Charities - what do you do when they come to you?

Not that the poor, unsuspecting young man at my front door knew any of it, but I had had a crappy kind of day. The sort of first-world crappy that doesn't win me any bleeding heart medals but they were my focus in the moment. The sort that didn't put me in the most ideal frame of mind to humour an uninvited stranger.

So when I was attending to - ahem - the other kind of (monthly) visitor that isn't exactly the most welcome because of its uncanny knack of turning up at unpleasant, unplanned times (one week early this time and paaaainful.... SURPRISE!), I did not expect to have to handle any other unwanted surprise guests.

But sure enough, I heard a rap at the front door at the worst possible moment. Followed closely by "MUUUUUUM, someone's heeeeere" from the LGBB.

I got to the door as quickly as I could - no way is a door-to-door .... what are telemarketers who go door-to-door actually called? (be nice) .... seller going to go anywhere if they know someone is home! - and I was greeted by a very cocky young man standing with his hand placed high on my door jamb. Not a euphemism, thanks for wondering. It was not the most endearing pose, put it that way, and while it may work on a Saturday at the nightclub it's not the best stance to have when you're trying to talk to home owners about the plight of the Ugandan people.

Furthermore, aren't they supposed to wear some sort of badge identifying who they work for? Well... there was none of that. In fact, there was no introduction of any kind. The young man simply launched into a spiel that, while well rehearsed and certainly speaking of dismal circumstances for an entire race, was unsolicited, seemed to be going nowhere and left no gap in it for me to explain as I stood there as patiently as I could that he had not even wished me a happy International Women's Day yet, despite the fact that:

• I was harbouring worse stomach cramps than he'd likely ever have in his entire life
• I had sprinted out of the hairdressers so fast earlier that afternoon, when I realised they had overshot their timing of how long it would take, and now had a half-cut head of hair that would not be corrected until next Tuesday!!! (anyone got a hat they can loan me? Urgh)
• I had been so upset about being, therefore, almost half an hour late to collect my daughter from school that I was still, now an hour later, feeling the after-effects of the sudden adrenaline fight-flight rush
• I now had about 2.3396 seconds to get myself and my kid out the door - her in her swimming cozzie - in time for her class because I had been so late picking her up
• I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast (it was 5pm)
• It was 5pm! What was he doing here at such a busy time of day!?
• perhaps most alarmingly, there was no chocolate or marshmallows in the house to reverse the effects of the first five points.

Now, I realise their job is to pluck at the heart strings to try and raise funds for whatever cause they are pushing. I will not deny that if I let it, my heart would bleed dry for my fellow man - anywhere in the world, whatever the dire circumstances - but the thing is, how does a person fronting up to my door or calling on the phone know how many (and what) charities are my choice to donate to?

Truth is, while I live a very comfortable life, I am far from a position where I can willingly donate to every single cause that presents itself. I just can't. Factor in the apparently endless stream of school fundraising (that begins in kindergarten!) that we have to pick and choose and tactfully negotiate our way around so we appear to be giving "enough" as a family without giving blindly to everything - I mean, come ON! $6.50 for 6 hot cross buns???? I LOVE hot cross buns but there is a line that has to be drawn! - and you've got one heck of a funds-bleed that threatens to push us into overdraft very soon.

I cannot deny my flush-faced frustration at this kid who was on my doorstep. The sheer arrogance of him - as if his fancy French-accented demeanour was supposed to make me stand there as a captive audience even after I told him not once but twice that I was late to get out the door - made me want to slam the door in his face. But he was talking about clean drinking water. Death and destruction. Women and children. War.

I tried to cut him short with, "Do you want money?" and he said no, he had not asked me for money (I assumed the unspoken "yet" was implied). I asked him if he could leave me the information and he said by law he wasn't allowed to - whaaaat???! - and then proceeded to continue with his torrent.

This kind of apparently endless one-sided regurgitation of recited information makes me seethe. I admit it. It has long since brought me to the decision that I will no longer donate more than a couple of gold coins to anyone who is coming around door-knocking. And if they're on the phone, I bid them good luck and a good day but firmly hang up the phone. Some of our hard earned, scarce money does go to charities but they are ones of our choosing - those causes we are passionate about, everyone has their preferences - and we cannot give to all. Nor should we be expected to give just because they send someone directly to our door.

So.... how do you succesfully remove a person off your front porch? Hanging up on the phone is one thing, but they're wise to that tactic (obviously). I find it the height of invading my space when it's a physical person I'm then forced to be firm with in order to remove them from my property.



What do you do with door-to-door donation seeking types? The ones who have a spiel longer than your arm and don't want to get to the point - you giving money - no matter if you try and round them up to get to that part so you can just work out the money bit already??

I'm not a Complaints desk!

I don't know what it is, but this morning I have woken up with a very sore head. Family Beware kind of sore head. Figure-of-speech kind of sore head. You don't need pain in your head to have a foul mood like the one I have stepped into today.

