Sorry. Work.

Because pomes don't buy as much food as other things do.

Sorry.

Work.

Lots of work.

Really great work for a top-notch client.

Designing e-learning modules from scratch

Might not be your thing

But it is mine.

And my oldest client

(The confidential one)

Sends me lots of copywriting to do.

I can’t tell you what it is, 

But it helps a lot at trivia nights.

Like the one a couple of months ago –

The hospital fundraiser.

I was on the ambo team.

We totally smashed it.

We beat the nurses, the doctors,

The admin staff – everyone.

We won chocolate and hats.

I’m also writing a weekly thing

About hot dead people.

It was my editor’s idea

But between you and me

I think she picked the right person to write it.

And I’ve only missed one

When my otherwise reliable heart

Went a bit funny in the muscly part

Of the left ventricle.

It hurt.

But having a paramedic for a partner -

Despite the night-shifts

And difficult-to-iron uniforms - 

Is pretty fantastic when your heart hurts.

Hospital was strange.

Stressful and frightening in some ways,

Relaxing and friendly in others.

It provided me with the opportunity

To remind the Emergency Department staff

How much they suck at trivia.

I’ll get better slowly.

In time to talk pomes

At a bunch of skeptics.

Lots of pomes, only half-hatched yet.

So there have been pomes

But not here.

Sorry.

Bisy. Backson.

Because bread and butter.

Don't worry or panic, don't sound the alarm;

I haven't gone missing or dead.

My to-do list of posts is as long as my arm;

But for now they must stay in my head.

I've been working part-time on a contract, you see;

And it doesn't leave room for much verse.

I'll be back in July with a poem or three

And some lovely big coins in my purse. 

x

Coming up for breath.

Because of busy.

I'm still alive, I'm still around,
I haven't died or gone to ground.
I'm not on holiday or sick,
I've just had clients laid on thick.
The money's nice, though not the best,
It keeps the children fed and dressed.
I'd exercise more blogging skills,
If poetry could pay the bills.

WHA HAPPEN?

Y-U-No write bloggy bloggy?

Auntie Shirl is busy. I quite like being busy, particularly when it pays by the hour. That's only part of my reason for not tending my darling wee blog for a while, and for missing its fifth birthday.

I'm sorry, blog. Happy Birthday.

A List of Excuses, for the Purpose of Making the Author Feel Vindicated

Big jobs part 1
Work has been hella busy. How busy? Busy enough for me to use the word "hella" instead of bothering to find a less irritating adjective. I've been writing a course for Big Client, which was delivered late last week after about a month of revisions, run-throughs, more revisions and trying to demonstrate the difference between 'keeping learners interested' and 'reading legislation word-for-word'.

Big jobs part 2
My favourite client, who throws me sporadic-but-extremely-interesting work, sent me a reasonably big job with a reasonably short deadline. The topic is confidential, but rest assured I spent several late nights learning loads and loads of detail about something I'm still not interested in, then squished it down to about a thousand words.

Little girls turn 3
In a few weeks, my baby girl who gets quite miffed if I call her "baby girl" will be turning three. She's extremely excited about it, and will run up to me with three fingers carefully displayed and shout "THREE! BIRTHDAY PARTY!" at random points throughout the day. The sensible part of my brain took a little holiday and I decided to have a party at home. It will only be small, with about 6 wee guests, but it still means invitations, food planning, finding an entertainer (NOT this guy) and organising pressies.

Late, late, late thirties
One of the best things about having a twin sister is sharing birthdays. When that birthday is a Big One (for example one with a '4' in it), that also means sharing party organisation. In the period Before Children (BC) when I had time, money and young eyes, designing invitations was one of my favourite things to do. It still is, but doing the design for this one required saving up for the latest version of Photoshop, then trying to snatch moments here and there after kids' bedtime to do a proper job. And Jo, the occasional, gentle "It would be nice to have invitations soon" had the desired effect. And yes, I will get to work on the guest list and the speech as a matter of priority.

So. Enough. Big Client will be calling for a meeting later this morning, and I want to squeeze in a gym session before then. Mmwah.

A juxtaposition

When what you do messes with what you cuddle.

This one is for all those awesome worky-mummies who don't have time to read some strange woman's blog, but especially for Mama Mogantosh and Salsa, who know what I'm talkin' 'bout.

As dawn’s first horizontal breath lights distant hills she smoulders,
And slowly lifts the old, cold night aloft upon her shoulders,
She holds a glowing promise (Just a minute, Mummy’s writing),
Like a humble spray of thirsty kindling (Shoosh now!) wants igniting.

