Tuesday, September 30, 2003 |
'scuse absence
A raging fever and a broken hot water heater has left me devoid of inspiration.
Hopefully all 3 of these will be fixed by this evening.
A raging fever and a broken hot water heater has left me devoid of inspiration.
Hopefully all 3 of these will be fixed by this evening.
Saturday, September 27, 2003 |
Who else hates R & B?
Is it just me or are so called R & B "artists" actually no talent Gangster wanna bes who don't have the ability to either write their own songs, play an instrument or hold a note?
I am quite amused when I see them on Rage and Video Hits trying to impress with incredulous stats on how many people they have killed, how tough they are, how badly they treat women (Ho's, bitches etc...), how all this violence, disgusting social attitudes and total lack of singing ability makes them irresistible to said Ho's and Bitches and how even though they always seem to be pumping out this crap from the back seat of a Bentley, they are still the same person they always were on the block.
What doesn't really amuse me however is seeing gangs of teenagers walking around on Friday and Saturday nights trying to be like their lame Gangsta heroes. Treating women in real life with the disrespect shown in every second Top 40 song currently played and putting others down so that they may feel bigger themselves.
When this "Gangster Rap" style of music first emerged, some of it actually was a musical interpretation of the lives in which a lot of these people are trapped in. Violence and poverty begets violence and poverty and so it sadly goes on.
It is to their credit that a few of these "artists" have broken this cycle. Such a shame that it was broken by the glorification of the worst parts of their lives and not a celebration of the best.
Wow maybe I am old?
Is it just me or are so called R & B "artists" actually no talent Gangster wanna bes who don't have the ability to either write their own songs, play an instrument or hold a note?
I am quite amused when I see them on Rage and Video Hits trying to impress with incredulous stats on how many people they have killed, how tough they are, how badly they treat women (Ho's, bitches etc...), how all this violence, disgusting social attitudes and total lack of singing ability makes them irresistible to said Ho's and Bitches and how even though they always seem to be pumping out this crap from the back seat of a Bentley, they are still the same person they always were on the block.
What doesn't really amuse me however is seeing gangs of teenagers walking around on Friday and Saturday nights trying to be like their lame Gangsta heroes. Treating women in real life with the disrespect shown in every second Top 40 song currently played and putting others down so that they may feel bigger themselves.
When this "Gangster Rap" style of music first emerged, some of it actually was a musical interpretation of the lives in which a lot of these people are trapped in. Violence and poverty begets violence and poverty and so it sadly goes on.
It is to their credit that a few of these "artists" have broken this cycle. Such a shame that it was broken by the glorification of the worst parts of their lives and not a celebration of the best.
Wow maybe I am old?
Friday, September 26, 2003 |
Too much Silence?
Anyone who has kids or has looked after them for an afternoon knows that silence is golden. Too much of a good thing however can be hazardous.
No matter how "child proof" you think your house may be, there is always something to be gotten into and kids learn very quickly that if they are to get away with anything, they have to be quiet.
You would be amazed how stealthy and surprisingly silent they can be.
Sitting on the lounge enjoying a morning coffee you will be thinking, "hmm the kids are being good this morning. I haven't heard a thing out of them for ages..." This is when you start to think "uh oh... what are those little buggers up to???"
A search of the remote corners of the house will likely reveal two little boys hiding under a table crowded around your mobile phone listening to the time being announced in a very expensive sounding French accent!
Kids you will find are like the prisoners in Hogan's Heroes with the parents often taking the place of Colonel Klink and Sargent Shultz.
Just like in Stalag 13, they very carefully take notice of what they can and can't get into with anything fun straying into an area they can get into being filed away for further use. As soon as you leave the room to go to the toilet or make their lunch, that set of car keys, mobile phone, bar of chocolate or lipstick will be whisked away to a corner quiet corner of the house with less sound than an ant walking across a pillow.
Do you know what your kids are doing right now?
Anyone who has kids or has looked after them for an afternoon knows that silence is golden. Too much of a good thing however can be hazardous.
No matter how "child proof" you think your house may be, there is always something to be gotten into and kids learn very quickly that if they are to get away with anything, they have to be quiet.
You would be amazed how stealthy and surprisingly silent they can be.
Sitting on the lounge enjoying a morning coffee you will be thinking, "hmm the kids are being good this morning. I haven't heard a thing out of them for ages..." This is when you start to think "uh oh... what are those little buggers up to???"
A search of the remote corners of the house will likely reveal two little boys hiding under a table crowded around your mobile phone listening to the time being announced in a very expensive sounding French accent!
Kids you will find are like the prisoners in Hogan's Heroes with the parents often taking the place of Colonel Klink and Sargent Shultz.
Just like in Stalag 13, they very carefully take notice of what they can and can't get into with anything fun straying into an area they can get into being filed away for further use. As soon as you leave the room to go to the toilet or make their lunch, that set of car keys, mobile phone, bar of chocolate or lipstick will be whisked away to a corner quiet corner of the house with less sound than an ant walking across a pillow.
Do you know what your kids are doing right now?
Thursday, September 25, 2003 |
Too old to use the Lady’s room?
How old is too old for little kids to be using the incorrect public toilets? In other words when is a little boy too old to be going into the Lady’s with his Mum?
Obviously an infant is not a real concern in the Lady’s. I would suggest however that a 28 year old bloke would not be received with open arms. Therefore a cut off age must exist where boys are forbidden from the Lady’s and girls forbidden from the Men’s.
There is a simple test to determine if your little charge is too old to be in the wrong toilet with you. Quite simply, if they are old enough to ask either of the following questions then maybe they are a little old to be in there;
“what’s that thing Mummy?”
“why don’t girls have a willy?”
“why are her things wobblier than yours Mummy?”
This of course raises the question what to do with a child who is now old enough to make other people in the bathroom uncomfortable but too young to be going into a public toilet by themselves.
Thankfully if you are in a modern shopping centre you will most likely be able to find a well appointed Parents room. Only a few years ago these things were called Mother’s rooms with Fathers being forbidden from them. This parental apartheid system forced Dads to change their baby’s nappies in disgusting Men’s rooms or not change them at all.
However just like in South Africa this exclusion no longer exists with parents of both sexes being able to look after their children in a clean, safe environment.
How old is too old for little kids to be using the incorrect public toilets? In other words when is a little boy too old to be going into the Lady’s with his Mum?
Obviously an infant is not a real concern in the Lady’s. I would suggest however that a 28 year old bloke would not be received with open arms. Therefore a cut off age must exist where boys are forbidden from the Lady’s and girls forbidden from the Men’s.
There is a simple test to determine if your little charge is too old to be in the wrong toilet with you. Quite simply, if they are old enough to ask either of the following questions then maybe they are a little old to be in there;
“what’s that thing Mummy?”
“why don’t girls have a willy?”
“why are her things wobblier than yours Mummy?”
This of course raises the question what to do with a child who is now old enough to make other people in the bathroom uncomfortable but too young to be going into a public toilet by themselves.
Thankfully if you are in a modern shopping centre you will most likely be able to find a well appointed Parents room. Only a few years ago these things were called Mother’s rooms with Fathers being forbidden from them. This parental apartheid system forced Dads to change their baby’s nappies in disgusting Men’s rooms or not change them at all.
However just like in South Africa this exclusion no longer exists with parents of both sexes being able to look after their children in a clean, safe environment.
Wednesday, September 24, 2003 |
Terror in the tub
What do 3 year old kids fear most?
Is it Monsters under the bed?
Is it Lions around the corner?
Is it Dinosaurs behind the door?
Not quite.
It's a Poo in the Bath.
I recall the events of two nights ago...
The boys play happily in the bath, screaming with delight and splashing copious amounts of water onto the tiles and onto me while I continue my vigil. Keeping watch from above like a sailor in the Crow's Nest of Captain Cook's Endeavour, searching for hidden coral reefs and other hazards.
Then off in the distance of the deep end I spot it. "POO AHOY!!"
Nothing seems to strike fear into a 3 year old more than the phrase “someone did a poo in the bath!� and the prospect of their 22 month old brother's floater brushing up against them.
The announcement of this nauseating arrival sees him floundering frantically in attempt to throw himself out of the bath before he comes into contact with it. Screams and cries soon follow until we are able to evacuate everyone from the danger area and onto the relative safety of the bath mat.
Of course just like watching someone get hit in the goolies, from a distance it is all quite funny and we had a big laugh about it (that is until it was time for me to clean it out. I still dry retch whenever this duty is called upon). Being right there in the think of it when a collision with this disgusting sea mine seems imminent it is quite a different story though.
I still have flash backs
What do 3 year old kids fear most?
Is it Monsters under the bed?
Is it Lions around the corner?
Is it Dinosaurs behind the door?
Not quite.
It's a Poo in the Bath.
I recall the events of two nights ago...
The boys play happily in the bath, screaming with delight and splashing copious amounts of water onto the tiles and onto me while I continue my vigil. Keeping watch from above like a sailor in the Crow's Nest of Captain Cook's Endeavour, searching for hidden coral reefs and other hazards.
Then off in the distance of the deep end I spot it. "POO AHOY!!"
Nothing seems to strike fear into a 3 year old more than the phrase “someone did a poo in the bath!� and the prospect of their 22 month old brother's floater brushing up against them.
The announcement of this nauseating arrival sees him floundering frantically in attempt to throw himself out of the bath before he comes into contact with it. Screams and cries soon follow until we are able to evacuate everyone from the danger area and onto the relative safety of the bath mat.
Of course just like watching someone get hit in the goolies, from a distance it is all quite funny and we had a big laugh about it (that is until it was time for me to clean it out. I still dry retch whenever this duty is called upon). Being right there in the think of it when a collision with this disgusting sea mine seems imminent it is quite a different story though.
I still have flash backs
Tuesday, September 23, 2003 |
Sunday Morning Television
Long gone is the time when a Sunday sleep in meant getting up and putting on the coffee at 10am or even later.
Past is the era of relaxing in bed while reading the paper.
