Sunday, February 28, 2010


It’s official. My days of heavy duty drinking will have to be curbed. I just don’t have the iron guts I once had.

Take Friday night. An impromptu Friday afternoon drink turned into 2 beers and a bottle of wine. And I was not well the next day. Neither was Phil. And look, it’s not like we don’t ever drink. We will mostly have a drink each night, although there have been many plans of attack to give up school night drinking. All have been thwarted. But our biggest mistake on Friday was to drink on empty stomachs. Classic rookie mistake, only thing is, I'm no rookie.

In fact, my drinking days started when I was 14. Yep, I'm not proud of this and I will personally book my child into the nearest Celine Dion appreciation course as punishment should I ever catch them doing what I did. And when I say I started drinking, I should clarify, it was a one off. We got stuck into my best friends’ parents Gin they kept proudly on display,in a nifty pottery bottle. We, being the smart little chickens we were, hastily filled the bottle back up with water, then proceeded to knock over the Webber BBQ out the back, scoop up the black embers back in, and then run our black hands down their hallway walls. All of course, whilst my friend’s parents were trusting us to stay home and watch New Kids on the Block Videos and eat popcorn. Trust fail.

Then of course, we hit the big leagues around the age of 18. I remember being first year out of school, my first full time job and just going out every Friday, Saturday and Sunday night. We could back that shit up like a tip truck driver, our livers were so fresh. Sure, some Monday mornings I was more than a little green and even overheard this conversation once “She’s looks like shit” (Girl I work with to my boss). “You’ve got to give her credit for turning up but” (My boss’s response). It didn’t help that I worked at a very social office or that they provided us with a limousine account. It was just too easy.

So they were the big days of mass drinking but now, well since I had children, my options and my willingness to feel like 10 shades of shit has waned.

My last really big one was my 30th birthday. We went out to a restaurant in Surfers and then about 20 of us wandered on to an Irish Pub where our friend was playing in the bar. I think the fact that it finished with my husband practically having to fireman carry me back to our friends car and only just making it onto the lawn in time to hurl, sums it up really. The next day I don’t believe I surfaced until dinner time.

Thankfully God invented McDonalds shortly after he invented hangovers. I know, a fresh watermelon, apple and carrot juice would probably do me the world of good, but all I ever want is GREASE. Just handover the hash brown and nobody gets hurt.

So this could be the complete feeling like a piece of crap talking, but I hereby am slowing down on the wine consumption. At least during the week. I reckon if I put it on paper, it will be harder for me to make excuses. You know the ones, those excuses we all make to justify what we know we are doing is wrong. Like - oh two out of three kids have seen the inside of the ER this month, I reckon a beer or three on a Tuesday is perfectly acceptable. What about a drink with dinner on the way to the movies? That doesn’t hurt right?
Or maybe I just need to realise my binge drinking days need to be over. Before we both waste another Saturday watching the kids whizz by the doorway, only to stop intermittently and scream some sort of food order at us.
At least til one of us turn 40 anyway.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010


I’ve mentioned before, but if you’re new here, I’ll play it again Sam. Ok enough with the in-jokes that amuse me only.

Sam, our seven year old is/has Aspergers. This can be so different for every kid, but mainly with Sam, we see him zone in on one particular fixation. For years, it has been trains. And to be honest, Trains have not been completely wiped off the obsession map just yet.

I mean, who could forget our Planes, Trains and Automobiles adventure up the Train Museum in Ipswich for his 6th birthday. At the crack of dawn, we descended on the local train station (he was already in heaven) to take a trip to Brisbane City. Then we caught another train to Ipswich. Hell unto itself. Then, 3 hours later, we boarded a bus that took us to the Museum. All whilst Jack who was about 2, went tantrum city on our ass and decided he’d like nothing better than to show us how far his lungs could actually stretch.

That aside, the train museum in Ipswich is certainly fun for the kidlets. Getting there and back – not so much.

Anyway, of late, well since Mum’s funeral, Sams major obsession has been death and everything that goes along with it. Ashes, coffins, funerals, you name it; he wants to chat about it. And not at the most appropriate times. For instance, the other day we were discussing at kindy a kid who had the flu. His first response to the mother I was talking to “Did she die?”

Kindy Mum: “No, she was just a little bit sick”.