Seems as fitting a time as any to tell you all the things I DON'T like about my job. They're not unknown to many of you, but I think sometimes I just want to gag on the sweetness-and-light of it all and it helps me (don't know about you) to let off steam every now and then. Usually this is done in the privacy of my own head, certainly my own house, or to a trusted girlfriend who's finding herself at a similar point of despair. But rarely do I see it spoken or written about publicly beyond a mild gnashing of teeth. As if we're all fooling ourselves. Perhaps it's better that way, kind of like the conspiracy theory that the oxygen masks that drop down from planes in a state of emergency are not pumping oxygen into passengers at all but mind-calming gas that stops anyone from panicking. Maybe it's better for all of us if one of us doesn't stand up and start muttering over and over (like the hysterical woman in Flying High), "I've gotta get out of here, I've gotta get out of here!"

Kids: Don't hit. It's not nice.

SO! At risk of making any of you want to line up to smack me out of it, my list of gripes, in no particular order and by no means exhaustive, is as follows:

• I am (apparently) a Help Desk - with the amount of questions I get asked, you would think I am sitting in a shopping centre at one of those Information booths. But no. I am mother of one, wife of one, although I'd surely be forgiven for thinking I had 29 children and 14 husbands, the amount of questions and help I get dragged into. Sun up to sun down, the weekends are strewn with opportunities for them to ask me. It must be just easier than coming up with a solution themselves. From the five year-old, I can kind of understand the need for most of them. But the 39 year-old? Hmmmmmm... a little more dubious.

• I am (apparently) the Pied bloody Piper - come one, come all, to any room or outdoor area of the garden! Wherever I be, including the toilet, I will have at least one (if not all) set of feet or paws follow me. Wherever I go, guaranteed. So much so that I have been long since accustomed to turning a slow circle and checking behind me before I change direction. Jazz (the dog) considers my toileting her special one-on-one alone time with me. She is your typical middle child (and I say that as a self-confessed middle child), quite capable of attracting more than enough attention but still angling for more. The LGBB assumes and asserts much as she moves about the house behind me. As I live and breathe, the cat is trying to walk ACROSS me. Why?! I ask you. The last to come into the family, the cat gets by largely on Cuteness Factor and is always under someone's feet but gets away with being a pest by doing a few cutesy paw-moves.

• What I say (apparently) goes - with the Help Desk position comes a great deal of (unwanted) power. Not only am I asked all the questions and checked with on ev-er-y-thinnnnng, but I have to come up with the answers! And if I try and cop out by saying I don't know, I'm asked again, in a different way.

• I'm the Chore Divvy-er - it's long since been held in this house that, as I am apparently the only one who sees anything that needs doing, if I want something done all I need to do is ask.... That works fine until days like today when I explode in a fit of fury and "THAT THING HAS BEEN LYING THERE ALL WEEK! How is it that we can all step over/around/through it but I'm the mug who has to either remove/clean/pick it up or ask one of you to do it?" As long as I live, I shall never ever accept any logic levelled at me for that one. That is just bone idle laziness that causes that phenomenon.

• I'm the meal planning, lunch making, clothes washing, hair brushing, house cleaning master of the house. I can deal with all that. It does come with the territory and it must be accepted... if not liked, 100% of the time.

But what I cannot abide by is that I am also the Complaints handling desk! Now, some of you out there will have a Complaints desk queued a mile long, depending on number of siblings in the house. But one or twenty.... there is one thing that just irks me no end and that is whiney complaining. From the husband as well.


Do you have a list - like a ready-reckoner - up on the inside of the pantry door or somewhere else where nobody ever goes (like the broom cupboard or the ironing board... no wait, it wouldn't work being taped up on that because I don't go there either) that can give me some cheat's answers so that I don't have to think for my family? I'm asking for mercy here.

And if you do.... can I use it?

Sincerely,

Over It Today Already.

Ebay: 5 Unwritten Rules of Engagement

I love Ebay. I really do. I have used it for a number of years and financed a variety of holidays and home projects with the money raised from carefully selected items we place for sale. I maintain that it is all in a good photo, brief details and cheap as possible postage.

Right now, I have a target: I want to raise about $400 to spend on some outdoor screens to go outside the kitchen window. Only way I am going to be able to afford them is to sell some shit. And that is where the good buyers of Ebay come in. Just like when I am in a buying mood and buy someone else's unwanted crap and help them out. I do love Ebay.

However... there are some pitfalls. A few persistent niggles I have about the process. Namely, the buyer who doesn't pay any attention to what I've listed and just thinks they'll contact me, regardless of the information all being in there.

These are the types who will ignore the queue signs in the bank and start their own line, pretending they can't see the half dozen people all lining up in the designated spot and who are all now staring bemusedly at the one VIP who's rummaging importantly in their handbag and queuing in the wrong spot for the teller.

They are also the ones who skip over the finer details of any conversation: "I'll have the pumpkin soup." "I'm sorry, we've run out of both soups of the day, sir, is there something else you'd like from the menu instead?" "Ummm... do you have any of the pea and ham left?" Urgh.

So, this is an ode to them. I figure, if you can't beat it out of them, you may as well try reverse psychology. It can't hurt any more.


Ebay: The 5 (Unofficial) Rules of Engagement:

The first rule of Ebay is to check if the listing has a Buy Now price. Contact the seller. Ask them if they have a Buy Now price. Chances are, you'll be told in the most thinly-disguised frustrated of ways that, no, they don't have a Buy Now price because if they did, it would be listed. But try it. You just never know, you might come across a buyer who is willing for you to snatch away an item that already has bids and watchers on it. It's worth a shot (obviously, because every second buyer seems to try it these days).

