Lovin' the Liebster Award

I feel doubly honoured because both River of Drifting Through Life and Jackie K of Working Through it have kindly passed on the Liebster award. I want to thank them both most sincerely as I enjoy reading every word of their blogs and look forward to seeing their updates when they pop up on my dashboard reader.



What's a Leibster? Google translate informs me that 'leibster' means 'favorite' and who wouldn't get a kick out of being selected as that? The idea behind this award is to pay it forward to another five blogs who have less than 200 followers and then asking those bloggers to select five others that they feel deserve recognition.

Trouble is, I've had several rounds of visitors, a lingering bout of the flu and a few (much appreciated) freelance writing gigs to complete so I'm in danger of potentially nominating bloggers who have already received the Leibster.

River wrote: "Kath's was the first blog I ever read and she was among the first few who encouraged me to start my own blog. She's funny, she's real and is currently living in Geneva.'

Jackie K said: 'So many people read and love this blog that I am surprised it still qualifies for this award. Kath writes personal and family stuff with a difference - funny and profound, illustrated with her lovely/funny photos, her posts usually have me snorting with laughter or smiling wryly in recognition, like a crazy lady at my computer. And they always make me think."

Both of those comments made me cry today.

Perhaps I should explain. I have no doubt that receiving this lovely little acknowledgement will annoy my anonymous new 'buddy' who has recently enjoyed trolling here after taking offence at a two year old article containing my opinion that tagging public and private property was NOT art, nor was it to be celebrated.

Immaturely, I decided to play the game and defend myself. Not a clever choice perhaps, but it gave me a bit of satisfaction. Ironically, for someone so incensed by my very existence, the troll showed no signs of leaving my blog and had actually gone and read more of my articles, bless 'im. Personal and obscene insults were of course his modus operandi and most of them have been deleted (no-one needs an in-depth but ill-informed discussion about my internal plumbing) but an anonymous troll avoiding his homework and official bedtime is NOT going to change my mind.

Nor do I believe that just because a vandal is longer alive their petty, ugly and frequent acts of vandalism are now required to be automatically revered and respected. Hopefully K/Clerk/s of Flemington is also remembered for more positive action than being ubiquitous with a fat felt tip. So Clerk remains a jerk.



On to the complete opposite of Poo Faced Troll Boy - deserved Leibster blogs. In no discernible order, I nominate:

Hannah at Wayfaring Chocolate - Delightfully funny, quirky, cute, clever and a whizz with peanut butter and inventive new descriptors. Recently claimed that she'd escaped the romantic clutches of a young swain but my fingers are crossed that some intellectual, happy dancing, vegan-leaning, travel lovin' wisecracker on a humungous salary earned doing good things crosses her cocoa nib-strewn path.

Jon and Jenny at Teach or Beach - Teachers and travellers with adventures, videos and advice to share. Everything from the Killing Fields to playing with tigers. Informative and beautifully photographed.

Radge at Radgery - Irish journo whose turn of phrase is delicious and dryly delightful. Local football references or specifically-Irish references may fly over my thick head, but his self-deprecating observations have me smiling in admiration and jealousy. Talented git.

Elisabeth at Sixth in line - The queen of fictional autobiography, or self-edited memoirs, or biased reminiscences or ....... just utterly beguiling, heart rending, tear-jerking, heart poundingly raw and emotive writing. So effortlessly talented and a pleasure to read.

Diane at Adventure before Dementia - The type of grey nomad and grandma I hope to be. Full of energy, compassion and interest in everything around her. A dab hand with a camera too.

Now I have to go and let these inspirational five know that they've received some Leibster lovin'.

Before that however, a final shout out to blogs often languishing but never forgotten:

Myninjacockle of The Loaded Blog
Helen at Bonding with lizards
Marie at How I learned to stop worrying and love herring
Delamere at Listen no longer in silence
Miles McClagan at One Way Suburban Conversation
Pub Man at The Man at the Pub
.... and Franzy who writes rarely but I read every. single. word.

Meeting the Plastic Mancunian

I've been reading the Plastic Mancunian for a while now. He likes to claim that he's a miserable old git who, if not trying to convince us all that heavy metal has musical qualities we should all investigate, is prone to ranting about the dire quality of British television but there's a big beating heart under all that.

He's fond of a meme and even fonder of Mrs PM, his sons and their three crazy cats and has made me inhale my meusli in amusement more than once.

And the other day he was being sent on an urgent work mission to Geneva. 'Well, we've GOT to meet up,' I insisted, not respecting his schedule or personal wishes.

So we did:



He's as funny and clever and engaging as his blog and if he's in town next time we'll have him over for dinner (cooked by Love Chunks, of course. Mine would just scare him away).

This brought to mind some recent comments by Andrew, of High Riser fame, who was worried about meeting up with another blogger. "He is edjacated, artistic, a high achiever, a professional and young," he fretted. I hoiked my considerably chunky thighs over my lofty and smug high horse and wrote, "GO FOR IT and MEET HIM. I met the Plastic Mancunian a couple of days before Christmas and am very glad I did. I ain't single or young or gorgeous, but it's amazing what friendships and connections are made via our blogs. If he reads your blog, he already knows a lot about you and how you think, so please don't be worried."

