Fifty Shades Of Purple And The C Word

On Tuesday I attended a group called Fifty Shades Of Purple at the Women’s Health Centre here in Boganville. I was most nervous upon leaving the house, and  barely awake as I was expected to be there at the indecent hour of 9.30am. The idea that a busy mother of 3 should be awake and functioning at this time is preposterous. Ahem.  I mean that’s what ABC kids is for, right? So I can sleep in.  Never mind that they have to be at school before 9.20am. Ridiculous .

To make matters worse there appeared to be no reserved car space for me directly out the front with a sign saying RESERVED FOR VANESSA CONNOR. Rude, I tell you. I had to circle the surrounding streets for a full 10 minutes with some arsehole tailgating me, frantically looking for a spot.  There wasn’t one to be found, so I was reduced to parking several streets away in the RSL car park. I reflected that it was odd that we were not members of the local RSL. Our bogan cred is in question.

Breathlessly, I finally arrived at the centre, late of course and was ushered into a room FULL of scary people.  There was at least four of them!! As well as the group leader/coordinator, who is also my counsellor.  Oh and there was a cute little dog, belonging to one of the ladies.  He was some sort of guide dog for PTSD victims which I thought was a smashing idea. And, yes, I should really stop reading Enid Blyton books at my age. 

Anyhoo, we all introduced ourselves  then the session went on to discussing negative self-talk. Apparently I am not the only person who has some crazy bitch talking shit to me constantly in my head. Who knew?

I also realised that I do ALL OF THESE THINGS:

·         Catastrophising

·         Exaggerating the negative and discounting the positive

·         Mind-reading

·         The ‘shoulds’

I have come to strongly dislike the word should and frankly find it most unhelpful in life.  Honestly that negative Nelly in my head with her catastrophic  crap and should, should, should all the bloody time just needs to SHUT RIGHT UP.

After we pondered on all this it was time for some morning tea, which involved coffee and biscuits which was  nearly as good as cake. Not  quite, mind you but the budget probably doesn’t stretch to cakies so I’ve made a mental note: bring cake. Mind you if I actually bake any cake to take with me it will probably be a miracle. (I actually did bake muffins and jam drops, but they have already been eaten. Oops.)

Then, just as I was beginning  to relax into the group, relieved that there would in fact be no bondage involved  in a group named Fifty Shades Of Purple, came the dreaded C word.

CRAFT

I quit Playgroup partly because I was so traumatised by craft. I never wanted to hear the ominous C word again.

We had to make a ‘Kind Card’ for ourselves.  I drew a dodgy flower on the front, then wrote BE KIND TO YOURSELF inside it and coloured in one side with crayons. Clearly I am an artistic genius who has somehow been over looked. The fact that Mr 4 could draw something MUCH better is irrelevant.

The strange thing was that I did find it oddly calming. So perhaps there is something to this craft caper after all. I survived it without feeling like chaining myself up to be whipped would actually be less painful.

Soon after this, the group was finished for the day and I filed out to wait for my next appointment. One of the other ladies was waiting for a taxi and we chatted and discovered we only live a couple of streets away so I offered her a lift for next week. There are six more weeks. I’m looking forward to it.

Yes, even the craft. (Shut up Randa and Poss).

Do you attend any groups? Enjoy craft? Do you also have a crazy bitch in your head telling you shit?

 

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Fashion Fails: Bogan Style

Hello all! Another Monday. Another Confession. This week Kirsty has asked us to share our most humorous post. I wasn't sure which one of mine to choose considering they are all  pretty ordinary comedy gold but judging from the comments, this one seemed to elicit a few laughs. So for the second time around, I present my Bogan Fashion Fails. You're welcome!

This week the illustrious Lounge Lizards have us talking fashion. It tends to strike me that 90 percent of the fashion I spot on the telly or in magazines looks completely and utterly hideous even on tall, slim, stunning models.  I shudder to think what it might look like on me. Perhaps it's a blessing that I can never afford it anyway. Therefore I've cultivated a certain look and style of my own. I like to refer to it as - Bogan Chic.

Once upon a time I delighted in clothes shopping.  This was some 20 years ago when I could dress in clinging black lycra, unperturbed by the thought of any bumps and bulges. Or a tragic combo of hot pants and doc martins. Observe.

