Getting all outraged and stuff…

Quite frankly, I have had to stop with my daily read of the news websites and I am no longer enjoying my local morning paper. I’ve stooped to reading the SPORT pages with my breakfast, because at least the type of drivel and hyperbole I am going to contend with won’t make me splutter with rage into my Weeties… one week at a time/playing like it’s the finals every week blah blah lost because we didn’t win blah blah. And all this is because Julia Gillard finally announced the substance and structure of the {gasp} carbon tax{shudder}.

Quite frankly, I don’t really understand what the fuss is about. The climate may or may not be changing. It may or may not be affected by human activity. Other countries have decided that they should err on the side of caution and you know, maybe do something about reducing emissions and encouraging people to make choices about their energy useage. So why not do something here?

Because EGAD… It’s a TAX and TAX IS BAD and that. And The Gubbermints said NO CARBON TAX. But I am not sure that they did. Or didn’t. Or whatever. Confused now… But still. There was always going to be an emissions trading scheme or some way of pricing carbon. And as it turns out, this method charges the people who create the carbon – whether they pass the cost along to the consumer or wear it is up to them. And if they do, consumers can generally choose whether they’d like to pick Company A that costs more because they pass it along or Company B that charges less because they’ve reduced their emissions. And if Miss Gillard had stuck to calling it a charge or a fee and not mentioned the “T” word, we’d have moved along by now.

Anyway, this bloke says it way better than I can (and I bet he’s done research and stuff too. In fact, he says it so well, that his website broke. Go and read it, anyway. And his follow up. You need to read that as well. He’s a very clever man and I am partly jealous and mostly very pleased I have found someone who speaks my mind on the interwebs.)

My personal opinion is based on what is NOT happening; and what is NOT being said, is that a whole heap of economists think it’s a good thing, there is in fact science to say the climate is changing, and well – mining companies and the heavy industrials have been making decisions for the last five or so years based on their being a tax on emissions or carbon or what ever it ends up being called. Share prices are not dropping in response to the announcement, in fact everyone except for Tony Abbott, LNP MPs and the shock jocks (oh and the people who think the unvarnished truth spills from their mouths who regularly write in to the newscorp websites) – everyone else seems to be trundling along with a whole lot of business as usual.

I read something yesterday on the FCAI website where they talk about ZOMG Carbon Tax will RUIN the Australian motor vehicle industry. ZOMG increased costs of $30 million a year. Gosh. $30 million. That’s a lot of money. Except when you consider that the average number of vehicles sold in Australia over the last three years is a smidge over 1,000,000. Yep – ONE MILLION VEHICLES. So, by my seriously dodgy calculations – that’s {gasp} $30 a vehicle. Even if it’s only referring to Australian produced vehicles… it might be $150 or $200 a car. When you’re talking about a $20,000 (minimum… a  new Commodore is $35,000 or something) purchase, an extra $200 is nothing – it’s around 0.5% on a Commodore.

In perspective, it’s one Big Night Out, one gold ticket to a good concert, five slabs of beer, three slabs of Bundy cans… maybe even a couple of  nice “dinner and a movie” dates with the missus (or mister). 

And OH NOES, people are saving their money and not going shopping and retail sales are down and it’s all because of the carbon tax (and fluoride, apparently. Fluoride causes everything). Except that retail sales are down a whole 0.6%. Maybe it’s because people have enough Stuff. I mean, how many flat screen televisions can one family have? How many game consoles? How many new couches? Things don’t need to be updated every six months, and when one has one fully functioning one of everything, hey – they’re going to stop shopping. And sales in cafes etc have actually gone up by 1.4% - So people have enough stuff, they’re going out and spending their aforementioned $200 on a big night out.

Which brings me to the compensation… Yes, the Poor People and Old People (and, I dare say, the Poor Old People) are getting loads and loads. Yet the Battlers earning more than $150,000 a year are getting ZIPPO, in fact they’ll have to cough it up. Poor ole Battlers.

But when one earns in excess of $150,000 a year, one will find that one is able to absorb the extra $10 a week. In fact, I think one will be able to absorb more than $10 a week in increased costs somehow. And if one cannot – one should look at what one is spending one’s hard earned loot on and make adjustments accordingly. The people who are getting the extra compensation are the ones that are least able to afford to absorb the increased costs. Oh, and as a complete aside – did you notice that a chunk of the “compensation” is a fairly hefty *increase* in the tax-free threshold? Way to make earning money more attractive, hey! And those pesky dole bludgers who are currently losing too much money to make it worth their while to be getting a job will find they’re taxed a bit less, so might actually find themselves able to move forward.

