have time for<h4 style="text-align: center;">
</h4>
<h4>
Head massages, bra fittings, fitness consultations? You can keep
your fancy made-up specialisations, just give me what I came
for and let me get on with my life. </h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QhI9QsRNRag/UkkPlsK8srI/AAAAAAAAAU0/nE0M0OpFAIk/s1600/headmassagelady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QhI9QsRNRag/UkkPlsK8srI/AAAAAAAAAU0/nE0M0OpFAIk/s320/headmassagelady.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Some years ago a friend gave me a birthday gift voucher for a fancy salon/spa place. I had a small baby and an uncooperative husband, so I had neither the time nor the opportunity for spa treatments. In lieu of using the voucher for a massage or a facial I thought I could duck in, buy some fancy expensive product they were pushing from their store front and get out.<br />
<br />
My plan was thwarted by the salon "consultant" who simply did not trust me to choose the correct product without his "expert" help. He insisted on "consulting" with me. He loitered with intent.<br />
<br />
He asked impertinent questions that I could not answer adequately ("What skin type do you have? Do you use a toner?") He wanted to know the whys, where-fors and what-fors of what I was looking for. In truth, I just wanted to match the amount on the voucher to a product so my friend wouldn't be offended. I would've bought the pricing display banner on the counter if it had matched the amount on my voucher.<br />
<br />
But I couldn't tell him that so I made up something vague about my serum needs and flyaway hair. <br />
<br />
Every time I reached my hand out to touch something, he told me why it WOULD NOT be suitable for me.<br />
<br />
<h4>
In the meantime, my nine month old baby started making the seagull noise that he'd recently been experimenting with. </h4>
<br />
It was a very loud and very sudden "ARRK!" noise and it had a lovely echoic resonance in the fancy pants marble-tiled salon. He was really enjoying himself. I knew it was building to a crescendo and I just wanted to get out before he shattered the floor to ceiling glass with it (as seemed to be his intention.) But the consult guy wasn't reading the situation correctly. He simply would not let me touch the merchandise. I would reach out, he would block me or snatch the item before I could, then give me a lengthy presentation on it.<br />
<br />
Finally, I was quicker than him and I grabbed something random and made for the sales counter. He tried to grab it back, telling me it wasn't what
I was looking for. We ended up in a sitcom-style tug of war over a jar of "Vanilla Face Whip", with him explaining curtly that it wasn't right for my skin type. <br />
<br />
Then some pious ponce in a white cheongsam get-up came padding out in his slippers and primly asked me to "keep my child quiet" because there were people "back there" trying to relax.<br />
<br />
OH REALLY!? Trying to relax are they? Well I'm trying to get rid of this stupid freakin' voucher someone gave me cos they mistakenly thought I had time to relax!!!<br />
<br />
I eventually made it out alive, but in a cold sweat, minus the voucher and PLUS a bottle of something stupidly expensive called, "Cinnamon Hair Nougat." <br />
<br />
My point is, there are some things mothers just don't have time for. Here's the list.<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. Fancy spa treatments as gifts. </h4>
<br />
For all of the above reasons. <br />
<br />
<h4>
2. The head massage at the hairdressers</h4>
<br />
I know people who love this part of the hair salon experience. I do not. To me, it just prolongs the agony of having to lie with my neck jammed into the basin-crook while some 17 year old apprentice touches my head in all sorts of too-intimate ways. I also do not think it's necessary to wash and condition my hair AND rinse it off THREE TIMES! Surely once is enough. And don't bother trying to untangle those ends, I'm getting them cut orf! <br />
<br />
<h4>
3. Giving a detailed reason for why I am not buying that item I just tried on</h4>
<br />
Sure it begs the question, "What are you doing trying things on if you're so time-poor?" but sometimes there's a ten minute window between doing the grocery shopping and the school pick-up and if you play your cards right you can make good use of it trying on some stuff that you don't need.<br />
<br />
While I am all for good service, I wish they would loiter outside when I am <u>in</u> the change room so that they can bring me more stuff while I've got my clothes off. It's the sudden materialising <u>outside </u>the change room and asking the open-ended and leading question: "How'd it go?" that I do not have time or adequate answers for. <br />
<br />
Recently I encountered a particularly needy sales girl in Cue, she wasn't satisfied with, "Not quite right." And stood in my path, demanding to know, "What exactly wasn't quite right about it?" I wanted to tell her, "I'm sorry, I'm just not looking for this type of relationship right now." Because she reminded me of an ex-boyfriend who had once stalked me. <br />
<br />
