Wipe Your Feet

I have decided I should write a self-help book.

Doormat To Dictator In One Day.

It would probably have to carry the sub-title "And back to the doormat by bedtime."

Because that's me, that's my personality. I am a swinger, and not in the fun way that means my keys are always found in a bowl at parties.

As a kid, I was mostly a doormat. I just wanted to fit in, not make waves, not be too noticeable. I was generally a follower amongst my peers, not a leader. Oh. Except maybe at sport. I do admit to the recurring affliction of White Line Fever. There are several girls, and probably some boys (hey, I didn't discriminate), out there with fading scars, unhealed fractures and still bruised egos who would probably testify to that.

When asked for an opinion I would often shrug my shoulders, wait for someone else to give theirs, and agree. There was always someone louder, stronger, more outgoing and confident, who would step up to the plate. The people who know me now are probably incredulous, as I have proven myself to be louder than rock music and quite capable of waking neighbours at 3am with a dirty joke, a roar of laughter and a bit of Hollywood-style old-school soft-shoe shuffling (okay, stomping) out in the street. I may have danced head-first into the tree once or twice but I still got up to finish with *jazz hands*. What a fucking trooper.

But not back then. I kept quiet. Was it through absence of opinion, or fear of expressing one? Mostly the latter, I believe. Pretty sure I always had opinions, but was reluctant to let my mouth release them.

At home I was the youngest child in a house where my mother totally ruled with intimidation, manipulation and emotional blackmail. I just did as I was told. I may have rolled my eyes, had a surly expression on my face, and even poked my tongue out at her behind her back, but I did it.

She was bossy and dominating wherever she went. She wanted to be in charge, to dictate how things should be done. No shrugging of the shoulders and going with the flow for her. Even as she got older and took on volunteering, if somebody else was made the Grand Poobah of Monday's Bingo Balls ahead of her, she took her colour-coordinated textas and her shiny name badge and moved to Wednesdays.

I didn't want to cause trouble, and I also didn't want to be like her, so I let the doormat attitude rule my mind and body. For the most part I accepted this as my lot in life; part genetics (from Dad), part upbringing, part my choice. But eventually, the doormat dam broke, years of held-back opinions rushed forth and there were flashfloods of verbal rebellion. You should have seen people scurrying for their lifejackets and paddles. The unpredictable ebbs and flows of white water rafting have nothing on me.

I can't pinpoint a timeframe or a specific catalyst; I just know I didn't want to be a doormat any longer. Problem was, I didn't really know how to express an opinion in a non-confrontational, objective, pleasant manner. I had never learned. So I SCREAMED it. I got sulky, angry or belligerent. I cried. Pouted. Slammed doors. Threw plums in the swimming pool and blamed the neighbours.

My mother's genetics appearing? Typical teenager? Hormones? Maybe. Partly. Mostly though, I think I was like a really bad case of gas that had just been held in for far too long, resulting in a big, violent fart. I stank the joint up.

The learning process continued. I oscillated between doing what I was told, and wanting to dictate things my way. By the time I started working, I realised the doormat approach was required again. At least initially. I was young, shy, learning the ropes, meeting new people. I became a bit of a follower, probably until my first drunken work function brought me out of my shell. Prawns and champagne. Holy projectile vomit, Batman.

Work, marriage, children, family issues, health issues, frustrating friendships, new experiences …. all have brought out different levels of either subservience or dominance in me. Sometimes I have been targeted because people knew I would be a doormat and say "yes, whatever you want", and I have considered having 'SUCKER' tattooed on my … umm …. forehead.


Other times I could be a contestant on Evil Dictator Idol. I have literally seen people catch sight of me and duck off to avoid the 'Wrath of Cath'. Fuck, I hate the name Cath, but it rhymes with wrath. Don't call me Cathryn either. Cathryn is no doormat. She will fucking kick your arse.

Don't get me wrong, I am not always either a screaming dictator or having people wipe their dogshit-covered shoes on me. Due to the upbringing I had, the lack of an encouraging learning forum, and the choices I made, I have had to teach myself how to express opinions calmly, and try to find a safe, middle ground. Compromise, the golden word. And I don't always succeed. But I try.

It has been a never ending struggle for me. I still shrug my shoulders and give in to people far too easily on occasion. I also get controlling and bite heads off more often than I should. I then have to spend energy either chastising myself for being too weak or apologising to others for being too strong. Most of the time though, now that I'm older and wiser (or just older), I hope I can be found somewhere in between the two extremes.

Just swinging.

Anybody seen my keys?

 

Little Ralphy

Do you all get emails in your inbox with "Little Ralphy" in the subject line and get the giggles before you've even looked at them?
I got this one today, possibly Ralphy's best work yet, and just had to share.

------------------------------------------------------------------



A teacher asks her class, "If there are 5 birds sitting on a fence and you shoot one of them, how many will be left?"