Over hot chocolate (moi) and beer (PM), we revealed the true names of the people we love and write about but there was one question I didn't ask. I briefly agonised over it, but decided to leave it.

That night, lying in bed with Love Chunks, I broached the issue. "LC you know that you're my Main Squeeze and I'll adore you forever and ever and all that, but would it have been wrong to ask Plastic Mancunian what after-shave he had on because he smelt gorgeous!"

LC's answer was kind of muffled, but the odd word emerged.  Odd ball, Inappropriate and Stalker were the ones that were audible.

I've also met the terrific and prolific Baino and would gladly offer her a spot in our spare room should she ever find her way to Geneva.  She's gutsy, honest, hilarious and would have to be a contender for the hottest and best mother in the world.


River was someone I'd seen many times at my local shopping centre before finally 'clicking' and working out who she was.  Her bravery and ability to see the best in life is an inspiration to me and recent tough circumstances have seen her blossom.  Franzy is another. I found his blog after laughing at a witty remark he'd made in a 'reply all' email sent from a mutual friend.  He's sharper than a razor blade and a justifiably proud new Dad whose not afraid to give me honest feedback if my writing seems too slack for his standards.


Pandora was another find - a blast from the past who hid herself for a while, patiently waiting for my plodding grey matter to fire up, put the pieces together and make the identification. I'm bloody glad I did - we had a lot of ground to cover, including explanations and lessons learned.  She's run half-marathons, travelled the world and somehow combines Beer Club on one hand and the slightly more intellectual Book Club on the other.


Other bloggers have become friends online or via facebook too and for those I haven't yet met, I also consider them friends, comrades and (very often) wise and comforting sages. 


Never underestimate the positive power of contributing a comment. Or advice.

Five Day Grind

Recent blogging buddy* Elisabeth commented - kindly I hope - that this blog makes the mundane sound interesting. I then read Radge's blog about taking the week off and finding himself not kicking up his still-young-and-single-and-carefree heels up in his local Irish pub but idly browsing kitchenware shops, feeling utterly unstressed and strangely content, and thought, 'Yep, I'm going to steal that idea and write about my own mundane week.'

Firstly, my diary. It's an RSPCA charity one, tiny in size to carry in a bag and covered in almost illegible kilometrico blue pen scrawls. This means that whenever something is changed, or cancelled or rescheduled, I have to get the liquid paper out and remove the original entry. 'No biggie', you're probably thinking, (along with 'mundane'? How about eye-droopingly snooze inducing?) but amendments inevitably happen more than once and the diary starts to resemble Queen Elizabeth the First's face after 50 years of rule, perhaps a bath a year and a daily application of lead-based foundantion.

Like George Costanza's wallet, I can barely shut the bloody thing without re-straining my neck and causing flecks of displaced paint to fly out the sides. So, let's start with Monday, shall we?

After going for my 8 km run, seeing Sapphire off to school and packing the dishwasher I meet up with Ros to accompany her on the final part of Flemington not yet scoped for our council-funded Heritage walk. We're both a bit cautious with each other as I'm desperate to seek forgiveness for my stupid remark several meetings ago which basically disparaged her part of our lovely suburb when I was unable to find anything of interest that would persuade a person of sound mind and body to venture along the traffic-choked Racecourse Road, past Centrelink and the graffitied shopfronts just to stare at a stable.

She quite rightly took offence and told me - rather politely, admittedly - that I was ignorant, insulting and decidedly lacking in the special brain fluid stuff that connects the synapses. Straight after the meeting, I rushed over to apologise profusely and we made a date to go for a walk around her neck of the woods together.

And I'm so glad we did so. We saw this fig tree, growing on the stone front of the three cottages named after Melbourne Cup winners and marvelled at its tenacity:

I met her lovely husband, her talented architecture-student daughter and their two adopted Jack Russell terriers. The final two were the hardest to win over and followed behind me suspiciously as their Alpha Female chose to be with me, the weird stranger, in an area that was normally theirs to sniff and examine. Eventually they decided that my company was no longer repellent and rewarded me with no barking, happily wagging tails and a tentative lick on the hand.

Four hours later I limped home with nearly 200 photos, hopefully a new friend and a big smile on my fat face.

Tuesday found me chatting with a businesswoman in another part of the country, laughing as we realised how much we had in common and wondering just how we could work together without ever meeting. Time will tell, but my fingers are crossed.

This is also the day I finish a profile article on a Drama and English teacher for The Age and congratulate myself on squeezing a high-achieving and busy life story into 730 words;

Nervously submit an invoice to a largish chocolate company, hoping they don't scoff at my hourly rate and wishing that, at 41-and-a-half and three years into freelance writing, I'd stop feeling like a prostitute;

Edit ten out of the eighteen young writers' stories that they are now emailing me during the week as time runs out and their novels are in progress. I read about death, snakes, medieval weaponry, aliens, dancing, bullies, tigers, ticking clocks, loneliness and blue blobs;

Arrange, photograph and sample three different blocks of Swiss chocolate that, quite frankly, is so delicious I struggle to write about it in any knowledgeable or informative way; and

...write my blog about Tim Roth, our new tree, telling lies and procrastinating.

