Saturday, August 29, 2009


These past few weeks have culminated in today.

This day that finally broke me. I knew I was a beaten woman when Miley Cyrus and her irritating climbing the mountain song came on and I didn’t even swat her away.

I just no longer tried to stop the flood of frustration that has been building up.

It started with Mums cancer diagnosis. I am too much of a technotard to give you a link, but if you scroll down the side, you can click on the The C Word to read about this.

This threw us for a six because even though she’s 75, mum to us, was indestructible. To be told she has brain, colon, liver and lung tumours was a massive wake up call to both my brother and myself.

The good news is she had her brain operation Thursday and was out asking the (hot) male nurse for a cup of tea within 10 minutes of waking and giving him cheek about his longish blond hair. Did I mention he was hot. Check. What comes next for Mum? Time is a great teller.

What has been an eye opener is the hospital on a day to day basis. The vast array of people that make the place run, the social classes of people who are patients and the delightful people that have presented themselves along the way (I say this in both a truthful and facetious manner)

The true delights have been the nurses who take my mothers dentures from my hands and won’t hear my protests about me being able to clean them so they can do it themselves. Who go beyond their duties as nurses because they want to. Who make sure Mum is happy and cared for and loved when she may be feeling lonely or scared.
Too, there is a lovely man, not much older than myself with three adorable children who was in the hospital in the same situation as Mum. Cancer riddled. A teacher. A lovely member of society and from the small glimpse I got, a great dad and husband. A man worthy of the highest praise for the way he was handling his situation.

The other “delightful” people have both disgusted and intrigued me.

The most disturbing moment came when an elderly yet distinguished lady who was in a bed beside mum was 20 minutes from going into her operation (similar to mum, brain tumour removal) was once again, down having a fag with her daughter. When she came back to the ward to the staff searching for her, she complained of chest pains and was refused surgery until the following week.

Her daughter then starting ranting and crying and complaining. Um, hello fuckhead, you took your mother downstairs for a cigarette, not 20 minutes before major brain surgery and now you are calling the the nurse a bitch?

So many similar incidents which just boggle the mind.

One where a patient abused the nurse because she wet the bed and the nurse was trying to get it sorted out. The abuse that continued was as none I’ve heard. The real “C” word and fucking useless bitch etc etc. The nurse cut her hand still trying to attend to her and ended up fleeing in tears. I know how much Nurse’s get paid and let me tell you, it’s nowhere near enough.

Next in our own personal experiment of “How many times can the Morley’s visit a QLD Health establishment in 14 days” were Sam and his 5 rounds with the school playground.

Friday rolls around and it’s one of the only days I pick up 7yo Sam after school. There he is, last child to be picked up WITH A MASSIVE EGG on the side of his eye. No incident report. No note in the bag. Just Sam in his very direct manner telling me he ate it on the step bar after trying to jump from the monkey bar to the step.
Doc’s gave it the all clear but over the next 4 days, he turned into the beaten child. Many stolen glances by concerned citizens at the shops were had. It could have been worse. He could have broken his eye socket. I think there was a fine line between the two.

Two days later, M the 9 year old, develops some icky looking things around her mouth. Being the doting mother that I am, I pass them off as cold sores even though she’d never had one in her life. When they multiplied and crusted her nose over (I know and I am sorry) I knew we were in for bigger and better things. So after leaving a visit to Mum at 7pm, we went to the doctor and were given the diagnosis of impetigo (school sores). The doctor also most more than likely made notes about her 7yo brother and his now purple eye shadowed eye. He did question him as to how he got it. I looked like I had stepped out of the insane asylum with my frizz ball hair at 8pm mode and a feral 9yo who doesn’t wash her hands.

He probably dialled DOCS the minute we walked out. Anyway the 9yo received many lectures regarding cleanliness, bum picking etc.

Days off were had and antibiotics were our friends.

Next in our own personal hurricane came her exorcist moment.

