Don’t be a wanker: an honest guide to living better.

 We’re approaching the day where after a month of rampant, random consumerism, and with the humility that only a major hangover brings, people make their New Year’s resolutions. Bad idea.
 All you end up with is nicotine withdrawal for a few days, a gym membership you have to pay $5000 to get out of, and a fridge full of rotting “super foods”. So what I propose for this year is a more modest approach to becoming a better person: rather than worrying about reaching for a whole lot of unattainable virtues, let’s all just try not being such arseholes.
 In fact, this approach is much more likely to make our community a nicer place: virtuous people are actually really annoying; we just need less arseholes. We live in a world where bad behaviour has largely been categorised. If you’re a self-centred dickhead you’ve got “narcissistic personality disorder”. And if you don’t have something wrong with your brain chemistry then maybe you’ve been abused, suffer from some horrible physical impediment, or you belong to a marginalised minority group who have been oppressed by society.
 And to a large extent, being able to understand that people’s behaviour is shaped by circumstances beyond their control has been valuable in us becoming more compassionate towards others less fortunate than ourselves. At the very least, blaming your parents for your miserable, unfulfilled life can make you feel like less of a loser.
 But what this picture of the world fails to capture is the fact that there is a small percentage of people who, regardless of their brain chemistry, their social history, or their cultural category, are just plain arseholes. As arseholes tend to have blind spots when it comes to themselves, I thought it would be helpful to draw up a list of behaviours that qualifies you as one. Feel free to post it on the office fridge.

1. People who park in disabled car spots.
2. People with 4WDs in the posh suburbs of Sydney and Melbourne who support the Greens.
3. People who sponsor a third world child and buy expensive bottled water.
4. People who play their iPods on public transport loud enough for others to hear.
5. People who talk about property prices as if it’s a reasonable topic of conversation.
6. People who complain that digital media is ruining the youth of today.
7. People who think they’re martyrs for having children.
8. People who move into the inner city from the suburbs and then complain about getting robbed.
9. Junkies who rob people who can’t afford it.
10. People who are rude to taxi drivers, waitresses, check-out chicks and all other poorly paid customer service staff.
11. People who describe filmmakers or actors as “brave”.
12. People who spend a year in a foreign country “finding” themselves and write a book about it.
13. People who don’t eat carbs.
14. People who think they’re superior for not owning a television.
15. Anyone younger, smarter, prettier, and more talented than me.

 This is of course an incomplete and partial list. I encourage you to add to it.
Don’t get caught up in the Oprah “be a better version of yourself” nonsense that’s bandied about by magazines at this time of the year. Just concentrate on not being too much of an arsehole. I’m going to. Together we can make the world a better place.

The next step.

 I love the modern world. The modern world is fantastic because everything just keeps getting better. I was thinking that the other day as I settled into my comfortable train seat on my long trip home from the city scrolling through all the downloaded movies I had on offer on my laptop. Cars have got better, too. I’m deeply grateful for that device that goes ping! ping! ping! at you whenever you try to get out of the car with the headlights still on. What are those things you call “jump leads”?

 TVs are way better. They’re flat. You can put them on the wall and they no longer need nasty stands. I remember TVs before remote controls came along. Remotes were a massive bonus to mankind. And what about phones! Phones and their kin are ridiculously brilliant now. We’ve got iPads and sat nav and Kindles and so many wondrous new gadgets that they keep improving to the point where I don’t just love the modern world, I’m in love with it.

 But while so many of the things we use every day just keep getting better, there is one major exception: shoes. Despite all the mind-blowing developments in technology and engineering, shoes are pretty much the same as they were 20 years ago. It’s still really hard to find a pair that are comfortable to walk in, keep your feet dry and look all right with a skirt.

 Of course, there have been some innovations. Crocs, ha ha ha. Then there are those ones that are supposed to give you a Kylie derriere just by walking to the corner shop to buy biscuits. Which is a lovely idea, but they’re plug ugly shoes, aren’t they? The trainer is the one area of the footwear market where technology is a key part of the marketing spruik, yet apart from actual sports use (jogging to the shop to get biscuits), most people I know have reverted to the Converse All Star as their default sandshoe. And they’ve been pretty much the same since 1917.

