KerrieJean.com

Children want to fit in…..

But sometimes it’s not possible.

I’ve just discovered that a lobby group called Rainbow Schoolies will be agitating to make sure students of gay parents don’t feel strange when they make two Mothers Day cards -  or their Fathers Day cards feature sperm banks.

[http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/life/happy-fathers-day-mum--gender-restriction-a-challenge-for-gay-families-20111016-1lrfi.html]

Call me old fashioned…..but kids have always coped well  – on their own terms  – with parents of  ‘difference’.

Life goes on. No one gets too upset. No one goes beserk.

My father, Hec, was born in 1914.

It’s, of course, now common for fellas to hold off having children at least until they get their vasectomies reversed – whether that be in their forties, fifties or nineties.

But in the small irrigated township of 1950s Leeton, NSW,  Hec was launching his Fecundity Festival at the same time his peers were frantically arranging shotgun marriages or Papal annulments for their grown up children.

When I was born Hec was 45.

['In my dreams..' cr: Keene & Cheshire County photos: flickr]

In what was a stellar late breaking reproductive career,  he produced five lovely girls in a little more than six years.

Then – like so many brilliant late developing actors, singers or AFL footballers - he retired.

It was my difficult entry into the Catholic education system that confirmed My Dad was a freak.

As was family tradition, Hec delivered me into the clutches of angry, sweaty women in heavy black dresses and creepy long veils.

Tonnes of religious bling hanging from their thick leather belts clinked and clanked in the traditional Riverina  ’start of school year’  heatwave.

Was I having a nightmare in which magpies had grown to one hundred times their size?

No.

Looking around, I saw huge magpies hovering over many other kids.

But there was something else.

The fathers.

They were different to mine.

And it wasn’t just the missing teeth…….

They were jaunty with slicked back mullets, tight pants and - my goodness - some were even sidling  into the magpies…….

And the magpies liked it!

The harsh reality?

Me - five, Hec - 50, other dads 23-27, the magpies, indeterminate.

I did for many, many years want A Dad like all The Other Dads.

So much so that when the local Coles store ran a ‘Draw Your Dad’  Fathers Day competition my entry was of a young man with a mullet and missing teeth.

It won.

My interpretation of  Hec Ross writ normal was in the Coles window for two weeks.

Gwennie said the judges obviously had NO idea about anything.

I won a selection of ‘Old Spice’ products.

Hec didn’t want them.

He said no man worth his salt would walk around town smelling.

Even though he was very old, I thought he had a point.

***********************************

We all want to fit in, don’t we?

I still do but one thing’s for sure, my new mullet isn’t working very well towards this aim….not at all, not at all……..

Did you have parents that weren’t quite ‘right’ when conformity was the rule?

Isn’t it awful to think how embarrassed they made us?

Still…….fathering a child at age 45 in a country town in the fifties…..well I never!!!!!!

Feel free to report in on these issues – and anything else that takes your fancy. Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.

It’s a terrible loss…

BHP will not be getting my professional services.

I cannot – nor want to - meet its preposterous office etiquette guidelines.

I ask you….

Just what sort of workplace bans open cut egg sandwiches and desk photos of dear old Uncle Fester in cossies……or demands that loud and harassing phone calls to delinquent family members be limited to just ten minutes?

http://www.theaustralian.com.au/business/mining-giant-gets-tough-with-staff-over-manners/story-e6frg8zx-1226120005820

At BHP, I would have been hauled before the Etiquette Committee even before getting the chance to demand with menaces  ’The Thomson Titanium’ company credit card.

…….So dear friends to a day long ago when me and the demands of workplace etiquette clashed in a drama fuelled two hours. 

From minute to minute I knew not where I was headed – and I knew not in what state I’d arrive. 

['Would you like to expand on this doctor's certificate Miss Ross?' cr: State Library, NSW: flickr]

[Warning: do not read on if you're 'queasy averse': adult themes, intimate body references, violence]

I have always sought to extend, to enrich, to frighten myself……

[For what is a job, a date, a diet if not a horror trip with potential perks?] 