She calls on Little Ralphy.

He replies, "None, they will all fly away with the first gunshot."

The teacher replies, "The correct answer is 4, but I like your thinking."

Then Little Ralphy says, "I have a question for YOU."

"There are 3 women sitting on a bench having ice cream: One is delicately licking the sides of the triple scoop of ice cream. The second is gobbling down the top and sucking the cone. The third is biting off the top of the ice cream. Which one is married?"

The teacher, blushing a great deal, replied, "Well, I suppose the one that's gobbled down the top and sucked the cone."

To which Little Ralphy replied, "The correct answer is 'the one with the wedding ring on,' but I like your thinking."


LITTLE RALPHY ON MATHS

Little Ralphy returns from school and says he got an F in maths.

"Why?" asks the father.

"The teacher asked, 'How much is 2x3?',I said 6", replies Ralphy.

"But that's right!" says his dad.

"Yeah, but then she asked me 'How much is 3x2?'"

"What's the fuckin' difference?" asks the father.

"That's what I said!"


LITTLE RALPHY ON ENGLISH

Little Ralphy goes to school, and the teacher says,"Today we are going to learn multi-syllable words, class. Does anybody have an example of a multi-syllable word?"

Ralphy says, "Mas-tur-bate."

Miss Rogers blushes, smiles and says, "Wow, little Ralphy, that's a mouthful.."

Little Ralphy says, "No, Miss Rogers, you're thinking of a blowjob."


LITTLE RALPHY ON GRAMMAR

Little Ralphy was sitting in class one day. All of a sudden, he needed to go to the bathroom. He yelled out, "Miss Jones, I need to take a piss!!"

The teacher replied, "Now, Ralphy, that is NOT the proper word to use in this situation. The correct word you want to use is 'urinate.' Please use the word 'ur-i-nate' in a sentence correctly, and I will allow you to go."

Little Ralphy thinks for a bit, and then says, "You're an eight, but if you had bigger tits, you'd be a TEN!"


LITTLE RALPHY ON GRAMMAR (Part 2)

One day, during lessons on proper grammar, the teacher asked for a show of hands from those who could use the word 'beautiful' in the same sentence twice.

First, she called on little Suzie, who responded with, "My father bought my mother a beautiful dress and she looked beautiful in it."

"Very good, Suzie," replied the teacher. She then called on little Michael. "My mommy planned a beautiful banquet and it turned out beautifully."

She said, "Excellent, Michael!" Then the teacher reluctantly called on little Ralphy.
"Last night at the dinner table, my sister told my father that she was pregnant, and he said 'Beautiful, just fuckin' beautiful!'"


LITTLE RALPHY ON GETTING OLDER

Little Ralphy was sitting on a park bench, munching on one candy bar after another. After the 6th one a man on the bench across from him said, "Son, you know eating all that candy isn't good for you. It will give you acne, rot your teeth, and make you fat."

Little Ralphy replied, "My grandfather lived to be 107 years old."

The man asked, "Did your grandfather eat 6 candy bars at a time?"

Little Ralphy answered, "No, he minded his own fuckin' business."




I LOVE Little Ralphy.

The Penis Post : You knew it was coming....

Wherever I turn lately there seems to be a penis staring back at me.

Not literally; I don't live in a Naturist Community. The desire to try that disappeared about 15 kilos ago. Especially when I saw one on TV and realised it was populated by all the people who really should not be naked. Ever.

I'm also not complaining. They just seem to be everywhere; I mean on blogs, on TV, in movies, stage shows, discussions about them both on-line and in real life. Saying the word penis and showing a live one is no longer taboo, disgusting or even impolite. <Disclaimer: This is not an invitation, I repeat, NOT an invitation. Except for.... never mind.>

Kerri Sackville wrote a blog post about penises recently that set the comments section on fire, requiring a very big hose to douse the flames. (Sorry, I won't make any more lame double entendre jokes, I promise.) Penises and vaginas were discussed at length. Ahem. It also set Twitter conversations alight as women stepped forward to describe their husbands. After a few hours there was a virtual multicultural meat platter being handed around. My commiserations to whoever it was who brought the cocktail frankfurts to the party. Don't feel too bad though, I brought SPAM.

More foreign movies, or just less censored ones, are being aired (thank you SBS) where there seems to be an endless array of body parts on display. Although flicking onto one late at night and finding the gorgeous and previously lusted-after Daniel Craig fucking a naked old lady (playing his mother-in-law *vomit*) from behind was enough to induce hideous nightmares instead of erotic orgasms.

