The Kitchen Philosopher

2022-05-14T22:17:00.002-07:00

May 2022

Welcome All!

The Kitchenphilosopher Blog began a number of years ago as a repository for a series of (allegedly) humorous articles published by NE Newspapers in Victoria, Australia over 7 years under the banner of The Kitchen Philosopher.

The articles reflected my (sometimes a bit whacky!) observations and ideas about the world. I had great fun writing them and it made life more fun - even the stupidist happenings in my life could become fodder for my column!

But now, time has moved on. I no longer write the column (my choice - kids left home and I was running out of ridiculous things).

Plus I moved into an area of employment that has taken up so much of my headspace over the years. A job I love and feel passionate about.

My role for the past 10 years has been as a parent educator/group facilitator for a wonderful program called PEEP (Parents Early Education Partnership) for a local not for profit organisation.

It has been my privilege and my pleasure to work with families from all backgrounds - all of whom who come to us with the same purpose in mind - to reflect on their parenting role, explore more about children's development and learning, meet other families and have a fun time with their children. What better way to spend some of your time as a parent!

Consequently I have learned many things, myself, over the years, both from these wonderful Mums and Dads and babies and kids and also through the research and learning I have undertaken during that time in order to be able to provide meaningful and researched backed information for our clients.

Two significant things have become abundantly clear to me:

1. the relationship a child has with it's main carer is the foundation for every other thing that happens in their life - from how they feel about themselves and others, to how they learn and thrive. A secure attachment is the key to everything!

2. reading with a child forms the basis for early literacy and further builds on warm and trusting bonds between parents and children. Early literacy also sets a child up for further learning.

I've learned many more things - way too many to mention now - but these two are important for my own growth and understanding and also for helping to direct some of my life passions going forward.

As an artistic person, I have always enjoyed drawing and painting. As a lover of words, I have always enjoyed reading and writing.

Now I bring those two loves together in my very first ever picture book.

Entitled "Kisses from Nanna" this cute little book was born in the midst of the Covid19 lockdowns which hit us heavily here in Victoria, Australia. We went months without seeing our little grandchildren face to face and it was a hard time for everyone.

One night, I woke at about 2 am with a rhyme running through my head. I realised it was significant and immediately got out of bed and wrote it down (before I forgot!)

Over the next few days I fleshed out the rhyme and ''Kisses from Nanna'' was born. I remember phoning my son and daughter in law and attempting to read the words to them. I could barely get them out as those words brought up so many emotions!

I later decided to add some pictures to the words - just so I could share this special poem with my grandchildren in a visual form. I even had it printed out properly in a hard cover book!

But of course that wasn't the end of it. I showed the finished copy to family and friends and they all wanted to buy a copy! OOps! Looks like I needed to publish it afterall!

So after seeking out a publisher, I was fortunate enough to be offered a contract for Kisses for Nanna, and the rest, as they say, is history.

I hope this little book will bring pleasure and a reminder that, no matter how far away Nanna (or Grandma or Grandad or Poppy) is, those special little people are never far from our thoughts.

Enjoy!

Please visit the link below to find out more about purchasing your copy:

https://www.connorcourtpublishing.com.au/

And if you feel inclined to read some of the old Kitchenphilosopher articles contained in this blog, I hope you enjoy them. I can still get a chuckle from them.

Mummy McScrooge

2013-07-25T02:51:00.000-07:00

There are some people who are good at saving money and there are some who are not.

I definitely come into the latter category, which may be surprising considering I’m the daughter of a Scot - purportedly one of the most frugal of nationalities in the world, even though my own experience of their generosity suggests otherwise.

My Dad, for example, clearly missed out on the McScrooge gene; he was generous to a fault and never focussed much on how well his funds were (or weren’t) travelling. He just worked hard, paid his bills and did his best to provide for us, God bless him!

So you might think that, having skipped my Dad’s generation, the frugal gene may have imbedded itself quietly into the next one. Not so. Well, certainly not into the DNA of this little black duck!

Yes, I’m doing okay. I’ve helped raise a family and we all know that costs money. And yes, we eat out sometimes, we travel sometimes, we live in a decent home (occasional dishevelment and dog odour notwithstanding) and we generally don’t have to resort to a ‘baked beans on toast’ existence. But we definitely haven’t quite moved to that next level of fiscal comfort. No mansion or magnate existence for us!

And so, it’s with some surprise and more than a little (possibly misplaced) pride that I’ve discovered where in my family the McScrooge gene has settled itself. It’s clearly landed in my Number Two Son, who has taken to giving me withering looks when discussing my saving prowess (or lack thereof) and rolling his eyes when I own up to my Visa Card debt.

His new bible is ‘The Barefoot Investor’. He’s devised household budgets that would have Wayne Swan envious; splitting up his bank accounts so every mortgage payment and bill is taken care of and his savings are slowly but surely building up. He’s got a shares portfolio. He’s clued up. He’s committed and disciplined. He’s frugal and focused. He’s everything his mother is not when it comes to money!

I look at him and wonder if there was a Murdoch or Packer baby mix up in my maternity ward way back in 1982? Should his middle name be Rupert or James?

“Can I have my real child back?” I grizzle as he steers me resolutely away from a boutique or book shop, or berates me for buying lunch when I could have made it.

But his insistence is working on me. I now have several ‘online bank’ accounts for savings and bills. This means I can’t get at the money easily as there’s more of a process to transfer funds, and they take a couple of days to clear. I like to think of it as a ‘cooling off’ period, for my desired purchase always seems like such a good idea at the time. (Of course I need that new orange scarf! I’ve only got ten others!)

With my new banking methods, however, I have to go home, log on, plead with some tight-wad digital bank manager to let me have my money and then wait a couple of days before he deigns to give it to me. By that time I’ve changed my mind anyway so, for an impulse spender like me, this time-delay caper is a real boon.

So anyway, if you’ll please excuse me, I’m just going to log on and have another look at the growing 000s in my bank account.

And after that I’m going straight onto Google to see if I can figure out which mega-rich family might be missing their son and heir – and how much they’ll pay me to get him back!

Lil Miss Organised

2013-05-19T00:08:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me well will be quite surprised by my New Years Resolution to become an ‘organised person’ in 2013. I doubt I can truly convey to you what a change in my life the application of such a resolution will both take and cause.

Suffice to say, it’s BIG! But there you have it. The deed is done, the dye is cast and I am into Week 6 of my new, improved lifestyle.

My bed, which has probably not been ‘made’ on a workday since 1995, now daily looks like something out of Vogue Living, complete with cute cushions, a ‘thrau’ and matching slips. (Well, okay, the smidge of doggy hair on the doona might hark back to my days of slobbiness, but it’s early days, so let’s not be too picky).

In the kitchen, my new rule is that dishes on the sink must be washed, dried and put away every day. This is proving to be not as hard as I thought because instead of needing to put away three or four days worth (big job), I now only have to put away a meal or day’s worth (small job). Yes, I realise most people figured that astounding calculation out by the time they were 12, but this is me we’re talking about. I may be a Kitchen Philosopher, but that doesn’t mean I have any actual kitchen skills.

But I’m getting there. I’ve even made a little game to help me move more economically around the kitchen. Instead of walking several times from one end of the bench to the other to put away various cutlery and crockery items, I now scan the draining board to see what else I can take with me on the first trip. I know you’re impressed here, but keep reading, it doesn’t stop there!

My wardrobe normally looks like a scene out of Hoarders – clothes, shoes, junk strewn in every direction. But now? I can actually open the door without stuff falling out AND (here’s the good bit! Drum Roll!) I even have colour coded piles of tops!

Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined me being a ‘colour-coding’ kind of gal. But it’s great! True, my coding is limited to black, white and ‘other’, but it’s a start and certainly makes getting dressed in the morning so much easier. No more rummaging for a black top in the dingy blackness of the cupboard – now I can put my hand straight on my trusty Black Top pile and Presto! Black Top! Who would’ve thought?

I’ve also had a stern talking with the dogs, Scruffy and Moses. They were convinced my bed was actually THEIR bed and could be found any night at 8.30 pm luxuriating on my King Size Softness and feigning sleep (so as not to be sent out to the shed).

Anyway, they took the ‘Get Off My Bed’ news with reasonably good grace and are now sleeping peacefully (possum on roof notwithstanding) on their own doggie beds on the floor. (You will note that these beds are carefully rolled up each morning and stored under a cupboard, to ensure my Vogue look is not compromised).

And last, but not least, I have been keeping up with the washing. I’m not sure how I ever coped with three kids in the house when it came to laundry, but whatever Domestic Goddess enzyme was circulating around in me back in the day, seems to have dissipated over the past few years.

You would think with only two of us in the house, there wouldn’t be too much washing, but you’d be wrong. The spouse likes to shower about twenty times a day in the summer, which is part of the problem. I guess I shouldn’t whinge about a spotless spouse, but I still reckon he could lighten up on the tubbing up.

Either that or he could wear his clothes in the shower and kill two birds with one stone.