We may or may not have stuffed up this planet, but hello – we might be able to do something about ensuring it’s not a wasteland for our grand children. Australia is a Big Country now, and doesn’t need to wait and see what the Cool Kids are doing; or keep playing that game of “nobody else is doing it, so why should we?” That argument never cut the mustard with your mum, so why should it be cutting the mustard now?

Let’s grow up, shut up and start doing something (anything) that doesn’t involve whingeing and complaining about how much it’s going to hurt (because it is more than likely that it won’t). Put things in perspective, think about the consequences or otherwise of your (lack of) actions and stop with the WHAT ABOUT ME????? Please.

PS: retail sales figures are from the Australian Bureau of Statistics

 

Tis the season to be cooking…

Autumn is my favourite season. I love the still warmish days and the crisp, cold mornings. And I love how it’s cold enough for the heater and an extra snugly blankie when it comes to bed time. It’s almost time to pack away the barbeque tongs and start looking at delicious casserole recipes again. Although the Bloke is not a big fan of the casserole type things, I do get a lot pleasure from looking at the recipes.

There’s something about autumn that makes the idea of cooking up a big, hearty meal much more appealing than trying the same thing in summer, though. Somewhere around the end of March, I start to drag out the cook books and have a look through and see what inspires me. I am a big fan of Jamie Oliver – I like how the recipes turn out how you expect them to turn out, and I like how he’s not prescriptive when it comes to following the recipe or measuring things out exactly. And I also like how he uses fairly ordinary ingredients. His risotto is MY risotto! What I DO NOT LIKE, however, is his tendency to use every single solitary dish in the entire house to make one meal!

For Christmas last year, I got my paws on one of the few remaining copies of Jamie’s 30 Minute Meals that were in existence anywhere (it’s back in stock everywhere now, though).  I’d read a few reviews of his cook book where people complained that it didn’t take 30 minutes AT ALL – it was more like an hour and a half;  and that you needed all this specialised equipment and you had to trek around for special ingredients and they were all experienced cooks and stuff and that (some people will whinge about EVERYTHING). However, I wouldn’t call myself anything more than a fairly normal household cook – and I have virtually EVERYTHING on the list… I don’t have a griddle pan – but it’s on my birthday list; my non-stick pans don’t have lids (but my saucepans do) and I don’t have an oven proof frying pan or a fine grater (although my box grater has a fine side, so meh to the whingers. Improvise!) I had better confess right about now that I adore kitchen gadgetry, but seriously folks – there is NOTHING all that out of the ordinary that you wouldn’t expect in a normal kitchen on that list!

I pored over the cook book for days and days and finally selected the first meal I wanted to try… I had a willing panel of testers at the ready, and the pizza joint was on speed dial just in case… all bases were definitely covered. I made the Peri Peri chicken with dressed potatoes and rocket salad followed by Portuguese tarts, and can I say that it all was absolutely magnificent. I wasn’t really expecting it to come together *in* 30 minutes. But I have to say that I was pleasantly surprised… but in saying that, it was 30 minutes of cooking time and probably a good 10 minutes of getting all my equipment set up and the ingredients lined up ready to go before I started. I did have to go and get a couple of ingredients before I started – puff pastry sheets, because I had none and a bunch of basil (again, because I had none – although I had dried). See, nothing weird there at all.

The only issue I had with the end result was more to do with the bodgieness of my oven and nothing to do with the recipe at all; in fact, the only notes that I made on the recipe was to whoa up on the basil (obviously an Australian ‘bunch’ is a little more generous than a British ‘bunch’) and to cook the tart cases longer (my oven’s problem, not the recipe). It tasted magnificent, and was completely cleaned up by the panel of testers, and there were no leftovers either.

Oh, and the DISHES!!!

There are a LOT of dishes, and when one has a small kitchen and no dishwasher… Lordy, Miss Maudy! I am the kind of cook that is big on the ‘clean as you go’ brought on by the lack of bench space and teensy sink at my house. However, the nature of this kind of cooking is that it’s a very bang-bang-bang get everything done at once kind of thing; which isn’t conducive to the more leisurely ‘clean up as you go’ method I normally employ. When we’d finished eating, there were dishes EVERYWHERE and it would have taken me near as long to clean up as it did to cook! NOT happy about that!

