My Upcoming Book: 'How to Make Enemies and Completely Sh*t People

 In October, 1936, Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends & Influence People was first published. I have not been working on new projects lately because of my studying, but apropos of Carnegie's classic, I am considering a non-fiction work whose current working title is How to Make Enemies and Completely Shit People. 

This new work won't take very long to complete, because the crux of the 'how to' is almost criminal in its simplicity: all you have to do is be a KAREN! I have, to the best of my ability, avoided using this term when referring to whining ignorant malcontents because I know some awesome people with that name. Unfortunately, the term is now used to describe, as previously stated, whining ignorant malcontents, some of whom are imperiously bossy and like to ride roughshod over situations where they should keep their big mouths shut to staunch the flow of whiny bloat. 

But I can remain quiet no more.

I have had cause to use the term and it was directed to the complaining and kvetching crosspatch at the adjacent table when I played my weekly trivia game last week. If you follow my blog or know me personally, you will know I am a gun trivia player. No room for false modesty; I am. Every week, I enjoy a night at a local pub in a team with my almost-twenty-year-old son and his friend, who has turned twenty. (On a side note: my kid's about to turn twenty. Bloody hell!). They are fantastic on some of the younger generation's pop culture, as well as science. We have a ball and score well. We are making friends with other regulars, going so far as to have a pre-game meal with another team. We dine as friends and play as rivals. So much fun.

Until this fated evening last week. There was another team of three, comprising women maybe my age or a little younger. They are not regulars, but I have seen them there previously, and I have the graciousness and good sportsmanship to admit they are also good players. 

Here are the rules by which the game is conducted: the first-place getters, the second-place getters, and the penultimately placed team have the right to choose a blank envelope for the chance to win a voucher ($50.00, $20.00, or $10.00) to the pub's bistro. In the instance of a tie, a decision is made by rock-paper-scissors between representatives of the tying teams. Last week, there was a tie for first place and a tie for second place. We were in the running for second place, and my son stood to duke it out in rock-paper-scissors. If you're looking for a young man with Rain Man anticipatory skill in rock-paper-scissors, I pushed out his head almost twenty years ago. 

Then we heard the whining clarion call of a woman from 'that' team. It was her contention that only the winning teams should draw the envelopes, although she deigned to allow the penultimate team to make their draw. There's no nice way I can put this, except: Fuck off, lady; you didn't write the rules. The hostess was clearly put on the spot because they had already started the stride to the envelopes, like they were racing to the Chanel table at the Myers Boxing Day sale. Then came a catcall from a woman on the table comprising the other second-placers: 'Ya KAREN!' It was followed by someone else: 'Yeah, ya KAREN!'. It kind of reminded me of that scene toward the end of Dangerous Liaisons when Glenn Close, in her role of Marquise de Merteuil, goes to the theatre and is booed by the disapproving patrons, only of course instead of booing, it was 'Ya KARENs'. 

I cannot imagine the trepidation and fear that went through the Karen's mind as she drew her envelope. The shooting sharp pains she experienced were from everyone else looking daggers at her. In a stroke of cosmic retribution, she drew the envelope containing the ten-dollar voucher. I will admit to a delicious frisson of schadenfreude.

They were not there the other night. As my son pointed out, they were probably too fearful to come back, knowing they had incurred the utter loathing and contempt of a roomful of serious trivia players (we trivia players might be nerdy, but we are not to be messed with). My son and his friend were chortling, 'Imagine winning, but having everyone in the room hate you, and earning ten dollars for the privilege!' 

Yes, I am being a bit catty about this team, but Reader, were you there, you'd likely feel the same.

By the way, we came in equal second again the other night, and my son duked it out in rock-paper-scissors, wherein he beat a twelve-year-old, but at least it was in accordance with the rules. Oh, and we drew the ten-dollar voucher, but we trod on no toes nor tried to introduce out own petty rules in order to do so. We will enjoy our $3.33 each. 

Mother's Day & Memories of My Mum

It's that day when we share memories and anecdotes about our mums. Here's are some stories about my mother and the things she did:

1.  She was a philosopher, demonstrated by the occasion when she passed a washcloth to the then five-year-old me, who was sitting in the bathtub, and advised, 'Don't wash your bum and then wash your face.' A metaphor for how to go through life.  

2.  Once told me, 'You're pretty enough without makeup.' Not true, but thanks, anyway, even if it was during an argument because I wanted to wear makeup. 

3.  Warned me that if a balloon burst in my face, it would blind me. To this day, I have an almost insurmountable fear of having a balloon burst in my face if I am called upon to blow it up.

4.  Was very musically inclined and had a singing voice like Judith Durham's. She often performed a solo at twenty-first birthday parties. One of my happiest memories is us attending a production of Les Miserables at the Theatre Royal, Sydney. When the lights came on during the interval, I said, 'Are you enjoying it, Mum?', and she replied, 'Oh, I'm just loving it, darling.' 