Wednesday morning commences with what sounds like Darth Vader's breathing apparatus being amplified throughout the neighbourhood until Sapphire runs outside and notices two hot air balloons floating nearby, blowing gas.**

Half an hour later, I end up impersonating that sound as I puff, wheeze - and occasionally clamber off to cough up a phlegm oyster into a tissue - my way on the treadmill. The cold/lurgy/chest infestation thingie that Sapphire brought home from school has all three Locketts honking, sneezing, hacking and ahem-ing like a band of heavy smoking percussionists.

My medley is clearly so distressing that our neighbour, Stuart, calls out over the fence when I lean up against the shed door, sweating and exhausted, grateful to be finished. "Are you OK over there, Kath? I don't start work until lunch time if you need help." He's an emergency doctor, so I take this as my cue to gasp out that I'm fine but will take it easy for the rest of the day.

Therefore, I spend the rest of day before school pick-up editing the 200 heritage walk photos, writing up some previous chocolate reviews, phoning a friend in Adelaide before she had to hastily hang up and wipe the Deep Heat creme her three year old had found and smeared on his eyebrows, email in an ASRC article, hang up a few loads of washing and do the fortnight's ironing.

Amy comes over for a cup of tea in the afternoon and reminds me again that some of us work-from-home folk can still look utterly gorgeous whilst doing so. She's a really genuine, intelligent and kind person, yet I feel like Quasimodo alongside her.

Thursday is power walking morning. Milly hates this because it means that I'm out in the shed

for much longer on the stupid, noisy, nose-dragging contraption and not inside in the warmth, which is where she'd like to be. Every few minutes she'll wander in, give me a look of boredom and disappointment (yes, dogs can conjure up that in a glance), sit down for a few seconds and then wander out, hoping to find some stray bunny butt beans near Skipper's hutch.

Later I do the weekly shop, get Love Chunks' watch fixed, bank Sapphire's pocket money (ie when her money box is full) and slightly impress the teller by handing it over properly bagged and counted, fill up the car with petrol at the place that gave us contaminated stuff at Christmas time and hope that everything's all fine now because I just can't be shagged finding a spot anywhere else and post some letters.

Lunch is a rushed plate of saladas and an apple because the Writing Workshop kids want to come in an hour earlier - ie during their lunch time - to start their writing. I arrive, expecting maybe only a couple to remember, but a dozen are waiting at the door. It's the serious end of term now, and I know all their names, the exact spots they're at in their stories and how far I can push the 'tell me MORE about how you killed him' encouragements.

They, in turn, are even referring to me as their 'editor' and love the lolly snakes and fantales I bring in to keep their energy levels and enthusiasm up for such a long session. I win even more respect by being able to answer every single 'Who am I?' question they read off their fantale wrappers because they're too young yet to realise that a brain filled with pop culture has less space for more useful information. Two hours later, Sapphire and I walk home and she chatters away enthusiastically about her planned plot twists. I realise, as I listen, that I'm starting to enjoy this workshop and, hey, even be looking forward to it.

Finally, Friday. My third running session is still peppered with enough coughs and snorts to prevent Milly from bothering to visit me, but I'm glad I did. I'm sad enough to write in my diary - and highlight in fluoro orange pen - what runs and walks I do for the week and if there's five entered, life is grand. Plus, this run occurs at 6.30 and not 8.30 am because I'm being interviewed then for a magazine.

It's not the most prestigious magazine in history but it ain't Zoo weekly either. The journo chats to me about the Flemington Litter Ninja project and says that her publication is going to buy one of the photos taken by my local paper but would I be so kind as to email her another, say, one of me actually picking up some rubbish? Oh and she'll send me a contract that I'll need to sign, stipulating that I will not sell my story to any of their competitor magazines. Whew, the things you need to go through for three hundred dollars.....

Change the sheets on the bed, scrub out the shower (whilst in it and hope that there's never a day when the local perve decides to put a hidden camera in the house), clean the toilet, hang out some washing and sort out the wheelie bins.

Spend the afternoon deciding whether to submit the rough-as-guts first two chapters of anti-Angela's Ashes (ie happy) memoir, current working title, 'Stink Pot,' to a publisher holding a mentoring competition. Get lost in sorting out old-but-relevant blog posts, hand-written notes, family photos and verbal embroidery (ie writing more) and forget to do so.

My watch has an alarm that pings at 3:18pm. Milly leaps out of her beanbag (not a bad effort for a dog who was in deep REM sleep only a second ago and negotiating a moveable soft bed with two arthritic back legs), nudges my chair and readies herself for a walk. I smile and log off. This is the highlight of both of our days - seeing Sapphire at the school gate.

* if you comment, you're a blog buddy in my view.

** yes, Love Chunks made the expected jokes about the balloons being a hell of a lot quieter than anything I'm capable of doing under the doona.

Honest Scrapper - or should I remove the 's'?

Passionate, Marxist Horror Writer, Leftie and All-Round Agitator Benjamin Solah very generously gifted me the “Honest Scrap Award”, given to people who post from the heart.

He said: "The acronym TMI (Too Much Information) would be accurate for Kath sometimes and her honesty and confidence in herself comes through with her funny stories about her past and present."

I'm not too proud to admit that my eyes misted up. Often, we bloggers put a fair bit of thought and time into our words; press 'publish' and wonder just, like a fart on the forest, who the hell might be listening, interested, educated or merely entertained by our efforts.

