Listen very carefully…

…I will say this only about six times.

I’m delivering training at the moment at work. In fact until the 13th July that is pretty much all I will be doing. I’ve already delivered five of just under 60 sessions to be delivered in that time frame. Already I want to scream at people.

FOR F*CKS SAKE, THIS ISN’T HARD!

I stand in a room, full of people looking at me. In front of them on the table they have a document, if they have bothered to read the instructions before coming along, about 30% don’t have one, so I make them share. They also have a folder of handouts. I either have slides projected on the wall behind me, or I don’t, depends on the room. I talk about a fairly dry subject for 150 minutes. I try and include a little humour, I try to include examples, I even try to get some kind of response out of the participants. Mostly they just stare at me blankly.

Is this what it’s like teaching high school?

People who have worked for the company for twenty odd years give examples that are out of date and try to argue why they shouldn’t have been replaced (the examples that is, not the person. I would argue, it’s the person that sometimes needs replacing). These pointless and off topic examples take time, they eat into my precious time. I have to skip points later. I have to get them back on track without causing too much of a stir. I have to be nice.

It’s hard to be nice when your feet hurt, your back aches and you’ve already said the same things at least a dozen times.

I’m thinking… calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.

____________________________

I wrote this at 1338 on 26/5/09 in Parramatta. Haven't had internet access until today to post it.

My Favourite Things

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens
Bright crimson high heels and feelings of smitten
Being outside watching veg grow in spring
These are a few of my favourite things

Listenin’ to music and wild meeting doodles
Fresh warm bread smells
And laksa with noodles
alpaca that run with the herd, what that brings
These are a few of my favourite things

boys in white t-shirts with blue demin flashes
Make up and costume that match fake eyelashes
memories of childhood and all that, that brings
These are a few of my favourite things

When the cat bites
When the bell rings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
And then I don't feel...so bad

Sing to the tune of My Favourite Things from the The Sound of Music by Rodgers and Hammerstein.

When...

…does graffiti stop being a simple defacement of property and become art?

I’ve asked myself this question many times over the years, because I get enjoyment out of walking along and suddenly being stopped in my tracks by a word or image that requires my attention, sprayed across a wall.

I enjoy standing there and working out want it says. Sometimes it’s a simple word, sometimes it’s more complex. I enjoy spotting the details in the background and sometimes a treat in the foreground. The colours and technique with a spray can never fails to stun, how do they manage to get no runs?

I know from a past relationship (a friend at school would do such work) that these works aren’t just produced in the blink of an eye during an evening of boredom. They take weeks of pre planning, sketches, gathering materials (e.g. spray cans), they even need a look out sometimes. These are public works of art that need careful planning and thought, and of course nerves of steel. For being caught, means arrest, arrest could mean a stint in prison and a criminal record.

I have a certain admiration for the guys that put this much effort into their art.

That said, it’s all spoiled by the ‘taggers’. People with a marker pen that feel the need to write their name or initials or ‘tag’ on any flat surface they come across. Train seats and windows, walls, public benches, toilets doors, you name it and it will no doubt have a tag on it. Or at the very least the smear that shows someone tried to clean it off.

So where is the line between public nuisance and public artist?


- An example from Smith Street in Surry Hills

Victim or not?

A couple of weeks ago a well known NRL (National Rugby League) player and media personality hit the front page of the newspaper because he’d had group sex, SEVEN years ago.

What I’m about to write may be controversial. Don’t shout at me if you don’t agree.

I was annoyed by the revelations of the woman that she had spent the last seven years mentally scared by the consensual sex act that took place in a hotel room in 2002. She was 19 at the time and had sex with up to six NRL players while another six watched. She wasn’t drugged and was there by choice. Five days after the event, she went to the police and cried foul. They investigated and found no wrong doing on the part of the male players.

The woman, identified only as ‘Clare’ has brought this up seven years after the event, by appearing on an ABC program. She outed a particular high profile player and NO ONE else. That player has appeared on television with his wife since, the wife said ‘this was discussed between us seven years ago. It has been dealt with, the only thing he did wrong was betray my trust.’ As far as they are concerned it was done and dusted.

