Woolly Mammoth

"Hi, My name is Mike Carmichael and I live in Alexandria, Indiana with my wife Glenda. I'd like to tell you about Alexandria's only ROADSIDE ATTRACTION...the Worlds Largest Ball of Paint. Imagine an ordinary baseball... Now imagine that same baseball with over 19,100 coats of paint on it. Getting the picture? Good, because that's exactly what my wife, Glenda and I have done for the past 28 1/2 years. Now that ordinary baseball that once weighed less than one pound now weighs in around 1,700 pounds!"

Hmmmm, looks more like a deformed Malteser to me, or did Mike's surgeon save the testicle he removed during the cancer scare? This patient and determined couple's story can be found on their website: http://ballofpaint.freehosting.net/ because I wish you to know that I truly did not make the story up.

To be honest, I wish I had made it all up because it is so incomprehensible that an apparently normal-looking couple were prepared to do this for nearly 30 years and that they're proud of it. It doesn't say much for the town either, if this lumpy lovesack is the town's only attraction..... To be fair though, I'm not exactly covering myself in glory because you could also quite rightly ask just what in the hell I was doing that was so important and noble that let me to this item in the first place.

I don't know what 2009 is the Official year of (Twitter? Parsnips? Ugly animals people never visit at the zoo? The Ped Egg?) - but how about we put in a bid for the Year of Useful Hobbies. Ones that have a point and can be discussed with strangers at dinner parties without receiving pitying and bored looks.

My guilt is probably as strong as the paintball people because my unofficial hobby is knitting. No, nothing fanc - all I can do is the basic loopy, crinkled stitch (the name of which escapes me) that my grandmother taught me when I was nine and even then, have only ever been able to knit rows. Scarves aplenty, but thanks to the stitches I dropped the end product was vastly tapered at one end so that it resembled a triangle that had been on the rack and then peppered with bullet holes.

These days I'm trying to put my sheltered-workshop knitting skills to some good use by knitting long scarves that have seven individually coloured segments that are 45 stitches wide and 40 rows long. Mum then gathers seven of these Tom Bakers, sews them up and gives them to the mens' homeless shelter for use in their hostels and as 'sorry, the inn is full, here's some bedding consolation prizes.

I've been bidding for and buying balls of wool on e-bay. Yeah, I know: it's hardly as scintillating as Beatles memorabilia, signed first editions of The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy or toast shaped like Elvis, but it's a way of getting cheap, cast-off yarn in dark, manly colours that hide all kinds of grass, beer, chewing gum and boot stains.

It also means that it's easy enough to do it in front of the telly and convince myself that no, just because I'm wearing elasticated tracksuit pants, ugg boots and am slouching on the lounge sucking squares of chocolate in front of 'The Big Bang Theory' I'm not a sloth; far from it. I'm knitting for charity. The sad thing is, my dinner party companion I'm regaling this to has normally sculled their third glass of sauv blanc by then and is nodding inanely, not realising that it takes me until Spring to knit enough scarves for one measly blanket.....

The shame of my remedial recreational abilities doesn't stop there. I also like to read through home design, food and womens' magazines, soaking up every glossy page and earmarking those take my fancy - recipes, home renovation ideas, decor, photos etc. Some I've used for home-made greeting cards that, quite frankly, haven't sold all that well, not even to the reception kids with snot trails leading to their lips at the school fete. It would probably make the local childcare centre really happy if I just dumped my crummy cuttings in their playroom with some curved-end scissors and pots of library paste and got the toddlers to go for it. Chances are their cards would be more successful too.....

Participators of other less-than-scintillating hobbies include my father who was an amateur beekeeper for many years. Every two months, he'd receive a copy of what might possibly be the world's least exciting magazine, The Australasian Beekeeper. "Whoo Hoo Dad, it's here, it's here!" I'd tease, waving the copy and running towards him like a lunatic. "Oh and look - it's got TWO pages of black and white photos instead of just the one!"