Anyway, suffice to say I’ve been sticking to my new regime and feeling pretty chuffed.

How long it will last is anyone’s guess, but I’m hoping it will hang on until at last next New Years Eve. Then maybe I can make a new resolution to be a slob again.

Well who said New Years Resolutions have to only be one way? Hmm?

A Mad Scrabble

2012-10-31T02:35:00.001-07:00

According to my spouse I have recently been displaying some rather disturbing obsessive-compulsive behaviours. This coincided with the arrival of my new iPhone and the subsequent discovery of the ‘Scrabble’ app.

Having long been a fan of this word game (apart from the bit were you have to wait for someone else to get on with it and have their turn!) I was rather chuffed to avail myself of this infectious little piece of software.

And yes, maybe I have become a tad obsessive about it, whipping out the iPhone at every available opportunity to start or resume a game. But at least I’m not quite as keen as an acquaintance of mine who’s even been taking Scrabble to the loo with him. In his defence, he claims it to be a wonderful distraction (if you take my meaning) and he’s surprised proctologists the world over aren’t recommending this to their patients as a means of more happily enduring their ablutions. After all, he says, there’s nothing like a quick game of Scrabble first thing in the morning to get one’s brain (and a few other things) moving.

I’m not sure about all that, but I do concur that it’s quite an addictive little game. I also admit to having a somewhat weird relationship with the ‘little guy’. Yes, I know it’s not a real person but merely a program designed to digitally arrange letters with the best possible score. Still, I can’t stop my self from thinking it’s another human being I’m playing.

I find myself swearing at him or throwing up my hands in disbelief when he creates some word like ‘kiuqwazaxajii’ and gets away with it.

“What? Are you kidding?” I shout crankily when he places such unlikely concoctions on a Triple Letter and earns himself a squillion points. It’s very frustrating, and I’m not above telling him so. Nothing weird there, I say.

And quite often, as I am pondering my next word, I even start hurrying myself up.

“He’ll be annoyed that you’re taking so long,” I think, before reminding myself that there is no ‘he’ out there in cyberspace impatiently rapping his fingers on the board and grumbling things like, “Hurry it up will you, woman. I don’t have all day!”

But, after years of Scrabble playing with the spouse, it’s hard to let go of the notion that someone’s not rolling his eyes and constantly saying “A quick game’s a good game.” He (the spouse) once even tried to impose a ‘time limit’ on my ponderings – a rule that was, of course, abandoned whenever it was his turn!

Yes, at least my new cyber buddy has remarkable patience. I sometimes have hours between ‘goes’ and he says nothing. Not even a huffy, “Sheesh, about time!” He really is a perfect and patient gentleman, my lovely Mr Scrabble.

He doesn’t even play dirty (usually). In fact, he often gives me wonderful opportunities to outscore him by ‘leaving open’ a Triple Word and he never gets grumpy with me when I give him the occasional flogging. He just keeps on coming back for more.

That’s not to say I trust him completely. For example, whenever I ‘recall’ a high scoring letter (like Z) after finding my word is unacceptable or not worth a big enough score, I can’t help but thinks he ‘knows’ what I have and silently berate myself for letting my guard down. This is probably a hangover from my days of real-life Scrabble, when I would try very hard to not let the other player know what letters I had in my possession. (Yes, I am a tad competitive).

Well anyway, suffice to say I’m loving my Scrabble app. And now, if you’ll excuse me I’ll get back to my game. Silly Mr Scrabble has just left a nice little space for “Quartz” on a Triple Letter score.

Ha, come on in, sucker! He he.

Disaster Chef

2012-10-15T03:59:00.000-07:00

I’m thinking about starting up my own new reality TV show. It will be called ‘Disaster Chef’.

Rather than having would-be chef contestants and a bunch of ‘expert’ judges, my show will feature me as the main contestant and some of the people I have attempted to poison over the years with my cooking as the judges/jurors.

So where did this idea come from? Well, there I was in the kitchen the other day, trying to make something yummy - yet sugarfree - (yes, I know that sounds like something of an oxymoron, but bear with me) for my houseguests.

You see, I was dumping sugar as part of my latest sugar-free diet campaign, to which everyone else in the household (or who will listen) is being forced to subscribe – whether they want to or not. When I get on a bandwagon, I become almost evangelical in my devoutness - meaning I am currently the Jimmy Swaggart of Anti-Sugarism. (Although minus his millions and his orange-skinned wife, of course).

But before the culinary ‘creation’ could start, I had to scour the town in search of some ‘dextrose’ powder, a form of glucose which, according to my Bible…. I mean the sugar-free diet book, is ‘allowed’ as a replacement for the dreaded white stuff.

This proved to be quite a challenge but, eventually, in the home brew section of my supermarket, I found a Dextrose/Maltodextrose compound which I decided would suffice and rushed hastily home to my laboratory…I mean kitchen…to get cracking on my sugar-free cheesecake.

All was going well.

I’d managed to make the ‘base’ and started on the filling. Along with mixing cream cheese, lemon, dextrose and lemon rind, this part of the recipe required that I ‘heat two tablespoons of water’ and then add three teaspoons of gelatine, stir til dissolved then remove to cool.

A little voice suggested that, once cooled, this little concoction would be the consistency of rubber, but I dismissed it. Surely the recipe knew more about these things than I, so I just did what I was told. Perhaps it will dissolve when mixed with the filling? I thought hopefully.

The filling looked yummy and I was feeling very confident that I had a success on my hands (a rare feeling for me, I admit). Of course, my confidence was grossly misplaced for, as you will have guessed by now, once I plonked my little lump of rubber in the mixmaster bowl I realised (to my horror!) that the rubber was now being chopped into a million rubbery little pieces which were now permeating the entire bowl of filling!

But never one to give up easily, I grabbed the bowl and starting diving in with my fingers to retrieve as many lumps as I could get. I then mixed some more gelatine and water, plonked it in the mix, noticed it was now too sloppy, added another block of cream cheese and some more of my new friend, dextrose, and hoped for the best.

To overcome the fact that there were still a million small lumps of gelatine in the mix, I cunningly chopped up a few strawberries and threw them in so no one would notice the other lumps.

It was a master stroke, and I’m happy to report that the cheesecake was eaten with gusto (apart from the fact that the base was the consistency of week old cement and I think a few fillings and/or teeth were lost).

Anyway, hence my idea to start my own television series. After all, I am more than qualified as a Disaster Chef extraodinnaire. And my kids have even offered to be the Judges.

(I just hope they ain’t ‘hanging judges’ or I’m a gonner for sure!)

The Perfect Crime

2012-04-13T18:50:00.001-07:00

Once again I am going to tell you a story about my friend Jemima and her husband, Big Ted (they of the jumping dance in the African Serengeti story I told you some time ago).

Well this time, our intrepid travellers were traversing the Victorian Great Ocean Road in a campervan.

After a wonderful evening of wining and dining with friends, Jemima and Big Ted headed for bed. Some time later, after Jemima was fast asleep, Big Ted, feeling a little the worse for wear, decided to head for the communal toilets.

Once there, he began conducting his ablutions when suddenly he felt woosy and lightheaded and fell swiftly to the concrete floor in a faint – whacking his head on the hard floor as he went.

He was out for the count (for who knows how long?) but when he finally came around he felt decidedly better, apart from quite a nasty cut to the back of his head.

After inspecting his head in the mirror and washing off the blood, he decided he was okay to head back to the campervan. But then he noticed there was blood on the floor from his cut and so, being a thoughtful chap, he setting about mopping it up with some cleaning gear he found in a nearby cupboard.

A few minutes later, satisfied that he’d cleaned the floor to a good standard, he carefully rinsed off the mop, replaced it in the cupboard and headed back to the van. There he quietly climbed back into bed beside the still sleeping Jemima and went straight back to sleep.

In the morning, he gave Jemima a full account of the night’s unusual events which, in hindsight, he thought was rather funny.

Jemima, conversely, was horrified!

Not only that Big Ted had fainted and injured himself, but also because he hadn’t woken her to tell her what had happened. He could have died in his bed, she said, and she wouldn’t have known anything about it!

Worse still, she suddenly realised, once they did an autopsy on him they would have found he died from a blow to the head but, of course, there would be no evidence anywhere to explain what had happened (because he’d cleaned it up carefully himself, hadn’t he?)

Jemima would, no doubt, have ended up as the prime suspect in a murder trial and all because Big Ted was such a thoughtful, tidy chap!

Forensics would have been scouring every square centimetre of the van in search of the claw hammer or iron with which the heartless shrew had clomped her unsuspecting man (presumably for his money, because she had that evil look about her, didn’t she?)

Meanwhile Jemima would be sitting in some stinking police cell with tear-stained face and bulging sleepless eyes, pleading her innocence (albeit on deaf ears).

Well anyway, fortunately it all worked out well and no such police investigation was required. No thanks to Big Ted and his tidy, thoughtful ways!

(I’ve always thought tidiness was over-rated and now I know why!)

