Sep 21, 2010
For those of you who are late in discovering my mistress’ blog (and where the hell have you been?), my name is Jasper, AKA Ninja, AKA That Fucking Cat.
I introduced myself to you back in June when my mistress (which is Ancient Egyptian for ‘slave’) was ill and I took possession of her laptop.
My mistress is not ill this time, just preoccupied. I have heard the words ‘wine’, ‘headache’, ‘scrooge’ and ‘stop buying cheap shit’ uttered from her mouth staccato-style this morning, though I do not understand what these mean. So whilst she is off apparently looking for a porcelain bus to drive, the significance of which is also lost on me, I will update you with the story of an interesting morning I had just last week.
I open one eye and see that the room is getting light. Perhaps not light, but less black. I glide quietly into my mistress’ bedroom, stand next to her, only a matter of inches from her ear to make sure she hears me, and whisper, “MEOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWW”.
She doesn’t get up. Oh dear, she may not have heard me so I try again, a little louder this time, “MEOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW”.
“It’s only 5am for fuck’s sake, go away.”
Apparently this ‘5am’ she spits at me equates with it still being too black for humans to rise. Shocking. I jump onto the bed and proceed to sharpen my claws on the human’s bedcovers, and ohh, what’s this? Something nice and lumpy under here to really sink my claws into….
“Aaaarrrrgggghhhhh, you fucking cat…”
Hmmm, that is the name she uses for me when she seems displeased. If I want to be fed from the decent can this morning perhaps I should sit and wait. I know, I’ll start washing myself….
Ouch…. I think she may have kicked me. The cheek. The woman doesn’t even appreciate my grooming efforts. Would she prefer I was a matted shag-pile like that Idiot Dog they disposed of the other day? Hah, little do these humans know, but every time I have sat on their laps over the last six months, my purring has been transmitting a subliminal message to their brains...”The Idiot Dog is old, arthritic and sick, she must go. The Idiot Dog is old, arthritic and sick, she must go. The Idiot Dog is old, arthritic…” It took longer than I planned but my patience has finally been rewarded.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, the older male is stretching and rising. I do not bother to follow him. He is unimportant. He will not feed me. I move closer to the mistress’ ear again, “MEOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWW”.
“Alright already, I’m getting up to feed you, bloody hell….”
I weave in and out of her legs as she makes her way to my food bowl, which I know she enjoys as she starts to purr. Well, I think it’s a purr. Okay, maybe it’s a growl. Hard to say. Ahhh, food, and it’s from the decent can too, I was right to wait.
The next hour or two is a blur; I doze as the younger humans move around completing absurd morning rituals. Their litter tray fascinates me though. I like to sneak in with them and rub up against their legs or try to sit on their laps while they are using it. This seems to irritate them for some reason.
Finally all the other humans are gone and I hear my mistress,
“Peace and quiet, I love you. Okay, shower time. Oh crap, forgot, shower head is broken and spraying water everywhere, think I’ll have a bath instead.”
I watch her and just as she is about to climb into the giant bathing device, I MEOW loudly and run to the back door.
“Fucking cat, couldn’t you have asked to go out 5 minutes ago when I was still dressed?”
No, you silly woman, wanting something when it is convenient for you would defeat the purpose of my existence.
She hastily lets me out (with parts of her I've never seen before bouncing all over the place), I complete my own morning rituals (I’m a shy cat, use your imagination) and then sit outside the human’s wet room window. I hear splashing. Good heavens, has someone released a whale in there? I decide I need to come back in and investigate.
I bang on the back door. I climb the screen. I jump at the window. Even thumbless, I manage to rattle the doorknob with my paws. I make as much noise as I possibly can to let her know I must come in immediately.
“Hello? Is someone at the door?”
Yes, it’s me you fool. I rattle and bang and jump some more. I hear more splashing and movement. She’s coming.
“J, is that you? Have you forgotten your bus ticket? Oh shit, I better not have got out of the bath and dripped water everywhere for THAT FUCKING CAT….”
Oops. As she approaches the back door, I run for it. To the front door. I start banging and howling at the front instead, to prove it wasn’t me at the back. Nope. Not me. Nobody saw me there. I didn’t make all that noise. I’m at the front.
