But I'm not going to beat myself up over it. I've been doing other stuff. Not all of it important, not all of it related to the book I'm writing, not all of it procrastination. But stuff.
And stuff can just get in the way of doing what you think you 'should' do. Or at least it does for me.
For a change, this NYE, I am going to a party. A house party, so no ferals in public to deal with, but still a change from the last few years of 'hide away from the world and ring in the New Year solo'. Of course, because I'm going to a house party, I need to take some food, therefore I need to go to the supermarket. Now. Because it's 3pm already and I need to be at the party around 6.30pm and I have a bundle of stuff to do first.
I would apologise for not writing a longer post, but I doubt I have any readers left on this blog anyway, so really, who would I be apologising to? Myself?
But just in case, Happy New Year all. May 2014 be everything you wish it to be and then some. And if bad shit happens, well then, don't let it get you down and just apply the Yazz Principle.**
See you in 2014!
xx
* 'It' being my target of 52 blog posts for the year.
** The 'Yazz Principle' of course being 'The Only Way Is Up'.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Inevitable
OK, let's just accept that the magic number of 52 blog posts in 2013 is not going to happen. I last posted on October 19. Today is December 4.
That's ok. I can handle that. Only because I've been busy on a book. 31,000 words worth of busy.
That's probably the amount of words in additional blog posts needed to reach the target, right?
I'm going to go with yes on that.
I also finished my old job and started a new one.
Huzzah.
I am going back to the old job briefly over the next couple of weeks though, to earn a bit of extra dosh to compensate for the fact that my new job is making me take a 5 week (unpaid) break over Christmas/New Year.
Boo.
On the upside, as of next Friday (ominously, the 13th?) I will have plenty of time to do all those things I've been putting off doing all year. Like writing. And sewing. And painting furniture. And sorting out my superannuation.
You know, fun stuff.
And maybe even a little more blogging.
Maybe.
I don't want to get anyone's hopes up - least of all my own.
x
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Shrinking Women
For the last year or so, I've been receiving weekly emails from Upworthy - a website dedicated to sharing important stuff and helping it go viral. Some of the things they share with me I glance at, some I don't even bother with, but occasionally something they've posted grabs me by the throat (metaphorically speaking), shoves me against the wall and says "listen to this - this is you".
This is one of those posts.
The video below is of Lily Meyers, a student in the US who was a contestant in a slam poetry competition. Her story has so many parallels to my own that it's almost frightening. Except the mother drinking wine bit. The Mater hasn't touched a drop of alcohol since she was in her early 20s. But that's telling in itself, I guess.
Anyway. I wish I'd been as clued in and articulate at Lily's age. My life might've turned out slightly differently.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
The Odds Are...?
Right.
Let's start with the positives.
I'm already up seven (this makes eight) blog posts on last year's pathetic effort. That's good. That's encouraging.
However, you may remember my post of 30 December 2012, in which I stated:
And the subsequent posts, in February and July, in which I lamented (and berated myself for) my seeming inability to work towards achieving this goal.
We're now mid-way through October. Just two and a half months to go in 2013, with almost 20 blog posts to go.
Can I do it? Of course I can.
Will I do it?
That remains to be seen.
Let's hope so. Being off the facebook has certainly freed up some time for me (although I am presently spending a great portion of that time giving my living room a makeover).
Place your bets now, ladies and gents.
Let's start with the positives.
I'm already up seven (this makes eight) blog posts on last year's pathetic effort. That's good. That's encouraging.
However, you may remember my post of 30 December 2012, in which I stated:
Will also set a goal for 52 blog posts in 2013. That's one a week. Surely that's manageable.
And the subsequent posts, in February and July, in which I lamented (and berated myself for) my seeming inability to work towards achieving this goal.
We're now mid-way through October. Just two and a half months to go in 2013, with almost 20 blog posts to go.
Can I do it? Of course I can.
Will I do it?
That remains to be seen.
Let's hope so. Being off the facebook has certainly freed up some time for me (although I am presently spending a great portion of that time giving my living room a makeover).
Place your bets now, ladies and gents.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Discombobulated
discombobulate
Pronunciation: /ˌdɪskəmˈbɒbjʊleɪt/
verb
[ with object] humorous, chiefly North American
Let's just jump right in with some examples, shall we?
I said hello to a colleague tonight as we were all exiting the auditorium after seeing a show. She was talking to someone, but had made eye contact with me, so I said hello and asked her how she enjoyed the production... I didn't mean to interrupt her conversation, but she'd made the initial eye contact, so I was only being polite. Her response was quite cold and dismissive. I'm sure she didn't mean to be, but that's how it felt. I apologised for interrupting, but there was no response - she just continued her conversation and walked off.
Discombobulating.
The friend I went to see the show with (who I used to spend a great deal of time with) has been quite distant of late, especially when we're around his work colleagues. We attended an industry function together last week and when his colleagues turned up, I felt like I was in the way and he wanted me gone. I felt like that again tonight, like he couldn't wait to get rid of me.
Discombobulating.
Another friend, who I met up with last week, spent most of our couple of hours together complaining about the clinginess of one of her fellow playgroup mums. When we parted, I suggested we make arrangements in the next few weeks to catch up again, but she dismissed me with a wave of the hand and "whenever - we'll talk", which left me feeling like I was an intrusion in her life and she couldn't be bothered with me.
Discombobulating.
I conducted a little social experiment a couple of weeks back. I was in Sydney and having a catch up with a group of old friends and I decided I would only talk about myself if I was asked a direct question. I wouldn't offer any information unless I was asked and even then, I would only stick to answering the question. Instead, I would spend my part of the conversation asking questions of them, to find out more about what had been happening in their lives and just wait and see if they asked any questions of me.
Apart from the beginning of the afternoon, when the friend who'd organised the get-together turned up first, enabling us to have a brief chat before everyone else arrived; not a single question was asked of me the entire time, other than "do you want another drink?". No one else asked me how I was, how I was enjoying living in Melbourne, what I'd been up to, how work was... nothing. They talked endlessly about their lives, their kids, their careers... there were no lulls in conversation, it was just all about them. I found it massively discombobulating and has led me to believe that either: (a) I must talk about myself too much when I've been out with them previously, so they're sick of me; or (b) I must not be worth bothering to enquire after.
Since I've been off Facebook I've barely heard from some of my (so-called) friends. The ones who keep in actual touch are (sadly) few and far between and not really who I expected to. This is quite sobering, in that I do feel a little as though all the people I thought were good friends, couldn't actually give a flying monkeys about me.
Really discombobulating.
God that all sounds so depressing. Someone smack me around the head and tell me to snap out of it. Please.
Look, I guess it is a little depressing and I think I'm entitled to feel discombobulated and hurt and slighted. That's ok. As long as I don't dwell on it. Because really, the people who have kept in touch are clearly the ones I need to appreciate more and focus my energies on.
And I need to remember: reason, season, lifetime.
The reason and seasons are plentiful, but the lifetimes are rare and need nurturing. That's what I need to focus on.
On that note... bedtime.
x
Pronunciation: /ˌdɪskəmˈbɒbjʊleɪt/
verb
Let's just jump right in with some examples, shall we?
I said hello to a colleague tonight as we were all exiting the auditorium after seeing a show. She was talking to someone, but had made eye contact with me, so I said hello and asked her how she enjoyed the production... I didn't mean to interrupt her conversation, but she'd made the initial eye contact, so I was only being polite. Her response was quite cold and dismissive. I'm sure she didn't mean to be, but that's how it felt. I apologised for interrupting, but there was no response - she just continued her conversation and walked off.
Discombobulating.
The friend I went to see the show with (who I used to spend a great deal of time with) has been quite distant of late, especially when we're around his work colleagues. We attended an industry function together last week and when his colleagues turned up, I felt like I was in the way and he wanted me gone. I felt like that again tonight, like he couldn't wait to get rid of me.
Discombobulating.
Another friend, who I met up with last week, spent most of our couple of hours together complaining about the clinginess of one of her fellow playgroup mums. When we parted, I suggested we make arrangements in the next few weeks to catch up again, but she dismissed me with a wave of the hand and "whenever - we'll talk", which left me feeling like I was an intrusion in her life and she couldn't be bothered with me.
Discombobulating.
I conducted a little social experiment a couple of weeks back. I was in Sydney and having a catch up with a group of old friends and I decided I would only talk about myself if I was asked a direct question. I wouldn't offer any information unless I was asked and even then, I would only stick to answering the question. Instead, I would spend my part of the conversation asking questions of them, to find out more about what had been happening in their lives and just wait and see if they asked any questions of me.
Apart from the beginning of the afternoon, when the friend who'd organised the get-together turned up first, enabling us to have a brief chat before everyone else arrived; not a single question was asked of me the entire time, other than "do you want another drink?". No one else asked me how I was, how I was enjoying living in Melbourne, what I'd been up to, how work was... nothing. They talked endlessly about their lives, their kids, their careers... there were no lulls in conversation, it was just all about them. I found it massively discombobulating and has led me to believe that either: (a) I must talk about myself too much when I've been out with them previously, so they're sick of me; or (b) I must not be worth bothering to enquire after.
Since I've been off Facebook I've barely heard from some of my (so-called) friends. The ones who keep in actual touch are (sadly) few and far between and not really who I expected to. This is quite sobering, in that I do feel a little as though all the people I thought were good friends, couldn't actually give a flying monkeys about me.
Really discombobulating.
God that all sounds so depressing. Someone smack me around the head and tell me to snap out of it. Please.
Look, I guess it is a little depressing and I think I'm entitled to feel discombobulated and hurt and slighted. That's ok. As long as I don't dwell on it. Because really, the people who have kept in touch are clearly the ones I need to appreciate more and focus my energies on.
And I need to remember: reason, season, lifetime.
The reason and seasons are plentiful, but the lifetimes are rare and need nurturing. That's what I need to focus on.
On that note... bedtime.
x
Rioting Teens
It's Melbourne Festival time again, but this year I haven't been quite as enthused as I have been in previous years. Which is kind of dumb, seeing as one of my closest mates here in Melbourne is the head of ticketing, so I have access to a range of freebies! There are really only a handful of shows I want to see, which is a first for me in an arts festival.
However, tonight I DID see one of the shows I was really excited about - Teenage Riot, by the amazing Belgian theatre company, Ontroerend Goed. I've known these guys for a while - I saw the first work in this trilogy (Once And For All We're Gonna Tell You Who We Are So Shut Up And Listen) at Edinburgh Festival in 2008 and was blown away. These teenagers were loud, opinionated, brave, daring, unapologetic, savvy, scary and a million other adjectives I would NEVER have used on myself at that age. Then, about six months later, while working at Sydney Festival before moving down to Melbourne, I got a chance to work with them on one of their adult works - Smile Off Your Face, where they sat 'audience' members in wheelchairs, bound their hands together, blindfolded them and wheeled them through a full sensory experience. It was one of the most gob-smackingly incredible experiences of my life. To this day, I don't think I've seen/experienced anything (in an artistic/theatrical sense) which could top it.
