I AM READING THE BEST BOOK IN THE WORLD.

I know. Big statement.

And it might not actually be the best book in the world, but man oh man, it has gotten me fired up. I usually like to read fiction, with the occasional biography smattered in there for balance, yet over the years I have read my fair share of titles from the Personal Development and Financial sections of the bookshop. I won’t say I ever actually like these books, but I dutifully read them, because, well, you’re supposed to aren’t you? I think that’s what grown-ups do.

I went to a Problogger Seminar a few months ago, and one of the keynote speakers was a cool guy called Matthew Something-Foreign-Sounding.  I liked his presentation, in that it wasn’t so much about blogging itself, but about why we do the things we do. He talked a bit about motivation. He gave an example of asking some woman to do something she didn’t want to do, for money. And no, it wasn’t some shonky ‘Indecent Proposal’ moment, it was about seeing how much he would have to offer her to do something she was afraid of (I think the example was to jump off a tall building…or maybe eat spiders…my memory is hazy, but bear with me).  The important point was that she wouldn’t do it for ANY money. So then he said, “What if the lives of all of your family depended on it?”  And of course that was the kicker. She said she would do the scary/crazy thing.

So it seems we all have a price. We all have that something that will define what we will do, even be compelled to do, once all of the cards are laid bare.

I’ve been thinking a bit about that lately.

I have a whole bunch of things on my goal lists, to-do lists and inspiration lists. The trouble is, a lot of the things on my lists are a bit shite. I have them there because I think they should be there, not because I really care about them, at least not in the day to day running of my life. “Pay off the house” is on the list, but really, I don’t give it much thought. It will be paid off, one day, but I don’t really do much to try and speed up that process. Especially if making an extra repayment interferes with me buying a case of that Veuve that Uncle Dan’s has on sale right now for 53 bucks a bottle*. I also have other such uninspiring things as “Do BAS” and “Paint the skirting boards” on the lists.

See? Bleurgh.

So boring you probably stopped really reading back at my mention of Indecent Proposal, and started imagining either Demi or Paul (or both) nude.

Enter Matthew Michalewicz. At the seminar he gave us a FREE book. I nearly didn’t take one because 1. I don’t like books that look like they might include work and 2. Free book = Shit book, according to Alison’s Book Rule #476.

But I did take one, mainly because he seemed nice and mostly because I thought I might hand it on to someone. Someone who likes shitty, hard-work and probably-harder-to-read-and-most-likely-self-published-books. That someone is not me.

The book has resided on the top, then after a while in the middle, and most recently, at the bottom of my bedside-table book stack tower. Until last Sunday night when I decided enough was enough and the pile had to go. I was about to relegate THE BEST BOOK IN THE WORLD to the book graveyard: the drawers under my bed, where all books go to die. Or be eaten by cockroaches.

It was saved by the title, and maybe a little bit by the fact that the cover art reminded me of Days Of Our Lives, and it made me wonder what Marlana, Bo and Hope are up to after all these years. But it was mostly the title. I wondered what he was on about with all this “half a second” palaver, I mean, I’ve got forever. Haven’t I?

I was intending to save this post until I’m finished the book, and I was going to give you the good oil, the Cliff’s note of personal development books, to save you from reading the whole thing, but I’ve changed my mind. The thing is, you NEED to go and get yourself this book. And you need to read it. And you need do all of the things Matthew says to do. I’m about half-way through, and I promise you, these words have gotten me more excited about goal-setting and having a life by design than I have ever been. I’ve been to many seminars about this kind of thing, and at the crux I guess there isn’t much that is blindingly new, but the way he has put it all together…man. Just get it, and read it. You’ll see.

So here’s the book:

Best Book in the World

And here’s the website and the facebook.

As Molly would say, “Do yourself a favour.”

*FACT. This is not a sponsored post (worse luck) but this is the actual price at the time of writing. Get there right now, I say. Or pay off your home-loan. Both work.