Being honest has been very liberating, as readers of my Appreciative August marathon last year might remember, but sometimes I do worry that some of my admissions may affect the way others see me. Benjamin sets a very powerful example of someone who is lives from the heart and mind - very passionate about the underdog, the oppressed and the unfairly ignored and couldn't give a hungry hippo's hernia about what anything else thinks of it.

Now as per the rules of the award, I’m supposed to pass the award on to seven worthy blogs for 'people who post from the heart' and list ten honest things about myself.

Ashleigh's Dump - Mr Dump posts as much from the bottom of his heart as from the heart of his bottom, bearing in mind that his blog is read by co-workers and management. He shies away from photographs of himself or the Dump household but there's real passion behind his (occasional) political rantings, a genuine desire to inform us about the intricacies of financial guff and a humorous protest at the Tea Tree Gully's council to disallow nudes in public art spaces has given him many an opportunity to show off the snaps from his European odyssey featuring many statues showing us their rudey bits.

Baino's Banter - Baino is a widow, who has raised two fabulous children (now in their twenties) on her own, has been made redundant from a job she did so well that she effectively set up systems well enough for them to save a salary and ask her to leave, she worries about her health, her children, her home, Triple JJJ top 100 votes, her animals and the pharkwits let loose in this world. She's currently twiddling her thumbs in a taxpayer-funded government job, enduring the frustrations of trying to look as though she's busy as the HR, recruitment, redeployment, restructure and reclassification bureaucracy wheels turn as though they're made of stone and ploughing through wet cement. When all else fails, she reaches for her smokes and chardy, and who can blame her?

Jung's Programme Notes - This chap - proudly based in Tasmania yet inexplicably fond of Collingwood and Big M flavoured milk - isn't fond of paragraphs but boy oh boy, his powers of recollection and being able to read an entire lifestory behind the girl in the blue eye shadow at a struggling book shop is compelling. And sad. And hilarious. His turn of phrase is always delicious as he inserts lines that have me laughing in admiration and then squirming in jealousy but I talk myself out of it when I remember his rather tragic tastes in music.

Bonding over lizards - Helen is PhD student in South Africa with quirky dyed hair, a part time job at a zoo and field trips for several months a year out in the stony desert lands where she has to catch lizards. She may have a brain the size of my arse but she still worries about whether to confront the slob who keeps farting in the laboratory, why some of her friends drive her insane and how she will survive Tai Chi classes whilst posing with a sword.

Adelaide from Adelaide - What this woman can say in one line is so genius I often melt. A forty year old orphan, novelist, stand up comedienne and currently expatriate in Dubai. Her reflections, recollections and observations are always intensely personal, thought provoking and beautiful, even if they're sad. She could scribble something on the back of a bus ticket and I'd rush to read it.

Copperwitch - There's not much JahTeh won't share - the agonies of putting her mother into an aged care home, the despair over the loss of her beloved son, the bitter divorce, clearing out a lifetime of stored detritus, her love of beautiful gems and jewels and the addiction to apple cake..... Always interesting.

Blogger on the Cast Iron Balcony - Helen is as her surname suggests - Smart. Able to write intelligently about feminism, education, health and current affairs and adds an extra dimension or three by adding generous dollops of humour and observations about her own life and family. She'll put up viewpoints that I haven't even thought of and has the unique ability to influence opinions and reactions. She's the kind of lady who should have a regular column in the Age. Or, dare I say it, The Australian, if only to offer up a brilliant contrast?

Deep Kick Girl - This feisty lady often has a few angry rants interspersed with ones about her children but for me, the best writing she's done was during her trip to Odessa, her birthplace. She describes the conflicting emotions of returning back there with her mother and sister, her dismay at the living conditions, wonder at the kindness of her mother's friends and relatives and depiction of a completely different way of living. It could honestly work as a serial or longer piece in a book. There were no photos to accompany each post and it didn't need it - each event was so clearly described it made me feel as though I was there alongside her.

There are, of course, many others, but they've either not been posting much lately (Blakkat, The Loaded Blog, RedCap, Simply Natural, Eleanor Bloom, Moo-Dog) or don't quite fit the 'too much information/from the heart criteria' but I love 'em and read 'em anyway (Man at the Pub, Writing, Projectivist, Lorna Lilo, Plastic Mancunian); or are new to me, so I'm still getting to know them (Just this side of Chaos,

Now I’m meant to reveal ten things about myself…

1. On the many occasions I can't sleep, I do a self-invented meditation where I imagine I'm in a bedroom from my past - say growing up Murray Bridge, with the lime green seventies curtains, red candlewick bedspread, grey axminster swirly carpet, TV week ABBA posters stuck over the rose wall paper - and think about what I'd do to renovate it now. Unfortunately, this often ends up stimulating my brain instead of boring it to sleep.

2. I hated university. It was a big, unfriendly place for a country bumpkin who thought Adelaide was huge, and English lectures hosted several hundred students who'd all scarper the moment they ended, with attitudes of 'I've got friends outside of here; friends I went to private school with' and I'd wonder why tertiary education felt as intimidating as year nine all over again. Most days I was hidden in the library and, as expected, I graduated three years later (no supp exams or delays for me) to absolutely no acclaim whatsoever and got the hell out of there.