Cool shadows are dissolved by creeping rays (Don’t touch that, please),
Dappling littered forest floors (I said don’t touch!) and huddled trees.
Once-frigid stones and brittle bones (Did you just hit your brother?)
Are warmed and thawed (Just sit) and then (Right there) they warm each other

In ignorance I lie (Did you stick Lego up your nose?)
Closely tucked in (Blow) the place where (Blow again) the dreaming goes.
(Could you just give me five minutes?) Tiny servants of the sun,
Something something ‘bout the morning (Oh for goodness’ sake, I’m done.)

Talking loud. Saying nothing.

I would like to dedicate this piece to all those project managers who make the world a more customer-centric place.

Before we kick-start into the initiation stage,
Let’s do a status check so that we’re all on the same page.
Our focus group suggested that our target demographic
Has disconnect, and in effect, they’re driving website traffic.

We aim to add some value to the current paradigm;
To implement best practice and to minimise downtime;
To move the project forward to a workable outcome;
To incentivise with KPIs will be our rule of thumb.

Let’s look at the big picture; take a helicopter view.
We need some clarity around objectives for Q2.
We want to think outside the box – that’s crucial for this phase;
Think B2B for SME and other TLAs.

We’ve dotted ‘i’s and crossed our ‘t’s and jumped through every hoop;
We’ve kept our key stakeholders in a constant feedback loop;
We’ll transition into handover, show-stoppers notwithstanding;
And send out comms on CD-ROMS to gain some understanding.

Dear Blog,

OMG Hi.

How is ya? Who's ya latest? OMG social science is sooooo boring. Do you think Mrs Kowslecki has a boyfriend? Eeewww.

I've been, like, soooo busy. I've got so much client work it's not even funny, except, y'know, it's kinda funny if you think getting paid and being able to buy new clothes and pay the rates and stuff is funny. It's not so much funny 'ha-ha', more like funny 'toppity bops'*

So, like, even though it looks like I haven't written anything on my blog, I have actually been writing heaps. Web copy and training manuals and packaging copy and stuff. I'm kinda devo that I don't get paid to write frivolous poems about stuff that pops into my head, but, you know, most people don't get props for their poems until they're dead.

I have been writing a few pieces, but they're like soooo not finished. One of them is for the unreal TAMOz Fringe event, Skepticator LIVE - The Skeptics Open Mic Night. I'm like, totally going. Hopefully my elbows are sharp enough to get up and say something, even though I'm so shy. Not! Jokes! LOL. It's all organised by this guy, who got totally famous this week when his blog got on Media Watch. I thought Media Watch was some kind of wrist thingy that you could watch YouTube vids on, but apparently it's some show about shows. Whatevs.

Anyway, gotta go. I've got soooo much homework to do, and besides I can't figure out if I'm a 1980s school girl or a 39-year-old housewife trying to be hilarious.

Later.
xoxox
 

*My friend Maddie said toppity bops the other day and I nicked it. Don't tell her, ok?

Popping my skeptical cherry

Walk softly and carry a swag of evidence

Having done purely freelance work from home for the last four years, it's been a while since I've had an on-site office job. But now I do - I'm in the middle of a part-time contract in a real office, with real people. And that means chats by the water cooler.

One of my chats was about what I was planning for the Easter holiday weekend (giving the impression that Easter is a holiday at our house, and not just four days of the same stuff except without day care). Part of my plans included visiting a friend who happens to have an autistic four-year-old son. My colleague, a native German speaker, was fairly unfamiliar with autism, and asked, "What causes it?". I replied, "Nobody really knows" and that's when it happened. Another person using the kitchen interrupted with, "Are you talking about autism? It can actually be caused by environmental factors, like heavy metals. In fact they think the triple vaccine…"

Cue polite Skeptical Smackdown!

I immediately started shaking my head and mentioned that the only study to even vaguely suggest a link between autism and a vaccine had never been successfully repeated, its author had been discredited and despite many attempts, the link had never been proven. I could have gone on and on (as you're probably aware, if you've ever read anything I've written), but the message had already been delivered, and I saw no reason to risk alienating and annoying someone who merely joined in to a casual conversation.

But I felt fan-frikkin-tastic.

The thrill of having my very first shared-workplace opportunity to verbally quash a morsel of pseudo-scientific hogwash was palpable. There was no smug satisfaction; no holier-than-thou sense of self-righteousness. Only happiness and adrenalin (and a vague recollection that I once sought adrenalin rushes from white-water rafting and spelunking).

