Getting all empassioned with The Lounge.

Hi all!
Today I am hosting The Lounge linkup and we are talking about our PASSIONS. What gets us all ENTHUSED. Or what gets us HOT UNDER THE COLLAR. If you know what I mean.

Feel free to link up a post telling us what you feel passionately about. Your husband? Your kids? Writing erotic fiction? Chaining yourself to Ancient Trees in an act of Selfless Environmental Warriorism? We're all unique snowflakes with our own wants and needs and loves and lusts and...ahem.

Or link up something unrelated, I'm cool with that too. Easygoing is my middle name. No really, it is!

Anyway, I guess I should write something.

What am I passionate about?

Look, to quote Lisa Simpson, I'm a member of the MTV generation. I feel neither highs nor lows.

I kid, I kid! As if!

I am a veritable hotbed of passions. I am bloody passionate about having a good strong cup of tea every morning (not too much milk), and am positively evangelical about jeggings, as we all know.  I rage against the patriarchy like there's no tomorrow and challenge the dominant paradigm like a motherfucker whenever I get the opportunity. As you do.

But what I really want to talk about, just briefly, is my passion for the issue of asylum seekers, aka refugees.

I'm not going to rant on about it. I am careful what I say on the blog, politically speaking, so I am not going to single out any political party's particular policy.  I am just going to dot point a few things here that articulate how I feel about the subject. I am not an expert. I am just a human being.

-  Nobody chooses to be an asylum seeker. To paraphrase Dr Karl Kruszelnicki, refugees aren't coming here because we have better TV, they are coming because people are shooting at them
-  Seeking asylum is a human right under the UN Refugees Convention
- Mandatory detention for long periods of time is wrong and an inhumane way to deal with people waiting for refugee applications
- The idea that there is an "orderly" process that people should follow, but don't,  seems quite laughable to me. I mean if you were in a massive refugee camp in Jordan, with your young family, cheek by jowl with thousands of people, little security, violence and rape going on, and you had some money, wouldn't you do ANYTHING to get them out of there? I am amazed people can't put themselves in other people's shoes and imagine what it might be like! They are just people like you and I! They had professions, jobs, houses, cars.... I mean, who says it would never happen in Australia? We'd all be boat people then.

Zaatari Refugee Camp in Jordan. Cosy, right? [Source]

- There are actually other possible ways of approaching the issue of processing asylum seekers that are quite different to the dominant paradigm of "stop the boats" or "refuse all boat arrivals" and detention for prolonged periods of time.  There are other voices out there with other ideas. We just need to listen to them.

If anyone is interested in learning more about some of the OTHER possible ways to deal with asylum seekers in Australia, you can start here;

- Julian Burnside - "You've been misled on boat people"
- Julian Burnside - "Four steps to more humane refugee processing"
- Information on the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre FB page/website
- Waleed Aly "There's a paradox at the heart of the PNG plan" 
- Malcolm Fraser "Open our hearts, and our doors, to refugees"

I just wish the major parties wouldn't feel like they had to outdo each other in harsh, broad brush, draconian and inhuman policies. I wish there could be a bipartisan approach. There is a trend towards taking a bipartisan and humanitarian approach towards indigenous issues in Australia, and I wish the same would happen for our refugee policies too.

The end.

Ranting with The Lounge

Hi everyone. I am so disorganised that I have left my post for The Lounge to the utter last minute. And doing so has meant that, because me laptop is having a spack attack, I am going to have blog from my phone. I know. I am living on the edge. Somebody stop me!

Because blogging from the phone is as time consuming and laborious as turfing your own backyard on a steamy January day, this will be short and sweet. I can hear your sighs of relief from here.

The topic today is Ranting and Raving.

Baby B knows it isn't healthy to keep it all inside. LET IT OUT LET IT OUT LET IT OUT!!!

Hahahaaaa.

I will adopt my dot point blogging proforma for this post, what with the short and sweet goal.

Ok. Deep breath. Out with anger, in with cupcakes. I mean scones. I mean love. Yeah, love. Not those other things. Although I do confuse food with love, we all know that already.

