There have been a few clues throughout my lifetime that I may not be the most fashion-savvy of people.
The first sign was at the age of about twelve when, just beginning to ‘bud’ (as my Mum so delicately put it) I became the proud new owner of a lovely white “Fibs” bra.
Now, some of you will remember the Fibs bra. Very much like the ‘kiddy’ bras you see today, the Fibs was a stretch nylon bra with no clasps, hooks or metal bits. It went on over your head like a tee-shirt and had absolutely no uplifting properties at all. Not that this was an issue for me, as there was absolutely nothing to uplift anyway.
I delightedly wore my latest acquisition and proudly showed it off to my older, more bra-savvy friends. But I was most disappointed when they started giggling as they peered down the front of my school dress.
“What the hell is THAT!” they cried, falling about laughing.
“Whadya mean?” I said indignantly. “It’s a bra, stupid! It’s a Fibs. They’re the latest thing!”
“Not THAT!” they cried, “What’s the thing you’ve got under it?”
I peered down my dress to see what they were talking about.
“Oh, you mean my singlet” I said casually, blissfully unaware that I may very well have committed my first ever (known) fashion crime.
They laughed even harder.
“What?” I cried, bewilderedly. “What’s so funny?”
“Well, for a start you don’t wear stuff UNDER your bra, you ninny,” they informed me. “And secondly, who wears singlets anyway? Singlets are for little kids.”
I stood there in shock. No more singlets? Were they kidding? Was this the price I had to pay in order to cross the threshold to womanhood? Did my mother know this? (I doubted this, because I had seen her also wearing a singlet. Dad too). Clearly, I came from a long line of singlet-wearers and I knew it would be difficult to convince them that my kidneys could ever survive winter without singletty protection.
I considered my options.
“What if I put the singlet over the top of the bra?” I ventured, but was rewarded with a grim shaking of heads.
“It has to go,” the Pubescent Fashion Police prescribed.
And so it was that I learned my first ever fashion lesson the hard way. Only ridicule and ribbing can work so well.
I’d love to say it was an isolated incident but, many years later, after wearing a purple knitted skirt to work several times — and believing that I looked quite fab — I was implored by a good friend to take the ‘hideous’ thing off the moment I got home and burn it!
“I want it gone forever!” said my friend. “And I never want to speak of the purple ‘knee-rug’ again!”
Thankfully she didn’t peep down the front of my top.
God only knows what she would’ve said about the singlet!
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Clean Freak
This morning I made a rather startling discovery. Perhaps not all THAT startling for anyone with 20/20 vision who has ever visited my house -- but startling to me nonetheless.
You see, I happened to inadvertently leave my reading glasses on while cleaning up the kitchen this morning … and what a discovery! I learned - much to my horror - that I am not nearly as good at housekeeping as I thought I was. I discovered grots where there oughtn’t be grots, smears where there oughtn’t be smears and slops where there oughtn’t be slops.
My toaster, for instance, far from being the pristine white appliance that I once thought she was, is actually a toast and god-knows-what bespeckled abomination. My stainless steel fridge bears milky smears and smudgy finger prints (that I can no longer blame on kids) and my stove top looks it’s been stocking up on crumbs and other food scraps for the winter.
The problem, of course, is that up until now I have been oblivious to this microscopic world of kitchen chaos. It’s like opening up a whole other universal portal; one where small, gooey things take on a life of their own – multiplying and cavorting in cracks and crevices, sticking to shiny surfaces and glooping down walls. It’s primordial!
Well anyway, there was me thinking I’d been doing a sterling job of cleaning. These beliefs, however, were clearly unfounded and I was forced to consider exactly what mess my previous guests may have been exposed to on those occasions when I have thought I have thoroughly cleaned up before their arrival. The mind boggles. So with glasses firmly attached to face, I proceeded to wander around the house to check out the REAL situation.
I found a centimetre of dust on the venetian blinds, a thick snake of fluff on the picture rails and some unidentified fungus growing out from the bathroom tiles. This last one, I must admit, is not entirely new to me. At our last house I regularly hosted a small toadstool that would force its way up through the shower tiles.
