I Ruin then Ultimately Save Christmas

Well, I agreed to mind a friend’s cat for a few days. To avoid the wife experiencing unnecessary worry, I just had it arrive as a surprise. Because I care about her wellbeing. The integration with our own cats is currently going exactly how I expected; clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. I decided to wait until later to acknowledge ‘a few days’ is a liberal and probably condensed understanding of the ‘visit’ period.

The scenario has allowed me to reach a few logical conclusions though. Namely: male cat just wants to sniff and make friends. Girl cats both want to hiss and cause problems. With a sample size of three, logically, all female cats are bitches. I’d like to up the sample size a few more before I can safely jump to all females (generally) being bitches. But yet here we are. Awkward silence.

Also I have needed to point out that reportedly Steve Jobs only slept like 12 minutes in total a night and he got shit done. Which of course does nothing to placate angry wife’s mean sleep-deprived antagonism. Although maybe Steve just owned a few cats that didn’t get along, did you ever think about that? No. Only thinking about yourself and your dream of three hours a night sleep.

As I said though, here we are. It’s funny isn’t it, the old saying of a happy wife leading to a happy life. I always thought the saying was missing something important, you know, like what happens when you don’t have a happy wife.

I know now.

In any case, I am sandwiched in the middle of a home life of moods which alternative between passive-aggressive and aggressive-aggressive and a work life dealing with a new outsource team which, coincidently, can also be described as a clusterfuck of magnificent proportions. Strangely enough the background melody of furious cat hissing is present in both locations.

It being Christmas, I needed to pick myself up and ignore the sarcastic little voice in my head

whispering, “Most of this is your fault”. So I am currently doing what a normal person would be in my circumstance, using Gizoogle to translate all internal office emails into street slang before sending. Or as Gizoogle puts it:

It bein Chrizzle, I needed ta pick mah dirty ass up n' ignore tha sarcastic lil voice up in mah head whispering, "Most of dis is yo' fault". Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So I be currently bustin what tha fuck a aiiight thug would be up in mah circumstance, rockin Gizoogle ta translate all internal crib emails tha fuck into street slang before sending.

Someone stopped and asked me why I was crying at my desk and I told them a ‘normal person’ is known as an ‘aiight thug’ in street talk. That poetry moved me. Although as they started walking away I clarified that I wasn’t getting any sex at home either. For reasons outside my own control. Then I told them it was “mysterious” while waving my arms around mysteriously.

My current policy on emails may need some revisions as I just called one of the senior partners a “biatch”. I am pretty sure I am going to get in trouble for sending that one, or in street:

I be pretty shizzle I be goin ta git up in shiznit fo' bustin  dat one.

No need to worry, I placated the situation by putting my Outlook out-of-office on a few days early. Then putting an Outlook rule so I don’t see any emails coming in – they are a problem to deal with next year. But as equally as I am someone who hates conflict and confrontation, I am also someone who thrives on contradiction and seemingly, confusion. So my out-of-office message was also translated into street:

Nuff props fo' yo' email.

I personally wish you n' yo' crew all tha dopest fo' tha festizzle season. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy, Dog. May tha egg-nogg be tha noggiest.

I'ma be returnin on 8 January n' is ghon be round dat time, dependin on tha hangover thang.

Try mah mobile beeper first if you urgently need mah crazy ass fo' anythang but will also be checkin emails.

Walk wit Jizzy

Merry Xmas!

Pictured: Die Hard, A Christmas Story

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To Be A Fly On The Wall

To live is to be at war and so every morning, the first step to a productive and rewarding day is to do battle with yourself. On the drive to work, begin the propaganda: today, no memes, you sit down at your desk early and get shit done and later, alcohol! But it is also a good idea to remind yourself that even the best general suffers a defeat and the first half hour spent looking for a good reaction pic is what the warmongers refer to as a tactical retreat.

Learn sick fidget spinner trick for the next half hour.

Well, seven hours to go.

Better check again. Yep, still seven hours. Fuck.

Briefly debate whether to have Zooper Dooper now, instead of at the regular hour. Instead, print reaction meme of Frozen princesses and their viewpoint on penis size and stick up in another team’s work area.

Finally, people arriving into work. While not overjoyed that there are now people filling the empty office, still overjoyed that the empty and pointless platitudes thrown at each other are using up valuable time spent not-drinking. “Yes, it is early, how astute”, “Oh god yes, morning coffee, amirite!”.

