CAFE DEATH STARE

I 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.

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.

I arrived at the cafe before my friend, Lana, 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.

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.

I snapped this pic of our waitress mid-stare

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.

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.

So, having a horror for unfairness and adversity, I beckoned to the waiter.

"Can she have another piece of toast?" I asked. "That one is teeny tiny."

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.

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.

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.

Have you ever had a bad restaurant experience? And would you eat poched kanga on rye?

Keep Personal Correspondence Out Of The Public Arena - A Very Unpopular Argument

Yesterday 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.

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.

The woman is not alone. Recently Em Rusciano, 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.

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.

But that doesn't make it right. I don't believe it is okay to share personal correspondence online.

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?

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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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
reassuring.

Social Media: The Never Ending Argument

"Kerri, you don't know when to stop!"

If I had a rabbit for every time my parents said that to me during my childhood, I'd have an entire nation of rabbits. Because I didn't know when to stop. And I'm still not sure when to stop. When it comes to arguments, or opinions, or ideas that I hold passionately, I can go on and on and on like the proverbial bull at a gate. (Who, presumably, would stampede over those rabbits, but that's just mixing metaphors.) I feel an intense need to convince others of my opinion. and if I can't actually convert them to my way of thinking, then at least have them acknowledge that my point of view is valid.

Before social media there was a natural limit to my arguments. I only had contact with a certain number of people every day and there were only a certain number of topics we would discuss.

But Twitter and Facebook and blogs have changed all that. They offer me an endless number of potential subjects to debate, and an infinite pool of people with whom to debate them. I could, quite literally, spend all day every day on social media arguing. And I have spent hours and hours doing so.

Strangely, however, it's actually had a paradoxical effect. It has started to teach me when to stop. Because there is no organic end to arguments on social media. You can finish with one person and have ten more waiting in the wings to take up the challenge. You can write a tweet or Facebook post or blog about an issue and be inundated with responses from people itching for a fight. It never ends. It never ends unless you put a stop to it.

So I am learning to do so. I am learning when to say Enough. I am learning how to let things go, how to accept that there will always be people who think differently to me, how to maintain inner peace in the face of heated opposition.

But it will always be a challenge. I will always be a person of opinions. And I suspect I still have a few more rabbits to collect along the way.

The one subject I have never before discussed.

I've been writing online for about six years now. And in that time, I have made it a rule not to talk about weight or diets. Apart from a Sunday Life piece I wrote in 2002 entitled 'Thin Body Fat Brain', I have never gone there. Ever.

Until now.

You see, Lana and I had one of our little on-camera chats and we got to talking about diets. And the thing is, I am fervently anti-diet. I have been for the past 16 years. But - as Lana points out in the video - people don't like hearing a slim person talking about weight issues. Because, you know, SLIM. What can I know if I'm slim? Only overweight people can understand weight struggles, right?

Except that I was overweight. For a long, long time. Not the kind of 'Happy At Any Size' overweight. I really didn't want to be overweight. I wanted to be slim. And I dieted and lost weight and then regained it and dieted and lost weight and regained it and so on and so on ad infinitum until I was 31 years old.

And then I stopped dieting. Forever. And I lost about 10 kilos and have never gained it again. I dealt with my food issues, not by following some kind of restrictive eating plan that tells you what to eat and when and makes you crave all the things you're not 'allowed' to have, but by working out how to eat when I'm hungry and stop when I'm full and not eat for reasons that have nothing to do with physical needs. Reasons like boredom. Frustration. Anger. Sadness. Celebration. Depression. Or simply Because It's There.

It was a process. It took a while. I did a lot of work on myself and my relationship with food. And I got there. And now I passionately believe that diets don't work.

Except I'm wrong, in a sense, because diets do work. All diets do. If you stick to a weight loss regime, you'll lose weight. And this is easy, if you're a person who doesn't actually have issues with eating. If you've gained weight on holidays or during pregnancy, for example, but fundamentally have a healthy relationship with food, you'll lose weight on a diet and probably keep it off.

