I Must Confess: My Bucket List (And Fuck It List)

First of all, I Must Confess that I don't really have a Bucket List as such. I do, however, have a Fuck It List longer than Question Time. So, I'm slightly tweaking the confession to spill what's on my Fuck It List, and then a lame attempt at a Bucket List. I am not even remotely an adrenaline junkie, so therefore my long list of Fuck It's include:

• Bungee Jumping
• Sky Diving
• Harbour Bridge Climb
• Hot Air Balloon ride
• Hang Gliding

I also have zero desire to;

• Go to the top of the Eiffel Tower
• Ditto The Empire State Building
• Climb Mt. Everest
• Go White Water Rafting
• Go Scuba Diving
• Go on any extreme rides at theme parks eg. Roller coaster etc

Fuck that.

You get the picture. I'm a big scardey cat, chicken shit wus. Therefore my actual Bucket List is extremely boring. It includes:

• Getting married (check).
• Having kids (check).
• Getting that McMansion in Boganville Heights.
• Seeing my boys grow up.
• Becoming a Granny.
• Finish writing the excruciatingly awful book I started writing years ago, which will require me living until I'm approximately 145 years old, at the slower than a snail's pace rate I'm going.

In addition to this, I wouldn't mind doing the following at some point:

• Visiting Karen Carpenter's final resting place in California.
• Visiting Prince Edward Island to see all the places associated with author Lucy Maud Montgomery of Anne Of Green Gables fame.
• Visiting the UK to see all the places associated with Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters.
• Visiting Europe, in particular I've always wanted to see Germany since I was a teenager learning German at school (which I now can't remember a word of beyond Guten Tag, but meh, I still want to go).

To do all of the above, I will also need to:

• Win the Lottery.

Since I never take a ticket, the chances of this are extremely remote. Non-existent in fact. Therefore, the only thing left on my Bucket List is:


Have a cup of tea and a cakie (multiplied by a billion times). You know, just so I can have something else I can actually tick off.

 Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

What's on your bucket list? Or, alternatively, your Fuck It List?

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Born And Bred Bogan

With all this brouhaha (no idea how to spell that) about the PM visiting Rooty Hill, amid talk about western Sydney I thought I should say a few words about my experiences of being a born and bred westie bogan. I'm sure it will come as a total shock when I reveal that 'Boganville' is, in fact, somewhere in the general whereabouts of somewhere resembling western Sydney. You never would have guessed, I'm sure.

I'm a born and bred bogan, having been born here and lived here all my life. The irony being for me, that I've actually somehow managed to live quite a sheltered life in good old Boganville, which I attribute to having fantastic parents.

My Mother's motto has always been: we all come out the same way and we all go the same way. She absolutely detests all mockery of western Sydney. It's a wonder she let me get away with this blog, to be honest.

It is curious. I'm sure I never gave it any thought when I was a small child. We had the kind of childhood where we all played in the street and felt safe. Mum and Dad always knew where we were, however. It wasn't until high school that I became aware of the term 'Westie' and the negative connotations that went with it.

In fact, the high school that I attended had a terrible reputation. I was quite terrified of attending the school and fretted anxiously as Year Six was heading inorexably to an end. Somehow it didn't occur to me that if it was really as bad as it was reputed to be, then my brother, who had already been attending for a year or two might have arrived home bearing knife wounds, totally traumatised from having his head flushed in the loos.

I skulked around terrified for the first few days of high school, I was painfully shy anyway, so I never looked anyone in the eye. After a week or two, it became obvious that nobody even noticed I was alive and  all the gruesome stories I had heard were never going to eventuate. The worst thing that ever happened to me was when some idiot, whose name I cannot even remember, used to approach me as I innocently sat in the play ground alone, reading a book and WHAM he smashed the book into my face.

It didn't last long as my brother sorted him out. I don't know what he said to him but whatever it was, it worked. I most likely escaped any intense bullying by virtue of being 'Jaffa's sister'. He was so very popular. Nick named Jaffa because of his red hair. It's a nick name that has stuck, even my boys call him Uncle Jaf. I was the extreme opposite. Excruciatingly shy, quiet, and, as it turned out an Aspie as well (although I had no idea at the time). Needless to say I kind of stood out among the typical bogan Shazza's and occasionally would receive threats that they were going to bash the shit out of me.

