Whaddaya Reckon?

I've been ten years out of Australia now and realise that the word 'reckon' is the one that confuses most other non-antipodean English speakers.

It just means 'think' or 'consider' in a more casual sense but instead of saying, "I think we should have chicken for dinner tonight," we Aussies say "I reckon a roast chook would be pretty good."

Our daughter Carly, arrived in Switzerland at twelve years old and went to an international school with friends owning a lot of different accents and backgrounds.  Now nearly twenty two years old, Carly is partly Swiss, a bit Aussie and in her third year of living and studying in Scotland.  When we facetime each other, she often points out that my Aussie accent and colloquialisms are much stronger than Dean's, despite the fact we both went to country high schools in the same state..

But today, I want to ask youse all something.  Whaddaya reckon about me starting a wee YouTube account featuring me in my Dog Walking Lady-clothed finery, sharing a few not particularly earth shattering (but certainly) true escapades, opinions or bravely revealed personal embarrassments?

Whaddaya reckon?  I'd really like your feedback.  You see, I love writing.  I write serious stuff for a 'living' but 'living' in reality is that Dean has the job that keeps us housed, fed, clothed, educated (Carly) and healthy and I get a bit of freelance stuff that I'm inordinately grateful for and then hate myself for having to politely submit my invoice, wait over a month to get paid and then overthank them for it.  To say that I contribute financially through writing is akin to letting a hedgehog hold the balloons.  Maybe I should just enjoy the opportunity to do it rather than consume my soul in anxiety about not being a contributor financially. (That's a topic often discussed with my psychiatrist).  I reckon that last sentence has lowered the mood a bit!

On a more positive level, writing and talking seem to be a similar thing in my world.  My family are bored to tears hearing my stories over and over, and the mundane or weird ones that I write about on Medium or here aren't ones that they're going to rush to read.  I'm Kath/Mum after all: they see enough of me when I shower with the door open to let the steam out or when I start ranting about 4WD owners who don't have roof racks or two bars and just use them to pick up their kids.

Very quietly, I've had a YouTube account for a few years and only used it to share some old Milly clips and two of Felix. It is, to put it charitably, very neglected and rarely watched.  Not unlike my attitude towards my personal grooming regime.

To start us off, I'll share this one of Felix with you now.  It was posted a few months back but will only take a little over a minute of your time to watch and hopefully end up with a smile.  This Spanish shelter dog that we adopted at three-and-a-half years old literally jumps for joy when it is his dinner time.

That was filmed in October and he STILL performs the same enthusiastic and energetically joyful dance for his evening meal.  Breakfast is different because Dean takes him out for a walk and I fill up Felix's bowl ready for his return. His reaction is to slide around the corner at sonic speed while skidding on the black and white mats, madly skitter around the kitchen bench to inhale his crunchies before I can say 'Hello there, Mr Speckles, how was your walk...."

You can see that I'm avoiding talking about my own old bonce being on YouTube.  I'm not famous, nor a stand up, an endearing animal or a public performer and never have been.  The world needs youth, intelligence, glamour, useful tips and not a 52 year old who still laughs when she sees French shower caps labelled 'douche bonnets.' 

It's Dean's fault, really.  He's known for saying "I love you" at the precise moment when I'm doubled over emptying the kitchen flip top bin under the sink so that only my grey marle tracksuited arse is in his vision, so he's not one for inane compliments or promising me a rose garden.

It was a genuine surprise when admitted to me that he had been reading my old blog back in the day but is also now reading the ones on Medium and right here.  I even teared up a little. He said that he reckons I could try and say 'em out loud, like a short stand up on YouTube.  

Firstly, I ain't short and secondly, the idea of stand up scares the undigested corn kernels out of me.  Vanity isn't something that would be ascribed to me, I don't think, but there's a tiny little 'give it a go, what have you got to lose' voice that sometimes emerges from behind the cacophony of self-doubt.  What if I simplified things a bit and sat down, in my normal clothes, in my own house, and just chatted for a bit?  Would that work, you reckon?

Obviously I'll need to learn how to edit and cut out the erms and ahhhhhs and incessant playing with my glasses.  But maybe we could all have a laugh at an old gal that will try not to take up too much of your time but make you feel glad to be you and not her?

If you could feel the nervous sweat and the red heat of embarrassment on my face as I'm writing this, waiting for the YouTube video to be uploaded, then try multiplying it by one hundred.  It's my first attempt at sit down.  It was done off the cuff and quite rightly needs to be tightened and better edited.  My hands are shaking.

