Security Blanket

I was lying in bed with my eyes shut.  Or maybe they were open, I don’t know, I suffer from such extreme night blindness that even in moderate darkness I am sometimes unable to tell if my eyes are open or closed.  Let that just sink in for moment.  A person, unable to tell if their eyes are opened or closed.  What is that shit?  I mean really.  I actually have to try and blink; if I can, then they were open.  If I can’t they are closed.  Honestly, once I safely tuck my iPhone under my pillow (fuck radiation) I am swimming in a void of darkness and silence (because I wear ear plugs, that is nothing to do with my eyes).  When I am feeling particularly existential I like to think that literally only myself and my bed exist and we are just floating in perpetual darkness…

Anyway, as I was saying, I was in bed with my eyes either open or closed (if I can’t tell, neither can you).  I was performing that peculiar style of martial arts known for its profundity at casting aside, and also re-cloaking, bedding in a single blow.  I was an incredibly shitty temperature.  Granted, I am usually dissatisfied with my personal temperature, but this time it was actually due to outside forces.  Under the blankets: ugh, too hot.  Out of the blankets: nice temperature, bit of a breeze even.  And that was the problem, I was out of the damn doona.

OK, I get that very few people (meaning no one, because really who are these freaks?) like, or are comfortable without the security of at least a sheet covering them while they sleep.  It’s not even that I am uncomfortable, it is more that I am hyper-aware that I don’t have my security cocoon of downy goodness covering me, then that causes this conversation to happen in my head:

“Hey, you know you don’t have your doona right?”

“Yes, I am aware, it’s hot as fuck tonight, If I put it on you’ll sweat like a bastard.”

“Yeah but, it’s weird, I don’t like it.  It’s all just so… open.”

“Coolness trumps openness.  Goodnight.”

*clears throat*

“What?”

“Monsters, burglars, rapists, aliens, zombies, the tax man, slender man, your boyfriends mother, YOUR mother, the North Korean government, people who say ‘totes’; they can all get you with out your doona on!!!!!!!”

This is what goes on in my/our head when I decide to cast aside the shackles of oppressive warmth.  In my mind my doona is like a suit of armor repelling all the worlds evil using only cotton and goose down. Yet logically I know this is simply not true.  No would-be burglar worth his or her salt is going to creep into a house, see someone tucked up in bed and think to themselves ‘well shit, I can’t very well take their playstation 4 and jewelry when they are just tucked up so nice like, bugger this for a game of soldiers, I’m going home to do the same thing’.

Despite my doona being a protective shield of super awesome protection at night, the same cannot be said for it during the day.  I can’t very well just get up in the morning, do the business of getting ready, then drape my doona around my shoulders like it’s some sort of padded cape then leave the house.  If anything the exact opposite of protection would be had, I would stand out like dogs bollocks. I’d be some freak walking down the street in a fucking doona, I’d probably be arrested for my own safety (just don’t take my fucking doona or so help me!). Also, if I went even further than draping it about my shoulder and went for the full on Sith Lord look I’d lose my vital peripheral vision and leave myself open for some ne’er-do-well to sidle up along side and shiv me.

So there I lay, flummoxed by one of the voices in my head clearing it’s throat when I see (or sense, still not actually sure if my eyes were open or closed) a bright flash illuminate my bedroom via my window.  I roll over covering myself with doona at the same time.  I can’t be bothered finding out what caused it.  Whatever it is, my doona will protect me.

 

Also, for those not in the know, doona = duvet.

Blunt Force Truth

Here, I’ll lay some truth on you.

Truth is, I had to stop and think: ‘is it blunt forced truth, or blunt force truth?’ I settled on the latter using my own sound cognitive skills. Everybody has blind spots.

Like, when I was young I thought it was ‘next jear’ not ‘next year’ (despite the fact I was familiar with the word ‘year’), this was undoubtedly due to being brought up around people who chewed rather than spoke the English language. And if that wasn’t enough, my first ever school teacher had a raging lisp. Well I didn’t know this at the time; I was informed of it after I had too developed a lisp. Well, that’s what happens when the only adult conversation a 5 year old gets is from an ancient with a lisp. A similar thing happened about 3 years later when I had a teacher with a very heavy accent (I have no idea where he was from, Poland perhaps, judging by his surname). We were doing some science experiment that called for various chemicals, one of which was methylated spirits. However when he ran his tongue over the word it came out as ‘mettalated spirits’. So that was how I pronounced it as well. Seemed reasonable enough, I’d never heard the word before, so, monkey see, monkey do. At the days end I was describing to my mother what we did that day and by chance I mentioned the ‘mettalated spirits’, oh how she laughed at the stupid little girl who couldn’t pronounce methylated. What raucous fun it must have been.

