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Posts Tagged ‘rabid monkey blogs rank better than mine’

IT’S OFFICIAL! Über -blogger and long-time hero of mine, The Bloggess has formally endorsed my campaign for the title of Best Australian/NZ Weblog in the 2010 Bloggies.

And by “formally endorsed”, I mean she’s posted something about it on flickr.

“How did this happen?” I hear you ask.

Well, a few days ago, I wrote her a series of emails politely requesting her support. And by “politely requesting”, I mean “pathetically begging”. And for the record, I do a very good line in pathetic begging. Don’t believe me? I’ll let you be the judge:

_____________________________________________________________

TO:  The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

Dear Jennie,

I am one of your blogging peers. I, too, am a finalist for the Bloggies. Except, well, if the truth be told, you’re like a finalist for the Bloggies and I’m like a finalist for the distant and possibly inbred cousin of the Bloggies. Yes, I am one of five Australia/New Zealand finalists. It’s a pity there couldn’t be six finalists because then all our region’s bloggers would have had a chance. Yes, I can make jokes, you know.

Anyway, I’m up against some tough competition… Is there some way you could please help further my cause via twitter or your blog? Wouldn’t you like to see the under-dog win? Although I’m loathe to use the term “under-dog” because I’m always worried it means the dog who’s taking it up the arse from the other dog on top of them.

ANYWAY, as a present to you, I am offering you this picture of a porn star I once made out of vegetables with my friend. I’m afraid that parts of her *did* get eaten some months ago – so my threat in the subject title was a little hollow. Although I’m sure part of her is still at the bottom of the compost bin, so I technically could still eat her except I expect that threatening to eat six month old compost won’t exactly spur you into action. But it might. You never know.

Yours sincerely and just an itsy-bitsy bit desperately,

The NDM


_____________________________________________________________

TO: The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

PS. Did you like how I spelt your name “Jennie”? It’s just incase you were offended by the email and then I could claim it was intended for someone else.
_____________________________________________________________

TO: The Bloggess
FROM: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

PPS. OH AND MY FRICKIN’ BLOG TITLE IS “NOT DROWNING, MOTHERING” AND THE ADDRESS IS HTTP://NOTDROWNING.WORDPRESS.COM

It’s no wonder Australia never wins wars or anything. We’re fucking hopeless.

_____________________________________________________________

FROM: The Bloggess
TO: The NDM
SUBJECT: RE: READ THIS EMAIL OR I’LL EAT THE VEGIE PORN STAR

http://www.flickr.com/photos/thebloggess/4308592975/ For you.

_____________________________________________________________

My sincere gratitude goes out to the Bloggess for a) indulging me with her flickr post and b) not alerting the authorities. And also to all my friends and family who have put up with endless rounds of emails begging them to vote for me this past week. I promise it won’t happen again. No, really. 

Please feel free to add your own endorsement in the comments section below and remember to Vote 1 for “Not Drowning, Mothering”  before 31st January 10:PM EST (That’s somewhere-in-America time).

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Stupid thumb. Always in the wrong place when I’m finely chopping ginger. Luckily the thumbnail took the bullet. Didn’t need it anyway. Except that now my thumb is more sensitive than an NDM 36 hours before her period starts and putting on a bandaid apparently requires two fully-operational thumbs and, even once I’ve finally managed to just get it on using my teeth, the bandaid turns out to be no damn substitute for an actual nail. Stupid thumb. Stupid thumbnail. Stupid supersensitive skin under thumbnail. Stupid NDM.

Stupid smoke alarm. Every time I start to fry something on the stove, it goes off. Then I have to run around flinging open doors and windows and searching for the broom so I can stand underneath it, fanning it like it’s some Roman emperor, while my dinner starts to actually burn on the stove top. If the smoke alarm is so damn smart, the least it could do is predict next Saturday’s lotto numbers rather than just the fact that we’ll be eating charcoal again tonight. Stupid self-fulfilling prophetic smoke alarm.