Anyway. Tonight was Teenage Riot. The sequel to OAFAWGTYWWASSUAL (yeah, I could cut and paste, but why do that when it's fun to type a seemingly random combination of letters?!). Next week is the final part of the trilogy, All That Is Wrong, which looks just as incredible.
So what is it about these shows that's so amazing? I don't think I can condense it down to a simple answer. There is nothing even remotely simple, or even explainable, about this company's work. They push boundaries, they step across lines, they throw things (metaphorically and sometimes literally) in your face. They challenge you. They make you think. They make you question. Especially these kids. They really made me question my place in the world and the world I will one day leave behind, but they do it in a way that is not overly accusatory or preachy. It's a very fine line they tread, but they do it so well and so powerfully.
Somewhere along the line, I've become the adult that these teenagers talk about. I don't feel like it. I'm sure a lot of times I don't act like it. But I am. And that's a pretty sobering (and scary) thought.
If you're in Melbourne over the next three nights, I highly recommend you try and see this show. It's not expensive ($49 for a full price ticket) and will not only make you think, but genuinely entertain you.
Oh and if you do see it, let me know. We can discuss the worm, the tornado and the twizzler. Holy crap, but I was impressed by the twizzler. Find me a guy who's willing do that for me and I'll be forever in your debt.
However, tonight I DID see one of the shows I was really excited about - Teenage Riot, by the amazing Belgian theatre company, Ontroerend Goed. I've known these guys for a while - I saw the first work in this trilogy (Once And For All We're Gonna Tell You Who We Are So Shut Up And Listen) at Edinburgh Festival in 2008 and was blown away. These teenagers were loud, opinionated, brave, daring, unapologetic, savvy, scary and a million other adjectives I would NEVER have used on myself at that age. Then, about six months later, while working at Sydney Festival before moving down to Melbourne, I got a chance to work with them on one of their adult works - Smile Off Your Face, where they sat 'audience' members in wheelchairs, bound their hands together, blindfolded them and wheeled them through a full sensory experience. It was one of the most gob-smackingly incredible experiences of my life. To this day, I don't think I've seen/experienced anything (in an artistic/theatrical sense) which could top it.
Anyway. Tonight was Teenage Riot. The sequel to OAFAWGTYWWASSUAL (yeah, I could cut and paste, but why do that when it's fun to type a seemingly random combination of letters?!). Next week is the final part of the trilogy, All That Is Wrong, which looks just as incredible.
So what is it about these shows that's so amazing? I don't think I can condense it down to a simple answer. There is nothing even remotely simple, or even explainable, about this company's work. They push boundaries, they step across lines, they throw things (metaphorically and sometimes literally) in your face. They challenge you. They make you think. They make you question. Especially these kids. They really made me question my place in the world and the world I will one day leave behind, but they do it in a way that is not overly accusatory or preachy. It's a very fine line they tread, but they do it so well and so powerfully.
"I look at you and I don't see an example. I see a warning."
Somewhere along the line, I've become the adult that these teenagers talk about. I don't feel like it. I'm sure a lot of times I don't act like it. But I am. And that's a pretty sobering (and scary) thought.
If you're in Melbourne over the next three nights, I highly recommend you try and see this show. It's not expensive ($49 for a full price ticket) and will not only make you think, but genuinely entertain you.
Oh and if you do see it, let me know. We can discuss the worm, the tornado and the twizzler. Holy crap, but I was impressed by the twizzler. Find me a guy who's willing do that for me and I'll be forever in your debt.
Friday, October 04, 2013
One Meaningless Life...
Don't worry, the content isn't as dire as the title suggests. It's just that's the line that stuck with me.
I do so love Tim Minchin. He speaks sense.
(And he's a genuinely nice bloke. I can attest to that - I've met him on a few occasions.)
Watch. Enjoy.
"It's an incredibly exciting thing, this one, meaningless life of yours. Good luck."
I do so love Tim Minchin. He speaks sense.
(And he's a genuinely nice bloke. I can attest to that - I've met him on a few occasions.)
Watch. Enjoy.
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Hell In A Handbasket
You know what? If the Libs win the election on Saturday, this country is going to hell in a handbasket. It really is. People think it will be all beer & skittles and not-much-will-change-day-to-day and sure, they may notice very little difference initially, but it will creep up on them like a disease. A disease called Tony Abbott.
Not since George W Bush has there been a (so-called) world leader so evil and stupid and self-serving (although at least we were never subjected to pics of W in budgie smugglers).
The Libs have only just released their policy papers (2 days before the election, mind you - like a uni student rushing to submit their term paper before the deadline and hoping it'll get lost amongst all the other papers so we won't look too closely at the fine print), yet within hours were backtracking on some of their plans.
However, the two issues that are really irking me tonight, are Joe Hockey's plan to cut $4.5bn in foreign aid; and the attitude to refugees of both the Liberal and Labor governments. When did we become such a heartless nation? When did we forget about the line in our national anthem that claims: "For those who've come across the seas, we've boundless plains to share"? When?
Earlier today, I was catching up on Jon Stewart's return to The Daily Show (god, I've missed him); and his first interview back was with Andrew Harper, who is Head of the UN Refugee Agency in Jordan (and from his accent, I'm guessing an Aussie). If you can get hold of the interview, I'd highly recommend watching it. Here's the link to the extended interview, but depending on where you are, you may not be able to watch it (I have a sneaky over-ride program that lets me watch US content on my laptop. Shhhh! Don't tell Malcolm!).
Anyway, the work Andrew Harper does is awesome and some of the facts and figures he was providing in his interview really made me sit up and think. For instance:
Jordan has a population of 6 million. So far, they've taken in 2 million Palestinian, hundreds of thousands of Iraqi and 500-600,000 Syrian refugees. That's roughly half their population. Of the 500-600,000 Syrian refugees, they've absorbed 200-300,000 into their homes and communities and they only built camps for them because they couldn't absorb any more refugees any other way. Camps were their last resort. They're not "turning them back", they're welcoming them in. To quote Andrew, Jordan is just one of several middle eastern countries that are:
"... often struggling to provide support to their own communities and their own populations, but what they do have is wonderful traditions, wonderful cultures of providing support to those fleeing conflict."
These people have very little themselves, yet are opening their arms to the poor, the persecuted and the displaced and helping them build new lives. It's truly humbling. Meanwhile, our government bitches about bringing in 1/1000th that number and instead send out bullying messages that "you're not welcome here" and diverts refugees to offshore processing centres where the conditions are on a par with third world prisons.
Fuck.
I mean, seriously.
FUCK.
When did we become such a heartless, self-serving, ungenerous, selfish nation? When? And how can these people call themselves Christian when their attitudes are anything but?
As for Joe Hockey's reason for cutting $4.5bn in foreign aid? Well:
"We can only be a more generous nation to the rest of the world if we have a strong Australian economy and so we are reducing the growth in foreign aid by $4.5 billion over the forward estimates to fund essential infrastructure here in Australia."
He goes on to state that the money will instead be spent on infrastructure projects, including $1.5 billion on Melbourne's East West Link, $1.5 billion on Sydney's WestConnex and another $1 billion on an upgrade to Brisbane's Gateway Motorway.
Right. Just what we need in Australia. More fucking motorways so entitled cockwombles driving their gas-guzzling dickmobiles to and from their cushy corporate jobs won't have to sit in traffic on a Monday morning when they're returning from their weekenders in the country.
Yep.
Hell in a handbasket.
I'm going to leave you now to work on my application for a Swedish visa. If the Libs get in, that's where you'll find me living for the next decade until Australia gets its head out of its collective arse and learns some humanity.
Not since George W Bush has there been a (so-called) world leader so evil and stupid and self-serving (although at least we were never subjected to pics of W in budgie smugglers).
The Libs have only just released their policy papers (2 days before the election, mind you - like a uni student rushing to submit their term paper before the deadline and hoping it'll get lost amongst all the other papers so we won't look too closely at the fine print), yet within hours were backtracking on some of their plans.
However, the two issues that are really irking me tonight, are Joe Hockey's plan to cut $4.5bn in foreign aid; and the attitude to refugees of both the Liberal and Labor governments. When did we become such a heartless nation? When did we forget about the line in our national anthem that claims: "For those who've come across the seas, we've boundless plains to share"? When?
Earlier today, I was catching up on Jon Stewart's return to The Daily Show (god, I've missed him); and his first interview back was with Andrew Harper, who is Head of the UN Refugee Agency in Jordan (and from his accent, I'm guessing an Aussie). If you can get hold of the interview, I'd highly recommend watching it. Here's the link to the extended interview, but depending on where you are, you may not be able to watch it (I have a sneaky over-ride program that lets me watch US content on my laptop. Shhhh! Don't tell Malcolm!).
Anyway, the work Andrew Harper does is awesome and some of the facts and figures he was providing in his interview really made me sit up and think. For instance:
Jordan has a population of 6 million. So far, they've taken in 2 million Palestinian, hundreds of thousands of Iraqi and 500-600,000 Syrian refugees. That's roughly half their population. Of the 500-600,000 Syrian refugees, they've absorbed 200-300,000 into their homes and communities and they only built camps for them because they couldn't absorb any more refugees any other way. Camps were their last resort. They're not "turning them back", they're welcoming them in. To quote Andrew, Jordan is just one of several middle eastern countries that are:
"... often struggling to provide support to their own communities and their own populations, but what they do have is wonderful traditions, wonderful cultures of providing support to those fleeing conflict."
These people have very little themselves, yet are opening their arms to the poor, the persecuted and the displaced and helping them build new lives. It's truly humbling. Meanwhile, our government bitches about bringing in 1/1000th that number and instead send out bullying messages that "you're not welcome here" and diverts refugees to offshore processing centres where the conditions are on a par with third world prisons.
Fuck.
I mean, seriously.
FUCK.
When did we become such a heartless, self-serving, ungenerous, selfish nation? When? And how can these people call themselves Christian when their attitudes are anything but?
As for Joe Hockey's reason for cutting $4.5bn in foreign aid? Well:
"We can only be a more generous nation to the rest of the world if we have a strong Australian economy and so we are reducing the growth in foreign aid by $4.5 billion over the forward estimates to fund essential infrastructure here in Australia."
He goes on to state that the money will instead be spent on infrastructure projects, including $1.5 billion on Melbourne's East West Link, $1.5 billion on Sydney's WestConnex and another $1 billion on an upgrade to Brisbane's Gateway Motorway.
Right. Just what we need in Australia. More fucking motorways so entitled cockwombles driving their gas-guzzling dickmobiles to and from their cushy corporate jobs won't have to sit in traffic on a Monday morning when they're returning from their weekenders in the country.
Yep.
Hell in a handbasket.
I'm going to leave you now to work on my application for a Swedish visa. If the Libs get in, that's where you'll find me living for the next decade until Australia gets its head out of its collective arse and learns some humanity.
Monday, September 02, 2013
Blurred Lines Indeed...
