According to my space calculator, this is the destination point - we have arrived. Celebrated by having a big party (that discipline was not mentioned at once) and writing this blog post.
Strangely, I do not feel much different from my old self. Possibly that's because I haven't actually changed. I've heard it said that you can put lipstick on a pig, but it's still a pig... I gather that's a metaphor as I can't understand why anyone would bother putting lipstick on a pig in order to establish that lipstick does not in fact change the species of the pig whatsoever. However, this lipstick-wearing pig has picked up a couple of non-pig-type habits that are hopefully going to stick around.
The dog is generally much better fed, but the plant does have a bit of a hang-dog "knew it was too good to last" expression. Teeth are good, face is great, bed is made as always. Still haven't written to the sponsor child, though. Heck, I haven't even managed to write a blog for the last week.
On reflection, I think the biggest thing I've learned about discipline is motivation. You can talk all you like, but unless the desire to act or change is coming from a deeply held belief, then it's going to be really hard to sustain. I can kid myself that I want to be more disciplined in certain areas, but really, if I'm struggling to even remember them, it's pretty hard to get tough enough to change them.
So - as of tomorrow, I'm going to stop putting lipstick on the pig, and let the chips fall as they may. And you know what? If it turns out that I'm still a pig after all, then that's okay. Thanks for digging in with me. Stay tuned for whatever the next weird thing I decide to do is, because I like the company. :)
M xx
Friday, 29 June 2012
Friday, 22 June 2012
Day 53
One week to go!
Apparently it's bad that I'm counting down, as it means I'm going to switch instantly back to my slovenly ways... Obviously my brain is so advanced that it needs longer than sixty days to wire neurons together to form a new pathway. Or I am hard-wired to be 'efficient' (read: only doing bare minimum needed to survive).
Making the bed still has not lost the shine.
Back at the beginning of my journey, when I was wrestling with the ins and outs of the 'beauty routine' - in my case known as the 'slightly less ugly' routine - I had decided that if my skin still wasn't playing ball at the end of the dig, I was gonna open a can of Proactiv on it. Not long after, I received a very lovely and encouraging email from on of my (tens of) blog stalkers, who shall be code named 'Maid Marion' for his/her own protection from Nigerian scammers and other trolls. Maid Marion was delightful enough to suggest a much nicer, Aussie made natural skin-care company for me to try, and very generously gave me a gift voucher for some of their products. To say I was chuffed would be an understatement.
Anyway, in today's mail I received this very fantastic skincare startup from Maid Marion and ishiki-skin (see www.ishiki-skin.com) so I gave it a test drive tonight.
I can honestly say I'm not being paid very much at all to use my blog as a platform to spruik stuff... the paid endorsements just dont seem to be rolling in yet. I'm no cheating black golfer in a tick cap, after all. But I will state on the record that these products are the best, most yummy, most gorgeous things I have ever brought into contact with my face - including the sweet-smelling cheek of my newly born first child. Unreal. You have to try them. Seriously, I can't stop stroking my own forehead.
If the only thing at all that benefits me out of this whole sixty days of crazy is that I got to try these (for free! Thanks, Maid Marion!) then I will call it early: it was worth it.
Run away pimples. The sixty days have spelled out your doom.
M xx
Apparently it's bad that I'm counting down, as it means I'm going to switch instantly back to my slovenly ways... Obviously my brain is so advanced that it needs longer than sixty days to wire neurons together to form a new pathway. Or I am hard-wired to be 'efficient' (read: only doing bare minimum needed to survive).
Making the bed still has not lost the shine.
Back at the beginning of my journey, when I was wrestling with the ins and outs of the 'beauty routine' - in my case known as the 'slightly less ugly' routine - I had decided that if my skin still wasn't playing ball at the end of the dig, I was gonna open a can of Proactiv on it. Not long after, I received a very lovely and encouraging email from on of my (tens of) blog stalkers, who shall be code named 'Maid Marion' for his/her own protection from Nigerian scammers and other trolls. Maid Marion was delightful enough to suggest a much nicer, Aussie made natural skin-care company for me to try, and very generously gave me a gift voucher for some of their products. To say I was chuffed would be an understatement.
Anyway, in today's mail I received this very fantastic skincare startup from Maid Marion and ishiki-skin (see www.ishiki-skin.com) so I gave it a test drive tonight.
I can honestly say I'm not being paid very much at all to use my blog as a platform to spruik stuff... the paid endorsements just dont seem to be rolling in yet. I'm no cheating black golfer in a tick cap, after all. But I will state on the record that these products are the best, most yummy, most gorgeous things I have ever brought into contact with my face - including the sweet-smelling cheek of my newly born first child. Unreal. You have to try them. Seriously, I can't stop stroking my own forehead.
If the only thing at all that benefits me out of this whole sixty days of crazy is that I got to try these (for free! Thanks, Maid Marion!) then I will call it early: it was worth it.
Run away pimples. The sixty days have spelled out your doom.
M xx
Thursday, 21 June 2012
Day 52
Every now and then the stars align, and you find a t-shirt with something written on it that perfectly expresses how you feel about something.
Today, my stars lined up all the way to Jay Jays at Orange, where I found this superb little number on a ten dollar rack. Normally I would find myself pretty well diametrically opposed to anything written on a JayJays t-shirt, but not this one. This one is awesome.
For those who can't read past the spectacularly grungy filter on the photo, it says "If you ain't being hated, you ain't doing it right."
This pretty much sums up my view on parenting, and the discipline factor. Chances are, your kids won't much appreciate your long term view of their character. They don't give a rats that you want them to learn delayed gratification. Your kids are the centre of their own marvelous universe, and you are most likely the Death Star that stuffs up gravity from bringing everything they want to them. Sometimes, at least.
My dad (see previous posts for his infinite wisdom on child rearing and other topics) had a famous saying when I was growing up. He used to say, whenever we were whingeing about whatever evil decision head made against our wishes, "I'm not your friend, I'm your parent." Supremely irritating at the time, but I now realise the excellence of the principle. If Dad had tried to be our friend (first and foremost) when we were kids, he would have made the popular decisions that lead to anarchy, and we would most likely have ended up intolerable brats. I'm making the gross assumption that my grown-up sisters and I are at least a little easier to tolerate now than that.
Since becoming a mum, I've endured little displays of the same sort of thing from my kids, which will no doubt only get worse. I have to tell myself, when my kids try to manipulate me with words like "I don't love you anymore" and "You're not my friend", that this means I'm tough enough as a parent to cut it - I have backbone. I've said many times when thinking about how I'll parent my teenagers, that if they don't hate me at least once a week, then I'm not doing my job.
Of course, being hated is not necessarily the sole indicator of success, and the game is not to make your kids hate you for fun... It's just a sign that you aren't a total marshmallow.
Since buying the shirt, I've been thinking that maybe it applies to life beyond just parenting. If you go through your whole life, never holding an opinion strong enough to be disagreed with, if you never clash with anyone, if you are such an A-class approval addict that all you ever get is reassurance and constant encouragement, even from people who don't share any of your principles... Shouldn't that ring alarm bells? I don't want people to hate me, but I'd rather that than just be some nothing piece of fluff that never me anyone think twice. Lately, I've even found myself wanting to be offensive, to people who I think need offending, anyway. Putting yourself in the line of fire might mean you cop it from a few haters, but there's courage there, and I think that counts for something. 'Rejoice, you who are persecuted...'
Baiters gonna bait, haters gonna hate, potaters gonna potate.
M xx
Today, my stars lined up all the way to Jay Jays at Orange, where I found this superb little number on a ten dollar rack. Normally I would find myself pretty well diametrically opposed to anything written on a JayJays t-shirt, but not this one. This one is awesome.
For those who can't read past the spectacularly grungy filter on the photo, it says "If you ain't being hated, you ain't doing it right."
This pretty much sums up my view on parenting, and the discipline factor. Chances are, your kids won't much appreciate your long term view of their character. They don't give a rats that you want them to learn delayed gratification. Your kids are the centre of their own marvelous universe, and you are most likely the Death Star that stuffs up gravity from bringing everything they want to them. Sometimes, at least.
My dad (see previous posts for his infinite wisdom on child rearing and other topics) had a famous saying when I was growing up. He used to say, whenever we were whingeing about whatever evil decision head made against our wishes, "I'm not your friend, I'm your parent." Supremely irritating at the time, but I now realise the excellence of the principle. If Dad had tried to be our friend (first and foremost) when we were kids, he would have made the popular decisions that lead to anarchy, and we would most likely have ended up intolerable brats. I'm making the gross assumption that my grown-up sisters and I are at least a little easier to tolerate now than that.
Since becoming a mum, I've endured little displays of the same sort of thing from my kids, which will no doubt only get worse. I have to tell myself, when my kids try to manipulate me with words like "I don't love you anymore" and "You're not my friend", that this means I'm tough enough as a parent to cut it - I have backbone. I've said many times when thinking about how I'll parent my teenagers, that if they don't hate me at least once a week, then I'm not doing my job.
