HEY BOB KATTER - STFU

Okay, I am a born and bred Queenslander and I have this to say: Bob Katter. What a mad bastard.

Sure, this is stating the obvious, but out there, are people who agree with him. And agree that same sex marriage is wrong. And should never be allowed. And now, Mr Katter, through his tv advertising campaign, has made it abundantly clear that his party, the “Australia Party” is against any person of the same sex, marrying.

WHY?

Here’s what I want to hear. I want to hear from someone opposed to  Same Sex marriage, why you care. I want you to tell me why, if Beryl and Betty from number 102 decide they want to write some hideously corny vows, drop a truckload of cash on an overpriced function room and dance the funky chicken, what you think will ACTUALLY happen? Rapture? Armageddon?  End of the world as we know it?

More importantly, I want to know how you think this will actually impact your day to day life. Like how, when grabbing your daily coffee from your local coffee shop, if Gary and Dave from work hire a a stretch Hummer, invite 135 of their closest friends and family and declare their undying love for each other in front of a marriage celebrant and then set off some fuck-off fireworks to round out their night, how your daily coffee would taste any different.

 

So I Googled. Unrelated: I wish I had had Google in Year 12. I would have blitzed that shit.

Behold: Per searches through the Internet I present you: The top 7 reasons why people who are the same sex, should NOT get married. You will note the responses in red are SARCASTIC.  And until they devise a suitable sarcasm font, I will provide you this in red.

 

01) Being gay is not natural. Because real Australians always reject unnatural things like spectacles, polyester, and air conditioning.

02) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay. Just in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.

03) Legalising gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behaviour. I bet  People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.

04) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage is allowed; the sanctity of marriages like Britney Spears’ 55-hour marriage would be destroyed.

05) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn’t be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren’t full yet, and the world needs more children.

06) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.

07) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That’s why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.

You know, I watched ‘The Help’ the other night and although this was highly Hollywoodised (shutup, that is totally a word), it had quite the message. Being that once upon a time, it was acceptable to ostracise black people and treat them as less. I’m not sure how or why exactly it became ‘not okay’ to do this. I guess it was just a slow burning menace that eventually erupted.

What I do know is that just like I was quite disgusted in the way we have treated situations in our past (the stolen generation as an example), our children, my children and theirs, will be appalled and baffled why same sex marriage was even an issue. Equally baffling, why Kyle Sandliands was constantly rewarded for being such a complete dickhead.

I think perhaps it starts with us. Telling our children it is perfectly natural to be attracted to and love who they love, regardless of their sex. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about being happy, and we are happiest when we can be with the ones with love. Pretty Simple really.

So shut the fuck up Bob Katter. You ignorant arsehole.

MAKING MAGIC

Geez kids are good writing fodder but sometimes, just sometimes, I wish mine were a little more, well, vanilla.


Here’s the thing. You think you instil all kinds of ideals in your kids as they are growing up. You try and you do your best to make sure they are polite. That they brush their teeth. You teach them not to pick their bums and eat their snot in front of the general public and then you push them into the big wide world of school and hope to God there is nothing you’ve forgotten to make clear. 


For instance. 




TRADING KISSES FOR A BIT OF AN ICEBLOOCK IS PROBABLY QUITE INGENIOUS, BUT ILL ADVISED.




So Jack has only been at ‘big’ school a week. One frickin week and already the other parents are using their high pitched voices and saying “OOhhhh, so THIS is Jack” Lucy, Amelia, Isobel etc etc hasn’t stopped talking about him”.  Then “You know he’s been getting bites of icypoles in exchange for kisses don’t you?” Um. No. No I didn’t. Because if I did, I WOULD HAVE GIVEN HIM A DOLLAR TO BUY HIS OWN.




So yeah, seems after he was knocked back after just simply ASKING for a bite of an ice block, he thought he might negotiate. And negotiate with the only currency he was sent to this great earth with, his charm. He offered a kiss. She accepted. BINGO, iceblock secured.  


Lucy’s mum was pretty cool about it but suggested that I give him a dollar for the canteen next time. I, blushing, nodded and sat Jack down for a little talk.


