All posts by Princess Sparkle

Worry warts, tightarses and control freaks

funny Meditating Dog4I have a confession to make. I’m going to write about my only regret. It’s deep, it’s embarrassing and it’s contradictory to everything I stand for. I have spent my life deprogramming myself to rid this nagging energy sucker, fun buster and life spoiler from my psyche.

Let me give you a little context first. I come from a long line of poor people and I grew up poor. Recreation and pleasure were not things that were encouraged or valued. We did them, sure. Occasionally and not with the joie de vivre that we could have. And should have. We should have switched off and let our hair down. Not felt guilty.

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Should Kids Get Pocket Money?

5I loved money as a kid. Loved saving it, smelling it, looking at it, fingering it, counting it, piling it up, piggy banks, charity tins shaken at traffic lights, plastic guide dog money boxes with slots in their head near the supermarket check out, the wooden and velvet collection plate at mass, the collection bags for school bank books, purses that snapped shut and wallets full of fragrant flat folded notes. Mmmm, I can smell it now….

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Kids Should Be Banned From Cafes. Don’t argue, I’m right.

What’s with the babychino?


Why do children have to pretend to drink coffee?

unattended-children-will-be-given-espresso-and-a-free-kittenIf it’s an attempt to convince yourself others view your kids as cultured, continental and worldly, here’s a flash for you. If these kids were actually in Europe (and not at some shopping centre food court where the bain marie food is marked ‘gourmet’) not only would the kids be drinking ACTUAL coffee, but it would include a generous tipple of Marsala. And they’d enjoy their caffeine transportation vehicle with a cigarette. No filter. Or a magic cookie if it was Amsterdam.

And they wouldn’t have names like Tay-Lah, Maverick or Shenaid. Just saying.

Here’s a question for you. What the fork are kids doing in cafes anyway? Anyone? Thugs, grubs, louts and yobbos every single one of them. Get ’em out. I didn’t send my kids to childcare so I could go to cafes and pretend I didn’t have children only for my fantasy to be fractured by the pollution of the output of your issue and your revolting stench of self congratulatory wankathon.

Why are the standards different for ejecting an adult than a child from a café or restaurant? I want zero tolerance policy. Seen not heard or smelt, felt or annoyed by otherwise, ‘the tribe has voted and it’s time to go….. Briannahannha.’

Actually not seen either. Because no, I do not want to play “Peekaboo” with your ugly dumb 18 month old ratfaced. I hate my own kids. Imagine what I think about your’s.

If an adult was trashing the place, screaming and throwing food around you’d chuck ’em out. Why not kids? 

‘Kids don’t like cafes. They way you can tell is by the screaming.’ Kitty Flanagan.

That smug look on the mum’s faces (yes it’s always and only the mum’s faces. Dads do take kids to cafes but for reasons unknown aren’t smug) when they ram through the door with their giant monster truck prams, makes me want to slap them. Mother and child. That smug look says ‘My child is so cultured, well behaved and au fait with eating out, and I’m such a stylish yet earthy mother we’re more or less French.’

No you’re not. You’ve spent your life wishing you were cool. You’re one of those ‘I’m not in a band but I’ve got friends in a band’ people who send your kids to a secondary school where students don’t wear uniforms in hope they will somehow be infected with cool. Won’t happen.

‘The heaviest burden a child carries is the unlived life of their parents’ Carl Yung.

These days parents can’t walk out the door with their kids to nip out and post a letter without hummus, crudités, filtered water, rice crackers, Burcher muesli, homemade muffins (AKA cake) organic yoghurt without permeates, fruit salad and some falafel wraps with pesto from the farmers fucking market.

As a child in the 70’s you know what my parents would bring for us five kids to eat and drink on a four-hour car journey? Guess?

Nothing.

And you know what we got when we arrived? Water from the tap. Or a cup of cordial, if it was your birthday.

What’s with the ‘kids menus’ too? It used to be just a menu with food. Not a kids’ menu with kids’ food. These same parents who travel with plastic containers, zip lock bags and non-porous bottle for healthy snacks and refreshments for their precious gifted children who have ‘very adult palates’ and ‘eat anything’ are always the first asking for the ‘kids menus’. (Or worse stilll BRING THEIR OWN FOOD TO THE CAFE FOR THEIR CHILDREN TO EAT) They give the waiter ‘the special look’ that conveys to the waiter to act as if their children are incredibly advanced, well behaved and dare I say ‘gifted’ and if the waiter themselves has never encountered such enchanting children no matter what mouth breathing, chinless morons they are.

Back in the 70’s eating out as a kid meant a picnic or a barbeque in the back yard.

