All Fired Up

In a recent Podcast, I heard one of my bloggybuddies become quite heated about the fact that crime in Australia and the UK has blown out of control in no small part due to their strict gun licensing laws. Of course the conversation was precipitated by his defence of gun ownership in light of recent events in Virginia . . . not unusual in the States or here in fact, we've all had our massacres where some nutter gets hold of a firearm and wreaks havoc. Same said psychopath or sociopath, would have found a way to commit these crimes with or without a gun. Crikey, you can build a bomb from instructions on the net!

However, to say that crime rates have 'blown out of all proportion' in Australia is simply not true.

Before you get your knickers in a not big guy, I have no real opinion on gun ownership other than I believe the person owning a firearm for sport, work or pleasure should be heavily vetted before being allowed to purchase a weapon that can be great fun in the right hands but a pariah when owned by the disenchanted, socially outcast or mentally unstable and I have no doubt that you are a safe and careful firearm user.

After some significant research however, I discovered some interesting facts about gun ownership and crime in Australia:

• Gun deaths have declined by 30% since 1995 and the gun buy-back and tightening regulations. Violent crime is also in decline. The annual average of non accidental gunshot deaths has dropped from 93 in 1996 has to just over 55 per year
• Crime in Australia across the board has decreased
• The 2005 National Household Survey on Drugs shows that illicit drug use has decreased. (Notwithstanding our current ICE problem)
• In the past two years, there has been a 29 per cent decrease in armed robberies. Burglaries have also been declining over this period.
• 42% of organisations surveyed experienced a harmful computer security incident and the virus/worm/trojan infection was the most frequently encountered type of cybercrime indicating white collar crime is on the rise.
• We have fewer than 300 gunshot deaths a year many of which are accidental police shootings, suicides or accidental rural shootings.

Legislation does have an impact on gun killings according to recent research.

In Australia, recreational shooting is not considered negatively but then again, the gun lobby here is small. Licenses are granted to farmers to control pigs, foxes, rabbits, brumbies and kangaroos. Social or sporting shooters are also easily licensed but have to be members of a club - indeed, we have two Olympic Gold Medallists in shooting of whom we are very proud.

I know it's a hot topic and I don't know what the solution is but stricter controls have worked over here. From what I understand, the right to bear arms within the US Constitution is a ticklish issue. It isn't written into ours. We came here as unarmed convicts and famine ridden settlers so the culture of gun ownership isn't historically entrenched. Whereas the US has a long historical tradition of the gun from early occupation by the English, French and Spanish through to the taming of the west and the Civil War (Australia is one of the only nations in the world to achieve Federation via a vote rather than a Civil War). Such a long tradition and the 'right' to own a gun is so entrenched in the American culture that it will be impossible to legislate any differently.

That having been said, psychos and the mob will always find a gun on the black market. But for the rest of us let's insist on strict profiling prior to issuing a license and addressing the social issues behind the perceived 'need' to own a gun. It is true, guns don't kill people, people do - but they're a very effective tool for destruction in the wrong hands.

No hard feelings now Podcasters. And we're not perfect, historically we did use guns to decimate our indigenous population which to this day is treated abysmally because they are a largely silent minority but that is for another blog, another day.

Love your work!

Be Careful What You Order

Lest We Forget and Bitchslap To Tuesday

Tomorrow is a significant public holiday, ANZAC Day when we remember the contribution of service men and women since WWI. The day focuses largely on the debacle at Gallipoli during the battle with the Turks during WW1 when Australian and New Zealand Army Corps were forced through bad planning and silly arrogance to launch a suicidal assault ANZAC Cove. This day has almost become our surrogate national day with dawn services, cross city marches including current and ex-service people, shops and businesses closed until 1.00pm and then drunken celebrations including that age-old gambling game 'two-up'.

The sad thing is that the focus is so largely and squarely placed on this one battle that we forget the many other conflicts that our service people have engaged in and are still engaging in, particularly in East Timor, Solomon Islands, Iraq and Afghanistan. It's as if no other soldier ever fought except the 'Diggers' at Gallipoli which incidentally was an absolute disaster, an embarrassment, yet we still celebrate it.

Recently a number of old soldiers attended a ceremony in France to commemorate the thousands of Aussie troops who died on the French Front, particularly in the Somme. Not one consulate official from Australia, nor any dignitary (I use the term loosely - this is what happens to politicians when they leave the front bench) attended the event much to the chagrin of the elderly Aussies attending. Yet tomorrow, they'll all be out to March wearing their Vietnam medals or their father's and grandfather's gold badges of courage, mixing it with the vets, shaking hands and kissing babies. It's an insult to the solemnity of the event.

I don't like war, I don't condone it but sometimes you just get stuck in it. And when you do, it's important to support those who are or have been on the front line. So, I'll be watching the parade tomorrow and sparing a thought for our kids overseas no matter how small our contingent. It's important that we commemorate these events but a real shame that it doesn't stop history repeating - Lest We Forget.


Now, on a less profound level, I was pondering how different things might be if women went into battle, it would be more like preparing for the sales.

• First, we'd design practical but attractive uniforms with a little metallic or lace trim.
• We'd plan everything meticulously before-hand including a list of our expectations and a discreet exit strategy. Every soldier would have a clean pair of knickers (you don't want to be wounded with dirty underwear) and $50 in their pocket for a taxi home.
• We wouldn't be afraid to ask for directions on the way to the front and would very probably get lost a few times before we actually arrived, cutting down actual battle time significantly
• Once facing the enemy, we'd probably decide to have a little sit down, a Cappucino and some Raisin Toast to give us an energy boost before the assault.
• We'd reapply the lip gloss
• Change into our sensible shoes and wait patiently for the appropriate countdown before rushing over to the enemy screaming blue murder and flailing arms
• We'd then determinedly bitch slap them to Tuesday, smearing their mascara and humiliating them into defeat.
• We'd retreat, straighten our hair, slip into something more comfortable, reapply the lip gloss and go home to finish the washing, pick the kids up from school and prepare dinner.

Mission accomplished.

The Lady of Assumption

I put a rather sarcastic comment on one of my fantabulousbloggyfriend's latest post and I sort of regretted it as soon as I'd done it (there I go again - foot in mouth disease). Suggesting that something nice written about America by an Australian was not highly on the cards. But it got me thinking about the assumptions I make about residents of distant nations. (Something ClareBear berates me about frequently - I am the Lady of Assumption - no offence to the Catholic readers).

The old notions, the English are dirty, the Irish are stupid, the Chinese spit in the kitchen sink, Americans are Hawaiian shirted parochials, Samoans are wife bashers, Arabs are terrorists, Greeks smell of garlic - it's really not the case. I thought, "How many people from different nations do I really know, have I come in close contact with and really understand". Actually, very few. I have met one Malaysian moslem, quite a few Chinese Australians, mainly due to the high asian influence in the area in which I live, my doctor is Indian, I work with a Polish Argentinian, an Irishman, a Mauritian an Italian and a South African. One of my dear friends is a Cypriot and another a Macedonian, my family by marriage has a strong German and Welsh connection and I have a load of Greek and Italian friends but that's about it. So I judge their nationhood based solely on them and their representation of their homeland. Really, apart from the tourists one meets abroad, I've only had close contact with one American family.

They were lovely. Mum, Dad and two kids who's Hotel had let them down after booking tickets and flights to attend the Sydney Olympics in 2000, a friend who owned a hotel and had taken their frantic plea for accommodation to heart rang me, knowing my living situation. Our house is more of a compound. A main house where Babybro, Stressany and their progeny now live and my house, divided only by a pool room and entertaining area so could be made really self-contained and the perfect location for Olympic venues. . .I agreed to this family staying in my house for two weeks while the Olympics were on. They paid handsomley and I scored a new microwave and outdoor BBQ table and some fresh linen for them to sleep in. I also agreed to drive them to the appropriate bus locations so that they could meet their events. They were terrific ambassadors for their country.

This isn't an apology, just a recognition that my assumptions about a people are rarely true to form. He was a solicitor, his wife an educator but not wealthy. He defended Washington State farmers from improper land acquisition for development. Their kids were normal, happy 14 and 16 year olds attending government schools and we had quite a few nice encounters with them from BBQ's to taking them shopping at the local mall. I haven't kept in touch, mainly my own slackness, they sent me a Christmas card that year but I guess I was just their landlady for a short time but to the Perkins Family, you were a credit to your nation, sweet, intelligent, patriotic, informative and good company and not at all the brash Americans that we in Australia tend to associate with that leviathon of a nation.

There is a groundswell here that Americans are all parochial, gun-toting, uninformed, domineering and brash. "Oh do you speak Aboriginal", (you can buy T-shirts in Europe that claim "There are no Kangaroos in Austria".

However, that hasn't been my experience either in America or at home. I correspond with a few Americans and they don't fit my assumptive mould. Who could blame them for thinking we're a nation of beer-swilling, khaki clad crocodile wrestlers with foul mouths and a love of bottom feeding seafood. But Brian . . .I have to keep the 'anti torch' burning. Don't take me too seriously. I still want to have a wine tasting in your basement!

Getting Fired Up is Part of the Game

Or is it? Australia is a nation of sportspeople both participants and armchair experts, of which I am none. Our commercial news each evening is dominated by 10 minutes of local, 5 minutes of overseas headlines and 15 minutes of bloody sport. Usually dominated by a little known game called Rugby League and which 110kg twit has been reported to the 'tribunal' for misdemeanors. Now this game is rough, there's no padding except maybe a box to protect the fleshy bits and a bit of ankle strapping. You grab a funny shaped ball, run a few metres then a bunch of thigh grabbing leviathans drag you to the ground and make you pass the ball backwards. I think you can do this 8 times before you have to run over the 'try' line and convert the goal with a kick. Duh! I'ts hardly rocket science.