Also


IT’S PROBABLY NOT COOL TO PULL YOUR PANTS DOWN IN FRONT OF FOUR GIRLS IN ART CLASS. UNLESS IT’S LIFE DRAWING. AND YOU’RE THE INVITED MODEL.


You know, sometimes I think Jack is about 11 years before his time. It’s like he was born riding a motorbike and rolling his own cigarettes.


So it was Friday, end of the week.  Not only that, it was just about time for the ‘Meet the other Prep Parents/Teacher night’. I rocked up to find Jack helping ‘Suze’ as he called her, set up for the night. There was good beer and Champagne in piccolos on ice – how very civilised!  That’s when I got the nod from Jack’s teacher to follow her. My heart sank.  


“We need to have a chat about Jack’s behaviour when you get a chance”


“Is now a good time?” Me, hoping against hope that it was a completely shit time.


“Oh sure, well it’s not really in class, just something one of the girl’s mums said to me” And that's when she mouthed and simultaneously mimed, “Pulling his pants down” She then said in a too friendly voice “How about I email you hmmm?”. 


And I never did get to taste the Piccolo Champagne.


So today, I get an email outlining a few incidences where Jack decided he might just take his pants down as what I wish was an attempt at being the subject for some  nude life drawing as opposed to what it really was – proudly showing off his doodle.


Yeah, so this is hearsay, no adult actually saw this, but apparently the evidence is pretty damning. And when confronted, he cracked. I asked him simply what he was tyring to do. His response?  “I was just trying to make magic!”  


So tonight I penned a response to an email I never imagined getting. And then we sat down with Jack and had the talk. The stop being a dirty little perve talk. Not in so many words, but we did have to recognise that he does have a little bit of an obsession with girls and kissing.  Which I know, I know, is normal and healthy but yeah, if I had a 5 year old daughter and she was being confronted with that kind of junk (pun intended) at school, I’d be a little freaked out too. 


So, yeah, out of all the things I thought I had prepared my children for, this wasn't one of them. Maybe I’m getting all this in reverse and he’ll be a model teenager. Feel free to laugh at me.


Oh and Happy St Valentine’s Day. Whether you believe in it or not, it doesn't hurt to spread a little love...

Butter. Contrary to everything, it certainly DOES melt in his mouth.

DR GOOGLE

I do believe there are many of us. I also believe the level of unjustified shitscardeness is at code red levels. I also believe I just made up a word.  I digress.

I am of course talking about those among us who use Google to search for solutions to medical problems and symptoms. Dr Google by any other name.

In the past, I have used the 'good doctor' when I have felt anything out of the ordinary or ‘not quite right’. Within about, oh 2 minutes, I have myself convinced that I have roughly three months to live. 

It’s like when I was a teen, except there was no such thing as Google. I would convince myself I was pregnant even though you know, I hadn’t actually had sex yet. I would hightail it to the nearest QBD and scour the medical section that had a book on Pregnancy and look up ‘symptoms’ Tender breasts? Check, Nausea? YES! Late Period? OMG I am pregnant!!!! Except I wasn’t. Unless Immaculate conception was really 'a thing'. No, I had just used a rudimentary version of Dr Google.

Jack, our 5 year old, used to walk on his tip toes. A lot. Of course we noticed it and told him to ‘get off your tippy toes’ about 1,000 times. His kindy teacher also pointed it out to us and told us ever so sweetly to “get that shit checked out by a doctor”. Sure. But first things first, what did Dr. Google have to say about this condition? Here are some of the possible conditions that came up on the search:

“One cause for toe walking is tight Achilles tendons at the back of the heels. Sometimes this condition can be corrected by putting the child's feet into a brace for a while or, in the more severe cases, surgery may be necessary” Ok, can deal with that.

“Frequent toe walking can signal several different problems, the most serious of which is cerebral palsy” Holy Shit

See what I mean, this is worst case scenario stuff. I took the then 2 year old, to the doctor and she told me to basically go home and he will grow out of it as it’s a habit. He’s now 5, still does it every so often and yep, it’s just a habit.