 The most useful innovation I can think of is Velcro fasteners on kids’ shoes. There was an attempt to market shoes with two heel heights – you screwed one off and put the other on – but they never got beyond the stage of the novelty invention. Folding and roll-up flats to keep in your bag for the moment you can’t endure your heels for another minute have their place, but they’re not proper shoes. More of an emergency service.

 What I’m looking for is a shoe revolution at the level of the exponential shift from your grandma’s hall-table telephone to an iPhone. I want a heel that lowers itself automatically on uneven surfaces and a waterproof sole as slender as leather, which thickens into a platform in rain. Insoles that give you pressure-point massages to relieve bunion pain while you’re walking. Shoe shops that take X-rays of your feet and create the style you want tailored exactly for your foot, on the spot. I want size ten and three-quarters. I want innovation so new I can’t even imagine it. Surely the collective human brain power that brought us such advances as the touch screen is up to this. Mr Jobs, Mr Blahnik, are you listening?

Ouch, my boobs hurt.

 Guys...you know when you’re watching Funniest Home Videos and you see some dude fall on his manhood in an accident involving a bike on a trampoline and possibly ending in a pool, and as it happens you can’t help but clutch your babymakers in sympathy…
 Well this clip makes me clutch my ta ta’s too. Dubbed Germany’s Boob breaker, at first I felt sorry for her, how hard would buying a bra be? What is she, like a Double Z cup? I cry when I can’t find an E cup in a design I like, this girl must be hysterical in the change rooms. Plus I just wanted to reach through the computer screen and rub her neck, the head and back aches she must suffer because of those monstrous mammaries....
But she is turning lemons into lemonade with her lady lumps...ahem…I mean LADY LUMPS!!!!..

Glamour isn’t glamorous in any way.

 The concept of glamour is a minefield of contradiction. We’ve all marvelled at the flawless beauties on the red carpet, but please allow me to debunk the theory that glamour is in any way glamorous.
 It’s not something we’re aware of as little girls. I’ll never forget the look of distress on my mum’s face when, aged 12, I came home from school and announced I wanted to shave my legs. It wasn’t the fact that my legs boasted less hair than Peter Garrett’s head that concerned her. No, she merely wanted to protect me from the slippery slope into the world of never-ending female maintenance. If only I’d known the life sentence I was committing myself to.

 Let’s consider the inconvenient, sometimes barbaric rituals women regularly endure. I’ll start with the most obvious, and challenge any woman to deny she hasn’t lain on a beautician’s table, pre-wax, wondering if our great-grandchildren will shake their heads in horror at what we put ourselves through, just as we do when we consider corseting and foot binding. (At this point, I could easily veer off into the modern mystery of why it’s OK for men to have hair and not for women but, instead, I’ll move on to tanning.)

 Bronzed skin is a must on any red carpet, but it doesn’t come without a price – and I don’t mean the $80 you hand over to the lady with the spray gun. I’m talking about tandoori-stained bed sheets, the 10 hours of sticky isolation while not being able to touch anything for fear of smudging or streaking, and the lingering chemical smell that not even the strongest perfume can mask.

 Then there are the hours spent at the salon having hair yanked, burnt, twisted and ruffled to look as if you’ve just rolled out of bed. Wouldn’t it be easier to put $50 under the pillow and thank it for its services?

 And it doesn’t stop there, because what sort of sadistic villain invented the instruments of torture we willingly strap to our feet before going out? You’d think the inevitable blisters, corns, and bunions would deter us. But no, we grimace and stuff our bags so full of bandaids; we put the St John Ambulance to shame.

 Naturally, even though I acknowledge the hypocrisy of what I’m saying, I fully intend to carry on being a sheep in the herd of conformity. On the inside, I’m still that little girl who dressed up in her mum’s heels, who never wants to admit that once she grew up, it was nothing like she dreamt. I’m simply not prepared to be the Joan of Arc of beauty and sacrifice myself by rejecting all these painful rituals. Must I remind anyone of Julia Roberts’ hairy armpit incident at the 1999 Notting Hill premiere? She’s still living that one down.