But most of us have issues with food. And certainly the vast majority of overweight people who struggle to lose weight have issues with food. And so diets aren't going to work long term unless we fundamentally change our relationship our food.

Anyway. You can watch Lana and I argue about it here. And you can decide for yourself.

A Mood Alert Dog? Now THIS is what I need

Yesterday I stumbled across an amazing short film about a 15 year old girl and her Diabetic Alert Dog. Jackie the dog alerts Grace to fluctuations in her blood sugar that Grace cannot feel, and protects her charge from diabetic seizures, coma and, possibly, death.

As a Cat Person, I have never been privvy to animals with special skills. Penny the Feline can recognise the words 'treat', 'food' and, well, 'Penny', but that's about it. She was useless at learning to use the human toilet (Litter Kwitter is bullshit, people, it is bullshit) and has still not quite comprehended that we do not enjoy gifts of lizards, mice and rats.

Furthermore, my late rabbits Spunky, Pretzel and Hot Cross Bun Bun didn't even recognise their own names. If they had special skills we were unaware of them (and they most certainly didn't extend to avoiding foxes). So I was incredibly impressed by the powers of dogs to assist humans with disabilities.

Not only can Diabetic Alert Dogs recognise blood sugar changes, but Seizure Alert Dogs can, astonishingly, predict seizures in their epileptic owners up to 20 minutes ahead of time. And this got me thinking. What other issues could dogs be trained to recognise? Could I have my own Alert Dog to help me in my life?

"You have PMS, Human"

For example:

• A Mood Alert Dog, who would predict a rapid plummet in mood up to 15 minutes before it occured, then alert my loved ones with special barks so that they can get away from me quickly before becoming a casualty.
• A Bad Man Alert Dog, who would assess potential suitors via their pheromones and warn me not to get emotionally involved.
• A Hormone Alert Dog, good for sniffing out PMS, ovulation, early pregnancy, oncoming periods and menopause. No more urine tests or doctors visits required!
• A Conflict Alert Dog, especially for the family, who would recognise upcoming tensions and arguments and separate warring parties before the trouble began.
• A Binge Alert Dog, who would bark and nip and attack when I overeat/ drink too much/ attempt to drunk text/ basically do anything wrong at all.

Watch Grace's story here. Jackie the dog first appears at about 3:15. Amazing.

Fuck Off - Why MC Had To Go

So Mike Carlton has been sacked resigned from his position at Fairfax.

I'm not going to comment on my feelings about that, though anyone who follows me on Twitter will know I did not exactly rent my clothes and tear my hair in lamentation.

I am aware that many of my fellow Fairfax columnists and other journos are dismayed at the precedent set by his sacking resignation. What goes on in correspondence between a columnist and a reader, they feel, should not bear any relevance to their work as a writer.

Well, I respectfully disagree.

I am a freelance writer, but write for Fairfax and other publications on a regular basis, and appear weekly on Channel 7. When I am interacting with people on social media, I represent myself, but I also, by proxy, represent the organisations that employ me.

These organisations choose to use my words and my image. They choose to use my 'brand'*. And so if my brand becomes something that they feel is discordant with their own brand, then I would expect my services to be terminated.

In other words, if I go around telling people to fuck off, if I go around hurling thinly veiled racial insults, if I am rude and disrespectful in my dealings with my readers, I would expect my brand to be compromised, and I would expect to make myself unemployable.

The thing is, every journalist and columnist in the world has experienced dissent and trolling. In the past month I've been accused of child bullying (because I criticized Bindi Irwin for telling girls how to dress), of being part of the Zionist Genocide Plot (because I expressed the view that posting images of dead children is disrespectful to grieving families), and of demonizing fathers (because I wrote a piece about a new campaign to highlight incest using Disney caricatures). Oh, and someone called me a zombie. I'm still not exactly sure why.

When I received these helpful pieces of feedback, there was just one thing I wanted to do. I wanted to tell those moronic correspondents to fuck the hell off.