M the 9 year old complained of feeling sick about 4 days later. As I’m sure all good working mothers do, I kissed her goodbye at the school gates and told her she’d feel better once she saw her friends. Nope.

I got half a day at work before the phone call came – in sick bay looking pasty. Mother of the Year Academy is having my plaque made up as I type.

She was fine. DVD’s rented, no food consumed (which should have told me all I need to know – this girl does usually not stop eating). That night whilst in the kitchen, I hear the urgent “Mum, Mum!!!!”

“What?” Me exasperated

“I’m vomiting” She yells back.

After surveying the situation, all I can think is that she stood in one spot and twisted her head 360 degrees and hurled. Or did a roundhouse kick whilst spewing. Only two options I can think of.

There was green chunky spew EVERYWHERE. Everywhere except in the vicinity of the toilet bowl. Apparently feeling sick at lunchtime had not stopped her from eating her blue heaven quench drink and lasagne. The evidence presented itself in front of me.
She leaked from the top and the bottom (mid grocery-shop) intermittently over the next 4 days.

Next was me. The flu. Or some variation of this. As I am a woman and we just get on with this stuff, all you need to know is that yes, my throat and ears hurt like they are giving birth and I have no voice left. But I will solider on. Being maters – it’s what we do best.

Last but not least is my 7 year old Sammy – who’s has boils. On his bum. Started as one but has multiplied today. Off to the doctor. Same doc who saw him with the black eyes. Comments he looks better today. Checks all is AOK at home. Holy crap, he thinks we live in a domestic situation. Yes thanks. This was not helped when doc was inspecting bum boils and 7yo tells him “don’t slice my doodle”. Fucking What? Ok give me the script, the two snake lollies and let’s get the hell home.

Where by the way, we have been building not only a deck but a whole new add-on for Mum to come and live in. We haven’t even started discussing tile colours. I don’t have the strength that requires.

Hence the day’s end and the Miley Cyrus incident. She broke me but like she says – It’s the Climb. Or the foetal position. Which ever works.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009


Unless they’re nudists.

It’s almost like we’ve hit the jackpot with our little street where we live.

We bought this house for the position near the water and the fact that we were after an “easy” renovator. Our intention, to live in it for a year and renovate around ourselves and then sell for a huge profit. We are still here 2.5 years later.

This is the first time we’ve ever planned, in our lives to do anything. All three kids, unplanned. 1st House, unplanned. 2nd house – moved to over an hour from my work. Hmm. Again, not well thought out.

Our move back to the Gold Coast however, was very planned. We investigated and watched the market and knew where we wanted to be. But then we looked at 45 overpriced houses and we got desperate and we happened across this house, a deceased estate, with orange shag-pile carpet and most notably, one freaking toilet. Inexplicably, we had to have it. It is the size of a gingerbread house. It had three bedrooms for 5 people (close together). One toilet. One bathroom. One miniscule old person’s kitchen. A massive fucking shed. SOLD

So many ideas we had. Phil’s dad being an architect drew up plans immediately with add ons, parents’ retreats, Bali huts, a pool and a deck out the front. Then we got real. These things weren’t going to happen straight away. We both worked. We had a 6 month old baby. Ripping up the shagpile for timber floors would have to do for now.
We have done a few things. We have rendered, fenced and refurbished the bathroom and toilet. Mostly though, we’ve started a lot of shit and not finished it.

Unexpectantly though is the street full of friends we have acquired.

I grew up on a street where most of us played, lived in each other’s pockets and kids raided each other’s cupboards. I didn’t think that existed in modern Australia. Until we moved here.

The first home we purchased was in Labrador. My brother who is a policeman and at the time worked in the Southport watch house, feared for our lives. He knew where all the “undesirables” lived.

Didn’t matter, we loved the Broadwater, it was within our budget and we were keen to renovate in bright blue and yellows and be home (mortgage) owners.
Little did we know, along with the asbestos roof, we were also gaining a nudist, a staunch racist, young crazy, Jehovah’s witnesses and an old gay man in denial who was a serial water waster.