**Oh, and Matthew didn’t sponsor me either, but you never know, maybe he’ll offer me some of that money-to-do-a-scary-thing. As long as it doesn’t involve being near birds. Alive birds I mean. Dead are fine.

In a shocking turn of events, it appears that I have nothing to blog about today.  I might have mentioned once or twice that I’m working full time at the moment, and my poor little fingers have been worked to the bone. Which makes typing an interesting proposition. Coupled with that: I only had the morning with the kids, so they didn’t really have a chance to do anything funny to pass on to you.

The cat is asleep, Nath is snoring and Casino Royale is on the telly and I am, quite frankly, beyond inspiration. So it appears, dear RRs that there will be no blog today.

Before the snore-a-thon began, I did ask Nath what I should blog about, and he suggested a chat about things that money can’t buy. So far I can only think of intangible things like my soul and possibly health, but money could give you some different options on the health thing, so I guess it’s not entirely true.  As for my soul, I could be persuaded to sell that off in exchange for the house I want overlooking Little Cove.

Little Cove, Little Cove, my soul for a cove

I am reminded of a bit of repartee I had with my Anatomy lecturer in second year. We were discussing who we would or, in my case, would not sleep with for money (it was around the time of ‘The Colour of Money’).

Him: Would you sleep with me for a million dollars?

Me: (Checking out his weird anatomy-lab scented hands and Ned Kelly-not in fashion then-beard) …Umm, yes, I guess…

Him: Well then, would you sleep with me for ten bucks?

Me: (Aghast) No way, what do you think I am?

Him: We’ve already determined that, now we’re just haggling over the price.

So I guess it’s true what you say about breathing in the pickling fluid (it makes you nuts, in case you haven’t heard).

I thought I should leave you with one more thing… I went to a Problogger seminar on the weekend and one of the speakers shared this clip.  It’s funny if you are on Instagram.

And on that note, I bid you adieu.

I hope your pelvic floor muscles are holding up to the comedy of the blog today.

…From The Ashers xx

If you follow many Aussie blogs you’ll probably already know there was a Problogger conference this weekend on the Gold Coast.

Surfers: The view from The QT

There are people more experienced and more savvy than me who can tell you how it all went down, and I don’t suppose you’d be all that interested in what I learned over the weekend anyway, but I do want to tell you two things, both consisting of equal and opposite energy for me, just like Newton told us it would be.

Firstly, at the end of Day One I was completely bereft.

I thought this was the most soul-destroying seminar I’d ever been to.

Problogger is, as I’m sure you’ll have figured out, about monetising your blog.  Being paid to blog.  I’ve been blogging for just over a year, and I had an idea that being paid to do this might be something I could do.  But as the day wore on, it became patently obvious that I don’t have a clue what I’m doing here, with respect to earning buck$ for blogging.  I don’t have a niche, a specific tone, or a message.  I don’t provide anything useful, nor do I solve any of your problems.  I don’t have products or ideas to sell you. I’m a personal blogger, and that means this space is all about me.  Not really the kind of thing that lends itself to paid content or advertising.  Two other things also became obvious: I have no clue what all the techy stuff is about (SEO, what?) and being a paid blogger appears to involve a shit-load of work.  So two things I do.not.like appear to be important.

So I almost ditched the whole remainder of the seminar to quaff Cosmopolitans by the pool.

Some would say this is a pattern of mine, but I’d tell them to shut up and mind their own.

Luckily, I was there with a mate who knows me better than I know myself most times, and she pretty much forbade me to miss a single Saturday session.  Which was a good thing, for redemption was just around the corner, in the guise of Matthew Michalewicz, heralding the second big thing I needed to know.

He reminded me of many things that I needed a nudge with, and most of all, the concept that when we say we can’t do something, what we really mean, is that the motivation isn’t great enough.  Yet.  I may have said I could not learn all the computery things required to run this blog properly, but as Matthew would say; if my whole family would die if I didn’t figure it out, I probably could.  And fast.