<h4>
4. A half hour consultation with a fitness expert about my fitness goals at the local gym</h4>
<br />
Just take my money, give me a swipe card or a key or whatever and let me use those fancy cardio machines. I don't have time for a 30 minute "consult" with my new "fitness director" as part of the "new membership induction."<br />
<br />
I once thought it would be a good idea to have a personal trainer. Then I found myself standing in the weights room circulating a large 2 kilo disc around my head while a terse Yugoslavian girl counted off the rotations from one to 15. Then I went home and had to lie down for two hours, while this thought went round and round in my head. "I don't have time for this." <br />
<br />
My fitness goals start and end with this: "To do up the top button on my jeans again."<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Lengthy accommodation check-in processes </h4>
<br />
After you've spent six hours in a car with three children and a dog, you get to reception and you just want the number of the cabin, some fresh milk and the key. But they want you to stand there while they draw on a detailed photocopied map of the caravan park with a highlighter and mark with an X all the notable facilities and their operating times. I know it's helpful in theory, but if you just give me the number of the cabin, I'm sure I can figure it all out. Also, I'm not concentrating any more and I can't figure out which way is up once I walk out of reception and try to follow the highlighter line you have just drawn on the "not to scale map with no north point" for me.<br />
<br />
Some hotel receptionists also give a very long explanation of how the fob works for the carpark, the opening and shutting times of reception and how to make the power come on in your room. Again, not listening. All I'm hearing is, "blah blah blah blah fob reception elevator carpark fob blah blah blah." I suggest a printed hand out with all the required info would be a better method for weary travellers.<br />
<br />
Also, "How's your day been?" is not a suitable question when people have just bedraggled in from a six hour cross-country road trip with three children. Answer: hellish.<br />
<br />
<h4>
6. Professional bra fittings</h4>
<br />
I know this is a thing now. But I do not have the time to have some old lady touch me up in the change room. I know my size, I just want to grab four of the same thing in white, black, beige and pink and GET OUT before one of my kids puts a size FF bra cup on his head as a joke. <br />
<br />
<h4>
7. Butcher chit-chat</h4>
<br />
Truth be told, sometimes I LOVE having a chat to the butcher about what I'm "going to make with that." Other times, I just want to grab my kilo of sausages and make like a banana before I get arrested for leaving my kids in the car outside the shop. (For the record, my kids are all over the age of 10, but you never know when some do-gooder is going to show up and call the cops.)<br />
<br />
My butcher doesn't seem to read my mood very well, he's curt and disinterested when I'm in the mood to give expansive marinating details then all chats and "I'll just trim this up for you," when I'm trying to dash in and out without stopping.<br />
<br />
<h4>
8. Entrees followed by mains</h4>
<br />
Can't you see I've got kids here about to knock their drinks over? Just bring all the food at once and we'll be out of your hair in under an hour. All of it. At the same time. Including dessert.<br />
<br />
<b>9. Leading questions about loyalty cards, Flybuys, rewards programs and department store credit cards</b><br />
<br />
NO! I don't have one. I don't want one. Just crack on with the purchase and let me get out of here! Lately I have taken to shutting down the solicitous "Do you have a Myer One card?" question with this: "Oh no, I'm not allowed to have credit cards." It makes things so awkward that the salesgirl puts her head down and goes at double-time to get the crazy spendaholic out of the shop before I lunge across the counter and try to take a fistful of dollars out of the cash register. <br />
<br />
<b>10. After hours door knockers </b><br />
<br />
I appreciate what you're doing (unless you are a Jehovas Witness) but I don't have time for the pre-amble. What are you offering? What do I have to do? Where do I sign? Keep things short and sweet people, there's a zoo going on inside my house and I need to stay on top of it. I don't have time for the fancy schmancy schmaltzy sales pitch about how everyone in my street has just signed up and how much savings it will net "as evidenced by this graph." Tin tacks, people, tin tacks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-77929054329841295662013-09-11T23:36:00.001-07:002013-09-11T23:54:05.718-07:00How to make near enough parenting, good enough.<h4>
If you think you've dropped the ball on motherhood, here's how to make near enough, good enough and practise the art of "motherhood triage." </h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: left;">
With so many balls in the air, is it any wonder women have to
occasionally drop one to ensure they catch another. Some people, (i.e.