But you know what? I didn't. Because a) it is isn't helpful, and it's not going to change their minds; b) I don't wish to lower myself to their level; and c) it's just rude. People are entitled to their opinions, even if those opinions are different to mine. And being rude to someone who is rude to me isn't going to help the situation one iota.

So in each and every case, I wrote the same message: "Thank you for your considered response to my opinion piece."

And if the person continued to abuse me, I used a very powerful little tool. I pressed 'block' and 'delete', and they were gone for my life.

I am far from perfect. I have allowed myself to engage in endless debates with people online when I really should have just exited quickly and stopped wasting my time. But I do try very hard to retain humour and courtesy. Because if we can't do that, then the horrible conflicts overseas that are not the responsibility of any person in this country are creeping into our own lives, and that would simply add to the tragedy.

*Yes, it's a wanky term, but you get my point..

Twitter, Celebrities, & The Force For Good

Last night I realised (yet again) what a powerful tool Twitter is, and how it can be used as a force for good, and for change.

I follow the actor/comedian Ricky Gervais, who is a complete genius. I love his tweets and I love his work. But last night I took offence to one of his tweets, a joke ridiculing fat people in leggings. I didn't respond, but many others did. Ricky returned, defending his original tweet, and posting comments encouraging fat shaming by exclaiming that losing weight is simple and easy.

I couldn't help myself. I felt outraged. I responded to Ricky, explaining that eating issues are never simple. When he continued, I did too, with tweets to him about food addiction and compulsion. And he responded to me. Oh yes he did. He was reading my tweets. He was reading all of our tweets.

And guess what? He deleted his tweets. All of them.

This, people, is what I love about social media. Not that it made Ricky Gervais revise his opinion. God knows what he really thinks - maybe he is just concerned about being offensive, maybe he really did take it on board, who knows. But it allowed me, a little person, one of the masses, to be heard. It allowed me to communicate directly with an person of massive influence.

Five years ago, when I joined Twitter, I had no agenda whatsoever. I didn't intend to blog, or to forge a writing career; I simply came on board because celebrities were on Twitter and I was keen to see what they were saying. One of my first ever responses was from the actress Demi Moore and I was beside myself with excitement. (She had tweeted "Everyone needs to love each other!" I tweeted back "Do I have to? I have three kids. I'm exhausted from all the loving!" She responded "As long as you love yourself!" Shortly after, I unfollowed her. All the Ashton-fuelled love tweets were making me queasy.)

And then there was Mia Freedman. Mia was one of the first people I followed; I had always admired her, and was hoping to have a chance to engage with her. Well, I began answering her tweets, and we developed a rapport, and shortly afterwards I began writing for Mamamia. And that undoubtedly was my biggest career break. I am quite sure I wouldn't be here today if I hadn't had the opportunity to connect with her online.

These days Mia doesn't read most of her Twitter responses; she has publicly stated that she has deleted her @replies. And whilst I respect her decision - she receives a lot of vitriolic tweets and nobody needs to read those - I think it's a shame for those who admire and wish to connect with her. Unlike me, they will probably not have the chance.

Now, I suspect Mia is not alone. Most celebrities would receive hundreds or even thousands of tweets daily; it would be simply impossible to keep up with all of them.

But the fact that Ricky Gervais read and responded to his, and more - that he took the comments on board, and deleted some of his offensive tweets - gives me hope. Social media is still a formidable force. And Ricky Gervais is still a seriously awesome bloke.

And happily, I managed to screenshot the tweet. So here it is. Ricky, you can't delete me!

Helpfully circled in red in case you couldn't pick it 

A Slight Overreaction.

The other night a friend of mine cancelled an arrangement.

"Sorry," she texted. "Can't make it. Work problem. Speak soon."

She sounded... well... curt. Clearly she was cross at me.

But why? I couldn't think of anything I'd done. I wracked my brains, trying to work out if I had offended her in some way.

