KerrieJean.com

Note: Technicians were expecting REM wave patterns – what they got was text-driven. They report that they’d never tracked a person talking so much, so stridently in their sleep.

Report issued by Parkes Telescope Control.

Dateline: Parkes, NSW.

6:01am

SEPT 16

2008

12:01 am: The Lodge, The Lodge, The Lodge, hit me with The Lodge, Mal wants Lodge, Oh Baby Give Mal Lodge……

2:04 am: Commonwealth One, Commonwealth One, Com Car One, hit me with Com Car One, Mal wants Com Car One, Oh Baby Give Mal Com Car One…..

2:56 am: Kirribilli, Kirribilli, Kirribilli, hit me with Kirribilli, Mal wants Kirribilli, Oh Baby Give Mal Kirribilli….

3:45 am: RAAF One, RAAF One, RAAF One, hit me with RAAF One, Mal wants RAAF One, Oh Baby Give Mal RAAF One…….

4:56 am: Vice-Pres Sarah P, Vice-Pres Sarah P, Vice-Pres Sarah P, PM Mal wants Vice-Pres Sarah P, Oh Baby Give PM Mal Vice-Pres Sarah P……

5:07 am: Bren, Bren, Bren, Bren, Bren, BREN, BREN, BREN, I’M GONNA WASTE BRENDON!!!!!!! 

And that’s where the fellas at The Dish told me all links to Mal’s chamber went down.

KJ Predicts:

+ Mal will walk it in today.

+ Kevin will say: Bring It On Mal but, behind the scenes, he’ll be very nervy indeed.

+ History will record that Bren’s last official act as Opposition Leader was brandishing a Cole’s homebrand can of baked beans and a jar of strawberry jam in Federal Parliament yelling This is the lot of the very people who we should be thanking for their tireless work on the Snowy Mountains Scheme!

*I note, with mounting concern, the increasing reports of ‘up themselves’ parents hothousing children.

Hothousing, of course, refers to children having schedules more appropriate for US presidential candidates. It is now common for a typical day to start with juvenile Esperanto lessons, followed by highly competitive spelling bees conducted in Welsh, and then along to talent spotting trials for the London Olympics pole vaulting squad….and all this, well before school.

Despite constant warnings from concerned psychologists, parents (particularly working ones struggling on the newly determined poverty line of 150,000 dollars per annum) show NO signs of letting up.

Like so many childless-by-spot on-choice women, I do sometimes have to talk to children. So, I oblige. The conservations go like this:

Piss Off! credit: S Baker

So, what did you do at school today?

Don’t speak down to me, old lady. That’s just sooooo cliched. Didn’t you realise that I’m horribly gifted?

Or……..

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Well, wrinkle face, I don’t dream about doing anything! I WILL do a combined Law -International Relations-Sustainability degree and then immediately have a stellar career in the Diplomatic Corps. I will then become Australia’s first ever Green Prime Minister……..now, push off Wrinkle Face….

I tell myself: this is repugnant behaviour but then, memories of my own hothousing kick in. I remind myself that I did not turn out obnoxious: quite the opposite. I have spent the best part of my life trying to justify my existence.

At our place in Leeton, the tools for hothousing cost nought. To be exact: 1 cocky, gratis. 1 cocky cage, neighbourly gift.

So, Hec (Dad) well knew he had five girls to hothouse with very few resources. He used the cocky in the cage technique on all of them, to stunning effect. Hec believed that language skills were at the basis of all academic success and his cocky in the cage methodology was a clever mix of commonsense and ‘interactive’ learning, well before that word was even thought of in educational circles.

So, how did it work….this cocky in the cage hothousing technique?

Well, Cocky lived in his moderately sized cage on an old anodised table right near our back door. As the young Ross girls went outside, Cocky R would hit us with his ‘latest’ language skills. It could be piss off, it could be go to buggery, it could be shit for brains…….

The breadth was amazing and we – with our malleable, fast-developing brains – quickly assimilated, then repeated, then retained what Cocky R said.

Best of all, we were having fun while being hothoused. So much fun, we were unaware of it. In reality, we were so language-gifted, we all had the vocabulary of a 46-year-old wharfie by age three.

As I’ve said, it was Hec who perfected the cocky in a cage hothousing technique. Sadly, he is no longer around to pass on his cocky training regimen.

But, as a gifted 18-month-old observing Hec undertake his daily 26-minute language training session with Cocky R, this I gleaned:

** Hec believed that the small cerebral capacities of cockies meant that a quick turnover of language to hothouse his children could only be achieved if he was ruthlesly ambitious. He was well-aware that cockies can only retain ONE word or phase at a time.

** Hec knew that he had to not only repeat the new, ‘replacement’ word or phrase at least 123,897 times for Cocky R to ‘take them on’, he also had to eyeball him in training sessions. And Hec knew that if Cocky R looked away first, he would not retain the new words. Much hard work would be lost.

** And perhaps most crucially, Hec kept away from all words ending or beginning with ‘T’. Hec was well aware that Cocky R’s lack of definition in the neck region lead to an evolutionary inability to contract his ‘vocal’ muscles on hard ‘T’ sounds.