First up: Shirley – The staunch racist. Shirley was of course, part of the Shirley club. She would also, at every point possible, tell me how much the Asians “gooks”, gays “poofters”, New Zealanders “dirty Maoris” and Americans “yanks” had somehow ruined her day, month, year. I was usually accosted when hanging out the washing. What should have been a routine chore, was often a calculated mission to avoid the Nazi loving 76 year old.

Then we discovered the Nudist. It came early when again; I was hanging out washing and heard someone clear their throat. My natural instinct was to look in that direction. That led me to him, standing naked in his door frame very casual-like. Gag.
Not sure of his name as that would have involved me having a conversation with the weirdo. His naive’ or stupid wife used to bring me over chocolates at Christmas and ask me to “leave the kids with her if I needed” oblivious to the fact that her wacked out husband was often on the roof in the nude checking out the teens in the apartments behind us complete with binoculars and esky.
Stanley the in-denial-gay man was the Mrs Mangel of Labrador. He knew everything that went down. Mainly because he watered his garden all day long and when that wasn’t close enough to the action, he watered the bitumen – in the middle of the highest water restrictions ever. Stanley was clearly gay. Clear to everyone but him. Stanley was alright though and could always keep us up to date when there was any gunfire in the street.
And that did happen one night.

So came out decision to leave the lovely first home we managed to partially renovate.

The next house we moved near friends and it was a neighbourhood of planned street parties and awesome views. My mother was getting on and work commitments brought us back to the sandy strip of the Gold Coast.

Alas this brings me back to our little street we now call home. The street we, even though, space wise and monetary wise would probably be better off leaving, we cannot.

We have made friends with most of our neighbours (except for the 20 year old dipshits renting on one side of us who have ridiculous parties til 6am) Hey we are pretty easy going people, but when you party like the world is ending, 10 weekends in a row, we become a little uncool. My only revenge was to play Hot Potato on repeat on max volume directly at their windows the morning after. It worked. They’ve been oh so quiet ever since.

We have a great bunch of varied people who help each other out, the kids can play and we can have a drink and a laugh.

I think this is Australian surburia how it was intended.

Saturday, August 22, 2009


I fear for the future of our little ones.

I was introduced tonight the 5 newbies that make up the 2009 version of Hi-5 and it unsettled me.

Wasn’t it enough that we had to transition from Greg to Sam in the wiggles. And let me tell you Wiggles people, as lovely as Sam is, he’s not Greg and he just doesn’t wear the yellow skivvy with quite the same loveliness that our fearless Greg did. Sure we still get to wake up Geoff and watch Anthony become an Australian Body Building contestant, but well things have changed.

I digress.

The change in lineup means only one thing. The old Hi-5’ers are too old. That means I too am too old.

I mean when I first witnessed the Chinese torture method that is L.O.V.E. sung by the gang when I was in my mid 20’s, I wondered what the hell was going on? By my 6th watch, I was absentmindedly singing along. This progressed to purchasing it on Cd so we could get the goodness of the bunch on our travels as well.

Hi-5 drives me insane. So why am I mourning the change?

Because the familiar is comforting. The familiar is home. Nathan the crazy was my home. Well not my home but I could count on him to overexert himself and overact every move he made. I could count on him and his prematurely balding wiry/curly headed hair to take up my TV screen most mornings.

More importantly I could count on them at various times during all of my children's lives, to keep them entertained.

First to leave was Kathleen. The Asian Girl. The prettiest girl in my opinion. She was funky, smart and talked ALOT to Jup Jup.

If you have never seen Hi-5, then an explanation of Jup-Jup is difficult. Let’s assume Jup Jup the 4 legged purple octopus puppet is a male. He’s clearly a puppet – even to the target audience of children. He also sounds kind of deaf. The purpose of Jup Jup is to constantly steal shit and randomly shout his own name.