television and radio host, Amanda Keller) call this “good enough
parenting.”</div>
<br />
To illustrate her point, Amanda recently related the following
example of good enough parenting to Adam Hills when she appeared on his
show, <i>Adam Hills Tonigh</i>t:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/Dck74y8m7nI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
"... I'd be lying on the couch and one of (my kids)... would say, "Can you peel me an orange?" and I'd say, "Oh, just have a biscuit.''"</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
Amanda had just cleverly “triaged” her motherhood priorities.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
1. the importance of lying on the couch for another 15 minutes uninterrupted.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
2. the importance of the small child having a nutritious fruit snack as opposed to a sugary biscuit.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<h4>
If you are not familiar with the term “motherhood triage” here is a definition:</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
<div style="padding-left: 60px;">
<i>Moth•er•hood tri•age [noun] 1. The
process of determining the priority of mothering tasks depending on
their urgency. 2. [see also] good enough parenting *</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 60px;">
<br /></div>
In this scientifically proven** article, I will give you 10 examples of how you can triage motherhood and make your life easier.<br />
<br />
But let’s start with Amanda’s case study, which coincidentally is the first rule of motherhood triage.<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. A child’s right to a nutritious snack takes a back seat to Mum’s
right to have a few moments of shut-eye or horizontal rest-time.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Amanda, like most exhausted mothers, ranked the nutritious snack for her child option below <i>her</i>
need for rest. Because sometimes it’s more “urgent” in the wider
scheme of things that Mummy gets a little bit of rest; otherwise later
on, when Mummy is at the end of her tether she may just
do a Mummy Mouse and eat one of her own babies in a rage. Nobody wants
that.<br />
<br />
The second rule of motherhood triage applies to things left on the floor.<br />
<br />
<h4>
2. If it is not sharp, dangerous, toxic or some form of excrement (human, canine or feline) just keep walking.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
For instance: when I was pregnant with twins, I noticed a black sock
on the floor in the hall. Being an expert in motherhood triage even
then, I quickly ranked the urgency in this order:<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>1. The importance that I keep moving towards the front door and get to where I was going.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>2. The vague visual displeasure of a random black sock in the hall.</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
I walked past the sock. I continued to walk past that same sock
every morning, every day three times a day and every evening on my way to bed.
That was 10 years ago in a rental home two suburbs away. As far as I
know, the black sock is still there.<br />
<br />
Because notwithstanding the fact that if I had bent over at that point in my pregnancy I may have “timbered” onto my head, <i>IF </i>I
bent over to pick up every little thing that ended up on the floor in
our house, I simply would never, ever get anything else done.<br />
<br />
Tidying a house where children are living is not only thankless, it
is a slippery slope to a day spent cleaning the house properly.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to the next rule of motherhood triage: when you get
to the point where you do actually need to pick a few things up …<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. With regard to housekeeping: a veneer of cleanliness is all that is needed.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Contrary to beliefs on housekeeping dating back to the 1950s,
cleanliness is not next to godliness. Cleanliness, in relation to family
homes is merely an unobtainable concept designed to make women feel
inadequate.<br />
<br />
You can give the impression of cleanliness very quickly by going
around the house with an empty laundry basket and just chucking every
bit of clutter and crap straight into the basket: don’t sort clean
clothes from dirty ones, don’t carefully return things to their rightful
place, just use your whole arm, sweep it across the dining room table
and ignore your kids when they wail about the elaborate Lego City that
you have just felled in one clean swoop.<br />
<br />
Do
a quick wipe of the toilet seat using a large wodge of clean toilet
paper, maybe tip a gallon of bleach down there if you have time, pull
the shower curtain across to hide the ring around the bathtub, tidy a
few couch cushions, dump all the dishes into the sink and cover them
with soapy water as though you are in the throes of performing an
important soaking task.<br />
<br />
You have now achieved a veneer of cleanliness and you are ready to receive guests.<br />
<br />
If the mess is really bad, choose one room of the house, just
bulldoze every bit of mess and clutter in there and shut the door on it.
