Me and My Big Mouth

It's not every day I get quoted in the same article as Prime Minister Julia Gillard.

Actually, never.

And I had to go and mention leather and whips....*screams and hangs head in mock shame*

Go and read the lovely Kelly Exeter's fabulous words on Women's Agenda here.

B is for Bieber, Blunders and Balance

Continuing my Blog The Alphabet theme

Justin Bieber visited the Anne Frank museum in Amsterdam and wrote in the guest book, "Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a belieber"

Cue the outrage.

"SELF-ABSORBED IDIOT" "MORON" "DOUCHEBAG" "SELF-CENTRED TWAT"

But then get the balanced version.

Bieber visited the museum for more than an hour, and was very interested in Anne Frank's story. It is reported that a guide at the museum had been explaining to Bieber that Anne was hugely into the pop culture of her time, and that if she had been a 15 year old girl (the age she died) who was alive today, she would have probably been a Justin Bieber fan, which may have prompted his comment.

Does that add a bit more context? It does for me.

Add to this the fact that a million 15 year old girls around the world who may have never heard of Anne Frank probably googled who she was. Half of them may look even further into her story, and half of them may be deeply moved by it. And maybe half of them will hold Anne's story in their hearts for the rest of their lives.

Look, I'm not a Bieber fan. He means nothing to me, I don't have an opinion one way or the other about him or his music. What he sings, says, thinks, or does has no bearing on my life whatsoever. My son couldn't care less about him and my daughter thinks he's a waste of space, so Bieber does not enter my world at all until the media and outraged social media users bring him in, uninvited.

Was his comment a bit dorky and clumsy? Yeah.

Was it a bit of an insensitive blunder? I guess so.

Was his heart in the right place but his words misplaced? Probably.

My kids are 20 and 18 and would probably say something equally dorky or self-centred in the same situation, either out of discomfort or as an attempt to lighten the mood, but it would not get reported around the world, picked to pieces, taken out of context and scrutinised. They would just get an elbow in the ribs and a private shellacking from me. But they're young, they'll grow, they'll learn. As will Bieber, who is 19. And we have to let him, without judgement.

At the end of the day, Justin Bieber is a kid who sings and dances.

Don't expect Mandela-type wisdom from him.

So settle down folks, there are far more important things happening than a Bieber Blunder.

B could have been for Boston Bombings.

RIP.

A is for Alphabetical Arousal

By the way, do not google 'alphabetical arousal'. Just take my word for it.

I've been struggling for motivation and time to write lately, as socialising and the hustle and bustle of the real world takes over on these glorious Autumn days and I have found that when I do have a couple of hours to myself when I'd normally write a blog post, instead I'm outside gardening or reading or....I hate to admit it...doing housebitch work. I know, I know. There's something terribly wrong with me. To choose laundry over writing means a chemical imbalance must have occurred some time between Christmas and Easter, possibly caused by overindulgence in a crisp Sauvignon Blanc. (and NO spellcheck, I do not want to change Sauvignon to Signorina, how very dare you, tsk)

One of the voices in my head remembered seeing a blog challenge in passing... somewhere... and suggested that to arouse my writing mojo I should take it up, and the other voices decided we were all onto something. After much discussion at 3am one morning, none of the voices could remember any details of the challenge, except that it involved blogging the alphabet, therefore providing a guaranteed 26 post ideas. Excellent, I thought. I'll join the challenge and start on that as soon as I have a quiet week, I thought. That, along with other posts, should take me through to the end of the year, I thought.

Imagine my big whoopsy moment when I discovered the blog challenge was for April. Yes, blog the alphabet in April. That means 26 posts just in April. Okay, so I missed the boat on that one, and a pretty big, highly committed boat at that. I wouldn't have lasted more than four days, let's be honest, I would've been the first blogger to fall... no... throw myself overboard. I've had far too many good books to read this month, not to mention odd socks to sort.

So, the voices in my head are starting their own blog challenge. Until I come up with a better idea, or until my audition tape for The Voice gets accepted, or until George Clooney signs me up for his next movie - whichever comes first - I will go ahead and blog the alphabet, but in my own damn good time.

It may take months.

It may take a year.

It may peter out at "F is for Fuck-it-all-to-hell".

Whatever.

So I guess this was really "A is for Apathy".

Meh.

The Other Hand

You know when you take a chance and buy a book you know absolutely nothing about, and you get to page 34 and you're mentally high-fiving yourself for taking that chance because you haven't disappointed yourself?

I did that recently.

"It was disorientating, like having the entire contents of one's address book dressed in black and exported into pews in non-alphabetical order."