3. My most favourite books were read outside of university when I was at my first real job, as a graduate trainee at the ANZ bank (I've written before about their dubious wisdom in hiring someone with 'Major English Texts' and 'Roman Art and Archaelogy' for home loans, bank-telling at lunch times and accounting). I just wrote a list of books that I'd hoped we'd cover in uni but didn't, found most of 'em in a second-hand bookshop near the bank and read 'em. This is where I discovered Lolita by Nabokov (quite a read at 21, let me tell you), all of Thomas Hardy's novels, Catch 22, Exodus by Leon Uris.... even To Kill a Mockingbird.

4. We all wish for superpowers, but mine tend to be very, very minor ones. The current one is for any litter that my eyes alight on to instantly disappear - zap! - gone. Of course, I might then get obsessed with this skill and end up with a rotating head ala The Exorcist trying to spot every piece of litter within a 5km radius, but for now, just the streets of my local neighbourhood would be a good enough start. Other superpowers include the ability to remove washed tissue from dark laundry loads with a click of my fingers; to see secret tails on human beings to determine if they're genuine or not and the ability to digest chocolate so that it gives me my daily intake of fibre, vitamin C and iron.

5. My poor cuticles are literally picked to bloody shreds. My nails are fine, I've never chewed them. Cuticle shredding is a terrible habit; this continual checking of my fingers: Oooh there's some loose skin by the edge of the nail there, let me nibble at it and pull it off..... only to reveal a thin angry line of fresh red blood that I have to suck dry until a bandaid is put on. As the finger heals, it produces more raggedy skin that I again see, have to pull off to tidy it and so the filthy little game continues. At any given time at least five of my fingers are ugly, red and sore. I'm at them when I'm thinking, watching TV, sleepless, worried, hungry, on long boring driving tips, reading. About the only time I'm not destroying them is when I'm typing, knitting or running which goes a long way to explaining why I strictly adhere to all three.

6. I talk to myself and Milly all day. I have no doubt that the neighbours on both sides can hear. As I'm sitting outside cooling down after a run, Milly will trot up to me and I'll say, "Hi there Spunkle Buns, how are ya?" and ruffle her ears. When I get up to go inside, I'll call out, "Hey Millsy, wanna come in and do some work with me?" If I observe something, she'll get commented to: "Milly you are not going to believe what that tool Andrew Bolt has said today," or if the door bell rings, "Wanna answer it, doggie?" She stares at me, tail wagging slowly, leaning forward for a lick of my hand as I reach to pat her head. Much time has been wasted stroking her coat and singing songs with her name inserted into the lyrics but there are worse ways to deal with writer's block.

7. If you want to let me know that you hate me, then cook me a meal consisting of chicken drumsticks that are pink near the bone and have dark veins on display, accompanied by sweet potato and pumpkin and a big glass of beer. My appetite will disappear; I'll go pale and quiet, so you'll have a cheap dinner guest and no interruptions.

8. Even now, at age forty or about 340 in dog years, I'll occasionally let one rip under the quilt and stick my own head under to smell it. Sad, isn't it? Sometimes I'm utterly repulsed by what my body has produced and other times I'm a tad impressed. This is all done under the cover of darkness and never, ever when Love Chunks is awake.

9. When I was holidaying on my own in Dublin, I had a week-long fling with James, a guy from London (way, waaaay back in my back-packing days of '91-'92). We met because he was staying at the same BnB I was but was there for work (something in IT I think). He took me out to dinner, we went to groovy Temple Bar pubs, had lots of fun and then when I left for London a day earlier than he did, I said, "I'll call you," and never did. Deliberately. For the next few months after that, I used it as a brag story to my girlfriends, a kind of 'Heh, that'll sock it to those evil men who do that to us' revenge-tactic but since then I have felt very mean and small about it. So James, I'm sorry. It honestly truly wasn't you, it was me. All me.

10. Sometimes Love Chunks makes me cry. He'll be sitting alongside me as we sip the coffee he made, or be watching a footy game and I'll look over and see his kind blue eyes and the intense expression of concentration of his face as the footy's on and the tears will start. I'll see him hugging our daughter, helping her with the year five-level maths homework or putting up the new coloured party lights in her bedroom and I'll cry. He'll be scratching Milly's belly, crooning, "Oooh you're a beautiful dog, yes you are," or he'll be lying by my side and I'll smell his warmth and it'll start me off.

The tears spring from a varied mixture of love, gratefulness, emotion, relief, comfort, security, familiarity and passion among other things that I don't even have the capacity to properly fathom. Whatever the reason, every day I wake up and am so thankful he's chosen to do all of this with me.

Tha Goodest Spellinkt bloggee Thingo

Blogger Helen from Bonding with Lizards nominated me for an 'Awe-Summ award' and Sandi K nominated me for a Kreativ (sic) Blogger award. No hefty cash prizes or bars of gold accompanied the honours unfortunately and really it's just a sneaky way of forcing me to write a meme but it also makes me smile with pride.

Both allow me to to blow my own trumpet in that I have to mention seven things that I'm awesome at - spelling not included.

