30 June 2014

5 things every woman should have

There comes a time in a woman's life when she should have the essentials.  And I say 18 is that time.  If you don't have these things and you are over 18, head to the shops RIGHT NOW.  You're welcome.

1. A pair of black cotton briefs

Not a thong, not panties, not black mesh, not black with patterns.  Plain black cotton briefs.  Why? Because every woman going to have a massage should have a pair of knickers that show no grime, cover your back side and say nothing about you apart from 'my nether regions are comfortably covered - please wake me in an hour'.  Those masseuse types work magic.  Show them the respect they deserve.  Dress appropriately.

They don't have to be THIS big

2. A power tool

Whether it is a drill or a vibrator, by adulthood every self respecting woman should be able to do a bit of DIY in her own home.  It's that simple.  

Beginner DIYers - this is not a vibrator

3. A saucepan

Sure you cook with it - but you can also eat out of it, collect water in it should the roof spring a leak, wear it as a hat, plant herbs in it, make music with it when you're pretending you're a drummer in a rock and roll band, and very importantly, you can smash the head of unwanted intruders with it.  

Lid optional

4. A hoodie

There are going to be times in your life that not only do you need to be warm but you need to be relatively incognito.  These are generally the mornings when you wake up and realise that you have nothing to eat and have to go to the local supermarket or drive through maccers before you can achieve basic milestones like showering. If you just go in normal clothes you will definitely run into your ex, your boss or that bitch from work.  If you go in a hoodie - you are invisible. Fact.
Mmmmmm - hoodie

5. A snow globe

Yes.  A snow globe. If you have made it to adulthood without ever going somewhere that immortalises itself in a snow globe, you have not gone far enough from your comfort zone.  Snow globes are tangible evidence you have been somewhere and done something that you really want to remember and the only thing perfect enough is a plastic vista in a plastic dome where snow falls all year round (even though you probably were trekking the sahara desert on a camel when you came across this random souvenir shop selling snow globes).  Or at the Gold Coast. 

You thought I was exaggerating didn't you?

What other essential items should all women have?  Have I forgotten something you think is key?


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27 June 2014

It's just a blog, a blog, a blog about ME.

 So you know Jodie from Fresh Home Cook?

You don't?  Well she and I met last year and became instant friends because we both LOVE cooking and gardening and growing organic produce.  True story.  Except the bit about us both loving cooking, gardening and growing organic produce.  She does.  She has a whole blog about this kind of stuff which is actually written easily enough for me to substitute the word organic with tinned whenever I'm short of something to cook and she's a bit of a life observer and honest writer and I like that stuff!

That aside - we became friends because she is lovely and kind and I pretended to be as well and so with all those things in common - Voila!

Jodie asked me to be part of the Blog-hop which is where we blogger types explore why we do what we do and then we tell you about three other people we think are awesome so you get to meet some other bloggers.  There's heaps of them HERE where it all began if you want to meander through some interesting tales after you finish my tale of derring do.

Anyway.... here goes.  And Jodie - thanks for the invite lovely. xx

What am I working on?

I would like to say a book.  And I'd like to say it's a book that starts with the line "It's just a book, a book, a book, about ping pong".  But I'm not.  In blogging land I write dependent on mood, the news, the world around me, something that's piqued my interest and the notes I scribble down at odd times.  And whatever stupid thing Tony has said that has set me off this week. I rarely work on anything in advance - I just knock it out and send it into the wide wide world.

In work land, I'm working on a social media strategy for a company that hired me to do just that. Then I'll do their content plan.  In writing land, I'm fleshing out a couple of articles that deal with issues that end in 'ism' and I keep getting side tracked by the amazing things the people I want to quote have done.

In real life, I'm working on no less than 19 games of Words with Friends (the Scrabble ripoff we all use on our phone - Scrabble missed the boat there didn't they???), a laundry pile that never ends and a sense of fiscal responsibility.  Oh and setting a good example to two small humans.