I have to admit I held a certain admiration for that tenacious little guy and would allow him to reach a reasonable size before wiping him out with the scrubbing brush. After all, I figured, if he could go to all that trouble just to live his life in my shower, who was I to thwart his efforts so callously? He deserved to live a little.
What I didn’t comprehend for some time was that, by the time I had eventually decided to remove him on each occasion, he had most likely already spread his spores and was planning his next incarnation. We played this game for a couple of years before he finally gave up in disgust. Maybe he, like my 20/20 vision–enhanced guests, saw a few things he didn’t like in that bathroom. I guess I will never know.
But anyway, back to my current grot-discovery. Could this be why the kids left home? Could I have out-grottied even THEM? (Is that possible?) Am I the laughing stock of the Domestic Goddesses of the world? Certainly this would not be any surprise nor, for that matter, of great concern to me. You see, I figure if one’s housekeeping abilities are questionable then there’s a good chance that people will not expect much of you in this regard and thus you can get away with being a bit of a slob. Cool.
I must admit, though, that there is a small part of me that would like to think that she is just as clean and tidy as every other Domestic Goddess (call it Ajax Envy) and so I am not quite prepared to capitulate to my handicap just yet.
No, from now on I will don the reading glasses every time I decide to clean up the house. That way my delusions of cleanliness will be exposed and I will be forced to be more fastidious.
Well, that’s the plan anyway. Just don’t tell little Fungus Face in the bathroom. We wouldn’t want to scare the little fella off, would we?
This morning I made a rather startling discovery. Perhaps not all THAT startling for anyone with 20/20 vision who has ever visited my house -- but startling to me nonetheless.
You see, I happened to inadvertently leave my reading glasses on while cleaning up the kitchen this morning … and what a discovery! I learned - much to my horror - that I am not nearly as good at housekeeping as I thought I was. I discovered grots where there oughtn’t be grots, smears where there oughtn’t be smears and slops where there oughtn’t be slops.
My toaster, for instance, far from being the pristine white appliance that I once thought she was, is actually a toast and god-knows-what bespeckled abomination. My stainless steel fridge bears milky smears and smudgy finger prints (that I can no longer blame on kids) and my stove top looks it’s been stocking up on crumbs and other food scraps for the winter.
The problem, of course, is that up until now I have been oblivious to this microscopic world of kitchen chaos. It’s like opening up a whole other universal portal; one where small, gooey things take on a life of their own – multiplying and cavorting in cracks and crevices, sticking to shiny surfaces and glooping down walls. It’s primordial!
Well anyway, there was me thinking I’d been doing a sterling job of cleaning. These beliefs, however, were clearly unfounded and I was forced to consider exactly what mess my previous guests may have been exposed to on those occasions when I have thought I have thoroughly cleaned up before their arrival. The mind boggles. So with glasses firmly attached to face, I proceeded to wander around the house to check out the REAL situation.
I found a centimetre of dust on the venetian blinds, a thick snake of fluff on the picture rails and some unidentified fungus growing out from the bathroom tiles. This last one, I must admit, is not entirely new to me. At our last house I regularly hosted a small toadstool that would force its way up through the shower tiles.
I have to admit I held a certain admiration for that tenacious little guy and would allow him to reach a reasonable size before wiping him out with the scrubbing brush. After all, I figured, if he could go to all that trouble just to live his life in my shower, who was I to thwart his efforts so callously? He deserved to live a little.
What I didn’t comprehend for some time was that, by the time I had eventually decided to remove him on each occasion, he had most likely already spread his spores and was planning his next incarnation. We played this game for a couple of years before he finally gave up in disgust. Maybe he, like my 20/20 vision–enhanced guests, saw a few things he didn’t like in that bathroom. I guess I will never know.
But anyway, back to my current grot-discovery. Could this be why the kids left home? Could I have out-grottied even THEM? (Is that possible?) Am I the laughing stock of the Domestic Goddesses of the world? Certainly this would not be any surprise nor, for that matter, of great concern to me. You see, I figure if one’s housekeeping abilities are questionable then there’s a good chance that people will not expect much of you in this regard and thus you can get away with being a bit of a slob. Cool.