 

The only snap I could find of
this alluring attire appears to
have something stuck on it
which I couldn't get off, but you
get the idea.

 

Actually this is not strictly true, as  I used to worry unduly about being supposedly 'fat'. Pah! I didn't know the meaning of the word.  I have since discovered it though.

Anyway, it's always interesting, when I go to the local shopping mall here in Boganville.  The are many badly dressed, unattractive people there.  I fear I am one of them.  Then I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window and my fears are realised.

I notice that my backside is astonishingly large.  This always comes as a tremendous shock, as when I dress, I tend to only look at myself front on to avoid reality.  Side on, I also look distinctly pregnant.

Then, inevitably, some old dear, at least 85 in the shade, will hobble past on a walking frame, wearing an identical shirt to mine.  Millers.  Size 16. On Sale.  This once horrified me. The fact that I no longer care is evidence that:

a) I  am getting old

b) I am getting fat (oh okay, I already am fat), and

c) I am too broke to have any choice in the matter, anyway.

 

Other Bogan Chic Tit Bits. Or is it Tid bits? Or is it not even an expression at all? Who knows. Let's just call them Bogan Fashion Tips then, shall we? Fine. They are:

• I mostly wear black, as I am a fatty boombah.  Sadly no amount of black can disguise my double chin.  Okay, chins.
• I don't  do pink, frilly or sequins. Ugh.
• I don't do white. I am fat, fair skinned and a Mother. Enough said.
• Jeans are over rated. Skinny jeans are probably single handedly responsible for many an eating disorder. Not to mention how inconvenient they are if you are ever in the habit of say, for example, sitting down. Which I am. Frequently. Which is probably half of the reason that I cannot wear skinny jeans. The other half of the reason is that, when I am sitting, I am usually eating cake. Meh, details.
• I simply detest bras. Luckily I was always small breasted, so therefore I was able to get away with not wearing them for many years. Those days are over. Now that I have droopy National Geographic boobs, I need the best push-up bra I can get my hands on. That, or a boob job. Hard to figure out which is the more expensive and painful of the two.
• Trackies and polar fleece jumpers and jackets are the most unchic, unflattering, daggy clothes ever known to the human race. They are also the most toasty warm when I'm freezing my butt off, as well as being affective contraception. So, who cares. I am a bogan after all.

 

Now, onto some more of my Fashion Fails. Check these out. And while we're at it, whoever stole my twenty something body, can you please return it. Pronto. Obviously the fact that it has disappeared to be replaced by something resembling a Teletubby has nothing to do with the afore mentioned cake eating. No way. It must be some sinister type invasion of the body snatchers super natural thing. Only possible explanation.

Me, as Morticia. That's my Dad hovering
protectively next to me, possibly reluctant to let
me leave the house dressed like that.

And now for something completely different.

My 'Laura Ashley just
threw up all over me' look. Lovely.

 

Continuing the floral theme, I appeared in public wearing this.

The early 90's look of
high waisted jeans and
a body suit. Floral of
course. So sweet. A
poodle perm completed the look.

A gorgeous floral blouse, primly buttoned
right up to my throat. My Mum's spoon
collection in the background. Nobody collects
spoons anymore. Or wears hideous floral blouses.
Sad, really.

This next one is especially for Mumabulous. She is not the only one who could rock an emerald green taffeta frock.

Dressed like a Bridesmaid, but not actually
a Bridesmaid. I was just ducking out to the
shops for some milk.

When I met Micky Blue Eyes, the bogan chic tradition continued unabated. This one speaks for itself.

Micky Blue Eyes and I wearing
clothes that appear to have been
made from hotel bedspreads or
curtains. His shirt, my pants.

Following this lovely 'Best Western Bogan Chic' style, I went onto my next

stunning look. Wearing clothes that resembled table cloths. Not to mention ridiculous bloody hats. But I'm a ranga, I have no choice! Especially when visiting places like Darwin, which is where that shot is taken.

 

 

Breathtaking Darwin scenery. Not so breath-
taking shirt and hat.