Listen intently as catholic Indian lady from bookkeeping begins story with, “Husband kept me up late, now I have a sore back” but then doesn’t relate a sexual mishap, so lose interest, but then says it was because she was cooking curry, so interest back, but hasn’t brought any curry or the rumballs she promised, so devastated. Fucking rollercoaster of a conversation.

Look suitably appalled when people notice a Disney picture hanging in the audit team area. Begin a debate on whether it is more appropriate for Anna to be the shocked one rather than Elsa, because you know, Elsa always seemed more cock hungry. Reiterate again how disgusted you are and how this is inappropriate in the office. Suggest HR be alerted.

Look for and find the work intranet and yes, there are HR templates. Begin to complete a harassment complaint about the picture but notice we have a job opening for a Graduate Accountant so start an application for that instead. Two things at once! Feel mentally drained.

Lean back and tell person in next desk how overworked we are. He agrees and then spend 15 minutes complaining about the management not providing us with the staff we need, which of course is a reminder so tell him you need to get back to “it”. “It” or course being the graduate application for the vacant position in his team.

Finish job application and celebrate hard work with a Zooper Dooper. Be absolutely amazed they have a ‘Jaffa’ flavour and further amazed that the flavour is on target and pretty good. Setup up reminder in Calendar to write them something nice, too busy right now.

Like a steam-roller now, more work-cyborg than man, open client file and begin reviewing work prepared by outsourced team. Lose interest in continuing work in this profession and shortly after, life, because it seems to be submitted by accident, as if someone vomited onto a spreadsheet, the bile and half-digested food metaphysically manifesting into an excel file and then, probably through achieving sentience, sending an email saying it is ready for review.

Be pissy and ask catholic Indian colleague to ring up her cousins or whatever relatives they must be in Outsource team and call them useless fucks. Call her racist when she refers to “white-man” problems and remind her about missing rumballs and the almost palpable taste of betrayal.

Find solace in iced coffee and chocolate éclair from over the road. While eating, remind colleague what a rough day it is.

Create pact with former personal assistant (who was shifted to corporate team, because reasons) to follow a meme and replace all instances where you want to say “fuck you” with “OK, great!”.

Be asked by the GM to write up a general feedback/review of outsource team. Tell GM that this is likely going to take a few hours because there needs to be an angry version and a sanitised version. GM doesn’t have half an hour to debate the point so leaves you to be you. Draft feedback confirming the current procedure has left us as emotionless husks; empty vessels circled by shrieking ghosts and hyperbole.

Have spirited discussion with other manager on feedback provided about Outsource team. Find out other teams do things differently, or to be phrased more appropriately, they are wrong.

Due to being swamped with just, everything, have late lunch of zucchini slice made gluggy with gluten free flour. Find out from google whether gluten free anything is a war crime.

Research how to have something declared a war crime.

Home time. Celebrate hectic day of intensive whatever it was by drinking and dying on the inside, just a little bit more.

I stared too long.

It burns.

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Under My Wing

Holy fuck, I have been asked to provide guidance on some software changes to our offshore team who we affectionately refer to as the “Inglorious Indian Basterds”. Well I call them that anyway. For some reason our wise management was happy for me to liaise with the ‘Basterds directly, which showed a great deal of faith in me, or in another more accurate way, it showed an uncommon lapse of judgement on their part.

Dear Team India

Thank you for your feedback, we take your comments very seriously and in me you can be rest assured that the firm has provided their best resource to guide you. Well in truth I can’t claim to be the best, but on a good day, at least in the top 20. In any case I will be your guide and champion, like some offended mother goose spreading her wing protectively over a new clutch. If anyone or anything bothers you I will hiss and chase those pricks off the network, honk’n and spitt’n, my solemn word to you: I will fuck them up.

So yes, we recently put through some global migrations to the ledgers and because this is the real world and because our software vendor is like a black hole of stupid, some fixes are required. Before you throw up your hands and call everyone a bunch of thieving cunts for making your work life so much more difficult, for effectively stealing your time, I should warn you: that doesn’t solve anything. I know that because I did the same thing. As your guardian-goose, I am free to offer minor and offhand criticisms during this and all future commentary and right now I feel you are lacking in one important life lesson:

Assume you are about to be fucked over. Assume that in the next minute, hour or week, something will happen which will cause you to throw up your hands and wonder why this and why now. Here’s the crux, God is not real. Your elephant God with the titties isn’t real. This is life and life is cruel. It punishes us for having the gall not just to exist, but to live. You get out of bed and look forward to a bright day? Don’t just expect to be challenged for your own hubris. Demand it, because you are a fucking warrior.