- On my drive into Brisbane for work, there is a long stretch of the motorway that has signs up saying 80km/hour, because there are apparently "no lane markings". This enrages me beyond measure for multifarious reasons. Firstly, because I am as law abiding a citizen as they come, I do 80km/hour. I abide by the limit. I pootle along, even though the normal limit is 110. I do what i am told, people. I do what I am told.

- My issue is that I am the ONLY person who does this. I crawl along at a granny pace while all around me agro P platers, semi trailers, soccer mums and tradies in utes hoon past me at a rate of knots. It makes me so angry I could...why, I could  just about scream! I clench the steering wheel in rage with the veins in my neck popping out in sympathy. WTF people!!!?? Why you no drive at the speed limit??? I know it is tortuously slow but I don't make the rules! I hate you all!

- My rage is compounded because although the speed limit is reduced as a result of an alleged absence of lane markings, this, my friends, is patently untrue. There are freaking lane markings! There are! I can see them! Ok, I will admit that there is a tiny section devoid of lane markings, but 99% of the 80 zone is marked and ready for action. What the hell? Did they leave the signs out by accident? Is it a prank? Am I being punk'd by Ashton Kutcher? You little shit I'm onto you!

My already stressful commute is rendered almost intolerable by this stretch of road.

It is a bloody scandal and an outrage.

There are starving children, an entire Australian election campaign functioning in a policy vacuum and asylum seekers rotting in detention centres, but for ME the BIG ISSUE IS RIGHT HERE.

MY LIFE IS ALREADY SO HARD WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO MAKE IT HARDER? I mean, I'm well educated, middle class, white, with a loving husband, two cute kids and a house in the suburbs. What a hard freaking life!

POOR ME! WHAT ABOUT ME! IT ISN'T FAIR! I'VE something something AND I WANT MY SHARE CAN'T YOU SEEEEE? I WANNA LIVE! YOU JUST something something GIIIIVE!

Is your life made dreadful and intolerable by inexplicable road signage and thoughtless drivers?

Do tell old friends!

Destroying the joint - what not to do.

Baby B was somewhat better Saturday so I went ahead with a plan I'd made earlier in the week to take P out for a Mummy/Daughter day of fun.  I don't get much one on one time with the little mouse these days and I think she needs it.  My big idea was to leave M at home with Baby B, and to take her to swimming class and then straight off to see a movie.  I'd noticed they were doing classic Disney childrens movies on Saturday mornings at Robina so thought that sounded good.  This weekend it was Pocahontas, so I thought it would be perfect. G rated movies are a bit thin on the ground these days...

So after swimming we headed off.  When I had mentioned to a friend the day before that we were seeing Pocahontas, they remarked that they thought it was part of a sort of princess film special event, but I hadn't really given it much thought.

When we got there, a million tiny girls all wearing tizzy fairy princess costumes were milling round in the lobby.  I could see P, in her ordinary clothes, eyeing them off.  She said "Mummy why are they all wearing their princess dresses?". I made up some bland response but I don't think she was fooled.

Anyway I was a little bit blargh about that, but we bought our tickets and got given our Disney Princess Passports (ugh).  I was still more or less ok at that point, and the ticket person said afterwards there would be craft and face painting, so P and I thought that sounded pretty ok  and we bought our Malteasers and headed into the theatre.

When we found our seats, we were soon joined by throngs of little girls attending a couple of birthday parties, closely followed by two young women dressed up as fairies.  They went up the front and announced a few lucky door prizes. I was still all good with things at that stage generally speaking.

What happened next still makes me feel yucky.  The fairy ladies asked all the little girls to come up the front of the theatre.  I was a bit suss already about it and said to P "Oh we don't need to go up darling", but she looked so disappointed I changed my mind and went up with her.

Then the fairy ladies got the audience to vote on who was the best dressed by clapping their hands.  I am not joking.  They actually went down the line of little girls and held their arm over each of them, one by one, and the audience clapped and hooted if they liked her, or didn't clap and hoot if they didn't like her.

A mother standing next to us exchanged glances with me as they inched closer to our girls.

"I don't like this at all," she whispered.

"Me either. I didn't sign up for this," I answered.

I felt sick as they came closer to P. I looked at her waiting patiently in line, and I knew nobody would clap for her. The little girls with the parties had cheer squads and she wasn't wearing a princess dress.  When they reached her, I tried to cover up the lacklustre applause by clapping and woohooing loudly myself.