There's been quite the discussion of late about the whole Miley Cyrus/Robin Thicke VMA debacle. I'm kinda late to the party, but that's probably because I don't really care too much about it. I'm not a fan of either of them. The only thing I find remotely interesting is that they're both the offspring of quasi-celebs from the 80s.
But I've been following the backlash against Miley on Twitter (I'm sure it's been on Facebook as well, but I'm 10 days clean of Facebook and have no intention of going back to it, so who knows what the FB kids are saying, if anything?); and I've been intrigued by the 'slut-shaming' that's been happening to her, whilst Robin Thicke gets off seemingly scot-free. I know Miley's not entirely blameless, but she's a 20 year old kid, who's spent most of her life in the public eye and hasn't led a "normal" life. We all did stupid things when we were 20 (we all did - don't try and deny it - unless you were in a convent, you had times when you were blind drunk and behaved inappropriately when you were in your 20s), but that's the point. She's 20. She's growing up. She's pushing boundaries and learning what's appropriate and what's not. It just so happens that she's doing it in a very public arena.
Robin Thicke, on the other hand, is a 36 year old married, father.
Let's just repeat that.
THIRTY-SIX.
MARRIED.
FATHER.
He should fucking know better.
A few days ago, a friend of mine sent me this:
"Another "gem" from Robin Thicke. Just watch the first 30 secs or so. Ugh.
http://www.vevo.com/watch/robin-thicke/give-it-2-u-explicit/USUV71301714?utm_source=youtube&utm_medium=watch&utm_campaign=WP_UK_RobinThicke_GiveIt2U#/watch/robin-thicke/give-it-2-u-explicit/USUV71301714?utm_source=youtube&utm_medium=watch&utm_campaign=WP_UK_RobinThicke_GiveIt2U
Well, 30 seconds was about all I could manage. Revolting. And disturbing. As I said before, this man is married. With a child. What kind of woman is he married to that she puts up with this sort of behaviour? And worse, what kind of man is he to write stuff like this and not be concerned that he's: (a) being totally disrespectful to the women in his life; and (b) setting his son an extremely poor example on how to treat women?
Really. What WOULD Dr Seaver say? There's no way Mrs Seaver and Carol would let him get away with such behaviour. Mrs S would kick his ass halfway to Timbuktu.
Which is what I'd like SOMEONE to do. Seriously. I know I'm on my feminista bandwagon here, but this kind of misogyny is unacceptable. He (and his peers) try and pass it off as being harmless, but it's sending a message. A bad message. A message that sets my teeth on edge.
The other little snippet my friend emailed me (along with the above video link), was this:
And this on the Miley VMA performance, which I thought was rather good
"If you think a woman in a tan vinyl bra and underwear, grabbing her crotch and grinding up on a dance partner is raunchy, trashy, and offensive but you don’t think her dance partner is raunchy, trashy, or offensive as he sings a song about “blurred” lines of consent and propagating rape culture, then you may want to re-evaluate your acceptance of double standards and your belief in stereotypes about how men vs. women “should” and are “allowed” to behave."
Yep.
That about sums it up.
But I've been following the backlash against Miley on Twitter (I'm sure it's been on Facebook as well, but I'm 10 days clean of Facebook and have no intention of going back to it, so who knows what the FB kids are saying, if anything?); and I've been intrigued by the 'slut-shaming' that's been happening to her, whilst Robin Thicke gets off seemingly scot-free. I know Miley's not entirely blameless, but she's a 20 year old kid, who's spent most of her life in the public eye and hasn't led a "normal" life. We all did stupid things when we were 20 (we all did - don't try and deny it - unless you were in a convent, you had times when you were blind drunk and behaved inappropriately when you were in your 20s), but that's the point. She's 20. She's growing up. She's pushing boundaries and learning what's appropriate and what's not. It just so happens that she's doing it in a very public arena.
Robin Thicke, on the other hand, is a 36 year old married, father.
Let's just repeat that.
THIRTY-SIX.
MARRIED.
FATHER.
He should fucking know better.
A few days ago, a friend of mine sent me this:
"Another "gem" from Robin Thicke. Just watch the first 30 secs or so. Ugh.
http://www.vevo.com/watch/robin-thicke/give-it-2-u-explicit/USUV71301714?utm_source=youtube&utm_medium=watch&utm_campaign=WP_UK_RobinThicke_GiveIt2U#/watch/robin-thicke/give-it-2-u-explicit/USUV71301714?utm_source=youtube&utm_medium=watch&utm_campaign=WP_UK_RobinThicke_GiveIt2U
Well, 30 seconds was about all I could manage. Revolting. And disturbing. As I said before, this man is married. With a child. What kind of woman is he married to that she puts up with this sort of behaviour? And worse, what kind of man is he to write stuff like this and not be concerned that he's: (a) being totally disrespectful to the women in his life; and (b) setting his son an extremely poor example on how to treat women?
Really. What WOULD Dr Seaver say? There's no way Mrs Seaver and Carol would let him get away with such behaviour. Mrs S would kick his ass halfway to Timbuktu.
Which is what I'd like SOMEONE to do. Seriously. I know I'm on my feminista bandwagon here, but this kind of misogyny is unacceptable. He (and his peers) try and pass it off as being harmless, but it's sending a message. A bad message. A message that sets my teeth on edge.
The other little snippet my friend emailed me (along with the above video link), was this:
And this on the Miley VMA performance, which I thought was rather good
"If you think a woman in a tan vinyl bra and underwear, grabbing her crotch and grinding up on a dance partner is raunchy, trashy, and offensive but you don’t think her dance partner is raunchy, trashy, or offensive as he sings a song about “blurred” lines of consent and propagating rape culture, then you may want to re-evaluate your acceptance of double standards and your belief in stereotypes about how men vs. women “should” and are “allowed” to behave."
Yep.
That about sums it up.
Sunday, August 25, 2013
Cheese Dreams
We all have them. Don't look at me like that. You've had one at least once.
I'm talking about Cheese Dreams. (Yes, those words placed together require capitalisation). You know, where you eat a load of cheese (usually brie, or blue or something smelly and strong and DELICIOUS) after 8pm and then go to sleep and have really vivid, quite freaky dreams, about the most random events.
Just for shits'n'giggles, allow me to share last night's Cheese Dream with you.
I was on a train with a guy I met in NYC a few years ago. (In real life, we became mates, nothing more.) Anyway, in my dream we were on our way to the movies and there was a guy sitting opposite us who had a briefcase open on his lap. We were pulling into a station, when he closed his briefcase, reached next to him for his carry-on-sized suitcase and slotted one side of the briefcase into the suitcase, extended the handle and proceeded to leave the train. But there was another wheeled-suitcase still sitting there where he'd been and all of a sudden there was a woman with him. I decided to be a good citizen, and jumped off the train with the suitcase, calling out to them that they'd forgotten their bag. They were talking, so took a while to acknowledge me, but then claimed the bag wasn't theirs - they'd never seen it and it had been sitting on the train when they got on earlier. At this point I turned to get back on the train, but the doors slid shut and it pulled away from the platform leaving me stranded without handbag, wallet or phone (and a friend who didn't even appear to notice that I was no longer seated next to him). I turned around again and started berating the couple for ruining my date (yes, suddenly this guy was my boyfriend and we were on a date); but they'd disappeared, so I looked around for somewhere to leave the bag - a lost property counter or the like. By this stage I'd worked out that I was in Paddington Station in London, and I made my way over to the customer service counter, only to be redirected to what can only be described as a market stall selling animal hides. The woman at the counter, who smelled rather strongly of pot, gave me a lecture about never touching abandoned luggage, then proceeded to open it and extract a load of lacy Victoria's Secret-style underwear.
The next thing I knew I was at home (my home here in Melbourne) and was about to go and lie down (being worn out from having walked all the way home from the station, I presume... I didn't have any money, or a phone to call anyone, plus I'd realised that I didn't know ANYONE'S phone numbers off by heart like I used to when I was in my early 20s, so I don't know how else I would've managed to get home); when there was a half-buzz at my door.
(Incidentally, the buzzer into our apartment block is only half-buzzing at the moment, so it was all a bit too life-like.)
So, anyway, I answered the door and in walks my friend, carrying my handbag and telling me he'd figured out what was going on and thought I'd come home eventually, so went and saw the movie without me. (To which I say hrmph. How rude. I'd never date a bloke who did that to me.)
Next thing I know, I'm taking a miniature pet pig for a beach walk. Yes. A PIG. The pig was super cute - white with black spots and her name was Lily. She was on a leash and would come into the water, but wouldn't actually swim. She'd just sit there, with the water over her head, and look up with these mournful eyes... apparently able to breathe underwater. Facially, she looked just like the pig equivalent of a friend's French Bulldog, who coincidentally, is named Lily. I'm sure there's a connection there. Anyway, I took Lily-the-pig out of the water to dry her off and next thing we were in a school, attempting to fit six identical, real-life Barbie dolls into a locker. Well, I was trying to fit these Barbies into a locker - Lily was sitting beside me snuffling and snorting. Let's just say, shit was getting weird by this point, so it's just as well it was then that I woke up.
I grabbed my trusty notebook, which sits on my bedside table and started scribbling it all down. Of course, given I was in a suddenly-awoken state, my handwriting is almost illegible, but I think I got it all.
So... yeah.
Cheese Dreams.
Freaking me out since, well... always.
What's your freaky Cheese Dream story?
I'm talking about Cheese Dreams. (Yes, those words placed together require capitalisation). You know, where you eat a load of cheese (usually brie, or blue or something smelly and strong and DELICIOUS) after 8pm and then go to sleep and have really vivid, quite freaky dreams, about the most random events.
Just for shits'n'giggles, allow me to share last night's Cheese Dream with you.
I was on a train with a guy I met in NYC a few years ago. (In real life, we became mates, nothing more.) Anyway, in my dream we were on our way to the movies and there was a guy sitting opposite us who had a briefcase open on his lap. We were pulling into a station, when he closed his briefcase, reached next to him for his carry-on-sized suitcase and slotted one side of the briefcase into the suitcase, extended the handle and proceeded to leave the train. But there was another wheeled-suitcase still sitting there where he'd been and all of a sudden there was a woman with him. I decided to be a good citizen, and jumped off the train with the suitcase, calling out to them that they'd forgotten their bag. They were talking, so took a while to acknowledge me, but then claimed the bag wasn't theirs - they'd never seen it and it had been sitting on the train when they got on earlier. At this point I turned to get back on the train, but the doors slid shut and it pulled away from the platform leaving me stranded without handbag, wallet or phone (and a friend who didn't even appear to notice that I was no longer seated next to him). I turned around again and started berating the couple for ruining my date (yes, suddenly this guy was my boyfriend and we were on a date); but they'd disappeared, so I looked around for somewhere to leave the bag - a lost property counter or the like. By this stage I'd worked out that I was in Paddington Station in London, and I made my way over to the customer service counter, only to be redirected to what can only be described as a market stall selling animal hides. The woman at the counter, who smelled rather strongly of pot, gave me a lecture about never touching abandoned luggage, then proceeded to open it and extract a load of lacy Victoria's Secret-style underwear.