Spinal Tap Tap

2012-03-22T21:37:00.001-07:00

Now, if you’re a chiropractor (or someone else who has a special interest in the care of spines) you might want to look away now.

For I’m about to own up to something that is likely to be very much frowned upon by people who have no doubt studied for years in their specialist field and didn’t just stumble across their skills by pure accident (like moi).

You see, the spouse, having quite seriously injured his spine in his teenage years, has suffered terribly over the years with back pain and headaches. He’s tried all kinds of treatments to reduce the pain; from physio, to acupuncture, to ‘cupping and spooning’ (don’t ask), to drugs (legal ones!) to deep tissue and Thai massages and even once had a needle inserted into his neck to supposedly ‘kill’ the nerve that was causing the pain. This resulted in numbness in his neck for about six months, but the niggling pain persisted so, clearly, they’d killed the wrong guy!

Well anyway, all this pain and suffering has meant I’ve become quite the masseuse over the years. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve rubbed and prodded that man’s back, I’d be living on the French Riviera.

Initially my feeble efforts didn’t yield too much relief for him and usually resulted in stiff, sore hands and fingers for me. But after both of us were treated by a wonderful ‘deep tissue’ masseuse for some time, I gained a bit of know-how in reducing tension in his tight muscles (using my elbows) and can now actually help.

Our trip to Thailand also benefited his sore back. Every day he would pop down to the Thai ladies in their beach massage shack and come back a new man. I think the girls actually enjoyed the challenge of working on this person with such a high pain threshold, and they twisted and elbowed him and walked (literally!) all over him. I picked up some new techniques from them which I’ve been using on him since our return. (Not walking on him, obviously. Tough he might be, but Hercules? Nah).

Additionally, after being a long term chiropractic patient myself, I’ve also noted with interest some of my chiro’s special techniques and terminologies.

But maybe I’ve now gone a bit far with my ‘home schooling’ on all things spinal. Yes, a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing; especially when your ‘patient’ is lying on the lounge room floor; ready to sell his first born for a Panadeine Forte.

There I was, jamming my elbows mercilessly into his back when he said:
“How about giving my spine a bit of a push down – like the chiropractor does? If you could just get it to move a bit, I reckon it would help.”

I nervously agreed (yes, this is the scary bit, folks) and placed my hands one on top of the other on his spine in the designated spot and gave a quick ‘jab’.

Crack! Went his spine - much to my surprise - and I jumped back in shock.

“Omigod!” I cried, worried I’d done some permanent damage.

“Nice!” he cried triumphantly. “It feels better already!”

“Aren’t I clever?” I thought and began mentally writing out my chiro bill.

Well, anyway that was a few months ago and I’ve ‘treated’ him a couple more times since -- to quite good effect too, if I do say so myself.

But I realised I had stepped over the mark when this morning I again managed to move his spine a little and found myself making a wannabe-chiropractish little comment; “I think it was that damn ‘T-12’ vertebra again!”

We both realised what I’d said and burst out laughing.

Something tells me I’m getting waaaay too big for my chiropractic boots, so you’ll be pleased to hear I’m now hanging them up!

(Did I hear you say “Phew!”?)

So Long and Thanks for All the Tummy Rubs

2011-12-17T22:30:00.000-08:00

Back in 1984, author Douglas Adams wrote the fourth book of his ‘Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy trilogy’ (yes, I did say fourth book, so if you’re not familiar with Adams’ work, you will deduce that he’s something of a joker).

Anyway, this book was titled ‘So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish’ in reference to a message supposedly left by the dolphins as they departed Planet Earth before it was demolished to make way for a hyperspace bypass. (FYI: We are apparently now living on an alternate earth to which we were transported without our knowledge before our other planet earth was destroyed).

Well, anyway, the implication is that the dolphins saw the writing on the wall. Well, they are pretty smart creatures. After all, don’t they always look happy? And why wouldn’t they be, when they get to swim and play all day and people admire them, scratch their bellies and throw fish to them? Certainly doesn’t sound like much of a tough gig to me!

Well, anyway, the dolphin thing came to mind the other night as I was sitting watching TV with a great lump of Scruffy Dog positioned awkwardly on my lap while I stroked his head and scratched behind his ears. I thought to myself, “This dog has the life!” If I dared to stop stroking or scratching, he would gently take my hand in his mouth and ‘insist’ that I get back to my job.

Thus, it occurred to me that perhaps I am not his ‘Mistress’ after all. In fact, I started to wonder if, quite to the contrary, I am actually his PET? And a rather well trained pet at that!

I pondered the way dogs greet each other and wondered if perhaps, like the dolphins, their communication is way more sophisticated than we know.

As they sniff each other’s posteriors, might they really be having an inaudible discussion on the vagaries of ‘pet’ training?

“How’s your human doing?” Jake the Staffy might be saying to his buddy, Deefer the Beagle as they both cock their legs on a tree. “Got him trained up yet?”

“I’m working on it, Jake -- but he’s a tough one. Mind of his own! Got him opening the door for me on command, though. And, he’s getting the hang of ‘throw the stick’. But there’s a lot more work to be done. Might take him along to one of those pet obedience classes, actually.”

“Great idea. I once took my girl there and she caught on really quickly to the ‘give me treats if you want me to do something’ lesson. The look on her face is priceless when I ‘sit’ on command. Haven’t the heart to tell her I was planning to sit anyway but, hey, she gets a kick out of thinking she’s in charge, so why spoil her fun?”

“Ha ha! That’s hilarious, Jake. Well, must go! Gotta have his ‘walkies’, you know. Yes, I know you and I prefer to think of it as our ‘cardio vascular workout’ but, let’s face it, we need to keep the language simple for this lot. That’s why I usually stick to ‘woof’. It’s about the only thing they seem to understand.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Not the smartest breed on the planet, but at least they feed us twice a day, scratch our bellies, give us the odd bath and vaccination and get us out of the house every morning. So we can’t complain. Too bad they have to go to work every day to support us. But hey, I guess that’s what pets are for! ……….

Nice collar, by the way. Are those diamonds real?”

Li’l Vampires?

2011-10-20T02:04:00.000-07:00

The other day I was surfing the internet looking for ideas for curtains for my lounge room. After browsing several home interior sites I finally found what seemed to be a stylish site with some very nice, elegant ideas.

As I trawled through the photos on the site, I noticed that one picture showed a baby of around eight months in the foreground, sitting on a sofa.

“How cute,” I thought, assuming that perhaps the owner of the company had, like many a proud parent, decided to show off their offspring. I was a little surprised that they had chosen their business site to do so but conceded that there are many advertising photos on the internet of real people. Besides, I thought, many people are drawn to babies, so perhaps it wasn’t such a bad marketing ploy, after all.

But as I continued to scroll through the rest of the photographs, I came across the baby again. This time it was a close up. He or she was smiling cutely but there was something disturbing about the image.

When I looked closer I noticed the following words emblazoned in red writing across the baby’s tiny white singlet: “I’d rather be drinking blood”.

Now, forgive my bewilderment but, at what point in a marketing campaign might one decide that a photo of a small child wearing a tacky and potentially offensive singlet might send sales skyrocketing?

I’m imagining a bunch of trendy curtain-design people hunched over a worktable, sifting through dozens of photos when suddenly one of them has an epiphany;

“I know!” he shouts, ‘Let’s include Mini Me Dracula drooling and wearing a distasteful little shirt. Surely THAT will get the curtain-buying punters in!”

At the other end of the marketing equation, can you visualise the curtain-buyers embracing this quirky little advertising stunt?

“Oh, look, Sebastian. This evil-looking child who prefers drinking blood looks just perfect against those amazing plantation shutters. I simply must have them.”

Shhhhrighhhht.

Surely the twits must have realised that not everyone would take kindly to the image? So why on earth include a photo that could polarise – and in many cases actually turn away - potential customers? Not to mention, that they portrayed their own child in a bad light.

It just made no sense, but then again, I have come to realise that some parents are quite odd. On the one hand they say they want the absolute best for their kids; but on the other hand, they don’t seem to be very clear about what, exactly, that is.

Surely, even posting a normal photo of one’s child on the web should be given a reasonable amount of consideration, let alone posting a child wearing a slogan with offensive and/or evil connotations.

Anyway, even though I realise my non purchase will not even be noticed by the vendors, at least I’m satisfied that Vampire Boy’s thoughtless parents won’t be getting my curtain business any time soon.

“I’d rather have bare windows!” was my response to their website and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.

The Naughty Finger

2011-09-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

You know how in the cartoons when a character hurts their finger, it’s animated into this huge, red, pulsating digit? (I’m visualising Fred Flintstone going “Yeeeeeooooow!” as I write).

You do? Well that’s me right now. Except, if I’m totally honest there’s really no huge, red, pulsating finger, just rather a poor excuse for a cut on the end of my ‘pointer’ which has been giving me absolute grief for days.

And I’m getting no sympathy from my dog, Moses, either as it was an attempt to swat him that caused the injury in the first place. In fact, I can almost hear a smug little doggie “serves you right” as he reminds me that he was just trying to ‘help’ me when my finger connected rather sharply with some woodwork instead of him.