In the 70s we ate tomato sauce sandwiches, we ate jelly crystal sandwiches, we ate hundreds and thousands sandwiches. That’s all we ate. Milo and Cornflakes were considered health food. ‘Tang and Fruit Loops for breakfast? Why not, it’s 1979!’

This kids in café thing is bullshit. Back in my day we knew our place.  At home with the mother’s group, a Boston bun and one Ikea catalogue between eight of us while we sat round whinging about husbands and talking about our vaginas. Go back home and leave the cafes to people like us pretending we’re cool and we don’t have kids.

I don’t give a stuff what you think. I don’t need anyone to agree with me to know I’m right. But I could do with a latte…..

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Is there someone in your life who wants to write, keeps saying they are going to write but still can’t pull their finger out?

Or perhaps is it you?
Fuck reading, make this the summer of writing. Beginners welcome.
The Gunnas Writing Masterclass BOOK HERE. 
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A Husband Is Not a Financial Plan, But Hustling Is. Well it has been for me

sparkle_archie

I’m a 45-year-old freelancer who’s never married, never had a full time job and never received a cent from my parents. I separated from the father of my three sons three years ago and now have a manageable mortgage on what was our five-bedroom home seven kilometres from Melbourne’s CBD. There is one name on the house title. Mine…….

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What exactly is a housewife Tony Abbott? Please explain.

What exactly is a housewife Tony? If a woman does a small amount of paid work outside the house is she still a housewife? Or is she a working woman?

What if it’s volunteer work? SarahTutt

What if she’s doing the books for her husband’s business but not being paid? Is she still a housewife? Or is that considered ‘housework?’

What if she doesn’t have any children but doesn’t work? Is she still a housewife? Do you need children to be a housewife?

If she has a husband and children but is on a disability pension so technically brings in money, is she still a housewife? Because she is not ‘working’ per se? Not proper work, in the outside world. Just housework. Which, lets face it is pretty much just playing.

What she and her husband aren’t married? Is she a house de facto? House partner?

What if she’s a lesbian and so is her full time working partner? Is she a ‘house lesbian?’

What if she’s a man? What if she’s a house husband? Is she still a housewife?

What if she’s gay? And a he? Is he a housegay? And his partner a working gay?

What if she’s a she, and she doesn’t work, she’s on her own and lives in a house. No husband, partner, girlfriend or boyfriend?

Is she a housewife?

Is there someone in your life who wants to write, keeps saying they are going to write but still can’t pull their finger out?

Or perhaps is it you?

Have I got the perfect Christmas present sorted! Mid to late Jan 2014 I will be running a series of one day writing masterclass ‘The Gunna’s Writing Masterclass’ at La Luna Bistro Carlton. No experience necessary! These classes suit beginners to advanced.

The masterclasses I run for The Monthly, Sydney Writer’s Festival, Byron Bay Writer’s Festival ect have been so successful, useful and exhilarating, I want to help people with their New Year’s Resolution and provide a magnificent, delicious and unforgettable (carbon neutral!) Christmas gift.

They will run 10am-4pm and places will be limited. A beautiful day sitting in the upstairs room at La Luna looking out the window through the Plane trees over the Carlton streets many of our finest and most loved writers have walked, cycled and pondered along.

goethe-quote-bubble-until-one-is-committedNot only will you get gorgeous morning tea, afternoon tea and lunch but and I guarantee recipients a creative enema that will blow the cobwebs out of their head. Buy a place in The Gunna’s Writing Masterclass and you will have a beautiful voucher and signed book to present on Christmas morning to the one you love and want to write..

Make 2014 the year of finally bloody writing and no longer talking about it. For you or someone you love! There is no better start to the year.

Dates are about to be finalised and if you want to be the first to? Join my mailing list here.

Any questions or preferred dates? Send me an email

 

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Reduce greed.

REDUCE greed. There’s your answer. Thank you and good night.

greedNothing new, nothing fancy, nothing even slightly original. Here’s a tip to increase your happiness. Just stop trying to fill that gaping hole inside yourself with more stuff. Or shelving for the stuff. Or a bigger house for the shelving. It doesn’t work. It just makes the hole bigger. Everything won’t be fine if you just get new light fittings, replace the curtains or buy a new mobile phone. No one needs 12 doona covers. Everything will be fine if you take a big breath and stop buying crap you don’t need with money you don’t have to impress people you don’t like.