When I returned to my desk, another colleague said, "I'll bet anyone ten bucks that it's going to rain at precisely three o'clock tomorrow afternoon" ('tomorrow' being Good Friday). I said, "why so specific?" and she replied, "Because that's the time that Jesus died on the cross". Resisting the urge to roll my eyes and go into some detail about the vagaries of biblical calendars and time-keeping equipment, pagan festival juxtaposition and, let's be frank, the non-existence of god, I just said, "I'll take that bet". I figure the odds are reasonable (despite the wagerer's motivation) and besides, I think I'm on a bit of a roll.

The Daughter-saurus #3

Dwiving Daddy to Distwaction

As I've previously mentioned, Amy's mastery of English is... shall we say... pending. She's got all the non-verbals right - her intonation and gesticulation are spot-on, if a little insistent and chubby. The only thing she's really got to work on now is the pronunciation of words. A mere trifle, really.

Usually hubby and I can work out what she's trying to say, by playing charades, making educated guesses or, as a last resort, holding up every item in the room consecutively until she says "Yay!" And like many other mummies, I'm a lot better at deciphering Amese than her father is. Except for yesterday.

I'm currently working on a lovely contract with my old employer (with money and everything!), in which I'm required to travel to Sydney once a week to make an appearance at head office. There were a few teething problems when I started, but Stocko is generally pretty awesome in the kid-minding department, and instances of exasperation are getting fewer and further between. Yesterday, however, I was sitting at my desk when my phone rang. It was Stocko. No hello - just the familiar sound of Amy's wail in the background, and Him Indoors asking desperately, "I give up. Babe, what does 'Mah-bwee' mean?"

We never did figure it out.

Ketchup.

There have been a lot of exciting things going on over my way. None of them really need enough words to warrant a big post each, so here they are altogether.

The little crawler
Yesterday, our lives changed. Just before lunchtime, my son started crawling. Properly, that is - not just backwards with a surprised look on his face. Yep - our pride and joy is no longer reliably plonkable. He's yet to gain a real enthusiasm for the job, or to realise its potential for exploration and mischief, but if he's at one end of the room and his Maisy book is at the other, it's all systems go! Yay!

The upchuck update
Since my little dance with the diarrhoea demon earlier in the week, I've been nice enough to share this special little virus with those I love most. It was hubby's turn last night, and he proved that the bigger they are, the bigger they hurl. Now, I'm happy to say, he's eating proper meals and the bathroom smells like Pine-O-Cleen. I still have all my extremities crossed so that Mitch won't catch it from us (I've worn the antiseptic hand soap down to a sliver), but at least we'll be well enough to handle it if he does.

Three weeks until unemployment...
Last week, I resigned from my job. Hurrah! I've been "back" at work since March - working from home for a few hours most days, but we all agreed that I'd finish up before we went jetting off overseas. So the 16th of June is my first day of unemployment, and I can hardly wait. I've already got some nibbles from potential clients for when I get back to Australia, and a business idea that's been itching to happen for about a year, so hopefully I can get the income ball rolling again shortly after we land.

...and four weeks until I'm on 'un avion'
Like most families with 9-month-old babies, we're headed off to Europe for 12 weeks at the end of June. To say I'm slightly excited is a bit like saying Kevin Rudd's hair is slightly dorky. And I am, and will always be, overwhelmed with gratitude to my father-in-law, without whom the trip would not be financially possible. My folks, too, are being kind and generous enough to fork out for the sailing-in-Croatia part of the journey - an incredible gift considering it was hubby and I who planted the idea in the first place. So Paris, Loches, the Dolomites, Venice, Split, the Adriatic, Dubrovnik, Florence, the Cinque Terre, Perugia, Sicily, Malta, Gozo, Pompeii and Rome - here we come! Woo!

The grumpy commuter's tour of Sydney

My second-worst bus trip ever
One of these days I'll say something nice about catching the bus to and from work, without resorting to a comment about how much worse public transport is in the developing world. But not today. I need to rant about last night's trip home, in the spirit of 'better out than in'.

The wait for the bus was a long one. No express services came by, and the only non-packed buses that stopped didn't go past my destination. But I am a patient woman, so I quietly waited for another hour until a suitable ride home appeared.

In the meantime, I met Mr Drangdumargewine, who came along and squeezed his aged arse between me and the girl next to me. I assumed this chap's name was Drangdumargewine, because I'm sure that's what he said as he sat down. But then I took a dizzying whiff of his breath and realised that it had probably been Pensioners' Happy Hour at the City Bowlo all afternoon. Mr Drangdumargewine was extremely good at asking the beginnings of questions and then waggling his head around as his consonants faded into fuzziness. I managed to wring out of him the notion that he wanted to catch a bus to Balmain, but I don't think I was successful in communicating the fact that all the buses at this stop headed for the Northern Beaches. He just said, "D'yez know what I... um... gbrrr" and waggled his head.