I must admit, though, that there is a small part of me that would like to think that she is just as clean and tidy as every other Domestic Goddess (call it Ajax Envy) and so I am not quite prepared to capitulate to my handicap just yet.
No, from now on I will don the reading glasses every time I decide to clean up the house. That way my delusions of cleanliness will be exposed and I will be forced to be more fastidious.
Well, that’s the plan anyway. Just don’t tell little Fungus Face in the bathroom. We wouldn’t want to scare the little fella off, would we?
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The Case of the Invisible Mother
In her ‘feeling-unappreciated’ moments, my Mum often lamented that she was (and I quote); “…the dirt on the ground around here!” And I agree that we mothers certainly do sometimes feel like the unpaid ‘help’. But at least Mum’s claims implied that she was somewhat visible to her children. Unlike poor little me.
You see, I have just uncovered a startling revelation about my youngest son’s impression of me. Which is: he doesn’t really have one!
Evidently to Master Teen I am a faceless fairy that cooks, cleans and loans her car. Any endearing personal qualities are buried under an all-encompassing layer of nondescript ‘Mumness”.
And how have I arrived at this notion of invisibility?
Well, recently Master Teen was trying out his new digital camera; clicking enthusiastically at all manner of domestic activity — a scowling Mum putting away the groceries and finding the BBQ Snacks were already half eaten; a perplexed Mum attempting (in futility) to match up twenty-seven odd socks — you know, the regular scenes of domestic bliss.
But Little Mr Snaparazzi was in for a surprise when later, looking through the snapshots, he discovered a strange thing.
“Why do you look so much like Auntie Rosie in these photos?” he demanded, a confused furrow denting his young brow. “Look! It’s the same in every one of them!”
He then raised his eyes to gaze fully upon my face and the brow-furrow suddenly switched to astonishment.
“Jeez, you really do look like Auntie Rosie!” he marveled.
“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” I asked.
“Nah,” he breathed, scanning me like I was some kind of rare artifact in an Egyptian museum. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never actually looked at you before!”
“Well, that’s just lovely!” I snorted, not sure whether it was hilarious or tragic.
Imagine. You’ve seen this kid every day of his life and yet, somehow, there’s still doubt as to whether he would actually recognize you if you ran into each other in a foreign city! I decided it was best to be amused. After all, the alternative is disturbing; the scenario going something like this:
“Well…” mutters the young international traveler, eyeing you suspiciously as you approach him with motherly enthusiasm at the Louvre or the Coliseum, “I must admit you do look vaguely familiar….. Oh yes, now I remember…you remind me of that woman who used to clean up my room …now, what was her name again?”
Ah well, at least there is potentially an ‘up’ side to this story.
If I ever turn to a life of crime, I could steal Master Teen’s most prized possessions and he would never pick me from the Police Line-up.
Hmm; now there’s an idea! I’ve always wanted an iPod….
In her ‘feeling-unappreciated’ moments, my Mum often lamented that she was (and I quote); “…the dirt on the ground around here!” And I agree that we mothers certainly do sometimes feel like the unpaid ‘help’. But at least Mum’s claims implied that she was somewhat visible to her children. Unlike poor little me.
You see, I have just uncovered a startling revelation about my youngest son’s impression of me. Which is: he doesn’t really have one!
Evidently to Master Teen I am a faceless fairy that cooks, cleans and loans her car. Any endearing personal qualities are buried under an all-encompassing layer of nondescript ‘Mumness”.
And how have I arrived at this notion of invisibility?
Well, recently Master Teen was trying out his new digital camera; clicking enthusiastically at all manner of domestic activity — a scowling Mum putting away the groceries and finding the BBQ Snacks were already half eaten; a perplexed Mum attempting (in futility) to match up twenty-seven odd socks — you know, the regular scenes of domestic bliss.
But Little Mr Snaparazzi was in for a surprise when later, looking through the snapshots, he discovered a strange thing.
“Why do you look so much like Auntie Rosie in these photos?” he demanded, a confused furrow denting his young brow. “Look! It’s the same in every one of them!”
He then raised his eyes to gaze fully upon my face and the brow-furrow suddenly switched to astonishment.