He proudly tells me that the highlight of his beekeeping career was having his jars of honey photographed (in black and white, naturally) for the front cover. Kate Moss hasn't achieved that.

A friend's boyfriend was into the adventures of Ivanhoe, King Arthur and related dark ages and mediaeval pursuits. There were apparently enough fellow fans of this time in history to have a Mediaeval society that met every fourth Sunday for a picnic and get-together. They'd gather to eat huge roast chickens and lamb legs (not sure who had to put them in the wheelie bin after the bones had been thrown over their shoulders), scull down mead (there's a reason we don't drink it anymore) and hold a jousting tournament. Each member was dressed as authentically as imagination and budget would allow - chain mail, coats of arms on jerkins (tops folks, tops), leggings (the blokes), ankle boots (yep, ditto), pointy hats (the gals, or add bells for some of the slightly more outgoing boys) and weaponry. The national parks and wildlife authority did not allow them to have horses at the events, and the mind boggles at what the jousting tournaments must have been like on foot.

My musical husband Love Chunks spent many years during school and in his early twenties playing the trumpet and the guitar. He proudly marched in Port Augusta's town band, played for a jazz group and tootled and strummed for many a local function. When he and I got together, both instruments had long been abandoned. No matter how many times I asked him to play something for me he refused.

The only time he got his trumpet out (ooooooherr, that sounds a bit suggestive) it terrorised the dog who shot outside and frantically started digging a tunnel to Mecca. LC has since strummed his guitar for Sapphire a few times, but clams up whenever I've inadvertently lumbered into the room. Pretty useless having two instruments you don't use, isn't it, but perhaps my mocking singing of "Kum bah yah, my lord, Kum bah yah...." isn't too encouraging. I'll make that a resolution to work on - Don't Mock; Encourage.

An old work colleague - who I detested - used to insist that we have the Christmas function at her place. This was presumably so that she could get outrageously pissed and fall off her high-heeled mules with her bed only several metres away but also so that we could see - and be dazzled - by her various collections and taste in decor. She lived in a mock-tudor Mc Mansion with a tiny garden filled with an above ground pool, two fat dogs and three shy cats. The blue plastic sides of the pool were artfully disguised with strategically placed potplants in which she'd placed some fake budgies.

Inside was the real horror - her duck collection. Pot holders, tea towels, boot scrapers, cross stitched pillow covers, paintings, coffee cups, storage tins, wooden trays and figurines. Lots of figurines, stored on flimsy lacquered telephone tables and inside twee kitchen cabinets that engulfed the house. They were made of china, clay, wood, brass, pewter and crystal with the piece-de-resistance being a stuffed one she'd found in an antiques shop. It left me with not only nausea but a secret prayer that someday that little duck army would rise up and find the collective strength to carry out her not so slight frame to the caravan park and de-tox centre where she belonged.

Love Chunks and I are also guilty of saving the back issues of Gourmet Traveller and Delicious Magazines. They hog up space in our cupboards and not once in ten years have either of us sorted through them or referred to an old recipe within them. Why do we save them? Sapphire has a collection of stones and gumnuts she'd gathered two years ago. The stupid little footy-shaped money box she stores them in gets tipped over at least once a week, spilling out the annoying little pellets. Why does she still keep them?

My mother insists on washing out every single yoghurt and margarine container and keeping them in her already over-burdened tupperware drawer so that when it is opened, they fly out like angry frisbees. Why - when will that mythical group of 79 people visit Mum and insist on taking leftovers home at the same time?

These are all unexplainable mysteries, but do point to most of us having collections and hobbies that are our own personal Submarine Screendoors in terms of usefulness in our lives. But maybe that's not such a bad thing. If no-one dies of stress or boredom then who's it going to hurt?

Maybe Sapphire, who looks to be inheriting a truckload of wool, greeting cards and margarine containers....

