I have been having a think about what I write on this blog.  I am not going write about people I know anymore, if what I am writing can be viewed in a negative light. I don’t like thinking that my friends and family live with an odd sense of anticipation that they are going give me the shits and I am going to post it for the world to see.

So if you know me, breath a sigh of relief.

PS: I don’t know that the hell is going on with the bloody fonts and spacings on this damn blog. Beloved updated it and it keeps stuffing up. It really screws with me  - my anal retentive neat side warring with my technological ineptitude.

I posted this in September last year. Sigh

I watched a countdown on Foxtel of MJ’s top 50 songs. It made me remember how much I loved him. I guess I still do, but more in way like he died for me at a certain point rather than letting him tear at my heart with his weird marriages, tortured children, mangled face and supposed kiddy fiddling proclivities. 

Facially he needed to stop at Thriller and musically he needed to go no further than HIStory.  He was an amazing performer and his songs often had great messages that with his prolific fame he could get across like not even many world leaders can. I mean, I am not talking Blame it on the Boogie or Bad, but songs like Man In the Mirror, Earth Song, Heal the World and The Don’t Care About Us.

Just watching performers like Ne-Yo, Chris Brown and Usher and even Justin Timberlake, it is obvious where their musical influences lie. At least the younger generation get to have a piece of him in a diluted manner. But now most of what he has done is overshadowed by the tragedy that his life has become.

What really gets me is when my favourite trashy mag Woman’s Day trots out their ‘what if’ pic of Michael if he has laid off the plastic. And what do we see?  A handsome, black 50 year old instead of the white ghoul we have been left with.

When I was 19 me, my sis and a friend spent our first overnighter lining up for MJ tickets - and we got on the news! I used his songs in year 10 dance, year 11 theatre, year 12 theatre and Smooth Criminal  is one of my all time favourite songs and dance routines.

If there was one famous person I could turn the clock back for I think it would be for Michael.

I have a theory.

Princess Diana isn’t dead. Neither is Elvis, River Phoenix, Heath Ledger and a few other select celebrities that have died too young/tragically. They have all been part of a top secret celebrity relocation program and they are all sipping cocktails out of coconut shells with little umbrellas on a hidden island somewhere.

They amuse themselves by playing charades, cooking for each other (Elvis is making them all a bit porky with those fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches), plaiting their hair and sitting in circles giving each-other back tickles.

I am just sad that Michael is now there, giving everyone awesome moves for Karaoke Wednesday.

The bus whooshed past on the wet bitumen and the cold wind ruffled my hair and I was taken back to this time last year. And I felt bitter and angry.

I know I have blathered on to people about how leaving teaching to work in a recruitment agency was a good experience for me. That at least now I know that I really love teaching. It is 99% true. 1% of it is to save face.

And then sometimes I am so fucking angry at that cow, who used all the skills she had to lure a dumb, unsuspecting government worker to leave a secure job and foray into a world of cut-throat bitches. With all that skill and experience, shouldn’t she have seen that I was an anal-retentive, detail-requiring slave to the man?

I am a grown-up. I knew what I was doing, but only to a certain extent. I was so, so naïve. I am angry at her. I am angry at me. I am angry at her for perpetuating stereotypes about women that we as teachers, try so hard to work against. If you were overweight, unattractive or not immaculately dressed don’t even entertain the idea that you would get a second interview at this agency.  Who cares how smart, funny, competent or efficient you are! It didn’t matter that I had no idea what the job requirements were (and neither did the boss who gave me the job to fill)  I still had to call up hundreds of people on the database and see if they were in the market for a new job that was ‘perfect’ for them.

It is not until a year later that I realise that I was constantly in ‘fight or flight’ mode with that job. Every day I went to work not knowing if I was going to get told off, belittled, lied to or fired.

When the fired bit came I was devastated. For about 6 hours. The embarrassment lasted a little bit longer. But I wasn’t shy to tell people I got fired. I wasn’t that ashamed. I wasn’t suited to the job. Contrary to what you would think would be required of a recruitment agency employee – I was a people person. And people in recruitment aren’t. They are job people. Money people.

While I told myself I wasn’t good at the job, big deal, as time went by I found out little things. The accounts chick was fired about a week after me. The receptionist was farmed out to fill casual positions for clients – as was my office-mate and the new recruitment consultant. I met up with one of the longest standing employees for breakfast.  It took me a while to realise that she was spying for the boss – making sure that I wasn’t working in recruitment (the contract I signed didn’t allow it) Which told me two things. One – I wasn’t as crap at the job as I thought I was – I was just the newest, most expensive team member and two – the recruitment agency I went to for a casual job for recent government elections must have called her for a reference and she got antsy.