The second rule of Ebay is to look for the dimensions of the item. If you see the dimensions clearly shown in the listing already, ignore them. Contact the seller. Ask them for the measurements. Bonus points if you can find a listing that not only has the dimensions in the body of the listing, but also as an answered question made visible at the bottom - where another buyer has beaten you to the punch and asked this completely pointless question already. This is not as rare as it sounds. So go hunting!

The third rule of Ebay is to win an auction for something within easy driving distance of your home. Contact the seller. Tell them you wish to pick up the item and wait for them to respond with their address and contact details. Then, advise them that it's too far now that you've looked it up on the map. And that postage is not an option because you make it a rule never to pay for postage and deal on a pick-up only basis so you no longer require the item*. Bonus points if you can actually hear a popping sound (that may or may not be a head exploding) from the direction of their suburb as they compose a reply to you along the lines of "It's an extra two streets from the suburb you thought it was, are you KIDDING ME???"

The fourth rule of Ebay is... Contact the seller. Just contact them. Ask as irrelevant a question about their item as you can think of. Top marks for asking something that is obvious, ie. if the item in the photo is orange, ask if it is orange; if the item in the photo is a plank of wood, ask if it is a plank. Of wood. You get the picture.

The fifth and most important rule of Ebay is to list an item for sale with the best unintended misspell you can get away with. I give you still my most favourite ever Ebay auction title, the one Steve likes to call


"I hear he also does balloon animals".....:

Got a doozy of an Ebay story to share?
Do you use Ebay? And more importantly, are you good at it? If so, why can't YOU bid on/win my items? It would surely save us both some grey hairs.






* Yes... This ACTUALLY happened to me.

Hey! Here's a novel idea...

NOTE:  Dripping with sarcasm intended

Why not make sure you're doing what really fulfills you! 

Go beyond assuming what it is you think is going to simply make you 'happy' 

(for what is that, anyway?) and really get to the guts of 

why your bad day has to affect others so much.

And me.

Think it's not that simple?  Come on. That's a time-worn cop-out that really deserves some proper consideration and debunking if you think it's too hard. Why is it too hard? Why is it not that simple? Why is it so complicated to even try?

And anyway, why am I ranting, you ask? And putting questions in your 'mouth' as you read? Which you're not even probably thinking?

Well! Let me tell you a story....

It all started with a not-so-little freight company - rhymes with Poll Eyepeck - whose motto is "If it's URGENT".  And I think that's where they expect potential clients to assume if it's urgent we'll deliver it quickly. My experience has been "If it's urgent, we won't know unless you call and hound us. And even then, we can only quote what it says here to say on our screen. And if you're a home business, you can't possibly be important enough to have any urgent parcels. We are far too big and far too important winning over our large freight consignments."

But, oh yeah. Those large wins? That your sales people go out and procure for you, Poll Eyepeck? Yeah. Here's the big FAIL in your plan:  those large consignments are actually broken up into single deliveries. Mm-hmmm. Sucks to be you, I know. Sympathies. But..... YOU'RE A FREIGHT COMPANY!!!! That is what you DO! That is the whole reason for your existence.

I have been given the reason this morning for this lack of service as (and I quote), "residential deliveries are hard. There are homes everywhere." So the drivers basically go do their industrial estate drop-offs and pick-ups and, if time permits, they'll drive a parcel to a residential address.

Let me describe what my parcel has been subjected to:

Last Friday, my goods left my supplier's warehouse. All paid for up front, the parcel was handed over into the laps of the parcel delivery gods. For, from this point, it seemed to do a version of the hokey-pokey -

"You put the parcel on the truck, you drive the parcel about,
You finish your shift and you shake the parcel out
You do the hokey-pokey and you leave it at the Depot
(everybody clap!) And pick it up to do again to-morrow."

That happened not once, but three times. Yes. For THREE days, my parcel went on the truck and - by some decision made by the driver who doesn't know me, doesn't know what's in my parcel, doesn't even care that I need what's in it, I would hazard a very secure guess - was booked back in to the depot at the end of the day because it had been undeliverable. NOT because he had attempted to even get to my street, but because he ran out of time and made it nowhere near my house.

Now.... this smacks of poor time management. Yes, couriers are busy. Yes, a lot is demanded of them. Yes, they are probably underpaid. But, Sunshine, SO AM I!!!!

Try being a mother. 

Unpaid. 

In over-demand all day long. 

Unthanked. 

Unacknowledged. 

Them come tell me your woes.

There are plenty of jobs that could be given the same overview. Point is, Mr Courier contractor in your van driving around the 'burbs but avoiding all the residential drop-offs because they're inconvenient to your day:  Your job entails delivering parcels to the address that is on them. AmIright or amIright? Is that a part of your job that SUCKS? Hmmm. Poor you. Guess what! A Urologist had to amputate a trapped earthquake survivor's leg last week in Christchurch. Think that might've sucked too? Not exactly part of her job role, but had to be done. And guess what else! A nappy-wearing baby with gastro ain't no walk in the park either. Not exactly what a parent signed up for (hoped fervently not to encounter) BUT... if it happens, it has to be dealt with.