I have subsequently made a couple of other things from the cookbook, and have been absolutely delighted with the result; although I haven’t made an entire “meal” since the first effort. But can I just say that the simple pizza dough recipe in the book now means that it’s quicker to MAKE pizza than dial one! And I have it on Very Good Authority that the frangipane tarts are rather good, too.

The cookbook does have a nice selection of recipes, including a decent number of vegetarian ones, and a couple of meaty ones that could be de-meatified quite easily. And while the cook book is presented as a selection of “meals”, it’s easy to pull out and make one course as a standalone dish. There are at least a dozen more recipes I would like to try, and maybe half a dozen meals that I would also like to make.

So that would be two thumbs up from me for Jamie’s 30 Minute Meals! (And two thumbs up each from each of the Archer Test Kitchen Tasting Panel, too.) The only real criticism I have (and it’s quite petty, when one has the joy of Google at one’s fingertips…) is that there is the odd ingredient or two that requires translation from British to Australian, and perhaps a list of substitutes for those less obvious ones like elderflower cordial, for example.

 

Viva la Revolucion!

Normally, people talk about New Year’s Resolutions in December and early January, then within a week or two (or three, if you’re really dedicated) those vows to cut down on the drinking, stop smoking, diet and exercise have petered out to a little more than nothing and a wry “oh well, next year – pass me the scotch and another cigarette and while you’re at it, another serve of cream buns and hot chips all ’round”.

And by people… I include ME. Yes. I, Harriet Archer, am a fine beginner of things and starter of great plans. This blog of mine is a fine example. It was started as a writing exercise, for me to put paws to keyboard and practice doing something that I enjoy (that’s the writing bit) and also challenge myself by deliberately writing for an audience. However, life got in the way, and what was supposed to be a twice a month, minimum 500 word piece on whatever takes my fancy has turned into a “My goodness, that would be an awesome thing to write about – oh, going away for the weekend? Ok, let’s have fun instead!” Not that this isn’t fun, per se… I do enjoy it – and I get a thrill when I see that Other People (that would be YOU, Gentle Reader) have been reading what I write. Or accidentally landing here from somewhere else and whizzing off just as quickly as you arrived (which you could be doing for all I know – but you’ve been here and I can but assume you’ve had a poke around for a bit).

Which brings me back more or less to what I was thinking about when I started to write this little number half an hour or so ago (yes, it’s taken me THAT long to write THIS much. I was also Doctor Mum in that time… icepack and chocolate administered and all is good. Ok, it’s no wonder I never get anything written, is it??) I started thinking about the single, solitary Resolution I made this year, and realised that I have stuck to it for a MONTH. It’s not a very big resolution – but at the same time, it is.

I have decided that 2011 is the Year Of Building Fornicating Bridges.

Before I left the Hellhole that was my previous employment, I have to say I tended more toward the bitter and cynical end of the spectrum. That I had a rather pessimistic outlook toward – well, just about EVERYTHING, I think. And everyone shit me. Most of the time, too… This is not a pleasant state of mind to be in. Over the last couple of years, though, I have noticed a gradual softening of my outlook and my goodness, a tendency to be affected emotionally by SAD things instead of “Whatevs, suckers. Next.” I am still capable of the Bitter and the Cynical, and things still shit me – for example, if that jug-eared grinning loon who does nothing but spit bile and venom and still hasn’t got over the fact that the only person who wanted to play with him was the completely bollocking MAD one does not sit down and SHUT UP and realise that being the Leader of the Opposition doesn’t mean he has to OPPOSE everything, I will possibly throw a brick through the telly. (Longest run on sentence ever!) However, the Bloke of the House possibly won’t mind as he would like a Really Giant Telly!

Anyway, back on track…

(Did I mention I have the attention span of a… LOOK, shiny!)

Fornicating Bridges.

This is not the building of bridges for the fornication purposes. It is more about the getting over myself and being the “better” person. After all, one can only hold a grudge for so long… and if I can laugh about it now, it’s time to let go. There are people in my life who I am stuck with for whatever reason – at the end of the day, I have two choices. Stab them, or build myself a fornicating bridge and get myself the hell over it.

