On being a bad sport. Part 1.

I have many faults.

As well as being prone to jealousy, whininess, envy, laziness, anger, impatience, dissatisfaction, coveting my neighbours ass and worshiping idols, I am also a really fucking bad sport and have limited ability to regulate my emotions in public.

Over the years there have been a myriad of opportunities for me to demonstrate my epically bad sportsmanship, going right back to my primary school days.

I am just lucky enough to be someone who was gifted with the happy combination of moderate ability in a variety of things, laziness, with vague competitiveness and a sense of entitlement thrown in for good measure.

I am such a catch.  People want to be me, people want to be like me.  Who wouldn't*?

Anyway this combination of enjoyable characteristics has resulted in some fairly epic examples of John McEnroe like behaviour. But like, without the John McEnroe skills to back it up. So, just the bad behaviour. Ugh.

Many of them have become family legend. As you can imagine it brings me NO END OF PLEASURE to hear my parents/much older cousins/aunts and uncles regale family gatherings with tales of my tantruming. NO END OF PLEASURE.

Keep it up guys it isn't getting old YET! YEAH! GIVE ME MORE. I MEAN YOU'VE ONLY BEEN DINING OUT ON THEM FOR ABOUT 20 YEARS BUT WHATEVER**.

Since they all get so much pleasure going on about it I thought I would re-appropriate the stories for the blog. A series of blog posts to be precise. Since they are about me. I may as well try and cash in on them, dudes. It will probably segue nicely into a follow up series of posts on "Taking criticism badly" and "Sulking". Because I do those things too.

Part 1 - Murder on the netball court.

So, back in the day, I used to be quite a whizz on the netball court. When I say whizz, I mean, I could catch and throw a ball and didn't fall over. Much. Couldn't shoot goals or play defence though. That is not at all important in netball though***.

I couldn't find any photos of me at netty so here's some of me circa 1991/2 just being revoltingly precocious anyway. Ugh.

Just acting up a storm for the FANS whilst wearing a ra ra skirt and white moon boots, you gotta problem with dat?

Just banging out a tune on the keyboard for an adoring crowd whilst wearing a white frock and scarlet sash WHAT OF IT?

Just reading Roald Dahl at a family picnic while wearing overalls, a straw hat and a self-satisfied smirk, SO SUE ME!

It came to pass, long ago, that shifting netball club committee politics resulted in my very own parents becoming President, Treasurer, Secretary, Registrar, fundraising coordinators, just basically ALL OF THE POSITIONS. Which included Dad becoming coach of my VERY OWN TEAM. Because of how he is an expert in all the rules and ins and outs of netball and played it for years himself back in the old country****.

You can imagine how AWESOME this was. I loved it sick*****. I especially loved it when Coach Dad would single me out on the court and yell detailed instructions at me during the games, arms gesticulating wildly. Oh how I loved it. And I loved the way it drew UNNECESSARY ATTENTION my way, from the members of the other team. Oh yes I LOVED IT.

One particular Saturday morning we were battling it out on the court with some tough opposition. I was sweaty and grumpy. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad waving his arms at me and yelling . He was waving and pointing and instructing. And waving and instructing. And probably coaching too.

I tried to ignore it but it was tough. Sporty Coach Dad was nothing if not persistent. He waved at me a bit more to get me to move over or try harder or run faster or something.

At that moment something in my 11 year old mind snapped and reader, I saw red.  I abandoned my post at Wing Attack and came hurtling over to the sideline where Dad was waving at me, the eyes of both teams on me. I screeched to a halt and shouted, enraged;

"Shut UP DAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDD!!! BLAAARGGHHHHHHH! SNARGGGLLLYYY BLLAAAGGGHH".

I screamed hysterically at him while the crowd looked on in shocked silence.

When I had finished my tirade, I did the worst thing my eleven year old mind could think of.

I did the finger. With both hands. I waved them in his face, ranting incoherently, and then ran screaming from the court into the carpark.

Here is an artist's impression of the alleged incident.

My main memory was the look of bemusement on Dad's face as I turned and fled.  I think he was quite enjoying it. Was this the reaction he had been trying for all along? Who can say.

I can't remember what happened next. I was probably shepherded home and a cloud probably hung over my name for a while, netball wise.