It's players are not intellectual giants but big boofheads with broken noses, cauliflower ears and an inability to pronounce 'th' in any way uvver van 'f'.

Then there's Aussie Rules or Arial Ping Pong. Similar to rugby only the players jump to 'mark' the ball and there's more kicking than tackling. The latest fraccas is in relation to sledging, trash-talking, verbally insulting each other on the field took place between two AFL players but it's pretty indicative of what happens all the time.

Player 1: See that tatoo on your arm? (tattoo of young girl). I boffed her last night!"
Player 2: That's my daughter you fug *biffs said sledger on the nose for his trouble*

Both are called before the Aussie Footy League Tribunal and let off because it's a blatent case of he said, he said.

This little incident in one of last week's games has caused a whole debate on whether sledging is an issue or not. When I was an ankle biter, sledging was something you did in the snowy hills during winter on a wooden contraption made by your dad out of building site wood and copper piping for the runners - but here, it's verbal 'abuse' (and I use the term loosely) a sports crime. It happens on the footy field, in cricket, on the tennis court. These so called 'elite' sportspeople are tough, trained, skilled (well that's arguable in the world of Rugby League) so why are they so 'sensitive' on the pitch. The same players are constantly being hauled over the coals for bad behaviour in public, drunken brawls, sexual assault, drunk driving and the like but someone says "can't bowl, can't bat" or calls you a "curry muncher" or "you've got a head like a bowling ball" and all hell breaks loose, precious little possums.

Personally, I'm a lover of sledging . . .I liked the McEnroe's and Connor's of the world having a tanty on the court, tennis has become so polite since their departure. I love to see a cricketer brought to tears because someone says he bowls like a girl . . . bring it on . . .but please . . . take it off the TV, it's hardly a world event and definitely not worthy of so much time during our all too brief newscasts.

Fragrant Wafts

I was flicking through Head Ramblings posts this morning and came across one where he lamented his allergy to fragrance, household or personal and how uncomfortable the waft of perfume or air freshener made him feel and having lived with allergy girl for so long, I understand what it's like. But . . . I love perfume. One of life's little luxuries is that small bottle of essence that makes you feel feminine, sexy, alluring, not for anyone else but for yourself. I have a very sensitive sense of smell. Odoriforous or otherwise. I can smell lizard poo from 20 paces and the waft of a cheap perfume which makes me wretch but I can also appreciate the nuances of a beautifully constructed fragrance. Jean Duprez' Balle a Versailles, Chanel No. 5 or Bulgari White then the American tang of Calvin Klien's Escape. I used to get anyone travelling overseas to bring me back some exotic pong but now I've discovered strawberry.net and can buy it cheaper than duty free. The key is to waft, not drown. You want to leave a linger, not a flood.

My apologies in the highest to the olfactory challenged and the sensitive and If I know that's your state, like when you visit Thailand and mingle with the Buddhist tigers, no fragrance no make-up no garish clothings to offend the great cat's sense of smell I will refrain from spraying myself with that mist of civet or ambergris . . otherwise, it's part of the daily ritual and as important as soft toilet tissue. I love my French perfume . . .melts, oil burners and air fresheners or even just the natural scent of orange jasmine on a warm night, wafting through my bedroom window. Even now, in the autumn, I can smell the gardenias, on their last legs but still producing that seductive summer wave of fragrance.

Rock On

Joe Walsh, Rocky Mountain Way, George Thorogood Born to be Bad, The Who, Won't Get Fooled Again . . .and that show stopper B52's Love Shack . . .They'll get people on the dance floor . . . won't they? The CD launch playlist is under construction. DrummerBoy asked what songs he should load on his iPod after his band plays their launch live act in a few weeks because he wanted some dance music, something that 19 to 25 year olds would want to get their rocks off to - now that's a very specific demographic:

Me: "Adam, I'm 50 years old what do I know about dance music"
DrummerBoy: "Yeh but your cool, you know what chicks like . . "
ME; "Well better talk to your sister, her playlist is more doof doof"
DrummerBoy: "Ok but when we rehearse before the show will you stand out front and give us some constructive criticism on the sound levels . . "
Me: "OMG, I'm an ageing roady . . .I need a black T-shirt - testing, testing,
one two three . . ."

*bless*

No seriously, I think we'll go for Panic at the Disco, Block Party, Gorillaz, Gotye, Chemical Brothers and maybe a little Hill Top Hoods . . . definitely no Sting . . Eric Clapton or ACDC (except maybe It's a Long Way to the Top if you Wanna Rock ' n' Roll ) which is affectionately known here as It's a Long Way to the Shop if You Want a Sausage Roll . . . I'm more in touch than I thought.

I once sought out an 'older person' at a Smashing Pumpkins concert and latched onto a grey bearded bikie because I thought I looked younger than him . . .

Alone vs Lonely

I’ve been ‘alone’ for a long time now. I quite like time to myself and as the kids get older and more independent, there’s more of it. I can walk around in the nude (not that I do but I could if I wanted), talk to myself about all sorts of fantasy subjects, sing loudly albeit badly, start drinking earlier than is probably healthy, watch the DVD’s of my choice, blog when ready and watch my arts program on Sunday afternoons without complaints. I can choose to go out if I want to or curl up on the couch. I am mistress of my own destiny. Only money stops me doing what I really want to do.

I’ve always said that I’m alone but never lonely. Although now I seem to have too much time to myself, especially on the weekends. I am beginning to get a little lonely. DrummerBoy works on Saturdays and parties hard on Saturday night so he rarely surfaces before Sunday afternoon. He’s involved now with the Fringelet so even if he is in recovery mode they’re generally scoffing Portuguese Chicken Burgers (good hangover cure apparently) or veging in the pool room together. The scenario is much the same with ClareBear although she does often come with me to Babysis’ place on Saturday mornings for coffee and girltalk. Her weekends are full and I only see her fleetingly.

But by 4.00 on Saturday afternoon, the chores of the day done, I’m twiddling my thumbs. There’s plenty I could do to keep me busy, but nothing that keeps me company other than ThePrincess of course (I speak fluent labrador so we have great conversations on the way to and from the washing line).

People have often asked me why I never married again. Well firstly, nobody has asked me! And secondly . . . it took a l-o-n-g time for me to feel the need for a relationship.

When the partner you really love dies there isn’t the same resentment or need to get back on the proverbial horse. In the beginning, I was young, slim, reasonably attractive, financially independent but just wasn’t ready. I wasn’t deserted, there was no other woman, no hatred, no vindictiveness, no pressure just this overwhelming sadness and the feeling that if I did meet someone, I would somehow be betraying my previous relationship. I also had two small children who became my absolute focus. I was embroiled with a bevy of stay-at-home yummy mummys so went to Playgroup on Wednesdays, played tennis on Thursdays, had drinks on Fridays, made my own baby food, started sewing, built a house and spent quality time with my growing family. Socialising comprised weekends camping, extended family do's, BBQ’s with friends and a plethora of children's birthday parties, largely with married and/or divorced women so no availability of single men.

Then once I’d built my house, I went back to work. Firstly for stimulation but not long after because I needed the money. Basically for 15 years, my life was family, work and married friends. The single friends I had, and there were a few, were at least 10-15 years my junior so it was fun, not flirtatious.

I woke up one morning and 18 years had gone by. Toddlers became teenagers and teenagers became twenty’s. They became more independent. I’d become financially indebted. My friends felt uncomfortable with ‘singles’ (not you Thommo, you’ve never let me down) and I’d let old acquaintances slip whilst I’d been absorbed in my own private Idaho.

So now I’m in the unenviable position of actually feeling lonely more often than not. I’m not alone (I live with seven people for crying out loud) but I am beginning to rekindle relationships with people that I haven’t seen for ages and I have a collection of terrific friends from my previous place of work but I’m slack and don’t play with them as often as I should. Time now to get back in the saddle. Who knows Mr Right might be out there or even Mr You'll Do. Unfortunately, he’s now 50 something (a real problem because until I look in the mirror I’m sure I’m the silf-like, raven-haired beauty of my imagination). The more mature male is also either having a pacemaker fitted, embarking on an affair with someone half his age, happily married or commitment phobic after his very expensive divorce . . . Ah well, that shouldn’t stop me swinging a leg over that proverbial horse . . . the problem is, I just can't do it these days without standing on a milk crate!

Avoid the Abstract

My horoscope this morning recommended that I not think abstract thoughts but concentrate on simple realities. So after I looked abstract up in the dictionary and realised that I didn't really understand the word therefore couldn't possibly write abstract thoughts down, simple creature that I am, I shall stick to the reality of my mundane Saturday:

• Change the sheets and doona covers
• Do about 6 loads of washing and peg it on the line after turning countless pairs of socks the right way out (that really shits me)
• Dust and damp wipe all surfaces (except those in the kids rooms because I can't see any)
• Clean the bathrooms and toilets
• Vaccum and sweep the floorspace that is visible (again not an issue in the kids rooms)
• Wash the slate floors (living areas and bathrooms)
• Have a smoko and a cup of coffee with my sister and check the welfare of our horses
• Come back home and crank up the leaf blower
• Check that there aren't ducks fouling the pool, backwash and chlorinate
• Throw out this week's recycle stuff (mainly empties)
• Bring in the 6 loads of washing only to find that DrummerBoy has another load in the back of his car
• Duck out to the shops for something for dinner (I usually eat alone on Saturday so it's an opportunity for something a little out of the ordinary) and of course the mandatory two bottles of bubbly and evening dose of cigarettes
• That my friends is the reality of my Saturday and by this time, I'll be ready to check the blogs, pour a glass and relax.