Tally as at the end of January, 2011:

Corpses: Nil

Bridges under construction: At least three.

Doing alright in the Resolution stakes, I am.

 

Punctuality.

First, I shall start by admitting I am not the world’s most punctual person. In fact, to be quite honest, I have a fairly flexible attitude toward time-keeping. I will make an effort if it’s important to the other person, and I am always on time for work. This apparently makes me the annoying kind of late person because I am only late when it suits me. (Although missing public transport does not suit me – and I do that often enough).

I don’t wear a watch. In fact, I haven’t worn one since last time we moved and it got packed in a box, not to be uncovered until a good three months later – by which stage, I was eleventy months pregnant and it wouldn’t go around my wrist any more. I sort of got out of the habit not wearing it for six months or so, too. But hey, mobile phone has a clock on it, and as long as I remember to take it with me, it’s all good. The Bloke doesn’t wear a watch either – apparently he’s good at losing them so has given up in disgust. He also carries a mobile phone – which doesn’t stop him from asking ME what the time is! (I don’t know darling, I will just find my mobile phone and look at it shall I?)

But today, I would like to discuss other people’s ideas about punctuality.

In my previous incarnation, I worked in an industry where people were expected to a) make appointments and b) show up to these appointments on time. This was all very well as a concept, however PEOPLE were involved. People who were generally visiting my former employer for reasons often not unrelated to their dubious time keeping abilities. This meant that they would (more often than not) not show up on time. But then insist on being seen because they had an appointment…

I don’t mind so much waiting at the Doctors surgery for the doctor to finish up with the previous patient – I hope that the doctor will give me the same level of attention when it’s my turn. However, when I am first cab off the rank… the first patient for the day and I still have to wait – THAT is another issue entirely!

The Bloke of the House is Mr Last Minute. He does other things right up to the point where I would like to start getting ready – then jumps in the shower! This is annoying on several fronts, the main one being that I take longer to get ready than he does, therefore I should shower first; the other is that he also (without fail) tells me off for keeping everyone waiting. Once, he asked me why I always took so long to get ready. I replied “Because I not only have to get myself ready, I have THREE CHILDREN to organise as well”. Oh. Ok.

Then, when we were half way to our destination…

“Three children? We’ve only got two children…”

Yes. We do, don’t we?

The Outlaws are never ever ever on time. They are never on time for ANYTHING. In fact in the last ten years, I don’t think they have ever arrived at the requested time for a single solitary thing. But they are never late. They are worse than late. They are always early.  Fifteen minutes early, to be exact. And fifteen minutes is the exact amount of time I need to get myself showered, hair-dryered and face on when I am leaving things to the last minute. This – as you may have gathered – is what I have a tendency to do on a very regular basis. Therefore, The Outlaws often catch me in the state of not quite ready-ness best described as bare and nekkid. This is always greeted with much hilarity and eye rolling and guffaws and statements such as “oh, you are not dressed. We’re always catching you out”. Which as you can well imagine goes down about as well as a cup of warm sick.

I wonder if they’ve realised why we always invite them to things at decidedly peculiar times these days…

Mrs Archer is one of those people who worries if she’s kept waiting. (She’s also one of two people I will make an effort for – but she is my mother, and we all do lots of things for our mothers that we wouldn’t consider for other people!) She has also become accustomed to my rather flexible attitude to timekeeping and will tell me when I MUST be on time. I appreciate this, and as a result try my darndest to remove the ish-factor when meeting my mother for anything.

The Offspring appear to be even more flexible than I am when it comes to keeping time. The Big Kid is not so bad, however, the Little Kid is going to find himself dragged kicking and screaming out the door bare naked one day soon if he doesn’t get his finger out! Astonishingly, when confronted with a  deadline of insane proportions – they managed to get dressed, teeth cleaned and beds made and out the door in under five minutes. Of course, this will never happen on a normal day… We have to leave home before 8am for me to be at work on time at 8.30am. In a perfect world, we walk out the door at 7.45am. However…The world is NOT perfect.

I content myself with the thought that I am going to be driving my childrens around for a rather long time, and the time will come when they need to be somewhere on time… I am also a Very Patient Person bwhahahahahaaaaa!

 

Wobbly boots.