But the reason I am even writing about this is that it’s almost as if this sore finger has its own dastardly agenda. Whatever I’m doing it seems to find itself in an awkward (read ‘excruciatingly painful’!) spot.

I have a shower; it clunks itself on the soap tray. I try to dress; it gets itself caught in the elastic of my undies. I rummage through the cutlery drawer; it finds a couple of loose spoons to wedge itself between. I flick on the car blinkers; it goes one step further and whacks the steering wheel. It’s on a mission to make me notice it!

“Look at me!” it seems to be saying. “Don’t just go about your daily life like a normal, pain-free person. We have an ‘injury’ here, woman! Suffer!”

My handbag is like a mobile torture chamber. A simple search for the car keys has now become an exercise that must be planned with military precision. Firstly, the bag must be placed on a flat surface.

Then, using LEFT hand only (the non injured hand), items impeding the view of said car keys, are removed one by one. At NO point whatsoever in this delicate operation is the right hand permitted to engage in the activity. That is, until my mobile starts ringing in the bowels of the bag and ‘Old Righty’ goes into auto-response and dives foolishly into the fray.

Result? Me hopping around, waving my sore finger in the air like a mad woman and trying to stop myself from turning the air blue with expletives ….. and a missed call.

“Was it really worth it?” I ask Old Righty grumpily (yes, now I’m even talking to the thing). “You’ve just set your healing process back by about three days, I reckon.”

Old Righty just gives a sickening throb and says ‘Whatever’. He’s had his fun.

And then there’s night time. You wouldn’t think one could continue to injure one’s finger in bed, would you? But yes, that’s exactly what I can do.

After several pain-wracked moments of arranging myself under the covers, I attempt to roll on to my side, only to find Old Righty’s having none of it. He’s decided to wind himself defiantly into the corner of the sheet where he stays until he is ripped forth by the momentum of me doing my beached whale impersonation.

“Yeeeeeeeoooooow!” hollers Miss Flintstone as her pulsating, red, swollen digit wins again.

I lie there for the next several hours with my hand in the air in an attempt to keep the blood from flowing freely into the end of the finger.

“What the hell are you doing?” the spouse inquires after waking to find me looking like a zombie-fied, horizontal goal umpire.

Well, anyway, I think Old Righty might have won, afterall. I reckon it could be a trip to the doctor for some antibiotics in the very near future.

“I told you so,” says Old Righty, smugly admiring his latest bandage.

Argghhh! There’s nothing worse than the finger of scorn!

Location! Location! Location!

2011-08-12T02:37:00.000-07:00

Isn’t it sad that the older we get, the harder it is to keep fit, healthy, trim, taut and terrific.

The kilos pile on at an alarming rate, the muscles hurt for days after a bit of exercise and the wrinkles and grey hairs seem to be competing to see which can multiply the most in the shortest space of time. Even the brain cells seem to be winding down. What was that other thing I was going to mention? Oh I forget…never mind ……...it might come to me in the morning……

Yes, it hardly seems fair that the human form seems so hell bent on dilapidation. After all, it’s not like most of us don’t take care of ourselves. We eat our fibre, drink our water, eat fruit and walk the dogs. What more do we have to do?

I mean, if I was a house, I would simply be in need of a renovation and some cashed up property mogul would come along and weave some creative magic on my tired façade. Some render here, some new stumps there, an electrical overhaul and a new roof, perhaps.

Or better still, wouldn’t it be great if I could just flog off the old body and upgrade to a new “residence”?

I can just imagine the advertisement for that!

For Genuine Sale

Renovators Delight
Female Human Body
Circa 1960
Solid construction
Rustic charm
Some ornamental features

Give the old girl a new lease on life!

Yes, buyers, this yesteryear beauty may be in need of renovation, but with a little TLC, some spakfilla, a good paint job (and perhaps even some minor earth moving equipment), she could be given a whole new lease on life!

The following minor defects have been identified:

• Sagging awnings
• Creaking frame
• Cracked external cladding
• Leaky plumbing
• Loose wiring
• Faded roof tiles
• Bats in the attic

So Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! buyers.

This little beauty won’t last!

(Inspection by appointment only. Bring wine)

Dem Bones!

2011-06-11T21:33:00.000-07:00

Picture this. A friend of mine, living in London at the time, is heading to Gatwick airport to pick up his wife from a plane trip.

My friend -- known as X -- is in a hurry as his wife’s plane has already landed and he promised to be waiting for her. After several weeks away on business for the couple’s orthopaedics company, the wife is understandably keen to get home.

Nearing the airport, X whizzes (upon reflection, a little too swiftly) through a roundabout. Unfortunately, given that it’s only a few days since a terrorist scare in the vicinity of the airport, the place is crawling with police. Sure enough, Mr Plod pulls X over.

“’Allo, ‘allo, ‘allo,” says Mr Plod (well, actually he probably didn’t say that; I’m just setting the English scene here, folks).

“So wots the big ‘urry, Sonny Jim?” says Mr Plod, leaning in the car window.

“Well, you see, officer,” gushes X, trying to look appealing and innocent, “I’m late to pick up my wife from the airport. And you know how cranky these women can be if we’re late, don’t you?” X tries a conspiratorial wink for good measure.

Mr Plod’s not buying.

“Would you mind removing the keys and stepping from the car, sir?” he asks.

X looks anxiously at his watch and sighs. He opens the door and gets out. The Bobby checks his licence then motions towards the rear of X’s car.

“Do you have anything in the boot, sir?” he inquires.

“Nah…” says X automatically, before suddenly remembering something worrying. His heart rate quickens and his mouth suddenly becomes dry.

“Umm,” he squeaks, “ahh …..actually I do have something in the boot. But, um, it’s, well……..” his voice trails off as the Bobby raises a quizzical eyebrow and motions for X to open the trunk.

“But it’s not quite what it seems!” cries X, his voice now shrill and somewhat desperate.

“Just open it, Sunshine!” says Mr Plod (well, okay, maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of the The Bill; perhaps he didn’t really say ‘Sunshine’).

But anyway, X, looking paler by the second, reaches down to unlock the boot.
“I can explain!” he wails. “It’s not as bad as it looks! Honest!”

By this stage Plod is getting cranky. He reaches forward and hoists the boot open himself only to find he’s looking at every policeman’s worst nightmare.

Lying in the boot is a complete adult human skeleton!

“What the…?” shouts the policeman recoiling instantly from the car.

“It’s okay – it’s fake!” shouts X, trying to sound all perky; like he hasn’t just opened the boot of his car and exposed what appears to be human remains to an edgy policeman who’s been on an active hunt for terrorists and other maniacal killers.

“We’re in ‘orthopaedics’!” squeals X emphatically. “It’s a demonstration skeleton, that’s all!

Plod takes Xs keys from him and eyes him nervously for a few minutes while radioing in to headquarters. A few minutes later, he’s confirmed X’s story.

X heaves a sigh of relief and returns to his car.

“Thank God you didn’t find the drugs in the glove box!” he jokes as he’s about to drive off. Unfortunately Plod is not in the mood for levity.

“I think we’ve had enough hilarity from you for one night, sir,” he says gravely.

X concedes it’s probably not a good idea to be teasing someone who has a gun.

Not a good idea at all, Sunshine.

Winners are Grinners

2011-06-01T03:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve always thought of myself as a fairly ‘non competitive’ person. Not for me the ‘stoush to the end’ for winners glory. “I’m a lover – not a fighter!” I would cry if challenged to any kind of sporting duel.

However, when I reflect more closely on my personal history of competition, I find that I was not, in fact, the little mouse who stood in the corner of the court/stadium/spelling bee podium and let everyone walk, run, throw, smash balls (or verbs) all over her. No, I could hold my own and did so in quite a feisty fashion.

First there was netball. After the insult of not being picked for the top Grade 6 team, I set about forming my own little team, known (perhaps somewhat unfortunately, upon reflection) as “The Way Outs”.

We were a motley little crew with more artistic than ball-throwing talent. What hope did we have – sickly looking in our pallid lemon-coloured tunics -- against the vibrant and physically superior ‘A Team’ resplendent in their royal blue shifts with snazzy gold lettering emblazoned on their bibs? Not much hope at all, seemingly, but that didn’t stop us -- and we even made it to the semi finals that year.

Then there was tennis. For years I played all around the district. On hard court and lawn, in all kinds of weather. As a young mum, I dragged babies and toddlers (and everything but the kitchen sink!) to stinking hot, dry, out of the way places -- just to play tennis.

But even though I could whack my way around the court pretty well, I never quite managed to work my way up to Number 1 pair in the Mixed round. Usually I ended up playing with my spouse (never a good idea if marital bliss is your ultimate aim) or got landed with the ‘fourth’ guy who always seemed to think he was John McEnroe but played, in fact, more like Elmer Fudd.