Still, if this, and other similar incidents hadn't occurred, then basically my family and friends would never have anything to talk about ever because APPARENTLY THIS IS A DINNER PARTY STORY THAT JUST KEEPS ON GIVING NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU TELL IT!

So there you have it. Part 1 in a series of MANY MANY instalments where I demonstrate my poor emotional regulation, bad temper and extremely low levels of sportsmanship.

You can thank me later.



*Me. I wouldn't. Actually.
** Ugh.
***It is actually. Kind of the whole point of the game but whatever.
***NOT! That was rugby you fools not netball. Ugh.
*****No I didn't, DUR you guys

The one where mum fills in for me because I am busy and have come up against OBSTACLES.

Mum's written another guest post.
LUCKY because my brand new computer has DIED. DIED I TELL YOU!

Making it once again nearly impossible to get a moment alone with the computer in the study for some one on one action. If you know what I mean.

So excuse me while I go and throw the laptop out the window and kick some kittens...

Hello again, delightful followers of my equally delightful daughter’s blog. Thought you might like an update from the “family compound” as Sarah likes to call it.

Recently I had P over for her first parent-free sleepover. It involved a round-trip to the Gold Coast to pick her up and likewise to take her home but was well worth it for the pleasure of having her all to myself for a little while.

Actually, it took a little courage to take this step. P, although truly the most adorable little girl imaginable, is full on.  You may have gathered this from her Mummy’s blog. She is the Eveready Bunny. She never stops.  And this full-on-ness extends to her sleeping.

Whenever the family is staying at my place, P always sleeps on a mattress in my room, thus giving us the opportunity for cosy Nanny-P time and providing a little respite for the sleep-deprived parents. The mattress is made up with beautiful lavender sheets and doona (P’s most favourite colour). We have all the usual bed-time ritual of story, song and cuddles and she mostly settles down pretty easily.

Well, I say “settles down”. That really isn’t the term to describe P’s sleep. As an experienced Mum, Nanny and wise old crone, I’ve seen a few sleeping children in my time but never, ever, anything to match the wild restlessness that little girl exhibits whilst apparently fast asleep. She thrashes, she yells, she bangs on the wall, she wails, she gets her head out on the floor and her legs up the wall, she burrows head-first under the covers with her bum on the pillow. You may recall she managed to give herself a black eye in her sleep a while back. For anyone who’s seen her in action, that’s easy to believe.

On one visit, exhausted after a day with two little kids, I lay awake till about 4 AM while P went through her gymnastics, shouting and crying, falling out of bed and banging on the wall. At about 4, something changed and she went still and quiet, so of course I finally fell deep asleep. Only to be woken at about 5 AM by P’s indignant voice: “Nanny! Beanie (this is her bed-time doll) can’t sleep from your snoring!” And with that, the day began.

So it was with a bit of trepidation that I undertook this solo mission. However, in the event, all went incredibly well. For a start, P’s beloved cousin A was staying with her grandparents, my brother and sister-in-law, on the same weekend. They live only a few minutes’ drive from my place – a sort of outlier to the family compound. So, on our return from the Gold Coast I drove straight to their place and was then able to sit and chat to my gorgeous niece while the two little girls played dress-ups with my sister-in-law’s clothes and accessories. Peace and harmony reigned.

Later I was entertained by a lively disagreement between the two little girls as to the correct title for my sister-in-law (remember Slapdash Great-Aunt?)

“She’s my Nanna,” insisted A, who can be quite adamant in her opinions.

“She’s my Aunty L,” replied P, whose opinions are also firmly held.

“No, she’s my Nanna!” etc.

This continued for a while until I saw storm-clouds about to burst and tried to calm things down. “Well, you see, A, your Nanna can be P’s Aunty L too. That’s how it works. “

Well, A wasn’t having that. “SHE’S MY NANNA!!!” she yelled in outrage.

“Oh, A,” said P with icy sarcasm. “So, I don’t have any aunties? You have to learn to share your aunties, A!”  Which A promptly agreed to do. Peace again.