I myself had cause for concern with a very sore lump in my breast. This started out much less sinister and due to the fact that my mum was dying at the time, and I had zero time to face any more shite news, I ignored it until humanly possible. This of course did not stop me from consulting Dr. Google. In which time I read some very reassuring predictions, “painful lumps are rarely a problem” to some very disturbing ones “These masses have a good chance of malignancy”. So, of course being as difficult as humanly possible I decided I needed this checked during the Christmas/New Year period. The hardest time of year to get any concrete evidence.

Anyway, it was all good. Just a fibroidenoma : The typical case is the presence of a painless, firm, solitary, mobile, slowly growing lump in the breast of a woman of childbearing years. Either way, before I got the pathology results after a very anxious 2 week wait, I had myself contemplating my life, my children’s future and the injustice of it all. And Dr Google didn’t help. In fact it hindered and scared the living shit out of me.

So, can I suggest something? Perhaps, the next time you have an ache in your hip or a throbbing in your temple, go to a real life doctor and see what they have to say. Do not, I repeat, do not, self-diagnose.

THAT'S NOT MY NAME

Jack started Prep this week and it all went smashingly. Well, to be fair he only had to be there until 1pm and when I say smashingly, I actually mean he fell off the monkey bars (complete with school bag attached to his back) and nearly smashed his elbow before the first bell had even rung. But you know, apart from that and the impromptu breakdance routine he broke into shortly after entering his new classroom, he had a pretty uneventful first day.

As we were walking out the school gates, I asked him if he got sad at all.  His answer?  “I almost cried when you left, but then I just couldn’t be bothered.” A+ for Apathy son

We jumped in the car and I asked him how his day went. “Good.”  That was it, that was all I could get out of him for the first half an hour.  After much prying  he eventually told me that he’d drawn stuff in boxes, that Isabelle kept eating the glue sticks and that Sue had made them eat their lunch inside the classroom. That’s when we had this little conversation:

Me: Who’s Sue?

Jack: My teacher

Me: Well don’t call her Sue, say it properly. Miss Malvern.

Jack: That’s not her name. She’s Sue

Me: I doubt it.

Jack: Can I have an iceblock?

Me: Sure

End of conversation.

So I didn’t think too much more about this first name basis business until I picked Sam up and asked him what his teacher’s name was. “Di." Say what now??  Again same story. So I checked with another parent. Sure enough, yep, children at this school have been told to address their teacher by their first name. 

And no, this is not some touchy feely, hippy dippy school. It’s your run of the mill State School in suburbia. There is no agenda behind it, apparently it’s just what they do. It’s just something I haven’t seen before and to be frank, I’m not sure I’m 100% comfortable with.

After asking around, about 50% were cool with it. The other 50% were a little bit WTF like I was.

See, I was always a little in awe of my teachers. They had this untouchable mystique about them. They were never so familiar you would overstep the boundary and we certainly never called them by their first names. Although, we did secretly refer to our year seven teacher as 'Wig' because her hair bounced around in a very unnatural way and oh there was also the PE Teacher in Year 12 whose last name was Hunt. Yeah, so we had a bit fun with that, but apart from that..

I remember worshipping Mrs Adams, my Year 1 teacher. To have put my hand up and asked “Margaret, can I go to the toilet please” would have seen me swiftly sent on up to the the Principals office. 

Now this is probably more of a case of me not moving with the times, but in much the same way I still like for my children to address my friend’s parents by Mr and Mrs or their Aunty and Uncle as such, I want them to be polite, use their manners and be respectful. And I guess the whole 'first name basis' thing seems to take the respect for their authority out of the equation. To me anyway. 

Regardless, this is the way it is, like it or not and it is our job as parents to teach our children about respect in and out of the classroom. So that's that then.

Oh and good news – no broken arm AND he has promised Sue his next breakdance routine will be by request only. Now we’ve just got to keep a lid on the budding romance between him and the glue eater.  

What about you? Was calling your teacher by their first name your normal growing up? Or does it not sit quite right?

THE BIG ISSUES

Today I’m going to tackle some big issues. Some massive ones actually. And you will have a definite opinion and be vehemently for or against each one for your own very distinct reasons. 