Sam: “So you never go to the coffin stage then?”.

Kindy Mum: “Um, no” Awkward pause and exit stage left.

See, rightly so, Mum’s funeral was the first one Sam ever attended. At the beginning of the service, he seemed to be OK. He chose to sit with my best friend and her children which was fine with me. The service started and I turned to check he was OK. His crushed, crying face was all I could see. He completely lost it, so I went up and brought him back to the front with us. He continuously sobbed throughout the entire process. Which in turn, made the rest of those attending, equally lose it. How much more heartbreaking does it get?

He has often spoken about the funeral. Often had a cry. He has the four songs that were at Mum’s service on his iPod. Most notably - Isn’t She Lovely by Stevie Wonder. He often busts that out randomly in public places.

When we got his boggle eyed, black goldfish, Seabushy, he kissed the bowl on the first night and said “See you Seabushy, I Hope you don’t die during the night”. Then he turned to me and said “If he does Mum, can we have a funeral?”

Eventually, well, two weeks later, Seabushy did die and we did have a burial in the backyard and he provided a private service complete with music by Michael Buble’ (I just haven’t met you yet). What gives?

He asks about Ashes and what we will be doing with Grandmas. He asks about where the Coffins come from. He asks me if Grandmas feet got cold before she died. Holy batwings, batman.

I guess my only worry is this will become just an obsession and not a reality to him. Does he really get what it all means? I think he does. Sometimes I’ll find him having a little cry in his room. Often he says he’s just missing Grandma or Seabushy. Which I think is lovely. He can just let it out when it hurts too much. I admire that to be honest.

So I’m hoping his next obsession is keeping shit off his bed (currently hordes everything he receives on the end of his bed) or learning his 12 times tables. I do not however, wish for a Michael Buble' obsession, which is quite on the cards.

But as always with Sam, we’ll just go along for the ride.

Sunday, February 21, 2010


Yesterday I lost my virginity. I know right? 3 kids and still my cherry had not been popped? Not that cherry peoples, I am not the Virgin Mary. I am more the monobrow virgin.

See yesterday, at work, Miss C’s mum, Mrs S, came in to do an emergency eyebrow wax for her in the office. Mrs S, turned her razor vision on me and said “What about you?”

Me? Me? I’ve never touched these eyebrows in my life. Especially not with hot wax. Her next words made it clear I have been walking around like Nana Mouskouri for my entire life and no one has had either the decency or the guts to tell me. Mrs S narrowed her eyes and told me “I’ve have been dying to get stuck into your eyebrows ever since we met”.

So there is was. I had no reason not to, I mean, all the girls in the office, like hawks, had heard the call for free eyebrow waxes and lined up to be tortured. All in the name of beauty of course. What did I have to lose? Nothing I guess, just some skin from my eyelids.

I sat down and everyone just stared at me. Like they knew what was coming. I guess though, just like me when I knew what my oblivious girlfriends were about to go through giving birth to their children. Smug.

Let me just get this out of the way. I suck at beauty regimes. I’m sure Miss C, who is 22 and if not at the hairdressers getting extensions, is pondering how long until her eyelashes grow back so she can annihilate them again, is absolutely revolted by the way I look each day. My hair is not smooth and my freckles are on display. In fact I am her complete opposite. I don’t believe it’s just age, I believe it’s just me.

Even at her age, I had not yet been to a proper hairdresser. Oh wait, yes I had, when I was in year 6. My mother begged me to cut my hair short because she said it made me look lovely. She failed to recognise however, it also made me look like a boy called Bradley. In fact she told me she would give me fifty bucks to cut it. A veritable fortune to a 10 year old. What kind of mother bribes their 10 year old daughter to cut her hair off? One that’s sick of combing fucking knots out of long curly hair, I imagine. So off I trotted, down to our local hair dresser with a picture of a model with short hair from my very first Dolly magazine tucked under my arm. Sadly my face wasn’t model material, nor was my hair straight like hers was. I just ended up looking like a brunette Ronald McDonald. And no-one would speak to me for about 6 weeks. I shit you not.

So that aside, my beauty routine, which I have spoken of before, involves me brushing my teeth twice a day and putting on some lippy before I embark on my morning drop-offs.