Stupid underwire bras. After seven years of wearing maternity and nursing bras, I finally bought one with a bit of scaffolding-support in the hope it would turn my southbound migrants into something a little more Dolly Parton-esque – but without the wig or the freak-show face. And then, after only a few months, the underwire staged a jail-break and I’m back to wireless. And then I read that a woman’s life was saved because a bullet deflected off the underwire of her bra and I started worrying that someone’s sabotaged my bra on purpose because they Want To Kill Me for doing something simple like setting off the smoke alarm again when the News is On. Stupid murderous husband.

Stupid cat. Who will never eat the actual cat food I put out for him but will regularly jump up on the kitchen table to feast upon peanut butter toast and partially-chewed carrot. And then will walk around crying pathetically as if to say “She never feeeeedddssssss me” just in case the Pet Social Welfare Officer happens to drop by. And when they do drop, I’ll probably end up spending four years in a high-security penitentiary because the council will have suddenly announced a zero tolerance policy when it comes to the ill-treatment of animals. And then I’ll have to spend every day writing to the cat from my prison cell, begging him to retract his statement so I can go home to be a Mother To My Children, but my words will go unheeded because the cat can’t read and instead just pisses on the letters because he’s gotten a bladder infection from eating too much peanut butter toast. Stupid incontinent illiterate cat.

Stupid post. Without a proper ending.

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A letter to the principal of [NAME OMITTED] Primary School.

Dear Brett, 

I had the great pleasure of receiving my very first late pass of the year yesterday morning because I was less than five minutes late in getting my eldest child to school. Thank you so much for bestowing me with this great honour. You have no idea what it means to me.  No, really. You have No. Idea. 

You may be wondering why I’ve enclosed a pair of scissors with this letter. Well, there’s a story behind it, just as there is a story behind my tardiness yesterday morning. And I’d really like to share both with you – if you can take the time out from processing all those late passes, that is. 

On my late pass, I wrote “Sore finger required band-aid” as my reason. But actually that was just the tip of the iceberg – or even, tip of the finger, if you’ll allow the joke. Which I hope you will. Because I would hate to have to fill in any further paperwork if you won’t. 

Anyway, we were on the verge of leaving the house when a skirmish broke out between Mr Justice and The Pixie at the front door, causing Mr Justice to “gravely” injure his finger. Actually, to be fair to The Pixie, I think the finger injury was from a few days ago when he pulled the smallest bit of skin off next to his fingernail but then had forgotten about it until The Pixie had dared to pull his finger (not in the comic way, I’m sorry to say). In any case, he decided that the injury required immediate attention – and if sticky-tape can fix any broken object in the minds of my children, band-aids and hugs can fix any human suffering.

But could I find a band-aid? No, Brett, I could not. I could find plenty of empty band-aid boxes in the toiletries cupboard that, handily, maintain the illusion of us having a plethora of band-aids whenever I do a last-minute stock check before the weekly shopping. But not a single band-aid to be found in any one of those boxes.  

In the meantime, The Pixie tried to climb into the Valco Mobile Home by herself and managed to tip the whole thing over onto herself. And at the very same moment, T. McGee, who had emptied the contents of his freshly-filled drink pot onto the floor, slipped over slap-stick style in the puddle of his own creation. They both started crying loudly, so I had to do a quick visual assessment of them both to make sure no bones were broken. Satisfied that they were still intact, I continued trying to find the band-aid because Mr Justice, too, was crying at this point because his finger “hurt so much”, so then they were all wailing and my mobile phone started ringing and somehow all this wasn’t helping me find the band-aid at all and I started shouting in my Linda-Blair-possessed-by-the-devil voice: “WHY. DON’T. WE. HAVE. ANY. BAND-AI… oh, what’s this?”. And there between two hand-towels was one lone band-aid. Of course it would be there. Where else would it be? 