So why am I ruminating about my competitive spirit? Well, since taking up golf in recent times, I have played in several competitions; most recently in a Mixed 4 Ball tournament. Our team, two men and two women, headed out to the first tee with no real hopes of winning. However, as our Stableford score mounted encouragingly we realised we may well be actually in the race and started getting excited. With each extra point earned we hopped madly around the greens doing “Hi Fives!” and “Woohoo-ing!” much to the bemusement, no doubt, of our fellow golfers.

As we made our way back to the clubhouse, our Captain tallied up the score and excitedly informed us that we had 100 points. This, he assured us, was a very good score for Stableford. But was it enough, we wondered? Especially given that we were nearly all relative beginners (which kind of explains why our scores were so high; it’s not hard to be competitive when you have a handicap of 39!) Surely, we thought, there will be plenty of higher scores than ours.

However, when the announcements were later made at the 19th Hole, we found we did, indeed, have the top score. Unfortunately we shared the same score with another group and lost on a countback -- so even our rubbish handicaps couldn’t save the day.

But anyway, as I gathered up my prizes (six balls and a golf towel) I couldn’t help but feel pretty smug and pleased with myself.

“Watch out for us next time!” I whispered silently to the team who had pipped us at the post (conveniently forgetting that they are all on one figure handicaps and are therefore still actually much better players than us. My competitive tail was up!)

And now, my pretties, to figure out how I can keep my astoundingly high handicap and still win lots of golf in the future!

Cue ‘Evil Laugh’. Bruuhhhaahha!

Kermit and the Conference of Gloom

2011-05-19T02:49:00.000-07:00

The other day I attended a conference which was, to be frank, my kind of conference.

You see, unlike many other conferences I have attended, there was no boring 1.5 hour monologue by some boooring (yes, albeit very clever) academic, waffling on ad nauseum about his or her particular bent and expecting us poor, pathetic, ignorant lay people to be similarly enchanted.

No, in stark contrast, this most recent conference was comprised of short, sharp spurts of information, delivered in neatly packaged twenty minute lots and including plenty of activities to keep us engaged and occupied.

After the conference, I commented to a colleague about my comparative enjoyment of this kind of forum to the dry ones I had previously experienced.

“So you don‘t really like the ‘adult learning model’, then?” he asked politely.
“No,” I replied honestly, “give me the ‘Sesame Street model’ any day. Short snippets of info and fun and not a wordy powerpoint presentation in sight!”

He smiled politely, no doubt ‘noting to self’ not to expect too much of me in terms of academic prowess or stickability.

But it’s true. I’m not a sticker when it comes to boring stuff. And I mean no disrespect to any speaker in saying so but, unless you keep me entertained with startling insights, humour or the odd magic trick, you can forget it. I will switch off quicker than a lightbulb in a greenie’s outhouse.

Not even some of the great orators of the world could keep my attention if it decided to so wander. For example, I can see me in biblical times with my Bedouin brain awandering. At the Sermon on the Mount, there I’d be fidgeting and checking my wrist-sundial every five shadows. Who were the Beatitudes anyway? I’d be wondering. Saint John, Paul, George and Ringo?

As Churchill delivered his moving “We shall fight them on the beaches!” speech, I’d have probably been doodling idly and wondering what was for lunch.
When JFK blasted out, “We choose to go to the moon!” I’d likely have been watching ‘Adventure Island’ (NASA’s space program not being exactly the thought fodder of most rural Australian kids).

But, oddly and in stark contrast, my attention was fully there for Lord Spencer as he railed against the paparazzi over the death of Princess Diana. It was a gut-wrenching time during which I came to better understand the pull of ordinary people towards celebrity. On the day of Diana’s funeral I sat in front of the telly and cried for six hours straight. It was both pathetic and enlightening to realise that someone I’d never met could move me so much.

Getting back to the speeches, let just me clarify one thing. If you are going to throw in a little humour, please make sure your audience will get the joke.

I recall an engineer friend who was preparing a speech for an international conference. He ran his speech past me beforehand, complete with (what he thought was) a very amusing joke. My non-amusement was palpable but I tried to cover it by suggesting perhaps I just didn’t understand engineering humour. He unfortunately didn’t take my hint to rethink his ‘joke’ and went on to include it – apparently quite unsuccessfully -- in the speech.

And so, here’s my public speaking advice in nutshell:

Keep it simple. Keep it quick. Wear a muppet costume……….. and get off as soon as possible!

OOO Boy!

2011-05-02T22:24:00.000-07:00

A friend and I were recently discussing our wonderful police and emergency services and admiring the fantastic job they generally do in responding to all manner of crises.

During this conversation, I raised the question of how the 000 emergency hotline manages to deal with large numbers of calls, all coming in at once, such as when a major emergency like a flood, storm or fire occurs. For example, I wondered if they ‘queue’ calls or whether the calls ever go to an answering machine until an operator can get to them.

My friend (who apparently had some insight into such matters) informed me that 000 service centres generally have an ‘overflow’ system, whereby if all the lines are busy, calls are diverted to other parts of the organisation or to other ‘manned’ sites. That was a relief, as the idea of hearing a recorded message when one is in the middle of an emergency is a scary thought.

But this got me thinking about what such a scenario might look like and made me giggle. Imagine. You dial 000 and a recorded voice says something like this:

“Hi. You’ve called Triple O, the emergency specialists. Our operators are all busy dealing with someone else’s crisis at the moment, but please hold and one of our friendly team will be with you shortly.”

You then hear the piped music. ‘California Girls’ pumps chirpily through the phone before this next round of info:

“Thank you for holding. Your emergency is important to us so please keep holding. Or if you would prefer to be transferred directly to the department that deals with your specific issue, please select one of the following options:

If you have an axe-wielding maniac hacking through your flywire door, please press 1.

If there’s a seventy foot gum tree (or part thereof) imbedded in your lounge room, please press 2.

If you’re trapped by the huge huntsman spider that’s on the wall between you and the nearest exit, please press 3 (ya sook!)

If there’s a runaway car protruding from your front fence, please press 4.

If you’ve misplaced your children, please check under the beds, in the laundry basket or in your neighbour’s lounge room, then press 5.

If you’ve misplaced your husband, please check the couch thoroughly, then press 6

If you need an ambulance, please check that you have cover and, if not, take this opportunity to get some (dial 123SICK for some great February deals! Buy one paramedic and get an ashen-faced work experience kid for free!) Then press 7.

If there’s a snarling dog attached to your leg, please press 8 (and try not to yowl into the phone too much, okay?)

If the storm water drain outside your house now appears to be flowing inside your house, please press 9.

If your spa bath isn’t operating at the right temperature, please press 10.

Yes, we here at Triple O cater for ALL kinds of emergencies. No job too big or small. And yes, we DO deliver.....eventually…..

Now…. if you can just keep the compression pack on the axe wound, chainsaw the tree off your telly, flick the spider outside, hoist the car off your fence, locate the kids and hubby, drive yourself to the hospital, feed the dog something other than your shin, unplug the stormwater drain and press “On” on your spa, you can get your life back to normal and we can go back to checking out Ebay.

Thank you for calling Triple O. We really do care. Just not today.”

Collectible Chaos

2011-04-05T03:59:00.000-07:00

Over the years I have known many people who collected items such as antiques, dolls, guns, china, books, artworks and Elvis memorabilia. And while I have always admired the single-mindedness of these people to devote so much time and energy towards their hobby, personally, I found the whole idea a bit boring.

I mean if you’ve got one of something, what the hell do you need another one for? was my view. And why, oh why, I asked myself, would someone be interested in collecting ugly seventies glass vases and plastic travel clocks in the first place? I just couldn’t see the point. In fact, I even wondered if these collecty-type people were ever so slightly unhinged. I mean, didn’t the need to surround oneself with hundreds of similar looking items, only to keep polishing and rearranging them, smack rather heavily of obsessive-compulsive behaviour?

However, as I’ve become older, while I would certainly never profess to becoming a collector myself (not unless you count hoarding old makeup in my bathroom cupboard) I must admit that I have perhaps started to gain a better understanding of the collector’s motivation.

After all, to these people it’s not just about staring admiringly at their latest acquisition as it takes pride of place amongst its four thousand cousins on the shelf. It’s quite often about the challenge of finding it in the first place. The thrill of the hunt. The adrenalin of the kill (or, in this case, the auction). The triumphant moment when that funny little object of your desire is finally in your hot little hands. THAT is what collecting is all about.

Of course, I must admit this is mere speculation on my part. Collectors world-wide might hunt me down and boil me in hot wax for saying these things about them, but I don’t mind going out on the occasional philosophical limb. (In fact, I’m thinking about starting a collection of philosophical limbs. What do you think?)

Anyway, having watched ‘The Collectors’ on TV for some time now, I feel I can speak with reasonable authority on this matter. I have seen how these collecty-people’s eyes glaze over when they talk about their latest ‘find’. Their hunter-gatherer instincts are strong. It’s a prehistoric penchant for getting stuff and keeping it. Lots of it.