Me, during high school, in all
my mullet headed glory. Just like
a true 'westie bogan'.

"Stuck up, bitch!" was the frequent jibe.  Yes, indeed, I am such a snob. Luckily, nobody ever followed through with these threats and I was left alone.

This was all at least 25 years or more ago and my memory is decidedly dodgy at the best of times about facts that happened yesterday. let alone decades ago, so bear with me. Anyway, the reputation of the school and the wild, wild west continued unabated and there was  always a teacher shortage. At one point, as I recall, the students actually went on strike. As I mentioned, my memory is very patchy, so I remember there being a student 'strike' with some media attention, but beyond that I don't remember the outcome.

I made it to the end of year 12 with woeful HSC results, which I attribute to my complete disinterest in studying, not the school. One thing I remember clearly is, I failed English spectacularly. I know, so shocking, considering the literary genius that is this blog. Meanwhile, I managed to pass German with flying colours. Cannot remember a single word of German now, except Guten Tag, so that was handy.  This stunned my poor Mother, who had always viewed English as  my best subject. She insisted that there must have been a  mistake, and requested that it be reviewed. At which  point, I then received a letter confirming that, no, there was no mistake and I was in fact completely and utterly stupid. Yay me. Doing it proud for bogans. Interestingly, in my admittedly limited experience of working, no employer ever even remotely cares about your HSC results anyway.

I had no idea what on earth I was going to do. I ended up studying at TAFE for a Library Practice Diploma. I did the commute on the old red rattlers into Central station and attended Ultimo TAFE. While there,I experienced prejudice against "Westies". During one lesson ( I cannot for the life of me remember exactly what it was, something to with Legal Studies, I think, although I still do not know what that has to with learning the Dewey Decimal system, but whatever) the rather pompous teacher stated that "teachers hate teaching in the western suburbs"  I'm normally so shy and never spoke up in class but this time I thought I should disagree. I tentatively raised my hand.

"I went to school in the western suburbs," I announced "and I know that most of my teachers liked teaching there."

Without missing a beat Mr Pompous preened "Yes, it is true that some teachers enjoy teaching 'problem students'." This  was said in the same horrified and appalled tone you might use if you were saying "Some teachers like to light their own farts."

 Erm, what? I just finished saying I went to school there. Am I  a 'problem student'?

"But what you often find," he continued "is that it's very difficult for them to be good students when they're being molested by their fathers." Audible gasp in the room.  There was more to his diatribe, but I can't quite remember it all in detail, because frankly, it wasn't worth remembering. At this point almost the entire class had turned on him and were arguing vehemently. Mr Pompous found himself trapped in a room full of angry 'Westies'. Just like Julia at Rooty Hill the other day.

After completing my diploma, I was employed on a temporary basis at the State Library where I once again encountered curious reactions to the revelation of where I lived. People who were perfectly charming and polite at first, completely ignored me once they discovered I was a 'Westie'. That, or they didn't actually seem to know that the western suburbs even existed, and assumed I lived in the Blue Mountains, making comments like "It must be really cold up there." After a while I just went along with it and didn't bother correcting them. But it's worked out well, really. After all, being a Westie has led me to this boring as batshit bogan blog. A born and bred bogan. There are worse things. I just have to try and think about what they are. Shut up.

Linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

 And linking up a year later for a flashback to March 2013 with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Where did you grow up? Have you been to the western suburbs of Sydney? Would you dare? Go on, I dare you....

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About A Boy, Or Boys, Actually

The other day I went to pick up Mr 4 from kindy, Mr 11 and 8 trailing behind me. Both had 'graduated' from the same kindy, replete with caps and gowns. Can you believe it? Five year olds 'graduating'? Anyway, as we filed back out the door, the rather talkative lady who runs the day care exclaimed over how much the boys had grown, adding "Are you going to have any more, Vanessa?"

"No," I replied quickly "I'm too old."

She scoffed at this, then declared "But, you have to have a girl!"

Seriously? Is someone coming to arrest me if I don't? Is there a law saying we all have to have at least one child of each gender? Did I miss that memo?

Not that I mean anything against girls. Especially since I used to be one. I'm just bemused by the insistence in society that if your children are all male, you must have a girl. It's not the first time people have insisted this to me. In addition, I often get pitying looks and veiled comments that seem to imply I've been given a dodgy deal having three healthy, gorgeous boys.