And of course, as always, a concept that applies to you in one area of your life, will cross over into others.  This “I can’t” mantra doesn’t only apply to my bloggy life, but to my work, my family, my finances.  I can.  I just need compelling leverage.  Which also involves going back to the original idea, the thing I’m saying I can’t do, and double check that it is something that I really want, and that it isn’t just some notion that I’ve grabbed from the air, or from someone else’s bag of tricks.  The difference between something I should do and something I want to do.

Sometimes it’s good to get a whack of perspective when I’m being a big whining baby.

And a free book.

Thanks Matthew xx

Is there anything you’ve been saying you can’t do (that you claim you want to do)?

What do you do or say to yourself to get your mojo back?

…From The Ashers xx

It’s been a busy week around here with me working FULL TIME (I know, unheard of!) as well as fitting in being a FRONT PAGE celebrity in the local paper…  By the time you read this I will be safely ensconced in the bath seminar room of the QT, enjoying a weekend at the ProBlogger seminar, getting pissed and going to karaoke bars with Nikki enriching my mind with ALL of the things a pretend professional blogger needs to know.

So here are the hits:

1.  YOU.  As you RRs would know I plagued the blog with posts about the ridiculously low blood stores this week, going on and on and on about it, until you were all so sick of hearing about it, you went and gave up the claret.  Well done.  Maroochydore Blood Bank rang me and said they had a bumper week, and even though it’s still not enough, it’s something.  So goodonya you lot.  Coco and the rest of The Ashers thank you from the bottom of our corpuscles.

2.  My big, almost ten year old boy, Liam.  As you might have figured out by some of my posts, he hates his sister and even once wrote a note plotting out his vengeance.  See exhibit A.

Exhibit A

Despite that, this week he started up a blog of his very own, and THIS was his post on Day 3.  Warms the cockles of me old heart, I tells ya.

Oh, and feel free to checkout the whole blog.  He’s at DJ Asher.  He would love to get some comments… Like the one he got from his Uncle Darren, who said, “I usually don’t read shit blogs like your Mum’s, but I’ll read yours.”  Liam thought that was hilarious.  Don’t worry, I banned him from the computer for a week for that. (I can’t have him being more successful than me you know.)

The dude even added his own little category of YouTube videos, unbeknownst to us.  How?  We don’t know.  And so the world turns….

3.  This yummy spread.  How good is it when you have older patients who bring you in awesome stuff they’ve made?  Bloody good, is how good.  I got this baby from a lady this week.  It’s delish, AND cute, with a sweet little love-heart topper.  Who even does that these days?  Grouse old chicks, that’s who.

Mmmmm, lemmmon

4.  And whilst I’m going on about food, how good are these?  Have you had one?  Of course you haven’t because you can’t have just one.  You have to eat the whole damn packet.  A perfect sweety-salty treat to keep me going on my long afternoon shift.  It’s just a shame they cost a bomb (considering my consumption rate).  They aren’t as expensive as printer ink, but they are close.  Get yourself some anyway.  Just tell the kids they are healthy and then you can eat the lot yourself.

Pumpkin = Healthy

5.  The QT.  It’s very colourful, and a bit too crazy for my eyes to take it all in at once, but I think this extremely comfortable bed is going to suit me just fine.

So soft

The only drawback so far is that the minibar stinks of cantaloup.  I don’t know how or why, but it’s doing my head in (as Smelling All Of The Smells is my superpower.)   My $9 Corona has a distinctly unsavoury odour.  But I’m soldiering on.

Well that’s it from me…  Have a great weekend.  I suspect I will.

Send me your Hits if you have the time.  I’d love to hear what you’re up to.

…From The Ashers xx

It’s that time of the week, so here are the hits people:

1. I never thought I’d say it- usually I’m all Heckle and Jeckle about it, but finally, we got some rain up here.  I can see some tiny shoots of light green peeping around the brown of the lawns.  The Lily Pillys have lifted their heads.  Some of the tacky humid salt air has been washed away.

