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Archive for the ‘Learning’ Category

I predicted two things about the recent Aussie Blogger’s Conference in Sydney.

The first was that, during my blog post reading, I would – like so many Hollywood movie protagonists before me – stop mid-sentence and run off the stage to be where I truly belonged. And no, that’s not back at home with my husband and children but rather at the pub across the road.

The second was that, with the entire room being hooked up to WiFi, I would end up on Twitter offering insightful remarks such as “Why does anyone think lemon slices in water is a good thing?” and “It’s 11AM. Is it too early to start drinking??” and perhaps even “My name badge just accidentally fell into the toilet but I’m still going to wear it. Wrong?”

(For the record, the fact it fell into the toilet pre-flush or post-flush makes no difference to me. I’d still wear it.)

As it turned out, I managed to read out my blog post (“Morning Is Broken“) without ‘epiphanating’ (that should totally be a word) and my twitter offerings were even more inane than anyone could ever imagine but it didn’t matter. There were so many people tweeting about the conference that my occasional interjections such as “The only thing I ever giveaway on my blog is my dignity. Fact.” and “@Woogsworld Stop posting pictures of my breasts on the internet!” were lost in the mêlée.

I mean, that is one of the best things about being at a blogger’s conference. Everyone – and I mean EVERYONE – is tweeting. When you pick up your iPhone, nobody – and I mean NOBODY – is saying in an accusatory tone “Are you tweeting?” as if they think they’ve just said something really amusing and you are stealing their fox spirit by broadcasting it on the interwebs. And in case you are wondering, my standard response when someone says that to me is “No, I’m checking my stocks” even though I don’t actually own any stocks and have probably just posted a remark on twitter about having just found half a donut down my bra.

So, yes, at a blogging conference, you are among kindred spirits – people with the same level of cyber-addiction as you and it feels… goooooood.

Other things I discovered that also felt goooooood:

Cyber-friends are for life and not just for Christmas… and that’s a great thing.

For example, I ended up liking cyber-friend Squiggly Rick’s so much that I became his Hot Cougar Wife for a whole evening. When I took off my tiara during the dinner-slash-dance, he asked me to put it back on. That’s when I knew it was true love. Oh, plus we developed the ‘chair line dance’ which is when you do a line dance in a chair. Admittedly, it all gets a bit Sharon Stone when you’ve rotated yourself around to the back of the chair but that’s half the fun, right?

(In the end, we had our marriage annulled because of our failure to consummate it. Turns out he’s gay. Who knew? Okay, so I did. I like a challenge, me… You can read Rick’s own account of our Britney-in-Vegas-style marriage by clicking here.)

Mark Pollard is hot!

Many of you may remember Mark from previous Not Drowning, Mothering adventures such as “An Open Letter To McCann Australia” and “Making My Own Fun. Turns out he’s as hot as Squiggly Rick is gay. So hot that I had to have my photo taken with him to serve as a reminder never to cyber-hassle advertising executives without checking out what they looked like first.

So thanks to my ill-researched efforts, he and his family are now on a witness relocation program and moving to the States, like, forever. I now have to live with the guilt about that for the rest of my life.

Nobody seemed unduly disappointed that ‘The NDM’ was, in fact, just l’il ol’ me.

Despite all my misgivings about ‘outing myself’ (see “Great Expectations“), nobody threw their drink in my face shouting “Imposter!”. Although, admittedly, someone did say “I never ever thought in a million billion years that you’d be wearing a floral dress.”

For the record, I make the floral look my bitch.

Bloggers rock!

If I thought that this statement was true before the conference, I now know it to be extra-true-with-sugar-on-top-and-a-vodka-chaser.

Oh, and look…  if anyone’s wondering, my name tag didn’t fall into the toilet in the end. It came close once or twice. And yes, I was almost tempted to throw it in myself just to have something to blog about (so dedicated to my craft as I am) but ultimately I wanted it as a keepsake of one of the Best Times Ever.

AusBlogCon 2012? In my heart, I’m already there…

Big thanks to the organisers, who tirelessly worked to put this thing together. I’m still waiting for someone to explain the ‘B-string cleavage concealer’ in the goodies bag, though. I mean, why would anyone ever want to cover up their cleavage???

EDITED TO MENTION @AnIdleDad because he’s a bit upset I didn’t marry him for the evening. Maybe next year?

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In just over a month, I’m attending a blogging conference in Sydney where a group of about two hundred people will get to see what I really look like. Well, not what I really look like, because I’ll probably brush my hair or something, especially for the occasion.