Day Eighteen - Appreciative August

Bloggers

This topic is oh-so-nearly up there with Love Chunks, Sapphire, chocolate and food for its importance in my life.

Now that was a frighteningly nerdy and needy starting sentence, wasn't it? Please come back, there's no need to be frightened. I am a relatively normal person with a full and happy life that has its share of challenges, hilarities, interests, upsets and frustrations.

It's just that when my mate Deep Kick Girl emailed me a few years ago to say that she'd started a blog, I was intrigued. It appeared as though even Technotards like myself could sign up for free, navigate through a relatively simple format and wah on about anything and everything. So I did, and, in the process, met many of you. Some only a suburb away; some further away than my Gregorys Directory and wallet can conceive of.

Bloggers have left me open-mouthed at their intelligence, insight and the ability to make me laugh so hard I've accidentally inhaled instead of swallowed my meusli and hawked like a hound with a hairball for hours afterwards. All worth it though - my favourites give me regular doses of edgier, funnier, more relevant, gut-wrenching, introspective, clever, witty and perceptive writing with more immediacy than the newspaper or the television.

There are bloggers that I visit daily, even when some don't update for a few weeks, because I want to keep up with what they're doing, thinking and saying and have become a necessary part of my ritual at the computer each day. And I appreciate their skills and talents. So, without further ado, here are some of my bookmarked favourites.

Franzy - I found this guy via a friend-in-common who forwarded an email about two chocolate labradors who needed a new home after their owners had separated. Franzy wrote some hilarious comment back to Helen M-S, accidentally hit 'reply all'. It was enough to make me hunt out his blog. He talked about his wedding, the move up to Queensland for his wife's health, doing something high falutin' for his PhD and was honestly robbed of the Top Gear Australia hosting job. His video birthday party invitation was so cleverly hilarious I was almost tempted to turn up to the relevant pub and introduce myself, but the thought of him thinking I was a psychopathic stalker was too much to deal with; as was the possibility of rocking up to a place full of funky young twenty somethings. He's obviously got a brain the size of a planet but with the capacity to notice and value the minutiae of life. Lucky git. Not sure I'd order a decaff from him though.

The Half Hearted Hack - Ah, Red Cap. I'm not sure if I first commented on hers or she mine, but there were enough silly witticisms there for us to become regular visitors. She's slacked off this year due to having a real writing job during daylight hours that not only pays her food bills but also requires her to go out a bit in the evenings as well. She seems kind of shy (yes, we've met each other a few times now), but is one of those intelligent types that can size up a situation and get to the heart of it. Her efforts in making Christmas lunch for the family last year had me crying with laughter and her South African travelogue and photographs are wonderful. Maybe she could add 'travel writer' alongside her 'arts editor' skills.

Jabberwocky - I found Ariel via Red Cap, Audrey and a few other blogs who'd bookmarked her. When you find your favourites and you start checking out who they like and the same name keeps cropping up, it's inevitable you'll click on the link and check out the cut of another blogger's jib. Ariel's insightful, heartwarming, funny and eye-moistening observations of life with hubby, her child, F and his struggles with Asbergers are brilliant pieces of writing that make me sit back in my chair and realise just how woefully shallow my own are. I'm not sure what she does for a day job, but I'm sure it involves writing, editing and other artistic pursuits. And if not, it bloody well should.

Baino's Banter - How can you not love a fifty something woman who has a 'Friday F**kwit' segment that is always wisely chosen and deserving of the title? She has a love of YouTube, JJJ radio, can handle all kinds of bullshit flung at her in the office and introduced me to the Flight of the Conchords song 'Business Time'. She writes of her hopes, fears and pride about her two early twenties' children as well as her doggies, ducks and horses. And she does so in a way that I envy so much because she makes me feel as though I'm there with her helping her get through a bottle of chardie (South Australian, I hope) on the deck before she asks me to help her sort out the gardening jobs awaiting us.