When guests come, tell them someone is sleeping in there.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>Triage ranking:</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>1. The importance of people thinking you are clean and organised.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>2. The importance of actually <u>being</u> clean and organised.</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
The next rule of motherhood triage relates to a mess made on the floor versus continuing an important conversation.<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. An unholy mess on the floor is worth two coffees and a catch-up with your friend.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
For instance: one morning my best friend came over with her kids for a
“playdate.” We gave the kids a big bowl of popcorn, turned on <i>ABC Kids</i>
and ensconced ourselves at the outside table with our coffees for a
much-needed catch up and gossip. About 10 minutes in, when my best
friend was telling me a particularly juicy titbit about someone we went
to school with, her eldest child came running outside with (what he
considered to be) an important newsflash.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
“Mum! Sam spilled the popcorn and now it’s all over the floor!”</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
We looked at each other. We craned our necks to look inside and
assess the damage, there was indeed popcorn blanketing my living room
floor. The rest of the kids remained still and silent and glued to the
telly. My friend looked at me. I shrugged.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
“Nyah, skate on it for all we care,” she said.</div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
And we continued our conversation.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>Triage ranking:</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>1. The urgency of hearing the end of the anecdote your friend is telling you.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>2. The urgency of cleaning up the mess the children have just made on the floor.</i></div>
<br />
(This ranking also applies to telephone conversations.)<br />
<br />
In a similar vein is my fifth major rule of motherhood triage …<br />
<br />
<h4>
5. Children playing nicely should be left to their own devices.</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
Whether they are cutting each other’s hair, eating Play-Doh, painting
the walls with finger paints, drawing moustaches on each other with an
indelible black marker pen, soaking each other with the hose in the
middle of winter, ask yourself this question:<br />
<br />
Are they playing nicely?<br />
<br />
If the answer is, “yes.” Leave them to it.<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>Triage ranking:</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>1. The urgency of securing 30 minutes of peace where there’s no fighting</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<i>2. The urgency of whatever weird stuff they’re doing being stopped</i></div>
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
<h4>
And finally, here are five more quick rules of thumb you might want to consider next time you are triaging your own household:</h4>
<h4>
</h4>
6. Snacks before dinner are sometimes an unfortunate necessity.<br />
<br />
7. A child dressed like a homeless person is better than being late for an appointment.<br />
<br />
8. Screams when you are in the shower should only elicit your
response if accompanied by the words “(insert name here) is bleeding.”<br />
<br />
9. Arguments over who wants to watch what on the television and who
“always has the remote control and won’t let us watch what we want to
watch” are not important enough to adjudicate with conscientious
parenting, lessons about cooperation and long-winded lectures about being considerate of
others.<br />
<br />
Just tell them to sort it out themselves or you’ll pull the plug
out of the wall and watch them find the meaning of cooperation.<br />
<br />
10. Dessert is a carte blanche affair as long as children help themselves.<br />
<br />
<br />
* Source: <i>The Edible Garbage Dictionary</i>, 1st edition, Penny Dreadful Press, 2013<br />
** Scientifically proven by the <i>Edible Garbage Institute of Self-important Parenting Science</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="padding-left: 30px;">
<br /></div>
Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-24721785996607811532013-08-23T23:32:00.000-07:002013-08-23T23:41:40.960-07:00Why the weirdest gigs are always the best<div style="text-align: center;">
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<br />