Thank goodness they moved quickly onto the next one, and P is just little enough that the whole thing was pretty much lost on her.  Any older and the shame of standing in front of strangers and being judged unworthy would have been unbearable.

The next event was a twirling competition (ugh!), but I managed to hustle her back to our seats before getting sucked into it.

I was so angry.  HOW DARE THEY force this veritable beauty pageant on these tiny girls.  The whole world has gone absolutely fucking apeshit crazy.  I wanted to yell "Fuck you Disney princess bullshit world and your dominant paradigm, fuck you and the horse you rode in on!!!!".

But I didn't of course.

I felt hot tears prickling my eyes.  I was so bloody strung out and exhausted, and felt so terrible about taking P to something where that would happen.  As the movie started, I remembered how tragic the whole Pocahontas story actually was, and as the first rat scuttled on board the ship bound for the New World the tears rolled down my face.

Oh God the TRAGEDY of it all was too much for me and it all got mixed up in my head as I wept silently in the dark - colonialism, smallpox, lost love, the degradation of Mother Earth, the oppression and princessification of all the tiny girls in the world by Disney, John Smith's bad English accent, the guy in front of us and his bad body odour.  The bloody shitting tragedy of everything.  I know. Just a bit over the top I guess.

I felt deadset sorry for the nice man and his two little girls sitting next to us as I clutched P close and sobbed quietly into her hair through the whole film, while she asked things like "But who is John Smith, Mummy?!" and "Who is Pocahontas?" and "Where is Pocahontas' daddy?" and so forth. I can only imagine how maniacal I looked in the reflected light of the big screen.

Frankly the whole thing left me feeling like I'd been through the wringer.

I trailed out after the movie ended and dutifully lined up with her to wait for the face painting. She must have absorbed my gloom because when it came to her turn, she sat silently and morosely staring at the face painter until it was all over.  The saddest face paintee in all of Christendom.

One of the fairies and P sitting as still as a statue.  

I had to ask the fairy not to press on P's black eye.  We must have looked quite a sight, my tear streaked face and her sad rainbow annointed, black eye sporting one.

I made myself feel better today by writing a letter of complaint and emailing it to the cinema.  I bloody hope they listen. I can take expensive popcorn, overflowing bins in the toilets and rowdy children in the theatre, but a surprise beauty contest for toddlers I will not stand for.
The #destroythejoint peeps would be disgusted.

Linking up with Jess for...

How to mend a broken heart.

Ok, I'm willing to admit that sometimes the whole 'slapdash' thing works against me.  Thank god there are some perfectionists out there or I would totes do something stupid like send my wedding invitations out with the wrong date on them,  and then have a hardcore Bridezilla meltdown in the shower (that may have involved screaming obscenities and/or crying) when I realised.

Oh wait, I DID DO THAT!  [Hangs head in shame].

Anyway, developing this theme a little more, today was Baby B's small family birthday partay.

In the name of keeping things square for the siblings, I decided to do the same kind of thing that we did for P's first bday, and that included, (you know what I'm going to say right!?) a HEART SHAPED BIRTHDAY CAKE!

Booyah.

In the interests of keeping things easy, I made everyone else bring a plate, and bought Woolies croissants to serve.  Simple!  All I had to do was make the cake.  Which I've done a bazillion times at least.

The heart tin I have is ENORMO.  So I do the same basic melt and mix butter cake recipe I use for everything, and make three times the normal recipe.

So this means when I make the heart cake I need 6 eggs.  When I opened the carton last night, I discovered I only had 5 eggs.  Mum was there, so I said "Oh SHIT A BRICK I've only got 5 eggs.  Mum, 5 eggs will be enough won't it? I'm supposed to have 6".

Mum said, "Yeah, she'll be right mate, no worries, she's apples, just shove the 5 eggs in it'll be right", and then I said "Yeah, I mean it's chocolate cake so there'll be cocoa in it which will make it a bit dry but she'll be right, 5 eggs will be HEAPS!  Who needs 6 eggs? Pah to you recipe" and other things along those lines.

So I merrily made it with 5 eggs.  Everything was going swimmingly and I was having another glass of red wine as the cake cooled on the stove top, and then I had to turn it out of the tin.