Of course, being hated is not necessarily the sole indicator of success, and the game is not to make your kids hate you for fun... It's just a sign that you aren't a total marshmallow.
Since buying the shirt, I've been thinking that maybe it applies to life beyond just parenting. If you go through your whole life, never holding an opinion strong enough to be disagreed with, if you never clash with anyone, if you are such an A-class approval addict that all you ever get is reassurance and constant encouragement, even from people who don't share any of your principles... Shouldn't that ring alarm bells? I don't want people to hate me, but I'd rather that than just be some nothing piece of fluff that never me anyone think twice. Lately, I've even found myself wanting to be offensive, to people who I think need offending, anyway. Putting yourself in the line of fire might mean you cop it from a few haters, but there's courage there, and I think that counts for something. 'Rejoice, you who are persecuted...'
Baiters gonna bait, haters gonna hate, potaters gonna potate.
M xx
Wednesday, 20 June 2012
Day 51
The War on Indiscipline rages on...
Serious casualties sustained when smallest (human) member of family succumbed to strange and unfortunate virus involving fevers, copious boogers, and making noises like a seal on heat. Sleep rations are now at a minimum, and all senior members of the brigade have been doing extra night shifts. Morale among the troops is quite thin on the ground.
A few minor losses attributed to the onset of temporary insanity, produced by an attack of self-pity gas. Concentrated, but with long lasting broad-spectrum effects including chocolate binges and retail therapy. All units have now been mobilised for in excess of fifty days, and as such
Despite some strong territorial gains and inroads made in to areas known to be Laziness strongholds, the last week has seen these patches come under heavy fire, and, combined with the demands on the troops this week, sheer exhaustion has made holding this ground virtually impossible. Mass-scale retreat into better known territory seems inevitable before Friday. Dental hygiene has seen active combat for most of the past few days, and a major tactical re-think is now required.
The Officers' Mess seems to have been the target of some sort of explosive device, and a team will be sent in for the clean-up operation as soon as they can be spared.
Reserves of energy for Operation DiggingIn are at an all time low, and with them, the anticipation that this will become a peace-keeping mission in merely nine days time. As winter takes hold in the region, our troops look set to be on the offensive for longer than planned, and serious discussion about how worthwhile the operation has been will no doubt leak into media circles before long.
It is hoped that a significant turn-around in the situation will be seen in the next few days.
Over and out.
Serious casualties sustained when smallest (human) member of family succumbed to strange and unfortunate virus involving fevers, copious boogers, and making noises like a seal on heat. Sleep rations are now at a minimum, and all senior members of the brigade have been doing extra night shifts. Morale among the troops is quite thin on the ground.
A few minor losses attributed to the onset of temporary insanity, produced by an attack of self-pity gas. Concentrated, but with long lasting broad-spectrum effects including chocolate binges and retail therapy. All units have now been mobilised for in excess of fifty days, and as suchDespite some strong territorial gains and inroads made in to areas known to be Laziness strongholds, the last week has seen these patches come under heavy fire, and, combined with the demands on the troops this week, sheer exhaustion has made holding this ground virtually impossible. Mass-scale retreat into better known territory seems inevitable before Friday. Dental hygiene has seen active combat for most of the past few days, and a major tactical re-think is now required.
The Officers' Mess seems to have been the target of some sort of explosive device, and a team will be sent in for the clean-up operation as soon as they can be spared.
Reserves of energy for Operation DiggingIn are at an all time low, and with them, the anticipation that this will become a peace-keeping mission in merely nine days time. As winter takes hold in the region, our troops look set to be on the offensive for longer than planned, and serious discussion about how worthwhile the operation has been will no doubt leak into media circles before long.
It is hoped that a significant turn-around in the situation will be seen in the next few days.
Over and out.
Saturday, 16 June 2012
Day 47
Hey, mums. Ever wondered why your kids don't like you? Tired of the constant tantrums, head butting and angry behaviour? Well, after much research, I have compiled this helpful cheat sheet to help us parents get it right, 100% of the time.
You see, I have discovered that the problem with our kids is pretty much always the answers we give to their questions. So, with this helpful guide, give the right answer every time and have happy, charming little angels. No more incorrect responses. No more upset reactions. It will change your life.
Question 1: Mum, can I have a chocolate biscuit?
Answer: Yes, darling, of course. In fact, have two - and in future, don't feel like you need to ask. Here, let me move them to a lower shelf in the pantry for you, so that you don't have to drag a chair over and climb up.
Question 2: Mum, can I buy this? *holding up item in shop*
Answer: Of course not, sweetie, you don't have enough money. I will stop browsing this shop immediately and buy it for you... and remind me to start putting fifties in your piggy bank.
Question 3: Mum, how come he gets one and I don't? It's not fair.
Answer: You're so right, and I live to see the injustices of your life brought toppling down. So, to make up for this hideous mistake of the universe, I am taking it off him... and giving you a brand new one. If he cries, I will send him away to live with another family.
Question 4: Mum, what can I have to eat while dinner is cooking?
Answer: Ice-cream. Don't worry about a bowl, here's a spoon, eat out of the carton. There's only two litres left, you may as well finish it off. I'll buy more tomorrow.
Question 5: Mum, can we change the channel? I hate this news.
Answer: Me too. I was just thinking how much I wanted to watch Yo Gabba Gabba. Here, I'll pass you the remote.
Question 6: Mum, do I have to go to bed now? I'm not tired.
Answer: Fine, honey. How about we sit on the couch and I will read you stories of your choice until you feel sleepy. Then I will carry you into my bed, so if you wake in the night and need any more stories to get back to sleep, I am right there for you. Or I could sing, if you prefer singing.
Question 7: Mum, I'm bored. Can we go to the park and then McDonalds?
Answer: Okay, but sweetie, are you sure you wouldn't like to go to McDonalds first? Then you could have a little snack, just however much of your Happy Meal you want to eat, and then you could play at the park for as long as you like. It's not like I have anything else I need to get done today. After you get bored there, we could go back to McDonalds for ice-cream. I don't mind - whatever you choose.
Question 8: Mum, can I play games on your phone?
Answer: Sure, baby. Let me just divert all the calls so you don't get interrupted, I can always use a pay phone if I need to call anyone. Oh, and I'm so sorry I only have 84% battery, I accidentally used it as a phone this morning and forgot to plug it back in for you. Did you want to buy any new games? I'll just put my password in... there. Go crazy.
Question 9: Mum, can I have lollies for breakfast?
Answer: No problem, darling. You better skip brushing your teeth afterwards, though, it might ruin the lovely taste in your mouth. I'll just pack you some extra junk food in your lunch box, in case you find that the lollies haven't filled you up very well.
Question 10: Mum, I can't find my *insert important toy here*.
Answer: Oh honey, I'm so sorry that you are having to go through this. I'm stopping whatever I happen to be doing right now, and I'm going to put off my trip to the toilet so that I can find it as soon as possible for you. Don't you worry about looking for it - just stay right there and take your mind off it by watching the cartoon show that has caught your attention. I'm on the hunt. In fact, I'm calling all my girlfriends to come over and hunt, too. I'm sure I was the last person to play with it, anyway. If it doesn't show up within five minutes, we'll just pop down to the shops and buy you a new one. The electricity bill can wait, this month. Hell, I'll buy two of them, so we can keep one safe in the cupboard in case this happens again. Do you think I should get in touch with the police, just in case somebody stole it?
Now, mums. Study this sheet carefully, and I guarantee the results. You will be the BEST mum, ever.
M xx
Friday, 15 June 2012
Day 46
If you're looking for something to be impressed about, try this link: World's Youngest Black Belt in Karate.
I, for one, am impressed.
I mean, I'm pretty impressed that my own five-year-old knows how to set up a Wii console from start to finish, which is awesome because now when he asks me "Mum, can I play the Wii?" my sole contribution to the process is to say "Yep." Likewise with the x-box, and I am soooo grateful to not have to spend a half hour fiddling around in order to set the thing up to play a game that more or less involves holding down a single button for three minutes. I'm bursting with pride.
But when it comes to a five-year-old busting chops like a tiny ninja on speed, now THAT is impressive.
Best quote: “Getting a black belt is tough and normally takes five years." No kidding, honey. But I guess you didn't have five years to spare, seeing as you spent two of those learning to walk and pooping in your nappy. Craaa-zzzy.
Unlike Little Miss Ninja, I don't have a black-belt or equivalent in anything. Makes me wonder what I've wasted my 29 years doing, exactly. I am what some affectionately like to call - a "jack of all trades". Except maybe cooking. And playing Call of Duty. (Obviously I have not been chosen to answer the Call.)
There's stacks of things I can do with moderate competence. My "jack list" includes: sewing, teaching, parenting, computer fixing, riding (both horse and horse power), painting, guitar playing, and other assorted tasks. I've put enough effort in to be able to master the basics, but then I go no further. Why is that? What is the fundamental difference between a five year old who has the discipline to train karate for 2.5 hours a day (To what end?? What is the point??! It seems a lot of effort to go to just to avoid being bullied at school...) and me, who struggles to remember to change the sheets once a week?
This discipline is a strange beast.
