And The Bleat Goes On…

You have the song stuck in your head now don't you? So do I. And Cher was so pretty back then, back when she could still move all the muscles in her face....

But "Shut up Cate and tell me....What is a bleat?" I hear you ask. When what you want to say is too long for a 140 character tweet on Twitter but not quite long enough for a blog post, a bleat is the result.

I have promised Heather of Note From Lapland, the luscious wench who tagged me, that I will bleat my teats off, which prompted London City Mum to issue a Severe Smother Warning. Bloody hell, I don't think even my teats reach that far, but I'll try.

@TheAttentionSeekingDramaQueenMoronWhoseProblemsAreAlwaysAsBigAsIfNotBiggerThanYoursAndEverybodyElses : Earlier in the week I tweeted the following message..."Being A Good Friend Tip#26: Do not trivialize your friend's bad day by comparing it to yours or everyone else's. Shut the fuck up & listen."

When someone says they've had a horrid bitch of a day, please don't reply with "Ahh, sorry, I'm having the same" or "Oh bummer, we've all been there" or "Sorry to hear that, we've all had one of those". Really? How do you know? Did you stop to ask what had happened first before you trivialized her complaint? What if her best friend had died, her husband announced he was gay, her dog got hit by a car and the heel on her most expensive shoe broke, all in one day? We've all had one of those days, have we?? Unless you stop and listen, you really have no fucking idea what she's been through.

And starting a sentence with "Sorry to hear that..." does NOT excuse what you say next.

Unless of course your BFF carked it, hubby came out of the closet, dog got splattered and fave Jimmy Choo went boohoo.

@BoringTweetersWhoThinkWeGiveAFuckAboutTheirBoringTweets : I have tweeted briefly about this before so it's not fresh news.

I know we are not all scintillatingly witty or stimulatingly clever all day, every day. It's hard work being awesome. Even I get tired sometimes. Yeah, yeah, stop laughing you lot in the back row. But please, I beg of you, spare me tweets like "Hello", "I am hungry", "I am hot", "I have a headache", "I need a snack", "I am tired", and my current favourite "I am cold." (not forgetting the extended mix versions "My nose is cold" and "My feet are cold") Seriously, you're wasting space on my screen where funny and interesting people could be.

What do I want to reply to these tweets?

You're hungry? Go eat something. It's not rocket science. You find food, open your mouth, put the food in, chew and swallow.

You're tired? Put the fucking twitter down and go to bed then. I don't care.

You're cold? No kidding! It is winter where you are, it is -5 degrees and you have 10 inches of snow so of course you're cold. How do I know all this? You told me. Every. Fucking. Day.

If it's a rare lapse that you do these kinds of tweets, that's fine, I'm not going to shoot nerf bullets at you for it. In fact I probably won't even notice. It is the repeat offenders who give me the irrits and have me reaching for the Super Deluxe N-Strike Vulcan Nerf Bazooka Blaster with 3 darts per second capabilities and bonus removable tripod.

In the interest of this being constructive criticism as opposed to just a rant, I'll share a tip. (I said a TIP, LCM) When I succumb and decide to tweet something plain and simple, I add a hashtag to acknowledge the fact that I am fully aware of its supreme dullness. Like #boringtweetoftheday or #boringoldladytweet or #likeanybodycares or #thingstwitterdoesntneedtoknow , thereby, hopefully, taking away its unimaginativeness. Or maybe you could just add #unimaginativeness


@SomeWomenWhoAreOldEnoughToKnowBetter : This is another thing I have tweeted briefly about before but couldn't elaborate on.
I am very uncomfortable about women who refer to their husband/partner/father of their children as "Daddy" when they are talking to other adults. Sure, when you are talking to your kids, "Give this to Daddy", "Go ask Daddy" and "Tell Daddy to stop hiding in the shed, I know he keeps his beer and porno stash out there" is perfectly acceptable. But when you are conversing solely with adults (real life or Twitter) please stick to terms like Husband, Other Half, M.O.T.H. (Man Of The House), or H.I.M. (He Impregnated Me).

Calling him Daddy smacks of immaturity. And incest.