I tell you it’s any wonder I speak at all. Not a year after the ‘methylated’ incident we come to yet another language impasse. My family was holidaying; I pointed to some very large rocks and said something to the effect of ‘look mum, boulders’. I think it’s rather evident that I was neither a smart nor an interesting child. I digress; instead of fobbing me off with some noncommittal ‘whatever, that’s nice’ that had become de riguer in my growing up, my mother instead tried to engage: ‘Oh, they’re not boulders, they’re called bowlers’. My dad sniggered. He always was sniggering; in fact, I can say without a doubt I only have 3 memories of my day growing up: him working, him sniggering, and him taking me to a roller rink (while possibly sniggering). “No they aren’t… I’m pretty sure they’re called boulders”, I said, slightly wavering in my conviction; after all I was but an empty headed child, full evil deeds and ignorance in equal parts. I was wrong before and I would be wrong again was my childhood motto (didn’t actually have my motto spelled out in so many words of course). Luckily a bottle of wine had drawn their attention away from the misinformation hour, and being the slow child I was I failed to internalize the lesson. Of course I didn’t fail to internalize the event or its meaning. I knew – still know, in fact – where I stood.

 The difference to being laughed at and laughed with is learnt young.

Australia, Don’t Be That Person

Australia, don’t be that person.

Don’t be that person who shrugs while saying, “Americans and their gun violence, when will they learn”. Yes, statistics have illustrated an undeniable link between tighter gun control and gun related violence. We only need look to Canada, or indeed in our own backyard to see evidence of this. But Australia, don’t be that person.

Don’t rattle off statistics. Don’t say “only in America”. Don’t shake your head lamenting a life gone wrong.  Don’t vilify all men for this man’s actions; Or all Americans for that matter. Our hands are not clean. We are not so superior; that, with a snort of derision, we can dismiss 12 deaths. No one is, don’t be that person.

Going to school, a club, the movies, an airport, a restaurant, should not and never be part of a calculating the risk for enduring violence.  Victim blaming is endemic in our society.  It spreads itself lasciviously, masking the true issues, while both denying and making light of one’s pain and suffering, all under the guise of “they should have known better”.  If you say this is the world we live in, I say you’re part of the problem.  While you may never feel the cold trigger give under the pressure of your own hand, you will always have the blood stain of innocents etched into your palms.  You can’t wash this away with your dismissals, as surely as you can’t hide behind your malformed opinions.

If you dare say, “everyone is entitled to their opinion”, I may never be able to stop screaming.  If your ‘opinion’ of 12 senseless murders is to critique America’s domestic policy, you are wrong. You missed the point. You didn’t see it. I don’t know how, the world media didn’t exactly bury the lead on this one.  Twelve people were murdered; fifty people were attempted to be murdered. Why? Because they had the gall, the nerve, the cheek to think they could see a movie in a country with lax gun control? That is what you are saying when you ruminate on politics instead of people’s lives.

Don’t be that person.

Causes come later. There will be time for postulating and questioning.  Gun control will be addressed; mental health safety nets will be looked at; online presence will be examined all in a bid for this to be the last time. You and I both know it won’t be. There are too many of us, too close together, for there not to exist murderous infighting.  All the laws, policies and standard for social conduct won’t change that. Where there’s a will there’s a way. For now, though, remember the victims, hug your loved ones, and stand in defiance of violence saying “this is not okay!”  Don’t sweep these people under the rug, to the annals of Wikipedia lists on public massacres.

Don’t be that person.

Because right now Australia, you are being that person, and it makes me fucking sick.

How To Buy A Mattress

I love my bed, love it. I simply cannot clearly iterate into words my deep and almost profound love of this bed. It’s a warm hug at the end of a day; it’s the suggestive come hither look of a lover in the morning; it’s my movie theater; my couch; my dining room; my therapist; my best friend; my bed.