Today, a work mate of ‘Clare’ came out and said that she boasted about having sex with NRL players in the days that followed the 2002 hotel room romp.

The only named player has been stood down from his jobs as presenter and assistant coach.

My questions are these.

Are Matthew Johns and his family being dragged through the media for all to see and discuss as a scapegoat because the NRL doesn’t know who else to blame for the poor behaviour of players?

When does a woman who consented and bragged about a sexual encounter become a ‘victim’?

Is it just me that thinks there are more important things than a seven year old not story that deserves space on the front pages of the national media?

links:
A Current Affair Interview
Johns Stood Down
Woman Bragged
Who's Really to Blame?

If you want more on this story, search for Matthew John in Google News, the above is random selection of over 1000 links

Mothers Day

I didn’t get out of bed until 2pm. I had a bit of a bad morning, thinking about my Muv, reading and giving the cats big cuddles.

My cats, are, after all my kids.

Of course, they were completely unaware of the significance of the day and failed to give me a card or present, unless you count O-Ren sneezing on me.

In the afternoon I got up, pulled on some tracksuit bottoms and a pair of boots, went to the shed and got out the garden tools. I felt like digging. So I turned the soil, added blood and bone and Dynamic Lifter, then turned it all in.

The veggie patch a planted a few weeks ago now has;

Carrots
Cabbage
Cauliflower
Beetroot
Leeks
Rocket
Muslain lettuce
Peas
Radish
And some herbs waiting to go into pots.

Harvesting can start around the end of June, if the neighbour cat doesn’t dig it all up.

What it really needs though, is barb-a-rube.

Culture Vulture

I’ve out twice this week on school nights, on Tuesday and last night, Thursday.

On Tuesday, after work, L and I went to the taping of episode five of Top Gear Australia. We met outside Liverpool railway station and after a few trips around the town centre we figure out which road we needed to take to get to Bankstown Aerodrome. The expression of interest email and subsequent invite email had stated the filming would take approximately two to two and half hours, and to wear shoes that had a closed in toe and were comfortable for that amount of time standing on a concrete floor. I dressed suitable, as did L.

After two hours of hanging around and never quite making it to the front of the crowd to see what was happening, we planted ourselves near a Kombi with an armchair in the back. There we made some new mates. Three guys who also had failed to see anything and decided that they had to get to the Kombi soon. We chatted, laughed, took the micky and generally played silly buggers. L got so hungry she resorted to having a Chupa Chups for tea. At about hour three, L was making noise to go home, I convinced her that the presenters couldn’t fluff their lines much more and it would soon be over. I was sort of right.

The hanging around at the back paid off. On the 8th June I’ll be on telly. I managed to get myself in the front row while they filmed a segment with a Kombi and a chalkboard. I’m sure I’ll look like a complete noggin’ and cringe when I see myself, but I do believe it was the late great Andy Warhol that said, ‘In the future, everyone will have 15 minutes of fame.’ I think I notched up my first 3.

Last night, I went to the ballet at the Sydney Opera House, the total polar opposite of standing in a hanger in the middle of Bankstown. D, a friend from work had been let down by her usual companions and had asked me if I would like to see, Nutcraker.

It’s been a while since I saw a ballet. Cyrano de Bergerac was the last time I went, that was in the 90s and in London. I jumped at the chance to go again, great music, wonderful dancing and lush costumes. What more could a girl ask for on a Thursday night?

Champagne, that’s what.

There ended up being three of us. D, J and me. Turned out J, being a wholesome Yorkshire lass liked a drink, we drank a bottle in the thirty minutes before the show then another in the interval.

It didn’t ruin the performance. We got everything we expected and more. We got a show. The music by Tchaikovsky, played by Australian Ballet Orchestra was sublime, the dancing was enough to make you weep and the costumes ranged from dowdy 40’s housewife dresses to full on tulle and silk tutus. It was sheer heaven.

The evening was rounded off with crawling around on the floor of the ladies looking for a button and then another glass of bubbles and chatting, before I caught the train home and the two city dwellers, jumped in a cab.