@ThatFuckingCat : He was waking us at 4am to go out. He was banging on our window at 5am to come back in. He was waking us again at 6am to go out. And so on and so on. He goes in and out a thousand times a day and night, so we put in a cat door. Hooray, problem solved, you think? Pig's bloody arse. He refuses to push it open himself so we still have to either hold it open for him, physically shove him through or prop it open. When we prop it open, all the other neighbourhood cats come in and eat his food, while he sits and watches them. Like he invited them for a dinner party. Only they don't even bring wine.

We have thought of the electronic doors that open automatically only when your cat, wearing the special tagged collar, approaches. But he has lost 5 collars in 6 months, fuck knows where, so not convinced that would last long.

Does anybody want That Fucking Cat for Christmas? I'll throw in free gift wrapping and an obsolete cat door.

@TheHystericalPeopleWhoCriedLikeBabiesJustBecauseOprahWasHere : I am not in Sydney nor involved in the Tourism industry so I will make no money from her visit. She didn't make a surprise visit to my place for a barbecue and sing-along in my backyard. She didn't give me a new computer or $250,000 or a pearl necklace (inappropriate giggle). She did have the Irwin kids on stage, let Nicole Kidman sing with a real microphone, and she broke Hugh Jackman's face.

Okay, now I'm crying too. Just not for the same reason.

@ThePeopleWhoPutUpWithMySillinessOnTwitterWhoReadOrCommentOnMyBlogAndWhomIHaveComeToThinkOfAsFriends : You know who you are. You chat to me with no judgement, you have read not only my sarcastic rants but my more serious musings. A select few have even read some gut-wrenching heartbreak from me. Just because I don't tweet or post every second day about miscarriage, depression or loss, doesn't mean I haven't experienced them; sometimes the sardonic humour hides a black cloud. But those closest to me know some of this. Thank you. I know that you all know there is more to me than boobs, wine and penis marbles.

 

"I'm strong on the surface, not all the way through. I've never been perfect, but neither have you." ~ Linkin Park #ILikeToTweetLyrics

Your turn everybody, go bleat your teats off.
 

 

Infinite

I have been a mother for more than 18 years and over that time have been asked, and asked myself, many important questions.

Are my children developing as they should?

Which education system is the best?

Do they have a nice group of friends?

Are they doing their best at school?

Should I push them harder or let them be?

Are they happy?

What is that smell coming from my son's room?

So many conundrums, so much anxiety. And barely enough air freshener.

Another question has been put to me, one I have previously not given an immense amount of thought to until now.

What do you wish you could provide your children with an infinite amount of?

My mind started racing; this is easy, I want everything ad infinitum for my kids.

Or do I?

Love. They already have that from us. They have the ability to love very deeply too. To infinity and beyond. But they should also know how to earn other people's love and trust. Not just expect it. And never demand it. I want them to fall in love, fall out of love, get back up and fall in love all over again. Though it would be nice if that didn't involve too many divorce lawyers.

Money. Umm, no, an infinite fortune at their fingertips will teach nothing about work ethic, saving and the satisfaction of reaching goals. Shouldn't they struggle just a little now and then in order to appreciate what they have? Knowing all the while that we will support them if the need arises, because apparently we have a Money Tree growing in the back yard.

Happiness. Of course I want my kids to be happy. But an infinite amount? All the time? No, not if it is at the expense of other emotions. Shouldn't they also feel sadness, anger, hurt, sorrow? How else do we learn to grow and heal ourselves, how to feel sympathy for others? I have never been a helicopter parent, hovering over them, covering them in bubble wrap, protecting them from knowing or experiencing reality. I want them to feel. And share it. Just not while Glee is on.

Clean Underwear. Didn't your mother always tell you to wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus? Though as a friend pointed out to me recently, if you see the bus bearing down on you, it isn't going to stay clean for long. An infinite supply? No, the kids would never learn to do their own laundry.

Health. I do want them to be healthy. Absolutely. Although would infinite health mean not even a cold? A broken finger? A minor injury or ailment that forces the body and mind to slow down, recuperate and perhaps even introduce a healthier lifestyle? Would they bounce through life completely unaware of how important it is to listen to your body and be aware of its limitations? No, everybody needs to go through Man Flu at least once. Preferably when I'm not around.