There are two reactions to staff parties: love or hate...

 This is a fantastic time of year. The weather’s warming up, Christmas presents are on the way and work is winding down. There’s just one thing we need to get through before starting the new year’s clean slate: party season. There are two standard reactions to staff parties: love or hate, and there’s rarely a middle ground. The haters usually have a history that involves spiked fruit punch and an inappropriate encounter with a colleague. The lovers, on the other hand, are often young newbies who still believe they can mix business with pleasure, and that there are no repercussions whatsoever.

 So before you go to these parties, here’s some advice that should see you through unscathed. After all, it’s important to remember that staff parties aren’t actually parties – they’re just one big OH&S lawsuit waiting to happen. Before I launch into the list of precautions, there’s one rule that renders the rest unnecessary: don’t drink. It might sound extreme but, believe me; all the other rules don’t matter if you stick to this one commandment. However, if you’re too weak-willed to turn down a drink (or four), I suggest you pay attention to the following:

1. Avoid conversations with the boss:

 In fact, make sure you’re on opposite ends of the room at all times. Everything you’ve bottled up, whinged about to your friends and festered over is likely to bubble to the surface and ruin any chance of a promotion. Also steer clear of their family.

2. Don’t dance:

 Even if there’s a disco ball and Katy Perry blaring from the speakers. You may think you look like Beyoncé busting a move, but you’re at risk of being mocked in the staff room until hell freezes over, or at least until next year’s Christmas party.

3. If what’s-his-name from sales wasn’t attractive to you last week, he still isn’t:

 Never mind what your slurred speech is relaying to your friend. On the flip side, don’t stand alone in the corner, exhibiting dislike for your colleagues. They’ll just think you’re conspiring against them, and you’ll find your computer being fitted with spyware on Monday.

4. If the party is fancy dress, play it safe:

 Wearing a latex nurse’s uniform is the equivalent of signing your resignation letter.

5. Never leave the venue with a colleague of the opposite sex:

 Even if Bob from IT lives in your street and is simply giving you a ride home, you may as well announce your engagement the next day.

 I’m not foolish enough to admit these warnings were generated from any personal experiences; I’m just saying I’m an ardent observer of human behaviour. But I have to confess that I haven’t been to a staff party since an unfortunate incident years ago, which involved a mix of too much cordial and karaoke. And let’s just leave it at that hehe.....

Hugh Jackman, NZ PM star in man with cancer's video gift for wife (Online news site). PLEASE READ!

 I found this article online today thanks to watching my local news, which was running a story about Oprah Winfrey's time here in Australia. Today she was filming two episodes of her very famous show down on the forecourt of the legendary Sydney Opera House here in Sydney. At one point she spoke to a young man by the name of Kristian Anderson.
 Oprah gave a cheque for $250,000 to Australian couple Kristian and Rachel Anderson. Kristian Anderson was diagnosed with liver and bowel cancer about a year ago and the couple have told Winfrey how the illness has devastated their lives and they now have an enormous struggle to pay their bills. This is Kristian's story:

HUGH Jackman has made a cameo in a video that a man undergoing chemotherapy made for his wife.

Sydneysider Kristian Anderson, 35, has been having chemotherapy since he was diagnosed with cancer in October 2009. He made the video for his wife of seven years, Rachel, as a birthday present and a thank you for her support.

"I'll never give up (so please don't give up on me)," Kristian says in his video, holding up the words written on large white cards as he stands in a room full of lightbulbs. "Without you... Life just doesn't work. I need you like I need a cure for cancer."

The full video features cameos by New Zealand Prime Minister John Key – since Rachel is a Kiwi – and Hugh Jackman, who appeared in the video after Kristian asked Triple M's The Grill Team presenter Gus Worland for help.