So again, we thank you for the screenshot of the ‘error’ message you provided along with a garbled email that I assume you typed out while having a stroke. Going back to my point above, I recognise the half hour I spent deciphering the message not as karma, but as existence itself challenging me. Well played by young gosling. Well played.

Pictured: IT Department Head

To answer your main question, the error message wasn’t an error at all, it was just a slight change to the wording. As an Australian we have a healthy fear of the unknown, of dark, unknown places where we are expected to place our hands (even if metaphorically). This is because these dark places are full of shit that can kill us (even if metaphorically). I remind you that you are a warrior so click that shit with the confidence of someone born to conquer. If you get bitten, well just ensure you have a good excuse to give to the IT department or at the very least a scapegoat because the IT department has no time for existential excuses about bets between you and the universe. They aren’t normal like us.

There are a few main problems to fix and of course there will be individual challenges in each ledger as well, but I know you have taken my advice from above to heart. You won’t lament when you find these, you will accept them as your due for walking, talking and mastering the fucking electron. Then, knowing you, my young goose-padawan, you will email me a long-winded email which meanders through conflicting statements and questions without reason. But I accept that, because that is my due.

I could explain how to address these main problems, I could even create a “procedure” and document it in the “intranet”. In fact, I should do both of these things because that is what I was asked to do. But what would you learn then? Instead I’m going to offer you exactly the same thing I was provided when I faced these same challenges, jack fucking shit. You pick yourself up and either be the professional you are being paid to be or alternatively find a way to move numbers around and talk fast enough so that it looks like you are, really in this world the only difference between the two is how you sleep at night.

Also let me know if someone is giving you grief here, I will literally stoop down, point out my neck, hiss and bite them right in the groin while flapping my arms around. It’ll be fun.

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A call to Parent

The perfect storm of karma hit me today when my wife’s work Xmas function coincided with the girl’s Xmas dance recital. As a parent who supports his family through various positive affirmations and encouragements I was honoured to be the caregiver chosen to represent us. I cheerfully packed my outing-with-children supply bag which was pretty much the laptop, a six-pack of Daniels cans and a scarf (in case I got cold). Long ago I learned to do this when the wife wasn’t around, so it was done immediately after she left for her drunken night of debauchery. I was set and as a bonus I could document the night AND catch up on new memes. I hope they had good internet.

Initial findings

They do not have good internet.

First 2 dances

I’m not an expert, but these six year old’s on stage are pretty bad or maybe it’s just some expressionist stuff I can’t understand or maybe the first few dances were bottom rung. My wife was all about the girl’s tutu this week, it had to be laid out perfectly on the bed to find form or some shit and we had to shut the door to the room because the cats love eating the tutu for some reason. Anyway, these girls must have had parents who don’t understand that the tutus need to be shaped as they were poking out in weird directions. One little girl had the thing flung up and she could barely see over it. Also, the guy beside me keeps sighing which is making it harder to type. He sighed even louder when I offer him a can of Jack and then whispered something to his wife (I assume she was being a bitch about the whole thing).

I'm not sure Google got this

one right.

Roughly half an hour in

The girl had her first dance number, ballet, and she wasn’t terrible. Don’t get me wrong, she was terrible, but compared to the others she was Sergei fuckin Borishnikov. I think I understand now, when you send your kid for five or six hours of lessons each week there is a separation of result

between them and the kids who turn up for a half hour lesson. I started smugly looking around at everyone else in the theatre, my little munchkin was marginally better than theirs. Then I remembered that these classes cost money. Now I’m just sad.

A little bit after the last entry

The guy besides me has hairy legs. I know, because he shifted in his seat and now his leg is touching my leg. Feels weird and he wasn’t moving it either. Was this a play? I’m bad at defining social cues but whether he is making a move on me or whether he has no fucking comprehension of personal boundaries, this wasn’t appropriate. If I was normal I would I have told him to stop, instead I am just scared.

39 minutes in

I fucking love tap dancing. Tappety tap tap, and then they do this shuffle thing and it goes faster tip-tappety and they were almost in unison this time as well. I’m glad someone else’s parents dealt with all that practice though. That would end me at home.

42 minutes in

The seniors jazz troop started with a voice-over saying the piece did have choreography but most of it will be free form by the dancers. I vocalised my displeasure by groaning which helpfully made the guy beside me shift his leg away for the first time in five minutes. Two thoughts on the dance; firstly they did pretty good. I expected shitty improv but got instead OK improv that was well coordinated with the music. Secondly, I couldn’t help noticing the sheer level of makeup each was wearing. If it was meant to make them all look alike, well, working as intended I suppose.