Terence McDanger - This Irish Moo-Dog was a vague and fortuitious find via a via blog explosion visit. I soon forgot about sipping my tea for thirty seconds before clicking on to another site for a credit and read through his entire back catalogue of writings. He has written brilliant odes to cats having open and proud sex in his college room, why he now hates the Famous Five, the joys of Sally Fletcher, trying not to laugh during a lap dance and general Irish beer swillin' feckin magic observations.

The Loaded Blog - Myninjacockle is the Australian Terence McDanger, but, unlike Terence, is the father of two impressionable young boys and is about to (or has already) embark on a career teaching impressionable school children. His blog contains some clever pieces about his wife, Knickers and his so-called 'decorative agreement' when it comes to decisions she makes and the birth of their second son: "It was a difficult birth, my feet ached from standing, my thumbs became a little strained from massaging Knickers' shoulders and all her moans and shrieks became tiresome." Gotta love a bloke who can write a poem about shopping bags and car keys or his pride at his two year old, Noodle: " He learnt a stack of new words as well. Though his interpretation of them needs a little re-calibrating. 'Sorry' for instance means: 'I've just punched you in the face, prepare for another.' "

Stumblor - Dave is an Aussie IT nerd living and working in London who plays photoshop games to produce 'Slebs' (celebrities with mini heads), gives tiny hints that he's in love with a gal called Cath and offers us this valuable piece of advice: "When you get around to starting your Skid Row tribute band, call it "Skid Marx". Naturally you should play lead guitar and get all the babes, who'll eventually leave you for someone younger and hipper and whose band doesn't have a name that honours poo residue and glam rock in equal measures."

Not only do you get the steak knives, but there's more:

Lessons Learned from A - the chronicles of a family dealing with a hearing impaired child and the challenges and successes they've had so far. Naomi also writes about general issues about her day job, teenage boys, karate, marriage, life and what pisses her off about the job, teenagers, karate, marriage and life.....

Do I have to - Gigglewick has the amazing ability to slide from discussing Aboriginal employment issues to the joys of adding 'In my pants' to every new government policy title. I love the way her wicked mind works.

It's not you, it's me - I previously found this bloke when he was 'The Man at the Pub' and loved his particularly blokey laid-back (and bloody funny) views about life, politics, beer and love. He then briefly toyed with showing us his art works before going all shy and now, finally, re-emerging as the above title and author name of Homo J Sapien,.

Audrey - she also has 'and the Bad Apples' in her title, but unless it's some obscure GenY in-joke, I have no idea who the apples are, because only Audrey's writing the blog. She is awe-inspiringly intelligent, witty and self-deprecating and is rightly getting public recognition for her talents.

First person thirdcat - I have a vague idea that I know her as a 'real world' human, but you get amusing glimpses of her life as a struggling writer, stand-up comedienne, mother, avoider of housework and avid reader coping with some heart-rending grief. What she can say in a single sentence is utterly brilliant and often makes me feel like a mental pgymy.

Tom's Hideaway - we 'met' via Blog Explosion and he's a lovable Bostonian, fifty-year old with a grown son and enduring love of baseball and basketball. Despite having nothing in common, we both enjoy reading each other's blogs and are now utterly addicted and committed to winning each week and month's Trivia Challenge competition that he moderates. He can also cook like a good humoured Gordon Ramsay.

DeepKickGirl - the arse kickin' sheila that started it all. Parent, ranter, worker, friend and die-hard fan of all things Chili Pepper. Loves her cultural outings in Sydney which only make me jealous to read about but also devotes the bulk of her spare time to fund-raising, helping other parents of overseas adopted children, script writing, travel and supporting the Sydney Swans. Where she gets her energy and passion from is a mystery, and I'm not just talking about the Swannies.