Does the opposite happen to parents of only girls?

In a conversation with another Mum at Playgroup, who has one daughter, she confessed that she really wasn't keen to have any more children. The she suggested that I must have kept going for three to get that elusive girl. Not true. After five long years of infertility, I never thought twice about the gender of my children. I was just so grateful to be able have healthy children.

I was convinced I was having a girl, second time around, when I was pregnant with Mr 8.  This was due to a whole load of bollocks I was told by a couple of psychics.  They both predicted that I would have a boy and then a girl by age 32 or 33.

As I was 33 at the time, while pregnant, I believed it.  Well, of course they are going to say this. If someone is pregnant it is certainly going to be one or the other.  At least that way they have a 50% chance of getting some predictions (lies) right!

If psychics are going to make up this stuff, couldn’t they at least be more inventive and make up something really astonishing or super exciting such as 'you are going to give birth to a genius who will discover the cure for cancer.'

Anyway, because I was so convinced I was having a girl, I thought I would find out the sex.  Another boy! Another miracle for me.  We thought we might not have any children at one stage. Oh yeah, I already mentioned that. 

I truly didn’t have any disappointed, let down feeling. 

Even though Micky Blue Eyes goes around telling people that we thought we’d have a third to try for a girl,  such a thought honestly did not enter my mind.  I knew by this time that we only made boys for whatever reason. When I had a late miscarraige at 19 weeks with our third baby, another boy, I was devastated. It wasn't as if I didn't care just because it was boy. So,when we were lucky enough to have a fourth boy, again, I was delighted.

I like being a mother of boys. Yes, there are things that go with it that are tedious.  As much as I don’t have patience for many boy type things. Lego, Star Wars, Spider Man, Lego, Harry Potter, Lego, Lego and more bloody Lego.

Taken by Mr8: some of his favourite things.

 

Seriously, that stuff is the Cancer of toys. It seems to multiply and spread to the most inconvenient places. Just when you think you have beaten it or contained it one place, there it is again. Everywhere. In the bath tub, backyard, kitchen, and your bed. Right under your backside, naturally, when you heave your weary bones in at midnight, absolutely knackered. 

Plus, we haven't exactly had the most illustrious track record with the stuff, as it has necessitated two trips to the hospital thus far. Once, when Mr 8, then Mr 5, helpfully shoved a tiny piece up his nostril. Another, when Mr 4, then Mr 3, was suspected of swallowing a piece. X-rays confirmed that it was, in fact, a false alarm, thankfully. 

However, I suspect I would have even less tolerance for many ‘girly’ things. Particularly craft. I’m just not that into it. There, I said it. All that glitter, pipe cleaners, felt paper, beads and fiddly crap.

Plus, I don’t really do pink and frilly. Pink makes me puke, generally. No doubt if I'd had a girl or girls I would have crossed over to the pink side and went crazy buying pretty things. Therefore having boys has helped us to save money. (I'm conveniently ignoring the fact that we are flat broke bogans.) I do tend to assume that being boys, when they grow up they will go their own way, while a daughter would stay closer to their parents. However, I probably believe this because I'm still a Mummy's girl (and a Daddy's girl) at 42. Not every female is. Ahem.

As a mother of boys, I also made the decision to call their dangly bits by the correct term. A penis is a penis, the same as an arm is an arm, right? This mortified my mother who had told my brother growing up that it was a ‘Charlie’.  Apparently the look on his face the first time he was introduced to somebody named Charlie was priceless.

We definitely won't be having a daughter. We're done. I had a tubal ligation a few years ago. Therefore the relief I feel every month, getting a period is slightly ridiculous. It's just that after everything about pregnancy being slightly bizarre for me, I fear it could still happen. I tried for years, in my 20's when supposedly women are more fertile. At the time even fertility treatments did not work. With my first pregnancy I didn't even know it was happening until it was all over bar the shouting, as they say. Then, I became pregnant easily twice when I was over 35. Weird. I worry I could be that random strange person who could fall pregnant in my 40's, after having a tubal ligation. I don't want that to happen, even if I could be guaranteed to have a girl. My family is complete.

