Inside their head...perception is reality.

My husband wooed me with the phrase "Perception is reality", that is if by "wooed" you mean really pissed me off. When we met I was surprisingly very wide-eyed and I believed there was an absolute reality outside of the skewed perception of each human being...and I was creating advertising for a job, go figure! 

I was very idealistically attached to this purist belief mainly because it was the only explanation for why most people didn't understand a word I said...they didn't see the REAL reality obviously. 

Luckily I'm a fast learner and it only took ten years to eventually concede and admit hubby was right (damn it!). The argument he formed back then was that it wouldn't matter if there was a REAL reality and absolute truth because it would never be seen. "But" I argued passionately "that's no excuse for not trying to find it!". 

In truth the only absolute is that one scene will unfold in front of a group of people and they will each take a different thing away from it. We see the world through our filter, that is uniquely ours, built through our individual experiences and knowledge. There is only one way for us to digest the space we move in and that specific view of the world is as unique as our fingerprint. Who knew I was going to not only get a nice guy but end up ranting about relativist existentialism as a result... thanks darling, a bunch of flowers would have been nicer. 

The power of perception... Image: Thequotefactory

Anyway as I struggle through being a parent and a leader more and more I realise there is only perception and that we judge others and even ourselves on the slither of behaviour we see and think nothing of the ocean of intention or potential we don't. 

I still think there is truth out there, but now I know that it is in the eyes of humanity rather than distinct from us all. And I dream of passing on the strength of belief and perception to my wide-eyed little people, quietly mapping my every move on to the glass through which they will see the world and in turn that will define their fate... oh shit!

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Is WALL-E one of the greatest movies ever made?

Creativity is this strange strange entity. I can't work out why it exists. It used to be evidence that God existed; he created us so we naturally created too. But then I started doubting the whole religion thing and my own need to capture beauty and pin it down remains unexplained. But one thing is true, when creativity is allowed to find its true potential, all are left inspired. 

In our time one of the most beautiful and inspiring works of art is the motion picture. Some may say it is a lazy person's novel but I believe it is a platform for every kind of artist. It is where visual artists cross over with musicians, actors and writers amongst so many others, all to do one thing well - tell a story. I have worshipped this art form for many years and have listed my favourite funny movies and even dedicated whole posts to some of my faves. But today's list is a must see of serious yet unmissable works. Welcome to my gallery of creative genius. 

• WALL-E
• American Beauty
• The Descendents
• The Piano
• Cinema Paradiso
• Léon
• The Unforgiven
• Amelie
• Million Dollar Baby
• The Green Mile
• Up
• Blade Runner
• The Shawshank Redemption
• Good Will Hunting
• A Beautiful Mind
• The Sixth Sense
• The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
• Kung-fu Panda
• The Matrix
• Life is Beautiful

WALL-E is I think one of my top five and only became so late last year, thanks to having toddlers that began to devour movies for breakfast. It is pure genius how the juxtaposition between robots and human emotion are seamlessly brought together. It's not every day a cautionary tale for humankind disguises itself in an exquisite robot love story, but Wall-e achieves both and more. WALL-E will have you entranced much in the same way he is entranced with the super-slick EVA from the first time she shoots at him with her high-powered laser arm. His quirks, imperfections, and huge heart will capture yours as much as his apple start up sound will have you smirking. This level of creativity astounds me and almost makes me believe again that there is something more to us than simply ending as dust. 

Never stop creating.

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Little arms, BIG hugs.

Someone asked me today to close my eyes and imagine a place where there is love. Of course I'm sure like most people my mind flashed my hubby's face up, but I settled on the best feeling in the world...that of small arms that can't quite reach around you yet, but still surprise you with their loving strength. 

My two boys are now nearly 3 and 4 and so their little arms do reach around my neck, they can pack a punch which often lands in my stomach, they can dive on me rock and roll wrestling style with no concept that 19kg in flight causes quite a lot of pain. But when those little arms lock around my ribs and squeeze while they bury their head in my chest I just melt. 

Gone are the menacing memories of the spilt smoothie, the punch up over a ninja turtle, the refusal to eat, bathe, get dressed, go to sleep, say yes. And if they add a "whove you Marm" they could have spewed, pooed and drawn on the walls all day, and I'd still be a mess of "my gorgeous little man, I love you too". 

