So there’s four of us sitting here around the computer wondering what the hell can I blog about? I put the question on the table. And still 10, 15, 20 minutes later they’re still trying to come up with a potential blog for me as I sit here madly typing about what to blog bout. SO here I am wondering what to blog about and here they are feeding me what to blog about. It turns out the ultimate blog is to blog about nothing. It’s al little Seinfeld but I’m a huge fan so it’s okay. I sit. I blog. I listen to the jibber jabber come out of my friends mouths. Is it wrong of me to mention that my three friends are all male? Yes. that’s right. Does this have any bearing on my blogging? Absolutely, It’s gender specific. It’s biased. But I’m okay with that. Gender, biased specific blogging. As I rant and ramble I have no idea what I’m blogging about. For the first time in my life am I finally getting in touch with the male species? Crap. Am I now in trouble for using such lowly tactics to understand, even attempt to understand the opposite sex? Hubby just said “I gave you heaps of ideas for what to blog about.” I”m like, that’s the point. I’m blogging about what to blog about. Now this is a deep conversation that could go on forever. So I won’t keep you. I look forward to my next blog.
Lord of the Freckles, Return of the Freckles, The last Freckle, The Dark Freckle, Donnie Freckle, Pulp Freckle, Reservoir Freckles, Blues Freckles, Green Freckle, The Golden Freckle, Man With The Golden Freckle, The Freckle of Oz.
I just discovered my friend has more freckles than me. Ahh! What do I do? Do I acknowledge that she’s more freckly than me? Or do I say nice freckles, you obviously tan a lot?! So I guess she has more potential for body activities than me. Am I done with the freckle mania? I don’t know. My friends are saying to me, what’s with all the freckle talk? I really don’t know. It comes natural to me. Because it’s something all white peeps can relate to. Now I don’t want to head down the racist path but do black skinned people get freckles? Anyway, I shall move onto my next blog. It’s amazing what comes out of Sunday sessions!
Have you ever noticed that some of your nearest and dearest repeat themselves? Of course you have. What do you do? Do you mention that you’ve heard the story before? OR Do you kindly listen to it one more time? Lately I’ve been taking the latter option. So I guess it depends on how near and dear they are to you. For example, I’ll let my sister tell me this great story about how she got to say, “Yeah, that’s my sister who made that film.” I’ve heard this story three times now. I’m such a bad person. I love hearing kudos stories, particularly when they’re about me. So naturally I’m gonna let her tell me about this story as many times as she wants. But does it ever happen to you? Do you tell a story and then suddenly realise half way through that you might have already told this story? And if you’re getting strong feelings that this is the case, what do you do? Do you continue as though nothing’s happened? OR Do you fess up and say, “Hang on, I’ve told you this already, haven’t I?” Your nearest and dearest is determined how near and dear they are by their response. If their response is, “Yeah, but keep going” then they’re obviously super near and dear. So if the response is, “Yes.” Well… need I say more? I guess you can determine your nearest and dearest by process of elimination. Here’s a great test for you. How many times can you repeat a story to the same nearest and dearest? Why not test their boundaries? How many times is it going to take for them to finally snap and say, “Bloody hell, how many times do I have to listen to this story?” Naturally your reply is going to be, “I wondered how long it would take you to say that.” Be warned you may peeve them a little. But hey, they’re your nearest and dearest at the end of the day. If it’s a good story, and I mean GOOD, then I’ll force (let’s abbreviate them from now on) my N and D to listen regardless of the response. So I guess we’re heading into the territory of respect. Is it disrespectful to say, “I’ve heard that one before”? Oh well, back to my other blog of An Inconvenient Truth. We need to live by some semblance of the truth. Now I’m rambling. So let me finish up. Have you ever noticed that some of your nearest and dearest repeat themselves?