Is this real enough?

Totally Fucked

I knew today would be crap. It started badly and continued to decline. I feel awful, sunken, my heart is in my throat because I made a massive faux pas and I can't eat. Even attempts to get drunk are useless so here I am, blogging before bedtime. At about 11:00, ElderStatesman rang me, he works from home on Thursdays - he was furious - he wanted a meeting with each of the business principals to discuss my 'thoughts' and hasty actions. A week before my leave, I was stressed, 30% of my position was being taken away from me and I didn't really know why other than I'd said when I had the money, I'd like to wind back a little. So the decision was made to transition a lot of my duties to someone else. I was about to go on leave, having lost control of some pressing issues with the new, and I acknowledge very capable, incumbent of my Practice Manager responsibilities. BossTwo was driving me crazy with micromanagement his vehement objection at not having enough support, obsession with over informative spreadsheets and I was pre-menstrual and in dire need of a short break. A heady combination of bad vibes. I complained heartily about BossTwo's micromanagement to my friend, I bitched about my new incumbent and the ensuing power struggle within the office 'quadrangle' in two emails. Prophetically, I did the unthinkable, I thought the thoughts, then I articulated them then I sent the blessed emails erroneously to the recipients of my wrath. Yep. Major stuff up. The Executive Assistant who had snapped at me that morning received the email intended for ClareBear expressing my exacerbation at losing control and the slowness with which other staff had reacted to a new initiative. And, BossTwo had received my email to my girlf (who works in the same building) lamenting his 'testy' disposition and my frustration at his unwillingness to back off a little. I was the Practice Manager after all . . .just leave it to Beaver and let me do my job.

I had absolutely no idea that these emails had been sent to the recipients of my criticism until that call from the Elder Statesman . . .why the protaganists went to him instead of confronting me, I don't know and why he waited almost 2 weeks to broach the subject is even more of a mystery.

Maybe I'm not the team leader and popular influencer that I thought I was but . . . the phone call was clear "we need to talk about this and our confidence in your ability etc. etc." Absolutely contrite, guilty, embarrassed and completely hammered, I immediately issued a heartfelt apology to both the recipients. I've been getting on really well with BossTwo lately despite a rough early start and didn't want to jeopardise our business relationship any further. They were gracious and replied with warming testimonials, forgiveness was theirs to bestow and they did, both acknowledging that they valued my business acumen, liked working with me and understood that sometimes these things happen. I apologised profusely and they accepted with grace and candour.

TheBoss however, was horrified "Fuck Nell, not again" (like I do this all the time). He had his own agenda and this was the last thing he needed. Now I had someone else to apologise to. The blood rose to his forehead visibly as I spoke with him and he discarded me with disgust. I was gutted.

Now tomorrow, I face the firing squad, literally. I'm afraid I might lose my job over this. Not because the content of the emails was that bad but because I've inaugurated questions about my 'ability' 'confidentiality' 'sensitivity' and might not be the right person for the position. And The ElderStatesman also has a problem with me over a previous contretemps on a personal level. I've spent the afternoon in tears, feeling sick and thinking that if I get fired I'm in more than a pickle and the alternatives are daunting - one thing I am, is well insured. I am low . . . very low . . .I hate being redressed like a schoolgirl but this was a biggy. I'm not the only one with these sentiments, just the only one stupid enough to articulate them and forward them to the parties concerned. 'Fucking idiot' doesn't cut the mustard.

The world will turn, the sun will rise, Iraquis will still blow each other up, Grandpa's will kiss their grandchildren and blogs will continue but I'm feeling like I've comitted some awful crime and tomorrow, at 3.00pm I will have to plead with my life to keep a job upon which I totally depend. That in itself is such a debilitating need. I am soft, stupid, careless . . . and even though those who have forgiven me have done so with candour and honesty . . . the ElderStatesman will not be so gentle, he wants me to squirm and I will. I hate working for other people. I wish I'd had the guts to start my own business when I was younger and in less debt. I feel land-locked and useless and totally guilty (justifiably so) for this stupid error.

I'm really sorry guys. It was indescreet and totally fucked up. But I'm human . . .to err is human, to forgive is devine. God I wish I wasn't an atheist. And I need a hug from someone.

Cotton Wool Head

It's one of those days. ClareBear went off to the gym at 5:30am so I was woken early and everything got discombobulated. It's only 8:18 am and already I have sprayed lavender air freshener under my armpits because it was sitting next to my deodorant, left my socks in the fridge because I was distracted grabbing milk for my morning cup of Irish breadfast tea, forgot to put on my mascara, drove to work at 40kms because I was on auto pilot and not realising that school holiday traffic is much lighter than the usual peak hour then forgot my 4 digit alarm code and set off the bloody alarm . . . . it doesn't get better than that!

So What are Tampons Really For?

This is a bit of a ramble because I haven't really got these ideas clear in my head so there's a bit of cross-pollination and mental confusion. I hope you can make sense of it.

Here we have extremely relaxed censorship laws. Our TV stations have a code of conduct in terms of advertising and explicit material which cannot be played prior to 8.00pm with the exception of video clips showing bags of booty and sexually explicit posturing - Damn those Pussy Cat Dolls (but that's a topic for another blog and the Bratz brigade). Apart from that, we have a variety of TV stations, some more 'liberal' than others, particularly the public stations ABC and SBS and similarly radio stations which are explicit, particularly in terms of politics, sexuality and language. Similarly, pornography is easily accessible via DVD or magazine and of course the net and indeed, we have a whole suburb in Sydney dedicated to the sex industry.

Funnily even before the 8.00 curfew I know that to get an erection, all I need is a nasal spray and to get pregnant I just need to call a certain fertility clinic. Although apparently if I use a tampon it will enable me to get the hunky guy, enjoy the outdoor life, look good in a g-string (thong for yous foreigners) and a slinky dress but nowhere in the advertisement are they allowed to tell me where this little stringed pellet goes or what on earth it is for! I digress.

Political censorship is rife on commercial channels who rely on sponsorship deals to survive and constant US feeds of biased republican reporting via CNN and friends that shows only one side of every story. (Not to mention the barrage of nasty US shows such as CSI, SVU, Greys Anatomy, Oprah, Dr Phil, Jordan's Crossing, Bones bloody hell the list goes on - why pick on the US, theres also The Bill, The East Enders, Miss Marple et al - thank God for The Simpsons, House, MythBusters, Black Books and Smack the Pony!) And I'm not even going to get into the abject lies often told by tabloid journalists - I've touched on that before.

The one jewel in the crown is single free to air multi-cultural channel and it's fantastic and presents a balanced world view from many perspectives.

I'm talking free to air here - I don't have Foxtel or Sky or any of the other cable TV packages.

I've never believed in censorship other than hard core porn and violence. If you don't like something, walk away, turn it off or don't read it.

Even when my family was young, they were permitted to watch videos beyond their age and were exposed to current affairs and the news providing there was parental supervision and the opportunity for explanation (although I found one way to clear a room of youngsters is to put on a current affairs program or a bloody horror film) and apart from washing my six year old's mouth out with soap for swearing at me and confiscating a couple of those awful porn magazines gleaned from an adjacent building site (you know the ones with shots of skanky girlfriends in compromising positions) . . . censorship at home has been loose. This has led to broad discussion on a wide range of topics, an incredible openness in my relationship with my kids and the devlepment of well adjusted young adults who are comfortable in their own skins.

This having been said, censorship exists in a far more insidious way - it has now been disguised as political correctness and has in many cases been legislated via anti-vilification laws and the establishment of tribunals for media whereby just one complaint can shut down a show, remove a billboard or cause the demise of a TV/Radio personality.

How we describe people of different race, colour or sexual orientation is a very sensitive issue, particularly in relation to the Aboriginal and Middle Eastern community. The recent American sportscaster's demise due to naming a basket ball team 'nappy headed hos' is a perfect example of a silly man making a silly comment that has blown into global proportions. How we represent children and women in public advertising is another touchy subject, yet we will repatriate a released paedophile with a new persona just 200kms from a primary school and advertise Lee jeans with an obviously underage provocatively posed girl sucking a lollipop! Explain that one to your tween.

This I find in my neck of the woods is exacerbated by the pentacostal and Anglican 'rightwing' who are having a greater influence on politics and policy. Without offending the Irish Catholic contingency who review this blog . . .my ethics are fine. Yes they probably are grounded in my early Christian upbringing but I am an atheist - I still have principals and a moral code and good manners without these religious ratbags or conservative policy makers trying to tell me how to live my life, educate my children, modify my lifestyle or 'serve' my husband (if I had one) and I refuse to take the good book literally or revert to the precious days of "Good Housekeeping" and misogynistic practices - sorry I told you it was a rant.

This now brings me to the blogstory that was bandied earlier in the week and the idea of not just establishing but possibly legislating a code of conduct for bloggers. Good bloody luck. To me the beauty of blogging is the lack of control and censorship and while I'm sure there are a whole bunch of weirdos out their spruiking their perversions, I treat it generally as a way of communicating with electronic pen pals. It's far more anonymous than actually using snail mail and if people want to be known to you, they can reveal their details. It all boils down to one basic dictum "Common sense" which is of course unusually uncommon. And, I agree with others, the minute you force me to do something, the hackles rise up and it's game on.

I agree with my fellow blogpals that I am capable of self regulation, I won't write anything that hurts others physically or emotionally (unless it's intentional). I just want to vent a little of myself, make some political and social comment, meet some new friends and generally be a bit funny as often as I can. My BCC (Bugger the Code of Conduct) logo is under development.

