We have recommenced talking about our kids

That's right, for anyone who happens to enjoy hearing stories about small (and, occasionally less small) children, there are three, count them, three recent posts right over here.

The one by Gigglewick is good.



This blog will return with more musical references of questionable relevance soon.

You know I needed to have my say/Don't need no life full of disarray

WARNING: This post contains references to songs that will get stuck in your head. If you are going to hate me for this, it's probably best to stop reading now.

Of course, if you're a big fan of early 90s Australian techno-pop, and you read the title, I'm pretty sure it's already too late so you may as well just read on...


In recent times, I have been foolishly listening to both commercial radio and the songs on my ipod that are there because they were automatically downloaded from itunes for free and I haven't yet removed them. So, here's some not-excessively-up-to-date news from the world of music.

Some introductions are too long
I have discovered that if you hear the introducetion to a song, and you think that it sounds remarkably familiar but you haven't heard it in years and you won't recognise it until the lyrics start, and the song is in fact "I need a lover who won't drive me crazy", then you will be ready to kill someone by the time JC Mellencamp finally starts singing.

For those who have always wondered, I googled it and found that the last line of the chorus is apparently "Some girl that knows the meaning of 'Hey hit the highway'", which just causes me to imagine a large group of confused women randomly punching roads.

The song also includes the line "Well I'm not wiped out by this poolroom life I'm living" so apparently JCM was having a 'completely mental day' when he wrote this.

I should mention at this point that my sister used to walk around the house singing "I need a brother who won't drive me crazy" but I am assured that this was not directed at me.


Playing in a cover band in the mid 90s can have long term effects
I know this because I was standing in the checkout line at Coles when I noticed that:
1. They were playing "Mr Jones" over the store PA
2. Without realising it, I had started singing the backing vocals in the chorus*
3. Out loud


Some songs entertain for far longer than one might expect
I was utterley surprised when, driving home late one night, I flicked over to Nova and heard the openning bars of Euphoria's "Love You right". It took me a while to figure out exactly why this made me so unreasonably happy. It turns out there are endless numbers of reasons

1. I love the rags-to-riches nature of Simon Baker-Denny's rise from extra in the video clip for this song, to murder victim who got two lines in LA Confidential** to star of the awesomely cheesy US prime time series, "The Guardian".

2. My 18 year old self particularly enjoyed the E-Street promos which featured this song as the soundtrack to Kate Raison steaming up a shower that, frankly, looked like it was already pretty hot before Marcus Graham turned up.

3. When I bought the album, I discovered that these guys somehow got Young MC to rap on one of the tracks. Like, you know, back when people had actually heard of him.

But, having checked with YouTube, the main reason was:

4. My 18 year old self's fondness for this dress, which, when worn by Holly Garnett, ensured that there was not a straight man anywhere across the nation who cared or even noticed that the band's second single was rubbish.


Remixes confuse me
My ipod features Groove Coverage's club mix of "Moonlight Shadow" by Mike Oldfield. However, there are entire verses where the beats have been removed entirely, which actually makes it impossible to dance to.

Particularly on a crowded bus.









*Sha la la, sha la la, yeah, if you must know

** This is apparently French for "The Secret Information"

Another little insight into why I turned out like this

Sunday was pleasant.

Sadly, Honey Bear was working from home so, after an entertaining morning of crawling around in between the roof and the ceiling trying to fix a downlight (don't ask) I took the boys off to church and then around to my parents house for the afternoon. The boys were thrilled to see their grandma and grandpa and to watch "Snoopy Come Home", and I got to eat Welsh hotpot for lunch and it was in every sense a Good Plan.

Later in the afternoon, we all walked down to the local primary school to visit the sheep and play on the various slides and other playground items. In the middle of lifting my 15.7kg Bundle from one platform to a somewhat higher one, rather than allowing him to walk across the chain-link bridge, I experienced the invigorating sensation of four different muscles in my lower back going PING in quick succession.

Happily, the PINGing stopped after a couple of minutes and there were no long term effects except that it made me feel like I was getting old and, for reasons I can't quite recall, I commented on this to my father.

He was, of course, amused, but didn't say too much. Things only got concerning when he decided to mention this to my mother, resulting in the following little conversation:

My father: Bad news, honey. INC is starting to feel the effects of old age.

My mother: That's not bad news, that's just to be expected.

INC: No. I prefer my father's point of view here. WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN "THAT'S TO BE EXPECTED"? etc

My father really did look like Christmas had made a mysterious and unscheduled mid-April appearance. The thing we all appreciated most is that if anyone other than my saintly mother had said this, I would have known that I was being sledged, but in this case she really was trying to help.

My father, meanwhile, spent the rest of the afternoon finding new and creative ways to insert the phrase "That's to be expected" into casual conversation and I am quietly confident that this will continue for several weeks.

Everyone who thinks my parents should have their own blog can leave their supportive comments below. Anyone who would like to point out that 34 is not actually all that old should feel free to say so, too.