I feel blessed to have my boys and I hope I can bring them up to be decent men. Even if we are something resembling bogans, at least we are nice bogans. Or noice ones, as the case may be. Also, undoubtedly one of the best things about having boys, apart from all the cuddles, is that Micky Blue Eyes loves taking them out to soccer games and occasionally camping. Which gives me that much coveted quiet time. It’s a win/win  situation for us. 

And one day, I hope, they will eventually lose the fascination with Lego.

Do you have boys? If so, all I really want to know is how to you deal with the Lego?

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Bogan Mrs Bean

It is becoming increasingly clear to me that I am a kind of bogan Mrs Bean. Hapless, awkward. Constantly doing bumbling, embarrassing things. Actually it’s been obvious for a long time. Recent events have just emphasised this.

For instance, there was the day when I had an  appointment to go to. As is my usual  tendency, I have no concept of  time or time management. I figured I could easily  manage to dye my hair, have a shower, put a bit of slap on, blow dry my hair and have ample time to drive the half hour it would take to get to my appointment. Wrong. 

I had planned what I was going to wear, but when I put the dress on, it made me look distinctly pregnant. With quads. So, I figured I should stick to the ‘pregnant with twins’ look I normally go for and decided on a different outfit.

My hair ended up a glorious hue of bright orangey red. Sort of Julia Gillard meets Pauline Hanson. Classy. Then, when I was rushing to get out the door, I couldn’t find my handbag, glasses, keys and had approximately 500 brain explosions. Finally, I made it into the car, already running late and realised, oh fuck, I need petrol, as the gage pointed ominously pointed towards empty.

 I stopped at the first petrol station. I can never remember which side the petrol thingy is on, so I became all bewildered and bamboozled. Conscious of being I late, I frantically leaped out of the car, slamming the door and ripping my skirt which was caught in it.

Meanwhile, my Julia Gillard hair, which I so lovingly blow dried has been well and truly blow dried in the sense of blown to smithereens by the wind. I am not happy.

A few rather charming words later, I retrieve my ripped skirt and flounce around to the petrol bowser. I’ve forgotten to open the door thingy to  the petrol cap. Swearing, I stomp around and flick it open. So I think. However,it soon becomes clear I’ve opened the boot instead. Fuck, fuckity fuck, I’m late! After several attempts to get the pump going I finally have petrol. We have lift off.

I reach my appointment, mercifully only ten minutes late. Okay, twenty. But at least I cut out the waiting room time. I spend the next 30 minutes allowing my shrink to convince me that I’m a great Mum just by being loving and demonstrative. So what if I regularly forget what day it is, to sign school notes and the boys are being brought up in a messy, dishevelled house? I’m distracted, wondering if I left the iron on, until I realise, there is certainly no chance of that happening. I never do ironing. I may have left my hair straightener plugged in. I mentally prepare myself for a stern lecture from Micky Blue Eyes on the perils of doing so.

Leaving the appointment, I remember I need to grab some groceries on the way home. Naturally, the list I wrote is sitting somewhere at home. I head to Aldi anyway. It’s cheap and I can possibly scrape up enough cash for a few essentials. I have no change for the trolley. Trudging back to the car, I grab the pram from the boot, I’ll use that instead. I wheel it in there, receiving odd looks from other shoppers at the sight of me with a stroller, sans toddler. Studiously ignoring them, I load a few essentials onto the pram. Finally I make it to the check out. At which point I become panicky as they check through the groceries at break neck speed, I frantically throw them onto the pram and fumble for the cash in my purse. I hand it over, smiling weakly and continue throwing the rest of my things haphazardly onto and under the pram.

“Have a nice day.”the cashier says in a monotone, thrusting my change at me. She continues to survey me with a sour expression as I simultaneously struggle to grab the last few items and stuff the coinage in my purse amid audible impatient sighs from customers lined up behind me. Finally shoving my purse away, I heave the heavy pram, laden with groceries away from the the check out. Items tumble off onto the floor. I scoop them up hurriedly, ignoring the pitying glances of other shoppers as they wheel their tidily packed  trolleys out the door looking smugly superior.

I hate queues..but I'll queue
up for plonk

On the way out I spot the new alcohol section, a recent addition at my local Aldi. Deciding a five dollar bottle of plonk will be just the thing to help soothe my shattered nerves, I dump the groceries in the boot and head back in. Clutching my plonk, I join a queue yet again. I feel like I deserve a medal for bravery just for doing this simple task. Waiting in queues makes me feel ridiculously anxious for no reason. Clearly I am a thoroughly logical person. The young woman in front of me is holding the same bottle of plonk,  The cashier asks for ID but doesn't ask me. I decide there are some distinct advantages to being an old bag as I leave with my plonk and the young woman leaves empty handed.

