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Posts Tagged ‘popularity whore’

I ask you… what kind of person wants to come and do house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning? And indeed, what kind of person makes arrangements for someone to come and do a house evaluation at eight o’clock in the morning?

Our bank and my so-called husband is who.

Problem was that the morning in question I’d been woken early by the kids and the puppy and had found myself in a restless mood. It was the kind of mood that, in the past, would have inspired me to turn a bruise into the face of Jesus Christ with a magic marker .

So when the valuation guy turned up and turned out to be quite cute, I started flirting with him, even though I was wearing tracksuit pants and hadn’t brushed my hair, let alone looked in a mirror for about five days. It’s the school holidays, people. Get over it.

“I took a bullet for the team,” I informed my husband later. “My reckoning was that if I flirted enough, the valuer would realise that any house that had me in it would be worth substantially more.”

I’m not sure $50 counts as being ‘substantially more’,” my husband replied, somewhat grumpily.

I knew I’d hit a sore point. He knows how hard I work at making everyone I meet like me and – ten years after the fact – still tells everyone about the time I temped in an office for three weeks and how they bought me a card and a cake on my birthday. Although, the last time he brought up this anecdote, I realised that due to the time of year I’d been in that office, it couldn’t possibly have been my birthday.

“It wasn’t a birthday cake, actually!” I told him. “It was only a card and cake because I was leaving…”

“… after only three weeks,” he replied dolefully. “Yeah, that makes me feel much better.”

Anyway, the long and the short of it is that the evaluation came in on Friday and was $20,000 less than my husband had predicted.

“It must have been the tracksuit pants,” I said, somewhat disappointed in myself. “I should have frocked up… at eight o’clock in the frickin’ morning. Shit, you should have scheduled it for eight o’clock in the evening, and then I could have been wearing a cocktail dress, full make up and heels.”

“You don’t even wear full make up and heels for me!” he cried.

“Only because you seem to think I’m only worth $50!” I sulked.

Honestly, there’ll have to be more than $50 on the table for me to put on full make-up. I mean, the last time I let KT put mascara on me, it was a deeply confusing experience for me.

“Has it clumped?” I had asked, trying to sound like I understood the perils of mascara application.

“No,” she’d replied. “Why?”

“There’s this black thing I can see above my eye.”

“Uh, that’s your eyelashes, darling,” KT had gently told me.

Who wants to walk around any more aware of their eyelashes than they absolutely need to be? Shuh!

Of course, like many women who don’t wear makeup, I like to think it’s because I don’t need it. Yeah, right. Look, I’m only listening to what my husband once told me.

“You’re naturally beautiful,” he had said – not because it’s at all true but because it’s in his contract to do so. Of course he’d then added: “Imagine how beautiful you’d be if you wore makeup!”

He’s now no doubt imagining how much our house would be worth, too…

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I once lived down the road from a café that never seemed to have a single customer dining in it.

I ate there a few times. But I realised my occasional bowl of soup and a glass of wine was never going to be enough to keep the business – and all those hopes and dreams invested in it – afloat. Whenever I walked past the café, I would feel the longing eyes of the waiting staff watching me as I approached and imagined their resentment when I kept on walking.

In the end, I took to walking a different route all together, such was the desolation I felt when I saw the empty tables.

(An aside: my husband and I once trekked across a huge car park at a busy European port to eat at a small café before our ferry trip. This café had clearly never seen tourists before and we were so moved by the experience we subsequently wrote a play called ‘The People’s Café’. In the closing scene of the play, the cafe owner hears the ferry whistle blowing in the distance and whispers  “Goodbye to the People’s Café!’ before turning off the lights. Moments later… the sound of a single gunshot… )

I have a similar feelings of sadness whenever I see untouched food on ‘Bring A Plate’ occasions, particularly if the food was home made. I will often end up stuffing my face with cakes and biscuits just so that the Plate Bringer doesn’t feel upset. I am selfless like that.

Also, you know that unopened bottle of wine in the fridge? It’s a tragic situation that I can’t just stand idly by and watch. No, not I.

I felt similarly haunted when I recently discovered one kind reader had nominated me for an online award and that I was languishing on a website somewhere with only two votes. It didn’t matter that voting for the main competition appeared to have already closed. The thought of my blog looking so… so… unloved was more than I could bear.

