KerrieJean.com

Many women are lapping up my advice on how to get a workable Summer wardrobe together in difficult times. Just click on this thingo for a recap: Throw Everything Out!

Funny the way things work but that story prompted many equally fragile men to approach me for urgent counsel. Namely:

KJ, DO YOU HAVE A POSITION ON SPEEDOS?

Well, they lucked in because I most certainly do have a position on Speedos and it’s unequivocal!

From my understanding, Speedos were developed in the Sixties as a Cold War weapon. And Speedos did halt the juggernaut that was the Eastern Bloc’s grip on the pool during the Olympics of that period. So, I am in no doubt that the development (and rapid deployment) of Speedos remains Australia’s greatest contribution to the Cold War effort. However, it was never, ever intended that Speedos be employed during times of peace.

But still, millions of men in Speedos continue to disport themselves on beaches and at municipal swimming pool complexes, worldwide. Two words spring to mind: Unneccessary and Inappropriate. Indeed, it’s as if the very ideals of so-called Civil Societies, are being mocked.

Twister Olympics ! credit:0595, flickr

Subsequently, I have found that appealing to a Speedo disporter’s ‘higher values’ is useless, if not counterproductive. Instead, I have come to the conclusion that cold, hard facts are the way to go. Here goes:

***A woman may like, even go nuts over, a beautiful antique clock but that does not mean she’s automatically interested in its works.

***A Speedo disporter, even sub-consciously, is desperately trying to advertise virility. Tragically, he could be blissfully unaware he’s a case before the Unfair Claims Tribunal, just waiting to happen.

***A Speedo disporter on a first date, is beyond help. A dear, nervy friend of mine was over-the-moon when a fairly presentable chap asked her to join him for an afternoon on the beach. All was going well until he stripped down – to Speedos. I felt like I was suddenly meeting someone’s friend I’d heard and thought a lot about, but wasn’t quite ready shake hands, she reported.

Final thing: I abhor the term, Budgie Smugglers. Budgie Smugglers is no quaint piece of vernacular. Quite the opposite. The continued use of Budgie Smugglers only serves to reinforce the view of the Speedo disporter that what he is doing is terrific. Very, very sad.

KJ would love to hear about your position on Speedos – it’s a debate we must have, even though the possibilities for upset, are many.

How to exercise your Democratic Right:

Just click on the ‘comment’ thingo and follow the simple instructions. The place when you write your gems is at the bottom of the last published comment. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper. Your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address does NOT come up on site. And you just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!

High-level NY talks vigorous : Kevin - Photo by Emmaline via flickr

Gee, the fellas at the famous Parkes Telescope are good to me!

And, they’ve come good again. The fellas have again been hard at work, intercepting this text overnight. And guess whose inbox was all the better for it?

Here goes:

Dear Therese,

First things first…….I swear black and blue, I haven’t been near any pole dancing clubs.  Watertight on that front. I said to my security boys: If I’ve had one too many and want to kick on, just pull out those emergency restraints we use at community cabinet meetings and use ‘em!

In the meantime, everyone here is so damn busy. To tell you the truth, a bad hair day for Julia would be more likely than me getting calls returned.

Still, I’ve had a bit of luck. One of my security boys, Wayne, said that his brother-in-law, Johnnie, has an expat mate,  Wazza, (a real whizz kid),  who’s working on the floor at Goldman Sachs.  We moved fast.

So, had a working lunch with Wazza today.

He filled me in.

Wazza: Look Kevin, it’s all rooted. Let me put it this way: Do you like Glen Campbell?

I said: Well Wazza, I like Glen Campbell, but Therese LOVES the man.

Wazza: Well, let me put it this way Kevin: You’d be flat out getting an appointment with the Mayor of Galveston right now!

So Therese, I’m afraid my ideas on recycling probably won’t get a look-in, this trip.  Just quietly,  I could have stayed at home, googling Wall Street like everyone else.

Love, Kev.

******** How to exercise your democratic rights by responding to any of Kerrie Jean’s musings.

Just click on the ‘comments’ thingo (just down there to the right) and follow the simple instructions. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper.  Do put in a name. Do put in your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address. It does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!

Now, people don’t generally think that I’m one for having tickets on myself BUT it is widely accepted that I’m reasonably well turned out. So it is – at season’s change – I’m continually approached by emotionally fragile women of a certain age desperate for fashion advice.

And some have gotten themselves very worked up!

Just who are those dresses in the shop for: Finger puppets?

Or:

I tried to tie up my favourite Hawaiian sarong last night and promptly burst into tears! How come it worked very well as a back-up tablecloth for a 16-person setting over Winter but now, it doesn’t even cover my bum?

Now, my first piece of counsel is: No panic! Trust me, I’m not going to advise gym membership, a no fun no trans fat regimen or even a gentle daily walk to the shops. I am well aware that the source of your pain is centred on retail activities so why would I do that?

Here’s the real deal:

Before you go shopping for your Summer of 2008 wardrobe, you MUST reject the cliches surrounding the ageing body. For example, how many times have you heard (yawn) that everything heads south?

