10 (New) Plagues

Here's a rare Biblical reference for you:

In Exodus, Pharoah refused to let the Israelites out of Egypt. So God came down on him really hard, with a series of 10 plagues intended to change his mind.

They were pretty awful. Blood, frogs, lice, flies, diseased livestock, boils, hail, locusts, darkness... and then, when all that failed, death of the firstborn.

Of course it's a parable. It has to be. I mean, if God was omnipotent, he'd just let the Israelites out of Egypt himself. Or, you know, kill Pharoah.

But it's a good story. However, it's one that needs updating. Frogs, lice and boils? Come on. These are hardly disasters in this day and age.

No, I think we need new plagues, ones that would devastate Pharoahs of the modern era.

The Sixth Plague - EARWORM

And I have some suggestions:

1. Bad hair day EVERYDAY. What Pharoah could cope with having crap hair every single day of his life? It would destroy his confidence and hence his leadership.
2. Paper cut. Small but devastating.
3. Itchy bum. More maddening than lice, itchy bum also causes embarrassing public displays of bottom touching, which would completely undermine Pharoah's authority.
4. No coffee. All God would have to do is destroy coffee supplies around the world and Pharoah would collapse in a pathetic heap of despair.
5. Insomnia. The absolute worst. No elaboration required.
6. Earworm. Just get Gangnum Style stuck in Pharoah's head for days at a time. He'll cave. No question about it.
7. No Mobile Reception. A Pharoah can't lead if he can't communicate. He's going DOWN.
8. Advertorials. No TV programs, just endless loops of AbToneFit promos and offers of saucepan sets with free steak knives!
9. No Wifi. Pharoah will die of despair on the spot.
10. Zombie invasion. Just because.

Do you know all the things?

The knowledge. All the things! There are too many things to know.

They say that the more you know, the more you know you don't know. Well, let me tell you, I've known how much I don't know for a long time now. And it pains me, because I want to know everything. Or at least a good part of it. A percentage. More than I do.

I read the news every day and try to remember everything I've read. But it's hard. For one thing, there are so many stories, so much going on around Australia and the world. For another thing, there is so much internet to distract me, and Twitter and Facebook are so tantalizingly there. For another thing, I have three kids to look after, and a house to run, and work of my own to do.

For another thing, the cat is usually sitting on the newspaper. And that makes it really hard for me to read.

I can retain an enormous amount of what interests me. Great TED talks, for example, stay with me indefinitely. Brilliant books, articles and blog posts make a lasting impact. I can remember theories and ideas, because they appeal to the creative side of my brain. But hard facts seem to disappear within seconds of processing. Names, dates and places can vanish into thin air, perhaps via an escape valve directly from my brain.

I have forgotten the majority of what I learned at school. Granted, you need to use your knowledge  to retain it, and I haven't had much call for calculus over the years. I have, on the other hand, remembered much of John Donne's poetry, because I love it and have re-read it a billion times. Sadly it doesn't help me to recall the names of world leaders or where Estonia is on the map, but I do comfort myself by reciting The Apparition when SBS World News begins to get blurry of a night.

And then there is the myriad of other useless information in my brain. Song lyrics. Chunks of my favourite books. Why Jodie left the Young Talent Team. What Bill Murray supposedly whispered to Scarlett Johansson in the final moments of "Lost In Translation". And the entire script of Grease, together with musical interludes. Perhaps if my mind wasn't filled with such trivial nonsense, I'd remember that the President of Greece is Karolos Papoulias, that the capital of Kazakhstan is Astana, and that the Battle of Hastings took place in 1066.

So what can I do? How can I learn all the things? And do you want me to recite The Apparition now?

Rescue.com

Does somebody out there know how to make an app? Because I have a winner for you.

Imagine you are out on a date. A very bad date. You are sitting at the table, drinking your latte or sipping your wine, wondering desperately how you can get out of there. You can't text a friend without looking obvious, you can't make up an excuse without looking rude, and your bestie isn't due to call to check up on you for at least another twenty minutes and you just don't think you can last that long.

You shift your weight, pressing one button discreetly on your phone. And within a few minutes, a man appears at the door of the restaurant.

"DARLING!" he cries. "I've been looking everywhere for you! I can't bear being without you for a second longer! Please take me back!!!"

"Oh!" you cry. And though you have never seen this man before in your entire life, you run gratefully into his arms.

You look apologetically at your date. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I didn't expect this... I really have to go...."

And with that, the date is over. You have been rescued.

In Rescue.com, users download their photos and first names to the app. When they are going on a first date, they register their location, and colour of outfit for easy spotting. Then, if they activate the 'Rescue Me' icon on the touchscreen, a call goes out to other Rescue.com users in the vicinity. The first to accept the call rushes to the scene and rescues the user. And the user, in turn, responds to Rescue Me calls as required. It is a Pay It Forward service, giving members the satisfaction of helping others in need (with the chance to meet and embrace utter strangers as a handy bonus!).

Of course, respondees don't need to be members of the opposite gender, or even the same gender if the user is on a same-sex date. One might argue that a woman rescuing another woman on a straight date, or a man rescuing a woman on a lesbian date, adds even more drama and finality to the situation.

And it's not just women who will need rescuing. Men have bad dates too, and will no doubt require assistance, and what better way to be rescued than by a single woman?