So I started harassing people on twitter to vote for me. Yes, in a competition that had already closed.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a straight forward process. I had to ask people to click on a specific link, select the alphabetised view tab and go to Page 6 to find me. It was a little like asking someone to nip down the shops to buy some milk, only to then reveal that you meant organic unpasteurised goat’s milk in a handmade glass bottle that’s only available in a specialist shop with erratic opening hours.

But after I’d solicited a few votes, the inevitable happened: I shifted gear and entered “Popularity Whore” mode. I began tweeting about Every. Single. Vote and how it had affected my ranking. I turned into some kind of monster.

For the record, I’ve gone from being ranked at #249 with three votes (one of which was mine, of course) to being ranked #65 with 47 votes (one of them still mine). At one point, I even got as high as #60. That’s page two of the “Popularity” listing, you know. Yes, PAGE TWO. However, I know you can all help me get to page one…

And yes, if you – like me – find all this begging for votes a bit awks giraffe, blame the café on the corner. Oh, and that unopened bottle of champagne in the fridge.

As the curtain closes, the sound of a single champagne cork being popped can be heard.

THE END.

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Dear Readers,

I realised the other day that I totally missed out on being nominated for Australian Cosmopolitan’s Fun, Fearless and Female Blogger Award for 2010 (although I’ve noticed they’re already accepting nominations for 2011hint, hint… I think we ALL want to see me treading the red carpet at that event, right?)

Luckily, the world was saved from me writing yet another angry Open Letter to Australian Cosmo because my friend ‘Mad Cow’ over at  Diary of A Mad Cow gave me this award instead:

On first glance, it appeared to be an award for being shit. But then I read it properly and realised it was an award for my rampant alcoholism and therefore quite complimentary, although the three arseholes filling in for the letters U, C and K in FUCKING were a bit off-putting.

Unfortunately, however, I can’t accept the award because I can cook for shit (she says, boasting just a little… okay a lot). Even when completely pissed on vodka, I can still cook. It’s true.

However, I’m very happy to pass it on to someone deserving. Just leave a comment describing the worst ever meal you’ve ever cooked and you can become part of Mad Cow’s Top Ten. I’ll even select the winner while drunk on vodka. It’s only fitting.

Love The NDM

PS. Let’s pretend the picture of the cow on this award is of a young deer. That way, the title of this non-post becomes so much wittier.

PPS. Let’s also remember here that the prize at stake is a JPEG! And, unlike my Bloggies Award JPEG you don’t even have to make it yourself. Gold.

PPPS. I’ll also throw in an Extra Special JPEG of my own as special prize for those entrants that are neither mothers nor bloggers. And I think we all know from my post ‘Picture Perfect‘ that when I say special, I mean special.

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Ladies and Gentleman of the Interwebs. Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I stand before you as the recipient of the Best Australian/NZ Web Log in the 2010 Bloggies.

Oh? You hadn’t heard that I won? I find that hard to believe, especially since I could be heard four suburbs away when I hollered down the phone at my friend MM : “I WON! I FUCKING WELL WON!” followed by: “I’M SORRY, BUT I DON’T APPEAR TO BE ABLE TO STOP SHOUTING – I’M THAT FUCKING EXCITED!”.

The three year olds I was in charge of at the time were also excited about the news. But they were equally excited about the squashed sultana they found between the pages of the Women’s Weekly Birthday Cake Book a few minutes later. AND they still expected me to make them their lunch, Bloggies win or not. Honestly, some preschoolers have no sense of occasion.

Still, I continued to celebrate (and shout) as I made sandwiches and cut up fruit. For example: “Do you want the crusts on or off – OH MY GOD! – what about some grapes – HOLY CRAP I WON!! – careful with your water there – YAHOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEE!!”. Eventually, however, I found it within myself to stop the shouting because even I could see that I was starting to frighten the children.

I then decided to go out and celebrate by taking my posse of three-year-olds to their scheduled Acting Class. Yes, you read that right: these three- year-olds are studying the dramatic arts, darling. But before you start thinking the teacher’s dressed in a black polo neck saying shit like “Anastacia, this is Brecht we’re doing here: you need to present the audience with the line, not represent it…”, let me assure you it’s more about running around the room pretending to be a monster or a farm animal or a celebrated blogger (that last one’s just me). Why, last week I got to play “The Prize Cow” in a role-play exercise, which some people are now claiming was typecasting. (Interestingly enough, The Pixie can only write three words by heart: her name, my name and “COW”. In the first week of school she drew a picture of her teacher with the word COW written in large letters. I told her teacher that it happened all the time to me and I tried not to take it personally. But I digress.)