"He loves you Rachel ... he loves you," Jackman says in the video, which also features the couple's two young sons Cody, 3, and Jakob, 1.

"(The boys) know Daddy sleeps a lot and Daddy goes to the doctor a lot and Daddy has a lot of pills to take, but they're too little to understand," Rachel told Triple M.

"Our three-year-old, in order to relate to Daddy - he’s sick all the time – (says) ‘I’ve got a sore head like my daddy, my tummy hurts like my daddy’."

Kristian posted the video on his blog, which he set up to keep friends and family posted on his health so his wife would not have to get upset by explaining his symptoms repeatedly.

He was diagnosed with cancer after an overseas trip, although he initially avoided going to the doctor as he thought it was haemorrhoids.

"He even Googled his symptoms," Rachel told Triple M.

"He said 'I think I've got bowel cancer' and I said 'just go to the doctor then!'"

"For months I said go and get it checked out."

Kristian said the doctors first thought he may have had Deep Vein Thrombosis from the flight, but a sign of lesions on his liver led to a full scan. They found cancer all over his liver that had spread from a primary tumour in his bowel.

"Apparently this is a common travel path for bowel cancer," he said.

"If I had got tests done when I first suspected something, I might have only had bowel cancer and they could have just gone straight in and cut it out."

Kristian urged listeners to get medical help no matter how small the problem may be.

"It doesn't matter if it's nothing but the best thing you can do is find out it's nothing."

Triple M's The Grill Team presenters said the video brought them to tears and encouraged their "big boofhead" listeners to go to the doctor.

They also urged listeners to give generously to the Cancer Council, which Kristian - who is self-employed - said helps with his finances as well as cancer research.

Read more: http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/celebrity/hugh-jackman-nz-pm-star-in-man-with-cancers-video-gift-for-wife/story-e6frfmqi-1225913299891#ixzz184rhOX7W

KRISTIAN ANDERSON'S BLOG PAGE (AND DAYS THAT MATTER - PLEASE READ IT!)
WATCH THE VIDEO BELOW AND GET THE WORD OUT THERE ABOUT CANCER. IF IT DOESN'T MAKE YOU SHED A TEAR, AT THE VERY LEAST IT WILL GIVE YOU GOOSEBUMPS:
http://howthelightgetsin.net/about/   

http://howthelightgetsin.net/2010/08/22/days-that-matter/

Attitude at altitude: What hosties really think (Online travel site).

Url: http://travel.ninemsn.com.au/holidaytype/weird/8180312/attitude-at-altitude-what-hosties-really-think

Flight attendants have grounds to be bitter. For a start, look at all the mean names that people call them, bagging female cabin crew especially. The roll call of insults includes: "sky waiter/waitress", "flying mattress" and "trolley dolly". Then there is "air stupidess", "cart tart", "coffee b%tch" — even (shudder) "hostitute".

Besides the nasty nicknames, cabin crew must handle air rage and all kinds of irritating ploys under cramped conditions. Worse, cabin crew members may be starved and sleep-deprived. So you can't blame them if they feel resentful. Learn what they're really thinking behind the strained smiles and copious layers of lippy.