Later we took the littlies to the beach where they had a fat old time frolicking in the chilly and rather murky water. Is there anything happier than a kid at the beach? Then back to Slapdash-Great-Aunt and Uncle’s for a hot bath and tea, so that all I had to do was drive P to my place and pour her exhausted little bones into the lavender bed, where – miracle of miracles – she slept quietly and peacefully till 6AM the next morning. Yes!

Ed: Obviously I inherited my mother's EXPERT PHOTOGRAPHY SKILLZZZ

Saturday dawned grey and wet so the early part of the day was spent companionably watching ABC4Kids … ah, I mean, doing craft activities and practising the oboe, Slapdash Mama! Later, Grandpa G came over and took P for a babycino, a clear advantage of the family compound set-up. I didn’t even need to provide lunch as morning tea had evidently been substantial to say the least.

It was time to take the little visitor home. P chattered all the way home about how much she was looking forward to seeing Mummy and Daddy and Mummy and B and Mummy but, of course, was off-hand and lacklustre in her greeting when we finally got there, wounding her poor mother’s tender heart. Dammit!

Anyway, apart from that glitch the sleepover was a success and I’ll certainly do it again some time soon. Maybe for two nights!

 Thanks Mum.

I think you need your own blog! Blogging is the new black don't you know.

On taking things seriously.

Happy Easter everyone! I hope you all had a great time. It seems like all the people I follow on Twitter are hardcore atheists all decrying Easter as some sort of festival of the zombie apocalypse. And chocolate.

Novel.

The kids and I go regularly to our local Anglican church, so naturally celebrate Easter as, you know, well, Easter. And chocolate.

But whatever floats your boat is ok with me. I know others don't feel this way but there you have it.

Live and let live people!

Anyway, on a not completely unrelated point, I was watching "Miranda" on ABC1 last night, after Call the Midwife. Oh lordie. Sunday night TV viewing has come into its own again.  I love Miranda SICK.  Just in case you don't know what I am talking about here is a You Tube clip I found...




This clip is kind of like a physical representation of what I am trying to tell you in this blog post. 

The older I get the less capable I seem to be of taking shit seriously. I mean, it is starting to WORRY ME!!

I work in what can only be described as an Ancient and Venerable Institution that is Very Important and Serious and Important in its Serious Ancientness.  I don't talk about it here because I don't want to lose said job.  But I will say this.

I find it hard to take shit seriously. The older I get the less respect I have for authority. There is something particular that happens to me when I am confronted with Earnest Serious Suit-Wearing Important Serious people, particularly at work, like in the lift or something. As they frown to themselves, stroke their ties or fondle their Ipads, I have to resist the MOST OVERWHELMING TEMPTATION to tell them a knock-knock joke, rub their belly for good luck, give them a noogie on their bald heads or make farting noises with my armpit whilst simultaneously commenting "How about those BRONCOS, eh!?" or "Did you watch Game of Thrones last night! Phwoooaaarrr!".

Don't panic people because I do generally maintain a façade of respectability and refrain from doing these things but OMG! THE TEMPTATION!

Back in the day I used to worry so much about the IMPORTANT SERIOUS NATURE OF MY WORK that I would sometimes sob in the toilets from stress and anxiety.  I was the MOST diligent student at school, and lived in constant fear of getting in trouble from the teacher, constant fear of not getting into uni because that would be LIFE OVER PEOPLE, constant fear of THE PEOPLE AND WHAT THEY THOUGHT OMG THEY HATE MEEEE and so forth.

Now I'm worried I've gone so far the other way that before you know it I will be putting whoopee cushions on people's seats and giving presentations in the form of Interprative Dance. 

Am I the only one this has happened too? Anyone else tempted to give your boss a wedgie in the lift and then run away giggling? Are you overly familiar with your superiors at work like me? I don't know what I'm going to do next. Think of me tomorrow. I will be sniggering in my office like a teenage boy who just dacked their mate in the playground, trying to resist the urge to tickle one of the suit-wearers until he farts.


DISCLAIMER: PEOPLE FROM WORK WHO READ THIS BLOG, PLEASE NOTE I AM ACTUALLY A REALLY SERIOUS FUCKING SMART AND HARD WORKING DILIGENT BLOODY EMPLOYEE AND I TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW

DON'T WORRY!!!

Phewwww...hopefully that's covered it nicely.

Have fun at work tomorrow, readers! You know I do!