Nailed it. This is how I too would describe a funeral, if I had Chris Cleave's talent. I stopped and reread this sentence on page 34 of Cleave's novel, The Other Hand, at least three times, marvelling at its equal parts simplicity and brilliance. And I did it repeatedly throughout my reading of this fascinating and deeply moving story.

What do Andrew and Sarah O'Rourke of Kingston-upon-Thames, Little Bee of Nigeria, and Batman have in common?

Fighting baddies.

Their worlds collide on a beach one fateful day, and terrible choices have to be made. Two years later they meet again and a gripping, heartbreaking story unfolds....I can't tell you more, I don't want to spoil it.

Cleave opens our eyes to human suffering and the plight of refugees; sometimes horrific, sometimes absurd. He portrays grief and guilt with candour, and understands there can be humour found, even amidst anguish. The man has a way with words which I love, and the voices he gives his characters are wonderfully honest and intelligent; whether they are delivering the good, the bad, or the ugly, whether they are empowered or helpless.

It's an unforgettable story; tragic, enlightening, horrifying, uplifting, gut-wrenching, funny.... everything. I laughed, I cried, I was shocked, sad and angry. I think it will stay with me forever.

As one reviewer said "Read it and think deeply".

"Psychiatry in this place is like serving an in-flight meal in the middle of a plane crash. If I wanted to make you well, as a doctor, I should be giving you a parachute, not a cheese-and-pickle sandwich. To be well in your mind, you have first to be free, you see?"

~ Chris Cleave, The Other Hand

He's An Arsehole Anyway

As someone who has been with the same man for almost 27 years, you'd think I would be completely uninterested in a "break-up" book on being dumped. But as someone who loves to laugh, and as the mother of an 18 year old daughter who has a whole lifetime of dumper/dumpee possibilities ahead of her, I thought I should probably check out the what-to-do and what-not-to-do conundrums facing the broken-hearted people of the 21st century.

You poor things. Sheesh, social media really complicates things these days, doesn't it? But it saves you money. You no longer have to fill your car with petrol, stock up on donuts and coffee, and physically stalk your ex, doing constant drive-bys and sitting outside his house until the neighbours call the cops. You can now sit at home in your pjs and do it on Facebook. Although I find that prospect infinitely more depressing. At least stalking in the 20th century got us out of the house.

Anyway, this e-book, He's An Arsehole Anyway, is an informative, tongue-in-cheek guide for women on how to deal with being dumped according to the arseholes themselves, written by Elliot Capner and Misha Zelinsky (with fab illustrations by Matt Knapp), guys who have apparently done their fair share of dumping, sometimes nicely and sometimes in ways which have earned them the arsehole tag. They admit it; they're not saints. When the introduction told me that dumpees had to stop thinking like girls, and start "thinking outside the kitchen", I knew although I may not need their break-up advice, I was going to check any sexist thoughts at the door and just LAUGH.

As much as it pains me to admit it, there are some genuinely good tips here for women having trouble moving on. Like not drunk-texting him. Or agreeing to have sex 'one more time' in hope of winning him back. Don't let your family and friends get involved. Always maintain your dignity. And under NO circumstances should you fire-bomb his house, "even if you wipe your prints off the jerry can".

A few more gems include...

"Hearing every detail of your day-to-day emotions is about as welcome as learning from your parents which sexual position you were conceived in."

"If you cheated and have been dumped as a consequence, bad luck. You rolled the dice and lost. We appreciate that people make mistakes, the same way that the producers made a mistake by casting a horse as Carrie in Sex and the City."

"We didn't figure out that we wanted to be billionaire astronaut footballers until we were well into our 20s".

"Traditionally, men are allowed to cry in three circumstances...
1. A Playboy model is undressing in front of them;
2. Their football team has won the grand final; or
3. They have been kicked in the groin."

"There are bigger problems in this world than your failed relationship. Like the enduring popularity of One Direction."

As the guys themselves say, they just hope to put some honest, frank advice out there, and while it may be occasionally ugly or offensive, they hope to help and entertain, and provide some laughs, even if they exaggerate a bit... a lot... along the way.

Like when Elliot glowingly praised my 50 Shades of Grey review and asked me to review his e-book.

It worked.

Arsehole.

Check out their Facebook page where they post some more funny stuff, and where you can stalk the guys in the comfort of your own pjs.

Silver Clouds

Fleur McDonald is The Voice of the Outback.