I wasn't expecting much. But I definitely wasn't expecting to be greeted at the 'stage door' by a man in pink leopard print lycra, a technicolour dreamcoat and mismatching Winklepickers. Welcome to the Django Bar, the sort of warm salon-style bar you would expect to find only in Melbourne. <br />
<br />
The man in the Winklepickers was Yaron, manager of Camelot Lounge and the Django Bar: an oasis of live music and retro cool in a nondescript 1970s brink bunker, right in the heart of industrial Marrickville, Sydney.<br />
<br />
It was all very last minute and there was no publicity, no gig listing and nor did we want any. We just wanted an empty room with a P.A where we could rehearse in front of close friends and have a drink afterwards.<br />
<br />
We walked up the stairs, through the band room, past the toilets and then the man in mismatched Winklepickers swung the final door open to reveal middle-aged inner-westie heaven: a room decked out like a salon from the 1950s; red velvet curtains, framed pictures on the wall, a friendly, eclectic array of big comfy couches and retro table settings to choose from plus old juke boxes that were wired up as front of house speakers all around the room.<br />
<br />
Beautiful warm analogue surround sound; juke box style.<br />
<br />
The lighting was soft and moody, and the collection of retro knick-knacks dotted around made it feel like someone's living room, albeit someone with good taste in retro. A bar in the corner offered wine by the glass, toasted wraps and margaritas with real squashed lime in them. <br />
<br />
The stage was small and we asked if we could move the 'set dressing' of an accordion, two vintage guitars and a retro side table. Yaron, a man big on visual impact, was reluctant to change the aesthetics of his room to make way for a drum kit (totally understandable.) Eventually we compromised on moving the two vintage guitars, if only for their own safety.<br />
<br />
There was no room for Glenn (backing vocalist) on the tiny stage so he perched himself to the side (see video) behind the retro piano/organ and sang from there. Yaron thought this was weird. (THIS he thinks is weird, but the pink leopard print lycra is apparently all in a day's work.) However, Glenn and I insisted that we enjoyed the weirdness of Glenn being in my eyeline all night.<br />
<br />
(As opposed to the only other option which was, for Glenn to lurk directly behind me like a stalker, pressed up against the red velvet curtain with the stage lamp-light coming up from under his chin; camp-fire ghost-story-style.)<br />
<br />
We played our set; bass (Paul Driessen) and drums (Stephen Toakley) were a dream-team rhythm section. Glenn sang <u>at</u> me (and mimed some <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gaWb4ElB_Ko" target="_blank">Dr Teeth </a>piano-playing) from his weird perch behind the piano and occasionally interjected like a tight-white version of Tony Okungbowa (Ellen's DJ sidekick.) <br />
<br />
A projector ran black and white videos of fornicating animals on the wall beside us as we played. (This, we only found out later, but not even that could spoil my night.) <br />
<br />
My son saw me play live with a band for the first time (and he also saw some fornicating animals he wishes he <i>hadn't </i>seen.)<br />
<br />
The 'crowd' consisted of three people I didn't know, (thanks for coming) a handful of friends with their tween-aged kids and the girl behind the bar who cranked out a totally awesome margarita.<br />
<br />
It was perfect.<br />
<br />
We are match fit and ready for the 31st of August. <br />
<br />
Here is some documentary video evidence of all of the above (except for the fornicating animals and the man in pink leopard print lycra: you'll just have to take my word for it on both those things.)<br />
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<br />Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-46705199370395719852013-08-18T23:43:00.004-07:002013-09-02T05:19:47.726-07:00Mother-effing recorders and 10 other things mothers have to buy 50 times over ...<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TpFcNOA0zfI/UhG9iJl_SAI/AAAAAAAAAUA/pngz0LJQKr0/s1600/boyplayingrecorder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TpFcNOA0zfI/UhG9iJl_SAI/AAAAAAAAAUA/pngz0LJQKr0/s320/boyplayingrecorder.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
This morning, I had to buy another recorder. Despite the fact that
recorders are like dust-balls in our house – they roll around under
beds, they attach themselves to my feet when I least expect it, they wedge themselves in the couch cushions and sometimes I even
find them in the cutlery drawer- this morning, just when it was
absolutely VITAL that my son take a recorder to school (goes without