1 hour in

I’ve finished three cans and I think I need to begin rationing the rest. Who knows how long this thing will go for. Also, the bear beside me keeps shifting his leg away and then slowly it begins falling back against mine. Each time, I freeze and just sit there, wide-eyed and staring at the stage where, admittedly, something is happening but pretending this hairy contact thing wasn’t happening to me. Sexual harassment is obviously a useful tool for making people focus on something I suppose.

But can he rock this shirt?

27 minutes later

Well the last three acts were terrible, not adorably terrible, that had been most of it so far, but more a “they are enjoying themselves so fuck it” level of terrible. Of course I added this sentence for a little drama. I really hadn’t been paying attention to the dancing as I was trying to get circulation back into my legs. The boy had told me a while ago that birds were pecking his feet which my wife translated

as the pins-and-needles feeling. He was right, it did feel like birds pecking my feet. Poetic little muppet.

Intermission

Everyone mingled around outside. I noticed there was a lot of hugging, people using real names with confidence, like they weren’t just guessing, and probably because of all the harassment that had been going on I really didn’t want to get involved in that. So, I found something important on my phone and went off by myself. Admission: I was just staring at the home screen and moving the windows around without making eye-contact with anyone.

The next bit

I don’t think it unfair of me to admit that I was running out of patience with this whole thing. More to do with the fact I was finishing my last can of Jack. In good news though the air-conditioning was getting cold so I put on my scarf – always be prepared. My bitterness was probably more to do with the fact the theatre had haemorrhaged half the people during intermission as the husbands who had seen their kid dance were released back into the wild. The guy beside me had gone as well and I was miffed, after what I had gone through a goodbye was probably in order.

Two hours in? Something close

Honesty first, Tree-cat.

Time really has lost meaning. The girls second dance, a razzle dazzle jazz affair, came and went. Being a parent makes my independence questionable, but I can confirm without bias that they 

weren’t terrible. There was a huge talent/practice gap between some of the dancers and like everything in life it sadly turned out to be money. Money was that difference. However, looking down at her happy, smiling little cherubic face I could honestly say I would give that all up in an instant for the dance tuition fees back.

17 Hours In

I had my phone balancing on my lap and then suddenly it was on the floor, somehow I had lost minutes, maybe (hopefully) even hours. I initially thought it was a glitch in the matrix and began looking around for escape points but then I yawned and figured it was more likely I had briefly fallen asleep. Also, there were tappers back on the stage, which was probably why I woke up, so I am focussing again. Tip tappety, *jazz hands*, tap tap. Fucking marvellous.

Four billion years in

The girls last dance just finished, which means second last dance of the night according to an uncanny voiceover in my mind that sounds suspiciously like my wife. Either I am hallucinating or she has learned ESP. As I am sure that we are mere seconds from the heat death of the earth, because we had been sitting here for 4 billion years, both options are plausible. In any case I got to see a horde of little midgets capering around on the stage, hip-hopping with attitude. Again, more or less the timing was spot on, everything about the routine suggested ‘practice’ and each one of them was trying their ass off. Trying and achieving. Who the hell had taught her to try?

Within purgatory

You remember when your Mum had a conversation with another Mum and you were totally bored but it sounded like it was winding up? Then they started up a new conversation and it just wrecked you? Well that’s how I felt when they began presenting awards once the whole dancing thing finished. Inwardly I groaned and in my mind I heard my Mum say the same thing she always did, “be patient”. Then I remembered my parents had come as well and I must have groaned out loud and she had given that response from a couple of rows down. Also, when I got bored earlier and begun throwing bits of paper at the bald spot on the head of the guy in front of me it all made sense his retort of ‘grow up, you are 40 years old’. Thanks Dad, but you are going bald.

As of now, it is an hour or so after the event, and the wife just messaged me from her Xmas party, she is ready to be picked up. So now I need to drive her home, which normally resolves into a wrestling match in the car as I try and stay on the road and fend off her drunken physical attacks on my man-parts. I’ve been molested enough for one night, woman.

No, Woman, I wont relax.

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State of things and Xmas!

The diet is going well. Stage one revolves around being hungry all the time, angry that the process isn’t happening faster and then after all that, using any excuse in the world to fuck up whatever good work you supposedly did for that week by eating a God damned pizza. Stage two and onwards is exactly the same but the excuses get worse until it morphs into not even bothering with the excuses anymore and suddenly you are just you again. It’s as if the process is a metamorphosis, you enter as giant fat caterpillar and then exit as giant fat butterfly but with gossamer wings made of bitterness and regret.