I never imagined finding this kind of love, I never could have pictured the experience of stroking a luminescent forehead in a way that sends it's owner to sleep, or meeting these little people that are just crashing into life with insatiable curiosity, raw emotions and ever-stretching limbs. I never imagined being asked to "sing me 'close to you' Mum" or "look at my p00!" or to be told "my wil1y goes up like magic, it's really big.... hehehee". But these are the things that have made my life. These are the things that come to mind when someone asks me about love...and I am loving every sleep-deprived, deranged and chaotic minute. 

The most comfortable sofa is seemingly me!

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Two boys and a vasectomy

My old man's little fellas had a bit of augmentation last week. Not so much in the cosmetic sense...let's just say the lid is now firmly shut on our current family size of four. It is quite surreal now to think that we have taken such an extreme measure to ensure we have no more children and it might be enough to give someone pause... that is until they hear about the week we all had after the op. 

The Friday was like a trip into the twilight zone especially for my hubby, who elected for a full general for the procedure. Deadlines, meeting times, ETAs don't exist on Hospital Planet, instead an unusual and completely incomprehensible set of rules somehow maintain a steady flow of humans being cut open, sewn back up and booted out of vinyl recovery recliners all in one day. So upon rushing around like mad people to get the munchkins packed off to kindy in time to arrive at hospital by 8.30am, we were met with the strange and quite annoying reality that we could have arrived three hours later and still been there an hour earlier than the operation start time. 

But Friday was not really the issue, as thankfully punctuality and surgical skills are not mutually exclusive, it was the days that followed. Hubby was out for the count, walking around like John Wayne on the odd occasion he made it out of bed, in addition to making a meal of most of the bathroom when he tried to aim at the toilet. What was sanity-threatening was not the mess, the mayhem or Crash dragging Bang headfirst off the top of the cubby house, but the relentlessness. Not being able to say to another adult "Ok your turn, need a break" was killing me. Every nappy, spill, fight, night terror, bath, meal, wee, walk, playground, accident, smoothie, pick-up/drop-off was mine for what turned out to be seven days. 

This is the point where I say "Single parents...oh my effing god, you deserve a medal, a knighthood, a bloody huge lotto win... I don't know but something big and massively rewarding!" After two days of complete shit in the metaphorical sense and one round of real shit from one of our numerous park adventures, I was losing my mind. 

Hubby just laughed as he watched me slowly go down hill, which then made him double over in pain, which then made me laugh. It was a cycle of hilarity at someone else's expense and karma that went on for days. It was probably only fair that I suffered too given what he'd just done for us. Think about it, he had let someone cut open his crown jewels and potter around in there, endangering a lot of what makes him a man. Even Master 3 was sympathetic "Daddy can't come swimming with me cause he has a sore willy" he told the street from our front balcony.

On night six as we both fell into bed, broken in our own special ways, hubby said "who'd have thought getting the snip would be easier than looking after the munchkins by yourself", "I know" I shrilled with relief at his acknowledgement. Before our laughter could reach hysteria we had both passed out, but not before both feeling even more convinced that two little monkeys were quite enough for us and that the Snip was worth every groan and giggle it had caused. 

Has your hubby had the SNIP? 

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Hairy Man or Perfect Man? How do u take your men?

I was channel surfing tonight on the radio as I drove home from work and in the endless search for a decent piece of music (Triple J being the only Sydney station capable of this it seems) I happened upon a sentence that caught my attention "It seems the perfect man has been defined at last" said Sami Lukis and so I stopped flicking and listened intently, wondering if my own "perfect" man would make the cut. 

According to a study surveying 2000 women in the UK it seems the perfect man is not as close to the "cave man" I've always preferred myself. But when I think about my time in the UK, even back in 1998 guys were wearing slip-on shoes and spending as much money on clothes as I was, so maybe the girls over there just like 'em more, more... well girly, I suppose. Which would explain the survey resulting in a hairless chest bonus and the smart dressing requirement, complete with v-neck jumper, Audi and a love of shopping - WTF!? I am alone in wanting to barf? 