The only difference between regular people and collecty-people is that regular people like to get lots of different stuff, while collecty-people like, well, all the same stuff. It’s their prerogative of course, and I will defend the right of all collecty-people to go forth and collect as much as their little collecty-hearts desire.

So what has led me to wax lyrical about all things collectable? Well, you see the spouse has started collecting ceramic beer steins. Mostly from Germany and other parts of Europe and damn it if those colourful little jugs aren’t sucking me in too! I find myself gazing at them inexplicably as I sip my morning coffee. I find myself talking about them to visitors and examining them closely. I even started cataloguing the little beasts!

And I am actually getting a bit worried about the spouse too. He seems to need to buy these things on a regular basis. He becomes fixated when his eyes drift to the Stein Shelf and he seems to need to touch them rather more often than is, I feel, strictly healthy.

What on earth has happened here? Have we created a pair of ceramic-collecting monsters? Franken-Steins perhaps? Is there any hope for us, or will we soon be collecting all manner of collectables? Will our house become so full of 19th Century Dentistry Equipment, Commemorative Tea Towels and Scowly Faced Baby Dolls that we will need a guided tour just to get to the toilet?

I certainly hope not. And just to make sure, I think it’s best if I stick to my ‘philosophical limbs’. At least they won’t need dusting.

Grand Designs? I don't think so, Tim

2011-03-10T00:57:00.000-08:00

Picture this. Somewhere in a laboratory in Zurich, a team of nerdy looking scientific guys with fruzzy hair and white coats are huddled around a stainless steel workbench. They are so engrossed in their project that they barely even notice the sound of atoms splitting in a nearby nuclear collider (or even the smoko bell, for that matter).

On the bench before them lies the blueprint for one of the most dastardly weapons against mankind ever invented. The Nerdy Scientist guys cackle gleefully as one of them adds yet another masterstroke of design to their drawing.

“Aha!” cries Professor Springbunger delightedly sketching his infamous vicious coil-shape, “Vee must never forget zat our ultimate aim is to ensure that zee person who uses ziss device suffers greatly.”

The other Nerdy Guys nod in agreement. They know that the entire future of the universe depends on their ability to design the most uncomfortable sofa bed; thus preventing many millions of unwanted houseguests from staying too long at many millions of other people’s places.

Unlikely, you say? Well, then, you try explaining why fold-out beds have so many extraneous coils, bars and bumps in them or why they tip you into the middle whilst simultaneously being noisy and cold! You can’t, can you? So my theory persists.

Surely it must be deliberate, for I can’t imagine that any sofa-bed-architect could actually believe they have invented something comfortable. I mean, don’t these people ever test their products? Don’t they know that sleeping on a sofa-bed has been named in the top-ten Most Annoying Things To Do Before You Die list?

Of course, sofa beds aren’t the only badly designed products on the market these days. Take for example, those prams with big side wheels that hook onto everything in their path – meaning that someone’s furniture, gate, pet or small child may be still attached to you by the time you get to your destination.

Then there are mobile phones that are so complicated you need a degree in technology and aerodynamics to operate them (and that’s just to open ‘em!) And how sensible is it that we must work our way through six layers of plastic and cardboard before we even get to a bar of soap yet, ironically, every day millions of unprotected city folk are breathing in toxic gases from the poorly designed, fuel-guzzling motor vehicles? Why don’t they cling-wrap the cars, for goodness sake and leave us humble soap-opening people alone?

And what about shampoo and conditioner bottles? Given that millions of people wear glasses, doesn’t it seem plausible that these same people probably don’t wear their glasses in the shower and therefore cannot read the miniscule writing on the bottles? Only yesterday I managed to shampoo my hair three times in one session because I couldn’t read the labels. Surely amongst the Einsteins of the design world there must be at least one or two bespectacled types who could have raised this particular issue?

I just shake my head in disbelief at times. We’ve come so far and yet still can’t seem to perfect the simplest of design feats.

And as I take the bread knife to a tightly wrapped package after five minutes of frustration and futility trying to open the damn thing, I once again question the ingenuity of mankind.

We can put space shuttles into orbit, create the World Wide Web and pack millions of gigabytes into a single pinhead, yet we still can’t seem to invent an easy-open box of tea-bags. Sheesh!

Foul Language Gone Wilde

2011-02-10T21:22:00.000-08:00

Oscar Wilde, the famous 19th century Irish poet once said: “The expletive is the refuge of the semi-literate”. In other words; swearing is for dumb heads.

Well, all I can say is, if the ‘refuge’ was an actual place, it would be packed to the rafters -- considering the number of foul-mouthed ‘dumb heads’ around these days. And yes, okay, I might be among their number too at times, I admit. (Before anyone starts calling me a hypocrite because they’ve heard me say naughty words). Yes, we 21st century folk say lots of words that would’ve made our grandparents’ hair curl.

As a kid I was aware of most of the swear words but would never dare use them. And, even though my Dad was always careful not to swear around us kids or in public, I still, in fact, heard my first F Bomb from his own lips as he wrestled angrily with some recalcitrant piece of machinery in his shed. He must have thought the tin shed walls were soundproof!

Mum was not a swearer. In fact, the worst thing I ever heard her say was when she called our kelpie “Face Ache” as he persistently tried to herd her around the clothesline. I thought this was hilarious. In her later years, after a severe stroke had sadly stolen much of her capacity to remember words, she adopted the unlikely (for her) “Bugger Awful!” when things displeased her. Coming from my Mum it was priceless!

Then came my own parenting. We were always careful to keep it nice around the kids and I used to warn them thus (and forgive me Oscar!): “Only dumb people swear because they are too stupid to know any better words.”

The kids got it (I guess no-one likes to be labelled as stupid) and pretty much refrained from using bad language -- around me anyway. I told them I didn’t actually care what they said when they were somewhere where no-one could hear them. BUT (and this was my big stipulation) if there was even just ONE person who might be offended -- or little kids -- within earshot, they were not to do it.

I’m not sure how effective this advice actually was but the fact that the kids spent quite a lot of time down the river suggests maybe they had more words to get off their chests than I realised. (If only the gum trees had ears!)

But anyway, a while ago I was with my sons (now young men) when one of them accidentally dropped the F Bomb. Before I’d even raised an eyebrow in protest, he quickly apologised to me. My heart swelled with pride that my child was so respectful, until his brother chimed in that what he had said was nothing compared to what he usually says! Hmph!

More recently, after a local outdoor rock concert, I commented to Number Three Son that I wished the band hadn’t sworn so much as the microphones were carrying the offensive words all over town.

Number Three just rolled his eyes and said, “Will you just get over this swearing thing, Mum? It’s just part of life. You make such a big deal out of it!”

“So you don’t have a problem with it then?” I asked him. “You’re okay with people swearing anytime and any place, are you?” He nodded emphatically.

“Well, okay. How about getting your own (*F Bomb*) breakfast then?” I inquired politely. Number Three nearly fell off his chair!

Funny how something’s okay until your mother does it. I guess it’s all a matter of perspective. (Sorry Oscar, but we 21st Century mums have to work with what we’ve got!)

Nothing Worse?

2011-02-03T18:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, as my colleague and I scrounged around our office looking for some staples, I found myself blurting out one of those inane, ill-considered, sayings.

Having finally found some staples that were the right size, I bleated: “Thank goodness! There’s NOTHING WORSE than having no staples.”

Realising my gaff, I quickly added, “Unless of course you get hacked to death by an axe murderer. That might be worse.”

You see, I have made a mental pact with myself that I will never utter such ludicrous words in relation to mundane, everyday annoyances. After all, when you really think about it, there are just so many worse things.

Nothing worse than missing the bus? Yes, getting HIT by the bus would be worse.

Nothing worse than having a cold? Try pneumonia, typhoid, malaria, dysentery or The Plague perhaps?

Nothing worse than running out of milk for your cereal? How about out and out starvation. That’s gotta be slightly worse.

Nothing worse than getting up to crying baby in the night? What about lying there for hours worrying that it’s not crying? I’ve been there. It’s definitely worse!

Nothing worse than a sore toe? You’d prefer amputation maybe?

Nothing worse than forgetting to turn your electric blanket on? How about no bed on which to affix the lecky in the first place?

Nothing worse than a slow email connection? Umm…do the words ‘snail mail’ mean anything to you?

Nothing worse than dry elbow skin? One word. Leprosy.

Nothing worse than waiting for the phone to ring? OK, maybe being stood on by a stampeding African elephant might be a tad worse.

Nothing worse than kids who don’t listen? What about kids who DO listen but still don’t give a toss? They are definitely much worserer (new word for the occasion).

Nothing worse than having to go to work on Monday? Does it really get any better on Tuesday? Nah? Thought not.

Nothing worse than dog poo on your shoe? How about dog teeth imbedded in your ribcage? (With an angry dog still attached!)

Nothing worse than slow traffic? Well, arriving by slow ambulance to the morgue could be slightly worse (not that we would be in any position to notice nor care).

Nothing worse than a dodgy computer mouse? Scabies. Scabies would be worse.