Ashleigh's Dump - I want to meet this bloke some day. Think myninjacockle a few years further down the track when his two baby sons are teenagers and you'll get an idea. Clearly an intelligent IT egg-head, but with a great deal of knowledge about environmental issues, politics and unravelling the mysteries of investments and superannuation. I'll leave it to Ash to describe his current lifestyle: "Outer Bogansville. Side of a hill. Northern suburbs, just near the massive Golden Grove development (but not part of it thank heavens). Moved into a just-completed house. Concrete floors for 7 years. Sheets on the windows for 5 years. Cold in winter. Stinking hot in summer. Windy as all hell in November. Interest rates at 17.5%. Spent the next 8 years building and landscaping. Learned to lay bricks. Built 7 retaining walls. Laid thousands of pavers. Mixed about 100 tonnes of concrete. Planted hundreds of trees. Dug huge lotsa holes. Filled them in again. Had a coupla liddle chillens. Survived the neighbour from hell. Survived a number of The Evil Ones. Gonna leave in a pine box."

Head Rambles - One feckin' crazy Irish Grandfather with a wicked streak wider than a lorry full of potatoes. He tells us that he's a retiree who needs a hobby, so he's going to start a people-trafficking business to get them out of the recession-laden Emerald Isle and off to funnier countries such as Estonia, Uganda and Romania. "It isn’t easy: I’m having to hire containers and then ship them overland disguised as beef exports." Imagine what he could achieve if he'd only turn his mental talents to good instead of evil....

These are just a taste of the wonderfully weird and wild brilliance out there that I love to read and am very grateful.

Well done you cheeky little bloggers.

Fattypuff Schmattypuff

Diets Stink. That's what it says on my t-shirt, bought from 'White Trash Palace' online a couple of years ago.

Even though I heartily agree with the statement, I realise that I'm still on a diet.

After finishing the book at the end of last year, followed by several months of 'Yeah I'll eat that, I deserve it, my stomach could so with some more work/life balance', I eventually blew the dust bunnies from the bathroom scales hidden under the bed.

Somehow, on the 1st of January, the little red needle came up with a number that was far larger than I'd been used to. At least in my non-pregnant state. I felt ill and then ashamed at the memory of everything I'd shovelled down my throat in sheer abandon since working from home in June 2007 and reaching a peak of piggyness over the silly season break. It was 'Book Fat' and it wasn't pretty.

It was with great shame that I realised too that running six kilometres every second day did not keep the fat cells at bay. Instead, I was revelling in the moral superiority of having just gone for a run, and rewarding myself with a post-breakfast snickers/frog cake/wagon wheel/custard tart/six rows of Lindt. After all, thirty minutes of high impact exercise would certainly burn up the leftover carrot cake I'd have with lunch, the mid-afternoon choccy chew and the after-dinner M&M munch fest wouldn't it?

In Kath Land, it would be OK and also be a confirmed source of fibre, vitamin C and scientifically proven to improve my intelligence. In reality, unfortunately, it was not OK. That is, not unless I liked looking like an albino acorn and didn't mind my upper arms jiggling ten minutes after I'd waved my family goodbye.

Sucking in my stomach all day wasn't an option either, not when my daughter Sapphire remarked, "Mum, are you pregnant?" So much for thinking I'd breathed in my bellybutton up against my spine then.

The final nail in this cake lover's coffin were shop windows. Have you ever had that happy feeling when you're out? You know - you feel great, you've got a nice outfit on, you think you look pretty good until...... until you happen to see your reflection in a shop window. 'Is that what I look like out in public? Are those thighs really mine?' Any happiness you may have felt before the unwanted viewing then disappears quicker than a full fat frappucino in Britney Spears' crack hands.

What happened next was not that I joined a gym or hunted out raw vegetables and vegan meals, oh no. Instead, I dejectedly found the closest coffee shop and ordered a 'skinny' cappuccino and a custard tart, fretting about my reflection and inwardly cursing every little skinny bitch under 60 that walked by. 'Huh, she's only that size because she's so obviously a four pack a day lady,' or 'You need an arse for those jeans love', and 'Yeah right, why don't you breathe out and let your gut flop over your jeans, you fat fake.'