So what kind of fresh hell was this to have hot wax applied to my eyebrows and then unceremoniously ripped off at great speed? People pay for this torture? And then come back for it a month later? Apparently I am the last person on earth to realise – Yes! Sure it hurt and yes it has left me with kind of puffy eyelids which are red and almost bloody. But I realise now, these small little changes lift you up, make you feel a little bit better about yourself. Like a decent haircut, a new pair of shoes or a shirt that curbs the bingo wings, it’s all about the self-esteem boost.

And now I can’t stop admiring other peoples brows. I’ve never really noticed them before. Even more disturbing, is the amount of guys who clearly have the constant tweak at theirs.

So come next month, not only will I be lining up for an
other one; I’ll be first in line.

Thursday, February 18, 2010


I need a freaking holiday. And I just had one.

Mum, somehow, managed to save some money during her time here on earth. Not a lot, and how, on a pension, spoiling her grandkids absolutely rotten, she achieved this, is beyond my comprehension. I mean we (my husband and I) do alright, there are two of us working, we don’t have an out of control mortgage, yet we seem to struggle to save a single cent. We have the usual expenses of course that is associated with working for yourself, two cars, three kids (one that needs extra medical assistance) and just the everyday stuff like groceries. But I think, honestly, it may be of course, more than likely due to two factors. The husband has a penchant for all things Bunning’s and I have an affinity for buying stuff I rarely use. Except for my Tupperware Happy Chopper. That, my friends, is a blog post all of its own.

Anyway, back to Mum. She constantly told me, all through my adult life, that she would leave enough money for her funeral, much to my equally constant protests. But of course she did. And then some.

Just enough it seems for us to either pay off a credit card (obviously the most efficient and smartest move), put the money against the mortgage (equally good for the finances) pay the school fees for the year (smart and getting rid of one major bill) or go on a holiday. I’ll let that linger. Because clearly financially this is just a crap idea. We just had 4 weeks off at Christmas and we have whopper credit card bills. Smart people would pay off bills and hop to it.

Straight up: I’m not that smart.

I want a big fuck off holiday. And I want it to have a swim up pool-bar and kids club.

See it seems the last 6 months have left me spent. I used to hate that term. Spent. It's just so “I can’t believe it not’s butter” Fabio, Mills and Boon speak. But I digress.

From having my mother die from rapid moving cancer which to be honest, I don’t think I’ve actually sat down and thought about properly, to not having not one, but two sons in hospital with broken arms, then subsequent week spent in hospital with Sam and his infected pins in his arm, I am just, I don’t know, the best term I can come up with is, rooted.

So I have started googling in ernest family holidays. Bali is looking good. I know Bali well. My husband I going there no less than 7 times pre-kids. I know, I know, we could have gone around the world with that money, but honestly, it suited us. He liked to surf, I like to shop, we both like to eat and lie down a lot, and did I mention that it is CHEAP! Eat like a king for $10 a day. Sure, I would never venture outback into a kitchen in one of those joints, but I never got sick, if anything, I lost weight. Holy hell, what other holiday leaves you this satisfied and brings you back skinnier and more thankful for the fact that you live in the greatest country on earth?

Fiji is also looking promising price wise. I’ve heard the lovely ladies at the resort take your kids off your hands and you are lucky if you see them for more than 5 minutes a day, such is the fun of Kids Club. Not that I don’t want to see my kids, but geez, a day of snoozing on a recliner by the pool sounds like heaven. Just one day.

Sam has a special fascination with Lego. So Lego land has been bandied about. But to be honest, a second mortgage on the house would be required to spend a couple of weeks in the US of A. Although, to be honest, New York, is my ultimate destination. May have to wait awhile though.

There’s always the local (1-4hr drive) option. Sunshine Coast/Yamba. Equally lovely.

So now I am just in disarray. Where to go, what to do. If anything. I’m sure if Mum is looking down right now she is appalled at my modern debt. Her answer would more than likely be to cut that shit down (well not in those words). But then I reckon there would also be a side of her that wants me to relax and have a break. We’ve got a lifetime to work on the debt. The same can’t be said for my sanity.