M xx
I, for one, am impressed.
I mean, I'm pretty impressed that my own five-year-old knows how to set up a Wii console from start to finish, which is awesome because now when he asks me "Mum, can I play the Wii?" my sole contribution to the process is to say "Yep." Likewise with the x-box, and I am soooo grateful to not have to spend a half hour fiddling around in order to set the thing up to play a game that more or less involves holding down a single button for three minutes. I'm bursting with pride.
But when it comes to a five-year-old busting chops like a tiny ninja on speed, now THAT is impressive.
Best quote: “Getting a black belt is tough and normally takes five years." No kidding, honey. But I guess you didn't have five years to spare, seeing as you spent two of those learning to walk and pooping in your nappy. Craaa-zzzy.
Unlike Little Miss Ninja, I don't have a black-belt or equivalent in anything. Makes me wonder what I've wasted my 29 years doing, exactly. I am what some affectionately like to call - a "jack of all trades". Except maybe cooking. And playing Call of Duty. (Obviously I have not been chosen to answer the Call.)
There's stacks of things I can do with moderate competence. My "jack list" includes: sewing, teaching, parenting, computer fixing, riding (both horse and horse power), painting, guitar playing, and other assorted tasks. I've put enough effort in to be able to master the basics, but then I go no further. Why is that? What is the fundamental difference between a five year old who has the discipline to train karate for 2.5 hours a day (To what end?? What is the point??! It seems a lot of effort to go to just to avoid being bullied at school...) and me, who struggles to remember to change the sheets once a week?
This discipline is a strange beast.
M xx
Thursday, 14 June 2012
Day 45
Prepare for a drop in quality!
Blog blog blog... This is me writing a blog. Megsy said she needed a guest blogger for todays blog, so sorry guys i'm it.
Kind of crazy having a blank canvas. I've nearly always got something to springboard off, someone else's thought, a bible passage, a message I heard recently, but this is just blank, no agenda, so many options!
It's hard to not just commentate your life, but that is what Facebook/twitter is for, this is supposed to be a dump for your thoughts...
What happens when u genuinely don't have that many of your own original thoughts...
I can't remember the guys name that worked at the u.s. patents office about a hundred years ago who said, "everything that can be invented has now already been invented" 100 odd years later and boy was he wrong! we now have the Transforma Ladder and The Renovator, 2 amazing things we could not life a day without.
But honestly I feel a bit like this guy. I sometimes think I am mentally disabled in some way with this stuff, like I missed something developmentally in the creativity imagination stakes. For years I have been a builder of others ideas rather than a created of my own. It's not all bad, don't get me wrong I honestly believe it is this one thing that makes me a good leader of teams. It would be a lame and unoriginal project if i was left to my own devices.
Somewhat luckily I have done a great job in life surrounding myself with creative and visionary people. When I say surrounding, my family are full of them, my dad is exceptional, and in have leant on him heavily for the past 30 years. But about 10 years ago showing wisdom well beyond my 20yrs of age, I married the Queen!!!
Obviously readers of this blog are well aware of a few of her talents, she truly is one of the most brilliant minds alive. Her natural ability to take the complex and incomprehensible and turn it into simple and accessible for the average human is in my opinion rarely equalled and massively under-appreciated. She has more vision in her pre-cup-of-tea shuffles to the kitchen in the morning than I do in the average week!
Anyway I've managed to waste 5 mins of your time already talking about very little, so id best be going. At least you will look forward to Meg being back on deck tomorrow!!!
P.s. one little piece of commentary: The youth project I created for Central West Care was on the front page of the paper today!
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
Day 44
Just to drive home how truly pathetic I am in the kitchen, I'll tell you a story.
I decided to cook dinner for the family tonight. I thought maybe home-made pizza. So I drove to the supermarket, and among other things, I purchased: One ready made pizza base, already topped with tomato sauce, one packet of diced ham, one packet of already-sliced pepperoni, one bag of pre-shredded cheese, a packed of sliced mushrooms, and a whole, untampered-with red capsicum.
When I got home, I diced the capsicum myself (hurrah!), opened all the packets, and then got my five-year-old to assemble the rest of the ingredients (which he did with his usual panache and artistry). Only after finishing the construction of whole pizza, did I realise I had forgotten to turn on the oven.
Seriously, it's not hard, is it? Why, oh why can't I cook?! I must have a defective gene somewhere.
I guess if I wanted to put a positive spin on it, I am raising a delightful generation of young men who not only do not see a woman's place as in the kitchen, but who probably would faint with shock if they saw a woman in such a compromising position, and find it to be a most unladylike behaviour. My sons will not find any of the jokes about brides wearing white to match the white-goods funny at all. They will also have an inherent sense of self-preservation when it comes to meal prep - namely that if they don't care to do it, it may just not happen at all.
This blog post ends here because I have an almost two-year-old hanging off my arm and howling, and typing is becoming somewhat of an issue.
Thanks be to God that tomorrow is kid-free Thursday...
M xx
I decided to cook dinner for the family tonight. I thought maybe home-made pizza. So I drove to the supermarket, and among other things, I purchased: One ready made pizza base, already topped with tomato sauce, one packet of diced ham, one packet of already-sliced pepperoni, one bag of pre-shredded cheese, a packed of sliced mushrooms, and a whole, untampered-with red capsicum.
When I got home, I diced the capsicum myself (hurrah!), opened all the packets, and then got my five-year-old to assemble the rest of the ingredients (which he did with his usual panache and artistry). Only after finishing the construction of whole pizza, did I realise I had forgotten to turn on the oven.
Seriously, it's not hard, is it? Why, oh why can't I cook?! I must have a defective gene somewhere.
I guess if I wanted to put a positive spin on it, I am raising a delightful generation of young men who not only do not see a woman's place as in the kitchen, but who probably would faint with shock if they saw a woman in such a compromising position, and find it to be a most unladylike behaviour. My sons will not find any of the jokes about brides wearing white to match the white-goods funny at all. They will also have an inherent sense of self-preservation when it comes to meal prep - namely that if they don't care to do it, it may just not happen at all.
This blog post ends here because I have an almost two-year-old hanging off my arm and howling, and typing is becoming somewhat of an issue.
Thanks be to God that tomorrow is kid-free Thursday...
M xx
Tuesday, 12 June 2012
Day 43
Token blog post, as I have fallen into a funk of depression after watching Packed To The Rafters. I'm not sure what depresses me the most: #1 The fact that I watched Packed To The Rafters, #2 the current storyline on Packed To The Rafters, or #3 the fact that I never once questioned myself during Packed To The Rafters as to why I was wasting an hour in such a fashion.Even the dog, whose current hobbies include picking the stitches out from his recent desexing operation, and sniffing behind the bin for surprise snacks, fell asleep on the couch rather than watch Packed To The Rafters. If only I possessed his wonderful doggy wisdom. There are a number of things I could learn from the dog - he is quite a disciplined character (although a dreadful people-pleaser).
Dog Discipline:
1. Use foresight - look past the moment. Today's human steaks are tomorrow's dog bones.
2. Position yourself to take advantage of opportunities at all times. You never know when one of the kids is going to fling their meal all over the floor. Be vigilant!
3. Get up early. You'll never get properly back to sleep once you realise you need to wee, anyway.
4. Don't underestimate the power of eye contact for getting what you want. The longer you can hold it, the weaker your opposition becomes.
5. Lick yourself clean, daily. Remove any fleas as you find them, or the problem will just get worse.
6. It doesn't matter how many times you get dunked in the bath - keep giving it your best effort to scramble out. Persistance will be rewarded!
7. Bad breath is a real turn-off. Clean your teeth, or you'll have no friends.
8. Know when to speak, and when to stay silent. Be silent a majority of the time, or you'll have no friends and your family will resent you. Make lots of noise if you've accidentally been shut in a bedroom.
9. Plan ahead - ration those biscuits like you don't know when the next lot are coming...
10. Stop buying things you don't need. Save money! If you want something for yourself, simply destroy it so it is no earthly good to anyone else. Then, when it gets thrown out, you can have it. (Hint: don't get busted taking it out of the bin).
11. Find a good, child-proof hiding spot, and under no circumstances let it be compromised.
12. Think carefully before cocking your leg. If you wee on your lead, you will have to drag it around with you and suffer the consequences.
13. If you're going to eat junk, be prepared to regret it.
14. Last but not least, the doggy mantra:
“Poop like there's nobody watching,
Chase cars like you'll never get hurt,
Howl like there's nobody listening,
And dig like heaven's in the earth.”
Also - while I was searching google images for a picture of the original poem (above), I found a picture of a girl wearing a bacon bra. True story. I don't know why.
M xx
Monday, 11 June 2012
Day 42
For a while now, I've followed this awesome blog called Post Secret. The gist of it is, that people are encouraged to decorate a postcard with their 'secret', and then mail it in to Post Secret, who posts it on the blog for the world to see. The urge to share a secret is obviously a powerful one.