My bed and I have a bond that goes way back to when I was merely a twinkle in my daddies eye. Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen, I was conceived on this bed. How many of you can lay claim to that very dubious honor? To think I could so easily been the wet patch in the middle of this bed, ickiness aside, that really make you think.

This was my first ‘big girl’ bed. And boy was it big for a small-for-my age 3 year old. I don’t really recall those early days with my bed, but I’m fairly certain I was the only kid in kinder with a queen size bed.

Given that our mutual history extends back such a way you’d be right to assume that my bed is very old. Roughly 28 years to be imprecise. That’s old. I read somewhere that you should replace your mattress every ten years or so. Probably a mattress company rouse (I’m looking at you Sealy), but still 3 decades is probably pushing envelope in terms of mattress acceptability. Which basically means its time to buy a new bed.

A bed is a big purchase, it might be one of the most expensive pieces of furniture you own (if indeed a bed is considered furniture). With the prospect of putting my old bed out to pasture it got me thinking of how I’d tackle turning my thought of ‘hey, time to buy a new bed’, into the materialization of said bed in my bedroom. In order to get from concept to project complete with minimal tears I plan to follow this strategy…

  1. Get to bed store early.  As in when it opens.  This is not a drill, we aren’t browsing, we are buying.
  2. Bring pillow for bed testing.  Yes, I will look foolish, but if any of these bed salespeople are worth their salt they will stick to us like glue.  Nothing says ‘I am serious about buying a bed’ more than a customer who shows up with a pillow under their arm.
  3. Wear slip on shoes.  After a lifetime of being told to take my feet off the furniture I simply cannot turn off that inner chastising – even if there is that plastic strip over the end of the bed.  As in all past cases of in public shoe removal – wear shoes you are prepared to have stolen. (Personally, I have never had my shoes stolen, I just have a healthy fear that it will happen someday).
  4. Don’t just bounce a few times on the edge of the bed to test – lie down, and not like some corpse, stiff as a board on your back either.  I’m talking, fetal position, with your face slightly smooshed into the pillow – just like you do at home.  Also, lie there for a decent amount of time.  Its not a race, you’re buying a bed – something you could potentially have for the next 30 years.  Although that’s unlikely with how things are made these days.
  5. You have a smart phone – use it.  When you find a bed you like, get the make and model and Google the bejesus out of it for a better deal.  And when you find said better deal – negotiate.  Your unemployed goddammit – you have all the time in the world to stand there haggling.  Until you have the bed salesperson crying in the corner about how he needs the commission to feed is family your job is not done.
  6. And finally, for the love of all that is sacred make sure they remove the existing bed – preferably for free.  You will never regret having this done for you.

Farewell old friend, you served me well, but it’s time to move on.  I am sorry for kitting you out in hideous bed linen all these years.

Life Is What Happens When You Stop Being A Jerk

I once had the gall to say that most people should have life figured out by the age of 27.  I said this when I was 21, I remember saying it, not because I have some super-fired up memory, but because of the looks on the people’s face to whom I said it.  Those looks are burned into my brain.  I said this when I had just started a new job, we are talking weeks here people.  I had just met a group of colleagues ranging in age from 20 to around mid 40’s.  I’m not entirely sure how it came up, but I made the sweeping statement that, yes, at 27 you should have you life figured out.  Now I didn’t necessarily mean that you had implemented everything you wanted to achieve in your life, but you at least knew what you want and had some direction to go about.

The only person to raise any real protest was a women in her mid 40’s.  She must have thought I was a dead-set imbecile.  Little did she know at the time that foot-in-mouth is a specialty of mine and I would be providing her with gems such as these for years to come.  In the end, she rolled her eyes and moved on, she knew when to pick her battles, and arguing with someone barely out of her teens about life was not something she was prepared to waste her time on.  Fair fucking call.

I can barely recall any memory from 13 to around 23 years of age without having a major face palm moment.  Seriously, ‘young and dumb’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.  I am now on the cusp of turning that magical number 27 and I gotta tell you I couldn’t have been more fucking wrong.  I will say that I do know myself better now, and I have a vague plan of the types of things I want to achieve and the paths on this earth I wish to tread.  But to say that at 27, or any arbitrary age, that you should have life figured out is pure bollocks.  Besides, who wants to have life figured out.  Life is all about the curve-ball.  Life is what happens when you stop being a jerk (also, something about making other plans, but I like my version better).