 

 

 

 I had to survive the heat somehow. Similarly, when it was cold I had this absurd notion that I should keep warm and wear silly jumpers.

Stupid jumper, leggings and
boots and a stupid expression
on my face. The wombat attached to
my leg was also a unique fashion accessory

It's hard work being
this stylish.

Or an attractive combo of a turtle neck and - wait for it, a pinafore. I couldn't find a full length shot. But you get the idea.

Of course. with that track record of fashion flair, once I became a Mum I was really onto this whole 'Yummy Mummy' thing. As you can see, below.

At my bogan best. Comatose in trackies, clutching
my similarly comatose infant.

 Imagine my delight to discover that Miller's currently has a sale on, so I can continue the bogan tradition of bedraggled frumpiness. I like the sound of that. Bedraggled frumpiness. A shame that the sight of it isn't so becoming.

Linking up for The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Slapdash Mama Sarah.

 

Also linking up with Cathy from The Camera Chronicles for Flashback Friday.

 

 

 

What are your most memorable 'fashion fails'?

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I Thought This Bogan Would Be Better At Stuff By Now

I am 42. And I thought I'd be better at this thing called Life by now. Which reminds me of that meme I've seen floating around Facebook, which says something like: I miss being the age when I thought I'd have my shit together by the time I was the age I am now. Yeah, THAT.

There are so many things I thought I'd be better at by now. Such as:

Talking/Communicating

Growing up I always believed that I would magically 'come out of my shell' one day, just like everybody kept telling me I SHOULD. I MUST. I felt certain  there was a bubbly, outgoing chatterbox inside me just busting to get out. Eventually it would happen and I'd suddenly find myself sprouting verbal diarrhoea with the best of them. I was going to be extremely witty, droll and just plain LOUD. The anti-thesis of this mute, shy, introverted girl. I would shine. Stand out in a crowd for once, instead of being instantly forgettable. More than twenty years later, it hasn't happened. I am still the quietest person in the room, wherever I am. People still say things like "You're the quietest person I've ever known." Worse still, they will sometimes even talk about me as if I'm not even there. It's true. I still rarely speak. People forget that I'm there. I fade into the furniture. That bubbly, witty person is figment of my imagination.


Organisation/Remembering Stuff

As a child I was a total off with the pixies space cadet with my head permanently 'up the Faraway Tree'. Nothing has changed as an adult. This is not extremely helpful when you are meant to the person in charge of running a house including three small people. My attention span is worse than the average two year old. Knowing that this is something to do with having Aspergers means I now understand why. However, the problem does not go away. For example, one of the  boys may ask me for some two minute noodles. Dutifully, I go the monumental effort of pouring sachets and boiling water on them, then walk away to wait for the allotted two minutes. Half an hour later, a ravenous child whines:"Where's my noodles?" Oops.

Driving

While I do have a license, I didn't get it until I was 36. At 42 I am still on my P Plates. I am one of those pathetic people who actually drives around for 15 minutes or so, looking for another, easier parking space so I don't have to parallel park. In fact, I haven't done it once since I passed my driving test. I also avoid driving to unfamiliar places, at night and in heavy traffic. In other words, I might as well have never bothered getting a licence. But least I now have photographic ID for those times when we go to an extremely classy RSL club. We are dedicated bogans, after all.

Parenting

When Mr 11 (soon to be Mr 12) was born in 2001, I became I relatively good parent. Surprisingly, since I was a 30 year old person who had zero experience being around babies and children. In fact I had possibly only ever held a baby once or twice for a total of ten minutes. Still, I managed to puree home made food, read bed time stories every night and generally do an okay job. Naturally, in my naivete, I believed this meant that I could only be a better parent to any subsequent children. After all, I now had experience. HA! It turns out that it actually gets harder with more children. Who knew? Second time around I had to factor in that now I not only had a squalling infant, but a demanding toddler as well. My standards dropped. I didn't manage to puree baby food quite so often. I fed Mr9 so much mashed banana and yoghurt as a baby that I think I have permanently turned him off those foods. By the time Mr 4 arrived we slowly but surely progressed to the wonderfully varied diet we now enjoy as a family these days. It consists of two minute noodles, sausages, fish fingers and lumpy mashed potato. Yum.