Kathleen got married and had a baby. She was replaced by a girl called Sun. Sun didn’t make the cut to the new generation.

Then came Tim. Tim was my favourite. During my lean years, I would have considered him a doable prospect. He had great arms, wasn’t mental like Nathan and had a uncanny ability to wear silver mesh singlets and still pull it off.

Tim’s departure came on the heels of having a bad motorcycle accident that basically screwed him up. Hard to the robot dance to Robot Number 1 when you can’t walk.

Then came Charli – Sweet, lovable - hawt Charli. Most dads watched Hi-5 because of Charli. And along came her announcement, she’s bailing this sinking ship man. She was off to host adult entertainment shows. Was channel 9 bringing back Dirtiest Home Videos? 20-1 Hot and Heavy moments? Either way, she’s been very notably absent since she quit.

After that was Kellie. Kellie was once engaged to Nathan. They once had a very public spat at the logies. It was fantastic there for a while. Wait on, no it wasn’t.
Kellie really showed us she was finished swinging her hips for the kids when she got her girls out for the every classy Ralph magazine. Sure, she's messed up some 4 year olds who inadvertantly glanced over dad's shoulder, but we have been left in no doubt - Kellie means business. If business means flashing your tits that is. She did however play an integral part in the dancing and the singing. North South East and West just wouldn’t have been the same.

Nathan. Nathan the Crazy. Nathan Foley. Last man standing. He wasn’t going down without a fight. Ok, well he was, he just didn’t know it. Reportedly, he was the last to know he’d been replaced by a younger, better looking, lesser paid, more stable guy. For all of his over-acting, ridiculously overextended moves, Hi-5 was Nathan and Nathan was Hi-5.

So they’re gone. Lauren, Casey, Fely (dont’ even start me) Tim and Stevie are the new Hi-5.
Cute. Wait til they hook up and it all goes south.

All new parents who have children now will only know the new version and they’ll no doubt appreciate the fact they are relieved of parenthood. Just for those few fleeting moments when their child gets engrossed by the fun times and hidden subliminal messages that no doubt include – channel 9 is cool – but it’s like the 80’s. It can’t be redone. So stop wearing bubble dresses and hoop earrings people.

The original is always the best.

Saturday, August 15, 2009


I Wish I could Unworry, just like Angus Sampson tells me to in the NRMA ads and not care that the DVD’s don’t go back to the store on time.

But I do, yet I find it physically impossible to return them on time. We go out at least once a day. At least, so what part of my mind controls this blockage?

In fact, I don’t feel like I’m hiring a movie unless they ask me if I want to fix up my late fees at the same time.

Our worst ever late fee was $92. I have no fucking idea what special movie this was to warrant us to keep it for a month. Probably Wiggles goes bananas.
I sit here writing this and in front of me are last weeks weeklys and last nights Overnight dvd’s.

I know these will not be returned tonight. I know because my husband is over the neighbours drinking beer. I am having a beer and we, if not responsible when it comes to the hire and return of movies, are law abiding citizens when it comes to drink driving.

So I am going to get some Un in my life – I think though it may be Un-rich.

Friday, August 14, 2009


My husband is having an affair.

Her name is Bunnings Warehouse. She not only robs me of my time with my husband, she sucks our bank balance dry.

When marriage becomes legal to inanimate objects, I will prepare to say goodbye.

I’m sure I am not alone.

Doing my husbands tax this year, I entered in his receipts as per their dates. It appears he was there, oh 335 out of 365 days. Oh and if you needs some nuts or bolts, we are sure to be able to supply you with the goods as he gets some EVERY FUCKING TIME HE IS THERE.

Look even as a woman I see the allure of Bunnings. It has EVERYTHING. It’s a man’s idea of Heaven whilst the Myer Shoe department, his idea of hell.

I’m sure he wills the lightbulbs in our house to explode so he has a legitimate reason to trot off down the road to grab a replacement. And geez who doesn’t need 18 packets of concrete in the shed at any one particular time?