And so it was I found myself teaching in a prestigious Department of Journalism at a Choko Bush League regional university: moulding young people into the most ruthless story gathering machines on the Pacific Rim.

I had a winter lecture to give.

Because the place, this place of higher learning had even higher pretensions to much, much higher learning, I arose at dawn to prepare my cutting edge presentation:

‘How to tell the difference between a plain clothes detective and a uniformed police officer at a crime scene’.

Unfortunately, the stresses of last-minute preparation took their grim toll and I’d developed what is sometimes described as an ‘intimate itch’.

Now people close to me [and particularly those a bit further away] know that I’m blind.

In the bathroom that chaotic winter’s morn, I grabbed what I thought was my ‘anti-intimate- itch-cream’.

On application, all hell broke loose. 

It was as if I was burning up – from the inside.

In the ensuing mania, I discovered I’d mistakenly attacked my very core with a wildly unsuitable potion, Nair Hair Removal Creme.  

The pain was unbelievable.

Then I was in a cold bath telling God that if  He would make me whole again I’d go to Africa for free.

My life’s project?

Every village would have a Radio Australia transmitter by 2090.

In a post-trauma state, I stumbled [in much residual pain] into that lecture theatre…….

……..In my favourite ‘bush florals’ flannette pyjamas hidden under a massive coat.

The woolly mammoth had come to speak. 

To my credit, no young news gatherer left the auditorium unable to tell the difference between a uniformed police officer and a plain clothes detective.

I had broken the number one rule of workplace etiquette: dress appropriately.

But I had done my job under supremely difficult conditions.

*A quick visit to a GP that afternoon confirmed that while oversize pyjama pants would provide the most comfortable apparel during a long and sometimes difficult healing process, there was no lasting damage.

***********************************

Thank you for coping with this story……..

It’s very hard to know where to draw the line with very personal information but I’ve always believed most lines are there to be crossed IF matters of good taste are adhered to.

I’d love to know whether you’re well mannered at work and always follow the protocols – no matter how stupid they are.

Perhaps you’ve got no time for workplace manners. How on earth are you surviving in these very regimented times?

Do file a report. It’s easy and fun. Do it by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.

Forgive me Bindi Boo…..

I thought we’d been landed with the most unrepentant foul-tempered family pet on the Pacific Rim.

I now know it wasn’t your fault:

You were depressed.

['I know how Bindi Boo felt': cr: Smithsonian: flickr]

*Ed’s note: I am on the email media release list for Dogs NSW. Spokesman Dr Peter Higgins recently warned that depression in dogs was a real problem but with proper treatment, outcomes were good. St Johns Wart can be helpful.  Signs of dog depression include changes in temperament, loss of appetite and over sleeping.

Like most things arriving in Hec Ross’s fibro palace – new fangled electric foot ticklers, cherry ripe ’seconds’ where the cherry ended up on the outside of the chocolate, bottles of beer which exploded on human contact -  Bindi Boo fell off the back of a truck.

Not a good start for any Australian Silky Terrier.

But Hec wanted his five lovely girls to love something other than Ray Brown And The Whispers, bad local boys and dirty books like ‘Papillon’ [ya know where he put those drugs, ya know where he put those drugs!]

If Dr Higgins had been active in dog mental health when Bindi Boo came to us all those years ago he wouldn’t have mucked around.

He would have told Hec to get Bindi Boo onto a depression fighting regime pronto.

‘Fifteen parts St Johns Wart, one part Pal twice a day Hec.’

Instead, Bindi Boo’s mood swings had a devastating effect on everyone.

One minute he was happily baring his little razor sharp teeth while trying to stick his head through the bars of poor old Cocky Ross’s cage.

Cocky Ross had enjoyed for many years a  quiet - though useless life - in his simple digs near the back door.

If anyone didn’t deserve this sort of unprovoked upset, it was Cocky Ross.

Then without warning, Bindo Boo would turn his crazed emotions on anyone brave enough to be in the backyard.