Galley gossip: what cabin crew really think — 15 pet peeves

• 1. I said "hello". Is it really such an effort to say "hi" back when you board the plane? Are you so preoccupied with finding your seat? Don't worry. You'll find it. That's it, well done — you go right. Left is the cockpit. And you don't look like you belong in business class.
• 2. That looks heavy. You know — after packing your suitcase at home, you should go into your kitchen and lift it on top of your fridge because that's roughly the height of the overhead bins. If you can't get it up there, do me a favour: check it in on arrival at the airport. Why should I do a squat press on your behalf? Ask Mr Shrek in the baseball cap.
• 3. Please turn off your mobile. Yes, I know that you left your cell phone on during a flight once before and the plane still found its way to airport. But I would rather not risk it — just in case.
• 4. Oh, you want French fries? Sure, let me see to that. I'll just power-up the fryer at 35,000 feet and be right back. Honestly, some people.
• 5. Please do not hit on me. I've been asked how come I'm so beautiful yet unmarried before. I'm working. I don't want to talk about my private life with a stranger. Especially a married stranger on the prowl for a bit-on-the-side.
• 6. Yes, it's a 200-kilogramme drinks cart. Sorry, we have no in-flight-helicopter that would enable you to fly over the top. Hold your bladder for a few more seconds and I'll be out of the aisle.
• 7. Thanks for barging me aside as you went to the rest room. I really appreciated the nudge that sent my drinks tray flying. Now I'm dripping wet with beer and soda. Of course I didn't expect you to say sorry, but it might have been nice.
• 8. No, I am not glad that the plane is delayed. No, I am not paid overtime. I only get paid — peanuts, by the way — from when the plane backs away from the gate until it unlocks its doors at the destination. So, waiting sucks for me, too. My layover time just shrank by three hours and I already have serious jetlag.
• 9. Stop pushing the call button just so you can hand us your trash when we have waltzed by with a garbage bag ten times already. Don't push the button just to ask when we land or because you think it releases your chair back or changes the movie channel.
• 10. What's that? You don't have a pen to fill in the arrival/departure form? Well, well. Neither did the last ten passengers I spoke to. Sorry, oddly, I don't have a pen for every single one of the 300 people aboard. If this isn't your first flight you should know to pack one with your bloody passport for heaven's sake.
• 11. So you missed your connection. Sorry, I feel bad. I do. But, weirdly, I can't make the plane you booked come back and act as your personal taxi.
• 12. So you've just given birth. And now here you are with two nappy bags per child plus some strollers, car-seats and a daggy nanny not much older than the kids. I'm really looking forward to later when you and your entourage inevitably take 30 minutes longer than everyone else to 'de-plane'.
• 13. When you finish in the bathroom, please remember to flush. Because the lav is located along the back wall of our jumpseat, trust me — we flight attendants know if you flushed.
• 14. Could you please not ask if we have things like magazines that've been unavailable on my airline for years? I know the lack of little luxuries sucks, but I don't need to hear you hark back to the golden age of air travel. I already know I work in a comparative pig sty. And I know how incredible our rivals are. Don't rub it in.
• 15. Stop pushing the &%$@ call button!

Thanks go to the flight attendants who contributed peeves to this story: Bobby Laurie — author of the flight blog upupandagay.com; Gailen David, author of The Sky Steward; and Gregg Proteaux, who is responsible for the air travel book Attitudes at every Altitude.

Case of the matching knickers.

 Elle MacPherson sure knows how to make the sisterhood feel better about themselves. The supermodel and panty peddler recently boasted she can still fit into her frocks from the 80s. Worse, she’s declared that women shouldn’t go out wearing mismatched bras and knickers. “You wouldn’t walk around with one blue sock and one red sock, would you?” she says. “If I’m wearing a bra that doesn’t match the knickers, I feel like I’m walking with a limp. It just doesn’t feel right.”

 While Elle may have time to linger over her lingerie, in my house, it’s challenging enough just to find pants on the laundry rack, which has become a permanent sculpture in the spare bedroom. What I don’t get about matching sets is this: I thought they were for hookers, newlyweds and the annual wedding anniversary.

 Not according to Elle. She even recommends washing the bra and knickers together so the set’s never split. Don’t get me wrong, I love Elle. No one rocks a pair of aviator sunnies like her and I’ve collected armloads of bangles in a hapless attempt to pull off her boho beach babe-look (apparently you also need the hair, legs and tan). But the matching thing is either a shameless attempt to sell more of her smalls or an example of her control freak tendencies.

 There’s no denying matching lingerie looks good, and maybe even feels good, but it’s rarely achievable. The average woman owns 14 pairs of knickers and seven bras, only two of which she wears on a day-to-day basis, which sends Elle’s laundering advice into a spin. Then there’s the dark pants/light top conundrum, which in my book, requires a different coloured bra and knickers.

