Wednesday, April 28, 2010


Two of my best friends are pregnant. At this, I am super excited. Mainly because for the first time, I will be able to enjoy their kids as little babies without being pregnant myself.

Because this time there is no freaking chance in hell of myself and my husband conceiving (barring an immaculate conception) after his doctor basically obliterated the appropriate pathways with his soldering iron within my husbands nads, some years ago.

The subject of childbirth came up at a recent BBQ we all attended. Well, more specifically, I was trying to re-create the Malteasers ad where the pregnant lady gets her bump to “kick” a malteaser like a soccer ball.

Unfortunately, I was low on malteasers and as such, after rifling through the party bags, could only find a Chicco Baby to replace this.
So, my friend Jodi, sat back (she’s 38 weeks pregnant) and I placed a lone Chicco baby on her blossoming stomach. She’s one of these bloody women, who all you see is baby, no excess fat, nothing but a baby wrapped in skin fronting some organs. So of course, we saw that baby almost sniff out that Chicco baby and go nuts. Unfortunately, this, along with giving us great entertainment, also gave her mild contraction type pains. All fun and games until someone goes into early labour.

And labour. SO. MUCH. FUN.

I mean, unless of course you are one of these enigmas who go to the toilet, pop out a baby telling anyone who’ll listen that they didn’t feel a thing. BULL FUCKING SHIT.

The only thing worse than going through labour again would be hearing that Human Nature are releasing another Motown record. Seriously.

And don’t get me wrong, I understand why there is pain. I mean let’s face it, we are dilating (opening) a closed hole to a hole that is 10cms in circumference (try that with your asshole boys and I think you’ll get my gist). I also recognise the fact, that after it’s all over, you are so god damn proud of yourself that, the fact a bow-tied male doctor you’ve never seen before is stitching up your vagina, is totally irrelevant.

And for the record, I’ve given birth naturally 3 times. With no drugs. This is due to one thing only. The bitches would not give me any. And I say that with the utmost respect to all midwives who are wonderful, inspiring ladies (and men). They clearly knew I could do it without them, even though all three times, I felt like I would rather die on the spot than go through one more contraction.

We got talking about the labour room on the weekend, and the fact that this time, I might get to go in with my girlfriend and see her have this baby. I am very excited, having never been down “that end” before. She told me last time (this will be her third child) she asked her husband to stroke her arm between contractions. He started in earnest to stroke her arm where she pointed. Whilst her head did not swivel 360 degrees, I believe it was the only action separating her and Linda Blair when she told him in no uncertain terms, “Not that way”. He was rubbing her arm the wrong way. Stupid stupid man. She then told him to leave the room so she could “do the next contraction alone”. Go Jode.

My husband tells me I neither swore nor shat on the table during any of my births. I hope he is telling me truth and that one day, in some sort of heated moment, he doesn’t spit at me the awful truth, that yes indeed I did foul up the room, he was just sparing me to be nice. Oh and I disagree with my husband. I distinctly remember in my last moments of birthing Jack, low growling through gritted teeth “Get this fucking thing out of me!”

What about these Scientology people who apparently have to give birth silently. To save the baby from stress. Good for them, but I dare say, that rule was written by a man and he needs to go back and read about my little 10cm’ anus stretching anecdote.

I distinctly remember the very first midwife I had with my very first birth, telling me to “leave my dignity on the shelf and go back and get it when you’re done”. That little piece of advice and “don’t forget the URAL” should be in every “What to Expect when you’re Expecting” type baby advice book.

I Hope I haven’t grossed you out today with this post. And to all those who had a baby through the sunroof, i.e. caesarean, please know I take nothing away from your birthing experience. Equally as painful and full on and who cares how the baby arrives, as long as it’s safe.

To my two best friends – I cannot wait to meet your two beautiful little lovelies when they arrive. Oh, and be sure to call me if you want your arm rubbed right. Teehee.

Monday, April 26, 2010


Carly over at asked to do a guest post and talk about becoming a parent. Check out her site, some amazing ideas, suggestions and advice. Go on!

There are some people out there who make plans. And then they go ahead and stick to those plans and all is peachy.

Not me. It seems every time I have even entertained the idea of sticking to a plan, the Universe has given me the giant forks and basically said to me “Not on my watch Sunshine!!”