So here it is. Rescue.com. Go forth, build my app and let's make money. I promise you I shall be the first to sign up.

Not that I have ever felt the need to be rescued... seriously, this idea just came to me out of thin air....

Regrets? I've Had A... Oops! They're Gone!

Since I've been able to wield a pen, I have kept diaries. They are excruciating to read. Dozens of little notebooks, smeared with blue ink, detailing every crush, every fight with a friend, every crush, every frustration, every crush, every dream, every crush, every act of rebellion, and did I mention every crush?

The most painful diaries to read are my Anne Frank style diaries, in which I gave the journal a name and wrote a letter to it every night. It was a notepad, for gods sake. I was writing to myself. I was twelve, but I still can't quite forgive myself for the pretention. I cringe even thinking about it. Please. Make. Me. STOP.

My sister also kept diaries. I was deeply respectful of her privacy, and would never, in a million years, have even considered trying to read one. She clearly didn't appreciate this, because she wrote in black texta on the first page of one such journal:

Kerri you are a bitch.

At least, I would have known this if I had ever picked up her diary and had a read. Which I didn't, of course. I was deeply respectful of her privacy. Ahem.

I still have my written diaries. They are stored in a sealed, plastic box in my storeroom, to be read after my death by anyone interested in a tormented, pretentious teenager with a tragic series of passionate, unrequited crushes.

By the mid nineties, I had become addicted to keyboards, and began writing my journals in electronic form. Thousands of words, committed to secret documents, locked by a password I still use today.

No-one will ever crack it. At least, so I pray.

The problem, of course, is that secret files are disposable. It is so much easier to hit 'delete' than it is to throw out a bound journal. It is so much easier to trash a file that brings back painful memories than it is to store it away in a sealed, plastic box.

And so I deleted dozens of files over the past twenty years. Dozens of files recording my life and my angst. Thousands of memories of good times and bad. Thousands of moments of anguish and joy.

I zapped my regrets with a press of a button. I zapped my regrets and I will never get them back. The words are now lost in the black of the Ethernet.

And that, I can tell you, is my greatest regret of all.

For those participating in next week's #MyFirst challenge (see here) the topic will be
My First Moment of Terror

Social Media Super Psycho Fail

I cannot remember laughing so hard.

Except that it really wasn't funny at all.

I was in Lana's car; we had just completed a spot of shopping. And as she was dropping me back home, she pulled out her phone and showed me an Instagram photo that was concerning her.

"Look at this," she said. "Tell me what you think."

It was a picture posted by a child we both know. And it was really inappropriate. Doesn't matter why, it just was. Very adult. Not the kind of picture a child should be posting. I was horrified.

"God, that's worrying," I said.

"I know," Lana agreed.

"Should we tell the mother?"

"We should tell someone," Lana said.

I thought for a moment. Maybe we were making too much of it? "Let me look properly," I told Lana, and she held out the phone.

Oh my god. What was that the kid was wearing? I absentmindedly tapped on the image to enlarge it.

Oh. My. God.

"I liked the picture!" I cried.

"Oh no!" Lana yelled.

Artist's Impression of Lana at this point

"Oh god oh god I'm sorry!" I looked at the phone in my hand in horror and threw it back to Lana like it was on fire. "Oh god! I didn't mean to!"

Lana was aghast. "Oh no!" she cried. "Oh no oh no oh no!!!!! I can't like the picture! People will think I'm a paedophile! Oh no! Unlike! UNLIKE!"

She tapped the picture again. The little 'Like' heart reappeared cheerily on the screen.

"OH NO!!!" Lana was practically hyperventilating. "I'VE LIKED IT TWICE!!! OH MY GOD!!! I'M A DOUBLE PAEDOPHILE! MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!"

I tried to make it stop. I really did. But I started to laugh. Like, really laugh. Seriously, uncontrollably laugh. With my head thrown back and tears in my eyes and my feet stomping on the floor of the car because it was so damn funny. Visions of horrified mothers talking about Sicko Lana floated through my mind. I clutched my sides and gasped for breath.

Next to me, poor Lana was waving the phone around frantically. "I've liked the disturbing picture!!!" And then she started laughing too. "NOOOOO! NOOOOOO!!!!"

We both sat there, in the car, quite literally falling over laughing. It was the best feeling in the world. Of course, it wouldn't be the best feeling when Lana was banned from having children over for play dates and her son was ostracised from his friends, but for now it was pretty damn funny.

 And then, suddenly, Lana worked it out. "I unliked it! I just hit the Like button again and I unliked it! Oh thank god. THANK GOD!!!!"

And then we both laughed for another ten minutes. And now I'm laughing again just thinking about it. Lana is probably still traumatised. But that makes it all the more funny.

Ever had a social media FAIL???

How An iOS Upgrade Nearly Destroyed My Life

I wanted to download a ringtone. It wasn’t a big deal. Or at least, it shouldn’t have been a big deal. Other people had personalised ringtones so I thought I could have one too. It’s not like I’m some sort of technology Luddite. I’m a Woman of Social Media! I have a blog and everything! And if I can email and Tweet and Facebook and Instagram, then surely I could download my favourite song to play when my phone rings.

Well, it wasn’t so easy. It never is. I tried to download my ringtone, but my iPhone got stroppy. “You have to upgrade to the latest iOS,” it said. Now, I don’t know what an iOS is. I’ve never given iOS’s a moment’s thought. But apparently, I had to have one, and so I set about finding it.