Hmmm, she’s not coming to the front, is she? I nonchalantly go round to the back, where she is standing wrapped in a drying cloth, looking…. well…. unhappy. I rub my freshly dirtied fur against her wet leg, run in and turn to watch her as she furiously marches back to the wet room. Almost to the wet room anyway. She’s on the floor now. She appears to have slipped. She really shouldn’t leave all that water lying around, what was she thinking?
“AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH…. FUCKING CAT”
Sigh. She really needs to watch that temper of hers. She glares at me and starts muttering nonsensical words like ‘revenge’, ‘shove’ and ‘washing machine’, so I wander into the human food room and jump up to check for scraps.
“NO get down.”
Damn, she followed me. Next room, up on the table.
"NO get down.”
Blimey woman, you’re everywhere. Hmmm, what’s that up there on top of where she keeps her liquid refreshments, the kind that make her giggly and loud…? Bright things…. must have closer look … oops, almost knocked them over. Better jump down and assume a position of innocence before she comes back… bother, here she comes.
“What the HELL was that? Jasper, did you jump up on the wine rack? Huh? Did you almost knock over my vase of flowers?”
Cue big eyes, leg rubbing, purring, shows of affection, gestures of blamelessness. Of course it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it. Nobody saw me. You can’t prove anything.
“FUCKING CAT, WHY DO YOU HAVE YELLOW POLLEN SMEARED ALL ACROSS YOUR FACE THEN?”
Oh dear. Lunch isn’t going to be from the decent can, is it?
Sep 14, 2010
No, despite the title, this is not a girl-on-girl story of a clandestine lesbian love affair. I promised her I would never speak of that again. It was the Tequila coupled with poor lighting, I’m telling you. Ahem.
Following on in my series of writing about our journey through life and how our attitudes, needs and desires change depending on our age (see Taking A Woman To Bed and What Women Want In A Man), I am going to explore what qualities women want in their female friends at various stages in life. Call them what you like; your BFFs, your besties, your posse, your bitches, or your “group of women who know too much about me so I need to keep them close”; we all need some of that ya-ya sisterhood type friendship in our lives.
What Women Want In Another Woman: She’s my friend as long as she...
1. Looks cute enough and dresses cool enough to hang around with me.
2. Will help me put my hair in a ponytail.
3. Will ‘Friend’ me on Facebook.
4. Will not get a crush on the same boy I like.
5. Lets me bitch about the other girls.
6. Is good at the games and things I like doing, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have a Hello Kitty bag as pretty as mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard I go red in the face.
9. Likes to go see a Pixar movie with me.
10. Will support me and drink coke and eat popcorn with me when that boy I like has a crush on the new girl.
1. Looks hot enough and dresses sexily so that we can pick up guys together.
2. Will hold my hair back while I vomit.
3. Slags off other girls on Facebook with me.
4. Will not sleep with my boyfriend.
5. Lets me bitch about my mother and my boyfriend’s ex.
6. Is good at dancing, drinking and flirting, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have an Ed Hardy bag as cool as mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard I break a heel and fall over.
9. Likes to go see a Rom-com chick flick or gory slasher movie with me.
10. Will support me and drink Jager bombs and eat pizza with me when my boyfriend is discovered in the toilet at the nightclub with that skank from the video store.
1. Looks attractive enough and dresses stylishly so I won’t be humiliated when seen with her.
2. Will tell me my hair looks great every time I have it cut, no matter what she really thinks.
3. Agrees that Facebook is so childish.
4. Will not sleep with my husband.
5. Lets me bitch about other women, my co-workers, my mother and my mother-in-law.
6. Is good at her job and marriage, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have a Prada bag as elegant as mine.
8. Makes me laugh just enough that I don’t embarrass myself.
9. Likes to go see a heartwarming, sophisticated chick flick with me.
10. Will support me and drink wine and eat chocolate with me when I miss out on the promotion at work, my husband doesn’t understand my need for career fulfillment and my mother keeps asking when I’m going to have children.