Also, I am aware of the health stigma at the moment about referring to the process as ‘dieting’. Health professionals are all about reinforcing that it is OK to sit around on the lounge, booze up and eat fried food until I am more regret than man, as long as it is done in moderation. That is the point though, I want to do it all the time and limiting the things I like to an acceptable level is the written definition of a diet you fucking arseholes. Of course I know how childish that sounds, I’m not blind to my own faults, just hungry. And really lazy.

This is how my Xmas will play out.
Now I know it exists.

Since this started off on a dark note, I’ll finish on something positive. People have been complaining about Xmas for the last few months. “Why are they advertising Xmas already?”, “Why are they playing Xmas carols in November” – you know what? Fuck ‘em. This weekend I am putting up the tree, then all the lights and finishing up with the most festive batch of eggnog that has ever been made. My wife will sit there and complain that this shit shouldn’t be done until December and then probably argue that eggnog should contain something else besides bourbon. I just can’t listen to all this negativity anymore, it is Xmas time and come Saturday the kids will the decking the halls and Bon Jovi will be singing carols in the background while I fortify myself with my ‘noggy jug of Xmas spirit.

We’ll also probably order pizza.

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Status update: Everything is just swell

I wouldn't say everything is great, I lied in the recounting of events below, but right now I am sober so I suppose headway is being made. 

Colleague to me: “So, how’s the diet going?”

Me (recalling going out for breakfast)…..

Me to waitress: I’ll have a strawberry thickshake.

Wife: No.

Me: Milkshake.

Wife: No.

Me: Cappuccino, three sugars.

Wife: No.

Me: Fine. Coffee, black, no sugar, just bland as fuck. But could you please serve it in a milkshake container? *winking at waitress and making universal gesture to hook up a brother*

Wife: I can see you, and no.

Me: Why can’t I have nice things?

Wife: *pokes my fat stomach*

Me to waitress: A glass of water and a side of shame, please.

 Me responding to Colleague’s original question: Great! Motivation is buoyant and the wife is really supportive.

#7: How to order Getta Burger from UberEats

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It begins. Again. I Guess?

I’m not a fan of dieting, I haven’t been a fan of it previously and I’m not a fan of it now. This is mainly because my hobbies, while being extremely active in one sense, involves a lot of inactivity in another sense. I’m referring to computer games and drinking at a pub while eating fried food, but not at the same time, obviously. Although, should that be obvious? Combining those two pastimes sounds pretty damn awesome. Which just illustrates the state of my health I suppose.

In any case, some of the gang wanted to amp up their lifestyle and become fit, possibly because, just like me, they were sick of their wife constantly making jokes including “I ate a baby” references. I happened to be in the room at the time they were having this conversation and due to their excitement and probably being drunk, I got all swept up in the moment and made agreements which, on reflection, I should have instead responded with, “Fuck off, you stupid bastards. I want no part in this”. Promises were made and dates were set. So now, a few days in, I have a sore back because it isn’t used to doing any of this shit and I’ve just had a salad for lunch. I tried pretending it was KFC, because I can see KFC through my work window, but it felt like I was chewing plastic so I guess lunchtime is just dead to me now.

The main sweetener in all this is the goal. Each week we weigh-in and the person with the highest percentage loss for the week gets treated to a schnitzel at the pub. With whatever topping they want. This may sound counter intuitive but I don’t want to hear your fucking arguments – the schnitzels are that good. The losers for the week are allowed to eat as well, although I preferred the option where they had to watch the winner finish the entire plate as a form of encouragement.

I’ll try and keep up the status and weekly results but with a current workload and just feeling hungry all the time there is very little motivation or energy to do anything more than crawl into bed each night, sobbing quietly and dreaming of eating a little burger inside a bigger burger inside a much bigger burger – tarducken style dining, but inside two buns.

This is like porn for me. Until I

look up other porn. Obviously.

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Hacking

Hacks at home

• When quietly smoking a jay at home, your wife will invariably ask if that was marijuana. Tell her no, it’s just a cigarette. BAM - life hack!
• Made too much cookie dough for the amount of trays you have? Eat the cookie dough from the bowl. BAM – life hack!

• 

  Thank you, Captain Sulu

  from Star Trek.

  Is it too far to the kitchen to find a glass? Take a gulp from a can of soft drink to make room and then pour your choice of spirit directly into the can. Pre-mix for half the price! BAM – life hack!
• Want to go camping but there is rain expected over the weekend? No issues - drape all the sheets and blankets from the linen cupboard over the lounges and you have your own camping area in front of the TV (It also doubles as a fort but you will need to protect it from jealous womenfolk who inexplicably seek to destroy your grand work). BAM - life hack!