I realised that I couldn’t upgrade my iOS simply by looking at my phone in confusion (though if I could have made it happen through act of will alone I would have had such a late version of iOS the thing wouldn’t have been invented yet).

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like throwing things and sweating) I deduced that I could upgrade my iOS by plugging my phone into my computer and pressing a few buttons. Easy! Except that it turned out that the upgrade took OVER TWO HOURS and if my computer lost internet connection for ONE SECOND the whole thing would fail and have to restart.

Which it did. THREE TIMES.

By the time the thing was complete, some six hours later, I was exhausted. I was also disappointed to discover that the upgrade hadn’t actually taken effect (using ‘disappointed’ in the sense of ‘I was disappointed to learn that a meteor was hurtling towards earth and we were all going to die). By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like crying and drinking gin) I deduced that I had to start and restart my computer and phone and then plug them into each other again and wait, without breathing or moving a muscle, until the upgrade began to work. (I don’t know why the breath holding and remaining still was so vital, but it just was.)

Eventually, the upgrade took place and all was well in the world. My phone looked slightly different, which mildly concerned me, but I figured that it was just the new, improved iOS - whatever the hell that was.

I felt proud of myself and in a celebratory mood. I turned on some music and prepared to dance the ‘I’m Queen of Technology’ shuffle. Except that the music didn’t come on, because somehow all my music had been wiped from my phone, and it was clearly never, ever coming back.

By a process of elimination (that looked a lot like rocking in the corner in the foetal position) I deduced that the iTunes music was not syncing to my iPhone no matter what settings I chose or plugs I stuck in. And this made me very, very disappointed indeed.

Happily, though, I managed to get my ringtone. Unhappily, this will be of little use to me as I never plan to use my stupid iPhone again. From now on it’s carrier pigeons for me. And the only ringtone will be their gentle cooing.

This Woman of Social Media hates technology. 

Managing Anxiety, Part One: Force

As many of you will know, last year I released The Little Book of Anxiety; Confessions from a Worried Life.   Since writing the book I have been toying with the idea of releasing an ebook entitled Beating Managing Anxiety; Advice From a Worried Person. However, I don't know the first thing about releasing an ebook, and besides, I don't want to charge anxious people for advice. We all deserve as much help as we can get, and I want to share what I know for free.

And so, without further ado, here is Part One of my new series. Parts Two to Until-I-Finish will follow shortly.

Let me tell you this one little secret - anxiety hates nothing more than company. Anxiety likes to live alone, dwelling in the fertile lush pastures of the empty mind. The very best weapon against anxiety is to keep busy. Anxiety needs to be driven out with force.

When I am anxious, my natural instinct is to fret. I become completely useless to myself and everyone else. I wander around in circles, I pace, I bite my nails. My heart races. My mind goes cloudy and I can't focus. If all I need to do is make the school lunches or write a blog post, I can't function. I can take an hour to put a sandwich together. I can sit at the computer and not make any sense.

Still, I've noticed something strange. If I am in this state and a producer from a radio station calls, and asks me to go on the air in five minutes, I will pull myself together. If an editor calls me and asks me to urgently write a piece, I will manage to do it. And for the entire time I am on task, I am focused and lucid and positive. I feel good. I feel strong. And when I finish the interview or column I feel better. It helps me to find my feet again.

Now, obviously I'm not advocating guest spots on the radio or calls from editors as the cure for all anxiety (but if radio producers or editors read this, please call me, I'm yours). What I am advocating, however, is that you find your own equivalent, something that works to get your mind off yourself and on the other. It is different for everyone, but we all have something, a task that will haul us out of our introspection and focus our attention elsewhere.

So what works for me? Well, my list is varied. It includes:

• Doing radio or TV;
• Doing any kind of public speaking;
• Meeting a close friend for a coffee;
• Writing to a deadline;
• Attending a meeting, whether about my children or work;
• Clearing out a cupboard or sorting through clothes;
• Going for a walk with hip hop music blaring through my headphones. (It has to be hip hop. No other music calms me);
• Organizing my handbag;
• Browsing through online stores to choose something I need. (It doesn't work when I'm window shopping in real life - I can spend hours walking around Westfield in a haze of anxiety. But put me on the net and I immediately concentrate. All hail the online world.)  

Your list may be completely different. The key is to identify what works for you, write it down, and then turn to it when you're feeling anxious. 

Maybe you feel focused when you're cooking, or attending a spin class, or painting your nails. Maybe you are able to concentrate when you're planting tomatoes or running a seminar or drawing up a spreadsheet. Maybe you're about to become immersed in The Bold And The Beautiful or in the works of Dostoyevsky or in the Fifty Shades Trilogy. 

Whatever it is, use your strategies. When you are feeling anxious, pick one of your activities and do it. Keep busy and drive the anxiety out, even for a half hour or so. And the more respite you get, the stronger you will feel, and the easier it will be to drive it out in the long term.

Let me know how you go, and I'll see you for Part Two.

RIP iPad. And My Sanity.

So yesterday I had to take my iPad to be euthanized fixed. It was an emotional time for me, because a) I am very attached to my iPad, and b) my five year old was screaming at me and hitting me on the leg because I didn't buy her a (second) chocolate.