So I administered first-aid on the (apparently) life-threatening injury, gave hugs to all three children, set the pram to rights, mopped up the slipping hazard, refilled Tiddles’ drinky pot, got everyone’s hats on and them into their appropriate seats and we set off to school – some 8 minutes later than I’d intended. 

And yet, despite all that, I was still less than only 5 minutes late. 

But instead of being able to release my child into the classroom to get an education, I had to do a fifteen point turn with the Valco Mobile Home to go back to the School Office, where I found myself blabbing to the largely-indifferent office staff that all three of my children had eaten breakfast, were fully-dressed, wearing sunscreen, hats and matching shoes and even all of us (me included) had clean underpants on and that I had, in fact, made my son’s “litter-free” lunch at 5:45am that morning and cooked everyone pancakes for breakfast and even put on a load of washing before we left and that it Just. Wasn’t. Fair. But no, none of that in any way nullified the five minute delay and the Late Pass was issued. Rules are rules. Apparently. 

And then, when we finally got back to the classroom, the teacher made a big point of thanking Mr Justice for getting a late pass, but she said his name wrong like it was “Mr Jar-stice” and I yapped “It’s Mr Just-ice!” like one of those pathetic half-rat/half-dog things that live in Paris Hilton’s handbag, and then, as much as one can when manouvering the Valco Mobile Home, swept out of the classroom in a huff. I then spent the rest of the day either ranting about Late Passes to anyone who would listen (not many) or feeling terrible that I’d lost my temper and made a scene in the Office and snarled at the teacher all before the first week of school was even finished.  

And so Brett, we come back to those scissors I’ve enclosed with this letter. Those scissors, my friend, are simply for you and your underlings to Cut. Me. Some. Fucking. Slack. 

Yours sincerely,

The NDM.

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The other day, I was expressing some mild frustration at my flatlining readership figures by ranting and raving (somewhat like a rabid monkey), when my aunt Care Bear – a much nobler creature than I – gently interrupted me by saying “But isn’t the whole point of your blog to have a creative outlet and not just take part in some online popularity contest?” 

“Um, yes, it’s about the joy of writing, most certainly,” I replied. “But… but… but I want to be everyone’s favourite, too!!!!”

There. I went and said it.

The truth was that those rabid monkey blogs (which rate higher than mine on technorati) got me so het up with all their simian gags and bad spelling, and yet people can’t get enough of them. And don’t get me started about the chunk of cheese that has more than 5000 followers on “twitter” and god knows how many people logging onto its blog site every day. Granted, it’s a very talented chunk of cheese. But still! It’s cheese, people.

Anyway, it’s no point comparing myself to them. They’re in a different league from me altogether. But what was it about my blog that stopped the readership figures from growing? Was it that my readership quickly tired of me, left and then got replaced by three new people? Or was it that my readership-of-three flatly refused to share me with anyone else (“NDM, my precioussssssss, we don’t like those other bad tricksy readerssssss”)? Or was it just that I kept rehashing my jokes (such as the Gollum one)?

Whatever the reason, I was determined to do something about it. Since coming up with fresh or interesting material just seems like too much hard work, I started signing up to things that all the Big Time bloggers use, such as “Technorati” and “FeedBurner”. And pretty soon there I was, activating FeedBurner’s email subscription service and then merrily subscribing to my own blog to see if the thing worked. And lo! Half a day later, I had the utter thrill of receiving an email update from myself (the resulting frisson was a little like flushing the toilet before you rise) and felt that, surely, my star was now going to rise and those subscriptions would come rolling in. 

HOWEVER, the next time I went to FeedBurner, this is what it told me:

feedburner

Zero subscriptions? Not even my own? Hang on a minute… Could it be that, even though I tricksily used another email address and everything, FeedBurner knew it was really just me in disguise and therefore won’t count it as a real subscription? OR could it be that I actually have hundreds – perhaps thousands – of subscribers and FeedBurners has been instructed to hide them from from me?

