Consider the kid.
I have a number of friends from high school who have since reproduced. Facebook is fun for this sort of thing, you can compliment the cuteness of the child with no danger of actually having to hold or entertain said child. Oh sure I’ve met a few off spring. Emma’s baby was only 6 weeks old at the 10 year reunion, and Joanne has brought her boys into the library a time or two. All good.
Thankfully, my friends are the kind who seem to understand that while people might want a peek at the kids, we don’t want the entire story. Most have at least a few pics of the kids at the zoo, playing in the mud, reading with grandma or first days at kinder or school. Very cute! We don’t want to see pictures of bathtime, potty training, full nappies etc. Frankly, the first person on my friends list who posts a photo of their naked child will be removed from my friendslist post haste.
There’s a couple of things about posting pics of your naked kids online. The first, and maybe biggest issue, is that once you upload that photo you lose all control over it. You don’t know how many copies are out there, you don’t know who has it or who is passing it on. Certainly you can hope that your friends are not a concern, but you don’t know. This doesn’t just apply to facebook, in fact you could say it applies more to blogs, but the fact is it’s just NOT a good idea to upload pics of your kids naked.
A friend of mine once directed me to a blog belonging to a friend of hers (and mother of her daughters best friend). Amongst the holiday snaps was one of their 8 year old in the shower. Seriously. Out there, on blogger. I left a comment suggesting they remove it, and found my comment deleted and a note added to the blog saying “Damn commenters think they know it all, don’t you tell me how to raise my child!”. I ended up reporting the image to Google and having it deleted because, hello? If I can see your blog, anyone can. Locked down accounts are one thing, but public accounts are so incredibly not the place to post these pics.
The other problem is that you’re basically removing your kids right to privacy. If someone took a photo of you on the toilet and posted it to facebook or anywhere else you’d probably be furious, so why is it apparently okay to post pics of kids like this? I understand potty training is a very exciting step in parenting, and sharing it with your friends is understandable, however no one needs pictures. In my day a photo was probably taken maybe once a week, these days you can upload 400 almost identical photos to Facebook in less time than it takes to get a roll of film developed. It just seems to me that some of those photos would be better left unshared with the general population.
I’m not knocking parents, I seriously DO understand that having kids is a fantastic thing (for most people) and wanting to show them off is natural, but on behalf of your kids – it’s not cute splashing their naked butts all over the internet. Edit your photos before they go up, and take out the ones that you wouldn’t want posted of yourself.
PS. For more scary parentstuff on Facebook, I quite like STFUparents. That’s what inspired this very effing profound post.
Darling, we’re the young ones.
And young ones, shouldn’t be afwaid! I picked up the double boxed complete special edition luvverly jubbly Young Ones DVD set yesterday. I’ve been pondering it for a long while as the VHS copies we taped off the telly were worn out and tossed out years ago, but the price has choked me some. Finding the double set on discount was a “HURRAH!” moment.
The Young Ones first broadcast in 1982, when I was around 5. In 1984 the second run came out, and presumably the ABC repeated the first run because our old betamax was there to capture all 12 eps. I also remember, during the second run, being allowed to stay up late on the school holidays to watch it. It was on after the D-gen and I don’t remember which episode it was, but it was super exciting to be left out of bed for it!
Over the years I watched the tapes on loop, and I fully admit that jokes went right over my head. We bought a VHS player, tossed out the betamax tapes and waited for another repeat run of the show. Once those tapes were worn out, and since a 20 year old show wasn’t worth repeating, we lost the Young Ones.
Until yesterday! I watched series one while working on a crochet thing, and started series 2. There’s things I’d forgotten, and things which seem funnier, and it’s very very nice to have them back to be honest.
I think this early exposure to the Young Ones was probably what set me up as a comedy junkie to this day. I adore most British Comedy (some of it is exceptionally lame, but then so is a lot of Aussie stuff) and comedians. The Comedy Festival (which I intend to drag the boyfriend to next year) is brilliance. I love to laugh, so good comedy gets purchased and watched and yep, I do watch it over and over again. Just because I’ve seen it before, doesn’t make it less fun to watch.
Plus what now?