I warn my younger readers that there will be inappropriate content on the Post Secret site, but here are a few options that are 'clean', so you're good to check them out - look at: This and this and this and this and lastly this. There's a whole archive of them, but don't go there unless you are really okay with meeting the disturbingness of other people's minds, (I mean really sick, some of them) and you have a lot of hours to waste.
What is it about secrets that some people can keep them, and others just about burst at the seams with the effort of it? I'm going okay at the whole 'not talking about people behind their back' thing, but throw in a secret and oh gosh, I just about boil over. Why? Telling a secret is like an instant hit - short-lived, and probably regrettable, after all, you can't ever get the secret back - but it gives you a moment of importance, where your words alone become your superpower. The reward - witnessing a shocked face, hearing that "really?! Oh my gosh!" - it's like candy.
As a general rule, I don't give away other people's secrets, and I still have a few that I've kept long past their use-by date, but my own... I'm hopeless. This is an area where I seriously lack discipline. I also feel an intense amount of stress over 'well-known' secrets that I know I have to keep - like, if anyone was going to give away my dad's surprise 50th birthday party, it was gonna be me. The nervousness of knowing I can't talk about it, is enough to make me blurt it out unintentionally. Then I do a really bad job of trying to cover it up, which makes it worse.
So - my new List item: Keeping secrets. Let's see how I go.
In other news - yesterday the backyard played host to Plant vs. Dog. A convincing victory to the dog, meaning I no longer have the conundrum regarding indoor/outdoor plants to unravel. The other plant is lonely, but still thriving.
I warn my younger readers that there will be inappropriate content on the Post Secret site, but here are a few options that are 'clean', so you're good to check them out - look at: This and this and this and this and lastly this. There's a whole archive of them, but don't go there unless you are really okay with meeting the disturbingness of other people's minds, (I mean really sick, some of them) and you have a lot of hours to waste.
What is it about secrets that some people can keep them, and others just about burst at the seams with the effort of it? I'm going okay at the whole 'not talking about people behind their back' thing, but throw in a secret and oh gosh, I just about boil over. Why? Telling a secret is like an instant hit - short-lived, and probably regrettable, after all, you can't ever get the secret back - but it gives you a moment of importance, where your words alone become your superpower. The reward - witnessing a shocked face, hearing that "really?! Oh my gosh!" - it's like candy.
As a general rule, I don't give away other people's secrets, and I still have a few that I've kept long past their use-by date, but my own... I'm hopeless. This is an area where I seriously lack discipline. I also feel an intense amount of stress over 'well-known' secrets that I know I have to keep - like, if anyone was going to give away my dad's surprise 50th birthday party, it was gonna be me. The nervousness of knowing I can't talk about it, is enough to make me blurt it out unintentionally. Then I do a really bad job of trying to cover it up, which makes it worse.
So - my new List item: Keeping secrets. Let's see how I go.
In other news - yesterday the backyard played host to Plant vs. Dog. A convincing victory to the dog, meaning I no longer have the conundrum regarding indoor/outdoor plants to unravel. The other plant is lonely, but still thriving.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Day 41
Some rhetorical questions. By 'rhetorical', I mean I may or may not already know the answer, but either way I'm not expecting to hear it...
1. What, exactly, is wrong with having two Mint Slice bikkies for dinner?
2. Who invented plaque (the tooth kind), and what's up with that, anyway?
3. Why, oh why, will the dog eat corned silverside, soggy weetbix, old spaghetti sauce, bits of who-knows-what out of the bin, a mouthful or two of poop out of a dirty nappy, a nibble of grass, and some unidentified thing that had obviously already been eaten once before - but turn up his sloppy little nose at some good old-fashioned dog biscuits?
4. How come some plants are 'indoor plants'? How could they have evolved that way, when 'indoors' has only been around for a couple of thousand years at best?
5. How the heck can four people dirty so much clothing over the space of a weekend?
6. What will I be doing one year from now?
7. Who taught my child to say 'what the freakin' hell?'? What is an appropriate punishment for a five year old child who uses the phrase 'what the freakin' hell?' in context, and appears to think this is acceptable?
8. Why won't snow in Bathurst? At least that way when it is freezing we could feel properly sorry for ourselves, then have a snow day and make snow angels.
9. What is it with Japanese people and crazy games involving unicycles and balancing around obstacle courses? What's more, what is with my husband being totally into them? Who funds this sort of shenanigan?
10. Did anyone notice that I completely forgot to blog last night?
11. Who names the different kinds of herbs? Did the herbs get named after people first, or were people always named after herbs?
12. Speaking of herbs, if only three people in the whole world know all eleven of KFC's secret herbs and spices, why three? Is that so if one of them goes rogue, the other two can team up and take him out of the picture? (I assume 'him' - everyone knows girls can't keep secrets.) How do you get chosen to be one of the three?
13. When will Harvey discover the joys of sleeping in?
15. What happened to number fourteen?
M xx
1. What, exactly, is wrong with having two Mint Slice bikkies for dinner?
2. Who invented plaque (the tooth kind), and what's up with that, anyway?
3. Why, oh why, will the dog eat corned silverside, soggy weetbix, old spaghetti sauce, bits of who-knows-what out of the bin, a mouthful or two of poop out of a dirty nappy, a nibble of grass, and some unidentified thing that had obviously already been eaten once before - but turn up his sloppy little nose at some good old-fashioned dog biscuits?
4. How come some plants are 'indoor plants'? How could they have evolved that way, when 'indoors' has only been around for a couple of thousand years at best?
5. How the heck can four people dirty so much clothing over the space of a weekend?
6. What will I be doing one year from now?
7. Who taught my child to say 'what the freakin' hell?'? What is an appropriate punishment for a five year old child who uses the phrase 'what the freakin' hell?' in context, and appears to think this is acceptable?
8. Why won't snow in Bathurst? At least that way when it is freezing we could feel properly sorry for ourselves, then have a snow day and make snow angels.
9. What is it with Japanese people and crazy games involving unicycles and balancing around obstacle courses? What's more, what is with my husband being totally into them? Who funds this sort of shenanigan?
10. Did anyone notice that I completely forgot to blog last night?
11. Who names the different kinds of herbs? Did the herbs get named after people first, or were people always named after herbs?
12. Speaking of herbs, if only three people in the whole world know all eleven of KFC's secret herbs and spices, why three? Is that so if one of them goes rogue, the other two can team up and take him out of the picture? (I assume 'him' - everyone knows girls can't keep secrets.) How do you get chosen to be one of the three?
13. When will Harvey discover the joys of sleeping in?
15. What happened to number fourteen?
M xx
Friday, 8 June 2012
Day 39
Dear The Queen,
Congratulations on your Diamond Jubilee. To be honest with you, I had no idea that was even coming up for you until everyone in England started banging on about a five day weekend. I guess the monarchy has such an all pervading influence on day-to-day life in Australia that we just take you for granted. I heard that there are now more coins with your image on them than any other royal, past or present. Imagine how far in front you'd have been if they hadn't got rid of the one cent and two cent ones, eh? Pretty sure if they started putting anyone else's picture on money now, there'd be whole generations of Aussies totally lost for words. Especially if it was Charles - he doesn't really have the coin-worthy look, you know? It's the funny side part and the ears. Better go with Wills, he is a bit easier on the eye.
But still, sixty marvellous years of being a dignified public figure - those are some good stats. I bet the Australian Labour Party wouldn't mind hiring you to do a little coaching in PR, seeing as those guys last about sixty days on average in office, before making a royal ass of themselves (excuse the pun). Sixty years of squeaky clean must take a good lot of 'stiff upper lip' and thinking about your actions carefully before committing to them. Either that or you have spent loads of dosh out of the royal coffers on paying butlers and prossies to keep a lid on it... :) Kidding.
Well done on the outfit - tough to pull off a truly conventional design as a lady of your advanced years. I never would have thought of that knee length skirt and tailored jacket with shoulder pads combo. And off-white - such a forward thinking colour. I'm glad to see you have a bit of class - most celebs are going for the see-through, clingy red-carpet look, which I feel may not have conveyed the appropriate tone.
Poor old Phil, eh? How is the old chap? Trouble with the waterworks, never good. Maybe the barge wasn't such a great idea, all that splashing and lapping could do a real number on someone if they already felt like they kept needing to go. I hope he came good with a decent pressie, though. Something diamond, at least, I mean, he's had a while to get something sorted. Perhaps another diamond brooch? Or a diamond denture class? Just thinking... sixty years being married to a sheila who wears the pants - maybe you should have gotten him a pressie, too. Just a token you know - like maybe a Maserati. Knowing your lot, he's done well to avoid the old 'behead and replace' number, hasn't he? Kidding.
Anyways, just wanted to wish you all the best - I quite admire you (even if there are a few little things I'd have done differently over the years: starting with beheading a few of those gossip magazine people, they never really were on your side, it was always Diana, Diana, Diana, and possibly trying the odd different species of dog out because you've kind of ruined Corgis for everyone). Enjoy the rest of your reign, and make sure you give old Wills and Kate the giddy-up on the baby front, everyone's getting toey.