Slap round the chops

It has been brought to my attention today that it has been a while since I wrote. I was asked, ‘Are you done with the Jodie blog?’

The answer is no, I’m not.

I’ve been stoopidly busy and have really had no time to sit and compose. The back log of things that have happened include;

New baby in the house (kitten)
Favourite things (think The Sound of Music)
Work issues (good stuff and bad)
My new veggie patch
Mothers Day
Watching a filming of Top Gear
The Basics at the Vanguard, Newtown

Hopefully, I’ll have some time to write while I’m sitting in hotel rooms in weird and wonderful places around NSW. I’m going on a training road show for work and will be travelling for just over six weeks.

Time to write

Woo Hoo!! ;-)

Remembering the 15th April '89

Yesterday was the 20th anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster. For those of you that don’t know about this, it was when a football stand in Sheffield, England, collapsed six minutes into a semi final match and killed (ultimately) 96 people. It was terrible and to this day remains the worst event in footballing history, in the UK and internationally.

I vaguely remember seeing it on the telly on the day, but seeing as John, my Mum’s boyfriend and subsequently hubby, had taken us away for a weekend in Great Yarmouth, I remember the weekend for something else entirely.

I was 15 and John had paid for me to have the room across the hall in the hotel we were staying at. I was in heaven. My first every hotel stay and I had tea and coffee making stuff, my own bathroom, a telly and two single beds. I picked the bed by the wall, put Brian the ginger teddy bear on the pillow, he was my teddy bear named after a boy I had a crush on when I was eight. We had spent the day on the beach, it had been sunny. We’d had dinner and about 10pm I’d said goodnight and sat on the bed watching telly for a little while. I imagine that Muv and John had also started watching telly, because parents don’t do anything else, especially on a dirty weekend.

I don’t know what time it was when I went to bed, but at about 1am I was awoken by a man climbing into bed next to me. This is going to sound strange, but I remember my Dad climbing into bed with my brother when he was unwell to comfort him, and my brother going nuts. I thought that perhaps John was doing the same to see if he’d get the same reaction (I would like to state, John never did anything inappropriate). As he climbed into bed the man said, ‘I don’t care if your Marilyn Munroe, I’m going to sleep.’

Now, I was a fifteen year old girl that just so happened to be having ladies things that weekend and as accidents happen, so had one that night. I was embarrassed by the warm red patch in the bed and climbed out of bed over the large sleeping stranger. Sat on the edge of the other bed was another man. I walked past him and went into the bathroom. Went to the toilet and then walked back into the room. There was a large man asleep on my bed, a pair of trousers on the floor next to it. The man on the other bed, looked at me and said, ’come here.’

I just turned and walked out of the room and knocked on the door opposite. I’m not sure how long I waited for a response, but I do remember hearing the telly on. When the door opened, John was standing in front of me.

‘There’s a man in my bed.’

My mum appeared at the door.

‘Jodie says there’s a man in her bed.’ John said.

John walked across the hall and into my room. I was taken into my Mum room. There was some shouting, before John appeared and walked down the hall, then returned with Hotel security or management. Could have been either, I was sitting on my Mums bed telling what happened, which, really was nothing, but could have been so much more.

I slept in my Mum and John’s room that night.

The next morning I asked if I could get my stuff from my room. I was told by John that he’d it all. I wasn’t allowed back into the room.

I asked for Brian, my Mum wouldn’t let me have him, ‘he needs washing’.

They told me later that the man who had climbed into bed with me had been a family man with three daughters around my age. He and his friend had come from the oil rigs and had been drinking. His friend (the one seated) had thought he could get his mate to let his guard down. The family man woke up about two hours later because Brian was wedged under his hip. This was the point where he realised what could have happened and being drunk didn’t know if it had, when he had beaten the other guy up so badly that my accident was a drop in the ocean of blood that covered the room. Light fittings where broken off the wall, pictures smashed and the window had been broken. Brian was blood soaked and needed to be washed at least twice before he could be returned to me. The ‘mate’ ended up in hospital.

For years afterwards, whenever this story was told, my Mum always thought it was hilarious that I was so casual about it when the hotel manager lady nearly lost her teeth coughing and spluttering at my reply to her question, ‘Are you OK my dear, nothing ‘bed’ happened to you?’