I have never called her this before. To me, Fleur McDonald  is The Gorgeous Woman I Unashamedly Squealed At and Bear-Hugged in the Middle of the David Jones Beauty & Cosmetics Section. It was the best smelling hug ever.

But she is also, undoubtedly, the voice I would recommend anyone turn to for a piece of the Australian outback, or for that matter, just a bloody good read.

Silver Clouds is Fleur's fourth novel, following in the success of Red Dust, Blue Skies and Purple Roads.

I have devoured them all and you can read my previous mentions of them on my blog in the posts Red Dust & Blue Skies, and Purple Roads as well as a fun interview with Fleur here, where her mention of semen-catching was very popular with Google searchers. Not the kind of searchers I would normally try to catch the attention of, but you can't always choose your fans. (I'm still mentioning it because, hey, hits are hits, I'm not fussy)

Silver Clouds is the story of Tessa Mathison, who leaves the cut-throat marketing world and rubbish strewn streets of London to return to her childhood home of Danjar Plains on the Nullarbor for the funeral of a beloved family member. The visit is meant to be brief, but when things go pear-shaped and Tessa faces an uncertain future, she soon realises she may be stuck there, confronting past traumas and facing her demons for some time. Not to mention dealing with slow Internet access. THE HORROR.

Imagery of life on the land in what can be a beautiful but harsh environment is wonderfully interwoven with a touch of romance, a slice of adventure, and a good dollop of intrigue, before Tessa finally has some clarity about the path she must take, if she has the courage.

One particular part of the story which had me enthralled was the delving into family history Tessa had to undertake, in order to solve a mystery and move on with her life. I recently did some digging into my own family tree, including country relatives, and was fascinated by the stories I uncovered - a convict, an Australian cricketer, possible murderers on the run, an asylum inmate and the fact my great-grandmother gave birth to my grandfather when she was just 14 years old (father unknown) - so I was as spellbound by Tessa's origins as she was. So much so, that my planned method of taking notes for this review whilst reading the book went right out the window. All I managed was...

Page 5: I LOVE TESSA ALREADY.  She has flaws. (I could totally BE her...28 years ago. Of course, I'm perfect now)

And that's it. I got so wrapped up in reading the book, I forgot to take any more notes. Apart from the usual things like eating, sleeping, showering, facebooking and watching reno shows on the telly, I only stopped twice more to send Fleur messages.

Once to say Ermahgerd Fleur, is it possible you are getting even betterest at this writing caper? *nods* *goes back to book*

 ...and the second time when I came across this sentence in the book, spoken by Tessa..

'The word "desert" makes me think of red dust, blue skies and vast plains.'

 Ohhhh, I see what you did there Fleur McDonald. Well played, my lovely friend, well played.

She even manages to mention previous book titles in her current novel, how clever is that?

Silver Clouds is a novel about a lot of things... love, forgiving oneself, acceptance, hardship, triumph, truth, mistakes, grief, awakenings, healing, our amazing country, family relationships, the trailblazers who came before us, the delights.. err, I mean.. evils of vodka.... and is, like I said before, a bloody good yarn.





Thank you once again for your gift of words, Fleur. I hope we get to have another sweetly scented hug one day. Different venue though, I think I may be banned from David Jones...

Check out Fleur's website fleurmcdonald.com

Who'll Run The World?

Sorry Beyonce, I tried to run with your song title of Who Run
The World, but the grammar just didn't sit right with me

I recently read a post that I haven't been able to get out of my mind, and that doesn't happen too often, given  the forgetful state of my peri-menopausal brain and the number of empty wine bottles in the recycle bin. The blogger, Kate, had been on the receiving end of some negativity (an understatement really) due to a short, simple, tongue-in-cheek, funny post she wrote about little girls being possessed by a need for pink things, sparkly glitter, Princess paraphernalia and naked Barbie dolls. I "got it" straight away, in the first point. The tongue-in-cheek-ness of it. I recognise a like mind and a way with words similar to mine, minus the swearing. And Kate likes wine, so, no-brainer.

Unfortunately, her blog was railroaded by some so-called feminists from a facebook group who labelled her "disgusting", likened her "sexism" to "racist jokes" and, among other things, "date rape"...wtf?... and called her daughter names. Kate's response to this was brilliant, as were the follow-up comments by more normal people, which you will find here at Kate Takes 5 - Pink Is A Feminist Issue (apparently).

Has the word FEMINIST taken on a new meaning, and the majority of us missed the memo?
Does it no longer mean someone who believes in EQUAL RIGHTS, EQUAL CHOICES, EQUAL PAY... but someone who rallies the trolls and says "Let's go bully and abuse any females on the internet, complete strangers who we know nothing about, who think it's okay to wear pink and play with dolls"??