Right then, forget Australia Day, Julia, Tony and THAT shoe, let’s discuss the big stuff:

Number 1

Are you a Folder or Folder or a Scruncher?

You know, toilet paper? When you wipe your, yeah, you know..

Now, according to Annie at Living Life as me

"If someone is process driven and is always on time, they will be a FOLDER" 

"If  someone is creative, can multi task, can handle interruptions, is outgoing and a people person they will be a SCRUNCHER"

Right, so I’m a scruncher. Always have been, figure I always will be. I put this down to being a FANTASTIC and creative multi-tasker. Or it could be that I'm perhaps, a wee bit lazy. Yeah. The latter.

I knew even before I asked my husband whether he was a folder or a scruncher, what his answer would be. He is exceptionally clean and routine driven, hence, he is a Folder.

Personally, I think this should be the first question you ask a potential mate. At least then you know what you’re getting yourself into. Unless of course they fold then pinch. Then Jesus, you’re on your own.

Art imitates Life

 Number 2

Should the toilet paper go over or under?

Over. No. Doubt. About. It. This really requires no further conversation but in the spirit of democracy, I’ll allow comment. But just so we’re clear, under is incorrect.

I mean, why would you make life difficult for yourself by trying to find the end to the toileting holy grail under the spool? This can surely only end in stabbed finger marks into the toilet paper on your quest to locate the last square used?

Let’s not forget how appealing it looks when it’s just kind of hanging there, easily accessible, putting your mind at ease and thus letting you relax knowing that when you’re ready, it will be too.

I’ve been known to go on a one woman crusade and change it to the ‘correct’ position at a friend’s house, safe in the knowledge that once she's experienced the awesome, she’ll never look back.

Thankfully my husband and I appear to be on the same page when it comes to this although there has never been an actual discussion. I’d like to think though, in any living situation, whoever changes the roll  - WINS! That right there is INCENTIVE!

Okay, fair to say, I’ve thought this over a *little* too hard. But I’m right. I await your rebuttal.

No! Jesus God NO!

Number 3 

Does the Vegemite/Promite/The Aldi Ripoff live in the fridge or in the cupboard?

I know. This is a contentious issue. Seriously, this has been known to be a total dealbreaker.  I have witnessed seemingly normal people become ridiculously passionate and frankly, out of control, when trying to make me see the error of my Vegemite positioning ways. Here’s where  I’d like to make a pre-emptive strike and say that I believe that this is very much a nurture over nature thing. As in, what you are brought up with is what you will continue to do. My mother always kept the vegemite in the fridge. Hence, so do I. Go your hardest to change my mind.

I'm guessing Susie doesn't give much of a shit where it's been kept. 

So there you go. Everything you need to know about someone can pretty much be summed up by their response to the above three burning issues. Now. Tell me what YOU think. 

BETTER WHEN WE'RE TOGETHER

Once upon a time, I had quite the prolific social life.  

Once Upon a Time.

Rewind the years and you may or may not have seen me unofficially onstage helping myself to Skunkhour's Bongo drums.  You also may have seen me dressed like a complete piece of crumpet, handing out trophies to a V8 Racecar driver, Charlie someone or other at one of the Gold Coast Indy events.  Look even harder and you would  have seen me snogging a random guy at a Hunters and Collectors concert at the Old Pacific Hotel.  And, if you attended a Big Day Out concert circa 1994, you definitely would have seen me up the front, almost being crushed to death in the  Soundgarden moshpit. 

 
Now, well, now I have a different social diary to maintain.  And it appears I am just the gatekeeper.

 
It would seem that the baton got passed at a particular point in my life, and my own social life became somewhat of a slack second. This was fine of course, I was too far up my own arse discussing training pants and boy germs to notice.  But now that the dust is starting to settle, I am beginning  to realise I am missing out on some fairly momentous events.  

Everywhere I turn, people are talking about seeing Florence and the Machine,Big Day Out, The Blues Festival; you name it, it’s all been happening.  Imagine if John Farnham had retired and done a final concert!  Imagine if I missed that! 