Cheerio,
Megs xx
Congratulations on your Diamond Jubilee. To be honest with you, I had no idea that was even coming up for you until everyone in England started banging on about a five day weekend. I guess the monarchy has such an all pervading influence on day-to-day life in Australia that we just take you for granted. I heard that there are now more coins with your image on them than any other royal, past or present. Imagine how far in front you'd have been if they hadn't got rid of the one cent and two cent ones, eh? Pretty sure if they started putting anyone else's picture on money now, there'd be whole generations of Aussies totally lost for words. Especially if it was Charles - he doesn't really have the coin-worthy look, you know? It's the funny side part and the ears. Better go with Wills, he is a bit easier on the eye.But still, sixty marvellous years of being a dignified public figure - those are some good stats. I bet the Australian Labour Party wouldn't mind hiring you to do a little coaching in PR, seeing as those guys last about sixty days on average in office, before making a royal ass of themselves (excuse the pun). Sixty years of squeaky clean must take a good lot of 'stiff upper lip' and thinking about your actions carefully before committing to them. Either that or you have spent loads of dosh out of the royal coffers on paying butlers and prossies to keep a lid on it... :) Kidding.
Well done on the outfit - tough to pull off a truly conventional design as a lady of your advanced years. I never would have thought of that knee length skirt and tailored jacket with shoulder pads combo. And off-white - such a forward thinking colour. I'm glad to see you have a bit of class - most celebs are going for the see-through, clingy red-carpet look, which I feel may not have conveyed the appropriate tone.
Poor old Phil, eh? How is the old chap? Trouble with the waterworks, never good. Maybe the barge wasn't such a great idea, all that splashing and lapping could do a real number on someone if they already felt like they kept needing to go. I hope he came good with a decent pressie, though. Something diamond, at least, I mean, he's had a while to get something sorted. Perhaps another diamond brooch? Or a diamond denture class? Just thinking... sixty years being married to a sheila who wears the pants - maybe you should have gotten him a pressie, too. Just a token you know - like maybe a Maserati. Knowing your lot, he's done well to avoid the old 'behead and replace' number, hasn't he? Kidding.
Anyways, just wanted to wish you all the best - I quite admire you (even if there are a few little things I'd have done differently over the years: starting with beheading a few of those gossip magazine people, they never really were on your side, it was always Diana, Diana, Diana, and possibly trying the odd different species of dog out because you've kind of ruined Corgis for everyone). Enjoy the rest of your reign, and make sure you give old Wills and Kate the giddy-up on the baby front, everyone's getting toey.
Cheerio,
Megs xx
Thursday, 7 June 2012
Day 38
Things like this make me cringe. As a 'Christian', I object strongly to being represented by such an individual, or organization. It's similar to how I imagine most Muslim people feel about being represented by Al Qaida. A big old 'thanks a bunch' to you, sunshine.
What does this have to do with discipline, you might ask? Patience, young grasshoppers...
This may be controversial, and even scandalous to my church buddies, but I'm gonna go there, because I think maybe some people need to hear that not all 'Christians' play the same tune on this one. I, for one, find it difficult to reconcile my feelings on gay marriage with the Church that I know and love. I find it hard to accept that the church, which is called to be the very seat of grace on Earth, is capable of being such a great source of pain to a whole group of people who don't only feel unwelcome there, but actually reviled. I believe in the church, but I hurt for people who feel that the blessing of being in a church family is contradictory to the very fact of who they are. And for that, I want to say that I'm sorry.
The Bible teaches that homosexuality is not God's plan, His best for humanity. It teaches the same on divorce, but you'd rarely see a divorcee copping the same dose of express hatred and disdain that seems to be reserved for gay people these days. I'm not suggesting that the Bible needs a re-write - far from it. Do I believe that a homosexual relationship is a sin? I do. I also believe that gossip is a sin, but I have no problem allowing myself and others plenty of grace there. The Bible commands us to have joy, to not worry and to 'be anxious in nothing', so I guess that makes depression a sin, too. 'Thou shall not covet' is one of the Ten Commandments, for crying out loud, and yet the very fabric of our society is designed to make us covet, so that we will spend, because capitalism makes the world go round. So 'wanting more stuff' is a sin, too, but you won't see many Christians vowing to abstain from a life of coveting because it's what the Church requires of them, in order to be in harmony.
My Pastor once gave a great, non-hater explanation of why the Bible classes homosexuality as a sin. Not because it's disgusting, or hideous. But because by design, man was given to woman and woman given to man. The two together represent completeness - the two sides of God (who is neither man or woman) brought together. So only in the man-woman relationship can physical intimacy fully reflect the character of God. Which despite what some bigoted God-botherers will try to tell you, is actually the point of an existence that pleases him: reflecting who He is. Not trying to smash the image of anything that doesn't, with hate and angry words.
I guess the point I'm trying to make here is that having the definition of 'sin' right should change the way we think about homosexuality. 'Sin' means to 'fall short'. To not quite live up to God's ideal plan. We none of us are doing that... we gossiping, depressed, coveting 'normal' folk. Is it beyond our control? Sure is. I'm sure that I will have those urges right throughout my life. Sometimes, I will have the discipline to overcome them, sometimes not.
I can say this: the discipline that it would take for a gay person to live in abstinence from homosexual relationship if THEY believed that that was the right thing to do, would be incredible. Its possible, but it would be a huge, all-consuming commitment. I doubt if it was me (given my poor track record with tooth brushing and Bible-reading) that I could manage it. Without personal conviction, then, who would want to? Marriage or no marriage, no law can put a stop to something so motivated by deep desire, conditioning, nature and - dare I say it and upset the Christians - love?
Allowing gay marriage doesn't erode marriage - it erodes our confidence in the structures of society that we cling to to give our beliefs a solid grounding, in the absence of real faith. To that end, is it bad if I say that if Australia legalised gay marriage, I wouldn't be too horrified? After all, I barely even flinch at divorce now, and that is legalising the end of marriage altogether.
I hope I'm never going to feel smug, self-satisfied and certain of my opinion in the gay marriage debate. It shouldn't be easy, because truly Biblical stuff might be simple, but it's never easy. I don't know quite where I stand, but at least I'm not standing somewhere just because it's where someone told me to stand. If you find it easy to have an opinion on the matter, then maybe you haven't agonized over every perspective and soaked yourself in compassion for all involved first. We should never take lightly what others feel is sacred.
M xx
Wednesday, 6 June 2012
Day 37
Should be blogging, but actually I'm helping Dave defeat the world with a killer virus. iPad peeps, if you're in for a little morbid fun and you liked watching 'Outbreak', then Plague the app is for you.
Should really go and get the nappy bag out of the car, it has a bomb in it, and my car will be festering up an almighty stench, but I'm in my jammies already and it's cold out. I'll send the bomb squad in, in the morning.
Should put a load of washing on, but there are monsters in the laundry. Maybe.
Should put away my shoes that Harvs pulled out of the cupboard today thanks to his fetish for dressing up in heels and Dave's orange hi-vis shirts, but I tried the Force and it's not working, so I'd have to get up.
Should wash my face, but it'll still be there in the morning. Unfortunately.
Should stop clenching my teeth, it's really hurting my jaw, but I keep forgetting. Could let my mouth hang open like a slack-jawed yokel, but then, perhaps a perpetual headache is a price worth paying.
Should change the sheets - I'm lying on a whole heap of tiny nuggets of chewed muesli bar. It's not as soothing as you might think.
Should clean the mirrors. Not likely. It might upset the children if they could actually see themselves instead of their greasy handprints.
Should get up early tomorrow and go to the gym, but it's my day off, my kid-free Thursday, and if by some miracle the Lord decides to grant me healthy fit-for-school-and-daycare children, then I am going to sloth it out in bed for as long as possible.
Should be feeling extremely guilty about this list, but a confession is about as good as an absolution.
Should...
Stupid word really, it hasn't changed anything at all.
M x
Tuesday, 5 June 2012
Day 36
One of the greatest disciplines I will ever have to practice in my life, is not a discipline that many practice. In fact, you probably do this one everyday, without even realizing it, as automatic to you as breathing is. But for me, it is a decision, repeated over and over, a hundred tiny crossroads in every hour - to run and hide, or to stay and fight?
No prizes for winning - just the right to continue with normal life.
Emetophobia (fear of vomiting, and vomit) is actually one of the ten most common phobias, but most sufferers never really speak out about having it. After all, it's a pretty silly thing to have an extreme fear of, right? Having no idea that having a 'phobia' means something quite different to a simple 'fear of' something, most people will promptly offer up a response along the lines of "yeah, I hate it too, it's the worst" or "you just need to do it a few times and you'll realise it's not so bad". Neither of which is any help whatsoever to a person with emetophobia.
I can't remember exactly when I realised that I had it, but my mum reports that my reaction to being sick was over the top even when I was a tiny little kid. I would freak out if I was sick, if anyone was sick, if anyone felt sick, if anyone said the word 'sick' in conversation, or even if someone had left a bucket in an unexpected place. Not kidding. By the time I started high school, my anxiety about vomiting was so ridiculous that it became pretty much a full time job trying to both manage it, and hide it. Try explaining why you suddenly stood up and bolted out of class because somebody in the back row belched...