saying that this was flagged at 8.51am as we were rushing out the door)
no recorder could be found.<br />
<br />
I did my requisite lecturing in the car on the way to school, along
with my usual karate chopping hand motions that other motorists then
mistook for road rage. I gave a very wordy and passionate presentation
on “looking after your things and not waiting until we are walking out
the door to flag that there is something that you desperately need for
the day.” I made a very convincing argument for the benefits of being
more organised and I am almost certain it went in one ear and out the
other.<br />
<br />
I pulled up to the school gate, yanked the car door open, threw bags
from boot to nature strip and marched to the office with my 10 year old
hop-skipping to keep up with my angry
mother-on-a-mission-nobody-say-good-morning-to-me stomp. I fronted up
to the window (whereupon the office ladies ignored me for 20 vital
seconds because someone was too busy putting staples into a stapler to
pay attention to the mother-in-a-bait at the window) at which point it
took all my will power <span style="text-decoration: underline;">not</span> to slap $10 on the counter and shout:<br />
<br />
<b>“I need to buy another f*%#ing recorder!”</b><br />
<br />
Which got me to thinking about all the OTHER things I have to
constantly buy. If I had a dollar for every time I re-bought all these
things … I could add a gorgeous second bathroom to my home and put a
sign on it saying, “No Boys!”<br />
<br />
(But that’s a whole other post.)<br />
<h3>
</h3>
<h3>
Here is the list of things I have had to buy 50 times over:</h3>
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
1. Lunch boxes</h4>
Admittedly I have a Tupperware fetish so my children are very
co-dependently enabling my addiction with their rampant loss of lunch
boxes. I like to change it up a bit too: when I’m really fed up I punish
them by going basic with it and getting a plain rectangle box with a
lid.<br />
<br />
Then if I’m in a creative mood I go all “aspirational” and get one
of those ones with the four snack compartments and a specially shaped
cooler bottle. During these purchases I have visions of myself packing
the perfect nutritious lunch with raw vegetable sticks dipped into
hummus and a gorgeous looking salad sandwich with mixed leaves on a
byyooooshiful seeded bread.<br />
<br />
My eldest child has finally accepted that lunchboxes are his
Waterloo. He refuses to let me buy him any more and takes his lunch in a
plastic shopping bag every day, gallantly accepting his penance with
good grace.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
2. 2B pencils</h4>
Again, as with the Tupperware, I also have a stationery fetish and
there’s nothing I love more than an excuse to visit Officeworks and buy
all sorts of aspirational things that will help me ‘organise’ my work
life and save me oodles of time every day (coloured paper clips, post it
notes shaped like houses, “fun” pins for the pin board, and novelty
notebooks.) But it is a testament to my children's commitment to losing
things that I am completely OVER buying packets of 2B pencils. There’s
nothing fun about a six pack of stinky old 2B pencils.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
3. Pencil sharpeners</h4>
I have bought all manner of pencil sharpeners: snazzy electric ones,
animal-shaped versions, I even put one on a keyring, hung it on a hook
and imposed the equivalent of a stationery restraining order upon it (it
was not to venture more than a one metre radius from its hook.)<br />
<br />
But when homework time comes, we inevitably spend 15 minutes hunting
down a pencil (always blunt or broken) then another 15 trying to find a
pencil sharpener that actually sharpens the pencil, as opposed to
grinding it into a rough-hewn sawdusty nub of lead. (There is currently a
warrant out on the missing keyring sharpener.)<br />
<br />
Add to this stationery list: rulers (they are like Lake George in
Canberra, they appear all at once and then just as mysteriously
disappear again without a trace.)<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
4. Lost library books</h4>
The worst thing about lost library books is, as soon as you pay for
them (as per the library policy) they appear again. Then you’re obliged
to keep some stupid boring book about planes that you never wanted in
the first place, because you just paid 30 bucks for it.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
5. Swimming goggles</h4>
What is it with kids these days? My kids whinge and whine like a
bunch of pansies if they can’t find their swimming goggles when it’s
time to go swimming. And I’m not even talking about doing serious laps
at the pool. I’m talking about playing Marco Polo in the pool at home.