Documentaries and medical shows like Embarrassing Bodies, which has a Penis Gallery on its website's homepage, line up men's sports teams to measure their penises, both flaccid and erect, to calculate averages and show how varied they all are. They didn't go as far as putting names and faces to the measurements; they were tallied anonymously to avoid total humiliation for Wee Willie. Shame though… there was one bloke I wouldn't have minded meeting…. meh, was probably the ugly one with the hairy arse anyway.

I was going to add to my series of "Through The Ages" … our journey through life and how our attitudes, needs and desires change depending on our age
(Taking a Woman To Bed, What Women Want In A Man, What Women Want in Other Women)… with the very original title of "What Women Want In A Penis", but I'm not certain that our penis requirements vary substantially throughout life.

Before the age of say 25-30, we want it to function constantly, be faithful, not get adjusted in public, and wear a condom.

From roughly 30 to 45, we want it to function regularly, be faithful, not get adjusted in public, and produce high quality sperm.

From 45 to about 60, we want it to just function, be faithful, not get adjusted in public, and be shooting blanks.

After 60 we just want it to remember what it's used for.

And at all ages, we want it to NOT PISS ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT.

 

 

From The Moment I Met Him

From the moment I met him, I knew he would irrevocably change my life. It sounds dramatic and drastic, and it was.

Nobody had ever captured my heart quite like he did. I gave unconditional love with no limit to its magnitude. Sometimes forsaking others. He consumed my waking thoughts and snuck silently into my dreams.

I also knew right from the beginning that he would one day leave me behind. Decide he didn’t need me any more. I’d still be in his life, somehow, but a shadow of what I used to be. What I used to mean to him.

We held hands tightly for so long, but somewhere along the way the grip loosened. It was inevitable. It was like we made it to the peak of a mountain together, but when we reached the top, I wanted to hold him to me and just enjoy the view.

But he had other ideas. He let go of my hand with a suddenness that took my breath away. He ventured on, cautiously at first, then with more assurance.

I reached for him. He guiltily looked back now and then, but kept moving forward, away from me.

I wanted time to stand still. It didn’t.

I wished things were different. They weren’t.

I wondered if I had done anything wrong. I hadn’t.

It was him, all him. He had changed, not me.

I was still his mother, but he had become a man.

Happy 18th birthday my baby boy.

Remember The Days Of The Old Schoolyard?

Remember when things were simpler? Conkers, yo-yos and games of Chinese whispers have been replaced by iPods, mobile phones and the more dangerous game of sexting. Times have changed and the schoolyard has changed along with it. The school system has had to adapt, teachers have less practical avenues of control (but more administrative nightmares), parents can't use (and don't want to use) the methods their parents before them used in regard to discipline, and there is rampant political correctness wherever you look. I'm not saying the transformation is a bad thing by any means; obviously many lessons have been learned both in and out of the classroom over the years. It is just so much more complicated.

I received a humorous email containing some brief comparisons of schoolyard scenarios of the 50s to the present day. They made me laugh as well as got me thinking, so I decided to reproduce it here; and then of course couldn't help but add my own words and expand on the concept. Sarcastically, of course.

 

Scenario: Two boys get into a fistfight after school.

1956: Johnny and Robbie fight as a crowd gathers. Tommy takes bets of marbles from the crowd. Johnny wins. Tommy's profit is four marbles. Johnny and Robbie shake hands and are best buddies. Everybody goes home happy.

1978: Steve and Mike fight as a crowd gathers. Wayne takes bets of cigarettes from the crowd. A teacher comes and breaks up the fight, disperses the crowd and confiscates Wayne's cigarettes for his own use. Steve and Mike shake hands, just relieved that neither of them lost. Apart from Wayne, everybody goes home happy. Especially the teacher.

2010: Samuel and Matt fight as a crowd gathers. Chris takes minimum $20 bets from the crowd, offering odds in favour of Matt at 2/1 while Adam films it all on his mobile phone. Police are called to arrest Samuel and Matt. They are both charged with assault and expelled from school. They are both ordered to attend anger management programs for 3 months whilst Chris is ordered to attend a Gambler's Anonymous group. Adam's phone is confiscated and comes to the attention of the police when porn is discovered. School board holds specially convened meeting to implement violence and gambling prevention programs, as well as an Internet Porn Parents Information Night. School fees rise to cover the extra costs, displeasing the rest of the parent body, leading them to launch a class action against the parents of Samuel, Matt, Chris and Adam. Only the lawyers involved go home happy.

 

Scenario: Student goes off to school with a headache and takes extra aspirin in bag.

1956: Billy goes to the school nurse to get a glass of water to wash down the tablets. The headache goes.

1978: Paul pretends to his friends that he has illegal drugs, before admitting his joke and going to the school nurse to get a glass of water to wash down the tablets. The headache goes.

2010: Angus pretends to his friends that he has amphetamines and tries to sell them, but before he can admit his joke, is caught on security cameras. Despite arguing they are only aspirin, Police are called, Angus has his bag and locker searched, and is expelled from school for drug violations. He still has a headache.