Suggestions on your ultimate family holiday welcome. Keep in mind my pre-requisites of a swim up bar and kids club J

Monday, February 15, 2010


I vaguely remember going into a room with a timber ornate screen that shielded me from the priest I was about to make my confession to. I could see him. I knew who he was. So of course I made up a bullshit sin to tell him. As IF I was going to tell him I’d been thinking about wanting to pash Dennis Walcott behind the sports shed (never happened due to me constantly looking like a boy). Or that I had sworn Fuck approximately 24 times since my last confession. More often than not I would confess I hadn’t been totally respectful to my mother or had been “nasty” to my brother. 3 Hail Mary’s and off I trotted. I bet I was being considered for the next Saint, such was my apparent lack of ability to sin.

I got thinking about the confessions I should have been making, back when I went to Church. Wait, I was booted out of that place when my dad got done for stealing money from the collection plates he had been voluntarily passing around the local Catholic Church for the past 7 years. True Story. I couldn’t make that shit up if I tried.

Back in the 80’s, my brother and I followed my dad to church in Southport, a Catholic Church, every Sunday, some might say religiously, for many, many years because it was what we did. At 5:30pm we started out on the fast walk to Church whilst mum go her only reprieve of the week, watching A Country Practice and relishing the smoke free air.

We would get there, I would go nuts running around the Church car park and buying ten cent cards with Mary on them whilst my Dad and often, my oblivious brother, would be roped in to collecting the money from the devotees. We often used to ask Dad on the walk down, if we would be going to the local RSL or, Rissole as my brother and I called it, after Church. His standard response was “We’ll see”. I now realise “We’ll see” was code for “Depends on how much money I can snare from the collection plate this evening”. How revolting is that? Of course we had no clue. Mum had no clue. And when it all finally came to a head and Mum was made aware, her shame and her despair that my brother and I had been anywhere near this kind of disgusting act, gave her what I realise now, was a nervous breakdown.

So back to confessions. I have one, which I had long forgotten about, but reckon it might be time to get off my chest. It wasn’t a sin as such. But it was nasty. And I am definitely not proud of myself.

I moved out when I was 18, with 3 other guys. All friends and it seemed ideal. We moved into a house in Main Beach costing $55 per week each. It was awesome to start with. Then I split with my boyfriend, their friend too as it happened, and it all changed. One housemate in particular became very narky towards me. We went from being great friends to basically mortal enemies. Ridiculous in hindsight but totally right in the moment.

So Barry, let’s call him Barry, my old friend, now not so much, began to get kind of freakishly lucky with the ladies. So he said. No one ever saw them, but he continuously boasted about these “ladies”.

Here’s where I became someone I am not. Barry was constantly nasty to me. Horrible. All because my ex, his friend, was no longer my boyfriend. Jesus dude, get over it. He couldn’t, so I took revenge.

Valentine’s Day was imminent. Barry’s constant bragging about his conquests continued.

I went out, brought a Valentine’s Day Card and wrote the following:

“Dear Barry,

No one loves quite as much you as much as I do,

Love Barry xx.

And then I sent it via post to our house. Valentine’s Day rolled around; Barry took his mail off the kitchen bench making quite the deal out of an obvious V Day Card. His mates gathered around and Barry, whilst I watched from the corner, read it out loud. Silence. I retreated, so did his friends.

I hit my mark but I felt strangely, terrible and empty. He never realised it was from me. Barry wasn’t the brightest star in the sky. Plus he had more than one frenemy, so to speak.

So Barry, Sorry. I was a bitch. Please let me know how many Hail Mary’s will square this away.

Got any confessions? Anonymous comments welcome.

Friday, February 12, 2010


At what point does a person who is blowing their cigarette smoke directly into their childs face, realise what they are doing is 100 percent stupid, dangerous and wrong?

I’m guessing never or else they just wouldn’t be doing it.

From January of this year, it has become illegal in Queensland, for an adult to smoke with any child (up to 16 years of age) in the car. The cops can stop the car and fine the perpetrator two hundred dollars. Two hundred bucks? Pfft, these people are shelling out thousands of dollars a year for their durries, often foregoing healthy food for their children to secure them. Do the powers that be, really think that kind of fine is incentive enough to stop them having their morning school drop off ciggie? Clearly not if the amount I see on my way to school is anything to go by. I mean, seriously, the people who are doing this have no respect for their own children. As if they have any for the law.

