tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87748072266896129752024-03-05T20:53:12.833+11:00Life & Other Crisesa blog by Kerri SackvilleKerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.comBlogger500125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-27454378596563997972016-11-14T20:49:00.001+11:002016-11-14T20:49:42.574+11:00the endIf you have stumbled your way onto this blog, you are probably looking me up for some reason. That's nice. I'll look you up someday, too.<div>
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Please enjoy this website. I haven't added to it for a long time and I probably won't any time soon. I am lucky enough these days to earn a living from being a columnist, so all my ideas go into paid work. (Also, I still get a kick out of seeing my byline in the paper. And I have a nice profile pic in Sunday Life magazine, thanks to about a billion makeup artists and stylists and photographers and lights. But I digress....)</div>
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If you like my work, I post everything I write on my <a href="http://facebook.com/Kerri.Sackville" target="_blank">Facebook page</a>. I am also on <a href="http://twitter.com/kerrisackville" target="_blank">Twitter,</a> though not as regularly these days, and <a href="http://instagram.com/kerrisackville" target="_blank">Insta</a>, though my photos are rather sub-par. Occasionally I post good memes, though. You can be the judge.</div>
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If you want to contact me, you can do so via any of those media, or at my email address, k.sack@live.com. If you want to send gifts, please email first so I can be waiting outside to receive them. Chocolates are good. Also cash, or perhaps a kitten. </div>
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No flowers, though. I get sad when they die.</div>
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xxxx</div>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-25474938103761559212016-03-23T17:36:00.001+11:002016-03-23T17:36:42.923+11:00A Comment on Comments<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
A couple of weeks ago, I went on a date with a man who was very hostile. He had asked me out without knowing anything about me, but by the time I arrived at the café he had Googled me and decided he didn’t like me. I know this because he immediately began criticizing my opinion writing (he only believed in ‘facts’), my public profile (he is very ‘introverted’), and my social media use (he doesn’t even have a FB page).</div>
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He should have cancelled the date, but instead he arrived, barely looked at me, and then left after a cursory 29 minutes. I would not wish to repeat the experience.</div>
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Why am I telling you this? Because this, my friends, is why I don’t read the comments on my articles.</div>
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Reading the comments on the big websites I write for is like sitting down to coffee with someone who can’t stand me. They don’t know me, but they hate everything that I represent. I don’t want to subject myself to people who don’t like me, and so I choose to stay away.</div>
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Let me explain. Yes, there are some positive comments on big websites. But for the most part, people don’t comment a lot when they agree with an article. They might share it on their social media feeds, or press the ‘like’ button, or even message me about it, but they won’t bother logging in to the site and leaving a comment.</div>
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People log in and leave a comment most frequently when they are angry. And they are angry when they strongly disagree with the thesis of a piece. And when they strongly disagree with the thesis of a piece, they often decide the writer is a moron/an idiot/an *insert your choice of insult here*. Because angry people don’t see shades of grey. They see right and wrong, and if the writer is ‘wrong’, then they must be ‘bad’.</div>
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And so these commenters tell me how bad I am. They tell me how wrong I am. They tell me in all sorts of colourful language, with all sorts of capital letters, under all sorts of social media handles, most frequently anonymous. And they are allowed to do that, just like the dude I dated was allowed not to like me. But I didn’t have to date him, and I do not have to read the comments.<br />It doesn’t enrich me to read negative comments about my pieces. It frustrates me to read comments about me that are not true, and it frustrates me more that there is nothing I can do about it. And it depresses me no end to know that people like these commenters exist – people who are homophobic, anti-feminist, anti-choice, racist, or anti-whatever it is I have written about at the time.</div>
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Now, it’s true that there may be a useful comment in there somewhere. It’s true that someone may have a point of view that would enlighten or inform me. But sadly, I would have to wade through hundreds of insults to get to it, and the cost-benefit equation doesn’t add up in my favour.</div>
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When I stay away from comments, this frustration doesn’t exist. When I stay away from comments, these people don’t exist. And – whilst I know intellectually that they are still out there, just like the dude who didn’t like me still walks this earth – I don’t have to experience the frustration and sadness they bring to my life.</div>
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Happily, I still have this Facebook page, where people can leave a comment and communicate with me directly. For the most part, people are polite and friendly on my Facebook page, partly because they usually choose to visit my page if they already like my work, and partly because commenters are easily identifiable on Facebook. People are far ruder when they are shielded by anonymity than they are when you can see photos of their children.</div>
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But until such time as commenters are accountable on websites, I will continue to shield myself from their onslaughts. I am just a writer doing my job. And I would rather sit down for a coffee with someone who likes me than with someone who wants to tear me apart.</div>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-43108128087524462672015-12-18T11:13:00.002+11:002015-12-18T12:32:21.104+11:00STOP IT, PLEASE. WE DON'T NEED TO KNOW.<b>Ex Girlfriend of Former Bachelorette Dude Rants on Social Media about How He Hurt Her </b><br />
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Read about it if you can be bothered. It's all <a href="http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/celebrity-life/hook-ups-break-ups/former-bachelorette-contestant-michael-turnbull-and-katrina-vincent-split/news-story/8b251f6343fb5ec43428f073c66aea13" target="_blank">here</a>. Personally, there is little I care about less.<br />
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But what I do care about is the way people air their personal grievances on social media. Why do people do this? When did private lives cease to exist? And how will anyone ever be able to trust anyone again if we all just run to social media every time we are hurt or disappointed?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMwIbZfWih34auolvKxfhDyHhWBxZKT1h_GuLdh_cCunq9_v-VuWXi3rk4dCSQyucvqPzqimf3YSfr-hsG9hnPV8FWKIvzpf3nctTTbl4hij8ouQzZB3CMtSmG4oie-GiosZRoao1BwqA/s1600/MICHAEL.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmMwIbZfWih34auolvKxfhDyHhWBxZKT1h_GuLdh_cCunq9_v-VuWXi3rk4dCSQyucvqPzqimf3YSfr-hsG9hnPV8FWKIvzpf3nctTTbl4hij8ouQzZB3CMtSmG4oie-GiosZRoao1BwqA/s400/MICHAEL.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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I see it all the time, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram. Celebrities and regular people, with or without huge followings, sharing with the entire online universe the most intimate details of their lives. The dates. The sex. The passion. The hurts. The breakups. The betrayals. The disappointments. The fights.<br />
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It doesn't sit well with me. As someone who literally makes a living from writing about my life, I am very, very clear about my boundaries. And let me tell you, I'm sure it's cost me a click or two. I could fascinate you all with tales of my romantic adventures over the past couple of years. I've had highs and lows you wouldn't believe. (Or maybe you would - you've seen similar scenarios played out on other people's accounts ad infinitum.)<br />
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I've had great sex and awful sex. I've been deeply in love and hideously hurt. I've had fantastic first dates and quite shockingly bad ones. I've had all sorts of experiences that I could have played out, blow by blow, on your social media feed.<br />
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But I haven't, and I won't, because it's just plain wrong. It would be undignified for me, it would grossly unfair to the men involved, it would be humiliating for my kids and parents, and - most importantly of all - it is none of anybody's business.<br />
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Why would I need complete strangers to understand my perspective on a relationship? How would that help my pain or healing, or allow me to move on with my life? And whilst yes, there is a definite salacious titillation in knowing why two people broke up - I mean, which one of us hasn't wondered about Tom and Nicole, or Princess Di and Charles, or Jennifer and Brad - how does it help the actual parties themselves to share their secrets online?<br />
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Have some dignity, please. Keep your private lives private. The world doesn't need to know every single detail of your lives.<br />
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And we also don't need the inevitable '<i>Bouncing Back from Heartbreak</i>' stories or the <i>'Brave Jilted Girlfriend Rocks Bikini Body On Beach'</i>. But trust me, people. They are on their way.<br />
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<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-12824889211056471932015-12-04T08:57:00.001+11:002015-12-04T09:29:42.911+11:00End Violence Against WomenOn Tuesday I was sitting in a coffee shop with my friend Lana, reading <a href="http://clementinefordwriter.blogspot.co.id/2015/11/ruiner-of-mens-lives-evil-incarnate.html?view=classic" target="_blank">a post by the journalist Clementine Ford</a>. She had compiled screen shots of some (<i>some</i>, just some) of the horrendous abuse she received from men (and the odd woman) around the world for daring to express her opinions and for defending herself when attacked online.<br />
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I was stunned by the vitriol. Stunned by the hatred. Stunned by the language. C**t. Slut. Whore. Rape threats. Threats of violence. It was horrifying.<br />