Poking around the internets today I hit news.com.au which is tabloid as hell but not bad for when you don’t want to read anything that makes you think. Seeing a link saying “Plus sized models at Sydney Fashion Week!” I, of course, clicked it. Being a plus sized gal I was interested to see what was going on on the catwalks of Sydney. This, apparently:
Uh oh! Hope someone reinforced the catwalk before letting THIS heffer plod down it. Shitfire, that’s an OHS issue right there.
Sure sure, the gal there is not all bones and skin, but she’s not exactly PLUS sized is she? Seriously? Because if this is classed as plus sized then … wow.
To be fair, some of the girls were maybe size 14. MAYBE. Even that’s not plus sized really. In my opinion, if you don’t have to go to special section in Kmart to find something that fits, you’re not plus sized. Also don’t shop at Kmart, their clothes for curvy goddesses are horrible. I digress.
I’m not sure if it was staged (probably) but the front row of the audience had some actual plus sized ladies in it, two of whom could barely contain their mirth. I like to think they were laughing at the idea that the lady before them was plus sized:
The captions for this gallery runs “Plus-size stunners at Rosemount Fashion Week in Sydney prove that the latest fashions are not just for beanpole models”. Which is quite true. However all of the plus sized stunners were actually in the front row, not on the catwalk.
You can see the gallery here on the news.com.au site.
Snow’d
I went to see Slava’s Snow Show last night. To be honest, I wasn’t really expecting much. My Aunt bought the tickets for my mother and I for our birthdays, but I wasn’t overly keen to go. I changed my mind within about three seconds of the start of the show.
See it. Go go go go see it. The performances are theatrical clown, overflowing with joy, pathos and hilarity. The staging is so stunningly simple and effective it’s hard to believe it’s so minimal. Moments of pure magic when the lights drop for 2 seconds and then come up to a new prop. Amazing.
Go see it. Don’t leave during interval, because you’ll miss some excellent clowning.
A History of PCOS by Me – aged 31.
Yesterday as I staggered around Borders wishing for early death (not to be overly dramatical) I told The Boyfriend I’d picked up the PCOS Diet Book and Managing PCOS for Dummies. He said surely I could write a Dummies guide to PCOS by now, having immersed myself in it for so long.
Apparently not! Quite apart from the fact that there’s more information in one single paragraph of these books than I ever got from a single specialist, the information in them is stuff I’ve never heard linked to PCOS before. Which has put me in between relief – “Oh good, it’s not just that I’m weird, it’s the PCOS” and anger – “Oh great, another fucking thing to go fucking wrong”.
Much of my “knowledge” of PCOS is gleaned from websites, communities and books. Simply because the specialists I saw were there to treat or look at one aspect of the whole, and therefore they’d do that and wander off. So as new information comes to light about the effects this condition has on the body, I need to make sure I keep up. In this case, it’s interesting to note that poor sleep and oversleep have been linked to – you guessed it – PCOS.
However most if not all of the worst parts of the syndrome can be bashed on the head with a quality low GI diet which includes a lot of whole grains and whatnot. This is a relief. I’ve avoided looking into PCOS diet simply because of the mental “I suck at diets” block. To find page after page of nummy things to eat that I can eat daily – big big big relief. My favourite of the three books I got yesterday – The Ultimate PCOS Handbook – even includes options and advice for vegetarians like myself. Hurrah!
So now for the history part. This post will be long, you can take a nap in the middle. I already napped today, so I’m good for a while. Ready? Let’s begin. (Boys should note at this point, I will be mentioning periods. Don’t be scared)
In about grade 5 (age ~ 10) I went from a tiny elfin little creature to three times my original weight within about 5 months. BANG. At age 12, my periods started just before I started High School. They were heavy, horrible and I missed a lot of school due to exhaustion and other things related to a 5 month constant period. Then they stopped, started, stopped, started… they never lasted less than 4 weeks.
No cause could be found for this cycle, nor for my massive weight gain apart from “You eat too much and you’re lazy”. I was, at this stage, not overly lazy. If I went to a friends house, for example, we’d walk into town, catch the train to the city, walk the city for the day, come home and walk back to their place. I was moving. I wasn’t a great sportsperson because I was fat and therefore slow, and my knees and ankles were giving way in alarming manners.