When you turn 27 you get cake with a side of perspective… Well you will at least get cake.

For instance, my boyfriend is in charge of our food budget.  Each fortnight I give him my share for groceries and he plans and purchases all we need for the 2 week period.  It’s a good system, he is the cook, so he decides how our food money is spent.  However today he informs me that he forgot his car insurance would be debited, so now his account is in overdraft.  Our food money happened to be in another account, another account which can only be transferred to his primary account.  Of course the amount over drawn is almost exactly our food budget.  And he isn’t paid till next week, and I’m not paid till the week after that!!  Normally, I could step in and help out, but I can’t this fortnight, I spent my whole pay packet on bills it was one of those months you have when everything is due, on the plus side I now have no bills! I figured I’d knock all these bills out the way then just cruise at home for 2 weeks knowing that everything is paid.

The point of this here is story is that this is an example of life.  This week may have remained fairly unremarkable, except now we have to put our thinking caps on figure out a way to feed ourselves on a pittance.  Don’t despair, we will make do, whilst it may not be the most exciting week in culinary history, we have food in the pantry and fridge/freezer, we just need to get creative.

After all, if worst comes to worst we can always eat the vintage cereal.

You’ll Never Be This Relaxed

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After seeing this picture you now need to live the rest of your life knowing you could never achieve this level of relaxation or body confidence.

This is one of my cat’s, James, or as I have now started calling him ‘Big Jim’. He was abandoned at my boyfriend’s Dad’s rental property in December last year. Given we already had two cats out intention was to take him in until we could rehome him. That never happened. From skittish beginnings cowering under our wardrobe, to this, propped up by the fence, soaking in the winter sun. He now lives and loves the good life.

This isn’t his happy ending, it’s his happy beginning.

Pinterest: The New Contraceptive

The last time I had this feeling was when I first joined Facebook.  Remember the excitement of finding old school chums and seeing how they looked and what they were up too.  I remember adding everyone I ever so much as shared breathing space with the fervor of a game show contestant in a wind tunnel grabbing at dollar bills flying about them before time runs out.  Inevitably I went into my cooling off phase as so many Facebook users and want to do, and a good old-fashioned cull was in order.  So I slashed back numbers to a trite 150, give or take.  I don’t have 150 friends; I probably could barely scrape together 10.  The rest of the 140 odd people where there for ‘monitoring purposes’.  Yes, I’m creepy like a boss.  But you do it too!   Suffice to say you know you’re doing the wrong thing if your only retort is, ‘well everyone else is doing it’.

But I digress.  Towards the end of last year I ended my relationship with 140 people en-mass.  Outside of Facebook most of these ‘friends’ and I had no tangible relationship so I deleted the motherfucker.  I felt smug, like I was one of the cool kids now, too urbane for Facebook.  That smug feeling lasted about a day before I realized, ‘hang on, if I have time to feel smug over not being apart of Facebook, I probably don’t have a lot going on my friend’.  So I took a moment to become an adult, and start my life as a regular person sans social networking.

It eventually took its toll, things like viewing friends photo’s and missing events all led to me ever reluctantly returning to my old flame. But like a lover once burned I proceeded with caution.   Now I now have 38 friends, all of whom I know personally and wouldn’t duck into and ‘big and tall’ menswear shop to avoid seeing (this happened with one of the previous 140).

So far, the relationship is going well.  Facebook and I are treating one another with the respect we both deserve.  I promise to not check in first thing in the morning, and Facebook promises not to email me, so far its a work in progress.  We have been back together for about a month when it brought to my attention the existence of a little devil going by the name of Pinterest.

If you are unaware of Pinterest, PROCEED WITH CAUTION!

Pinterest is a little demon of a site whereby you sign up – well actually you don’t sign up, you request to be invited then you sign up.  That should have been my first clue as to what it had in store for me.  I felt pathetic waiting for that email because it doesn’t arrive straight away, oh no, you’re on their turf now my friend and you better play ball.  A few hours later my ‘invitation’ arrives.  So I sign up.