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What was even more horrifying is that so many of these men used their real names. Their social media profiles showed pictures of them smiling with their families, or linked to Facebook pages listing their hobbies and interests. There were pictures of dogs and friends and holidays. This is how little they fear consequence or retribution. Because there IS no consequence online.<br />
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It was not me being attacked. I tend to fly under the radar when it comes to online abuse; I write about parenting and relationships and life and anxiety and just don't attract that kind of attention.<br />
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But those messages reflected such a profound misogyny, such a deep seated contempt of women, that the actual target was irrelevant. When you attack women with those kind of words, you attack us all.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjKmnXU2Hw7-VFS86tE7_TKXDBrMAoq1546SPxMNe-tupdVhQepUul1M1nsXN1ClbE7hTxWe3gUi7NECnx3JN9hk5Q8ukQ1ANlmY6Koqk2hwmQC7PEiN-v3reRTuG1bWobD8fCHGWqgPb/s1600/man+typing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVjKmnXU2Hw7-VFS86tE7_TKXDBrMAoq1546SPxMNe-tupdVhQepUul1M1nsXN1ClbE7hTxWe3gUi7NECnx3JN9hk5Q8ukQ1ANlmY6Koqk2hwmQC7PEiN-v3reRTuG1bWobD8fCHGWqgPb/s400/man+typing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Everyone gets abused online from time to time. Men also get abused online. But men are not threatened with sexual violence. Men are not threatened with harm towards their families. Men are not degraded and intimidated into silence.<br />
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I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear the fact that people feel they can attack women in this way. I wanted to do something. I wanted to show my support for Clem, but not just for Clem, for <i>all </i>women who are abused online.<br />
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And so I gathered some friends. I asked that we each tweet the names of the offenders listed on Clem's post, or at least the names of some of the worst offenders. I asked that we use the hashtag #endviolenceagainstwomen, and link to her post so people know what we are dealing with.<br />
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Please note that we do not wish to abuse or threaten or slander these men. We are simply naming them as being the authors of abusive tweets. Their messages stand for themselves.<br />
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I wanted to stand up and say that this is not okay. That this kind of abuse will be noticed. That there are consequences. That we will stand together and support each other. That when you attack one of us, you attack us all.<br />
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By this morning, my little group of friends had grown into a group of hundreds, and it keeps growing. You will see our tweets and read our Facebook posts. If you wish to support us, please share this post and others like it. If you are on Twitter, please retweet our tweets or cut and paste them into your own timelines.<br />
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I don't believe for a moment that this will change our culture of violence. I don't believe for a moment that this will end violence against women. But it's a start. A small step. A show of strength and support.<br />
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You have to start somewhere. We are starting here. Today.Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-4982398845737723622015-11-24T10:18:00.001+11:002015-11-24T10:21:53.116+11:00I Admitted to Not Liking Gaytimes. I Never Expected This.In a recent Facebook post, I admitted to not liking Gaytimes. The ice cream, not the physical expression of same sex love.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lPclqxeGAcFkIEzl2LNebY-jXkiftdosPWsbPoysH7WCHu5VoFhgZLk7XLFgTS6R2TOmEqaihW_zZCPX7-pKKlIAbN_OzShRw56gXEesqVxdfn5TGbdzuacPA6bZUZtytwe2Uu3W__PR/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3lPclqxeGAcFkIEzl2LNebY-jXkiftdosPWsbPoysH7WCHu5VoFhgZLk7XLFgTS6R2TOmEqaihW_zZCPX7-pKKlIAbN_OzShRw56gXEesqVxdfn5TGbdzuacPA6bZUZtytwe2Uu3W__PR/s1600/download.jpg" /></a></div>
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But really, the reaction would have been less vitriolic if it had been the latter. I have never been subjected to such violent abuse in all my time on the net.<br />
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There was disbelief:<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Denial:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Pathetic justifications:</span></div>
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Outright condemnation:<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">I was unfollowed:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Dropped:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Begged to delete my post:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But still, in the end, Jono had the last word:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And with that, it was over.</span></div>
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Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-27679921247748930122015-11-21T09:28:00.002+11:002015-11-21T09:28:20.251+11:00Drop Roaches - A Tale of Extraordinary CourageWe were running late, of course. I was taking my 16 year old son and his friend D to the Opera House to see the Pokemon Symphonic and we needed to leave ten minutes ago. I unlocked the car and the boys got in.<br />
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"NOOOOO! There are cockroaches!" screamed my son.<br />
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"AAGGGH" screamed his friend.<br />
<br />
And they were right. Three huge cockroaches were scampering across the floor of my car.<br />
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"Oh GOD," I cried. We fled the car. "I'll fix it!" I bolted inside and emptied every cupboard of my house in a frantic search for bug spray. There was none. Oh, GOD. So I grabbed the next best thing.<br />
Hair spray.<br />
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I was dashing out to the car with the hair spray held optimistically aloft when my neighbour appeared at her door, smells of a delicious chicken dinner wafting behind her.<br />
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"I NEED YOUR BUG SPRAY!" I yelled. She looked a little surprised. She is a lovely woman, and grandmother of several, and probably isn't accustomed to being screamed at on her own doorstep.<br />
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But she handed it over.<br />
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"I'll give it back later!" I called over my shoulder, and ran back out to the car.<br />
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There I found the teenage boys, being... well.... not as brave as one might hope.<br />
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"I'm not getting back in there!" my son announced. "Ever."<br />
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"YES YOU ARE!" I yelled. We were even more late, and I had spent a fortune on the tickets. "Here. We'll spray them and they'll die."<br />
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So I sprayed. I pretty much emptied my neighbour's spray within the confines of my not-so-big car. The fumes were toxic. Which was good, really, as that probably meant the cockroaches were dead.<br />
Or we would pass out, and be immune from their fearsome powers.<br />
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The roaches disappeared, and so we felt strong enough to proceed. I put the keys in the ignition, the boys put their feet up on the seats, and off we went.<br />
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I was on a main road, heading towards the city, when my son began screaming.<br />
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"Mum! It's on the ceiling! It's right above you!"<br />
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"NOOOOO!" I cried. "OH MY GOD NO!!!"<br />
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"It's FALLING!" he yelled. "IT'S A DROP ROACH! OH GOD IT'S ON YOUR BACK!!!"<br />
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"HELP!!!" I screamed frantically (all the while keeping my foot on the pedals and guiding the car vaguely in the right direction). "OH MY GOD!"<br />
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And then my son's friend D came to the rescue. "STAY STILL!" He pointed the bug spray at my back and fired. "Got it!"<br />
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The roach fell down. Somewhere. I don't know where. I pulled over and collapsed, shaking, by the side of the road.<br />
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"Thank you," I whispered.<br />
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"No worries," he said cheerfully. "I'm in the Rifle Shooting team at school,"<br />
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We went to the concert and had a wonderful time. And today, <i>obviously</i>, I buy a new car.Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-76570880652647694932015-11-12T15:55:00.000+11:002015-11-12T15:55:30.055+11:00I was asked to write for free for a funeral planning site.... and this is what happened....<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><b>Firstly, the email and my responses:</b></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hi Kerri,<br /><span style="line-height: 21.3px;">I am researching online for possible opportunities for my client to share content with within her industry.</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her new website is (redacted).</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><span style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She has been in the funeral industry for a very long time and wanted to start a truly independent resource for people going through a funeral or a tragic loss. As counselling is a huge part of that I thought your site would be a great fit.</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><span style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you are a very successful writer I wondered if you would be willing to maybe write a blog post for her site?</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I understand you may get a lot of these requests from agencies looking for links but we really are after quality content sharing with or without links. We believe if we provide quality and genuine helpful advice, people will link to it when they need to.</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><span style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Would love the opportunity to chat further if you are interested.</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Regards,</span></span></i></div>
<div style="line-height: 21.3px;">