Arriving home I realise that I've forgotten approximately five things that were on the left-at-home list. I may have to face the joy of going back again. But why do today what you can put off for tomorrow?

Fast forward to this week and I have continued in my space cadet ways by finally remembering to take some gifts/items to post to online friends, which were promised months ago, and, in some cases, even, years ago. Then, en route to the post office I suddenly remembered I did not have the addresses to post them to with me. Additionally, I'd also forgotten my mobile, so I could not text them to ask their address. Sigh.

On the plus side, I managed to buy a lovely bogan outfit from Millers (tres classy) to wear to my sister in law's black and bling themed 40th birthday party, where, no doubt, I will sit quietly in the corner. But, at least I will be sitting quietly in the corner dressed appropriately.

There are so many more silly things I've done, but naturally, I've forgotten them. Or, I want to forget them. Now, I'm off to the shops again to attempt to post these thing once and for all. I'm walking there for exercise. I won't ruin my effort when I get there by having a coffee and a cakie. Nope. No way. I never do things like that.

PS. I was so disorganised and sucky with my time management, yet again, that I ended up driving to the shops. Without the parcels I had to post.  Enough said.

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths for I Must Confess.

Do you forget things? Or frequently have embarrassing moments? Please tell me I'm not the only one...

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I Must Confess: My Fears & Phobias

Linking up with Kirsty from My Home Truths today for I Must Confess. Today's topic: My Fears and Phobias.

Truthfully we could be here for a while. I have so many phobias and fears. Deep breathe. Here goes.

BLOOD

I am squeamish. Watching RPA or any of those medical type shows where they show surgery is my idea of hell.  I actually had to be cut open when I had Mr4, while awake, but numb from the waist down. I have NO IDEA how I survived the mere thought of it. Or the two previous natural births I went through as well. Basically it was only down to the fact that I simply had no choice at that point.

COCKROACHES

I despise them. And, tragically. fear them. I'm usually so quiet and placid, but any sighting of these vile creatures will have me omitting the most blood-curdling, piercing scream. A scream that would wake the dead. Micky Blue Eyes has often commented that I could be hired for horror movies with that afore mentioned scream.

DENTISTS

The smell. The chair. You sit down. It slowly whirs backwards. The blood rushes to your head. You are TRAPPED. There is no escape from all those sharp metal objects probing inside your mouth. Meanwhile, you are expected to keep your jaw gaping, cavernously open, therefore making any possibility of taking deep, slow, calming breaths, absolutely impossible. Then, as you start to hyperventilate, that ominous hissing noise of the air hose assaults your senses..EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKK!!!

FLUORESCENT LIGHTS

And anything involving bright shinyness, which I now realise is connected to sensory issues with having Aspergers. This doesn't make it any less scary though.  In particular,when entering Target, I break into a cold sweat. Fluorescent lights bouncing off the white, shiny floors. Their theme song warbling away about being happy is seriously not the case for me. I am not happy at all. Naturally, being a bonafide bogan, Target is as upmarket as I get when shopping, so I am forced to go in there on a regular basis. Hold me.

HEIGHTS

As a girl I was always terrified of stepping onto the escalator at the shops. This fear still hasn't quite left me. It's a heights thing. The further up I am, the more I fear it. Just as well a trip up to the top off the Eiffel Tower is never likely to be on this bogan's horizon.  Ditto, a Harbour Bridge climb is never going to be on my bucket list. It's pretty high up on my fuck it list, as the joke goes, however.


NEEDLES

There was a time when we were having fertility treatments which involved me being jabbed on a daily basis, so you'd think I'd have completely discarded this nasty little phobia. Wrong. The thought of having to have a routine blood test (eeek, two of my phobias at once - blood and needles) has me hiding in a corner in a foetal position.


PUBLIC SPEAKING

Or, you know, any speaking really. I am not a woman of many words.  (Well, except perhaps on this blog, where I seem to have no problem with boring the pants off anyone who doesn't click away. You're welcome.) My aversion to the old verbal diarrhoea becomes even more pronounced when it involves a large group.  Luckily, I have managed to organise my life so that the odds of this happening are largely nil. To do this I simply have no career and minimal human contact. Seems to work.