Long gone are the days where Sunday morning television meant informative, adult programs like channel nine’s Sunday with Jim Waley or if we got up really early Business Sunday.
For the last 3 years Sunday morning has meant rising at 6am to throw some Coco Pops and milk into a couple of bowls for two demanding little men.
It has most likely skipped the notice of people without kids and passed from the recent memory of people with kids over 7 or 8 but early Sunday morning television is really, really bad.
Last Sunday followed a familiar pattern. Kids awake at 6am and decide as usual that they would like to come down and see what we are doing rather than amuse themselves in their room.
After filling their breakfast orders I turn on the TV, sit on the lounge and hope for a miracle.
Once again instead of my much hoped for miracle I get Jesus.
Jesus on almost every single station. Channel 7, Jesus. Channel 9, Jesus. Channel 10, Jesus. SBS, Jesus. ABC, Jesus not that crap they play on Rage.
A browse of the Herald’s TV guide shows a constant stream of evangelism and R & B up until 8am.
Given these choices it was not a hard decision to get the Wiggles out for another spin.
Long gone is the time when a Sunday sleep in meant getting up and putting on the coffee at 10am or even later.
Past is the era of relaxing in bed while reading the paper.
Long gone are the days where Sunday morning television meant informative, adult programs like channel nine’s Sunday with Jim Waley or if we got up really early Business Sunday.
For the last 3 years Sunday morning has meant rising at 6am to throw some Coco Pops and milk into a couple of bowls for two demanding little men.
It has most likely skipped the notice of people without kids and passed from the recent memory of people with kids over 7 or 8 but early Sunday morning television is really, really bad.
Last Sunday followed a familiar pattern. Kids awake at 6am and decide as usual that they would like to come down and see what we are doing rather than amuse themselves in their room.
After filling their breakfast orders I turn on the TV, sit on the lounge and hope for a miracle.
Once again instead of my much hoped for miracle I get Jesus.
Jesus on almost every single station. Channel 7, Jesus. Channel 9, Jesus. Channel 10, Jesus. SBS, Jesus. ABC, Jesus not that crap they play on Rage.
A browse of the Herald’s TV guide shows a constant stream of evangelism and R & B up until 8am.
Given these choices it was not a hard decision to get the Wiggles out for another spin.
Monday, September 22, 2003 |
Country Gates and Male Toilets
There is a saying in the country "Never leave a gate open and never close an open gate."
A simpler philosophy can be applied when using male public toilets. "Never open a closed dunny".
As most women know, men have a gene which hinders their ability to put the seat down on toilets after they have used it. For this reason, coming across a toilet in a male bathroom with the seat AND the lid down is a strange occurrence indeed warranting extreme caution.
This phenomenon is caused by another little known gene found only in men. The effects of this gene are not widely known to women unless they have had the misfortune to clean male public toilets.
There are really only two things to do in a public toilet or 3 if you are George Michael (I'll leave the gruesome details up to your imagination). This gene has to do with number 2.
After "building a log cabin", flushing the toilet and looking back to check everything is "all clear", most blokes will not stick around if there happens to be a delinquent floater, refusing to travel with the rest of the pack. In fact rather than wait around for thirty seconds to flush the toilet again, they will instead close the lid before making a hasty exit thinking that this action has somehow absolved them of their dirty little transgression.
It is not hard to imagine what it's going to be like under that toilet lid in a few hours which is why it is good advice to steer clear of it. The problem is further compounded by the fact that no other male will flush it either, rather that it sit there like a marker of territory not to be touched for fear of reprisal.
Thankfully this rarely happens in the home environment, as unlike sneaking out a stealthy fart, it is a little hard to blame it on the dog.
There is a saying in the country "Never leave a gate open and never close an open gate."
A simpler philosophy can be applied when using male public toilets. "Never open a closed dunny".
As most women know, men have a gene which hinders their ability to put the seat down on toilets after they have used it. For this reason, coming across a toilet in a male bathroom with the seat AND the lid down is a strange occurrence indeed warranting extreme caution.
This phenomenon is caused by another little known gene found only in men. The effects of this gene are not widely known to women unless they have had the misfortune to clean male public toilets.
There are really only two things to do in a public toilet or 3 if you are George Michael (I'll leave the gruesome details up to your imagination). This gene has to do with number 2.
After "building a log cabin", flushing the toilet and looking back to check everything is "all clear", most blokes will not stick around if there happens to be a delinquent floater, refusing to travel with the rest of the pack. In fact rather than wait around for thirty seconds to flush the toilet again, they will instead close the lid before making a hasty exit thinking that this action has somehow absolved them of their dirty little transgression.
It is not hard to imagine what it's going to be like under that toilet lid in a few hours which is why it is good advice to steer clear of it. The problem is further compounded by the fact that no other male will flush it either, rather that it sit there like a marker of territory not to be touched for fear of reprisal.
Thankfully this rarely happens in the home environment, as unlike sneaking out a stealthy fart, it is a little hard to blame it on the dog.
Saturday, September 20, 2003 |
The similarities of Thunder and Crying
Looking after kids can be a very trying time. This is especially true when it is someone else’s kids you are looking after. As the saying goes “Kids are like farts. Yours are bearable but being around someone else’s is a little too much to handle.”
Looking after your own kids however allows you to be slightly less vigilant of their activities. A lot of the time these activities will involve them falling off something, running into something, their brother hitting them with something or just generally making some sort of loud “THUMP!” which is then followed by crying.
The “THUMP!” and the crying are very similar to thunder and lightening. With thunder and lightening, you can tell how far away it is by counting the seconds after you see the lightening bolt to when you hear the thunder.
For example sitting on the front porch watching the storm with interest, you see a bright flash and start counting one, two, three, four, five boom. Ok its five kilometres away. Flash one, two, three Boom. Ok its getting closer but it’s still three kms away. Flash one Boom! Ok its only one km away. Better go inside. Then FLASH BOOM, bye bye neighbours cat.
A very similar method can be used when you hear a loud thump coming from where the kids are playing. Counting the number of seconds in between the thump and the crying will tell you how bad an injury they have sustained. Unlike counting in a thunder storm however, the least number of seconds in between the better.
For example, “THUMP!” one “waaaaaaaahhhhh!” This means no probs. You wouldn’t even need to get up off your chair. Just call out for them to come out to the lounge room for a kiss better.
“THUMP!” one, two “waaaaaahhh!” This is a little more serious. You better get one of the other children to give you a report on what happened then call them down to the lounge room for a kiss better.
“THUMP!” one, two, three “waaahhhhh!” Better put your beer down and go for a walk down to their room. They’ll have a bruise after this one.
“THUMP!” one, two, three, four “waaaahh!” Ok this one will probably draw blood. Better get moving down there in case it is going to stain the carpet. Don’t spill your beer though.
“THUMP!” one, two, three, four five “waahhhhh!” Anything after five seconds means something broken or at the very least they have done enough damage that you will need to have a good story for when your Day Care Centre calls the Dept of Community Services.
Looking after kids can be a very trying time. This is especially true when it is someone else’s kids you are looking after. As the saying goes “Kids are like farts. Yours are bearable but being around someone else’s is a little too much to handle.”
Looking after your own kids however allows you to be slightly less vigilant of their activities. A lot of the time these activities will involve them falling off something, running into something, their brother hitting them with something or just generally making some sort of loud “THUMP!” which is then followed by crying.
The “THUMP!” and the crying are very similar to thunder and lightening. With thunder and lightening, you can tell how far away it is by counting the seconds after you see the lightening bolt to when you hear the thunder.
For example sitting on the front porch watching the storm with interest, you see a bright flash and start counting one, two, three, four, five boom. Ok its five kilometres away. Flash one, two, three Boom. Ok its getting closer but it’s still three kms away. Flash one Boom! Ok its only one km away. Better go inside. Then FLASH BOOM, bye bye neighbours cat.
A very similar method can be used when you hear a loud thump coming from where the kids are playing. Counting the number of seconds in between the thump and the crying will tell you how bad an injury they have sustained. Unlike counting in a thunder storm however, the least number of seconds in between the better.
For example, “THUMP!” one “waaaaaaaahhhhh!” This means no probs. You wouldn’t even need to get up off your chair. Just call out for them to come out to the lounge room for a kiss better.
“THUMP!” one, two “waaaaaahhh!” This is a little more serious. You better get one of the other children to give you a report on what happened then call them down to the lounge room for a kiss better.
“THUMP!” one, two, three “waaahhhhh!” Better put your beer down and go for a walk down to their room. They’ll have a bruise after this one.
“THUMP!” one, two, three, four “waaaahh!” Ok this one will probably draw blood. Better get moving down there in case it is going to stain the carpet. Don’t spill your beer though.
“THUMP!” one, two, three, four five “waahhhhh!” Anything after five seconds means something broken or at the very least they have done enough damage that you will need to have a good story for when your Day Care Centre calls the Dept of Community Services.
Friday, September 19, 2003 |
I don't know which to celebrate
Today I turn 28 but it's also International talk like a Pirate Day.
Like I have said before each year that goes by brings me another step closer to milestones like 30, 40, 50 and that life changing first cardigan purchase.
For this reason I am sometimes more inclined to celebrate International talk like a Pirate Day. I have even tracked down an English to Pirate translator so I can impress my friends and family with a well placed "arrr me hearties".
I feel I am already ahead of most non-parents however as my many, many oh so many hours of watching Wiggles with my sons has given me quite the grasp of the language from the antics of Captain Feathersword.
But in reality I do always enjoy my birthday. This morning I had breakfast in bed with my boys which is always fun. After I have stripped the bed and cleaned out all their pieces of toast from between the sheets I will have most of the day to myself. I will be enjoying the great day we have in Sydney today. I might even go for a ride or simply just bludge on the lounge and absorb the riveting excitement that is Day time TV. Then after lunch I'll make my birthday cake.
hmmmm... banana cake with icing......
Today will be a great day.
Today I turn 28 but it's also International talk like a Pirate Day.