Hec would be proud that I’ve waded into the hothousing debate with practical solutions.

His Cocky Hothouse Training Methodology could solve a lot of contemporary problems.

For starters, NO time-consuming trips to a myriad of sports events and workshops, no costs except very minimal ’startups’ AND…..you get lots of Me- And- Cocky -Time away from the kids.

On the other hand, you’ll squeal with delight as you see their language skills go through the roof as they joyously run outside early to see what Cocky’s got to teach them today!

Currently, there’re lots of hysterial purchases being made of backyard water tanks.

Will you not (for the sake of the children in the longterm) consider getting a cocky and a cage, instead?

I fear I am the first self-reported case of a self-named new eating disorder: semi-conscious eating.

It’s been happening for weeks now but, because of deep feelings of shame and a grocery bill generating quite strong sensations of self-loathing and dread, I have been unable to talk about it.

Conscious eating still popular credit: Randy Son Of Robert

So, why now? Simple. Because, with temperatures rising, I tried on a couple of my favourite Summer skirts yesterday only to find out I’d be flat out using them as belts in my current bloated condition.

I’m also speaking out because I suspect there may be millions of other people out there afflicted by semi-conscious eating who cannot speak for themselves, so stuffed are they.

So, how does it work, this semi-conscious eating?

Well, this morning was typical.

I awoke early. I’d like to tell you that my rested body was covered in small flowers a la Lady Chatterley’s Lover, but that would be a lie.

Instead, my sweaty self had millions of corn chip fragments stuck to it. Some had pierced my skin, causing small but painful fissures. My bed was full of corn chips and there was a 2500 gram empty packet (obviously scrunched up in a moment of fury) on my pillow.

Small, fractured glimpses filtered through of my overnight activities. I know I got up for my usual ablutions. I know I completed these safely…..and I know I came back to bed. However, there are a few critical missing moments. And I do have a fleeting image of the cupboard, the corn chip packet, my hand…..and then nought.

I can only surmise, by the state of things this morning and my previously inexplicable weight gain of 17 kilos in a slightly less than a month, that I took the corn chips back to bed and ate them semi-consciously.

I have no idea what to do. I Googled semi-conscious eating and it threw up nothing.

I feel desperately alone and so would be thrilled to hear from anyone else who is battling semi-conscious eating.

In the meantime, I am urgently addressing a host of safety issues. My first act was to decommission the stove and remove the microwave.

It was a race against time.

Enough to say that for me to unconsciously cook – and bring back to bed to unconsciously eat – my all-time favourite, Flaming Bombe Alaska, could be fatal.

KJ had always dreamed that this site would be a forum for ideas and vigorous debate, reflecting the ethos of its host, ABC Radio National.

It is with pride, then, that I introduce you to The Prof, from the Institute Of Advanced Studies. The Prof had been denied the right to present these views in what he hoped would have been a two-hemisphere speaking tour (with signer).

In Praise of Conjugal Rights, or Why a Little More Kant could Save Your Marriage.

Marriage is a contract between two people for the mutual use of the sex organs declared the German philosopher Immanuel Kant more than 200 years ago.

Kant himself was a confirmed bachelor, and we know little of what use he made of his sex organs, let alone anyone else’s.

His definition of marriage has been ridiculed ever since. But here at the Institute for Advanced Studies, we think it has a lot to recommend it.

The Institute conducts regular in-depth focus groups on pressing social issues employing a world’s-best-practice research methodology, viz: get a bunch of punters together, fill them up with the electric soup and set them loose on a subject.

It will come as no surprise that if the punters are around the fifty mark, sex is a top of mind issue – or bottom of drawer, depending on gender.

Take any group of chaps with those greying temples which, according to Raymond Chandler, women find irresistible. Engage them in conversation around the BBQ while you scorch a sausage or two.

You will soon discover a distressing truth: they are not getting the sort of access to their beloveds’ organs which they would wish.

Raymond Chandler was a fine writer, but he knew more of scotch-and-rye and speak-easies than he did of love. Greying temples are no guarantee of action in the conjugal cot.

Let us leave the chaps to their beer for a moment, and move inside. Their female partners – how we at the Institute hate that word – are deep in conversation over beakers of booze. Amidst the discussion of hot flushes, cold feet and whether or not Thailand or Laos is better for Botox, certain common themes emerge:

At my age you just become invisible to men : when I walk down the street the heads don’t turn anymore: this is the age when men all have affairs with someone from Marketing.

The Institute has only one thing to say.

Girls, get over it!

You are not invisible to the moderately grizzled man who shares your bed.

Nor has familiarity inured him to your charms.

A glimpse of your naked form as you emerge from the shower, like Botticelli’s Venus from the waves, is enough to get him all in a lather.

The man in your life does not find suddenly find himself in the stationery cupboard clambering hotly over Emily from Marketing because he no longer finds you attractive.

It is because he is not getting to clamber hotly over you.

In other words, there has been a breach of contract. Use of the organs is being denied.