And this shit happened.

Insert NYPD blue music here - "Duht duhht!"

When it cracked I went through the seven stages of grieving, like you do when your heart is broken.

Shock - "What the FUCK is happening! I can't believe it, I have made this a million times! THIS IS NOT HAPPENING PEOPLE!"

Denial - "It's fine, it's just a small crack, no-one can see it, it's a perfect masterpiece flawless cake, yes, yes, yes it is....nice little cake, good cake..."

Anger - "Goddammn this thing it is RUINED and I am THROWING IT IN THE BIN AND BUYING ONE FROM WOOLIES, I am not kidding, I am losing it, it is going in the bin RIGHT NOW GAHHHHHHH!!!!"

Bargaining - "Come on little cakie wakie, I'm sorry I was so angry, I didn't mean it, we can make it work, please...!!""

Guilt - "Poor Baby B, I bought all the other shit for his party from crappy Woolies, I just wanted to make ONE PERFECT HOMEMADE THING FOR HIM AND NOW HIS WHOLE LIFE IS RUINED FOREVER AND HE WILL BE SCARRED FOR LIFE!!"

Depression - "I am such a crap mother, I can't cook to save myself, who am I, where am I, someone pour me a glass of woine, I'm having a moment..."

Acceptance and hope - "You know what! I think I can do it! Yes! It's working! Look everybody I AM KING OF ALL OF THE CAKES AND THE WHOLE WORLD AND EVERYTHING!!!!! SUCK THAT MARTHA STEWART!! BOOYAH!!"


Anyway, at some point during this whole rollercoaster of emotion I posted this pic on Instagram (yeah for social media!) and everyone said "Just glue that bitch together with icing, nobody will notice, ain't nobody got time for dat!" and so forth, so I didn't completely freak out til this morning when I realised we HAD NO ICING SUGAR.

"Duht duhht".

This slapdash gig sometimes comes at a price people.  My life is my art.

Anyway, before I had time to replicate my Bridezilla moment in the shower, Mum rushed off to the servo and came back with icing sugar out the whazoo, and I successfully glued the SHIT out of that broken heart until it looked like this.

Pheeeew!

Anyway after that I was exhausted and could have done with a lie down, but the show had to go on and actually we had a lovely time and Baby B was his usual chuckly self, so that's the main thing.

Ever had a cake fail? Ever saved a cake from the bin with mad icing skillz?  Had a broken heart?  Tell your old friend Slapsie...I won't judge.  Believe me.

The Slapdash Report: Election 2013 edition.

DISCLAIMER: This report is TOTALLY BIPARTISAN and APOLITICAL.

It's got bipartisan-ship and apolitical-ness-ism coming out the whazoo!!

SECOND DISCLAIMER: Some broad called Corinne Grant wrote this article in the Hoopla today, somewhat taking the wind out of my proverbial sails.  But I will carry on nobly, even though bitch stole my story.  I mean who is she anyway? Some nobody*.

Having this blog means that I can now live out my lifelong dream of becoming a famous and highly regarded election commentator and political analyst.  I've waited years to show up that cocky Antony Green character and now's my chance.  I don't know about you, but whenever he's on the telly, I have to fight back an overwhelming desire to shout things at him like "Would it KILL you to make a prediction Antony?! Take a risk!!!" and "Obviously the figures aren't in yet you dork!" and even "Damn your graphics to hell Antony why don't they EVER WORK!?!".

So move over dude, the Slapdash Report is here to tell it like it is.

I'm just going to apply my mad skillz at synopsis writing (as previously displayed here and here) to the cut and thrust of the political world, and make it accessible to the man on the street. Because there's a NICHE for this shizz, peeps, and I am exploiting it like there's no tomorrow. I'm taking my inspiration from everyone's favourite finance presenter Alan Kohler and his amusing graphs and chatty manner - he makes economics fun!  Oh clever me! No-one would ever have thought to write  and/or present an amusing synopsis of the week’s political events for the entertainment of others**. What a breath of fresh air I am.   That Walkley Award gets closer every day. 

So now for the weekly synopsis.

WARNING: This synopsis contains NOTHING MUCH.  Turns out I don't know anything about what the frig is going down policy wise. My bad. You'll just have to Google that shit this week.