They squeal like girls if they have to swim sans goggles and sometimes
even refuse to go in without them. If I had a dime for every pair of
freaking goggles I have purchased …<br />
<br />
In MY day goggles were like swimming caps: they were for serious
squad swimmers only. We played all manner of underwater games
(including ‘guess what I’m saying underwater’) with our bare eyeballs to
the chlorinated water. Sure we then spent the whole summer with
bloodshot eyes and blurry vision, but toughen up princesses!<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
6. Socks, socks and more socks</h4>
I’ve said it before, socks are my nemesis. I cannot get on top of the
sock issue. It doesn’t matter what I do. The other day my son stumbled
upon a matching pair and it was like he’d seen a beautiful rainbow.
“Look! Look!” He shouted, holding them aloft, “Here’s something you
don’t see every day!” I felt bad that something so basic was so
delightful for him.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
7. Butter knives and teaspoons</h4>
My kids are fond of using butter knives to give their Lego men <i>Face-Off-</i>style
head transplants. So they go missing from my cutlery drawer, I buy a
stack more then I find the old ones when I do the proper ‘Mummy clean
up’ of their room. (That’s the clean up you do when you ACTUALLY clean
up the room as opposed to the <a href="http://parenting.kidspot.com.au/My%20kids%20are%20fond%20of%20using%20butter%20knives%20to%20give%20Lego%20men%20Face-off%20style%20head%20transplants%20and%20fix%20all%20manner%20of%20Lego%20spaceship%20mechanical%20issues.%20So%20they%20go%20missing%20from%20my%20cutlery%20drawer,%20I%20buy%20a%20stack%20more%20then%20I%20find%20the%20old%20ones%20when%20I%20do%20the%20proper%20%E2%80%98Mummy%20clean%20up%E2%80%99%20of%20their%20room.%20%28That%E2%80%99s%20the%20clean%20up%20you%20do%20when%20you%20ACTUALLY%20clean%20up%20the%20room%20as%20opposed%20to%20the%20clean%20up%20my%20kids%20do%20where%20they%20shove%20everything,%20including%20their%20shoes,%20hot%20water%20bottles,%20old%20books%20and%20pillows%20into%20the%20laundry%20basket.%29%20%20As%20for%20the%20teaspoons.%20I%20just%20don%E2%80%99t%20know%20where%20they%20go%20or%20who%20is%20taking%20them%20and%20why.%20But%20every%20six%20months%20I%20buy%20another%20six%20pack.">clean up my kids do</a> where they shove everything, including their shoes, hot water bottles, old books and pillows into the laundry basket.)<br />
<br />
As for the teaspoons. I just don’t know where they go or who is
taking them and why. But every six months I have to buy another six
pack.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
8. Drink bottle lids</h4>
I have every single drink bottle I have ever bought. It’s the lids that elude me.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
9. School hats and school jackets</h4>
I am nearly done with primary school and we are at the stage where we
don’t even pretend to be on top of the hat thing any more. My kids just
go straight to the lost property box in the morning, ‘borrow’ a hat for
the day and then put it back in at the end of the day.<br />
School jackets are just as problematic.<br />
<h4>
</h4>
<h4>
10. Bandaids</h4>
I know you have to eventually buy another packet of Bandaids, but I
seem to buy a jumbo pack a week and I STILL cannot keep up the supply. I
don’t recall using them but whenever there is an emergency of the “I’m
bleeding! Somebody stem the bleeding with a Bandaid or I’ll die!” kind, I
go to the bathroom cupboard and shake out an empty box. Where do they
go? Is somebody snacking on them?Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2101132533208630594.post-64233624296094242362013-07-29T22:01:00.001-07:002013-07-29T22:53:27.743-07:00Three Kevins and 13 reasons why a mother is always late<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-right: auto; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q66TaR2IxGs/UfdD4YoiBWI/AAAAAAAAANE/_1Ji8zubCNc/s1600/homealoneimage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-q66TaR2IxGs/UfdD4YoiBWI/AAAAAAAAANE/_1Ji8zubCNc/s320/homealoneimage.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This is Kevin McCallister who was left home alone because his parents were so distracted by their children that they left one of their children behind.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: left;">
I don't like being late. It makes me tense. And when I'm tense, I'm
not good company. Which is why, when people invite me and my kids over
for a barbecue or a get together, I get prematurely tense about the fact
that:<br />
<br />
<ul>
</ul>
a) my kids will make me late<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
b) I'll turn up with my "Kevin from
Parenthood" face on and<br />
<br />
<ul>
</ul>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u_uTEyLSl44/UfdS91LDHvI/AAAAAAAAANg/ZagrlScDepY/s1600/kevinBuckman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u_uTEyLSl44/UfdS91LDHvI/AAAAAAAAANg/ZagrlScDepY/s320/kevinBuckman.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This is Kevin Buckman's tense face)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div class="mceTemp mceIEcenter" style="text-align: left;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
</div>
<ul>
</ul>
c) as a direct result of my having this look on my face, nobody will want to talk to me.<br />
<ul>
</ul>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<dt class="wp-caption-dt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></dt>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