Vale Virginia Tech Students

I can't let this incident go unposted. It's a tragedy and happens all too often in the US. Whilst the knee jerk is to blame the gun lobby, these shootings are always perpetrated by unstable minds who wherever they are . . .would be able to procure a gun. Our own Martin Bryant gave few clues that he was going to decimate the lives of so many at Port Arthur in Tasmania so many years ago, so how can we be prepared for mental instability no matter what country it's in. I can't do better than Kate's fabulous editorial post today. I feel so sorry for the families, boyfriends, friends and colleagues of those killed on Monday. It's a tragedy. My hearts go out to you all and may the wounded recover physically and mentally.

On a cynical note, George Dubya wasted no time catching the bus to Virginia? Bit different to the Katrina debacle!

Sounds Like a Plan

I've resolved to plan my trip . . hopefully it will coincide with ClareBear's next sojourn scheduled for 2008.

This isn't the last trip but it's the big one. . .the one I was supposed to enjoy for my last birthday but lack of investor interest in my humble property thwarted me. If I don't plan it, I'm afraid I may never do it until I'm wheelchair bound and catheter ridden and so, motivated by one of my new e-pals who's yet another person off to see Paris before me, I'm gonna work out a rough itinerary.

ClareBear and Toots are travelling to South America next year. I have no interest in eating guinea pigs, piercing Alpaca ears, or learning spanish and thanks to DrummerBoy's obsession with Mexican food, Tacos, Burritos, and any other kind of tos have been done to death in the Baino household. I can however, hold my own when ordering a cervezas and perhaps I would like to go to the Galapagos Archipelago so who knows . . . Her travelling companion is planning a longer stay and so they'll probably split up and go their separate ways once they're back in the US.

So, here's the deal, I travel to Washington DC and spend a couple of days recouperating and giving George Dubbya the finger before checking out the local monuments and memorials and try to understand the US legislative system which will bore the pants of my progeny. Then we meet up and travel north around Chesapeake and up to New York. Then, a ride in Central Park, visit The Guggenheim, eat a chilli dawg, see a show, shop in Sears or somewhere that I've seen in a movie, check out Greenwich Village and buy a big New York Coat for the not so cold Australian Winter (they just look so snooxy and warm). Then travel up the East Coast to New Haven or maybe venture into Massachussetts 'witch country' then Providence, Boston (gotta try those beans) and up through Maine (Murder She Wrote looked so cute) then back down to a cross Atlantic connection (haven't worked that one out yet).

Next stop - London just because I love it. Fantastic city, buzzy lifestyle, easy to get around, filled with tradition and off the wall stuff and they speak the language.

Then Paris . . oui, oui, oui. . .a week at the George Saint, Champs Elysees, Latin Quarter - did you know that about 30% of the Moulin Rouge dancers are Australian? There you go. Not interested in that dive tho. Notre Dame and maybe a trip to the country - Eppernay for, you guessed it Champagne . . . fine beading, slight wood nose, soft dry pallet and . . . who am I kidding, it just tastes good. Sex in a bottle my lovelies, sex in a bottle.

Then, a quick trip over to Italy to watch the bareback race in Sienna, flog around Florence and perhaps change my opinion of shoes (I'm not a shopper and only have a few pairs, contrary to the average woman who I blieve has at least 12 pairs of shoes) then vanish in Venice for a few days before ferrying off to Santorini to have a relax by the sea in a little white Greek cottage with a blue door . . .

Yep . . .sounds like a plan!

Vegies are Good For you

Especially when suffering a soccer injury. I have a pack of perpetual frozen winter vegetables in my freezer. Not for eating mind you . . . the only frozen veg I ever buy are peas. This pack my friends, is a special blend of carrots, broccoli, caulliflower and capsicum that are just lumpy enough to fit around a torn muscle or pulled ligament. That’s it, they're my post-soccer muscle strain treatment for ClareBear who seems to sustain some sort of ankle, quad or hamstring injury whenever she plays (Duck footed female). The methodology, approved by Physiotherapists - 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off for a couple of hours, rub the offending muscle with Voltarin before bed and voila! You can walk the next day. Gawd, I'm good, if it was the 17th Century they'd burn me as a witch!

Is your ankle wankle feeling better pookie wookie - no moshing at the Chilli Peppers tonight now!

Twas the Drink That Made Me Do It

Gawd. Sorry about that last post. Had dinner for one last night and became a bit maudlin' after a bottle of chardy. Hic!

Lyrics to Cry By

Sometimes I know I‘ve become all that’s weak in a man, and weak in a boy . .
but I keep trying and I won’t quit and that must be worth something more . .
than a strongman who believes, that there’s nothing left to try for
And I can be cold I know, I know but a woman is a warm breath on the back of your neck and a warm belly pressed against yours.

And ah ah oh we need to feel the sum of all our parts
I’m more than what’s laid out on lines upon our palms
Ah oh . . Our hands aren’t tied but we move as though they are . . .

There’s one house in every town that everyone fears and everyone steers clear.
And I don’t’ wanna live like that, I wanna live somewhere more like you . . .
By the sea . . .
Where the cliffs keep sentry, watching over me
And it can get rough out there I know but a woman is a sail that remains unfurled so stay ahead of the wind man, or you won’t catch her.

And ah ha oh we need to feel the sum of all our parts
I’m more than what’s laid out on lines upon our palms
Ah hoh . . Our hands aren’t tied but we move as though they are
Until we’re bound by branching out . . .

Sometimes I know where I am and what I’m doing and what things might become,
But that always seems such a fleeting state for the remainder of the time I feel that I am a babe in the woods, out for deliverance.

And I can be cold I know, I know but a woman is a warm breath on the back of your neck and a warm belly pressedagainst yours.

Josh Pyke 2007 "Lines on Palms"

I’m gonna have a little cry now . . a man can be a warm breath too and I miss it. I wish I could have posted the music as well. Sing this to your girl and you’ll melt even the hardest sack of potatoes into a lily livered lava lamp.

Technophobe

I have a song that I want to post here but I'm such a ditz technophobe that I don't know how to do it. Help! It's downloaded as a wma file? Really guys, it's worth it. Do any of you know how to attach a music file?

Bastards Inc.

This is the name of the company that manufactures all those things you can't open, they've been blogged before but having just sustained a massive cardboard cut from a roll of gladwrap (and then I couldn't find the friggin beginning of the roll) . . . these anti-instructions came to mind.


"Slide finger under flap" - this is the instruction on aluminium foil and GladWrap boxes which leads to lacerated finger tips and the entire metallic strip twisting around your wrist.

"Lift and pull ring" Unless you have teflon fingernails, you need a knife to wedge under the ring pull and again, end up lacerating your wrists in the attempt. Tip: If you have a moustache, don't drink from ring-pull cans. That goes for the men too.

"Remove foil before pouring" This appears on bottles of reconstituted juice, sauce bottles, toothpaste etc. After trying vainly to pour something from such dispensers, you realise that the top of the bottle has foil on it which needs to be removed by only your teeth. Ever got a bit of foil stuck in your filling? It's more fun than sucking a 9Volt battery.

"Vacuum packed for freshness" means that when you finally open the bastard brick of foil wrapped coffee - and again teeth are useful, the contents relax all over the bleedin' floor and dogs will not lick up coffee grains.

"Open other end" - aha! Now this is just a cunning stunt to get you to splosh pouring cream all over your new TShirt, it's a dirty trick - always open the end marked Open Other End.

"Pull to open" appears on plastic lided bottles. You know where you have to tear the tiny strip of plastic around the bottle top to release the lid as in thickened cream, juice and Maggie Beer's Pheasant Farm Pate. Again usually most effective using your teeth and invariably results in contents sploshing in your eye and all over your clothes. Orange juice causes temporary blindness.

They also make sticky tape where you can't find the end, noisy chip packets specifically for eating in the cinema, tissues which aren't properly perforated and empty the box in a continuous stream, impossible to erect folding strollers, child proof caps that you have to ask your 8 year old to open because you can't push down and twist and those pepper mills with the teensy weensy screw ball on the top that always falls on the floor and rolls under the fridge when you want to replace peppercorns.

Any more?

Opiate of the Masses

Well, just two more day's leave and I'm back into it so the posts will be few and far between now that I have three jobs in one. I need to curb my addiction too. I can't walk past my PC without checking for comments now and viewing other people's efforts. I've never been strong on self-control! Heh.

Anyway, the blogfest over the past day or so has been largely about the irresponsibility of tabloid journalists and journalism blowing just about everything out of proportion. This might have begun as a British-American trend but believe me, it's now international with the sensationalisation of just about everything. Recently in Australia for instance (I'm trying to steer clear of politics here but you'll get my drift) we've had the World Swimming Championships. Each night on the evening news (although there's only 10 minutes of news and 20 minutes of sports) we heard how many medals the Aussies won and of course the legendary performance of that Phelps dude. You could be forgiven for getting the impression that the whole event was a US/Australian comp - guess who won the most medals? Russia! Barely got a mention and they won double the medals won by America despite Phelps' sterling efforts. Australia tied 5th with France! Now if that's not biased reporting I don't know what is. And, the television coverage didn't show a single Russian Gold Medal achievement. (You should have been here during the Olympics - we won everything!)

Another instance, we all know "The Body" Elle McPherson (settle down boys). Well she and former Ms Universe Jennifer Hawkins hosted two separate lingerie launches in Sydney last week. Both on the same night and in the same city. Next thing you know, it's friggin front page news, Hawkins vs McPherson - The Battle for the Bra! Apparently there is unhealthy conflict between the two bombshells (who incidentally don't even know each other).