But you know what? If what I’ve got right now is an indication of plans can go awry, then that’s ok. Because with three kids, a mortgage, a Bunnings addicted husband and the odd chance to pee in peace, I feel like life is pretty sweet.

When Carly asked me to do this guest post and talk about my journey on my way to becoming a parent, I was stumped at first. My eldest is now ten, my youngest three and the middle one, eight. I can say, with all sincerity and without meaning to use a well worn pun that it’s all happened in the blink of an eye.

It seemed like one minute, we were spending every waking moment consumed with choosing the right cot and change table, and the next, neck deep in spelling bees and Justin Bieber.

And when you start that journey from single person to parent, it doesn’t matter what you’ve read, who you have spoken to and what you think you know, you will still bring that baby home from the hospital and wonder out loud “What the fuck do we do now?”

I was 23 when I first got pregnant and although the church was booked and the wedding dress purchased, we didn’t quite make it. Instead, we pulled our wedding forward and got married on the rainiest day in over 16 years. I was 5 months pregnant. We had lived together for just over a year, yet didn’t own our own house and wouldn’t anytime soon.

So, I know, there are lot of people out there, who put off having a family because they want it all to be in place. You know, the career, the house, the finances etc. I can tell you right now, if we had waited for all that, we would still be childless today.

And to be honest, it was a massive shock to our system. One minute our lives were all about doing what we wanted, when we wanted and sleeping in, the next it was about the time between feeds, mastitis and controlled crying. I remember the best bit of advice I received was, “Don’t expect much from yourself in the first 3 months”. Hell, if you make it out of your Pyjamas before dinner time, good for you. If you make it to shops and mop your floor, declare a public holiday because you are a bloody legend.

And look, our first child was textbook. Of course we didn’t know this at the time, but when number two came around with all kinds of feeding and sleeping problems, we became well aware of our previous good fortune. After Sam, our middle child had literally not slept more than 4 hours at a stretch for nearly two years, I sought help. Why did it take me that long? Pride? Exhaustion? I honestly can’t tell you, I guess, like the rest of my life, I thought I could just muddle my way through it. Turns out I couldn’t and learning a few sleeping techniques virtually saved my life and if I’m honest, my marriage. Such was our level of exhaustion.

And the baby stage is only the beginning. Next you have the toddler years. Again, the first two, once we sorted a few things out with Sam were fine. Not so with number three. Jack, often referred to as Hurricane Jack is destruction and an unbridled challenge on two legs. He is just damn hard work. There are tantrums, there is defiance and it does not matter what I do, not a great deal deters him. So that’s where I’m at right now. Finding the best strategy to outwit a three year old.

And then of course, Sam has Aspergers. We always knew Sam was a little different. But he wasn’t different in a bad way. He was incredibly well behaved and loving and just well, easy. He has a great wit and an infectious way about him. At school though, if he’s not learning his ABC’s and melting down because his hat wasn’t packed in his bag, infectious wit means jack. So we were pulled aside and after a little while, well a long while, my husband and I got over ourselves and realised the best way to help Sam was to acknowledge his condition and do our best to help him. He goes to a fantastic school that has a dedicated Special Education Unit so he can attend mainstream school and attend the unit when necessary. He also gets a full time teacher to be with him ALL DAY LONG. I’m realistic to know that life will often be a challenge for Sam, but show me a person who doesn’t face a challenge now and then.

I guess you never think for a second anything other than the norm will affect you as a family. Again, the best laid plans.....

And right now I’m not entirely sure I’ve shared any new information about parenting or taught any potential parents anything they didn’t already know. My best advice is to go with the flow, enjoy the ride and only buy stuff that can be wiped off with a chux and some gumption.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010


My three year old tells me, depending on his mood, that either I am “not his best friend” or I am. Mostly I’m not. My witty comeback to this? “That’s good Jack, because I’m not here to be your best friend, I’m here to be your MOTHER!” Of course he had already walked off by the time I'm at “good”, but at least I am giving a mature and well thought out response. It's parenting 101 really.

I’ve been thinking about friends lately. A lot. The ones I have, the ones I would like, the ones I know for sure I don’t. Because, even though we grow older, our need to have a friend, a group, a place we belong, doesn’t ease or abate.