Much in the same way as my piddly, annoying little parcel in your van, Mr Courier contractor. It's the thing that niggles until you do it. And you don't get reprimanded either way, do you, whether you deliver it today or not. Hmmm? If you, oops, ran out of time today and you, oh well, have to log it back in to your local depot tonight, does it become someone else's problem tomorrow?

OH TO BE A COURIER!!! Imagine if even half of us had a job function that meant we could just shove things in the bottom drawer so that they become someone else's problem on shift change-over! Wouldn't the world be a much happier place as long as we were not put out in the course of doing our jobs?

I cannot STAND this "I don't get paid enough so I'm just gonna go slower" or "I hate my job, I'm just gonna do what I please within my role and have a right rolicking laugh at my employer's expense, more fool them for paying me, measly as my pay is" kind of attitude in society today!!!! And this applies to anyone in a job that affects the end consumer.

YOU DON'T LIKE YOUR JOB?  LEAVE IT! 

Can't pay your bills or your mortgage if you quit your hated job?  Well, then, MOVE!!!!! To a cheaper house, to a quieter lifestyle. Do less. Buy less. Use less. Find a new job.

Can't find a new job? Well, then........ I think you know what you have to do - if you have decided you have to stay in the house you're in, paying the bills you do. You have to just suck that job up, I'm afraid. But if you DO make those choices and decide that your mental and longterm physical health is the sacrifice you're going to live by, then please. Stay consciously aware that you are there in that job because you have chosen to be there. You are not "stuck" there if it has been your choice - weighing up all your factors for living - and you can decide to see it as earning a living. Aren't you lucky you have a job! Now, buck up, and stop spreading your grumbles and grievances about how hard it all is on everyone who has to utilise your company's services.

YOU HAVE CHOICES, PEOPLE!

I get so angry (hmmmmmmm, can you tell?) about this growing mentality that borders on self-obsessive madness. That somehow, because YOU are unhappy - and in this case, I am laying unfair blame on the courier driver who I haven't even met yet and is possibly the happiest man/woman alive, how would I know - the rest of us have to be subjected to your decisions because you have a care factor well below what it ought to be for the job you do.


GRRRRRRR. I have decided I had better not get behind the wheel today. I may just be unable to control the need to run into contractor post/parcel delivery vans at random.

The score is 14-10 and I've gone mad

This post comes to you from a slightly more than usual deranged mind. In the past 24 hours, I have managed to get myself so many mozzie bites that I have now taken leave of my senses with the itchiness and am likely to be seen by this evening running down the street screaming incoherent profanities at Banshee pitch.

Ten bites occupy the space between the lower calf/shin to ankle on my left leg. Fourteen dominate my right leg in the same tiny area.

I have taken to rubbing with the flats of my hands. Anything, ANYTHING. Even my old trick - the mild Chinese burn (am I allowed to call them that anymore??) - doesn't work because of the location.

I've always been tasty to mosquitos and things that like to dine on human flesh and blood. Mmmmm, yummo. But these are particularly raging. And now, with all my rubbing ankles together in my sleep and scraping off the top layer of skin with my nails and the palm smoothing, I have angered the bites. They're glowering back at me, their centres a strange glowing golden colour with a halo of deep pink that bleeds out onto my skin.

And if one more person suggests Sting-Goes or Itch-Aid or No-More-Scratch-Til-It-Bleeds, I will gouge their eyes out. Whadda they think?? That I haven't tried these? Of course I have. None of them have worked for me yet. We're talking..... raaaaaaaaging itch. I'd like to go so far as to say I'm allergic to mosquitos.

There are a few natural remedies I haven't tried yet, though. When I was a little kid, I remember my grandparents rubbing a slice of potato on my foot..... I don't recall that it worked, although I think I did say it did because of their hopeful faces (like the grandma giving Adam Sandler the meatballs and watching him taste it in The Wedding Singer). But if I believe what I read online, I'm going to smell tasty enough to roast by this evening after I rub on a clove of garlic, then dab on some lemon or lime juice, vinegar, salt, horseradish and honey. I think I'll go with this recipe first:

Finely grate a potato, add some raw onion and vinegar and mix to a fine paste. Apply.

Sounds intriguing. But I'm desperate. I'm breathless with concentrating on not itching these ITCHY BEYOND ALL MTHRFKNG GET-OUT asshole mozzie bites!!!!  Why don't they go pick on someone their... own.... size?

So, come on. I know you want to. Hit me with your best sure-fire itch reliever. The winner receives a reprieve from getting their eyes gouged out.


Edited:  And while we're at it, any tips on prevention?? We've had a great reminder already in the comments to up the Vit B's (I have heard before that it's a sure-fire sign of B-deficiency if you are devoured by thirsty mozzies, but do you think I remember to take anything? Will be speaking to my naturopath for sure!).


So far, some GREAT itch relief suggestions, all, keep them coming! I know different bodies respond differently to remedies, so hopefully this might help others who happen across this post in the "whenever" too. 

Please retract my Mother of the Year nomination

I'm so proud! Look at the words sounded out - "SOBH" for sorry, "ADICST" for asked... It's so exciting to see our child's expression in writing!!

