Archives for November 2010

I don’t like cricket, I hate it

I know that this may be a highly controversial post but I don’t believe it is my writing or my reasoning that will cause the controversy – I think it will be the assenting comments.

I doubt I am alone when I say I don’t enjoy cricket.  Yup I said it and my Australian passport did not spontaneously combust.  And my South African family have not disowned me.

  • I hate that cricket and wicket rhyme.  What other sport needs a rhyme to remind you what you need to do?  Have you ever heard of a wennis, or a wootball? No ? I thought not.
  • I hate that my husband will not look up from the TV for 5 days although to me it looks like he is just watching the grass grow. I only know that’s not what he’s doing because occasionally he swears out loud or claps jubilantly. I am quite sure new shoots of grass would not elicit that response
  • I hate that my entire Saturday morning is spent watching the grass grow live! And yes I am watching the grass grow because, although I love to watch my son play sport, I do not understand the game very well.  For instance yesterday  morning I heard them all clapping and cheering his name.  I looked up at the field and there was lot of backslapping and hoisting of Little Pencil.  I thought it was because he is so sweet – but apparently it was because he took a wicket (not to be confused with a woccer which you don’t score at soccer)*
  • I hate that as the chief of washing clothes in this house* I have to wash a white cricket uniform.  Why on earth would they put boys who skid all over the grass while chasing a red ball, in a white pair of pants?
  • I hate that I try to escape the  cricket in the house only to be accosted by it on Twitter.  And worse it is not just dull people wearing beige, cream, off white, ivory and white that are tweeting about the cricket – it is actual people in colour.  That I like.
  • I hate that I can’t listen to the radio that I like because I don’t have a digital radio and Richard Glover and James Valentine are regularly replaced by ridiculously boring cricket commentary on analogue radio.  It is one thing to watch the grass grow – but to listen to it on the radio?  That just makes absolutely no sense
  • I really don’t like a game that does not clearly define who is winning and who is losing right from the beginning.  I need to know this in order to have any sense of engagement with the game.  Every time I ask my husband who is winning a match he looks at me as if I am a little slow.  I think that is ridiculous considering he can usually only answer my question at the end of the day or sometimes even worse, , five days later
  • I think that a game that has a “tea break” is just poncy
  • It takes sooo long.  No-one ever said “let’s play a quick game of cricket” with a straight face
  • There are positions in the cricket game like “third man” and “silly mid off”.  I think that speaks for itself
  • I was once bitten by cricket.  I loved Hansie Cronje, the late great South African cricketer.  I stayed up all night watching him cheat while my husband went to sleep!  It turns out that “the devil made him do it**. Or at least that is what he says.  And maybe that explains it all

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So do you love cricket? Do you even understand it? Will you explain it more patiently than my husband did?

*see first point

** the devil made Hansie cheat but it also made my husband go to sleep in the middle of a match

Why I didn’t take a picnic blanket to the Botanical Gardens

Before my son was born I was a corporate girl, I worked long hours, I loved my job and I had a good life.  I was comfortable in my corporate gear, my 9am –  9pm days, my life of high rises and after work drinks.

When I eventually had a baby I was happy to leave North Sydney behind, the commute across the bridge every day, the long hours and the countless powerpoint presentations. I was delighted to be living a life of nappies and breastfeeding,  toddler antics and toys.  I loved being home with Little Pencil as he grew up.  Although  I did miss the after work drinks.

I was really fortunate when Little Pencil got a little older and I started to do some work from home.  I was able to work while he slept and at night when I should have been sleeping.  Then when he went to preschool I took on more work, more hours and more adult stimulation.

But I always worked from home.  I never HAD to get out of pyjamas (although the kindy teacher would have baulked at my Garfield pyjamas at drop off time).

On occasion I had a meeting out of the house, once or twice I even had to attend a conference and for a very short period of time I worked two days a week in a job share position in a real office where pyjamas were frowned upon.  But I wasn’t fulfilled in my work, I didn’t feel like I was working, I felt like I was a mother passing time.

But now I am working full time.  I go into the office three days  and I work from home two days a week.