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<h3>
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Before
I had kids, I was quite punctual </span></h3>
<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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</tbody></table>
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</tbody></table>
In fact, without the
trail-of-disaster-that-is-my-children dragging behind me, I would often
turn up early and have to loiter outside in the car waiting until the
numbers on the dashboard clock ticked over to a more socially acceptable
arrival time.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
My point is, if I am late, it follows without
exception that it is my children's fault. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
It's just a cause and effect
thing that can be summed up by the following mantra:</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>They exist therefore I am late.</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_YMl4SxkgcM/UfdFPXtP3vI/AAAAAAAAANQ/bbgwGTpE-yM/s1600/rene-descartes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_YMl4SxkgcM/UfdFPXtP3vI/AAAAAAAAANQ/bbgwGTpE-yM/s1600/rene-descartes.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(This is Kevin Descartes, who said, "I think therefore I am.")</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div data-mce-style="padding-left: 30px;" style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
But if you prefer more detailed explanations for tardiness, here my top 13 reasons for always being late which can all be blamed on my children.</div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #0b5394;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></h3>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: #0b5394;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> I'm late because ...</span></span></span></h3>
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I stood at the door shouting, “It’s time to go!” no one listened to me. </span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">I was so busy itemising all the things that everyone else needed to remember that I forgot what <b><span data-mce-style="text-decoration: underline;" style="text-decoration: underline;">I</span></b> needed to remember and had to go back for my handbag.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">One
of my kids had to go back inside to get something, whereupon he came
back out and shut the door behind him, with the keys still inside the
house. We then spent half an hour trying to break into our own home
until we realised it's actually not that difficult, because someone had
left the back door wide open.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">My children need to be repeatedly
reminded to put shoes on and because I only reminded them four times to
put shoes on, someone walked out the door without shoes on and we didn't
realise it until we were halfway here and I said, "Has everyone got
shoes on?"</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">We left the front door wide open and had to go back to shut it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">We <span data-mce-style="text-decoration: underline;" style="text-decoration: underline;">thought</span> we'd left the front door wide open and had to go back to see that we had actually, for once remembered to shut it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">As
we were leaving, the next door neighbour alerted us to the fact that
our guinea pig was cowering beneath their car. We had to spend half an
hour pretending that we cared, unsuccessfully trying to lure it out by
alternately throwing bits of food at it and prodding it with a
plastic golf club. Eventually we gave up and as far as we know, Patches
is still quivering beneath the neighbour's car.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Someone shut their finger in the car door and so I had to spend some time pretending that I cared about that.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">My
son wouldn't move his foot so I shut the car door on it and then he
cried and I had to spend some time pretending that I was sorry.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Somebody
wet their pants (not me) and so we had to find him another pair of jeans,
which was when I realised that he has grown too tall for all of his long
pants: hence, therefore, ergo he has come as Dr Knickerbocker.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">We
couldn’t find (insert youngest child's name here.) We spent 15 minutes
calling out, searching every room and looking under every bed for him
until we realised that he was out the front waiting patiently to be let
into the car.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">We had to find someone’s left shoe/blankie/Lego
fire engine/origami frog that someone made you as a gift/rock collection
because suddenly just as we were walking out the door it was absolutely
essential that we bring it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">We drove off with someone's left
shoe/blankie/Lego fire engine/origami frog that someone made you as a
gift/rock collection/my handbag on the roof of the car and had to
retrace our steps until we found it somewhere on the road between home
and your place.</span></li>
</ol>
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Penny Flanaganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08092607942870743007noreply@blogger.com0