While I was chatting on the phone the other night with my Number Two Son who’s living in London, he noticed the tell-tale signs of something being scoffed at my end of the line. Perhaps it was the odd muffled “Hmphlm!” that replaced some of my responses or maybe the sound of crinkling plastic that gave me away but, either way, he was onto me.
“I’m eating marshmallows,” I confessed to the sound of his jealous groans.
“Ooooh, I could sooooo eat some marshmallows right now!,” he whined and we began discussing how great it would be if I could just stuff some marshmallows into the phone and have them pop out at the other end of the line in Shepherds Bush, London. Just imagine if we could use technology in this way, we thought.
“It would be fabulous! A kind of Marshmallow Portal” chirped Number Two, his brain evidently whirring at all the stunning technological possibilities.
“We could patent the idea and get rich!” he added.
We began extending the concept even further; taking it beyond the idea of personal gain, glitz, fame and millionaire yachts and onto the much more serious issue of world hunger (and potential Nobel Peace Prizes).
Definitely ‘do-able’, we felt, despite the fact that at least one of us (moi) is arguably THE most technologically-challenged human being to have never gigged anyone’s byte (ever!) and would be hard pressed to design a fully functioning paper-clip, let alone a portal to an alternative universe full of healthy food!
However, undeterred, we pressed on with our vision of people everywhere going on-line to order a hearty plate of roast beef, three veg and some sticky date pudding and having it morph into their laps, complete with cutlery and a nice glass of red.
The only sticking point with our portal, we conceded, could be the lack of widespread access to the laptops, modems, broadband internet and power sources required to enable our Feed the World Roast plan to work.
Yes, this may put a spanner in the works but surely, we figured, between all of the world’s computer-nerds, government organisations and the United Nations they could sort out that little glitch, couldn’t they?
Our job, we felt, was merely to come up with the idea. Implementation was clearly someone else’s baby. After all, Creativity and Practicality are uneasy bedfellows (probably because Practicality snores loudly and is a big wowser).
Anyway, it was a nice thought. Not that it helped Number Two Son much with his marshmallow craving.
Pity about that, really. It would have been nice to have solved even one person’s food craving -- even if it did mean sacrificing a couple of my marshmallows to the greater good.
But fortunately….um…. I mean……sadly …..that wasn’t to be.
(And gee, they were yummy!)
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Me and My Exclamation Mark - An Inseparable Pair!!!
Those of you who have been reading my articles for a while may have noted that I have a certain, shall we say ‘fondness’ for using exclamation marks. Well, okay, I’ll admit it’s probably a bit more than a fondness; it’s probably closer to an addiction.
In my defence, I don’t feel I can express myself properly unless I throw in the appropriate ‘feeling’. And how can I do that without incorporating my favourite piece of punctuation -- the good old exclamation mark?
When I’m telling you something funny it often ends with an exclamation mark. Ha ha! Something amazing or dramatic ends with an exclamation mark. Ooh! Aah! In fact, pretty much my whole life is punctuated with exclamation marks. New job! New book! Joined the gym! Watched the ice-skating! Read a book! Put out the garbage!
Let’s face it, I think and speak with exclamation marks hanging all over my sentences! So therefore it’s inevitable (and not unreasonable to my way of thinking) to carry this over into my written work. But unfortunately not everyone sees it this way; in particular editing-type people.
I was reminded of this last week when I was invited to submit an article to an online debating site. It was a ‘semi-humorous’ article -- in that, while it was a little tongue in cheek, it also contained a serious message. The humorous bits were appropriately ‘exclamation marked’ to ensure that everyone got the joke.
Well, anyway, before it went to print the Editor asked if I minded if she ‘pruned’ some of my exclamation marks and I said okay.
Well, she pruned alright! Hacked to death might be a better term. If I was a rose bush I would have been reduced to a gnarly stork for, by the time she’d finished there was no trace of my personality, let alone any inference of humour. Naturally this resulted in some less than happy ‘comments’ when the debate got going.
“Is she joking?” squawked one disgruntled reader.
“Well ….yes, actually” I wanted to write back, but I had to forgive ‘Angry from Parkville’ for how was he to know I was taking the Mickey when there was no happy little exclamation mark to highlight my hilarity?
As I re-read the article (post hack) I could quite see how people had taken some of it the wrong way. Without my exclamation marks, I certainly sounded more like a smug smart alec than a good-natured observer of human nature who was having a friendly poke at the Baby Boomer generation (to which, I hasten to add, I belong).
I later found that the article in question had not only been aired here in Australia, but had found its way onto a Japanese website where they appear to have translated my words into Japanese and then back again in a very amusing fashion. It had also ended up on a website in North Carolina, USA. (I would normally have included an exclamation mark here, but I'm trying to abstain).
I just hope my international readers managed to find something funny about the article even without its exclamation marks. Otherwise I can see the headlines now:
“Australian article bores entire state of North Carolina to death! It’s just not funny,” survivors say.
Well anyway, in acknowledgement of my addiction to the humble Exclamation Mark I am now considering seeking out a 12 Step “Punctuators Anonymous” program. Can you just see me introducing myself at my first session?