Also, Australia seems to have this need, this desire, this obsession with giving the world or at least it's own citizens the impression that we're suffering as badly as everyone else. That there's destruction, pain and heartache aplenty - comparable to the dreadful Indonesian Sunami, poverty in the Sudan or similar racial tention to Soweto. Here are some home truths:

Our Involvement in Iraq:
Australia's Huge Contribution to the Coalition of the Willing
Our contribution to Iraq and Afghanistan is less than 1000 troops. Iraqui troops are safely placed in the south or protecting Japanese Engineers who are now heading home. We have a small contingency of special forces in Afghanistan. Our sacrifice is microscopic (even though I disagree vehemently with the invasion of Iraq we now have an obligation to finish the job). Also, soldiers join the army to fight, not just to get a trade! It's a combatant career you idiots and sadly, occasionally they die. Fortunately Australia's only death in this four year conflict is embarassingly some nitwit called Jake Kovco who shot himself playing with a loaded gun and that was a year ago and its STILL in the news. Oh plug my bleeding heart!

Natural Disasters:
Australia Faces Sunami Threat
Well no it doesn't. We evacuated citizens of a far north Queensland town because there was a tidal wave in the Solomon Islands which was impactful on the very low lying coastal areas. So the Government combats this by putting a satellite sunami warning system between NZ and Australia in the Tasman Sea (no where near the threat zone) Why there? Because it's half paid for by New Zealand. At least Christchurch is safe Dodge.

International Politics:
John Howard Meets George W Bush for Vital Talks on Iraq
Does anyone outside Australia know who John Howard is? He's our Prime Minister - head of Government - you know the one that goes walking in someone else's left over Wallabies track suit. I wish he'd shut the fuck up and leave us as the quiet little oasis in the arsehole of the world that we are. We don't want the terrorists to make the trip, just tourists with lots of kish.

Immigration
HIV Threat from Immigration
Where do they get this from? We have fewer than 200 Somali Refugee families in Australia. Seeing a black man on our streets is as rare as hen's teeth and the Somali's are particularly conspicuous with their incredibly blue black complexions. They're usually collecting trolley's outside K-Mart in their Tommy Hilfiger tracky daks. They're not a threat. They're the rich ones that were fortunate enough to come here legally (otherwise they'd be pushing jelly uphill with a hot pin in a detention centre on Christmas Island - yep, we have 'em). They've been AIDS tested and they're clean you boloxy bimbos. We should worry more about the fact that our children have forgotten the AIDS issue and are being more carelessly promiscuous than 20 years ago. Time for another grim reaper reminder methinks. Our Somali immigrants speak English for fuck's sake. How many Australian's speak Somali or for that matter, how many of our asian immigrants speak English. My Korean neighbour has been here for 20 years and doesn't speak a word! If I have a neighbourhood issue, I have to talk to his daughter-in-law! Give them a break, they're not gansta rappers or gun toting bully boys, they just want to start a decent life in a fabulous country.

So, just three of the stupid headlines from the tabloids this week. I won't even expand on:

Croc Doc's Arm Reattached (Idiot shouldn't have put it in the crocodile's mouth in the first place)
Man Falls 20 Metres Down Cliff (don't drink and abseil at the same time you bozo)
Mysteries of Sex Unravelled at World Congress (What the? They need a congress to work that one out?)
Kidman Spouse Fights Demons (Poor rich, country singer . . . all that wealth and he stil wants to put stuff up his nose)

. . . and my personal favourite:

Train Driver Blinded by Sausage Roll (I have to expand on this one, he was leaning out of the window and someone threw it from a passing train . . . sorry fella but this led me into one of those uncontrollable, knicker-wetting, laughing fits, tears streaming . . .Gold!)

I guess the thing here is not to believe all you read or see on TV. Take it with a grain of salt, try to understand the motivation. Watch Tabloid TV by all means because it lets you know what the underbelly of society thinks is truth but please . . . at all costs, try to expose the shams and scams. Read the Koran for an alternative perspective, check Al Jazeera online occasionally (there are English translations and in Oz we're particularly xenophobic in terms of our tiny muslim population). Talk to your middle eastern, african, asian, chinese, polynesian neighbour and try to understand where they're coming from and establish the truth from a position of knowledge and empathy.

So what are the sillies in your part of the world?

Speaking of eye candy and TV trash - when does Big Brother start again?

The Bad Environmentalist

There's a big yellow machine just beyond our north eastern boundary. It looks like a mechanical robo-something with caterpillar trackers, a huge hydrolic neck and a big diggy thing (technical term) at the end and it's lifting sections of 20 metre sawn off gum trees into the back of a humungous tippy truck (another technical term). So far, and it's only 9:30am, I've heard five of the monsters hit the deck. I live in a street which sports the last 5 acre properties nearest to the Sydney CBD. We're waiting to be 'acquired' for an enormous sum by developers who have become extremely shy creatures of late and refuse to come out of their burrows with briefcases full of cash so that we can move out and move on. Real estate has gone 'flat' so we sit and wait on our beautiful wooded block for the moment of truth then we'll take the money and run like a rat up a drainpipe!

In the interim, we watch development go on around us. Our road has been turned into a patchwork quilt of bitumen thanks to the installation of sewer and recycled water mains. Beyond the back fence, million dollar houses (I kid you not) are being built at the expense of 200 year old gum trees.

Now I'm no fan of the gum tree or Eucalypt to the uninitiated. Native to Australia and circulated around the world to California, Hawaii and New Zealand by the non-quarantine conscious Joseph Banks during Captain Cook's global adventure but . . . they are a true symbol of Australia. Magestic, tall, hardwood, evergreen! Evergreen my toe! The bastards drop their leaves and branches all year round and shed their skin twice a year leaving metre lengths of bark strewn across the lawn like giant banana peels. Hence my love affair with the leaf blower and mowing deck. Still, there's something wildly destructive bout the growling of a high powered chain saw then the inevitable earth-pounding crunch as one of these giants hits the ground to make way for a 700sq metre block upon which a rendered architectural masterpiece (I use the term loosely) will be hoisted for some upper middle class unenvironmental family with 7 televisions, 2 playstations, an XBox and lap pool. (There won't be enough room for a proper swimming pool by the time the mansion is built.) At least they won't need a leaf catcher, 'cos they've decimated all the gum trees.

Again I'm faced with that paradox of environmentalism and self-interest. We want to SELL. Our block will sustain 21 of these postage stamps for urban housing eventually and we can't wait to get our hands on godzillions of dollars to go and buy one of our own. But (and yes you can start a sentence with a conjunction) as I look outside on this gorgeous autumn day after a good deal of much-needed rain, everything is green and dappled and quiet - except for the humming of that bloody chain saw and the silent screams of those cursed trees.

Pash On

What's in a kiss. Well there's that smooch that you get as a six year old from some unknown relative who notes how big you've grown. Usually combined with the chomping of crushed water crackers and a red lipstick burn on both cheeks and some voracious grab of the cheeks or ears that you just can't wait to get away from. Then there's the tuck in kiss, the one your parents give you religiously as a night time routine. A gentle peck accompanied by the tucking in ritual and 'blow the light out'. Then there's the pathetic "oh my darling" kiss when you're young and sick and having a cold is accompanied by vegimite on soldier boys and large glasses of Lucosade to stop you vomiting. Then there's the 'awful kiss' when you're told that your Grandad or Grandma has died but it doesn't mean as much to you as it does to them because they've lost a parent. As you age, there's the passionate kiss, the 14 year old who pins you against a tree whilst you're walking somewhere quiet and romantic. No sexual push, just that long lingering kiss where carbon dioxide makes you light headed and delirious. The one that makes you realise that kissing is so good, there's no need for sex. Then at 16 there's the 'serious kiss' the one that seduces you after three glasses of Blackberry Nip and coke and the older boy has devious intentions. It's hot, passionate but there's something else afoot and you're not sure you're ready for it. Not long after there's a series of kisses and you know exactly what's to follow but still you mark them 1-10. Sloppy, stiff, hard, meaningful, awful, too much tongue, not enough, wet lips, too dry, chemistry rising . . .experiment fizzed.

Then there's 'well this is IT" kiss. The one that scores a 10 and you're intent on keeping him. It's hawt - and that's enough said. Once you're married, it's the nuptual kiss. The peck on the cheek as he goes out to work while the kids are screaming for breakky, the 'are you awake love kiss' which is a precurser to only one thing or the 'sitting in front of the TV on Sunday kiss' which is the really romantic one that tells you how important you are. Not too long, not too lingering and with no expectations. Then there's the 'I'm so sorry kiss'. The one your father gives you when you've lost the love of your life, with the look of helplessness in his eyes but that look of undying love. The 'you'll always have us' kiss that your mother bestows on you with such strength that you can hear her jaw crack as she embraces you just that little bit too hard. Then there's the greatest kiss of all, the toddler kiss . . . innocent, unsolicited, usually sticky with ice cream or lolly goo . . .now that's special and even as my children are now in their 20's there's the 'don't worry' or 'I'll stick by you' or 'night mum, thanks for dinner kiss'. It's impossible to choose between them . . .I've never been a big kisser of strangers but I'm warming to the Italian once on each cheek kiss. I think the middle eastern twice on each cheek is a bit over the top. But no matter how you look at it, as life changes, so do the kisses . . .either way . . .they all have value and show you just how much you are loved. Long live the kiss. *schmack*

Onaroll

It's the 8th day of my leave and I've achieved most of the things I set out to do except painting the verandah - big job so I've wasted most of the morning blogging - time now for blogus interruptus.

After 7 days of leave, I'm having trouble getting motivated to shift my arse. I think it's the thought of setting up rather than the task at hand. Shouldn't women be baking muffins and darning socks and makeing scrapbooks?