Anyway, on the way to the acting class, I cranked up the mix tape my husband had made me for our recent mini-break and before I knew it, I was singing at the top of my lungs to The Divinyl’s “I touch myself” while stopped at the traffic lights. With the windows wound down. And three small children in the back seat. And yes, there were onlookers and everything. Result.

A few people have asked me how I feel now and if everything feels “different”. I may be still air-punching on the inside but life goes on as usual for the Bloggies Winner:  there are still bottoms to be wiped, fights to be broken up, Wii treaties to be negotiated, dishes to be done and blog posts to be written. A mother’s work is truly never done…

But nothing drove this home more than yesterday morning when I went to the Children’s Hospital for a routine appointment.  There, I saw many amazing mothers just carrying on with their daily lives as they wheeled, carried or just held their sick and sometimes fading children.  And I realised that no matter how much I complain sometimes and how much of a  drama I make of things, there are others who have to work a lot harder than me at mothering and not drowning.

I’d like, therefore, to accept my award on behalf of all mothers, but those mothers in particular.

______________________

Anyone planning to send me cash in the mail, please send it to the Royal Children’s Hospital Foundation instead – they’re far less likely to blow it all on cheap champagne and chocolate.

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Dear Australian Cosmo,

It has come to my attention that I have been somehow overlooked in the list of finalists for the Blogger Category of your “Fun, Fearless and Female ’09” Awards.

How can this be? After all, I know for a fact that many people nominated me of their own free will. Of course, by “many”, I mean “three” and by “nominated” and “of their own free will”, I mean they were “intimidated and coerced by forces unknown”. And, okay, by “forces unknown”, I mean “me”. 

But still, I really can’t understand your blaring omission. I’m a perfect fit for your “Fun, Fearless, Female” Blogger award. Here is the proof:

I am FUN!

  • I sometimes wear brightly coloured underwear (so what if it used to be white? That, in itself, shows a casual attitude towards laundering clothes which might also be construed as a strong sense of “fun”).
  • If I ever got the chance to be alone in the house without my husband and children, I’d would, like, totally play Twister by myself.
  • Loads of people tell me I’m fun – albeit, when I ask them directly in a somewhat forceful manner.
  • Why, just last weekend, I got home at the Rock And Roll Hour of 11:15pm. That’s practically midnight!

I am FEARLESS!

I am FEMALE!

  • I have size C mama-jugs and a “furry bagina” (as my four year old daughter can vouch)
  • I pee sitting down. 
  • My birth certificate and driver’s license prove it. 

So, where did I go wrong? Is it because not a single one of your finalists has unbrushed hair or a pimple on their nose? Or that none of them are pictorially represented by a heavily-trade marked Fisher Price toy with a superimposed pilot’s cap at a distinctly jaunty angle courtesy of The Flight Centre marketing team? Or is it because I once claimed that the target audience for your magazine was not sassy womenfolk in their 30s but in fact men of any age?

Whatever your reasons (and I’m sure you have them), I just wanted you to know that your awards night would have been a much more colourful event with me and my mothers’ group posse in attendance – as anyone at the Teeny Tots Jazz Ballet Quiz Night Fundraiser can attest.

Yours, ever-so-slightly disappointedly,

The NDM

PS. Just in case you change your mind, I knocked up a revised Blogger Category page for you:

Erica was utterly delighted to see The NDM included amongst the finalists.

Erica was utterly delighted to see The NDM included amongst the finalists.

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It’s no great secret that my mind works in strange ways.

Just the other day, on of my Twitter followers (and “IRL” friends) LSK, tweeted me the following pertinent question:

Are you sure you weren’t born with two brains? One for all the normal stuff and one for, um, everything else?

My reply was swift but simple:

What normal stuff?

I felt that I had raised a fair point. Especially considering my recent shenanigans on Twitter where I decided to make a fake version of myself. 