“Jeez, you really do look like Auntie Rosie!” he marveled.
“Haven’t you ever noticed that?” I asked.
“Nah,” he breathed, scanning me like I was some kind of rare artifact in an Egyptian museum. “As a matter of fact, I’ve never actually looked at you before!”
“Well, that’s just lovely!” I snorted, not sure whether it was hilarious or tragic.
Imagine. You’ve seen this kid every day of his life and yet, somehow, there’s still doubt as to whether he would actually recognize you if you ran into each other in a foreign city! I decided it was best to be amused. After all, the alternative is disturbing; the scenario going something like this:
“Well…” mutters the young international traveler, eyeing you suspiciously as you approach him with motherly enthusiasm at the Louvre or the Coliseum, “I must admit you do look vaguely familiar….. Oh yes, now I remember…you remind me of that woman who used to clean up my room …now, what was her name again?”
Ah well, at least there is potentially an ‘up’ side to this story.
If I ever turn to a life of crime, I could steal Master Teen’s most prized possessions and he would never pick me from the Police Line-up.
Hmm; now there’s an idea! I’ve always wanted an iPod….
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Monday, April 26, 2010
Testimonials for Hot Tips for Cool Parents by Catherine Warnock
Loaded up with wisdom, humor and generous doses of motherly love, Catherine Warnock's smart and charming Hot Tips for Cool Parents is required reading for anyone signed on to the bumpy and beautiful journey of raising children. From tears and fears to siblings and friendships, Warnock tackles each subject with confidence, grace and common sense -- which, as every parent knows, are fundamental to surviving, and enjoying, the parenting experience. A joyful must-read for Moms, Dads and caregivers everywhere."
Bruce Kluger, contributor to USA Today, National Public Radio and Parenting magazine
“Hot Tips for Cool Parents is fun, practical and full of common sense.
It’s also engaging and easy to read, which is perfect for busy parents.
I highly recommend it.”
Julie Gale
Director
Kids Free 2B kids
“Hot Tips for Cool Parents provides an insightful view in to parenting in the 21st century, whilst remaining firmly focussed on what’s really important for kids. Cath’s book provides a light hearted, easy to read and very practical approach to the life altering role of parenting. The strong focus of Hot Tips for Cool Parents on the importance of positive role modelling for young people sits well with the current research trends and fully supports those of us who work closely with young people and their parents. In a world where the traditional family unit is no longer easily defined, it can be difficult for adults to know what makes an effective difference with their children, Hot Tips for Cool Parents goes a long way to assisting and supporting adults on their all important parenting journey.”
Ann Sexton
Former Victorian State President and National Board Member, Australian Breastfeeding Association
Parent of 5
Wellbeing consultant
“A realistic and fantastic read for any parent/carer or grandparent. “Hot Tips for Cool Parents” focuses on the child's and parents well-being, giving specific, directive advice for everyone to use. …it gets back to the basics and the importance of parents spending the time to have a positive relationship with their child.”
Emily Stone, Wangaratta
"Life is like a forest because it's enormous". This was written by my 12 year old son at school. It's now on our fridge at home. Parenting, like life, is a bit like this. Enormous. In my role in health education and counselling young people and families, a consistent message comes through. Parents and children want better relationships with each other. Parents want to understand their kids, and kids want to feel loved by their parents. In these pages, Cath invites the reader into the forest of parenting, walks beside them and sometimes holds their hand along the way. She writes with humour and wisdom. As a parent of four marvellous teenage sons, I wish I had had a book like this to help me navigate the forest! I recommend “Hot Tips for Cool Parents” to all those either on the parenting or care-giving journey, or about to embark. You don't have to do it alone!"
Annabel Ayers, Shepparton
“I LOVED IT! It’s an easy and interesting read. Especially effective were the tips at the end of each chapter, the personal anecdotes and the easy to read style. It’s a winner! I will unreservedly recommend it. Watch the copies sell off the book-shelves!!!!”
Mr Shane Lockhart
Principal, Osbornes Flat Primary School
“I'm loving the book ……. it's so good! Nice and easy to read and very funny. People look at me on the train when I start chuckling to myself!”