Despite the big butt and bitterness, I have been more 'careful' about what I shove in my mouth this year. I was pretty strict in the early stages, and Love Chunks could see that I was feeling rather miserable, and he said, "I'm sure it won't force the needle too far on the wrong side of the scales if you have a few squares of chocolate with me in front of the movie."

It was Nestle's Club Dark roasted almond, and I sucked my six squares as though I'd misplaced my dentures and didn't have the energy to get into my zimmer frame to find them. They had to last at least the length of the movie (2 hours 10 minutes) so even the damn nuts were sucked into oblivion.

The second breaking point was at the shopping centre. After cashing in a $20 book voucher at Dymocks (which of course cost me another $56 because bookshops are only second to cake shops in terms of irresistability), the lure of the bakery nearby was far stronger than my willpower. "One Farmers Union Feel Good Iced Coffee and, ummm, a slice of that berry cheesecake over there," I pointed with my hand shaking in greedy anticipation. Ordering it felt so naughty, so wrong. 'Do not ruin it by sitting here trying to calculate how many grams of fat are in each slice', I told myself. 'This is your treat. You deserve this. Why, I don't know, but you do - you deserve this!'

A couple of hours later, my errands were done: I'd posted Sapphire's entry to the Kangaroo Club Colouring In Competition; picked up Milly's arthritis-curing fish oil and Skipper's bunny pellets, collected the toe-nail sized clippers on order from the chemist; bought some milk and found some face cream for less than $7. It was crunch time - did I dare step on the scales for a weekly weigh-in when -

a) I'd hadn't just got out of the shower but was fully clothed;

b) it was over three hours since I'd been to the loo;
c) my legs were unshaved;

d) my nose unblown; and

e) it had been a fortnight since cutting my nails?

'Yes, it is time Blubberbuns, especially seeing as you inhaled that cheesecake so willfully this morning,' I told myself harshly. Stepping on ever-so-gently, my eyes were squeezed shut and for some inexplicable reason I was sucking my stomach in. What did the red needle say? One kilogram less than last week - yee hah! Woo hoo! Maybe I could celebrate by breaking open that triple pack of Lindt Excellence 70% blocks and.....

And I did. My 'diet' since then has consisted of eating whatever - and how much - chocolate I want. The difference is that everything that else that gets inhaled must be of nutritional value. Also, I exercise more - 3 x weekly runs on the treadmill at 8km a pop (in 41 mins, 23 seconds) followed by a stress-relieving punching session on the leather tonsil bag that hangs from the ceiling hook and the one that looks like an enormous saveloy and weighs about as much as Kyle Sandilands. Add two karate lessons and two powerwalks (8km at a speed of 7.2km per hour with hand weights) and I'm trimming down, firming up and still able to enjoy my second favourite oral activity.

Sure, Sapphire predicts that soon all of my waking hours will need to be spent on the treadmill (and possibly some mid-REM stomach crunches in bed as well) to cope with my increasing cocoa addiction, but it's worth it. Life's too short to say 'no' to a row or seven of poo-brown heaven and reject it for a dried apricot instead.

Have you ever noticed .......?

One tiny dollop of toothpaste, dropped onto your dark shirt front will stand out like a fluoroescent blob of liquid paper ~all day~, no matter how many times you try to rub some water into it?

Could it be used to cheaply paint 'night view' stripes on bicycle tops?

The gooey, inedible remains of Weetbix, if left in the bowl for longer than three minutes, sets harder than super glue and must be soaked an entire day for each minute left unrinsed.

The local hippy hills dwellers could use it as a more natural (it's always the most wholesome breakfast cereal as determined by Choice magazine) adhesive for their mud-brick houses. That way they save can money on cement costs and maintain bowel regularity.

All over-publicised and celebrated 'Gen Y Millionaires Under Thirty' all come from wealthy families who either owned part of the company or lent them the money to start their own business?