Like I have said before each year that goes by brings me another step closer to milestones like 30, 40, 50 and that life changing first cardigan purchase.
For this reason I am sometimes more inclined to celebrate International talk like a Pirate Day. I have even tracked down an English to Pirate translator so I can impress my friends and family with a well placed "arrr me hearties".
I feel I am already ahead of most non-parents however as my many, many oh so many hours of watching Wiggles with my sons has given me quite the grasp of the language from the antics of Captain Feathersword.
But in reality I do always enjoy my birthday. This morning I had breakfast in bed with my boys which is always fun. After I have stripped the bed and cleaned out all their pieces of toast from between the sheets I will have most of the day to myself. I will be enjoying the great day we have in Sydney today. I might even go for a ride or simply just bludge on the lounge and absorb the riveting excitement that is Day time TV. Then after lunch I'll make my birthday cake.
hmmmm... banana cake with icing......
Today will be a great day.
Thursday, September 18, 2003 |
Australian Televsion Producers, Just Say No
I often find myself imaging a scenario that must happen with extraudinary frequency to Australian Televison Producers.Sitting in an opulent office, whiling away the hour and a half before their lunch, their secretary announces that someone is here to pitch them a new idea for a show.
"Good morning, so what is your idea for a new show?"
"OK you're going to love this. It's new, it's fresh, it's original, it's a Cop Show!"
"I see. Like Blue Heelers?"
"Oh no way. This one is different! It won't be like anything on TV at the moment"
"Sounds great! What are Gary Sweet and the Daddo brothers working on at the moment?"
The above conversation also works when you substitute the word "cop" with lifestyle, renovation, gardening, medical or legal.
I would add however that the above does not apply to Network Ten. Their simple and cost effective approach is to replace a failed or finished show with another timeslot for the Simpsons.
Another variation of the above conversation would have occurred at the ABC. The National broadcaster's reply would have been,
"Sounds great! So have you selected a quaint English village to set it in yet? And who's going to play the part of the Vicar?"
I often find myself imaging a scenario that must happen with extraudinary frequency to Australian Televison Producers.Sitting in an opulent office, whiling away the hour and a half before their lunch, their secretary announces that someone is here to pitch them a new idea for a show.
"Good morning, so what is your idea for a new show?"
"OK you're going to love this. It's new, it's fresh, it's original, it's a Cop Show!"
"I see. Like Blue Heelers?"
"Oh no way. This one is different! It won't be like anything on TV at the moment"
"Sounds great! What are Gary Sweet and the Daddo brothers working on at the moment?"
The above conversation also works when you substitute the word "cop" with lifestyle, renovation, gardening, medical or legal.
I would add however that the above does not apply to Network Ten. Their simple and cost effective approach is to replace a failed or finished show with another timeslot for the Simpsons.
Another variation of the above conversation would have occurred at the ABC. The National broadcaster's reply would have been,
"Sounds great! So have you selected a quaint English village to set it in yet? And who's going to play the part of the Vicar?"
Wednesday, September 17, 2003 |
Ug Boots - Ladies there is no excuse
Walking around town lately has revealed a startling fashion trend.
This worrying decent into the nether regions of footwear is the Ug Boot.
Now whilst there is nothing wrong with Ug Boots themselves, (I was even wearing an old pair this morning while I drank my coffee) they have absolutely no place in public society.
For example, something like under wear has no place in a shopping mall or crowded city street. It should instead be seen in more appropriate places like in the bedroom, worn under your clothes, in controversial TV ads where guys comment on their flat mates breasts or in catalogues under the mattress in teenage boys rooms.
The same could be said about Ug Boots. They are being spotted around town time and time again, adorning the feet of people who obviously have no regard for taste, style or dignity.
As stated before Ug Boots do have a place, however there are strict boundaries for their use. This especially so when they are worn outside the walls of the house. The furthest distance a pair of Ug Boots should ever be from the house is putting out the garbage or hanging out the washing. Once you set that fluffy foot on the foot path, asphalt or in the car you have committed a social offence.
An interesting thing to note about this phenomenon is that very few if any men seem to be flouting this most basic of social laws. For some reason it is only the female of our species that has taken to walk outside the house with a 3 inch think covering of lambs wool on their feet.
Eyewitness reports have even indicated that some warped shoe designers are manufacturing Ug Boots that look almost like normal boots. This enables their wearers to remain undetected by all but the keenest eye.
Secret Women's Business???
Walking around town lately has revealed a startling fashion trend.
This worrying decent into the nether regions of footwear is the Ug Boot.
Now whilst there is nothing wrong with Ug Boots themselves, (I was even wearing an old pair this morning while I drank my coffee) they have absolutely no place in public society.
For example, something like under wear has no place in a shopping mall or crowded city street. It should instead be seen in more appropriate places like in the bedroom, worn under your clothes, in controversial TV ads where guys comment on their flat mates breasts or in catalogues under the mattress in teenage boys rooms.
The same could be said about Ug Boots. They are being spotted around town time and time again, adorning the feet of people who obviously have no regard for taste, style or dignity.
As stated before Ug Boots do have a place, however there are strict boundaries for their use. This especially so when they are worn outside the walls of the house. The furthest distance a pair of Ug Boots should ever be from the house is putting out the garbage or hanging out the washing. Once you set that fluffy foot on the foot path, asphalt or in the car you have committed a social offence.
An interesting thing to note about this phenomenon is that very few if any men seem to be flouting this most basic of social laws. For some reason it is only the female of our species that has taken to walk outside the house with a 3 inch think covering of lambs wool on their feet.
Eyewitness reports have even indicated that some warped shoe designers are manufacturing Ug Boots that look almost like normal boots. This enables their wearers to remain undetected by all but the keenest eye.
Secret Women's Business???
Tuesday, September 16, 2003 |
The Wiggles are a mixed blessing
A few years ago before my own children came along, a friend of mine once prophesied of things to come.
Having kids himself, he spoke with some authority on the transpiration of events over which I would have no control.
He spoke of the Wiggles.
He span a tale that saw me walking down the street, minding my own business when before I knew it, I would be subconsciously singing the words "Wake up Jeff, everybody's wiggling. Wake up Jeff, we really need you".
I laughed at this and told him that when I have kids I will not be using the Wiggles as a baby sitter. My kids won't be sitting in front of the TV just because I am too slack. He smiled a knowing smile and we never brought it up again.
The years went by and I had two kids of my own (well I have to admit that my wife did most of the work in this department but I like to think that I had some input into their creation).
One year, one of them was given a Wiggles video for a birthday present. And so it began. "They're heeeeereee"
It started off with my wife and I saying, "Ok just once a day. They can watch it once a day because they love it so much but that's it!" Then we realised how much we could get done while that video was on because we no longer had anyone running around breaking things, screaming and generally requiring priority attention. Then came the second video and with it even more time to do things that needed to be done.
Pretty soon the Wiggles had become one of the major contributors to greatly reducing the piles of washing and the cleanliness of our kitchen. There is a price however. Freedom like this is as addictive as Heroin. Once you have had it, you have to have more.
And so it went on until one day it happened. Walking down the street to get the paper, I realised that I was already half way through "Wake up Jeff" before I could stop myself.
The prophecy had come true.
Parents maybe interested in this History of the Wiggles I found somewhere.
A few years ago before my own children came along, a friend of mine once prophesied of things to come.
Having kids himself, he spoke with some authority on the transpiration of events over which I would have no control.
He spoke of the Wiggles.
He span a tale that saw me walking down the street, minding my own business when before I knew it, I would be subconsciously singing the words "Wake up Jeff, everybody's wiggling. Wake up Jeff, we really need you".
I laughed at this and told him that when I have kids I will not be using the Wiggles as a baby sitter. My kids won't be sitting in front of the TV just because I am too slack. He smiled a knowing smile and we never brought it up again.
The years went by and I had two kids of my own (well I have to admit that my wife did most of the work in this department but I like to think that I had some input into their creation).
One year, one of them was given a Wiggles video for a birthday present. And so it began. "They're heeeeereee"
It started off with my wife and I saying, "Ok just once a day. They can watch it once a day because they love it so much but that's it!" Then we realised how much we could get done while that video was on because we no longer had anyone running around breaking things, screaming and generally requiring priority attention. Then came the second video and with it even more time to do things that needed to be done.
Pretty soon the Wiggles had become one of the major contributors to greatly reducing the piles of washing and the cleanliness of our kitchen. There is a price however. Freedom like this is as addictive as Heroin. Once you have had it, you have to have more.
And so it went on until one day it happened. Walking down the street to get the paper, I realised that I was already half way through "Wake up Jeff" before I could stop myself.
The prophecy had come true.
Parents maybe interested in this History of the Wiggles I found somewhere.
Monday, September 15, 2003 |
How old is old?
This Friday I will be turning 28. In the weeks leading up to my last couple of birthdays I have been thinking I don't want to turn 26, I don't want to turn 27 and now I don't want to turn 28. Then after my birthday I look back and think, "Hey being 26 wasn't so bad" etc..
The reason behind this possibly is that I can remember people being that age whom I saw as older and more mature than I was. For example I can remember when my Boss at my previous place of work was 27. Now I am 27 does that make me older and mature?
Another reason is that I have vague memories of when my parents were 32 and 33.
Which brings me to the question how old is old?
It is said that being old is a state of mind. I don't care what your state of mind (or lack of) if you are 103 that is old. So there must be some sort of delineation somewhere between 28 and 103. Who decides where the line falls?
I would think that there are a few defining moments in your life which must surely being sending you on the way to crossing that line. They are as follows;
You start asking people to turn the music down.
You start telling everyone what is wrong with the young people of today.
The phrase "It wasn't like that in my day" starts to creep into your day to day conversations.
You place a blanket over the parcel/speaker shelf in the back of your car.
Accidentally tuning into Triple J finds you frantically scrambling to turn down that Satanic garbage.
You buy a cardigan.
You take up lawn bowls.
You refer to any music not written 20 years ago as "racket".
You get one of those little floral "Grand Ma" trolleys to wheel behind you at the shops.