Nothing worse than cold coffee? How about warm beer? Eeuw!

By this stage I assume you get my point, so I will shut up now.

After all, I’m sure there’s nothing worse than a Kitchen Philosopher who waffles on ‘ad nauseum’.

Aside from perhaps …….

Nah. Nothing.

Okay, I take your point.

ANZAC Magic

2011-01-29T16:39:00.000-08:00

I’ve learned a valuable lesson this morning. Never mess with the knowledge, experience and cooking skills of our pioneering womenfolk.

I say this because today I decided to cook some ANZAC biscuits. I checked the pantry to make sure I had all the ingredients: Butter — check (well, the cholesterol-fighting spread that we artery-challenged middle-agers use). Flour, coconut, oats — check. Golden syrup — check. Sugar — check. Bicarb soda — check. Great! All systems go.

But as I am wont to do (even though experience proves I should really know better) I decided to give the old ANZACs a new twist. Perhaps it was the Scotsman’s daughter in me who was reluctant to use the expensive, sterol-enhanced spread, or maybe it really was a genuine belief that I should not be consuming so much unhealthy fat in the first place, that made me decide to replace some of the ‘butter’ with olive oil. After all, I concluded, it was still wet stuff, so it really shouldn’t make much difference, should it?

I heated the wet ingredients and stirred them into the dry ingredients but instead of glugging up into a sticky ball as required, the ingredients obstinately refused to come together. Thinking it was just due to the strange butter and olive oil mix I conceded that, yes, they will be a bit dry, but we will get over it.

Somehow I managed to squeeze the mixture into kind-off lumps and popped them into the oven, but as I cleaned up the kitchen I made a mental note to never again mess with those early Australian chicks. After all, they’d probably tried and tested many versions of ANZAC biscuits before finally settling on something that actually worked. Who was I to question their wisdom? I, who has had many tragic cookery moments and whose love of cooking is rivalled only by her love of having dental surgery without anaesthesia.

But as I opened the pantry door to replace something, I saw a disconcerting sight. There, sitting on the shelf in front of my nose, was the Golden Syrup! Only THE most important ingredient of the ANZAC biscuit!

Unopened.

No wonder there’d been no glugging! I quickly dashed to the oven and removed the lumps which had already begun to harden, tossed them unceremoniously back into a mixing bowl and smashed them with a wooden spoon. I heated the golden syrup and glooped it into the crumbling mess and WHAMMO: straight away there was ‘glugging’ and I knew I had managed to resurrect the ailing ANZACs. It was truly a moment of culinary magic!

Back into the oven and shortly afterwards out they came, all golden and yummy-looking. In fact, I’d almost go as far as saying they may be the best batch I’ve ever produced. (And the Scotsman’s daughter was quite relieved that she hadn’t just wasted $8 worth of sterols too!)

Yes, those ANZAC chicks may not have had olive oil and sterol-enhanced spreads to choose from in those days so, indeed, the ANZAC biscuit may truly be an artery-hardener-to-the-max.

But the real problem with ANZAC biscuits is not that they contain so much fat and sugar. It’s that people like me, whose cholesterol levels correspond directly with their lack of willpower, are unable to stop eating them!

What we really need is a recipe for “Anti-ANZAC-Scoffing”.

Now THAT, I definitely wouldn’t mess with! Promise.

The Age of Unreason?

2011-01-17T02:12:00.000-08:00

Age is a relative thing. When you are seven, anyone over the age of twelve is grown up. And when you are sixteen, thirty is the gateway to drool and incontinence pads.

As an eight year old I recall being quite relieved when my twenty five year old teacher FINALLY married and had a baby. I feared if she didn’t hurry up, she would be waaaay too old.

When I reached twenty-five, myself, it was quite a different story. I felt young; my life stretched before me and the world was at my feet. Conversely, my approaching-their-thirties siblings seemed ‘mature-aged’ and my parents …. well … they were positively ancient!

Around this time, a relative died at age 55 and I actually thought, “Oh well, he’s had a good innings! “ A good innings? What was I thinking? Now that 50 looms in my not too distant future, 55 is like the prime of youth! At 55 you should be dancing til midnight, riding surf boards and seeing the world, not six foot under pushing up daisies. Goodness, how my perspective has changed!

And what has brought about this sudden interest in our varied perspectives of ageing?

Well, the other day I heard on the radio that a local girl had been invited to join a group of ‘young people’ to meet the Pope. Oh, how lovely I thought. A bunch of teenagers hanging out with the God Squad. I had visions of Benedict XVI, cross-legged in St Peter’s Square in hoodie and jeans, downing a Big Mac and chilling out with the kids.

My vision was short lived. The news report concluded by interviewing the ‘young woman’ in question.

At first, however, I thought they must have mistakenly interviewed her mother, for clearly the voice on the other end of the phone was not that of a teenager. In fact, without even setting eyes on our Little Miss Vatican 2010 I guessed she was somewhere in her late thirties. I was prepared to wager that if she was a teen, then the Pope was certainly no Catholic!

So what was this ‘young people’ thing all about? When I was thirty I was an adult mother of three with responsibilities and a mortgage. I didn’t consider myself to be exactly ‘old’ but to me ‘young’ was anything under 25.

But of course I have overlooked the Baby Boomer Factor. After all, if there’s one thing we BBs hate it’s to lose control. Thus ageing is not on our agenda. No, instead we have simply reinvented the standard stages of maturity to suit ourselves. ‘Old’ is becoming the new ‘young’.

‘Young’ is everything up to and including whatever age we Boomers currently are, and ‘old’ is anything beyond the next twenty years. We reserve the right to revisit and manipulate this to suit our egos and lifestyles, so be prepared to see 80 as the new 50; 50 as the new 30; 30 as the new 18; (16 as 16 - some things don’t get any better) and pre-pubescent tweenies will be the new toddlers. Babyhood will be retained in its current form, mainly because babies don’t give a toss about getting older (in fact they quite like being babies) and besides, going back to the womb might be a bit tricky.

So, anyway, I guess I don’t need to worry about the crows-feet or saggy bits that are coming my way. After all, thanks to our ageless Baby Boomers, these are about to become synonymous with eternal youth. In fact, it will be so cool to be wrinkled, all the kids will be wanting turkey-necks for Christmas. Their mantra will be ‘Old dudes ROCK!’ and we will approach our twilight years happy in the knowledge that we’ve still got ‘it’…..

……um….that’s if we can remember what ‘it’ actually is….

A Modern Christmas Tale

2011-01-08T16:22:00.000-08:00

T’was the night before Christmas and all over the house not a sound could be heard, not even a mouse.

Well okay, maybe a mouse, but not the kind of mouse you’re thinking of. Not the ‘eek eek’, furry kind, but the kind that moves the cursor on my computer.

Frantically typing a late yuletide article got me thinking about how different the very first Christmas might have been had it occurred in the modern age.

First of all, it strikes me that the Great Universal Architect probably wouldn’t have wasted a whole supernova in an effort to attract the attention of the Three Wise Men (climate change and all). Surely he would have just Tweeted about the imminent arrival. The guys, in turn, would have punched the street directions for uptown Bethlehem into their latest ‘Nav Desert Man’ technology and sped towards their destination in a trusty Commodore V6 with mag (or was that Magi?) wheels and subwoofer.

As for the Holy family, rather than staying in a stable, they would have logged onto Wotif and secured a 5 star room at the ‘Grand Sands Hotel and Birthing Unit’ complete with complimentary champagne on arrival, a continental breakfast and a gift voucher from Holy-Bubs-R-Us.

Not that Mary would have been very interested in brekky or gift vouchers. She would have been too busy browsing Ebay for a Post-Baby-Ab-Buster, catching up with her girlfriends on Facebook and texting her mother (in between contractions).

Joseph, apart from acting as Mary’s ‘birthing coach’ would be checking his mobile for the latest cricket scores, watching the big Nomads v Kings game on the huge flat screen TV and listening to Carols by Candlelight on his iPod.

Oh wait, perhaps that’s not exactly historically accurate. Carols by Candlelight might not have been invented at that stage, given that the subject of the carols was yet to actually arrive. A minor oversight on my part, but suffice to say that Joseph would have had plenty to amuse him (if the imminent arrival of the saviour of the world weren’t enough, that is).

Of course the whole event would have been filmed in digital living colour to ensure that every moment was saved for biblical posterity (movie rights pending) and/or posting on YouTube.

The Three Wise Men (Micko, Stevo and Davo) would have been milling around taking photos with their iPhones and helpfully making e-lists of really useful things to do with Myrrh and Frankincense. And, as no animals are allowed on the premises without EU accreditation, the donkeys and cattle would be banished to the nearby Happy Hoofs Pet and Ghecko Resort. This would be a relief to Mary as they generally make a hell of a racket with all their braying and lowing. Not to mention the stains on the Berber carpet.

And as the big day ends, Mary pops the little one into his crib, cranks up the Bob the Bedouin crib mobile and the Hark the Herald infant intercom. She then phones room service for a gourmet dinner and a good bottle of red.