Come on, recite the old eighties-recession joke with me: How do you create a small business? Give ~insert billionaire's spawn name/s here~ a large one.

Babies can lift their pudgy little feet up to their mouths and suck at their toes with minimal effort.

Yet later on in life when such natural gymnastic ability would be rather welcome in ~ahem~ our nocturnal nookie naughties, it is only the pornographic (see Pamela Anderson) or the depraved (see Paris Hilton) or the Circus Freaks (see previous two) that can put their ankles behind their ears?

We love our parents, appreciate how hard they worked to provide for us and raise a happy family and yet it is the biggest and lowest form of insult when your partner snipes, 'You are soooooo like your Mother/Father.'

Bless 'em both, but I don't want my father's hairy ear canals or my mother's ability to staccato-sneeze continuously for ten minute intervals.

When you politely sneeze into a tissue, you get nothing but air and tiny droplets.

But sneezing with your mouth open leaves an embarrassingly large snail trail either hanging out of your nostrils like green stalactites or splats straight onto someone's trouser leg. Especially if you're in the middle of a powerpoint presentation or at a romantic restaurant.

If you have small, innocent children with you and animals of any form are nearby, they will, without fail, either flop out their tumescent pink dangly bits or have a mad rutting session directly in front of you.

And trust me: there's only so many times you can say, "Oh, they're just play fighting" before they keep asking "Why" and won't take, "Just because, eat your cornetto" as an acceptable answer.

The more urgently you need to be back at the office, the less likely the tradie will arrive anywhere near the time (give or take six hours) he promised you yesterday he'd be there.

If you're renting, then it's even worse. The situation will be fixed just as you finally move out and the costs taken out of your bond money.

With the most decent and very best of intentions, you will always be caught farting.

Even the sly one you've considerately dropped at the front door away from your loved ones will be blamed (quite rightly) on you. These little bottie burps are like homing pigeons or heat-seeking missiles that will follow through to the living room, where, like the old saying it will hang around you. Like a bad smell.

Just as you insert three minties, a white knight and/or several fantails into your mouth and start to enjoy them, the telephone will ring.

The call will most definitely be for you and will require you to be at your most eloquent, persuasive and professional; which is rather a challenge when your molars are glued shut with caramel and you sound like a walrus burping in a cave.

There. Now use this information wisely and improve yourselves and the wider community you live in.

A pox on both your brain cells!

DeepKickGirl aint one to hold back when it comes to an angry rant (and I mean that with the very deepest respect, from the heart of my bottom) and her latest is one that we can all identify with. Gym Gonads.















In DKG's case, these are the selfish gits who take up 'ten minutes only' parking zones out in front of the next door childcare centre for over an hour in order to make their necks fatter than their heads whilst preening in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors in a sweat-soaked, 'roid-rogering orgy of time wasting.

Frazzled and time-poor working parents and carers simply want to rush in, collect their little under-age treasures and get the hell out of there. They only need a brief Stop, Dash In and Drop Off zone before moving on to the next item on their 'to do today' list.

DeepKickGirl saw another frustrated mother, waiting for a spot to park only to have a couple of muscled meat-heads pull in ahead of her and enter the gym for what she assumed would be for at least an hour. In a spot clearly marked 'childcare centre park - ten minutes only.' An angry discussion ensued and the mother was insulted and sworn at - in front of her toddler - and eventually had to leave to find a park much farther away.

Must we give in and instead force ourselves to behave as piggishly and as badly as the Gym Gonads, or should we heed our grandmothers' advice and continue to live courteously and considerately? My own mantra - whispered fiercely to myself on far more occasions than I'd like to admit to - is to live well. Living well is the best revenge, as the wise (and often the senile or very drunk) enjoy telling us.

