My dinosaur moment

You know you’re getting old when LinkedIn tells you TikTok is looking for a Head of Communications and it feels like the alert has been written in a foreign language.

I mean, I know what TikTok is … sort of … I think it’s an app featuring videos of people dancing in sync … am I right? But I don’t know why or how it’s so huge. I don’t understand why anyone wants to watch other people dancing in sync. And I can’t imagine actually making a TikTok video myself, though I keep seeing giggling gaggles of teenagers filming themselves in the park.

So I don’t think I’m the right person for the job. Actually I’m a little startled that it IS a job.

It was my dinosaur moment, though not of the triceratops position kind … yep, any excuse to mention the time 7000 people clicked on a HouseGoesHome blog post in a 24-hour period.

Speaking of which, I noticed that it’s the third anniversary of a blogger called I Know I Need to Stop Talking becoming a viral sensation with a post called “Um, Original Source… can we talk?”

Actually, it’s called something with the “f” word in it, but my tamer version will suffice for more delicate readers, whom I would advise not to click on the link if easily offended. In a nutshell, the blogger traumatised her nether regions by lathering them with a mint and tea tree oil body wash.

The post included sentences such as: “MY FLAPS WERE ON F#@$ING FIRE. I had a quick look at the ingredients list to see if it contained gasoline. It did not. There was a warning though. ‘KEEP AWAY FROM EYES.’ Keep away from eyes? KEEP AWAY FROM EYES? Frankly, my eyes were the least of my problems right now.”

The author recently noted: “Over the course of the next week, that little tiny blog post would be reproduced in news outlets across the globe, and would be read by over thirty million people.”

She describes it as her #celebrityflaps moment and she’s now a best-selling author.

I had a similar experience with a menthol body wash in DD’s shower last year, but I was late to the party, didn’t take a photo and I’m not nearly as funny as I Know I Need To Stop Talking. So I remain a suburban toiler with a pathological fear of blue shower gel and no publisher.

I’m also a bit nervous about discussing such intimate matters in public, as everyone from my mother’s friends to members of DD’s family read HouseGoesHome … though I once wrote a post about giving myself a Brazilian wax with a Bruce Willis spin.

And yet, no book deal.

Go figure.

As for all the other whacked bits of my life, from the eldest blowing Ventolin down loo roll tubes into the nostrils of rats with respiratory problems and taking them on secret holidays to Bluesfest, to the youngest being an Australian skipping champion – you’d think it would have makings of a best seller. But let’s toss that idea in the lottery win basket, as I’ve put zero effort into either get-rich scheme.

Catch you tomorrow, I have caffeine to procure and dogs to walk.



Song of the day: Irene Cara “Fame”

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