So we live in pre-apocalyptic days. And in these pre-apocalyptic days the sun shines radiantly. In fact, the sun isn’t offering little kisses any more. Oh no! It’s War of the Sun. The sun now penetrates our beautiful ozone layer and smacks us so hard with its rays it’s almost like day-lightening. I have a confession to make. I’m a freckle phobe. What is a freckle phobe I hear you ask? It’s a person who is obsessed about not having freckles on either their person or that of another. I.e. my child. I was raised in the 80’s where the sun’s kisses were welcomed but not in my household. We were heavy on the slip, slop and slap factor. Never left home without a hat. Oh dear God no! It seems only natural to raise my child this way. But now, everyone has joined our sacred band wagon and is following suit. Excellent. It needs to be done. My poor little cherub gets the same treatment I did at her age: as I mentioned before with the slip, slop, slapping and now sliding factor (however she takes the glasses off within a minute). And yet the Sun God (let’s call him Ra) shines down upon thee and spits on her face. And behold one freckle followed by another and then another appear on her stunning baby skin. Before you know I’ve counted double figures. BLEEP! I’m obsessed with her having no freckles, yet I don’t mind these cute little kisses on my skin. Welcome to the Freckolution. It’s freckle mania out there and I’m a freckle phobe. I don’t mind them on other peeps but as soon as I start losing count of those dots and they start to blur my eyesight I get a headache and can’t look at the person. I think I o.d.’d on freckles in my past life. Please help me God. I don’t want to die of freckles, not again. As I sit here and type I take a look at my left arm and look at one cute little spot. I observe its colour, its shape, its size, its texture, is it smooth? Is there any freckle the same? Are they like a fingerprint and not one freckle is exactly the same as another? Wow. That’s interesting. I’m starting to admire these potential activities on my arm. I look at my right arm and notice there’s more on there than my left. Ah… my driving arm. The one that hangs out the window (being in the hot land down under – Australia for those of you that aren’t sure – we drive on the left, gotta follow in the footsteps of the anarch… oops I mean monarch. Strange how closely related those two words are?!!). Back to the Land of Freckles. I wonder how many movie titles could be renamed? There’s: Gone With The Freckle, The King’s Freckle, Black Freckle, 127 Freckles, 28 Freckles Later, Saving Private Freckle, Citizen Freckle, Rabbit Freckle, True Freckle, Three Men and a Freckle, and the freckle mania goes on. You get the freckle, I mean picture. I shall leave you with this wise quote: “there’s risks with freckles”.
WARNING: the following content may offend!
Firstly, please understand I use these terms quite loosely. I mean what’s normal right? And what’s un-normal? (Is that even a word?) Anyway… I consider myself to be an un-normal mother. So let me define these loose terms for you. A normal mother is a woman (obviously) who always wanted to be a mother. She’s 100% devoted to her offspring and the family household. She prides herself in what she’s rearing. Huge kudos to these women. They live and breathe the little termites. They take their beautiful little girl to ballet lessons with the younger and older sibling in tow. This is where they deserve monstrous accolades. They sit with the older and younger sibling for 45 minutes while the middle child is in their lesson. She has to entertain them for this duration while sitting in the foyer. Waiting… waiting… waiting. These award-winning women attract like-minded women. Fair enough. They hook up independently or play catch up at the dance lesson and chat about what? You guessed it: kids. Ahhh! How do they do it? Seriously. Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing but the hugest respect for these beautiful creatures. Then there’s me. Un-normal. I freak out when I overhear women talking about their kids or husbands. I get enough of that when I’m around them (the kid and husband that is). I need to move on and chat about me or what’s happening with the state of the economy. Scrap that. The world is facing some serious doom and gloom at the mo and I don’t need to discuss it. I like to keep things positive. Back to me. I love what I do and I could talk about acting and writing all day long. Oh dear, I think I’m obsessed. Anyway, we un-normal mothers weren’t desperate to become a mum. For the record, my 4 year old was planned all the way along. Right from conception. I thought to myself one day, am I meant to be a mother? Well universe? The universe answered me 12 months later. Turns out I was. So I become a mum and the last thing I want to discuss is the birth. But for some bizarre reason that I’ll never fathom the normal mother likes to talk about the bits and pieces. I won’t elaborate on that in case any wanna-be mothers are reading this. Let’s just say I heard some gruesome stories. Again, that’s not me. I love blood and guts in movies, but come on. It’s fake. Even if it’s based on a true story I can still take it. But mothers and birth don’t fuel my fire. Then there’s the whingeing and whining about hubby’s. I’d be lying if I said I was innocent. But I came to the realisation that I didn’t want to go out in public and make him the topic of conversation, especially in a negative way. I nearly have a panic attack if I overhear these lovely motherly conversations. I don’t condemn them at all… it’s just not me. My heart starts pumping harder, my blood flow speeds up, my breathing becomes irrational and I feel like I’m choking. So in a nutshell, I love, love, love my daughter (and hubby) but I can’t be consumed by them. There’s a whole big wide world out there and I intend on having a piece of it. Is that so terrible?