The ankles were addressed by a doctor who had me use insoles to support the foot, but the problem remained. A specialist in something or other tested my blood and said, without looking up from his notebook “Ah, yes. You probably will not be able to have babies. Everything else is fine. Goodbye”. Meanwhile I was growing body and face hair like whoa, which got me a referral to a dermatologist who – and I am not joking but I wish I was – said she couldn’t help with the hair problem but I clearly ate too much junk food. When I said I didn’t, she stood over me and blasted me for lying to her because I was so fat I was clearly eating junkfood every single day. Unable to defend myself, and crying hysterically, I swore off doctors for a long time. The Boyfriend can attest it’s a nightmare to try and get me to see a medical person these days.
However, I happened to read a magazine article about PCOS and the symptoms seemed to fit so I marched back to the GP and asked to be tested. In the darkened room of the ultrasound booth, a lovely smiling little Chinese specialist sat me down and pointed out on the pictures exactly where all the cysts were, and confirmed that yes, I did have PCOS. Without doubt he is the best specialist I have ever seen, not just because he took the time to explain what was going on, but because he was sympathetic about the whole deal.
Anyways, that was 9ish years ago and back then (listen to me like it was 1963) the treatment was the Pill. This was purely to get the periods ontrack again, and resulted (in me) in more weight gain and feelings of suicidal depression. So I stopped it and gave up for a spell till I read on the internet that someone had found a link between PCOS and Insulin Resistance, and treating the IR would help the PCOS.
AND HOW. Taking metformin, a drug used for diabetics, and adding a tiny bit of activity to my life I dropped almost 25 kilos. The drawback? I felt, constantly, like I was about to puke. Medication didn’t stop that, it was just something to put up with and I decided I didn’t want to put up with it anymore and stopped met. BANG, 25kilos straight back on. I dabbled with met again earlier this year, but I really cannot stand the feeling of nausea and the idea that if you cough, you’ll need to change your pants (sorry, TMI?).
Which brings me, rather neatly, back to diet. Currently I can only do parts of it, but I hope even a little bit of the diet will help in little ways (this is because I still live at home, and my mother considers the phrase “Low GI” to be something someone made up to make money).
I’ll start slowly, mostly because I’m spending most of my time with the books reading through the case studies and thinking “Oh yeah, me too. Me too”.
Melbourne.
I have a love/hate affair with Melbourne. I love parts of it – Fed Square, the library, the museum, but I hate the streets of it. I think that’s just my thing about crowds really. Comfest? Love. Food and Wine Festival? Hate. I went in to the city today.
It’s about an hour on the train to get to the city loop, which isn’t too awful, but can get boring on the way back when you’re really just gagging to get home. I went in to visit Borders, which is nicely located about 30 seconds walk from the train platform. The trip in was mostly normal. There were some early football people heading in. I managed to skip the big footy crowd.
About halfway to the city a couple sat on the seats facing me. They were… interesting. She was done up as though she was about to shake hands with the Queen and he was in YuppieCasualYetSmart with huge expensive sunglasses and a huge expensive laptop bag. She was in long evening gloves, full make up and a black velvet dress under a very expensive jacket. Her hair was swept up with a huge (and ugly) blinging feathered clippy thing. They spent the entire time on the train talking about his job, and how the “bottom line” was “down to him” and sometimes you “have to cut out the deadwood, which is what he told the girl when he fired her, because the bottom line was…”. They got off at the footy stop, so I can only assume they were in a corperate box somewhere and not roughing it in the stands. People like that amuse me.
So anyways. I hit the borders website last night and came up with a goodly selection of books I wanted. They were PCOS and Saxaphone books (not.. in the same book. Though that would be awesome). Got to the store and they had not a single thing in. Bastards. I bought 2 PCOS books anyways and then wandered aimlessly through the city trying to get my bearings (I only go in about three times a year, I’m easily lost). Readers Feast had a delicious selection of crochet books, but each only had about 1 project I wanted to make, so I didn’t get any of them. With the help of The Boyfriend who was googling for me, I managed to find Dymocks who had – hooray! The exact PCOS book I wanted AND a good saxaphone one. Ten points to Dymocks. I resisted the craft section there.