 

Scenario: Student falls over at recess and scrapes her knee. Found crying by her male teacher who helps her up and comforts her.

1956: Mary hugs her teacher, Mr Martin, feels better and goes on playing.

1978: Susie hugs her teacher, Mr Martin, feels better and goes on playing.

2010: Charlotte's parents rush to the school when she texts them about the incident, question her about her scraped knee and the attention she received, take her to hospital and then to a psychologist. They accuse Mr Martin of being a sexual predator, who loses his job and has a nervous breakdown whilst awaiting an enquiry. He faces 7 years in jail and Charlotte undergoes a year of therapy before all charges are dropped. Mr Martin sues the Education Department, appears on every TV current affair show, begins an acting career and becomes Cleo's Bachelor of the Year.

 

Scenario: Student finds firecrackers in dad's shed, brings them to school in an old tiny oilpaint can and blows up a bull ant nest.

1956: Some bull ants die. Kenny stops smoking cigarettes in his dad's shed, just in case.

1978: Some bull ants die. Andy and his mates stop smoking joints in his dad's shed, just in case.

2010: Some bull ants die. State Police, Star Force, Federal Police, Bomb Squad, and Anti-Terrorism Unit are called. The bomb robot is sent in to explode the remains of Sebastian's home-made device. More bull ants die. Sebastian is expelled from school and charged with domestic terrorism. Feds investigate his family, search his home, and all computers are confiscated. Sebastian's dad goes on a terror watch list and is never allowed to board a plane again. Feds order the destruction of the shed, just in case.

Urban Myths, Volume 59: The Perfect Man

What feels like about 18 weeks ago, the gorgeous donkey over at Very Bored In Catalunya infected me with a meme that has been playing on my mind ever since. Okay, so it has really only been one week, but for me (who spends far too much time in the virtual world) so many different conversations take place across various time zones over seven days that I lose sense of reality. Like, I have this weird notion that I’ve been a witch, a nun, and a black and white Dame Edna look-alike all in the past week. Unbelievable, huh?

Anyway, the donkey sent me a hee-haw to tell me this meme has to describe “The Perfect Man.”

After the paramedics revived me (I never knew violent, incredulous laughter could cause blackouts, how about that) I went to read the donkey’s contribution to perpetuating this urban myth. As a happily married ass, she decided to list what improvements would be required for the Turbo Deluxe model husband if she were ever to upgrade. Sheer genius. I particularly liked the ‘reduced farting function’ she would insist on being included in the new prototype.

Since my ass is also married and the donkey has already touched on every defect in the current husband, I will instead switch my mindset over to being ‘on the prowl’ and think about my imaginary search for the perfect man. Since I’ve never met one, I’m not too certain what he does have, so perhaps I’ll concentrate on what he doesn’t have.

He doesn’t have a wife. One ex is okay, two would be a tad troublesome, five is just downright greedy.

He doesn’t have girlfriends. If you feel like you get scheduled one day a week with him, you can bet there are six others like you. Maybe five if he likes to play golf with the boys on Sundays.

He doesn’t have children. If he does, they’d better be toilet-trained, house-trained and preferably on the next train out of town.

He doesn’t have a mother. I don’t think I even need to elaborate on this one.

He doesn’t have a partner-unfriendly job. You know, one that takes him away from you at odd hours, or for days, weeks, even months. One that prevents him from being around to take out the garbage and clean up the cat vomit.

He doesn’t play cricket. Not only does it take all day to play, often for no result, you will be roped in to score, organise drinks, make afternoon tea, and spend countless hours soaking those fucking white uniforms. Why don’t cricketers just wear red and green pants for fuck’s sake?

He doesn’t have a drinking problem. Well, you don’t want him drinking your share of the booze, do you?

He doesn’t have a Facebook page. Because you know he will eventually look up those five ex-wives, six ex-girlfriends and the high school sweetheart he lost his virginity to behind the woodwork room on Sports Day.

He doesn’t have a Twitter account. So that he can’t spend all his spare hours of the day on there, flirting and chatting up every vagina-bearing, gagging-for-it desperado who throws herself at him for attention, strokes his ego, asks for his opinion constantly and validates each of his, no matter how lame. You also don’t want him checking up on your tweets. Ahem.

He doesn’t have a blog. He’ll spend every spare minute writing it, fine-tuning it, promoting it (on Twitter and Facebook, so it’s a vicious circle), thinking about it, analysing it. A notepad and pencil will accompany you both everywhere just in case he gets an inspirational idea. Like next to the bed. If his next post is titled “I Can’t Believe She Won’t Give Me A Blowjob, I Told Her It’s Not Contagious” it may be time to move on.

He doesn’t read your blog. You need to be able to complain about the diseased, drunken, womanising bastard behind his back.