Near hairfree Zac Efron fits the perfect man bill in the UK, if only he could break down a door (doubtful)

Not sure if it's an Aussie thing but I prefer my man straight up in a sort of slightly scruffy, rougher and kinda more inarticulate sort of way. Something that means my own mediocre efforts at perfection still make me look beautiful in comparison to him. My clothes need to be sharper, my hair needs to be softer and neater, my skin needs to be softer and my chest less hairy. 

Hairy and sloppy makes Gerard Butler not the Perfect Man - proving at last Poms are mad!

Fear not if you happen to be a manly man unfortunate enough to be born amongst Paul Smith-wearing English natives as some semblance of manliness is still valued by UK women. They still want him to be a meat-eating, beer-swilling, football-watching, honest-ogling, tyre-changer who can break down a door in an emergency! So in between waxing, shaving, preening, crying during films and loving shopping men also need to be macho and funny to boot. Hmmm, feeling a cake and eating too type phrase emerging. 

But then again Men have wanted women to play about ten thousand different roles since the beginning of time so a little high expectations directed back towards them for the first time in millions of years, hey it's probably timely. 

So off to book my hubby into a day entailing a dip in a vat of wax, a few hours in Pitt St Mall and about five minutes in the local Audi dealership (I already know what model I want).

Caveman (Gerard) or Metroman (Zac)? How do you prefer your men?

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Puberty Blues & Teenage Bliss!

I was innocently sitting down to my weekly dose of Offspring when I was set upon by this. I use the words set upon because a trailer for an up and coming series completely unravelled me and tears welled in my eyes as the last seconds of the three minutes ended. There it was memories, memories from when I saw Puberty Blues the first time, memories when I was that girl desperate to be kissed by that guy, memories, often painful of my own tempestuous awakening to life as a young woman. 

The excitement, the hope, the romance and the wide-eyedness of an open heart yet to be broken. It was balmy nights on the beach, pashes in front of camp fires, cask wine, indecently short skirts and all night conversations about the meaning of life. 

Ah the memories!

What advice do you give a teenager screaming to escape their innocence? Hold on, wait, don't rush? You can't - they wouldn't understand. I was dying to be an adult, a person in my own right, a trailblazing light streaming forward to a brilliant future. I didn't know that it'd all be over in the blink of an eye. I didn't understand that one day I would suddenly feel old and wonder what happened to that smiling, carefree girl, with so much life to look forward to. I didn't know that boys were NOT looking for the love of their life.

How do you prepare your beautiful innocent children for a world that will disappoint and will break their heart at least once? Not that a TV show will answer this, but I'm going to be glued to this new version of Puberty Blues because I'm as sentimental as they come. I grew up in the 70s and the whole scene is like looking at my family's super8 films. The risks, the heartbreak, the dancing, oh the dancing and the absolute exhilaration when that guy eventually turned and more than looked at you that way.  

 Teenage bliss! 

Would you go back for more?

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Home is where the hate is...The Slap strikes again.

The Slap even has the NY Times' vote, so it's any wonder that I wrote two articles on it, Aisha's episode airs tonight in the US, here was my take as published on The Punch back in November last year. 

The thousands of words on Twitter reflected my own emotions as I watched ABC TV’s The Slap last week. One tweet said: “it’s totally brutal!”, another: “searing, uncomfortable melancholy” and one more: “did anyone else’s heart sink tonight watching The Slap?”

Fierce, frightening

Mine certainly did and I was not the only one. It was a bit close to the bone for many, as it shone an unceremonious light on characters’ Aisha and Hector’s 16-year marriage.

As I watched Aisha fake anger and hurt at Hector’s admission of his minor infidelity, all the while withholding her own more major dalliance, an image of marriage popped into my head: Marriage is a bonfire stack piling higher and higher with hurts, waiting for a spark to ignite an explosion of desire or destruction.

Unfortunately popular culture would have us believe every argument ends in make-up sex but the reality is closer to Aisha’s lack of emotion.

The pain we cause each other over years seems to numb us and more often than not. Nothing ends in nothing, with one in three marriages unfortunately ending in divorce rather than unquenchable desire.

Having been married for eight years, this statistic doesn’t surprise me. It is amazing that it isn’t higher given how cruel we can be to the one person we are meant to love the most.

We seem to save our empathy and kindness for the stranger we strike up an impromptu conversation with or the little old lady that needs a hand up the stairs. Our partners, however, get full-blown resentment, rudeness, neglect and disdain.