If the ‘real’ world of work is about lying, back-stabbing, shallowness and deceit then I don’t want it. I want the world where it is about helping people learn how to be the best person they can be, with the gifts God has given them.

Can I say it one more time? I LOVE being a teacher.

You would think for someone so anally retentive it would be impossible for me to forget my own blog birthday.

Ooops. Missed it by nearly two weeks.

Oh well - better late than never. Happy birthday blog. Because of you I have met some awesome people, pissed off relatives and while I haven’t lost friends, I would say there are some that act rather a bit cooler towards Beloved and I.

Good work for only a year in the blog world.

Go check out some of my earlier works. I will be just sitting here with bottle of champagne and party hat.

When something seems too good to be true, it probably is. When I heard NKOTB were coming to Australia I was beside-myself excited. In my head I my bag packed and plane ticket to Sydney booked. When I found out that they were coming to Perth I was peed-my-pants-a-little excited. Lil Sis booked her ticket to Perth and I organised the hotel room and had procured the promise of a ticket from a Facebook  friend’s older sister who had bought two gold reserve tickets…until she found out there were VIP tickets.

The wheels were in motion. I had my ‘hot for New Kids on the Block’ healthy eating plan in action, I was (well, still) listening to their CD in the cat and day dreaming what it would be like to see them in concert after 18 years.

It was my ‘something to look forward to’. As I have mentioned, I had been feeling a bit adrift now that all the weddings were done and dusted. NKOTB was a shining light on my horizon of my day in, day out, feral teens, 4:30 gym wake-ups, same ol’ chores  and the sometime numbing normalness of life.

When I found out they weren’t coming I could have vomited.  I haven’t even considered crying. I think I am too much in denial. I am not angry. It obviously wasn’t an economically viable venture and we all know you cannot exist on well-meaning nostalgia. Sis and I commiserated, she cancelled her $500 plane ticket, saving it for another time and we vowed to buy a lottery ticket this weekend with which we would win millions of dollars and jet off to the US to see our beloved Boston boys in the flesh.

While wallowing in my deep despair (which was accompanied by a Mango and Cream Weis bar and a glass of wine – any excuse) I made note of my devastation on Facebook and perused a couple of news outlets which gave some very vague details of the cancellation.

I don’t get the haters, Why are people so narrow-minded and joyless?  I am devastated because I am missing out on one night to relive my childhood innocence, listen to music that will make me 11 again, feel a love that was so naive and hopeful.  What could be bad about that experience?

People had to tell me that I deserved the devastation for listening to such crap music, for loving ‘Old Farts on the Block’ Puhleease! I am nostalgic, not mentally deficient. More than most, NKOTB fans are far from unaware of the band’s shortcomings. (I tell you, in the couple of seconds it took me to realise this clip was a piss pull, my love was sorely tested)  On the flip side of the hate, I had many friends who sympathised with me, knowing how much I was looking forward to it, and for them I am thankful.

Sigh. What to look forward to now?

The weekend before last, Beloved and I celebrated 10 years together. And to all the nit-pickers out there yes, in there we have had a few off and ons, but our hearts have always belonged to each other, even if at stages they were filled with anger and loathing.  

Beloved has always been the one to organise any sort of weekend away so I thought it was about my turn. We ended up on a property in Mundaring, in a two bedroom, self contained cottage. On the way there we stopped at the ‘world famous’ Little Caesars pizzeria. We got a Chicken Fettucine pizza, a Greek Lamb one and a dessert pizza called the Eskimo Joe. And they were probably three of the tastiest pizzas I have ever had.

While the cottage and it’s surrounds of gardens, paddocks filled with cows and sheep was absolutely wonderful, the highlight of the weekend was our dinner at The Loose Box Restaurant.  We partook of the degustation menu with the accompanying wines. It was absolutely amazing food – so full of flavour, yet not overbearing or too rich. Our waiter was a French Man-Boy who hardly spoke English but when he did, it was with a delightful French accent. I also noticed that he bore a resemblance to what I imagined Antonio Banderas would have looked like at 19. And I wanted to take him home and pat him. No, that isn’t a euphemism.  Take him home. Just to pat him. Like how old people get dogs cos it is therapeutic to pat them.

I don’t believe Beloved was amused. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it to him?