This here is the Sorry Note that I was presented with most forlornly (and not a little manipulatively by my tongue-in-cheek smirking) four year-old daughter yesterday.

The events leading up to Sorrygate were your usual Sunday afternoon home life antics:

Mum and Dad, in kitchen, trying to work out about half a dozen things at once. Also hoping desperately to hear each other over the din of their dear-born, making as much noise as a classroom of roudy children on a Friday afternoon. Mum snaps, says to child, "Oh for heaven's sake, would you PLEASE go and find something to do! Just for ten minutes!" Child walks away, arms by sides, not swinging, shoulders slumped and feet dragging ever so slightly for added effect.

At moments like these, I do not go after my child and placate. I can't. I have to give it a few minutes at least and then, more often than not, I go down to her and sidle in while she's playing. It's rare, for she is usually with me, nagging to be entertained, every minute of the day when she is here. We are still trying fervently to explain that there are days, particularly during the long stretches of weekends, where she needs to learn to amuse herself using her own imagination. That it's important she does this.

Yada-yada. We're still hoping it'll sink in.

So then. The note comes. By way of a morose-looking (but ever so cheeky still) LGBB, presenting it to me and telling me it says:

Mum. Sorry I asked for food. (name). Happy birthday.

Well just plunge a knife in my heart and be done with it, why don't you! (By the way, it's not my birthday, it's just something the LGBB likes to offer, it's her version of "Have a nice day!") Asking me for food, were you? How was I to know, when I was listening to another adult and trying to make a coherent reply and push that little nagging voice to the side for thirty seconds?! How was I to know that you needed food so badly that you had to ask for it while jumping and jiggling and writhing around as though you'd already eaten a bowl full of jellybeans and downed a litre of red cordial?!

Grrrrrr.

The rest of the afternoon passed by relatively peacefully. And I am just quietly ever so proud of our girl. Her first 'letter' to someone! Pity it was to highlight my apparent shortcomings as a parent.....

Oh goody!

More bleepin' rain today.

That is all.

Happy Sunday, everyone!

Help spread the word

Okay, so it may not be important to some of you, but to me (and, I'm sure, many others) this is of critical importance.

I speak of those fellow human beans who HAVE TO HAVE the expensive car but CAN'T DRIVE THE FECKING THING.

I implore you to get the word out there:  If you are going to buy your Beemer or Merc or Audi, please ensure you are going to then be willing and able to keep to the speed limit. For let's face it, if you're over 70* and your eyesight is failing and the distance of that dashboard past the top of your head is much higher than it used to be and you're struggling to look past your bonnet (of your car, that is, not the optional one on your HEAD), then it might be that the 'able' part of keeping to the speed limit is beyond you.

When these expensive and/or high performance vehicles leave the dealership, you would think there was a duty of care (other than the care factor of their commission off the sale) by the salespeople that obliges them to think of us. The other road users.

I am sick to tears of negotiating my way to the front of dual-lane carriageways full of slow cars, only to find that the culprits have been a white Honda and a gold Mercedes keeping speed with each other and "driving carefully to avoid any bumps or scrapes."

I cannot tell you the number of times I have felt like I am doing warp speed on a highway with a designated speed limit of 80km/h, only to glance down and see I am doing *GASP* 75km/h!

Look, I am all for safe driving. My father is an international expert in the field, heavens above. But I draw the line at people who seem too timid or otherwise unable to get behind the wheel and drive properly. They are just as dangerous as the hoon!

The problem with safe drivers who drive 20-under the speed limit is.... THEY MAKE THE REST OF US DRIVE CRAZY!




* To be fair, of course it's not always and only elderly people. Many older drivers are the safest on the road and I'd prefer to drive alongside them any day to some other distracted drivers who perhaps haven't been around long enough to negotiate their car through every sort of road condition. BUT it remains that most drivers of these higher end vehicles are in the middle-older age bracket.

Panning for gold

When the foul, biting, stinging stench of cat piss hits my nose as soon as I enter the laundry, I know it's time to clear out the kitty litter tray.

I don gloves, face mask, a plastic bag and the pooper-scooper (shaped like a cat with a square-cleft lip and holding it by its tail-handle). Okay, so maybe not the mask. I'm naw tha' bright to think of that.

I get down in a position that's part sprinter on the blocks / part fight-or-flight reflex ready. And in I go. Digging around with this little slot-bottomed shovel, breathing shallowly into my nose with such little breaths that only the top teensy portion of my lung function is utilised, I go as fast - but as painstakingly - as I can without working up too much of a sweat because that will just create the need for deeper intake into the nose/lungs. And when that inevitably does happen, because it's taking so bloody long to snag and bag every bit of offending cat excrement, the threat of breathing in that awful odour gives way to the need to... stay upright and not pass out through self-induced asphyxiation.