When I sit here and think about it I realise that it's much harder than I thought. Sure I'm not the biggest loser in the land, but I aint a champion either and there's loads of things that I can claim to do competently (ie fold up the washing, make sure that bottle tops don't get flung into the recyling bin and never buy milk that's less than two days away from the 'best before date') but to be awesome is another level entirely.

The Collins Concise dictionary defines awesome as 'inspiring or displaying awe.' Okaaaay, so we'll look a bit further up the column to awe: 'overwhelming wonder, respect or dread.' Hmm, let's leave the seven dread bits until the very end, shall we?

So let's get the ball rolling on this anal gazing malarkey.

1) Hedonistic Hypocrisy. Picture my morning today, dear reader. The dog and I have just spent a couple of hours roaming the neighbourhood inserting flyers into letterboxes regarding the aims and exploits of our venerable local residents association. The cold winter sun is out and we both feel energised, happy and..... I'll be honest, a bit pleased with ourselves. I see what can only be kindly described as Michelen Man's girlfriend in a pale pink velvet tracksuit shoe-horning herself into her car and think, "She should be walking like us." I then see a Medibank Private employee sucking down on a cigarette so intently her eyes bulge and think, "She should be inhaling the fresh air, like us." Annoyingly justifiable, no?

Less than half an hour later, I'm at San Churro enjoying this as my lunch:

The only savoury thing there is the salt sprinkled on top of the peanut butter truffle and yet I still managed to look disdainfully at two spotty teenagers sharing just a plate of the churros (the phallic-shaped donut sticks) and think, "Oh that's not going to help their skin," before hoeing right into this like a blind basset hound lapping up porridge.

And then, what did I do? Popped into Rebel Sport to get myself a new pair of running shoes.

The other six things I'm good - nay, awesome at are:

2) Working by myself to a deadline. Having a mere four metre commute to work from the kitchen in one direction and the bedroom in the other means that public transport or car crashes can't be blamed for delays and non-performance. Instead my only way of procrastinating actually benefits the family: the house becomes very tidy. No dog fur clinging to the felt squares under the chair legs, no toothpaste splats on the mirror and Milly's butt nuggets are (mostly) removed from anywhere that human feet are likely to tread.

.....which sort of leads me to Awesome skill number 3) Wielding a Chux Superwipe. It's become second nature to have a damp cloth within an arm's length. In fact, Sapphire's first recognisable form of imitation as a nine month old was to cling to the edge of our ancient coffee table, whip off her bib and use it to wipe over the surface. Sure, the magazines went flying and my tea got spilled but she was learning about the importance of having a surface that is less like velcro and more like a top you'd be willing to rest your elbows on.

Now I'm struggling and lucky for me, Sapphire's just walked in. So sweetie-darling-sweetie, what's your old ma awesome at?

"Look Mum I'm really busting to go to the toilet and I only came in here to ask if I could have a muesli bar because I'm absolutely starving and the sausage sizzle before the school's junior string concert tonight isn't until 5:30 and I can't wait that long, so----" She left the room, but not before calling out, "So I'll have a think while I'm on the loo, OK?"

Er, fine. Thanks.

Bless her little heart because she did bounce back several minutes later, still reeking of the loo spray that she squirts liberally around the room so that the next occupant enters a blinding lavender fog, and came up with these ones:

4) "You run really fast." I'm OK, but I'm not that good. Sure the distance isn't shabby (eight kilometres) but at five minutes each I'm not troubling any Olympian - or para-Olympian for that matter. "No but I've seen you and it looks fast and you never give up."

I've been running now for nearly nine years and hope that I can continue for many more to come. I'm proud of getting out there even when I don't feel like it, it's too cold; my shins ache; my shoes rub; my toe nails get bashed, turn black and fall off and my bra cuts into my rib cage and makes me bleed. This has happened more than once but the last time I was wearing a black one so it didn't have the same, um, 'pictorial piquancy' shall we say.

5) "You're actually quite good at singing." WHAT? NO-ONE has ever said that to me before and I sing only when I'm happy and think that I'm alone or safely out of earshot. "I hear you sometimes just singing away to yourself in the kitchen when you think I've got my earphones on or are too far away in my room and you sound quite good." She sees me puff up with pride as I begin to deeply inhale and prepare to burst into ----and says hastily, "But not all the time." Shuddering, she repeats it, "Oh no, not all the time, no." Ah.

6) "You're able to turn boring, everyday things into something I want to hear about and read about." Oh dear, but there's a fair bit in my blog that I don't want you to read or hear or know about just yet. The farting themes alone are a bit too 'out there' for you and.... "No but when you said how you ran up to the stage to get the actor to stop kissing your Mum in the play I laughed a lot. You do swear a bit though and didn't Grandpa tell you - and you tell me all the time now too - that using rude words just means you don't have any imagination to think of anything more clever to say?" Er, yes. So now I'm not sure if this quality now qualifies me as 'awesome' or just rude and lazy.

7) "You're very Motherly."

This one warranted a fair bit of further discussion, revamping and clarification about all the times I've embarassed her by talking to the high school kids on the way to her school in the morning and picking up papers on our way back home and her criticism of my sartorial selections and rushing over to pat any dog that walks within a 200 metre radius of us but this next line she said absolutely word for word: "You do all the things that good mums have to do, but you're like my best friend because you do also things that you want to do for me and we have a lot of fun."