I can't find last year's paint brushes so I'll have to go to Bunnings then I'll get distracted looking at contact glues whilst trying to find some metallic Knead-It to fix the blower choke which has broken again. Then I'll think, mmm maybe I can find a washer the right size for the split pin in the tractor mowing deck. Then invariably I'll get hungry and saunter over to the Lions Club Sausage Sizzle before really focussing on finding Mission Brown paint and the right equipment to do the job. On the way, I'll trip over one of the 'specials' bins and decide that I really do need 12 cans of Black Flag (used to be a good band with Henry Rollins) fly spray and an oversized sponge (even though we're on level 4 water restrictions), just in case.

Then, after I've dripped BBQ sauce from my sausage sandwich all over the front of my white T-shirt, I'll have to look for something bulky to hide the stain at the checkout - mmm, I need a new washing basket . . . .there's another half-hour wasted walking down the gadget lined aisles. Naturally, I'll come out of the shop with the fly spray, some fence-cutters (just because they're cool and might be useful in the future) and a new washing basket and forget completely about the paint job . . .

Voyeuristic Intentions

I'm a new blogger. I started mainly to vent, then to reminisce and now, I think it's more a journal of the banality of life and something to document for my kids when I'm no longer around. My handwriting is shit, I'm a left hander and slant backwards so a diary simply isn't an option. But at 90wpm, I can bash out a blog in seconds. I try to inject a little angst and humour where possible but it's hard when the sun is shining, life's good and apart from the lack of money - I'm pretty happy.

One of the delights of blogging is that you don't think anyone is reading your rubbish until you get linked to someone's site and they don't know that you're reading their efforts unless you comment. Whilst my blog isn't really interesting enough for anyone other than TheBenchwarmer or ClareBear to comment upon, I followed a couple of links of my own and love it. I rarely comment but one is a 25 year old Melbourne Girl who gives a bold insight into the single white female psyche and the desire to be ever-beautiful, slim and purchase shoes until she's cold in the grave, the other, more my age, an American who has a penchant for guns and a great connection with his Irish ancestry. He's funny, sometimes parochial but invariably interesting. Of course their sites, link to other's and before you know it, six degrees of separation has well and truly been established and voyeuristic intentions abound.

Blogging is fun. It may be for those who have nothing better to do with their time but it fills that 'half hour' a day where there's shite on TV, or you're waiting for the dinner to cook, the washing machine to finish spinning or just chillaxing before getting on with the stuff that invariably comes your way or of course to get things off your chest without recrimination or even the people you're blogging about knowing that you're giving them a serve. More people should do it . . .it's cathartic, voyeuristic but mysteriously anonymous. Blog on!

Hair Raising

I haven't had a hair cut for over a year and whilst the grey fronds make valiant attempts to penetrate the longer locks, I've managed to keep them coloured with home treatments. Finally, even though I'm flat broke, I decided yesterday to go to the hairdressers for the full treatment. Hey, that's what credit cards are for. Yep, colour, foils and a cut.

I have very independent hair, it has a mind of it's own, curls when it feels like it and frizzess more often than not, even gets a bit 'dready' if I put the right product in it. It's long, about 10cm past my shoulders which for someone my age is considered mutton dressed up as lamb unless dutifully trussed in a french roll or piled judiciously on top of my noggin.

So, as I walk into "Mario and Raymond's" salon, I'm greeted by three young ladies who look like they're just out of night nappies, in tight black jeans and pretty pink T-shirts which are all two sizes too small and bearing enough midriff to tout their varied belly button piercings and a gay blade with far too spikey hair and eybrows that have obviously seen a beautician more than once.

I'm ushered to a leather and chrome bouncy chair in front of a full length fucking mirror. I hate those things. It's bad enough seeing your face under fluorescent light let alone the whole shebang and of course, thanks to the crimson wave, I'm also touting a large blind pimple on the centre of my right cheek that seems to be exacerbated by the huge expanse of mirror before me. I cautiously remove the clip holding the swag of hair high on my nut and down comes the tumbling mass of brown and grey frizz.

Then they're straight into it. Takes two you see . . . One passing sticky stuff and foils the other splitting hairs and packing on the bleach. She's so short that she's standing on tip-toe whilst pasting this foul smelling unction on my hair. I have foils down the centre which means by the time she's finished and my root preparation is put in to hide the grey, I look like an overweight Jean Simmons without the makeup. Then the 'overcolour', I've chosen a nice warm chocolate which I know will end up looking like my normal hair colour but it looked pretty nice on the synthetic hair pallette they showed me. Now I really look like Jean Simmons only with makeup on my hair instead of my face.

I politely decline tea or coffee from the Cafe Bar (it tastes like soap) and commence reading a 2004 Women's Weekly. Oprah's secrets, a bio on Susan Sarandon with photos quite obviously focussed on her sagging breasts and some rather nice things to do with Mangoes (not very helpful now that the season is over). Anyway, the massive volume keeps me distracted until the only thing I love about going to the hair dressers - the wash and conditioning massage. Even the hard neck rest doesn't deter me from experiencing one of life's little luxuries - having a deep conditioning treatment and a little snipppet of a chicky babe massaging the scalp with the devil's fingers. Fantaaaaaaastic. All too soon it's over. Shorty comes back, stands on tippy toes again and does the cutting.

Tippy: "How would you like it?" she asks:
Me: "I don't care, you're the hairdresser, have fun"
Tippy: "Yes but do you want it layered?"
Me: "Shit I don't know, you're the hairdresser, just give me soft curls Susan Sarandon or Oprah"
Tippy: "Oh, I think you should have layers, it will make it less weighty at the bottom . . "
Me: (she isn't listening) "Ok Go for it. Not too short but I want masses of loose curls, not frizz"
Tippy: "No problem, we have fantastic products to control frizz"
Me: *aha, she did listen*

Easy peasy. She snips for far too shorter a time, whacks in some product and dries with a diffuser. I look OK, not spectacular but the colour's nice, the curls are soft 'ish. It's not completely dry when she rings up the $160 bill . . . I know it's a lot but remember I haven't had a cut for over a year so pro-rata'd that's not too much to ask.

I drop into our local Welcome Mart on the way home:

Shop Assistant: "What have you done to your hair?"
mmm . . . maybe something's happened to it on the way home from the hairdressers.

The kids arrive home in quick succession:

ClareBare: "Hey the foils look nice but I'm not sure about wearing it down"
Diplomatic
DrummerBoy: "Hey, how you goin' Frizzgirl, you're not going out tonight are you?"
I obviously haven't spent enough time preening in front of the mirror since I got back so go and check . . OMGWTF . . .

It looks EXACTLY the same as it did before, only with five blonde foils and a little shorter. Fuck it . . $160 to get rid of some grey roots which I probably could have done at home for $11.

So my mission today . . .to get out all the anti-frizz, straighteners, curl enhancers, tongs, GHD straightener and 'play'.

At my age, weight, stage in life . . . why am I so obsessed with hair? It's like those really ugly people who want to go onto extreme make-over to get their nose straightened when really darlings, the nose isn't the problem.

I wish I had Oprah and Susan's hairdresser.

Should Have Kept My Mouth Shut!

There are three Kahuna's who also own the business where I work. Two working full time, one semi retiring. In their wisdom, I use the term loosely, some reshuffling of responsibilities has taken place. There was no consultation, no analysis of workload just the assumption that we can reshuffle responsibilities within existing workload thanks to some pillow talk (TheBoss wife also works there) But 2 partners are at loggerheads. One wants a new Exec Assistant. The other wants to keep his girl and our salaried adviser wants to keep the girl she's got which spreads one Exec Ass rather thin. Looks like there just isn't enough to go around. So, Ms Sensible (again I use the term loosely) put together a proposal with four scenarios which would serve the purpose and hopefully keep the peace.

OK this seemed to work until the salaried planner and her assistant decided that the workplace is a democracy . . . got in each other's ear and didn't want to be separated. TheBoss folds and says they can stay together. The other Sgt Bilko has a major wobbly because he doesn't want to be shared. What to do . . . they decide not to make a decision until semi retired partner TheElderStatesman comes back from holiday. The most sensible of which seems to be:

Charmers does compliance and looks after one Partner (TheBoss) and the Semi Retired Partner(TheElderStatesman)
Butterfly Girl monitors all planner achievement against targets and looks after another Partner (Sgt Bilko)
We promote the SickieQueen and give her a planner of her own to look after (Earth Mother)and hopefully enough confidence to actually want to come to work instead of taking days off because she's stubbed her big toe or broken a fingernail.
I retain practice management and Marketing, and learn a little more on compliance

Just before Easter, the 'men' have a pow-wow and the resolution is:

Fold to the salaried planner and let her keep her girl (sooks, looks like it is a democracy)
Fold to the dummyspitting partner and give him a resource of his own
And the admin assistant? Well she just keeps what she's got and retains her obvious habit of taking sickies at regular intervals.

Here's the clincher. TheBoss rings me at home and asks, how do I feel about 'bringing the old team together' a euphamism for making me his gofer. Well, I can hardly object . . . a job's a job and I need it. I now support TheBoss in an Executive Assistant role as well as running the practice and Marketing . . . so when I return to work on the 16th, I have three Position Descriptions and not because I'm fantastic, not even because my multi-tasking skills are noticed, definitely not because of my charm and wit but because I made a stupid, stupid mistake and added myself to one of my own scenarios (I didn't think any of them would want me as an assistant . . . far too bolshy) . . . that's right, the fourth suggestion on my scenario paper was that I work for TheBoss . . .why oh why did I even go there? . . . I guess I brought it upon myself. So now I have the selubrious title of Executive Assistant Client Services, Marketing and Communications and Practice Manager, BA, JP (there aint a business card long enough). I'm an EEEEEEJUT!

