THIS week I was told by a close mate that I was a "good egg, but definitely not a lady".
For the record, bud, thanks for that.
Growing up on a rural property with three brothers may not have helped.
I've been roughed up with the best of them.
In my family, after copping a ball to the face, you don't cry. You get back up and peg it straight back at them.
I can swing a punch, I appreciate footy and I love four-wheel-driving.
But there is one downfall to having so much testosterone floating around in one family.
Brothers are also a great deterrent for potential suitors.
The recipient of my first kiss was forever scarred after my brother Matt confronted him.
I had to move out of home to find a boyfriend.
To this day, home is not a place for the faint-hearted if you are dating me.
It only occurred to me recently that perhaps this rule doesn't apply to every family.
I was babysitting a young boy aged nine.
Let's call him Seth.
We had decided to chuck the ball around and, let's be honest, Seth did not have the best hand-eye co-ordination.
After numerous drops of the ball, I decided to go easy on the little guy.
In retrospect, perhaps logging the tennis ball at his head was not a prime example, because it did not improve his catching abilities.
The outburst of tears was enough to make any person with a heart stop and give him a cuddle.
I had finally convinced him to try again, when the exact same scenario unfolded before my eyes in a matter of minutes.
The second time he copped a ball square to the nose I couldn't help but laugh.
I never got that babysitting gig again.
I can just imagine what little Seth's mother thinks of me now.
There's an inherent value in having older brothers. It toughens you up immeasurably, and you have a different definition of hurt.
Procreate people, older brothers are the greatest preparation for life.
On the other hand, I have a few openings this week for anyone needing a babysitter.