Not true: the reality is that everything heads everywhere all at once. It’s very likely that your bum is right now heading south-south-east-west, your stomach, east-south-west-south and your boobs, east-west, east-west-south-south-south-south. The only certainty is that the compass of your body is not pointing north.

I repeat: NO diets, NO lifestyle changes. To put yourself under even more pressure when you’ve already been brought so low, would be pure folly.

Instead, do all of this NOW:

* Throw out all of last Summer’s clothes. Accept that they are lost to your body, forever.

* Try out ‘new’ combos. Eg: In 2006, I tried out the long distance truckie look – short shorts with a huge top. This clever combo not only diverted critical eyes from problem areas, it gave me a great opportunity to work hard on my social skills, my personality – without sexual tension ever getting in the way.

* Don’t go anywhere near cossies. Go to the beach fully clothed. Ask an approachable, fun-loving; kind young man to suddenly dash out of the crowd, pick you up and throw you into the surf. Feign surprise. Have a nice swim.

Your new beach look! credit: jhull's, Flickr

* Don’t appeal to young shop assistants (usually finger puppets) to be really, really honest about how a garment looks. People with the rest of their lives to look forward to can be overbearing, too straighforward. To be told it’s one size fits all but it doesn’t fit you will provoke strong emotions at a time when you’re already very, very nervy.

Note: KJ is poised, ready to give advice on anything to do with apparel.

******** How to exercise your democratic rights by responding to any of Kerrie Jean’s musings.

Just click on the ‘comments’ thingo (just down there to the right) and follow the simple instructions. *A little bit of counsel for people new to this caper.  Do put in a name. Do put in your email (just called ‘mail’ in this case) address. It does NOT come up on site. And just ignore the ‘website’ space – not necessary!

The news that Leeton will tomorrow battle it out against Ganmain-Grong Grong-Matong in the Riverina Australian Rules Football League Grand Final, fills me with troublesome emotions. . Of course, I pray Leeton wipes out the boys from a widespread, woefully drought affected, close-knit, struggling farming community. On the other hand, the memories of another Grand Final day in 1963, threaten to overwhelm me.

Before 1963 grand final credit: Sister72, Flickr

The Ross family (five lovely girls and Hec and Gwennie) lived, ate and dry-retched footy. Hec was the President of The Leeton Redlegs, the Mighty Demons Australian Rules Football Club. And In 1963, the Mighty Demons had risen above a record-breaking caseload of shockingly dehabilitating groin injuries to scrape into the Grand Final.

Gwennie was always very creative. But, in the week leading up to the Grand Final, this mid-career cake decorating artist, suddenly switched mediums! Our carport resembled the Sydney Mardi Gras’ float storage warehouse. I’m going to do the car, Gwennie said. And, at 6am on Grand Final morning, it was indeed very clear that, yes, Gwennie had done the car.

The car – EK Holden registration number CLU295 – was rendered a forward attack vehicle. Massive cardboard demons with pitchforks festooned every inch of it. Their grotesque faces had words coming from their mouths: Bulldogs Desexed Today!, Watch The Bulldogs Dribble!, Bulldogs Put Down!….

The meanest Mighty Demon posed huge logistical problems. He came in at just under five-metres and was somehow attached to CLU295’s roof. There was even very intense talk among neighbours that an articulated vehicle from a local haulage company may have be brought in to transport our car to grand final headquarters, the magnificent sports ground at Narrandera.

Hec would have none of it! If a man can’t drive his family to the footy, that man is a dill Get in!

Now, Narrandera is 25kms from Leeton. Hec’s game plan was to stay on the gravel and take it easy.

To say that Gwennie’s work immediately struck a chord deep within people, would be an understatement. As Hec battled to keep CLU295 on the gravel, hundreds of Mighty Demons’ supporters roared past, blowing horns and yelling: You Bloody Beauty!

After 1963 grand final

On the other hand, It is said that within cars transporting Grand Final players, silence fell. It was just too dangerous to get worked up. Because of that shocking litany of groin injuries, many of players were up to their eyeballs in Bex powders. Club strappers had also been hard at work overnight. Trusted insiders reported that their phenomenal ‘groin bandage work’ in combo with the application of handfuls of Deep Heat cream was extraordinarily painful to watch, but necessary.

Meanwhile at the Narrandera sports ground, word had spread that something colossal was on its way. I know nothing of the negotiations that took place but when we did arrive, a parking man in a white coat said: You have permission to do a lap around the ground. Just stay outside that bloody boundary line, hear me!

And so, we did that lap. To a mixed reaction. While the Mighty Demon’s camp made the rapture witnessed at charismatic churches look lame, ugly Bulldogs’ supporters willingly participated in the greatest mass demonstration of five fingered gestures and fifthy language, ever recorded anywhere in the world.

On Grand Final Day, 1963, The Mighty Demons got flogged.

Under Gwennie’s instructions, we’d started dismantling CLU295 mid-way through the second quarter. But, it was slow going. Because of the amount of adhesive material used in the installation, it was intricate work.