Bunnings is his crack and granted there are worse things he could be doing. Like having an actual affair for instance. Or doing actual crack.

The C Word

My mum has cancer.

We learned this yesterday for sure.

Now mum is 75 and I would normally be the first one to say something like “Well they’ve had a long life or you’ve got to die of something” but I think I’m going to learn the hard way that age is irrelevant when you’re going to miss someone you love most.

I’m well aware this sounds like she has already been defeated by cancer and we are giving up. We are not.

Unfortunately however, there are two tumours in her brain. It has travelled from the colon, to the liver then to the brain. The most bizarre thing being she only just got a symptom (loss of use of her right hand) last week. These masses have been living in her body for god knows how long and she hasn’t felt off for one day of it.

So now mum will face treatment options – if any and the long path trodden by so many, too many people, young, old and in between.

My mum was made for having children. She was the mum who used to wake us up as babies to play with us. She also could not have children of her own so my brother and I were adopted at birth.

I’m sure people wonder if you share the same bond when you don’t share the same blood. I would say yes. Parenting is about love, not the egg and seed.

I hold absolutely no malice for my birth mother. The 70's were a different time with different ideals. I’m grateful she gave birth to me. There was always the alternative.

So my brother and I were lucky enough to be adopted by Betty . And although her life saw an semi-abusive alcoholic husband and single parenthood, she always put us first. Through everything, she taught us respect and the value of all things right. (So much so my brother became a policeman after watching waaay too many Hunter episodes) We didn’t always like her strict ways but who likes anything their parents says when they are 18?

Then there are the grandchildren. My 3 children and my brothers daughter are Mum’s life. They have kept her young and given her a reason to laugh, cry and basically still feel alive.

She has played a massive part in their lives and has looked after all three of mine whilst I returned to work. It is an unrepayable debt.

It now breaks my heart that she will more than likely not get to see my 9yo daughter graduate, follow my 7yo’s path in life and live to see whether my 2yo just has the terrible 2’s or like we joke, he’ll be juvie by the time he’s 12.

We have told our children nothing. Sam, who I previously posted about who as aspergers saw Mum after her battery of tests and broke down and cried when she was leaving for no reason. “I’m going to miss you Grandma” and clung to her leg. 6th Sense? To say we all lost it is an understatement.

Dear Cancer,

I hope you a one day a mere history lesson we teach kids in school.

Monday, August 10, 2009


So further to the post below, we are back from the Ekka.

Miraculously there was no vomit although I have one very ordinary 9yo laying in our bed moaning (self-inflicted freddo overdose)

I in my wisdom, decided a day at the Ekka was simply not enough. We needed to take what can only be described as a micro-break and stay in the city that is Brisbane the night before.

Now what's a trip to Brisbane from the Gold Coast without a detour to Ikea? It's a travesty that's what it is.

We started our visit by making the obligatory toilet break and taking the 2 year old first in same cubicle with me. He being two, insists on doing EVERYTHING himself. Like getting onto the toilet seat like spiderman whilst peeing the entire time. Like pulling down his own undies. Like flushing the toilet. So when all of these things were going awry in the Ikea toilets I decided to lend a hand. This resulted in his best Big boy voice "DON'T TOUCH MY DOODLE"

Righteo, so off we went looking for a new laundry. We walked out with 3 dishbrushes, 4 baskets, 2 sets of mini utensils and a paper light.
Load up the car, manoeuvre our way through the nightmare that is Brisbane. Unload the car, up we go to the magnificent 27th floor of the Evolution Apartments.

Oh and it was at this point I realised we had left the stroller in MY car - AT HOME. No problem, Brisbane CBD is bound to sell cheapie strollers. - NOT FUCKING SO.

My idea was to get an old peoples grocery trolley and stand him up for the day. Funnily enough Mr Morley thought that idea sucked.