And who, you may be asking, would instruct such a thing? Well, let’s just say I think that the folk from Google might have been on the phone to FeedBurner, since Google recently bought FeedBurner and now FeedBurner is Google’s bitch. And let’s face it, Google are all too aware of what a sad sorry little person I am. Not only do they know that I have – one more than one occasion – googled the term “Google” because I had nothing else meaningful to do with my life (as previously confessed in another post), but that I regularly google such terms as:

“bacon bra”

blow job Big Brother

dark chocolate Incas

do the boys ever sing in the Venga Boys?

esther head trapped bleak house

excessive itchy bottom at night only

moo milk man milk

stalker pathological obsession

“Today Tonight” shocking expose house slum

thing at the bottom of the fridge

“you wouldn’t shit in your neighbour’s hat”

So knowing all of this and guessing what I might be capable of, Google probably thinks the only course of action is to break my spirit and stop me from blogging. It’s the only way I can explain why FeedBurner would show that I have no subscribers.

But I’m not going to let Google win. Oh no, not I. You see Google might be a mighty search engine and all but I, too, am a force to be reckoned with. I have access to such tools as “The Secret” website (which I had to find using google, unfortunately) and Photoshop and thus am able to change FeedBurner’s so-called Feedstat graphics into a positive affirmation, helping me utilise the Law of Attraction and “empowering me to live a life of joy”:

feedstats1

So it has been photoshopped and so it shall come to pass…

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I almost jumped out of my seat with excitement when my cousin L-Beer recently told me about her mothers’ group. It was just as well I didn’t, as I was in a moving vehicle at the time and we all know that jumping out of one of those seats either leads to grave injury or, at the very least, being issued an official warning by a passing policeman. 

You see, L-Beer lives in the Eastern Suburbs of Another City – an area famed for  its New Mothers working off their baby fat two days after the birth by doing “pramercise” along the esplanade and frequenting solariums with creche facilities. So when I caught up with my beloved cousin at her parent’s house recently, I asked her about her mother’s group, thoroughly expecting that her description would make me clench my fat lily-white fists in not-so-silent rage. However that’s not what happened at all. If anything, those pudgy white fists o’ mine were punchin’ the air when she was done.  

Firstly, she reassured me that her mothers’ group was nothing like the horror stories I’d heard (and no doubt bored her with in that bombastic way of mine) and that she’d fallen in with a great bunch of girls. And to prove the point, she went on to tell me about how, on the first night they went out together, they went around the table each sharing with the group what they’d done BC (Before Children). I think I might have stifled a yawn at this stage of her story, expecting that they’d all revealed themselves to be PR reps for footballer’s wives or professional Brand Advocats for Prada. But no! One of them – somewhat reluctantly – admitted to the group that she was a Psychic. 

“Oh, oh, oh!” I exclaimed, perking up immediately.”Does she ever say stuff like ‘Let’s not meet at the park next Thursday because I sense rain…’ or are you ever tempted to ring her up with those day-to-day parenting dilemmas like ‘Should  I put Baby C down for a nap at home now and be late for my lunch date or should I run the risk of her not sleeping in the car and be on time?’ or even ask her what the hell to make for dinner tonight? Or… or… or…”

I might have gone on (and on) with that oh-so-amusing tangent, except L-Beer told me to Stop Right There, Sister-Girlfriend-Cousin-Whatever because the Psychic wasn’t the night’s biggest “reveal”. That came from an even more unassuming woman who owned up to being a Dominatrix.

“Aarrrrggghhh!” I shouted, literally beside myself with excitement by now. “Does she dress her baby in leather onesies? I can bet there’s one household where the Naughty Spot’s not just a chair in the corner but a room with chains and spikes and…. Oooh, does she ever say stuff like ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child’? Do you think she ever threatens anyone with the whip?? Hmmmm, I guess you could count on her children being extremely well-behaved. And… and… and…”

I started groping around in my handbag for my pen and paper to  a) write some of this Comedy Gold down before I totally forgot it and b) to get L-Beer to sign some kind of release form to allow me to use it on my blog. 