There isn’t a huge learning curve for Pinterest, you basically take things from the internet and ‘pin’ them to your cyber pin board.  They are then thrown into the collective feed for other people to ‘re-pin’ or ‘like’ – sadly there is no option to dislike , I guess you dislike by not doing either of the aforementioned actions.  That’s it basically.  It sounds so stupid when I type it out like that, but that really is all there is too it.

At first I was skeptical; most of the ‘pins’ seemed to be things I’m not interested in at all.  I can actually sum up Pinterest into 3 words: braids, cupcakes, and clothing.  Is this all people are doing on the internet?  I guess that and porn, but I don’t think you can pin porn. (You can! It’s called Pornterest, I’m not kidding!)

Yet, I’m addicted to it.  I have this insatiable appetite to know what others find interesting and thus feel a modicum of superiority over them for not getting my proverbial rocks off over a Bailey’s flavored bacon cupcake..  If you try to at all unravel the conundrum that is ‘finding it interesting what people find interesting, that is in fact uninteresting‘, you will probably end up in the fourth dimension – don’t pull that thread.  Fair warning.

Part of the ‘pinning’ process involves writing a small caption – this can sometimes be more of a goldmine than the seemingly inane pictures ‘pinned’ in the first place.  Mostly the captions are used to describe what it is we are seeing, no points for originality.  However my favorites come from the category I call ‘pathetically hopeful’.  This basically covers anything pinned about weddings and babies – stay with me on this – Some people post photos of their actual wedding or their actual children, with them I have no issue.  It’s when we start swimming in the pool of pictures that people caption as ‘future wedding’ or ‘my future children will have this as their birthday cake’, is when I start start categorizing pins on my ‘pathetically hopeful’ board.

The reason being: future children do not exist; they might not ever exist for that person.  Unless the person pinning is currently pregnant talking about future children is a false economy.  What if you don’t have these imaginary ‘future children’?  Children aren’t a right, nor are they guaranteed.  I understand if you may wish to have children someday, a lot of people share that dream.  Same goes for weddings, but unless you are engaged, quit the wedding planning.  You can dream, you shouldn’t plan – or in this case pin.

This is some harsh advice.  A lot of you may be wondering what the harm in planning or dreaming is; after all, it’s Pinterest, what’s the harm?  Well I’ll tell you.  The problem I see in planning what birthday cake your future children will enjoy or what canapes you will serve at you future wedding indicates to me that your more concerned with the end result, rather than the journey there.  Let me elaborate, I believe there is a large percentage of ‘pinners’ who are spending more time pinning than actually meeting people they would potentially have that baby with, or one day marry.  Like I mentioned earlier, unless you are expecting or engaged what you pin will largely be irrelevant.  Times change, styles change, your life changes, pinning what your children will eat on their 5th birthday is an exercise in futility.

There is no harm in dreaming, I’m not anti wishful thinking.  I would just hate to see people pegged in my ‘pathetically hopeful’ file for life because they were too busy dreaming, and not enough with the doing.  I too need to take a fair dollop of my advice and spread it on a maple-bacon-cupcake, because if there is one thing more pathetic than wishing for future babies and weddings it would be the obsession with people who want these things.

Me.

With that in mind follow me on Follow Me on Pinterest

Pre-marital Ex

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today before these friends and family, to join together this man and this woman in Matrimony…”

The celebrant trails off as he is handed a note.

“Ah,’ he says,

“This man – apparently he used to be’, he consults the note quickly, “YOUR MAN,” he booms.

Murmurs from the gathered crowd begin to swirl as people swivel this way and that in their seats trying to follow the celebrant’s line of sight to see who he must be talking about.  The celebrant continues:

“According to this you two were quite happy.  Although you never did discuss marriage, it was where you both thought you were headed.  It was.  It says it all here.”  He says as he happily waves the note around like a flag.  Meanwhile the murmurs are now raised to blatant talking amongst different groups of guests.  Even though you redden like a lobster dunked into a boiling pot, the celebrant appears not to notice, or care for that matter, and presses on…

“Hmm, says here you were together for a while, lived together too it seems.  You loved him, and he loved you.  Oh and you even got a puppy together, tell me you didn’t get a puppy?”  He looks up at you seemingly expecting a contradiction or answer to what he just said, but you have no answers to give.  It’s all true, and right now you wish you were that lobster and that someone would put you out of your misery.