And then I remembered. Her daughter Tali had been at my house the previous day playing with my child. I had fed them some biscuits and let them play computer for two hours. Tali had been delighted.

"I wish my mum would let me do this," she said.

"Yes, well, clearly I'm a better mother than her," I told her. I was joking, of course.

But obviously, she thought I was serious.

And obviously, she had told her mum.

And obviously, her mum was furious with me.

And hell, why on earth wouldn't she be?

I felt sick. I texted my friend straight away. "Are you cross with me?" I wrote. "I'm so sorry! I really was just joking!"

There was no response. I felt even sicker. I paced. I drummed my fingers on the table. I thought about turning up at her house to apologise in person. Maybe I should send flowers? Or a basket of fruit? Or hire an aeroplane and write an apology across the sky?

An hour later, my phone beeped. "What are you talking about?" she wrote. "I really do have a problem at work. And I thought you were mad at me!"

We are going out tomorrow instead.

Do you ever overanalyse relationships????

Dear David, Thanks For The Feedback

So last night was an interesting one on Twitter.

I'd had a rough day, as happens on occasion. A couple of people had disappointed me, as people are wont to do. And I was feeling a little grumpy, as was fairly understandable.

And so I tweeted about it. I guess I wanted some support. And Twitter is fairly excellent for that.

I didn't write 'I am feeling really grumpy', because that is not my style. I try to be funny, and a little lighthearted, even when I'm feeling cross.

So I wrote:

Several people have annoyabled me this morning. I feel crankalily. Why is everyone so irritadedinglyish?

Well, a couple of people Tweeted back, which was welcome, and comforting. And then this came in, from one David Oldfield, of One Nation (and Pauline Hanson) fame.

I'm annoyed by loons who screw with the English language and think it's clever or funny - your tweet is neither!

Well, I can't pretend his comment didn't smart. I wouldn't have to pretend, because it genuinely didn't. I honestly don't care what one David Oldfield thinks of my writing. I mean, obviously I'd prefer it if the entire world found me hilarious, but statistically speaking, it's unlikely that would ever happen. And, given that someone has to find me neither clever nor funny, I would rather it be David than, say, the editor of the Sydney Morning Herald, or the publisher of my next book.

Still, the entire scenario fascinated me. Why on earth would someone - a grown man, a father of two sons, a husband, a political figure, and a radio host - want to attack a person they don't even know over something so utterly unimportant? To call a perfectly harmless writer-type person a 'loon'? Putting aside the fact that he is wrong (because language, after all, is something to be played with and enjoyed), what did he get out of it?

Now, possibly I am a loon. I am certainly a loon for giving David Oldfield even more attention by writing this post. But I do wonder at the psychology of it all. And I see similar scenarios played out over and over on the internet, and every time, I wonder WHY.

I have never understood random attacks on strangers. Obviously we all have differences of opinion, and that is normal and fine and to be totally encouraged. And if David had said that he didn't like my tweet, I would have accepted that. I still wouldn't have been sure why he felt the need to mention it, but it was his prerogative. But to call someone a 'loon' is just nasty.

Still, for every David Oldfield, there are hundreds of people who are kind and loyal and caring and fun. And dozens of them tweeted their support for me last night, leaving Mr O no doubt wondering what an earth he got himself into.

And despite David Oldfield making me even more crankalily than I already was, they filled my heart with gladnesses. And I found myself happyish once more.

PLEASE note: I don't want this to degenerate into nasty comments about David Oldfield. Just comments about the post, gorgeous readers. x

Why My Husband Has To Go

I love my husband. I do. Okay, so The Architect and I have a tumultuous relationship, and I *may* have once thrown an orange in his general direction, but we have been together for a hundred years and I never expected that we would part.

But something has changed. Another woman has come between us. A girl, really. A pretty white girl, with blue eyes and ears that are - believe it or not - even bigger than mine. She is here with us, every single day. We can't go on forever like this. So a choice will have to be made.