“Wowzers!” I enthused, looking up from my notebook temporarily and noting the rather bemused and possibly frightened look on L-Beer’s face. “This blog post is writing itself!”

As it turned out, the blog didn’t exactly write itself and as usual I’ve had to “write it in fits and starts… with small children dangling off me like christmas decorations” (just to somewhat tragically quote myself – see “The NDM Guide to Blogging“).  And doesn’t it just show? But I love it how, just when I think I’ve come to the end of my bloggin’ road, I have a conversation like that one or the cat walks in with a mouse in his mouth or the children get possessed by the devil at the local shopping centre or the Love Bus turns a 3 hour trip into an 8 hour one by breaking down in the middle of nowhere (that post is still to come), and lo! I’m back in Bloggin’ Business, baby.

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The more observant of my readers may have already noticed I’ve created a Brand New Section to my blog called “The Gallery of Domestic Godlessness”. Since my first “simulpost” with the Bearded Iris (“The Booger Heard ‘Round the World“) where I called for readers to send in photographic evidence of their own domestic squalor, the photos have been coming in thick and fast. All two of them. And yes, okay, one of them I sent in myself. Although I didn’t actually send it *to* myself because that would have just been sad. Kind of like commenting on your own blog under an assumed name. Sad, sad, sad. 

ANYWAY, I created the “Gallery of Domestic Godlessness” as a repository for these photos, which will always be available for your viewing pleasure by clicking on the tab at the top of the page. Until I get bored of the whole thing and take it down, that is. 

Now, I have a confession. I was going to try and totally Rickroll you all just now by linking that tab to Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” video instead, but according to my cousin L-Beer (who is more tapped into the zeitgeist than I am), that’s soooooo five months ago. 

Interestingly enough, an estimated 18 million people across America have been Rickroll’d so far. So I got thinking… Perhaps I could start my own internet meme to drum up a bit more traffic to my blog…  If one or two of my readership-of-three sent a link to my Gallery of Godlessness by, perhaps, pretending it’s a way of getting Free Champagne, I could increase my readership to, say, five. Or maybe even six. Imagine the possibilities!

And so I urge you all to email a friend with the following message as soon as it is humanly possible:

Dear Friend,

Spend a minute filling in the online form at  https://notdrowning.wordpress.com/free-champagne/ and you’ll get sent a box of free champagne – no strings attached!! It really is that easy!!!  

(No really. Click on the link, okay? I’m under quite some pressure here from this mad blogger in Australia – I think she may even know where I live. Just please click on the URL before she gets violent again – there have been balloon stabbings and everything.)

Hope you enjoy that free fizz!

Love from [insert your name].

And of course when that someone clicks on that URL, they will have the extreme pleasure of being “Haus-Frau’d” (like it?). I ask you: what greater gift could you possibly give? Can’t think of anything? Didn’t think so. 

Go on. “Haus-Frau” someone you love today. You know you want to. Or at least you know that I want you to.

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Ho, friggin’ ho.

It’s interesting how the last of the Spirit of Christmas evaporates roughly the same time as the last of the Christmas booze. One might even think they were directly related to each other – at least when it comes to the adults, I hasten to add. The children certainly don’t need stimulants of any kind to get all hyped up for Christmas, although the presence of sugar in almost everything they eat during that jolly time certainly helps. 

Because my Eastern European heritage dictates we do our big meal (and our big drinking) on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day itself ends up being a bit of a wet fart. Except for my kids at least, it’s a wet fart with substantial follow-through: presents. And, let’s face it, for kids it’s All About The Presents. For the adults in my house, it’s a bit about the Presents, but only as something to occupy the children while we recover from the night before. 

I must say I didn’t choose the presents too well this year. That last-minute cheap-as-chips Spiderman convertible car that I bought at the local markets for Tiddles’s stocking is a prime example of why you should always Try Before You Buy. 

spider_car

When fully armed with batteries, this car drives around and around  in circles, occasionally stopping to open its doors and fold back its roof, all somewhat surprisingly to the strains of the Vengaboys’ song “Kiss (when the sun don’t shine)”.  Except I’m beginning to suspect his latest choice of car and music,  these days Spidey might like to only kiss where the sun don’t shine. It’s just a hunch. 