I have spent a lot of time at the Gold Coast hospital of late. Enough time in fact, to accumulate 3 parking tickets in 12 days. Kind of hard to keep feeding the meter when you have a sick child you cannot leave. Something the State and local government must remedy for unavoidably long hospitals stays. A whole other blog though.

The hilarious thing that in actual fact, is not very funny at all, is that to the side of the entrance of this particular hospital, is a void, probably originally designed for patients and families to have a little outside downtime. Everywhere you look are big No Smoking Signs. Nobody smokes here anymore, apparently.

Everywhere you look are young people, old people, people with obvious hair loss due to chemo, people hooked up to IV’s in wheelchairs, people with their children sitting next to them; all having a fag. This is not a rant against smoking, he who casts the first stone and all that, but I do have a major problem with a place of healing and health i.e. a hospital facilitating, almost encouraging people (with cigarette bins in non-smoking areas and zero officers patrolling the area) to do it on their grounds. And directly into my face when I walk in with my children.

When Mum was a patient here, I vividly remember an older lady who ducked out 10 minutes before she was meant to be getting prepped for brain surgery for a cigarette she had been repeatedly warned, not to have. When she came back, the medical team were there waiting for her. They then refused to operate on when it was clear what she had been doing. She lost it. Ranting and raving and her daughter, who had taken her down for the smoke, also got quite aggressive towards the doctors. Um. For fucks sakes, how can someone help you when you won’t help yourself?

More often than not, a visit to the hospital, unless you a visiting a newborn, involves an element of stress. A lot of people’s answer to stress is a puff on a cigarette. I get that, but it’s time for the government to act and make smoking illegal on hospital grounds and its entrances. Seeing as they love making money out of my inability to fill a parking meter on time and jacking up rates so they can take unnecessary trips to Radelaide, perhaps the local council should take over governing this.

I really don’t care who polices it, it simply just needs to happen. And fast.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


Nothing spells romantic like an entire day with my entire extended family of in-laws.

The dreaded V Day is on Sunday - No not VD Day, V Day, Valentines Day. You know the one. The 14th of February which every woman commits to memory regardless of whether they believe in it, loathe it or love it.

As a young lady (yes apparently now I am a Nanna), I loved Valentines Day. Well I did when I thought I had a chance of receiving something. Otherwise I thought it was a bullshit day that was a big marketing scam to fill a retail void between Christmas and Easter.

But when I was young and had boyfriends it was a marvellous day full of Gigantic novelty cards, teddy bears, roses delivered to the office and dressing up in a black lycra dress (klarsy) to go to a restaurant that was usually too good for me.

It continued on like this for me for many years through courtship, or as I like to call it, the time we had our own cash and still had sleepovers. Then we moved in together, then we got married and then we had a child. And the underlying theme here is, what was mine was his and vice versa. And I no longer cared for 12 long stem roses that died within 3 days and a ritzy dinner whilst my baby was intermittently screaming for my lactating knockers. It’s not that I am no longer into love, romance and surprise, but the whole one day of the year to express that to me, lost its appeal some years ago. It actually might have been the year I received a card from my oh so sweet husband that had a rhino on the front and inside “you make me so horny”. Way to be romantic asshole. From then on in, I put a ban on Valentines cards and gifts. I could see what shop my husband was heading to next if I didn’t.

Anyway, Sunday I will be downing a few champers with my sister-in-laws, eating too much and more than likely watching our husbands fall asleep whilst watching wrestling on the couch. Ahh the romance.

For all those of you who do believe and participate on February 14, Have a great day. For those who don’t - I guess a collective Screw you Cupid will suffice.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Goldilocks vs Mama Bear

I have three children. All three are very different. For starters, one is an entire different sex to the other two. But the main differences are their sizes. Of course one being 10, the next 7 and the last 3, there is of course, going to be a height difference. To an outsider however, it would appear we have one on the large side, one on the small side and one just right. They are the Three Bears of the Modern world and apparently Goldilocks, the critical little cow, has outstayed her welcome.