• Tony Abbott didn't get the memo that Aboriginal people lived in Australia for a teensy while before Europeans turned up.

• Craig Thomson's faced court for a gazillion different fraud charges that all basically boil down to using the work credit card to pay for prossies and porn.  He denies it. Some peeps want him to resign from parliament.  He says hell no, he won't go.  To be continued...

• Nicola Roxon and Chris Evans, old stalwarts from Joolz' cabinet, have resigned.  High spirited scamp and renowned humourist Chris Pyne reckons it's starting to look like the last days of Hitler's government .  Nic and Chris say it's just that they are fucking tired of never seeing their kids.  Whatever.

• This has meant Joolz had to shuffle the cabinet around like a deck of cards (hey I bet nobody's used that analogy before!). 

• The latest poll showed the ALP are doing way worse than the last poll.  But then someone pointed out hardly anyone voted in the poll 'cos they were all battling fires and floods and famine and pestilence.  Make of that what you will.

• Federal Parliament had it's first sitting week of the year.  I know, how did you all miss that one!  I for one have been glued to the radio listening to Question Time like there's no tomorrow. I know how to enjoy myself.

• Some chancy buggers put a whole lot of bets on that the election would be called for September.  Wish I'd thought of it.  Nothing ever works out for me. Sob.

Some other shizz undoubtedly went down but I'm running out of steam so -  there's my first edition of the Slapdash Report aka the SPEED BLOGGER'S GUIDE TO POLITICS all finished.

Disappointed?  Enraged?  Feel it was lacking in depth and policy analysis? Me too!  I'll try harder next time.

Maybe.

*OK, I'm kidding.   Corinne Grant is obviously a super funny lady with plenty of political nous and a lot of cred.  And I am not.  Carry on.  Read her story though it is good.

**Editor’s note: Please don’t tell Sarah about the Daily Show, the Colbert Report, The Chaser, even that “brilliant” example of political satire “Pineapple Politics” in the Courier Mail, or actual excellent current affairs inspired blog The Tunnel Presents (or any other of the million examples of this genre).  She will totally lose it. And I’m a bit scared of her. Last week she threw her mobile phone at me when I told her there was an American blog already called “Slap Dash Mom”, and then she burst into hysterical tears until I placated her by firing some interns.  Let’s just keep this to ourselves, for my sake, please?

007 - Lady Date. Beach. Batshit crazy.

LANGUAGE WARNING.

I am feeling sweary.

Last night, being reluctantly torn from from my usual Saturday night activities (ie. watching Gardening Australia, folding washing, and going to bed early), I was forced out into the real world AFTER DARK.  Scary shit people.  I cant tell you how weird it feels when you are generally a shut in, only being released for solo nocturnal outings to ALDI or Woolies or some such place.  One of my dearest friends JJ (funky mother to three and arts worker extraordinaire) and I decided to throw caution to the wind and meet at that well-known artistic and cultural hub the Logan Hyperdome to view the latest James Bond film Skyfall.  Look, I'm not really a Bond devotee or anything but frankly anything that started at the right time of night (ie. NOT 9.30pm as that is hardcore past my bedtime) was fine with us, and I have always been partial to a bit of Daniel Craig ogling, so Bond it was.

The Hyperdome is about 20 mins from my place and 20 mins the other way from JJ's so it was perfect, but actually I'd never been to see a movie there before.  It was pumping baby!  The joint was jumping!  As JJ said, who knew!?  And why not, too....who wouldn't frequent a place that not only has a humongous cinema but also boasts a Sizzler's, a Gilhooleys pub and a Coffee Club amongst other things?  I don't BLAME them!   All you inner city snobs are missing out on all the action.  Anyway suffice to say it was the place to be and every man woman and child were there to see James Bond too.  Luckily it was in the most 'normous cinema ever known to humankind so that was fine.

I think the most exciting thing was seeing the trailer for Les Mis.  Oh. Em. Gee.  We were in ecstasy.  JJ reminisced about her youthful choral career and we both shed a little tear.  Hugh Jackman! Sacha Baron Cohen! Russell Crowe!  Heck yes. 