In my shopping travels, I have been seeing some oddly shaped shoes – strange sloping soles that are immensely thick. Strange and peculiar and really – well, quite ridiculous. Run like a Masai Warrior – yeah right. For $4oo I could get an entire wide screen telly that would last a hell of a lot longer than a pair of fancy sneakers. They improve your entire life. Increase your stamina, improve your ciruclation, knit you a hand crafted cafe latte…ok. Maybe not so much the latte. But the greatest thing since automated coffee machines…

Weird shoes. Rocking chairs for feet. RIDICULOUS. Waste of money.

BUT….

I have succumbed to marketing pressure.

I have bought in to the hype.

I am now the very proud owner of my very own pair of Wobbly Boots.

Yes, today I purchased a pair of “Shape-Ups” – which, if I am to believe the advertising material, will make me BEAUTIFUL! They will tone my calves, improve my posture, flatten my belly and generally turn me into a red hot spunkrat in next to no time! And all I have to do is wear them as I go about my normal business. Now, as you may have gathered, I am not one to buy into this sort of thing, but I was reading Sarah Wilson’s column in the Sunday Age on the weekend, and she was talking about wearing her very own pair of Wobbly Boots, and Sarah was impressed. But still -  I don’t get tricked into things that seem too good to be true. I am a cynic. I am not easily fooled.

So why on earth did I buy these shoes?

They are not pretty at all. So it wasn’t for their looks. They can only be described as cute in the same way that fat, ugly babies and those dogs with all the skin folds are cute. (They’re not really – cute is something you call them to be polite). But I’ve been looking at them for a very long time, and picking them up and looking at them and examining them for important things such as evidence of arch support (when one is quite elderly, one needs to look for these sorts of things) and finally seeing a pair that did not look as though they were medieval instruments of torture or footwear for purely remedial purposes…and finding them hot on the heels of reading an article about them, I tried them on.

Ok, I do have peculiar feet. I am between sizes ( 9 1/3 would be just about right), and I have a rather odd gait. I also have this stray bone that wanders about (yes, I squicked out a podiatrist – someone who plays with feet for a living was seriously disturbed by the tiny little bone that moves under the surface of my foot). Shoes tend to press in awkward places and not only that, the strange shoe size means that shoes are too wide at the back when just right at the front, and too tight at the front when just right at the back. So I really was not expecting much…

Then I put them on.

Bouncy.

Oooh, these are fun.

I feel all SPRING-Y and BOUNCE-Y and oh, these feel alright and oh, if I pop those insoles in there, then that will make the back just right as well… ok do you have them in black…you have one pair in black…can I think about it…oh dear, in the ten minutes I’ve been in the shop, two other people have come in tried on and waltzed off with their very own bouncy shoes…OK I’LL TAKE THEM.

I put them on when I got back to work and wobbled about the office. Hrrm. Are those my CALF muscles I am feeling? All I have done is run down stairs…OOh, what if there’s something in it? What if I am in fact two weeks away from scintillating legs and buns of steel (oooh did someone mention buns? I could go a bun…) So I wore them on the Long Walk Home. Two and a half kilometres of – well, it’s not exactly hilly, but it’s not flat either. More one of those really gradual, slightly insidious gradients that steals ones breath when one least expects it. So yes, a 2 1/2 km walk should seperate the men from the boys…

Twenty five minutes of brisk walking later, Lordy Miss Maudy, I felt like I’d been on a 10km hike. My calves were burning, I could feel my arse cheeks tingling and well. Yes, suprisingly one can actually use ones abdominal muscles at the same time. I came home from work and collapsed in a heap. Exhausted, I was. Ok, it’s been a while since I walked home but that was like I’d run a flippin’ marathon. Every muscle in my legs were busily telling me to listen to them and SIT DOWN ALREADY.

Wearing them tomorrow?

You bet my arse I will!

 

Sick

The Bloke of the House was ill. So ill in fact, that he needed time off work and had to go to the doctor for proper drugs and everything. BUT he has been telling anyone who will listen to him that  he had to get a doctors certificate not so much for the work, but to prove to The Missus – ie ME that he was sick.

Apparently, I’m not very sympathetic.

And actually, that would be true. There’s a reason why I didn’t take up nursing as a career – empathy bypass.

The Bloke started off with ”a bit of a cold”, as Blokes do, but by the end of the weekend, it had developed into a fully blown case of the dreaded Man Flu. The moans and the groans – you would have thought he was at deaths door from the carry on. There was a scene on Modern Family where Phil hurts his back and screams “it’s the cancer” when he tries to get out of bed. That’s what it’s like at my house when there’s Man illness. 