I had made an appointment at the Apple store, and rushed like a crazy person to be there on time. Sadly, the twenty five thousand staff members didn't seem to have quite the same sense of urgency, because they sent me over to sit at a table with several other people (including one man who appeared to be a homeless person  who came to use the free WiFi and a woman who I could actually hear seething) for at least another fifteen minutes.

Artist's Impression Of My iPad Screen

I killed time swatting at the five year old on my leg and hacking into the Apple Store computer (which involved swiping the screen and pressing one button). I discovered that I was described on their appointment list as 'Woman In Multi-Coloured Singlet', which pleased me, as alternative titles could well have been 'Tired Looking Middle Aged Mother With Fuzzy Hair', 'Chick With One Enormous Sticky-Out Ear' or 'Person Attached To Extremely Loud And Annoying Five Year Old'.

Finally, a pleasant looking twelve year old dude with roguish long hair came over to serve me.

"So what seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"My screen is broken," I said. "I can hear the iPad working, but the screen is dead."

"Ah..." he nodded wisely. "That's difficult, because the screen is one of the most important parts."

I nodded too. "Yes," I agreed. "Because without the screen you can't actually see anything."

He nodded again, a little uncertainly this time. "Um... well, I'll just go see if I can restore the screen with *insert technical term I didn't understand here*".

"Okay," I said, and rubbed my leg where the five year old was gnawing on it.

A few minutes later the twelve year old returned with my iPad.

"Unfortunately the *insert technical term I didn't understand here* didn't fix the problem. You will have to purchase a new iPad at *insert price that made me weep here*."

"Okay," I said, and rubbed my eyes where the tears were flowing. Given, I had no idea whether he was telling the truth or not, as I a) didn't understand the technical term, and b) had no idea whether he actually performed said technical thingy that I didn't understand. But I had absolutely no choice. He was twelve, and I knew nothing about fixing iPads, so I handed over the money.

Which leaves me here, now, with my brand new iPad and a lot less money. Bruised, but not broken.

Okay, a little bit broken. But less broken than my poor old iPad. At least, according to the twelve year old. Who may or may not have been telling the truth....

Yup. Can somebody please pass the vodka?

My Dark Secrets. REVEALED???

There is much talk at the moment about a certain Facebook 'glitch' that is causing private messages from before 2010 to be posted on people's public timelines. For those who are not familiar with Facebook, this means.... Actually forget it. If you're not familiar with Facebook, then you're probably not tech-savvy enough to open this blog and read this post, in which case I'm talking to myself anyway.

I panicked when I heard this rumour about Facebook and began frantically scrolling through my timeline. Then I relaxed when I realised I didn't even join Facebook until 2011, so I really don't have anything to worry about. But it suddenly occurred to me how deeply vulnerable the internet has made me.

me after my private messages are leaked
 

Some of my direct messages on Facebook and Twitter (messages meant only for the eyes of one other person) would destroy me if they were made public. I know I come across all wise and mature and supportive of all human-kind, but stick me in a private conversation with one of my besties, and some of the things that come out of my mouth (or, as the case may be, fingertips) would appall you. I can be rude. I can be judgemental. I can be shockingly intolerant. I can rant about loved ones and poke fun at strangers. I wouldn't do it publically, because I don't wish to offend (or... you know... look bad) but with one or two select intimates I can be an utter disgrace.

And that's not even mentioning the dark secrets I share with my besties. Okay, so I may not be moonlighting as a call girl, or have a second family hidden away in the country, or be married to the mafia, or sport a third nipple on my bum, but there is a great deal there that is not for public consumption. And up till now I've just trusted it wouldn't be. But what if it was? What if Twitter suddenly spewed all my direct messages into the public domain? What if my email account suddenly became available to all? Oh my god - what if the whole world could access my DIARY???

It doesn't bear thinking about. It does, however, make me very tempted to use the phone from now on. That is, unless my phone is being tapped by the government.

My phone isn't being tapped by the government, is it?

IS IT???

The Tragic Trifecta

As many of you will know, I returned from my trip to Malaysia on Sunday night.

As many of you will suspect, I wasn't quite ready to come home.

As many of you will have guessed from my social media updates, I returned to absolute chaos.

The house wasn't in too bad a shape, apart from the colony of ants that had set up headquarters in my kitchen, and the piles of dirty clothes breeding on my kids' bedroom floors. The kids weren't in too bad a shape, apart from the youngest having an ear infection, and the eldest having a bad case of I Hate Homework.

Sadly, though, there were some other issues.

For one, there was the small detail of there being NO INTERNET, for reasons no-one at Telstra could quite explain. For another, there was the even more minor detail of there being NO FOXTEL, because of an outage in the area which Telstra assured me had nothing to do with my internet failure*.

There was also the very small issue of me having no car. Having taken my car in for a small repair before I left, the car was, apparently, still siting in the service centre's garage, as no-one had bothered to get authority from the insurer. Helpful.

So I had reached the Tragic Trifecta. No car, no internet and no TV. Oh, and no electricity, because although it is connected, the staggering cost of the energy bill that was waiting for me precludes me from ever using electricity again. Which at least means I don't have to worry about getting the internet and Foxtel reconnected.

Still, it's lovely coming home. I can't think of any reasons why right now, but I know they're there. And at least I've got my health, right? Except that I did my back in on the long flight home, and I can't get out to the physio...