The next thing I knew I was at home (my home here in Melbourne) and was about to go and lie down (being worn out from having walked all the way home from the station, I presume... I didn't have any money, or a phone to call anyone, plus I'd realised that I didn't know ANYONE'S phone numbers off by heart like I used to when I was in my early 20s, so I don't know how else I would've managed to get home); when there was a half-buzz at my door.
(Incidentally, the buzzer into our apartment block is only half-buzzing at the moment, so it was all a bit too life-like.)
So, anyway, I answered the door and in walks my friend, carrying my handbag and telling me he'd figured out what was going on and thought I'd come home eventually, so went and saw the movie without me. (To which I say hrmph. How rude. I'd never date a bloke who did that to me.)
Next thing I know, I'm taking a miniature pet pig for a beach walk. Yes. A PIG. The pig was super cute - white with black spots and her name was Lily. She was on a leash and would come into the water, but wouldn't actually swim. She'd just sit there, with the water over her head, and look up with these mournful eyes... apparently able to breathe underwater. Facially, she looked just like the pig equivalent of a friend's French Bulldog, who coincidentally, is named Lily. I'm sure there's a connection there. Anyway, I took Lily-the-pig out of the water to dry her off and next thing we were in a school, attempting to fit six identical, real-life Barbie dolls into a locker. Well, I was trying to fit these Barbies into a locker - Lily was sitting beside me snuffling and snorting. Let's just say, shit was getting weird by this point, so it's just as well it was then that I woke up.
I grabbed my trusty notebook, which sits on my bedside table and started scribbling it all down. Of course, given I was in a suddenly-awoken state, my handwriting is almost illegible, but I think I got it all.
So... yeah.
Cheese Dreams.
Freaking me out since, well... always.
What's your freaky Cheese Dream story?
Thursday, August 22, 2013
How Many Blog Posts Does It Take...?
Yesterday turned out to be a bit of a big day for me. I woke up in the morning and, has been my norm of late, reached for my phone to check email, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Before I even got out of bed. As I was doing this, it suddenly struck me that I'm wasting a good half hour or more each morning - time that I could spend sleeping in a little longer, or writing, or exercising... doing anything except waste time on social media reading about the lives of people who are really just acquaintances.
I really don't know what kicked me into action, but by the end of the day yesterday, I'd deleted all the photo albums and important information from my account, sent an email to the twenty or so Facebook friends who are actual friends, letting them know of my decision, and deactivated my account.
Within 10 minutes I'd received an email from one of those friends (who lives in Edinburgh) checking up on me to make sure I was ok and sending me her love; and this morning I received messages from three other friends, supporting my choice.
I'm a little intrigued to see if any of the other 300 or so Facebook friends actually notice my absence and if they do, bother to contact me by some other method. Most of them have my email address and mobile number - some also follow me on Twitter and Instagram (which I'm keeping for the moment - foregoing all social media would be too much of a shock to the system!), so if they really want to know what's going on in my life, it will be fairly simple for them to find out.
I don't deny that Facebook has been a great way to reconnect with old friends and keep people abreast of what's happening in my life. But it was starting to take up too much of my life and I've had enough. It's time to get back to basics. Communicate with my friends properly (with the added advantages of technology like Skype of course). If people want to know what's happening in my life, they can pick up the phone, or email, or text me (or even, gasp!, write me a letter!). And, by eliminating Facebook from my life, I can (and will) spend more quality time on the friendships I value most.
It's also no surprise that when I started Facebook-ing, my commitment to this blog waned. Quite dramatically. I'm hoping to change that. Just before I went to sleep last night, I scribbled something in the notepad beside my bed:
Below that, I'd made some bullet points:
I really don't know what kicked me into action, but by the end of the day yesterday, I'd deleted all the photo albums and important information from my account, sent an email to the twenty or so Facebook friends who are actual friends, letting them know of my decision, and deactivated my account.
Within 10 minutes I'd received an email from one of those friends (who lives in Edinburgh) checking up on me to make sure I was ok and sending me her love; and this morning I received messages from three other friends, supporting my choice.
I'm a little intrigued to see if any of the other 300 or so Facebook friends actually notice my absence and if they do, bother to contact me by some other method. Most of them have my email address and mobile number - some also follow me on Twitter and Instagram (which I'm keeping for the moment - foregoing all social media would be too much of a shock to the system!), so if they really want to know what's going on in my life, it will be fairly simple for them to find out.
I don't deny that Facebook has been a great way to reconnect with old friends and keep people abreast of what's happening in my life. But it was starting to take up too much of my life and I've had enough. It's time to get back to basics. Communicate with my friends properly (with the added advantages of technology like Skype of course). If people want to know what's happening in my life, they can pick up the phone, or email, or text me (or even, gasp!, write me a letter!). And, by eliminating Facebook from my life, I can (and will) spend more quality time on the friendships I value most.
It's also no surprise that when I started Facebook-ing, my commitment to this blog waned. Quite dramatically. I'm hoping to change that. Just before I went to sleep last night, I scribbled something in the notepad beside my bed:
"How Many Blog Posts Does It Take To Write A Novel?"
Below that, I'd made some bullet points:
- All the pages written when I used to do Morning Pages
- All the words typed in blog posts
- All the Facebook status updates
= how many thousands of words written?
It's quite a sobering thought really. Over the last few years, I probably could've written a novel, but instead I've written lots of short things (and nothing of note).
I think it's time that changed.
Don't you?
Thursday, August 08, 2013
Flying Figs
Things I could care less about today:
Offspring and the hoo-haa surrounding the death of some character named Patrick. Honest to god, you'd think half of my facebook friends had lost a their real-life partner. Even I (who as we are all well aware, is apt to get caught up in many a fictional drama) think everyone's gone off the reservation and back to crazy town on this one.
Mumford & Sons and their use of Jason Bateman in their video clip to try and coerce me into listening to their pathetic-excuse-for-folk-music muzak. I could give you a link to the clip I'm talking about, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. As much as I adore the Bateman, I would rather stab my ears with sharp objects than listen to Mumford & Sons.
Tony Abbott. For many, many reasons, but today it's for this reason in particular. Tony, you're an arsehat.
Facebook status updates about how many hours sleep your child had, how many times a day they pooped or what they ate for dinner. Seriously. I have facebook friends who write this shite. I don't care if "little Johnny pooped six times today and then ate mushy peas and a whole banana for his tea". Really. I don't. Nor do (I suspect) most people. I've decided on a three strikes principle for these people - that is, if they post three times in a row about their kids' culinary habits, they're unfriended. Harsh? Probably. But life's too short to give a flying monkeys about a random toddler and their ability to eat and defecate.
People bitching at me about my potty mouth. I know I use the "f" word a little to freely, but honestly, I'm not as bad as Malcolm Tucker.
Right, now I've got that off my chest; things that have cheered me today:
While we're on the topic of Malcolm Tucker... THIS. Fucking genius. I must say, I'm very much looking forward to Peter Capaldi taking control of the TARDIS. I've never been terribly fond of Matt Smith and have barely watched even a dozen of his episodes. The appointment of Peter to the role has given me reason to tune in again.
My new haircut. It's taken me five years of living in Melbourne, but I've finally found an awesome hairdresser who not only didn't bat an eyelid when I showed him pics of how I wanted my hair to be, but actually delivered the goods. Extremely happy. And not ridiculously priced, given the salon is smack-bang in the CBD.
Arriving home to the delivery of an eBay purchase - a very pretty designer frock which I nabbed for the bargain price of $25, plus postage. I have a very swanky wedding to attend in Sydney in September where the minimum frock price will be about $500. I should fit right in - but for a fraction the cost. What can I say - I'm a girl on a budget. Now for shoes.
Oh and I'm also due to start my new (one day a week to start) job next week - super excited about that!
So.
How was YOUR day?
Offspring and the hoo-haa surrounding the death of some character named Patrick. Honest to god, you'd think half of my facebook friends had lost a their real-life partner. Even I (who as we are all well aware, is apt to get caught up in many a fictional drama) think everyone's gone off the reservation and back to crazy town on this one.
Mumford & Sons and their use of Jason Bateman in their video clip to try and coerce me into listening to their pathetic-excuse-for-folk-music muzak. I could give you a link to the clip I'm talking about, but I wouldn't give them the satisfaction. As much as I adore the Bateman, I would rather stab my ears with sharp objects than listen to Mumford & Sons.
Tony Abbott. For many, many reasons, but today it's for this reason in particular. Tony, you're an arsehat.
Facebook status updates about how many hours sleep your child had, how many times a day they pooped or what they ate for dinner. Seriously. I have facebook friends who write this shite. I don't care if "little Johnny pooped six times today and then ate mushy peas and a whole banana for his tea". Really. I don't. Nor do (I suspect) most people. I've decided on a three strikes principle for these people - that is, if they post three times in a row about their kids' culinary habits, they're unfriended. Harsh? Probably. But life's too short to give a flying monkeys about a random toddler and their ability to eat and defecate.
People bitching at me about my potty mouth. I know I use the "f" word a little to freely, but honestly, I'm not as bad as Malcolm Tucker.
Right, now I've got that off my chest; things that have cheered me today:
While we're on the topic of Malcolm Tucker... THIS. Fucking genius. I must say, I'm very much looking forward to Peter Capaldi taking control of the TARDIS. I've never been terribly fond of Matt Smith and have barely watched even a dozen of his episodes. The appointment of Peter to the role has given me reason to tune in again.
My new haircut. It's taken me five years of living in Melbourne, but I've finally found an awesome hairdresser who not only didn't bat an eyelid when I showed him pics of how I wanted my hair to be, but actually delivered the goods. Extremely happy. And not ridiculously priced, given the salon is smack-bang in the CBD.
Arriving home to the delivery of an eBay purchase - a very pretty designer frock which I nabbed for the bargain price of $25, plus postage. I have a very swanky wedding to attend in Sydney in September where the minimum frock price will be about $500. I should fit right in - but for a fraction the cost. What can I say - I'm a girl on a budget. Now for shoes.
Oh and I'm also due to start my new (one day a week to start) job next week - super excited about that!
So.
How was YOUR day?
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Proscandalating
Proscandalating (prəskændəletɪŋ). Verb. To procrastinate by binge-watching Scandal.
For the past four days, I have been neglecting household chores, staying up until all hours and existing on minimal sleep.
Am I busy at work? Not really.
Am I going out partying? No. That was last week.
I've stayed home for the last four nights. I've rejected all manner of invitations and rushed home, ignoring the dishes in the sink and pile of laundry that's becoming a mountain in my bathroom, all in the name of getting my Scandal fix.
It's quite disturbing. I haven't been this obsessive over a TV show since someone bought me the box set of The West Wing for my birthday and I spent a happy Sunday watching eleven episodes back-to-back.
(As an aside, one of the key characters in Scandal, is a WW alum. Joshua Malina. Follow him on Twitter. He's hilarious. And sarcastic. Two of my favourite attributes in a person. He's also very, very good in this show.)