The Children are generally blessed with a disgusting level of good health (which is a good thing – they’re children. I have to be nice to them if they’re actually sick). Personally, I blame their ridiculously good health on my lack of interest in cleaning, coupled with my strict adherence to the three-t0-five second rule (and occasionally the ‘oh, where on earth did you find that? Are you sure…oh ok, you’ve already eaten half of it’ rule) and the rest on their exposure to just about every kiddie germ known to mankind thanks to swimming lessons and child care. I have a tendency to ignore anything that doesn’t involve excess bodily fluids, blood and/or bones poking through the skin…(and all of those can be treated with a bucket, a cold flannel and a bandaid – or any combination of the three)…oh, and weird rashes –  they warrant some level of attention, too.

Of course, being that the Children are boys, there is still plenty of The Melodrama . Cries of “he punched me, mum” and man, you reckon the Italian soccer team know how to stage a fall… NOBODY can stage a fall quite like a seven year old boy. And any child that can fully demonstrate (two or three times) the fall caused by a teensy little punch on the arm is erm definitely NOT hurt and can therefore get up, stop whingeing about it and either play nicely together or GET OUTSIDE.

But The Bloke is right – I am definitely NOT very sympathetic about other people’s illnesses.  I am less than impressed when Other People feel the need to come into work dragging along their snot-filled carcasses and moaning pitifully into sodden hankies about how miserable they feel. STAY AT HOME. Please.

I’m even not very sympathetic to myself when I am ill. Being sick is a terrible inconvenience and can best be done well without thank you very much, and time spent moaning in bed can be spent doing many other things thank you very much. Broken hand – pass the ibuprofen and panadol thanks. Abdominal surgery…what do you mean I can’t be pushing a shopping trolley around the supermarket? That’s why the nice doctor gave me the good drugs, isn’t it? Cold, runny nose? That’s why Codral was invented. Soldier on, thank you very much.

The Bloke recovered from the Man Flu (as Blokes do) and I didn’t get it. Not even a sniffle.

I might be unsympathetic, but hey, I am tough. Toughened Up, Princess!

 

Getting personal with Harriet…

Welcome to the Carnival of Personal Blogging

This post was written for inclusion in the Carnival of Personal Blogging hosted by Good Goog and Blogs With Wings. This month our participants have shared their journey to personal blogging. Please visit Good Goog – Begin By Being Personal to view everyone’s posts.

 

Why on earth did I start blogging?

Well, I’ve been a diary writer since I was a teenager (and by crikey, they make some interesting and very amusing reading), and I’ve had some kind of blog on the go (off and on) since I discovered that I can write stuff and put it on the internets. Where people can see it. And maybe comment on it and you know maybe tell me what they think of my writing. Except…that I’m shy and tend not to tell people that I have a blog. This, I guess, totally defeats the purpose of HAVING A BLOG SO OTHER PEOPLE CAN READ WHAT I WRITE.

Um. Oops.

The first blog I had was some Yahoo thing more than ten years ago, where I ranted on about nothing much. I don’t know what ever happened to it – I imagine it’s floating in the ether somewhere. Then there was a dalliance with an online journal – long since deleted. And now, I have this one…

But why do I blog? It’s something I do for myself, mainly – which is why I’m not that bothered with not having a gigantic audience and hundreds of comments and the like. I am a frustrated writer – my head is full of beginnings and endings. I’m just not very good at middles, so the beginnings and endings stay in my head. However, I am never going to get better at writing middles if I don’t write at all so I blog.

I set myself a personal challenge a couple of years ago to write at least two 500 word pieces a month so that I was writing consistently, and hopefully developing my ability to get a selection of sentences on a page – preferably with a beginning, a middle and an end – and in that order. However, stuff happened (as it does) and my head was too full of learning new things to be bothering with endings, beginnings and middles.

Now, I write when the mood takes me. I write about what I think about things, tales of my family, how crap I am at housework, things that make me cross… Actually, it’s ALL about me! So, let me see… Who’s who?

Harriet: That would be moi. I’m a would-be writer, amateur family historian, domestic goddess, mother of two, missus to the Bloke…oh, and I work as well. It’s taken me a bit over 18 months to get my head around what I actually do for a living (more or less, but don’t quiz me on it, please).