This weekend we have had a full on weekend.  It involved Jack’s 4th Birthday celebrations where he started the party like this:

Midway was still going hard and looking like this

 
And ending up like this:

It's just not a good party if you don't end up nude in the middle of your loungeroom

 
Completely knackered and naked.  Today he had a 5yo girl(friends) bowling party that went for 3 freaking hours.  The longest three hours of my life.  Yes, the baton certainly has changed hands.
 

The last completely massive night we had out involved Jack Johnson, a squirrel and a bathtub.  Not nearly as kinky as it sounds, let me explain.

Maddie and Sam were safely tucked away at Grandmas.   It was the Easter long weekend and my best friend and her husband had miraculously secured us a double hotel room at the Marriott at 70% off. Yes, so far, it just felt far too full of win to be true.  It was a Friday and we made our way to Bonnie & Jeremy’s house to pick them up and get on the road.  Problem number one.  Man down. Well, man missing.  Jeremy turned up 2 hours inexplicably,  late.   Once we had him sorted, we got going.  Nothing stopping us now.

We managed to check in, throw our bags down and flag down a cab to take us to the Botanic Gardens.  Keeping in mind, this was now around 7:30pm.  We hadn’t eaten and my husband and Jeremy had been drinking since roughly 3pm.    We got to the gates and Bonnie didn’t have her ID with her.  Now I’m sorry, there is no miracle of aging going that could hide the fact that were indeed, over the age of 18.  It didn’t matter, those security guys weren’t having a bar of us and our geriatric mole hairs.  Problem Number 2.  Smuggle in the 28 year old.

So in an effort to a) curb our insane hunger and b) smuggle our clearly overage friend into the 18 plus area, we spent a lot of time NOT seeing the bands we were meant to see.

We did get down to see Jack Johnson.  About 30 minutes before he finished.  By this time, Phil & Jeremy were righteously smashed.  I wasn’t far behind and Bonnie was moderately hammered having only been able to drink for a quarter of the time.  Before we knew it, people were hotfooting it out the gates.  This is where the Squirrel comes in.  Problem number 3 – Phil gets deserted due to squirrel sighting.

Phil decided he needed to use the amenities.  Or the back of a large tree, either or.  So we said we’d wait right there for him.  But then Bonnie spotted a squirrel, even though as far as I know, we don’t have squirrels in Australia.   So we decided we needed to do a little squirrel hunting.

I am unsure here, how long it was between us three and Phil reuniting at the gates of the Brisbane Botanic gardens, but it was enough for him to be pissed, and more than a little dubious of our squirrel story.  

We pushed on, towards home.  Unfortunately towards home included walking past a lot of bars.  One such establishment sold posh beer and salt and pepper squid.   More beer was consumed, a glass was smashed (not by me, oh no) and someone skidded through a vomit patch on the dance floor as part of a very classy exit out of the establishment.  Again, I doubt this would have been me.

Then we got home.  This is where the bathtub becomes part of the story.  See it was about here that Phil was starting to feel a little off and so, as a precautionary measure, spent the night (at his own request) sleeping in the bathtub.  You know, just in case.  I don’t think his back has ever been the same since.

Three out of four of us made it to the all inclusive buffet breakfast the next morning. Phil wasn’t one of them.  
The fluorescent green bile he vomited up for the next two days was a constant reminder of Jack Johnson and inexplicably, Squirrels.

So that was probably our last event.  Our last major organised, let’s go hard or go home event.  

What did you do when you had kids?  Stop going out?  Meet in the middle or make them work around you.  
 
Or, if you don’t have kids, what’s the biggest event you’ve been to of late.  Go on, make me completely jealous.

So this is a repost as my trusty Toshiba has finally shat itself. Hope to be up and running in my new digs soon(ish). Luckily on the 7th day he/she created interest free finance.

MIXTAPE

I remember the first mix tape I ever received.  It was circa 1988 and I found it shoved inside my school bag. To this day, I still don’t know who put it in there. It was definitely meant for me. How do I know it wasn't accidentally placed in the wrong school bag you ask?  Well you know, one can never be 100% sure about these things, but  the dead giveaway for me was the cardboard insert on the front that had ‘ Mixtape for Bernadette’ scrawled across it in the messiest handwriting I’d ever seen. Chances are he went on to be a doctor.  

