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Posts Tagged ‘Rabid Monkey Rants’

I’ve had enough, people.

The things I’ve had enough of are numerous and complicated but, for some reason, instead of dealing with the real problems in my life, I’ve decided to focus on mouse mats and jeggings (leggings that look like jeans). Let’s just say my mind works in mysterious ways.

But listen… In these heady days of track-pads, tell me: who actually uses mouse mats? And shouldn’t the plural of mouse mat actually be mice mats? Those personalised ones with pictures of pets are the worst. If someone gives you one, how long do you have to keep it until you can throw it away? Do you have to wait until the pet dies so that the personalised mouse mat can be buried with the pet??

Ooh, they make me angry, those mouse-mice-mats.

As for jeggings, I actually spent about an hour in the middle of the night thinking about them and how much I’d had enough of them. Wear skinny jeans, by all means, or leggings. But leggings made to look like skinny jeans? Puh-lease. It’s like wearing an apron with plastic breasts attached, but less classy.

I thought of other legging variations that I could hate with an equal passion and came up with this list:

eggings: yolk-coloured leggings

dreggings: leggings that are stretched to buggery and quite frankly have seen better days but are the last clean thing in the drawer to wear.

preggings: leggings worn by themselves that make you look pregnant when you’re not.

pleggings: pleated leggings. No, don’t ask me how that works.

renegings: leggings you put on and then take off again immediately, quite possibly because they are preggings or dreggings.

ginger-meggings: based on the popular 1920s Australian comic strip ‘Ginger Meggs‘, these leggings are hand-knitted using the hair from small red-headed knockabout larrakins.

Anyway, to cut a long rant short, when I talked to my husband about these things, he told me he was TOTALLY going to buy me some jeggings and a mouse mat for my birthday this year. In fact, he was going to have the mouse mat personalised so that it was a photo of an actual mouse, using a computer mouse on a mouse mat, while wearing ginger-meggings made from my husband’s own red hair. And here’s the really neat thing: the mouse’s mouse mat will be personalised with a photo of that same mouse wearing ginger-meggings using a mouse on a personalised mouse mat. And so on.

Which sounds kind of cool, if you think about it.

Maybe I haven’t had enough of jeggings and mouse mats after all.

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I have a problem with the concept of ‘Opposite Day’ – as championed by primary school-aged children the world over –  and I’m not afraid who knows it.

I mean, for one thing, how do we ever really know if it’s Opposite Day or not? Let us consider, for a moment, the following two scenarios:

SCENARIO ONE: It is Opposite Day.

PERSON A: Is it Opposite Day today?
PERSON B: No.

SCENARIO TWO: It isn’t Opposite Day

PERSON A: Is it Opposite Day today?
PERSON B: No.

I guess another question could be used as a litmus test, such as pointing at a cat and asking “Is this a cat?”. If the other person said “No, it isn’t a cat”, one might then assume that it is Opposite Day. However, there’s always the chance that this person doesn’t know what a cat is, the standard of education being what it is. Also, if you’re pointing at a cat like Genghis Cat, for example, they might just be implying “That’s no cat, lady. That there’s a monster…”. And they’d be right.

But wait! There’s more to my Opposite Day rant! Of course there is.

If someone proclaims it as Opposite Day, does that make it Opposite Day for everybody in the whole world or just the people in the same time zone? Does it apply to actions and emotions as well as words?  And does anyone ever see Opposite Day right through to its completion, saying and doing nothing but the very opposite from the moment the day is declared right up til the moment they stand under their bed fully dressed shouting “Bad Morning” at night?

People just don’t think these things through. It really shouldn’t be called Opposite Day at all. It should just be called “Localised Verbal Opposite Moment”. That would be way more accurate, if slightly less catchy.

Let’s face facts here: Opposite Day is mostly invoked because someone has said something they regret – whether it be factually incorrect, disingenuous or hurtful – or because they’re forced to say something they don’t want to say. Or, moreover, they want to make fun of something someone else has just said by turning it on its head with a flick of an Opposite Day switch. It is the tool of liars and scoundrels, people. Liars and scoundrels!