Anyway, I'm up to S02E12. Which leaves me 10 episodes to watch before Season 3 starts later this year. Of course, I'm going to watch them in the next two or three days. You can bet on that.
Anyway. My point. Was there a point? I think there was.
Oh! Yes! I remember.
There was a scene in S02E11, when... no wait. Context. You need context.
Basically this show is about a former White House Communications Director who leaves to start her own crisis management firm, but still has close ties to the White House. It was created by Shonda Rhimes, who is a very smart cookie. (We'll forgive her the disaster that was Crossroads. I'm sure it was a "fuck-I-need-to-pay-the-rent-somehow" job and we've all got one of those on our CV).
Anyway, the Chief of Staff (Cyrus) is played by the most excellent Jeff Perry. He's a Republican. He's gay. And he's married. To a journalist (James) played by the also excellent Dan Bucatinsky. To keep his husband happy (and for various other reasons you'd find out if you watch the show), Cyrus has arranged for them to adopt a newborn baby girl.
So that's the context. (As another aside, can I just say I love that they write this marriage like a marriage. There's no big hoo-ha over them being gay. They're just married. That's how it is. I love it.)
Anyway.
S02E11. James goes to the hospital to meet his baby for the first time. He's pretty anxious and excited and is rambling. But when the baby is put in his arms for the first time, his exclamation is not one of how beautiful she is, but a response to something the nurse says. He says:
"She's so intelligent!"
He then goes on to gush about how gorgeous she is, but his first words about her were not to do with her looks, but her brain. I loved that. It was a tiny thing, but powerful.
More parents need to respond to their babies that way. We'd have an even smarter and more equal generation of women PDQ, I reckon.
I also saw this today:
For the past four days, I have been neglecting household chores, staying up until all hours and existing on minimal sleep.
Am I busy at work? Not really.
Am I going out partying? No. That was last week.
I've stayed home for the last four nights. I've rejected all manner of invitations and rushed home, ignoring the dishes in the sink and pile of laundry that's becoming a mountain in my bathroom, all in the name of getting my Scandal fix.
It's quite disturbing. I haven't been this obsessive over a TV show since someone bought me the box set of The West Wing for my birthday and I spent a happy Sunday watching eleven episodes back-to-back.
(As an aside, one of the key characters in Scandal, is a WW alum. Joshua Malina. Follow him on Twitter. He's hilarious. And sarcastic. Two of my favourite attributes in a person. He's also very, very good in this show.)
Anyway, I'm up to S02E12. Which leaves me 10 episodes to watch before Season 3 starts later this year. Of course, I'm going to watch them in the next two or three days. You can bet on that.
Anyway. My point. Was there a point? I think there was.
Oh! Yes! I remember.
There was a scene in S02E11, when... no wait. Context. You need context.
Basically this show is about a former White House Communications Director who leaves to start her own crisis management firm, but still has close ties to the White House. It was created by Shonda Rhimes, who is a very smart cookie. (We'll forgive her the disaster that was Crossroads. I'm sure it was a "fuck-I-need-to-pay-the-rent-somehow" job and we've all got one of those on our CV).
Anyway, the Chief of Staff (Cyrus) is played by the most excellent Jeff Perry. He's a Republican. He's gay. And he's married. To a journalist (James) played by the also excellent Dan Bucatinsky. To keep his husband happy (and for various other reasons you'd find out if you watch the show), Cyrus has arranged for them to adopt a newborn baby girl.
So that's the context. (As another aside, can I just say I love that they write this marriage like a marriage. There's no big hoo-ha over them being gay. They're just married. That's how it is. I love it.)
Anyway.
S02E11. James goes to the hospital to meet his baby for the first time. He's pretty anxious and excited and is rambling. But when the baby is put in his arms for the first time, his exclamation is not one of how beautiful she is, but a response to something the nurse says. He says:
"She's so intelligent!"
He then goes on to gush about how gorgeous she is, but his first words about her were not to do with her looks, but her brain. I loved that. It was a tiny thing, but powerful.
More parents need to respond to their babies that way. We'd have an even smarter and more equal generation of women PDQ, I reckon.
I also saw this today:
I love it. I've always been really careful about playing into stereotypes with my nieces and god daughters. I don't want them obsessing so much with their looks or their weight or their popularity that they neglect their intelligence or compassion or creativity. God knows, I spent the majority of my childhood/teen years striving for the former and I'm STILL trying to tip the balance in favour of the latter.
Reminders like the image above are important.
That one little line written into that script has impact.
And they both make me feel just a little bit better about proscandalating.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Run One-Eleven
I was channel surfing as I sat down to eat dinner the other night and happened upon an old episode of The Big Bang Theory. I've watched this show for years (truth be told, I download it because I hate commercials) and one thing I always pause on is the vanity cards at the end of closing credits.
I love Chuck Lorre's vanity cards. I first discovered them back in the Dharma & Greg days and always found myself taping the credits just so I could pause it and read them properly (yes, that was back in the days of VCR).
Anyway, the one I glanced upon the other night was this one. It struck a nerve, because a number of times over the last couple of weeks I've sat down to write a blog post, only to realise that I really had nothing to say.
You see, recently, a friend and fellow writer expressed a desire to start her own blog and asked for my assistance, as she didn't think she had the technical skills she thought she needed to set one up. Of course, she did, she was just lacking a little bit in confidence. I wasn't necessarily that much of a help with the technical side of things, but I like to think I gave her a bit of push in the right direction and boosted her confidence to see that she was able to do it.
She's a go-getter, this friend and she goes after whatever she wants full-throttle, never (seemingly) letting anything get in her way. It's very inspiring and a little intimidating. I wish I could be more like her. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a boat with only one oar, going a little bit forward, but then just round and round in circles achieving nothing. Anyway, this lovely friend has decided blogging is her future so she's posting stuff left right and centre and raising her profile and attracting readers from all over the world and she's only on something like her fourth or fifth ever post. And although I am pleased for her and proud of her, because she's my friend; I can't help but feel (as the long-time blogger in our friendship) I should be blogging more than I do. (Oooh, there's that old chestnut. SHOULD. I try not to use that word, but every so often it just sneaks up on me. I SHOULD do something I really don't have the inspiration/desire/will to do.)
I have a post-it note stuck to my computer screen. It reads:
Well, I'm not doing that well so far... it's July, I'm not even halfway there and I've been beating myself up about it, which is ridiculous. My lovely Scottish mate Kris (who posts some of the most hilarious status updates I've ever read on Facebook) ended today's post with a quote from his mother... “If ye've nowt sensible tae say, just shut the fuck up.”
I think I might take that advice and combine it with Chuck's one-eleven vanity card. Whenever I think I should be posting something because I haven't for a while, but I'm struggling to come up with anything even remotely decent, I'm just going to "run one-eleven".
Because I know that sometimes I'll have nothing to say. And that's ok.
I love Chuck Lorre's vanity cards. I first discovered them back in the Dharma & Greg days and always found myself taping the credits just so I could pause it and read them properly (yes, that was back in the days of VCR).
Anyway, the one I glanced upon the other night was this one. It struck a nerve, because a number of times over the last couple of weeks I've sat down to write a blog post, only to realise that I really had nothing to say.
You see, recently, a friend and fellow writer expressed a desire to start her own blog and asked for my assistance, as she didn't think she had the technical skills she thought she needed to set one up. Of course, she did, she was just lacking a little bit in confidence. I wasn't necessarily that much of a help with the technical side of things, but I like to think I gave her a bit of push in the right direction and boosted her confidence to see that she was able to do it.
She's a go-getter, this friend and she goes after whatever she wants full-throttle, never (seemingly) letting anything get in her way. It's very inspiring and a little intimidating. I wish I could be more like her. Sometimes I feel like I'm in a boat with only one oar, going a little bit forward, but then just round and round in circles achieving nothing. Anyway, this lovely friend has decided blogging is her future so she's posting stuff left right and centre and raising her profile and attracting readers from all over the world and she's only on something like her fourth or fifth ever post. And although I am pleased for her and proud of her, because she's my friend; I can't help but feel (as the long-time blogger in our friendship) I should be blogging more than I do. (Oooh, there's that old chestnut. SHOULD. I try not to use that word, but every so often it just sneaks up on me. I SHOULD do something I really don't have the inspiration/desire/will to do.)
I have a post-it note stuck to my computer screen. It reads:
2013
52 blog posts is the goal
(Dec 2012)
Well, I'm not doing that well so far... it's July, I'm not even halfway there and I've been beating myself up about it, which is ridiculous. My lovely Scottish mate Kris (who posts some of the most hilarious status updates I've ever read on Facebook) ended today's post with a quote from his mother... “If ye've nowt sensible tae say, just shut the fuck up.”
I think I might take that advice and combine it with Chuck's one-eleven vanity card. Whenever I think I should be posting something because I haven't for a while, but I'm struggling to come up with anything even remotely decent, I'm just going to "run one-eleven".
Because I know that sometimes I'll have nothing to say. And that's ok.
Sunday, July 07, 2013
Down with Daphne
I'm not ashamed to admit I read the Daily Mail. Well, at least not on this blog. Ask me if you see me out in public and I may deny it. But here, in the relative anonymity of the blogosphere, I'll 'fess all.
In amongst all the conjecture over when Kate & Will's bub is actually due, what sex it will be and what they'll name it (my picks are July 16, girl and Charlotte because it's the female form of Charles - just in case you were wondering); today I spotted this little gem from the (un-enhanced) mouth of Jane Leeves.
Yes, she-who-is-best-known-for-playing-the-love-of-Niles-life, has spoken out about the obsession with surgery which so many actresses have. The before and after photos of some of them are really quite disturbing. My birthday twin, Nicole Kidman, I am looking firmly in your direction.
Now I'm not saying there's no place in the world for plastic surgery. If your face is mauled by a chimpanzee or you've been the victim of an acid attack, then plastic surgery is a wonderful thing. But if you're freaked out by growing old - especially if you're a Hollywood actress or actor who thinks that the only way to remain employable is to try and slow (or reverse) the natural ageing process, then you're an idiot. And if you undergo surgery and blatantly lie about it (again, looking at you NiKi), then you're double the idiot.
Apart from anything else (and this is where I heartily agree with Ms Leeves), what kind of message is this sending to young women? Firstly, you're endorsing the notion that ageing is something to be avoided at any cost and the only way to succeed in this world is to remain young and beautiful looking. Secondly, you're placing an emphasis on looks, rather than intelligence, or eduction, or talent. And finally, by lying about it, you're duping these same young women into thinking that you're actually ageing naturally without lines or wrinkles.
Of course, it could be argued that it's nobody's business but your own, but you know what? You chose a life of publicity and like it or not, that comes at a price - the price being that you are a role model for millions of people, including young women. Many of you have daughters yourselves. Is this really the message you want to send them?
Thank goodness for women like Helen Mirren, Meryl Street, Cate Blanchett, Diane Keaton, Judi Dench and Toni Collette (amongst others) who are choosing to age gracefully and rely on their hard work and talent to keep them employed.