<i style="line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">(name redacted)</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"></span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 21.3px;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 22.72px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Me: What are you able to pay?</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 21.3px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Him: Hugs and great content.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 21.3px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Me: Seriously, help me out here as I just don't get it. You're asking a professional writer to write for free for a funeral planning site? </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; line-height: 21.3px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 21.3px;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Him: Yes, I wanted to offer you a chance for more exposure to your site also.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21.3px;"><br /></span>
<b style="color: #444444; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 16px; line-height: 22.72px;">So I turned to Twitter to vent my frustration:</b><br />
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<b>And the reaction was awesome:</b></div>
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Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-43797485340536064652015-11-05T07:15:00.002+11:002015-11-05T07:15:31.984+11:00She's Gone and I Have Nothing to Wear Though I'm still no style icon, back in my teens and twenties (and, er, thirties) I really had no idea how to dress. I tried, but I constantly got it wrong - you know, the right pants with the wrong top, or the right dress with the wrong shoes, or the right shoes with the wrong everything else.<br />
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My sister, on the other hand, always looked great. She had a very particular style - sort of casual, just-thrown-together cool. She wore a lot of cargo pants and brightly coloured singlets and little skirts and the occasional gorgeous patterned dress or top. She loved purple. She had so many purple singlets we all lost count.<br />
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I remember her wardrobe; it was basically a portarobe in the sunroom off her bedroom, absolutely chock full of clothes in no particular order.<br />
<br />
Tanya laughed at my fashion choices. She laughed at a lot of my choices. I recall her once going through my CD collection which, admittedly, was rather woeful - lots of Michael Jackson and Madonna and Smiths and Kate Bush (to represent both my upbeat and contemplative sides). And then she noticed one rogue, totally hip album, and pointed and cried out, "Oh look! You have some Massive Attack by mistake!"<br />
<br />
Anyhow... every now and then she would let me go through her extensive wardrobe and pick out things I liked that she no longer needed. It was the best fun. I know she was the younger sister but it felt very much like a kid raiding her mother's wardrobe. Tanya bought a lot of stuff and discarded a lot of stuff and so I always came away with some new things to wear. Sometimes I'd want one of her newer outfits and she'd protest, but I nearly always got what I wanted. I'm persuasive that way.<br />
<br />
And the thing about Tanya was.... She loved giving me her clothes. She loved it when I looked nice. She genuinely wanted the best for me.<br />
<br />
She would have been so proud of all I've achieved, and she would have loved my youngest daughter so much. SO much. My baby turns eight on the 26th of November, three weeks to the day after Tanya will have been dead for eight years.<br />
<br />
Today. The 5th of November. It's been eight years.<br />
<br />
She was awesome. You would have liked her. All of you. You would have liked her. Most everyone did.<br />
<br />
Eight years today. I miss her. And I miss her wardrobe.<br />
<br />
I have nothing to wear.Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-42257473021224137392015-10-23T13:29:00.000+11:002015-10-23T13:50:12.548+11:00Finally... An Excellent First DateI had a brilliant date this week. One of the best ever.<br />
<br />
We had connected online - on Twitter, to be precise - after corresponding about a project my date had been involved with. Unfortunately we live in separate states, but when my date travelled to Sydney for work we arranged to meet for lunch.<br />
<br />
Often you meet someone and they look different to their photos, or the connection you had in the written word doesn't translate to a real life chemistry. In this case we just clicked. From the moment we saw each other in the assigned location, to the moment I had to leave an hour and a half later, we did not stop talking.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Our time together was too short. I'm so looking forward to seeing her again.<br />
<br />
Yes, she's a her. A female friend. And no, this post is not about coming out - it is about the joys of female friendship, and the strange reality that it is so much easier to find a connection with another female than it is with a man.<br />
<br />
This Saturday night I have a date with another new friend. She's a bit younger than me, absolutely gorgeous, and fabulous fun. We met through work, and our interactions are super easy and relaxed. Another dear friend of mine is the sister of a friend, and when we were introduced at the party we both knew we'd be in each others' lives forever.<br />
<br />
Of course I don't connect with every woman I meet. But in the last couple of years I have formed several real, rewarding connections with female friends, and yet - despite dating regularly - I have not felt it with a new man. And I'm not the only one. My single/divorced female friends report exactly the same thing. They meet women they connect with all the time, but not men. And it's baffling. Are men and women really so different? And if so, how can we bridge that gap?<br />
<br />
"How could I have met 30 or more men and not one was right?" a friend asked. I couldn't answer, because my experience has been the same. And don't tell us we're too choosy, because all we are looking for is the same resonance that we feel with female friends. That feeling of inhabiting the same emotional landscape. Would you settle for anything less?<br />
<br />
As my date this week agreed, true connections fill up our cup. And my cup is largely being filled by women (metaphorically, not literally, see 'not coming out' comment). I cherish my female friends. And girl dates really do lift my soul.<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-21898961884972301562015-09-30T13:15:00.000+10:002015-09-30T13:16:19.843+10:00Ageing: Are You Ready To Finish Your Slice?Sometimes when I am pottering around my house I interview myself. Some people would call that 'talking to themselves' but it's far more formal than that. I pose myself questions, think about them, and then carefully articulate my answers.<br />
<br />
If that makes me weird, well, wait till you hear about my faux cooking-show demonstrations.<br />
<br />
The other day, during one of my probing interviews, I asked myself how I feel about ageing. After all, if I was a celebrity I would get asked that question all the time. Any female celebrity over the age of 30 is asked how she feels about getting older. Male celebrities aren't asked until they hit 50, but hey, I've interviewed myself about gender inequality many times and it's really not at all surprising.<br />
<br />
So how do I feel about ageing?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgB359HgeqP06SXHqzQBPLoQq_ibYxXhYL94P1Jfcxpp3moEJNxBKLUSkbm-n3dLKlKb6ApGe5pZitZnpJvdNS4D8wmHWUfzIAeB0bRMD2tLWD3KM5qVX_VXCX_pmMmWV3qGS_PE1CEdc/s1600/brokencake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVgB359HgeqP06SXHqzQBPLoQq_ibYxXhYL94P1Jfcxpp3moEJNxBKLUSkbm-n3dLKlKb6ApGe5pZitZnpJvdNS4D8wmHWUfzIAeB0bRMD2tLWD3KM5qVX_VXCX_pmMmWV3qGS_PE1CEdc/s400/brokencake.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
cake: a metaphor</h2>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Well, I'm glad I asked.<br />
<br />
At 46, the physical stuff doesn't bother me too much. Yes, I have wrinkles, blah blah blah. Yes, I have stretch marks, blah blah blah. But what do you expect at this age? Quite frankly, I get more upset about my occasional pimples than I do about the Visible Signs of Ageing.<br />
<br />
And yes, I feel more Comfortable in Myself now than I ever did as a younger person. That all is true. I feel much more me than I did as a younger person. I am more confident, less concerned with what other people think. I know how I want to live my life, and am making that life happen.<br />
<br />
But you know what I don't like?<br />
<br />
I don't like the fact that time is running out. I don't like the fact that I am half way through my life. I feel keenly the sense that my years left on earth are limited. I know that we all have limited lifespans. I know that a twenty year old isn't going to live forever either. But I didn't feel my mortality at 20. I didn't even feel my mortality at 30. It hit me for the first time at the age of 45, and I suspect it will get stronger with each passing year.<br />
<br />
I know it's not fair to feel this way. I have lived 46 years already, and many of them well. I am like a child with only half a slice of cake left, resenting the other kids who haven't started theirs yet. We all get our slice, I am halfway through mine, and I mustn't be greedy.<br />
<br />
But I am. I want more cake. I like eating it and I don't want it to be over anytime soon. Or even in another 46 years.<br />
<br />
I've interviewed myself, and now it's over to you. How do you feel about ageing? Will you ever be ready to finish your slice?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-15079128926882656432015-09-16T11:21:00.000+10:002015-09-17T12:10:18.029+10:00Look! You can totally be a perfect parent! Just follow these easy guidelines! (sponsored)<div class="MsoNormal">
There is SO much pressure to be a perfect mother….. but
happily, it seems that things are changing. Recent research by Ski D’Lite found
that only half of Australian mothers now try to be perfect parents, with the
rest of us settling for ‘good enough’. It seems like ‘practically perfect’ is
the new idea.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And this is awesome. We shouldn't aim for perfection. So why
are half of all women still trying to get there?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t at all understand the term ‘perfect mother’. It has
never made any sort of sense to me. Being a mother is not a task that can be
performed to perfection; it is a relationship between two people, a parent and a
child. And no relationship can be perfect, because no <i>person</i> is perfect. There is no such things as a perfect child, and certainly
no such thing as a perfect adult, so how can there possibly be the perfect
relationship? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To be ‘perfect’ at motherhood makes as much sense as being
‘perfect’ at any other type of relationship. We can’t be perfect at friendship
or perfect at love. It is impossible. And it shouldn't even be a goal.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What’s more, it doesn't need to be. We don’t choose our
friends because they are perfect at friendship, we choose them because we love
them even with their flaws. And we don’t love our partners because they are
perfect, we love them because they are perfect for us.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We don’t need to be perfect parents for our kids to love us,
nor do we need to be perfect for our kids to thrive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But we can still be ‘perfect’ at many important aspects of mothering.