Dear Teens,

I used to be a kid once. I know it is hard to believe with me being so old and farty and stuff. But you know, I still feel as old as you look, I just know more stuff.  I thought I would always want to be a kid,  but I like being  an adult. The slowing metabolism and wrinkles suck but the confidence is pretty nice. I know that anything I tell you, you won’t believe. But I guess in your own ‘I-know-everything’ way I want you to know that it is and will be true, even if you can’t imagine it yet.

It doesn’t matter if you aren’t that smart. It is being a hard worker and nice person that counts.  I would rather employ a slightly dopey hard worker than a super-smart slacker.  If you are dumb and slack you really are in trouble and I sincerely hope you grow out of it.

School is not the real world, not really. When I was at school I was fascinated by what we called the popular group. What made them ‘popular’? They certainly weren’t very nice. Mostly good-looking, some of them smart. Real or feigned I think it was their confidence that allowed them that tag. As soon as you leave school no-one gives a rat’s arse if you were popular at school. There is no university or work-place entry survey that asks what the rest of the school thought of you. So odd bodds of the school rejoice - the time will come where you can be who you want to be without fear of an atomic wedgie - if you don’t shoo t up the place first.

If you want a nice life, as aforementioned, work hard. It is unlikely you are going to be a sports superstar, model or the next Bill Gates. To have a nice life you need a nice job - stable, fulfilling. No. The essay I am making you write is NOT going to help you get a job. But it teaches you other, less obvious things. How to think, reason, use your logic, time management skills, motivation, creativity, reading between the lines.  No employer will generally give a shit whether you know how to write a topic sentence but they will employ you for your work ethic and ability to use the smarts you have.

Girls - don’t go for the mouthy sports jock. He is probably going to grow in to a Grade A butt-head. I mean, come on, he is already showing  great potential. What about that quiet guy with the pretty eyes and cute smile? Perhaps you couldn’t date him - the social suicide might be too much for you but keep him in mind cos he will be hot, smart and rich. That is if he doesn’t ignore you for being that snobby bitch from high-school.

Guys - same goes. Yes, she has boobs. But guess what? The rest of them will have too one day, real or bought. She puts out? Again, they all will eventually. And the one who did it at 13 will not be as highly-prized.

Gay? Even if you can’t tell - we can. If you have the awareness of your sexuality, try and wear it with pride, so to speak. I can imagine this would be the hardest thing a teenager could do. If you are confident, others won’t bother you. Show a weakness and the vultures attack. Your teachers will support you - we admire the brave.

Be nice to that kid. You know, the one who has a twitch, a large mole on his cheek and a shy, hopeful smile, while you all play four-square, trying to not see him. One day you will see how much it would have meant to him, to include him and you will want to cry. For him, and your callow, embarrassed youthfulness.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever lady’ is what you are saying. ‘Alien old person who is married and wears sweater-vests, keep yapping’. Well. I was always worried that one day I would be ‘old’ and lose touch with the young folk. But I don’t think it will happen - because your heart doesn’t grow old.

Dismiss me now, while can afford to, but look back in realisation, wishing you could impart your hard-earned knowledge with the scared, lonely and disaffected youth .

                                                                                 Your Teacher

I read some more books.

Yup. I need a life.

Status updates I wanted to put up but couldn’t because we had no net due to a lightning storm:

• GYL doesn’t like the owner of the dance studio she goes to. She acts like she owns the place.
• GYL’s husband thinks she is a muppet. She was trying to drive her dad’s automatic car with two feet.
• GYL can’t believe her anal retentive self was aiding and abetting quiz-night criminality via sms.
• GYL dreamed of names all night because she was trying to think of the names of the miners trapped at Beaconsfield mine.
• GYL:  Brant Webb and Todd Russell.
• GYL wonders if calories count when it is the father-in-law’s birthday? She DID buy low calorie white wine. However, she doesn’t think the Chinese food or desert was low-calorie.
• GYL wonders why she pretends to think she is going to get up for a Saturday morning gym class.
• GYL’s husband is a little jealous she is getting hot for NKOTB and not him. Big deal - he will reap the benefits, regardless.
• GYL gets a bit antsy when she hasn’t heard from her mates in ‘real life’ for a while.
• GYL likes to go to sleep thinking what she would do if she won the lottery.
• GYL is looking forward to taking her husband for a surprise weekend away next weekend for their 10 -years-together anniversary.  
• GYL feels sort of liberated, not checking Facebook every half an hour.