They're certainly the women I'd prefer my nieces and goddaughters to have amongst their role models.
Along with Jane Leeves of course.
In amongst all the conjecture over when Kate & Will's bub is actually due, what sex it will be and what they'll name it (my picks are July 16, girl and Charlotte because it's the female form of Charles - just in case you were wondering); today I spotted this little gem from the (un-enhanced) mouth of Jane Leeves.
Yes, she-who-is-best-known-for-playing-the-love-of-Niles-life, has spoken out about the obsession with surgery which so many actresses have. The before and after photos of some of them are really quite disturbing. My birthday twin, Nicole Kidman, I am looking firmly in your direction.
Now I'm not saying there's no place in the world for plastic surgery. If your face is mauled by a chimpanzee or you've been the victim of an acid attack, then plastic surgery is a wonderful thing. But if you're freaked out by growing old - especially if you're a Hollywood actress or actor who thinks that the only way to remain employable is to try and slow (or reverse) the natural ageing process, then you're an idiot. And if you undergo surgery and blatantly lie about it (again, looking at you NiKi), then you're double the idiot.
Apart from anything else (and this is where I heartily agree with Ms Leeves), what kind of message is this sending to young women? Firstly, you're endorsing the notion that ageing is something to be avoided at any cost and the only way to succeed in this world is to remain young and beautiful looking. Secondly, you're placing an emphasis on looks, rather than intelligence, or eduction, or talent. And finally, by lying about it, you're duping these same young women into thinking that you're actually ageing naturally without lines or wrinkles.
Of course, it could be argued that it's nobody's business but your own, but you know what? You chose a life of publicity and like it or not, that comes at a price - the price being that you are a role model for millions of people, including young women. Many of you have daughters yourselves. Is this really the message you want to send them?
Thank goodness for women like Helen Mirren, Meryl Street, Cate Blanchett, Diane Keaton, Judi Dench and Toni Collette (amongst others) who are choosing to age gracefully and rely on their hard work and talent to keep them employed.
They're certainly the women I'd prefer my nieces and goddaughters to have amongst their role models.
Along with Jane Leeves of course.
Sunday, June 30, 2013
Salvage
I have a guilty secret. OK, I have many guilty secrets, but the only I'm admitting to today is one I don't share with many people for fear of judgement.
So let's all just agree to leave that old chestnut, judgement, at the door. OK?
Good.
Escape to the Country. I love it. If I'm channel surfing and that pops up on my screen then I HAVE to watch it. Every time. Even if I've seen it before. Some of those houses are amazing. Some are dreadful, but some are just gobsmackingly brilliant and make me want to up sticks and move to the country immediately.
Of course, then I think about the practicalities involved in living in rural Britain and reality sets in. It's unlikely to ever happen. But a girl can dream, can't she?
Anyway... on the episode I'm currently watching, our scrummy host, Jules, is visiting a company called Robert Mills, who salvage church architecture and fittings for resale. I've just had to google them because I was so fascinated. Here's the link. If I'm ever in Bristol, you'd better believe I'll be checking them out.
It wasn't until I watched this episode that I'd ever thought about what happens to the fixtures and fittings of a church when the powers-that-be decide to modernise or deconsecrate it. Thankfully, the people that own this company do. Imagine all that stunning craftsmanship going into a salvage yard, or dumpster. Criminal. Apparently they rent a lot of it out to film productions, which seems like a good idea.
It got me thinking about the reason all these items were discarded in the first place and why (this particular episode dealt with chapel conversions) there seem to be so many people moving into old churches. I guess the decline in church attendance (I suspect like most other 'businesses' for want of a better term) has an effect on whether the church can remain in operation. Unless it's the Catholic Church of course. They've got bucketloads of cash to keep their doors open. But churches that relied on the generosity or patronage of their congregation, must have no option when their numbers dwindle.
I guess that's a reflection on how communities have expanded and no longer revolve around places of worship. I could count on one hand the number of people I know in my generation who regularly attend church. Sure, there are a few who go at Christmas and Easter, but those who attend on a weekly basis (like we used to as kids)? I'd be struggling to come up with any. Maybe it's the circles I now move in, maybe it's the times. It's probably a bit of both. But more likely the times, when you see how many churches are being renovated for residential dwelling.
It's equal parts sad and comforting. On one hand, those beautiful, exquisitely crafted buildings are no longer available for community use. On the other hand, they're being restored and kept intact, albiet as someone's home and that's better than them being totally demolished.
(As an aside... I don't think I could live in an old church. Would creep me out too much.)
But thank goodness there are people like the ones at Robert Mills who keep those gorgeous interior parts around for future generations to appreciate.
So let's all just agree to leave that old chestnut, judgement, at the door. OK?
Good.
Escape to the Country. I love it. If I'm channel surfing and that pops up on my screen then I HAVE to watch it. Every time. Even if I've seen it before. Some of those houses are amazing. Some are dreadful, but some are just gobsmackingly brilliant and make me want to up sticks and move to the country immediately.
Of course, then I think about the practicalities involved in living in rural Britain and reality sets in. It's unlikely to ever happen. But a girl can dream, can't she?
Anyway... on the episode I'm currently watching, our scrummy host, Jules, is visiting a company called Robert Mills, who salvage church architecture and fittings for resale. I've just had to google them because I was so fascinated. Here's the link. If I'm ever in Bristol, you'd better believe I'll be checking them out.
It wasn't until I watched this episode that I'd ever thought about what happens to the fixtures and fittings of a church when the powers-that-be decide to modernise or deconsecrate it. Thankfully, the people that own this company do. Imagine all that stunning craftsmanship going into a salvage yard, or dumpster. Criminal. Apparently they rent a lot of it out to film productions, which seems like a good idea.
It got me thinking about the reason all these items were discarded in the first place and why (this particular episode dealt with chapel conversions) there seem to be so many people moving into old churches. I guess the decline in church attendance (I suspect like most other 'businesses' for want of a better term) has an effect on whether the church can remain in operation. Unless it's the Catholic Church of course. They've got bucketloads of cash to keep their doors open. But churches that relied on the generosity or patronage of their congregation, must have no option when their numbers dwindle.
I guess that's a reflection on how communities have expanded and no longer revolve around places of worship. I could count on one hand the number of people I know in my generation who regularly attend church. Sure, there are a few who go at Christmas and Easter, but those who attend on a weekly basis (like we used to as kids)? I'd be struggling to come up with any. Maybe it's the circles I now move in, maybe it's the times. It's probably a bit of both. But more likely the times, when you see how many churches are being renovated for residential dwelling.
It's equal parts sad and comforting. On one hand, those beautiful, exquisitely crafted buildings are no longer available for community use. On the other hand, they're being restored and kept intact, albiet as someone's home and that's better than them being totally demolished.
(As an aside... I don't think I could live in an old church. Would creep me out too much.)
But thank goodness there are people like the ones at Robert Mills who keep those gorgeous interior parts around for future generations to appreciate.
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
The Politics of Dancing
My mother and I have vastly different political viewpoints. I'm pretty sure I've discussed this before. She is a Liberal voter through and through. My father was too. I never asked, but I'm fairly certain it's a generational thing - ie my grandparents voted Liberal also.
I've never asked my brother who he votes for, but I'd hazard a guess it's Liberal. Probably because "that's who mum and dad voted for and they must be right". He doesn't think about politics too much, bless him. As long as he has a roof over his head, three meals a day, his kids have what they need and he can play cricket each summer, he's not overly bothered with the rest of the world. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so invested in the world around me and could live a simple life like that.
Anyway. When Brutha and I got to voting age, our parents never sat down and talked to us about how to decide who to vote for. We were never encouraged to investigate the policies of each party and decide which one most closely mirrored our own morals and viewpoints. In fact, the only thing I remember being told before I went to cast my first vote in a Federal election was something along the lines of "That Keating's a nasty bloke, don't vote for him".
(My memory's a bit hazy, but I'm fairly sure I voted for the Democrats the first time I ever voted. I have a feeling it was because the mother of one of my school mates (and wife of one of our teachers) was the leader of the party and I really liked her stance on things.)
The Australian political system is in a bit of a mess right now. You've seen the news, you read the internet - you know what's going on. I have many views on the whole thing and there's not enough time in the world to go into detail on all of them, so I'll just focus on one odd comment I received this evening via Facebook.
You see, the more investigation I do into which party I will vote for at the upcoming election, the more I am impressed by the clear, straightforward policies put forward by the Greens. Right at this point in time, they're getting my vote and I doubt that will change. Education, climate change, affordable health care, equal rights, marriage equality, human rights/refugees - they have clear policies on all these topics and I agree with them all.
But then someone said to me: "Why would you bother voting for the Greens? They won't have enough to get into power... it's a wasted vote".
It's not the first time I've heard this - indeed it's an argument my parents used on me when I first started voting. That my choice should (preferably) be Liberal, but if not, it should be Labor, because voting Greens or Democrats or Independent would be a "wasted" vote.
My response to my parents, as it was again tonight is: "Why not?".
What if NO ONE voted for Labor or Liberal and instead EVERYBODY voted for the Greens? What would happen? So many people are so deeply entrenched in this "it's either Labor or Liberal - there's no other choice" viewpoint that they just don't even bother to think outside the square. It's entirely possible that if enough people voted for the Greens, they'd hold a lot more power and a lot more would be achieved in areas that so clearly need it.
What I'd really like to see, come September 14 (if that date stays - who knows with tonight's change of leadership), is for everyone to think outside the box and say "What if?". What if I give my vote to the most deserving party for their clear, rational policies, rather than the party I think is most likely to win anyway?".
But I fear, as a nation, we're not that evolved yet. Certainly we're not nearly evolved as we should be when it comes to equal rights.
But never forget..
The great women (and men) of Texas sure as hell proved that today. What an awesome moment in history.
The next few months sure are going to be interesting...
I've never asked my brother who he votes for, but I'd hazard a guess it's Liberal. Probably because "that's who mum and dad voted for and they must be right". He doesn't think about politics too much, bless him. As long as he has a roof over his head, three meals a day, his kids have what they need and he can play cricket each summer, he's not overly bothered with the rest of the world. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so invested in the world around me and could live a simple life like that.
Anyway. When Brutha and I got to voting age, our parents never sat down and talked to us about how to decide who to vote for. We were never encouraged to investigate the policies of each party and decide which one most closely mirrored our own morals and viewpoints. In fact, the only thing I remember being told before I went to cast my first vote in a Federal election was something along the lines of "That Keating's a nasty bloke, don't vote for him".
(My memory's a bit hazy, but I'm fairly sure I voted for the Democrats the first time I ever voted. I have a feeling it was because the mother of one of my school mates (and wife of one of our teachers) was the leader of the party and I really liked her stance on things.)
The Australian political system is in a bit of a mess right now. You've seen the news, you read the internet - you know what's going on. I have many views on the whole thing and there's not enough time in the world to go into detail on all of them, so I'll just focus on one odd comment I received this evening via Facebook.