How does my writing differ from those in my genre?

See I don't really have a genre.  There isn't really a space in blogging land for bolshie, opinionated, apathy hating, outspoken women who aren't really good at anything.  I am not qualified to offer parenting advice, crafting advice, cooking advice, gardening advice, life advice.  I mean my only domestic skill is I live in a house.  I got nothing.  No special languages, no callings, no tragedy, no fashion sense, no secret life, no idea how to put on liquid eyeliner or clean a wheelie bin.  

If you think of a niche, a genre for me to slot into - please let me know.  Whenever you try to pitch a blog based on observation, commentary and opinion - they ask about what.  And apparently 'ummm, anything' doesn't help them narrow it down.

Why do I write?

Gratuitous shot of  my gorgeous girls
They are MUCH better at conversation now
Because I like it.  I love it. I always have.  I should have done it when I left school and spent the last twenty years filling pages and pages of space with words.  But I didn't.  And then a couple of years ago I was home with two small people, one of whom did nothing but suck the goodness out of my boobs and sleep and the other whose conversation consisted of 'mama', 'daddy', 'baby', 'book', 'PLAY SCHOOL' and I really needed to put my thoughts into some kind of coherent arrangement so they stopped festering in restless abandon inside my brain box.

And blogging punched me in the face and said 'Pick me you daft eejit'.

And then I realised I could talk about anything I wanted and have an opinion on EVERYTHING and because it was my blog, nobody could stop me.  I didn't tell people I wrote for ages. And now I'm still writing and it's re-energised in me a desire to write ALL THE TIME even using facts sometimes and not just for the blog.

But one of the things I like about writing is that there is so much in people's heads that when you share your words, your opinion, your thoughts, your observations - people respond.  Because they agree or disagree and if I'd never written anything down, we'd all be walking around with our thoughts in our heads and be oblivious of all these amazing people that really think STRONGLY about stuff.  And I love that. Like really love that.

How does my process work?

In blog land - Have a thought.  Bang it out.  Find a picture or two.  Re-read to check spelling and grammar.  Click publish.  Wait for my sister to text me telling me I used 'then' rather than 'than' or 'ate' rather than 'eight' or whatever first grade error I have made despite my strident opposition to these careless errors. Thanks Jen.

In work land - research, innovate, write lots of words, shuffle them around so they make sense and sound just right for the client, check to make sure I've done what I need to do, review, send off to client. Repeat as necessary.  Send invoice.

In writing land -

There are two approaches here

1. research, write, get distracted by internet story at the bottom of the article you were reading for research, write, worry, write, worry, write, have a toilet break, pick up the children, pour a glass of wine, sleep, write, delete.  Start again.

2. SHIT IS THAT THE TIME????  Write 500 - 1000 words. Submit.

Jodie also asked was there something as a teenager I did I would like to take back?

On the off chance my parents DO NOT KNOW, I"m not telling.  Sorry Jodie, that one we'll keep for the next shared glass bottle of wine.

Who is next?

I would like to introduce you to Rory, Seamus and Kylie.

Rory from Memoirs of the Mind was one of my early blog discoveries and I remain very attached to his blog.  It's real. I like that. 

Welcome to Memoirs of the Mind! This blog is a journey. It is a person’s life. It is not about 5 tips for this or 10 tips for that. It is not about perfection. It is about imperfection. It is about struggle. It is about first world problems, first world successes. It is about every day highs and lows. It is a quest for understanding. It is a search for acceptance. It is a wallow in self-pity or an inspiration for those whom it might inspire. 

There is a story here. There is a story in every human life. So many of which are left untold. And at the end of the day that’s what I am. I am human. I make mistakes. I love, laugh, cry, judge, hurt… …dream. I pray, hate, succeed, fail, dance… …hide. I strain. I struggle, fight, play, fall, get up, run, walk, stumble… …crawl. And someday…I will die. I soldier on in the greatest marathon of all. The marathon of life. A marathon run by countless billions. A marathon which no one has ever failed to finish. This is a record of my marathon. It is a human account. I hope that you might join me in my journey. Because truly, as human beings, we are already all in this together.