These emotions are often balanced with intimacy, trust and loyalty but why, when things are going wrong, do we turn on the person we thought we could not live without?

It’s probably because marriage is tough. And it’s even harder when children come along.

The cute little blighters turn hairline cracks quickly into structural damage.

But they’re not fully to blame and often just accentuate underlying disappointment, which is the real culprit.

It’s any wonder we are set up to fail when the start of a marriage mimics a red carpet event. The wedding is such a pivotal event in our society, you and your spouse never looked better, you have this huge party with friends and family and then you go on holidays somewhere beautiful for at least two weeks.

This fun series of events never happens again as you settle in to living with someone who has a unique type of annoyingness designed to drive you slowly insane.

You hit the treadmill of working towards a home and a family, money issues come up, time together is minimised by work, looking after kids or rare, but sanity-saving time to yourself.

Next thing you know you are old and living with someone who is your co-parenting housemate and that’s about it.

For me and I think a lot of women, the disappointment is based on my expectation that I would have a deep connection with this person as soon as we said ‘I do’.

I obviously had no clue about blokes, where often the only thing that is deep is their inbuilt ability to hide their emotions.

Everyone’s challenge is slightly different but our own unique disappointment ends up looking a lot like Aisha’s face every time she looks at Hector.

Her bonfire of pain is so large she buries it so as not to feel hurt every second of the day. She blames Hector for it and punishes him so she’s not the only one feeling so bloody awful. It is dysfunctional, unkind and near the opposite of love.

But it is human nature to avoid responsibility for your own unhappiness. It is so much easier to blame your partner for trapping you into a life you didn’t expect than facing your own inner flaws and personal failings that got you there.

And looking for a solution in another human that looks as sparkly with potential as your partner once did, well that’s even easier.

As I watched Aisha consider leaving Hector, I thought of my own marriage and imagined if it was over. My heart broke at the thought.

I wouldn’t remember that my husband didn’t hear human voices if sport was on, or that he made the bathroom look like a great dane had just shaken himself off in there.

But I would desperately miss all the things I take for granted. His patience with the boys, his calmness when I feel like I will lose my mind, his pragmatism that balances my dreaminess. His shy blue eyes looking at us with love and wonder and his stoic confidence and ability to just get on with it when others would fall in a heap.

I’m no expert on happy marriages, but seeing the hate and numbness of Christos Tsiolkas’ characters made me realise where I didn’t want to end up.

So I’m off to slap my hubby - with a big fat kiss and if he’s lucky… with some much-earned kindness too. Okay, a bit of something else may be considered. Just don’t tell him, I’d hate to disappoint…

Nicole is a blogger at MyIdeaLife.com.au, a freelance writer, social media junkie and corporate marketer.

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Is everyone's hubby a pørnstar?

Recently a very intelligent man was on TV, I stopped faffing about on Twitter to listen as he was asked, “Do kids ruin marriage?” Without a second thought he responded “I can tell you for free, not having kids [myself], you can still not have sex” Hold the phones! I thought we were talking about marriage?

I’m glad Joe Hildebrand jumped automatically from happy marriage to frequency of sex because now I can stop calling my husband a pørnstar. He’s not a pørnstar, he’s just a normal bloke. Like many p€nis-possessors, my husband interprets any word, phrase, action or movement as something to do with s€x.

Consider an innocent hug, in the hands of a male it quickly turns into a crash tackle against the kitchen bench. A bend over to pick up a toy is a screaming invitation for a dry run. Getting changed into your PJs is really you saying “Want to play with these fun bags?” while he øgles unashamedly. And reaching for your drink at dinner is a blatant request to touch one of them.

And if your thought actions spoke louder than words try these phrases out on your special pørnstar, I mean man.

She says: Pass the sauce please
He hears: Blah blah you’re a saucy thing blah blah

She says: Can you put out the garbage?
He hears: Blah blah I put out blah blah

She says: Have you heard about that job?
He hears: Blah Blah blah bløw job blah blah

She says: Isn’t it hot today?
He hears: Blah blah you’re so hot blah blah blah

She says: Can you turn on the hose?
He hears: Blah blah I love getting w€t mmnnn blah blah

She says: You are so rude!
He hears: Blah blah get me nµde blah blah blah

As Billy Crystal once said “Women need a reason to have s€x. Men just need a place.” Basically whatever you do, as it filters through the male brain it usually pops out as an invitation for s€x. You could be swinging a cat at a funeral and you’d hit a bloke ready to shag you in the aisle in front of the coffin.