After finding lunch (a brilliant focaccia, I love when they toast it and then add cold lettuce. Makes for extra numminess) I decided I was totally over the whole being in the city BS and longing for the quiet trees of home I made my way to the station. As I slipped my ticket into the gate I realised the 2:15 train was not only there, but the announcement was running. So I got to do that movie thing where you fling yourself through the closing doors. Which sucked, coz I’m unfit. Better than waiting 30 mins for the next one though I suspect.
The train back was quieter, apart from two teenage Hanna Montanna wannabees who were Like, talking about Like, her really like bad haircut she would have to like, dye or like cut off or like something. Yanno? They were on the train for about 45 minutes and in that time they updated their facebook status about 10 times each. “I’ve put chillin with em” “OMG that’s so sweet, lemme change mine” “Did you say you’re on the train?” “Yeah” “Okay I’ll change mine”
I can’t believe I was ever 15.
That’s not an apology.
I’ve been pondering lately the phrase “I’m sorry if my actions/words offended anyone”. It’s a phrase used a LOT by various sportsmen here in Australia who, after being caught drinking themselves half to death then crapping in hotel hallways or vomiting on people or groping young ladies, will do a press conference and say “I’m sorry if my actions upset or offended anyone”.
Basically, it translates to “I don’t regret what I did or said, but I understand I’m in hot water over it, so sorry if you were upset. Can I go now?”. Sportsmen in this country are elevated to the status of Godlet so they can pretty much get away with it. That’s a rant for another time.
I’ve done and said a LOT of stupid and thoughtless things in my life, we all have. I’ve never said “Sorry if Iupset you”. I have said “I’m sorry I said that” or “I’m very sorry I did that”. “Sorry if” is an arrogant nothing designed to smooth the edges while looking like you actually care what’s happened or that you’ve upset or offended someone. It’s bascially a “fuck you” when you boil it right down.
It’s also becoming accepted usage, which drives me insane with anger and annoyance. You mess up, you apologise for it. You don’t dismiss the offence of other people just because you don’t see why they were offeneded. So, next time someone says “I can’t believe you did/said that!” try “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you”.
Eighty Eight?!
Apparently. What you see there is the 88 balls of yarn I have somehow aquired, which since I’ve only been crocheting for about 18 months, works out at about 5 balls a month, excluding the ones that have been used, of course. It also doesn’t include the 4 balls of incredibly shitty acrylic I just tossed. Remember kids, cheap doesn’t always equal good.
So, since I am NOT buying yarn till I’ve used three quarters of what I have – I’ve 66 balls of yarn to get through. Hrm. Anyone need an incredibly long scarf?
Added bonus of stash sorting was the discovery of three hooks, several cards of buttons, fabric I’d forgotten about and a two piece frog pillow I pinned but never sewed. Score!
Stash Overload
My yarn stash is taking over my life. I have the nasty habit of buying yarn because it’s in delicious colours, with no plans for what to use it for. I know, I know, you’re supposed to find a pattern THEN buy the yarn, but I tend to work backwards in these things, buying the yarn then trying to find a pattern to suit it. Oops.
Therefore, I’ll be using up as much as I can making hats and scarves for next years drive (I think the Salvos or the Brotherhood do a homeless warmth drive, someone does.) and then I’ll use the rest on a blanket.
The other point here, is to use what I already HAVE. This is a tricky thing sometimes, but I’m determined to get rid of at least three quarters of this stash before I go yarn fondling again. This means walking right by the yarn section in spotlight, being not at all tempted by special offers (like cleckheaton pure wool for $2. OMG that was a brilliant day…).
This afternoon, since I’m laid up with a crappy ankle, I’m going to sort and see exactly what I have. Scary. I’ve a HUGE basket in the corner of my bedroom full of bits of cloth, things I’ve bought for crafting, and above all else – yarn. A pile of delicious colours I couldn’t possibly resist.
Frente Party
I was at JBHiFi yesterday hunting around for stuffs to accidentally spend too much money on, and I found “Marvin The Album” by Frente on sale for $5. The second I saw it, I had to have it. My only copy is one Debbie dubbed for me in high school back when we had mixTAPES not mixCDS. Yeah, those were the days.
So now I’m listening to it, and thinking about all kinds of good stuff, like buying EPs at the crappy little CD shop in Eltham, and singing Ordinary Angels at the tops of our voices. Music most surely takes you back.