Yesterday was a work at home day but I attended a seminar at the Art Gallery of NSW in the afternoon.
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I drove to the gallery and as I turned down the road with the Botanical Gardens on my left and the Harbour beyond that, past the Andrew Boyd Charlton pool and the Woolloomooloo wharf on the right I forgot for a minute who I was.

I made a mental check: did I have suntan lotion? Then I remembered that I wasn’t going to need to put suntan lotion on Little Pencil as he was at school and I certainly wasn’t going to need it myself in an air conditioned auditorium.  I panicked when I remembered that the picnic blanket was not in my boot, then I realised that the rest of the seminar attendees would probably move to have me arrested if I walked in and tried to spread a picnic blanket over their heads.

It was a strange feeling walking past the park without my Little Pencil, it was weird walking through the Gallery without Little Pencil’s small hand in mine. I felt like a traitor in the park with high heels and no child.  I felt like everybody at the seminar knew that I was just a mum without my child.

But they didn’t.

They never knew I had a high bounce hand ball,  a Nintendo Gameboy and a Kinder Surprise in my bag.  They never knew I was looking at the clock to see what Little Pencil was doing as I listened to the presentations.  They never knew that I was a mother – they just saw me as a woman at work, at a seminar at the Gallery.

My mother role and my career role briefly collided in the Gallery yesterday and I came out thinking how lucky I am to have the best of both worlds.

Are you Teflon or are you sticky?

I am a very sticky person.  You only need to tell me one of your quirks, your worries or your superstitions and it will stick with me.

If someone tells me that they believe that eating from plastic containers is bad for you I usually glare at them like they are a bit strange. I try to make up some scientific reason why they are wrong and I am right and then when they leave I start to feverishly read through millions of pages of Google searches.  I usually end up hurling my entire plastic collection into the bin.  This happens each time I am told of something in my kitchen that is killing me.  Luckily though for Coca Cola Australia and Maldon I cannot be spoken out of diet coke or copious amounts of salt.

I know other people that are sticky like me but in different areas. For instance there are people that allow other people’s moods to stick to them.  I once worked with someone who could best be described as vapour.  She was without any substance of her own but she would take on whatever the general mood of the office was.

On Monday Vapour would  arrive without any personality or mood of her own and  within ten minutes of being in the office she would have a hangover  just like everyone  else.  If someone was angry she was angry until she went to lunch with someone that was happy.  There was a time when three of the girls in the office were pregnant. We considered covering her in a condom so that she didn’t take on their pregnancy.

A friend of mine  works with someone who she claims is Teflon. Whatever is going on at the office she escapes it – absolutely nothing sticks to her. The entire company can be brought before the CEO in shackles (not that I think this happens often) but somehow the CEO will tell her to wear ballet shoes and dance to the kitchen to avoid the meeting.  If she does something that is wrong and it affects the company’s performance or impacts other people in a negative way,  she always manages to slide off  the blame – she just won’t wear it.  She really is very Teflon.

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I’m sure that state of mind dictates how sticky you are or how much Teflon coating you are covered with,  I know that when I am feeling low I tend to take more stuff on and that when I am in a happier place it is easier to let things slide.  And I am pretty sure that you can be very sticky in some areas and Grade A Teflon in others,  I just wish there was something other than Maldon salt and diet coke that I was Teflon about.

What about you – are you Teflon or are you sticky?

 

 

Why would you take the contents of your home on holiday?

Mr Pencil and Little Pencil have gone camping to some place that sounds like the residential address of Dr Seuss.  I have elected not to go because I do not relish the idea of giving up a night’s sleep to the great outdoors, even if the great outdoors is cordoned off by a canvas tent.  I am rather partial to walls.  And floors and ceilings, not to mention a bed with linen and soft pillows.  Oh and a bathroom with hot and cold taps and a kitchen with a fridge and coffee maker…..

So, because I like living indoors with access to provisions I was not even consulted on the preparation for camping.  Apparently indoorsy people like myself do not know how to cater for a camping trip.  And I can see why – after my husband had put aside the provisions he needed for TWO nights not including food or clothes, I breathed a a grateful sigh of relief that I was not assigned to be his Sherpa .  Believe me it was a lot of stuff to take with you when you are going away for a weekend.  I mean if you were going to work for two months and your job was to create an outdoor conference centre from, scratch and you had to provide your own supplies, and this is what you were taking, I’d get it.  But for a weekend away  ?  No.