Skyfall was very entertaining of course in a camp sort of way.  Daniel Craig was looking a bit more haggard and weathered so less easy on the eye but I still felt fondly towards him.  Anyway there was sufficient bonking of Bond girls, car chases and blowing up of secret service buildings for even the most devoted of Bond aficionados, so all good there.  We had a blast.  We were totally Mums on the Run.  I pitied the people sitting next to us but not enough to stop our endless guffawing  and general chattering.  We have PRECIOUS FEW opportunities for this shizz people!

You can shake me OR stir me anytime, baby. [Source]

As a result I felt positively renewed today, like a new woman.  I felt kind and benevolent.

M had suggested we go on a family outing to the beach so I agreed, and after breakfast we packed up and set off for Currumbin where he thought there was a nice area for small fry to splash.  We had an ok time even though the bloody sun tent thing broke so I spent the whole morning sitting at a picnic table with B so his little bald head didn't get burnt to a crisp while M and P had a swim .

B and M.

P giving me cheek.

For someone who grew up on the Sunshine Coast and now lives on the Gold Coast I have me some deep seated ISSUES when it comes to the beach.  Issues I tell you.

As a teenager on the coast all the cool kids were surfie types and so I did the obligatory bleaching of hair and wearing of board shorts and bikini tops, as was the style at the time.  But as soon as I moved away to the Big Smoke for uni I died my hair pink, red, black, red, brown, black, blonde and brown -you name it -  developed a moon tan and generally stewed and became neurotic and weird.  And these days I am basically just down right phobic and scared of the beach.  I know.  Neurotic and weird, I hear you agree.  Neurotic and weird.

My phobic crazy beach disorder kind of goes like this.  Are you ready?

1.  I am pale, with a ruddy undertone to my skin, the sun burns the shit out of me if I walk outside to hang the washing out and if I spend the day in the sun then frankly I become pork crackling.  

This is me "sunbaking" on our honeymoon.  See? Moon tan.  Neurotic.  Weirdo.

2. I freaking hate the feeling of sand sticking to the sunscreen on your skin and I hate the feeling of putting clothes back on when you have sand and sunscreen and salt on your skin and it is all prickly and gross and URRURURURGHGHG I am FREAKING OUT JUST TYPING IT.  

3.  I hate public toilets at the beach, they never have toilet seats and the floor is always wet and sandy and God knows what and there's never hooks on the back of the door so your clothes get wet and OH GOD THE HORROR MY SKIN IS CRAWLING RIGHT NOW!  

4.  In a world that values hairless prepubescent female bodies I have been blessed with a thick pelt and that includes armpits, legs and the delicate BIKINI AREA and even my GODDAMN CHIN but that's another issue.  I am down with hairy armpits, I am all good, that's totally European and sexy and whatnot but I cannot come at hairy legs and so forth and frankly the upkeep to maintain a hair-free leg and pubical area is just too much for me and makes me want to have a good lie down right now.

5.  I am NOT THIN.

For so many reasons I endorse the Nigella burkini. [Source]

6.  I find the beach culture in Australia aggressive.  This was bad on the Sunshine Coast but oh fark it is worse on the Gold Coast.  Swaggering bronzed surfie types wearing thongs and no shirt, with their skinny girlfriends.  I feel like an alien near them.  Like they are so CONFIDENT and I can't help but feel like they have some SECRET KNOWLEDGE about being comfortable in your own skin even though you are a douchebag agro bogan and I can feel them all LOOKING AND JUDGING AND POINTING AND OH GOD THE HOOOOORRROOORR AGAIN (breathes into paper bag).

7.  SHARKS!!!!!!!!  My mum, who thinks I am an uptight wowser who should just chill out dude and go with the flow and calm the fuck down and enjoy myself, once tried to tell me there were no sharks in Hervey Bay/Woodgate Beach because it was protected by Fraser Island.  Nice try Mum, but I am pretty sure that is CYCLONES not SHARKS - I am ONTO YOU!!!!!!!

But I HATE MYSELF for being so ridiculous about the beach and always try and make myself go and end up practically on the floor of the car having a panic attack and shouting at my husband.

Our Argentinian neighbour M and her husband and kids spend every waking moment at the beach and they are brown as nuts.  When P was a baby and I was going slowly crazy as a loon, M used to say to me "Jost take herrrr to the beach!  All bebbies loff the beach!" and I wanted to scream, "Are you fucking out of your mind?! The beach with the sand and the sun and the waves and the bogans and the SHARKs and the OH MY GOD I AM LOSING MY SHIT AGAIN!!!!!!"