Deahann Taylor, Secondary Teacher, Vic
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Living a Life of Crime
Did you know that a crime is committed every 2.8 seconds? And did you know that most domestic violence (including ‘spouse-icide’ and ‘teenage-son-icide’) is committed by people who are renovating their homes?
No, neither did I. In fact, I made that up.
But it does serve to illustrate the way my thought patterns are running at the moment.
As you may already know, the renovations on the “Bung Cal” (our house) are underway and things are getting a little ugly around here. In fact, by comparison, doing time in a maximum security prison seems rather inviting right now.
At least in prison they have doors. (Well, okay, I am not too thrilled by the whole ‘deadlock on the outside’ thing, but it’s a small price to pay for hot and cold running water and regular, cooked meals). Besides I am sure I would look rather fetching in one of those clean, prison-issue tunics. It would make a change from my current ‘hand-washed and drip-dried on the fence’ wardrobe.
It’s not that I really mind living in one room. It’s just that I don’t like having to share that room with the rest of the family, a television, lounge suite, fridge, sawbench, bags of cement and 18 million flies. Call me fussy, but I prefer modern conveniences (i.e. sinks, stoves….. walls).
So, that being said, it’s not difficult to see how tempers might be getting a little frayed around here and why a discussion about domestic violence could be timely — in the preventative sense.
After all, everywhere I look there are tempting options for the reno-wearied dweller (who has finally snapped after, say, arguing for two hours about the preferred location of a light switch).
For example, there is the sharp knife currently acting as a door-knob. Or the claw hammer, propped at the ready, in the dish drainer. Or the lump of 4 x 2 hardwood dangling tantalisingly from a door jamb.
Tools of the trade or weapons? I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation (and level of grumpiness).
For the moment, however, I think we are safe. No one seems too concerned about sharing the shower with the dishes, and “Knife Knob” has given the boys hours of amusement — thinking up a potential television ad for their fantastic invention.
It goes something like this:
“Tired of answering the door to annoying guests? Sick of troublesome relatives? Why not get new DOUBLE ACTION KNIFE KNOB?
In one easy wrist action you can open your door AND rid yourself of pesky visitors! New KNIFE KNOB comes complete with water-tight alibi and rubber gloves!”
Okay, I concede it might never catch on, but at least it’s keeping our spirits up.
As for the neighbours, I have no idea how they are coping with all the banging and crashing (no, not the builders — me trying to find things in the spare room).
I just hope they are not the suspicious types, particularly as I drag a pile of dirty laundry wrapped in a sheet into the boot of my car. I note that it is roughly the size and shape of a dead body and I smile as I picture Mrs Nextdoor rushing to phone the police.
But, so far so good. No arrests to date. Reno taking shape.
And the only sign of criminal behaviour is me feeding the family on a diet of barbequed EVERYTHING!
Did you know that a crime is committed every 2.8 seconds? And did you know that most domestic violence (including ‘spouse-icide’ and ‘teenage-son-icide’) is committed by people who are renovating their homes?
No, neither did I. In fact, I made that up.
But it does serve to illustrate the way my thought patterns are running at the moment.
As you may already know, the renovations on the “Bung Cal” (our house) are underway and things are getting a little ugly around here. In fact, by comparison, doing time in a maximum security prison seems rather inviting right now.
At least in prison they have doors. (Well, okay, I am not too thrilled by the whole ‘deadlock on the outside’ thing, but it’s a small price to pay for hot and cold running water and regular, cooked meals). Besides I am sure I would look rather fetching in one of those clean, prison-issue tunics. It would make a change from my current ‘hand-washed and drip-dried on the fence’ wardrobe.
It’s not that I really mind living in one room. It’s just that I don’t like having to share that room with the rest of the family, a television, lounge suite, fridge, sawbench, bags of cement and 18 million flies. Call me fussy, but I prefer modern conveniences (i.e. sinks, stoves….. walls).
So, that being said, it’s not difficult to see how tempers might be getting a little frayed around here and why a discussion about domestic violence could be timely — in the preventative sense.
After all, everywhere I look there are tempting options for the reno-wearied dweller (who has finally snapped after, say, arguing for two hours about the preferred location of a light switch).