1. Brushes her teeth and changes out of PJ’s before the school run, most days.
2. Will tell me when my roots need touching up.
3. Joins Twitter with me.
4. Will tell me who is sleeping with my husband.
5. Lets me bitch about other women, my kids, other people’s kids, teachers, other mothers, my mother, my mother-in-law, my sister-in-law, my neighbour, my bank, my therapist and my fucking arsehole of a husband.
6. Is good at faking the perfect marriage and motherhood package, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have a Nappy Bag as funky as mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard I snort out my wine and cry tears of joy.
9. Likes to go see a movie with me, any fucking movie, I don’t care, as long as I get away from the husband and kids.
10. Will support me and drink wine, vodka and assorted shooters, and eat pizza and chocolate and cream buns with me when… well, does there need to be a reason?
1. Looks okay, preferably with more wrinkles than me, and hopefully not wearing orthopaedic shoes yet.
2. Will tell me I need to find a new hairdresser and possibly even hair replacement treatment.
3. Is capable of sending me text messages and emails.
4. Will not sleep with my first/second/third husband (circle which is appropriate)
5. Lets me bitch about other women, my mother-in-law, my financial advisor, my husband, and my kids’ choice of career, partner and lifestyle.
6. Is good at organizing social events and dinner parties. I don’t even care if she’s better than me any more, as long as I don’t have to cook.
7. Doesn’t have a Louis Vuitton bag as big as mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard I regret not concentrating on my pelvic floor muscles more often.
9. Likes to see foreign movies with me, and reminds me to bring my glasses so I can read the sub-titles.
10. Will support me and drink wine and Baileys and eat mudcake with me when my kids decide to leave home and I show signs of Empty Nest Syndrome.
1. Looks presentable and remembers to change out of her slippers when she leaves the house.
2. Will have an honest discussion with me about whether to dye, or go grey gracefully.
3. Is capable of calling me and leaving a message.
4. Thinks my husband is as much of an idiot as I do.
5. Lets me bitch about other women, my son’s wife, my son’s mother-in-law, my doctor, my arthritis, my husband and my late mother-in-law’s will.
6. Is good at being a grandmother, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have a hessian environmentally friendly bag in better condition than mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard I’m glad I brought my Tena with me this time.
9. Has good enough bladder control (or her own substantial supply of Tena) to sit through a movie with me.
10. Will support me and drink sherry and eat canapés with me when my son’s relationship fails, (allegedly but disbelievingly due to constant parental disapproval and interference) and he wants to move back home.
1. Can see a bit, hear a bit, communicate a bit and remembers to get dressed.
2. Will lend me her hair curlers when I can’t find where I put mine.
3. Has a standing arrangement with me at the same time every week because neither of us can read the numbers on the phone any more.
4. Will promise to look after my husband/goldfish/cat if I go first.
5. Lets me bitch about people whose names neither of us can remember.
6. Is good at cards, bingo and lawn bowls, but not as good as me.
7. Doesn’t have a colostomy bag that holds more than mine.
8. Makes me laugh so hard my teeth shoot out.
9. Still remembers where the movie theatre is, because I don’t.
10. Will support me and drink tea and eat carrot cake with me when I have attended the wrong funeral service for the second time in a week.
Sep 9, 2010
The exceptional Annie of Living Life As Me has tagged me. You should go visit her blog, you won’t regret it. Annie has the ability to make me laugh, make me cry and make me hug my son and tell him I love him. No mean feat. Especially when he has just got home from basketball and smells like a sweaty sock.
She also has the ability (and nerve) to ask me to list 7 things about myself. But I’m afraid I may have worn out my welcome in that regard; I have spilled my guts over and over. I’ve told you secrets, truths and lies, things other people have said about me, and things I wish I could tell my younger self. I’ve told you such tightly-held facts about me; that I don’t drive, I only own one dress, I got lost in the toilets at the pub, have succumbed to the temptation of vandalism, was involved in bank robberies, and that I like a wine or four. Okay, so everybody knows that last one, but it was a secret when I started blogging.
So since it is a Kreativ Blogger tag, I may as well get kreativ (which I think is Russian for 'do whatever the hell I want') and twist the instructions a little, and instead tell you 7 things I’ve learned.