Seamus is from Dadinating the Countryside and he is everything great about men that think.  True. 

Seamus is a father of two, husband of one and a high school teacher of dozens. 

He is also a tree changer living in Central Victoria, a geek, ancient literature buff and a try-hard greenie.

(He is all that but he's so much more - read him and read him often)

Last but by no means least is Kylie from A Study In Contradictions who has made me snort liquid through my nose on more than one occasion so please - avoid hot drinks while reading. 

Kylie is a wife, mother, book lover and wannabe photographer. 

Kylie is mum to two gorgeous girls, wife to long-suffering husband Dave, and has unhealthy crushes on Daddy Pig and Jimmy Giggle (and Hoot)

(and she's funny and has less filter than me - I salute her!) 


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26 June 2014

Things I didn't know were things

The great thing about idle conversations is the things you learn that you didn't even know were things.
You with me?  You know when you're like la la la kinesiology, fathers, horses, bowen therapy.  And that's a legit link.  Like a legit legit thing.

Well allow me to add to your dinner party conversations for the next week or two.  Here are five things that I have discovered are 'THINGS' in the last couple of weeks.

1. Bowen Therapy for Horses

Therapy is a hands on vibrational technique to alleviate pain and acute conditions. It's about rebalancing the body and mind.  It's part of the holistic/natural therapies world and I suspect you're either a big believer or not.

That said, I had heard of Bowen Therapy.  But Bowen Therapy for Horses?  I had not. It's officially called 'Equine Bowen Therapy' and is used to promote self healing in horses to bring them back to peak performance and optimal health and wellbeing.

Some people's entire job is providing Bowen Therapy to horses.  True.

If you don't believe me.  Google it.

2. Cat cafes

If there was ever proof needed that dogs have owners, cats have staff - this is it.  I originally thought that it was animal ownership gone completely bonkers and they were going to pay to take their cats to a cafe for a bowl of milk but no.

What it is is a cafe where you can go and have your latte and biscuit and then pay per hour to go into rooms or designated areas specifically to play with cats.  Apparently it's for people that don't have cats or can't have cats. Pay per hour to play with cats.

There are so many terrible jokes and comparisons to be made here, but I'm leaving it alone and just saying cat cafes are a thing and the first Australian one has just opened in Melbourne.  Thus chipping away at Melbourne's 'tray cool' image a little and leaving us more with a crazy cat lady vibe.  But there you go.

3. The Peter Andre Channel

You know you're going to try and find this so let me help you - The Peter Andre Channel.  It's a thing.  There is a whole channel dedicated to pictures of Pete, his new album, pictures of him and some videos of his life lessons and what not.

He's clothed in a lot of the pictures so things must be evolving.  He's stolen Robbie Williams' look from about ten years ago but there is still enough shots of his pecs for the fans dedicated to his true and abiding talent. You can even post your own picture there on the fans page.

Peter Andre has a fan club.  Who knew?  Who who who and why?

4. The Whisper App

It's an app described as the anti-Facebook and a good way to combat cyber bullying.  Basically people post secrets on photos and post them on this app and you can talk with them via the app but preserve your anonymity.  Interestingly it's been a bit of a god-send for people in countries with escalating violence as a means of getting news out anonymously with no repercussions for the person posting it.

Apart from that it's a time waster of no apparent value except realising that people have very different versions of what constitutes a secret.  Being app-curious - I downloaded it and my personal verdict is about 90% of contributors appear to need therapy or new friends and the last 10% should get themselves to an open mic session.  Too funny.