For example, there is the sharp knife currently acting as a door-knob. Or the claw hammer, propped at the ready, in the dish drainer. Or the lump of 4 x 2 hardwood dangling tantalisingly from a door jamb.
Tools of the trade or weapons? I guess it’s all a matter of interpretation (and level of grumpiness).
For the moment, however, I think we are safe. No one seems too concerned about sharing the shower with the dishes, and “Knife Knob” has given the boys hours of amusement — thinking up a potential television ad for their fantastic invention.
It goes something like this:
“Tired of answering the door to annoying guests? Sick of troublesome relatives? Why not get new DOUBLE ACTION KNIFE KNOB?
In one easy wrist action you can open your door AND rid yourself of pesky visitors! New KNIFE KNOB comes complete with water-tight alibi and rubber gloves!”
Okay, I concede it might never catch on, but at least it’s keeping our spirits up.
As for the neighbours, I have no idea how they are coping with all the banging and crashing (no, not the builders — me trying to find things in the spare room).
I just hope they are not the suspicious types, particularly as I drag a pile of dirty laundry wrapped in a sheet into the boot of my car. I note that it is roughly the size and shape of a dead body and I smile as I picture Mrs Nextdoor rushing to phone the police.
But, so far so good. No arrests to date. Reno taking shape.
And the only sign of criminal behaviour is me feeding the family on a diet of barbequed EVERYTHING!
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Monday, April 12, 2010
Sins of the Book Borrowers
If there’s one thing more offensive than telling someone who has loaned you a book that you either a) hated it, or b) didn’t actually bother reading it, it would have to be c) taking the liberty of folding the page corners to mark your spot.
I myself have tutted with disgust when books have been returned to me in such a state, vowing loudly to never again loan my books to such philistines.
And so you would think that I, detester of dog-earedness and the perpetrators of such, would never, EVER stoop to their low acts. But nooo. Stoop I did, just the other night. By mistake, of course, but you try explaining that to the owner of the book who entrusted me with her literary treasure. In my defence, this all must have happened on an evening when I was particularly tired for, in my alert state I would never do such a thing.
I am a ‘book trawler’; one who keeps a diverse stack of books on the bedside table so that each night I can run through my collection and select one that matches my reading inclination.
For example, if I am feeling strong of stomach, I might pick one of the gruesome detective tales of Scotsman, Stuart MacBride. This author’s portrayal of an infinitely sodden and freezing Aberdeen city helps me understand why my Dad immigrated to Australia all those years ago. It’s so depressing! And that’s not even counting the ghoulish murders!
If I am in need of a little spiritual nurturing, I might reach for Deepak or Dr Dyer and if it’s ‘slimming’ inspiration I’m after, I might select (with short-lived good intent) some sage words from the latest flab-busting guru.
Recently I bought a book guaranteed to stop any stunned dieter mid-mouthful. Its title “I can make you thin” had me hoping that just by picking the book up I would shed a kilo or two, but no, it seems you had to actually read it. Its message was simple. Step 1: Only eat when you are hungry. (Not sure what THAT’s all about!) Step 2: Only eat what you REALLY want to eat. (Okay, now you have my attention). Step 3: Eat slowly and savour the food. (Yes, but if you eat quicker you can cram more in…..) Step 4: Stop eating before you feel full. (Huh? It’s all getting too weird for me now). Anyhow, suffice to say when I’m in need of a dieting inspiration I go for books like this.
Sometimes I just want romance or trash, and there are times when I like a good autobiography. Often I will read informative books like those written by the Dog Whisperer. I am a great fan of his methods but, unfortunately Scruffy Dawg seems to require more of the ‘Dog Shouterer’ approach as he ignores my commands and helps himself to yet another shred-worthy toilet roll.
But this week I have been reading David Sedaris, an American whose whacky and sometimes disturbing tales leave me either laughing or cringing. As I snuggled into my doona on propped-up pillows the other night with my borrowed copy of David’s work firmly in hand, I flipped through the book looking for my spot. And there it was alright; complete with dog-eared folded page. Omigod, I thought; my book-loaning friend is going to kill me!