For a while I contemplated going in disguise as someone called Stephanie who had a blog called “RAINBOWS! AND! LOLLIPOPS!” (Please note the creative use of exclamation marks). Either that, or hiring a body double with more shapely ankles and a better dress sense than me to attend in my place.

I also thought about wearing a KISS mask, which I could take off to reveal full KISS makeup. Which would be totally cool…  if about 30 years out of date.

See, the truth is I have some anxiety about not meeting the expectations people have of me – especially since I don’t know what those expectations are. I mean, what do those precious few people who read my blog who aren’t blood relations or currently involved in a lengthy court dispute with me think I look like? You know, other than extremely drunk.

I’ve been thinking about this even more since an incident on a weekend visit to Sydney,  where I randomly ran into fellow-blogger, twitter personality and all-round hottie Kerri Sackville on a train platform.

Kerri, to her full credit, recognised me immediately because she has the privilege of being my Facebook friend and thus having access to the trillion photos I post there and my deepest, most intimate thoughts about what I’m cooking for dinner and the price of bananas (“Bananas… WTF?”).

However, while I was initially sure it was her, I quickly became filled with doubt.

For one thing, the Kerri-in-my-mind was at least six feet tall, perhaps even seven. I’ve based this assumption on the few head shots I’ve seen of hers and the way she writes. There’s something about the lack of exclamation marks in her copy suggests stature. I’m sure there’s a scientific study somewhere to support this.

But the Kerri-on-the-platform, however, was positively elfin. Why, I wanted to pick her up and tuck her in my front pocket she was so petite.

So to cut a long story short, I ended up dissing this apparent Kerri-alike and continuing my train journey by myself.

Turns out, via the magic of twitter, it really was her (and, it should be noted, it really was me, too) and so we ended up meeting up for a power breakfast the next morning, where we fell in love over the course of a two hour power conversation.  I won her heart by telling  her she had spinach in her teeth and she won mine by spitting poached egg all over me.

Who said that romance was dead?

Anyway, the point of all this is to say the following to any bloggers attending the conference next month: please go all zen and empty your mind of any expectations you have of me and, in turn, I promise not to vomit on your shoes and/or drag you up during the dinner-dance to do The Macarena, okay? That way, I think we’ll all be happy…

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The first rule of Walking Club is that there’s supposed to be a President, apparently.

You see, when I recently agreed to go for an hour long power walk with my friend Mistress M, my husband got pretty excited.

“Why, you’ve got yourself a Walking Club!” he enthused. “Who’s President?”

“What do you mean?” I asked, somewhat bewildered. “How can there be a club and how can that club have a President? There’s only two of us.”

“Well, I formed a wine club with [MGK] at that barbeque the other day and I’m President,” he said, somewhat cockily.

“MGK let you be President??” I was a bit incredulous. After all, that didn’t sound like our friend MGK at all.

“No, not really,” he replied. “I voted myself in as President while she was getting more salad.”

“Have you actually told her that you’re the President??” I asked.

“Uh, no…” he said.

“Are you planning on telling her?”

“Probably not,” he said, wandering off to no doubt attend to some Important Wine Club Business, such as open another bottle of wine.

So much for the democratic process.

Anyhoo, the inaugural meeting of our Walking Club was some weeks ago and, to be quite frank, not a lot of walking has taken place since.

“How is your Walking Club going?” my husband asked me the other day.

“Good. Very good,” I replied. “In fact, the other day we walked into the backyard with a bottle of wine and then we walked back into the kitchen to get ourselves another bottle.”

[Mistress M and I had been celebrating the start of FebFast. Without actually talking about, we had both independently decided that the ‘fast’ part of ‘FebFast’ just meant that we had to drink our wine more quickly.]

“Anyway,” I continued  – and, let’s face it, ‘anyway’ is a good word to continue with. “KT has asked me to go for a walk tonight!”

“Ah! A rival Walking Club!” my husband exclaimed.

“How can it be a rival Walking Club when I’m a member of both? That kinda means I’m my own enemy…” I trailed off because I realised I really was my own worst enemy. Just recently, I’d decided that I was going to take up potato printing as a hobby and, indeed, carve out the shape of a potato into a potato half so that I ended up making potato prints OF potatoes. Now, if that’s not a cry for help, I don’t know what is.

“So, who’s President?” my husband asked. We were back to that old presidential chestnut.

For the record,  KT was more than happy for me to be President, while she took on the all-important role of Treasurer. Which was just as well, really, as I probably would just spend the club funds on wine and not whatever Walking Clubs are supposed to spend money on and then I’d just be playing straight into the hands of my so-called-husband and his so-called Wine Club. Shuh!

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