In the end Joe hit the nail on the head, so to speak, as kids don’t ruin marriage. The rating difference between males and females is actually to blame. Somewhere between his constant R-r@ting and her preferred G-rating falls the growing divorce statistics.

So girls, if you need a hug, want a conversation or have to bend over make sure you’re only in the presence of females. And blokes, another wise man – this time Steve Martin – once said “Don’t have s€x, man. It leads to kissing and pretty soon you have to start talking to them.”

In conclusion there’s a reason most stallions are gelded.....ouch!

This initially appeared on JustB Australia as "Thinking with their little head" on October 5th, 2011

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WOULD YOU SOONER FORGET YOUR WEDDING?

Every year a tradition is remembered by those that chose to walk down the aisle in a white dress, a tradition to celebrate the day you spent way too much money on a very large dinner party and happened to commit your life to another human being. Every year without fail I forget this tradition, I don’t know whether it is pure absent-mindedness, or a deep subconscious reaction to my marriage but I never wake up on our anniversary prepared and usually get reminded about 8am by a less than impressed husband.

I don’t really think there is anything to say about this other than I seem to have had baby brain prior to having babies, and even more so once I did. But if there was a deep-seeded feeling that blocks out the day of our wedding from my memory it would have to be the fact that my fiancé at the time decided that a bucks night the night before the wedding day was a good idea. His brother stlll tells me that if it wasn’t for him dragging him out of whatever establishment they were partying in he wouldn’t have made it to the wedding at all. As it was, when the photographer asked him to spin all 58kg of skin and bone that was me back then, around, he nearly spewed. So as far as I’m concerned he’s lucky I married him at all let alone remember the day it happened all those years ago.

And it wasn’t that the day wasn’t memorable for other reasons than the groom being hung over, it was perfect in every other way. You could say that if you swapped the Groom for someone else who was sober, the day would have been nothing short of a fairy tale. It was at Jones Bay Wharf, I was in a simple but stunning dress, the bridesmaids were in gunmetal silver, we arrived in white Cadillacs to a small stone church that looked as though it belonged in a country town.

If you put aside the psychotic florist from a company that really should be called “Brides be Doomed” rather than it’s more deceptive upbeat name, who had mixed me up with another bride and refused to meet up to correct her obviously failed memory. Or the heartbroken hair stylist who obviously put his sadness into my style, the day had hope and joy written all over it. Especially if you were a groomsman it seemed. As though the enormous celebration of love created a strange love potion and nearly everyone got lucky, either that or people had their own “potions” in their pockets, whatever, the point was if you were single at our wedding and even slightly willing you were in for a night of looove.

The stories were so debauched my now hung over husband was struglling with the decision he’d just made. Talk about bad timing and probably a very logical reason for my annual blank. But despite the obvious trauma associated with my day as a princess, I am not trying to forget I’m married (well except the other day when I was in the park and I wanted to channel Kate Winslet’s character from Little Children), and after a beautiful lunch where Boom and I had a conversation that didn’t go something like “I did the last three poos so it’s your turn.”, “well I stayed up putting them to bed and then got up in the middle of the night so fair’s fair”. It was a lovely anniversary and one that now I’ve remembered I won’t forget…well at least until next year.

Head over to Facebook and share your wedding pics & most importantly the back story!

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ARE YOU IN THE MUMMY BLOGGER ASYLUM?

My love of blogging is bittersweet. It has enabled me to write which I love, but with all things that one falls heavily for, measure needs to employed at some point. Blogging is so the mother of all rabbit holes. It leads to twitter, a Facebook page (don't start me on Google+), a newsletter, instagram, constant website improvements, getting published, interacting in communities, functions, conferences and hours and hours of publicity and marketing and so on and so forth. Writing actually becomes the least of your worries, and then suddenly it becomes a huge worry because you find you have no time to actually do what started the whole thing, that is just tell a story, share an anecdote, talk to the world.