I replied with the innocence of a mid teen, ‘Oh it was alright, I just thought it was John.’

Crepuscular Light

A few years ago I read ‘The DaVinci Code’ by Dan Brown. I followed it with ’Angels and Demons’. I enjoyed them both for what they were, adventure novels that kept you turning the page because of a good fast paced story. Our hero moved across continents, religion got a bashing, people died or were badly injured, but in the end the good guy came out on top. When during Uni classes these books where held up as bad examples of writing I would always jump to their defence with the argument that they have got people reading. Surely, I’d follow up with, any reading is good reading?

In May last year I was readying myself for a trip back to the UK for an extended period. I needed reading material. A visit to my local bookstore saw me purchasing the first three of the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer. I liked the look of the covers and the blurb had me sold. I like a good vampire yarn.

I read the first book and got a tad irritated with being told Edward was amazing, Edward is luminous and Edward is gorgeous. I wanted to slap Bella for being such a big girl’s blouse. I did however make it to the end of the first book even though I wished it would hurry up and get on with the story already. I wasn’t in a hurry to know what happened next though. There was a four month gap before I started reading the second book at Christmas. Just after the Twilight movie came out.

I saw the movie in the cinema and found myself thinking, ‘where’s the fast forward button?’

I only made it half way through the second book and came perilously close to throwing it out of the window during my Christmas road trip. I knew what was coming, it had been hinted at so many times, but the author never seemed to want to tell us anything for sure. Was Jacob a werewolf? Of course he is, so why not just bloody tell us, it’s not like we can’t work it out for ourselves by page 10.

A friend of mine borrowed the books from me and loved it. She said it was like a soap opera, she had to know what came next and as such kept turning the pages.

I don’t watch soap operas. I don’t watch Eastenders, Neighbours or Days of our Lives. Maybe this is why the slow pace annoyed me so much. I don’t want to wait six weeks to see the main characters have their first kiss. The duh duh duh music at the end of an episode rarely leaves me on the edge of my seat. I like them to just get on with it, if it’s going to happen. Sexual tension and threats are all well and good, but if you know it’s never gonna happen, what the point in having it there in the first place?

Maybe if I was 16, as I believe is the intended audience age for these books, I would have persevered. Maybe if I needed a lesson in abstinence and the consequences of loose living (as I believe are revealed in book four) I would have enjoyed them more. As it is, I see people (both men and women) on the train, heads buried in book three or four and feel like giving them a round of applause for making it so far.

I now see where my fellow students were coming from. It’s not a case of any reading is good reading. Only good reading is good reading. Bad reading only dims the lights further.

Tea

I’ve just finished drinking a bottle of Lipton Ice Tea White with Raspberry. I like this tea, it’s refreshing and not too sweet. I don’t know how many of these I’ve drunk, but I looked at the label for the first time ever, today.


Ingredients:
Water, sugar, tea extract (10.8%) [green tea extract 9.7%, white tea extract 1.1%], flavours (contains wheat derivatives), raspberry juice, food acid(296), antioxidant(300). Contains wheat products.

I have two questions; first surely with a higher level of green tea extract this should be marketed as a green tea product and second, how do they manage to get wheat into a drink?

Why so hard?

We all have electronic items that require batteries. Some are completely innocent, others not so. Last night I had to replace the batteries in my heater/aircon unit remote and having purchased some during the day I went to work. As usual through, this seemingly simple task, turns into mission impossible as you try to free the little metal cylinders from their plastic and cardboard prison.

I know the manufacturers and shop keepers don’t want these items being stolen, but is it really necessary to make it harder to open this packet than a bottle of childproofed painkillers?

It seems that no matter how many perforations they put in the cardboard, they only go half way through which means you end up with a tiny pile of hairy cardboard before you break a nail, and then, finally, the batteries fly across the room, because you are pushing and pulling so hard you loss all control.

How the hell...

...did these pieces get between the two panes of glass?

When did manners and courtesy disappear?

Was it with woman’s lib? Meaning men no longer give up their seat for a woman wearing heels?