1. I have learned I can write a bit. Probably not very well, as I’m sure my grammar isn’t perfect, I swear too much and I tend to crap on. But I guess that’s up to the reader to judge. If I make somebody laugh over something I’ve written, I’m happy. Despite what people try to tell me though, I still don’t call myself a ‘writer’. I don’t even call myself a writer’s arsehole. I (probably mistakenly) think of a writer as someone who is compelled to write, gets paid to write, or is asked to write. I’m more of a ranter, a waffler, a blabber or a blurter. Just a blogger.
2. As a reader, I have learned there are many ‘writers’ out there who are also not even writers’ arseholes. There is some absolute rubbish in circulation, masquerading as writing, pure fraud. Yet the perpetrators of these crimes have the gumption to call themselves writers. Shameful. You know who you are.
3. I have learned that if I know anything about people, all the writer-types who are reading this are now in a panicking state of self-doubt, wondering if I was referring to them. “Punk’d.”
4. I have learned that by the time I get to the fourth point of any of these list-type things, I am stuck for ideas about what to say, and so will go ahead with the aforementioned waffling to make it look like I’m saying something, desperately hoping that I have a brilliant thought by the time I get to the end of this sentence and have to write the fifth point.
5. I have learned that sometimes love alone is not enough. There will be challenges and obstacles, and you need to be willing to hold hands and climb over them together.
6. I have learned to hold hands tighter.
7. I have just learned, on reflection, that I should probably not write blog posts in this mood, as I may be inclined to include something profoundly sappy. I blame you Annie.
8. I need to add an eighth point because I have just learned that someone found my blog this week by searching "filthy dick porn blogspot". I couldn't be more proud.
Sep 7, 2010
Vegemitevix started it. She wrote a post about a TV show called Tribal Wives, where a woman from suburban UK is introduced into an indigenous tribal society, and she cleverly added her own cheeky rules for women to be aware of when moving to her stomping ground in the UK.
Then Heather did it. She started thinking about what a woman would need to know in order to seamlessly meld into life in rural Finland. Like unashamedly stripping naked in front of complete strangers.
Others have done it too. London City Mum did Tribal Wives - The Holiday Version, Very Bored in Catalunya presented the Rural Catalan edition, goonerjamie gave us the English Househusband adaptation (wearing an iPope tshirt and getting pissed whilst juggling flaming socks seems to be a high priority in East London).... and so on. There may be more. It's gone viral. The Centre for Communicable Blogging Diseases is on full alert.
I have the virus. Heather the bitch gave it to me. I need to get it out of my system now. My rules are nowhere near as interesting as the others because Adelaide can be a trifle boring, but here's a few things you need to know if you are going to blend in with the Tribal Wives of Adelaide, South Australia.
1. I suppose I should start with the basics, like what to wear.
In Winter, boots. Firstly, Ugg boots. You may need three pairs. One grungy pair to mope around the house in; one slightly nicer pair that are suitable to wear with the tracky daks and unwashed-hair-gone-wild-ponytail when dropping the kids at school and ducking into the shops for a carton of milk; and thirdly, if you move to certain outer suburban areas, you will need a dressier pair to wear to the pub with your denim mini shorts and orange tan.
Secondly, knee-high fuck-me boots. Enough said.
In Summer, thongs. And I don't mean the type that sticks in your bum crack. We call that a G-string. What some of you might call 'flip-flops', we call thongs. You will need several pairs in various colours to match different outfits, including bedazzled ones for evening wear. (Actually that probably applies to G-strings too, although be careful where the bedazzly bits are, chafing is so tiresome.)
Clothes. Pretty much anything goes. Show loads of flesh, including muffin tops, or cover it all up with an imitation D&G top you bought in Bali for a buck. Shop at Burnside Village in your Manolo Blahniks, at Unley in Prada, at Arndale in Dunlop Volleys, or at Colonnades barefoot. You can be as up-to-date and stylish as you want, or you can be stuck in the 80s and 90s with your hideous leggings and oversized shoulder pads. (WTF, my daughter says this IS up-to-date. Why did I give all that stuff to the op shop in 1999?)