We stayed in the great street of Tank. Tank Street tickled my funnybone for no particular reason. Until we got there and the street was shut. Oh and it kinda looked like it was a mini ghetto. No going out at night for us then.

The day of the Ekka dawned v. early as it aways does with a 2yo who doesn't believe in sleeping past when the sparrow farts.

Lovely day, great weather. Still no stroller.

We drive, pay out of our arse for parking and go in the Ekka doors.

We head a) to the ATM and b) to the stroller hire centre.

ATM - Easy.

Stroller Hire Centre - Awkward.

Um really unsure how to approach the inappropriateness that happened here. So guy who gives us our 1950's style pram. He starts talking to me and it's clear he's a few stubbies short. Cool, no problem, until he starts telling me of his ex-wife and his kids who are in foster homes because they have been accused of doing the wrong thing. Hurry up Phil, Hurry Up Phil, Hurry up Phil.

That disturbing start was the last of the weirdness for the day.

It did however involve us paying up to $8 for a semi-scary ride. It involved us paying $5 to place balls down the clowns gullet for a very shite toy and it involved us cutting side show alley very short.

So we roamed the free stuff. Loving the science pavilion, the QLD government pavilion giving out free fruit, free showbags and free "Your day in Court" books for the kids. Thank Christ for that. Where else was I going to go for that sort of vital info?

Dagwood dogs were consumed and largely digested so it was time for the Showbag Pavilion. Knocked it over in 20 minutes. Pirates Ahoy, Transformers and Zoe 101 and we were GORNE.

All in all, the kids had a great day, we well, we will sleep well tonight and the duties of the big show are over for another 5 years.

Sunday, August 9, 2009


We are off, as a family to stay in Brisbane tonight and get up the next day and attend the Ekka. I'm writing this pre-Ekka because at this stage I am amped.

Not sure why I get more excited about this than everyone else, but I do.

So even though I know we will waste copious amounts of money tomorrow on nothing that lasts longer than two day (toys included) I think the kids need to live the magic of the The Brisbane Show. It shits all over the Gold Coast Show (no disrespect, just the truth)

So this time Tuesday I should be back to complete this somewhat unexciting post. I expect to have tales of

1. Showbags

2. Tears

3. Vomiting

4. Steak Sandwiches

5. The freaky clown -ball- mouth game

6. Failure to win a massive soft toy

7. Tears

8. Vomiting

9. Tipping the stroller with bulky showbags

10. A cow shit incident

At the very least.

Friday, August 7, 2009



It’s official. We suck at owning animals. Full Stop. I give up and will never harass my all knowing, all seeing husband again.

See it’ me who endlessly bangs on about the kids “needing” to grow up with a pet and how this animal will complete our large family that is already packed into a house the size of an eggshell.

So when Puss, our 8 year old well, puss we adopted from the animal welfare league in June, went missing last week, I officially resigned as chief pet campaigner.

Poor Puss. Lovely kitty cat. She dribbled a lot and was shit scared of the 2 year old when he had his Power Ranger kit on but all in all she loved hanging out on our bed, sleeping, fouling up the kitty litter tray and eating. And it truly surprises me that she’s nicked off. I mean where’s she going to get a better gig? It’s warm, food on tap and has endless scratches under the chin.

9yo daughter is truly devastated and made up very savvy Missing posters and taped them on the lamp posts. This led to one phone call where the neighbour tried to catch another neighbour’s cat and got the shit scratched out of her for her troubles. To her credit, the tabby cats do look v. Much the same.

As a kid, I grew up with a ginger cat named Timmy. We got him as a kitten when I was in grade 1. In proportion to the amount I loved Timmy, he inexplicably hated me. I mean seriously wanted to maim me.

He would lie in the bushes in wait for me and me only. I would run gaily down the back yard talking to my imaginary friends, rullie and chullie (whole other story) and Timmy would pounce and bring me down with a cat styled ankle tap. Didn’t matter that he scratched my forearms to tiny shreds when I tried to force him to sleep in my bed each night, I loved him. And we had him til he died of old age.