Everyone has that ex.  I’m not talking about any old ex you drag up from the proverbial back-of-the-closet that is your dating past, no, I mean that ex.  You know which ex I am talking about, I know you do.  That one who at the mere thought of makes your eye do the squicky dance, who makes you chew your cuticles, compulsively fix your hair, adjust your clothes, tap your foot, wring your hands.  That one who gives you a Parkinson’s patient worth of bodily ticks until the wave of emotion subsides.  You loved them, they stopped loving you – and since you asked, no, I don’t actually care what the mitigating circumstances were; the end result is the same.

Everybody knows relationships involve compromise and sharing; not only listening to, but hearing your partner.  No matter what type, or however many involved, good relationships should always reach a balance or equilibrium in order to stay afloat.  However, breakups are the only time when this concept gets tossed overboard – and then it’s every man or women for themselves.  Relationships are not a representative democracy – sure you get your say, but ultimately only one vote is needed.  It hurts like a bastard, no denying, and whilst in time you will heal, there are always going to be certain moments you feel those phantom pains where your loved one used to be.  None more so than when that particular ex moves on with another – especially when it involves the exchanging of vows.

Comfortable Naked – Failures In Blogging

Just sitting with my writing is a disconcerting experience, how I imagine one with low body image feels when dashing into the shower so fast their reflection is a mere a blur in the mirror.  Or worst, those who bathe with the lights off.  It’s a reflection of yourself, what’s in your heart, head or soul.  It’s putting something out there, with your name on it, standing by your convictions.  Nothing I have written here is revolutionary or ground-breaking, and that makes me sad.  I am still learning how to not walk away from a blank page, filing it in the ‘too hard basket’, and not trying.

That’s the worst feeling isn’t it?  Failing to make an attempt, seeing what others write and are prepared to put their stamp on while thinking, “What the fuck, I could do better than that.”  But you don’t, not if you walk away from the blank page.  There are always better things to do.  Each one of us blogging is exhibiting a tremendous amount of privilege in being able to do so freely.  But some blogger’s just don’t get it.  They act like assholes, and their writing isn’t even remotely good enough for them to get away with it.  Yet they do – more on that later.

Sometimes it isn’t even their writing – but actually how they operate their blog that gets my hackles up.  So I have designed a little list for you to use as a guideline to make your blog a happier place.  A place people want to visit, rather than a place that produces so much side-eye that it should come with an epilepsy warning.

 

Heading

If your blog has some derivative of ‘my little corner of the web’ as its heading tagline, I invite you to take your less than creative ass to Twitter.  I mean really – we’re all trying here, but that is not trying.  That is giving up.  Be creative, thoughtful, funny, verbose, snarky, hungry, dirty, anything – just anything.  Have a point.  I understand that if you have a personal self-reflection blog it can be hard to some up, so treat that tagline as a litmus test of sorts.  If you can’t come up with one line that sums up what you and your blog are all about, perhaps blogging isn’t for you.

Also, if you have “Just another wordpress.com site” as your tagline you deserve to have your high speed broadband disconnected and replaced with a dial-up modem.  You’re lucky I’m not confiscating the whole internet.

 

Comments

There is nothing like finding a nice new blog that hits all your right buttons, it’s like discovering a yet unheard of book.  The smaller the blog the better as far as I’m concerned, I have never been a fan of uber blogs.  Something just happens to the material when a blog becomes unwieldy; like the mass media it becomes diluted and strained for the masses to be spoon-fed on, rather than raw and rough around the edges, the way it was first intended.

It always strikes me as odd when a blog that has a mere handful of comments per post has comment moderation turned on.  Who are you moderating, ye of small page views?  If you have had more birthdays than total amount of comments there is nothing to moderate, although it begs the question: who’s trolling you?  Turn it off and let the comments flourish, rather than gumming up the works with ‘your comment is awaiting moderation’ malarky.