Medical Stuff

Basically I'm a big scaredy cat about anything of a medical nature. I thought I'd be well and truly over this phobia by now. Wrong. A routine blood test still has me shaking. Even entering a hospital for any reason at all, makes me feel wobbly. I could never have been a nurse. The thing is, as you get older there is a more pressing need to have all sorts of medical stuff attended to. Considering that I'm lucky enough to be in relative good health I should be able to just get over myself and get on with it.

Technology/Blogging

After a year of this blogging  business, I thought I'd most likely become better at it. Sorry folks. Hasn't happened. I continue to clock in a spectacularly underwhelming performance just like a typical lazy 'she'll be right' bogan. I don't have a niche. Or understand anything about RSS or SEO. I thought they were possibly LOL text type talk. Are they? Meh, whatever. I briefly attempted to raise the bar the other day when I noticed a Blogs and PR concern on Twitter on the lookout for Lifestyle Bloggers. I tweeted back that I do, indeed, blog about my bogan lifestyle. No response. Can't think why.

My photography skills are non-existent. I've still never taken a selfie. Instagram is complete mystery to me and likely to remain so. There is no point in even bothering when I am such an abysmal technophobe.  Who wants to see my woeful attempts at photography. On that note, I'm not even going to bother adding images to this post. There is no point.

So basically what I'm saying is, I thought I'd be better at EVERYTHING by now.


I'm very excited to be linking up for the first time ever with The Lounge which is being hosted this week by Tegan from Musings Of The Misguided.  If there is one thing I'm certainly good at, it's lounging around. And I'm getting better at it all the time.

What did you think you would be better at by now?

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War! What Is It Good For?

Hello there. Anzac Day is upon us. While I've never actually attended a dawn service, I do have some very deep thoughts regarding war, and have had ever since I was a little girl. In fact, I wrote a poem about it, when I was a mere ten years old. It is truly heartfelt. That, or just a woeful example of exactly how much Enid Blyton I was reading at the time.  I'm sure if it had been about a cheery subject I would have managed to put in the phrases 'smashing' and 'jolly good' somewhere. Here it is, complete with my spelling mistakes:

DISASTEROUS WAR:

War is a disastrous sight,
War is a beastly fight,
You can hear the blasting,
Oh war is so everlasting,
War is gloom, its such a doom,
I hope it stops very soon.

War is death, it takes away your breath.
War is blood running in a stream,
War is being strictly mean,
If you think war is not a fight,
It's a awful,disatrous, terrible sight,
War is blood pouring, guns roaring.
War is hand grenades flying,
People crying, also dying,
You work all day, in a blood-thirsty way,
War is madness, but if you think
deep down, it's only sadness

Now the war is gone, I hope it's gone
for good because I don't want it back so soon after
all this awful gloom. People
die, cry, fight. Oh I don't want
that destructive sight!
Guns roar, blood pours,
You can't think how people cry,
because their beloved friends did die
Oh I hope the war doesn't
come again
For I really must think of the
lives of those men.

My year 5 poem, dated 28th April, 1981. At the bottom
the teacher wrote: 'Some deep thoughts, try not to
repeat yourself.'  Hmph. Didn't she recognise
my brilliance?

Yep, such brilliance. I'm not sure why I didn't become the next Sylvia Plath after that effort. It's hard to pick out which is my favourite line, with such stunning observations as: War is death, it takes away your breath. Yeah, that is kind of what happens when you die, dear.

War! What is it good for? Absolutely NUTHIN'!! According to Bruce Springsteen and myself, at the mature age of ten.  Genius. I mean, just check out that rhyming: War is gloom, it's such a doom, I hope it stops very soon. Why did I stop when I was on such a roll? I could have went on:

Those guns keep going
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM,
I'd rather hear a happy tune,
Before I am a total loon!

OH MY GOD! *gasp* I've still got it! I'm a poet and I didn't know it!! I need to get back to it immediately. Otherwise I am completely wasting my genius. And what does a ten year old, budding,  tragic bogan, genius poet look like? I'm glad you asked. Observe.

My Year 5 school photo, when I was still cute. Sigh.