Maddison, aged 10 going on 35 comes home every other day, telling me she’s no longer friends with Emma, or Kristine or Rachel or whoever the girl was that didn’t talk to her enough that day or didn’t include her in a conversation about the latest Year 6 scandal. And, I’m sure she’s not always the innocent, hard done by party. Let’s just say, if she’s on the "in" side of the “in crowd” I hear no complaints. Primary school has always been a bitchy battlefield. The players change, the game doesn’t.


I have three best friends. Bonnie, Bronwyn and Jodi. Sorry if that sounds like I’m in grade 3, but we still introduce ourselves to new people that way. We have known each other for most of our lives. I’d like to romanticise that we were constantly best friends, but for a lot of that time, we were merely just classmates. But after school, I reckon you start to pick your people, not learn to put up with them.

I define my best friends as the people I can tell ANYTHING to. I mean anything. They know all my bad stories and they were usually involved in most of my best. I know I could ring all three at any one time and say “Hey, yeah I know it’s 2am, but I’m blind, I’ve only got one shoe on and I don’t know where I am, come get me??” and they would. No questions, no judgement. I know I can flash my teeth and ask if there is something hideous lodged in there or they will give me an inconspicuous heads up, if I have an embarrassing situation happening with my nostrils. We know we can go a few weeks sometimes and not talk and it’s all good. It doesn’t mean we’ve got the shits, it just means we’re busy.


I guess what got me thinking at all about friendships was a party I went to the other night. The host of the party was desperate to introduce me to one particular person because she wanted us to “be friends”. She was adamant we were very similar and wanted us to be great friends. It was kind of like a blind date but without the added bonus of potential meaningless sex. So we were introduced and you know what, she was lovely. Smart, funny, pretty and we got on like a house on fire. Mind you, it was dark, we were drinking like it was an open bar and it was the first night I had been let loose sans kids in months.

So the next bit was kind of awkward. It felt like the day after you got a guys number at a nightclub. Who calls first? I mean, do we need to call, maybe I should just facebook her? But what if she rejects me? Loserville. Who wants to be the one who looks like a stalker? OH God, I am 16 again.

There are also two wonderful mums’ I’ve met through kindy. We have talked at functions and kids parties and well, we just click. But it’s like there is an invisible shield between us getting on and actually going that extra step and setting up a one on one “date”. For a start, we are all working mums (one a high school teacher and the other a journo) and it’s hard enough getting time to pee in peace, let alone organise unadulterated “new friend” time sipping vino and talking shit. But part of me desperately wants to hang out more. These are the times where I wish I just had no shame and could instigate things. But then, that just wouldn’t be me.

I've just met the lovely J, who's story you can read here . J has been dealt a shit hand but isn't it letting it beat her. I used to think the only people who meet in real life off the internet were either perves or desperadoes. Not so. So we had a coffee, she inadvertently started tried to smother my son (not really) and Sam took a shine to her complete with handhold.


I reckon when I hit about 30 I just had an epiphany. Negative, hard to deal with “friends” just weren’t going to get my valuable time anymore. Why would I spend time with someone who puts me down or is constantly making me feel terrible when I don’t get enough time to spend time with the people I really want to? I believe this is an age and maturity issue. That’s why it feels like it’s worse than breaking up with a well meaning, yet useless boyfriend when it happens.

Of course Gen Y’ers and God, I don’t even know what my 10yo daughters generation is called, are a different kettle of fish. They have the social mediums of texting and facebook to keep in contact with, as soon as they go home each day. In our day (yes I am a Nanna); we lost touch with people the day after we graduated. So the dynamics will change and I guess the kids of today will always have a larger circle of friends and acquaintances.

I hope they get the best friend experience though. It’s pretty priceless.

Sunday, April 18, 2010


I’m going to weigh in on a topical debate. Usually I would stay the heck away from anything political, because let’s face it, no one ever wins in these discussions. Most people are set in their ways and opinions. Full stop.

I however, am not. I'm not particularly Liberal or Labor. I am not a Greens or Family First solider either. I just want one fucker to stand up and go “How about this kids, I just want to work for you – the people of Australia. I am not doing this to prove to my father how grown up I am, nor am I doing it to give the finger to the opposition, I just sincerely want to do this to improve our way of life, regardless of social status. Naive? Most definitely. Doesn’t mean it isn’t what I want.

Anyway, I digress.

Day Light Savings is the topic. Well in Queensland it is.