Why don’t people say ‘excuse me’ anymore and instead stare at the back of your head expecting you to know they want to move instinctively?

Why is it that an train aisle full of standing people doesn’t inspire someone to move their handbag and feet off the seat next to them?

When did a queue become just a way of standing before turning into an all out bun fight to get through a door?

Why did I have to ask to sit down, when I was on crutches?

Why, when paying for an item, does the next person feel compelled to stand so close to you, you can feel their breath?

In a world where personal space is becoming more and more precious, I say we need, more than ever to regain some of the basic manners and courtesy with which we are furnished as children. Of course, in saying this I am assuming that manners are actually taught to everyone. Based on the evidence from public transport, public events and your average shopping centre, I reckon it’s a subject that needs to be put on the school curriculum.

Reliably Unreliable

We all have one. Be they a friend, a mate, a buddie or acquaintance, we know if they are invited out they will say, ‘yes, I’ll be there’ with such convincing gusto, that you actually believe, for once, they may actually turn up.

When they call you, email you or text you at the eleventh hour (usually after they have been prompted) they let you down. It will always be an imaginative and creative excuse that rings true, and despite you having doubts, you say, ‘that’s OK, maybe next time’. When they do turn up to something, you are surprised and so happy you forgive the previous let-downs.

I have two such mates. I still invite the first one, but I know she won’t turn up. I know it’s a waste of paper, bandwidth and effort, but in the name of friendship I still make the effort. I’m dangerously close to plonking the second in the same basket.

At what point do you say, enough is enough and give up altogether?

Join the Cult

Yesterday I joined a cult. Nothing that promises to beam me up at the end of the world, just one that suggests for $20.95 per week I can have health, fitness and happiness. They even gave a branded backpack, water bottle and cap to share my new found faith with the world.

A couple of weeks ago I attended a yoga class put on by work, in work hours. I walked into the class with pain in my hip after a rather adventurous weekend and I wasn’t sure the mellow looking chick at the front of the room would be able to convert me. An hour later, I was pretty much pain free and feeling just a tad floaty. I decided on the way home, that I liked yoga and was already looking forward to the next lesson. This week, however, they changed the session time, taking it out of work hours. It wasn’t a big time, but I did the calculations and realised I could be home by the time I was half way through the class. And seeing as Home is truly where my heart is, I decided to give it a miss.

Yesterday I walking back to the office after having my annual flu vaccination when a cult minion stopped me by waving a ‘5 for $10’ leaflet at me. He tried to convince me that the best way to start the day was to attend the church of exercise between 7 and 9am, I told him, that no, the best way to start the day was sleeping ‘til as late as possible. I told him that unless he could find a way to fix my duff hip, my hypertension and sort out the ceoliac disease (currently being investigated by doctors), I was only interested in casual yoga. He told me I should commit to coming three time a week. I told him, that wasn’t gonna happen.

Peter in his navy blue branded robes asked to me to come and have a look at the facilities, have a chat. He told me I didn’t have to commit to anything and that I should look at the website for timetables. I’d forgotten about Peter by the time I got back to my desk, but my interest in Yoga was firmly at the forefront of my mind.

During a mini brain break later in the day I looked at the website, it revealed that there were two churches within a five minute walk of my office. So I looked up the yoga classes in both. The one Peter represented only had two weekday classes and they were both outside of office hours. The other one had six classes, five of which are over lunch time. Bingo!

I dug out the leaflet that had been pressed into my hand like a one sided drug deal and rang the number on the back. Peter answered on the second ring. Moments later I found myself walking away from my desk carrying only the leaflet and my mobile (in case hostage negotiation was required).

A brief chat where he tried to convince me that treadmill, stationary bikes and spin classes were good had me sat back, arm folded. Then he changed tact.

‘Yoga’, he said, ‘good for the mind, body, soul, it is. Relax it will help, strength it will build, muscles it will tone, weight it will reduce.’

I already knew that, that’s why I want to do it. And why was he talking like Yoga?

‘You don’t have to book classes, just turn up 5-10 minutes in advance and you can attend any of our nearly 90 branches across Australia.’