I'll never forget the first time I actually persevered in making someone understand exactly how afraid I was of vomit. I was 18. It felt like a massive weight totally lifted off my mind, I felt free. I still deal with the phobia, but not having to pretend makes the biggest difference. Now it's the running joke, oh Meg doesn't do puke, she freaks out, hey Meg watch this! *fake vomit* And I like it that way. Because when it's a joke, then it's not a big horrible secret, and I don't feel too weird, even if I am. It makes me weird, because it touches pretty much every corner of my life.
I once had this vision of myself, the way I could be. I mean, I always have visions of what life would be like without my phobia, but this time, it was the opposite. In my vision, I was at home, scared to leave my room, unable to see or talk to people in case I caught something spewy off them. Someone who didn't have a job and ate only prepackaged preservative packed foods - bland and tasteless. Someone who didn't have a partner, because that would mean kissing (kissing = mouth = germs), and someone who definitely didn't have kids, because kids means cleaning up vomit and comforting when sick and the constant threat of waking in the night to the sound of a tiny person retching. The vision scared me, and it made me realise that if I didn't force myself out of my comfort zone, make myself do things that were hard and scary and would probably lead to some sort of vomit exposure, that I was heading for a very sad place.
So now, every day, in a million little things, I have to face it and decided not to run like a girl and hide under the covers. The choice to drink the milk on its use by date, instead of tossing it for fear of food poisoning. The choice to kiss my kids and let them run their tiny fingers over my face, and risk picking up some horrible virus they could be harboring. The choice to sit in a chair that is near the exit (and hence placing myself in the path of any running-outside-about-to-vomit folks). Little things that 'normal' people don't even have to decide on.
It's tiring, and sometimes I do choose the covers and the running and the crying about how hard it is, but mostly, I'm putting up a darn good fight. Sometimes I even feel like I'm winning. Like last night, when I spent the evening cuddling up to my sick boy instead of calling Dave to come rescue me. I felt like a normal mama. And that is why, I'm proud to say, I didn't post on my blog last night. Go, me. :) M xx
No prizes for winning - just the right to continue with normal life.
Emetophobia (fear of vomiting, and vomit) is actually one of the ten most common phobias, but most sufferers never really speak out about having it. After all, it's a pretty silly thing to have an extreme fear of, right? Having no idea that having a 'phobia' means something quite different to a simple 'fear of' something, most people will promptly offer up a response along the lines of "yeah, I hate it too, it's the worst" or "you just need to do it a few times and you'll realise it's not so bad". Neither of which is any help whatsoever to a person with emetophobia.
I can't remember exactly when I realised that I had it, but my mum reports that my reaction to being sick was over the top even when I was a tiny little kid. I would freak out if I was sick, if anyone was sick, if anyone felt sick, if anyone said the word 'sick' in conversation, or even if someone had left a bucket in an unexpected place. Not kidding. By the time I started high school, my anxiety about vomiting was so ridiculous that it became pretty much a full time job trying to both manage it, and hide it. Try explaining why you suddenly stood up and bolted out of class because somebody in the back row belched...
I'll never forget the first time I actually persevered in making someone understand exactly how afraid I was of vomit. I was 18. It felt like a massive weight totally lifted off my mind, I felt free. I still deal with the phobia, but not having to pretend makes the biggest difference. Now it's the running joke, oh Meg doesn't do puke, she freaks out, hey Meg watch this! *fake vomit* And I like it that way. Because when it's a joke, then it's not a big horrible secret, and I don't feel too weird, even if I am. It makes me weird, because it touches pretty much every corner of my life.
I once had this vision of myself, the way I could be. I mean, I always have visions of what life would be like without my phobia, but this time, it was the opposite. In my vision, I was at home, scared to leave my room, unable to see or talk to people in case I caught something spewy off them. Someone who didn't have a job and ate only prepackaged preservative packed foods - bland and tasteless. Someone who didn't have a partner, because that would mean kissing (kissing = mouth = germs), and someone who definitely didn't have kids, because kids means cleaning up vomit and comforting when sick and the constant threat of waking in the night to the sound of a tiny person retching. The vision scared me, and it made me realise that if I didn't force myself out of my comfort zone, make myself do things that were hard and scary and would probably lead to some sort of vomit exposure, that I was heading for a very sad place.
So now, every day, in a million little things, I have to face it and decided not to run like a girl and hide under the covers. The choice to drink the milk on its use by date, instead of tossing it for fear of food poisoning. The choice to kiss my kids and let them run their tiny fingers over my face, and risk picking up some horrible virus they could be harboring. The choice to sit in a chair that is near the exit (and hence placing myself in the path of any running-outside-about-to-vomit folks). Little things that 'normal' people don't even have to decide on.
It's tiring, and sometimes I do choose the covers and the running and the crying about how hard it is, but mostly, I'm putting up a darn good fight. Sometimes I even feel like I'm winning. Like last night, when I spent the evening cuddling up to my sick boy instead of calling Dave to come rescue me. I felt like a normal mama. And that is why, I'm proud to say, I didn't post on my blog last night. Go, me. :) M xx
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Day 34
If you've ever had the pleasure of my father's company for a few hours, chances are that during the course of that time you will have hit upon one of his three favourite topics. Dad is an exceptional conversationalist, and has the ability to engage with pretty much everyone. Be it charming the socks of some unsuspecting elderly lady with his appreciation for war history or interest in bird species, or talking motorcycles with a greasy, bogan, teenaged boy - he hooks them in like fish and inevitably, people leave with the distinct impression that they've just been chatting with one of the greatest blokes ever to have lived.
Even his church sermons, which are mercifully brief and peppered with stories you'd probably find in somewhat less detail on Wikipedia, seem to be a source of delight. When word gets around that 'me old man' is taking the pulpit on Sunday, you know that the seats will be full of unlikely churchgoers, the post-service chatter is going to be lively, and churchy bikkies are going to be dunked in foam cups of tea with a little more emphasis than usual. Just ask me about the time he decided to preach about sex... Anyway, people love to hear my dad speak, and they tend to think that every word from his lips is a gold nugget. I know this, because for weeks after any encounter, Dad's victims seem to feel it is their personal duty to impress upon me just how magnificent a man my father is, and how I should be grateful to have had the influence of such a character.
And I am. Truly, I know that he is one of history's greatest undiscovered orators, and his opinions are widely researched, insofar as one can be informed with no use of the internet, and backed up by sound common sense. Which brings me back to his three hobby horses - the topics of conversational domination that are nearest and dearest to his heart:
1. Aspirational people. If you haven't heard my dad's famous speech about aspirational people, then you are in ignorance of one of the greatest social theories ever proposed. Dad's view is that how much you have is no basis for judgement, but how high you aim is. There-in lies the reasoning behind his esteem for the hard-working, hard-saving, claw your way higher type of person - the self-made man. This person, he will tell you, is worth his time. However, the person who does not aim to be a better, more self-sufficient, more honourable member of society, no matter how much they have or are given to begin with, this person is not worthy of much investment. I tend to agree. I mean, I'd back Will.I.Am over Paris Hilton any day. Aspirational people can be told apart from their contemporaries, by their not owning hire-purchased goods that they have no intention of paying off, by their general standard of dress, by their attempting to better themselves through study or work opportunities, and by their desire to own a property in a better neighbourhood and not behave like trash. From my own observations of people Dad categorises as 'aspirational', it appears that generally, aspirational people do not wear thongs unless on holiday, drink VB, own a Datsun or barrack for the Bulldogs.
2. The Bureaucratic Process. I sort of only just manage to follow this, but the gist of it is that people with university degrees need jobs, so when there are not enough jobs for them, the system expands to create additional layers of regulation, and therefore create jobs for them. Which seems a little at odds with the thesis on 'aspirational people', but I guess Dad's loss is their gain. I feel I'm doing him a personal service by disregarding my own tertiary qualifications and working in a service provider role, however un-aspirational this is of me. Bureaucracy means suits with bones to pick, and fine toothed combs to wield, and magnifying glasses to discover fine print you didn't even know existed. Specific to the farming industry, bureaucracy is to blame for those extra ear tag measures required to sell stock, the over-abundance of 'farm management' literature that takes up space in Mum's home office, and a win for those bloody lefty PETA people, who have managed to get mulesing outlawed; hence condemning my dad to many filthy hours of work with a bucket of Round-up, a paintbrush, and a whole lot of rotten sheep ass.
3. Discipline. Which brings me to the piece-de-resistance. "Discipline," intones my father, "has been given a bad name. But," he will continue, "discipline is actually a good thing." He will go on to explain that discipline is the greatest gift you can be given. Particularly with regard to child-rearing, according to he (a twenty-nine strong year career in the field lends weight to his views), discipline is the one great ingredient that has gradually been decomposing from society, to the point that an undisciplined generation are now raising a new generation with very little confidence in the disciplinary process at all. We have removed the consequences for lack of discipline, asserts Dad. He laments that our society is now founded on 'fairness and tolerance,' ahead of a more naturally selective process by where those who won't abide by rules suffer for it.
