Tag Archives: thelounge

Love Me a Cashed-Up Bogan

  Welcome to The Lounge once again.

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  Link your posts below.

This week I discovered the new ultimate in the Aussie cashed-up bogan stakes.

#AngryDad.

AngryDad is a series of videos uploaded to Youtube by two naughty boy sons, Dylan and Mitchell.  They know just how to poke at their middle-aged Dad enough to get an explosive, expletive-laden rise.

AngryDad, frustrated by his kids bothersome antics, always calls for wife Sharon to step in and help and usually resorts to the good old-fashion clip ’round the ears to manage the bullying by his boys.

This is my favourite clip – I was almost rolling around on the floor.  Makes me proud to be Strayan.

 

Don’t view this one at work!

Found anything hilarious on the internet lately?

Love,

Robo X


Hips Don’t Lie

Welcome to The Lounge for another week!

This week’s theme is ‘things I suck at’.

Oh where should I begin?!

 

 

 

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My diet.

 

I cannot get it right.

 

I’ve started more get-fit quests than I can remember and along the way, I’ve parted with a hefty fortune I’d rather forget.

 

There has been no expense spared on health magazines, diet pills, magic teas, meal replacement shakes and fill-me-up juices.  I’ve invested in gym memberships and personal trainers, microwave dinners, group fitness and pricey lifestyle programs.

 

I’ve also tried my fair share of diets.  Paleo, low GI, low cal, low carb, no carb, soup – both cabbage and vegetable, the blood group diet and the pinnacle of all crash diets, the grapefruit diet…

 

Things work for a while, then, nothing.

 

The other week my sister called me at 9pm.

 

She had the ‘tone’ in her voice.  Matter-of-fact, to the point and curt.

 

When the ‘tone’ comes out, sister means business.

 

 

 

Her monologue lasted for exactly two minutes, I timed her on the oven clock in my kitchen.

 

 

Robo, (she used my real name).  I’m just calling to say that I‘ve was thinking about you and I think that your weight problem can be fixed.  For once and for all. It isn’t that you don’t exercise because you do.  Your problem is portion control.  You don’t know when to stop and you don’t know what to eat.  And you drink alcohol and you like dessert, so it’s doubly bad.  My friend Effie has just lost 6 kilograms using Lite n Easy and she looks great.  (At this point she went on about Effie’s diet highs and lows for a while.)  And you have such a pretty face! It’s krima* for you to be so overweight. 

 

 

And so it was said.

 

The brutal honesty that only a sister can deliver.

 

I was not upset with her.

 

 

 

The fact of the matter is that I did lose weight after my last baby.  Most of the pregnancy weight came off.  And it stayed off, until I stopped being careful with food.  After that, he weight didn’t just creep back on, it piled on with retribution, quickly and I ballooned to an epic 83 kilograms.

 

 

83 kilograms.

The biggest I’ve ever been.

It’s humiliating to type the figure.

 

 

My saving grace is that I’m tall.  So to the average person, I don’t look ‘fat’.  I look like I could lose a few kilos.  But in reality, I need to lose a minimum of 13 kilograms, to place in the healthy BMI range.

 

 

I exercise regularly so I am not unfit.  I’m just too heavy.

 

And my sister is right.  I eat all the wrong things.

 

 

 

 

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My runners at the gym

 

 

So Lite n Easy it is.  I’m at the start of my second week and I feel pretty good.  I have energy and the food is much better than I anticipated.  There is also a huge amount of food and it arrives in neat little organised parcels that strangely satisfy the methodical, organised side of my personality.

 

 

Finally, I feel as though I am doing myself a huge, long overdue favour.

 

Somehow, this feels like it could be it.

 

 

 

Hopefully, this is it.

Fingers crossed, I’ll learn my lesson.

 

 

How’s your diet?  Any tips?  Who is your critical friend?

 

 

Love,

 

Robo X

 

 

 

*a shame

 

 


Abercrombie Street Park

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks for linking up with The Lounge!  This week, we’re talking ‘parks’. 

 

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In the 1980s, a trip to the Abercrombie Street park was a rare treat. It didn’t happen on a daily basis, but when we were allowed to go, we’d tear down that hill, as fast as our little JC sandals could carry us.

 

 

 

 

Back then, parks with decent play equipment, were few and far between.  If you had a good one nearby – you were definitely lucky.

 

 

 

 

The Abercrombie Street park consisted of a see-saw – steel and a plank of wood, a set of swings – steel and a couple of planks of wood with chain, and a big, metal slippery dip.

 

 

 

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Our monumental slippery dip had sky-scraper dimensions.  For the few short-lived seconds of being at the top, you were king or queen of the world – the tallest person for miles, with a tail of kids lined up, waiting on the ladder beneath you, at your mercy.

 

 

 

 

Upon negotiating the steep angle of the slide and working up the courage to finally let go, you were catapulted down the metal surface at death-defying speed.  The exhilaration of the slide was epic, but it was all too brief.  The unavoidable conundrum of a good landing was always an issue.  Alighting at a short distance from the slide was the goal, but landing in the dirty ditch at its base upon dismount, was often the reality.