Anyways, it turns out the thing is Indestructable – as my sister Princess A pointed out, with barely-disguised horror-slash-wonder in her voice, it must be made of the same materials that the Terminators are made of. You cut off a wheel and it keeps going, round and round, up and down, “Kiss kiss kiss when the sun don’t shine woah-oh-oh, woah-oh-oh.” With a bit of luck, the SQMY batteries (the branding of which looks spookily like SONY from a distance) that it came with will run out soon and prove to be irreplaceable. 

And then there was the Pixie’s “Disney Princess Karoaoke Headset”. For one thing: look at the headset.

karaoke

That spectacularly bejewelled headband is so incredibly inflexible and so damn small that even Tiddles McGee (aged 2) can’t put it without screaming like someone in a Scorceses film with his head in a vice. I’ve noted that there is no actual photograph of a child wearing it on the box because that would probably contravene Geneva Convention guidelines about using torture devices during peace time, especially involving minors. And as for the “18 All-Time Favourite Melodies” that the Princess Karoake Headset boasts? I’m thinking, maybe “Head on the Door” by The Cure or  “Unfinished Sympathy” by Massive Attack, or even my karaoke speciality “Wind beneath my wings” (I kid you not) – but no. We’re talking tinny Hammond Organ versions of “This Old Man” and “Three Blind Mice” and all played so fast that even rapper emcee Twista, with his 11.2 syllables-per-second delivery, would struggle to fit in the lyrics. All in all, a dud present. 

In despair, I turned to the onerous yet relatively quiet task of constructing the Star Wars Lego V19 Torrent Fighter with Mr Justice. Check out STEP ONE in the accompanying visual instructions:

lego_warning

Huh? Are they trying to warn us off trying to plant the lego in the lawn? Or is that supposed to be a warning not to have shag pile carpet in this current climate of polished floorboards? Yes, okay, okay, I get it. You’re not supposed to put the lego on the floor. But don’t the makers of Lego realise that ALL lego ends up painfully underfoot at some point or another and that some pissy little diagram ain’t gonna adequately cover their fat-cat arses from the Class Action I’m going to file when I finally work out what exactly a Class Action is and what I have to do to file one (it’s on my To Do List, people, along with “Lose that Baby weight”, “Tidy the House” and “Get a Good Night’s Sleep”).  

Anyway, consider this scene: I’m almost having a nervous breakdown trying to work out if the next piece in the instructions is dark grey or black and the Pixie’s sitting at the same table, eating a middle-of-the-day bowl of cereal using the world’s smallest ‘dolly spoon’ and slurping her milk. Now, this would annoy me under normal circumstances, but under “starwars lego circumstances”, it threatens to push me over the edge all together and while I’m trying to get her to use another spoon, Mr Justice manages to tip an entire tub of our carefully pre-sorted lego onto the floor, resulting in me groveling on my hands and knees frantically collecting every last precious tiny piece – because if we lose just one piece the whole Torrent Fighter simply will not hold and of course with The Pixie still slurpin’ away with that spoon of hers all the while. And it’s at that moment that Tiddles McGee appears to lose it before I do and starts running around the house shouting “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” – or at least that’s what I think he’s shouting until, thankfully, he uses the internationally-recognised hand signal for “duck” and I realise that he’s trying to say “Quack”. And phew! Crisis averted: it turns out I’m not such a bad parent after all, if only one who is “hungover like a bastard” and disinclined to find out why her youngest child has suddenly decided to be a duck. 

Anyway, one of my readers – a certain “naptimewriting” – asked for rants to rival those rabid monkey blogs and I hope I’ve delivered – I do so aim to please. Now if you’ll now excuse me, I’m off to try and work out how to improve my Technorati rankings before those rabid monkeys get there first.

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