Courage. To hold your ground, speak your mind, take chances and fight for what's right. Courage to challenge and change. Though not infinite. Shouldn't kids also experience fear and learn when to use restraint? When to be cautious? Wouldn't infinite courage lead some to risky decisions and behaviour? I'll just go ask Tiger Woods what he thinks....

Skills and Abilities. Imagine the joy of the kids being able to turn their hand to anything. To attempt something and have it come so easily to them. To always succeed. But to never fail? To never have to strive to even improve, let alone learn anything new? To always win and have no empathy for those struggling behind you? No thank you. I would never get to beat my kids at Scrabble again.

Wine. Oh sorry, that's on MY infinite wish list, don't know how that got in here.... moving along....

Patience. Does anybody have an infinite well of patience? It would be nice to stand in a slow-moving queue throughout your whole lunch break and it not bother you; to listen to your neighbour's loud music all night, depriving you of precious sleep and it not bother you; to drive in peak hour traffic which makes you late for an appointment, and it not bother you. As long as patience doesn't become apathy, it is a virtue. But in infinite reserves? No, I think the world needs to get impatient at injustices. A little impatience in people can push them to get things done, make things happen, initiate change. Especially if you have a child who can go out and practice their trumpet playing under the neighbour's window at 6am the next morning.

Humour. We need to laugh. We need to see the funny side of things. We also need to instil this message in our kids. It is the best medicine and the most effective weapon. A sense of humour can carry us through the most harrowing times of our lives. Infinite though? No, an infinite supply in my kids would be dangerous. It would result in School Reports labelling them the class clowns, and lead to inappropriate giggling during funeral services. Trust me.

Does all of this make me sound negative? Like I don't want the best life has to offer for my kids?

I hope not, because what I want my two beautiful children to have in infinite measure is....

....balance.

This post is not sponsored, but is part of a vodafone infinite plans competition. Therefore I would appreciate an infinite number of comments!

The ABCs of Me

I have been tagged on Facebook by the lovely Dave Bartlett to alphabetize myself, or analyse, or anaesthetize, something like that. Since I don't really 'do' Facebook much, it's getting posted here instead.

A – Age: Older than I used to be but younger than I'm going to be. Hey, I've revealed it on here before, go look for it.

 

B – Bed size: As long as there's room to do whatever I want to do in it, doesn't really matter. If not, the kitchen table comes in handy.

 

C – Chore you hate: All of them. That's why they're called chores, innit?

 

D – Names of your Dogs: Have had Zippy, Candy, Maddy and Clodagh. All of them are on that farm where all old dogs go, playing happily together…. What? There's no farm??

 

E – Essential start your day item(s): Toothbrush, deodorant and hair straightener. This is what the three Wise Men should have brought instead of that other useless crap.

 

F – Favourite colour: In clothes, black; in flowers, pink; on walls, yellow; in sky, blue; on traffic lights, green; in wine, white; on bills, anything but red; in shoes, ANY colour, as long as there are loads of them in my size.

 

G – Gold or Silver: Gold. Preferably with diamonds.

 

H – Height: 5'4 and a half" Don't ever forget the half. Very important. Puts me out of reach of Hobbits.

 

I – Instruments you play: That's a bit personal…. Oh, musical. None. Played the Wreakorder in primary school. So called because the Recorder group wreaked havoc with everybody's eardrums.

 

J – Job: Used to work in a bank, then child minding (not just my own, others actually trusted me with their monsters and paid me for it, how funny is that?), followed by 10 years of full-on voluntary bits and pieces at the kids' school (which earnt me no money, but a lovely flower arrangement when I left. Would have preferred money. Or wine.) Now a blogging, tweeting housebitch.

 

K – Kids: Damn it, yes, I have a couple.

 

L- Living arrangements: Not far enough away from the kids.

 

M – Mum's name: Mum. What? That's what I call her… to her face …

 

N – Nicknames: Madam Whip. Kidding. Maybe.

 

O – Overnight hospital stay other than birth: Miscarriage. Worst night of my life. Enough said.