Does anyone else want to slap half the people around you and say “You’d have more peace if you just spent less money”? People complain about how hard they work, how little money they have and how their relationship is at breaking point. And then what do they do? Exercise? Meditate? Work less? Nope. They buy themselves a cappuccino machine they’ll only use twice, an exercise bike that will be the most expensive clothes hanger they have ever owned, shoes they’ll never wear and then sign up for cable TV. And then put their hand up for more overtime.

This is not about ‘the cost of living’ this is about ‘the cost of a lifestyle.’

Next time you find yourself itching for some retail therapy, think about what would really turn off that desire button inside you, not just put it on snooze. Take a look at your wardrobe overflowing with clothes you don’t wear, your shed chockers with tools you don’t use or that entertainment unit groaning under the weight of the hundreds of dollars of DVDs and CDs that you’ve never played. Remember how excited you were and how you truly believed, deep down in the soul of your being, that each purchase would bring you happiness. How it would soothe those wounds of feeling unloved, unappreciated and unhappy. How you had to have it. The thrill of the purchase, the excitement of the homecoming and then the punch in the stomach when your credit card bill arrived.

Middle-class whingers complaining about how hard they are struggling need a good slap. They are offensive to true battlers out there who stock up on their brand of margarine when it’s on special and don’t buy new socks but mend the ones they have.

Someone handed me $300 cash the other day. It felt like a million dollars. It felt like far more money than 10 times as much sitting in my bank account. Because I could see it, feel it, smell it. These days money is invisible. People don’t actually know how much things cost them. If people had to slave away and earn the cash before they could acquire the things they wanted, given the choice and knowing how much sweat it’d taken, they’d go for the cash. The invisible money culture is not only ravaging the environment, it’s corroding lives and destroying happiness. Putting it on the credit card or taking money out of the mortgage? It’s all invisible money.

I call it the Veruca Salt syndrome. I want it and I want it NOW. People have to have the big house, the new car, the new kitchen, the new clothes NOW. Once upon a time people saved, they waited, they went without. Same happy. Some say more happy.

The symptoms of affluenza, luxury fever and conspicuous consumption can all be alleviated by the simple mantra “I have enough”. The worried-well need less, not more. The stressed-out full-timers who live on Mortgagee Mountain, between Default District and Foreclosure Falls, dig themselves in deeper as they attempt to find peace in the purchase of plasma TVs so each member of the family can watch Big Brother in their own room of the McMansion.

People are in debt up to their eyebrows and they tell me it’s good for the economy. But it’s destroying our spiritual economy. Is this the spiritual recession we had to have? Kids want to lie on the grass watching the clouds roll by with chilled-out parents. Not be dragged through shopping centres by harassed mums and dads trying to anaesthetise their existential pain by purchasing more stuff to plug in and more stuff to store.

On any perfect 25-degree windless Sunday you will find Chadstone, Northland, DFO and all those soul-destroying cathedrals of emptiness chockers with people attempting to sedate. Take two transactions and call me in the morning. They’d be better off spending a few hours sitting in a church. And that’s coming from an atheist. Greed and consumption addict people and they spend weekends trawling shopping centres chasing the next hit.

Happy is the man who is content with what he has. And the woman who needs only one pair of good shoes and a library card. Maybe I should follow the advice of the graffiti I read last week: SHUT UP AND SHOP.

Me on that abattoir of souls called Chadstone and how I saved a million dollars.

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Packing A Punch. A Poem By Louise Moriarty

They couldn’t see her
She was a super hero
Heart shinning it’s light
to bring her gifts to the world

Attention captured each moment
How does that fly
She wanted to know
Learn what it would take for her to grow
Into the lady at the shop
the beautiful girl who sang
The one with the surfboard

She was watching very carefully
and she saw lies leaking out
the corner of their eyes
and their mouths

It was confusing
because sometimes
their heart was right
and that would give her a fright

who to trust
who to turn to
sometimes
they were so angry

she wanted to hide

but her angels
were always there
travelled with her
showed her how to care

and as she grew she knew
they were mainly just scared
some damaged too

she peered around the facades and saw dreamers, weavers, creators
She saw designers, growers, healers and makers

She knocked carefully on the glass
to see if she could get past
But their eyes were
telling her not to
break the illusion they
had so carefully tended
if the illusion got shattered
How could it get mended

She fell to her knees and yelled out please

and then she got mad
and refused to be sad
if you can’t be glad
I’ll destory everything you could have had

I’ll swear and Ill sulk an I’ll throw the first stone
I’ll scream in your face
till you have to get out of your home

Because I am sick and tired of being crazy
and feeling that reality is altered and hazy

She picked up a stick which she crashed on their head
only two of them noticed most fell into bed

Overwhelmed by their complicit guilt and shame
They took it all seriously not just part of the game