WATER

As in, putting my whole face underneath it. And no, I can't swim, thanks for asking.  This is why I'm also not fond of boats as they usually are on top of said water.

I'm sure I could think of more fears where these came from, but I'm too jittery presently. I keep having this recurring vision of being in a dentists chair, on a cliff top with water gushing below and cockroaches crawling on me while the dentist tries to give me a needle and...holy shit...I just wrote a horror story! *faints*

What are your fears and phobias? Have you ever managed to overcome any? 

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Introverts Guide To Getting Rid Of Unwanted Guests

Apparently I can't be funny when I'm in the throes of chocolate-free feral PMS. I'm permanently in a rather delightful mood: I feel like punching anyone who might have the misfortune of glancing sideways at me. Let alone ringing my doorbell. As this old post (which you may find amusing) reveals...

Last weekend was decidedly social. The equivalent of being a social butterfly really. For me, anyway. Dinner out with friends on Friday, followed by a girls day out on Saturday. I'm not a very social person. Kind of goes with the territory of being an Aspie and an introvert. I can do it for a while but then fatigue sets in and I have to go crawl into a cave somewhere. Metaphorically speaking. 

My idea of socialising: Me and a cakie the size
of my head. Or, you know, larger even.

It's weird. All those years when I was at school, friendless, I really craved company and friendship. Even the most fervent introvert still really needs a friend or two. Real ones. Not pretendy ones. Luckily, years later I have found this. Friends who accept me. It is quite a bit to ask. I know I'm weird. Talking to me must be utterly riveting. Small talk isn't for me. Talking in general isn't for me. Unsure exactly how many words I might utter in any given day, possibly somewhere between 1 and 20. Which is me being chatty. Thinking about it, I'm surprised I have a single friend in the world, let alone a husband and family.

The biggest surprise is my boys. They are not quiet. They can be extremely gregarious and garrulous. Mr 8 can waffle on like a bonafide chatterbox. They also enjoy being social and having mates over almost on a daily basis. At which point I realise I really like my privacy. And I become disconcertingly aware that they are going to become more and more social and have girlfriends eventually and (hold me), hordes of mates dropping over all the time. I get a little headachey just thinking about it. Especially as being a, *ahem* mature (geriatric) Mum, I will be quite ancient by this time. A rather grumpy old woman. I don't expect I shall suddenly become more social as I age. Quite the reverse. I will be needing one of these:

Actually, we rarely entertain visitors. Especially as this slack-arsed bitch never invites them. Oops.

However, I still want my boys to have friends and socialise, so how do I find a good compromise? I never paused to consider the amount of socialising that would be required when having children. When they were babies, it was fine. Now things have changed. As much as I want them to have friends and socialise, I also desperately need quiet time. So what do I do when I've had enough and it's time for their friends to go home? I could be diplomatic and assertive and just politely ask them to leave, which does work. Mostly. Or, I could be really clever and come up with some other strategies to not only leave, but question whether to ever return.Which is what I've done. Here it is. The totally tongue in cheek Introvert's Guide To Getting Rid of Unwanted Guests. (Although frankly, if the natural state of the bogan box isn't enough to deter people, nothing may be). I came up with this list with the help of fellow introvert, my online (imaginary) friend, Randa. I don't know how our meeting will ever go if we do ever manage to meet in person, but I'm sure it will be interesting. Either we will hit it off immediately or sit there with absolutely nothing to say to each other. Anyway, thanks Randarooney.