Hacks in the workplace

• Always running out of staples? Think the walk to the stationary cupboard is too far and possibly constitutes a war crime? Next time take four seven twelve boxes and store then at your desk. BAM – work hack!
• Someone pissing you off at work? Like for example their very existence insults you in ways you can barely comprehend? Take the scissors from the binding area and put them in that persons desk drawer. The admin ladies will hunt her down and gut her like a trout. BAM – work hack!

• 

  I'm working here, Gladys.

  Learn to knock.

  Your employer has just asked if you have finished something you haven’t even started yet? Just tell him, yes. BAM – work hack!
• An afternoon nap is often hard with all the distractions at work. Try having a large hot lunch and then chase that with seven bourbons, you’ll be asleep in no time. BAM – work hack!
• Crippling anxiety or the unreasoning desire to leave this place of misery? Spend an hour in the bathroom masturbating. BAM – work hack!

This is an abridged list because I started drinking and then wasted four hours looking at memes while my wife went to look at the graves of relatives and visit someone in a nursing home.

Stay in school, kids.

Christ, meme.

Where were you 15 years ago?

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Mother's Day Special

I am terrible at two important tasks: purchasing gifts and organising anything. Well I can organise things but I tend to then view each participant in the process not as a human, but as a mechanical construct that will do, say or be at a certain place at the right time. As it turns out, I still can’t grasp the concept that humans are free-thinking purveyors of chaos and discord. If anything, I want to be sowing the seeds of chaos and let someone else organise and -they- can develop the ulcer.

So when tasked to organise anything I mentally black it out and then at some point, just when the stress and sheer weight of the obligation is close to crushing a soul that is as weak as a lamington, someone else picks up the job. Which is another way of saying I tend to leave things to the last minute I suppose. Case in point: Mothers Day preparation.

I do believe mothers deserve a day where we can collectively stand back and say ‘you are awesome’. Thanks for the conception, the birth was probably fun as well and kudos for all that raising us jazz. I just have no faculty inbuilt for me to vocalise that though.

A dramatisation. But accurate.

My own mother is geographically distant. If she was local I would have taken her to golf to refresh her on the fact I have very limited physical skills and no actual golf skill but can be extremely inventive with new phrasing when that fucking ball doesn’t go straight. Since that isn’t the case, I give her a call and between the short clipped sentences I assume she can feel a sense of my appreciation. It’s probably vague but it is as heartfelt as I can possible accomplish. Soul like a lamington, remember?

The new problem is my wife is also a mother. And on Mothers Day morning, having left any preparation to the last second I found myself caught out needing to come up with something quickly. Which I did as a team with someone who also left things late and I think we pulled it off pretty well. If you were curious about the thought process, the skype excerpt below summarises it nicely.

Greg didn’t want his name showing so I ‘replaced all’ with Not-Greg.

[14/05/2017 7:44:23 AM] Not-Greg: What is the plan?

[14/05/2017 7:45:08 AM] Jean-Roge: Going to scratch myself and play Overwatch.

[14/05/2017 7:45:12 AM] Not-Greg: ….for mothers day.

[14/05/2017 7:45:26 AM] Jean-Roge: Oh. Weren’t we going to a winery?

[14/05/2017 7:45:33 AM] Not-Greg: Raining. Wet. Kids. Wolfsuits.

[14/05/2017 7:46:18 AM] Jean-Roge: So, options?

[14/05/2017 7:46:22 AM] Not-Greg: One step ahead. Melt brothers.
[14/05/2017 7:46:24 AM] Not-Greg: http://meltbrothers.com.au/

[14/05/2017 7:46:51 AM] Jean-Roge: Done. They will love it.

[14/05/2017 7:47:15 AM] Not-Greg: You didn’t open the link did you?

[14/05/2017 7:47:30 AM] Jean-Roge: I made an assumption! Didn’t I just say I was in the middle of two important tasks that required my full attention? 

[14/05/2017 7:48:02 AM] Not-Greg: It is closed on Sunday. Fuck this state. How about bowling?

[14/05/2017 7:48:13 AM] Not-Greg: https://www.amfbowling.com.au/venues/qld/amf-mt-gravatt

[14/05/2017 7:49:19 AM] Jean-Roge: OK, but let’s face it, we are going to be drinking. “Yaaaay mothers day!! Wooooooo! Bowling!” we will tell the wives at some point as they mother their asses off with angry bored midgets. While I am sure that is exactly what mothers day is meant to be about, I am also pretty sure they may view it as an obligation.