And when you go through the checklist, you’ll be surprised at how many you get
right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIMBoOqtwiRVjOgMRO8iyh24SkZVQGXouvwaHYFMMeusk1_s4IrBxGmoYyFGxnssM6-84A24lYinqhjGy5-P5KmC8VZn8Yn2LLBjQZLquGmTpfHx1861Rtz71BvIb-lDdEWUdb-81AB4o/s1600/An-early-incarnation-of-the-perfect-mom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUIMBoOqtwiRVjOgMRO8iyh24SkZVQGXouvwaHYFMMeusk1_s4IrBxGmoYyFGxnssM6-84A24lYinqhjGy5-P5KmC8VZn8Yn2LLBjQZLquGmTpfHx1861Rtz71BvIb-lDdEWUdb-81AB4o/s400/An-early-incarnation-of-the-perfect-mom.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
This is totally me. You can't see it but I am holding the selfie stick in my teeth.</h2>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<h3>
For example:</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-US">1.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><b>Birthing</b>: A perfect birth is
one which results in all four limbs and the head of the baby being expelled
from the mother’s body by the end of the birthing process. The birth may
involve pain relief, water, a surgeon, a midwife, meditation, chanting, or pretty
much whatever the hell you want as long as you get the baby out.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-US">2.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;"><b>
</b></span></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><b>Feeding your infant</b>: Perfect
feeding occurs when the infant ingests nutrition by some means. This can
involve a breast, a bottle, an eye dropper, a drip, or a fairy princess with a
magic cup.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-US">3<b>.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></b></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><b>Feeding your older child</b>: A
perfect meal for an older child includes food that will stop them from feeling
hungry. Whilst ‘healthy’ food is ideal, and organic food is lovely and all
that, it is not required for every meal, and ‘food’ can include juice, meats,
Vegemite sandwiches, plain noodles… anything that has calories, really. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span lang="EN-US">4<b>.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></b></span><!--[endif]--><span lang="EN-US"><b>Teaching your child to sleep</b>: A
child has been correctly taught to sleep if they spend periods of each night
unconscious. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US">5.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></b><span lang="EN-US"><b>Potty Training:</b> A child has
been perfectly potty trained if they learn to use the toilet some time before
their twelfth birthday.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US">6.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></b><span lang="EN-US"><b>Dressing your child:</b> A perfect
outfit includes clothes that more or less keep the child warm/cool/protected
from the elements. Style, colour, and co-ordination are utterly irrelevant.<br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18.0pt;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b><span lang="EN-US">7.<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]--></b><span lang="EN-US"><b>Cuddling your child: </b>Any cuddle
is a perfect cuddle. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<b>Check out the video below... it is seriously gorgeous and a huge relief to imperfectly perfect parents like me.</b><br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/43D4r9IIkOc" width="560"></iframe>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><b>This post is sponsored
by Ski D’Lite yoghurt, which I buy all the time for the kids because it is
delicious, now has 25% less sugar, and doesn't require cooking, spreading or
dicing into small pieces. Perfect.</b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-86814576583293853642015-09-10T11:45:00.004+10:002023-07-16T18:56:03.255+10:00My Secret Life as Candid AdmissionYesterday on Channel 7 I was outed as a high class escort named Candid Admission. It was a busy day for me. I had waved my kids off to the bus stop in my flannel PJ's and singlet top before dashing out to the supermarket to stock up on groceries and sex toys, and then changing into my leather crop top with metal zip detail and gold hotpants for a few hours work at the brothel. You can imagine how exhausted I was by the time I got to the studio for my Big Reveal. My cab ride took longer than expected because we did a contra deal, so I didn't even have time to change my clothes. Luckily, I was only filmed from the mid torso up so you can't see my hotpants and thigh high fishnets under the table.<div>
<br /></div>
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<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The response to my disclosure was incredibly positive. My mother was very proud, telling me she just wished that my dear grandmother Pussy Yum Yum was still alive to watch my triumph. The kids' school asked me to come in and talk to the Year 12's at Careers Day. And my LinkedIn account was flooded with requests to connect on a professional level.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And it was a true relief to get it off my chest and to finally live my truth. Kerri is a lie. Candid Admission has no lies. I am ready to go out into the world and be Candid. One chapter of my life has closed, but a new chapter is beginning. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
As for the escort work making me a better mum, that was just a line to sell my story. Naps and earplugs and a nightly gin and tonic make me a better mum. But you already knew that.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h2 style="text-align: left;"><b><i>Disclaimer: I am not really an escort. I was discussing the escort Samantha X on The Daily Edition when this caption came up. Still, it's nice to know I have career options.....</i></b></h2>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-74704992092134681442015-08-25T14:47:00.000+10:002015-08-25T14:47:32.365+10:00Dr Sexville Is In. Today: What is up with foot fetishes?<i>Dear Dr Sexville*,</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>What is up with foot fetishes? How did that become a thing?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Toey</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUJRXSAkIRIWGSB9mQBASqKRBo5L1-jcgdxScHta-VaVnZGISugF3YT4TjDX-3JRWvLnOpjcn7Oli2DVRS3LjI67KkmPw0ibDLVi1uVjY1GQg_kNe0ptwDvrR3RAwY3t0N0gnPd4kWZLe/s1600/KS-0041-H.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitUJRXSAkIRIWGSB9mQBASqKRBo5L1-jcgdxScHta-VaVnZGISugF3YT4TjDX-3JRWvLnOpjcn7Oli2DVRS3LjI67KkmPw0ibDLVi1uVjY1GQg_kNe0ptwDvrR3RAwY3t0N0gnPd4kWZLe/s320/KS-0041-H.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Dear Toey,<br />
<br />
When I was 15, I dated a boy who had a foot fetish. Except that I didn't actually 'date' him, I pashed him a few times at the pub (where I shouldn't have been, because I was underage, so let's just say I was 18.) Oh, and except that he didn't call it a foot fetish, because he was only 16 (or 18, if we're still at the pub); he called it a 'foot fallacy'. Clearly, he was either not very well read, or he was prone to constructing elaborate, invalid arguments in which feet played a key role in the flawed logic. But I digress...<br />
<br />
The point is, he liked to play with my feet when we kissed. Which means that foot fetishes have been around since at least my teens, which was approximately 70 billion years ago.<br />
<br />
Fetishes occur when a persona becomes sexually aroused by any thing or body part that is not specifically genital, like feet, earlobes, bunny costumes, or a really clean living room floor. And fetishes are very common, even if the object of the fetish is not. There are fetishes for elbows, morbid obesity, the Eiffel Tower, even harpsichords. All of the men I've dated have all had fetishes, for objects as diverse as Lamborghinis, Porsches, Ferraris, and Honda motorbikes.<br />
<br />
Foot fetishes, or podophilia, are the most common type of fetish, and they can be excellent fun. I slept with a man once who liked sucking my toes, using 'once' in the sense of 'many, many times' and 'toes' in the sense of 'yes, I mean toes' and it was thoroughly enjoyable.<br />
<br />
The only thing to remember about foot fetishes is that, like other objects to be sexually enjoyed, they are best experienced clean. So if there's a chance your partner will be want to get dirty with your feet, perhaps a little wash with some nice peppermint foot scrub followed by a pumice and some soothing cocoa butter moisturizer wouldn't go astray. Unless your partner is a purist, and likes that straight-out-of-the-shoe smell, in which case rip off those socks and get into it.<br />
<br />
And remember, a foot fallacy is something completely different. But we can talk about that another time.<br />
<br />
Dr Sexville<br />
<br />
<b><i>*Note: I am not an actual doctor, though I have performed the occasional minor self surgery, only once with catastrophic results</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
<h2>
<b><i>Leave your questions for Dr Sexville in the comments, or send to k.sack@live.com</i></b></h2>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-28169608951489165732015-08-24T10:00:00.001+10:002015-08-24T10:00:18.014+10:00why no-one will ever truly know you... but that's okayThe other day, I was imagining a scenario in which a mad scientist took my consciousness out my mind, and then offered me several different minds from which to I had to identify my own. (It was late. I'd been drinking. Just go with me here....)<br />
<br />