2.  I got a ticket to the Problogger Seminar all the way over there in August.  Seems like a strange thing to do, especially so far away, but I did it, and I’m weirdly excited, without even knowing why.  That’s a lot of posts that need to write themselves to justify the weekend.  Shhh, don’t disturb me: Typing.

3.  Little Cove.  I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: you, my friend, are the best beach in the known world.  Except on high-tide.  Then you suck.  But otherwise: the CEO of Awesome.

No filter: this is the actual water colour…

4.  My new runners.  Hahaha just joking.  They also suck, because they represent almost two hundred bucks of potential pain.  You can stop looking at me right now shoes.  Back in your box.

5.  Thai fish cakes from The Seafood Market at Noosa Junction.  A delicious dinner for an inspired* chef, such as myself.  Heat ’em up, chuck with salad and a dipping sauce, and you are the Home Maker of the Week (voted by me).

*And by inspired, I mean shithouse.

So, tell me your hits…

A little ways down the road from me is a strange and wonderous megalopolous of twelve-karat golden glitter.  It is the home of water slides and movie stars, cocktails, karaoke, neon and flesh.  So much flesh.  Flesh available for viewing.  All day and night, and whether you like it or not.  Or so it seems.

This city hurries and hustles you from the moment you arrive til the moment you leave, and it feels like you never really get off the back foot, never really settle in, never catch up to where-ever it is going, before it’s time to pack up and take your scalded retinas back to your muted life.  Everything on the Gold Coast is bigger and louder and more.  At lease more than what I’m used to.

The first time I landed on the Goldy I had been on a bus for around twenty-four hours, with double that amount of Uni students, who had been drinking and primping and flirting with each other for ninteen of those hours.  I’m pretty sure someone copped a hummer on the back seat, and I’m definitely sure someone spewed in the onboard dunny, between Gundagai and Jugiong.  No amount of LouLou could expunge the odour.

I stumbled down the stairs blinking and sleep drunk, and straight onto the cacophony of fluorescence and 1cent drinks and sex shops and street spruikers that was the early 90s version Surfers Paradise.  There was apparently a beach where you could baste yourself ’til noon, and we did venture down there once, to see if the sand really was golden (it was the same pale beige of my own town) and if the water really was warm (it was, and I was startled by how delicious the lukewarm waves felt on my two day bender tender skin).

We stayed and played on the Goldy for one flimsy week, and we crammed like no exam we had ever had before: Ripley’s and Seaworld and Hire a Bomb to Kirra, and Cocktails and Dreams and Condom Kingdom and Vespas on the Highway, and umbrella hats to save our blowdried hair from the humid wet rain, and flashing signs and drunk and Georges Paragon “Yes Sir! Half price seafood” to finish.

We had a seminar as well, and even that was bigger and bolder, buffing itself up to a shine, as if in step with the ebullient excess.

I’ve been to the Gold Coast many times since, and I’m always struck by the other-ness of the place.  It is nothing like the rest of Australia, nor does it apologise.  The Goldy of the 2000s has grown up a little, but not easily, and not without angst.  The Gold Coast of now is like an excited and troubled adolescent, full of cheeky fun and anger all at once.  When I’m there I’m half excited and half frightened.  I think I’ll have a good time, I think I can wrangle those streets, but I just might be a bit careful, in case I get bitten.

So today, I got my tickets to Problogger, a bloggy seminar being held at the colourful QT and I’m beyond excited.  This cyber-world I inhabit is strange and exciting and very weird, and PB will be a chance for me to see, and possibly talk-with-voices to, some of my internet heroes in the flesh.  So much golden flesh.

Okay, now this is sounding creepy.  Maybe not too much flesh.

Have you ever been to the Gold Coast?

Are you going to Problogger?