To specifically fit in with me? Wear anything as long as your stilettos don't punch holes in my floorboards and your boobs don't look better than mine.
2. "Life is too short to drink bad wine." This is your new mantra, learn it fast. There is an ancient Latin proverb that claims there are 5 reasons for drinking great South Australian wine. One is the arrival of a friend; second is for your present thirst; thirdly, for your future thirst; fourth is for the excellence of the wine; and fifth....for any other reason you see fit to think of.
To specifically fit in with me? I have winemakers in the family so I'm generally never short of some really good stuff, but I will also accept that if it is 3.17am and only two dozen empty bottles can be found, it is adequate to bring out the Chateau Cardboard. In fact if I'm still conscious and not vomiting, I'll insist on it.
3. You need to learn how to get around our city, whether it be by bus, tram, train, bike or car. If you choose the bus, remember it will only ever be at the bus stop on time when you are running late, doing a crazy one-shoed arm-waving dash up the street, and it will be driven by a bitter, twisted person who still carries a chip on their shoulder from not getting through the first round of Australian Top Gear test-driver auditions.
The car you drive will probably depend on the area in which you choose to live. In the West and South you will find aging family cars, some zippy little run-arounds, salt-damaged surfer vans, hotted-up doof-doof pimp-my-ride types, the occasional treasured classic, and old men with hats in Volvos. Up North there will most likely be a white Holden Commodore in the driveway. Until it is stolen. But it was probably stolen from someone else in the first place, so what goes around comes around. You'll find it eventually. Torched.
In the East you will get run over by a big shiny 4WD (affectionately known as a Toorak Truck), which has never been used for the purpose it was built; it has never left the bitumen. Unless you count that time when Mrs Hyphen-Hyphen dropped her spray-on Chanel, spilt her low-fat soy mochaccino, smudged her giant sunglasses and lost control, mounting the roundabout outside little Julian's Plum-In-Mouth Preparatory School. Apparently she was devastated, but her face muscles no longer move, so it was hard to tell.
To specifically fit in with me? As long as you remember to pick me up on the way to the pub, I don't care.
4. You've heard of the six degrees of separation rule? In Adelaide it's more like three. You need to learn to accept this fact; everybody knows somebody who knows somebody else who knows you. You need to be careful what you do, what you say and who you say it to.
You will attend a party knowing nobody. By the end of the night you will be downing shooters with your next door neighbour's best friend's cousin. The story you started the evening with, about how your neighbours reach over the fence to steal fruit from your tree so you injected the lemons with capsicum spray, will come back to bite you on the bum.
Your daughter will make a new friend at school. Her father will be your boss' wife's dentist and her mother will be your sister-in-law's Pilates instructor. That comment you made about little Susie having buck teeth and bad posture? Yeah, not a good move.
You will have an affair. You will get caught because your lover used to pull the beers at your partner's hairdresser's husband's pub. In fact, the hairdresser is probably sleeping with him too.
You drink the entire cask, forget to take your medication, and run down the street naked singing nursery rhymes, but it's okay, it's 4am on a Sunday and nobody is about. When you drop little Jack off at school Monday morning you notice the smirks and hear the whispers about how the chairperson of the School Council has a friend whose brother delivers the papers in your street.
At about 4am.
To specifically fit in with me? Do not mention you know me to anybody, ever, and remind me to take my medication.
5. We have our own language, fair dinkum. Don't be alarmed if someone says "Now that you're a South Aussie, I must give you a FUIC." They are not trying to jump your bones in a funny accent. Well, they might be. But it means Farmer's Union Iced Coffee.
"I like eating Fritz." The German tourists get nervous, or alternatively, excited, when they hear this. Fritz is a meat product. Not from Germany, but from a pig.
"Having a FUIC with Fritz is heaps good." This could mean that drinking iced coffee whilst eating a slice of luncheon meat is really nice, or it could mean last night with that German tourist was bloody awesome.
To specifically fit in with me? I'll make a deal with you; you pretend you know what I'm saying, I'll pretend I know what you're saying, you swear a bit and laugh at all my jokes, we'll get on just fine.