“A fake version of yourself NDM?” I can hear the usual suspects exclaim. “Honestly! It’s bad enough that you even joined twitter, let alone blog about twitter. And now you’re wasting our preciousssssss time with tales of fake twitter accounts. Two words: Grow. Up.”

Oh COME ON, you people who ask questions! Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same given half a chance. Why, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and that guy who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in “Revenge of the Nerds” all have fake versions of themselves on twitter. Absolutely everyone is doing it, darling.  

Still, I have to concede to those people that yes, I was extremely bored when I did this. I had been up since 5:15am, had already published my blog post, made Mr Justice’s lunch, laid out everyone’s clothes, found everyone’s shoes, made breakfast, done the dishes and I still had an hour and a half until I was officially late for school. What’s a Not Drowning Mother to do? Make her own fun, is what!

And so “TheFakeNDM” burst onto the twitter scene at about 7:27am on the 10th June, heckling her real counterpart by calling her blog post “vomit in a bucket” and tweeting deep ontological questions such as:

I wonder how many fake versions of celebrities on twitter have managed to get the real celebrity twitter account suspended.

By midday that same day, TheFakeNDM tweeted:

Being a fake version of a non-celebrity isn’t turning out to be as much fun as I thought it would be.

And then…

The problem with being a fake version of yourself is that you STILL have to do the dishes. You’d think there would be more perks, really.

By 2pm the next day, after asking how many black hairs you had to grow on your chin before it could be considered a beard, TheFakeNDM finally fell silent, the joke well and truly spent. Although whether the joke had any buying power in the first place is highly debatable. 

And yet, nobody can deny that I did what I am always telling a bored Mr Justice to do: I made my own fun. And it was truly very much “my own” in that it was really only fun for me. And nobody – nobody! – can ever take that away from me. Except maybe Twitter, when they suspend my fake account for “strange activity”. 

 twitsup

______________

For the record, Curtis Armstrong, the actor who played Dudley “Booger” Dawson in ROTN, does not have a fake version of himself on Twitter. But he should. If I was his publicist, I’d be so onto him about it. You know I would. 

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The other day I found myself laughing so hard at one of Tiddles McGee’s tantrums in the schoolyard that a passing parent thought I was crying and offered to help. Quickly wiping away my tears, I had to explain that I was merely laughing at my son and gestured over to where he was standing, sobbing his little heart out. 

The minute the words spilled out, I realised that it didn’t Look Good and may possibly somewhat affect my chances of being voted Mother of the Year (but not “Hottest Mommy Blogger” in the Bloggers Choice awards, right? Have you voted yet? Well, have you? And yes, for your information, I did have to slip that in. I mean, c’mon! There has to be more than sixteen people on this planet who think I’m Hot. For one thing, I live in Australia where the climate is considerably warmer than other parts of the world, such as Antartica, for example. Which has a transient population of 5000. Why aren’t they voting? Not to rub it in or anything, but I am way hotter than them and it would be factually incorrect of them not to recognise me as being such. But I digress.)

Anyway, back to the schoolyard tantrum… In my defence, it was the kind of nervous laughter that I very often resort to when caught in an embarrassing situation, which I’m very often in. So it’s not surprising that I give the appearance of being generally quite jovial. 

People therefore are always saying to me: “You’re forever laughing and joking, NDM. Why are you so happy all of the time? What’s your secret? Please tell us, NDM, please please please?”

And I reply, all lightness and air,  “It’s not called happiness, it’s called hysteria. Deal with it.”

The people usually leave me alone after that. 

Now, I was planning to end this post at this point because my husband told me that my posts were too long. But when I showed the above to him, he said “Is that it? Isn’t there any more?” And I reminded him of what he’d advised me. 

“Oh don’t listen to my advice!” he exclaimed.

“But is that advice?” I asked “To not listen to your advice?”

I was worried we were about to get caught in one of those Classic Paradoxical Situations where he’d have to smack me across the face with a stick in order to “help me abandon logic”. (Which, according to my husband, is what zen masters do to their pupils. I’m going on his word now, which, according to him, isn’t worth much and… arghhh. There we are again. Caught in another paradox). 

In any case, what my husband was failing to realise with all this stick-slapping talk was that I had abandoned logic a long time ago. Around the same time that I lost sight of my waistline and lost control of my bladder. Around the same time that I became a parent and became permanently hysterical. No surprises there, then.

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