Often, I get the Spanish inquisition, often from family, about what I feed Sam. It’s never an actual accusation that I am deliberately being a shit mother; I just think they believe I am oblivious to the situation. There is constant advice on how I should get him to eat more. Eat better. Sam is perpetually small. Always has been. He has had various health problems growing up, especially in the crucial toddler years and just didn’t thrive. He is growing; it is just a very slow process. We have had every test done known to man. No result. And with food, well to be honest, he eats better than the rest of us put together. He prefers a bowl of nuts to a bag of cheese and bacon balls, grapes to malteasers. In fact it makes me question whether he shares the same genes as me; such is his natural ability to make healthy food choices.

At the other end of the spectrum, is Mad. She is 10, going on 16 and already has a ladies Size 8 foot. At ten. Christ, am I going to have to get special shoes made for her for her sweet 16th. She’s quite tall, but she does have trouble getting jeans to do up over her tummy. As a Mum, I don’t care; I love her big, small, fat, skinny. But also as a Mum, I want her to be healthy and to be honest; I don’t want her to be any more of a target than necessary. Her father was exactly the same at her age and in fact, until he was around 16. He was mercilessly teased. He was Fat Phil.

The three year old is just totally average. Kind of tall, not fat, not skinny, just right. He eats, he drinks and he causes chaos. An exact combination of his mother and father.

So the problem here is we are kind of always trying to get Sam to eat and on the other hand, telling Mad she can’t have anymore. All this, whilst trying not to make a big deal out of it and lead her to an eating disorder.

So when I get the sly comments on my parenting abilities, I think I might just have to come back with “Oh yeah, we are in the business of making one big, one small and the other one JUST RIGHT.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Aldi Olympics

I love Aldi – there I said it.

It saves me money (on average $120 per week), I buy the weeks groceries and randomly, sometimes, I get to buy an Ab King Pro or Wheelchair from the middle aisle.

My boss, you know who you are, refuses to shop there. She doesn’t want to be busted by someone she knows. Scared she’ll be labelled a bogan. I get that, I too, was there once, but I have told her to take her time, ease herself into it. You can’t jump into a full shop at Aldi; you need to do it slowly, just like raising a child. No one asks you to deal with a hormonal 14 Year old before you get the chance to deal with sleep deprivation and ripped nipples. OK, probably not explaining myself quite right.

The thing is Aldi is not a very satisfying shop. There is no lying about having a cigarette when you’re finished if you know what I mean. No? Still don’t have a clue what I’m crapping on about?

Let me explain. Everything at Aldi, bar probably Milo, Vegemite and Nutrigrain, will be a close clone of something you are very fond of that you would usually buy at Woolworths or Coles with a very random name. Like say, TV Snacks are called Wackos (Awesome) Or Huggies Nappies are called Mamias (and they shit all over Huggies – unfortunate pun - sorry) or Ol De Paso Tacos are called El Toro (Exactly the same) but all that is beside the point because if you’ve never been there before, you would look at the 6 aisles – yes that’s right, 6 aisles and think “what the hell is this shit?”

It started slowly. Before I went back to work more regularly, I went to quite a few “ladies morning teas” where more often than not I would be hoovering down a Sundried Tomato and Cashew dip only to stop intermediately to ask the host where she got “this awesome dip”. Aldi

And it happened more often. With all kinds of foodstuffs.

So I gave it a go. And I was disappointed. I mean, for every selection Aldi had for muesli bars, Woolworths had 7. For every selection of beautiful smelling hair products, Aldi had, if you’re lucky, one. I didn’t go back for months.

But then, my grocery bills each week increased. It wasn’t long before my grocery bill was almost outstripping our mortgage repayment and it was beginning to scare me. I mean, we don’t, as a rule, eat Eye fillet steak for dinner or caviar and prawns for lunch each day so I couldn’t understand why this was happening. So after many endorsements from friends (similar to this) I decided to do a full shop.

It all came down to giving in and just trying new things. And apart from specific milk we drink and a few minor items, I can do an entire shop at Aldi. And I am over $5,000 better off a year.

If you do start, at least try these:

Marinated Roast Chicken (from meat dept) Most succulent and delicious chicken EVA (and honestly you cannot fook this up. You just can’t)

Marinated Beef Roast (Santa Maria) Again, like the chicken, this is amazing and have NEVER had a bad one.

Chicken Korma in a bottle. Add some coconut milk and their jasmine rice (total of $6.50 – feeds 4) and this is better than any Thai Restaurant does.