And for those of you who might think it might be a nifty way of getting out of a sticky legal situation (“Sorry I’m over the limit, officer, but I kept drinking because someone told me it was Opposite Day and that only people under the limit would be arrested…” or “We were never legally married because our wedding day was negated by a seven year old guest declaring Opposite Day on his sister!”), think again. For all the reasons stated above, the concept of Opposite Day is never going to hold water in a court of law. Never! Not as long as I live and breathe and can write angry letters to the local newspaper, that is. That’s how I show the colour of my rage.

Of course, when I just showed this post to my husband, asking him “Should I publish this or is it all too stupid?, his reply was: “Yes… you should definitely publish it.”

Stupid Opposite Day.

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Apparently the Australian government has categorised my family, with its grand total of three children, as “large”. The reason I know this is because it awards us a special “Large Family Supplement” every fortnight, amounting to the princely sum of $9.65. Yes, that’s almost Ten. Whole. Dollars. And if that’s not the Australian government saying “Go have yourself some fun!”, I don’t know what is. 

I personally don’t consider our family to be large. Sure, it’s larger than those families which have just one or two kids. It certainly appears larger than other families that might have more kids but where those kids that are just better behaved. And shit, some days, my family most definitely feels far too large for me to handle. The empty wine bottles are a testament to that.

Still, with my recent acquisition of two children three days a week on an occasional basis (see “And Then There Were Five“), I have been given a small taste of what an actual large family must be like. And, of course, I’ve been filled with renewed admiration for those friends of mine who have large families full-time and aren’t just a part-time tragic try-hard like myself. Specifically: one of my bestest-friends from school – Ay-Kay – and her husband, who have four kids. And my very first boyfriend (and, coincidentally, my very first Twitter follower – more the fool him) and his wife, who have five kids, four of them boys. I’ve heard tell that they have a walk-in fridge…

And then I think of the Brangelinas, the most famous and most glamourous large family of all, and my admiration turns to seething rage. You see, rumour has it that they have at least six nannies – one per child – that travel the globe over with them, seeing to the children’s every need (and some of Brad’s too, if you believe what the tabloids say). And yet, all the interviews I’ve ever read  (mostly in Who Weekly, admittedly while attempting to hide in the toilet from the kids) ask them how they cope with such a big family and if they have any secrets to getting the kids to bed on time, (etc etc), as if they do it all themselves and still make the red carpet in time looking sexy, fabulous and not in the slightest bit unhinged. Quite frankly, it makes me want to do a Type 5 Vomit over the page. 

When I mentioned all this to my mother, she defended them by saying: “They both work! Of course they need some kind of childcare arrangement!” Point taken. And actually, I don’t care that they employ nannies per se – it’s the lack of transparency in all this that gets me all rabid-monkey-ranting. 

You never ever see paparazzi pics of the nanny brigade helping them wrangle the kids off those long-haul flights. Instead, we see Brad and Angelina, carrying three kids apiece, all breezy and cool, without a single hair out of place. And of course the nannies must travel with them because if they didn’t, I can tell you now that Brad would be doing that crazy-eyes/crazy-hands acting he does in Twelve Monkeys but For Real. And Angelina would be looking like she was about to be handed the Biggest Late Pass In The World, still wearing her airplane slippers, her hair distinctly unbrushed and screaming “Where the fuck are your shoes, Maddox??”. And before you tell me she’s an actress, and actresses of her ilk are able to pull it together for the cameras, let me tell you this: no amount of acting can hide the stain on the crotch of your white linen trousers made by a child trying to open one of those airline orange juice containers. I rest my case. 

So come on, Brangelina, give us all a break. Say it’s hard, say it’s joyful, say you never get as much sleep as you like, say you’d like to thank the Academy (etc etc), but at least acknowledge the help you get. Especially since I suspect the US government is giving you at least $9.65 to help you with those efforts. Sheesh.

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