Then I noticed a sheet of paper, covered in writing.   No white spaces remained.  This was the list Mr Pencil had made himself so that he did not forget anything.  Let’s just say that the sheet of paper was big enough that he could have used it as a tablecloth.  That seems like a lot of things to remember for a weekend away.

Mr Pencil was assigned the job of catering for two breakfasts on the trip (he is camping with lunch and dinner makers) so he took two aisles of Coles with him as well.  He also took a wardrobe full of clothes for Little Pencil in case it was cold, hot, snowed, rained, or indeed if the weather was mild.  He seemed to forget that he was going away for two days and that we have access to the Bureau of Meteorology website.

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I reminded him that he also had to fit Little Pencil in the car.  His face fell even further.

I know that some people love camping and clearly I am not one of them but I just cannot understand why you have to take so much stuff to get away from everything.

 

I have a problem with beauty products

I have a favourite perfume.  It is  Addict by Dior just in case you would like to surprise me with some aromatic gifts. But don’t stack up for my next birthday yet.  I am very easily influenced and am likely to change my mind if you offer me something better, or even just different.

In fact as I write this post I am forced to look at the most hideous colour nail polish you have ever seen.

I went to the Dior counter to buy said perfume and there was a gift with purchase if you bought two products.  I bloody love a gift with purchase and when the woman at the counter told me the gift was a little silver bag with a new mascara “that really really lengthens the lashes” I almost fell over her trying to get my second item and gift with purchase.

I took a look at my nails as I grabbed the gift with purchase and they were looking particularly seedy so I told her I thought my second item should be a nail polish.  The lovely Dior lady handed me a shade of nail polish and told me I would love it.  I believed her for some reason I cannot explain. Although she knows nothing about me, what I like, what I wear, what I do – I believed she knew that I would love the nail polish so I bought it.

It is awful and I hate it.  Oh and the mascara that “really really lengthens the lashes” is no different to any of my other mascaras that really don’t do anything other than colour my stumpy lashes.

The problem is I am very easily influenced when it comes to beauty products.  Which is weird because I am the biggest cynic when it comes to anything else. I regularly read the packaging on food and I laugh hysterically – for instance I have just made my husband a cup of tea – the tea is described as a green with “with the luscious flavours of strawberries and cream”.  I know that the tea will taste of tea leaves.  Nothing else.  I know that tea doesn’t taste like strawberries and cream and I know that this is a good thing.  But if someone told me that you could use the tea to shrink your pores and smooth your wrinkles – I would buy it

I believe the women who stand in the department stores spruiking their expensive potions know everything there is to know about developments in beauty science, I briefly choose to forget that they are getting paid to sell their product and they really just want to help me by giving me smooth wrinkle free skin , sleek shiny hair and perfectly long eyelashes.

And if you leave me near a magazine I am likely to go into some sort of trance by changing my mind completely every time I turn the page.
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This blind faith in the beauty industry goes against everything I know to be right.  I know they “exaggerate the truth”, I know they use lyrical language and pretty packaging to lure me in.  I know they pray on my insecurities but they look so good and they promise so much.  And what if they do work ?

I have paid ridiculous amounts for potions and lotions to make my freckles disappear .  When I enquired of my husband whether he thought it had made a difference he said he didn’t realise that I had freckles in the first place.

I have put what I can only describe as acid in a gorgeous container on my eyelashes to promote their growth.  My eyelashes are the exact same length as they started only my eyelids are sorer.

I have tried almost every lipstick known to mankind to come to the realisation that my lips are resistant to colour and any colour that I do try will last approximately 14 seconds.

I have tried  blue eyeliner, green eyeliner, black and purple eyeliner, even white and silver eyeliner.  I know that eyeliner cannot change the size or shape of my eyes but I am prepared to try.

I have tried all these things and none have worked as promised.  Yet tomorrow if I see a promise of long eyelashes and smooth skin  my faith will be renewed.

I think I may have a problem.  Do you think there is a cream for it?