We also had Ralph, the long range pisser bitsa dog. Where ever you were standing, Ralph had the amazing ability to pee and hit you with amazing bullseye abilities. He too lived to the ripe old age of 13.

Puss was not our first addition.

First came whiskers. A very cute ginger fluffy kitten we adopted from the Merrimac RSPCA. Whiskers was great. Until the ringworm. The ringworm that passed on to our extended family and friends. They were ever so grateful. We tried to get her treated, however it got to the point where I was steam cleaning the walls, canestining the wash and it was STILL not going away. Husband took whiskers back to the RSPCA. I know this sounds lame and the easy way out, but after having 3 weeks off work home with quarantined children, we knew what we had to do.

It took a full year to convince my husband we could handle another animal. We went back to the pound and picked out another, 1 year old ginger cat. Imaginatively named, Whiskers 2. Whiskers the 2nd did alright. Sure he tried to suck the life out of you when you slept and often brought in snakes as special presents but he sort of just lived his life. He wasn’t a particularly loving cat and the kids got over being mauled by him quite quickly.

When we were between house settlements and had nowhere to take him, we asked my Mum if she would take her for 6 weeks. She happily agreed and so began the end for Whiskers 2.

Within a week, mum requested we take her far far away. I think it may have been the massive catshit that was expertly delivered Mr Whippy style in the centre of her bed that was the final straw. So Whiskers 2 went back to the pound. It’s official – we suck.

Thirdly I worked on my husband to make him believe what we truly needed was a dog. I wanted a Jack Russell; he wanted a manly dog, a big dog, A Golden Retriever. So Max the puppy Golden Retriever arrived. He was in a word – beautiful.

I knew he was going to get big. I knew he would need training. I knew they were notoriously a bit lame brained. We hit the trifecta with Max. The day he knocked our 2 year old on his butt and onto the concrete after numerous attempts at training, the decision to keep Max was taken from hands and we found Max a farm and another dog to go live with. I’m not talking the metaphorical farm; I mean the true acreage with lots to do and limitless running. That was heartbreaking and although I spent more time with Max than the kids did, they took it very hard. We that day, became the WORST parents on earth.

As I write this, I am beginning to see my husband’s reluctance. I must have had a selective memory when it comes to all things animal related and now ban myself officially from attaining another animal. Cuff me now officer.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009


It’s probably no surprise that the rate my arse spreading across this chair is in direct proportion to the time I am sitting on this computer.

At 34, it’s starting to hit home that age is not going to be my friend nor will I be escaping it.

I’ve, I guess always been one of the lucky ones.

Apart from my obsession with the gym and aerobics in year 11 and 12 where I got so hooked I would attend 2 lessons a day in my bright orange Cheetah g-string leotard – gag - ride my bike everywhere and eat only corn and peas, I’ve never been all that into keeping fit.

Mind you, I’d get home from school or work and more than likely eat half the container of lasagne mum had prepared. I was like a bulimic who didn’t hurl afterwards – redundant. I don’t think I was super sharp at this point in my life.

Generally from then on in, once I got comfortable with myself I was always a reasonable size,
rarely exercised, ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted and would fit into my jeans every time winter rolled around. Even after 3 kids. Not this time. There’s probably a lot of “suck shit bitch” going on at this point.

We don’t own scales but I do have this thing called common sense and I can tell everything is getting tighter. Around my arse, around my stomach (donut gut) and most disturbingly my arms. Bingo wings are now my reality. This has been a somewhat fast progression.

The thing is I know I’m not interested in going to a gym. Firstly because I have zero time to do this. Secondly they are a rort. Thirdly, well I don’t have a thirdly but I think I gymed myself out at 18. I could no more flail around on a reebok aerobics steps than enjoy watching an Anthony Robbins seminar.