And she doesn’t know the half of it yet. In terms of book-molesting crimes, there’s only thing worse than dog-eared pages. It’s smeared chocolate; and I’m just praying my friend doesn’t turn to Page 233 or my book-borrowing days are REALLY over!
If there’s one thing more offensive than telling someone who has loaned you a book that you either a) hated it, or b) didn’t actually bother reading it, it would have to be c) taking the liberty of folding the page corners to mark your spot.
I myself have tutted with disgust when books have been returned to me in such a state, vowing loudly to never again loan my books to such philistines.
And so you would think that I, detester of dog-earedness and the perpetrators of such, would never, EVER stoop to their low acts. But nooo. Stoop I did, just the other night. By mistake, of course, but you try explaining that to the owner of the book who entrusted me with her literary treasure. In my defence, this all must have happened on an evening when I was particularly tired for, in my alert state I would never do such a thing.
I am a ‘book trawler’; one who keeps a diverse stack of books on the bedside table so that each night I can run through my collection and select one that matches my reading inclination.
For example, if I am feeling strong of stomach, I might pick one of the gruesome detective tales of Scotsman, Stuart MacBride. This author’s portrayal of an infinitely sodden and freezing Aberdeen city helps me understand why my Dad immigrated to Australia all those years ago. It’s so depressing! And that’s not even counting the ghoulish murders!
If I am in need of a little spiritual nurturing, I might reach for Deepak or Dr Dyer and if it’s ‘slimming’ inspiration I’m after, I might select (with short-lived good intent) some sage words from the latest flab-busting guru.
Recently I bought a book guaranteed to stop any stunned dieter mid-mouthful. Its title “I can make you thin” had me hoping that just by picking the book up I would shed a kilo or two, but no, it seems you had to actually read it. Its message was simple. Step 1: Only eat when you are hungry. (Not sure what THAT’s all about!) Step 2: Only eat what you REALLY want to eat. (Okay, now you have my attention). Step 3: Eat slowly and savour the food. (Yes, but if you eat quicker you can cram more in…..) Step 4: Stop eating before you feel full. (Huh? It’s all getting too weird for me now). Anyhow, suffice to say when I’m in need of a dieting inspiration I go for books like this.
Sometimes I just want romance or trash, and there are times when I like a good autobiography. Often I will read informative books like those written by the Dog Whisperer. I am a great fan of his methods but, unfortunately Scruffy Dawg seems to require more of the ‘Dog Shouterer’ approach as he ignores my commands and helps himself to yet another shred-worthy toilet roll.
But this week I have been reading David Sedaris, an American whose whacky and sometimes disturbing tales leave me either laughing or cringing. As I snuggled into my doona on propped-up pillows the other night with my borrowed copy of David’s work firmly in hand, I flipped through the book looking for my spot. And there it was alright; complete with dog-eared folded page. Omigod, I thought; my book-loaning friend is going to kill me!
And she doesn’t know the half of it yet. In terms of book-molesting crimes, there’s only thing worse than dog-eared pages. It’s smeared chocolate; and I’m just praying my friend doesn’t turn to Page 233 or my book-borrowing days are REALLY over!
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Nav Nuts
After writing a recent article about car navigation systems and the amazing technology that enables them to function, I got to thinking about the little voices these devices employ to give verbal directions. For example, on ours there is a very British-sounding lady. She has such a regal affectation, I almost feel like it’s the Queen giving the orders.
“One should command one’s vehicle to turn left at the next intersection,” she instructs. “Oh, and DO be sure to indicate ….. or we shall NOT be amused!”
This got me thinking about some possible alternatives to this voice … as well as some creative new product ideas.
For example, we could have ‘Nav Bloke’. He has the voice of an Ocker and gives instructions like: “Hey Chooka, why doncha hit the skids at the red loight, mate? Then hang a lefty at the pub on the corner. Bewdy.”
I can see Nav Bloke being very popular amongst the local lads.
Then there could be Nav Kid. This one would be a hit with the small fry because, rather than containing boring stuff about roads and adult destinations, it would only contain global positioning information for fast food outlets and toy shops.