A mere ‘Hello Bindi Boo’ would see him spring into the air while letting out blood curdling staccato growls.

There followed precision ankle biting landings.

Everybody in my family had bandaged ankles  – and unseemly track marks on their arms from too many Bindi Boo generated tetanus shots. 

Dr Higgins warns that dog depression is also manifest in loss of appetite.

That was NOT our experience with Bindo Boo.

I think his untreated depression had quite the opposite effect.

Bindi Boo demanded – under threat of violence - more and more Pal. 

Fearing greatle what he might do if the answer was ‘no’, we all became Pal pushers.

Bindo Boo got fatter and fatter.

He let himself go which, looking back, would have only increased his anger and anxiety.

Knowing what I know now, I feel sorry that we misdiagnosed Bindi Boo as a ‘bloody awful dog’.

He was really a ‘nice dog’ trapped in a ‘bloody awful dog’s mind’.

I cannot save Bindi Boo.

But it’s up to all of us to closely monitor the mental health of our – and our neighbours’ – current pets.

Before things really get Well Beyond Bluey.

For new visitors, if you liked/hated this story – you probably will like/hate this one. The natural world – and all of its wonders – is a very big part of our ‘Living, Loving, Learning’ theme.

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2009/03/what-bird-did-that/

******************************

Everybody says the Dog On The Tuckerbox stayed there because he was loyal – but perhaps he was depressed……….isn’t that an awful thought?

Is your pet depressed?

Why not?

If your dog was depressed would you opt for St Johns Wart or go all out with traditional anti-depressants?

Would you be brave enough to ask your pet this straightforward question: Are you depressed?

Perhaps you don’t believe dogs get depressed. Why on earth not?

Write to me…….it’s free and it’s easy. Do it:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.

After I finish this missive I’m going under the doona - indefinitely………

……SO exhausted am I after an incredibly philosophically taxing hot drink with a dear friend.

It started as per normal…….

I reported in on my latest ponderings and personal breakthroughs……….

……A date suddenly ending in whiplash when I - in a minxy mood - pushed the car seat ’recline’ button before releasing the seat belt, a new age spot on an unmentionable body part….

……And on the political front, the bleedingly obvious…… 

Julia and The Mousse Man will not marry because the Gay Rights Nuptials Lobby would surely muck up the big day.

When the ‘if anyone knows why Julia and the Mousse Man shouldn’t be joined together by hair extension glue, say so now or forever hold onto your toupee’,  protesters would shout: 

Simple!  Because if we can’t why the bloody hell can youse two?

My dear friend said that, as usual, I was thinking [and living] with breathtaking clarity.

THEN she said:

But KJ, what’s it all about, what’s it ALL about?

I had been waiting for this question – the big one - since at least the start of this financial year.

I said:

Life is a colossal Bushells tea chest…..

In it, a stubby glass surrounded by much bubble wrap.

In the stubby glass, all the things we have to do to give the impression we are responsible participants in this thing loosely called life……

…… Contributing birthday cake money for unpleasant work mates, paying exorbitant rent in sub-standard Tora Bora condominiums, keeping  Brazilian waxing appointments,watching ‘7:30′…..

Now, to that bubble wrap…….

Most folks [my dear friend] spend their lives in the Bubble Wrap Zone but best to avoid it like the mouse plague currently making a mockery of the Great Australian Bite.

The Bubble Wrap Zone is where aggressive renovators, superannuation obsessives  [pie in the sky just before you die] and the filthy rich cyronics set, lurk.

Instead, they should attend my free, upcoming seminar titled:

Guess what? No One Lives For Four Hundred Years.

Then there are The Boundary Riders.

[This is living! cr: State Library Sth Aust: flickr]

The Boundary Riders know the Bubble Wrap Zone is preposterous terrain.

They’ve been Ridin’ The Boundary forever.

……Enjoyin’ grits under the stars with other Boundary Riders,  fulfillin’ crucial fence hole pluggin’ responsibilities and enjoyin’ the sweet company of other Boundary Riders who occasionally – as if out of now where - appear at warm campsites.