So have I put you all off coming down to little ole Adelaide?
Excellent, more FUIC 'n' wine for me.
Sep 4, 2010
How bouncy are your bios? You thought I was going to say boobs, didn't you? I have no idea why you would think that, it's not like I mention boobs every…..oh, okay.
This is about your bio, the little blurb consisting of a few sentences or phrases you have on your Twitter or blog profile that will tell the world all about you and make people desperate to follow you and know more. Or not.
I can remember when I first joined Twitter and had to fill in my profile, I sat and stared at the screen, agonising over what I could possibly fit into 160 characters that would tell you everything you needed to know about me. Or what I mistakenly believed about myself. Or what I wanted you to believe about me. You know, "Loving wife, fantastic mother, energetic housekeeper, reliable friend and quiet, clean-living evangelist." Stop laughing, it could have been true....
To this day however, I have no memory of what I actually typed. I know I filled the whole box though, typical bloody woman, I wouldn't shut up. It has been changed a few times since then, but I eventually settled on something simple that on the surface says very little, but is perhaps revealing in its own way.
This brief glimpse at my personality caught the eye of Dave Bartlett, who has now nominated me for his Twittaward and blogged about bios that he found to be witty and clever, which made those people enticing to follow. I hadn't thought a lot about it before, but of course when I get a new follower, I read their bio to see if I'm interested in following back. Dave's blog made me muse over what I want to see in a bio that will intrigue me.
I certainly know what words I don't want to see. Porn, horny kitties, bondage and life coach are among them. Entrepreneur makes me hesitate. As does marketing expert. If the words used are so big that I need a dictionary to decipher them, sorry, you're also gone. Wealth creation, existentialism, theology and empowerment won't get you over the line either. Wine however, will.
It's not a foolproof system though, I admit. I've been duped in the past; a sweet friendly bio and a message of "Hi Cate, how r u? Will u follow me back?" had me smiling and obliging, thinking what a lovely, polite young man he was. This was very quickly followed by him asking "Do u want to see my dick?" Hey, I was right about the politeness, at least he asked first.
I have had followers who have used their bios to announce their unusual sexual preferences, family medical history, criminal record, mental illnesses, and believe it or not, their blood type. You never know when you might need a transfusion I guess.
"I'm a schizophrenic bi-sexual cross-dresser with a foot fetish, who loves licking windows, watching reality TV and drinking blood."
Are you fucking kidding me?? Reality TV?? Sorry, that puts you out.
And please, don't tell me you're sexy. I once had a discussion with a friend on sexiness, and we decided that not thinking you are sexy but somehow managing to exude it anyway, was definitely sexy. We also agreed that the minute you start thinking you are sexy, and telling everybody, then you're not.
I recently read a female's bio that said "sexy geek" which brought on my eye-rolling and expletive-filled what-a-dipshit type thoughts. Only minutes later I came across another female who claimed to be the "originator of sexy geek chic " and my mind started racing. I pondered introducing the two of them, then sitting back and watching the catfight over ownership of "sexy geek" rights, picturing screaming tweets and threats of a violent cyber smackdown. I realised though that if they really were geeks, they would probably agree to battle it out on Spore.
I think I should add that the 'don't tell me you're sexy' rule also applies to 'funny'. I want to decide who I find funny for myself. By all means, tell me instead that you have a sense of humour, but not that you are the funniest person you know. You may think you are, but your jokes probably went out of style with stirrup pants. What?? They're not back are they?? Fuck.
One of the few exceptions to this rule I think I ever made was @joshuadenney who says "I am EXTREMELY funny." I looked at a few of his tweets and they weren't very funny, which I found hilarious for some reason, so I followed him back. We have chatted regularly for well over a year now. The funny part is, he actually is quite funny. Just don't tell him I said so.
Anyway, I guess the point of this is that I should share some amusing and clever bios that I have stumbled upon amongst the people I follow on Twitter. Since I follow almost 2000 people, it would be impossible to go through them all and find the absolute best, so here are just a few I have seen strolling across my screen recently whose bios have brought a smile to my face. Well, they at least haven't had me selecting the BLOCK option.