A visit to the local R.S.L or as it is sometimes known "The aRRy" sees you sitting down for a quiet, sensible dinner at the Bistro rather than getting wasted on $2 schooners (for anyone not from NSW a schooner is a real man's beer glass not a pooncey Pot glass like they use north and south of us).
So even though turning 30 in two years will be quite a mile stone, I can still take comfort in the knowledge that the warm embrace of my favourite cardigan is still way, way, waaaaaayyyy over the horizon.
This Friday I will be turning 28. In the weeks leading up to my last couple of birthdays I have been thinking I don't want to turn 26, I don't want to turn 27 and now I don't want to turn 28. Then after my birthday I look back and think, "Hey being 26 wasn't so bad" etc..
The reason behind this possibly is that I can remember people being that age whom I saw as older and more mature than I was. For example I can remember when my Boss at my previous place of work was 27. Now I am 27 does that make me older and mature?
Another reason is that I have vague memories of when my parents were 32 and 33.
Which brings me to the question how old is old?
It is said that being old is a state of mind. I don't care what your state of mind (or lack of) if you are 103 that is old. So there must be some sort of delineation somewhere between 28 and 103. Who decides where the line falls?
I would think that there are a few defining moments in your life which must surely being sending you on the way to crossing that line. They are as follows;
You start asking people to turn the music down.
You start telling everyone what is wrong with the young people of today.
The phrase "It wasn't like that in my day" starts to creep into your day to day conversations.
You place a blanket over the parcel/speaker shelf in the back of your car.
Accidentally tuning into Triple J finds you frantically scrambling to turn down that Satanic garbage.
You buy a cardigan.
You take up lawn bowls.
You refer to any music not written 20 years ago as "racket".
You get one of those little floral "Grand Ma" trolleys to wheel behind you at the shops.
A visit to the local R.S.L or as it is sometimes known "The aRRy" sees you sitting down for a quiet, sensible dinner at the Bistro rather than getting wasted on $2 schooners (for anyone not from NSW a schooner is a real man's beer glass not a pooncey Pot glass like they use north and south of us).
So even though turning 30 in two years will be quite a mile stone, I can still take comfort in the knowledge that the warm embrace of my favourite cardigan is still way, way, waaaaaayyyy over the horizon.
Sunday, September 14, 2003 |
Are you strong enough to give up their dummy?
Even before I had kids, I always knew I never wanted to be one of those parents who walked their 3 or 4 year old kids around the shops with a dummy in their mouths.
Now that I have 3 year old and 21 month old children, I understand what the parents of these latex dependant kids go through.
Kids that have dummies get VERY attached to them for a number of reasons. Firstly, the dummy is by design a substitute for their Mother's nipple. Secondly, the dummy or pacifier (as they say in America) is used for just that purpose. To pacify them when they are upset.
The problem is however that the stress of parenthood can sometimes lead to the dummy being misused. Usually when your baby cries you will attempt to find out the reason behind the crying and fix that problem which in turn should stop the crying. The problem however is that when babies are very young it is sometimes very hard to determine what the problem is. Are they hungry? Is their nappy full? Do they have nappy rash? Do they have a tummy ache? Are they about to throw up your wife's breast milk all over your best work clothes?
This leads to frustration and instead of going the extra yard to find the cause you just stick the dummy in their mouths and get back to the more important issues like wondering how you are going to function at work in the morning with only 3 hours sleep.
As your baby gets older it will be easier for you to distinguish the different cries they have for different things. It is however too late by then. Your baby is addicted to dummy.
Dummies are not all bad however. In fact they are sometimes very beneficial as they bring peace and quiet, which is sometimes impossible by other means. They settle the baby and therefore the parent and provide a less stressful environment for everyone concerned.
The question is then how old is too old? Possibly when they are able to ask for it themselves. Not their baby names for it i.e. di di or other such baby talk but when they are able say "Mummy I want my dummy."
This is the tough part. How do you kick their synthetic nipple habit?
You could try to ween them off it, only allowing them to have it for a few hours a day but let me tell you, this does not work.
The only real option is to go cold turkey. It is not good enough to hide the dummy away and tell yourself "we'll just take it off him for tonight and see how it goes". You have to destroy that thing and any other "spares' you may have lying around the place. Leaving any behind will only lead to failure as your will power gives in to their anguished screams.
Will you be strong enough?
Even before I had kids, I always knew I never wanted to be one of those parents who walked their 3 or 4 year old kids around the shops with a dummy in their mouths.
Now that I have 3 year old and 21 month old children, I understand what the parents of these latex dependant kids go through.
Kids that have dummies get VERY attached to them for a number of reasons. Firstly, the dummy is by design a substitute for their Mother's nipple. Secondly, the dummy or pacifier (as they say in America) is used for just that purpose. To pacify them when they are upset.
The problem is however that the stress of parenthood can sometimes lead to the dummy being misused. Usually when your baby cries you will attempt to find out the reason behind the crying and fix that problem which in turn should stop the crying. The problem however is that when babies are very young it is sometimes very hard to determine what the problem is. Are they hungry? Is their nappy full? Do they have nappy rash? Do they have a tummy ache? Are they about to throw up your wife's breast milk all over your best work clothes?
This leads to frustration and instead of going the extra yard to find the cause you just stick the dummy in their mouths and get back to the more important issues like wondering how you are going to function at work in the morning with only 3 hours sleep.
As your baby gets older it will be easier for you to distinguish the different cries they have for different things. It is however too late by then. Your baby is addicted to dummy.
Dummies are not all bad however. In fact they are sometimes very beneficial as they bring peace and quiet, which is sometimes impossible by other means. They settle the baby and therefore the parent and provide a less stressful environment for everyone concerned.
The question is then how old is too old? Possibly when they are able to ask for it themselves. Not their baby names for it i.e. di di or other such baby talk but when they are able say "Mummy I want my dummy."
This is the tough part. How do you kick their synthetic nipple habit?
You could try to ween them off it, only allowing them to have it for a few hours a day but let me tell you, this does not work.
The only real option is to go cold turkey. It is not good enough to hide the dummy away and tell yourself "we'll just take it off him for tonight and see how it goes". You have to destroy that thing and any other "spares' you may have lying around the place. Leaving any behind will only lead to failure as your will power gives in to their anguished screams.
Will you be strong enough?
Saturday, September 13, 2003 |
Good News and Bad News
First the Good News I was not eaten by a shark nor was anyone I was diving with.
The Bad News The Bad News is that there were no Grey Nurse Sharks.
Just as Cronulla consistently fails to deliver their fans with an appearance in a NRL Final, so too did they fail to deliver me any Sharks.
There were some little Port Jackson Sharks however. When I say little I mean about 2 metres. These little guys just sit on the bottom feeding on crabs and other crustaceans.
I'll see them one day...
First the Good News I was not eaten by a shark nor was anyone I was diving with.
The Bad News The Bad News is that there were no Grey Nurse Sharks.
Just as Cronulla consistently fails to deliver their fans with an appearance in a NRL Final, so too did they fail to deliver me any Sharks.
There were some little Port Jackson Sharks however. When I say little I mean about 2 metres. These little guys just sit on the bottom feeding on crabs and other crustaceans.
I'll see them one day...
Friday, September 12, 2003 |
Shopping tips for Men
Going food shopping can be full of traps for the unwary or inexperienced bloke.
Woollies and Coles are purposely geared to sell you things you don't want or don't need.
To the unseasoned shopper a quick stop into the supermarket for some milk and bread on the way home from work can turn into a 30 minute trawl through the confectionery isle with a trolley half filled with Mars Bars and Cadbury Chocolate.
Some would advise that if you eat before going to the shops you are less likely to fall victim to the temptations of impulse buying.
Today I learnt a better way. Head up to Woollies while you are busting for a crap.
Let me tell you, the clever merchandise placement and suggestive signage had absolutely no effect on me today as I speedily obtained my goods with unessential items given the brush.
I would warn however that this tactic is not for the faint hearted or the weak bowelled.
Encountering long lines at the checkout or running into a friend that won't stop talking may lead to the "turtle poking his head out" and/or abandoning your shopping in an emergency dash to the nearest public toilet.
Going food shopping can be full of traps for the unwary or inexperienced bloke.
Woollies and Coles are purposely geared to sell you things you don't want or don't need.
To the unseasoned shopper a quick stop into the supermarket for some milk and bread on the way home from work can turn into a 30 minute trawl through the confectionery isle with a trolley half filled with Mars Bars and Cadbury Chocolate.
Some would advise that if you eat before going to the shops you are less likely to fall victim to the temptations of impulse buying.
Today I learnt a better way. Head up to Woollies while you are busting for a crap.
Let me tell you, the clever merchandise placement and suggestive signage had absolutely no effect on me today as I speedily obtained my goods with unessential items given the brush.
I would warn however that this tactic is not for the faint hearted or the weak bowelled.
Encountering long lines at the checkout or running into a friend that won't stop talking may lead to the "turtle poking his head out" and/or abandoning your shopping in an emergency dash to the nearest public toilet.
Swiming with Sharks
Tomorrow I visit the Sutherland Shire, which is located at the bottom end of Sydney. Just like their NRL Football team Cronulla who is at the bottom of the ladder this year. (I will lay off the jokes about Cronulla having a permanent booking for the end of season trips in mid September instead of October like all the other teams do)
I will be SCUBA diving off Magic Point and will hopefully be in the water with about 6 or so Grey Nurse Sharks if everything goes well.
When I told my Mum I would be diving with Sharks this weekend, purposely going into the water when we knew they were going to be there she didn't like it too much. In fact when I told her she sort of said "yeah sure you are.... you’re not are you?"
I have also been riling my wife all week telling her that I better get my life insurance sorted today and that when I go food shopping this morning I will just get dinner for one.
It is however quite safe. It is much more dangerous to drive there or have some sort of SCUBA related accident (of whish there can be many) than it is to dive in the water and be surrounded by the wonderful creatures. In fact there has never been a recorded bite from a Grey Nurse Shark ever.