Of course, I'd be able to pick my mind immediately. Any of us would be able to pick our own minds. We would recognise our minds by our thoughts, fears and desires. Your thoughts would look very different to mine, or my mother's, or my friend Mandy's, or my cat's.<br />
<br />
Which demonstrates to me that we all know who we are. We may not be able to clearly <i>articulate </i>who we are, because defining our own uniqueness in language is remarkably difficult. But we do, at a very profound level, know ourselves, far more than we may believe.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXtil8KiIajUjp0Zqed3fA6_pBlbelcY9mMeVCL4xnb-UOU6lMU8ASQBR1kFcJz1E7zTdC9mOaJ7IQDMaNoZo2abxHNvmLxPopYar1YLfZ5VQvVC6rocA2BR80I1BHVu__0gcxb1ayGS5/s1600/Thinking_too_Much-1390426125m.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAXtil8KiIajUjp0Zqed3fA6_pBlbelcY9mMeVCL4xnb-UOU6lMU8ASQBR1kFcJz1E7zTdC9mOaJ7IQDMaNoZo2abxHNvmLxPopYar1YLfZ5VQvVC6rocA2BR80I1BHVu__0gcxb1ayGS5/s400/Thinking_too_Much-1390426125m.jpg" width="321" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: right;">
cristy johnson 'thinking too much'</div>
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<br />
But how well can other people ever know us?<br />
<br />
We define ourselves by our thoughts. Sure, you may be a 'mother' or 'father', a 'son' or 'daughter', a 'writer' or 'accountant' or 'stay at home mum' or 'surgeon', but these are all just indicators of the things you think about all day.<br />
<br />
I am a writer, sure, but this is because a lot of my thoughts are about writing. I am a mother, definitely, because my head is filled with thoughts and memories of my kids. But, while these are easy ways to explain who I am, they don't adequately describe what I feel like inside my own head.<br />
I am my thoughts. I am a conglomeration of the thousands of things that cross my mind all day.<br />
<br />
"I am worried about..."<br />
"I miss her..."<br />
"I love him..."<br />
"I'm so uncomfortable about...."<br />
"I wish that..."<br />
"I'm scared to..."<br />
"I'm excited about..."<br />
<br />
These thoughts are what define me. These thoughts make me who I am.<br />
<br />
And these thoughts are the reason that no-one else in this world will ever fully know me. Because no-one else will have access to all my thoughts; others can only know me through my actions and words.<br />
<br />
And the same goes for you. You can never be known in your entirety because no-one else can ever get into your head. Unless you walk around offering a running commentary into your most private thoughts - in which case other people will most likely judge you to be psychotic - you can never be fully known by another.<br />
<br />
And this is fine. It is how it is. But we need to remember that - just like no-one else will fully know us - we can never fully know another. Every single person you know has endless thoughts. They have a secret inner world that matches up only to a degree with the outside persona to which you are privy. And being aware of that reminds us that no-one is better than another, or more valuable, or more worthy.<br />
<br />
We are all just thoughts. We are all just minds.<br />
<br />
And my mind was clearly feeling a bit profound the other day. Right now, it wants to stop thinking altogether and take a bath.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-31092391672892529772015-08-17T12:07:00.002+10:002015-08-17T16:44:35.479+10:00The Seven (Eight?) Steps of An Internet Date <b><i>Note: This is not a manual. This is my personal experience. This is probably why I am still single. I know, I know...... </i></b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Stage One</b><br />
<br />
Receive kiss/smile/nudge/message/swipe from person on Internet Dating site. Think, "Oh, he's cute! Thank god! There are still cute people left in my age group!" Respond positively.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If the person is repulsive, terminate here.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Two</b><br />
<br />
Begin messaging the person. Think, "Oh, he's funny and can spell! Thank god! There are still funny people left on the internet who can spell!" Casually ask what the person's job is to check he is not in jail, unemployed or a real estate agent. Breathe sigh of relief. Casually how long the person has been separated/divorced/widowed/single to check he is not married, 'separated but still living together', 'looking for some threesome fun' or needing solace after the sudden death of his wife last week. Breathe sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If the person is illiterate, married, grieving or a real estate agent, terminate here.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Three</b><br />
<br />
Exchange real names. Immediately Google the person to check they are, indeed, who they say they are. When LinkedIn profile matches Internet Dating profile, breathe a sigh of relief.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If the person does not actually exist on the internet, terminate here. Everyone who is a real person has some kind of online footprint. I mean, some people actually don't, but they are to be approached with the utmost suspicion and caution and I ain't got time for that.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
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<b>Stage Four</b><br />
<br />
Exchange phone numbers. Add person's name to phone with helpful reference details such as 'Phil the Accountant from RSVP', 'Mark the Podiatrist from eHarmony' or 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder'. Commence texting.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>You probably wouldn't really save 'Simon the Hottie from Tinder' in your phone as he probably won't be around for long, but I'm trying to be comprehensive here.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Five</b><br />
<br />
Exchange witty texts for a couple of days. Forward the choicest texts to your best friend with captions such as 'He's so funny!' and 'He's so clever!' and 'Look how cute he looks holding a wombat!'<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If he can't spell for shit, is boring, or doesn't respond to your texts within an hour, terminate here.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Six</b><br />
<br />
Speak on the phone.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If he sounds like something out of Kingswood Country, if there are massive, awkward silences, or if he has a higher voice than you, terminate here. </i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Seven</b><br />
<br />
Meet.<br />
<br />
Note: <i>If he looks twenty years older than his pictures, if he is six inches shorter than specified, if he is obnoxious/rude to waitstaff/boring/arrogant/disinterested in you, if he has no sense of humour, if he doesn't get your humour, if he cries when talking about his ex, if he becomes purple with rage when talking about his ex, if he doesn't ask you anything about yourself, if he talks excitedly about your future babies, if he proselytizes about God/clean eating/manifesting your own truth, or if he simply does not resonate with you for whatever reason, terminate here.</i><br />
<br />
<b>Stage Eight</b><br />
<br />
Fucked if I know. I guess you meet again?<br />
<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-61654752626161557642015-08-03T15:01:00.002+10:002015-08-03T15:39:44.297+10:00CAFE DEATH STAREI love eating out in cafes. I love the coffee, the food, the atmosphere, and the delight the wait staff take in attending to my every need.<br />
<br />
Today, however, my lunch time experience was disappointing, to say the least. And, as I am not in the mood to say the least, I will say the most, which was that it was unpleasant, uncomfortable, and, frankly, a little terrifying.<br />
<br />
I arrived at the cafe before my friend, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/SharpestPencilOnline?fref=ts" target="_blank">Lana</a>, who had asked me to pre-order her a coffee. Sadly, by the time she arrived the waiter had not taken my coffee order, so she joked goodnaturedly with him about the fact that I had let her down.<br />
<br />
The waiter didn't get her humour at all, and wandered off in a state of confusion, which I cannot condemn, because Lana's humour can be hard to understand.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare</h2>
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But then he took our order, which included a baguette (for me) and poched eggs for Lana. Yes, the menu said 'poched' eggs. Which is fine, really, because I can forgive a typo. A poched egg is an egg by any other name. Except that when Lana ordered her poached eggs, and I muttered 'poched' under my breath, the waiter looked monumentally unimpressed. Perhaps he simply believed the scrambled eggs were a better choice, but either way, it was a loveless moment.<br />
<br />
Still, the worst was yet to come. Because when my baguette arrived it was the size of a newborn - like, a proper newborn human, not one of those minuscule newborn kangaroos that look like jelly beans for the first weeks of their lives. Lana's eggs, however, were teeny tiny. I mean, the eggs were regular size - not, like, newborn kangaroo size - but they were perched on one piece on toast, and it was a pretty fucking small piece of toast at that. Seriously. That toast could not have fit a newborn human's handprint, let alone filled an adult sized human's stomach.<br />
<br />
So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.<br />
<br />
"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."<br />
<br />