Tabitha uses a cat litter that is sand-like in texture. It clumps when exposed to any moisture/faecal matter, as illustrated hygienically on the box by sparkling-fresh blue droplets that are meant to represent the disgusting, battery-eating acid that is my cat's (everyone's cat/s') pee. I fall for it. I buy the box every time. It's meant to last "monnnnnnths and months", says the woman at the counter of the pet/farm produce store. Whacko! I say. Bonus for me that I won't have to fork out another $25 anytime soon. I feel like I should just line the cat's tray with $5 notes and be done with it. It'd be cheaper and I could just strain it off our nation's plastic-coated money. But with a guarantee like that - lasts for monnnnnnnths - I take the box home.

Well. We're only three months in. I am almost out of this magical ever-lasting piss-soaking medium. I don't know if it's my cat or my pedantic cleaning of her tray that is causing the level to go down so fast. I mean, I do what the instructions say: I take a scoop, shake it, pan for turd-gold and let the small cat litter particles sieve back in to the tray, tip the remaining cat craps in the rubbish bag. Step and repeat. When I come across clumps (of pee), in the bag they go as well. Except..... I think she's a *hushed tones, uttered behind a coy hand* heavy wetter. I don't mean to embarrass her, but the dear is not the most gentile cat I've ever come across.

Case in point:

• She is a guts-guzzler. She would eat and eat and eat if I let her and is already overweight - somehow - even though I only give her the prescribed can a day (and no dry food, not since this debacle)
• She nuzzles her face so far into her food while she's devouring it that, if she turns and looks at you when she's mid-dinner, her entire face is covered in slobbery cat meal. Like a toddler gnawing at a vegemite sandwich.
• She talks while she's eating. With her mouth full, no less. It's actually deliciously cute. If she hears anyone come in, she has to greet them, stuffing her face or no.
• She belches. She actually, audibly burps in appreciation after a meal.
• She's also been overheard to let fluffy off the chain as she jumps up to perch on the back of chairs/couches around the place. Have you EVER in your life heard a cat fart?? I ask you...
• Her *aherm* aim in the tray is not so great. She's a bit daft when it comes to perching over the porcelain (or in her case, the plastic lip) - I have come in to find bits dangling down the outside. And those are the days, if you were a fly on the wall (a very, very happy fly in the presence of all that shit), you would see me wail to the heavens, "Why do you hate me so?" with a sob.

So the cat is a bit too free with her flotsam. I think you get the picture.

Now cue me, pint-sized scooper in hand, watery eyes, screaming lungs, trying to dig out only the most used bits of this kitty litter. At the bottom of the tray, it's literally the consistency of wet sand at the point where the thinnest part of the waves slide up the beach and get absorbed in to the ground. You know that reeeeally sodden, really hard to dig part? The part that, if you skimped a bit too much on the beach utensils and bought a flimsy set of diggers and buckets, will shatter your spade into shards of brittle plastic if you try to dig even the uppermost layer off and into the bucket. And it's so very leaden with moisture (cat-piss moisture, in my case) that it will also make the bucket break in your fingers when you try to lift it to overturn it to make the turrets on top of your masterpiece.

Given that the bottom of the tray also has, above it, the loosened particles, I have to be very careful how I go about this business because, on more than one heavy-handed exasperating occasion, I have rushed it, gone in for the dig too deep and flicked the loose stuff, sending a spray of soggy cat wee bits all over the laundry floor. Joy! More cleaning for moi.

I have said it to Steve and I shall maintain......


Hell hath no fury like the cat litter tray.

A storm in a mix-master

Caused by cupcakes. Apparently.

I'm very cross! Why are cupcakes deemed so unsafe to hand out at kindy that they have a blanket ban on the things?

I know, I know.... food allergies. Possibility of unsafe/unhygienic food practices in the home kitchen spells potential liability for the centre it was handed out in.

But how is it that the LGBB's party on Saturday was made up almost entirely of children from the same two government run child care places - who miss out on the home baked efforts of their friends' mothers when their respective birthdays come around - willingly and freely gobble down a home made, carseat slingshot cake and nobody thinks twice about it? Is it a case of these centres circumventing any ounce of responsibility/liability, have there really been cases of parents holding a centre to blame after becoming sick or having some reaction from a baked good? If a parent wants to stand with their feeble little home-baked offerings in Tupperware at the door, giving leaving parents the option of taking one or not for their child, is it not between the parents?? It's not like I was going to hold everyone hostage in the room until they folded and took a delicate little muffin, now, was it?

This is an open-shut case of the system gone mad, to me. Bureaucracy gone troppo. I just don't understand why we can't even have the option to offer, and decide. That's almost akin to someone telling you how to raise your child and what's best for them.

Ah, well. Sucks to be them. They miss out on my white choc-iced mini cupcakes, look at them in that photo up there, tinted in shades of pinks, yellows and greens. But I'm sad that they unwittingly take the fun out of birthdays for kids, who just want to share a bit of lurve with their buddies.

Do you have the same reg's at your child care places? Have you ever marvelled, as you stood at a birthday party with the very same kids, how the parents are okay with letting kids eat your party food if it's on your property? Has it ever occurred to you that it's these places making the rules that start instilling the fear into us at such a very tender age? (the kids' age, not the parents')

Looky here, kids

Hey, lovely people of the wider world!

Am slowly getting there.  Note: if you are one of the 40-odd people who have already gone over to the new blog, this post is going to seem familiar, but somehow.... different *whooooooo!* All's I can say is, I'm sorry to dick you around.