[14/05/2017 7:49:30 AM] Jean-Roge: You know, because they aren’t as good at parenting as us.

[14/05/2017 7:50:10 AM] Not-Greg: That is probably realistic.

[14/05/2017 7:50:15 AM] Not-Greg: What are the other options?

[14/05/2017 7:50:19 AM] Not-Greg: Stop fucking playing and help!

[14/05/2017 7:50:25 AM] Jean-Roge: I have been scouring the internet looking for ideas.

14/05/2017 7:50:34 AM] Not-Greg: You aren’t even trying to lie well anymore.

[14/05/2017 7:51:07 AM] Jean-Roge: Well I died and we lost. You now have my full attention.

[14/05/2017 7:51:43 AM] Jean-Roge: Send them to get lapdances, whatever they are called, the non-porn style facials from little Asian ladies at the shopping centre?

[14/05/2017 7:53:41 AM] Not-Greg: Manicure and pedicures? That could work. Bring the kids and come over, we’ll parent from home and give them the gift of free time.

[14/05/2017 7:54:24 AM] Jean-Roge: So we are going to be drinking afterall?

[14/05/2017 7:54:52 AM] Not-Greg: Yes, but under a completely honourable pretence. This way I don’t lose the moral high ground.

[14/05/2017 7:55:36 AM] Jean-Roge: Well, if the afternoon is set for drinking I may be unavailable for marital duties later on in the evening. So AFK to see if quality time can be brought forward.

[14/05/2017 8:12:04 AM] Jean-Roge: Back.

[14/05/2017 8:12:38 AM] Not-Greg: She said no?

[14/05/2017 8:13:09 AM] Jean-Roge: No, it happened.

[14/05/2017 8:13:15 AM] Jean-Roge: Quantity not quality.

[14/05/2017 8:13:26 AM] Not-Greg: Wow.

[14/05/2017 8:13:51 AM] Jean-Roge: What?

[14/05/2017 8:15:16 AM] Not-Greg: She is so lucky to have you. Happy mothers day, Leanne.

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TGIF: Savings plan

I used to write up a stirring TGIF post each and every Friday morning. This was back when turning up to work was an exciting adventure but nowadays I need some time in the work parking lot, mentally psyching myself to walk the 20 metres to my desk. Then after an hour of checking email, a solid 15 minutes in the bathroom sobbing quietly. Obviously I’m grossly over exaggerating. It’s more like seven minutes.

Don't judge us, Applejack.

My wife, who has some kind of sixth sense about the state of my mental health, texted me a picture. So TGIF today is courtesy of my wife’s bare chest. Future instalments I hope to dedicate to various other parts of her anatomy.

If anyone was looking for a reason not to have children (despite the general shit show that sometimes is) then I recommend you think long and hard about all the little costs that will be necessary over the next two decades. I was told the same thing by other parents before I began my journey but my focus was always on the immediate (getting lots of sweet tail) and not on a future possibility. You will probably be the same, ignoring all the warnings and if that is the case then here are a few little things you need to do to save your bank balance along your own journey. Anyone being charitable could refer to it as “a guide to prudent parenting”. Others may not be as charitable.

Friends

Uncanny.

My wife used to comment that she would never let her children grow up as social outcasts, sitting in front of a computer and not playing sports or going outside. Although when she eventually became lonely, up on her fucking pedestal, she deigned to look down and notice me staring, shocked at her mean but largely accurate comparison of my life up until this point. What she didn’t take into consideration was all the monetary pain that comes along with raising a child who was willing to integrate in society.

Integration means a social network (i.e. friendship) and this network creates points of comparison and the desire to connect those points. Connections almost always mean spending money and because your children don’t have jobs, any costs of integration will come directly from your back pocket. An outcast isn’t blind to these points of reference but finds them baseless and doesn’t have the intense need to make those same connections. You cannot listen to your partner and view this as a negative trait, instead view this as a long term saving plan.

Imagine a daughter who is more interested in levelling a character on one of the numerous Asian MMORPGs out there than on keeping up with her social group. Sure, she isn’t going to learn about strong female role models by wearing armour I would refer more to as Brazillian than medieval but she will learn about situational awareness, maths, appropriateness of variables and the many ways people will swear at you for making even minor mistakes. You should note of course all these are valuable life skills but more importantly, free. On the other hand a socially adjusted daughter will want continual updates in clothes, toys and technology that you are woefully inadequate to understand. You should note of course all those things are not free or important.