*It has since been confirmed to have everything to do with it

Free Advice From Kerri

I expected a lot of things when I published my first book. I expected to be recognised in the street by adoring readers. I expected to make hundreds of thousands of dollars. I expected to be offered my own TV show. I expected to be treated with respect for the first time by my husband and kids.

Of course, none of these things have happened (though I was once recognised in Westfield by a friend of my mum).

However, one thing has happened that has been utterly unexpected. I have received emails requesting my parenting advice.

Now, these emails make me very despodant. Anyone who is requesting my parenting advice has clearly not read my book, as anyone who has read my book will realise that I have no parenting advice to offer whatsoever. However, I still feel compelled to answer the emails as I am a very nice person (and am hoping that at least my correspondants will recommend my book to others).

Still, I am a very busy* girl and do not have time to be answering thousands* of emails a month. So I have put together a list of commonly asked questions and my expert advice. Using 'expert' in the sense of 'who the hell am I to be giving advice anyway?'

How should I discipline my three year old?
Discipline never worked well for my older kids, so with three year old Boo, I have taken another tack. Instead of punishing her when she draws on the white couch with texta, I say 'stop doing that and I'll give you a Smartie'. Of course, some may argue that this just encourages her to engage in bad behaviour so she can be rewarded to stop, but at least it gives me an excuse to have Smarties in the house.

How can I get my kids to go to sleep?
Send them to their grandma's. My kids always sleep beautifully there.

How can I get my kids to eat broccoli?
What kind of sicko parent would force their kids to eat broccoli?

My two year old keeps having tantrums in the supermarket. What can I do?
Young children have a natural allergy to supermarkets. Even the sight of a trolley creates an extreme bodily agitation which can only be soothed by feeding the child continually until the shopping is finished, or he or she vomits - whichever comes first. Always carry a change of clothes and some wipes with you. Or consider online shopping.

My 12 year old is surly and gives me no affection.
Refuse to give him access to any technology (TV, Nintendo etc) until he says 'I love you, my beautiful Mummy'). Works for me.

Do you have any questions for me? Or any advice to give?

*meaning 'lazy'
*meaning 'three'

Whozaam

The other day I was watching Love Actually in bed, and one of the bit-part actresses looked crazily familiar. I lay there, insanely irritated, trying to recall who she was, until I gave up and went downstairs to Google the movie. It was January Jones, from Mad Men. DUH.

This happens to me all the time. I'll see someone on the screen and know they're a famous actor but have no idea which famous actor they are. Last night, for example, I mistook Mathew Modine for James Van Der Beek, which I thought was quite understandable (they both have long chins), but which my husband took as a hilarious indication that I still fantasize regularly about Dawson's Creek*.

Of course, I don't just get confused about faces on the screen. I also get utterly confused about faces in the street (or, in my case, faces in Westfield). Either I'll know I know someone, but have no idea how, or I'll know exactly how I know someone, but cannot access her name from the dark recesses of my brain. Or I'll think I know someone, but she turns out to be someone quite different to the person I thought she was. Or I'll know how I know her, and I'll remember her name, but I can't remember the names of her kids, what work she does, or if she is the one whose husband just walked out on her for his personal trainer or if that was her sister.

Or in fact, if she has a sister.

And sometimes these occasions can be embarrassing. For example:

The time I bumped into an old friend and smiled and waved at her and was mortified when she threw me a patronising half smile, until I realised that she was actually a famous newsreader who I'd never met in my life.

The time I sat next to a celebrity in a cafe and was delighted when she smiled at me, until I realised hours later that she was actually my GP.

The time I was chatting to an acquaintance, and enquired about parents, only to be gently reminded that her mother had died about five years earlier.

The 17 billion times I've conducted animated discussions with people I bump into, pretending to know exactly who they are whilst having not the slightest bit of a clue.

There's only one thing that can help me. I need a Face Recognition app for my iPhone. You know how Shazaam will instantly tell you the name and artist of any song that's playing? I need an app - let's call it Whozaam - that will instantly tell me the name, personal details, and circumstances of meeting of any person I wave my phone at.

Of course, I do acknowledge that there may be some small privacy issues with this software. But let's face it: no-one has much privacy these days anyway. And the usefulness of my app will far exceed any minor concerns about having the details of one's life open to the entire world. Besides, I suppose an individual could always opt out of having their details on the Whozaam database.

But if they do, then they can't expect me to say hello to them. I know I know them, but I haven't the slightest clue how.

*Which I may or may not do.

BASTARD

As conscientious blog readers will know, I set up an Elliptical Fucking Trainer in my office the other day. Aside from worries about whether I would ever get it assembled, and whether - if assembled - I would ever use the damn thing, my primary concern was how my husband The Architect would respond.

The Architect is a man of vision. Our home resembles a clean, white spaceship (or at least, in his vision it is. In reality, it's more like a messy white spaceship with Spongebob memorabilia scattered on the concrete floors, and Nutella smeared on the Improbably White Couch).

The Architect designed both the exteriors and interiors, and is very specific about what he will 'allow'* in the house. Minimalist white furniture is encouraged, despite the presence of three children and a bunny. Clear plastic stools are celebrated. A futuristic pod takes pride of place in the corner. And the dining table is made of steel and glass. Practical, I know. Sigh....