Now, obviously, my husband wants the girl to go. He has been here longer, and feels like he shouldn't have to leave his own family. But I'm in two minds. For one thing, she is sooooo cute. For another thing, the kids are really attached to her, and while they totally love their dad too, it seems just cruel to break their hearts.

Artist's impression of The Architect leaving home (except The Architect wears black)

And it's not Bun Bun's fault that she makes The Architect sneeze. After all, Spunky (RIP) didn't do so. And Pretzel, Bun Bun's cage-mate, is not allergenic at all. How were we to know that the flat-eared bunnies are a different breed altogether, and have the capacity to make a grown man expel his very soul from his nostrils night after night after night?

My husband thinks it is best to send Bun Bun away now, before the kids learn to love her even more. But Bun Bun is part of the family now. She is another child. And you can't send your child away. What's more, Bun Bun doesn't have the capacity to reason, and won't understand why she is being rejected from her home. She could be permanently scarred. Or at least miss that bloody great hole she's dug under the cupboard.

The Architect, on the other hand, can reason and understand. He will know that it's nothing personal, that it is just a clash of allergans, and that someone has to go. He will regroup, and move on with his life. And we will visit him, of course, after we've all changed our clothes and had showers to remove any last bits of fluff from our bodies.

Still, he is fighting to stay, and it's going to get ugly. The only solution may be for the kids and rabbits and I to leave, and let The Architect stay in the house. He designed it, after all.

It will need a very good cleaning, though. That rabbit fur is EVERYWHERE.

She Hates Me

It's official. My daughter has outgrown me.

I honestly didn't expect it to happen so soon; after all, my daughter is only three. But Boo has obviously found her independence, and she is very clear that my role in her life has been considerably downgraded.

For a start, my daughter is no longer interested in lengthy embraces. "Enough cuddle time Mum!" she will pronounce sternly after seven or eight seconds, leaving me spurned and empty and yearning for more. Or a firm "No thanks, not now, I'm watching Spongeboy," when I offer to play Lego, which is really rather disheartening, as Lego is not at all fun alone.

What's more, Boo she has begun to deny my deep feelings for her. "You don't love me!" she'll yell when I do something to disappoint her, such as insist she has a bath or get into the car. And "You HATE ME!!!!" she'll howl when I do something really cruel, like ask her (very nicely, really) to stop scribbling on the couch.

Thankfully, though, she still retains some compassion. "Hug Mummy!" Boo will sing at random moments, when my arms are full of groceries, or she's sitting on the toilet. And I do it. I hug her, because I never knock back an opportunity, and because there's no way I can deal with another accusation of Not Loving Me.

But despite my unquestioning acquiesence to all of Boo's hug requests, god forbid I offer love at a time when it is not convenient for her. "Go way Mum" she'll tell me, if she's not in the mood. "No kiss! I wipe it all off !" It's not fair, I tell her, but she doesn't listen. Spongebob is on, and she has some scribbling to do on the couch.

At the end of the day, though, Boo is three, and she's old enough to make up her own mind. My role as her mother is to let her go, and respect the distance she has put between us.

When she's awake, that is. When she's asleep, well, that's a different story.

Have you ever kissed a sleeping child? BLISS.

Cranky Pants

My husband has had his Cranky Pants* on for the past few days. And I’m fed up, because this bout of Foul-Moodedness has come after a particularly bad run in our family.


Just last week, Little Man was exceedingly grumpy for a period of several days, due to Too Much Homeworking, insufficient Nintendo Time, and other unspecified Dissatisfactions. Prior to that, three year old Boo was a nightmare for a week, from a combination of Exhaustion, Adjustment To Pre-School, and Spoiled Third-Childedness**.

And before that, well, I was in a bit of a bad mood, for no reason other than...well... I am me. And I seem to get into bad moods fairly regularly (using ‘fairly’ in the sense of ‘very’).

Sometimes, of course, I have reason to be grouchy. I may have had bad news that day. I might be pre-menstrual. Or menstrual. Or pre-menopausal. I might be tired. Or stressed. I may be suffering severely from Excessive-Offspringitis***.