I signed up.

I’m pretty sure Fitness First (or Finance First, as most Aussies call it) is a safe cult to be a member of. I just have to be sure I don’t turn into a built up gym bunny who can’t put her arm down by her sides.

Never gonna happen!


PS. Attended a BodyBalance class today. Couldn’t do half the moves (hip restrictions) but I enjoyed it, and will go again.

Test your IQ

I did three IQ tests today at the urging of Facebook. It told me that I had been challenged by my friends. I was curious to say the least. I did a psychometric test and IQ test a few years back (for a job), that involved three hours of testing and over 150 questions covering maths, comprehension and shape recognition. I got a very good score on that one and felt like ringing my teacher (from when I was 8) and telling her to shove her ‘lazy and stupid’ comments up her arse.

The tests today involved five questions (105), ten questions (134) and another ten questions (110). My actual IQ, which I chose not to share, is a bit higher than the middle attempt today.

How can these tests tell you that you are ordinary based on ten questions?
Even worse, how can it text you and say ‘Not too shabby, but your still not a genius’. Did anyone else git their teeth at the missing apostrophe?

Of course, I know this all has nothing to do with telling me I’m smarter than the average, or where I fit into the ranking of my friends intelligence, it’s all about getting $6.60 per text message until I text, ‘STOP’.

Great Lyrics

'I spent ages givin' head'.

and to think they made a fuss about 'relax, when you wanna come'

Gotta love Lily Allen

Carrion

A couple of weeks ago I got a leaflet through the door warning me of the upcoming date for the neighbourhood ‘leave your rubbish for us to pick up’ day.

This is a scheme that local councils have put in place to try and curb dumping; in turn you leave your stuff on the curb. It happens once every three months and mostly, I think it works. A lot of the stuff gets collected by charity organisations who, at other times of the year tell you to get stuffed if you ask them to collect. The recyclables get recycled and the rubbish, well, that goes to landfill. However, much of the stuff left out never get to its intended destination, as there is an element of society that thrives of picking through others refuse and taking it, and no doubt, selling it for their own profit.

I had a few things in mind that really needed to go out. Not rubbish perse, just things I don’t need or want anymore and I was getting fed up with having in the garage. A queen divan bed and mattress (yes, I could have sold it, but it had ten years of marks on it, yuck), an arm chair, a few old Singer sewing machines that used to be used for display when I had the shop (tried museums and second hand store, no one wanted them) and a pile of flat packed cardboard boxes.

I spent yesterday morning making a neat pile on the verge outside my house, then popped out to get a few groceries. The sewing machines were gone when I got back.

Later in the day, I went to the movies. When I got back the mattress was missing.

The amazing disappearing items meant I could put something else out. You’re only supposed to put out 1cubic metre. So I moved a few things around in the lounge and put the sofa out there, don’t panic I have another, better one in storage (remnants of married life).

At 3.30 this morning I was awoken by male voices outside my bedroom window. At least three men were chatting loudly, I couldn’t understand a words, but judging by the laughing and high spirits, no doubt fuelled by a few, they were having fun. Then I heard the clatter of casters as they hit the road. I fingered a gap into the blinds and peered out the window to see the three men pushing the bed base down the road like a toboggan before jumping on it. Despite being unimpressed about being woken up at such an hour, I couldn’t help but smile.

Note to self: if I ever leave a divan bed out again, take the casters OFF!

This morning as I walked to the station, I couldn’t help but notice the previously neat piles outside other house, where no longer in order. Clearly each pile had been the pilfered and ended as a feeding ground for the Council Clean Up Crows.



- Not my pile of leavings, but an example of what it looks like after the good, big stuff has been taken.

Written in the Stars

I read my stars.

I know that they are a bit woolly , but it's a bit of fun for the train ride into and home from work.

Today, the stars in MX (the free communter paper) made me smile. It was pretty accurate.

'Relationship takes its own form. The best you can do right now is not to interfere with what is a natural process. The minute you step in with your ideas about what should be happening, chaos ensures. Relax and harmony comes.'

Smile!

This made me smile this morning. I think the story speaks for itself :-)