5. Fetish boot camp

If going to boot camp wasn't already a strange and kinky enough obsession, a woman called Madame Anna has set up Fetish Boot Camps where you can do your push ups attached to nipple clamps, have her hit you while you do exercises, wear face masks while you do burpees - all in the name of fitness.

But she draws the line at having smelly feet or holding cigarettes for clients to help them get their fitness on.  She see BDSM as a natural progression for the agony that is boot camp.  And while I'm 100% with her on boot camp being unnecessarily hard work, there is nothing that would make me think 'aha, well if I do some rowing with weights attached to my privates, it'll make the pain worth it.'

And that my friends is why I will never be stupidly rich - I NEVER have these kinds of ideas.  And if you want to sign up to her fetish fitness classes you can jolly well google it yourself.

And that's the end of my little list of things I didn't know were things before I had conversations with other people.  And why some people just stick to the weather when having conversations.  Apparently.


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24 June 2014

The power of words

As a professional profaner, I am often amused when my friends come around and say the word 'bum' in front of my children and then immediately blush and stammer out an apology.  I am their mother.  They are exposed to my irresponsible vocabulary all the time and have never once used a swear word.

Except for the time their generally better behaved father said 'Tosser' in front of them once and they misheard it as 'sausage'. It was adorable. Despite the air being regularly coloured with descriptive language, strongly fortified with appropriate obscenities, they don't swear.  Yet.

It's inevitable.  And not because of their 'nuture' environment.  If the nature versus nuture argument had any weight at all, my practically teetotaller, non profaning mother would never have been blessed with a cursing boozehound as a daughter.  

Kids use words to explore emotions, get reactions, articulate ideas, communicate, retaliate and relate.  They are obviously going to use words that get a reaction.  They are going to use words that help them fit in with their peers, make them giggle or that they just like the sound of when they say it out loud.

Like chortle.  That's an awesome word to say out loud.  The girls are currently also big fans of the word 'fart' and 'poo'.  Preferably yelled loudly while giggling at their own hilariousness.

But I know they are going to use words that hurt as they struggle to make sense of the world around them and surging hormones, fickle friends, failures and fights.  The siblings' occasional hair pulling will slide into door slamming, foot stamping and 'You bitch' being screeched through the door.  Puberty is hell.  We all know that.

Maybe I'm odd, but I'm okay with it.  Because there are worse things they could say, particular to each other or their friends.  They could call somebody a fat cow, or useless.  They could diss the sister of a school friend with Down's syndrome.  They could call people names prefaced with words based on appearance like 'Four-eyes' or 'ugly' or 'big nose' or the like.  They could dismiss a point of view based on acne, choose friends based on perfect teeth or the brand name of their sneakers.  They could attempt to cover their own insecurity by exposing their friends' secrets or fears.

Worst of all they could hear me talk about them, their father or other people like that.  They could hear me express my frustration by saying things like "you're useless", "you're stupid" or "why can't you be more like your sister", "you're dumb", "you're an idiot", "bloody (insert race/nationality/religion here). They could hear their parents belittle people based on their income or their beliefs or their fashion approach.

They could grow up thinking that somehow they were on a winning ticket because of skin colour or their education.  Or they could have the misfortune to be parented by a woman like the mother at the park the other day where she yelled, along with a plethora of other charming statements, at her maybe 3 year old "I should have aborted you you worthless shit."

In that sentence, the wounding, the rude and offensive was not in the swear word. And that was what she was prepared to say in public.  It breaks your heart.

Sure, it'd be great if I could remember to say 'bother' rather than 'For fuck's sake' when I read something in the paper that annoys me or 'ouch' when I kick my toe hard enough to break, but we all know that those words don't come close to expressing the full gamut of emotions.  If a picture paints a thousand words, one decent swear word can write a novel.  A wonderful articulate and universally understood novel.  