I might have lost my keys in the cold aisle of the supermarket. I may have lost three year old Boo in the supermarket. I may have watched Pinkela eat the last spoon of Nutella and realised there’s none left for me.

On the other hand, I may be cross for no reason at all. I’m a temperamental person. Which is fine – charming, even – as it goes with my fiery, passionate nature. Except that my husband is fiery and passionate too. And to stir things up a bit, so is our son. And to tip us completely over the edge, so is Boo. Which makes for a hell of a lot of fire in just one family.

Thankfully, nine year old Pinkela is extremely even-tempered and calm (which actually is a bit of a worry, as I have no idea who her real parents are). However her older brother and baby sister more than compensate for her serenity, making my husband and I look like beacons of calm by comparison. Between the four of us, we are one big rollercoaster of emotion.

The problem, of course, is that this is utterly exhausting. I’m no expert on statistics, but it’s clear that if I’m in a bad mood around once a week (using ‘once a week’ in the sense of ‘a lot more than that’), and my husband, Little Man and Boo are each in a bad mood around once a week, then at least one of us is in a bad mood on nearly any given day. Which means that the family emotional rollercoaster tends to be a race downhill more often than it is coasting on the flat.

Still, the rollercoaster ride won’t last for long. We only have another 18 to 20 years before the kids will hop out of the car and leave my husband and I in the fun park alone. And then we will hobble over to the Merry-Go-Round, and circle gently in nostalgic quiet, as the families scream wildly around us.

And I shall look back upon our rollercoaster days, and smile.

*These are metaphorical, rather than literal, pants, although his choice of trousers has been somewhat limited by my failure to pick up the drycleaning earlier this week (a factor no doubt contributing to the donning of said Cranky Pants).

**(possibly not an actual diagnostic term.)

***( if this isn’t an actual term, it should be.)

Marriage, The Eruption

Yesterday I was in a delightful bookstore and bought several very delightful books (actually, that's not quite true - one was on drug addiction and prostitution, one was on suicide, and one was a series of essays on social phenomenon. But they all had very nice covers.)

I also bought a tiny book called 'Don'ts For Wives', written in London in 1913. Despite its fairly negative title (I would have thought 'Do's For Wives' was rather more catchy) it is a marvellously upbeat little tome, full of nuggets of wisdom that need only minor modernisation to stay relevant today.

So, for your elucidation, education and entertainment (and a totally gratuitous use of alliteration) here are some of those nuggets, helpfully updated by me:

"Don't moralise by way of winning back the love that seems to be waning. Make yourself extra charming and arrange delicious dinners which include all your husband's favourite dishes."
= After you've been married for a while, you and your husband will go off each other. Find solace in food.

 "Don't argue with a stubborn husband. Drop the matter before argument leads to temper. You can generally gain your point in some other way."
= Don't bother fighting with your husband because he'll never give in. Withhold sex instead.

"Don't be shy of showing your love. A playful caress as you pass his chair, an unexpected touch on the shoulder, makes all the difference between merely knowing that you care for him and actually feeling it."
= Oral sex will keep your husband happy.

"Don't get angry if your husband says that he never now tastes cake like that his mother used to make. Write and ask her for the recipe."
= Live far away from your mother-in-law.

"Don't try to excite your husband's jealousy by flirting with other men. You may succeed better than you want to. It is like playing with tigers and edged tools and volcanoes all in one."
= Stay away from other men's tools or you could cause an eruption....

"Don't arrange for the chimney sweep to come on the day your husband happens to be staying at home. He won't like either the sooty smell or the subsequent upset for cleaning purposes."
= Ignore the above.

The Husband Speaks

Hopefully by now you all will have rushed to Booktopia to pre-order my book and watch the instructional video I made (using 'instructional' in its lesser known sense of 'rude'). Of course, if you're coming to my launch or planning to buy the book in a bookstore then you are excused from pre-ordering, but I highly recommend you still watch the video.