Joseph enters the date in his Blackberry because he’s lousy at remembering birthdates and anniversaries and they all settle down to, what they hope will be, a reasonably Silent Night.

(2 a.m feedtime notwithstanding).

City Slicker

2010-12-08T00:24:00.000-08:00

I sometimes wonder if city folk understand the torture we country folk often endure just to visit their metropolitan wonderlands?

Firstly, if we are not ‘city drivers’ (and this is me) we must negotiate the arduous journey by catching a train, bus, paper truck or camel caravan.

For train travel, we must rouse ourselves before the crack of dawn, dress for everything from a heatwave to a blizzard (just in case), get to the station in time, fight our way to our designated seat, wrench our shoulder muscles trying to hoik our bag into the overhead luggage rack, then spend the entire journey holding off from going to the toilet or the dining car for fear of falling over.

If we are particularly unlucky we will be seated next to someone who’s been travelling overnight and needs a shower. If we are even unluckier, they will be slightly crazy and insist on chattering to us all the way to town about why abattoirs are the work of evil mutton-hating politicians.

Fortunately, the Travelling Gods must have been smiling on me for my last few train trips as I have managed to be seated next to people who not only provided me with great company but who have also left me with the promise to purchase my book on-line. Cool! But then the train pulls into Southern Cross and the agony starts again.

Firstly you have to walk eighteen kilometres (or thereabouts) to get to anywhere you might want to go. Ticket booth. Metropolitan platform. Coffee shop. Toilet. Walk. Walk. Walk.

Funnily enough, we country folk seem to think we are generally healthier and more energetic than our pasty-faced city counterparts. But it seems we may be somewhat mistaken. Any city person who relies on public transport needs the zip of the Energiser Bunny, the tenacity of a Jack Russell and the leg muscles of an Olympian. Boy, can they go!

They’re everywhere; dashing furiously to their train platforms or tram stops or striding purposefully along those busy city footpaths. We country folk, on the other hand, tend to get the car out to go a few blocks and we secretly snigger as city folk spill into the parks on a sunny day to play with frizbees.

"How pathetic", we think smugly. "We can throw frizbees WHENEVER we want! (But not right now, kids. I just need to email ‘hello’ to the next door neighbour)."

Well, okay, perhaps we’re not all THAT lazy, but you must agree that living in the city does seem to require a certain amount of vigour. Not to mention mental agility. In fact, just being able to decipher public transport route signs seems to require a degree in cartography.

Disturbingly there seems to be a presumption that the person frantically scanning the signage might be someone who already knows where they are and where they need to go! Obviously, if you were thus informed, you probably wouldn’t be frantically scanning anything, but I don’t think the signage designers have quite grasped that point.

Perhaps they're not so much trying to direct confused visitors, but rather positively reinforce Melburnians that they really are quite clever. I guess a little positive reinforcement for your own citizens is nice, even if it does leave your visitors more confused than ever.

Well, anyway, after a visit to the city, I am always glad to get back home.

Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I just need to pop out to the letterbox to collect my mail.

“Honey, can you get the car out for me?”

The Lion Sleeps Tonight (luckily)

2010-11-22T03:36:00.000-08:00

Africa’s Serengeti (according to those who have visited) is an amazing and magical place. Animals of all kinds roam the savanna, the incredible scenery tantalizes the senses and the history and culture of the human inhabitants of this great land amaze and humble all who go there.

Well most …… when they are not busy having a little Serengeti Domestic, that is.

And who, pray tell, were the Screaming Banshees of the Serengeti? None other than some dear relatives of mine who, to protect their identities, I shall call Jemima and Edwina.

In the company of Jemima’s spouse (whom I shall call Big Ted) this mother and daughter team had been enjoying a fabulous African safari. They had traversed the sweeping plains, been up close and personal with the wildlife and had generally been having a great — and good-humoured — trip.

That was until they arrived, hot and dusty, in a tribal village and were invited to participate in the traditional welcome. This involved a visitor of each gender taking part in a special ‘jumping’ dance.

All was going well at the start. Big Ted, a gregarious and relaxed fellow happily joined the jumping fray and things were going swimmingly. But then Jemima, a middle aged lady with high blood pressure, poked Edwina urgently and whispered “YOU’LL have to do the jumping!”

Edwina was not impressed; “I’m NOT jumping!” she hissed back through smiling (yet gritted) teeth.

“You damn-well WILL!” commanded Jemima, attempting to pull the ‘I’m Your Mother and I Tell You What to Do’ stunt which — if she’d been thinking clearly — she would have remembered had never been terribly effective on Edwina even when she was eight, let alone when she was twenty-eight. However Jemima wasn’t thinking clearly. All she could think of was that she definitely didn’t want to be doing a heart-thumping jumping dance in the middle of a dusty plain with no doctor in the house. Aside from maybe a Witch Doctor who, it would be probably fair to assume, may not have been carrying any heart medication in his little wildebeest-leather-kit-bag. The odd herbal remedy or magic spell, maybe: Beta Blockers, doubtful.

Anyhow, as befitting a young woman who has been brought up to respect others (in this case, the tribes folk) Edwina did, indeed, “jump”. And she jumped well. Her mother was proud … but that was not the end of the story….

As they made their way to their campsite Edwina let rip. “How DARE you put me on the spot like that! Don’t you EVER speak to me like that again!” she screeched.

“How dare YOU be so rude to your mother! Not to mention SELFISH!” shouted Jemima.

This went on long into the night until Big Ted (who had sensibly removed himself to a separate tent some distance away) eventually had had enough.

“Girls! Girls! Girls!” he yelled, “I — together with the entire population of the Serengeti — have been listening to this argument for hours, and you know what? You’re both right. You both have reason to be annoyed, so I think the best thing to do is stop talking to each other — RIGHT NOW! Can you do that? If not, there is a fairly good chance that you will single-handedly bring about the extinction of a multitude of local species. They’ll commit suicide just to get away from you!”

Jemima and Edwina laughed. He was right. How ridiculous to be having a mother-daughter spat when one was surrounded by such grandeur and beauty. They shut up and went to sleep.

(Post Script): Unbeknown to the squabbling travelers, the local lions — far from being suicidal —were actually just happy that the noise had abated and they weren’t forced to attack the tent and eat the girls (as originally planned).

A Twit’s Eye View of the Internet

2010-11-06T03:46:00.000-07:00

Today I had a very strange cyber experience. I logged onto my hotmail account and found an email from ‘me’. Well, from someone with my name. It was actually an invitation to join this person’s Facebook account as a ‘friend’.

Intrigued, I clicked ‘accept’. I assumed this other person was probably just someone who shared my name and had decided to make contact.

But I was wrong. This invitation wasn’t from another ‘me’ somewhere else in the world. It was actually from ME me!

How did I get this account? I wondered, as I opened the Other Me’s Facebook and realised it had all my own personal information plus some links to my own blog etc.

Then it dawned on me. My son has been helping me set up my blog. Being quite techno savvy he has been waxing lyrical about the possible benefits of linking my blog – which features articles previously published in my Kitchen Philosopher column together with info on my book – to other social networking sites.

His idea is that if we link the blog to Facebook and Twitter, we can increase the number of ‘hits’ on the blog and thus (hopefully!) the number of book sales. Well, that is the theory, anyway.

He’s even linked me to the blog analysis website so I can view my blog activity. This includes seeing how many visits I’ve had, where they are coming from and how long they stayed. It’s all very high tech.

This got me thinking about the way the retail world is changing. Where once upon a time businesses relied heavily on snail mail, word of mouth, newspaper ads and the bush telegraph to advertise their products, today its all about tweeting, blogging and posting. Even our former Prime Minister ‘twitters’ (although I’m not sure what he’s selling -- or if anyone’s buying, for that matter!)

But recently some downsides of these instantaneous communications have been exposed. First there was the newspaper columnist who twittered some highly inappropriate comments while watching the Logies and another whose very public online argument with a uni student culminated in unkind remarks about her foe and his (alleged) fondness for ‘gerbils’ (I’ll let you fill in the gaps here).

All this makes me nervous about the technology that allows us to publically blurt out every inane thought. At least with snail mail, we had some time between the envelope and the Post Office to consider the possible ramifications of our ‘rant’.

But even when you try to be careful about what you say on the internet, you never quite know where your musings might end up or what they might lose in the translation along the way!

I recently discovered this when an article I had written was published online. From it’s original website it apparently attracted quite a bit of attention, both nationally and internationally – judging by the site I later found it on which was clearly of Asian origin. I’m not sure, but I assume my article had been translated into an Asian language, then translated back into English. Consequently, it made for hilarious reading with some very funny misinterpretations of my phrasing, including one reference to ‘haemorrhoids’ which was certainly not in the original script!

While at first I was highly amused, I realised later that the article still bore my name which I found less amusing. But the really disconcerting thing is that I have absolutely no control over what anyone does with my words once they hit the web.

In fact, I feel like a bit of a Twit (erer)!

On the upside, at least I didn’t mention ‘gerbils’.