Aherm. Here's the honest-injin last-time-I'll-change-it plan:

I have decided to keep Sunny Side Up.... the old girl is going to remain as she is, I've decided after MUCH deliberation and gnashing of teeth and consulting of trusted friends' opinions. If you have already left a comment about wanting to be invited to read my new private blog, YOU'RE ON! I just need email addresses.... [scratching head and despairing at the technology of it all].

Despite all the shuffling and setting up, I am quite enjoying this. And I feel better for the energy shift already!

Here's what's new:

• There is a new blog, separate from this one, called Energenetics - a mode to healing. This will be where I post those spiritual, other-worldly, practical tools and totems things. It's just a better, neater way to archive things (bit like a reference library) for those of you who have expressed an interest in learning more. Exciting, really, and I hope to see you following posts there if you are moved to do so :)

• There is a second new blog, The Long Tweet, which is now my private blog - please email me your email address (if you haven't already) to be added so you can log in and read there! This will probably change a bit, I'll be more open (what the!? you didn't think it was possible, did you?) because I've been finding lately there have been things I want to say but can't say them, purely for privacy reasons. So I can now! Over there!

• After lots of thought, I have decided Sunny Side Up shall still exist and will look exactly the same as you remember, for the most part. How could I remove it after such wailing!?  Who knew it held such a place in your hearts??? I am humbled. Truly.
So it will remain here as my 'public, personal blog face', with two huge changes: I will not be making the same candid LGBB or 'Steve' posts here (that I can envisage) and will instead be doing that on the private blog. Plus, over time I will be whittling this blog down to the bare essentials, that is, I will be removing certain posts - probably quite a lot of them. This is going to be a slow process that will take a backseat to my various other writing and work projects, so they will remain where they are for the time being.

• Finally, I need to let you know that eventually, the blog address (URL) of Sunny Side Up will change *Kenny Craig hands* - Look into my eyes, my eyes, my eyes, not around the eyes... annnnnd, you're under. I will now attempt to do a switch-a-roony on this here awful awful terrible embarrassing blog address didyabringyablogalong.blogspot.com and will be moving it to my new domain. OMG. I cannot believe I about to say this.... kirrilywhatman.com. There. I did it. Phew! I feel like I'm at a Privacy Anonymous meeting and I just passed the first step. I said my name to the (very crowded) room.

So, once I have sorted out my bloody DNS server rigmarole (I can only seem to add one name server!?!?!?! WHAAAAT? And I know I'm in BIG trouble because not even geek-Steve knows how to help me so I am going to have to call Tech Support on this one (not you, Bloggertropolis geek-Steve, I mean my husband geek-Steve..... although, come to think of it, have you any suggestions??).

In keeping with my new say-my-name program, I now also have a Twitter account. A few of you are already following, so I guess that makes you my sponsors. Or something.  So, even if I don't do an actual post on here as often as I used to, you can see what random shite I can come up with my thoughts in under 140 characters. What's with that?!?  That was put there to stop people like ME treating Twitter like another blog.  Short and sweet, people! They want me to be SHORT and SWEET. [Geddit? GEDDIT?? Actually, TBH, I cannot believe that twitter user name was just sitting there! Like a little pot of gold... heh!] Cannot promise I'll deliver. On either count.

Don't forget to follow me if you have a Twitter account!

Bloody Facebook!

I think the downfall of society will eventually be traced back to Facebook. There. I said it.

I noticed today that I have been un-friended. How bizarre, I thought! Mind you, there's nothing terribly untoward about it, on its own. Perhaps the friend was downsizing/doing a cull of their friends list. But then, plenty of our previously mutual friends are still listed and now.... ooh, I wonder if I've done or said (or not done or said) something. Via Facebook, that is. Because that is the only medium with which I've kept in touch with them for the past two years (and my account is less than 6 months old, so you do the math, peeps).

I pondered the un-friending of this "friend" for all of 30 seconds and was over it by the time those seconds were up, mainly because I haven't actually been fussed over accumulating any of the friends I have (no offence if any of those said friends happen to be reading this!) because I still, after these past 6 months or so with the account, just don't get the whole "FB" thing and am pretty sure the end of my account altogether is nigh.

But the act did get me thinking more about good ol' FB.

The people I really need to keep in contact with, I do so outside of Facebook, and the ones on Facebook are... well, nice to have and it's good to know I can contact any one of them from that central place without having to dig out phone numbers or emails (or, gasp, that ancient practice.... go through the phone book).

I have a miserly 45 friends and can't see myself adding any more*. Well.... 44 now. It's not likely to go up, but it apparently could go down! Hadn't contemplated that happening, particularly when the "friend" in question was the one who hunted me down and asked why they hadn't been added so I acquiesced in a moment of the guilts and hit Add Friend.

It seems such a throw-away thing to do - click a button and add someone as your "friend" - because so many people seem to need to do it. But to me, it is far more complicated than that. Or should be, to more people, perhaps. I don't think I really know how it all works yet, but it seems to me that if you're not on there several times a day, watching the status updates or Most Recent Updates or whatever (Top News, perhaps? I can't remember what it's called), you'll miss many of your "Facebook friends" as they update their status. So if I don't come on for days at a time, I've missed out on entire threads as diverse as discussing global politics, the fuss about Justin Bieber (is that the kid's name? Shhh, please don't tell anyone under 25 that I'm so uncool that I thought his name was Justin Beaver... I thought that's what everyone kept saying...), their most fantastic cheesecake recipe ever, the number of times their dog farted today... It goes on and on. And I'm so sorry to say, but I miss probably 95% of it. Because I'm simply not on there enough.