The Institute has given long consideration to this issue. It has reviewed a number of solutions drafted by our consultants, as follows:

1: THE OWNER OPERATOR

The advantages of this solution are that it is free, quick, and involves no other parties. Only one’s own organs, or organ, is required.

Knocking one up under the shower is second nature to most men, and generally has a calming effect for a few hours at least.

But in these days of water shortages we would not like to think that the temporary relief afforded to men in Sydney and Brisbane came at the cost of abandoned farms and ruined livelihoods in the Murray-Darling basin.

Moreover, Kant himself did not approve of this harmless activity, on the grounds that it involved treating oneself as a means rather than an end.  We will leave you to figure that one out.

2: THE OUTSOURCING SOLUTION

Again this has much to recommend it, not least that it has been endorsed by the Honourable Member for Goulburn and former Head of the Office for the Status of Women, Pru Goward, who once declared that she would rather her husband visit a sex worker than have an affair.

We at the Institute can only agree. This, is however, a more costly solution than the owner-operator, and since many councils discriminate against sex workers in residential areas, may involve travel, with the associated environmental impacts.

3: THE RETURN OF CONJUCAL RIGHTS

The clear advantages of this solution make it the Institute’s preferred option. Again, it is free, carbon-neutral, and precludes the need for cupboards, recriminations, and/or divorce.

Moreover, it can be implemented at home, and should only take about 15 minutes – or less, in some cases. And afterwards he will be more than happy to a) take the kids to the park b) do the shopping c) mend the back gate.

Who knows, you might even enjoy it.

Women of Australia, in the words of those well-known philosophers from across the Tasman, the Conchords: It’s business time.

Over to you……..

There’s already been too much written about the new cultural milieu of dogs in middle-class Australia.

Enough to say, the fact that most are eating and dressing better than me, leaves me cold……

Something new though: I am alarmed at the dramatic increase in husky numbers in my suburb.

It’s becoming downright dangerous.

The other day, I was walking along the pavement lost in my own creepy thoughts when I was nearly mown down by a husky team. The handler, a 48-kilo babe with a Mawson-influenced outfit (faux fur boots, faux fur beanie and a heavy coat which looked like it’d been roughly hewn from fresh roadkill) said nought. Rude AND Green, I thought…..

Nothing more to say except that I’ve written to local council authorities requesting that Mawson Huts be built along our main street so terrified residents can shelter from those fast growing numbers of domestic husky teams.

Which brings me to why this thingo is called When Dogs Knew Their Place.

Bindi – short for Bindi-Boo Major – was our family dog for 15 years until the inevitable. Hec (Dad) got him for next to nought because he was an Australian Silkie Terrier but unfortunately, in breeding circle’s parlance, his coat didn’t ‘break’, so he was never  a soft grey or silky.

Sadly, his ‘pure breed’ registration papers bore his official name: Silkalee Shipmate. In reality, Bindi was a ‘filthy’ brown and so wirey that strangers cut themselves badly ’on a pat’. 

But, Bindi knew his place.

His diet was of chop fat, chop gristle and chop bones. And he was tough.

One time, Bindi got very ill indeed. We didn’t know what was wrong but clearly, something was: No appetite, no bowel excavation, no neighbour biting, no killing and retrieval of pet birds…..no nothing. Bindi’s eyes bulged and when he looked into the distance it was clear he knew and felt something both magnificent and appalling.

When it was finally clear that Bindi was shutting down,  Hec said something in a soft voice we’d never heard before: A bloke can’t stand by watching this – time for the vet!

It was a desperate cavalcade (Hec and the fast fading Bindi wrapped in an old Leeton Redlegs guernsey) that fronted to the vet.

However, there was soon to be a sensational turn of events.
Only about 34 seconds into his examination of the unsedated Bindi, the vet found the very source of the problem.

This is a real first! he cried out.

The nature of the real first was a chop bone lodged in Bindi’s bum. It was quickly surmised that he’d had his usual dinner of chop scraps and when satiated, had sat down hard on the grass – right on top of the chop bone!

Hec always refused to tell us the nitty gritty of how the vet handled this real first on that historic day for veterinary science.

It was a carnival atmosphere at our place that night.

We thought we’d had an obnoxious, overbearing, selfish, give-nothing- back sort of dog. Instead, we had  a hero: a dog who’d scaled the heights of pain and explored the lows of gross indignity - but conquered all in good grace.

Can you imagine today’s wimpy dogs doing that?

Another thing.

After what was forever known as the chop bone incident, Bindi respected us even less, if that was possible.

He was to remain in good health until the near fatal Bateman’s Bay tick incident, several years later.

Please think of Incident Reports as ’sad but true’. KJ looks forward to hearing from you when you are on site for, or hear about, real things that show us how folks are living, loving and just being generally up themselves – early Third Millenium style.

This Incident Report comes from a later-in-life birth mother but even she found it a ‘little much’.

The kids at her local primary school were drawing on quarto sheets of NSW Education Department issued paper.

Young Johnnie Featherstone-Smith-Daley-High-Falutin sustained a paper cut to his little finger.

Kath Featherstone-Smith and Richard Daley-High-Falutin have demanded that the school immediately undertake a risk assessment…….of paper.

Over to you!