 I asked a few guys about this and found a common response: they may date girls with matching lingerie, but they don’t marry them. “Too high maintenance,” said one. “Next thing you know, she’ll be shouting at you to get your feet off the coffee table.” And therein lays the point: perfection is lovely to look at, but hell to achieve.

 It also tends to make us feel uncomfortable because, at heart, we warm to imperfections and vulnerabilities in others. I often find myself in other people’s houses, where I can almost smell the stress of perfection. They look like a homewares showroom when, in reality, it’s books on shelves and children’s artworks on the fridge that tell the story.

 But matching lingerie? A friend of mine tried it once. She dug out an aqua bra that’s never quite fitted and its corresponding knickers. She told me she felt wonderfully organised and superior. But by the afternoon, the underlying order only highlighted the chaos in the rest of her life. That evening as she stripped off, her husband raised an eyebrow at her ensemble: “Either all your normal underwear’s in the laundry or you’re having an affair.”

A woman's epiphany of reality (online blog entry).

Domestic goddesses, yummy mummies, WAGS and celebrity mothers - what about life in the real world?  Ladies, what if we gave up the idea of living our "best" life and settled for one that was just, you know, "good enough"? Last week in the US, where women seem to spend an inordinate amount of time in self-analysis, the doyenne of the women's movement, Gloria Steinem, again debunked the myth that women could "have it all". Yeah, we knew that.
 She said men should help more with child-rearing and domestic duties and that we should also stop our nutty obsession with achieving a youthful appearance, being perfectly groomed and having a lovely home. Yeah, we knew all that, too.
 But just where do we start with the stopping? So much of the hurly burly of modern women's lives is unavoidable but, then again, so much of our discontent is self-inflicted. I was recently reminded of just how punishing our regimen of perfection is when I attended the 50th birthday party of a friend. She isn't a career woman living in a posh postcode with an executive husband and a retinue of paid help, but just a stay-at-home mum with a husband who's a tradesman.
 In another time we'd have dressed in our next-to-best and brought a plate to help with the catering. It would have been understood that the house furnishings were modest, but that our hosts were perhaps saving up for something more presentable. "Perfect" was only seen in ads for Westinghouse or Whirlpool where housewives in pearls and gingham aprons were queens of domesticity.
 How, half a century later, women have embraced this ideal of perfection along with their new incarnations as career women and bread winners is a mystery. "Have it all" now means "be it all" and "do it all".
At the birthday party, all the female guests presented themselves in new frocks and shoes, freshly painted finger and toenails, blow-dried hair and shiny accessories. They were as glamorous as any cartoon moms of the 1950s. Time seemed to have excused the men who, in basic T-shirts and cargo pants, all stood back as the women greeted each other with exclamations of approval. "Divine shoes!" "Gorgeous dress!" "Love your hair!" "Have you lost weight?" One of the husbands, standing next to me, marvelled: "They look amazing, don't they? You'd never think they were all 50 with kids."
 I immediately wondered what would be wrong with that. He certainly looked his age, paunchy middle, balding head, gnarly toenails and all. The food was wonderful: home-made canapés produced from a kitchen bristling with the latest appliances that would do MasterChef proud. Gourmet pizzas from the new wood-fired pizza oven. The decor wasn't outrageously priced designer stuff but, I noticed from last time I'd been there, new. New cushions, throw rugs, funky lampshades and the couch had been re-covered. In the loo were flowers, scented candles, hostess soaps and waffle-weave hand towels.
 We women chatted. The topic? How busy we all were. Again, I wondered, what was all this feverish female endeavour for? Who were we trying to impress? The answer is: other women. Domestic goddesses, yummy mummies, WAGS and celebrity mothers haunt us with their perfect lifestyles and size-zero outfits.
 Seems we're all living under the curse of impossible perfection. Ladies, could we, as one, make a pact to let ourselves, our homes, our lives, go...just a little? Promise I'll go first. I've come up with a few things we could stop doing, right now.