The power of words is not in those deemed 'swear' words.  It's the personalised adjectives prefacing them.  It's the use of a descriptive word to diminish somebody.  It's in the anger that simmers beneath the words or the venom in which they are hissed.  It's the repetition, the determination with which words are used to make somebody else feel small.

Those are the words that I will find offensive when my children use them.  Those are the words that I will work with them to find alternatives and to work out a better way to communicate emotions and ideas.  And yes, I will encourage them not to swear - the classic do as I say, not as I do.  And they will probably learn about swear jars and make me have one and they will retire billionaires before they reach high school.

In the meantime, before I fund their retirement, I will continue to try to swear less and take deep breaths before uttering an 'Oh bother', and where possible, refrain from reading about Australian politics in front of the children.


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23 June 2014

Bindi - 1. Rest of world - 0

If you want to realise how unreasonable we are collectively I would like to present you with 

That's right Bindi Irwin.

Who at the age of fifteen had the audacity to say she wishes children dressed their age and covered up their boobs and blah blah save the whales or whatever it is she does as her day job.  And then she's pictured looking stunning with her boobs covered up.

And THE WHOLE WORLD is like "HOW VERY DARE SHE?" The smug cow.  How dare she tell others what to do.  Children can dress like they want!  And its the shops fault because they only sell clothes for teenagers that make them look like mini-prostitutes - I'd totally dress my child like Bindi if I had options. 

Blah blah blah. 

She's fifteen.  15! Of course she's smug.  You know pretty much everything at 15 and the world is completely black and white.  Even saying "I like weetbix for breakfast" comes out smug.  And censorious, as if people that have toast or cornflakes are somehow inferior.

Trust me, I was an 80s teenager.  Where ripped, see through, lacey, bedroom eyes and cleavage were making huge waves in fashion and I can assure you my mother still made sure my boobs were covered, my shorts were long and that I rocked my dorkdom in complete modesty. In fact, she cried once when I wore ripped jeans to a school dance because she could see the slippery slope I was determined to launch myself down.

For the record, it took me so long to convince her to let me wear torn jeans that I was a year too late and spent the whole night feeling even dorkier than normal.  Sigh.  Where were you then Bindi Irwin? Exactly - not even born - selfish cow. 

So why are we being such a judgemental pack of arses?  We get cross when Miley suggests we get about in our underwear, we don't bat an eyelid when Lady Gaga gets about in meat frocks but somebody suggests our teenagers might want to dress modestly and we're all ARRRRGH, KILL HER, KILL HER NOW THE SMUG COW.

Bindi is perfectly entitled to her opinion.  The fact that in ten years time she might decided to wrap herself around poles and wear Cher inspired leotards is perfectly okay.  By then she'll be 25 and we'll all be collectively screeching 'WHEN YOU WERE 15 YOU WANTED YOUR BOOBS COVERED UP'.  

And hopefully she'll yell right back us - "I was 15 so how about you judgemental types fuck off". Because Bindi Irwin dropping an F-bomb in a see through body leotard would be totally awesome.  

So Bindi - until you get a little older and change your mind about fashion, saving the world or whether you prefer sugar in your tea, or whatever else tickles your fancy between now and the nursing home -   cover those boobs up girl, no matter how much that pisses people off. 

You, you, modest thing you.  


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18 June 2014

Me, Les Murray and The World Game

Hey! The world cup is on! And it's Refugee Week.  Wouldn't it be awesome if the truth about our appalling violation of human rights got as much coverage as losing footballers swimming nude?

Anyway - don't stop reading.  Yes I did literally cry yesterday when Labor voted not to oppose off shore processing.  I was so very hopeful that finally we'd see some leadership and decency in our government.  You'd think I'd learn.  But I'm not writing about that! So chill.... 

And I'm not going to go on about the 1023 #kidslikemine in detention or the fact that generally the world thinks we're a country of arses for the way we treat asylum seekers and quite frankly - they're right.  

Les mayyyyyte
I'm going to write about FOOTBALL.  What my good friend* Les Murray calls 'the world game'.  

