You may call me Senorita Ranty Pants

It's been quite a week here. A friend sent me a hilarious text, to which I replied 'Thanks for this. It's been a really shitty half hour and that made me laugh so much!' My phone actually said 'Thanks for this. It's been a really shirtful half hour and that made me laugh so much.' So I replied 'Ducking autocorrect.' That kind of explains everything I think.

Today's ranty pants are brought to you by some first world whinging, and a handful of WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, PEOPLE?

It is sinfully cold here at present, and after battling through a load of somewhat damp firewood we ordered another load. It did not turn up when it was promised.

'Ah, sorry Amy. We got caught up. We can bring it tomorrow afternoon. Have you got any wood left at all?'


'Um, we'll be ok. Tomorrow arvo will be fine.'

Tomorrow afternoon rolls around and there is still no firewood. We are down to the wood splitting block and a blow heater.

'Uh, Wood Lady? Just wondering what time you'll be here.'

'Hour and a half at the latest. See you then!'

Five minutes later.

'Hey Amy, it's a bit dangerous and wet in the paddock here. My partner doesn't want me to be driving the tractor in this weather. Besides, the wood is all wet.'

I leave an awkward silence here for her to explain what her next plan could be.


'Uh, Wood Lady? Did you want to leave it then?'

'I think that'd be best Amy. It's just a bit dangerous.'


I begin trawling Gumtree and Facebook to find some dry firewood. Eventually I give up, head next door to my lovely young neighbours who give me an armful of firewood over the fence. I comment on the loveliness (hey, it's winter. Good firewood is sexy.) of the wood.

(That's what she said...)

Jack mentions that it's from his Dad's property.

'OH MY JACK. Does your Dad want to sell it?'

It's agreed upon. A load will be delivered tomorrow at lunchtime.

Delivered it is. When I return from town I find it stacked neatly in my yard and covered in a tarp.

It's lovely dry firewood. Bam.

This summer will be the Summer of Firewood. I'm sorry friends, I won't be able to do anything remotely fun this summer, I'll be cutting and stacking as much firewood as I can stand, because this is truly the most shirtful part of winter.

Don't even get me started on the cost.

I was feeling much better about the wood situation now I was warm again, when I saw this on Facebook this morning.

Right here, this is why I hate Australian culture sometimes. We're so intent on dragging each other down that 'keeping up with the Joneses' headlines like this are normal.

I see a young man proposing to his girlfriend in a fairly public fashion. That's awesome, FOR THEM. Love should be celebrated. But tell me, why does it make everyone else look bad? Because our loves didn't propose to us in a cinema for all to see? Because it makes you feel like you should have paraded your moment in a social media-esque fashion? Because they did it differently? 

How about we just be happy for them? 

I know it's a clickbait article. I hate that articles and headlines like this even exist, and I know they exist because people continue click on them. I struggle to understand the dog-eat-dog mentality behind articles like this, where you can almost see the sarcasm dripping from the headline. 'Thanks mate. You showed us all up.' Yes, it's meant for a cheap, quick laugh, but I truly believe it's symptomatic of something much deeper. 

Why do we let other people's choices make us feel so inferior?

On that note, I'm off to enjoy my kid-free Friday. If you need me, I'll be sewing the remainder of 137 roman blind rings whilst binge watching Downton Abbey.

In defence of home.

Home. It's a word that brings a warm glow to my heart, visions of smiling family members, a warm wood stove, and more recently, the THUMP THUMP of toddler feet running around.
MY home isn't where we use harsh words or call names. Home is where we rest our hats and share our news.
Today my heart isn't glowing warmly with visions of my home. I'm mad like a Mama Bear whose kid got pushed at daycare. I've just read an interview with Leo Schofield in the Sydney Morning Herald and I want to make a few things perfectly clear to Mr Schofield.

On behalf of our narrow-minded Liberal government, I'm sorry that the Baroque Festival funding went the way of SO much arts funding. It's unfortunate that it happened and I completely understand your reasoning for taking the festival elsewhere.
"Tasmania's such a beautiful place," he says. "It's blessed as no other area in this country is blessed, and yet they can't wait to dig it up, chop it down, sell it to the Chinese..."
I agree with this loosely as a whole. The landscape in Tasmania is like nothing I've ever seen. The wildlife is stunning and again, it's unfortunate that since the mid-20th Century there's been a push to make the land work for man, not man work for the land. I've sat in forest in the Florentine Valley one year, only to return the next to find the trees missing and a massive logging road in it's place. Plantation forestry has a place - after all, where does your toilet paper, newsprint etc come from? But old growth? There's no reason for that.

Again, unfortunately Mr Schofield goes on in the same sentence to say "All the young people leave, and the only ones left are the dregs, the bogans, the third-generation morons."


In one sentence Leo Schofield has derailed any respect I had for his forward thinking ideas. In one sentence he has clearly revealed himself as those who he is attempting to defame.

I am a young person. I guess. 32? I'd still call myself young. I was not born here. I moved here by choice ten years ago. Five years ago I chose to buy a house and make a home in a very special part of Tasmania. I have a Masked Owl living in the trees behind the house, a mating pair of Wedge Tailed Eagles in the bush behind our block, tens of varieties of amazing birds, quolls, bandicoots, possums, wallabies, pademelons, and more rats and mice than we can catch. 

I'm quite disappointed that Schofield had, in his view, a soured experience of living in Tasmania and sees fit to use his cultural standing to speak ill of a very special place in generalised terms, instead of recognising and stating that this was HIS experience.

Mr Schofield, I'm sorry that you experienced such a hard time that you experienced mental health issues. I only hope that you've received the necessary and available help. I also wish you well with your future projects. I also hope that in time you can recognise and perhaps remedy your public views with those that Tasmania is a beautiful place, filled with kind and gentle people who do care about their home.

Sunrise, Narawntapu National Park, 31/3/15.
(c) Andrew Smyth Photography