Dagginess with No Option of Escape

The whole idea of this site was to enforce some kind of discipline into my writing life so that every day I write something on a creative level – good or bad – to keep my creativity moving.

Then fear set in. I started wishing I wasn’t so dull and wished I could be as awesomely cool as some of those blogsters who I respect for the way they say cool things in the coolest of ways. And there you have it. A perfect example. The word ‘cool’ is probably daggy now. In fact ‘daggy’ is probably ‘daggy’ now. I’ll bet ‘cool’ isn’t anything more than ‘chilly’ in today’s definition.

It’s not that I’m that old really. Thirty-seven isn’t ancient but at some stage I hooked into Gold 104 and took it ‘easy like Sunday morning’ while my son has been listening to kids singing (and that’s debatable) words that make me want to run for the soap and water and make angry sounds which are suspiciously similar to my own mother’s angry sounds when I was my son’s age.

I look over at my son who is in the prime of his teenage ‘grunting stage’ (thank you Paul for that very apt assessment of what has become of the rosy cheeked, exuberant children we once had).

“How would you say ‘cool’?” I ask him.

Now my daughter, all of four years old, will happily adopt any new terminology that takes her fancy. ‘No options’ is her latest, taken on the advice of her cousin (Thanks Aaron).

I woke up on Sunday morning, not to her usual rooster like cry of “The sun is up! The sun is up!” (mind you, her rendition of the Australian National Anthem proved very entertaining one early morning, if not a little disturbing at the time). No, I woke up to “Ba taught me a new word, ‘no options’ – it means (with complete drama in her voice and her hand resting on the side of her mouth) ‘NO CHOICE’!”

Oh the pictures of my future in a nursing home of ‘her choice’ flooded my mind after those first five seconds of, “Huh, where am I?”

But I apologise. I digress. My son thought for a bit, smiles and declares like he’s Christopher Columbus, “I would say… ‘Wicked’. That’s the word I use. But that’s in MY world. But everyone says it different[ly].” Sorry I had to put in the ‘ly’ – it’s an anal thing.

So getting back to the original, original point I was making. I’m going to use this site for its intended use so be warned, my mind ticks in very distorted ways and unapologetic dagginess is just one of its many products.

It's all musical...

Husky Nutmeg and friends went to see ‘Bride and Prejudice’. During the first two minutes, there was panic. 'Maybe I should have researched Ms Austen’s celebrated novel before I came. What if I don’t get it? What if everyone laughs at all the cleverly inserted references and I’m here sitting like a big-lipped, frowny-faced fish?'

At school HN read the classics, because that was the extent of the book list at the time. Emily Brontë, Daphne du Maurier, Alex Hayley - all there, as was Shakespeare. Even Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’ got onto the book list but ‘Pride and Prejudice’? It didn’t get a look in.

HN quietly pulled herself together, capturing her inner child and surrendering to the present moment. Yeah. Right.

And what a movie it was. Lots of vibrant colour, dancing and loads of shake-your-head, daggy music bits. Almost a complete representation of everything Husky Nootmuskaatje ever was. And all without research.

So go Bollywood. Husky Nutmeg salutes you (while singing loudly from her roof top while waving to her neighbour who is also singing, from a tree across the road where he is cutting a branch with a chain saw. And the kids playing cricket on the street have dropped their game to come and join in. Then there’s the ambulance men carrying a man on a stretcher down the road, all singing…)

Time to Stop Moaning

Moany, wingey Husky Nutmeg had begun to feel the stress of everyday life’s mortar and pestle and so went to have a full-body-stress-busting massage and yes-it-was-a-Christmas-present-facial.

HN approached the counter where a little pixy greeted and led her to suitably ambient room, complete with terracotta tiles, fluffy towels, soothing music and three goldfish.

Surely Petite Pixy, thought HN, you are too delicate. You are perhaps not aware that the macramé draping over my shoulder blades is really a tangled fisherman’s net and with all due respect, you appear to be far too dainty for the task of unravelling it.

See, HN whines that she has been parenting for a hundred years now and working part time and playing part time and studying part time and volunteering part time makes not a full time but a no time. Oh well, thought HN, it's still a nice present so I'll just close my eyes...

Moments after HN settled on the massage table, Petite Pixy morphed into Super Pixy with the strength of a Scottish Highlander. In fact, Husky Nutmeg would not have been surprised if SPwtsoaSH had left her there, on the table, saying, “Wait there, Lassie. I’ll be back in a wee minute. I just have to go and toss the Caber.”

Husky Nutmeg left the ambient room, complete with terracotta tiles, fluffy towels, soothing music and three goldfish and went home feeling as loose as a weekend hooker. Positively pampered and jelly-ankled, she thanks the universe for pleasant surprises, Christmas presents and pixies of all varieties. Oh, and she promises to whine no more.

It's all about Manners

Have our manners flown out of the Window[s]?

What if we were to have:

'Would you like to save blahblahblah.doc before closing?'

and have a choice of:

1. Yes Please

2. No Thank You

Wouldn't that be something?

It's these consistently growing omissions of respect that saddens Husky Nutmeg. Seeing impolite statements become the norm and somehow no one, no longer expecting grace and civility brings tears to her huskiest core. HN just wonders whether that's why decency isn't as common as it once was.

It has become a pendulum. There is either a complete absence of politeness or there's bucket loads of cheesy stuff gushing at you with lines like, '...We apologise for stealing the last thirty minutes from your day. You are important to us. We at Customer Service would just love to share your enquiry with as many departments as we can manage and, don't worry - we'll be sure you don't miss a full ten minute interval of Bach during each transfer.'

When it's not there we miss it.
When it's there we don't trust it.

HN supposes that's the case with most things. But she still thinks it's all about manners.