You see, the more investigation I do into which party I will vote for at the upcoming election, the more I am impressed by the clear, straightforward policies put forward by the Greens. Right at this point in time, they're getting my vote and I doubt that will change. Education, climate change, affordable health care, equal rights, marriage equality, human rights/refugees - they have clear policies on all these topics and I agree with them all.
But then someone said to me: "Why would you bother voting for the Greens? They won't have enough to get into power... it's a wasted vote".
It's not the first time I've heard this - indeed it's an argument my parents used on me when I first started voting. That my choice should (preferably) be Liberal, but if not, it should be Labor, because voting Greens or Democrats or Independent would be a "wasted" vote.
My response to my parents, as it was again tonight is: "Why not?".
What if NO ONE voted for Labor or Liberal and instead EVERYBODY voted for the Greens? What would happen? So many people are so deeply entrenched in this "it's either Labor or Liberal - there's no other choice" viewpoint that they just don't even bother to think outside the square. It's entirely possible that if enough people voted for the Greens, they'd hold a lot more power and a lot more would be achieved in areas that so clearly need it.
What I'd really like to see, come September 14 (if that date stays - who knows with tonight's change of leadership), is for everyone to think outside the box and say "What if?". What if I give my vote to the most deserving party for their clear, rational policies, rather than the party I think is most likely to win anyway?".
But I fear, as a nation, we're not that evolved yet. Certainly we're not nearly evolved as we should be when it comes to equal rights.
But never forget..
"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."
~ Margaret Mead
The great women (and men) of Texas sure as hell proved that today. What an awesome moment in history.
The next few months sure are going to be interesting...
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Raincheck
I was intending to write a blog post tonight, on some topic that captured my attention earlier in the day.
Instead I worked on a job application, because: (a) I only just noticed it on the website at 7pm; and (b) realised the deadline is tomorrow.
I feel like I've done so many job applications (for this particular place) over the last few months, that I can now churn out a three-page response to selection criteria and cover letter in under two hours.
(Of course none of these jobs have even yet led to the interview stage, which may mean I'm doing it all wrong, but we'll see.)
Just cross your fingers for me.
To quote The Angels about my current job "I gotta get out of this place, if it's the only thing I ever do". Because if my company says I have to go on tour with a certain rock band (touring in December) again, I cannot be held responsible for my actions if said band's tour manager behaves in the sleazy manner he did last time I was on tour with them. He. Is. Foul.
So, yeah. Cross your fingers. And toes.
Muchos gracias.
Instead I worked on a job application, because: (a) I only just noticed it on the website at 7pm; and (b) realised the deadline is tomorrow.
I feel like I've done so many job applications (for this particular place) over the last few months, that I can now churn out a three-page response to selection criteria and cover letter in under two hours.
(Of course none of these jobs have even yet led to the interview stage, which may mean I'm doing it all wrong, but we'll see.)
Just cross your fingers for me.
To quote The Angels about my current job "I gotta get out of this place, if it's the only thing I ever do". Because if my company says I have to go on tour with a certain rock band (touring in December) again, I cannot be held responsible for my actions if said band's tour manager behaves in the sleazy manner he did last time I was on tour with them. He. Is. Foul.
So, yeah. Cross your fingers. And toes.
Muchos gracias.
Monday, June 17, 2013
I not Y; Then not Than
Many things in this world bug me. Injustice towards women and children, politicians without morals, greedy mining magnates who try to control the media, Rupert Murdoch, people who don't say please or thank you... the list is seemingly endless.
Some of the things that bug me are relatively minor. Or should be. But they eat away at me and drive me nuts.
The main one that's been bugging me for the last few days falls into the "actually shouldn't be a thing but it is" category. Yes, I'm talking about my old pals, spelling and grammar. They've been abused quite badly the last few days; mostly by my Facebook friends. I don't know quite why it gets to me so much, but it does. And since I can't really go ballistic about it on Facebook, because I don't want to offend these people who are (seemingly) ignorant as to their faux pas, I really need to get it off my chest somewhere. I'd hazard a guess that there's about four people who read this blog who are actually my friend on FB (and none of them are perpetrators of this particular crime!) so I'm not terribly worried about venting here.
Anyway. Let me provide you with a couple of examples of these grammatical transgressions:
1. Then vs Than
I have one particular friend whose status updates read like a shopping list of her daily achievements (or on the weekends, her social diary). I have no issue with this per say, however her constant misuse of conjunctions drives me insane. "Grocery shopping, than getting a haircut, than a manicure, than lunch with the girls, than beach time...". Part of me just wants to write "THEN NOT THAN YOU MUPPET!" in the comments section, but I'm a little too polite.
2. You're vs Your and It's vs Its
"Wow, look at you're new hair"; "Your going to love the show, its great"; "We took it's collar off for cleaning".
'Nuff said.
3. Names (and how to spell them)
My name is spelled with an 'i' at the end, instead of the more common 'y'. I won't go into the reasons for this, but suffice to say, this spelling has been in place for almost 30 years. Both my work and personal email addresses require the use of the 'i', but this doesn't prevent people from then addressing me in the body of the email using the 'y' variant. Grrrrr. It's not rocket science. Still, at least I'm not being insulted in the same way as two of the (historical) characters from Jesus Christ Superstar, which I (and several of my friends) saw over the weekend. My personal favourite mis-spelled name was 'Pilot' (for Pontius Pilate), followed closely by 'Kyaphus' (for Caiaphas). I realise that not everyone grew up going to church or being beaten over the head with a bible like I was, but please. There was a cast board out front and really? We live in the age of Google. I said it once, I'll say it again.
It's not rocket science.
(Sometimes, I read back what I've written and think to myself "I really do need to lighten up and get a life". Then I realise it's all blog fodder, shrug and hit the 'publish' button.)
Some of the things that bug me are relatively minor. Or should be. But they eat away at me and drive me nuts.
The main one that's been bugging me for the last few days falls into the "actually shouldn't be a thing but it is" category. Yes, I'm talking about my old pals, spelling and grammar. They've been abused quite badly the last few days; mostly by my Facebook friends. I don't know quite why it gets to me so much, but it does. And since I can't really go ballistic about it on Facebook, because I don't want to offend these people who are (seemingly) ignorant as to their faux pas, I really need to get it off my chest somewhere. I'd hazard a guess that there's about four people who read this blog who are actually my friend on FB (and none of them are perpetrators of this particular crime!) so I'm not terribly worried about venting here.
Anyway. Let me provide you with a couple of examples of these grammatical transgressions:
1. Then vs Than
I have one particular friend whose status updates read like a shopping list of her daily achievements (or on the weekends, her social diary). I have no issue with this per say, however her constant misuse of conjunctions drives me insane. "Grocery shopping, than getting a haircut, than a manicure, than lunch with the girls, than beach time...". Part of me just wants to write "THEN NOT THAN YOU MUPPET!" in the comments section, but I'm a little too polite.
2. You're vs Your and It's vs Its
"Wow, look at you're new hair"; "Your going to love the show, its great"; "We took it's collar off for cleaning".
'Nuff said.
3. Names (and how to spell them)
My name is spelled with an 'i' at the end, instead of the more common 'y'. I won't go into the reasons for this, but suffice to say, this spelling has been in place for almost 30 years. Both my work and personal email addresses require the use of the 'i', but this doesn't prevent people from then addressing me in the body of the email using the 'y' variant. Grrrrr. It's not rocket science. Still, at least I'm not being insulted in the same way as two of the (historical) characters from Jesus Christ Superstar, which I (and several of my friends) saw over the weekend. My personal favourite mis-spelled name was 'Pilot' (for Pontius Pilate), followed closely by 'Kyaphus' (for Caiaphas). I realise that not everyone grew up going to church or being beaten over the head with a bible like I was, but please. There was a cast board out front and really? We live in the age of Google. I said it once, I'll say it again.
It's not rocket science.
(Sometimes, I read back what I've written and think to myself "I really do need to lighten up and get a life". Then I realise it's all blog fodder, shrug and hit the 'publish' button.)
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Nyquil Dreaming
I had a weird dream the other night. A Nyquil-induced dream. I was going to try and piece it together here, based on what I tweeted immediately upon wakening, which was:
#Nyquil dreams. Freaking me out yet again. #HaveCold #SleptFourteenHours #LegallyBlonde #ObesePeopleInTrolleys #NavyBluePuppies #SharedLoos
But I really can't remember any of it. I have no idea what the correlation was between Legally Blonde and Obese People In Trolleys, for example. Don't even ask why the obese people were IN trolleys instead of pushing them... I have no idea.
Also, why would puppies be navy blue? I've never seen puppies in any shade of blue, let alone navy. I suppose Shared Loos may feed into my long-held fear of going to a party at someone's house and there not being a lock on the toilet door and having someone barge in on me whilst I'm 'mid-business' (so to speak). But I don't know why I was dreaming about it. I especially don't know what it had to do with puppies and obese people.
No, I think it's safe to say I'm utterly perplexed by this one. The more I mull it over in my mind, the less I remember about it.
But it bugs me.
Still.
#Nyquil dreams. Freaking me out yet again. #HaveCold #SleptFourteenHours #LegallyBlonde #ObesePeopleInTrolleys #NavyBluePuppies #SharedLoos
But I really can't remember any of it. I have no idea what the correlation was between Legally Blonde and Obese People In Trolleys, for example. Don't even ask why the obese people were IN trolleys instead of pushing them... I have no idea.
Also, why would puppies be navy blue? I've never seen puppies in any shade of blue, let alone navy. I suppose Shared Loos may feed into my long-held fear of going to a party at someone's house and there not being a lock on the toilet door and having someone barge in on me whilst I'm 'mid-business' (so to speak). But I don't know why I was dreaming about it. I especially don't know what it had to do with puppies and obese people.
No, I think it's safe to say I'm utterly perplexed by this one. The more I mull it over in my mind, the less I remember about it.
But it bugs me.
Still.
Thursday, June 06, 2013
Under the Influence - Part 1
So the subject of my late-night-lightbulb moment was this (word for word, this is what I scrawled at about 1am):
Influence of childhood authors on later life. ie if you read widely when you're young; will your perspective be broader as an adult? Conversely: if you don't read at all or read only what you have to, to get through the education system, will you be more likely to confirm to society's standards?
Case in point. Brutha & I.
My influences (early):
Judy Blume
Elinor M Brent-Dyer
Enid Blyton
Astrid Lindgren
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Joyce Lankester Brisley
Noel Streatfeild
Elizabeth Enright
(later)
Harper Lee
JD Salinger
Jane Austen
Bret Easton Ellis
That's what I wrote. I'm kinda impressed that not only is it legible, but that it actually makes sense. Also the fact I've given an example of the case of my brother and I, impresses me.
So. Let me expand.