There is definitely so much value in keeping it simple. The complexity can really burn you out of the blogging world as fast as it took you to set up your blogger or wordpress site. But giving up on blogging is not the worst thing that can happen. What is worse is losing touch with real life. Valuing your three-dimensional relationships less, especially those closest to you. You see a bit of attention from a virtual community of people can do crazy things to people's minds. When you are getting compliments from strangers and people want to meet you - you can get a weird sort of invincible out-of-body type feeling that leads you to devaluing the people you actually need the most.

So upon recognising this I decided to write myself some rules, that hopefully will guard against ending up living in a box next to a power outlet at the local wi-fi spot with only my laptop as company.

Any addicts out there got more tips? Please share!

Image background source: http://lady-himiko.deviantart.com

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OUR FIRST KISS

Rodin's "The Eternal Idol"
Sketched by love-obsessed 25 year old me.

I sketched this in Vienna when I was 25. I was sitting on the floor of a Museum, as you do when you're a backpacker. It felt like my whole life's dream was encapsulated in this beautiful Rodin sculpture. I had left my then-boyfriend to travel for six months (which turned in to three years) and so my heart was aching as I drank in the lust this depicted. I obviously wasn't that heartbroken though as only days later I ran off to Bruges with a very hunky American. What? I was confused and besides the boyfriend ended up being a completely deluded, selfish git masquerading as a snag, so thank goodness I didn't save myself for him.

In fact ever since my first kiss 10 years earlier, I'd been in love with love. It was at a summer party and I don’t even know how it happened, I was sitting on this guy’s lap and next thing you know we were snogging and with tongue! It was divine, and as I closed my eyes I'm sure I saw stars (that had nothing to do with the alcohol consumed of course).

I actually think that kiss more than any Hollywood movie was the reason it took me so long to find 'the one'. From that moment on I judged the potential of every relationship by the first kiss. This was so illogical, not that kissing is logical at the best of times, but most of my best kissing had been with the biggest bastards on earth, and really that was all they would good for. A good pash and then see you later really. But for some reason I forgot this as my knees turned to jelly and my imaginary world clouded out any sense of reality. 

Think I might give my hubby a snog when he gets home as feeling a little inspired, not sure it will be quite the same with toddlers attached to both legs, but I'll give it a go.

What was your first kiss like? 

Did it turn you into a pashing bandit like it did me?

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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Crashed and burned: what is it with firemen?

Remember when you used to get really excited when the fire brigade showed up just because you got to perve at all the firemen? It was especially fun at work so you could giggle like a schoolgirl with your similarly deviant colleagues. For me it only seems like yesterday…wait a minute it was only yesterday! Standing in a fire station yesterday with my two year old in my arms I found myself being very friendly with a hot fireman who was kind enough to be showing my son his engine. Now I wouldn’t call it flirting, because people who flirt know what they are doing. What I was doing...well I don’t think there is a word for that. 

Ok ok, so he didn't really have his shirt off, and alright, this wasn't really the one I was
talking to but this does make sense of my foot in mouth situation I think...yes?
Photo: Mosman Daily, Firefighters Calendar 2011

I was just trying to start a conversation that went deeper than “oh look there’s the hose!” with a person that looked as though he had avoided deep conversations successfully since 1995. It went something like:

N: I was a surf lifesaver for a couple of seasons, doing surfboat rowing and I found it really confr…
Hot fireman: Oh yeah, where at?
N: Coogee
Hot fireman: What year?
N: 2002/3 I think…only problem was when I had to treat someone for the first time I completely freaked out
Hot fireman: Did you row in the firsts?
N: No, I came from still water so was still learning in B crew…so I didn’t get my glove on fully and all I could think of was ‘shit I have her blood on me, her blood is on my hand, shiiiiit!’
Hot fireman: was Bec in your crew?
N: Yes she was. So what I’m trying to say is you must be a certain type of person to be a fireman, you know, you have to be so, so, so… Brrrraaaave…

S I L E N C E (that seemed to go on forever)

At this point my brain caught up to my mouth but it was too late, my gushing “Brrraaaave” had exited my mouth and was floating between this stranger and I. I realised I had sounded like a teenage groupie, why did I say ‘brave’? I couldn’t think of the word, which I think should have been selfless, as my mind went blank, probably due to our house and my body being plagued with viruses. All I knew was I had to end my stuttering somehow. And in my defence, they are in fact, brave.