Hot topic right now. Hotter than hot. Hotter than those poor bastards that will have to patrol the beaches in an hour more of sunlight than they normally would do, if DST comes in again.

My opinion – I couldn’t care. Do it or don’t do it, just don’t use the topic to take the spotlight off the more pressing issues, i.e. the QLD Health Pay debacle. We elected, well someone elected, the Labor government into power to govern Queensland. That means, for their term, they get to make many decisions on behalf of the people of QLD. So just do it already. Don't waste millions of dollars of our money getting a decision through referendum. Seriously, that is money that right now, the hospitals could use to buy precious equipment to keep babies and children alive. Or provide places for young people currently stuck in aged care facilities because there is nothing suitable for their needs. For Fucks sakes, do politicians trade in their common sense when they get elected?

And I guess, for people outside of QLD, you may not be aware, that the majority of QLD Health workers, nurses, cooks, wards men and admin staff, have had their pay, basically, fucked up, for over a month now. And when I say fucked up, I mean haven’t been paid. This is due to a software bungle. You know, the kind of software that costs 50 million bucks and is still useless. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, if you or I, as a private person ran a business the way the government does theirs, we would be bankrupt and never employed to run anything of worth - EVER AGAIN.

So, talk to the hand Anna Bligh, because when these workers are having to fore go operations on their children and are getting kicked out of their houses because they no longer have the funds to pay their rent, there are no valid excuses. And if anyone out there thinks the “normal” person or family aren’t living virtually pay packet to pay packet, then they are deluded.

So, the panic button has been hit. Good ole’ daylight savings. When all else fails, pull out this old chestnut. Am I just being cynical? Not if a little thing called history is anything to go by. Previous Premier, Peter Beattie dragged it out some three years ago to distract Queenslanders from the fact that their councils were being forcefully amalgamated.

Now as a parent, I reckon the only gripe I would have is that it would be tough getting a three year old down to sleep, when the sun is still shining outside. Then again, the fact that the sun would be up an hour later, would be a total win.

And hey, we, as a family have had to deal with the two time zone thing for over 7 years. We lived on the Tweed Coast and worked up in QLD for 4 years and ironically, we moved back the Gold Coast and ended up working back at Tweed. So we have been juggling work, kids, school, and just generally trying to function with two time zones for that long and you know what, we have just dealt with it, sucked it up and got on with it.

So, at the end of the day I just want to say this, life is too short to worry about whether or not we have one more hour of sunlight in our day or not. Make a decision Anna. You will be both the devil or the angel whichever way you go, so just do it already.

What really matters are the basics. Shelter, food, health and education. How about we just get that shit sorted first. If we get around to the other stuff one day, well, bonus.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


You would think having 10+ years of parenting experience under my belt I would know better than to say stuff I don’t want repeated at inappropriate times. Or that having said amount of years experience, that it would lead me to at least lessen the ways for my children to embarrass me in public. Not so.

Here are some examples:

After hearing me tell Phil that the chick who smashed my car and did a runner was giving me death stares and was a "loop", Sam asked her the next day on the way into school: “Are you out of the lunatic asylum?”

Today, I purchased a pack of 4 tennis balls for Jack. “I can’t wait to show Sam my big balls” Jack bellowed in the Reject shops corridor.

Sam, after hearing his father had a vasectomy, walked up to him mid-conversation at a BBQ about a week later, in front of our friends, and said “So, Dad, how are your nuts?”

In the ABC shop today, Jack started saying, “Ow, Ow”. I asked him what was wrong (sitting in his stroller). Jack: “My doodle is just too big mummy”. You need to understand, none of this is whispered.

My daughter apparently told her teacher, when questioned, that her parents wouldn’t be attending the religious assemblies because they aren’t “Jeezos”. Shit.

What about the time Maddie decided to tell her facebook community that she was Booooorrrreedd and her mother couldn’t take her to Zumba because she had “had too much alcohol last night”.

What about when Jack used to substitute the Tr in Truck with a F? When he would crack it in Kmart and yell “But I want a big fuck mummy!” Run Bern, don’t walk, Run.

Or Sam, telling off the orthopaedic doctors when checking his brothers broken arms “Geez Doc, don’t give him a Chinese Burn, he’s already got broken arms”.

Today I took a trip to Pacific Fair with Jack the 3yo demon. He was actually fairly contained, quite good. Oh except for when he “accidently” dropped his iced chocolate and it exploded like an A-bomb inside the coffee shop. His immediate declaration of “Awww bloody hell, Stupid aciddent”.