Wall hangings are few, and carefully chosen, and decorative items are sparse. At the beginning of our relationship The Architect even tried to limit the number of photos I could display to five at a time. Of course, I completely ignored him, but he really did try.

So given his delicate aesthetic sensibilities, how on earth would The Architect accept an Elliptical Fucking Trainer? It has no beauty, or designer features. It's a machine, and an ugly one at that.

But I wanted my EFT. I wanted it bad. And so I hatched a cunning plan. I decided to smuggle it into my office when The Architect wasn't home, assemble it myself, dispose of the packaging, and when he inevitably noticed it, pretend that it had been there for months. Sounds absolutely infallible, right?

I shared the cunning plan with the two older kids, and enlisted them to help. We practised saying "Dad, it's been here for months, are you going mad?" for a least a week before the EFT arrived. And on the day I brought it home, we practised again whilst waiting for The Architect to walk in the door. We were primed. We were ready. It was time to take him on.

"Hi," said The Architect, walking into my office and kissing me on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"Daddy!!!!" cried Boo, who had been standing on the EFT.

"Hi Boo!" he answered, and picked her up and swung her into his arms. "I missed you!"

Er... HELLO husband??? Are you BLIND???

"So what's going on?" he asked me again. I just shook my head blankly.

"Daddy, I been exercising!" said Boo. "On the machine!"

"Great!" said The Architect, leaning against the EFT. "So what's for dinner?" I scanned his face. No hint of recognition. No hint of surprise. NOTHING.

The big kids bounced into the room, ready to do their part. "Hi Dad!" they said uncertainly, waiting... waiting... nothing... nothing...

"Hi kids! Let's go play!" he answered. I couldn't take it any more.

"DO YOU NOT NOTICE ANYTHING?" I yelled.

"What?" he asked.

"THE THING YOU'RE LEANING AGAINST."

"You mean, our Elliptical Trainer? We've had it for months, right?"

I looked at him hard. And I had to admit. He got me. He got me GOOD.

I hate that Elliptical Fucking Trainer.

*I use inverted commas to represent his illusion that he is actually in control.

Kerri Vs The Machine: The Tears, The Triumph

Yesterday my elliptical trainer arrived*. Unfortunately I wasn't home to receive the package, so I trooped to the Post Office with notice in hand to pick it up.

"Oh no," said the nice lady behind the counter, followed by a lot of things I couldn't actually understand as English was clearly her fifteenth language. "No no. Not heeya."

Through a combination of sign language and despair I intuited that the package was too big and had had to be rerouted back to the holding centre, which of course was out in Woop Woop**. After contacting the holding centre and failing to agree upon a time at which they could redeliver it (because I am busy and they are inflexible) I decided to schlep out there and pick it up myself.

Luckily my car is the size of a small town, because the elliptical trainer, described online as being 'compact', was in a box the size of a large house. I drove it home, dragged it inside, and proceeded to open the package.

Or at least, I tried to open the package. The damn thing was sealed in industrial strength cardboard and stapled together with metal clasps the size of my foot. It took every piece of kitchen equipment I had just to tear the damn thing open. I had to rest for about an hour as my whole body was shaking with exertion. Exercise equipment indeed.

Then it was time to assemble the machine. Well, the instruction manual provided with the equipment made the lady at the Post Office look like an English professor. It referred me to the 'Explosion Drawing', which was appropriate as the sight of it made my brain explode into a million tiny pieces. Much like the elliptical trainer on the floor.

Still, I made progress. I got the first two bits into the main thingamyjig without too much trouble. But then I had to insert the spindle bar through the connecting tube with a sharp washer and a spring washer using a hinge screw and a chain wheel shaft without damaging the crankshaft, and I completely lost my mind.

After sobbing in the corner for several minutes I continued my quest. I struggled through but was hindered by typos and spelling mistakes and ommissions. Was the Right Connecting Tube number 40 or 49? It was labelled as both. What on earth is a D Sharp Washer?*** And perhaps it would have been helpful to tell me to put piece 1 in between pieces 17 and 24 before I found out by myself and had to dismantle the whole thing and start again.

However, after a mere 147 minutes, my elliptical trainer was assembled (with only one slight crack on the footrest after I put it in the wrong way and broke it on my first pedal). And it's great. Not that I ever plan to use it.

Quite frankly, after the morning I've had, I never want to see that little fucker again.

 *(the one I bought online without informing The Architect, who, as many of you will know, is a Minimalist and lover of stark white furniture, a category into which 'eliptical trainer' does not fall).
**(You know. Far away.)
***Turned out to be a D Shaped Washer. Sigh....

Giving Bills The Finger

So I just sent off all my tax documents to my accountant. This is phenomenally early, considering that it’s only February, and the financial year doesn’t end until June. Except that the tax is for last year, and my accountant has been hassling me for them for months. So in fact I am completely useless.

I hate preparing my tax. I hate collating information. I hate going through files, finding details, and writing them down. I hate filling out forms. I hate paying bills. I hate doing anything that involves inputting data (unless the data is a Tweet or Facebook update, in which case I could do it all day).

And I can’t keep up with all the data to be inputted, just to maintain a functional 21st century Western lifestyle. Paperwork comes in at an extraordinary rate, and I lose track of it all the time. With five people in the house, there's a lot of data input, and when I forget, I can make some colossal mistakes.