5.  When I was about fourteen and was having a friend stay during school holidays, she hopped into the loungeroom dressed as a Playboy bunny. No, I am not making that up.

6.  We were having drinks with some relatives and my uncle jokingly suggested he would have his newly installed swimming pool converted to a nudist colony. He suggested to my mother she put a red dot on each buttock to denote a pair of breasts. Mum replied, 'How about a 'W', so every time I bend over, it says: WOW?'

7.  Would do a reading at Sunday Mass, and often forget to take her glasses with her to the lectern.

8.  Occasionally called me Simoney-Baloney. 

9.  Tended bar at the pub owned by my grandmother, where she caught the eye of a young rodeo champion who liked to have a drink there. This guy was very shy and Mum was at her wit's end, so she climbed into the passenger seat of his ute and said she was coming along to the rodeo with him. The man was undoubtedly stunned, but he acquiesced to her wishes, and some years later became my father! 

Mum succumbed to an aggressive cancer on New Year's Day, 1993. Some years later, I became a mum and understood why she would get so annoyed at me when I fartarsed around instead of getting ready for school, or when I complained I couldn't find something that had been put in my drawer. I drove her mad tearing out pages from her writing pad so I could write my little 'books'. Now I've written big books and wish she was around to witness this.

From my mother, I inherited my sense of humour and theatricality, as well as a distinctive set of eyebrows. She never met my kids, but they both have a sense of humour, distinctive eyebrows, and the youngest has a theatrical streak, too. 

Happy Mother's Day, Mum. Wish you were here. 

This One Combines Pink Floyd, Scone TAFE, and Tom Wolfe!

 Okay, here it is. My confession as to why I have been so slack with the posting of late:

1. Assessments. Okay, I shouldn't whinge because it was my choice to undertake a university degree, and you know what else? I'm proud I'm doing it. But the downside is assessments. My current subject is Creative Writing and, in theory, this should be a piece of cake for an author. But here's the catch or, in this instance, creative metaphor: I don't actually like cake very much. Seriously. Sponge cake is a device of Satan's baker. On the bright side, the subject is research portrait and I chose Marc Bolan. I watched concert footage and a documentary, so I enjoyed the research very much. Also, I got to use my own novel Silver Studs and Sabre Teeth as a reference in the bibliography section of the assessment. Do many others get to do this? This was a first for me.

2. Work. It's been constant. 

3. I had a doona day on Sunday. Don't worry, I wasn't depressed; just wanted to unwind with some binge-watching after finalising my assessment. I wallowed in Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist and watched the movie A Promising Young Woman, which is a very topical movie lately.

4. Tutoring - but this is a good thing because I happen to really enjoy it. If I can borrow from Keith Richards, it's 'like a well-paid hobby'. What I'm finding rewarding is that a fourteen-year-old boy is enjoying the writing of Tom Wolfe. I showed him a copy of the first page of A Man in Full, after which I asked questions such as: What sort of person do you think Charlie is? Would you continue reading? He said he would, so I took along the novel to our next session and he continued to read and was very interested in the technique used by Wolfe of writing Charlie's dialogue in Southern US-speak. Anyway, by introducing a young person to some awesome writing, I feel I have achieved something.

5. Kind of protesting/agitating. Well, if attending a proposed debate is a form of protest and agitation, then that's what I've been doing. Last week, I attended a venue where there had been a debate called to discuss the scurrilous sale of one of the local TAFE campuses. The minister involved didn't accept the challenge, so it turned into a community forum. I had looked forward to some robust debate, but the minister said he wasn't going to play politics. Well, although I was not to have been a participant, I'm going to offer my rebuttal to that, and it starts with one word that calls to mind bovine scatological matter. I would also like to ask why the NSW Libs think it's okay to criminally undersell the land at a rate of $4 million and give just $1 million back to the community and expect them to be pathetically and grovelingly grateful for the miserly crumbs. I want to know why they think it's okay to just sell off the Scone campus to NSW Racing with no thought to the fact that not everybody in Scone wants to study fields related the equine industry. How are we supposed to rebuild post-Covid when nobody can learn other trades without the inconvenience of travelling to a far-off campus? Not everybody drives and our public transport options are scarce. DIS GUVVAMINT SUX!

So, that's it in a nutshell, folkeroonies. I've been working and studying. When not engaging in these activities, I've been doing my physio exercises, although I haven't been able to get to the practice and use the wobbleboard to work on my balance. I have been doing my home balance exercises and there has been some improvement in that I have progressed from having the coordination of a drunken ragdoll, which is pleasing. 

Before I go, there is something that I would like to ask you all: do you also happen to think Pink Floyd are overrated? I listen to AM when driving, and as a home care worker I do a bit of driving, and whenever one of their songs comes on, I just groan. Money came on the other day and Good God, it's a fucking boring piece of twaddle! I also cannot bear Another Brick in the Wall. Is it just my experience, or do the people who rave about those numbers listen to them whilst pulling cones? It's probably the only way one can tolerate the listening experience.