The Bloke of the House: He’s the mister to my missus, father of the offspring and all-round Very Useful Chap. I’m quite fond of him so I am planning to keep him, even though we haven’t made it official yet…

The Offsprings: There’s the Big Kid who is generally lovely and lulled us into a false sense of security. Then we have the Little Kid who is best described as Not Like His Brother. However, he is very cute and very very funny.

Mrs Archer: that would be my mother…She pops up from time to time

I would like to get back into the swing of writing a couple of times a month at least. And I would really like to stuff my beginnings and endings with a decent middle one day…but until that day comes, I will content myself with writing – be it for an audience of millions or an audience of one.

 

To whom it may concern…

Dear Member for the Opposition,

Look, I know you’re a politician and everything and that you’re in Opposition. But you do realise that you’re supposed to offer an Alternative and not just say “ner the other lot are ebil I tells you, EBIL.” Oh, and while you’re carrying on about speed cameras and the current government being all about ‘revenue raising’ . You planning on removing speed cameras if you lot get into power? Nah, didn’t think so.

So SHUSH.

Love, Harriet.

Dear People Complaining About Speeding Tickets

Stop speeding. Then you won’t get a ticket. Oh, and if it’s too difficult to keep your speed to 50 or 60 km/h, perhaps you should take up walking instead.

Love Harriet

Dear Ageing Road Warriors,

Stop being so damn paranoid and consider that the World possibly isn’t out to get YOU when they suggest you take a little responsibility for your own actions; and that on the contrary, there may be the slightest chance that the World would like to keep you around a little longer and all you have to do is encourage your mates to stop acting like dickheads. Ok?

Love Ms Archer

Dear Little Scrag at the Traffic Lights.

I was watching you the whole time you were sizing up that man – and NO you and your little mates were NOT just joking around. If I hadn’t been watching you, that man’s wallet would have been yours. And BTW – you forgot your skirt.

H.

Dear Every Young Person I saw in town tonight

1. Pull your pants up. I don’t want to see your manky old underwear thank you.
2. Even if you’re a svelte young thing, leggins and a tshirt do not cut it
3. It’s winter. Purple flesh is not attractive
4. Boys and the trapped in a wind tunnel look? Huh?
5. Orange makeup.

That’s MISS Archer to you.

Dear Company X (and Company Y),

Here’s a concept for you. Customer (that would be us) is always right. Particularly when the Customer is paying a LOT of money for the service you are begrudgingly (not) providing. If I say “do it this way”, the correct answer is  not “but we did it that way last year”, it is “of course!”  And when the Customer rings and enquires as to the availability of a service (for whom you are the sole provider), you do NOT moan and groan and sigh and pencil us in for somewhere toward the end of the next century. Before the end of this DECADE would be preferable.

Thank you

Ms H Archer. Esq.

 

Getting ma Zen on…

Much to my chagrin, I have returned to my old ways.

Yes.

I am once again The Shouty Mother.

I am not by nature a loud person. I am mild-mannered and quietly spoken. I don’t raise my voice, and when I am angry I just get quieter. And more polite. I can do polite at people like no-one else can. I can be so polite that the person I am being polite at knows they’re in trouble. Well,they feel a little discomfited and out of sorts much as if there’d been a lot of shouting (just without the shouting). That’s me. Quiet Person. Ok, underneath the surface, there is quite often the seething pool of resentment. There also might be a spot of teeth gritting and nostril flaring as well as some distinct enunciation. But I am quiet about it. Ok.

Now though, I am NOT the Quiet Person at all. I am the quite fierce and rather shouty person with a very pointy finger and rolling eyes and it’s doing my head in. I shriek from morning til night, and the only time I am not either shrieking like a fishwife or a banshee (or a banshee fishwife) is when I am at work. Where I can be a Quiet Person. Which is my wont. Not the shrieking, loud, slightly scary banshee that I have become.

Last time this happened, I was the miserable mother of a four year old and a one year old working part time in a job that I hated. Now, I am the feeling not too flash mother of a seven year old and a four year old working full time in a job that I actually like. It’s not work…wait-a-cotton-pickin-minute…

Mother of a FOUR year old before and mother of a FOUR year old now. There’s a theme here. Now, the books and ‘They’ all talk about the Terrible Twos. Two wasn’t all that bad. Three…Well, Three had its moments. But Four? I tell you what, there’s something about a power-tripping four year old that would make Attila the Hun and Caligula cry for mercy. And I have a Four Year Old who has a similar personality to Henry VIII (although Henry VIII always ate his dinner) .