I’m not just talking about having the phone cut off because I forgot to pay the bill, though that has certainly happened, and oh, how I laughed at my silly error (using ‘laugh’ in the sense of ‘wept when I found I was unable to make a call’). In the past few years I have also:

- Forgotten to transfer money into my husband’s account before a business trip so he found himself overseas and penniless;

- Forgotten to re-register my car so I found myself booked and shamed by two gleeful looking police officers, and fined about a billion dollars;

- Forgotten to renew my daughter’s passport and found myself panic stricken in line behind seventy five others at 5pm on a Friday afternoon;

- Forgotten to lodge insurance claims, which led to all sorts of problems, I can assure you;

- Forgotten to sign school permission slips, which leads to very cross teachers and extremely embarrassed kids;

- Forgotten to invoice for work I’ve done, which is just plain stupid;

- Forgotten to pay parking fines, which, as I’ve discovered, leads to even more fines;

- Forgotten to leave feedback on ebay purchases, which leads to very agitated sellers;

- Forgotten to bank two birthday cheques from my grandmother, which really hurt her feelings.

I don’t want to have to fill out forms anymore. In fact, I would quite cheerfully give up some freedom and privacy to never have to input data again. I’d be more than happy to have a microchip inserted in my finger – hey, inserted in my forehead! – into which every detail of my life could be programmed, including money in, money out, and money owed. The government could just take what is theirs from my online account after calculating their share, my creditors could do the same, and I could give up record keeping forever. It sounds like heaven.

Either that, or I could find a full time bookkeeper to live with me. As long as he pays himself. After all, the last thing I need is an employee. Too much paperwork.

Frustration

Earlier today I was talking to my friend Lana on the phone. I was using my iPhone which is of excellent quality; she was using hers, which is sadly, very inferior. I use the word 'inferior' in reference to the inability of her phone to actually convey the sound of her voice to me, which, in my understanding, is kind of its purpose. Lana tells me this has something to do with the 'poor phone reception' in her residential area, but this 'poor reception' seems bizarrely to follow her phone around wherever she is, so I'm not sure I believe her.

But anyway, that's really not the point.

I love talking to Lana and I don't do it nearly enough (due to annoying interferences such as children, husbands, housework and jobs). So I get extremely frustrated when I am unable to hear her properly in the few precious moments we have. Sometimes I try to bluff my way through and pretend to hear her, hoping I can piece together our conversation later in my head, but when all I can glean is 'And th____ bl____ in the gi____ down my fl_____ w____ plo_____..... well, it's kind of difficult.

But anyway, that's really not the point either.

The point is, speaking to Lana this afternoon got me frustrated. And it also got me thinking about my other greatest frustrations (apart from not being able to consummate my imaginary relationship with Simon Baker, of course). So here goes:

- Not being able to squeeze a pimple. I know that's a bit disgusting, but it absolutely drives me mad. One of my kids had their first ever pimple recently (and happily, their only one) and they would not let me even touch it. Perhaps they might have let me touch it had my husband not poisoned them against me, warning them to 'never, under any condition, let Mummy touch your pimple, no matter how much she begs and pleads'. This, of course, is because HE has never let me squeeze HIS pimples either, which is COMPLETELY unfair and nearly KILLS me. My kids had better stay completely acne free for the rest of their natural lives, or I'm going to spend their entire teenage years in paroxysms of despair.

- Not being able to access my email or Twitter account. This happens regularly, when my computer exercises its right to be temperamental, taunting and teasing me with glimpses of the precious communications that await me, but refusing to let me access them for ridiculous reasons such as 'Network Connection Failed' or 'Certificate You Are Viewing Does Not Match'. And naturally, even when I was not particularly desperate to check my emails, being denied the opportunity to do so will send me into spasms of frustration.

- Noticing a stray eyebrow growing in a place eyebrows shouldn't grow (for example, on the bridge of my nose, or out of my chin) when I am out and about and don't have a pair of tweezers on me. This leads to frantic and fruitless attempts to pluck out the hair with my stubby little, nail-bitten fingers, forsaking whatever other chore or activity I am meant to be doing, until finally I must run desperately into the nearest chemist to buy tweezers and pluck out the offending hair in the car. Then, of course, I will absent-mindedly bring the tweezers home with me, and leave them in the bathroom with my other 276 pairs of tweezers (275 of which were bought in similar emergencies) and go through the exact same ordeal a week or two later when a hair appears on my forehead in the middle of the supermarket. Maddening.

- Seeing a delicious chocolate cake that has been sliced unevenly. Some deep primitive need emerges in me to even up the slice by trimming it with a knife and eating the shavings. If I am prevented from doing so (say by my mother, who believes such 'picking' at the cake is evidence of bad manners) I become immensely frustrated and distressd. Inevitably, of course, I will yield to my cravings, and slice the cake, but my slices are never symmetrical enough, and I am forced to keep eating and eating and eating and EATING until nearly all the cake is gone and I am in agonies of fullness. Clearly, cupcakes are the only possibly solution.

So what are yours? Obviously I have a million others, but I don't have time to write them all down. I have to try to call Lana again. Of course, she probably won't answer her phone at this hour.

Frustrates the hell out of me.

Death Of The Humming Girl

Yesterday I was working in a bookstore cafe I frequently patronise. (And yes, I know how pretentious 'frequently patronise' sounds, but it makes me seem much more Professional and Important than 'hang out in a lot').