 

 

And God help you in the summer!  Summer brought with it an added slippery dip problem – the elation of a good quick slip down the slide, versus a well-seared bottom and a few potential tears…

 

 

 

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The see-saw, like the slide, was no mean feat.  If you shared the see-saw with a similarly sized kid, you’d be in park heaven – but those times, when a bigger bully would turn up, smirk and sit on the other side…  Those times were filled with terror.  The minutes felt like hours as you would hold on, as long as you could, up high up in the air.  Before too long however, you would inevitably start to inch down, splinters from the weathered plank of wood would inject your thighs and hands and you’d smudge your face with dirt, when wiping away the hot tears.

 

 

As I got older I learnt the reckless skill of slowly walking up a see-saw, then racing down the other side as it slammed to the ground.  Such skill required great balance and a dexterity that could only be achieved upon becoming a veteran of the park.

 

 

 

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The swing set was always my last stop.  A push-off from an older sibling or neighbour and I was set, gliding through the air as high as I could go.  The freedom of swinging engaged my imagination, but by far, the best benefit was the chance to cool down and rest my hot face against the cold chain before the long, hot walk back up the hill.

 

 

 

The Abercrombie Street park was a proper park!

 

If you fell, it hurt.  If you didn’t get a turn, you didn’t get a turn.

 

 

 

 

No synthetic soft landings, no plastics, no colour, no canopies, no barriers, no fencing, no safety standards, no litigation.

 

Just grass, trees and a bit of wood and metal.

 

 

 

As far as we were concerned, it could’ve been Disneyland.

 

 

 

 

Parks have changed.  What was your park like when you were growing up?

 

 

 

 

 

Love,

 

Robo X

 

 


By the Powers of Grayskull!

If you’ve read this blog enough, you know my stance on commercialism and my kids. 

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But now that my son has outgrown ABC for Kids, he’s looking at other stations in the mornings.  And now that he’s become a little big guy, he pays close attention to everything.  Especially advertisements.

All that hard work parenting media savvy kids is disappearing fast.  It’s a whole new world now…

 

On Sunday, he asked me to show him my, ‘favourite cartoon from when you was little’.

I showed him this:

 

 

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Anyone who attended primary school circa 1980s should be familiar.

He-Man and the Masters of the Universe went hand in hand with my morning Coco Pops.

 

 

He-Man, Skeletor and of course, She-Ra – Princess of Power.

 

 

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In the afternoons, I’d lay on the lounge watching this:

 

 

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And in later years, this.

 

 

Press Gang

 

TV was limited back then, but it was brilliant.

 

 

This afternoon my Mr 5 burst through the door from Kindergarten, demanded something to eat and settled tummy-down on the rug to watch Spongebob.

 

 

Mr Robo and I smiled at each other.

Old habits die hard.

 

 

Linking up with The Lounge today over at Tegan’s

 

 

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Love,

Robo X


The Bacon Post About Teaching

I’ve been thinking about writing a blog post for The Lounge linky tomorrow, the one about bacon, but forgive me kids, I have nothing to say about life these days, or bacon, for that matter.

 

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I do, on the other hand, have something to say about teaching.

My work has consumed me. More than most terms.

 

I am spent.  Physically and mentally blotto from the last week of teaching.

 

Actually, the next person who says to me that teachers have it easy because of the school holidays, will be told to go and get farkadoodledooed.

 

say it to my face

 

 

What a term!  Nine weeks felt more like nine months.

 

This was term 2 which meant reports, parent-teacher nights, subject choices for year ten, work experience, endless days away on excursions and the general day to day classroom activity that never lets up.

 

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Ill-informed parents and citizens often scoff at the role of the teacher because of our ‘time off’.

“You have the best holidays!”

 

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But teaching is one of those jobs where everything needs to be done in your own time.  So it isn’t really a ‘short day’.

 

 

Seriously, until one walks in the shoes of a teacher, one should keep all opinions to oneself.

 

Edna

 

Our feet hurt.

 

 

Do you know a fab teacher?

Toot that horn yo!

 

 

Love,

Robo X

 

Don’t forget to check out all the awesomeness at our link-up this week over at Slapdash Mama.

 


My Favourite Ranter

Welcome to The Lounge for another week.

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I’m very happy to be hosting once again.

This week’s all about the angry pants.  Pop them on, settle in, get comfortable.

You can add your link below.

Today I won’t be engaging you with a tirade…

In the spirit of ranting, allow me to introduce to you the person who ranted best.

 

I tell you confidently, that he was the finest ranter of all time, managing to hit any nail on its head with a simple sentence.

 

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Comedian Bill Hicks

 

Bill used the blackest of black comedy to tell his truths.

Purposeful.  Satirical.  Critical.  

Delivered in his own unique style.

 

War.  Politics.  Children.  Advertising.  Travel.  Guns,  Smoking.  Marijuana.  Psychedelic mushrooms.  Religion.  Society.  Media.  Sexuality.  Consumerism.  Television.  Smoking.  The military.  America.