But it's time to give it a go I reckon. I really truly would like your feedback, bad, good or indifferent.  I'm more than happy to stick to the occasional blog and keep my face of YouTube if the world truly doesn't need it.

Honesty is appreciated, but please be kind about it.  There ain't much I can do with this face!

A pad in the hand.....

I'm kicking this new blog off right now. No backstory, no introduction, no summary.

Appreciate the routine and the little things, mental health experts say.  Over and over, if you're online or watch too much cable TV.

Our apartment complex has a rubbish disposal system that's located out in the street but available only to those of us who pay our council fees and have a specific key.  This allows the council to record the number of non-recyclable bags of rubbish that each key holder/household/ratepayer disposes of each year.  Are you gripped yet?

Now, I'm reasonably proud of my effort as we earned a 36 euro refund last year due our ordure amount falling under their estimate for our apartment size and household members.  My ugg boots have worn a regular path along the back alley to the free public recycling bins and, thanks to Coronavirus still dominating 2021 as well as 2020, my lofty aim is to earn an even higher refund this year.  Yeah, that and continuing to make my own bread gives me wild-and-crazy gal status these days.

Every now and then someone just selfishly dumps a heaving bag of garbage by the locked rubbish bin.  It's easy to assume that they're lazy, or refusing to pay for their share of council services or just plain ignorant.  In light of 'appreciating the little things' and trying hard not to scream obscenities up at my neighbouring balconies, my belief is that the dumper has just moved in and is too damn tired to figure out what the tear drop-shaped dongle is on their new key ring. They'll figure out the rubbish process after they've put the slats on their IKEA bed base together and set up the wi-fi.

This morning was one of those mornings.  A full bag, resting hopefully by the locked garbage system, beads of rain streaming off it into the gutter.  I recalled seeing two different moving vans on Friday and assumed - let's be positive and pay things forward - that one of the new tenants left it there; a temporary breaking of the rubbish rules; soon to be amended when they find their bearings and feel settled in.

We're already thirty six euros ahead, my brain reminded me.  Be a nice neighbour and shout them a rubbish disposal.  Give their crap a quick trip down the chute.  Besides, Felix was tugging on the lead, eager to be out walking despite the rain.

The key was waved over the techno receiver thingy.  It flashed green, ready for a new load of rubbish.  I picked up the bag which promptly split and a sticky, soggy item affixed itself to the back of my hand.  It was a sanitary pad.  A bloody - in both senses of the word - used sanitary pad.

Ever the lightning fast opportunist, Felix's nose immediately shoved itself into the frighteningly fragrant mush. No, Felix! NO!  I peeled the pad off and furiously flung it away out of his reach, distractedly noting that it landed somewhere in the hedge opposite before having to grip onto the suspiciously greasy metal rubbish chute whilst hit with another weird dizzy spell.

Yep, my routine of maintaining a 10,000 step walking minimum for the past three months has led to a painful swelling on my left foot and strange fits of unsteadiness if I turn my head too quickly.  Yes, walking.  It makes my heart ache to think that I ran a marathon six years ago and now can't even take a friggin STROLL without incurring a Trumpian bone spur, albeit a genuine one.

As the unpleasant sensations generated by my inner ear canal resulted in a series of imagined somersaults and nervous sweat forming on my upper lip and chest, I had the luxury of time and discomfort to remember a few other things.

The email from my editor saying that payment for three articles written as a contracted freelancer have to be submitted via three separate invoices because their 'budget doesn't cover all three for this month.'  This despite being asked to do all three by the end of January.  I'd dearly like to tell the editor to go jump maskless into a retirement home aqua-aerobics class, but I need the money. I want to contribute and will, of course, humbly and politely resubmit the invoice; thank her for the opportunity to work for her and internally hate myself for the 'please pay me, please' attitude we freelancers have to adopt to beg those who enjoy a regular salary with all the associated insurances and supports to pay us for work already done.

A refund, due nearly a year ago after overseas flights were cancelled by the airline has been avidly chased down, a 'goal' set to ensure that the big guys are kept honest as we little guys get our own money back.  All associated emails, dates and lists of contacts via the complaints system, twitter and phone calls have been saved, as have my communications with the bank, insisting that they check at their end as well.  A bureaucratic challenge that's occupied me for NINE months, only for me to search for the refund via an entirely unrelated online account this morning and see that the refund was paid there, almost nine months ago to the day.  I feel very very stupid, and very very small.

Perhaps the ponky sanitary pad was the universe's way of paying things forward?