What the actual fuck? This is not any kind of feminism I wish to be associated with.

I think I'd like to reclaim the word feminist from the pink-dress-burning Nasty Nellies who may have lost their way between bra-burnings and formed their own sad, Disney-hating agenda.

The key to feminism, for me, is EQUAL CHOICES.  If a female chooses to wear a business suit and carry a laptop, good for her. If a female chooses to wear an apron and carry a Household Hints handbook, good for her. If a female chooses to wear black leather and carry a whip, good for her. If a female chooses to wear Gucci and carry a Prada tote, good for her. If a female chooses to wear army fatigues and carry an army-issued gun, good for her. If a female chooses to wear whatever Beyonce is wearing and carry a microphone, good for her. And if a female chooses to wear fairy wings and carry a pink glittered wand, good for her.

As long as it was her own choice.

(And if a female chooses to wear next to nothing, sing about S&M, and date a douchebag who previously abused her, then her name is Rihanna and that may not be good for her, but it is still her own choice. I hope. But that's a whole other blog post)

Being a female myself (duh), and as the mother of an 18 year old girl, I also know that what a child wears and carries at the age of 2, or 4, or 10, or even 14, may have absolutely no bearing on what they wear or carry at 18, or 30, or 48. Or on their dreams. Or on what they achieve. Or on their capacity to run the world.

Take three real present-day 18 year old girls.

One has grown up as a twin, and strives for individuality and freedom. She has long flowing hair, wears pretty floral dresses, or bright sequinned ones, stilettos, a trowel full of make-up, is super bright and intelligent, and wants to be a psychologist.

One has grown up as the oldest child in a loud and lively house. She has an open, friendly nature, legs all the way up to her armpits, wears simple make-up, tiny hotpants and sky-high platform shoes, is very smart, and wants to travel.

One has grown up with a hundred dolls and an older brother in a casual, laughter-filled house. She has short cropped hair, wears no make-up, skinny jeans, Converse sneakers and black tank tops, is very creative, and wants to write a best-selling fiction novel or screenplay.

Which one will run the world?

I don't know. And they don't know either.

BUT IF THEY CHOOSE IT, THEY ALL HAVE AN EQUAL CHANCE AT IT. 
THEY DON'T HAVE TO LOOK, DRESS OR ACT THE SAME AS MEN, OR EVEN THE SAME AS EACH OTHER. 
THEY CAN CHOOSE TO BE THEMSELVES, AND STILL RUN THE WORLD, INDIVIDUALLY OR TOGETHER. 
EVEN DRESSED IN PINK.
AND THEY ALL KNOW IT.

And that is real feminism.

The Outsource Queen

It seems that these days, people will pay exorbitant amounts of money to other people to do things for them, things they could do (and probably used to do) for themselves if they weren't so stressed/busy/time poor/overworked/lazy/unmotivated/organisationally challenged/reluctant/allergic/confused/drunk... whatever. Everything is outsourced. I know loads of people don't even own a lawnmower any more, some bloke called Jim does their garden for a fistful of money every fortnight, whether it needs it or not. Jim is laughing. Although, given that more people are building homes with small courtyards and fake turf, Jim may not be laughing into the future, unless he works out how to vacuum plastic grass.

Not just services; advice, ideas and strategies are for sale everywhere you look. How to sell your personality. How to get more followers. How to promote your 'brand'. Blog topics for sale. Blog makeovers. None of it cheap. There is even "Mummy Mentoring" for Mummy bloggers. I don't even want to know how much that costs, probably two and a half souls.
(please note I am not bagging these things per se, I am an advocate of the "each to their own, do whatever you want, I'm very happy for you, but it's not for me, I'd rather spend my money on wine and shoes" mantra) 
I recently saw an ad that was selling, not just to business blogs but to bloggers in general,  a 'virtual bundle' , including blog advice, content suggestions, digital marketing strategies and a gift pack of ten blog posts, for well over $600. Ermahgerd.
And on a very popular reality TV show last week, a young renovator mistakenly made a phone call directly to the Heritage Trust (or whatever it's called) to ask a question about his heritage listed home, and was going to be sent a bill for $500 for the privilege of talking to them, instead of going via the site foreman. That's one expensive advisory mouthpiece.

I AM CLEARLY IN THE WRONG BUSINESS.

Actually, I'm in NO business. I've changed my mind. I think I should start one now and have been mulling over some ideas to be the new Outsource Queen.