For as long as I can remember, I have been a voracious reader. I don't ever remember not being able to read. It's a long-standing source of pride for my mother that I walked out of my first day of school with the reader we'd been given (which we were told we would "eventually" learn to read) and proceeded to speed-read it aloud in absolute disgust in front of the other mothers, finishing up with a flourishing slam and a "this is a book for babies - when do we get real books to read?". Apparently the other mothers were in awe at my reading level. I didn't notice - I was too busy being pissed off at the pathetic selection of books being offered for my enjoyment. Thankfully, we had an understanding school librarian, who allowed me to borrow from whichever section took my fancy and I was reading from the upper primary school section by the time I was six. By the time I was nine I had read the entire children's section of our local library. Twice. Every year for my birthday (and again at Christmas) I was given at least half a dozen books. When my dad purchased a set of World Book Encyclopaedias, one of my favourite pastimes was to pick a volume at random and just read. If you ever wanted to find me as a child, you didn't need to look far. I'd be the one curled up in a chair with her nose in a book.
It's pretty safe to say, I LOVED reading. I was naturally curious about so many things, and reading answered a lot of the questions that my parents (and teachers) didn't automatically have the answers to. Of course, it also raised loads more questions, so it was a double-edged sword I guess.
Brutha, by contrast, was NOT a natural reader. He had no problems reading, per say, but he couldn't bear to sit still (unless it was on a bean bag in front of the TV at 5pm every afternoon watching Monkey and The Goodies) and spent the majority of his childhood outdoors kicking (hitting/bouncing) a ball or climbing a tree or riding his bike or (once or twice a year) scrounging through the local hard rubbish collection collecting "stuff" which he would use to build things. He read only enough to prevent him getting D's at school and had no interest in the written word. Movies, he loved. He was all about the visual. But even if you bought him a novelised version of Star Wars, you couldn't get him to read it. Reading for enjoyment was not something he subscribed to. I remember his final year of school being quite the battle in our household. I'm sure in his mind, knuckling down to study for exams equalled the worst possible form of torture.
To say we were polar opposites is somewhat of an understatement.
As a child, I lived vicariously through books. I sought adventures to far away places in the words of the authors whose books I inhaled. As an adult, I have been inspired to visit many of the places and undertake many of the activities I read about as a child. My curiosity and sense of adventure can (in no small part) be attributed directly to the words I read as a child. I've travelled widely, studied any number of fascinating subjects in great detail and have a perpetual "what if/imagine that/why is it..." attitude towards life. I rack up frequent flyer points like a business traveller on speed. There are so many places in the world I want to visit that I'm terrified I'll die before I get to see them all. There are so many things I still want to achieve that I worry I'll never fit them all. I haven't lived in my hometown for over twenty years and I have no intention of ever living there again. In fact, I've lived in over twenty different places since I first moved out of home. That's an average of a new place every 12 months. That's not really normal, is it?
By contrast, Brutha lives less than half an hour from the place we grew up. He's worked in many jobs, but until recently, they've not been jobs he's interested in - they've just been a means to paying the bills. Now he's working as a landscape gardener and although he complains that the work is quite physically taxing, he's enjoying it. Brutha has never been overseas (and I highly doubt he'd ever want to). His idea of "travel" is to take his wife and daughters to stay at the in-laws farm which is an hour's drive followed by an hour's ferry trip away from his house. I think the last time he went on a plane was when he went on his honeymoon to North Queensland, which was in the mid-1990s. He didn't much care for that holiday by all accounts. Lying by a pool or exploring a rainforest is not his idea of fun. I'm not entirely sure, because by the time he returned from that trip, I was safely ensconced back in London and planning trips to Scotland (to go in search of the elusive Hamish Macbeth, whiskey and men in kilts) and Switzerland (in search of ski slopes, fondue and the location of the Chalet School books). He is more than happy to spend the remainder of his life doing the job he's doing, doing home improvements, spending his weekends at the local sporting clubs (cricket in summer, hockey in winter) and adding to his (already-ridiculously-huge) collection of Marvel comic memorabilia. Oh yeah. He's also a hoarder (takes after our mother who I swear saves every scrap of anything that crosses her path). Apart from books, I live a pretty uncluttered life. I could pack up my house and be ready to move in a day. Or less.
Our politics are also wildly different. My parents were/are quite conservative. I'm pretty sure my mother voted for John Howard. I've voted for a few different parties over the years... I do a lot of research into who to vote for and why, regardless of party (having said that, you'll never see me voting Liberal/Coalition. Ever.). My mother doesn't agree with my political views (and I abhor hers), but we've learnt to not to get into an argument about them. In contrast, Brutha apparently votes the same way my dad did (which is the same way my mother votes). No questions asked. Just tick the box. It's not important. Keep the status quo. Don't get involved with that stuff.
Yep. If we didn't share a physical resemblance, I'd swear we weren't related.
Which brings me to the subject at hand. I guess it's a nature vs nurture thing? Or is it? We have the same parents, were raised in the same household. Yet our outlooks on everything are vastly different. I can't even begin to understand how he's happy (and he is happy) with his day-to-day life; and he is totally bamboozled by my constant need for new experiences, to explore the world and to look at life from a global perspective.
Wow. I've just scrolled back through what I've written and it's long. And that's just the intro. I haven't even started on the main argument. Maybe I'll make this a two part post and let this one sink in first.
Well done if you've made it this far... stay tuned for Part 2!
Influence of childhood authors on later life. ie if you read widely when you're young; will your perspective be broader as an adult? Conversely: if you don't read at all or read only what you have to, to get through the education system, will you be more likely to confirm to society's standards?
Case in point. Brutha & I.
My influences (early):
Judy Blume
Elinor M Brent-Dyer
Enid Blyton
Astrid Lindgren
Laura Ingalls Wilder
Joyce Lankester Brisley
Noel Streatfeild
Elizabeth Enright
(later)
Harper Lee
JD Salinger
Jane Austen
Bret Easton Ellis
That's what I wrote. I'm kinda impressed that not only is it legible, but that it actually makes sense. Also the fact I've given an example of the case of my brother and I, impresses me.
So. Let me expand.
For as long as I can remember, I have been a voracious reader. I don't ever remember not being able to read. It's a long-standing source of pride for my mother that I walked out of my first day of school with the reader we'd been given (which we were told we would "eventually" learn to read) and proceeded to speed-read it aloud in absolute disgust in front of the other mothers, finishing up with a flourishing slam and a "this is a book for babies - when do we get real books to read?". Apparently the other mothers were in awe at my reading level. I didn't notice - I was too busy being pissed off at the pathetic selection of books being offered for my enjoyment. Thankfully, we had an understanding school librarian, who allowed me to borrow from whichever section took my fancy and I was reading from the upper primary school section by the time I was six. By the time I was nine I had read the entire children's section of our local library. Twice. Every year for my birthday (and again at Christmas) I was given at least half a dozen books. When my dad purchased a set of World Book Encyclopaedias, one of my favourite pastimes was to pick a volume at random and just read. If you ever wanted to find me as a child, you didn't need to look far. I'd be the one curled up in a chair with her nose in a book.
It's pretty safe to say, I LOVED reading. I was naturally curious about so many things, and reading answered a lot of the questions that my parents (and teachers) didn't automatically have the answers to. Of course, it also raised loads more questions, so it was a double-edged sword I guess.
Brutha, by contrast, was NOT a natural reader. He had no problems reading, per say, but he couldn't bear to sit still (unless it was on a bean bag in front of the TV at 5pm every afternoon watching Monkey and The Goodies) and spent the majority of his childhood outdoors kicking (hitting/bouncing) a ball or climbing a tree or riding his bike or (once or twice a year) scrounging through the local hard rubbish collection collecting "stuff" which he would use to build things. He read only enough to prevent him getting D's at school and had no interest in the written word. Movies, he loved. He was all about the visual. But even if you bought him a novelised version of Star Wars, you couldn't get him to read it. Reading for enjoyment was not something he subscribed to. I remember his final year of school being quite the battle in our household. I'm sure in his mind, knuckling down to study for exams equalled the worst possible form of torture.
To say we were polar opposites is somewhat of an understatement.
As a child, I lived vicariously through books. I sought adventures to far away places in the words of the authors whose books I inhaled. As an adult, I have been inspired to visit many of the places and undertake many of the activities I read about as a child. My curiosity and sense of adventure can (in no small part) be attributed directly to the words I read as a child. I've travelled widely, studied any number of fascinating subjects in great detail and have a perpetual "what if/imagine that/why is it..." attitude towards life. I rack up frequent flyer points like a business traveller on speed. There are so many places in the world I want to visit that I'm terrified I'll die before I get to see them all. There are so many things I still want to achieve that I worry I'll never fit them all. I haven't lived in my hometown for over twenty years and I have no intention of ever living there again. In fact, I've lived in over twenty different places since I first moved out of home. That's an average of a new place every 12 months. That's not really normal, is it?
By contrast, Brutha lives less than half an hour from the place we grew up. He's worked in many jobs, but until recently, they've not been jobs he's interested in - they've just been a means to paying the bills. Now he's working as a landscape gardener and although he complains that the work is quite physically taxing, he's enjoying it. Brutha has never been overseas (and I highly doubt he'd ever want to). His idea of "travel" is to take his wife and daughters to stay at the in-laws farm which is an hour's drive followed by an hour's ferry trip away from his house. I think the last time he went on a plane was when he went on his honeymoon to North Queensland, which was in the mid-1990s. He didn't much care for that holiday by all accounts. Lying by a pool or exploring a rainforest is not his idea of fun. I'm not entirely sure, because by the time he returned from that trip, I was safely ensconced back in London and planning trips to Scotland (to go in search of the elusive Hamish Macbeth, whiskey and men in kilts) and Switzerland (in search of ski slopes, fondue and the location of the Chalet School books). He is more than happy to spend the remainder of his life doing the job he's doing, doing home improvements, spending his weekends at the local sporting clubs (cricket in summer, hockey in winter) and adding to his (already-ridiculously-huge) collection of Marvel comic memorabilia. Oh yeah. He's also a hoarder (takes after our mother who I swear saves every scrap of anything that crosses her path). Apart from books, I live a pretty uncluttered life. I could pack up my house and be ready to move in a day. Or less.
Our politics are also wildly different. My parents were/are quite conservative. I'm pretty sure my mother voted for John Howard. I've voted for a few different parties over the years... I do a lot of research into who to vote for and why, regardless of party (having said that, you'll never see me voting Liberal/Coalition. Ever.). My mother doesn't agree with my political views (and I abhor hers), but we've learnt to not to get into an argument about them. In contrast, Brutha apparently votes the same way my dad did (which is the same way my mother votes). No questions asked. Just tick the box. It's not important. Keep the status quo. Don't get involved with that stuff.
Yep. If we didn't share a physical resemblance, I'd swear we weren't related.
Which brings me to the subject at hand. I guess it's a nature vs nurture thing? Or is it? We have the same parents, were raised in the same household. Yet our outlooks on everything are vastly different. I can't even begin to understand how he's happy (and he is happy) with his day-to-day life; and he is totally bamboozled by my constant need for new experiences, to explore the world and to look at life from a global perspective.
Wow. I've just scrolled back through what I've written and it's long. And that's just the intro. I haven't even started on the main argument. Maybe I'll make this a two part post and let this one sink in first.
Well done if you've made it this far... stay tuned for Part 2!
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