Last time, when I was in the midst of my misery, I came across a book that changed my life. There was something about the simplicity and the calmness of Sarah Napthali’s work that spoke to me quite loudly. Ok, it’s very simple. But I tell you what – sometimes, you just need to be Told. And sometimes one needs to be Told quite often in small words so you can understand. And when I picked up my copy of ‘Buddhism for Mothers with Lingering Questions’ I found it bristling with tags and book marks and scraps of paper and a bandaid – any object that came to hand, obviously – all marking passages that said something to me when I first read it. And flicking through the book again, the same passages leap out at me as if they’re written in neon letters. And she has another book out about being a mother of school children. Next year, that will be me. With probably more shouting.

I am not a religious person at all. I am not a fan of organised religion of any flavour, even buddhism. But the concept of being in the moment and accepting that you can only control what you can and relinquishing the need to micromanage and microanalyse…and win at all cost. Well, that’s something worth considering.

And inside every person who is yelling is a person who is not yelling. And yelling at Attila the Four Year Old is like wrestling cats in jelly.

Looks like it’s time for me to get my Zen on again.

 

Good Evening, my name is Dave. How can I be helping you?

On occasion I have a need to beat my head against a brick wall   stick splinters under my fingernails call the Bank. Unfortunately, due to an oversight on our part, the account with the bank is Not In My Name. It is a Joint Account and The Bloke’s name is first. This is unfortunate because The Bloke is not keen on having a chat to the Bank, and would prefer to leave that kind of nonsense to me. Because banks in general have all sorts of crazy privacy malarkey they have to follow and because our account is in the name of The Bloke and Miss Archer, those crazy bank people seem to think that The Bloke is in charge. You would think Banks would be aware by now that whenever there is a Bloke and a Missus on an account, it’s the MISSUS that’s always in control.

Which brings me back to Dave. We will call him Dave for the purposes of this discourse, although I think his parents would be surprised to learn this is his name and may wonder why he was not still using the name they carefully chose for him.

• Dave: Good evening, my name is Dave. How can I be helping you?
• Harriet: Hello Dave. I would like to ask you a couple of questions about the interest rate increase you have listed on the latest statement I have received.
• Dave: Go ahead please.
• Harriet: Now, I would like to know whether the existing interest rate applies for the entire term of the cash advance or whether the interest rate will change when the new interest rate is applied.
• Dave: {silence} I will have to ask someone else. I will be right back.
• Harriet: [lalalalalalaaaaa]
• Dave: I am sorry to be keeping you. Yes the new interest rate will be applied when the rate changes.
• Harriet: That’s what I thought. Now, I have another question for you
• Dave: Please be telling me this question
• Harriet: Now, if we have some outstanding purchases and we get a cash advance…
• Dave: Can you just wait a second. This account is not in your name.
• Harriet: I know
• Dave: I cannot be talking to you about this account as this account is not in your name
• Harriet: Ah. But it doesn’t matter. I am not asking you questions about this account. I am asking you questions about services the Bank provides.
• Dave: but this account is not in your name…
• Harriet: And it doesn’t matter that this account is not in my name. If I was just a person called Mary Smith and I was just asking you about the services you provide, you would tell me and it wouldn’t matter that I didn’t have an account in my name.
• Dave: {silence} I will have to ask
• Harriet: [lalalalalalaaaa]
• Harriet: [doobydoobydoooo]
• Dave: I am sorry to be keeping you waiting. What was it that you wanted to know?
• Harriet: purchases v cash advance – which gets paid off first? (ok, it was more complicated than that but you get the drift!)
• Dave: {silence} I will have to ask
• Harriet: [amuses herself pulling faces at her reflection]
• Dave: I am sorry to be keeping you waiting. The one with the lower interest rate is paid off first.
• Harriet: Why, thank you.
• Dave: But do you have an account with us?
• Harriet: Well. Yes… Good night.

 Poor Dave. But surely Dave should know a little more about the products and services the Bank provide.

Strangely enough, the previous time I called the Bank, I also spoke to Dave. However I suspect the other Dave’s name may have actually been his own.