I have actually been involved in two SCUBA related accidents. The first involving me running out of air while still 5 metres under water, the second involved an ex Navy SEAL almost having his tooth explode because of a trapped air bubble.
The very sad part about it all is that there is said to be only 300 of these Sharks left on the Eastern Seaboard of Australia. This figure is disputed by some however they are listed as Critically Endangered.
So if there is not another post by around 5pm tomorrow, you know what has happened . . .
Thursday, September 11, 2003 |
Trophy Bollocks
After people find out that I already have two children they often ask, "When is the next one coming?"
When I reply, "two is enough" they often say I might change my mind later down the track. My quite candid response to this is "No I have taken steps to ensure that does not happen"
Yes I have had the chop.
This surprises a lot of people as I am only 27. It even surprised the Specialist my local GP referred me to. When I walked in there and told him I wanted a Vasectomy. He said he would be much more comfortable if I came back and saw him in 3 months in case I changed my mind. He then became the second guy to feel my balls, giving me a quick check for Testicular Cancer. (In case you are wondering the first guy was the Doctor who gave me the required physical exam to get a SCUBA certification). He then took $80 from me for the consultation.
I came back after 3 months and advised him I had not changed my mind. He wrote a date down in his book for it to be done and then asked me for another $80.
The day of the procedure was a little bit of a shock as one might imagine.
The boys had not been on display for anyone but my wife for almost 9 years but let me tell you when it rains it pours.
I reckon more people had a good look at the marble bag that day than if I was doing stunt work for Ron Jeremy on the set of Debbie does Dallas 5. On top of that were all the people who were actually "hands on". For a brief instant I thought I might embarrass myself with all these women handling me, keeping the keel in the right place but then I saw the implements they had in their other hands. The sight of those sharp cutting blades and strange grabbing instruments and even scissors put to rest any possibility of the dragon rising.
I would estimate that in the room there with me would have been about 8 people. Most of them women. There was the actual Surgeon, his Intern or apprentice or what ever he was, the Anaesthesiologist, her assistant or intern or what ever she was, the Nurse, her assistant and then there were two other women who sole job it was to keep the tackle covered in antiseptic or iodine and make sure it all stayed where it should.
The worst part of the whole ordeal however was not the thought of someone applying a knife to my goolies. It was the test that had to be run a few weeks later to ensure the procedure had been effective that had me really cringing.
There is only one way to do the test and that is to get a pathology lab to examine a sample and check for sperm. There is of course only one way to get that sample.
They gave me a cup and told me to "fill'er up"
I won't delve into the details suffice to say I went home, ran my one person race and unsurprisingly finished first.
Sample in hand, my next problem was not knowing how soon after the event they wanted to look at it. I definitely did not want to walk into the pathology lab carrying a cup of my own semen that was still warm. Having them know that I had Tangoed without a partner was bad enough but having them think that I had just five minutes ago come from sticking together the pages of a Playboy was even worse.
So there I sat in the reception of the lab trying desperately to conceal the sordid little package I held while I waited for my turn.
Eventually I was called and was taken into a small office. I told them what I had with me and as I handed it over to her I realised that I had inadvertently warmed it up again with it being in my hands. She then asked me how long ago this was collected to which I sheepishly replied "oh not long ago". She wanted the exact time so I had to tell her it was about 30 mins ago. Thankfully she said that was fine, placed my cup o' man milk on a tray and said that is all they needed for now. I drove home thankful that it was all over.
They called me a week or so later and told me my Doctor had the results. I went in to see him and he gave me the news. There was no sperm in the sample meaning the procedure was a complete success.
My bollacks were now just a trophy of my man hood.
After people find out that I already have two children they often ask, "When is the next one coming?"
When I reply, "two is enough" they often say I might change my mind later down the track. My quite candid response to this is "No I have taken steps to ensure that does not happen"
Yes I have had the chop.
This surprises a lot of people as I am only 27. It even surprised the Specialist my local GP referred me to. When I walked in there and told him I wanted a Vasectomy. He said he would be much more comfortable if I came back and saw him in 3 months in case I changed my mind. He then became the second guy to feel my balls, giving me a quick check for Testicular Cancer. (In case you are wondering the first guy was the Doctor who gave me the required physical exam to get a SCUBA certification). He then took $80 from me for the consultation.
I came back after 3 months and advised him I had not changed my mind. He wrote a date down in his book for it to be done and then asked me for another $80.
The day of the procedure was a little bit of a shock as one might imagine.
The boys had not been on display for anyone but my wife for almost 9 years but let me tell you when it rains it pours.
I reckon more people had a good look at the marble bag that day than if I was doing stunt work for Ron Jeremy on the set of Debbie does Dallas 5. On top of that were all the people who were actually "hands on". For a brief instant I thought I might embarrass myself with all these women handling me, keeping the keel in the right place but then I saw the implements they had in their other hands. The sight of those sharp cutting blades and strange grabbing instruments and even scissors put to rest any possibility of the dragon rising.
I would estimate that in the room there with me would have been about 8 people. Most of them women. There was the actual Surgeon, his Intern or apprentice or what ever he was, the Anaesthesiologist, her assistant or intern or what ever she was, the Nurse, her assistant and then there were two other women who sole job it was to keep the tackle covered in antiseptic or iodine and make sure it all stayed where it should.
The worst part of the whole ordeal however was not the thought of someone applying a knife to my goolies. It was the test that had to be run a few weeks later to ensure the procedure had been effective that had me really cringing.
There is only one way to do the test and that is to get a pathology lab to examine a sample and check for sperm. There is of course only one way to get that sample.
They gave me a cup and told me to "fill'er up"
I won't delve into the details suffice to say I went home, ran my one person race and unsurprisingly finished first.
Sample in hand, my next problem was not knowing how soon after the event they wanted to look at it. I definitely did not want to walk into the pathology lab carrying a cup of my own semen that was still warm. Having them know that I had Tangoed without a partner was bad enough but having them think that I had just five minutes ago come from sticking together the pages of a Playboy was even worse.
So there I sat in the reception of the lab trying desperately to conceal the sordid little package I held while I waited for my turn.
Eventually I was called and was taken into a small office. I told them what I had with me and as I handed it over to her I realised that I had inadvertently warmed it up again with it being in my hands. She then asked me how long ago this was collected to which I sheepishly replied "oh not long ago". She wanted the exact time so I had to tell her it was about 30 mins ago. Thankfully she said that was fine, placed my cup o' man milk on a tray and said that is all they needed for now. I drove home thankful that it was all over.
They called me a week or so later and told me my Doctor had the results. I went in to see him and he gave me the news. There was no sperm in the sample meaning the procedure was a complete success.
My bollacks were now just a trophy of my man hood.
Wednesday, September 10, 2003 |
I didn't know you were pregnant?!
This is an expression that should be struck off the register of English words and phrases.
Whilst it may be an amusing way to take an easy shot at a rather rotund male friend or co-worker, saying it to any female anywhere, no matter what the situation can have some dire consequences.
No matter how obviously pregnant some one might be, saying either of the following is ALWAYS a rather large social faux-par;
- "I didn't know you were pregnant?"
- "So when is the baby due?"
- "So how far along are you?"
- "Is it a boy or a girl?"
- "Have you gained a lot of weight lately or are you pregnant?" (I would assume that you would not need to be told about this one)
Asking any of the above when you have not been properly briefed on the person's actual "bun in the oven" status can quite often lead to the most embarrassing of replies "umm... I'm not pregnant" followed by your pathetic response "umm oh ummm oh isn't it cloudy today?"
No matter if they are actually pregnant, she will not like to be reminded of the fact that her body has stretched and grown so much that is it now the topic of conversation.
Even worse than saying any of these is rubbing or touching their tummy as if they were some sort of ceramic Budda.
Let me tell you it is NEVER good luck to rub the somewhat extended stomach of any woman wether they are pregnant or not.
In the event that they are pregnant you may get off with a nasty morning sickness induced snarl, escaping the slap in the face that would surely ensue if they are not pregnant only because they are too sleep deprived to deliver the upper cut they sorely wish they could.
As a rule guys, it is generally smarter to let sleeping dogs and seemingly pregnant women lie.
This is an expression that should be struck off the register of English words and phrases.
Whilst it may be an amusing way to take an easy shot at a rather rotund male friend or co-worker, saying it to any female anywhere, no matter what the situation can have some dire consequences.
No matter how obviously pregnant some one might be, saying either of the following is ALWAYS a rather large social faux-par;
- "I didn't know you were pregnant?"
- "So when is the baby due?"
- "So how far along are you?"
- "Is it a boy or a girl?"
- "Have you gained a lot of weight lately or are you pregnant?" (I would assume that you would not need to be told about this one)
Asking any of the above when you have not been properly briefed on the person's actual "bun in the oven" status can quite often lead to the most embarrassing of replies "umm... I'm not pregnant" followed by your pathetic response "umm oh ummm oh isn't it cloudy today?"
No matter if they are actually pregnant, she will not like to be reminded of the fact that her body has stretched and grown so much that is it now the topic of conversation.
Even worse than saying any of these is rubbing or touching their tummy as if they were some sort of ceramic Budda.
Let me tell you it is NEVER good luck to rub the somewhat extended stomach of any woman wether they are pregnant or not.
In the event that they are pregnant you may get off with a nasty morning sickness induced snarl, escaping the slap in the face that would surely ensue if they are not pregnant only because they are too sleep deprived to deliver the upper cut they sorely wish they could.
As a rule guys, it is generally smarter to let sleeping dogs and seemingly pregnant women lie.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003 |
It's a different world from 9 to 5
I feel I need to alert everyone of a phenomenon that occurs every weekday between he hours of 9 to 5 in shopping centres all over Australia.
If ever you find yourself out and about in your local shops during the week you will notice something quite startling.
There are no men.
Anywhere.
It's as if the frequent retort to men's come on lines "Not if you were the last guy on earth", has come true.
Walking into a Westfield shopping centre during the day really does feel as if I am the last man on earth.