Thank God my Mum had the foresight to keep my old school books. She must have know I was going to be broke and aimless rich and famous one day. She always said I was special. Now I see why. There is nothing more to add after the blinding brilliance of that poem. I've already left you stunned.

Linking up an oldie but goodie for Life This Week.


What do you think about war? Have you written any awful brilliant poetry?

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Lifestyles of The Broke And Aimless

It occurred to me that other day that I should be utterly appalled and horrified by own monumental laziness, but then I just couldn't be BOTHERED. In fact I have been so aimless and idle of late, that I haven't got a single interesting thing to tell you. Which is the same as usual, so let's press on.

At the beginning of April, Mr 9 was scheduled to have day surgery for some dental procedures. I worried endlessly about telling him, thinking he would FREAK. In the end it turned out that I was the one freaking. He was quite pleased with the idea of having a day or two off school and happily bounced around and beamed. The more he bounced and beamed, the more I paced and panicked. I am tragic. Pathetic.

We arrived at the day surgery at the scheduled time of 2.30pm by which point Mr 9 was ready to chew my arm off. He wasn't nervous at all. Just RAVENOUS. He finally strolled nonchalantly into theatre, while my heart pounded a chorus. Micky Blue Eyes and I then went to a nearby café to wait and have a coffee.  I then realised, I hardly ever frequent Cafes, which is, of course, in keeping with my classy bogan lifestyle. But, for somebody who considers herself the Queen of Cakies, this is just WRONG. Then we were booted out of the place when they were closing at 5pm, which was quite rude. After all we had spent a grand total of seven bucks sixty on two coffees. Hmph.

As we still had some time to fill in before Mr 9 would be out of theatre, we then decided to go on a lovely trip down memory lane and walk through the hospital where Micky Blue Eyes had had his Cancer operation and then endured six months of chemo therapy. These are the kind of memories that make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. In fact, I did feel extremely grateful, as it could of turned out so differently. We both remembered the day when Mick's brother, Rob, visisted him at the hospital and took Mr 11, then a digger obsessed Mr 3, for a walk outside to see all the diggers at work as there were buildings under construction there at the time. Little did we know, that Rob would also be diagnosed with Cancer shortly thereafter, and pass away in 2008. It was a sombre reminder of how lucky we are.

Arriving back at the day surgery, we trudged back in through the car park. At this point there were only 3 vehicles still parked there. Ours and the two belonging to the surgeon and the anaesthetist. A shiny, new BMW, and an equally shiny and new Mercedes-Benz - and, a beat up corolla with a Carpenters sticker and a Western Sydney Wanderers sticker on the back. I'm sure you'd never guess which car was ours. Can you spot the bogans car?

We were then ushered back in to see a pale Mr 9 who was unfortunately rather ill from the anaesthetic. The dental procedures went well, however. Consequently, it was another hour or so before we could leave. Eventually we headed home where Mr 9 was able to sleep it off.

The following week involved going to yet another one of the 'mini' Fetes at the boys school. I am still waiting for them to have a 'massive' Fete. Not really. Mini Fete is tedious enough. Lining up for a sausage on stale bread. Yum, yum. But, as Mr 11 had seemed really keen for me to attend, asking me repeatedly "Are you coming, Mum?" I felt I should go. The real reason, he had been so anxious for my presence soon became obvious when he asked if he could go home early. It was the last week of term and less than an hour until bell time, so I agreed.

In no time at all school holidays were here, which means the boys mates have been over here nearly every day. One of them, in particular is proving quite difficult to extricate from the premises. The other day, Micky Blue Eyes had no sooner finished telling him he should probably go home after being here for several hours, as his Mum might be wondering where he was, then five minutes later I turned around and there he was in the kitchen, helping himself to a Nutella sandwich. Nice one.

So, instead of succeeding in getting the boys friends to leave, we decided to leave the premises for a day and go for a drive to Megalong Valley last Thursday. Up the mountain we meandered, finally stopping at a bakery. Cakie things! Then, we headed down the winding roads to Megalong Valley, where we went on a bush walk. We certainly did not stop in at the Tea Rooms there and have scones with jam and cream afterwards. No way. I never do anything like that. Ahem. It was, indeed, a delightful day. Five very contented bogans headed back to Boganville and our wonderful lifestyle of the broke and aimless.