“Hi, I’m Catherine! I’m a serial punctuator and I just love using exclamation marks!!!”
(I sure hope they can help!!!!!!!!!)
In my defence, I don’t feel I can express myself properly unless I throw in the appropriate ‘feeling’. And how can I do that without incorporating my favourite piece of punctuation -- the good old exclamation mark?
When I’m telling you something funny it often ends with an exclamation mark. Ha ha! Something amazing or dramatic ends with an exclamation mark. Ooh! Aah! In fact, pretty much my whole life is punctuated with exclamation marks. New job! New book! Joined the gym! Watched the ice-skating! Read a book! Put out the garbage!
Let’s face it, I think and speak with exclamation marks hanging all over my sentences! So therefore it’s inevitable (and not unreasonable to my way of thinking) to carry this over into my written work. But unfortunately not everyone sees it this way; in particular editing-type people.
I was reminded of this last week when I was invited to submit an article to an online debating site. It was a ‘semi-humorous’ article -- in that, while it was a little tongue in cheek, it also contained a serious message. The humorous bits were appropriately ‘exclamation marked’ to ensure that everyone got the joke.
Well, anyway, before it went to print the Editor asked if I minded if she ‘pruned’ some of my exclamation marks and I said okay.
Well, she pruned alright! Hacked to death might be a better term. If I was a rose bush I would have been reduced to a gnarly stork for, by the time she’d finished there was no trace of my personality, let alone any inference of humour. Naturally this resulted in some less than happy ‘comments’ when the debate got going.
“Is she joking?” squawked one disgruntled reader.
“Well ….yes, actually” I wanted to write back, but I had to forgive ‘Angry from Parkville’ for how was he to know I was taking the Mickey when there was no happy little exclamation mark to highlight my hilarity?
As I re-read the article (post hack) I could quite see how people had taken some of it the wrong way. Without my exclamation marks, I certainly sounded more like a smug smart alec than a good-natured observer of human nature who was having a friendly poke at the Baby Boomer generation (to which, I hasten to add, I belong).
I later found that the article in question had not only been aired here in Australia, but had found its way onto a Japanese website where they appear to have translated my words into Japanese and then back again in a very amusing fashion. It had also ended up on a website in North Carolina, USA. (I would normally have included an exclamation mark here, but I'm trying to abstain).
I just hope my international readers managed to find something funny about the article even without its exclamation marks. Otherwise I can see the headlines now:
“Australian article bores entire state of North Carolina to death! It’s just not funny,” survivors say.
Well anyway, in acknowledgement of my addiction to the humble Exclamation Mark I am now considering seeking out a 12 Step “Punctuators Anonymous” program. Can you just see me introducing myself at my first session?
“Hi, I’m Catherine! I’m a serial punctuator and I just love using exclamation marks!!!”
(I sure hope they can help!!!!!!!!!)
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Why Golf can Help Your Kids be Nice People
As I ambled around the golf course this morning, it occurred to me that golf is a bit of a metaphor for life.
Sometimes things go your way. You get that nice little ‘cracking’ sound as you wallop your dreams from the tee right onto the fairway of life and you feel as if you’re cruising. Life is good!
Other times you whack a dodgy into the rough and find yourself having to chip around obstacles and problems.
Then there are the occasions when you land in a full-on bunker. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t seem to dig your way out.
Taking this ‘life/golf’ idea even further, I got to thinking that perhaps all children should be taught how to play golf.
Why? Because in golf you are expected to honour rules and etiquette – concepts every child needs to learn.
For example, when a player steps up to the tee, everyone else is expected to keep still and shut up while they take their shot. Now that’s a good lesson in manners.
And you have to take turns in golf, meaning that sharing, waiting and being patient are ….um … par for the course (if you will pardon my pun!).
If you chop out a divot on a golf course, you are expected to repair it.
That’s about respecting your environment and being considerate of other’s who use the space.
If you’re playing slowly and another group of players is hard on your heels, it’s etiquette to offer to let them ‘play through’ so as to not hold up their game. That’s being thoughtful.
When a player does a rubbish shot, it’s considered inappropriate to laugh or mock them -- tempting as this might be! That’s a lesson in kindness and learning to control one’s impulses. (In any case, if you’re anything like me, chances are you will soon do a rubbish shot yourself!)
When you finish using each club, it’s good form to wipe it clean before replacing it in your bag. That’s a lesson in taking care of one’s own things.
Some golf links have special rules about attire, so this is a lesson in caring about how you present yourself.
Bad language on a golf course is discouraged, so our budding Greg Normans would be learning to watch their ‘p’s and ‘qs’ (and ‘f’s) and use appropriate language.
And finally, the nineteenth hole is off limits for juniors so they won’t be associating alcohol with sport …. or learning to tell big fibs about how many birdies, eagles, albatrosses they almost got.
There, that’s it. One game of golf and our kids would have learned the basics of how to behave in the game of life!
Well, now I’ve got the next generation sorted, I wonder if I can get some of those naughty adult players to start toeing the line?
What’s that? A new rule, you say? All do-gooding Kitchen Philosophers are banned from the local course?