Oh bugger it; I didn't think this Awesome shindig was supposed to leave me in tears....!

Bonza Baino

When I started blogging .... actually that sounds a bit rude, doesn't it, as though I decided to treat myself to a regular post-breakfast enema but let's move away from bowel movements and back to blogging.... (ahem)......

(Puffs out chest proudly and affects a pompous tone): When I started blogging nearly five years ago, the aim was simply to play with some web technology that even I could navigate on my own without ending up in crying in the corner rocking to myself, and also to try and keep some writing 'fitness' up by posting at least two or three times a week.

Never did I realise that I'd actually make friends on it as well. Friends whose lives I'd eagerly read about and visit daily just to see what they were up to. And this has been the real bonus for me. The other night, Sydney blogger and all-time Awesome Kick-Arse Mother and Techno Tart Baino was holidaying in Melbourne with her daughter ClareBear. Did I want to meet up for a drink on Monday? Do fish pee in the sea?!
*

Baino's on the left, looking younger and slimmer than she tells us she is on her blog. Next time I hope I can convince her that Love Chunks, Sapphire and I aren't axe-wielding psychopaths who knit knee rugs from our own belly button fluff (or not very often anymore) and that she's welcome to enter through our Gates of Hell and have dinner. Or stay. Any maybe help us knit....

Afterwards I got home, started yelling at my visiting parents (three glasses of wine on an empty stomach and I think I'm whispering delicately) over dinner and started thinking about the other bloggers I've met in person.

Franzy - Funnier than seeing Malcolm Turnbull in a Centrelink Queue. Smart. Quick to tell me that he's disappointed if some of my bloggings are lazy. New father, sleep-deprived; still suffering the shock and wonderment of it all but able to work up a good rage every now and then. I hope to buy his best-selling and critically-acclaimed works of fiction when he finishes them.

Ashleigh - Quirky. Intelligent. Passionate about the ridiculousness of finance, enviro-greenwashing and actively querying just why (oh god, why?) his local council won't allow boobies or willies to be shown as artworks in public places. Challenged me to a blind chocolate tasting that showed we both have a lot to learn, which is a damn convenient way of allowing us to eat more of the good brown stuff.

Delamere - Warm. Friendly. Sharp as a whip. Mother of three, career-woman, home renovator, rabbit and cat wrangler and - to highlight some cruelly bad timing - she used to work at Cadbury Schweppes before we met. Being ensconced in a telephone company just doesn't have the same ring to it (boom boom). Intense love of all things Jane Austen but possibly not their corsetry or whalebone devices.

Red Cap - Hilariously dark writer who's been rarer than Pamela Anderson in a polo neck in the blogosphere of late. Brain the size of a planet. Snarky but with a beating heart of gold. Brilliant writer and photographer. Keeps her chin up during even the darkest times (and some of those involved being spat on and groped by a drag queen during a festival revue).

Deep Kick Girl - As John Cusack-obsessed as I was. Clever. Generous. All kinds of interests ranging from wearing silly hats proudly in public to rigorous fundraising. Has a tattoo of her favourite band in a very special place that might also get a Sydney Swans logo to accompany it. Deftly survived the rigours of South American travel (twice) with the same dignity she possesses during a fight for a car-parking space outside a childcare centre.

Go East Young Woman. Determined. Bright. Observant. I'd say 'glamorous' until she opens her mouth and makes a drunk Collingwood fan blush and cover his defacto-on-parole's ears. Has more stamps on her passport than I have pairs of shoes. Fashionable and computer savvy. Devoted mother to two cats who have travelled to Holland, Australia and Dubai. Not too shabby with a camera either.

Lessons Learned. Fearless. Astute. Tenacious. Single-handedly takes on the health system on behalf of hearing-impaired babies and children everywhere. Black-belted karate teacher that patiently put up with my explosively embarrassing farts and still managed to teach me something. Should apply those killer skills to budget advisors because everyone's afraid of an angry scientist with the ability to crack a gonad in a single kick.

Myninjacockle. Hilarious. Ingenious. Witty. Met him the same night I met Franzy and knew him straight away just from his descriptions. Bought his book despite considering poetry about as accessible as modern interpretative dance, but thankfully (and not surprisingly) loved his. After all, how many blokes can pen a poem about marking a block of Bega cheese like a football? I selfishly wish he'd put his kids and study books down and write more.

Simply Natural - My ex-boss. Intelligent. Graceful. Kind. Strong. Has endured more than her fair share of sadness and challenge over the past few years but survives and thrives far better than she thinks she does. Should consider moving into interior design professionally because it's clearly her passion and her talent. I often wonder if she keeps me as a friend for the sole reason of being her 'BEFORE' case study for all things decorative, stylish and elegant.

All of them are as fabulous in person as their blogs which detail their loves, hates, frustrations, laughs, bemusements and opinions. All are hugely witty and wonderful writers and I envy them their unique way of looking at the world and their place within it.

Thank blog for this freebie online device that we can so easily tap at in the privacy of our lounge rooms or at the work desk during lunch hour or I'd never have known you. Same goes for those bloggers I haven't met yet. Your absence would make my world a lesser place.