In fact, I have realised there is alarming evidence of my slack-arsed, lackadaisical approach to life all around me. Such as:

• I have lots of charming baby photos adorning the walls. The 'baby' in question is turning 12 in July.
• The wardrobe in one of the boys rooms has one door on it that does not close. It has been that way for several years.
• We decided to look into the possibility of getting a brand new kitchen installed. After getting one quote, we haven't bothered pursuing it any further.
• We pondered the idea of perhaps going to New Zealand for our next holiday, then realised we would have to get passports, at which point it all seemed like too much effort. No doubt we will end up somewhere like Dubbo, where I will bitterly regret my lethargic ways.
• Similarly, I see friends photos of their overseas trips on Facebook and am jealous for a grand total of five seconds before realising, I couldn't actually be bothered schlepping overseas.
• Micky Blue Eyes suggested looking into getting a new phone. I should be excited about it, instead, I haven't bothered.
• I am finally catching up with some friends this weekend. I haven't seen them since February. I think.
• I am a 42 year old P Plate driver, after procrastinating for years from going for my license. I had the perfect opportunity to progress off my P plates to a full license, as my license expired a week or so ago. All I had to do was take another Driver Qualification Test. Instead, I didn't bother and renewed my P2 license until October 2015.

In fact it was just the other day that I had to go the RTA to renew my license. Micky Blue Eyes announced:

"I think we should walk there."

 I decided he is demented. Then, I realised I am even more demented, as I allowed him to talk me into it. We set off. It was quite a considerable distance, through various streets I'd never walked down before in my life, in spite of living in Boganville for 14 years. At one point we walked past a house that looked like something off an episode of Hoarders: Buried Alive. Two doors down, another house resembled some sort of spaceship. I'd never noticed it before even though I must have driven past hundreds of times. Interesting. It was actually a very enjoyable walk.  The only problem was that, after we got there, went to the RTA and bought a few groceries, that we realised that walking all the way back wasn't going to be quite so enjoyable. We had to walk back up the hill which we had walked down, carrying a shopping bag in each hand. This proved quite tiring, so we stopped and rested on a bench.

It was there that, Mick, who loves trees, plants and all nature, commented that he suspected there were marijuana plants growing right there. Only in Boganville, right?  Ironically, I wouldn't know a marijuana plant from any other plant, being totally clueless and inexperienced in all things narcotic, despite being a born and bred bogan all my life. We finally made it home, where I scrutinised my new license photo and then wished I hadn't. Naturally.

In other news, I am seeing a counsellor at the Women's Health Centre in yet another attempt to make some sense of my Ass burgers thing and all the issues I have that go with it. It is going well so far, and will be ongoing for a while. In addition to this, the counsellor suggested I could join a group she is running called Fifty Shades of Purple. It is meant to be about self-esteem and mindfulness for women. I certainly hope there is no bondage involved. I also saw the Naturopath there and started taking some of her 'Witches Brew'. It tastes like ...actually I don't know what it tastes like because I've never tasted anything so fucking vile in my life. But hopefully it will work.

That is all for this edition of Lifestyles of the Broke And Aimless. Never fear, I will be back to bore you again very soon.

Should we have taken that suspected marijuana plant home? Will I ever progress off my P plates? Who really cares, anyway? Certainly not me, I'm going for a good lie down.

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Sundays With Laurie

Linking up this oldie but goodie with Denyse for Life This Week. 

Almost every weekend of my childhood, we all piled into the old Datsun 1200 and drove to the Inner West suburb of Leichhardt, and Leichhardt Oval, to watch the then Balmain Tigers play rugby league. We were 'Westies' from the outer western suburbs of Sydney. Logically my parents should have followed the Parramatta Eels or Penrith Panthers. But for some inexplicable reason they loved the Tigers and supported them passionately. 

Mum always packed our food, often including the classy old hot dogs. The frankfurts were kept in a thermos flask to keep them hot, and placed onto the accompanying rolls once we got there.This saved spending a small fortune at the kiosk.We sat in one of the old grandstands. Once the game started my parents were on the edge of their seats. I tuned out. As I've mentioned before, sport bores me. 