Hmph!
Sometimes things go your way. You get that nice little ‘cracking’ sound as you wallop your dreams from the tee right onto the fairway of life and you feel as if you’re cruising. Life is good!
Other times you whack a dodgy into the rough and find yourself having to chip around obstacles and problems.
Then there are the occasions when you land in a full-on bunker. Doesn’t matter what you do, you can’t seem to dig your way out.
Taking this ‘life/golf’ idea even further, I got to thinking that perhaps all children should be taught how to play golf.
Why? Because in golf you are expected to honour rules and etiquette – concepts every child needs to learn.
For example, when a player steps up to the tee, everyone else is expected to keep still and shut up while they take their shot. Now that’s a good lesson in manners.
And you have to take turns in golf, meaning that sharing, waiting and being patient are ….um … par for the course (if you will pardon my pun!).
If you chop out a divot on a golf course, you are expected to repair it.
That’s about respecting your environment and being considerate of other’s who use the space.
If you’re playing slowly and another group of players is hard on your heels, it’s etiquette to offer to let them ‘play through’ so as to not hold up their game. That’s being thoughtful.
When a player does a rubbish shot, it’s considered inappropriate to laugh or mock them -- tempting as this might be! That’s a lesson in kindness and learning to control one’s impulses. (In any case, if you’re anything like me, chances are you will soon do a rubbish shot yourself!)
When you finish using each club, it’s good form to wipe it clean before replacing it in your bag. That’s a lesson in taking care of one’s own things.
Some golf links have special rules about attire, so this is a lesson in caring about how you present yourself.
Bad language on a golf course is discouraged, so our budding Greg Normans would be learning to watch their ‘p’s and ‘qs’ (and ‘f’s) and use appropriate language.
And finally, the nineteenth hole is off limits for juniors so they won’t be associating alcohol with sport …. or learning to tell big fibs about how many birdies, eagles, albatrosses they almost got.
There, that’s it. One game of golf and our kids would have learned the basics of how to behave in the game of life!
Well, now I’ve got the next generation sorted, I wonder if I can get some of those naughty adult players to start toeing the line?
What’s that? A new rule, you say? All do-gooding Kitchen Philosophers are banned from the local course?
Hmph!
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Fit Busting
Every so often I get the urge to start taking better care of myself, get fit and shift those stubborn extra kilos. This urge usually coincides with some forthcoming social event, significant birthday (usually one with an ‘0’ attached) or some nasty little health issue. Any of these can force my biological alarm clock to start pealing furiously.
“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”
Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.
And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:
“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”
This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.
I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.
And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.
But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.
“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.
“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.
I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!
And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.
But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm
“Wake up! Wake up!” it cries desperately. “You’re running out of time to get the body of Jennifer Hawkins, the skin of Halle Berry and the liver of Mother Theresa.”
Of course I scoff at the silly little clock’s pathetic dream of me ever being able to sculpt my five foot nothing, rather well-covered frame into supermodel (or supernun!) status, but you’ve gotta give it credit for trying.
And so, in an effort to appease the little chap and to give myself an outside chance of being Fab, Fit and Fifty (yes, that was the ‘0’ I was referring to!) I have made a few lifestyle changes and even joined a gym. This is only the second time ever in my life that I have had an association with a gym. The first time was recorded in this column some time ago, a portion of which I will quote here as a reminder:
“If I sound surprised … it’s because it has taken me the better part of half a century to ever step inside a gymnasium and, frankly, I am shocked. Not only by the sight of my body (in all its alarming rotundity) being reflected ninety-fold around the mirrored walls, but also by the myriad of people who willingly offer up their time and their bodies to the Gruelling Gym Gods.”
This second visit has me reeling further. An assessment of my weight, height, body mass index, yada yada yada revealed that I am officially in the ‘obese’ category.
I was horrified! Thankfully (no doubt in a bid to ward off any membership-terminating tanties on my part) my instructor was quick to point that I had only just squeezed over the ‘obesity’ line and that it was probably due to that litre of damn water I had drunk on the day. That made me feel a bit better.
And so this past week I have been pumping iron, marching up hills on a walking machine, rowing my way across what feels like the Pacific, flaying about like some weird, unco moon-child on a machine called an ‘Elliptical’, contorting my reluctant ‘abs’ into crunches and cycling til my butt hurt.
But have the kilos started to shift? Not on your Nelly! Each day I jump eagerly on the scales expecting some miraculous diving of the numbers, but nah. To my annoyance, they just keep getting higher instead of lower.
“Muscle weighs more than fat,” offered one friend, trying to comfort me but I seriously doubt that five sessions at the gym would’ve made any muscle yet.
“It’s probably just fluid,” says someone else kindly.
I have my own theory. My fat cells are perfectly happy where they are. They like me. And it’s going to take more than a bit of heart thumping to bump them off. Well, I’ve got news for them. This time I’m serious!
And just to prove it, I’m going to go out there again today and huff and puff and sweat til my corpuscles hurt.
But not until I’ve had a nice cup of tea ….oh, and wasn’t there a bit of left over chocolate cake in the pantry?....mmmm
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