So she tried another tactic
She opened them wide
Climbed into the space
Where they were certain to hide

Sitting down with a big cup of tea
She asked them if ever
they had wanted to be
things other than where
they come to be trapped
things which with her they
could make a pact

To spread out those wings
Escape and then fly
Safely holding her hand
as they hovered in the sky

Once they got the big picture
Surveyed the terrain
their life would never ever be the same
and she’d let go of them with a little swift kick

She’d leave them alone hoping they would fly
Truth be told she didn’t want
them to see her cry
Because they were now a competent
angel in her eye

Some poems
are made for telling
Some poems are made for care
Others are made just to let
others know your there
Some poems are made
for loving some poems
are made for fun
Others poems are made
to give you a swift
kick up the bum.

Find
“The Poet” Louise Moriarty
on facebook  to request your own personal poem
or busking in Byron during the writers festival

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Scarlett’s Love Letter To Her Ex Husband – Georgina Wellwood

This is a love letter from Scarlett to her ex husband of 7 years. The diagnosis just this week, of one of their three teenage children, Alex, as having dyslexia, has created an further opening of Scarlett’s heart to see the patterns of her own misjudgments towards John when they were married. What was not resolved in healing over the marriage, this masterclass with Catherine Deveny has opened a window for some more love!

Scarlett came to the Masterclass without any expectations, and in her own co-creative way, allowed the flow of writing. Scarlett is well aware that healing has many layers.

This is non-fiction with pseudonyms…and really sent to John (tonight).
This technique of writing helps the writer, Scarlett, to remain objective as she places some of her life events into a positive paradigm, like a jigsaw puzzle. Scarlett knows that to speak her truth in this way, leaves room for more positive events to evolve for her and her family and friends.
Imagine, if everyone did this….we would not have any politics. Everyone would be like snowflakes – living their own creative truths and being respected by others….

LETTER

To John,
Although we have been separated for 7 years,
You have been my master to teach me so many things in life. Thank you for being in my life!
Thank you for my/our children. I totally believe and I know in my heart that we are together in this life for so many reasons. We do not live in the same house, nor are we to be lovers, yet we will continue to “make love”. By that phrase, I mean to give love and understanding towards each other, and the continued shared care of our children for the remainder of our lives.

     I never quite understood you when I was married to you.

     Now that we know so much more about Alex, I understand you more. You think and do things differently from me. In our marriage, I judged you and that was wrong, because I did not accept you. My unconditional love for Alex has just led me to truly see the conditional love that I had for you.

You are successful in life. And you should be proud of yourself.

Alex, and his siblings, are also our teachers. Alex is an individual and he does not have a disability. To the contrary, he is smart, creative and I believe that we need to listen to him carefully because he is very wise. I did not listen to you. I believe everything happens for a reason. I also understand that the wiring of his brain (corpus collosom) is so that he does not be political nor manipulative. He is here to speak his truth. I hope to write a book soon to teenagers about “making love” , to follow their hearts and thoughts, their own authenticity.

I should have listened to you more, to slow you down so that you could have fully expressed your dreams and aspirations. Life is ironic. The care of Alex and his sister and brother, is an opportunity, I believe, to allow them to shine where we did not succeed, and as a couple. Let’s get it right. Lets be the two exes who are successful parents!

In our marriage, I was wrong to judge you and talk ‘over you’ so many times. I will continue now to listen to you. This is not to say that you will have all the answers in the decision making processes for and with our children, but I sense that you and I can be very successful in combining our talents, knowledge and resources to create ‘rocket ships’ (thank you Catherine for that analogy). I want to draw a rocket ship now! We as parents can fuel the support that the kids need for their successful take offs, during the tumultuous teenage trials. Teenagers are exposed to too much stimulation sometimes, consuming ideas that are not theirs. Let’s listen carefully.

You have just told Alex that it is fine for him to be a farmer. Could I ask you to listen to him because evolution suggests that we learn from the past? There is a part of you that would like him to be your second hand on your farm. I presume that he will farm differently and I encourage him to possibly teach you. Traditional farming is not working in Australia, and Alex has the intuition to see a positive future. How rewarding it will be for you to watch him develop what you and your Dad started.

A fear of mine is that some people may judge and treat Alex as a ‘boof head’, then subsequently treat him with disrespect. In Australia, we need to see the strengths in every child…..

END OF LETTER

Keep an eye out for a new website and upcoming blog
The author, Georgina Wellwood, can be contacted on quantum.leaps@bigpond.com.
Georgie owns a Health and Wellbeing shop in Armidale NSW.
B Asian Studies, Grad Dip. Education (High School: Japanese, Geography)
Grad. Dip Social Science (Psychology).
Honours (Psychology).