Pop Quiz

To improve your 'enjoyment' of this post, imagine that I sound a lot like Dennis Hopper. And let's face it, as far as most of you know, I just might. For extra points, scowl for 90 minutes straight whilst simultaneously flirting with Sandra Bullock.


It's Sunday. You have a one hour window in which to get a much needed haircut and you are stuck in an unfamiliar shopping mall. You discover that you can't go to Just Cuts because you don't want to pay $24 for a no-appointment-anything-can-happen haircut, and, even more critically, this business is heartily endorsed by Grant Denyer.

This leaves you with a choice between:

1. Spending another week or two looking like you forgot what size your head was and grew three times as much hair as you actually required, or

2. Bob the Barber

What do you do?

What. Do. You. Do?

Ordinary people, it's okay/ You don't have to wear those wings

I do not have any solid, scientifically valid evidence to establish that the world is heading in the general direction of a mysterious accessory known as Helena's handbasket. Overall, things are probably no better or worse than usual. However, amongst my friends, there is an avalanche of bad news and some to spare. Illness, divorce, random yet potentially fatal injuries, those I know and love are doing it all.

I'm not sure how most of my blogging friends are travelling, apart from a couple who are clearly having a stinkful time lately, and many more who join me in being uninspired and/or a bit grumpy, but it seems that the blogosphere has been a bit short on celebrations lately.

For me, the last few weeks can be adequately summed up by a phone conversation with my lovely sister-in-law, who will probably be unimpressed if she ever finds out that I have decided her nickname should be "Herbs".

It went like this:

Herbs: Hi there, how are you?

INC: Pretty good. How are you?

Herbs: I'm good too

INC: That's great

*beat*

Herbs: Are we lying? I know I am

INC: Yes. So am I.


There is nothing particularly terrible going on in my life. I am concerned about some health issues that are not mine, which I won't be blogging about because they are not mine. My job is stressful and not particularly fun, mortgage payments are hard to keep up with, and I would sell at least two non-essential organs for a week where I get to sleep for at least seven uninterrupted hours per night, but compared to nearly everyone I know, I'm having an easy time of it.

So, I'm not entirely sure what my problem is, but I think if it was expressed mathmatically it might look something like:

Exhaustion + stress + adorable but challenging children = grumpiness

The real problem is that when this grumpiness ends up pointing in the general direction of the children, I forget that they are really very young and that they are allowed to have a bad day or two here and there, and I hold unrealistic expectations that they will behave wonderfully all the time just because they do it most of the time, and so I end up getting unreasonably cross and then hating myself for it.

Something that contributes to all this is that up until four years ago my career choices were based on the idea of finding jobs where I could actually feel like I was doing something positive in the world. With the impending arrival of little people, it was economically necessary to find what we like to call in the trade 'a real job'. So, now I earn, quite literally, twice as much money as I used to but that's really all that gets achieved.

I can put up with the nine hours of 'this is stupid' per day if the rest of the time is spent with my fantastic family and I can even perhaps think that maybe I'm not so bad at the whole parenting thing. But when the grumpiness equation takes effect, I find myself wondering if I've ever been good at anything at all, ever. I start to have some difficulty in remembering why I care, and I realise that some days I have only the vaguest idea of who I am. I also wonder how old I have to get before I feel like I have some idea what I am doing instead of just making it up and hoping people are fooled.

It's possible that I have been subconsciously projecting this mood onto my blog, given that my last 7 posts have covered emoing, ceasing to emo, lolcats, Frances O'Connor, courage, basketball, dried fruit, a band I saw last year, and now whatever the hell this post is. I'm not sure I ever knew what this blog was about, but if I did then I have clearly forgotten.

Multiply that sentiment by about one million and that's how I've been feeling about my life lately.


So.


Time to take a deep breath.


In.

Out.



That's better.



I need to remember that there are nights when I walk in the door and two small crazy people come running into the hallway and do their best to actually knock me off my feet as they grab me and yell "Daddy's hoooooooome", and that these are really, really good nights.

It's also time to take the advice that I freely dispense to others whether they have asked for it or not and accept that I'm just an ordinary person. I don't have to be perfect at everything and I get to fail from time to time without the world actually ending. The wearing of wings is best left to some surprisingly musclebound young lady at 6.30pm each Sunday. As for me, I do not have to wear them, because Angie Hart has already explained that they are Stupid Things, and she's right.

I'm not sure that this will help. I suck at taking advice, especially my own, but I'm hoping that posting this here will serve as a much needed reminder. And maybe, just maybe, I can climb back out of this spiral of confusion and self loathing and reach the point where I can possibly start to think that I have regained the ability to get it right, at least some of the time.

I have to get this right. The fate of the world doesn't depend on it, but there are two little people who need a good daddy and I'm their one and only shot at it.

I have to get this right.

I have to get this right.