Luckily, I could bring a book. I was even able to read amongst all the shouting and commotion. But my brother and I never really sat still long. We were off playing. Climbing trees or sliding down the hill, behind the bigger grandstand on sheets of cardboard. We loved it and would return to the grandstand, happily exhausted and putrid. Once I ruined a whole new outfit that Mum had sewn for me. I can't remember the finer details as I was quite young, but Mum still remembers it.

Me with my brother in his full Tigers get up.  I'm
pretty sure I did have a jersey, but couldn't find a
photo of me wearing it. But my pink number
with the skivvy is quite cute anyway. This was
September 1979 according to the writing on the back.
 I was 8 and my brother had just turned 11. We were
SO CUTE! Awwwww!

Another time, I remember being at a game of the Tigers against The Rabbitohs. An obnoxious bunnies supporter was sitting behind us. Every second she'd screech "COME ON BUNNIES!!" her shrill voice piercing our eardrums. She'd barely pause to take a breath before she was screeching again. 

After annoying us with the come on bunnies chant for the duration of the game, she then commented: "Some people even dye their hair the same colour as their team." A snide reference to my brother and I's red hair. See above. 

In those days there were always people smoking in the stands too, which I loathed. There was no choice but to breath in the vile stench of clouds upon clouds of thick cigarette smoke. The smell clung to you and your clothes and hair, even after you'd left the premises.

Dad took the Tigers performance on the field rather seriously. If they weren't playing very well and it looked as if they might lose, he'd start glowering. Then pacing. Then he would decide to leave abruptly before the end of the second half, interrupting our tree climbing, hill sliding fun. We'd be whisked off, sulking, back to the car.

The long drive home would be made in tense silence. Nobody dared to speak or turn the radio on in case he heard the dreaded results. Of course, it often turned out that the Tigers managed to come back during the second half and even win the game after we'd left. If they did actually lose, Dad's grumpy mood continued for several days.

"I'm not buying the paper anymore," he'd announce, not wishing to read the sport reports.

This would then escalate to saying he wasn't going to anymore games or, in fact, supporting them at all anymore. However, the weekend would roll around and we'd inevitably pile into the car and head back down to Leichhardt.

It seems like if footy is in your blood, it's in your blood and can't be helped. Footy fever never really caught on for me. I've tried over the years to go with the old 'if you can't beat em, join em' mentality. This seemed to work out well for my Mum. But I couldn't seem to drum up any interest.

I briefly had a crush on Tigers player Wayne Pearce, but even this devotion couldn't hold my attention for a full game. I did meet him, however, at a function for Dad's work. He shook my hand and I blushed as red as my hair. I was only twelve at the time.

One of the most vivid memories of those weekends, is seeing the Tigers most legendary fan Laurie Nichols in the crowd. He'd be wearing his infamous singlets, his passion and intense love for the team emanating from every pore.

Nobody would dare to say a bad word against the Tigers to this dude. If you did, you would fear for your life. He once allegedly wanted to fight an individual who criticised the team, according to this article. Despite being advised that he should not fight him as the person had a plate in their head, Nichols apparently shot back: "I don't care if he has a full dinner set."

Laurie Nichols: The Tigers most intense fan.

Even though his intensity bewildered me, even scared me a little, I certainly remember him all these later. His presence was all a part of the experience of following the Tigers in those times. By the time the Tigers reached the Grand Final in 1988, I was a teenager, so I stayed home.

My parents sadly witnessed their two consecutive Grand Final losses, that year and the following year in 1989. They reported back to me that there were grown men sobbing, something I've never really understood. Proving I'll never be a real footy fan. Supposedly my father wasn't one of them. If he was, he's not admitting it, anyway.

Today, my parents still follow the now Wests Tigers, but don't attend games. Mick and the boys follow the St. George Dragons. I don't follow footy at all. But I do remember those days at Leichhardt Oval.

When the game was over, all the kids were allowed to run onto the field. That part was fun and exhilarating. Of course it's a shame that the enthusiasm I had for such a thing is completely non-existent today. I could certainly benefit from a spot of running!

Whether I like it or loathe it, there is no doubt that all things footy and soccer have certainly been a presence in my life. And so it continues, as I now have three sons. I can never get away from balls.