Frozen Croissants – These are delicious as is their pancake mix.

The general meat, fruit and vegetables are great and cheaper than most of the generic Grocery Stores.

Then comes the checkout. You haven’t quite experienced life if you haven’t done the Aldi Checkout Marathon. You’ve got to be sharp, on your toes and ready to fling that shit into your trolley pronto.

See the reason that Aldi can keep prices is low and pay their staff incredibly well, is because you buy your own bags and then bag it yourself. And for this you must be prepared, because Aldi Checkout operators wait for no man. From the minute your trolley is in position, it is on. And you better be ready. Suddenly it’s like they’re competing in the scanning Olympics and they are flinging your goods at your while you try to keep up and place them back in the trolley. As a rookie, I made the mistake of trying to pack my bags as she scanned. With a deft look from the checkout chick, I soon learned that shit was NOT on. I’ve never tried it again.

If this sounds like a paid advertisement for Aldi it’s not (although I would gladly accept a year’s free groceries to keep spouting the good news), I just simply want people to see that a discerning family of 5 can shop there and eat well. Don’t go expecting to come out feeling satisfied or unhurried. You will though, due to lack of choice and the fantastic pricing, come out in front.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010


Look, it just wouldn’t be normal week if there wasn’t some sort of emergency journey in the back of an ambulance for a Morley now would it?

Oh yeah, I don’t think we just ran down one china man. Oh no-no. I think we may have taken out most of Shanghai in a mass Hit n Run.

Yesterday at work, being the awesome parent I am, I ignored three consecutive “Unknown Caller ” phone calls to my mobile making the off-cuff comment to Miss C, “oh if they want me bad enough, they’ll leave a message”

Turns out they did need me badly. Well Sam did. Oh and they did leave that message. It went something like “Oh Mrs Morley, it’s Lyn here from Sams school. Look, he’s had an accident at school and I need you to ring me straight away”.

Stupid me, I was still under some false sense of security, that there would be some sort of “dramatic shit” amnesty on the Morley family (except of course, if that dramatic shit included winning Powerball).

Was all of this shiteness we were encountering because I never forward on chain emails? You know the ones? The ones that say “if you don’t pass this onto 78 people within 3 minutes of opening it, you’re first born will get rabies and your house will explode”, that kind of chain mail? I smashed a miniature mirror in my handbag about a year ago. Could that be what is wrong? If so I’ve got 6 more years of this shit.

What is it they say about saying negative attracting negative, positive, positive? We are definite shit magnets so not quite sure what vibe that means we are putting out there to acheive that kind of special. I haven’t had time to be a rotten cow to anyone, I’ve been too busy lining up the Emergency Department at hospitals. Clearly I just haven’t been reading The Secret enough and/or not sitting down meditating on the floor focusing on a picture of a Mercedes Benz and gigantic mansion.

Anyway, poor Sam, first foray into the Year 2 adventure playground kind of sucked for the little guy. He made it two rungs in, before he slipped and fell directly on his elbow. Probably most kids would fall, cry, get up and have another go. Not Sam. The doctors were telling us along with monkey bars, trampolines, skate boards and the new rip sticks are the most dangerous play equipment out there.

So on the scale of how badly you can break your elbow and your arm, the surgeon told us this was the worst. Good news, he still had a pulse in that arm and bad news, they might accidently sever either his nerves and or/arteries because of the area and nature of the break. Awesome.

Going in to the operation, Sam was most concerned about how they would put him to sleep. I told him “With Drugs”. He freaked. “But Mum, you’ve always told me to study hard and stay off drugs and now you’re making me take them?” Ahh pumpkin, let me rephrase that, they will give you medicine. After asking me if he’s going to die (the most heartbreaking question your child can ask you) he went off to sleep and under the knife.

So last night, at 11pm, Sam came out of the theatre, groggy but relatively happy. Massive thanks to the wonderful Doctors and Nurses at the Gold Coast Hospital. You all rock.

To avoid any more of this Mayhem, I have declared a No Go Zone on funeral Homes that have potential hazardous, out of control,ceiling fans, shoulder rides with men over 6ft and monkey bars of any description, actually scrap that, parks of any kind. Unless they have the Spinning Egg. Nothing bad happened on the Spinning Egg right?