I have discovered the walk-run – thanks Lana. I think there is a more technical name, but basically you walk more than you run. Run in short bursts, get’s the heart going. Increase ratio as you do more and bingo, fitness and weight loss. I intend to start this properly – next week.

More importantly is food. And the fact that I eat the wrong stuff. I have never eaten well. It’s never mattered before. Working next to the best Chinese and Fish and Chips on the Gold Coast has not helped matters nor has the fact that I have discovered I like to cook and then eat said cooking.

I know I don’t have the will power to go on a Tony Ferguson style diet (hate shakes) and would last 1 week before I drove through Maccas for a McFeast. So thinking I just need to modify.

The damage I have done to my skin is also going to present itself from now on in.

Living on the Gold Coast all of my life, I don’t think I started to wear sunscreen until in my 20’s. I can’t count the amount of times I had sunburn that resulted in us having competitions of who could peel the largest layer or 2nd degree burnt skin of our backs.

When I hit my teens and we were at the beach every day, not only did we not wear sunscreen, we tried to enhance our tan with baby oil and olive oil. What in the fuck were we thinking? Then again there was Al the suntan man who sprayed on oil for a living in Surfers Paradise, so we knew no better – our only defence.

Further to that, I have never had anything waxed, plucked, sucked or injected. I had my first pedicure at age 31. I have only had one set of false nails at my year 12 formal which I went about setting on fire with a lighter during the night of drunken stupidness. Grey hairs sprout in my hair more often than I shower and I can only imagine I will one day give in and give up and be one of those weird mums’s who only 37 picking up her kids looking like a hobo.

A lot of my friends are already 40 and they look freaking amazing.

Living on the Gold Coast, the illusion is everyone is plastic, has fake norks, tummy tucks, bronzed skin, platinum hair and Botox. To some that is the simple truth.

I get now why people go to these extremes, they don’t want to age. Whereas I will look like distressed leather bag when I hit 50, a lot of other women will have had the work done to look more like a shiny Louis Vuitton. I’m cool with that. Hope my husband is. If not, I guess I’ll either come home to a red sports car in the garage or 23 year old smoko chick draped around him one day.

Anyway time to get off this chair, run 10 km’s and eat a grapefruit. Like hell, I’m just going to refill my coffee cup.

Saturday, August 1, 2009


Went grocery shopping today. It is the bane of my existence.

Hate it with a passion. Actually drove half the Gold Coast today trying to figure out which Woolies was going to be the least painful.

Tried to get a park at Westfield Helensvale. Couldn't. Gave up. Glad because it's full of teenage gangs who I fear will assault me with their incredibly coiffed hair.

Second attempt - Harbour Town - cars lined up like a carpark waiting for a carpark. No thanks.

Third attempt - Runaway Bay shops. My usual. Three times round the carpark, wait on old couple to pack their 50 thousand parcels into their car and in we go.

Now I usually do have the luxury of doing this sans children. Today I lucked out as H has do his brothers plumbing.

Sometimes I think I do sabotage myself. Why else would I buy them frozen cokes and Macccas BEFORE we walk into the grocery store. When I jack em up on the good stuff, what do I expect?

It wasn't the fights over who got to hold the pancake shake mix and make pretend pancakes in the newly purchased fry pan that sent me over the edge, it wasn't even waiting at the deli from number 41 until number 64 came up (I shit you not), nor was it the beyotch who said v. loudly. "You need extra patience when coming to these places don't you"? whilst staring directly as my son. No it was the simple fact that no one would stay left unless overtaking.

I can deal with my demanding children, other peoples kids squealing, the long queues at the checkout (my magazine catch up time) and the humongous bill at the end. What gets me is it is nearly impossible to just shop, admire, choose without grabbing the first dip I see. I have people up my arse the entire time I am there and no one can get through because no one keeps left.

People, think of it like being on the highway. If you don't need to go fast, keep left and stroll. Otherwise overtake at the next opportune and SAFE moment.