NAIL TECHNICIAN This title kinda makes me laugh (apologies to nail technicians reading this, but...) Technician? My daughter could paint her own nails when she was 6. I have been painting my nails and looking after them all by myself for my whole life, and they haven't dropped off yet, and I am regularly complimented on them. Going by the queues at my local shop I could probably cut in on their business, charge half what they are charging, and still be holidaying in Dubai on my earnings by November. 
Wait, what? You want a pedicure too? YOU MEAN I HAVE TO TOUCH FEET?? Next...

PERSONAL/VIRTUAL ASSISTANT People are paying others to do the crappy little things they either don't like doing, or don't make time to do. Like running errands, paying bills, picking up dry cleaning, grocery shopping, walking the dog, making travel arrangements, picking up schoolkids, organising tradesmen, waiting for deliveries, working out a budget.... wait, I don't like doing any of those crappy things either. Next...

CLEANER Next....

CAKEMAKING  AND CHILDREN'S PARTIES Gone are the days when every mother organised their own child's birthday party with party pies, fairy bread and frog-in-the-pond, entertainment was Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs,  they baked their own cake, the fanciest cake topping was multi-coloured sprinkles, and the mandatory message iced on top always ended up as 

HAPPYBIRTHDAY 

because they ran out of room. 
Now it's a competition. "Did you see little Johnny's cake? It was a one-tenth scale replica of Hogwarts, including Quidditch pitch, Hagrid's hut and Whomping Willow. It's a shame little Penelope vomited her sushi on it before anyone tried it. I'm getting an even bigger one, including edible figurines of the entire cast for my little Archibald's party. One of the Masterchef winners is doing the catering, and my personal assistant is flying Daniel Radcliffe in for a guest appearance. It'll be a 1st birthday party nobody will ever forget. Penelope is NOT invited".
There is SO much money to be made in this. Wait, I would have to bake... and cook... and maybe even deal with small children... and the MOTHERS.... Next....

HOME HANDYWOMAN My parents rarely got anyone in to do anything around the house, except for essentials like major plumbing or electrical problems, and even then it was family friends who did the jobs for mate's rates. They fixed, renovated and changed things themselves, for the most part. Okay, so the bathroom tiles fell off the wall and the wallpaper in the hallway was upside down, but they DID IT THEMSELVES. Now people don't seem to have the right tools or enough time, let alone the courage or knowhow to have a go, so I could totally step in. I can tile, paint, do design and styling, I can cut with any kind of saw, I can hammer and screw (shut up) with the best of them, and I wield a mean cordless drill with multiple attachments. Except when I accidentally knock it into reverse. Oh, and I won't go up into ceilings or under floors. No confined spaces. I don't work when it's hot. And I don't like ladders. And I have this back problem.... yeah.... Next...

BABY WHISPERER In the old days, people had to put their own babies to sleep. And by that, I mean they had to have sleepless nights, bags under their eyes and a grumpy demeanour while they tried every trick in the non-existent book, until their kids finally caved in and started sleeping through the night. Now parents expect their babies to be slumber experts at four weeks, and there are MANY books on this subject. I had crazy babies with crazy sleep/wake patterns, off and on, and I can bore you for hours with all sorts of pointless advice and suggestions, charge you for it, and then smugly count my money while I let you discover that all kids are different, and bubs will sleep when he/she is damn good and ready, and not when you force it. Hey, my no-method-go-with-the-flow attitude finally worked, my son is now 20 years old and I CANNOT WAKE HIM UP.

No? Hmmm. Okay then, let's go back to PERSONAL BLOG ADVISOR. (I'll leave business blogs to the experts). Here's my 'Six-step Virtual Bundle For Personal Blog Success'.
1. Start a blog
2. Start writing
3. Write your own stories
4. Write with warmth, honesty, humour and passion
5. Don't have a 'strategy', people can smell it a mile off
6. Most importantly, don't listen to me, because every time I publish a post, it reminds people to unsubscribe from my blog, so WHAT THE HELL DO I KNOW?

That will be $645 thanks, you'll all get your invoices soon.

You're welcome.


Regards,
The Outsource Queen 
(I will sell you this name, along with a gift pack of 10 stupid ideas, for a discounted $375, offer ends soon)

Old Fart's Calendar

Okay, the old girl is back showing off her teapots again (not a euphemism) and because I almost forgot it was March already, I've decided to show you April as well.
Just in case.
Because I'm old and forgetful.
As evidenced, according to my Daughter, by the fact I bought the teapots calendar in the first place.
Sigh.

Apologies for the reflection of my flash (again, not a euphemism...maybe).