I decided today that it was all just stupid and even though the tent didn't work (M was screaming "WHY IS EVERYTHING ALWAYS SO HARD!!?? FUCKKKKKK!". I know! Out of character) I remained CALM and sat peacefully watching the little kids do their surf board riding lessons and thought to myself "If that bunch of tubby kids can be ok with the beach then dammit so can I".  

I am thinking maybe I need to take surfing lessons.  What doesn't kill you makes you stronger right?  Hmm.  I'll think about it.

Anyone else dislike the beach? Love it? Are you crazy as a motherfucker like me?

Dental bastardry. First world B.S.

I am deadset suspicious of dentists. I really do think they could tell you anything, and how do you know they are right? Like, one time, not long after moving to where we live now, I went to a new dentist, one closer and more convenient to my work in the city than my previous one. I got a recommendation from my boss at the time. I should have bloody well known he would be a dodgy fellow, because the aforementioned boss spent his whole LIFE at the dentist, forever shuffling his shambolic way back and forth from his office to the harbinger of dental doom. This was the same boss, who whilst being a very lovable and clever man, was also prone to sending round emails to us all warning about the lasers that were going to kill everyone when the earth changed polarity or something.  And is obviously also easy prey for Shylock-esque dentists.

I know, what was I thinking?

But I made an appointment anyway, and turned up, only to be told by Dr Death that my hitherto perfectly perfect pegs needed FIVE fillings! For an unholy amount of money. Still reeling from this news, he sent me in to see his minion (dental assistant) to have my teeth cleaned, which she did, all the while exclaiming " Five fillings! My goodness! How did you let THAT happen then, eh?" whilst I, rendered impotent by virtue of the instruments shoved in my gob, could merely maintain a dignified silence.

Being naturally untrusting, I made a second opinion appointment with my old dentist, where he told me I didn't need even a single one of those fillings. What a scam! This was more than five years ago but I am still SCARRED! The outrage.

Well if it isn't my old friend Mr McGreg, with a leg for an arm and an arm for a leg! [Source]

Last year I grudgingly went to see another dentist again, this time one down the road from us. I was heavily pregnant, and had sore wisdom teeth. This guy was nice but still put the fear of God into me and told me I had a number of cavities and needed my wisdom teeth out. Because my Extras cover only stretches so far, I told him to fill the worst two and leave the rest for next year, when my insurance would cover it again. He tut-tutted vociferously but was forced, against his will, to go along with my apparently hair-brained scheme and was washing his hands of me and the time bomb that is my snaggle-toothed mouth.

Anyway, last week I felt that enough time had elapsed, and since he had made such a jolly fuss about the bloody fillings I decided the time had come to revisit and get a couple more done.

I went in on Saturday and took P too, for her first checkup. I got two fillings, in my two front teeth. Appropriate really since we are inching ever closer to Christmas. It was the same guy as before. P was a very good girl, no toothy troubles for her.

Before I had my fillings done, the dentist said "So how come you are getting these two fillings done? They are very small holes. Were they hurting?"

What?! I thought. I wanted to say, hang on, the only reason I'm bloody getting them done is because YOU said to, lest my teeth explode and take down everyone around me!
But of course what I actually managed to get out was a strangled, "Nghg thug gug gurgle" as he'd already gone in for the kill, drills and needles akimbo.
At one point, I had to run mid-filling to the toilet with P, and got a glimpse at my mush in the mirror. Holy moly! Trout pout agogo.

 I looked like a disheveled Joan Rivers. If she had been inflated like a giant balloon. [Source]

Anyway I suppose ultimately that it's a good thing and will mean that my two front choppers won't suddenly implode or drop out of my head in the near future which I have to admit would not be a great look.

I was going to rant on and on about more self obsessed and fatuous first world woes but then I saw more on the news about Israel and Palestine and gave myself a metaphorical slap on the face. Harden up you soft Western, safe, pussy, pissweak whinger with a peaceful life and a house not in the middle of a warzone and with your children safe in their beds and no bombs blowing them to smithereens.