And more specifically - I'm going to tell you about ASYLUM SNEAKERS.  See what they did there?

Because it's a brilliant example about how people who genuinely want to welcome refugees, asylum seekers and new immigrants look for ways to make that welcome warm and practical.

So FOOTBALL (which is so hot right now) is a great leveller.  Anybody of any gender can play it and it doesn't seem that hard.  And I say that never having played it - but both my younger brothers think that FOOTBALL (or soccer as we like to call it here) is like the best thing in the world.  Sometimes I'm not sure whether they rate football or their beautiful wives more highly and I'm definitely not asking the question during World Cup Fever.

Football is about community, about friendship and about being really good at bouncing a ball on your knee.  It gives children an opportunity to meet other children, practice their English and share an interest that transcends language, race, religion and people that think Justin Beiber is his own kind of special. 

Asylum Sneakers is a program just launched by Welcome to Australia that basically funds football boots and sports shoes for children in the refugee and asylum seeker families currently living in limbo in Australia.  Since we won't let the parents work and they have to be supported by not for profits - they tend to focus on trivial things like rent, food, clothes and education for their children.  

Asylum Sneakers is such a positive initiative and it totally underpins this year's Refugee Week theme which is Restoring Hope.  Such a simple way of making a profound and long lasting difference.  

But let my good friend, the refugee, Les Murray tell you more about it here: 

And then you can go here to take part:

Or you could just share this blog or the link or the video with everybody you know.  Because if we nail this - we're WORLD CUP winners regardless of what the boys do in Brazil.  

Viva la Football.  

*I've never met Les Murray but I bet we'd be totes BFFs.  We've got loads in common.  Like football. And two daughters.  And talking.  

** This is not a sponsored post.  You know I think Australia's approach to refugees and asylum seekers is revolting and a national shame.  I am supporting this because not everybody is an arse and this is a wonderful way of demonstrating support and being nice.  


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17 June 2014

Shit happens

I have my two year old home today from childcare with an upset tummy.  This actually means that what is coming out of her backside is decidedly unpretty and no amount of positivity about parenting can make the shit smell any sweeter.

What?  It's true.  Bodily fluids happen and it's why children are better than dogs.  There will come a time when they are completely capable of cleaning up their own shit. Luckily, she's young enough that I can put her back in pull ups for 24 hours for those moments  today in which she and I don't move fast enough.

Don't judge - we just got the carpets cleaned. 

There are always some unexpected perks to minding sick children.  Sure you don't get any work done and you have to watch entirely too much kids TV while they sit snuggled in your arms, but there is the main perk just there.  A sick child is a snuggly child.  

And my girls are growing so fast.  They are independent, feisty and in the process of developing very firm opinions about everything (totally their dad's influence honest).  And they don't always want cuddles, or if they submit to a cuddle they're gone almost before you've had a chance to sniff the top of their stinky little heads.

Cassidy has had her little feet snuggled under my jumper, a blanket across our laps and a steady stream of books read and re-read.  I have had quite a few, spontaneous 'I wuv you Mama moon back' which is worth the cramp in your lower back from holding the same position way too long. 

There has been lots of conversations about what Tully is doing at childcare.  Like about every five minutes.  She misses her.  There has been a conversation about spiders and whether or not they are ticklish.  I was asked if I can dance.  I was told to stop dancing.  We've talked about why glue sticks and why princesses sing.  Lots of small moments that I wouldn't have had if she'd gone to childcare as per normal.

I'm typing, she's watching Dora, and we are still all wrapped around each other.  

Shit happens.  And today, that's been an unexpected blessing


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16 June 2014

Can you believe they killed off Tracy?

I just finished the last series of How I met your Mother and I'm SERIOUSLY BUMMED about the outcome.

I wanted Ted to find true love and live HAPPILY EVER AFTER with the mystery woman under the yellow umbrella.