The video is a re-enactment of a dissertation I once gave called "Marital Advice" (you can tell it's a re-enactment because, well, it's a cartoon). I presented the dissertation at a Women's Function a year ago (using 'Women's Function' in the sense of 'Girl's Night Out').

However, the video offers only one side of the marital story - the female's. So, in the interests of journalistic fairness, I give to you: Marital Advice Part Two: The Husband Speaks.

Watch. And learn.

Why I'm Not Writing Today

I am writing this post to inform you, my readers, that I will not be writing a post today. After the kerfuffle* of the past week or so, I am completely and utterly spent.

Firstly, there has been the intense debate of The Chocolate Wars - here on my blog, on Twitter, on radio here** and in thousands of emails being sent behind the scenes. Secondly, there was my post on Mamamia yesterday about whether cross-dressing is a relationship dealbreaker*** which bizarrely turned into a war about whether the word 'panties' is acceptable or not****.

All in all, I am exhausted from expressing so many opinions, and feeling so much raging passion about such important issues*****.

For those of you who marvel at how heated I get in debates (and particularly for the gentleman who SMS'd the radio station asking how I cope when there are real issues), I will say, I KNOW! I HEAR you!

It's a curse, I tell you. It's extremely wearing. But I can't seem to help it. I feel strongly about nearly everything - from whether boat people should be allowed access, to whether babies should ever be woken, to whether preservatives will kill you, to whether Simon Baker is the sexiest man alive. And whilst you may not always guess my opinion, you can be certain I'll always have one. Of course, I do sometimes change my mind, but then I'll feel passionately about the opposite argument. (Except about white chocolate. That's never going to happen.)

So forgive me if I don't write a post today. That would require writing about a topic, and if I have to experience another strong opinion today I think my head is going to explode.

Instead, I'm just going to go read about the election. Bizarrely, I don't have an opinion about that at all.

I think they're both just as bad as each other.

*did you know that is actually a word? I checked it in my Oxford English dictionary.
**though for godsake don't feel compelled to listen. Although I remember very little about the interview I've been told I talked incessantly, insulted the general population, and began speaking in Yiddish when it all got too much.
***I said YES.
****it depends on the context.
*****using 'important' in the sense of 'totally frivolous'.

It's War

Those of you who follow Twitter may know that a war has broken out between me and two other bloggers. It saddens me to say it, but it is true. Insults have been exchanged, online friendships stretched, and hundreds of words written in the desperate pursuit of truth. It has been an intense week, and it is not yet over. Because The Chocolate Wars have just begun.

To summarise: a Person Who Shall Remain Nameless (mainly because I've forgotten who they were) mentioned white chocolate on Twitter one night. Now, obviously you can understand my indignation. Obviously 'white chocolate' is a misnomer. Obviously there is no such thing as 'white chocolate'. White chocolate is not real chocolate. White chocolate is confectionary. But - brace yourself for this - stunningly, not everyone can see this. There are still some utterly deluded individuals out there who believe that a Milky Bar is the same substance as a slab of rich, glass-and-a-half dairy goodness. It beggars belief, I know.

So the battle lines have been drawn. On Team RealChoc are Kylie and me, with a veritable army of intelligent, gastronomically insightful supporters behind us. On Team WhiteChoc (whose name alone inspires rage in my breast) are Cate and Sarah. And in the middle is Heath from ColesOnline (thisisnotasponsoredpost), who sent us each 'research packs' containing WAY too much of the dismal white stuff, and who will, on August 6th, judge the great chocolate debate. Each team will submit two blog entries, and from those entries, one winning team will be decided.

Now, obviously Team RealChoc will be the winner. But believe me, I will take no pleasure in our victory. It deeply saddens me that women like Cate and Sarah (and their measly handful of supporters) can believe in such propaganda as the existence of 'white chocolate'. Furthermore, it saddens me that they can waste precious calories on such a substance. I mean, they can eat what they like, but when there are taste sensations like Caramello Koalas and Cadbury Dairy Milk and Lindt Milk Balls available... well... why would you turn to confectionary?