 

Interactions

Following on from the comments we have interactions.  It is just plain rude to ignore a comment.  Period.  This isn’t about bumping up your page view stats, it’s about being polite.  Now, it has become apparent from reading some comment threads that your mother’s didn’t teach you that others will not always agree with you.  Say it with me – “people will not always agree with me”.  A bit of discourse in a comment thread is great, we all learn a bit about one another and walk away richer for the experience.  But if you react like a spoiled brat every time someone chimes in with a difference of opinion you are just that, a spoiled brat.  There is no need to get nasty, mind your damn manners people.  I know it’s the internet and we are all hiding behind our computer screens, but that’s not a license to turn into a grade A jerk.

 

Posting

However often you wish to post is up to you.  There is no right amount.  But if you post multiple times a day with only a Youtube clip, or a picture you find, you are annoying and belong on pinterest.  Nobody wants that clogging up their inbox.  If someone has deemed your blog worth following, you need to show some respect and not troll their inbox.

 

I haven’t mentioned anything about content, spelling, or grammar.  To me, those aspects of blogging are personal and secondary to what I have deemed be the basic etiquette of blogging.  Write about anything and everything, it’s not for me or anyone to judge what you should and shouldn’t put on the internet.  Its public domain, and if your happy to stand by your work, then who am I to judge said work.  I will say this though: if you do nothing else, at least run each post through spellcheck, it’s the least you can do.

 

 

P.S.  None of this applies to my blog as I don’t read it.

Don’t Call Me, I’ll Call You

Don’t call me.  Don’t hit me up on my celly – or whatever you damn kids are saying these days[1]. I won’t answer.  I don’t think I have actually answered the phone since 2009.  I am all over the text message, and I am happy to call people back – but it will be a cold day in hell before I answer my phone again.  I don’t even know what my current ring tone is, and to be frank, it doesn’t matter because my phone is always on silent.  On the rarest occasion when it isn’t I never realise that it is my phone that is ringing.  Some people, I’ve noticed, are tuned in to their ring tone like it’s their child.  Me?  Well, I’m the neglectful parent phone ownership.

All this harks back to my days of dodging debt collectors.  My basic strategy really only boiled down to not answering the phone.  That was it.  Ignore it and deal with it later – or when I get a court summons, which ever comes second.  To be fair, I always eventually paid said bills, just not as promptly as any of the companies would have preferred, which is why I stopped answering my phone.

At first this was limited to blocked numbers or numbers I didn’t recognise.  But slowly, it started spreading to anyone, and eventually led to my phone being silenced[2].  Now every time someone rings me, I like to ‘see what they want’ first by listening to their voicemail, or text the send post call.  Writing this post has just made me realise – I have no idea why anyone still calls me.  For real.  Anyone who knows me at all knows I don’t answer my calls without discrimination.  Okay, so yes, I have played back many messages that read along the lines of “PICK UP YOUR PHONE YOU STUPID BITCH…” from friends and family, but my compulsion to not answer my phone greatly outweighs any verbal barrage they could hurl over my mobile carrier.

If like me you are also a debt-dodging dirt-bag, you will understand the fear of seeing blocked numbers appear for day’s on end in your call log.  I have even gone so far as to, when the phone rings, freeze in place – like they might be able to hear my footfalls through the phone somehow, and if I am perfectly still they will think that I have legitimately missed the call, rather than avoiding the call like a pick-up ‘artist’[3] in a bar (or any setting really).

As of 2012, I am now paid up member of the paying-my-bills-mostly-on-time club.  I haven’t had to worry about debt collectors, or as they are now called, ‘collection agencies’[4] for years.  But the fear lingers on, and there probably isn’t enough therapy in the world to cure it.

 


[1] Totes.  Amazeballs.  These words need to be killed with fire.  I know Shakespeare made up a lot of words and phrases but YOU ARE NOT THE BARD.  Stop butchering the English language.  Or one day you will find yourself on the business end of a mighty walloping with hardback editions of ‘Swann’s Way’ – after which you will be made to read it.

[2] Which sounds a little like I murdered it.

[3] In quotey-quotes because I believe artist is too good a title for these purveyors of douche.

[4] Why do we do that – change the name of things, to what, make them seem like something they aren’t.  Collections agencies, debt reconciliation services – call it what it is – busting balls for cash.  Also, do people working in the field EVER believe any of the excuses given to them.  It must be the most cynic making job in the entire world.