That last line was so juvenile mature. You're welcome.

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

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

Do you get footy fever? What are your sporting memories?

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2000- A Bogan Odyssey

Before we get to the year 2000,let me take you back even further. Far back, to a time and place where men were real men, women were real women and clueless, tragic bogans from Boganville were real clueless, tragic bogans from Boganville. The early 1990's. 1993 to be exact. The announcement was about to be made about which city would be hosting the 2000 Olympics as I headed out to a bush dance, where I actually sat in the corner and didn't dance at all, being the wild and crazy party animal that I am. But clearly I looked stunning, sporting a poodle perm, way too much make-up and wearing a gorgeous combo of dark purple jeans and floral body suit. Yep, stunning. I'm absolutely postitive that look stunned people.

1993 Ness

Later that night, the announcement that (almost) everyone had been waiting for came.

The winner is - Sydeney!!

I recall my friends being gleeful at the news, excited that the Olympics would be in their city in seven years time. Meanwhile, I stifled a yawn. You see. sport bores the bejesus out of me. The Olympics = Yawnfest. I honestly couldn't have cared less. In fact the most exciting event of 1993 for me wasn't the announcement of the Olympics coming in 2000, at all,  but the release of a biography about the Carpenters entitled The Carpenters: The Untold Story. I still remember my trembling fingers reaching for it from the shelf at Dymocks and triumphantly purchasing it. I was temping at the Taxation Office in the city. Rushing back from my lunch hour I breathlessly lifted my book out to show several bewildered colleagues.

"Look what I got!" I exclaimed, eyes shining. They looked up, surprised to remember that I was even there, as I rarely spoke. Spotting the book, their surprised looks turned to ones of dumbfounded incredulity. "Oh, isn't that nice?" mumbled one person in the same insincere and dubious tone one would reserve for a lunatic as they slowly backed away and out the door, before fleeing for their life. My excitement dissipated. I sheepishly shoved the book back into the bag. You can imagine the joy it is to be me and feel so well liked and have so much in common with other people. NOT.

Fast forward 7 years and I was now a sophisticated and mature married woman, having swapped the poodle perm for an elegant, short bowl hair cut. Style icon extraordinaire. That's me. Don't even try to emulate me. You'll never pull it off. I'm unique.

It was New Year's Eve 1999. So naturally, Micky Blue Eyes and I were about to party like it was 1999. Because it was 1999. Until midnight. When it would become the year 2000. The 21st century. So futuristic. I expected we would all be wearing those jump suits they wear on Star Trek before the year was out. Such a shame that didn't happen, isn't it? Just like that Y2K virus thingy that everyone was freaking out about. It was reported on 60 Minutes after all, so how could it not be true? *gasp*

Bogans partying like it's 1999,
until midnight..when it was 2000

The count down to the Olympics began. Not that I cared. At all. While the city buzzed with Olympic fever, I remained as impervious as ever. Micky Blue Eyes wanted to attend some events. I didn't. So he got tickets. I stayed home.

Then we also heard that the Olympic torch would be coming through Boganville at Stupid O' Clock in the morning. People actually planned to get up at such a time to see it. Meanwhile, the only way I would have woken up for it is if they had literally jogged into my bedroom and set my arse on fire with it. No thanks.

Micky Blue Eyes attended several events and took some photos.

I think it's soccer. Is soccer even in the Olympics? Meh, who knows. Or cares. Okay, millions of people do. Clearly I'm not human. Who knows what species I am. Some sort of curious Carpenters loving,bogan creature from the planet Zorg. Or something.

We also possess some 2000 Olympics memorabilia, including cans of beer that are still in the cupboard unopened. Yummo, 13 year old beer. As if it isn't disgusting enough, when it's fresh. Then we also have an alcohol flask, a commemorative plate and mug, in addition to wine glasses. All unused and proudly on display in a cupboard. Micky Blue Eyes out did himself. He is still unnerved by my alarming lack of interest in all things Olympic and sporty.

 That is just the way I roll. I'm apathetic and disinterested cutting edge and different. Deal with it.

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

Do you get Olympic fever? Or is all sport a cure for insomnia for you? Ahem.

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