I won't even get started on the poo

I was asked recently what having a kid was like.
'Best thing you've ever done?'
'Absolutely,' I replied. No pause. No thought. No question. 'But,' I went on 'This is my line on it: having Charlie was the best thing that's ever happened to me, but I wouldn't recommend it to anyone.'
Why not?
It's best to get the heavy stuff out of the way first. (Parents, skip on over to essentialbaby and play a few rounds of 'Find the Commenter with the Oldest Breastfed Child'). Everyone else thinking about parenthood, sit down and listen up, because, like that amusing jihad instructor said:

Parenthood doesn't just change your life, because change implies some sense of reflexivity. Like you could change back or change to something else. There is no going back. Childless You is gone for good. So long. All that remains are memories, photos and subpoenas.
Childless You and You-With-A-Kid would barely recognise each other, let alone get along.

CY: Hey, Franzy! Coming out drinking? The earlier we start, the longer we can go for, the more money we can spend! Right on! High five!
YWAK: Sorry, Franzy. Gotta leave you hangin', clone. The baby gets up at 7:30 and I'm about ready for bed.
CY: Drag, man. Anyway, have fun changing nappies! I'll text you from wherever I end up at midnight!
YWAK: Right. Actually, don't send a text because I leave the phone on because ...
CY: Bye!
[Sound of Harley roaring off into the sparkling sunset]

Just like that.

My advice to the couple of people who have asked me if having kids is a good idea has literally been: don't have children. Forget about it. Leave it alone. Find something more constructive to do with your time and energy. And when the awkwardness has just about reached its peak, I tell them that, even if after hearing a new parent tell them categorically not to have children, they still want to do it, because it feels right, then that's probably the answer. I don't think that having a kid is like choosing a new TV. Parenthood isn't a product you can get consumer advice on, you have to decide for yourself.

We did. We decided.
And look what happened:



Probably the worst argument against having kids ever produced.

Along with "Cool Guys Don't Look at Explosions"

Far be it from me to simply re-blog a good line, but this one from an opinion piece (which The Age has apparently re-blogged from The Guardian anway) requires dissemination, praise and envy. Here, the writer is thinking about remakes and shark movies and comparing the near-perfect Jaws with Open Water, which I didn't see because I thought it was about Moses:

"The long and the short of it is: you don't send a bunch of five-metre, slightly-out-of-focus great white sharks to do a humongous eight-metre mechanical shark's job. It's a basic rule of cinema."

Rule #75

If you are not sure if you've called the right number, then you haven't.

Rule #75.b
If the reason for your call takes longer than 10 second to explain, you are a wombat-faced buffoon with no cognitive filter between brain-stem and mouth.
Remember to water yourself periodically.

Haven't I said it all these years?! NAKED, I TELL YOU. (And a tool)

Although sometimes you can just wake up in the morning and sunlight shines a little brighter. With headlines like this, who needs breakfast?

"Cricket world rejects former PM Howard for top job"

Nothing fills the tummy like huge warm lumps of schadenfreude. Unless you sprinkle them with quotes from the article like this:

"Australia's bid to install John Howard as world cricket chief has ended in humiliation for the former prime minister"

and

"Opposition to Mr Howard was so strong among the nations from the subcontinent and Africa that the move to make him president of the International Cricket Council did not even go to a vote."

AHA! No! Enough! Enough already! I couldn't have another bite! Please! I will relax with the sports sections now ... eh?

Seconds?

Okay.

"Federer sulked. He sneered. He was ungracious, sarcastic. He made surly excuses when credit to Tomas Berdych was all that even his most ardent admirers wanted to hear. It may be going too far to suggest he soiled his legacy as the sport's greatest champion but this was excruciating to watch and hear."

Have you ever borrowed someone's time? How do you give it back?

I've got to admit that, while it would be incredibly frustrating to have happen to you, and while it's spiritually demoralising to watch happen to your own country's team (or the team of a country you believe should win), I love bad refereeing decisions. Livens the game up. Makes me laugh. Laugh at the impossible! Ha! Ha ha!

Which brings me to Franzy's blogging rule No. 39: You know you're scraping when you blog about television. I've always maintained that this blog wouldn't be a diary or a scrap book or a bitch-about-work journal. It's been all three over the years and there's been ups and downs, periods of rain and drought. Lately, however, I am (like I imagine the much-missed, but always just around the corner Ninjacockle) finding myself not only time-poor, but brain-poor as well. We only have so much luv to guv, as our trans-Tasman neighbours would put it (ut). So, to turn this briefly into a journal: I work 9 to 5. I get home. I do family stuff. I put the boy to bed. Three nights a working week, I sit down in front of the computer and try to read and write PhD stuff. It's tough. Lots of the time I don't make it. Saying 'No' to close friends who just want to come over for dinner and a baby-viewing is much, much harder than saying 'Nah, tomorrow night' to studying from 8pm until 10pm or whenever the words begin to go double on the screen.

I am writing this at 11pm. Screw what time-posted thing says. That's Yankee time. 11pm it is. And the worst bit about that is that I'm trying to line myself up with the little picture in my head of the masterful genius writer, slaving away while the rest of the world (time zone) withers and slumbers. But the fact is that my brain is a little tired. I'm not cracking code for living, but I'm not digging ditches, either. My brain's default setting after about 8pm is: "Whiskey/TV". Turning that into "PhD then flighty, creative book ideas" requires a little more flick of the switch. Even churning out a blog entry which doesn't rely on my son's radiant beauty for value is usually beyond me.

You'll notice in the graphic to my left, that my main activities, work and sleep, are the only ones I can prove that I do on a regular basis.
Sleep because I am still sane(ish)(or am I?)(Who said that?)(etc) and work because I'm able to pay for this internet and the food that keeps me from falling over.

The only non-accounted-for activity is 'Time I should spend being creative'. I say this because it's normally time that ends up being TV or Brainless Internet surfing.

But tonight, it's blogging.

Where the hell did all this energy come from?

I yam goen to bed

Hákarl for Pim!

Congratulations, Julia Gillard!
But, more relevantly, congratulations Pim Verbeek, you've timed your exit so as to illicit the least media coverage possible of the Socceroos not making the final 16. Somewhere, in a plane over Africa, Pim is chewing on a rollmop, watching Australian news coverage, steepling his fingers and muttering "Eeexchellent." (This is how one sounds while masticating the vinegary fish of defeat).

And with a special appearance by Pete Best on vuvuzela ...

So I'm watching the World Cup, because it turns out not to be on between 1am and 8am, but starting at the grown up time of 9:30pm every night, and I'm wondering ...

A) Beatles fan?

or

B) BEST PLAYER IN THE WERLD?!?