Hec eventually came back to the car. So mad with grief, he didn’t know what he was doing. Enough to say that we got next to nought for CLU295 at trade-in time because of the state of the ducco.

After that day, Gwennie became very quiet. Neighbours, who always described her as a very deep thinker, said she was going into herself. We all worried. That was until mid-December when Gwennie announced plans for her massive cardboard backyard nativity scene. With a big sign right on top of it saying: Good One Joseph!

Note: In an efort to save country football, the Mighty Demons were eventually amalgamated with our old arch enemy, the Whitton Tigers. So it is, the Leeton-Whitton Crows which play Ganmain-Grong Grong-Matong, tomorrow.

Post match report. What a brave town! Click on this: Hot Story From Leeton Irrigator

 

Coot Power! credit Reuters

The imminent collapse of global capitalism is causing great angst in the workplaces of Australia. Suddenly, it’s become clear that The Old Coot (three desks along) who swore black and blue he’d be retiring at Christmas, is going nowhere!

For years, The Old Coot has been boring colleagues shitless with tales of his very good super. And The Old Coot does no work. Instead, The Old Coot spends 38 hours on his super fund’s site, tapping into the on-line retirement benefit’s calculator. The Old Coot knows the unit price of Aloe Vera Inc in Pago Pago; he is quick to pass on floor trade figures from the Paprika Exchange in New Mexico.

But now, the Paprika Exchange is comin’ down and, it appears, it’s taking The Old Coot with it!

So, it was a subdued Old Coot that yesterday (in intimate one-to-one exchanges) broke the news that his super had taken a real hit and, with the way things are going, God knows where it’ll end up!

ONE’S THINGS FOR SURE, THOUGH, THERE’S NO WAY I CAN RETIRE THIS YEAR……THE TRUTH IS, IF ALDI HADN’T SET UP HERE, ME AND TRISH WOULD BE IN REAL TROUBLE.

The news that The Old Coot is staying on, sucks morale.

Everyone knows the reality: The Old Coot is well-placed, to say the least. Over the years, The Old Coot (again, in intimate one-to-one exchanges) has reported every significant event in his pecuniary history.

Some highlights:

1966: The Old Coot, who’d never shell out good money on motels, bought a rundown holiday shack at Pearl Beach for 457 quid. Current value: $4.7 mill.

1971: The Old Coot purchased the house of a dear neighbour suffering from Alzheimer’s for $3,567. The old lady’s family tried to have the sale nullified in court. The Old Coot won the case and that property is currently valued at $2.4 mill.

1989: Death of The Old Coot’s parents within six months of each other. The Old Coot’s father had done pretty well when he sold his medium size prosthetic limb factory on a very nice packet of suburban land when he retired in 1988. Being an only child, The Old Coot cleaned up. The proceeds from Dot and Bill’s estate came in at $3.45 mill.

1997: The death of The Old Coot’s first wife, Joy. Joy was never that good with money but she had a bit put aside from the estate of her only relative, Pat. Pat never married. Unlike Joy, Pat knew the value of a bob. Pat took every shift that came her way in the same small arms factory for 52 years. When Joy died, The Old Coot got Pat’s very handy legacy. Remarkable thing, that compound interest. Total: $834,000.

And so, it sinks in: The Old Coot is going nowhere!

Office life gets back to normal.

Only today (in yet another of those intimate one-to-one financial talks) an animated Old Coot reported he’d cancelled his long term sponsorship of a young’en in Africa. Apparently, there’s far, far better implications for tax if he moves his charitable activities back onshore.

I really didn’t want to waste my time getting in on this no-brainer but since my story When Dogs Knew Their Place many people have approached me demanding to talk about THEIR CAT.

credit: son of robert's, Flickr

So, I say, tell me about This Cat. This Cat which surprises you daily. This Cat which walked into your life and blessed it. This Cat, whose peccadillos, never cease to delight.

But KJ, what is it that you specifically want to know about This Cat?

I tell Cat Person that I seek nothing more than to hear interesting bits and pieces. Eg:

Has This Cat ever foiled a home invasion?

Has This Cat ever rescued a kiddie down a well?

Do right-thinking people hold grudges against This Cat because of a shocking litany of repugnant acts?

Is This Cat the street’s best-known n’er-do-well?

I get nought: only lame stories of This Cat loving herring, This Cat being the spitting image of the cat next door or This Cat providing endless succour as he writhes on the loungeroom carpet for up to 18 hours a day.

My conclusion? This Cat is representative of That Cat and Those Cats – and they too have very little to offer.

On the other hand, dogs have nothing to prove. Their record stands. I’ll leave you with these questions?

Will This Cat ever be on The Tuckerbox?

Would This Cat ever have run messages at Gallipoli?

Could This Cat ever be trained as a seeing-eye aid?

Can you ever see This Cat ever sniffing out suspect luggage at our vulnerable international gateways?

Has This Cat ever had a bowl of grits by campfire after a gruelling day droving?

End of Debate. KJ