1) Stop cooking as if it's a competition.
 In the 1950s, a lot of time and effort was put into inventing "convenience" foods. The supermarket shelves are now stuffed with packet gravies, tinned and frozen stuff, cake mixes and, quelle horreur, instant Pavlova! I won't notice you've used them after a cocktail or two. In fact, give me a can of UDL and ring Domino's. I'll still respect you in the morning.
2) Stop redecorating.
 Don't read those magazines that tell you shabby chic is "out" and understated monochromatic elegance is "in". That ripped cushion with the buttons hanging by a thread tells me you have more important things to attend to. I won't judge you for having a stained couch, I swear. When the kids leave home you can paint over the scuff marks; until then, leave them. I think they give your house personality and make me feel better about my own imperfect life. Let's all agree to redecorate only once every 15 years.
3) Stop buying fashion magazines.
 Since when did the compliment "I've always loved you in that dress" become an insult? New clothes, shoes and accessories take up space, not only in your home, but in your head. Too much choice takes up time and energy. Toss those dumb - and fake - how-to-look-good-at-any-age articles in the bin. They only make you feel bad.
4) Stop spending good money on beauty bandits.
 You'd think the man of the house was pathetic if he called the NRMA to fix a flat tyre, yet you'll spend big bucks on a pedicure. What's that about? With the time and money it takes to drive, park, sit and pay, it doesn't add up. Paint your own damn toenails. Blow-dry your own hair. Bin the wrinkle creams. They don't work and you know it.
5) Stop complimenting other women on their appearance.
 Don't tell me I look young for my age. I don't. And what would be the point if I did? Instead, greet friends with how good it is to be in their company, no matter what the hell they look like. You can't complain that men judge women by their appearance when we do exactly the same.
6) Stop trying to "self-improve".
 Oprah bangs on about "living your best life", but what if you never have that "aha!" moment? That divine inspiration or epiphany? Could be because you're already living the life that's meant for you? You're already good enough. So are your kids. So are your friends and family. We all love you.

A life that's good enough. That's what I'm proud of. The rest is a 60-year-old cartoon.

What is life?

Life is a challenge...meet it.
Life is a gift...accept it.
Life is an adventure...dare it.
Life is a sorrow...overcome it.
Life is a tragedy...face it.
Life is a duty...perform it.
Life is a game...play it.
Life is a mystery...unfold it.
Life is a song...sing it.
Life is an opportunity...grab it.
Life is a journey...complete it.
Life is a promise...fulfill it.
Life is a beauty...praise it.
Life is a struggle...fight it.
Life is a goal...achieve it.
Life is a puzzle...solve it.
Life is love...surrender to it.

In search of a better bug.

 I’ve turned over a new leaf – in fact several new leaves. I wish I hadn’t. Lace bugs, aphids, all sorts of larvae are laughing at me. Unlikely, I know, but it feels as though they are. It could just be the sound of their jaws slapping together as our plants are eaten alive.

 We’ve been doing a bit of remodelling of the garden now that it’s Spring, so both my father and I have become more protective of our plants of late (for him it’s his precious radicchio and for me it’s the roses beneath my bedroom window). I used to adopt a survival-of-the-fittest policy – if it can’t survive our seasons without constant watering and spraying, then it doesn’t belong in our garden. All that’s changed though. When you’ve lovingly planted a vibrant young rose, taken it out of its pot for the last time, ruffled its roots and nestled it in compost and chook poo, you’re bound to care more.

 But when it comes to insects, I’ve always believed that if you don’t fiddle with the food chain they’ll eat each other and leave your plants – and you – alone. Unfortunately nature seems out of whack in our backyard. Maybe it’s the ants I gleefully destroyed last year. All I know is we’ve got lemons which look like barnacle-encrusted rocks.

 I know we’ll have to resort to sprays, but the thing about science is that it goes for the quick fix. You may remember the kids at school who liked to show off in chemistry class by making things explode and setting off the fire alarm. You don’t think they went on to work in a bank do you? No, they’re the ones coming up with the chemicals to kill specific bugs. They didn’t care about the consequences then, and they don’t now. If a beneficial bug is killed in the process, it means as little to them as setting alight Smelly Kelly's tie with a Bunsen Burner.

