To be'dooced' is to have your weblog revealed to your offline world. Ms Dooce is in fact, a rather witty lass who simply tells about her life with an amusing spin. (*plug) Her name, however, has become general net-slanguage for being 'outted', after she had one of the first rather public 'Doocings' in recorded internet history. It wasn't pleasant. She set a trend in such a fine way that people identify her cool with something that is totally uncool.

To say that Squashedfrog has been Dooced is rather pointless, considering that the bulk of the traffic that ever swings by here comes from my offline life to begin with. It's never really been an issue... As a rule, I dont blog about really personal matters and I try and veer away from shit that happens at work. On the whole, my life isn't that amusing, and I rarely find fault with any of my family or friends. Besides, if I blogged about Beloved (HI SWEETIE! - I know he reads this...) I'd have to OK it with him before I let the world in on the secrets that happen behind closed doors.

So my blog rolls on, rather blandly, but unique enough for me to claim it as my own. However, due to the reality of the online/offline situation, I cant actually blog about really personal matters, especially considering that some of these matters may actually involve people who may actually read this blog. Which is a bit of an arse, y'know, considering that this is my online turf, and I -should- be able to say what I feel.

Alas. It is not the case.

Were I to say what I felt and if involved persons were to stumble upon this, then I may get strung up on the nearest light post and left to dangle til my feet stopped twiching. So, I have to hold my tongue about the finer details, but my life is soon to change. How fast those changes happen is a matter totally out of my control. I just hope they happen sooner, rather than later. My life, with 5/7ths of it spent pining for Beloved, is making me miserable.

Next time I have a bright idea to start a blog, i'm going to keep the URL a secret, m'kay.

What is one expected to do on a Hens Night?

Do we live it up, get blind rotten drunk, whistle at strippers and stumble home at dawn?

Or, alternativly, do we go to a comedy club, nibble strawberrys and champagne, and indulge in some divine gastronomical inventions?

I want to know. I'm going to a Hens Night tonight, and I really want to know what to expect!

An Aussie word for all occasions. Like few other words in existance, flogged can be used in a wide variety of situations. I'm not linguist by any stretch of the imagination, but I'll try and give you some idea of just how useful, and confusing, this word can be.

Flogged: I flogged the teapot.
In this instance, the confusion really shows itself. In one instance, this statement could mean that the person has legitimatly sold the teapot to a willing buyer. On the other hand, it could also mean that the person in question aquired the teapot via less than legal means. ie: The mug stole the teapot.

Flogged: I'm totally flogged!
Again, this instance, the word flogged can mean two completely different things. It can mean that the person in question is either drunk, or exhauted. To be totally flogged, in any case, usually requires some form of recouperation.

Flogged: They were totally flogged!
Yet again, the usage is ambiguous. In this situation, the group of people referred to were either drunk, or convincingly beaten. A football team can get flogged at their weekly match, and then get flogged at the pub afterwards.

What do you get if you cross 2,000 blokes with 60 tonnes of mud and a lot of high octane fuel?

A weekend at the Motocross Championships, of course.

I have to admit to being quite skeptical at first. I was hungover, I was tired, I didn't have the first clue about motocross. I still dont have a very clear idea, but now, at least, I know what they smell like.

We were right up close and personal to all the big stars. I wasn't aware of how big they were till somebody else told me, but there you go.

ZOOM
Hey! That was the world champion.
ZOOM
Wow! That was the PREVIOUS world champion.
ZOOM!
Hey! Cool! There goes another KTM 125cc 2-stroke orange thing! And a Yamaha 250cc 4-stroke blue thing!

Whoa!
And I mean, like... dude! And stuff!!!

I tried to be really excited and into it all, but when Hannah (3y/o) wanted to play "Eeenie Meenie Miney Mo" I just couldn't refuse the opportunity to engage in intelligent conversation. But I'm harsh. It really was a great day. Despite the hangover. Despite the crowds of motocross groupies. Despite the sunburn.

Despite the fact that the two Australian riders fell off and didn't finish the race.

I dont think I'm addicted yet, but I can understand the attraction.

I don’t often get pissed off and I don’t often get annoyed with the whole god damned world. Today, I’m both. On a scale that defies comparison.

Why does it seem that every fucker has an opinion on how to get a job, and every fucker wants me to contact their ‘friend’. These friends invariably have fuck-all knowledge in the wider view of the world.

I’m sick to death of my mother. I love her. She’s the only one I have… but GOD DAMN she’s so irritating.

I understand why she is at me to get a job. Its expensive to live here, especially seeing as we’re paying with Australian dollars. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is why she doesn’t leave me the fuck alone, and give me just a hint of space to figure myself out and get organised. Instead, I’m dragged along to every fucking branch of the family tree, and pushed into going to fucked up antique fairs / fabric shops / adventures that rank so low on my scale of priorities, that I’d rather be practising active dentistry to wild crocodiles.

No, I don’t want to go with you to get some keys cut.
Why the fuck do I have to come with you when you want to walk around the shops, aimlessly?
I’m tired of it all. The holiday is over. I want ‘real life’ to start.

It could be something in the water, it could be something in the stars, it could be fucking hormonal for all I care. I want space. I want to get MY life back, instead of being some sidekick to my godamn mother. I want to be on my own ground, just for a little bit, so I can prove to her that I don’t need constant and active guidance 24/7.

But, the problem is, how do I politely tell my family to fuck off, seeing as I’m probably not going to be seeing them much in the near future? How do I get them off my back, when they’ve installed comfy seats with a popcorn maker firmly on top of my independence?