But make no mistake [my dear friend] Boundary Riders are as terrified of Death as anyone else.

Even more so.

A mesquite bush ain’t got no chance against them there winds that blows and blows along the boundary fence.

And weez all mesquite bushes.

And that [my dear friend] is all this mesquite bush is gonna say at this here juncture…..

My dear friend gave me a big hug and I went blowin’ up the street.

****For the new visiting mesquite bushes in here a big howdydodedo……and you might enjoy checking out how kerriejean.com marked The Fall of *The Rev Kev, June, 2010.  

*The Rev Kev was a great supporter of this site…..

….Then, as history records, he went blowin’ off  in the wind just like…like…..[I got it!] that certain bush we’ve been talkin’ ’bout. 

http://www.kerriejean.com.au/2010/06/rudd-spill-afp-swearing-units-rush-to-parl-h/

*********************************************

Don’t ya just hate people when they say: ‘Don’t worry about Death, there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Ain’t that THE problem?

Ain’t that the starting point?

Oh dear…..but I do feel better having written this little piece……

Alright, alright!

Saddle up…..!

Report in………ain’t gonna cost you a thing……may even make those grits taste a little finer. Every thought, every dream, every nightmare, valid……

 Do it [report in, that is] by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.

Six nations head to head in the ’take no prisoners’ Battle of The Saints in the magnificent arena that is The Basilica…….

…..Six powerful nations fighting it out to be the declared the ‘Home Of The Best Saint’.

But - as a child of the Josephites [alumni, St Joseph's Primary School, Leeton] I’m thrilled to report:

 NO CONTEST!

[Sister Mary Marie.The Riverina's secret weapon in the Battle Of The Saints]

Match Report:

Italy, fielding two players,  Cathecist Giulia Salzano and Mary Mackillop’s greatest threat, Sister Camilla Battista Varano, failed dismally to capitalise on its home ground advantage.

Poland - represented by Celebrity Confessor, Stanislaw Soltys -  made much of its links to the ump but was to quickly discover it needed much, much more with the stakes so high.

Canada came to Rome with a surpise candidate, Andre Bessette.  Healing credentials are a plus but Andre’s supporters left The Bascilia with just one take home message:

‘We are NOT Italy and we are NOT Ireland. Never have been. Never will be……’

As for Spain? Coming to Rome with Juana Cipitria Barriola was always fraught with difficulties. She may have been a very good teacher but when you’re playing Battle of The Saints at the pointy end of the canonisation season you (quite frankly) need to take the game more seriously.

As for Australia, we were punching above our weight. [Sigh, sigh, sigh.....]

……Eight-thousand sainthood afficionados who didn’t hold back when it came to making it clear they’d come to The Basilica to do business under their terms.

And when hoardes of Australian Josephite sisters from throughout regional Australia invaded the field replete with Isadora Duncan blue scarves and designer sunglasses framing their trademark comely faces and stylish short, grey tresses, Poland, Italy, Spain and Canada knew……..

Game over.

It’s a lesson I learnt –  and learnt well – more than 40 years ago.

When a well-oiled, super fit team of Josephites [armed with rulers, six-metre long canes and even golf umbrellas] wants to do business, get the hell out of the way……  

*It has also gone unreported that regional Australia’s most powerful nun, Sister Mary Marie, from the Riverina’s Holbrook Convent, was in the Battle Of The Saints.

Insiders report that Sister Marie Marie - right up to the opening of official hostilities - was sledging Italian, Polish, Canadian and Spanish competitors.

Her weapon?

The fastest Hail Mary on the Pacific Rim.

I had the privilege of meeting Sister Mary Marie in June. Click here and hear exactly why four industrialised powerhouses buckled under what’s become known as the ‘Sister Mary Marie’ factor.

Episode 1: A Challenging Day At The Convent

******************

So, all in all, an extraordinary couple of days…….