Despite my idiocy and Bang’s intense desire to leave, probably because even at 2 he could see I was going down hill fast, the hot fireman only paused slightly, obviously also a bit shocked at the use of the word and responded graciously: “Well we do a lot of training”.

Phew, awkward moment passed. I managed to salvage some form of self-respect and joked about how my training had only managed to educate me on every disease I could catch from someone’s blood. BUT With Bang yelling “Mama! Mama! I want go home! That way Mama, that way!” I made my escape but not before my “friendliness” earned Bang a Fire Brigade showbag and a sincere invite to come back again soon. Hmmmm “Maybe he likes women telling him he’s brave?...Who cares!” I panicked, “get out of here before your foot gets amputated by your teeth.” Bye Mr brave Fireman.

©MyIdeaLife, 2011, All rights reserved

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Thinking The Thinker can NOT be male

Have you ever heard the insightful statement ‘I think you’re over thinking it’? If so, did a female say it? No, she didn’t, did she. It was more likely some brain-starved male attempting to cover up the fact he didn’t hear a word a poor girl just said to him. [Bitter much, Nicole!?] Sorry, but hubby (Boom) says this to me at least once a week and I.don’t.like.it. 

I don’t like it because it’s really the total opposite of anything close to being helpful. And it’s usually said when you’re already feeling unsure or vulnerable or anxious or as is the case with me, all three.

Here's a typical scenario:
Me: What do you think of this post?
Boom: It’s alright. Where’s the tv remote?
M: Is it too obtuse, crude, personal or boring, or all of the above?
B: No, it’s fine. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Did the kids have it this afternoon?
M: Can you give me a little more detail?
B: The tv remote. You know. White. Buttons.
M: Forget the remote. What do you mean ‘it’s alright’? Do you think the ending could be better?
B: No, it’s fine…stop over thinking it.
M: [pause, breathe] Stop.over thinking.it?
B: Yeah, just post it and move on….then you can help me find the tv remote.
M: [let the tirade begin] Do you think that if I didn’t think, my posts would be better? Have you ever thought that maybe when you crack a smile at one of them it’s because I may have spent a lot of time over-thinking it? And do you think that if I thought my life would be much improved by a lack of thinking I would be able to just simply think less? There is no switch you know. 
B: [no response for fear of being stabbed with a crayon or more likely because he just found the remote in his pocket] 

My husband did stop to explain, probably in an attempt to put out the fire that had exploded from my head, "I'm just trying to say, don’t second guess yourself, trust your instincts and just do it”. I wish he would just say that in the first place and spare everyone feeling a little burned.

The truth is this over-thinking statement pushes my buttons, in a bad way that is, because:
1. I know I am over-thinking it because at the time I'm not trusting my own instincts;
2. Him pointing it out makes me question myself even more and
3. I am quite jealous of people who do, trust their own instincts that is. You know the ones that don’t ponder for hours the ten million potential iterations of outcomes that could result from this one action, or if they do they are so at ease with life that they don’t mind what outcome eventuates. They just think 'what will be will be and I’ve done the best I can' and then move on in a light skipping-type way, while probably humming a ditty.

Boom is one of these people, although his skipping is a little un-coordinated. He is a doer rather than a thinker and while I’m building a flowchart in my head, he’s opened the box and getting on with it without any regard for the instructions.

So, is over-thinking over-rated or 

is it reserved for the fewer but greater outcomes? 

Would we be better off with less neural activity? 

P.S. If you can’t already tell I am trialling not thinking as I write this post. So, if you don’t like it you’re welcome to tell my hubby off for telling me not to think.
P.P.S. But maybe this post represents over-thinking perfectly. Dwelling on over-thinking enough to write about it probably represents an unhealthy exercise in over-thinking (now my brain is starting to hurt). I’m going to try to stop thinking.
P.P.P.S. It didn’t work, still thinking but can stop writing.

P.P.P.P.S. Failed there too. Still here. Ok so the first and second P.S. were, how do you say, full of shit really, I've over-thought the crap out of this post for a day...as you can see over-thinking is over-rated! Arrrgggghhhh!  

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