And when we met her, I liked her.  She was worth the wait despite the fact that she got some dodgy lines.  She was what we thought Ted deserved - a bit funky, funny, musical and with the kind of voice that hinted at 'a past'.

I didn't want some truncated relationship where he gets the kids he so desperately desired and then she dies so he can get back with ROBYN.

And then my husband tells me that he understands that the ending was filmed at the beginning.  That those kids of Ted were hiding this secret all these years.  I hope they got a bucket load of money for it AND for breaking my heart.  Shallow little buggers.  SIX YEARS MOURNING IS NOT ENOUGH FOR TRACY.  We waited too long.

This particular TV series is something we kind of fell into a few years ago and then went back to the beginning and had a marathon catch up of the first five seasons, and then we've caught up on each season when the DVD comes out or in this case, when they ran a How I met your Mother marathon on some channel and we recorded it.

It's been a fun ride but if I'm honest, Robyn was always my least favourite of the gang. She was hard work.  She didn't do dress ups, she was emotionally constipated, unwilling to compromise, incapable of saying sorry and was always making promises she didn't follow through on.  She's THAT friend that we enjoy the company of when we see them but probably don't keep in touch with over the years, because it's entirely one sided and that gets a bit boring for everybody.

And this post should completely tell you that I obviously became FAR too involved in this group of people's made up lives.  But that's the glory of escapism.  That's the glory of story lines that are intentionally fictional, not fictional like 'reality TV'.

I want more shows where I can have firm opinions that really don't matter, full of catchphrases and characters that will resonate with a certain age group for years to come and where you hope that the little boy that was Doogie Howser, who grew up to be Barney Stinson, lives happily ever after on Broadway.  Oh wait, he is - hooray!

Sigh.  I suppose I shall get on with the business of you know, real life and tuning in each week for my fix of Mark, Lewis, Justin and Kane. Because you know, like, ah... to be honest. I like watching House Husbands and so I'm going to do just that.

In the meantime Ted, Barney, Lily, Marshall and Robyn - PLEASE DO NOT DO A REUNION SHOW IN TEN YEARS.  Or even five.

It's been LEGENDwaitforitDARY - thanks for the laughs but now it's time to go, so in the immortal words of the Von Trapps - so long, farewell, auf weidersehn, goodbye.


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13 June 2014

Friday The Thirteenth

So Friday The Thirteenth is here, there's a full moon scheduled for this evening and half the Western English speaking world is avoiding black cats.

But I am here to reassure you that only good things happen on Friday the Thirteenth.

I was born on a Friday The Thirteenth.

So basically, it should be revered as a day that brings good luck and much happiness to the world.

The end.

Fine, not convinced?

I did some meandering around the internet and some crappy stuff has happened on Fridays that are matched with the number 13.

The Aztec Empire came to an end, the guy that went on to establish the Ku Klux Klan was born, a huge cyclone wiped out a lot of people in India in 1970 but overall, the fact that nearly every list that tells you bad things happen on Friday The Thirteenth includes the birth of the Olsen twins means that people are really hard pressed to find reasons why people are so superstitious.

Truth is, it was probably a novelist that got us all fired up about it, and most probably in the 1800s. So the superstition is one outcome of teaching people to read that perhaps backfired on society a little.

And I do feel for people that have a genuine fear of the day and date because they're going to need that learning to explain their condition to people - Friggatriskaidekaphobia.  If they have that fear and a fear of long words - Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia - I suggest they don't read today's blog.

In the meantime for those of you not partaking in wild celebrations and the building of shrines having learnt that I was born on a Friday The Thirteenth, here's what to avoid.

1. Black cats crossing your path
2. Walking under ladders
3. Breaking mirrors
4. Leaving fires burning
5. Finding a bat in your home.

Shit.  We're screwed. (Yep, I did just amuse myself)

Enjoy the full moon people.  Harooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo


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