Well, he looked shocked. Truly. I might as well have asked him for newborn kangaroo on a plate of mashed yeast. There were some disapproving looks, some rustling in the kitchen, and then a waitress who we had never seen before flounced out, dropped the toast on the table, and issued Lana with a death stare capable of freezing full sized mammals of all description in their tracks and shattering them to pieces. It was like looking into the eyes of a psycho killer. There was just blackness there. Dark pools of anger and revenge.<br />
<br />
Lana did not finish her toast. She was too frightened. I finished my baguette, because no mere confrontation with a murderous waitress can dampen my appetite. And, to be honest, it was a delicious baguette. Much, much better than the poched eggs.<br />
<br />
All in all, it was an unsettling experience, and I am still recovering. As for Lana, well, the food poisoning hasn't kicked in yet, but we are monitoring her progress by the hour.<br />
<br />
Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-61083002298169301512015-07-31T13:32:00.002+10:002015-07-31T13:34:04.702+10:00Things I Should Have Sorted by 40, But Haven'tI am 46. That is closer to 50 than 40. (And yes, you probably worked that out yourself, but I'm still coming to terms with it.) By now I should probably have worked out this Adulting gig. I've been doing it for a long, long <strike>long</strike> time.<br />
<br />
But there are still things I haven't figured out, despite my advanced age: things I should have sorted by 40, but haven't.<br />
<br />
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<ol>
<li>I am still searching for the ideal hair and skin care products. I have not yet accepted the reality that it's not the products that are imperfect, it is my hair and skin.</li>
<li>I still let paperwork pile up in huge mounds around my house. I have tried 758,000 filing systems over the past three decades, and not one of them has eliminated the mounds.</li>
<li>I still sometimes eat my feelings. </li>
<li>I am still a sucker for clothing bargains and am forever purchasing non-returnable items on sale that I hate the minute I bring them home.</li>
<li>I am still incredibly trusting, and get fooled by liars time and time again.</li>
<li>I still bite my nails. Even my acrylic nails.</li>
<li>I still run out of bread and milk <i>all the time</i>.</li>
<li>I still confuse sex with love.</li>
<li>I still don't have a formal exercise regime. Or even a casual exercise regime.</li>
<li>I still lose my temper with the kids and regret it afterwards.</li>
<li>I still don't know the capital cities of many countries in the world, despite really, truly trying to memorise them.</li>
<li>I still don't have a signature dish. I don't even have a signature drink.</li>
<li>I still fret if I don't get enough sleep.</li>
<li>I still assume people are dead or angry with me if they don't text me back straight away.</li>
<li>I still need therapy.</li>
</ol>
<div>
What about you?</div>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-48752121218471325802015-07-22T10:47:00.000+10:002015-07-22T10:47:05.096+10:00Why Looks Matter, Though I Wish They Didn'tIn a recent post <a href="http://lifeandothercrises.blogspot.com.au/2015/07/keep-personal-correspondence-out-of.html" target="_blank">I referenced a woman who had shamed a man who didn't find her attractive because she was fat</a>. Very contentious stuff. And I've been thinking about it a lot since.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Attraction is important. We are not just brains - we are brains walking around in bodies with faces attached. Our bodies and faces are as much a part of who were are as our minds. And our brains have a tremendous influence on our bodies and faces. Think about it. What do you eat? How much do you exercise? How much makeup do you wear? What clothes do you choose? How do you do your hair? Do you have tattoos/piercings/weird feather type things sticking out from odd places? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
All of these decisions come from your brain, and will change your appearance accordingly.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But it works the other way, too. We are all born with a particular body - a body that can be altered to an extent, but not entirely. How tall or short we are, how conventionally attractive our features, our genetic predisposition to being thin or fat, any disabilities or illnesses, will all dramatically affect our personalities.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><h2>
My last boyfriend.</h2>
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</tbody></table>
We are a combination of mind and body. And when we meet other people, we are attracted to their particular combination of mind and body, or we are not. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't really understand the science of attraction. I know that I can find classically good looking men remarkably uninteresting, and can be devastatingly attracted to men who would be more suited to the cover of Horse and Hound magazine than Men's Health. But I also know that I can have a visceral repulsion towards a man who may be perfectly pleasant in personality, but whose appearance triggers something negative in me. It may have nothing whatsover to do with traditional notions of beauty, but rather his appearance doesn't resonate with me for reasons I can't articulate.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Of course, attraction is fluid. We can find someone unattractive on first meeting, get to know them, and decide they're not so bad after all. I remember thinking a friend's husband was the least attractive man in the universe until I became friends with him, and realised he was nice looking after all. As I said, brains and body are inextricably connected.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But what to do when you're dating? And is judging people on their looks something we should feel bad about? Lana and I discussed these issues the other day. Would love to hear your thoughts.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/k4-tJY5apqE" width="560"></iframe>Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-52310067966931541062015-07-09T11:45:00.001+10:002015-07-09T11:45:13.557+10:00Keep Personal Correspondence Out Of The Public Arena - A Very Unpopular ArgumentYesterday I got into a discussion/debate with a number of commenters about a recent post in which a woman shared correspondence between her and a man she met on Tinder. The man wrote her a detailed email explaining that whilst he very much liked her, he wasn't attracted to her body because it was fat. The woman responded to him in her blog in an angry message explaining why he could kiss her arse.<br />
<br />
I think (believe, know) the woman had every right to respond with whichever words she chose to the man in question. What alarms me is that she chose to do it publicly.<br />
<br />
The woman is not alone. Recently <a href="http://emrusciano.com.au/wp/" target="_blank">Em Rusciano</a>, a columnist I greatly admire and like personally, published a column about an awful man on Tinder who body shamed a potential date. Again, the correspondence was shared.<br />
<br />
And Em is also not alone. This is a huge trend in social media at the moment. When people receive private correspondence that they do not like, or find hurtful or abusive, they share it online. And I'm not stupid. I understand the reasoning. There is an intense desire to shame the person involved, to expose them for the nasty piece of work they are. And there is an empowerment in shaming someone who has hurt you. It feels good to get it out in the open, and receive approbation and affirmation from countless strangers.<br />
<br />
But that doesn't make it right. I don't believe it is okay to share personal correspondence online.<br />
<br />
For one thing, we all make mistakes. We all hurt people. No, we are not all arseholes, but even arseholes are not arseholes all the time. If you feel it is okay to shame someone else, then you have to be prepared to be shamed yourself. And how would you feel if your own personal correspondence was shared? If you were nasty to a lover, or friend, in an unwise, unguarded moment, and they shared your text or email with the entire world?<br />
<br />
And if you answer "I wouldn't care, because I wouldn't do that, and if I did I would deserve it," then ask yourself carefully: have you really never written anything of which you have been ashamed? Have you really never made fun of someone behind their back, or shot off an angry text, or been cruel? Have you really never done anything to which someone else could take offence?<br />
<br />
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<br />
And even if you answer no, think about this. Do we want a world where people jump online every time they are disgruntled? Where we no longer deal with personal issues between ourselves, but take them into the public arena for the world to referee? We try to teach our children to work through their differences without running to their parents or teachers, and yet what are we teaching them by racing to the internet every time when we have a dispute with another person?<br />
<br />
If a person offends you, deal with them. Tell them how you feel. And if they continue to upset you, block them. Delete their messages. When you block someone they don't exist anymore. They are gone. It is a very powerful tool.<br />
<br />
And obviously if they are threatening or harassing you, go to the police. Take out a restraining order. Threaten them with legal action. If a person is dangerous, you're certainly not going to protect yourself by shaming them publicly.<br />
<br />