I had not considered before today the weapon that is Facebook and did not realise this new social phenomenon existed. In medieval times, our ancestors sharpened their arrowheads on rocks (or flint?) and took aim at their enemies. Now, it seems "you've been un-friended" is the new equivalent. Sort of.

Besides this murky social etiquette water we find ourselves in, in this current age, there is also the question of privacy. New privacy settings on Facebook really quite unnerve me. If one of my "Facebook friends", for instance, comments on any of their friends' status - of whom I am not a friend - I get to see both that original friend's status and my friend's comment to them. I find that sort of thing really pushing the boundaries of what is and is not acceptable. I do not feel comfortable being able to see people's comments to their friends - regardless of whether Facebook is, first and foremost, for all intensive purposes a public social network. I feel like I'm eavesdropping, no matter how flippant or generalised or banal the status update of my friend's friend. I don't like it! I don't think it should be allowed.

What this has the potential to lead to is more of this social paranoia - the "why isn't my friend commenting on my status updates, when I see her commenting on her other friends' updates" and so forth - and there, for me, lies the heart of the matter:

I am not about using Facebook to be a people pleaser. I mostly use it to keep loose track of my cousins, for they are spread out over the globe, and people I don't mind having occasional interaction with. None of the "friends" on my Facebook account are people I catch up with regularly, except for one or two, and of the good friends I have "friended" on there, my communications with them are more regular and occur by phone, text and/or emails.

SO... I guess if I've appeared remiss in making comments to any of my 45 (now 44) "friends", it's because I'm not on Facebook. I didn't realise Facebook as a whole could be so fecking needy!

Oh who am I kidding? It comes down to this: I just don't like Facebook. Why the hell am I on there!?


What Facebook dramas have you experienced? Or do you hang off your every Friend Status update and love the site more than life itself? I'd love to read your say!





* (unless my dear old bestie decides to create a Facebook account and then I must add her)

Notes from the Cruise Control

Having done several hundred km's (at a time) over the past month, long distance 110km/ph zone driving, I think I have finally narrowed down the most obvious, cliché driverly types to the following specifications.

My observations have two constants:

1. A two-lane, fast stretch of freeway (or highway) through rural/bush land, clear of obstruction and superb visibility.

2. Once I hit the freeway, I set the cruise control for 2km above the speed limit - so sue me - so that I stay out of the way of anyone else who either has no cruise control or has set their own control to the exact signed limit. It just annoys me less that way.

Disclaimer: I'm using the male gender here, for the most part, but realise that either sex can be equally guilty as charged.

The Stall Guy - you think he's stalled in the left lane. But no. Wait. He is actually moving. Like a snail. Even at the speed limit, you overtake this car - usually some sort of van (tinny vertical ladder attached to rear for ease of... climbing on roof...? optional) or clapped-out *insert vehicle model of choice here* - this one makes you feel like you're playing Need For Speed. Reeeeeally well.

The Slow Creeper - this guy is one of the most difficult to judge. His speed seems to wax and wane in your rear view mirror, edging ever closer to you but also remaining equally as far away. It's a mystery. He's like a goldfish that darts in and out of the same ruddy treasure chest. All day.

The Out-Of-Nowhere Bullet - one minute, the overtaking lane behind you is clear for use to pass the Stall Guy in front. The next, you are having to hot-tail yourself out of a road rage incident because he came up so friggen' fast on you that he SURELY created the Doppler effect. And no, he was certainly not there and you just missed him! This one is usually a business/on-road rep type. Guaranteed, he will be wearing a collared shirt and driving an executive car.

The Formation Driver - this one really takes the cake. This is the guy who sits just inside or just outside of your blind spot.... for miles. You'd alter your speed, but you're frankly too gobsmacked at the synchronized driving you are witnessing and want to see how far it will continue. For you are maintaining a constant speed of 2km above the speed limit, but then, Lo! He needs to make a move.... Riiiiight when you are coming up on a slow car in your lane. Fancy, what a coincidence. With this driver, every time you encounter him, you have to come off your set limit, which you would think would make him go past, but noooo... he matches you and stays in your blind spot! Genius!

The Defies Logic Nut - this one engages you in a bit of light flashing. This is the one who gives you a bit of a chortle as you're cruising past. You see, this is the one (ALWAYS, without exception) who thinks he is your father who knows better - err, complex, much?? *note to self: explore father issues* - and decides to reprimand you for overtaking him. No matter that he is doing 10 under the speed limit and you yourself are not speeding. You are overtaking! You blighter. And you'd better say sorry or you'll go to your room. This driver also, 99% of the time, has his wife in the passenger seat. And they are both well over 60. And drive a gold Camry (or other model, but always gold... or that lovely metallic green...)

So there you have it. I think I've covered them all.

Have you noticed any others? Do tell!