The thing is, sometimes, we just forget that they are the absorbent sponges they are.

Today Sam, who is nearly 8, asked me what I would do if he couldn’t remember his reading words tonight for homework. I said, "Um, well, nothing; we’ll just keep reading them, til you get them". He visibly wiped his brow. I looked at him in the rear view mirror and asked “Why do you ask mate?” Sam replied

“Oh, it’s just that Dad said he’d use the phonebook if I didn’t concentrate tonight”. What? Is my husband’s last name Soprano all of a sudden? I rang my husband in somewhat of a pissed off state.

“Did you tell Sam he would be whacked with a telephone book because he was having trouble reading?”

Phil: “What? No, no, we were playing last night before bed, Mafioso. It was his game!!!! And I said I would arrest him and he would be meeting my friend the telephone book, if he didn’t co-operate”. Right.

Imagine if he of gone to school and told his teacher his dad was going to “telephone book” him. Hello DOCS.

What about the time my 7yo daughter (at the time) was telling her teacher she stayed with her dad each weekend and her mother during the week and even wrote her school journal accordingly? All of this, even though we’ve never even been out of the same house for one night, let alone separated? Where in the fuck did that come from?

So what have we learned?

I've learned if we want to whinge, bitch, scratch nuts, say the word fuck, threaten anyone mafia style or speak about delicate genital operations, we do it out of earshot of the little people. Or gag em.

Sunday, April 11, 2010


My ten year old daughter had her eleven year old friend over for the night on the weekend and boy, did I learn A LOT.

Like, the amount these kids know about periods, shaving their legs, boys, Dolly magazines, energy drinks and cyber bullying. That amount is a shiteload.

It was such an eye opener for me. These two, chatted away, totally aware I could hear them, talking about whatever took their fancy. In fact, they got along incredibly well and as far as sleep overs go, it was very easy.

I took them out for grown up coffees/hot chocolates before the movies. On the way to the movies the girls started having a conversation about their mutual love, Justin Bieber. Don’t know who the beebs is? Believe me, that’s a good thing. He’s a recently turned 16 year old singer that sounds a lot like a girl. That doesn’t deter the tweens of the world from being seriously mesmerised by his cute face and razor sharp hairdo. A heads up little girls, he is seriously fucked once if voice breaks. See if he’s so adorable then. Anyhoo, I digress.

The girls started talking about whether he could be their boyfriend or if the SIX YEAR age gap would be too much. When girls this age talk about “boyfriends”, they are actually talking about boys who ask them out, but never actually talk or interact with them until one of them unceremoniously “drops” the other.

So, continuing with the age gap conversation, my daughter pipes up with “Yeah 6 years isn’t too much. Look at Madonna and her boyfriend, there’s like 50 years difference between those two!”

Jess, her friend says “Really, 50 years? That’s like, a lot, Maddie. Who’s her boyfriend”.

Now keep in mind these girls both go to the same Catholic school.

Maddie “OK, maybe it’s only 30, wait, Jesus is 28, she’s like 50, so 30 years? (Note to self, time to work on Maddies maths skillz)

Jess “Jesus?”

Maddie “Yeah, Jesus”

Jess “Jesus? She’s going out with Jesus?”

Maddie simply tells her yes and no clarification is ever made to Jess that Jesus is actually a brazillian 28 year old model Madonna is on with. I would love to be a fly on the wall in their next RE lesson.

Over our hot chocolates and coffees the girls were telling me about Cyber Bullying. (I have only just recently let Maddie have a very limited Facebook page and MSN). Jess went on to tell me that another girl who no longer goes to their school cyber bullied her. I asked her what cyber bullying specifically, was done. Jess: “She sent me an email calling me a, am I allowed to swear to explain it?”

Me: “Sure”

Jess: “She called me a slut. Now, I know what a slut is and I am not one. She was annoyed I hadn’t replied to her last email quick enough. She swore at me more and my mum blocked her straight away”.

Crap, this cyber bullying stuff is dead set ridiculous. But she didn’t seem to be too worried about, in fact they moved on a story about a girl in their grade who drinks Red Bull and stays up until 11pm each night. Yowsa.