 

The list of topics he covered was extensive.

 

 

Bill Hicks passed away in the nineties at the age of 32.  Cancer.

Even today, especially today, the work of Bill Hicks is relevant.

 

 

Here he is, completely out of context…

 

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I wish Bill was still alive.

I’d love to know his views on all the new stuff in our world.  Twitter, Facebook, blogging, politics, the internet, new types of

terror, reality television…

 

When I find myself shaking my head at the dynamics of society, I often wonder, What would Bill think?

 

 

The best way to experience Bill’s rants and stand-up is on audio CD, he was a very musical and theatrical ranter.

There’s plenty on YouTube as well.

 

 

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Visionary?

Whose rants do you enjoy?

 

Robo X


The Day I Met a Talking Pig

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Hands up if you have you ever had a public hissy fit?  Not a garden variety, standard spit, but a real cracker, one where you went right off your Barry Crocker?

 

I‘ll go first….

 

 

A lifetime ago, Man and I used to shop in the city for his business suits.  Suit expeditions meant a chance to drop some serious, pre-kids cash.  Suits for him always meant something new for me too. So one Saturday, with good moods intact, we headed to a specific store he knew about – Italian suits at reasonable prices.

 

 

It wasn’t hard to notice that service was not the forte of the staff in the store.  The salesmen, (no women), were pushy, to the point of arrogant.  Their priority seemed to be getting your size and getting you out the door.  They were greasy yes, but we played along – the prices were too good not to.

 

 

As Man tried on his suits, I people-watched a Russian couple beside me.  The man was trying on a distinct looking, pale grey suit and with his impractical colour choice, I assumed it would be his suit for their wedding.

 

 

My Man motioned to me that he didn’t particularly like his suits and he passed them out, over the door.

 

 

Upon seeing me holding an armful of clothes, Greasy Salesman reappeared.  I thanked him and explained politely that we would look around.  He pulled the suits away from me, a little too quickly, then mumbled something, too quietly for me to decipher.

 

 

While I waited for Man to get changed, I followed Greasy Salesman with my gaze and watched him engage rudely with every interaction.  This shark was hungry for sales.

 

 

In the meantime, Russian Bride was dejectedly adjusting Russian Groom’s grey suit.  The fabric was quite noticeably, puckering on the shoulder.

 

 

Enter Greasy Salesman.

He too adjusted Russian Groom and assured Russian Bride that there was nothing wrong. She kept pointing to the area and explained in limited terms, that it was poorly sewn.

 

 

Enter Back-up Greasy Salesman.

Together, they performed a chorus of, No, no, no!  It’s good quality!

 

But Russian Bride, rightfully, was unrelenting.

 

 

Before I go on, I need to tell you that one of my many talents is knowing a veritable UN of curse words and insults.

Robo can say ‘hello’, ‘I love you’ and ‘get fucked’ in a number of foreign tongues.

Arabic being one of them.

 

 

Back-up Greasy conversed directly with Original Greasy in Arabic and what happened next remains one of the foulest acts of hate I personally witnessed.

 

 

Original Greasy pointed to his watch, then pointed towards Russian Bride, and loudly and clearly said the Arabic word for slut.

 

 

Disgusting.  Little.  Man.

 

 

So Robo stepped in.

 

 

I spoke directly to Original Greasy.

What did you say? 

What did you call her?

 

 

Original Greasy was dumb struck. He didn’t say a word.

 Did you call this woman a slut?

 

 

The store went silent.  I was using my clearest, loudest teacher voice.

 

 

I turned to Russian Bride.

He called you a slut, you know?

 

 

Then back to Original Greasy.

How dare you?!

You’re a PIG!

 

 

People from across the store held their items of clothing and stared at me.

I didn’t care.  I was so far beyond angry that my voice quivered and my body trembled.

 

 

Man finally emerged from the fitting room, (God knows what took him so long) and steered me out of the store with both hands on my shoulders.

 

 

Original Greasy followed us out.  I could tell he wanted to hurl abuse but he used his better judgement.

Maybe I could’ve handled things differently.

Perhaps I should’ve written a letter of complaint, but I think I made my point.

 

 

I hope that misogynistic piece of shit learnt that disrespecting women in ANY language is NOT ON.

 

 

Man’s expensive Italian suit days are over but I remember my dummy spit with pride.

 

Did Original Greasy get into any trouble?

Probably not.

 

Did Russian Bride or Groom understand what I was saying?

I hope they did.

 

Did people think I was a crazy lady?

They probably did but non mi importa! 

That’s Italiano for I couldn’t give a faaark!

 

 

My Man, by the way, said, Good on you… But you really went off at him…

 

 

Overreaction?

Have you seen a misogynistic pig in action? 

 

 

Robo X

Welcome back to The Lounge. 

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The Lizards are looking forward to reading your cringeworthy tantrums in our link-up this week.

Grab your drink, relax, and tell Aunty Robo all about it…

The bar link is open all weekend.

Our theme is Adult Tantrums, but if there’s something else you want to tell us, hit us up.

Link your Blog Post below.