Still, let me confirm that this is not about taste. Just because I don't enjoy the flavour of something that tastes like solidified sugary milk doesn't mean that they can't. No, what it's really about is the truth. Doesn't matter what the chicken tastes like, girls. You can plop it in the water and make it swim but it's never going to be a duck. Likewise, you can shape your confectionary into a bar and bung on a label but you're never going to turn it into chocolate.

Now, I have to go rinse my mouth out with a Freddo Frog after a horrible experience with something pale.

And remember: this isn't my official Team RealChoc post. It's just a taste of things to come.

The Confrontation....

If you haven't yet, watch the first vids in the series (see previous posts below), and then rejoice as Hubby Gets A Penis!!!

Please Darling, May I Have A Shirt?

A Big Fight Over A Little Bunny

My husband and I had a Big Fight on Saturday.

Now, Big Fights are nothing new in our relationship. We've been having Big Fights ever since we first got together, back in 1847. It's not that we don't get along, in fact, we are extremely compatible, using the word 'compatible' in the sense of 'passionate, heated, and equally prone to starting an argument for no good reason at all'. And, for us, it works.

Interestingly, though, in recent times our fights have been getting less and less frequent. I could say this is because we have worked hard on our relationship and have achieved an equilibrium based on mutual respect, communication and a commitment to family values and responsible parenting. But in truth, we're both just really tired and can't be bothered.

But Saturday was different. Saturday was a Big Fight. And it was all over a very little bunny.

You see, on Saturday, I took the kids to buy a pet.

My kids have been begging me for a pet for years, and I've resisted. Of course, we had our fish, but he died (using 'he' in the sense of 'he and his many successors'), and he didn't really offer great value as far as an interactive animal experience goes.

We can't get a dog because a) of all the reasons listed here; b) I consider dogs just as much work as another child; and c) I am just as likely to have a fourth child as I am to grow a second head, or join the US Marines.

We can't get a cat, because both my husband and daughter are highly allergic.

We can't get a mouse, because I will spend my life standing on couches screaming.

So the choice was a hamster, or a bunny. Apparently bunnies smell better. So that's what we got.

Now, my husband worked on Saturday, so was not available to join our expedition to the pet shop. Which is a shame, because if he had, then perhaps we would have been able to clarify before the purchase of said bunny exactly what his position on bunny ownership was.

I thought I knew, but I was wrong.

I came home with three excited kids, a quivering bunny, a cage, and about $17,000 worth of paraphenalia. I set up the cage in our internal laundry as per the salesgirl's instruction. Bunny looked happy. Kids looked happy. My wallet looked empty. And all was content.

Until my husband arrived home.

My husband found Bunny in his cage in the laundry. This disturbed my husband because a) he didn't know we were getting a bunny (whereas I thought he did); and b) he didn't want an animal in the house (which I knew, but didn't realise 'the laundry' was considered part of 'the house' - I mean, would you?).

So therein followed a rather heated debate, during which my husband threatened to put Bunny a) out in the cold; b) back in the store; or c) in a pot on the stove. I argued that the laundry wasn't in the house, my daughter cried that Bunny was 'going to freeze outside' (it was around 28 degrees), my son told us all off for shouting, and Toddler giggled maniacally (as she is wont to do).

But in the end, all was fine. We found a nice sheltered spot in the backyard in which to put the cage. What's more, I did some research and discovered that bunnies have this thing called 'fur' that has traditionally protected them from the elements before the days of houses and laundries and such. My daughter stopped crying, my son stopped berating, and Toddler kept giggling (as she is wont to do).

And eventually, my husband and I called a truce. I agreed that I hadn't entirely informed him that we were getting Bunny today, and he agreed that I had been Very Badly Behaved.

But if he thinks I'll ever agree that the laundry is in the house... well... he's got another thing coming.

When was the last time you fought with your partner?