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Senior Retired Pensioner – Robbie Weasley

I am concerned about the somewhat derogatory interpretation of a couple of words which arose during a workshop at the Byron Bay Writers’ Festival. The first was “senior”. According to my Collins Australian Gem English Dictionary, the first meaning is “superior in rank or standing”. Well! In the land where tall poppies are snipped at the stem, we wouldn’t want to be accused of that! The second meaning is “older”. I would have thought this to be a mere descriptive statement of inevitable fact and nothing to be ashamed of, or concealed.

My beautiful old Encyclopedic World Dictionary goes one step further. The “higher rank or standing” is “esp. by virtue of longer service.” This brings me to the second word which I feel is sometimes regarded with disrespect. The Gem defines “pension” as “allowance for past services; annuity paid to retired … old people etc.” “Pensioner” is a noun derived from this. Personally, I am ecstatic to have survived the rigours of the working world long enough to retire from it, and grateful to a social system which regards my attainment of a certain number of years worthy of financial support. I consider there is a degree of hidden prejudice against older people in the dislike expressed against these purely factually descriptive words.

To my surprise, the alternative suggestion, “vintage”, does not appear in the Gem at all. There are fifteen possibilities in the Encyclopedic World Dictionary, twelve of which refer to wine and one to motor vehicles. The only complementary definition, “of high quality; exceptionally fine”, is offset by “old fashioned; out of date”.

Bearing all this in mind, my preference is to be regarded as a “senior retired pensioner”.

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Byron Bay Deveny Writers Masterclass Reflection-Elspeth

The traffic pushes politely into the roundabout at Byron Bay. We complain on cue, it’s July, and cold rain as fine as fairy piss is wetting the streets and making the tourist town look a bit blowsy and hung over. I watch as young girls pause in the mid stride to drag at this year’s short shorts which have wedged themselves (yet again), firmly into butt cracks, while au contraire, the guys try not to trip over the forks of their baggies. Some walk their surf boards towards the beach; others are shopping for gear and talking to their i phones, the coffee shops are already full of observers. But we’re in town on business, we old ladies in our stockings and comfortable undies. We don’t come here often, our hunting days are over and the scent of testosterone and the shops that specialise in rainbow anything have lost their allure. No – we’re after a different kind of talent. The kind that emanates from the kaleidoscope jelly mind of a writer. The kind that transforms dry paper pages into scripted dreaming and lights up millions of rapt eyes as they follow the print across their devices. We want to tell our stories, to play with words, to mess with people’s minds and make them want us to!We pad into the Community Centre, coffeed up and full of enthusiasm, stumbling up the stairs and pausing at the entrance a little abashed. Here at last our muse and mentor, the feisty Ms Deveney, flashing a generous welcome, casting a discerning eye as we fuss like guinea fowl over seating, making nests of coats and bags and little statements with our writing apparatus. The air is genial, we start to relax as we do the intros’ and pat our sticky names on. Clearly there are no serious nutters or agro’ to contend with at this workshop – except perhaps the facilitator… Most of us have seen Catherine in action, we know she has attitude and we know she catches flack for it. Nor are we disappointed as she laughs off the possibility of any form of God, the hairiness (and fuckability) of (some) eight year olds, the misogyny of journalists at the Melbourne Age (andpoliticians almost everywhere) and proclaims the inevitability (indeed desirability) of an affair or two to make monogamy bearable. We wonder how she takes the heat and fret at the thought of public censure. We complain about the exigencies of our lives – the lack of time and money, the distractions, the family, the dog, the housework, the surf, the gardening. We wring our hands at the challenges of IT and exposing the grimy details of our meagre lives to the slavering public. And yet we long to be writers?Catherine’s smile turns sharky… “So simple”, she cries “get rid of them! Kill the kids! Sell the house and garden! Break that board … No really… It’s not all that hard – just write first! The surf, the garden, the friends ……. are just a reward for the writing you did first”. First we must write – and write – and write. Write with baby on our arm, write in the toilet, write before lovemaking – during lovemaking! Write for 10,000 hours, write our way through hell, write as if our lives depended on it. We hear the truth in there; we know that we must do our time. Catherine sparkles now because she bore the silent audience, the crass slurring, the snide critiques, the refusals, and she has earned her stars. She kept on writing regardless.Somewhat abashed, we pick up our papers and devices, pack up our nests and say our goodbyes to our crimson clad mentor. She flashes that cheeky smile and I hit the street ‘Deveneyed’ and spoiling for a write. 

 

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