They told me what they know about periods. One of them telling me that she’s getting hers this year. Really? I wish I had of known when exactly I would first get mine. Would have saved a fair bit of embarrassment just quietly. Perhaps she’s psychic.

They told me what they know about Dolly magazine (neither allowed to read it just yet) and told me honestly, about the boys they like in their class.

I’m realistic enough to realise that this won’t always be the case. I know it’s only a matter of time before she stops telling me anything and she stops idolising me. I am trying to instil in her though, that I am cool enough I guess, for her to confide in me no matter what the issue.

Until then though, as long as she listens to that Justin kid on her ipod and not the CD player in my car, we can still be great friends.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


If procrastination was an Olympic Sport, I reckon I could give gold a red hot go in the 2016 games. That would give me just enough time for me to get off my arse and register. At least I’m in training for it every day.

I have, oh at least 14 separate “To Do” Lists floating around somewhere. Probably 3 of those are scungy tattered bits of paper in my bottomless pit of a handbag, some are still on the kitchen fridge and the rest have disappeared into the black abyss of my car.

If I had to make a list, right this very minute though, it would consist of the following: (Please note, this doesn’t even take into account the usual bread/milk/cleaning/washing and day to day mindfuckery that comes with maintaining a house and kids).

  • Finish last two units of my stupid Course so I can get the stupid certificate that allows me to do what I have been doing for the last ten years with no certificate. I have finished 8, but have seriously fallen off the wagon over the last year. Pull your finger out Bern before they revoke the last 8 and make you start all over again.

  • Pick up Mum’s ashes from the Crematorium. Now there’s something you don’t see on a “To Do” list everyday is it? I have been both putting off and genuinely forgetting to do this since January. It’s partly because they will put the hard sell on me to buy a little hole in the wall for a squillion dollars but probably more because I am still not ready to go back there and deal with the situation. Suck it up Bern, you’re Mum deserves to be somewhere better than in sequential order, languishing on a shelf with complete strangers.

  • Pay Phil’s plumbing license. Yep, I’m aware that whilst I sit here and post this on my blog, I could have paid this bill 10 times over, but that would involve me going into internet banking and therefore seeing my bank balance. I don’t feel like being sick right now seeing as mortgage day was only 2 days ago. Pay it via credit card over the phone Bern before your husband gets done for working unlicensed.

  • Clean out the Microwave cupboard of shit. We have this void in the wall of our kitchen that is I guess, designed for the Microwave. Only it’s too small for any microwave I’ve ever come across, so we use a different cupboard for that. The void by default, has become the place where we stash every bit of paper we ever receive. Every painting, every credit card bill, every assignment, every old merit card, every gas bill, basically everything combined with our basic stationery requirements go in there. Until there is no room left. Which is kinda now. File that shit away Bern.

  • Book my car in for its 40,000km service. It is now at 44,397kms. Book the fucking thing in before your warranty is voided Bern you imbecile.

  • Pay Mr John, Jacks tennis coach and buy him a mini tennis racquet. Apparently we have a mini Andre Agassi on our hands. Well according to the money sucking kindy tennis coach we do, and as such, we need to buy him a proper 3 year olds tennis racquet. Seeing as he’s heading more down the path of John McEnroe with his violent temper, I’m in no particular hurry. But Mr John is waiting Bern.

  • Book the Morleys into the dentist. Here’s what I know. The minute we set foot inside any Dentist, we will have take out a second mortgage on the house. And that’s with private health insurance. So, I’ve been putting it off, but with a ten year old whose front teeth are starting to cross over each other and a husband whose back tooth is currently crumbling into his food, I need to stop putting it off. Seriously Bern, health hazard city. Stop being such a tightarse and get that shit checked out. That or become very friendly with an orthodontist.

  • Last but not least, buy a mattress. Sadly I don’t even remember where we originally got our Queen mattress from. I have a feeling it was given to us??? It could have been used at a brothel for all I know. I now have to position myself in just the right way to avoid the springs penetrating my ribs, and god only knows what sort of foul bugs reside in there. It would have to be, oh at least 13 years old. We have tried, god how we’ve tried to agree on a mattress we both like. Often, we have Jack doing cartwheels off the $5,000 display latex King mattress, which kind of sends us into a stress induced meltdown and therefore, we walk out with nothing. Bite the bullet and become a solo mattress buyer Bern, before you both become bad back statistics.