There are undoubtedly some situations in which disclosure is in the best interests of the public, for example when they involve authority figures or criminal activities or threats to public safety. But to have 'running to social media' as the default position for issues between two individuals creates all sorts of problems. We will become a society in which the morality is held externally, in the Greek chorus of the online world. And we will lose our personal resilience, to be able to deal with interpersonal difficulties without the assistance and intervention of a thousand strangers.<br />
<br />
I know most people will disagree with me. But you can also rest assured that any personal correspondence sent to me will remain private. And I bet that even those who disagree with me will find that <br />
reassuring.Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-58195780397028940852015-07-06T17:14:00.000+10:002015-07-06T17:19:58.597+10:00THE TROLL EDITIONIf there is one thing I don't want to be it's a hypocrite. I mean, there are lots of things I don't want to be. I don't want to be a leper, or a communist, or a parking officer, or a contestant on a reality show. But I also don't want to be a hypocrite. Not being a hypocrite is one of my Core Values.<br />
<br />
And so, in giving with my Not Being A Hypocrit-ism, I must be prepared to be criticised. I make my living, in part, by writing opinion pieces, and if I am allowed to have my own opinions then other people must be allowed to have their opinions of me.<br />
<br />
And here's the thing: not everyone will like what I write. Sometimes I write pieces that get floods of positive feedback, messages and emails and tweets and balloonagrams from the sky. (Okay, not balloonagrams, but we do like balloons here, so if you feel moved to send one, please contact me for my address.) But no matter how well received a piece is, there will always be someone who doesn't agree. No matter how much people love my writing, there will always be someone who thinks I'm shit. And no matter how many people love my work, there will always be someone who cannot stand the very sight of my name. (I must say, I'm included in that last one - I've always thought 'Kerri' was a pretty poor moniker.)<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JlralcceOlp4u29WI5rvRg6RL5o7O23bt90srebd9fDi9bFqy_Bzzh08Fb4Qju1YPJSqHavImDMvBfm2hKWgXyVjel3Yn-VVlDFSrLoKQRpyjqTsev0bnEqCsGyecxawmQ8mnr9u2A5n/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="387" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JlralcceOlp4u29WI5rvRg6RL5o7O23bt90srebd9fDi9bFqy_Bzzh08Fb4Qju1YPJSqHavImDMvBfm2hKWgXyVjel3Yn-VVlDFSrLoKQRpyjqTsev0bnEqCsGyecxawmQ8mnr9u2A5n/s400/download.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
So if someone wants to express their dislike for my work, they should feel free to do so. Not that they need my permission, of course. But I'm giving it anyway (which will probably piss them right off). I genuinely, truly do not care if someone says I am a terrible writer, or that my opinions suck, or that my hair looks really bad now that it's been cut. (Oh GOD, I lie, I do care if you don't like my hair. Do you like my hair? Please tell me you like my hair!)<br />
<br />
Obviously if someone is threatening, or brings up my family, or reveals intimate details of my life (it is MY decision when I tell you about my secret marriage to Simon Baker, NOT YOURS) I will come out fighting. But criticism, no matter how rudely expressed or laughably phrased, is absolutely fine.<br />
<br />
So when Lana told me about some nasty comments about me on GOMI ("Get Off My Internets") recently, I was amused. We talk about it at length (well, five minutes is a length) in this video below. I also address those rumours about my divorce and my sex life with a female online personality. Exciting stuff indeed. Keep it going, GOMI!!!!!!<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/oIhAvnROvOU" width="560"></iframe>Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-8898567659972347412015-06-16T15:58:00.001+10:002015-06-16T15:58:53.608+10:00Dreams of the Dead<div class="MsoNormal">
Shortly after my sister died I had a dream. It was unlike
any dream I’d had before, or have had since. It was crystal clear and in full
colour, with none of the sepia fuzz or blurred edges of regular dreams. It was
absolutely indistinguishable from real life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was in a corridor at a party, surrounded by people, with
music blaring. I looked up and I saw my sister dancing toward me. Tanya had
been ill for years before she died, but in the dream she was healthy,
beautiful, and radiantly happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She smiled at me, and we had a brief conversation, too
intimate to be repeated here. But I said what I needed to say to her, and her
reply was just what I needed to hear. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I woke up with an absolutely overpowering sense of having
just had a conversation with my sister. Her voice rang in my ear, as real as
the sounds you can hear now. It was odd and unsettling, but incredibly
comforting to me. <br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBgAwOe-pdhxYxFLpXklRH36iW1y_hHRI92UOjqD7IC2tTOsSPY9Y8rs_vLnJtFDD4fOt2XXBufAa5Vhjru-fYtVXOPydQEIQ8kpWfpfSoJvMWYTUKtBaZav22FqScFHIfBN-CyxaK7kY/s1600/images+%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisBgAwOe-pdhxYxFLpXklRH36iW1y_hHRI92UOjqD7IC2tTOsSPY9Y8rs_vLnJtFDD4fOt2XXBufAa5Vhjru-fYtVXOPydQEIQ8kpWfpfSoJvMWYTUKtBaZav22FqScFHIfBN-CyxaK7kY/s400/images+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
I am not a spiritual person. I have never believed in the
spirit world, or in life after death. I never for a moment imagined that I could
communicate with my sister, and I’m still not sure that I did. But the dream
felt like I had communicated with her, and it gave me the closure that I so
desperately needed. It gave me a final conversation with my sister that I did
not get a chance to have in real life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tanya has appeared in my dreams many times since, but never
again in that same way. My dreams of her are often distressing; she is there,
but I know that she shouldn’t be there because she is dead, and my dream self
is confused trying to work it all out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I asked friends if they ever dreamed of their lost loved
ones and, overwhelmingly, they do. Some like D, whose husband died suddenly
last year, have profoundly upsetting dreams in which their loved one is lost
over and over again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“I'm
always chasing him, begging him to come back, to stay with me and our three
sons. He never answers my questions, never looks at me in these dreams. He just
walks away and ignores my pleading. I hope to one day have a comforting dream
with him in it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Others
find their dreams to be </span>uplifting, offering another glimpse of that
deeply missed person. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I <span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;">recently renovated and moved into my late parents’ home,” says M, “and they
visited me in a dream – they were so happy to be at my housewarming. I believe
they were just letting me know they approve.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;">And
C, who dreamed of her late father when she was pregnant. “He came and sat next
to me in his favourite tennis shorts, put his hand on my belly and told me
we're having a girl and she will be fine. Two weeks later we found out we were
having a girl and she is now almost seven. I believe dreaming of our departed
is them coming to say hello.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet many others, like me, feel bereft when they wake, as
their conscious mind remembers what their dream state did not.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;">“It
is comforting during the dream,” said S, who lost a parent, “but achingly sad
when I wake and have to process the loss again.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; mso-ansi-language: EN;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course it is sad. There is always going to be <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>sadness in death. And I wouldn’t wish my dreams of Tanya
away, not even the ones that cause me pain. It is okay for me to feel pain when
I remember my sister, or when I conjure her in my dreaming. She was in my life
for 37 years, and she will always be part of the fabric of who I am, whether or
not she is still alive.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve long since stopped wondering whether my initial, hyper
realistic dream was anything more significant than just my brain grieving a
loss. I know now that it really doesn’t matter. Whether it was my sister
visiting me from beyond, or my subconscious being super kind to my conscious,
is irrelevant. It helped me more than any grief counselling or sympathy. At the
time it was just what I needed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My sister is gone, but she lives on in my dreams. And I cherish
that. It means she is still with me, that she is not forgotten. I hope that I
dream of her for the rest of my life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b><i>This column first appeared in Sunday Life magazine</i></b></div>