Australia winning The Battle Of The Saints, rain threatening my favourite Dustbowl, the Murrumbidgee Irrigation Area of New South Wales, and to top it all off, my disastrous fringe (thank God!) growing five cms overnight – A MIRACLE!

Please report in – particularly if you’ve NEVER had a miracle happen to you. Strange and rare – and just quietly, a little sad.

Anything else going on at your place of work or rest? Do tell……..

Spill the glorious beans by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.

Excuse me but I’m confused…..

Are thousands and thousands of fine Australian princesses and princes about to sit their high school finals?

OR – has the truth not been told?

Are they, in fact, about to be secretly shipped to far-off troubled lands to be co-opted into underwater mine disposal units?

…….Such are the disturbing reports flooding in about impending ‘nervys’, stressed private school girls using scrunchies as catapults against classmates, normally impeccably behaved boy prefects threatening to set up backyard surgeries if they fail to get into dentistry….

KJ: ‘It’s all about inner confidence’ [cr: Nickolas Muray - George Eastman House: flickr]

Dreadful.

Just today, compliments of the Fairfax empire, something called ‘The HSC Diaries’ in which two aspirants (I gather for an exam) were asked nine challenging questions. 

Funny, I thought.

As an ambitious HSC candidate at Leeton High School, 1974, I answered the very same ones.

I have just retrieved the document from my ‘Education Records’ drawer – one down from my ‘Special Occasions Knickers’ drawer -  in the intimate personal archive that is my boudoir low boy.

Here’s how I answered the questions:  

Do you feel prepared?

Yes, I am prepared. Everyone knows there’s a doctor in Wagga who hands out The Pill willy nilly.

Do you have a study schedule?

Of course. It’s based on the training regimen pioneered by the Leeton Redlegs Australian Rules Football Club [And if you think I'm about to elaborate at this critical juncture of the season, you'd better think again]

Are you feeling stressed?

Not now. Though I do admit that when Wazza stood me up last Saturday, I was mildly so [I ask you, just how often does Sandy Scott come to town, I ask you...?]

Which subject worries you?

I’ve never pretended that Level 3 Mathemathics will be a cakewalk. Never, never, never, never, NEVER……

If you could change something about the HSC year what would it be?

Ever thinking that Wazza’s panel would open doors for me. 

Is your family giving you more space to study, being quiet around you, letting you off your normal chores or is it business as usual?

Actually, it’s business as usual except for one important concession. In line with family tradition, HSC candidates always get an extra chump chop.

Are you planning on socialising at all over the HSC period?

To tell you the truth, things have been a bit quiet lately, diary wise. But, if I get asked to anything, I’ll certainly make the effort.

Do you plan to exercise at all?

Yes, I do. I plan to walk up Kooba Street, turn into Wade Avenue, have a look at the new seasons’ boob tubes in the shop windows –  and then proceed to Leeton High School where (so I’ve been told) the HSC exams are to be held.

Have you planned to celebrate after your last exam?

Only if I can get an appointment with that doctor in Wagga.

End of document.

***************************************

So my, how things change….

Wasn’t it much better when things were simpler?

I honestly can’t remember feeling like I was going to break down or shame Hec and Gwennie if Level 3 Mathematics proved well outside my sphere of competencies.

*As it happened I became the first of their five lovely girls to pass HSC Maths……

Proving for once and for all that a strong sense of self and a relaxed attitude to the job at hand is best for all concerned.

Thank you to everyone who made Fetish Week the outstanding success that it was.

….Honestly, it’s a wonder there’s a leather strap or latex ensemble left in the adult novelty shops of Australia.

This week, as per usual, would love to hear about things you’ve deemed ‘pressing’ –  or even ‘mildly interesting’.

By the way, what was your high school finals campaign like? 

….Go on, go on, tell me it was underpinned by military precision. And then you went to Harvard Medical School. And are now the Pacific Rim’s top gastroenterologist.

What ever the case may be, dare join in the hot discussion by:

Just clicking on the ‘comment’ thingo and following the simple instructions. The place to 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 just ignore the URL thingo.