* Sapphire read this sentence over my shoulder, furrowed her brow and said, "Well, do they?"

Blogging Beauty

My beautiful, kind, dear friend Catherine is elegant, stylish, clever and generous and it's no wonder that her home reflects all of these qualities. Why she puts up with my own total lack of interior decorating skills is beyond me and yet, I'll be honest: she's hurt my feelings.

I mean come ON, Catherine. Look at our baby-cack brown house and the magnificent magna out the front - that's got more innercity chic oozing out of it than inanities from the mouths of Australian idol judges. If you want eclectic, try coming over on wheelie bin day - our footpath is cram-packed full of bins from the flats next door and the breeze blows cascading coke bottle and maccas wrappers from the high school four doors up. Atmosphere aplenty and you've gotta love the tree fern stumps that got burned during the 46C heatwave a couple of weeks ago.

Despite knowing all this, she persisted in nominating *gulp* other bloggers to complete memes showing pictures of their homes. Frank photographs of where they relax, blog (I said 'blog' Dad, not 'bog'), cook, bathe, spend time with their loved ones etc. Clearly she automatically assumed that I:

1) wouldn't be interested; and/or

2) possess the aesthetic sensibilities of an over-caffeinated warthog.

OK, so there's a possibility that she could be correct but my wounded pride insists that I do the meme too, if only to educate the rest of you about the importance your design and style choices.

Granted, Catherine's photographs of her home are indeed stunning. What's the most amazing part is I've visited her many times and it always looks this good. It never looks dusty, cluttered or hiding a jarring clash of junk and mess despite having an active and lively seven year old son living there too. This is what her bedroom looks like all the time. No, I have no idea where she hides her ugg boots, trashy novels, mobile phone charger or old 1990s concert t-shirt-as-pyjamas either.

My boudoir on the other hand, might not be quite so stylish but there's one feature she'd have to be green about. My fan.

This plastic purveyer of coolness is an antique; a true modern classic to rival any Philippe Starcke frippery. Purchased at roughly the same time as my Abba Arrival record, it has lasted all through my school years, university, shared houses, marriage, parenthood and house moving. If you look closely you can see the layers of fluff and dust that are stubbornly clinging to every chrome piece. The lovely brown plastic perfectly complements the unvarnished K-Mart mirror I can't be bothered hanging on the wall and the basket of roll-on deodorants that I'm starting to suspect are breeding. See, I can do this too, Catherine!

Catherine has professed a love for quirky side tables.

The butler-tray tables by her sofas are indeed gorgeous, but I reckon that my table also scores a few points on the style scale:

Cool, right? It's my grandfather's pot plant stand that he made in the 1930s that was languishing in his sunroom just after he moved into an aged care facility in 2003. He let me have it and I slapped (sorry: lovingly dressed) some leftover white skirting board paint on the little guy and voila - instant sophistication and just the right amount of space for the telly guide and remotes! See, I'm kicking creative arse in this meme.

Now kitchens are a regular feature of Home Beautiful, Better Homes and Gardens and Catherine's blog and fair enough when they look like this:

White, clean, bright and inviting. But where's the fridge hiding? How come the chux isn't hanging off the tap to dry and why is it shameful to have pesky little things like kettles and toasters on display?

Well, I'm proud to note that our kitchen bench tops are the same caesar-stone stuff that's so beloved of kitchens like the one above, but I'm not afraid to take a snap with the real life clutter still on it.

You've got the tea towel proudly dangling from the oven door, the cheapie white kettle, coveted coffee machine, grinder, leftover wine (only if it's red), iPod dock, school notices yet to be stuck on the fridge via a series of magnets, chicken mince defrosting, junk mail, shopping lists, various keys, pens and individual water glasses that we try and keep using continuously throughout the day so that there's only three to wash instead of twenty.

Oh and the mega packet of lolly snakes - the true kitchen essential.

I'm mean you're loving this, aren't you? Busy drafting your rapturous letters to Home Beautiful, begging them to contact Blurb from the Burbs for a refreshing visit to a house of style, substance and ..... stuff.

To the living room and the absolute essential: the pet bed.

I hope you all take note that the red bean bag cover has been specifically sewn by my talented mother at my request so that it matches our rug.

Unfortunately (and every good design story in magazines has a 'however if we could do one thing differently it would be to move the butler's pantry to the north side nearer the infinity edged pool'), having an orange dog who sheds more hairs than a nervous lamington does coconut means that said rug is often more orange than red and tends to form balls of mouse-sized pet fur when criss-crossed with too much traffic through the room.

In addition I have yet to devise a more attractive drinking dish for Milly than the old tupperware job that is surreptitiously hidden in front of the bookcase.

Finally, the bathroom. Actually I should emphasise first that we now have a bath. In Adelaide we only had a shower, so the bath is a luxury not for soaking in but for plugging up and then using the buckets to scoop up the water and fling out onto our almost-dead garden.

As I'm now getting used to having a shower standing in a pool of my own soap suds and filth I also use the water to give my thongs (that's flip flops to you Poms) a clean as well.

.... and look at the handy shelf that allows my footwear to dry, keep the buckets in line and Sapphire's shower cap to drain off?

Oh I have style, Catherine. Arse loads of it baby!