Now imagine a son, reading on the net, living through Youtube videos and then t-bagging someone on Battlefield. He can be Luke Skywalker in Battlefront or some bearded midget in Dragonage. I’m

Pictured: Pokémon.

not sure of any practical or ongoing benefits but these things are all fun. Don’t make the mistake of linking any of this to a nerd culture though. Nerd culture is still a social network and while they don’t have to keep up with fashion, they will want to upgrade all their manuals because Wizards of the Coast came out with a new ruleset. Hobbies by any nature are not free and you should steer them clear of anything that requires continual updates and definitely stay clear of anything that needs to be played with other people. I’m specifically talking about pokemon.

Extra-curricular activities

My wife lives vicariously through the extra-curricular activities of her children. The boy is forced to play soccer and the girl grudgingly attends dancing lessons. This is because we made the mistake of providing an environment for the children to make friends, to establish social networks and now they are making connections. The exact things I warned against in the paragraphs above. It’s almost as if I was put on this earth to make these mistakes to save you the cost later; my only reason for being is to do everything wrong, and it kind of makes me feel better knowing while I may be an incalculable screwup, the universe wanted it this way.

The problem with soccer is that it requires an immense amount of subscription cost and ongoing gear. Also, the time I spend attending training and games I would have spent in profit making activities (Concession: I probably wouldn’t have). You know what isn’t so expensive? FIFA 2017 (or any version). This costs me $40 per year and the boy happily clicks away at the game for hours and hours.

I'm allowed to have an opinion,

Mrs Walsh!

And dancing. Well even thinking about it right now, I want to pick up my chair and throw it through a window. The whole setup of these dance schools is like a Amway marketing venture, every fucking thing is about upselling. More lessons, more gear, more time spent. Initially the girl began ballet really young but due to the covert pressure from the social dance network, the overt pressure from the school and the pressure from her mother to vicarious live and something probably starting and ending with cocaine – look at how upset I am, can’t even coherently finish a sentence.

Let’s just say that one dance class leads to two dance classes, then another, then a fucking fourth and then, purely because of narcissism they ask you to join the eisteddfod team. I still don’t know how much one of their classes costs but I assure you each year, between the classes, between the costumes and between all the other crap you need to buy, this thing will run you into the thousands. Don’t kid yourself, there is no such thing as taking a single class. Dance lessons? Not even once. Be strong.

Dental plan

You know those vitamin gummies? The tablets that are provided in soft squishy form that you give to your children because you are working under some delusional belief that aspect was missing from their diet? Well if you have ever given those to your child then you are an inhuman monster. The dentist didn’t technically say ‘inhuman monster’ but as this was a kids dentist and she was dressed like a fairy, I could read between the lines. She was hot as well and between the outfit and the spray-serve we received well, it was totally doing it for me. Who’d have thought passive aggressive dentist/fairy roleplay would be my kink.

Juice has always been the go-to of the parent, adorable sippy cup in the shape of a frog and then fill it with apple juice. For the love of God, don’t do that. Juice is comprised mostly of sugar and in fact it may well have more sugar in it than a comparable sample of soft drink. The qualifier of ‘may’ refers to my basic stance of not bothering to justify any claim with factual information. The fairy, again resting back on her policy of letting us know exactly where we dun fucked up, told us exactly why we fucked up with juice while bouncing around the room in her skimpy costume.

Yes, again!

The one aspect of parenting that I have never quite reconciled myself to is the need to constantly give instructions. I originally showed them how to clean their teeth and bam, my work was done. Or should have been. Even if you put on the toothpaste and stand there watching them, it takes roughly ten seconds for them to stop actively brushing and just to begin gnawing on the toothbrush. And if you don’t stand there watching them they simply stop doing it and just lie about it later. Your children will not be better than mine, well maybe they will, ‘better’ can be empirically measured. Let’s just say they won’t be that much different, no matter what you hope, and as a fairy once told me, always brush your children’s teeth yourself, at least until they are 18.

You can’t put a price on the dental hygiene of your child. Well you can and at this point I would estimate approximately $6k has come out of pocket and they aren’t even 10 years old. Unless you enjoy not being able to afford a boat because of fucking hubris, don’t believe pharmaceutical companies who sell vitamin-lollies (even under a questionable health reasoning), don’t let them drink sugar and make sure you brush their teeth yourself. Also for around $300 you can get your wife her own fairy outfit and some surgical face masks. Luckily for me, the spousal passive aggressive comments I get for free.

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