It is something akin to some sort of post apocalyptic nightmare where only the elderly and young mothers have survived. Almost as if their walking frames and prams have offered some sort of protection from the blast wave and radiation dispensed by nuclear weapons detonated by an evil Feminist Empire.
Very much the outsider and feeling quite out of place for not having my own stroller, pram, walking frame or little floral patterned shopping trolley to wheel behind me, I cautiously make my way to the hardware store or some other male refuge.
Some days I bring my own kids in a stroller in attempt to disguise myself and fit in. It works to some extent however I am only grudgingly accepted, similarly to Sigourney Weaver being slowly accepted into the Mountain Gorilla Family in "Gorillas in the Mist".
I feel I need to alert everyone of a phenomenon that occurs every weekday between he hours of 9 to 5 in shopping centres all over Australia.
If ever you find yourself out and about in your local shops during the week you will notice something quite startling.
There are no men.
Anywhere.
It's as if the frequent retort to men's come on lines "Not if you were the last guy on earth", has come true.
Walking into a Westfield shopping centre during the day really does feel as if I am the last man on earth.
It is something akin to some sort of post apocalyptic nightmare where only the elderly and young mothers have survived. Almost as if their walking frames and prams have offered some sort of protection from the blast wave and radiation dispensed by nuclear weapons detonated by an evil Feminist Empire.
Very much the outsider and feeling quite out of place for not having my own stroller, pram, walking frame or little floral patterned shopping trolley to wheel behind me, I cautiously make my way to the hardware store or some other male refuge.
Some days I bring my own kids in a stroller in attempt to disguise myself and fit in. It works to some extent however I am only grudgingly accepted, similarly to Sigourney Weaver being slowly accepted into the Mountain Gorilla Family in "Gorillas in the Mist".
Monday, September 08, 2003 |
I made my first cheesecake
Last Friday provided me a great culinary success.
I baked my very first cheesecake.
It was (and I say was because it was so good it was all eaten within 24hrs) a Lemon double baked New York style.
It was surprisingly easy to make however I have to say with all modesty that it was one of the best cheesecakes I have ever had.
It was easily the equal of anything found in the best cafes served by Metrosexual waiters with a cappuccino.
My next challenge is a Jaffa Cheesecake. This one won’t be baked so it should be even easier.
Finally after all these years I am able to cast off the yoke of the Cheesecake Shop and be fully self sufficient.
Last Friday provided me a great culinary success.
I baked my very first cheesecake.
It was (and I say was because it was so good it was all eaten within 24hrs) a Lemon double baked New York style.
It was surprisingly easy to make however I have to say with all modesty that it was one of the best cheesecakes I have ever had.
It was easily the equal of anything found in the best cafes served by Metrosexual waiters with a cappuccino.
My next challenge is a Jaffa Cheesecake. This one won’t be baked so it should be even easier.
Finally after all these years I am able to cast off the yoke of the Cheesecake Shop and be fully self sufficient.
Sunday, September 07, 2003 |
Being a parent desensitises you to disgusting things
It’s amusing how much your tolerance for normally nauseating things goes way up after being a parent.
I assume it is something to do with the fact that you so routinely have someone else’s faeces and urine all over your hands. Add to this being constantly surrounded by snotty noses, grubby hands and for really young kids, the ever present smell of vomit.
It must be that they are your own children which makes all the difference. It remains however that it is still someone’s shit and piss right there on your hands.
To your average person or even the experienced parent having long since endured this most stomach-turning right of passage to child rearing, the idea of some how placing your hand in an 8 inch log originating from the bot-bot of another person would fairly quickly be followed by uncontrollable retching, about 10 successive showers and the act of burning everything you had on at the time.
To the parents of children under 3 (and anyone who surfed at Bondi beach in the 80’s) it happens every day.
In fact I can recall one particularly gross episode that occurred while I was giving my two boys (ages 3 and 1) a bath. I was teaching them how to blow bubbles in the water while I knelt down beside the bath, sticking my face in the water. I did this a couple of times to their delight and they began to do it as well which made us all laugh.
What happened next was not funny however. While I was face down in the water blowing bubbles, I failed to notice that only my eldest son was following suit. What I did not see was my youngest boy silently crouching up the shallow end of the bath, concentrating on the job at hand. Having a fairly large lung capacity I was able to keep blowing for about 20 seconds or so. Eventually I had to come up for air and there it was. Bobbing mere centimetres from my face, a floater that could have rivalled the magnitude of the Battleship Bismarck. The two boys has also dispersed to either end of the bath in an attempt to gain as much distance as possible.
Had this happened a few years ago before the arrival of my children, I imagine I would have reacted rather more erratically than the cool, calm actions I took.
Of course the one big benefit to all this is that it has stopped me bitting my nails.
P.S. Happy Fathers Day to all the Dads today especially to both my own wonderful Father and Father in Law.
It’s amusing how much your tolerance for normally nauseating things goes way up after being a parent.
I assume it is something to do with the fact that you so routinely have someone else’s faeces and urine all over your hands. Add to this being constantly surrounded by snotty noses, grubby hands and for really young kids, the ever present smell of vomit.
It must be that they are your own children which makes all the difference. It remains however that it is still someone’s shit and piss right there on your hands.
To your average person or even the experienced parent having long since endured this most stomach-turning right of passage to child rearing, the idea of some how placing your hand in an 8 inch log originating from the bot-bot of another person would fairly quickly be followed by uncontrollable retching, about 10 successive showers and the act of burning everything you had on at the time.
To the parents of children under 3 (and anyone who surfed at Bondi beach in the 80’s) it happens every day.
In fact I can recall one particularly gross episode that occurred while I was giving my two boys (ages 3 and 1) a bath. I was teaching them how to blow bubbles in the water while I knelt down beside the bath, sticking my face in the water. I did this a couple of times to their delight and they began to do it as well which made us all laugh.
What happened next was not funny however. While I was face down in the water blowing bubbles, I failed to notice that only my eldest son was following suit. What I did not see was my youngest boy silently crouching up the shallow end of the bath, concentrating on the job at hand. Having a fairly large lung capacity I was able to keep blowing for about 20 seconds or so. Eventually I had to come up for air and there it was. Bobbing mere centimetres from my face, a floater that could have rivalled the magnitude of the Battleship Bismarck. The two boys has also dispersed to either end of the bath in an attempt to gain as much distance as possible.
Had this happened a few years ago before the arrival of my children, I imagine I would have reacted rather more erratically than the cool, calm actions I took.
Of course the one big benefit to all this is that it has stopped me bitting my nails.
P.S. Happy Fathers Day to all the Dads today especially to both my own wonderful Father and Father in Law.
Saturday, September 06, 2003 |
My theories on Love, Marriage, Children and Farts [Part II]
How do you know when to get married?
So you have been in a relationship with someone for a few years and you are now beginning to wonder where to now?
Are you ready for something as big as marriage or do you want to start seeing other people? Do you want to do both so you can appear on Jerry Springer?
It is said that subjecting your partner to the remnants of last night’s dinner whilst sitting on the lounge may be an indicator of your affection, it is not however a true gauge of your willingness to commit.
There will come a time in your relationship when after a vigorous horizontal workout with the one you love, you will have the urge to let one go. There are few places more sacred than under the bed sheets after you have made love. You may find however that you are still asking yourself the question “Should I or shouldn’t I?”
This is the test.
To let it go is a major indication that you are ready to be married. The reaction of the other person will also indicate their readiness to commit for life.
So you decide to let it rip, roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may.
If upon discovery you are thrown out of the bedroom to sleep the night on the lounge followed by threats that the next time you will be “hiding the sausage” Nikki Webster will be able to vote, then maybe your partner is not as ready to commit to marriage as you are.
If on the other hand your bedroom bugling is ignored or better yet return volleyed, you can then feel relatively safe in popping the question.
The answer is more likely to be an excited and in some cases a relived “Yes” rather than a relationship destroying “I’ll have to think about it, can you give me some time” or worse still a big fat “No.”
You can then begin the wedding preparations at once. Well at least the woman can as we all know men have absolutely nothing to do with planing a wedding other than to actually turn up on time in at least a semi lucid state.
Of course this theory is a little difficult to put into practice if you usually fall asleep straight after sex. This would however indicate that you are probably already married.
And what about kids?
There is an old saying that was as true then as it is today.
“Kids are like farts. You can handle your own if you have to but other people’s are a little too much”
How do you know when to get married?
So you have been in a relationship with someone for a few years and you are now beginning to wonder where to now?
Are you ready for something as big as marriage or do you want to start seeing other people? Do you want to do both so you can appear on Jerry Springer?
It is said that subjecting your partner to the remnants of last night’s dinner whilst sitting on the lounge may be an indicator of your affection, it is not however a true gauge of your willingness to commit.
There will come a time in your relationship when after a vigorous horizontal workout with the one you love, you will have the urge to let one go. There are few places more sacred than under the bed sheets after you have made love. You may find however that you are still asking yourself the question “Should I or shouldn’t I?”
This is the test.
To let it go is a major indication that you are ready to be married. The reaction of the other person will also indicate their readiness to commit for life.
So you decide to let it rip, roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may.
If upon discovery you are thrown out of the bedroom to sleep the night on the lounge followed by threats that the next time you will be “hiding the sausage” Nikki Webster will be able to vote, then maybe your partner is not as ready to commit to marriage as you are.
If on the other hand your bedroom bugling is ignored or better yet return volleyed, you can then feel relatively safe in popping the question.
The answer is more likely to be an excited and in some cases a relived “Yes” rather than a relationship destroying “I’ll have to think about it, can you give me some time” or worse still a big fat “No.”
You can then begin the wedding preparations at once. Well at least the woman can as we all know men have absolutely nothing to do with planing a wedding other than to actually turn up on time in at least a semi lucid state.
Of course this theory is a little difficult to put into practice if you usually fall asleep straight after sex. This would however indicate that you are probably already married.
And what about kids?
There is an old saying that was as true then as it is today.