 And then there are the botanists; they’re just as bad. They spend their lives fiddling with the glamour part of the profession, cross-breeding and grafting to make new species of plants so they can name them after themselves. Meanwhile, the insects look forward to sampling the new addition to their menu: ‘I understand it’s a slightly crisper leaf, just a hint of bitterness, very good with balsamic vinegar and shredded parmesan’.

 We don’t want to use chemicals willy-nilly, but if a girl has to buy lemons for her gin and tonic when they grow in her backyard, something’s got to give. The beneficial insects aren’t there, there aren’t enough of them or they have so much food to choose from that they only eat the bad ones for half an hour and then take the rest of the day off for a snooze in the sun.

 The other thing about beneficial insects is how to tell the good guys from the bad guys – it’s not as though they wear white hats. Even if they did, you’d need a microscope to see them. If we can clone a sheep – and let’s face it we’re really short of sheep aren’t we? – then surely we can fiddle with some DNA and come up with just one super-beneficial insect. It would have the speed of thought and grace of the preying mantis, the persistence of the parasitic wasp and the insecticidal tendencies of the assassin bug. I think it should be a wasp, with a loud buzz so we have time to get out of the way. And if we could make it furry, like a bee, it could give the leaves a shine while it’s eating the bad guys.

 And while the scientists are making that one, maybe they could turn their attention to a faster compost worm. I’m tired of waiting weeks for compost. We need a better, faster, hungrier worm, one with teeth – so it can eat and digest plastic and broken light globes. Maybe it could have spikes like an echidna, to cut through the garbage faster. I want to be able to hear munching sounds coming from my compost bin when I’m twenty metres away. Some c’mon guys, let’s have a sharper compost worm for the New Year – the Composter 2011! Then you could have a bucket of compost worms in the office instead of a shredder.

I did the unthinkable (for me!): I forgot a birthday.

I’m in trouble. I haven’t stolen anything, injured anyone or evaded taxes. But I’m feeling the weight of these crimes for doing the unthinkable: I missed my friend’s daughter’s birthday. I have no excuse for my oversight, and as much as I want to blame it on my work schedule and the other things that keep me busy (eating, sleeping, breathing), these reasons somehow seem stale. So, even though I suspect that among all the mini frankfurts and fairy bread, a two-year-old probably didn’t notice the absence of another boring ‘big person’ standing around, ruining the vibe of her red cordial-induced stupor, I’m graciously accepting my penance.

 It really makes me miss the days when I only had to remember my parents’ and grandparents’ birthdays. Now there are friends, boyfriends and even work colleagues on the list. (Luckily at work, all I have to do is hope that when I find myself singing ‘Happy Birthday’, I manage to figure out whose it is by the time we have to sing their name – or resort to Plan B, and take a sip from my glass at that precise moment.)

 Thanks to mobile phones, it’s unacceptable to forget anything these days, least of all birthdays. Unfortunately, what my loved ones tend to overlook is that it’s an achievement for me to even shower, dress and be out the door in the morning. Sometimes I expect a ticker-tape parade and a deafening applause as I walk to the car: “Yes, she did it!”

 From then on, my day is more of the same mayhem, and it’s not usually until I check my voicemail at night that I come across a mention of someone’s birthday. Which is how I’ve learnt that texting them at 11pm, between brushing my teeth and turning on the alarm, doesn’t necessarily give them the ‘high priority’ feeling they’d hoped for. My other method has been just as well received, I recently nearly succeeded in bribing my friend’s five-year-old son to lie to his dad and say I rang the day before to wish him a happy birthday. But my friend caught wind of it and intervened, in an effort to stop me corrupting the next generation.

 So, since my friends and family no longer buy any of my tricks, I concede defeat. And seeing as birthdays aren’t going away any time soon, I’m vowing to turn over a new leaf and drag my memory through a vigorous workout of dips and sit-ups in the hope that I can retain all the necessary dates. I’ll even push myself to remember the birthdays of all my friends’ kids. But only if there are a few party pies thrown in.