Or mostly. For social suckheads such as the Gym Gonads, there is the luxury of time.... lots of it and opportunities...... You know that the Gym Gonads are inside trying to emulate the famous 'condom full of walnuts' look that Clive James ascribed to Arnold Schwarnegger in the eighties, and that takes at least an hour or two. One hour for the actual weight lifting, and another for the posing, flexing, mirror-gazing, self-congratulation and crotch scratching that goes on between sets. Or 'reps' or whatever it is that they do with their pecs.

So, if you're a mother driving a kid-friendly station-wagon or people mover, it is likely that there'll be a stray banana, caterpillar-made-from-an-alfoil-roll or cricket stump handy; rolling on the floor under the front seats, hidden underneath used tissues, empty freddo frog wrappers and finger paintings John West rejected. They all make ideal exhaust pipe stuffers.

For those of you that have managed to find a carpark and are brave enough to leave your cars, there's the good old car key scratched along the sides of their turbo-twat-mobile or even a hastily hammered nail in the front tyre. And don't ever forget the raw prawn slipped into the windscreen wiper grille.....

DeepKickGirl is, amongst many other things, a budding scriptwriter. Living in Sydney. It is therefore almost a dead certainty that she'll know a few out-of-work actors who could pose as a humorless parking inspector directly out in front of the gym and childcare centre. That'll get a gaggle of Gym Gonads out of their comfort zone faster than a well-oiled AFL player from an opponent's squirrel grip in the goal square.

Alternatively, she could get some stickers printed and when they're inside unleashing their lactic acid she could slap a sticker on the back of their cars. It'll be ages before they'd notice it, and in the meantime they'll be read and laughed at by quite a few childcare customers and drivers idling behind them at the traffic lights.

One day I'll find the spare cash to print out sheets of tiny stickers that I'll be able to whip out from my backpack in various annoying circumstances and slap on the back of offending vehicles. Here's a few that readily spring to mind:

• Parking rules are for everyone else except me.
• I am a mono-synaptic, poly-cretinous half-wit who can't read parking signs.
• I have more money than sense which is why I'm begging for a parking fine.

For those who display truly execrable bumper stickers like 'If it has tits or wheels it's gonna be trouble' or 'no fat chicks, the bumper will scrape' or even the 'Here's the posh coat of arms from the private school I send my kids to so you better be impressed' bumper sticker - try:

• I have the sophistication and intelligence of a rain soaked budgie smuggler
• I am a virgin with halitosis, and destined to remain so
• I have lots of money and have spent it on this car instead of donating it to a worthy cause
• This 4WD has never been off-road and is never likely to
• I voted for John Howard

To let you know that my actions speak louder than my words, I really let a bloke have it today. OKaaaay, so he was only ten years old and attends Sapphire's school, but the little ape was trying over and over again to fling a swing up and over the top of the support bar, thus making it useless.

I strode over the bark chips (which is quite difficult to do when you're in a fast-paced huff, holding a viola case, two terms' worth of school books and a fruit platter) and snatched the swing from his hands.
"Get out of here before I call the principal. Oh and I'm a TEACHER in case you didn't know."

Yes, I was a teacher. Once. Back in 1993, and certainly not at his school; but for all he knew I was an undercover educational agent prone to turning green if made particularly angry.

For the first time in ages, Sapphire looked impressed instead of embarrassed.

Bugger it; maybe I should find a local printer who'd be interested in putting together my sticker idea.

I'm always on the lookout for decent gift ideas, but....

I'm not sure who I'd give this to. Or why the guy is selling it. Or even why he thought owning one in the suburbs (my suburb!) would be a good idea in the first place.

See, life in the suburbs of Adelaide ain't necessarily predictable. We have hard rubbish tussles, dumb demolitions to make way for feature garages, the dream house in my own street, the stupid snob stickers on cars, living on the wrong side of the road and the smell of wheelie bins in the morning; and that's merely a taste from the past six months.

If my column idea for our city paper ever gets accepted, I'll be knocking on this guy's door for an interview......