“Kids are like farts. You can handle your own if you have to but other people’s are a little too much”
Friday, September 05, 2003 |
A Tale from Redfern
On the days I do have to go into work my office is in Redfern, a small infamous suburb of Sydney.
Sadly, Redfern is notorious for the criminal behaviour of its Aboriginal population. Now while I am sure that not all the criminal activity that occurs in Redfern is perpetrated by its Aboriginal people, I have to say that all the incidents I have either seen or have personally experienced have regrettably all involved Aboriginals.
A lot of this activity seems to centre on Redfern Railway Station. Unfortunately most people coming into and out of the suburb for work or to attend the University of Technology Sydney have to use this station. The real reason behind the axis of wrongdoing is not the railway station but the fact that it sits at the top of "the block".
Please do not mistake "the block" in Redfern with "the block" in Bondi. Unlike the one in Bondi there are no sexy blondes prancing around, attempting to look as though are contributing or homosexual couples secretly conspiring against the other tenants. In contrast Redfern's block is a depressing scene of domestic violence, public drunkenness and 3 year olds wandering the streets by themselves.
Exiting the station brings out conflicting emotions. The primary concern is that of safety. A feeling of anger starts to rise and thoughts such as "look at these filthy bastards just waiting for someone to stray from the pack. Hunting us like jackals" begin to pervade your mind. This reaction however will usually only last long enough to get a quick glimpse at the conditions under which these people live on a day to day basis. The garbage strewn about the street, the parents asleep in the gutter while their young children look on as a heroin deal is made next to them or another fire is lit on the pavement. Then someone will ride in on a pushbike, a warm carton of VB under his arm purchased from the nearby early opener, while he steers surprisingly well with the other.
The cycle of poverty and violence is very evident and is something that I have encountered first hand a number of times.
The first and to my mind saddest such incident occurred at around 7:30am one morning as I came out of the station. I crossed the road and began walking to the office. On the station side of the road I noticed that someone was also walking the same way exactly parallel to me. He then crossed the road and walked up to me. Instantly my guard was up and I expected something to happen. Instead all he did was talk to me ask how I was going. I kept walking (a little faster by this stage) and he then asked me if I wanted to score some drugs. I said no and he then asked if I had any cigarettes. I also said no to this to which he replied "well just give me your fucking mobile then" and started pushing me and attempting to take my mobile off my belt (as was the styles a few years ago). I was able to fight the guy off and get away from him after which he ran back down to Eveleigh street which is the main street of the block.
After the initial shock of the event wore off I naively thought I better report this to the police so I made my way to the Redfern Police Station. As part of the report they asked me what he looked like. Trying not to sound like a redneck racist, I attempted to describe the guy without saying he was an Aboriginal. The Police of course could see what I was trying to dot and finally just simply asked me "look mate was he an Aboriginal?" to which I confirmed he was. After the race of the person was established they took me into a room with a TV and a video. They turned on the TV and took out a video from a cupboard which was labelled, and I'm not kidding, "Aboriginals A-Z". After I saw this label and the subsequent still pictures of locals on the screen, any of the anger I felt washed away and was replaced with a kind of sadness for the lives of these people.
I was not able to identify the person from any of the pictures so I left and never heard about it again.
Approximately a year later I was involved in another incident at the exact same spot however this time I was not the one being attacked. Once again it was around 7:30am and I was coming out of the station. I noticed that the traffic was backed up from the traffic lights and I also noticed that there was someone slowly riding a bike up and down the footpath next to the cars waiting at the lights. Suddenly he stopped and opened the door of one of the cars, grabbed a bag from it and began to ride back down to Eveleigh Street.
I yelled out for Police and anyone else who would listen that there was a bag snatch going on however no one seemed to do anything. At this point I decided to take matters into my own hands and ran across the road to where the guy was slowly pedalling back home thinking he had gotten away with it.
I took a flying leap and tackled him off the bike, stolen handbag and all. Luckily for me and not so much for him, he was slammed into a brick wall and temporarily dazed. I took this opportunity to grab the bag that had fallen to the ground and looked up to see the woman who's bag it was running down the street towards me from her car. I handed her the bag, stood up and looked around to see quite the collection of locals watching the proceedings and their cousin sprawled out on the pavement. Both the lady and I decided that a quick get away was the order of the day so she made it back to her car and I hurried to work keeping a constant vigil on what was behind me.
I decided there was no use in reporting the incident to the police this time.
Since then the pedestrian crossing has been removed from outside the station because of all the car jackings that used occur there and there is also a Police presence during peak hours in the morning and afternoon.
On the days I do have to go into work my office is in Redfern, a small infamous suburb of Sydney.
Sadly, Redfern is notorious for the criminal behaviour of its Aboriginal population. Now while I am sure that not all the criminal activity that occurs in Redfern is perpetrated by its Aboriginal people, I have to say that all the incidents I have either seen or have personally experienced have regrettably all involved Aboriginals.
A lot of this activity seems to centre on Redfern Railway Station. Unfortunately most people coming into and out of the suburb for work or to attend the University of Technology Sydney have to use this station. The real reason behind the axis of wrongdoing is not the railway station but the fact that it sits at the top of "the block".
Please do not mistake "the block" in Redfern with "the block" in Bondi. Unlike the one in Bondi there are no sexy blondes prancing around, attempting to look as though are contributing or homosexual couples secretly conspiring against the other tenants. In contrast Redfern's block is a depressing scene of domestic violence, public drunkenness and 3 year olds wandering the streets by themselves.
Exiting the station brings out conflicting emotions. The primary concern is that of safety. A feeling of anger starts to rise and thoughts such as "look at these filthy bastards just waiting for someone to stray from the pack. Hunting us like jackals" begin to pervade your mind. This reaction however will usually only last long enough to get a quick glimpse at the conditions under which these people live on a day to day basis. The garbage strewn about the street, the parents asleep in the gutter while their young children look on as a heroin deal is made next to them or another fire is lit on the pavement. Then someone will ride in on a pushbike, a warm carton of VB under his arm purchased from the nearby early opener, while he steers surprisingly well with the other.
The cycle of poverty and violence is very evident and is something that I have encountered first hand a number of times.
The first and to my mind saddest such incident occurred at around 7:30am one morning as I came out of the station. I crossed the road and began walking to the office. On the station side of the road I noticed that someone was also walking the same way exactly parallel to me. He then crossed the road and walked up to me. Instantly my guard was up and I expected something to happen. Instead all he did was talk to me ask how I was going. I kept walking (a little faster by this stage) and he then asked me if I wanted to score some drugs. I said no and he then asked if I had any cigarettes. I also said no to this to which he replied "well just give me your fucking mobile then" and started pushing me and attempting to take my mobile off my belt (as was the styles a few years ago). I was able to fight the guy off and get away from him after which he ran back down to Eveleigh street which is the main street of the block.
After the initial shock of the event wore off I naively thought I better report this to the police so I made my way to the Redfern Police Station. As part of the report they asked me what he looked like. Trying not to sound like a redneck racist, I attempted to describe the guy without saying he was an Aboriginal. The Police of course could see what I was trying to dot and finally just simply asked me "look mate was he an Aboriginal?" to which I confirmed he was. After the race of the person was established they took me into a room with a TV and a video. They turned on the TV and took out a video from a cupboard which was labelled, and I'm not kidding, "Aboriginals A-Z". After I saw this label and the subsequent still pictures of locals on the screen, any of the anger I felt washed away and was replaced with a kind of sadness for the lives of these people.
I was not able to identify the person from any of the pictures so I left and never heard about it again.
Approximately a year later I was involved in another incident at the exact same spot however this time I was not the one being attacked. Once again it was around 7:30am and I was coming out of the station. I noticed that the traffic was backed up from the traffic lights and I also noticed that there was someone slowly riding a bike up and down the footpath next to the cars waiting at the lights. Suddenly he stopped and opened the door of one of the cars, grabbed a bag from it and began to ride back down to Eveleigh Street.
I yelled out for Police and anyone else who would listen that there was a bag snatch going on however no one seemed to do anything. At this point I decided to take matters into my own hands and ran across the road to where the guy was slowly pedalling back home thinking he had gotten away with it.
I took a flying leap and tackled him off the bike, stolen handbag and all. Luckily for me and not so much for him, he was slammed into a brick wall and temporarily dazed. I took this opportunity to grab the bag that had fallen to the ground and looked up to see the woman who's bag it was running down the street towards me from her car. I handed her the bag, stood up and looked around to see quite the collection of locals watching the proceedings and their cousin sprawled out on the pavement. Both the lady and I decided that a quick get away was the order of the day so she made it back to her car and I hurried to work keeping a constant vigil on what was behind me.
I decided there was no use in reporting the incident to the police this time.
Since then the pedestrian crossing has been removed from outside the station because of all the car jackings that used occur there and there is also a Police presence during peak hours in the morning and afternoon.
Thursday, September 04, 2003 |
My theories on Love, Marriage, Children and Farts [Part I]
How do you know when you are in love?
You may have been going out with someone for a while and maybe even lived with them for a long time, but how do you know when you are truly in love with a person? What are the indicators of ever lasting love in a relationship?
Is it when your heart skips a beat whenever they walk into the room? Is it the excitement you feel when ever you are together? Is it the longing feeling you get whenever you are apart or the electricity in the air when you kiss?
Christ no.
The best sign that you are in love with someone is when you can rip off the stinkiest, rottenest, foulest, loudest fart possible while sitting on the lounge watching TV and NOT blame it on the dog.
Most of the time you would not even be thinking about it as you sit back having a beer watching the evening news with you partner. Then it happens, the sickly stench of love (hopefully with minimal splatter).
When you think about it this objectively it is far less risky than saying straight out "I love you".
Let us examine two scenarios;
First imagine you and your partner are sitting on the lounge watching your favourite program (most likely All Saints or some other such girly show if she has the remote control). The ads come on and you turn to them and say that momentous phrase "I love you".
Those three little words suddenly place immense amounts of pressure on the relationship and in particular on the person to whom they were said. That person now has to decide in the space of about 3 seconds what future you both hold together. If the "I love you" is returned then all is well and will most likely result in some pretty good sex not long after.
