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Friday, August 30, 2013

Who will Pinky vote for?

“Who are you gonna vote for Mamma Bear?”

Those were the first politically oriented words I’d ever heard my number four son, Padraic utter.

“No-one!” I answered tersely, whilst fishing around for the nylon scourer in the Insinkerator which was causing the entire kitchen to rock and roll every time I turned it on. At least I hoped it was the scourer and not something a little more distasteful. 

I’ve an illogical fear that an evil entity will maliciously turn the garbage disposal on when I have my arm sunk into it up to my elbow… or that it’s not actually off, just jammed, and when I release the blockage it will spontaneously begin its grinding and pulverise my hand into mincemeat. 

As I said, I answered Padraic’s question with more than a little snap in my tone than usual.

“No-one?” he scoffed, “That’s a bit slack of you Mum… a bit irresponsible.”

This is the boy who walks around the house in his jocks and hasn’t cleaned his room since 2005 calling ME irresponsible.

I never write about politics in my blog. Not because I’m afraid of being shot down in flames by Internet trolls or the fact that I know nothing about it, but because I find it to be excruciatingly BORING!

This blog is about recalling the appalling moments in life and dissecting them down to the finest of details in order to discover something… anything… amusing to be gained from the experience. It’s about being silly, laughing at life and not taking myself too seriously.

Writing on a daily basis for the last eight months has completely altered my perception of life. When sh#t happens I now relish the opportunity to explore the possibilities; dichotomising the various elements of the crisis (whilst using as many big words as I can find in the Thesaurus) and attempting to discover a funny side... and there usually is one.

This is why I was forced to turn my back on Padraic and quietly snigger at his sudden interest in politics. At eighteen years of age this will be his first time at the polling booth and I’m pretty sure he thinks Julia Gillard is still the Prime Minister.

At gatherings, my entire family (mother, father, sister Sam, in-laws, two eldest sons Thaddeus and Jonah) love nothing more than a vigorous, bloodthirsty debate surrounding politics which usually winds up with several fists pounding on the table, shouting matches and someone stomping off to bed with a serious case of the sh#ts.

All the while, Pinky sits in the corner, quietly sipping Chardonay and chatting amiably to her eight year old nephew Heinrich, about little plastic Skylander toys.

Does it make me an unintelligent person because I have zilch interest in and don’t follow politics?

I know one person who thinks so.

As Thaddeus was leaving one such gathering (three sheets to the wind) he lunged at Sam and I embracing us both in a bear hug.

“Would you agree that Sam is the slightly more intelligent sister and you’re the slightly more attractive sister, Mum?” he slurred affectionately.

Sam squinted at him cagily, “Thanks Thaddeus,” she retorted, “No really, thanks…”
I, on the other hand, was tickled pink! At last! All throughout our growing up period, Sam was always the “pretty one”! Who cares about bloody brains anyway!