I hate this situation.

If one more fucker gives me any more advice about what they did way back when, or who they know in IT, or anything else… I’m going to scream.

You see those newspapers? Yeah… those ones that people have been handing me all fucking day. They do not have any IT jobs in them. Why? Well, fuckstain, Internet companies find it convenient to publish on the INTERNET. What a fucking shock. So, next time you hand me the paper with a knowing smile, wipe the shit-eating grin off your face and do me a favor - butt out. This is my life.

Un-fucking-believable

Had a girls night last night with Bear and Mouth. We went to see "The Sweetest Thing", which was a fairly OK kinda flick. It had the stupid comedy aspect, along with anorexic bodies clothed in all the latest designer threads. Not quite reality, but a nice trip away from the daily grind.

We all then tripped down Margaret Street to partake in a caffinated beverage each. Well, I had coffee, Mouth had herbal tea (fucking yuppie) while Bear had lemonade and chips.

It was a nice conversation, laughing about the 'rumor according to the movie.

Apparently, the idea that men like oral sex is nothing but a nasty urban myth. They hate it. Tell your friends.

Conversation travelling lightly, two of us wallowing in the sex-less depression while the other gloated about her rampant sex life. I dont want to think about it. I refuse to believe anything she says. No person could fuck that many times without the need for some serious medical attention. I'm as jealous as hell.

Piffle.

Anyway, that's not the point of this entry.
The topic sprang from the idle comments made by one of my friends when the waiter swung past to pick up our order.

"Here comes that fag again."

I dont know if its my liberal upbringing on the coast, or my hippie heritage, but I dont find anything offensive about blokes who like blokes. In fact, I find the blatant homophobic attitudes rather offensive. Not to sound like some kind of new-age fuckwit, but I dont really think love has boundaries. I'm not speaking about physical bump and grind, just the emotion. Like friendship, I dont think there should be set regulations placed on who we love.

I dont want to know what happens behind closed doors, as that's none of my business. I dont think about what John Howard and his wife get up to on election night. I dont spend time wondering what anybody does in their spare time, so why should I care about what gay people do? I just cant seem to comprehend the ingrained opinion that seems to be in the small-town bloodlines.

My opinion is, if what they do makes them happy then who am I to condemn them? In fact, who the fuck cares? I'm not the Emotion-Police.

What my herbal-tea/lemonade drinking friends dont realise is that I'm not friends with them because of their sexuality. I'm friends with them because I enjoy spending time talking to them. They make me laugh, and I trust them. I dont discriminate between gender, politics, race or religion, so why the hell should I draw the line at sexuality??

However, my friends and I dont share the same opinion about this topic.

I dont have the energy or the time to argue with them, as I know they're steadfast in their opinions. Nothing I say will ever convince them to reconsider.

So I order a stronger coffee, and focus on the Commonwealth Games Updates flashing across the TV screen. Go Aussie. Kick arse.

I'm still alive.
I hate public transport, I really really do.

So, yesterday was Little Red's turn to get pampered. It was about time, as that hussy, Silver Surfer had been getting all the attention. It was Little Red's turn to put her foot down, do a Shanagh Stomp and demand to be fixed. She put her foot down in a royal way, and we needed a whole new suspension system. She was going to make this as tough as she could.
So... with 4 hours sleep, I was rudely awoken by my mobile phone ringing the preset alarm time. (I use my mobile phone because I can sleep with it right next to my head, and doesn't seem to break when I throw it...) Bleary eyed, and hungry, I left the house on my journey into Nambour. Its quite a pity that David and Sylvia have their garage in Nambour, as it is a cesspool of inbred, twitchy, festy, feral white trash that are called "Shazza", "Dazza" and the obligatory "Bazza".
Just because I went to school there, doesn't mean I have to like the place!

So, after dropping the car off, I headed into town. I walked past the strange person trying to dig their way under the train tracks, and I walked past the shady characters that were ~discretely~ dealing in the park. I walked right past the screaming mother of 3 (who looked about 19), and straight to the bus station....

Alas, the angels in heaven had not heard my prayers. The Maroochydore bus would be another 210 minutes. Over three hours away. So... I headed back down the hill, back into the Hole that is Nambour, and into the nearest cafe to get a very strong coffee and some breakfast. I sat around a small corner, in front of two middle aged women, who were discussing some jerk who one of them had been stupid enough to marry, and bare offspring with. By the descriptions of these two, this man had no brain, no decency, no morality, and no manners. So, I concluded, the man must either be a Labrador or a beagle.
(Border Collies just have too many brains. ;-) )

I tried to tune out, by reading passages about men having their heads shot in, and choppers being blown out of the skies (Black Hawk Down) however, when they began to discuss one son's bullying problems, and how he'd begun self mutliation, I just had to leave. There were simply too many sharp objects around, and I knew exactly what that poor kid was going through....

By the time the bus arrived, I was dancing a fine line. I needed to get home. I needed silence, I needed a soft chair, I needed a doonah, and I needed to check my email. Mostly, all I wanted to do was to escape Nambour. I knew too many people there, too many who'd dropped out of school and had started to breed.

Once I reached Maroochydore, I felt sanity beginning to seep back into reality. I was walking up my stairs. I was unlocking the door. I was kicking my shoes off, and I was falling through the air.

I landed with a soft 'foomp' and stayed motionless in the silence of the apartment for at least 30 minutes, before I decided to relocate from the floor to the blissful goodness of the bed. I tried not to think of the inevitable.

I have to go back there tomorrow!!!
Little Red... you're a little bitch.