 

P – Pet Peeve: Too many to mention, don't have a 'pet' one, loads of things piss me off now that I'm a grumpy old fart. If I had to choose one, I guess a recurring trigger of annoyance over the years has been mothers (and fathers) who work outside the home assuming I am stupid or just a lazy bitch because I chose to be a full time mum. I am not stupid, in fact I am smarter than a lot of the critics. Yes, I AM a lazy bitch now, but that's not why I haven't had a paid job for a long time. We made a decision for our family many years ago that as long as I didn't need to work outside the home for either financial or self-fulfillment reasons, then I wouldn't. And I didn't. So I haven't. It has worked for us.
So, fuck you.

 

Q – Fave Movie Quote: Again, hard to choose a fave. I quote lines from movies all the time, and can sometimes not even remember where I got them from. Frontrunners would be anything from Monty Python, which features very heavily in my language. "I fart in your general direction" is a regular. Not that I fart regularly, I just say it. Really.

I also throw odd ones in now and then, like "you son of a motherless goat" from The Three Amigos. That gets me strange looks. And then there's Star Wars. Full of gems. Nup, can't pick a fave.... "Laugh it up, fuzzball".... "Uh, we had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh... everything's perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?" ...."Travelling through hyperspace ain't like dusting crops, boy"... "Either I'm going to kill her or I'm beginning to like her." ....."It's against my programming to impersonate a deity" ...oh for fuck's sake, somebody stop me.

 

R – Right or left handed: Right. But my left hand is talented in other ways.

 

S – Siblings: Unfortunately, yes, I have them too.

 

T – Time you wake up: Whenever That Fucking Cat sticks his claws into me or screams in my ear.

 

U – Underwear: I wear it when I have to.

 

V – Vegetable you dislike: Brussels sprouts. I can't even bring myself to elaborate or be funny about them. They do make cracking good missiles though.

 

W – Workout style: hahahahahahaha …. Okay, let me get my breath back. I walk every day. Except when it's raining. Or too bloody hot. Or I'm sick. Or hungover.

 

X – Xrays you've had: Broken wrist and broken ankle. Not at the same time.

 

Z – Zoo fave: I should say the Pandas since we have some in Adelaide now, but I haven't even been to see them yet. Actually it's the meerkats. I want one. I really, really want one. Unless it sticks its claws into me and screams in my ear.

You may (or may not) notice there is no 'Y'. There is a reason for that. 'Y' is for Yummy food you make.
Unanimous family vote to leave that one blank.
Bastards.

Adelaide Oval Ashes Test: In Pictures

So, the Adelaide Ashes Test has been played and won. *grumbles*

Thanks to Vodafone, I got to attend and took along my fabulous...err, trusty ... err, crappy.... camera to do some snapping. I won't say much, as I will be tempted to go on a rant about how completely shit we played and how bloody hopeless we.... never mind. Bloody cricket.

I do have one question that arose from my observations though. What is it with Englishmen, YOUNG Englishmen mind you, wearing dark (black, grey and ugh, brown) ankle socks and shoes? In Australia? In Summer? In 36C heat? At the cricket? Out in public?

Enough words, just enjoy the pics. Oh, and if you're not into cricket, don't despair, I got bored and took pics of the crowd too.










Shane Warne ... we could have done with him in the team....




Former captain Mark Taylor.... Tubby might have been useful too...




.... and Ian Healy....











... not to mention Michael Slater. If only for the eye candy factor.



The Aussies like to have a vigorous game of Hokey Pokey before play each day.







Best dressed pom?













Best dressed aussie?





A rare celebratory moment. Probably when they announced the bars were open.


The Royal Family in attendance.





And The Flintstones.



Me in pink holding straw hat, pretending to be a proud pom. The writing was already on the wall. Or on the flag.


I don't drink beer. I don't like beer. But I had a beer. I was at the cricket and it was fucking hot as hell. It's what you do.







This girl won two awards; Shortest Dress and Most Shameless Display of Cellulite.




















The looming thunderstorms.


And finally..... my police escort out of the ground after I started the riots.....



.... just kidding. Maybe.