The Introverts Guide To Getting Rid of Unwanted Guests

• Cook with lots of garlic.
• Ditto eggs, for that nice farty egg aroma.
• Play Carpenters music really loud. Or Barry Manilow or Air Supply or any cheesy easy listening music.
• Never have any interesting food or drinks in the house (pretty much got that covered).
• Do not buy a massive trampoline (epic fail).
• Begin walking around in your underwear.
• Hug and kiss your children profusely in front of their mates.
• Remind them loudly of every embarrassing thing they have ever done, in front of mates.
• Hide the controls to the PS3 and feign total ignorance of knowing where they are.
• Always keep buckets with pretend chunder around and parmesan for the smell, while clutching your stomach and groaning.
• Have a sign at the door saying: 'We have a nude policy. All clothes must be disrobed before entering.'
• Become a germ-phobic-OCD freak who douses all guests in Dettol before they can come in the door.
• Obtain some giant, snarly Dobermans or Rottweilers for pets, or just stick up a sign warning of a dog with tape recorded sound effects of a growling hound.
• Exclaim loudly of your dismay over your kids recent bouts of head lice as you are picking them up from school.
• Ditto recent bouts of worms.
• Erupt into wild, manic laughter for no reason when answering the door, then stop abruptly, exclaiming "I forgot my medication!" Then burst into tears.
• Become a candidate for the TV show 'Hoarders: Buried Alive', then there will be no chance of even opening the door, let alone somebody coming in.
• Leave dozens of empty alcohol bottles out the front when the trash is being collected.
• Cover your entire house with Twilight memorabilia and posters, smile wickedly revealing your fangs while you inform all guests that you are, in fact, a family of vampires as they gaze around, dumbstruck.
• Cry out in mock alarm: "Boys, the pet python got out!! Where is it? It could be anywhere!!"
• Talk loudly about your past prison record in front of your children's mates.
• Tell your children's mates you enjoyed their company so much that next time they come over it's River Dance night.
• Announce it's time to polish your spoon collection and anyone still in the house in the next five minutes has to help.
• Tell any dinner guests that you were so looking forward to them coming that you decided to actually wash the cutlery properly this time instead of letting the dog lick it clean like usual.
• Scratch yourself all over wildly while enquiring of your guests: "Is it normal to itch this much with fleas?"
• Inform any adult guests that the couples for the swingers party are arriving soon and may block their cars in.
• Have a back up plan for the previous point just in case they surprise you and wish to join in. Say: "Sure, no problem, Come and see our dungeon. I hope you've had your rabies shot."
• Ask your guests brightly: "How do you like our new carpet? The crime scene cleaners did such a great job, didn't they?"
• Exclaim to any guest who arrives at the door: "Thank god you're here! I need somebody to help with my waxing! I just can't seem to reach the middle of my back."

If any or all of the above do not work then I could only suggest moving to a foreign country. Or getting yourself and your kids some new friends because the ones you have must be seriously fucked up.


What do you do to get rid of unwanted guests? Or is it open house at your place? (You weird, bloody extrovert folk...)

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30 Years: A Fan Remembers

I have never kept my love of the Carpenters a secret. Never been a closet fan. Everyone who knows me will know of my frankly rather disturbing obsession. And they won't get it. So this post isn't for you. Instead of banging on about bogans I am attempting to quietly honour Karen, today, the 30th anniversary of her passing.

This may seem self indulgent, and it is but to me Karen touched me the same way others were by Princess Diana or John Lennon or whomever, so I would like really like to pause to remember her. I don't expect anyone else to care or read (except my Carpenters cronies), let alone understand. I'm also not particularly good at being profound, especially after reading a few other articles recently which left me with the feeling of, damn wish I could have written that. But, I'll give it a go.
 

Why Karen, you ask? There are many singers before Karen and since who can belt rings around her and pile on the vocal acrobatics, certainly. But, I ask you, can they play the drums?

 

Or rock a pair of Raggedy Ann flares like this?

 I don't think so.

Anyway, it all began at age 11. My parents bought a cassette called The Very Best Of The Carpenters and played it a lot in our newish sigma station wagon. I was immediately taken with Karen Carpenter's voice, some of the songs were hauntingly beautiful and melodic and had things like oboes meandering around at a time when most pop music was mainly a synthesiser and a drum machine. Of course I was destined to be extremely popular in high school among all the Duran Duran devotees. I didn't really get into them at the time. Naturally I hear them now and like it. I prefer to wait until an artist is 30 years behind the times or conveniently dead before I admire them. Always handy I think.

Somehow, when it came to the Carpenters I was able to see past the cheese factor and hear that sadness underneath the saccharine that is often mentioned. Many of the songs were introspective and echoed the way I was feeling at the time, which is possibly why they resonated so much with me. I was only a few months into a love affair with the duo, my old ABBA albums now forgotten,(I have clearly always been cutting edge in my taste in music) when the startling news came that Karen Carpenter had passed away from a heart attack at only age 32 caused by some bizarre affliction called anorexia nervosa. I had no idea what that meant.