If I wanted to really cause a kerfuffle at this point, I could launch into the smack-vs-no smack debate, or talk about why the school system is struggling ever harder with issues surrounding discipline and student management, but... I choose not to. (You can go there in the comments if you want to, feel free to spice it up). That is rarely the point of Dad's passionate discussion, though. What he really wants, I believe, is for an appreciation of the fruits of discipline to be more widely held.
My sister was somewhat of a handful as a child, whereas I was mostly a parental doormat - a fact that they failed to appreciate until my sweet sibling provided such a contrast. Many times I heard my parents - Dad in particular - express their "hope that one day, you have a child just like you." Wishes do come true. Now she is wrestling daily with her very own model of 'the strong-willed child', and Dad absolutely relishes dishing out the advice. "A strong will isn't a bad thing, it's a good thing," he tells her - to which she rolls her eyes. Then we both mouth the words to this well-rehearsed monologue along with him: "You just have to bend the will to the right direction."
I'm sure Dad would be surprised to learn that I've developed such a keen interest in discipline, even if it is the self-served variety. He would probably question the presence of some of my list items ("Didn't I drill that into you well enough as a child?") and be horrified to learn that I have a credit card debt (how un-aspirational of me), but I'm sure overall he'd be pleased with my efforts. It just goes to show, that over time, I must have unconsciously soaked up some of his most holy teachings after all. I can almost sense him shining down on me, from that unspoiled rank of society who are yet to soil themselves with regular internet usage.
So, my daddy-o, here is a toast, to the fine role you have played in my aspiration to self-discipline! *raises VB - chink* *wink*
Even his church sermons, which are mercifully brief and peppered with stories you'd probably find in somewhat less detail on Wikipedia, seem to be a source of delight. When word gets around that 'me old man' is taking the pulpit on Sunday, you know that the seats will be full of unlikely churchgoers, the post-service chatter is going to be lively, and churchy bikkies are going to be dunked in foam cups of tea with a little more emphasis than usual. Just ask me about the time he decided to preach about sex... Anyway, people love to hear my dad speak, and they tend to think that every word from his lips is a gold nugget. I know this, because for weeks after any encounter, Dad's victims seem to feel it is their personal duty to impress upon me just how magnificent a man my father is, and how I should be grateful to have had the influence of such a character.
And I am. Truly, I know that he is one of history's greatest undiscovered orators, and his opinions are widely researched, insofar as one can be informed with no use of the internet, and backed up by sound common sense. Which brings me back to his three hobby horses - the topics of conversational domination that are nearest and dearest to his heart:
1. Aspirational people. If you haven't heard my dad's famous speech about aspirational people, then you are in ignorance of one of the greatest social theories ever proposed. Dad's view is that how much you have is no basis for judgement, but how high you aim is. There-in lies the reasoning behind his esteem for the hard-working, hard-saving, claw your way higher type of person - the self-made man. This person, he will tell you, is worth his time. However, the person who does not aim to be a better, more self-sufficient, more honourable member of society, no matter how much they have or are given to begin with, this person is not worthy of much investment. I tend to agree. I mean, I'd back Will.I.Am over Paris Hilton any day. Aspirational people can be told apart from their contemporaries, by their not owning hire-purchased goods that they have no intention of paying off, by their general standard of dress, by their attempting to better themselves through study or work opportunities, and by their desire to own a property in a better neighbourhood and not behave like trash. From my own observations of people Dad categorises as 'aspirational', it appears that generally, aspirational people do not wear thongs unless on holiday, drink VB, own a Datsun or barrack for the Bulldogs.2. The Bureaucratic Process. I sort of only just manage to follow this, but the gist of it is that people with university degrees need jobs, so when there are not enough jobs for them, the system expands to create additional layers of regulation, and therefore create jobs for them. Which seems a little at odds with the thesis on 'aspirational people', but I guess Dad's loss is their gain. I feel I'm doing him a personal service by disregarding my own tertiary qualifications and working in a service provider role, however un-aspirational this is of me. Bureaucracy means suits with bones to pick, and fine toothed combs to wield, and magnifying glasses to discover fine print you didn't even know existed. Specific to the farming industry, bureaucracy is to blame for those extra ear tag measures required to sell stock, the over-abundance of 'farm management' literature that takes up space in Mum's home office, and a win for those bloody lefty PETA people, who have managed to get mulesing outlawed; hence condemning my dad to many filthy hours of work with a bucket of Round-up, a paintbrush, and a whole lot of rotten sheep ass.
3. Discipline. Which brings me to the piece-de-resistance. "Discipline," intones my father, "has been given a bad name. But," he will continue, "discipline is actually a good thing." He will go on to explain that discipline is the greatest gift you can be given. Particularly with regard to child-rearing, according to he (a twenty-nine strong year career in the field lends weight to his views), discipline is the one great ingredient that has gradually been decomposing from society, to the point that an undisciplined generation are now raising a new generation with very little confidence in the disciplinary process at all. We have removed the consequences for lack of discipline, asserts Dad. He laments that our society is now founded on 'fairness and tolerance,' ahead of a more naturally selective process by where those who won't abide by rules suffer for it.
If I wanted to really cause a kerfuffle at this point, I could launch into the smack-vs-no smack debate, or talk about why the school system is struggling ever harder with issues surrounding discipline and student management, but... I choose not to. (You can go there in the comments if you want to, feel free to spice it up). That is rarely the point of Dad's passionate discussion, though. What he really wants, I believe, is for an appreciation of the fruits of discipline to be more widely held.
My sister was somewhat of a handful as a child, whereas I was mostly a parental doormat - a fact that they failed to appreciate until my sweet sibling provided such a contrast. Many times I heard my parents - Dad in particular - express their "hope that one day, you have a child just like you." Wishes do come true. Now she is wrestling daily with her very own model of 'the strong-willed child', and Dad absolutely relishes dishing out the advice. "A strong will isn't a bad thing, it's a good thing," he tells her - to which she rolls her eyes. Then we both mouth the words to this well-rehearsed monologue along with him: "You just have to bend the will to the right direction."
I'm sure Dad would be surprised to learn that I've developed such a keen interest in discipline, even if it is the self-served variety. He would probably question the presence of some of my list items ("Didn't I drill that into you well enough as a child?") and be horrified to learn that I have a credit card debt (how un-aspirational of me), but I'm sure overall he'd be pleased with my efforts. It just goes to show, that over time, I must have unconsciously soaked up some of his most holy teachings after all. I can almost sense him shining down on me, from that unspoiled rank of society who are yet to soil themselves with regular internet usage.
So, my daddy-o, here is a toast, to the fine role you have played in my aspiration to self-discipline! *raises VB - chink* *wink*
Saturday, 2 June 2012
Day 33
Such a wealth of questions have poured in over the past two days that I don't know where to start. I think I'll start by disregarding the two posed by my supposedly non-drug-dependent husband:
Who does the sky eat purple lumpy???
Oh Oh and
If leprechauns were blue, why jump the sun milkshake???
I worry about him sometimes, too - I think he absorbs large amounts of radiation from the environment and also may be sniffing glue behind my back. May have picked up a few nasty habits while working in a rehab. I will have to start checking the mushrooms I buy more carefully.
Which leaves me with the single other remaining question (thanks, Greg, your participation is noted and has earned you a sticker):
What's going to stick?
It's a confronting question. As much as I would like to think that everything on my list would be a keeper, I think we all know it'll rain skittles before that happens. Some things are definitely going to be thrown away and stomped on like a textbook at graduation, but there's a few that I have a hunch are well on the way to becoming established habits. Like the toothbrushing, and the face-washing. The bible-reading is slowly but surely picking up. Tablet taking is a go, and the takeaway revolution makes me feel so damn smug that when I drive past Maccas I almost want to stick my tongue out. So far, the recipe for determining what will become habit and what will become a nice memory one day seems to boil down to a few things:
1. Do I have to really think about it, or can I just decide to do it and then do it pretty automatically? The hardest part about toothbrushing, tablet taking or Black Milk buying is simply the initial decision to do (or not do) the action. Once commenced, if it's basically running itself then it's easy to make into a habit. Pelvic floor exercises, and stomach crunches, on the other hand, represent a great deal of concentration and require both mental and physical engagement. I'm almost certain I
2. Does it fly in the face of a pre-existing bad habit? As much as I hate it, when I'm stressed or tired, my fingers will tend to pick at spots of their own accord. Betraying, traitorous fingers. Talking about people behind their back is so entrenched that I would probably need to gaff tape my face for sixty days before the urge to do it passed fully. If there was Nicorette for gossiping, I would use it. I would have to go cold-turkey. When everyone else is heading out for a quick snitch-break, I would have to stay at my desk rocking back and forth and talk about an imaginary person to another imaginary person until the craving passed.