The voice will shriek; “Stop the car, Mum! So and so (insert annoying sibling’s name) is hitting me! I need to go to the toilet! I’m hungry! I wanna buy a new X Box!” If nothing else, this device would minimise the length of time that parents are willing to spend driving, thus reducing global warming. See, how eco-responsible are we at our new Naf Nav factory?
But wait; there’s more! Just to save us girls a bit of work, we could have Nav Nag, which would sound something like this: “I TOLD you to turn left at the last corner, Geoffrey! Now you’ll have to turn right, make a detour to pick up my mother, run the kids to basketball and bring home something for dinner! (Gee, I’ll bet Geoffrey can’t wait for THAT one to hit the market!)
Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the older members of society when marketing our new line of car navigators. Nav Gran will not only ask our senior citizens where they need to go (and if they’re absolutely sure about that), but it will also send them back inside to get their glasses, turn off the iron and put the cat out … before it even allows the car to leave the driveway!
Or for those who prefer a little Zen, what about New Age Nav. As you approach a chaotic intersection, a serene voice accompanied by pan pipes and the sound of rolling waves will waft peacefully across the airways. The voice will eventually murmur; “Just let go. MMMMMMM. Take a deep breath and eeeeeeze right. Just drift along and let your inner chakra guide you.”
Then, lastly, for nostalgic Baby Boomers, there will be Hippy Nav. It will come in a jaunty little plastic case covered in flowers and peace signs and the drawling voice will say; “Hey, man. What’s your hurry? We’re all on a road to nowhere, man! Slow down; smell the roses; feel the love. Peace man.”
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.
Not safer. But better.
After writing a recent article about car navigation systems and the amazing technology that enables them to function, I got to thinking about the little voices these devices employ to give verbal directions. For example, on ours there is a very British-sounding lady. She has such a regal affectation, I almost feel like it’s the Queen giving the orders.
“One should command one’s vehicle to turn left at the next intersection,” she instructs. “Oh, and DO be sure to indicate ….. or we shall NOT be amused!”
This got me thinking about some possible alternatives to this voice … as well as some creative new product ideas.
For example, we could have ‘Nav Bloke’. He has the voice of an Ocker and gives instructions like: “Hey Chooka, why doncha hit the skids at the red loight, mate? Then hang a lefty at the pub on the corner. Bewdy.”
I can see Nav Bloke being very popular amongst the local lads.
Then there could be Nav Kid. This one would be a hit with the small fry because, rather than containing boring stuff about roads and adult destinations, it would only contain global positioning information for fast food outlets and toy shops.
The voice will shriek; “Stop the car, Mum! So and so (insert annoying sibling’s name) is hitting me! I need to go to the toilet! I’m hungry! I wanna buy a new X Box!” If nothing else, this device would minimise the length of time that parents are willing to spend driving, thus reducing global warming. See, how eco-responsible are we at our new Naf Nav factory?
But wait; there’s more! Just to save us girls a bit of work, we could have Nav Nag, which would sound something like this: “I TOLD you to turn left at the last corner, Geoffrey! Now you’ll have to turn right, make a detour to pick up my mother, run the kids to basketball and bring home something for dinner! (Gee, I’ll bet Geoffrey can’t wait for THAT one to hit the market!)
Of course, we shouldn’t overlook the older members of society when marketing our new line of car navigators. Nav Gran will not only ask our senior citizens where they need to go (and if they’re absolutely sure about that), but it will also send them back inside to get their glasses, turn off the iron and put the cat out … before it even allows the car to leave the driveway!
Or for those who prefer a little Zen, what about New Age Nav. As you approach a chaotic intersection, a serene voice accompanied by pan pipes and the sound of rolling waves will waft peacefully across the airways. The voice will eventually murmur; “Just let go. MMMMMMM. Take a deep breath and eeeeeeze right. Just drift along and let your inner chakra guide you.”
Then, lastly, for nostalgic Baby Boomers, there will be Hippy Nav. It will come in a jaunty little plastic case covered in flowers and peace signs and the drawling voice will say; “Hey, man. What’s your hurry? We’re all on a road to nowhere, man! Slow down; smell the roses; feel the love. Peace man.”
I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.
Not safer. But better.
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