If the "I love you" is not returned, it's pretty much all down hill from there with the next thought that comes into your head being "how long is the rental lease we signed again?"
Now imagine the same scenario with one critical difference.
If she screams out of the room dry retching, hands held tightly over her mouth muffling an expression something along the lines of "You dirty bastard!", it was most likely not meant to be. I
f on the other hand that same expression "you dirty bastard" is instead muffled by her shirt being held over her nose and a playful slap on your leg, you know it is true love.
So if you find yourself in a relationship that has endured the test of time a little better than your previous attempts and you are beginning to wonder, "Is this love that I'm feeling, is this the love that I've been searching for?" just ask yourself, "Is it time to let one rip?"
How to know when it's time to get married in Part II
How do you know when you are in love?
You may have been going out with someone for a while and maybe even lived with them for a long time, but how do you know when you are truly in love with a person? What are the indicators of ever lasting love in a relationship?
Is it when your heart skips a beat whenever they walk into the room? Is it the excitement you feel when ever you are together? Is it the longing feeling you get whenever you are apart or the electricity in the air when you kiss?
Christ no.
The best sign that you are in love with someone is when you can rip off the stinkiest, rottenest, foulest, loudest fart possible while sitting on the lounge watching TV and NOT blame it on the dog.
Most of the time you would not even be thinking about it as you sit back having a beer watching the evening news with you partner. Then it happens, the sickly stench of love (hopefully with minimal splatter).
When you think about it this objectively it is far less risky than saying straight out "I love you".
Let us examine two scenarios;
First imagine you and your partner are sitting on the lounge watching your favourite program (most likely All Saints or some other such girly show if she has the remote control). The ads come on and you turn to them and say that momentous phrase "I love you".
Those three little words suddenly place immense amounts of pressure on the relationship and in particular on the person to whom they were said. That person now has to decide in the space of about 3 seconds what future you both hold together. If the "I love you" is returned then all is well and will most likely result in some pretty good sex not long after.
If the "I love you" is not returned, it's pretty much all down hill from there with the next thought that comes into your head being "how long is the rental lease we signed again?"
Now imagine the same scenario with one critical difference.
If she screams out of the room dry retching, hands held tightly over her mouth muffling an expression something along the lines of "You dirty bastard!", it was most likely not meant to be. I
f on the other hand that same expression "you dirty bastard" is instead muffled by her shirt being held over her nose and a playful slap on your leg, you know it is true love.
So if you find yourself in a relationship that has endured the test of time a little better than your previous attempts and you are beginning to wonder, "Is this love that I'm feeling, is this the love that I've been searching for?" just ask yourself, "Is it time to let one rip?"
How to know when it's time to get married in Part II
I feel I can relate to mine clearance personnel
I have just spent another 20 mins in my backyard on the never ending quest to rid it of dog crap. This time spent treading every so carefully through a heavily effected area has given me a certain amount of empathy for mine clearance personnel in Afghanistan, Cambodia and other countries massively afflicted by the scourge of anti personnel mines.
There are certain attributes the successful mine/dog crap clearance person must obtain.
1. Keen eyesight
2. Situational awareness. The ability to know what it going on around you while still focussing on the job at hand
3. Nerves of steel
4. A shovel
5. Your shirt pulled up over your nose
Failure in any of these areas can have dire consequences with the possibility of ruining an otherwise perfectly good pair of shoes/legs.
You never see the one that hits you.
P.S. As I am yet to go shopping I still smell like a woman
Wednesday, September 03, 2003 |
I smell like a woman today
Thankfully I do not have to go into the office today.
This morning I was forced to use my wife's deodorant instead of the decidedly more masculine variety I usually use.
It's quite a frightening sound when you get to the end of your deodorant spray can. Instead of the satisfying sound of copious amounts of ozone layer depleting, Alzheimer's disease causing, arm pit coating spray spewing fourth, you are faced with the pathetic drizzle, splutter and cough that signifies the bitter end of the can. This brings on the horrifying prospect of going out into the public domain stinking like a Town Hall Station Hobo in the hot summer sun.
I hate to think what I will be forced to do if I ever let my clean undies run out.
Thankfully I do not have to go into the office today.
This morning I was forced to use my wife's deodorant instead of the decidedly more masculine variety I usually use.
It's quite a frightening sound when you get to the end of your deodorant spray can. Instead of the satisfying sound of copious amounts of ozone layer depleting, Alzheimer's disease causing, arm pit coating spray spewing fourth, you are faced with the pathetic drizzle, splutter and cough that signifies the bitter end of the can. This brings on the horrifying prospect of going out into the public domain stinking like a Town Hall Station Hobo in the hot summer sun.
I hate to think what I will be forced to do if I ever let my clean undies run out.
Tasks for Today
Do the washing - Done
Do the cleaning - Done
Do the vacuming - Done
Change Nappies - Done
Wash Nappies - Done
Bake Bread for lunch - Done
Endure 2 hours of Bob the Builder and High 5 - Done
I will say that High 5 is a little easier to endure than Bob the Builder. Other Dads who have seen it know what I mean don't you ;-)
I do find however that Bob the Builder will sometimes have better Handy Man tips that a lot of "lifestyle" shows on TV at the moment. Not to mention all the cool heavy machinery he gets to play with.
Do the washing - Done
Do the cleaning - Done
Do the vacuming - Done
Change Nappies - Done
Wash Nappies - Done
Bake Bread for lunch - Done
Endure 2 hours of Bob the Builder and High 5 - Done
I will say that High 5 is a little easier to endure than Bob the Builder. Other Dads who have seen it know what I mean don't you ;-)
I do find however that Bob the Builder will sometimes have better Handy Man tips that a lot of "lifestyle" shows on TV at the moment. Not to mention all the cool heavy machinery he gets to play with.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003 |
Spam Phobia
Having recently changed service providers and therefore gaining a new, clean, spam free email address, I am increasingly finding myself terrified about the prospect of my squeaky clean address falling into the wrong hands.
The prospect of my inbox once again degrading into a cesspool of pornography, penis enlargement therapy and Letters from the sons of deposed African Presidents is a constant worry. Not to mention all the spam I used to get.
In one way it is amusingly analogous to the single guy's ongoing search for sexual partners in this new century. (note I am very happily married and am not on an ongoing search for sexual partners)
Every time you are asked to supply either your email address or your penis, an exhaustive analysis of the pros and cons, risks and benefits must be performed relatively quickly lest the opportunity to use it passes. Overlooking this crucial step in the heat of the moment and delivering said address or penis could lead to dire consequences when given to the wrong person.
Many are the email address and penis that have been rendered useless because of their supply to the wrong person at the wrong place and the wrong time.
Having recently changed service providers and therefore gaining a new, clean, spam free email address, I am increasingly finding myself terrified about the prospect of my squeaky clean address falling into the wrong hands.
The prospect of my inbox once again degrading into a cesspool of pornography, penis enlargement therapy and Letters from the sons of deposed African Presidents is a constant worry. Not to mention all the spam I used to get.
In one way it is amusingly analogous to the single guy's ongoing search for sexual partners in this new century. (note I am very happily married and am not on an ongoing search for sexual partners)
Every time you are asked to supply either your email address or your penis, an exhaustive analysis of the pros and cons, risks and benefits must be performed relatively quickly lest the opportunity to use it passes. Overlooking this crucial step in the heat of the moment and delivering said address or penis could lead to dire consequences when given to the wrong person.
Many are the email address and penis that have been rendered useless because of their supply to the wrong person at the wrong place and the wrong time.
Monday, September 01, 2003 |
I get embarrased buying Golden Gaytime Icecreams
It is always a little bit embarrassing buying one not that I do that often.
I am always wondering if as I walk away, the person I bought it from is silently (or not so silently) sniggering to themselves.
So much so that as I brought it back to the office and up to my desk to eat it, I made sure to cover it up with my hand as much as possible.
It is a shame they have such an unfortunate name as I like them very much. They have always been one of my favourite ice creams, especially when I was young as I never fully understood what gay means until I got into High School.
Not that is anything wrong with that.
It is always a little bit embarrassing buying one not that I do that often.
I am always wondering if as I walk away, the person I bought it from is silently (or not so silently) sniggering to themselves.
So much so that as I brought it back to the office and up to my desk to eat it, I made sure to cover it up with my hand as much as possible.
It is a shame they have such an unfortunate name as I like them very much. They have always been one of my favourite ice creams, especially when I was young as I never fully understood what gay means until I got into High School.
Not that is anything wrong with that.
Another Monday, another day at work
Thankfully I only have to endure the routine of arriving at work for 2 days a week.
There are however some big positives to Mondays for me.
Firstly I get to read my book on the train more often than not whilst sitting down. As I travel down Sydney's North Shore line I can avail myself of the superior service allocated to the affluent suburbs as opposed to the dismal, crowed, station skipping, late arriving services suffered by the western and southern suburbs. I don't think that North Shore people are better than any one else, I'm just stating that their public services are better than everyone else's. Possibly due to the large volume of Liberal voters and party contributors?
Secondly, being a Parramatta supporter I am able to strut into work, crowing about our continued current success in the NRL competition. Especially at the expense of Cronulla and Brisbane.
Eels for ever. Sharkies never!
Thankfully I only have to endure the routine of arriving at work for 2 days a week.
There are however some big positives to Mondays for me.
Firstly I get to read my book on the train more often than not whilst sitting down. As I travel down Sydney's North Shore line I can avail myself of the superior service allocated to the affluent suburbs as opposed to the dismal, crowed, station skipping, late arriving services suffered by the western and southern suburbs. I don't think that North Shore people are better than any one else, I'm just stating that their public services are better than everyone else's. Possibly due to the large volume of Liberal voters and party contributors?
Secondly, being a Parramatta supporter I am able to strut into work, crowing about our continued current success in the NRL competition. Especially at the expense of Cronulla and Brisbane.
Eels for ever. Sharkies never!