Now, this is not a post about anorexia, an extremely complex subject which I am in no way whatsoever qualified to talk about. I do know this. It is a mental illness. A very serious mental illness, not just a silly diet gone wrong. That's about all I'll say on that subject. And that if you were going to present me with the old nugget about how if Mama Cass gave her the sandwich, they'd both be alive today, don't bother. I've already heard it approximately 987 millionty billionty times.

I continued my quest to collect every album, starting with Voice Of The Heart, pictured, right. Eventually I joined the official fan club after sending an embarrassing, gushing letter pouring out my heart and soul in telling how wonderful I thought both Karen and Richard were and how the sun shone out of their arses. In return I received the standard 'thankyou for your enquiry' type letter typed by the fan club secretary.  I still have it somewhere. As well as my most cherished possession: my Carpenters key ring. However I have lost serious fan cred in the online community for actually using it as they are supposed to be framed and coveted from afar apparently. One day I was mugged when someone shoved me from behind and grabbed my purse. I was mortified. It had my Carpenters fan club membership card signed by Harold Carpenter (their father) in it! And a glossy wallet photo!! I was devastated. I'm sure the mugger was rather impressed when he found those, together with the measly ten dollars, if that, I had in there. The joke was on him.

My worship continued unabated, as I blasted cassettes of their music, night and day, in my bedroom, pausing only to replace them with Barbra Streisand ones.Yes, I have exquisite taste. Shut up.

Proving I was capable of sometimes being a typical 1980's teenager, however, I did also go Madonna crazy for a while, wearing crucafix earrings while listening, transfixed, to my Like A Virgin album. Incidentally it turns out that the Material Girl is, in fact, a Karen Carpenter fan herself, having been quoted as saying: "Karen Carpenter had the clearest, purest voice I'm the completely influenced by her harmonic sensibility."

Plus she totally stole the whole cone bra thing from Karen, who perfected it decades earlier doing a Grease spoof  on stage, a few years before her good friend Olivia Newton John starred in the film.



Cone Bra Karen

Over the years countless other singers have also come out of the closet to admit their admiration, including Gwen Stefani, kd lang and Shania Twain, the latter even saying Karen was her biggest influence. (Weirdly, most Shania songs annoy me, but I'll take whatever praise of Karen I can find.) Meanwhile, kd lang describes Karen as having "a voice like chocolate, thick and rich and flawless" Ah. That explains a lot. Two of my favourite things in the world are Karen Carpenter's voice and chocolate.

After years of feeling like a freak for my affection, along came the internet and with it the realisation that there are millions of people out there, like me. Some are, disturbingly, EVEN MORE obsessive. Yes, it is possible. After years of hearing and loving 'the voice' I finally had glimpses of what she was really like as a person, through hearing and seeing vintage footage on Youtube.  I had the impression she was a sweet, genuine person, with a very cute sense of humour. In contrast with many celebrities she wasn't diva like at all, she really seemed like the type of person who could be your sister, daughter or best friend. In fact she kind of was my best friend in high school (in a way). Obviously nobody else is going to be when you're a loud, proud Carpenters fan. Ahem. Listening to her music gave me a lot of comfort at time when I was very lonely.

Another thing I really have to say is I will never understand how or why somebody like Karen, who was for the most part, a total sweetheart, should have this horrible mental illness for 7 or 8 years and be gone, while complete wankers like Charlie Sheen or Ozzy Osbourne for example, trash themselves and are still alive. Not that I wish anybody dead, but seriously, that has to be more good luck than good management, right?

Although I'd read an authorised biography published in the early 90's called The Carpenters: The Untold Story, (a few thousand times, but who's counting) a biography just about Karen herself hadn't been written. This changed in 2010 with Randy Schmidt's Little Girl Blue: The Life of Karen Carpenter. As a People magazine review noted: Schmidt succeeds in bringing a gifted, troubled musician to vivid life. I devoured the book (of course) and fell in love with Karen even more and cried at the end, even though, of course, I knew what was going to happen. I wish Karen's story had a different ending. But it didn't. She is gone, but her legacy isn't and I will always remember her today and always.

And for those of you who still don't get it and never will, here's what Karen and I say:

Linking with Kirsty from My Home Truths  for I Must Confess.

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