So that’s the majority. Sure, some might say, had I spent the last 30 minutes tackling some of the above instead of writing this blog post I wouldn’t have this problem, but alas, that’s just not my style. But having said that, I think I have a serious blockage when it comes to doing simple tasks these days.

But now this stuff is out there – on the interwebs, I will vow to take them on, one by one. Looks like I better add “Ring Westpac and beg for more money” to the list so I can fulfil this list. Lucky Phil can still make money plumbing – Wait, shit......

Saturday, April 3, 2010


So recently, Robin Williams, via David Letterman, told a great chunk of Americans that Australians are, and I quote “English Rednecks”. Really?

Who the hell did Robin hang out with when he visited our great land?

Look, if he bunked down with the guy I saw on Thursday night in Big W, scamming 23 items through the 3 items or less checkout, telling his girlfriend “No more fucking chocolate eggs” whilst shoving a mars bar into their screaming 2 year old, while wearing a shirt with the classy logo “All grown up but still fascinated by boobies”, then yeah, fine. But that guy’s in the minority, right? Right?

The Collins dictionary didn’t have a meaning for Redneck, so I moved onto an obviously more reputable source: Wikipedia. They tell us to call someone a Redneck is “referring to the poor rural white Southerner, probably derived from individuals having a red neck caused by working outdoors in hot sun”. There has to be more to it than that. I mean, my husband isn’t all that wealthy (having a spendaholic wife and a penchant for Bunnings) and he often has a red neck, working as a plumber. I don't generally think of him or his workmates as an uneducated racists with rotten teeth. Not satisfied, I tried another website, titled "YOU KNOW YOU’RE A REDNECK IF"

“Your state's got a new law that says when a couple get divorced, they are still legally brother and sister”

“The Halloween pumpkin on your front porch has more teeth than your wife”

“you own a homemade fur coat”

To name a few.

So Robin Williams was basically calling us an unhygienic population that marries our direct family and wears roadkill around our shoulders. Uncool Robin Williams. Uncool. For one, I've never worn fur.

Then the Kevinator, aka Kevin Rudd, got on the radio and started defending our honour. Saying Robin better look at Alabama before he starts trashing our country. Kevin, take the high road man, defend by all means, but low blows just make us look mean. I mean shit, we know you’re partial to your hairdryer and a 5 star meal when flying but that doesn’t mean we all refer to you as that pretentious, controlling wanker does it? (Insert answer here)

I guess some of our previous Tourism Campaigns haven’t really helped our image. For instance, “Where the bloody hell are you?” Bogan as. Seriously, Butterbingle got lucky with that ad. By rights, they should have used a toothless guy in a flannie, chucking a massive doughnut, screaming into his mobile phone “Where the fuck arrrrre ya????

Baz Lurhmann had a crack next. A mini version of Australia, the movie. It tanked. Partly because it was just too arty farty but mainly because no one knew what in the fuck we were on about. All it did, with a kid, breaking into an apartment, spreading red dirt about willy nilly and creeping about bedrooms, was scare the living shit out of it's target market.

And what about our most successful campaign ever? Paul Hogans “Chuck another shrimp on the Barbie. It's starting to make sense now. A guy in a ripped, sleeveless checked shirt, shorty short shorts, thongs , downing a tinnie was asking the tourists to come over, get pissed and eat some cooked prawns. He was representing the typical Australian and yet he was really just one step away from Leo Wanker. But they ate that shit up.

Now, the only thing we could do to make Australia appear even more uncultured, would be to advertise a gigantic swingers party with Warrick Capper and Pauline Hanson as the headliners.

Surely there’s a middle ground?

So hard is it to come up with a catchy and decent slogan or brand for Australia, the government has simply thrown their hands in the air and told it’s population “You fucking do it”. They want us to come up with something about Australia that matches “There’s nothing like Australia”. I want you to go here: to see what some very clever people have come up with.

Quite catchy some of them hey? Irresponsible and uncouth, but spot on the money, some of them.

Last I heard, Robin Williams had apologised and offered to take the KRudd to a strip club to make up for it. Oh, and there’s a whole state of pissed off Alabamians braying for some good ole Australian Blood. Awesome.

Here is my humble suggestion Australian Tourism. All anyone from overseas needs to know really:

There’s nothing like voting in a Prime Minister who drinks so much piss he forgets he was at a strip club. There’s nothing like Australia.