Now, this particular cafe is well known as a place where people come to work. Children are not encouraged (at least, not by me), voices are hushed, and at least two thirds of the customers are tapping away quietly on laptops, working on anything from university assignments to hard-hitting blogs such as these.

So when I sat next to an earnest-looking girl buried in some books, a pot of yoghurt beside her, looking bland and inoffensive (both she and the yoghurt), I felt that I was fairly safe.

I was wrong.

Five minutes after I sat, having just turned on my computer and settled into my scone... I mean seat... her mobile phone rang.

Now, I have nothing against mobile phones. I own one myself. But when I am on my phone in public, I speak in my 'inside' voice. Softly. I know that people don't want to hear my conversations about wild sex and partying (using 'wild sex and partying' in the sense of 'doctor's appointments and laundry').

Well, this young lady - she of the earnest curls and bland yoghurt - used her outside voice. LOUDLY.

And she went on and on.

I couldn't glean much from her conversation, despite her tenor and convinction. Apparently she was 'sooooo there' and he was 'soooo bad', but where was there and why so bad I had absolutely no idea. Nor did I care.

After listening to her ramble for five minutes I began to feel tetchy.

After ten minutes I began to wonder if her ears were burning with all that radiation.

After 20 minutes I hoped fervently her ears were burning.

After 30 mins I hoped her brain was on fire.

After 40 mins (I kid you not) I was fantasizing about setting her on fire myself.

I felt a profound, murderous rage towards this bland, curly girl. How DARE she encroach upon my personal audio space? I was about to turn around and confront her when, like a gift from beyond, she said goodbye and snapped the phone shut.

Praise the lord! I wanted to kiss her phone (before flinging into the nearest rubbish bin). Instead, I took a deep cleansing bite of scone - I mean breath - and returned to my work.

I lasted approprimately 45 seconds.

Because then the humming started.

Yes, yoghurt-breath steel-wool-head was HUMMING. To herself. Softly, but constantly, and tunelessly, like a demented person. She hummed as she read. She hummed as she took notes. She hummed as she turned the pages. Her tiny soft hums burned into my brain.

My legs started twitching. My eyelid started spasming. My fingers started aching with the need to grab my laptop and smack her over the head with it.

STOP FUCKING HUMMING!!!!!!!!!

I glanced around at her and glared. A truly vicious glare. And she smiled, a peaceful, beautific smile.

So it was clear. She genuinely was insane.

There was nothing else to do. I picked up my laptop, raised it above my shoulders, slammed it down on her head as hard as I could, and worked in peace for the next couple of hours with her slumped on the table beside me.

Except that I didn't. I picked up my laptop, packed it away in my bag, and went home bathed in anger and frustration.

And when she called out as I was leaving and told me to have a nice day, I grinned through gritted teeth and said 'Yeah, you too'.

That's just the kind of sweet gentle person I am.

Techno Trouble

This week was a disaster. Both my computer and mobile phone died within three days, raising the obvious question of me being cursed by modern technology – perhaps in retribution for the bitter tirades I unleash on it at regular intervals.

Luckily, I back up my computer religiously – abut once a year – so I only lost several thousand documents and emails and about a billion pictures. No biggie. Oh, and all my email addresses were zapped too, as I’d never worked out how to save them in a file. Ah well, I could always use the phone, right?

Well, no. Sadly my telephone numbers have been lost forever too, as apparently neither phones nor SIM cards are salvageable after ten minutes immersed in a boiling lamb casserole. The silly phone shouldn’t have been near the stove in the first place. I told it not to go there but it didn't listen. And it certainly doesn't listen now. It doesn't even ring, the stupid thing.

And unfortunately I don't remember anyone’s number except my own, and even that I have to look up occasionally. I don’t even know my husband’s work number. Why would I? I press the speed dial and there it is.

Still, losing all my contacts were just mere nuisances compared to the pain I underwent in order to get my technology (and life) up and running again.

First, I had to pay two professionals an exorbitant amount of money just to tell me that my beloved stupid gadgets were dead (yes, that will teach me to seek a second opinion).

Then I had to replace them. But with what? Clearly not with the brands I had previously, as THEY BROKE (okay, one broke with a little assistance, but still) so they were obviously USELESS. I needed different brands. And when I'm confronted with more than two options (for example, "chocolate or vanilla") my brain goes all fuzzy and everything starts to look the same. Or different. I can’t even tell anymore.

So I had to ask someone else what to get, and just stick with that, because god knows getting a second opinion didn’t work very well the last time. Then of course I had to find out the best price for what I'd been told to get, which I really had no energy for, because I was so emotionally drained from being told my gadgets were beyond saving that I couldn't bear to discuss it for another milisecond.

Nonethelesss, I did the research, found the best price, bought the new gadgets, took them home, discovered they were each missing the vital piece of equipment that would enable them to do what I needed them to do, returned to the store, bought the extra pieces of equipment at twice the price of the original items, brought them home, realized I had no idea how to install them, returned to the store, got the experts to install then, returned home, celebrated for about five minutes that everything was up and running and life could begin again, then decided it was all too much trouble, that I HATED technology, and that I was going off to live an organic, herbal, technology free life in the mountains.

Then my husband rang my new mobile with some great news, and my new laptop beeped with an email from a friend inviting me to a party, and all was well with the world.