The Big Chill

Well Easter was a big family chillax. Fantastic, ClareBear's friends went to Melbourne so she was a nigel, DrummerBoy's late night antics on Thursday and Friday saw him flake on the couch on Saturday and Monday so there was a lot of doonerage and I think we've exhausted the local video store's library. Sunday was family BBQ and Han-Nah's b'day and at sweet 19 of course there were the ring ins, the drop outs and the usual family members. Babysis isn't too well Krohns desease flaring up because she ate too much chocolate but NaughtyNeph and Maddie thoroughly enjoyed a very elaborate treasure hunt with lots of easter eggs and even the chocolate fountain made a reappearance. Thankfully, the refurbished glass tables held up and no shattering to be seen. Me? Not a chocolate fan but made up for it in Champers and cheesy bits. Good night generally with the first bonfire of the season now that it's getting cold. Dawgs appreciated the leftovers.

ThePrincess is limping again after a run in with AIDS dog who boofed her on the sore knee . . . I think the surgery was a failure. Back to the vet this week for a glucosomine injection and I suspect, more R & R or should that be $ & $.

OK so now I'm off for four days. The plan? Prune the plumbago which is threatening to climb through the bedroom windows, whipper-snip the front where the tractor cannot go, repair said tractor which is spewing some sort of liquid (not fuel), paint front verandah. Babybro had a go at rennovating but only did the bits his friends would see during his 25th Wedding Anniversary bash . . how fickle. So now I need to finish the rest, take ThePrincess to the vet, get a haircut - I look like the wild witch of the west and try to sleep in with ClareBear grudgingly crashing around the kitchen at 6.00am because she has to work and I don't! he he.

Bumps in the night, and screeches, and screams

I'm a light sleeper. I get completely zonked from about 11.00pm - 3.30am then I hear everything from the fridge kicking in with its distinctive rev and hot hissing sound, to dogs walking on the mulch looking for somewhere to pee, to DrummerBoy's drunken return from the RSL and feeble attempts to sneak out doona's and mattresses for other's too drunk to lift a finger. Then there's Frog Mouthed Owls who have a call reminiscent of those deep breather's that nuisance call occasionally but there's one noise in the night that I just can't identify. I can hear substantially sized animals in the pine and bamboo immediately outside my family room window. Not sure if they're fruit bats or possums and every attempt to expose the blighters is foiled by their rapid movement through the trees. They're noisy, the dogs go ape shit and by the time I've reached for the mag-light, they've travelled well up the fenceline and into the neighbour's arbour, their screeching diminishing as if to taunt me and say "catch me if you can biatch". I will find out what they are . . . .

Lazy Daze

It's raining in Sydney . . .an event more common than it has been in the past five years so a wet and cold Good Friday was the perfect opportunity for a family get-together. That is, three bodies draped over mattresses snugelled in doona's and watching a variety of movies, some good, some absolutely terrible. Amongs the do get list, Fast Food Nation but not if you don't want to know where your beef comes from and the Guardian - Coastgard rescue film. Among the horrors, Disaster - cheap animated attempt to compete with Team America and Casino Royale - sorry the Blond Bond is an idiot, with a cat's arse mouth and no charm. How can you have a bond movie without "Q" and special gadgets. Boring, convoluted, lacking in humour and anyone who thinks that lycra boxer swimmers are sexy is just getting out of budgie smugglers. The worse . . .*bless* Judd Nelson who is still trying to act after the Breakfast Club of the 80's and Suddently Seeking Susan . . . still hopeless in the pathetic Black Hole. So there. Others on the recommended list:

Charlotte's Web - Predictably schmulzy but very cute and who can eat pork after seeing Wilbur (bacon doesn't count)
Macbeth - Aussie Version - gotta love the Baird's plots, they're so easily translatable into modern times.

The evening was topped off with Chinese, honey chicken and lobster in black bean sauce . . . OMG, simply scrumptious and not a meal to be eaten in a restaurant unless you want to wear one of those silly seafood bibs.

So, vegie day over . . .time to get crackin' on other things.

Leave Yeay

That's it, a total of 9 days off well 11 if I include next weekend. Fantabulous . . .I get to play with my big girls toys - leaf blowers, hedge clippers, whipper snippers and my DVD player. Happy days.

Ten Rules of Chocolate (PMS Cure)

I'm looking for Belgian couveture chocolate to put in my chocky fountain at Easter and found this . . . . I'm still looking for the couveture . . .

The Ten Rules of Chocolate

1. If you've got melted chocolate all over your hands, you're eating it too slowly.
2. Chocolate covered raisins, cherries, orange slices and strawberries all count as fruit, so eat as many as you want.
3. The problem: How to get your month's supply of chocolate home from the supermarket in a hot car. The solution: Eat it in the car park or take an esky.
4. Diet tip: Eat a chocolate bar before each meal. It'll take the edge off your appetite, and you'll eat less.
5. If calories are an issue, store your chocolate on top of the fridge. Calories are afraid of heights, and they will jump out of the chocolate to protect themselves.
6. Eatiing equal amounts of dark chocolate and white chocolate constitutes a balanced diet.
7. Money talks. Chocolate sings - Beautifully!
8. Chocolate has many preservatives. Preservatives make you look younger. Therefore, you need to eat more chocolate.
9. Put "eat chocolate" at the top of your list of things to do today. That way, at least you'll get one thing done.
10. If you can't eat all your chocolate, it will keep in the freezer. But if you can't eat all your chocolate, what's wrong with you?
    __________________

Cheer up

OK after that last post, we all need a Panadol and a little lie down so here's something that's a little more fun. Stolen of course but see if you have the courage to copy and comment.

Getting to know me. 25 questions!
1. Where were you 3 hours ago Sitting in front of my flatscreen at work
2. Who are you in love with? - nobody at the moment any takers?
3. Have you ever eaten a crayon? Can't remember but I know what their texture is so I guess I must have.
4. Is there anything pink within 10 feet of you? A Blank CD case in my CD rack
5. When is the last time you went to the mall? Saturday week ago. I hate shopping.
6. Are you wearing socks right now? Sort of, those cut off stockingy trouser sock things.
7. Do you have a car worth over $2,000? Well if I combine both of them, just about.
8. When was the last time you drove out of town? Too long ago . . .trip to Mudgee last winter
9. Have you been to the movies in the last 5 days? Nah, DVD's are cheaper.
10. Are you hot? Only in summer
11. What was the last thing you had to drink? Sanseo Coffee, white and one.
12. What are you wearing right now? Black trousers, blue and black striped shirt, flats.
13. Do you wash your car or let the car wash do it? I cover it in dishwashing liquid then put it outside when we have rain.
14. Last food that you ate? Boost mini chocolate bar - I did it for charity!
15. Where were you last week at this time? Same ol - At work fretting over organising a Seminar
16. Have you bought any clothing items in the last week? Nah.
17. When is the last time you ran? 5 years ago when my Dad fell in the swimming pool!
18. What's the last sporting event you watched? 2004 Olympic Games I hate sport
19. What is your favorite animal? Lions tigers and bears? Oh my!
20. Your dream vacation? Paris, springtime . . . George Saint . . tea roses . . .Verve Cliquot or just a week at Hawks Nest . . .
21. Last person's house you were in? Other than mine . . . my sister's a couple of weeks ago.
22. Worst injury you've ever had. Dislocated elbow, slipped on mud in Fiji
23. Have you been in love? Had the first and the best, now waiting for the last!
24. Do you miss anyone right now? My mum and dad . . . my youth
25. What is your secret weapon to lure in the opposite sex! I'm single, obviously haven't got one, can I borrow yours?

Right to Die

Now this is rare. 8:36 on a Tuesday evening and I am compelled to blog. I've just watched a discussion program on Insight a brilliant show on SBS our multicultural public channel, Tuesday nights, which confronts all sorts of issues, some fun, most serious. Tonight Euthanasia . . .it was heart-wrenching to listen to particularly elderly people's experiences of losing loved ones because our liberal (read conservative) government (they don't even warrant a capital letter) refuses to recognise someone's righ to die and the provision of information that might make that happen.

Whilst my much loved Dad with whom I shared a house for 15 years was a strong opponent of such things, watching him die 12 months after a bowel cancer and subsequent liver cancer was horrendous. He passed mercifully quickly for us all and fortunately with little pain, it was possibly the most difficult thing I have had to cope with in my entire life. Had he suffered, I would have wanted to at least provide a legal option for him to bow out gracefully.

I'm different. I'm pro-euthanasia. I want the right to take Nembutol when I'm ready. Hey I'm a smoker, I'm overweight, I have a family history of various cancers, I even have terminal illness insurance so that I can visit Paris before I kark it (don't write me off just yet) but I would like to have the choice of a dignified death. A suite in the Hyatt overlooking Sydney Harbour, my family around me, a quick dose of an oral medication and life as I knew it is over. I was stunned, ney (now that's a word not often used in the 21st century) outraged by our new Minister for the Aged, some little wet-behind-the-ears 40 something called Pyne who emphatically refused to even consider the possibility of legislating for legal euthanasia because old people are so infirm and stupid they might succumb to family pressure or misinturpret family overtures that they are passed their use-by date.

We euthanase pets to allay their misery(I once paid for a mouse to be humanely put down due to an incurable skin disease and my beloved Basil, and Brenna were put to sleep before my eyes, quickly and painlessly despite my distress) . We cut down diseased trees, we lob not just old people but those at the end of their lives into 'palliative care' to pass the buck on their misery under the guise of pain management. Most of these institutions are virtually Solzhenitzyn style cancer wards where the dying are tube-fed and fitted with morphine butterfly clips and forced to ingest useless nutrients and laxatives until they pass . . . I want to be able to have the choice.