It was at this point that I decided to jump on the next bus that came along, and thankfully it rolled up only about 75 minutes after I'd left the office. Still quite optimistic, I found a seat, ground my iPod headphones into my ears, adopted the blank commuter stare out the window and sank into blissful not-quite-thereness.

I soon snapped out of my meditative state when I noticed that the bus had driven right past its exit and was headed down the Warringah Expressway in the direction of Hornsby. Most of the passengers seemed a little confused, and as one particularly voiciferous and abusive commuter went to the driver's end to enquire, I heard him say something about not being able to 'get over' into the correct lane for the exit. That's all well and good if you're a non-assertive driver in a four-cylinder Corolla sedan (and I know what I'm talking about!), but a bloody awful excuse if you're driving a ton of Mercedes Benz with Right Of Way Over Everyone off the bridge with 80 people on board. Pah.

The driver took us on a lovely tour of Naremburn, Northbridge and Cammeray while he tried to figure out the best way back onto Military Rd and onward to the Peninsula. Meanwhile, the Voiciferous Man was kind enough to remind us every five minutes that he "just wanted to go hoooommmmme!!" and that the bus driver was something of a bastard. As far as I could figure out from his tirade, Voiciferous Man lived somewhere near a "far canal". Although his ranting didn't help us get home any faster, it certainly provided entertainment for all the other giggling passengers until we finally got back on track, about 40 minutes after we'd left the bus stop. Only an hour more and I was home!

Still, it was better than the stinky, crowded, chook-pooh covered, four-hour bus ride we took from Kampala to Jinja in Uganda last year...

Mufti Madness

I don't know about you, but for me, Mufti day is a relaxing day; a chance to put the strictures of the workaday week aside and wear comfortable shoes. But for others, Mufti day clearly represents the opportunity to pull out all stops and show the world who they really are. Here's a simple cross-section from today's observations:

The Glamour Puss
She's 20, she's straightening her hair in the office bathroom, and she thinks a Glo-mesh top and a micro-mini make the perfect ensemble for sitting behind a desk sorting mail for eight hours. Comfortable? No. Getting a shag tonight? Definitely.

Zany Middle-Aged Man
Monday to Thursday, he's Mr Suit, and the only evidence of his 'real'
personality might be a quick glimpse of his Tweety-Bird socks under the
cuff of his immaculately pressed trousers. But on Friday, Zany Middle-Aged Man shows his true colours, and none of them match. From the top of his chequered bow tie, past his pink shirt with fruity suspenders, right down to his rainbow socks, he's self-expression personified.

Boof
This guy is jealous of all his brickie mates because they get to wear their State of Origin colours every day of the week. So, despite the fact that he's a client-facing forensic accounting consultant for an international firm, he's gonna wear his Doggies jumper every single Friday.

A little bit country

Every so often I hear a phrase that instantly converts itself into a Country & Western song in my head. I still haven't figured out whether it's a gift or a curse.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking past a juice stall on my way to work, and there was a bloke out the front with a microphone, espousing the benefits of buying a bottle of juice in the morning. Before I was at my desk, I had composed the following:

Oh, the juice bar at the station's got a spruiker,
He yells into that microphone all day,
His fruit, it ain't enchanted
It's just squeezed and then decanted
It's a wonder he's got anything to say.

Yeee-haw!

Crime prevention in the Sydney CBD

A funny thing happened on the way to the office #2
About halfway between my office and the bus stop was a homeless man with the standard piece of cardboard bearing his story. It said, "Please give me some money so I don't have to steal."

At the risk of sounding insensitive, I object to his approach on several levels:

1. He seems to imply that he has only two options for getting food money - donations from others or stealing. In fact, in a city as big and relatively non-corrupt as Sydney, he has the services of several charitable organisations at his disposal, such as the Salvation Army, Wesley Mission and The Big Issue. I choose to give money to such organisations, because I trust them to spend the money on facilities that really help people.

2. It is not my responsibility to prevent this man from stealing. Certainly, if he turned to crime because I didn't give him any change and there was no other way of him getting money, I might feel a little guilty; but that's not the case. To steal or not to steal is his decision, not mine.

3. Call me old fashioned, but I think manners go a long way. I can't pretend to know what it feels like to have no home, no clean clothes and no money, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't render people incapable of saying "excuse me please" and "thank you". I can't remember a time when I didn't give change to someone who asked for it nicely.