Alright so here it is. What’s a safe spot? A place where (usually a woman) puts ‘things’. Things can be defined as almost anything. E.g.: hubby’s important papers, masking tape, cheese, chips, scissors and the list goes on. You’ll notice there’s some perishable items in there. Obviously that’s a reference to the pantry and fridge. So here it is plain and simple. Men don’t know how to look for ‘things’ successfully, women do it so well we have to create safe spots to challenge us. Otherwise what’s the point? Many frustrations and arguments later the marriage starts to suffer because he can’t find the milk which is of course right in front of him. I’ve even reached the point where I threaten my father-in-law that “If I come over there and find it you’re in BIG trouble.” I’m yet to follow through with the BIG trouble bit. He’s my father-in-law! What’s a girl to do? So women, you’re not alone. It’s time to face up to the truth (see my other blog about An Inconvenient Truth) and admit that you (YES YOU) create safe spots. You probably create that many that you don’t even realised you just created 10 new safe spots in one day. Sheesh! That’s some serious safe spot creating. With the important papers, I find it interesting that I have no problem whatsoever locating any important paper of mine. I have a great filing system. But for some reason when it comes to filing for hubby my care factor tends to slip a bit and I don’t take much notice of what I just filed his life insurance details under. It seems obvious that it would go under ‘l’ for life, OR maybe ‘i’ for insurance, then there’s ‘c’ for comminsure the name of the insurer. But once I’ve searched those three letters for retrieval and still haven’t retrieved I’m starting to get worried. One of the other main problems of creating safe spots is that men aren’t forward thinkers (unless we’re talking about boating, camping, fishing – they have no problem doing research on the weather conditions in two weeks time!). So when my hubby needs me to activate the location of these safe spots, it’s an on-demand request. As in I NEED IT NOW basis. He doesn’t yell it at me, that would have zero effect. But it’s the whole point. He needs it now and he knows I’m notorious for creating safe spots. Far out brussell sprout! Give me time, lot’s of time, more time. I need time. Doesn’t he realise how many safe spots I have? I have hundreds (probable). It’s not easy maintaining that many safe spots. I’m an intense and complex individual… I’m female so it’s only natural that I have a complex system otherwise… back to one of my first points. Life would be boring without safe spots. So girls, take pride in your safe spot creativity. How many do you have? Enjoy them. If you need to spice up your marriage, create a safe spot. That’ll get things cranking. Happy safe spotting!
What’s with people and dates? I have two friends, one of each gender, who have this thing about remembering almost anything to do with dates. She rings me for my wedding anniversary. Come on. Who remembers old schools friends wedding anniversaries? He remembers a photo from over 15 years ago and can name the place, event and possible date. What the? Are they weird? Or is it me? Am I that selfish that I can’t even remember my own family’s birthday? Oh my God! Epiphany… I’m selfish. Seriously? Bugger. So dates aren’t my thing? Ask me to remember page after page of dialogue from a script and I can do it with my eyes closed in under an hour. Weird huh? Ask me to remember what we had for dinner last night? Wait for it…. it’s coming… hang on a minute…. almost there. Blank. I’m sure it was good though. Ask me my most prominent childhood memory. Don’t know, my brain obviously wasn’t there because I remember nada. Zip. Any childhood memory I do have is from a photo. I think about the photo and then re-create in my mind’s eye what happened. Easy stuff. But the real thing? It just daint come natural to me. So I ask you again, am I weird? Here it is in a nutshell: I remember lines no sweat, I don’t remember my childhood, what I had for dinner last night and definitely no one’s wedding anniversaries. To those of you who have better stats then me… Congratulations! What’s your trick? Do share. I’d like to be considered somewhat a semi-decent friend and remember their birthday’s. That leads me to one more point. What’s wrong with blurting out your birthday to the world? Why is it not cool to say, “Hey it’s my birthday next week. Just so you know.” I don’t care if you don’t care but I care that I share it with the world. That’s all that matters to me. My birthday goes for two weeks straight. A week before and a week after. It’s only fair that I get to celebrate it in fortnightly style. I highly recommend you try this. Oh and don’t forget to celebrate your loved ones birthday’s for two weeks too. Again, it seems only fair. Now where’d I put my keys? I know they’re here somewhere. Probably in a safe spot. That’s what we women do. Create safe spots. But that’s a whole other topic!
BTW: it just came to me. We had chilli crab last night. How could I forget?