I don't want to have to go to Switzerland on my dying legs to arrange my own departure from this planet through Dignitas. I don't want to have to buy the drugs in Mexico and risk the border patrol (yes I have thought about this) any more than I want to tattoo 'don't resucitate' on my chest to be left alone. This is a world gone mad. If I'm dying, I want to make the choice about how I die and where. I've paid my taxes. I can get an abortion - free . . . I can turn off the life support of an immediate family member after five days . . . neo-natal staff can starve a deformed newborn until it expires . . . but I can't choose my own moment of death . . making these decisions are awful burdens for the families let alone the participant. I don't want my family to have to make such decisions about me. So please, if you're bringing drugs into the country, I'd like 50 mls of liquic Nembutol just to keep on the top shelf of my wardrobe . . just in case. Wake up people, it's not Soylent Green . . .it's human rights.

Goings On

I was really struck this morning by the repetition, normalcy and some of the quirkiness of everyday life - of people just doing what they do - getting on with getting on. I'm lucky, I only live about 10 kms from work and take the same route each day so it's a quick but always eventful trip.

It's interesting, as I'm waiting for the inordinately slow lights to change at three intersections, I have time to observe. And each morning, there is a strange ground hog day feeling as the same people, cars even dogs cross my path or at least walk the same route too. There are the local Government school kids - discernably different to their private school cousins who are all impeccably dressed. The Government school kids walk wildly and wobbly, chatting . . mostly in the same blue uniform, grey skirts and shorts and overstretched white socks. The only rebellion against such uniformity is expressed in wildly coloured and styled hair or bizarre shoes - all black - each with an individual twist.

Then there's the sinuey 40 something who runs up Showground road with vim, vigour and bouncing hair every morning. Rain hail or shine . . there she is in her badly fitting shorts. She's incredibly fit, not a skeric of fat, or muscle for that matter, just joggy thinness. I admire her tenacity but I hope she scrubs up a bit better after a shower and a shave.

Similarly, theres the well dressed middle eastern man who walks across to the post office at about 8:10 every morning - as he stands next to the pretty Polynesian Orthodontic Nurse from our building I just notice that he's impeccably groomed, tall, slightly bumless with that 50's thick groomed hair cut safely and squarely framed with slightly unfashionably lengthed side burns but tell ya, the man's proud of his appearance, has shirts ironed with knife-edge creases and has shiny shoes and an attitude to match.

There's also the kid from the local fish shop, his Aqua, fish logo'd shirt is a dead give away, as are the white gum boots which strangely don't smell as bad as they look. He's leaning against a lampost at the bus stop. Looking tired, bored and wiping premature lines from his brow. I actually know this kid and the drugs taken in his early teens have rendered him older than his age and in a lot of trouble with the law - it shows - he's trying to keep his nose clean these days and has just finished his community service - I give him a lift now and then so I'm lucky, he'll give me a discount next time I stock up with Atlantic Salmon!

So they're the regulars . . .along with the council worker that spends three days a week pressure hosing parrot poo from the pavement as the trees above him are roosting grounds for Rainbow Lorikeets, and the blind guy with the big black guide dog who manages to negotiate a five road junction, God knows how . . .and the girls outside the NAB who even though they've probably just left home, feel the need for a smoke before the day starts and finally, that crazy woman with the big backpack absolutely festooned with dangly stuffed animals . . .she's mad but she seems happy . . .ahh, the goings on . . .

Ces Magnifique!

I love Cirque du Soliel . . I've managed to see Allegria, Quidam and more recently Varakai and watching Quidam again in its entirety on telly last night just doesn't capture the heart-stopping talent of these young performers. There's nothing like watching them in the flesh doing things that a body simply shouldn't do, defying gravity with absolute grace, their lythe little bodies exuding power, strength and suppleness. Sounds sexy but combined with the fantastic live music, these are events well worth their exe price tag . . . I just can't get enough, three down, 4 to go!

Missing in Action

Oh Crispy where are you? Am I off your list?

Sad Sack or Culture Vulture

Ok, I might be a sad sack, lonely Sundays, kids too hung over to play . . . but after fighting with strollers and aggresive mothers at the supermarket for the obligatory fortnightly shop, who would do well to watch 50,000 episodes of super nanny, (that's right folks we full time working single parents shop on bloody Sunday with the rest of the psychos), weeding the garden and giving three dogs a grooming experience that only super models enjoy . . . I watch the Sunday Arts show on our public TV ABC. . . Actually I watched a gooey Jennifer Love Hewitt movie that's overdue so I figure I've paid for it, lets go. So mushy, romantic, chick flick to the max then I tune into the arts show to see an Australian Opera, contemporary, songs sung in cars parked at traffic lights, wondering through the Sydney Botanical Gardens etc. I have to say it, opera is shit. Alright, I do like that lovely thing from Madam Butterfly, you know the two women singing unintelligable lyrics. And I do get a bit emotional listening to Pavarotti singing Nessum Dorma (if there's been enough chardy under the belt). I can even become slightly empassioned at some sections of Carmen or the Barber of Saville (I'm not a complete infidel when it comes to opera) but a pathetic attempt at Australian opera (now there's a contradiction in terms when our fave song is John Williamson's 'Hey True Blue') for fucks sake who like this pretentious shit. I started wandering around the kitchen, making a killer Rogan Josh if you're interested, and began singing to my saucepans, dogs, dishwashing liquid - even the carrots got a bit of an operatic telling off for being phallic - and I have to say, it was more melodic and meaningful than the crap they're playing on the telly. There, I feel vented and vindicated . . . opera is like ballet . . . if the music's no good, nobody wants to watch gay men poncing around the stage with socks stuffed down their tights (my mother used to say it was so the ballerina's had something to stand on during a lift) any more than they want to listen to contemporary non rhyming English spoken opera based in the burbs with no melody. See what it's driven me to Blogging at 4:25 on a Sunday afternoon! I have better things to do than listen to this crap. Well not too many but . . . I think, maybe, oh fuck it . . .I'm going to chlorinate my pool and cleanse my ear wax.

Go and Play in the Fresh Air!

Ok it's 10:45 on a Sunday morning, I've been blogging and podcasting for over 2 hours and am still in my PJ's. It's 24 in the shade, the sun is beaming, the birds are twittering and the garden beckons (I hate gardening) so time to go outside and check the graphics . . .I saw a geek phrase on a T shirt once "I once went outside but the graphics weren't great". You work it out!

Hypocratic Oath

Just listened to my fave, well my only loaded podcast and among the topics were the environment, organic food production amongst other things. We're pretty green here, we use long life light bulbs, water saving shower heads, recycled water, I'm one of the few families that has only one TV, no air con and actually hangs clothes on a line instead of using a dryer. I'm a registered member of the Australian Conservation Foundation and Cool the Globe and last night we participated in Earth hour and it was fun. Sydney was asked to turn off all their lights for an hour a month which is the equivalent of taking 75,000 cars off the road for a year apparently if everyone participates. Restaurant's held candle light dinners and even the old oprey house and the coathanger were bathed in darkness from 7:30pm - 8:30pm. Gawd I'm good . . .

So why are so many people so ignorant or unwilling to participate in environmental initiatives. It's a small thing but if everyone participates in some small way surely it'll make a difference. But no, my neighbours, have their homes lit up like Christmas trees, a TV and Playstation in every room, air con running 24/7, use their hoses to clear their driveways, drive petrol guzzling cars. . . just like the bloody idiot in the previous post they don't think this will affect them.

Whilst I'm green, I'm not perfect. I don't buy organic food cos it tastes like shite and there are worms in the vegies and I'm not a vegetarian even though meat is murder (and I don't mean the Smiths album). I don't compost because I'm lazy (but I do recycle) and I'm sorry but the only way to kill mosquitos is to stop breathing out CO2 or use fly spray and since the first option isn't really viable, fly spray wins. So am I a hypocrite (not to be confused with a hippocrite) as well or just someone trying to do a little bit in my own way? Oh the dichotomy. I have to go and spray my weeds now before cooking a Sunday roast of rare roast beef. As long as I don't have to kill it, gut it or butcher it, that's OK isn't it? Bloody oath!

Environmental Fundimentalism is an Oxymoron

You know, like army intelligence . . the oxymoron in this instance is that fundamentalist religion (and I include the pentacostals, evangelists and friggin' right wing Anglicism in that not just ratbag islamists) - is the direct opposite of environmentalism. Take this example, a colleague throws an empty durry packet on the ground rather than in a bin. Disgusted, I call him a tosser and make him pick it up. Totally confronted he goes on the back foot and says "Why should I give a shit about the environment. Jesus is coming, I'll be saved and all you fuckers will be left amidst your own filth . . ."

I certainly hope he's not indicative of many religious beliefs that there's no need to salvage anything on this planet because they're all going to be 'saved', or martyred and only the unbelievers and infidels will be left amid streets full of litter on a deforested, polluted and slowly warming planet. Thank God I'm an athiest.

Burst My Bubble . . .

Just received some A3 frames for some promotional posters that I'm using in the boardrooms at work for a very creative campaign to get clients to refer other filthy rich people to our business I might add - sometimes I surprise myself . . . but wait . . the most exciting thing was the packaging. They all arrived wrapped in bubble wrap. Not the piddly little bubbles, no not the little bubbles but gargantuan big boofers, just waiting to be burst.

Fantastic, better than swearing out loud (another of my favourite pastimes - someone of my age should be more demure but hey . . . fuck it). Within moments four adults ranging from 24 - 50 are all playing touchy feely with these little pockets of air. Whilst the exhilaration was short-lived it was truly excellent. The only man present at the moment is a Polish Argentinian (not normally known for their robust sense of humour) who gave a wry smile but refrained from participating . . he likes to watch!

Opposites

What's the opposite of misogynist? I think I might be one.