@Bern_Morley : Child of the 80's. Worker, Mum of 3, wife of 1, Has too much caffeine and never remembers to leave the meat out for tea.
@ShoutyDad : It's their bedtime but the children keep running off in different directions so either I can shout a bit - or pour myself a glass of wine.
@thekingofswing : An inflated sense of intelligence coupled with a messiah complex and general downbeatery. Welcome to the Swingdom.
@shortn_tweet : That bloody cat. She cannot possibly be hungry still. She's only meowing to piss me off, I just know it.
@FizzyDuck : IT Professional, two bit writer, universal wisdom coach, advisor to the aesthetically challenged, bad golfer, lame joke teller & verbal cartoonist
@jeffrago : Pop Culture Explorer. Belly Laugher. Spirit Seeker. Talent Lover. Red Wine Sipper. Dessert Eater. Tongue-In-Cheek Talker
@WritingAgain : Writer of flash fiction and the occasional short story, aspiring novelist, inveterate procrastinator. Slightly ornery, most days.
@frogpondsrock : I am a ceramic artist who lives on a small island, underneath Australia. I balance amazing cooking with indifferent housekeeping. Vacuuming is bad for your soul.
@VBinCatalunya : Marmite munching expat, in desperate need of twiglets.
@Ade1965 : Wine drinker, clown and a fool. Due to this you will either ♥love♥ me or hate me. Oh and I also write and post a little news and tech stuff.
@edible_hat : not actually a goat.
So maybe you'd like to rethink your own, and if it doesn't do your personality justice, give it a bit more bounce, it's never too late. I'm still talking bios, not boobs...
Sep 2, 2010
*This post was originally published in February this year, but I have decided to give it another airing in honour of #feelthemupFriday this week. No, I have not changed my mind, I am not getting my boobs out, nor do I wish to see anyone else's boobs, but we are attempting to turn the Twitter stream pink to remind EVERYONE to do a self-examination this Friday. It could save your life.*
Now that I have your attention....
Hi, my name is Cate, I am a forty-*smudged* year old female with a family history of breast cancer that I am scared shitless of getting. Grandmother, aunties, cousins, sister....both sides of the family tree. A very high percentage of people in my blood line have died of one form of cancer or another. A cousin who died in her early fifties was so riddled with it, they were never really sure where it originated, but suspicions lay with her breasts. Devious things. I always thought they were up to no good.
I think therefore, that I am the target audience for breast cancer awareness. Self-examination, mammograms, a need to be aware of any changes in my own body.... all of these issues must be kept alive in my mind. I cannot afford to ever become nonchalant about it, despite the fact that my parents are both alive and still (verbally) kicking well into their eighties.
With all this in mind, you would think I would be a participant, or at the very least a supporter, of things like #BoobsWednesday #BoobiesWed (or whatever it is called this week) on Twitter. For the uninitiated, a number of Twitter women change their profile picture to a close-up of their boobs every Wednesday under the banner of raising breast cancer awareness. Ummm...yeah...I’m afraid it does nothing for me. If I am the kind of person this crusade is aimed at and I think it’s crass and overdone, is the message really getting across?
When a man who is spreading the word about climate change, conservation, greening and recycling comes to my door, I will listen to him, show an interest, ask questions, discuss options and learn things about what I can do to help myself, my family and my planet. But if he starts turning up every Wednesday, well, I’m just going to stop answering the door. The impact is lost.
My opinion is that if someone feels they really must get their jugs out, it should be saved for certain times. Preferably when I’m not looking, or when there are special Breast Cancer Awareness weeks or months. During these campaigns, by all means, grab the Kodak, polish the knockers and put them online if that’s the way you roll. But in order to spread the word, you also need to UNLOCK your Twitter account to more than your current 500-odd followers, therefore enabling maximum exposure (if you’ll pardon the pun), and for credibility perhaps stop following people with user names like PussyWhisperer, HotBoy and OlDirtyBastard. I’d probably suggest you also remove the word ‘Sex’ from your username if you want to be taken seriously and not dismissed as a porn queen. And maybe you should probably tweet about the war on cancer. Just sayin.