3. Do I really honestly believe that the effort is worth it? It's one thing to have a standard, and quite another to actually invest enough to keep it happening. When I was younger, I was mad keen about horse-riding and would have lived fully on horse-back only dismounting to pee, if that had been possible. My only dream was to own a horse (and associated equipment) that were fine enough to see me onto the competition circuit, at which point my very existence would have been made complete. Now, thanks to finances and an agreeably tolerant husband, that dream is within my reach. If I really wanted to, I could live the equestrian life, and throw myself into it with all the passion I could muster. However, deep down I know that the truth is, I'm not up for the sacrifice of that lifestyle - however much I still hold it up as my ideal. I don't want to give up the other stuff I would have to give up - like holidays, smelling nice and being able to walk with my knees nearly touching - in order to grab hold of the dream and make it mine. Some of my list items are probably in this category. I'm flirting with the image, but the reality is I just don't want it that badly.
I guess that's the real question - have I figured out which of my 'standards' is really important, and which ones are just imaginary ideals? I think it's slowly but surely becoming apparent. And as it turns out, I'm quite prepared to shake hands with diabetes at some unspecified date in the future, if it means I can eat Nutella out of the jar for now. At least if I have a giant mouthful of sticky goo, I'm less likely to be gossiping with leprechauns about how much weed Dave has been smoking lately...
M xx
Who does the sky eat purple lumpy???
Oh Oh and
If leprechauns were blue, why jump the sun milkshake???
I worry about him sometimes, too - I think he absorbs large amounts of radiation from the environment and also may be sniffing glue behind my back. May have picked up a few nasty habits while working in a rehab. I will have to start checking the mushrooms I buy more carefully.
Which leaves me with the single other remaining question (thanks, Greg, your participation is noted and has earned you a sticker):
What's going to stick?
It's a confronting question. As much as I would like to think that everything on my list would be a keeper, I think we all know it'll rain skittles before that happens. Some things are definitely going to be thrown away and stomped on like a textbook at graduation, but there's a few that I have a hunch are well on the way to becoming established habits. Like the toothbrushing, and the face-washing. The bible-reading is slowly but surely picking up. Tablet taking is a go, and the takeaway revolution makes me feel so damn smug that when I drive past Maccas I almost want to stick my tongue out. So far, the recipe for determining what will become habit and what will become a nice memory one day seems to boil down to a few things:
1. Do I have to really think about it, or can I just decide to do it and then do it pretty automatically? The hardest part about toothbrushing, tablet taking or Black Milk buying is simply the initial decision to do (or not do) the action. Once commenced, if it's basically running itself then it's easy to make into a habit. Pelvic floor exercises, and stomach crunches, on the other hand, represent a great deal of concentration and require both mental and physical engagement. I'm almost certain I
2. Does it fly in the face of a pre-existing bad habit? As much as I hate it, when I'm stressed or tired, my fingers will tend to pick at spots of their own accord. Betraying, traitorous fingers. Talking about people behind their back is so entrenched that I would probably need to gaff tape my face for sixty days before the urge to do it passed fully. If there was Nicorette for gossiping, I would use it. I would have to go cold-turkey. When everyone else is heading out for a quick snitch-break, I would have to stay at my desk rocking back and forth and talk about an imaginary person to another imaginary person until the craving passed.
3. Do I really honestly believe that the effort is worth it? It's one thing to have a standard, and quite another to actually invest enough to keep it happening. When I was younger, I was mad keen about horse-riding and would have lived fully on horse-back only dismounting to pee, if that had been possible. My only dream was to own a horse (and associated equipment) that were fine enough to see me onto the competition circuit, at which point my very existence would have been made complete. Now, thanks to finances and an agreeably tolerant husband, that dream is within my reach. If I really wanted to, I could live the equestrian life, and throw myself into it with all the passion I could muster. However, deep down I know that the truth is, I'm not up for the sacrifice of that lifestyle - however much I still hold it up as my ideal. I don't want to give up the other stuff I would have to give up - like holidays, smelling nice and being able to walk with my knees nearly touching - in order to grab hold of the dream and make it mine. Some of my list items are probably in this category. I'm flirting with the image, but the reality is I just don't want it that badly.
I guess that's the real question - have I figured out which of my 'standards' is really important, and which ones are just imaginary ideals? I think it's slowly but surely becoming apparent. And as it turns out, I'm quite prepared to shake hands with diabetes at some unspecified date in the future, if it means I can eat Nutella out of the jar for now. At least if I have a giant mouthful of sticky goo, I'm less likely to be gossiping with leprechauns about how much weed Dave has been smoking lately...
M xx
Friday, 1 June 2012
Day 32
For anyone fortunate enough to be unfamiliar with Gardner's concept of multiple intelligences - basically his theory is that there is no 'smart' or 'dumb' - just a variation in where a person's intelligence lies. So you might have a high level of 'interpersonal intelligence' but be comparatively hopeless at 'logical' stuff. Or you might be 'spatially gifted' (like every man thinks he is with a street directory) but the thickest person in the world when it comes to musical stuff. Last count, I think he had identified nine different intelligences.
Well, I propose a tenth.
'Culinary intelligence' - being the ability to cope with the preparation of food in all its forms.
I propose this because, while I am reasonably smart, and have a decent enough IQ on a good day, put me in the kitchen and I probably should qualify for some sort of disability funding.
Have a lovely friend staying this weekend, and so for a bit of fun I suggested that we choose a recipe out of a nice cook book (those nice ones that I have in my kitchen because they look pretty) and then we cook it for dinner. By 'we', I mean my friend cooks the food, while I hover in the general vicinity of the oven and amuse myself in a largely spectating role. All went to plan, and main course was fabulous. I'm serious when I say that my sole contribution to this meal was picking some rosemary and some mint - both of which I needed significant help to identify. I may also have gotten a few ingredients out of the fridge.
By dessert, I had run out of dishes to wash up, and the kids were already in bed - I was left with no choice but to face the fear and actually help with the cooking. My tiny little corner of the recipe called for one pan and two ingredients - one of which was water. This should not pose a problem for a grown woman of twenty-nine, with two dependant children and a current drivers licence, right? Fifteen minutes later, and I had smoked out the whole building, ruined a saucepan, and created what is possibly the most scientifically magnificent model of an active volcano in recorded history. Meanwhile, my sweet, patient friend has created a perfectly baked set of pastry cups into which I am supposed to be pouring my now ruined caramel. I started over, this time with much closer supervision from my friend, and slightly stinging eyes.
The thing that possibly disturbs me most about this scenario, is the vast, unbridgeable distance between her culinary intelligence and mine... given that she is fourteen years old. It's game over - I have run out of time to make that kind of a gap up!! I guess you've either got it or you haven't, and clearly I haven't ever even gotten close to having it.
So as much as I would love to be able to extend my discipline into the wonderful world of cooking (and attempts have been made, believe me), that is why I remain committed to packet mixes, ready-mades and anything microwaveable or instant. It is also why I get on my knees every day and thank the good Lord in His wisdom for seeing fit to send me a man like Dave, who is the ultimate 'no-frills' diner.
In other news, my Mum started reading my blog *waves to Mum*. This is a big deal for several reasons - one of those being that I'm pretty sure up until now she thought 'blog' was a euphemism for an extraordinarily large bowel movement. It is to my sweet mother that I owe my deep and abiding horror of cooking, although fortunately I get both my brains and superb good looks from her. Yeah baby, Gardner wishes he had that kind of intelligence on tap. In his dreams. ;)
M xx
Well, I propose a tenth.
'Culinary intelligence' - being the ability to cope with the preparation of food in all its forms.
I propose this because, while I am reasonably smart, and have a decent enough IQ on a good day, put me in the kitchen and I probably should qualify for some sort of disability funding.
Have a lovely friend staying this weekend, and so for a bit of fun I suggested that we choose a recipe out of a nice cook book (those nice ones that I have in my kitchen because they look pretty) and then we cook it for dinner. By 'we', I mean my friend cooks the food, while I hover in the general vicinity of the oven and amuse myself in a largely spectating role. All went to plan, and main course was fabulous. I'm serious when I say that my sole contribution to this meal was picking some rosemary and some mint - both of which I needed significant help to identify. I may also have gotten a few ingredients out of the fridge.
 |
| Lava? Or burnt sugar? |
The thing that possibly disturbs me most about this scenario, is the vast, unbridgeable distance between her culinary intelligence and mine... given that she is fourteen years old. It's game over - I have run out of time to make that kind of a gap up!! I guess you've either got it or you haven't, and clearly I haven't ever even gotten close to having it.
So as much as I would love to be able to extend my discipline into the wonderful world of cooking (and attempts have been made, believe me), that is why I remain committed to packet mixes, ready-mades and anything microwaveable or instant. It is also why I get on my knees every day and thank the good Lord in His wisdom for seeing fit to send me a man like Dave, who is the ultimate 'no-frills' diner.
In other news, my Mum started reading my blog *waves to Mum*. This is a big deal for several reasons - one of those being that I'm pretty sure up until now she thought 'blog' was a euphemism for an extraordinarily large bowel movement. It is to my sweet mother that I owe my deep and abiding horror of cooking, although fortunately I get both my brains and superb good looks from her. Yeah baby, Gardner wishes he had that kind of intelligence on tap. In his dreams. ;)
M xx
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