But back to this sweet, sweet mix tape that was, from memory, a bonanza of the Top 40 at the time. Including but not limited to:

Simply Irresistible – Robert Palmer

She’s Like the Wind – Patrick Swayze (I shit you not)

Perfect – Fairground Attraction

Get outta My Dreams – Get into My Car – Billy Ocean (WTF? I assume being 12 he couldn't exactly drive yet. Wait was car a metaphor for something else. You'll have to excuse me, I can be slow to catch on.

And to round it out......

You really got me – The Kinks. Which was the reason the first CD I ever purchased on my own coin was ‘The Best of the Kinks’. So ambiguous, perhaps doctor type, thanks. I owe you one.

There were other songs, but I think the theme here was fairly obvious. Whoever made this tape was totally into me. Possibly psychotically so. And even though stalker wasn’t a term back in 1988 I’m pretty sure it could have applied here. And let’s not sugar coat it. I wasn’t exactly 'the Swan' in year 8. No. I was more the lanky white child with an unexpected afro and an over abundance of freckles. Whoever dug me was clearly wearing coke bottles and had low self esteem. Whatever. This did not stop me from listening to that tape OVER and OVER and OVER again. I read into every lyric. For instance check out these lyrics from Patrick Swayze: 

a) She's like the wind through my tree (yeah, huh?)

b) She rides the night next to me (rides the night? The night’s pretty long. Was this a suggestion I was riding, no wait. I was 12)

So ANYWAY

But seriously, how sweet and/or romantic is a dedicated Mix Tape? Something that has been carefully thought about and laboured over with only you in mind. And there is something that makes you love a song more when someone you like is into it. I went through a massive phase of Fleetwood Mac and Creedance Clear Water Revival for this very reason once.

And sure, my mixtape from 1988 had a decidedly uncool array of pop, but someone, somewhere, sat down and wanted me to know they were thinking about me. Through song. Or as @mrgrumpystephen on Twitter so eloquently put it, ‘if the answer to "why" (they’d make someone a mixed tape) isn't "to get into somebody's pants" then they are lying.

And how's this, a friend recently alerted me to this freaking amazing event/night/thingo

Description

On Saturday 7 January, The Northcote Social Club hosts “The Mix CD Social” – an evening of assorted aural delights, in celebration of the humble mix CD. Did you ever make a Mix CD for a secret crush? Or a road trip? Perhaps when YOU were putting together your musical list of your “all time favourite songs” de jour, you were dubbing to tape. Regardless of which format you were on, the making and sharing of ‘mixes’ has no doubt played a key role in your discovery of some totally bangin’ tracks. At “The Mix CD Social”, bring along your own compilation to receive discounted gig entry. At the end of the night, the discs will be swapped in a blind lucky dip… And everyone goes home with a mystery disc of new music! Live entertainment will be supplied by indie-pop dynamo Georgia Fields, Duke Batavia, and The Barebones. Special guest DJs include Dan Kelly, Angie Hart and Sean M Whelan. The soiree kicks off at 8:30pm, and tickets are $15 on the door, or only $12 if you bring a Mix CD to contribute to the lucky dip. Happy burning…!

This had my name written all over it.

I think we’ve lost the art of mixtaping. And no, I don’t mean playlists on your phone/device of  choice. I mean, heart and soul, message through music, put it in a lovesong, burn onto something that said person can take away and listen to privately kinda thing. 


It doesn’t necessarily have to be for a lover. I made one for one of my best friends for her 30^th because she lived far away and I thought this was the best way she could feel my love for her. I’m not ashamed to say it had the one song we both loved the most as kids, one that featured heavily on the original Karate Kid. One we may or may not have had specific dance moves to.

That’s the thing, the song may be complete shit, but if it means something to either you or them, it means enough to go on a mixtape.

So get mixtaping people. Show someone what they mean to you. 


And now, for your aural pleasure, Here is Peter Cetera and the Glory of Love. This one’s for you Bron.   

And check this out