Since I have a brain, this has led me to believe that some of these women (and these are a minority I’m sure, don’t all get your bras in a twist), are getting their hooters out on a weekly basis for their own benefit, all under the guise of a ‘good cause’. Raising awareness is one thing, raising penises through self-mammary promotion week after week is another. In the long run it just makes people like me rather cynical about the whole thing. I can no longer tell the RaisingAwarenessRack from the PuppiesForPerverts.
Someone said to me that they had always thought anything that raises awareness is a good thing. Really, anything? When is Testicular Cancer Awareness Day, and are we going to be inundated with hairy balls? Would that be okay with everyone on Twitter if a whole bunch of guys posted pics of their bollocks and we had #ScrotumSunday? And don’t even start me on Prostate cancer... that would be one amazing, never-used-again camera that gets that close-up shot.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a wowser by any stretch of the imagination (if only you knew...shutup TLD) and I would dearly love to hear the following bedtime story...
**Once upon a time, a naïve, uneducated woman (let’s call her Britney *snort*) joined Twitter, saw a giant pair of norks on her screen and asked of SexyBoobLady, “Why are you showing your melons?” SexyBoobLady replied “It’s #boobiewed, it’s for breast cancer awareness and for no other self-serving sexual reason. You must check your tits.” Britney skipped off to the shower, checked her honkers, found a lump and went to the doctor. After surgery, chemo, radiation and reconstruction, she was given the all-clear and lived happily ever after. “Thankyou Twitter and SexyBoobLady”. The End.**
Unfortunately, an exchange I witnessed recently was more along the lines of...
Bloke : “New pic? Why are you showing your chest?” (close-up boobs were in a tshirt)
Woman : “It’s #boobiewed, breast cancer awareness”
Bloke : “Oh, I like your old pic better...although...do you have a bra photo?”
Woman : *giggle* “I think I have one in a bikini top”
Bloke : “That might be good, not that I’m asking or anything...”
And so on. Not sure how many lives that conversation saved.
Before I get complaints and criticism for being negative/sarcastic/myusualself about a group of people who may, on the whole, be convinced they are trying to do the right thing, hear me out. OF COURSE I want every cancer story to end happily, it’s a cruel disease that nobody deserves to suffer through or die from, and yes, awareness is a key. I just believe there are more effective means than Twitter Titillation (couldn’t resist that one). We need to do it with dignity and legitimately, without sexualising the cause and therefore getting mixed up with the less-than-legitimate 'whores'. Go pink. Get a pink Twibbon. Something to get attention, yes, but for the cause, not for yourself.
To show I am not just sitting in my Amish Ivory Tower, untouched by breast cancer, spouting “Thou shalt not reveal thy funbags”, I will share a bedtime story of my own, regrettably one of many.
Once upon a time I had a friend, H. Our boys played together, started school together. We lunched and laughed together. She was warm, generous and kind. And oh so intelligent. She was involved in everything, you couldn’t turn a page of the local paper without seeing her name in print. H worked hard in the community, stood up for what she thought was right, protested against what she thought was wrong. An outstanding, gifted woman. Put me to shame. But only in my own mind, never in hers.
At one of our mums-need-cake-and-wine lunches, we were exchanging ‘well my mother did this’ stories. Laughing (to avoid crying) over the horrible things our own mums put us through as children, and were still putting us through as adults. Sadly, I ‘won’ every round. I had the best stories, therefore the worst mother. As we all walked back to school in the afternoon to collect our kids, H walked with me, put her arm around my shoulder and said “I admire you, I’m sure those stories were just the tip of the iceberg and yet you laughed about them, even though I bet you have been deeply hurt. You are a credit to yourself, it’s great that you have risen above that, and become the warm, friendly, kind, funny person and mother that you are today. Well done you.” SHE admired ME? Wow. I still carry those words with me today.
The last time I saw her, about a month before she died from the cancer that started in her breast and went to her brain, she smiled blankly at me and asked my name. She didn’t know who I was. But I knew, because she had once told me.
I choose to support..
National Breast Cancer Foundation