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-58745596922012408532015-06-12T10:16:00.000+10:002015-06-12T10:16:16.341+10:00Ask Me About Dating!So... a couple of weeks ago I was approached by eHarmony to participate in a series of videos about dating and relationships. At first I assumed I was chosen because I am such an expert in matters of love and sex - after all, I have written extensively on the subject and been on about 17,000 dates with 16,999 different men.<br />
<br />
As discussions continued, however, it became clear that the videos would feature a REAL expert in love and sex, and that I would be there as an example of someone who needs help.<br />
<br />
Which is fine. Really. I'm totally cool with that. As is my cat, who will probably eat my body after I die alone....<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Anyway. I like eHarmony. I've actually met a couple of really nice men through eHarmony (and one dude who turned out to be a complete and utter nob, but that really wasn't the fault of the website). And I'm excited to be meeting Melanie Schilling, the Proper Relationship Expert. I have all sorts of questions for her, like:<br />
<br />
1. How long should you chat to someone before you actually meet them?<br />
2. Do you need to give someone a reason why you don't wish to see them again?<br />
3. Why was that dude such an utter nob?<br />
<br />
Even more excitingly, as the video won't be shot for another couple of weeks, I can ask any questions that <b>you </b>have for Melanie. You can write them as a comment here on the blog, in Facebook or on Twitter, or email me directly if you want to remain anonymous, at k.sack@live.com and we will address them in the video.<br />
<br />
For those of you who do not require dating advice, after you finish celebrating your paired-up status, feel free to ask me about my own dating experiences. I have some super interesting stories to tell.<br />
<br />
Begin!<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-61147794545454073422015-06-10T07:45:00.000+10:002015-06-10T07:45:07.834+10:0012 Reasons An Electric Blanket Is Better Than A Man<br />
<ol>
<li>It heats up super quickly when you are in the mood.<br /></li>
<li>It never gets hot for anyone but you.<br /></li>
<li>It gets turned on even when you're in your old pyjamas and bedsocks.<br /></li>
<li>It exists purely for your pleasure and seeks nothing for itself (except power, which is kind of attractive).<br /></li>
<li>It doesn't complain that its legs have fallen asleep when you lie on it.<br /></li>
<li>You are its first. The warranty says so.<br /></li>
<li>When you need a break it will sit on the shelf and wait for you indefinitely<br /></li>
<li>It will never get you pregnant.<br /></li>
<li>It gives you exactly what you need when you are sick or cranky.<br /></li>
<li>It is adjustable.<br /></li>
<li>It is only very rarely combustible.<br /></li>
<li>It will keep performing for you until it dies.</li>
</ol>
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<div>
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Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-31527418127632931882015-06-01T20:12:00.000+10:002015-06-01T20:12:37.641+10:00Divorce. Marriage. Does it even matter?Yesterday, I heard that two more couples I know have split. In that past six months, there have been five separations in my wider social group; in the past year, nine.<br />
<br />
Now, you'd think that as a divorced woman I'd be delighted to hear of more women and men joining my ranks. More people like me! We're everywhere!<br />
<br />
But in fact it deeply saddens me. I still very much want to believe that relationships can last the distance, that some people are gloriously happy in their marriages - or, at least, happy enough.<br />
<br />
It's strange that this is so important to me. I am someone who fiercely believes that the value of relationships is not related to their length. A relationship is not invalid because it doesn't last forever. Some of my greatest friendships, and indeed my greatest romantic love, did not last forever. The fact that they had a shelf life doesn't at all change the profound impact those people had on my life, the tears and the laughter we exchanged, the support we offered each other, the experiences we shared together.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkBOY128pCpqLd1NgplsGz0WH3Xdzl3fTBKQ7_FG9lqvvF5Q4q5WswcFqnX1rYBapYcCkji6cOoevgKnKRkW5g32QBrIxhxceZ9NVzzLRSPeZpiw-RKiT_W74kyopZT0wtLTca3E2HKOv/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTkBOY128pCpqLd1NgplsGz0WH3Xdzl3fTBKQ7_FG9lqvvF5Q4q5WswcFqnX1rYBapYcCkji6cOoevgKnKRkW5g32QBrIxhxceZ9NVzzLRSPeZpiw-RKiT_W74kyopZT0wtLTca3E2HKOv/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
And yet I still want to know that some loves can last forever. I adore the idea of friendships spanning an entire life. I feel happy when I see an elderly couple holding hands and learn they have been together for seventy years.<br />
<br />
I know some very happily married people and their happiness really does elevate me. There is something almost magical about a couple happily in love after twenty, thirty years. They are like a touchstone, proof to me that love can endure over time.<br />
<br />
And every time I learn of another separation I feel pained, particularly when they are a couple I had thought were well suited. I feel sad for the kids, I feel sad for another lost touchstone, and, most of all, I feel sad for the partners. I know what they're about to go through. I know how rough it is.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I even feel frustrated. When a person tells me that their ex is still their 'best friend', I don't quite understand why they would split. Wouldn't it be brilliant to be married to your best friend? Isn't everything else fixable? But I know - or at least, I remind myself - that separation is never the easy alternative. It comes at a huge price - socially, emotionally, and financially. No-one chooses separation without very good reason.<br />
<br />
So tell me. Are you in a long term happy marriage? Do you know someone who has been happily married forever? Is there hope for marriage? And - most significantly - does it even matter???<br />
<br />Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8774807226689612975.post-71849929248392271182015-05-29T11:50:00.000+10:002015-05-29T11:50:03.112+10:00Do you want to truly SEE yourself? Try this.A few days ago I had dinner with a girlfriend who is also a single mum. She's recently starting dating a new man, and when she described him to me alarm bells started ringing. I could read between the lines, I could sense her tension and uncertainty, it was so clear to me the way she was compromising. <br />
<br />
I didn't say much. It's not my place to challenge her. But it got me thinking about the numerous times close friends of mine challenged me when I was dating someone who wasn't good for me. The guy was a million shades of wrong, and was making me far more miserable than happy, but I couldn't see it. <br />
<br />
And why not? Because it is almost impossible to see ourselves objectively. We are too caught up in our own heads.<br />
<br />
Many of us are tremendously emotionally intelligent about other people. We can deconstruct their spin. We can analyse their motivations. We can cut through their bullshit. We can give advice! Fabulous advice! We can show them the way forward!<br />
<br />
But when it comes to helping ourselves out of a quagmire, we are completely stuck. We can't see our own patterns, because they are the veil through which we view ourselves. It's like discerning the Matrix when you're living in it. <br />
<br />
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<br />
You can't know what you can't even perceive.<br />
<br />
Recently I discovered a trick to help me see myself the way I can see other people. I've found it to be incredibly useful during those times when I have found it difficult to be objective about my own situation, in regard to a relationship, my career, a parenting issue or a personal decision.<br />
<br />
I write down how I feel, what has happened, what I need to decide. I write it down in detail, in the first person, for example:<br />
<br />
<em>I'm sure I did the wrong thing. I'm sure this is going to ruin everything. I spoke to her, and she told me it won't, and so far nothing has happened, but no-one can come back from a mistake like this.</em><br />
<br />
And then I go through what I've written, give myself a new name, and change it all into the third person.<br />
<br />
<em>Amy was sure she had done the wrong thing. She was sure it was going to ruin everything. She spoke to Sarah, who told her it wasn't going to affect anything. And, so far, nothing had happened. But Amy was sure no-one could come back from a mistake like this.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Then I leave it. I file it away and ignore it for a day or two. And then I come back to it, and read it as though it really was the reflections of someone else.<br />
<br />
And I can see it for what it is. I can see that Amy is worrying over nothing. Nothing has happened, she has been assured nothing will happen, and yet she is still worrying. Clearly, her anxiety is the issue and not the mistake.<br />
<br />
Then I realise, Amy is me. And it is me who is worrying over nothing. It gives me the perspective I could not possibly have about myself. It gives me the emotional intelligence, the insights, that I can only have about other people.<br />
<br />
Next time you're stuck, try it. And for my friend the single mum, I hope you try it too. I can see things that you can't, just like everyone could see things about me. Now we just have to learn to see them about ourselves.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Kerri Sackvillehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08404421856986720832noreply@blogger.com12